Chapter Nine

Would You Do Me The Honour?

Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, Christmas Eve, December 1941.

With Robert missing in action, presumed killed, with the tragic, confirmed deaths earlier in the year too, first of young Bobby Branson over in Ireland, one of the casualties of the bombing of the Northside of Dublin in May and then Cora, Dowager Countess of Grantham, likewise killed but a couple of months later, in July, when here at Downton a bullet ridden, blazing Heinkel bomber had crashed down on the Dower House, the resulting inferno incinerating all those inside, for the Crawleys, 1941 had been a truly appalling year.

With Simon now a Lance Corporal in the Royal Army Medical Corps, having been posted out to the Far East, to Singapore, here in Britain the relentless bombing of the country by the Luftwaffe, as well as all the shortages caused by the ever worsening rationing, with the war continuing to claim yet more and more lives, across now almost the entire surface of the globe, at Downton Abbey there had been very little to celebrate and, understandably, a decided absence of festive cheer.

Accordingly, for those sitting beside the ornately carved Adam fireplace in the Drawing Room of the abbey, Matthew, Mary, Friedrich, Edith, and Saiorse, even if they had all agreed to try and put a brave face on all of it, to make the best of things, if only for the sakes of Rebecca, Kurt, Emily, and the twins Alexander and Sorcha, not of course that save for Rebecca any of the younger children were really old enough to know what was going on, Christmas 1941 was looking likely to prove a very muted affair. The customary toast made at this festive time here and elsewhere and at Downton beside this very hearth, To absent friends, would this year doubtless, inevitably, take on both an especial poignancy and sadness.

Then the telephone had rung.

And in that instant, everything was changed.

Following Max's unexpected telephone call here to the abbey, giving the family the wonderful news about Rob, while everyone here at Downton both above and below stairs were still digesting the fact that not only was young Robert Crawley both alive and well but would very shortly be on his way home to England from Gibraltar, Matthew had rung for Pickard and asked that he bring up a couple of the few remaining bottles of the Chateau de Mareuilsay Montebello '37, last served at Rob and Saiorse's wedding back in July 1940.

Thereafter, with Robert's good health having been toasted in bumpers of champagne, with Saiorse at length having said goodnight to everyone and gone upstairs to look in on the twins, seated beside the fireplace in the Drawing Room, while Friedrich listened on with obvious amusement to Edith who was explaining, and in some detail, to both Matthew and Mary just what it was that Max had planned this evening by way of a Christmas surprise for Claire since the young couple would not be able to join the rest of the family here at Downton until early in the New Year.

"So, there you both have it".

At last, Edith fell silent. She sat gazing pensively into the flames of the fire, her innermost thoughts momentarily miles away, up in London, hoping earnestly that darling Max and Claire were enjoying themselves. That above all, even if it had been only a matter of a couple of hours since he had telephoned here, that they were both safe and well, and, despite his bland assurances to her on the telephone, after he had finished speaking with his uncle, that Max was taking the very greatest care of himself. She knew that with Claire beside him, Max was in a very capable pair of hands but for all that, Edith still worried which, given the circumstances of his health, was only to be expected.

"Taking her dancing, at the Ritz? Is he now?" Mary lofted a brow and set down her now empty glass. "So, that was the reason why you asked me to telephone the Frewells down in Norfolk, about letting Max and Claire make use of the town house in St. James's Place".

Edith nodded.

"Yes. Although, to be truthful, I'm not entirely certain that at that precise moment, Max had actually decided on the Ritz but given how close it is, I mean to St. James's Place, it seemed to make eminent sense".

"Honestly, that boy ..." Mary shook her head good naturedly. "He's an incurable romantic!"

"Then clearly he takes after his Uncle Tom!" chuckled Matthew.

"Oh, I don't know. What about you, darling? After all, you do have your moments!"

"Me? Do I?" Matthew sounded surprised.

"Yes, you, darling! Who else?"

Mary smiled warmly at her husband. She squeezed his knee affectionately, something which once upon a time she would never have done; at least, not in public, even here within the privacy of the family. However, over the years, Mary had mellowed, even if for the most part she still clung stubbornly to tradition. Disapproved, decidedly so, of the changes the war was wreaking on society. The world she knew, and in which she felt secure, was fast disappearing and at an alarming rate of knots. What would once have been considered completely unacceptable was now tolerated.

Witness the runaway marriage between Max and Claire last year.

After all, had it not been for the war, the two of them never would have even met; let alone married. While Mary would now readily concede that Claire was a delightful girl, one who knew how to ride and enjoyed doing so, even she said, to hounds, down in distant Devonshire, something which naturally endeared her to Mary, Claire Barton, as she had been, was hardly a suitable match for Max. Although, but only because Mary herself had a very soft spot for her Austrian nephew, having, when he was a little boy, saved his life at a significant risk to her own, in Florence, in the summer of 1932, Mary was prepared to make the best of the situation. And, besides, it was obvious to one and all that young Max clearly adored his wife.

Then, of course, there had been the other, earlier marriage which could be said to have led, indirectly, to the one that followed hard upon it, and which, at least for Mary herself, had come much closer to home: that between her son Robert and her niece, his cousin, Saiorse. Not to put too fine a point upon it, as everyone in the family knew, as children the pair of them had always been at loggerheads. And while her daughter-in-law had clearly been utterly distraught when Robert had been posted missing in action, Mary was not entirely sure that the marriage would ever have taken place had, to put it bluntly, Saiorse kept her legs together.

That somewhat mean-spirited thought made Mary think of the end result: namely, the twins now hopefully asleep upstairs.

As far as babies went, not that Mary had much experience of them at all, saving of course the undoubted fun of their procreation, thereafter having left everything else associated with the upbringing of her own four children in the more than capable hands of Nanny Bridges, little Alexander and Sorcha, seemed delightful enough.

And, of course, being grandchildren, they were possessed of one supreme advantage over one's own offspring: that if they became even slightly fractitious, Mary could immediately hand them back into the care of their doting mother who presently, it seemed, partly to keep herself busy, was hell bent on doing everything for them herself. Even the feeding and changing. Poor old Nanny Bridges had been most put out. Indeed, she still was.

Then there was the seemingly insignificant matter of the names which had been bestowed upon the twins.

Like the sending, first of Robert, and then of Simon, to the grammar school in Ripon where they had gone as day boys, as opposed away to public school at Harrow where they would have boarded, the naming of the twins had been another break with Crawley family tradition. With his love of all things Classical, Alexander had been suggested to his niece, now his daughter-in-law, by none other than Matthew himself, while Sorcha, had been Saiorse's own choice; a clear nod to her own wild Hibernian antecedents.

And there had been, too, the question of the christening with which, had she not taken matters in hand, a month or so after the twins had been born, and then arranged the whole thing herself, Mary thought it unlikely that, with Robert missing in action and Tom and Sybil unwilling to risk the sea crossing over from Ireland, Saiorse would have even bothered.

It's not really Rob's and my sort of thing, Aunt M," Saiorse had said airily, when Mary had tackled her daughter-in-law about it. That use of the diminutive Rob as opposed to Robert and calling her Aunt M, both of which Mary detested, rankled. Decidedly so. For, despite the fact that Mary was now Saiorse's mother-in-law, Saiorse flatly refused to call her Mama. When Mary had asked her about this, Saiorse's reply had been perfunctory:

Ma's in Ireland.

There was nothing more to be said and there this particular matter had rested.

However, as to the christening, in this at least, Mary was adamant, if not obdurate.

Whether Robert himself was alive or dead and in her heart Mary inclined to the latter being the more likely even if she kept this to herself, with German U boats operating at will in the Irish Sea and Tom and Sybil therefore not being prepared to attempt the crossing over from Ireland, made no difference. Here at Downton, generations of Crawleys, both male and female, had been baptised down at St. Mary's church, before and after the Reformation, and this was one tradition which Mary insisted would be upheld. So, probably for no other reason than keeping the peace, Saiorse let Aunt M have her own way, and Alexander and Sorcha were duly christened together down at St. Mary's.

All this apart, Mary still had serious reservations about Robert and Saiorse's marriage; wondered if, despite the marvellous news conveyed here this evening in Max's telephone call, that Robert was alive, was coming home, whether in the end the matrimonial union between Crawley and Branson would stand the test of time. But then even if it did not, divorce no longer bore the social stigma which it had once done. After all ...

Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, Christmas Eve, December 1941.

"But, I never ...

"Or have you forgotten the delightful surprise which you arranged for me up in Scotland back in the autumn of '36, just before news of the affair between our former king and that brash, vulgar, American divorcée broke in the newspapers?"

Matthew blushed; charmingly so.

That Scottish idyll had taken place in the aftermath of the trip Matthew had undertaken, that very same year, when he and Robert then fifteen years old, with Tom, and Danny aged sixteen, and Friedrich along with Max, thirteen, had all travelled over to the Isle of Man for that year's TT. The arrangements for the excursion had been shrouded in secrecy, so as to ensure that not a word of it reached the ears of young Max who, as a result of a bad fall in the garden at Rosenberg, necessitating a blood transfusion, had been prevented from meeting up with both his uncles and with Danny and Rob at the Swiss Grand Prix at Bremgarten in the summer of 1934.

But, while Matthew and Tom initially managed to keep the details of all of what had been planned from both Mary and Sybil - so as to avoid them spilling the beans to Edith - Mary became convinced that Matthew was having an affair with someone named Mona; had fathered a child on her. Had then been made to feel exceptionally foolish when all of what she had suspected turned out to be nothing of the sort and that, in fact, Matthew had gone to the trouble of arranging a second honeymoon for them up in Scotland. Something which was true enough. But only because Tom had suggested to his English brother-in-law that it might be for the best if he did; Matthew freely admitting to Tom that it was something which he himself would never have thought of doing, what with the demands made upon him both by the estate as well as by his involvement with the League of Nations in Geneva. Not that Mary ever learned the truth of it. But, had she done so, doubtless it would only have served to confirm what she and Sybil had long suspected; that Matthew and Tom were as thick as a pair of thieves.

The memories, for Matthew, of that second honeymoon, which he himself had planned, surreptitiously, for Mary and he, staying at a secluded hotel, close to Banchory, in Aberdeenshire, up in Scotland, not far from the royal estate at Balmoral, was something which Matthew, and indeed Mary, would never forget. A time which had enabled them to rekindle the early passion of their marriage which had by now settled into a more or less pleasing, predictable domesticity. Dinner invitations from friends and relatives in the district had been steadfastly declined. And while, much to Mary's chagrin the new king and that woman - the ghastly Mrs. Simpson - were nowhere to be seen, Matthew and Mary were too attentive to, and enamoured of each other, to be bothered by either the scheming wiles of a vulgar American divorcée or her suitability as the wife and consort of a neophyte king.

"Now, would that be the very same brash, vulgar, American divorcée whom you hoped you'd catch a glimpse of up at Balmoral?" Matthew laughed.

Mary grimaced.

"Well, as a matter of fact, yes. But ... only because, darling ... if the opportunity had afforded itself ... which as you know it didn't, I wanted to try and see for myself what it was about the woman that could possibly make her so damned alluring that our former king was prepared to abdicate both his throne and his responsibilities. After all, as Queen Mary herself said, This is not Roumania! And from the photographs I've seen of the woman since, she's neither young nor beautiful. She isn't rich and didn't have a title! And from what Sarah Coningsborough told me, apart from being a scheming harpy, she even tints her hair! Then of course there are those stories ... about what she did out there in the Far East!"

Edith cast a hurried glance at Friedrich; saw him smile. How times had changed! After all, had darling Papa and Mama still been alive there was no way on God's earth that the four of them would have been sitting here on Christmas Eve quietly discussing the sexual techniques ascribed to the awful Mrs Simpson, with which she was said to have ensnared the former king in her thrall and so enticed him away from his duties, both to the country and to the empire.

"Maybe". He shrugged, dismissively so. "But, given the fact that those stories are just that. Stories ..." Matthew turned, made to turn the dial of the radio beside him.

"Darling, must you, please? Tonight, of all nights".

Matthew stopped. His hand sketched space; poised in mid air.

"No, I suppose not". Matthew lowered his hand.
"Now, darling, I don't see why the young people should have all the fun. Do you?"

Matthew looked up at his wife.

"No, of course not. So, just what do you have in mind?"

"I'd like to dance".

"Oh, Mary, what a wonderful idea! Yes, let's!" On seeing her sister was already rifling through the collection of recordings lying beside the gramophone, Edith laughed.

"Ah, here it is! Good! What we need now is a little more space. Matthew, Friedrich would you ..." Mary nodded in the direction of the settee before winding up the gramaphone, setting the recording she had selected on the turntable, lowering the stylus, and walking purposefully over towards where Matthew was standing, looking, she thought, a little forlorn.

"Lord Grantham, would you do me the honour?" Mary smiled; took hold of Matthew's right hand, placed her own purposefully on his shoulder.

"I'd be delighted!"

The gramophone crackled noisily before, a moment later, spilling out into the Drawing Room, came the infectious, swing beat of Glenn Miller's In The Mood.

Now, as both Friedrich and Edith joined Matthew and Mary on the improvised dance floor, hearing what Mary had just asked of Matthew, Edith found herself thinking back to another Christmas, spent at Rosenberg ...

Schloss Rosenberg, Lower Austria, evening, Christmas Day, December 1931.

"... so now with Papa having suggested that he and I host a soirée here, early in the New Year, we'll have to practice!" laughed Edith. Seated on the edge of her son's bed, she reached forward, smoothed back his hair from off his forehead. Save for the glow from the night light, the room was in complete darkness.

"You mean I'm allowed to be there too?" Eyes shining, but for all that sounding disbelieving of what he was hearing.

"Yes, darling. Your Papa thinks it's high time everyone hereabouts met you. Not only our friends from Vienna, the ones whom you've met before but other people too. Perhaps, even some of Papa's relatives".

"What about my English and Irish cousins? Danny, Robert ... all of them. Are they invited too?"
"No, darling. How could they be? I'm sorry, but no".

"Oh!" Max was unable to hide his obvious disappointment. "I do so want to meet them, Mama," Max whispered, his eyes large and bright.

"And one day, you will".

"Promise?"
"I promise.

"Thank you, Mama".

Outside on the landing, the grandfather clock began to chime the hour.

"It's time to say goodnight. Now, lie down and go to sleep". Edith stood up, bent down, tucked the blankets in more tightly. Her lips lightly grazed Max's forehead. She straightened up. Looked down at the little boy.

"Goodnight, my darling".

"Goodnight, Mama".

As she reached the door, Max sat up in bed.

"Mama?"

Edith turned.
"Yes?"
"I love you".

"And I love you too, my darling. Now, lie down".

"Yes, Mama".

Edith smiled at her young son, before quietly opening the door of the bedroom and letting herself out onto the landing.

Not that either of then could have known it at the time but the New Year of 1932 would see young Max's dearest wish realised.

La Popote du Ritz, London, England, Christmas Eve, December 1941.

Claire looked sideways at Max.

"I suppose it's just as well that young lieutenant didn't know".
"Didn't know? didn't know what?"

"That I have very sharp claws".

Claire's nails were a particular vanity of hers and, with this in mind, all things considered, at this precise moment, Max thought Claire was akin to a lioness whose mate had been threatened. And with that knowledge, his heart soared.

Now, had Flight Lieutenant Henshaw but known it, arm in arm with Claire, Max was now following in his very footsteps, down the stairs leading to the basement of the hotel. Not, however, to the Pink Sink, but to the former Grill Room, now renamed, and recently so, as "La Popote", about which Max had heard from Jimmy Ramsden, who also worked for the SOE. There was, said Jimmy, no need to book.

"One simply turns up, old chap and if necessary, waits until a table becomes free".

Schloss Rosenberg, Lower Austria, January 1932.

Hearing Manfred's kind words, Edith smiled; swallowed hard, blinked back the tears that had threatened to fall. Until now, she had not met a single member of Friedrich's own family; knew that they had ostracised him, firstly on account of her and thereafter because of Max. Save for the unpleasant letter which Friedrich had received from one of his great aunts shortly after Max had been born, there had been no contact with any single one of them. Edith felt Max's hand suddenly brush against her. She looked down at him.

"Mama? Are you ... all right?" Max asked softly, looking up at her.

"Yes, perfectly. Thank you, my darling". Edith nodded; now extended her right hand towards Manfred. Their eyes met. He bent his head and the expected baisse main followed. Manfred straightened.

"We meet at last".

"So it would appear".

"My dear, as I said to Friedrich, you look positively enchanting. If this was a ball at the Schönbrunn, mark my words, you'd be turning heads".

Edith demurred.

Manfred smiled warmly back at her.

"It's not cant, I assure you. Cousin Friedrich will tell you that I'm not ever one to tell a woman that I admire her, unless I mean it. Isn't that so?"

Friedrich nodded.

"Then, thank you". Edith smiled.

"Friedrich, you really are a lucky man".

"Yes, I am. Thank you".

Manfred turned back to Edith.

"Permit me to introduce my ... companion, Eva".

Eva smiled happily at Edith, before glancing briefly at Manfred.

"Companion? Is that what I am? I've often wondered. Thank you for telling me" She laughed gaily before shaking hands with Edith.

"And you, young man ... must be Max". Manfred held out his hand once more.

"Yes sir".

"Delighted to meet you".

The two shook hands.

"And this, is Baroness Arnstein".

"Baroness". Max followed the example before him, both of his father and Papa's cousin; executed a perfect baisse main.

"Charming. And so very handsome too. He's a credit to the both of you," said Eva, now smiling in turn at both Friedrich and Edith. "And like Manfred, both of you should know that I never bestow a compliment unless it is justified, nor say anything which I don't mean".

La Popote du Ritz, London, Christmas Eve, December 1941.

Here, down in the basement of the hotel, with its sand-bagged walls, timber pitprops, a makeshift chandelier, candles stuck into the necks of empty champagne, brandy, and wine bottles, utility tablecloths and, behind the band, a large mural portraying the desolation of the Western Front during the Great War with its depiction of both trenches and shell holes, la Popote had been contrived to resemble a large dugout. The only nod by way of "decoration" to the present conflict were caricatures painted on another war, of both Herr Hitler and Fatso Goering. La Popote, said Max, had even drawn a sneering comment in a broadcast made from Germany by Lord Haw-Haw, as somewhere the rich went when in London, in order to avoid the rigours of rationing.

While waiters, smart in their white tuxedos, moved effortlessly and discretely among the various tables, the very air was thick with the reek of cigarette smoke, mingled with the smell of brylcreem, cologne, scent, and sweat. A handful of the male patrons were in mufti, some like Max in evening attire, others in lounge suits - here there was no dress code - but most of the men present were officers in uniform. Mainly British Army but, by the accents Claire overheard, there were also Australians, Canadians, and New Zealanders too, along with a smattering of Free French and, by their uniforms and excited jabber, a handful of Poles. As for the women, it appeared few realised that there was even a war on. Expertly made up, all dressed in the height of pre-war fashion, many wearing exquisite silk evening gowns, bejewelled, some swathed in furs, either sat sipping a variety of brightly coloured cocktails or, along with their male partners, were to be seen tripping the light fantastic on the dance floor. Despite being beautifully, albeit simply dressed, Claire felt decidedly out of place and said as much to Max who merely smiled; told her that she outshone all of them.

The noise down here was deafening too, not just as a result of all the constant chatter and laughter but from the band now belting out The Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B perhaps for the benefit of the several American officers present. Aunt Mary, said Max with a wink, would definitely not have approved.

Ballroom, Schloss Rosenberg, Lower Austria, January 1932.

Seated on a chair beside the double doors of the Ballroom, Max looked on as his parents and some of their guests executed the intricate steps to a Ländler, an Austrian folk dance, and which, appeared to be much more complicated than those of the waltz which Max and his mother had practised together for the very first time on Christmas Day. As he continued to watch, above the music, snatches of conversation came fleetingly to his ears, about the weather, going hunting in the woods for wild boar, who had been at a house party which had been held somewhere or other, there had been more trouble in Vienna - Max thought briefly of Ezra and the others he had met in Leopoldstadt and hoped they were safe ...

Max's ears pricked up, suddenly aware that he himself was now the subject of conversation; knew too, intuitively so, that people were looking at him. Max blushed red.

"The boy? Well, just look at him. Isn't it obvious? He's Schonborn's ..."

The low laughter which came hard on the heels of this exchange was unlike any which Max had ever heard before. It certainly didn't sound like the laughter he was used to hearing - when, Papa and Mama found something amusing. And that word - Rotzbengel - spoken about himself, sounded as though it was something of which he ought to be ashamed, said as it had been in a half, hushed whisper.

The Ländler was drawing, inevitably, to its close but now, just before it did so, Baroness Arnstein seated herself on the empty chair next to him; saw Max's face was very red.

"What is it?" she asked quietly.

Max coloured still further.

"It's nothing," he said miserably and sniffed.

"Now, you don't strike me as the kind of boy to cry over nothing. So, let's both start by agreeing that isn't true, shall we?"

Max half turned on his chair; looked up at the Baroness. Something in her manner reminded him instinctively of Mama. What, he couldn't say but he found himself warming to this lady whom he had met for the very first time not an hour since. Now saw her bestow upon him a dazzling smile which gave Max the courage to ask her what he then did.

"May I ... may I ask you something first?" he asked hesitantly.
"But of course".

"What's a Rotzbengel? Someone said that's what I am ... Papa's Rotzbengel".

La Popote du Ritz, London, England, Christmas Eve, December 1941.

While they themselves were in no sense rich, glancing around her, Claire thought that over there in Germany, traitor though he was, Lord Haw-Haw might just have had a point. For, apart from the clientele, down here in La Popote the food listed on the menu, elegantly typeset in French, and which Max now proceeded to translate for her into English and for which no ration coupons had to be produced, was decidedly far more varied, and indeed far more expensive, than what had been on offer in the Lyons Corner House on Coventry Street. So, even though it was only a couple of hours since they had eaten their comparatively frugal supper, as Max continued to read out the menu, perhaps it was only to be expected that Claire found her mouth beginning to water and her tummy to rumble.

Caviar, would you like to try it? Claire wasn't quite sure what it was but when Max explained what it comprised, salt-cured fish-eggs, for her that decided it. Definitely not. Oysters in mignonette sauce ... had she ever eaten those? No. Best not said Max. Unless, of course, the sauce is very good ... Standing beside their table, waiting patiently while they made their choice, the dark haired waiter raised his eyebrows. Smoked salmon in white-wine sauce, then? Claire nodded. With new potatoes and asparagus tips. It really sounded too delicious for words. Followed, said Max crisply to the waiter, by praline ices and coffee.

"Real coffee?" Claire asked.
Max nodded. Real coffee.

Momentarily, the young waiter let his mask slip again; looked at them newly askance. That here at the Ritz the mignonette sauce would not be exceptional? That the hotel would serve anything other than real coffee? The mask of inscrutability duly resumed its place. The waiter cleared his throat.

"And to drink, sir?"

"Max, is that really wise? I know if I have any more to drink, I shall be squiffy".

Max had now well and truly pushed the boat out and ordered another bottle of champagne which, after the waiter had brought it over to their table in an ice bucket, Claire was now eyeing with obvious concern.

"Why not?"

"Aren't you forgetting, what happened the last time you drank champagne, at Downton? At Rob and Saiorse's wedding?"

Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, Rose Garden, evening, 20th July 1940.

Even though it was now well after nine o'clock, it was still very warm. Out of sight of the house and, they hoped, away from prying eyes and inquisitive ears, having taken off his jacket and undone his bow tie, Max leaned in to give Claire a kiss.

"Careful!" she warned, grabbing hold of him as, with his arm around her waist, in his enthusiasm, encumbered with a half empty bottle of champagne and two glasses, Max almost misjudged his footing on the stone steps leading up to the rose garden.

"Whoops! Must be the bubbly!" Max laughed; looked briefly at the label on the bottle. "Crikey! A Chateau de Mareuilsay Montebello '37! Good old Uncle Matthew!"

Claire, who had never drunk champagne before, merely smiled.

"Are you sure you're all right?"
"I'm fine. No harm done".

"Really?"
"Perfectly".

La Popote du Ritz, London, Christmas Eve, December 1941.

Max grinned.

"When I asked you to marry me? Is that what you mean?"

Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, Rose Garden, evening, 20th July 1940.

"To us," proposed Max, raising his glass.

"To us!" echoed Claire with a laugh.

"Happy?"

"Yes!"

"Really?"
"Yes! Of course. Oh, this is heavenly. It's so peaceful here. One could almost believe that there wasn't a war". Claire looked up at the darkening blue of the sky where now, almost as if to contradict her, at that very moment, far above them, there soared a British fighter, in its wake leaving a white vapour trail.

"Mind you, the rose garden at Rosenberg is far more beautiful. But then I suppose I'm biased. Did I ever tell you that from it you can see the Alps?"

"Yes, you did. It sounds lovely".

"One day, I should very much like to show it to you".

"I like your mother," said Claire brightly sipping her champagne once again. "And your father too".

"I'm very glad to hear it".

"Your brother, Kurt's a plucky little chap. My God, when I think what he and his mother must both have gone through over there in France! And all the while believing you and your father ..."

Gravely, Max nodded his head.

"Mama's always been very … einfallsreich ... I'm not sure of the word in English. She knows ... knows what to do ... when things go wrong".

"Capable," offered Claire, now resting her head gently on his shoulder.

"Just so!" Max laughed. "Even so, I expect there's a great deal that she hasn't told us".

"Your Uncle Matthew's charming and your Uncle Tom's great fun. His wife's very sweet".

"Aunt Sybil. Yes, she is. Very".

"She asked me to tell her all about the London School of Medicine, when it was I decided I wanted to become a doctor. That sort of thing. But, as for your Aunt Mary, she was livid when I caught Saiorse's bouquet. And then asking me what time my train was on Sunday. In fact, I'm only surprised that she didn't offer to drive me down to the station herself!"

Max laughed.

"Aunt Mary can't even drive. She doesn't know how!"

"All the same, I think she'd far rather that we'd never even met!"

"That's silly. Anyway, don't worry about my Aunt Mary. She's like your father ... her bark is far worse than her bite!" .

"Perhaps," Claire said evenly.

Max knew that it was now or never. A moment later, having set down his glass on the seat, and before Claire realised what it was that he was doing, Max had slipped to one knee.

"Claire, will you marry me?" He gazed up at her, searching her face.

"Max ... I ..." Looking down at him, from his expression, she realised that he was in earnest.

"I know how I feel about you, Claire, and I think you feel the same way about me". Max rose to his feet, sat beside her once more, slipping his arm about her shoulders.

"And ... if I do ... what would your parents say? You, the son of an Austrian lord, marrying a English tenant farmer's daughter?"

"Papa's not a lord. And even if he was, they'd both be delighted".

"You really think so?"

Max nodded.

"Look, I know they're both very protective of me but they'll come round. I know they will".

"Maybe. But ... all of this ..." Spreading her hands wide, Claire indicated their surroundings. "Max, this isn't me. And, besides, we haven't known each other long".

"Love's not about that," he said quietly.

"No, you're right. It isn't".

"Will you at least promise me that you'll think about it?"

"Of course". Claire nodded her head.

"You will?"

"I've just said so, silly, haven't I?" She laughed as Max enfolded her in his arms covering her face with kisses. "Only ..."

"Only what?" He drew back.

"I think it's best we don't say anything, either to your parents ... or my Dad ... until we've decided what we're going to do".

"All right, if that's what you want".

Thereafter, as the sky continued to darken, with their arms around each other, they sat together in companionable silence, watching the Mead Moon as it rose slowly over Downton.

La Popote du Ritz, London, Christmas Eve, December 1941.

"No. And you know it isn't".

"But this is Christmas Eve".

"Yes, I know that".

Max nodded.

"All right. Mea culpa. I know, I know. But, this time, I promise to be much more careful. Scout's honour and all that!"
"Oh, Max, really! You were never even in the Scouts!"

"No, I wasn't. But, I wanted to be".

"Did you now? I never knew that".

"Well, I did".

"In Austria? Are there scouts in Austria?"

Max nodded.

"Yes. At least, there were. Of course, Mama would never let me join. Then the Nazis banned the movement back in '38. But since we arrived here in England, she's let Kurt join the cubs up there in Downton. You know, I'm quite jealous of him!"

Claire smiled. Knew that Max didn't mean that. There wasn't a jealous bone in his body; certainly not in relation to his young brother whom he loved very much.

"Anyway, enough about the Scouts!"

"Very well".

Max grinned and raised his glass. "To us," he said softly.

There was no gainsaying that.

"To us!" laughed Claire.

They set down their glasses.

The band was now playing again. This time it was Moonlight Serenade.

Max rose to his feet; held out his hand to her.

"Would you do me the honour?"

"Why, Mr. Schönborn, I thought you'd never ask. Of course". Smiling broadly, Claire grasped Max's proffered hand and let him lead her out into the middle of the crowded dance floor.

Ballroom, Schloss Rosenberg, Lower Austria, January 1932.

People, thought Eva, could be so very cruel.

Even, it seemed, to a child.

Which was unforgivable.

Yet, here in Austria, while it had been Manfred's wife who had left him, as his mistress, Eva, who hailed from Budapest, the capital of Hungary, had found herself ignored and snubbed, just as much as had Edith, by members of so-called polite society. Had experienced in equal measure, both prejudice and bigotry. Had been the subject too, of both gossip and tittle tattle. Gradually, she had become inured to it all, yet now, despite her carefully crafted carapace and poise, Eva was unable to contain her astonishment at what Max had just told her.

And it showed.

Markedly so.

The boy saw it too.

"Who on earth said that?"
"Someone here, in this room. I don't know who exactly," said Max, looking about him, his voice faltering.

Eva was on the point of telling Max that he must be mistaken, that he had misheard but something stopped her from doing so. Knew that she had, in part, brought this upon herself by asking him in the first place, what it was that was the matter. He had been honest with her and she realised that here, for all of his young years, was someone with whom she should deal openly. If she could not unsay what had been said by denying that it had ever been spoken, then she could restore his pride in himself.

"Well, it's not a very nice thing to say, about anyone".

"Oh!" Max flushed; looked down at his feet. Not that he was surprised. In his heart he had known it must be so.

"Will you tell me something?" Baroness Arnstein asked brightly.

Max's head snapped up.

"What do you want to know?" he asked.
"Who is it here, in this very room, who matters most of all to you?"

"Why, Papa and Mama". Max sounded puzzled that she should have asked him such a thing.

Eva nodded her head, evidently in full agreement.

"That was what I expected you to say".

"Then ..."

"Why do you suppose that to be so?"

"Because ..."

"Because you love them and they love you?"
Max nodded.

"Yes. Very much," he whispered.

"You see, where people are concerned, what matters most, is that you have the love and respect of those that you yourself love and respect. When all is said and done, whatever others may say, or do, doesn't really matter. In fact, it doesn't matter at all".

Looking up, Max saw his mother standing in front of them. Quite how long she had been there was impossible to know, but evidently it had been time enough for her to have heard what was being said. Edith smiled down at Eva.

"Thank you, for those very kind words". She now turned her attention swiftly to Max. "As for you, young man, I think it's high time you were in bed. But before then, I've something to ask you".

"Mama?"
"Would you do me the honour?" She held out her hand to him.

"Me, Mama?"

"Yes, you! Who else?"

Rising to his feet, it was only now that Max appreciated that everyone else present had drawn back to the sides of the room and, for the most part, had fallen silent.

He turned and bowed to the Baroness; executed another perfect baisse main. He raised his head; their eyes met.

"Thank you," Max said softly.

"Now, remember what I just told you," Eva said with a smile.

Max nodded his head.

"I will".

There was nothing further to be said.

To a ripple of softly appreciative applause, taking his mother by the hand, Max led her to the middle of the ballroom where he saw her turn and nod briefly to the small orchestra. Max bowed gravely from the waist and Mama sketched a curtsy. A moment later, as first tinkling notes of The Snow Waltz spilled out across the vast room, they began to dance, before shortly thereafter those others present took to the floor, Max and his mother soon lost to sight, midst the swirling milieu of other couples.

La Popote du Ritz, London, Christmas Eve, December 1941.

After the first couple of dances, followed in turn by their meal, which was excellent, Max and Claire had then spent more time back on the dance floor, both of them contriving, without knowing it, to turn heads: Max by his good looks and undoubted adroitness as a dancer and Claire by her fresh loveliness and natural charm.

When asked about it later, by some of her fellow students at medical school, exactly just how long they had spent dancing, Claire couldn't say, at least not with any degree of certainty, not only on account of the heady atmosphere of La Popote, but also because of that second bottle of champagne; neither of them being used to alcohol. Indeed, after a while, just as Claire had predicted, everything had begun to smudge and blur, turning by degrees into a delightful, warm haze.

Max was as convivial as ever. Clearly feeling in an expansive mood, he proceeded to share some of the second bottle of champagne with the couple seated at the next table: a young officer with the Worcestershire Regiment, one of the lucky ones rescued the previous year from off the beaches at Dunkirk, newly engaged, here tonight with his fiancée, a girl from the West Riding of Yorkshire, something which immediately helped to break the ice between the four of them.

What finally brought the evening to an end, at least for Max and Claire, was that, after yet another quick step, Max was forced to come clean and admit that his right knee was beginning to ache. Squiffy or not, that settled it. Thus far it had been a wonderful night but there was, said Claire, no earthly point in tempting Providence.

Green Park, London, early morning, Christmas Day, December 1941.

When, after having said their goodbyes to Jack and Connie and promising to keep in touch, Max and Claire arm in arm, at last left the Ritz, the door opened for them by the same liveried doorman who, as before, respectfully touched the brim of his top hat, this time wishing both of them Merry Christmas, and made their way down the carpeted steps of the grand hotel, it was well after midnight.

This early on Christmas morning the pavements were all but deserted, save for a handful of other late night revellers who, like themselves, were wending their way home, in some cases none too steadily. Both Max and Claire were feeling decidedly carefree but also exceedingly tired; very glad not to have to make the long journey out to Whitechapel. In any case, at this hour of the morning, the Underground would have stopped running.

So, it was just as well that their temporary lodgings for the night, at the Frewells' town house over in St. James's Terrace, lay but a stone's throw away from the Ritz. Breakfast they would take in the less splendid surroundings of the Lyons Corner House on Coventry Street before catching the Underground to their respective destinations: Max due at his desk with the SOE by nine and Claire at the London School of Medicine for Women in Bloomsbury for half past the same hour.

On the edge of Green Park, on Queen's Walk, within sight of Spencer House, despite his knee playing up, Max having been acting the fool, twirling Claire around on the path to the strains of an imaginary dance band, they came to a stand, he with his arm about her. A moment later and Claire saw Max gazing up, seemingly spellbound, at the night sky lit as it was by a myriad of shimmering stars.

"How on earth, with all of those to choose from, did the Wise Men ever decide which was the one which would lead them to the Christ Child?" he asked; the wonderment he was clearly feeling, evident in his voice.

"I don't know," said Claire. "Wasn't that particular star supposed to have been brighter than all the rest?"

"Maybe. Perhaps there weren't as many stars as there are now".

"Pick one then, to guide us home!" Claire giggled. As she had predicted it would, the champagne had made her slightly squiffy.

Max looked down at her and smiled; slowly, he shook his head.

"No need. Not when I have you," he said softly. "Mein Liebling, I absolutely adore you. Fröhliche Weihnachten".

Claire's eyes misted.

"And I love you too, Max. So very, very much. Merry Christmas!"

A moment later, ignoring the good natured cheers and wolf whistles from a passing party of high spirited jack tars, Claire's arms were around Max's neck, drawing his head down, her lips eagerly seeking his in a deep and ever lengthening kiss.

There"ll be bluebirds over

The white cliffs of Dover

Tomorrow

Just you wait and see

Author's Note:

For the deaths of both Bobby and Cora, see Chapter Fourteen of The White Cliffs Of Dover.

Adam fireplace - after Robert Adam, architect, (1728-92).

Riding to hounds - going hunting.

Following the accession of Edward VIII, in January 1936, while the new king's close friendship with Wallis Simpson, an American divorcée, was being reported widely abroad, including their summer cruise in the Adriatic, the British press maintained a self-imposed silence on the whole matter. This ended abruptly in December of the same year when, following a speech, made by the appropriately named Alfred Blunt, then Bishop of Bradford, the British press made the story of the king and Mrs. Simpson's affair front page news.

For what happened in the Isle of Man, as well as Mary and Sybil's suspicions as to what Matthew and Tom were up to, see Rain, Steam, And Speed.

This is not Roumania - Queen Mary is alleged to have made this remark in relation to the affair between Edward VIII and Mrs. Simpson. At the time, King Carol II of Roumania, known for his repeated affairs, divorced by his long suffering wife Princess Helen of Greece in 1928, was living openly with his mistress, Magda Lupescu.

During the late 1930s, and ever thereafter, rumours have abounded concerning the alleged immoral exploits of Wallis Simpson when married to her first husband, Commander Earl Winfield Spencer Jr. and the sexual techniques which she is said to have learned in Shanghai brothels while they were living out in China. In her defence, however widely believed, it should be said that no evidence has ever surfaced to substantiate the lurid claims made against her in this regard.

Schönbrunn - the former imperial summer palace in Vienna.

Released in January 1941, The Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B was a major hit for the Andrews Sisters.

While there are many Austrian folk dances, the Ländler is known the world over as a result of its appearance in The Sound of Music.

Rotzbengel - snot nosed bastard.

"Mead Moon" is an old country name given to the full moon in July.

In 1938, following the Anschluss, the Nazis did indeed ban the scouting movement in Austria. Over 800 Scouts' leaders and Scouts left the country.

Moonlight Serenade - another hit for Glenn Miller, first released in 1939.

Fröhliche Weihnachten - Merry Christmas.

Spencer House - an eighteenth century mansion in St. James's, London. Today it belongs to Charles, ninth Earl Spencer, the brother of Diana, Princess of Wales.

Jack tars - sailors from the Royal or Merchant Navies.

There"ll be bluebirds ... First recorded by Glenn Miller in 1941, the version of this tune sung by Vera Lynn, and released the following year, became the most famous of all the songs of the Second World War.