Downton Abbey 1926

Christmas Special (Episode 12)

Chapter 6

Tuesday December 7, 1926

Mary, Cora, and Clarkson

Henry had driven Mary and Cora to the hospital, but Cora prevailed upon him to let her take a turn standing vigil."We don't all need to be there all the time," Cora said. Henry had conceded this.

Mary went immediately to the window, her eyes drinking in every detail, trying to determine whether anything had changed in the few hours she had been absent. The room was white, everything in it was white. Although that made for a sense of cleanliness and efficiency, Cora couldn't help thinking that a little colour might be more cheerful.

"I've let Matthew down, Mama. This is our child and I … wasn't watching him. I ought to have…."

"Mary, you were watching him."

"And Isobel," Mary went on, ignoring her mother. "I can't bear to think of her."

"Then don't. You've quite enough on your plate."

Even as they stood there, Dr. Clarkson entered the room and went to George's side, and the nurse immediately drew the curtain across the glass so that they could no longer see in.

"They do that whenever they're going to move him," Mary said. "Or apply hot packs or anything else that causes him discomfort. They don't want me to see."

Cora, heartened by Dr. Clarkson's appearance, drew Mary over to the chairs. "I think that's a good thing. Why are the blankets raised like that around him? If he has chills, wouldn't they tuck him in well?"

"He can't bear the weight of even a sheet," Mary said with authority, tinged with anguish. "The pain in his limbs is such that even that light touch is too much." It had not been twenty-four hours since George had arrived at the hospital, and already Mary was conversant with many aspects of his care.

"You look as exhausted this morning as you did last night," Cora observed, concerned. "Did you get any sleep at all?"

"I hardly closed my eyes. How could I? Whenever I did so, all I saw was George, writhing in pain…. All I could think of was that I was so far away from him, if anything happened…."

"You could take a hotel room nearby. You need your sleep."

"Well, perhaps. But not yet." Mary closed her eyes for a long moment and then turned to her mother. "Mama, I didn't realize, with Sybil, what you went through. I'm sorry. I should have been more supportive, more … present for you. Instead, I'm afraid, I was wallowing in my own grief."

"Of course you were," Cora said kindly. "You had your own sorrows. She was your sister."

"And I loved her, Mama. And I was shaken by her death, torn apart, really. But … it wasn't like this. This is what you went through. I wished I'd…taken more notice."

Cora appreciated Mary's sentiments. "How could you? Oh, Mary, it's not quite the same with George, but I do wish you had been spared anything like it. It is the very worst thing."

"And I can do nothing for him," Mary said, stifling a sob. "I think I might feel better if I had a better working relationship with God. But I've not held up my part of the bargain with Him, and I fear He's left me to fend for myself!" She was crying in earnest now.

Cora went to her and put an arm around her, drawing her into a mother's embrace. Too often, in the many moments of smaller wounds and woes in Mary's life, Nanny had been the one to console her. Or Carson. Cora knew that Mary had a rich and enduring relationship with Carson, that he had always been a source of comfort to the girl. Cora didn't begrudge either Nanny or Carson their solicitude. She regretted only that she had not played a larger part in the emotional journeys of her children. Doing might have made her more confident about doing so now.

The door opened and Dr. Clarkson came in.

Cora was more grateful than she could ever say that Clarkson had taken charge of George, that no unfamiliar specialist had interceded. In this moment the family craved the comfort of the familiar, needed to trust implicitly. Clarkson fit that bill, even down to his particular interest in infantile paralysis. His expression was serious. Mary dabbed the tears from her face and stood to greet him, glancing as she did so at the glass, where the curtain remained drawn.

"Dr….."

He had seen the direction of Mary's gaze and held up a hand to ward off her worst assumptions. "Nurse Monroe is bathing Master George. You'll be able to see him again in a few minutes."

That relieved Mary, and Cora, too, only a little, for it seemed that the doctor had something to say.

"Something's changed," Mary charged. "You have news." It was clear that she did not think the tidings good.

Dr. Clarkson nodded. "I do. Please sit down, Lady Mary, Lady Grantham."

Mary groaned and melted into a chair. Cora sat next to her, sitting upright, and staring alertly at the doctor.

Dr. Clarkson sat immediately across from Mary and spoke directly to her. Cora appreciated that.

"Lady Mary, in my examination of Master George this morning it is clear that he has lost the muscle reflex in his left arm. This would indicate that the virus has entered the spinal fluid and is now affecting the neurons that control the muscles in that arm."*

It seemed to Cora that there was a leaden weight in her stomach. She reached for Mary's hand and Mary's fingers locked tightly with her own. Mary stared at Clarkson with eyes wide, tears spilling over from them and creating fine, salty rivulets on her cheeks.

"I understand that it is difficult for you to be optimistic at this moment," Clarkson went on, speaking earnestly, but also with the lilt of his Scottish accent softening his words. "But you must not give yourself over to despair. Master George's ability to breathe on his own is not at all affected. While there is now evidence of paralysis, it is localized. Usually it shows up in the legs. Your son is affected in one arm."

"Might it not spread?" Mary asked dully, reluctant to accept any degree of paralysis as a good thing.

Clarkson did not hesitate with his response. "It might, yes. But I don't think it likely. We'll have a better idea in a day or two if things have bottomed out or not. We'll have to wait and see."

Mary fell back in her chair. "Patience is not my long suit, Dr."

"I'm afraid it must be in this case, Lady Mary. The infantile paralysis is a disease to test the patience of Job. But, please, take this to heart. Paralysis is rare. Permanent paralysis is rarer still. One can never be certain in such matters, but I believe I can say with a degree of confidence that Master George will live. Please hold onto that, for now."

"Do you have any idea what kind of time frame we are looking at, Dr. Clarkson?" Cora interceded gently.

He glanced her way and then fixed his gaze on Mary once more. "If there was no paralysis, we could have expected recovery to begin in ten to twelve days. With this new factor in the equation, it may be four to six weeks before we know which direction the illness will take."

He sat still for a moment, letting them digest this information and then extended a hand, which he placed on Mary's free one.

"Lady Mary, this is the long game, an endurance race, not a sprint. It may be presumptuous of me to say so, but I believe you are up to the challenge. But you cannot sustain an indefinite presence here, from dawn 'til night. It is too much for anyone, including you. I'll not chase you out, because circumstances are such that we can accommodate you somewhat. If there were a ward full of afflicted children, that would not be possible. So, small blessings. But you must begin to take care of yourself because you will need energy to run the course."

Mary nodded to show that she had heard what he said. "I will. I will …adapt, Dr. Clarkson. But not yet."

He stared at her and then stood up. "I will be in every day. And I will keep you informed of every new development. You may be assured of that."

Cora rose, too. "Thank you, Dr. Clarkson."

The doctor withdrew and, as he did so, the curtain was drawn back and Mary rushed to the window, placing a hand flat against it, her eyes fixed on her handsome blond boy. His head was turned her way and when he saw her, he smiled faintly.

Mary smiled back and waved a little, and then stifled a sob as she saw him raise his right arm a little and then wince. "Mama, he does not have the strength even to raise his arm. His good arm."

Cora hugged her and, catching George's eye, gave him a big smile. "Mary, Dr. Clarkson has given us hope. Let us cling to that."

Elsie, Charlie, and Stephen

The day before, Charlie had seen Elsie off to the Abbey as usual, with a kiss and wishes for a good day at work. The business with Daniel was not exactly behind them, but Charlie had been trying to ignore it. Whatever his feelings for Daniel, they must not be allowed to taint his marriage. They weren't done with the matter, not by a long chalk, he knew that. But he didn't mind letting a little water pass under the bridge before they went another round over it.

And then, after he had made himself a cup of tea and settled himself with the Grantham family papers …. Only he had not settled, because his work on the book only brought troubling matters to mind – the Dowager's declining health, Daniel Rider…. And then the dog was at the door with a bark Charlie recognized as the one saved for Elsie. Then the door opened and there she was, Elsie, with a child in her arms, and Tom Branson behind her, loaded down with cases.

"What…?"

Shep had the good sense to back off, but Charlie stood in the way until Elsie prompted him to move. He flattened himself against the wall as the other two … no, three … pushed by him.

"That's Master Stephen," he said, surprised.

"It is," Tom Branson murmured.

They all went into the sitting room.

"I'll get the rest," Mr. Branson said and withdrew again.

"What…?"

Elsie had been smiling at the child, who was looking about him with wide-eyed wonder, but when she turned to her husband, her expression was grave. "Something terrible has happened, Charlie. Master George has been taken ill, very ill." She dropped her voice almost to a whisper, not so much to ensure confidentiality but to convey the gravity of the matter. "Dr. Clarkson has been and they're taking him to the hospital in Leeds. He thinks …, Charlie, he thinks it's the infantile paralysis." Further explanations had to wait, as they always did when a child was involved, for settling Master Stephen took priority.

And now, twenty-four hours later, Master Stephen had been made quite at home and Charlie and Elsie, with their long professional experience behind them, had established a new routine for their day and were simply enjoying the company.

He was the first baby they'd had in the house. Oh, Anna had dropped by a few times with Robbie, but it wasn't quite the same thing. Now, they had Master Stephen all to themselves and he wasn't just come for an hour or two with his mother. No, he would be here a few days as the family sorted out what they were to do about Master George.

The tragedy at the Abbey lay heavily upon both of them, though Charlie felt it more viscerally. Lady Mary's agonies meant more to him, even though he'd only heard of them second-hand. She'd accompanied Master George to the hospital in the ambulance and hadn't been seen since. She wouldn't leave her stricken son.

But it was difficult to be unremittingly grim when confronted with a healthy, happy baby. And such a baby! Stephen was seven months old now, lively and smiling, curious about the faces staring down at him, alert to their voices, responsive to the antics they performed to get him to laugh.

Elsie held him securely, ensconced in her chair in the sitting room. "He's a dear, sweet little thing," she said, hardly able to take her eyes off him.

They'd had him down on the rug, sitting him up and then marvelling at him as he swayed there with the hand of one or another propping him up. His clothes and nappies had come from the Abbey, along with bed and bottles and high chair. But there had been no toys and no sheets and blankets, nothing that might have been contaminated by the touch of the other children or by the wash. Elsie had had to scramble a bit to fill in the gaps, but they'd made do, laughing together, despite the circumstances, at a child from the Abbey having to adjust to such humble circumstances. His play things had to be household or personal items instead of building blocks and rattles. Elsie had put down some spoons, a long-handled wooden one and one of the silver ones. Charlie had given up the soft-sided case for his glasses and was dangling his precious pocket watch just out of the child's reach.

"He is," Charlie agreed readily. As enraptured as he was by the child, his gaze kept straying to his wife who was ever more enchanting for the glow that had come over her whenever she held the boy. "I didn't know you were such a dab hand with babies," he said.

She glanced up at him. "Well, I'm not an expert like you," she said drily. He'd told her often enough how he'd walked Lady Mary when she had the colic and Elsie had seen him a few times with the next generation of Crawley babies – soothing Miss Sybbie, tickling Master George, and trying to coax a smile from the fragile Miss Marigold.**

"You look a picture," he said softly and Elsie smiled at the loving look in his eyes.

"He might have been ours," she said.

His dark eyes came over bewildered. "What do you mean?"

"Not literally, of course. But we might have had grandchildren of our own if we'd…." She let the sentence finish itself, only staring up into his craggy visage.

He smiled indulgently, but shook his head. "I don't think like that." And neither did she, not that he'd known, anyway.

"We could have," she persisted. "Thirty years ago."

"Well," he drawled, "I know you'd have made a fine mother. And grandmother. But it would never have happened."

"Why not?" she demanded.

"Because, my love," he said lightly, sitting on the arm of the chair and tracing the contours of her shoulder with one hand, "I didn't like you thirty years ago."

"You what?!" He was teasing her and she knew it, and it was not such a revelation. But she feigned indignation anyway.

"You had a sharp tongue," he went on, provoking a hiss from her. "Of course, you still do, but I've learned it has its advantages." He leaned over to kiss her and she let him. In her arms, Stephen giggled.

"Get away with you," she said brusquely, when he drew back again.

"I did think about it," he mused, not at all put off by her.

"What? Us?" If he had, then this certainly was news to her.

"Not quite. But …getting married, having a family. Leaving service to do it." He paused, casting his mind back. "And it was just a little less than thirty years ago, now that I think about it. I'd even written letters of application. But I threw them on the fire."***

Elsie was staring at him in astonishment. He had never told her this. "What stopped you?"

He looked uncertain suddenly, realizing where this digression led and that he didn't really want to go there. But he could not answer otherwise than honestly. "If you must know," he said, in a more formal tone, "it was Lady Mary."

Elsie sighed. "I might have guessed." Resigned, she let her gaze drop to the child once more. She had been playing catch-up with Lady Mary for years.

It wasn't that he'd said the wrong thing. Elsie knew what Lady Mary meant to him. But the jocular tone he'd set in teasing her had dissipated with this turn of the conversation, reminding her of other might have beens.

"They're just perfect at this age, when there's no idea yet who they are or what they will become," she said thoughtfully. "It's so easy to love them when they're not yet old enough to think for themselves, to choose their own paths, or to challenge our way of thinking." Her eyes slanted in his direction.

She would not come right out and say it and he was glad of that, but he understood the point she was trying to make. And chose not to be incensed by it. Instead, he held a hand out to the child and smiled as Master Stephen took hold of each of his fingers in turn. He resolutely would not indulge in what might have beens about the distant past which was now immutable. But what about the present?

Tom and Violet

"How is George?"

Tom had hardly set foot in the sitting room of the Dower House before Violet accosted him with these words. He paused, not sure what to say for he had not been prepared for this.

Violet glanced at her maid who was assiduously arranging flowers in the vase on a side table. "You may go, Denker."

The woman started, as though surprised to be addressed, and then turned to her mistress with an obsequious smile. "Do you think it proper, my lady?"

"I will risk the impropriety," Violet said acidly. She waited in silence until Denker had left the room. "The only advantage in having family in attendance rather than servants is that one need not waste energy in discretion with family."

Tom smiled. "I'm sure there's more than one advantage in having your family about you," he said.

"Are you? Perhaps I should examine the matter further." She paused, closed her eyes, and concentrated her energy. Then she focused on Tom once more. "How is George?" she asked again.

"You know." He was surprised. He thought they hadn't told her.

She gave him a look. "I know everything Rosamund knows," she said drily. "She has never learned to keep a secret from me. George?"

"All my news is second hand," he said. "I probably don't know anything you don't know. George's back and neck are aching. His limbs are aflame with pain. He's got a fever. I had a brief word with Henry this morning at breakfast. He says it's agony to watch."

"Paralysis?"

"Not yet, but they don't know if the illness has hit its peak yet. Maybe they'll know more today."

"And Mary?" Violet's face was etched with deep concern and with good cause. They all remembered the devastating impact Matthew's death had had on Mary, sending her into a spiral of depression.

"Mary is … managing. The way everyone manages when they have to. But she's strong. Like you."

Violet sighed. "I'm not Attila the Hun, you know."

Tom smiled. "Of course not. You've only wanted everyone to think you were."

If circumstances had been different, they would have laughed over that.

"Are you making the rounds of sick beds, then?" she asked. "You're the only male, apart from Dr. Clarkson and my son that I've seen in ages."

"Well, Spratt," Tom said.

She waved dismissively.

"And what other males might you be expecting?" he asked impudently.

She gave him a look, but smiled, despite herself. It was good to have a few light moments. They had been few and far between of late.

"In my family," Tom began, "this is a time to make your peace, cement a bond, speak frankly. I hope you will allow me to do so."

"I welcome your forthrightness, though I will reserve judgment on Irish rituals until I hear what you have to say."

"You've been very good to me," he said. "I'm going to miss you very much. I'm glad Sybbie is old enough to remember you."

She did not like sentimentality, but she appreciated honesty and warmth. "Thank you. How are you, Tom?"

"I'm glad you asked, because I've got something to tell you."

"Oh, dear."

He smiled wryly. "Nothing to worry about. Only I know how much you care for the family. So, I want to tell you what I hope to do and how it may affect everyone."

"I think you should sit down for that."

He had been standing and now he accepted the invitation and took the chair next to hers. "My return to the Abbey, to living under that roof, was only ever a temporary thing, prompted by the fire. I love Robert and Cora, and Mary and Henry, and George and Stephen, and … well, half the downstairs lot as well. But I've known for a long time, always really, that I need to make space for my own small family, for Sybbie and myself. And perhaps for someone else in my life."

She was watching him keenly, and she nodded at that. Violet did not believe that anyone should accept a life alone unless they truly desired it.

"I've not found anyone. Yet. But I think I'm ready for someone now. And I think the family is, too. Even Robert."

"I agree. I certainly am."

"I appreciate that. But … there's something else. Something big." He took a deep breath and kept his eyes fixed on hers. "After Christmas, and once things have stabilized with George – and not before then, because Robert and Mary need me to be there for the estate while they've other things on their mind – after Christmas, I'm … I'm going back to Ireland. I've not been home since… well, since the burning of Drumgoole Castle and all that followed it. That was the deal Robert made with the Home Secretary at the time." He rubbed his hands along his thighs. "Ireland has changed since then. A lot. So, I don't know what I'll face, if anything. But this business with John Dunsany … I've realized I must take responsibility for what I did. Come what may."

"And Sybbie?" Violet asked warily.

"I'm going to take Sybbie with me. Way back when, I wanted her to be born in Dublin, to be rooted in Ireland by birth. That wasn't possible and I accepted that. But I want her to know my family, and not as people of a foreign land but as her own. I want her to spend time with my mother and father, to get to know her cousins, to hear the language of her forefathers."

Violet couldn't help it. She winced. She did not think Gaelic an attractive language. "I suppose that has some merit," she admitted.

"If … if my return to England is delayed by … anything …, well, I'm sure someone here can come and fetch her out." He grinned briefly. "Edith has been to Ireland. She knows it's possible to go there and return. I'm rooted here now. We are, Sybbie and I. With her school and the shop with Henry and the estate with Mary and Robert. I'll not let the family down." He sat up straighter and cleared his throat. "I must be true to my own roots, but I'll not let the family down. I wanted you to know that."

But Violet was only shaking her head a little bit in wonder. "You've never let the family down, Tom."

That pleased him.

"And you've not told anyone else?"

"No. It was important to me that you be the first to hear it. I'll tell the rest when the time is right."

* Author's Note 1. I have done some research on infantile paralysis, but claim no expertise. I am hoping that the course of the disease as it unfolds in this story will be specific enough to meet general parameters for accuracy and vague enough not to highlight my limited and entirely non-medical understanding of it.

** Author's Note 2. The story of Mr. Carson walking baby Mary when she was suffering with colic is related in the story I Loved Her First, Chapter 3 "An Affection Takes Root."

*** Author's Note 3. The story of Mr. Carson considering leaving service and even making letters of application is told in I Loved Her First, Chapter 13 "Crisis."