1927
The music of the string orchestra still reverberated in Lady Mary Talbot's head as dark shapes of the rural countryside by night slid past her window.
It was a twenty-minute drive from Downton Abbey to Harewood. In the old days, before the marriage of Princess Mary, the Lascelles were vassals of the House of Grantham. But since their rise, their homage was nothing but a bit of formality, nothing really came of it anymore. Only officially did they still defer to the Earl of Grantham and bow before … The Lord of Downton. It also helped that with Papa's position in the Royal Court, they rather knew Princess Mary when she was young. When she was engaged and early in her marriage she was in and out of Downton Abbey. Like she and Edith, the Princess also relied upon Mamma for advice in all things of marriage and child rearing, since from her own mother – the queen – she had no help at all.
They had been rather close as teenagers, Princess Mary and the Crawley girls. But it had been their granny that reminded them, at the zenith of their close friendship, that there was always a rather social taboo of spending 'too much time' with royalty. It was the peerage's version of the lower classes' contempt of people "Getting too above themselves", and Granny was quick to do away with the perception. Edith was rather sad about leaving the Princess behind, and Sybil thought it awfully mean to shun her invites, but Mary – at the time – thought it better to seem mean than vulgar, heeding Lady Violet's orders. Though now, she could never tell if Princess Mary held it against her, against them, for abandoning her when they were girls. Perhaps she might have years ago, but her loneliness seemed to have been so pervasive in the years since that Lady Mary thought she'd grudge them nothing just for a normal conversation. And after the royal visit, Mary was sure they'd see the Princess much more regularly now.
A small smirk overcame her at the thought of such a spark in the Princess's eyes when they fell on Tom, of all people, tonight. The Irish radical, the bomb thrower, turned royal savior in a turn of two days. She wasn't sure that she was proud of him, but she was happy that more people saw the potential in the man that she did every day. He was her best friend in the world, a last vestige of darling Sybil. Together they parented and loved her precious little Sybbie, of whom was so charming and wonderful last night that she could hardly believe it.
She had remembered Sybil at her first meeting with "Tum-Tum" when the king had dined at Grantham House in 1909 - a year before his death. He often addressed her, claimed how pretty she was, how luxurious her voice had been. And yet, Sybil was so nervous she couldn't say a thing. She'd only timidly look up at Mamma – who was an old friend of King Edward's since the 'Buccaneer Days' – and let her speak for her. But when she took her seat next to Mary at the table, she couldn't stop giggling in pent up anxiety and excitement. And that was rather what she expected from Sybbie the other night.
Lord knew how long they had spent at the dress fittings for her when Mamma was told that the Queen had wanted to meet the girls. Mary had been sure it was just to be polite. By then everyone had heard of what happened to … what happened to … what happened on Christmas. And she was sure that Queen Mary thought she was doing something nice, something special for Sybbie and Marigold. But perhaps she had no idea the weeks of planning and shopping that went into getting a little girl ready for such a momentous moment in one's young life.
The hours spent with Anna and Mamma, wrangling a young girl to sit in front of the vanity mirror, trying hairstyles and little touches of make up till they found the right combination. Meanwhile, there was constant communication with Edith on what Marigold would wear, what her hairstyle would be, and how much makeup she'd wear – if Bertie would even allow it. Luckily for them, Edith had no imagination, and Marigold came down looking rather a carbon copy of the highly glamorous, but predictable, Marchioness of Hexham. Meanwhile, Sybbie came down looking half a junior vogue model and a fairy princess with roses sown in her raven tresses. They were presented in the library after the rather 'memorable' dinner – with missing footmen and Moseley's performance. Marigold danced and Sybbie sang.
Yet, Mary had been taken aback by both girls.
When she heard that Marigold was going to dance, she had thought it absurd. Of course, they had all heard - non-stop since Edith moved away - that Marigold had discovered ballet and took to it like a swan to water. And Mary would be the first to admit that her niece was quite the beautiful little thing, with her long golden hair that shined in tumbling curls and soft emerald eyes. But her doubts, her dismissal of Edith's rather usual boasting was taken away by watching her beautiful niece at work.
Edith played a tune for her on the piano, and the girl simply and totally enraptured her audience. Marigold's movement was hypnotizing, her elven fair countenance contorting into a trance of serenity, her mind cast adrift into some other world as she moved with such splendid grace that the room fell silent, and there were no smiles. They all watched as if stricken dumb. And when she finished, there was a great applause from all the court and gentry assembled. As for The King, he simply beckoned her forward and with reverence placed a chaste kiss on the little girl's brow as the queen took her hand and squeezed it lovingly.
For a moment, Mary felt dismay at the thought that Sybbie would have to follow such a performance. But, seemingly out of nowhere, with no accompaniment of instrument nor vocals, an angelic voice echoed softly through the red painted library of Downton Abbey. For a long beat of time that seemed endless, Mary searched for where such beauty might be coming from. But eventually, Tom took her hand and motioned to a silhouette that stood in the shadows near Papa's desk. Her gown could be seen, the silk shimmering in silver and blue – like her mamma's. the roses sown in her long waving raven tresses sparkled as if crusted in an evening dew of diamonds. But of her face had it been shadowed, with only fair features teased in the dim shaded light.
Never before had Mary heard her little girl sing in such a way as she did. It was as if something else in the ether of the world, some ancient memory ingrained in her soul, put the words and themes in her voice. Of what language the girl sang in, she couldn't quite place, and neither could anyone else. But the ethereal notes that left her body turned the crowded library into a cathedral of sanctity. And from the words – more, if not as equally potent as Marigold's dancing - swooned them all. From her voice their minds conjured a seeming vision of a moonlit forest outside a stone abbey at the foot of an old Roman fortress atop a wood hill. There a maiden, fairer than all the jewels of the Great Island Kingdom, walked by glow of starlight, her raven hair sown with roses, her white dress of lace trailing as she sang and danced in the shade of tree canopies. The rays of light through their screens teasing her matchless beauty as she passed. Of this woman, they knew nothing, only that she was a fair vision of the past and the certain future of the girl whose very voice enthralled them to her.
When it was over, not a word was spoken. Yet, there was disappointment and heartache when the music ceased. Half the room was dosing in the enchantment that her voice weaved, while the others looked caught in a waking dream. But they all came too and was alarmed to find a suddenly weakened and confused Sybbie that stumbled. There was not a person in the Library that did not go to her. But it was Papa who was their first, kneeling as he took her in his arms. Sybbie was frightened, fore she was not sure, could not remember, what she sang nor if she sang it right. They were all amazed and in wonderment at the admission. But her confusion, her fears, were assuaged when the King himself, half entranced, set Sybbie on his knee, holding her as dear as a favored daughter – the queen taking Marigold upon her own.
Together, for the rest of the night, the girls remained on the knee or at the side of the King and Queen, who had fallen desperately in love with the pair. Several times had Mamma and Tom tried to send them off to bed, but neither royal would be parted, and the girls ended up falling asleep against their arms or their chests. The king told both Tom and Mary, Edith and Bertie, that they should be proud, so very proud, of the two 'Roses of Downton'. And before they took them upstairs, he placed two kisses on each girl's brow as they snoozed in Mary and Bertie's arms.
The night had been a success, and Mary could've celebrated it, would've celebrated it, had it not been for the last conversation she had.
Other than the disappearance of the Royal Footmen, and Moseley's strange folding under the royal personage and address at dinner, the night could not have gone more swimmingly. But then, in private, as Mary was going up. She was questioned about the one thing, the only thing, that no one had addressed still. The Queen, placing a hand on Mary's shoulder, complimented her on Sybbie, on how beautiful she was. Then, not in discomfort, but surely not in anticipation, the queen gently gripped Mary's delicate chin between silk gloved thumb and curled forefinger. It was then that she complimented how beautiful Mary was, how she knew where Sybbie got such baring. It was not maternal, yet, it was not lustful - the way she traced her thumb slowly down Mary's pale throat.
The woman was not so wholly ignorant of Court life that she was completely blindsided by the strange predilections of King-Emperors' and their Queens. And Mary was not sure - perhaps out of mischievous curiosity or darker contrarian instinct - that she would refuse the sexual advances of the queen if they were made to her – as if she would have a choice. But she was more confused by the lack of desire in Queen Mary to kiss her namesake, nor to take Lady Talbot to bed. There was, instead, a strange admiration, a need of possession, not in sexual desire, but – rather - how a young girl coveted a porcelain dolly she sees in the window of a toy shop.
Queen Mary had been always obsessed and coveted thing of beauty that gleamed and shined. And long had she employed agents - such as her dressmaker - to lift the things from other's homes she desired most. And as it seemed to the Lady of Downton, she was one such object that the queen she was named after wished to steal. She could see herself in the queen's bed, yet, not being pleasured, but instead laying in the woman's arms, her hair, her body, being stroked gently as if she were a doll or one of the many coveted stolen items. There was something girlish, childlike, in her gleaming gaze, in her caught breath. She wanted Lady Mary, wanted her more than anything. She wanted to touch her fine skin, to brush her chocolate cinema bob, to covet her beauty and glamour for her own.
A younger Mary would be highly amused, giggle over it mockingly with Anna or Sybil later on. A Mary in the world just bereft of Matthew would find the very insinuation as the want to make her someone's personal toy and possession insulting and tiresome. But the Mary of 1927, who had lost everything in a span of one Christmas Eve, was sorely tempted. What she'd give to throw it all away - the desiccated ruins of a life empty and void. She'd do anything to forget it all, to leave it all behind. She would not have to worry about an Estate, to see the glowering faces of tenants and villagers who now hated her, and to be reminded of all she lost in every room and 'I love you' from the only child she had left.
Nothing would be better, nothing at all, than to be pampered, to be taken care of, to live in the palace and be set upon a shelf. She wouldn't have to think, wouldn't have to feel anything. She would be a toy, a beloved object, that needed to do nothing but be there to be worshiped and played with. To be dressed up in fine clothing, the most beautiful of gowns and jewels lavished upon her, to have a nightgown picked out, perhaps even just a pair of satin underwear. She would be held at night with love and care from one enraptured by her crafted beauty and elegance. Oh, what it would be to be a doll, and to be loved and cherished for the simple joy her very existence brought.
Like when they … when he … was a baby.
The Queen's next comment was not meant to be cutting, nor to hurt Mary. Indeed, it came from the realization, the catching of one's self, of what she had been doing. Her thumb massaging Lady Talbot's throat, the stroking of her silk covered hips. She had never done this before, and she had only imagined how another woman would react to being touched in such an easily mistaken manner. And the last thing she needed to get around, beyond the rumor of her thieving, was the untrue slander of the queen's supposed sapphic desires for the daughter of her hostess. So, in anxiety of the appearance of such affections, the queen blustered out the first thing that she could think of as she took a step away from Lady Mary quickly.
'Where is the other one?'
'The other one, Ma'am?'
'Yes, your, uh, heir … Lord Downton, is that right? I did not see him tonight, and no one seems to know where he has gone this past year.'
Mary did not sleep that night. Forgotten was the Queen's petting, the avarice in her collector's desire to possess the eldest daughter of the Earl of Grantham for her own. Instead, all she heard was the question. The one simple question that had been ever upon her mind for ten months now. It was a question that she feared above all else, fore it was a question that she had no answer for, nor had the knowledge of how to seek it. Where was … Where was … Where was he? Where was her son?
No matter how she tossed and turned in her bed, no matter if she slipped in with Sybbie and held her to her, laying against her chest and listening to her heartbeat, her breathing. The question would not leave her alone, would not stop repeating in her head. It was then that she was sure that she would go mad as she petted and stroked the empty pillow, the unslept side of a bed that two children once shared.
Where was George?
The last time that Mary had seen her son, he was on a stretcher. It had been hours since Caroline had … had … and he was still wearing the same clothing. He was pale as a sheet - his lips and eyelids were blue. Ugly purple veins crawled up his temples and across his face and arms. The ambulance men startled when they saw him. It was the first time she ever heard it - "The Black Breath". They crossed themselves like frightened Catholics and said that they could not take him to the hospital in York … that they would not take him anywhere. "Been in a right tussle with a Wraith, that one has." It was silly superstitious nonsense, that was what Barrow had shouted at them, trying to get them to stay. But they fled from the boy, at the ailment of a great and ancient evil that had fallen upon him.
Thomas was frantic and enraged as they all seemed apoplectic in the drawing room. He had shouted and screamed at them, telling them that Master George needed help, that he was going to die if they didn't do something. But Papa only stared out the window, Mamma stared off into space, and Mary sipped tea and stared into the fire. Bertie, Rose and Atticus were upstairs with the girls. Aunt Rosamund and Edith had decided to take over the arrangements for Caroline's departure. And Tom had taken Henry somewhere he might be revived. Thomas, ignoring all impertinence and class structure, shook Mary violently, trying desperately to get her to understand – to care - that George was going to die if they didn't help him. Yet, Mary only looked up at the Butler and blinked.
'Well, he might as well do it now while the men from Graysby's are still here … I'd hate to see two bills.'
Then, ignoring the tears in Thomas Barrow's broken eyes, she stood neatly, and went to pour herself a new cup of tea. She did not turn when Thomas Barrow, with angry sobs removed and threw down his coat and his livery at her heels in disgust and stalked out of the room. It still curdled Mary's own blood to remember the words spoken when he was gone. Coldly, Papa asked when they might start looking for replacement butlers. And she replied that they'd ask Carson to look in till they found a suitable one. Then, she sat down on the sofa and sipped her tea, catching only a glimpse of Mamma, staring at Mary as if she had no idea who was across from her – fore it certainly was no child of hers.
No one, neither downstairs nor outside staff would ever, never, forgive them for that day. For seven hours, George Crawley, 38th Lord of Downton, heir to the Earl of Grantham and Royal House of York, lay on a stretcher in the middle of the Great Hall. No one was allowed near him, fore they did not know if he was contagious. He lay alone, untouched, uncomforted, as they all waited for him to die.
Thomas Barrow crouched, tears in his eyes, hugging his knees as he watched from afar. Maids stood upon the gallery looking down, some of them holding flowers that they gently dropped down next to his body. The men from Graysby checked their watches and sighed, waiting, undeterred by the circumstances of their grim business. Yet, the boy may have fallen into shadow, but not darkness. And he would not yield no matter how hard pressed he was.
And at the end of the final hour, as twilight set upon the grey cheerless Christmas Eve, the doors to the Abbey swung open. Haggard, wide eyed, and distraught, Isobel Crawley stormed inside. The Dowager was panting trying to keep up with her friend. And it was when she saw her grandson, pale and blue, laying alone on a stretcher off to the side on the floor, a wild look of rage and despair came over her. Lady Violet had summoned her to simply say her final farewell to her grandson, but she was distraught when Isobel Crawley stalked over, breaking quarantine.
Dressing him in his torn and battered tweed riding coat, the boy was limp and seemingly lifeless but for feint breaths as his grandmother collected him. Laying his head against the crook of her neck, carrying him as if he were still a toddler, she looked wild and worn as she stormed out the door with him, shouldering the Dowager out of her way as she stumbled out into the yule snows.
Mary remembered watching from her bedroom window as Isobel hurried away from Downton. Thomas gave chase, and she thought the man would try and stop her. But instead she saw him wrap George in a blanket, helping the older woman carry him. Soon, they were joined by Mrs. Baxter and Mrs. Hughes. A pale and lifeless face, chin down over Isobel's shoulder, cowled by a tartan woolen blanket, was the last that Mary Talbot had seen of her child. It was then that she had made peace with his death.
Or at least that was what she told herself.
From the Christmas Eve of 1926 through New Years of 1927, the Grantham family nearly fell apart. Something snapped in Mary, and she was not sure that she would be able to put it back together. Grief unending slowly slipped to madness as each day she awoke from dark dreams and prepared for a vigil for her son. But each day she was told that he was not dead. And in the anticipation, in the purgatory of greater sorrow on the horizon - the loss of all her natural children - despair gave way to a hateful rage against her son for the prolonged torment he subjected her to in his desperate clinging to life.
She wanted him to do something, to awaken or die. But she could not take the medium, the agony of waiting till he finally let go, finally would leave her. She did not wish him dead, but she saw him, just once, his face, his void expression. He would surely die. There was no doubt in her mind he would die. And she just wanted to face it, for the hand of the destroyer to deliver the final blow. But still George shielded, still he fought on, beyond hope and reason. And it was more than Lady Mary's broken heart could take as it dragged on and on, till a foul darkness of fey despair took hold of her very soul.
In the middle of dinner - a somber and quiet affair in their Aunt Rosamund's Belgravia home after Caroline's funeral - they were all startled by the slamming of fork and knife on a plate.
'What does he possibly live for?!' She had suddenly cried. 'What is left that keeps him holding on so desperately?!' She shook her head angrily. 'Why must he draw this out?!' She raged. 'Does he think that if he holds on, that we might forgive him … because, if so, someone should tell him we're not amused!' Mary chuckled mirthlessly.
'Enough!'
Mary was startled by the voice of her mother. Lady Grantham stood from her seat and looked with a wild and unsettling ferocity. 'You will hold your tongue, or I will be holding it for you!' No one had ever seen Cora Crawley so angry in their entire lives. 'You will never speak again of that boy in such a manner at this table, nor at mine!' A darkness crept in her words and a shadow of grief passed over her face. Then, without pardon or a word, Cora left her sister-in-law and close friend's table with striding clacks of her heels.
'Just shut up!'
Edith snarled from across the table at her sister when their mamma left. 'Must you be so vile, even on the day of your own daughter's funeral? Is there no shame to your depravity?' She glared with daggers of her own. Bertie reached over and grasped his wife's arm gently to ease her anger. But Mary's initial shock of her mother's outburst was quelled with a dark and wicked contrarian cruelty at the droning words of Edith - always trying to pile on as the afterthought she was.
She sighed in haughty exasperation, tilting her up lifted head at her sister. 'Poor Edith, still no real child of your own? I do hope you have one soon, or better yet, give up all together. Having you perpetually underfoot of us real mothers is starting to become tedious.' She dismissed her as she went back to her food.
Bertie nearly rose from his seat. 'I beg your pardon?!' He challenged rancorously, throwing down his napkin at the insult paid to his beloved wife and worshipped stepdaughter.
'Forget it, Bertie.' Tom said. 'Don't rise to it.' He nodded, holding his hand out. 'Mary's not herself.' He said warningly, the disappointment in his eyes was unmistaken.
'Oh, I dare say, she's quite herself, Tom.' Edith snarled, her face awash in anxious anger. 'And I think, perhaps Mary's right about George.' She shook her head, looking her older sister up and down with disgust. 'He should do everything in his power to get away from her, even if it means death.' She spat.
'Edith, please!' Rosamund cut in, looking to Robert for support. But the Earl – who had to watch his granddaughter be buried today with knowledge that his grandson, the last heir of the House of Grantham, would be next – looked numb and distant, as if not hearing what was being said.
Mary lifted her wine glass. 'Your right, Edith.' She mocked cruelly. 'And I'll give him a head start. You can have him.' Mary toasted her sister. 'I know how fond you are of other's leavings, mine with Matthew and Patrick, a crazy woman's with Michael Gregson, and his mother's with Bertie. So, by all means, why not take a secondhand child while you're at it?' She shrugged ivory bare shoulders. 'I've gotten the best out of George - at least the best he was ever capable of offering. He's not exactly mint, I grant you, but he'll be all yours for, maybe, a few more hours if he's as tenacious as he's seemed enough to last this long.' She downed her glass of wine and held it up so her aunt's footman might refill it.
'Just-stop-it!' Tom Branson growled in anger; his eyes were squinted in pain, his heart constricted in the horrible words his sister spoke. 'What is the matter with you?' He asked behind gritted teeth. 'He's your son, for God's sake!' He couldn't even bear to look at Mary.
'No, not anymore, he's Edith's now.' Mary watched the stone-faced footman replenish her glass, relishing wickedly the utter contempt in his eyes for his mistress's niece. But she had gotten used to that look – everyone, villager and tenant, now look at her the same way. Dead daughter or not, after what she had done to George, they all hated her forever.
Yet, they could never come close to hating Lady Mary Talbot a fraction as much as she hated herself for what she had done to her baby boy.
'I'll take him, gladly.' Edith snarled with clenched teeth.
The woman made a moan of congeniality in her wine glass. 'Good, I'll ring Murray and sign him over. Of course, you understand, you'll be out of pocket for funeral costs. That is non-negotiable …' She sighed.
'Mary.'
She turned to see that her father was not looking at her, but his jaw was tight, and his eyes watered in sorrow and anger as he said only one more word.
'Leave.'
Downton Abbey was too quiet, was too filled with memories that did not stop playing in her mind. It was filled with ghosts of happy yesterdays and voices down the corridor of children at play and a baby screaming for her big brother every morning. It was just Carson, Anna, and herself. They would not bring the girls back from London, especially not Sybbie. Tom did not want her to see her mamma at her lowest point - at her cruelest. They wanted to give Mary space, to grieve in her own way. They – and especially she - kept expecting Henry to show up, to wrangle and grieve with his wife, to help her. But Henry Talbot never came to Downton Abbey in that week. No one, but perhaps Tom, knew where he went or what he had been doing following the death of his daughter. He showed up for the funeral, held Mary's hand as they buried their daughter, and then left again.
Perhaps he could not live with himself, how he froze, how he crumbled when his daughter needed him, when his wife needed him. No one knew how they'd react in life and death situations. A soldier, a race car driver, one might have pegged Henry Talbot for a man of action. He had readily enough jumped at a raging fire to save Charlie Rogers, his best friend. But no one would expect that at the need for someone to run to the Hospital, to get lifesaving medicine for his own daughter, that the man would clench up like a clam. That he would leave the job for a small boy, his stepson, to be relied upon to do something, anything, when the adults faltered. But hopefully it had been shame, that was what Mary thought, would accept as an excuse, as to why he would not come to her.
Fore, he should be ashamed, they both should, at what they let happen.
And Mary bore a great deal of it when she attempted to visit the Hospital. It was Carson and Anna that had convinced her, tenderly at first, and then forcefully, that her place was by George's side. He was sick, he was alone. Mary had contradicted – coldly – that her son was not alone, that he had an entire village, an entire county, behind him. But Anna, snatching the book out of Mary's hand, shouted – angrier than she had ever seen her best friend since they were twelve years old - that none of them at George's side was his mother. The young master had only one of those in the entire universe, and it was time that she started acting like it.
Walking through the hospital doors was the hardest thing she ever had to do. With her black hat and matching Macintosh coat, she paced solemnly to the nurse's station and asked for George Crawley's room number. The nurse - a local woman - glanced up and, as far as Mary believed, would rise up and strike her in the face when she saw it to be Lady Mary Talbot. They were all glaring at her, looking her up and down hatefully as they walked or wheeled past. They said not a word, but she could feel their ire. The woman who sent her son, a small boy, on a suicide mission into a killing frost, who abandoned him when he fell - a casualty of her own bidding. She was a heartless monster, an evil and ageless bloodsucking vampire, and they'd like nothing better than to have five minutes alone with her in a locked room.
But it was Mary who needed to be restrained when Clarkson showed up and told her the situation. All it took was him relaying - as professionally and clinically as possible - that George was not at the hospital. The 'why?' that left her in a rancor of pure cut glass accent, was answered with because, they would not allow Isobel to admit him. Her face was in shock as Doctor Clarkson told her that the new policy for the "York Hospital Scheme" - that they had all fought tooth and nail over for most of a year - stated that the Hospital was not allowed to admit those with 'foreign' nor 'unknown' sicknesses … "for the good of the other patients".
It was such an official way of saying that her son, the heir of the very land their hospital sits on, would have to die in order to spare Mamma and Isobel's blessed hospital any liability from her little boy's 'Supernatural and Mysterious illness'. She was sure that the orderlies had a Christmas come late when they manhandled the grand Lady Mary who flew at Clarkson in anger. They shut the gate of the cottage building on her, flinging her handbag across the cobbled street to the opposite side in vile hatred for the woman who had good as murdered a small child, her own boy.
Mary didn't think, she couldn't remember all the terrible things she had said about George in her anger and despair. She didn't even fetch her handbag. She immediately walked as fast as she could to Crawley House. Mary didn't even remember walking over there. One minute she was shaking the gate of the Hospital, the next she was knocking, slapping, and pounding on the door of Crawley House. It felt like hours, till the door opened.
Dickie Merton, her godfather, had dark circles under his eyes, was in his smoking jacket, and looked beastly tired. But he was shocked sober when he saw Mary standing at the doorstep. He didn't seem to hear her the first time, so she said it three more. Mary wanted to see George. But the answer was the same.
'No, I'm sorry, Mary. But Isobel doesn't want you to come in … in fact, she doesn't want anyone from the Abbey to come in either.'
'I don't care a fig about catching what he has, I want to see George!'
'It's not about quarantine, my dear.'
'I'm his mother!'
'Oh, are you, now?'
Dickie was pushed aside, and she saw Isobel come to the door. The woman looked worse than her husband. Her hair was a fizzled mess of netted grey that had lost all of its coloring overnight. Her eyes were tired with grief and sorrow. She had not changed clothes in days – their sod hidden under a nurse's apron. In her hand was a wash basin of warm water. Never, not even in her most heated with Granny in argument or debate had she seen her former mother-in-law, nor anyone in her entire life, look so angry and betrayed as Isobel did at Mary.
'You left him, uncovered, unaided, in the middle of the great hall! You left him to die! So that you wouldn't have to pay two bills! Your own son, Mary!'
'I …' A deep hateful shame burned her from inside out. 'I wasn't thinking.' She shook her head desperately.
'It was evil.' She snarled.
'Caroline had just …'
'IT WAS EVIL!' Isobel was nearly feral in her unguarded despairing weariness.
'I just want to see him.'
'No, I don't believe that'll happen.'
"Isobel, please …"
'I said no, Mary. I don't want you in this house, and I don't want you near my grandson, my Matthew's boy.'
'I just …'
'No.'
CRANTHK
She couldn't remember anything else. She couldn't remember how she got home, and she couldn't remember what she ate. Her dark blindness lasted days. Anna took care of her - she got her out of bed, she saw that she was bathed and dressed, and she made sure that she ate. But mostly, Mary sat in the drawing room, in the library, and stared out the windows. She didn't say a word, didn't know how to speak. It was worse, so much worse than losing Matthew. The only thing she said had come in a question that was asked of every person who entered the room.
'Is it time? Has he fallen?'
'No, milady, as far as we know there is no change.'
'Oh …'
Her mind went in circles, like a carousel that continued to speed up. It went around and round, the voices mixing up into one blinding and anxious crooning of madness. Her words of two bills to pay, Isobel telling her that she was evil, promising to sign George over to Edith, Mamma's outburst, and Edith saying that George would be better without her. Then, suddenly, it came into Mary's darkening heart that it was the truth. It was absolutely the right thing, the only thing, that could be done.
It was the same thing that she had thought so many times in her life. How terrible she was, how wicked she was. She had known it since she was fourteen years old, when her grandfather – 'The Old Earl' – first came into her room at Downton when she was visiting. It horrified her, what he did, what he made her watch him do, and she wanted to cry when it got on her, on her face, on her chest, on her belly. He made her take off her nightgown, stand before him naked as he lathered her naked body off with warm water and lavender. But she got a diamond necklace, a real one, like the one Mamma had. And so, she didn't say anything, didn't tell Mamma and Papa, nor Grandmamma or Granny.
What he did was wrong, but she didn't stop him, because, she liked getting things from it. At first, she got all the jewelry she wanted … but later, there was other things. She liked the way he looked at her when she came in the room with nothing but her jewelry, she liked the look in his eyes. She liked the way he touched her when washing her body after he finished himself on her. Later, the letters he wrote to her, their secret letters, made her feel loved and worshiped … and he had worshipped her. It made her feel superior, made her feel like the Countess of Grantham she was told she'd never be.
Then, one evening, years later, she lay floating in the tub, smirking mischievously, moving her face closer to it, as he grunted her name - coming closer. Then, there was a squeal at the door. She flickered her eyes up seductively and saw the wide emerald flecked golden eyes of Edith looking on in horror at what she was witnessing. An old man with his trousers about his knees, standing over his own teenage granddaughter nude in the tub, pleasuring himself onto her. Mary saw a small trickle of urine run down Edith's leg as she ran away. Mary searched all afternoon for Edith. She held Sybil's dolls hostage till her baby sister cried. Patrick screamed 'uncle' over and over till Mary stopped twisting his arm behind his back. Anna hid in the kitchens from Mary's desperate wrath.
But no one knew where Edith had gone.
Then, the door to Downton Abbey flew open with a bang. It was Mamma. She came bounding up the stairs and tore past Carson. Immediately, Mamma grabbed her by the hand and led her away. Anna packed her, Edith, and Sybil's things. The five of them left Downton Abbey that very afternoon. They did not even wait for Papa. Sybil kept asking the whole train ride back to London why they were going back home when they had just gotten to their Grandparent's house. But Mamma said that they were going on a trip. They didn't bother unpacking. They got a carriage for Anna to return back to Grantham House. Then, they went right from the train to South Hampton where they took the first ship to New York.
It was at San Sochi, the Levinson Family Mansion on Fifth Avenue, in her Mamma's childhood bedroom, that her mother and grandmamma interrogated her for days. They wanted to know how, when, and why. They were shocked, scared, and above all, enraged. Mary felt herself poked and prodded, treated like an alien. They didn't see her as Mary, as their daughter, their granddaughter. They saw her as a victim. It boiled her blood for them to think her, the rightful Countess of Grantham, as the helpless and droll little girl, rather than the woman she saw herself as – the woman that her Grandfather told her she was as he washed and kissed her. They told her what had happened to her, what he did to her, was terrible … was evil.
But she had wanted it. Maybe not all of it, the messy and sticky parts that had to be washed off. But she liked her jewelry, she liked the attention, and she loved being worshipped. There were times when she stood in front of the mirror in nothing but her necklace and bracelet and admired herself being admired. Turn and pose as 'The Old Earl' made a little noise of lust in his throat and groaned in want of her. Mamma was preoccupied with Sybil's rearing without a governess. Aunt Rosamund had always favored Edith - the outcast that the childless woman could pretend was her own. Granny was in Yorkshire and barely came to London – not liking Grantham House of which was built by Mamma.
Only Grandfather cared, only grandfather showed how much he loved her. He wrote such wonderful and florid letters of the highest romance to her, saying how much he missed her, how he wanted to be near her. And Mary preyed on that, especially at the end. Imperious and grand had she become, ordering all to her wish when she visited, having all the staff of Downton Abbey at her whim. She would never forget how Grandfather had whispered how she was truly the rightful Countess of Grantham.
So, it was, in a thought that was pervasive all her life, since she was sixteen years old and being interrogated by Grandmamma and Mamma, that perhaps she was wicked. If what Grandfather had done to her was evil, then her wanting it, participating in it, was just as evil. And perhaps she was evil. Everything she touched, everything that gave her joy in life, was tainted by her wickedness. It was a dark voice that whispered such bleak and degrading truths to her heart and soul. And in this, the darkest hour, did it come into her heart that there was a reason for everything terrible and tragic that had ever happened to her.
Perhaps Matthew died, because she did not deserve him, deserve to be happy. Perhaps Caroline died, because she was too pure and innocent, and she was taken away before she could be corrupted. And now, at the last, there remained George, her little boy, her only boy, fighting a losing war with all his might, just to get back to a Mamma who loved him so very much. But to love him, for her, Lady Mary Crawley, to love him, was to ruin him, to destroy him. It came to her on some dark midnight several days before New Years that he would be safer without her, that her perfect baby boy, so good and brave, should choose death rather than return to the arms of such a horrible and wicked creature.
So, she would try everything to stop him.
"Mamma?"
THUNK
"Mamma …"
CRIIISSHSH!
"Mamma, what are you doing!?"
THUMPH!
"Mamma, Stop! Stop, Mamma!"
THUMPH!
"THOSE ARE GEORGE'S! STOP!"
"Ms. Sybbie, no, don't! Milady, Stop! Andy, go get Mr. Branson, NOW!"
All she wanted to do was see her Mamma. Sybbie Branson was old enough to know that her adopted sister Caroline was dead. She had been at the funeral, held Marigold's hand as her best friend sniffled and laid her head on Sybbie's shoulder as they stood between her daddy and their Aunt Edith, watching the little casket being lowered into the ground. Mamma did not cry, and so Sybbie didn't want too either. But she did anyway. Granny told her that it was okay to cry, that she could cry for both her and Mamma. And that was all she had wanted to tell her for days. That she didn't have to cry, that Sybbie would do it for the both of them, that she would always cry for her. She would do anything for her.
But when she came bounding through the door, wanting desperately to see her, she found her mamma with a cricket bat and a bucket of boiling water at her feet. She was standing by the Christmas tree. There was ferocity and madness in her eyes that frightened Sybbie to her very core. But it was superseded by a sudden outrage when she saw that she was taking the cricket bat and smashing George's presents that still lay under the Christmas tree. In her bucket were several torn open books meant for George. They hadn't removed them yet, because, the little girls had asked Mr. Carson not too. They thought that if George knew that there were presents to open that he'd get better real soon. And Mrs. Hughes had, till that point, made sure the maids knew not to touch the young master's Christmas gifts.
Mary fell over when a young girl tackled her mamma by the legs. They wrestled desperately over the cricket bat, knocking over the pail and soaked books inside. Mary wildly threw her adopted daughter to the ground and went once more at the presents. But Sybbie jumped up on her back and locked her arms around her neck desperately. The tree made a loud cascading boom as mother and daughter knocked it over in their struggle. Tom sprinted into the Great Hall. When he found Mary, she was dragging and yanking at Sybbie, who was hugging one of George's presents to her chest, desperately protecting it as Mary madly pulled on her hair and slapped at her.
With one effortless toss, Mary was thrown cleanly from the wreckage of the tree by the wrathful hands of Tom Branson. She landed in a heap in the middle of the floor. Quickly, Tom picked his little girl up and held her protectively as she cradled the guarded present tightly with little whimpered sobs. Immediately Atticus and Carson restrained Mary, holding her down till the rest of the family arrived.
"What is the matter with you?!" Cora was incensed at the overturned tree, her eldest grandchild sobbing uncontrollably, and the red marks where Mary – the girl's own mamma - had slapped her.
"He has to die, Mamma! He has to!" Mary shook her head. "You see if he doesn't have any presents, if he thinks I don't love him, then he won't bother … he won't bother!" She clenched Cora's overcoat.
"Mary, what are you saying?!" Robert said in outrage.
"I can't … I can't …" Mary broke down. "Oh, Papa, don't you see! I'll ruin him, just like I've ruined everything else in my life!" She screamed, finally falling to pieces after holding her cold and emotionless façade for so long, years and decades. "I can't stand to see him suffer, because of me! He suffers, because, I'm his mother, and I'm wicked! I'm evil!" she curled in a ball.
"Mary, stop it!" Cora fell to her knees. "Don't you dare say that!" tears formed in her mother's eyes. "There is nothing wrong with you!" She took her daughter in her arms. "Now, listen to me, my darling girl. You must fight for yourself, so you can fight for your son. Do you understand, my darling? You must fight for him!" Cora shook her, trying to find that iron willed and resolute woman who ran an estate, self-taught, and utterly uncompromising.
But Mary's eyes were glazed over, and she heard nothing. Something had broken inside and there was nothing for it. Lady Cora only sighed and looked up at her husband. Who was gravely shaken at the unmaking of his golden child, his first born - more English than Cambridge. Carson and Mrs. Hughes helped Cora get Mary to her feet, as she draped her daughter in her fur-lined coat and got her upstairs.
"He's gonna die, he's gonna die, he's gonna die!" Sybbie sobbed violently hugging to the bent present in her arms. Edith joined Tom as did Rose. Both her aunts crowded close, petting her hair, shushing her, kissing each temple as Tom held her tightly.
"He's not going to die, Darling … your mamma is just a bit out of sort. He'll make it through, you'll see." He nodded.
"She destroyed his presents, now he doesn't have anything to open! If he knows there's no presents than he won't come back! He won't come back! He won't wake up and he'll die!" She shook her head, even as Tom pressed his forehead to hers.
Yet, unknown to anyone at Downton Abbey, there was a knock at the door of Crawley House. When Dickie answered, he found a small young girl, as beautiful as an angel in the bleak mid-winter. Her golden locks shimmered dimly in the light of the grey afternoon. Marigold Drewe stood alone at the doorstep, behind her on the frosted lawn Bertie Pelham remained in the foreground looking concerned but sorrowfully enchanted. Marigold asked if she could see George - if only for a moment. Something warm and comforting touched Dickie's heart when he saw her hopeful and sweet countenance, like the rays of the sun after a winter storm settles. He looked up at Bertie who gave a pleading and confirming nod. Then, looking back at small and wholesome emerald eyes …
There was no power in the universe that could deny something so innocently pure.
Isobel knitted, glancing up every few moments to watch George's stilled face, observing his chest, praying it was still moving up and down, ever so slight. She ignored the sound of Matthew's door opening, thinking it was Dickie with her tea, to tell her who it was at the door. But she was surprised when she saw that it was Marigold who glided in. She stood immediately, thinking to find Cora, Edith - or worse – Mary, to follow. But she found only Marigold.
The little girl gave a soft nervous look of anxiety that nearly betrayed her maternity. But when Dickie entered, he gave his wife a knowing and endearing look that said she needed a better watchman if they're gonna start sending angels to their door. The harshness of Isobel's look tempered and a soft melancholy came over her lined face at the lovely young creature that looked so innocent. Gently, she took Marigold's small hand and led the golden-haired little beauty across her Uncle Matthew's room to where George lay.
("Grace of the Valar" – Howard Shore & Sheila Chandra)
His face was soaked in sweat, his eyes underlid were moving rapidly back and forth. There was Blackish purple bruising, like burst veins, on his cheeks and eyelids. He was still wearing the clothing that he had days before. Despite his sweat, he was piled with blankets. A large yellow salt stain surrounded the white linin of his pillowcase. For a long moment the girl stood by his bedside, peering next to him. Gently, sadly, she laid her chin down on the bedside and stared at him.
Then, after a time - looking to Isobel for permission - she slowly climbed up on the bed and laid out, placing her head on his chest. With her eyes closed, tears spilling from squeezed eyelids, her golden head rose and fell, her little fingers intertwining with his as he slept. No one was sure how long they stayed that way, brought to tears by such a wholesome and innocent picture of love's purity. But, in the end, finally, Dickie reminded Marigold that Bertie was waiting out in the cold when he saw the helplessness and burden of such sights on his wife's wearied face.
The little girl sat up on the bed and nodded sadly. Thanking Isobel within a contained sob, she climbed off the bed and began walking out of the room where Dickie held the door for her. But after a few paces she stopped. Then, with muted response, Dickie and Isobel watched as the little girl ran back quickly, as if forgetting something. Then, hopping back up on the adult sized bed, she leaned over and with closed eyes gave George the softest of pecks on the lips - like she had seen in the storybooks. Then, she leaned over and nuzzled the side of his sweat soaked blonde hair and whispered in his ear in an emotional voice.
'Come back to me.'
Then, once more leaving the bed, Marigold tearfully thanked Isobel for having her over with the humblest innocence. But Isobel, instead, knelt and took the girl into her arms and embraced her tightly. Trapped in what seemed like an eternity in the hellish world of her worst nightmares, the appearance of one so beautiful and unspoiled by the darkness of the inequity of this world had been an unexpected answer to a heart's unknowing prayer. Kissing the frazzled old woman on the cheek, Marigold promised her adopted aunt that George would wake up … for both of them. When they broke apart, she took Isobel's hand as they both exited the room. Dickie lingered for a private moment to clear his own hidden tears before closing the door softly to leave his step-grandson in peace.
But after a moment, a gasp of air escaped George, and for the first time since Christmas his breath came normally - the black bruising receding as the tide turned against The Darkness.
Yet, perhaps, if such things were known at both Crawley House and Downton Abbey, much of a foulest tragedy of the greatest mistake by any Earl of Grantham would not have been made. Fore, long did Robert Crawley sit in the darkness of the Abbey Library, thinking and weighing thoughts of many a matter. So terribly shaken had he found himself by the near unmaking of his daughter, the once thought of unfeeling and solid Mary Talbot, that all of what he knew of the world was placed in question.
In his time of need, Cora was not present at his side. She, instead, was with Mary, reconciling her daughter and granddaughter. And, indeed, had it been a quick fix. The moment that Sybbie was summoned by her granny to her mamma's bedroom had they come together. The girl ran and leapt into Mary's arms where the woman begged fiercely for her daughter's, her only child's, forgiveness. That she would never – never – do something like that again. And it broke Cora and Tom's heart to hear how easily Sybbie had forgiven Mary, how desperate she was to love the woman as they crushed together, Mary nuzzling the girl's cheek as she clutched her tightly, lifting her up into her arms.
However, much tragedy was found in a misguided and misplaced prejudice. In the absence of Cora, someone else had Robert, Earl of Grantham's ear. Of her advice, in his moment of weakness, did he heed thoughtlessly. And, indeed, would it prove to be the undoing of everything both mother and son wished to preserve. Fore, in that hour - the darkest their House had ever known - had Lady Violet Crawley, Dowager Countess of Grantham, relayed wisdom that was blinded to a greater folly.
Under the belief that George Crawley, her great-grandson, and the last heir of their household, would soon die. She convinced Robert that it would be best for everyone to take the toxic and terrible reminders of what would soon be lost from the house. It would be good for the greater health of Mary's mind, which was dancing ever closer to the edge of the plateau of sanity. She braced her son and told him the hard truth, and that was that the title of Earl of Grantham was to be extinct - there would be no 39th Lord of Downton. It was something that they would all have to face, no matter how devastating. But now, at the end of this way of life, they had to accept clearly that Mary and Sybbie were their family's very future. That the titles had run their course, but the blood had not. They had to focus on Mary and Sybbie now, to promote them, to help them thrive in this new world.
Violet had no great love for George, nor had George any to spare for his Great-Grandmother. When he was a baby, he screamed wrathfully when she went near him. As a boy he eyed her suspiciously and she misliked the way he stared at her, as if sensing, knowing, the great many misdeeds and compromises with evil she had been guilty of in life. He had no civil words for her in greeting or going – a glare of mistrust and dislike following her whenever at Crawley House. She openly admitted to the boy's once doting grandfather that she did not like him, not at all. He was all Levinson, exceedingly Poldark, then he ever was or would be Grantham. That prospect of the future of their family did not sit well with Violet. But she knew that Robert and Cora worshipped him, so often had she held her tongue. But more to her point, she knew that both Sybbie and Mary loved him, loved him more than anything in the world. And that his death and any reminder of it would absolutely destroy them.
Thus, what was sold to a son as good intention, for the future health of his heiresses, was indeed the greatest blunder to ever be perpetrated in the entire history of the House of Grantham. Fore, Robert Crawley, easily led in grief and mourning, easily swayed by misplaced resentments and blame for the death of a granddaughter and the tormenting of his eldest daughter, agreed with his mamma's advice. And thus, to his everlasting shame that he would carry like an unhealed wound for the rest of his life, did Lord Grantham commit to erasing George Crawley from existence in Downton Abbey.
With most of the family sent back to London with the girls to take some space from Mary's breakdown, Robert and Mr. Carson oversaw the collection and packing of all of George Crawley's things. His toys, clothing, books, and documentation – everything that was known that showed he ever existed. Even the pictures of the boy on his granny and mamma's bedside and in Lady Grantham's sitting room. They were placed in crates, in chests, and were sent to Isobel at Crawley House. Many of the staff - including Carson himself - questioned the wisdom of such an action. But Robert, nor the Dowager, would hear descent. And Mrs. Hughes had to be talked out of resignation in heated revulsion at the idea of the eviction of a sick and vulnerable child from his own home.
But Isobel did not care as Andy, Moseley, and Albert – the hall boy – carried the items inside, placing and stacking them in the study. If they did not want George any longer, if they wished to bet on another horse, that was their business. She would gladly take her grandson, raise him as she raised his father. But the greatest insult was of yet to take place, and it was one of which Robert found out about much too late, and would carry the blame for many years, bearing a great deal of prejudice from those within the county ever afterward.
No one - till this very day - knew who it was that gave such orders – or if it was Mr. Travis, the reverend himself, who took the misplaced initiative. But it was on New Year's Eve of 1926, in inquiry of precaution in worst case scenario, that Lord and Lady Merton were informed that there was a permanent ban on the burial of young George Crawley on Grantham land. Both Isobel and Dickie were incensed by the news. It was her express wish - as she was sure everyone else's - that the boy at least be laid to rest at the foot of his own father's memorial obelisk that they should share, or at least between Matthew's monument and Sybil's crypt. But Mr. Travis informed Lady Merton that it was no good. They would not allow George to be buried in the Downton Cemetery nor anywhere in the County Grantham.
Dickie had objected, claiming that the boy was the 38th Lord of Downton - this was his land! But the rather superior reverend only observed his nails and claimed that this was not his doing … 'my orders come from elsewhere'. Of this, Isobel had many suspects, but in a blanket anger at anything named Grantham, she saw them all as guilty, and never would she forgive them for it.
Yet, she was not the only one. And quickly had it spread throughout the county of the ban of the young master's burial in his own cemetery, to rest with the bones of his forefather's in honor. There was a great and mighty upheaval and stoked anger by many tenants who already misliked the House of Grantham's treatment of their young lord after what was considered the bravest deed ever undertaken by one so young. And it was then, quietly simmering to boil, was the first of many 'rebel inclinations' that would soon plague the County Grantham for near a decade.
Wishing to secure burial rights, both Lord and Lady Merton left for Cornwall to see that their grandson take over Mary's once spoken for burial plot next to Matthew and Elizabeth Poldark. Though, extremely hesitant to leave the boy, Isobel knew there was no choice. And thus, she asked – with great reluctance – that Mr. Barrow watch over the young lad while his grandparents took care of business in Trenwith and Turro. And Thomas had agreed to do so, sitting tentatively by the young master's side, reading to him all his favorite books and the butler's personal favorites as well. And Thomas Barrow would not have left his master's side for anything … but for one grievous development.
The death of Caroline Violet Talbot was like the lighting of a gunpowder fuse … no matter how far the barrel was carried, the fire followed. And it was in those eight days that the doom of the House of Grantham was forged. Fore, the death of a child in those days – especially in the rural communities – were often more deeply felt. But even more deeply felt was the mistreatment of one. The popular saying of 'it takes a village' was never more prevalent than in Grantham County. And that went for a tenant child as it did for their young lord. Thus, after days of stewing over the deadly consequences of Mary and Henry Talbot's cowardice, the banning of George's burial at the Downton Cemetery was the spark that lit the fuse to the powder keg.
Gathering at "The Grantham Arms", slowly drinking the night away, had been a crowd of tenant farmers and their hands. And as the night continued on, the crowd grew bigger … and drunker. Tempers grew as the talk enflamed. The mistreatment of the young master, the imperious nature of the Estate's management, and the greed of Lady Mary's 'land stealing' policies. And it was by the eleventh hour of 1926, the endless drink and resentment hit a tipping point. Tempers flared and before long a mob of denizens had suddenly descended on Mr. Travis at the Downton Vicarage. The man, a purveyor of Anglican tradition for forty years, was ripped from his bed and dragged through the streets of the village by the mob. The Vicarage was burned to the ground, Lady Mary and Tom Branson's Estate Office – for the first of many times to come – was vandalized and smashed up. Then, with the blood up, and the fight fired in their drunken rage, the disgruntled denizens decided to march on Downton Abbey itself.
Thomas Barrow had been in the middle of Master George's favorite part of "Winnie the Pooh" when he heard the commotion in the streets of the village. Putting the book down, he exited Mr. Matthew's old room and ran down the stairs. Leaving Crawley House, he ran to warn everyone at Downton Abbey. He had no great love for the family, but he did have a greater love for his found family that worked below stairs. And though it does not come into this tale – the actions of Thomas Barrow that night was some of the finest and showed, indeed, a greater quality that not even he had realized was possible.
Fore he had saved Lord Grantham's life that night, as he had many others both of household staff and rioter. He stood at the very gates of the estate, in guard - facing an angry and drunken mob, he spoke valiantly and heartfelt, turning them away before they 'crossed the Rubicon'. And it was by a great irony that by quitting his job as the butler at the injustice shown to Master George that he carried much weight In the eyes of the rioters, and by his valiant actions did he gain a greater respect and unshakable loyalty from Lord Grantham. And, indeed, would his actions that night be the very reason that Mr. Carson would fight for Mr. Barrow's return as Butler of Downton, as well as convince Thomas of their need for him.
Then, something happened that no one expected, and would still be told of as legend by the denizens of Grantham County for many long years still to come.
Though many went home after Thomas convinced them to turn away from violence. There was still a greater congregation that returned to the Grantham Arms. There, they stewed in their pints in a relative hushed quiet - quenching the flames in the ale that had once stoked it. They heard the bell chime, the door swinging open, but they hardly gave a thought to it. Then, after a few moments, a barmaid gave an audible noise of shock. The collection of murmured conversations died, and the entire pub went absolutely silent. They all looked and stared in wonder and amazement as a figure walked with a hitch in his step through the smoke-filled barroom, stopping only a moment to notice everyone staring.
'God bless all in this house.'
George Crawley gave a curt nod, meeting muttered responses choked by disbelief. Their mouths hung open, not a drop of alcohol was touched, while they watched him walk to the bar. The boy looked absolutely spent and worn. His cerulean eyes were luminous in their bloodshot whites and his sallow skin glistened in the lamp light. The shadows had made his two black eyes and yellowing bruise on his cheek bone as foul looking as they must have felt. His tweed riding jacket – a carbon copy of the very one Lady Mary wore on point-to-points – was torn at the shoulder and threadbare. It was evidence of the horrific weather and his heroic deeds on Christmas Eve. They heard the boy give a pained grunt, cradling his ribs, as he climbed up on a stool. Not a sound interrupted the boy counting out money he found on Isobel's desk in the sitting room. But the manager held out his hand and informed the 'Little Master' that there was no charge … 'it's on the house, m'lad.' He said with a nod. The boy thanked him and ordered a bacon, cheddar, and turkey sandwich on toasted sourdough bread.
For a long time, no one said a word. He was supposed to be dead. That was all anyone kept thinking, whispering. For days everyone waited, prayed for him, but knew in their hearts that he was dead. Lord Merton had greeted most of the county who came to Crawley House to offer best wishes, prayers, and any service that Lady Merton and 'The Little Master' required. He thanked them all, told them that no service was required – 'till we know more' – and not to trouble themselves over anything. No one was quite sure what would happen if George Crawley died. But they knew nothing good would come of it. And, of course, it went without saying …
Henry Talbot was a dead man.
'Grams is out … and I didn't really know where to start with the pots and pans.' George turned and said after realizing that everyone was still staring at him - ignorant of all that had happened while he slept.
'Ah …'
'Mm …'
'Very wise, very wise …'
There was a collected mummering of agreement as they watched the boy turn back to the bar and wait for his sandwich. When he got it, George tore into it immediately, as someone who hadn't eaten in days … which, in fact, he had not. He ordered a pint of ale to wash it down with. Yet, in its stead, he got a cool apple cider by the scowling barman with pick in his teeth who placed it down in front of the young master and gave him a half-hearted pop on the back of the head for the very cheek of the devil. He drank it down in nearly one gulp and ordered another sandwich. And through it all, watching the young lad scarf down and drain tankards they all felt a peculiar sense of endearment and love for the young lord.
("Doves and the Boy" - Joe Hisaishi)
There was something fundamentally different about him than the rest of his family. He wasn't his grandfather, Lord Grantham, who was respected and honorable - but alien and effete. He wasn't his grandmother, Lady Grantham, who was kind and understanding – but condescending and insincere most times. He was not his lady aunt, Lady Hexham, who was intelligent and good humored – but vindictively tempered and easily prejudiced. And he was surely not his mamma, Lady Mary, Beautiful, independent, fine like silk – overly grand, self-important, and a terrible snob.
Of George Crawley, whom sat there that very night, was a sense of an ease of strength, unassailable valiantry, and a real grounded sense of dignity. When he was hungry, he did not ring for a servant, go to the 'Big House' to wake up Mrs. Patmore. He did what anyone of them would do. He put on his coat and went to the pub. He did not expect his meals for free, he did not order anyone around, nor did he expect a gourmet meal. In fact, he ordered what everyone else would order. He even attempted to order an ale, and while the barman wasn't having any of it, it was still the soul of an everyday bloke, the decency of a simple life that was in his very spirit. Even of his injuries - wherever he might have gotten them – he did not cry, nor point them out, he bore them as anyone else had - a fact of life.
Eventually, anger and rage had turned to affinity, and, indeed, merry making was heard once more from the Grantham Arms as the patrons slowly began to gather around the young master. The boy shook hands, nodded in thanks of well-wishing, and smirked tiredly at the pats on the back and shoulder. There was a tragic death, a great many injustices to count … but for a few hours in the bleak New Year of 1927, there was a small victory in the return of life when death seemed almost certain. And from that day on, whether in competition of sport, in battle, or of greater deed, no one of the County Grantham counted the odds long against George Crawley – the boy who had out dueled the deadly hand of Pluto himself.
Thus, for a while, peace was kindled in the sudden but inherent leadership of a young boy who so effortlessly - divorced from social ranking - inspired a loyalty and love that no Lord of Downton nor Earl of Grantham had enjoyed since the last Jacobite Rebellion.
Meanwhile, days later, the supports that held up the House of Grantham were nearly knocked down. The family returned from London to hear of the riots. But worse of all possible damage was not to the Vicarage nor the Estate Office, but to Lord and Lady Grantham's marriage. Fore, immediately, did Lady Grantham notice that George's picture was missing from her nightstand. Then, she was told by Mrs. Hughes of what had transpired while they were gone. Lord Grantham was shocked and stunned by news finally sent by letter from Crawley House when he barely missed the vase thrown at him when his wife stormed into the Library.
'You fool … how could you be so stupid, Robert?! Why are you so stupid?!'
Cora screamed in a fury as she clutched the note that he had handed to her quietly. When he lost her fortune, she had shown grace and love. When he dismissed her to the point of nearly pushing her into an affair, she had acknowledged her fault as well as his. She nearly lost herself when his ulcer burst, frightened half to death. But when she came home to find that their grandson, their heir, their only boy, had been evicted from his own house, she was wrathful beyond all reason … but when she read that George was awake and was recovering his strength quickly - love, a true love for a soul mate, was nearly replaced with a deep seething hatred. Lady Grantham could not bear to look at her husband, could not stand the idea of him touching her.
Cora had wanted nothing to do with Robert in that hour.
Edith was as equally shocked and appalled by what both her father and granny had done in their absence. She couldn't fathom why they would do such a thing. It was heartless and wrong on so many levels. But most of all, Edith blamed Mary. She had seen it in every day of her life since she could remember. Everyone always went out of their way to luxuriate or bend to Mary's whim. If Mary had a problem, then their entire family tripped and fell over themselves trying to solve it for her. It was a type of worship that she just couldn't understand. But she knew the illogic of its patterns and she knew that her nephew was being punished for the gravest of sins: causing the sainted Lady Mary inconvenience.
It didn't matter if George lost a sister too, if he nearly died doing what his mamma asked of him. Her sister's grief and sorrow always took priority over everything else in this family, even over a small child, even over her own child. The disgust Edith felt sickened her down to the very soul. Before leaving back for Brancaster, she told her papa - for the first time in her life - that she was ashamed, so very ashamed, to be his daughter. Even if he didn't hear her, even if he just looked blankly out the window traumatized by his own actions, she had to say it. She wept bitterly the entire drive, holding Marigold in the backseat. Feeling guilty as her little girl clung to her tightly, crying because her 'Aunt Edith' was crying.
Yet, Mary, one last time, went to Crawley House when she returned home. She didn't know what to say, what she could say. All the woman knew was that she wanted to see him, her child, her boy. For a long time, she stood by the door, staring at the brass knocker, the same knocker that she had used when she first entered the house … the first time she met Matthew. There were no words in her head, in her voice, there were only emotions, powerful and stirring.
George was it, her last child, her only one left to her. Sybbie was her daughter, and she loved her as such, but there was always a sense of disloyalty, of theft, perpetrated against Sybil. It seemed a crime for taking it further than she already had since she first laid eyes on such a precious little baby girl and held her in her arms. So, now, it was just the two of them, George and herself. And Mary didn't know what that meant for the future …
All she knew was that she needed to see her baby now that he had come back to the world of the living.
But when the door opened, she found that it was Isobel who answered. Her look had not cooled when her eyes fell on Mary. She had thought, hoped, that her former mother-in-law would be more hospitable now that George was awake and recovering quickly. But there was nothing – none - of the old Isobel that she knew. The lines on her face were much more graven now, her hair grayer than before. She looked muddled and weary still. What happened to George, what she saw on that terrible Christmas Eve, had sank her. Now she looked every bit of a worn old woman, the spark in her eye for causes and battles was but a flicker. The whole ordeal had aged her grievously and there was a sternness to her look, a quiet, that had never been there before.
Mary opened her mouth to speak but halted when she looked down. In Isobel's hand was a group of miniature figurines. They were colorless grey knights with severed torso's and horses with disembodied legs in their armored stirrups. Archers with bent bows and pikemen with broken spears. Mary recognized them immediately. Anna and she had spent a better part of two days in York and London visiting every specialty store looking for the set. In the end it had been Moseley who had located it for them. A month later she saw what was left of the military miniatures that were apart of George's Christmas present … the present she smashed weeks ago. It seemed that Isobel had been in the middle of trying to repair the figures when she answered the door. The sight of their broken bodies and the knowing look on her former mother-in-law's face when she saw Mary take notice made the statuesque woman so terribly and deeply ashamed of herself.
'Yes?' Isobel asked coldly.
'You know why I'm here.' Mary sighed in haughty exasperation, a reflex she instantly regretted.
'No, why don't you tell me?' The woman shook her head and folded a hand over a clenched fist in front of her thighs.
'Isobel, please, I want to see him.'
'Who?'
'Isobel, let me see …'
'Oh, George …'
'Yes, I –'
'He's not here.'
'What?'
'I said he's not here. He's not home.'
'Where is he?'
'I have no earthly idea.'
'What do you mean?'
'What I say.'
'Is he in the village?'
'No.'
'Is he with Dickie?'
'No.'
'Isobel, where is George?'
'I already told you, I haven't the faintest idea. Good Day.'
'Did he tell you where he was going?'
'I believe he had a submersible to catch.'
THUNPHK