Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes were comfortably ensconced in the housekeeper's sitting room enjoying a glass of wine after a long day's work. Carson was heatedly relating an exchange that occurred at the upstairs dinner. "The Dowager asked me if I was overworking Mr. Barrow. Mr. Barrow. And do you know what he said to her?" Without waiting for a reply, he continued. "He told her that I was the 'soul of kindness.' "

Mrs. Hughes was fighting hard not to laugh. No one could get under the butler's skin like Thomas Barrow. "That was very cheeky of him," she agreed, "but you can understand why she asked."

Carson's bushy eyebrows rose questioningly.

"Well, you must have noticed how awful he's been looking lately."

"The only thing I've noticed is he's been distracted from his work, forgetting things and disappearing all the time."

"Maybe you should have a talk with him, man to man," the housekeeper suggested.

"What is it you suspect, Mrs. Hughes?"

"I couldn't tell you, but something is definitely going on."

"Perhaps he's contracted some sort of—disease." Carson spat out the last word with disdain. He couldn't hide his distaste for the underbutler's sexual proclivities.

"All I know is he's in some kind of trouble. He won't ask for help, so you'll have to get it out of him."

"Hmm." The butler frowned his displeasure. The last thing he wanted to do was take another tour of Thomas' revolting world.

In the servants' hall, Daisy scraped off the remaining food from the dinner plates before toting them to the kitchen to be washed. She noted that once again, Thomas' meal had gone largely uneaten. She shared her findings with Mrs. Patmore who shrugged indifferently. "Maybe he's on a diet," the hefty cook suggested.

"But Mr. Barrow's not fat."

"Well, I don't know, do I? Now go fetch the rest of those dishes."

Anna Bates was perched across from her husband in their small sitting room balancing a cup of tea on her lap. It was her favorite time of day. Their work was done, and the couple could finally be alone to speak uninterrupted without fear of being overheard. Lately, the conversation had centered on the investigation into Mr. Green's death. They both had a feeling they hadn't heard the last of that, but now Anna's mind was on something else. "Have you noticed how dreadful Mr. Barrow looks since his week away? He hasn't really been himself since Jimmy left."

Bates turned to her with raised eyebrows. "We both know why that is, don't we?"

"All that was over a long time ago," Anna reminded him.

"Maybe it was over for Jimmy, but I don't think it was necessarily over for our friend Thomas."

"You must remember to call him Mr. Barrow now."

"I can think of a lot of other things I'd rather call him."

"John," his wife admonished. "You don't think something could really be wrong, do you? I know you don't like him, but what if he's ill?"

"Thomas Barrow can look after himself. Now forget about him, and come here and give me a kiss." There was no more talk about the underbutler that night.

Thomas set down his teacup, preparing to head upstairs for yet another sleepless night. The pain and fever from the injections he was giving himself made him edgy and irritable. If the purpose of the drugs was to deaden his feelings, it was definitely working. He felt nothing now but utter exhaustion. "Are you two lovebirds coming up?" he asked Miss Baxter and Mr. Molesley mockingly. Receiving no reply, he promptly exited the servants' hall, leaving the middle-aged pair alone.

Miss Baxter watched him go with concern. "I'm worried about him. He looks dreadful."

The footman snorted. "I don't know that I care much."

The woman seemed taken aback. "That not kind, Mr. Molesley."

"I'm sorry, but after what he did to you, threatening to expose your past unless you spied for him—"

"Don't forget, he's also the one who got me this job, and I'm grateful to him for that."

Molesley was grateful too. He had come to care very much for Miss Baxter.

The lady's maid lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone. "I saw something the other day, something he didn't want me to see. I'll tell you, but you mustn't repeat a word."

"What was it, Miss Baxter?" Molesley moved his chair in closer. His curiosity was piqued now.

"I was passing the bathroom and heard him shout out. I knocked on the door to see if he needed help. He finally opened the door, and he was crying."

"Mr. Barrow was crying?"

"I looked into the room and saw a small case full of vials and pills, and beside it lay a syringe. What do you think it means?"

"Drugs?" Molesley looked rather shocked. His vague knowledge of drug abuse involved opium dens and mysterious men from the Orient. "Did you ask him about it?"

"I tried, but he wouldn't talk to me. I'm afraid he's still angry over that business with Her Ladyship." Thomas' attempt to get her sacked had backfired when an angry Cora threatened to dismiss him instead. "You don't suppose he's become addicted to drugs, do you?"

"You should tell Mr. Carson what you saw and let him get to the bottom of it."

Miss Baxter looked aghast. "Oh, I couldn't do that. I wouldn't want to get Mr. Barrow in any trouble. I just want to help him if I can."

The footman shook his head uncomprehendingly. "I don't know why you waste your time on him. He wouldn't care about you."

"Maybe not, but I've known his family for a good long time, and things haven't always been easy for him."

"You know that he's a-a—" Molesley stammered, unable to say the word.

"I know what he is, Mr. Molesley."

He hurried to change the subject. "You said you knew his sister when you were growing up."

"His sister and I were good friends back then, and I spent a lot of time with the Barrows. After school, we would go into Mr. Barrow's clock shop, and he would give us a sweet. Sometimes Mrs. Barrow would be there too with little Tommy." She smiled fondly in remembrance. It seemed strange to think that the proud, elegant underbutler was the same "little Tommy" she remembered from her youth.

"It sounds like you have a soft spot for him."

"Maybe I do, but you didn't know him then. He was a sweet, sensitive, clever, little boy; always smiling, always laughing, but he had a hard time when he started school. He got good grades, but he didn't fit in with the other children. They teased him terribly, and he would come home crying, the poor little thing," the kind-hearted woman remembered. "His mother wanted to go down to the school, but Tommy wouldn't let her. You see, he was strong and independent even then. He wanted to take on the bullies all by himself."

The footman wasn't swayed. "Now he's the one doing the bullying. You have to accept that he's changed, Miss Baxter. He's not that sad little boy anymore."

"I'm not so sure of that, Mr. Molesley. I'm not sure at all."

Thomas was slowly making his way up the stairs stopping frequently to rest. He took morbid satisfaction in imagining one of the male servants finding him dead in the morning knowing that he died trying to be more like them. Of course, they wouldn't care. No one really cared about him.