Downton Abbey 1926

Episode 11

Chapter 5

Saturday November 20, 1926

Cora and Rosamund

Cora had seldom seen her sister-in-law so distraught. Only death had undone her. The death of her husband, Marmaduke Painswick had, of course, brought her to grief, but Cora had first seen Rosamund bereft with the death of her father in 1895. Rosamund cherished her father and had had with him the warmly affectionate relationship that had never – overtly, at least – characterized that with her mother. Rosamund had not been present at Sybil's death, but at the funeral had wept for the loss of her niece, and for her brother and sister-in-law, inconsolable in their own grief.

Now, seeing her sister in a comparable state, Cora's first thought was of death.

"Mama!" she exclaimed.

But though Rosamund's distress did not diminish, she was able to shake her head. No. And Cora was a little relieved, but still perplexed. Rosamund was almost … unhinged.

They sat together in Cora's sitting room where Rosamund had arrived minutes before, unexpected and unannounced, and hardly able to see through her tears. Cora had sat her down and taken her hand, and was trying to get to the bottom of it, though this was not going to happen until Rosamund could speak clearly. They were quite different personalities, the sisters-in-law, but they got on, natural allies before the formidable force of Violet Crawley.

For several days now, Rosamund had been ensconced at the Dower House, a peculiar development in ordinary times. Rosamund had always stayed at the Abbey, her childhood home and a secure refuge from her overbearing mother. But … Cora could claim credit for this … Violet had invited Rosamund to settle in the Dower House under the vague terms of "for the foreseeable future" and things had gone better than anyone could reasonably have expected from two people who had never rubbed on together very well.

And yet now Rosamund was sobbing her heart out before Cora and Cora could not imagine why. Over the years Rosamund had become adept at absorbing her mother's barbs. She felt them, yes, but in resigning herself to them had blunted their impact. Could Mama have plumbed new depths in her sharpness?

"Dear Rosamund, what is the matter? Has there been a crisis with Mama?" It was a foolish question. Had there been a crisis, they would be sitting at Mama's bedside, not here in Cora's sitting room. But they had to start somewhere.

"I'm so useless!" Rosamund cried.

Cora was bewildered. "What do you mean?"

Rosamund's countenance was a study in misery, but she had begun to rally and now focused on Cora through her tears. "When Mama asked me to stay at the Dower House, I was pleased. So pleased." She faltered for a moment, then rallied. "I thought, I hoped, that perhaps, at last, we might enjoy each other, converse as we never had before. I hoped … to get to get to know her better and she me."

This was only what Cora had herself hoped for in the arrangement. Looking at Rosamund now, however, she wondered it if had been a forlorn ambition. "Did Mama say something … unkind?" she asked tentatively.

But Rosamund shook her head emphatically. "No. She's been … for her … remarkably pleasant. We were beginning…. But…." Tears filled Rosamund's eyes once more. "She has been fragile, Cora, but otherwise capable. Only … this morning … she couldn't … manage. And neither could I. And … who was I to ring for help? Denker? Spratt? I had to manage, only I made a mess of it. I know nothing. I…." She stopped to collect herself. "Marmaduke had a heart attack. It was very quick. One minute he was there and then … gone. I … I have no experience with the long death."

Cora listened thoughtfully. She believed she understood Rosamund's predicament and her profound sense of helplessness. During the war, a flood of men in various states of convalescence had passed through Downton. Many were bedridden and in need of various levels of personal care. Cora had marvelled at the nurses and at her own daughters, Sybil and Edith. Edith! Edith had personally nursed William Mason, not leaving his side. For Cora, who had not changed a nappy or fed her own children once they had been weaned, such practical care had astonished her.

"We'll hire a nurse," she said to Rosamund. "If that's the stage we've come to. We can get attendants around the clock so this need never happen again." She spoke firmly, with assurance, hoping to calm her sister-in-law.

"I made such a hash of it," Rosamund repeated miserably. And then, "But … no, Cora. What I think, what I feel is…. There's not so much time left. I don't want to be the … the visitor … at my mother's bedside. I want to care for her. I want…." She sat up abruptly, straightening her back. "I want to be the nurse. Only," and here her voice almost broke again, "I don't know how." It was a plaintive cry. "You'd think caring would come naturally."

But Cora would have none of that. "Dear Rosamund, it is simply astounding how many natural things in life don't come naturally. We're all, animal and human, taught what we know by our mothers and fathers." Or nannies, she supposed. "And if we aren't … then we don't know." Now, Cora paused. "Another woman, a nurse, had to teach me how to breastfeed my own baby," she said, an admission she had made to no one else in the thirty-five years since it had happened. She took a deep breath and moved on. "Your sentiments are admirable, your impulse heartwarming. But … what about Mama? Do you think she might prefer someone more … removed?" She spoke delicately.

Rosamund thought about it. "It is our way, I suppose, to let strangers, or, at least, staff, manage such things. Nannies for children, nurses in sickness. But … what do other people do?"

It was not a question that had troubled a member of the Crawley family in living memory.

"They take care of their children and their sick and the dying themselves," Cora responded.

"Yes," Rosamund said, and there was a firmness in her voice for the first time. "I want to do that, Cora. I … I never want to feel as useless and stupid as I did this morning. And I don't want to abandon those I love in the squeamishness of ignorance. Only," she added, "I've no idea what needs to be done and how to do it." She focused on Cora, a determination shining from her clear blue eyes. "Do you?"

Cora had never cultivated the skills Rosamund sought, but she remembered, too, how the war had transformed her, not in the way her sister-in-law meant, but in doing something practical. And meaningful. And how doing so had connected her to the war effort in a way that a role as supportive bystander never had. What Rosamund was suggesting was not their way, but Cora had no inhibitions about trying something new.

"I don't," she admitted, but allowed for a ghost of a reassuring smile to touch her lips. "But I know who does." She reached for one of Rosamund's hands and felt just the slightest twinge of envy. Rosamund could be at her mother's deathbed. Cora, who had adored her own father, had not had the opportunity to be at his. Yes, they must seize this moment.

There was a light knock on the sitting room door and then Mary put her head in. "Barrow told me I'd find you two here," she said, coming in and closing the door. "There's something I've been meaning to talk to you about."

Thomas and Daniel

Daniel, Thomas thought afterwards, had deliberately chosen his moment. It was Saturday night and the family had guests for dinner. On a regular night, Thomas could function with half his brain elsewhere, but when there was a party, he had to concentrate. And afterwards, he was tired and only wanted to have his dinner and go to bed. He stepped into his pantry briefly before heading for the servants' hall and as he turned to leave, Daniel appeared in the door.

Thomas's heart leaped. Had he changed his mind? But … once burned, twice shy, so Thomas affected a cool demeanour. "Thought you weren't coming downstairs any more," he said, an observation, not an accusation.

"May I come in?"

Thomas nodded and Daniel came to stand before the desk. He had not shut the door.

"How may I help you?" Thomas asked, staying on his feet and maintaining the formal atmosphere.

"Thomas, I've come to say goodbye. I'm leaving Downton in the morning. On the nine o'clock."

This unexpected announcement hit Thomas like a punch to the solar plexus. "What?"

"I owe you the courtesy of a farewell." Daniel sounded like he was reciting a prepared speech. "I have valued your friendship and enjoyed your company. I wish you…."

"What?" Thomas demanded again.

Daniel fell silent.

Thomas's brain raced. Thursday night dinner. "What happened?"

But Daniel only shook his head.

"So, it wasn't all things as normal, was it? What did he say to you, Mr. Carson. What did he say?" As stunned as he was by Daniel's announcement, Thomas could feel a surge of anger building in his guts.

"Things have changed," Daniel admitted, speaking in a deliberate way. "It's no longer possible for Mr. Carson and I to work together. And I … don't want to remain in Yorkshire. Not now that that's clear to me."

"Has he sacked you?"

Daniel shook his head. "I don't want to talk about it."

Thomas rolled his eyes. Of course not. "Did he call you foul?" Thomas demanded. "Did he … did he say … men like you, your kind? Did he tell you he was disgusted by you?"

"Stop it. Please." Daniel had almost flinched at Thomas's words. "I only came to say goodbye. I'll be going." He turned.

"Where?" It was a last, desperate plea. "Where are you going?"

At the door, Daniel paused, though he did not look around. "Oxford. I'm going home for a while." And then he left.

In the corridor, he brushed by Miss Baxter, who put her head in the door. "Mr. Barrow? Are you coming in to dinner?"

Thomas stood behind his desk, frozen. Only slowly did he register her words. "No." He waved in her direction. "Go on without me." He wasn't hungry any more. Instead, he seized his coat, putting it on as he strode to the door.

"Mr. Barrow?"

But he didn't hear her.

Charlie and Elsie and Thomas

The Carsons were spending a quiet evening together, not listening to the wireless. That amusement was too intimately associated with the disruptive dinner conversation two nights earlier and had fallen out of favour. Elsie was prepared to wait that out.

Calm had been restored between them. Elsie had had her say, if rather intemperately, and then she had let it lie. She didn't believe in haranguing. The problem, the real problem, lay between Charlie and Daniel and they would have to work it out. Charlie, too, had woken up on Friday morning determined to mend the conflict with his wife. He didn't like being at odds with her. Daniel was a different matter and Charlie chose to spend the day at the cottage, buried in the Crawley papers, though likely with little concentration. But Friday passed smoothly into Saturday without further friction between husband and wife and that was a blessing to be counted.

On Saturday evening, Charlie was buried in a novel by H. Rider Haggard. Elsie could not understand his absorption in the man's works. She'd open a few and found them dreadful. He had King Solomon's Mines tonight, something he'd read before. Elsie suspected he found in its pages a soothing familiarity, as well as a reiteration of the prototype of masculine friendship of which he approved. She was thumbing through a recent edition of The Sketch, glad to see that the exchange between the lady's maid "in the North" and the agony aunt Cassandra Jones had disappeared. But nothing in the magazine held her interest and she turned pages in a desultory way, just to do something.

She was about to suggest they turn in for the night and was going to preface this by going to her husband and giving him a kiss, to let him know that a few cross words did not at all compromise her feelings for him, when Shep, who had been lying quietly by the fire, suddenly sat up, ears pricked. Then there was knocking … no, pounding … at the door. Charlie and Elsie exchanged alarmed looks. Such violence could only be a matter of crisis. Charlie feared for the Abbey. Elsie was gripped with apprehension for their immediate neighbours among the cottages.

"I'll go," Elsie said. She was already on her feet

She opened the door to find Mr. Barrow there and he was a sight, his coat hanging open and loose over his shoulders, his hair disheveled, and his shoulders hunched as if against the cold. But it was his face that drew Elsie's attention. Though the light in the passage was dim, she could see that his face was dark with rage and there was a wild look in his eyes.

"Mr. Barrow…." She had time for nothing else, for Charlie had come up behind her and the butler's attention focused on him, gleaming with fury.

"I hope you're happy with yourself!" Thomas said savagely. He was shaking with the intensity of feeling.

"Oh." Elsie had an idea of what this might be about.

"What are you doing here?" Charlie demanded over her shoulder. Like her, he had surmised from Thomas's words that this was not about a crisis at the Abbey.

"Did you sack him then?" Thomas demanded, and though he was almost shouting, the tenor of his voice had gone up a notch, as it always did when he was emotionally distraught.

Elsie recognized this. "Come in, Mr. Barrow." She pushed back against Charlie and the dog, who had contributed his usual single bark to the heated exchange, and drove them all to the sitting room. Mr. Barrow followed without, no one noticed, removing his shoes at the door. Charlie took up a position in the middle of the floor, turning to face their visitor. Thomas stopped just inside the room. Elsie stood between them.

"Please sit down, Mr. Barrow."

"I don't want him to sit down!"

"I don't want to sit in this house!"

Their words tumbled over each other and they addressed them, in vehement tones, to Elsie, and then were glaring at each other once more.

"What do you mean by hammering on my door at this hour of the night, Mr. Barrow?" Charlie demanded again, his tone matching the anger in Thomas's voice.

At this Thomas took a few steps forward. "As if you don't know. What did you do? Sack him? Or … or berate him 'til he couldn't stand it anymore? Or…."

"Mr. Barrow, what is it? What's happened?" Elsie was overcome with visions of a prone figure in a bathtub, with jagged cuts in flesh and blood everywhere.

He glanced her way. "It's Mr. Rider. Daniel. He's leaving, on the nine o'clock tomorrow."

Despite the fraught atmosphere, Elsie breathed again.

"What?" Charlie looked puzzled, uncertain.

Thomas swung on him again. "Don't play innocent, Mr. Carson. This is your doing. It's what you said to him the other night. He came here hoping things would be all right with you." He took another step toward Charlie, eyes flashing. "What did you say? Did you tell him he was foul? Twisted by nature? An object of revulsion to real men? What?"

"Thomas." Elsie was gripped with a different kind of apprehension. There was a warning note in her voice. But Thomas wasn't listening. He was too focused on the other man.

"He cares for you, Mr. Carson. I don't know why. So much so that he would lie about himself to himself, and to me, and to everyone else. He didn't want to disappoint you. Can you imagine? Even when it came to … to choosing between who he is and what you want, he chose you." Agitated, Thomas ran a hand through his hair and then, as though drained by what he'd said, stepped back, almost stumbling as he did so. "And you…." His voice came down an octave, but when he fastened his glistening sapphire gaze on Charlie again, there was hatred here. "He thought you cared about him. He couldn't bear your … disappointment. Your disgust. What did you say to him, Mr. Carson? Did you … did you tell him he ought to be horsewhipped?"

There was no stopping this torrent. Elsie felt as though walls were crashing in on all of them. She knew from Charlie's own telling of it that he had once had an unpleasant conversation with Thomas that directly addressed Thomas's nature. That had been in the matter of Jimmy Kent and the accusation the footman had levelled against Thomas. But it had been, by Charlie's account, a controlled exchange, yet it seemed now that at least some disagreeable terms had been used, for why else would Thomas saying such things and ins such a way? That element was, however, less consequential that what Thomas was saying about Daniel and she could see that in the glare Charlie had levelled at their visitor.

"Nothing," she said sharply, stepping between the men and facing Thomas. "Mr. Carson said nothing like that to Daniel."

Thomas's gaze flickered her way and then, almost reluctantly, stayed with her. "What?" He said this impatiently, as though irritated by her interruption.

"Mr. Carson said nothing about Daniel, Thomas. What he said … he said only about you." It was too late, of course. She knew that.

"What?" This came out in a faintly.

Elsie shook her head and felt a pang as she saw Thomas's eyes glisten in a telltale way.

But Charlie had found his voice and Elsie turned to him as he now advanced toward Thomas. "How dare you barge into my home at this hour or any hour! And then with your vile accusations and insinuations. Please leave, Mr. Barrow, and don't ever come back!" It was the booming voice of Mr. Carson the butler, come back to life, as imperious as ever.

Thomas, however, seemed incapable of movement, only staring at Elsie, his jaw slack in shock. "What?" he said again. He seemed to be having difficulty digesting her meaning.

Elsie nodded. Yes.

Abruptly Thomas's jaw firmed, though the devastated cast of his countenance returned, and he ran from the room. Shep trotted after him, seeing the guest to the door even if master and mistress did not. The door banged shut.

Elsie turned to her husband, who was still inflated with righteous indignation, the better, she suspected, to avoid coming to grips with the issue at the heart of it all.

"That vile man!" he stormed. He stood rooted to the spot, his face florid, his whole frame vibrating with fury. And then he threw that off and stalked to the cabinet where he poured himself a drink. Whisky, Elsie noticed. She also noticed how his hand shook as he fumbled with the stopper, clanging the bottle against the glass. It was a miracle he didn't drop anything. But she didn't move to help him. Then, glass in unsteady hand, he wheeled on her.

"And you wonder why I wanted to get shot of him. Thief. Liar. Liar." He took a bracing mouthful of whisky. "I cannot believe the lengths that man will go to to…."

"Nevermind Mr. Barrow," Elsie interrupted impatiently. "Charlie, Daniel is leaving Downton."

An almost stricken look passed over him, but he recovered quickly. "According to Mr. Barrow."

"I don't doubt him," Elsie said. She steeled herself. She would not breach a confidence, but Thomas had let the cat out of the bag now, even if Charlie was still clinging to denial. There was no humouring that any more. "Charlie." Her voice softened and she held a hand out to him. "Thomas isn't telling tales. What he said about Daniel, it's true."

His glare now fastened on her. "What are you talking about? Surely, you don't believe him!" The hand with the glass waved erratically in the direction of the passage through which Thomas had vanished.

"I don't have to rely on Mr. Barrow," she said, trying to maintain calm. "I believe Daniel. He told me himself."

Now he did drop the glass and it cracked on the floor between them, a puddle of whisky spreading out to the bit of carpet.

"Shoo, Shep!" The dog had taken an immediate interest and Elsie was obliged to deter him, putting him out of the room and closing the door. Then she turned to her husband once more.

"What do you mean by that?" he snapped, eyes flashing.

She sighed. Well, they were into it now. "Let's sit down," she said, reaching out to him again.

But he withdrew from her, though he did move to his chair and, after a moment, sit.

"I'd better clean this up." She fetched the mop and pan and a cloth and made short work of it, perturbed by his complete silence and the forbidding look on his face. With that task complete, she turned to him once more. "Charlie."

"What are you saying?" he asked, in a cold, deliberate way.

She remembered the time he had found her giving house food to Ethel Parks, the wayward maid whom she had had to dismiss for improper behaviour with a convalescing officer. Elsie had known that what she was doing was improper, but it seemed to her that denying Ethel and her infant child aid was the worse crime. Mr. Carson, the butler as he had then been, disagreed with her, obliged her to report her offense to Her Ladyship, and affected disappointment with her behaviour for weeks afterward. For those same weeks, she had mused on the moral bankruptcy of righteous indignation when the welfare of a human being was at stake. It seemed to her that his tone now was not dissimilar and she felt a comparable incomprehension in this disregard for the human element.

Despite his coldness, she sat in the chair opposite him and leaned earnestly toward him. "Daniel…," for she would use his name, the name Charlie had often spoken with affection, "…told me that he was … like Thomas." Bringing Thomas's name into it was only fuel to the fire but she didn't quite know how to describe the thing otherwise.

"And how did this happen to come up in casual conversation?" he asked icily.

"Well, you will remember that I was wary of Daniel, when he first came." He sniffed and looked away. She ignored this. "I wondered why a man with his background and qualifications would take this job." She sighed. "I thought he might be working for one of those dreadful papers, seeking dirt on the Crawleys. And you liked him so much and so quickly." Again, a disgruntled sound emanated from him, disbelief at his own credulity. "I thought because you liked him so much, you would be quite … hurt if that's what he was up to."

"And?"

"Well, after a while, I put those fears aside. I saw what a lovely person he was and … how much you cared for him, Charlie. And he for you." He was resolutely not looking at her. "I don't quite recall how it came up, but … Daniel was …is such a nice man. And good-looking. And a professional man. So how was it that such a man was not married? Especially in a world where whole young men are so few and far between. It occurred to me that there might be another explanation." She paused. "And when I asked, he told me."

Charlie's gaze riveted to hers once more. "You made it perfectly clear at the beginning that you didn't like him. Then you find out this and you don't tell me?"

She did not look away. "It was not my secret to tell."

"I am your husband!"

"That relation does not confer upon either of us the right to know the secrets that others have confided in us," she countered. They had discussed this during their week on Scarborough and agreed to the principle.

"This is different!" he said heatedly. "This isn't about the indiscretions of the downstairs staff or the … the …."

"Family."

"… anyone we know through our work. This is about us!"

And now she could see beyond the anger and indignation in his countenance to the hurt that convulsed his heart.

"You knew how much I liked him, how much I … cared for him." There was heat in his voice. "You let me … involve myself ever more deeply. You let me…."

He was including her now and she would not accept that. "You've a right to make up your own mind about people, Charlie. You're a good judge of character. And…," her voice broke a little, "you liked Daniel, Charlie. You like him. A lot. Doesn't that count for anything?"

He drew himself up rigidly. "He deceived me." And there it was. "He has betrayed me with this deception." He didn't say it outright, but the way he looked at her let her believe his rancor was not exclusively directed at Daniel. She put that aside.

"Did you really not know, Charlie?" she asked gently. "Did you really have no idea?"

He deflated. "No."

She believed him. There was ample evidence in their lives of his capacity for an almost naïve determination to think the best of those he loved. Lady Mary was the exemplar there. Not that his illusions could not be shattered. Elsie knew that, once apprised, he had struggled to accommodate that young woman's indiscretions. And she knew that his recent distress over the Dowager's revelations was at least in part because they fractured the portrait he had in his mind of the late Earl of Grantham. She had expected the disclosure of truth about Daniel to pain him. It could not but do otherwise. Time heals, she believed, but this exchange was not encouraging.

"The graveyard."

The words and, more, the tone in which he snarled them, drew Elsie's attention once more.

"You told me it was just a matter of one veteran comforting another." That accusatory note was back again.

"I don't know what was going on there," Elsie admitted, "not really. But I believed what I told you about it. It is possible, Charlie, for two men like that to have a moment of … human connection over a shared trauma. It's not always sexual, no more for them than anyone else."

He flinched at the word sexual and then set his jaw grimly once more. "He knew I cared for him. He knew I did and yet he let me…."

"And why not? You got on together. You like many of the same things." He snorted again. "It was like you said, early on, about liking him right from the start in a way you'd never liked anyone else. Oh, don't be like that!" He was shaking his head as though he'd been splashed with mud and was trying to rid himself of it. She tried a different tack.

"Your good opinion was important to Daniel, Charlie. He did not want to be at odds with you, even at the expense of his own happiness. It's hard for them to find someone. Despite himself I think he was drawn to Thomas. They get on well together, too."

"I don't want to…."

"But he put that away after the graveyard," Elsie went on, overriding him. "He pushed away from Thomas and he chose you, coming here for dinner the other night to try to carry on with you. That was his way of showing you, and you…." Well, they both knew where that went.

Charlie was shaking his head again in a different way. "You're making me out the villain here and I won't have that, Elsie. I never lied. I never made myself out to be anyone but who I am. He … Daniel…" He almost stumbled over the name. "… he cultivated a relationship with me under false pretenses." His great eyes bored into hers. "I trusted him with my heart, Elsie, and he deceived me. Betrayed me. And you collaborated in that deception."

This last was not meaningless to Elsie, but though it reflected on their own relationship, it didn't worry her that much. "Daniel is leaving Downton tomorrow on the nine o'clock," she said abruptly. "There's still a chance to put this right, Charlie."

He shrugged. "That is none of my concern." He drew a great breath. "I don't like it when we're not in agreement, Elsie. You know that. But this, this is irreconcilable." And suddenly he looked very tired. "I'm going to bed."

Elsie didn't immediately follow. Instead, she tidied things up, attended to the usual end of evening tasks, and let the dog out. Turning off the lights, she sat for a moment in the darkness of the sitting room. When she felt Shep push up against her, she ran a hand over the silky surface of his contoured skull, and then tangled her fingers in the longer hair of the ruff that Charlie brushed to shining perfection.

"It might have been worse," she murmured to the dog, "though I'm blessed if I can see how, right this minute. He's angry now, but that's the anger of a broken heart. We must let him have his feelings and give him room to sort through them for himself before putting our oar in." She paused. "There are broken hearts all around in this one, Shep. Let's hope they can all be mended." And as she scratched the dog's ear, she thought there was at least one step she could take in that direction. "Time for bed," she told the dog, and headed upstairs.

Author's Note: Heavy, yes, in emotions and Carsons. But we must let the narrative play out as designed. The next three chapters offer somewhat lighter fare in different directions.