DOWNTON ABBEY 1926

Episode 8 Chapter 4

Monday October 11, 1926

Elsie and Charlie

It was a cool October night, but in getting ready for bed Elsie still chose to put on the summer cotton nightgown Charlie had given her on their wedding night. In itself it was too light to keep her warm, but she liked it and it always pleased him to see her in it. Memories. Sometimes, struck with sentimentality, she thought she ought to preserve it, wearing it only on special occasions. But then the fiercely practical aspect of her nature would rise up in revolt. Why? Who would you be saving it for? Ought we not to live for today? And she had to admit the sense of it. That same practical impulse might have spoken against wearing cotton in the colder seasons. But Elsie did not need flannel to keep her warm at night anymore, not with Charlie Carson sleeping beside her. The man was a furnace. Did all men radiate such heat? She couldn't say. On top of everything else, he had shifted to flannel from cotton pajamas at the beginning of the month, an apparently unshakable habit. That was as much flannel as she needed.

He was already in bed, sitting up against the pillow she had fluffed for him as she did every night, and reaching for his book. Elsie slipped beneath the bedclothes but ignored the magazine on the table next to her - a copy of The Sketch that she had picked up earlier in the servants' hall - and instead turned on her side to look at him.

For all that change was not something either one of them readily embraced, it had not taken them very long to appreciate the many advantages of marriage, not least among them the endless comfort of companionship. Marriage included for them an intense and very pleasurable element of physical intimacy, but companionship, that ease of being together, of simply being there, enveloped them always. They ought to cherish that. It was one of the sweet things in life, even when it came in the form of him reading his book and her watching him. Not everyone was so fortunate. May we never take our blessings for granted, she thought.

Elsie's gaze drifted to the spine of the book. She, by H. Rider Haggard.

"What are you reading that old thing for?"

His eyebrows climbed a little in acknowledgment of her question, though he did not look her way. "I like Mr. Haggard's stories," he said. "They are filled with adventure and exotic places."

"I thought you didn't like anywhere but here," she said, nevermind exotic places. Sometimes he - or she - really wanted to read, and had she thought a casual interruption unwanted, she would have let it go. But she enjoyed teasing him a little and he often played along with her.

"I don't," he said agreeably and did look at her then. "But that's the wonder of books, isn't it? You can go anywhere in the world - and even beyond if you really want to read Mr. H.G. Wells, although why anyone would I don't know - without all the bother of mosquitoes and bad manners and foreign food. And you can do so while curled up in bed beside your favourite wife!" He leaned over to her for a kiss.

"Your favourite wife! It's not the Arabian nights you're reading, Mr. Carson."

He laughed with her at this.

"I like a good book, too, but wouldn't mind seeing one or two foreign things face to face, even if it meant eating something different." Elsie sighed. "Imagine Mr. Barrow in Berlin."

She might as well have thrown a bucket of cold water over her husband, such was his reaction. He withdrew from her with a disapproving growl. "I will not imagine him in Berlin or anywhere else, thank you, most especially not while in my own bed."

Elsie ignored his disdain. It came as no surprise to her and, she supposed, she should have known better. "I think he ought to have sacked Lewis, don't you?" It grated on her to have to look at that smug young man every morning. "Apology or not apology, his conduct was quite beyond the pale."

Charlie shrugged diffidently. "The butler is now fully apprised of his footman's shortcomings and misguided ambitions. Let us see now if he can manage them."

Well, Elsie disagreed with that but she said nothing. Instead she traced one of the veins on the back of his hand with her fingers, until they disappeared up under his shirt cuff. He smiled indulgently at her as she did this and then resumed his reading.

She might have taken up the magazine then but her mind was too unsettled with other matters and The Sketch, even with the latest drama in the agony aunt column, was unlikely to distract her. Like it or not she had over the years become the mother-confessor of Downton Abbey downstairs. It might have been that the position of housekeeper lent itself this sort of thing, but she didn't remember her predecessor Mrs. Dakin serving that function and her imagination did not stretch to anyone confiding in Madge that way in the future. No, it was something about Elsie herself that drew them to her. This was gratifying in a way but it also meant that she sometimes wrestled with problems far more vexing than balancing the household accounts. Tonight two such matters burdened her.

"What would you have done if I'd said 'no' when you proposed?"

The book fell from his hands and the look on his face when he turned to her was no longer one of benign complacency. "What kind of a question is that?" he demanded, eyes flashing.

"It's just a question," she said placidly. "Can you imagine an answer to it?"

"I don't want to imagine an answer!"

"Well, try." She did not know why it was important that he do so, but she felt it was.

"If I hadn't been quite sure of your answer, I would not have asked," he said, dodging the question.

But this was not entirely true. Else why would he have been so gripped with trepidation in that excruciating moment on Christmas Eve when they had negotiated the transformation of their lives?

You are if you think I'm asking you to marry me.

Well?

Is that it?

The inaccuracy of his memory better served her purposes in this instance, however.

"Why not? Why not take the risk? Isn't it better to have tried and failed than never to have done so? Isn't it better to have the answer and move on than always to wonder?"

He frowned at her, not at all liking this conversation but compulsively answering her questions nonetheless. "That's the prescription in theory, but in practice? Once the cat is out of the bag, so to speak, everything changes, not always for the better. And you can't go back."

"Is that so terrible?"

"Isn't it?" His discomfort was apparent, but the idea had engaged him. "You ask what would have happened had you turned me down. Can you not imagine how awkward it would be, working together still, you knowing that I ... loved you and me knowing that you did not ...care for me in that way? Our every interaction would have been coloured by it. It would have been intolerable."

He did not say it but they neither of them had to stretch their imaginations very far on this. There had been a tense period between their engagement and marriage when it had looked as though the thing might not have come off. Neither one of them cared to remember it. Elsie pushed the memory aside now.

"But...not to have asked when you felt that way, would that not have been a betrayal of who you were?"

For a long moment his eyes searched hers, seeking an explanation for this odd conversation. "Why these questions?" he asked, almost querulously. "What are you trying to get at?"

She chewed her lip thoughtfully. "The nature of love, I think."

"That's not like you," he said, almost in exasperation. "You don't dabble in abstract hings like that!"

She had distressed him and that was not at all her intention. So she smiled and took his arm, pulling herself to him that she might kiss him reassuringly. And then she stroked his face to smooth away the lines of consternation that had formed there.

"Do you think you're the only one in this house, in this bed, who ponders the mysteries of life, Charlie Carson?"

Her impish manner and no less her gentle touch quieted him.

"Read your book," she directed him.

Almost reluctantly, he picked it up again.

To persuade him that her disquieting inquisition was at an end, she snuggled against his shoulder and listened as his breathing calmed. But for all her light-hearted banter, Elsie remained ill at ease.

Charlie was right. She was not given to introspection. Sometimes, though, even she could not escape it completely. This bout had been brought on by two revelations made the previous week.

On Thursday evening Daniel Rider had come to supper at Elsie's invitation. The conversation she had overheard between Daisy and Daniel had given her to think about this stranger in their midst and in the end she had decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. It was still more a matter of intuition on her part, grounded in long experience in the evaluation of character, than of hard evidence per se. But she did not regret her decision. She trusted her judgment.

And having decided, it came to her that there was no reason not to encourage the relationship that had developed between her husband and his assistant. She needed only to see Charlie and Daniel together again in the comfortable setting of their little cottage to know that this the was right thing to do. And letting go of her suspicions she found herself enjoying Daniel's company, too. He was a lively, intelligent, good-natured man who engaged with both her and Charlie with ease. He brought something vital to the dinner table, something they had never had. They all had a good time.

And Charlie and Daniel did get on so. And in a way that Charlie could never have been open to so long as he was the butler of Downton Abbey. Elsie might be maternal, in a way, toward the young people who came through service there, but Charlie had always been more patriarchal than paternal. Daniel was his first opportunity to play a different role.

In thinking this way Elsie deliberately discounted Lady Mary. Oh, Charlie loved her, to be sure, and their relationship might well be likened to that of a father and daughter. But it was necessarily a relationship distorted by class and their formal roles in the world of Downton Abbey. Those barriers did not exist with Daniel Rider, despite the fact that he was emphatically middle class, for retirement on Charlie's part and ... exile, for want of a better word on Daniel's had given them a level playing field. They did not just get on together, they could get on, free from the social strictures that stifled so much of English society. And so Charlie, who Elsie knew to have a great heart, could open himself up in a way that was separate and different from the niche in his heart reserved for her. Just watching this unfold at her dinner table warmed Elsie's own heart.

But no exercise of this sort was possible without the risk of heartache. And on Thursday night after dinner, when Charlie stepped out into the garden with Shep, and Daniel, helping Elsie to clear the dishes, followed her into the kitchen, the first tremors occurred.

"I've not been honest in answering your questions, Mrs. Carson," Daniel said bluntly, taking her quite by surprise. "I'd like to set the record straight."

He didn't have much time and his revelations were not so dramatic. He told her about Cambridge and about the Colonial Office and why he had come to Yorkshire to take up the position of research assistant when he was clearly capable of greater things.

Elsie heard the truth in his words as she had heard the reservations the first time. What he said put her mind at ease as to the darker motives she had imagined in his puzzling behaviour. But it occurred to her that he was revealing something else, too, something troubling in a whole new way.

And why is he telling me this? she wondered. Her mind drifted to the conversation she had eavesdropped on in kitchen.

And Mrs. Carson?

Oh, she doesn't judge people on things like that. If you do your job right, she wouldn't care if you were a pink gorilla.

Insofar as it went, Daisy's observation was correct. In the servants' hall at Downton Abbey, Elsie could be as broad-minded as the welfare of the house might stretch to, which was considerably farther than her husband had ever allowed. But this was not about the Abbey and the family. It was about Charlie and his great heart, a heart Elsie did not want to see broken. And there was no simple solution to it, for now there was Daniel Rider to consider, too. She could not turn her back on him. Not now.

Elsie stretched an arm across her husband's chest. He was a big man. She liked that about him. The very strength and substance of his body soothed her. He had to adjust his book, but he didn't mind in the least, patting her arm absently as he did so.

Her pragmatic nature asserted itself. She couldn't solve that problem tonight, or any time soon. Best to put it out of her mind as well as she could. Because there was also that other matter before her. And the appointment she had tomorrow was the first step in the resolution of that.

Tuesday October 12

Tom and Henry

"I didn't think you'd do it."

"It was your idea!"

They were standing together on one of the back roads of the estate, miles from the Abbey and from everyone and everything else. Tom, dressed for the shop, was jingling the car keys in his hand. Henry was attired in his running kit.

Tom opened the car door and slid into the driver's seat. "It was my idea. But I still didn't think you'd do it. Why are you running, anyway?" he asked mischievously.

Henry stared out across a field dotted with sheep, a faraway look in his eyes as though he were giving great thought to the question. "Because I like competing with other men in a sport. Because I haven't done anything...unconventional...in a while." His dark eyes narrowed and one corner of his mouth turned up playfully. "Because I think it might spice up my marriage just a little." He laughed at the worry line that appeared on Tom's brow at this. "I believe you've got to work at a marriage every day," Henry said emphatically, "and not just in the early days. I don't just want to be married to Mary for the next forty or fifty years..."

"Optimist!"

".., I want both of us to revel in every minute we're together." Henry grinned at Tom. "It was a good idea, after I'd thought about it for a bit. Thanks." His steely gaze rested on Tom for a minute. "What about you?"

When he thought about it Tom was grateful for the brothers-in-law he had found at Downton. Matthew had welcomed him as an equal, which was no mean gesture in such an environment. Though Tom had preceded both Henry and Bertie in the family, neither man exhibited any of the snobbishness of their 'higher' births. Matthew's death had shaken Tom and he never thought to have another brother-in-law on whom he could rely so completely. But Henry was, if anything, an even better match. They worked together seamlessly. They could count on each other in the sometimes choppy seas of a Downton dinner conversation. And Henry was both supportive and circumspect. He expressed his concern without making an explicit reference to 'the troubles.' Tom appreciated that.

"Robert will see the Drumgooles and maybe even the Home Secretary in support of their request sometime next week. I hope that then he'll be able to let it go, or at least lighten up a little. I don't enjoy frost at the dinner table."

"He'll let it go," Henry said easily. "He cares about you." He paused, then added, "You're his favourite son-in-law."

Tom, tapping the steering wheel and staring out the front window, nodded solemnly. "I know." Then he cracked a smile and Henry grinned back at him. "It was my house that burned down, for God's sake. I should be the one nursing a grudge."

Henry shrugged. "So the boy has given in, has he? Decided he doesn't need to put you in your place before the whole of England?"

"Apparently. Though I doubt he's happy about it. I'd have been spitting mad in his place. You know," Tom turned sharply to look up at Henry, "I understand him. A little, at least. But only the hating part. I wish I could figure out how to help him manage it. It took years for me to come through it and what a waste of ... everything. I'd like to spare John Dunsany some of that if I could."

"You're generous."

"Not generous. Just experienced."

"Well, how did you 'get through' it?"

"I got to know them, the Crawleys. As the Crawleys. But I would never have done so but for Sybil. There are no intersecting lines between me and John Dunsany. Nothing to bring us together in that way."

"Yes, he's too old to marry your daughter," Henry said wryly.

"And never would anyway," Tom said. "There aren't many like my Sybil who would cross the lines that way."

A moment passed.

"Let's get on with it," Henry said suddenly, drumming his fingers on the roof.

Tom turned the starter and put the car into gear. "Don't have a heart attack now."

"Just drive."

The car pulled away and behind it, Henry fell into a brisk even pace.

Mrs. Patmore and Daisy

"It'll be nice to have your sister here."

As usual, Mrs. Patmore and Daisy were hard at it in the kitchen.

"How come she's never visited before?" Daisy was curious about the imminent visit of Kate Philpotts for all sorts of reasons, but remained puzzled as to why Mrs. Patmore was not talking about her constantly. When Mrs. Patmore was excited about something, she went on and on about it. But she had said very little about her sister.

Mrs. Patmore was cracking eggs into a bowl. "Well, she was married for a long time and men are hard to shake, you know. They can calculate feed for a herd of cows over an unpredictable winter season or they can calibrate a machine to punch out screws of all sizes. But they can't seem to feed themselves or wash a dish."

Daisy smiled at this diatribe. Mrs. Patmore was mostly herself. Daisy used to take Mrs. Patmore literally about everything. The result had been apprehensions about all the world and most of the people in it. Daisy's horizons had broadened in recent years and now she just enjoyed the colourful excesses in Mrs. Patmore's responses to simple questions.

"And," the cook went on, "grief saps the life from you. She's lost a husband and a son, my sister Kate. Something goes within you every time you lose someone."

Well, that brought Daisy down a little. She understood, so she supposed, what Mrs. Patmore meant, understood it in her head at any rate. But Daisy's own losses - parents she couldn't even remember, William whom she had not loved as a wife should - these had not touched the depths of sorrow Mrs. Patmore described.

"But she's coming here now."

"Yes."

"And ... you're happy about it?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Mrs. Patmore snapped belligerently.

That, Daisy said to herself, was the question. But there was no progress to be made when Mrs. Patmore was in a temper, so she changed the subject.

"Who are you going to cheer for in the race?"

Mrs. Patmore stopped what she was doing and stared at her. "Mr. Barrow. Who're you going to cheer for?"

Daisy was a little surprised Mrs. Patmore was so firmly behind Mr. Barrow. The cook turned almost cordial whenever Mr. Rider stopped in for tea and a chat and she'd had her frictions with the butler over the years. "Mr. Barrow," Daisy replied. "Of course."

"Not Mr. Rider then."

Daisy could hear the teasing note in Mrs. Patmore words, but it glanced right off of her. "Why would I? He's a stranger. He's nice, but Mr. Barrow is us."

The cook sighed. "Yes, indeed. Why would you."

The coal yard door opened and then banged shut.

Mrs. Patmore nodded in that direction. "That'll be Andy. Lewis doesn't slam doors."

"Lewis." If Daisy was indifferent to Daniel Rider, she was downright cool to Lewis. He made no effort to fit in and he made Andy think he wasn't doing his job properly, which wasn't true at all. Daisy would rather have a dozen pleasant, capable footmen like Andy, than the austere Lewis.

But it was not a footman who edged his way into the kitchen.

"You back again!" Mrs. Patmore's declaration was devoid of warmth or welcome, but the boy before her was not put off.

"Good morning, Mrs. Patmore. Hullo, miss." He remembered to take his cap off this time.

Daisy might be impervious to the charms of the various young men of Downton Abbey downstairs, but she liked Mark Wallace. "Good morning, Mark."

"Why aren't you in school?" Mrs. Patmore demanded. She was a practiced hand at the art of the offensive defense.

"I am. I've just run over at morning break time."

"And you should run right back directly else you'll be late."

He seemed indifferent to this hazard and did not move.

"Shall I go to the dairy?" Daisy interceded delicately.

Mrs. Patmore glowered in her direction. "No. It's nothing you don't know about." Her glare transferred to the boy. "And nothing you will know about."

"Archibald Philpotts." Mark said the name as though making an announcement. "He was nineteen. He served in the Lancashire Fusiliers. They were on the Somme. Was he there with them?"

"You could get that much off the stone," Mrs. Patmore said brusquely.

"His Lordship had the memorial put up. Why's that?"

Daisy glanced at Mrs. Patmore, who was now beating eggs with a ferocity Daisy would hate to see turned on either herself or the boy. "Because he's nice," she offered, by way of explanation.

Mark was not deterred by Mrs. Patmore's manner, which only showed that he had not yet seen her in full-blown fury. "The Lancashire Fusiliers came from 'round Manchester. Was he from Manchester, Archibald Philpotts?" He seemed to like saying the name.

Mrs. Patmore's brisk whisking sent a stream of egg across the counter and she slammed down bowl and whisk so hard the mixture jumped to the rim. "There's no good you asking questions. I've nothing to say. Some people don't want to be reminded of the war and what happened to those they ... loved." Her voice cracked a little. "That's why Mr. Molesley is asking for permission to tell the stories. Now I've told him and you that I don't want to talk about Archie. Be off with you before I find the footman - the mean one - to run you out!"

He left, though more in low spirits than fear, trudging down the passage heavy-footed as though with the weight of the world on him. Daisy waited until she heard the door close.

"I think he has good intentions," she said quietly. "I don't think he's trying to annoy you."

"I'm not annoyed," Mrs. Patmore said, deflated. "I'm frightened. And sad." She picked up a cloth to wipe up the mess she'd made with the egg. "It's only that everyone else can mourn their dead and talk about them if they like. But I can't. No one wants to hear Archie's story."

Daisy noted the pained look on Mrs. Patmore's face and decided not to press the issue. But, turning away, she said so softly that the cook could not hear her, "I think Mark does."

Baxter and Molesley

"The Bateses are to have the Grantham Arms!"

Miss Baxter was happy for the Bateses and their good fortune. She knew enough of their story to know that they had had several hard years. And she also just liked them and was glad that they were on the cusp of achieving a much-sought-after goal. But she imparted this news to Mr. Molesley because, as they walked a back lane in that fragment of time between the family gathering for dinner and the servants' own dinner - one of the few opportunities in a week that she had an opportunity to see Mr. Molesley - she sensed that he was in need of heartening news, about anyone.

"That is good news," he said agreeably. "I'd hoped things might work out that way." He paused. "I didn't think Mr. Bates, or Anna really, wanted to leave Downton completely."

It was too dim in the early evening to see his face clearly, but she was attuned to the nuances of his voice. He was sincere, but he spoke in a perfunctory way, as expected, rather than as he truly felt. It was not like him to be so listless.

She tried again. "Will you come up for the race on Saturday? I know you're very busy, but it won't take much time." He was very busy, at school as usual and more particularly with the Armistice Day pageant. It was less than a month away now. She was grateful he had made time for her this evening. "They're just running around the Abbey," she added. "How long can that take?"

"I hadn't planned to. No."

And why would he? But ... the Mr. Molesley Miss Baxter had come to know took a keen interest in the goings-on of the communities in which he was immersed. Early on in their acquaintance he had sung the praises of the church bazaar to her. That he should take no interest in the Downton Race, despite its recent provenance, struck her as odd.

"Mrs. Patmore and Daisy are going to make some 'race day' pastries," she said enticingly. She knew how much he enjoyed Mrs. Patmore's cooking, especially treats he saw rarely now that he was on his own. "To make a bit of an occasion of it. And Master George is to fire the starting gun."

He said nothing and she felt the distance between them keenly. His mind was elsewhere.

"I'm keeping you from your work," she said. And though she was loathe to do it, for she enjoyed every minute she spent with Mr. Molesley, she prepared to take her leave of him. There was always something she could be doing at the Abbey.

"No," he said sharply and turned to her in the dimness. "I mean, well, yes. But I'm always pleased to see you. Not ... that I can see you so well in the dark, but you know what I mean. And ... I'm sorry I'm not very good company, especially when you've made such an effort."

She had only thrown on her coat and walked to meet him in the lane, but he appreciated every sacrifice of her time. He knew what service was like.

"It's not you at all," he insisted.

"What, then? Is the pageant not going well?" She hoped it wasn't the pageant. It had seemed like such a good idea.

"Oh ... no. Not at all. It's going much better than ever I imagined. I've never seen the children so enthusiastic about ... anything. Even a cricket match! And the families ... well, most of them, have got on board. A few were reluctant. You can't blame them. They don't want to stir painful memories. And ... they don't know what we're up to, so ... But others have been very kind and helpful. The children have been working out for themselves how they want to make their own presentations. I'm guiding more than telling." He paused. "It's very rewarding."

But there was something askew. She knew it. So she said nothing and only waited patiently.

"Well, there are one or two hiccoughs."

"Like what?"

"One boy, Mark. He wants to tell the story of Mrs. Patmore's nephew, the one memorialized on his own marker. Archibald Philpotts. Mrs. Patmore said no and, of course, I respect that. And he's not from Downton in any case, so ... But Mark insists. I can't budge him."

"Why is there a memorial for Mrs. Patmore's nephew?" Miss Baxter asked. She had not been at Downton at the time and did not know the story, if there was one. "It is a little strange."

"I don't know," Mr. Molesley said simply. "I only know that it was His Lordship's doing. No one else in the house lost anyone else directly. Well, Daisy. But William was from Downton and he's on the cenotaph. And Mrs. Patmore was quite adamant about not being interested, so I left it alone."

"Of course you did." They walked in silence for a moment. "Then that's not it, then."

"What?"

"Why're you're so quiet tonight."

"I've been doing most of the talking."

"I meant in your manner. You're distracted, upset. There's something on your mind. Can I help?"

"No. Thank you."

It was an odd, formal sort of rejection that only troubled Miss Baxter the more.

"Have I done something?"

"You! How could you ever cause me distress?"

"I don't know," she said, as though he had really sought an answer. She thought herself as capable of giving offense as anyone else, but could not think of anything she might have done.

"Of course it's not you."

"Tell me, then."

"But ... I don't like putting you in the middle."

She almost glanced around. There were only the two of them. How could she be in the middle?"

He sighed. "I had a conversation with Mr. Barrow last week, the day after he came back from Berlin."

"Go on."

"It's just ... I know that he's your friend." He said this carefully. She could hear him trying to remain neutral. Mr. Molesley did not like Mr. Barrow, had never liked him. The antipathy appeared to have been accentuated, however, as she and Mr. Molesley became better acquainted. Mr. Molesley objected to the way Mr. Barrow spoke to her, pushed her, tried to use her. He'd defended her on occasion, interceded himself between them at other times, and, most importantly, given her the strength to rise to her own defense. Mr. Barrow didn't bully her any more. But ... Mr. Molesley didn't know Mr. Barrow - Thomas - the way she did. Once he had ceased to manipulate her, Thomas had become for her once more her old friend's younger brother. She knew things about him and how hard things had been for him. She felt sorry for him in a way that Mr. Molesley could never appreciate.

Her Mr. Molesley was assertive enough to make his dislike of the butler known to her, but he did not interfere with the friendship, something which only made her prize Mr. Molelsey all the more. Men she had known in her past, especially the worst of them all - Mr. Coyle - had tried to shatter her connections to friends and family. In contrast, Mr. Molesley encouraged her to extend her circle and he endured for her sake those connections of which he did not approve.

No matter what she felt for Thomas, however, whether it be reflected sisterly affection or pity, she was no more tolerant of Thomas bullying Mr. Molesley than he had been of Mr. Barrow imposing on her.

"Tell me," she said. She spoke softly, but her tone indicated that she was not to be deterred.

He sighed. "I told him about the pageant," he said flatly. "He's a ... he went to war, Mr. Barrow. I don't much like the man, but I give him that. I thought ... the families have all been so kind about it, even when they declined to be involved, ... I thought he would be supportive of such a commemoration."

"But he wasn't."

"No. He said ..."

She heard the hurt in his voice and wanted so much for him to spit it out that she might comfort him.

"He said he supposed cowards must soothe their consciences somehow." A bit of a groan escaped him "I apologize. I shouldn't have told you, not even..."

But she was having none of that. She stepped more closely to him, brushing up against his coat. Her hands found one of his arms and then followed it to his hand, which she wrapped tightly in her own.

"Don't. Don't apologize for telling me about your hurts and woes." She spoke with a boldness that rarely found its way to the surface. "As for Mr. Barrow, he may be my friend, but that doesn't mean I approve of everything he says and does. On this he is wholly in the wrong."

And not just wrong. What he said, what Mr. Barrow said, infuriated her.

"We have all done something we are ashamed of," she said fiercely, pronouncing each word precisely. She spoke almost brutally. "I can say that to you. You know my story." It had been one of the hardest things in her life to confess it to him. "We put them away from us. We hide from them, run from them. Tell lies about them, outright or by omission." Between the two of them alone they had been guilty of all these strategies. "But you found the courage to turn that around. You confronted it and, what's more, you've made it into something positive going forward. And it was your own doing, the facing up to it and the idea. Don't let Mr. Barrow or anyone else drag you back into the past."

For a moment her words hung there in the crisp night air in the darkness between them. She didn't know it they had meant anything to him at all or whether they were just words dissolving in the breeze that scattered dying leaves on the path before them. Words. Could they really...

His other hand came up over hers and tightened over them as he drew them upwards. Then, bending his head, he pressed his lips against her knuckles.

It was a gesture that electrified them both.