LAST WORDS

December, 1936

"Would you please sign here, Papa?"

Mary sat at the small writing desk in the library of Downton Abbey, working her way through a stack of correspondence. She set the letter she had just written to one side and did not wait for her father to put his name to it before slitting open the next envelope with the gleaming silver letter-opener that had served the Crawley family since her great-grandfather's days.

Robert stood at his daughter's shoulder, took the fountain pen she offered him, and carefully inscribed his name. He put the pen down and then leaned down a little to press his lips gently into her hair.

Mary smiled without looking up at him. "Thank you, Papa."

He remained standing with his hand on the back of the chair, looking at the paperwork spread out before her. "I don't envy you, my dear."

"What do you mean?"

"My father died when I was thirty. I have been the Earl of Grantham for forty years. You, on the other hand, are like King Edward VII, waiting a century for the crown. You'll hardly have time to enjoy it before you must pass it on to your son."

Mary's head came up abruptly and now she did look up at her father. "Don't compare me to any kings named Edward. They were an appalling lot."

"I'm only familiar with the story of Edward VII." The cheerful voice behind this intervention came from Mary's mother, Cora, who sat on the sofa by the fireplace.

"Well, the others aren't worth remembering," Mary said emphatically. Then she tilted her head back in thought. "Well, perhaps Edward III had something to recommend him. But IV and V were nonentities, the VI was a mere child, and the II doesn't bear thinking about. And Edward I was too far back for anyone to care." Her gaze slanted toward her father. "Carson taught me about all the kings." She paused. "How is he?"

"He is well. Missing his dog." Robert looked thoughtful. "I wonder if I should get him another one."

"Robert …."

"I know, I know." He held his hands up in mock surrender. "Never do anything without consulting Mrs. Carson." He ambled back to the sofa and resumed his seat beside his wife.

Now thoroughly distracted from her work, Mary turned round in her chair. "What did we go to all that bother for with the Prince of Wales when he was going to throw away the crown anyway? Better to have settled it a decade ago and let Prince Albert prepare for it."

"Poor man," Robert said, with genuine empathy for the man who was shortly to be king. "Neither of them wants the throne, but I'm far more sympathetic to Bertie's apprehensions than those of the Prince of Wales. The public scrutiny will kill the man."

"Is his stutter very bad?" Mary asked. "Have you any idea?"

"I don't think so. Not in personal conversations anyway. It's the pressure of public attention. I wish I could forget the agony of his closing address to the British Empire Exhibition back in 1924. The whole nation suffered through it with him."

"The news is that he'll take the name George," Cora put in. "George the VI."

Mary smiled. "Well, I like him even more then."

"Where is George?" Robert asked abruptly.

"He went to a picture show with Henry and Stephen and Barrow."

Robert heaved a sigh of exasperation, largely for effect. "Since when does my butler go wandering off in the middle of the day for leisurely pursuits?"

"It's his day off, Papa," Mary said drily.

"Oh. Right."

"I'm glad George came with us to New York," Cora said. "I feel like I've hardly seen him these past few years, off at school."

"Off at Eton," Robert intoned.

Cora ignored him. "He didn't share either his mother's or his grandfather's disdain for America."

"Then I went wrong somewhere," Mary declared, and then relented. "No, that's not so. I'm glad, too, that George and Stephen went. They need to know where they come from."

Cora sighed wistfully. "I wish they'd have met Harold."

"They knew him just about as well as I did," Mary said, with feeling. "He was only over here the once. Why was that?"

"Twice. He came for our wedding, too. Because he felt about England the way you feel about America. But at least he gave it a chance." There was a sadness in Cora's eyes.

"He came here, Mama, because Grandmamma twisted his arm. That's not quite giving it a chance." She paused thoughtfully. "Why didn't he ever marry?"

"He wasn't the marrying kind," Cora said matter-of-factly.

Mary considered this. "I know he wasn't not the marrying kind like Barrow. I suppose Uncle Harold's not the marrying kind is some sort of American idiosyncrasy. Didn't he think it his duty?"

Robert stood up abruptly. "Don't we have an appointment with Mr. Leighton at Benview Farm?"

Father and daughter stared at each other for a moment and then Mary nodded. "Yes. I had forgotten." She tidied up the various papers on the desk. "We'll be back for tea, Mamna."

Robert gave his wife a tender look. "I've not lost anyone close since dear Mamma, and that was some time ago. But I remember the heartache." He kissed Cora. She gave him a grateful smile.

Outside the library, Mary frowned at her father. "We don't have any such appointment and I have correspondence to finish. What's so important?"

Robert fixed a look of exasperation on his daughter. "Because you were about to ask your Mamma what Harold did with his money and that would have been in very bad taste."

"Does anyone know?"

"No."

"Didn't Mamma inquire?"

"No. If she were to inherit, she would have heard by now."

"I suppose that lets me out, too," Mary said, meaning it as a joke.

"Must you be so mercenary?"

Mary could only shake her head at her principled Papa. "We have bills to pay, Papa. That isn't being mercenary. It's a fact."

H * H * H * H * H

Uncle Harold lingered in Mary's mind. Later in the afternoon, alone with her mother in the library again, she returned to the subject.

"I know you loved Uncle Harold. He was your brother. But how can you miss someone you've not set eyes on for years and who never wrote to you?"

Cora shrugged complacently. "I wrote to him."

"Regularly?"

"Yes. And he enjoyed hearing from me. Mother kept me up to date on his doings."

"But, still."

Mary was standing by one of the long windows, watching her boys kicking a ball around on the lawn in the descending dusk. George, at fifteen, was outmaneuvering his younger brother at every turn. Stephen, who was ten, persisted nonetheless. As she watched, Stephen stole the ball, kicked it through imaginary goalposts, and then did a victory lap until George tackled him and they collapsed on the ground, laughing. Such was George's physical dexterity that Mary hardly noticed his infirmity. He had worked hard to make this so.

Whenever she looked at her sons, Mary was prompted to count her blessings. She had loved two men and she had had a son with each of them. The boys were powerful evocations of their fathers. George was fair-haired and blue-eyed in Matthew's image. He was clever like his father, too. And he had a way of looking at his mother when she made a pronouncement on something, not questioning or challenging in words, but obliging her to reflect on her remarks all the same until she found herself picking apart her own argument. But he was more impulsive than Matthew, too. That, Mary knew, he got from her. Stephen was dark, like Mary and Henry, with shining hair and great dark eyes which swirled with visions of machines not yet built, and with a bit of mischief. He was determined and independent in a quiet way, but there was no turning him back once he'd started something.

Mary reveled in them both. They were being properly educated, not like her useless instruction under a governess, and they would make something of themselves. George, of course, was destined to inherit the title and to assume control of the united estate when he came of age. That was a promise Mary had made to herself when Matthew had left her his half of Downton. George would need all the wit and wisdom bestowed upon him by his parents and fostered by Eton and, hopefully, Oxford, to help him meet that challenge.

Stephen was not a Crawley and had no financial inheritance awaiting him. Not since the Depression had struck. Mary mourned this. She had wanted to give him a leg-up in his adventure of life. But she did not despair for him, or for either of them. Her sons would thrive. If only Europe could stay away from another war.

"Some relationships formed in childhood forge bonds so firm that you never forget them."

Cora's statement stirred Mary from her reveries. She shook her head. "I can't see it, Mamma. I spent the first two decades of my life with Edith and nothing good ever came from it." This was a slight exaggeration. Mary and Edith, though combatants from the latter's birth, had reached a middle-aged truce. They corresponded regularly and there was even a measure of warmth in their exchanges when they met these days, which was infrequently. Distance helped.

"You were chalk and cheese," Cora said. "Harold and I got along famously. I loved him and I liked him. And he felt the same."

Mary had returned to the desk in the corner and to the pile of papers on it. "Papa dragged me away from my desk yesterday before I'd finished sorting the correspondence. There was a letter for you." She held it out and Cora came to get it.

"It's from Madeline Alsop," Mary said.

Cora frowned thoughtfully. "I should know that name."

"She's a friend of Rose's, though I daresay that's faded a bit. I don't know about Miss Alsop, but Rose, as we know, is no correspondent. And she's difficulty enough maintaining ties with her relations, let alone old friends."

"I wonder why she's writing to me," Cora mused, flicking the envelope.

"Open it and find out." Mary held out the letter opener.

Cora gave her a look. Mary could be so mundane. But she slit open the small envelope and glanced at the short note within. "She offers her condolences about Harold." This prompted Cora to give Mary a puzzled glance. "And asks if she might come up to see me in person."

"You? Why you?"

"Because Harold was my brother, maybe?!" She shook her head. Sometimes Mary could be so obtuse.

"Up? From where?"

"The return address is in Somerset."

"Goodness. That will be a journey. Did she know Uncle Harold?"

"How could she? I mean, she might have met him that summer he and Mamma came over."

"Yes. That's it. She came out with Rose. And she was mixed up in that business with the Prince of Wales, now that I think of it. Her father was Lord Aysgarth. He was infatuated with Grandmamma. Or," Mary paused, "at least with her money."

"Yes, that was the fashion that year," Cora said acerbically, staring pointedly at Mary.

Mary ignored this dig. "He died in debt."

"I fear that's an aristocratic hazard these days."

"Well, Papa isn't going to die in debt, not if I have anything to do with it." Mary's eyes flashed. "And neither am I. Depression or no depression."

Cora's expression softened. "You've done well, Mary. You deserve Downton."

"Well, George will have it intact and that's good enough for me."

M * M * M * M * M

Madeline Alsop arrived at Downton the following Thursday. She was a lovely woman with an open engaging manner that attracted Cora, who had much the same guileless character and easy demeanour. Cora alone greeted Miss Alsop. Cora was the recipient of the letter and it was, as she had noted, her brother about whom Madeline Alsop was calling, so Mary felt no need to be party to the meeting. Their guest would stay only for tea and then travel as far as London that night. She had to return promptly to her home in Somerset.

"I've come because of your brother," Madeline said, almost as soon as the preliminary greeting had been made. "I've only just heard of his death."

Cora led her into the library and asked Barrow to send up tea. "It's kind of you to offer your condolences. And to make such a trip, especially at this time of year."

Madeline stared at Cora with wide, expressive eyes in which Cora saw her own openness to the world mirrored. "I wanted to see you, to speak with someone who knew and loved Harold well."

This puzzled Cora a bit. It seemed rather incongruous. "I didn't know you were so well acquainted with my brother," she said.

"Oh, we knew each other well." There was almost a solemnity in the way she spoke. "We corresponded for more than ten years."

Cora almost fell off the sofa. "Harold wrote to you?"

Madeline nodded. "At least once a year. Sometimes twice."

"My brother Harold?"

This elicited a gentle laugh from Madeline. "I wrote more often." She produced a thick packet of letters from her bag. "These are our letters."

Cora was flabbergasted. "Well, you're lucky! I only got …."

"Two letters," Madeline interrupted. "One that his mother made him write and the other to your husband, which was not really to you at all."

This took Cora aback. "How did you know that?"

"Harold told me," Madeline said simply.

Tea came and the two women settled themselves more comfortably by the fire, which took the chill out of the early winter air.

"How did you come to Harold so well?" Cora asked.

"When he was here in 1924, for the presentation at Court. I came out with Rose."

Cora considered her. "You're a bit young for Harold."

Madeline nodded. "He wasn't interested in me, not in that way. But my father, Lord Aysgarth, pushed me at him. He wanted me to marry money." She looked a little abashed at this admission, but Cora waved this away.

"We all know that story. But I don't know yours."

"Harold made me see what my father was doing," Madeline went on, her gaze intense. "He gave me the courage to stand up to my father and to refuse to be a pawn in his desperate search for financial stability. Harold made me see my own self-worth."

"My brother Harold?" Cora laughed at herself. "I'm sorry to keep saying that, but you're presenting a side of Harold I'd not seen."

"Yes, your brother Harold. We only met a few times, but they were memorable. He changed my life. By the time he left, we were friends. And we remained friends."

Cora was touched. "What a lovely story. Thank you for telling me this."

Now, Madeline shifted uncomfortably. "There's more."

"How?"

Madeline held up the bundle of letters. "Our letters. I've brought them all, his and mine. You may read them if you'd like."

But Cora saw no reason for this. "They're your letters. They're not for me. But …" One thing did puzzle her. "How do you come to have the letters you wrote to him?"

"The lawyer brought them."

"Lawyer?"

"The lawyer who's handling Harold's estate brought me all the letters I had written to Harold and one more, Harold's last letter to me. Only it was written more than ten years ago, almost immediately after he returned to the United States from his trip abroad in 1924."

Cora was bemused. "Why are you telling me all this?"

"Because…," and Madeline shifted more uncomfortably still, "I don't know that it's right."

"What's right?"

The woman took a deep breath. "That Harold should name me as beneficiary of his estate."

This did send Cora's eyebrows skyward. "He's left all his money to you?"

"Yes." There was a quaver in Madeline Alsop's voice. "And I'm not certain I should accept it."

Cora frowned. "Perhaps I should read this letter."

Madeline held it out promptly. "Please do."

Cora opened the letter – it was, astonishingly, several pages long and dated October, 1924 – and began to read.

Dear Madeline

My sister left for England more than thirty-five years ago and I've only ever written to her twice. The first time was because my mother made me, which is a sad admission for a grown man, but … you've met my mother. The second time was not even a letter to my sister, now that I think about it. It was an appeal to her husband, Robert, to come to America and vouch for me in the … troubles … over those mines in Wyoming. It was precisely those troubles that led my mother to propose the journey that led to our meeting. I tell you this – that I have only ever written two letters to Cora – to give you fair warning. It is almost miraculous that I have picked up a pen at all and scribbled these few words. It will be more miraculous still if I ever finish the thing and get it into the post.

Ah! Even as I dot the last i, I can hear your reproach, see in my mind's eye your disapproval of my self-deprecating tone. And, worse still, the reminder that I've promised to do away with that, at least with you. Let me begin again.

I have an English cook and she is wonderful! Well, that suggests that I am acquainted with her. I am not. I don't think I've even seen her. I mean that her food is wonderful. I look forward to mealtimes in a way I cannot say I have ever done before. Plain, simple, good cooking. It's astonishing that I expected to find English food just awful, and now I find that I can hardly tolerate to eat out here in New York. Everything around here is French. At the Ritz-Carlton, they are serving the soup cold! I would like to find the rascal who perpetrated the myth about the inferiority of English food and give him a good shaking.

Here's a little gossip for you. I know English girls are as disinterested in gossip as they are about money, so … I'll let write this discretely. My valet fell in love with another cook at Downton Abbey, but the girl turned him down. She preferred the serenity of uncluttered Yorkshire to the bustle of New York. Now, there's a reversal to the usual story. He's tried to put a good face on it, which I appreciate as I don't enjoy gloomy Guses, but he is heartbroken. That is what comes of love, which is why I've tried to avoid meaningful relationships. I don't like to disappoint.

And I don't like to give offense, either, so I will retract my comment about meaningful relationships. Heartbreak is what often comes of love. But, as for meaningful relationships, you have shown me the error of my ways there. I can't say that I've had an epiphany or anything like that – I hope I've used the right word there, epiphany, it's been so long since I've been in a church – but I now know that it is possible to have a meaningful relationship that does not involve heartbreak because I have just such a connection, if I may be so bold as to assert it, with you.

Perhaps I speak in error. I have just written two pages and said nothing at all that was meaningful. Before I wax philosophical on that point, I will remind myself that life is a mosaic of trivial matters, punctuated occasionally by something worth writing a letter to the papers about. So, I shouldn't challenge the characterization of our relationship as meaningful. It is thus because we think it thus. And that is enough.

And now I'm already on a third page, which is a marvel in itself, and I have not yet asked after you father. Is he well? More to the point, has he secured his fortune yet? My mother invited him to Newport next summer. If she can't get him married off, then he is beyond hope.

I thought I was beyond hope. I want to make a confession – another concept foreign to my life. It's something I've hidden from everyone, which is the best kind of material for a confession. Like my valet, I, too, fell in love in England, although not in the conventional get married, move to Long Island, raise a family sort of love. I have fallen into the real kind, the kind where one accepts and cherishes the other for who they are, where there is only truth spoken, and where that is all right.

I speak, of course, of you. I wouldn't be writing to tell you if it was someone else. I'm not that much of a social dullard. There I go again, but I know you will make allowances for the occasional lapse, dear Madeline, because it is, after all, who I am.

I have every intention of breaking my bad habit of the absent correspondent which my long-suffering sister has endured for years. I will write to you, in response to your letters and even, every once in a while, on my own initiative. But this letter has a specific purpose. I dodged the awkward overtures of the desperate debutante doing the bidding of her penurious father. I would have acted so with any woman, for I am fundamentally not the marrying kind. But toward you my behaviour was not a matter of self-preservation. I did it for you. You are too good for that Madeline. You deserve so much more than attaching yourself to a man for the purpose of a roof over your head and the wolves barred from the door, or, worse, for the purpose of ensuring that your father might continue in the life to which he has become accustomed.

I would not have you obey your father's dictums, but I do appreciate your devotion to him. I don't think fathers get enough credit. Mine certainly didn't. But you paid your filial dues and I doff my cap to you on that. Even so, I came quickly to admire the strength of character you demonstrated when that option vanished.

Liberated from that oppressive obligation, you came into your own, not only as lovely and charming a woman as I have ever met, but a kind one as well, someone with depth and understanding. You've made me take myself seriously and not only when I'm with you. If I thought to bolster your self-confidence by uncoupling you from your father's unholy schemes, you have bolstered my sense of self-worth by showing me that I can be more than I have been. And that is okay.

I like myself better, Madeline, and you did that.

But now to business.

My mother would have me marry and I can't blame her, I guess. Wanting that is part of her job description. But I won't. I never wanted to and I still don't. And I won't have children either. I've always been careful about that. I apologize. It's not a detail to share with a lady. But it's relevant all the same, because it means that I have no one obvious to name as my heir.

Oh, there's my sister and her daughters. And don't get me wrong. I love my sister. We always got on. And if she was in need, you can bet your boots that I'd name her in an instant. But I want to name you.

Don't get too excited. I'm planning to live for a while. And I may have spent it or lost it all by the time you get this letter. But even if I have and all you get is this letter, you will know that I wanted to do this because of what you have given me. And I know that if this letter is it and you even have to pay the postage due to get it, it will be as welcome to you as a great big fat check.

If there is a God, and sometimes I think there is and sometimes I think there ain't, then your father will predecease me and you will not feel obliged to share the wealth. I want you to be able to enjoy yourself, to find something worthwhile to do with the money, a goal I haven't yet managed. And to remember fondly that crass American who turned you down, but who loves you still.

Now I'll hand this over to my lawyer for safekeeping, along with a revised will, and go write you a letter I can send.

With love, Harold

Cora stared at the valediction for a long moment. In her mind's eye she was seeing her brother – understated, self-deprecating, but always warm and supportive, an ally in battles with Mother, an echo of dear Father. Finally, she looked up.

"You meant a lot to him. And I don't even remember seeing you together."

"A half-dozen moments at best," Madeline said.

"And yet you made such an impression on him."

"And he on me, Lady Grantham."

"Cora, please."

"Cora. I felt indebted to him. I am still indebted to him. He helped me to live the life I had instead of spending it pining, as my father did, for what would never come back. I'd never met anyone like Harold."

The ringing sincerity in her voice touched Cora, who smiled, puzzled. "I'm still not sure why you're here, Madeline. Harold wanted you to have what was his. You should have it."

"But … it's quite a lot. And in these times..."

Cora only shrugged. "It doesn't matter whether it's quite a lot or, as he thought possible, only this letter. It warms my heart that Harold had such a person in his life. I never sat down with him and told him that his life would be better if he conformed, if he found a wife, had children, and …what was it he said? Moved to Long Island?" This made Cora throw her head back with a laugh. "I knew that wasn't for him. But you hope those you love know love and I thought he'd missed out." Her gaze rested fondly on Madeline Alsop. "But he didn't."

Madeline's eyes were shining with tears.

"And he did write to you?"

Madeline held up the bundle of letters. "Once or twice a year, as promised. Never predictably. That's why I…," her voice faltered a little, "…I didn't notice, right away, that … he wasn't there anymore. I didn't know he'd died, not until the lawyer contacted me. I'd have found a way to go to the funeral, if I had." She seemed genuinely distraught.

Cora placed a comforting hand on the other woman's twisting hands. "It was a modest affair. We went almost as a family excursion, Robert and I. We took two of our grandsons. Harold had already been cremated by the time we got there, of course, so I didn't even see him." She sighed. "But I wish I'd known about you, to tell you."

"There really wasn't anything to know about me," Madeline said modestly.

"I disagree," Cora said, in that disarming way she had. "Where have you ended up?"

Unconsciously, Madeline's countenance brightened and her eyes sparkled. "I teach, at Garnet Hall, a girls' academy in Somerset. I ... I never married and not … not because of your brother. Not, at least, because I was hoping he would change his mind, or anything like that, though I did love him, as he loved me. But … I didn't have to marry, as I had been brought up to believe. And I just never met anyone that I did love."

Cora nodded understandingly. "That happens."

They spent another hour together, their conversation broadening to include Rose Aldridge, Cora's niece by marriage and Madeline's old friend.

"She is not much of a correspondent," Madeline agreed, laughing. "But there's always such a liveliness to Rose that a few words count far more than pages from someone else."

"I'm not sure I completely agree with you there," Cora responded, shaking her head, but smiling all the same. It was hard to be annoyed with Rose.

At length, Madeline rose to leave. Cora rang for Barrow and asked for the car to be brought around. At the door, Madeline held out to Cora the bundle of letters that she had held closely throughout their conversation.

"I'd like you to read these."

Cora made to object, but Madeline insisted. "Harold was your brother. There is so much of his life recorded in these letters. You will enjoy them. And … please read my letters to him, too, if you like. I'd … I'd like you to see how we were together."

It was Cora's first impulse to reject that out of hand, but then she considered. Madeline Alsop wanted to do right by Harold's sister and her family. She wanted Cora to know the nature of the relationship which had led Harold to make such a generous bequest to a woman he had met only a half dozen times. It would ease Madeline's discomfort with the correctness of Harold's gesture. Cora took the letters.

"Thank you. I will." And then she embraced the younger woman. "Thank you, Madeline. I will make sure to get these letters back to you. I know how much of a treasure they are for you."

Madeline nodded her thanks through a veil of tears. Then Barrow announced the arrival of the car and Madeline Alsop slipped into the coat the butler held out for her and she was gone.

C * C * C * C * C * C

"How was your afternoon with Miss Alsop?" Mary asked, as Robert, Cora, and Mary gathered for tea. Tom and Henry were still at the shop, working longer hours than ever in the ongoing economic malaise. "What did she have to say about Uncle Harold?"

"Lovely things," Cora murmured, a pleasant feeling permeating her whole being.

"Where are the boys?" Robert asked. George was old enough to take tea with the adults, and it had become the practice to include Stephen as well, though this would not have been the case in the 'old days.'

"They've gone skating," Mary replied. "I told them to be back before dark."

Robert sighed. "I wish they'd asked me. I've not been skating in years."

"I'm glad they didn't ask you," Cora said emphatically. "All we need is you falling and … breaking something."

"I'm not a crystal vase, Cora," Robert responded reprovingly.

"Moving on," Mary said diplomatically. "So, tell us, Mamma. What was Madeline Alsop's connection to Uncle Harold?"

"They were friends."

"What?" This surprised Robert. He had only set eyes on his brother-in-law on a few occasions, but he'd been hearing about him for years. This bit of information seemed odd.

"Yes," Cora went on. "They met when Harold and Mother were here in 1924 and they formed a very deep friendship." She gestured to the letters in a neat stack on the table, now unbound, for Cora had spent her afternoon reading them. She had not finished, for she was sifting through them carefully, savouring every word. "They wrote to each other for years."

"Harold wrote letters?"

Cora laughed at her husband's disbelief. "I know. I was dumbfounded, too. But here they are. And hers to him."

"But why did she give them to you?" Mary was wary.

Cora took a deep breath. "Because, Mary, she wanted me to have this insight into my brother's life and because … Harold left his estate to Madeline."

"What?"

"She was reluctant to accept it…."

"I should think so! Who is she to him?"

"…and she wanted to speak to me about it."

"Go on," Robert said encouragingly, bewildered but not quite as surprised as Mary was by this news.

"They only met a few times when he was here but … it was a real communion of heart and mind, it seems." Cora was almost a little in awe of the relationship Madeline had described. "He went back to New York and they wrote to each other for years. Their letters to each other are … moving."

"But she's Rose's age," Mary said abruptly. "And he was an American."

"Yes," Cora said firmly, and a little testily. "But friendship crosses many lines."

Robert coughed conspicuously in a way that might have sounded like Carson. Mary give him a quick look and a measure of self-possession returned. "I suppose he's entitled to do what he wants with his own property."

"Admirable consideration," Robert murmured, favouring his daughter with a small smile.

"But it is irregular," Mary went on. "It's all very well to cherish one's friends. I do. But blood ties are indissoluble."

Cora could only shake her head. "Mary, you sound like your grandmother."

This shook Robert up a bit. "That doesn't sound like a compliment."

"Granny was a sensible woman," Mary said firmly. "But, apparently, Uncle Harold was a man of hidden depths."

"I never doubted it," Cora declared.

After tea, Cora and Robert withdrew, leaving Mary to finish up some correspondence. As they strolled upstairs, Robert took his wife's arm.

"Fancy Harold falling in love with Madeline Alsop."

"It wasn't like that, Robert. It was …."

"I understand, my darling," he said soothingly. "But it was, wasn't it? I appreciate that it took a novel form and that this answered the desires of both parties. But it was love. Mary is right. Harold was a man of hidden depths."

"Of depths, perhaps," Cora responded, tightening her arm around her husband's. "And I was surprised by the form it took. But hidden? I think not. I've always known my brother had a heart."

Author's Note: A little fluff to lighten our days. Such is the richness of the characters with which Julian Fellowes bequeathed us that I am sometimes distracted by marginal individuals such as Jane Moorsum or Edna Braithwaite, or, in this case, Harold Levinson and Madeline Alsop. Theirs was a delightful diversion and I enjoyed giving voice to a denouement.