Their Old Familiar Carols Play (Downton Abbey, K)
“Yes, Mrs. Patmore!”
“And what, may I ask, has you grinning like the loon you are this morning? If you’re feeling a bit underworked, we can soon sort that out.”
“No, Mrs. Patmore. It’s just…It’s Christmas, Mrs. Patmore!”
“I know that, girl! Why d’you think I’ve gone half off me head trying to get Christmas dinner ready before they get back from church? Now stop spouting silly things we already know, and when you’ve finished the apples you can see to the oysters.”
“Yes, Mrs. Patmore.”
------------------------------------------------
O God, your fatherly care reaches
to the uttermost parts of the earth.
Bless those whom we love, who are now separated from us.
Watch over them, and protect them
in all anxiety, danger and temptation;
and teach us and them to feel and know that you are always near,
and that we are one in you for ever;
through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
“Amen,” echoed Lord Grantham, thinking of his cousin and heir. Services had been ending with this prayer since late October, when the disastrous news from Flanders had started coming in. That was the same time Matthew had finally insisted on joining up, whatever he, Lord Grantham, had to say about it. In truth, Robert couldn’t have continued arguing against it after Flanders, anyway. He was actually rather impressed Matthew had listened to him for the two months he had.
But now he was left with his closest male relative in the trenches of Europe, praying fervently every week for his protection. Half of him wondered what would happen if this third heir in less than three years were to be killed. He would have to start all over, teaching some new upstart how to love Downton as his own, and he didn’t even know who the next in line was. The other half despised himself for thinking so mercenarily, and simply wanted Matthew to come home. Especially at Christmas.
------------------------------------------------
“Mr. Bates, would you mind helping me with the table? Mrs. Hughes has got Anna down in the village buying some last-minute things and Bootsie’s got behind on the silver. Again,” Carson sighed. “At any rate-”
“Mr. Carson,” Bates interrupted gently, “there’s no need to explain.”
There was a comfortable silence between the two men as they laid the place settings ever-so-carefully on the table. They had done this before. Bates may not have been able to serve at table, but these days even his limited help was welcome in setting it.
------------------------------------------------
Sybil loved Christmas. The tree, especially. The candles - oh, she loved the candles! - reflected off all the delicate German ornaments, throwing light from the tree in mad sparkles. Sybil remembered making ornaments for the nursery - not that long ago, really - Nurse trying to corral a rambunctious Mary and a disinterested Edith while Sybil tied paper chains and gilded walnuts.
Even the war couldn’t dampen Sybil’s Christmas spirit, though tensions in the house were building again. She supposed Branson had a lot to do with that. Father had known he was hiring a radical for a chauffeur, yes, but there hadn’t been a war on then. Now he was talking about the aristocracy sending young workers off to fight their war for them, and Sybil worried that Father would not only fire him, but have him arrested for sedition. She didn’t actually disagree with Branson, but she knew her father well enough to know which ways not to antagonize him. It didn’t help that Branson was the only fit young man left in the household; especially now that Matthew had gone, his very presence rankled her father.
But it was Christmas, and everyone seemed to be reasonably cheerful today. Sybil was grateful for that, at least.
------------------------------------------------
It was too quiet, Anna thought. It had been for the last four months, really, but today was Christmas. There should have been laughter, or the murmur of voices, or something other than this gloomy silence as they all ate their Christmas dinner. She had been too relieved when Thomas left, and too worried for William when he left, and too happy for Gwen when she left, to think about how their presence affected the atmosphere downstairs.
“This sauce is delicious, Mrs. Patmore,” came Mr. Bates’ soft voice from her left. There was a brief chorus of agreement and general praise of the food, but it died down quickly and the silence returned, broken only by the clink of silverware.
Anna looked around at the rest of the staff. It was odd; with Thomas and William and Gwen gone, she was actually one of the youngest members of the household now. There was still Daisy, of course, and Bootsie, the bootboy Mr. Carson had hired to take on some of the more menial jobs Thomas and William had left behind. But Daisy had never been one to start something on her own, and Bootsie was twelve and all but silent. It seemed it was up to Anna, then, to inject any liveliness that might be had this evening.
Catching Mr. Bates’ eye, she gave him a wink and a playful smile. His brow furrowed and he returned her smile with a puzzled one.
“I know a word,” Anna called loudly, and now even the silverware was silenced, “that sounds like countin’.”
Everyone just stared. Anna was determined not to blush, not to look down, but she wondered if this hadn’t been a bad idea after all.
And then, “Is it a waterfall?” That wonderful voice from her left again, bless him.
“No, it’s not a fountain,” she answered.
“Is it a big hill?” Daisy piped up.
“No, it’s not a mountain.”
“It’s our house!” She didn’t recognize the voice, thin and high and young, until she saw Bootsie at the end of the table, grinning from ear to ear.
“Yes, it’s Downton,” Anna confirmed, smiling at the boy. “Your turn, Bootsie.”
“I love crambo!” he said. “Can we do Dumb Crambo? Our dad says I could be ‘a rising new talent on the vaudeville scene,’ he does. It’d be a right laugh.”
“After dinner, Bootsie,” Mr. Carson rumbled. “We wouldn’t want to upset the soup tureen in our enthusiasm.”
Mr. Carson looked anything but enthusiastic about the idea, but he hadn’t vetoed it outright so Anna supposed he was alright with it. Bootsie apparently thought so, too, as he cheerfully continued the game in its more verbal form.
“I know a word…”
The mood of the room hadn’t changed that much; it was still quieter than usual and the absences were felt strongly. But there were smiles flitting around the table now, and snippets of laughter as someone made a particularly silly guess.
“Good idea,” Mr. Bates told her. “I haven’t heard Bootsie say so many words together since he’s been here.”
Anna laughed. “I hope I haven’t opened Pandora’s Box. He’ll likely be talking all our ears off by next week.”
“Well, it would make a nice change,” Mr. Bates shrugged, smiling. There was a brief pause, and then he leaned over and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Merry Christmas, Anna.”
“Merry Christmas, Mr. Bates.”
------------------------------------------------
Christmas meant singing carols around the piano, Edith accompanying, with only the tree and the fire for light. It was a warm sort of atmosphere, cozy even. The crackle of the fire was miles away from the crackle of weapons, and his fingers wouldn’t be freezing in his gloves. He would even welcome Cousin Violet, with her snide comments and surprisingly nice singing voice. It had been rather the least of his surprises that first year, Cousin Violet’s singing voice, but it had been a surprise nonetheless. Mary’s voice, on the other hand, had not. He could almost hear her now…
“Stille Nacht…Heilige Nacht…”
He frowned, checking his rifle. Something was wrong; something was different. Then he realized: it was quiet. The constant crack of distant - or not-so-distant - gunfire had ceased. And what he had thought was his memory playing tricks on him, making him hear the Christmas carols he longed to hear, wasn’t. There really was someone singing out there.
“Alles schläft; einsam wacht …”
He didn’t know the words, but the tune was achingly familiar. And then, from his right, someone else started singing, this time in a language he did know.
“’Round yon virgin, mother and child…”
Before he knew it, he was surrounded by voices, English and German twining together. It wasn’t carols around the piano, but he would take this Christmas miracle all the same. Matthew took a deep breath and joined the chorus.
“Schlafe in himmlischer Ruh! Sleep in heavenly peace.”
“And what, may I ask, has you grinning like the loon you are this morning? If you’re feeling a bit underworked, we can soon sort that out.”
“No, Mrs. Patmore. It’s just…It’s Christmas, Mrs. Patmore!”
“I know that, girl! Why d’you think I’ve gone half off me head trying to get Christmas dinner ready before they get back from church? Now stop spouting silly things we already know, and when you’ve finished the apples you can see to the oysters.”
“Yes, Mrs. Patmore.”
------------------------------------------------
O God, your fatherly care reaches
to the uttermost parts of the earth.
Bless those whom we love, who are now separated from us.
Watch over them, and protect them
in all anxiety, danger and temptation;
and teach us and them to feel and know that you are always near,
and that we are one in you for ever;
through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
“Amen,” echoed Lord Grantham, thinking of his cousin and heir. Services had been ending with this prayer since late October, when the disastrous news from Flanders had started coming in. That was the same time Matthew had finally insisted on joining up, whatever he, Lord Grantham, had to say about it. In truth, Robert couldn’t have continued arguing against it after Flanders, anyway. He was actually rather impressed Matthew had listened to him for the two months he had.
But now he was left with his closest male relative in the trenches of Europe, praying fervently every week for his protection. Half of him wondered what would happen if this third heir in less than three years were to be killed. He would have to start all over, teaching some new upstart how to love Downton as his own, and he didn’t even know who the next in line was. The other half despised himself for thinking so mercenarily, and simply wanted Matthew to come home. Especially at Christmas.
------------------------------------------------
“Mr. Bates, would you mind helping me with the table? Mrs. Hughes has got Anna down in the village buying some last-minute things and Bootsie’s got behind on the silver. Again,” Carson sighed. “At any rate-”
“Mr. Carson,” Bates interrupted gently, “there’s no need to explain.”
There was a comfortable silence between the two men as they laid the place settings ever-so-carefully on the table. They had done this before. Bates may not have been able to serve at table, but these days even his limited help was welcome in setting it.
------------------------------------------------
Sybil loved Christmas. The tree, especially. The candles - oh, she loved the candles! - reflected off all the delicate German ornaments, throwing light from the tree in mad sparkles. Sybil remembered making ornaments for the nursery - not that long ago, really - Nurse trying to corral a rambunctious Mary and a disinterested Edith while Sybil tied paper chains and gilded walnuts.
Even the war couldn’t dampen Sybil’s Christmas spirit, though tensions in the house were building again. She supposed Branson had a lot to do with that. Father had known he was hiring a radical for a chauffeur, yes, but there hadn’t been a war on then. Now he was talking about the aristocracy sending young workers off to fight their war for them, and Sybil worried that Father would not only fire him, but have him arrested for sedition. She didn’t actually disagree with Branson, but she knew her father well enough to know which ways not to antagonize him. It didn’t help that Branson was the only fit young man left in the household; especially now that Matthew had gone, his very presence rankled her father.
But it was Christmas, and everyone seemed to be reasonably cheerful today. Sybil was grateful for that, at least.
------------------------------------------------
It was too quiet, Anna thought. It had been for the last four months, really, but today was Christmas. There should have been laughter, or the murmur of voices, or something other than this gloomy silence as they all ate their Christmas dinner. She had been too relieved when Thomas left, and too worried for William when he left, and too happy for Gwen when she left, to think about how their presence affected the atmosphere downstairs.
“This sauce is delicious, Mrs. Patmore,” came Mr. Bates’ soft voice from her left. There was a brief chorus of agreement and general praise of the food, but it died down quickly and the silence returned, broken only by the clink of silverware.
Anna looked around at the rest of the staff. It was odd; with Thomas and William and Gwen gone, she was actually one of the youngest members of the household now. There was still Daisy, of course, and Bootsie, the bootboy Mr. Carson had hired to take on some of the more menial jobs Thomas and William had left behind. But Daisy had never been one to start something on her own, and Bootsie was twelve and all but silent. It seemed it was up to Anna, then, to inject any liveliness that might be had this evening.
Catching Mr. Bates’ eye, she gave him a wink and a playful smile. His brow furrowed and he returned her smile with a puzzled one.
“I know a word,” Anna called loudly, and now even the silverware was silenced, “that sounds like countin’.”
Everyone just stared. Anna was determined not to blush, not to look down, but she wondered if this hadn’t been a bad idea after all.
And then, “Is it a waterfall?” That wonderful voice from her left again, bless him.
“No, it’s not a fountain,” she answered.
“Is it a big hill?” Daisy piped up.
“No, it’s not a mountain.”
“It’s our house!” She didn’t recognize the voice, thin and high and young, until she saw Bootsie at the end of the table, grinning from ear to ear.
“Yes, it’s Downton,” Anna confirmed, smiling at the boy. “Your turn, Bootsie.”
“I love crambo!” he said. “Can we do Dumb Crambo? Our dad says I could be ‘a rising new talent on the vaudeville scene,’ he does. It’d be a right laugh.”
“After dinner, Bootsie,” Mr. Carson rumbled. “We wouldn’t want to upset the soup tureen in our enthusiasm.”
Mr. Carson looked anything but enthusiastic about the idea, but he hadn’t vetoed it outright so Anna supposed he was alright with it. Bootsie apparently thought so, too, as he cheerfully continued the game in its more verbal form.
“I know a word…”
The mood of the room hadn’t changed that much; it was still quieter than usual and the absences were felt strongly. But there were smiles flitting around the table now, and snippets of laughter as someone made a particularly silly guess.
“Good idea,” Mr. Bates told her. “I haven’t heard Bootsie say so many words together since he’s been here.”
Anna laughed. “I hope I haven’t opened Pandora’s Box. He’ll likely be talking all our ears off by next week.”
“Well, it would make a nice change,” Mr. Bates shrugged, smiling. There was a brief pause, and then he leaned over and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Merry Christmas, Anna.”
“Merry Christmas, Mr. Bates.”
------------------------------------------------
Christmas meant singing carols around the piano, Edith accompanying, with only the tree and the fire for light. It was a warm sort of atmosphere, cozy even. The crackle of the fire was miles away from the crackle of weapons, and his fingers wouldn’t be freezing in his gloves. He would even welcome Cousin Violet, with her snide comments and surprisingly nice singing voice. It had been rather the least of his surprises that first year, Cousin Violet’s singing voice, but it had been a surprise nonetheless. Mary’s voice, on the other hand, had not. He could almost hear her now…
“Stille Nacht…Heilige Nacht…”
He frowned, checking his rifle. Something was wrong; something was different. Then he realized: it was quiet. The constant crack of distant - or not-so-distant - gunfire had ceased. And what he had thought was his memory playing tricks on him, making him hear the Christmas carols he longed to hear, wasn’t. There really was someone singing out there.
“Alles schläft; einsam wacht …”
He didn’t know the words, but the tune was achingly familiar. And then, from his right, someone else started singing, this time in a language he did know.
“’Round yon virgin, mother and child…”
Before he knew it, he was surrounded by voices, English and German twining together. It wasn’t carols around the piano, but he would take this Christmas miracle all the same. Matthew took a deep breath and joined the chorus.
“Schlafe in himmlischer Ruh! Sleep in heavenly peace.”