Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

PROLOGUE.

Present day. Leeds / London.

Chloe Edwards lays out two recording devices on the table between them, just to be sure, and mounts a phone camera on a frightfully wobbly tripod. Her girlfriend, Leah, brings a big jug of water and two glasses from the nursing home kitchen and places it in the middle of all of Chloe’s interview notes and the stack of photographs.

“We’re starting recording now, alright?” Chloe takes a deep breath and clears her throat. She still can't believe that this is finally happening. “Thank you for taking the time and agreeing to do this interview. Let’s start by telling us your name and age.”

“My name is Dora Branson. I was born Dorothea Pollak, on the 7^th of December 1928, the first day of Hanukkah coincidentally, in Vienna. After I came to England, I became Dora Aldridge – The Honourable Dora Aldridge to be precise – until I married my Bobby in 1951. My parents were Dr Alfred Ephraim Pollak, a surgeon at the Rothschild-Spital in Vienna, and Emma Pollak, née Kafka – no relation to the author, unfortunately – originally from Brünn in Moravia. Brno, nowadays, if that’s how you pronounce it, in Czech Republic, but her family were German speakers. Bohemians, maybe, but not Czech ... She was a Jewish wine merchant’s daughter, a pianist and music teacher. I had an older brother, Bruno, born in 1924, who died in 1991. After we came to England, Bruno and I, we lived with Atticus Ephraim Aldridge, Baron Sinderby from 1942 onwards, his wife Lady Rose, daughter of the Marquess of Flintshire and a great philanthropist, and their children, Vicky and Hugo, my big sister and little brother, if you will. We lived in Yorkshire, at first, and later, after the war ...”

As Mrs. Branson – Nana Dora, she'd been graciously invited to call her, despite not being a blood relation, only her great-granddaughter's girlfriend of a year and a half – recounted her life story, Chloe, despite her focus on the interview, couldn't help but think back to the very moment, four and a half months prior, that particular story had started for her. The scanners were whizzing, the fluorescent overhead lights in the underground archives of the university library were flickering, and Chloe tapped her colleague, Ryan, on the shoulder after he’d ignored her clearing her throat to get his attention three times, if not more.

“Sorry to bother you. Can I ask you something?”

Ryan Walsh, a PhD student only a few years her senior, cocked his ginger head and gave her a look as if to say you already did, so what’s the point in asking?

Chloe, once again, felt terribly inadequate. It had been a fortnight since she'd started a summer internship at the Holocaust research institute affiliated with her university, her main task being the digitisation of boxes beyond boxes beyond boxes of old photographs relating to the Kindertransport rescue effort that brought 10.000 Jewish children to safety in Britain between 1938 and ‘39.

“Go on then.”

Chloe pulled up the last photograph she'd scanned on the big monitor and pointed at a figure standing toward the back of the scene.

“I’m probably just having a brainfart right now, but who is this woman? I’ve noticed her being in a lot of photos lately, not only this series but several others too, and she seems awfully familiar. The other one, the dark-haired girl next to her, too.”

Ryan’s freckled forehead scrunched as he shoved his glasses up his nose, studying the scanned black-and-white photograph intently, and then he shrugged noncommittally.

“No idea, sorry.” He gave her a reassuring smile nonetheless, “Probably a social worker or something if she shows up in several photos.”

“Oh, alright …” Chloe hesitated, and then decided to speak up again. “I feel like she’s way too overdressed to be a social worker, though. The other one, the younger one, too.”

“Hmmm …” Ryan gave the photo another look, swiping the mop of ginger curls out of his face as he leant over the computer to zoom in on the two women. “You have a point there. Maybe she’s some lady from the local Jewish community who volunteered for the cause, or a philanthropist just showing up to be seen. In any case, no one important whose name you should’ve known, as far as I can tell.”

Chloe felt a slight sense of relief, a bit less stupid, but still, she wasn't quite willing yet to let it go. “It’s only, like I’m having a sense of déjà-vu, you know? Like I should know her. And the place, the façade in the background, it feels familiar too, I just can’t seem to place it.”

“Chloe.” If there’s exasperation in his voice, he hid it well. “You’ve scanned and catalogued hundreds of photos in the last few days. You see so many faces, of course you start seeing patterns. I used to commute through Liverpool Street Station back when I was still living with my parents, of course things start to seem familiar in an uncanny way. Try not to think about it too much, or you’ll go cuckoo.”

“Well, yes, but …”

“You know what? Put an annotation on all the photos she’s in, call her Mrs. X or something to keep track. If you can’t shake it off in a day or maybe three, talk to Barbara and who knows, maybe it’s a potential dissertation topic in the making. But until then, give it a rest, get some fresh air, and get us coffee, maybe? It’s still early, the espresso cart up around the corner’s probably still open.”

When she came home that night and Leah asked about her day, Chloe kissed her giddily. “I think I might’ve found my topic.”

“Oh good,” said her girlfriend, squeezing her hand, “you’re going to be unbearable from now on, won’t you?”

“’fraid so …”

“Good thing then that I adore you.” Leah flopped on the couch, patting the cushion next to her for Chloe to sit, “Wanna tell me all about it? Unless it’s something brutal and disgusting, in that case I don’t wanna hear it.”

Funny thing for a medical student who'd probably spent her day elbow-deep in someone’s guts to say to a Holocaust historian, Chloe thought.

“It’s not a lot, yet … you know that saying about the helpers? When bad things happen, you should always look out for the helpers, because they’re always there, no matter what and no matter how bad things get?”

Leah nodded with a confused frown, and Chloe went on, “It’s a bit naïve, of course, I mean that quote’s from some old American kids’ show if I remember correctly, it’s not the pinnacle of philosophical thought, at all, but still … I’ve scanned a lot of photos and seen a lot of faces, a lot of the same faces over and over again, and I’ve decided to figure out their stories, their reasons for helping, that kind of thing.”

The few days Ryan had suggested she take became weeks and then months, and the vague initial idea begot a research proposal she’s really excited about and, more importantly, one that Barbara, her advisor, was very content with. However, still no progress regarding the identity of Mrs. X – no photo where she wears a name badge, not a single newspaper article mentioning her name, not even as little as scrawled initials on the back of an original photograph, nor anything relating to the people she often appears with, it’s immensely frustrating.

By now, she dismissed her initial sense of déjà-vu as face blindness due to the unfamiliarity of the era’s styles. Mrs. X is a striking beauty who might as well seem so familiar because she vaguely resembles some old Hollywood diva whose names Chloe never cared to remember in the first place – not the flashy kind like Audrey Hepburn or Marilyn Monroe but one of the more unassuming, sophisticated ones, honey-blonde updos and perfectly smooth, symmetrical faces with not-quite-sultry smiles. Her most frequent companion, the teenage girl whom she’d since nicknamed Miss X, her daughter most likely, looks a bit like a young Princess Margaret with her dark hair in a neatly coiffed curly bob. And then, as Ryan liked to remind her, the sense of familiarity, or déjà-vu, might as well have to do with having seen the same photos over and over and over again.

She should probably consider giving up on figuring out their identities and find another subject to study, someone more easily identifiable. Someone more obscure from Sir Nicholas Winton’s team who helped orchestrate the Kindertransports from Czechoslovakia, maybe, or maybe Barbara had an idea where to start looking again … she’d have to talk to her on Monday, and to Ryan too, considering he’s writing his PhD dissertation on “Nicky’s Children” and might be able to point her in the right direction.

“Hun, have you seen my …” The door swung open with a clash and Leah stalked in, clad in only a towel with her freshly washed curls dripping down her front and all over the place. She stilled, peering over Chloe’s shoulder, and leaving a wet mark there too. “Huh, what’s that old photo doing on your iPad?”

Chloe looked up at her girlfriend with a sheepish expression on her face. “Sorry, babe. I know I promised not to bring work home, but …”

Leah furrowed her brow in confusion. “No, I mean, that photo … how'd you even get your hands on that?”

“The archives?” Chloe shrugged, puzzled. “I can take stuff out with me as long as it’s not the originals, you know?”

“No, I mean …” Leah looked equally as confused. Then she finally spotted the cotton scarf she’d been looking for all along and wrapped her sopping wet hair into a tight turban, before she took another good look at the screen, her face wrought with incredulity. “Chloe, that’s so weird. Why'd you have one of our old family photos on your iPad?”

“Because it’s a part of the set of primary sources I’m working on for my dissertation?” Duh. And then, her eyes went wide. “Wait, did you just say an old family photo of yours? Meaning, your family? Meaning, you actually know Mrs. X and all these people?”

“Who’s Mrs. X?” Leah gave a confused giggle, uncharacteristically insecure. “But yeah. That photo’s on my parents’ living room wall and everything. Didn’t know it’s in some archive, too, you should tell my dad, he’ll be stoked. Like, favourite-daughter-in-law-forever level stoked.”

Chloe’s jaw dropped all the way to the floor.

So that’s why Mrs. and Miss X seemed so familiar … She’d only visited Leah’s childhood home twice before, but she must’ve seen it then, and if they were relatives, or ancestors rather, there must’ve been other photos of them around. She vividly remembered lots and lots of old, black-and-white family photos and even a few canvas paintings in heavy gilded frames.

“How?”

“That’s my great-grandmother.” Leah pointed her finger to the iPad and zoomed in on the photo. “Day she arrived on English soil. The one next to her is her brother.”

“Oh. Oh!”

There’s a pang of disappointment in Chloe’s gut, and then a pang of guilt at having that reaction. She’d known, of course, that Leah’s family was Jewish, but she’d never asked for details even once. First of all, it had never come up, given how little a role Jewishness played in her girlfriend’s everyday life, and secondly, as a historian specialising in that specific time period, she knew better than to ask, let alone over tea when meeting her girlfriend’s parents for the first time, considering every family had their story and, outside of her job and her research, she wasn’t entitled to any of them. Just like she didn’t appreciate people prying into the fates of her own enslaved, or otherwise colonised, ancestors, she didn’t need the details of grandparents surviving genocide, or not, either … or so she’d thought, up until right now.

Right now, her curiosity was piqued, and her optimism stoked, but then she shook it off again before her imagination starts to run wild. It’s highly unlikely that a random refugee child who looked barely older than ten in the photo would know anything about a volunteer she probably met in passing, for only a scant few minutes on what must’ve been one of the scariest, most traumatising days of her life, and even if she remembered – if she was even still alive, Chloe didn’t dare ask – the kind lady who handed her a snack or whatever it was that Mrs. X had done on that day, it’s highly unlikely she’d remember her name, if she’d even learned it at all.

“And her mother, and my great-grandfather’s sister,” Leah went on, pointing to Mrs. and Miss X.

“What?!”

“Well, her English foster mother, that is. My great-great-grandmother. She officially adopted them after the war, after it became clear that their real mother hadn’t made it.”

“Oh, Leah!” Chloe let out a scream she hadn't known she’d been holding, jumping up and grabbing her girlfriend to hug her tight. “This is insane. That woman – Mrs. X, your great-great-grandmother I guess – she’s in so many, so many Kindertransport photos and I’ve spent weeks going in circles, trying to find something, anything about her identity.”

“Rose Shoshana Aldridge, Baroness Sinderby,” Leah said plainly, “now you know her name.”

“Oh, she’s the posh one?” Chloe asked, remembering that Leah’s family wasn’t only of the very uppermost upper middle class, but also distantly related to a bunch of aristos who lived in an actual castle somewhere up north or even in Scotland, something that sounded freakishly alien to Chloe, who'd grown up in a council house in Bristol.

“Not the posh posh one, but posh enough,” Leah clarified with a shrug, terrifyingly nonchalant, then pointed to Miss X, “the really posh one would be this one’s mother and her side of the family. It’s complicated.”

Of course it is, when your family tree goes in circles, Chloe thought to herself. Leah rubbed her shoulders with a twinkle in the eye.

“Oh, babe … You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I might’ve.”

“You know what? Let’s just forget about the movies and the party at Jo's, too. I’ll order some curry, make us a cuppa or something stronger, sounds good?”

Chloe nodded dumbly.

“Look, I don’t know much, pretty much nothing at all. But we can facetime Nana Dora if you’d like …”

The following weekend, the couple take Leah’s battered Vauxhall Corsa and drive all the way up to Leeds, where Nana Dora lives in a nursing home. She’s a tiny, bird-like woman with the same twinkling black eyes as Leah’s and the same impeccable, brilliantly silver-white hairdo as the late Queen’s – and also the same clipped, posh, slightly brittle voice –, sporting a rather fashionable, bright red coat-dress with shiny black buttons and an enormous brooch, an outfit that seems fit for the opera yet a bit out of place on a nursing home patio. When she takes Chloe’s hands in hers, deep dimples appear in her cheeks and all the nerves Chloe had had vanish with one big smile. A cup of tea or three later, Chloe and Nana Dora get to work, and when they do, Chloe feels like she’d known this congenial woman all her life already.

Chapter Text

17^th of March 1938. Sinderby House, Mayfair, London.

2^nd day of Purim. 4 days after the annexation of Austria into the German Reich.

The smaller library of Sinderby House, the one they call the “Park Library” due to its large bay windows facing Hyde Park, is filled with the last golden rays of sunlight on this unusually warm and pleasant March evening. Lady Rose Aldridge gently closes the door behind her and clears her throat before approaching her husband, who had been sat there all but motionless for hours, or so she’d been told.

“It’s Purim, darling. You’re not even supposed to be doing any of this.”

She gestures to the piles of correspondence and newspapers scattered across the heavy mahogany desk; Atticus gives her a pained but sheepish smile, twiddling a pen between his fingers.

“We’re supposed to be joyful and raucous today, and yet … it’s so dreadfully hard to do these days.”

Rose leans against the desk; Atticus places his pen on the half-written letter and takes her hands in his instead.

“What is it?”

“Clara.” He grabs the letter from the pile and hands it to his wife. “Her letter just arrived earlier today. It’s from before … well, before Herr Hitler …”

His voice catches, he gestures to the days-old newspaper, somewhere off the side of the thick leather writing mat on his desk, that has the corresponding headlines in threatening bold letters, since smeared and crinkled by sweating hands.

Rose reads in silence, occasionally squinting at the uncharacteristically messy penmanship, raising an eyebrow at unusual, and unusually cautious, turns of phrases that sound nothing like her husband’s favourite cousin’s usual voice. The last time they’d corresponded, she’d been talking about plans to go on holiday, to the seaside somewhere on the Adriatic, and the children’s Purim costumes, and how she and her husband had gone to the pictures to see a film in technicolour, would you believe it? 

That had been about a fortnight ago, which makes it feel even more surreal. She remembers now the sense of dread she'd felt the day the Great War had broken out, the sense of this being a date so crucial that there'd be a before and after forever, despite being an innocent little thing of only twelve back then; a feeling she'd only experienced once more in her adult life, the day Wall Street crashed and upended her carefree New York life. Even when Herr Hitler came to power in Germany, it had felt distant, for all that it was rather worrying, but now that people she knew and loved were directly affected, all the newspaper headlines and the politicking she knew was going on behind closed doors had come alive once and for all.

“They’re trapped, now … there. Aren’t they?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Have you …”

“Of course.” Atticus shakes his head in disbelief. “The telephone has been disconnected, or so I’ve been told. We’ve no way of knowing.”

Rose puts the brittle sheet of airmail paper aside. She takes her husband’s face into her hands before she places a gentle kiss on his forehead, as if he were one of their children awoken by night terrors.

“Call James, will you darling? All these years in the foreign office, and Daddy, may his memory be for a blessing, before him … there must be something, anything, we can do.”

Atticus stands abruptly, stalks to the sideboard and grabs the carafe of whisky, pouring two generous servings into heavy lead crystal tumblers. The evening sun reflects in the ornate carvings on the glass.

“I did, and all your dear brother could tell me is that his hands are tied. He wasn’t able or willing to say much, but suffice it to say … his contacts in Vienna are useless, now. From what I understand, everyone he knew, every contact he had in the Austrian government has been deposed with the regime change and there’s no way of telling whether their replacements are trustworthy. Probably not, all things considered. And then there’s the issue of Clara not being a British subject any longer, not since she married Moritz, so there’s not much that can be done. She’s Austrian … or German, now, I guess, as of three days ago.”

Atticus’ voice fades off. He stares morosely into the amber liquid in his glass, his eyes swimming, and Rose takes a too big gulp. The grimace and the disgusted headshake that follow, as always despite her Scottish extraction, are to be blamed on the political turns of the world, this time, not the biting sharpness of the alcohol. 

“Golly. What a terrible, terrible mess.”

Rose’s words are interrupted by a terrible, terrible sound from the landing, the characteristic dissonance of Purim ratchets whirled with enthusiasm, followed by the screams of children completely unbothered by the goings-on in the world at large.

Both can’t help but chuckle.

“Better see what Nanny’s up to and get ready.” Rose pulls herself up and sheds her morosity. “You too, love. We have an hour and a half or so until guests arrive, and you look a fright if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“Remind me, who are we facing again?”

“The Samuels, the Worthams, Cousin Esther and her lot – and by the sounds of it, they're here already –, and your parents of course. Oh, and Edith maybe, as a last-minute addition, she’s down in London all by her lonesome so I thought …”

Atticus’s eyes go wide in shock for a moment. “Edith Pelham or Edith Gluck?”

Rose chuckles, silently wincing at the thought of spending Purim of all holidays with Edith Gluck, the second wife of Atticus’ uncle Jonathan, whose perpetual spite and bitterness can only be surpassed by Rose’s own mother. Edith Pelham, the Marchioness of Hexham, on the other hand, in addition to being a distant cousin and a constant but reluctant and often overlooked presence during her years as a young girl at Downton Abbey, has become a close friend since the couple’s return from New York.

“Pelham, of course, you dolt! She called earlier to invite me out for dinner, because of course she wouldn’t know it’s Purim, so I told her to come and celebrate with us instead if she's wanting for company.”

“Not too terrible, then, regarding …”

Rose gives a smile and touches her hand to her husband’s face.

“It’ll turn out fine, darling. Clara’s a resourceful one, always has been.”

Some five hours later, halfway through an abundant feast at the Aldridge’s London residence, Rose’s cheeks are already tinted from an overindulgence of wine and her ears are rushing from the fierce ratchet, as is par for the course for this holiday. Ever since she joined the Aldridge family when she married Atticus some fifteen years ago, and even more so since her children were old enough to participate in the merrymaking with their costumes and antics, Purim has been her favourite holiday. The carnivals at Duneagle, and later at Downton, and all the masquerade balls and parties during the London Season that she’d enjoyed so much during her youth seemed tame and boring in comparison … and also so very meaningless, especially now that the tides had, unfortunately, turned for good. She leans back, listening intently to her husband’s sonorous voice reciting the ancient, foreign words that seem so familiar now, and all her family and friends subsequently erupting into raucous noisemaking.

Carter, the new and yet so distinguished butler, the one Rose accidentally calls Carson more often than not because he reminds her so much of the dear old butler they had in Downton half a lifetime ago, tears her away from her thoughts as he taps her shoulder, ever so discreetly.

“There’s someone at the door, milady. They say they’re hungry buggers, if you’ll pardon me saying so, and I was wont to turn them away, but then again, they claim they’re family.”

Rose raises an eyebrow and excuses herself, not that anyone notices – dramatic tales of one heroic queen outwitting an evil government take precedent over the lady of the house leaving the table. She quietly follows the trusted butler and steps out into the grand entrance hall, and …

“Apologies for the inconvenience, Cousin Rose, we wouldn’t want to impose, but …”

“Oh, Clara!”

Not hungry buggers, but Hönigsbergers, for that's Cousin Clara's name now, even if most of the family find themselves unable to wrap their tongues around the dreadfully foreign sounds and still refer to her as Clara Melford. Rose can’t help but laugh. It’s been nigh on ten years since she’d last met her husband’s favourite cousin in person, at her wedding in Melford Park shortly after their return from New York. Nevertheless, the façade of proper aristocratic lady falls immediately, and she runs, stumbles even, into a heartfelt embrace.

“We were so worried, and yet here you are. Happy Purim, indeed.”

Clara laughs, sobbing, into Rose’s shoulder.

“How?” is all Rose says as they finally break apart.

“We were on holiday in Portorož, baruch hashem, and we left post haste as soon as … well. You know. And everything else is … a bit of a blur, but here we are.”

“Here you are indeed. Baruch Hashem.”

Clara looks older than her years, Rose can’t help but notice, despite being some five years her junior, barely even thirty yet. And, on second glance, she’s not just wearied from the road, but heavy with child too.

“And what about Moritz?”

Rose does a quick headcount. There’s three young children and a middle-aged lady with her, but no sign of Clara’s husband, Moritz Hönigsberg, an Austrian businessman and heir to his father’s merchant empire, who would’ve been a peer had Austria not done away with the whole system of aristocracy after the Great War when the Austrian empire had shattered.

“He went back home to Vienna, to close the flat and take care of things. Business, mainly, or maybe to find a way to return. He threatened to give me the Get if I didn’t leave for England without him, so … well, anyway, here we are. He’ll be joining us in a fortnight or so, once all affairs are in order. We’ll be staying with my parents up in Manchester until we find something permanent, but we arrived so late today and … and I hope it’s not too much of …”

“An imposition? Don’t you dare, Clara darling. You’re family, and you’re safe is all that matters.” Rose shakes her head in incredulity. “I’ll be terribly offended if you won’t stay for exactly as long as you need to get back on your feet, and if you don’t believe me, go ahead and ask Atticus.”

A silent look of understanding and solidarity passes between the two women.

“So that must be Fred, Stella, and Elsa. I’ve been looking forward to meeting them.”

“How you do, lady?” says Fred, a lanky lad who must be of an age with her own little Hughie if she were to hazard a guess, a tousle of dirty blonde curls on his head and a heavy accent on his tongue.

He had been holding out his hand, and Rose takes it graciously. “Pleased to meet you, Cousin Fred.”

“They speak little English, I’m afraid,” Clara says by way of explanation, blushing profusely, “and my mother-in-law, none at all. She was travelling with us, and we were lucky enough to secure passage for her, too.”

Rose turns to the middle-aged lady holding the sleeping babe – Elsa – in a fierce embrace and gives a broad smile, racking her brain for all the German she still remembers from that one nasty governess she once had. “Guten Morgen Fräulein.”

Clara’s mother-in-law – Margaret, Rose remembers now, or not quite Margaret but whatever the Germans saw fit to make of that perfectly fine name; they’d met briefly at Clara and Moritz’s chuppah some ten years back – blurts out something that might as well have been a laugh or a sob, and then she contorts herself into a more than clumsy curtsey. Rose grabs her wrists and pulls her back up, laughing.

“Rose,” she says with determination, pointing to her chest, remembering all the tricks she used to use for conversing with the locals back in the West Indies and later, Turkey, despite the language barrier. “Ich heißen Rose. Ich liebe dich, Margaret. Willkommen in Sinderby Haus. Chag Sameach and welcome to my home.”

And that’s where her command of German ends. Mrs Hönigsberg gives her a grateful smile, nonetheless.

"Chag Sameach, Rosa. Tzenk ju."

The girl clinging to her grandmother’s leg – Stella, Rose remembers, who must be five or six by now – mumbles something in German to Clara, and Rose urges her to translate after she seemingly reprimanded the tired-looking child.

“She said you look too young to be Aunt Rachel,” Clara stutters, blushing, and Rose can’t help but laugh.

Rose kneels and takes the girl’s hand, introducing herself. “Ich nein Tante Rachel … Tante Rose. Alright? Tante Rachel ist … Mama, Onkel Atticus’ Mama. Grandmama. Ich ist Tante Rose.“

The girl gives an awkwardly crooked smile while her brother chuckles and says something to his mother. Judging from Clara’s frown, and her snappy answer in German, she deduces it hasn’t been any praise for her foreign language skills either.

“You have an odyssey behind you, darling cousin, and I won’t pry. Would you prefer a bath and a bed, or Purim revelry to celebrate your escape?” She gives a crooked smile and gestures towards the salon door barely muffling the sounds of revelry. “Everyone else is in there, for tonight, and they’ve been ever so anxious about you, too. Rachel, first and foremost, you’ve always been her very favourite niece.”

Clara fidgets at her fingernails, and when she finally says something, it’s her exhaustion against Rose’s eager hospitality.

“Bed and bath, if it’s not too …”

“Nonsense, Clara.” Rose squeezes her shoulder reassuringly before she turns to the butler. “Carter, have rooms made up and hot baths run for our family who just escaped safely from the blasted continent, and have food brought up too. Whatever it takes, make them as comfortable as can be.”

“Very well, milady.”

After the family has been seen to, Rose returns to the grand salon, slipping back into her chair all but unnoticed.

Atticus squeezes her hand under the table, leaning over to whisper “Is everything quite alright, darling? You’ve been awfully long…”

For all she wants to blurt out and tell him everything, for there hasn’t been a secret between them in going on fifteen years now, she bites her lower lip and decides to remain silent. She’s seen Clara’s face and that of her mother-in-law, worn ragged from travel and uncertainty, and their immense gratitude when she offered just a bath and a bed to mark the end of their escape. She couldn’t possibly cause a scene now, knowing full well that Atticus and the rest of the family are as worried as she had been.

“Baruch Hashem,” is all Rose can say, thank God, lest she give it all away, “I’ll tell you later. Where are we?”

“Banquet scene,” Atticus whispers back.

“...the king said, is it also part of your plan to conquer the queen with me in the House, to hurt the queen in my own presence? The words emerged from the king’s mouth and Haman’s face fell.”

The children – and some of the adults, too – scream on cue as Grandfather Daniel, taking turns with Atticus between chapters as they always do, reads the corresponding part from the megillah, trampling the floor and whipping their ratchets.

Rose stays silent for once and takes another big gulp of wine.

Chapter Text

10^th of April 1938. Easter week. Downton Abbey.

They’d arrived on the evening train from London with just enough time to spare for changing into something appropriate – a practice they’d long since done away with in London, at least for simple dinners with their inner circle only, but the Dowager Countess insists on upholding tradition. Being sat at the dining room table at Downton Abbey gives Rose an almost nostalgic sense of familiarity and belonging, especially on nights like these, when there’s only family present.

While the staff, apart from Parker the butler hovering in the background of course, are wholly unfamiliar to her by now, the faces around the table are some of her nearest and dearest, or at the very least, people she tolerates well enough because she considers them family.

Cousin Cora is of course the one person she’s been looking most forward to spend time with over the next few days; the one who still tethers her to her own heritage since she’d cut off her mother and even more so since her darling Papa had gone. And anywhere Cora goes, Cousin Maud, who has been living nearby on on Brampton Estate with the Bransons since her retirement from the dowager queen's service, isn’t far. The two dowagers have become an inseparable pair ever since Cousin Robert’s tragic demise only a year and a half ago, and the resemblance to their formidable and sorely missed predecessors, Cousins Violet and Isobel, becomes more and more uncanny as time goes by.

Despite Cora holding the official title of Dowager Countess and George being the new Earl, it's Mary, of course, who acts as the true lady of Downton Abbey in all but name and presides over the dinner table like a queen in her own right. That notwithstanding, she and Henry are either completely ignoring or sniping at each other as per usual; Rose has long given up on trying, or even caring, to understand their tumultuous relationship. Tom and Lucy, on the other hand, are those who truly hold the table together, and with it the whole family, keeping the conversation not only flowing but engaging.

They’ve brought Sybbie with them this time, darling Sybbie who insists that she's Sybil now, no longer a sweet little girl with a childish nickname, thank you very much. Sybil, then, so be it, who’d returned home to Brampton, and Downton too, on spring leave. While George is still away competing in a boat race with his Eton mates somewhere and all the younger children are well cared for in the nursery, having had their dinner earlier with Nanny Choo, she’s the only member of the younger generation present tonight, and that certainly makes for some interesting perspectives in conversation.

Politics on the continent are, of course, on the forefront of everyone’s minds – save for Henry, who can hardly ever be bothered to spare a thought for anything that isn't motorised and seems terribly miffed that the Aldridges’ Austrian relatives’ misfortune sparks more interest around the table than his own recent exploits at an auto-show in France and some fancy new model of Peugeot ... or was it Renault? ... Tom still needs convincing on. It’s been a month now and Cousin Moritz is still stuck in Vienna, attempting to get their family's affairs in order, a truly Sisyphean task that seems to become more complicated with every passing day.

“It doesn’t make any sense, though,” Sybil exclaims with all the vehemence and righteous indignation only a barely eighteen-year-old, first-year university student can muster, “If Herr Hitler doesn’t want Jews in his Reich anymore, why doesn’t he just kick them out for good or let them leave in peace at least? That way, both sides would win and everyone’s fine and dandy!”

Rose winces at the phrasing, but lets it slide. Her young cousin’s foot might be in her mouth, but her heart is clearly in the right place.

“Yes, it’s immensely frustrating, and Cousin Clara’s rather anxious,” Atticus summarises patiently, having exchanged a telling glance with his wife, “They’re even planning on opening a whole department for emigration matters within the city administration come May, let’s hope that makes things easier.”

“Would it not be easier to stay put and find a way to arrange themselves with the new system?” Henry says, taking a deep gulp of wine, “It might take a bit of getting used to, but surely preferable to leaving everything behind and starting anew in a foreign country?”

Rose winces again. She’d never cared much for Henry, and while she muses whether she cares enough to unsettle the dinner conversation entirely, Cora speaks up.

“Oh for sure. I still remember how hard it was to adjust to England and the English way of life, back in my day, and that despite speaking the same language ...”

“Or so they say,” Mary quips.

“Sometimes it’s more prudent to leave early than too late and in a rush,” Tom chimes in, completely ignoring his sister-in-law’s forced witticism, “I did find that out the hard way, and in retrospect …”

He gives Atticus, sat across the table, a look full of compassion and solidarity, clearly thinking back on his his days as a revolutionary and subsequently, Cousin Sybil, of blessed memory, and his hasty departure from his homeland. It’s a chapter of his life that has never been openly discussed with the family and not even in confidence between the two couples, despite their closeness.

“How are your cousin’s children settling in?” Lucy butts in quickly, and with a purpose, clearly intent on changing the topic before anyone even thinks to comment on Tom’s past.

Bless her for being the family peacemaker, staying in the background as a quiet observer most of the time, something many – especially Mary, Rose assumes – take for shyness, yet always there to diffuse situations before they arise in the way a truly awkwardly shy person could never.

“As well as can be,” says Rose.

“It must be so very unsettling, poor mites,” says Maud.

“They were very lucky, and they’re still very young. They don’t understand much, which is a blessing, and they’ll adapt quickly.” At least that’s what Rose, and with her all of her family, hopes and prays for. “They love their new cousins in Lancashire – Cousin Benjamin’s children that is, they’re staying with them at Melford Park for the time being – and hopefully they’ll learn English fast and well. Clara says they can’t communicate much, yet, but children find their ways.”

“Now wouldn’t that be something you could help with, Sybil? You did say the other day that you’ll need to gain some teaching experience.”

“But Manchester’s frightfully far from Oxford, Mummy!” Sybil protests, secretly chuffed of course that another occasion to mention her studying in Oxford had arisen.

“There might be another opportunity,” Rose says, “There’s a Herr Neumann in Vienna making plans to bring more children out of the country, at least temporarily and while their parents wait for the bureaucracy to go through, and we were thinking of hosting one or two of them when they arrive. Many people we know do, so we might have a whole classroom full of children for Sybil to teach come summer.” She smiles across the table at her young cousin before she picks up her cutlery again. “You’ll be free then, won’t you darling, once your summer term has ended?”

“Trinity, yes, that’s what we call ‘summer term’ at Oxford. But I don’t know if I’d even want to teach little children …” Sybil says noncommittally.

“Well, it’s a start,” Tom insists, “you can’t be too choosy when you’re green. Even your beloved Professor What’s-his-name didn’t start out a professor at Oxford."

"And it’s for a good cause, after all,” Lucy adds.

Sybil spears at her Salmon Wellington, clearly annoyed at her parents' badgering but entirely too well-bred to start an argument – a painfully nostalgic reminder of Rose's own relationship with her late father, back when she was that very age. Rose swallows her feelings with another bite of the delicious fish. 

“Wouldn’t have taken you for the type to take in strays.” Henry comments, raising an eyebrow.

This time around, Rose can’t hold in a little scoff of her own. “Now that’s curious, considering I myself was a stray who was taken in, in this very house.”

“But you’re family, Rose, that’s different,” cries Mary, surprisingly quick to come to her husband’s defence.

Rose catches herself just in time to suppress the urge to roll her eyes, let alone snap at her cousin. She gives a wan smile and, once again, lifts her fork to her mouth instead.

“I think it’s wonderful” Cora gushes, “a summer vacation abroad, a change of scenery, how awfully exciting for these poor children!”

Rose and Atticus exchange another quick glance across the table, not the first and certainly not the last this evening, one that says absolutely everything.

Ever since she’d lived among the Jewish community of New York – the most modern, liberal, well-to-do Jewish community, that is, so similar yet so distinct to their own London community – she’d wondered, and every time she’d given it more thought, she’d wondered even more. Cousin Cora’s late father, Isidore Levinson, had been a part of that very stratum of society, and while he’d married out – just as Atticus had done, initially at least – Cousin Cora, despite being shockingly American in every other way, seems so very removed from that part of her heritage. It sometimes seems as if her father had never been an influence at all, apart from giving her her maiden name. Rose had never dared ask, and now she finally comes to the conclusion that Cora – the very same Cora who’d become a mother in all but name to her over the years – simply doesn’t understand, not anymore or maybe not ever.

“You must come to stay then, if only to give them something to remember!” Cora goes on, practically bubbling with excitement. “We can host a picknick and lawn games, to put their poor little minds at ease!”

“They do have stately homes in Europe, Mama, they didn’t just tear them all down after the downfall of their empire,” Mary comments drily, even Europeans can’t be as barbarian as that swinging in the undercurrent of her voice, “They’ll have seen one before.”

And lawn games as a distraction might not suffice when you’re facing an evil dictator who wants you purged from the very face of this earth, Rose thinks to herself, biting her tongue once again.

“That’s terribly kind of you to say, Cora,” is what she says out loud, “We’ll take you up on your offer when the time is right.”

“And do ask your dear cousins to come up for a few days, Atticus,” Cora adds, turning towards Atticus, “Manchester isn’t too far after all. We’ll be entertaining over the holidays anyway and the village is hosting the Easter fair, the children will love it!”

“Why thank you, Cora,” Atticus says, “I’ll telephone her tomorrow.”

And with that, the last course for the evening is served.

“Rhubarb merengue is my favourite!” Sybil gushes.

“Mrs. Parker has outdone herself, once again,” Lucy comments after the first bite, “Please make sure to give her our compliments.”

“Very well, Mrs Branson.”

The butler gives a small bow and retreats. Shortly after, with not a crumb of rhubarb merengue left, the family does too.

Another hour or so later, after drinks, conversation and card games in the drawing room, Rose and Atticus finally go up to their room – not a guest bedroom, but the very same that had been Rose’s bedroom while she still lived at Downton and Sybil's before her – exhausted to their bones. Not only had it been a long day of travel, the evening with the family, despite or because it only being family, had been surprisingly taxing. Rose would be lying if she said she hadn’t been looking forward to some quiet and privacy for half an eternity already.

Atticus walks up to her and places a small kiss to the nape of her neck as he, like every other night since they’d done away with the superfluous luxury of a lady’s maid and a valet back in New York, starts unfastening the back of his wife’s dress where her own hands can’t reach. While Mary kindly offers to have Mrs Molesley or some other member of staff sent up to attend them while they're staying every time, they always refuse because it seems so unnecessary, and unnecessarily disruptive, to their own private routine.

“They’re oblivious,” she says, finding herself rather unable to keep the frustration … no, the disappointment … out of her voice, “only I hadn’t thought how oblivious.”

“It’s not their world, love.” Atticus squeezes her shoulder, then her waist, “call a spade a spade, it’s just headlines in the papers to them. It affects them as much as the wars in Spain and China affect us. Dreadful, of course, but so far away.”

Rose harrumphs, not quite convinced, and starts unpinning her hair. Atticus goes to sit on the bed and unties his shoes. Then, he gives her a poignant look through the dressing table’s mirror.

“Remember when we first met, love …?”

If there’s one thing Rose hates more than anything, it’s admitting that she’d been wrong.

“A steep learning curve …” she concedes, thinking back at many an uncomfortable, awkward situation of her own making, back when she’d still been an outsider in all that has since become her family, her community and her whole life.

“If I’m entirely honest, Sybbie tonight … she reminded me of you, love, of you as you were back then.”

“Her heart’s in the right place at least.” Rose smiles, full of love for her young cousin who’s more of a niece than anything else.

“And everything else will follow, in time, don't you worry.” Atticus stands to put his shoes and the dinner jacket away. “Good call of Lucy’s, by the way, to get her involved with teaching the refugee children English, once they arrive. She’ll learn that way, and so will they.”

“Indeed.”

Rose cocks her head aside and makes a mental note to pass the suggestion on to the Rebbetzin and Cousin Esther and the other ladies at synagogue who had become involved with the rescue effort over the last few weeks. While her own children are way too young, many other families in the community have children of Sybil’s age, with ample free time in the summer months when they’re out of school or university, who could take up the role of a tutor of sorts, teaching English and maybe even leading some leisure activities. Up until now, finding suitable families with children of the appropriate age willing to host a refugee child had been on the forefront of everyone’s mind, but now that she thinks about it, this might be a solution to an issue they’d discussed often: the extra strain the children might put on the hosting families, especially those that didn’t have much in the ways of household staff, and the difficulties that might arise due to the language barrier. Rose shakes her head in incredulity that she hadn’t thought of it herself as she remembers the summer camps that had been all the rage back in America. Vicky had been way too young to attend, back then, so their existence had barely registered for her, but from what her New York friends had told her, they sounded like such good fun. Picknicks and lawn games indeed!

“I can hear your thinking, darling …” Atticus says with a chuckle.

“It’s nothing, nothing important at least.” She smiles up at her husband, silently marvelling at his chiselled chest, now bare as he swiftly changes into his pyjamas. “Remind me to telephone Esther first thing in the morning, will you?”

“Alright. Now can I take your mind off Esther and whatever it is you need to tell her, and family matters as a whole, for a moment?”

Rose chuckles, too, and joins him on the bed.

Chapter Text

The next day. Downton Abbey.

The family disperses after breakfast, leaving Rose feeling rather left out. She knows of course that life at Downton Abbey is always busy and must go on as usual, with or without her and her family’s presence, and that – fortunately, if she’s entirely honest, even after all these years – they’re not exactly seen as houseguests to be entertained, fussed about, and waited upon their every whim, she feels somewhat left alone.

When Cora insisted on accompanying Maud to an appointment in York, Henry offered to drive them both, citing the additional need to take some new model car on a spin anyway. He’d be picking up George from wherever he was – they’d come second in the boat race, he’d telegrammed late last night, hurrah! – and be back before dinner with the young Earl and the two dowagers in tow.

Lucy had left long before that, before breakfast even. While Henry was test-driving fancy cars and Tom was making plans for expanding the business even more now that the effects of the financial crisis had finally started to wear off for good while other crises and looming threats were popping up, it was her holding their whole day-to-day business together. This required her presence at B&T Motors – the fifth largest auto dealership in the country and largest in the north, now headquartered in Leeds –, at least occasionally, even during Easter Week when business was going at a slower than usual pace.

Mary, too, was busy with work; now that Tom was here, they were eager to sequester themselves away in her office and discuss matters of the estate. While Tom wasn’t the agent anymore, at least not officially, he was still Mary’s closest confidante, especially now, considering Robert’s still recent death and the matter of inheritance taxes that came with it, and the fact that George was but a boy of fifteen for all that he was the new Earl.

Sybil, on the other hand, had decided to go out riding, much unbothered by the trials and tribulations of real life like a young woman her age should be despite her fiery diatribe over last night’s dinner. Her younger cousins, Rose’s own daughter Vicky and Mary’s Carrie, both insisted on tagging along of course – and so they did, for all that Sybil grumbled about not being a nanny. When Atticus gladly volunteered himself as a chaperone, Rose didn’t object, knowing full well how much he loves and misses horses while living a city life.

That leaves Rose to fend for herself in a large and empty house, painfully aware of how little a significance her presence at Downton is. Having read all the papers and what little correspondence there is, she simply decides to go on with her day, just like everyone else.

First, she telephones Esther Montagu, just as she’d planned the previous night, and of course the call ends in a spat between the two cousins-in-law. Esther, back in London, declares the argument ended by slamming the phone on the hook while Rose, mid-sentence, was left with little more than a beep and then, the operator’s tinny, but clearly exasperated voice.

Then, she takes off for an impromptu walk around the gardens, if only for lack of options. For all that she’d never enjoyed, let alone understood, the obsession some of her more country-minded peers have with taking leisurely strolls or even long walks in nature, she needs release to let out steam and get the quarrel with Esther out of her system.

And then, step by determinated step, she makes another plan.

When she’s admitted to Mary’s office, having rapped the door only once, she immediately becomes aware that she’s all but walked in on Mary and Tom arguing, and probably much more heatedly than Rose and Esther before.

“Is this an inconvenient time?”

Tom holds his breath while Mary can’t quite suppress an icy glare.

“Of course not, Rose darling. Do sit!” she says instead, immediately changing her whole demeanour, “I’ll ring for tea.”

Tom clears his throat rather awkwardly. “Would you …?”

“No, no, by all means … do stay!” Rose says immediately, “Well, unless you …”

He exchanges a glance with Mary and once she’s given a gracious nod, he sits too. They don’t say much until the tea arrives, accompanied by a plate of shortbread biscuits, as scrumptious as they are plain. They immediately remind Rose of her childhood in Scotland, not that Mrs Parker or anyone in the kitchens would’ve known.

“Atticus and the girls aren’t back from their ride yet, I take it?” Mary says as she sets her teacup back on the saucer.

One poignant raise of her cousin’s eyebrow and Rose feels like she’s a wayward young girl again – and not in a good way, mind you. Mary’s always had this effect on her, if she’s entirely honest, criticising her every move under the pretence of caring. But she’s a grown woman of thirty-six now, no longer an ingenue, and it wasn’t sheer boredom that had brought her here.

“I wouldn’t know, I’ve just gotten off the phone with my cousin … well, Atticus’s cousin actually,” she says airily.

“The one we were talking about yesterday, with her husband still in Vienna?” Tom puts in quickly, eager to alleviate the palpable tension in the dark room.

Rose shakes her head in the negative.

“No, but thank you for reminding me, I still need to call and extend Cora’s invitation. That’s Clara, she’s a cousin from the maternal side, the Melfords of Manchester. I was talking to Esther, Lord Sinderby’s niece who’s married to a son of Baron Swaythling, who served in India with my father, coincidentally.”

When she catches herself rambling, she dunks a piece of shortbread into her tea in a wholly undignified manner, and then she pulls her shoulders back.

“Anyway, Esther and I are on one of the aid committees we mentioned yesterday.”

“How terribly exciting,” Mary comments, her voice laden with boredom bordering on exasperation.

“Exciting is a curse, given the circumstances,” Rose retorts, finally … finally … finding her footing. “Anyway, Sybil’s comments yesterday got me thinking, and I’ve come with a proposal.”

Mary then lifts her cup with a puzzled frown. “Her proposal was to convince Herr Hitler to be more efficient in kicking the Jews out of Germany, if I remember correctly. I fail to see how you of all people would be in favour ...”

“Oh, now don’t be crass, Mary!” Tom chides immediately.

“Well yes, we’re trying to find foster families for these poor children, for the summer and maybe even for longer,” Rose clarifies, purposefully ignoring Mary’s cruel quip, “But that’s just the children, and we fear that parents might be unwilling to let them leave unattended. So we were thinking about alternatives, and Esther might’ve found a loophole.”

“How profoundly Jewish,” Mary says, and Rose ignores it.

She has bigger fish to fry, and she’d rather not antagonise her cousin, no matter how haughty and insensitive she’s being. She'd expected that and takes a deep breath instead.

“One of the few possibilities to obtain a valid visa is for domestic servants, and I don’t have to tell you of all people how difficult it is to find qualified people these days.”

When she sees Mary’s eyebrow quirk upwards, Rose knows she’s struck the right chord.

“There’s hundreds of women, and men too, desperate to leave the continent as soon as possible, and there’s dozens of estates across the country desperate to fill positions. You know that as well as I do. So, what if we could find a solution for the problem? A mutually beneficial one?”

“I thought your charity effort was about the children?”

“It is, but as I said … mothers are unwilling to send their children away alone, so we need to find a way to have them travel together. And this is where I see a viable and mutually beneficial solution.” Rose gives an optimistic smile. “And it’s worked before. Cousin Clara’s mother-in law was able to enter the country on a domestic servant visa.”

Mary furrows her brow. “But that must’ve been an exception, if not a scheme. And well done, if I may say so. But still, a favour of Lord Melford’s …”

Rose cringes. Mary does have a point there. While Benji Melford had issued all the necessary paperwork to get his sister’s mother-in-law a visa, the relevant authorities would never learn that Margarete Hönigsberg would never set foot in Melford Park’s kitchens and if she ever did, it wouldn’t be in a servant’s uniform but as a member of the family requesting this or that.

Defensiveness wouldn’t do her any good now, Rose decides.

“The children our charity is planning on taking in are middle class … lower middle class, mostly,” she says instead, “I’d have to ask Esther for details, but it’s safe to assume that their mothers are skilled housewives, first and foremost. Secretaries, maybe, or nurses, or teachers. They’d do well in service, I presume. They can adapt.”

“Rose has a point there, Mary.” Tom had been uncharacteristically quiet up to now, pottering in the background and sipping at his tea.

“So you’re not only taking in a Jewish foster child for the summer, but a whole family, I take it.” Mary summarises. “That’s rather magnanimous of you, but then again you’ve always had something of a bleeding heart.”

Rose gives a smile, as faint as it is fake. Mary, despite many claims and even hard evidence to the opposite, was indeed in possession of a heart, but it most certainly wasn't a bleeding one. She'd always taken a much more utilitarian and detached approach to the charitable causes she was supposed to champion as one of the leaders of the county, aiming for high effectiveness and, more importantly, visibility, despite minimal involvement.

“Now, you did say you have some sort of proposal. Is it about your cousin’s visit, because in that case you really should talk to Mama, she’s still the party planner in the household and frankly, I’m rather busy, what with the upcoming season, both in London and here on our farms.”

“In fact, it has to do with the refugees, which is why I’ve been telling you all this. We – the committee in London, that is – are planning on setting up a placement service to connect refugee women willing to work in service with prospective employers.”

“How clever,” Tom comments.

“Indeed. So I was wondering if you were looking for staff yourself, or if you could at least spread the word in your circles. I'm doing the same. The more people know, the better our chances are to find suitable places and get sponsorship for visas.”

Mary perks up. “When you say sponsorship, how much money are we talking about?”

“That’s still a matter of negotiation, as far as I know,” Rose admits, a little sheepishly, “but negotiations will certainly run more smoothly, and more favourable too, when we have a solid case to present … concrete numbers of interested households and open positions, that kind of thing.”

“Your passion is admirable, Rose, but I don’t think anyone in their right mind would be willing to hire an inexperienced foreigner and pay for it too.”

Rose sighs, shifting in her seat uncomfortably. She should’ve come armed with better arguments, she realises now. But on the plus side, once she’d come out of an argument with her formidable and famously difficult cousin, and if not victorious then at least unscathed, she’d be more than ready to face any unrelenting government official or self-important rabbi head-on.

“Have you not been looking high and low for kitchen staff before Mrs Parker walks out or dies of a heart attack from all the stress she’s under?” Tom butts in quickly, again clearly intent on bridging the rift. He’d always had a way of reasoning with Mary like no one else in the family or without could, that much is certain, and Rose is immensely grateful for his subtle show of support.

Mary harrumphs. “Qualified kitchen staff, lest she return to her socialist leanings and incite a revolution. You know as well as I do that this woman doesn't suffer fools gladly.”

“No kitchen maid is exactly qualified when she first arrives,” Tom argues, “A grown woman and housewife might even be an improvement over some foolish green girl who’s never peeled a potato in her life.”

“Still.” Mary’s exasperated pause is a clear sign that Tom hadn’t quite succeeded in convincing her, much less convincing her that it had all been her idea in the first place. “Downton hasn’t survived, and thrived, for so long by getting involved in some fishy business.”

“And you won’t be!” Rose cries, “It’s not a little favour I’m asking as your cousin, we’re setting up a proper charity organisation to back all of this, and …”

A knock on the door interrupts Rose’s argument, and it bursts open with a clang before anyone can even respond. Mary rises with all but a jump, Rose – who’d been seated with her back to the door – swivels around, and Tom leans back with a deep chuckle.

“Well, well, well ... Now look what the cat dragged in.”

“I’m home, Mummy. Uncle Tom. Aunt Rose.”

While everyone exchanges heartfelt greetings and kisses, Rose can’t help but notice how much George has grown since their last meeting – New Years’ at Brancaster, which has since become something of a family tradition shared between the whole extended clan of Pelhams, Crawleys, Bransons and Aldridges of all generations. The pudgy, awkward boy shrouded in grief and insecurity she remembers has transformed into a strapping young man with broad shoulders and a cocky attitude, certainly fuelled by the latest sporting victory, but not quite yet matured into what one would expect a dignified and sophisticated Earl of Grantham to be.

And he’s brought a friend, an equally handsome but lankier young man who keeps himself to the background, all but making himself invisible behind a mop of mousy curls, a shade darker than George’s fair hair.

“You don’t mind terribly if Bun stays for the break, won’t you, Mummy?” George asks.

“Of course not.” Mary extends her hand; George’s friend Bun takes and kisses it without hesitation.

“Lady Mary.”

“Lord Lascelles.”

“How I wish you’d still call me Harry, like you used to …”

The hard lines around Mary’s eyes soften and she squeezes the young man’s shoulder. “I wish George had told us in advance he was bringing a friend. But you’re always welcome at Downton, Harry dear. I’ll have Parker set you up in a room in the Bachelors’ Corridor. The Prince Albert Room, maybe, if you're amenable?”

George gives a sheepish look and mumbles cursory apologies under his breath.

“Much obliged, Lady Mary,” Bun, or Harry, or Lord Lascelles – Rose isn't up-to-date enough with Burke's Peerage to place him, but still entrenched enough in the aristocratic world not to question the many confusing monikers – smiles just as sheepishly, and then he pulls his shoulders back and cracks a grin in George's direction, “See. You won’t have to put up with my snoring while I’m here, Grants. Aren’t you the lucky one!”

George guffaws.

“They bunk together at Eton, our Georgie and Harry Lascelles here,” Tom whispers to Rose by ways of explanation, “They’re all but inseparable. And our Carrie has something of a sweet spot for him, as little sisters tend to do for their big brothers’ best friends.”

And just like that it all makes sense.

“You seem terribly busy,” George remarks, astute as ever, “we wouldn’t want to keep you, won't we Bunny? We’ll just go freshen up and reconvene for luncheon later, shall we?”

He all but elbows Bun, but before they can make a convenient exit, Mary’s sonorous voice halts them.

“Does your mother even know you’re here, Harry?”

When the young man catches his lower lip between his teeth, hemming and hawing instead of answering, it’s all Mary needs to know.

“I won’t ask, Harry dear, but I’ll be calling her to let her know.”

The young man nods solemnly, sheepishly, and then they’re on their way with George tugging on his sleeve.

Mary gives a deep sigh before she turns back to Tom and Rose with an exasperated look on her face. Once again, Rose feels left out, like she’s only getting half of the picture while Tom patting Mary’s arm says he understands everything and then some. He rings for some more tea and gestures Rose to sit and engages her in conversation while Mary picks up the receiver at her desk.

“Harewood House, please … this is Lady Mary Talbot calling for the Princess Royal, on behalf of the Viscount Lascelles … good morning, Your Royal Highness … yes, I’m calling because Henry … yes, exactly, boys will be boys … well, why don’t you come up for dinner then, if you’re free? We’re not exactly entertaining, just the extended family, but … yes, that’s exactly what I’m suggesting … ever the better … I’m being serious, Mary dear, you wouldn't be imposing at all … see you at dinner then, and you’re more than welcome to stay, too!”

Chapter Text

A few days later. Shabbat evening. Sinderby House, Mayfair, London.

Despite Pessach approaching, they’re only a small party gathered in the grand salon of Sinderby House this Shabbat evening. Apart from the core family, there’s just the usual suspects in attendance: the Montagus – Daniel Aldridge’s niece Esther and her husband Jonathan –, the Samuels – Max, Atticus’ best friend from Eton, and his wife Charlotte, who conveniently live just a few houses down the street, ever the better since their children are best friends with their own Vicky and Hugo –, dear old Lionel Greene – their congregation’s Cantor, also a close friend of the elder Aldridges who have been visiting from Canningford for the last few weeks – and Edith Pelham – a frequent houseguest when she’s in London for business.

For all that Rose loves to entertain and host spectacularly grand dinner parties, and for all that she loves being right at the epicentre of the upbeat crowd gathered for Kiddush after Shacharit, she secretly prefers these small, intimate gatherings on Shabbat evenings. Focusing on the essential: family, and rest, as it should be.

Earlier this evening, she'd lit the candles alongside her mother-in-law and her daughter. With the parents in attendance, the honour of leading through the ritual aspects of the evening falls to Abba, not Atticus, of course. She enjoys listening to her father-in-law’s sonorous voice as he recites the blessings, silently mouthing the words herself alongside him, and when he hands her the kiddush cup, they exchange a solemn smile before she, too, takes a sip of wine.

Hours later, when they go through after having indulged in an opulent feast, she finally gets to perform the one ritual she cherishes most on Shabbat evenings; the one that isn’t written in any book. She walks right next to her husband, the backs of their hands touching together. She touches her fingertips to the mezuzah in the drawing room door, a beautiful art-deco-style stained-glass case that has always been her favourite, touches them to her lips, and then to Atticus’s, with him reciprocating the gesture. And like every Shabbat evening they spend in their home, ever since their first Shabbat together after their second wedding in New York, she kisses her husband underneath their ketubah, which hangs proudly in display next to the door. “Ani l’dodi v’dodi li,” Atticus whispers against her lips, reverently so, reciting the Song of Songs. And if anyone finds their little family minhag a bit odd or even unbecoming of an aristocratic couple married for so many years, they are very welcome to celebrate their Erev Shabbat elsewhere for all that she cares, thank you very much.

For once, and despite everything going on in the outside world, Shoshana Aldridge feels entirely at peace.

They settle in the drawing room. Atticus pours drinks for everyone, Jonty and Max are already entrenched in a heated discussion that had started over dinner, one that Atticus would join later without doubt, Charlotte goes straight for the piano where she’s soon joined by Mr Greene, treating everyone to Brahms by four hands, the familiar scent of her father-in-law’s cigar fills the room, and her whole home fills with chatter and laughter. All is as it should be.

When she takes her place on the couch next to Atticus, Edith comes to sit with them, and she’s joined by Rachel and Esther shortly after.

“I do hope my father hasn’t been giving you too much of a hard time, Edith,” Atticus chuckles, taking a swig.

“Oh, just the usual comments about how peculiar I must be finding all of it,” Edith responds gracefully.

“Oh, dear me.” Esther rolls her eyes, “Uncle Daniel can be such a curmudgeon sometimes, you really mustn’t mind him. Thank God you’re a good sport, Lady Hexham.”

“Well, I do find it rather beautiful despite not understanding much, and I’m very happy to say so every chance I get,” Edith says with a smile, “and please, and I've said it before, do call me Edith. I’m Lady Hexham in Brancaster, it’s a relief to be just plain old Edith Pelham when I’m back in London.”

“It’s so lovely to see you again, darling,” Rose says with a wide smile, reaching over to clasp her favourite cousn's hands in hers, “it’s been such a long time since we’ve seen hide nor hair of you.”

“Well, as I said, way too busy being Lady Hexham up in Brancaster, unfortunately.” Edith gives a wry smile and takes a sip of her whisky and water. “So, you’ve been up to Downton, I’ve heard …”

“Indeed. And it’s been delightful as ever,” Atticus says with only a smidge of irony in his voice.

“Yes, yes, I’ve gathered as much. I’ve had a rather extensive phone call from Mama, right after you’d left. And then another from Lucy.”

Rose chuckles without meaning to. That sounds just like her family.

“In that case, it’s safe to assume there’s nothing more to say,” Atticus concedes with a fond smile, “Cora and Lucy will have covered it all, we wouldn't want to bore you further.”

“Well, not exactly.” Edith sets her glass aside. “Mama was being rather mysterious about getting new servants soon. It seems like Mary’s up to something again, you wouldn't know anything more about it?”

Rose all but chokes on her drink. She can see, clear as day, where Edith is going with her line of feigned ignorance, but all of it seems to come out perfectly, utterly wrong. Oh, how she wishes she’d commented on some other bit of family gossip – the Princess Royal’s firstborn son staying over, maybe, or even something, anything about Henry and his blasted cars.

“Mary’s not up to anything. I’ve asked her to consider our synagogue’s programme for refugee women in case …”

“We’re trying, and we’re truly trying our best, to connect Jewish women from the continent with English households,” Esther butts in. It is her current favourite topic after all, and if there's one thing Esther Montagu isn't, it's subtle. She reminds Rose of Cousin Isobel, sometimes. Cousin Isobel on the warpath, as it is. “As things are, a position as a domestic servant is the only way to get these poor women a visa.”

Edith ruffles her brow. “But I thought it was all about the children?”

“It is, but … it's always been women and children first when disaster strikes, not just children, hasn't it? It's always gone together, and so it should be this time around, as well. Anything else would be rather unfair!”

Esther's all up in arms. Rose gives a deep sigh, and before she can collect her thoughts enough to make a compelling argument, her mother-in-law speaks up.

“You have children, Edith. Three beautiful children, if I remember correctly. Think about it. Would you just send them away to the unknown to have a better life, even if it’s away from you?”

Edith pales, Rose winces, but Rachel – very much unaware of Edith’s full story – presses on.

“It started with the children, everything Rose and Esther and Charlotte are doing, of course it did. But all of that won’t do anyone any good if mothers refuse to let their children go away, on their own, even if it means their safety.”

Charlotte, in the meantime, is still at the piano, playing Debussy.

“So, we’re finding ways to make it happen, one way or another,” Esther says, shrugging with fake nonchalance, “and as Charlotte likes to tell everyone, if it’s convincing our poshest relatives and all toffee-nosed friends we have that they really, really need one more maid, so be it.”

Rose winces again. For all that Edith likes to declare she’s “just plain old Edith Pelham”, she’s still a marchioness. Charlotte did say that, verbatim and on various occasions, and while the underlying idea is indeed just that and it rings as true as ever, they really should be taking more care how they communicate the issue, even more so with outsiders. Charlotte, a doctor’s wife hailing from a solidly middle-class background, wouldn’t know much about the upper classes’ sense and sensitivities around status and money. Esther however, being both daughter of a baron and wife to the son of a baron herself, really should know better. She makes a mental note to bring it up in the next board meeting. Gently, of course, but with intent.

Edith's face lights up with an expression Rose is rather familiar with. A flicker of inspiration, so to speak.

“How can I help?”

“That depends on how many maids you’re willing to sponsor,” Esther states, rather too bluntly.

Not that Edith minds, or if she does she doesn't show it. Rose finds herself entirely unwilling to derail this pleasant Shabbat evening by getting into another spat with dear Esty, but she would have to tackle the issue at some point. Sooner rather than later, lest anyone else they're trying to rope into their endeavour be scandalised.

“Gardeners more than maids if it’s all the same to you, in case you have fathers available to rescue. Bertie’s blasted park project is proving more labour-intensive than he’d anticipated.” Edith, ever the pragmatist, rolls her eyes ever so slightly. “I shall investigate the issue and get in touch. But anyway, that’s not exactly what I meant.”

Rose gives her cousin a puzzled look. They’d talked about the park project, and rather extensively so, over dinner. It was quite an enterprising idea of dear Bertie’s, after all, and the talk of the season too: remodelling Brancaster Castle’s ample gardens to be more than a classic English landscape garden but a well-curated botanical garden showcasing not only the most exquisit landscaping Northumberland has to offer, but themed spaces with exotic flora and gardening styles from all over the world. The Hexhams were planning to open it to the public come summer, and what a delight it would be! Of course they would be wanting for gardeners, that makes absolute sense. What makes less sense in Rose’s mind is Edith’s following comment.

“Rose, darling. I should be offended it never occurred to you to come to me in the first place,” Edith says, a teasing glint in her eyes, but Rose still doesn’t quite follow. “As much as it wounds my pride to admit that I’m more of a silent shareholder than a journalist these days, I do own a publishing company.”

“Good for you,” Esther remarks dryly.

“Are you saying you’d be willing to give us a good rate on advertisement space?” Rose asks, cocking her head aside. “We would need that, wouldn’t we, Esty?”

“Yes, yes we would indeed,” Esther nods, “not quite now yet, but eventually.”

“All the advertisement space you need, for absolutely no charge at all it is then,” Edith says decisively as she leans back and lights a cigarette, “but I was thinking about something else, actually.”

“Go on,” Rose urges, but she’s interrupted by Atticus touching his hand to her knee.

“I’ll leave you ladies to your plotting,” he says, kissing Rose’s temple before he gets up, motioning towards the other side of the room, “Abba’s antagonising Max, again, I think I’ll have to save him. Or them, from each other. If only for the sake of the London population’s overall health, lest the best surgeon in the city blow a fuse …”

“Let me know if you need my support,” Rachel quips.

Everyone laughs, Rose squeezes his hand and then she gives a dismissive little wave, as if to say, “go on then”.

“Oh, now that you’re standing anyway, 'Cus, can you at least fetch us some more drinks?” Esther calls after him, “I have a feeling we’re going to need it.”

“The chutzpah on you, Esty dear...” Atticus chuckles, but of course he obliges before he heroically goes to his best friend’s rescue.

“So, where were we?” Rose continues, twirling her freshly refilled drink in her hands. “You were going to propose some clever plan, I think.”

“Not at all. You’re the ones with the clever plan. I’m the one with a magazine,” Edith states, but somehow, Rose still isn’t any the wiser.

“Go on,” she says.

“Magazines are in the business of telling stories and influencing opinions,” Edith says, “It’s up to you to decide of course, but that’s what I’m offering. Getting you set up to explain your work, tell these families’ stories, make people feel for them. That would have much more impact than a simple advertisement, even if you decide to splatter it over a full page. And if we … and by we, I mean you, just so we’re clear … get some prominent testimonial to publicly declare their support for your programme, ever the better. That would give people confidence.”

“How clever!” Rachel exclaims.

Indeed. Rose had never thought about it from this angle before – no one in their group had, she doesn't think –, but now it's been said, it makes complete and utter sense in her head. Bless Edith and her journalist instincts. That might be just what they needed now.

“That testimonial should be you, I think,” Rose says then, pensively, “you’re probably the most high-ranking person we can get, and you’re a young woman in an established big house, all of which would make the story more authentic and appealing to your readers, don't you think?”

“And better yet, you’re goyish,” Esther adds.

“That’s rather a rude thing to point out, Esty,” Rachel puts in quickly, ever the strict aunt even when the niece in question was well into her thirties already.

“Maybe, but it’s also the truth,” Rose says, “a fellow Jew’s endorsement won’t sway the general public’s opinion, or else we could ask Leslie Howard.”

“The film star?” Edith gulps, blushing like a flustered young girl all of a sudden. “Oh my, how would you know him?”

“His family goes to our synagogue,” Rose says by ways of explanation, “Or rather, they don’t, but that’s not the point.”

Rachel snorts rather unladylikely and Rose gives her an entirely unapologetic shrug in return. As the wife and daughter-in-law of the synagogue’s president, it is their prerogative to have opinions about the congregation, she thinks, even if it occasionally veers terribly close to lashon hara.

“And that’s why we need an English Rose such as yourself, Lady Hexham,” Esther finishes the thought, “if you’re willing to step up.”

“I’m willing to be your backup plan in any case,” Edith concedes, setting her cigarette aside. “Look, all I’m saying is if you play your hand right, you might even get the Princess Royal.”

“Oh, of course!” Rose cries, “You’re right, why didn’t I think of it?”

“The Princess Royal?” Esther gives a shocked gasp of her own. “And how on earth do you think we could make that happen?”

“Yes, better to stay realistic on that matter,” Rachel says, “I don’t think it’s likely you’d get the Princess Royal to publicly endorse a Jewish cause while the Duke of Windsor dines with the devil himself.”

“You might be surprised,” Rose puts in, “it’s not like Princess Mary, or any of that lot come to think about it, are great fans of dear David. Or Hitler, for that matter.”

“Exactly,” says Edith, “and if the impetus is presenting as anti-German more than pro-Jewish, it wouldn’t make that much of a difference in the end. It’s all semantics, isn’t it?”

“We can try writing a letter, but you’re right, Aunt Rachel. I don’t think anything but a polite thank you but no thank you would come of it.”

Rose shakes her head. “We wouldn’t be writing a letter, I don’t think.”

Esther cocks her head aside, confusion written plainly all over her face. 

This time around, it’s up to Edith to dole out a hearty serving of culture shock. “She’s friends with my sister, Mary, they're basically neighbours. George, that’s my nephew, and her eldest are roommates at Eton. She even came to my Cecil’s christening, way back when.” She turns to Rose, then, politely ignoring Esther and Rachel’s shocked expressions, “I know Mary isn’t exactly your favourite person in the world, Rose, and believe me when I say I fully agree on that matter. But if you play your cards right with her, you might …”

“It’s worth a try,” Rose concedes.

Dealing with Mary wouldn’t be pleasant, not if their last conversation was any indication, but needs must and it would be worth it, if only it furthered their cause.

“The Princess Royal, oy vey,” Esther mutters, still rather pale around the nose. “I think I need another drink.”

For all that she’s at odds with Esther most of the time, Rose finds herself rather in agreement with that assessment.