"Here you are!" George said pushing the curtains apart enthusiastically and letting the late afternoon light into the otherwise dark room. "Best view in the house."

Thomas coughed, which George laughed at, knowing it was Thomas' way of registering his skepticism.

He was elderly, nearing 90 years of age, and had been walking with a cane for years, but George could still see the straight line of his shoulders, as if a string were pulling them back. His lips were likewise in their usual straight grim line. George smiled as he watched Thomas walk slowly, deliberately toward him to window. Thomas looked out only for a moment, then turned back to look at the room.

"A Turk died here once."

"I know."

"How could you possibly know?"

"Mother told me."

Thomas turned toward George in surprise.

George chuckled. "She didn't mean to. In her last few years, her mind was in a very fragile state. She was lost in her own memories." George looked away and smiled sadly as he added, "I think I learned more about her relationship with my father at the end than I did the whole of my life."

Thomas rapped his cane on the floor. "Rubbish! She spoke to you often about him. So did I. So did we all."

"About him, but not about their life together, however brief it was."

Thomas looked down and was quiet for a long moment. "I imagine it was hard for her," he said finally.

George sighed. "I know. I don't blame her, neither do I blame Henry, who was always good to me. Still, I had a bit of fun listening in as she spilled some of her secrets. For a woman so staked to tradition, it would seem she had a bit of a wild streak. I'd never tell anyone else this, but since it's you . . . did you know she bedded the Turk?"

"So did I," Thomas said dryly.

"What?!"

"I wanted to anyway. I tried and was rebuffed."

George laughed. "Maybe he regretted it, and that was what killed him."

Thomas turned to look at George, a small smile on his lips. "You're a good person to indulge me like this, milord. The best of men. Mr. Crawley would have been proud, no doubt. I know you tire of hearing how you resemble him, but it is true. Inside and out."

"Thank you, Barrow. I don't mind hearing it from you."

"I'd say you continue to make Lady Mary proud, but I've no doubt she's rolling in her grave now, knowing you're letting me stay here."

"I doubt that. She was very fond of you, you know."

"Never as fond of me as she was of Mr. Carson."

"Which one was he?"

"My predecessor. Crotchety old fart. You better believe he'll be haunting me if she doesn't."

"Well, someone has to live here. With the children all grown and gone now, Laura prefers London, and I must say so do I. The steward says the tours don't come near this wing of the house, anyway, so you won't be disturbed."

Thomas opened his mouth to speak again but was interrupted by his nurse, who came in with his suitcases. "Here you are, Mr. Barrow," the young man said without looking up. When he did, he noticed George. "Oh, hello, Lord Grantham. I didn't think you'd still be here."

"Just making sure Barrow is well settled. Your room is just next-door and should be ready as well. The housekeeper told me as much this morning."

"It is, indeed, milord, thank you."

George looked back and for between the young man and Thomas. "Why don't I go ask her to bring some tea in the library," he said to Thomas.

"Could she serve it here, milord," the nurse said quickly. "Mr. Barrow has had a long day already, and he'll need to have his medications shortly."

Thomas stomped his cane again in annoyance. "I can manage perfectly well."

"No, no, no!" George cut in. "Here will be just fine. We have this lovely view, anyway."

Thomas rolled his eyes.

"Barrow, we've paid for the best doctors for you—what good would that be if we ignore their advice."

Thomas turned to the window. "My shoddy lungs aren't killing me. Old age is."

George smiled and put his hand on Thomas' shoulder. "Says the man who's likely going to out live us all."

Thomas looked at George from the side of his eyes and his lips couldn't help but twitch into a small smile.

"Why don't I go fetch the tea," the nurse said.

George turned to him again. "That would be nice, thank you."

"You don't have to do this, you know," Thomas said with a sigh, after the young man had left the room.

"I don't like to think of this house without you in it," George said.

Thomas laughed. "You were always so sentimental."

"Mother said it was granny's American blood in me."

"Or your fool Irish uncle's influence."

George laughed. "You never did like Uncle Tom much, did you?"

"I'm the only one who remembers what a nuisance he was as the chauffeur."

"You remember everything."

"A blessing and a curse."

"Do you want to know what I remember?"

Thomas furrowed his brow, a mix of curiosity and skepticism in his expression, which made George smile.

"I remember you. You were holding me . . . it's my oldest memory, as it happens. We're in the servants hall. I'm in your arms. I can't have been more than five years old—three or four perhaps. I feel sad for some reason, and you tell me that you're always going to be my friend. Do you remember that?"

Thomas didn't answer. He looked steadfastly out the window, but George could see the old man's eyes filling with tears.

George swallowed the lump in his own throat and added, "I want you to know, Barrow. I never had a better one."