Chapter Text
Even with just one more day to go, the spirit of Christmas has a hard time making itself felt at Downton Abbey. The house has been decorated, the baking is mostly done, the children are duly excited, but somehow the vital spark simply isn't there. Both Henry Talbot and Tom Branson, away together on a business trip, are keenly missed upstairs. Meanwhile, a considerable last minute addition to the usual pre-Christmas workload is leaving its mark on everyone downstairs.
As upstairs guests go, the Countess of Morcar is high maintenance, and that's putting it mildly. The bell of the Blue Room doesn't stop ringing. Albert races up and down the backstairs like an olympic runner to answer her summonses. Mrs Patmore is struggling to reconcile her long-planned Christmas menus with the extensive list of forbidden foods that the illustrious lady can't possibly be expected to ingest. Her Ladyship has only been here since mid-morning, but she's already the least popular person to darken the door of the Abbey since the King and his entourage last year.
"What did she want now?" Thomas asks Albert as they make their way up the stairs to the servery with the family's luncheon. They're glad to get out of the kitchen, where they've left Mrs Patmore to battle with the Countess' lady's maid over the necessary adjustments to dinner next.
"Extra blankets for her little yappers," Albert scoffs. "The room's so draughty, apparently, that the basket and covers she brought for them won't do."
"I'll give her draughty," Thomas mutters, thinking of the frostwork on the windows of his own attic bedroom this morning. He pushes the door at the top of the stairs open and lets Albert, who has both his hands full, pass through ahead of him.
"Made me stoke up the fire twice already, too," Albert continues when they're both walking along again, sensing that he's allowed to vent at least until they reach the servery. "That room's like a greenhouse now. No wonder the little beasts get aggressive. They even bark at her maid like mad."
Thomas glances at his long-suffering young footman. "Mind your ankles?"
Albert rolls his eyes. "Ankles, trouser legs, anything they can fit their tiny choppers around." The salmon terrine on his platter wobbles with indignation. "And the din they make is atrocious. But I gave the largest one a kick to remember me by when Her Ladyship's back was turned."
They were lucky, it seems, that Lady Morcar's chauffeur carried the wicker chest containing the three terrors all the way from the car to the Blue Room himself, or there would probably have been blood to clean from the carpet, too.
Thomas can't recall now why on earth he expected a mild-mannered, unassuming person when Lady Grantham announced at dinner a week or so ago that she would ask her childhood friend Gina to spend Christmas at Downton. Maybe because that's how Lady Grantham herself would behave as a guest in someone else's house. But apparently Lady Morcar has lived the life of a French nobleman's wife on the Riviera for so long that she has lost all her original American simplicity and straightforwardness, if she ever possessed either in the first place. She looks the part, too. She hasn't aged nearly as well as Lady Grantham, the angles of her lean face accentuated by too much paint, her bleached hair brittle and dull with grey roots showing.
"Please let's ask her, Robert," Lady Grantham appealed to her husband when His Lordship failed to show any great enthusiasm at the idea. "She has no children, and it's her first Christmas as a widow. It's bound to be hard."
The Countess of Morcar was barely out of her shiny automobile at the Downton front door when Thomas was already convinced that this woman has never known hardship in her life.
"Oh, she misses the Count terribly," Thomas heard her maid tell Mrs Hughes when the housekeeper showed her the kitchen and the servants' hall. "Sometimes a pain is so great that all you can do is run away and leave your old life behind, isn't it? She's travelling to forget her sorrow. Well, she can afford it."
By contrast, it seems that Miss Cusack, or so the maid introduced herself, can afford nothing at all. Her black dress has been out of fashion for at least five years, and has been rehemmed at least once, and the soles of her shoes that Thomas saw flashing white when she walked off towards the stairs to attend to her mistress are nearly worn through.
"Cora, you look so well," Lady Morcar trills in her thick American accent when the Crawleys sit down to lunch together with their guest, then turns to Lord Grantham. "But then, you take such good care of her. No, no!" She holds up a hand as if His Lordship had just violently contradicted her. "You do. I can tell. Alas, all I have of my dear husband now is my treasured mementoes."
"Ah, yes. Gina owns one of the most precious gemstones in existence," Lady Grantham explains to her family. "The Blue Carbuncle."
"The Blue Carbuncle?" Lady Mary asks, impressed.
"Jean-Baptiste gave it to me on our silver anniversary," Lady Morcar reminisces dreamily. "It's the colour that makes it so rare. The palest blue, like a lagoon in our beloved Antilles. And there's the mystique as well. It's not an old stone, but there had already been two murders, a vitriol-throwing, a suicide and several robberies committed for the sake of it by the time Jean-Baptiste acquired it for me."
Thomas and Albert exchange a look across the others' heads.
"That's not exactly reassuring," Lord Grantham remarks. "I hope you've got it safely stored in a bank vault somewhere."
"Oh, men!" Lady Morcar chides him with a laugh. "Always so prosaic. Jewels are made to be worn, not locked away! I brought it here with me. I'll wear it to dinner, then you can judge for yourself whether it deserves to be buried out of sight."
"Weren't you worried to bring something so valuable on your travels?" Lady Grantham asks, voicing the thoughts of everyone in the room, and a great deal more politely than any of the others would have put them, too.
"Why would I be worried? What could possibly happen in this quiet backwater of yours?"
Lady Mary's eyebrows rise almost to the ceiling.
"Yeah, well, I can never tell if she was more in love with the Count or with his money," Lady Morcar's chauffeur, Mr Baker, says over a cup of tea in the kitchen while upstairs lunch is being cleared away. Strictly speaking, he's the only person in the room who does not deserve a break, his duties having ended once the Countess' luggage was unpacked and the car put away. But that doesn't stop him stuffing his broad, flabby face with samples of Daisy's Christmas baking that were left to cool on the table, without asking permission of course, and offering comments that range from inane to downright unpleasant. Thomas has no time to deal with this as long as Mr Baker doesn't start targeting any of Thomas' own charges, above stairs or below, but he's glad all the same when Bates volunteers to fill the awkward silence.
"Have you been with Lady Morcar long?" the valet asks the chauffeur.
"Nah." Baker reaches for another piece of gingerbread. Daisy looks inches away from smacking him across his fingers with a wooden spoon. "I come with the car she's renting while she's here in England."
There's not much small talk to be got out of that, enthusiasm for anything that runs on petrol being an upstairs rather than a downstairs thing at Downton.
Mrs Hughes turns to Lady Morcar's maid instead. "And you, Miss Cusack?"
The maid blushes when all heads turn to her. "Oh... I've been with Her Ladyship for a few months. The French are much better than us with fashion and hair, of course, but Lady Morcar wanted a maid who spoke her language, so..."
She glances across at the chauffeur as if for his approval, though Thomas can't see why she should need it. Miss Cusack may be somewhat colourless and careworn in appearance, but she seems competent enough, and not unpleasant to be around, at least when she's not trying to square the circle on behalf of her mistress. "No red meat, no cow's milk?" Thomas heard Mrs Patmore lament earlier. "What do people eat in America?"
"Don't sell yourself short, please," Phyllis protests kindly. "Lady Morcar's hat, when she arrived, was a dream!"
That's quite true, actually. Thomas noticed it as well, an exquisite creation of navy blue with white piping and a crisp arrangement of white flowers and feathers that looked like they came from some fairytale winter kingdom.
"Well, you see," Miss Cusack explains, "I was a milliner before I became a lady's maid."
And they're off, Phyllis, Mrs Hughes and even Mrs Patmore, on a topic that Thomas neither understands nor cares about.
Albert looks in, out of livery already, to say he's off till dinner. Mrs Hughes abandons the subject of hats for a moment to raise her eyebrows at Thomas. She's not going to ask outright whether the butler of Downton really thinks this a good moment for their only remaining footman to take his half-day, but that's clearly what she means. Thomas shrugs to say yes, it is, because it's been fixed for weeks and he's not going to cut into Albert's rare free time for the sake of keeping that conceited cow happy. Thomas can hear the voice of Mrs Hughes' husband in his head, of course, "That's not how I'd have handled it back in the day", yes, thank you, more's the pity. But Mrs Hughes only sighs and relents. She does that a lot nowadays, it must be acknowledged.
"Enjoy your bell-free hours," Bates says to Albert with a twinkle in his eye. For some reason, Thomas is still surprised every time the man proves himself his staunch ally.
The conceited cow calms down a bit over the course of the afternoon, and the only denizen of Downton who has a real reason to be cross with her for a while is Teo the Labrador. She has been struggling to accept the presence of three other canines in the house since they arrived, and that simmering conflict reaches an ear-splitting climax when Lady Morcar comes down to the great hall with the chihuahuas on a lead for a walk in the park with Lady Grantham.
The bell board in the servants' hall does no more overtime for a while. On the next occasion when it goes off unexpectedly, Bates and the ladies' maids have already gone up to see their respective charges into their evening finery. Thomas hears it with only half an ear. He's down in his pantry for a minute to fetch the candlesticks Albert didn't have the time to finish earlier today, courtesy of Lady Morcar's incessant demands for greater comfort. But it's not the tinkle of the Blue Room this time, it's the lower ding dong of the back door, so it's probably Andy or Mr Mason from Yew Tree Farm with their promised shipment of geese for Daisy's and Mrs Patmore's Christmas dinner magic. Thomas would stay to say hello, but there's no time. The clock is at just past six, and the dining room is only halfway done. About time Albert showed his face again, too.
"Steady on, Mr Barrow!" Mrs Hughes exclaims indignantly when Thomas quite literally runs into her the next time he dives headlong down the backstairs, the dining room all shipshape and Bristol fashion but everything behind the scenes still a shambles. "Or it'll be broken ankles next!"
"Sorry, Mrs Hughes," Thomas pants, catching the stack of clean linen and bedding that he's nearly knocked out of the housekeeper's hands. "I was just - "
"I hope you were just heading for the servants' hall and a nice calming cup of tea now," she says in a kinder tone, taking the linen back from him. Thomas senses with relief that they're out of 'Mr Barrow' territory again. "I'd highly recommend it. Albert is back, he can take care of whatever's left to do."
A nice calming smoke in the yard outside, more like, Thomas thinks and pats the pockets of his coat while Mrs Hughes continues up the stairs. But he left his cigarettes in his day coat when he changed into his dinner things, and anyway, the servants' hall does seem inviting when he arrives down there, aglow with a warm light and abuzz with cheerful talk.
"Has anyone seen Al- " Thomas says when he looks in at the door, then breaks off and just stares.
"Hello," says the man at the table who cannot possibly be Richard Ellis, and yet he is. "Want some tea? You look like you could do with a break."
Thomas gapes, his heart beating up to his throat. "What - " he stammers, shakes his head, then laughs. "Well, I'll be damned."
Richard's smile almost reaches his ears. A bit late, it occurs to Thomas to mind his language. But there are no ladies present, only both Mr Mason and Andy with tankards of ale in front of them, and a ratty old bowler hat that sits on the surface of the table between them.
"You said there was no way - " Thomas protests weakly.
"Well, I found one."
Richard told Thomas weeks ago not to hope that they'd be seeing anything of each other over Christmas, and that they should look at the quieter days of January or February instead. It's downright devious of him to turn up here now, unannounced, on the twenty-third of December. He's been back to Downton a few times since the Royal Visit, but never without warning, and Thomas doesn't know whether to be alarmed or delighted how sure Richard must have been of his welcome.
"He's just passing through on his way to Sandringham," Andy explains while he pours Thomas a cup of tea, and Thomas doesn't know what would be more touching, his former footman's staggering ignorance of English geography or his willingness to fake a staggering ignorance of English geography for the sake of discretion. Thomas glances at Mr Mason, but the old farmer, a born diplomat as always, hides his smile in his tankard.
Weak-kneed, Thomas pulls out a chair and sits down next to Richard. "How long have you got?" He can't bear the idea of it being only for the evening, and him spending most of it serving that blasted dinner upstairs.
"Twenty-four hours, or nearly" Richard replies, turning Thomas into the happiest man in the north of England.
"Mrs Hughes is making him up a bed right now," says Albert's voice from the doorway. The young footman is pulling on his livery coat in a hurry, his face flushed, his unruly hair not yet back in place, as if he's run to get back to the Abbey in time. He points with his chin at the hat on the table. "Anyone own up about the hat yet?"
"We found it on our way here," Andy explains to Thomas. "It was lying by the wayside. We thought it might belong to someone at the Abbey."
"Until we saw it in a proper light," Mr Mason adds. "Can't imagine Mr Bates nor Mr Carson in a battered billycock like that. Maybe it's one of the outdoor people's."
The thing does look rather the worse for wear, cracked, spotted and just plain dirty.
Richard picks it up. "And I've told them not to see it as a battered billycock, but as an intellectual problem." He flips it over and peers inside.
"All right, Mr Sherlock Holmes," Mr Mason chuckles. "Let's hear it, then."
Richard tilts the hat so the lining catches the light better. "The owner of this hat," he declares, "is a middle-aged man and stoutly built. He either leads a sedentary life or he's considerably overweight, or both. He was fairly well-to-do three years ago, but he's now fallen upon hard times. He has, however, retained some degree of self-respect, which is surprising considering the fact that his wife has ceased to love him."
An astonished silence follows this extraordinary statement. Then Andy, Mr Mason and Albert all start laughing heartily.
"You're having us on, right?" Albert asks, grinning. "How do you make that out?"
By way of an answer, Richard claps the hat onto his head. It comes down right over his forehead and settles on the bridge of his nose. So much for the man's build. More laughter, and this time Thomas joins in. He can't believe how effortlessly Richard is slipping into their little community again.
"Middle-aged," Richard continues, emerging from under the hat again, "because he's had his hair trimmed a short while ago. Look, the lining inside has all these hair-ends sticking to it, clean cut by the scissors of the barber. They're grizzled, but not white yet. The lining itself has perspiration stains all around it, so the man is not in great shape physically. Actually - " Richard feels along the inside with his fingers. "He was in a very agitated state, or walking very fast, when he lost the hat. It's still damp in places." He's enjoying himself far too much, and Thomas nearly bursts with pride in this silly, vain, irresistible and altogether lovable showoff of his.
"What about being well-off three years ago but not now?" Andy wants to know.
Richard holds the hat out to him. "There's a maker's label on the inside of the crown. Hartley and Sons, London. A fairly good brand, not cheap, until the Sons fell out and the place went out of business three years ago. So our man was able to afford one of their hats three years or more ago, but hasn't had a new one since, in spite of the stains and dents that you can see. Hence he was in funds three years ago but is watching every penny now."
"Blimey," Mr Mason mutters, impressed. "What else did you say? Self-respect? Unloving wife?"
"See how he's tried to cover some of the stains on the outside with black ink. He can't afford a new hat, but he doesn't want to look shabbier than he absolutely needs to."
"But what about the wife?" Albert insists.
"Easy." Richard tosses the hat to him. "This hat hasn't been brushed in how long?"
Albert catches the hat by the brim, holds it between thumb and forefinger, well away from his snowy white shirt, and wrinkles his nose. "Ugh. Weeks?"
"What loving wife lets her man go out in a hat that hasn't been brushed in weeks?"
"Ha!" Mr Mason exclaims. "This is where the magic trick ends, Mr Ellis. What if he's a bachelor? Or a widower?"
"All right," Richard concedes with a good-natured grin. "The wife's a bit of a stretch. I stand by the rest."
Struck by a sudden spark of inspiration, Thomas leans across for a closer look. Albert surrenders their find willingly. It's not pleasant to bring the grimy object into the vicinity of his nose, but Thomas takes a good sniff anyway. "Have we mentioned his lime-scented pomade yet?" he suggests, aiming for an offhand tone.
"See, it's not that hard," Richard smirks.
"There's something else, though, a sharper tang, like..."
Andy takes the hat and helps himself to a noseful, too. "Motor oil," he declares instantly.
"There you are," Richard concludes. "A man in close contact with motor vehicles, but who spends most of his workday sitting idly on his backside? You're looking for a chauffeur."
"Crikey!" Andy lets the hat drop back onto the table. "That's no coincidence!"
"He had a uniform on, though," Mason points out, scratching his own grizzled head.
"Wait, who - " Thomas cuts in, puzzled.
"Lady Morcar's chauffeur. He came down to the farm this afternoon," Mason explains.
"To buy a goose," Andy adds.
Thomas feels his mind boggle. "To what?"
"Buy a goose," Mason confirms. "Or reserve one, rather. Said his missus was cross with him for having to travel over Christmas, so he'd bring her a nice fat bird when he got back home to keep her sweet. His missus," he adds with a mischievous look at Richard. "Just so you know."
Resolute footsteps approach the servants' hall from the direction of the kitchen. With a sudden pang of guilt, Thomas glances at the clock. Damn.
"If you gentlemen could be bothered to actually serve the dinner we've been toiling away on - " Mrs Patmore has arrived at the door and spots Richard. Her grouchy expression relaxes into a smile. "Oh, Mr Ellis! To what do we owe the honour? No, don't answer that," she adds hastily and turns her attention to Albert instead. "Where have you been hiding, eh?"
"Sorry," the footman mutters. "Er, York. Christmas presents for my nephews."
"Nice." Mrs Patmore puts her hands on her broad hips. "Now if you please -"
"I'll help carry stuff up," Andy offers, rising from his seat. "We've held you up with our talk. Let me just wash my hands."
They don't get far. They're barely out of the servants' hall when the door at the head of the stairs bursts open and Phyllis Baxter comes flying down, pale with shock.
"It's gone!" she cries, wringing her hands. "The Countess has fainted, the maid's in a state, and Lady Grantham's telephoning for the police! Someone's stolen the Blue Carbuncle!"