Chapter 17 The Waiting

Packing

He wasn't one to leave important things to the last minute, but he'd left the packing of his case to the night before thinking it would give him something to do as he waited. Perhaps he ought to have gone straight to bed, but he didn't think he would sleep. And there were his things to prepare for the trip.

Tomorrow he would wear his grey suit, the one he'd gotten last year for the dedication of the war memorial. It had been, perhaps, an extraordinary expenditure for such an occasion, but he had already had it in his mind to propose marriage to Mrs. Hughes and thought it worth the investment. With that additional use idling to one side, he had opted for quality, going to a tailor in London and having it made to order. Off-the-rack things were increasingly available, but he disdained them. He'd only worn it the once, but had this week checked it over carefully to make sure it remained without blemish. He'd tried it on, too, and been gratified to see that it still fit perfectly. There had been no great alterations to his physical make-up in the past six months. The suit hung now on the hanger in his wardrobe. Beside it was a new tie. There weren't many opportunities in his life to wear such clothing, so the other tie might have done, but he was sentimental and wanted to think of his wedding day, and only his wedding day, whenever he set eyes on that scrap of silk. The other elements of his outfit tomorrow were all set out as well - shirt, socks, underwear, handkerchief, highly polished shoes. He had left nothing to chance.

Now he set about packing the things he would need for the next week, for his - their - honeymoon. It thrilled him, that did, just the word. He took a deep breath and tried to focus on the task at hand. He'd already made a list of what he was going to take so it was only a matter of transferring the items from his wardrobe and drawers to the case. He did this as he did everything, with painstaking thoroughness, letting the rhythms of routine do their work in keeping the impulse to anxiety at bay. There was a bit of an art to packing and he was a past master of it, though it was a valet's specialty.

The last thing to go in was the package that Anna had given him earlier, the still-wrapped gift he had arranged for Mrs. Hughes. He held it in his hands for a long moment, alternating between the temptation to open it and both a habit of delayed gratification and a reluctance to disturb the artfully tied bow Anna had made. But who was he fooling with his restraint? He sat down on the bed and pulled the ribbon, telling himself that he could tie it up again as neatly or, perhaps, that Mrs. Hughes would be so distracted by the gift itself or the circumstances in which it was given that she wouldn't notice if he made a hash of it.

He drew aside the wrapping and stared at the nightdress for a long moment without touching it. And then he seized it and held it up by the shoulders and stood to allow it to flow freely before him. And he smiled. It was exactly what he had envisioned, his awkward and incomplete instructions perfectly captured by a seamstress through the medium of Anna's capable interpretation. It was modest and pretty and surprisingly seductive to his hungry eyes. He wanted Mrs. Hughes - Elsie, better get used to that - to feel comfortable and attractive and also that she was desirable to him, and this nightdress would, he felt, meet these criteria with some left over besides.

It was fine white cotton, something light for summer wear. He would get her something new for the colder seasons, something to replace her worn flannel gown, but in this moment he had thought only of the next few months. The collar was square and fell low enough to be suggestive, but not too low for comfort. Mrs. Hu...Elsie was modest. No one save the doctor had seen her in any state of undress since girlhood likely. He wanted to be able to look at her in this gown without undue self-consciousness on her part. For the same reason, although he had toyed with the idea of a sleeveless shift, he had in the end decided for short sleeves that would fall almost to her elbows and a loose-flowing skirt that dipped below her knees. The bodice was slightly more close-fitting, relaxed enough for her comfort, tailored enough to inspire his imagination. And there, across the breast, the particular feature he had detailed for Anna, the small, special thing that he had sought as a very personal reflection of their union. His fingers traced the embroidered pattern there and as they did so he felt a constriction in his throat. It was precisely as he had envisaged it.

For a long moment he held the nightdress at arm's length and took in its every detail. And then abruptly he folded it into his arms as tomorrow night he would encompass it and Elsie within it in his embrace, and he pressed his lips to the embroidered design and tried to imagine what it would be like to feel her beneath it. How exciting it was to indulge his feelings like this. It was an unprecedented experience for him.

And then he folded the gown again, trying to duplicate the crisp lines Anna had expertly achieved. It was a futile effort, of course, but he made it look tidy enough. Before he drew the wrapping around it again, his fingers lingered over the embroidery once more. The nightdress was so simple. He thought it was beautiful and hoped that she would find it so, too. He had little experience with this. But this special touch - well, that would win her over, he thought, even if she despaired otherwise at his unassuming tastes. He re-tied the ribbon, made the best bow he could, and then placed the parcel on top of his own things and closed the case lid over it.

Then he set that on the floor and sat down on the bed, just looking around, and a wholly different sensation came over him. It was his last night in this room. He'd slept here for thirty years. Thirty years. It was his home. He'd occupied no other space in his lifetime for as great a span of time as he had this room. A wave of melancholy consumed him, an inexplicable melancholy. It was only a room, and not a particularly nice one at that. It was innately functional, and had little to recommend it otherwise. True, he had no use for anything other than the simple amenities it offered - bed, wardrobe, desk, chair, reading lamp - but it said almost nothing of him. And now, like his wardrobe, it was devoid of anything but those utilitarian elements that had no claim on him. There was as little here now to mark his presence, save those things he needed for tomorrow, as there was of Mr. Finch whom he had succeeded. Everything else, his clothes and his few personal possessions, had already been removed to the cottage.

Their cottage. Well. There was the remedy, wasn't it? He would miss this room for what it meant in his life at Downton, but he need not mourn it for any other reason. Downton had been good to him, and it would continue to be so, just in different ways. It was the idea of change itself that unsettled him, not the particular change he was embracing. Because he had no doubt there. It was, as he had told Elsie so firmly, the thing about which he had never been so sure in his life.

He'd already had quite enough to drink this evening. The wine and the port were of superior quality and he had enjoyed them as much as he could anything on this night. But there, on his nightstand, was a bottle of whisky - a very fine bottle of whisky - and a shot glass. It was His Lordship's remedy for sleeplessness and His Lordship's bottle - he recognized the brand - brought up here earlier by one of the staff, at His Lordship's direction.

As he changed into his nightclothes, his eyes rested on the bottle, and then, after some consideration, he poured himself a drink. He took a sip, and then swallowed the rest in one. Then he got into bed, turned out the light, and willed himself to sleep.

Dressing

And he slept. And then woke at four a.m. and found it impossible to shut his eyes again.

Details circulated in his mind. Did he know where the ring was? He was out of bed and shuffling through this pockets before he remembered that His Lordship had taken possession of it to prevent just this kind of frenzy. And yet, when he returned to his bed, he wondered if it was safe with His Lordship. After all, the man had a valet who looked after his details.

He watched the hands of the clock shift with an agonizing slowness, and determined that he would be out of bed at six and downstairs and out of the way of Mrs. Hughes - Elsie! - that they might not meet on the stairs. He hadn't gotten her schedule for the morning, the first morning of their lives together in this house that he didn't know where she'd be and what she'd be doing. He only knew that the wedding was to begin at ten a.m. This lack of knowledge ate away at him. Uncertainty was the enemy of calm.

He whiled away half an hour or so poring over his copy of The Book of Common Prayer, reviewing the vows he would take. Mr. Travis would prompt him, of course, but he wanted to be so familiar with them that the words would fall from his lips smoothly. The least hesitation would undermine their impact. Think of the Duke of York. The speech His Royal Highness Prince Albert had made to close the British Empire Exhibition last year had been painful in the extreme, an agony no less excruciating for those who heard the broadcast of the speech over the wireless than for those in attendance. It was, Carson thought, just another reason why royalty should not lower themselves to vulgar forums of communication. He favoured the Duke of York over his more frivolous brother the Prince of Wales - at a personal level, not in any way that might support a revolutionary displacement of the legitimate heir - but had been quite embarrassed for the man. Although he had never mis-spoken in public in his life, the Prince's tortured speech put the fear of God into Carson at this emotionally intense moment. Even so, he soon realized that he could not properly practice his vows in his bedroom, for if he spoke in anything but a low voice, he might disturb Mrs. Hughes - Elsie! - with whose bedroom his own shared a wall.

That reminded him. He lay unmoving for several minutes, straining to hear a sound from her room, wondering if she were lying awake in as unsettled a state as he was. He heard nothing. How could she possibly still be sleeping on this of all mornings?

One minute before six there was a knock on his door and he fairly leaped from his bed, anticipating the worst, as if it were possible that he would not have heard through the wall any crisis involving ... Elsie. But it was only Mr. Bates, formally attired in a very nice suit that Carson had never seen him wear before. He was distracted. Mr. Bates had not been to the servants' quarters since he had moved into his own cottage some years earlier. Carson stared at him, perplexed.

Bates smiled politely, understanding without explanation Mr. Carson's surprise. "I'm here to see that you have everything you need, Mr. Carson," he said easily.

Not entirely certain this was necessary, Carson nevertheless admitted him to the room. He was not accustomed to a valet's attentions, although in the past he had occasionally employed a hall boy to help him dress, as part of the training a great house offered to such lads as aspired to service careers. These had been few and far between since the war.

Carson had never had the opportunity to observe Bates at work and in a matter of minutes was impressed. There was not, in any real sense, all that much to do, as he would be wearing a suit, not a more complicated morning coat, and Carson was more accustomed to dressing himself than being dressed and so was not as cooperative as His Lordship, for whom the practice was second nature. But it was a pleasant indulgence nevertheless. The valet offered to shave him and Carson agreed, a little tenuously, and then was glad to have done so when he felt the other's steady hand. Left to his own devices he was sure to have cut himself.

What Carson would not appreciate for days, and what was surely Mr. Bates's major objective in providing this service, was the calmness the valet brought to the room and to the groom. He slowed everything down, investing the morning routines - every aspect of which was so emotionally charged on this most important of mornings - with an air of comfort, and familiarity, and serenity. Carson breathed more easily in Mr. Bates's company.

The valet also came with information.

"Mrs. Patmore has prepared a light, cold breakfast upstairs and down," he said. "The staff will eat at their usual hour and Andrew will bring you coffee and a little something in the butler's pantry, so that you don't have the distraction of eating with the crowd. Andrew will then attend to the family, while Mr. Barrow, Mrs. Patmore, and Daisy turn their attention to the final arrangements for the wedding breakfast. Mrs. Patmore will bring Mrs. Hughes her breakfast shortly and, after they've attended to Her Ladyship, Lady Mary, and Lady Edith, Miss Baxter and Anna will go to her. And, when he's finished his breakfast, His Lordship will come downstairs to meet you..."

"Downstairs? His Lordship?" Carson had been attempting to absorb this litany, although he had the sensation of hearing it through distorting medium that made it difficult to follow. But this detail drew his attention.

Bates only smiled and began to brush the shoulders of Carson's suit. "Your best man is charged with keeping you sane and making sure you get to the church on time, Mr. Carson, and he's quite looking forward to these tasks."

"I'm glad someone is enjoying this," Carson grumbled, although he wasn't at all disgruntled. He was nervous, not unhappy. He just wanted everything to go smoothly and not knowing that it would had him in a state of some agitation.

"Everyone is in good humour this morning, Mr. Carson. Even Mrs. Patmore."

Certainly Carson had never seen Mr. Bates so persistently cheerful. That was food for thought. "It is a great rigamarole, isn't it?" he said quietly, as the valet expertly knotted his tie.

"It is, indeed, Mr. Carson. And well worth it." Bates stepped back, admiring his handiwork. "And you've made me so very grateful that Anna and I went another way!" He laughed aloud at this and Carson managed an almost reluctant smile.

"You are perfection, Mr. Carson"

"Thank you, Mr. Bates." Carson glanced at himself in the looking glass and was startled to find himself in agreement with the valet's remark. He had never looked this good.

"Mr. Stark will take you and His Lordship to the church and then return for the family. Mrs. Hughes and Miss Baxter will follow in the second car."

"Not Anna?" Carson was surprised at this. He thought Elsie... Elsie! he'd finally gotten it ... would want Anna with her this morning.

But Bates was shaking his head. "No, Anna will go with the rest of the staff."

"As you will," Carson assumed.

"Oh, I'll get there," Bates said circumspectly.

The sure hand and serene demeanour of the professional valet had done their work. Bates had drawn out the dressing process and assured the groom a level of sartorial splendour that exceeded even Mr. Carson's usual standard.

"I'm very grateful to you, Mr. Bates."

Bates smiled warmly. "I'm happy to be of service, Mr. Carson."

Waiting

Mr. Bates's presence had had a tranquilizing effect, not least because the man had a talent for easy conversation hitherto unknown to Mr. Carson. Clearly he saved it for the dressing room. No wonder His Lordship valued the man.

Once more on his own in his pantry, Carson soon felt his blood pressure rising again. Andrew appeared with a tray and observed congenially that Mr. Carson looked smashing - a vulgar London word that Carson might have objected to had he been in his right mind. Andrew was quite smartly done up himself. The staff were out of uniform today as they were to attend the wedding as guests and could not have found the time to change between their morning duties and the ceremony. Andrew was pleasant, but he was also young and still something of an unknown quantity to Carson, and so had no ameliorating impact on the groom's anxiety. Andrew adroitly read the signs, deposited the tray, and departed. Carson took a single sip of the coffee and then ignored it and the rest of his breakfast. He wasn't hungry.

His Lordship appeared just before eight, coming directly from his dressing room to the butler's pantry.

"But what about your breakfast?" Carson asked him, stirred from his own preoccupations by the compulsive habit of concern for His Lordship.

Robert waved away his query. "I'm too excited to eat!" he declared.

Carson took him at his word and lapsed back into his own whirlwind of worries. "You have the ring?"

Robert grinned and produced an elegant little polished wooden box. He flicked it open to show Carson the ring sitting snugly on a felt cushion within.

Carson frowned. "Where did that come from?" he asked, thrown by any new element, however insignificant.

"I borrowed it from Her Ladyship," Robert responded, returning the ring and its box to his breast pocket.

They were interrupted by a knock at the door and Molesley came in, bearing a shallow, open box with several large yellow roses in it.

"Mr. Brook sent these in, Mr. Carson," Molesley said, approaching the groom.

This, like the ring box, flustered Carson. "What for?" he demanded.

Robert and Molesley exchanged amused glances.

"Your button hole, of course," Molesley replied, ignoring Mr. Carson's belligerent tone. "For you and your best man and your ushers."

"Ushers?" Too many unanticipated details were increasing Carson's tension.

Robert moved smoothly into the gap, examining the flowers and selecting two. He carefully pared them both of their greenery. "Take one for yourself, Molesley," he directed, "and give the others to Barrow and Andrew."

Molesley nodded. "Would you like me to do that for you, my lord?"

Robert acquiesced and stood still as Molesley expertly fitted the flower into His Lordship's button hole. When the footman then turned to Carson, Robert discreetly waved him away. "I'll manage it," he said softly.

Molesley responded with an exaggerated nod, exchanged an understanding look with His Lordship, and then took up the box and left the room.

Robert turned to Carson. "I've never actually done this on anyone else," he murmured, arranging the flower in Carson's button hole. His words prompted a look of alarm to descend on the groom.

Robert noticed. "Steady on, Carson. It's not surgery." He stepped back to admire his work, but noted Carson checking the flower's security as soon as he thought Robert wasn't looking.

"I know it's easier to say than do, Carson, but try to live in the minute. Enjoy it all as it's happening. It will never happen again." This was the best man's best advice. "Let's go."

Together they marched up the stairs, through the green baize door and out into the Great Hall. Carson followed complacently until they came to the main doors and then he balked.

"My lord," he protested.

Robert fixed him with a look. "Carson, you are marrying from this house and on this day both you and Mrs. Hughes will depart from this house through the front doors. Now, come on."

Two cars were drawn up before the house. Robert stood still for a moment, as though considering something. "We could drive to the church, if you like," he said, with a sidelong glance at Carson. "But I think we should walk. We have the time and a little fresh air might help."

"Help what?" Carson demanded.

Robert did not answer. Instead he walked away from the house and away from the formal drive, heading down one of the gravel paths that crossed the lawn. It was a shortcut that led through the woods and would bring them into the village behind the church.

They walked in a companionable silence. Robert meditated on his own wedding day, thirty-six years earlier, recalling with the editorial precision of hindsight all the pleasant aspects and excising those moments that had caused any friction.

Carson, now shorn of all the extraneous baggage, material and emotional, of the past few months and hours, was able to focus his attention on the single salient fact of the moment: he was on his way to Downton village church to marry the woman he loved. How fortunate he was to have found her and to know in this life such an all-encompassing passion - of heart, mind, body, and soul - for another human being, and such a being she was. He was profoundly humbled by this development and endlessly grateful for the gift. God has blessed me this day, he told himself.

It had been a good idea, this pastoral walk in the morning air. It cleared his mind and calmed his nerves, as well as consuming minutes that would otherwise have exacerbated this interminable waiting for the appointed hour. Robert so managed the walk, by setting a pace he knew Carson would accommodate as he accommodated everything to His Lordship's wishes, that the shortcut saved them no time at all, though they still arrived at the church in good time. And at the appropriate moment they took their place before the altar.

There were a few early arrivals and then the trickle turned into a steady stream. The church filled - family on the groom's side, staff on the bride's, and most of the village less formally arranged behind them. The Crawleys came in last. Standing beside Carson, Robert glanced over his shoulder and unobtrusively acknowledged his wife and daughters with a nod. Cora's eyes found him and she smiled. Edith's serene countenance betrayed no misgivings at attending a wedding in the very church where she had been jilted at the altar. Mary's gaze was riveted on Carson, as if she were trying to memorize familiar details about him before everything changed.

Carson did not seem to notice the eyes upon him. Robert understood why. This was one of the most emotionally tense moments of any man's life, this standing up before the world, declaring one's love before witnesses, committing of one's life to another's for life. Any man might be paralyzed in the grip of this thrilling, desirable terror. Robert leaned over to Carson.

"How are you?" he asked, knowing what a trifling question it was at such a moment.

Carson moved almost imperceptibly in Robert's direction. Robert inclined his head that Carson might speak to him as discreetly as possible.

"I have never been so happy in my life," Carson said. He spoke quietly, but his words resounded as from the depths of his soul.

A slow smile spread across Robert's face and he put a hand on Carson's shoulder. "Good man."

And then the music began.