Perfect Love (1920's jazz ballad) LADY MARY MEETS A POSSIBLE SIBLING .. 3/14/16

Lady Mary stepped out alone. Even new brides need time for themselves and she decided to walk. The day was bright. She liked the way she looked in her new chic, fox collared coat. Shop windows made perfect mirrors. It was that kind of day. Everyone was left to their own devices. Her parents took the children to a matinee of Peter Pan. 'The boys' made the rounds of all the top drawer automobile showrooms... a perfect opportunity for a little innocent self indulgence. Perhaps a jaunt down to Selfriges for a tiny bit of 'war paint,' as her father called it. Maybe she'd visit the salon and have her 'doo' sharpened up? London in the 20's... what could be better?

The young man fell in behind her. He'd been watching the townhouse for days. At first he considered approaching the countess. He'd heard see was American. Maybe an American would be more accepting? Everyone supposed that's how they were. Who could tell. Britain was changing too. Every tabloid and magazine shrieked about the Lady Vera Cathcart scandal. My God, the American's even denied her entrance... questionable morals and all that. But he had to share what he knew. So he zig-zagged through the throng (almost skipping at times) and caught up.

She was looking at a display of smart, stylish handbags when he came up behind her. She saw his reflection in the window, right behind a snappy, little Coach number .

He spoke. He said - Excuse me, but are you Lady Mary Crawley? Forgive me, but I've seen pictures.... She said - No, I am not.... for since her marriage, the 'title' was more or less only a social courtesy... And some people did stroll the district in hopes of meeting 'posh' types... Some even asked for autographs. He seemed well behaved and polite. Probably a visitor from the colonies.

He spied the lie, but had to press on and said - Please, I have something to show you, a photograph..... Another blackmailer? - she thought. That business with the hotel maid was supposed to be over and she told him so... He said - No, I'm not (he looked hurt), but, if you would, kindly look at these.... He took two photographs from his pocket and held them out so she could see....  One was of himself. The other amazingly enough was of her father, taken when he was about the same age. They almost matched. Save for the skin tone, everything else was nearly identical.... even the smile.

She said - Who are you? What is this?.... Struck by the immediacy of it all, he responded in a still, small voice and said - I believe we may be related.

They spoke for a bit. He left... Lady Mary just walked. She teared up, but she walked... Composure it everything... at least on the outside....

That's how she met Lucas...

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War Footage from 1899 (The Boer War) .. How Robert's Bastard, Lucas, Was Born.. 3/12/16

There's a reason for everything. Lord Grantham was obviously of a proper age to see service during The World War, especially as part of the officer corps, but the War Office never contacted him. True, not all were called. Some were simply excess baggage and no longer needed. Others had injuries. Some simply no longer had the inclination... Whatever... No one asked, for his service during the recent South African campaign was know to all.  What wasn't known is what happened off the battlefield.

Now liaisons between British personnel and native populations were common and to a certain measure responsible for the 'creole' element found in most British colonies and protectorates. The majority involved enlisted men and lower elements of the resident society. Officers, many stemming from old, established noble and gentry families, held to a higher standard. Any fraternization that did occur was kept secret, for according to the national fiction, Britain's aristocracy never faltered.

Except when they did....

The Zulus were a cultivated people, with a proud national history and military traditions worthy of Europe's best. For the most part, they steered clear of British and Dutch altercations, but sometimes segments of the kingdom found themselves in the thick of it. Many fell in with the Boers, the predominantly Dutch element long native to the land, viewing them as a weaker, more malleable alternative to the Brits. The Zulu ruling classes , you see, had plans of their own.

But one girl, well born, though not closely connected to the ruling house, feared for her life.  Through no fault of her own, she over heard things... intrigue between The Kingdom and various lesser states to the west. The 'She Elephant,' the Queen Mother knew. She was there. She saw and not one to make a scene was quite willing to bide her time... a bit of poison here... a berserk royal elephant there... an accidental impalement on a famed Zulu asengi (long, tapered, bayonet-like, fine steel blade). These things, in their own time, can be accomplished. The girl knew it and she ran.

When the British intercepted her she claimed kinship with Clan Buthalaisy, the Royal House. Well, she was close, but close doesn't count. Dynastic relations are all or nothing. Lesser cousins, barring unforeseen circumstances, remain lesser cousins. The English knew that, but they didn't know  the ins and outs of Zulu descent, so she passed.

There was an officer, an Earl, a major, some said soon to be colonel, a spruce young man from the North.... decorated for an encounter toward The Drakkensbergs, they sent the girl to him... One hot dusty day she was there, dressed like a Boer farm wife... a young, pretty Boer farm wife with a loose cap of dark brown curls and large, vivid eyes. She had some knowledge of English, not as much as Africans, but the Boers lived in close contact with the Zulus so that was understandable.

The major, Lord Robert Crawley, knew a bit of Zulu. He called for Bates, his batman. The field servant said - Headquarters sent her. She seems to know something of enemy positions, Zulu plans too. The colonel couldn't understand her and thought maybe you could, my lord.....

So they sat and talked. He sent for refreshments, beverages too.

That's how it started. He found her a job and she became part of the camp, even followed them to Pretoria.... Grantham's 'pet' they called her...

But she was much more than that. She had to be. Better life, such as it was, with this Brit, than death with her own.... And from that arrangement, Lucas was born...

They kept it quiet. Few people knew....

But the army did... and that's why a certain Earl from Yorkshire, with a sweet American wife and three young daughters never served in the trenches.

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City Of York (1930-1939) & Our Fifth Downton Abbey Episode.. 3/11/16

Lady Violet called for a car. She kept no chauffeur of her own, but relied on the big house. Since few were in residence right now her request posed no problem. She asked for a smaller 'machine,' something inconspicuous, so they sent the Crosley, a somewhat compact, dark grey sedan. Denker asked if she needed any help, after all, trips into York were almost as good as trips into London. The dowager said - Not today. And please play nice with your little brother while I'm out... The lady's maid pretended not to notice. Sprat was cloistered in his room typing out his column anyway. She wouldn't knock. Wouldn't give him the satisfaction. So she perfunctorily straightened up the dowager's dressing table and holed up in her own room with a copy of Lady Chatterly's Lover.

York is a special place, a classic English city, if you will. There's the Minster (the cathedral), the university, not to mention a warren of streets going back to the middle ages and newer thoroughfares to rival anything in Liverpool, or London. In a sense, it's the second capital of England. London serves the south and York serves the north. That's how it is. At one time, centuries ago, Northerners remembered legends of a 'Raven King,' an all powerful wizard, who surreptitiously ruled from there. But Lady Violet searched for memories of a different sort.

She had the driver take her to a narrow hidden street deep within the university district lined by tiny row houses. He helped her exit the car and climb the three, white marble steps...

The dowager said - Wait here please. If you must, there's a nice little café around the corner, with a 'necessary' and quite serviceable coffee, but either way, I shall be finished within thirty minutes.... Then she took out a key, opened the door and went in.

The small front room was shrouded in gloom. A few pieces of furniture hid under white sheets and the aged wood floor creaked softly. The old woman looked around, took the measure of the place and sighed. She touched the small mantelpiece and for a few moments stood lost in thought. Then she went into the kitchen, a basic affair with an old iron stove, a small primitive sink and not much else. There was a narrow closet on one wall, a pantry of sorts. The door stuck, but she managed to get it open. The shelves were empty and dry. The green paint largely gone, or absorbed into the wood. But the back wall wasn't solid. There was a small square etched into the surface. Maybe at one time, when the paint was fresh, it was less visible, but those days were long gone. The dowager opened a squeaky tableware drawer, took out a corroded butter knife and pried it open revealing a wood-lined hidey-hole containing a small metal box. She took it out, held it to her lips for a few moments and put it in her pocketbook.

Then she carefully put everything in its place, as best she could, went back into the front room, took the sheet off a slat-backed rocking chair and sat down, staring at the dust motes in a thin sunbeam sneaking in between the almost closed draperies.

A bit later there was a knock on the door. She got up, sighed and opened it..... The chauffeur said - I just wanted your ladyship to know I was out here.

Her ladyship whispered - Thank you. I'm ready.....

He helped her into the car and drove off, just as the cathedral bells began to chime.

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London St James Square .. Site of Grantham House, The Crawley Residence ..3/9/16

Grantham House was built in 1849, on a prime parcel across from St. James Square, the ranking aristocratic district of London. It dates from The Restoration and since Regency times till now ( 1926 ) has been a bastion of inherited wealth and social position, either nobility, or gentry. No parvenus here. Don't even think it. Well, maybe a fabulously successful financier might sneak in if he played the game correctly and supported all the right institutions and causes.

Everything about the place was spruce and scrubbed. Everything glowed with posh urbanity. And the young man standing across from the glossy front door saw that. He tried to be discrete. He tried to fit in. Most passersby didn't stare. Some did. You know how it is. People want to know. Is he Hindu? Is he Sudanese, or perhaps from somewhere in Latin America? The top coat was obviously bespoke and the shoes from Jermayne Street. But the complexion was all wrong... a little too swarthy... a little too 'foreign.' Then he found a seat on a bench and sat, studying the house and thinking..... Who were the people inside? What were they like? What would they say?

A woman came out with three English children. A younger person, seemingly a nanny, or someone filling in for a nanny went with them. They walked to the curb and waited, fresh and sharp in their fine melton coats and coordinating caps... the two little girls wore tam-0-shanters... the little boy sported a black, velvet, child's version of a formal riding helmet. How well behaved they were. A gleaming Bentley rounded the corner and stopped. The chauffer jumped out, smart as any cavalry officer, snapped open the door and helped his betters enter. Then they sailed off into the crisp, January sunshine.... the Countess of Grantham, off for a day of shopping, with her three grandchildren... her three junior aristocrats. Of course there'd be a break for tea at a fitting venue. Why wouldn't there be?

Lucas saw it all (that was the young man's name) from his front row seat. Then he got up and walked off, passed the impregnable facades of innumerable gentlemen's clubs, till after a bit he found himself among the crowds and sights of Piccadilly. He stopped to watch a Pearly King and Pearly Queen do a dance, even tossed a few pence into the cap. Then he entered a pub (after waiting to see if any other 'exotic' types went in first) for bangers and mash, washed down by a pint.....

'England'.... He had family there... in a manner of speaking... In a way... Who knows? We'll see...

Later that day he went back to his spot on the bench. The sun was setting. The earlier, winter warmth gave way to chill. Lights went on around the square. He focused on an upstairs window, possibly a bedroom, in Grantham House. A pinkish glow illuminated the interior, perhaps from a boudoir lamp with a rose silk shade. Then a man looked out, stepped back and closed the drapes.... Lucas thought he might be Lord Grantham, but he was only a footman. The room wasn't even a bedroom... just a small, rarely used study.

Would there be a meeting?... Of course... but that would come later...

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London in 1927 & 2013 ..Downton goes on ... 3/9/16

They shared a Spartan meal, sliced ham, bread and cheese. At first neither man spoke. They didn't even look at each other. They chewed and swallowed. Daisy silently entered with a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses... cool lemonade, not icy cold as you have it in 'The States.' British people are far too disciplined for that. At least they appear so. But then Daisy left and shut the door behind her. If any other member of the household suddenly needed comestibles, they'd have to make do with whatever they could find in the pantry.

Soft, winter light washed in through the large windows. Bates poured. He offered a glass to the tall, gentleman with the eye patch. The man nodded and drank. Bates just watched him for a bit, then spoke. He said - How long has it been? Since Stellenboch, or Capetown?... The man said - Perhaps one of the lagers? ..... Bates didn't respond... They ate a little more... The man with with the military bearing said - How did you know I was coming?.... Bates didn't say a word. Few knew he paid one of the errand boys to constantly watch the driveway from an upstairs window. The Earl knew. No one else did.... The man didn't press him. He knew better.

The kitchen clock ticked on. Bates winced. The man said - I see you still have 'the leg?'... No response, but then Bates asked - Why are you here? There were inquiries. It's all been settled. It can't be because of the war?.... 'The war' - said the visitor. Do you think those events had anything to do with the war, or do you think the war simply provided a convenient way to hide them?..... Bates just glared.... The man said - Actually, I'm not here on my behalf..... Who's then? - went Bates..... A certain 'connection' of Lord Grantham's. Is it truly safe to talk in here?... Bates went - If I say it's safe, it's safe..... The visitor exhaled and went - Then I'll tell you.... Please do - said the 'fixer.'.... The visitor nodded - While stationed at a post north of Durban, Lord Grantham had a certain dalliance with a girl..... Is that supposed to shock me? - asked Bates.... Whether it shocks you, or not, is immaterial to me. I'm just here to relay the facts - said the man..... Bates listened..... The man went on - This wasn't just any girl. She was a Bantu girl, a Zulu, rather high born too, 'House Buthalaisy' and all that. Oh, those people are not without a certain level of political power, even in South Africa..... And? - said Bates.... There was a child. She had a son, a bright handsome lad too. Here, let me show you.... And he passed a photograph from his breast pocket to the 'fixer.'... Bates studied it. The bone structure was very much the same. There was no denying that. Even the hair had a certain similarity. What he saw was a younger, light brown (although skin color is hard to tell from a photograph), slightly tweaked edition of Lord Robert. How earnest he looked..... Then he slid it back and said - Tell me more..... The visitor smiled - He's here. The young man is in London..... More power to him - said Bates. But he has no claim on the estate, being illegitimate and 'all that.' We can't help you there..... Can't you? - said the visitor. You've probably pegged me for a solicitor by now. Certain people hate this house and they have reasons. Should the truth come out and by the way, the truth about Lady Edith's brat too, it won't be pretty.... If you don't mind, how do you know about that? - whispered Bates.... Oh, come on - said the man. You have your ways. I have mine...... They sat in silence..... Then the visitor said - Not in residence, I suppose? The family, I mean.... Bates shook his head..... Well, where could they be? This is January. I know English practice. They're in London for 'the season.' Am I right? How fortuitous - said the visitor. Gives you time to think. My God, how many scandals can this place take? And that includes you too. Well? The balls in your court now.... Bates sighed... The visitor, the man with the slight Afrikaner accent softly laughed. Then he took another slice of ham... and laughed again...

CUT TO - The dowager's house.

Lady Violet and Denker sit across the French writing desk. The dowager talks. Denker writes.

Ah, yes. We must include the Pembrokes. Publishers, you know. Quite respected in the City, Edinburgh too. The old man's retired, but the son's very active in the trade. One of the first peers to openly and eagerly engage in 'business.' Not bad to have him in our pocket. The social climbing little snot will probably go berserk with glee. Put him down. Put him down. Put him down. I'll find the address. He's part of it too.

Denker scribbled....

Oh, goody goody! I can see it now.. the dinners, the working lunches. All we have to do is talk? The stenographers will take it all down? Is that what they're called? Is that how it works?.... Yes, my lady. So I'm told - went Denker. The literary whirl is quite new to me....And I as well - said the dowager. That's why it's so much fun! Do you suppose Roger and Adele might interview me on the wireless?.... Oh, undoubtedly - went her henchwoman.... Well, I too can play 'the Churchill' - chuckled the old woman...

And that was that...  'Lady Violet's Literary Salon and Luncheon Society' born....

While in London, other things began to happen...

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LETTERS FROM DOWNTON ABBEY part II . .the London Season .. 3/8/16

It was quiet. Downton felt empty. A cold, gray chill settled over the place. Tom came back, but only for a few says to get the children packed up. Then he bundled them off to London. He, Mary and Tony decided to stay in town for part of 'the season.' They opened the  Crawley Townhouse, a Regency mansion in Bellgravia, but didn't send for any of the country servants, preferring to rough it and make do with the skeleton crew on hand.

Cora missed the children. Robert did too. 'Donk' was all alone and he pined for the wee ones. Isobel, who often came by for luncheon said - Why don't you join them? This is the perfect time of year to take the little ones to the Royal Zoo and I'm sure George would love the armoury display at The Tower. What little boy wouldn't? And, Cora, imagine the high teas you could have with Sybil and Marigold at The Connaught. They'd remember it all their lives.

Cora smiled and said - You make it sound so wonderful..... It is wonderful - said the soon to be baroness. And what keeps you here? Bates and Anna can play 'mother and father' to the place. A perfect quiet time for the new baby. Take Baxter and one of the footman, if you must, but I'm sure the town staff can manage. Rosamund could always lend you someone. Go! What are you staying here for?...... My work. The hospital - went Cora..... Don't even think about that. Write up some instructions. Give them to me. We'll be fine..... Cora looked at Robert. Robert looked at her. He said - What about Mama? You know how she detests sudden surprises?.... Cora sighed and nodded..... Cousin Isobel smiled and said - That won't be a problem..... Why - he asked. Are you planning to drug her?... Nothing so drastic - she said. Your mother has her own plans..... What, pray tell? - asked Cora..... She intends to start a salon, a place where people of her generation can come together to record memoirs and recollections of days gone by. There's to be a luncheon, a reception of sorts. You should see how it's animated her. Frankly, I think she's needed this for a long time. Sir Robert, from Pennington's already signed on and, of course she has me. Who knows? We may have a nice, little anthology before summer.

Mama, 'literary' - said Robert. Will wonders never cease? What brought this on?.... Everything - said Isobel. All the marriages. All the changes. The hospital. My own happy situation. She feels alone and unneeded. She'd never say it. You know how she is, but she does. Let her have this. It's not a bad thing. I'm sure of it. And bring me back something nice from Selfrige's. And something for your mother too. Now go. Pack. Go.....

So they did.

But two days after they left, a certain tall man with an unmistakable military bearing and a patch over his left eye walked up the drive toward the house, crunching the new fallen snow.

Bates met him half way. They stopped, nodded and went on, going passed the front entrance to the kitchen door toward the back.

Mrs. Patmore put out tea and left them to it. Apparently there was much they had to say...

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LETTERS FROM DOWNTON ABBEY... Part 1 .. 3/6/16

The Dowager stayed for breakfast. It was a warm morning, relatively speaking, January in England can be like that. They assembled in the 'little' dining room, Robert, Cora, Isobel and Violet. Just them. Just the 'old guard.' The 'young set' --- odd to think of them that way when they hold so much power over the place--- had their own social schedule and were already on their way into 'The City.' They  hold the reigns... and no one feels that more than Lady Violet. 

She smiles. She nods. She nibbles at her plate. Most of all, she looks at Isobel... and she thinks about the future. So many weddings and one yet to come, the union of Isobel and Lord Merton... two people from her own generation, more or less, yet still so much a part of things.

Nineteen Twenty six, how unbelievable. The Americans are celebrating their Sesquicentennial. Mrs. Levinsohn sends telegrams. She'll be staying with friends at Greyfaire, on the Mainline for the opening. Some of the family will be there with her. But not Violet. Too much of an ordeal for a seventy eight year old. Too taxing for one who was quite extent during The Sepoy Rebellion. Would that is were not.

She was born into a tumultuous year... eighteen forty eight. Europe was in revolution. Britain sailed ever deeper into The Victorian Age, as the second daughter of an unassuming English baronet first burst upon the scene. They had a house, quite dignified, though by no means palatial and a well kept estate in the home counties. Gentlefolk through and through and stalwart members of the gentry, if not the nobility. But, as Dr. Wayne Dwyer says - Self actualizing people must be what they can be... and the little girl who played 'marauders of the Punjab' with her cousins in the rose garden adhered to that philosophy, even if she'd never heard the actual words.

Violet remembered everything. Weddings bring that out. She stared at the table cloth. Robert said - Are you all right, Mama?.... She smiled and nodded..... Then the new puppy romped in, begging for treats and stealing the show. While all eyes were on the dog, the dowager dabbed hers.

Robert and Cora were having a few notable, local couples in for an almost casual New Year's Day dinner, but the dowager went home well in advance. Isobel left too, but she had her 'intended.' Violet had nothing like that.

With the darkness came the cold. Denker lowered the shades and closed the draperies. Sprat set the table for one. The dowager dined alone. She sat there listening to the wireless. Many people dining 'alone' did that. Sprat would ask - Does my lady have any preference?... The dowager would say - No, Sprat. You pick..... But he knew she liked a show called 'Cocktails With Roger And Adele,' where a well spoken West End theater couple pretended to casually circulate among guests at a London night club, stopping to chat with glossy entertainers during breaks in the music. When it was over, she went into the parlor and sat gazing at the fire. And she thought about the future. Would it truly be a future, or merely extra time? Would it be her dotage, or maybe something else?

Then she got up and went toward the staff room. Sprat held down one end of the long, rustic, polished table. Denker guarded the other. The soon-to-be-celebrated-advice-columnist-butler worked on his magazine piece. Denker drew facial hair on actresses in a movie magazine. Greta Garbo looked quite dashing.

When she entered, her usually bickering henchmen 'snapped too.'.... Anything wrong? - asked Denker.... Sprat just stood there..... Lady Violet said - No, it's quiet in here. Such a lovely change. But I just wanted to say we're three people of somewhat advanced years, that fate has seen fit to put together and how we spend this time is up to us. Sprat, I think you know how much I approve of your new career. There's nothing wrong with the spotlight. I see that now. Enjoy it.... Yes, my lady - went the butler-advice columnist.... And you, Miss Denker, the sun goes down soon enough. Let it be on a clear sky. No more storms, please.... Of course, my lady - said the lady's maid...... Well, that's all - said the dowager.... But before exiting, she thought for a moment and said - Sprat, I'd like to host a luncheon in a week or two. See if you and cook can come up with some menus?... He nodded.... And you, Denker - went the dowager - brush up on your calligraphy, because I want this to be a very special occasion..... Then she left, humming a dance tune all the way.....

That's how it is.....

Just when you think it's over, it's not...

Life, as it always does, goes on.

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