Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Early August, 1926

Thump, thump.

            Thump, thump.  

                        Thump, thump.

The little sound is slow, but rhythmic. Soft, but getting just slightly louder with each step. This is because the sound belongs to someone coming down the stairs. And there is something irregular about the someone’s gait. Also, it’s only just half past five in the morning. Daisy wouldn’t be here so early herself, only it’s bread day, and she had to get the loaves in the oven in time for both breakfasts.

She makes herself completely still, listens, and waits for whomever it is to enter the kitchen.

When the person turns out to be Lady Mary, preceded by her swollen belly, and wrapped in a silk dressing gown, Daisy’s eyes widen further than she would have expected possible at this time in the morning. What in Heaven’s name…?

“Good morning,” Lady Mary says, stifling a yawn. Daisy’s eyes dart about the room. She tries to keep herself from panicking.

“Good… morning, milady,” Daisy says, trying not to allow her remark to sound like a question.

Finally Lady Mary smiles. She even laughs a little. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Daisy. I know you have so much to do, but I couldn’t sleep. I don’t think I’ve had a wink all night. And your bread smelled so wonderful. I didn’t see that I could wait until eight o’clock to have some.”

“Milady?” Daisy says, thoroughly flummoxed.

“You are baking bread, aren’t you?” Mary asks.

Though the answer to this question is rather simple, Daisy can’t think what to say. Mary smiles at her again. “Didn’t you know that your sense of smell is heightened when you’re pregnant?”

Daisy can feel herself blush, and she looks down at the counter. “No, milady, I’m… a bit inexperienced in that… area.”

Lady Mary drops her shoulders, and her eyebrows, and sits on one of the stools opposite Daisy. For some reason Daisy feels that she has been rude not asking her lady to sit, but then recalls that none of the chairs in this house belong to her, and she really has no right. Also, watching a woman in this stage of pregnancy climb upon a three-foot stool is a sight to behold. Lady Mary’s usual elegance disappears for a second or two, as she hefts herself up and then downward. She scrunches her nose, grunts ever so softly, and finally relaxes. She gives Daisy a winning smile. All is as it should be again.

“Of course you are,” the dignified lady says, not unkindly, and it takes Daisy a second to recall what they were talking about. Oh, yes. Pregnancy, and the subsequent ability to smell bread baking from two floors up and a hundred yards away.

Suddenly curiosity wells in Daisy again, and she longs to ask the more experienced woman everything. But she couldn’t possibly. Although, if Lady Mary were to offer more information…

“Would you like some bread, milady?” she asks. “I could toast some for you, if you like.”

“Oh, no, I’ll have it fresh, please,” Mary answers. “And… could I beg a cup of tea as well?”

Daisy smiles. Imagine Lady Mary begging for anything.

“Certainly, milady,” she answers, and busies herself with making her lady some breakfast.

Daisy puts the kettle on, then finds a knife and cuts into one of the fresh loaves, just out of the oven. It is still a bit hot for cutting, and Daisy is careful to cut slowly, so the slice won’t be mashed. She puts it on a little white plate, then sets it down in front of Lady Mary. Mary picks it up delicately, but then takes a giant and unladylike bite. With her eyes closed, and her mouth full, she says, “Mmm, delicious. Just what I wanted.”

Daisy tries not to look too pleased with herself, but is unable to hide her smile. “Thank you, milady,” she says softly.

Lady Mary continues. “Your tastes change as well, when you’re pregnant. Everything is either rancid, or absolute heaven.”

“Do they?” Daisy asks. She is sure she is risking impertinence, but hopes the conversation will continue.

Lady Mary tilts her head slightly, and considers the assistant cook turned scholar before her. Her words are careful and considerate when she says, “You and Andrew have recently married. Do you… plan to have children one day?”

Oh, God. Even Mrs. Patmore hasn’t asked her this. Daisy has wanted to ask Anna some things, but somehow the right moment has never come. Not how one gets children, she knows that already… but what it feels like to… grow them. To want them, and choose to make them.

Daisy looks back at her employer. Is it safe to answer? She recalls briefly that she has done more to risk her employment in this house, rather recently, than attempt to discuss gravidity with her betters. So she says, “I think so, milady. But not just yet.” Lady Mary sits silently. Is she waiting for more? “When I think of myself, years from now, I have children, but… it’s a bit of a mystery to me. I spent my entire childhood around other children, just… I haven’t spent much time with… mothers.”

Lady Mary’s eyes soften. “I see,” she says. “Where did you grow up, Daisy?”

“Near Leeds,” the younger woman says. This answer usually suffices when she is asked this question. But this is not what Lady Mary means. “In a home,” she says guilelessly. “You know… a home for children like me.” Before Lady Mary can pity her, she continues rather quickly. “We didn’t have parents, but it weren’t like it is in novels. We were raised mostly by nuns. And they were kind, mostly. Sometimes I think they even loved us. They certainly cared about how we turned out. I wouldn’t have ended up working in a fine house like this if it weren’t for them, that’s sure. We just…” Now her ramble trails off. She’s never said this to anyone before. But she’s come this far. “We just weren’t theirs. That’s all.”

The kettle is beginning to scream now. Daisy gives a perfunctory, tight-lipped smile, then turns to the stove. She pours the water into the teapot, then brings it to the counter for Lady Mary. She fetches a teacup, and spoon, and saucer, and all these she places in front of her, too. She busies herself with cutting another slice of bread, and refilling Lady Mary’s plate as well. Then she carefully strains the tea into the teacup.

“Do you take milk or sugar, milady?” It is not lost on Daisy that she has never in her life watched Lady Mary consume a cup of tea.

“Milk, please,” Mary answers, with a polite smile.

Daisy fetches the milk from the refrigerator, and pours a bit from the bottle into a little creamer. She sets it down carefully on the counter, next to the tea things, so Lady Mary can pour as much or as little as she likes into her tea. Then she resumes her place across the counter.

Lady Mary eats and sips in silence for a few moments more. She does not embarrass Daisy by asking her to have tea or bread with her. When she is nearly finished, she looks directly into the younger woman’s eyes, and says, “I think you’re going to make a wonderful mother, Daisy. Whenever you want to be one.” She shakes her head just a little, and continues. “The funny thing is, you don’t have to have seen it done to do it well. At least I hope so,” and her voice becomes softer. Lady Mary looks down, clears her throat, and may be about to say something more, but suddenly Mr. Barrow is standing in the kitchen, too, dressed for work, and looking rather horrified. His double take at the scene before him actually moves a small lock of his hair out of place.

“Good—morning!” he says, rather robustly, and Daisy wonders what verbiage he had almost uttered after the word ‘good.’ Luckily, he caught himself in time, and he and Daisy both still have their jobs.

Daisy turns her gaze to the butler’s face, and attempts to appear casual, possibly (precisely) because it will annoy him. “Good morning, Mr. Barrow,” she says cheerfully.

“Daisy,” he answers, clearly resisting the urge to grind his teeth. Then he turns to Lady Mary. “Milady, is there… anything I can help you with?”

Lady Mary smiles now, and answers, “No, Barrow, that’s quite alright. Daisy and I were just talking.” She turns slightly on her stool, then changes her mind. “Actually, Barrow, if you don’t mind,” and she reaches out for him. He is at her side in a single step, and offers her his hand. With his help, she is somehow able to alight the ground without losing any grace whatever, as she had when she got up. Daisy notes that Lady Mary leaves her hand in Mr. Barrow’s for possibly a second longer than is necessary, but then collects herself, and smiles at her butler. “Thank you,” she says sincerely.

“Will that be all, milady?” Thomas asks, his voice suddenly soft.

There is the slightest hitch in Lady Mary’s voice, and then she says, “Yes, thank you.” Then she turns to Daisy again. “Thank you for breakfast,” she says, her brown eyes shining slightly. “It was just what I needed.” Then she walks out of the kitchen, and back up the stairs.

When she is gone, Thomas turns to the assistant cook, his eyes wide again. “Daisy, what on earth?” he asks.

She smiles, and shakes her head. “I’ll tell you later,” is all she says, and then opens the oven, to pull out more fresh bread.

Chapter Text

Friday, June 19, 1925

“Well, now that’s settled, I’ll have to ring for Anna. Just here, isn’t it?” Granny asks, and moves toward the cord next to Mary’s bed.

Mary finishes drying her eyes, and takes a second to make sure she has heard her grandmother correctly. “Ring for Anna?” she asks. “Whatever for?”

Granny pulls the cord, and turns back to her heartbroken granddaughter. She nearly winks, Mary is sure of it. Then she says, “I find myself in need of a cup of tea.”

***

Anna is summoned, the request of tea is made, and the lady’s maid dutifully goes downstairs to grant the dowager’s request. When she returns to Mary’s bedroom with a steaming cup, she presents it with what is clearly a very practiced look of calm on her face.

“Thank you, Anna, but you’ll need to carry it. Don’t worry, it’s only a few more flights up.”

“Flights up, milady?” Anna asks. Mary can see her maid is desperately trying to maintain a sense of decorum, but she is caught in a losing battle.

Finally Mary intervenes. “Now, Granny, you really must tell us what this is all about, or Anna will begin to think you’ve lost your marbles.”

Anna is clearly relieved that Mary said something before she must have. The dowager sighs. Then she speaks slowly and clearly, as if to silly little children. “Barrow. The tea is for Barrow. I understand he is…” She clears her throat. “Ill.”

Mary and Anna exchange a glance. “Milady…” Anna begins, but trails off.

“Granny, he is… I saw him this morning, and he is really very ill. I don’t think now is the time.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s the time. Now, come with me, Anna. We don’t want that cup getting cold.”

***

The dowager is quite out of breath when they reach the attics. Anna is more than a little concerned for Her Ladyship’s wellbeing, but she is also trying to find any excuse to prolong the inevitable. She had seen Thomas herself yesterday, and knows he is not well. She had heard that he had woken for the first time sometime in the night, but he is still confined to his bed, and needs someone with him all the time. If only she could make Her Ladyship understand, without speaking out of turn.

“Do you need a rest, milady?” she asks. “I’m sure it’s… quite a long time since you’ve been up here.”

The elderly woman turns to her. “A long time?” she asks, nearly scoffing. “I’ve never been up here. There was a time when people used to give their servants privacy.”

Anna can’t stop her eyes from widening. Is it possible that the dowager herself is going to be the one to pull a chink from the wall this time?

“Hmph,” Her Ladyship says, and strikes forward again, looking for the door with Mr. Barrow’s name on it. When she finds it, she raps on it with her walking stick. Anna stands dutifully behind her, holding the ridiculous cup of tea. When no one answers the door, Her Ladyship opens it herself, but remains on the threshold. “Oh,” she says. “Oh my.”

Anna peers around her, and can see Thomas lying in his bed. Miss Baxter is sitting on a chair next to him, dabbing his brow with a white cloth. Thomas’ eyes are closed, but he seems restless. He turns his face toward the woman caring for him, and lets out a heavy breath. Miss Baxter frowns, then looks to her right. She does not startle, but her eyes somehow become more exhausted than they have been for the last twenty-four hours. She ought to stand immediately, but instead she turns back to Thomas, and draws his blankets up, so they cover his bandaged wrists. Then she stands and faces the dowager, still in the doorway.

“Milady,” she says flatly. “Can I help you?”

Her Ladyship’s eyes dart from her daughter-in-law’s maid to the man in the bed, then back again. “No,” she says, rather quietly. She clears her throat. “No, I… I apologize. I’ve come at the wrong time. Do give Barrow my… well wishes.” Then she turns, and pushes past Anna to the stairs.

Anna gives Miss Baxter a sorrowful look, and at first, she can’t think what to say. Then she steps into the room, and hands the cup to Miss Baxter. “Here,” she says. “You take this. You look as though you might want it.”

***

Tuesday, July 28, 1925

Thomas is only a little surprised when the car pulls to a stop in front of the dower house. What now? Lady Mary had all but packed him off herself this afternoon, and wouldn’t offer even an explanation of where he was going. If he had the energy, he might admire the way she’d played her cards. But he is tired today.

He opens the car door himself, climbs out, and squints into the sun that shines on the house. Then the car drives away. How long is he expected to be here, he wonders. And what is he supposed to do now—just knock on the front door? While he is puzzling this one out, the door opens, and there is Spratt. Perfect. They are expecting him.

So he warily climbs the steps, then pauses. He ought to at least wait to be asked in, if he is to walk through the front door of this house.

“This way, Mr. Barrow,” Spratt says, slowly and evenly. He gestures to the entrance hall, and Thomas goes where he is directed. Suddenly Spratt is behind him, grasping the shoulders of his coat. He wishes he could keep it on. Even in the height of summer, he can’t seem to shake the chill that has followed him everywhere for weeks. But he sheds his coat, as expected, and hands over his hat, too. Then he is ushered into the drawing room.

The old lady is at her writing desk, and looks up at him and smiles when he enters the room. She removes her spectacles, and sets them upon the desk. He wonders what she wants.

“Do bring the tea now, Spratt,” she says to her butler. The man nods, and is off. Then she turns her attention again to her guest. “Barrow,” she says. “How are you faring?”

Is this a greeting, or a question? He decides to err on the side of propriety. “I’m well, milady,” he answers, and looks down. He wishes he still had his hat in his hands, for something to hold onto.

The dowager says something next, but he can’t have heard correctly. It sounds like, “Do sit down.”

“Milady?” he asks.

She raises her eyebrows. “I said, do sit down. The tea will be here in a minute.”

Good Lord.

“The tea, milady?” What, does she need two butlers now? Or is she pitying him? “Do you… want me to serve your tea, milady?”

Now she sighs. “No, Barrow. I want you to sit down, and take a cup with me.” When he only stares back at her, she finishes, “I owe you a cup of tea.”

Now this is interesting. “Do you?” he asks, weakly.

“Yes,” she says. “Now sit. Please don’t make me ask you again.”

A part of him is curious to see what would happen if a lady such as she had to ask anyone four times to do anything. But this is the Dowager Countess of Grantham, and even Thomas has some notion of what’s good for him. So he sits.

Spratt brings in a tray, and sets it atop a small table. Thomas nearly has to sit on his hands to avoid the urge to begin serving. He also has to make a great effort not to allow his mouth to hang open, watching this lady rise from her desk, approach the little table, and pour a cup first for him, then for herself. She even slices a small lemon cake, and offers him a piece. It does smell wonderful… He accepts milk when she offers it, but declines the sugar. She sits in the chair nearest him, and then he dares to take a sip. He looks at her over the rim of his cup, and sees that she is eying him expectantly. So he returns his cup to its saucer, and says, “Thank you, milady, it’s delicious.” He swallows. “Is there… something I can do for you?”

Now she truly surprises him. For she smiles, but a tear escapes her eye, and falls down her cheek to her chin. She sniffs, but does not wipe the tear away. She straightens herself, and says softly, “No. No, my dear boy, there is nothing you need to do for me.”

Thomas goes completely still. He knows he should look away, but finds that he can’t. “Oh,” he says. “Then why…?”

She clears her throat. “I’ve asked you here to find out what I can do for you.”

“Milady?”

Her voice is steady now, but low. “If I am not mistaken, you are in need of employment. Is that correct?”

Oh.

He looks down now. “Yes, milady,” he whispers. “Only… His Lordship has been very kind. He said I can stay until… until I find something suitable.”

“Yes, I know that,” she answers frankly. He looks at her again. How does she know? She takes a sip of her tea, then continues, “Has your search been at all successful?”

Thomas bites the inside of his cheek for a second. He certainly wouldn’t be sitting here now if it had. “Well… not really. It’s difficult for many reasons, milady.” Could she possibly understand any of them? That the industry itself is dying, that everyone is downsizing, meaning there are fewer jobs for more people, all over the country. Not to mention that he is a man with a secret, a terrible one, that could send him to prison. He has to find a place to work that is suitable, yes, but also safe. And he continues to wonder even now if such a place exists.

He looks at her face, and wills his eyes to stay dry. “I am trying, milady. I promise I am.”

“I know you’re trying, Barrow,” she says in earnest. “What have you tried recently?”

“Well,” he begins. “Most recently I’ve answered an advertisement for the position of butler to a Sir Mark and Lady Stiles, over in…” he stops when the dowager’s expression changes. She seems suddenly exasperated.

“Heavens,” she says. “Has Henrietta gone through another butler?”

“’Gone through,’ milady?” Then he begins to understand. “What—does she sack them one after the other?” Clearly his latest pursuit is going to be another dead end.

“No, my dear, she outlives them. Her impudence is truly disgraceful at this point.”

“She—what?” he stammers.

“Really, she must be one hundred and twenty years old by now. I think that’s her fourth butler.” The old lady shakes her head now, clearly dismayed at her peer’s longevity. She looks at him again, and takes another sip. “But…what can we do?” she asks.

Again, he wonders if this is a legitimate question. “I’m… sure I don’t know, milady.” He takes another sip of his tea. It really does taste splendid.

Now she gives him a delicate smile. “I’ll put in a word for you.”

“I—beg your pardon, milady?”

“With Henrietta. Lady Stiles, I mean. I’ll write to her presently. Tell her she ought to take you on. She’ll listen to me.”

“She will?” he asks.

“Of course,” she says. If he is not mistaken, she seems a little annoyed. Then her expression changes again. She puts her cup in its saucer, and she raises her hand for just a second. He is sure she is going to put her hand on his, but then she thinks better of it, and places both hands in her lap. She looks at the tea things, and says, “I will of course write to Lady Stiles for you. And in return, I want you to make me a promise.”

A promise? “I will, of course, milady, if I can,” he answers.

She nods. “The promise is this,” she says, still not looking directly at him. “If you are ever in need of help, ever again. I want you to ask for it.”

He cannot think what to say. She continues. “I would like to tell you that you can ask me, directly, for whatever you might need. But you and I both know that that is not how this world works.”

“No, milady,” he whispers.

“No,” she repeats. “But there are those you can ask. I am quite sure some of them are employed in my son’s house. Is that correct, in your understanding? Do you know of anyone who would help you, if you needed it?”

“Yes, milady.”

“How many?” she asks, and he wills himself to look up. She is looking into his eyes now, too.

How many? He hadn’t quite considered this before. He does a quick count. “Four,” he says. “Maybe five.”

She seems satisfied with this. “Five,” she repeats, then nods. “That’s not altogether shabby.”

He can’t help but smile now. “No,” he says. “No, it’s not.”

“There are far more than that who want you to be well,” she says. “I hope you can see that now.”

He nods, and finds that his smile does not wish to fade. So he allows it to stay. He takes another sip of his tea, and it warms him just a little, from the inside.

The dowager leans toward him, and says, “Now, let’s not let this cake go to waste. And I’ll tell you all you need to know about Lady Stiles.”

Chapter Text

November 1924

Beryl loves cutting the scones. So neat and even, each one flawlessly circular. She has perfected her technique over the decades, so that their sides touch, and as little of the dough as possible is wasted. She hums a little to herself, alone in the kitchen.

Or so she thought. For when she looks up, standing not four feet away, silently staring at her, is little Miss Sybil Branson.

“Good Heavens, Miss Sybbie! What on earth are you doing down here?” she cries.

Sybbie manages to sink downward into herself just a little, but her blue eyes do not lose their doleful look. She does not answer.

“Does Nanny know you’re here?” Beryl asks sternly.

Still silence. That means their time is limited. It won’t be long before Nanny comes flying down the stairs, looking for her charge. But hers won’t be the first near heart attack to happen in this kitchen.

So the cook sighs, and asks, softly now, “Is there something I can do for you, love?”

Now Sybbie uncrosses her arms, and begins to smile. “Daddy says we’re going far away, to America.”

“Yes, that’s true,” Mrs. Patmore agrees.

“And when we get there, we won’t have a nanny, or a footman, or even a cook. We’re going to live with my uncle.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that as well. It’s hard to imagine, but I think you’ll get used to it in time,” Beryl says, trying not to smile. Imagine life without any footmen.

The smile falls from her face when Sybbie returns, “So I need to know how to make the tea.”

Ah. Beryl has to admit that this is entirely logical. “And you’d like me to show you how? To make tea?”

Now Sybbie jumps up and down, and claps her hands. How the little ones love it when the grown-ups get it right! “Yes!” she says. “Will you?”

“Well,” says Beryl, looking at the kettle. It seems suddenly enormous, and insurmountably heavy. “I suppose… We should start by filling the kettle.” She takes it to the tap and fills it with water. Sybbie is content to watch this part, but is determined to take over from here.

“Can I carry it to the stove?” she asks.

“Oh, I don’t know, Miss Sybbie, it’s rather heavy now.” Reluctantly, she hands it down to the little girl, who takes it by its handle, but is unable to keep it more than an inch from the floor. The two end up carrying it together, and shuffling awkwardly to the stove, Beryl hovering behind and over the girl. When they reach the stove, the cook hefts it onto a burner. She lights the flame, and Sybbie watches in awe.

Beryl can’t remember if she has ever simply stood and watched a kettle boil, but this seems to be an important part of the learning process. She watches Sybbie watch, with unending patience. She wonders if the girl is taking notes in her mind, counting how many minutes it takes for water to boil.

When the kettle starts to whistle, Beryl douses the flame beneath it. She fetches one of the small teapots from a shelf, and fills it with tea leaves. When she returns to the stove, Sybbie says, “I want to pour it!”

The cook draws the line here. “No, Miss, it’s too hot. I won’t have you burn yourself.”

Sybbie pouts. Two seconds later, her face lights up again. “Alright, Mrs. Patmore, you pour the water, but I get to pour the tea.”

Beryl is agreeable to this arrangement. She pours the water, and allows the leaves to steep.

“What shall we have with our tea?” Sybbie asks. “Do you have any cake?” She looks up hopefully at the cook.

The older woman shakes her head. “No, my dear, I’m afraid I don’t. But I’ve been making scones. We could have some of those, with jam.”

“Oh, yes,” Sybbie answers. “Donk loves scones! And I love them, too.”

In a few moments, several more scones than either of them need are arranged on a plate, and placed on the kitchen table, with butter and jam, and napkins. Beryl brings two cups and saucers, and sets these out as well. Then the two ladies sit down to their tea.

“Now, Sybbie, when serving the tea, one must always serve their guests first,” Mrs. Patmore says. “Mr. Carson told me that.” Sybbie nods gravely. “I’ll pretend to be the guest, and you can serve, since you’re such a big girl.” Sybbie nods again.

Beryl clenches her hands into fists in her lap as Sybbie picks up the pot to pour. But she manages very well, and only spills a drop or two. She strains tea into her guest’s cup first, then her own.

“Next you offer milk and sugar,” the cook says. “I like both in mine.”

Sybbie watches while Mrs. Patmore pours in a little milk, then takes two lumps of sugar. She hands the sugar bowl to the girl, and says, “Now we say, ‘one lump, or two?’."

Sybbie nods, and says confidently, “Four please.” The cook giggles just a little, and obliges.

“Now we take a sip.” Both ladies raise their cups and take a delicate drink. Sybbie smiles. “Did you know I taught your mother to make tea?” Beryl asks.

The little one’s eyes widen. “You did?” she whispers.

“Yes,” Beryl answers, lowering her voice as well, as though they are sharing a secret. “She was a great lady, but she wanted to know how to do things for herself, and for others, too. So she came down here, just like you did, and asked me to teach her.”

“Was she good at it?” Sybbie asks.

Beryl laughs a little. “Why, no, she wasn’t.” Sybbie seems a little worried. “Not at first. She spilled things. And we had to throw out some of her first tries at cooking…” Beryl looks down at the girl. “You’ve a more natural talent for making tea. But your mother practiced, and in time, she could even make a cake.”

“I want to make a cake!” Sybbie says.

“And I would be happy to teach you. Since you have such a knack for cooking, I think you have time before you go off on your adventure to America. You can come down again in a few days, and we’ll make one, and surprise your family with it at tea.” Sybbie sits up a little straighter. “But Sybbie, dear,” Beryl says, with raised eyebrows. “Make sure you ask Nanny first.”

Sybbie gives her a smile, but does not promise anything, and reaches for a scone.

Chapter Text

August 1926

The clock strikes eleven, and the butler sets down his book. It ought to be late enough now. All of the other servants have gone to bed, or home to their cottages. He stands from his chair by the dying fire, and heads upstairs to do one last check of the main floor, before finally going to bed himself.

The great hall and drawing room prove empty, no errant messes or spills in need of tidying. That just leaves the libraries. He checks the small one first, then moves to the big one. Instead of finding a few dirty drink glasses in need of collecting, however, he finds a rather soggy marquis, sitting on one of the sofas, his feet up on an ottoman, a scotch in one hand.

Thomas stops short. “I’m sorry, sir,” he says. “I thought everyone had gone to bed. I didn’t mean to disturb you.” He turns and begins to make his way toward the small library again, so as to leave by the way he came. But Lord Hexham stops him.

“No, Barrow, wait,” he says.

Thomas tries not to sigh. Stay or go, it’s clear he won’t be going to bed until the wee hours of tomorrow. So he might as well attend to the man, rather than return to sitting alone in the basement, and wait for him to finish imbibing. He turns around.

“Yes, sir? What can I do for you?”

The butler would be lying if he said the man’s reaction surprised him. Lord Hexham stares at him a minute, then begins to cry. Not the silent crying that some people can do, with tears glistening elegantly down their cheeks. This is ugly crying, with gulping, and choking, and fluids from every facial orifice. And Thomas would be lying if he said he himself had not engaged in such behavior a little over a year ago. Except without the expensive drink.

“Have a drink with me?” the man chokes out.

“I’m afraid I can’t, sir,” Thomas answers.

“Why?” More tears.

Thomas looks at the floor. “It wouldn’t be right, sir. I’m… sure you know that.”

Lord Hexham looks away, but does not move otherwise. “No…” he says.

A few seconds of silence, and Thomas thinks he may be able to escape. He turns away once more, even takes a step or two, but the marquis calls him back.

“Do you enjoy art, Barrow?”

He stops. “Sir?”

“I’m sorry,” is his immediate reply. “I shouldn’t have said that.” Thomas turns to face him again, and the man belches. Or hiccups. He then at least has the decency to look embarrassed.

“That’s quite alright, sir. Are you well?”

Lord Hexham shakes his head, and says, “I wish you would call me Bertie.”

Thomas takes a deep breath, and says, “You know I can’t do that. Sir.”

Bertie puts his feet on the floor, and sits up. He shakes his head. “No… no, I know that. I’m sorry, again. I didn’t mean to…” He rubs a hand over his eyes. “I’m sorry, could you get me another drink?”

Thomas cannot resist a raise of his eyebrows. “I… don’t think that’s a wise idea, sir. Though, of course, I will, if you insist.”

Bertie gives him a tragic smile now, and says, “You’re just as nice as Edith said you were.” Then he looks horrified. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that, either. Please forgive me.”

Before the man starts sobbing again, Thomas ensures him he is forgiven. “That’s really alright, sir. You… aren’t yourself. Perhaps you ought to go to bed?”

Lord Hexham nods. “I know I ought to. But I’ve had such trouble sleeping… Perhaps… could I have a glass of water?”

Finally, a request he can grant. Thomas bows slightly, and says, “Of course, sir.” Then he turns to the side bar, and scans its contents. There must be something without alcohol here. He picks up a decanter, and sniffs it. No. And all the other liquids are brown, or red. Not what he needs. Damn.

“Sir, I’ll have to go downstairs for just a moment, and get your water. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Lord Hexham jumps up from his seat, with surprising swiftness. “I’ll go with you,” he says.

Thomas holds his breath for a second or two. Then he says, “Certainly, sir,” and he leads the way to the green baize door.

The butler is unsure as to whether the marquis has ever been downstairs, and Bertie follows behind trustingly; it clearly makes no difference to him where they are going. Thomas leads the way into the kitchen, and puts the kettle on. If the man wants to drink water, it might as well have tea in it. Bertie sniffs, and sits on one of the stools at the kitchen island, where the children sit, when they come down for a treat. For a few moments, Thomas is able to busy himself with finding a tea pot, and scooping some tea leaves into it. When he sets one cup on the counter, Bertie gives him a look of such pitiful entreaty that Thomas sighs, and gets another cup as well.

When the kettle boils, Thomas pours the water, then gets the milk and sugar while the leaves steep. He wishes he had thought to bring some brandy down with him. He pours the tea, and slides one cup to the man across from him. He puts milk in his; Bertie takes only sugar.

Bertie takes a sip, then another. He looks up at the butler. “Thank you, Barrow,” he says. “I… I know you shouldn’t, but… could I persuade you to sit?” Another request Thomas knows he should not grant. But he has sat in the Dowager Countess’ presence before—at her request (demand), of course. This would hardly be any worse. Thomas looks at the miserable face across from him, then at the stool next to him. He considers dragging it over to this side of the island, to the place where Daisy and Mrs. Patmore usually stand, in order to keep his distance. But some difficult conversations are made a little easier when the two parties do not have to look directly at one another. So he gathers his cup, and walks around the counter, and sits down next to the Marquis of Hexham.

They both have a sip, then rest their elbows on the counter.

“Do you know how I came to be the Marquis of Hexham, Barrow?”

Thomas nods slowly. “Yes, sir. After your cousin died last year, you inherited.”

Bertie nods now too. “Malaria,” he whispers.

“Sir?” Thomas asks.

Bertie turns to him. “They say he died of malaria.” Then he is silent for nearly a full minute. “I hope that it’s true.” 

Thomas looks at his tea. Should he? Then he nods. “I hope that it’s true, too, milord.”

Now Bertie shakes his head, and sits back a bit, his hands resting on the counter. “Not that I’d wish… No, of course, you understand what I mean.” He turns to the butler. “Do you?”

Thomas does not turn to face him, but says quietly, “I believe I do, yes, milord.” Bertie turns back to his tea. “You don’t wish for him to have suffered with illness, but… you want to know that he didn’t… harm himself. Is that right?”

Bertie nods, and their eyes meet, for a second only. Then they both reach for their tea.

“People said he was delicate. I’ve said it, but it wasn’t true, not really.”

“No, sir?” Thomas asks.

“No,” he says, quietly, but firmly. “He was strong, Peter. His life was difficult, but he… he wouldn’t let anyone tell him how to be. How to be a marquis, how to be a man. He was a better man than I am,” Bertie asserts. Then his shoulders slouch again. “And all I can do is… live in his castle.”

Before he can stop himself, Thomas says, “Better you than anyone else, if you ask me.”

Bertie turns to him and nearly smiles. “Why do you say that?”

Thomas shakes his head. He knows he has spoken out of turn, but what has he done in the last half hour that wouldn’t qualify as impertinent? “Because… you loved him. For who he was, and not what he was expected to be. You’ll keep his memory alive. And mourn his passing. I never met him, but I would say he deserves that.” Now Thomas dares to look at the man sitting next to him. “Wouldn’t you?”

Bertie begins to cry again, silently this time. He lifts his hand, pauses, and then places it lightly on Thomas’ shoulder. “Yes, Barrow. We all deserve that.”

Thomas nods, and looks at his tea. Bertie drops his hand, then both men pick up their cups, and swallow the last of their contents.

“I suppose I really should be off to bed,” Bertie says softly, and stands. Thomas stands now, too, and waits next to his chair. The marquis looks down at the tea things. “I would do the washing up for you, if I could,” he says.

“I know,” Thomas answers.

Bertie gives him a sad smile. “Goodnight, Barrow,” he says, with a nod. “Thank you for the tea.”

“Goodnight, sir.”

When Bertie is gone, Thomas gathers their cups, and the creamer and teapot, and places them in the sink. He turns off the electric lights in the kitchen, and makes his way through the dark to the stairs.

Chapter Text

February 1924

The morning after nearly burning down the abbey, Edith manages to get dressed, but doesn’t bother with her hair. It hangs down her back in the same bedraggled plait she bathed and slept in last night, when she goes briefly into her room in the morning, to survey the damage, and to find something to wear. She off-handedly picks a white blouse, and a brownish skirt she hasn’t worn since the war. The little white scarf she plucks from her dressing table drawer is a more purposeful choice, however. Perhaps it is meant to be a flag of defeat, she thinks, as she ties it round the end of her braid.

Her steps are heavy as she goes downstairs. She doesn’t feel like going—oddly enough, all she wants to do this morning is sleep—but pushes on. The least she can do is thank the man who risked his life to save her.

She finds it rather quiet downstairs, and wonders for a second if this is unusual. Strange that one could have so many people living and working in her basement, and not really comprehend their daily routines. She walks tentatively into the kitchen, wondering if that is where she will find him. The person she finds first, however, is Mrs. Hughes.

“Good morning, milady,” the housekeeper says, with careful politeness. “How are you feeling this morning?”

Edith flushes a little, and wonders when people will stop embarrassing her by asking how she is feeling after simply being stupid. “I’m well, Mrs. Hughes, thank you,” she says quickly. “I just wondered if I could have a word with Barrow?”

Mrs. Hughes surprises her with a tender smile. “That’s kind, milady. But I’m afraid Mr. Barrow is upstairs at the moment.”

“Oh?” Edith asks, a little worried. “Is he well?”

“I think so,” Mrs. Hughes says, a bit more brightly. “He came down this morning, of course, only after J—” Here the housekeeper pauses, and fails to find a way not to finish her sentence. “After James was off this morning, Mr. Barrow… was looking a bit poorly, and I sent him up to bed. I told him he ought to see the doctor, just in case, but he wouldn’t. Anyway, I’m sure he’ll be alright with a bit of rest. Good as new by tomorrow, I’m sure.”

Edith does her best to smile. “I see,” she says, softly. Was it the smoke she had exposed him to that made him unwell, or… “Was James a particular friend of Barrow’s?”

Mrs. Hughes mirrors the younger lady’s strained smile. “They were friends, yes,” is all she says.

The two women look at each other for a moment in silence. Then Edith takes a deep breath, and says, “I think I ought to bring Barrow a cup of tea.”

Mrs. Hughes flinches just a little, and answers, “I can do that, milady. You don’t need to trouble yourself with all the stairs.”

Edith tries not to look too insulted, and insists. “I’m sure I can manage. Would you ask Mrs. Patmore to make him a cup?”

***

She balances the cup and saucer carefully in one hand, and knocks on his door with the other. After a moment, she hears a soft, “Come in,” and pushes the door open. She peaks around it before entering, so as not to startle him.

He does not startle, but his eyes certainly widen. He is sitting up in his bed, not wearing a proper shirt, only a vest. What did she expect, exactly? The man is having a lie in.

“Milady?” he asks. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“No, no,” she says hurriedly. “You don’t need to do anything. I…” she looks down at the cup in her hands. “…brought you some tea. I wondered if I could speak with you for a moment.”

He sits up a little straighter. “That’s very kind of you, milady,” he says tentatively. “But Mrs. Hughes has been looking in on me. She could have—” Then he stops. “Thank you,” he finishes.

Now she flushes again, embarrassed. “Please don’t say that,” she says to his teacup. “I’m the one who ought to be thanking you.”

He gives her a little smile for this apparent absurdity, and she hands him the cup. With nothing to hold now, she stands awkwardly before him, and clasps her hands together. He takes a sip, and says, “You ought to sit down. It’s bad enough my sitting in front of you. We don’t need to make it worse by you standing in front of me.”

She smiles a little now, too, and pulls a little wooden chair closer to his bed. She sits down carefully, and watches him drink his tea. He takes his the same way she takes hers, with milk, and no sugar.

She clears her throat. “Are you feeling alright now? Mrs. Hughes said you were feeling poorly this morning.”

He looks back at her, unable to completely hide the alarm in his eyes. He swallows. “I’m alright, milady. Just… I didn’t get much sleep last night, is all.”

“And that’s my fault.”

“No, I didn’t mean that,” he says.

Before he can add more, she goes on. “She also said you wouldn’t see a doctor. Don’t you think you ought to?”

Now he makes no effort to hide his annoyance, and rolls his eyes, resembling her older sister for just a second. “Did you see a doctor?” he asks pointedly.

“No.”

“Well,” he says, and takes another sip of his tea. Point made. She had certainly been exposed to more smoke than he had. She decides to let it go, but he sighs, and says, “I’m sorry, milady. I oughtn’t speak to you like that.”

She sighs, too, and says, “You probably should, actually.” His eyes light up just a little. She shrugs, and shakes her head. “You’re right,” she concedes. “I’m sure you know if you need a doctor or not.”

He nods. Now that she is seated, she can see lines of soot that remain around his hairline. She wonders if he had time for a proper bath after all the bedlam last night. He catches her looking intently at him, and asks, “What?”

She looks down. “I’m sorry, it’s just that you’ve got…” She wishes she could take back her scrutiny, but can only press on now. “You’ve got some soot left, just there,” she says, pointing to his forehead. He sets his tea on the side table next to him, and rubs at the skin on his brow. Then he looks at his fingers, and frowns at the blackness he finds there.

“Here, I can…” she does not finish her sentence, but pulls the little white scarf from the end of her braid, and dips it into a glass of water on his table. “Do you mind?” she asks.

He swallows, and shakes his head. He even relaxes a little into his pillows as she wipes his brow. The black dust, now wet, starts to run down his face, and she dips her scarf again, this time careful to wring it out. She wipes his face again, from his forehead down to his cheeks. He looks at her for a second while she works, then closes his eyes, welcoming her touch. She has mussed his hair a bit, so she puts down the scarf, and gently smooths a small lock that has fallen down on his forehead. Now he opens his eyes.

“Thank you, Barrow,” she says quietly. “Thank you for saving me.”

“I only did what anyone in my place would have,” he answers.

“Maybe,” she murmurs. “But it was you that did it. And I think it may have cost you more than you’re saying.”

Now it is his turn to whisper, “Maybe.”

A part of her wishes the conversation could continue, but it is time to give him some privacy. So she straightens herself, and nods to the blackened glass on his table. “Just make sure you don’t drink that one,” she says dryly.

He laughs just a little, and says, “I’m sure I’ll remember.”

Her smile is much more genuine now. “Get some rest today, Barrow. You deserve it.”

He pulls his blankets up to his shoulders and says, “I will, milady. Thank you.”

Chapter Text

July 4, 1922

The Ritz-Carlton is no castle, but it’s certainly better than staying with Cora’s mother. Robert shudders a little at the thought. If he has to come all this way to bail Harold out of his most recent failed scheme, at least he can have comfortable accommodations. And he is expected to join his mother-in-law for dinner in just over an hour. That certainly seems like enough, especially on his first day in New York. But there will be the party afterward, of course. Why couldn’t the ship have docked one day later?

“Where shall I put the cases, Your Lordship?” Thomas asks him. Robert has actually tried to stay annoyed with his substitute valet since they sailed from England, but Thomas’ mood has been so jovial for the last five days straight, that he still can’t bring himself to do it. He turns from his place at the window, where he stands in order to inspect the view of Madison Avenue, and faces Barrow. The man holds back a smile. Robert finds this infectious, but certainly doesn’t want to find himself giggling with his valet.

He makes his best effort to frown, and says, “Let’s see about that.” He walks back to the center of the room.

“There’s an adjoining room here, sir,” says the porter, pointing to a small door near the room’s main entrance. Thomas briefly sets down his lord’s cases, opens the door, and steps just inside. Robert follows him, and shudders again, just a little. The room is small, perhaps ten by fifteen feet, and dark, as it has no windows, and only the one door. The walls are paneled in a dark wood, and the space smells of cedar. There is a dresser for his things, and plenty of space to hang his clothes, as well as an electric light in the middle of the ceiling. A single bed occupies one corner. It isn’t much, but it will do for Barrow.

Thomas turns around and says, “I’ll just get your things put away, sir.” His smile still hasn’t faded. Clearly his meager accommodations are not near enough to dampen his spirits.

Robert gives the porter a small tip, and he goes on his way. “Actually, Barrow,” Robert says. “I think I’d better have a bath before dinner. Would you mind drawing one?”

“Not at all, sir,” Thomas answers, and abandons the cases for the moment. He steps into the bathroom, and turns on the tap.

***

It is something of a relief to know that baths in America are just as satisfying as they are at home. Robert wishes he could take his time, but Martha is waiting. It won’t do to put her out of sorts. So he sighs, and climbs out of the tub. He dries himself, and puts on his dressing gown. He looks in the mirror, and decides he probably ought to ask Thomas to shave his five o’clock shadow, when he hears the noise—a loud BANG from out in the street. Robert rolls his eyes at himself in the mirror; Americans and their Independence Day. Then he hears another sound.

This one is a single thump, followed by a bit of shuffling. What on earth is Barrow doing out there? Robert shakes his head. Probably having a bit of a time moving the cases round. He sighs, opens the bathroom door, and looks out.

But he doesn’t see anyone. Where has the man gone? He knows he just heard… Now there is something else. A soft, whimpering noise, from the corner near the window. He walks around a sideboard, and finds his valet, huddled on the floor, his hands over his head.

“Barrow? What on earth? What’s happened?” he asks.

Thomas looks up at him, his eyes wild. “Get down!” he cries. “What’s the matter with you? They’ll see you! Get down!”

Oh, no.

Robert has seen this before, of course. But not in Thomas. Robert shakes his head again. He should have known.

Slowly, he crouches down, and half crawls over to the man. When they are inches apart, he reaches out, and grazes Thomas’ knee with his fingertips. Thomas startles, and moves away, somehow pressing himself further into the corner. Robert withdraws his hand.

“Thomas,” he says softly. He hasn’t called the man by his Christian name in a year or two, but it seems called for now. “Thomas,” he says again. The valet uncovers part of his face, and tries to look at his employer. “It’s alright,” Robert says slowly and quietly. “Those were fireworks that you heard. No one is going to get hurt. You’re safe here.”

Thomas removes his hands from his face now, and wraps them around his knees, which are drawn to his chest. He stares back at Robert silently. Then another BANG from outside.

“Oh, God!” the valet cries, and puts his forehead to his knees.

“They’re only fireworks, Thomas,” Robert says again.

Thomas moans. “But they’re terrible,” he whispers.

Robert isn’t quite sure what to say to that. Perhaps fireworks are terrible, if one considers what they mean.

Thomas peeks out over the tops of his knees now. “Are they going to go on like that all night?” he asks weakly.

The answer to this is fairly obvious, but again Robert does not know what to say. Then he reaches out to Thomas again. This time the valet allows his touch, fingertips to knees.

“I have an idea, Thomas,” Robert says. “Can you stand? If you can stand, we can… move from here.” Thomas sniffs, and looks around a bit. Then he nods, and slowly gets to his feet. Robert stands, too, and takes the man’s elbow. “Now, come with me,” he says, and leads Thomas away from the windows, and toward the door to the dressing room. This time Robert opens the door, and steps inside first. Thomas follows him.

“I think I’ve changed my mind about dining with Mrs. Levenson this evening,” Robert says. Thomas looks at him, bewildered. Robert wonders if the man can remember that not half an hour ago, they were preparing for the earl’s departure to said dinner. But it doesn’t matter now. “I think I’ll stay in for the evening. I think we’ll stay here, in this room, where it’s quiet, and safe. Does that sound agreeable to you, Barrow?”

Thomas’ eyes dart about the room for a second or two, and then he nods.

“Good,” Robert says. “I’m sure we’re both very tired from our journey. Why don’t you change for bed, and I’ll ring for some tea?”

***

While he waits for the tea, Robert rings for a porter, and sends him off with a message to Mrs. Levenson, with his regrets that his man is ill, and he is too tired for a late dinner this evening. He will do his best to make it up to her tomorrow.

Then he dresses himself in his pajamas, and replaces his dressing gown over them. The tea arrives on a silver tray, and he carries it himself into the dressing room. There he finds his valet in pajamas as well, sitting up in the little bed, his knees drawn again to his chest. His eyes are still red, but not wild like they were. Robert puts the tray on the tiny side table, and pours tea for his servant.

“I ought to do that, sir,” Thomas says softly.

“No, that’s quite alright, Barrow,” he says. “How do you take your tea?”

Thomas swallows, and says, “Milk, no sugar, please.”

“Very good,” the earl says, and stirs in the milk. He hands a cup to Thomas, then stirs milk and two lumps of sugar into his own. He leaves the room briefly to fetch a chair, and drags it inside, near the bed. Then he sits down to tea with his valet. Thomas holds his cup in both hands; Robert takes a sip.

After a moment, Thomas speaks. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what came over me. It won’t happen again.”

Robert raises his eyebrows, and decides not to remind the man that it most surely will happen again. Instead he says, “War is an awful business, Thomas. Once you’ve seen it, been there… it never really leaves you.”

Thomas finally takes a sip of his tea. “Did you see combat, sir?”

He nods. “Yes. In the Boer War. Horrifying.” He shakes his head. “I would do anything to serve England, and the crown, but… even I wonder sometimes how anything like that can ever be justified.”

Thomas looks at his tea. “But… after it was over… did you ever… did it ever seem as though you were back there again?”

Robert considers. “At times, yes,” he says, very slowly. Then he nods, and says, “Yes,” more emphatically this time. He looks down at his teacup. “For years after…” He has never said this to anyone, not even Bates. “Smoke,” he says, softly, then finds he cannot say any more. He takes another sip of tea.

“Sir?” Thomas asks.

Robert clears his throat, and resists the urge to wipe his eyes. “Smoke,” he says again, though hardly any louder. “We… torched everything. The farms, the villages… everything. And for years after, the smell of smoke would…” He shakes his head, and cannot continue.

“Is it still like that?”

He shakes his head. “It isn’t nearly as bad now. But it took years.”

Thomas nods. “For me, it’s dirt.” Robert looks up, and his valet continues. “In the trenches, the mud and the dirt… you just couldn’t get away from them. Nothing could ever come clean. It was in my hair, in my mouth, the lines on my hands. I used to dream that I would drown in dirt, before… Well. Before I died of anything else.”

“But you didn’t die,” His Lordship says softly.

“No.” He pauses, and sips his tea. “But sometimes, if my hands get dirty, if I have to touch… I… I’m so afraid. I’m convinced I’ll have to go back, and I can’t catch my breath, and I can’t hear anything, and I feel like I need to take cover, and... It’s awful.”

“And explosions,” Robert says. “Sudden loud noises. They frighten you like this as well?”

Thomas nods. “Not always. But often, yes.”

“It makes perfect sense,” Robert offers. “Does anything help?”

His valet gives a half smile, and straightens his legs under the covers. “Tea and cigarettes.”

Robert laughs just a little. “Tea and cigarettes can ease most of life’s ills, that is certain.”

Thomas’ eyes widen. “Do you smoke, sir?”

“Only the occasional cigar these days, but I used to smoke fags.”

“But what about the smoke itself? Doesn’t it bother you?” Thomas asks.

Robert shakes his head tentatively, and considers this. “Not really,” he says. “Though I did quit smoking as soon as I got home from the war.”

Thomas does not answer, but gives half a smile.

“Would you care for a cigarette now?” Robert asks.

Thomas lowers his cup. “Really?” he asks. “Here?”

“I think so.”

Thomas clearly does not have to be asked twice. “My cigarettes are in my jacket pocket, sir,” he says. Robert stands from his chair, and fetches them, along with a silver lighter he finds in the same pocket. He takes two from the pack, and hands one to his valet. He lights it for him, then lights his own. He is only a little embarrassed to cough with his first inhale; it’s been years since he’s done this.

Thomas takes a smooth drag, and exhales toward the ceiling. He closes his eyes. “God, that’s Heaven,” he mutters.

Robert is not sure he agrees, but can remember a time when he might have thought as much.

After a moment, Thomas says, “You would think that as your valet, I would have known that you were a smoker, Your Lordship.”

Robert takes another puff, more easily this time. “Well, I think we’re all entitled to a few secrets,” he says.

Thomas raises his eyebrows. “Indeed,” he answers, and takes another drag. 

Chapter Text

May 1926

The voices are soft at first, a part of his dream.

“No, don’t, you’ll startle him. Let me.” Then a touch on his shoulder. “Thomas,” she says softly. “Thomas.”

Then he wakes, and is back in the servants’ hall again. He shakes himself from sleep, and tries to remember why he is here.

“We’re back,” Phyllis says softly. “We’re sorry to have kept you up. You can go to bed now.”

Thomas rubs a hand over his eyes, and looks at her. He can see Mr. Molesley standing with his hands in his pockets behind her.

“How was the picture, then?” Thomas asks.

She looks over her shoulder at the man she will marry two weeks from now, and smiles. “We enjoyed it,” she says to Molesley, rather than to Thomas.

The butler stands from his chair, and says, “That’s nice. Think I’ll go up.”

“Me too,” she says with a smile, now aimed at Thomas. “Goodnight,” she adds, then stands on her toes, and gives her brother (near enough) a kiss on his cheek. She stands next to him, but looks at her intended, as though she would very much like to kiss him, too. But she does not. “Goodnight, Joseph,” she says rather dreamily, then leaves the room, and walks up the stairs.

Almost after she is out of earshot, Mr. Molesley turns toward the door, and says, “Goodnight, Phyllis,” then he giggle-snorts, like he does, only stopping when he sees Thomas looking at him. If calling her by her first name makes him snicker like that, imagine what… No, never mind. Don’t imagine it.

Mr. Molesley clears his throat, and the two men stand for a moment, silently regarding each other. “Phyllis… Miss Baxter tells me you’ll be giving her away at our wedding.”

Somehow Thomas manages not to roll his eyes. “Yes,” he says, rather slowly. “Were you… expecting someone else?”

“No, no,” he says. “And I think it’s fine! I do… I just… would you mind joining me for a cup of tea, Mr. Barrow?”

What?

“Now?” Thomas asks.

“Oh,” Mr. Molesley says, as though he has not thought this through. “I suppose not. How about tomorrow afternoon? You’d be welcome to come to my cottage.”

This is interesting. And he has promised Phyllis that if she likes Mr. Molesley, Thomas himself will endeavor to like him, too. And what does he have to lose, really?

So he takes a deep breath, and says, “Alright. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

The two men nod, and Mr. Molesley sees himself out. Thomas makes sure all the lights are turned off, and the door is locked, then goes up the stairs to bed.

***

The next afternoon, as he is pulling on his coat, Phyllis approaches him. He is having just a little trouble with the collar, and she reaches up with both hands to straighten it for him. He would have got it himself eventually, of course, but he brings his hands to his sides, and lets her do it. There is, after all, still a part of him that has waited far too long to be taken care of.

She moves her hands down to smooth his lapels. “Where are you off to?” she asks warmly.

He can’t resist. “Mr. Molesley has asked me to tea,” he says slyly.

Now she freezes, her hands still on the front of his coat. “What?” she says. “Why?”

He smiles. “Well, I don’t know. But I would assume he wants to talk about you.”

“Thomas,” she says, looking legitimately worried.

“What?” he asks, trying for innocence.

She bites her lip. “Be nice.”

“Miss Baxter!” he exclaims. “I am always nice.”

“No, you are not,” she says plainly.

“No, you’re right,” he willingly admits. “I’m not always nice.” He raises his eyebrows. “But I’m always nice to you,” he says, with a winning smile.

“No, you are not,” she says again, and he knows she is still right.

“Alright, I am not always nice to you, but… I have been nice to you for at least the last two years.”

She loosens her grip on his lapels just a little, and says tentatively, “Yes, that is true. I have to give you credit there.” Then she tightens her grip on his coat again. “But Thomas… I want you to be nice to him. You’ll be nice to him, won’t you?” she pleads.

Now he laughs. “Alright, alright,” he says, and moves toward the door.

“You didn’t say yes,” she says, following him. “Promise me, Thomas. You have to say it!”

He rolls his eyes. “I promise, alright? You have nothing to worry about!” He opens the door, and steps outside. “Goodbye!”

Just as the door closes, he is sure he hears her mutter, “Why do I not believe you?”

***

He knocks on the door of Molesley’s cottage, then steps back, and practices smiling while he waits. Teeth, or no teeth? Perhaps teeth are too intimidating. Unfortunately, he has not decided yet, when the man throws open his front door. Thomas finds himself standing there with his lips pulled oddly back, wearing an expression that surely does not look friendly. He changes his face immediately to a look of resigned apology.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Barrow,” Molesley says, though it comes out sounding like a question.

Thomas coughs a little, and answers, “Good afternoon. Mr. Molesley. Thank you for… inviting me.”

The man looks as though he might now regret said invitation, but gestures for Thomas to enter.

“May I take your coat?” Mr. Molesley asks.

“Oh,” Thomas says. “Yes, thank you.” He sheds the garment himself, then hands it over. Mr. Molesley hangs it on a peg, then steps past him, and walks toward the back of the little house.

“Please, sit down,” he says, turning back toward his guest. He gestures to a small table. “I thought we could sit here in the kitchen.”

“Certainly, if you like.”

Thomas sits while Molesley busies himself, making the tea, and putting biscuits on a plate. Through the open back door, Thomas can see a little kitchen garden, and flowers, too. There is lavender growing near the stoop, and its fragrance wafts into the kitchen. Phyllis will love the lavender, when she comes to live here. He smiles a little at the thought of her finally having a little garden of her own.

Molesley brings two cups to the table, then fetches the tea pot. He pours the tea, and looks down at his guest, then out the door, to the flowers that still hold Thomas’ attention.

“It’s a nice little spot out there,” he says to the door.

Thomas looks back at the table. “Yes. Lovely,” he says. He might as well finish. “Phyllis will love it, the garden.”

Molesley takes another second to look at his garden, then turns to Thomas. “What do you say we take our tea out there? It’s a perfect afternoon for it.”

Thomas looks up at him. He’s come this far. If the two of them are going to have tea together, why shouldn’t it be out in the sun? So he nods, and stands from his chair.

Molesley picks up his cup, and says, “Put your milk in, then, and let’s go.”

Thomas does as he is told, then picks up his cup as well. Molesley takes a biscuit from the little plate, and holds it in his teeth, half hanging out of his mouth. He looks at Thomas, and grunts a little laugh at himself. Thomas rolls his eyes, and can’t help but give a little snort of laughter, too.

Then he follows his host out the back door, and down a little path, lined with hollyhocks, and bachelor buttons, behind which are lilacs, and peonies about to bloom. They come to a flat place, covered with cut grass, and Thomas recognizes it as the back of the cricket pitch; he has played here before, but never entered it from this side. Molesley sits down on the edge of the grass, and looks up at Thomas.

He sits down next to the older man, both of them facing the expanse of grass. They sit with their legs crossed, and drink their tea, looking into the sun. When his cup is empty, Thomas sets it down on the grass, draws his knees up, and rests his arms on them. “How long have you lived here?” he asks suddenly.

“What, in my cottage?” Molesley asks.

Thomas rolls his eyes a little again. “No, here, in the village,” he says, gesturing vaguely with one hand to everything around them.

“Oh,” the man answers, and looks around a bit, as though the answer might be out there somewhere, in the trees, or the grass, or the roads. “All my life. I was born here. Went to the school where I teach now.”

Thomas nods. He had thought as much. Part of him can hear his old companion, envy, starting to make a fuss in his ears. But he doesn’t want to partake today. So he turns to the man, and says, “I think that must be nice. To grow up and stay somewhere, where people know you, and your family. Where they respect you, and want you to do well.”

Mr. Molesley titters again, grunting a little, as though he is incapable of laughing without choking on it.

“What?” Thomas asks. Has he said something funny?

“Oh, it’s just Phyllis—Miss Baxter—has said the same thing. That she thinks it must be nice to have grown up the way I have. It’s funny.”

“Why’s that funny?”

“No, I mean… it’s funny that you both said the same thing. See something the same way, when I never thought of it that way.”

“Oh,” Thomas says quietly, and looks down at the ground.

Mr. Molesley is quiet for a few seconds, then says, “Not funny, really. It’s… nice. That you two have some things in common. Because you’re family.”

Thomas looks up at him, and the silence continues. Then he smiles. “Yeah,” he says, and looks away again.

Now Mr. Molesley ventures to ask a question. “How long have you known Miss Baxter?”

Thomas turns to look at him, and turns up one corner of his mouth. “Well,” he begins, “The rumor is that she was there the night I was born.”

Molesley’s jaw drops a little, but he catches himself. “You mean… she was there when…”

Thomas rolls his eyes again. “I don’t know,” he says, and looks out at the grass again. “I certainly don’t remember it.” Then he can feel Molesley begin to lean away from him, and he is suddenly hit with a desire to keep him close, to protect the intimacy of this moment. So he sobers himself, turns back to his companion, and says in a low voice, “I have no memory of not knowing her. She’s been with me all my life.”

They stare at each other in silence for a moment, and then Mr. Molesley smiles. “How lovely,” he whispers.

And Thomas knows that this is true. So he nods, and whispers back, “Yes. It is lovely.”

They are quiet for another minute, and Mr. Molesley finishes his tea. Then he leans to his left, trying to get something out of his pocket. When he has it, he sits up again, the same way Thomas does, with his arms on his knees. He hands the small object to Thomas, who instinctively puts out his hand for it. It can only be a ring box.

He looks down at it, then at Molesley. “You shouldn’t have,” he says wryly.

Molesley frowns, but only a little, and says, “I didn’t.” Then, surprisingly enough, they both smile. “It’s for Phyllis,” he says, a little shy now. “Would you… look at it, and tell me what you think?”

Thomas focuses on the tiny thing in his hand now, and opens it slowly. Inside is a little gold ring, mounted with a blue stone, which is surrounded by smaller, clear stones. Molesley leans toward him now, and the two men huddle together over the diminutive but invaluable object.

“It’s a sapphire,” Molesley says softly. Thomas nods. “It was my mother’s.”

Thomas turns now to face him, and is surprised when the man does not move away, even a little. “It’s perfect, then,” Thomas says, his voice soft as well.

“Are you sure?” He is nearly whispering now. “She won’t think me silly, or old-fashioned, not buying her something new?”

Thomas shakes his head. “No,” he says firmly, but quietly. “She won’t. She’ll love it.”

Molesley finally pulls away a bit now, and Thomas carefully closes the box, and hands it back to him. “Well,” he begins, with yet another skittish chuckle. “You would know.”

Thomas raises his eyebrows, and says nothing, but nods in agreement. Molesley chortle-chokes again, and puts the ring back in his pocket. He clears his throat and says, “Would you hold it for us? During the wedding? Then when the parson asks for the ring—”

“What?” Thomas asks. He already has a job at this wedding. “That’s for your best man to do, not me.”

Molesley furrows his brow. “Right, but… you’ll walk with her down the aisle, and then you can… stand up with me.”

Oh, God. Is he asking…? “Are you asking me to be your best man?”

To Thomas’ complete surprise, the man laughs outright. “Well, what, was I supposed to ask Mr. Carson?” Now it is Thomas’ turn to try to choke back a laugh. He is rather unsuccessful, and the two sit there cackling together for a few moments. Then Mr. Molesley takes a breath, in an attempt to sober himself. “I respect Mr. Carson, of course—”

“So do I,” Thomas cuts in.

Mr. Molesley nods. “But he’s a bit…” he waggles his head, searching for the right word.

“Old?” Thomas supplies.

Molesley snorts, and nods in agreement.

Thomas shakes his head. “Well, when you put it like that, Mr. Molesley…”

The man’s eyes widen, and he nods his head again. “So you will?” he asks eagerly. Before Thomas can answer, he adds, “Oh, and you ought to call me Joseph, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Thomas says, shaking his head with a smile. “To both.” He clears his throat. “Joseph.”

“Good,” Joseph says, looking out toward the grass again. “That would make me very happy. And it’s not why I asked, but I’m quite sure it will make Phyllis happy, too.”

“You’re right about that,” Thomas says, and turns his face upward, toward the sun. 

Chapter Text

Thursday, 18 June, 1925

Now that Mr. Barrow is safe in his bed, and Miss Baxter has promised to stay by his side, Andy can no longer ignore the nausea that has been roiling inside him for the last hour. He steps out into the corridor, behind the doctor, and Anna, and Mrs. Hughes, and pulls Thomas’ door closed behind him.

“Anna, would you see Dr. Clarkson out, please?” Mrs. Hughes asks. “Andy and I will—”

But before she can finish, Anna glances at Andy’s face, and says, “That’s alright, Mrs. Hughes. Andy, why don’t you see Dr. Clarkson out? We’ll manage the… bathroom.” She gives him a brave smile, and Andy wishes he could decline her offer.

But his stomach is more demanding than his heart, or his legs, right now. He nods, and says, “Doctor,” and the two men walk silently down the stairs together. As soon as the doctor is gone, he moves back to the coat pegs, and grasps his hat from the high shelf. He pulls it down on his head, and walks out the back door. He knows he ought to get permission from Mr. Carson, or Mrs. Hughes, or someone, but the truth is he won’t be missed in all the chaos. At least for now.

“Almost there, almost there,” he mutters, over and over to himself on the way up the path. Almost to the edge of the farm. Almost to the house. Only a few steps more.

He reaches Mr. Mason’s door, and prays that the old man isn’t out in the fields somewhere. He bangs on the door, with almost his entire forearm. “Please, please,” becomes his new mantra. “Please…”

Mr. Mason opens the door, and all propriety is lost. Andy pushes past him, without a word, through the kitchen, and down the hall to the little privy at the back of the house. He locks himself inside, turns, and loses it. All of it.

His vomit is projectile, aimed at the toilet, but mostly hitting the wall behind it. He chokes and sobs, throws himself onto his knees, and vomits again, this time hitting his target. He wraps his arms around the bowl, and cries like he never has before, for all the blood he has seen today, and all the bandages and blankets and towels in all the world that will never wipe it all away. He sobs for all the times he dismissed Mr. Barrow’s offers of friendship, for every terrible thought he has ever had, that the man was somehow unworthy of affection, or kindness. His guilt wraps itself around his throat, and he heaves into the toilet again, until his stomach is pressed in on itself, and he has nothing left. He rests his head on the rim for a minute or two, then sits up. He spits one last time, then pulls the cord to flush it all down.

He stands, and wobbles over to the little sink, where he washes his hands, and puts water on his face. Then he realizes there is no towel. So he straightens up, and looks at his wet face in the tiny mirror, then moves to open the door.

Mr. Mason stands just outside it, silent and wide-eyed. The two men stare at each other a moment, then Mr. Mason reaches out a hand to him. “Come with me, lad,” he says very softly. “It’ll be alright.”

Andy wipes at his face with his sleeve, and follows him back to the kitchen. He sits on the little sofa in front of the fireplace, and rests his elbows on his knees. He puts his face in his hands, and tries to remember how to breathe.

He hasn’t thought he is cold, but realizes he is shivering only when Mr. Mason wraps a wool blanket around his shoulders. He pulls it tight around himself, and remembers the blankets they had wrapped Thomas in, how he had carried him to his bed… He squeezes his eyes closed, and tries to tell himself that Thomas is warm now, safe in his room, sleeping.

He hears the sound of a cup and saucer set on the low table in front of him, and looks up. Mr. Mason stands over him, holding a little creamer. “Do you… do you take milk?” he asks, quietly.

Andy shakes his head. “No,” he chokes. “I’ll take it like this,” he says, and nods to the cup. Mr. Mason nods, and returns the creamer to the table. Then he walks back to the sofa, and carefully sits down next to his unexpected guest.

Andy reaches for the cup, and takes a sip. The bitterness of the black brew is a salve to the bile still on his tongue, and he takes a long swig, then another. He returns the half empty cup to its saucer, and chances a look at the man next to him.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Mr. Mason shakes his head. After a moment, he places a tentative hand in the middle of Andy’s back. “Nothing to be sorry for,” he soothes. “That’s alright.”

“Thank you,” Andy says. He picks up his cup one more time, and downs the rest of its contents in one swallow.

“Do you… want to talk about what’s troubling you?” Mr. Mason asks, his hand still on Andy’s back.

Andy swallows, and looks straight ahead. “I can’t,” he whispers. “Not sure I would if I could, but I can’t.”

“I see,” the old man answers. After a moment, he says, “Not yours to tell, you mean?”

Andy nods. Mr. Mason rubs his back.

“The part that’s mine is this,” Andy says after another minute. “I’ve not been a good friend, to someone who’s only been good to me. And I’ve had all this time… all this time I could’ve… and I just… didn’t.”

If this makes as little sense to Mr. Mason as Andy suspects it does, the man does not let on. He only nods, and continues to rub circles in Andy’s back, through the blanket. “What will you do now?” the farmer asks.

Andy shakes his head slowly, and says, “I don’t know. I don’t know how I can go back there, and just… like nothing’s happened.”

Mr. Mason nods again, and is silent. He shifts a little in his seat, but still does not remove his hand. Then he says, “If you go back, and you try to make it right, that’s not the same thing as pretending nothing’s happened. You can’t change what’s done, but you can change what’s coming, or what might be, Andy.”

Now Andy finally turns and looks at him. “You think?” he asks.

Mr. Mason smiles a little. “I know,” he whispers. “I’m old enough to know these things,” he says gently.

Andy shivers again, shakes his head. “I… want to. I’ll try. I just… can’t do it yet. Do I have to go back now?”

Now Mr. Mason shakes his head. “No, lad,” he says. “No. We can stay here for a while.”

“Alright,” Andy says, and lowers his head.

Mr. Mason moves his hand now, and pats the younger man’s back. Then he stands slowly from his place on the sofa. “I’ll make some more tea,” he says, and puts the kettle on.

Chapter Text

Thursday, 18 June, 1925

Anna and the housekeeper face each other now, but somehow neither of them is quite ready to walk back down the corridor and do what must be done. Everyone else is gone. Thomas is in his bed. And there is a terrible mess in the bathroom.

As usual, Mrs. Hughes is the first one to speak, and she begins with a question. “Why did you send Andrew down?” she asks. “You shouldn’t have to… in your condition, Anna.”

Anna looks away, and tries not to sound condescending when she speaks. How had Mrs. Hughes not noticed? “He looked like he was going to be sick,” she explains. “And he… he’s done enough now. He needed to get out of here for a bit.”

Mrs. Hughes raises a hand to her face. “Did he?” she asks quietly. “I suppose I didn’t notice, with everything else.”

Anna tries to smile, but fails. “Anyway, I’m alright, really. I’ll help you.”

The housekeeper shakes her head, and begins again. “Well. You just… wait up here, then. I’ll go down and get some aprons, and buckets and brushes, and be back straight away. All you have to do is make sure no one goes in the bathroom.”

Anna nods, but cannot bring herself to say anything. She knows Mrs. Hughes is trying to spare her another trip down and back up the stairs, but this means she’ll have to spend time alone in the bathroom.

When Mrs. Hughes is gone, she turns and begins to walk very slowly down the corridor. Maybe she can just stand guard outside the door, without going in yet. But then… She takes a deep breath. Maybe she should just see for herself how it looks, before her imagination runs wild. So she quickens her step, and walks into the room without pausing outside it.

Somehow she had thought there would be blood everywhere. But the toilet and sink are unscathed, and the floor has only a few small puddles. Most of what remains is in the bathtub. She hopes to find something else in the room to look at, if only for a moment. She turns to her left, in search of something that won’t tear her heart into strips. Her pursuit is entirely unsuccessful, though. The site of all of his clothes, each piece of his livery, hung so neatly on the hooks on the wall, brings tears to her eyes. Never mind; there is nowhere to hide. Just look at the tub, then.

She walks over to it hesitantly—though, oddly enough, a sense of obligation is beginning to rise inside her. If he had to bear the act of harming himself so brutally here, the least she can do is look at the aftermath.

There are drying little rivulets of bright red blood on the rim of the tub, just where Thomas’ wrists would have lain. Inside are several little pools of brownish pink liquid, where his blood mixed with water. She wonders if he did it in the tub to lessen the mess they would have to clean.

At the bottom of the tub, near the drain, in one of the pools of pink, lies the blade. It strikes her as strange that it looks fairly clean. A part of her wants to pick it up, and get rid of it, so that Thomas will never have to see it again. But somehow, she cannot bring herself to touch it.

Mrs. Hughes enters the bathroom then, and closes the door behind her. She frowns a little, probably because the door won’t close properly, now that the lock is broken, and the latch is bent. She hands Anna an apron, and fills a bucket with water from the sink.

Anna bites her bottom lip, and ties on her apron. She picks up a brush, and the two women set to work.

***

The young man seems calmer now, but lost inside himself somehow. Perhaps that is what he needs, though; time to sort himself out.

Mr. Mason clears his throat. “Can I get you something to eat, lad?”

Andy makes a little noise in his throat, and gives a confused look. After a few seconds, he seems to remember what food is, and says, “Oh. No. No, thank you, I mean. I’m… fine." 

The farmer smiles a little. “I think you’re a ways from fine. But if you don’t need anything else, I think I’ll… I’ll just be back in a bit.”

Andy nods, and says nothing. He looks at the floor.

“You just stay here a bit longer, then. Lie down if you want. You’ve had a shock.”

Andy looks at him, as though he thinks Mr. Mason may now know the cause of his distress. He still does not know, of course. Andy has scarcely said a dozen words since he walked in the house.

Satisfied that the lad isn’t going anywhere, though, Mr. Mason stands from his place on the sofa. He hasn’t seen the privy yet, but he heard enough to know it will need some seeing to.

Luckily the rags and mop are stored at the back of the house, in a little cabinet near the privy. He gathers what he needs, and steps into the little bathroom. The first thing that hits him is the smell. He wishes there was a window to open, but he is not that fortunate. He takes a deep breath through his mouth, and begins.

Rather than use a bucket, he wets a rag at the sink, and rubs some soap flakes into it. He begins with the wall behind the toilet, wiping away the mess there. Then he cleans the toilet’s rim, and the outside of the bowl. He goes back to the sink for more soap and water, then returns to the commode. These things need cleaning from time to time anyway, he thinks, as he kneels and begins to scrub the inside.

Next he abandons his rag on the floor, and trades it for a brush. There is sick on the floor around the toilet, that will need to be scrubbed away. Though his knees ache, and his back complains from the strain, he finds that he doesn’t really mind this task. Scrubbing on all fours reminds him of his wife, in her last days. It had been so arduous, caring for her; her illness had occupied his every thought, and every moment, at the end. But he had been so glad to do it. Losing her had been painful, heartbreaking, all of that. But caring for her had been the truest possible expression of his marriage vows. Even if he could, he wouldn’t give up those months with her for anything.  

He hears a noise in the corridor then, and looks up to see Andy standing in the doorway. “You shouldn’t have to do that,” he says. “Let me.”

Mr. Mason sits back on his heels, and says, “That’s alright. I’m nearly done now, anyway.” He offers a reluctant smile.

Andy’s face is still pale, and his eyes are exhausted. He leans on the door jam. “I’m sorry,” he says, again. “I shouldn’t have… It’s so awful of me, to have made a mess like this, and then to ask you to clean it…”

“That’s alright,” Mr. Mason says again, more firmly this time. “No one should have to clean up their own…” He shakes his head. “You’ve been ill, had a terrible fright. It’s your turn to rest, and let someone else look after you for just a bit. You’ve not done anything wrong.”

Andy looks at the floor. “I don’t think that’s true. But… anyway, thank you. If I can ever repay you…”

Mr. Mason reaches up with one hand to the younger man, who instinctively reaches back, and helps him to his feet. Once he is standing, he says, “You already have, lad. Don’t worry about that.”

A hint of smile crosses Andy’s face now, and Mr. Mason can see that not all is lost. Soon enough, the boy will remember his worth.

They walk back to the kitchen together, and Mr. Mason washes his hands. Andy brings his empty teacup to the sink.

“Thank you for the tea,” he says softly.

Mr. Mason looks up at him. “Any time,” he answers, just as quietly. “If ever you find yourself in need of… tea. You know I’m here.”

Andy nods, and wipes at his eyes. He picks up his hat, from where he had discarded it on the table, and holds it in both hands. “I’ll be getting back now,” he says needlessly.

Mr. Mason smiles. “Of course,” he says, a little more loudly now. “Oh—give my love to Daisy, won’t you?” he asks.

Andy looks for one moment as though he is about to protest, then silently gives in. He nods, and puts his hat on his head. “Sure I will,” he says, and moves toward the door.

***

The tub is nearly all white again. But there is one thing left, that neither of them has been able to touch. Anna frowns, and rests her arms on the rim of the tub, her brush still in her right hand. Mrs. Hughes is on the opposite side of the tub, wiping the floor with a rag. Now she stops, takes a deep breath, and rises to her knees, resting her arms on its rim, too. Their eyes meet for a second across the now gleaming white porcelain, and then they both look down, at the tiny and deadly little thing.

“What should we do with it?” Anna whispers.

Mrs. Hughes presses her lips together. “We’ll have to clean it,” she says. Her next words come as a surprise. “Then we’ll have to put it back. In his shaving kit, where it belongs, so nothing looks amiss.”

Anna looks up at her again. “But suppose he… What if he finds it, and… tries again?”

“He won’t,” the housekeeper says, firmly. “We’ll all be with him, for the next several days, and make sure he doesn’t do anything more to hurt himself.” She inhales deeply. “And after that…” She does not finish.

After that, what? He’ll be all better, and won’t think of things like this anymore? Anna shakes the thought away, and reaches down into the tub for the razor. She sits back on her heels, and looks it over, wet and unassuming, motionless in the palm of her hand. She uses the hem of her apron to wipe it dry, and looks at it again. Suddenly her throat tightens, and she cannot bear to look at it, or any of this, any longer. She drops the blade on the ground, turns, and sits with her back to the tub. She covers her face with her hands, and before she can make a sound, there are arms around her, and a soft hand strokes her face. She lays her head on Mrs. Hughes chest, and weeps.

After a moment, Mrs. Hughes whispers, “That’s alright, love. It will all be alright, you’ll see.” Anna raises her head, and looks the housekeeper in the face, wondering how that can ever be true. Mrs. Hughes puts a hand under Anna’s chin, and adds, “We’re finished here. Come with me now. We’ll go down to my sitting room, and have some tea.”

Anna nods silently, and they both stand. Then Mrs. Hughes bends down to the floor, picks up Thomas’ razor, and hides it in the pocket of her dress.

***

She doesn’t ask Anna to carry anything down the stairs. She balls Mr. Barrow’s soaked trousers and vest in her hands, and brings them to her sitting room for now. Tonight she will hand wash and press the trousers herself, then return them to his wardrobe. The torn and bloodied vest she’ll burn.

Once Anna is settled in the sitting room, Mrs. Hughes returns to the kitchen to ask Mrs. Patmore for tea.

“Is everything alright?” the cook asks, looking rather alarmed. “Andrew came tearing down here earlier, then you ran up the stairs with him. Anna ran out the back door, then the doctor was here,” she adds to the list. “Now Andrew is gone again,” she frets.

It won’t do to trouble her. So she says, with a strained smile, “Everything is fine. Or at any rate, it will be. Don’t worry.”

“But why did the doctor come?” she asks.

Mrs. Hughes drops her shoulders, and gives in just a little. “Mr. Barrow is ill. We were… quite concerned at first, but Dr. Clarkson says he’ll be alright.”

“Oh,” the cook says, looking a little less unsettled now. Then she looks back to the housekeeper. “And you want tea now?” she asks. “For yourself and Anna, in your sitting room?”

Just as Mrs. Hughes is about to answer, Andy walks in, returned from wherever he’s gone. Mrs. Hughes looks at him, then back to the cook.

“You’d better make that three,” she says, then turns to Andy. “Come and have some tea,” she says to him.

The young man follows her to her sitting room, where he sits silently, in a chair near the door. A few minutes later, Mrs. Patmore brings in a tray, with three cups, and a pot of tea, and milk and sugar.

Mrs. Hughes stands from her chair nearest the fire, and pours. She tries not to think on how long it will be before Mrs. Patmore, and then Daisy, and then everyone else finds out what Mr. Barrow has done. There is almost no point in trying to keep secrets in this house. She hands a cup to Anna first, then to Andy.

“None for me, thanks,” Andy says haltingly. “I just had a cup. Two, actually.”

Mrs. Hughes frowns. “Another cup won’t hurt you, Andy. Go on.”

Andy hesitates just a little, then takes the cup. He adds milk and sugar, and takes a sip. Mrs. Hughes adds a spot of milk to her own cup, then just one lump of sugar. Then she sits again, across from her two silent charges.

They all sit, mute in the tiny room, facing each other, but avoiding eye contact, their knees nearly touching. Andy shifts his position, and his chair creaks beneath him. Finally, Anna breaks the silence.

“We’ve all got to be kinder to him,” she says. Tears have begun to fall from her eyes again.

Andy nods. “You’re right,” he says, his voice hoarse. “He’ll hate it, but… we’ve got to.” 

Anna’s eyes widen, and she nods, too. “Yes, exactly. He’ll say we’re only being kind because he hurt himself, but—”

“Well, he’ll be right, won’t he?” Andy asks.

Anna puts her cup on the table next to her, and covers her face with her hands. Instead of sobbing even more though, after a brief moment, she takes a deep breath, and lowers her hands to her lap. Her bottom lip quivers, but she nods again, and says, “In a way, yes. But…” Now she shakes her head, as if disagreeing with herself. “It’s not just because he hurt himself. It’s because… what he did has made us all understand how much pain he’s been in. That’s why we’re going to take care of him, and help him in whatever ways we can. Because he’s hurting.”

Now Mrs. Hughes sets down her own cup. She gives Anna a sad smile, a small part of her proud of the younger woman’s show of understanding and compassion. Anna has certainly had her share of pain and suffering. And now here she sits, wanting to do what she can to ease another’s heartache.

Mrs. Hughes reaches out, and places her hand over Anna’s. “You’re right, love,” she says. “Be kind to him. But be careful. That’s the trouble with… suicide.” She closes her eyes, and shudders at the darkness inside herself. “You don’t really end your pain. You just… move it to everyone around you.”

“But he ought to,” Andy says suddenly.

“What?” Mrs Hughes asks, aghast.

Now Andy shakes his head. “No, I don’t mean… not as a punishment, like. Just…” His lips move for a few seconds, but no sound comes out, as he searches for the words. “What I mean is, we’re stronger than he is right now. We can… shoulder this for him. For now. And we’ll just… let him rest. He ought to let us… help him. Like that.”

His words have come out broken and uncertain, but clear just the same. Mrs. Hughes looks from Andy to Anna, and all three of them nod. There are days when Elsie Hughes believes she has seen everything, but not today. Today she believes that the young people who work under her will likely never cease to amaze her. And her amazement—and their courage and kindness—could not have come at a better time. For underneath all the soothing words, soft touches, and cups of tea she has poured out today, lies her own shattered heart, waiting for the love of another, to come and put it back together.

And if kindness is what will see Thomas through this, then maybe it will be what sees her through, too. She pats Anna’s hand, and sits back in her chair. Then she stands, and picks up the teapot.

“Let’s all have another cup,” she says, and pours again.  

Chapter Text

Friday, 18 June, 1926

It is precisely 5:55 in the morning, the exact time Thomas Barrow prefers to land on the bottom step of the servants’ staircase, dressed and ready for work. As butler, he thinks it best to be downstairs and ready before any of the other servants. Except for the hall boys and the lone scullery maid, of course.

So it is a little odd that the first thing he hears when he gets downstairs is a soft, tidy rapping on the back door. Somehow he knows that such a prim knock can only belong to one person. But he still tries to appear surprised to see Phyllis Molesley standing on the back step at this time in the morning.

He stands up straight, and says as decorously as possible, “Good morning, Mrs. Molesley.”

She looks up at him, and blinks twice, before mirroring his formality. “Good morning, Mr. Barrow.”

When she doesn’t offer anything more, he deflates a little, and says, “Phyl, aren’t you here just a little early?”

She swallows a smile, and answers, “Yes.” Then she steps past him, and into the house.

He waits for a few seconds, while she takes off her hat. “And…?” he prompts.

She turns back to him, her eyes a little wide. Then she looks away. “Perhaps I’ve made a mistake,” she whispers.

He steps toward her, suddenly concerned. “What d’you mean?” he asks. “Is everything alright?”

Now she looks back up at him, and begins to stammer. “I… I think so. I just… I should have asked you first, because… I don’t know if it’s like this for you, but… for me… anniversaries are… difficult. Especially the first one.”

Ah.

They look at each other in silence for close to a full minute. Then he begins, softly saying, “So you came in early today, to check on me? To make sure I’m alright. Because it’s the anniversary of…” Even after a year, he still can’t quite say it, not even to her.

She nods. He recalls briefly all the years he spent rejecting her offers of friendship, refusing her care, even when he needed it. But things are different now. He is finally becoming accustomed to being touched by her kindness. So he smiles. He can’t quite look her in the eye, but he says softly, “Thanks, Phyl. I’ll make us some tea.”

She puts her hand on his arm. “That’s alright,” she says, just as quietly. “You go sit down. I’ll make the tea.”

He gives in, and nods, and walks toward his pantry.

***

When the tea is ready, she carries it very carefully out of the kitchen. Thomas isn’t in his pantry, which strikes her as odd, until she finds him in Mrs. Hughes’ sitting room. If he meant to choose the cosiest place downstairs, then he’s chosen correctly. For a second Mrs. Molesley wonders just how many tears have been shed in this room, how many handkerchiefs offered, how many soft touches have soothed homesickness, tragedy, and unrequited love. If these walls could talk…

Thomas sits in a chair near the fireplace, though there is no fire. He stares at something far away, or nothing at all, until she hands him a steaming cup. She notices that he looks at the tea, to see that she put the milk in, which of course she did. Then he smiles, and says, “Thank you.”

Then she gets herself a cup, and settles herself in the chair opposite him. After she has had a sip, she says, “I hope I haven’t brought something on that wouldn’t have been… I mean, I hope I’m not… bringing on sadness, where there is none.”

He looks at her for a second, then gives her a sad smile. “You’re not,” is his short reply.

“So… you knew it was the anniversary?”

“Of course I did,” he says, not unkindly. “I just… didn’t think anyone else would know. Thought it best to just get through it, like any other day.”

“Is it like any other day?” she asks, tilting her head just a little.

He looks down at his tea, then takes a sip. “In some ways, yes. There’s work, as always, and the family…” He shakes his head a little. “But… well, I suppose what you said earlier, about anniversaries being difficult. That’s because they bring back memories.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” she says softly.

He nods. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t remember it in some way every day.”

She would be lying if she said she didn’t expect this to last for the rest of his life. But she is trying not to bring on more sadness, where there might be none. So she smiles, and asks, “How are you feeling today?”

Somehow she knows that he understands that this remark is not a greeting, but a genuine question. So she waits while he takes a deep breath, and answers, firmly, but carefully, “I’m feeling alright.”

Her smile broadens, and she says, “Good.” When he does not offer more, she asks, “Why do you think it is that you’re feeling alright? I mean, what’s changed?”

“From a year ago?” he asks. She nods. He gives a small, but characteristic snort, before saying, “I’m not going to lie, Phyl. I have steady employment now. It’s not everything, but it certainly helps me to feel… safer.”

She nods eagerly. “Of course it does,” she says. “I think you’re right—it’s not everything, but it’s your livelihood. Earning is so important.” Then she says, more to her tea than to him, “I would know.”

His eyes soften, and he nods. “I know you would,” he says, then gives her another sad smile.

She gives him a similar look in return, and they both sip their tea.

“I know it’s not just having a job, though, Thomas,” she finally says. “What else?”

“Well,” he begins slowly. “I don’t mean to say that… I wasn’t the one who needed to change. I have changed. I think. But…”

“What is it?”

He looks down now, shy somehow. “You… you all are so much nicer to me now,” he whispers.

Oh, Thomas. He is right, of course. He needed to change the way he saw things, the things he thought, but he wasn’t the only one. A year ago, all of them finally decided to let him belong, give him a chance to do right. “I think that’s true,” she says, after a moment.

He looks into her eyes, silently considering something. Then he says, “Can I show you something?”

She sets down her teacup, and answers, “Of course.”

“Come with me,” he says. They both stand, and she follows him out of the sitting room, and down the little corridor to the servants’ hall. He hasn’t finished his tea, so he carries it with him, and leads her to the log he keeps on a little dais, under all the bells, which remain silent for the moment. Without touching the book, he nods to it, and says, “This is the book where I keep of all our comings and goings, deliveries, inventories, things like that. Mr. Carson kept it before me; we’ve had it forever.”

She knows this already, so she only nods. He looks at her a bit expectantly, then says, “Open it to the last page.” She does as he asks, and finds what looks like a list, or maybe a timeline. She looks up at him. “Go on,” he says. “You can read it.”

The top line reads, 15 January, 1926 My first birthday party, hosted by all the other servants, to welcome me home. Sybbie and George made me a crown, and told me I’m the king.

She looks up at him, and he nods encouragingly. She returns her eyes to the page, and reads, 24 January, 1926 Mr. Bates polished my shoes for me. Did it without my asking him to.

Now she is beginning to understand. She continues down the page, and reads:

5 February, 1926 Mrs. Patmore saved me a cake from the family’s pudding. Put more icing on mine than the ones she sent upstairs.

28 February, 1926 Nearly slept past six. Late coming down; Daisy kept a hot cup of tea waiting for me.

10 March, 1926 Baby Bates fussing in the nursery; Anna brought him down, and only I could get him settled. She said I have a way with the little ones.

Her vision clouds a bit when she reads, 17 April, 1926 Phyllis brought me a pink tulip from Molesley’s garden. Said it reminded her of when we were kids, though I can’t think why. Doesn’t really matter why, I suppose.

“I remember that day,” she says softly. She laughs lightly when she reads, 14 May, 1926 Molesley asked me to be his best man. Will wonders never cease?

She looks up at him with glassy eyes. “Thomas, this is beautiful,” she says. “But… what does it mean? What’s it for?”

He gives her a funny look, one she can never quite discern; is it a smile or a frown? Then he takes a swallow of tea, as though he is stalling. He looks at the book, and says, “Well, I started doing it because… I suppose I seem to have a bad memory for good memories.”

“What?” she asks.

He rolls his eyes a little. “It’s not ‘Mr. Barrow’s journal of sunshine and positivity’ or anything. It’s just… when people are unkind to me, I tend to remember it forever. But when they’re good to me, I forget it somehow. And I want to remember the good things—I do. So I started writing ‘em down. To help me remember.”

Phyllis smiles up at him. “I think that’s wonderful,” she murmurs.

“You do?” he asks, skeptical.

“Of course I do,” she says. “And don’t worry, it’s not overly positive,” she adds playfully. “It’s just honest. It’s perfect.”

His cheeks redden just a little. “Thanks,” he says.

“I’m a little surprised that you keep it here, though,” she says, nodding to the book. “Out in the open.”

He shrugs. “I figure it’s the last place anyone would look. This has got to be the most boring book in the house.”

“Except for the last page.”

He arches his eyebrows. “Right,” he says. “And even if they do look, it’s just the truth, and all of it’s good. I don’t think anyone will hold it against me.”

She smiles. “I’m sure you’re right,” she says. He still holds his teacup in his right hand, so she takes his scarred hand in hers, and lowers her voice, though no one is around to hear them. “Thomas, I hope you can see that… just doing this, wanting to remember the kindness we’ve shown you… is proof that you’ve changed.”

“Is it?” he asks, though his skepticism is melting away.

“Yes,” she affirms.

He considers this a moment, then smiles slyly. He raises his teacup, as though it were a pint of beer. “Well, look at me,” he drawls. “Becoming a better man, every day.”

“Hear, hear,” she says, and he drains the last of his tea.

“Here, hold this for me,” he says, and hands her his cup. She stands on her toes and peers over his shoulder, as he picks up a pencil, and writes, 18 June, 1926 Phyllis made me tea, and made me happy. Also she assures me I’m not becoming too soppy in my old age.

She laughs a little, and threads her arm through his. She leans into him, and says softly, “I’m glad to know I made you happy. And I hope you know that I’ll always be here. Whenever you need some tea.”

He looks sideways and down at her. “I’m beginning to know it, I think,” he says.

She squeezes his arm. “Good,” she says. “And Thomas?”

“Yes?”

 “I never said you weren’t soppy.”