The day James Paul Moody discovered what a fuss he could make over getting himself ready for a little jaunt to the "movies" with Miss Millie, was also the day he realized he'd unwittingly put on two of the same glove.
For God's sake, man, pull yourself together. It's only a moving picture. Not as if you've asked the girl to marry ye.
But no sooner had he turned away from the sitting room to find the match for his day gloves did a ruckus sound at the apartment's street door, stilling him in his steps.
Knock, knock, knock.
Strong and urgent, it was.
And certainly out of turn for this hour of the evening.
And at that moment, Captain Wentworth-who had not removed himself from the chaise lounge since the rain started, not even for a crumb of his Meow mix-came to life instantly, perking his ears up with his owl-eyes fixed on the door.
He gave a soft meow, as if he himself couldn't believe the knocking had happened, dragging himself into a stretch out of his nap, and dropping off the chaise lounge to curiously investigate it.
It was unusual for the old man, James thought.
The cat had never seemed so taken by the door until now. Standing on his hind legs as he dragged his claws across the lower hinge. It looked almost desperate...hopeful, even...as if he knew there was something on the other side he'd been waiting so long to meet.
"Who could that be making so much ado about nothin'?" James wondered under his breath at the bold as brass, unannounced visitor at their door.
Because after calling off from cat-sitting to movie with Miss Amberflaw, James wasn't expecting any of his cat charges that evening.
"Pardon me, Miss Millie," he called out to the Miss, who was still in the lavatory getting herself ready. "There is a caller at your door. Are you willing to see anyone this evening?"
"Probably just Mrs. Mendez. The neighbor next door with the parakeet. Could you pass her that quilt on the table?" Millie called from the bathroom. "Tell her I'll be right out."
Knock, knock, knock.
"Mrs. Mendez has got quite an arm on herself, doesn't she?" James remarked, neatly draping said folded quilt over his arm for Miss Millie's customer as he made for the door.
And with a voice that would have given even Mr. Carson a run for his money, the cat-butler stood proper at the door and called to the visitor on the other side, "Good evening. It is on Miss Emily Amberflaw's behalf that I ask who is knocking?"
Though no one answered him.
Leaving James no other choice but to unlock the latch on the door and meet the blusterous Cain-raising rascal head-on.
But stepping out onto the porch, James found no such rascal standing there.
Not a soul.
"'Ello?" called he, turning his head about in search of the rough-handed drop-in. "Anyone for us?"
Still...as mad keen as the caller had been to do in Miss Amberflaw's door, no one stepped forward to reveal themselves and claim the honor.
And just as James presumed that the unhinged visitor had realized their own mistake in laboring upon Miss Emily's door under the delusion of having the correct address, he turned back inside.
Though, in afterthought, stopped suddenly again.
Meeting by happenstance that faint hint in the air of coconut, ylang-ylang and citrus, that made him think instantly of...
Macassar oil?
A men's hair tonic he'd recognized as the same one he'd hurriedly combed through his own hair back home. Though it promised nobbut the best of quality in customer satisfaction as a gentleman's hair gel, the miry stuff had also promised to start off a man's day to work in a bad way, should one unwittingly get it on one's hands and touch the backs of some high and mighty superintendent's office chairs and furniture.
Surely...it couldn't be that, for all the luxuries laid at the feet of the modern man, it was that old mucky stuff that had withstood the currents of time and outlived him into the future?
Curious to solve that baffling mystery, James peeked out of the door again, hoping to catch a gander at the fellow who appeared to have such exceptionally classic tastes.
And then, like so many ghosts that refused to die with him, the smell of Macassar oil carried James back to a night much like this one.
A night, he remembered, dressed as a proper gentleman, waiting with his heart raring to go with the one he loved, in that life they very nearly almost had.
.
Upon his last night at Downton, James waited for Millicent in the laurel green and gold of the earl's drawing room. Just as the hors d'oeuvre of truffled wild mushroom tartlets, fried oysters wrapped in bacon, and Gentleman's Relish on buttered toast were being served to all the guests before the second course of dinner was announced.
Watching the hour count down to minutes on the grandfather clock lightly ticking away in front of him. Preparing himself for Miss Crawley's signal, when they would retire from the drawing room together, and James would face her father at last to formally ask for Millicent's hand.
'Steady now, Jim,' he coached himself. 'Finding the right one to marry was the hard part. The rest is penny plain.'
Though, if what both he and Millicent wanted was each other, no matter what should come between them...then why should he feel so on edge tonight?
As if...something were off color.
Perhaps, it was because he couldn't stop thinking of what she had meant by her note.
Miss Lavinia Levinson, that is.
Shortly after entering the drawing room and greeting his father, His Lordship, and Sir James, James was caught by Mr. Barrow again.
"Care for another drink, Mr. Moody?" he'd asked the earl's dashing guest toothily.
But before James could decline the offer, the footman passed a glass to him anyway, in a most peculiar fashion. Holding the base of the glass in his palm as he did it, rather than at the stem, which might have had Mr. Carson shitting bricks, had he seen the footman do it. Barrow's fingers brushed lightly across James's upturned ones, as James felt a folded note drop into his palm from the base of the glass.
"Compliments of Miss Lavinia Levinson," Barrow nodded to him. "If there is...anything else I can get you, sir, I won't be far off."
And leaving James with a smile that lasted only just a moment longer than it should've, Barrow moved on to the earl's next guest. "Champagne for you, sir?"
Leaving James at leisure to briefly make eye contact with the stunning blonde talking to Lady Sybil across the room. Her blue eyes twinkling a midnight shade darker than his, as she and Sybil met his eyes.
And so intentional were the ladies' glances his way, that James couldn't help but suspect that by accepting the glass from Barrow, he had unwittingly walked into a secret parallel plot of sorts, known only to the pair of ladies intensely watching him from across the room.
Until Sybil broke eye contact with him, and turned her attention fully back on Miss Levinson, as if nothing extraordinary had happened.
"How is Uncle Harold, by the way?" Sybil carried on their conversation. "Is he well in America?"
"Oh, you know papa," Lavinia said, unfolding her white lacey fan as she languidly dragged her eyes away from James. Having lingered on Mr. Moody only just a moment longer than she should have. "Still falling over himself about yachts. 'Bigger, faster yachts', he says. Honestly, I was lucky to get Cousin Millie's invitation when I did. He almost got his way marrying me off to a fishboat captain."
James turned his back on the ladies again, facing the grandfather clock as he slowly unfolded the note so discreetly delivered to him.
It was cryptically brief, which somehow, made the words more ominous to him.
'If you really love her, then when the time comes, follow my lead'.
And James barely had any time to question what the direful note meant before his attention was drawn to a man's voice passing behind him.
"Of course, you mentioned you had a sister, but you never said she was all a neat bit. What a proper English rose."
The singing praise of James's Lady Crawley came just a stone's throw away from him, where he'd earlier spotted Patrick Crawley and his old-time fellow from university, Mr. E. Getty.
That Edward Getty, who had abruptly accepted Patrick's invitation to dinner that afternoon, and who the lads called 'Napolean' because the beer-bottle was as 'pudgy as a baby, all of a piece'. Of which they meant the piece part quite literally, as the full height of his head could readily be used as the average man's armrest.
But what he lacked in height, he made up for in the unstoppable way he twice attempted to bribe Mr. Carson himself into switching his name card with Lady Mary, so that he could skip a seat at dinner away from Patrick's cousin, Lavinia Levinson-next to whom he'd been purposefully seated-and get a seat closer to Millicent and Sybil.
Though he liked a woman with a little fight in her, Miss Levinson was much too "American buccaneer" for his tastes, and Lady Mary was much too an ice queen (not to mention, too lofty a target for his stature) and Lady Edith was-well-lacking that certain demeanor belonging to an absolute Athena that lit his pipe burning like none other.
So he set his eyes on Sybil and Millicent, the sweet middling ground of his ravishing fetishes, figuring that he could at least corner one of them before the night was over.
And since Sybil was guarded closely by Lady Mary, Getty put his bet on the easier target with no scary older sister to hunt him down later.
What luck then that upon turning to the drawing room door, Lady Millicent was already walking toward him. Her figure chucking him all of a heap, full enough to burst her stay-lace under that pretty ribbon weaved around her lace collar, like she was walking Christmas. Wearing a gold satin silk underdress, and a romantic fluttering sky blue chiffon overdress tied with a white lace applique. Her soft melted caramel curls charmingly twisted up into an artsy bun weaved with a string of pearls and a sapphire jeweled hair pin of Sakura flowers. Greeting each of her familiars with a soft 'How do you do?', as she made her way toward their side of the drawing room.
"Be a good man now, Pat," Getty implored his old friend. "I beg you to introduce us."
"And why should I?" Patrick back-answered him. "We may be old swim fellows, but it does not mean we should be brother-in-laws."
"I see then it isn't just the lady I must win over," Getty said. "In that case, allow me to court you, Patrick."
"As if you could ever match my expectation. What you have your eyes set on is the closest thing in this world to me. And no man would ever like being that close to me," Patrick warned him quietly. "However, should you insist on playing your bid, I will make the introduction. As long as we have an understanding that she is still my sister, not some whore you can corner as you did at university. I would not stop at killing a man, as you know."
"Ha!" Getty grunted nervously. "Aha, ha!...Ha."
"Does that amuse you, Getty? Not nearly as much as it amuses me, I assure you."
And then Patrick's eyes wandered toward the grandfather clock to his left, recognizing the back of James Moody's despicable head.
After what Patrick had been told about the goings-on in the library yesterday, it seemed the bastardly cad still had cheek enough to keep showing his face around here.
For the sake of Millie's reputation, Patrick had held his peace to starve the rumors, going back and forth with himself on how to cure his sister of her mania for that water dog, and rid Downton of this tedious "Moody Problem".
But for James Moody to disregard all matter of decency, and walk among them now at dinner, as if he hadn't seduced Millicent into being ravished by him in the corner of a library!
The sailor's entitlement was beyond inexcusable.
It was time to put James Moody down.
Though the rumor he'd heard was only second-hand circumstantial evidence, Patrick would make it enough.
He would choke out every detail that vilified James Moody's name, ready to drag the sailor's reputation through the mud to destroy any hope of James becoming a sea officer, in order to ensure the rogue hung for ever daring to touch his sister.
Patrick wanted nothing more than to make Moody feel every crushing moment of the punishment he had in store for him.
But first, he needed to set the board.
After all, a lady's reputation is a delicate business, and Patrick convinced himself that his little sister couldn't have known any better in the arms of a dishy playboy like James Moody.
And as her older brother, it was up to him now to protect her from the danger she was becoming to herself, and save the girl from her damning naivete.
Seizing his chance, Mr. Crawley turned to catch Millicent, stopping her just before she was mere steps away from greeting James.
"Millie?" Patrick called after her, with his fellow from university following behind, eager as a bumble-puppy.
"Meet Mr. Edward Getty," Patrick carelessly threw the introduction at her. "A distant nephew of Lord Cavendish, who you know, is currently serving as secretary of the prime minister. We attended university together. An educated, respectable gentleman of society."
And Patrick's keen emphasis on the word gentleman was not lost on James.
"How do you do, Mr. Getty?" Millicent politely acknowledged him.
Though the raised brow she threw at her brother for being forced into an introduction she never wanted to make was not lost on Patrick.
"The pleasure is most certainly mine, Miss Crawley," Getty returned the greeting wholeheartedly.
Though...it was not lost on Edward Getty, that Millicent's wandering gaze found its way back to the grandfather clock, where by a fat chance, one of the lawyers from Scarborough was standing.
A man who, only a week before, had mortified Getty when James informed him that he wasn't actually a brandy-getting-footman and that the "soddin' nephew of the soddin' prime minister's feckin' secretary" could sod himself off. Which inspired Getty to the conclusion that James being a lawyer was just as well as being a brandy-getting-footman, and for that reason, Getty would rather die on a hill drawn-and-quartered than ever apologize to Mr. Moody.
Even so, why Lady Millicent's gaze skated in that common riff-raff's direction, Getty couldn't guess. He thought it certainly beneath him that any lawyer would put up any serious competition to him.
"Will you excuse me?" Millicent begged her pardon from the introduction. "I'm feeling a bit parched."
"Bless me, yes, you little canary! For all the heat you put off just standing there, I should say so!" Getty agreed fully. "Allow me to go fetch you a glass of water, Miss Crawley."
But Patrick held up his hand to dowse Getty's fire.
"The staff do well enough on their own, Mr. Getty."
"Though not nearly fast enough," Getty insisted breathily, his eyes drinking Millicent in. "I'd hate to see the lady faint of thirst."
"Getty."
"Yes, Patrick?"
"Belt it up."
"Yes, Patrick."
"Did you enjoy your excursion to the library yesterday?" Patrick asked Millicent suddenly. "I heard you'd promised to show Lavinia the countryside, but she said she had misplaced you. It's so easy to lose yourself in Uncle Robert's house...Isn't it?"
And at that moment, Millicent's shoulders appeared to stiffen, as she and Patrick stared back at each other, trying to find the bluff in the other's eyes.
"Lavinia was still busy powdering herself, and I'm afraid I'm of no use with those kinds of things," Millicent said. "So, I went down to read in the meantime."
"To read?...All by yourself?... Aren't you darling?" Patrick smiled at her. "Well, I'm sure Mr. Getty would love to hear all about it."
"Right," Getty agreed eagerly. "I have a rather impressive library at home. Perhaps you'd like to see it sometime, Miss Crawley. It's all politics, philosophy, and horses, though. Not any topic a lady might know anything about-Ha! Though I do keep the occasional work on absolute virtue, wifehood, and childrearing, in case a lady is interested in the correct fashion."
"I gather you don't entertain many ladies in your library, Mr. Getty," Milie's forced smile was halfway between politeness and a wince.
"Perhaps we might change that, Miss Crawley," Getty returned. "I'd be honored to take your recommendations."
"Indeed, Getty is behind himself in what makes good literature, and by a great deal, I'm afraid. Perhaps, you have an idea he might draw inspiration from," Patrick threw in his own suggestion. "Do tell, what were you so taken by reading yesterday? Getty would be happy to take note."
Millicent's cheeks flushed rosier.
"It was...well, uh, it was-um-It's complicated."
"Ah, one should expect that from a lady once she's got a mind to take on reading," Edward Getty quipped. "Perhaps I can be of assistance to you, Miss Crawley. If you would kindly show me the book, I'll do my best to enlighten you on the subject."
"I wouldn't trouble you, Mr. Getty."
"There's nothing on God's green earth that troubles Mr. Getty," Patrick said good-heartedly, slamming his friend on the shoulder. "Isn't that right, sir?"
"Certainly, I assure you, no trouble at all," Getty nodded earnestly, like a good lad.
"You see? He says it's no trouble," Patrick reemphasized. "So, what book was it, Millie?"
Cornering Millicent once again, as she knew the kind of Etiquette and Advice she'd been reading was not the one she could speak of to her brother.
"It was a love story," she answered him, knowing she could never call that a lie. "I've been reading Persuasion by Jane Austen."
Getty's forehead furrowed in confusion, and Patrick's lopsided grin drooped even deeper into...disappointment?
"A love story?" he asked his sister, as his cool sea-green eyes dragged away from hers, glancing over her shoulder toward the grandfather clock, before finding their way back to hers.
"And an Austen, of all the silly books," Patrick grunted. "Tell me...Exactly how complicated could this love story be?"
"For a woman, I can only imagine," Getty chuckled. "I hope tonight we can talk more about this...'love story' of yours, Miss Crawley?"
"If you would please excuse me," Millicent nodded a quick pardon to him, abruptly forcing an end to their conversation and detouring around them.
Leaving the gentlemen resolved to accept her leave, as Getty longingly watched her go.
"I do hope it wasn't something I said?" he mumbled worriedly to Patrick.
What is more...it didn't help much that that Scarborough twonk she couldn't tear her eyes away from was still lurking among them, parading around as a gentleman, and distracting the serving staff and ladies alike.
As far as Getty was concerned, Lady Millicent Crawley was his claim, and he'd be damned to lose any bench points for her against the likes of a sailor.
"And what a tyke that crate-egg peasant is! If you do not stop this, we'll have another Mathew problem on our hands," Getty mumbled to Patrick. "You would allow your sister's cunt to be ravaged by that sea biscuit mongrel and carry his fucking bastards? I can only imagine what they'd say about you at the Harrogate Club."
"The Moodys are my uncle's guests," Patrick said. "Without troubling you with details, I've given my father my word that I won't interfere with the solicitors' work here."
"What's come over Sir James and his lordship?" Getty asked. "The codgers become evermore senile with old age. That country twit is not dining with us tonight, is he? And certainly, not near your sister?"
"No need to worry," Patrick said. "Millicent would never cheapen herself for the likes of him."
"You may tell yourself whatever story you like, because she is your sister, but I can see right through a woman."
"Well then," Patrick decided with another sip of his champagne. "I suppose we'll have to find her an alternative, won't we? You know I've always looked at you as a brother."
Getty chuckled. "My, haven't we changed our tune?"
"I'd turn in my grave before I ever let James Moody have her," Patrick said. "If you want her, I will make my father come to his senses. He'll want connections, though."
"Well, that low-born git isn't the only one with those," Getty said. "And Scarborough isn't the only card on the political table. Give me enough time, and I'll get Sir James God and country, if you promise me Millicent."
"Good man," Patrick nodded his agreement with their informal contract. "I have a plan...When the time comes, follow my lead."
And as the other guests filed out of the drawing room upon announcement of the second course, James lingered behind with the grandfather clock. Until at last, he knew the touch of the one he'd been waiting for all night.
A secret brief exchange that lasted only a moment between them, but nonetheless, was worth every hour of his anticipation.
Her light gloved hand dragging tenderly across his shoulder as she walked by him.
Though for all her heels, she still proved no match to James, leaving her to stand on tip-toe against his lofty height as she tugged him by his dinner jacket sleeve to bring him a little closer to her. Making it easier for the lady to lean in toward his ear and secretly whisper something into it that gradually won over the sailor's smile.
.
"Did I make you wait too long for me?"
James turned on the porch back to the apartment door, feeling the light tap of Emily's fingers against his shoulder.
His eyes meeting the Miss standing in the doorway behind him. Her soft brown hair let down and curled in loose twirls over the shoulders of her smart oatmeal peacoat, with a black trimmed collar and two rows of black buttons fastened over the hem of a glittery indigo wrap-around dress that fell just above her knees. Her elegantly defined creamy legs quite smashing underneath it all, in dainty black Mary Jane wedges.
And seeing James dressed to kill, as usual, in his fancy day gloves, evening necktie, and sharp derby hat, the officer made quite the impression on the lady. So much so, that Millie thought it fitting to do a playful little curtsy for him.
"Kind sir," she greeted him in a mock lofty air.
And with a much more practiced grace than Millie had expected, James leaned forward in a reverent bow at his waist, cradling Emily's hand in his large palm. Drawing her hand close to his lips as a sign of his utmost regard for her.
"My lady," he returned the greeting, squeezing her hand warmly in his. "You might've easily been a shooting star at sea."
Emily had meant her curtsy jokingly, but upon seeing James's timeless gesture, she couldn't fake the effect it had on her, even if she wanted to play it off.
"You didn't do too bad yourself," she blushed. "Are you ready for this then?"
"Why, Miss Millie," his voice softened huskily as he fell over himself again for those pretty eyes of hers. "I've been ready for ages, I have."
And something in the devoted way he said it made Emily wonder, for a fleeting moment, if he only meant it as a figure of speech.
"After you, Miss Millie," he stood aside for her to pass onto the porch. "I will follow."
"By the way, was that Mrs. Mendez at the door then?" Millie asked him, as she stepped out of the apartment.
"Dunno," James answered, closing the door behind them. "There was nobody there. Suppose I might've put them off."
"Probably," Emily shrugged. "Anyway, we'd better get going. We're already late."