THE WAY WE LIVE NOW *

The Better Man

Robert had not realized how much of a habit his Monday morning walks had become until the day Tom asked if he'd like to attend a farm auction in Bishop Wilton.**

"I can't, Tom. I'm walking with Carson."

Somehow this quiet exchange permeated the hum of conversation at the breakfast table.

"You didn't mention that you had plans," Cora said, turning away from Mary. She herself was off to an all-day fundraising event in York.

"It's nothing formal," Robert admitted. "We've just been walking together and I suppose we've built up an expectation."

"How is Mr. Carson?" Tom was the only one at this table who ever referred to the former butler in this way. Occasionally he slipped and fell into conformity with the others, but this happened only in this company. When he spoke to any of the staff, to villagers or estate workers, or to Carson himself, he never lapsed into the family's usage. An outsider might have thought this the last vestige of Tom's earlier life at Downton when, as chauffeur during the war years, deference to the head of staff was expected of him. But anyone who knew Tom Branson realized that it was a reflection of his abiding regard for Carson.

"He's well," Robert said, his first inclination always to minimize discussion of sensitive topics.

The others made ready to leave on their various rounds and Robert stood up, too. He used to enjoy a leisurely breakfast, lingering over the papers, drinking another cup of coffee. But the pace of life had accelerated and although he resisted this change in tempo, he did not like the idea of being left behind, even in the dining rom. Especially if it meant being left behind with Mr. Barrow. Mr. Barrow was a good butler, but not someone with whom Robert wished to pass the time of day.

He watched as Andrew helped Cora on with her coat, and then escorted his wife out to the waiting car.

"How gallant of you!" Cora teased, and she leaned over to kiss him goodbye. "Robert, you might want to firm up your arrangements with Carson if you're going to walk with him every week."

"Why?" Robert was puzzled.

"Because he may be expecting you," Cora told him. "And you shouldn't leave him dangling in uncertainty. He shouldn't have to wait around half the morning wondering whether you'll show up or not."

Robert shrugged. "He doesn't have to do that now."

Cora sighed a little at her husband's obtuseness. "But he will, Robert. This is Carson. He won't want to let you down."

He supposed she had a point. Going back into the house, he collected his coat and walking stick and then summoned Tiaa. She was at his side in an instant. "You're the one with the expectations," he told the wiggling dog.

His awareness heightened by Cora's admonition, he paid more attention to Carson than usual when he arrived at the cottage on the lane. It took Carson a minute to open the door, so it didn't seem that he'd been waiting by the window. Robert issued the invitation and Carson accepted it, both of them as if it were the first time. Robert couldn't see how Carson would have acted much differently had he dropped off a package and carried on with Tiaa alone.

Carson had to get out his coat and search a little for his walking stick, grumbling about the efficiency of his wife's tidying up as he did so. And then they set out in the direction of Winfield Farm, which had pleasant paths with windbreaks that offered some respite from a steady cool breeze.

"I'd never taken you for much of a walker," Robert remarked conversationally as they descended into a patch of woods. He had spent a lifetime tramping the fields and groves and lanes of Downton and it had been a long time since he'd seen Carson anywhere but the house lawns, the village, and the cricket pitch.

"There is a great deal of walking involved in the work of a butler, my lord," Carson said mildly, breathing deeply. He loved the fresh air of Yorkshire on a crisp winter morning. He'd had little opportunity to appreciate it for decades past.

"Hmm," Robert grunted, never having thought of this.

"In fact," Carson went on, "someone did a study of some sort on that question a few months ago."

"On what?" Robert was puzzled.

"On how far a butler walked in a day."

"How does one go about measuring that?" Robert's bewilderment increased.

"Apparently the fellow who wrote it up followed a butler around all day, counting his every step. Then he measured the butler's stride and calculated the distance."

"And?" This wasn't a topic that would necessarily have excited Robert's imagination, but they were in the middle of it now and he wanted to know the - what was that word? - the punchline.*** Carson, he thought impatiently, left much to be desired as a story-teller.

But Carson was deliberately playing it out, politely ignoring His Lordship's ignorance of this essential physical detail of a butler's life. "Nineteen-and-a-half miles," he said solemnly.****

This stopped Robert dead in his tracks. "Nineteen-and-a-half miles?! Good golly! In a single day? I've never walked nineteen-and-a-half miles in a day in my life!"

Carson wondered if this were strictly true given His Lordship's enthusiasm for stalking. But the fundamental point was that a butler covered such distances every day.

Silence reigned for several minutes while Robert digested this and Carson hoped for a new level of understanding about a butler's work.

"Where did you read this?" Robert inquired, after a while, and with due consideration of the revelation that Carson had walked much farther in his life in the corridors of Downton Abbey than Robert had in a lifetime around the whole estate.

"Mrs. Hughes brought it to my attention. It was in some magazine devoted to service."

"Hmm. Well, I suppose walking in the woods at Downton makes for more congenial exercise than climbing staircases or pacing corridors." He spoke breezily, stating the obvious. But Carson's silence was noticeable and Robert glanced at him.

"I would rather be treading the stairs or pacing the Great Hall," Carson said quietly. "But that's done. And I do enjoy the English countryside and this landscape in particular. I've always loved Downton."

Robert acknowledged the legitimacy of Carson's wistfulness, but saw no point - as Carson clearly did not - in dwelling on things that could not be changed. He cast about for a diversion and found one in two horses cantering in the field just beyond the rim of trees, punctuating the air with the frosty clouds of their breath.

"I've always walked Downton," he said. "My father, on the other hand, never walked when he could ride."

"I remember."

Robert smiled. "Sometimes I forget that you've been at Downton even longer than I have. Of course you remember my father's preferences in that regard. You would have saddled his horse for him when you were younger."

Carson shook his head. "My father rarely let me attend His Lordship," he said. "He felt it was his privilege as head groom to do that himself. But he did let me practice saddling the horse of His Lordship's heir," he added with a mischievous sidelong glance at Robert. They both laughed.*****

"Did you not like horses, Carson?"

"I liked them well enough."

"But not enough to follow in your father's footsteps."

They had never spoken much about their fathers, and far less about Carson's than about Robert's in any event. It had never occurred to Robert before to inquire about Carson's choice of career.

"My father had a gift when it came to horses, my lord. He cared for them as tenderly as a mother would her children. He knew their voices and their personalities. They understood each other. I could never aspire to that level of horsemanship. I wanted to do something that I could be the best at."

It was the kind of testimonial Robert liked to hear about a man and he was glad Carson could speak so admiringly of his father. They were both fortunate that way. Not every man could say the same. "He was a good father, then. He taught you to take pride in your work and to aspire to greatness on your own account. And you achieved that."

Carson bowed his head at the praise. "Thank you, my lord."

It had been a placid and uneventful walk and Robert was just musing to himself about the pleasures of an invigorating stroll in good company when Carson's right arm went into spasm so suddenly and violently that he dropped his walking stick.

Robert stooped to pick it up, over Carson's protest, and then watched in a sort of mesmerized alarm as the tremors accelerated. And then was distracted by Carson, who glared at the offending appendage and uttered an oath in his frustration.

"Beg pardon, my lord."

Robert was touched that Carson had the wherewithal, even in his distress, to apologize for expressing his frustration. "Not at all," he said swiftly. When it was over he handed Carson back his stick, noting that he took it with his left hand.

"Does it hurt?" Although Robert usually distanced himself from the physical discomforts of others, he could not simply ignore this.

Drained, Carson shook his head. "No. Not of itself. Occasionally I bang into something. But not otherwise."

"And your father had it, too." Mary had imparted the details.

"Yes," Carson said shortly. "And it finished his career, too. He stayed at it too long. He was cleaning a horse's hoof and the pick slipped because of the shaking. Cut his hand very badly and that was it. It broke his heart to leave his horses. He went downhill quite rapidly after that."

Robert recognized in Carson's sober tones a mingling of sadness over the loss of his father and the woe of a shared calamity. He watched Carson closely and carefully considered his next words.

"He was a fine man, your father," he said gently. "But you must be a better one still, Carson. Your change of circumstances is unfortunate and I don't downplay it. But you must not surrender your will to live because of it."

Carson smiled ruefully and cast a sidelong glance at his companion. "My father had lost his wife and his horses, my lord. He was alone and lonely. I am neither and am grateful for it."

"I am glad to hear it."

They walked for a while without further conversation, their boots crunching on the frosty ridges of the path. On the old cow paths and country lanes Robert always slipped the lead from Tiaa, letting her range at will in the woods and fields through which they passed. Occasionally he threw a stick for her and Tiaa would tumble over herself in delight at the opportunity to stretch her limbs and exercise that inbred instinct to retrieve, proudly dropping her prize at her master's feet.

"She's a fine animal, my lord," Carson observed, as Tiaa raced after yet another stick, her enthusiasm undiminished by repetition. "Her Ladyship the Dowager knew what she was doing in choosing her."

Robert smiled indulgently. There were few things in life that gave him as much pleasure as the companionship of his dog. "She did indeed," he said. "Did you never have a dog? When you were a boy, I mean."

Carson shook his head. "There was a dog or two about the stable and the hounds for the hunt. But for my father, the horses were his pets. A dog would have been superfluous. And there is no place for a dog in the life of a servant."

Robert admitted this was so.

Perhaps under the influence of the information about the physical demands of a butler's life, Robert had subconsciously led them on a longer walk than they had taken on previous outings. This route brought them into the village just as the church bells tolled noon. As they wended their way up the high street in the direction of the road that led on to Downton Abbey, Robert noticed in the post office window an announcement for the auction Tom had gone off to and it reminded him of the conversation he'd had that morning with Cora.

"What do you say we make this a regular thing, Carson? this excursion on Monday morning. That way neither of us will be left up in the air about it." It did not occur to him that he was echoing his wife's words.

Carson appeared surprised by this, but pleasantly so. "I would enjoy that, my lord."

"There'll be the usual lapses," Robert went on, "as when we're in London for the Season..." He almost faltered at this. 1926 would be the first year in more than forty-odd that Carson - as footman or butler - would not be with the family for that part of their annul cycle. Robert tried to push through it. "...but I used to do much more walking and I'd like to get back to it."

Carson appeared not to notice. "I've always been a creature of habit," he said - a colossal understatement that brought a reflexive smile to Robert's face - "and I should appreciate the stability." In this corner of my life, he thought, but did not say aloud.

Robert nodded, satisfied to have settled the matter and relieved to have gotten over that slight hiccough. Almost immediately another idea occurred to him. "I'm starving. Let's stop in at the Grantham Arms for lunch." His eyes had just lit on the sign up the street.

"Will they not be expecting you back at the Abbey?" Carson's tone was a neutral one, but the first thought in his head was of Mrs. Patmore and her preparations.

Robert shrugged. "Everyone's out. There would have been only me. They've got a telephone now in the pub, I understand..." He continued to speak as Carson rolled his eyes in dismay at this development. "I'll call the house from here."

Before they reached the door, Carson stopped in an awkward manner and Robert, suddenly attuned to the possibility of another attack, stopped with him.

Carson considered for a moment and then looked Robert squarely in the eye. "You must be able to speak freely about your activities and about developments at Downton, my lord, without concern for my feelings." So he had noticed the slight hitch at the mention of the Season. "Coming to terms with my...retirement...is a challenge for me and...sometimes...I find thoughts of Downton painful. But it is the life you - and Mrs. Hughes, too - live. And it is a world that I have loved all my life and will always have an interest in. Don't hold back on my account."

Robert gazed at his companion with no small measure of admiration. "Bravely spoken, Carson. And thank you."

They went into the pub, Tiaa trotting happily at their heels. The barkeep welcomed them with enthusiasm, delighted at the prospect of the custom of the Earl of Grantham and Mr. Carson, both notable personages in their own spheres.

As they made themselves comfortable at the table, exchanging as they did so greetings with villagers gathered for their lunch, Robert's eyes flickered in the direction of this man with whom he had spent a lifetime. Carson's words relieved him, but he knew that he would not give full rein to his musings about Downton. Not yet. Carson needed time to adapt. Fortunately, time was something that Robert could continue to give him.

*NOTE: The title has been shamelessly swiped from Anthony Trollope's novel. It just fit.

**NOTE: Bishop Wilton. No idea, really. It's a name I picked off the map of the area.

***NOTE: According to the source-of-all-knowledge Wikipedia, the term "punch line" or "punchline" first appeared in the Merriam-Webster Dictionary in 1921. That's an American source, but I'm assuming that a little of the American world permeates Downton Abbey by 1926.

****NOTE: The Chronicles of Downton Abbey: A New Era includes an anecdote of the Duke of Richmond who put a pedometer into the pocket of his old butler and discovered that the man had walked nineteen-and-a-half miles in a day. I have adapted this information here. Jessica Fellowes and Matthew Sturgis, The Chronicles of Downton Abbey, p. 48.

*****NOTE: I have altered Carson's personal history here. According to the Foreword by "Charles Carson" in Downton Abbey: Rules for Household Staff, Carson came to Downton as a junior footman, having served his earlier apprenticeship as a hall boy at Thrushcross Grange near Ripon. Rules for Household Staff, p. vii. According to Julian Fellowes, Carson's forbears were soldiers and servants and "His grandfather was a head groom - so he's middle middle-class..." Chronicles of Downton Abbey, p. 38. I have altered these facts to fit my own Downton world. Here, Carson grew up on the estate and his father was the head groom there.