1925

Thomas Barrow drifted slowly into consciousness. His eyelids flickered open for a moment, only to snap shut again when the effort proved too much. He heard the sounds of muffled voices from somewhere nearby but couldn't make out what they were saying. His thoughts were a jumbled mess. He knew he was in his bed, but he had no idea how he came to be there. What was the last thing he remembered? He had encountered Anna and Miss Baxter upstairs in the servants' quarters, but that was before (before what?). He shifted slightly, causing his wrists to voice an objection. His mind kept seeing flashes of vivid red, but he didn't know what it meant. Once more he slept.

The next time he awoke, Miss Baxter was perched on a little chair beside him. Why was she there? Mrs. Hughes wouldn't approve of her being on the men's side, not that she had much to fear from him. "Mr. Barrow?" the lady's maid called. "Can you hear me?"

Thomas managed a slight nod, but it was enough to bring a smile to the woman's face.

"Dr. Clarkson said you're going to be alright. We found you in time."

In time for what? he wondered. And what did Clarkson have to do with it? His eyes caught sight of his wrists, wrapped tightly in clean, white bandages, sticking out from the sleeves of his pajamas.

"I'll bring you some tea." Baxter rose and made her way to the door. She turned and fixed him with a look of concern. "Will you be alright while I'm gone?"

He didn't think he could get into too much trouble lying in his bed but couldn't find the energy to say so. He simply nodded again.

"I won't be long."

He struggled hard to remember, but the more he tried, the further away the memory seemed to slip. Sunlight streamed through the windows of his little attic room. He should be on duty now unless he was ill. But he didn't feel ill, just very weak and terribly tired.

There was a knock on the open bedroom door, and Andy shuffled in. "How are you feeling, Mr. Barrow?"

Thomas noticed that the lad seemed unwilling to look at him, keeping his eyes carefully lowered to the floor. "What am I doing here?" the underbutler asked.

"What do you mean?" Andy was staring at the ceiling now.

"What's happened?"

The young man backed slowly toward the doorway appearing extremely uncomfortable. "I have to go now. Mr. Carson will be looking for me."

"Andy?"

"Just rest, Mr. Barrow." And with that, he was gone.

Miss Baxter soon returned carrying a tray containing a tea service and a small plate of toast. She helped him into a sitting position. The exertion made him feel light-headed and dizzy, and he was afraid he might vomit or even faint. When he was settled, she placed the tray on his lap and poured him a cup. He raised it to his lips with a shaking hand and took a small sip. "What happened to me?" he inquired.

She looked surprised. "You don't remember?"

He shook his head.

"Never mind. It can wait until you're feeling stronger."

"No. Tell me now," he insisted.

Baxter made a decision. "You cut your wrists. Andy and I found you bleeding out in the bath. Dr. Clarkson stitched you up here, so the police wouldn't find out."

Thomas finished his tea, and the lady's maid quickly poured him another cup. "Try to eat too," she urged.

"Does everybody know?"

"The family has been told, of course. Downstairs it's just Andy and me, Mr. Carson, Mrs. Hughes, and Mrs. Bates. The others all think you have the flu."

"Anna?"

"She went to fetch the doctor. We couldn't trust news like this to the telephone."

He was feeling sick as the enormity of his actions began to sink in. "I think I need to sleep now."

Baxter removed the tray but made no sign of leaving. Thomas found her quiet presence comforting and soon fell into a deep slumber.

When he awoke again, the room was dark, and he was alone. He switched on the lamp beside his bed, wincing at the pinch of the sutures. The clock on his night table said it was nearly nine. The staff members would be sitting down to their supper about now. He felt hungry and wondered if he should join them, but the thought of getting dressed and descending the four flights of stairs to the servants' hall was overwhelming. He wasn't sure he would even be welcome after what he'd done.

The sleep had cleared away the cobwebs from his mind, and he remembered everything. He recalled taking his razor into the bathroom with him that afternoon and filling the tub with water. After removing his shoes and socks and stripping down to his vest, he had lowered himself into the warm bath. He'd begun by tracing shallow slits in his wrists, continuing to slice deeper and deeper slashes in the pale skin. He'd been barely aware of what he was doing until the bath water turned pink first, then red. He had watched in fascination as the rivulets of blood ran down his arms until nothing else seemed quite real. The pain and rejection of the world had slowly faded away, leaving him with an oddly peaceful sensation before he'd finally slipped into unconsciousness.

Thomas heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside his room, and Miss Baxter appeared once more with a tray. "The sleep did you good. You've got a bit of color," she told him.

He raised himself into a sitting position again, ignoring the shooting pain in his arms, and she placed the tray on his lap. She studied him while he ate as if he were a puzzle to be solved. "I'm not sure why I did it," he replied to her unspoken question.

"I know how discouraged you've been about not finding another job."

"It wasn't that—at least it wasn't only that."

"You must have been terribly unhappy."

"Yes," he admitted. "I've been unhappy for a very long time."

"Is it because the treatment last year didn't work?"

Thomas was ashamed and angry at having fallen prey to such an obvious hoax. He knew his depression had begun long before that, but he didn't want to talk about it. He set down his knife and fork and pushed the tray away.

The woman seemed to understand. "You don't have to tell me now if you don't want to, but I hope you know I'm always here for you." She collected the tray. "Do you need anything else, Mr. Barrow?"

"No, thank you."

Her kind face looked troubled. "Will you be alright? You won't—"

"No."

"I can stay with you tonight if you like. I don't think anyone would mind."

"That's not necessary." Thomas managed a sickly smile meant to reassure her.

She gave in reluctantly. "Well, good night then."

"Goodnight, Miss Baxter."

As she reached the door, she turned to him once more. "Are you glad you were saved?"

"I'm not sure yet," he answered honestly.

When she was gone, he switched off the lamp and lowered himself down in his bed again. What had he done? Everyone already thought him a thief and a deviant. Now they could add loony to the list, and he wouldn't blame them. Why had he done it? Thomas knew it was more than losing his place at Downton Abbey. That was just the final straw. He supposed he simply couldn't see a future for himself, not one that he wanted to be a part of anyway. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He would need all his strength to face the morning.

The Bateses were relaxing together in the sitting room of their little cottage. Anna had been distracted since tea time, a condition that hadn't gone unnoticed by her attentive husband. "You're very quiet. Is there something on your mind?" he asked her.

"I was just thinking about Mr. Barrow. I hope he'll be alright."

John was taken aback by that. "It's only the flu, which doesn't sound too serious."

Anna didn't speak for a moment. "If I tell you something, you must promise to keep it to yourself."

He waited in silence for her to continue.

"Mr. Barrow doesn't have the flu. Mr. Carson only said that to explain why he has to stay in bed." She paused before adding, "He cut his wrists this afternoon."

"What!" the valet exclaimed in horror.

"Miss Baxter and Andy found him unconscious in the bath. Mrs. Hughes helped them put him to bed while I ran for the doctor."

He sat back in his chair wearing an expression of shocked disbelief.