Christmas Carols
Part III
CHRISTMAS EVE AT DOWNTON
The First Noel
She'd not been fair to him and she knew it. Charlie had confessed his favourite song and sung it to her, and she'd held out on him on both counts. He'd taken it in good humour and genially agreed to finish decorating the house without further mention of her reticence. She'd thought he might bring it up again, but he hadn't in the three days since. In an odd way, that only increased the pressure on her to come through. But she had to do it in her own way.
Elsie had known Charlie for thirty years and for almost all of that time he had been Mr. Carson to her, as to everyone else. But he'd never intimidated her, not even at the beginning when she was head housemaid and he a recently appointed butler and, she'd thought, inclined to take himself a bit too seriously. She'd sparred with him then and continued to do so with spirit as they built their friendship through decades of coming to trust and rely upon each other. She'd guarded her jurisdiction firmly against his intrusions. And she'd never hesitated to point out to him flaws in his judgments or manner. She was comfortable with that. They were both skilled in their work and she had no reason to feel inferior to him in any way.
But this was different. The prospect of singing before him gave her heart a flutter. He'd once sang (and danced) on the halls, before crowds of people. And been good enough to make a living at it. And just the other night he'd transformed the simple act of caroling into a performance and a very good performance it was, too. She just couldn't follow that, not with her reedy voice that went all tremulous at the difficult parts. It had never mattered before, not when singing hymns in church or carols on Christmas eve, buried in the chorus of many. But here? In their sitting room? She couldn't quite manage it. She was too self-conscious.
Then this morning she'd thought of a way and seized the opportunity when he went outside to fill up the coal bucket. She was washing up the breakfast dishes before they left for the Abbey, but strained her ears to catch the lifting of the latch on the door that would tell her he was back. And the moment she heard it, she began.
"The first Noel the angel did say
Was to certain poor shepherds in fields as they lay."
Oh, she could hear every sour note, every rusty catch in her voice. But she persisted, scrubbing the frying pan as she continued, the very effort required to scrape the pan bolstering her voice.
"In fields where they lay a'keeping their sheep
On a cold winter's night that was so deep."
The outside door had closed with a soft thwumpf and there was a creak in the passage that told her he was just beyond the kitchen. She half expected him to join her on the chorus. It was a natural impulse. But he did not and she sang on alone, gaining confidence and volume even as she struck the higher notes.
"Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel,
Born is the King of Israel."
And then, unaccountably, she started into the second verse.
"They looked up and saw a star
Shining in the East beyond them far….
Born is the King
Born is the King
Born is the King of Israel."
The last note dropped into a profound silence. Elsie did not turn his way or otherwise indicate that she knew he was there, only picking up the dish cloth she had dropped in her enthusiasm and giving the last plate a desultory wipe.
He said nothing until he had wrapped his arms about her and drawn her back against him. She leaned into him willingly, flushed both with nerves and relief. And not a little satisfaction. It was immensely gratifying to do something daunting.
"Magnificent," he murmured in her ear, his breath tickling her.
She wiggled a little, working herself even more firmly against him and he obligingly tightened his arms about her. "Not quite up to a turn on the halls, perhaps, …," she said, with self-deprecating matter-of-factness.
But he was having none of it, and took her arm to turn her round to face him. "You will always be the feature act on the stage of my life," he said solemnly. And then added, "I knew there would be sheep in there somewhere."
Angels We Have Heard on High
The servants' tea on December 24 was high-spirited and jovial, reflecting anticipation of the evening's celebration and the overall goodwill of the season. Downton Abbey was a good place to work at Christmas, the staff enjoying the Christmas eve party as guests along with the tenant farmers and on the day itself having Christmas dinner at lunch in the servants' hall, the family waiting until dinner proper for theirs. Though there was plenty of work to do in and around these two events, the prospect of such pleasures almost always put everyone downstairs in good humour.
The servants' tea was that moment of the day when they might all draw a breath knowing that the family were occupied with the children's hour in the library. It therefore came as a bit of a surprise when Lady Mary appeared in the door. She should have been upstairs relishing the time with Master George, for she would see little of him over the course of the evening.
"My lady." Mr. Carson led the assembled servants in standing as soon as he caught sight of her. "How may we help, my lady?"
"I'm very sorry to trouble you while you're having your tea," Lady Mary said with a degree of contrition.
"Not at all, my lady." Mr. Carson was undoubtedly sincere in his reassurance, although this probably could not be said of anyone in the room.
"Barrow. Might I have a word?"
Thomas wasn't the only one puzzled by this request, but he nodded and stood, then stepped into the passage with Lady Mary.
"I am sorry to interrupt your tea, Barrow. It's only that the children are putting on a bit of a concert for us in the library and they claim they can't go on without you."
The Huron Carol
"'Twas in the moon of wintertime, when all the birds had fled
That mighty Gitchi-manitou sent angel choirs instead.
Before their light the stars grew dim, and wandering hunters heard the hymn
"Jesus your King is born, Jesus is born.
In excelsis gloria."
The celebrations on Christmas Eve that brought people from the village and the estate together as guests of the family were shortly to begin and the family had gathered in the library ahead of this. And now they were staring with varying degrees of dismay – with two predictable exceptions – at Tom, who stood in the middle of the room, singing.
"I'm not doing justice to it," he said, breaking off. "I'm not much of a singer. And I might be getting the tune wrong."
"Surely the least of the crimes here," Violet murmured.
"It's sounds lovely, Tom. Please continue." Isobel gazed at him with rapt attention.
"I'd like to hear more of it, too," Cora said encouragingly.
Tom wasn't being modest in describing his vocal talents, but he was game.
"Within a lodge of broken bark, the tender Babe was found.
A ragged robe of rabbit skin enwrapped His beauty round;
But as the hunter braves drew nigh
The angel song rang loud and high
'Jesus your King is born, Jesus is born.
In excelsis gloria.'"
"Blasphemy," Violet declared. "Pure and simple."
"It was written by a Jesuit priest," Tom explained.
"Well, there's the proof," Violet added.
"… and sung to the tune of a traditional French song."
"As many Christmas carols are," Cora observed.
"Yet another strike against it," Violet said at the same time.
"And the content tailored to the understanding of the Hurons, a people who lived near that Great Lake, in Canada," Tom went on.
"And the story gets more sordid by the moment."
"Really, Cousin Violet!"
"I must agree with Mama," Robert put in. "Christ was born in Bethlehem, not in some Canadian forest. To suggest otherwise is … blasphemy. And bad taste."
"Where did you hear it, Tom?" Edith inquired, not wholly convinced that her father and grandmother were wrong, but more interested in defusing the fuss.
"In Boston. There were a number of Canadians working in the mills there. Some of them were Hurons down from Quebec. And I heard it at the first Mass I attended when I got there."
This time Violet said nothing at all, only extending her hands in a gesture that reiterated the words she had already spoken.
"And you objected to an American carol," Robert murmured to Mary. "Now we've got an Indian one."
"The point," Tom persisted, "was to make one of the foundation moments of the Christian faith meaningful to an audience which had no cultural frame of reference. The message – that the son of God was born, and in modest circumstances that proclaimed a different kind of kingdom – remains the same."
"You may have missed your calling, Tom," Cora said sweetly. "You might have been a priest."
"Heaven forbid!" Robert said, before he could stop himself.
"Well, he wouldn't have given you any trouble at all if he had, Papa," Mary noted. "But I think this shows more of the politician in Tom, than the priest. I'm afraid I'm with Papa and Granny, Tom. It seems a terrible distortion."
"Sybbie liked it," he responded. "She found the woodlands setting as meaningful as the plains of Bethlehem. You'd think that anything that caught and kept attention in a church would be a good thing."
"Oh, I don't agree with that either," Violet said firmly. "It is the congregation who must accommodate the Word, not the other way around."
"It's a losing battle, Tom," Isobel said resignedly but cheerfully. "I would, however, like to hear the whole song sometime."
"Not tonight," Mary declared. "We've already got a full schedule."
"Isn't it time we went in?" Edith asked.
"If it will save us another chorus," Robert said, standing up and offering Violet his arm.
It Came Upon A Midnight Clear
"It came upon a midnight clear,
That glorious song of old.
Of angels bending near the earth,
To touch their harps of gold."
"I don't know why you made such a fuss about it," Edith said to Mary. They were standing together by one of the columns in the Great Hall, watching their mother sing the carol a cappella. "It was nothing to you. Mama was always going to be the one to sing it. And it is a beautiful song."
Mary shrugged away these comments. "But if I hadn't objected, then we might never have caught Papa in a lie."
Edith's eyes left the graceful singer for a moment and fastened on her sister. "And what is the value of that?"
A little smile took form on Mary's lips. "Well, let's find out."
"Peace on the earth, good will to men
From heaven's all gracious King.
The world in solemn stillness lay
To hear the angels sing."
They found their father standing alone in the crowd, positioned where he had an unimpeded view of his wife. His eyes were fixed upon her as though nothing else existed in the world but that vision of beauty and the clear, entrancing voice. Edith and Mary exchanged looks and took up positions unobtrusively nearby where they might observe both their mother's performance and their father's reaction. Though they were not wholly aware of it, both were swept with sensations of warmth and contentment.
"Look now for glad and golden hours
Come swiftly on the wing
O rest beside the weary road
And hear the angels sing
And hear the angels sing."
With the final words of the song, the spell was broken for the daughters, but not for their father, who remained motionless, until Mary and Edith approached him. Then the far-away look of wonder in his eyes gave way to a genial and welcoming smile.
"Are you enjoying yourselves?" he asked.
Mary ignored the question. "I asked Mama what her favourite Christmas carol was, Papa. She said it was O Christmas Tree."
He looked at her blankly for a moment and then shrugged in resignation. "Yes. It is."
The girls waited.
"It Came Upon a Midnight Clear is my favourite," he admitted, superfluously.
Still they waited.
Robert glanced beyond them, his eyes straying once more to Cora who stood amidst a group of admirers who were, no doubt, complimenting her on her delightful performance. He inhaled deeply and then turned to his daughters.
"You know our story, your mother's and mine. You know … why we married."
It was a delicate way of drawing attention to the material foundation of an aristocratic reality: Downton Abbey had been financially floundering; a conventional means to revive its fortunes was to marry money; and Robert had mortgaged his happiness on the survival of his inheritance and done his duty. That he found Cora charming and beautiful and endowed with an impulse to generosity, a sense of humour, and a degree of intellectual curiosity had made the arrangement a pleasant one, but the fact of the matter was that he had not married for love.
Edith and Mary conceded these facts with almost indiscernible nods. This was their way of life. They acknowledged it but did not dwell on it.
"Our first Christmas together in marriage was December, 1890. My parents held a grand party on Christmas Eve and there was, as tonight, much merriment and … song. I'd had no opportunity to hear Cora … your mother sing. I'd no idea she could sing." He gave way to distraction for a fleeting moment. "There was so much we didn't know about each other." He cleared his throat. "Unbeknownst to me, she had arranged to sing a solo as a … gift, a Christmas gift, for me." As the memory of that long-past event swirled in his mind, he drifted away from them again. "It was an act of courage. Mama had no idea and would have objected, of course."
Mary and Edith briefly exchanged knowing glances at this. Granny!
"And she sang It Came Upon a Midnight Clear," Edith surmised, speaking so softly it was almost a whisper.
"Yes," Robert said. "Yes. And … I wasn't expecting it. There was a pause, as though everyone had stopped moving and speaking for that fraction of time, and then this glorious voice rang out across the room and above the crowd. And I looked around to find my wife, my beautiful, darling wife singing this song. To me." He caught his breath sharply. "And I knew, in that moment, that I loved her. No. That I was in love with her. It had been building, of course, over the past months. We got on so. And," he nodded to Mary, "we knew that your mother was expecting a child in the winter. But … I hadn't quite put it all together until that moment when she sang the song and … our eyes met … and it seemed as though I had always loved her."
Seconds ticked by in silence and then Robert fixed a look on each of his daughters.
"And I'm never going to speak of that again, so don't think of it as a Christmas tradition we need to revisit. But it is only fair that, knowing the less complimentary part of our story, you should also be acquainted with the second half."
"That's lovely, Papa," Edith said, stroking his arm. He smiled at her.
"You might have saved us the aggravation by simply explaining this to us when we were speaking the other day," Mary said, faintly exasperated.
"Does it not mean more in the magic of the moment?" Robert asked. "If you'll excuse me, my darlings, I would like to congratulate my darling wife." He moved away.
"Mystery solved," Mary said, matter-of factly.
But Edith was not deceived. She had seen her sister's face soften as their father related his tale. She knew that Mary had been as moved as she was.
"Well, now it's time for my song," Mary declared. "Unlike Mama, I prefer an accompanist. Have
you been practicing?"
Silent Night
"Silent night, holy night
All is calm, all is bright,
Round yon virgin, mother and child
Holy infant, so tender and mild…."
"I've heard Mary sing this song every Christmas Eve I've been at Downton," Tom said, speaking to the Dowager Lady Grantham. There was probably no one at Downton who was, socially speaking, more distant from Tom. Her class consciousness was acute and unforgiving. Her politics were a nightmare. And to suggest that she reflected a frame of mind that emanated from the nineteenth century was, to Tom's way of looking at things, much too generous. He thought of her more as antediluvian. And yet he liked her very much, not least because one-on-one she was one of the frankest individuals he had ever met.
"She has claimed it for her own," Violet agreed.
"Somehow, it doesn't seem like a Mary song, though," Tom went on. "It's peaceful, soothing, almost sentimental. Those aren't attributes I associate with Mary."
"Mary is not some cardboard cut-out," Violet chided him.
Tom frowned. "Well, … no. I guess not. It's only I thought Mary would like a livelier song, a stronger song."
"She sings Silent Night because it has no musical pitfalls," Violet declared.
"What?"
Violet stared at him. "It isn't a musically challenging song. It is simple, beautiful, and, with a voice like Mary's, sounds far more profound than it is. And each year you stop and listen and believe, for the duration of the song, that is the most enchanting tune you have ever heard. And then she stops singing and you return to your senses."
Tom could only shake his head at this. "What's your favourite carol?" he asked conversationally.
"Oh, I'm not going to answer that question twice in one lifetime," Violet said complacently.
# E # E # E # E # E # E # E #
Now they were listening to Lady Mary sing Silent Night and Elsie had to admit that Lady Mary's full, clear rendition was captivating.
"Silent night, holy night
Sleeps the world, hid from sight
Mary and Joseph in stable bare
Watched o'er the Child beloved and fair…."
"I'm rather partial to this song, too," Charlie murmured in her ear, as Lady Mary started the second verse.
Elsie was not at all startled by this admission. Lady Mary sang it every year and every year Charlie stood transfixed, enraptured by his Lady Mary in this as in everything else.
"It takes me back a twelve-month to one of the most wondrous nights of my life," he went on, and Elsie, startled by this unanticipated direction, turned to look up at him. His great dark eyes were riveted on her. "When this song began last year, I thought, This is it. Now or never." He slipped his hand over hers.
And she remembered then that they had left the party at just this moment, Mr. Carson (as he had been to her then) leading the way to the butler's pantry where he had, with a solemnity tinged by the most appealing hint of uncertainty, asked her to marry him. Wondrous, indeed. And they'd missed the whole song.
# D # D # D # D # D # D # D #
"Why are you crying?"
Mrs. Patmore had taken herself off to an alcove from which she could watch and listen to Lady Mary sing Silent Night without herself being seen. And yet Daisy had found her.
The question annoyed Mrs. Patmore. She had withdrawn from the others precisely to avoid anyone noticing her distress. And she rather wished Daisy had developed a little bit of tact. If she had inadvertently come upon the cook crying, then surely she could have either withdrawn discretely or ignored the fact. But, oh, no. So, Mrs. Patmore had to undertake the subterfuge herself. Dabbing her face dry with a handkerchief, she said crossly, "What are you talking about?"
But Daisy only continued to stare at her. "You can tell me, you know. Sometimes it helps."
Lady Mary was into the second verse.
"…
Mary and Joseph in stable bare
Watch o'er the child beloved and fair
Sleep in heavenly rest,
Sleep in heavenly rest."
Mrs. Patmore heard it through, hoping that being ignored would drive Daisy away, but it didn't. The cook sighed. Well, how could it hurt?
"It takes me back, it does," she said, nodding toward Lady Mary, who was now surrounded with admirers, and why not? She did have a lovely voice. "Three little girls, all red-heads, dressed in their holiday best … which was, if I'm honest, their only best … standing on the stairs, one below the other, singing carols to their mum and dad on Christmas eve." Her breast rose and fell with the feelings of bygone images.
"You and your sisters," Daisy murmured.
"Yes. Kate and … and Emily, Em we called her … and …."
"Beryl." It was the first time Daisy had ever said Mrs. Patmore's first name aloud.
"Yes. Our Em was a sweet 'un," Mrs. Patmore said quietly. "She went before her time, like Lady Sybil, only she never tasted even that much of life. She took a fever. They didn't really know what."
The vagueness of the malady did not surprise Daisy. Sometimes it seemed that there were all sorts of mysterious ailments about. It was only ever by luck and the grace of God that one dodged them at all.
Mrs. Patmore looked in Daisy's direction, not quite at her, but near her. "She wanted Silent Night sung at her funeral," she went on. "She loved them all, the Christmas songs. Well, so did we all. But … that was her favourite. She died in late winter, well past Christmas, and the minister resisted, but my parents insisted. It was such a small thing and yet so…." She was overtaken then by a sob and took a moment to collect herself again.
Daisy and Mrs. Patmore weren't given to physical gestures of affection and Daisy didn't break the rules now. Instead, she offered a confidence, as evidence of her understanding of Mrs. Patmore's feelings.
"You know the peddler. Mr. Cotter?"
"Yes." Mrs. Patmore grasped at the distraction, discomfited by the exposure of her grief.
"Well, he gave me the recipe from my mother, but there was something else."
Mrs. Patmore gave her a sharp look. Daisy had denied that very thing. But then the cook's expression softened. "You don't have to tell me anything, Daisy."
"But I want to," Daisy said earnestly. "He gave me the paper and he said that Mrs. Moore, the woman who gave it to him, said that if he came to Downton near Christmas-time, he should do this." And very softly she began to whistle.
The tune was very familiar to Mrs. Patmore. "The Holly and the Ivy," she said.
"Yeah. It were my mother's favourite. It's always been my favourite, too. Maybe I remembered it?"
Mrs. Patmore's gaze blurred a little. "I'm sure you did."
"It makes me sad that I don't remember my mother, not really. And since he told me, I've been singing it and humming it…."
"I know."
"… but, somehow, the song makes me feel glad at the same time as I'm feeling sad. I think that must be the way of things. Silent Night's a beautiful song and it were your sister's favourite. Happen it might comfort you to hear it and think of the good times you had with her." Daisy paused. "A few days ago, all I had was a shadow. And now I've got a recipe and a song." And a small smile edged its way across her face. "And … I'm dead chuffed about it."
Ignoring the conventions of their relationship, Mrs. Patmore impulsively put a tender hand to Daisy's cheek, but tempered this sentimental gesture with a characteristic declaration. "You're a tonic, Daisy. You really are."
Before Daisy could react or respond, another voice cut in.
"Mrs. Patmore! A word if I may."
It was His Lordship.
"Of course, m'lord!"
The two women straightened up and looked at him attentively, smoothing over the emotional moment they had just shared. It might be a Christmas party at which they were guests like everyone else, but he was m'lord.
"Mrs. Patmore, the other night you made refreshments for the carol singers and I admit that I helped myself to one of the hot cross buns you had set out. It was delicious." The expression on his face – eyes round with remembered delight, a boyish grin on his lips – testified to his enthusiasm. "I wondered…."
"We've made some up for upstairs breakfast tomorrow, m'lord."
"Thank you," he said solemnly.
"But I must give credit where credit is due, Your Lordship," Mrs. Patmore said. "They were Daisy's work."
"An old family recipe, m'lord," Daisy added.
"Well," His Lordship said, encompassing Daisy with a warm look, "they're the best kind."
O Come All Ye Faithful
"Is there any mistletoe about?" John asked, his eyes darting from one bunch of decorative greens to another.
"Why?" Anna demanded, pretending his question was an innocent one. "Was there someone special you wanted to catch under it?"
He grinned at her. "There might be."
"Not in here," she said. "Can you imagine how disruptive it might be with this lot?" She gestured around the Great Hall, thick with the inhabitants of house, village, and estate.
"I should think it might be fun," John said ruefully. "But I have few expectations of a party organized by the aristocracy for the lower ranks. 'Enjoy yourselves, but by all means let us keep order.'"
Anna laughed at him and relented. "There's some in the passage," she said, "and there might even be a sprig by the back door," she added mischievously.
Anna fetched them some punch and they stood together, savouring the sweet drink and indulging in banter. They had endured so many trials together that it was as much a relief as a pleasure to engage in frivolity.
"I've been considering this Christmas carol question," John said at length, affecting a serious manner.
"What?"
"You asked me what my favourite Christmas carol was," he reminded her.
"And?"
"I've been reviewing the possibilities and talking to a few other people."
"It's a matter of personal opinion, Mr. Bates, not an exam you've got to pass."
"Nevertheless," he went on, brushing off her exasperation, "I found talking about it has helped to clarify things, and I think I've developed an affinity for a particular tune."
Anna remained sceptical. "Go on then."
"I'll let you know when we come to it," he said, pointing toward the centre of the hall where the great tree stood and where the Crawleys had gathered to lead another round of carol singing.
Anna just shook her head. Mr. Bates and his secrets. Well, at least this one promised to surface soon and would likely have no detrimental effects. And she was not going to be distracted by him. Anna loved to sing and reveled in the rounds of carols. She knew all the words of every verse and was blessed with the ability to carry a tune. Beside her, her husband participated intermittently, offering a line now and again as he remembered it and though he declaimed any affinity for this form of music, it seemed to her that he enjoyed it all the same.
They sang their way through Hark! The Herald Angel Sing, O Christmas Tree, and Deck the Halls, without incident or indication on his part of any favour and Anna began to think that Mr. Bates was playing a joke on her. She half expected him to wait until the singing ended and then declare that the ensuing silence was his favourite song. That was his kind of humour.
Anna recognized the opening bars of O Come, All Ye Faithful and such was her absorption in the song, which was one of her favourites, that it took her half a second to realize that Mr. Bates was singing steadily with this one, rather than falling off after the first few words. And then it was another fraction of a second before she realized what he was singing.
The multitude of guests sang "O come, all ye faithful, Joyful and triumphant …," but what she heard close by her left ear was "O Anna, my love, Light of my life."
And where she sang "O come ye, o come ye to Bethlehem," he sang "Where would I be without you by my side?"
Anna broke off and turned to face her husband who was in the full-throated delivery of the next line,
"Now and forever, hearts entwined together.
O come let us…."
He stopped abruptly when she grabbed his arm and pulled him after her, retreating into the passage.
"What are you doing?' he asked, eyes wide in faux bewilderment.
"Mr. Bates! What were you doing?" Her exasperation was more apparent now, but she could not conceal the merriment in her eyes. She was laughing with him, or at him – it didn't really matter which – and that was all he'd wanted to see.
"I'm singing a Christmas carol," he said earnestly.
"You were singing something," she agreed.
He held his breath for a moment and then confessed. "It was Mr. Branson's idea. Well, he didn't put me up to it, but he was telling me about his own carol singing experience and…."
"Mr. Branson? You mean he's standing over there by the Christmas tree singing nonsense words to Christmas carols?"
"No. It's something he did when he was a boy. With his brothers."
"When he was a boy," Anna said, repeating what he said for effect.
John ignored this. "I'm sorry about the words," he went on, looking not a bit sorry. "Poetry isn't my passion."
"Silly beggar," Anna muttered, shaking her head.
"I promise to be on my best behaviour for the rest of the night," he said solemnly.
"Oh, I am sorry to hear that," Anna said airily.
"What?"
She lifted her head and he followed the line of her eyes to the clump of greenery pinned above the arch in which they stood.
"Mistletoe," she informed him.
"Why can't I ever get the best of you?" he murmured, taking her in his arms.
"Because I'm terribly clever, Mr. Bates. Now kiss me."
He was happy to oblige.
Angels We Have Heard on High
"You think you're so clever, don't you?"
Thomas had sought out Miss Baxter and seized a moment when Mr. Molesley had left her side to replenish their punch. He had spoken thus to her once before, when she had resisted his efforts to control her through blackmail. Then he had spewed the words at her hatefully. Now, he spoke lightly and with a smile not quite suppressed tugging at his lips.
Miss Baxter struggled to maintain a façade of innocence. "I don't know what you mean," she said.
"Don't you. What did you have to give Nanny to abandon her charges to me? Usually, I have to produce references to read them a story."
His exaggeration elicited a laugh from Miss Baxter. "She was glad to do it," she said, admitting her complicity. "She knows how much Master George and Miss Sybbie dote on you." She waited a beat. "What did they want with you in the library, earlier?"
"I had to sing the silly song with them, didn't I? Line by line. Like I was a precentor in a cathedral."
"You must have enjoyed that!"
"They were all there, you know. Not just Lady Mary and Lady Edith and Mr. Branson. But His Lordship and Her Ladyship, and the old lady and Mrs. Crawley, too. How much of a fool do you think I looked?"
But Miss Baxter only laughed the more. "How was I to know what would come of it?"
"The devil is in the details," he informed her. "You've got to play life like a chess game, and always look four or five moves ahead."
"I don't play chess."
"That's obvious," he muttered, and then added, affecting a sullenness he couldn't quite carry off, "I'll have that tune in my head for a week, now, thank you."
It seemed that Miss Baxter was impervious to shame with regard to the trick she had played on him, but Thomas never came to any game with only one advantage.
"So, how was your evening of caroling in the streets of Downton Village?" He was rewarded when a faint blush appeared at Miss Baxter's neckline and swiftly spread over her face. But he watched her take a deep breath and then turn his way.
"It was a lot of fun," she said boldly.
"Really. And can your Mr. Molesley sing?"
A second wave flushed her countenance at his use of the pronoun your, but she was not deterred.
"No," she said with a laugh. "He can't. But he puts his heart into it."
Thomas could only shake his head. "That's Molesley's epitaph, though, isn't it? He put his heart into it. Did you try old Mr. Molesley's punch?"
"I did," she said with enthusiasm. "But how do you know about it?"
"Because I've lived here for years. Everyone knows everything in a village," he said emphatically, although he rather hoped he'd been more successful with his secrets than others seemed to be with theirs. "Oh, lord. Here he comes with the punch. I'll be away."
And before Miss Baxter could utter another word, Thomas faded into the throng.
O Holy Night
Edith threaded her way through the crowd, a wraith among substantive beings. She had practiced the song, not daunted by its vocal demands, but she took her seat at the piano with a rising trepidation. The conversations of those gathered around her hardly dimmed. There was no expectation of Lady Edith singing. She extended her fingers above the keys and saw them trembling slightly. It wasn't the song itself, but the emotional weight it carried. Sybil. A day did not go by that she did not think of Sybil, but somehow this was different. Now that she was up against it, she didn't know that she could bring it off.
She played the introduction, the first six notes. And then played them again. Anxiety gripped her. She didn't remember the words. She didn't know what came next. The same six notes rippled out again.
Few people had taken notice and there was still a comfortable buzz of conversation around her. She might have simply stood and retreated, no harm done. But she was paralyzed, unable to either to proceed or withdraw. All she could do was play the notes again.
What will Mama and Papa think? How will Granny react? Edith did not want to look at her parents, did not want to know how they were reacting, although she had hardly given them enough yet to react to. Their distress, their disapproval would undo her completely. She dared not look to them. And yet she could do nothing else. Involuntarily she glanced over her shoulder.
# M # M # M # M # M # M # M # M #
"Mama, Papa, Edith's going to sing."
Robert and Cora were standing together, enjoying a drink after a round of carols. Robert was pretending not to be drinking champagne and Cora was letting him believe she believed that. Mary and Edith had been engaged in what appeared to be a civil, almost congenial conversation close by and then Edith had moved away. Her parents had not taken especial notice of her direction. Now however, they both looked to Mary.
"Edith singing?" Cora and Robert exchanged glances, both surprised and pleased. Edith was an accomplished instrumentalist but had long yielded centre stage to her sisters. Their expressions changed to eager anticipation and then they sought out Edith in the crowd, following her to the piano, watched as she sat and positioned her hands over the keys, heard the first notes she played.
Mary knew immediately that something was wrong. Edith was playing the same line over and over again. She had missed her cue. She's come up against it at last, Mary thought. Sybil. It was the very reason why Mary knew she herself could not have attempted the song and had acknowledged Edith's courage in doing so. A wave of empathy passed over her.
Mary wasn't aware that she had been staring intensively at her sister until Edith suddenly glanced over her shoulder and her eyes caught Mary's. The look on Edith's face! In the blink of an eye Edith looked away and then she was back again, as though she couldn't believe what she was seeing. Without thinking, Mary smiled encouragingly and nodded. Yes, Edith. Yes, it's all right. And to Mary's astonishment, Edith gave her a weak smile in return, turned around, and began to sing.
# E # E # E # E # E # E # E # E #
The irresistible impulse to gauge her parents' reaction had obliged Edith to seek them out, but the reflexive over-the-shoulder glance in their direction had dealt her two sharp shocks. Through the sea of faces she glimpsed her sister, Sybil, standing there beside her parents and …. Sybil?! A current passed through her and wrenched her gaze back again. No. Mary. It was Mary staring at her, eyes boring into her, and … smiling, a gentle encouraging smile. And nodding. Do it. Sing for us. You have more courage than I do.
The combination of the illusion of Sybil and the anomaly of Mary's encouragement was as an infusion of confidence. Edith hit the cue note and the first lyrics issued from her mouth without conscious thought. And then the many hours she had spent practicing receded before passionate feeling and she sang from the heart.
"O holy night,
The stars are brightly shining
It is the night of the dear Saviour's birth.
Long lay the world in sin and sorrow pining
'Til He appeared and the soul felt its worth."
# R # C # R # C # R # C # R # C # R # C #
Cora needed no more than the first few notes to react. She knew this song. And she associated it closely with darling Sybil, to whom she had taught it. Neither Mary nor Edith had taken to O Holy Night, for whatever reason, but Sybil had embraced both the vocal challenges and the mystery encompassed in the words. It had always been a magical moment for Cora to hear Sybil sing it.
There had been no formal decision to leave it out of Christmas eves since Sybil's death. It had just happened. It was Sybil's song, she wasn't there to sing it, it slipped out of being naturally. And now here was Edith presenting it anew. And it hurt.
It took Robert a moment longer to make the same connection. He was taken up with the idea of Edith offering a solo performance, especially so shortly after Mary had delivered Silent Night. Edith rarely set herself up for such blunt comparison. He heard the opening notes and his mind drifted unaccountably to the image of a wild rose, a lustrous pink flower. The Downton gardens had a few representatives. It had been Sybil's favou…. The muscles in his chest tightened so suddenly he might have thought it was a heart attack, and so it was, though not of the fatal variety. Sybil.
Simultaneously, and with an equal degree of urgency, Cora and Robert groped for each other's hand, though neither of them took their eyes from Edith. Fingers tightly entwined as though their very lives depended upon it, they listened as the great hymn unfolded.
"A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoicing
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morning."
V # V # V # V # V # V # V # V # V
Isobel and Violet were in mid-conversation when Edith's voice broke in upon them. They had missed the musical introduction. But now they both turned politely in that direction.
Delighted by song and singer, Isobel glanced at Violet to convey an unspoken note of satisfaction and was startled by the stricken look that had come over her companion. She thought perhaps Violet had taken a turn.
"What is it?" she asked urgently, leaning in toward Violet.
Violet, whose eyes were suddenly wet with emotion, discerned the note in Isobel's voice and shook her head. I'm well. Not to worry. But Isobel did worry and Violet, more from her own need to tell than Isobel's need to be reassured, whispered, "That was darling Sybil's favourite Christmas carol. How many years have I sat in this room on Christmas eve and watched her take her turn with it?"
Isobel knew that Violet's emotional distress was hardly less palpable than a physical blow and knew, too, that it was not something that words could smooth away. She was familiar with that kind of pain.
"Listen to Edith!" Violet had spoken as though to herself and, in a way Isobel had not heard from her before, with a sense of awe.
Isobel needed no encouragement in this, but grasped Violet's more subtle point. Listen to Edith.
"Fall on your knees
O hear the angel voices
O night divine
O night, when Christ was born
O night, O holy night, O night divine!"
# E # E # E # E # E # E # E # E # E #
She carried the last high note and then fell silent. The passion that had carried her through the song seeped away with it and Edith was herself again, deflated and resigned to whatever reaction Sybil's song might have evoked in their parents and grandmother. Edith prepared for the worst. Taking a deep breath, she embraced that which she had shrunk from only moments before – and turned around to face her parents.
They were almost upon her and in their countenances Edith saw not the disapprobation she had feared, but an affirmation she had seldom known. They were trying so hard to be circumspect, to avoid an emotional outpouring in public, but neither could quite manage it. When they embraced her, she felt the telltale dampness on their cheeks and saw the smiles not only on their lips but also shining in their eyes. Over her father's shoulder, against which he held her so tightly, Edith glimpsed Mary who quite deliberately raised a hand as though to dab at her own eyes before tilting her head to direct Edith's gaze. Following this signal, Edith found her grandmother across the room. Did the glint from the overhead lights suggest that Granny, too, had a tear in her eye? When their eyes met, the elderly woman raised a hand and placed it over her heart. Edith felt her own heart fill to bursting. Almost. There was someone else still.
"Tom," she said, as he appeared at her side, having waited tactfully for her parents to withdraw. She reached out to him, took his hands in hers and turned eyes briming with gratitude upon him. "Thank you," she said simply.
He smiled, in that modest, understated way he had and tightened his hands in hers. "There's nothing quite like a song to stir the heart," he said. And then he added earnestly, "Edith! You've a lovely voice! What do you mean by keeping it from us all these years?"
Hark! The Herald Angels Sing!
Charlie helped Elsie on with her coat as they made ready to take their leave. They were among the last, for Charlie took his responsibilities as the butler seriously, although it was Mr. Barrow who would lock the doors behind the last guest.
"It'll be cold out there," he warned her.
"As though I don't know it," she said back to him. "Let me fix your muffler." He stood still while she tucked it in.
And then he pulled open the door and they stepped into the brisk breeze of bracing Yorkshire night at the end of December. Almost immediately they reached for each other, linking arms and huddling together.
"It was a grand party," he declared.
"It was," Elsie said agreeably. "Who knew that Lady Edith had such a sweet voice!" She glanced at him then, thinking he would feel called upon to put in a word for Lady Mary, but he seemed unruffled by her remark.
"It's a moving song and she did it justice," he said instead.
Elsie felt his arm tighten about hers. "What is it?" she asked, puzzled, as he came to a halt.
He was staring at the sky. "Look up."
She did.
It was a clear night and the full panoply of heavenly glory was unfolded before them.
"There's Cassiopeia," he said, pointing. "And the Plough, of course. And, look!"
She wouldn't know Cassiopeia if that figure knocked on her door and was only just focusing on the Plough, when he was directing her gaze elsewhere.
"The Milky Way is all on display tonight," he declared.
He spoke with a reverence he usually reserved for God and royalty and this half-amused Elsie, but she was humbled, too, by the immensity of this celestial phenomenon.
"Do you know," he said, reverting suddenly to a conversational tone, "that some people think that the Christmas star, the star that led the magi to Bethlehem and that shepherds saw over the city, that it was a naturally occurring astronomical event? A particularly bright star or a rare alignment of planets?"
"I didn't know that," Elsie said, startled both by her husband and this information. "But I am surprised to hear you say that with equanimity. Doesn't it undermine faith to introduce a mundane explanation for something characterized as a miracle?"
To her greater surprise, a smile spread across the face still turned upward to the sky. "Oh, Elsie," he said, in a hushed tone, "who could look upon such a glorious vista and not see in it the hand of God?"
Then, with an abruptness that caught her off guard once more, he seized her hands and leaned in for a kiss. And then as suddenly, threw his head back and erupted in joyful song.
Hark! The herald angels sing!
Glory to the newborn king!
Peace on earth, and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconciled!"
# M # M # M # M # M # M #
The guests had gone and there were only a few people still about. Mary lingered.
It had been a remarkable evening. The wonder in the eyes of the children had reawakened in Mary that keen sense of anticipation she had herself known as a child on Christmas eves past. But even more potent was the elation that swept over her as she listened to Edith singing O Holy Night. Sybil. She'd known it would be an emotional moment, and yet had been unprepared by the cascade of feelings – first the visceral agony of the memory of Sybil's last moments, followed by a myriad of warmer, sunnier remembrances. Mary tended to avoid those things she could not fix, and the song had brought her face to face with a reality that was irresolute. And yet, in this commingling of sorrow and joy, she had discerned a way forward. The void remained, but somehow the emotions generated by the song had created a bridge that transcended grief. It had been redemptive and the exhilaration it unleashed remained with her.
Out of the corner of her eye Mary glimpsed her parents. Arm in arm, Robert and Cora had been heading for the stairs, but just then paused to kiss under the mistletoe someone had strategically placed over the passage arch. Smiling indulgently, Mary looked another way and saw Anna and Bates bundling up in preparation for their walk to the cottage. They were leaning in to each other, laughing together. Close by them and yet miles away, Carson was helping Mrs. Carson on with her coat. As Mary watched, Mrs. Carson reached out to her husband to tie his muffler more snugly about his neck. Even across the hall, Mary could see the adoring look he bestowed on his wife.
Her parents turned to go upstairs. The Bateses and then the Carsons filed through the front door – everyone was a guest at Downton Abbey that night. It was the Christmas eve anomaly.
Barrow appeared at Mary's side. "That's the last of them, my lady. Shall I lock up?"
She glanced his way. He seemed as always, but she'd seen him through the evening and he'd looked like he was enjoying himself.
"No." On impulse, she headed for the door herself.
"My lady? Would you like me to get your coat?"
Mary paused in the doorway. "No, thank you, Barrow." And then she stepped into the night.
It was cold. Mary felt the bite of winter, but remained oblivious to its effect. She had something else on her mind. Someone else.
On such a night as this, six years ago, she had known the most exhilarating moment of her life. It was, on the calendar, a few days later, and it wasn't precisely the same kind of night, for it had been snowing then. Now the sky was clear, but the stars were so numerous overhead as to evoke a snowy scene.
He's going to propose. He's going to propose. That litany had been swirling in her thoughts, obscuring any appreciation for the cold on that magical night.
And he had proposed.
Matthew. Her Matthew. He was as gone as Sybil and yet never gone. He was with her always and, on a night like this one, her heart was filled up with him. For that she was grateful. She never wanted to be without him.
She lifted her chin and stared at the night sky, replete with the light of a thousand suns. She knew some of the constellations, but in this moment she sought instead a single bright star, the brightest star and focused on it, immersing herself in remembrance, embracing the full array of emotions that memory inspired. It was almost too much to bear and she closed her eyes against it.
And then opened them again, for from out of the darkness, echoing across the crisp surface of glittering snow, came the lilt of a familiar voice raised in song.
"Hark! The herald angels sing, glory to the newborn King.
Peace on earth, and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconciled…."
A gust of wind caught her then and the cold to which she had to that point been impervious suddenly convulsed her with its icy breath. She headed for the house, trailed by the faint strains of song. Impulsively, she joined in, echoing the passion she had heard earlier in her sister's voice.
"… With the angelic host proclaim,
Christ is born in Bethlehem.
Hark! The herald angels sing
Glory to the newborn King!"
At the door, she paused once more and addressed herself to the heavenly jewel sparkling at her from above.
"Merry Christmas, Matthew," she said. And then went inside.
Merry Christmas