5

CHRISTMAS CAROLS*

It Came Upon a Midnight Clear

"It's American. I don't think you can really call it a Christmas carol. And I'm not putting it on the list."

Mary, Edith, Tom, and Robert were in the library, the men standing by the mantle, the two women seated on the red sofas, across from each other. There was a blaze in the fireplace. Andy had stirred it up before the family came in and added a very dry log that was just now burning its brightest. Mary was equipped with a pencil, a notebook, and an attitude.

"What does it matter if it's English or American or Korean?" Tom asked mischievously, catching Edith's eye to include her in his teasing. "If you like to sing." It was an argument unlikely to stir Mary, but Tom liked to challenge her on her absolute declarations. Edith, he knew, appreciated the effort, although she understood more than most the futility of such a gambit.

Mary raised an eyebrow in Tom's direction. "This is an English house."

"And many of the songs you sing are German in origin. O Christmas Tree. Silent Night."

"And then there's the French ones," Edith put in. "Angels We Have Heard on High. O Holy Night. O Come, Divine Messiah. They're all translations."

"Precisely my point," Mary said smoothly. "They've been anglicized. But an American song is still … American."

Edith's brief foray into reason gave way to exasperation. "It's a beautiful song, Mary. And Papa's favourite. Just put it on the list."

"You're not the one who's going to be singing it," Mary said, her last defense.

Robert stepped to her side and put a hand lightly on her shoulder. "Please," he said simply.

Mary surrendered, but shook her head as she wrote it down. "I can't believe your favourite Christmas carol is an American song, Papa."

"It's your mother's favourite, not mine," he said, diverting his gaze. "Do it for her."

"I shall. And that relieves me a little." One could expect such things from Cora.

"It's a beautiful song," Edith reiterated. "We ought to sing everyone's favourite, without prejudice."

"What's yours?" Tom asked promptly.

Edith's smile was uncertain, almost forced. "I don't have one," she said, and looked away.

The Holly and the Ivy

"The holly and the ivy,

When they are both full grown,

Of all the trees that are in the wood,

The holly bears the crown."

"No singing in the kitchen!"

Mrs. Patmore's sharp admonition drew Daisy's attention from the large bowl before her where she was softening a block of butter. For much of her life at Downton, Daisy would have flinched at the tone and minded the words, but she wasn't afraid of Mrs. Patmore any more.

"Why?"

"Never mind why!" Mrs. Patmore said brusquely. "Just tend to your work. In silence."

"It's Christmas," Daisy persisted. "Singing Christmas carols cheers us all up."

"It's not Christmas yet," Mrs. Patmore growled, being literal. "And I'm not much in need of cheering."

Daisy raised her eyebrows, perplexed. "If you're cheerful…."

"What?"

"Nothing!" Daisy said in a sing-song voice. And then she began to hum the carol she'd been singing. She was aware that Mrs. Patmore was glaring at her, wondering if it was worth coming down on her again.

Beyond their vision, the heavy coal yard door thudded shut and the sound of muffled male voices in the passage drifted into the kitchen. In another moment, Andy ducked into the room, his cheeks red from the cold.

"There's someone here to see you, Daisy. At least, he says so. I've told him he's got the wrong place, but he says if there's a Daisy Robinson here who's a scullery maid, then he's in the right."

"Well, he is right," Daisy said. "I'm Daisy Robinson. Mason were William's name."

"Oh." Andy looked a little mollified. "Here he is, then." He tilted his head toward the man now emerging into the kitchen.

He was a grey-haired fellow, broad-shouldered, but stooped. His face was lined with age and ruddy with a life spent out-of-doors and, more immediately, in a brisk wind all the way from the village. While Andy had left his outdoor things on the hooks by the back door, this man still wore his heavy wool coat, though he'd unbuttoned it to reveal several layers of clothing in varying degrees of tatter beneath it. He had taken off his boots. Mrs. Patmore didn't allow boots in her kitchen and Andy had made sure to pass on that bit of information.

His eyes were alert enough and, passing over Mrs. Patmore, lit on Daisy. "You look a bit old for a scullery maid," he said.

"I'm an assistant cook, now. I haven't been a scullery maid in a while."

"Who wants to know?" Mrs. Patmore demanded of the stranger.

"I'm Roland Cotter and I'm on my way from Durham to…."

"A peddler."

"Yes, madame. I carry a pack of wares and travel the high roads and byways of our good land seeking my living. But I've come to this great house with a message." He paused and nodded to Daisy. "For her," he said pointedly.

"Come in to the servants' hall," Daisy said, before Mrs. Patmore could open her mouth again. "And take off your coat." She escorted him into the other room and then was back directly. "He's half-frozen," she told Mrs. Patmore, and fetched the man a bowl of soup, some bread, and put the kettle on for tea.

"What does he want with Daisy Robinson, then?" Mrs. Patmore mused, watching her assistant.

"I don't know. But I'm going to find out," Daisy replied, and returned to the visitor. She put the food down before him. "If you're not in a hurry, you can eat first."

The relief in his face told her he was hungry indeed. "You're an angel, love," he said, picking up the spoon.

Daisy shrugged. "So why've you come all this way to see me?"

# D # D # D # D # D # D #

"What did he want, then?"

The coal yard door had hardly closed behind the man when Mrs. Patmore demanded this.

"Nothing." Daisy was clearly distracted. "He just brought me something."

Mrs. Patmore stared at her, struggling to contain her curiosity, and her impatience with Daisy's vagueness. "Well? What is it?"

Daisy's hand went to the pocket of her apron. "A … bit of paper," she said.

"Then that was worth a walk from Durham to Yorkshire!"

"He was coming this way anyway. And … it's something my mother wrote."

This gave Mrs. Patmore pause. That Daisy had parents was a fact. But they were rarely mentioned, having faded into obscurity years and years ago. Yet one couldn't wholly dismiss a parent. "Anything in particular?" The cook's voice had softened considerably.

Daisy pulled it out and looked at it again, as though she might have forgotten what was written on it. "A recipe. In her own hand. It were from a friend, a woman up north." Daisy looked up suddenly, meeting Mrs. Patmore's eyes. "I've never had anything of my mother's."

Except, perhaps, her eyes. Or that way of scrunching your face up when you're unsure about something. Or the texture of your hair. Mrs. Patmore didn't know if any of these or any others were so, but there must be evidence in flesh or behaviour that derived from the woman, long dead as they knew.

"No, you've not," she murmured.

"Did you say something?" Daisy asked.

"No. No," Mrs. Patmore said abruptly. "She took her time sending this to you, this friend of your mum's. What was she waiting for all these years?"

But Daisy didn't know. The peddler couldn't explain this either. "And she's dead now, this woman, so I can't write and ask her."

"And … nothing else?"

"No. Nothing else," Daisy said, and her gaze dropped. For that wasn't quite the truth.

O Come All Ye Faithful

"Where are you off to?"

Tom had caught up with Edith on the path to the village. Snow crunched beneath his feet and Edith had heard him approach and waited.

"The post office," she said, patting a pocket of the coat bound tightly about her.

"I thought Carson took care of that," Tom said.

"He does. And he knows everyone's business because of it. I harbour the delusion, long abandoned by my family, that it is possible to keep information from the butler."

Tom laughed and they walked on together.

"So, I've been wondering," he began casually. "What's your favourite Christmas carol?"

Edith glanced at him sidelong. "You've asked me that already and I've told you. I don't have one."

But he only shook his head. "Everyone has a favourite Christmas carol, Edith."

"What's yours, then?" she deflected.

"O Come, All Ye Faithful," he said promptly.

She smiled. "That's lovely. What appeals to you about it?"

"It's one of the easiest to sing other words to."

"What?"

"Edith, I'm Catholic. We spent a lot of time in church. And I have a bunch of brothers. Boys don't sit still very well. So … we made games to keep us entertained. And one of them was singing messages to each other when we were supposed to be singing songs."

"I don't understand."

Tom laughed again. "Why would you? Let me show you:

O come, all ye faithful / O Keiron, You're a prat

Joyful and triumphant / Why'd you let Mum know?

O come ye, O come ye, to Bethlehem / That we took the pie from the cooling ledge?

Come and behold him / It wasn't me.

Born the King of angels / Danny's the rat.

O come, let us adore Him / Let's pound him when we get home.

O come, let us adore Him / Lock him in the coal bin.

O come let us adore Him, Christ, the Lord / Not let him join in our afternoon games.

"Stuff like that," Tom said casually, pretending not to notice Edith's horrified stare. "That's what boys are like, Edith. There were four of us." His smile turned a little rueful. "We were a torment to our mother."

"And what did your father have to say about it?"

"He had had an … altercation with some Protestants as a young man and was mostly deaf in his left ear. We always made sure to pick a pew on the left side of the church, so he couldn't hear us. And my mother sat next to him."

"How did you become such a civilized man with that behind you?"

"I got away from them," he said, joking. "And I'm not sure your father or grandmother would agree that I've been civilized yet."

"Well, they wouldn't if they'd heard that tale."

"And you've not answered my question," he reminded her.

"I have," Edith responded. "I don't have one."

"Why not?"

Edith got that pained look on her face that Tom had seen there too often. "I don't really … like … Christmas."

"Mary?" he asked, going for the obvious explanation.

But Edith shook her head firmly. "I'd like to blame Mary, but no, I think this one's on me. Christmas is supposed to be magical, isn't it? It's the season of anticipation and hope and joy. And when you're a child, this is compounded by the excitement of your stocking and Father Christmas, and, for us, the joy of spending a morning with Mama and Papa, going to church and the opening our gifts by the tree. And then a sumptuous dinner all together."

"That sounds just about right," Tom said, slightly puzzled. "So what goes wrong for you?"

The question perplexed Edith. "I just don't … feel it. And it's not about faith. Although I suppose it must be if the uplifting message of the season doesn't get through to me. But I have always believed in the birth of Christ and the promise of that event. I just don't … feel … it." She gave him a resigned look. "I'm the Ebenezer Scrooge of Downton, Tom."

It wasn't a very cheering admission, but Tom laughed at the way she framed it. "I wouldn't say that. You're not in the least tight-fisted."

"Perhaps not," Edith conceded. "But my heart has been untouched by the spirit of the Christmas season."

"So, you've no favourite Christmas carol."

"I'm afraid not."

Here We Come A Wassailing

At mid-morning the downstairs staff had a moment to catch their breath and have a cup of tea in the servants' hall. Anna and John enjoyed it as one of the few times during the day when they might have a casual conversation. Thomas sat in the arm chair by the fire, reading a newspaper. Miss Baxter, who had her sewing machine set up, had set it aside so as to join the others in this ritual.

"What's your favourite Christmas carol?" Anna asked John. "I can't believe I've never asked you before."

John opened his mouth to reply, but Thomas got there first.

"Here We Come A Wassailing, isn't it?" He peered over the top of his newspaper so as to catch the irritated glance Bates sent his way. Grinning to himself, Thomas folded the paper and tossed it to the sideboard. "I believe I have a table setting to check."

Miss Baxter watched him leave and then got up and followed him.

Bates's eyes stayed on Thomas until he'd disappeared out the door, and then focused on his wife who sat beside him. "Fourteen years I've been in this house – give or take a few… - and not once have I had a drink. Yet he jabs at me with that. Meanwhile, he not only stole the wine, but drank it, too."

Anna sighed. "It was a long time ago." She didn't want to rake up past sins and was annoyed with both Thomas and John for the distraction. "Your favourite carol," she prompted him.

"I don't have one," he said firmly.

"You can't not have a favourite Christmas carol."

"Well, I do. I mean, don't. I don't."

"Why ever not?"

John shrugged. "Christmas carols are inherently, necessarily, about the birth of Christ, an event that is the foundation for a faith to which I do not adhere."

Anna stared at him. "I'm not so sure about that."

He conceded a little. "I'll admit I've begged God for help and thanked Him, too, on one or two occasions, but in general, I just don't believe."

"All right," Anna said slowly. "But how does that get in the way of having a favourite Christmas carol? Can't you just like a song or a tune?"

"Not in that case."

Anna came over thoughtful for a moment. "Well, I'll make a leap here and assume you don't believe in Father Christmas either, so are we to banish him from our lives, too, when we have children to celebrate with?"

"Of course not. And I've not said there will be no Christmas carol singing in our home, or church-going either. We will follow any traditions you like. But I am indifferent to the rituals of the season because they mean nothing to me."

"What can I do with you, Mr. Bates?"

John knew she wasn't really looking for an answer. "What about you?" he asked "What's your favourite?"

But she only smiled enigmatically at him. "I won't tell you until you tell me."

# T # T # T # T # T # T # T #

Miss Baxter followed Thomas into the passage. He had half-suspected she might. She had some kind of messianic streak, always trying to save him. Or perhaps she just had no stomach for the Bateses' saccharine intimacies.

"What's your favourite carol, Thomas?"

"I don't like any of them," he said shortly, resigned to having the conversation but determined to keep it short.

"That wasn't always the case."

He gave her a sharp look. Miss Baxter was the only person in the house who knew anything about his past. When he had exerted influence over her, this hadn't mattered. But ever since she'd been liberated by Mr. Molesley's interference, she'd become something of a hazard and he had to be wary of her.

"I remember going with your sister to hear you sing," she said.

His insides clenched.

"In the choir," she went on. "At St. Clement's." She gave him a moment and, when he said nothing, she added, "You had a beautiful voice."

"Had," he agreed shortly. "And then it broke, like everything else." He didn't like to remember those days. Before. The days before he became a person apart. "Christmas is for children and old people," he said. And then strode off. He had work to do.

Joy to the World

"I find a propensity to rank things, any things, a vulgar exercise in vanity." Violet made this pronouncement over the tea she was enjoying with Cousin Isobel.

"Such as the class system," Isobel suggested, giving no quarter.

Violet paused in the act of pouring, the tea pot poised over a cup from the fine china service she had been given as a wedding present decades ago. The whole set was still intact, a victory over the servants in which Violet took no small pride. Her cool dismissive stare did not deter her guest.

"I'm only asking you to pick a song, not grade your children."

"I don't have to ask you that question," Violet said, relenting and pouring the tea. "If I were given to asking such a question at all."

"Why not?"

"Because I know the answer. It will be Joy to the World or Deck the Halls." She raised an inquiring eyebrow.

"Joy to the world, the Lord is come

Let earth receive her King!"

This exuberant outburst, which Isobel felt was a fitting rejoinder, elicited only a sigh from Cousin Violet.

"How did you guess?" Isobel asked.

"I didn't guess. I deduced. It is the embodiment of your temperament – effervescent, boundless, joyful."

"Well, I do like it very much," Isobel responded, ignoring all the undercurrents in Violet's remarks and accepting this assessment of herself as a positive one. "I don't think I dislike any of them, though. The whole season, after all, is exhilarating. And I do love to sing."

"I've noticed on Christmas eves past."

Isobel nodded, but Violet was a keen observer and noted a slight deflation in Isobel's unquenchable spirits. "Are you thinking of Christmas eves past?"

"Yes," Isobel admitted. "Long past." There was a shade of a quiver in her voice, but she smiled through it. "We had a piano in our home, Reginald and I," she said. "He played beautifully. He had a pianist's hands, long, slender, and dexterous. Well, he was a surgeon, too."

"And you sang together," Violet surmised.

"Not just me. On Christmas eve we entertained family, my parents and brother. In later years, some of our friends and Matthew, of course." She paused. "He had a beautiful voice, too."

"I agree."

Isobel seemed surprised by this easy consensus, but returned to her memories. "Reginald played and we would sing for hours, Christmas carols, of course, and all our favourites. Oh! but those were lovely times!" She closed her eyes briefly. "We sang Joy to the World as a duet. Every year."

"You don't speak much of Reginald. I have impressions of a skilled man of medicine, a devoted husband, and a gentleman." Violet might concede the last point without a qualm, for Reginald had been a Crawley, and though a distant relation and the practitioner of a profession, a Crawley all the same.

Isobel had a faraway, almost wistful look in her eye. "I think of him often," she said quietly. "The only real monument to anyone is in good memories." She paused and then regained her good humour as she focused on Violet once more. "And I have many of those."

They sipped their tea.

"And your favourite carol, Cousin Violet?"

Violet sighed. "I thought I'd deflected that one, but you have the tenacity of a terrier."

"Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you," Isobel announced. "Luke, 11:9-10."

"I am familiar with the story."

"And your favourite carol?"

They stared at each other, Violet coolly assessing whether it was in her interest to hold out.

"What Child is This," she said finally.

Isobel's eyebrows shot up.

"I regret the confidence already," Violet noted drily.

"What a surprising choice! Why?"

"This is the problem with questions. Answering them only leads to more questions. I like the tune. It is a traditional English melody."

"Greensleeves."

"Yes. Are we finished?"

# I # I # I # I # I # I # I #

* A little light-hearted Christmas-themed amusement. The story is not consistent with canon or with my other work necessarily. It fits, chronologically, more or less with the Christmas of 1926, but I've left out some complicating characters – Bertie and Baby Bates and Marigold– and any complicating plotlines. It comes in three-parts and is already complete. Look for the next part when the bell tolls one. And like the ghosts in Dickens's haunted tale, that direction doesn't actually mean anything.

PS: Think of reviews, like stories themselves, as Christmas presents. They're always welcome!

For imnotokaywiththerunning – Merry Christmas!