Downton Abbey 1926

Episode 11

Chapter 7

Thursday November 25, 1926

Violet and the Girls

"Do you remember the first time we met?"

The ladies of Downton were gathered in the sitting room of the Dower House for an afternoon together. Rosamund had had her doubts about the location, thinking it better for Mama to be in a chair in her bedroom that she might move more easily to her bed if she tired. But Violet would have none of it. If she were to entertain even those women closest to her – Rosamund, Mary, Edith, Cora, and Isobel – then she would do so in her sitting room or not at all. Rosamund yielded. She didn't raise a single objection to her mother's insistence on being properly dressed. A dressing gown was fine for upstairs. But Violet would wear a day dress in her sitting room. Her daughter helped her into it, which put Denker out no end, a consequence that bothered none of the Crawleys. And now they were all seated together in a comfortable circle and Isobel had asked the question.

Violet stared at Isobel, affecting a level of perplexity. "I am dying, my dear, not losing my faculties. Of course, I remember."

"Mama," Rosamund murmured.

But Isobel led by example in ignoring Violet's sarcasm, as she so often did, and her dark reference as well. "I had thought we might establish the foundation of a firm friendship and you declared that we might address each other formally as Lady Grantham and Mrs. Crawley."

This explanation did not dispel Violet's bemusement. "But you say that is though they were opposing things. How else to establish a solid foundation for a relationship than by rooting it in the appropriate formalities?"

"Well, Carson agreed with you," Isobel said. "He smirked at your words."

"Carson and I agree on everything."

"I don't think I saw the man smile again until he got married," Isobel said, exaggerating for effect."

The others laughed.

"I know what you mean," Cora said sympathetically, understanding Isobel's point about both Violet and Carson.

"And I," Rosamund agreed. "It has been my experience that butlers only like one person in each generation and I was not the one so favoured."

"Nor I," Edith put in.

Mary chose that moment to scrutinize the wallpaper and smiled faintly.

They had assembled on Mary's initiative.

"Which isn't like you," Edith remarked to Mary, in a side conversation, her tone one of wonder rather than sarcasm.

Mary, recognizing that, or inclined to give credit where credit was due, said, "I got it from something Tom said. Irish behaviour in … in like circumstances. We've never gotten together like this. And if not now, well, when?"

This won Mary a rare smile from her sister. "It's lovely." Edith sighed. "We're so lucky to have Tom."

"We are. But I'm worried about him. He's restless again."

"I thought he was well settled with Henry and the shop."

"He is. And he's promised to keep the estate going while…," Mary paused, glancing at her grandmother, who was exchanging barbs with Isobel, "…while Papa and I are engaged elsewhere. But he's not been himself since the fire and that Drumgooles business."

"It was traumatic, the fire. And he'd moved out in the first place to be on his own."

Mary acknowledged this with a shrug, but the line of worry between her eyes remained. "I think there's more to it than that. On the surface, he's the same old Tom. But it's almost like he's a coiled spring. I keep waiting for him to let loose."

"How is Dickie?" Cora asked Isobel.

"Well on the road to recovery," Isobel replied. "Thank you. Do you know that neither of his sons have visited or even called, though I kept them informed."

"Men," Rosamund said dismissively. She might have thought Grey men, but she kept that to herself. "Perhaps they found your bulletins sufficient."

"Wasn't that the entire point of your dinner adventure?" Violet asked. "To be left alone? You have vanquished the monster, my dear. Enjoy it."

"It wasn't the entire point of the dinner party," Isobel huffed. "In fact, it was a late-stage addition, and Carson's idea, not mine."

"Is bronchitis contagious?" Mary inquired.

"It is," Isobel said, "but not easily transmitted. Not as easily as the measles or the flu. I'm not infectious," she added, smiling around the circle. None of them were perturbed.

"Where would Dickie have contracted it?" Edith asked, thinking the rarified circles in which the Mertons moved did not admit many possibilities.

"Dr. Clarkson thinks he must have picked it up at the workhouse," Isobel said, with a disdainful air.

"Well, of course, he must have done," Violet said emphatically.

Isobel stared at her. "Why? You had bronchitis and you hadn't visited any workhouses. At least, not to my knowledge."

Violet ignored this. "If Dr. Clarkson thinks so…."

"Dr. Clarkson is an impossible man!" Isobel's declaration made eyebrows rise all around.

"Has he said something amiss?" Violet was the only one who could ask.

Isobel tried to recoup. "He's just been…abrasive."

Eyebrows remained arched. Abrasive was not a word any one of them would have applied to Dr. Clarkson.

"I understand you've met Frederica Daring," Edith broke in. Not for nothing had she spent years at her parents' dinner table, smoothing over awkward moments, when not creating them herself.

"She is one of us," Violet said firmly.

"I agree with you there," Isobel said, meaning something quite different.

"Is she really going to try for the Conservative nomination in West Yorkshire?" Edith asked.

"She is," Mary said. "And I'm going to help her."

A little frisson ran around the circle at this. Mary's interest in politics had hitherto been of a more sedentary variety, confined to reading the papers and offering opinions at the breakfast table.

"Handing out fliers? Knocking on doors? Making speeches?" Rosamund demanded, clearly unsettled at the prospect.

Mary shrugged. "Wherever Freddy thinks I might be useful."

"I think she might be worth an article in The Sketch," Edith said thoughtfully.

"I agree. And I'm sure she would appreciate the publicity," Mary said. "It's going to be an uphill battle."

"And I was pushing for Tom!" Isobel declared. "I think Labour's got a good chance next time around."

"Something I can be glad to be spared," Violet remarked.

"If Tom were the Labour candidate," Cora began, her eyes sparkling with mischief, "think what a dilemma that would put us all in."

"Now that we're all voters," Edith added.* "Shall we take a straw poll?"

"I think I'd have to vote for Tom," Cora said immediately. "For me, it would be the person over the party. But what Robert would do…."

Rosamund huffed. "Well, I was out when Mary brought Mrs. Daring to visit Mama, so I've no direct knowledge. But it is a challenging question: a member of the family or a woman? Labour or Conservative?"

"And?" Edith prompted, enjoying this.

"I'd have to stick with the Conservative Party. Mr. Baldwin is a bore, but we've seen what Mr. MacDonald can do."

"Not … not really." Edith turned to her sister. "Mary?"

Mary exhaled heavily. "It would be a difficult choice, but I think Tom might think me a hypocrite if I suddenly went Labour, even for him. And I'm rather committed to Freddy."

"It's a secret ballot," Cora teased.

Mary drew herself up. "That would be a matter of honour, Mama." They exchanged a look. Mary would be honest with those she loved, no matter what the price.

Rosamund turned to her mother. "Mama? Can you resolve this quandary for us?"

An enigmatic smile spread across Violet's face. "I have been eligible for the franchise since the passage of the Representation of the People Act of 1918 and have declined to exercise it. I don't believe in women in politics and I certainly don't believe in masses of ignorant women voting for anyone."

"Only masses of ignorant men," Isobel said, staring at Violet with her eyes round.

Violet turned her head very slowly toward her dear cousin and friend. "Not at all. I objected to all of the Reform Acts with equal vigour. I hold the Duke of Wellington responsible. He started it with the Catholic Emanicipation Act. It's been all downhill since 1829."

Isobel sighed.

"You've not declared yourself, Edith," Mary prompted.

Edith frowned thoughtfully. "It is a conundrum, but I think I'd have to go with Tom for family and party reasons."

"When did you go Bolshevik?" Mary demanded.

"Never. It's only that our country is facing all sorts of challenges and the Conservatives haven't exactly come up with anything better than taking us off the gold standard and sending soldiers somewhere. Mr. MacDonald proved during his brief residence at 10 Downing that he was a moderate socialist. I think he ought to have another go at running the country."

"A moderate socialist?" Violet intoned. "That is an expression comparable to a conditional surrender. It's an oxymoron."

"Oh, Granny." Edith groaned and glanced in Mary's direction, seeking an ally in exasperation, only to find her sister's eyes glistening. Edith understood. This was Granny. They would miss her desperately.

"On the subject of politics," Isobel began, turning to Cora, "how was your meeting with Mr. Chamberlain last week?"

Cora laughed and related her adventure. "He looked so different sitting there in his official surroundings, not so much the affable man we had to Downton for dinner."

"Nevertheless, his behaviour was completely uncalled for," Rosamund declared.

"But he is a Conservative," Cora teased.

"Well, if he becomes Prime Minister, I may be obliged to vote another way."

"You all heard that," Cora said, laughter in her voice.

"I thought you had Mr. Chamberlain over a barrel, so to speak." Isobel glanced at Violet.

Violet shrugged. "One can only blackmail a person one likes once."

"Oh! Admirable restraint, Cousin Violet!"

They spent the afternoon in laughter. As agreed in advance, Rosamund assumed what duties there were with regard to her mother. She kept an eye on the clock and prepared and administered medications as prescribed. When Violet's lap blanket became disarrayed, Rosamund set it straight and tucked it in. Violet, still ambulatory, required only her daughter's arm to walk across the room, and Rosamund made it look as though they were arm-in-arm out of affection alone, rather than need.

"Rosamund was remarkable," Cora said admiringly, as the women were slipping on their coats to leave.

"Not least in keeping Denker at bay," Mary muttered to Edith.

The lady's maid might be shut out of the afternoon's gathering, but there was no avoiding Spratt at the door, helping each woman in turn with her coat.

"Rosamund has set the bar, ladies," Isobel told them. "Think of what you saw today as the standard to which you must aspire." Isobel was not speaking of herself in this, of course. But she was proud of her student.

"I don't really know if I'm up to this," Mary murmured to Edith.

Edith looked at her. "I always thought you could do anything."

Mary shrugged. "So did I."

Friday November 26, 1926

Mary, Henry, and George

It wasn't raining and that was as much as could be asked of any day in late November. Mary seized on the necessity of a new pair of shoes for George to take her son into York and to spend part of the morning with her husband as though they were an ordinary family.

"Sybil will be looking on approvingly," Tom said, grinning, as he saw them out of the shop, waving away Henry's concerns. "Enjoy the weather while it lasts."

And they did, window shopping a bit on their way to the cobbler's and watching in amusement George's reactions to all the new things he saw around him. He didn't get to a city like York every day.

"I remember coming here as a child," Mary said to Henry as they meandered through the Shambles.** "It was magical. Like something out of a fairy tale."

"They've been busy knocking down this sort of thing in London for years," Henry remarked. "Making way for better things."

"Well, newer things, at least."

Mary held Henry's arm, enjoying the chance to be with him away from Downton. Her eyes followed George as he examined a post box and then a restaurant chalkboard, advertising a luncheon menu though it was not yet eleven.

"Look at him," she murmured. "Filled with wonder, seeing things for the first time. I'll miss that when he goes away to school."

"In four years' time," Henry intoned. "He doesn't need to go at all, you know."

"Oh, I think he does."

"Sybbie's doing well at the village school."

Mary cast a sidelong glance at her husband. He had a bit of a smirk on his handsome face, teasing. "George is not going to the village school. You went to Harrow. Was it so bad?"

"Yes."

But he was teasing again and Mary knew it. "Well, George will go to Eton, and survive as you did, and Papa before him."

"Where did Matthew go to school?"

"Radley College." Mary looked thoughtful.*** "I don't know why. I'll have to ask Isobel." That raised another subject. "I feel a bit of a delinquent, not taking my turn with Granny today."

"You'll make up for it tomorrow," Henry said. "And you'll have the adventures of today to relate to her. A few fresh stories will enliven the conversation."

Mary smiled at him. "You're right."

"Why was Anna included in your training session? You're not expecting her to help care for your grandmother."

"Not at all. Only she was interested. And I'm glad of it. I may need some remedial instruction." Her tone suggested she wasnt entirely joking.

Henry met her lingering gaze. "Things seem … better for you these days. Do I have that right?"

"What do you mean?" She asked this, though she knew what he meant.

He frowned thoughtfully. "You seem happier. More at ease. I don't quite know how to put it. Is it your friendship with Freddy?"

The acquaintance with the Darings, and Freddy in particular, had given Mary a boost. She hadn't had a new friend in a long time. She'd forgotten how stimulating it was to have someone to learn about, neither a man to be assessed for his suitability nor a woman as a rival. Come to think of it, had she ever known such a person?

She considered his question. "Possibly. I do enjoy her company." But Mary knew that she was dissembling. What Henry was sensing, she suspected, was an awakened absorption in him, her own husband. Truth to tell, she'd thought Carson's advice, given months ago, about acting as though she were in love with her husband in order to stimulate actual love for her husband, a feeble receipt for her woes. But it was the only solution she had and she felt she owed it to Carson, as much as to Henry, to give it a go. So, she had tried. It had been uphill work at the start. Mary had a pragmatic frame of mind and struggled to pretend anything. Carson had been right, though, that there were aspects of Henry that she had found compelling and desirable, and these helped.

And so did the fire. He had never been in danger, but she saw in his actions that night a fundamental courage. Henry had as much reason to dread fires as Mary did car crashes, but he had not blinked in flinging himself into the heart of it. And even moments where they came into conflict had bolstered her admiration for him. He had stood by Tom in that business with the pranks, and though Mary wished he had said something, she knew that he could not have done so without breaking the confidence Tom had invested in him, and that meant a lot to Mary. Then there was their own situation. She knew he would prefer a home of their own, but he hadn't raised the issue in months. She might have wished him to fight his corner more assiduously but, in this instance, she read his acquiescence as respect for her needs. That he was capable of doing so made him a bigger man in her eyes. That she was capable of feeling that way told her that she had turned a corner in her malaise. And prompted her to move in a different direction.

"I have been enjoying Freddy's company," she said, and realized as she said it that even that acquaintance had had a positive effect on her relationship with Henry. They both got on well with the Darings and were, in fact, to have dinner out with them in York the following week. It was a departure to have friends together. "Henry, I've been thinking about what you said about our living in our own home."

It was a startling shift in the conversation and Henry's eyebrows shot up. "I beg your pardon?" he said, mystified. And then broke from his concentration on her words to call out to George. They had emerged from the Shambles and were making their way toward the River Ouse. Traffic had picked up. The little boy obligingly returned to their side and Henry swung the child up onto his shoulders. Mary had to release her husband for a moment for him to do this, but quickly took his arm up again to explain herself.

"I think I've always feared losing Downton, perhaps because it was never really mine. It was always going to go to the male heir, first Cousin James or Patrick, and then Matthew. Unless I married Patrick or Matthew, I would have to leave it eventually. I felt the pressure keenly in both cases. Fortunately, I loved Matthew."

"I've never had that connection to a place, a home," Henry mused. "But I do appreciate it, my darling."

She tightened her grip on his arm and then had to lean away a little. "George, watch you don't kick Mummy, darling. I know you do, Henry," she went on, beaming at her husband. "And I appreciate that you've given me time to think this business through on my own. And I've come round to the idea that I don't have to worry so much about Downton anymore. Not about losing it by marriage, anyway. I own it. Half of it. I don't have to live there to ensure its survival."

He was listening hard, she could tell. Had he really wanted this so badly from the start? And had she really been so blind to his needs in this? But he said nothing.

Mary stopped and let go of Henry so that she might look him squarely in the face. "The thing is, we don't have to go far." She took a deep breath to steel herself. "There will be the Dower House," she said and her voice wavered just a little.

"Oh, Mary." Henry popped George off his shoulders, planting him firmly on the ground, though he took the little boy's hand. Then he embraced Mary with his free arm. "Let's not think about that."

She leaned into him, closing her eyes, and then looked upon him again. "No. But we can think about it. When the time is right."

He nodded and they walked on, coming up on the river now and crossing the road that they might stroll along the cobblestone path by the water's edge. It was a windless day and, though cold, not unbearable. George tugged himself loose and ran a few steps ahead.

"George," Mary called crisply. "Stay away from the edge." Ahead of them, two scruffy youths were sitting right on the concrete ledge, their legs dangling over the side, both with fishing poles. "Are there fish in this river?" she mused.

"Fish there may be," Henry replied, "but I wouldn't eat them. God knows what gets flushed into the river in the city."

"Carson said he would take George fishing this year."

Henry was naturally imperturbable, but this startled him. "Carson? Fishing?"

His surprise amused Mary. "It is a little difficult to picture. He had a stuffed fish in his office for years, the trophy of some long past adventure. He hasn't had time for it for ages, of course. But now he's free."

"George will like …. George!" There was a snap to Henry's voice. George had veered to the edge of the path, craning his neck to see into the river.

"Ay up!" one of the youths called out. "It's slippery 'ere, mate. You want to watch…."

"George!"

The little boy had slipped and in seconds plummeted into the river. Mary screamed. The two young men scrambled to their feet and back from the rim on which they had sat so comfortably only moments before, even as Mary and Henry dashed forward.

"George!" There was a panic in Mary's voice as her eyes raked the river's surface, looking for signs of her child. Beside her, Henry said nothing. He was peeling off his coat. Dropping it, he jumped into the river. Mary hardly had time to register her son's plunge before her husband hit the water.

Henry went in but not under. "Where is he?" he shouted, staring around wildly. The Ouse had a current. George could be anywhere.

"There! Over there!" one of the young men bellowed, and he ran along the wall's edge, pointing.

"Help him!" Mary screamed at them.

"Can't, Miss." The second boy turned to her with a frightened look on his face. "Can't swim, can we?"

Henry was moving swiftly through the water, propelled by the current, but also by a strong front crawl. He could see George now, his body anyway, with his head lolling to one side. Had he hit his head on the wall on the way down? Or gone head-first into something in the river? And then Henry had him, one arm buoying the child up, holding his head above water, while with the other arm he paddled madly for the jetty several yards down the embankment. The youths raced alongside and leapt onto the pier as Henry and George came abreast of it. In another minute they had hauled man and boy to safety.

Mary, hampered by her fashionable but constricting clothing, lagged behind, and lost one of her shoes making the leap to the pier. She fell on her knees beside her husband and son. No sooner was Henry out of the water than he had George lying out flat on his stomach, gently pumping the boy's rib cage. Mary watched in paralyzed fear until George expelled a lungful of grey water, coughed, and then groggily opened his eyes. Then she seized her son and held him tightly to her, oblivious to the icy water squeezing from his sodden clothes and now soaking through hers.****

*Author's Note 1: As Edith points out sometime in the series, not all women were enfranchised in 1918. Only those over thirty who met the property qualification were included. As Edith noted at the time, she was not among them. By 1926, however, Edith and Mary would have gained the vote as they met both qualifications. Violet, Isobel, and Rosamund would have fallen under the 1918 Act. A question remains about Cora: is she an independent property holder in any way?

** Author's Note 2. The Shambles in York are magical. They consist of a very old street, with buildings dating back centuries. To walk the Shambles is to step back in time. And they can be quite eerie after dusk.

*** Author's Note 3: The name of Matthew's school is information I have drawn from Downton Wiki.

**** Author's Note 4: This is, at the moment, my most favourite among all the scenes I have written for Downton Abbey 1926.

Additional Note: Next comes the Christmas Special. While many individual scenes have been written, piecing them together so as to bring the story to a coherent conclusion wherein all the little loose ends are tied up, is another matter. This may take a bit of time, but not much.

In the meantime, reviews of recent and past chapters would be very welcome.

End of Episode 11