I LOVED HER FIRST

Chapter 8 Growing Pains 1898

Crisis

It was the first formal dinner party the family was having since emerging from full mourning and the first that His Lordship and Her Ladyship would host in their capacity as the Earl and Countess of Grantham. It wasn't a large affair. Indeed, the only guests were Lord and Lady Merton, a somewhat older couple whose estate, Cavenham, was one of the largest in the county. Lord Merton, an old school chum of the late Earl, was Mary Crawley's godfather, and the Mertons had been frequent guests at Downton over the years. Lady Violet, now the Dowager Countess of Grantham, would also be in attendance. And in a rare departure from convention, the children were to be brought in briefly before dinner so that Lord Merton might see his goddaughter. It was his special request and, as an obliging host, Robert Crawley had acceded to it, though his mother threw her hands up in dismay at the deplorable effrontery of Lord Merton and this woeful lack of propriety on the part of her own son.

Carson wanted everything to be perfect. He always wanted everything to be perfect and in his five years as the butler of Downton Abbey he had established an enviable reputation for achieving just that. Perfection required a well-thought-out strategic plan, scrupulous attention to detail, and superb timing. He had everything very well in hand.

When, in the midst of the late-afternoon bustle, Miss Mary appeared at his pantry door, he was surprised to see her. She was one of the main attractions of the evening and he wondered how she had escaped Nanny on such an important occasion. But he was less concerned about this, in itself, than that he could not welcome her as he usually did. It wasn't the first time this had happened, so she understood when he explained. He always took the time to explain. She appreciated this, even though she was disappointed, too. And he reassured her that she could come back another time.

And she did, about ten minutes later. He almost tripped over her on his way to the wine cellar. He might have brushed by her with a kind but dismissive word, but his ever perceptive eye, a requirement of a butler, took in that she looked a bit rumpled and that her shoes were muddy. This was more than odd. The Crawley girls were not allowed beyond the nursery unless they looked their best.

"Miss Mary," he began cautiously, lingering by her side, "is there something the matter?"

She looked up at him with those expressive eyes and bit her lip.

He withdrew into his pantry and beckoned her to follow him. "What is it?" he asked gently.

It took her a moment to decide to speak, which he found just a little unsettling. She was a very forthright child. "It's Edith," she said at last.

"Go on," he said.

"She's stuck."

This did not bode well. "Stuck. Stuck where?" He kept his voice even.

She hesitated. "In the cowsheds."

"But there's no one in the cowsheds," he said. "The cows are out to pasture. What was Miss Edith doing there?"

Miss Mary only shrugged.

He did not believe her quite so innocent as she made out, but he let it go for the moment. Instead he took out his watch and calculated the time, and considered his options. He could delegate responsibility for looking into this to someone else, but she had come to him and he thought that meaningful. It was necessary to honour that.

"Right," he said, snapping the watch closed and pocketing it. "Let us go...un-stick her." It would be a close run thing. He needed to be upstairs, looking sharp, at the appointed hour. In the meantime, he was certain, Nanny must be frantic with two of her charges gone missing in action at this critical moment. It astonished him that she wasn't downstairs already, but then Miss Edith never came here, so perhaps she was searching elsewhere for the girls. He looked in at the servants' hall where the two most junior footmen were engaged in some last-minute polishing.

"Geoffrey." Geoffrey had once been a hall boy and was now the sixth footman. The lad leapt to his feet and almost dropped the bowl on which he was working.

"Mr. Carson."

"Please go find Nanny Lambert. She may or may not be in the nursery. Tell her that Miss Mary and Miss Edith are with me and that I shall return them to the nursery as soon as possible. She should wait for us there. I will explain then." Geoffrey nodded and ran. He was still a little awed by Mr.-Carson-the-butler, but he was reliable.

They walked as quickly up the passage and out into the coal yard. When they reached the gravel path that led down to the cowsheds, he broke into a jog, with Miss Mary keeping up as best she could.

"How was it that Miss Edith came to be in the cowsheds?" he asked, lessening his stride that they might speak as they ran. It was an undignified pace for a butler in full livery, but he was worried even more about the little girl ahead of them than about the disruption to his schedule. The Crawley children were rarely, if ever, beyond direct supervision.

She said nothing.

"Miss Mary?" he prompted her.

She hazarded a glance his way and pasted a smile on her face, the like of which seldom failed to charm him. But he did not yield to it now. "We were playing a game," she said.

He waited for more.

"I dared her to go in," she added.

He passed over the opportunity to impugn the iniquitous practice of daring in order to get to the point. "And then what happened?"

"She got stuck in one of the stalls."

"And this just...happened?" There was no rancour in his voice. He was just trying to elicit information.

"I dropped the bolt," she admitted, not smiling any more.

"Locking her in."

"I tried to lift it again, Mr. Carson," she said quickly, defensively, her chin jutting out. "But I couldn't."

"And Miss Edith? How did she react to this?" He could well imagine. He did not see much of the Crawleys' middle daughter. But his glimpses of her in the nursery or the Grand Hall or on her walks with Nanny and her sisters, had revealed to him a pale, fine-boned little girl who seemed fragile in both physical make-up and spirit. She had large, sensitive eyes that easily filled with tears and an almost tremulous voice. Miss Edith did not press boundaries and so had never ventured downstairs as her older, bolder sister had done. Carson had the impression that the child would be vulnerable to the more forceful character of her sister and thought he might be seeing evidence of that today.

Miss Mary's shoulders shifted a little. "She started to cry," she stated flatly, and then added, with more exasperation than a seven-year-old ought to feel about anything, "Edith is a bit of a baby."

He said no more, preferring to wait until he understood the situation in full before dealing with Miss Mary. But he was not pleased and her sombre demeanour as she tripped along next to him suggested that she grasped this.

He could hear Miss Edith well before they reached the cowsheds and he broke into a run when her screaming reached his ears. Miss Mary was hard on his heels. It was dark in the cowsheds. And dirty. The estate employed a few young boys to keep them clean during the winter, but they hadn't done a stellar job of it when the cows had been turned out to pasture in the spring. He could feel the muck beneath his feet, soiling his highly polished shoes. Everything he touched left a residue on his hands.

And then there was Miss Edith.

She had obviously been scrambling around the stall, frantically seeking a way out, as well as sobbing and screaming in terror. She was filthy from head to foot, her dress torn, and one of her shoes lost in the churned up earthen floor. Though she knew him only in passing, if she even recognized him at all in her distress, she immediately saw him as her saviour and leapt into his arms as he bent to pick her up. And then she clung to him as though her life depended on it, and erupted in a renewed torrent of sobs.

"I'm sorry, Edith," Miss Mary piped up, reaching out to touch her sister's ankle, which was all that was within her grasp.

Miss Edith responded with a wail and by wrenching her foot out of her sister's hand.

Carson did not blame her. She had been locked in a dark place and abandoned there. She'd been exposed to more filth than she had ever seen and was covered in it. And her sister, who she had trustingly followed, been her tormenter. No wonder she clung to him. He would tell Nanny to give her a thorough going-over to ensure she did not contract lockjaw from the dirty stall. And, he thought grimly, feeling rather than seeing the grime with which he, too, was now encrusted, he would have a word with the cow man about the state of the sheds.

He ran back to the house, as awkward as it was with Miss Edith in his arms, with Miss Mary in his wake. He hadn't thought this out well, had not anticipated the soiling of his clothes, and hands, and shoes. Everything was filthy. It would not be enough to brush off his jacket and wash his hands. The whole of him required a good scrubbing and his clothes must be dispatched to the laundry. He had another livery, and clean shirts, too, but his shoes would take some work. And time. And time was what he did not have.

They came in through the coal yard door and he almost ran right over Elsie Hughes, the head housemaid, who was passing by with an armful of clean linens and who stopped short of collision with him.

"Mr. Carson! What's happened to you?"

She asked the question, but her sharp eyes travel from the squalling and dirty child in his arms to the somewhat ruffled but still fairly presentable child at his side, and then back to his face. He saw a knowing look there, and disapproval, too, but she said nothing of that.

"You'll be wanted upstairs shortly," she said, "but never in that condition."

"I know that," he snapped impatiently. That much was obvious.

To his surprise, she ignored his manner and quickly turned to put the linens on a nearby shelf. Then she faced him again with a cool steadiness that was quite unexpected. "I'll take Miss Edith," she said crisply, holding out her arms. Another six year old might have been too much for her, but Miss Edith was a slender child. She also cooperated, transferring her grip to the welcoming embrace of this calm woman. "You come with me, too," Elsie said, holding out a hand to Miss Mary. The tone of her voice left room for nothing but strict obedience and Miss Mary reluctantly accepted the direction, although she cast an appealing glance at the butler. He did not notice. The housemaid was not finished with him yet.

"You've got to get washed up and changed right away." Before he could advance a plan for that, she turned her head and called sharply, "Geoffrey! Peter! Stuart!"

The footmen came running from different directions. They were not accustomed to commands given in a woman's voice, although they did what Mrs. Dakin told them, and they looked uncertainly at Mr. Carson as they gathered in the passage. But it was the head housemaid who spoke.

"Geoffrey, take Mr. Carson's shoes and clean them up. You haven't got long. He'll need them in a few minutes. Stuart, go upstairs with Mr. Carson. While he's washing himself up, get out his spare livery and shirt and help him dress. Peter." The third footman stood taller under her commanding eye. "Get upstairs and make sure everything is in order in the dining room. Mr. Carson may not have time for his usual last-minute check."

Peter raced off. The other two hovered, waiting for Mr. Carson. He stood transfixed for a moment, more than a little shocked by this turn of events.

"Get on with you, Mr. Carson!" Elsie said impatiently. "You haven't got all day."

And he didn't. Her sharp manner broke the spell and as she turned away, taking the children God knew where, he hastily stepped out of his shoes. Geoffrey scooped them up and ran to the boot room. Then he stormed up the servants' stairs, with Stuart on his heels.

There was so much to do and so little time to do it in, that he was downstairs, starched and polished and attending to the guests before he realized that a housemaid - a head housemaid - had taken charge and ordered him about as though he were an errant schoolboy. If her manner was presumptuous, he had to admit nevertheless that she had managed the situation with admirable poise. He was grateful for her for taking on the children and organizing the footmen in the moment, his gratitude tempering a slight disgruntlement at the way she had bossed him about. He would have to find a moment to thank her for her presence of mind.

Consequences

Despite the turmoil that preceded the event, the only disappointment of the evening was Lord Merton's, as he did not get to see his godchild after all. Nanny sent word, at the last minute, that the children were not up to it, and Lord and Lady Grantham, deferring to Nanny's judgment, delivered the news with equanimity, though they determined to investigate the reasons for it at the most convenient opportunity. The change in plans pleased Lady Merton, who detested all children but her own, and pacified the Dowager, who loved her granddaughters but believed they had no place in adult functions. The good cheer of these two women offset Lord Merton's slight regret. He was an easygoing man who took setbacks in stride.

Carson had managed, with the assistance of his footmen, to make himself presentable in time and so the evening unfolded without incident. But it was not the perfect evening he had envisaged because his mind kept wandering to Miss Mary and her sister. He was troubled by what had happened and by the growing conviction that he have to do something about it.

This determination brought him to the nursery the next morning at the first moment he could get away. He was relieved of the necessity of explaining himself to Nanny. Instead, she filled his ear with praise for the head housemaid who had delivered the children and made his excuses for him. He suspected that Elsie's helpfulness in getting Miss Edith calmed and both girls cleaned up, tasks that were quite outside her duties, went a long way to assuaging Nanny's disgruntlement. This made it easier for him to secure a few minutes now with Miss Mary.

Carson was certain that Miss Edith would have conveyed the whole story to Nanny, and likely to Elsie, too, and that appropriate disciplinary measures had been taken. But the incident was one that went beyond Miss Mary and her sister, and that was why he was here.

Miss Mary was pleased to see him but she had the wherewithal, perhaps prompted by Nanny, to appear chastened, too. He took her out on the gallery, deserted by the family at this house, that they might speak privately.

He was not angry with her, but he was deeply disappointed, an emotion he utterly reviled. And he was shocked, too, at her behaviour toward her sister. This might have been the result of his ignorance of sibling relationships. His only brother had died when they were both small children, so he had no experience of the dynamic. But whether or not he understood siblings, or children for that matter, he could not let this episode pass without reflection on the relationship between him and this child whom he loved so much.

"And how is Miss Edith this morning?" It wasn't the best place to start, but this was all new to him.

Miss Mary glanced toward the nursery door, slightly puzzled by his question. He had just seen Edith for himself. But she understood his intent all the same. "She cried all night," she said soberly.

"I'm not surprised," he said drily. Then he turned to his own concern. "I am...pleased...that you came to me yesterday," he said slowly. "You needed help to rescue Miss Edith and it was appropriate that you should come to me for that."

She twisted her head to look up at him, not quite sure of the direction he was taking. She was familiar with the sometimes formal tone he took with her. Usually it bolstered her confidence, for it was the same way he spoke to the adults around him. But she sensed the disapprobation her beneath his approving words.

"You should always feel that you may bring anything to my attention" he went on, maintaining an even tone. "But..." Their eyes met, each were taking the measure of the other. He spoke from his great height, not wanting to diminish the impact of his message by crouching down. "But...that does not mean that I approve of everything you do, or that I will refrain from correcting you when you are in the wrong."

She frowned a little and he realized he must speak more plainly.

"You treated your sister very badly yesterday," he said bluntly. "You tricked her, frightened her, and abandoned her. You put her into a situation where harm might have come to her and from which she might yet still suffer, from an illness or infection. These are boundaries you must not cross with anyone, least of all someone younger than yourself and more vulnerable in so many ways." He spoke quietly, but he could not quite keep the heat out of his words. Still he was impressed that she continued to meet his gaze. She had a core of steel, he thought, rather like her grandmother.

"Your...actions...had further repercussions," he went on. "The management of Downton Abbey is in my charge and the smooth conduct of your parents' affairs, such as the dinner last night for Lord and Lady Merton, is in my hands. That dinner was very nearly disrupted because I was attending to Miss Edith and that it did not come to grief was because several members of staff went beyond what is required of them to make sure it did not. My assistance will always be available to you, Miss Mary, but you must take heed not to call upon it frivolously."

"And then there is Lord Merton. Your godfather wanted very much to see you yesterday and special arrangements had been made for that purpose. But all of that was thwarted by your mischief."

As he was speaking, her equanimity had begun to waver. Her lower lip trembled and though she tried very hard to contain herself - he could see the effort in the tenseness of her body - great tears filled her eyes and began to spill over onto her cheeks. The sight of this wrenched at his heart, but he remained steadfast. He could not yield to sentiment here.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Carson," she said, her voice more highly pitched than normal. She looked away for a moment and then her dark eyes, wet with sorrow and distress, turned up to his again. "I truly am."

He believed her and nodded solemnly in acknowledgment of this. "It's not enough to be sorry," he said firmly. "Actions have consequences, for you as well as those directly affected by them." Learning this had been one of the most valuable lessons of his life. "There is a price to pay."

The Upstairs Response

The consequences of Miss Mary's deed extended further for Carson than hard words with the child, and in unanticipated ways. Every afternoon after tea, the three little Crawley girls were brought to the library for an hour of engagement with their parents. It was hardly surprising, and no one but Miss Mary could have begrudged her for it, that Miss Edith took the opportunity to regale her parents with the previous afternoon's events. Miss Edith rarely held the limelight, caught always between the dynamism of her older sister and the sweetness of toddler Sybil, and made the most of her moment.

Carson was not present for this. The staff usually were not as this was private family time. But he came in immediately after the children were gone up, summoned by Her Ladyship who wanted to know why he had not informed them of his role in the drama. There was a slight note of aggravation to her query.

Lord Grantham intervened on his butler's behalf. "This is not a matter of Carson's jurisdiction, my darling," he told his wife patiently. "As Nanny said, she soothed Edith and disciplined Mary, and that is all there is to it." It was not, in His Lordship's view, even really a matter for them, although he had listened attentively to Edith's account and supported his wife's rebuke of their eldest child.

"Robert!" Her Ladyship ignored Carson's presence in this expression of her indignation. "We are the parents here." Then she looked to the butler again. They had a polite but distant relationship, Carson's close association with His Lordship's father and his discreet but still-apparent alliance with the Dowager only compounding Her Ladyship's natural unease with so foreign an entity as an English butler. "In future, Carson," she said, tempering her irritation, "I would appreciate a full account."

He nodded acquiescently. "My lady."

She left the room, but His Lordship lingered. Robert Crawley had experienced first-hand the childrearing practices with which his American wife still struggled and he had no objections to the way the matter had been dealt with. He also had a greater appreciation, again from a similar history, of the relationship that had developed between his eldest child and his butler.

"Have you spoken with Miss Mary about her behaviour?" he asked lightly, with the clear expectation that the butler had done so.

"I did, my lord," Carson responded. "I gave her a dressing down about it," he said frankly, "and told her she could not visit me for three weeks in consequence." Carson readily exercised the authority of his position when it came to matters involving the house and had a comfortable relationship with His Lordship that was growing stronger by the day. Although his association with Miss Mary was outside of the bounds of his usual responsibilities, he was not ill at ease in discussing the connection with the child's father.

"Hmm." Robert nodded approvingly. "Well. Well done."

Carson felt strongly about what Miss Mary had done and hoped to make an impression on her with his response, but these were new waters for him. "I wonder whether she will want to come back," he said, a little uncertainly. He wasn't one for second guessing, but she was a spirited child and he wondered if he had been too harsh.

But His Lordship only smiled at this, remembering childhood scoldings from his favourites downstairs. "Oh, she will," he said airily. "I think you can count on it."

The Downstairs Analysis

Afer the servants' supper that night, Elsie Hughes found Mrs. Yardley staring pensively down the passage at the closed door of the butler's pantry and the sliver of light that shone beneath it.

"Is something troubling you, Mrs. Yardley?" Elsie asked helpfully.

The cook shrugged. "Mr. Carson's been in a bit of a mood today, didn't you think?"

An image of the bedraggled butler, with one child in his arms and another at his side, filled Elsie's mind, and she nodded knowingly. "I think Mr. Carson has discovered that there's more to being a father than tea parties and telling stories," she said. "I expect he'll get over it."

They both laughed.