James Paul Fucking Moody.
The name still left a bitter taste in Patrick Crawley's mouth.
Last Patrick had heard of James Moody, the Scarborough twit was an apprentice sailor signed on to the William Thomas Line...what was the name of that ship from the papers again?
The Boadicea?
Such a shame this blunderbuss Duke of Limbs hadn't done himself the favor by now and fallen overboard, being the sack of pebbles he always was.
He never could throw a decent punch.
Patrick smirked privately from behind his morning paper, as the butler showed their guests into the library.
"Mr. John Moody and Mr. James Moody, my lord," the old willowy cello for a butler, Mr. Carson, announced nobly to the Crawley grandees. "The solicitors from Scarborough, who were sent to you for legal counsel by Mr. Murray."
Lord Grantham, looking into the crackling fire of the silk marble mantelpiece, plated with gold and carved with grape vines hanging over statues of Mars and Diana, tucked away the worry wrinkling his brow as he accepted his guests.
"Send them in."
Carson stepped aside, making way for the Moody gentlemen. "His Lordship will see you now."
Though his nod for the younger Mr. Moody somewhat lingered, before he passed his stony glance to Patrick.
Not out of any special acknowledgement, of course, as the aloof Mr. Carson was a traditional brand of butler, and not at all the sort to break his Code of Butlerness for the whim of showing anyone any favor.
The extra effort he took to leave the room was plainly a warning for both Crawley and Moody.
Should any manner of "disturbance" follow their mutual arrival at the estate, they would be dealt with by Carson personally.
The old Butler was always watching.
And he'd been given enough reasons by both Crawley and Moody alike to be on edge.
"Thank you for coming on such short notice, gentlemen," Robert Crawley warmly greeted his guests, though his voice was still heavy with the burdens of his heart. "Mr. Murray was suddenly called away to care for his wife, who has taken ill. I know you and he worked closely together in the past, concerning legal affairs of the estate. There was no one I could trust more in Mr. Murray's absence."
And having come so highly recommended, James's father was eager to make a lasting impression, swinging his arm out in a wide deep Shakespearean bow. In the spirit of your-highnessing that would have been too much for even a royal, let alone, a country Earl.
"Truly, Downton is the crowning jewel of Yorkshire, Lord Grantham. I can speak for both Mr. Murray and myself, that we have always been treated with great hospitality while working here," James's father complimented the Earl. "I am eager to assist you with any inquiry you might have in regard to the entail."
"Downton would be a ship lost at sea without you. And speaking of ships, I've heard the news."
The Earl turned to James next.
"Congratulations on being accepted into the King Edward Naval Academy in London."
"Thank you, Lord Grantham," James answered in that humble way Robert Crawley always admired about the young man.
"Already, he's made a promising reputation for himself at sea," John Moody spoke of his son proudly. "There are rumors of a soon-to-be vacancy aboard the Oceanic. The Boa's captain informed me that he means to put in a good word for James as an officer with White Star Line."
"Very good, indeed. We can certainly use more men like you in the navy," Lord Grantham nodded strongly to James. "Though, I hope you won't think it selfish of me that I still imagine you'll carry on your father's firm when he's no longer with us."
James fumbled awkwardly for an answer, knowing that if he was honest, he did not have a reply the Earl wanted to hear.
"Well, I..."
Patrick smirked, knowing the only thing more entertaining than James Moody throwing a sissy punch was James Moody throwing an answer like a blubbering idiot.
But alas, as could be expected, daddy came to the rescue.
"The difficulty with James is that he has far too much potential for his own good," John Moody chortled lightheartedly. "He excels in everything he sets his mind to, but has yet to give his heart devotedly to anything-Law, being the least of these things. Though he does have a natural talent for boatmanship, I must say. I would do anything to see him settled at home permanently, but I've come to accept his leave from sea with us will be brief."
"I see. Duty above all," Robert Crawley approved of the young man's conviction. "Thank you for your service in the Royal Navy."
"It is my honor to serve," James quietly returned the nod.
"Well then, gentlemen," Lord Grantham proceeded, inviting John Moody to join him and Sir James by the mantelpiece. "Shall we begin?"
John Moody, starstruck for being offered a seat so near to His Lordship, all but skipped after the footman to the red sofas and damask carpets by the fire.
Patrick rolled his eyes.
John Moody was a nobody, in the grand scheme of things.
And the young Crawley was more than happy to go on ignoring him like a nobody.
Turning his attention back to his morning paper, as his smoky gray cat purred lazily on the armrest of his elbow chair.
That is, until his sea-green eyes swooped back up to glare at the footman, ushering the latter Mr. Moody his way.
The servant carelessly assuming that this Mr. James Paul Moody was Sir Patrick's social peer, for nothing more than being the closest in age and stature.
Robbing Patrick once again of his right to read the results of this week's horse race in peace.
Forcibly seated opposite the blue-eyed "pretty boy" he'd known as the longtime rival of his boyhood.
And didn't all that grandeur of gold and blood-red in Cousin Robert's library bring out that beautiful pouty gaze of Moody's?
Even the housemaids couldn't stop finding excuses to swoop in and clear his dishes away, no sooner after he'd touched them.
"That seat doesn't belong to a bell-end tosser," Patrick remarked icily.
"It's no wonder then you were placed so far ayond," James answered, as he stirred a splash of cream into his steaming tea.
"Still haven't managed to get yourself drowned, I see."
"There's an art to disappointing you."
And as James sat his teaspoon down again, almost on cue, a servant appeared at his side to exchange it.
"For God's sake, again?" Patrick demanded. As it was easier to get away with taking out his aggravation on the waitstaff rather than his Cousin Robert's guest.
But this time, it wasn't the maids falling upon their tableside, but that giddy footman, Barrow.
"Pardon my reach, sir," Thomas Barrow beamed into James's face, feigning innocence as he checked once again that the cream dish on James's side was sufficiently filled.
And James's ever so polite smile nearly outmatched the sunlight in the room, as Barrow cleared away his half-finished teacup. "Thank you, sir."
Barrow blushed madly.
Thank you?
Patrick sneered.
"You certainly are a darling, aren't you, Moody?" Patrick mumbled, as he swigged the last drop of his own teacup. Still awaiting a second round, as the servants went on neglecting his cup to pour James his third round. "Next you'll be thanking to the pig Mrs. Patmore roasted for dinner."
"If the pig got t'werk as hard as she does," James answered, in a manner of speech that Patrick found as charming as the scullery maid, Daisy, downstairs. "S'ppose I don't take for granted awt, now that I work for myself."
"You don't say," Patrick grunted. "Well, you would know. Not I."
Even the owly cat at Crawley's side, with his orangey werewolf-moon for eyes, seemed to be mocking James then.
Christ, he still hated that bilge-swilling cat.
"S'ppose it's the 'knowing' that sets us apart, Mr. Crawley," James guessed, ignoring the mangy cat and taking another sip of his brew. "I have seen the world by sea, goin' where I go and spendin' what I please, all before one and twenty, and here you sit, king of your high castle, waiting to be married and bred off before you're ever entitled to your fortune. No better than a cob roller, really, if you ask me."
"Yes, let's ask James-minging-Moody, the sailor," Patrick muttered, as he placed his empty teacup upside down with a frustrated clink. As nothing else seemed to work as a sign to the staff that he wanted the cup refilled.
"You've got all your ducklings in a row, don't you, Moody?"
"About as straight as my aim, old Patty boy," James returned. "Still got that scar above your ear, I see. You never did learn your way around a shotgun, did you?...Pity...What was it you said to me when last we were at Downton? The day I beat you at our little game of war?"
"I've not forgotten war," Patrick informed his rival softly, one finger delicately stroking his cat's inky ears. "You were the navy, and I, the calvary. Hellbent we were, on being the first to kill the other...Not much has changed, has it, Moody?"
James's chuckle was a subtle breath through his nose, as his blue eyes turned up to scan the Crawley's library from the elaborately ancient ceiling above, and then down to the hearth crackling merrily across the room, where his father, Sir James, and Lord Grantham were still obliviously engrossed in their own conversation.
"No," Moody agreed with the Crawley, after some thought. "I suppose you well-to-doers don't change. Everything about this place is exactly as I remember it...How bloody reassuring that must feel to you."
And the rosy color of Patrick's arrogant smile gradually darkened ever rosier.
"Though not so reassured as you must feel," the Crawley remarked. "What a privilege it is to feel so superior, having the leisure to run away and become a sailor while I remained here upholding the noble tradition. As if either of us needed another reason to go on confidently about his role, assuming that he is at least superior to the other's loathsome existence. Wasn't that the very heart of our war, James?"
James's eyes met his directly, knowing well enough by now that whenever they addressed each other by their given names, the gift of hell-giving would inevitably follow.
"All things considered, I find I agree with you. Not much has changed since we were boys," Patrick continued. "Even without the trenches we dug in Cousin Robert's fields, and the loaded shotguns we fired against the other, I know you're still the same scared little laddie you were when you lost dear old mummy. And it didn't matter how quick you were at pulling the trigger...I'm always one step ahead of you, James."
James placed his teacup back on its saucer and set it quietly on the table.
The muscles in his outstretched arm strained and slightly trembling to hold his resolve.
But Patrick never backed down, knowing well enough by now he had pushed Moody to his limit.
'Come on,' Patrick's stomach-turning grin dared the sailor. 'You know you want to, you prat.'
And if James hadn't been a recent navy grad, sworn to duty and honor, he might've fancied a teacup-like scar above Patrick's left ear to match the other one he'd left above the Crawley's right.
"Oh?" Patrick's softened voice was like a knife pushing deeper into James's skin. "You still don't like it when I talk about mummy, do you?"
"We're not lads beating the pish out of each other anymore," James answered Patrick calmly, as he straightened his posture again. "Surely, we're both men now who can settle our differences cordially."
"So frustratingly noble, you always were," Patrick sighed in boredom. "You still believe your principles make you a more superior man than I? A mere peasant against a Lord-in-waiting?"
"You're not a Lord yet, Mr. Crawley," James replied, putting an extra emphasis on the word mister, as he knew how much it vexed Patrick.
"All the same," Patrick all but grumbled in spite. "I have in my possession everything you desire, James...Everything."
"And what's all that, I wonder?" James's daring smile challenged that idea.
"You know damn well what I mean," Patrick answered. "It'll be upon my own death that I ever see you take what you aren't entitled to. And even after I'm gone, there will be no rest for either of us."
"Well, when you're ready to make good on that promise, come find me at sea."
"If you go anywhere near her," Patrick swore under his breath. "I will kill you with my own two hands."
"I've not the slightest idea what you mean, Mr. Crawley."
"We'll see, won't we, James?" Patrick told him. "It's like you said. We're not lads anymore. We're playing a very different game now. Cruelest in all our contests of war. You won't have any ground before I've taken it from you in the most devastating ways you can imagine. Should I destroy myself doing it, I will crush you manky peasant scum irreparably. You will never call yours anything that belongs to me."
"Rest assured, Mr. Crawley," James answered him. "There's nothing you have that I'd ever want for myself."
"Hm," Patrick smiled to himself, going silent again as he indulged his cat endlessly.
"As you are both aware," Lord Grantham's voice was easily heard across the library, now that Patrick had dried up. "The entail is a matter that can no longer be ignored. Lady Grantham and I have been blessed with three beautiful daughters; Mary, Edith, and Sybil. However, it is clear now that there will be no male heirs. As the law stands now, neither of my girls may inherit the title or the estate. My heir presumptive being my good cousin here, Sir James Crawley. However, in the event that things should not go as we plan, my primary concern is that my wife and daughters are not left with nothing. I'd like to explore the option of 'breaking' the entail, so to speak. Mr. Murray tells me it's impossible, but I thought you might have a different opinion, Mr. Moody."
"Do you have any reason to fear that Sir James will not inherit the title as he should?" John Moody asked the Earl.
"Well, no. It is only a question of tying loose ends," Robert said. "In the event of anything unexpected, my chief concern is in Cora's fortune. If we can somehow divide it from the estate by means of a trust, in such a dire emergency, what legalities would we need to meet head on first?"
"It would be very difficult," John Moody regretfully gave the earl his honest opinion. "After reviewing the legal language within your father's agreement, the late Earl tied the knots fairly tight when you and Lady Grantham married. Lady Grantham's fortune had been transferred irrefutably to the estate, and is therefore nearly impossible to challenge. You see, in exchange for Lady Grantham's fortune, the contract presumes the countess received something of considerable value in return by her marriage to you. It is a fair transaction and, if I may speak plainly, would mean a great headache in time and money to challenge. It does not seem worth the effort. If the fortune is separated from the estate, the estate will be at risk of falling again."
"For ordinary, impotent beggars, of course," Sir James finally broke his silence at his writing desk, gazing directly at John Moody. "But for you and your legal connections, Mr. Moody, perhaps not. Your father has many friends in high places on the council in Scarborough, does he not? Perhaps he might have his way of...influencing the law in this case."
James's eyes darkened, offended by Sir James's brash suggestion.
What on earth was he asking for?
"I'm afraid influence doesn't speak for as much as it used to these days," John Moody informed him. "The bourgeois have made politics in Scarborough more diverse, and thus, more parliamentary, as of late."
"We have plenty of money for your efforts, Mr. Moody," Sir James offered. "No amount is too presumptuous."
James couldn't believe it.
Did Sir James really believe the Moody family could be bought and sold so easily, all for the sake of lobbying a few extra rulings in Yorkshire?
"Forgive me, sir," James couldn't help but speak up to such an insulting assumption about his family. "But as men of law, we are committed to conducting ourselves justly."
"I certainly agree," Lord Grantham nodded. "And by the sound of it, it wouldn't be a solution anyhow. Not if breaking the entail means a breach of sacred trust to my family and to the community, which I hold dear."
"Should we see it as justice if half the souls affected by it are not here to voice their opinion, or look after themselves, if something were to happen to us gentlemen?" Sir James challenged. "It's all the girls I worry for, and that includes my Millie. If we can't foster enough political support in Yorkshire to change the laws binding the entail, would you see the estate fall into the hands of a complete stranger, if something were to happen to me? It's a problem you're well aware of, Robert, and it must be accounted for before I sail for America."
"Oh?" his cousin questioned surprised. "I had no idea you planned on returning to New York."
"It's hardly a secret, Robert," James went on quietly. "I have...neglected my daughter over the years, and as a wiser man now, I deeply regret it. Since Patrick will inherit everything in England, I am looking to investing in America for Millie. All accounts will be held in Patrick's name, but he has agreed they will belong exclusively to his sister, should she require them. It will be some time before Patrick and I sail to New York, but I would like to settle this question of the entail as soon as possible, as I'm not sure when Patrick and I will return."
"Having daughters myself, I understand your concern, and it's rather thoughtful of you, Sir James," Lord Grantham said. "However, there must be another loophole to our question, without resorting to shameful bribery."
"Indeed," Sir James's deeply concerned gaze ran into James's, by chance.
And resting there a moment in pensive silence, his concerned brow slowly relaxed, as his attention eventually worked its way back to John Moody.
"I suppose our only hope then," Sir James said to James's father. "is to find a compromise in which all parties mutually benefit. Indeed, money isn't the sole value of all things. Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Moody?"
John Moody said nothing as he reached for his cooling teacup, careful not to meet Sir James's watchful eye and be forced to give an answer.
Leaving James all the more perplexed as to why his father seemed so hesitant to take the Crawley on toe-to-toe.