Day 1

Thomas Barrow hated being ill. It made him feel fragile and weak. So on that gloomy day in early November when he awoke with a fever and a sore throat, he was determined to soldier on. He made his way downstairs to breakfast fighting a headache and a pesky cough. A bowl of thick porridge was placed before him, and out of habit rather than hunger, he reached for a slice of toast.

The talk in the servants' hall that morning was centered on the upstairs dinner party scheduled for that evening. Mr. Carson was giving instructions to Molesley and the new footman, Andrew. Thomas heard his booming voice as though through a thick blanket of fog. "I expect everyone to carry their weight tonight. That includes you too, Mr. Barrow." The butler frowned. "Mr. Barrow?"

Thomas looked up, aware that everyone was staring expectantly at him. "I'm sorry, Mr. Carson. What were you saying?"

"Hmm." The butler pursed his lips in annoyance.

From across the table, Miss Baxter fixed Thomas with a look of concern. "Your color is up. Are you feeling all right?"

"Yes, thank you," he assured her hoarsely.

The housekeeper turned to him. "You've hardly eaten a bite. Maybe you're coming down with a cold."

"I'm perfectly fine, Mrs. Hughes. I'm simply not hungry."

Carson frowned again. "Time to get to work, I think." The staff dispersed, the lady's maids bringing up breakfast trays for Lady Grantham and Lady Mary, and the men carrying covered dishes to the dining room for the others.

"You really don't look very good, Mr. Barrow," Andy observed.

"Well," Thomas corrected him.

The footman looked puzzled. "Well, what?"

Thomas smiled indulgently. "Never mind."

Later, he was sent into the village to attend to several errands for the family. He had hoped the walk might do him good, but the day was cold and damp, and a stinging rain was beginning to fall. He turned up his collar against the icy wind and trudged on, his fevered head bowed.

His first stop was to the menders to retrieve His Lordship's riding boots that had been in need of repair. He explained his mission to the little man behind the counter who squeaked, "I'll fetch them for you straight away, sir."

"Take your time." Thomas was in no hurry to leave the warmth of the shop, but a minute later, the man returned with a box containing the boots. The underbutler paid the bill, waiting for the carefully written receipt.

Once again, he stepped out into the cold rain. He posted a parcel with Mrs. Wigan, the Downton postmistress. The woman was grumbling to someone in the back, probably the long-suffering Mr. Wigan, and didn't pay him much mind.

His last stop was to the chemist's to pick up a sleeping draft for Her Ladyship. After that, he was free to nip into the pub and was greeted by the proprietor. "The usual, Mr. Barrow?"

"Just tea today, George."

As the barman set the cup in front of him, he commented, "If you don't mind my saying, you don't look too good."

"So I've been told." Thomas steeled himself for the long trek back to the Abbey. Upon arriving, he hurried upstairs to remove his wet things and dry himself off. He desperately longed to rest but was determined to carry on.

At luncheon, he managed to swallow a few bites, but mostly he just pushed the food around his plate hoping that no one would notice. He caught Andy staring up at him and fixed him with a wan smile. Next, he joined Mr. Carson, Molesley, and Andy to serve the upstairs lunch. He was about to take in the salmon when he heard Carson hiss under his breath, "Where is the dill sauce for that?"

Thomas looked at him blankly before asking, "Does it have a sauce?"

Carson's bushy eyebrows drew together in exasperation. "What is the matter with you today?"

Andy approached the two men and quickly piped up. "I've got the sauce right here, Mr. Carson. Mr. Barrow told me to bring it up."

Carson flashed him a look of annoyance before turning back to the underbutler. "Well, get on with it then before it gets cold." He moved off to begin pouring the wine.

Thomas turned to the footman. "Thanks, Andy, but you shouldn't have done that. You don't need a black mark in Mr. Carson's book."

"That's alright. You've covered for me lots of times."

The afternoon wore on slowly with Thomas feeling increasingly worse. Before the guests arrived, he brought the measuring stick to the dining room to check that everything had been laid out properly. When he got to the last place setting, he pulled out the chair and gently lowered himself down. He heard a voice from behind him say, "Don't let Mr. Carson catch you." Andy promptly entered with a look of concern. "Why don't you just tell him?"

"Tell him what?" Thomas asked wearily.

"That you're ill, of course. He'd understand."

"Would he?" Thomas smiled ruefully. He pulled himself slowly to his feet. "I'd better get on."

Finally, evening came, and the dinner guests began to arrive. Thomas relieved them of their coats while Mr. Carson ushered them into the drawing room. If he could only make it through this wretched dinner, he could go upstairs and rest. He was sure he would feel better in the morning after a good night's sleep. Thomas pressed his forehead against the stone mantelpiece in the great hall. The cold helped to soothe his raging fever. He became aware of a tall figure standing beside him. It was Andy on his way to the drawing room balancing a tray full of colorful cocktails. "Are you sure you shouldn't be in bed, Mr. Barrow?"

There were crimson slashes along the underbutler's high, sharp cheekbones. "I'm fine," he replied shakily.

"You're sweating."

"Am I? I guess I'm standing too close to the fire." Thomas forced a broad smile. "You'd better get in there with those drinks."

The footman nodded and continued on his way.

Dinner was soon announced, and Thomas was about to serve the white wine. He clutched the sideboard trying to steady himself before making his way around the table with the crystal decanter in hand. He bumped into the chair of one of the guests, earning him an angry glare from Mr. Carson. He looked over to see Molesley and Andy watching him curiously too. Suddenly, the room began to spin and from somewhere, Thomas heard the sound of breaking glass. The floor seemed to be rising up to meet him, and then everything went black.

He opened his eyes to see Miss Baxter gazing down on him. "How do you feel?" she asked him.

Thomas slowly became aware that he was lying upstairs on his bed. "What happened?"

"You fainted while you were serving dinner."

"I fainted?" He was horrified. "How did I get here?"

"Andy and Mr. Molesley carried you up. Why didn't you say you were ill? Mr. Carson would have excused you."

Carson. "I suppose he's furious."

The lady's maid fixed him with a wry smile.

Thomas added bitterly, "It must have given everybody below stairs a good laugh anyway."

"Of course not. Everyone is terribly concerned. You're running a very high temperature." She rested a worried hand on his forehead. "Do you need help changing into your pajamas? I can ask a hallboy to come up."

"No, I can manage," he answered with more confidence than he felt.

"I'll bring up a tray with your dinner."

"Don't bother. I'm not hungry."

"Well, I'll let you get some sleep then. Hopefully, you'll feel better in the morning."

"I'm sure I will. Goodnight."

She smiled again and exited the room, closing the door softly behind her. Thomas struggled slowly into his pajamas and climbed into bed. He slept fitfully, his rest broken with fevered dreams.