Chapter One Hundred And Ten

A Multiplicity Of Problems

If it were at all possible, after being helped to dress for dinner by Barrow, Robert Crawley, fifth earl of Grantham was now in an even worse temper than he had been at tea. The last time the family had been this way, thought Robert dourly, was when bloody Branson had gone missing over there in Ireland; abducted and, it was presumed, murdered by the IRA. No such luck thought the earl of Grantham grimly, for, although, for Sybil's sake, if not for Branson's, Robert did not wish the Irishman any physical harm, Branson was apparently possessed of powers rivalling those of the renowned escapologist Harry Houdini. For, somehow, the erstwhile chauffeur had contrived not only to survive his ordeal, but also managed to be released from his, in Robert Crawley's view, decidedly all too-brief period of captivity, news of which had then been splashed luridly all over the front page of the rag for which Branson now wrote, and to which Mary herself now subscribed.

It had been at breakfast, some two days after the Irish Independent had trumpeted Branson's release across its front page, that Mary, not especially known for her love of practical jokes, had taken the greatest delight in surreptitiously substituting her two-day old copy of the Independent for her father's copy of that morning's Times. Completely unsuspecting that anything untoward had occurred, at the time being concerned only with the matter of carefully cracking open the shell of his soft-boiled egg, when Robert proceeded to unfold the newspaper lying beside him on the breakfast table, he did so only to find himself confronted with a picture of bloody Branson, above which, were emblazoned, in large capital letters, two words:

"BRANSON FREED!"

As far as Robert was concerned, what the headline itself announced was bad enough: the large capital letters he considered excessive, and the exclamation mark, in his personal opinion, was wholly superfluous and un-necessary.

When the news of this seemingly miraculous occurrence had duly reached Downton earlier the previous day by telephone, it was as if Christ Himself had risen from the dead: the women of the family had been positively overjoyed, and an almost tangible sense of bonhomie and heartfelt relief had permeated the whole household. When Robert asked Carson about his feelings on the matter, even he, who, privately, it was well-known at Downton, was absolutely appalled by the marriage of Lady Sybil and Branson, had expressed his general satisfaction with the way things had eventually turned out, and Robert had felt distinctly betrayed by what he saw as a seeming volte face on the part of the elderly butler. Now, late this afternoon, Robert had been forced to sit through tea in the Library, his Library mind, while bloody Branson was fêted, lauded to the skies, and generally made a fuss of, by both Cora and the girls; so much so that Robert was given to wondering again if his original surmise had been right and that somehow the bloody Irishman had indeed managed to adulterate the house's water supply with a hefty dose of laudanum.

Hearing the news that Murray had to impart had not improved things either. Of course, Robert was only too well aware that several of the neighbouring estates were in very poor shape, as indeed, if the reports in the newspapers were to be believed, were many others scattered throughout the length and breadth of the country. But then again, if newspapers, both national and provincial, were now employing creatures like Branson as journalists, how could anyone trust what they printed? After all, revolutionaries like Branson would be only too pleased to see the whole of the existing social order coming crashing down, be reduced to so much rubble, as had been the case in Bolshevik Russia. And if such individuals could hasten the dawn of their new world by printing inflammatory, wide-of-the-mark drivel in the county's newspapers, no doubt they would be well satisfied with themselves.

As far as the earl of Grantham was concerned, most such claims were wildly exaggerated. In any case, this whole regrettable situation, assuming for the moment that it was true, had been brought about, not as the Socialists would have everyone believe by a lack of investment on the part of the feckless, grasping owners of those self-same estates, but rather by the loss of so many sons and heirs killed in the Great War serving their King and Country, and by the punitive level of death duties and land taxes introduced by that duplicitous, scheming, slippery bloody Liberal and moral bankrupt Welsh goat, Lloyd George.

But then, late this afternoon, Murray had turned up here at Downton, with the startling and unwelcome news that because of the alleged financial problems of some obscure Canadian railroad company of which Robert had never even heard - the Grand Trunk Railway Murray had called it - almost all of the fortune which Cora had brought with her over to England as her dowry all those years ago, and which had been invested shortly after their marriage in the same Canadian railroad company, which Murray had explained operated lines in both Canada and the north-eastern United States, had been lost. Not that Robert believed that tale of seeming woe in its entirety, despite Murray's assurances that what he had to regrettably impart was, unquestionably the truth of the situation. In the circumstances, and in the very near future, or so the old solicitor said, very hard decisions would have to be made, which might well require the enforced sale of the entire Downton Abbey estate. How on earth could a railway company go bankrupt anyway? After all, in England, railway passengers paid for their tickets, and businesses did the same for the conveyance of their goods. Presumably, they did the same, over there in Canada, so how on earth was such a thing possible?

No, thought Robert, it didn't make any sense. None of it did. No doubt that old woman Murray was exaggerating the seriousness of the situation, and yet, it was unlike him to cry wolf when there was no pretext to do so. On reflection, Robert was given to wondering whether, perhaps, he should seek a second opinion on the matter, perhaps from Henry Bradshaw, with whom he had been at school, and who was now a senior partner with Bradshaw, Bradshaw and Bramham, a firm of solicitors in York, whose offices lay just off Micklegate, on the south side of the city, and whose services Robert had, on several occasions in the recent past, been wont to use. No sense in asking Matthew and alarming him over something which, when all was said and done, would turn out to be little more than a storm in the proverbial teacup.

And now there was something else to contend with as well, at the thought of which Robert grimaced. Really, some things were too much to be borne!

It was singularly regrettable, but it had only been when he had paused halfway down the main staircase to adjust a picture of one of his forebears which was not hanging quite as straight as it should, no doubt displaced in her haste to clean by a careless housemaid, that he became painfully aware of the glaring faux pas committed upon his person this evening, in the continuing enforced absence of Bates, by that exceedingly poor substitute for a valet, Barrow. For, it was, as he adjusted the picture, that glancing down, with a mounting sense of outrage, that Robert realised that Barrow had contrived to insert the wrong studs into his cuffs. Of course, Bates would never have committed such a gross error, being well aware that Robert always wore his late father's pearl cufflinks at dinner. However, the dinner gong had already sounded, and there was no time to change. Robert sighed. He would, of course, have to speak to Barrow about his woeful mistake, but thankfully not until tomorrow. That was an encounter Robert was not looking forward to at all. Being well aware of Barrow's alleged sexual proclivities, Robert always found himself uncharacteristically nervous when Barrow was helping him to dress, and, if he had been asked, Robert would have said that, in the circumstances, he preferred to have as little to do with the ersatz valet as their respective positions permitted.

And, as the sound of carefree, laughing voices drifted up to him from downstairs, it was now that Robert was forcefully reminded that here was another encounter which he was not looking forward to either. From his unrivalled vantage point on the main staircase, Robert watched, stony-faced and unseen, as, laughing and joking, first Cora and then Mary and Edith, accompanied by Cousin Isobel and Matthew walked purposefully across the stone flagged hall towards the dining room.

Usually so punctilious in her arrival here at Downton for dinner, and therefore all the more conspicuous by her absence, obviously, Mama had still not yet arrived from the Dower House. Quite frankly, Robert was beginning to wonder if his mother had taken leave of her senses. Over the last few months, in fact, ever since Mary and Edith had returned home from Ireland, their grandmother had become almost obsessive in poring over, and seeking Matthew's advice on, the laws and minutiae appertaining to the inheritance of both estates and titles.

So much so, that one evening last month, over brandy in the Billiards Room, after an especially taxing encounter on the subject at dinner, Matthew had asked his prospective future father-in-law outright whether the Dowager Countess of Grantham was possessed of some hitherto undiscovered information appertaining to the vexed matter of the entail with which the Downton Abbey estate was encumbered. Robert had said that to the best of his knowledge this was not the case; that particular matter had, he said, been settled long ere since, and in Matthew's favour; that he himself was as mystified as anyone, as to why his mother had become so interested in the matter of the inheritance of estates. Oddly enough, of all of them, only Edith seemed unperturbed by her grandmother's seemingly inexplicable fixation.

The happy group crossing the hall below was followed shortly after in its wake by his youngest daughter, strolling contentedly, arm in arm, with her husband who, without any regard for propriety, assuming that no-one was on hand to see what they were about, then proceeded to kiss her openly on the cheek. Sybil, her father noted, was elegantly attired in a midnight blue gown, which Robert considered to be far too revealing of his youngest daughter's figure, the more so given her present and most regrettable condition.

Good God! Why, the bloody Fenian hadn't even bothered to change for dinner, was still wearing the same suit which he had on when he arrived here earlier this afternoon.

However tempting the delights which Mrs. Patmore had contrived to serve up for their dinner this evening, Robert knew, even before the meal began, that he would find all of them exceedingly indigestible; given the fact that, whatever else happened, sitting across from him at the dinner table tonight, no doubt breathing fire and red revolution, would be bloody Branson in his ill-fitting, rumpled grey suit!

Author's Note:

David Lloyd George (1863-1945) a Welshman and a Liberal politician, at this time Prime Minister of Great Britain, was notorious for his marital infidelities. For this, he was known as "the Welsh goat". Earlier, in 1909, as Chancellor of the Exchequer, he had been responsible for introducing "the People's Budget" which proposed introducing unprecedented taxes (including increases in death duties) on the wealthy to help eliminate poverty and fund a wide range of social welfare programmes.

By 1919, the Grand Trunk Railway of Canada (incorporated in 1852) was, for a variety of reasons, in serious financial difficulties, and nearing bankruptcy, which eventually led to its enforced nationalisation. Like Robert Crawley, many of its erstwhile shareholders were indeed British.