DOWNTON ABBEY 1926
EPISODE 9 Chapter 7
Sunday October 24
In the Kitchen on Sunday Morning
Mrs. Patmore had expected to see the boy again on Saturday morning, but he appeared on Sunday instead.
"Have you been to church?" she demanded, as he edged his way into the kitchen.
"Matins," he said. He looked not quite himself and in a moment Mrs. Patmore understood why. There was a girl with him. She stepped into the kitchen and looked around with an air of self-assurance.
Mrs. Patmore looked her over. "Reinforcements?" she asked, as she retrieved the biscuit tin and sent it skittering across the worktable in Mark's direction.
He caught it, opened it, and helped himself to a biscuit. "Thank you, Mrs. Patmore. This is Mary. She's in my class. She…."
"I have a voice of my own, thank you, Mark Wallace."
The cook had been about to rebuke Mark for not offering the girl a biscuit. That thought fled her mind. Instead, she stared at the girl who stared right back at her, unabashed.
"My name is Mary Andover. I've come to speak with Mrs. Mason."
Mrs. Mason. Mrs. Patmore had to think on that for a moment. Daisy. "Oh, yes. Well, Mrs. Mason will be along in a few minutes. Look sharp, Mark. Find her a stool and get out of my way."
Mark did as bidden.
They had taken off their coats and boots and left them in the passage by the back door. Mark was an old hand at this by now. And so, they sat and waited, Mark complacently, Mary alertly.
Daisy was not long.
"Hello, Mark," she said cheerfully.
He leapt off his stool and introduced Daisy to Mary.
"I would like to interview you about Private William Mason," Mary announced. From her bag she pulled a pencil and notebook.
"Let's go in the servants' hall," Daisy directed. She glanced at the cook. "I won't be long." Mary marched after her.
"Ha!" Mark said. "That's what she thinks."
"What d'you mean by that?"
"Mary is the smartest girl in the class. She'll have a hundred questions. Miss Daisy will be there for hours."
"Well, she won't be because I'll need her here in half an hour to prepare the lunch." Mrs. Patmore began assembling ingredients. "So, she's the smartest girl. Are you the smartest boy?"
"Nah. There isn't one."
Mrs. Patmore couldn't figure how he made that out. "Where are you, then?"
"I'm all right."
Silence enveloped them for a few minutes. He seemed content to eat biscuits.
"Do you come here for the food?" She had begun to wonder. "I could probably find you some breakfast leavings."
"Nah," he said with a smile. "I come to hear about Archibald Philpotts." He pronounced the name clearly. He always seemed to take such satisfaction from it.
"Mark." Mrs. Patmore dusted her hands on her apron and them put them on her hips. "I'm not going to tell you anything."
He stared at her impassively. "You're not saying anything. That's different from not telling."
The cook eyed him warily. "I suppose that's you being clever."
He just smiled.
In the next room, Daisy sat at the trestle table with Mary across from her. The girl's posture was so perfect that Daisy was unnerved. She didn't know what to expect. She'd never been interviewed before.
Mary opened her notebook, revealing a list of questions that filled the page. And the next page. And the next.
This perplexed Daisy. "There's not that much to know about our William," she murmured, regarding Mary as almost a foreign creature.
"Let's begin with the most important things," Mary said briskly. And then her business-like manner gave way to a wide-eyed glow. "When did you fall in love with Private Mason?"
Daisy did not know what to say.
"We got on, after a bit," Daisy told Andy later, when she was scrubbing up after lunch. He didn't offer to dry the dishes at Daniel Rider had, she noticed fleetingly. "When we got to the war part. I told her how William was all keen to fight for King and country, but didn't volunteer right away because of his dad. But then, when he got called up, how proud he was. And also how quiet he was about it. Just pleased to be able to do his duty and not thinking he'd do something flashy to be a hero. And then … being a hero by trying to save Mr. Matthew."
"He sounds like a fine chap," Andy said solemnly. It was easy to admire William Mason. He was dead. Andy was less sanguine about Alfred, the chef in London.
"He was," Daisy said.
"What's this pageant going to look like, then?"
Daisy shrugged. "I don't know. I suppose each pupil will have a short piece to say about the soldier they've been assigned. There're twenty-nine names on the memorial, but not everyone agreed. And, anyway, there aren't twenty-nine students in the class."
"It's a nice idea," Andy said. "I agree that there ought to be some way to remember the lads who died, something more than a great stone with their names on it. Telling stories is the best way to keep someone alive."
It was a profound thought. Daisy pondered her parents, about whom she knew so little and who seldom crossed her mind. There had been no one to tell her stories about them and she had been too young to have stories of her own. She didn't miss them, not as real people in her life. But she did sometimes miss the idea of them.
"This girl, Mary," she said to Andy. "She's not like Mark who asks Mrs. Patmore a question and then waits for her to answer. It were like … getting tramped by a stampede of horses. She had question after question. I think she could fill an hour with her questions alone." She paused. "I didn't know William that well." Abruptly she shook her head. "I were a mouse when I was in school. I wonder how Mr. Molesley keeps this Mary in check."
"Maybe it's the more schooling you have," Andy suggested. "I wouldn't know. I fooled around and got out as quick as possible. But … when you go away to this Hillcroft place, maybe you'll come back like Mary Andover, asking questions and trampling all over us." He was grinning, teasing her.
"I don't know what it will be like," Daisy said slowly. "Only it will be away from here and I won't know anyone." She said this as a fact more than a concern. Being away from everyone she knew had advantages, as well as disadvantages.
"Well," Andy began, and then hesitated, and then plunged. "You'll know Lady Edith. I mean, the Marchioness."
This incongruous remark had Daisy looking at him like he'd suddenly started speaking Chinese. "I don't know what you're talking about. She's too old for school. And it's not her kind anyway." What a strange thing for Andy to say.
"No. 'Course not," Andy said, gaining more confidence as he spoke. "But she's connected to it. On the board or something. They were talking about it at dinner last night."
"What?"
Mary and Anna
"Look, Anna! Stephen is sitting on his own!"
Anna was at the door of the nursery, a pile of clean linen in her arms.
Mary was sitting on the floor with Stephen, who was swaying precariously, his mother's hand near but not on his back. "That's not your job," Mary said, nodding at Anna's burden.
"I was passing the laundry," Anna said good-naturedly. "Master Stephen will be running next. To keep up with his brother." She smiled at the picture before her, little boy frowning in concentration, mother beaming with joy.
"To keep up with Robbie, more like," Mary remarked, her eyes straying to the busy little boy who grinned up at Anna from within a circle of blocks. "He's re-building Downton Abbey."
Anna put the linens away and then joined the other three on the floor. Robbie immediately began to fill her lap with blocks.
"Nanny seized the opportunity to check on the tea," Mary said. "I'm supervising." She raised her eyebrows. "Fortunately, Mamma and Papa have taken George with them to church. Well, not so fortunately for George. What an introduction to the faith. Mr. Travis. And Tom and Sybbie went off to York to Mass. Else I would be completely overwhelmed."
Stephen did topple over then and Mary paused for a moment to set him up again.
"Frederica Daring's tales of her boys' exploits made me almost as apprehensive for my children as Lady Edith is about Marigold. I don't know much about boys, Anna. I grew up with girls."
Anna just laughed. "I don't think they're very much different, not in what they need from you anyway." She started piling up the blocks in front of Robbie. "So, it's Mrs. Daring? Not Lady or something?"
"No. She's an 'honourable,' but that doesn't translate into a useful daily title. It works only in ballrooms and the Season. Which she didn't do," she added, and then glanced sidelong at Anna. "Mrs. Daring went to Oxford."
Anna was gratifyingly startled. "To study?"
Mary nodded.
"At a college?"
"Yes. But she left to get married and wouldn't have got a degree anyway. They didn't give them to women, then, though they do now."
"Only after a thousand years in existence!" Anna declared. "What's next? The vote for all?"
Mary laughed. "I've never heard you quite so adamant."
"Well, where has being quiet gotten us?"
"You have a point. Anna. Mrs. Daring is thinking of running for Parliament."
"Really? Here in Yorkshire?"
Not surprisingly, Anna said this in a tone entirely different than Mary's father had used the night before.
"Yes."
"That will be something!" Anna's eyes shone. "That sounds like progress. I'll make sure to tell Daisy. She's been that down since the Labour Party was turned out."
"Well, this news won't stir her up too much. Freddy Daring is a Conservative."
Anna just shrugged. "You enjoyed her company, then."
Mary pondered this. "I did. And that of her husband. They are pleasant, intelligent, interesting people. Their business is different than mine – they're manufacturers. But we had things in common."
Anna smiled. "I'm glad for you. It's nice to have someone you can talk to about things."
"It is," Mary agreed. She tugged on Stephen's toes for a minute, making him laugh. Mary laughed with him, but the glow faded quickly. "Anna."
"Yes, my lady?"
Yet Mary did not speak. She was troubled. In fact, she'd not slept well for thinking of it.
"Is something the matter, my lady?"
Mary's dark eyes came up to meet Anna's concerned look.
"The Darings met at Oxford. Then they married the following summer. 1914."
1914. To say "1914" immediately called to mind the cataclysm that descended in August of that year and cast a pall over any conversation.
"Bad timing," Anna said, not sure which direction Lady Mary was going with this. "I suppose Mr. Daring went off to war soon thereafter."
"Yes. With the Canadian Expeditionary Force. He's Canadian," Mary added, as an aside. "In fact, they married on the day the Archduke was shot. I suppose no one has difficulty remembering their anniversary."
"Even worse timing," Anna said.
Mary fell silent again.
Anna, with a sensitivity cultivated over years in the intimate service she provided, noticed immediately. "My lady?"
Mary shifted, restless. She reached out to Stephen and pulled him into her lap, holding him closely. "Do you remember what I did in the summer of 1914, Anna? I let my self-absorption and … arrogance … lead me to reject the man I loved. If he wasn't going to be the Earl of Grantham, well, then, I didn't want him, no matter that I loved him. And I knew I did! I knew how we got on, that I could be myself with Matthew, as I could be with no one else." Even in the distress with which she related this, Mary had the wherewithal to give Anna an acknowledging nod. "Except you, of course."
She sighed. "Anna, I put … money and status .. above Matthew." Mary stood abruptly, carrying Stephen with her, and paced the length of the room. "Freddy Daring met this man at Oxford, and though she was from an aristocratic family and he was a … colonial, with no background at all, she let her heart be her guide. And … they were happy. They are happy, Anna. You should see them together." She spoke earnestly, staring at Anna, as though the latter might disagree.
"You married Mr. Matthew," Anna reminded her. "And you were very happy, too."
"But I wasted seven years! What a fool I was!"
Anna shook her head sharply and she, too, got to her feet. "Don't do that to yourself, my lady. You can't know … how you would have been. And … you did have Mr. Matthew, as a friend, during the war and after. That helped to make your marriage richer. You were the people you were together because of the way you had navigated all that came before. You can't … undo one part without unravelling all the rest, too."
Mary stared at her with glistening eyes and then her expression softened. "Anna, you always know how to frame things. You know how to put them in a good light. Perhaps you should run for office. God knows, we could use someone with an optimistic outlook at Westminster."
Anna acknowledged the compliment with a quick smile.
"You had that wisdom, too," Mary went on, thinking about it. "You married Bates at the earliest opportunity. It was risky, but you didn't let stupid things get in your way."
"Well, I don't know about wisdom," Anna said cautiously, but she could not deny it.
"Do you know about this … pageant that Molesley is putting on for Armistice Day?"
It was a sharp change of subject, but Anna pivoted deftly. "Yes. There's been a lot of talk of it downstairs."
"Well, it was that and thinking about the Darings that got me going on this. It made me think of Matthew." Mary came over melancholic once more. "I think of him every day, Anna, and I ache. And whenever I see George and …."
"You don't have to explain to me, my lady."
Once more Mary's agitated countenance smoothed over. "No. I don't. Thank you, Anna. You're the only one I can talk to about this."
Molesley and Daniel Rider
"I'd never lived alone before I moved in here."
Joseph Molesley and his boarder, Daniel Rider were spending Sunday afternoon together. On the table before them, in the sitting room of the cottage in the lane, were several small pieces of paper with handwritten notes on each. Molesley kept shuffling them around.
"I lived with my parents, of course," Molesley said. "Then, my dad, after my mum died. And then I went into service. You're never alone there. Well, not unless you work in a very small house, but even then …. It was a while, not until I got my place at Crawley House, that I had my own room as an adult. You always share in service. Unless you're the butler or the housekeeper. And then I was back with my dad and then footman again at the Abbey. I was stunned when Mr. Dawes told me the job at the school came with a house. Well, I was stunned about the job. Just the idea… but … I mean a house. I never thought I'd be in my own house."
Daniel listened to all of this with a smile on his face. People either liked Joseph Molesley or they didn't. His supporters found him kind and warm. His detractors thought him irritating. Daniel liked him.
"It must have been a moment of great satisfaction to be asked to take a position at the school and then to get a house, too."
"It was," Molesley replied vigorously. "I mean, the job. It was what I'd always wanted to do. But here, in the house, well. … I … liked … putting things where I wanted them. I liked having my own things about." He looked around as he said this, nodding contentedly.
Things, as far as Daniel Rider could see, meant books and a few maps and some photographs. Several volumes of Oxford Histories occupied pride of place in a sturdy bookshelf. Daniel had looked through them. They were well-thumbed. The furniture was spare and all of it functional, although there was a comfortable chair by the fire. Over the last few months, Daniel had come in to find Molesley asleep in his chair by the fire on more than one occasion. The man always looked blissfully at home.
"You're where you should be, now. Personally and professionally," Daniel stated.
"I am. And I'm happy. Though … I haven't ever really been unhappy. Well, there was the time after Mr. Matthew died and before I got on back at the Abbey. As a footman. But, yes, I'm quite happy now, though perhaps … well ….." His voice petered out.
"How's the pageant coming along?" Daniel asked, gesturing at the various pieces of paper.
Molesley glowed. "Well, look at them! And … letting them do what they want, how they wanted it. They have ideas! These four!" He pointed to a grouping of four slips of paper. "I was worried. But they spoke to Mrs. Elcot and she was fine with it. In fact, … well, I won't tell you. It will be a surprise. And, then this one, Kenneth. I didn't even know he could write! Hidden talents."
"They're listening to each other, interested in the stories they have to tell. They're … encouraging each other, helping each other. And, I hope, they're bringing … solace … to families, to the families who wanted to be involved." His eyes swept over the table and a little line formed on his forehead. "But there's one I'm … well, I'm a bit worried about."
"Mark."
"Yes. Mark." They had spoken of Mark before. "I can't … shift him. He's determined. I don't know what to do." Molesley turned to Daniel, his eyes wide. "Believe me, Mrs. Patmore is not to be trifled with."
"You sound like you know that from experience," Daniel said, mildly amused.
"I do." Molesley spoke with fervour.
"Well, I do have an inkling of what Mrs. Patmore can do," Daniel admitted. "So, I sympathize."
"And her sister will be here. Two of them." Molesley shook his head. "I'll keep at Mark."
"He visits Mrs. Patmore regularly, I understand."
Molesley almost shivered. "I know. Annoying her."
"I'm not so sure."
"What d'you mean?"
Daniel tried to find the right words. "Only that sometimes things have a way of working themselves out. She doesn't shoo him away, Mrs. Patmore. She gives him a biscuit and lets him sit there for a while."
"He's a nice boy."
"He is. But …you know the boy. Maybe you should trust him."
Molesley seemed to consider it. "It's a dicey proposition."
"It is." Daniel Rider paused. "I've a bit of a dicey situation myself."
"What? You!" Molesley laughed. "You've not been here long enough."
"It's Mr. Carson," Daniel went on.
Molesley sobered. "Oh, well. Mr. Carson. Everyone falls afoul of him sometimes. He has high standards."
"That's just it," Daniel said. "He's managing this dinner party for Lady Merton."
Molesley nodded dispassionately. "I had heard."
"But he's worried about pouring the wines. Not that I told you that!"
"I understand. And so he would be, with his condition and all."
"Yes. He doesn't want a footman to do it."
"He wouldn't, even for a small party. Mr. Carson likes to do things properly." Molesley could attest to that.
"I was going to volunteer."
"For what?"
"To serve the wines. Mr. Barrow was going to show me."
"What?"
"Only there's a complication."
"I'll say," Molesley declared. "You can't just walk in off the street and do that, you know. You need to know how to pour. There's more than poise and good manners to it."
Now, a little line of puzzlement creased Daniel's forehead. "That's quite the opposite of what Mr. Barrow said." He did not say it to contradict Molesley, but only to convey his confusion.
Molesley shrugged. "Well, what Mr. Barrows says …. And, in case, you're not a servant. Even if you passed muster, and … it is Mr. Carson … he wouldn't let you do it. He doesn't like people crossing lines." He said this emphatically.
"Well, in any case, I can't do it. There's some guest who is a troublemaker. It's under control, but I know him, too, and he may make trouble with me. I don't want to be a cause of disruption. So Mr. Carson will have to use a footman."
"Troublemaker?"
"A county man. Mr. Grey. Do you know him?"
Molesley snorted. "Know him?! Lord Merton's son! Troublemaker isn't the word for him. I was at the last dinner at Downton he came to. I've been in service for decades and I've never seen such rudeness. And it wasn't the first time, either."
"Yes, he's a bully," Daniel said ruefully.
"I don't like bullies."
"No. Well. Who does? But I don't like letting Mr. Carson down," Daniel added heavily.
"Why?" Molesley spoke in curiosity.
"He's been kind to me. I like him. We get on. And it bothers him and I thought I could help him out."
Molesley considered the other man for a moment. "We saw you at some cricket matches, m'dad and I. You were with Mr. Carson."
"Yes. He enjoys cricket quite a lot."
"Enjoys?! He's like m'dad about it!"
They laughed about this and then their attention returned to the names and notes laid out on the table.
"This is a work of the heart, Mr. Molesley. I can tell from the passion you have infused in it."
Daniel Rider meant it as a compliment, but Molesley shifted uneasily. "Well."
"I know it's a troubling subject for many," Daniel said sympathetically. "I won't ask about your war."
"I didn't have a war," Molesley said quietly. And then he braced his shoulders and turned to face Daniel Rider directly. "You went to war. You served your King and country. I didn't, Mr. Rider. I …." His arm swept over the table. "That's … in part … what this pageant is about. I didn't not just serve. I …." He took a deep breath. He was on the brink of something here. "I … avoided service. With a lie. I'm trying … now… to make amends. As best I can." Then his gaze faltered a bit. "It's not something that's easy to say to a man who served." Surprisingly, though, it was easier than the last time he had admitted it, though, of course, the stakes were rather lower than with Miss Baxter.
There was silence for a long moment.
"That's … who I am, then," Molesley said at last. "What I am, anyway." He seemed resigned to disapproval.
This roused Daniel Rider. "Mr. Molesley, you are your own worst critic, which is only how it should be. We none of us have the right to judge others. You'd … not have been on the front lines anyway. Not unless you volunteered and made a big fuss about it. You were probably …" How to say this delicately? "… beyond an age to go to the front."
"I thank you for your kindness," Molesley said formally. "I don't think it excuses me my lies, though."
"Well, we've all told lies, at one time or another," Daniel Rider said shortly. "Accepting responsibility for our shortcomings, that carries weight in the long run."
"Miss Baxter has …helped me a lot," Molesley said suddenly.
This lightened the atmosphere quite a bit. Daniel smothered a smile. "Then I suggest to you that Miss Baxter is a pearl of great price, Mr. Molesley. Not a person to let slip away."
"No. You may be right about that."
They were interrupted by a knock at the door. Molesley came over puzzled. "I don't get many visitors. It must be Dad."
But it wasn't.
Monday Morning October 26
Robert and Carson
"Carson, it is absolutely crackers to have Larry Grey at this dinner party. What were you thinking?"
It was an overcast day and cold, even for the end of October, but the men were wearing heavy tweed and they walked briskly and … they were Englishmen, after all.
Carson did not reply.
Robert relented. "What do you have in mind?" he asked more mildly.
"I inadvertently witnessed another display of Mr. Grey's … charm, my lord. I thought I could do something about it, and, more, that I ought to do so." He paused. "Mr. Grey puts me in mind of Sir Richard Carlisle, without that man's need to affect a veneer of gentlemanly decorum."
Robert's eyebrows shot up. "My goodness. Strong words, Carson." He let a moment tick by. "So, what's the plan, then?"
"Information, my lord."
Robert had hoped that Carson might be marginally more forthcoming, but he did not press. "And you are quite sure it will work?"
"Ninety-seven per cent, I should say."
"I should feel more comfortable without that three percent possibility of error."
"If it is not enough, my lord, I shall drag the man from the room by his collar and toss him out into the night myself." Carson said this with an alarming equanimity.
"Yes, that's all very well, Carson. But isn't the point not to have a scene?"
Carson glanced his way. "I am certain my first remedy will work."
"Well, it's done now," Robert said with a sigh. "I hope I'm not stuck sitting beside Amelia Grey," he added, almost to himself. And then he remembered that he was speaking to the man who made up the seating chart. "I'm not, am I?"
Carson's expression turned sympathetic.
"Oh, crikey."
Carson chose to change the subject. "May I ask, how is Lady Mary of late, my lord?"
Robert was glad to speak of other things. "In good spirits. She's made a new friend, a woman by the name of Frederica Daring. Daughter of the younger son of Viscount Havermore," he added, knowing Carson would care. "The family runs an agricultural machinery business. Apparently, we buy from them. She and her husband were at Downton on Saturday night." Robert paused. "She thinks she might run for Parliament." He said this quite deliberately, but with a casual air, anticipating Carson's response.
"She?! A woman! Running for parliament in Yorkshire!"
"Would it be any less remarkable if it were somewhere else?" Robert asked, feigning innocence. His reaction had, of course, been almost exactly the same.
"No," Carson said carefully. "But one can't account for the peculiarities of other places."
Robert suppressed a smile and moved on to his next carefully plotted point in this game. "Lady Mary thinks she might get involved," he went on, keeping his tone neutral. "Assist the campaign." He watched Carson carefully out of the corner of his eye. He loved to watch Carson struggle with contradictions between the foundations of his belief system and his love for Mary.
It took Carson several seconds to make the calculation. "I daresay they might bring a refreshing perspective to the fray," he said, without blinking.
Robert sighed. He'd never yet seen tradition trump Mary. Defeated, he returned to the sore subject. "You know that Her Ladyship the Dowager will be attending the Mertons' dinner party, Carson. You might had had pity on her, if not me."
"Her Ladyship is not seated near either of the two undesirables," Carson said evenly. "And I believe she will enjoy watching Lady Merton triumph over her tormenter."
No doubt, Robert thought to himself. He thought again about the situation. "It must be good, this information."
They looked at each other.
"Well, he is a banker," Carson said.
Violet and Isobel
Isobel was at the Dower House and Violet could not have been more pleased to see her.
"I'm so glad you've dropped by."
Isobel raised an eyebrow. "You make it sound as though I never do. You're the one with the schedule these days. Carson has taken all your time."
"He's not here today."
"No. Of course not. He's at Crawley House, drilling the hired help."
"Are you prepared for the dinner on Friday night?" Violet asked solicitously.
Isobel shrugged. "I don't know."
Violet was perplexed. "You're giving a society dinner in four days. How can you not know?"
"Carson is running everything."
"Surely you have a clue."
"Well, … no. Really, Cousin Violet, you're the one who told me to put him in charge." Isobel was exasperated.
Violet gently shook her head. "No, what I told you was to let him do all the work."
Isobel surrendered. "It's going to be a disaster anyway, now that Larry and Amelia are coming."
"Then it will at least be memorable."
"What?"
"Well, you know, it's always a good idea to find something to salvage from a catastrophe."
Isobel could only shake her head. "I can't think why I let Carson talk me into this. I have hardly slept since he delivered the invitation."
Misgivngs were a foreign concept to Violet. "Why did you?"
It was a curious question. "It made sense, in a way, at the time," Isobel said haltingly. "He assured me that all would be well," she added plaintively.
"Well, you didn't have to give in."
"What?" Isobel was flummoxed. "But that's what everyone said, including you. Just give in to him."
Violet stared at her for a long moment. "I see you still haven't quite got the hang of this yet."
"Of what?"
"Managing the servants, my dear."
Isobel's eyes rolled. "I had servants before I came to Downton. I am not unfamiliar with the practice."
"Employing a cook and a maid is not the same thing as managing a great house staff headed by a butler."
"So, you're telling me I made the wrong decision. That I should have stood firm and refused to invite Larry and Amelia."
"Oh, not at all. If Carson says it is all in hand, I would believe him. But there may still be fireworks."
"Don't look so pleased at the prospect."
Violet smiled sweetly. "At my age, one must take pleasure where one can find it. I am very much looking forward to learning what dark secret Carson has unearthed."
"He's proposed blackmail. You do realize that. Do I take it you approve of such tactics?"
"Oh, dear," said Violet, her glee diminishing somewhat. "Is this another outbreak of middle-class sensibilities? Playing fair and all that?"
Isobel just shook her head. "Why am I surprised?"
"It will all work out," Violet said soothingly. "Let me distract you with a little gem that came to my attention last week." With enthusiasm she imparted the tale of Denker, Spratt, Cassandra Jones, and Bates. She could hardly suppress her giggles as she spoke. "Was that not clever?"
Isobel laughed, a genuine, hearty laugh. "Goodness! Have you apprised them of this prank?"
"Of course not. But I have arranged a truce that will, at least, keep them from abandoning me in my hour of need."
"Are you in an hour of need, Cousin Violet?" Isobel spoke lightly, but there was no mistaking the shadow of concern in her eyes.
But Violet shook her head. "Not yet."
Isobel stared at her for a moment and then spoke again. "What was Bates doing here?"
"Running an errand for me," Violet said airily.
"Because your own complement of servants was inadequate to the task?" Isobel said sarcastically.
"Why, yes. Precisely."
