Parade's End (2012): Season 1, Episode 1 - Episode #1.1 - full transcript

Oui?

Qui?

Non.

Dites...

Dites a ce monsieur
que c'est trop tard.

Too bloody late.

Thank you...

- The Dover train booked through to Paris.
- Right you are, sir.

I wish you every happiness,
Chrissie.

Marrying in Paris
is a backdoor way out of it.

What do they say at the office?



Sylvia's mother was married in Paris,
I let it be known.

Thank you for that, Vinnie.

But she's bitched me, old man.

I don't even know if
the child is mine.

Tea tray at 6:30.

Yes, madam. Goodnight, madam.

Sylvia!

Sylvia!

- Mr Drake!
- Sylvia!

- God damn you, I won't be...
- Quite so.

Thank you, Evie.

Won't your wife
be wondering where you are?

I won't be sent away
like an errand boy!

This is not fair.
And you're drunk.



Sylvia, don't do this!

What? Save myself from ruin?

I'm pregnant, you fool!

Whatever you want,
it can't be that... that ox!

What I want is to die.

Death is what I...

No, Gerald, don't.
Darling, don't. It's not fair...

Don't...

I cut away early
from a ghastly weekend party.

- Are you going up to town?
- Yes.

My name is Tietjens.

I'm Sylvia... Satterthwaite.

I know.

We will take a small house
in Knightsbridge. Lowndes Street.

Her mother will live with us.

- Mrs Satterthwaite has contributed handsomely.
- I see.

I haven't seen
that pretty box before.

Gerald Drake gave it to me.

Have you no shame?!
On your wedding day!

When did he give it to you?

- Last night.
- Oh!

You're a lying devil
to say such a thing!

Didn't I see her with it
on the Channel ferry!

So you're going to give me away
twice in one morning?!

- Did Father send word?
- He sent me.

- And my mother?
- Your mother's soft,

and brought you up soft.
Not your fault.

Second wife, late child, no Yorkshire woman -
a bad combination.

My mother is Yorkshire.

Oh, South Riding, by a whisker.

Will you give me a cigarette?

No, I will not give you a cigarette,
and I'm glad your father's dead

not to know today's work,
and I'm sorry for your mother.

Well, don't be.
Christopher Tietjens is a Godsend.

God-sent is one thing
that he is not!

So, you get yourself trapped by
a papist bitch carrying a baby.

Yes! I won't marry now.

You're next, after me, and after you,
it's that whore's child,

who will be the 14th
Tietjens of Groby.

One heard things about you.
That you were a wrong 'un.

But better a wrong 'un than a mug.

Yes, I suppose I was a mug.

And yet, there's something
glorious about her.

Let Marchant go.

What's the matter, old fellow?

We had a nasty dream, didn't we?

- Now, lie down.
- No, no.

I know what to do.

A glass of warm milk, Marchie.
It's the best thing for bad dreams.

Now, a little conversation
till we're sleepy, that's what I do.

I had bad dreams sometimes
when I was little.

You see that?

I could nearly touch Groby Tree
from the night nursery window.

There's all sorts of things
hanging on the tree.

They bring good luck.

There's a wishing well
in the stable yard.

They say it's twice as deep as
Groby Tree is high,

and you can drop a penny in it
and make a wish.

Should I tell you how long it falls?

I used to count, as long as this...

One,

two,

three,

four,

five,

six,

seven, eight,

nine,

ten.

Soft.

Oh, Mr Christopher!

- Telegram, sir.
- Thank you, Bridget.

- While you're there, please, Bridget, teapot.
- Yes, ma'am.

"Maisie Mulgrew wishes it
to be known that she is enjoying

"sexual connection with
Captain WM O'Donnell."

- What?
- No! China!

You! Pulling the strings of
the shower bath.

"The honourable Mrs Frederick Mulgrew,
whose husband, we hear,

"is spoken of for
the Vienna Embassy,

"enjoys the polo with
Captain WM O'Donnell."

That's Maisie getting even with Frederick Mulgrew
for his fling with Lady Egret.

You have no reason to say so.

Thank you, Bridget - Darjeeling.

And Mr Tietjens
needs more coffee, I expect.

Oh, I don't think Maisie's got
the gumption to go through with it.

But the readers like a whiff of sex
coming off our crowd,

like a vapour,

like the steam on the water
at the crocodile house at the zoo.

I'm bored!

Only you could be bored
with the end of the world upon us.

- Who says?
- I says.

The Prime Minister
has asked the King to create

400 Liberal peers so the working
classes can have free medicines.

Oh, but I see
the Association of Domestic Servants

is against the Insurance Bill.
Why would that be, I wonder?

Now is your chance to ask.
Thank you.

- Go on, then.
- Well, Bridget?

I'm sure I don't know, sir.

Well, I'm sure I do. It is because
the National Insurance Bill violates

that beautiful intimacy that exists
between a servant and their mistress.

The Association of Domestic Servants
is Tory through and through!

It is the duty of employers
to look after

the welfare of their employees,
and those who don't should go to prison.

- Who thinks that?
- I am the last, except for a few dukes,

like your cousin, Westershire.

- Do you wonder I can't bear him?
- No.

You married above your intellect and
don't take kindly to disadvantage.

However, the new Liberal peers
won't be necessary.

The Upper House will cave in
and vote to make itself irrelevant.

- And is that the end of the world?
- No.

- The world ended long ago, in the 18th Century.
- Ha-ha!

Do you know what he's doing?!

He's making corrections in
the Encyclopedia Britannica!

If I'd killed him,
no jury would convict!

Look, it's him with
the purple Rolls.

You've been giving the mare
less liquorice in her mash.

- I told you she'd go better.
- Trust you to remember, sir! Thank you.

Morning!

- Good morning!
- Good morning, sir.

Tietjens!
Did you receive my telegram?

And a very good morning to you, too, Macmaster.
So you looked over my figures.

Yes, and the Chief will
have my head if I give them to him.

Well, don't, then.
You asked for my help.

- Yes, and you've weighted the calculations as though...
- As though people became ill

according to what they have
to pay for medical treatment!

They do, it will ruin the Exchequer,
and I intend Sir Reginald to know it.

Suppose you could bolt with a new man
every week and no questions asked.

- Ripping! Can I have this?
- No.

But the question is,
how long would it stay ripping

before you're simply yawning
to get back to your husband?

- How long?
- It's not a riddle, Sylvia.

- I'm asking.
- Mmm.

Well...
It would have to be weekends only.

One would still need a home,
a husband for show midweek,

and a place to store one's maid.
I couldn't do without Hullo Central.

Mrs Tietjens is not at home.

Oh, but she...

- Sylvia, you are such a rotter.
- Well, I'm not dressed for a picnic.

Anyway, I've realised there's no point in a fling
if one's husband doesn't notice.

- I'd go!
- It's no use, Potty loves me!

He wants me to leave Christopher
and go abroad with him.

Oh, I'd like to shake him!

- Who?
- My husband, of course.

Shake some reaction
out of that great lump!

Do you happen to have a cigarette?

Yes, of course.

Thank you.

Now look here,
don't be obtuse, Tietjens.

Dammit, man, is the department's duty
to support Waterhouse

and make his case to the house.
Do you understand?

Minister has to show the figures
for the insurance bill will balance.

Well, they won't. And I should have thought
it was this department's duty to tell him so.

Tietjens, you're the cleverest young
man in London, Macmaster says,

and I'm inclined to believe him.

But he and I,
with our blunt instruments,

have managed to grasp
something that you cannot.

- Why thank you, Sir Reginald.
- Which is...

that if they don't get what they
require from you, they'll put some

competition-wallah head clerk on it
and take our credit from us.

I simply wish you to be
aware of the fact...

there's no difficulty in adjusting
the calculations to produce

a more congenial result.

I can let Macmaster have it
in the hour and 10 minutes remaining

but I insist on his taking
credit for it.

Good man.

Votes for women!

It's him, it's Waterhouse!

What the devil is going on here?

- Keep moving, sir.
- Excuse me.

This way, please.

We came through without a scratch.
Thanks, Bertram.

My fault for inviting a liberal.
Christmas spirit, you know?

Will you be going on to Diana's?

- Merry Christmas, Victoria.
- Merry Christmas...

- Christopher! There you are at last.
- Yeah, sorry.

- You look lovely.
- You look like thunder.

You didn't mind that
I let Potty bring me ahead.

No, of course not.

- Will you dance?
- I would if that were dancing.

Will you save me one
when there's a tune?

- You're a writer?
- Ah, yes, a little of the critic.

- My book on Rosetti will be appearing...
- Macmaster.

- How rude!
- That fellow over there with Sandbach.

He's the Right Honourable
Stephen Waterhouse.

He's the swine that made us
fake that schedule at the office.

- I'm going to have a word with him.
- For God's sake, Chrissie!

Those suffragettes, I would have
whipped till they bled.

Spank them, that's what I say.

What have we come to

when a government minister can't go
anywhere without a policeman?

Perhaps if the Prime Minister
had kept his promise to address

the women's concerns after
the summer recess...

- Christian, my dear fellow...
- The women would keep their promise to stop protesting,

- while the police had their hands full with the coronation.
- Give the PM a chit.

Quite right. Tietjens, hark to my
brother-in-law, the general.

Tietjens. Oh, you must be the genius.
Allow me to thank you.

We couldn't have got the insurance
bill before the house

till the next session
without your figures.

You're taking the credit
from Macmaster.

Oh, no, we know who to thank.
Sir Reginald let it out.

Macmaster?
He the fellow you brought with you?

Who are his people?

His father was a shipping
clerk in Edinburgh.

Well!

- Was he angry with me?
- Angry with his wife, I expect. We got the brunt.

- No! No, Potty.
- Yes.

Don't call me Potty.

But it suits you.

Will you come away with me?

Well, I might... one day.

Sylvia has gone off
with that fellow...

Perowne.

I'm letting Lowndes Street,
and warehousing the furniture.

I'm taking Michael
to my sister, Effie,

she's married to a vicar who has
one of our livings.

Marchant will go with him.

- So you'll be wanting your old rooms?
- Mm-hm.

One...

two...

Three...

Your aunt Effie.

Five... six...

Walk on.

Trott on.

Poor child, living like
an orphan with his aunt Effie.

Bear up, old girl. You'll
be near at hand now for Michael.

Your wife has shamed you both.

All of us.

You'll divorce?

No, only a blagger
would submit his wife to that.

Mrs Satterthwaite established
herself at a German spa,

so that it may be said that Sylvia
has gone abroad to nurse her.

The mother's a bitch
but a sensible one.

The motor-plough didn't serve.

It's all coming.

He's someone called Thurston,
I met him somewhere. He won't gossip.

I don't care if he does.

- Well, thank you very much.
- What does it matter? Now or later.

We're not going to hide for ever.

- Well, that's the thing, Potty.
- What thing?

It's not for ever.

Yes, it is.

- I hope you're not going to behave badly.
- About what?

About my going back,
before it's too late.

Oh, no, you're not.
What are you talking about?

- I miss my husband.
- No, you don't!

- You call him... a great lump of wood.
- Oh, he is.

I often want to kill him just to see
if there's any blood in him.

I'm permanently angry with him.

But he's spoiled me for any other
decently groomed man in London.

He knows everything about everything.

That's the difference between being
with a grown man

and trying to entertain a schoolboy.

But you love me.

Don't you?

Er... I overlooked you.

Your dullness, and not knowing French
and drinking too much or too little

and oh, I don't know, everything really,
from being all over me

the moment we were on the train
to sulking if I'm not all over you.

Especially that side of things.

Which became like reading a book
you've read before.

Why can't one get a man to go away
with one and be just... light comedy?

I say, you're not going to kill yourself,
I hope, Potty.

I want you to swear on your
St Anthony that you won't leave me.

- I'll do no such thing.
- Then I'll kill you if you try.

The French understand these things.

These hotels one has been staying in,
the notepaper is simply shaming.

A weekend on the golf links
might do me some good,

hobnobbing with our masters.

I will change into my golfing togs
when we get to our digs.

One never knows who might
be on the train.

Mr Sandbach MP,
going down to his constituency...

Ah!

The proofs of my monograph.

Sylvia asks me to take her back.

She's joined her mother in Germany.

- Will you take her back?
- I imagine so.

There's the child to consider.

Marchant says he's...

beginning to talk like a farmer's
boy already.

Well, I shan't have a house again.

There's a certain discredit attaches
to itself to a cuckold, quite properly.

Anything beyond a flat looks like
impudence in a man

who can't keep his wife.

I wish you'd divorce her.
Drag her through the mud.

For a gentleman,
there's such a thing as...

- Call it parade.
- And if you met someone you want to marry?

It would change nothing.
I stand for monogamy.

- You...
- Aye, monogamy and chastity.

And for not talking about it.

"Better far tho hearts may break
Bid farewell for aye!

"Lest thy sad eyes meeting mine
Tempt my soul away."

That's great poetry.

That's your obese poet painter
talking about it in language

like congealed bacon fat.

- You have a way of putting things.
- No, I haven't.

If I had, it would make it better for me.
Here.

"Accept resumption yoke on condition
child stay with sister Effie and Anglican.

"Wire if acceptable."

I for one am sorry.

- She must have a way of putting things.
- She has.

"I am now ready to return to you,
if I can keep Hullo Central,

"there being no-one else
I can bear to have near me,

"when I have retired for the night."
That's all.

She should be the consort of the...
I don't know,

of the Viceroy of India.

We'll get in a round of golf today.

Tomorrow a breakfasting with the
rector who'd helped me with my book.

But of course he did.

You mean the Reverend Duchemin who hosted
those famous breakfasts at Cambridge?

He's no longer at Cambridge.
He has a rectory near Rye.

Oh.

Lady Claudine says come and pick a
bone at Mountby. You too, Macmaster.

Thank you, I won't.
Macmaster would be delighted.

You're the great Macmaster?

That's very good of you to say,
Mr Sandbach.

- The caddie heard tell.
- Plus one at North Berwick.

Oh, good God.
Is that Waterhouse up ahead?

Mm.

Hm!

Get Chrissie back to Sylvia
as quick as you can.

Believe me, Sylvia is a splendid girl.
Straight as a die.

Takes her fences clean.

Chrissie must have been
running after the skirts.

- No?
- No.

- I dare say a little... No?
- No!

It will be resented.

Half the houses in London would be
closed to him, so do what you can.

Hooked it.

I loathe this game.

Why do you play, then?

Macmaster has no-one else.

Votes for women!

- Oi! Come here, you!
- Votes for women!

Is it our blood you want
before you give in?

Stop! Stop! Stop where you are!

Votes for women! Votes for women!
Run, Gertie!

By jove! Miss Wannop!

Suffragettes.

Get off!

You're under arrest!

Valentine!

I say, sorry to spoil your shot.

Go and see that they don't hurt Gertie.
I've lost her.

You've been demonstrating.

Well, of course, we have, but you
won't see a girl be manhandled.

There looked to be some beasts
among them - a regular rat-hunt -

and Gertie can't run.

You cut away, then.
I'll look after Gertie.

- No, I'll come with you.
- Clear out, unless you want to go to gaol.

- Tally-ho!
- Help!

Run!

Strip the bitch naked!
Strip the bitch!

- Stark naked!
- Stop!

Stop! Stop! Stop!

You couldn't have done more,
Officer.

I expect you're a bit shaken.

Anybody would be.

Thank you, sir.

Run, Gertie!

We've got them! We've got them!

You'll have to go round
by Camber railway bridge!

Idiot!

I refuse to play with you.

In fact, I've a good mind to issue a warrant
for your arrest, for obstructing justice.

You can't. You're not a borough magistrate.
Look it up.

Chrissie, you are the bloody limit!

The bobby didn't want to arrest the girls.
He was yearning not to.

Was that girl your... a friend of yours?
Had you arranged it with her?

If it was the Wannop girl -
if the woman that's come between you

and Sylvia, dammit,
is our little suffragette...

- Good God!
- Put her back, Chrissie.

I give you my word.

They say they're all whores.

I beg your pardon,
if you like the Wannop girl.

Her father was a great friend
of your father's.

Of course, I remember...
Professor Wannop, the classicist.

He didn't leave a farthing
and there's a son at Eton.

The widow and daughter
have a deuced hard row to hoe.

I know Claudine takes them all the peaches
she can cadge out of Paul's gardener.

Perhaps you feel sorry for her,
is that it?

I think that's enough confusion
to be going on with.

But you should know Mrs Satterthwaite
is much recovered at her German spa

and I'm expecting to go over in a day or two
to bring Sylvia and her mother home.

Good boy!

Kiss her fingertips for me.
She's the real thing, you lucky beggar.

The littleness of it...

our drawing-room comedy
of sex-obsession!

When the war comes,
it'll blow right through it, thank God!

War is impossible,

at any rate with this country in it.

Is that what they said
at your dinner with the Tories?

In two years, round about
grouse-shooting time,

there'll be a European war,
with Britain plumb in the middle of it.

Ah, the Tietjens exactitude!

- Where's your evidence?
- In the office.

It's late.

We're expected
at the Duchemin's breakfast -

if you haven't been arrested.

I gave the policeman a £5 note from
that swine of a Cabinet Minister,

though I shouldn't call him that,
he gave me dinner.

Besides which, he's a decent fellow.

So it's hands off the Wannop girl.

The fair one -
Miss Valentine Wannop,

holder of the quarter-mile,
half-mile,

high jump and long jump records
for East Sussex,

and housemaid-typewriter
for her mother, the novelist.

The other one's not local,
probably London.

Never underestimate
the Sussex constabulary.

Oh, and it is generally believed that
Miss Wannop and I are in cahoots, if not worse.

Why do you look like that?

Because I'm waiting for my wife
to wire me to fetch her home.

And this is what I look like.

There are times when a woman hates a man,
even a very good man,

as my husband was.

I have walked behind a man's back
and nearly screamed with

the desire to sink my nails
into the veins of his neck.

And Sylvia's got it worse than I.

If the woman, as the Church directs,
would have children and live decent.

- But Sylvia's had a child.
- Whose?!

- That blaggard Drake's, wasn't it?
- It was probably Drake's.

I am here, you know!

I am done with men.

Think of all the ruin
that child has meant for me.

And Christopher's
perfectly soppy about it.

You don't deserve your husband,
anyway.

I can't imagine
why he sent that telegram.

Resume yoke, indeed!

He sent it out of lordly, dull, full-dress
consideration that drives me distracted.

He couldn't write me a letter, because he'd
have to put "Dear Sylvia" - and I'm not.

He's that precise sort of imbecile.

I'll settle down by his side
and I'll be chaste.

I've made up my mind to it.
I'll be bored stiff for the rest of my life,

except for one thing - I can torment that man
and I'll do it, for all the times he's tormented me.

I've come from Normandy
without sleep, you see.

Oh! I'll tell them downstairs
to simply telegraph Christopher,

"Righto".

I'll send the Reverend Duchemin
a signed copy of my book.

His word still carries weight.

Of course, sucking up to Duchemin was always
the price for kedgeree and poached eggs!

Welcome! Welcome!

I'm the curate here!

Oh, Good Lord.

Thank you, thank you!

Ups-a-daisy. My name's Horsley.

- Macmaster.
- Where did you get this job lot?

Gosh, don't you know you've got a 13 hands
pony harness on a 16 and a half hands horse?

Let the bit out three holes.
It's tearing the animal's tongue in half.

I'm not sure it's playing the game,
Valentine, asking you to be here.

If your mother knew...

Mother wanted to come with me when
I told her it was to meet a critic,

but I got away in the carriage.

That's perfect.
Nobody will even see your husband.

I've told Duchemin's keeper
to keep him out till a quarter past.

I've set a place for your Gertie,
but never mind.

We've got the old curate's sister staying with us,
Miss Fox, and she's stone deaf!

An empty chair next to her
makes no difference.

This way!

The ladies will be in here!
We arrived together! He-he!

Miss... Good morning. I'm Macmaster.

We're living in a state of siege, ladies.
Tee-hee!

It's so good of you to come.

Pleasure, thank you for having me.
Christopher Tietjens.

A pleasure indeed and you must be
the famous Vincent Macmaster.

- Mr Sandbach MP and half a dozen...
- A pleasure, ma'am.

- I'm Edith Duchemin and this is Miss Wannop!
- Ah, Miss Wannop!

And armed with loaded canes...

Gentlemen, you must be tired from your journey.
Allow me to show you to your seats.

- Scouring the country lanes, tee-hee!
- Thank you.

- You are here Mr Tietjens, I thought.
- Thank you.

And here, for you, Mr Macmaster.
And I next to you!

Drink had been taken!

If you are hungry, there's...
Well, I hope you'll find something to your liking.

- Thank you.
- Is said to have egged them on.

He's putting up at Lady Claudine's
for Royal duties at Dover.

- Campion is taking the escort...
- I must thank you for yesterday.

The Buffs' colours on the altar
of St Peter's tomorrow morning.

Ah, Mrs Wannop, what a pleasant surprise!

- Mother?!
- Which is Mr Macmaster, the critic?

- Are you Mr Macmaster, the critic?
- I am Macmaster.

Oh, Mr Macmaster, my new book
is coming out on Tuesday...

Mother,
what have you done with Gertie?

She's lying low in the attic...
High, rather.

It will be of interest to you
to hear about my book.

To you journalists, a little
inside information is always...

I'm not a journalist!

- Well, a critic.
- I don't review books.-

- I'm not a critic in the sense of...
- Of course you are.

I write for
the critical quarterlies.

- Mr Macmaster...
- Oh, the critical quarterlies!

Mr Horsley, sit Mrs Wannop
next to you and feed her!

That is exactly what my book needs -
a good, long, deep...

- Ups-a-daisy.
- That's the Reverend's chair.

The critical quarterlies have shown
a deplorable lack of interest -

- serious interest...
- That's better.

- Would you allow me to help you to...?
- Oh, a little caviar. A peach!

I'm afraid I... I'm afraid I must...
You see, my husband...

I beg you, dear lady,
do not concern yourself.

I think this party's very badly arranged.
Very bad management.

Or perhaps not.
Sometimes you'd never know he was...

One understands.

Only to spend a fleeting hour
in these perfect surroundings.

You know the lines,
"As when the swallow

"gliding from lofty portal
to lofty portal,

"out of the dark and into the light
and out again into the dark"?

- Oh, yes! Yes! It takes a poet!
- I have a message for you, from Mr Waterhouse.

I told him I did not know you
and did not expect to see you.

He didn't believe me.

If it's to invite me for a chat,

I don't intend to place myself
in the way of his condescension.

No, not that. He wants you to know that
there are no charges against you.

Well, what about Gertie?

Gertie, too,
as far as yesterday is concerned,

but I'd get her out from your attic,
if she's on the run from the Metropolitan Police,

which she is.

Parry?

Good God, it's Parry,
the Bermondsey light-middleweight!

Mr Macmaster seems to know him, too.

He taught me to box at Cambridge.

Good morning... Doctor.

I- I'm not a doctor.

Yes... Yes.

The stethoscope packed in the hat
left in the hall.

And your friend? Another medical man?

It takes two doctors, of course,

to certify a lunatic. Ah, Parry.

Sole fillets - very good!
Kidneys to follow.

Very good, sir.

I am Macmaster.

We corresponded
and you invited me for breakfast.

Of course I did!

Macmaster, the budding critic!

And friend.

Macmaster and friend to breakfast!

Not medical men.

But you look tired.

Worn.

Worn out.

I detect the pallor of self-abuse.

Don't turn round.
Vincent Macmaster is quite capable.

Post coitum tristia.
Ah, the sorrows of spent semen!

Boys or girls, in your case?

Sir, your fish is getting cold!
I'll bring the kidneys!

If he'll eat a little - it brings
the blood down from the head.

Oh, forgive!

It's dreadful for you.

My dear lady, please don't worry,
it's what I'm for.

Oh, you good man.

Deprensum in puero tetricis me vocibus,
uxor, corripis et culum te quoque habere refers.

Of course! The daughter of Professor
Wannop would know her Latin!

I can stop this. Shall I?

Yes. Yes, anything!

Marcus Valerius Martialis,
book 11, epigram 43,

the lament of the wife
of a boy-buggerer -

"My dear, I have an arsehole too!"

Get him out - the way you beat
Kid Cantor at Hackney Baths!

I have often had to refer my wife
to Marcus 11, 43.

"Alas, my dear, with women, it's more
a case of having two cu..." Ugh!

You all right, sir?
It's time to write your sermon sir.

Ready? There we go.

Dearest lady, it's all over now.
I assure you.

Please forgive!
You can never respect me?

You're the bravest woman I know.

Goodbye!

This isn't the rig for you,
Mrs Wannop.

A pony and basketwork chaise,
that's the trap for ladies.

But she'll do well for
the work tonight.

Tonight?

Mr Tietjens means Gertie. Don't you?

Yes. Do you know somewhere Gertie
can wait it out?

They'll be watching
the trains at Ashford Junction.

- Oh, you'll help?
- I will not see you incommoded.

You've written the only
novel since the 18th century

I've not had to correct
in the margins.

Well!

But what shall we do with Gertie?

Bring her over, only don't pull
at her mouth, she'll come easy.

Oh, he is a beast! You don't know
when he's not talking about Gertie.

- I'll miss you, Gertie.
- See you in London.

She'll be all right.

You should know, Miss Wannop,
we are being talked about.

And that'll teach you not to speak
to strange men on golf courses.

It doesn't matter.
It really doesn't matter.

You'll live it down.

The only thing that matters
is to do good work.

It's true. I oughtn't to care what
those swines say about me,

but I do, and I care about
what they say about you.

Listen.

- A lark?
- Not that.

It was a nightingale.

"It was the lark, the herald
of the morn, no nightingale."

"Believe me, love,
it was the nightingale."

There! He sounds hoarse now.

Their song changes in June.

We're 13 miles from Brede,
six and a half miles from...

something like Uddlemere.

The lamp went out.

Ground fog.

And we are on the road to Uddlemere.

Do you mind telling me
if you know this road at all?

It's Udimore, not Uddlemere.

So it is the right road, then.

Go on!

Is it?

You wouldn't let the mare go on
another five steps if it wasn't.

- You're soft on her.
- Not as soft as you.

You're not so dreadfully ugly,
really.

Don't mind me, I'm...

I'm so happy.

The next crossroad
is Grandfather's Wantways.

An old gentleman used to sit there
called Gran'fer Finn.

Every Tenterden market day, he sold
fleed cakes from a basket to the carts going by.

Tenterden market
was abolished in 1845.

Done in by the repeal
of the Corn Laws.

Why do you suppose I make a
collection of obsolescent facts?

Because you do.

You make Toryism out of them.

I thought your type
were all in museums.

You want to be an English country
gentleman spinning

principles out of quaintness,
and letting the country go to hell.

You won't stir a finger except to say,
"I told you so."

Where are you?

I wish you'd make some noise.

♪ D'ye ken John Peel
with his coat so grey... ♪

♪ D'ye ken John Peel
at the break of day... ♪

What are you doing?

Trying the other side, I...

Where are you?

♪ D'ye ken John Peel far, far away... ♪

♪ With his hounds and his horn
in the morning... ♪

We're nearly home.

I found a milestone,
we're just above Mountby.

You can go on now.

Walk on.

The Mountby drive is 100 yards.
Just... pull to the left

or the horse will walk
straight up to the house.

And, look, the sun.

It's the beginning of the longest day,
the summer solstice.

Sistere and sol, because the sun
seems to stand still.

We got through the night.

Miss Wannop...

Damn Mountby.

My dear,
couldn't have lasted forever.

But you're a good man.

Very clever.

You'll make it through.

Whoa! Whoa!

Whoa, whoa.

Good girl.

She's cut badly, come quick.

Red stocking from
the flank downwards.

Take off your petticoat.

Tear it into strips.
We need it for bandages.

Jump the hedge.

I've seen you jump.

Damn you! Go away! I went past
to get you out of Claudine's sight.

- You'll have to pay for the horse.
- Why should I?

For not sounding your horn.

You drove right into my drive!
Besides,

- I did!
- No, you didn't!

What am I to tell my sister?
I believe she saw the girl.

Go away. Tell her what you like,
but you'll pay for her horse.

I'm damned if I will.

And send out the horse ambulance
when you go through Rye.

There's your sister getting out.

Nobody's dead.
Who was that with Tietjens?

Never you mind.
Get in the car, we'll be late.

Why did you try to quarrel
with the general?

You need a quarrel with him,

it'll account for Lady Claudine
spreading slander.

You think of everything

when most men wouldn't be
able to think at all.

Tell me about Groby.

It's older than Protestantism...

And Groby Great Tree is the symbol
of the Yorkshire Tietjens.

It's a big cedar.

The crown darkens our topmost windows,
and the roots undermine our foundations.

So one of them will have to go.

House or tree, one day.

If I ever take you there...

My dear...

You'll never take me to Groby.

It's the postmaster's boy.

And he can take you home.

It's been perhaps
a short acquaintance,

but I think you're
the splendidest...

Whoa! Whoa! You, there.

You, stop there.

Good morning, Jimmy.

Morning, Miss Wannop.
I was just on my way to your cottage.

There's a telegram re-directed care of Wannop.
It must be Macmaster.

You're to take Miss Wannop home.

She's her mother's breakfast
to see to.

Go on.

Damn near forty miles in one night.

You've lost a lot of blood.

I let you down, old girl, didn't I?

Oh, that's my first suffragette.

I know what it is that makes a man

want to go away
with a woman he likes.

Oh, go away,
if you can't bear to look.

But that desire

must be resisted.

Don't touch me now
when it's too late.

You have something to live for.

- Don't you want to be a man of influence?
- No.

I'd prefer to be in the trenches.