DOWNTON ABBEY 1926

EPISODE 9 Chapter 2

SEE RECAP below to catch up on what's been happening in this story recently.

Tuesday October 19

Isobel and Carson

At mid-morning, Isobel and Carson were in the drawing room of Crawley House, reviewing the final arrangements for the dinner party, now only ten days away. Isobel had hoped that Mrs. Carson might have accompanied her husband, but apparently the woman's contributions to the affair were to be all behind the scenes on the night of the event itself. She could not be counted on as a mitigating influence on her intractable husband after all.

Not that it mattered. Isobel had decided to yield to the informed views of all those around her – her husband, Cousin Violet, Mary, and even Cora – in giving Carson free rein. She did it grudgingly, as she had no practical understanding of the concept of the strategic retreat., but she did it. And, not surprisingly, the morning's discussion was, in its smoothness, a stark contrast to the fractious atmosphere of their first meeting. They had moved quickly through the menu without incident and had passed over the seating plan without comment. They were pondering physical arrangements – which rooms were to be used and how guests could be expected to proceed from one to the other – when the doorbell rang.

"Excuse me, Carson." Isobel heard a faint air of disapproval issue from Carson as she went to answer the door. He shared Cousin Violet's incomprehension of the middle-class sensibilities that dictated a minimalist approach to servants. Isobel had had to concede on this, too, for the party. The house was to be filled with footmen, apparently, and there were to be additional maids hired for the day to ensure the place was spotless. And on the occasion, Carson himself would be seeing to the door.

Isobel had no idea who would be calling upon her unannounced at mid-morning, but, of course, finding out was the reason one opened doors. She had to exercise a great deal of self-discipline not to show her dismay at the person she found there, for it was Larry Grey.

"Yes?" She stared at him, her eyes widened interrogatively. It was as pleasant a greeting as she could muster.

He performed the automatic eye roll with which he greeted her every utterance. "May I come in? It's damp out here."

It was, indeed. A light rain had been falling all morning. Isobel recalled Dickie's directive with regard to his elder son: "Leave him on the door step!" But she was incapable of such forthright rudeness. Wordlessly, she admitted him.

She ought to have remained silent and let him say whatever it was he came to say, but she could not believe he had come to see her and so answered a question he had not asked. "Your father is not at home."

His hawk-like eyes, predatory and always in motion, darted her way. "I know," he said, in a patronizing drawl. "He's at the meeting of the Archaeological Society, as he has been on the morning of the third Tuesday of the month for the last thirty-two years." He spoke to her as though she were the dull child of someone for whom he did not care and thus toward whom he did not feel required to make any effort of civility.

Isobel wished she had left him on the doorstep, even in the rain.

His gaze shifted again, sweeping the hall, no doubt looking for something else with which to find fault.

"Did you come here for a reason?" She could have bitten off her tongue, giving him yet another opening like this, but she did wish to be rid of Larry as quickly as possible.

"Well, I didn't come for a cup of tea," he said. "No, I came to return this." He reached into a pocket of his jacket and produced a small box. He pressed the clasp on the box and it sprang open to reveal the gold pocket watch and chain that lay within.

Isobel felt her nerves clench. Against Dickie's advice, she had sent a present to Edgar for his birthday. They had not been invited to the celebration. Dickie had sent a financial gift because Edgar was his grandson and could not help his parents. But Isobel had wanted to add something more personal. And, also, she was acutely conscious of the great attention that she and Dickie gave to her grandson. She had chosen the pocket watch. Edgar would have no use for it for years, of course, but such a gift lasted. Dickie pointed out that the boy might break it if it came into his hands at too young an age, but Isobel had shrugged. So what? The important thing was that he should know that his grandfather and … step-grandmother? …what an awkward word … were thinking of him. She had considered in passing the idea that Edgar's awful parents might toss the watch right into the rubbish, but she had not imagined this.

Larry lifted the watch from the box as though it was something that had been soiled. "It's a fine watch," he said, though his behaviour suggested otherwise. "Swiss."

It was.

"But the thing is…." He left the sentence hanging where he might have inserted her name or some designation by which he acknowledged her, because he never called her anything at all. "…it's got ordinal numbers on its face. In our family," he emphasized the possessive pronoun as though to distinguish between the Mertons and her, "we prefer Roman numerals. Papa knows this, of course, so I assume this was your idea. At any rate, I'm afraid it just doesn't meet our standards." He left her in no doubt that the watch was not the only thing wanting.

Isobel closed the door on him with a bang, not caring that he would take satisfaction from having upset her. She was as angry with herself for reacting as she was with him for provoking.

No. I am not. I'm far angrier with him. He was awful. And what he said and how he behaved hurt. Try as she might to brush him off, it still hurt. She picked up the watch, ran her fingers over the smooth metal, let the chain pool in her palm. And then she remembered Carson. A witness to her humiliation. Well, there was nothing she could do about that. She dropped the watch into a drawer in the decorative hall table and marched into the sitting room.

Carson was where she had left him, standing by the table – because they had both been standing, Isobel having given up trying to get him to sit. She expected him to feign obliviousness to the scene in the hall. Wasn't that the English thing to do? But the look he fastened on her as she came in was not in the least neutral. Indeed, his dark eyes burned with a fire with which Isobel was well acquainted – it was indignation.

But Isobel did not wish to revisit her indignity with Carson, of all people, even if he was on her side. That in itself would be a novelty. She and Carson were never on the same side. She willed herself to put aside the encounter with Larry and to prevent any reflection on it with the butler. "Where were we, Carson?" she said, directing them back to where they had been, and even trying to smile.

He dropped his eyes from hers and his fingers stirred through the pages on the table. He found what he was looking for, picked it up, and stared at it.

Isobel moved to his side. "That's the seating chart, Carson. We've dealt with that." She surprised herself with the equanimity with which she spoke.

"I think not, my lady," he said, his own voice giving away nothing of the feeling she had seen in his eyes. He took up the pencil she had been using to make notes and quickly made some adjustments to the seating plan, striking out a few things, scribbling a few words. Then he looked up at her. "We forgot two people." And he handed her the chart.

Isobel looked at it. He had pencilled in two names – Larry Grey and Amelia Grey. Was this a joke? Her own eyes blazed and she glared at him.

"No," she said firmly. "Absolutely not."

He stood his ground. "Yes, my lady."

Now, she was angry and with him. How dare he! Isobel felt humiliated again. The man had witnessed her degradation and did not have the good grace to pretend it had not happened. And Isobel had thought such a facility was ingrained in every competent servant.

"I have given way on everything, Carson, but I will not give in to such a childish whim." It was a cutting thing to say, but she was angry. "Absolutely not." And when he opened his mouth, clearly intent on pressing the issue, she added, "You've no idea what he's like."

That created an awkward moment as he had just heard the exchange in the hall.

"Begging your pardon, my lady, I know very well what Mr. Grey is like," Carson said in the breach. "I was present on the two occasions in the recent past when Mr. Grey made a shambles of dinner at Downton Abbey."

Isobel's discomfort only heightened, for she had been the target of Larry's contempt at the second of these.

"And I remember his ill-advised, ill-mannered, and, fortunately, short-lived pursuit of Lady Sybil many years ago, as well. Mr. Grey," he added, "has changed only in the intensity of his rudeness, not in the fact of it."

For a fragment of time, Isobel wondered if she ought not to reprimand Carson for the effrontery of his comments. Larry was Dickie's son and a servant had no business making such remarks. But that Carson, who was the chief enforcer of such rules, should make this stand puzzled her. "And?" was all she could think of to say.

"Mr. Grey is a bully. It is not my business, my lady, but I think you should put an end to it."

Well, he was right about Larry, if nothing else. As for the other thing….

"Carson, this dinner party is a social occasion. As you have already noted, dinner parties where Larry Grey is in attendance tend to end in scenes of near violence punctuated with bad language and tears. I would rather not have such a scene in my dining room." She had had embarrassment enough at Larry's hands.

"That is what happens when Mr. Grey has free rein. I propose that you invite him and his wife…." It was clear that Carson had as little regard for Amelia as for her husband. "…and muzzle the bully. Do it right and in such a high-profile moment where you are in the spotlight, and the bully will not trouble you again. They are all cowards, my lady."

Isobel almost wanted to believe him. His deep, rich, well-modulated tone and the authority with which he spoke almost made her think it possible. "No," she said softly.

Carson took a step toward her and lowered his voice, as though to draw her into a conspiracy. "Begging your pardon again, my lady, but that man wants to make you miserable, and he will continue to do so at every opportunity. Do you really wish to endure that for the rest of your life?"

Far easier said than done. "Of course, I don't. But I do not have the means to end it." It was a sad confession, but it was a fact. She had tried various strategies of her own devising on Larry and the only thing that worked was staying right away from him. But this was not a permanent solution. He was Dickie's son. They crossed paths.

Carson waited until she met his eyes again. "You may not, Lady Merton. But I do."

"What?"

"The only thing a bully understands is a force greater than himself. Faced with that, he will tuck his tail between his legs and never bother you again. Though, of course, it will not stop him from bullying someone else."

"I do not condone force, Carson."

"I speak of information, not fisticuffs."

"Information? Do you mean blackmail?" She almost laughed. "What would you know about Larry Grey?" To her mind, this was a rhetorical question.

"Butlers know things," he said pointedly.

She was almost speechless. "Carson, I appreciate your concern. I do. But Mr. Grey is Lord Merton's son. I could not …."

"All that is necessary is for Mr. Grey to know that you know. Awareness is as good as a threat." He paused. "You may trust me on this, my lady."

She stared at him. She had never particularly liked Carson. She did not dislike him; she just didn't like him.* His imperious manner and arrogant air of superiority, a mirror image of that exhibited by Cousin Violet, had always put her off. He had had his moments – his reconciliation with Mr. Grigg and his unfailing devotion to Mary - among them. And she had herself danced with him every year at the servants' ball and found him an amiable conversationalist and a superb dancer. But he was always the butler of Downton Abbey, another man – not unlike Larry Grey, though in a milder form – in whose eyes she could never measure up because she had had the misfortune to be born into the middle class. Now, for who-knew-what-reasons, he was prepared to deploy his talents in her favour. This perplexed her.

"I just want my dinner to be a success," she said again, almost despairingly. Was that so much to ask?

"And it will be. And you will have tamed the monster, as well. A double triumph."

He seemed so certain. "But the invitations have already gone out." It was a feeble defense, and she was not at all surprised that he had an answer for that, too.

"I shall deliver one by hand to Cavenham myself. Today. And take all the blame for that unfortunate oversight. Mr. Grey will see through it, of course, but no matter."

"And refuse to come," Isobel declared. "Won't that be an insult, too?"

"He won't refuse, my lady. A bully never turns down an opportunity. He … enjoys baiting you."

Isobel felt again the sting of Larry's words and the contempt with which he had deposited the watch on the hall table. "I feel quite weak at the knees, Carson," she admitted softly.

"My lady," and he spoke almost gently, "let us put an end to this, shall we?"

Isobel felt as though she were standing on the edge of a great abyss. "Yes," she said, plunging into it.

Isobel and Dickie

"I don't know how it happened," Isobel said to Dickie, a little while later. "I let him talk me into it. And now we're ruined."

Isobel was more agitated than her husband had ever seen her. He had found her pacing the hall, waiting for him, and he had hardly closed the door before she told him about Carson. And, almost incidentally, Larry.

"At the very least, I should have waited and spoken to you about it. But now he's gone straight to Cavenham with an invitation and I can't undo it."

Dickie's first response was to take her in his arms to soothe the agitation.

"It's not the end of the world," he said, after a while. "Let's have tea and consider our options."

Ellen, who was not expected to answer the door, did serve tea and did it up nicely. And once Dickie has poured her a Isobel a cup and she's taken a sip, they turned to the problem.

"I disagree with you," Isobel said abruptly. "It is the end of the world. It's bad enough that all the Crawleys have been party to my humiliation, but now the whole county will be in on it. Sir Evan Fare! The Metcalfes. Lord and Lady Hunt-Leigh."

She was cascading toward despair again, so Dickie interrupted.

"There are two ways we may proceed. You said that Carson said he would take the blame for a misplaced invitation to explain its late arrival at Cavenham. Well, we could as easily blame Carson for overstepping bounds in making an unauthorized invitation."

"Could we? That sounds rather … brutal."

"Well, I didn't say that was the route we ought to take," Dickie said, "only that it was possible. People blame their servants for all sorts of things." He saw the repulsed look on his wife's face and passed on. "Or, we could have Larry and Amelia for dinner with the rest."

The burden of this prospect weighed Isobel down and she leaned into Dickie. "Why did he interfere? Carson, I mean. Things had been going so well. Now that I'd given him his way on everything." Isobel had the wherewithal to toss her head a bit at Carson's ingratitude.

"But he's right."

Dickie was not one to shout from the rooftops or to give full voice in a crowded ballroom. He simply stated things in that understated way he had. And when he said something revolutionary, as he just had, the words exploded all on their own. They didn't need volume to have impact.

"What are you saying?"

Dickie took Isobel's hands in his own, entwining his fingers with hers, reveling how they conveyed to him her many virtues – kindness, warmth, strength, purpose, compassion, wisdom. He loved Isobel, but he also admired her. She was a person of substance. She had an alert and inquiring mind. And she had employed her talents in tangible ways over the years in the pursuit of the betterment of others which, after all, was what everyone ought to be doing. Isobel had never been one to let thoughts be her aim.** He was very fortunate in her love.

"Only that it's not enough to fulminate about Larry's execrable behaviour. I have been at a loss for years with him and where has that got me? Or you. I have failed myself and you, and watch you hurt badly as a result. Even once was too many. Carson has a solution. I say, let's try it."

"It will ruin our dinner."

"Only if it doesn't work." Dickie gave Isobel a ghost of a smile. "You've not had much experience with butlers. I agree with you that they can be quite tiresome. But there is no denying that they know things."

"Isn't that … unsettling?"

"It can be, if your butler doesn't like you."

Tuesday Night

Robert and Bates

"Do you know who will be at this cocktail party, Bates? Hertzog. J.B.M. Hertzog. The last time I was this close to him, we were shooting at each other on a veldt in the Transvaal. Now, I'm expected to raise a glass with him."

Bates was attending to the finer details of His Lordship's dress.

"Isn't that the way of diplomacy, my lord? Champagne and cigars one minute, bullets and blood the next? Who was it said that war is just diplomacy by other means?"

"Von Clausewitz. And I suppose it's true. But I can't say it won't grate to be chatting amiably with the man."

"I understand what you're saying, my lord. We would not have been effective as soldiers if our blood wasn't up." Bates stepped back and ran a discerning eye over Robert, to make sure that all was in order. "But General Smuts came off a celebrity here during the last war. Mr. Lloyd George was especially taken with him."

"An enthusiasm which is only possible from a man who has never looked down the barrel of a gun," Robert said contemptuously.

A ghost of a smile drifted across the valet's face. "Then perhaps we must simply try to be as magnanimous to the Boers as we insist a younger generation be to the Germans."

Their eyes met and Robert shrugged. "Touché." He examined his reflection in the glass. "Well done, Bates. Have you something nice planned for your evening in London with Anna or is she … er… indisposed?" Anna's reason for being in London was both none of Robert's business and something in which he had no interest at all – a medical matter relating to pregnancy. He cared about her health in a general way, but he never wanted to know any of the details.

Bates understood this. "We're going to have dinner and then take a walk. We'll be back well before you, my lord."

Robert nodded approvingly at their plans. "I wish you a pleasant time. But be careful on the streets, Bates. It is London." Then he sighed. "I'd rather eat dinner with Hertzog than see the Home Secretary tomorrow." He shook his head and met his valet's gaze. "It's a bad business, Bates."

Late Tuesday Night

Thomas and Daniel

Thomas was not one to act impulsively. He usually tried to examine a thing from every angle so as to minimize the possibility of a false step. This should have been especially true in matters of the heart, but he had occasionally slipped there. And learned to be more cautious. But in this case, he felt on surer ground and he didn't want to waste any more time. This is why he was standing in the cottage lane on a bitingly cold October night in the glow of a full moon, tossing a handful of gravel in his hand. He stared meditatively at one of the dark windows before him and then, with a quick flick of his wrist, pelted the pane with the gravel. He heard the telltale rattle and looked for signs of a response. There wasn't one.

He waited anyway. He'd come all the way down here to say something and he could invest a few minutes in expectation of a result. Thomas's private life, such as it was, had always unfolded in the shadows. That was how it must be. But such impositions had been especially trying these last couple of days. He'd tried to have a conversation with Daniel Rider, if only to set up a time when they might talk more. Being the butler of Downton Abbey got in the way of that. It was a time-consuming occupation. And although he'd seized an opportunity to approach Rider in the small library, the latter's frostiness and the too-public venue made meaningful exchange impossible. As for the supper table at Downton, forget it. And even the butler's pantry was a little awkward. The only alternative, really, was a conversation held in the dead of night along the lanes of the estate where they could be alone and really thrash the thing out. Of course, Rider would have to come out for that to happen.

And then a latch clicked and, though no light had emanated from the cottage, he saw what he wanted to see – a figure emerging from Molesley's cottage. And it wasn't Molesley.

Thomas remained in the lane, standing where the light fell on him so that he was clearly visible. He didn't want to hide anything. Daniel Rider came over to him before speaking.

"What are you doing? It's almost midnight!" Daniel was hurriedly buttoning up his coat.

It was a fair question.

"I wanted to talk to you."

"For God's sake, Barrow…."

"We can't talk at the Abbey, morning, noon, afternoon, or evening. There's always someone around…."

"I don't want to talk to you."

Thomas stared at him. "Then, why'd you come outside?"

"Because you threw stones at my window!"

"Can we just ….?" Thomas gestured down the lane. "It'll be warmer if we're moving." He hands were thrust tightly into the pockets of his coat. "And you won't wake up any of the neighbours when you shout at me."

With a noisy sigh of exasperation, Daniel nodded and they both moved off.

"Look, I apologized to Molesley." That had been the point of irritation the last time they had spoken, so Thomas decided to start there.

"And you meant it, did you?"

"I don't like to think about the war. And I do resent men who got out of it. Yes, I was sharp about it to Molesley, but it's what I feel." And it was. Surely anyone who had been to war could understand that.

"Then why apologize if you aren't sorry?"

"Because I knew you wouldn't talk to me again unless I did."

Daniel sniffed derisively. "And why is it so important to talk to me?"

Thomas had thought and thought about how to say what he wanted to say and, now, his planned words fled his conscious mind and he spoke spontaneously. "Why didn't you say?"

"What?"

"You're like me." The very words were liberating. They were words Thomas had been able to say on only a couple of occasions in his life. Like the words I love you, spoken in passion, their very novelty almost took his breath away. "I'm like you," he added. "You know that. Why didn't you say?"

He saw Daniel Rider gathering himself in indignant fury. "I beg your pardon!"

But Thomas was not going to be put off. "Do we really have to play this game? Do you want me to pretend I don't know? Do you really want to pretend you aren't?"

"I don't pretend anything," Daniel snapped.

"But you don't…."

"Don't what?"

Daniel stopped abruptly and the two men stood facing each other at the end of the lane, Daniel now with his hands on his hips.

"What? Don't what? Wear a sign around my neck? Have a calling card made up? Include it in my letter of application? Did you? When you were applying to be a footman at Downton Abbey?"

Thomas had expected a brittle exchange, so this didn't put him off. "No. No, of course not. But … when you know there's someone else…." Each time he'd thought there was someone like him, Thomas had reached out, however tentatively.

"I don't like you, Mr. Barrow," Daniel said bluntly. "And I'm not so … desperate … as to overlook that critical fact."

"But you did … know about me, then."

"No. Not at first. Because I'm not looking. I've only just been informed about you. Apparently, everyone knows about you. Except Lewis."

"What?"

Daniel waved dismissively and put his hands back in his pockets before turning to march on. It was cold out tonight. "Nothing. It's what Daisy said when she spilled the beans about you. She did it so casually. I don't know why she told me."

"She likes you. Everyone likes you."

"Hah. You don't. Let's not pretend, Mr. Barrow, that you've had any more use for me than I for you until you …."

"I don't dislike you. I don't bloody know you, do I?" Thomas wasn't exasperated with Daniel so much as he was with this whole situation. "I don't know anything about you. Except that you like Mr. Carson and Molesley and …."

"And I suppose that's it, then. I'm sure you're looking forward to telling Mr. Carson. You'll have hurt him and got rid of me. Two birds, one stone. Bravo."

"No…. What are you talking about?"

"Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Barrow."

That did put Thomas's back up just a little. "Well, you're wrong. I suppose that's something Cambridge men don't get told often."

Daniel stopped again. "Am I wrong about you?"

Thomas stopped, too. "Yes," he said automatically, defensively. And then, "No. No. Not usually. But this is different." He stepped into a shaft of moonlight so that Daniel could see his face clearly. "You're different. I wouldn't hurt you." He said this last almost tenderly. They couldn't be telling on each other, men like them, in spite. Who would be left?

"Just Mr. Carson."

Damn! Why can't we just stay on us? "Why do you care so much about him?" Thomas demanded, throwing his arms wide. Bloody Mr. Carson.

"You know as much about me as I want you to know, Mr. Barrow. I'll not answer that." And with that, Daniel turned around, ready to return to the cottage and leave Thomas out here in the cold.

Thomas scrambled for something to say, something that would make Daniel listen. And in his perplexity, a simple but startling idea suggested itself. "You don't … fancy him?" Thomas couldn't see it, didn't even want to think about it, but … you never knew.

This did stop Daniel in his tracks and he cast a disparaging look over his shoulder. "You're disgusting, you know that?" And then he strode off.

Thomas bounded after him. "I'm sorry!" he bellowed. "I'm bloody sorry to you, and to Mr. Carson and to the whole woman-loving world! Will you just …."

"You sound desperate, Mr. Barrow."

"I am!" Thomas planted himself in front of Daniel. It wasn't a threatening pose. Daniel could brush him off and Thomas wouldn't have resisted if he had. "Are you going to tell me that you aren't desperate? That you've never been?"

Daniel appeared to have reached his limit. "What I am, Mr. Barrow, is angry and bitter that I've found a comfortable place where there are people I like and who like me, and now I will have to pack my bags and go because…."

"I'm not telling anyone!"

"And the price of your silence?"

That hurt. Thomas almost shrank from him. "There is no price. I won't … We don't tell on each other."

"Well, I don't trust you."

"So, what are you going to do, then? Leave?" He could hear how his voice was now an octave higher, as sometimes happened when he was distraught. "How will that fix anything? If I'm the man you think I am, you know I'll tell Mr. Carson anyway, just for fun. So, leaving won't help him." Thomas could be vindictive. But it frustrated him that he couldn't make Daniel understand that this was different. "Stay," he said quietly. "And maybe find out that …" he took a deep breath, "I'm worth it."

"Why is this so important to you? Why are you pressing me, when I've told you repeatedly that I don't like you? And when you know me to associate with people you don't like? Answer me that."

The tension of their interaction, coupled with the effort of trying not to freeze, had Thomas breathing hard. He blew on his hands to warm them a little, and then shoved them back into his pockets. "You've been here, in Yorkshire, at Downton, for … what? Three months? Four? I live here. I've lived here for sixteen years, with a couple out for war. It's…stifling. It's barren. There's no one here!" He did not mean that literally, but Daniel understood. "I'm not desperate. I'm starving!" It was what Erich had said about him and it described Thomas's predicament perfectly.

"I don't want to drive you away … or, break Mr. Carson's heart, or…."

"He…."

"…or ruin your life. What I want…." His chest was heaving. "…is someone to talk to. Someone to just…be normal with."

There. He'd said it and he hadn't really even realized what it was until he had. Erich and Berlin, he'd enjoyed them. Of course, he had. But he lived in Yorkshire. And he was English to the bone.

"And if you don't get that? If I say no? No, thanks. Because I don't like you no matter what team you're on?"

Thomas raised his hands and let them fall. "Nothing. Nothing. It's not like I'll lose anything by asking. There's nothing to lose. I would just like the chance to be friends."

A silence enveloped them. Thomas's gaze drifted to the sky. Yorkshire was stifling, in so many ways. But on a bright night, when the full panoply of stars in the heavens were on display, the night sky was a comfort.

"Friends. And nothing more?"

Thomas's gaze shifted back to Daniel. He heard a cautious note in the other's voice and thought he caught a glimmer of possibility. Yet he took the question seriously and responded honestly.

"I can't say that. I don't know, because I don't know you."

"Well, I can say," Daniel said flatly. "I'm not interested in you. I'm not interested in anyone. Not again."

Well, as the cliché went, Rome wasn't built in a day. Thomas shrugged. "Fine. Good. I understand. But … how about being friends? With someone you can talk to like it doesn't matter. Just try, anyway."

Daniel considered.

Thomas felt that he could take a liberty, show more of himself. "I promise to be kind to Mr. Molesley and worshipful of Mr. Carson and … and even read the boring book on the family when it's done and…." He dragged the words out a little, for comic effect.

It worked. Daniel laughed. "Those are promises you couldn't possibly keep." He breathed out suddenly, as though in relief. "Look, Thomas…." Thomas. "…I'm not convinced you can accept only friendship. But there's more to it than that for me. What really matters is trust. I've trusted before and lost. I'm wary."

"You're trusting now," Thomas told him. "You're trusting Mr. Carson. You don't think he could hurt you?" He watched the other carefully. The gravity that descended on Daniel as he pondered the question meant something to Thomas. I wonder what that's about.

"I know it very well."

"But you're giving him a chance."

"You make me sound very unfair."

Things had eased between them. "I know what it's like," Thomas said, matching Daniel's serious demeanour. "I've taken a chance a few times and been burned. Badly." Badly. "Well, I've said my piece. It's up to you." And then he turned to walk away.

"How…."

"What?" Thomas looked over his shoulder.

"How do you see this … unfolding?"

Thomas might have acted spontaneously in taking this walk in the cold, but he'd given more thought to the next step. "Do you play chess?"

Daniel nodded.

"Have a game after the servants' supper tomorrow night? In the butler's pantry? There's usually some wine left after dinner. There'll be interruptions – somebody always wants to ask me something – but …." It was a benign invitation, the kind of things friends did.

"I hope you play chess better than you run, Mr. Barrow."

Thomas had to walk into the wind on his way back to the Abbey, but he didn't give the cold a second thought. For the first time in all his years at Downton, there was someone like him here and there was nothing strange about it.

AUTHOR'S NOTE OVERALL: Yes, it's been a long time. But I am now writing madly to this story and hope to post several chapters over the next two weeks.

RECAP (Because I don't expect anyone to remember):

Robert is involved in a minor diplomatic venture as almost a social adviser to the American ambassador, Alanson Houghton. Cora has developed an interest in a policy-in-progress by Health Minister Neville Chamberlain concerning the future of workhouses, and is planning to visit the one in Ripon. Isobel and Dickie intend to join her in this, but they have to survive a society dinner party they're having first, in response to a rude prompt by Larry Grey. Isobel has enlisted Carson to manage it, but she is plagued with second thoughts about him as he is so difficult to deal with. Mary has doubted her love for Henry, but she is trying to teach herself to love him and is making some headway. Tom survived a rash of increasingly malicious pranks and the burning of his cottage over his head, only to find out that the perpetrator was sixteen-year-old John Dunsany, who was a child in Drumgoole Castle when Tom and his Irish compatriots burned the castle over the Drumgooles' heads. Tom and Robert have been at odds since this happened, as Robert feels more sympathy for the Drumgooles and he is incensed about having to appeal to yet another Home Secretary for clemency for someone because of Tom's foolish actions. Violet is mortally ill and fading, but she's still busy, primarily with having Bates locate the illegitimate son of Violet's husband, the previous Earl of Grantham. Violet is also preoccupied with putting her immediate house in order, letting her family learn by degrees the extent of her illness. Meanwhile, downstairs … Anna and Bates were prepared to leave Downton Abbey in search of their dream hotel, but have been offered the Grantham Arms, which they enthusiastically accepted. They take over in two months. Life is going well for the Bateses – because this author is not Julian Fellowes. Mrs. Patmore may have thrown over a potential future with Mr. Mason – it's still up in the air, but she is distressed over the interest that a student at the school has taken in the memorial to her nephew, Archie Philpotts. Thomas is adrift in a sea of uncertainty, having been to Berlin and seen how life can be for a gay man in an unrestricted world, but that hasn't brought him satisfaction. Now, he's interested in Carson's assistant, Daniel Rider, who, Thomas learned during the Downton Circuit Race, is also gay. Rider, who went to Cambridge and is acquainted with Larry and Tim Grey from there, is in Yorkshire helping Carson to write the history of the Crawleys, a project undertaken at Violet's request. Carson is particularly fond of Daniel Rider, and Elsie, who has a sixth sense about a lot of things, has been worrying how that relationship is going to play out if and when Charlie finds out about Daniel. Carson has other things on his mind, too. There's helping Lady Merton with her dinner, worrying about the Dowager, and wooing his wife. This last is something he has been encouraged to do by Robert, probably the soundest piece of advice Robert has ever dispensed. Molesley, feeling guilty over his lack of a war record, came up with the idea of an Armistice Day school pageant to honour the dead of Downton. This has caused Mrs. Patmore a headache, but it has brought Molesley closer to Miss Baxter who is a sympathetic audience for Molesley's professions of guilt. Daisy's life continues to be an annoying roller coaster of "Yes, I'm leaving Downton" to "No, I'm not leaving Downton." At the moment, she is leaning towards applying to Hillcroft, the school mentioned by Gwen, whose husband is on the board, along with the Marchioness of Hexham, formerly Lady Edith. As for Lady Edith, a long while back (in this story), she was forced to confront her past with the Drews (whose name I misspelled from the beginning, which fact is now annoying me), which led to a massive confrontation with the otherwise placid Bertie. They've made up, but that isn't quite the end of that story. Oh, yes – Spratt and Denker. Spratt has been writing his agony aunt column and some strange correspondence with a lady's maid "in the north" has shown up. The readers downstairs at Downton Abbey, and even the Dowager, believe that either Spratt or Denker are writing the letters, but whichever one of them is responsible has stirred up a hornet's nest. Dr Clarkson had a drinking episode and then found a bit of solace in the friendship of Mrs. Carson who dispensed some sound advice. Finally, another original character – Lewis Stairs – has been introduced. He is a second footman and he's perfect, only he's already demonstrated that he's ambitious and arrogant. Mr. Barrow is certain he can handle him. I hope that covers the spectrum.

*Author's Note 1. This is an homage to the line, as uttered by the incomparable Violet, I think about Richard Carlisle, although I may be wrong.: "I don't dislike him. I just don't like him."

**Author's Note 2: Dickie is thinking here of Isobel in terms of Rudyard Kipling's poem, If. "If you can dream, and not make dreams your master; If you can think and not makes thoughts you aim." Isobel is a past-master of practical application. She doesn't just think about things. She does.