She should have rightly had that crack repaired years ago. Painting and maintenance of the servants' quarters were generally undertaken during the season, when half the occupants cleared out to follow the family to London and the long quiet days of summer stretched to accommodate the completion of a thousand minor chores.
Her plans to have the repairs done that first summer immediately after she discovered the crack in the upper left hand corner of the wall were halted when the family abruptly returned half-way through the season due to Lord Grantham's upset over some now long-forgotten social slight.
By the second year, the crack had progressed down the wall nearly eight inches and she found that she had developed an odd attachment to the fractured surface. It was as if the crack itself had become her own private bit of insurrection – like a well-earned scar, a secret oasis of imperfection in the midst of an existence dominated entirely by the unending pursuit of perfection. She simply could not bring herself to have it casually plastered over. And since no one ever entered her room, she didn't have to.
Now, nearly ten years on, sometime gone 2 a.m., she found herself lying far too alert and making an intense study of the telltale line that reached jaggedly across the diagonal span of the wall just to the left of her bed.
That wall. That wall that had been her unyielding companion during the darkest hours of the better part of two decades. That wall that, through more nights than she cared to admit even to herself, she had pressed her back against when its cold, hard surface and the embrace of an extra blanket were the only comforts on offer to beat back the savage demons of fear, guilt, and sorrow that threatened to overtake her.
That wall.
It had been thirteen days since the maddening, blustering, impossible, absolutely lovely man who now slept on the other side of that perfectly imperfect wall had stood before her in her sitting room and in timid, halting tones bumbled out his proposal. Thirteen days of endless minor crises and catastrophes that had stretched from early morning to late night, essentially doubling their work loads and robbing them of the slightest opportunity to exchange even a single word in private.
Thirteen days of elation and confusion, excitement and doubt, wonder and certainty, excitement and fear.
Thirteen days.
And now thirteen cold, dark nights of broken sleep and fragmented dreams that accumulated to not one good night's sleep among them.
Oh, how she had grown in recent years to particularly hate these endless cold January nights, when even the breaths of her own body seemed to plot against her, birthing from her pale lips and ghosting to circle with the shadows of the ceiling, taunting in conspiratorial tones of a thousand missed opportunities and lonely regrets.
All she wanted was one brief private conversation with the man. Was that really too much to ask, she wondered, slapping the wall in frustration. She ran her hand along the frigid, unyielding surface, climbing ungracefully to her knees to reach toward the long fissure. That wall.
Oh, her logical mind knew that all that was required of her was a bit more patience. The urgent mania of the past few days would soon dwindle to an end, and they could fall back into their more steady routine of easily snatching at least 30 full seconds of conversation at a time before being interrupted by some overly-timid scullery maid complaining of a mild headache or a surly underbutler grasping for scandal.
Perhaps, with luck, they might even find a few minutes to enjoy a bit of sherry and a heartfelt conversation one evening before March. All that was required was patience. And, Lord knows she had demonstrated that she could be patient. Ever so patient.
But now she found that just as the promise of unprecedented and potentially wondrous changes was in the air, her patience was growing perilously thin.
She couldn't even really have said what exactly it was she wanted of the man in those moments. Reassurance? No, not really; she had no doubts about his full intention to see his plans to fruition. But what exactly were these plans? Not that it really mattered, mind. Whatever his plans were she was certain to either accept them wholeheartedly or guide him towards the subtle changes necessary to make them more tenable, just as she always had.
When she thought about it honestly, she really just wanted to speak to him. And have him speak to her. And the fact that he was, in fact, less than ten feet away from her on the other side of that blasted wall only made the whole experience of not being allowed to speak to him, to set eyes on him all the more infuriating.
That wall. There must be some tool readily available somewhere on the estate that could be used to break through this barrier with ease, she thought facetiously.
She mindlessly gnawed her bottom lip as she wondered with some delight how he might react if she were to somehow, at 3 o'clock on a cold Tuesday morn, manage to actually create an opening between their tiny, barren domains.
Would he reach for her hand and step through to her side? Would he bluster and bellow at the impropriety of such willful destruction of his lordship's property? Would he cower from her madness, pressed against the opposite wall, eyes wide with fear? Would he flee from the room entirely, seeking refuge in the darkened halls of the great house, the family, the dull ordered structure of it all?
She snickered quietly, shaking her head. Surely, this was actually madness. What she needed now was sleep, but she knew from past experience that no more sleep would come.
Pinching the bridge of her nose, she briefly considered going downstairs and attempting to discipline her thoughts with a cup of tea, but her mind rejected the idea as soon as it formed. She had no doubt consumed thousands upon thousands of gallons of tepid tea in her lifetime without finding the first answer to any of her life's questions in a cup.
Why ever do we drink so much tea? she wondered as her hand found its way along that crack again.
Yes, perhaps this wall should just come down. Maybe the whole idea wasn't as mad as it initially seemed. Perhaps they could be married immediately and just open up the space to one large room. Oh, or maybe just create a door. Yes, a suite of rooms seemed sensible enough for a married butler and housekeeper. They would have easy access to converse without being thrust into losing their individual privacy, should he not wish that type of marriage, of course.
Yes, perhaps all they needed was a well-placed door, she thought as her fingertips skirted up and down over the crack before finding purchase on a lose spot. Working her nail into the broken surface, she pried down, laughing in delight as a one-half inch chunk of plaster fell silently to the bed.
Was it really this simple? Could she simply chip away at the wall herself? Somehow the concept seemed oddly familiar. Even comfortable. Here and now, she had a problem and the simplest solution was just to take it in hand.
She made an intense study of the small crater that had been created in the once austere surface. Madly, she imagined a newfound warmth emanating from that spot and enveloping the room. Wondering one last time if she could really do this, she raised her arm, steadied herself, and then struck just below the opening with the heel of her palm. Hard.
A series of small cracks spread in a web from the point of impact and several small chunks of plaster broke off and scattered to cover the bed and the floor behind. Oh, now, this was interesting. She didn't yet know how she might cut through the wooden lath strips when it came to do that, but she was certain something would come to her at the right time. For now, she had plenty of work to do removing the plaster surface. She slapped the wall again.
Oh, this would take a while at this pace. A good while at that. But, really, what better had she to do? And, Lord knows she could be patient. Ever so patient.
It briefly occurred to her that she might be causing a bit more noise than was strictly proper, but that thought just egged her on to complete her task as quickly and as thoroughly as possible. She slapped the wall again and again, taking measured delight in the thin layer of plaster dust and scraps covering the bed. She could send one of the maids to change the sheets and clean this mess in the morning. No matter.
Suddenly, someone was on the bed with her – hands grasping, pulling her away from the wall, and into a rough embrace. She briefly attempted to struggle her way back to the task at hand, before she recognized that she lacked the physical strength necessary to break away. When her captor began rocking her back and forth and making rhythmic shushing noises, she attempted to fix her with her most withering glare, but was not allowed the personal space even to accomplish that.
She became vaguely aware that a small crowd had begun to gather in her bedroom doorway. She could hear the murmuring expressions of angst and concern. And perhaps a little derision? No, Miss O'Brien had been gone for years now; none of the other girls would react that way. She would have liked to have given the small congregation a reassuring glance, but she still couldn't fight her way from Mrs. Patmore's firm grasp.
Only when she noticed the wet spot growing across the front of the cook's robe did she realize that perhaps she was crying. She took this information on with a level of mildly detached wonder.
"Daisy," Mrs. Patmore said with uncharacteristic calm, "go wake Mr. Carson."
"I'm sure he's already awake," Daisy mumbled.
"Well then, go invite him to join us."
"I'm not sure ..."
"Daisy!"
"Yes, Mrs. Patmore," Daisy called out, as she shuffled the few feet necessary to grab the hanging key and unlock the door to the men's hall.
Immediately, a cacophony of men's voices echoed through the attics, all topped by his bellowing, "What's going on in here?" And then she noticed, much to her irritation and embarrassment, the tears came in earnest.
She couldn't see him when he reached the doorway, what with her face continuing to be buried with undue force into the cook's bosom, but she felt his presence none the less. After a brief pause, he ordered everyone back to bed with all the loud, blustering assurance that his role demanded.
"Mr. Carson ..." Of course it would be Daisy. The poor sweet girl just did not know when to leave it alone.
"Thank you, Daisy. Mrs. Patmore and I will handle it from here," he said with just a tinge of frustration creeping into his otherwise controlled delivery.
Only after the shuffles and whispered grumbles had retreated behind closed doors did he let the mask drop.
"Is she alright? She's not injured is she?" He took a tentative step into the room.
"No, I don't think so. She was just sobbing and beating the wall when I came in," Mrs. Patmore replied. "Looks like she actually broke some of it away. The wall, that is."
"Beating the wall? With her hands?"
She felt the cook nod above her. She had given up on any attempts to speak for herself, overwhelmed as she was by the struggle to continue breathing in the face of dual threats: the soul-wracking sobs poised at any moment to overtake her and Mrs. Patmore's apparent continued efforts at suffocation.
"Take her down to my pantry. I'll join you there in a few minutes."
Mrs. Patmore insisted on helping her into her robe and then guided her down the stairs as if it were her first attempt at walking upright, mumbling inane words of encouragement all the way. The short journey did seem to calm her panic a bit – although it briefly struck her that the real help might have been renewed access to oxygen. At least the tears had stopped.
When they reached the door to his pantry, Mrs. Patmore produced the key from her pocket. She realized that he must have passed the cook the key upstairs, and this action seemed to her shockingly unnecessary. Surely they could have just waited in the servants' hall until he came down. She momentarily tried to tease out why this irritated her so much, but found that once she focused on the issue she couldn't really be bothered to care. The stone floor was too cold under her bare feet.
Leaving the key in the lock, Mrs. Patmore guided her into the room and parked her gently, but firmly, into the nearest chair, and then pulled another chair around to take a seat facing her. They sat like that, cagily staring at each other in silence, for what seemed an age.
"Do you feel ill? Are you hurt? Was it a nightmare? Can I get you anything?" Without warning, Mrs. Patmore suddenly began twisting her hands together and rattling off questions one after another. She placidly realized she had no answers for any of them, even if she had been given time to answer, so she just stared at a spot above the cook's shoulder and tried to corral her thoughts.
"I'll take it from here, Mrs. Patmore. You need your rest," he spoke from the doorway with obvious forced confidence.
"But ..."
"Thank you, Mrs. Patmore," he interrupted, allowing a bit more tenderness to creep into his voice. "We'll be fine."
"Right," the cook said, slapping her hands down on her knees before fairly bursting out of the chair and past him through the door. "You know where to find me if you need anything."
Without another word, he closed the door and crossed to stand in front of her. He let out a great sigh as she made a quiet and intense study of his slippered feet. She thought perhaps new slippers might one year be an appropriate Christmas gift for a husband, no matter the nature of the marital relationship. They seemed personal, but not too personal, if it turned out he was simply looking for a marriage of companionship and convenience. Yes, slippers would do. If, of course, he still wanted to marry her at all after this vivid display of insanity.
"Mrs. Hughes," he began quietly, crouching a bit and attempting to catch her gaze. She noticed that he was using the same tone of cautious optimism that she had heard him use when addressing the children of the household. She found this both insulting and endearing in equal measure – a dichotomy of responses that had grown uncomfortably familiar in her years of dealing with this man.
"Mrs. Hughes," he tried again, "are you quite well?"
She knew she should answer his question. She knew what her answer was to be. Of course she was well; what choice was there aside from being well, really? And heaven knew she didn't wish to cause him anymore alarm than she already had. Or appear any weaker to him than she already did. She knew she should answer his question, but she couldn't quite puzzle out just which words to use.
She wondered if she was well at all. In a moment of clarity, she was suddenly struck by the overwhelming absurdity of it all – her behavior, her thoughts, him, the wall, the house, the family, the staff, all the secrets, all the lies, the years of war and strife and loneliness and pain, and always the damned propriety behind it all – all of it. Utterly, utterly absurd.
A single monosyllabic bark escaped her throat; she thought she had intended it as laughter, but it was far too loud, far too harsh for the cold, brittle night air.
"Mrs. Hughes?" His ordinarily booming voice was reduced to little more than a whimper. His trepidation was growing palpable as he shifted anxiously from one foot to another.
She felt, rather than saw, him rub his hand across his face while she focused intently on making a study of a spot beyond his legs and just above the baseboard. "Is that a hole?" she wondered, thinking madly that perhaps if she could fold herself small enough she could crawl into that space and wait out the scorching humiliation of this whole series of events.
"It's just that infernal wall," she muttered, moving her eyes to the stone floor between them and chewing her lip.
He took a long ragged breath and exhaled loudly, stepping closer to her and reaching for her hand.
"It's all of them," he said, his voice trembling with a dark sadness unlike anything she had ever heard from him before.
Whatever did he mean by that? Looking up sharply, she was stunned to find him starring at her with a mix of mild panic and open adoration, eyes bathed in growing pools of emotion.
And suddenly she had her answer. The opening was there. And he was pulling her through.