Chapter Fifty
The Lizard
Villa San Callisto, Fiesole.
Tom was as good as his word. Leaving Sybil and Matthew to go off in search of both Mary and all the children, although despite the best efforts of Nanny Bridges to keep some form of order, with the Branson children proving a decided handful, from the noise emanating from upstairs, no-one was left in any doubt as to the whereabouts of the latter. Tom now beckoned the butler forward.
"Innocenti?"
"Si signore?" With some trepidation, the butler eyed cautiously the crumpled note and envelope which Tom still held in his hand.
"Would you please dispose of this?" Tom held out the anonymous note and its envelope. "And I also want to place a telephone call … overseas … to Ireland. Would you make the necessary arrangements for me please? And let me know about the motor?"
"Si signore".
Tom nodded his thanks and for the time being took himself off to find the others.
A short while later found Mary and Sybil both seated in wicker chairs out on the upper terrace in the warm sunshine discussing at length how best to resolve things with Edith. Close by, beneath a shady pergola, Nanny Bridges was sitting reading to young Rebecca while some distance off, down on the immaculate lawns below the villa, supervised by both Matthew and Tom, watched from a safe distance by Saiorse, Simon and little Bobby, Danny and Robert were taking turns shooting arrows at a large straw target painted with faded coloured rings.
The archery set belonged to the Asshingtons' two sons, now both men grown. Not used these many years since, shortly before the arrival here at the villa of the Bransons and the Crawleys it had been found by one of the gardeners covered in dust and cobwebs, languishing in the old stables. This morning, after breakfast, the same gardener had brought it up to the villa and having asked if he might speak briefly to il conte, respectfully doffing his cap, had duly presented the archery set to Matthew for the use of the quattro giovani ragazzi.
Understandably, Danny, Robert, Simon and Bobby wanted to set up the target as quickly as possible. After discussing it over with Tom, both men agreed that the boys could use the archery set but to avoid there being any accidents, only under supervision; the more so when Saiorse, annoyed at being left out of all the fun, was overheard by Sybil, suggesting loudly to one and all that it would be much more entertaining if Robert was tied to the straw target and then shot full of arrows, just like St. Sebastian, whose statue she had seen, in the Church of St. John the Baptist in Blackrock.
Both Danny and Robert had been disconsolate to learn that Max and his mother had gone down to the pensione to meet up with Max's father; the more so when it became clear that no-one knew when or indeed if they would be returning to the villa. While no mention was made of what had happened at the dinner party, the two older boys sensed that something must have happened but fortunately neither asked questions and, at least for the time being, the archery set provided a welcome distraction with Saiorse being permitted to try her hand and proving to be rather good at it - even without Robert tied to the target.
Up on the terrace without having come to any conclusion as to what should be done to resolve things with Edith, Mary and Sybil were still mulling things over, now discussing the anonymous note which Tom had received, when Innocenti appeared to announce that there was a telephone call: Herr Schönborn, it transpired, wished to speak with the earl of Grantham. At this Mary and Sybil exchanged knowing glances before hailing Matthew from the terrace. Leaving Tom in charge of the archery, Matthew hot footed it back up to the villa and immediately hurried inside to speak on the telephone with Friedrich.
Meanwhile, down on the lawn the interest in archery had now waned and the children dispersed; Danny. Robert, Simon and little Bobby off exploring the extensive grounds with a warning from Tom to stay in sight of the house and not to get themselves into any scrapes. Then, with Tom carrying the archery case, arm in arm, Saiorse and he walked slowly back towards the villa. If truth be told, Saiorse thought she had the best bargain of all: time spent away from the others, with her beloved Da all to herself.
"So why don't you like him, darlin'?" Tom asked, having but a few minutes earlier broken up yet another spat between Saiorse and Robert by which time the bow and arrows were fortunately locked securely away in their case.
"Because ... because Robert never pays me the slightest attention. That's why!" exclaimed Saiorse with a mutinous look.
"Ah!" So, mused Tom, it seemed that in this, as in so many other things, Sybil had the measure of it after all.
"... and that means they'll be here in about an hour from now, or so Friedrich said; all three of them," explained Matthew. Beside him, Mary stiffened visibly. There was no avoiding this forthcoming encounter with Edith. Not that Mary was looking forward to it; not one bit. Sensitive to her obvious nervousness, Matthew reached out and took his wife's hand in his own. Mary smiled weakly and nodded her thanks.
"So where are the boys?" asked Sybil.
"Down there". Tom jabbed his thumb in the direction of the lower garden. "I told them to stay in sight of the house. Mind you, I can't see any sign of them".
"And as usual, they haven't taken a blind bit of notice!" exclaimed Sybil with a laugh; knowing that where the children were concerned just how much of a pushover Tom was and which, in part, probably explained why they all loved him so much.
"Then where on earth are they? " asked Mary, clearly worried. She rose to her feet and walked slowly over to the balustrade. "I can't ... I won't go through that again! Not after what happened on the train".
"It'll be all right," said Matthew soothingly and coming to stand beside her.
"Don't worry, Mary. They won't have gone far. Not this time. You'll see. I'll go down and find them". So saying, Tom squeezed her shoulder gently by way of reassurance and in his waistcoat, with his sleeves rolled up, loped off down to the lower garden in search of the four errant boys.
A short while later, when Tom reached the lawn where they had been playing archery, he immediately heard voices and, following the sound of them made his way quietly through the cypress pines to the edge of a circular clearing, in the centre of which on a stone plinth stood the marble statue of a naked young man. With their backs to Tom, the four boys were standing in front of the statue. Not that either they or Tom knew it but the figure was an exceedingly well sculpted copy of Michelangelo's statue of David, the original of which was down in the Galleria dell Accademia in Florence while another copy stood in the square outside the Palazzo della Signoria.
"Da's looks like that," said Danny in the most blasé of tones.
"Your Da's what?" asked Robert and then when Danny explained what he was referring to, rather wished he hadn't enquired.
"Why, his mickey for sure!
Simon and Bobby sniggered.
"What about your father's?" asked Danny inquisitively.
"Well, I ... er ... I don't know ..." began Robert. He flushed red and then had to admit that he had never seen his father stark naked.
"In fact, my Da's is bigger than that," said Danny knowingly and continuing to stare with undisguised interest at the statue's marble penis. Not of course that it was true, given the fact that Michelangelo's "David" was sculpted twice as large as life. While Sybil had told Tom many times that he was a fine figure of a man, his son's matter-of-fact compliment stopped the Irishman dead in his tracks. Remaining where he was, hidden from sight by the trees, like Robert a few moments earlier, Tom flushed red; found his thoughts drifting back to the visit which Sybil, he, Matthew and Mary, had paid to Langthorpe Hall in Yorkshire back in the long hot summer of 1926...
Langthorpe Hall, Yorkshire, June 1926.
Having reached the lower terrace, entranced by the scene which opened before them, they paused on the gravel path close to a balustrade set with several large lead urns and half a dozen accompanying life-size figures attired in rustic costumes and which, Matthew knowledgeably informed them, had been sculpted by le Notre and represented a group of dancing shepherds and shepherdesses. In the soft evening light the view towards the Italian Garden below was stunning; the clouds and sky mirrored perfectly in the still waters of the circular pool surrounding its magnificent fountain while over the brick wall at the far end of the garden could be glimpsed the stone tower of the parish church. Behind them, the walls of the orangery were a riot of colour, awash with floral cascades of climbing roses; their mingling, myriad scents creating a heady blend of intoxicating perfumes.
Glancing briefly at the lead figure closest to him, Tom grunted, shook his head in disbelief and then, clearly embarrassed by something, hastily averted his eyes. Intrigued both Sybil and Mary now moved closer to inspect the statue; having done so, the two women exchanged amused glances and nodded in mutual understanding.
"Tom? Are you all right, old chap?" asked Matthew solicitously and clapping him heartily on the shoulders.
"Perfectly," responded Tom crisply and rather too promptly without even bothering to look up at his friend. Instead, resting his chin in his hands, the Irishman continued to gaze glumly and steadfastly out over the stone balustrade to somewhere apparently in the far middle distance.
Long ago, on one of the Bransons' visits back to Downton, one evening, after dinner, with Matthew and Tom playing billiards, upstairs in Mary's bedroom when they were therefore alone and in the mood for exchanging confidences, Sybil had confided to Mary that for all his seeming bravado, when it came to matters sexual, while Tom was a wonderful and attentive lover, he was also an intensely private person. She had proceeded to tell Mary of his shocked, almost Puritanical reaction to the sketches of male nudes by Patrick Hennessey which both Tom and Sybil had encountered years back in one of the rooms of the National Gallery of Ireland on Merrion Square in Dublin. Had told her sister, too, of the nude sketch Sybil herself had made of Tom out at the Rainbow Pool on Ciaran's farm before they were married.
Sensing the reason for Tom's present bout of acute embarrassment, Sybil now came to stand beside her husband and slipped her arm around his hunched shoulders.
"Darling, it's only art. Remember?"
Clearly he did as once again Tom grunted and sadly shook his head.
"Really? Is that what you call it? I mean, honestly, when have any of you ever seen a shepherd dancing, let alone one dressed like that?"
Without looking up, Tom pointed his forefinger and then waved his left hand in the general direction of the nearest of the lead statues. This depicted the fine, muscular figure of a bareheaded young man playing a flute and attired in... well in fact attired in very little save for a thin strip of material presumably some kind of wispy scarf, casually flung round his shoulders. This apart, the well-endowed young man was stark naked with nothing whatsoever left to the imagination. Sybil giggled and Mary stifled a laugh. It was not often that she had seen her cocksure, handsome brother-in-law so clearly discomforted.
"Oh, Tom, darling!" Sybil kissed him lightly on his cheek and chucked him under his chin.
Matthew now moved from where he had been standing beside Tom and considered the statue of the shepherd lad for himself. Clearly amused by his worldly-wise, Irish brother-in-law's obvious discomfiture at the nudity, not something that from their frank exchanges in the Billiards Room at Downton Matthew himself would ever for a moment have imagined would have caused Tom any embarrassment whatsoever, the putative earl of Grantham nodded his head.
"Excellently done; I'd say probably sculpted from life," Matthew said with a laugh and a wink to both Mary and Sybil, unaware that he was echoing the very words his sister-in-law herself had used to her own husband in respect of the sketches in the National Gallery of Ireland.
"And is that supposed to make me feel any better?" had asked Tom morosely, straightening up.
Not of course that these days anyone, save perhaps for the odd passing fox or maybe a badger, was able to enjoy the view from the lower terrace of Langthorpe Hall and even if they did, it was likely, indeed certain, that it had would have changed considerably from what it had been back in 1926. Some two years ago, the hall had been gutted in a devastating fire. Shortly thereafter, with the house having been insufficiently insured to enable in just such an eventuality its subsequent rebuilding, the estate was put up for sale. It was bought by a businessman from Leeds who in quick order had the ruins demolished and sold for building materials while overseeing the felling for profit much of the considerable stock of standing timber. Whether the orangery, where Matthew, Mary, Tom and Sybil had danced some six years ago, still survived, was anybody's guess although, given what had happened, it seemed unlikely.
Indeed, several of the estates close to Downton were in a very bad way.
While Haxby and Langthorpe had succumbed to fire, others such as Ossington Park had been sold to pay off mounting debts and crippling death duties and in the case of Manby Hall and Whiteladies House thereafter converted respectively into a hotel and a boys' boarding school; while from what Matthew had told him over yet another game of billiards, Tom knew that several others were teetering on the brink of financial collapse.
With the exception of Downton, where Matthew had his hand firmly on the tiller, that seemed to be the way of it now, something that was happening all over the country: the inexorable break up and the disappearance of the great houses and their estates, many of which had been in the ownership of the same family for centuries; successive generations of whom had come to dominate both the political and social scene. Built for a way of life that was rapidly vanishing, it was difficult to see how many of them would survive the coming years without a similar fate befalling them. While Robert bemoaned their passing, Tom saw it not as he once might have, as retribution for wrongs past inflicted but more as the natural progression of things. True, a precious few, among them he hoped Downton which he loved, would make it through but for the vast majority of them it was already too late and they were passing into history. Tennyson, thought Tom, had the sum of it:
"The old order changeth"
It was said that old Lord Braithwaite had died from shock shortly after the fire which had reduced Langthorpe to the same state as Skerries House, a burnt out, blackened shell and the now widowed Lady Braithwaite had gone to live with relatives in Scotland. For their part, the louche Algy and his dim witted wife Millie, along with Algy's younger brother Eddie and his chum Floppy had all moved up to London, to live permanently in the family's town house on Wilton Crescent in exclusive Belgravia. Given their mutual love of the social scene and with Algy's now open involvement with Sir Oswald Moseley's Fascist Party, this new domicile suited them all perfectly.
Along with their fast set of friends, the young Braithwaites were continually in and out of the gossip columns of the gutter press; not that any of them seemed to mind in the slightest. However, although nothing was ever proved, as a result of some unpleasantness in the gentlemen's public toilets in Bayswater, to avoid any further such misunderstandings, Eddie and his chum Floppy had taken themselves off to France, a country which since the Revolution had been tolerant of the lifestyle the two young men had adopted. Thus Eddie Braithwaite's career in newspapers, if he ever had one, came to a full and sudden stop. The loss to journalism was, said Tom drily, quite incalculable.
In the autumn of 1930, along with the unsavoury Larry Grey, Algy had disgraced himself and the family still further by being arrested by the police at a Fascist rally held in the East End of London which had degenerated into a running fight with anarchists, communists, Jews and socialists along almost the entire length of Bethnal Green Road. Charged with affray, found guilty and sentenced to three months hard labour, before he was taken away to prison, Algy had asked Larry who, doubtless thanks to certain contacts he had in the Metropolitan Police, managed to avoid either being arrested or charged over his involvement in the fighting on Bethnal Green Road, to look after dear little Millie.
Then, just the previous summer, in 1931, shortly before Robert's death, while the Bransons were staying at Downton for their annual visit, one evening, after dinner, when Cora had gone upstairs to sit with Robert who had retired early, Mary happened to let slip the latest news on the Braithwaites. Millie, it was widely being reported, was expecting the couple's first child. A long time ago Sybil had regaled Tom with the tale of her own encounter with the vacuous Millie Anstruther, as she then was, when the Bransons had been residing at Skerries House down in County Cork. How Millie seemed to be not the full shilling. Quite what form, if they had any, the progeny of Algy and Millie would take, Tom and Sybil now shuddered to think.
Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, August 1931.
"I don't see how she can be," had said Tom with a stretch, stifling a yawn and selecting a peach cream swirl from the box of Milk Tray which, after coffee this evening, they were all now sharing between them; before Matthew and he decamped to the other side of the house in order to play their customary frame of billiards.
"Can be what?" asked Mary, delicately choosing a Turkish Delight, causing Matthew and Tom to snigger and exchange amused glances.
"Stop it you two!" hissed Sybil, trying herself not to laugh.
"Stop what?" asked Mary, entirely oblivious to the fact that privately Matthew and Tom always referred to Turkish Delight as Pamuk's Promise.
"They know!"
Mary shrugged dismissively; the sense of humour shared by her husband and her brother-in-law was more often than not completely beyond her comprehension.
"Expecting," explained Tom. "Mmm, this tastes really good!"
"Why ever not?" asked Matthew, choosing a rose cream dome.
"All four of us here have met her; Millie Braithwaite scarcely has brain enough to know how to breathe let alone conceive a child. She wouldn't have a clue what to do!" laughed Tom.
"Well, it's quite obvious that she did!" exclaimed Sybil; thus provoking laughter all round.
And, confided Mary, up in London, at dinner parties and in drawing rooms behind the façades of many of the elegant houses of Belgravia, having counted back on fingers, wagging tongues were now questioning and none too discretely, whether Algy himself was indeed the father of Millie's child. The conception, it seemed, coincided with the time that the putative father was incarcerated in Pentonville Prison and Millie herself was entertaining the unsavoury Larry Grey at the house on Wilton Crescent. So, if the rumours presently circulating were correct, it seemed that Larry had taken Algy's request that he look after Millie rather too literally.
On the road between Florence and Fiesole.
Despite Friedrich offering to drive, with Edith once again behind the wheel, the Fiat was at last now clear of the bustling, narrow streets of Florence and making its way along the same winding road up which they motored yesterday while en route to Fiesole from the railway station. Seated in the rear of the car, with Fritz sitting in his lap, of them all, Max alone was impatient to be back at the villa.
"In about a quarter of an hour, darling!" called Edith from the driver's seat when her young son had asked of her for the umpteenth time how long it would be before they all reached the house.
"Matthew told me on the telephone this morning that Mary really is very sorry for what happened last night and that she genuinely wants to make amends," said Friedrich quietly. Edith didn't look at him. She simply nodded and concentrated instead on the road ahead.
"I'm sure she does. But she'll have to do a very great deal more than just say sorry," said Edith tersely.
A short while later and the Fiat swung smoothly onto the long, tree lined, gravelled drive leading to the Villa San Callisto. Now, as the house at last hove into view, Friedrich found himself reflecting silently on the fact that thankful as he had been at the time for the Armistice signed between the Entente and Austria-Hungary at the end of the Great War, it had come far too late and at a terrible cost to all concerned. From where the thought now came from, afterwards he could not say but he suddenly had the ominous feeling that before Mary and Edith achieved their own lasting peace an awful price would have to be paid by them both.
Villa San Callisto.
With Tom having shepherded the four boys back up to the terrace, everyone had partaken of a cooling glass of lemonade.
"Aunt Mary! Mama! Look! Come see! We've found a lizard!" cried Danny and Robert excitedly.
"Really? I'll come down".
Distracted by the thought of her forthcoming meeting with Edith, Mary did her very best to sound interested in what the two boys had discovered for, if the truth be told, she was about as fascinated by reptiles as she was by the vegetables, carrots excepted of course, which were grown so enthusiastically by both her nephew and her eldest son in their kitchen gardens in Dublin and Downton. Leaving Matthew still standing talking to both Tom and Saiorse at the top of the flight of steps, Mary made her way down to where Sybil and the two boys were now standing. On the lawn below Simon and Bobby were chasing each other around a circular stone pool, while out of the heat in the continuing shade provided by the pergola, Nanny Bridges was sitting playing a game of Snakes and Ladders with Rebecca.
"He's there, Mama," whispered Robert. Her son pointed towards the top of the lichen covered balustrade where Mary saw a tiny brown lizard, with two vivid streaks of bright green colour on its back, perched motionless in the warm sunshine. Save for the occasional darting of its forked tongue the little creature remained absolutely still as if carved out of stone itself.
"Yes, I see him," said Mary abstractedly. If not to the boys, then to Sybil, who was crouching down by the balustrade in order to get a better view of the lizard, her sister's sheer lack of enthusiasm was so obvious that she looked up at Mary in mute surprise. Not that Mary seemed to notice.
How best to make amends?
Now from somewhere on the other side of the villa came the sound of a motor drawing to a stand; a moment later doors slammed, a dog barked and footsteps crunched on gravel.
Why it was she thought of it then, Mary could not fathom. Possibly it was something to do with the broad flight of steps leading down from the terrace which, afterwards, she supposed, must have reminded her of the main staircase of the Shelbourne Hotel... and how in the aftermath of the explosion, when least expected, the opportunity arose for her to do so and she had at last made her peace with Tom.
The Shelbourne Hotel, Dublin, June 1919.
At the foot of the hotel's grand staircase, surrounded by a group of baying, snarling police officers, mid a heavy rain of blows and kicks, Mary saw a man with a bandaged forehead, dressed in a dark blue suit, double up, and collapse to his knees. It was as the man sunk down, rolled himself tightly into a ball, clutching his hands tightly across his groin that he turned his face in Mary's own direction.
My God! Tom!
"I say! You! You there! Yes, you! Stop that this instant! How dare you! As for taking him anywhere, you will be doing no such thing. Now, do as I say and take your filthy hands off him!"
"And who the 'ell might you be to be giving us orders, miss la-di-dah? The Queen o' feckin' Sheba is it?" had demanded the police sergeant impertinently while several of his companions laughed raucously, making coarse and obscene gestures, casting amorous and lecherous glances at Mary who calmly, unflinchingly, stood her ground before them and their deluge of profanities.
"Yeah! Who the feckin' 'ell d'you think yous is missus?"
"Yer cheeky feckin' bitch!" added another, licking his lips, while roving his eyes impertinently over Mary's body.
"Where yer from, yer' floosie?"
"Up Amiens Street, in the Monto for sure!"
At this last utterance, the men roared with laughter, but at the time the source of their merriment had been completely lost on Mary, unaware that the Monto was Dublin's notorious red light district.
"How much yous askin' for a good time, dearie?"
"Right. Now off!" interposed another.
"Yeah. Bugger off. Stop interferin' with His Majesty's police in the lawful execution of their duties!"
"Lawful execution …" she began, both appalled and horrified by the constables' disrespect and rudeness towards he, and by what she had just witnessed of Irish police brutality.
Summoning up every ounce of courage she possessed which, to be truthful, at that precise moment in time, did not amount to very much at all, she had drawn herself up to her full height, swallowed hard, and had then spoken crisply, authoritatively, and to the point.
"For your information, I am Lady Mary Crawley, eldest daughter to the earl and countess of Grantham. And that man there in your grubby little hands is" - a small lie given the circumstances - "my brother-in-law, Mr. Tom Branson, the well known, respected journalist, with the Irish Times. Now, do as I say and take your hands off him! Now!"
For one brief horrified instant, she saw the constables make no move to do as she had instructed.
"Did you not hear me? I am not someone who is accustomed to be in the habit of repeating myself. And make no mistake about it, my father, the earl of Grantham will hear about this. I should perhaps make it clear that he is on very good terms with the present Lord Lieutenant, the Viceroy, Viscount French. In fact, he is" - another little lie - "dining with him at Dublin Castle tonight!" she had added for good measure, and in as haughty a tone as she could muster.
She saw the constables glance nervously one to each other, and then look to their sergeant for guidance as to what they should do now. For his part, the sergeant had scowled briefly at her, then nodded curtly to those who had hauled Tom roughly to his feet and who were holding him up against the wall. Reluctantly and suddenly they released their grip. With the unexpected withdrawal of the constables' physical support, winded by the sadistic beating he had received at their hands, Tom sank once more to his knees, doubling up in agony on the bottom step of the staircase against the wall.
"Christ Almighty!" "Oh feckin' hell!" Tom rolled over on his side clutching at his chest.
Several minutes later, kneeling beside him, at the foot of the main staircase, on the debris and dirt strewn floor of the entrance hall of the Shelbourne Hotel, her hat worn awry with several curls of dark hair having escaped from the confines of her normally perfect coiffure and with smudges of dirt on the flawless ivory skin of her face, Mary began dabbing eau-de-cologne to Tom's face. Gently, she began wiping away the trickle of blood running down his chin from the corner of his mouth with her delicate, lace edged, white hand kerchief.
"Lady Mary … Sybil … Edith … they're all right … both of them," he croaked. "They're upstairs".
"Yes, I know. Thank God. A bell-boy told me and I understand that it is all thanks to you". She saw him wince again as she continued applying the cologne to the cuts on his face.
"Lady Mary, I can manage …" Tom stopped and a spasm of harsh coughing overtook him.
Unwittingly, Tom had given her the opportunity to start trying to make amends and seize the opportunity she did, silently thanking him for making it so easy for t was the moment to set things right. With a curt, imperious wave of her free hand, Mary silenced him, cut short his protests.
"No, you can't" she said softly. "And from now on, Tom, it's just, Mary. After all, we're almost related". She had placed her arm around his back. "Do you think you can stand?"
"I can try," said Tom. Slowly, with her help, and breathing heavily, Tom had pulled himself to his feet, leaning against the staircase wall for yet further support.
"Oh, Tom, you really are an utter mess!"
He grinned.
"Don't I just know it. I don't think I'd be up to …" He paused momentarily to gain his breath. " …driving you anywhere at the moment, milady," he said with half a smile and then winced as another spasm of pain shot through him.
"Don't you worry about that. As Edith said, this hotel has its own chauffeurs, even if they're not a patch on you!"
At that, Tom had smiled.
"To be sure," he said and grinned broadly at her. And she had found herself smiling back. Had to concede that even in his dejected and dishevelled state, for a woman there was something intensely, unnervingly physically appealing about Tom. And, unconsciously echoing Edith's observation from earlier on that afternoon, wondered why on earth it was that she hadn't ever noticed it before. No wonder Sybil had fallen for him.
"As you happen to mention it, no, Tom, I don't suppose you'd be much use as a chauffeur at present. But that's all done with. Now … my fine, upstanding, future brother-in-law … the boot's well and truly on the other foot. So, it's my turn to help you. Come on, lean on me if you need to".
"I think … Mary" said Tom ruefully and rubbing his still aching arms, "the least said about boots the better! And, by the way, for the record, I'm with the Independent!"
"Does that really matter? At a time like this?" she had asked with barely concealed surprise.
"Oh rather," said Tom decidedly.
"Really?" Honestly, she thought, at times, men concerned themselves with the most trivial of things.
"No, not really," said Tom.
It was then that Mary had noticed the twinkle in his eyes; the smile playing about the corners of his mouth and they had both burst out laughing.
"Do you know what, Tom? I rather think I'm going to enjoy having you for my brother-in-law after all".
"Glad to hear it. So no firing squad then?" asked Tom.
"No. Definitely not" she had said with another laugh.
Then, one faltering step at a time, the most unlikely pairing, of the aristocratic, elegant, imperious, refined, decidedly English, eldest daughter of the earl and countess of Grantham, and the beaten, bloodied and presently dishevelled, Irish, socialist journalist had begunn their slow and painful ascent of the grand staircase of the Shelbourne Hotel.
Villa San Callisto.
Of course, darling Max was singularly unaware of what had passed between his mother and his Aunt Mary the previous evening and even if he had known about their argument, it was exceeding unlikely that he would have given it very much thought. After all, to a nine year old boy, the behaviour of grown ups was often incomprehensible and at this precise moment in time, what young Max really cared about was being back here at the villa and having fun with his cousins. So, while Papa and Mama were still talking to Uncle Matthew and Uncle Tom, on catching sight of both Danny and Robert there at the bottom of the terrace steps, Max waved happily to the two older boys.
"Dan! Rob!" he cried excitedly.
"Max! Come see!" Danny grinned and beckoned Max down.
Although both old and steep, their treads worn smooth by the passage of countless pairs of feet, the marble steps from the terrace to the gardens below could be negotiated perfectly safely. However, in his haste to see what it was Danny and Robert were looking at, forgetting completely all that he had promised his mother, about taking care, Max failed to notice that halfway down the flight, one of the steps was loose and, as he set foot on it, the stone shifted, throwing the young boy completely off balance and pitching him headlong down the flight of steps.
At that very same moment, some sixth sense caused Mary to turn and as she did she saw Max followed by his little dog running happily down the steps towards where Danny and Robert were showing her the lizard. The loose step shifted; Max tripped and sprawled headlong.
For a haemophiliac child a fall down a flight of steps would, inevitably, have proved fatal. Indeed Friedrich and Edith could have told Mary of the death of a little haemophiliac boy who fell out of a downstairs window on to a flower bed. It was only a couple of feet, on to soft earth and in normal circumstances doubtless the child would have been shaken, perhaps suffered a few cuts and bruises. But as he suffered from haemophilia and because he caught his head a glancing blow on the stone edging of the flowerbed, internal bleeding began in his brain and by nightfall the young boy was dead.
Above her, Mary heard Edith scream and, before she realised what she was doing, without a thought for her own safety, Mary had thrown herself in the path of the falling boy. When it came, the impact was such that it knocked her backwards down the steps. A moment later, everyone, adults and children alike, were all crowding round, with Edith kneeling next to Mary and helping her son slowly to his feet. Other than being shaken and winded, the young boy seemed completely unharmed. Sybil dropped to her knees beside Mary who, eyes closed, was still lying sprawled at an odd angle across the steps.
Robert also sank to his knees next to his mother's prostrate form.
"Mama?" he asked quietly and then shook her gently by the shoulder.
There was no response.
A moment later Matthew had joined his son, kneeling on the terrace steps beside the inert body of his wife. Reaching forward, he stroked her head.
"Mary, darling ..." Matthew began; then broke off what he was saying, stared instead at the sticky, red-stained fingers of his right hand.
It was then that Sybil saw the blood. Stunned by what had happened she gazed up and saw Tom looking down at her, his face white with shock.
"Tom, for God's sake, call a doctor!"
Author's note:
The Catholic Church of St. John the Baptist in Blackrock was begun in 1842, dedicated in 1844 and is still in use today.
For more about Algy, see Chapter Five of "Reunion" and for the exceedingly dim-witted Millie Anstruther see "Home Is Where The Heart Is", Chapter One Hundred And Thirty Seven.
Milk Tray chocolates were first introduced by Cadburys way back in 1915. Down the years some of the chocolates have changed or been discontinued but in essence the assortment remains very much the same. However, these days Mary would not find any Turkish Delight although it is still there under the new name of "Exotic Delight".