Downton Abbey Script Book Season 1 (31 page)

BATES: Oh. Is Mr Carson about?

THOMAS: I don't think so. I was just looking for him, myself.

But he does not move. Bates stares at him for a moment and then, with a brisk nod, he goes. Thomas is not comfortable.

The door opens and Robert enters. Cora is at her desk.

ROBERT: Busy?

CORA: I'm just trying to sort out the wretched flower show but come in.

ROBERT: I've had a letter from Rosamond.

CORA: Don't tell me. She wants a saddle of lamb and all the fruit and vegetables we can muster.

ROBERT: She enjoys a taste of her old home.

CORA: She enjoys not paying for food.

ROBERT: Carson will organise a hamper. Then one of the girls can go down and cable which train it'll be on. But there's something else … Apparently, the word's going round London that Evelyn Napier has given up any thought of Mary. That he's going to marry one of the Semphill girls.

Cora looks at him, before she answers quite carefully.

CORA: So what? We knew it wouldn't work after he stayed for the hunt.

ROBERT: She writes as if, somehow, it reflects badly on Mary.

CORA: Your dear sister is always such a harbinger of joy.

ROBERT: No, as if … as if Mary had somehow been found wanting. In her character.

She looks at him hard, but he knows nothing.

CORA: I don't believe Mr Napier would have said that.

She turns her attention back to the letter she is writing.

ROBERT: Neither do I, really, but—

CORA: She ought to be married. When I was her age, I was a mother. Talk to her.

ROBERT: She never listens to me. If she did, she'd marry Matthew.
*

CORA: What about Anthony Strallan?

ROBERT: What about him?

CORA: Well, Maud's been dead for two years so he must be over it by now. And he has to marry again.

ROBERT: Why?

CORA: He's got no children. He needs an heir.

ROBERT: How alluring you make him sound.

CORA: Well?

ROBERT: Anthony Strallan is at least my age and as dull as paint. I doubt she'd want to sit next to him at dinner, let alone marry him.
†

CORA: She has to marry someone, Robert. And if this is what's being said in London, she has to marry soon.

She is very definite indeed, which surprises him.

Bates sews buttons, Anna mends the hem of a skirt. O'Brien is unpicking a lace collar. Daisy's cracking walnuts. Thomas reads a paper. William is cleaning candlesticks.

O'BRIEN: You shouldn't do that in here.

WILLIAM: I don't like being in the pantry all alone. And Mr Carson won't mind. He's gone into the village.

THOMAS: He'll mind if I tell him.

Anna glances at the lace the other maid is working on.

ANNA: That's pretty.

O'BRIEN: Do you think so? She wants it put onto a new shirt, but it's a bit old-fashioned, to my taste.

DAISY: Oh no, it's lovely.

O'Brien ignores Daisy. Anna tries to make up for the snub.

ANNA: Have you recovered?

BATES: What from?

ANNA: Daisy had a bit of a turn. When we were in Lady Mary's room. Didn't you?

DAISY: I'm fine, thank you.

She doesn't want to continue this.

THOMAS: What sort of turn? Did you see a ghost?

WILLIAM: Will you leave her alone, if she doesn't want to talk about it?

THOMAS: I've often wondered if this place is haunted. It ought to be.

O'BRIEN: By the spirits of the maids and footmen who died in slavery.

BATES: But not, in Thomas's case, from overwork.

ANNA: Come on, Daisy. What was it?

The room's attention upon her, Daisy shrugs, uneasily.

DAISY: I don't know. I was thinking … First we had the
Titanic
—

O'BRIEN: Don't keep harping back to that.

DAISY: I know it's a while ago, but we
knew
them. I think of how I laid the fires for Mr Patrick, but he drowned in that icy water.

O'BRIEN: For God's sake.

DAISY: Then there was the Turkish gentleman. It just seems there's been too much death in the house.

WILLIAM: But what's that got to do with Lady Mary's bedroom?

DAISY: Nothing. Nothing at all.

O'Brien is interested by her nervousness. So is Thomas.

Isobel's in the village. There is activity around the hall.

A hum of activity, with bunting being hung and tables set out. Molesley sees Isobel, who is approaching the stage.

MOLESLEY: Afternoon, ma'am.

They turn to what is obviously going to be a display table.

ISOBEL: When do you put that magnificent display of prizes on show?

MOLESLEY: Not ‘til the day, itself.

ISOBEL: I remember a superb cup from last year.

MOLESLEY: The Grantham Cup. It was donated by the late Lord Grantham. For the Best Bloom in the Village.

ISOBEL: And who won it last year?

VIOLET (V.O.): I did.

She is standing there, as magnificent as usual.

ISOBEL: Well done. And the year before?

MOLESLEY: Her ladyship won that one, too.

Isobel looks at Violet, who nods graciously saying nothing.

ISOBEL: Heavens, how thrilling. And before that?

Molesley changes the subject, turning to an older man who is arranging a cloth over a table. Isobel understands.

MOLESLEY: You've met my father.

ISOBEL: Good afternoon, Mr Molesley. What are you showing this year?

BILL MOLESLEY: Oh, this and that.

MOLESLEY: Only the finest roses in the village.

ISOBEL: Really? What an achievement.

She invites Violet's opinion, but it is a challenge.

VIOLET: It's a wonderful area for roses. We're
very
lucky. We'll see some beautiful examples right across the show. Won't we, Mr Molesley?

BILL MOLESLEY: If you say so, your ladyship.

He is defeated. Violet joins Cora, and Isobel follows.

ISOBEL: How are you getting on?

CORA: My main job is referee. What with defending the categories and protecting the judges, I'm completely worn out by the end.

VIOLET: It's so lovely for me, just to sit back and watch you do the work, after so many years of having to run it … Well, I must get back. Goodbye, dear.

With a cool smile, she walks off. Cora lowers her voice.

CORA: She can't
stand
not being President any more. Every year she haunts the tent like the ghost of Christmas-yet-to-come.

ISOBEL: I was talking to Molesley about the Grantham Cup. I gather she always wins it.

CORA: That was the price of peace.

ISOBEL: But suppose she hasn't grown the best bloom? What happens then? Doesn't it annoy the village?

CORA: Not really. They see it as a charming, old world tradition, and, to be honest, I simply cannot face another fight.

ISOBEL: I don't blame you.

But there is revolution in her eyes.

O'Brien comes out of Cora's bedroom, carrying clothes, to find Thomas staring out of a window. He looks worried.

O'BRIEN: What's up with you?

THOMAS: Nothing.

O'BRIEN: His lordship's blaming Mr Napier for spreading gossip about Lady Mary, but it was you, wasn't it?

THOMAS: Why do you say that?

O'BRIEN: Because Napier wasn't in on it. Only four people know he was in her room that night. You, me, Lady Mary and possibly Daisy. And I haven't said nothing to nobody.

THOMAS: I didn't tell about Pamuk. I just wrote that Lady Mary was no better than she ought to be.

O'BRIEN: Who did you write it to?

THOMAS: Only a friend of mine. Valet to Lord Savident.

O'BRIEN: You know what they say about old Savident. Not so much an open mind as an open mouth. No wonder it's all round London.

THOMAS: You won't tell, will you? I'm in enough trouble as it is.

O'BRIEN: Why? What's happened?

THOMAS: I think Mr Bates saw me nicking a bottle of wine.

O'BRIEN: Has he told Mr Carson?

THOMAS: Not yet. But he will when he's feeling spiteful. I wish we could be shot of him.

O'BRIEN: Then think of something quick. Turn the tables on him, before he has the chance to nail you.

Robert spies Sybil who is about to go upstairs.

ROBERT: I thought you were in bed hours ago.

SYBIL: I was writing a note for Lynch. I need the governess cart tomorrow.

ROBERT: Oh?

SYBIL: I'm going into Malton.

ROBERT: Don't risk the traffic in Malton. Not now, when every Tom, Dick and Harry seems to have a motor.

SYBIL: Hardly.

ROBERT: Last time I was there, there were five parked in the market place and another three drove past while I was waiting.

SYBIL: Horrid for the horses.

ROBERT: Get Branson to take you in the car. Neither of us is using it.

SYBIL: I thought I'd pop in on old Mrs Stuart. Will you tell Mama, if I forget?

Sybil is not changing her plans. She kisses him goodnight and goes on up the staircase, with her flickering candle.

O'Brien, with breakfast tray, is with Thomas. Daisy enters.

O'BRIEN: You're late this morning.

DAISY: The library grate needed a real going-over. Are any of them down yet?

THOMAS: Lady Sybil's in the dining room.

DAISY: I'll start with her room, then.

O'BRIEN: Daisy?

The maid turns in the passage to face them.

O'BRIEN (CONT'D): You know when you were talking about the feeling of death in the house …

DAISY: I was just being silly.

O'BRIEN: I found myself wondering about the connection between the poor Turkish gentleman, Mr Pamuk, and Lady Mary's room.

Daisy is like one struck. She stammers and licks her lips.

O'BRIEN (CONT'D): Only you were saying how you felt so uncomfortable in there.

O'Brien's mouth is smiling pleasantly. Her eyes are not.

DAISY: Well, I … I've got to get on. I'm late enough as it is.

As she scurries off, the others nod. Daisy knows something.

Mary is walking in the village. Matthew comes round the corner on his bicycle.

MATTHEW: Hello.

Matthew dismounts and starts wheeling the bicycle. Mary is going to snap back, but changes her mind.

MATTHEW (CONT'D): Is everything all right?

MARY: I am about to send a telegram.

She falls into step with him as he walks along.

MARY (CONT'D): Papa's sister is always nagging him to send supplies to London and then we cable her, so her butler can be at King's Cross to meet them. It's idiotic, really.