Chapter Eight
December 1962
He could hardly feel the stem of the wineglass between his forefinger and thumb, the nerves of his fingertips tired though the skin was much thinner than years ago. He pushed the nearly empty glass upon the white tablecloth, away from the plate of half-eaten food the three-day-a-week cook — a Mr Tillard — and his catering staff prepared. There was no Carson or Barrow standing to attention. No footmen to take away his plate. No Mrs Patmore and kitchen staff scurrying with the pudding. There was no pudding.
Tom spoke beside him, a lecture he somehow knew was coming when all the others were dismissed from the dining room.
"We just don't think it's safe for you to go. What would've happened if we'd not found you?"
His chest burned at that, partially due to drink that he very rarely indulged in nowadays, and due to indignation at being reprimanded like a child.
But there was something else there, too. Embarrassment.
Robert tried to straighten his spine to sit taller in his chair, but found he couldn't. He lifted his chin instead. "Oh, I'm fine," he heard himself lie. "I believe you're inventing worries to occupy your time. Haven't you enough to do with the opening of the house nonsense? Surely I'm allowed a reprieve from all that."
"I'm sorry, Donk," now George. "But Uncle Tom is right. We all agree."
"Well, I don't."
Robert brought his gaze across the table to her, to Mary, and she looked back at him.
"Nothing happened, did it, Papa? You're home, safe and sound." He watched as his daughter, gray streaks glinting in her hair, her eyes with small flares of wrinkles kissing them, looked at her son and brother-in-law. "I honestly don't see the point in any of this. It isn't like he doesn't know the village. And it isn't a far walk."
More embarrassment, for the truth was, though he tried, he hardly knew what they were speaking of, glimpses of his day appearing in his mind like photographs, long periods of darkness between.
"You're wrong, Mary." Tom's voice was low beside him. "And you know it.
"Oh, Tom -"
" - You can't be stubborn about everything, Mother."
Robert laughed once. "That's Mama for you."
But no one laughed in return. It felt odd, that. He peered around the table, not a smile on anyone's face. And suddenly, Robert felt tired.
"I'm going to bed."
Sybbie smiled at Paul as they reached the top of the stairs and exhaled. "Right. I don't blame you."
Her husband kissed her cheek. "Don't stay awake too late."
"No," she sighed. "Only saying good night to Donk."
"Yeah. I know." He smiled more deeply, and she nodded in return. Sybbie watched him walk down the gallery, her heart warming at the sight of him.
...
The hallway was dark, the lamps already having been turned off. Sybbie walked quietly toward Donk's room, but then spied, two doors beyond, a flickering light coming from the crack in an open door.
She could hear muffled voices and laughter as she pushed in, and smiled.
"A lot has changed in a year."
Uncle Henry looked away from the television and over his shoulder to Sybbie. He offered a laugh.
"Television at Downton!" Sybbie rounded the corner of the sofa and smiled. "Now I've seen it all."
"Miracles do happen," he smirked and moved the blanket from beside him, inviting her to sit.
She acquiesced.
Uncle Henry sat leaned back, his feet on the coffee table before him, a small tumbler of drink sat upon his swaying knee. If not for his gray head, he'd easily been his former self, the one who lived happily in Sybbie's memories.
"Do they have things like this in America?" He motioned to the variety show on the small screen, a dog jumping through a hoop on a stage, and an audience applauding.
"Afraid so," Sybbie shrugged.
"Unbelievable." He shook his head critically.
"I suppose you could choose a different channel."
He brought his wrinkling eyes to Sybbie's. "No. We have to find our thrills somewhere."
They both laughed, and the show remained.
"When does Caroline arrive?"
Uncle Henry smiled, and she watched him wiggle his foot on the edge of the coffee table. "In two days, though I did try my best to persuade her to come sooner. Alas, she is her mother's daughter."
The image of her younger cousin flashed before Sybbie's mind, and she laughed. "Yes. That's true."
"But Marigold should be in tomorrow. The Brancaster Boys to follow. Mary was on the telephone with Edith this afternoon."
Sybbie hummed and let herself settle more deeply into the feather-top sofa, and she covered herself with the blanket lying between them. She watched the television for a moment; the dog had gone and now some man dressed in a checkered suit - which played havoc on the cameras - juggled pins.
"Absolutely ridiculous," she heard her uncle say as he sipped his whiskey, and she lifted her brows. She had to agree.
As his glass rested upon his knee again, he spoke louder. "Is everyone asleep?"
"Paul just came up. I was hoping to say good night to Donk."
Uncle Henry swung his head towards her, his eyes remaining on the television. "Shirley tucked him in at least an hour ago."
Sybbie nodded. "Aunt Mary?"
"Yes. Seems the day's worn her out."
Sybbie bit her tongue at any response. She wasn't sure anything wore Aunt Mary out, not really. Aunt Mary was typically the out-wearer of everyone else. But it would do no good to say that to Uncle Henry, so she brought the blanket up closer to her chest and let her eyes roam about the room.
She didn't recognize it. Not properly anyway. The long, closed yellow curtains against the white walls. The tall, rather simple mirror above the marble fireplace mantle, a mint green Grecian design of draped pillars framing it. The floral couch, chairs, rug. The antique rosewood secretary desk, glinting in the light, paperwhites on the opened writing top. She squinted her eyes at the sketched portraits of people hanging on the wall around it, the room too dark to recognize them.
"It was less of a struggle to commandeer, if you'll believe it."
She didn't realize Henry had noticed her. "Why would it have been?"
Henry looked around the room, an audience's tinny laughter echoing off the walls. "It was Cora's sitting room. Didn't you know?"
Sybbie furrowed her brow. "No, Granny's sitting room is outside of the drawing room. It overlooks the lawn toward Heaven's Gate."
But Uncle Henry shook his head. "Have a look."
She watched in the moving shadows of the television as he placed his whiskey on the table top before them and rose, going over to the secretary and opening a side drawer that was beneath the writing top. He produced a small bundle of letters tied in a green ribbon and walked back to the sofa with them.
"We daren't show these to Coco." He lifted his brow. "Rather risqué."
Sybbie frowned. "Oh, dear."
He laughed and picked back up his glass, plopping down again into the sofa. "Don't worry. Your grandmother was no Lady Chatterley."
She rolled her eyes. "You don't have to tell me that."
Sybbie untied the ribbon and let the yellowed papers fall into her lap. She smiled, reading to whom they were addressed: The Viscountess Downton.
"Ah," she grinned. "Back when they were the Downtons."
Uncle Henry lifted his chin.
"Where did you find them?"
"In here, actually. The secretary was locked, but Barrow managed to search out a key. They're mostly from an aunt," he said as she flipped through them, opening a few looking at the dates. "A few from her mother."
"I thought you said they were risqué." Applause sounded from the television, and Henry waited for it to die down again.
"Well, they are. But not in the way you imagine. They aren't love notes, or anything." He took a sip of whiskey. "They're chock-full of encouraging her to become pregnant. Suggesting how. Look at this now."
She glanced and watched, on the small screen, as a ventriloquist sat his dummy on a stool, a glamorous woman to its right asking it a series of questions.
"That's rather clever," she heard her uncle mutter, and Sybbie suppressed a small laugh.
"But, encouraging?"
Uncle Henry took another sip and looked back from the television to her. "Practically threatening otherwise."
Sybbie scoffed. "That can't be right. Granny always said how she wanted a nursery full of children."
Uncle Henry didn't respond, only pouted in thought and then looked to the pile of letters in her lap.
She sighed. She unfolded the first one and angled the paper towards the light of the variety show. Small pieces of script flickered up at her: . . . a son to secure his affection for you . . . don't be foolish . . . . lie still and let him achieve the goal . . .
She felt Uncle Henry move his eyes to the television as she unfolded another: . . . It is not your role to enjoy marital conjugations . . . to be a mother, not solely a wife. What is the point otherwise? . . . plenty of time to issue another if the first is a daughter. You mustn't waste your youth.
She looked up at Uncle Henry, but he did not return her glance. She was glad.
She unfolded the next: Put the ugliness and distrust of the entail to rest with the birth of a son. How can you expect him to ever love you if you won't perform your duty? If not for Robert's sake, then for your father's.
She dropped the last unfolded letter to her lap, it drifting to the blanket across her knees.
"I don't understand. I thought …"
Henry did look at her now, and Sybbie felt her face flush. She felt a shock of indignation, but then it cooled into what felt like distance. Like she'd read a biography of someone she'd never met, though she'd lived with the recipient of these notes for nearly all of her childhood.
"Well, it seems so much sadder than I imagined." She looked at the handwriting of such a different age, all perfection, the strokes and loops uniform and precise. It felt cruel somehow. "What did Aunt Mary say about them?"
"Oh, you know Mary." Sybbie looked at her aunt's husband. He wore a crooked smile. "Not much."
Sybbie let her frustration escape in a huff. "Of course not."
But Uncle Henry didn't let it slide. He angled his head toward her. "Don't judge Mary too harshly. She feels more than she lets on."
"Does she?" Sybbie collected the letters and pulled the ribbon around them. "When she's the one forcing all of this. Upsetting everyone."
"It upsets her, too. But she's afraid of her feelings. Always has been."
Sybbie pushed out a breath of a laugh. "Just like Donk."
"No. Not like Robert." The confusion in his voice caused her to peer up at him, and she found him staring back at her, his eyes blinking in seriousness. "Like Cora."
…
The Great Hall was bustling with movement, with excitement, as Caroline, her husband and her two sons were greeted with the greatest enthusiasm. Tom played conductor as he pointed in the direction on where various things should go: wrapped Christmas gifts were taken from them and placed on the floor near the great fireplace, luggage was hauled to the bottom of the stairs, Grace plucked hats and scarves from heads and necks. Nearly immediately, a troop of small children - Caroline's five-year-old son, Alain, George's six-year-old, Rory, Marigold's six-year-old Seraphina, and Sybbie's 5-year-old Benjamin - began running in circles around the hall, chasing one another. Grace and Marigold simultaneously complimented Caroline's coat.
"Très chic," she heard one of them tease, and Caroline laughed.
"May I try it on, Aunt Caroline?" Coco asked, and, still laughing, Sybbie watched as Caroline slipped her thin form from the black wool and then immediately went into the arms of Henry, kissing both of his cheeks.
Aunt Mary pushed through the small crowd, their family parting like the Red Sea for her, and besides Sybbie, George, rolled his eyes.
"How continental." Aunt Mary quipped, and even from across the hall, she heard Caroline groan.
"Mum," Caroline spun around to her, but with a smile. "I've lived in Paris for ten years. Can we please let it go?"
"I'm not in the habit of letting things go," she heard Aunt Mary say against Caroline's dark hair as they embraced, and then as Aunt Mary motioned up to the stairs, towards Donk. "We still think you can live here. It's quite a big house."
But Caroline was already moving to their grandfather, arms outstretched.
To Sybbie's relief, he looked happy. He slowly came down the stairs and to Caroline, nodding his head. "Won't you come and give old Donk a kiss?"
"Oh," Caroline smiled. "Donk, I've missed you so. Alain, Luc, come and say hello to Donk."
Caroline's young sons flocked to their great-grandfather, and Sybbie felt one of her own sons hug at her waist, and she looked down at him, brushing his sandy hair from his eyes.
"And who's this?"
The room fell quiet.
Marigold, who Sybbie hadn't realized was so near her now, touched her arm.
"Philippe, Donk," Caroline answered. Her voice seemed strained. "You remember my husband. Don't you?"
Sybbie watched as Donk blinked slowly, and then shook his head. "Your husband?"
The hall remained quiet, even the children falling hush.
"Yes," Caroline was quieter now. "Phillipe."
But Donk smiled. "Of course. Of course I do."
"Let's all have some tea. Shirley?"
Dad's voice boomed over the crowd, and slowly, but obediently, the adults moved into the library, the children now stampeding up the stairs and to the nursery.
Sybbie made to follow, watching as Marigold sweetly looped her arm through Donk's and escorted him with everyone else. But Sybbie also noticed as Caroline and George lingered behind.
"Of course Mum would make little of it. How bad is it?"
Sybbie ignored George as he shook his head. "We'll discuss it later."
"Shall we walk to Barrow's after luncheon?"
Sybbie shook her head. "You know he's in York."
"Richard died a few months ago." George looked toward the open library door at the sound of laughter from within. "He's been in the Carson Cottage since."
"Are you coming?" Marigold fit her curly head through the open door. Her large gray eyes scanned over them, and she squinted. She whispered in her already soft voice. "Am I missing something?"
"We're walking to see Barrow later," Caroline answered. "The four of us."
Marigold tipped her curls. "But, wouldn't you like to see Granny's room before we go?"
"Oh, there's plenty of time for that. Besides, it's all turned upside down anyway, isn't it?"
"And," Marigold continued. "I don't think we should push in to Barrow's unannounced. Seems rather impolite."
"How on Earth is it impolite? He'll be thrilled to see us." Caroline pushed through the library door, even brushing Marigold as she passed.
George laughed. "Is there any wonder why she and Mother don't get along?"
…
Icy gravel crushed underfoot as they maneuvered their way to where Barrow lived. Sybbie had nearly forgotten how verbose her cousin Caroline was, but was quickly reminded the moment they escaped the shadow of the Abbey. And naturally, it was the topic of conversation least interesting to her: Donk's well-being.
Beside her she could see Marigold chew her bottom lip as Caroline gesticulated emphatically. She said words like we must, and horrid prognosis, and never forgive myself — her decade among the French coloring her emotions in vivid pigments. Sybbie, though she hated what Caroline was saying, was relieved her own years of living in America were somehow reflected in her cousin.
She supposed France and America were the oldest allies, after all.
"— You don't agree, Sybbie?"
She drew in a breath and shook her head. "I don't know," she said honestly, for she'd purposefully tuned out the conversation. Marigold, however, blinked her doe eyes at her.
"How can you not agree? He has to see a doctor. Though there's little to be done, there is some power in knowing what comes next." Her voice was gentle and rather lilting, and it reminded Sybbie painfully of someone, but she didn't know who. "Kennedy's mother suffered from it. It got so bad that she hardly recognized us at all."
Caroline walked backward for a moment, looking at them. "Don't say there's nothing to be done! Yes, your mother-in-law had memory-loss and confusion, but she had a living spouse to care for her! Who is caring for Donk? We should hire a nurse. A full time nurse, specializing in memory."
Sybbie sighed agitatedly. "But he hasn't memory or reality troubles. This was all brought on by your mother. She decided to open the house and sort through decades worth of Donk's memories, of course he's confused! He's nearly 95 years old!"
"It isn't Mummy. We have to open it, Sybbie." George shook his head. His sister and cousins looked up at him. "We don't have a choice. It was either that or give it over to the National Trust."
"What?" Caroline stopped walking. "Why?"
"Donk is nearly 100. How on earth are we going to pay without some sort of additional income?"
"Pay what?"
George looked at his sister for a moment and then shook his head again. In disbelief. "Death duties, Caroline. Estate tax."
Sybbie looked at her feet, a wind hitting her nose and burning inside her chest.
He huffed. "Perhaps Donk isn't the only one with trouble grasping reality."
"That isn't fair, George -"
"No? Caroline, while you're in Paris, and while you're in Cambridge," he turned from Marigold, and his blue eyes pierced Sybbie, "and you're in Atlanta, I am here -"
"-and London."
"I am here!" He snapped back at Caroline. "And I see day-in and day-out all of the troubles that you seem to want to fix the minute you arrive. As if it is something so simple. Like it or not, I am the acting Earl. And I have all the responsibilities as if I did have the weight of the title. Yes, we're in trouble: the estate can hardly keep running. It's crumbling under the weight of itself, like some grotesque version of The Portrait of Dorian Gray. But instead of Donk gaining youth as his likeness falls to the ground, they only reflect one another."
George began walking away from them, but then stopped. "And while we're being entirely honest, I wasn't opposed to the idea of the National Trust. We could still live at Downton rent-free until Matthew becomes the Earl — and he is only twelve now. Quite a long time. It would still be our family's."
"But how would it be ours? What about your grandson - Matthew's son? What then?"
"You sound just like Mummy."
"I'm glad!" Caroline's eyes were wide. Her cheeks were pale.
"But Caroline, do you really think in forty years that these places are going to exist as they are now? Think of how much has changed since the war. How much has changed since we were children. I doubt the year 2000 will see any estates left as they are."
"But it would still belong to the Crawleys'." Marigold now, soft and kind. "You could make the decision to do as you want with it. Do tours. Make it a hotel. A school."
"Exactly. And so why are we arguing? The decision has been made. It is our burden and not the Trust's." George pulled his gloves tighter on his hands as he walked again. "And just as I'm caring for Downton, I'm caring for Donk. And so is our Mother, Caroline. And Henry, and Uncle Tom. He isn't alone. Just because none of you are here. It doesn't mean he's alone."
He crunched down the road away from them, Sybbie watching his broad shoulders curve in from the cold. Both from the weather and from the truth.
"But he is," Marigold's sweet voice was beside her, and Sybbie looked over at her. "He's alone because no one can understand how lost he must feel."
Sybbie began to walk, too, catching up to George, her head hurting, her heart hurting, ignoring what her cousin was saying.
She heard George mumble as she matched his stride, "And what are we supposed to do about that?"
…
The laughter was a welcome relief from the conversation a couple of hours ago. Her ribs hurt from it all, her eyes teary as she managed very poorly to bring the refilled cup of tea to her mouth.
"Mother never did find me, though," George laughed.
"Well, of course not, Master George" Barrow leaned over them, replacing the teapot to the table. "There'd be no reason for Lady Mary to look in the pantry. As I told you then."
"Oh, George! That's horrid!" Marigold covered her smile and shook her head.
"It is horrid, Barrow!" Caroline dropped her hands into her lap, insulted. "You've never hidden me. Not even once."
Barrow settled himself in the chair across the sitting area, and right beside Sybbie. He raised his brows. "I never needed to. You were more than capable of hiding yourself."
Sybbie felt a new wave of laughter shake her and she brought her eyes to Barrow, his still-rosy apples of his cheeks pink and alive as he chuckled. He seemed so happy, and his joy caused a small pang. The last time she visited him, it was in York. Last December. And Richard was here. It was never something that needed to be said aloud — Sybbie was no longer a child; she knew who Richard was to him. And now he was gone. Why was it that everyone was gone?
Her cousins spoke quieter among themselves, grabbing a tea cake, and Sybbie sighed.
"I'm sorry I didn't come sooner. I didn't know -"
"- No. You weren't to know I was here, Miss Sybbie. I'm only glad Master George allowed me back."
"As if there were any question that he would." Sybbie smiled at him.
"I am who I am. And I doubt things," Barrow grinned. "But I guess he has always had a soft spot for old Barrow, the noble steed."
It warmed her, thoroughly, when he said that, images of George on Barrow's back in the tunnel-vision of her memory. Sybbie running behind them.
"You know, you're the only person who still calls me Miss Sybbie. You can call me just Sybbie, Barrow. You do know that. Or even Syb. Paul does."
But he shook his head. "But I will call you Miss Sybbie. If you'll let me."
She smiled, but now sadly. "You aren't my servant, Barrow. You're nearly family. Why didn't you let me know? Or send a letter?"
She watched him, still handsome as ever, but narrower and silvery, practically deflate in the chair he sat in. "I may not be a traditional man in many ways, Miss Sybbie, but even I find it difficult to send you a letter."
"But Richard -"
She stopped when Barrow, in an instant, looked away. The smile remained, but not really. It was his ghost of a smile, the ghost she'd seen him wear so often in her life that she felt she knew him just as well as she knew any other man of her youth - except of course for her father. And perhaps Donk, but even now she wasn't so sure of that.
She sipped from her teacup again, allowing the humidity of the cup warm her upper lip for a moment before bringing her tea down again. Caroline was pointing at Marigold, and then they laughed. Sybbie exhaled.
"Barrow?"
She felt in her periphery as he looked up at her, him too holding his cup near his chin, but then lowering it to his saucer.
"What did you make of those letters Aunt Mary found in Granny's desk?"
"I only know they found some. I didn't read them."
She shook her head. "They're confusing. I don't know what to think of them."
"Oh?"
Sybbie rested her cup in her lap, and looked for a moment at the fireplace beside her. The crackles and pops mingled with Marigold's soft laughter. "Well, they made it seem as if Granny had to be persuaded to have children. And I know it seems silly to be so affected by it. After all, she did. But Barrow, it's Granny. Granny, for goodness sake. You could hardly pass by her without being hugged. But was it just an act? Apparently she was also not too keen on being emotional, either."
Barrow chuckled in spite of himself.
"I don't know," Sybbie shrugged. "I suppose I'm grieving the fairy tale I'd constructed of my grandparents. The sort of tale that makes one feel as if one was always meant to be, that it was fate that gave one life and not complications and discomfort."
"I'll remind you," Barrow lifted a brow, "that I knew your mother. And while you may be the result of a great deal of complications and discomfort -"
Sybbie rolled her eyes, but a small laugh escaped.
"- none of it was Lady Sybil's. Or Mr Branson's."
"So I've heard," Sybbie's cheeks felt sore from smiling and laughing. She pressed her lips. "But my mother? Was Granny forced to have her? A third failed attempt to put the distrust of the entail to rest - or whatever it was that her aunt had written."
She watched Barrow lift his chin and then lean slowly back in his rocking chair. Her cousins were growing slightly louder, and Barrow smiled over at them, but he spoke to her.
"I don't think I need to tell you that your mother was very loved. By everyone."
Sybbie shook her head. No; she knew that.
"Though I suppose if it reassures you, I do think that Her Ladyship wanted children. Well, in fact, I know it. I saw it, really."
"How do you imagine that?" Sybbie arranged herself in her chair to face him. "I thought you came to Downton at the start of the Great War."
"1910, but yes."
Sybbie pinched her brows together. "In 1910, my mother would have been turning fifteen years old, Barrow. A little late in the game to claim to have seen her mother longing for children."
"It was the grief, Miss Sybbie. One doesn't grieve that way over something unwanted."
"I told you that I know my mother was loved. And she wasn't a baby when she died."
But Barrow leaned back in his rocking chair. "No. I mean the lost one. It affected Her Ladyship greatly. And I should know. Her lady's maid and I were thick as thieves at the time, I'm ashamed to say. And it downright scarred O'Brien, the grief of it all. Changed her, really."
She felt her mouth open, and her eyes blinking. She heard him, just as she heard the fire and her cousins' conversation, but then she had not. Or at least not understood him.
"The - the lost one? What? What's that?"
Barrow's expression fell. "The baby Her Ladyship lost. At the start of the war?"
Sybbie did not respond.
"Her Ladyship slipped and fell. He came too early. You did know that?"
Her chest was cold again. "No," Sybbie could hardly shake her head. "I didn't." And she suddenly felt as if she didn't really know anything at all.
The noises, happy as they were, reverberated in his perpetually chilled head. Robert moved his fingers to squeeze at his forehead, and realized his hands were chilled as well. Everything was - he was always so cold now - and the idea that perhaps this was why his thoughts moved much more quickly than his body seemed to make sense. He heard people speaking to him, but it was harder to focus on just one voice now, the sound of all the children in the library drowning out Mary's insistent words, whatever they were.
All the sound felt the same, as if he were underwater or in a cave, hearing the memories of the voice and not the voice itself.
He nodded at Mary's nod and smile, though what she said he still had no idea, and he reached for his tea, his hands shaking as he touched the porcelain.
A game of checkers was on the ottoman before him, a toy horse beside him, a splay of children's books on a table by the window. Over the noise, Robert watched as Tom and Henry finished assembling the booth he'd had as a child, his own Punch and Judy puppets lying on a chair across the room.
He let his eyes rove from his sons-in-law to the children around him,so many little boys, and he tasked himself with remembering their names. But they were not still long enough for him to see them. Not properly.
"Seems more like a circus than a library," he said aloud, and he saw Mary lift her chin. She sat on the opposite sofa.
"What's that, Papa?" he made out.
"I say, it's more like a circus than a library," he drew his mouth up in a smile. He could feel his wrinkles gather. He turned his head to his right, to his great-granddaughter beside him. "But Cora likes it. She loves this sort of thing."
And the thought of how her face would light up when she saw them all, all their little great-grandchildren, made him much warmer indeed.