GETTING MARRIED

Chapter 4 The Gifts

Something Old

There were two things Mr. Carson wanted to give Mrs. Hughes, two material things, to convey his love of her on their wedding day.

The first was a ring. It was the conventional gift, the expected one, perhaps really not so much a gift as a tangible manifestation of the legal and emotional contract into which they would enter in wedding. He gave the matter a lot of thought. There were two possibilities: he could buy a ring or he could give her one already in his possession, the one his mother had worn.

Elsie would probably prefer the latter, because he already had it and it would not involve his spending any money on her. She wasn't used to it and it didn't seem quite right to her. Well, she'd have to adjust at least a little on that once they were married. He wasn't exactly a spendthrift, but he wanted to be able to indulge her every once in a while. He'd never had anyone to spoil - he had showered Lady Mary as a child with attention, not gifts - and he was looking forward to doing both with Elsie. It would be all the more satisfying because she had for so long led such an ascetic existence.

With that in mind, he went to York and looked at rings. He had little direct experience with fine jewelry, but he had a sharp eye and good taste. And for years he'd noticed the accoutrements of many fine ladies, not least because observing them gave him something to do through the many hours he spent waiting - waiting at the table or in the drawing room or in the library, while the family and their guests talked and ate and drank. So he had some ideas. But nothing struck him as appropriate. He didn't even consider price as a factor. If he found the perfect ring for Mrs. Hughes, he would buy it. But he did not.

Frustrated, he considered again his mother's ring. It was a plain gold band and it did not glisten as did the new rings in the shops. But it had a warmth to it, not least because it had a history. They'd been happy, his mum and dad. Mum was a spark, Dad a bit of a curmudgeon. But she could get a laugh out of him. And they talked. And just sat together in silent communion. He and Elsie would be like that, comfortable, loving, right for each other. Only he expressed his feelings much more easily than his father ever did. And he was more fun. When they were on their own in their own place - their cottage - they would dance, he and Elsie, whether or not they had music to dance to. Well, he could always sing. That would make her laugh.

So perhaps Mum's ring was the better option. Elsie would like it because it meant something to him. He'd kept it all these years for no other reason, never supposing he would find a use for it.

But he was certain that it would not fit her. Elsie had slender fingers. His mother's, as he remembered them, were thicker. He would have to have the ring sized, but...how? He could wait, he supposed, and have that done with her after the wedding. But he didn't like the idea. Once that ring went on her finger, it should never come off again, not until death. It would be bad luck otherwise.

He'd heard of someone measuring a finger with a piece of string, but how was he supposed to do that without giving away the game? He could take her ring shopping, but that would defeat the purpose, too. This, he told himself, was one of those moments when it would have been useful to have a close friend at Downton with whom he could discuss the matter, someone who might have an idea. But the fact of the matter was that Mrs. Hughes was the only person who fit that description and she was in this instance excluded.

With some reluctance he realized his best recourse was Mrs. Patmore. Prevailing upon her was not an option he favoured. She had already had quite enough to do with their wedding. But having made up his mind, he put it to her at the first opportunity.

"I want to have a wedding ring sized to fit Mrs. Hughes, but I don't know how to manage it," he said bluntly. "Do you have any suggestions?"

Mrs. Patmore appeared to take his query in stride. He could not know that she found his problem much easier to deal with than those posed to her by Mrs. Hughes. Nor did he realized that as tortuous as their complicated journey to the altar sometimes seemed to her, she was nevertheless gratified to play such a significant supporting role.

"You could measure her finger with a piece of string," she said promptly, and with an air of self-satisfaction at having produced a solution immediately. His problems were indeed easily remedied.

"And how am I to do that without alerting her to the purpose?" he asked, trying not to sound impatient.

"Oh." Mrs. Patmore deflated. "Well, let me think on it," she said. "If I can have a day or two."

As he had no ready alternative, he agreed, but went away without much confidence and continued to wrack his brain for a solution.

Much to his surprise, only two days later Mrs. Patmore appeared in his pantry, waving a piece of heavy paper and all aglow with the aura of success.

"I've got it for you!" she declared.

He merely raised an inquiring eyebrow. It was his habit to meet effervescence with forbearance.

"The ring size!" Mrs. Patmore said, lowering her voice to a loud whisper. She held the paper out to him.

He took it gingerly. It was a sturdy paper about half the size of a regular sheet. In one corner of it was a finger-sized hole framed by a red stain. He looked up at her with an expression of bewilderment and she held out to him, in addition, a small piece of white butcher's string that was carefully marked in ink. "In another form," she added. "I make it up from the hole in the paper."

"Well!" he said, just a little astonished that she should have met with success and so quickly. "I'm...very grateful. Thank you, Mrs. Patmore."

She beamed at him.

He wasn't sure there was anything else to say, but still she lingered.

"I will take it to the jewelers in York at the first opportunity," he said, feeling compelled to say something. "If you're sure this is the correct finger size - left hand, third finger?"

"It is." She looked fair to bursting.

He was perplexed. "Was there something else?"

"Don't you want to know how I managed it?"

She evidently wanted to tell him. "All right," he said cautiously, and slightly awkwardly for having been prompted.

She plumped herself down in the visitor's chair and leaned over the desk a little. "I made up some biscuit dough. I thought about bread dough or mashed potatoes, but bread doesn't hold its shape and I thought the potatoes would be too soft. I made a nice firm ball of dough and then I asked Mrs. Hughes to stick her fingers into it. The fingers of both hands. You see, I didn't want her to have any clue as to why I was asking that. I said, 'push you fingers right in there,' and she did. And then, after she'd gone to wash her hands, I painted the rim of the hole of the proper finger with a very thin layer of strawberry jam - the jammy part, not the berries - and then pressed a receipt card against it, and there you are! I made three of them, just in case I botched them, and then, when they'd dried, I scored the hole with a blade and then popped out the centre! I did all three and they came out exactly the same size. And then I measured one of them with string, too."

She was absolutely delighted with herself.

Mr. Carson could only stare at her. Her exploits were beyond his imagining.

"Wasn't that brilliant?" Mrs. Patmore, though still exuberant, obviously wanted some appreciation.

"Why on earth would anyone just...stick their fingers into a ball of biscuit dough?" he asked finally, thinking this the most preposterous part of what he had heard. Possibly the most preposterous thing he had ever heard.

"Because I told her to," Mrs. Patmore said complacently.

"And she did it?" He could hardly believe it. Who would do that?

"I'm very persuasive," Mrs. Patmore said, with a slight edge to her voice.

Well, she wasn't wrong there. Idly he inserted the tip of one finger into the ring hole in the piece of paper. It looked like the right size. There was a slight stickiness to the red stain. And then he looked up at the cook, unable any longer to deny her success.

"Mrs. Patmore, I stand in awe of your ingenuity. I am very grateful. Thank you." He spoke with the solemnity of sincerity. He had asked for results and she had delivered. It was not for him to question her methods.

When she had gone, he took out the ring, which he had in a small locked box in his desk. He lay the receipt paper down on the desk and placed the ring over the hole. Shining his desk lamp on it, he could just see a faint ring of red inside the inner circle. Though he had to shake his head at Mrs. Patmore's means, she had clearly achieved the result he sought. He picked the ring up again, wiped it clean of the sticky residue, and then put it, the informative piece of paper, and the little bit of string into his box. He would take them to York at the first opportunity.

Something New

The second gift he wanted to give her was more complicated because it was more personal. He'd never given Mrs. Hughes a personal gift. Oh, they'd exchanged Christmas presents over the years, handkerchiefs and books mostly, and while a book might be personal, there was still an air of decorous neutrality about it. Mrs. Hughes had given him that picture frame for Alice's photograph. That did cut more closely. And, of course, he'd given her the house. But what he had in mind now was something very different.

He wanted to give her an item of clothing. He knew exactly what he wanted, could see it clearly in his mind's eye. The problem was that that was where it remained, in his head, and getting it out, transforming it into a tangible form, was a much greater challenge than the ring had been.

And yet he was determined. He had known Mrs. Hughes for three decades and was familiar with her wardrobe. Even before he'd developed a serious interest in her from a romantic perspective, he had noticed her clothes because being observant was part of who he was, as well as a critical element of his job. He had looked approvingly on her plain black dresses as appropriate to her role as the housekeeper. He'd even thought her sombre-toned day dresses befitting of a woman of her age and rank. Circumstances had given him few glimpses of her night attire. The male and female servants' quarters were segregated and Mrs. Hughes the only person with the key to the door between them and the right to breach the divide. But he'd seen her in her nightclothes on a number of occasions, too - that time Mr. Lang's nightmare had jarred them from their beds; when the telegram arrived announcing that Mr. Matthew had been wounded; the night - that awful night - that Lady Sybil had died; and that time Lady Edith set fire to her room, prompting an evacuation of the Abbey in the middle of the night. He'd not paid that much attention on the earlier occasions, but by the time of the house fire, he'd begun to look at Mrs. Hughes differently and to notice, quite deliberately, every detail about her from that more personal angle.

They none of them among the servants had exciting night clothes. Everything was functional, meant largely to keep them warm in the draughty attics. And they had no one to impress or woo, as it was the convention that house servants did not marry, and no opportunity to show off anyway, so had nothing besides vanity to indulge by wearing anything fancy. His own pajamas were perhaps a decade old, and though worn, were still serviceable. Mrs. Hughes had worn a housecoat over her nightclothes each time he had seen her, but he'd glimpsed enough to know she had a faded flannel gown that had seen many years' use.

She should have something new to wear to bed once they were married. It must be not only new, but also pretty. She probably hadn't had anything new or pretty in decades. And she had confessed, in that painful exchange over the nature of their marriage, that she doubted her physical appeal. A pretty nightgown might bolster her confidence. He thought her beautiful no matter what she was wearing, but women - even, he suspected, a woman as determinedly practical as Mrs. Hughes - set such store by appearance.

And, more, he wanted to give her an intimate gift, something that testified to the new and different level of their relationship as a married couple. As her husband, he could take liberties - in thought, word, and deed - that were inappropriate in any other context. He was eager to stake his claim to this greater degree of intimacy.

But how was he to manage this? With the ring, he had had one in hand, failing his pursuit of a satisfactory new one. When it came to the nightgown, however, all he had was a picture in his mind and no way to make it real. So he had to resort to the shops and went again to York to see if he could find something that caught his eye.

But perusing jewelry was a much easier task than examining women's nightwear, usually found in shops where more intimate female apparel was also on display. He was not well known in York, not like in the smaller towns closer to Downton, but anonymity did not fuel his courage, even if he had seen something that he liked. The brief glimpses he managed before he abandoned hope yielded unsatisfactory results. Nothing matched his own idea. The ready-made things were either unattractive or inappropriate. So, as with the ring, he was cast back on his own devices but with fewer resources to call upon. As uncomfortable as it was to admit it, he realized that in this case a confidante was an absolute necessity.

This required a woman. He considered his options carefully. There was Mrs. Patmore again, but he resisted the idea of going too often to the same well. She had already been seriously involved in their marriage preparations and he was wary of inviting her any farther in. And he was not persuaded that her contribution here would be that valuable. Daisy was such an impossibility that she did not even cross his mind. Miss Baxter was the obvious choice, for this was her area of expertise and he knew her to have a keen eye for fashion, as manifested in the way she dressed Her Ladyship. And she could sew. But Carson did not know her well. He could hardly put to her so personal a project as he had in mind.

That left Anna who was, of course, perfect for the task. It would be a highly uncomfortable conversation for him, but Anna would appreciate his objective. She and Mrs. Hughes had a warm relationship that would also work in his favour. And...he really wanted this for Mrs. Hughes, wanted it enough to discomfit himself in order to get exactly what he had envisaged. He loved her. And that was the fundamental fact.

This would require a more protracted conversation than the request he had made of Mrs. Patmore and also somewhat greater discretion. He did not have reason to converse with Anna in the regular course of a day and so had to watch for an opportunity. This came one morning when Mrs. Hughes went off to the home farm.

"I have a confidential matter to take up with you," Mr. Carson told Anna, as he invited her into his pantry and closed the door behind her.

"Does it have something to do with Mrs. Hughes?" Anna asked pertly, having noted the housekeeper's departure.

"Why would it?" Mr. Carson was immediately on the defensive, sensitive to the suggestion that his motives were so transparent.

Anna smiled disarmingly. "We don't have much else to talk about, Mr. Carson."

He breathed a little more easily. There was no need, really, for his agitation, other than the specific request itself. "Well, yes, it does," he admitted. He invited her to sit and then sat himself, and then lapsed into silence. He did not know how to broach such a delicate subject.

"I want to give Mrs. Hughes a present," he said at length.

Anna nodded encouragingly.

"Something...personal," he went on slowly, watching Anna's reaction carefully, looking for adverse signs. "I know precisely the kind of thing I want, but I'm having difficulty...finding it. In the shops. Indeed, I'm not sure it can be found in a shop."

She was gazing at him with rapt attention, her expression one of polite interest, but she was still in the dark.

He took a deep breath. "Only...I'm wondering if I might prevail upon you to act on my behalf in this."

Anna smiled. "Of course, Mr. Carson. I would be happy to help, if I can."

It should have been easier talking to her than to Mrs. Patmore. Anna was so much more sympathetic to his apprehensions, more considerate of his feelings, and not at all likely to ask blunt or embarrassing questions. But by this point he had almost nothing left to hide from the cook, whereas he still stood highly in Anna's regard.

"I want to give her an...erm...item of clothing," he said awkwardly. His voice sounded normal enough, but his flickering hands told of his agitation.

"A dress?" Anna guessed helpfully. She hoped they had not had the same idea.

"No, not a dress." He could not get out quite what he wanted, and only stared at her.

Now her brow furrowed as she grasped his reluctance to say more. "Not a coat or a hat either?" she said, half-questioning, but not appearing surprised when he shook his head. "Something for a fancy occasion?" Again he shook his head. "Something personal," she said, recalling his initial words.

He decided it was unfair to make her do the work. It was his idea. "A...dress...for the...night," he said lamely, almost stumbling over his words. He felt a warm wave sweeping upward from his neck. Why could he not keep his aplomb?

Anna swallowed her smile. She wasn't amused, at least not in the sense of laughing at him; it was more that he was so endearing. She managed to maintain a neutral countenance. "Do you mean a robe, or...," again he had shaken his head, "a nightgown?"

Now, his shoulders rose and fell in relief. "We've got there," he said quietly.

She nodded, pleased by their success and just a little surprised that it hadn't taken them very long at all, given Mr. Carson's reticence with personal matters. "I think so," she agreed. "Did you want to buy something or would you like to have it made?"

What a pleasure to be dealing with someone who moved so smoothly to the point! But...he didn't know, really. "I have an idea," he said. He hoped that didn't sound indelicate. He was thinking of something reasonably sedate, not some vulgar indulgence, and he worried lest she think otherwise.

"If you can tell me about it," Anna said carefully, "I could help you find it. I can go round the shops for you, if you like, or make arrangements to have it made, if that doesn't suit. Were you thinking of someone other than Miss Baxter?" She might have hoped so, for Miss Baxter already had the wedding dress on her hands, not that Mr. Carson knew it.

"I've looked in a few shops," he said, "and not...found it. And no, I'd rather not bother Miss Baxter." There was no need to let anyone else in on this awkward confidence.

"Very well," Anna said smoothly, a little relieved herself. "Can you give me a more specific idea of what you have in mind?"

He struggled to put it into words, but once he began to describe it, he realized that he had thought it out. He wanted something modest but pretty; something that Mrs. Hughes would be comfortable wearing, but that would make her feel beautiful. He had an idea about length and sleeves and colour and weight of fabric. And there was something special he had in mind for the upper part of the bodice.

"That piece may have to be done separately," Anna advised him. "I'm not sure a seamstress would be up to it, but I know a woman who does that sort of thing."

"And you don't think it...too much?" He did wonder. It was an idea wholly original to him and he did not have complete confidence in it.

But Anna was charmed by this hitherto unknown side of Mr. Carson, although she might have suspected it existed. She had seen the way he looked at Mrs. Hughes. "It's a lovely thought, Mr. Carson," she assured him. "Mrs. Hughes will be delighted by it, even more so than by the gown itself. It's quite...romantic."

They clarified the remaining details and then Anna stood up to go.

"I do apologize for imposing on you in this way, Anna," he said humbly. "I could not think of anyone else to ask."

"I'm honoured, Mr. Carson, and very pleased to play a part in such a sweet gift for Mrs. Hughes."

"But to send you to York on my own errand..."

"I'm glad to do it, Mr. Carson," she reiterated. "And I was going to York anyway, for Lady Mary."

The Peril of Secrets

They held hands as they walked back to the cottage that evening. He watched her closely, listened to her trill on about the mundane events of the day, curious about her particularly buoyant mood. Anna was almost always prepared to look on the bright side of things and she squeezed as much happiness as possible out of every moment, a characteristic her husband cherished quite as much as he failed to understand it. He wondered what was at the bottom of it tonight and studied her, looking for clues.

As they made themselves ready for bed, something occurred to him. He discarded his shirt carelessly and hobbled his way around to the other side of the bed where she sat, brushing her hair. He sat down heavily and awkwardly beside her.

"I've figured it out," he said, giving nothing away in his impassive expression.

"What?"

"What's gotten into you," he said.

"Nothing's gotten into me," she responded, giving him a bewildered little smile. But then she couldn't help herself and her smile broadened.

"See? There it is. And I've figured it out."

"John," she said, with a warning note in her voice.

"You've got a secret," he went on, grinning now.

She thought about it for a moment. "Actually, I've got two secrets."

"I thought so!" he declared with mock ferocity. "And?"

She shook her head. "They're nought to do with you, so you must leave me alone," she told him, but she was just a little distracted. He had a mischievous glint in his eye and John Bates did not play often. She liked to see him like that. And he had taken off his shirt and sat here before her in his white undershirt, which was stretched tautly over his muscled shoulders and powerful chest. It was hard to take her eyes off of him.

"Wonderful!" he bellowed, leaning in closer to her. "I love other people's secrets!"

"You do not! You're no gossip."

"No, I'm not. I'm a vault. Your secrets - and everyone else's - are safe with me. Which is more," he added, "than you can say about just about anyone else at Downton. So, tell me!"

"I can't!"

But he was determined to know and he had in his fingertips the means to extract secrets from her. He pounced on her and began to tickle her and she shrieked with laughter as she tried, not very vigorously, to escape from him. He tickled and she fended him off with a pillow, and they managed a few kisses and finally ended up in an untidy heap in the middle of the bed.

"Going to tell me now?" he demanded, lying on his side and breathing hard from the exertion and the excitement.

"The secrets involve Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes," she said, brushing a tangled strand of hair from her face.

"Better and better," he said, his eyes round with curiosity.

"I'm not going to tell you, John. It would change the way you think about them. Well, about Mr. Carson, anyway."

"For better or worse?" he persisted.

She just gave him a look.