A few days after New Year's Day

1920

The world downstairs had a tense atmosphere, making everyone jumpy and rather anxious. Word was around that His Lordship's valet Mr. Bates was to hang. Daisy was sorry for Anna—and who wouldn't be? Anna was like an older sister to her, and after Gwen left, it was more pronounced. But Daisy had more pressing things in mind—such as William's pension. She had received it a few weeks before Christmas. Clearly Mrs. Hughes thought that there was nothing absolutely wrong with Daisy taking it—Daisy had every right to a claim. Her father-in-law thought so too, when she asked him what he thought about it the day he visited her. Again.

"William would want you to have it," Abner Mason declared, his voice a bit gruff with emotion. His heart broke for the lass William married. A year on after the boy died, and the poor lass still in pieces. Then again, who would remain whole once you've lost someone who meant the world to you? He felt that way when Constantia died. He bade Daisy goodbye, but not without extracting a promise from her (again) to visit him at the farm. Abner knew his daughter-in-law was a year over twenty, but with her diminutive stature and clear, delicate features, she looked about four years younger—a mere slip of a girl. How awful for one to grow up that way.

"You'll always be welcome at the farm," Abner reiterated. "It'll be also your home now." Daisy gave a non-committal nod to her father-in-law, handing him his coat. Truth to tell, she was slightly jarred. It was the second time he visited her. She wouldn't be surprised if Mrs. Patmore had written him. She must have, otherwise, he wouldn't have come. Daisy thought. She had a ticking off from Mrs. Patmore yesterday—what right had she, Daisy Mason, to complain about her lot when Mr. Bates was sitting in a lonely cell, waiting to face his maker? She sighed. Again, her direct superior was right. And Daisy had to hand it to her father-in-law. She tried to hide a grin. Now she knew where William's persistence came from. Maybe she would give it a go. She might visit her father-in-law one of these days.

Daisy also thought that it was also strange that it took the most unexpected of persons to help her realise that she did love William, after all. Imagine, the Dowager Countess, pointing it out to her, the day she got her ticking off from Mrs. Patmore—well, yesterday. Daisy was mending the fire, and the warmth of the room made her forget where she was for a while. The family weren't due to be in the room for while.

Daisy thought of William. William was a good, kind person—a sweet one really, when you think of it—the best friend a girl could ever have. She was really fond, terribly fond of him. But would she have married him under normal circumstances? But then again, most people marry people they were fond of. Posh people like her employers normally didn't. But then, Lord and Lady Grantham were crazy about each other, and one didn't need to wear spectacles to see that.

She once heard from Gertie that it was better to pick someone who loves you over the person you love, but won't love you.

I married him. But he died. And I miss him. So very much, and it still hurts.

That suddenly reminded Daisy of the pension. Mr. Mason said it was perfectly all right for her to have it, it was hers by right, as William's widow. But she didn't want to think of anything as sordid as the pension. Daisy knew that she would have given anything, her widow's dole included, to have her best friend back. All of a sudden, with a pain so sharp that it stabbed through Daisy's heart, she burst into tears. She was still sobbing her heart out when the Dowager Countess entered the library.

"Oh! What on earth's the matter?"

"I—I'm sorry my lady. I—I better go."

"No you're not. There's something troubling you, and you better tell me. You're Daisy, aren't you? William's widow?" Daisy nodded. There was no point in denying it, and anyway, the ring she wore on her finger was enough testament.

"You must miss him terribly, don't you?" Her Ladyship couldn't have been more direct, Daisy thought. "Yes I do, my lady," Daisy replied. "Us downstairs..."

Violet Crawley nodded sadly. "So what's the matter now?" she asked.

"His Majesty's government is giving pension to the war widows. I—I don't want to take it. It'll be false to his memory. False to him."

Violet was, for once, baffled. Oh, the young people of today! Always talking in riddles! "But you can't have been false to him," she probed Daisy further. "You were his wife for only half an hour."

"It's difficult to explain, my lady."

"Well, try."

"I led him on when he was wounded," Daisy blurted. "I let him think that I loved him."

"Why?" asked the Dowager Countess.

Daisy ploughed on. "I thought it'd cheer him up, give him something to live for."

"And you did all this, when you didn't even like him?"

The thought of anyone disliking William perturbed Daisy, so she continued, "No, I did like him, very, very much. Everyone liked our William." At this, Violet Crawley's eyes lit up for a second, as if an idea had burst into her. "Ah so you married him to keep his spirits up at the end?"

"I supposed I did, yes." Daisy was surprised at that her ladyship said next. "Well forgive me, but that doesn't sound unloving. To me, that sounds as if you loved him a great deal."

Daisy thought that she would visit her father-in-law. It was just a brainwave, but it was something she decided to act upon. When, she wondered. Tomorrow was her day off. She could go, Mr. Mason had given her directions.

Beryl Patmore took Daisy's smile as a sign that she was getting used to the idea of having another family. Daisy was a bit of a ninny sometimes, but there were times that Beryl felt that she couldn't blame her kitchen maid. Before Daisy came to Downton, she was a neglected child, left on the doorstep of the Abbey's kitchen, in a blisteringly cold, rainy autumn night. Daisy was seven, then. She hadn't much experience of affection. For her, love was tit for tat—you get what you give. But that wasn't love was supposed to be. Whereas William had plenty of love and affection—supplied by loving parents, and so, it was natural for him to give it, without expecting anything in return. Beryl sighed. If only he had made it. If only he had lived. She sighed again. "If only" had little use in the world. At least, Daisy's got a father-in-law, and a pension.

And speaking of pensions...

Daisy tapped tentatively on her shoulder.

"I'd—I'd like to talk to you. And Mrs. Hughes."

"Is this about the pension?"

Daisy nodded. "Yes," she replied. "I'd like to ask her advice. And yours." Ah, the boot's in the other foot now, Beryl thought.

"Let's go and see her, then." On the way to the housekeeper's sitting room, Beryl Patmore took a plate of scones and a pot of tea with her.

Elsie Hughes was more than happy to help Beryl and her sweet but rather complicated kitchen maid. She wondered who else, apart from the perpetually sour Sarah O' Brien had ever called Daisy Mason simple-minded, because the girl was far from it. The girl seemed to have consumed an enormous chunk of time in her life over-thinking things—but Daisy had a point sometimes. Naive, yes. Simple minded, no. Now, Daisy decided to keep her widow's dole. Elsie took it as a good sign; Daisy had finally acknowledged that she would, in a way, remain to respect her husband's memory by taking the pension.

"I advise you to open a post office account. They're pretty handy, and Mrs. Salter will only be too happy to assist you. When is your next day off?" Elsie asked Daisy. "In two weeks," Daisy replied promptly.

"What made you decide to take William's pension?" Beryl Patmore wanted to know.

"Hush, that doesn't matter anymore, Beryl," Elsie Hughes said, shaking her head. She let Daisy go, and after she was out of earshot, Elsie continued. "She's wise to take it as soon as she can. Probably it would give her some nest egg. The girl isn't as soft as Miss O' Brien makes her out to be. I sometimes think that she thinks far too much."

"Far too much for her own good, and gets her noddle all worked up in the worst of ways," Beryl Patmore was in concurrence.

"All's well that ends well." Elsie agreed. Then she sighed. "But you know, I've always wondered what it would be like if William lived. Ever since the day he died."

"So do I, I've never stopped wondering."

"I hope that Daisy gets her chance at happiness," Elsie Hughes said, pouring her third cup of tea. Beryl Patmore, on the other hand, just finished her second scone.

"Likewise, Elsie. I never thought I'd say this, but she's become like a daughter to me."