Downton Abbey 1926

Christmas Special (Chapter 12)

Chapter 2

Tuesday November 30, 1926

Violet and Dr. Clarkson

She didn't ask Clarkson for a report. She never did. What could he say but that she was more or less closer to her final breath and this was no longer vital information. Nor did he offer an unasked-for update. They understood each other.

"I'll be back tomorrow," he said.

She had always liked his voice. He spoke clearly. One never had to ask him to repeat himself. And his tone was always appropriate to the occasion. When he had grave news to impart, his demeanor was somber. Otherwise, he was confident without a cloying cheerfulness. She'd gotten used to his Scots accent over the years and, indeed, associated it, along with an almost-always-calm countenance, with his professional competence. A doctor who did not have that soft burr in his voice unsettled her.

"Dr., might I trespass on a few more moments of your time?"

"Of course," he said agreeably. He would not have denied her for the world.

"Please." She indicated a nearby chair. "Sit."

He did so.

"I find your company a refreshing change from that of the women," she confided, but with a little smile to let him know she didn't really mind 'the women.'

"You are fortunate in your attendants," he remarked. "And they're doing a good job."

"Yes, well, Lady Merton trained them all and I think she has them a little cowed." Violet giggled. Dr. Clarkson smiled politely.

"Cousin Isobel," she began, reverting to the familiar form of address, "tells me that you have fallen out with her." She spoke conversationally, easily, but noticed his jaw tighten. He said nothing.

"I am perfectly prepared to believe that she is in the wrong in the matter," Violet went on, watching him closely.

"That is not for me to say," he said mildly, with the ease of one used to restraining his emotions.

"You have been at Downton for almost forty years, Dr., but it took me a while to learn to trust you." This elicited a faint smile from him. They both had long memories. "It has been part of the good fortune my family has now to have drawn good people into our orbit. We have had faithful servants, loyal tenants, and … a skilled and compassionate medical man who made my late husband's dream of a cottage hospital a reality."

This re-direction of the conversation was more amenable to him and his impassivity gave way to a gracious smile. "Thank you, Lady Grantham."

She appreciated his restraint. Violet had never cared for emotional effusion. "Our long relationship does not give me leave to remark on personal matters," she went on, "but I am close to the end and I see no reason to observe conventions of discretion, especially when I believe I may be of use. I hope you will not hold such a transgression against me."

He knew her well enough to know that this appeal was perfunctory. She would speak her mind in any case. He made a slight hand gesture. Go on.

"Please make your peace with Cousin Isobel," she said, in as kindly a manner as she was capable of. "I do not mean this latest business. Not in itself. Only I suspect you were intemperate with her not because of the specific issue on which you quarreled, but because of an unresolved matter."

He neither confirmed nor denied her probe, though he did lift his chin. He was a proud man.

"Cousin Isobel is happy in her present circumstances and I believe we are both pleased about that. Without taking anything away from that, I would like to say that I would not have been at all unhappy had things taken a different turn."

She let that lie between them for a moment.

"I have been keeping you from your work, Dr. Clarkson."

He rose to his feet. She noted, not for the first time, how carefully groomed he was, how well his suit fitted him, how correct were his posture and bearing. Yes, her husband had had a discerning eye when it came to character in the choice of those with whom he surrounded himself, whether friends, servants, or professional men.

"You are very kind, Lady Grantham," he said in that courteous manner he had.

She nodded to him, a gentle dismissal.

"I will be back tomorrow," he said, and withdrew.

Thomas and George

For as long as Thomas had worked at Downton Abbey, Mrs. Carson – Mrs. Hughes as she had long been – had been the housekeeper. He hadn't really paid much attention to either her work or her working habits. He didn't have to do so. His own work as footman, valet, and even underbutler had rarely intersected with hers. The chain of command for male servants ran through the butler. But as butler his oversight included the housekeeper and the maids, if not directly. He paid attention now where he had never done so before. And he had been finding that however convenient it might be for Mrs. Carson to go half-time, the fact that this meant he now had to deal with Madge more regularly was not convenient for him. She just didn't know her business as intimately as Mrs. Carson did and that could be aggravating. He was not very patiently going over the inventory with her when there was a light rapping on the pantry door and Anna put her head in.

"Excuse me, Mr. Barrow. Someone upstairs is asking for you."

Thomas glowered at her. At his best, he could ignore the blissful Bateses. But when he was scrabbling along in the depths of sadness, he found either one irritating and both together almost unbearable. "Why don't they ring, then?" he demanded. Instead of sending cheerful emissaries.

Anna was not put off by his tone. "It's Master George," she said, still smiling.

She thought this would please him. Well, anything was better than trying to educate Madge to the complexities of management details. "Right. Thank you." He sent the assistant housekeeper on her way, ignoring her evident disgruntlement at being dismissed in this fashion. Stepping to the door he paused and then went back to retrieve a pack of cards from the desk. There was something he'd been meaning to show Master George for a while.

Climbing the stairs, Thomas deliberately put away his own concerns and turned his thoughts to George Crawley. From conversations upstairs over the last few days, he was aware of Master George's exploits in York the week before. Apparently he'd come down with a cold as a result of his swim in the River Ouse. Thomas didn't envy him the dunking, at this time of year or any other. He expected he'd hear the tale from the boy himself now and while he wasn't really in the mood for childish adventures, it might be a distraction. It was sure to be an improvement on conversation with Madge.

Master George was in bed and the door to the room was open. Thomas knocked anyway.

"Come in, Barrow." It was Lady Mary, beckoning him in.

"Mr. Barrow!"

Lady Mary stood up and made to go. "I'm only his mother, but George has been asking for you," she said, smiling at her son. "He's lost his appetite, Barrow. I'm hoping you can entice him to take a bite." She spoke casually, but Thomas heard a little bit of disquiet in her voice. Then she was presenting a brighter countenance to her son again. "Don't keep Mr. Barrow long, George. The butler of Downton Abbey is a busy man."

Despite his own ill humour, Thomas felt his heart lighten just a little when the boy's bright eyes fastened on him. And then it fell again, though he couldn't say why. He tried to cover his unease by pulling out the pack of cards. "Thought you might like to see some magic tricks," he said with what was, to his own ears, a false air of heartiness.

Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Carson

Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Carson were having tea in the housekeeper's sitting room.

"What I wouldn't give for a week of quiet," Mrs. Patmore grumbled.

"Isn't that the definition of death, though?"

"Well, I wouldn't mind a few quiet things, then." Mrs. Patmore sipped her tea. For a moment they enjoyed the silence. "So, he's gone then, is he?"

Discretion was so much a part of her professional life that Mrs. Carson's expression did not change though she fully grasped the import of the cook's question. "I beg your pardon?" she said politely.

Mrs. Patmore was not deceived by the politeness. "You know what I'm talking about. Did Mr. Carson really not know about Mr. Rider?" she asked abruptly. "Or is it the part about Mr. Barrow that set him off?"

Now Mrs. Carson's tea cup rattled in her saucer. This was not a conversational direction she had anticipated. Talk about how things kept cropping up! She scrambled for an appropriate response. "Know what?" she asked, a feeble deflection tactic.

The cook rolled her eyes. "You know what. He's like Thomas, he is. I did wonder about Mr. Carson being so fond of him. I'd begun to think he'd gone soft in his retirement. So, are you telling me he really didn't know?"

But Mrs. Carson was not yet prepared to surrender the façade. As far as she knew, Daniel had confided his nature only to herself and Mr. Barrow. Mr. Carson knew now, too, but that was the butler's doing. In the meantime, she was not going to reward Mrs. Patmore's fishing expedition.

"Come on," Mrs. Patmore said impatiently. "I admit it took me a while. But … a man his age, handsome, elegant, gracious to a fault, … and unmarried? And not only that but uninterested? Not at all like the great lump of men out there." She shook her head. "And then friends with Thomas in the bargain. When have we ever known Thomas to have friends?"

"There was Jimmy," Mrs. Carson said, grasping at the last shred of denial.

"He were all red-blooded man, that one. Did he ever stop talking about women? And there we had actual proof, too," she added, alluding to Jimmy's less than gentlemanly conduct toward Ivy, the kitchen maid at the time. "He were never like Mr. Rider."

Well, Mrs. Carson had to agree with that. He'd been competent enough, Jimmy, but she had not mourned his departure.

"And Mr. Carson?" Mrs. Patmore prompted again. And when Mrs. Carson failed to respond immediately, she put down her tea cup and leaned toward her friend. "Mr. Barrow and Mr. Rider were chums. Then there's distance between them and Mr. Rider stops coming downstairs and Mr. Barrow looks all glum. Then you have our Mr. Rider over for dinner and shortly thereafter he disappears. And then Mr. Barrow glumps around like he's lost his best friend. Or," she added meaningfully, "something." She made an exasperated sound, annoyed to have to spell it all out. Leaning back in her chair, she considered the housekeeper. "And I would wager Mr. Carson's not been very happy these last few days either, the way he doted on the fellow."

The housekeeper gave up the pretence. Daniel was gone now and Mrs. Patmore had put too many of the pieces together. And she was rather tired of ignoring elephants. "I don't know what Mr. Carson knew or when," she said. "We never talked about … that aspect of Mr. Rider. But to answer your question, whatever he knew or didn't know, he couldn't avoid it once Mr. Barrow spilled it on the mat, which he did, a few evenings ago. Accidentally. They're friends, Mr. Rider and Mr. Barrow. Only friends." She saw Mrs. Patmore's sceptical look and shook her head. "They both said so in circumstances that lead me to believe them. And, anyway, it's none of my business. Our business," she reiterated, though she knew that was a false hope.

"But Mr. Carson doesn't believe it," Mrs. Patmore pressed, ignoring her friend's signals.

"Whether he does or not is moot," Mrs. Carson said with a sigh. "In his fear, Mr. Carson said … he said some harsh things. About Thomas, mind, and … that sort, not about Mr. Rider. Daniel. Not directly. I think he was desperate to keep Daniel on side, as it were." She didn't notice how she'd lapsed into the familiar.

"But he left anyway."

"Yes, poor fellow."

"And they're all three of them suffering for it," Mrs. Patmore said, in a surprisingly sober and sympathetic way.

Mrs. Carson sighed. "He brightened Mr. Carson's days, Daniel did. And I was hoping…. But Mr. Barrow's announcement was the last straw."

Mrs. Patmore couldn't quite suppress a smile. "Imagine bringing Mr. Barrow home to meet the family. I doubt Mr. Carson would welcome him even if Lady Mary were doing the bringing."

She was trying to lighten the atmosphere, but Mrs. Carson couldn't embrace it. "I think you might be right about that," she said with a sigh.

"You miss him, too," Mrs. Patmore observed,

Mrs. Carson was in no mood to deny it. "I do," she said.

Wednesday December 1, 1926

Isobel, Larry, and Dickie

Isobel had not known what to expect from her elder stepson in the wake of the dinner party and, more particularly, of his knowledge of her awareness of his shady business practices. She had raised it with Cousin Violet shortly thereafter.

"He might do anything," Isobel had said, and there was a faint apprehension in her voice. She could speak frankly to Violet on the matter where she could not to Dickie. And, she knew, her dear friend was glad to have a distraction from the rather more pressing matter of her own mortality.

"Or nothing at all," Isobel added, perplexed.

"I would not put it past him to resort to assassination," Violet said, speaking as placidly as she would have done if asking for the sugar.

Isobel had frowned. "That's not funny."

Violet started as though shocked. "I wasn't aware that I was joking."

This brief exchange had not calmed Isobel's concerns. Would Larry and Amelia just ignore her and Dickie forever more? Dickie might mourn the loss of his son somewhat. Isobel wouldn't. Or was Larry, more plausibly, biding his time and plotting revenge? Isobel believed him capable of it. Though how he might manage it she did not know. She had no skeletons in her closet to be rattled. Of course, there were other means of evening a score and Larry was no doubt well acquainted with them all.

But there was no good speculating. She could not anticipate and did not want to do so. What she had wanted – and what Carson had so skillfully engineered – was the retreat of a bully. If he wished to re-engage, well, then, she would meet that as it came. In the meantime, she should enjoy the days marked by an absence of Larry Grey. A burden had been lifted from her shoulders.

He did not come to see his father in his illness. Isobel dispatched a note to tell Larry and Amelia of Dickie's condition. She courted disaster in doing so because of the connection to the workhouse visit. Larry might legitimately criticize her for that. But it was more than a week later that Isobel, responding to a knock at the door, opened it to find Larry there.

"Oh, dear," she said, before she regained her senses. Well, it was too late to offer a "good morning" now. She simply stared at him.

"May I come in?" he asked.

Isobel could not do otherwise than admit him. Then there they were, standing together as they had done the last time they had spoken alone here, when he had humiliated her. She was determined that would not happen again and found herself silently thanking Carson for having given her the means to protect herself. She said nothing. Larry had come here. Let him speak.

His face was arranged in a neutral expression, his sharp eyebrows at rest rather than arched in that condescendingly quizzical manner with which he usually regarded her. "I understand that dear Papa is recovering from his bout of …?"

"Bronchitis," Isobel replied. "A mild case in the end, fortunately. As you were unable to visit." She was on edge and so her tongue got the better of her.

Larry did not take offense at the muted rebuke. "Amelia and I were, alas, in London," he said. "Of course, we were confident that Papa had the best of care in your capable hands. Dear Isobel…."

Isobel almost flinched hearing her name from those lips and coupled with an endearment, but he seemed not to have noticed. "He's in bed, resting," she said hurriedly. "I can see if he's awake if you'd like." She didn't really like pushing Larry off on Dickie, but surely that was why he had come, to see his father.

But Larry shook his head gently. "Let us not disturb Papa. You see, I've come to beg a favour of you. Two in fact. I hope very much to find you amenable." He smiled, displaying those lovely straight white teeth. The Grey boys were blessed in so many ways, which was sometimes enough to incline Isobel to doubt the existence of a kind God.

So, he wanted something. Well, she might guess what that was. Had he spent the past several weeks trying to frame his plea for her silence in just the right way? Again she said nothing and waited for him to continue.

"It's about Raines," he said.

"I beg your pardon?" Isobel was entirely taken aback.

"The butler," Larry clarified. In other circumstances, his words might have been accompanied by that exaggerated eye roll he had perfected, to let her know how feeble-minded he thought she was in not recalling the name of the butler at Cavenham. But now he added this helpfully.

"Of course." Isobel remained puzzled. Raines?!

"You see, Papa kindly prevailed upon Raines to remain at Cavenham so that the house might rattle on as smoothly as possible in the transition from Papa's residence to the establishment of Amelia and myself there. And we have been deeply grateful for Raines's guiding hand. But," he sighed, "I fear it may be too much for the old boy. He won't admit it, of course, and I would never push him out." Larry made a point of this. "But I do feel he might be better suited to a … smaller house. So I have to beg you, Isobel." This repeated deployment of her name staggered Isobel once more. "… to consider taking him on here, in your lovely house." He smiled a pleasant, almost warm smile, and his gaze circumnavigated the passage.

"I realize that you have no particular need or desire for a butler, but I am asking in the hope of your benevolent regard for Amelia and myself, as well, of course, of dear old Raines, might convince you." He exhaled deeply. "He has served our family well and faithfully for decades and is devoted to Papa."

People occasionally took Isobel for a fool, but she was, as Cousin Violet would have affirmed, nothing of the sort. She had wondered where Carson had secured the damning information about Larry Grey, though she had not wanted to ask him. Now, she had an idea. Where would a butler get such sensitive intelligence but from another butler? Even if Raines were not the source, Larry's mission today suggested that he thought the butler was at the root of it. The most obvious recourse would be to sack the man, but if Raines knew of his master's chicanery, then he might prove a danger if unleashed. Better to keep him in the fold. It turned out that Larry was no fool either.

Isobel did not want a butler, for all sorts of reasons. But she had to admit that Carson had been indispensable in the matter of a society dinner. Raines could manage such things just as well, and perhaps there was value in having one's own employee in charge. No matter what, it was a decision she could not take alone.

"I must discuss this with your father," she said, not giving away the game either way.

Larry nodded congenially. "Thank you. That is all that I can ask."

Isobel thought this might be as close to sincerity as he had ever gotten with her.

D&I D&I D&I D&I D&I

"So, we are to have a butler," Isobel said later, to her husband, over tea.

Dickie gazed at her contemplatively. "Only if you really want one, Isobel. And I'm not convinced that you do."

Well, he was right. But …. "It ties things up nicely, though, doesn't it? The people who know Larry's secret will be in one house. Raines will not be in danger of losing his place, though it may be a blow to his self esteem to serve in Crawley House. And we won't have to rely on Carson if we want to throw another party." She paused. "I'm grateful to Carson, of course. But I am Wellington to his Napoleon, always being called up to try to bring him under some sort of control."

"Without much success," Dickie might have muttered under his breath. He cleared his throat.

"Only if you're sure."

She knew he meant it. But she meant it, too. "A butler doesn't have to be Napoleon. I don't like a fuss, but you are Lord Merton."

"And you are Lady Merton."

"So, it isn't unseemly." Isobel paused. "And it will make Cousin Violet laugh to know that I've succumbed." She laughed at the idea, but her amusement faded quickly.

Dickie reached for her hand and squeezed it comfortingly.

"There's only one thing that bothers me," Isobel went on. "If Raines is the source of the information about Larry, that means that to have him here is to have him spying on us."

But Dickie was unfazed by this. "But the servants do know everything, my darling. Butlers are a treasure trove of family secrets. Why do you think Cousin Violet wanted Carson to write the family history?"

"Because he is completely in her thrall and will tell the story she wants told," Isobel replied, without missing a beat.

"You can't keep your secrets from the servants," Dickie reiterated. "The important thing is loyalty. Cousin Violet trusts Carson implicitly and I daresay with good reason. As for Raines, well, he never liked Larry, but he's always been fond of me!" Dickie's eyes went round in that owlish look he had, and then he laughed.

His humour was infectious. Isobel laughed with him. "That's settled then."

"What was Larry's other favour?" Dickie asked, remembering.

Isobel's face quickly fell again. "If you can believe it, he apologized for his boorish behaviour over the watch I had given to little Edgar and asked if I would consider presenting it to him again, in person. As a Christmas gift. He assured me that this time, it would have an appropriate reception."

A quizzical look descended on Dickie's face. "I hope this doesn't mean we're invited to Christmas dinner."

Isobel stared at him. "I believe it does."

"Oh, dear."

Author's Note: I hope you are enjoying this rapid-fire production of chapters and are looking forward to the resolution of this epic season, which is imminent. You know what I would enjoy? More reviews. If you've been reading this right along through 70 chapters and have never written a review before, now would be a good time to start. When your interest isn't there, not surprisingly, neither is mine.