#Bed And Breakfast in Grantham

[thedivinelights]

Console.WriteLine("A Christmas Carol);

Ao3

STAVE THREE: THE MARKETING OFFICER

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Upon the arrival of the twenty-third of December, and awaking with grogginess and discomfort, Scrooge and Marley stood already poised and ready for the day ahead. In fact, it could then be stated that they were never unprepared to start, for they had ever been the masters of their time, the keepers of their schedules. But for fear of my reiteration of words already spoken, let me instead speak up and say that earlier on this day, there were none of the intimate gestures or easy banter that often characterised their mornings. Nay, there had been none of that when Marley had opened his eyes and felt the lightness of the mattress all the more keenly than he had ever felt it before. He fumbled for his phone and ��� after finally relieving himself of the fear that he had not slept in — he found his screen left on the application in which his email from Grantham regarding the meetings for the three new executives had been stored when, in fact, Marley had left it upon the search engine. Though, really, was it truly so surprising for me to imply that the passcodes to such important and confidential information were shared between partners as closely as their business interests? I think not. Scrooge and Marley had been in this together for far too long not to share such things, even if it had become a more lackadaisical practice.

Marley needed neither a note or a message to recognise that Scrooge had gone ahead without him this early morning which, in all fairness, was barely an unnatural occurrence when his husband had been in one of those 'moods'. In retrospect, Marley should have expected as much when Scrooge all but dragged himself to bed the night before with nary a passing glance in his direction, and curled himself away from the centre of the bed with a scowl deeper than the ocean, if one could imagine the ocean having a scowl. The shadows had danced across the bedroom wall as Marley rubbed the sleep from his eyes, reflecting the turbulent storm that had raged within him for some time now. Be that as it may, Marley had to concede, for what little it was worth, that Scrooge had the foresight and the sensibility to prepare a decent breakfast for him, despite his early departure. A simple continental breakfast: Some fresh fruits he had bought only recently, a flaky croissant from the bakery over yonder, and a steaming cup of coffee, not to be shared this time around.

Breakfast went on without a word to be spoken, even as Marley longed to speak about the weather they were having, or the complaints at work, or the plans for the day, or the plans for the future, or something! Anything! Everything! Alas, in this sad, sad morning, he had no one to voice his thoughts to, save for a tiny whisper in his mind that told him that all was wrong. That small, pitiful, tiny, innocuous, inconspicuous voice that told him that he wasn't worth it, that Scrooge had always been better off without him, that he was the very deadweight that kept Asplex Industries from soaring ever higher, that he was nothing but a failure, a mistake, a blight, a heavy chain.

He swallowed those thoughts just as easily as he had his coffee. And his phone buzzed on the table the second he had.

Scrooge: Our candidate for the role of CMO is meeting us at a restaurant for brunch, of all things. The usual spot. Grantham warned me he’s eccentric.

Marley hastily typed out a reply.

Marley: I’m on my way, Ben. Thanks for breakfast.

It took less than a minute for Scrooge to respond.

Scrooge: It was nothing. Just get here soon.

Now, it is hardly a surprise when I say that Marley was never one to indulge in the fanciful luxuries of delicacies and indulgences, Scrooge even more so. But in the greater sense of things, the thought of a well-prepared brunch on a chilly winter morning was not one to be easily dismissed. And so it was with a tentative, cautious smile that Marley gathered his things and left the house, got in his car, drove the route, and met Scrooge outside the restaurant with nary a word passing between them. The staff had been unremarkably surprised when both men had returned for the second time that week, as they had only ever darkened their doorstep for a routine that seemed more robotic than innate, pursuing their usual solitary dinners. To comment on such quizzical deviations, however, would be to intrude upon the firmament of Asplex's taciturn rulers, and none among those within the establishment dared to risk the perceived audacity. 

Their usual spot — a quiet little nook tucked away in the corner — welcomed them with its familiar ambiance. The soft hum of muted conversations and the clinking of cutlery filled the air as Scrooge and Marley took their seats and took their proffered menus.  The place had been known for its indulgence of the festivities, or rather a lack thereof, owing to the predilections of its regular patrons, Scrooge and Marley included. The restaurant seemed to share the same disdain for unnecessary frivolities as its frequent visitors, opting for a subdued and understated holiday decor that whispered of taste rather than extravagance.

It was their restaurant. There was no doubt about that. But all at once a transformation had occurred, a collocation of circumstances that changed the atmosphere from one of unremarkable routine to an impending spectacle. Familiarity and unfamiliarity, if you will. There was no part of the walls or the ceiling that wasn’t covered with clinquant decor, crimsons and verdants, drowning so that it looked like Vincent van Gogh’s paintbrush had gained sentience and run amok in a Christmas workshop. The once-muted ambiance was now awash with the glow of twinkling lights and shimmering ornaments, reflecting and refracting light in a mass of starlight.

The staff, too, had traded their customary attire for festive elven garb, bedecked with bells and dazzling glitter ribbons that jingled with every movement. And the centrepiece of this metamorphosis had been a cornucopia of exquisite delectables, the likes of which would be far too bountiful for the average table, filled with turkey, ham, lamb, beef, and all sorts of accompaniments. Mince pies, apple pies, pumpkin pies, pecan pies, cranberry pies, if there were more I could name off the top of my head, I most certainly would! The roasts were succulent and tender and brimming with flavour often skimped, the puddings rich and dense and boiled to perfection, and the eggnog… oh, the eggnog had been plentiful, and more than enough to satiate and intoxicate even the most seasoned of connoisseurs. There had even been delights to accommodate those who hadn't a palate for meat, or those whose faith forbade such indulgences, a thoughtful gesture for which both Marley and Scrooge secretly commended the management, even if they never voiced it. 

And amidst it all in dining debauchery — equipped with three, maybe four beer mugs, bursting at the seams — there stood a large, pot-bellied man with a red-headed mop of hair with a beard so unruly and wild and untamed, and a glow in his amber eyes the likes of which had been severely lacking in the midst of Scrooge and Marley’s unsteady morning.

“Top o’ the mornin’ to ye, lads! Come o’er here! Don’t be worryin’, I won’t be takin’ a nip at ya!”

Scrooge and Marley passed a cursory glance between each other before entering with trepidation. This man’s eyes were kind and comforting, so much so that Marley couldn’t help but avert his gaze.

“You are Preslan Sullivan, correct?” Scrooge inquired with a drawl, unimpressed.

“That I am!” Preslan grinned. “Bet ye’ve ne’er seen the like o’ this before!” 

“Never here, that's for sure.” Marley shook his head.

Preslan chuckled heartily, the sound echoing through the festive chaos of the restaurant.

“Aye, I thought it'd be a grand idea to bring a bit of merriment to yer mundane meetings!” Preslan gestured towards the extravagant spread laid out before them. “Ye can't make decisions on an empty stomach, now can ye?”

Scrooge regarded Preslan with a sceptical eye. “We’re here to discuss business, Mr. Sullivan. Let’s not get carried away with theatrics.”

“Now, now, Mr. Scrooge, ye can’t be all business and no pleasure!” Preslan exclaimed as he added one too many shots of Baileys to his already generous mug of eggnog. “Ye’ve got to learn to loosen the tie a bit, let the wind ruffle yer hair!”

Scrooge's expression remained unchanged, that much was clear, though Marley couldn't help but find the joviality infectious. He offered a tentative smile, realising that perhaps a bit of merriment wouldn't hurt. It was a damn shame that Scrooge didn’t seem to share his sentiment, but from the look of intrigue on Preslan’s face, perhaps it would not be long before he did.

“Take a seat, lads!” Preslan motioned to the chairs, urging them to comply. “We’ll get to it, don’t ye worry, but first, let’s partake in the feast laid out before us!”

The two partners exchanged another glance, and with a subtle nod from Scrooge, they reluctantly took their seats. The aroma of roasted meats and sweet pies wafted through the air, filling the atmosphere with a festive fragrance that seemed to melt away the remnants of morning melancholy. Preslan, undeterred by Scrooge's stern demeanour, grabbed a turkey leg with his bare hands and bit into it with gusto. Bits of meat clung to his beard, and he grinned, seemingly unbothered by the lack of decorum. Scrooge fought the urge to gag at the man’s uncouth and unabashed display.

“Delicious, ain’t it? Nothin’ like a good feast to warm the heart and lighten the mood.” Preslan declared between hearty bites.

Marley, who had been initially reserved, found himself chuckling. The infectious spirit of the season, coupled with Preslan’s unapologetic joy, was breaking down the barriers of their usual rigid routine.

“Now, onto business.” Preslan wiped his hands on a used strip of tissue, his expression shifting to a more professional tone. “I’ve heard yer company could use a wee bit of a marketing makeover, and that’s where I come into the picture.”

“You’re external?” Scrooge asked incredulously.

“That I am! And afore bein’ external, I used to work as an investigative journalist for a year or two before I managed to snag meself enough evidence to expose some high and mighty folks, but that’s a story for another time.” Preslan leaned back, his chair creaking under the weight of a man who clearly enjoyed his feasts. “Then I moved into advertising, where I found the real magic. Weave a yarn, give it a bit of sparkle, and lo and behold, the masses come flockin’.”

Marley narrowed his eyes. “Investigative journalist turned marketer. Quite the transition.”

“Aye, but not as drastic as ye might think. Both require a keen sense of what people want, what makes 'em tick, what grabs their attention. It's all about tellin' a good story, isn’t it?” Preslan chuckled.

Marley found himself nodding in agreement, appreciating the perspective that Preslan brought to the table.

“So, let’s cut to the chase,” Preslan continued, leaning forward. “I’ve taken a gander at Asplex’s current marketing strategies, and I must say, they're as bland as a week-old soda. No offence intended, Mr. Scrooge.”

Scrooge raised an eyebrow, but gestured for him to continue.

“What ye need is a bit o’ zest! A dash o’ excitement! Somethin’ to reel people in, to make ‘em feel somethin’, to want somethin’. Right now, it’s like watching paint dry. And no one wants to watch paint dry. Except one of my older brothers, but he’s always been a quirky lad. Have you met him?”

“I can’t say we have.” Marley replied. “How many siblings do you have?”

“Ten in all, and one more on the way!” Preslan grinned, as if the prospect of having eleven siblings was a source of pride rather than potential chaos.

“Eleven?” Scrooge muttered, clearly taken aback. “I shudder to think of the grocery bills…”

Preslan reached over to the table, grabbing a mince pie with enthusiasm before continuing. “Now, good ol’ Grantham allowed me to schedule some few events for the day to get ye both out into the world and see what the people really want, not just what ye think they want.”

Scrooge’s eyes widened. “Wait, what did Grantham—”

“Now, enough talk! Might as well show ye what I have planned, eh?”

Without even waiting for a response from either of the two men, Preslan stood from his chair with a flourish, downed his eggnog with nary a second thought, and gripped the arms of the two CEOs before dragging them into the festive chaos of the restaurant. Scrooge shot Marley an exasperated look, but Marley found himself swept up in the unexpected energy of the moment, laughing at the absurdity of it all. Preslan navigated through the sea of decorations and merry patrons, his laughter ringing out like a jolly anthem amidst the holiday festivities. The restaurant staff, dressed in their festive elf attire, glanced at the trio with a mix of surprise and amusement.

“Come on, lads! We’ve got places to be, people to see!” Preslan declared, leading them out of the restaurant and onto the bustling streets.

This is hardly the way I conduct business meetings, Mr. Sullivan.” Scrooge retorted as a wave of chill hit his features like a truck.

Preslan turned around with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “That’s the problem, Mr. Scrooge! Ye’ve been conducting ‘em like a funeral procession. It’s time to breathe some life into these affairs!”

The warmth, the food, and the elves all vanished instantly as they stepped out into the brisk winter morning of Canary Wharf, where people had long since forgotten about the whims and worries of the previous day to focus on the hustle and bustle of the current one. Men and women of all sorts trudged through the rare fall of white that had settled in inches despite the usual resistance of the London weather and the otherwise muted celebrations around the financial district. And even as Scrooge, Marley, and Preslan travelled alongside their fellows, there was almost a sort of music in the air. Hardly unpleasant, mind you, and hardly traditional, but there was a symphony in the way the snow was scraped away from the pavements, the way boots crunched beneath their feet, the distant honking of cars, and even the rare sounds of laughter between children.

The towering buildings that littered the area like sentinels of metal and glass seemed almost to soften against the white canvas, sunlight reflecting against their surfaces in a dance of an ethereal, heavenly glow of that celestial object. The sky above the streets seemed much brighter than one could expect with such weather — as if anyone could expect English weather — with a hint of blue peeking through the otherwise overcast sky of grey. The River Thames flowed as patiently as ever, glistening in the distance, a serpentine stretch of water winding its way through the heart of the city. And all the businesses themselves of all sorts of trades and stocks made the most of the festive season, dancing upon the threshold of extreme and delicate, with decals of snowflakes and baubles plastered upon the windows, and giant red ribbons with entrancing lights adorned the facades of the cosy cafés and busy boutiques.

And it seemed then that the atmosphere itself had spread to the ones who trod upon those paths, for as they lifted their shutters and flipped their signs, and where on any other day they would have given merely a glance and the occasional smile to one another, today there was a shared sense of merriment, of laughter, of jubilance, as if the very air itself carried the spirit of the season into every heart and every exchange. They would call out to one another, wishing each a Merry Christmas, and to those who did not celebrate, they offered heartfelt seasons’ greetings and a happy holiday in their own traditions. Even the normally stoic businesspersons who would spend far more time in the confines of their offices than indulge in genuine camaraderie seemed to crack a smile or two as their families came to visit them.

It was as if, for that brief moment, the entire district had collectively decided to embrace the season that often eluded them in their day-to-day pursuits, content to forget the pains and struggles of the other months of the year. Older souls, aged with wisdom and aged with the aches that came with their long-lived existences looked more like schoolboys and schoolgirls having just come out of their final examinations, bending down with an odd rejuvenation as they exchanged waggish snowballs — far better dialogue than testy jokes and jests, in my honest opinion — with all the energy that had eluded them for many a year.

But then the sun rose ever higher, and brunch neared ever closer to lunch, the hours ticking by far too quickly, as they often do, and out came all the good people from their confines of glass to the streets, flocking like the pigeons that had grown accustomed to the nature of their human companions on the cobblestone, and gathered about a singular bakery by which it had been filled with all manner of delightful confections and treats that would have put a grin on many a solemn face and satiate those peckish souls in need of a powerful sustenance to get them through the day. The sight of such a gathering seemed to interest Preslan well enough that he had diverted his attention from the streets and led Scrooge and Marley to the doorway, and as each person stepped through with their minimal lunch in hand, Preslan would go to greet him or her or them and wish them a Merry Christmas. Sometimes it had been with a pat on the back, sometimes it had been with a light tap, fluent signs, and hand gestures, and sometimes he had but helped one down the steps with an affable chuckle and a quiet greeting. But all of those times had been genuine. Truly, fully genuine. And even as there would be some words of disgruntlement spoken between customer and waiter, Preslan stood as an intermediary, gave a grin or a pastry, and reminded them that it had been nearly Christmas. What a terrible thing it would have been to have an argument near Christmas!

“I’m surprised you didn’t pull what you did back at the restaurant over here, Sullivan.” Marley mused. “Do people hold you in such high regard?”

“I hold meself in high regard!” Preslan replied.

“Do you often perform such stunts of charity with food and booze?” Marley questioned.

“I do it for any sort of eatery! And especially for a strugglin’ eatery.” Preslan answered.

“Why a struggling one especially?” Marley tilted his head.

“Because they need it especially.” Preslan spoke, as if it had been the most obvious thing in the world.

Scrooge had been uninterested in such drivel, but Marley hummed for a moment, pondering his next words. “Well, I’m curious as to why you go to such trouble. You hold no stake in these businesses. They aren’t your ventures. You have no obligation to boost their morale or their sales.

Preslan looked at Marley with a twinkle in his eye, as if he had been waiting for someone to ask that very question. “Ye’ve hit the nail on the head, Mr. Marley! No, I don’t be ownin’ these places, and I don’t be gettin’ a single penny from their profits. But what I do be havin’ is a belief, and a strong one at that.”

“And that is?” Marley gestured inquisitively.

Preslan smiled warmly. “The belief that every wee business, every little corner shop, and every strugglin’ eatery is a part o’ one whole community. A community that grows and shifts with every day, with every month, with every year. And if I can bring a bit o’ cheer and prosperity to them, well… that’s payment aplenty for me. I think it’d do ye both some good if ye remember that.”

Marley promised that he would, Scrooge kept to himself, and soon they all went on, away from the bakery and into the busier portions of the city which had been, unsurprising as it was, the shopping centre and its surrounding roads. Scrooge reasoned then, logically, that it was due to the approaching holiday season, and the last-minute shopping fervour that gripped the hearts of procrastinators. People rushed about, laden with bags and parcels, the air filled with excitement and anticipation. Preslan, leading the way, navigated through the bustling crowd with an agility that belied his portly appearance, occasionally exchanging cheerful greetings with strangers and shopkeepers alike.

And it was Preslan’s kind, generous, hearty nature, sprinkled in with sympathy for the impoverished and the struggling, that led him and the CEOs he would soon work under more directly to one of many of Asplex’s retail and repair stores, defined only by the hexagonal symbol emblazoned above the entrance, and two embossed letters, glowing faintly white. An ‘S’ and an ‘M’, brought together only by a single link in a chain. Marley had designed that logo, many years ago, when the aspirations of the company had been more about simplicity and solidarity, and the corporate maelstrom they found themselves in had been nothing more than a gentle breeze in the wind.

Back when it had just been them and their partnership. Their friendship. Their love. Marley wondered, for the briefest of moments, where it had all gone wrong.

It was hardly the time for introspection, however, as they all entered. It was busy, as was to be expected, and shoppers from all walks of life found themselves browsing and perusing the shelves stocked to the brim with gadgets and gizmos of all kinds, from tablets to phones to smartwatches. There was an air of desperation and procrastination, the occasional chime of a cash register breaking through the consultations and the discussions.

And there stood Mrs. Emily Cratchit, the wife of Scrooge and Marley’s own personal secretary, scouring the wares with a fine eye that seemed almost methodical in nature and dressed in a well-worn fleece jacket that had seen its fair share of winters. Standing beside her and deep in discussion had been Belinda and Peter Cratchit, her second eldest daughter and her eldest son respectively, both donning winter jackets of the same calibre and appearing to argue about the merits of various electronic devices. And followed them were two smaller, younger Cratchits, a boy and girl, Oliver and Zoe, twins in every sense of the word, giggling and laughing and gasping as they begged and pleaded for the latest gaming console that had been proudly displayed in the store’s glass cabinets, trapped in with only a singular lock to act as a deterrent for the prospective robbers.

“Belinda, I’m telling you, a tablet is much handier than a laptop these days! Portable, efficient, and you can do all sorts of things with it!” Peter argued, waving a sleek tablet in the air.

Belinda, with a raised eyebrow, retorted back with a fiery zeal. “And how am I supposed to type up my assignments on a touchscreen? A laptop’s much better for that, and it’s got a proper keyboard.”

“Yeah, but with a tablet, you can sketch and draw, and it’s got all these cool apps! It’s the future, Bel!”

Emily chimed in, her gaze focused on a display of smartphones. “Now, now, you two. Let’s not bicker. We’re here to get a baby monitor for our Tiny Tim, not to have a family squabble. Oliver! Zoe! Stop running around, you’ll knock something over!”

“But look at all the gadgets, Mum!” Oliver whined.

“Yeah, look! Look!” Zoe jumped excitedly, pointing to the consoles almost as big as her.

“We’re not giving them Scrooge and Marley any more than we need to, kids. Let's just get what we need and get our, alright?” 

Zoe and Oliver vocalised their annoyance, but like any child, they acquiesced in the end. It was clear enough that Emily held a disdain for Scrooge and Marley, and it spread enough to her offspring.

Soon, a young woman walked in, dishevelled but seemingly satisfied. “Sorry I’m late, Mum.”

“Oh, there you are, Martha!” Emily greeted her eldest daughter happily, kissing her half a dozen times on the cheeks and fixing up her coat after Martha had finally told her to stop. “Where in God’s name have you been?”

Martha chuckled, adjusting her scarf. "I was caught up in the holiday traffic, Mum. The city is buzzing with last-minute shoppers. Is Dad here?"

Emily, at the mention of her husband, let out a dismal sigh. “In the back. Apparently he’s got to do one last firing before the holidays.”

“Two days before Christmas?” Martha exclaimed incredulously.

“It’s his job, sweetie. The manager’s been behind on her targets. Your father’s just the unfortunate bearer of bad news.” Emily shrugged noncommittally, knowing that this had been all too common in his line of work, being so high in the conglomerate’s food chain, so to speak.

A shame, Preslan thought, for he had planned to collaborate with the manager on a most splendid marketing stunt. But, alas, that would have to wait until a new one could be found, if a new one could be found.

“C-Cratchit-sama, please! This work is very important to me, I cannot lose it now! Not before the holidays!” 

It surprised them all to see just how scared this woman actually was. She looked no older than her early twenties, clad in a crisp white uniform, her eyes pleading and red from what seemed like tears restrained. She held a tablet in her hands, clutching it as if her life depended on it.

“I understand, Miss Nakamura. Truly, I do.” Bob replied solemnly with a voice that carried both empathy and helplessness, raising his hands in defeat. “But the decision has come from higher up, my hands are tied just as much as yours are. You know how it is this time of year; they’ll find any excuse to cut costs.”

“B-But I have a little sister to take care of, and hospital bills to pay, I cannot just—”

“Mr. Marley? Is that you?” Bob interrupted the woman’s pleading, and I must stress that he did not mean to, but at the sight of his boss, he immediately straightened up and adjusted his coat, attempting to compose himself despite the grim situation.

“Cratchit.” Marley acknowledged, a sense of weariness etched into his tone as he barely batted an eye towards the manager. “What’s happening here?”

“I’m merely fulfilling the layoffs you requested, Mr. Marley.” Bob replied, almost monotonously. “Yukiko Nakamura is the manager for the establishment in this sector. After that, I have to speak with one Michael Hollis, the manager for the retail branch in Lakeside, and then it’s off to be with my family.”

Marley issued a brief glance over to Bob’s wife, who seemed to be just as distressed as Nakamura had been — plus a tad more annoyed than she had been before, even with her rambunctious children — and soon turned to avoid his gaze.

“I thought Scrooge gave you Christmas off?” Marley raised an eyebrow.

“W-Well, I just wanted to get these last few bits done before I headed off.” Bob replied, his words trailing off in a voice almost timid and soft.

Marley turned to Nakamura then, and by some false hope, her eyes lit up like the blessed star upon a Christmas tree. Scrooge and Preslan watched from the side, but it had been Scrooge who turned away from it all, impatiently tapping his foot against the floor.

“Y-You’re Jacob Marley-sama?” Nakamura cried, a glimmer of hope in her tearful eyes. “Please, I-I have given my all to this company, and I have always worked so hard! My little sister depends on me, and I cannot afford to lose my job now! I beg of you, please reconsider!”

Marley regarded Nakamura with an impassive expression. “I—”

Scrooge narrowed his eyes as the hushed whispers began to grow ever louder. Whispers between those who scorned them behind their backs and wailed beneath their feet, begging for a relief that never came.

“Has she gone mad?” 

“She’s asking the bloody Snake of London for mercy!”

“If Bob Hatchet wouldn’t let her, what makes her think she can plead to Marley?”

“She’s as desperate as a mouse before a viper.”

“I sure as hell won’t be drinking to a sight like this. Not for foul, parsimonious, stiff, unemotive men like Scrooge and Marley.” Emily threw her two pennies into the pot.

“My dear… it’s almost Christmas.” Bob chided gently.

“Well I really won’t drink to a couple like them!” Emily hissed under her breath, her head motioning to the men who had caused such strife. “The Shark and the Snake… why, they’re sure as hell right for each other, that’s for sure. It’s a wonder how they stand each other under the covers…”

“Emily!”

“Fine!” Emily rolled her eyes. “I won’t say another word. For your sake, not for theirs.”

Marley sighed inwardly, a lethargic weight upon his shoulders as the harsh reality of their positions and the judgments of those around them settled in. The store's atmosphere seemed to shift, the festive cheer outside the glass walls juxtaposed against the heavy tension within. Scrooge observed Marley with a mixture of concern and curiosity, wondering if his partner would break away from his stern, stoic demeanour.

Marley shook his head, trying to keep his dutiful nature in check. "Miss Nakamura, I understand that these are challenging times, especially during the holiday season. However, decisions regarding layoffs are made after careful consideration of the company's overall situation. It's not a decision made lightly, and I assure you, it's not a reflection of your dedication or hard work."

Nakamura's eyes brimmed with tears, and she desperately clutched the tablet in her hands. "Please, Marley-sama, I can do better! I can improve the performance of the branch! Just give me a chance, sir!"

Bob, standing beside her, interjected with a pleading look. "Mr. Marley, if I may… she's been an asset to our team. The issues we're facing are not entirely within her control. If there's any way we could reconsider—"

Scrooge, who had been observing in silence for far too long, finally spoke up. "Marley, we don't have time for individual appeals. The decision has been made, and we need to move on."

Marley glanced between Nakamura and Scrooge, torn between empathy and the cold efficiency that had been the hallmark of their business decisions. But the longer he had remained silent, the more sure that Yukiko Nakamura had been regarding the final stance. How could she not be sure? It had been Bob Cratchit himself who spoke to her, and Marley sure wasn’t responding to any of her pleas in the way she so desired. It was a sad situation, one that, I must confess, had been all too familiar in recent times. She was young, and young souls were often disposable to those who held the power to make or break their livelihoods. It was how kind, timid, soft old Bob Cratchit had been given the nickname Bob ‘Hatchet’. A sad affair, one that held much bitterness in the tongue of his wife, but it was an affair nonetheless.

But Nakamura looked at both of them with a pleading gaze for one final, desperate attempt, and then she at last slumped her shoulders, tilted her head down in shame, whispered murmured apologies, and made her way to the back to finally get her things. And soon Bob had left too, with his wife and Martha following closely along without a baby monitor, with Belinda and Peter without their laptop or their tablet, and with little Oliver and Zoe trailing disappointedly without their gaming console.

And Marley watched. Marley listened. Marley yearned.

“Sullivan… no, Preslan.” Marley corrected himself, his gaze still upon where the young woman had disappeared into the confines of the offices hidden from the public. “Tell me that I’d done the right thing by not speaking up.”

“I’ve seen that woman many times in me visits here.” Preslan replied. “She’s a bright lass, got a good head on her shoulders. But her younger sister got a nasty case of pneumonia, and this had been her only source of income.”

“Oh God… tell me I’ve not made a mistake.” Marley paled, turning to Scrooge for guidance.

“It’s unlikely that she’ll be able to find work at this time of the year.” Scrooge shook his head. “But really, Marley, why should you care? Why should we care? It is not as though it were you or I who sired them.”

Marley hung his head low, his heart stung by the words spoken from his own mouth, and was filled with a great penitence and grief that Scrooge remained dismally and wholly unaware of even when they at last left the store and into the long corridors of the shopping centre.

“Scrooge, Marley.” Preslan began with such a sternness that you would expect him to be the CEO, and they the prospective CMOs. “If either of ye’re human at heart and not just cogs in the rusty corporate machine, then ye cannot be entirely blind to the consequences of yer decisions. We’re all members of one body. We’re all responsible for each other.”

Scrooge shot Preslan a withering glare for even daring, while Marley, still burdened by guilt and chastened by the Irishman’s reprimand, lowered his eyes to the tiles below him.

Again they all sped on, past the shops and the stores that held no appeal. Upon the escalators crammed with people. They stood upon the concrete of the expansive parking lot and out into the crisp winter air, where the snow had lightly dusted the parked cars and their surroundings. Without Marley’s Vauxhall Velox to be their chariot, the couple had to instead settle for Preslan’s rather modest Ford Escort, which seemed to fit itself in nicely with the rest of the family cars littered about. Preslan ushered them towards his car, a mischievous glint in his eyes, as if he had another surprise up his sleeve.

"Now, lads, Don’t be lettin’ the doom and gloom settle in. We've got one final stop to make." Preslan declared, taking a long drink from a hip flask he kept on his person.

Scrooge, still mulling over the recent events, arched an eyebrow. "Another stop? What could be so urgent that it requires our immediate attention?"

Preslan grinned, the edges of his eyes crinkling with the infectious energy he seemed to exude. "Ye'll see, Mr. Scrooge. Ye'll see."

The trio huddled into the Ford Escort, Marley occupying the back seat while Scrooge took the front passenger seat. Preslan, with his robust presence, took the driver's seat, enthusiastically starting the engine. The car rolled out of the parking lot and back into the city, the tires humming against the asphalt.

As they navigated through the bustling streets, Preslan hummed a traditional Irish tune from his childhood, the melody weaving through the air with a certain lightness that contrasted the weight that lingered within the vehicle. Scrooge scrolled through the news apps on his phone, lost in thought, while Marley kept his gaze fixed on the passing scenery, the guilt still etched on his features as he wrung his hands together. Preslan, however, seemed undeterred by the heavy atmosphere. His infectious spirit didn't waver, and he occasionally glanced at the rearview mirror, his eyes catching Marley's reflective gaze. The radio, brought to life by Preslan’s nimble fingers, played the depressing overtones of the local media through static and grain.

“...Two children, a boy and a girl, have been caught up in a tragic fire at a local orphanage. Authorities are investigating the cause, but early reports suggest a faulty heating system. The caretakers had named the lost children as Ignatius and Wanette, and sources say—”

Preslan reached for the volume knob and turned it down, keeping his gaze on the road.

“What’s wrong?” Scrooge asked sarcastically, his gaze turned from his phone with a wry smile. “Don’t want to hear the grisly details of another unfortunate incident? Why, shouldn’t we help those poor kids in these trying times?”

“Ebenezer…” Marley began, an odd fury swelling within him.

“Just ‘cause I'm bothered about the outcomes of our deeds doesn't mean I'm keen on drownin' meself in the never-endin' reminder of the world's sorrows, or revellin' in it like some selfish knight in shiny armour, now." Preslan retorted, his eyes focused on the road ahead. "We can't save everyone, but we can make a difference where we can."

Scrooge chuckled dryly, "Well, aren't you the saviour of lost causes."

Preslan shot him a stern look. "No one’s e’er a lost cause, Scrooge. After all, ye yerself can’t forget where ye came from, bein’ sent away.”

Scrooge’s eyes widened with such implications. “How did—”

“Why, ye don’t remember, Scrooge?” Preslan formed a small smirk as he looked into his rearview mirror. “I was an investigative journalist.”

The thought alone was enough to make them white in the face, but if they had been so, they did well not to show it on their stoic countenances. None of them uttered anything of note for the rest of the trip — a few anecdotes of Preslan’s colourful past that seemed almost unnecessary considering the recent troubles — until they had at last reached their destination. They were surprised enough that the drive had been so short, a few minutes at most, and yet the afternoon sun had already dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the city streets. The car rolled to a stop in front of an inconspicuous building, and Preslan turned off the engine. The atmosphere inside the car shifted from tension to a curious anticipation.

"Here we are, lads! A wee bookstore I like to call me home away from home!"

The building before them was an old-fashioned, three-story townhouse, nestled among other buildings of similar vintage. The brick exterior had weathered years of London's unpredictable climate, but the warmth emanating from the windows hinted at a welcoming interior. Without another word, and having made it abundantly clear that he cared little for personal space, Preslan ushered them inside, and it was then that they all heard a joyous laugh, a rambunctious laugh. A laugh so affable that it could be considered contagious. The bell above the door jingled merrily as they stepped into the cosy bookstore. The interior was a delightful maze of shelves lined with books of every genre imaginable. The scent of old paper and ink wafted through the air, creating an atmosphere that transported them to a different era. Soft, warm lighting illuminated the space, casting a golden glow over the worn wooden floors. 

And through it all, the laughs continued. And by God, they were such joyous chuckles, chortles, and cackles! Why, if I have ever heard laughter that could be likened to a fine symphony, this would be it. And don’t you dare to presume that you could find such a creature blessed with joy such as this, I would very much like to introduce you to one Ebenezer L. P. Scrooge and Jacob A. T. Marley’s nephew, Fred. There he was, amidst the stacks of books, his face contorting in all manners of ways with a twinkle in his eye and a beaming smile that could light up the darkest corners of the shop.

“Hoy! Frederick! Keep your voice down or you’ll scare the customers!” Aurora Villanueva — a busty woman with greying black hair pinned by pens and pencils, and Fred’s mother in all but blood — chastised, before she muttered an apology to an eager supporter of her novels with a smile as she signed yet another one with a keen and swift flick of her wrist.

“Pasensya na po, Nay, but can you blame me?” Fred cried, wiping a tear from his eye. “You should have seen the way Tito Ben and Tito Jake looked at me when I burst into his office! I thought their heads were going to explode!”

“Now, Fred, you shouldn’t be interrupting people in their workplace, especially during such a busy time." Fan, Scrooge’s younger sister and a star in her own right, scolded gently as she tuned her guitar, a final gift from a mother she never knew.

Scrooge had nearly forgotten how she had looked, for she had been pretty; incredibly pretty, even as the years had begun to grey her once lustrous brown hair and etched worried lines on her face. He had not taken a second glance at his sister in… many, many years. Far too many for him to count. And why would he dare to spare a moment for her? It was she who abandoned him when their father had all but scorned him because of his romantic orientation, and Fan had chosen the life of love over loyalty. She had chosen Aurora over him, her own flesh and blood. And for that, Scrooge had resented her, condemned her even. But seeing her now, surrounded by the warmth and love that Fred and Aurora showered upon her, it all felt too much to bear. Far too much to bear.

“Sorry Mum.” Fred shrugged, unknowing of their new company who had been hidden behind some shelves. “I mean, I always found them weird in a way, and they’re far from nice to me. But it’s their lives, and I hold nothing against them, really.”

“Well, with how rich they are, you’d think they could afford to be a bit kinder.” Aurora quipped. “God knows they don’t give it to us.”

Fred merely smiled. “They could have all the money in the world and still be poorer than us, Nay. We've got love, and that's worth more than anything they could ever offer.”

“You’re far more forgiving to them than I am, Fred.” Fan observed, shaking her head. Her wife, as well as those they had taken in from the streets, expressed the same opinion.

“I’m more sorry for them, really.” Fred sighed sadly. “I get that I’m not as driven as Tito Ben, or as charming as Tito Jake, but they certainly don’t seem happy. I mean, when was the last time you saw them smile, Mum?”

“They have their own ways of expressing happiness, I suppose.” Fan replied diplomatically, avoiding a direct answer. “In any case, it’s their fault if they don’t want to join us for Christmas dinner.”

“Let them starve. They can wither into skeletons for all I care.” Aurora had finished the last of her signings, adjusted her glasses upon the bridge of her nose, and gave Fan a quick peck on the cheek. “Speaking of dinner, would you like some food, Topper? We have leftover pancit.”

Topper Fezziwig — the good-natured and rebellious son of Scrooge’s old flame — had been clearly enamoured and with a longing gaze towards his best friend, Fred, since childhood, and responded with a polite and succinct agreement, wrapping an arm around his dearest companion and wishing to never let go.

“It’s funny, really.” Fred laughed, squeezing Topper’s hand. “Tito Ben and Tito Jake… they’re Ebenezer Scrooge and Jacob Marley. The power couple that everyone talks about in the corporate world. The Shark and Snake of London. But is it so great to be so scary? To instil fear into the hearts of everyone within a hundred-mile radius?” 

“Scary? Nah, I think it’s more sad than scary.” Topper chimed in, leaning against his shoulder. “I mean, they’re successful, sure, but what’s the point if you’re miserable and everyone around you is too?”

Fred nodded in agreement. “Exactly, Topper. I’d rather be the shitshow who brings a smile to people's faces than the feared and respected man who leaves a trail of misery behind."

“Language, Fred!” Aurora scolded, wagging her finger at him.

“Sorry, Nay. But it’s true! They’re like… well, I was going to say ghosts, but that would be insulting to our actual ghosts.” Fred chuckled.

Aurora turned to Fan. “Do you see what you’ve done, Fan? You’ve raised an insolent son.”

Fan laughed, embracing Fred. “I wouldn’t have him any other way.”

They laughed until they could laugh no more at the thought of their missing family members — though Scrooge and Marley longed to make a move, Preslan had kept them thoroughly obscured from view — and passed along the Filipino delicacy with such exuberance that its symbolism for a long and prosperous life had seemed almost as real as it had been believed.

And when all of the food had at last been cleared away and the poor souls without a home or family had been thoroughly fed with all they could stomach, Fan had taken to her stage atop a sturdy wooden table, picked up her guitar, and strummed a beautiful tune.

Now, for those unaware, I felt it prudent to discuss Fan’s profession as a whole, or else we would be doing her a great disservice. Fan Villanueva, née Scrooge, was a singer-songwriter, a performer, and an artist of the highest order. From London to New York, Tokyo to Rio, Paris to Singapore, her soulful voice and heartfelt lyrics had captivated audiences worldwide. Her songs spoke of love, loss, and the intricate dance of life, resonating with the struggles and triumphs of the human experience. She had been a rising star, a beacon of artistic brilliance in a world often overshadowed by corporate greed and heartless ambition.

As she strummed the first chords, the bookstore fell into a hushed silence. The soft melody wrapped around the room, filling the air with a gentle warmth. Fan closed her eyes, her fingers dancing gracefully on the strings, and began to sing a song that seemed to transcend time and space. It was a song of hope, of love, and of the enduring spirit that bound humanity together. Scrooge and Marley, though unknown to all there, couldn't help but be moved by the ethereal performance. Fan's voice carried with it a certain magic, a healing balm for weary souls. Preslan, sensing the gravity of the moment, stood silently, his eyes fixed on Fan as if he, too, had been transported to a different realm.

The verses unfolded like chapters in a cherished book, each note a brushstroke on the canvas of shared memories. It was a poignant reminder of the beauty that could be found in the simplest moments, in the connections between people, and in the power of compassion. And as Fan sang, her eyes finally met those of her brother, hidden in the shadows. There, in the depths of his gaze, she saw a glimmer of the family she once knew, the one who had been lost to the cold embrace of ambition and bitterness. For a fleeting moment, the barriers erected by time and circumstance seemed to crumble, and the siblings shared a silent understanding that transcended words.

For they might as well have been dead to each other. Estranged souls in the vast expanse of life.

When the final notes lingered in the air, Fan opened her eyes, the spell upon them both shattering in an instant, and Scrooge, perhaps unable to take the sights or the sounds or the smells any longer, left without so much as a single word. Preslan remained behind, but Marley lingered — tick, tock, tick, tock — hands clenched into fists filled with unspoken thoughts before he joined him. For he finally had enough. And everyone knows too well that when someone has had enough, words are spoken. Some are harsh, some are kind, but all are the truth if they will themselves to be so.

Scrooge was still some ways away, but Marley kept up with him despite the biting cold nipping at his heels and slithering into his being. One step, then another. Each movement held weight and strength. A stiffness only circumvented by the will of his shifting heart.

“Scrooge!” Marley called, keeping his brisk pace.

Silence.

“Scrooge, have you even been listening to what Preslan’s saying?” Marley was gaining.

More silence.

“Damn it, Ebenezer, look at me!”

Marley grasped his partner’s hand with a force that stopped him in his tracks. They stood in the quietude of a humble park, the shadow of the late evening bleeding into the darkness of the night. When Marley had taken his hand, they had stood under a large oaken tree, its branches bare and reaching towards the heavens like gnarled fingers against the canvas of midnight. There were no leaves to rustle against the wind, but the wind blew nonetheless, and a breeze caressed their faces with the cold touch of the season. But, if I were to be blunt and speak my mind, I’d find that Scrooge’s chill seemed more adamant as a barrier than Marley’s ever was, or ever would be.

“What do you want, Jacob?” Scrooge didn’t flinch away from Marley’s hand, but he was more than willing to if the harshness of his tone was enough indication.

Marley narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean by ‘what do I want’? This isn’t about me and you know it.”

“What is it about, then?” Scrooge rolled his eyes. “Because I don’t need another mouthpiece for Sullivan’s sermons. Especially not from you.”

“What do you want me to say, then?” Marley said, raising his voice.

“That Preslan Sullivan is a fool and we shouldn’t even consider him for the role of CMO. That this constant insistence on the spirit of Christmas and compassion and empathy isn’t worth shit. It’s not how the world works, Jacob. It’s not how our world works.”

Marley sighed, frustration evident on his face. "I'm not advocating for blind idealism, Ebenezer. I've lived in this world long enough to know it's not all rainbows and sunshine. But there has to be a balance. We can't keep pushing people away, treating them as nothing but cannon fodder, or shields to hide our misdeeds! Look at what happened today with Nakamura, or hell, even yesterday with Miss Talon and FezziTech! Can you stand here and tell me that it was all worth it?"

"What's the point, Jacob? What difference can we make in the grand scheme of things? People suffer, people rejoice, and the world keeps turning. It's all fleeting, transient." Scrooge retorted. “The lengths men and women would go to keep their secrets are as amazing as they are whimsical. A man of charity can turn to thievery. A flowered virgin can resort to copulation. A noble can fall from grace. A pauper can rise to glory. If you control the flow of secrets, you control human vulnerability. A man has to make his own way, and so long as he does that he won't come to much harm. We are Scrooge and Marley, Jacob. The Shark and the Snake. We stopped playing nice long ago when the world denied us our rights and our happiness.”

“And that gives us the right to do the same?!” Marley tightened his grip on Scrooge’s hand. “Fucking hell… we’re blackmailers, Ebenezer! Fucking! Blackmailers! We can posture about as men of business until it’s shoved so far up our arses that we can’t even see it anymore, but at the end of the day, that is what we are! We're responsible for the livelihoods and homes of tens of thousands! Why aren't we conducting ourselves as men of clemency?! Men of tolerance?! Of goodwill?!”

Scrooge yanked his hand away, snapping and snarking. “And why do you care now, Jacob? Would you still care about sentimentality if I gave you the latest phone? Or the keys to a bloody Ferrari?”

“I don’t want your things, Ebenezer!” Marley’s eyes brimmed with tears, but he refused to let them fall, biting on his tongue. “I want you! I want the man I love! I want the man I married!”

Scrooge blinked. Once. Twice. Thrice. He stared into Marley’s pleading green eyes, once shining with the emerald effervescence of a viper, now dulled by the burdens of time and the weight of their sins. A snake rarely ever shows its pain, the prideful creature as unyielding in its composure as it is in its venom. But in that moment, as the cold winds rustled through the barren branches above, as the shadows danced around them in the twilight, Marley’s heart was laid bare for the world to see and for him to see.

“We’re not married, Jacob.” Scrooge kept his voice level, with nary a single tremor even as he felt something prick his eyes. “I thought you knew that.”

Oh, and how the words stabbed deep into Marley’s bleeding heart, twisting and turning like a cruel dagger from a play of tragedy and ambition. Those who knew of his existence often fancied him to be more of an elusive spectre than a man, and yet, in that vulnerable moment, Jacob Marley felt the sharp pang of reality. The reality that he had long denied, buried beneath layers of ambition, power, and the facade of indifference. 

It was often said that Marley had always denied their relationship as nothing more than a simple arrangement, but it would be clear to anyone with a semblance of understanding that such a denial ran far deeper. It was love, pure and simple, yet so very maligned and complicated. A monstrous being unlike any other, for it was a monster borne with a golden crown and held a thorny sceptre. A love that had been both their solace and their torment, hidden away in the secret chambers of their hearts, draped in the tattered cloak of shame. The love that dared not speak its name, drowned out by the cacophony of their ruthless pursuits and the echoes of past betrayals.

But what did it matter? Should it have mattered? Marley had been the Snake of London, after all, so such things — such feelings — must have been beneath him!

Then it is time I tell you, dear reader, just how truly wrong you are. Because Marley was human, and he bled like any human. The only difference had been that he had bled far too much, and sooner or later, he would run out of blood to give to a man who had shaped him just as much as they shaped each other.

Marley turned away, unable to meet Scrooge’s gaze any longer. But before he had, he offered him a smile. A smile he used only in performances and in showcases, towards investors and stakeholders. A perfect smile as he charmed all with his prose and all his wit. The smile that was as hollow as the eyes that beheld it.

"Fine, Scrooge. You win." Marley said, his voice strained but defiant. "Go on, revel in your indifference and relish your victories. The Shark of London, the cunning inventor who navigates the cold seas of capitalism without a hint of remorse. I hope it brings you the happiness you so desperately seek."

Scrooge’s eyes widened, and he felt a peculiar squeeze against his chest as he reached out too late. “Jacob, wait—”

“Don’t come crying to me for comfort, because I have none to give. I’m as damned as much as you are.”

Jacob Marley stood, Ebenezer Scrooge left, and the rings felt tighter upon both of their fingers.

And when there had been no sign of Preslan in sight, another came in his stead. An unexpected guest, to be sure, but when at last that guest had spoken of his plight, Marley felt a stirring of his own. A new chance? A new beginning? He had not been so sure. But he offered anyway. Because how else could he save his sorry soul? What else could he do in such a situation?

Tagged: @rom-e-o@crimson-phantom-designs@quill-pen@a-christmas-carol-from-hr@ray-painter@pinkytoothlesso11

[legends-of-time]

The Journey of Living at Downton

Chapter 21: Early August 1920

Masterlist

Billy had agreed to stay at Downton with Sybil so that their child could be born in the house and so she doesn't have to travel as much to see her family while so heavily pregnant. Emma is ecstatic when she finds out.

It is rather convenient as only a week after the arrangement is made Emma is awoken to find out that Sybil is having pains which means she may or may not start giving birth at any moment. The young woman has never gotten up so fast. Tom chuckles at his wife as she rushes to Sybil's room.

Emma stands with Sybil's mother and sisters as Dr Clarkson checks on her.

"The pains have stopped. Nothing will happen yet." Dr Clarkson tells them. They then join the men waiting in the Hall.

"Everything is fine." Dr Clarkson tells them. Billy sighs with relief.

"You mean it was a false alarm?" Lord Grantham states.

"Not exactly." Dr Clarkson replies. "These early labour pains show that the womb is preparing itself for birth." Lord Grantham pulls a face at his words.

"Dr Clarkson, I'm afraid Lord Grantham doesn't enjoy medical detail." His wife remarks. "The point is, can we all go back to bed?"

"You can." Dr Clarkson tells them. "And so can I."

"I'll see you out," Mary says.

"Sir Philip Tapsell will be here tomorrow." Lord Grantham says.

Dr Clarkson seems slightly offended by his statement. "Of course. If you think it advisable."

"There really is nothing wrong?" Billy asks him.

"Nothing at all." Dr Clarkson reassures. "She is a healthy young woman going through a very normal and natural process."

——

Emma wakes the next morning and soon after breakfast, she is sat with Sybil and Mary.

"I'm the size of a house. My back hurts, my ankles are swelling, and my head aches. Honestly, I cannot recommend this to anyone." Sybil complains.

"I could've told you that." Emma quips, smiling.

"I am listening, but of course, I'm dying to start one of my own," Mary responds.

Sybil looks up at her eldest sister. "So, you're not waiting?"

"Waiting for what?"

"I don't know, but I did wonder."

"Well, there's no need to worry about that just yet," Emma says. She knows there's more than enough time for Mary and Matthew before there's need for any worry. "Though I can tell you all this talk of babies make me think of the christening and how glad I am that Ivy was baptised in Dublin and not Downton. Can you imagine?"

"Blimey," Mary says. "But it was what you wanted and not Tom's?"

"Oh, I didn't mind. And I love Tom so very, very much." Emma replies.

"Billy doesn't care how we baptise the baby, as long as I'm happy. He is giving me complete control. He probably feels bad because I'm exhausted and in pain." Sybil explains.

Emma laughs. "That's Billy."

Sybil chuckles. Both Mary and Emma can tell she needs to sleep some more.

Mary stands. "We'll let you rest."

——

"Quite a few of the cottages have been renovated," Matthew says as he, Mary, Emma and Tom take a walk around the grounds.

"Thanks to you." Mary compliments.

"Maybe a little thanks to me," Matthew replies.

"Many of the farms seem abandoned," Tom says.

"It is because many of them have been left entirely to their own devices," Matthew explains. "Coulter hasn't farmed this properly for 20 years. He struggles to pay the rent, which is too low anyway. There's been no... investment."

"Papa would say you can't abandon people just because they grow old," Mary says.

"I agree, but it would be cheaper to give him a free cottage and work this land as it should be worked," Matthew argues.

"That makes sense but you don't think Lord Grantham understands that?" Tom asks.

"Maybe he harks back to a time when money was abundant," Matthew complains. "There wasn't much need to keep on top of it. I think he equates being business-like with being mean. Or worse, middle-class like me."

"Being middle class means you actually have some business skills," Emma remarks. Mary gives her a reprimanding look, which would have been effective if it weren't for the smile on her face.

"Well, the middle classes have their virtues, and husbandry is one," Matthew says.

"We ought to get back," Mary tells them. "Sir Philip thingy's due on the seven o'clock train. Mathew and Tom ought to be there to hold Billy's hand."

"Poor fellow. He's so terrified, and so thrilled at the same time. As I would be. As I WILL be." Matthew says. Emma sees that Mary looks uncomfortable.

——

The last thing that Emma wants to do is sit around at dinner while Sybil could give birth at any moment, but alas, she is sitting at dinner with Sir Philip.

"The dear Duchess of Truro is full of your praises, Sir Philip. Then, of course, you know that." The Dowager compliments from between Lord Grantham and Billy. On Billy's right is Matthew then Emma then Lady Grantham, Sir Philip, Mary, Tom and Edith.

"She had quite a time when she was first married, but I said to her, 'Never fear, Duchess, I'll get a baby out of you one way or another'." He replies, causing Lord Grantham to choke on his drink. Emma chuckles at this, holding her drink over her mouth to hide her laughter.

"And so you did." The Dowager continues to cover up her son's faux pas.

"Three boys, and as a result, a secure dynasty, I'm glad to say." Emma rolls her eyes. Does this man honestly believe he can control the sex of a baby?

Emma notices Matthew staring at Mary during this statement. She realises then that Mathew must be thinking about the lack of pregnancy in their marriage as well.

"But you see no complications here?" Lord Grantham asks.

"None at all. Lady Sybil is a perfect model of health and beauty."

"We told our local doctor we'd send a message to him when it looks as if the baby's coming." Lady Grantham says.

"Dr Clarkson has known us all since we were girls," Mary explains.

"Yet what's needed here, Lady Mary, is a knowledge of childbirth, nothing more." Sir Philip corrects, which Emma frowns at. "But if it soothes you, then of course. He's most welcome." 

——

Emma misses breakfast downstairs the next morning and has it in bed as Ivy had been particularly fussy and wouldn't settle.

When Emma comes downstairs, she meets with a mildly excited Edith.

"Edith? What is it?"

"The editor of The Sketch wants me to write for him. He saw my letter to The Times, and wants to give me a regular column." Edith explains.

Emma's eyes widen. "This is amazing! What would it be about?"

"I can write about whatever I like but papa only thinks they want my name and title and nothing else," Edith says sadly.

"Well, he's wrong," Emma argues. "The editor has seen what you have to say and is interested in more, I'm sure that's all it is."

"I hope you're right," Edith says.

——

Emma is further uplifted by the news that Anna may have found the evidence needed to prove Mr Bates' innocence from his ex-wife's friend.

Mary, Emma and Edith make their way downstairs before dinner.

"Gemma says Daisy is being harsh to the Kitchen maid, Ivy." Emma is saying to the two sisters.

"I honestly find it funny that your daughter and the new Kitchen maid have the same last name." Mary chuckles.

"It's a nice name!" Emma defends.

"Even so, I hope it resolves itself," Edith says. They meet Billy at the bottom of the stairs.

"Are we the first down? How is Sybil?" Mary asks him.

"Sleeping, thank God. She's been restless all afternoon. I don't think it'll be long now." Billy replies anxiously.

"I'm sorry it couldn't have been in Southampton," Emma says.

"We know how much it meant," Edith adds.

"Nothing means more than she does." They smile at his words and head towards the Drawing room.

——

"And you're sure you have everything you need?" Lord Grantham is asking as they enter.

"Quite sure." Sir Philip answers. Emma notices the Dowager has joined them for dinner. Lord Grantham, Matthew and Sir Philip had been in a huddle but split when Emma, Mary, Edith and Billy walk in. Emma quickly walks over to stand with Tom, who's standing next to where Lady Grantham sits.

"Hello, Granny. You're here. How nice." Edith greets her grandmother with a kiss on the cheek before sitting on the settee next to her.

"Your grandmother will be with us every night until the baby's born." Lady Grantham explains.

"I hate to get news second-hand." The woman remarks.

"Well, you won't have long to wait." Sir Philip says.

"I thought I'd bring up Dr Clarkson after we've eaten." Lady Grantham says to her husband, who immediately looks uncomfortable. Emma can't help but wonder what he's done.

"Yes, I've been talking to Lord Grantham about the good doctor." Sir Philip says. Emma doesn't like his tone.

"Sir Philip feels the room would be too crowded. It might be better to leave old Clarkson out of it for the time being." Lord Grantham explains.

"But I said I'd telephone." Lady Grantham says.

"Well, it really isn't necessary." Sir Philip argues.

"I've given him my word." Lady Grantham insists, looking challengingly at her husband.

"Why don't I run down in the car after dinner, and fetch him?" Edith suggests to diffuse the conversation.

——

Emma, Edith, the Dowager, Lord Grantham, Mary, Tom, Billy, Sir Philip, Lady Grantham and Matthew all sit tensely and quietly at dinner.

Emma frowns when she sees Jimmy and Alfred walk in as the former seems to be acting as the first footman despite only being second. She can see Mr Carson looks displeased but doesn't say anything as Jimmy leans down to serve.

Lady Grantham sighs. "There's nothing more tiring than waiting for something to happen." Billy lets out a small smile but still looks anxious.

"Edith, have you written back to your editor yet?" Matthew asks across Emma to Edith.

"What's this?" The Dowager asks.

"Edith has had an invitation to write a newspaper column," Matthew explains.

"When may she expect an offer to appear on the London stage?" The Dowager remarks.

Edith sighs and turns to Matthew. "See?" Clearly, Edith has told Matthew all about the lack of faith the family often shows.

Suddenly the door opens and the Nurse who's been staying with Sybil walks in. The family stands.

"Oh, God, is it beginning?" Billy asks. Sir Philip simply smiles and guides the expectant father out of the room.

——

Dinner is suspended and Dr Clarkson arrives. He checks on Sybil before reporting to them all, except Billy, in the Library.

"What do you mean, 'concerned'?" Lord Grantham asks.

"Lady Sybil's ankles are swollen. She seems... muddled." Dr Clarkson explains.

"What sort of muddled?" Lady Grantham asks.

"Not quite there, not quite in the present moment."

"And what do you think it means?" Mary asks.

"It means she's having a baby." Sir Philip declares. Lord Grantham chuckles.

"A word, Dr Clarkson." Sir Philip says.

"Excuse me." The two doctors walk out of the room.

"Sir Philip mustn't bully him into silence." Lady Grantham warns.

Lord Grantham sits down. "My dear, this is just Clarkson's professional pride, like barbers asking who last cut your hair. They always want to be better than any other practitioner." Emma frowns at his words.

"Surely it's more than that and we must listen to what he has to say." Emma points out.

"I quite agree." The Dowager says.

"I don't want to hurt Sir Philip's feelings."

"If there's one thing that I'm quite indifferent to it's Sir Philip Tapsell's feelings." His mother retorts.

——

Emma and Lady Grantham share Dr Clarkson's concerns and go with him to Sybil and Billy's room.

"Now what?" Sir Philip huffs when they enter. Anna is following after them with a glass of warm milk for Sybil.

"I want to test the latest sample of her urine." Dr Clarkson says.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake."

"Just give the order to the Nurse, please, Sir Philip." Lady Grantham says. Sir Philip reluctantly does so. Dr Clarkson, with Emma and Lady Grantham trailing after him, goes to the bed where Sybil sits and Billy sits in the bed next to her, holding her hand. Emma takes in the sight of the trembling and sweating woman on the bed.

"How's the young mother doing?" Dr Clarkson asks Sybil.

"Am I on duty, Dr Clarkson?" Sybil suddenly asks.

"What?" Dr Clarkson is taken aback and Emma can't blame him. This just confirms that Sybil is muddled.

Sybil begins to shake her head. "Only I swear I'm not on duty, otherwise I wouldn't be lying here."

"No. No, you're not on duty." Doctor Clarkson reassures.

Emma looks to Lady Grantham, worry etched onto her face.

Sybil grasps Emma's hand. "Emma, can you cover me, please? I shouldn't be on duty." She pleads.

"Um, yes, of course," Emma replies. Sybil moans and hyperventilates.

——

"It's my belief that Lady Sybil is at risk of eclampsia." Dr Clarkson tells them all with the exception of Billy and Sybil.

"What is that?" Lord Grantham asks Sir Philip. Emma can't help but feel irritated by his exclusion of Dr Clarkson.

"A rare condition from which she is NOT suffering." Sir Philip corrects.

"Tell him why you think she may be." Lady Grantham urges.

"Her baby is small, she is confused, and there is far too much albumen that is, protein in her urine." Dr Clarkson explains.

"Dr Clarkson, please! Have you forgotten my mother is present?" Lord Grantham complains.

"Please. A woman of my age can face reality far better than most men." His mother remarks.

"The fact remains, if I am right, we must act at once." Dr Clarkson declares.

"And do what?" Mary asks.

"Get her down to the Hospital, and deliver the child by Caesarean section."

"But is that safe?" Emma questions. She had heard that in this time period c-sections were not as safe as they will be in her time.

"It is the opposite of safe." Sir Philip answers. "It would expose mother and child to untold danger. She could pick up any kind of infection in a public Hospital."

"An immediate delivery is the only chance of avoiding the fits brought on by the trauma of natural birth! It may not work, but–"

"Honesty at last." Sir Philip interrupts. "Even if she were at risk from eclampsia, which she is NOT, a caesarean is a gamble which might kill either or both of them."

Lord Grantham rubs his forehead, stressed. "I think we must support Sir Philip in this."

"But it's not our decision," Mary argues. "What does Billy say?"

"Billy has not hired Sir Philip." Her father counters. "He is not master here, and I will not put Sybil at risk on a whim. If you are sure, Sir Philip?"

"I am quite, quite certain." Sir Philip replies.

"You're being ridiculous. Obviously, we have to talk to Billy." Lady Grantham argues.

Lord Grantham looks to his mother, who retorts, "Don't look at me. Cora is right. The decision lies with the ship builder."

——

"Could we get her to the Hospital?" Billy asks as they stand in the Upper corridor. They had just explained to him what is happening.

"To move her would be tantamount to murder." Sir Philip argues.

"Sir Philip, admit you're beginning to detect the symptoms yourself." Dr Clarkson counters. "You can see her distress!"

"Can you?" Lady Grantham asks.

"Yes, Lady Sybil is in distress. She's about to give birth." Emma rubs her forehead, her irritation with this man is giving her a headache.

Dr Clarkson turns his begging elsewhere. "Lord Grantham, Mr Prior, time is running out. We'd be at the Hospital by now if we'd acted at once. The baby would be born."

"If she has the operation now, do you swear you can save her?" Billy asks.

"I cannot swear it, no." Dr Clarkson admits. "But if we do not operate, and I am right about her condition, then she will die."

"If, if!" Sir Philip complains. "Lord Grantham, can you please take command?"

"Billy, Dr Clarkson is not sure he can save her. Sir Philip is certain he can bring her through it with a living child." Lord Grantham argues. "Isn't a certainty stronger than a doubt?"

"Robert, I don't mean to insult Sir Philip, but Dr Clarkson knows Sybil. He's known her all her life." His wife begs.

"So, you'd take her to the Hospital?" Billy asks his mother-in-law.

"I would've taken her an hour ago!" Sybil screams in the distance.

"God help us!" Billy mutters. The screams continue. Emma runs to Sybil's room with Billy, Mary, Edith and Lady Grantham following.

——

Lots of screaming later, Sybil finally gives birth to a baby girl.

Sybil smiles at her daughter, cradling her. "Oh, Emma." She murmurs. "Our daughters are the same age."

"I'm sure they'll be very close," Emma replies with a warm smile. "Someone needs to tell Billy."

"I'll do it," Mary says and hurries out of the room.

Billy soon returns and embraces his wife and child.

——

"Congratulations," Matthew says to Billy, patting him on the shoulder, as they join him, Lord Grantham and Tom in the Upper corridor.

"Thank you." Billy happily replies.

Lady Grantham is slower in coming out of the room. She happily grabs her husband's hands and gives him a kiss. "I'm sorry we doubted."

"No. As to that, Lady Grantham, it's always a good idea to forget most of what was said during the waiting time, and simply enjoy the result." Sir Philip cheerfully replies and shakes Lord Grantham's hand. Emma looks at Dr Clarkson, who doesn't look pleased and this makes her stomach twist uncomfortably.

"Is there anything more to be done?" Mary asks Sir Philip.

"Not really. The Nurse will stay with her, and so I suggest we all get some sleep, and meet again refreshed in the morning." Sir Philip answers.

——

The happiness doesn't last for long and in the night, the Nurse frantically wakes them up. Emma and Tom rush to Sybil's room with Edith and Matthew while Mary wakes her parents. Billy is already there with the doctors and stands beside Sybil, who is wincing in pain as she hyperventilates.

Mary joins them as Dr Clarkson checks on Sybil, who is trying to speak but it comes out all incoherently. Dr Clarkson moves away and Billy and Emma step forward.

"Can you hear me, darling? It's Billy." He says, attempting to soothe her.

"I need to be getting up."

"No, my darling."

"I need to—" Sybil begins crying.

"Darling, all you need to do is rest."

Sybil cries out in pain. "My head. Oh, my head! My head!" She hits her forehead repeatedly.

Emma strokes her head. "Sybil, calm down, let me bathe your forehead."

Mary passes her a wet cloth and she begins dabbing against Sybil's forehead, trying to soothe the woman. Sybil's head tilts backwards.

"It hurts! It hurts!"

"What's happening?" Lord Grantham demands when he and his wife enter. Sybil seems to begin choking as if having a seizure.

Emma shakes her, attempting to speak to her. "Sybil?" She cries.

"Oh, God. Oh, God! God, no, no!" Billy cries

"What the hell is happening? Sir Philip?" Lord Grantham demands to know.

"Sybil? She can't hear me. Sybil? Sybil, it's Mary. Can you hear me?" Mary desperately shakes her sister but she can't get through as Sybil seizes, her airways closing.

"It looks as if–" Sir Philip begins.

"It looks as if what?" Lady Grantham demands.

"This is eclampsia." Emma hears Dr Clarkson inform. Mary, Emma, Billy and Lady Grantham crowd around Sybil.

"Sybil. Sybil." Emma tries. "She can't hear us."

"Somebody do something!" Matthew yells from the end of the bed.

"The human life is unpredictable." Sir Philip defends. Emma wants to strangle the man.

"But you were so sure!" Lord Grantham insists.

"What can we do?" Tom asks.

"Help her, help her, please!" Billy shouts. Sybil hyperventilates and wheezes.

"Please," Emma screams. "Just breathe, Sybil, please."

"Oh, God, no!" Billy weeps.

"Dr Clarkson, shall we take her to the Hospital?" Edith asks.

"There's nothing that can be done." Dr Clarkson replies. Emma's stomach twists in knots.

"It's not possible, not these days!" Matthew retorts.

"Once the seizures have started, there's nothing to be done."

"But you don't agree with him do you, Sir Philip?" Lord Grantham insists but he doesn't get a reply.

"Please, don't leave me. Help her, help her, please! What's happening?!" Billy begs.

"She can't breathe," Mary says desperately.

"Please, please, just breathe." Billy cradles his wife's head as she tosses and turns.

"There has to be something worth trying!" Lord Grantham yells at the Doctors.

"Come on, come on, breathe, love," Billy begs.

"Come on, Sybil." Her mother encourages pleadingly.

"Breathe, love. Come on. Sybil? Listen, it's me, my darling. All you need to do is breathe." Billy continues. "What's happening? Please breathe, love! Please!"

"Please." Lady Grantham weeps.

Everyone is around Sybil, trying to help her but there is little to be done as she continues to seize. Emma watches as her skin turns a grey-blue.

"She can't breathe." Mary cries before taking in her sister's appearance and stepping back in shock.

"Sybil." Emma pleads. "Sybil, wake up, please."

There's a ringing in her ears, nothing is processing with her as she sees her best friend dead. Her best friend laying there dead because they hadn't listened to Dr Clarkson. She is gone. Emma feels as if someone has ripped out her heart.

"Please, love. No, no!" Billy continues.

"No, no..." Lady Grantham sobs.

"Please wake up. Please don't leave me." Billy begs, shaking his wife. "Please wake up, love. Please don't leave me! Please don't leave me, love!"

Doctor Clarkson leans over to take her pulse. He walks away, shaking his head. Lady Grantham and Billy continue sobbing and begging.

Emma sees Lord Grantham walk forward to look at his daughter. "But this can't be. She's 24 years old. This cannot be." Emma can't look at him right now. 

Emma stands, sobbing. "She's dead, she's dead, she's dead." She whimpers as Tom holds her up. "Oh, God."

If he wasn't there, she would have fallen to the ground. Through her tears, Emma spots Mary watching her. Mary stares at her, tears in her eyes as she notices how much pain Emma is in. She takes a few steps towards her, embracing her as they cry.

The sound of crying comes from the direction of the Nursery. The baby.

——

The next morning Emma is back in Sybil's room, now dressed in black. Tom has joined her, not wanting her to be alone again. He stands behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders as he traces his thumbs in circles. Billy sits next to her by the bed and Mary sits on a chair in the corner.

"The men from Grassby's have arrived." Edith notifies as she enters the room.

Billy doesn't look away from Sybil. "To take her away?"

"Yes. And we must let them." Mary speaks up.

Billy moves away from the bed, not being able to watch them take her. Emma watches him solemnly. Mary stands up and walks forward with Edith following.

The eldest Crawley daughter leans over the youngest. "Goodbye, my darling." Mary gives Sybil's forehead a kiss. Edith does the same.

"She was the only person living who always thought you and I were such nice people," Mary murmurs.

"Oh, Mary..." Edith's voice cracks. "Do you think we might get along a little better in the future?"

"I doubt it," Mary replies. "But since this is the last time we three will all be together in this life, let's love each other now, as sisters should." The two sisters pull each other into a hug.

They step away and Emma walks over to Sybil. "I'll look after her don't worry. Our daughters will be the best of friends, just like you wanted, I promise." She murmurs before giving her a kiss on the forehead as well. She steps back and tries to hold back her sobs. She feels Tom wrapping an arm around and she clings to him.

They leave the room so that Billy can say goodbye to his wife alone.

——

They are gathered in the Drawing room. Isobel, Matthew, Tom, Lord and Lady Grantham, Edith, Mary and Emma. The men stand while the rest of them sit on the various pieces of furniture.

"Ah, Mama." Lord Grantham greets when his mother walks in. Edith and Mary stand to greet their grandmother.

"Oh, my dears." The Dowager says, brushing her hand over her daughter-in-law's shoulder before kissing the cheeks of her remaining granddaughters. To Emma, she seems frailer than usual.

"You'll be glad to know they've found a nurse for the baby. She is already here." Lord Grantham informs her.

"Good, good. Where's Billy?" The Dowager asks.

"He's upstairs. I've asked if he wants anything. He says no." Edith replies, sitting down next to Mary, who has already sat down.

"He wants his wife back, but that's what he can't have." Lady Grantham says, looking as if she's only just holding herself together, before standing. "I must write to Dr Clarkson and have it sent down before dinner." She turns to leave.

"Darling, there's no need for that." Her husband responds.

"I should. I want to." She says quickly. "I have to apologise for our behaviour."

"What? Why?" Mary questions.

"Because if we'd listened to him, Sybil might still be alive. But Sir Philip and your father knew better, and now she's dead." Her mother replies harshly. Emma honestly can't blame her for feeling this way.

"Why... Why did she say that?" The Dowager asks her son.

"Because there is some truth in it." He replies.

"My dear, when tragedies strike, we try to find someone to blame." His mother argues. "In the absence of a suitable candidate, we usually blame ourselves. You are not to blame. No-one is to blame. Our darling Sybil has died during childbirth, like too many women before her, and all we can do now..." she swallows thickly, "...is cherish her memory, and her child."

"Nevertheless, there is truth in it." He simply responds.

——

It had been a while since she had been to the Courtyard but Emma feels like she needs to be in a familiar setting.

"Well, this seems familiar." Emma hears someone say behind her. She turns to see Thomas standing behind her. She notes his red eyes and splotchy cheeks as if he's just been crying.

"Hi." Her voice is scratchy from her own crying. Thomas walks up to stand next to her. They stand quietly, looking at the stars.

"I miss the old days." Thomas then says. "You and me talking."

"Me too," Emma replies. "We don't see each other much these days, do we?"

"No, you had to go and get married. To Mr Branson." Emma snorts at the distaste in his voice.

"Well, I like him," Emma remarks. They chuckle before going quiet.

"How's the baby?" Thomas quietly asks, tentative.

Emma gives him a sad smile. "She's doing well. There's nothing wrong. Ivy seems interested in this new addition. I've moved Ivy into the Nursery so two of them have each other for company."

Thomas snorts. "It's funny your daughter has the same name as the new Kitchen maid."

Emma rolls her eyes. "In my defence, I named my daughter before this other Ivy turned up at Downton." They chuckle.

"Things are going to be different now," Emma says after a moment. "Who knows what's coming."

"We'll have to be ready," Thomas responds.

——

A/N: I had missed doing Thomas scenes, I wanted a call back to the old days.

Please leave comments on how you're enjoying this story and what you think.

Also, I'm so sorry.

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[whatdoesshedotothem]

[KISS] Wednesday 1 August 1832

10 ½

11 ½

she could only sleep on the right side last night  it was well she was ready for me without any trouble moving a pretty good kiss on getting into bed and another about an hour after she nothing loth and seeming to have had two good ones said after the first she thought I had done her good and in the midst of the second said how delightful tried to go to sleep but M- suffered much from her ear - up about 2 to get some camphorated spirit of wine - then again up at 4 ½ and I got up too and rubbed her ear with brandy - then thought of Eau de cologne, and bathed her ear with that - the fomentation with hot water before getting into bed last night had relieved for the time but done no permanent good - both had a disturbed night - lay about an hour talking this morning if she saw me at all before my leaving England should see me at Leamington where they would probably spend the winter  I made no definite replay thinking of myself she talks of if she sees me at all but I avoided making any unpleasant remark and all went off well  Cordingley came to say I was wanted just before I got up - said the man must call again - it was Mallinson from the Norcliffe who had called and left Keartons’ notice to quit his farm (Lower place) - down to breakfast at 11 ½ in the drawing room - my aunt with us - then just took leave of my father and Marian and I off with M- in her carriage to Halifax at 12 ½ - she told me of a young person aetatis 21 of Scarbro’ that her sister Eliza much recommended - begged her to make further inquiries and to see Smith the bookbinder’s daughter (12 Cecil street Strand) for me in London - that I had some writing about last spring at Hastings - stopt at the White Lion to take up little Mariana Belcombe and Watson and Grantham when Dr. HSB- has quite cured and saw M- off from Halifax at 1 10 she asked me if I would go farther which I declined I asked as we drove down the back if she cared for me yes if she thought of me  yes often and much but she still thinks she shall not be long lived and that δ- will survive her and somehow the calmness or indifference of her manner annoyed me  I asked if she would go to Holland again  no she did not wish to travel liked her hens and chickens better  somehow I said to myself on leaving well I never think of her without irritation  I felt relieved to be rid of her and anxious to get her out of my mind Shall I said I to myself ever dislike her  I am glad her visit is over yet no one as my aunt owns would see any difference from formerly in the manner of either of us  but said I there is a great difference at heart    called at the Saltmarshes – not at home – returned up the o.b. sometime at Pickersgills’ – then sometime at the cunnery Matty mending my pelisse – then at Wellroyde new road and footpath, and home at 5 ¾ - dinner at 6 ¼ - afterwards had Mr. George Robinson – shewed him the entries of payments for the mill in Mr. Briggs’ rough book and desired him to ask Mr. Briggs what he had paid since 8 March and about the 2 bank payments of cash 3 May and 12 May = about £26 – then asleep on the sofa till near 9 – then till 9 ½ wrote all the above of today and read my letter (very kind letter) a full ½ sheet and 1p. and one end of the ½ sheet envelope – all went off well yesterday – the happy pair went from Whitehall after the ceremony to the Lodge! – Lady Gordon in London – talked much of me – Skimmed over the courier – came upstairs at 10 ½ - very fine day – F65° at 10 ¾ p.m.

[flokidokie]

The Gancanagh - Chapter 15

Fandom: Downton Abbey

Chapter Summary: Carson reconsiders his principles.

Read the whole story here or under #thegancanaghfic. For more of my stuff look at #flokileroux or #flokiwrites.

Tagged: @jolieblack @irrationalgame

Chapter 15 - A lovers embrace

When Carson entered Lord Aidens room half an hour later after he had ordered the servants to remember their duties, he had expected to have to remind Thomas as well, as he often seemed to forgot his duties lately. The sight he was presented with however, made him stop in his tracks.

Thomas Barrow lay in the young lords bed, seemingly fast asleep. Lord Aiden lay next to him, having moved as close as it was humanly possible into his embrace. His face was buried into Thomas' chest, his hands grabbing the fabric of his shirt, as if he wanted to stop him from leaving.

Only a month ago he would have fired the butler on the spot for this breach of taboo. At Downton servants had been fired for lesser offences and Thomas' had been living on very thin ice, but the longer Carson watched the scene before him, the more he realised that maybe the would was changing, no matter what he had to say about it.

Maybe Mrs. Hughes had been right and Charles Carson had become soft. He would lie if he denied that after all this time Thomas had become something similar to a son to him. A snarky bastard, that was, who made him livid with his attitude more often than not, but wasn't this how it was supposed to be? Weren't children supposed to keep their parents on their toes with the chaos they caused? Wasn't it the same for Lord Grantham and his children?

And what a chaos they had caused. Lady Mary had almost lost face because of a scandal regarding the visit and death of a Turkish diplomat. Lady Sybil had been running off with his lordships chauffeur, who also was Irish, catholic and a socialist. Lady Edith hadn't caused a proper scandal yet, but she was owner of a popular magazine, while being unmarried in her thirties, and would drive cars once in a while. All that was behaviour unsuited for a woman only ten years ago.

And hadn't Downton Abbey seen its fair share of changes that seemed impossible for the butler? Despite his love for the traditional, Carson had accepted electricity in the Abbey, he had learned to use the telephone and he even survived all the new appliances Mrs. Hughes had brought into the kitchen. Little by little, the world he knew had changed and the Abbey had changed with it.

Sighing Carson left the room, closing the door behind him. He didn't understand the feelings Thomas was feeling, he never did, but the look in his eyes when he looked at Aiden was the same he saw in other men regarding their wifes. Carson didn't understand Aidens displeasure of having been born a woman, never did that either, but the joy in his face when he was called and treated as a man could not be unnatural or foul. Both men had been so incredibly brave with the way they stood up against a world that wanted them dead, braver than Carson had ever been. Maybe it was time to change that.

On his way to back downstairs he passed one of the great clocks of the house. There were three hours left until he would call for dinner and therefore three more hours to think of an way to excuse Thomas from serving this evening. He had a feeling that none of the higher-ups would mind his absence much, knowing that he would be where he was needed the most.

xxx

Thomas Barrow woke up with a shock. The sun was up again, where it had been setting by the time he had entered the bed he now found himself in. A quick look to the clock told him it was past breakfast. Only a few minutes had become ten hours.

The man could feel Aiden stirring next to him, still laying as close to him as possible, wiggling his nose in his sleep. Carefully he tried to untangle the young lord from him, climbing silently out of the bed, but Aiden whined as soon as he lost contact. Thomas put a soothing kiss on top of his head.

„... don't go...“, Aiden murmured, eyes still closes but partly awake, when Thomas' hand caressed his cheek.

„I can't.“, Thomas replied quietly. „I need to go downstairs. They are surely waiting for me already.“

Aiden made a pouting face, still not opening his eyes, but wrapping the blanket tighter around him.

„Scones...“, he mumbled, making Thomas laugh.

„I'll let Mrs. Patmore know you want some, love.“, the underbutler said with a fond smile, putting one last kiss on his hair. „Now rest.“

Aiden hummed in agreement, probably halfway back into the land of dreams. Thomas tore his gaze away from his sleeping from, preparing himself with what awaited him in the servants lounge. This was not like his nightly visits from months and months ago, where he could sneak out early in the morning, before even Carson would wake up, and no one would be none the wiser about his nightly activities. It was in the middle of the day, everyone would be awake by now, servants and higher-ups alike. At least one of them had to see him walking this walk of shame.

With shaking hands he opened the door and stepped out. The hallway was empty, the Crawleys had to be somewhere around the study at this time of day, if they were at home in the first place. His first choice of escape route would have been hidden stair case that directly connected to the mens quarters, but the door used to be locked and he didn't have his key on him. So the central stairs had to do.

His steps seemed unnaturally loud in his ears, walking alone through the west wing, wearing something different than his usual work attire. He felt bare somehow..

He had almost reached the stairs, when he heard someone approaching. Thomas was frozen where he stood, eyes wide with panic, as he saw Edith walking up the stairs. She stopped for a second, when she spotted him, her surprised look soon changing into a polite smile.

„Good morning, Mr. Barrow.“, she greeted him as she passed him, turning into the corridor to his left.

„Good morning, Lady Edith...“, he muttered, not sure if she had heard him and even more surprised that she didn't say anything else. With a shaky exhale he rolled his shoulders and continued to walk.

He didn't run into anyone else on his way, which brought him to a whole different problem, because that meant, that everybody would be gathered in the servants lounge. No way he would be able to sneak past that.

With as much dignity he could muster up, having slept in a lords bed and wearing last nights clothes, he strut past the half open wall, and he had almost made it, when he heard Carson speak.

„Good morning, Mr. Barrow.“, he said, not looking up from his newspaper, and Thomas walked a few steps back, turning around to him, internally cussing.

„Good morning, Mr. Carson.“, he said politely, hiding his hands behind his back. This had to be the most embarrassing moment of his life. He caught Jimmy looking at him, grinning into his cup of coffee.

„I assume Lord Aiden is well?“, the butler asked and Thomas heard some maids trying to hide a snicker behind their hands. Great, he thought, everybody knew.

„According to his circumstances.“, Thomas replied. „He rests now.“

„And you? Are you well, Mr. Barrow?“, Carson added when Thomas had turned to leave, still not looking up. Thomas was glad he didn't, because he knew exactly what he was pointing at. He wanted to know if they had talked about their issues, without straight up asking about it. And the way his colleagues pricked up their ears, they wanted to know as well. It must have been difficult to not notice what he and Aiden had going on between each other.

„I am better...“, the underbutler sighed. „Everything is going to be okay. We are going to be okay.“

Carson shot him a brief look, before he flipped through the newspaper, seemingly uninterested.

„That's good to hear.“, he said, clearing his throat. „It was about time.“

The butler put down the newspaper and turned to the man who still stood sheepishly in the middle of the room.

„Now that this is taken care of.“, he said, now with a stricter voice. „I excused you for last nights dinner and todays breakfast, but you're expected to be ready to serve by lunch.“

Just now he seemed to notice the underbutler appearance, which was without a doubt stuff from Carsons personal nightmares.

„And now get yourself ready.“, he waved the man away. „Lord Aiden may not mind seeing you like this, but I'm sure Lord Grantham begs to differ.“

Thomas didn't understand what just had happened, but he dared not to question it. With an honest smile he nodded, turning to leave, when he remembered the young lords request. He took a step back, still smiling and looked at the cook, who was tending a broth.

„Mrs. Patmore?“, he asked, causing her to look up. „Lord Aiden requested scones. He was half asleep when he did and has probably forgotten already, but he will be pleasantly surprised if he finds them, when he eventually wakes.“

Mrs. Patmore positively lit up at his words.

„Would you look at that...“; she said laughing. „One night away from almost dying and his heart is still full of you and scones.“

„I'm afraid the scones come first...“, Thomas joked, never having thought he would talk this freely about things like that. There must have been residue adrenaline in his veins, that made him so careless, beside the fact that he hadn't been scolded yet.

He made his way to his room, making himself presentable and mentally preparing himself for the one person whose judgement was even more important and scary than Carsons. He would still have to face Lord Grantham himself.

[bonhughbon]

Opening lines meme

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories. (If you have less than 20, just list them all!) See if there are any patterns. Choose your favourite opening line. Tag some people to play the next round!

Thank you @levinson-mannion for tagging me!

1. "Papa, calm down...everything's going to be alright"

2. "I'm nervous, Andy" Alex said as his valent; Andy Parker, handed him his new tailored black tie suit "I hope I do well for my first dinner with them"

3. Cora Crawley was already expecting the worse case scenario as they head to the grand hall, where her grandchildren claimed to have heard something scary...

4. "Sorry if I'm late for breakfast. I just got back from putting the final touches on the dais and setting up the Queen's special seat"

5. Alex then heads out of his room in his white tie, preparing to go down to meet the arriving guests for the Royal Dinner. He breaths slowly, calming himself down. But as he was about to go down, he then saw the Dowager Countess of Grantham striding across the gallery

6. Alex woke up early before everyone else as usual, quickly taking a bath and dressing up in his tweeds before biking up his way to the Temple of Diana. And just as he expected, Jo was already there waiting for him, sitting down on the grass

7. The next morning, Robert slowly wakes up early as the sunlight hits his face. He yawns softly, and noticed the fireplace is now out and curtains were already opened by Barrow and Albert, whom he also saw just leaving the room and closing the library door again. He then looks at his still sleeping family, and slowly smiles at the sight

8. To his surprise, Alex woke up earlier than the rest of the boys. As soon as he got up and wore his glasses, he then poke his head out of his room, to check if they're up already and were noisy downstairs. Instead, he only heard silence and some loud snores coming from their rooms

9. Their first four days into the new school year went well as usual. The boys had their joint and separate activities throughout the days, and participated in their respective clubs as well

10. The Fellowship all woke up very early the next day, all wearing their best tweeds before heading downstairs the grand hall...and startling Barrow in the process

11. The following morning, Alex woke up early as usual. He then blinked for a few moments, before slowly getting up from his bed. Although still in pain, he managed to overcome it, and carefully holds on to his cane to help him up. He then walks to his study table, and sits down for a moment to catch his breath

12. "Finally! Christmas break is here! Aren't you excited, Alex?"

13. The following morning, Alex woke up early as usual, and quickly heading downstairs after a quick bath and change, although he regrets having to come out of the tub quickly because of the rather refreshing hot water

14. As Alex settles himself down on his chair and setting up a large canvas in front of him, he then looks at the photos first, to give him some ideas

15. Alexander Isidore Crawley woke up at the sun shining from the window of his room. Despite the heavy curtain that cover them, light still manages to get in

16. "Uncle Alex, catch me next!"

17. Alexander wakes up early, just as the sun started to rise. He then quickly changed and rushes downstairs where he saw Mrs. Patmore already preparing the ingredients

18. "There they are, Mama! Look!!"

19. As Alex came from back from his errands, he then saw a gleaming car with three figures standing in front of it. At the same time, and not noticing his master, Thomas Barrow quickly arrives to them

20. "Alex, you're just in time! Edith and Bertie are arriving!" Cora said as she saw her son coming out of the servant's door

Favourite: #7, because I've always wanted to write some soft Crawley family bonding, and Robert just waking up with his wife and children beside him just makes my heart melt

Patterns: I would either start with a dialogue or two of a character, whatever it is that Alex (my OC) or the other characters are doing. All of them are continuations of the previous chapters as well. I try to stay on track from where I left them off in the previous chapters, so they won't get lost on what is happening at the moment

Tagging: @abumperprize , @ohtobealady , and @andallthatmishigas

[bella-caecilia]

hello there, i LOVED your last color drabble so much - it was absolutely precious! i was wondering if you could explain how we know that that’s the first thing robert does every morning? i have NO idea how i could have possibly missed this detail! thank you!

I am so pleased you enjoyed the yellow colour drabble, dear anon! I badly needed some heavy fluff and this prompt was just perfect ♡

As to Robert's 'morning ritual', this is something that's not directly discussed in the show. I think it rather was in a publication like 'Downton Abbey - A Celebration' but I'm not sure if it was this or another one. I tried to find the quote that states this but no luck so far...

But I remember that it states that Lord Grantham - against social standards - sleeps in his wife's room, and the first he does before he leaves for his dressing room to get ready for having breakfast downstairs is kissing his wife. I thought it was a rather sweet notion, considering it was a factual text about the (bed)rooms at Downton or something like that.

Does anyone else know where to find it exactly?

[thomasbarrowblog]

My headcanon is that Bates retires as valet because he and Anna finally open that bed and breakfast hotel they have been dreaming about, and Lord Grantham is now without a valet, but Thomas of course knows someone who is excellent at that job, and Lord Grantham listens to his butler's recommendation, and voilá, Richard is hired and he and Thomas gets to live together (without having anyone being suspicious why two blokes live together) while keeping their jobs.

[legends-of-time]

The Journey of Living at Downton

Chapter 1: April to Summer 1912

Masterlist

A/N: This woman does not know what happens in the show as in this world Downton is real and she has simply travelled back in time. So no, I'm not going to stop things happening to a character because I know that it'll stop them having this horrible storyline unless she's somehow naturally involved through circumstance.

——

Emma's life used to be fairly normal one for someone living in England in the early 21st century, nothing peculiar but that all changed when in 2021, at 19, she woke up in the past, more specifically 1909.

Emma turned up in Yorkshire, England on a mild day (what else) in the grounds of an estate called Downton Abbey. After literally falling onto the floor right in front of said owners of the estate, the Earl and Countess of Grantham, Robert and Cora Crawley.

They took pity on her as they could see that she was in quite a state and since she played the role of pretending that she had no memory of her past as Emma quickly realised that they may deem her a lunatic as it seemed she had travelled to the past, together with a check by Dr Clarkson.

They let her have a job as a maid in the household cause to them she seemed too lowly as well as nowhere to go and since she had no other options and could see that this was the safest option for her so she took it.

Jump to April 1912 and things have been going well for Emma. She has settled into her role as a maid, learning the different chores that fitted her role and additional learning about the strict hierarchy of this new world she was in. Just kept her head down and got by. Part of this was trying to make sure not too many modern sayings are spoken and quietly laughing at everybody else's reaction.

Emma has made friends while she has been there, such as fellow maids Anna, Gemma and Gwen, and funnily enough Thomas, a footman who arrived a year after she did but obviously not in the same way. Emma knows who to avoid, Miss O'Brien, and who she can rely on, Mrs Hughes the housekeeper and sometimes Mr Carson the butler if it is not too much for him and does not go against his morals. The family is kind to her but as she is only a maid, they largely ignore her. Many of the staff do not mind her as she does not step on any of their toes and does her job but Emma can see that they sometimes observed her oddly as she is still a mystery to them considering how she arrived.

——

On one morning in April 1912, Emma is deep asleep in a little single bed in her little room in the very unimpressive servant quarters. She had gone to sleep restlessly the night before and every night since the 14th, waiting for the news about the Titanic.

Emma's sleep is abruptly interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Six o'clock!" Calls Daisy the Kitchen maid.

Emma groans sitting up. "All right Daisy." She turns to her roommate Gemma. "Gemma." She calls to her.

Gemma groans loudly. "Uuuhh! I'm up!" Emma sniggers at her reaction. Ironically Gemma has never been a morning person.

They get up and get dressed in their lovely maid outfits and meet with Gwen and Anna in the corridor. They head towards the ground floor of the main house to make it all look nice and proper for the family before they can have their breakfast. To be honest Emma thinks that is what she hates most about this job, the odd times they have their meals and the lack of snacks throughout the day as well as variety in food.

——

Emma is in the Library with multiple other maids dusting, plumping up cushions and opening curtains etc. When she sees Daisy hurry through carrying a bucket of firewood.

"Now hurry up," Emma calls to her as she walks out of the Library into the Great Hall and begins tidying the table by the stairs.

Thomas walks past with a silver tray with two drinks. He collects two more at the table she's at.

"Any sign of William?" He asks.

"No." She tells him. He huffs as he walks past. Sometimes he's too harsh on William; he shouldn't push his own displeasure with his own lot on others.

——

Anna and Gwen open the windows of the Drawing room while Gemma and Emma begin to fluff the pillows on one of the seats.

They then spot Daisy crouching by the fireplace doing the fire. She'd clearly been doing this in the dark.

"Daisy? Whatever are you doing there crouching in the dark?" Anna asks as she walks towards the pillows along with Gwen to help out with the fluffing.

"You weren't here and I didn't want to touch the curtains with my dirty hands." Daisy answers.

"And quite right, too," Gwen says.

"You do know you can put the lights on?" Emma asks her sarcastically.

Daisy looks nervous at the idea. "I daren't."

"Well, it's electricity, not the devil's handiwork," Gwen says.

Gemma nods in agreement. "You'll have to get used to it sooner or later."

"Skelton Park have even got it in the kitchens," Anna says.

"What for?" Daisy asks. Emma has to hold in her snigger. Oh, they have no idea.

After a while, Mrs Hughes walks through on her rounds to see if they are doing everything right. "Is the Library tidy?"

"Yes, Mrs Hughes," Anna says.

"Good. I want the Dining room given a proper going over today. You can do it when they've finished their breakfast." She then spots Daisy doing God knows what to the fireplace. "Oh, heavens, girl! You're building a fire, not inventing it. How many have you done?"

"This is my last till they come downstairs."

"Very well. Now, get back down to the Kitchen before anyone sees you." Mrs Hughes walks off.

——

Soon they can head down to the Servants' Hall so that they can quickly eat before the family wakes up and gets them moving again.

It is not long before the bell for the Queen Caroline room rings as they are eating breakfast.

"And they're off," Thomas mutters irritably as he eats a spoon full of porridge.

"No rest for the wicked." Mrs Hughes remarks.

Mrs Patmore, the cook, walks in and looks at the bells. "Lady Mary. Are the tea trays ready?"

Anna gets up from the table, Emma follows as she assists her with the three girls. "All ready, Mrs Patmore, if the water's boiled," Anna says.

"Could you give us a hand to take the other two up?" Emma asks Miss O'Brien despite knowing the answer.

"I've got Her Ladyship's to carry." Says the resident witch, though Emma would never say that to her face.

"I'll help," Gwen says getting up and following them as they leave the room to collect the trays. Emma hears another bell ring.

"Back door." Mrs Hughes says.

"Newspapers at last. William." Mr Carson says. Emma does not hear the rest of the conversation as Gwen, Anna and Emma collect the trays of tea from the Kitchen.

Before going upstairs, they are stopped by the whispering of the news of the 'shocking' sinking of the Titanic. Emma fakes a look of shock as the three of them by the stairs share looks with each other. Naturally, they inform the girls as they go between them, getting them ready in the first of many outfits of the day.

——

After the girls go down, Gwen, Anna, Gemma and Emma begin going through the girls' rooms making the beds. They are in Lady Mary's room when Miss O'Brien finds them.

She holds a white cloth as she tells of what she heard from the conversation she heard between the Earl and Countess this morning. ""Neither of them were picked up," that's what he said." Oh no.

"Mr Crawley and Mr Patrick?" Anna asks in shock.

"That's what he said. Her Ladyship was the colour of this cloth." O'Brien gestures to the cloth in her hand.

"Well, it's a terrible shame if it's true," Gwen says.

"It's worse than a shame. It's a complication." O'Brien leaves and they follow her down the servants' staircase.

"Well, what do you mean?" Gemma asks.

"What do you think? Mr Crawley was His Lordship's cousin and heir to the title." O'Brien answers snippy.

"Well, but I thought Lady Mary was the heir," Gwen says equally confused.

"Girls can't inherit I'm afraid," Emma answers her kindly before O'Brien can snap at her.

"But now Mr Crawley's dead, and Mr Patrick was his only son. So, what happens next?" O'Brien continues.

"It's a dreadful thing," Anna says. They reach the bottom of the stairs and find a man around Lord Grantham's age with a cane and travel bag.

"Hello." He greets with a friendly smile. "I've been waiting at the back door. I knocked, but no one came."

"So, you pushed in?" O'Brien says rudely.

"I'm John Bates, the new valet."

"The new valet?"

"That's right." O'Brien obviously looks down at Bates's cane. The rest of them awkwardly stand behind her.

"You're early."

"Came on the milk train, thought I'd use the day to get to know the place, start tonight."

There is a lull in the conversation before Anna pipes up. "I'm Anna, the head housemaid." She shifts the sheets and candle in her arms to shake his hand.

"How do you do?" Bates reaches to shake O'Brien's hand, but she doesn't take it.

"And I'm Miss O'Brien, Her Ladyship's maid. You better come along with us." O'Brien walks off, with Gwen and Gemma following, expecting him to follow. Emma sees Anna and Mr Bates exchange a smile. Well, something seems to be there.

Emma decides that it is only polite to introduce the rest of them as they walk along. "My name is Emma one of the maids." Emma reaches her hand forward and shakes Mr Bates' hand. Then she gestures to Gwen and Gemma ahead. "And that is Gwen and Gemma, the other maids."

"It is nice to meet you." Mr Bates says kindly.

——

Emma stands awkwardly next to Anna as awkward introductions are made in the Kitchen.

"But how can you manage?" Mrs Hughes asks almost embarrassed by her own question. Mr Bates' cane seemed to have set everyone on an awkward edge.

"Don't worry about that. I can manage."

"Because we've all got our own work to do." Mrs Patmore pipes up. My god Mrs Patmore he's not an imbecile.

"I can manage." Mr Bates insists.

Mr Carson then enters. "All right, Mrs Hughes, I'll take over, thank you. Good morning, Mr Bates. Welcome. I hope your journey was satisfactory." Emma can definitely tell the moment he notices the cane.

Mr Bates is clearly used to it and shows no reaction. "It was fine, thank you."

One thing about Mr Carson is that he can easily cover up his emotions. "I am the butler at Downton. My name is Carson."

"How do you do, Mr Carson?"

"This is Thomas, first footman." Mr Carson gestures to Thomas who had been sulking at the side. "He's been looking after His Lordship since Mr Watson left. It'll be a relief to get back to normal, won't it, Thomas?" Thomas gives a short, insincere smile.

Mr Carson turns to Mrs Hughes. "I assume that everything is ready for Mr Bates's arrival?"

"I put him in Mr Watson's old room. Though he left it in quite a state, I can tell you."

Mrs Patmore does not let it go. "But what about all them stairs?"

"I keep telling you... I can manage."

"Of course, you can," Anna says. They exchange friendly smiles.

"Thomas, take Mr Bates to his room and show him where he'll be working." Thomas and Bates leave.

"Thank you, everyone." Trying to end the gathering.

"Well, I can't see that lasting long." But we can always rely on O'Brien to make a comment.

"Thank you, Miss O'Brien." And rely on Mr Carson on ignoring her insulting comments. Carson leaves effectively ending it.

——

In the Servants' Hall, they are all gathered to eat their 'luncheon'. Daisy carries a pitcher around.

Mr Carson walks around the table. "Downton is a great house, Mr Bates, and the Crawleys are a great family. We live by certain standards and those standards can at first seem daunting."

"Of course."

"If you find yourself tongue-tied in the presence of His Lordship, I can only assure you that his manners and grace will soon help you to perform your duties to the best of your ability."

"I know."

Suddenly they hear Lord Grantham speak. "Bates!" All of them immediately stand. "My dear fellow. I do apologise, I should have realised you'd all be at luncheon." He walks into the Hall.

"Not at all, My Lord." Mr Carson is ever a pleaser.

Grantham walks around the table to Bates. "Please, sit. Sit, everyone." Some of them sit. "I just want to say a quick hello to my old comrade in arms. Bates, my dear man, welcome to Downton." They shake hands. Emma gapes in surprise and she can hear everyone showing similar feelings of shock.

"Thank you, Sir."

"I'm so sorry to have disturbed you all. Please forgive me." Grantham leaves and the ones who seated themselves rise slightly in their chairs. They turn their surprised looks on Mr Bates.

He shrugs. "You never asked." Fair enough. Thomas and O'Brien look more displeased than before if that were possible.

——

On another day it is time for the family to have their luncheon, which naturally causes a massive scurry downstairs to have it done before the family and their guests return from the memorial for Mr Crawley and Mr Patrick. Life at Downton seems always to be a graceful swan above and its frantic legs below.

As Emma runs about, Daisy suddenly emerges from the Kitchen with a bowl and grabs her arm. "Oh, God! Help me! Please, God, help me!"

"Daisy? You all right?"

"Just run upstairs to the Dining room and find William, I beg you!" Daisy looks like she is one step from falling to her knees to begin begging.

"I can't do that right now," Emma says. She has enough on her plate.

"You've got to. I'll be hanged if you don't." Heh?

"You what?"

"Daisy, is that you?" William comes down the stairs with the bowl in his hand. "Is it the chicken in a sauce or the plain chicken with sliced oranges?"

Thankfully the desperate look on Daisy's face falls and is flooded with relief. "Oh, thank you blessed and merciful Lord! Thank you!" Daisy swaps she's holding the dish with the one that William's holding. "It's the chicken in the sauce. I'll never do anything sinful again, I swear it, not till I die!" Emma stares after Daisy in confusion as she rushes back to the Kitchen.

She later learns that Mr Murray, Lord Grantham's lawyer, does not stay so all that work Gwen and Emma had done of putting clean sheets on the blue room bed but thankfully Mrs Hughes suggests the racy idea of leaving it for the next guest. This likely irritated Lady Grantham and Lord Grantham's mother the Dowager as they really want to break the entail preventing Lady Mary from getting her mother's money and the house now that she won't get it through marrying Mr Patrick.

——

By that evening, Emma realises that Miss O'Brien has already begun her work of trying to get rid of Mr Bates when she and Anna help the girls get dressed for dinner.

Ladies Edith and Sybil are both ready so all that is left is Anna doing Lady Mary's hair at said lady's dressing table as Emma tidies away dresses etc. that had been discarded.

"Perhaps she misunderstood," Anna says.

"No, it was quite plain. O'Brien told her Bates can't do the job properly. Why was he taken on?"

"He was Lord Grantham's batman when he was fighting the Boers My Lady," Emma says as she goes to Lady Mary's wardrobe to put some things away.

"I know that, but even so."

"I think it's romantic." Lady Sybil sighs from her seat on the edge of Lady Mary's bed. She clearly does not know a thing about war.

"I don't." Lady Mary snips. "How can a valet do his work if he's lame?" Ah Lady Snob, the highlight of my day.

"He's not very lame." Says the one who has a crush on said man.

Anna finishes Mary's hair. "There. Anything else before we go down?"

"No, that's it. Thank you." Lady Mary stands and looks at herself in the full mirror as they exit. Emma thinks of all the snide comments Ladies Edith and Mary were likely going to be saying to each other now.

——

Once Emma is downstairs, she can hear Thomas complaining to Mr Carson.

"I just think you should know it's not working, Mr Carson."

"Do you mean Mr Bates is lazy?" Neither seems to realise they are being listened to.

"Not lazy... exactly. But he just can't carry. He can hardly manage His Lordship's cases. You saw how it was when they went out to London for the memorial. He can't help with the guest luggage either, and as for waiting a table, we can forget that." O'Brien and Thomas' plan seems to be plant the seed of doubt.

"And what do you want me to do?"

"Well, it's not for me to say. But is it fair on William to have all the extra work? I don't believe you'd like to think the house was falling below the way things ought to be."

"I would not." Mr Carson snaps.

"That's all I'm saying."

——

Some of them are in the Servants' Hall while those that are needed to serve the family their dinner are elsewhere.

"Does anyone else keep dreaming about the Titanic? I can't get it out of my mind." Daisy whines. Emma loves daisy but she can be annoying when she puts her mind to it.

"Not again. Give it a rest." Gwen seems to share Emma's irritation.

"Daisy, it's time to let it go," Anna says.

Daisy doesn't listen. "But all them people freezing to death in midnight icy water."

"Oh, you sound like a penny dreadful," O'Brien mutters.

"I expect you saw worse things in South Africa, eh Mr Bates?" Gwen says.

"Not worse, but pretty bad." The man says.

"Did you enjoy the war?" Daisy asks.

"What kind of question is that Daisy?" Emma snaps despite trying to contain her irritation. Daisy looks down meekly.

"I don't think anyone enjoys war, but there are some good memories, too." Mr Bates placates.

"I'm sure there are," Anna says.

"Mr Bates, could you hand me that tray?" Gwen interrupts calling over the table.

Mr Bates gets up to grab it, but his knee twinges and he spills the whole contents on the floor as he grabs his knee. Anna gets up quickly.

"I'll do it." She speaks. Gwen clearly feels awkward.

Mr Carson walks in. "Ladies are out. We've given them coffee. His Lordship's taken his port to the Library. Anna, Gwen, Emma, go up and help clear away." They scurry out of the uncomfortable atmosphere. "Er, Daisy, tell Mrs Patmore we'll eat in 15 minutes."

——

They work clearing the table.

"I keep forgetting, does this go next door or back to the Kitchen?" Gwen asks.

"Those go back, but the dessert service and all the glasses stay in the upstairs Pantry," Thomas tells her.

"Put it on here," William says. Gwen sets the dish down on the tray offered.

Anna leaves after a while and Emma follows soon after to the Antechamber to place the last pieces away and find O'Brien standing there as if they had been plotting.

"Having fun?" Emma says sarcastically before leaving them to go down for her dinner.

——

When the family moved out mourning to colours, some duke, who had invited himself to stay, arrived soon after. The general feeling was that since Lady Mary was no longer going to marry Mr Patrick, her options were open.

All the servants are gathered by the stairs leading up out of the servants' downstairs section as Mr Carson gives them a talk and observes whether they look worthy enough to meet a duke.

"You all ready?" Mr Carson inspects William's uniform. "Very well. We shall go out to greet them."

"And me, Mr Carson?" Daisy says excitedly.

"No, Daisy, not you." Daisy's expression comedically falls.

"Can you manage, Mr Bates, or would you rather wait here?" Mr Carson asks clearly still being judgemental of the cane.

"I want to go, Mr Carson."

"There's no obligation for the whole staff to be present."

"I'd like to be there." Mr Bates insists.

"Well, it's certainly a great day for Downton to welcome a duke under our roof." Mr Carson says puffing up his chest.

They all begin to move. Thomas turns to William. "Remember to help me with the luggage. Don't go running off."

Mr Bates calls from his position on the stairs. "I'll give you a hand."

"Oh, I couldn't ask that, Mr Bates, not in your condition," Thomas responds sarcastically.

——

The servants line up and the family exits the house as a car arrives at the front of the house. William opens the car door for the Duke and Lord Grantham.

Lord Grantham speaks. "Welcome to Downton." Mrs Hughes and the housemaids curtsy and the men bow their heads.

The Duke smiles. "Lady Grantham, this is so kind of you." He clasps her hand.

"Not at all, Duke." Lady Grantham says. "I'm delighted you could spare the time. You know my daughter, Mary, of course."

"Of course, Lady Mary." Said woman bobs her head.

"And Edith, but I don't believe you've met my youngest, Sybil."

"Ah, Lady Sybil." The Duke says. They step forward to shake hands.

"How do you do?" Lady Sybil greets.

"Come on in, you must be worn out." The family begin to walk towards the door but the Duke stops them.

"Oh, Lady Grantham, I have a confession to make, which I hope won't cause too much bother. My man was taken ill just as I was leaving, so..." Emma couldn't help but wrinkle her nose. Does he not realise the more work he has created? Also, does he actually feel sorry? Doubt it.

"Oh, well, that won't be a problem, will it Carson?" Lord Grantham speaks.

"Certainly not. I shall look after His Grace myself." Mr Carson says somehow puffing up his chest even more.

"Oh, no, I wouldn't dream of being such a nuisance, surely a footman..." The Duke looks at Thomas. "I remember this man. Didn't you serve me when I dined with Lady Grantham in London?"

"I did, Your Grace," Thomas says.

"Ah, there we are. We shall do very well together, won't we...?" Emma cannot help but think that he is just faking this.

"Er, Thomas, Your Grace."

"...Thomas."

"Good." Lady Grantham says clearly wanting to get on with it. The family heads inside. "I hope you had a pleasant journey."

Suddenly Mr Bates falls face first onto the ground causing the family to pause and look while the rest of them awkwardly stand there.

"Bates, are you all right?" Lord Grantham asks.

"Perfectly, My Lord. I apologise." Mr Bates says from the ground.

The family continues inside and Emma sees Mr Bates look up at Miss O'Brien, who gives him a look before leaving to the Servants' Entrance round the side where everyone else had gone. Emma knows then that his fall was not an accident.

Anna crouches down to help Mr Bates. "Mr Bates." Emma follows her.

William closes the front door and Anna and Emma help Mr Bates to his feet.

"There that's better," Emma speaks.

"Please, don't feel sorry for me." He speaks.

——

Later after dressing his Lordship for dinner, Mr Bates comes downstairs looking very sullen.

"Mr Bates?" Emma calls to him as he enters the Servants' Hall. He looks up at her. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine thank you." He speaks. "But it seems I will not be staying."

"Oh..." Emma says awkwardly, recently she seems to be feeling continuously awkward. "I'm sorry?" Was there a certain response in this period that Emma was supposed to say?

He simply smiles. "It's fine." He says before settling into a seat by the fireplace.

——

Later on, they sit about waiting in the Servants' Hall until they can clean the Dining room then eat.

"How long do you think they'll be? I'm starving." Thomas complains.

"Have you settled the ladies?" Mr Carson asks from his seat at the head of the table.

"Yes, Mr Carson."

"Then it won't be long once they go through."

"Do you think he'll speak out? Do you think we'll have a duchess to wait on? Imagine that!" Daisy natters.

Mrs Patmore then dashes her dreams. "You won't be waiting on her, whatever happens."

"There is no reason why the eldest daughter and heiress of the Earl of Grantham should not wear a duchess's coronet with honour." Mr Carson says. He'd always seemed to have a soft spot for Lady Mary.

"Heiress, Mr Carson? Has it been decided?" Mrs Hughes questions.

"It will be if there's any justice in the world." If this was about anyone else, Mr Carson likely would not care less.

"Well, we'll know soon enough." Mrs Hughes often did not seem to understand Mr Carson's fascination with Lady Mary.

Anna puts a plate down on a tray.

"What you doing, Anna?" Mrs Patmore questions.

"I thought I'd take something up to Mr Bates, him not being well enough to come down. You don't mind, do you, Mrs Hughes?" Anna asks. There was a clear strict rule that the male and female servants are to be kept separate, which is why there is a clear divide between quarters.

"I don't mind, not this once." Mrs Hughes concedes.

"Take him whatever he might need." Mr Carson says. Anna leaves with the tray.

Mr Carson then addresses the room, "Mr Bates is leaving without a stain on his character. I hope you all observe that in the manner of your parting."

"Well, I don't see why he has to go," William speaks. "I don't mind doing a bit of extra work."

"It's not up to you. I'll take care of His Lordship, shall I Mr Carson?" Thomas quickly pipes up. Emma is starting to get annoyed with Thomas' campaign against Mr Bates just because he happened to get the job he wanted.

"Not while you're looking after the Duke, you won't. I'll see to His Lordship myself." Mr Carson orders.

——

"It seems the Duke of Crowborough retired to bed early." Lady Sybil says as she sat at her dressing table as Emma prepares her hair for bed.

"He did My Lady?" Emma says raising her eyebrows in surprise. "I believed that he was showing some interest in Lady Mary? We all did." Emma begins to plait her hair, which is a hairstyle from this time period that she actually already knew how to do.

"Well, perhaps we will see more of him tomorrow." Lady Sybil replies.

At this point, Emma has finished her hair and she stands up. "Is that all My Lady?"

Sybil gives her a grateful smile. "Yes, thank you." It was always nice to help Lady Sybil as she is genuinely a kind person to everyone.

Emma is walking from Lady Sybil's room when she comes across a sad looking Thomas standing with a hand covering some of his face.

"Thomas?" Emma asks. He looks at her but does not say anything. She hugs him not asking what is wrong.

——

Turns out there is no chance of Lady Mary becoming a duchess as the Duke is off on the nine o'clock train the next morning. Not that I was sorry to see him leave. Though the good news is that Mr Bates is not actually leaving after all.

Just got to wait for the unknown cousin, who gets the title, money and house, to arrive at some point as well as the Dowager Countess and the current one's fight for Lady Mary's right to it, living in this place will never be dull.

——

A/N: Let me know if this is any good 😅

[riotstarruika]

WIP amnesty: Downton Abbey

A snippet of a Thomas Barrow / Alec (Maurice) fic that I’ll never finish, inspired by this fic that had an OC based on him.

The dawn of Christmas Eve, 1920 brought with it a bitterly cold wind and the looming threat of heavy snowfall. Thomas Barrow woke while it was still dark outside, though the house was already beginning to warm as the whirlwind of activity required to pull off a successful stately home Christmas celebration had already begun. He dressed and made his way down to the kitchen, where Mrs Patmore was making breakfast, humming God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen joyfully. 

'Ah, good morning Thomas.' She greeted him, with a warmth that he was not used to receiving. 

'Good morning Mrs Patmore.' He responded in kind. 'Something smells delightful.' The compliment was equally abnormal, but he couldn't help himself. For the first time he could remember, he almost, almost felt something starting to resemble contentment. He hadn't managed to spend the night with Alec since the night they had admitted their feelings, but they had managed a few stolen moments between them: a brush of the hand, while passing the salt at dinner, cigarettes smoked huddled together under the archway, and one memorable kiss behind the store shed in the kitchen garden. Thomas was still afraid that all this was somehow an elaborate plot to get him ousted from his position, or that someone would find out about his happiness and tear it away from him, but he couldn't help but trust Alec. Alec with his kind, intelligent eyes, his easy smirk, and the earnest vulnerability with which he'd shown Thomas how he felt about him. He was too soft, too open and too trusting and Thomas absolutely did not deserve his affection, but it was plain to see it for what it was. Love. Thomas didn't think he'd ever been worthy of love, let alone received it, without it being part of a transaction of some kind. A delicate power struggle in which the conditions required to keep it from being withdrawn were so complex, and so unpredictable he always had to stay three steps ahead so when they eventually turned on him, which they always did, he could pretend he'd turned on them first. They'd been careful not to seem too friendly in front of the other staff, it would be too against the order of things for them to be too close, and the others would talk. They would suspect him of things he absolutely had done, but for all the wrong reasons. Alec was no boy, fresh to the role of service and impressionable, but Thomas knew he would be seen as the aggressor, the predator and the guilty party if anyone found out, and it would be his own fault for cultivating the reputation he now could not escape.  

He found another stolen moment as he was carrying a tray of festively spiced porridge up to the dining room, and found himself alone in the stairwell with Alec, a large bundle of cut holly stems and poinsettia leaves in his hands. He received a warm smile as their eyes met, which he returned involuntarily, his practised smirk slipping for just a moment. 

'I was hoping,' Alec leaned in as they passed each other, lingering on the same step and adjusting the bundle in his arms. 'That you might join me tonight for a drink, before bed, after dinner?' Thomas felt his body temperature start to rise and his stomach begin to flutter. Such an odd feeling, he couldn’t voice it.

'If I can get away, yes, I'm sure the family will want to retire earlier rather than later, big day tomorrow and all.' He replied in hushed tones. Alec looked made up. 

'Very good, Mr Barrow,' he said a little louder, and they both continued on their separate ways.  

The evening did bring the threatened snow, and Thomas stood to attention in the doorway, as the family stood outside, glasses of brandy in hand to watch it, before it became clear that it was far too cold outside to continue. Lady Sybil and Tom had returned, Sybil’s belly now swollen with the next addition to the Grantham family. They looked so happy, and Thomas found he did not resent them in the slightest. 

The servants finished their dinner late, the festive mood calling for a few drinks, carols and merriment. Someone had even produced some mistletoe, and somehow Alec had ended up beneath it with Daisy, who blushed and giggled as he gave her a chaste peck on the cheek, just to the side of her lips. Thomas caught his eye and grinned like a Cheshire cat in genuine amusement. They all had a very merry time, until Mr Carson ended up under the mistletoe with Mrs Hughes, and both declared that it was quite enough mirth for one evening. Alec said goodnight and left for his cottage, bundled up in his most waterproof coat and a scarf, and the others gradually made their way up to bed. Thomas followed them, then made an excuse of having forgotten something downstairs, saying he would just be a moment. If anyone suspected he was up to no good, they said nothing, instead wishing him a good night and a merry Christmas, which was now less than an hour away. Thomas slipped out of a side door he had furtively unlocked earlier, after Carson had already checked it, and hurried across the grounds, the now driving snow obscuring his vision, but he knew the way. He reached the cottage and knocked, and Alec opened it, still dressed with a roaring fire glowing in the hearth, and a ridiculous crown of holly leaves on his head. Thomas burst out laughing. 'You look like a gigantic cherub.' He mocked, entirely without venom. 

'Are you saying I have an angelic face?' Alec beamed in response, his face flushed from the heat of the fire in his small cottage, and probably all the brandy they'd been allowed with their night's meal. Thomas stepped in and closed the door behind him, then reached out to cup Alec's cheek with one hand, the other reaching into his coat pocket to pull out the bottle that contained the last few measures of brandy. 'Let's sit by the fire.' He changed the subject, for once unable to come up with a witty retort. Alec gestured grandly to one of the small wooden chairs and went over to a small cupboard near the kitchen sink, returning with two glasses, and a rectangular object wrapped neatly in newspaper tucked under his arm. Thomas raised an eyebrow at him and set the bottle down on the floor so he could take the glasses. 

'I was in the village collecting supplies the other day and I happened upon this.' Alec said casually, holding out the mystery object. Thomas almost felt himself blush.

'I didn't realise we were that domestic that we'd be exchanging gifts. I haven't got anything for you.' Thomas replied, with a hint of genuine sheepishness. 

'Oh you're quite enough for me Mr Barrow. The phase 'the gift that keeps on giving' springs to mind.' Alec was mocking him, but playfully. Thomas rather enjoyed it. 'It's only a small thing, but I thought it might amuse you. 'Open it.'

Thomas took it and handed him a full glass in exchange. He untied the string binding it and unfolded the paper to reveal a small, leather bound novel.

'Bertram Cope's Year'. He read the title aloud. 

'It's by an American writer, so I'm not sure how it ended up in Ripon, but I think you'll enjoy it. Let me know, once you've had a chance to read it.'

'I will.'

[bitletsanddrabbles]

This is another author comment from the complete scripts, but I’m going to put it behind a ‘keep reading’ tag because it took up a full page of type. I wanted to put it up here, though, as it addresses several things I find interesting, including:

1) the staffing in the show vs. staffing in rl and why it’s that way. The last line in particular is an important note on how constructing the series worked.

2) the relationship between the cook and the Lady of the house

3) it also gives a bit of perspective on Mrs. Patmore’s reaction when Mr. Wilson says she can cook for the staff...

Mainly, as a writer, I find it very useful in trying to figure out what staff might be lurking around that we don’t really see, along with the hallboys and maids.

“Mrs. Patmore is really only interested in what she is doing. She doesn’t take a wide view of whether it is a just world or not, she’s simply concerned about having enough flour - and the right flour - to cook with, but she does have very high standards. She is an excellent cook, not a plain cook at all, and despite the odd disparaging reference from Violet, her ex-employer, she is valued by the Granthams. The status she has achieved for herself is therefore enough and she doesn’t challenge the system. Like Mrs. Hughes (and not like Mr. Carson), she does not worship the family, she just gets on with it.

Of course the cook had a real relationship with the mistress in that the menus were checked and discussed between them and so on, but it was not like being a house keeper and nothing like the position of hte lady’s maid, so when Cora comes down to the kitchen it is a fairly big event and Mrs. Patmore is a bit nervous. In popular culture, the cook was expected to be bad-tempered anyway. This was usually blamed on their living in great discomfort. The kitchens were hot and stuffy and, even though the ceilings were often high in order to take the smoke and fumes above the heads of the workers, nevertheless they spent their days next to the steaming ranges. The thing about cooking, which again I hope we have conveyed, was that it went on all the time because there were so few short cuts and labour-saving devices. When you are making everything from the horseradish sauce through the biscuits the cooking was never ending. That is something that our takeaway, throwaway generation finds difficult to conceive of. The cook got out of bed, got dressed and started cooking and she kept cooking until basically the servants had had their last feed and that was it. Actually, in the series, we never make it clear who kooks the servants’ food. In some houses the senior kitchen maid, Daisy in this instance, would do more of the cooking for the servants, but nevertheless the main cook was still ultimately responsible, as she was for the catering upstairs. This would consist of three or four large meals every day, if you include tea whcih was course (sic) a big thing, then.

In real life, Mrs. Patmore would not have made the cakes in a house like Downton Abbey because that was more the business of the stil-room maid - but we don’t have a still room maid among the cast. We just thought it was one more character than we could service. In reality, at Highclere, a still-room maid would have made hte jams and cakes and so on, as well as laying out the breakfast trays for the married women. In some houses there was also a pastry chef, who would take care of the baking side of things, but we don’t have a pastry chef, either. In fact, in a really big house like Chatsworth or Wilton or Blenheim, there would have been a great variety of cooks. But in terms of a drama narrative there is a limit to how many people you can balance in the air at once, and we may have exceeded our limit as it is.”

- Downton Abbey The Complete Scripts Season One, Julian Fellowes, pg. 27

[timehasbeenbusy]

Grantham - Stevenage - London

Saturday 7 June 1834

8 20/.

10 40/..

Up for a few minutes at 6½ when very fine morning but found I had better get into bed again – better but very weak – merely a little boiled milk without bread, at sundry times during dressing – Off from Grantham at 10 10/.. – the house smelt so strongly of paint, glad to get away – Drove up to Burleigh  [Burghley] House and alighted there at 1 – waited in the hall 10 minutes having entered merely my name (Mrs Lister) and date before the housekeeper came,  25 minutes  seeing over the house –

Source en. wikipedia.org

Some good oak carving, and large handsome oak paneling several good pictures but the jewel of the whole is Carlo Dolce’s Saviour Blessing The Elements - an exquisite fine piece – the countenance is the most divine I ever saw -

Source - Collections Burghley House.co.uk

The next best picture but at a humble distance, tho’ very fine picture Domenichino’s [mistress] by himself  -  At 5 had a little cold ham in the carriage with Miss Walker and relished it – At Stevenage at 8 35/..  – tea – ready for bed at 10½ very fine day –

Sunday 8 June 1834

8 50/..

1

A little kiss last night  breakfast at 10¼ very fine morning – read to Miss Walker Clarke’s part of the morning service but soon overcome with fatigue, and let her read the rest from 11 50/.. to 12 10/..  so exhausted, lay on the sofa till 1 – Off from Stevenage at 1 10/.. – Mr and Mrs Canning and 3 daughters (from near Langton) had slept at Grantham  and slept here last night, and were off about 10 minutes before us – 

At 26 Dover Street at 5 20/.. – full – apartments taken for us at 13 Albemarle St –  3eme – bad stairs lastly – goodish rooms but dirty bedding underneath, and sorry the Hawkin’s were full - Dinner (good soup  well cooked veal cutlets and good gooseberry tart) - 

Wrote and sent note to ‘the honourable Lady Stuart Whitehall’ to announce my arrival and wrote and sent note to tell ‘Mr Hutton, 114 Park Street to come at 9 in the morning – tea at 10 – very fine day –

WYAS reference number SH:/7/ML/E/17/0041

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