![]() ![]() The Line of the Episode: “And, Mary? Could you ask your father to sleep in the dressing room tonight?” -Lady Cora to her eldest daughter. Crawley the Younger? Edith, may we suggest your first column be about the marital travails of first-born daughters more interested in pleasing their fathers than husbands? Who’s the one with ice in her veins here-Sybil’s powder-blue corpse or Mrs. The Edith, Love Yourself Index: She’s writing a new weekly lady column for Post-Edwardian Cosmo! But poor Edith has a heartbreaking setback when, at Sybil’s bedside before the coroners arrive, she asks Mary whether this event will bring them closer-the two remaining Crawley girls. It’s a problem our dear, departed Lady Sybil never had. Maybe it’s his inability to ever-just once?-wear the pants. Perhaps Matthew’s problem isn’t stopped-up valves and rusted-over equipment, or even his wet-blanket principles. Murray nods greedily, but Mary-who barges in to break up this chat on the day of Sybil’s funeral-sternly rebukes them both. “There’s ducats in them there Yorkshire hills,” Matthew tells Murray, the pair surveying the grounds through a picture window. The two hatch a detailed business plan for the impending Downton Vineyard and Wine-Tasting Pavilion, with a petting zoo and gothic-spired Moon Bounce out back for the kiddies. Things get worse for him when, the next morning, Murray arrives to talk about suicide-pie baking tips with Anna, and happens upon the younger Mr. With that he’s off to have a cigar and some brandy. Anxiety is an enemy to pregnancy,” he says to Matthew. “May I point out the word that gives you away? Anxious. Lord Grantham refuses to risk Sybil’s welfare “to soothe Clarkson’s feelings,” so he’s hired a celebrity-but Cora, more forgiving of Clarkson’s checkered past with accurate diagnoses, requires that the country doctor be on hand to observe.Īfter listening to Matthew’s tales of kinked hoses, the good doc says the only thing preventing baby Crawleys is a furrowed brow. Sir Philip is Pippa and Kate’s doctor, you see, and he has a daytime talk show. Clarkson isn’t up to the job, and instead summons Sir Philip Tapsell from London. Nevertheless! Seeing Sybil’s sweat-matted coiffure and shuddering at such “medical details,” Lord Grantham decides that Dr. Clarkson invents resurrection by cinnamon with warm milk) had shown her a little closer to her sublime reality. And even though we know she’s supposed to be knocking on death’s door, we wish these final scenes (we think? Unless Dr. ![]() As we can tell you, former Vanities girl Jessica Brown Findlay is a goddess. Patches are soaked with pregnancy sweat, to show us she’s really suffering. Sybil has, on her head, what we can only describe as the Gene Shalit-a variation on the Elaine, but shorn to chin-length, and fanning out from behind her ears like cocker-spaniel tendrils. Things bode ill for the fairest Maid Crawley when she first appears on-screen. And so no moment of this show, to us, has been as moving as Lady Cora, kneeling by Sybil’s bedside to bid a final farewell to her dead daughter-“my baby.” We will not only miss the warmest screen presence of the bunch, but right now, we cannot imagine where the show will go without her. ![]() No one was so adored by the upstairs set, the downstairs set, and the audience as Lady Sybil- lover of pants and be-jumpsuited men, believer in feminism and baking lessons, possessor of the huskiest, sexiest voice on television. It’s with a heavy heart-with heavy, lead-filled fingers-that we type this week’s recap. ![]()
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