Chapter Sixty Nine
Reflections Of A Father
Despite what he had said to his family in the Drawing Room but a short while ago, once in his study and seated at his mahogany desk, after having made several desultory attempts at trying to compose himself, to attend to matters appertaining to the business of the estate, Robert Crawley found that he could not settle; not when his own family evidently seemed to view him as so obvious an anachronism; chose to question everything he loved, everything he held dear.
The more Robert thought about the present, wholly deplorable situation - and that was putting it mildly - the angrier he became. After all, just whose house was this, if not his? That apart, for him, as the fifth earl of Grantham, to be held up as a figure of contempt and ridicule and by his own family to boot, and all because of the shenanigans - how appropriate that word seemed - of a bloody Irish Fenian, was something not to be borne.
Impatiently, Robert drummed his fingers on the polished top of his mahogany desk. It was absolutely unacceptable, an appalling breach of trust by Branson; put simply, there was no getting away from the fact that he had abused his erstwhile position here at Downton quite shamefully. Employed as the family's chauffeur over several years' duration, taken on trust, evidently he had had no qualms whatsoever about making use of his privileged position so as to first inveigle his way into the affections of and, thereafter, seduce the youngest daughter of the house.
And, thought Robert savagely, several months earlier, in the Drawing Room, the ex-chauffeur had had the nerve to lecture him that he "didn't bow and scrape". Well, that was exactly what bloody Branson had done, and all so that he could achieve his goal. If any proof was needed, as far as Robert was concerned, that in itself showed him just what kind of thoroughly reprehensible creature the Irishman undoubtedly was.
His mind in a whirl, his head pounding, Robert leaned back in his chair. It was, he reflected, not inconceivable that Branson had abused his position in service before. Of course, everything had seemed perfectly in order when the Irishman had arrived at Downton, but now, given all that had happened, Robert wasn't so certain. After all, references could be forged; he wouldn't put that past Branson either – and the ex-chauffeur undoubtedly had a way with words. Maybe his references were not what they had seemed at the time of his employment here at Downton. So, perhaps enquiries should be made with his former employers. Carson would have to be spoken to about that.
Perhaps he could pull a few strings and ask Viscount French to put in train certain enquiries over there ... in Ireland. After all, French had no time for Sinn Féin, had arrested several of its leaders the previous month, and wanted Home Rule to be implemented, provided that the violence in Ireland stopped first. If Branson had any links to the republican cause, then surely French's subordinates would be able to winkle them out. Thereafter, Branson would just have to take the consequences of his own folly; perhaps even a short spell of imprisonment. Well if that was what it took, so be it. Left on her own, Sybil might then see sense and return home to England.
And, if Robert needed any further proof of the depths to which the ex-chauffeur would stoop, well then, there was the small matter of what had passed between the two of them in Branson's room down at the Grantham Arms in the village. That Branson had seen fit to tell Sybil about his financial offer, which had been made in good faith and in private, was utterly disgraceful. Sybil and Branson had no secrets from each other? What utter rubbish! No gentleman would ever have done something as reprehensible as that.
But then, wasn't that really what all this was about?
Branson had no breeding; was of no social standing whatsoever. And, in that particular connection hadn't even Mary said something about him growing up on the back streets of Dublin? And yet that being so, why on earth did Mary now deign to champion him? After all, she herself was very mindful of her own position in society, so why did she even bother to acknowledge Branson's existence, let alone embrace him as her brother-in-law? It just didn't make any sense. None of it did. Robert snorted derisively.
So, what was it then that Sybil found so appealing about the young Irishman? Had he ... Robert's eyes narrowed ... God, no! Surely not? Had bloody Branson forced himself upon her? If so, however unpleasant such an occurrence was to contemplate, that might just explain matters.
For darling Sybil, no doubt it had all begun as a harmless war time flirtation. Well, that was only to be expected. Foolish and naïve of her of course, but as her father, he could forgive her that. After all, Sybil was very young and he had seen for himself during the war how some of the officers hospitalised here at Downton had been attracted to her and understandably so; darling Sybil was a beautiful girl. Then, finding out too late what kind of objectionable creature Branson really was, Sybil had demurred; resisted his advances. And when bloody Branson couldn't get what he wanted by pleasantries, he had probably done what someone of his sort would do; resorted to his fists, and taken what he wanted by force.
That must be it! Robert banged his clenched fist on his desk in frustration and rage. Poor Sybil! The shame of it! Thereafter, appalled by what had happened, her reputation ruined, no doubt, Sybil had felt herself compromised, could see no alternative but to marry him. That again showed just what kind of creature Branson was. That evening, when she and Branson had "announced their intentions", he should have fetched his bull whip from the Gun Room - the whip had been a present from a cousin who had travelled out to the Argentine - and flayed the Irishman's hide.
If only Sybil had come to him earlier; as her father, naturally, he would have been disappointed; would have told her so. After all, she had always been so headstrong, and look where it had now led, but he would have forgiven her ... eventually. In the meantime, something could have been arranged; Sybil would have gone abroad to recover herself and bloody Branson would have been sent packing back to Ireland, with orders never to darken the doors of Downton again.
Thereafter, for the sake of the family, it would, of course, have to have been ascertained that Sybil was not in a certain condition, but even if she had been, well, that being so, then certain other arrangements could have been put in hand. Either way, after a suitable interval had elapsed, Sybil would have been permitted to return home quietly to England. No-one would have been any the wiser as to what had happened, in due course a suitable marriage would have been arranged for her, and this shocking mésalliance would thus have been avoided.
Having poured himself another stiff brandy, Robert stood up and walked over and stood by the nearest window, where he gazed steadfastly out across the park.
Like most men of his own class and position, when war had been declared in August 1914, Robert Crawley, fifth earl of Grantham had felt it only right and proper that Great Britain should honour its assurances given the Kingdom of Belgium back in 1830 guaranteeing that country's independence and promising her military assistance in the event of her neutrality being violated.
But, as things had turned out, the Great War, as it was now being called had demanded too much sacrifice. How many dead was it? Nearly a million killed from this country alone – twenty five from Downton and from off the estate, including poor William, and over one and a half million wounded, including Matthew now thankfully restored to health and having made a full recovery; let alone the casualties sustained by the Dominions and in the colonies. With the end of the war, Robert had hoped for a speedy return to normality, to the way things had once before the world went mad. He now realised that to have been a forlorn expectation born out of a misplaced sense of optimism, and dreaded what the future would bring.
After all, who could possibly have foreseen the collapse of the Russian, German, and Austro-Hungarian empires; that the Tsar and his defenceless family would be executed by a firing squad in some dimly lit basement room, that the Kaiser would be forced to seek asylum in the Netherlands, and the Emperor Karl of Austria-Hungary, along with his family, would be forced to flee to Switzerland to avoid meeting a similar fate to that of the Tsar. Yet, in a world where a penniless, Irish chauffeur married an aristocratic English lady, evidently anything was possible. Not that it, any of it gave Robert the slightest comfort; indeed, quite the reverse.
He sighed and gazed mournfully out across the park.
Here at Downton, the trees and the park looked, Robert thought, much as they must have done for centuries, and smoke spiralled languidly up into the air from the chimneys of Home Farm; but, he wondered, for how much longer would this scene remain the way it was now? With so many sons and heirs having been killed in action, along with increasing costs of upkeep and crippling death duties, more and more estates were being sold, the contents of their houses auctioned off, the buildings turned into hotels, schools, even demolished; the farms sold to sitting tenants. Robert could not, would not let that fate befall his beloved Downton; but, how best to avoid it?
Beyond the walls of the Downton Abbey estate everything was changing and not, in Robert's view, for the better. This blasted business of dearest Sybil and bloody Branson was but a manifestation of all that. Most of what Cora said had said to him about the matter before Mary and Edith had returned home to Downton from Ireland had been complete nonsense - as evidenced by her saying some time ago that maybe they had "overlooked who Sybil really was". Utter poppycock! But, to be truthful, whatever Mary and Edith imagined to the contrary, he had genuinely seen no point in an open quarrel with Sybil. He still didn't.
Privately, he had tried very hard to understand his youngest daughter in this present matter, but he simply couldn't. To throw up all she had, including her reputation, for a violent Irish Bolshevik made no sense whatsoever. Branson could offer Sybil nothing.
As to the Irishman's so-called "prospects, the earl of Grantham shook his head in abject disbelief. What was it Edith had said Branson was now? Oh, yes. Robert grimaced. A journalist scribbling for some damned republican Irish newspaper, no doubt preaching class war and Red Revolution.
When he had said he was sorry that Branson hadn't been shot, he had spoken in haste. Of course he didn't wish the young man dead, not after all the recent deaths of young men on the Western Front and elsewhere during the war. However, there was no disguising the fact that it would have made things so much easier for everyone, including Sybil, if bloody Branson had simply disappeared off the scene for good; which was why he had offered him the money to leave Downton. And now Sybil knew about that too and despised him for it; as evidently did the rest of the family.
Outside, dusk was now fast falling, as it was, he supposed across the sea, on a not so distant shore, over in Ireland, in Dublin. The last time he had seen Dublin had been ... Good God, before the war, when the King George and Queen Mary had paid a State Visit to the city back in 1911. Of course, Robert had seen the photographs of the city after the damned Rising; who had not? But for all the damage it had sustained, surely Dublin itself could not have changed so very much?
He thought it unlikely Sybil would remember much, if anything, of their visit. After all, she had been so very young. And yet now, soon, those very same city streets would, in all likelihood, be more familiar to her than ever they had been to him.
Of course, the family had not stayed long in Dublin, had travelled south to stay with the Tremaynes of Curraghmore – the house which had been burnt down by the damned rebels but a matter of weeks ago, and then they had paid a visit to that estate down near Cork, where the house overlooked the sea, where Sybil had wandered off. What had been its name?
As for Sybil, thankfully after a brief, frantic search, she had been found unharmed, looking after some injured boy. She had always been one for championing unsuitable causes. Well, nothing had changed there! Robert shook his head. Either it was this blasted headache or else his memory must be failing. For the present he could not recollect the name of the house. Robert supposed it still stood, but given what was happening over in Ireland now, for how much longer? Perhaps Cora would remember it. If not, he could always look it up in the estate diary for that year. Skerries! That was it; Skerries House.
Pleased that his memory was not failing him, Robert turned away from the window, intending to consult his copy of Burke's Landed Gentry of Ireland, the same book he had found Edith consulting earlier that same evening, as to the family which owned Skerries House. He assumed they still did, although in such changeable times, nothing was certain any more.
Robert let his eyes wander along the shelves of his library. A moment later and Robert was frowning. For, as he looked slowly along the shelf on which the book should have reposed he espied a space.
A quick perusal of the entries in the Library ledger caused Robert's left eye to twitch once more, this on seeing, for the umpteenth time inscribed therein, both Sybil's name and that of bloody Branson over and over again.
It also revealed to Robert, that the book in question had not been signed out. He frowned again; could only assume Edith must have taken it with her upstairs to her bedroom and had failed to enter its withdrawal in the ledger. He would have to speak to her about her most singular lapse tomorrow morning at breakfast.
Really, thought Robert, since the war everything was going to pot!