Chapter Eleven
Nosebleed
Becoming all too aware that both Edith and Sybil were sitting watching her expectantly, Mary's ready temper flared once again.
"And by employing a nanny, does that some how make me some kind of monster? Well, does it?" she raged, her forbearance with the present situation, at least as she saw it, finally breaking, her anger spilling over.
"No, of course not, Mary. It just makes you... well... different in that regard... from the two of us. That's all", offered Sybil gently.
"From you perhaps!" Mary thundered. "But not, from Edith I'll wager. After all, I can't see you doing that sort of thing - changing nappies and so forth. Doesn't this Frit... Friedrich von whatever... He must have servants surely?"
"Yes, of course he does. Yes, of course we do" said Edith.
"Well then..." snapped Mary.
"But, I've always been far more involved looking after Max, with his upbringing, than you ever were with any of your three".
"Oh really? And just how do you manage to do that from Egypt, or wherever it is you're digging? I assume you don't take the boy along with you?"
"No, Mary, much as he'd like to accompany me, I don't take Max along with meand for a very good reason too. In any case, I would have thought that by now, you would have realised that I haven't spent nearly quite as much time in the Near East, excavating my old relics, as you so charmingly once called them, as you and the rest of the family might once have thought".
"Evidently not" said Mary flatly, also making a mental note to have a word with Matthew about respecting confidences exchanged over the dinner table.
"Where then?"
"At Friedrich's estate. It's called Rosenberg. It's about an hour or so south of Vienna by motor, close to the Wienerwald, the Vienna Woods, with views of the Alps too".
"How positively charming! It sounds utterly idyllic", said Mary sarcastically.
"It is" said Edith. "And the roses there are absolutely magnificent".
"In which case, I'm only surprised that you can bear to leave it so often then!"
"Well sometimes I have no choice, especially..."
"I suppose when he's not with you, Max is away at school?"
"No, he isn't" said Edith. "Although, you of all people would think that. After all, from what Matthew said to me at Christmas, I believe you can't wait to pack Robert off to boarding school, and no doubt Simon too".
"And just why is that? Don't they have boarding schools in Austria then?" asked Mary heatedly, making a mental note to have a further word with Matthew, again in private, about what she saw as yet another unforgiveable betrayal.
Mary knew Matthew didn't want either of their boys to go away to school, had been making enquiries regarding their admission to the grammar school in nearby Ripon. The school had an excellent reputation, but it was neither Eton, nor Harrow. To be scrupulously truthful, Mary didn't want Robert and Simon to go away to school either, but how could she tell Matthew that, when, it had been she herself who had first suggested it. She considered to do so now would result in a serious loss of face - for her.
Not that she would ever admit to it, even to herself, but Mary had always envied Tom and Sybil their open, easy going relationship. From the very outset, they had always been the same, like the two sides of the same coin, loved each other desperately, knew each other's most intimate thoughts, had no secrets from one another, and were in fact like the proverbial peas in the pod.
Much as she loved Matthew equally desperately, increasingly, a small part of her aristocratic upbringing railed silently against what Mary saw as his total lack of aristocratic pretensions, of which eating one of Danny's gobstoppers in public on the platform at Victoria station was but a symptom.
She knew too, just how much darling Matthew hated what she herself saw as tradition, and what he considered to be the pointless flummery and nonsense associated with being earl of Grantham, one of England's premier peers. Why, if he could, she knew Matthew would have reduced their domestic staff still further, would even, if he thought she would ever have tolerated it even for an instant, have shut up most of the abbey. After all, he'd already overseen the sale of Grantham House up in London, a property that had been in her family for six generations. From all accounts, it was now some ghastly third rate hotel, its amenities no doubt used for afternoon assignations by middle class lovers. That was something which Lady Lavinia Leventhorpe had taken great pleasure in telling Mary about, when she had encountered both her and Matthew at the Lord Lieutenant's Ball last autumn. Why, oh why, did the awful woman have to be called Lavinia? It was utterly unforgivable and something for which Mary was prepared to detest the simpering creature for on sight.
If the truth be told, this whole trip to Italy, both for the Bransons, as well as for the Crawleys, had only come about because of the generous legacies granny had left to all three of her grand daughters in her will. After all, even with his new position at the newspaper, Tom and Sybil wouldn't have been able to afford it.
In fact, as far as Mary was aware, they'd never ever had a proper holiday in their entire married life. Not that they seemed to mind, unless day trips out to Ciaran's farm - Mary had still not forgotten that ride in the waggonette - or else taking the children down onto the beach to go swimming in the sea and to hunt for crabs, at where was it, oh yes, Blackrock, could be said to count as such.
Those day trips to the coast had proved a bone of contention between both Mary and Matthew. Several years ago, one morning at breakfast, having heard from his arch conspirator Tom, about the Bransons repeated day trips down to the beach at Blackrock - at the time, the Bransons had been at Downton for one of their infrequent visits - Matthew had unilaterally pronounced, that such jaunts sounded such incredible fun. When she herself had learned of her husband's own view of such trips, from her maid, Hodges, Mary had nearly choked on her kedgeree, looked daggers at Tom that night at dinner, and decided there and then, that she and Matthew, bedroom sport apart (and these days that was strictly rationed too as Mary, then expecting Rebecca, had no intention whatsoever of going through another pregnancy) must obviously have very different ideas as to what constituted fun.
Mary suspected that what happened next had also been wholly down to Tom as well, although she could never prove it, as a few days later, the Bransons had left for Ireland, which was probably just as well for Tom, as Mary was by then contemplating paying a purposeful visit to the Gun Room. Such a visit, would, if it had been carried out, might well have left Sybil a widow with three small children: and Mary herself on trial for the wilful murder of her lovable Irish brother-in-law.
The subsequent publicity would, reflected Mary, have been singularly unfortunate, but then it couldn't be helped, and, after all, the family had weathered a similar storm over Bates several years earlier. Her likely subsequent conviction, for murder, presented something more of a problem.
The British courts did not recognise, as did the French, the idea of a crime of passion - un crime passionnel - for that is what, in Mary's view it would undoubtedly have been, as she was passionately against undertaking day trips to the seaside. Of course the benefit, though she would not have lived to enjoy it, would have been incalculable, in that it would undoubtedly have put a stop, and permanently, to any more of darling Tom's oh-so helpful little suggestions made to Matthew over breakfast, let alone after dinner, over billiards.
Undeterred, at least by Mary's decided lack of interest, again at breakfast the following day, Matthew had voiced his suggestion to Robert, that the Crawleys - by which he apparently meant Mary, the boys, and himself, all undertake similar day trips; in their case, both to Scarborough, where that old duffer Strallan would finally breathe his last, as well as to other places along the Yorkshire coast, where, apparently, there were sandy beaches, rock pools, and what Matthew chose to term "good swimming". There was, decided Mary, who had been absolutely appalled by the whole idea, nothing good about swimming in the sea. Barrow was equally appalled. Having overheard Matthew's proposal at breakfast, and again repeated over dinner that evening, this time when Matthew broached the subject once more and now to Mary directly, on catching her eye, had raised his own heavenwards, towards the dining room ceiling, in a manner which put Mary immediately in mind of her father.
Undeterred by Mary's decided lack of enthusiasm, if not downright opposition to the whole idea, much to young Robert and Simon's infinite delight, their father pressed on with duly making the necessary arrangements and so it was, that during that never-to-be-forgotten summer of 1928, much to Mary's chagrin, Matthew and the two boys undertook several day excursions over to the Yorkshire coast. Pointedly, Mary herself stayed at home.
Apparently, all three of them, Matthew included, enjoyed themselves no end, so much so, that that seemingly, all they did for days afterwards, at least according to Matthew's own mother, was do nothing but babble about their expeditions, their conversations revolving around donkey rides on the beach, hunting for crabs like Tom and Sybil's children did over in Ireland,, swimming in the sea, and eating sticks of rock, as well as something called candy floss, which when Mary found out what it was, she was absolutely horrified. In fact, she was undecided as to which of the three of them enjoyed these trips the most, suspecting that it was probably Matthew himself. Papa and Mamma had been no help either, in fact, worse than useless, Mary's father observing that it all sounded such wonderful fun, and that if he hadn't been feeling his age, he would happily have gone with them.
As for the Crawleys, they would not have been making this present trip to Italy either, had it not been for granny's largesse and the Ashingtons offering them gratis, the use of their charming villa overlooking both Florence and the valley of the Arno. After all, Matthew, in his continuing drive for efficiency and making savings on the running the estate, would never otherwise have agreed to it. Yes, at times, thought Mary, Matthew could be relied upon to be so middle class with his preoccupation with how every last penny was spent.
"Yes, of course there are boarding schools in Austria, but we've no intention of sending Max to one. He'll continue to be tutored at home, just as he is now".
Edith's pronouncement as to her own son's future education was like a red rag to a bull.
"Tutored at home? How very democratic of you!" said Mary not bothering to sheath her sarcasm. "Well, really, not even we can afford to do that!"
"Mary, please. Wait, just a moment" said Sybil sensing again that there was still something Edith had still not told the two of them. The countess of Grantham looked quizzically at her youngest sister, and then relented.
"Oh very well" Mary said and with none too good a grace.
"Edith, I take it, when you left Downton last Christmas to travel back to Vienna, because of Max, it was because he was ill?" Sybil asked.
"Yes" said Edith flatly. "It was".
"Do you mind me asking what was wrong with him? I assume it must have been serious, for you to leave Downton the way you did, without even saying goodbye".
"Yes, it was. For him", said Edith laconically. She hugged her son to her, kissed the top of his head, and murmured to him some endearment in German.
"What exactly?"
"He... he had... He had a nosebleed" said Edith softly.
"He had a what?" demanded Mary not believing the evidence of her own ears.
"You heard what I said" replied Edith.
"A nosebleed" repeated Mary woodenly. "You left Downton without even saying goodbye, and went all the way back to Vienna, because your son had a ruddy nosebleed? Well, I don't believe it! Good God, Edith, as far as I am aware, all my children have had nosebleeds at some time or other. So too I expect have Sybil's".
Mary looked questioningly at her youngest sister for confirmation. Silently, absent mindedly, her mind in turmoil, weakly, Sybil nodded her assent. In fact, the worst person in the Branson household for nosebleeds for years had long been Sybil herself, something she'd never quite understood. They'd started quite suddenly, when she was about eleven or twelve; were, on occasions unaccountably very heavy indeed.
However, the dubious honour for the worst nosebleeds in the family had now passed firmly to young Bobby who, apart from the usual childhood ailments, along with the usual run each winter of colds and coughs, seemed perfectly fit and healthy.
In fact, Bobby's very last bad nosebleed had occurred just last Christmas, at Downton, when, suffering from a particularly heavy cold, he had sneezed very violently several times, after which he had started to bleed profusely from his nostrils. Eventually, the bleeding stopped, but not until after Sybil had insisted that the new local doctor, a young chap by the name of Bradshaw, Dr. Clarkson's successor, be called. After all, it was not the first time this had happened.
Dr. Bradshaw had examined the little lad, recommended nothing more than the insertion of gauze nasal plugs until the bleeding stopped, which, of course, it did ... eventually.
According to the doctor, the bleeding had been caused by the bout of heavy sneezing, which in turn had ruptured some of the minute blood vessels in the nasal cavities. He said that it was nothing to worry about. Tom had seemed perfectly content with what the young doctor had to say by way of explanation, and given that the bleeding did finally stop, saw no reason for any undue concern. Nonetheless, Sybil herself did remain concerned, seemingly unconvinced by the doctor's most prosaic of explanations. After all, Tom had not seen what she herself had once witnessed, had obviously forgotten what she had told him.
"Well then..." began Mary.
"Only..."
"Only what?" Mary persisted.
"Only none of your children can die of a nosebleed" said Edith quietly.
"Die... of a nosebleed?" asked Mary scornfully. "No-one ever dies of a nosebleed".
She looked at Sybil seemingly seeking reassurance and found there none, saw Sybil was regarding their young nephew thoughtfully, with a searching look, and in that look she saw something else too: heartfelt pity.
"That's just where you're wrong Mary" said Edith softly. "My son can".