Downton Abbey 1926
Christmas Special (Episode 12)
Chapter 3
Friday December 3, 1926
John, Anna, and Daisy
"What about opening without a cook, without offering meals?"
John and Anna were in the boot room. The rain of the past few days had made a mess of several pairs of shoes. Cleaning them was not a very enjoyable part of the job, but it was part of the job, and John and Anna had learned that time passed more quickly when they attacked this tedious task together.
Anna stared at him. "It's an inn, Mr. Bates, not a beer parlour. We have to have food. We'll lose money and probably customers."
"It won't be for long," he said. "And as we aren't buying the Grantham Arms, only leasing it, we can carry it for a little while at a loss."
That John should suggest such a thing only told Anna how very much he was looking forward to this new direction in their lives. But Anna could not abandon practicality so radically. "I'd rather not embark on our careers as innkeepers by spending rather than making money," she said tartly.
"Do you have any suggestions?" He raised his eyebrows as he posed the question.
Well, that was the problem. "I thought about asking Mrs. Patmore for some cooking lessons," Anna said slowly. "Basic fare. Just so we can offer something. But I don't like to press her." She remembered the cook's reaction to John's query about cooks.
"Understood," he said. "Well, what about…."
"Why Mrs. Patmore?"
They were both startled by this unexpected interjection. There was always someone moving about in the passage and they had paid no mind to the sounds there. Daisy's voice caught them by surprise.
"What …. Well, it doesn't have to be Mrs. Patmore, I suppose," Anna conceded, rubbing absently at the shoe she was working on. "It's only that we're to take over the Grantham Arms shortly and we haven't yet found a cook."
"And you think you can learn enough in a few weeks to satisfy people who are paying for their dinner?" It certainly didn't sound as though Daisy thought this possible. "Cooking's not like dusting, you know."
The Bateses exchanged glances and silently agreed not to rise to the slight implied in Daisy's words. Instead, John answered her with a question.
"Mrs. Patmore because she's here and we might hope we've built up enough goodwill with her over the years that she might do us this favour. We did think of you, Daisy," he added, recalling the conversation they had had about this weeks ago in Grassington, "but you're off to school."
Daisy lingered in the door. "Well, I'm not gone yet. How long do you think it'll take to find a cook?"
They couldn't answer that, not with any certainty.
"We'd hoped not long at all. But it's already been weeks of looking and we're slated to open January 1st. So, we're hoping by then."
"Good luck. It's Christmas coming up. Cooks are harder to come by at Christmas, as everyone's putting on a big feast."
"Oh." Anna looked at John. They hadn't considered this at all. "Then, perhaps we're likely to be successful in the new year." She turned to Daisy again. "We were hoping to find someone solid, like Mrs. Patmore or you, so we'd be set."
"It's not so easy, you know. Not in Yorkshire."
Daisy seemed determined to be discouraging. This taxed John's patience. "Well, thank you for the advice, Daisy," John said in a carefully controlled tone. "We'll be sure to advertise widely."
"I could do it for you."
She startled them with this declaration and they gaped at her.
"But you're going to school," Anna said.
"I am. But not until the spring. They've accepted me and all, but I applied too late for the winter term."
John put his hands flat on the table to steady himself and carefully nudged Anna's foot with one of his. This changed everything. "We would be very pleased," he said deliberately, "and grateful if you would consider it, Daisy."
"But … won't you be working here?"
Daisy shrugged. "Here, there. It doesn't matter. Mrs. Patmore's already prepared for me to go. I could stay on here, but I wouldn't mind working in a kitchen of my own, that I'm in charge of." She gave them a look and both John and Anna immediately nodded. Daisy could hardly be more imperious than Mrs. Patmore and they would be prepared to give her a free hand if only they could secure her services. "And if it would help you," Daisy added.
"It would help us tremendously, Daisy!" John didn't know that he had ever smiled so warmly at Daisy.
"Are you sure, Daisy?" Anna asked, still hesitant. "We did think to ask you, but we didn't want to disrupt your plans." She paused. "A pub may not be quite like the kitchen at Downton."
Daisy laughed. "No. It won't. I'll be making the decisions."
Daisy withdrew and John and Anna clasped hands and turned to each other, smiling, really smiling.
"I think our Daisy has grown up," John said, grinning.
"I think Mrs. Patmore is going to accuse us of poaching," Anna said, half laughing, but still a little cautious.
John didn't care. He leaned over to kiss her and for a long moment they enjoyed the indulgence.
"Oh, John," Anna murmured in his ear. "Is it possible that this one little thing will go right?"
"Merry Christmas," he whispered back.
The Molesleys
"Young man left in a hurry."
Old Mr. Molesley had come for tea at his son's cottage. He preferred to have Joseph come to his cottage, but the lad had invited him and you had to make a sacrifice every once in a while for your children.
"Mr. Rider? Yes. Precipitously." Molesley had tried his hand at scones, using the receipt Mrs. Patmore had given him with no little degree of scepticism, and presented the best of them on a plate and then went to fetch the tea pot. "He was very quiet all last week. Then, come Saturday, he packed up his things, paid up his rent through next Friday, though I tried to refuse it, and left the next morning."
His father picked up a scone, gave it a once-over, and then put it back. "Bit of a mystery, then."
Molesley paused thoughtfully before setting down the teapot. "I shouldn't think much of one. It'll be that he's fallen afoul of Mr. Carson. Everyone does. Or, perhaps, trouble in his family."
"Don't know what you were thinking about, taking him in in the first place." Old Mr. Molesley settled himself in a comfortable chair.
"He needed somewhere to stay and I had room," Molesley said mildly. And then with a ghost of a smile, his eyes slanting towards his father, he added, "That's how my dad taught me to be."
The old man snorted. "Never knew you were listening."
"I've heard everything you ever said to me, Dad." Molesley spoke in a matter-of-fact way. There was no one for whom he had greater respect than his dad.
"Well, it were convenient of him to shove off at this moment."
"Why, particularly?" Molesley asked, finding his father's pronouncement a little puzzling. He reached over to pour the tea.
"Two's company, three's a crowd," the older man intoned, as though imparting a pearl of wisdom.
"What?"
There were many who found Joseph Molesley's almost painful modesty and comprehensive ingenuousness frustrating. His father had more patience than most, but now his glittering azure eyes conveyed only exasperation. "I'm not one to interfere, lad. You know that. Never have been. But you can't wait a lifetime for some things, or you miss out on life itself."
Still his son frowned, bewildered. "What are you saying, Dad?"
"The lass! The lass! She's grand. You love her. She loves you. There's nowt else about it! What are you waiting for? Christmas?'
And, at last, Molesley understood. Had anyone else raised the subject, he would have blushed and stuttered. But this was his dad. No one knew him better and he had nothing to hide from the man. So he did not blush, and when he spoke his voice was steady. "Why, yes, Dad. That's it exactly."
Old Mr. Molesley threw himself back in his chair. "She'll have to have the patience of a saint, and all," he declared. And he almost smiled.
Isobel and Henry
Isobel stood in the shadow of the doorway of the children's night nursery. At this time of day, it was usually empty, with George and Stephen in the day nursery with Nanny and her assistant, and Sybbie off to school.
But George was feeling poorly, the after-effects of his dunk in the River Ouse, and Isobel expected to find him in bed, attended by Nanny herself. But the only other person in the room this afternoon was Henry Talbot. He was sitting on the bed, facing George, who was propped up against the pillows. The boy's face was flushed, but he was grinning. And no wonder. Between them on the blanket, were two wooden model aircraft and Henry was holding a third aloft and explaining its features. George was mesmerized.
Isobel hardly heard what Henry was saying, so absorbed was she by the picture. She did not know what it was with men and boys that they were so enamoured with all things military. It was something – playing at war, even with toys – of which she highly disapproved. But there seemed no quenching it. Matthew had played with soldiers, recreating the battles of the Napoleonic wars. Now his son was playing with fighter aircraft.
More intriguing was the tableau of this man and this boy together, and the sense of the dynamic between them. George had been fatherless for the first five years of his life. Mary had done her best – and Isobel had abetted her in every way – to make Matthew a real presence in their son's life, but he could only ever be an abstract force. Henry Talbot was here, in the flesh, and George had taken to him with ease. And, bittersweet though the acknowledgment of it was to her, Henry had taken to being a father. The fairy tales made stepmothers the villains, but no doubt there were stepfathers aplenty who resented their charges. But no one watching this aminated exchange would have taken Henry and George for anything but a natural father and his son.
For some reason, Henry glanced at the door and caught sight of Isobel. He stood up quickly. "Look, George. You've another visitor. It's Grandmamma."
Isobel went in, then, smiling, her heart bursting with love as she looked upon the handsome little blond boy who so resembled his father. "George!" She bent down to kiss his cheek, noting the unnatural warmth of his face. Automatically, she put a hand to his forehead and her smile diminished just a little. He was a little flushed.
"Grandmamma!" George's enthusiasm matched hers, but she heard, too, a raspiness in his throat and noted a little sluggishness in his movements. He was usually a boundless ball of energy. And he flinched when she clutched his shoulders. That was odd.
"Where is Nanny?" she asked, wanting to inquire more deeply into George's health.
"Errands," Henry said promptly. "I was here." He stepped back. "I'll leave you to have your visit with George."
"Oh, no," Isobel said. "Not unless you've a reason to rush off."
"Stay, Papa!" George put in.
Isobel winced and then chided herself. But Henry noticed and Isobel noticed him noticing. She gestured with her hand. It's fine. But it made for an awkward moment between them. At Henry's invitation, Isobel took his place on the bed beside George. Her gaze fell once more on the planes.
"Goodness! These are fearsome machines!" She picked up one of them.
"That's a Sopwith Camel," George said authoritatively. His voice was hoarse and he coughed. He moved to seize another model and didn't quite make it, the toy slipping from his grasp. He frowned, moved with greater deliberation and picked it up. "This is a Bristol. And Papa," he pointed to Henry, who held the third plane by his side, "has … has …." He frowned, uncertain.
But Henry shrugged. "I don't know what it is either," he admitted, smiling. His gaze shifted to Isobel. "How is Lady Grantham?"
Isobel managed to maintain her smile, but it dimmed a little. "She's having a good day."
"And her attendants?" Henry asked archly.
She couldn't help herself. She laughed. "They're managing very well." Mary was among them today. "It's lovely to see you here with George," she went on. "But what about your shop?"
"Tom's there," Henry said easily, moving around to the other side of the bed, apparently deciding that he did not need to leave just because Isobel had arrived. "He's stepped in to lighten Mary's load with the estate so that she can spent more time at the Dower House and he's taking on the shop today so that I can be here with George."
"That's kind of him," Isobel said, but she thought it was kind of Henry, too. Mary had chosen well.
"I don't know where we'd be without him."
Nanny came in. "Well, Master George. You're being very well looked after!"
"Are we in your way?"
"Not at all, my lady," Nanny said briskly. "Only, if you'll give me a moment, I'll get Master George into some fresh pajamas. He's been cold and I've fetched some warmer flannels."
Obligingly, Henry and Isobel stepped into the passage.
"How is he?" Isobel cast a slightly discomfited glance over her shoulder.
Henry frowned. "He was down a bit at the beginning of the week, picked up for a few days, and now is poorly again. A bit feverish, some aching muscles. We are into flu season."
"Mmm." It was flu season and they all knew enough not to take that lightly.
"I'll go down to the library for a bit," Henry offered. "Leave you to visit with George."
"But I'm the intruder," Isobel protested.
Henry gave her that engaging half-smile of his. "I think grandmothers have special privileges."
Well, she wouldn't argue with him about that. "Henry," she said, before he could slip away. "I haven't had the opportunity to thank you for your thoughtfulness at the pageant. I … I appreciate it." It took some effort to control the emotion in her voice.
"We want to keep Matthew in George's life, Mary and I," he said slowly. "He may not be alive, but he's real. That's important. For George and Mary."
"Well, it's kind of you."
He nodded and withdrew, leaving Isobel to ponder what it was about Mary that drew such fine men to her. Then her thoughts returned to George and to his complaint, audible through the open door, of an aching in his arms.
Sunday December 5, 1926
Mary and Henry
On Sunday night, Mary and Henry Had dinner with the Darings. They'd made the arrangements two weeks earlier. Mary had found herself just a little reluctant as they were dressing.
"They'll understand if we cancel," Henry said easily. "They have children, too."
But Mary chose not to do so. They looked in on George before they left and found him sleeping. Nanny appeared to have things well in hand and Mary had never doubted the woman. Perhaps Freddy discerned unease in Mary's tone when relating the story of George and the River Ouse, for she suggested an early evening. Standing over her son in the darkness of the night nursery, Mary was glad to be home.
"Let's have Dr. Clarkson come in the morning," she whispered to Henry, who stood beside her. "I thought he was getting better."
"So he was, my lady," Nanny said. "On Thursday, I could hardly contain him. Perhaps he overdid it."
"Perhaps." Kissing George's forehead, Mary wondered if she should stay with him.
Nanny discouraged this. "I've nursed sick children before, my lady," she said confidently.
Mary spent a restless night, sleeping fitfully and waking, alarmed, from dreams that she could not remember. There was something wrong.
"Mary?" Henry's voice was muffled. He spoke in a state of drowsiness, his mouth against his arm, making his words indistinct.
Mary was sitting up. "I'm sorry, darling. I can't get to sleep."
Henry roused himself and shifted to a half-sitting position, propped on one arm. "What is it?"
"George," Mary said flatly. "Henry, I'm worried. He has a fever, a sore throat, aching muscles." She was gratified that he did not dismiss her concerns, only frowning thoughtfully in the dim light of the bedside lamp. "It'll be a flu of some sort," Mary went on. "It's that time of year. And he did take a chill from the river. I don't like being one of those mothers who hovers, but…."
A lazy smile etched its way across Henry's face. "Darling, mothers are allowed to worry. Go to him. Spend the rest of the night in the children's room. What's left of it." He squinted at the slim gap in the curtain as though he could tell from the strength of light or darkness passing through it what time it was. "Nanny won't mind," he added encouragingly.
Mary allowed herself a wan smile. "Well, she might." She leaned over to kiss him and then got out of bed, reaching for her dressing gown. "I'll go check on him." She paused. "Just don't tell Edith."
They both laughed at that.
* G * G * G * G * G *
Early Monday Morning, December 6, 1926
Henry woke again when the scullery maid came in to build the fire. He tactfully waited for her to withdraw and then grabbed his robe. Mary had not returned. He padded down the gallery to the night nursery. There he found Mary sitting in a rocking chair, her arms wound around George who was sprawled across her. Mary's eyes were bright with tears. George was moaning fretfully. Nanny stood by, uncertain. The beds of the other children were empty, despite the early hour.
"Master George has been in such a state," Nanny explained in a murmur to Henry. "We've taken the other children to the day nursery."
"Thank you, Nanny," Henry said absently, his eyes riveted to mother and child. He flung himself down on one knee beside Mary, reaching out to press his hand to George's forehead. The boy was burning up.
Mary's gaze lifted to his but it appeared she could say nothing.
"I'm going to call Dr. Clarkson," Henry said. He spoke quietly so as not to disturb George, but there was tension in his voice. "Nanny." He got to his feet and turned to the woman. "Please have someone waken Lord and Lady Grantham."
"Yes, Mr. Talbot."
He glanced back at Mary and then headed for the stairs and the telephone.
