Episode 8
Chapter 6
Saturday October 16, 1926
Henry and Tom
The race had captured the imagination of almost all of the Abbey's residents, upstairs and down, and the results were on full display on Saturday at mid-morning.
Tom and Henry had Sybbie and George and Marigold - the last having come down to Yorkshire with her mama for the event - out right after breakfast to help string colourful pennants over the Start/Finish line and to make sure that the flagged markers were in place at each corner of the course that encircled the Abbey.
"It's not quite the Trinity Great Court run, in any aspect," Henry commented as he and Tom strode along behind the gamboling children, "but it'll be a good show all the same. Sorry you're not participating?"
"Me? I'd be bent over gasping for breath just beyond the first turn," Tom declared. He tapped his chest. "Heart murmur."
Henry shook his head sceptically, though he also grinned. "Excuses, excuses."
"I've no lady to impress," Tom added.
"And the other two do?"
They laughed.
Robert and Cora
Robert and Cora were strolling the gravel path through the flower garden, enjoying the crisp air and sunshine and their moment of solitude together.
"When was the last time we did this?" Cora asked, squeezing Robert's arm and looking about. "I mean, just go for a walk without much direction or purpose?"
"Before the war," Robert mused.
Cora gave him a doubtful look. "It wasn't that long ago, Robert."
He shrugged. "That world seems very far away now. Almost as though it never existed at all."
"It is far away," Cora agreed. "It's been twelve years since the summer of 1914." Her light mood was arrested momentarily by remembrance of trauma - their personal tragedy in late summer 1914 when she had lost the baby conceived in the autumn of her own fecundity. She let the wave of sadness roll over her and emerged the other side of it to smile at Robert, whose brow had furrowed in sympathetic reflection. "The important thing," Cora went on firmly, "is that we have weathered the subsequent storms together."
Her determined joie de vivre evoked a smile from him in return and even after her gaze had shifted to the greenery around them, his eyes rested on her. How lucky I am!
"Are you sure it's wise to let George fire the starting gun?" Cora asked delicately.
The moment of bliss evaporated. "What you mean to say is that you think it is unwise and wish that I did as well. Why try to conceal it as an encouragement for me to reconsider?"
Cora abandoned subtlety. "Robert, he's not six years old."
He noted how adroitly she had deflected his barb. "It's only a starting pistol. He can't kill anyone with that. And I've gone over the thing very carefully with him, explained the gravity of it. He understands. It's not like American children playing cowboys and Indians, waving replica six-shooters and scalping knives about in gay abandon." She rolled her eyes and he ignored it. "The way to develop responsible behaviour is to teach it, with firearms or anything else, beginning in controlled circumstances like this."
"I suppose you'll want him to ride in the hunt next year."
"Well, I shouldn't wait too long to introduce him to it. And his riding is coming along splendidly. He takes after his mother in that."
Their three daughters were all accomplished horsewomen, though Edith was the least enthusiastic. Sybil, as was her way, had taken an original and unwelcome turn, embracing Oscar Wilde's stinging rebuke of fox-hunting as her own and having nothing to do with it.* Only Mary followed the hunt with her father's enthusiasm.
They had emerged from the garden now.
Cora sighed and changed the subject. "It seems a lot of fuss for a few minutes' entertainment."
Again Robert looked at her as though she were from another planet. "Did you say that about the St Leger? Would you say that about the Kain-tuck-ee Dar-by?" He gave the latter race a tortured attempt at midwestern twang. "It'll be fun!"
"Fair enough," Cora conceded good-naturedly. "But perhaps we could have made a bit more of it. Look at those school boys down the drive." She pointed. A group of youngsters had come up from the village and were holding heats of their own as they awaited the main event.
Robert gazed at them for a moment. "Next year."
"Next year?"
"Yes. This will be a trial run, the inaugural running of the Downton Abbey Circuit. It'll become a tradition."
"And Mama is coming up for it?"
"Yes." His eyes shaded a bit. "With Rosamund. I don't want to push Mama beyond her limits, but I don't want to make the mistake of leaving her out of things for fear of her health. She'll stay to lunch. It's a less onerous meal than dinner."
Again Cora tightened her grip on his arm and their eyes met in an understanding look.
"I must find Carson," Robert declared. "I want to make a wager on the race."
"Robert! Gambling?"
"What? I'm unlikely to lose Downton in a bet with my butler. Former butler." He paused. "And even if I did, Carson would not accept it. I'm not about to pass up an opportunity to win, which I will, with the current butler the heavy favourite to sweep the race."
Cora was not convinced of anything he'd just said. She had tactfully refrained from being explicit in her support of her son-in-law over her husband's champion. "Just don't put Carson in an awkward position."
"When have I ever done that?"
Anna and John
Anna and John had collected Robbie from the nursery that he might watch the race with them.
"Poor Stephen," Anna said sympathetically once they were out of earshot of Nanny. "Left out of it all."**
"He wouldn't appreciate it," John said. "I'm not sure Robbie is going to appreciate it," he added, shaking one of his son's hands. Robbie, astride his mother's hip as they made their way down the servants' staircase, laughed and tugged at his father's fingers.
"We don't often get to be together at work," Anna reminded him.
"I've volunteered to monitor the race on the back side of the Abbey."
Anna stopped abruptly at this casual declaration. "John! We won't see who wins if we're back there!"
"Does it really matter?"
Anna sighed in exasperation. "Well, aside from the fact that the whole point of a race is the winning of it, I'd have thought you'd want to see Mr. Barrow lose." She was teasing him. "Or is it that you're thinking he's going to win and you don't want to see that?"
They resumed their descent.
"You know," he said thoughtfully, "I've been giving the matter some consideration for days and I just don't know."
"Well, who do you want to win?"
"Mr. Ryder," John said promptly. "He's a nice enough fellow and he was the original challenger."
"And who do you think will win?" Anna's eyes sparkled mischievously.
He glowered a little in mock consternation. "If I were putting money down and wanted to go home a winner, I'd say Mr. Barrow. I've seen him on the cricket pitch," he added, by way of explanation, and then, "But don't tell anyone I said that. Least of all him."
Anna laughed. "Hypocrite!"
"Guilty as charged. And you? Who are you cheering for?"
"Oh. Mr. Talbot, of course." Anna did not hesitate. "I want him to win and I think he's going to win."
"So we are at odds," John said gravely. "Would you care to make a wager?"
Anna met his narrowed gaze with a bold look. "Can you afford to lose, Mr. Bates?"
Mary and Edith
The sisters stood by one of the long windows in the library gazing out at the children - Sybbie, George, and Marigold - tumbling together on the lawn. A little beyond them Henry and Tom appeared engaged in cordial conversation.
"Perhaps we should be out there," Edith said uncertainly, her eyes riveted on Marigold. Her daughter was the youngest and the smallest of the Crawley grandchildren. She recalled for Edith her own childhood as the least robust of three sisters and consequently the one most likely to hang back.
"Nonsense," Mary said briskly. "It's good for you - and Marigold, too - to put a little distance between you. And it's rather chilly out there this morning." For her part, Mary was glad to see how George flung himself into games, never sparing himself physically. In that he reflected both his father and his mother. Beaming with pride in her son, Mary let her gaze stray to her husband and she was pleased with what she saw. He was not yet kitted up for the race, but he cut a fine figure in tweed as well.
"And how are things with you and Bertie?" No one else had broached the subject since Edith's arrival the evening before. Mary seized the moment.
Edith shot her an impatient look. "Fine. Of course. When was the last time a dispute between you and one of your husbands lasted more than a day?"
Mary chose not to be annoyed at the way Edith had phrased that - one of your husbands. She supposed Edith was allowed a barbed comment of her own every once in a while. Indeed, she was getting better at it. "I'm glad to hear it," she said instead. "Did you really come all the way to Downton for this race?"
Edith shrugged. "It was a good excuse. But, no, of course not. I came to see Granny and she'll know it. She's coming up this morning?"
"She is." Mary meditated on this. "I've been visiting with her more often of late, but we never discuss her health. She wont' have it and, ... well, I suppose I'm with Papa on this. If that's the way she wants it, I'll give her that."
"I don't see the value in the stiff-upper-lip approach," Edith countered. "I never have. Why can we never discuss important things openly, like adults?"
Leading by example, Mary changed the subject. "Who are you going to cheer for?"
Edith stared at her in disbelief. "Henry, of course. Well, I'm not cheering for Barrow," she added emphatically. "I don't share your enthusiasm for butlers. And I'm not supporting a stranger either. How did this come about anyway?"
"A conversation in the servants' hall. It's modeled - very loosely - on the Trinity Great Court run at Cambridge. I think Henry's always been envious of the tradition."
They watched the children in silence for a moment. Mary wondered if they'd run out of things to say. Then her eyes strayed to Marigold.
"She has your delicate bones, but she looks like her father." It was only the kind of thing people said about other people's children, but then Mary caught herself. "I beg your pardon, Edith."
Edith appreciated this flash of sensitivity on her sister's part. "Not at all. Marigold does look like Michael. Though Bertie will be the only father she'll ever know." And then it was Edith who felt awkward, for they both knew that for a year and more Marigold had called Mr. Drew daddy.
Mary moved into the gap. "Look at our three children, all of them bereft of one of their natural parents, George and Sybbie orphaned on the day of their birth, Marigold well before she drew her first breath."
These were awkward facts that made children's birthday parties at Downton something of a trial.
"Goodness, but this is a dreary conversation," Mary declared abruptly. "Let us leave off before we drag in Tom's troubles."
Edith readily agreed. "I'm going to join the children. Chilly or not, Mama and Papa have been walking for at least half an hour. I'm sure I can face it."
"And I shall seek out my champion."
Elsie and Charlie
"You never said who you were cheering for," Mrs Patmore said, putting her head in the door of Mrs. Carson's office at mid-morning.
"No. I haven't." Elsie hadn't really made up her mind until the last few days and now that she had she'd no trouble admitting her choice. But she knew her reserve would provoke Mrs. Patmore, which was fun sometimes.
"Are you going to out with it before they reach the finish line?!"
"I'm supporting Mr. Ryder."
This astonished Mrs. Patmore. "What? I thought you didn't like him!"
"I never said I didn't like him. It was only that I didn't know what to make of him. But I had a chat with him, as you suggested...," acknowledging Mrs. Patmore's influence was always an effective way to soothe her ruffled feathers, "and I've warmed to him a little."
"And I suppose your husband had nothing to do with changing your mind? Well. What about Mr. Barrow, then?"
Elsie shrugged. "I'm sure he's got admirers enough, including His Lordship. He won't miss me."
At twenty to eleven she joined the exodus from the servants' hall, out the coal yard door, and around the front of the Abbey. She had to look to find Mr. Carson. Despite the highly informal nature the race, several villagers had wandered up and there were schoolchildren all over, and some of the estate workers had also gathered. There was a set of chairs arranged for the family, conveniently situated with the best view of the start/finish line, though none of the Crawleys had yet taken their places. As Elsie came round the corner of the house, the Dowager was just getting out of the Crawleys' Rolls, accompanied by Lady Rosamund. His Lordship was there to take his mother's arm.
Elsie was momentarily distracted by the sight. She'd not set eyes on the old lady in some time. The Dowager did look more frail. And seeing this Elsie felt a pang. It would be a great blow for Charlie when the old woman passed. The history he was writing, in which the Dowager seemed to play such a dominant part, would be little solace for the loss of a force Charlie had known almost all his life. Elsie would mourn her for his sake. She herself wouldn't miss the old bat.
There was Mr. Talbot in his running gear now, standing with the rest of the family. Clearly the younger set, including the little girls, Miss Sybbie and Miss Marigold, were supporting him. They clustered about him like bees at a hive. Master George, however, lurked on the periphery as though looking for someone. Elsie suspected it was Mr. Barrow he sought and wondered how Master George's divided allegiances went down with Lady Mary. Or perhaps the little boy was only anxious for the race to begin as he was to fire the starting gun.
And then her eyes lit on Mr. Carson and Daniel Ryder. And for a moment she just watched them. How proud Charlie looked! There was no crowd about them as around Mr. Talbot, but neither man cared, so wrapped up in each other were they. Even from a distance she could tell their conversation was an animated one. Daniel stood tall beside Charlie. They are a pair, she thought. When she joined them she was gratified by welcoming smiles from both.
"Are you all ready?" she asked Daniel Ryder, knowing it to be a superfluous question. Either he was or he wasn't.
"I am," he said confidently.
Elsie gazed at him appraisingly. She'd cast her lot with him, but wasn't at all certain in her own mind that he would actually win. But that was the fun of it, wasn't it? If there was no question to it, then there'd be no point in having a race.
"I don't see Mr. Barrow," she said, looking around.
"Probably skulking in the butler's pantry," her husband said dismissively.
Elsie gave him a look and then changed the subject. "Here's Mr. Molesley."
She wasn't surprised that the schoolteacher should make an appearance, even at such an informal event as this one. Mr. Molesley kept his hand in where the Abbey was concerned. Nor was Elsie surprised to find Mr. Molesley accompanied by Miss Baxter. It was no secret in the servants' hall that the two were sweet on each other. In their own way. Looking at the pair, Elsie understood some of the bemusement on the staff's part at the glacial pace of the relationship that had developed between her and Mr. Carson, back in the day. Still, she could not shake off the feeling that the younger couple were determined to break the Carsons' record for length of courtship. What was surprising was Miss Baxter's earnestly expressed good wishes to Daniel Ryder. Molesley's support was to be expected. Daniel had been boarding with him for several weeks now. Even more to the point, Molesley and Barrow did not like each other. But Miss Baxter was the closest thing to a friend Barrow had at Downton.
Perhaps they've fallen out, Elsie mused. Or, she thought mischievously, casting her mind back to Mrs. Patmore's earlier remark, perhaps Miss Baxter thought Mr. Molesley's opinion more important than Mr. Barrow's.
"You realize, of course," Charlie was saying to Daniel, "that there is rather more riding on this than simply defeating Mr. Barrow, as satisfying as that may be. There's also the matter of a wager with His Lordship."
"Charlie Carson!" Elsie stared at her husband in astonishment. She'd let him out of her sight for a few hours and he was gambling. She wasn't really shocked. It was only that despite their very long acquaintance, she often thought she learned something new about him every day.
"A small wager," he assured her. And then he clapped a hand on Daniel's shoulder, a gesture of familiarity that drew Molesley's attention as well as Elsie's. "Only see that you win, Daniel."
Elsie noticed Molesley's eyes popping at this further intimacy, though he said nothing.
"You may count on me, Mr. Carson," Daniel Ryder said firmly.
Thomas
Thomas was in the butler's pantry, though he would have rejected Mr. Carson's description of skulking as inaccurate. No, he was doing what he had learned to do so well over the years - protecting himself. To join the family and the household staff and whoever drifted up from the village or over from the farms would be to expose his isolation and he didn't want to do that. He felt it keenly enough himself. Better to appear at the last minute than to be standing about alone.
Mr. Talbot would be at the center of a circle of admirers - his family. Fair enough. And Daniel Ryder would have the stalwart support and undivided attention of Mr. Carson. Given how cozy they were together, it would probably be quite enough for Ryder. But Thomas doubted he would have any followers at all. Of course, His Lordship was his main supporter. But Thomas wondered if Lord Grantham would still have backed him had Mr. Talbot declared earlier. Even if His Lordship heldl firm, he would hardly be hanging off Thomas, playing the cheering section. Mrs. Patmore and Daisy, and the hallboy, too, had enthusiastically declared themselves for him, but the two women would be occupied setting out some light refreshments, and he didn't want to associate too closely with them in any case. How pathetic would that look? Miss Baxter was a different matter, but she was likely to keep her distance. They had had a set-to a few days earlier over Mr. Molesley and she'd treated Thomas indifferently ever since. No doubt she would join Molesley in cheering on Daniel Ryder.
Well, there was Andy. For a moment Thomas had overlooked the footman. Yes, Andy would stand by him and with enthusiasm. So he would not be completely alone when he did go up.
At any other time a determination to show them all might have galvanized Thomas. But Berlin had sapped him in unexpected ways. Oh, it had been exhilarating enough. But when he'd had time to think about it all in the cold reality of his life in Yorkshire, he realized that Berlin had been a holiday. All that he'd experienced there was out of the ordinary. You couldn't count on it day to day. And you didn't want to either. Because for all the excitement, it was hollow. It wasn't what he wanted, though it had shown him some possibilities. But it seemed to him that behind all the laughter and gaiety and show, there had been loneliness there, too. Not everywhere, but quite enough to be getting on with. So along with the letdown of coming back to a mundane existence in the West Riding where he was the only man of his sort for miles around came the second blow - that he was still as alone as ever, having no one with whom even to share his tales of the exaggerated delights and false fronts of Berlin. And that frustrated him.
What he really wanted in this minute was a smoke and he was reaching for the packet when he remembered. You have a race to run! So he shook off the malaise and got to his feet, summoning his internal reserves of self-reliance and pride to the fore. He would win.
He might have gone out the coal yard door and round the side of the house as everyone else had done, but that would prolong his solitary walk in the open. Instead he headed up the stairs, through the green baize door and into the passage by the Great Hall. He would slip out one of the side doors and merge smoothly into those gathered at the front of the house. The place was empty as he started soundlessly down the passage. Family and staff were already outside, immersed in the festive atmosphere.
But Thomas had hardly taken more than a few steps when he heard voices. Automatically he stepped into the shadows and stood still. He wasn't afraid of being discovered. He was the butler of Downton Abbey and could go where he liked, even in running kit. But it was his habit to assess a situation before he confronted it. And chance conversations were often good sources of information. Almost immediately he recognized the voices as belonging to Lord and Lady Merton.
"Of course we must cheer for Henry," Lady Merton declared emphatically, as though her mild-mannered husband had suggested otherwise. "Although I don't think he's going to win."
"Really? Who have you marked out as the victor?"
Thomas was almost distracted from the content of the conversation by Lord Merton's adoring tone. Even Mr. Carson was more circumspect in the worship of his own wife. But another thought caught him blindside. What freedom they had to express their feelings, these adherents of societal norms. Thomas resented them all.
"Barrow, I think," Lady Merton said in reply to her husband's question. "I don't know the other one at all, although if I were betting which I am not, I might have picked him coming in second. Strange, really," she added.
"What is?"
"Well, you remember what Larry said about him, this Mr. Ryder. I'd not, if you'd asked me on a general level, given a homosexual much of a chance against a vigorous man like Henry Talbot. But looking at them, I am convinced that one or the other - or both - may best him in this race. I hadn't thought such men went in for athletics."
"I don't know about that," Dickie Merton mused. "I knew a few fellows at Eton..."
They had been walking as they talked and their voices faded as they disappeared into the passage leading to the front door. But this was no matter to Thomas who stood frozen to the spot in the shadows.
At the Start
"Lady Merton. Lord Merton." Dr. Clarkson nodded to the couple who were strolling arm-in-arm through the gaggles of onlookers.
"A pleasure to see you, doctor," Dickie Merton said affably.
"Dr. Clarkson. Are you expecting casualties?" Isobel inquired.
The doctor frowned a little. "My mind is not exclusively occupied with medical matters, Lady Merton. And I should hope my mere presence at an event is not a harbinger of disaster."
"Of course not," Lord Merton said quickly.
Isobel shrugged.
"Excuse me." Clarkson moved off.
"You see?" Isobel said to her husband. "He's very cool these days."
Dickie Merton gave this a thought. "Were there days when he was not so cool?"
She ignored this. "He's here to keep an eye on Cousin Violet, I think."
"She does look rather fragile. I'm amazed she came up to the Abbey for this."
"Robert asked her and one indulges a son, even when the favour is not convenient."
Dickie looked as though he might not agree with this, but said nothing.
"I am so glad to see you here, Dr. Clarkson." Cora had broken away from the family clustered around Henry to greet the doctor. He was stalking along in a deliberate way, though Cora had the impression he was not really seeing what he was looking at. "Lord Grantham has insisted on Master George firing the starting pistol."
Dr. Clarkson looked bemused. "I suppose he knows what he's doing."
"Guns and children," Cora responded, shaking her head. "I just don't think they go together."
Passing his wife as she spoke, Robert grimaced a little at her over his shoulder. But he had more pressing matters on his mind. "Who's running this show?" he called out.
"Me." Tom left Henry's side and made his way to the starting line. He cupped his hands around his mouth and directed his next words to those assembled on the lawn. "If you could all please take up your places. It's almost eleven and we're about to begin." Then, together with Andy and the hallboy, Alan, he helped to herd people to the edge of the gravel drive and away from the path that circumnavigated the house. Andy and Alan had agreed to take up posts on the sides of the house, both to keep spectators out of the runners' way and to ensure that everything was all Sir Garnet with the race itself.
"Ah! There's Barrow. Finally." Robert took up George's hand and drew him in the butler's direction. "Let's have a word with Barrow before it starts, shall we?"
George joined him with enthusiasm. "Mr. Barrow!"
The little boy's greeting appeared to startle the butler, but then he smiled and shook the hand George held out to him.
"Good luck, Mr. Barrow!"
"Thank you, Master George."
"I don't think you'll need luck," His Lordship declared buoyantly. "But it never hurts to have some." His cheerful countenance dimmed a little at the distracted and almost wild look in his butler's eyes. "Is there anything wrong?"
"No, no, my lord." Barrow had almost stammered. It took a degree of self-control to focus his attention on His Lordship and not to be staring around madly, trying to find Daniel Ryder.
"Good. Well. We'll see you at the start." His Lordship paused. "And, more importantly, at the finish!"
"Yes, my lord.." Barrow responded perfunctorily. His mind was elsewhere. Vaguely he heard someone - it was Mr. Branson - calling for the challengers to come to starting line and make themselves ready.
Ah. There he is.
Thomas's gaze fixed on Daniel Ryder, shouldering his way easily through the gathering observers, a few of whom called out good wishes to him. Of course, Mr. Carson was right there by his side, imparting last-minute instructions or perhaps words of encouragement. It was a sight that chilled Thomas's heart. Weren't things complicated enough?
His eyes ran over Ryder's form in a way they had never done before. The Cambridge man was dressed, as all three of the runners were, in white shirt and shorts, but now Thomas drank in every detail. Ryder's shirt fit tautly over his shoulders and chest, highlighting a well-built but not overdeveloped frame. His waist was small. His knees were a bit knobby, but whose weren't? Unconsciously Thomas nodded approvingly at the dark hair on Ryder's arms and legs - masculine, but not excessive. And then, in the middle of this inspection, the subject smiled, a smile as brilliant as any Thomas could muster when he felt like it. What lovely teeth! Why had he never noticed that before? That the smile was directed at Mr. Carson was only mildly distracting.
Thomas shook his head. He had a race to run. Somehow he found himself at the starting line, with Mr. Talbot to his right.
"Best of luck, Barrow." Mr. Talbot put out his hand and Thomas shook it. They'd gotten on all right on their brief sojourn to Berlin.
"The same to you," Thomas murmured, and turned away almost immediately, looking for Daniel Ryder.
"Well, here we are, Mr. Barrow." Ryder was there, at Thomas's left. He had shed Mr. Carson. His dark eyes bore into Thomas's. There was no warmth there.
"Who gave you the inside position?" Thomas demanded, blurting out the first thing that came to mind.
Daniel Ryder's eyebrows arched.
"No. I didn't mean..."
But without a word, Ryder stepped around Thomas and Henry Talbot so that he occupied the outside position.
"I wasn't saying..." It was difficult talking around someone, but Daniel Ryder wasn't listening anyway.
There was some little fuss off to the side where the family were now ensconced in their chairs. His Lordship was guiding Master George to the small platform where he was to stand to fire the starting shot.
"Run fast, Mr. Barrow!"the boy cried across the way.
There was some laughter from the spectators at this cry. It evoked a smile from Thomas and a resigned sigh from Mr. Talbot. Thomas thought he heard the man mutter something about butlers.
"On your mark." Mr. Branson's voice rang out.
Thomas, Henry Talbot, and Daniel Ryder positioned themselves, the first two quite deliberately digging toe trenches in the gravel. Thomas did so more absent-mindedly. They were not quite the Olympic team of 1924, but still they made a compelling picture. They were all three of them tall, dark-haired, and well built. They were physical men whose strength of intellect was matched in muscle. And until a quarter of an hour ago, they were all determined to win.
But now Thomas was consumed with other thoughts.
Is Lady Merton wrong? Am I stupid? He could not countenance this last, though he yearned for it to be so. Daniel Ryder is like me!
He leaned forward a little, shifting impatiently, trying to see beyond Mr. Talbot, to catch a glimpse of Ryder. What did I miss? How did I not see it?
"Get set!"
Henry Talbot and Daniel Ryder stiffened into the set position and Thomas found himself uncomfortable with his forward hold. He began to waggle his toe in the gravel.
Cambridge! What was it Mr. Grey had said about Daniel Ryder and Cambridge?There had been an 'incident' at Cambridge. An incident that had led Ryder to leave without his degree. Of course! Why hadn't he...
Bang!
The starting gun fired. From somewhere that seemed a distance away, Thomas heard Master George exulting as the author of that shot. In the very same instant, there was a flash of white to Thomas's right, the lightning movement of men in action. The gun was his cue, too, and he flung himself forward.
And caught the tip of his shoe on the edge of the little travel trench he had made such a hash of. He fell so precipitously his mind did not register the fact until his face was scraping the gravel. In his ears, above the startled communal intake of breath from the watchers, Thomas discerned the flapping of the light running shoes worn by both Mr. Talbot and Daniel Ryder, already rounding the near corner of the house. A tiny trickle of blood trickled into his eye.
Author's Note 1. Oscar Wilde famously described fox-hunting as the "unspeakable in full pursuit of the uneatable," a line spoken by Lord Illingsworth in "A Woman of No Importance." Thank you to The Guardian, still a great paper, no matter what Mr. Carson might think of it.
Author's Note 2. Yes, we now know, courtesy of Downton Abbey The Movie that Mary and Henry's first child is a girl, Caroline. But I got my story to print before Julian Fellowes did, so I'm sticking with Stephen. And with Robbie Bates instead of Johnny.
