Cemetery, St Michael and All Angels Church, Downton Village, September 12th, 1922
Violet Crawley abhorred the idea of talking to a grave.
To her it was silly and melodramatic sentimentality. She believed wholeheartedly that the dead remained firmly dead and gone, and wherever they were – if they were anywhere at all – they didn't hang out around their gravestone, waiting to hear some hackneyed words from a weepy relative. And yet as she was standing in front of her only son's grave on the anniversary of his death she found herself wanting to talk to him, as pointless and ridiculous as it was. She didn't, of course, but she wanted to.
You were always so much kinder than me, she thought instead. I was smarter, no doubt about that, but you were kinder. I ridiculed you for that but I also admired it in you. You were a good man, even if stubborn and thickheaded one, and so easy to love if not always to like.
You were not supposed to go before me.
She petted the stone with a trembling hand and wiped her eyes with her handkerchief.
xxx
Isobel met her at the cemetery gate.
"I thought it was you," she said in lieu of the greeting. "How about you come over for a cup of tea? It's only September but the wind is quite bracing and you can feel the rain in your bones."
"You're being as subtle as a bucket," said Violet scathingly, but just then a gust of wind did go through the cemetery, picking up the first fallen leaves and making her shiver. "But I guess a cup of tea won't hurt."
They walked together slowly to Crawley House, where they settled in the bright blue sitting room and Violet gratefully accepted a cup of tea from Molesley.
"I hope the weather gets warmer after lunch," she said acerbically. "That son of yours decided to celebrate George's birthday outside."
"He did plan to have it inside if the weather is bad," answered Isobel defensively. "But I do hope we will manage to hold it in the garden. Mornings are still cold, but it's usually quite comfortable in the early afternoon."
"Weren't you just telling me that it feels like rain?"
Isobel shrugged, not even hiding her smile.
"It did, at the moment," she said cheerfully. "But I think it will pass after all."
Levinson's Cottage, Newport, Rhode Island, September 12th, 1922
Cora caressed the light scattering of scars on her arm. She did not have many. She had been deeply bruised from being thrown against the door of the car when the lorry ploughed into them, but Robert had shielded her from most of the flying broken glass.
His very last act had been to protect her.
It'd been a full year and she still could not believe he was truly gone.
Coming to visit mother had been a good idea. It did help her to breathe easier and accustom herself to living a life without Robert. Cora suspected she was not going to settle back in America forever – she was here for only two months and she already missed her daughters and grandchildren something fierce – so she would need to find a place to live somewhere closer to them than on another continent. But she was in no hurry. It was nice to spend some time relaxing, without any responsibility or expectations of her. Mother certainly didn't have any. She seemed happy to have Cora back for a while, but she had much too busy social life to hover over her grieving daughter. Cora was welcome to accompany her to any of her multiple engagements or stay home, however she pleased. So far, Cora preferred to stay home or take a stroll along the beach, but she was starting to think it might change soon. She was slowly getting ready to face meeting people again.
But not today. Today she was remembering Robert.
Cemetery, St Michael and All Angels Church, Downton Village, September 12th, 1922
"You'd think we should be practised at celebrating children's birthdays and grieving on the very same day with Sybbie and Sybil," said Mary in a choked voice, leaning against Matthew. "But it doesn't get any easier."
"No," agreed Matthew, his own voice rough as he embraced her, his eyes set on the headstone. "It doesn't."
"You know, thinking about Sybbie and George's births makes me somewhat anxious about this one," she said, shaking her head as she put her hand on her round belly. "It's silly, really, but I start to wonder if we are not living under some kind of curse which demands a life for a life..."
"Don't speak like that!" Matthew interrupted her harshly, feeling instantly guilty when her head swivelled to stare at him in shock. But her words brought Sybil's death to his mind, his imagination exchanging Sybil's face for Mary, and he recoiled from this vision in horror. "Everything's going to be alright, with you and with the baby. I don't want you to dwell on such things."
Mary rolled her eyes.
"Of course it will be. I didn't have any difficulty with George, even though he was early. I told you it was just a silly thought."
"Still not one you should have or I wished to hear," pointed out Matthew grumpily, shaken by the sudden fear she awoke in him.
To his surprise, Mary snorted in amusement.
"Maybe the curse will take care of Mr Gregson this time," she said mischievously. "So you won't have to endure his presence every Christmas."
"Haven't you agreed to drop the topic?" asked Matthew in exasperation. "Besides, I may think that he behaved deplorably, but it's not enough to wish him dead. Especially since Edith loves him."
"And even more especially because she needs him to marry her first," muttered Mary darkly. "Do you think there is any chance he will manage that before somebody learns of the whole sorry affair and starts the biggest scandal this family has seen in decades?"
Matthew sighed, looking at Robert's gravestone and once again wishing fervently that he had been here to deal with it all instead of him. Although if he had been, Matthew would have probably been roped into it all anyway, to smooth the waters before Robert managed to disinherit Edith.
Or maybe not. He thought about understanding and forgiveness Robert had shown Mary over the whole debacle with Pamuk, how valiantly and proudly he had defended her from Carlisle, knowing full well that they could have all faced publication of the nastiest kind from the vengeful man, and suspected that even in this scenario Robert's love for his daughters could have trumped his disappointment in their conduct.
Even if there probably would have been some shouting.
He missed this man so much.
Englische Kirche zu St. Georg, Oranienburg Strasse, Berlin, September 12th, 1922
Edith was kneeling in the Anglican church in Berlin, more deep in thought than in prayer.
She wondered what Papa would have thought about her situation and shuddered. She wasn't glad he was gone – she could never have wished for that, whatever the circumstances – but she was grateful he didn't have to deal with that particular blow.
She had always wanted him to be proud of her.
He never had been, of course, she was painfully aware of that. Oh, he loved her dearly – she never doubted Papa's love – but he had never valued the talents she had and mourned the lack of those she did not possess. He had never supported her dreams, whether they concerned marriage or writing. And yet, on this anniversary, none of that mattered to her, however deep it used to hurt her. She was just missing him so much.
She finished a quick prayer and gratefully accepted Michael's helping hand to get up. At five months pregnant, her bump was still small, but her centre of gravity was somehow already shifting.
"Thank you for bringing me here," she said, giving him a sad but sincere smile.
"He was your father," said Michael solemnly, offering her his arm to lead her out of the church. "It's no wonder you wanted to mark his death in some way."
Edith opened her mouth to answer, when a voice calling her name froze her on the spot.
"Lady Edith? It is you! What on Earth are you doing in Berlin of all places?"
Edith turned slowly, terribly aware of how little her light autumn coat was covering her bump and of her hand resting on Michael's arm.
"Mr Blake!" she said with what she dearly hoped was a natural looking smile. "I am just playing a tourist, really. What brings you here?"
"I stopped to meet some people at the British Embassy on my way back from Warsaw," he said lightly, but with a questioning look at Michael. Which hopefully meant, together with his lack of greeting, that he didn't know him. Or knew that Michael was married, oh God… "I am consulting with the Poles on their agricultural reforms after they got their country back."
"It does sound awfully interesting, actually," said Michael smoothly. "Edith, will you introduce us?"
Edith barely stopped herself from gaping at him in shock and alarm, but decided to follow his lead.
"But of course! I don't know what happened to my manners, Granny would have been appalled," she laughed nervously. "Darling, this is Mr Blake. He works for the Ministry of Agriculture and spent recently several weeks at Downton while he was surveying the estates in north of England. Mr Blake, this is Michael Gregson. My… husband."
She hesitated only very little over the lie. She still nearly flinched at Mr Blake's startled expression.
"Oh, my most sincere congratulations. I haven't heard that you married."
"We kept it quiet," answered Michael, coming to her rescue again. "Edith was still in mourning for her father and it is my second marriage. Thank you very much."
"I see," said Mr Blake, looking at them much too shrewdly for Edith's taste. "Well, I won't keep you here, I have an appointment of my own to attend. Please convey my best greetings to Lord and Lady Grantham when you write to your sister, Lady Edith."
"I will," answered Edith, relieved beyond measure that he was walking away without further comment. She leaned heavily against Michael as soon as Mr Blake's energetic steps took him behind a corner. "Oh goodness, Michael…"
"It's alright, darling," he immediately reassured her and led her to a bench on the square in front of the church. Edith's eyes darted in panic, fearing encountering more familiar faces. Oh, why had they come to the one place likely to draw any Englishmen staying in Berlin?!
"How can it be alright?! He stayed at Downton with me in July; he knows perfectly well that I was not married then! And he must have noticed…"
She stopped, her breath so quick in her panic that she was close to hyperventilating. Michael rubbed her back soothingly.
"He doesn't know anything of the sort," he said calmly. "He knows that you didn't announce any marriage, true, but he is not likely to investigate it much further. We said it was a quiet thing, so he will probably assume we eloped. Is he a man likely to gossip?"
"I don't know!" moaned Edith. "I don't think so, but I don't know him very well. He and Mary became very good friends though."
"Then he is even less likely to bring a scandal to your family. You did the right thing in introducing me as your husband. A quiet wedding and a baby on the way is hardly salacious enough to invite too much scrutiny from a man as busy as Mr Blake appears to be."
Edith's breath started to calm down, but she was nowhere near as convinced as Michael seemed to be.
Great Hall, Downton Abbey, September 12th, 1922
"What on Earth is all this, Mr Bates?" asked Carson, seeing Bates staggering slightly under a rather cumbersome box.
"Decorations and entertainment for Master George's birthday party," answered the valet. "Lord Grantham has planned Pin the Tail on the Donkey, a pinata and balloons. Among other things."
Carson drew his eyebrows disapprovingly.
"You mean his lordship, young Viscount Downton?" he asked significantly.
Bates didn't smile, but his eyes twinkled mischievously.
"Lord Grantham asked that we refer to his son as Master George for now, considering his age."
"His lordship can ask for his son to be called Master George to his heart's content, but he is Lord Downton nevertheless, Mr Bates, and we will refer to him as his lordship," declared Carson imperiously. "Now, let me help you with this box. It's too unwieldy to be carried easily by one person."
Front Lawn, Downton Abbey, September 12th, 1922
George Crawley, Viscount Downton, celebrated his first birthday in style, even if he was way too young to appreciate most of it.
He did like the cake and the balloons though, especially when he discovered that biting into one made it burst. He was shrieking in triumph after every one he managed to destroy.
"What a vicious little creature," observed his great grandmother, but with a smile belying the critical tone she attempted to adopt.
"Must take after his mother," observed Isobel lightly, earning herself a sharp and disbelieving look from her friend.
"You claim Matthew never behaved like that?"
"Never," answered Isobel smugly. "He was the sweetest little boy."
The sweetest little boy, now a handsome man of thirty seven, looked at her sceptically.
"That's not what you've been telling me most of my life," he pointed out dryly.
The Dowager tittered in satisfaction, writing it up as a victory.
"Still, you might have a point," Mary addressed her mother-in-law with a smile. "I've been told that I was an unholy terror at times, wasn't I, Carson?"
"Not at all," the butler, supervising the footmen placing trays of ices and lemonade on the table under the white tent, immediately denied this accusation against his favourite, even if it was brought by herself. "Your ladyship was the brightest and most charming little lady I've ever encountered."
"You do know who to ask," teased Matthew, shaking his head over the expected bias of Mary's biggest champion. "Should I write to Cousin Cora and ask her for her version?"
Mary sent him a sideways glance.
"Just as long as you don't ask Edith," she said with a wry smile. "I'm not sure I would recognise myself in that caricature."
Violet rolled her eyes.
"You were both awful," she declared, her war of upmanship with Isobel momentarily forgotten in light of years of exasperation. "Always fighting like rats in a barrel. We went through half as many governesses as I did with Robert and Rosamund because of that. Sybil was the sweet one."
Her voice broke down slightly on the last sentence, bringing silence to the table.
"She really was," agreed Mary softly, looking at Sybbie who was busy chasing Tom with a donkey's tail, insisting he was the donkey now. "But as mischievous as Sybbie is."
"She and George suit well together," observed Matthew with a grin, as George crawled determinedly after a balloon Sybbie managed to throw on top of a short bush earlier. "I wonder what the little one is going to be like."
"Hopefully…" started Mary, but didn't manage to finish, as Matthew jumped to his feet and exclaimed, pointing at George in excitement:
"Look! Look! He's standing!"
"He's been doing it for a while," said Mary, but she rose from her seat as well, so she could see her son better.
"But always pulling himself up on something!" insisted Matthew excitedly. "Believe me, I know the difference!"
They barely paid attention to the family and servants behind them, also getting caught up in the power of the moment, watching with bated breath as George indeed stood up and made his first ever two uneven steps to reach the balloon, only to fall on his bottom as soon as he grabbed his prize.
He looked quite bewildered by the thunderous applause he got from them all.