DOWNTON ABBEYY 1926
EPISODE 9 Chapter 3
Wednesday October 20
Anna and John
Anna and John stood together in the cramped kitchen of the house that had once belonged to his mother and looked around it for the last time.
"Odd that we've owned this house for years and never lived in it together," Anna murmured.
"I'm glad to be rid of it," John said. "It gives me the creeps."
"I met your mother here," Anna went on. "We had tea, right through there." She pointed to the sitting room, which looked larger than it was now that it was completely empty. "I'm glad I met her." She glanced sideways at her husband with a mischievous look in her eye. "You weren't such a man of mystery once I learned you had a mother."
"It's hard to be a man of mystery when your mother tells all your secrets," he responded, less amused. He reached out to push the cellar door closed. "For me, this house is forever tainted by Vera. She pilfered things from my mother whenever we visited and badgered her for handouts if I stepped out of the room. This is where we lived for those hellish months after she blackmailed me into leaving Downton. Then there was that godawful argument we had the last time I saw her. And then, the rat poison and…."
"All right, all right!" Anna clutched at his arm to make him stop. "You've giving me the creeps." She led him into the sitting room. "Whatever its past, this house is the foundation of our future."
"Yes." He could agree with her on that. He slipped an arm about her waist, drawing her to him and kissing the top of her head. Anna could always be counted on to look on the bright side of things. "How are you?"
She pushed him away in mock exasperation. "I'm fine. Here we are in London and the only place you'll take me is this house you hate."
"You insisted on coming with me. You should be at the house, resting. You'll be sitting on a train all the way home."
"It's a smooth train," Anna countered. "And I won't put it off 'til tomorrow. I'm beginning to feel like the family, always going places and leaving our son behind in the care of a nanny. I don't like it."
John smiled at this and drew her close again. "This is the last time. Soon we'll be all together in our own home, with our children all about us, and unable to step out the door, let alone go off to London, which we may never see again, because of the roaring trade at the Grantham Arms under our management. You may long for these days."
"I won't," Anna said firmly. "Living in Downton village forever more is just fine with me.
"Well," he said. "Best get on. I've one last errand and then back to Lady Rosamund's house to meet His Lordship and Mr. Branson."
"Why do you have a private post office box in London?" Anna asked. She did not suspect him of chicanery, personal or professional, but anything that was hidden from view troubled her.
"It's the business I've undertaken for the Dowager," he replied. He was a little uneasy even speaking about it. "Remember, not a word to His Lordship or Lady Mary or anyone else, even about the mailbox."
She nodded. "Of course. But it worries me a little."
"It shouldn't. I'm almost done with it."
"I didn't think the Dowager even knew who you were beyond the fact that someone cleans His Lordship's shirts and also what she might have read about you in the papers. Not much of a recommendation for personal errands, I should say."
John chose not to respond. "Let's get out of here," he said. "Let's take our money from this place and never think about it again." They stepped outside and he turned to lock the door behind them. "Has it occurred to you than the rent on the Grantham Arms will not eat up our nest egg in the same way that a mortgage on a hotel would have done?"
Anna's eyes narrowed in a playful, wary look. "And what does that mean, exactly?" He wasn't prone to peculiar schemes, her husband, so she wondered what he had in mind.
"It means … we can probably afford a new dress or two for you. At the Grantham Arms, we can wear whatever we want." He tossed his head back at the thought of such liberation. "I may never polish my shoes again!"
Robert and Tom
Rosamund had returned to London with them, a change of plans on her part which Tom, at least, saw as a blessing. Robert could be as cold as he liked on the train and over tea at the house in Belgrave Square, but he wouldn't give full rein to his thoughts with his sister present. It was not gentlemanly to do so. It was a rare occasion when Tom was grateful for the behavioural constraints of class consciousness, but he could not deny it had come in handy here. Robert's other business had taken him out the evening before, providing yet more respite, though Tom knew that the cocktail party was unlikely to improve Robert's humour.
This enforced truce lasted through breakfast the next morning, but once Robert and Tom embarked for Charles Street and the Home Secretary's office, there were no restraints.
"I don't know why you've insisted on coming," Robert said testily.
Tom suppressed a sigh of exasperation. They'd been over this at Downton.
"It was my house that was burned down," Tom said, maintaining an even tone with effort. "And my daughter's life that was endangered. And my own life that was threatened. I think it is entirely my business."
"But it's not. Drumgoole will make an appeal on behalf of young John Dunsany. I am going only to support the appeal. There's nothing for you to do."
"If anyone is the aggrieved party here, I am. Surely I'm in the best position to argue in support of clemency."
"But that's not how it works," Robert responded, not trying very hard to suppress a patronizing inflection. "The Home Secretary won't be interested in the details. And … your presence may be incendiary."
"Incendiary? Because I'm Irish and we burn things down? May I remind you that it was an English lad who burned down my house?"
"He isn't English. He's Anglo-Irish." Tom snorted and Robert paused to look at him. "You have just proved my case. Look, Tom, this is not the occasion to make yourself conspicuous."
"If telling the whole story, allowing for a full understanding of why Dunsany did what he did, is making myself conspicuous, then I think it is the occasion."
"That wasn't your position the last time." Robert said this under his breath, but not quietly enough either intentionally or otherwise.
"What?" Tom had heard the words, but he was taken aback by them.
Now, Robert ground to a complete halt and turned to face Tom. "Do you want to know how I think of what I did six years ago?"
Tom nodded curtly, his lips pressed tightly together.
"I am ashamed of myself," Robert said bluntly. "It was the most dishonourable thing I've ever done. You … you criticize me, people like me, for going around the system, for using influence instead of abiding by the rule of law. That's what I did, for my daughter and, incidentally, for you. I … I would probably do it again. But in my heart, I don't like it any more than you do." He took a deep calming breath and then said swiftly, "I apologize, Tom. This is not about you. Not really. This is a battle I fight with myself." He began to walk again.
"It may surprise you to know that I agree with you."
This halted Robert abruptly. But he said nothing, waiting for Tom to speak.
"I don't want this, today, this meeting with Joynson-Hicks**, to be another appeal on the basis of favours or gentleman's agreements, a nudge and a commitment to say no more. I want John Dunsany not to pay for what he did because it's fair. He took from me what I took from him. We're even. It shouldn't be about someone high and mighty getting their relative off. And ... I'm sorry. I don't mean it the way it sounds. And I've no right to judge what you did." Tom also took a deep breath and then let it out slowly. He tried to find the right words.
"Last time, I saw it as an even-ing out, too. The British shouldn't have been in Ireland. I had the right to do what I could to get them out."
"And now? Do you still see it that way?"
But Tom had no answer for this. "I don't know. But … I don't see why a boy ought to pay a penalty I didn't when it's all part of one long chain. It's got to stop somewhere. I wish I knew how to do that."
Robert stared at Tom for a long moment and then reached out to put a hand on his shoulder. It was the friendliest gesture he had made in days. "If you knew that," he said softly, "you'd have solved the greatest problem in British politics since Napoleon."
Thomas and Daniel
"Where did you learn to play chess?" Daniel asked.
Thomas and Daniel were seated in the butler's pantry, the chess board set up on the desk between them. Thomas was playing white. He made the first move.
"Watching my dad. Down at the pub."
"Watching? Not playing with?"
"No. But that was all right. I'm very observant." Thomas grinned.
Daniel just shook his head. "Was he any good?"
"He didn't have to pay for his pint very often. What about you?"
"I learned by playing with my father. In the library, by the fire, on cold winter nights."
Thomas tried to picture this. It would be like Downton Abbey, except smaller. But … still refined. They probably burned wood instead of coal. And Daniel would be wearing a sweater from the posh public school he went to, the one that prepared him for Cambridge.
"What does you dad do?" Thomas asked.
Daniel had made his move, but was still studying the chess board closely. "He teaches philosophy at Oxford. What does your father do?"
"He's a clockmaker in Manchester," Thomas said rapidly, more to get the information out of the way so he could get back to what Daniel said. "Oxford? But … you went to Cambridge."
Daniel's eyes flickered up. "Yes."
"Then … why didn't you go to Oxford?"
"Because the weather is better in Cambridge."
Thomas slumped back in his chair. Daniel might as well have said I don't want to talk about it.
"It's your move, Thomas."
They played for a while in silence.
"Mr. Carson is worried about this dinner party next week," Daniel said at length.
Thomas had to bite his tongue not to say what he was thinking, which was Why would I care? And then he wondered, Is this a test? If it was, he was going to pass it. "Is he?" he murmured, almost absently.
"It's about pouring the wines."
"Of course, it is. That's why he retired, after all. And he doesn't want a mere footman to take on such a task." Thomas would have made sure he'd hired a very good-looking footman and let him do it, but Mr. Carson's mind didn't work quite the same way. His gaze slanted upward and there was a sly look on his face. "Why don't you volunteer?"
"I don't know how to do it," Daniel said promptly.
"Could teach you," Thomas said helpfully. "It's not like rigging a ship. All you need is basic good manners and poise and you've got that in spades."
"Why would you do that?"
He was still suspicious, so Thomas moved to put him at ease. "Because you want to."
"But you don't like him."
Thomas sighed. "But I'm trying to like you," he said quietly. "But … you probably wouldn't want to lower yourself."
Daniel stared at him. "Why would you say that? Do you think service is demeaning? You've dedicated your life to it."
"I wouldn't say dedicated. It's my job And I like it. But, no, I don't think it's demeaning. But I didn't go to Cambridge."
"I'm not a snob, Thomas. I don't think you can be when you know what it's like to be … different."
"Ha!" Thomas laughed. "I've known a few who weren't so enlightened."
"Like whom?"
Thomas glanced at the pantry door, which he'd left wide open. To his surprise, no one had come in with their petty troubles and pointless questions. Such an undisturbed stretch didn't happen very often. "Let me tell you about the Duke of Crowborough," he said sotto voce.
The wine was a white Bordeaux and, as usual, the family had not put much a dent in it. They weren't white wine drinkers at the best of times. Thomas was glad to have such a nice wine to offer and someone with whom to share it. He enjoyed wine, but he was well aware of the butler's curse of dipsomania. No. The butler's curse was loneliness. Alcohol was just the treatment. Daniel, he could tell, appreciated it. As he might, with his upbringing. Thomas really had no idea what life was like when your father taught at Oxford, but he had his own stereotypes.
"So, what happened at Cambridge?" Thomas asked, after a while. They were well-matched in chess skill and it was taking time to grind each other down. Neither as yet had the advantage.
"What do you mean?" Daniel asked evenly, his eyes on the chessmen.
"I hear things," Thomas said. And when Daniel did look up suddenly, Thomas shrugged his shoulders. "I eavesdrop. I heard what Mr. Grey said, that day he saw you at Downton. An incident, he said. What was it? Cheating?"
"No." Daniel looked as disgusted at that idea as Thomas was.
"Come on, then. Did you … make a mistake?" A mistake.
"No." And then Daniel smirked. "You can't get sent down from Cambridge for that or the ranks wouldn't be so illustrious."
"What then?"
"Do you know the Greys, Thomas? They are asses. Rather like your Duke, only … less titled. You can't believe a word they say."
"But … you didn't finish your degree."
"No."
"So, what was it?" Thomas really wanted to know and not, as he often did, for the purpose of filing it away for future reference or purpose, but because when you were friends with someone, you told them stuff about yourself.
"All right." Daniel leaned back in his chair, the game forgotten for the moment. "I did have … a friend."
Mistake. Friend. The words they had to use to communicate lest they betray themselves.
"Another fellow, a man in my college, played a trick on him. On … Andrew. And …he was frightened by it. He was worried about what … exposure might mean for him. Not at the college, but … following him around. It's difficult to shed your past."
"Tell me about it," Thomas murmured, and with his eyes urged Daniel on.
"It didn't matter to me," Daniel went on. "But … I wanted to do something for Andrew, so … I invented another transgression, a theft. And I called the … prankster … out on it and I … challenged him to a duel."
Thomas lurched in his chair. "You what?"
Daniel only stared steadily at him.
"No. Really? With … pistols?" Thomas was almost speechless.
"No. Oxford professors' families aren't usually shooting families, so there weren't any guns to be had. I challenged him to a fight. I just thought duel sounded more noble. But I believed I could give him a good thrashing."
"Good on you!" Thomas declared, more loudly than he had intended. He glanced, almost automatically, to the pantry door, but the vague sounds emanating from the kitchen or the servants' hall remained went on uninterrupted.
"Thomas, it got me sent down from Cambridge. It was a foolish thing to do."
"You … didn't just take it. You fought back."
"Fighting back isn't always the best thing to do."
"Discretion the better part of valour, eh?"
"Let's not pretend that you haven't learned that lesson."
Thomas shrugged. Fair enough. "Is that what you're practicing with Mr. Carson, then? Discretion?"
"No. That's something else." But when Thomas raised his eyebrows inquiringly, Daniel shook his head. "If I spilled all my secrets to you at one go, you'd think I was an easy mark."
"All right. But ….." Thomas stretched his hands out before him, "I'll tell what I know you aren't. And that's a good chess player." Thomas moved his rook. "Checkmate."
They were setting up a second game, when Lewis put his head in the door.
"Mr. Barrow…." He drew himself up sharply. "Excuse me. I did not realize you had company."
Thomas waved him in. "What is it, Lewis?"
Lewis remained where he was. "They were done early upstairs. I've cleared away everything."
"Thank you."
"Will there be anything else?"
"No. Thank you." Thomas always spoke formally with Lewis, whereas he would have said, "Yeah, thanks, Andy. Have a good night." Best to keep the lines clearly marked with Lewis.
The footman withdrew.
Thomas's gaze remained on the open door for a moment.
"Is that what you were like when you were a footman?" Daniel inquired, glancing over his shoulder at the empty doorway.
"I think I might have been," Thomas said almost absently. "And it does worry me a little."
They began to play again.
"What did you do in the war, Thomas?"
"Medical corps. I thought it would keep me out of trouble and I end up on the bloody Somme without a gun in my hands."
"Is that where you got that?"
Thomas's wounded hand was extended over the board. He didn't think about it anymore but now he was suddenly self-conscious. "Yes."
"How did it happen?"
He moved his bishop and put his hand on his leg, beneath the desk. "I don't want to talk about it."
Daniel swept the bishop from the board with his knight and they lapsed into silence once more.
"Why are you here, anyway?" Thomas asked, after a while. "In Yorkshire, I mean. You could write a book about anything on your own. Were you that desperate for work?"
Daniel frowned a little and shook his head. "Not desperate for work, no. But I like historical research. And I did want to get away."
"From what? Weren't you at the Colonial Office?" Thomas scrambled for a fragment of conversation. "What was it Grey said about that?"
This elicited a sigh from Daniel who met Thomas's gaze. "Haven't I already told you about the Greys? He was wrong about that, too. There was an … incident … of a discrete nature. I wasn't involved at all. But Viscount Hambly wasn't going to take the blame for it, so I got it in the neck instead. My family doesn't have any influence in Whitehall."
"Why'd you take it from them when you put up a fight…," Thomas laughed. A duel!, "at Cambridge?"
"Thomas." Daniel spoke in exasperation. "It was the Colonial Office. The stakes were higher. There isn't room for schoolboy nonsense. And I was just … a bit tired of it. I was thinking of writing my own book, about Palestine. So I went over to the British Library and started working on it. But one day I saw Mr. Carson's advertisement in the papers and thought, why not? I came up. I liked him well enough and the circumstances seemed pleasant. And I could get right away from … all that."
The story rang true and Thomas believed it. But there was something else there. He sat back in his chair and considered Daniel for a long moment. Under his scrutiny, Daniel made his next move and then leaned back, too, leaving the board free for Thomas.
"But you don't just like him well enough, Mr. Carson. You like him a lot." Thomas said this slowly, deliberately, watching Daniel closely. "I've seen you together. Don't forget – I'm very observant. What is it about him that draws you?"
Daniel met his gaze steadily for a long, painful minute. "I don't want to talk about it," he said.
Daniel was unnerved and Thomas took advantage. He leaned forward again, swept his queen across the board and took out Daniel's left rook. "Checkmate," he said coolly. "That's two games for me."
Charlie and Elsie
When had they ever laughed like that?!
The picture show, shown in the village hall which had been made over to accommodate the new medium so that Downton might not fall behind the times, was a silly one. Charlie had been a little sheepish about it when he'd mentioned it, putting his head in the door of her sitting room at mid-morning.
"It's not Wuthering Heights," he'd said. "Just a light comedy. Very light, I believe. Would you like to go?"
She'd almost fallen out of her chair. They'd not gone to the pictures together. Ever. And this was a bit of a puzzlement, now that Elsie thought about it, given Charlie's background in popular entertainment. It was probably because of his background in popular entertainment. But even the novelty of the thing itself was nothing compared to the fact that her dear husband thought to take it up with her. What a lovely diversion! They didn't do much that might be counted as frivolous.
"I would love to!" she'd said, ignoring his disparaging comments about the picture itself.
"It'll be cold, coming home from an evening show," he'd cautioned.
As if that mattered.
"We've got coats," she'd responded dismissively. And each other. That thought made her smile.
"All right, then," he'd said. And then grinned, pleased with himself. Had he thought she'd say no?
It was cold, making the trek into the village, but no colder than it had been for Elsie returning to the cottage. She'd slipped Shep a bit of cheese rind as a treat in lieu of the evening walk he would have gotten otherwise. Then, arm in arm, she and Charlie walked down the road, chatting the whole way about the details of their day.
The hall was about half-full. Elsie noticed that everyone else in the place looked to be under twenty-five, lads off the farms or young working-men in the village, cuddling with their girls for warmth and … Elsie put that out of her mind. She wanted to pay attention to the show on the screen, not in the seats.
She was still absorbing the atmosphere when the lights went down and, as they did so, her husband slipped an arm around her shoulders. Like we were the blacksmith's apprentice and the shop clerk girl! And while she was still marveling at that thought, the picture began.
Elsie wasn't a complete novice when it came to the pictures, so her attention wasn't diverted by the medium itself. This left her free to focus on the story. The main feature was called Cinders and it was an apt tale…in a way…for an audience of people in service. It was about a maid who followed her employer to the French Riviera where he had come into a large inheritance and how she thwarted the villain who tried to steal it.*** Charlie wasn't wrong in describing it as a silly bit of fluff. Elsie appreciated the initiative of the young maid who was clearly more than a pretty face, but as for the rest of it….
She wouldn't recall later which one of them started it, but they were soon trading whispered comments about every implausible turn of the plot, every unrealistic detail, even the grammatical errors in the subtitles.
"No gentleman would wear such a get-up!"
"A housemaid would be sacked for that, and no mistake!"
"Did you see how that bed was made?"
"That apron is too small for any practical use."
"It's instead of its. Didn't anyone check the titles?"
"She's not even very pretty."
"And you think he's a prize?"
On they went. And laughing harder and harder still with each comment, though none of them were especially profound. They were even shushed by a fellow patron, but that only spurred them on. It only occurred to Elsie after the fact that someone might recognize them. Maybe it didn't matter anymore if Mr. Carson cut up in public, but she still had a position to maintain at the Abbey. It wasn't a thought that would keep her awake.
Now, as they made their way home in the darkness, they continued their critical dissection, punctuated with bursts of laughter that had them pausing in deference to the stitches in their sides.
"Do you think it was actually filmed on the French Riviera?" Elsie asked, a little wistfully. That was the part of the fantasy that had touched her the most.
"I think it was filmed in a shed in Poole Street in London," her husband said, matter-of-factly. "And a poor imitation of the French Riviera it was, too."
"I suppose that's what the pictures do," Elsie went on. "Invite you to bring your imagination to the drama." But Charlie's words caught her attention. "How would you know?"
He glanced down at her. "I've been there."
"What? To the French Riviera?"
"Yes. Once. Briefly. I was in Provence, so I went down for two days."
He said this so casually. Elsie knew he'd once spent nine months in France at the behest of His Lordship's father, on a training course in French wines.** The Earl had wanted to ensure that when Charlie became the butler of Downton Abbey, he would be well-qualified in that most fundamental of butlering duties, the maintenance of the wine cellar. Still, his silence on this particular aspect of his travels in France was maddening. They'd spoken of his sojourn there before, but he hadn't mentioned this.
"You've seen the Mediterranean Sea!" She said it almost as an accusation.
He appeared oblivious to her tone. "Yes. I wasn't in Provence very long, but I thought I should give the Riviera a look."
"What was it like?" She wanted to know. She really wanted to know.
He thought for a moment. "Beautiful." The word was limited and formless. It said nothing. But the tone of his voice … Elsie heard the beauty of the place in his voice.
She could only shake her head. The man who strolled along beside her was a slightly more unbuttoned version than the stiff-necked servant he had been for decades, but glimpses of the man he had been in his younger days, before he had married his life and fortunes to Downton Abbey, were still rare. She sighed. He had been somewhere. She'd never been anywhere.
"Thank you for this evening, Charlie." She squeezed his arm as she spoke.
"A pleasure, my love. We'll do it again. Soon. Although I hope we may find a picture that is more edifying."
Well, that glimpse of a Charlie Carson who knew how to enjoy himself was fleeting. His determination to turn the staff holiday that Her Ladyship had granted them in London two years ago into an educational expedition drifted through her mind.
"I don't mind a bit of silliness, now and again," she said mildly. Her gaze slid sideways to catch his eye and they both laughed again.
This was one of the fruits of their honeymoon in Scarborough. They had discovered – no, recovered – aspects of their personalities that had long been suppressed or marginalized by the all-encompassing and never-ending demands of their formal roles of authority downstairs at the Abbey. These might have been moth-balled on their return to work, but Charlie's enforced retirement had rescued his playful side and ensured that her mischievous nature was never buried for long.
"I admit I'm a little surprised that you can be so light-hearted with Lady Merton's big dinner coming up next week, especially now that you've planted a great bomb right in the middle of it."
But Charlie only shrugged. "Twelve in attendance, staff arranged, dinner service chosen, silver ready for polishing. I can organize a dinner on this scale in my sleep, Elsie. The wine troubles me still, but … All in all, Lady Merton is getting more show than her party warrants. And I'm not worried about that arrogant pup."
"Why not?" He'd explained his strategy, but Elsie was not convinced.
"Because bullies are always the same."
They walked on for a bit.
"I am proud of you," Elsie said at length, "standing up for Lady Merton. I think you're as mad as a hatter, mind! But I am proud."
He said nothing. But as they walked on, she thought she noticed him carrying his head just a little higher.
** Author's Note 1. William Joynson-Hicks, 1st Viscount Bedford, aka "Jix", was the Conservative Home Secretary in 1926.
***Author's Note 2: Cinders is a British film, directed by Louis Mercanton, made in 1926, released in 1927. I anticipate it here, but I liked the sound of it. And I'm pretending that by acknowledging the historical error, that makes up for it. … The information on the plot, little of it that there is, is drawn from IMDb where it is succinctly stated as "A professor inherits a hotel and is saved from blackmail by a drudge."
