DOWNTON ABBEY
EPISODE 9 Chapter 9
Friday October 29
Downstairs After Lewis
No one was sorry to see Lewis go
"And about time!" Andy declared to Daisy. "Do you think I'd've been working here a day after I'd spoken to Mr. Carson as he did? Or broken into the butler's pantry and stolen some wine? What took Mr. Barrow so long!"
"Possibly because he'd done that himself," Mrs. Patmore murmured, but under her breath.
Daisy had Andy's attention so he missed Mrs. Patmore's contribution. "You would never have done that in the first place, so it's beside the point, isn't it?" she said.
* R * R * R * R * R * R *
"He was an odd duck," Elsie said to Charlie. They had stopped outside the coal yard door. "You didn't have to walk all this way with me in the cold," she added, looking him over critically to make sure his throat wasn't exposed. "Now you've got to walk all the way back to the village." He was going straight to Grantham House to begin the preparations for dinner that night.
"We wanted to," he said, including Shep, who was standing quietly at his side. "And as for Lewis…. Mr. Barrow is well shot of him. And I hope he will have learned his lesson about eager butlers readily dispensing with footmen these days."
"Didn't you rely on other butlers?"
"Yes. But one has to be discerning. Mr. Barrow knows that now. He won't let it happen again. I'll say this for him, he doesn't make the same mistake twice."
"I'll be over at noon to offer what help I can. What are you going to do with the dog?"
"Oh, he'll take up residence in the coal yard. He'll be all right. He's got a coat on him."
Elsie smiled. She was surprised her Mr. Carson would consign his carefully groomed dog to anyone's coal yard, but she wasn't too concerned for Shep. He'd find his spot.
They exchanged a gentle kiss and then parted from one another.
* R * R * R * R * R * R * R
"I wonder what he did that Mr. Barrow sacked him," Anna mused, seated at the table in the servants' hall. John sat nearby in one of the easy chairs by the fire.
"I don't care," he said.
"No, but … you only get sacked for something serious."
John remained oblivious.
"And … Mr. Barrow, after all. Think of all the things he's done over the years. Could Lewis have done something worse? Wouldn't any of us have noticed?"
"I don't know," John said distantly, not raising his eyes from the newspaper he was reading. "And I don't care."
This made Anna mildly exasperated. "How can you not care?"
At this, he did put the paper down. "I do care. But not about that. How would you like to go for dinner at the Grantham Arms some evening soon?"
This sharp change in direction startled Anna. "Wouldn't it look like we were sizing up the place? It might be a little awkward for the Kearnses."
John just stared at her. "Can't we size up the place? It's not as though we are turning the Kearnses out. They're going. And … I'd like to go out for dinner."
He so seldom pressed for things. Anna wavered. "What about Robbie?"
"We'll get a sitter. Like all the other working class people in the world do."
* R * R * R * R * R * R *
"He was good-looking," Mrs. Patmore said later, once Andy had gone about his duties. "I wonder you never spared a glance for him." She was stirring again and watched Daisy closely out of the corner of her eye.
"He was rude and unfriendly," Daisy pronounced. "I don't like that sort."
"Then you're well ahead in the game," Miss Baxter put in warmly, pouring a cup of tea.
Daisy and Mrs. Patmore exchanged a look at this. Miss Baxter seldom expressed opinions and this one sound rather … personal.
"Besides," Daisy went on, returning her attention to Mrs. Patmore, "I'm not going to marry my way out of this kitchen."
"I think marriage usually leads a woman into a kitchen," the cook said with a laugh.
"There's nothing wrong with marriage, is there?" Miss Baxter said, addressing herself to Daisy's remark, but speaking almost rhetorically.
"If you think so, why haven't you tried it?" Daisy said impertinently. She half-expected a rebuke from Mrs. Patmore, but that woman was looking at Miss Baxter, too.
Her Ladyship's maid came over a little flustered and her colour rose. "I don't know what you mean."
Mrs. Patmore caught Daisy's eye. "Not there yet," she murmured knowingly.
* R * R * R * R * R * R *
Thomas and Daniel were in the butler's pantry.
"I don't mind being caught out when I've done something," Thomas said. "Well, I do, but … He must have followed me on Saturday night. Maybe that was the sound you heard in the woods." Thomas was caught up in the effrontery of the exchange that had transpired the previous afternoon. "He was after my job. No mistake about that."
But Daniel was concerned with other matters. "But now Lord Grantham knows about me."
Thomas's eyes snapped alertly to his friend. "Not explicitly." This was a glossing of the truth. "And he wouldn't say or do anything. Especially as regards Mr. Carson. You don't have to worry."
"Lewis, Lord Grantham…."
"His Lordship put paid to Lewis," Thomas pressed on eagerly. "Neither of them will talk. Besides," he said, "you told Mrs. Carson." He might have added that Mrs. Patmore probably knew, too. She was annoyingly perceptive sometimes.
"I felt obliged to tell Mrs. Carson," Daniel said soberly. "She…demands honesty."
Thomas agreed with that. "Well, she's telling no one." And then he came over a little puzzled. "I thought you didn't care about people knowing. At Cambridge…."
"That was before I knew the cost," Daniel said grimly. "I'm tired of paying that price. When I came here, I thought I could start anew. Clean slate. But it follows me everywhere."
"Of course, it does," Thomas said softly. "It's who you are. But …," he scrambled for something encouraging to say, "I know I haven't raved about life here, but everyone knows about me, mostly, and … it's all right." It had been lonely, but there was a degree of tolerance he hadn't known in Manchester.
"Yes, but … you've no relationships at stake," Daniel said carefully.
Thomas understood. But no one likes you. And that was true enough, excepting Miss Baxter. The threats Thomas had faced were economic – his job. But Daniel was liked, and by Mr. Carson, among others. He didn't like hearing Daniel talk like this. It was so very pleasant to have a real friend. Thomas didn't want to lose him. "It's all right," he said, more insistently. "No one else will know."
Isobel and Carson
"But … that's illegal." There was an impatient note in Lady Merton's tone.
Standing before her, Carson responded with a slow blink and a barely perceptible nod.
Lady Merton was perplexed, and Mrs. Carson couldn't blame her.
It was Friday afternoon. The Mertons' dinner party was only a few hours away. All was in readiness, as Mrs. Carson could attest. She had watched from a distance her husband's meticulous preparations over the past few weeks. And today she'd been on hand herself, given leave by Her Ladyship to attend at Crawley House. Her husband's arrangements were perfect – his capacity to organize a society dinner and train up personnel undiminished by several months of retirement. She'd never doubted him.
But she was sympathetic to Lady Merton. The unpredictable element hanging over the party was the figure of Larry Grey, Lord Merton's disruptive elder son. Would Mr. Carson's scheme contain him? Or would he ruin the party, as he had others, with his calculated insolence? Mr. Carson had withheld the critical details from Lady Merton until almost the last moment and her agitation had worn on her. And now she knew and her concerns were not alleviated. Mrs. Carson was on her side.
"But this puts me in a terrible position, Carson," Lady Merton said, glaring at the butler. "If this is true…."
"It is," Carson intoned.
"…then I cannot remain silent. Honesty and integrity dictate informing the proper authorities." Lady Merton drew herself up in some state of self-righteousness mingled with a very real sense of distress for what this meant in the immediate circumstances of her dinner. This was not what she had expected from Carson. And she felt cast adrift in the face of looming disaster. "This is not at all helpful for tonight," she added, almost fretfully.
Carson was unmoved. "My lady, your concerns are misplaced. You cannot reasonably report this … indiscretion ... to the authorities. You have no evidence."
This confounded the woman even more. "Then what good is it?"
"That it cannot be proven in a court of law – by you, at any rate – does not make it any the less damaging." Carson spoke quietly, his equanimity a counterpoint to her rising anxiety. "What matters is that it did happen. This is something Mr. Grey knows very well. Because you have no evidence to present to any formal authority, you cannot be expected to make such a report. It would be dismissed as hearsay."
This hardly clarified matters for Lady Merton. She stared at him, uncomprehending. "But if I lack evidence of the wrongdoing, how can I make a plausible … threat?" She spoke the word distastefully but there was no avoiding it. It was precisely what Carson would have her do.
"It does not matter if you have evidence, my lady," he said patiently. "The important thing is that you are aware of the indiscretion. Mr. Grey may be able to brush you off. But you have only to imply an inclination to mention the circumstances to someone who could find the evidence, if only he knew to look for it, to achieve the desired effect." When she continued flummoxed, he relented. "One of your dinner guests this evening is Sir Evan Fares."
Though she did not know quite what he was about to say, Mrs. Carson smiled to herself. Her husband had been butler at Downton Abbey for some thirty-three years and in that time he had developed an intimate acquaintance with the complex interconnections of high society throughout Britain. Elsie was convinced he was about to connect some obscure dots for Lady Merton.
That woman only raised her eyebrows inquiringly.
Carson explained. "Sir Evan Fares is an intimate friend of Lord Ranskill. They dine weekly at Boodle's and enjoy weekend social retreats with their families at each other's estates."*
When Lady Merton only continued to stare at him, Carson added, "Lord Ranskill is on the banking committee in the Lords, my lady. In your hands and without evidence, this information means nothing. But even a passing mention of it to Sir Evan will guarantee that it will be in Lord Ranskill's hands by Tuesday. And that gentleman is known to be exacting in his investigations of … irregularities … large and small. Mr. Grey knows this," he finished. "You won't even have to put these facts together for him."
This made a difference. Lady Merton's expression went from exasperated desperation to cautious consideration. "He may think I'm bluffing," she said. "To expose Mr. Grey would, after all, bring scandal down on my husband."
Carson remained unperturbed. "Use your strengths, my lady. Use the advantages Mr. Grey has given you in your own cause."
Now, both women stared at him, puzzled. Lady Merton did not know what he meant. For her part, Mrs. Carson had never heard her husband mention any strengths he associated with Lady Merton.
"Consider your middle-class disregard for aristocratic niceties, your sense of righteousness that demands the truth regardless of the casualties, your essential high-mindedness."
"You say 'high-mindedness' as though it were a bad thing, Carson," Lady Merton said uncertainly. "Is this what you think of me?"
"This is what Mr. Grey thinks of you, my lady," Carson clarified, "which is all that matters. He believes that a fellow member of the aristocracy could be counted upon to hush things up. But you are a maverick. He cannot be certain that you won't let indignation trump family loyalty and class solidarity because he believes you innately incapable of either. In other words, you are in his eyes irretrievably middle-class."
She studied him for a moment. "And you truly believe Mr. Grey will be susceptible to this."
"He must be, my lady. His honour and his reputation are at stake. Nothing else matters. I am staking my reputation on this."
Was it not at odd thing, Mrs. Carson thought, that both a gentleman and a gentleman's gentleman felt themselves bound by the same codes of honour?
"How did you come by this information, Carson?"
The butler drew himself up formally. "The way a butler knows anything, my lady." Had she really expected him to tell her?
"Well." Lady Merton composed herself. "So, I am to convey this awareness to Mr. Grey and hope he will act accordingly."
"I shall ensure that you have an early opportunity to do so."
Lady Merton nodded thoughtfully and withdrew, leaving the Carsons alone in the conservatory.
"Well, you may get away with that non-answer to Lady Merton, but I'm not that easy to put off," Mrs. Carson said to her husband. She fixed him with an expectant stare. How did he know?
"Later," he said, and she conceded the need for discretion.
"It is a damning bit of knowledge," she noted, taking advantage of the privacy of the room to link her arm with his and pleased that he responded to this with a smile. "But … Are you that certain of Lady Merton's ability to bring it off? Of using the information effectively?"
"Elsie," he said softly, meeting her gaze. "I have observed Lady Merton at the Downton dinner table for fourteen years. I may say with confidence that I have never known anyone more adept in the artless delivery of inconvenient truths. It's not a skill so much as an inborn talent."
Mrs. Carson digested this and then shook her head at her husband. "You don't have a very high opinion of her, even if you don't quite share Mr. Grey's condescension."
He pondered this for a moment. "She is a very graceful dancer," he said. He had danced with her several times over the years on the annual occasion of the servants' ball.
"My! You are generous to a fault." She doubted that her husband heard the sarcasm in her tone.
Larry and Amelia
Larry Grey stood before the long glass in his dressing room and admired himself. He cut an exceptionally dashing figure in white tie. Beside him, his long-time valet was examining him with an expert eye.
"Everything needs to be perfect tonight, Trent. Absolutely perfect." Larry said this with a perfunctory air. Trent had never failed him.
"Ready?" Amelia had put her head in the door.
Larry glanced at his valet, who gave a discrete nod of approval and then slipped silently away.
"I'm surprised you are," Larry drawled, drifting over to stand by his wife, who was attired in a glittering blue and silver dressing gown. "You look enchanting," he murmured. It was the most sincere thing he'd said to anyone all day.
"Rather a waste," she said, almost sulky. "Why are we going?"
Larry fixed her with a slightly patronizing smile. "Because Isobel is trying to climb the ladder and she's going to fail miserably. And I want to be there to watch."
Amelia was indifferent to her husband's occasional air of condescension. "Anyone would think you a cad to hear you say such a thing." Her smile sapped the words of any sting.
"Not you, surely."
"No. Of course not. The woman had no business marrying your father. And the shocking manner in which she … kidnapped him from his own home, aided and abetted by the dragon of Grantham. …. Well, it was too much to be borne."
"Precisely," Larry said agreeably. "Hence our venture this evening."
But his wife was not convinced. "Wouldn't it be a greater snub if we didn't show up?"
"It would be a blow," Larry conceded. "But not half so entertaining as watching the disaster unfold." They exchanged knowing smiles.
"She may pull it off, you know. She might have gotten help."
"I doubt it. She's a bit of a know-it-all and doesn't think she needs help. But …," he paused dramatically, "if it looks like everything is unfolding smoothly, I'm sure we can manage to derail it."
He took her arm, then, and led her down the passage to the stairs.
Isobel and Dickie
They met in the bedroom to which they had withdrawn in order to dress for dinner. Isobel had set her gown out earlier and it lay on the bed, shimmering. Dickie's clothes were hanging in his dressing room, which was precisely and only that. There was no spare bed there as in the dressing rooms of every other gentleman he knew.
"Well?" he asked, sidling over to her, leaning forward, hands clasped behind him. "Did Carson come through?"
Isobel met his gaze but did not match his hopeful smile with one of her own. "He has, I think." She'd been turning the information over in her mind and come to the conclusion that Carson had indeed handed her some potent ammunition. "But it's … unsettling."
Dickie's brow furrowed. "How so?"
Isobel proceeded cautiously. "I … I don't know that I want to tell you. I feel I should. I don't want to keep secrets from you. But …."
"Has Larry been unfaithful?" Dickie asked abruptly.
"What? No. I mean, I don't know. He may have been. But that's not what Carson said."
"Has he murdered anyone?" Dickie persisted, and Isobel did not know if he was entirely joking.
"Dickie! That's hardly the kind of thing Carson would keep to himself."
"Well, let's hope not," Dickie murmured. And then he relented. "No, of course not. But those are the kinds of transgressions I would want to know about if my son had committed them. If it is something else, then I would be obliged if you didn't confide in me. I don't need to know."
This made Isobel smile. He was so accommodating. "Thank you," she said.
"Will it work?" Dickie asked. "Carson's plan, I mean."
Isobel shrugged. "We none of us can predict how another will react. Larry may well be discomfited, but whether he will cease his barbs or be moved to retaliate in a more spectacular fashion, I certainly don't know. The whole thing is dependent upon Carson's understanding of Larry's character." It was done now and Isobel could only be resigned to it.
But Dickie was encouraged. "Then I should think we have a very good chance. Your dress looks smashing, Isobel. Will you need my assistance with it?"
"I'm going to need some help," she admitted.
He smiled obligingly. They hadn't had much practice with their white tie and he'd never have asked such a question of his first wife, but for Isobel Dickie was prepared to do anything.
They both heard the quiet rap on the door and looked inquiringly that way. It was Mrs. Carson. Isobel smiled at her husband. "My aid has arrived," she told him. With a polite nod to Downton's housekeeper, Dickie withdrew.
Mrs. Carson and Lady Merton
Mrs. Carson had committed herself to assisting at the dinner in whatever way she could. She had not anticipated that this might take the form of helping Lady Merton dress, but she'd suggested it herself earlier that afternoon. In a conversation with her husband over sherry by the fire Mrs. Carson might decry the class system as an absurdity, dismissing any notion that there was such a thing as "better people." But she lived and worked in a reality that was fundamentally shaped by such notions and she was very good at her job. Thus she was confronted with the glaring inconsistency that Lady Merton had hired the best butler in Yorkshire to manage her dinner, and yet believed she could dress herself to society standards on her own. And while she was not a lady's maid, Mrs. Carson believed herself more capable of the required task than Ellen, the house maid.
"Ah! Mrs. Carson. Thank you for coming."
"I am at your service, my lady," the housekeeper said, joining Lady Merton by the bed where she was examining her dress. When the woman did not immediately respond, Mrs. Carson looked at her and found her frowning thoughtfully.
"That still sounds foreign to me," Lady Merton said. "My lady." Then she glanced at the housekeeper. "Me."
They had never been social equals, but they'd had quite a bit of interaction and found in the other a capable ally. They had spoken more freely to each other than was the case across other social lines at Downton.
Mrs. Carson, among others, had been a little surprised when Mrs. Crawley had married Lord Merton. Oh, she never doubted that the bonds of affection had drawn them together and she was wholly supportive of marrying for love at any age. But … Lord Merton? As this flashed across her mind once more, she smiled to herself. I've been listening too closely to Dr. Clarkson, she thought. Why not Lord Merton! Whenever she saw Lord and Lady Merton together, she observed an easiness between them, a level of communication that required no words. And Mrs. Crawley, Lady Merton now, seemed more mellow than ever she had been.
Lady Merton's words now stirred another memory in Mrs. Carson, that of Tom Branson in the early days of negotiating the transformation from chauffeur to son-in-law. Like Mrs. Crawley, he had gone into it with his eyes wide open and yet unaware of so many of the demands it made upon him. And he'd come through it magnificently, after a few dust-ups, and Mrs. Carson was confident Lady Merton would, too.
"It's who you are now," she said gently.
Lady Merton smiled. "Of course," she said, though without whole-hearted conviction.
They set about their business and Mrs. Carson found Lady Merton more compliant in this than she had been for Mr. Carson and the organization of the party, at least as he had told it.
"Is Carson really so confident in this matter with Mr. Grey?" Lady Merton asked, taking it for granted that the butler's wife knew all the details.
"I wouldn't doubt the facts he presented to you," Mrs. Carson said. She knew her husband to be a storehouse of aristocratic secrets. "And," she added, thinking it necessary to bolster Lady Merton, "he believes you can carry it off splendidly."
"Really. He seems to find me hopelessly incompetent at everything else."
Mrs. Carson smiled just a little. "I don't think that impression is exclusive to you," she said. "It's only that managing a dinner such as this one is something at which Mr. Carson excels."
"Mmm." Lady Merton held still while Mrs. Carson adjusted her pearls. "Why is Molesley here?" she asked abruptly.
"To help with the dinner, my lady. He'll perform the tasks – like pouring the wine – that rightly belong to the butler but which Mr. Carson's palsy inhibits."
"Yes. But how did this come about?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Did Carson ask Molesley for help?"
"Oh. No. Mr. Molesley just appeared at our door days ago and volunteered his services."
"Just like that? Out of the blue?"
Mrs. Carson was puzzled why this seemed so important to Lady Merton. "It was out of the blue," she conceded. "But we were grateful. The matter of pouring had been preying on Mr. Carson's mind."
"Yes, only …." Lady Merton looked as though she wanted to press the issue, and then relented. "Well, never mind."
