DOWNTON ABBEY 1926
Episode 10 Chapter 8
Thursday November 11 / Friday November 12, 1926
Elsie and Charlie
As he had stormed from the graveyard, Charlie had been so overcome with emotions that he could not think. His brain had stopped functioning in that capacity. No coherent thought occurred to him. Instead, he was beset by tidal waves of feeling: shock, horror, revulsion, fury, indignation. Hurt. The only image before his eyes was one he recoiled from and would have hoped, if the thought had ever occurred to him, never to see: the unnatural and unholy intertwining of men in each other's arms. But it was burned into his brain, impervious to his efforts to banish it. Would it ever go away?
He was yards down the road before Elsie caught up to him, running to match his long-legged stride. Still he did not slacken his pace, for his awareness of her, as of the little knots of people drifting homeward after the pageant, was peripheral at best. If his mind were clear, he would have expected Elsie to speak to him, offering explanations or cajoling him to engagement with what he had seen, or even just inquiring after his feelings. As if he could put these feelings to words! But he was too distracted to notice that Elsie said nothing at all.
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The fact was, Elsie found herself impaled on the horns of a nasty dilemma.
In the moment, she had been startled by the encounter in the graveyard. After all, she'd never in her life seen two men in such an embrace either. But that passed in a fraction of a second, for it did not shock her as it did her husband. And it was to her husband, not to Thomas and Daniel, that her mind immediately went. She did not need a spotlight on his features to discern the visceral recoil which was evident in the sudden rigidity of his body. And then he had turned on his heel and charged off. Elsie had only a fleeting, though quite clear, impression of Thomas and Daniel and their own stunned reactions to the intrusion, before wheeling herself about and scrambling after Charlie. The younger men had each other. Her duty lay with her husband.
He had the advantage on her, being more appropriately attired for the uneven surface in the graveyard and having a more intimate acquaintance with the place. And she had not quite appreciated before how he cut his stride to match hers when they walked together. It was an effort to catch up to him and, as her mind was not so cluttered with raging emotion, this interlude gave her time to think. And she realized immediately the sticky place she now occupied.
Her first impulse was to comfort Charlie. He'd had a shock. She did not pause to assess the fairness of her husband's reaction. He was entitled to his own emotions and she'd help him sort that out later. First, she must help him to regain his equilibrium and it was here that the dilemma pricked her.
What could she say?
To tell Charlie that he had misunderstood, that his eyes had not seen what they had seen, would be a lie. She could not in good conscience soothe him with platitudes that Daniel and Thomas were friends, just friends, and that male friends might embrace, whatever Charlie might think of such displays. Even if it were true, and given the emotional circumstances of the pageant and the fact that both Daniel and Thomas were veterans of the Great War who might have been touched by the stories as so many were, even then it would be disingenuous of Elsie to try to pass the embrace off to her husband as just that. For, whatever the cause of their physical contact, Thomas and Daniel were not merely two men who had shared the searing experience of war and turned to each other in solace. Nor were either only two men who by nature were drawn to other men. Elsie was not foolish enough to believe that all men like that were necessarily attracted to other men of similar nature. Had this been the case, had they really been only friends, she might have been able to dissimulate without compromising her conscience.
But she knew differently. She knew that Thomas and Daniel were more than friends, knew it even if they had not yet acted upon that fact themselves. She had seen it in the way they were with each other. She knew the feel of it, having seen it often enough among other lovers. (Indeed, having felt it herself!) Had not Thomas been more cheerful of late? More light-hearted? More genial. He was almost, if not quite, not himself for his good humour. Although Elsie had had a vague inkling as to why Thomas had been eager to go to Berlin, the effervescence of that experience had not lasted. It had been ephemeral. But this, this more leisurely development of friendship with Daniel, it was different. And not only on Thomas's side. Had Daniel not found more reason to be in the servants' hall of late? Had he not made a greater effort to converse with Thomas – over her – at the table. Had she not noticed the way they shared subtle signals of mirth or exasperation at the foibles of others? They were discreet, to be sure. But Elsie could read Thomas better for long acquaintance with him and yet was convinced she was right about Daniel, too.
Thinking this, believing this, how could she downplay or deny their association, even for the benefit of Charlie's feelings? How could she say It was nothing or The emotions of the pageant overtook them or They've both been to war, or any such tommyrot? How could she say anything like that when she suspected the pageant might in fact have tipped them over the edge, been a turning point that transformed friendship into something more? An emotional crisis did that. Had not her own cancer fight shifted her relationship with Charlie in just such a way?
No, she could not soothe Charlie by denying the reality of Thomas and Daniel. She had too much respect for them to do so.
Was it then time to face the matter with Charlie? Elsie was not one to believe that all secrets must out. Some people could keep their mouths shut and take their secrets with them to the grave. But this one, she thought, had always been a matter of time. The question was: had that time come? No, the question was: was she the conduit through which Charlie came to the truth? She was not convinced it was. Charlie would think what he would on the basis of what he had seen. But was it really her place to confirm it? After all, the embrace in the graveyard might have been innocent, regardless of the nature of the men and the stage of their relationship. And no matter what, was it not their prerogative to make that clear? The fact was, whatever was or was not going on between Daniel and Thomas was not for her to say.
And that was the point, wasn't it? And what that meant was that Elsie was incapable of consoling her husband either way. She could neither deny the situation nor help Charlie to face it. For the moment, all she could do, all she must do, was listen.
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He did not want to talk, not as they made their way back to the cottage, not once they were in the door and their coats off and the dog assured that they were well.
"Charlie?" Elsie had said tentatively, and only once, as they'd started down the lane to the cottages.
But he'd shaken his head. No. And, bless her, Elsie had not pressed him. The onslaught of emotion had not abated, though thoughts were beginning to take form once more. But this only added resentment to the other feelings. He'd been looking forward to the evening with Elsie home earlier than usual. They might have spent the late afternoon tucked up in the sitting room by the fire, her working on her books, he on the Dowager's papers, and the early evening enjoying the radio. Now such hopes were dashed.
Yet he went into the sitting room and sat down with the papers anyway. He needed a distraction. He did not want to think about the graveyard, or Daniel, or … any of it.
"That's hardly going to help," Elsie said from the doorway.
He glanced her way in irritation and then realized he'd taken up the packet of correspondence between the late Earl and the woman who had borne his child. "No. It won't." And pushed the letters away.
Elsie lingered. "Charlie, do you want to talk?"
He turned her way, met her gaze. "No. Thank you, Elsie. But … no."
"Supper?" she asked.
"I'm not hungry," he said. "Don't go to any trouble for me."
She nodded. "I'll warm up some soup later, then."
He nodded and she withdrew and then he was alone with his thoughts, precisely where he would rather not be.
They were in each other's arms.
If he were on the Continent, in France say, and had come across two men in similar circumstances, he would have turned his head away in disdain for this public display and the inherent effeteness of the French, and walked on. They did things differently over there. Context was everything. Here, at Downton, he knew Thomas Barrow, knew what he was, knew that the man hungered – in his own way – for another. Knew that he'd made overtures before. He, Charlie, had only ever come face to face with Thomas's proclivities because of such an incident. And now recalling Jimmy Kent's report on what Thomas had done (or tried to do) to him, Charlie's lip curled in disgust. It was unnatural. Unholy. Unmanly. Only by extracting Thomas's word that nothing … meaningful … had happened or would ever happen again had he been willing to put the episode aside. And now here it was again and it involved Daniel.
Daniel.
Had there been any indications? Had he overlooked clues?
Daniel was in his mid-thirties, an attractive, intelligent, and pleasant man. And he'd never married. Why was that? God knows the war had decimated that generation of young men. There was no shortage of willing women if he had wanted a bride. If he had wanted one.
Daniel was estranged from his parents. Was there a reason for that?
Daniel had become friends with Thomas Barrow. Well, they were the same age and had common interests, in cricket and such. And Thomas, more than most, as Charlie had grudgingly to admit, had made an effort to acquire an appreciation for culture. And they had both been in the war. Such things were the basis for friendship. And of other things.
The thought of the two being anything more than friends chilled Charlie to the bone. Daniel, a man like that? What a disgusting idea.
And he himself was fond of Daniel and Daniel knew this. How could he … how could he allow Charlie to embrace him so – in a manner of speaking, not in the physical sense – and yet be like that? Why had he, Charlie, not realized? How had he not sensed it? seen it? I have been made a fool, he raged in his mind. No doubt Daniel and Thomas laughed about it, about him. The old fool. Deluded by a man like that. Opening his home and his heart to such a one. It made him sick.
Charlie ducked into the kitchen. "I'm going to walk the dog," he said.
Elsie had the linen books spread on the table. Behind her, on the stove a pot of soup stood ready to be warmed. "It's cold and dark," she said, an indirect bid for him to stay by the fire. "Charlie…."
"I won't go far," he assured her. "I need some air."
They spent the evening in silence, not turning on the radio which, in the moment, struck Charlie as a noisy box of nonsense. He sat in his chair by the fire, listlessly turning the pages of a book whose words swam without meaning before his eyes. Elsie had brought her workbooks to the little table where he worked during the day. Every so often, his gaze wandered to her. He wondered if she were really getting anything done.
"I wish you'd say something," she said at one point, sounding wistful, but not lifting her gaze from the work in front of her.
"I've never …. This is something new on me, Elsie. I need to think about it."
"Nothing is as bad as it seems," she said, hoping more than believing, he thought.
"In the morning, then," he said. "Let's sleep on it."
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But he didn't sleep.
For a long time, he turned it over and over in his mind and he could not change the tune. Daniel and Thomas. Daniel was like that. How could Daniel have perpetuated such a fraud against him?
And then he managed to turn the tune, using an old trick he had learned in grammar school for just such circumstances. If, in the execution of a task, you find yourself constantly butting your head up against a brick wall, then perhaps you ought to change your approach.
What had he seen in the graveyard? Was it, in fact, two men embracing? Or … was it only one who was doing the embracing, and the other merely … bracing, perhaps to keep one or both from falling over? It was certainly possible.
And was Daniel like that? There might be negative evidence in favour of such an assumption – the absence of a wife, for instance – but did he not have the evidence of his own experience with the man? He, Charles Carson, was no amateur in the assessment of men and their characters. It was true that he had not discerned Thomas Barrow's … nature … at first glance, else, for the harmony of downstairs he would not have hired him. But he had come to that knowledge fairly quickly and without the overt evidence of catching him in any act (else, again, Thomas would not have long been employed at Downton). It simply was not possible that he could have so misread Daniel, not in the face of the close relationship they had forged, one of the closest he had, save for Elsie and Lord Grantham and Lady Mary. He knew Daniel. He could not have been deceived. (He was not, after all, an old fool.) Instead of asking how Daniel could have done something like this to him, he must have faith in his own assessment of character. Daniel would not have deceived him like this. There must be some other explanation.
And from that perspective, it was only too easy to apprehend the remaining piece of the puzzle. Daniel was a handsome, intelligent, and kind man, the sort who might be imposed upon by a more cunning mind. He, Charlie, had spent a lifetime sorting the sordid escapades of unruly young men and knew quite a bit about what they might get up to. Daniel, for all his education, might not be so astute. Thomas Barrow, on the other hand, was one of the cleverest and most devious men that Charlie knew. And he was like that. That was a fact.
Ah, yes. It was clear to him now. It was past midnight before he'd worked it all out to his satisfaction and then his mind cleared and the churning tide of emotion that had flooded him in the graveyard finally ebbed.
Yes. That was how it was.
And he found he was able to sleep at last.
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Elsie did not have the luxury of being able to stay up all night worrying the matter to death or delusion. Sometimes, that didn't matter. Sometimes, she couldn't get past it long enough to get the sleep she needed. But the quiet hours of the evening had let things settle. She had had to resolve the impasse in her own mind that she might help Charlie deal with this.
She did not like what she had seen in him since the encounter in the graveyard. She did not like the simmering rage and resentment. Or prejudice. But she did not wish the hurt on him either, whether rightly or wrongly conceived. What she wanted was to help go forward and there was really only one way that would work: acceptance. Ever since she had learned about Daniel, she had put her confidence in her husband's great heart and in his capacity for understanding – eventually – when it came to the challenging contours of the people he loved.
But before they could talk about it, they both needed to know exactly what they were dealing with.
She waited until they were seated at the breakfast table together. She was a little relieved to see that he appeared calmer, one might even say in good spirits, though that was perhaps stretching it. There was no glower of resentment or bitterness in his face. He didn't even look tired, though she knew he had been restless through much of the night. But no matter.
"Charlie, I think you should speak with Daniel."
He looked up abruptly, meeting her gaze over the toast to which he was applying the strawberry jam Mrs. Patmore had put up.
"The best place to start in any difficulty is with an understanding of the circumstances," Elsie went on, "and there is no better source for that than the person involved." She was no less relieved herself for having come to this conclusion. This was Daniel's life. He must decide in which direction it must go. She, Elsie, would take her cue from him and comfort Charlie accordingly.
"I agree," he said, with a degree of equanimity that took her aback just a little. "What would you say if I were to invite him to dinner next week? Monday? Or Thursday, perhaps?"
This caught Elsie flat-footed. "Is that a good idea?" she asked gingerly.
He looked at her as though there were something amiss with her. "Why not?"
She decided to put this aside. "Thursday, I think. The family are out for the afternoon and evening. That will give me more time to prepare." For exactly what she could not yet say.
He came over pleased and reached for the sausages.
"Charlie?" She could not formulate the question she wanted to ask.
"I'll write Mr. Molesley a note to tell him how much we appreciated his pageant. It was quite theatrical. I have an eye for that sort of thing," he said, with just the trace of a smile. "I'll take it round his house tomorrow and see Daniel then."
So he was not entirely in denial about yesterday, Elsie thought. He still had the wherewithal to avoid the Abbey. She thought perhaps she ought to be pleased by his nonchalance. She had woken that morning expecting him to be awash in despair and melancholy. He had a generally even disposition, but felt things deeply and could be down with a discouragement for days. This should have flattened him for a week, especially in light of the Dowager's news. But he was almost his old self.
Almost.
It all made Elsie very uneasy.
Saturday, November 13, 1926
Isobel and Dr. Clarkson
Isobel had not attended the Armistice Day pageant and so did not hear her grandson tell the story of how William Mason had saved her son. She was at home with Dickie and she was worried. He'd started to cough the day before and Isobel at first took little notice. People coughed more as they aged. It was not unduly concerning in itself. He coughed a little in the night, but insisted on attending the ceremony at the cenotaph, over Isobel's mild objections, though they might as well not have done. Dickie coughed through most of it and Isobel, cross in a way she had never yet been with him, was equally distracted.
Her aggravation gave way to real concern when, immediate after the ceremony and before she could raise the subject, Dickie told her he'd best go home and, regretfully, miss the pageant. He felt his hacking had detracted from the solemnity of the morning occasion and did not want to disrupt the children's performance. He urged Isobel to attend without him, but she would have none of it. As was almost always the case with the men of Isobel's acquaintance, Dickie was dismissive of the seriousness of his ailments. That he conceded the existence of this one told her volumes about its severity. She put him to bed and set about caring for him, not giving a second thought to the school production, though Henry had apprised her in advance of George's role and, indeed, elicited her aid in nailing down details. Nothing much changed through Thursday night. But when Friday night proved hellish, with profound bouts of croaking and rasping that had Dickie bent double, his arms wrapped tightly about his chest so as to contain the pain, Isobel called Dr. Clarkson.
"I heard you coughing at the ceremony on the 11th," Dr. Clarkson said, as he began his examination. "I thought you sounded a little rough."
Dickie was chagrined. "I disrupted the ceremony."
"Not at all," Clarkson said mildly. "I'm more attuned to such things than most people." He did a thorough job of it, listening to lungs and probing chest with all his characteristic efficiency and gentleness. Isobel had never known him to be anything but kind in his treatment of patients. His deftness was always an assurance to the ill, but his kindness was a whole other level of medicine. At last he stepped back.
"It's bronchitis," he said, addressing Dickie.
"Is that serious?"
"It's kept you up three nights running and made you feel generally unwell. I expect last night's more severe round has had you in painful spasm from head to toe every time you cough. Yes, it's fairly serious, especially," and for the first time the doctor's eyes flickered in Isobel's direction, "for someone in a weakened condition."
"I'm not weak!" Dickie countered forcefully, and then had a coughing attack.
Isobel and Dr. Clarkson waited through it.
"I believe Dr. Clarkson is referring to your bout with anemia," Isobel put in.
"Yes," said Clarkson. "You're more susceptible because your system has already dealt with a blow. You must take care."
"I live quite a staid life as it is, Dr.," Dickie said, and then his body convulsed once more.
Once more the other two waited it out and then Dr. Clarkson turned to Isobel.
"Well, you know what to do. You're an old hand at this."
She nodded. Yes, she could manage bronchitis. "Rest, fluids, humidity, and a caution lest it develop into pneumonia."
"I'll send over some medication for the cough."
"Of course. Thank you."
Clarkson turned to Dickie. "I'll be back tomorrow, Lord Merton. I leave you in good hands. And I'm not far away if you need me."
Dickie managed a weak smile. "Thank you, Dr."
"I'll see you out," Isobel said.
They descended the stairs.
Ellen, whose task it was to manage the door, did not appear. Isobel, who never stood on ceremony, said, "I'll get your coat." Dr. Clarkson was fussing with his bag when she returned with it and something about him caught her eye. The benign manner he had affected upstairs had given way to a grim expression and he was handling his instruments with an uncharacteristic roughness. And there was no mistaking the coolness in his eye when he took his coat from her.
"What is it?" she asked, alarmed. "Is there something about Dickie you're not telling me?" Even the set of his jaw was unsettling. He was keeping something from her, though his manner was not consistent with the gravity with which he usually imparted bad news. "Dr. Clarkson?"
She had never called him by his first name. Though they had worked closely together at the hospital in her early days at Downton and also enjoyed a few years of genial companionship over tea and dinner and in evenings of conversation, they had never been anything but Dr. Clarkson and Mrs. Crawley to each other. And that informal formality had never troubled her.
"I beg your pardon?" he said, speaking as though his mind were elsewhere.
"Something has put you off," she said.
"I've kept nothing back. You know what to do." He paused, and then added, almost as though he could not help himself, "You're clear on that, at least." Then he appeared to catch himself. "I'll be going."
"Tell me, Dr. Clarkson. Please."
He was wavering. She could see it in his eyes. His indecision only made her the more apprehensive and perhaps he saw that.
"What were you thinking of, taking your husband to the Union workhouse?"
The tempered exasperation in his voice puzzled Isobel, who was momentarily distracted. She'd thought he was going to tell her that Dickie's condition was more serious than he had indicated. "We accompanied Lady Grantham on a fact-finding mission," she said, answering the question automatically. "What's wrong with that?"
"A workhouse is a health hazard in the best of circumstances."
Isobel nodded. "Hence the need for investigation."
He rolled his eyes. "Fact-finding. Investigation. You used to care about people in a meaningful way. Now you're a great lady nurse, a workhouse tourist." It was as if some floodgate had opened in his mind. "You've no power or authority to do anything about the workhouse. That's fine. Do what you like. But did you not consider your husband's health? Lord Merton has a long-standing vulnerability to colds and lung infections, and he's had other illnesses. You must know that. Yet you drag him to a workhouse? A place renowned as a breeding-ground for sickness?"
Surprise, shock even, was overtaken in Isobel by hurt. And indignation. "I didn't drag him anywhere," she said sharply. "He wanted to come. And as for the conditions, the place wasn't nearly…."
"I've been there," Dr. Clarkson interrupted her. "It's not a place to take a vulnerable person. You used to be able to discern been sensible actions and frivolous whims."
"I beg your pardon!"
He wasn't moved by her rising anger, perhaps because his own prevented him from noticing. "I've no patience with people who treat their health or the health of others so cavalierly." He drew himself up. "If Lord Merton's condition changes for the worse, call me at once. I'll be back tomorrow, regardless." And then he stepped into the cold without bothering to put on his hat and coat.
Behind him, Isobel stood transfixed and speechless.
