DOWNTON ABBEY 1926
Season 10 Episode 9
Friday November 12, 1926
Thomas and Andy
He had to speak to Daniel. This imperative had gripped Thomas almost from the moment they had parted in the graveyard.
Parted.
They had not parted. Daniel had bolted, leaving Thomas even more bereft than he had been made by the pageant. Thomas couldn't run away. He was frozen to the spot.
He saw the sense in leaving it for a day or two, but when Daniel failed to show up for breakfast at Downton on Friday morning and then again at midday, Thomas's anxiety was only heightened. Mrs. Carson wasn't at breakfast either, no doubt at home consoling her husband, As if, Thomas sneered, Mr. Carson were the wounded party. He tried to ignore her and she accepted this while they sat at lunch with the others, but later she put her head in the pantry door.
"How are you, Mr. Barrow?"
He knew she was being solicitous, that she asked both out of an enduring consideration for the responsibilities that weighed on the butler – any butler – of a great house and also because she cared about him personally to some small degree. He wanted to snap at her, castigate her for marrying such a stupid, unfeeling old man. But his own woes overwhelmed him. All he could do was to tighten his mouth, avoid her gaze, and nod dismissively. He was not at all fine and if he had to say that aloud, then the dam might very well burst again.
She had withdrawn.
They all noticed his mood. Mrs. Patmore rolled her eyes and muttered something in a jocular tone about trouble in paradise. Miss Baxter, of course, took note and, despite his own self-absorption, he was aware of an air of … elation…about her. The reflected glory of Molesley's triumph, he supposed. Miss Baxter did not know, as Mrs. Carson did, what was behind his moroseness, but he waved her away, too. They, all of them, the women left it alone after he put them off. Only Andy persisted and Thomas didn't deserve such consideration after he reprimanded the footman for neglecting the silver and then reminded him brutally that the butler of Downton Abbey was to be addressed as Mr. Barrow at all times. Thomas had never been more in need of friends and all day he made a concerted effort to drive off anyone who might have offered him support.
"Mr. Barrow." Andy came over to him as he stood smoking and shivering in the courtyard. He did not respond, but Andy took up a position by his side, casual and comfortable, as though nothing amiss had occurred between them.
"I was too young for the war," Andy said. "When I try to imagine it, from what I've read, I can't even…picture it. Brought back memories, I expect. That pageant."
Thomas hadn't forgotten the initial source of his distress the day before, only pushing it to the back burner because of more pressing concerns. "Yeah, well."
"I saw you leave," Andy went on carefully. "And I got up to follow, you know, thinking… I don't know … that maybe you shouldn't be alone."
Thomas stared into the middle distance and said nothing.
"And then I saw that you weren't. Alone."
Wonderful. So, Andy knew, too.
Andy said nothing more and Thomas hazarded a glance his way. "And?"
"And nothing. Only you seem cast down today, Mr. Barrow. Is there anything I can do?"
The eager kindness in the footman's manner sent a current of remorse flowing over the butler. "Thomas," he said. "I'm sorry about earlier." There weren't many people with whom Thomas was sincere. Andy was one of them.
"I know." Then he fell silent again, waiting.
Thomas considered. Confession of his sins yesterday had ended disastrously. Dare he ever venture down that road again? Andy was a friend. "Mr. Carson thinks he saw something he didn't," he muttered, giving only half the story. Andy knew enough about him to put the pieces together. "And now Mr. Rider… Daniel …" He might say Daniel to Andy, for those two knew each other informally in the servants' hall, "…who values Mr. Carson's good opinion, has disappeared." It wasn't the clearest statement, but it was as much as Thomas could manage.
"What? Left Downton?"
"No. I don't know. Only he hasn't shown up here today, has he?" Thomas had checked the small library.
"Right." Andy pondered. "Well, if he is still around, the only thing for it is to talk to him, i'n' it?"
Thomas almost laughed. Andy's advice was succinct. "But he's not here."
"Well, you know where he lives."
So he did. And though he hardly felt up to it, from the shambles of his heart he dredged up some fragments of appreciation. "Thanks, Andy."
Saturday November 13, 1926
Daisy and Mr. Mason
Daisy had spent the greater part of her life in the Downton kitchens and within Mrs. Patmore's orbit. She was accustomed to Mrs. Patmore's sharp tongue and angry outbursts and had learned how to manage them, and when to pay attention or ignore them. Things were different at Yew Tree Farm. Mr. Mason – Dad – didn't express his feelings so vividly. He went silent. He did so after the pageant. Daisy thought she could guess why. The performance, as moving and heartwarming as it was, had brought memories of William to the surface again. They were always there, but usually just simmering. It seemed that the pageant had them boiling over just a little. Thinking this, Daisy was patient with his silence, for the entire day after the event. But on the following morning, she decided to speak.
"Mrs. Patmore was pleased," she said, as they moved smoothly around each other, laying the table and preparing food. "And her sister. She was that worried about it, but I knew Mark would do a good job."
"He ought to have got permission," Mr. Mason said. "Or not done it at all if he didn't." He spoke reprovingly, but there was no rancor in his voice.
"But they did like it," Daisy said spiritedly. "I think the risk was worth it."
He glanced at her. "Do you now."
This puzzled Daisy. It seemed an odd thing to say. "You were pleased about William, weren't you?"
"Oh, aye." His gaze shifted automatically to the photograph on the mantle.
Thinking of William always made Daisy uneasy. "It's sad to think of him," she said, her eyes flickering towards the mantle as well. It was her stock phrase.
Mr. Mason poured tea and then sat down at the table. "William was my son and I loved him. I love him still. But nothing will ever hurt him again. It's you that concerns me, Daisy."
Daisy had begun to understand that part of the price you paid for having people care for you was that they got to pass on their opinions and advice. This could be annoying, but when it came from the heart – as it always did from Dad – she thought it worth listening to. "Go on," she said.
"Daisy, you see things in black and white and that's not how things are."
She suppressed a sigh. "Are you talking about Lady Edith again? And Hillcroft?" She didn't have to have much of a brain in her head to figure that out. They'd talked of it often enough.
"Do you remember when William was wounded and he came back to the hospital in Leeds?"
That was an odd tack to take. Daisy frowned a little. "Yeah. 'Course I do."
"But he died at Downton. Right there in a big room in the Abbey."
"Which is no less than he deserved," Daisy said assertively. Even Thomas had been on William's side in that.
"Deserved or no, it wouldn't have happened without the family."
"It were the Dowager who arranged it," Daisy said. "She spoke to Dr. Clarkson and then, when he refused, she talked to … someone and then went to Leeds and brought William home."
"Yes, the Dowager Lady Grantham put her oar in, all right. She did all the paperwork. But it were Lady Edith who did everything else."
Daisy stiffened. "She drove the car," she admitted.
"Lady Edith drove the Dowager to Leeds and back again. And when they put William in that great room on the gallery, the biggest bedroom I've ever seen, it were Lady Edith who took care of him. She did everything." He emphasized that. "I were beside myself with grief. All I could do was hold his hand. You were frightened by your grief…."
Daisy felt a pang of guilt. She had been frightened, all right, but it was guilt not grief that had animated her.
"…and hiding away in the kitchen. I'm not blaming you for that, Daisy," Mr. Mason said easily. "It were a frightening thing and we all manage grief in our own way. But Lady Edith, she were at William's bedside day and night. He wasn't alone for a minute." He spoke steadily, almost dispassionately though his heart was full of the memory of it. "Lady Edith. And this was before she were married and all. She owed us nothing."
"He had saved Mr. Matthew," Daisy put in.
But Mr. Mason shook his head. "That were Mr. Matthew's debt to pay, not Lady Edith's. She owed William nothing," he said again. "But she were tender and loving to our William, as kind as a mother would have been though she were hardly much older than him." He shook his head. "I'll never forget that."
Daisy was silent. She hadn't paid any attention at all to Lady Edith in those fraught few days. She'd been consumed with her own concerns. But now she understood why Mr. Mason was going on about it.
"That doesn't make up for …."
"Doesn't it?" He had snapped and she saw a fire in the eyes that focused on her now. "If that doesn't, what does? Daisy, we're none of us perfect. We've all been careless and unkind, as well as generous and loving. We can only hope it comes out even in the end, or maybe just a little bit more on the credit side." He sighed heavily. "I don't admire what happened with the Drewes, not a bit of it. But Miss Marigold is Lady Edith's child and parents don't always see straight about their own. And I'm glad enough for Yew Tree Farm. You made that happen."
"Yes, but…."
"You're making yourself pay for something someone else did. Let Lady Edith carry the burden of her own sins."
"And what if she doesn't?" She was defiant again now. They always got away with things, that lot.
"It's not for you to say," he said quietly and then paused. "Haven't you done enough, anyway, telling her husband about it?"
This took Daisy by surprise. "How do you know?" she asked ingenuously, never thinking to deny it.
He grimaced. "You put the draft copy on the coals, but it didn't burn." He let her think on that for a moment. "Daisy, is there something else in your way about going off to this school? Are you afraid you won't do well?"
This, too, startled Daisy. "No. Miss Bunting told me I could do it. She said they had good teachers there and that I could learn." Daisy might not have confidence in herself, but she had faith in the school teacher.
At last she had said something that pleased him. "Then I'm grateful to Miss Bunting. Is it Andy, Daisy? That's none of my business, but I'm only trying to puzzle out your difficulties."
"No." But this was less certain. "He cares about me, Andy does. But it's not like it were with Alfred."
"Are you afraid of missing a chance, either way?"
Daisy almost laughed. "I've never had any chances. I don't know what it's like to miss one. But … if I'm honest, I think I do want to go. It were only Lady Edith…."
"Let it go, Daisy," he said tiredly. "You can't take on other people's problems. We can barely manage our own."
John and Anna
"You shouldn't wait up for me."
"Mr. Bates. That is the 44 times 44th time you have said that to me since we started this new arrangement in the evening." Anna spoke to her husband with mock crossness, but she couldn't keep the smile from her face.
They were getting ready for bed and she had waited up for him, pleased to spend her evening on the mundane chores that made a household run smoothly. Soon that would be her lot all day, every day. Running her own home. She could hardly wait.
John was pulling off his vest and had one arm in, the other out. He paused at her words, frowning. "Did you not study numbers when you were at school? Or learn how many days there are in a month?" he asked, in mock bewilderment. "Forty-four times forty-four? That would be years."
"One thousand, nine hundred and thirty-six days," Anna said promptly, as though to demonstrate her mathematical skill. She hopped into bed and slid beneath the covers, shivering. "Hurry up. It's cold."
John was eager to oblige, but he could only move so fast.
"1936," Anna repeated, saying it as a year this time, rather than a number. "Ten years from now." Her gaze rested on her husband as he pulled on his pajamas. John didn't like clothes that confined him as he slept and he generated enough body heat to keep them both warm even on a cold night, but Anna insisted on pajamas in winter as a barrier to illness.
"We will be on the verge of celebrating a decade as successful innkeepers," John said, finally ready to join her. He got in beside her, never so fluidly as she managed it, but neither of them cared about that. "Our son will be a distinguished scholar in Mr. Molesley's class, preparing to go to grammar school." Anna raised her eyebrows at this. Neither of them had gone to grammar school, but they did share high hopes for their children. "Our daughter will, likewise, be a credit to her family, a help to her mother, and the apple of her old father's eye."
"Or our second son will, if it's a boy," Anna said, enjoying this recital.
"Or he," John conceded. "Our second son." He paused to ponder the profound implications of that. "Two sons. Two Downton cricket players."
Anna gave him a playful slap, laughing at the dreamy look in his eye at this prospect. "You know they'd be playing for the village, not the house. The Kearns boys played for the village."
"I know," John said. "And that's a good thing. Because the village always wins. It would be nice to cheer for the winning team."
They laughed and John put out the lamp and they lay back together, Anna snuggling into the warmth of his embrace.
"We're to open our own pub in six or seven weeks and there is so much to do," Anna said, just slightly daunted.
"We'll manage," John said bracingly. "I've worked in a pub before. I know how to draw ale and wash glasses and…."
"Make casual conversation," Anne teased.
"Yes. And I'm familiar with maintenance and storage. We'll work with the same suppliers as the Kearnses have. Given your arithmetical challenges, I'll manage the books…." He ducked when she swatted him again.
"That's all fine and good, John. But what are they going to eat?" Her tone remained light, but she wasn't entirely playing here. "I can't cook."
She didn't mean it to be a conversation-stopping declaration, but it hung there in the darkness for a long moment and Anna nudged him again. "John!"
He laughed. "I presume you meant you can't cook, or at least have never cooked, for a crowd, because all of the meals you have produced here for us in our home have been uniformly delicious!" He said this in a the accelerated manner of rote speech and then laughed aloud at her amused exasperation.
"Yes," she said, after they'd gotten over that. "I can't serve people like the Kearnses do. We need a cook. We haven't had any responses to our notice. We can't open without a cook."
"Well, we could just not offer meals."
"We can't not offer meals, else why would anyone stay for the night? There aren't any other options in the village. And the villagers count on the pub for a night out, too."
"Yes, and His Lordship drops in for lunch with Mr. Carson every once in a while," John added. "You're right. We'll have to work harder at this." He paused. "His Lordship's not made much of an effort to find a new valet."
"Perhaps he's thinking of promoting someone from within."
"The pickings will be slim," John said. "No, I think that he's just avoiding it."
"In hopes that you won't go?"
"No. Just putting off a disagreeable task. What about Lady Mary?"
"She's not advertised as yet either. Although maybe she won't. Mr. Talbot is getting quite good at helping her undress."
There was another unintended silence and they burst into giggles once more. Oh! but it was quite nice to be silly.
"I"ll bet he is," John smirked.
"Well, they'll have to learn to fend for themselves," Anna said airily.
"There's a revolutionary thought. And do you mean that?"
Anna turned to look at him though in the darkness all she could see was the outline of his head. "I do. They're perfectly capable people…."
"Most of the time."
"…all of the time. They'll manage."
"So there's to be no last-minute rescue operation," John teased.
"Not on my part," Anna said emphatically. "Lady Mary doesn't need rescuing. As for His Lordship…. John, we've dreamt of a new life for a long time and now we're going to have it."
He sighed and hugged her more closely. "Imagine! Us. With a life of regular old problems. Our ambition: to fade into the woodwork. To be like everyone else. To lead a dull life."
"Not dull."
"Unexciting, then."
"That's what dull means."
"Dull sounds pretty nice to me," John said. "But only the exterior of our lives will be dull. Things could never be anything but perfect with you."
Anna smiled at this. John Bates could be a bit of a romantic sometimes and she was glad of it.
Thomas and Daniel
Thomas managed to stave off the impulse to seek out Daniel until Saturday night, hoping perhaps, through an interminably long day in which his contempt for his employers' frivolous lives threatened to crumble his stoicism, that Daniel might come to him. He did not. Thomas had no recourse but to go to him.
The ground was harder, making it more difficult to scrabble together a handful of grit to throw at a bedroom window. And then he waited so long for a response from the schoolteacher's cottage that he wondered if he hadn't made enough noise to waken Daniel. Or, worse, that he had and that Daniel, knowing it could be no one other than Thomas, was ignoring him. Thomas gave up on any flimsy pretenses he might have offered if Molesley had suddenly looked out the window, and stood there boldly in the lane, staring at Daniel's window, determined to stay there until dawn, even if he froze.
But then the latch lifted and Daniel emerged. Thomas was so relieved that he was not put off by the stony look on Daniel's face, illuminated clearly by the light of the night sky.
"Let's walk," Daniel said abruptly.
Thomas was encouraged.
There were any number of things he might have asked. How are you? Did you see Mr. Carson today? Do you still care for me? Can you forgive me?
"Why weren't you at the Abbey today?" Perhaps the mundane was the best place to start.
"I didn't want to see you."
Thomas deflated and then revived slightly. "Yeh, better to talk things over where we can be alone," he said, hunching against the cold and wishing he dared take Daniel's hand. But they hadn't got there yet. They hadn't gotten anywhere yet, which only made the unfairness of Thursday afternoon all the more bitter.
"I still don't want to see you," Daniel said.
Thomas stopped. "What'd you mean?"
"But there are things that must be said," Daniel went on, his tone crisp. He might have been delivering a lecture in a university hall. Like his dad, Thomas thought. They were a distance from the cottages now and Daniel stopped and turned so that they were face to face.
"Don't come to me in the night like this again. I won't come out. And no more chess games or cricket matches or casual conversations either. There's no need for us to speak. Our work does not much intersect." He exhaled deeply, his breath frosty in the night air. "I've decided to take my meals at the cottage going forward. In short, there is no reason and will be no opportunity for further interaction between us." Daniel spoke directly to Thomas as he said this, his gaze not wavering.
Thomas was thunderstruck. He'd expected some uneasiness of course, some skittishness perhaps. It was always unnerving to be found out. But … not this. Not a complete severance. It took him a full minute to find his voice, his jaw working soundlessly. Daniel waited. That's that playing fields of Eton attitude, Thomas thought. He's going to let me have my say, listen, and then walk away.
"Because of Mr. Carson?" He could hardly believe it. "You're going to throw over me for Mr. Carson?" It was, frankly, unbelievable. "And you think that'll make it all better? You think he'll just let that slide by and ignore what he saw?" Thomas knew that Mr. Carson had not, in fact, seen what he thought he'd seen. For all that Thomas desired Daniel, what had happened in the graveyard was a matter of grief and consolation, and nothing more. But he knew the old man well enough to know that the facts of the matter wouldn't get in his way. Mr. Carson would put his own interpretation on events and act accordingly. And that, as far as Thomas was concerned, ought to have put Daniel squarely on Thomas's side.
"Mr. Carson came by the cottage yesterday," Daniel said, the evenness of his tone a contrast to Thomas's which, as frequently happened when he was agitated, had gone up in pitch. "He was delivering a note to Mr. Molesley and didn't expect to find me at home. We spoke briefly. He invited me to dinner next week. All is well between us."
This little speech hit Thomas like a kick in the stomach. He knew from experience exactly what that was like. "What?"
Daniel said nothing.
It took Thomas another moment to regain his equilibrium. "You would choose him over me?" he said again, and scrambled to grapple with this. The shock of Jimmy Kent's betrayal had been nothing on it. The manipulations of the Duke of Crowborough not in the least unsettling by comparison.
"Not him," Daniel said, scornful of Thomas's words. "My life. I'm choosing my life, Thomas. I vowed, when I came here, that I was done … with that. I want to live in the world, not in some pariah subset. It's wrong. Oh, not in the moral sense, but in a … functional way. That life doesn't work. As I have evidence yet again," he added savagely.
Thomas had never had much of a community of like-natured men with which to discuss such matters, to debate the essence of what Daniel was saying. But he had always been quick on his feet.
"You're only fooling yourself," he said. "It's the other way round. It's the pretense that doesn't work. For all that you tried for it, winning over everyone at Downton, playing the good son to Mr. Carson, you just couldn't resist me, could you?" He had always had a strong sense of his own appeal, but believed it to be a fact as much as a reflection of his sense of self. "You can try all you like to put that back in the box and keep it there. You can play a role, if you like, but you can't deny who you are. And," Thomas added, bitter at this turn of events and so resorting to the cruelty that had always been one of his best weapons, "he won't have you back. Not on the same terms. Even Mr. Carson can't delude himself completely. It will never be the same."
They stood in silence for what seemed like an eternity, glaring. Beneath his heavy coat, Thomas felt his heart breaking as this, his best chance yet for someone, evaporated before him, like a cloud of warm breath in the air of a cold night. But anger warred with grief in him. Bloody Mr. Carson! he spat, for whatever Daniel's explanation, Thomas preferred the scapegoat of the old man. And yet it was Daniel who infuriated him more. They had a chance and they both knew how rare that was. Yet here was Daniel, discarding it for the same old broken dream. Acceptance. By them. Thomas hated to see that. He wanted Daniel to be happy. And he knew that happiness did not lie this way.
"Well," Daniel said at length, and the fire in his eyes receded. He was all cool indifference now. "You've said your piece. I take my leave of you now, Mr. Barrow." And then he turned and walked away.
Thomas let him go.
End of Episode 10
Author's Note: This story has been a work-in-progress for more than five and a half years, long enough to try any reader's patience. It is approaching its conclusion. There will be one more regular season episode with at least six chapters and then the traditional "Christmas Special," itself perhaps six chapters in length. The stars are aligned. Completion is imminent. Yet hard evidence would suggest that the story has lost its audience, but for the few stalwarts to whom I remain indebted for necessary encouragement. To that faithful handful, thank you.
