"Your father was anxious to secure my cash! He didn't wait a month before he made me sign it over […]"

(Downton Abbey Script Books: Series One, p. 22).

O, thou didst then ne'er love so heartily!
If thou remember'st not the slightest folly
That ever love did make thee run into,
Thou hast not loved

(As You Like It, 2.4)

A footman scurried down the hall, disappearing behind the green baize door as the shouting in the library started up again. It had been his first night of serving the postprandial drinks to the family; usually that was Charles's job as first footman, but Mr. Wilkins had bestowed the task upon him on this rainy February night, for Charles was busy helping with the packing of his Lordship's honeymoon cases. They'd wanted to pack up the coach before the rain and wind grew too prohibitive.

Though he himself had only been in the Crawley's employ for just over a month, having been taken on right before the wedding, they seemed to him a reasonable sort. The Earl was quiet, his wife a bit stiff, and the Viscount and his new wife, well, they weren't seen round the house all that much. Lord Downton was usually out with the Earl, and his wife, the American, Betsy said she lounged in her chambers all day long. And Betsy would know; she was a housemaid, after all.

And so he'd not anticipated any peculiarities on this particular evening. It had all started out perfectly fine. He'd prepared the drinks cart just as Charles had showed him: whiskeys decanting in the large crystal and four port snifters dusted and ready. They'd all shuffled into the library in conversation. They'd not even looked at him. But it had started before he'd even managed to uncork the port, the damned stuff.

As he stood behind the door now, cheek pressed against the hunter green cloth, he could hear the voices growing closer. Chest heaving, he listened, oh, how he listened, trying to piece together something, anything from the shouts and thumping feet that had now reached the main hall.

It had started when his Lordship, the elder that is, said something about—something about papers? Even now it made no sense. And he'd been so busy with the bloody corkscrew that he'd not seen the way Lord Downton's eyes had narrowed, the way the women grew silent, or the way father and son began, quite suddenly, a screaming match of absurd proportions in front of the crackling fire.

The words had been shot like venom from snakes, the men all red-faced and overbearing, the young lord stamping about. His father had waggled his finger, like Mr. Wilkins sometimes did when he and the other lads forgot to polish the tea trays, or when someone tracked mud into the kitchen. But the Earl had only gotten louder, saying something over and over about how it was all finished, how it didn't make any difference what anyone else thought, because it was done.

A solid thwack of the library door hitting the wall reverberated throughout the cold marble of the main hall, and he tried to quiet his heavy breathing, listening still as the tapping of shoes (the hard leather of Lord Grantham and Lord Downton, followed soon after by the more delicate tapping of Lady Grantham and Lady Downton) produced a cacophony of noise just beyond where he stood.

"Damn it to Hell, Robert, you've no right to question the decisions I make. You are not master here, and you best make damn sure to remember that—"

"Patrick, please—"

"Don't treat me like a bloody child, Papa. I told you! I told you she was not to sign those papers until we ran them up to London and had Andrews look them over."

"—Robert, really—your father explained and, I—I didn't mind signing the—"

"You are flying dangerously close to the sun, my boy, and I caution you to hold your tongue—"

"—You think that you can manipulate me, Papa, that you can just have Cora sign away her money and I'll sit by silently? It was my decision to make! Mine. She is my wife, and for you to countermand my—my authority—"

"—Robert you've more authority over the little grey pony in the stables than you do over the running of this estate. You're making a fool of yourself, and for your petulance and impertinence, I will most certainly—"

"Patrick, Robert, please—"

"What! You'll what, Papa? You need me. You need us. Everything around us, everything for miles, it will all be mine. You need me, and you need my heir. And if you cannot even treat me—and my wife—with respect, well—"

"Well, what, Robert? What empty threat shall you lob at me now?"

"I will go, Papa, don't think I won't."

"Go! And where shall you go?"

"—Well I—I can't think now. But we will go."

"Then by all means, Robert, go."

"Patrick, please! Stop this at once. Robert, you and your father must stop this—"

"Come, Cora. We shan't stay in this house a moment longer."

Footsteps sounded through the hall again, the strength of the angry, unmelodious steps enough to shake the door. He heard the young lord shouting something, though to whom he could not say. And he heard the Earl, still just beyond the door, muttering something to his wife. Those words, too, were lost in the scuffle. But he could swear it sounded something like regret.