DOWNTON ABBEY 1926

EPISODE 9 Chapter 4

Thursday October 21

Downstairs and Denker

"Daisy, are you going to tell us what was in your letter this morning?"

It was that momentary lull in the morning's work. The bedrooms were all made-up. Yesterday's clothing and sheets had been taken to the laundry and clean things brought back. Breakfast was long over and all the dishes were done. Almost everyone had that fragment of time in which to catch their breath before launching into the next round – mending and putting clothes away, sorting out what upstairs would change into later, thinking about what was needed for lunch.

Miss Baxter had her sewing machine out on the table in the servants' hall. The Bateses had found themselves free at the same time and were having a cup of tea together. Andy had just come in from an errand for Mrs. Patmore. The cook herself, and Daisy, too, had paused in their almost constant work to pass the time of day. Only Lewis was absent.

"Probably polishing the brass knocker on the front door," Andy grumbled, when Anna noted the footman's absence.

It was Mr. Barrow who had posed the question to Daisy. He knew about her letter because, as the butler, he distributed the post. Mr. Carson had always done so with discretion, affecting that he took no notice of who was receiving what from whom. Rubbish. It was the butler's job to keep an eye on things and to anticipate problems. Barrow always filed away any information he came across. You never knew what might be helpful and when.

He addressed himself to Daisy in a breezy tone. Mr. Barrow was in good humour this morning and everyone noticed.

Daisy was comfortable enough with the butler to brush off his curiosity, but she saw no reason not to answer. "It's from Hillcroft," she said. "I'm putting in my application."

This wasn't news to any of them. Daisy had been talking about it for a while.

"Have you handed in your notice, then?" Mr. Barrow asked, stirring the waters for the pleasure of it.

"It's none of your business," Mrs. Patmore told him. "Kitchen staff are my business. Where's your friend this morning?" she asked abruptly, staring at him.

Mr. Barrow gave her one of his tight little smiles and picked up the sports page the hall boy had left out earlier, pretending he hadn't heard her.

Mrs. Patmore didn't press him on it. She'd only wanted to put him in his place and, having achieved that, she was satisfied.

"I'm excited for you, Daisy," Miss Baxter said, and there was a note of exhilaration in her voice. "There you are, venturing out into the world, advancing yourself. It's like when Alfred left."

Andy looked up sharply, frowned, and then dropped his gaze to his tea once more.

"I agree," Anna said, with equal enthusiasm. "We'll miss you. You've always been here."

"Daisy going to school, Anna and Mr. Bates taking over the pub, Andy set to be a farmer, maybe Miss Baxter finding greener pastures." This last prompted a look of consternation on Miss Baxter's face. But Mrs. Patmore was only setting up a provocation. She sighed. "It'll be just you and me left, Mr. Barrow, if we don't watch out."

The butler lowered his paper so deliberately that the rest of those assembled paused to hear what he had to say, always ready to enjoy a barbed exchange. Mr. Barrow took his time to craft his response. The cook had just shut him down and now she was baiting him again. He would not disappoint her. "Now, there's a fate worse than death," he deadpanned.

They all laughed at that, including Mrs. Patmore. Before anyone could say more, the coal yard door slammed. Mrs. Patmore glanced at the clock.

"I suppose that's my follower," she grumbled, "for his weekly rebuff."

"A boy from the school," Daisy explained to the others. "He's in Mr. Molesley's class." Everyone knew about the pageant.

It was not Mark Wallace, however. It was Miss Denker.

"Doesn't anyone work here?" she demanded, without preamble, as she made her entrance.

"You're the one with all the spare time," Mrs. Patmore said right back at her. "You're always over here."

"I'm only here to deliver a message," Miss Denker retorted, pulling a small envelope from her bag. "What do we have a post office for, I wonder!"

"Is it for me?" Andy asked, and when Daisy smiled at him, he winked at her.

"Who do I know that would be writing to you? No, it's for Mr. Bates. Again." She glared across the table at Bates and then tossed the note on the table in his general direction. "I don't know why Mr. Spratt isn't sent on these pedestrian errands."

Bates scooped up the envelope and it quickly disappeared from sight into his coat pocket.

"I suppose one couldn't expect a cup of tea after such an exertion," Miss Denker went on, speaking to no one in particular.

"I'll get it," Daisy told Mrs. Patmore.

"Only if it's not too much trouble," Miss Denker said, pulling out a chair at the end of the table, beside Mr. Barrow. A flicker of dismay crossed his face.

Daisy stopped in her tracks. "Why're you so disingenuous?" she asked.

Everyone stared at Daisy. Mrs. Patmore smirked. Daisy and her ten quid words. But it was the whole statement, rather than the word that had garnered attention, even from Miss Denker.

"I beg your pardon?" Miss Denker was always sensitive to any affronts to her dignity.

"Do you really fancy Mr. Spratt?"

"Daisy." This was Mrs. Patmore now and there was a warning note in her voice.

Daisy threw an impatient look in the cook's direction. How rich was it that Mrs. Patmore, of all people, should be cautioning her. Daisy looked at Miss Denker once more.

"What are you talking about?" That woman was more discombobulated than anyone had ever seen her.

"Those letters in the column Mr. Spratt writes, in The Sketch? Cassandra Jones? The ones about the butler and the lady's maid in the north. Was that the only way you could tell him?"

Anna, and Miss Baxter, too, and even Mrs. Patmore were staring at Daisy, their jaws slack. The men were more occupied in trying to restrain their laughter.

When Miss Denker continued to gape in horror, Daisy continued. "There've been two of them. And they sound like you. Don't you read the column? We all do."

Miss Denker's gaze travelled the room. She saw them all staring at her and could not but recognize the mirth in their eyes.

"I never read such trash!" Miss Denker gasped. "And …It's a lie! A filthy lie! That … that pathetic little man! He's been …impugning my honour, to advance his own sordid little enterprise! I'll …. I"ll …" She got to her feet. "He has written his last word!" And then she stormed out.

Behind her the servants' hall erupted in laughter. Mr. Barrow did nothing to rein them in. He had never liked Miss Denker.

"What's going on here?" This was the voice of seasoned authority, Mrs. Carson, drawn by the racket. "Was that Miss Denker shouting?"

"It was," Mr. Bates replied, managing this through his laughter.

"And what's wrong with her?"

"Daisy just told her about the letters in The Sketch. In Cassandra Jones's column"

This did nothing to dispel Mrs. Carson's bemusement.

"Last month, a senior domestic from the north wrote of her infatuation with the butler in the house of a great family," Mrs. Patmore explained. "I thought it might be you."

"I've already got my butler," Mrs. Carson said placidly, not going to be drawn this time by Mrs. Patmore's teasing. "It's Mr. Spratt writes that column, isn't it?"

"Yes!" a chorus of voices responded, taking the housekeeper aback a little.

"But … Miss Denker?"

"The letter writer called him … an odd little man! And … mentioned his stamps! And then Mr. Spratt published a discouraging response." Anna could hardly get the words out. "And then she wrote back."

"And he told her to quit her job and never mention it again!" Andy snorted.

"And there's been even more friction than usual between them, over at the Dower House," Mr. Bates added, managing to speak more calmly than the others.

"I don't believe it," Mrs. Carson said, though she sounded unsure.

Andy went to the chair by the fire and retrieved the well-worn copy of The Sketch. "You can read it yourself, Mrs. Carson."

"No," Mr. Bates put in. "You give it to us, Andy. In your best Miss Denker impression."

As Andy flipped through the pages, Anna leaned over to her husband.

"Was that note from the Dowager?"

"Yes," he murmured. "It'll be confirmation of our meeting later this morning."

"I think you should get over there," Anna said, almost inaudibly. "There'll be blood on the floor."

Violet and Bates

Once more her son's valet stood before her. Prior to their collaboration in this act of closure, Violet had spoken directly to Bates only once and recalled setting eyes on him fleeting only once before that. And on that slim foundation and what she had gleaned of his character from other sources, she had entrusted him with one of the most sensitive matters in her life. And had found her judgment wholly vindicated. She had not seen him in weeks. His appearance here, now, at his own request, could only mean one thing. She did not quite catch her breath in anticipation as she heard his distinctive step in the passage, but was aware of a heightened alertness all the same. When she and Joseph had made this plan, had she really thought it would ever come to pass and that she would be presiding over it?

The door opened and through it she saw Bates, but before him was Spratt. And before she could greet Bates or he speak to her, Spratt had burst. Burst, Violet would muse later, was precisely the word for it.

"I have reached the end of my tether, my lady," he announced in that pompous, overwrought manner he had. "Either she goes or I do. I can only take so much. No man could take more. I will not work another month complete under the same roof as that…that…." He stood in the center of the room, his body drawn up so tautly he might have been a violin string about to break. His arms were held stiffly at his sides, his hands extended, palms down. His small eyes, which were too close together, perhaps the result of an inbreeding tendency in Manchester – Violet could only speculate for she had never been there – were screwed up in indignation. He had become not only untethered, but also mute.

Bates, Violet noticed, took no umbrage at the butler upstaging him and was regarding Spratt with an almost disinterested curiosity. She focused on Spratt and considered. "That won't do, Spratt. A month is not quite sufficient. Say you will stay through New Year's Eve and I give you my word that the problem will be resolved."

Bates did not turn from the butler at her words, but his eyes did slant in her direction. He understood what she was saying, though Spratt, blissfully, did not. Spratt's eyes bulged in an unflattering manner and the corners of his mouth turned up in an almost painful suppression of a smile. "Resolved, my lady?" He dared not hope.

"Permanently," she said firmly. "Now, close the door behind you. I have business with Bates."

He turned and departed the room as quietly as he had dramatically entered it only a moment ago. They both waited to hear the door click. Then Bates moved to stand before her. They dismissed the matter of Spratt with a flicker of their eyes.

"My lady," Bates intoned.

"Bates. Have you come with news?" Among his other characteristics, Bates was a man of few words with him one might move swiftly to the point. For someone who had always thought the convention of niceties tiresome, Violet found this refreshing.

He nodded. "I have found your man, my lady."

She felt a quiver of excitement, though it might have been an involuntary tremor. It didn't really matter. "And you are quite certain?" He would not be here if he was not, but it was the obvious question.

"If I may?"

She nodded and he withdrew from an inside pocket a large envelope from which he extracted several pieces of paper – envelopes, letters, documents. He approached her, set them out on the small table at her side, and then led her through them. He did not bore her with excessive detail, yet demonstrated clearly the meticulousness of his work and the connections he had made. She was persuaded.

"I concur," she said succinctly.

He gathered the papers up again.

"Now that we have him, my lady, what precisely would you like me to do with him?"

She met his gaze unblinking. "As we have discussed. At my death, Bates, I would like you to make arrangements with my solicitors to pay out the inheritance in full. I appeal to you to do so with discretion, but I recognize that all may not unfold as smoothly as I would hope." She paused. "Could you please fetch me the two letters on my desk?"

He did so, conscious that this request gave evidence to her deterioration. He had noticed that she liked to do things herself. Bates held them out to her, but she waved him away.

"Keep them. And, at an appropriate moment – not immediately after my death, but without undue delay, please deliver them by hand to my son and my daughter."

He glanced at the letters. She had addressed them simply by the first names of her dear children – Robert and Rosamund. Then his eyes came up sharply to hers, questioning.

"I have decided to take your advice, Bates." He stared for a long minute and then nodded, understanding. And said nothing. Violet thought that if he were a man of her own class, she would have liked him very much indeed.

"You have been a good and faithful servant to my son, Bates. I thank you for that and for your service to me, as well."

"The Crawleys have been good to me, my lady. I am grateful for the opportunity to reciprocate."

"I understand from my granddaughter that you will be leaving Downton in the New Year, you and Anna."

"We are leaving our positions at the Abbey, yes. And His Lordship and Her Ladyship, and Lady Mary, too, have wished us well. But like Mr. Carson, we will not be far away. His Lordship knows he may always count on me."

This sentimental digression, which Violet thought important to allow, was cut short by an external development – a muffled shriek from someone in the house and a deep-voiced and harsh rejoinder. Violet's hands, spread to their extent, leaped upwards in a gesture of alarmed resignation. "Perhaps I won't last until New Year's," she said. "That might be a blessing."

"My lady…."

Anticipating sympathy, she cut him off before he could start. "We've already addressed that," she said curtly.

He nodded, but spoke anyway. "I owe you an apology and an explanation."

This was a curious thing to say and so she scrutinized him carefully. She had no idea where this might lead. "Go on."

He stood still for a moment, lips pursed, as though he were ordering his thoughts.

"You have, for weeks past I think, endured a … disturbance in your household in the form of especially brittle interactions between Miss Denker and Mr. Spratt."

"I have indeed! To the point where I wonder why I don't dismiss them immediately."

"Yes. Well, you may not be aware that the source of this current discord is a correspondence published in The Sketch, a series of letters and responses in the Cassandra Jones column, a column that Mr. Spratt writes."

"I am familiar with the letters," Violet admitted cautiously. She felt justified in having perused such nonsense. It was her granddaughter's magazine, after all. "And I know of Spratt's involvement."

"Well, the situation is that Mr. Spratt believes Miss Denker wrote the letters to him and about him, and that Miss Denker believes Mr. Spratt wrote the letters deliberately implicating her."

"Yes. I had gathered as much."

"My lady, … I wrote the letters."*

A long silence ensued. "I beg your pardon," she said finally, finding that always the best phrase to deploy when nothing else seemed appropriate.

"I wrote the letters to Cassandra Jones. I constructed them quite deliberately to reflect Miss Denker's situation and her distinctive voice. I … did it as a joke. To tease Mr. Spratt who takes himself so seriously. And Miss Denker, too, who is bytimes…."

"Don't finish that sentence." Violet said this almost absently, turning his revelation over in her mind. "It has made them almost demented, Bates."

He shrugged and now his expressionless face did admit a hint of amusement. "Can you forgive me, my lady?"

Violet was well beyond mild amusement. She laughed aloud. And for a stretch of several seconds. And then she pictured Denker and Spratt in her mind's eyes and she laughed again, clutching at her abdomen which ached from the unfamiliarity of such exercise. She blinked tears of mirth from her eyes. "Bates, that is simply delicious!"

His eyes twinkled.

Her eyes sparkled back at him. "Oh, my goodness. That is quite worth the irritation their bickering has caused of late."

"I could put them out of their misery, my lady, by going downstairs and confessing all."

It was a generous offer. But Violet only shook her head. "Oh, nothing could put that pair out of their misery. Thank you, Bates. Thank you for making our last meeting so highly satisfactory."

The impish cast of his demeanour faded. "Is it our last meeting, my lady?"

She nodded, her laughter fading to a benign smile. "It is."

"It has been a privilege to be of service to you, my lady." And he bowed slightly.

She watched him go with a contented air. She was almost finished now and the loose ends were almost all tied up. This gave her the freedom to concentrate now on those people who really mattered.

Mary and Tom

"I was hoping to find you here."

Tom was sitting at the big desk in the agent's office, sheafs of paper strewn before him, a pen in his hand. There was still a stain on the desk top from the ink that John Dunsany had spilled, but that was the only physical remnant of the episode. Tom stood up when Mary came in and he gave her a welcoming smile. But she thought this more form than sentiment. He hadn't been himself of late, for weeks and weeks really. It aggravated her that she hadn't noticed.

"I'm glad to see you," he said, sitting again as she slipped into the chair in front of the desk. "There are decisions to make." He gestured at the papers.

"And I should be very glad to consult with you on all of them," Mary said firmly. "Stephen is weaned now. Almost. So I may be able to get back to work on a more full-time basis."

"You've enjoyed the past few months," Tom said, with a gentle smile.

Mary shrugged. "I have and I haven't. I love my sons, Tom. Desperately. But caring for very small children can be tedious. I can have a conversation with George now. That's made a difference. But, goodness! I had a nanny for my children. Whoever thinks women who raise their children have an easy time of it have clearly never done it." She expected and ignored the discrete eye roll this elicited from Tom.

"There you are. You've developed an appreciation for the work of a highly unappreciated constituency. Well done, Mary. Motherhood has been worth it."

Mary fixed a chilly look on him. "You know how I feel about sarcasm when it's directed at me. But your attempt to divert me from my mission here today has not been successful."

He sighed. "I hope we're not about to discuss my love life, Mary. Or my lack of a love life, however you are going to phrase it."

"No. I don't believe in meddling in the romantic entanglements of other people. And I try to lead by example there." She stared at him pointedly and then dropped the subject. Truth to tell, she wasn't quite as miffed with him anymore as she had been about his interference with regard to her and Henry. And that was saying something.

"I'm worried about you. You've been off your feed for a while, as my grandfather used to say. Is it this business with the Dunsany boy? Or is that Papa is being difficult about it? The meeting with the Home Secretary went well, didn't it?"

"It went as well as it could," Tom said. "And … Robert and I have made peace. And I think we understand each other a little better."

Mary shuffled impatiently. "Then, what is it? I know you're unsettled. And … keeping secrets about things doesn't help. Witness the whole prank business."

He waved that off. "It's not the Drumgooles or your father. It's … me." And his eyes took on an almost vacant look as he stared past her, seeing nothing, lost in thought.

Mary observed him closely. She'd never been keen on introspection. Whenever she'd had recourse to it, it was wrapped up in grappling with a problem she had to resolve, usually with herself. And she never liked admitting that. She wasn't very keen on other people's introspection either. Such problems were likely to elude easy rectification. But the price one paid for love was to offer a sympathetic ear while others thrashed out their own troubles.

"What's wrong with you, then?"

Tom leaned back heavily and considered for a moment. "I listened to what John Dunsany said that afternoon he came to Downton. And I've been thinking about what he did in coming here. And I listened to Robert when he bristled at my accompanying him to see Boynson-Hicks. And everything Robert hasn't been saying in his cold silences."

"You know what Granny says about thinking," Mary said drily. "We do too much of it."

Tom acknowledged this with a quick smile, but shook his head. "I never believed her for a minute on that one. Or even that she believed it. I think that we don't think enough. I've been going over their words in my head."

Mary sighed. "Tom, don't punish yourself. I won't offer another defense of Irish radicalism, but I know that you've never done anything unthinkingly." She paused. "Except perhaps trying to elope with Sybil."

They both smiled at that, a bittersweet memory.

"Oh, I've done my share of rushing in."

"Tom." Mary was wary now. "You're not planning to de-camp to America again, are you? You sound now like you did in the months before you left. I don't think I could bear that again."

He laughed. "Of course, how my decisions will affect you is always my prime concern," he said, in such a good-natured way that Mary managed a small smile. "You can rest easy on that. I'm not thinking about running away to America. My troubles can only be decided on this side of the Atlantic. The question is … how?" He shrugged. "That's what I've been thinking about lately."

"You can't fix the past, Tom."

"You can't change the past. But I think it may be possible to repair some of the damage."

"Tom…."

"Don't worry," he insisted. "It's nothing for you to worry about."

Now, Mary rolled her eyes. "Tom, whenever Papa says that to Mamma, it usually means there's a disaster around the corner."

Yes, that had been the case. "Well, I'm not like Robert." He sat up abruptly. "The person to worry about is your grandmother. Do you have any idea what's happening with her?"

Tears came unbidden in a flash and Mary blinked them back. Her mouth tightened. "I think we all know what's happening there," she said, in a carefully controlled voice. "We just aren't talking about it."

Tom's expression softened. "I know you're eager to get back to work, Mary. But you'll never regret the time you've spent this year with Stephen and George. And you'll never regret the time you spend with your grandmother. You know I'll keep the ship afloat while you do that. It won't be forever."

The truth of that, of all of that, stirred tears once more and it was a moment before Mary could acknowledge Tom's support, giving him one of her rare, genuinely warm smiles. "Thank you, Tom."

"We do things differently, where I come from," he went on.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, … I've only been at … the end once. With my grandfather, my mum's dad. And I was fourteen. But … we were all in there, my brothers and me after school, sitting on his bed, competing for his attention. My mother and her sisters and my grandmother were, too, every day, and then, at night. They cared for him, taking their turns sitting there with him. Sometimes, there'd be knots of them, the women knitting or mending, talking over him, talking to him. Every once in a while, the men would come in and drive the women out, and they'd smoke their pipes and pass around a bottle and tell stories. And when my grandfather couldn't swallow, near the end, they'd dab his lips with whisky, so he could be with them still. Maybe that wasn't the best idea, I don't know. But … he was dying. What did it matter? And then the singing…." Tom was almost lost in memories. "Sometimes it would get so loud, loud enough to wake the dead." He shook his head fondly at the incongruous description. And then his bright eyes met Mary's again and he shrugged. "That's what we do. But, then, we're Irish."

*Author's Note: I never liked the characters of either Spratt or Denker and would happily have left them out altogether, as Julian Fellowes did, perhaps for time constraints, in Downton Abbey: The Movie. But they provided me here with an opportunity for something different for Bates to do. And in writing this minor plotline, I have consciously adhered to one of the fundamentals of Downton Abbey plotting: including a gratuitously silly plot to get cheap laughs. It is dedicated to BornetoFlow who despises such storylines (see extensive author comments on BTF's Author page). Cue the annoying music.

Author's Other Note: In these days of pandemic fatigue, reviews are to authors what long chapters of fanfiction are to readers.