Mr. Carson is smothering. Mrs. Patmore is hysterical and slightly insensitive. Mr. Bates is depressingly pessimistic. Anna is depressingly optimistic. They all mean well. Sometime she cries alone in frustration. They are trying to take care of her but so often it feels like she has to take care of them. She has accepted her eventual death, they have not. She plays games of what information to release and when, which weaknesses to show and to hide to whom. It is lucky that she made Clarkson an ally from the very beginning, set the parameters, that he has dealt with this sort of thing before.
She hears them talking about her, whispering in hushed voices. Whispering about each other and how they're coping and who's in the wrong now for encouraging her to find or refuse a second opinion, encouraging her to work or to rest, or how they are treating other members of the staff and how they are reacting to the stress. Even The Family has enmeshed themselves into her own small tragedy. Their hopelessness over Mr. Patrick, Miss Swire, Lady Sybil, and Mr. Crawley - a slew of young people who could not be helped - has manifested into meddling (unprecedented, inappropriate levels of) concern. She would rather die sooner, she thinks on occasion, just to be less of a disruption.
He meets Mrs. Hughes' brave, nervous gaze, still hazy from the surgery medicines. He is honest with her, always, appreciates her rationality. It was not just a fluid build up around the lungs. It is another tumor. A third unwelcome partner to the cancer first in her breast and then in her spine. She asks her questions well, he is thorough in the information he gives her. He has learned that feeling as though she is missing crucial information is what distresses her the most. She has been a quick study of the medical terms, the medicines, the processes, the anatomy.
He will write it all down for her in a careful hand, knowing that the slip of paper makes it easier for her to hold her ground the house. For now, he steps into his office. A few minutes to process, to think, to laugh or cry or scream or stare thoughtfully out the window. Someone will be waiting out in the hall to see her. He doesn't know which; they all take turns. He takes a moment to pull a book off the shelf, to refresh himself again on the medicines available to him. It will likely just be easing her towards the end now.
Daisy feels the stress and the strain, feels the others cracking. She doesn't know what's going on, no one tells her directly, she only gets second hand snippets mostly from listening to others' conversations. She works harder in the kitchen, tries to take the stress off of Mrs. Patmore. She tells Alfred and Jimmy to be nice to Thomas, Mr. Barrow, to make things easier on Mr. Carson, to get the hallboys to do more, to be quieter. She chops and stirs and scrubs and worries, worries, worries.
Anna feels out of the loop. She cares for Mrs. Hughes, loves her even. She wants to do what she can, but the preference goes to Mr. Carson and Mrs. Patmore. She feels frustrated with them, their nervous hovering and blustering. Can't they just let Mrs. Hughes do what she wants? Its her life. Although she can't help but feel that she really ought to take up The Family's offer to go to a London doctor. Surely he would know more, have better medicines, than Dr. Clarkson. She knows Downton is Mrs. Hughes' home, but surely the risk of dying in London is worth the possibility of not dying at all? She wants children one day, wants Mrs. Hughes to meet them, to spoil them. She has to believe Mrs. Hughes is strong enough to fight it off, no matter how bleak it seems.
Thomas feels overwhelmed. He always wanted to be butler, but now it seems thrust on him faster than he is prepared for. He tries to manage Mr. Carson, reminding the man of his responsibilities when he seems to become too smothering, volunteering to take on jobs when Mrs. Hughes seems in need of company. He feels almost redundant though with Her Ladyship and Lady Mary and Lady Edith traipsing up and down the servants' stairs regularly to get the latest news, to offer possible solutions. He tries to keep them out, tries to establish regular, shot, visiting times. Mrs. Hughes had confided to him how uncomfortable the visits make her feel. He will never forget what she did for him. The least he can do is be her gatekeeper.
It is a long walk to the hospital. They had used to traverse it without thinking, in years past when they were younger. Now they can do nothing but think. She clutches his arm tightly, grasping his jacket sleeve with two hands, knuckles white. Her balance left a long time ago. Her steps are tiny shuffles, the pace excruciatingly slow, but he is a patient man. He would rather wait on her than anyone else in this world and he has all day. There is a note left for Mr. Barrow and one for Mr. Bates. His Lordship had met them on the way out. Now it is just the two of them.
He has a folding chair under one arm. She hates it. Hates that she needs it. Hates that after so many years of never-ending stairs she is defeated by flat surfaces. Hates that he puts himself out for her. But it would be wrong to use the present tense. She had hated it. Now, it is with gratitude that she sinks onto it, trying to catch her breath. He stands beside her, standing guard, daring so much as an insect to bother her. She reaches for his hand, and he accepts it, wrapping his fingers around her thin, brittle ones as she gazes back at the house.