While We Were Watching Downton Abbey Part 5

"Oh, I don't know . . ."

"And since I'm the emcee and the projectionist I can make sure we don't begin until you come down." He smiled at her, un-fooled and unfazed by her excuses. His brown eyes remained warm and slightly amused. A dimple creased his cheek.

They reached the eighth floor and the doors slid open. He pushed the twelfth-floor b.u.t.ton for her since she'd completely forgotten to, then kept his finger on the "door open" b.u.t.ton; a move that was, of course, far less complicated than she'd tried to make it appear.

"Really," he said. "I don't want to be a nuisance about this, but I think your presence would give the activity an important stamp of approval."

There were voices in the hall. A good-sized gathering of women milled around the clubroom door.

"It looks like you've already got a good turnout," she said, relieved. Surely it wouldn't matter whether she was there or not as long as there was a crowd.

"Yes," the concierge said, pleased. "But I'm looking for a cross section of residents and as I said I think it's a good idea to have a board member partic.i.p.ate." He smiled the warmly elegant smile, then shot her a wink. "I'll save you a seat and have wine and popcorn waiting."

The man was smooth. And persistent. But at least he was gentleman enough to keep the triumph out of his eyes.

"I'll see you in twenty minutes." She conceded as gracefully as she could. "I prefer red wine. And I'll be expecting extra b.u.t.ter on my popcorn when I get there."

"As you wish, madam," he said with a small bow and a large smile. The elevator doors slid smoothly shut.

PLEASED WITH THE TURNOUT, EDWARD contemplated the dozen-plus women who'd come for the screening and took a moment to match up faces with names. He greeted Sadie Hopewell, a sixtyish widow who'd moved to Atlanta to be near her children, and her neighbor Myra Mackelbaum, whose husband had invented some sort of elastic band, and introduced them to the white-haired, and apparently light-fingered, Mimi Davenport.

There was Anna Bacall, a no-nonsense RN who worked the overnight s.h.i.+ft at Emory Hospital talking to Melinda Greene and her longtime partner Diana Smith, both of whom taught comparative literature at Georgia State and Georgia Tech respectively.

The twentysomething Ritchie twins, nice-looking girls who'd recently graduated from Savannah College of Art and Design and moved back in with their parents while they looked for jobs, had come with their mother, Rebecca. Thanking them all for coming, he drew Claire Walker, who'd moved into a studio unit and was reported to be a writer, closer to the bar and into conversation with the women in front of and behind her.

In keeping with the Downton Abbey theme, he'd dressed two of his staff as servants of the period and brought them up to serve food and drinks. James Hicks wore livery copied from Edward's grandfather's actual uniform, and smiled and bowed formally as he poured and offered wine behind the bar. Isabella Morales, an aspiring actress, was dressed as a ladies' maid and seemed to be having a "go" at a British accent as she pa.s.sed out bags of popcorn and offered appetizer-sized mincemeat pies.

He was surprised, but glad, to see that Brooke Mackenzie had come. She sat on the edge of one of the sofas clutching the arm as if for support. He knew her husband had left her soon after he'd moved the family into the building and he'd seen the uncertain desperation in her face as she'd ridden out the divorce that had quickly followed. He suspected the tears in the fitness room were but a drop in the bucket she'd shed. He carried a bottle of wine over. "I'm so pleased you could join us. May I refill your gla.s.s?"

"Oh, I don't know if I should," she said immediately, shaking her head.

"That's one of the advantages of coming to an event in the building," he said. "You don't have to worry about drinking and driving, do you? What do you say? May I?" He laid on the accent a bit. In his experience some people found it oddly rea.s.suring.

She smiled and held up her gla.s.s.

"There you are," he said as he poured. "I'll ask Isabella to bring you a spot of popcorn, too. Do you mind saving the seat next to you? Another resident asked me to reserve her a s.p.a.ce as well."

"Sure." Her face brightened and a faint blush spread across her cheeks, blending the relief map of freckles into a becoming pink. Her hazel eyes were quite nice when she wasn't casting them down.

At the bar he instructed Isabella to give Samantha Davis wine and popcorn when she arrived and then escort her down to the seat next to Brooke Mackenzie.

"Aye, I will, cap'n," she said with real c.o.c.kney fervor. "Ye can be sure o' that."

"Not bad," he said. "You might want to aim for the accent of someone bent on improving herself and rising professionally by imitating her mistress's accent. Rather than emulating a pirate in a Walt Disney film."

"Right, cap'n."

He raised an eyebrow, careful not to laugh.

"I mean, yes, milord." She curtsied.

"Better," he said. "You do have an ear, Isabella. You just have to be careful what you're listening to."

She nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Better still," Edward said. "You'll see what I mean when the program airs. Pay careful attention to Joanne Froggatt, who plays Anna. She's nailed the part of a person in her station perfectly."

Shortly after eight he invited everyone to find a seat and made sure no one sat off alone. Once everyone was settled, all eyes turned to him expectantly. The room fell silent.

"Thank you so much for coming tonight," he said. "I believe I've met all of you since taking on the Alexander six months ago. I love this building and am very happy to be serving as your concierge. I hope that you'll let me know if there's anything I, or the rest of the building staff, can do to make things more comfortable. My firm, Private Butler, also works with individual clients, so if anyone should need more than the building provides, please let me know."

The door opened and Samantha Davis stepped into the room. He nodded to Isabella and she did as he'd asked, though in what sort of accent he didn't know. Brooke Mackenzie's eyes went wide with apprehension as Samantha was shown to the seat next to her. Hoping that he hadn't erred in placing them together, Edward gave them both a nod and a smile, then resumed his introduction.

"I suggested screening Downton Abbey, which airs here on PBS in the winter after showing first in England, because it's all the rage-I believe it's showing in some one hundred countries. I also chose it because I feel a special affinity for the production. As some of you may have noticed, I'm British." He paused for the laughter. "Shocking, I know.

"Downton Abbey is a beautifully done Edwardian drama. Like the earlier Upstairs Downstairs series of the 1970s, it chronicles the life of an important English estate both above and below stairs.

The thing is a number of generations of my family were 'in service.' In fact, both my grandfather and great-grandfather were valets to the Earls of Montclaire in Nottinghams.h.i.+re, which is very near where my family still lives. My great-uncle Mason was a footman.

As those of you who've seen my resume know, after a long career in hotel management, I wanted a more personal experience more closely based on what my ancestors had done. I became a concierge-which a lot of my colleagues saw as a step backward-and now I'm applying many of the things my forebears learned and pa.s.sed on regarding enhancing the quality of life for others."

He watched their faces and saw their interest. It was time to let the program speak for itself.

"My father owns and runs a pub, so I also know the importance of a generous 'pour.' Who else would like their drinks topped off or more popcorn before we begin?"

There were murmurs and gla.s.ses raised. It was clear most of the crowd had come intending to enjoy themselves. "Good," he said. "I'll pour while Isabella refills popcorn."

He picked up a bottle each of red and white, then began to move about the room. He kept an eye on Samantha Davis and Brooke Mackenzie as he made sure everyone was comfortable and settled in. The two had nodded to each other when the latecomer had been seated, but they looked horribly stiff. Almost, he thought, as if someone had run a broomstick up their backsides. If they didn't watch out, someone, possibly him, might accuse them of being closet Brits.

KEEPING HER BACK STRAIGHT, BROOKE LEANED away from Samantha Davis and into the arm of the sofa. She did this carefully so as not to appear rude and in order to avoid jouncing the other woman's arm as she drained the gla.s.s of red wine. Brooke had only come tonight because the apartment had felt so empty without the girls. She'd needed to be somewhere else for at least a little while; somewhere with people who wouldn't see her as Zachary did. But this woman in her designer clothes and expensive hair, who could show up late and be led to a front-row seat, had seen her at her absolute worst.

"Do you have enough room?" Brooke asked tentatively.

"Yes," Samantha said. "Thanks." Setting her gla.s.s on the c.o.c.ktail table, Samantha settled the bag of popcorn on her lap and reached inside it, scooped up a b.u.t.tery handful, and began to eat with relish. "Mmmm. I haven't had real b.u.t.tered popcorn in ages. Not even out of a microwave." She munched contentedly, occasionally pausing to lick the b.u.t.ter from her fingers.

Brooke, who could gain two pounds just driving by a fast-food restaurant, felt a burst of envy. It figured that someone like Samantha Davis, who'd clearly been born under a lucky star and spent the rest of her life basking in its glow, could eat whatever she wanted to whenever she felt like it.

The silence spooled out between them. Maybe Samantha Davis didn't even recognize her. Or if she did maybe she saw no reason to acknowledge Brooke or what had pa.s.sed between them. Brooke was just beginning to relax when Samantha leaned closer, glanced over her shoulder as if to make sure they wouldn't be overheard, and asked, "Are you feeling better?"

"Oh. Yes," Brooke said surprised and embarra.s.sed. "Thank you."

There was a silence, which Brooke felt compelled to fill. "I don't think I've burned many calories since the other day in the fitness room. But I haven't cried, either."

"That's a definite step in the right direction then," Samantha replied.

Brooke glanced at the other woman's face, trying to judge her sincerity. Experience had taught her just how easily a certain type of southern woman could charm you even while they were laughing at you inside.

Brooke waited for Samantha to pull away and signal the end of their conversation. Instead she said, "I've heard the first program starts with the sinking of the t.i.tanic. I don't think I can take watching people freeze to death. This isn't a tearjerker, is it?"

"G.o.d, I hope not," Brooke said. "Although I may not be the right person to ask since apparently even exercise equipment can make me cry."

There was a small, but encouraging, hiccup of laughter from a pair of lips she didn't think even Zachary would try to improve on.

"I haven't seen the opening episodes," Brooke replied. "And what I have seen was out of order. But it was really well done."

"All right, ladies," Edward Parker said, holding white and red wine bottles aloft. "Last call for alcohol until after the program. Who's ready for more?"

"I'll have another gla.s.s!" A gray-haired woman off to the side yelled.

"Me, too!" said the woman next to her.

There were some cackles of laughter. A happy sort of hum filled the room.

Brooke realized as she watched their concierge in action that she'd been expecting some sort of prim and proper evening-but Edward Parker clearly knew how to handle a crowd of women. She felt her body begin to loosen slightly-no doubt a result of the two and a half gla.s.ses of wine she'd drunk. Which was two and a half more than usual. She'd learned how dangerous it was to deal with Zachary if her senses were the least bit dulled; if she weren't careful she and the girls would be living out on the street in a cardboard box from one of his pieces of fancy equipment.

"I don't know, Mrs. Mackelbaum," the concierge said to a gray-haired woman who hooted at him. "I may have to cut you and Mrs. Hopewell off."

There was laughter.

"Don't forget I practically grew up in a pub. I know how to handle the likes of you!" the concierge teased.

The mood in the room grew more buoyant with laughter and expectation. With a nod from Edward Parker the lights dimmed. "All right ladies. Sit back, relax, and enjoy. You are now about to enter the luscious and thrilling world of Downton Abbey."

He aimed the remote at the hundred-plus-inch screen. Brooke leaned forward in her seat as the television flickered to life and the PBS logo filled the screen. Laura Linney welcomed them to Masterpiece Cla.s.sic.

Brooke barely breathed as she watched a finger tap out a message on a Teletype. A train whistle sounded. The train cut through the countryside while an unknown man stared out the window. Scenery swept by. Music played lightly. The hum of the telegraph wires that ran along the track could be heard, an urgent clacking. The message arrived at a British telegraph office, but it was too early to deliver it.

The music swelled and a magnificent castle loomed large, framed in blue sky and green gra.s.s. Brooke leaned toward the screen to better breathe in the stunning opening visuals as the servants began their day and the fateful telegram arrived. Beside her Samantha Davis went still as Robert, the Seventh Earl of Grantham and his rich American wife awoke to discover what the sinking of the t.i.tanic would mean to all of the inhabitants of Downton Abbey.

CHAPTER NINE.

THERE WAS SILENCE AS THE PROGRAM ENDED with Matthew Crawley receiving the fateful message from Lord Grantham. The silence continued as the music swelled and the closing credits began. Then someone, Samantha wasn't sure who, began to applaud. Brooke who hadn't seemed to move so much as a muscle during the program joined in. There were whistles and one "woo-hoo!"

"Wow," Brooke said.

"Yeah," Samantha agreed. It was odd to be so transported, inserted so cleanly into such a different time and place.

People stood, but no one made a move for the door.

"Just as I feared," Edward said. "You absolutely hated it."

There was laughter and conversation. An angular woman with s.h.a.ggy blond hair walked over to Brooke and Samantha.

"This is Claire Walker," Brooke said. "Claire, Samantha Davis. Claire and I met the day my dog and my daughters mowed her down in the lobby."

Samantha shook Claire's hand. "Yes, I think I witnessed the tail end of that encounter."

Brooke smiled apologetically. "I seem to have a special talent for memorable introductions," she said. Samantha was glad Brooke didn't elaborate about their first encounter in the fitness room. It still made her uncomfortable.

"So what did you think of Downton Abbey?" Claire asked.

"It was fun. It reminds me a little bit of Dallas and Dynasty only with fancier accents, better breeding, and no shoulder pads," Samantha said. "Well, except on the men."

"It's a soap opera all right," Claire agreed. "But it's so well done and offers such a great glimpse into the time period and the life of the n.o.bility that it feels far more enlightening."

"The clothes and the house are unbelievable." Brooke sighed.

"They are spectacular," Claire said. "But I'm not sure you're allowed to call it a house."

Edward clapped his hands to get everyone's attention, with no discernible effect.

"We'll have to ask Edward," Samantha said. "I suspect he'll know."

"Ladies, before we do anything else, I'd like to get a photo of our very first Downton Abbey gathering."

The chatter continued as Edward directed them. "That's right, move in a bit there. Good. Um, Mrs. Mackelbaum, can you . . . yes that's just right." He gestured and coaxed until they were in something that resembled an intentional grouping. "Okay now, let's put Isabella on one end and James on the other so we can see their uniforms and get a bit of atmosphere going. That's good. Squeeze in a bit, Mrs. Davis. That's right. That's Mrs. Hopewell next to you. Say h.e.l.lo, will you? I don't think she bites. You don't, do you, Mrs. Hopewell?"

The concierge lowered the camera. "Actually, maybe we should just sound off with our names in case there's anyone who hasn't met everyone and all that."

"Egad!" Isabella said. "Ees a bit of a tyrant, ee is!" She looked expectantly at Edward.

"That was a bit ED, I'm afraid," Edward said.

"Erectile dysfunction?" one of the Ritchie girls asked in surprise.

Edward winced as if in pain but couldn't quite hide his smile. "That's what comes of so many v.i.a.g.r.a commercials on the air. No, love. The ED I was referring to was Eliza Doolittle. Before Professor Higgins turned her into a lady."

"Ahh," Isabella replied quite cheekily. "Then I guess I should be telling you to 'move your bloomin' a.r.s.e!'"

"Only if you don't want to work here anymore." Edward laughed. "In my experience it's almost never a good idea to call your employer an 'a.r.s.e.'"

There was laughter. Samantha could tell she wasn't the only one surprised by the wicked sense of humor that dwelt inside the proper Edward Parker.

"Okay, ladies, sound off. Just give us your name and a brief bit about yourself. We'll start in the back corner and work our way forward."

"Anna Bacall, RN. I live on the sixth floor."