CHRISTMAS SPECIAL (Episode 12)
Chapter 1
Saturday November 27, 1926
Violet and the Girls, Part II
"Is this going to become a regular thing?"
Violet had finished her breakfast and dressed and had just been ensconced in her chair in the downstairs sitting room when Isobel showed up with a sheaf of papers in her hand and an abundance of good cheer. Rosamund and Mary only had time to mutter to each other something about supervision, when Cora and Edith appeared as well.
"Well, I'm supposed to be here," Mary said, a little crossly, her critical gaze falling on her mother and sister. "It's my turn."
"I live here," Rosamund said. "Mary has things very well in hand. I only came in for a word before I went into the village."
"I've worked out a schedule," Isobel announced, waving her papers. "I've brought one for each of us so that we'll know when we're scheduled." Isobel's voice carried none of the irritation that Mary had exhibited. Instead, she was brimming over with professional zeal. She believed in regulations and was delighted to be devising and imposing them again. She handed out the papers.
"Don't I get one?" Violet asked.
Isobel faltered a little, and then, smiling, handed her own copy to Violet.
"Thank you," Violet said crisply, taking the paper but fixing Isobel with a look.
"Isn't this a little regimented?" Rosamund asked, staring at the page.
"Without a schedule, it will be chaos," Isobel said firmly.
"And we wouldn't want that."
"I hope we've accounted for the servants' lunch," Cora added very quietly, drawing a puzzled look from Edith. Cora's words recalled the last time she had encountered Isobel's organizational charts. It had not been a pleasant exchange.
"I beg your pardon?"
Cora smiled at Isobel. "Oh, nothing."
"And you are here because…."
With Isobel's critical eye on her, Cora remembered not only Isobel's fondness for regimentation, but also how much it had grated. So she held up the basket she carried. "Mrs. Patmore sent over some of her cream scones for tea."
"Why?" Mary was distracted. "Granny has never complimented Mrs. Patmore's cooking. I didn't think Mrs. Patmore even liked Granny."
"That's not so," Cora said, putting the basket on the table, and smiling at the affronted Violet in a way to dampen Mary's blunt words. "She was just being nice," Cora added in an aside. "And … Mrs. Patmore likes me."
Isobel's questioning look had fallen on Edith, who started under it.
"I drove Mama over and thought I'd look in," she explained. "We're on our way to York for one of Mama's meetings."
"I meant to ask you the other day, Edith. Did that business of the letters in The Sketch get sorted?" Rosamund's query came out of the blue and drew bemused looks all around for different reasons. "Mama told me about it," she added for Edith's benefit.
"Do you mean Spratt and Denker writing love letters to each other?"
"What?" Mary, who had been studying her grandmother and wondering if there were any small aspects of Granny's comfort she had overlooked, was distracted.
"Yes," said Edith, without elaborating. "I told him we wouldn't publish any more of them and to watch his step."
"But it wasn't them at all," Isobel put in, making a bit of a discrete shooing gesture so as to clear the room. She had dropped in to see how Mary, perceived at the weakest link in the caring team, was getting on in her first solo effort, and thought perhaps the thing was getting hijacked. "It was Bates."
"What are you talking about?" Mary demanded, bewildered, but curious, too.
"You can read them for yourself," Rosamund said, refusing to taking Isobel's hint. "Mama has copies. May I, Mama?"
Violet waved her hands as though helpless to halt proceedings and Rosamund went to the desk, opened the drawer and drew out copies of The Sketch.
"Oh, Granny!" Edith was touched.
"What has Bates got to do with anything?" Cora asked.
"You must ask him," Violet said discretely, and then smiled. "It is a tale quite worth hearing." She glanced at Mary. "You can look at them when they're all gone," she added, less discretely.
"I think that might be a hint for us to leave," Cora said.
"Hint? I thought it was a clear statement." Violet stared pointedly.
"Finally," Mary muttered, though not quietly enough to escape anyone's hearing.
"I looked in on George before I left," Edith said, moving to the door. "Nanny wanted him to stay in bed, but he insisted on getting up."
"George?" Isobel was diverted.
"He fell in the river in York yesterday," Mary told her. "I was saving that story for a little later."
"Goodbye, ladies." Cora took hold of Edith's arm and led her out.
"Are you sure George is all right?" Isobel asked Mary.
Mary, already annoyed at the interruptions of her morning with Granny, made an effort to stifle her impatience with Isobel. "He's perfectly fine."
Perhaps Isobel got the underlying message as well. "Well. Then I've delivered my schedules, so I'll be going," she said.
Mary's gaze shifted to Rosamund.
"I'll walk you out." Rosamund followed Isobel.
Mary waited until the door closed behind them all. "I don't think they trust me with you, Granny."
Violet regarded her granddaughter with a touch of unease. "Do they have grounds for concern?"
Mary and Edith
"How did it go today?"
Mary and Edith were having a moment alone in the library. Cora had taken the evening shift at the Dower House and Robert had insisted on driving her over, an excuse both to visit his Maa and also to drive his new car. Tom and Henry were not yet home.
Mary considered Edith for a moment, trying to decipher not the question itself, but rather the motive. Edith pre-empted any deep examination.
"I'm not trying to catch you out, Mary. I was only wondering how things went. This is … new … for us. I'm a little skittish."
Mary had spent her whole life braving things. She took Granny's example to heart. Forget Forgive, yes; forget, never as an operating maxim. Mary's favourite of Granny's standards was Never let anyone see that they have gotten the better of you. Mary had perfected the cold shoulder to any slight. She had learned how to feign indifference. She had long harboured nothing but contempt for Edith's casual admissions of inadequacy. Forgetting that she had acknowledged as much only the other day during their training session, in which, had they been graded, Mary would have come dead last, she now marvelled at Edith's words. Was it liberating to be able to confess a lack of self-confidence?
Of course not! What rubbish.
"Granny is still capable of most things," Mary said, responding to the question. "I did little more than fetch her thing sand allow her to lean on me when she needed to move. She graciously allowed me to pour the tea." The sisters smiled at each other over that. "I did spend some time going over her medications. For much of the time, we just talked, which we both enjoyed. But," Mary added, "she did let me practice lifting her in and our of her chair."
They both laughed at this.
"We didn't mean to put you off this morning," Edith said. "Really. Mrs. Patmore surprised us with the scones."
"They were delicious. And I wasn't put off. Not by you, at any rate. But Denker did hover. And though I've not had a great deal of regard for her, I was still quite uncomfortable under her eye."
"Have you found a new lady's maid yet?"
"No. I suppose I'll have to get on with that."
Edith smiled mischievously. "What about Denker?"
"What about Denk…? What?" Mary's eyes went round in horror.
"Well, she will be without employment eventually." Edith's smile faded a bit as she said this. To speak of such things was to enter into the shape of a world without Granny in it. She rallied. "Denker and Spratt and, in fact, the whole staff at the Dower House will become superfluous. They must all be trembling for their future." Edith frowned thoughtfully. "And then there's the house itself. What will become of it? Granny's lived there for as long as I can remember. I can't see Tom there," she added, as an afterthought.
"No, not Tom," Mary agreed, and shifted a little uncomfortably. "But perhaps Henry and I."
"What?" Edith was surprised.
Mary couldn't blame her for her reaction. "Henry has been wanting us to live on our own. He's happy enough at Downton. He'd just like … a little space."
"Understandably," Edith said agreeably. "Brancaster Castle has more than 150 rooms, but sometimes it seems that Bertie's mother is everywhere."
"I've been resisting. But I was saying to Henry yesterday…." Mary trailed off and frowned. "But if it means we'd have to keep Denker and Spratt on …. Gracious! Poaching Carson from Papa was one thing. It was Carson, after all. I don't think I could bear those two." She paused. "I read the letters in The Sketch. Who knew that Bates had such a sense of humour?"
"I hadn't heard the story," Edith admitted. "To tell the truth, I'm glad it wasn't Spratt."
"Rosamund says Spratt and Denker have been at each other's throats over it and no one deserves the aggravation more, I say."
"And along with them," Edith went on, sticking to the servant theme, "you could hire Daisy to cook. Or run the house. Or as a secretary in the estate office."
"What?"
"Well, she is a bit old to be working under Mrs. Patmore's supervision. And she can probably cook anything. And she's been admitted to … or shortly will be … to Hillcroft for the business course."
"Daisy."
"Yes."
"The kitchen maid."
"Yes. Only I think she's assistant cook now."
"Edith, I don't think I would last three days in my own house with Spratt and Denker and Daisy."
"I believe Daisy is quite reliable. And bright."
Mary groaned. "I'll worry about that another time. Did you know about Papa and this … car?"
"How could I? I've not been to Downton in weeks. Didn't Henry tell you about it?"
"No. Papa swore him to secrecy and Henry keeps confidences."
"That's a good thing."
"Well, it can be, but it's also annoying. I'm worry about Papa driving."
"Why?"
Mary just stared at her sister. To Mary's mind, the answer was self-evident.
"Bertie and I drive," Edith said. "And Papa didn't want to hire another chauffeur. I don't quite know why he needed to get a new car, but having one will give him some independence."
This only bewildered Mary the more. "What does having a chauffeur or not to do with being independent? Besides, earls don't drive themselves."
"You sound like Granny."
"I'm worried about Papa on the road. Think, Edith. Matthew. And Charlie Rogers. Every time I see Papa getting into that car, that's all I'll be able to think about."
"Do you worry about me driving?"
"No," Mary said promptly. "Why would I? You've been driving for ages. And you're a woman, Edith. Men have this … thing … about cars."
Edith came over perplexed. Apparently Bertie gave her no cause for concern this way. "Is George all right?" she asked.
"Let's go see." Mary stood up. "You'd like to check on Marigold, wouldn't you?"
Of course, Edith would.
Monday November 29
Robert and Carson
"I think it's going to snow."
Carson said nothing to this declaration, but he had a sceptical look on his face.
"Look at that sky," Robert persisted, gesturing with his walking stick. "And it's cold enough." This was an observation, not a complaint. Robert didn't mind cold weather, unless it forced a postponement of something important, like a cricket match. Rain might deter Robert and Carson from their weekly walks, but a chill in the air did not.
They were exchanging news as they usually did on their Monday morning tramps.
"He only got very wet," Robert said, referring to George. "The Ouse has a current and it might have made off with him, but Mr. Talbot leapt in to save him, and he'll be right as rain."
"Mr. Talbot is a fine man," was Carson's understated response.
Robert glanced at him. "You like him."
"I do, my lord. I think Lady Mary chose wisely."
It was all Robert could do not to roll his eyes, but he caught himself. Although Carson's approval of what Mary did was always a good bet, he could be discriminating. With Robert, Carson had watched in silent dismay as Mary had shackled herself to Sir Richard Carlisle. Both were greatly relieved when she had summoned the courage to call it off.
"I do, too," Robert said, speaking of Henry Talbot. "All in all, I've been very fortunate in my sons-in-law."
"Is Master George completely recovered, then?" Carson asked, withholding judgment on sons-in-law. He had come around on Tom Branson, but there was always a reservation.
Robert ducked under a low-hanging branch. "Well, he was only wet. No bumps and bruises. But it was very cold and now it seems he did catch a chill. He didn't come down with the other children yesterday. Cora would like to call the doctor, but I'm sure it's nothing." Women would fuss over children and, he supposed, nannies did so to a more exaggerated degree to justify their presence. But Robert thought a bowl of Mrs. Patmore's soup of more practical use than the pointless hovering. "Is Mrs. Carson enjoying the wireless?" he asked, changing the subject.
Carson, who had been looking a little dour, brightened a little. "She is, my lord."
"Well done, Carson."
"I had thought we would enjoy the music, and we do. But she's taken to all it offers, listening to plays and even the news. She would have me believe the BBC is superior to The Times, my lord."
They exchanged an affirming look at that. What could compare to The Times?!
"It was a wonder to hear the King speak over it," Robert admitted, "but I still can't countenance the … the waste of time, sitting in front of a box." He shook his head.
"Well, we don't sit in front of it," Carson said, a little hesitantly. He paused and Robert did wonder just a little what he was going to say next. "We … dance."
This elicited a smile from Robert. It took something out of Carson to part with that personal detail, and no doubt he feared it would open up further questions about his time on the halls. But Robert had promised not to press him on that and the Earl of Grantham kept his promises.
"And Mrs. Carson says listening to a play is more efficient than reading a book for she can do something else while she listens – wash up, knit, fold laundry."
"Hmm." Robert hadn't thought about that. He had pictured listeners across the nation sitting before the box, staring at it, as they had while listening to the King's speech. "I don't think I could do accounts or correspondence with that blaring at me."
"No. Of course not. But mundane chores…."
They walked for a while. One of the things Robert particularly appreciated about Carson was that they could talk or not talk. And they could just enjoy their dogs. Robert believed he'd had an insight into Carson that no one else shared in coming up with the idea of getting him a dog. And the sceptics were wrong. Carson had taken to the companionship of the handsome collie with an enthusiasm that had exceeded even Robert's expectations. Thinking of this reminded Robert of a more troubling question that he wanted to raise.
"I didn't see your assistant in the library this morning," he said. "He's so unobtrusive that I hardly noticed him until he wasn't there." This wasn't quite accurate, but Carson's assistant had become a delicate matter and Robert approached it carefully. "Is he ill?"
Carson's expression went stony and distant. "No. He's not ill, my lord."
Robert waited.
"He's gone."
With a heavy feeling in his chest, Robert said quietly, "Gone?"
Carson affected a casual air that struck Robert as insincere. "Well, the work has been suspended and that was why he was here."
Robert let that lie for a moment. "The work, as you have conducted it so far, you mean. The interviews with my mother have been suspended." At a sharp look from Carson, Robert sighed. "There's no need to hide from it, Carson. My mother…." He kept saying 'my mother' rather than 'the Dowager' or 'Lady Grantham.' Somehow he felt the formal address awkward and he wondered why that was. "… is no longer up to the effort of interviews. But this is a history of the Crawleys, of the Earldom of Grantham, not merely of my parents. I imagine there's a great deal of work remaining." He spoke earnestly. The project had animated Mama and given Carson meaningful work and a vital new companion.
"I think it is for the best, my lord," Carson said circumspectly, but with a bit of an edge to his voice. He had spoken thus when trying politely to deter Robert from probing his sojourn on the halls.
Robert refused to take the hint. "Did something happen?" he asked delicately. He knew enough to imagine some possibilities. Or perhaps someone had talked. It would not have been Barrow.
Carson struggled to find a proper way to respond. "I don't like to say," he said finally, but looked pained.
Robert accepted this. It was how they were, Carson and he, both together and as Englishmen. "Of course not." He was silent for a moment, but found he could not put it aside. "Only you seemed to get on so well."
"We did."
There was an air of finality to that. Past tense.
Perhaps he ought to have let it go, but this was not like the dance hall episode. This was far more serious and Robert could see that Carson was grieving. He cared too much about the man to ignore it.
"It is, of course, none of my business, Carson," Robert said, looking off into the distance, "but you seemed … happy … when he was about."
"Yes." Again the note of doom. It was over.
There might have been another cause, but Robert doubted it. He had anticipated such a reaction from Carson and did not judge him for it, but mourned it all the same. "I would only say, Carson, that there are many facets to a man."
It was perhaps a provocative statement. In other circumstances, Carson might have asked him what he meant, or what he knew. It was a measure of the man's sensitivity on this subject that he said nothing at all in response.
Robert let it go.
Mary and Robert
Mary was at the desk in the library when Robert came in after lunch.
"You're frowning, Papa. What is it?"
"Nothing to trouble you with," he said automatically, sifting pointlessly through a stack of letters.
Mary knew how to interpret that statement. "How is Carson?" she asked, as a stalling tactic until she could devise a more effective probe.
Robert went still and Mary looked up at him. "Papa?"
"He's morose, actually," Robert admitted. "His assistant … Rider … has left. Or Carson's sacked him. I'm not sure which. And Carson is unhappy."
"That's odd. I thought they got on like a house on fire." Their eyes met and Mary tossed her head a little. "That's a bad analogy," she added. The memory of Shamrock Cottage in flames was still too close to them.
"They did," Robert responded, moving on. "From all accounts, including that of Carson himself, he's never liked anyone more. Except for Mrs. Carson and you." Robert said this without conscious thought. For him, Carson's relationship with Mary was simply a fact.
"Has Carson figured it out, then?" Mary asked peremptorily. "Or did someone blab?"
Sometimes it could still surprise Robert that his daughter was a worldly-wise adult. "Yes," he conceded. "At least, I assume that that is the case. Carson, of course, said nothing of the sort." They both understood that. "He seems very … hurt. I don't quite know why. After all, he's co-existed with Barrow for years." Robert sighed. "I attempted a bit of amelioration, without success. It is Carson's business," he added.
Mary looked thoughtful. "I could have a talk with him," she said crisply. "He's straightened me out on a few occasions." She smiled faintly, thinking of Henry. "Turnabout is fair play."
"I shouldn't meddle," her father said, but without much conviction. "Have you given any thought to replacing Anna?"
It was an abrupt shift, but Mary responded smoothly. "No. Have you? About Bates?"
"No. I am reconciled to his going. I'm just not reconciled to being without him. Are you thinking of doing without a lady's maid?"
"Oh, no! Do you know, Edith the other day suggested Denker." She watched her father closely for his reaction and he did not disappoint.
His eyes bugged out in mock alarm. "Surely we're not that desperate."
"That's what I thought. I must write out a notice for The Lady this afternoon."
