And now, inexorably, do all the loose strands in this tale begin to come together.
The Irish Chauffeur
Chapter One Hundred And Nine
Tea At Four
Outside, as the dusk drew down, beyond the centuries old stone walls of Downton Abbey the fog thickened perceptibly, swirled eerily about, a damp, dank, grey gauze of mist, which shrouded both the trees and surrounding parkland from sight and from the gaze of all those within the great house, whether family or servants.
Inside, the lamps had already been lit, the electric lights switched on, and here, in the magnificent Library of the abbey, before a splendid, roaring fire, heedless of the worsening weather without, the family sat at their leisure, taking afternoon tea. There was the polite chink of bone china and subdued chatter, so reminiscent thought Sybil, of the atmosphere in the dining room of the Shelbourne Hotel; she hoped fervently that this time afternoon tea would not end either as abruptly or as catastrophically as it had done at the Shelbourne.
"That was really yummy!"
Setting down his tea plate, Tom winked broadly at Edith, his eyes sparkling with merriment. He licked his fingers several times and chuckled. While Lord Grantham shook his head, raised his eyes heavenwards towards the ceiling, Cora smiled happily at her handsome Irish son-in-law who throughout tea had been explaining to them, something of his daily routine at the Independent.
"Of course, that's one of the things which make it all so interesting. You're never quite sure at all what's going to happen, what I might be called upon to cover. Mind you, I'd rather not go through another encounter at close quarters with the IRA. Once was quite enough for me!"
"For all of us!" said Sybil emphatically.
"Agreed!" chorused Mary and Edith.
Tom eyed the last piece of chocolate cake.
Catching sight of Tom, looking so enviously at the solitary remaining slice, Cora nodded him her encouragement.
"Go on, Tom, have it! After all, it's there to be eaten. I know Mrs. Patmore will be pleased. When they returned home from Ireland Mary and Edith both told me just how much you like chocolate cake. So, with you in mind, Tom, I asked Mrs. Patmore to make one especially for your visit.
"Well, if no-one else ..." Tom looked hopefully at his wife and two sisters-in-law.
"And just what would you do, Mr. Branson, if one of us said we wanted that?" asked Mary with a laugh.
"Then I'd say it was bad for you, that I was doing you a singular service by eating it!" Tom chuckled. He reached forward and swiftly took possession of the last piece of cake.
"Tom! You're absolutely incorrigible!" laughed Sybil.
"Thank you, Lady Grantham".
"Cora, please".
Between taking bites of chocolate cake, happy as a sand-boy, Tom grinned contentedly at his mother-in-law.
"That was very kind of you, asking Mrs. Patmore. And do you know the best thing about this chocolate cake... er... Cora?"
The countess of Grantham shook her head, waited patiently for an explanation while Tom finished his cake.
"This time I actually got to eat it!" Tom laughed, licking his fingers again and setting aside his now empty plate for the second and final time.
Cora smiled at him indulgently.
"Yes, Mary and Edith told us what happened at the Shelbourne, how brave you were..."
"It was nothing" said Tom modestly. "I'm sure that anyone would have done just the same as I did".
"Perhaps" said Cora evenly. "But it wasn't anyone that did what had to be done that day. It was you, Tom. After I found out what had happened, I know I wrote to thank you for what you did, but to the heartfelt, sincere thanks of the girls, now that you're here, permit me now to add my own. Thank you, from the very bottom of my heart!"
Tom blushed red to the very roots of his hair; nodded his head. Sybil patted his knee encouragingly. Robert cleared his throat expressively, glared at the Irishman through narrowed eyes.
"Thank you, Cora. That means a very great deal to me" Tom said softly.
There was a moment's awkward silence.
"Well, I'm so very glad to see you've regained your usual appetite!" laughed Sybil.
"So, how was your crossing?" asked Mary eyeing both Tom and Sybil over the rim of her teacup.
"In a word, eventful!" laughed Sybil. "Mind you, I suspect that even if the Irish Sea had been as flat as a millpond, and not as rough as it was, Tom still wouldn't have enjoyed the voyage. I'm afraid my poor darling isn't a very good sailor! Are you?" Sybil shot Tom an affectionate look.
While this exchange of pleasantries had been taking place, Robert had sat silent, stony faced, until, that was, Sybil had admitted to Tom's singular lack of sea legs,
"Humph! Well I never! So there is something he can't do after all!" muttered Robert peevishly.
"Robert!" hissed Cora.
The earl of Grantham felt his left eye begin to twitch. That was bloody Branson's fault too. Robert raised his eyebrows expressively, shook his head in exasperation. He had contrived to be out when Sybil and Branson had arrived, but with the worsening weather, the earl of Grantham's unexpected visit out to High Moor Farm on the far western edge of the estate had to be curtailed, and he had been forced to return here to the Abbey rather earlier than he had intended. Of course, Jarvis could perfectly well have seen to the matter in hand himself, but Robert enjoyed immensely playing the part of the concerned landlord and there was, not that he would ever admit it, not even to himself, the added benefit of not having to be present when bloody Branson arrived.
Now, following Dr. Clarkson's most recent advice, in an attempt to calm his frayed nerves and rising temper, Robert reached slowly forward and ruffled Isis affectionately under the chin. The elderly Labrador who until now had been dozing contentedly at her master's feet, pulled herself up on her haunches, with her deep brown eyes looked mournfully for a moment at Robert, and then without so much as a backwards glance, shambled slowly across the hearth-rug to flop down with a satisfied grunt in front of Tom, resting her front paws contentedly on the Irishman's brown shoes. Tom reached down and chucked Isis under the chin.
Robert winced; in his misery, he even thought he saw the dog's canine features break into a satisfied smile thoroughly content with all the undivided attention she was now receiving. Judas, thought Robert irascibly. Why, bloody Branson's even managed to inveigle his way into the affections of my very own dog!
"Never mind Tom!" laughed Edith. "Both of you are here now, safe and more or less sound. That's really all that matters. And we'll all take very good care of you! Won't we, Papa?" she asked almost as an afterthought.
Still smarting from what he saw as Isis's unforgivable betrayal of him, Robert cleared his throat, but forbore to make any answer. He was too upset; too unsure of what he might say if indeed he opened his mouth and spoke. In the circumstances, he thought it was far better to say nothing at all.
"Why Tom, you poor darling" sympathised Mary. "When you arrived I thought you looked a bit ashen round the gills!" Setting down her teacup and saucer, she smiled warmly across at her brother-in-law.
Robert fumed silently.
What about poor Robert? The earl of Grantham glanced bad-tempered at the happy throng surrounding him. Never had he felt so distant, so removed from his own family. Why, he thought, if I was to spontaneously combust, I doubt any one of them here present in this very room would even notice, let alone make any attempt to put out the flames! And as for Branson, why that bloody Fenian would probably run outside in search of as much paraffin as he could ruddy well find!
"Don't even joke about it, Mary". Tom contrived to pull a miserable face. "But Sybil here, well she looked out for me on the steam packet. Didn't you love? I don't know what I'd have done without her". He patted Sybil's knee, gazed at his young wife adoringly. Sybil covered his hand with her own, out of the corner of her eye saw her father wince again at their open display of verbal affection, of unabashed, unfeigned physical intimacy.
"Well, I'm very glad you're here. Both of you" said Cora with a warm smile. She patted Tom's knee. "Your grandmother is joining us for dinner, along with Cousin Isobel. And Matthew too, of course!" Cora smiled sweetly across at her eldest daughter.
"So how are the plans for the wedding progressing, darling?" asked Sybil.
"Slowly, but we're almost there now!" laughed Mary.
"Your engagement ring really is quite magnificent" said Sybil sweetly, fingering her own plain gold wedding band.
Mary nodded. Glancing down at the diamond encrusted ring circling the fourth finger of her left hand, she blushed with pleasure.
"Yes. Yes, I suppose it is. It was frightfully expensive of course. Matthew was terribly extravagant".
"And no doubt you did your very best to curb his wanton extravagance" observed Edith sarcastically.
Mary's eyes glittered.
"Not at all. As the future countess of Grantham, I must look the part. And anyway, Matthew can deny me nothing!"
"Obviously".
Mary let her younger sister's acerbic remark pass without further comment.
"Naturally, there was nothing suitable in Ripon; far too provincial, so Matthew and I went into York for the day to choose it".
"Naturally" echoed Edith, whereupon Robert now cleared his throat expressively. That visit by Mary and Matthew to York, in search of an engagement ring, continued to be a wearisome bone of contention between the earl of Grantham and his eldest daughter. Mary glanced resignedly at her father.
"Oh really Papa! We went there un-chaperoned you see" she offered to Tom and Sybil by way of explanation.
"Un-chaperoned? In 1920?" queried Tom airily and with a chuckle. "Why, whatever next?" At that, Mary laughed while the earl of Grantham glared angrily at his son-in-law.
"Anyway, chaperoned or un-chaperoned, after several false starts, I..." Mary paused. "Of course I mean us!" She smiled happily. "We found what we were looking for, eventually, in Hoppers, on New Street".
Sybil nodded.
"This apart..." Mary held up her left hand, the facets of the cluster of diamonds of her ring reflecting in them the light from the fire. "... thus far, it seems to have been a never-ending round of dress fittings, sending out invitations, choosing who to ask to be my bridesmaids, and deciding where to go for our honeymoon. And Matthew still hasn't decided who to ask to be his Best Man. The chap he was going to ask has just been unexpectedly posted out to India, or was it Egypt? Either way, Matthew's got to find someone else and quickly too. The list of things still to do seems endless. And Grandmamma is arriving in Liverpool the week after next on board the Aquitania. As for our honeymoon, darling Matthew's suggested Paris and then catching the Méditerrannée Express down to the French Riviera, but I would much prefer to see Florence".
"Disagreeing before you're even married, Mary" observed Edith. "Surely that doesn't bode well for the future!" she said with a brittle laugh.
Mary's brows furrowed, but for the sake of Tom and Sybil bit back a biting retort.
"Hardly that" she said coldly.
Seeing the warning signs, Sybil shot Edith a reproving glance.
"Well, after you've both tired of the Riviera, you could always travel on to Genoa".
"And why, pray, would we want to go to Genoa?" asked Mary, genuinely mystified by Tom's suggestion.
"Because Mary, from Genoa you can catch the Rome Express to Florence" offered Tom. "With, or without, Matthew!" He grinned.
"I might just do that!" laughed Mary.
"Well, if you do, then be sure to sit on the left hand side of the train. That way, you'll get an excellent view of the Leaning Tower of Pisa".
Sybil turned to look at her husband in utter amazement.
"And just how do you know so much about the train to Florence?" asked Sybil open-mouthed with astonishment.
"It's surprising the things a chauffeur gets to learn!" Tom chuckled.
"Why, you're better informed than Bradshaw's!" laughed Mary.
"I have to agree with you Mary, Florence is very beautiful" said Cora. "But, so then is the French Riviera. Just before the war, when your father and I travelled down to Nice, in the spring of 1914, we stayed at the Hôtel Negresco, on the Promenade des Anglais, overlooking the Mediterranean, didn't we, Robert?" she asked, trying once again to draw her husband into the conversation.
"Did we? If you say so" said Robert. He was busying himself flicking imagined dust motes from off the lapels of his Norfolk jacket. The clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour whereupon, Robert immediately stood up.
"Well, if you will excuse me, I have to speak to Murray about the proposed sale of High Moor Farm".
"Robert, can't it wait?" implored Cora.
"No, it can't" said Robert emphatically. "Murray's on his way up here from London, to see Bates, and said he would look in. According to Jarvis, he's made it perfectly clear the matter of High Moor needs resolving and rather sooner than later. Apparently some retrenchment is necessary, whatever that means. God knows! I don't! Anyway, Murray's on the four thirty from Ripon, and Farrar is meeting him at the station".
Then, from outside, weakly, through the grey murk and in the fading light of the misty late February afternoon, the pale yellow lamps of a motor hove into view, followed moments later by the sound of the self-same motor drawing noisily and slowly to a stop on the gravel. "And if I'm not very much mistaken, that will be him now".
Tom cocked an interested ear.
"If that's the Renault, then the engine sounds to be running a bit fast". He made as if to stand up.
"Tom..." began Sybil gently laying a restraining hand on his wrist.
"Sorry love, old habits die-hard!" He grinned across at her.
"Oh! Ouch! Why you little blighter!" Sybil suddenly put a hand to her stomach.
"What's the matter?" asked Tom immediately solicitous for her well-being. "There's nothing wrong, is there?"
"No, darling. It's just the baby kicking, that's all. He's a real prize-fighter! Here!" Sybil grasped Tom's hand and placed it on her stomach.
"There! Did you feel that?"
Tom grinned, nodded his head enthusiastically.
"It seems like he's impatient to meet his Ma!" laughed Tom.
"Impatient to meet us both you mean!" Sybil reached up and gently stroked her husband's cheek with the fingers of her right hand. Taking her hand, Tom gently kissed his wife's palm. "Anyway, Tom, you know he often gets like that when you're around. It must be the sound of your voice!"
Tom chuckled.
"You're convinced it's a boy then?" asked Edith, her eyes sparkling.
"I'm sure of it" said Sybil. "He's so impatient. Just like his father!" Tom shot her a loving glance. Edith felt her eyes begin to water; hoped earnestly that some day a man would look at her the way Tom was now looking at Sybil, the way Matthew looked at Mary.
"May I?" asked Edith. She made as if to reach forward.
"Of course!" Sybil smiled as she let Edith place her hand on her stomach. "Now, wait a minute... There! Did you feel that?"
Edith laughed.
"Yes! Yes I did. Doesn't it hurt?"
"No not really. It's sometimes a little uncomfortable, especially if he decides to rest his foot, or else perhaps his elbow, on my bladder!"
Sybil grinned. Out of the corner of her eye she saw her father wince at her matter-of-fact medical exposé of one of the minor travails of pregnancy.
"Why don't you come over to Dublin for your honeymoon, Mary?" asked Tom brightly. "You could always stay at the Shelbourne! I can recommend the chocolate cake! And you can take Matthew for a ride on the trams!" laughed Tom, at which Robert, now having reached the door, made to pat Isis on the head, only to find that his elderly dog was still where she had settled herself down in front of bloody Branson. At that, Robert half turned, and shot his son-in-law a venomous look.
"Another time, perhaps, Tom. If and when things have cooled! Mind you, I've been thinking of using of the long barn down at the Home Farm for an English style céilí!" Mary laughed; smiled broadly at her brother-in-law.
With tea now over, Cora said she had some letters to write, while Mary, seeking inspiration for her going away outfit disappeared off to pore over a selection of different patterns in both Harper's Bazaar and Vogue magazines. For her part, Sybil said she would like to go upstairs and rest for a while before having a bath and then changing for dinner. When Tom raised his eyebrows at the very notion of changing for dinner, Sybil responded by reminding him playfully and in the very same words which he had said to her not half an hour ago, that old habits die-hard. Besides which, didn't he want her to look nice for him? Surely he would not begrudge her that, she asked with mock solemnity. Tom grinned, shook his head, said of course not, but that there really was no need to gild a lily, causing Sybil to giggle and flush with pleasure.
"Less of the Irish blarney if you please Mr. Branson!" she quipped rising to the occasion.
"Why darlin'? Yous never complained about it before'!" laughed Tom slipping into a deliberately thick Irish brogue, causing Edith to smile at their carefree banter and to reflect once again just how well suited Tom and Sybil were as a couple. But then, when he offered to accompany her upstairs, Sybil demurred, said that she would be just fine, that if Tom liked, at least for the time being, he could stay down here and amuse himself in the Library. Could he amuse himself in the Library? She assumed so, because hadn't it always been his favourite room in the house? Tom grinned, said that was true enough, but added that notwithstanding his love of books, when he was chauffeur, the rest of the principal rooms of the house had remained strictly out-of-bounds.
"Well love, that's no longer the case! I'll expect you upstairs in an hour or so's time then" she said before kissing him gently on the cheek and leaving the room arm in arm with Edith who wanted, or so she said, Sybil's frank opinion on a pair of new hats which had been delivered here to Downton for her on approval from a milliner's she patronised in Kirkgate in Ripon.
As they crossed the hall, the telephone began to ring insistently, to be answered a matter of moments later by none other than the august and portly Mr. Carson himself who, catching sight of both Edith and Sybil heading towards the main staircase, called out to them.
"Lady Edith, a telephone call for you, from the Dowager Countess".
"Thank you Carson".
"Milady" The butler nodded, and, leaving the receiver lying on the table in the hall, promptly withdrew himself discretely from the scene.
"I wonder what on earth granny wants. Whatever it is, I'm sure it could have waited. After all, she's coming here to dinner this evening. Go on Sybil, I'll join you just as soon as I can".
Sybil nodded and carried on up the main staircase. Crossing the hall to the telephone, Edith picked up the receiver.
"Hello granny. Am I what? Yes I am. Quite alone. Yes they arrived about two hours ago. Sybil's gone upstairs to rest and Tom's in the library. All the world's stage? Yes, of course I remember. Tonight? You want me to do what? Well, yes of course I will. Yes, discretely. Yes, yes, I understand. I'll do so now. Goodbye granny".
Left to his own devices, and feeling somewhat like the cat that had swallowed the cream, Tom sauntered round his father-in-law's library before ensconcing himself back on the sofa by the fire with a copy of a collection of speeches made by Sir Edward Carson, the leader of the Ulster Unionists, and a bitter opponent of Home Rule for Ireland, and to whom the idea of an independent Irish state was anathema. While Tom was not in the least surprised to find the volume upon the shelves of Lord Grantham's library, what he did not expect was to find that the speeches had been copiously annotated in his father-in-law's bold hand, and recently too, at least judging from the fresh colour of the ink. Whether or not he agreed with Robert Crawley's position on the matter of Irish independence, Tom mentally awarded the earl of Grantham full marks for at least trying to inform himself of something of what was now unfolding across the sea over in Ireland, even if it was from the Unionist point of view.
After a while Tom returned the book to its rightful place on the library shelves, and as he did so, on the shelf above, caught sight of a copy of Burke's Landed Gentry of Ireland. If for no other reason than to satisfy his interest in history, Tom clambered nimbly up the library steps, reached the heavy book down from off the shelf, and returned with it to the fireside. As he made to open it, the volume fell open at a page marked with a small but exquisitely chased silver bookmark bearing the crest of the Crawley family. When he saw the contents of the marked page, Tom felt his heart lurch, for before him was set out the lineage of his own family: the Bransons of Skerries House, County Cork.
Tom was still sitting there on the sofa staring into space when he heard the door to the Library quietly open, and glancing round, saw Edith slip in.
"Oh, Tom! That was granny on the telephone. She said she'd left something in a book she borrowed from Papa's ..."
Edith's very own words died on her lips as she recognised immediately the identity of the open book now lying across Tom's knees. After all she had searched carefully through its closely printed pages herself but a matter of days after she and Mary had returned home from Ireland.
Tom held up the Dowager Countess's silver bookmark for Edith's inspection.
"Is this what you're looking for?" he asked her softly.
Edith nodded. She looked down at him, searching his well-loved face.
"You know, don't you?" Tom said gazing up at her, his blue eyes two dark limpid pools. His eyes moistened and an unbidden tear now trickled its way down his cheek.
"Yes" said Edith simply. "Oh, Tom, darling!" she exclaimed seeing his obvious distress. She slipped to her knees, knelt in front of her brother-in-law, enfolded Tom's hands within her own. "Dearest Tom, I believe I do. And so, I think, does granny".
Author's Note:
Fenian is the name given to all those who espoused the cause of an independent Ireland in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. It was also used, disparagingly, to describe Irish Catholics. As a Protestant, English aristocrat, Robert Crawley would have been contemptuous of both Irish nationalists and Catholics.
In 1920, Hoppers, on New Street, was a well established firm of York jewellers.
Launched in 1913 and owned by the Cunard Line, RMS Aquitania was a transatlantic liner.
The Méditerrannée Express (operated by the same company which ran the more famous Orient Express) was a luxurious Pullman train which, from 1889, ran between Paris and the French Riviera. The Rome Express was a similar train, running between Calais and Rome. This conversation gave me the idea for my sequel to this story: "The Rome Express".
Named after its publisher George Bradshaw (1801-53) Bradshaw's was a book containing railway timetables for Great Britain. A separate volume dealt with train services on the Continent.
Even today, the Hôtel Negresco is still the most famous and luxurious hotel in Nice, and overlooks both the Promenade des Anglais and the Mediterranean. When Robert and Cora hypothetically travelled there in the spring of 1914, it would have been brand new, having opened for business in 1913. At this time, wealthy tourists only travelled to the French Riviera in either the winter or the spring, and not in the summer when it was considered to be far too hot to holiday in the south of France.
Sir Edward Carson (1854-1935) was a politician, barrister, and judge. Leader of the Ulster Unionists (1910-21) he was bitterly opposed to Home Rule and independence for Ireland.
First published in 1899, Burke's Irish Landed Gentry was a book containing details of those families which owned estates in Ireland. The information it contained was very extensive, giving details of individuals, marriages, children, relevant dates, and place of residence.