Author's Note: I promise, I haven't given up on the story. It's just slow-going. Thanks for your patience and kind encouragement!

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: In Memoriam

July 25, 1926

Downton Abbey, Yorkshire

Robert strolled at a brisk pace down the lane toward his home, Tiaa skittering at his feet. His mind was mulling over the progress of the development at Pip's Corner, which had been delayed some months ago when they had engaged a new building company to take over the project. It had not been his choice, but Tom's, who hadn't been satisfied with the quality of work.

Seeing the work done so far, by the new builders, Robert had easily seen the improvements. The houses would be complete by autumn, and at last, they might begin to recoup their investment.

Mary had allowed him to take on oversight of the building — he grimaced at that. Allowed. By his own daughter! It still rankled him, that she had taken such a firm hold of the management of the estate. She allowed him some projects, nothing too onerous, "because we don't want you spewing blood all over the china again, Papa."

Again, he was feeling adrift. The commission on land development had concluded and given over its reports. He'd given some half-hearted thought on more active political involvement, but there was no point — it was too late. He had little influence, and no experience in the minute maneuvers required of career politicians like his cousin, Shrimpie.

No, he needed something else to do. As Robert turned the bend, he saw a familiar figure walking toward him. Another man who could use more to do — Carson. The butler removed his hat in greeting him.

"How are you, Carson? We hardly ever see you at Downton," Robert said, as the two men stopped to talk. "You must come up and say hello more often."

"Thank you, my lord, but I do not think Mr. Barrow would enjoy that."

Robert shrugged. "And how are things getting along at the hotel? I've heard you've been offered jobs in London."

"That is true, my lord, but Mrs. Carson and I would not like to leave Yorkshire," Carson replied, with a small smile for his wife. "This is our home. Even if it has changed so much since I first came here as a footman."

Robert nodded, and gazed off into the distance, at the top of the tower rising above the trees, the Grantham flag rippling in the breeze. "We must change with the times, Carson, as much as it pains me to say it, or we'll be left in the dust with all the other artifacts."

Carson breathed deeply. "Indeed, my lord. But sometimes I think that the changes are happening so rapidly, that we'll lose all sense of what we once had. The road to the future was paved in the past."

Robert blinked. Such eloquence from his butler! "Well said, Carson."

"'Tis a pity, teaching these young people, how little they know of what came before. I try to teach them as much as I can, but soon enough, my generation will be gone, and it will all be lost."

An idea struck Robert, then. Perhaps it was foolhardy, and rather insipid but … "I say, Carson, what if it was all written down? How things were done, the stories of glittering balls and grand dinners — here, at Downton."

The butler looked bemused. "Written down? A history, of sorts, my lord?"

"Yes, exactly!" Now, Robert was growing excited. Here, perhaps, was a chance to create a legacy, beyond his children. "A history of Downton — upstairs and downstairs. We could write it together, Carson."

Carson's eyebrows rose high on his forehead. "My lord, I am flattered, but I don't feel worthy of …"

"Oh, pish posh, Carson. You know the house and its history as well as any of the family. Better, likely than my daughters. And you can write from a point of view that I could not. Think of the gift we'll give to these young people, and future generations. We'll be giving them a glimpse into a world long gone. Say you'll do this with me, Carson."

A slow smile spread over the butler's creased face, and Robert knew he had him.

After checking on a sleeping Violet, Mary entered the bedroom to find her husband, looking pensive, with a glass of whiskey in his hand, a book open but forgotten on his lap. He'd been quiet at dinner as her father had extolled his new idea of writing a history of Downton. She thought it was a silly project, but she supposed it would give him something to do.

"Darling, are you alright?" she asked, taking off her robe and slipping into bed beside him.

Henry quirked a half smile at her. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to brood. Now, come here and kiss me."

Whatever it was, Mary quite forgot about it, until the next day, when Henry decided to take a walk instead of joining the children for tea. She watched his figure in the distance, ambling on the lawn, with seemingly no direction. She frowned, and Tom noticed.

"Something is the matter with Henry," she said. "Do you know what it is? Is it the business?"

Tom shook his head. "No, business is very good. I think I might have an idea what it might be. I read in today's paper about the British Grand Prix at Brooklands. It's an important race, and it's taking place in a few weeks."

Mary frowned again. She'd wondered if her husband would ever feel the desire to race again. He'd made the decision to quit out of grief for Charlie Rogers and love for her. But now, a year later, was he regretting giving it up?

That evening, in their bedroom, after she'd dismissed Anna, Mary turned to face Henry, who was attempting to read his book, though failing.

"Darling, I think I know why you're brooding. Is it this Grand Prix race that Tom told me about?" she asked. He looked up, startled, and she moved to sit on the edge of his side of the bed. "Do you want to drive again? If you do, I'll … I'll chin up and support you. It'll be hard, and I'll be afraid for you every moment, but I love you and I want you to do what you want."

Henry sighed and put his book on the bedside table. He took both her hands in his. "I am brooding about the race, darling, but not in the way you think," Henry said. He appeared to struggle for words for a moment, before continuing. "The thing is … I don't want to race in it, or anywhere else, anymore. But I am frustrated not to have a car in it."

"A car in it?"

"Yes, I'd hoped to build special cars to enter in races. It would be beneficial to our business — get our names out there. I know it was wishful thinking to hope we might have something ready this year. I suppose I also wanted to enter a car to honor Charlie. He died a year ago. It's hard to believe." Henry's expression grew mournful.

Mary's heart constricted at the memory of that awful day. She tenderly caressed her husband's cheek. "You have time. You can do it later this year, or next."

"I know. It's not entirely rational. I know I have nothing to mope about. I have a wonderful wife, two darling children, and a booming business. But I just wish I could do something special to mark his passing."

Mary pursed her lips in thought. She hated to see Henry so downcast. He was rarely in a bad mood — always happy and joking and lively. He brought such cheer to the house and to her life.

"Well, I've never been one to just mope about, so I won't let you do it, either," she declared. "There must be something we can do."

"Like what?"

"There must be a trophy or dish or something for the winner. Let's donate toward the purse, and have it be the Charlie Rogers memorial trophy. You can get anything done with a little money."

Henry's expression instantly lightened. "I say, that's rather a good idea. What a splendid thing that would be — a memorial trophy!"

"Thank you. I try." Mary smiled and he drew her closer.

"My brilliant wife," Henry murmured. "I owe you a kiss for that."

"Just a kiss? I think I deserve a little better than that."