Chapter Eighty Seven
Tea For Two
About the very time Sybil was sitting reading her novel in the entrance lobby of Galway station, Edith was to be found sitting quietly and likewise alone, in a pew, at the very back of the parish church of St. Mary's in Downton.
For all its magnificence and size, recently, Edith had found that finding somewhere to be alone, truly alone, up at the abbey, was well nigh impossible; what with convention demanding her presence at breakfast where every morning Papa was becoming increasingly irascible over the latest news from Ireland and then at family dinners each evening, let alone at a whole host of other social engagements.
So now, with the war well and truly over, with all the changes it had wrought in society, witness Tom and Sybil's recent marriage, and with Mary and Sir Richard Carlisle's wedding taking place here at Downton next summer, Edith felt ever more dissatisfied with her lot.
Of course, Edith was intelligent enough to realise that it was not what was being reported in the Times regarding the ongoing problems across the Irish Sea which put her father in such a bad temper. After all the outlawing of the Dáil Éireann in September, along with raids on known Sinn Féin sympathisers, as well as the arrest of Ernest Blythe, were measures of which Papa wholeheartedly approved.
Rather it was the fact that any mention of Ireland served only to remind Lord Grantham of his youngest daughter and her republican husband; as, of course, did Mary sitting at the same table reading the Irish Independent and from time to time quoting from pieces written by darling Tom and which usually contradicted what was being read by their father in the Times.
Mary herself was equally tetchy, although she had not seen fit to confide in Edith as to exactly what it was that was making her more than unusually prickly. Edith surmised, correctly as it happened, that most of her elder sister's irritability had to do with Sir Richard Carlisle. For, having seen darling Tom and Sybil over in Dublin so in love, so happy, both before and after their wedding, it was now obvious to Edith that Mary was not and never had been in love with Richard Carlisle.
A business arrangement darling Tom had called it; how right he had been. There was clearly no love lost between Mary and Sir Richard; while their marriage ceremony would, should it ever take place, undoubtedly prove a far more dignified and decidedly more formal affair than the recent proceedings over in Dublin, two people more in love and more suited to one another than Tom and Sybil, it would prove hard to find. Edith suspected that Mary was desperately seeking a way of breaking off her engagement to Richard because, as darling Tom had so acutely observed at the Shelbourne Hotel, Mary was in love with Cousin Matthew.
Then there was Mama constantly, or so it seemed, asking if she would like to go for a walk in the grounds, or else knocking on her bedroom door to see if she was all right whenever Edith took herself off upstairs seeking some kind of sanctuary away from everyone else in the family and also from the servants undertaking their daily round of duties. So, Isobel's unexpected telephone call requesting Edith's help in arranging the altar flowers down at St. Mary's gave her a legitimate excuse to escape the cloying confines of the abbey.
It was strange, reflected Edith. Before she went over to Ireland for Tom and Sybil's wedding, she had never viewed her life as so constrained; never realised that her life here at Downton was like that lived by a captive bird in a cage; a gilded one, but a cage nonetheless. But then, perhaps it wasn't so surprising after all, given the fact that it was only now, after all that had happened to the four of them over there in Ireland that Edith appreciated her existence for what it undoubtedly was, realised also the banality of much of what she was expected to do.
And, things were just the same at the Dower House, where it had probably escaped her grandmother's notice that in but a few weeks' time, when the newly erected War Memorial in the churchyard was dedicated a whole year would have elapsed since the guns had finally fallen silent across the Channel in France.
Come war or revolution, at her grandmother's home, just as up at the abbey, nothing ever seemed to change. From the ornate gilt frames hanging on the panelled walls, the same portraits of past Crawleys gazed unflinchingly down, all wearing the same immutable, changeless, seemingly disapproving expressions they always wore, while the same furnishings occupied their customary positions in each and every the room, along with the same plethora of knick-nacks and ornaments. The latter included two china Staffordshire spaniel dogs, which Edith especially detested; with their inane, stupid expressions, they stood aloof on the white marble mantle piece of granny's Drawing Room fireplace.
And, it was in the self same Drawing Room that she had found herself several weeks ago; sitting much as she was now in a church pew, bolt upright and therefore none too comfortably, perched on the edge of her chair, in the Drawing Room of the Dower House, partaking of afternoon tea and making desultory conversation with her grandmother, trying to think how she could broach the subject of what she believed to be the truth about darling Tom.
Inane.
That, thought Edith, was the most suitable word to describe the afternoon's proceedings so far, characterised as they had been, as indeed they always were, by the same mindless chatter initiated by her grandmother about a whole host of inconsequential matters, revolving principally around the latest gossip concerning the social whirl here in the county or else up in town.
Even the trials and tribulations of Mama's latest dress fitting in Ripon had dutifully played its own part in the tedium of the conversation, so much so that Edith found herself wishing that, but for the murderous mayhem it would unleash here in Downton, that someone would place a bomb outside her grandmother's Drawing Room window, much as they had done outside the windows of the dining room of the Shelbourne Hotel in Dublin. Still, reflected Edith, it might have one beneficial side effect; it would undoubtedly rid her grandmother's mantle piece of that pair of blasted china dogs.
And, speaking of china, here too was the same fine bone china tea service on display, the same silver cutlery, along with the lace doilies, and linen napkins; the same plates of neatly cut sandwiches, the fillings as usual of cucumber, egg, ham, or potted meats, which, when offered to her, good manners dictated she nibble and peck at daintily. For a moment Edith found herself back in the dining room of the Shelbourne Hotel watching Tom grinning at her while he made an utter mess of himself wolfing down an enormous piece of chocolate cake. Of course, here at the Dower House, on this sunny August afternoon, there was no chocolate cake on offer. Chocolate cake was deemed far too indulgent by her grandmother and so, just as they always did the same array of freshly baked scones and fruit-cake occupied all the three tiers of the inlaid mahogany cake stand.
Steam curled languidly into the air from the spout of the hot water pot standing on the table amid the clutter of the other tea things and all seemed undeniably much as it always had done. And yet this afternoon, something was different, for an uneasy silence now pervaded the room; indeed had done for several minutes.
"Edith dear, I may be many things, but clairvoyant is not one of them. You made it abundantly clear in your telephone conversation with me yesterday that you had something you wished to ask of me" said her grandmother with barely concealed exasperation.
Edith nodded.
"Yes granny".
"Good. Because I was beginning to think I was drifting into senility. Your silence so far on the matter speaks volumes. I take it that from what you said this has something to do with darling Sybil and Bran... her husband?"
Edith nodded.
"Ah. I thought as much. So, perhaps you would like to begin?" Her grandmother looked at her expectantly.
"Well, granny, that's just the point. The simple truth is I really don't know where to begin".
"Edith, do stop prevaricating. Everything, whatever its nature, has a beginning, middle, and an end. It is customary to start at the beginning, so for both our sakes, that is where I suggest you do too".
"Well then, I suppose it began that afternoon at the Shelbourne Hotel ..."
Later...
"Well, my dear, from you have now told me, I can well understand now why you and dearest Mary are so kindly disposed towards Tom. I am not normally one for the superlative, but he sounds quite splendid and every inch the gentleman you suppose him to be. Does your father know how precisely it was that he saved you all after the outrage at the Shelbourne?"
Edith shook her head sadly.
"Papa won't even talk about it. Mary has tried and so have I. All he will say is that none of it would have happened if it wasn't for Branson as he still insists on calling him. However, Mama knows all about what Tom did; how selflessly he acted and how later he stood up to the army. I know Mama has written at length to both Sybil and Tom several times now, to thank him for all he did for us in Dublin, how he looked after us over there in Ireland".
"Well, as you say my dear, he sounds to have behaved like the perfect gentleman" observed Violet but with no trace of the usual sarcasm which was her hallmark.
"Oh, so much more than that granny! After what happened in Ireland, both Mary and I will always hold darling Tom in the highest possible esteem".
"Well far be it from me to question Tom's chivalrous nature ..." Violet stopped what she was saying, raised an enquiring eyebrow. "What is it? Have I said something amusing?"
"No granny, it was just that given Tom's Socialist principles, I'm sure he would be very amused to be likened to a knight of old!"
Even the Dowager Countess could not forebear to smile.
"Well, credit where credit is due. And so you really believe that the young boy you saw in the stable yard all those years ago at Skerries House and Tom are both one and the same? Neither Mary, nor more particularly Sybil seems to have considered the possibility. But then, they were never as perceptive, as sensitive as you. I suppose it must be your own Irish heritage coming to the fore. The Irish have a word for it: fey".
"My own Irish heritage, granny? Why, whatever do you mean?"
"Something your dear Papa would like, and does his very best to overlook. My own father, your great grandfather, came from County Mayo in the far west of Ireland. We had an estate there, Padden Hall, where I was born, close to Westport on the coast, not far from Westport House, the home of the Marquis of Sligo. Of course, the Paddens were never as grand as the Brownes of Westport, nor for that matter the Crawleys of Downton, but for all that, your own father was very close to my father, his maternal grandfather. So when he was killed by his own tenants in the Land League troubles and Padden burned to the ground, it gave your own dear Papa a lasting hatred of insurrection against the social order. Then, when your own sister chose to marry someone, apparently beneath her, and not only that but also an Irish republican to boot, you can, perhaps understand why he re-acted the way he did, the way he still does, to Sybil's marriage".
Edith nodded.
"Yes, now I begin to see a lot of things and as for darling Tom?"
"Well, my dear, when all is said and done, is that really likely?"
"Granny, I know it sounds far-fetched, ridiculous even, but if you had seen what I did ..."
"But if you are right, then surely Sybil herself would..."
"I'm not sure granny, if she even remembers our visit there, to Skerries House".
"Well, she was very young at the time. In fact you all were".
"So you think it's unlikely then, impossible that I could be right?"
The Dowager Countess smiled.
"No, not impossible; just a remarkable coincidence; almost as if their subsequent meeting here at Downton was destined to happen; pre-ordained. Of course, you are far too young to remember the case of the Tichborne Claimant".
Edith looked quizzically at her grandmother.
"Your father would know of the matter, but briefly, in the 1850s, the heir to an English baronetcy down in Hampshire was presumed lost at sea off the coast of South America. Many years later a young man in Australia claimed to be that same heir and the mother of the missing man even recognised him as her long lost son. However, after her death the matter went to court, and despite there being much support for the young man's claim to be the missing baronet, ultimately the case went against him. After time spent in prison for perjury, he died a pauper".
"And was he, who he claimed to be?"
"As I told you, the matter went against him in court but there are still those today who believe he was who he said he was; much as there are those today who believe that one or other of the children of the last Tsar escaped death at the hands of the Bolsheviks just over a year ago".
"So you don't believe that Tom and the young boy ..."
"...who you saw in the stable yard that night at Skerries are one and the same? I didn't say that".
"So you do believe ..."
"I didn't say that either"
"Then..."
"Have you by any chance read any of the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle concerning the adventures of Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"
Edith shook her head.
"A pity, because if you had, you might well have come across this. So saying the Dowager Countess retrieved a slim volume bound in Moroccan red leather from off the table beside her. Picking up her lorgnette, the Dowager Countess turned to a bookmarked page and began to read.
"Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth".
Life, you see my dear Edith is infinitely stranger than any one of us, even a writer of such excellent fiction as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle could ever conceive. As you say, the entry in Burke's records the birth of a son to the younger brother of Sir Jacob Branson, but is silent as to what has become of him. Granted he would be about the same age as darling Sybil's husband, but for all we know that young man could well have died in the war, as so many sadly did. The Bransons of Skerries are not known to me personally you understand. As far as I recollect your parents were there merely because they were guests of the Tremaynes of Curraghmore who in turn had received an invitation to dine there. However, despite what is now happening over there in Ireland, I have certain contacts that may yet be able to shed some light on the matter. Leave it with me my dear".
A short while later, with the flowers up by the High Altar arranged to Isobel's satisfaction, she turned to Edith.
"I'll need to fetch some more water in a pitcher from the house. I'll be as quick as I can" said Isobel. "You'll be all right here on your own, won't you?"
"Of course" said Edith. "Why wouldn't I be?"
Isobel nodded her assent, looked thoughtfully at her for a minute, and then, without further ado, walked briskly out of the chancel, down the nave, and left the church by the south door; the sound of her hurried footsteps on the church yard path dwindled, faded away.
Inexorably, the chill of the night drew down, settling over the stones of the ancient building, which had stood here in Downton for nigh on seven hundred years. The light, such as it was, now came from behind Edith, filtering through the glass of the east window. As she waited, Edith saw her shadow stretch away from her, thin and black, until it merged with the gathering darkness in the nave beyond the rood screen.
Isobel had still not returned. The darkness drew ever downwards.
Edith saw that her shadow had vanished.
Everything was quiet; quite still. Then, somewhere, something stirred and, if only for a moment, here in this hallowed place, which for centuries had served as the burial place of the earls of Grantham, a sudden chill brushed against her skin.
Over in Ireland, on the fogbound platform of Galway station, Sybil set off after Stathum.
Author's Note:
The long-running case of the Tichborne Claimant was a cause célèbre in Victorian England and would have been very well-known amongst aristocratic circles. Violet Crawley would certainly have heard of it. Even today there are still doubts as to whether the man who claimed to be the missing heir to the Tichborne baronetcy and what remained of its fortune was in fact exactly who he said he was.
As for the Land League, this was a late nineteenth century Irish political organisation. It tried to help poor tenant farmers; its main aim being to abolish landlordism in Ireland and to enable tenant farmers to own the land they worked.