Christmas Part SixThe Morning After the Night BeforeThe Drawing Room of Downton Abbey
The drawing room at Downton Abbey exuded an air of quiet elegance and timeless grandeur. The morning light filtered through tall, mullioned windows, casting a gentle glow over the plush cream and yellow upholstery. The ornate white woodwork of the chairs and the intricate plasterwork on the high ceiling hinted at the house's storied history. Large, gilded mirrors reflected the flickering flames of the hearth, and the deep burgundy brocade curtains framed the windows, lending the room a warm, inviting atmosphere.
Lady Violet Crawley, the Dowager Countess of Grantham, sat in her favourite armchair, her posture slightly stiff. Her lavender silk dress, with its high collar and intricate lace trim, was as impeccable as ever, much like the silver combs in her carefully styled hair, a keepsake from her coming-out. Despite her composed exterior, her sharp eyes flickered with a hint of unease. The events of the previous night were frustratingly hazy, leaving her with a vague sense of dread. Her maid, Denke, had given a garbled account of the evening, but it did little to dispel her discomfort.
Across from her sat Tom Branson, her grandson-in-law, dressed in a well-tailored suit that, while of good quality, was a few seasons out of fashion. His clothing, though respectable, bore the tell-tale signs of his preference for second-hand attire—a source of mild irritation for his wife, Mary. As Lady Violet's gaze moved from the gilded mirror to Tom, she noticed the twinkle in his eye, a mix of humour and something that unsettled her: indulgence. She hadn't been on the receiving end of such a look since her debut season, and the memory brought a faint flush to her cheeks.
Tom cleared his throat, the sound breaking the silence that hung between them. "Lady Crawley, I wanted to—"
Lady Violet raised a hand, cutting him off with a slight, albeit strained, smile. "Tom, please. We've already established that you may call me Violet."
Tom's lips quirked upward as he nodded. "Of course, Violet. I just thought…" He hesitated, leaning forward slightly, his tone lowering to a teasing murmur, "...that after last night, it might be safer to keep things formal."
Lady Violet's hand stilled on her teacup, the delicate china suddenly feeling heavier. She set it down with a soft clink, her thoughts racing. 'Last night… What on earth had I said?' The vague recollections, coupled with Denke's muddled recounting, made her feel uncharacteristically off-balance. Tom's cheeks tinged pink as he continued, and Violet's eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion. She had long prided herself on her decorum, on being a bastion of propriety. To think she might have acted otherwise made her shudder inwardly.
"What with how close our politics align and well… I am flattered, of course. But I am, after all, a happily married man." Tom's words were careful, but the twinkle in his eye betrayed his amusement.
Lady Violet's heart skipped a beat, her mind scrambling to piece together the fragmented memories. Politics? Flattered? What had she done? A rare moment of vulnerability washed over her, leaving her at a loss for words. Tom, of all people, twitting her—it was almost unbearable. She was rarely on the receiving end of such teasing, and it was both unsettling and infuriating.
"I must say, Tom," she began, her voice carrying the authority of her station but tinged with a faint edge of irritation, "you handled yourself remarkably well last night, given the, ah, unconventional nature of the evening." She paused, hoping her guess was close to the mark.
Tom leaned back slightly, his expression neutral but for the glint in his eyes. "Thank you, Violet. It was certainly a memorable evening."
Lady Violet pursed her lips, her irritation deepening. She was not accustomed to being the one out of the loop, and Tom's indulgent smile only added to her discomfort. Was he… patronizing her? The thought made her bristle. "Indeed. Memorable, yes," she replied, her voice a shade cooler. "But I do hope my enthusiasm did not cause you any undue discomfort."
Tom, sensing the delicate balance of the moment, decided to lean into the playful banter. "Not at all, Violet. I was delighted to hear we aligned on so many causes that I hold dear. In fact, your rendition of 'La Marseillaise' was particularly moving." His voice was sincere, but the hint of mischief remained.
Violet's eyes widened in horror, a rare expression for the usually composed Dowager. The idea that she had sung—of all things! —in French, no less, was almost too much to bear. She stilled, her thoughts churning. Had she truly done that? And in front of everyone? Tom's lips twitched, and she suddenly realised he was still enjoying this.
"Well, you know how Jealous Mary can be," he said with an innocent expression.
She drew herself up, trying to regain control of the situation. "Jealous, you say?" she replied, her voice clipped as she attempted to regain her footing. "I can't imagine why she'd be concerned. Utter balderdash."
Tom's smile broadened, though he softened it with a respectful nod. "Anyway, as I was just saying, Mary is quite protective. I think she might be a bit concerned about us spending too much time alone together."
Before Lady Violet could formulate a response, the door to the drawing room opened, and Mary entered, her presence instantly commanding the room. Dressed in a deep blue twinset, her dark hair perfectly styled, she moved with the confidence of someone who had always been at ease in this grand house.
"Granny," Mary said with a playful lilt, her eyes twinkling as she approached, "are you accosting my husband again?" She bent down to place a soft kiss on Violet's cheek, her smile widening.
Lady Violet's expression shifted to one of mild indignation, though beneath it was a flicker of relief at her granddaughter's timely arrival. "Accosting? My dear Mary, I was merely enjoying a perfectly civilised conversation with Tom. I see no harm in that."
Mary, clearly amused, stood beside Tom, who rose to his feet in a gentlemanly manner. "Of course not, Granny. But you must be careful—Tom's a married man now, after all."
Tom shook his head, his tone light and teasing. "Yes, Violet. As I was just telling you, Mary is terribly possessive. I'm not sure it's safe for us to be alone together."
Lady Violet pursed her lips, doing her best to maintain her dignity despite the playful banter. This was unfamiliar territory—being the subject of such jests—and it left her feeling more discomposed than she liked to admit. Yet, despite her irritation, she could sense the affection behind their words.
"Well," she said finally, her voice regaining its usual crispness, "it seems I must tread carefully in this household. Though I must admit, I don't recall much of what happened last night. Perhaps I should consult with someone who does."
Mary smiled, placing a reassuring hand on her grandmother's shoulder. "Oh, Granny, it's nothing to worry about. You were just being your usual charming self. Though if you're curious, you could always ask Papa—or Cousin Isobel. I'm sure they'd be delighted to fill you in."
Lady Violet sniffed, clearly unamused by the idea of having to ask her son or her old rival for details. "I think I'll pass. If the two of you are determined to keep your secrets, I shall leave it at that."
Tom laughed softly, exchanging a glance with Mary. "We wouldn't dream of keeping anything from you, Violet. But perhaps some things are best left to the imagination."
Lady Violet gave a small, dignified nod, though her eyes betrayed a hint of discomfort. This was not a position she often found herself in, and it unsettled her more than she cared to admit. "Perhaps you're right, Tom. Perhaps you're right."
Mary smiled warmly at her grandmother, then turned to Tom, her voice softening. "Shall we take a walk in the gardens, darling? It's such a lovely morning."
Tom offered his arm to his wife, his smile now genuinely warm. "That sounds perfect."
As they left the room, Lady Violet watched them go, a small, thoughtful frown on her face. Despite the teasing, she couldn't help but feel a certain fondness for the young couple. They were, after all, a new generation—one that brought both challenges and, perhaps, a bit of unexpected fun. But she shuddered once more at the thought of her actions the previous night, her pride smarting at the idea that she had given anyone cause to twit her.
Alone in the drawing room, Lady Violet picked up her teacup once more, taking a delicate sip. The fire crackled gently in the hearth, the room as serene and elegant as ever. She resolved to be more careful in the future—to ensure that she remained the bastion of decorum she had always prided herself on being. After all, the Dowager Countess of Grantham was not one to be easily discomposed.
Christmas Day
The grand Library at Downton Abbey had been festooned with festive decorations of fresh holly and pine boughs, the fresh scent of the evergreens permeated the air. A large table had been set up, holding a simple luncheon for the family, in front of a large window, which cast the silvery light of winter across the room. The family and guest were arranged through out the room, with the largest cluster settled around the roaring fire.
The simple buffet was a Christmas tradition for the Crawley family. The long table was covered with an array of delicious simple dishes, from cold meats, smoked salmon and delicate sandwiches. The scent of the fresh coffee wafted through the air, a large Christmas tree stood in the corner, adorned with sparkling ornaments and twinkling lights.
Tom Branson stood near the end of the table, holding his plate, and feeling a mix of emotions. He had felt deeply embarrassed standing with the family as the servants were given their traditional Christmas presents from the family. Luckily for Tom, he hadn't been part of the household staff, so had received a traditional Christmas box directly from the Estate Steward, his direct manager on the estate.
But still he had to grit his teeth and smile politely for Mary's sake on Christmas morning.
It felt strange to be here with the family instead of below stairs with the other servants. For years, Christmas had been a day when he joined the staff for their own celebration, away from the grandeur of the upstairs world. But this year was different. He was part of that world now, standing beside his wife, Lady Mary, and their family.
The afternoon light bathed the room, highlighting the ornate decorations and polished wooden floors. Tom looked around, still adjusting to his new role. He couldn't help but feel a pang of nostalgia for the simpler meals shared with the servants, for the camaraderie that had once defined his life at Downton. But now, he was no longer the chauffeur; he was Mary's husband, part of the Crawley family.
Mary joined him, her plate in hand and a gentle smile on her lips. She had noticed the faraway look in his eyes and knew what he was thinking. She placed a reassuring hand on his arm, drawing him out of his thoughts.
"Are you all right, darling?" she asked quietly, her voice soft enough that the others wouldn't overhear.
Tom turned to her; his expression conflicted but tender. "Yes, just… thinking. It's all still a bit surreal, being up here with everyone."
Mary nodded, understanding perfectly. She glanced around the room, taking in the sight of her family—Robert and Cora chatting by the fireplace, Edith and Lavinia sharing a quiet conversation near the tree, and Lady Violet seated regally in a nearby armchair, watching the proceedings with her usual air of detached amusement.
Mary couldn't help noticing the stiff conversation Reggie was having with his Son-in-Law Matthew, she frowned wondering what they could be discussing to cause such a fraught atmosphere.
"It's a lot to take in," Mary admitted, her gaze returning to Tom's. "But I'm glad you're here with me. I couldn't imagine spending Christmas without you." She smiled warmly at her husband, gently nudging his shoulder with her own, a sign of comradery.
Tom smiled, feeling the warmth of her words settle in his chest. "It's just… I spent the morning at the Catholic church at the next village, while you were at the service with your family. It reminded me of the differences between us—the different lives we've lived."
Mary tilted her head slightly, her expression thoughtful. "And yet, here we are, together."
Tom nodded, appreciating her perspective. "I suppose that's true. It's just that sometimes, I wonder if I'll ever truly belong in this world. Being here today, surrounded by all this—it's a reminder of how much has changed." He shifted slightly in place as he looked around the library. He ideally thought that he could fit his mother's entire house in this one room and still have room to spare.
Mary sighed softly and leaned in closer, lowering her voice even more. "I've been feeling a bit anxious myself," she confessed, her tone tinged with nerves. She set her plate on the table so she could thread her arm through her husbands.
Tom raised an eyebrow, surprised. "You? Anxious? What about?"
Mary glanced around to make sure no one was listening, then turned back to Tom. "The Christmas gifts," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I've put so much pressure on myself to get them just right this year. Especially for Papa."
Tom frowned slightly, concerned. "Why would you be nervous about that?" Mary seemed so much at home in this environment, an ease, she rarely displayed, she was a woman of such control, he had been months into their marriage before she had allowed him to see her more emotional, vulnerable side.
Mary bit her lip, her usual confidence wavering. "I feel like Papa's finally looking more favourably on you, especially after your quick action at the disastrous dinner party. But… I'm worried that these gifts might be what seals the deal with him. They need to be perfect, and I'm starting to feel embarrassed."
Tom smiled gently, squeezing her hand. "Mary, I'm sure they will appreciate what you've gotten them, it will be wonderful. You always put so much thought into things."
When she had first envisioned her gifts, she wanted them to be a demonstration on how well she was doing in her new life in Dublin. That she makes a meaningful contribution to the books she illustrated for. That she and Tom were living a bolder, different life, than the small life her family had imagined for her.
Mary sighed; her nerves still evident. "That's just it. Most of the gifts are either books I've worked on or artwork I've created. I painted a landscape for Granny, but now I'm worried it's not good enough. And then there's the cookbook…"
Tom's smile grew a bit wider. "What about the cookbook?"
Mary looked down, a hint of pink colouring her cheeks. "I may have made a bit of a faux pas. I got Sybil and Mrs. Patmore the same cookbook that I illustrated back in Dublin. I thought they'd both appreciate it, but now I'm worried it was a mistake. What if they think it's too impersonal or not appropriate?"
Tom chuckled softly, his affection for her evident. "Mary, I'm sure they'll love it. Sybil will appreciate the thought, and Mrs. Patmore—well, she'll probably be thrilled to have something so beautifully illustrated by you. You're overthinking this."
Mary looked up at him, her expression still uncertain. "You really think so?" She had never agonised over gits, like she had this year.
Tom nodded firmly. "Absolutely. Everyone will love your gifts, Mary. They're thoughtful and personal, just like you. And as for your father, I don't think a few presents are going to change how he feels. He respects you, and he's coming to respect me too, thanks to your guidance. You've done more than enough."
Mary's shoulders relaxed slightly, and she smiled, the tension easing from her face. "Thank you, Tom. I suppose I just needed to hear that."
Tom leaned in and kissed her gently on the forehead. "Anytime, my love. Now, let's enjoy this day together. It's our first Christmas as husband and wife, after all."
Mary's smile widened, and she squeezed his hand again. "Yes, let's. And you're right, Tom. It will all be fine."
They turned back to the buffet, ready to join the others, with Tom's earlier unease melting away and Mary's anxiety fading. As they filled their plates and moved to sit with the family, they shared a quiet sense of contentment, knowing they had each other to rely on through all the changes and challenges life would bring.
Matthew watched Tom, guide Mary to a plush red chair next to her grandmother, he couldn't help but admire Mary's beautiful profile.
"You're looking at the wrong woman," hissed Reggie furiously as he stood with his son-in-law and noticed for the umpteenth time his attention drifting towards Mary. He was furious for his daughter. He could tell from her letters that her marriage was not all she had hoped for. But this was much worse than he had ever expected.
"You should at least respect my daughter enough not to shame her in front of her family," he coldly reprimanded Matthew.
He had barely paid attention to his heavily pregnant daughter all morning. Worse, Lavinia seemed to be completely resigned to the situation. Reggie didn't know if it made it better or worse that Mary and Tom seemed to be completely oblivious to Matthew's interest.
Matthew snapped his eyes resentfully back to Reggie, not used to being called out for his behaviour so directly. He wasn't foolish enough to deny he was watching Mary. She was hanging off every word Tom seemed to say, it made his stomach roil within him.
With nothing to say to rebut Reggie's accusation he marched over to Lavinia, who looked pathetically grateful for his attention. This made his anger worse; no doubt Reggie noticed Lavinia's reaction and was painting him in a bad light. He had done the honourable thing and married his daughter; he didn't treat her meanly and she would be a countess one day after all.
Matthew was plagued with visions of 'what if', if only he hadn't withdrawn his proposal to Mary all those years ago. Would they be sat here now, as husband and wife?
'Ah,' even Edith was giving him a disappointed look. The only person who ever looked at him with understanding was Sybil. He glances over to his cousin, who was looking as beautiful as ever in the Christmas light, the glow of the fire pinking her cheeks delightfully. He caught her eye, and they shared a brief smile.
He returned his attention back to Lavinia and Edith's conversation. 'Oh god, they were talking about the baby again.' He valiantly smoothed his features and attempted to look interested in their conversation.
Lavinia had noticed the tension between Reggie and her husband. She hoped her father would shock some sense into Matthew, she was at her wits end about what to do with her marriage, they couldn't keep going this way, she couldn't keep going this way.
She smiled in welcome as her husband approached.
"We were just talking about baby's names Matthew," Lavinia gently explained, hoping that she could coax some interest out of her husband in front of Edith. "I was just telling your cousin I would like to call her after my mother, if it is a girl."
The two women looked at Matthew expectantly. "I am hoping for a boy, seeing as both our fathers are called Reginald that might be an acceptable name," Matthew said decisively, hoping that this was enough participation in the conversation for the two women.
Edith flicked her eyes to Tom and Mary who were having a lively conversation with Mr Swire and Granny. She wished she could be over there instead of stuck in this dreadful conversation. Why did Matthew have to come over? Lavinia and her were having such a lovely chat about Lavinia's upcoming baby.
Edith sighed; she liked babies. She couldn't help but daydream about having one of her own. And if she thought of her baby having blue eyes like the married Michael Gregson, she wasn't going to admit that to anyone.
"Yes, that's a lovely idea," Lavinia enthused with a smile, this was the first time Matthew had engaged with her about the baby's name. Frankly she was relieved to hear Matthew had put some thought into their future.
Matthew aware his father-in-law was watching him, tried to talk pleasantly with his wife. They conversed quietly about the day and the family games to be played later. Edith commented how competitive Mary was, Lavinia was all smiles.
The mood had lightened in their little corner of the room, it would soon be time to pass around the Christmas presents. Matthew had originally asked his secretary to select a dressing gown for his wife. But with Tom's arrival and the obvious affection he had towards his wife, he didn't want the former chauffeur to show him up. So, he had dashed to Rippon one afternoon and bought an elegant tryptic photo frame. He had the framer add a picture of Lavinia and himself on Their wedding day, with the middle frame empty ready for a picture of their baby.
Matthew smiled to himself; sure, his sentimental gift would be a match for whatever gift Tom thought of.
The Footmen had discreetly removed the remainder of the Christmas Luncheon, replacing the lunch dishes, with crystal bowls holding, sweets, nuts and Mrs Patmore's candied fruit. Every year Lady Grantham likes to order Turkish delight and caramel chocolates from Fortnum & Mason, in London.
The coffee pots have been replaced with a tea urn and delicate china cup and saucers, arranged neatly on the table for easy access of the family as the servants quietly retired to leave the family and their guests in privacy. It was time for the family Christmas presents.
Traditionally in the Crawley family, they swapped gifts after luncheon.
Violet held the unusual object in her hands, it looked like a child's toy. "What is it?" she asked her cousin Isobel waspishly.
"What does it look like," Isobel innocently said, sensing a possible opportunity to tease her cousin.
Violet narrowed her eyes minutely, "I don't know, that's why I asked," her voice saccharin.
"Why it's a nutcracker of course," Isobel said archly. "It's for cracking nuts."
Violet pursed her lips and looked at Isobel suspiciously, she had a feeling that Isobel was making a vulgar joke at her expense, but she wasn't going to dignify her comment and regally turned her head to observe the other gifts people were receiving.
Lavinia was awkwardly cradling a large gift on her crowded lap; she shifted in her seat trying to ease the dull ache in her lower back. Really, she hoped she wouldn't have another child for several years. It really was uncomfortable.
She hesitated briefly before ripping open the paper from the gift her husband gave her. 'Please let it be something personal.' She already knew what Tom and Mary's gift to her was
Reggie smiled indulgently at his daughter; she had opened her Christmas presents the same way when she was a small child.
She had been so excited when she told her friend of her pregnancy and was touched by Mary's suggestion of a gift. It was only as it was getting closer to Christmas, that she realised how embarrassing it would be if Matthew didn't get her an equally personal gift.
Lavinia took a deep breath.
"What is it, Lavinia?" Sybil eagerly asked, she loved seeing presents opened.
"Oh!" Lavinia said, looking a bit puzzled.
She pulled back the paper to reveal a pink garment and a flat blue box. She put the box aside for the moment and held up the pink monstrosity in front of her, it was a quilted dressing gown with tiny green buds embroidered on it. It would clash with her red hair dreadfully.
"It's a dressing gown," she told the room, Matthew looked particularly eager to see her response. "It looks really cosy," she elaborated awkwardly, hiding her disappointment at such an impersonal gift.
Matthew smiled broadly; he had done well.
"And it has lots of ribbons, very jolly," was Robert's contribution to the conversation. Women love ribbons and things. Cora had been very appreciative of all the gifts he had gotten her over the years. She said they were so special she would only wear them for him, so that they would be the only ones to enjoy them.
Robert smiled indulgently at his family as he happily ate some salted nuts he had in a little silver dish beside him.
Cora sent her husband loving look, she looked at ugly dressing gown and smiled encouragingly at Lavinia. 'At least she won't have to think of reason not to wear it in public,' she ruefully thought.
"Now open the box," Matthew encouraged.
With a slight hesitation, Lavinia pulled the lid off the box, she moved the soft tissue paper aside to reveal the black velvet back of a photo frame. Lavinia eyes darted to Matthew's as she pulled open the leaves of the frame. She quietly gasped when she saw the photos, one each of her and Matthew from their wedding day, with the centre frame still empty.
As Lavinia delicately traced the pattern worked into the silver, Matthew explained.
"The middle frame is for a picture of the baby. There's space left at the bottom where we can get the baby's name and date of birth engraved." Matthew pointed to the smooth blank space under the empty frame.
"Oh Matthew," Lavinia said, her voice thick with emotion. She pushed the debris of her gift from her lap and embraced Matthew tightly. She tried not to cry, as she knew he didn't like it. She had been afraid that he would get her a cold impersonal gift, yet he gotten her a gift celebrating their marriage.
Matthew felt triumphant. He looked at Tom from the corner of his eye, and saw the other man looked impressed, he smiled broadly. His smile started to fade as he took in frankly shocked expressions of his mother, Cora, Reggie and Edith's faces. It started to dawn on him that his family hadn't expected a thoughtful gift for his wife.
He bent down and kissed his wife's cheek and guided her down to the seat. Lavinia beamed at him, she picked up the frame and hugged it to her chest. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat from the attention and just concentrated on his wife, Robert and Sybil who was smiling at him kindly.
"Granny open this one next," Mary said. Tom jumped up and brought the wrapped picture to Violet.
Tom was almost as excited as Mary to witness the family's reaction to Mary's painting. He thought she was brilliant.
Violet removed the paper methodically, until she revealed the seascape Mary had painted for her. It really was quite good. "Mary this is charming," Violet displayed the painting to the room.
Tom beamed as everyone complemented Mary.
Mary clasped her hands in front of her, sighing in relief at the positive response from her family. "I painted it when we were on holiday in County Waterford," Mary explained with fondness.
Tom held Mary's hand and smiled.
"Mary, open mine next," Sybil said with eagerness, as she passed a narrow long box to her sister. "Do you want to guess?"
"Sybil, really," Mary shook her head indulgently, Sybil had been the same since she was a child. Mary opened it up and found a deep green umbrella, with a pretty pattern in white around the edge. Mary laughed in delight as she picked up the brolly.
"Don't open it, it's bad luck," Edith quickly reminded her older sister.
"I wasn't," Mary said a tad exasperatedly at her sister.
"It's just your letters from Dublin seem to mention rain in everyone," Sybil remarks cheekily.
"Well, that's a true enough description of Ireland," Tom adds.
Mary smiles at Sybil and for the first time since she has been home, she detects a lowering of the barrier Sybil has held between them.
Everyone seems to welcome Mary's gifts of the books she has illustrated. All admiring the artistry Mary displays in her illustrations. Sybil laughs at the cookbook Mary got her, 'to continue her journey to be an independent woman,' she explained.
"Now Papa, this one is from Tom and I," Mary said, swallowing nervously. She handed a black box to her father. The box had a large cream bow keeping it closed.
Robert takes the gift and weighs it in his hands, it feels heavy, he suspects it's another book. He notices Tom shifting in his seat and rubbing his trouser legs nervously.
Setting the box on a low table so the family can watch as he carefully undoes the box and slowly lift the lid revealing a dark blue leather bound book nestled in rich black velvet. There's a beautiful woman, with flowing hair and gown, marked out in silver gilt. Robert immediately realises that this is Tom's new book. Glittering in the Christmas light the silver embossed letters standout, 'Illustrated by Lady Mary Branson'.
"Oh Mary, it's beautiful," Robert gruffly said, voice clogged with emotion.
"I thought you could add it to the library here at Downton," Mary nervously suggested to her father, her eyes luminous in the fire light.
"How wonderful, of course I will put it in pride of place," Robert said as he reverently opened the book and flipped through pages revealing beautiful Illustrated images, reflecting the exciting story Tom had crafted.
"Darling it's gorgeous," Cora kissed her daughter warmly on the cheek, as Edith and Sybil crowded their father to look at the book. Edith's eyes flicked to Mary; she had no idea that Mary was so talented.
Tom and Mary accepted another round of congratulations from everyone.
Lady Rosamund received two yards of delicately woven Irish lacework. Mary hadn't quite been brave enough to gift her aunt one of the books she had illustrated.
At this interval in festivities, another round of tea was fetched by the gentlemen of the family.
Mary took the opportunity to slip Lavinia the book her and Tom had created for her friend. Lavinia accepted the gift shyly, suddenly feeling vulnerable at receiving such a sentimental gift from her friends.
Lavinia made short work of the blue wrapping paper revealing a small book with a picture of two children building sandcastles on a beach. The book was only sixteen pages long, each page was prettily decorated with Mary's simple drawings and a sweet story about children playing pirates on a beach.
"Thank you, Tom and Mary, it is truly magical," Lavinia said gratefully. Seeing Mary's and Tom's talents displayed on Christmas day, she couldn't help thinking she had been gifted a very valuable gift. She rested her hands tenderly over the book, as if she was protecting it.
"What do you have their Lavinia?" Matthew asked his wife, as he craned his neck to see what she had received.
"Oh, it's just a book for the baby, from Tom and Mary," Lavinia awkwardly said, for some reason she felt nervous about revealing the personal gift she had been given.
"Father, I believe Tom and Mary have a gift for you," Lavinia called out as she waved over Reggie. Unwittingly this called notice to Tom and Mary, to deflect attention from herself.
Tom's cheeks suddenly pinked at the attention as every eye in the room seemed to settle on him. He was suddenly unsure at how well his gift would be received from his friend. To recreate such a sentimental memory for Reggie. Maybe the gift was too much.
Reggie was now standing in front of Tom, his warm brown eyes questioning.
Tom shuffled his feet bashfully, as he slipped out a slim volume from his pocket, neatly wrapped in festive paper. He handed the gift to Reggie as Tom rubbed the back of his neck.
Curiously, Reggie opened the gift and looked at the children's book, his brows drawn together. It slowly dawned on him that it was a story of a faraway memory, when Lavinia was a little girl, and his dear wife Elisabeth was still alive. A lump comes to his throat and turns his head away trying to compose himself.
He turns back to Tom; Reggie can't speak and all he can do is clasp Tom's arm before turning away to get another cup of tea from the table. Giving him enough time to calm down before he can face the Crawley family again. He thought about that winters day in the know and ice, how his wife's nose would turn pink in the cold and her eyes sparkled with laughter.
Lavinia hadn't seen the book, but she knew what the story was about as Mary had asked her if it was a suitable gift. She thought it was a wonderful idea. "I am sure he really appreciates it," Lavinia reassures Tom with a smile.
"Do you think so?" Tom asks looking after Reggie, who has his back to the room as he studiously prepares a cup of tea.
"Yes, I am sure," Lavinia said as she grasps Tom's hand.
Mary comes to stand close to Tom and slips her arm through her husband's, in silent support, while gaily telling Edith a story about Button. She is sure her sister and Tom's Publisher would get on famously.
Matthew is sitting next to sybil, as she shows him a pretty cameo broach her mother had gotten her for Christmas, when he notices his wife and Mary on either arm of Tom Branson. His mouth flattens.
"Mary, you haven't opened Tom's gift to you yet?" Matthew calls out, highlighting the fact that Mary hadn't received a gift from her husband.
Matthew looks on in feigned sympathy as Mary goes bright red.
"Oh, ah, Tom gave me his present this morning before we went to church," Mary stammered, as interested eyes looked at her.
"Ooh! What did he get you?" Edith asked spotting an opportunity to tease her sister.
Looking shyly at Tom from under her lashes. "Ah, he wrote me a book of poetry. Recording our married life," Mary continued to blush fiercely, it had been such an intimate gift, she couldn't bear the thought of sharing it with her family.
"Oh, how romantic," exclaimed Isobel as she clasped her hands together.
"No doubt the advantage of being married to a writer," Rosamund commented sardonically, 'how convenient for Tom he hadn't had to spend any money on Mary's gift,' she thought waspishly.
Having arrived late to the gathering, Rosamund had missed Tom's announcement about the success of his book. Unaware of his promising financial future, she remained oblivious to the success that lay ahead for her new nephew-in-law.
"Oh, that's a lovely gift," added Cora looking impressed.
'I wonder if I could write some poems for Cora, I used to get dashed good marks for writing when I was in school,' wondered Robert as he saw how admiringly his wife was looking at Tom and Mary. She was bound to love it, he sighed quietly to himself, he really was a master at gifts. Maybe he should mention this to Tom, just in case his son-in-law ever needed advice.
"Yes, charming Mary," Matthew managed to get out through gritted teeth. He had hoped to expose a weakness in Tom's perfection. He couldn't help feeling at a disadvantage to Tom, even though he used to be the chauffeur.
"Yes," Sybil simple agreed. She was slowly coming to the realisation of exactly how well suited Mary and Tom were, and the genuine deep affection they shared.
Sybil couldn't help thinking back on the war years, when Tom professed to love her, that he had never actually written her any poetry. He had shared some of the work he submitted to papers and magazines and eagerly gave her copies of any of his work that was published. But it had never occurred to the man to dedicate any of his work to Sybil. And Sybil hadn't even wished for any.
She turned her attention to her Granny, who was looking at Tom and Mary with a satisfied expression. It seemed her grandmother had been right again. She and Tom were not suited at all and their love was as fragile as her Granny's prized roses. Only destined to bloom in the summer
While Tom and Mary's love was like an evergreen, a tall, majestic pine that could weather the harshest of winter and grow ever stronger in the summer months.
Sybil couldn't help but agree with Aunt Rosamund—it was downright annoying how Granny was always right.
'What, rhymes with Cora? Aura. Poorer. Adorer. Yes, adorer, hmm, maybe love and dove?' Robert happily daydreamed in front of the roaring fire as he absently munched on his bowl of nuts. A slight flush came to his cheeks as he imagined just how impressed his wife would be with his poem.
He softly sighed, as the laughter and conversation of his family washed over him as he stared at the dancing flames of the fire.
The fire roared in the wrought iron fireplace in the servant's hall, the large table, the focus of the room was ladened with Christmas fare. The scene portraying a cosy friendly atmosphere for the servants gathered for their Christmas dinner.
The servants were gathered around Mrs Patmore as she flicked through the pages of the cookbook that Lady Mary had given her for Christmas. Of all the people in residence at Downton Abbey, Lady Mary was the last person she expected a personal gift from.
It was the first personal gift she had received from the family she had served for so long. Truly she was touched.
"Cor aren't you blessed," Thomas commented sarcastically. "That must have cost 3 or 4 shillings," he said having converted the personal gift to its monetary value.
"Really!" Daisy said, impressed, she couldn't imagine owning a book that would cost so much of her weekly wage. Not when you could buy a magazine for a few pennies.
"It's lovely, Mrs Patmore," Mrs Hughes said kindly, she was frankly amazed that Lady Mary would think of anyone else, besides Anna.
"Yes, it is an honour indeed," Mr Carson condescended, chest puffed out. He had received a personal gift himself from Lord Grantham, as was correct being head of the household staff. He wasn't quite sure it was appropriate for a cook to receive a personal gift from a daughter of the house. But then Lady Mary had always been so gracious and regal.
"I never knew Lady Mary could draw so well," Anna commented. "They almost make you want to lick the page," Anna teased gently.
"Anna!"
Mrs Patmore held the book protectively against her ample bosom, giving Anna a warning look. Anna grinned at Mrs Patmore. Christmas Day was one of the few days in the year when there was actual time for the Servants to have a lark.
"We should try one of the recipes," Daisy suggested eagerly, looking at the scrumptious pictures.
"A good idea," Mr Carson added, he was partial to a good pudding.
"I can ask Lady Mary, which recipe she favours," suggested Anna, thinking it would be a nice touch. And if Mrs Patmore wanted to practice any dishes before she presented them to the family, well that was a benefit to them all.
Even Thomas, seconded this idea seeing an opportunity to break up the monotony of their daily diet.
"I am sure we would all appreciate your efforts, Mrs Patmore," Mrs Hughes settles the matter, before shooing the staff away from the kitchen, to complete the few tasks they still had on this holiday.
Mrs Patmore remained at the kitchen table as she reviewed the recipes, while sipping on her tea, running through the available ingredients she had in the pantry. The hustle bustle soothed her, as she planned her meal.
Shooting Party
Bang!
Bang!
"Well done, Tom," Mary said impressed with her husband's aim, which was at least the sixth bird he had gotten. She was looking forward to luncheon, she would be happy to subtly let her father know about Tom's prowess with hunting. She knew her father was a simple man who enjoyed country pursuits and knowing his Son-in-Law was proficient at the sport would be a benefit. She knew it was something her husband would never bring to light.
The holiday had gone well, her father was looking more favourable on Tom. The rest of the family were very welcoming and even Sybil was more relaxed around her and Tom now.
Her mother was even suggesting Mary come back to Downton for the birth of their baby. She would feel more comfortable with Doctor Clarkson, she and Tom had visited the doctor shortly after arriving home. Her family doctor had set her mind at ease over many of her worries, especially around her age. Though it wasn't common to have a first baby at 29, there was no reason to believe that Mary would be at a disadvantage.
Tom opened his gun with a snap, drawing Mary's attention.
"I don't get it?"
Tom's comment broke through Mary's revelry, "pardon?" she said.
"Shooting vermin if you are a farmer or for food I understand, but I don't understand the pleasure in hunting for sport," Tom asked while looking quizzically at his wife, head cocked. His grandfather had taught him to shoot on his farm, so he could help protect the sheep when they were lambing.
Mary looked at her husband in his tweed suit, walking boots and hat. He looked perfectly comfortable in this country environment, strangely more comfortable than back home in the city. Before their visit to Downton, Mary had very carefully laid out that there were certain social obligations that were non-negotiable, the hunting party being one of them.
"Well, it's a social event for the county," Mary said looking up and down the line. A couple of hundred yards to the left of them was Matthew and Sybil, while to the right was Mr Danbery, who owned a small estate to the east of Downton.
"A chance for the local men and Papa's friends to get together and talk," Mary explained.
"Land owning local men," Tom Couldn't help but point out.
"Well yes," Mary huffed. Not always comfortable when Tom highlighted the inequity between their stations in society. Before she had married Tom, she never really thought about how society was designed to unfairly favour the upper classes. She had just thought it was the natural order.
That somehow, men like her father were destined to rule. It was knowing how capable and intelligent her husband was and people like Button Doran, it brought into question her certitude in her family's position in society.
Tom had spoken at great lengths since their marriage about the inequity of society, Mary knew his opinion on the subject. Now observing Mary's frown, he dropped the subject, not wanting to spoil an otherwise pleasant day out. Not when he agreed to be part of the party, so he would be more acceptable to Lord Grantham.
In the crisp winters air, their breaths were white clouds comingling between them. Tom stamped his feet to get the blood flowing. "What do you get out of it, aren't you bored?" Tom said, cheeks pinked from the cold.
Tom reloaded his gun ready for the next shot, Mary, knowing her husband, hadn't even suggested a reloader to Tom. "I get the joy of spending the day with my husband,' Mary pointed out.
A slow, affectionate smile tugged at Tom's lips. "As this is the first year you got that pleasure, what about the last ten years?" he logically asked.
Dogs barked in the distance and the distinct fluttering of wings could be heard. Tom rose the gun to his shoulder and sighted along the barrel. Birds burst from the treetops, making an escape for safety. Tom took aim and shot. The two birds Tom aimed for, tumbled from the sky, while the hunting dogs retrieved the birds, bringing them to the gamekeepers.
Mary brought down her gloved hands she used to protect her ears from the loud sound. The familiar scent of gun smoke drifting over them.
Carrying on the conversation, she gave a delicate shrug. "I suppose not all the men I was paired with, were scintillating conversationalists," Mary admitted, she moved a little closer to her husband, taking advantage of his stockier frame to shelter from a slight breeze.
"I liked it when I was partnered with Papa," she said with a fond smile. "We'd talk about the estate or family stories. I liked having my father's undivided attention."
Tom smiled; eyes soft. He could understand why Mary would enjoy this time with her father.
"Did you ever get to shoot?" Tom asked curiously, slipping the used cartridges into a leather satchel he carried with him.
"What! No never," Mary protested. "Women don't shoot."
"I am pretty sure women do shoot. In fact, during the Rising there were women who partook in the fighting," Tom said.
Mary's pink lips formed an oh of surprise, at this shocking revelation. The rebellion had taken place in the middle of the war, and Mary was too distracted by Matthew's service, to pay much interest in the Irish Problem.
"And before you protest the Countess Markowitz, was known as sharpshooter," Tom forestalled Mary's statement about her sort of women.
"I'm not part of a rebellion," Mary sniffed.
Tom chuckled at Mary's expression, which was particularly charming with her pink nose from the cold.
"Would you like to be?" Tom teasingly said offering the gun to Mary.
"What no, I couldn't," Mary said as she nervously looked at the others in the hunting party.
"You could," Tom insisted with a grin. "I thought your sort had to do what your husband told you,"
Mary narrowed her eyes, "I thought you were a supporter of women's suffrage, and we should have the right to choose for ourselves," she quickly replied. Tom was still smiling at her with a devilish glint in his eye.
A flash of memory came to Mary, of being about twelve or thirteen, begging her father to allow her to shoot, when she had found out her cousin Patrick had been given a gun for Christmas. How angry and disappointed she had been when her father had told her no. That experience had been the first time that Mary truly understood that she would never inherit Downton, because of her sex.
With a defiant tilt to her chin, she reached out for the gun. "What do I do?"
Tom laughed in delight and stepped closer to Mary to explain how to shoot.
"First thing you need to remember, is to never point a loaded gun in the direction of other people, in the correct circumstances they can go off accidently," Tom patiently explained.
Mary lifted a disbelieving eyebrow at anyone being that stupid.
"Mary, I am serious, my cousin Connor shot his own toe off when he dropped his gun," Tom said seriously, he was only seven when his idiot cousin was playing cowboys and managed to shoot himself. It scared the hell out of him.
"Ok," Mary said taking her husband's advice seriously. "What's next?"
"Right, to fire a bullet out of the gun, there is a tiny chemical explosion, which propels the shot out of the barrel. Due to this you will feel the force of the explosion, so you need to be braced." Tom positions the gun firmly against her shoulder and the best position for her feet. "The barrel will want to jerk in your hand too, move your hand a little closer to you, so your elbow is bent slightly."
Mary repositions her hand, "like this?"
"Good." Tom nods his head. "So, the idea is to have a firm grip, not tight, nestled in your shoulder. When you fire the stock of the gun will press into your shoulder and the barrel will jerk in your hands, you want to try to control this."
Mary nods her understanding.
"The little metal piece at the end of the barrel is to help you aim, bullets generally travel in a straight line. But if you are shooting a moving object then you need to anticipate where the bird is going to fly and aim at that point," Tom said.
"This sounds complicated," Mary said, lowering the gun her brows drawn together in a frown.
"It's mainly instinct and practice," Tom reassured his wife.
"Get back into position," he encouraged Mary, Tom watched carefully to make sure that she returned to the correct position.
"Now when you want to fire, a slow smooth action of your finger, you don't want to jam the trigger because of a jerky or rushed motion," Tom explained the last step in shooting.
"How do you feel?" he asked.
"Ready," Mary squinted down the barrel of the gun, trying to get a feel of the weight of metal in her gloved hands.
"Start with more of your weight on your front foot and be ready to shift your weight to your back when you fire," Tom gave his wife the final instructions.
"Now get ready, when you see a bird you want, anticipate the bird and pull the trigger," Tom said quietly.
Mary held the gun at the ready, palms sweaty in her leather gloves, her breaths were quick and seemed loud in her ears.
Suddenly birds flew from the trees, trying to remember Tom's instructions she aimed and squeezed the trigger. The loudness of the gun and the violent jerk of the gun surprised a yelp out of her, before she gasped in laughter.
"I missed," she said disappointedly.
"Everyone misses the first time," Tom commiserated. "But how did it feel?" Tom said wanting to hear Mary's thoughts on the matter.
Tom took the gun from her hands and reloaded for her, Mary absently rubbed at her shoulder.
"It was like the gun wanted to move to the right," Mary said thoughtfully. "I did not expect the reaction of the gun to be so strong, the men don't seem to mind," she explained feeling a little dejected.
"Ok, have another go, I think you will be able to brace yourself better now," Tom encouraged. "You know the gun jerks to the right, so try to compensate for that now.
Mary readied herself to fire again, mouth set in determination. She took aim and fired. She was ready this time for the recoil.
"I went too far to the left," Mary said, annoyance clear in her voice.
"Do you want to continue?" Tom noted the set to Mary's shoulders and knew her natural competitiveness had taken over and she wouldn't quit now.
"Yes," Mary said with determination. "Show me what I need to do to reload the gun?" she asked her keen eyes sharp as she followed Tom's methodical actions. She relished this small act of rebellion, as she remembered the frustrated tears of her twelve year old self.
Matthew lowered his gun as he watched Tom and Mary in the distance. They were too far away to hear their conversation, but he had been surprised when Tom handed his wife the gun and appeared to be teaching Mary how to shoot.
"Well, that's something I didn't expect to see today," Sybil commented softly from Matthew's side.
"Yes," Matthew bit out, before looking apologetically at Sybil for his harsh tone.
"Though I do recall Mary had wanted to learn to shoot when Cousin Patrick was being taught by Papa," Sybil recalled. She reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. It was a typical cold winters day in Yorkshire, and she was glad for the extra layers she was wearing.
A delicate crease appeared between her brows. "I had forgotten how rebellious Mary had been when she was very young," Sybil said under her breath, almost if she was talking to herself. This holiday had been a revelation to Sybil. Mary had always seemed to be the epitome of a Lady of their social class.
Sybil had considered Mary to be a follower and she, Sybil was the rebel of the family. It was only just occurring to her that her sister was even more tightly confined by their society as the eldest daughter. She was coming to the startling conclusion that Mary was more suited to the rebellious Tom Branson than she was.
The sound of Tom's deep laughter reached over to them, she could see him bent over laughing while Mary looked on annoyed, she wondered what Mary, had done to cause such merriment. Before grinning herself.
"They seem truly happy, don't they?" Sybil said turning her beautiful eyes on Matthew.
Matthew looked upon the scene and sighed heavily, as much as it pained him, it was obvious that Mary was happy. "Yes, very happy," he said resignedly, a deep frown on his face.
Sybil reached out and touched Matthew's arm gently. "You and Mary were so often at cross purposes with each other," she gently pointed out.
Matthew knew she was right. The true reason they didn't marry was the constant misunderstandings between them.
"I know, you are right of course," Matthew said looking down at Sybil's face.
He looked over the scene before them, a light mist hanging in the air, dew on the grass, the occasional breeze, which would drift Sybil's sweet perfume over him.
"It's just…" Matthew fell silent, looking over at the happy couple.
"It's hard to see them happy with someone else," Sybil finished, while she looked at Matthew, eyes soft with compassion.
"Exactly," Matthew confirmed. Christmas had been an eye opening experience for him, he hadn't realised how his marriage was viewed by the family. Just the surprise people showed because he had gotten his wife a thoughtful gift, he felt a stab of shame, as he only bought Lavinia that gift to compete with Tom.
He was just thankful he had tender hearted Sybil to commiserate with, who understood him and what he was going through. It did not occur to Matthew that he could confide in his own wife.
Servants Ball
The grand hall at Downton Abbey was alive with the soft hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses, and the swirling of skirts as the annual servants' ball reached its height. A string quartet had even been hired to play for them.
The Crawley family stood scattered among the household staff, fulfilling their tradition of honouring the people who kept the estate running all year long. The night was a rare moment when the lines of rank blurred, just a little, as the family and servants came together to celebrate the New Year.
Mary looked radiant in her green gown, her dark hair swept into an elegant chignon as she moved toward Tom, now her husband, waiting for their turn on the dance floor. Tom stood tall, watching her with a warm, knowing smile, his eyes tracing her graceful steps as she approached.
"May I have the honour, Mrs Branson?" Tom asked with a playful smile, offering his hand.
"Of course, Mr. Branson," she replied with mock formality before letting him lead her onto the floor. The musicians struck up a familiar waltz, and they began to glide across the room with ease, completely in tune with each other.
As they danced, Mary couldn't help but feel the joy of the moment. This had become their life—a happy, shared existence. She cast a glance toward her father, Lord Grantham, who was dutifully dancing with Mrs. Hughes. Nearby, Lady Grantham graceful as ever as she twirled with Mr. Carson, the butler. And in a scene both charming and unexpected, Lady Violet, with her usual aplomb, was dancing with a dapper, smiling Thomas, the footman. The atmosphere was warm and festive, a stark contrast to the formalities that usually governed Downton.
"You know," Tom began, his tone casual but with an undercurrent of something deeper, "this isn't the first time we've danced together at this ball."
Mary's eyebrows lifted in surprise, turning her gaze fully to him. "Really?" she asked, curiosity piqued.
Tom chuckled softly, his Irish lilt growing more prominent as he recounted the memory. "Back in 1913, my first year here. You were, of course, the regal Lady Mary, and I was just a new chauffeur. You probably don't remember. We danced at this very ball."
Mary blinked, her mind racing to retrieve the memory, but she found herself drawing a blank. Embarrassment flushed her cheeks. "Oh, dear… I don't remember that at all," she admitted, somewhat sheepishly. "That was... before everything changed."
Tom smiled, not offended in the slightest. "It's alright, you were quite preoccupied with a certain someone," he teased gently, his gaze flicking over to where Matthew was standing with Sybil. Matthew had been her flirtation at the time, her attention focused squarely on him. But now, things had shifted dramatically. "I remember feeling very out of place that night," Tom added. "A servant dancing with the daughter of the house. I had never worked for anyone else that had a ball for their staff."
"I remember not knowing what to do with my hands and worried about treading on your toes," Tom explained as he held Mary close to him. Something he wouldn't dare do seven years ago.
"What else do you remember," Mary murmured in Tom's ear, enjoying the warmth of her husband's body and the scent of his cologne.
Tom's lips quirked up at Mary's request. "Well, I thought you were very tall of course," Tom said seriously.
Mary pulled back from Tom's arms to look at his face, eyes narrowed, before Tom chuckled. She resumed her position. "I hated being tall when I was a teenager. I had begged my parents to allow me to do a term at a finishing school, before my coming out." Mary paused as Tom swirled her around the floor to the waltz.
"The girls called me Beanie, because they said I was like a bean pole," Mary confided quietly.
Tom gave Mary's hand a comforting squeeze and kissed her cheek softly. "I'm sorry, I like that you are tall."
Mary daringly rubbed their cheeks together. "I like being tall now," Mary said before leaning closer to Tom's ear. "It makes kissing so much more fun," she whispered.
"Mary! What would Mr Carson say?" Tom said in a faux shocked voice, just as they twirled past the now dancing Mrs Hughes and Mr Carson, who were dancing a statelier version of the waltz.
Mary laughed gaily as they spun around together. Enjoying dancing with her husband, who was surprisingly good at the sport.
"What else?" Mary prompted teasingly.
"Well… let me think," Tom said with a thinking face.
Mary wasn't above flicking Tom's ear with her finger.
"Hey!" Tom protested; Mary just gave him a speaking look.
"Well, under protest I will say beautiful, a little mean off course too," Tom said.
"Hey," now it was Mary's turn to protest.
Smiling Tom pulled Mary in tight into his embrace. "I also thought you smelt divine," Tom inhaled noticeable. "Still do in fact," he confirmed, while taking a sneaky nuzzle of Mary's neck amongst the swirl of dancers.
Mary's cheeks blush delicately. Pleased with Tom's response.
Mary laughed softly, though her eyes grew thoughtful. "It seems a lifetime ago, doesn't it?"
"Maybe more than a lifetime," Tom agreed.
Across the room, Sybil and Matthew stood side by side, watching Mary and Tom. Sybil's expression was wistful, yet there was a calmness about her as if she had finally made peace with the path her life had taken. Matthew, standing with his arms loosely crossed, wore an air of quiet resignation.
"She's happy," Sybil said softly, a small smile tugging at her lips as she watched her sister laugh in Tom's arms.
"She is," Matthew agreed, though there was a faint shadow in his eyes. He had once imagined a life with Mary himself, but that time had passed. He glanced at Sybil, noticing her expression. "And you?" he asked gently. "You're happy too, I hope?"
Sybil looked away for a moment, her thoughts drifting. There had been a time when she, too, had entertained the idea of a future with Tom, but they had never truly been suited for each other. Now, watching him and Mary, she realised with finality that she had let go of those old dreams. She turned back to Matthew, her smile widening.
"Yes," she said with a deep breath. "I am. I think Tom and I were never meant to be. He and Mary… they fit in a way we never could."
Matthew nodded, his expression softening. "I suppose we've both learned to let go of things that weren't meant to be." Turning his attention back to Sybil who was looking remarkably attractive in a red gown, "Would you like to dance?" Matthew held his hand out to Sybil.
"Yes," She grinned up into Matthew's face as they joined the fray.
As the dance continued, Mary rested her head briefly against Tom's shoulder, feeling the warmth of his embrace and the comfort of their shared life. She couldn't help but marvel at how much had changed since that distant night in 1913.
Back then, the idea of a future with Tom would have seemed impossible. And yet here they were—dancing as husband and wife, their child soon to be born, and the weight of the world lifted, if only for this moment.
The music began to fade, and as the final notes of the waltz echoed through the hall, Tom pulled Mary closer, whispering into her ear, "I'm glad we're here together now."
"So am I," she whispered back, a smile playing on her lips.
As the evening progressed, the family continued to dance with the servants, the lines between them blurred for just one night. Lord Grantham, usually so reserved, twirled Mrs. Hughes with a genuine smile. Lady Grantham conversed politely with Mr Bates, who was unable to dance with his own wife, Anna. And even Lady Violet, usually so sharp-tongued, seemed to soften as she allowed herself to be guided, however stiffly, across the floor by Thomas, who was revelling in being allowed to mingle upstairs.
The music changed to a modern fox trot, Tom and Mary gamely tried the more modern dance, Tom wasn't as familiar with that dance and with much laughter barely managed to navigate the floor without any collisions.
Sybil's face was flushed with the exertion of the dance and the close quarters with so many other human bodies.
"Would you like refreshment?" Matthew solicitously asked Sybil.
"Gosh, yes," Sybil fervently said as she fanned her hot face with her hands.
Matthew darted off into the crowd to find them something to drink.
Sybil was looking around gaily, she always loved the servant's ball, when she was a child and Mary and Edith were old enough to attend, her governess had allowed her to watch from the balustrade above.
She was having a lot of fun, luckily for her she had Cousin Matthew to dance with. She wasn't a snob, she had no objections to dancing with the young men on staff, it's just they weren't all skilled dancers, like Matthew. She feared she would have bruised toes tomorrow.
Her thoughts momentarily flittered to poor Lavinia who retired from the festivities early, due to tiredness. It was such a shame she was missing the party.
"Look what I found," Matthew grinned at Sybil as he showed her a full bottle of cheap champagne, Mr Carson ordered for the ball. He also held two glasses.
He offered Sybil his elbow. "Shall we get a seat in the library?" Matthew suggested.
Sybil nodded her agreement. "Lead the way," she laughingly said, looking forward to giving her poor abused feet a rest.
Sybil and Matthew disappeared into the privacy of the library, which was out of bounds for the servants during the party.
The young people danced enthusiastically; Daisy grinned as she got to dance two dances with the handsome young Footman. While Mrs Patmore got to rest and enjoy the effort of her industry for a change, out from the hot steaming kitchen below stairs.
For this one night, Downton Abbey was not divided by class or duty. It was simply a home filled with laughter, music, and the shared joy of a New Year's tradition.
Goodbye
The morning sun cast a soft glow over the grounds of Downton Abbey as Tom and Mary stood at the grand entrance, their bags packed and ready for their journey back to Dublin. The air was crisp, carrying with it the scent of winter, though the chill was softened by the warmth of the family gathered around to say their goodbyes.
Mary, elegant as ever in her traveling coat, stood close to Tom, her hand looped around his arm. Despite the early hour, there was a gentle fondness in her expression as she gazed at the familiar surroundings. It had been a pleasant visit—better than either of them had expected—and now it was time to return to their life in Dublin, with a baby soon on the way.
Cora stood nearby; her eyes misted with emotion. She was never one to be overly sentimental, but there was something about seeing her eldest daughter and son-in-law leave, returning to a life that felt so far away from Downton. She embraced Mary warmly, lingering for just a moment longer than usual.
"You'll take care of yourself, won't you, darling?" Cora said, her voice soft with motherly concern. "And do consider coming back to Downton for the baby's birth. Doctor Clarkson is excellent."
Mary smiled and gave a small nod, though her heart was set on returning to Dublin. "I'll think about it, Mama," she said. "But you know Tom and I are building our life there. We'll be just fine."
Robert, standing by the car, looked on with a proud, almost paternal smile as he watched Tom finish placing the last of their luggage in the car. He stepped forward, extending his hand to Tom with warmth and sincerity.
"Well, Branson—Tom—I must say, it's been good to have you both here. Downton feels more complete when you're around," Robert said as Tom took his hand in a firm, respectful shake. There was no hesitation, no formality—just the mutual respect and understanding they had grown to share.
"Thank you, Lord Grantham," Tom replied, though Robert's kind gaze made it clear the formality wasn't needed. "It's been good to be back. Dublin's our home now, but Downton will always mean a great deal to us."
Robert nodded, releasing Tom's hand with a final pat on his shoulder before stepping back.
Unexpectedly, there was one absence. Sybil, who had been such a warm presence at the ball the night before, was nowhere to be seen. Mary had expected her sister to be there to see them off, but word had arrived earlier that morning—Sybil had caught the first train back to London, quietly slipping away without any fanfare. She had left a short, affectionate note, explaining her early departure with a promise to write soon.
Mary wasn't surprised. Sybil had always been one to avoid long goodbyes. Still, she felt a pang of regret at not having one last word with her youngest sister. Tom, sensing her thoughts, squeezed her hand gently.
"Sybil wanted to leave on her terms," he murmured. "She'll be fine."
Mary nodded, grateful for the reassurance. Edith, standing a few steps away, approached with an awkward but genuine smile. It was rare for the two sisters to find common ground, but Edith had softened in recent months. There was no malice now, only well-wishes.
"Safe travels, Mary," Edith said, her voice tentative but kind. "Do write when you can."
"I will," Mary replied, her smile warmer than usual as she accepted Edith's attempt at closeness.
Even Lavinia had made her way outside, a gentle, shy presence among the family. She smiled at Tom and Mary, her cheeks pink in the cold air. Though their history was complicated, Lavinia had always been kind-hearted, and there was a quiet strength in the way she wished them well. She and Mary had built a warm friendship through their letters and cemented over the Christmas period.
She and Mary had many a conversation, and Lavinia had been able to confide her worries about her marriage and the struggle she had now communicating with Matthew. Though Mary had only general advice to give, but the greatest benefit was the ability to finally talk out all her worries. Just to be able to confide freely in someone, had taken a weight off of Lavinia's heart.
"Safe journey to you both," Lavinia said warmly. "I hope everything goes smoothly with the baby."
"Thank you, Lavinia," Mary replied with a sincere nod. There was a moment of shared understanding between them, the fear of the unknown, they were intelligent women, they were aware of the risks of birthing a child. Mary reached out and gave a final embrace to her friend. "Take care of yourself," Mary insisted, pulling back to stand with Tom.
"I will write to you as soon as I reach Dublin and we settle back in," Mary assured Lavinia.
"Please do, I always look forward to your exciting letters," Lavinia eagerly says. Mary's letters always relieve the monotony of her days.
The formal goodbyes had already been said to Violet the night before, during the servants' ball. The Dowager Countess, ever sharp and regal, had bid them farewell with a curt, affectionate nod and one of her signature remarks about the unpredictability of life. "Be sure not to let the Irish get the better of you," she had said to Mary, her eyes twinkling with mischief. Tom looked on in amusement.
Now, as the engine of the chauffeured car hummed to life, Mary and Tom shared one last look at Downton, taking in the family they were leaving behind and the new life awaiting them across the sea.
"Ready?" Tom asked, his hand still holding hers.
"Ready," Mary replied, her voice steady.
With that, they climbed into the car, the door closing with a soft click. As they began to drive away, Cora and Robert stood side by side, waving until the car disappeared down the long gravel drive. Edith and Lavinia lingered a moment longer, watching in silence before turning back to the house.
And so, Tom and Mary departed Downton Abbey, leaving behind fond memories of the holiday and a family that had, in their own way, come to accept them both. Mary couldn't help turning and looking at her childhood home, a wistfully smile graced her lips. Hoping she could return for the birth of their child.
Tom gently squeezed her hand, "We'll be back, I promise."
Mary simply nodded, the lump in her throat preventing her from replying to her husband. She lent against her husband and placed her hand on top of his. Closing her eyes, she let the flickering light flow over her lids as she let peace fill all the empty spaces that moving to Dublin had left.
She feels Tom kiss her temple in comfort, Mary smiles softly.
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