DOWNTON ABBEY 1926

EPISODE 8 Chapter 5

Wednesday October 13

Carson and Denker

When Her Ladyship the Dowager began to sound fatigued, Carson drew the interview to a close. He observed her energy levels closely, determined to record her story but to do so at a pace that did not exhaust her. Though she had said nothing to indicate it - and he expected nothing else - he knew there was something wrong and that he must take care with her. He and Mr. Rider, who had perfected the art of invisibility so desired in a subordinate as he scratched out his notes at the stand-up desk in the corner, usually withdrew together. But today Her Ladyship detained Carson and the younger man left without him. There followed a curious exchange.

"I want to give you something, Carson."

It took some effort for her to propel herself to her feet and Carson had deliberately to suppress an impulse to intervene and assist her. He would have resented such aid were he in her shoes and it would have at any time been a transgression of their social relation, something Lady Merton would never appreciate. But it was difficult to watch her and not act. He held his breath as she made her way gingerly to her writing desk and when she put a steadying hand on its surface, he gave an inward sigh of relief. Then he gave his attention to the small packet of letters she retrieved from a locked drawer and held out to him. He took them from her.

"These letters testify to a part of His Lordship's story that I cannot reliably narrate, Carson." Her tone was unaltered from the casual manner she had employed all afternoon. "I have held them in confidence for many years, wondering whether or not I ought to destroy them. But I couldn't do it. And now I am entrusting them to you."

Without knowing what was in them, without even glancing at the script on the first envelope, Carson unaccountably felt a burden coming to rest on his shoulders. He wanted to ask questions, but she shooed him away, though not before imparting a single directive which only bewildered him all the more: Open them when you are ready to do so.

He descended to the kitchen, the packet which he had not closely examined tucked into his breast pocket, puzzling over her odd instruction. Because of his distraction, he almost collided with Miss Denker who stepped out of the boot room into his path.

"Beg pardon," he muttered as they did that awkward dance of inadvertently obstructing each other's way forward. He stopped and she stepped to one side.

"Mr. Carson. How nice to see you." He was the only member of the Downton staff to whom Miss Denker had ever paid a modicum of formal deference, though it was never sincere and had become less so after his retirement. He would happily have done without it if it would save him even a brief exchange with the woman. He did not like her.

"Good day," he said, meaning it is a departing remark and taking a step toward the door.

"And how is Mrs. Carson?"

This query arrested him. He did not for a minute believe that Miss Denker gave a toss about Elsie's health, but the habit of courtesy compelled him to acknowledge her question and to respond. "She is well, thank you," he said, and then turned once more to the door.

"Oh, I am surprised to hear that."

"I beg your pardon?" She had caught him by surprise and he was irked to give her an opening. In his observation Miss Denker liked nothing better than to play cat-and-mouse with the latest tidbit of gossip. She would not play this game with him. Before he could rebuke her, however, she went on.

"Only I saw Mrs. Carson going into the hospital yesterday afternoon and why else does one go there but to visit the doctor? And why visit the doctor without reason?"

They were two perfectly good questions, but Carson was not about to give Miss Denker the satisfaction of knowing that she had rattled him. "Mrs. Carson is very well," he repeated, coldly this time. And without another word he left the house.

It had been overcast all day and looked now as though it might rain at any moment. But Carson could not feel the chill on his skin, being more preoccupied with the frigid hand that clutched at his heart. Why had Elsie been to see Clarkson? And why hadn't she told him that she had done so? There had been opportunity enough between yesterday afternoon and this morning when she left for the Abbey. Yet nary a word from her on the subject. This was not a good thing.

It was his custom to stride purposely down the village streets, giving physical form to his social prominence, but in his agitation his gait slowed. Surely if there were anything to be concerned about Elsie would have told him. They told each other everything now.

He considered this. Could he count on Elsie to confide in him regarding her health? She had been reserved before, always playing her cards so closely to her chest. But we were not husband and wife then.

"And she looks well enough," he said aloud, and then caught himself. It would not do to be seen muttering away to himself in public.

But was that true? She had been quieter of late. Polite enough, but not... The other night with that troubling question she had posed - What would you have done if I'd said 'no' when you proposed? - had given him to wonder if they'd reached that point in marriage where the bloom had finally come off the rose. There was nothing wrong, not that he could see. But perhaps he wasn't looking in the right place. Perhaps it wasn't them, it was her. Was Elsie re-considering their marriage in light of some new health threat?

Damn Miss Denker! He'd been troubled enough by the Dowager's parting words and now there was Elsie to worry about, too. He picked up his pace. She would not be there when he got home, but she'd be there soon enough. And he meant to get to the bottom of this without delay.

Charlie and Elsie

In his agitation he cut himself while chopping vegetables and had to leave it all for her to do when she came in from the Abbey. In the meantime, he found a bit of cloth and wound it around his thumb and retired to his chair in the sitting room where troubling thoughts about Elsie's health swirled through his mind. Shep reflected his unease, pacing in and out of the room, circling, lying down, and then moving again.

"You should be more careful," Elsie said later, removing the bloody little rag and doing a proper job of cleaning and bandaging it up. It wasn't a reproach, just the sort of thing one always said in such circumstances. Securing her work, she raised his hand and gently kissed the now-covered wound. Then her eyes glinted up at him and she smiled. "All better?"

He did not smile, only stared at her in consternation. Why were you at the hospital? He longed to ask this of her, but even more he hoped she would tell him without prompting. It was important that she do so. If not, then what did it say about their marriage?

She did not address his subdued manner but did usher him into the sitting room again while she attended to their supper. He slipped more deeply into the malaise that had gripped him ever since the exchange with Miss Denker. Elsie did not look unhealthy and she was cheerful enough tonight, but...

Although he was not consciously aware of it, he almost always dominated the conversation at the dinner table, either telling her about his day or making specific inquiries about those aspects of her work at the Abbey in which he was most interested, before she related her own stories. But in this fraught moment, he could hardly think, let alone expound. So their meal unfolded more quietly than usual.

"This is a fine meal," he said at last, and it was, although he was not doing justice to it.

"Thank you." Perhaps noting the anomaly of his reticence, she asked, "How was your afternoon with the Dowager?"

Her voice was pleasant and as carefully as he listened for telltale nuances, he heard nothing out of the ordinary. "It went well," he murmured, and then shook his head. Things were not well there either.

"Has anything changed?"

"What?" He looked up, almost alarmed. What would have changed? How?

"Between you and the Dowager. I mean now that you're not the butler of Downton Abbey any more."

He stared at her uncomprehending and she grimaced apologetically. "I'm sorry I asked."

While he floundered, trying to find the words to ask what he wanted to know, she tried again.

"The Kearnses are moving to Hove in East Sussex. They think it'll be more temperate there. I can't think that it will be much of an improvement for her rheumatism, but perhaps the winters won't be so harsh." She paused contemplatively. "I've very pleased for Anna and Mr. Bates, but I'm still sad to see the Kearnses go. They've been there a good long time. I always thought their son would take it on."

He did not want to talk about the Kearnses or anyone else, but he did not know how to turn the conversation. And so he said, "He's got a job in Leeds, their son Ernest. Swayed by the city lights, I suppose. It was never the plan anyway. It was Bob who would have taken on the lease."

That was a momentary distraction. Bob Kearns's name was engraved on the cenotaph in the centre of the village. He had fallen on the Somme.

They lapsed into silence once more and he found he could contain himself no longer.

"Were you in to see Dr. Clarkson this week?" he asked bluntly, staring at her across the table.

She looked mildly surprised. "Yes."

Though she had replied promptly enough, and honestly, her failure to see his anxiety and to provide any further details to allay it aggravated him the more. "Are you ill?"

"No."

"Then why...?"

"How do you know I went to see Dr. Clarkson?"

There was a slight edge to her voice. Ordinarily he would have seen this as a vestige of her independent nature. They confided in each other much more deeply now than had been the case before their marriage, but Elsie had brought to their union a greater degree of reserve than he. Where he had always taken his personal independence for granted, she had struggled to establish and maintain hers and so was more jealous of it. They had talked about this as they had strolled the beaches in Scarborough on their honeymoon. It meant that sometimes Elsie held back just a little. Usually he respected this. But now her question struck him as defensive and suggested she had something about which to be defensive. And that wasn't the only issue.

"Miss Denker told me," he said with a little heat in his voice. Miss Denker. That he had to find out something about his wife from Miss Denker was...humiliating.

"What I do is none of Miss Denker's business and she ought not to be reporting on my movements," Elsie said, a little scornfully, though she did not seem irked with him.

But his own concerns had not yet been alleviated. "May I ask why you went to see him?"

For a moment he thought she might not answer. And then she said, "I invited him to tea."

It was so far from what he had expected that he was struck speechless, at least briefly. "What?! Why?"

Her dancing eyes bore into him but told him nothing. "I thought it would be nice."

This was not a satisfactory reply, not least because it did not at all fit into the narrative he had been constructing all afternoon to the rhythm of his rising blood pressure. But he could see no way forward with it, so fell silent once more. It was an uncomfortable silence and this bothered him, too. He did not like to be at odds with Elsie, but it could hardly be otherwise when she remained so inscrutable. Could she not see his concern? Understand how Miss Denker's information and Elsie's own uninformative response fueled his fear?

He remembered then the letters Her Ladyship had given him and, in his distraction, drew the packet from his inner pocket and set it down beside his plate. He was concerned about her, too. Another woman who played her cards so covertly, to the exasperation of all around her. For the first time he glanced at the script on the topmost letter. It was addressed to His Lordship, the Dowager's husband. It was in a hand that he did not recognize but that he thought, from the experience of the ages with correspondence, looked like that of a woman.

"What's that?"

He had retrieved the letters as a diversion, not a conversation piece, but naturally Elsie's alert eyes had been drawn to them and she was as ever curious.

"Precious cargo," he said solemnly. He did not want to leave the subject of her astonishing invitation to Dr. Clarkson, but reluctantly he pushed that aside in favour of the puzzling packet. And found the uneasy sensation that had come over him when the Dowager had given them to him returning. "Letters from ... to His Lordship's father. The Dowager gave them to me this afternoon." Once more his eyes traced His Lordship's name in that strange hand. "She said... the Dowager, that is...that I should open them when I felt ready." His gaze returned to Elsie, looking for guidance. "I don't know what that means."

"Then you're not ready," Elsie quipped lightly, misreading his mood. "Perhaps it's evidence of some dark secret of the Crawley family. Or maybe they're instructions to tell you where the family treasure is hidden." She was teasing him again, perhaps with a view of dispelling the tension between them.

But he could not be teased into good humour tonight. She was sometimes flippant when it came to the Crawleys and he knew that for all that she supported his immersion in the family history as an absorbing and worthwhile project from his perspective, still she thought that on the Dowager's part it was entirely an act of narcissism. Annoyed that she could not discern his disquiet, and still bewildered by her reserved behaviour, he reacted impulsively to her words.

"They are a matter of some discretion," he said coolly, "and I'll be keeping them upstairs. I hope I may count on you not to go looking through them.,"

She frowned at him, puzzled. "Why would I do that?"

"You have been known to listen at grates and keyholes," he said drily, "and to take letters not addressed to you out of the trash." He had admittedly been interested in some of the information she had gleaned from such pursuits, although her retrieval of the appeal from Charlie Grigg that he had discarded still rankled with him. In this moment, however, it was from the detritus of his worries of the day that he spoke.

A frost settled on them and they finished their supper in silence.

She cleared the table and did the dishes. He took the dog out and stared for a long time at the night sky in which the stars, challenged only by the sliver of a moon in its first phase, glittered like diamonds.

It was almost as cool outside as it had been at the table, but he stayed out until he had gone through it all three times. He was as stubborn as the next man in adhering to the righteousness of his own views. But he never wanted to fight with Elsie and this fact leavened his resistance to reconsideration.

Practice what you preach, he told himself. Be honest with her.

He went back into the cottage and marched up the stairs to the bedroom, Shep all hangdog in his demeanour at his heels.

She sat at the little dressing table brushing out her hair before the mirror. And she was wearing the honeymoon nightgown. The feelings of joy and gratitude and desire it stirred in him bolstered his courage and he stepped into the room.

Elsie did not look his way when he came in. He sat down behind her, on her side of the bed, where he could see her face in the mirror.

"You went to see the doctor without telling me," he said without preamble. "I was afraid you were ill again. I thought you were keeping it from me, that you didn't want to tell me, that you thought it was none of my business or I'd fall apart on you or..."

"Charlie." She caught his eye in the mirror and then swivelled in the chair to face him.

He held his breath. Shep, beside him, swished his tail interrogatively.

But the firm lines of disapproval that had settled on her countenance as they had descended into it downstairs were gone. Her face was soft again, smooth, and the expression warm. "Why would you think all that?"

"You've done it before," he said doggedly, determined to show her that he had a case. "You said nothing and I worried and you wouldn't let me help." It was some six or seven years ago now, but he had never forgotten the terror of that ominous might-have-been moment.

She put the brush down and came to sit beside him on the bed, right up against him, so that when she looked into his face they were mere inches apart. Shep also pushed in, resting his head on her knee.

"I wasn't ill."

"But you thought you might be and ..."

She took his face in her hands. "We weren't married then."

"You always keep your secrets close."

"I do," she admitted. "But it's different now. If I had been ill then and I'd told you, you'd have felt obligated, perhaps beyond your affection for me. No," she cut off his protest, "you don't know. We neither of us do. But now we're certain. And we're bound to each other under God, in sickness and in health, 'til death do us part. I'd not keep you in the dark about something like that."

"Do you promise?"

She gave him a look. "Did I not just say under God, in sickness and in health? Yes. I promise. As I promised at our wedding." The exasperation in her voice was of the teasing variety now and she gave him a little smile. "And if it gives you any comfort to hear me say it, I will not spare you any bad news. It may surprise you to hear this, Mr. Carson, but I don't think you're a heap of matchsticks that will collapse under the smallest burden set upon it. I am a great admirer of those very strong shoulders you have and I believe they can bear any burden the good Lord tasks them with." And as she spoke she took one hand from his face and ran it over his shoulder in the most tantalizing way.

He turned into her other hand and kissed her palm. And then he looked at her again, a little abashed. "I'm sorry about the grates and the keyholes," he muttered, carefully omitting an apology about letters in wastebaskets.

She heard his omission, too, but only laughed. "The Dowager's secret is safe here," she assured him. "I pry selectively."

"Then," he said, frowning, "what's it all about, this inviting Dr. Clarkson to tea? And when were you going to tell me we were entertaining him?"

She sighed. "Well, I wasn't going to tell you," she said flatly. "I've something to talk to the doctor about, something that is none of your business, not that you've anything to be concerned about," she added hastily, as he glowered once more. "You've your own secrets, Charlie. Look at those letters from the Dowager. In the matter of Dr. Clarkson, I'm asking you to trust me."

"I do," he said simply. And then he closed his eyes and leaned into her as she reached up to kiss him. He slid his hands about her waist and stretched out his fingers, his thumbs pressing gently into the alluring softness of her breasts.

"Tell your dog we've made up," she murmured in his ear, "and come to bed."

Thursday October 14

Dr. Clarkson and Mrs. Carson

Dr. Clarkson had been a little surprised, but not unduly so, to be asked to tea at the Carsons'. He had no interaction with the couple outside of consultations on their health or as far as their duties had intersected with his at the Abbey. They stood lower on the social ladder than he did so their paths did not otherwise cross except for literally in the street. But he was not adverse to their company and he always tried to be gracious, so he came along to their cottage on the appointed day at the appointed hour.

And was surprised to find Mrs. Carson alone. When he inquired after her husband, she shrugged. "He's at the Dower House. A command performance by Her Ladyship."

There was a note of ... resignation? exasperation?... in her voice as she conveyed this information and Dr. Clarkson stifled the impulse to smile as it fell on his ears. He had a profound regard for the Dowager Lady Grantham, not least because she was unfailingly open and honest with him and encouraged him to be so with her. But he readily understood, too, how she might rub others the wrong way, especially those in service to her.

"Should I come back another time?" He did not want to postpone the occasion now that he was here, but he would not hold her to an obligation if it made her uncomfortable.

"I daresay our reputations will survive Mr. Carson's absence," Mrs. Carson responded, with a welcoming smile now, her annoyance with the Dowager behind them.

He did not disagree with her.

"And Mrs. Patmore's sent along some raisin scones," she went on. "You don't want to miss that."

"I do not," he said firmly, and followed her into the sitting room. "You have a lovely home," he said, looking around. The cottage was warm, lived in, alive, something of a contrast to his own house. Oh, his was comfortable enough, but it lacked that intangible something that made a house a home. He was hardly ever there but to sleep.

Mrs. Carson had laid on a fire to take the chill out of a damp autumn afternoon and the doctor was soon at his ease in a way that he never was in the Dowager's drawing room. The butler in this house, were he here, would not have been snubbing him endlessly as Spratt did at the Dower House. And conversation flowed easily here, too, more so than he had anticipated.

But then they did have a few things in common. They were both from Scotland and though they hailed from different regions, still it was pleasant after all these years away to be talking of the old country. They exchanged tales of how they had come to Yorkshire, which they'd never discussed before. And he heard in her voice inflections of Argyll which he'd not before noticed, perhaps because they had never spoken at such length, or possibly because at the Abbey she suppressed the cadences of her native land.

He was observant by nature and his profession had only heightened his capacity for this. So he noticed her bright blue eyes, a shade lighter than his own. And he noted that she was a fine hostess, though he'd anticipated this, for she would not have done so well at the Abbey otherwise. She was confident, too, in her ability to hold her own in conversation with him, and though respectful was not in the least deferential. That was how it should be. They were in her home, after all. And he supposed he wasn't really surprised that she should have such a solid character. She'd need an inner core of steel to manage so well with Mr. Carson.

Though there was no shortage of conversation between them the anomaly of her invitation - and the convenient absence of her husband - prompted him at length to ask the question that had been niggling in the back of his mind since her visit to the hospital on Tuesday afternoon. He did not have to raise the matter, for it seemed that she would not - if that was even the reason for it - but he did like to be clear on things.

"Have you spoken with Barrow lately?"

It was an innocuous enough question. If she knew nothing, the conversation would go in a different direction. If she did not want to talk about it, she could easily deflect him. After all, she spoke to Barrow every day. But if this were why he was here and Barrow had spoken to her, then Clarkson wanted to know everything.

"Yes."

She met his gaze dispassionately and for a moment they took each other's measure. She had given nothing away.

"Is that why you've asked me to tea?" he went on.

She continued to stare at him with equanimity. "Yes."

Well, she was straightforward enough. Clarkson took a deep breath

"May I ask what he said?" He lowered his voice though there was no practical reason for doing so.

She did not answer right away, but then, "That he found you indisposed and saw you safely home."

The doctor thought it likely that Barrow had put it more graphically than that, but he appreciated Mrs. Carson's discretion. She did not have to tell him the details.

They sipped their tea in silence.

"I trust you have had the full story from Barrow."

"Well, I've heard everything he had to tell," she said circumspectly.

Clarkson had half-expected Barrow to report him to Lord Grantham. The butler had never been a popular fellow at the Abbey or in the village. The doctor had gathered this much during the war when Barrow had worked for him at the hospital and then as the day-to-day manager of the convalescent home under Clarkson's authority. And subsequent encounters with Barrow in the post-war world had only confirmed this. They'd not crossed swords, the two of them, but individuals with a chip on their shoulder didn't always pick their targets fairly. Yet Barrow had not gone to Lord Grantham. Instead he'd told his tale to Mrs. Carson and Dr. Clarkson found this bewildering. "Why did he tell you?"

It was a fair question.

"Because he was concerned and he didn't know what else to do." She smiled absently at her own words. "Being the shoulder everyone cries on is part of the housekeeper's lot," she added. And then fell silent once more.

Now he was at a loss. "I can assure you that it was a one-time occurrence," he said at length, not really sure what else to say. "It won't happen again." He spoke in that matter-of-fact tone he used to deliver news, good and bad. It was the voice of truth. When she said nothing, he came over a little perplexed. "Where do we go from here?"

"I believe you, Dr. And I'm not sitting in judgment on you. I asked you here to listen, not to lecture."

This puzzled him still more. "Listen to what"

But she said nothing and eventually he had to concede that she was a very clever woman. It was the most effective trick of the best of counsellors. Let someone talk and eventually they would tell you what was on their mind. He could postpone the inevitable by pretending he did not understand, or he could just leave and affect wounded dignity. Or he could acknowledge it and put himself on the road to recovery or acceptance, whichever suited best.

"Lady Merton suggested I retire," he said flatly. "She's made me think."

Mrs. Carson only gazed at him attentively, so he went on.

"She has some idea that there's a world of hitherto untapped pleasure awaiting me if I do."

"You sound sceptical," Mrs. Carson observed in a neutral tone.

He rolled his eyes. "My work is my life, Mrs. Carson."

She nodded sympathetically. "I know another man who felt the same way."

Carson, of course. "I heard he had a rough time of it at first."

She nodded. "He did. I won't say he's there yet, but he's moving on."

"Yes, but he's..." He's got you. He bit his tongue and hoped that she did not know what he was about to say.

"Is there any reason for you to retire? Apart from Lady Merton's vision, that is."

Dr. Clarkson believed that Mrs. Carson held Lady Merton in much higher regard than she did the Dowager. The two women had worked together to improve the lives of the former Downton maid Ethel Parks and of Carson's old associate, Charlie Grigg. But he sensed that in this she was on his side. Mrs. Carson struck him as a woman of a profoundly pragmatic turn of mind, with little patience for pie-in-the-sky dreams from anyone.

"I don't want to retire," he said firmly. "I derive tremendous satisfaction from my work and I'm still very good at it." There was a time for modesty but they were being frank here and it was only what he thought

She nodded placidly and continued to stare at him.

Of course there was more to it. He exhaled deeply. "I can't imagine how she came to make such a...frivolous suggestion." His voice was brittle. "I though she knew me better than that." Now he looked away lest his eyes tell her too much.

Mrs. Carson took the opportunity to refresh his tea.

He was disappointed in Isobel. Mrs. Crawley. Lady Merton. In fact, there were a string of disappointments going back a few years with her. He thought perhaps he was letting this show and so he shook himself a little. "But that's done." The words came out quietly, a denouement, spoken more to himself than to her.

"It is."

Once more silence enveloped them.

"You might get out more often," she said suddenly, startling him.

"I beg your pardon?" But he had heard her.

"You're in an anomalous position," she said, "neither betwixt nor between in the village. But you needn't draw your lines so firmly." She paused. "I've only been married a year, Dr. Friendship has got me through most of the trials of life."

He gave her a searching look. "And Mr. Carson. Does he have friends?"

"He and I were friends for thirty years."

She meant this as an encouragement, but this remark only took him back to Isobel Crawley.

He got up to go and she walked him to the door.

"Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Carson." That encompassed not only the formal occasion of afternoon tea, but also everything else she had said and done.

"You're very welcome, Dr. I hope you will come again. Perhaps when we can tear Mr. Carson away from the Dowager."

"I would enjoy that."

They parted on this lighter note.

She was a shrewd woman, he thought, as he strolled back to the surgery. She'd said little that was explicit but had nonetheless deftly guided him onto a path of self-discovery. It was only the beginning. She'd just put an idea in his head. And held out to him the prospect of friendship from what would have seemed, hours earlier, an unlikely quarter. He was not convinced that he and Carson were especially companionable. But there was something to be said for a conversation with Mrs. Carson.

As he passed through the hospital gate, he had a bit of a revelation. I've gained something here.