Counting

Someone once referred to him as part of the stone masonry of Downton. They were wrong.

He isn't the masonry; he's the internal clock.

He doesn't keep time, per se, but he keeps the house moving, keeps this little world spinning on its axis like the hands of a time piece. Clocks count seconds and hours; he counts other things.

He counts the silver, the number of available suits of livery, the bottles of wine in the cellar, the chairs set around the servants' hall dining table. He counts the guns and the horses and the acres and the stones that make this great estate; he counts the houses in the village, the automobiles on the streets, the little signs that Downton is thriving under his master's care.

He counts the days til this guest or that party, the weeks til this season or that holiday trip, the years since he first came to Downton, the number of times he has rung the dinner gong or selected the wine for a fine dinner or sat in his office basking in the glow of a job well done after an evening spent serving distinguished guests. He counts the years he has spent walking through these halls, as a young boy, now as an old man (though he doesn't feel old, not really, not often); he counts the rungs of the ladder that he has climbed to reach this point.

He counts the daughters of the house (one little, two little, three little Indians, back down to two again, God rest sweet Sybil), counts the tears and heartaches of all his girls (so much harder to mend that those skinned knees and cut fingers of yesteryear, all of which he counted as well), and remembers the names of the heartbreakers, hordes them up with a dark anger, like any father would, remembers the insults and hurts perhaps even better than the ladies who recieved them.

He counts the servants that have come and gone, those wayward sons and daughters that he tried his best to turn into exemplary servants (counts his successes, counts his losses). He counts the quiet moments just before a servant walks out the door and into the wide world, counts the goodbyes and well-wishes and good-riddances, counts the ones that fill him with both sorrow at the loss and pride at the capable servant that he or she has become. He counts the minutes it takes for his footmen to unload a car, counts the number of times the bells ring in the morning, counts the number of county fairs attended, the holidays celebrated by the raucous youths in his charge, counts the times he has to re-instill a proper sense of decorum into their over-excitement. He counts the times they have made him feel very old, counts the times they have made him feel young again.

He counts the deaths and births and weddings and funerals, comings and goings and valises and trips to the railway station. He counts floral arrangements and books in the library; he counts the faces at the breakfast table, the glasses of wine at dinner, the rooms filled each night with this guest or that relative.

He counts the steps from his parlour to hers (seventeen at moderate pace, eleven when he is in a hurry and his stride is longer). He counts the cubes of sugar she puts in her tea (one normally, three when she's got a night full of pouring over ledgers ahead of her, four plus cream when it's been a particularly grueling day or the damp weather reminds her of home). He counts the keys at her waist, counts the dresses she wears, counts the number of times that she has switched perfumes (he likes the newest scent best—it has notes of ginger, something that has a bit of a bite to it, something much more her than its predecessors, with their light floral notes and sweetness—she's many things, but a delicate rose she is not). He counts the lines on her face (there's a new one, at the corner of her mouth, but it seems to only accentuate her dimples, so he won't begrudge its presence), the veins in her hands, the number of times she sighs each day, in direct correlation with the number of times she smiles.

He counts the number of times they have fought, the wins, the losses, the stalemates, the to-be-continueds, the shouting matches, the freeze-outs, the light spats and deadly barbs, the times when everything was said but never spoken. He counts the apologies between them—the quick, light, airy ones exchanged after bumping into one another in the hallway, the uncertain, fumbling ones mumbled after darker disagreements, the unspoken ones couched in careful-yet-caring tones, the ones that weren't really apologies at all (I am sorry that I upset you but I'm not sorry that I did/said/thought whatever it was that upset you...I'm on your side, you know).

He counts the other women he has known, virtuous and unvirtuous, counts their vices and their virtues, and always, always finds them lacking when compared to hers. She has many more flaws than the rest, much darker, much more human, perfectly imperfect. She has many more merits than the rest, much more vibrant, more compassionate, imperfectly perfect.

He counts letters sent over numerous seasons (one per week, sometimes more if something particularly interesting happens), the glasses of sherry, the cups of tea, the hours seated by the fire, the Sunday morning walks. He counts the trinkets lined on her mantlepiece, counts the volumes stacked on the edge of her desk, the physical proof of her reign as housekeeper.

He counts these things and many more, for that is how he passes his time, measuring and weighing the substance of his existence through orderly rows of numbers and figures.

There are things he doesn't count.

He doesn't count the emotions she stirs inside of him, or the number of times he thinks he might finally have the courage to say something, or the number of times he'd like to absolutely wring her neck. He doesn't count the secrets between them, the inside jokes and quiet smiles (those things are sacred to him, beyond the realm of order and counting and everything else he is and knows). He doesn't count the moments he feels at absolute peace in her presence, or the times when they are in perfect sync, moving through the world in-tandem (it happens so often, too often to count, and it flows so continuously, too continously to define one incident from the next).

He doesn't count the number of times that he has realized that he truly cares about her, that he has silently confessed that his respect and admiration might be something deeper than mere camaraderie. He doesn't count the little things that he has done, that he continues to do, to earn some measure of her respect and affection, the little sacrifices and acquiescences that have built this into something more than just a working relationship, the little slights and capitulations that have been tell-tale signs of his deeper feelings, the little affronts and indignities that he would never suffer from any other hand but will gladly bear from hers.

He does not count these things, because he does not know how to quantify them, how to slip these rolling, tumbling, bleeding, beating things into neat, orderly rows to be numbered and counted and kept. He fears them, fears ruining them with his methodical ways, fears losing them somehow amidst the counting. More than anything, he fears losing the woman to whom they are attached, the equally frustrating and endearing siren who, like these uncountable things, is too vibrant and elusive to be put into a box, who moves and shifts and tumbles and changes at frightening speeds, who pushes him to the edge with her laughter and her life, who has always been the braver, the more forward of the two, who has never meant to change his ways and yet has done so, at times without ever even knowing.

The things he counts are the building blocks, the foundation of his life, his worth, his understanding of the world. They are his own Downton, a formidable compilation of his life's work. The things he does not count are the shades that reside within the framework, the lights and shadows and spirit of the structure itself.

He is counting the silver when she appears at his elbow, her mouth quirked into an amused smile as she makes some caustic comment on how the silver hadn't run off overnight, and though her words are slightly deprecating, her tone is soft and he senses the affection underneath. As usual, he slips into his role as the uppity butler, returning her remark with a stuffy, overbearing retort of his own.

She shakes her head in mock dismay, but he can see the mischievous twinkle in her blue eyes, and the smile that holds amusement and something else (he thinks he might know what that something else is, but he doesn't dare admit it, doesn't dare to hope). With one last quip, she turns on her heel and disappears down the hall (twenty-one steps to her desk).

There is a softness, a warm comfort in knowing that she is just in the next room, working alongside him, just as she was yesterday and just as she will be tomorrow, but this is another emotion that cannot be counted, so he returns to things that can—his silver, his wine bottles, his buttons and pens and steps. No matter how much he enjoys or longs for the uncountable things, they are not part of his design. He is a clock. Clocks do exactly what they were designed to do—count. They do not break their mold. They do not deviate. They maintain pace.

Someone once referred to him as part of the stone masonry of Downton. They were wrong.

He isn't the masonry; he's the internal clock.

He's the clock that wishes for the things he cannot count.