Chapter 15 The Unfairness of it All

A Good Question

Mr. Carson was walking back from the village which he tried to visit a few times every week. Officially the village was well beyond his purview as the butler of Downton Abbey, but things had been different since His Lordship went off to war. Carson might not have any direct authority over the goings-on in Downton village, but he felt an obligation to keep an eye on them nonetheless. And he knew, too, that His Lordship liked being kept abreast of all the latest developments. Lord and butler maintained a robust correspondence and His Lordship often asked questions specific to information Carson had provided in a previous communication. Perhaps such engagement helped Robert Crawley to remain connected to the estate he had not seen in more than two years now.* Well, God willing, it would not go on much longer and His Lordship would soon be home. Indeed, there were very encouraging signs arising out of Lord Milner s negotiations and from a place called Vereeniging where Boer delegates had converged to discuss terms.

Of course, Carson was no stranger to the village, to either its streets or its people. He went there regularly, to church, the post office, the shops. It was a bit of a relief, sometimes, to get away from the Abbey and to see new faces, though he was never there very long. New faces. Different faces, perhaps, but hardly new. He was acquainted with them all, had known them all his life. Some of them had been his friends. He wondered that he thought of them in the past tense, for they were still there. It was rare for him to travel the High Street without running into at least one of them. Harry Waring, who had been his best mate, was the local blacksmith. Arthur Ransome worked in partnership with his father at the tannery. And if Carson ventured that way on market day, there were others, farmers now in their own right, who greeted him.

He knew the girls, too - women now. Years ago, he had smiled shyly at one or two of them or redoubled his efforts on the village cricket pitch if one he liked was walking by. These days they always chatted him up for a moment or two. He knew who they'd married and the names of their children and how their mums and dads were faring. But he was no longer friends with any of them. He knew them, but he was no longer one of them. And when they met him, the men doffed their caps and the women made sure not to keep him long. He was an important man in the village, the butler of Downton Abbey. This was only as it should be, for he had achieved much and was entitled to their regard. But he'd lost something, too, in rising above the crowd - a source of friendship outside of work.

He shook his head at such musings. In truth, he'd parted from the locals years ago when he=d embraced the opportunity - secured for him by his hard-working parents, his own wit, and possibly a favourable recommendation from His Lordship's father - for a grammar school education. Even the direction he'd taken to sow his wild oats, that interlude on the halls, had set him apart. While other lads pressed the limits by drinking too much, playing pranks on their neighbours, or seeking pleasure behind the bicycle sheds, he had been singing and dancing in halls across Yorkshire and beyond. He had always marched to the beat of his own drum and been content with where that had taken him. And as he walked through the great iron gates that separated the estate from the park immediately surrounding the house, he knew a deep sense of satisfaction at his choice. Downton Abbey was so much to him, far more than simply a job. The welfare of the Abbey and of the family who dwelt within it were his life's passions. The very thought of it stopped him in his tracks and he let his gaze sweep the panorama that unfolded before him – the abbey, the gardens, the lawns….

His indulgent reflection was brought up short by a discordant note. For there, on one of the benches that were situated strategically throughout the park for the family's pleasure, was Miss Mary. And she was crying. No, she was sobbing her heart out. Carson felt a sharp stab of dread.

Miss Mary did not cry, certainly not in this heart-broken way. A crisis must have descended. And the only crisis Carson could imagine was one involving news from South Africa. Bad news. He almost stumbled, though he was standing still. His Lordship!

And then, as quickly as the panic had swept him, it cleared and he breathed again. He'd been in the post office himself not half an hour ago and all was serene there – business as usual. This would not have been the case had an ominous telegram arrived. Nor would Miss Mary be off on her own, convulsed with grief, had the family been so stricken. He regained his senses. No, this must be some sort of personal crisis. Miss Mary had her heartaches. But he had never seen her as distraught as this. Yet he strode across the lawn toward her in confidence. He had much experience in soothing the young girl.

She was not so self-absorbed that she did not hear his footfall. Her eyes opened suddenly and, as her gaze fell on him, she made an effort to compose herself, sitting up straight and willing her tears to cease falling. One hand groped for the petite handkerchief pinned in her pocket and she dabbed at her cheeks with a finesse of any lady twice or thrice her age.

He almost smiled at the inadequacy of such a scrap of cloth for the task at hand, but there was a wistfulness in his gaze, too. In the past she had, on occasion, flung herself into his arms unselfconsciously when overcome with hurt or fear. But she was learning how to be more circumspect, even with him. This was only how it should be, but he knew he would miss the little girl who could act so spontaneously.

"Mr. Carson," she said, speaking first, determined to assert a degree of self-control.

He sat down beside her – he still might do that – and wordlessly offered her the immaculate and somewhat more substantial handkerchief he withdrew from his breast pocket. She accepted it primly and then, as though the gesture had broken her defences, lapsed into sobs once more and leaned into him. Obligingly he enveloped her in his arms. Though her distress unsettled him, he thought it better to let her cry it out for at least a moment or two.

Eventually she quieted and he seized the opportunity. "Miss Mary. What is the matter?"

She withdrew from him abruptly, sat erect before him, her face alight with alarm. "Oh, Mr. Carson! I am to be turned out of Downton Abbey!"

For a moment he could only stare at her. This was not the tragedy he had expected or could ever have imagined. Indeed, it was … nonsense. "I beg your pardon?"

She fixed him with such a look of desolation that he almost lost the thread of the conversation.

"Cousin Patrick said so!" she declared.

Cousin Patrick.

Master Patrick Crawley was Miss Mary's first cousin. Her only first cousin. He was two years older than the eleven-year-old girl. For years he had been an avid playmate and the two children had ridden together and played games in the park and read adventure stories in the nursery. When they weren't exploring mysterious corners in the great house or raiding the kitchen for biscuits and milk. As one of His Lordship's nearest male relatives, Master Patrick was also in line to inherit the title of Earl of Grantham and the estate of Downton Abbey. His father, James, was first in line. Patrick was next. One way or another, he would eventually come into the title.

Master Patrick spent a great deal of time at Downton Abbey, much of it in his eldest cousin's company. It was the consensus of all the adults concerned that these were very good things. It would serve Patrick well to have an intimate understanding of the estate that would one day be his home and his life's work. And it was an unspoken hope, perhaps not quite yet an understanding, that the two cousins would marry and the breach in the line arising from His Lordship's (and Her Ladyship's) failure to produce a direct male heir would be mended by the union of legal heir and direct descendent.

Carson was of mixed minds about Master Patrick. The boy had much to recommend him – he was good-looking, intelligent, devoted to Downton, and well-bred. Carson could not have said as much for the boy's father. With the Dowager Lady Grantham, Carson had serious reservations about James Crawley and rather hoped, for all sorts of reasons, that His Lordship would outlive his disagreeable cousin. The war had brought such considerations into perilously close focus, for His Lordship had taken part in battle.

But as for Master Patrick, although Carson admitted the boy's favourable traits, he was not yet convinced. Any man who would make a match with his Miss Mary – Lady Mary, as she would be - must be exemplary in every way and Master Patrick was not quite perfect. For one thing, he was not as bright as his cousin. Better educated, perhaps, but not as quick. Carson thought that no woman should bear the burden of being married to a man of inferior intellect. Nor was the boy as steady as Carson might wish. Some might say that it was asking a lot of a boy of thirteen to exhibit steadiness, but almost every boy on the estate was working at thirteen and required to be reliable. Why ask less of the master than the servant? And though Master Patrick had a good disposition most of the time, he was his father's son. Every once in a while, the streak of meanness that ran straight through Mr. James revealed itself in the boy. Miss Mary was no delicate flower, not like Miss Edith. She could certainly manage such a failing in any future partner. But why should she have to? It was a fact that the James Crawleys brought little advantage to the family, having only the benefit of their sex. They ought to be more grateful.

Carson was the butler of Downton Abbey and had no right to such opinions, at least where anyone else might hear them. So he kept them to himself. But he thought them all the same. And now he had to keep them under wraps as he addressed Miss Mary's crisis.

"May I ask, Miss Mary, what did Master Patrick say, precisely?"

The girl took a deep breath. "He said that Papa will be killed in the war and his papa will become the Earl of Grantham, and then he will demand of Cousin James that I be banished from Downton forever." She managed to say this without bursting into tears again, although it did not seem from her manner that she was at all comforted by his presence. Miss Mary had begun to understand that the butler of Downton Abbey was not an all-powerful creature. He felt a twinge of sadness that this realization had come upon her.

But she was right, of course. This was a matter quite out of his hands and he would not be surprised to find it as she had said. Oh, not that Mr. James would, on his son's recommendation, banish Miss Mary. It was simply inevitable that in the event of His Lordship's death, Mr. James and his family would move into Downton Abbey and His Lordship's widow and three daughters would move out, to one of the large houses the family had in the village – Grantham House, perhaps. That was how things were and he could not tell her differently. What a quandary. Yet he must answer her. She was waiting. Well, he knew where he could start.

"I have just been to the post office, Miss Mary, and return with the heartening news that the peace talks in South Africa are well underway. His Lordship has been in danger these past many months," they had discussed the war in some depth and he had not sheltered her from the realities, "but now he is safer than he has ever been. As you know," again from the in-depth discussions they had had on the subject, "the Boers are well beyond their last legs. They ought to have given it up a year and more ago. They won't walk away from this opportunity for peace."

She brightened at this. But then her face fell again abruptly.

"My banishment from Downton is only postponed, then, for Cousin Patrick will inherit Downton one day."

So he would. He tried a diversion. "But that day is a very long way off. Lord Grantham is a young man. By the time anyone inherits the estate, whether it be Mr. James or Master Patrick, your life might be entirely different. You might," he intoned encouragingly, "have married a duke, with grand estates all over England. It won't matter to you what Master Patrick says."

He said this as though such a prospect were both realistic and desirable, but he knew the fatuousness of the sentiments even if disguised by the enthusiasm in his voice. Was he really encouraging her to crass one-up-manship? Was he suggesting that any old castle or abbey or palace would do, when he knew in his own heart – as she knew intuitively as well - that nothing could compare to the splendour of Downton Abbey? Abruptly he tried another tack.

"Master Patrick is only teasing you, Miss Mary. You know that."

"We were playing checkers and I won."

Carson suppressed an exasperated grunt. "That would do it, I imagine." He paused. "People will say things when they are aggravated, Miss Mary. Even people who care for you can be sharp on occasion."

She wasn't crying any more, but there was a pained look on her face. Her gaze turned upwards to meet his. "But Cousin Patrick will inherit Downton, Mr. Carson."

"Yes, of course."

"But … why of course?" She was deeply perplexed. "It is my papa who is the Earl of Grantham. Why should not I be Papa's heir? I am his daughter, the eldest of his daughters. I live here, after all. Cousin James and Cousin Patrick are only cousins. And visitors."

His response came promptly, unthinkingly, and unerringly. "Why, it is because they are men, Miss Mary. Or, male, rather. And that's how it works."

She stared at him. "I don't understand."

"It is the law. In matters of inheritance, Britain is governed by the rule of male primogeniture. That is, the eldest son inherits. And in the case of Downton Abbey, the title is entailed upon a male heir." It was a sound system and Britain had adhered to it for centuries. "Downton Abbey and other great houses are vast enterprises and the law of primogeniture protects them and keeps them intact by ensuring the transfer between generations from a single individual to another. They do things differently on the continent. In France, the sub-division of property amongst the sons has meant the endless division of once great estates to the point that they no longer exist. We wouldn't want that to happen to Downton now, would we?"

She was a moment digesting this. "No," she said, but it was clear she was distracted. "Only why must the heir be male, Mr. Carson?"

"Because that is the law."

"But … why?"

Shaking the Foundations

"That was good news about South Africa."

The footmen had been all abuzz about the talks at Vereeniging – though none of them could pronounce it correctly; well, who could? – when they came downstairs for the servants' supper. Though Mr. Carson knew more about it than the family or the footmen, he had said nothing and let the footmen rattle on about it. They were fortunate young men. They had not been called to serve. The professional army and volunteers had managed the war. The footmen could afford to be excited about it.

He was excited at the prospect, too, although also innately cautious. But his quiet was more the result of the conversation he had had with Miss Mary than scepticism about the Boers. He had retired to the pantry after dinner, foregoing a sherry with the housekeeper this evening. He didn't want to make a habit of that. But she had put her head in the door now.

"I know it's not signed and sealed, but it is promising," she went on, not getting a response from him.

He stood up then and nodded. "Yes. Yes, of course it is. God willing, His Lordship will be home very soon. And," he added, trying for a lighter tone, "I will be very grateful to have His Lordship in direct command of Downton once more."

She cocked her head at him and he thought he understood her concern. He didn't seem very happy about it. He gestured invitingly. Come in. She did. They settled themselves, she in the chair opposite him. He hoped she would carry the conversation, raise some administrative matter they might chew over. But she did not and eventually he felt compelled to speak.

"I've been thinking about inheritance laws," he said.

She was surprised and he wasn't surprised at that. It was an odd thing to be thinking about. Her gaze circumnavigated the pantry, as though wondering what he had that might prompt him to such musings.

"The practice of male primogeniture, I mean," he explained. "Among … royalty and the aristocracy."

Her eyes snapped back to him.

"Downton will, by tradition and by law, pass to Mr. James or, more likely, Master Patrick one day. And by that time the young ladies of Downton will have married well and gone off to their own lives elsewhere. And that is how it should be." He stated this as fact. It was the way things are done and it had always struck him as an entirely satisfactory system.

"Well, that's how they are, anyway," Mrs Hughes said. "Should is another matter." She gave him a curious look. "Any succession is a long way off, surely, with His Lordship safe now. Are you worrying for your job, Mr. Carson? If there should be a change at the Abbey?"

"What?! No!." That was not the direction of his thinking at all. "No. I was only thinking of the way we do things." He frowned thoughtfully. "It has always seemed to me, Mrs. Hughes, that the system we have here in England has worked well." He paused. And then, because he knew she thought about things, too, asked, "Would you agree?"

He knew she had a mind of her own and though that fact sometimes made his work more challenging, it had made life in the servants' hall much more interesting. They often disagreed, but he usually enjoyed the exchange of views, even if she was wrong. He watched her carefully and wondered if some small debate was not raging in her mind about whether or not to express herself honestly or to be more circumspect.

"It works well for men, which is to be expected, as it was a system designed by them," she said at last.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well, … take Downton Abbey, Mr. Carson. Why should His Lordship's cousin inherit the estate?"

"Because he inherits the title and the title must be supported by the estate," he said promptly, almost as though reciting from the catechism.

She made an impatient sound. "What I meant was, why should Mr. James inherit the title? Why cannot His Lordship's own children – son or daughter – inherit?"

"Because Downton is entailed, Mrs. Hughes." That was general knowledge among the staff.

She shook her head, dismissing this explanation. "I'm not talking legal details, Mr. Carson. I'm speaking of moral right. Why should a father see his own children disinherited and dispossessed because they were born girls instead of boys?"

"It's how things work, Mrs. Hughes. The eldest male inherits and the estate remains intact. This is the foundation of the national economy, not to mention social structure. Daughters marry other young men who have also inherited." He saw her gathering herself as though in preparation for an assault and he braced for it.

"Do you not think things could work differently, Mr. Carson? Why must the lands of the nation be concentrated in the hands of the few? Why not break up the great landed estates into discrete parcels that might be owned by those who work them? Better many small landowners with a stake in society, than tenants and labourers vulnerable to the good will of their aristocratic landlord." Perhaps she saw the astonishment – no, horror – in his eyes. "There's more than one way to achieve social and economic stability, Mr. Carson," she added mildly.

They stared at each other for a long moment, her clear, pale-blue gaze not faltering before his glare. The magnitude of this revolutionary suggestion was so great that he could not seize on a manageable portion to shred. Instead, a single simple fact asserted itself.

"Would you not worry for your own job in such circumstances, Mrs. Hughes?" She was, after all, the housekeeper of a great house, which, in the dystopian world she had just imagined for him, would not exist at all.

But she smiled with an equanimity he had come to associate with her. "Oh, not to worry, Mr. Carson. I can take care of myself."

*Author's Note: The South African War broke out in October, 1899 and officially ended with the signing of peace terms in the Treaty of Vereeniging on May 31, 1902. In this story, Robert left England in early 1900. This story takes place in May, 1902.