Chapter Two
Settling In
After all the euphoria and excitement of the last few hours, here, alone at last, in the quiet and peaceful stillness of Sybil's old bedroom, with the lamp on the night stand turned down low, their right hands clasped tightly together and resting just above his heart, they lay facing each other in bed; Sybil watching carefully over Tom as he slept.
With the heavy curtains drawn back, the sash window stood wide open to admit the warm night air and it was now that from somewhere outside, far beyond the great house, lost in the moonlit darkness there arose the shrill, piercing cry of a night jar which echoed harshly across the vast expanse of the vast park, causing Tom to stir fitfully once again in his slumbers; as indeed he had done several times tonight already.
Once again he shifted uneasily, whimpered softly and mumbled something completely unintelligible. However, now, just as before, each and every time he had done so, once again Sybil stroked his hair tenderly and gently kissed his forehead; murmured to him hushed words not only of profound endearment, of just how much she loved him, but also by way of calming reassurance that there was nothing at all for him to fear; that he was utterly safe, that she was here and that no-one, nobody would ever hurt him again.
As her soft lips brushed tenderly against his eyelids, Tom sighed contentedly, snuggled closer, his lashes light as feather down against his cheeks. Watching him settle back to sleep, herself beginning to drift down into comfortable slumber, Sybil smiled contentedly to herself. She could scarcely believe her own good fortune that after so many lonely days, nights when she had cried herself to sleep, the empty weeks and months, finally, at long last, they were together once more; Tom back where he belonged and lying by her side in their bed.
And, reflected Sybil with a knowing smile and a contented, languorous stretch, Mama had been right after all.
Having said goodnight, when they had both then retired, unexpectedly the countess of Grantham had accompanied them as far as the hall, to the foot of the main staircase, where, despite their protests, Cora had insisted to Tom and Sybil that tonight young Danny and little Saiorse should sleep in the night nursery under the care and watchful eyes of Mrs. Bridges; for, as she had said quietly as she hugged and kissed them both lightly, "tonight of all nights my darlings you need time for yourselves".
As if to reassure herself that the euphoria of the past few hours was all not part of some manifestly unfair dream, that he was not just a figment of her imagination, that Tom was indeed real, Sybil now reached forward and lightly brushed her fingers against the soft fabric of the vest which Tom habitually wore in bed and which, along with a pair of his pyjama bottoms, she had saved from the burning of Skerries House. The caress of her fingers caused Tom to stir. He sighed, hugged her to him and, moments later, enfolded in his strong arms, Sybil herself had drifted off to a dreamless and contented sleep.
Here at Downton Abbey, on what turned out to be a beautiful June morning, on the morrow after Tom's wholly astounding and most welcome return, shortly after breakfast was over, while awaiting Matthew coming downstairs from saying farewell to Mary to join his father-in-law for a further visit out to High Moor Farm, this time to survey the tithe barn and the dilapidated outbuildings, in a decidedly reflective mood, the earl of Grantham was to be found sitting at his large mahogany desk in the Library.
Laying down his Conway Stewart fountain pen and now smiling broadly to himself, Robert happened to glance out of the window, across the park and towards the brooding, distant eminence of Rylestone Ridge; from which same lofty vantage point late the previous morning Matthew and Edith had sat their horses and watched as Tom had jumped down from the slowing train close to Downton Halt. It promised, thought Robert, to be another beautiful day with the likelihood this year too of there being a long, hot summer, one perhaps to rival that of 1914. With gentle rain most nights and sun-filled days, with all manner of crops and plants across the estate and elsewhere in the county now burgeoning and well advanced for the time of year, there was the prospect also of an excellent harvest.
The earl of Grantham had been writing a letter of apology, to Archie Douglas, Lord Strathfearn; to profusely tender, yet again, to his old friend, his sincerest regrets for the very last minute cancellation made by the earl of Grantham by telephone the previous afternoon, of the intended visit of the Strathfearns to Downton Abbey for a few days while en route to their Irish estate, Rathnure House in County Wexford in the south east of Ireland. This had been done at Cora's urgent insistence and importunate entreaty; indeed she would brook no opposition in the matter and which had followed hard upon Tom's delightful and altogether unexpected reappearance here at Downton.
Of course, Robert had known Archie for years. They had met first at Christchurch when they had both gone up to Oxford, long before Archie's marriage to Margaret Fitzwilliam as she was then and now Lady Strathfearn. While the earl of Grantham hated last minute alterations of plan, even Robert could see the reasoning and the sense that lay behind Cora's heartfelt plea.
With the burning of the country houses of the Anglo-Irish gentry and with the Strathfearns on their way to Rathnure to oversee the removal of valuable family heirlooms before closing down the house permanently, or so Robert was given to understand, until times improved, with what had happened to Skerries House, Tom's ancestral home - even if that was not how he had viewed it - and given what might well befall Rathnure, it was probably for the best if the Strathfearns did not delay their departure from these shores a moment longer than was absolutely necessary. This apart, given the exceptional circumstances of what had occurred yesterday afternoon, there was no gainsaying the fact that last night's dinner had to be a private, family affair.
And so it had proved to be.
"For goodness' sake, all of you, do let the poor boy eat something!" had admonished Cora at dinner when first Mary, then Edith and now Matthew had asked Tom to recount to them all something more of the time he had spent at sea on board the Irish Rose, the tramp steamer out of Galway, bound for the wilds of Nova Scotia to collect its cargo of timber and which Tom had first mentioned to them earlier, that afternoon over tea. Then, apart from the usual plates of sandwiches, with fillings of potted meat, of egg, of cucumber and of cheese, there had only been Dundee and Madeira cake on offer and for which, quite inexplicably, at least to Robert, Cora had apologised profusely to Tom.
Of course, not having been present when Sybil, Edith, Mary and Tom had partaken of afternoon tea in the elegant dining room of the Shelbourne Hotel in Dublin and also having forgotten completely his Irish son-in-law's extreme partiality to chocolate cake, it was not until Cora had explained it to Robert later that evening that he had understood why any apology had been deemed necessary.
However, the subsequent appearance at the dinner table of Mrs. Patmore's famous trifle for dessert and to which Cora knew Tom was equally partial more than made up for the lack of chocolate cake at tea time. Having even foregone a delicious helping of lemon parfait, as the glass dish containing his portion of trifle was placed before him, Tom had grinned broadly from ear to ear and then drawing a very fond glance from Cora, to Violet's dismay and Mr. Carson's utter consternation, he had proceeded to scrape his dish clean.
"Carson?" enquired Cora a short while later.
"Milady?""Please will you convey to Mrs. Patmore, Mr. Branson's particular appreciation of her trifle".
"Certainly, milady," replied the old butler and with an expressive raise of his eyebrows.
Thoroughly unabashed, Tom had merely grinned.
"Better?" asked Sybil with a giggle.
"Much" was Tom's laconic reply. During dinner he had more than done justice to each course set before him, but to the amusement of Sybil and her sisters Tom had especially enjoyed his helping of Mrs. Patmore's trifle.
"Didn't your ship's cook ever serve you trifle?" had asked Mary with a laugh.
Tom grinned again; licking his spoon clean, he shook his head.
"Never. We were fed but once a day and then only on hard tack! Mostly, we were kept chained to our oars". Tom ducked his head and chuckled.
"Chained? Oh, really Tom, you are absolutely incorrigible," sighed Edith with a laugh.
By way of explanation, it should be said that moments before, Tom, without any trace of embarrassment, had been accounting to one and all seated around the dining table how it was and more importantly why he had jumped off the train close to Downton Halt. He had managed to make quite an amusing tale out of it all, so much so that even Robert, as a Director of the North Eastern Railway Company, was prepared to overlook the not insignificant matter of Tom's singular avoidance of paying for his ticket.
"Well, all I will say upon the matter for now, is don't make a habit of it, Tom," had observed Robert affably enough. Even so, the earl of Grantham made a mental note to himself to see that Carson sent someone from the house down to the station the following day to settle the monies owing to the North Eastern Railway.
"I'd say it was very resourceful of Tom! Bravo, old chap!" exclaimed Matthew.
For her part, the Dowager Countess, however, was decidedly not amused.
"And you a solicitor; condoning someone breaking the law" observed Violet rather primly.
"Cousin Violet, here in England there is a defence to the commission of a criminal act if that occurs because someone has been forced to act in a way contrary to law by virtue of being placed under what is termed duress".
"Indeed?" Violet did not sound convinced but now warming to his decidedly uphill task of convincing the old lady that what he was saying was undeniably true, Matthew now launched into a full legal explanation.
"Oh, yes. I can assure you that there is extensive case law on the subject beginning with Astley and Reynolds in, as I recall, 1731, Skeate and Beale in 1840 and many others besides, the most recent being Maskell and Horner heard during the war. Were Tom to be prosecuted although I doubt very much that he will be, why, I myself would happily help defend him and indeed waive my fee".
"Goodness, a solicitor who does not charge one for his services. Well I never!" exclaimed Violet.
"Would you really represent me?" asked Tom.
"Of course!" With a wink, Matthew grinned conspiratorially down the table at Tom. "But I'm certain that it won't come that at all".
"But wasn't it rather dangerous?" observed Isobel with obvious and very evident concern. "Why, you might have broken your neck!"
"Trust you to be concerned about that," retorted Violet.
"I just wanted to get home to see Sybil and the children" explained Tom, completely unashamed and unabashed. "Given what she's been through these last six months, what I've been through, nothing on earth, no-one, was going to stop me from doing just that; certainly not some officious railway guard".
Tom's attempted justification of his actions continued to cut no ice with the Dowager Countess.
"And what if everyone did as you have done? Why, in no time at all, there would be complete anarchy!" At this, Tom and Sybil had exchanged wry glances.
"Anyway," said Tom, taking a sip of water and grinning happily across the dining table at Matthew's mother, "I was careful to make sure that the train had stopped, before I got off. That's what I did when I jumped off the local at Lansdowne Road in Dublin. You see, practice makes perfect, so I knew what I was doing …" Realising what he had just said, Tom now blushed; fell silent.
"So, by your own admission, an habitual offender!" observed the Dowager Countess triumphantly.
"Oh, really, granny! Anyway, when Tom jumped off that train in Dublin, he was only fourteen," explained Sybil trying to justify what Tom had done.
"Seventeen, actually," said Tom with another grin.
"And for the want of a nail the shoe was lost" lamented Violet.
"Oh, granny, all we're talking about is a couple of shillings, not the fall of the British Empire!" exclaimed Edith now openly entering the fray and rallying to Tom's defence whereupon all five of them, Tom, Matthew, Sybil, Mary and Edith now exchanged equally smiling looks.
For his part, when he had learned of it, Tom had been very much amused to hear of the plans to build in his memory an extension to the Cottage Hospital and to which he had been alerted during dinner, albeit initially only obliquely, by none other than the Dowager Countess herself.
"So, will you now be seeking other employment?" had asked Violet imperiously of Isobel.
"Other employment? What do you mean? Why should I need to seek other employment?"
"Well, I would have thought that was entirely obvious," said Violet dismissively.
"So entirely obvious that I can't see it?" asked Isobel.
"Well, it is to me".
"Well, bully for you. I take it that you're not referring to Borneo again?"
"No, but if you'd be at all interested in going out there, I would be only too happy to ask Cousin Montague if he could recommend a suitable shipping line" observed Violet quietly.
Matthew had looked completely bemused by what he was now hearing.
"Mother? What's this? Borneo? You're going out to Borneo? Whatever for? You said nothing to me about this. Any of it".
"That's because I have no intention whatsoever of going there. I never have. I don't understand why Cousin Violet believes I do. She's positively obsessed with the idea. And as for my needing to find other employment…"
"I'm not obsessed with anything. I was merely trying to find a suitable use for your many and varied talents".
"By packing me off to Borneo? Well, thank you very much!"
"A prophet is always without honour…" began Violet.
"And I don't see why I need to be seeking other employment either. I have all my work here".
"Yes, you do, don't you?" observed Violet pithily. "All those charities and committees of which you are… in charge; the Women's Institute, the Friends of St. Mary's, the Flower Guild, the local Education Committee, the Heath Board, the Cottage Hospital Memorial Ward Committee …Why, there seems to be positively no end to your, er… talents".
"And what is that supposed to mean?"
Violet chose to disregard this last remark of Isobel's.
"Ah, well, there's none as blind as those that won't see," she replied tartly.
"There's nothing wrong with my eyesight" retorted Isobel through gritted teeth.
"Yet it seems you can't see beyond the end of your own nose".
"Cousin Violet, it appears that you and mother are perhaps at cross purposes". This from Matthew, ever the peacemaker and now desperately trying to pour oil on troubled waters. For the moment, all other conversation around the dining table had ceased while everyone else waited agog to see what all of this was about.
"I'm not at cross purposes with anyone" observed Violet loftily. "All I meant was that with darling Tom now fortuitously restored to us, what is to happen to the memorial ward being erected in his memory down at the Cottage Hospital?"
"Well why on earth didn't you say so!" exclaimed Isobel.
"I thought I had!" Violet shook her head in exasperation.
Thus it was that Tom, having first read briefly of the "Tom Branson Memorial Ward" in the copy of the Ripon Gazette in the Ship and Anchor in Tallow Lane in Liverpool, now learned the full details of what it was that was being planned.
"It really all is most inconvenient" remarked Violet drily.
"What, that I'm not dead?" asked Tom with a chuckle.
"Don't be tiresome, Alexei," retorted the Dowager Countess.
"Alexei?" Along with everyone else around the table, Tom and Sybil now exchanged surprised glances.
Oh dear, thought Violet, suddenly realising what it was she had just said and that now she would have to explain the reason for her faux pas to one and all. She sighed heavily. Things had been so much simpler when he had been just plain Branson.
Fortunately, entirely unwittingly, it was Tom who now came to her rescue.
"You were asking about my time on board the Irish Rose?" he asked, adroitly changing the subject. Edith nodded.
"Well, I'll have you know, Edith, chained to that oar, why, it was just like being back in service here at Downton!" Tom chuckled again; this time drawing another decidedly, disapproving glance from Mr. Carson who began to bristle.
Honestly! First Mr. Branson had been brazen enough to admit that he had contrived to evade paying for his railway ticket and now here he was suggesting that the domestic staff at Downton were treated no better than galley slaves.
"Do will still chain our staff, Carson?" enquired Mary setting down her glass of dessert wine.
Of course one and all knew she was speaking only in jest but from over by the sideboard the old butler glowered in Tom's direction and for a moment Mary feared that her misplaced attempt at humour had gone seriously awry. Then, something singular occurred. Entering into the spirit of the occasion, suddenly and wholly unexpectedly, Mr. Carson's eyes twinkled; the corners of his mouth twitched and the ghost of a smile settled across his august features.
"No, milady; as I am sure you are well aware, that particular practice was discontinued shortly before Mr. Branson's arrival. Although, on reflection, I am given to wondering whether by its discontinuance I myself may have been guilty of laxness. Be that as it may, milady, I suspect that its re-introduction would be a classic case of shutting the stable door after the horse had bolted".
Glancing silently in the direction of Tom, ruefully the butler shook his head but kept his thoughts to himself.
It was true enough reflected Mr. Carson, as he continued with his duties here in the dining room, below stairs, with Mr. Branson presumed dead, life here at Downton had taken on a decidedly mournful and sombre air. While of course the old butler did not approve of maudlin behaviour or displays of emotion, it was understandable enough among that those members of the domestic staff who had known the erstwhile chauffeur should regret his passing.
Even Thomas, not known for his finer feelings towards anyone, had seemed profoundly shaken when the terrible details of what had happened at Allihies had become generally known.
"The poor bugger," had said Thomas softly, abruptly excusing himself from the table in the Servants' Hall before the midday meal had been concluded. When, several hours later, Mr. Carson had chanced to encounter Thomas in one of the rabbit warren of dimly lit stone flagged passages which existed below stairs, some of them pre-dating by many centuries the building of the present house, the old butler would have sworn that the valet had been crying. If so, Mr. Carson had forborne to say anything upon what he had seen, even to Mrs. Hughes.
Nevertheless, the death of Mr. Branson had also, surprisingly, been felt by those newer members of staff who had not known him and who had entered into service here at Downton more recently, including young Emily. Naturally, as was to be expected, one and all carried on with their normal duties about the house, Mr. Carson would have been rather surprised and indeed somewhat annoyed if this had not been the case. However, he would also have been the first to readily admit that the spark and zest seemed to have gone out of everyone, both below and above stairs.
Not that what happened upstairs among the family was strictly his concern. Even so, Mr. Carson was, perforce, unquestioningly loyal to those he served and could not avoid, on a daily basis, seeing that every one of the Crawley family was both much distressed and understandably shaken by what had come to pass regarding Lady Sybil's husband.
As he stood and quietly oversaw both Alfred and Jimmy begin clearing the polished dining table of the detritus of the dessert course, Mr. Carson continued to reflect quietly on what had now occurred.
There was no escaping the fact that it was indeed odd. While most of those in service here at Downton would have remembered young William Mason, apart from Daisy and Mrs. Patmore, these days, despite his resting place being hard by, down there in the village, in the churchyard of the local parish church, few made any reference to him. However, with Mr. Branson it was different. Things, reflected Mr. Carson, had been decidedly peaceful in the Irishman's prolonged absence but also, if the truth be told, rather dull.
Earlier that afternoon, below stairs, the news of Tom Branson's unexpected return to Downton spread like wildfire, so much so that Mr. Carson had considered it incumbent upon him to make some form of announcement to the effect of what had come to pass before supper began in the Servants' Hall.
So it was now, that all the domestic staff here present learned to their astonishment and delight that Mr. Branson was indeed both alive and well and had returned to the abbey earlier this afternoon; in circumstances of which Mr. Carson himself yet remained in ignorance. No doubt in the fullness of time his Lordship would see fit to explain matters further, but for the time being the earl of Grantham had requested that Mr. Branson be allowed time to readjust to life here at Downton Abbey.
One of those seated at the table in the Servants' Hall was sixteen year old Emily Parish who to her amazement now found out that the handsome Irishman whom she had encountered down in the village on the corner of Church Street and who had asked that she give a certain package to Lady Sybil, was none other than the dashing Mr. Branson; he who had once worked here as chauffeur to the Crawley family and who, breaking and flouting the rules of both convention and society at large, had dared first to fall in love with and then thereafter marry Lady Sybil, the youngest daughter of the earl and countess of Grantham.
After supper was over, for the rest of the evening, at least until she had finished her chores and probably thereafter up in her cheerless garret of a bedroom right at the top of the house, Emily had gone about her duties in an almost trance like state; stopping now and then to gaze in seeming wonderment at her right hand.
To begin with Daisy thought she must have scalded her fingers; it had happened before. But this time, as far as Daisy could tell, Emily's right hand was completely unmarked. There was, as far as she could see, no redness, no swelling and the stupid girl had neither held her hand under the cold tap nor asked for a dollop of butter to ease any pain. So, for the time being at least, Daisy tried to ignore Emily's strange antics, took no notice of her and did as she usually did, paying the young girl no attention whatsoever except to order Emily about or else to tell her off and which usually amounted to more or less the same thing.
However, eventually, when Emily's decidedly odd behaviour had persisted, Daisy's curiosity was at last piqued and so, finally having quite enough of the scullery maid's nonsense, Daisy, as was her wont, had snapped at the young girl, asking what on earth the matter was, what it was that had got into her. To begin with, Emily said nothing; had merely smiled. Then she seemed to realise her conduct called for some kind of explanation, even to Daisy who was habitually horrid to her and whom Emily secretly both loathed and detested.
"He had the most bootiful blue eyes, he had. Held my hand he did," she said hugging herself tightly.
"Who did?"
"Him".
"Him?" demanded Daisy scornfully. "Who the hell's him?"
"Why, Mr. Branson of course" sighed Emily wistfully and gazing into space somewhere beyond the space between the top of the tall oak dresser and the ceiling.
"So handsome he was too".
At this, Daisy had heard quite enough. Shaking her head in disbelief, she had flung a damp tea towel at the younger girl and told her to dry. Her subsequent, exasperated response to the decidedly starry-eyed Emily does not bear repetition.
"Hard tack?" observed Matthew with a knowing wink.
"Which is what?" asked Sybil.
"It's a kind of biscuit…"
"Biscuit?" echoed Edith.
"You have to dunk it in coffee to soften it," explained Matthew.
"Dunk?" enquired the Dowager Countess loftily. "Pray, what is dunk?"
"Dip" offered Matthew.
"A legal term, is it?"
"No; a word in everyday, common usage," explained Isobel helpfully and with a beatific smile. "I'm rather surprised that you haven't heard of it".
Violet shot Isobel a viperous look and once again shook her head in exasperation. It was, she decided, high time she penned another letter to the bishop; this one offering the services of Cousin Isobel as a help meet to Reverend Travis, although quite what the natives in distant Borneo would make of either of them was open to question. Momentarily Violet closed her eyes and imagined Isobel having been trussed and placed in a large and bubbling cooking pot, red in the face and approaching the well done stage, surrounded by a dancing group of cannibals. Did cannibals dance? Violet assumed they did. Her son's words broke into her reverie.
"Are you all right, Mama?" asked Robert solicitously.
"Oh yes, perfectly" responded Violet. "I was just thinking of the curious things people eat…" She smiled and waved her hand. "Don't mind me". The Dowager Countess smiled contentedly.
Now completely and utterly mystified all Robert could do was nod, at the same time wondering if his mother was starting to go doolally, while across the table Tom was still continuing with his seeming interminable explanation about ships' biscuits.
"...in coffee or salt water. Usually it was salt water; then the weevils float to the top and you can skim them off before you eat your biscuit and drink your coffee or, er, salt water" added Tom; this time with a wink at Matthew and which did not go unnoticed by Robert who now permitted himself a surreptitious smile.
Years ago, a now long dead distant cousin, Captain James Horatio Crawley, had served in the Royal Navy, on board HMS Warrior and it was from Cousin James that, as a wide eyed eight year old boy, Robert had learned all about hard tack. So, he was not at all surprised in the slightest by what Tom then said next.
"We kept the weevils for later".
"Weevils? Why do I have the distinct feeling that I shall regret asking you this? Just exactly what are weevils?" asked Mary. She paused and waited.
"They're a kind of beetle," said Tom woodenly.
"Beetle? Hard tack? Fed once a day? Oh, really, Tom!" Mary lofted an imperious eyebrow, realising that once again she had been cozened and fallen prey to the unpredictable humour of both her brother-in-law and her husband.
Tom chuckled.
"Actually, the cook was a little Malay, called Ahmad, although everyone on board called him Cookie, from Rangoon, in Burma. Amongst other things, he served up an excellent beef hash and his curry was to die for!"
"So, I take it that you didn't much miss my cooking then?" asked Sybil provoking happy laughter all around.
In fact, the more he thought about it, Robert could recall no other dinner, at least in recent times which had proved so completely and thoroughly convivial.
So it was, that once again this morning, the earl of Grantham found himself musing how it was that from where they had all started in this that Tom Branson had become so very much a part of all their lives here at Downton; so much admired, so much respected and above all so beloved. While, although he would be loathe to admit it, that somewhere in the deepest recesses of Robert's mind there still yet lurked the faintest of misgivings over a pairing almost as unlikely as that which had come to pass between the Grand Duchess Olga the younger sister of the late tsar and the army officer whom she had chosen to marry, that Tom and Sybil were so well suited was obvious to one and all.
As his own mother-in-law Martha Levinson had once remarked, since the war, the world had moved on and while Robert also did not like change, especially in the established social order, who was he to question what had come to pass, especially when the marriage between Tom and Sybil was so clearly a very happy one.
So, perhaps there was some thing in what Cora had said last night when she had proposed a toast to the happy, reunited couple and had referred in passing to a match made in heaven, which before Tom's true antecedents were known had seemed to transcend all accepted notions of class and respectability; a marriage which had as his own mother had said was destined to be every since that very first time Sybil and Tom had met as children all those years ago in the lamp lit stable yard of Skerries House.
It was, reflected the earl of Grantham, decidedly and singularly odd.
For, from the very moment Tom Branson had stepped lithely across the threshold of the abbey, with Sybil walking happily and proudly by his side, young Danny riding high on his father's shoulders and with Saiorse cradled tightly in her mother's arms, the heavy pall of despondency and gloom which had settled over the great house upon the news of the Irishman's presumed death had vanished; so completely as if it might never have been. And with his unheralded return it seemed that light and laughter once more returned, certainly above stairs and from a conversation on the same matter which Robert had with Carson later that very day, below stairs as well.
However, unknown to Robert, there were some things which Tom had not told them; had kept from them. Even, from Sybil.
Author's Note:
Obviously, when it comes to matters legal, Matthew has a very good memory. All the legal cases he mentions are real and concern case law arising from the pleading by the defendants in each of the defence of duress.
HMS Warrior, on which Robert's distant cousin is said to have served, still exists. Now fully restored, she is berthed in a dry dock at Portsmouth Historic Dockyard.
Founded in London in 1905, by Frank Jarvis and Thomas Garner, Conway Stewart was an English company which specialised in the manufacture of fine quality fountain pens. Wound up in 1975, the company resumed production in the 1990s, only to go into receivership in 2014.
In 1916, Grand Duchess Olga (1882-1960) the younger sister of Tsar Nicholas II finally divorced her first husband Great Duke Peter (their marriage had never been consummated because of his homosexuality) and married her long time lover Colonel Nicholas Kulikovsky (1881-1958) by whom she had two sons. Together with both their little boys, Olga and her second husband escaped from revolutionary Russia in February 1920 and went to live in exile in Denmark with Olga's mother the Dowager Empress Marie. The Dowager Empress never approved of her daughter's marriage to a commoner.