DOWNTON ABBEY 1926
Episode 10 Chapter 4
Monday November 8, 1926
Cora, Isobel, Dickie and Freddy
It seemed a bit incongruous to make a trip to the workhouse in a chauffeur-driven luxury car, but the Downton party had little alternative.
"We'll meet Frederica Daring there," Cora told Isobel and Dickie as they settled in. Mary had moved quickly to addressing her friend familiarly as 'Freddy,' but Cora chose to err on the side of decorum.
"I'm looking forward to meeting her," Isobel declared. A measure of her usual exuberance had returned. She was still sad about Cousin Violet, but one couldn't wear one's grief every hour of the day, especially – and Cousin Violet would have been the first to point this out – when the object of that grief was still among the living. "She seems an interesting amalgam of old family and new woman."
"She's quite forthright," Cora said circumspectly.
"I like that in a woman."
Cora smiled and hoped it would be so and then changed the subject. "I'm ashamed to admit that I didn't know that Ripon had a Union workhouse. How detached have I been?"*
"I'm ashamed to say that I knew nothing of it either," Isobel said, with an assumption of greater guilt. It was less surprising that Cora should be oblivious. Isobel believed that she herself had fewer excuses. "And it was Mrs. Carson introduced me to it, too, in that business with Mr. Grigg."
"I've walked right by it on more than one occasion, and never noticed it," Dickie put in. "We have a remarkable facility for rendering uncomfortable realities invisible. Today promises to be an eye-opening experience." He cast an inquisitive look at his wife. "Who was Mr. Grigg?"
Isobel paused, as she had when the subject had come up at their dinner party. Though she had no secrets from her husband, still there were confidences of other people to which marriage did not not necessarily make one privy. "An unfortunate man to whom Mrs. Carson – Mrs. Hughes as she was then – drew my attention. We got him out of the workhouse and restored to health and found him a job in Belfast."
"What on earth possessed you?" His query echoed that posed by Tim only the week before, but there was only admiration, not admonition, in Dickie's tone.
"It was after Matthew died," Isobel said, smiling as she spoke to let Dickie know that it was all right to discuss the matter. "Helping Mr. Grigg helped me to find my way again."
Cora nodded, understanding. She knew what it took to shake off the darkness that followed the death of a child.
"What an extraordinary way to find yourself!" Dickie declared.
"The genius was Mrs. Carson for managing to rescue two lost souls with one act. I am deeply indebted to her for that."
"Isobel has always been involved in work for the benefit of others," Cora put in generously. She had not always appreciated Cousin Isobel's zeal, notably in their joint management of Downton Abbey as a convalescent home during the war, but that was in the past now. "From the moment she arrived at Downton, she dedicated herself to the hospital."
"Irritating Dr. Clarkson," Isobel added, with an awkward laugh. She hadn't given Dr. Clarkson's views much consideration at the time, but recently it seemed that all things were out of kilter between them and she spoke from that perspective.
"I think he welcomed your interest," Cora said, sincere. "And you were such an inspiration for Sybil. The family funds the hospital, but you and Sybil made concrete contributions to the health of those it serves."
"Quite a testimonial," Dickie murmured, his eyes on his wife.
The car was pulling up in Allhallowgate and the three passengers fell silent as they looked, really looked for the first time, at the Union Workhouse in Ripon.
"What a grim building," Cora said softly, awed by the stark structure.
"It rather looks like my old school," Dickie said.
"It is not at all like your old school," Isobel said, speaking to her husband with a rare sharpness. He had attended Harrow, and though that institution's architecture was forbidding, no school could compare to a workhouse and Isobel had no patience with aristocratic hyperbole. "It's supposed to be grim," she said, responding to Cora's remark. "There is nothing pleasant about a workhouse."
"There's Frederica Daring," Cora said abruptly and waved at the car that rolled up behind theirs.
At the sight of a woman behind the wheel, Isobel smiled. She considered driving a milestone on the road to women's independence and applauded every woman who took it up.
Cora made the introductions and all politely professed interest in meeting the others. And then they turned to their mission. Cora had made arrangements for the tour with the local Board of Guardians and they were met at the door by the administrator, who welcomed them into his office. Such luminaries as the Countess of Grantham and Lord and Lady Merton did not often grace his establishment. He was as courteous to Frederica Daring. Thought she had no title, she kept good company. The man had prepared opening remarks and was at pains to assure them that he was no beadle in the style of Oliver Twist's Mr. Bumble. "We run a modern operation here," he asserted. His audience chose to reserve their opinion in advance of evidence.
Mr. Clyde prefaced the tour with an historical overview. Workhouses were not, as many supposed, the product of early Victorian initiative, but had existed for centuries in some counties. They were operated by local parishes as charitable institutions for the deserving poor – those incapable of fending for themselves – and those cast down temporarily by hard times. "Though there is always work for them that really wants it in any time," Mr. Clyde added. "It was the 1834 Poor Law that ushered in the modern age," he went on. "This workhouse came out of that. It was built in 1854."
"And looks it," Cora muttered, noting mildew on the stone walls in the passage.
"There were separate wings for men, women, and children. And originally separate facilities for the able-bodied, the aged, and the mentally and physical infirm."
"Originally?" Dickie inquired politely. "Did it not remain so?"
"Well, no. That is, men, women and children were kept separate, but it became more difficult to maintain divisions among others as the numbers went up."
"Why would numbers have gone up when the level of misery also went up?" Cora asked, almost reluctantly.
"The 1834 Act was promulgated, Lady Grantham, because of the conviction, based on a Royal Commission investigation, that the able-bodied were abusing the charity of the workhouses. Changes were made accordingly."
"If an able-bodied man entered the workhouse," Freddy put in, "his whole family was obliged to go with him, so that he bore the burden of their shame as well as his own and be more inclined to find a way out."
"That is correct, ma'am," Mr. Clyde said. "The Act also superceded the authority of local parishes, introducing unions of parishes with new workhouse facilities operated under the administration of appointed Boards of Guardians. Hence the union workhouse."
"The system that remains in place today," Cora said, having gathered as much from her own reading. "This is the system the 1909 Royal Commission addressed and which Mr. Chamberlain is trying to reform."
"Yes, my lady."
"Our impressions of workhouses have been much influenced by Mr. Dickens," Isobel said. "Monotonous and nutrition-poor food, communal facilities for every activity, uniforms, separation of families, of mothers even from their infant children, meaningless make-work projects."
"Oh, my lady! Things have much improved since then!" Mr. Clyde said heartily. "Men no longer break stones merely to give them something to do. The food is much better and of greater variety. And children are no longer housed in city workhouses. They are all sent to pleasant grounds in the country."
"Where they never see their parents, I suppose."
Mr. Clyde leaned forward in a confidential manner. "That's often for the best, I can assure you."
"I'm sure you can."
He seemed oblivious to Isobel's sarcasm and summoned a matron to conduct the tour itself. None of the Downton party were unhappy about this.
"I'm sure we've learned all we can here," Cora said, with a polite smile that masked her dismay. As they stepped after the matron, Cora turned to Frederica Daring. "Is it what you expected?"
"He's an idiot," Freddy said bluntly, "who holds this job through influence. I'm not opposed to nepotism on principle. Only take care to have competent relatives."
The matron, a Mrs. Quirrel, made for a more informative guide. She, too, regaled them with the history of the Ripon workhouse, but came across more concerned with the institution's shortcomings and more compassionate about its inmates. In the public rooms, where elderly and infirm individuals sat about, she exchanged warm greetings. It looked almost as though she had to gather her courage before taking them through the dank workrooms, one where men in drab uniform clothing were sewing mailsacks and another where women were disassembling discarded clothing and unravelling old jumpers for the wool.
"Who are they all?" Cora asked quietly, staring around at the sullen, silent populations, her eyes opened for the first time, and then catching herself and trying not to stare.
"Among the men there are veterans who couldn't find work, often the older ones, in their forties and fifties. Some have gotten out of prison and employers won't have them. Some managed much of their lives but have been broken by medical expenses for catastrophic illness, either their own or of a member of their family. Women, many, were left destitute by the death of their husbands in the war, or their husbands so badly maimed that they've been institutionalized or hospitalized elsewhere and the women are obliged to choose between this and prostitution."
"I've seen some of those," Isobel murmured.
Cora and Isobel paid close attention to the matron's narrative. Dickie and Freddy moved among the inmates themselves, holding low-tone conversations the others couldn't hear. The matron fretted about this.
"Mr. Clyde wouldn't like it," she said uneasily. "It's supposed to be silent." It was clear that Mrs. Quirrel wavered between the wrath of her supervisor and deference to her social betters.
"Why? It's not a prison," Isobel said forcefully. "What's the danger of conversation?" She recalled that the women she had tried to rescue from prostitution were rather a gay lot. Of course, they didn't get much done.
"It's the rules, my lady," the matron replied. "They're not supposed to be comfortable or enjoy themselves." Although she parroted the line, it did not seem that she agreed wholeheartedly with it.
"Have they nothing to do?" Isobel asked.
The matron shrugged helplessly. "They often come with nothing and there is no budget for recreational materials."
"I see there is much room for improvement," Cora said firmly.
Their tour was a thorough one, including the drab dormitories.
"This looks like the hospital during the war," Isobel said, "although the hospital was much brighter and the staff … cared."
"It's not that we don't care, my lady," the matron said, half apologetically, but with just a trace of indignation. "Only … we get nothing. No one cares about these people, ma'am. It's not like the soldiers during the war. I've known some of the crippled veterans here to sell their medals so as to purchase a few comforts."
"And no library," Cora surmised, "for lack of money for books."
"I'm not at all certain everyone who passes through these doors is literate, my lady."
Cora nodded. "Much room for improvement. Tell me," she said, turning abruptly to the matron. "Do you know anything about the Health Minister's plans to reform the workhouses?"
The woman suddenly gained a degree of animation. "Oh, yes, my lady. Right now the workhouse, this one, anyway, is a holding place of sorts for the unwanted and those unable to help themselves. It doesn't do anything for them but offer food and shelter. It doesn't help them change their circumstances. The reform plan has some promise to change that. Only," her face fell, "Ripon isn't among those that Mr. Chamberlain has identified for his reforms."
"Well, that's what I'm here to look into," Cora said. "I had to see the place, but I hope to convince Mr. Chamberlain to cast his net more widely."
They left on that sightly uplifting note, declining a concluding interview with Mr. Clyde.
"Ah! Fresh air once more!" Dickie declared, stepping onto the pavement. "I'm afraid I found it rather close in there." He coughed. "At least two fellows I spoke with ought to have been in the hospital wing."
"And why weren't they?" Isobel inquired.
"They said the food is better in the regular hall. Such a tour is hardly conducive to one's appetite, but what do you say to our reviewing what we've learned over a cup of tea?"
All were amenable to that idea.
"And it will give me an opportunity for a proper chat with our political candidate," Isobel murmured, smiling in Freddy's direction.
"Be careful what you wish for," Cora responded, under her breath. She liked Freddy, but it was her observation that strong women liked each other either very much or not at all. Mary and Freddy had taken to each other. How Isobel and Freddy would get on was another story.
They found a tea room. Though three of them had never noticed the workhouse, they knew where to find tea.
"Well, it was an improvement on Dickens's workhouses, but not much," Cora declared.
"I don't understand why they have to be such miserable places," Dickie said, frowning.
"Don't you?" Freddy raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Make the place at all habitable, comfortable, better than the alternative, and it would be flooded with ne'er-do-wells. That was precisely the point of the 1834 Act: make the poorhouses so wretched that only the wretched would go there. Or, if a stray ne'er-do-well showed up, he – or she – would soon be disabused of the easy life to be had there."
"But didn't that approach the problem the wrong way?" Cora demanded, before Isobel could even get her mouth open. "The system, as conceived, appears aimed at keeping the able-bodied out. But the effect is to make such places living hells for those who legitimately have no recourse – the aged, the infirm, the orphaned, and the legitimately indigent."
"An unfortunate side effect, to be sure," Freddy conceded. "And what one might have expected by the usurpation under the 1834 Act by regional Boards of Guardians of the authority and discretion of the local parishes. At a local level, the parishes knew their people. Bring in the government, and you lose sight of local needs entirely."
Isobel paid close attention to Freddy's speech. "I've heard this argument before, from Cousin Violet in opposition to the hospital amalgamation. Have you met the Dowager Lady Grantham, Mrs. Daring?"
"I have not yet had the pleasure."
"I think you shall get on famously."
"And what are you proposing instead, Lady Grantham?" Freddy asked Cora.
"Only that Ripon be included, as it has not yet been, in Mr. Chamberlain's reform scheme, in the restoration of a measure of local authority and the transformation of the old workhouses into … service centres, almost, for the communities they already serve. Only services ought to facilitate improvement, rather than merely sustain, as the current system does."
"You are a passionate voice for the cause," Dickie said, transfixed by Cora's zeal. "What are you thinking of?"
Cora's bright blue eyes fairly shone. "Classes, teaching literacy and practical skills for the unemployed. A meal service – perhaps one hot meal a day – for the aged in the community. Our servants ran a soup kitchen for returning soldiers at the end of the war," she added as an aside. "A library, so that those who have time on their hands because of age or infirmity, have something stimulating with which to fill that time. Isobel knows all about such programs," she added.
Both Freddy and Dickie looked Isobel's way. She smiled faintly, but it was Cora who went on.
"Isobel was involved in a number of rehabilitation programs with the soldiers convalescing at Downton." Cora said this rapidly. Isobel's involvement had been a sore point between them. "And then she participated in the commission to find lost and missing men. Then she was a member of the local refugee board. And then she ran a circle to reclaim women forced into prostitution by teaching them practical working skills."
Freddy's brows arched again but this time it seemed she was favourably impressed. "You've been in the trenches."
"I had no idea," Dickie said breathlessly, staring at Isobel. "You never said."
Isobel blushed. "The point that I think Cora is trying to make is that these … facilities … might be made over into institutions that provide services to those who, by age, infirmity, or circumstances, have become dependent, either permanently or temporarily. And that instead of … well, essentially locking them up and punishing them, we would all be better served by keeping them at large in the community, sustained by services offered under this roof."
"Exactly," Cora said.
Freddy looked sceptical. "On an individual basis and for finite periods of time, perhaps. But one would have to be very wary of fostering generational dependence. Once it's in their bones, it's next to impossible to get it out."
"The upper classes were once an indolent lot," Isobel said promptly, "and now so many of them are working."
Isobel and Freddy locked gazes, Isobel's round-eyed challenge meeting Freddy's cool gray stare.
"The upper classes were never indolent," Freddy said smoothly. "Pampered, perhaps, but never indolent." She turned abruptly to Cora. "I agree that cultivating the means to improvement is infinitely preferable to an open-ended extension of sub par assistance. And the less state interference the better. Find them a job and pay them enough to take care of their own wants so that they're not reliant on me."
"Is that what you do?" Isobel inquired, refusing to be put off by Freddy's manner. "Pay them adequately?"
The grey eyes swivelled her way once more. "Yes."
"And you're aware, as an employer, of the needs of your workers?"
"I know what it costs a working family to live in Yorkshire. Do you?"
"You'll not find Mr. Clyde on your side in any campaign for reform," Dickie broke in, addressing Cora and smoothly derailing the exchange between the other two.
Cora gave him a grateful smile. They could both see that Isobel was gearing up for a strategic offence, and Cora suspected that Freddy was a more than worthy opponent in the same kind of battle. "I agree with you," she said to Dickie. "But I think Mrs. Quirrel will be on my side."
"Much good that will do you," Freddy murmured. But the tension had been defused.
"Well, I'm going to put together a proposal, consult with other local authorities, and approach Mr. Chamberlain."
"Are you acquainted with him?" Freddy inquired politely.
Cora, Dickie, and Isobel exchanged looks. "Er … in a manner of speaking," Cora said evasively. "Did you find the tour satisfying?"
Freddy frowned thoughtfully. "I did. I agree with you, Lady Grantham, that the time for workhouses has passed and that this one is a blight on Yorkshire. I look forward to hearing about your proposal. And I shall examine Mr. Chamberlain's plan as well." She stood. "If you will excuse me, I must get back to my account books." She shook hands with the Mertons, nodded cordially to Cora, and departed.
The other three watched her go.
"A femme formidable," Dickie intoned.
"I agree," Isobel said, frowning a little.
"I know you admire strong women," Cora said.
"I do," Isobel mused. "I must say, I'm glad she's in pursuit of the Conservative nomination."
"Are you?" Cora was surprised.
"Yes," Isobel said, smiling. "If she gets it, I won't feel obliged to vote for her."
Charlie and Elsie
The cottage was in darkness as Elsie came down the lane. This in itself did not alarm her. Though she had become accustomed to approaching a well-lit house where the warmth of a fire in the grate met her as she opened the door, along with Shep's welcoming bark and a kiss from her husband, she knew that Charlie occasionally got caught up in other things. The Dowager might have detained him. A summons from any other Crawley might have taken him to the Abbey. Once he'd even gone to the pub for a drink with one of the local men who had been a friend in his boyhood. And he was one for surprises, like the wireless. The thought of the wireless made her smile. She wondered what he was up to today.
With such thoughts in her mind, she was startled by the single sharp bark from the dog as she lifted the latch. Shep was almost always with Charlie, accustomed to making himself at home under a table at the Grantham Arms, or in mud rooms when invited in, or curling up by the stoop of the shops in town or the Dower House. That he was here gave Elsie a sense of unease. She was not one to borrow trouble, but she was nevertheless keenly aware of her husband's age. So she fumbled with the latch and almost tripped over the dog in the passage before she found the switch. It calmed her a little to see that Shep was calm. The dog was attuned to his master's health. He would not be so much himself if Charlie were sprawled on a floor somewhere.
"Charlie?" There was no answer, so she moved cautiously forward, peering into the sitting room – empty – before stepping into the kitchen. And there she found him, sitting motionless at the table, only blinking rapidly at the glare when she turned on the light.
"Charlie?" Now she was perturbed, for the look on his face, his whole bearing, was infused with a great sadness. He might have been crying. His eyes did look a little puffy.
"What's wrong?" She went to his side, pulled a chair over beside his, and reached for his listless hands.
He did not look at her, instead staring into nothing. She remembered that he had looked thus on the night Lady Sybil had died, and again the night His Lordship had been taken to the hospital following a burst ulcer.
His distraction broke. His hand tightened in hers and he took a deep breath. "Elsie. Forgive me. I've … I wasn't watching the time."
"Tell me," she said firmly. Had something happened to him? She steeled herself for bad news.
His gaze shifted to hers. "Things have gone so well these past few days. Lady Merton's dinner party was a success. You enjoyed the wireless. I've had some very pleasant chats with Daniel."
Elsie waited. Such a litany was like the calm before the storm. In what way had the dam broken?
"So, this morning I decided that I was ready to open the packet of letters the Dowager had given me, from her husband, the late earl."
Elsie nodded. She knew about the letters. This admission from him had her holding her breath. What was in those letters?
He looked as though he were carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, yet he spoke in a matter-of-fact manner. "They constitute a correspondence between the His Lordship, the late earl, and … a woman, not his wife, regarding their … relationship. And, more, arrangements made with regard to a child, his child, to whom she would soon give birth, and how things were to unfold then." He took another deep, shuddering breath. "I suppose you're not surprised."
Elsie ignored the asperity with which he said this last. He was very hurt and he had spoken defensively before she had the opportunity to deepen his hurt with disdain. But Elsie didn't care about what Lord Grantham might have done. She cared only for the impact on her husband. "You admired His Lordship," she said. "I'm sure it was a blow to you."
And so it must have been and yet she did not understand why he was quite so upset. It was his habit and inclination to defend the honour of the Crawleys to his dying breath, but he was not ignorant of the failings and indiscretions of the current generations whom he loved. It could not be such a shock to him that the older generations were as flawed.
"Oh," he made a dismissive gesture at her words, at the assumption that the revelation had troubled him so. "I had no idea, none at all. And I was … shocked, I suppose, although I should not have been." He paused. "But…."
"There's something else then," Elsie concluded warily. "Tell me."
And now his gaze brimmed with emotion and when he looked at her again she could see him struggling to maintain his equanimity.
"After I read the letters and, after a while, when I had digested their contents, I went to see the Dowager. We had no appointment. I just … went. And perhaps the irregularity of my appearance told her what it was about, so she saw me. We … discussed the letters, what they said, what they meant. I think it pleased her that I was not … judgmental."
Not judgmental. Elsie would not have been so herself.
"But then," again his hand tightened over hers," she told me something else."
And though it had not occurred to Elsie before, her husband's behaviour made it suddenly clear to her what that something else might be. "Is she unwell?" she asked circumspectly.
He nodded, staring hard at her.
"Is she … declining?"
Again he nodded.
"Months?" she asked delicately. And then, "Weeks?" She read it in his now wet eyes. "Oh, Charlie." And she reached out to stroke his cheek.
"Christmas, she thinks," he choked out. "Before the new year at any rate."
Elsie slid her hand behind his neck and pulled him to her, their foreheads pressing together. They were awkwardly situated, but he leaned into her nonetheless and she tasted the tears on his cheeks.
"I'm very sorry, Charlie," she murmured. "I know how much she means to you." There were three women in his life – herself, the Dowager and Lady Mary – and this triumvirate was an integral part of who he was. Elsie was as indifferent to the old bat as she was to the uppity minx, but she respected her husband's feelings. They were different people to him.
She said nothing. What was there to say? Everyone's life came to a close and the Dowager had lived longer and better than many. One couldn't feel sorry for her. But one could sympathize with those who would be made bereft by her departure. All Elsie could do was hold her husband close.
He appreciated it, his breathing calming after a while. And he straightened a little, kissing her cheek in thanks. "It's not generally known," he said, clearing his throat. "She bade me not to mention it to anyone but you."
"Her family knows." Surely.
"She has not made it explicit to them…," Elsie managed to control her impatience with the Dowager as he said this, "… but they know."
"Well," Elsie said, rubbing his shoulder soothingly, "Downton will be a different world without her."
"It's not a very great surprise," her husband went on. "I suppose it was there, right in front of me these past several months, and I just didn't notice."
Didn't want to notice, Elsie thought. And that could be applied to more than one aspect of his life of late.
"But once she said it, then I had to face it." His shoulders heaved. "Oh, Elsie." He focused sorrowful eyes on her. "Death is a painful business, for all concerned."
There was nothing profound in that, but was true all the same. Elsie kissed him gently and held him for a while. Casting about for a distraction, Elsie's gaze lit on the little stack of letters that sat before him on the table.
"And what about this other thing?" she asked abruptly. "Do any of them know about that?"
"No," he said quickly, pulling away a little that he might look at her as he spoke. "And it must go no further."
She nodded, soothing again. "I won't say a word," she promised. "But I do wonder at your telling me. I'm glad you have, because it's a burden on you. Only, you keep your secrets, too." She gave him a little smile at that. It wasn't a bad thing, knowing you could rely on someone to keep your confidences.
"Her Ladyship told me I must confide in you," he said. "She said it would be unfair to you otherwise."
Elsie was not easy to shock but this did startle her. "Really?"
He nodded gravely. "You're not always right about them, you know."
She chose to ignore the mild rebuke. "Well, though the other news is greater, I'm sure this bothers you, too."
"It's such a strange thing. You have a vision of a person – parent, teacher, minister, m'lord – as someone strong, fearless, noble. And that inspires you to be courageous in your own life. Then, one day, I suppose it happens with them all, you find out that they're frightened, too. Or you catch them in some petty act or an unkindness. Or you find out they've done something they ought not to have done." He met Elsie's gaze once more and seemed to have regained his equilibrium. "I'm not so much disappointed as discouraged."
She reached over and ran a hand through his fine, soft hair. "The world has shaken beneath your feet quite a lot today."
"It has."
The only thing she could do about that was to hold him once more. They weren't impervious to turbulent times, but having each other helped. He realized this, too.
"So much has happened this past year and a half, Elsie. How would I have managed it all without you?"
"You'd have managed," she said, in that flat, practical tone she adopted when sentimentality loomed too close to the surface. She laid her cheek against his and felt him breathe more easily at her touch. Much had happened, she thought. And there was more to come, too. All she could hope for was a little breathing space to give Charlie a chance to absorb it all.
Almost as an echo to her unexpressed apprehensions, he said, "Daniel is to come to dinner tomorrow night. He says he can tear himself away from Mr. Molesley's project for an evening."
"That will be nice," Elsie said lightly and held him all the more closely.
