Chapter Thirty One
Hot Water
"So, how was your sea crossing, Lady Mary?" asked Tom breezily cheerful, determinedly doing his utmost, indeed his very best to keep the conversation between them flowing, while Sybil and Edith chatted animatedly together about Downton, about family, and about friends.
"Uneventful" said Mary, gazing out of the adjacent open window to where the military band was now tuning up. She had absolutely no intention whatsoever of engaging in any kind of small talk with Branson. Good God, what on earth did Sybil actually see in him? How could she do this to granny, to Papa, to Mama, to me, to Edith, even to herself? Mary shot a brief pitying glance at her younger sister.
Poor, plain Edith. She had never had much luck with men and now, given the scandal surrounding Sybil, she would be lucky to find anyone under sixty prepared to marry her. Even that old duffer Sir Anthony Strallan had thrown her over - admittedly, not without a helping hand from Mary herself. That had been - good God - back in August 1914 - a lifetime ago, when everyone, including chauffeurs, especially chauffeurs, knew their place.
But now, with the war finally over, and, as a result of the unimaginable slaughter over on the Western Front, the consequent and inevitable shortage of eligible male suitors, how would Edith fare in the marriage stakes, when word finally got out, as get out it must, that their youngest sister had upped sticks and run off to marry the family's former chauffeur: was working as a nurse in a women's hospital in a Dublin slum. Dear Lord, why, if nothing was done to prevent it happening, in just two days from now, Lady Sybil Crawley, youngest daughter to the earl and countess of Grantham, dear, darling, delightful Sybil, would become plain Mrs. Branson.
Across the busy road, beyond the massed ranks of the army band, over beyond the constant passage of trams and motors, behind a line of ornate cast iron railings, Mary could see there was a park. A municipal park to be sure - it looked very akin to one she had once glimpsed in Ripon - but, for all that, there were bound to be people there, her kind of people. Well, perhaps not exactly her kind of people, but charming, educated, respectable, smartly dressed socially acceptable people nonetheless; all chatting, strolling, and whiling away the pleasant summer afternoon - the kind of people one might meet at the Races at York. Yes, there was even a large ornamental lake - she could glimpse it there through the green foliage of the surrounding trees - with ducks swimming on it and a couple of children playing close by the water's edge with a sailboat.
And here was she, sat in this increasingly hot, stuffy, and airless room, taking afternoon tea with her two sisters. Well the tea itself had been pleasant enough, even if Edith had persisted in asking Sybil the most ridiculously inane questions about her forthcoming wedding, her work as a nurse in some awful women's' hospital, her new life over here in Dublin. And then, after he had arrived, Edith had started to ask Branson about his job here as a journalist. The oddest thing was though, Edith had sounded genuinely interested in what both Sybil and Branson had to tell her.
But, thought Mary, while she could just about tolerate Edith's silly chitchat and inconsequential nonsense, as for being seated here at the same table and being forced to make small talk with their former chauffeur, no, that really was quite intolerable.
So far, Mary had studiously avoided looking at Branson when she answered his impertinent questions. God, why on earth did I let Edith talk me into coming over to this wretched place? she thought.
"… and your journey from the railway station to here?" persisted Branson.
"Tiring" said Mary, continuing with her all but monosyllabic answers, making it perfectly obvious, she hoped, by her tone, that she viewed this conversation in much the same light. Not that Branson seemed to notice.
Perhaps, thought Mary, he's simple minded, although, come to think of it, he had never given the slightest indication of it at all when he was at Downton; in fact, quite the reverse. Maybe that was the secret of Sybil's interest in him: her obsession with the former chauffeur was entirely medical, not physical. That must be it; he was simply another of the numerous unsuitable causes which Sybil, from time to time, had chosen to champion. After all aristocratic young ladies did not fall for chauffeurs. It simply wasn't done.
And, come to think of it, hadn't the army actually refused to take Branson during the war? There must therefore be something seriously wrong with him for that to have happened. If only the army had taken him, then all this … this singular unpleasantness might so easily have been avoided.
Not that she wished him dead.
Well, not exactly.
"Medically unfit" was the term Sybil had used to her to explain Branson's rejection by the army medical board. Rubbish! Branson looked perfectly physically fit enough to her. In fact, he was rather a fine figure of a … Had Sybil and he already … No … don't even think about … that.
So perhaps it was his mental state after all. Yes, that must be it. And … hadn't there been some unpleasantness … involving the contents of a silver soup tureen and a visiting general? Now, if it could be shown that Branson was also simple minded, then that might provide an excuse, a convenient way out for Sybil; indeed for them all, from this awful - how was it granny had termed it - oh yes - mésalliance.
There must be a legal way to stop this ill matched union. If only Matthew was here, he would have been able to advise her on the legal niceties. Oh Matthew, darling, what a waste. What a needless bloody waste. If only they'd been able to resolve matters between themselves. But no, he'd never accept her now; not after that awful business with the ghastly Mr. Pamuk. Of course, if they had managed to sort things out, Matthew would never have become engaged to dear, dead, darling Lavinia, and she wouldn't be saddled with marrying the awful, frightful Sir Richard Carlisle.
Then Mary remembered fragments of a conversation she'd had with Papa, shortly after Sybil and Branson had left for Ireland. What was it Papa had said? Oh, yes. Branson was interested in history and politics. Surely not. That wasn't possible. Not given where he came from, Mary couldn't see how that could possibly be the case. And, as for him being a journalist? Well, what utter rot! She sincerely doubted someone of his status could even read or write sufficiently well to command such a post. Although … Sybil had said something about Branson reading newspapers … in the garage at Downton. Perhaps she had misunderstood. Maybe Sybil had been reading them to him.
That was it.
Not only simple minded, but illiterate too.
Branson was now asking her something else about their journey here from the railway station. Well, thought Mary that was just the kind of ridiculous question one would expect … from the likes of a former chauffeur. Studiously, she said nothing in reply.
"The hotel sent both a driver and motor over for us" said Edith helpfully.
"A concept with which I'm sure Branson is very familiar" said Mary, coolly sarcastic.
Tom bit back a curt response. Instead, he merely grinned.
"If you'd both taken the tram from the station, you could have seen more of Dublin on your way here" said Sybil brightly.
"And why should I want to do that? I've seen quite enough of Dublin - from the motor" said Mary. "And as for travelling by tram, well I ..."
"Aren't they awfully crowded?" interrupted Edith, trying to forestall Mary from saying anything further injudicious.
"Sometimes" said Sybil. "But you get used to that".
"How utterly ghastly" said Mary.
"You've been on one then Sybil?" Edith sounded intrigued.
"Why of course" said Sybil. "We use them all the time, don't we Tom?"
Affably, Tom nodded his confirmation.
"Yes. We both travel in to Dublin, from Clontarf, on the tram each morning. And then back out there again in the evening, either on our own, or together. Of course, it rather depends on Syb's shifts at the Coombe and also what comes up at the paper. Sometimes I have to work late".
Syb? Syb? Mary was appalled. Never once had she ever heard anyone call her sister that. If granny or her parents heard Branson do so, they'd be utterly appalled.
"I would very much liked to have taken a ride on a tram. All those hundreds and hundreds of people, from a wide variety of both backgrounds and places … off on their different journeys" said Edith. The way she said it, she sounded almost wistful.
"Well, if you'd really like to, Edith …, before Sybil and I take the tram back out to Clontarf this evening, perhaps we could all do that. Down to the Pillar and back. Just for fun. What about it? suggested Tom.
"Yes, why don't we" said Sybil enthusiastically.
Mary looked utterly horrified.
"Pillar? What's that?" asked Edith genuinely mystified.
"The tall column, down on Sackville Street. Both of you must have seen it from the motor- with the statue of Nelson on top. All the tram lines in Dublin meet there" said Tom.
"Oh, so that's what it was. I did wonder. Yes, I saw it" said Edith.
"Well, I suppose it's another way for you to try and find a beau" said Mary looking pointedly at Edith. "Mind you, I expect they're all crammed full of bank clerks, insurance salesmen, commercial travellers and other riff raff". Here Mary shot a meaningful glance at Tom, before turning back to Edith. "Not of course that you can afford to be too choosy - when it comes to finding a husband" added Mary cattily.
Edith looked crestfallen, genuinely hurt. Sybil reached across and squeezed her gloved hand comfortingly.
"Personally, I wouldn't be seen dead on a tram" said Mary haughtily.
"There's very little chance of that" said Tom.
"Meaning what, if you please?" asked Mary coolly.
"Well, the tramway company here in Dublin is rather particular about the kind of person to whom it permits its tickets to be sold. If it wasn't, they'd be having all kinds of, what was it you said? Oh yes, riffraff" getting on and off their cars" said Tom straight faced.
Sybil stifled a giggle and Edith, realising that Tom, in making fun of Mary, was coming to her defence, bestowed on him a smile of singular sweetness and her opinion of him soared. No wonder Sybil loves him she thought. However, hoping to avoid any further unpleasantness, hurriedly, Edith asked Mary if she would like another cup of tea.
"I've taken tea" said Mary.
"So, how do you find Dublin?" asked Tom pretending not to notice Mary's contemptuous, continuing disdain.
"Look for it on a map?" suggested Mary airily.
"That's not what I meant" said Tom, deliberately echoing Mary's words from but a little while before. "And well you know it".
"Do I?" asked Mary still gazing steadfastly out of the window.
"Yes you do. And if you had one ounce of the breeding you think you possess, you'd stop behaving like a spoilt child" said Tom his voice rising.
Sybil and Edith exchanged meaningful glances. Apart from Papa, they had never once heard anyone speak to Mary in so peremptory a fashion. People near to them began to cease talking, to stop what they were saying, to turn in the direction of their table.
"I beg your pardon" said Mary her voice also beginning to rise.
"You heard what I said … Mary" said Tom icily. That he, of his own volition, had chosen this very moment to dispense with according their eldest sister her title was not lost on either Edith or Sybil.
"Tom, you promised" began Sybil. She gently reached out a restraining hand.
"I know, love. But this … this nonsense has got to stop, once and for all. And now".
"I won't have anyone make a fool of me" said Mary.
"No need to worry about that" said Tom quietly. "You're doing an admirably good job of it all by yourself".
"Well really. This is quite intolerable". Mary rose haughtily to her feet. "I think I shall do better in the park".
It was then that all four became suddenly and painfully aware that the quiet murmur of conversation in the elegant dining room had ceased. From all corners of the now silent room people were watching them, listening, waiting on their every word, while from outside, there drifted in through the open windows, the unmistakeable foot tapping strains of the Radetzky March.
In a display of perfect good manners, which, given the circumstances, their father and Matthew would have been hard put to emulate, Tom also stood up, earning him a look of admiration and gratitude from both Edith and Sybil.
Mary looked absolutely appalled.
For one awful moment, she thought Branson intended to accompany her over to the park. Then realisation slowly dawned upon her. Ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly, Mary inclined her head towards him, acknowledging, despite their recent heated exchange, the respect which Branson had just accorded to her.
"Thank you. But I can find my own way there … and back" she said steadily.
And with that and without so much of a backward glance, ignoring the silent, studied gaze of everyone else who had chosen that very afternoon to partake of tea in the elegant dining room of the Shelbourne Hotel, Mary swept imperiously out of the room, bound for St. Stephen's Green.