On an early winter afternoon, cold and covered in snow, when only the withered branches , which like fingers grabbed at the sky, characterised the landscape, a man dressed in a black coat and hat walked down the small road to Downton Abbey.
The country house in the Jacobethan style placed itself in strong contrast to the colourless plain, which featured neither hills nor mountains, and illuminated with the help of its fairy lights, which shined through the building's countless windows, the lonesome path of the man.
Every step of the man left imprints of his boots on the ground, but the cold winter wind would soon erase all the traces left behind, and not a single man could tell whether somebody had walked along this way or not.
As the man reached the house, he didn't aim for the impressive bronze door, which was flanked by two black dragons spying fire, but for the backyard. It was a dark place, far away from the fairy lights and whelmed by grey dreariness. All the available light was shielded by high walls and merely the weeds between the breakages of the grey stone tiles on the ground brightened the darkness.
As the man reached the old door made out of robinia wood, he stopped for a moment and took a deep breath since it was a rarity in the man's life to enjoy nature's silence without disruption. Through some small cracks in the door, he could already hear various voices whereupon he saw the matching faces in his mind's eye. His gloved hand reached for the black door knob, twisting it twice to the right, before entering the building.
He was greeted by the smell and warmth of the kitchen range that had struggled through the gloom of solitude of the hallway. Leaving hat and coat behind, the man finally hurried to the nearest room: the servants' hall.
It was a large rectangular room, equipped with a massive wooden table without a table cloth that was surrounded by simple chairs. The servant bells hung on the right side of the room, antique brass stood out against the black bracket, and were hardly touched by the light of the six hand-sized lamps which clung to the ceiling as though they'd otherwise be drowning in the dark void. The highlight of the room, however, was a rocking chair in front of an open fire on the left side of the entrance. It was a cosy place where one could hide from the present, but not the past.
"Mr Barrow," a young man wearing a footman's livery bowed his head, but his eyes never left the silver cutlery he was leathering.
"Andy," the man acknowledged, forcing himself to smile. But before he pressed his lips into a thin line, he knew that the other man wouldn't look at him.
"Where are the others?" he asked instead.
"Mr Carson is in his office, taking inventory. Mrs Hughes and Mrs Patmore are in the kitchen." Thomas nodded in agreement. He could hear them arguing, and he already knew that Mr Bates was cleaning the boots in the adjacent room which meant that Anna would probably be there as well.
"May I go now?" Thomas looked at the younger man, who was biting on his lower lip, still refusing to make eye contact. He sighed.
"You don't have to ask me. You know that."
"Just wanted to be sure," Andy mumbled, before he left the room, leaving the silver unattended. For a second, Thomas closed his eyes while shaking his head. Andy had been ignoring him for weeks now and yet the reason was unclear.
Thomas ran his fingers through his hair and sat down on a chair near the silver. He could feel the heat of the chimney fire on his back, whence a pleasant feeling of home radiated through his body, but both his fingertips and his heart remained cold.
Thomas remembered perfectly well the day he'd met Andy. At a first glance, he'd seen that the younger man with an aura of childlike innocence was a good-hearted individual, who, with his large brown eyes, attentively observed his surroundings. Andy's impartiality and openness had made it easy for Thomas to get to know the new footman and to establish a cordial friendship. Consequently, it had been no wonder that in a minimum of time Thomas had decided that he'd exercise kind patronage towards Andy without once indulging himself with his company. He had learnt this lesson a long time ago.
When he'd given his heart to the footman Jimmy Kent, in a desperate attempt to find his harbour of comfort, he'd not only lost his love, but also his courage and confidence in the stormy sea of life. His heart had been shattered into a thousand pieces which now were only hold together by rusty nails and rotten wood. Thomas hadn't dared to expose his fragile heart once again and so he'd exercised restraint.
It'd been difficult and he'd indeed changed under his self-generated pressure, but he'd been content with his transformation. In weeks past he'd become more friendly and calmer. Instead of mockery, he used friendliness. He'd had scrupulously avoided any physical contact, although his fingers had yearned for a brief touch of the other man's skin. And yet something had changed. Their friendship was long gone and left was only the hot anger and disappointment in Thomas's stomach.
As Thomas left his thoughts and came back into reality, he was surprised to find himself leathering the silver now. Old habits die hard, he thought and laughed, but laughing hurt and so he stopped.
'Oh Mr Barrow, here you are,' Mrs Hughes's voice startled him, 'Why are you sitting here all by yourself when Mrs Patmore is waiting for her ingredients?' She placed her hands on her hips, looking at him expectantly.
'Because I didn't feel like it,' said he while stretching his legs under the table. It was true; he didn't feel like it because he didn't feel like doing anything at all. With Andy's good nature gone, he was left in a pool of self-pity. Mrs Hughes lips got thinner as she pursed them, her jaw muscles moved but no sound was uttered.
'You didn't feel like it,' she eventually echoed, 'but maybe His Lordship feels like having a well-prepared dinner? So hurry and bring the ingredients!' He rolled his eyes, before he went back to his coat fishing for the compact parcel which was still in his left coat pocket. He had collected it in the village, but only after he'd run some errands for himself: dispatching a letter, buying new cigarettes and looking through some books at Bunker's bookshop, otherwise he wouldn't have done it at all. After all, he was the under-butler of Downton Abbey.
Thomas grabbed the parcel and brought it back into the kitchen. Mrs Patmore's face was flushed, her hair, although partly hidden under her bonnet, stuck sweaty on her forehead. It was hellish hot in the kitchen since both the stove and all hobs were in use. Daisy and two new kitchen maids were either cutting vegetables or stirring something in the copper pots.
'What has taken you so long?' asked Mrs Patmore, eyes fixed on the cake batter in front of her. Thomas shrugged with his shoulders.
'The weather, I assume.'
'Oh, Mrs Patmore, don't be so harsh on him,' said Daisy, with a fondness in her voice, 'I bet Thomas was full of good intentions when he offered to get our ingredients. And the weather is really bad. Look at all the snow.'
'The road to hell is paved with good intentions,' murmured Mrs Patmore in response, but she took the parcel and opened it. 'At least you've got everything I need.'
Thomas rolled his eyes and retreated to the servants' hall. He had no interest in the muttering of an old cook. Therefore he decided to go outside for a smoke in order to escape the stifling monotony.
It was cold outside, much colder than before. The piercing wind set his ears and lungs on fire, but the warm smoke of the cigarette filled his body with a feeling that resembled being alive. The midday sun was hidden behind grey and black clouds, which fenced Downton Abbey and separated the building from the rest of the world. It was a lonesome place for haunted souls.