I'd like to thank everyone who read and reviewed this little story. Thomas and O'Brien are not the characters I naturally gravitate towards and this was probably the most challenging thing I've ever written. Special thanks to Lavinia Swire for her pinch hit beta!

A Garden Grown

Time strolled in a place like Downton. A lazy walk, a moment to bend down and take in the scent of the garden, and before one knew it eight years had elapsed in pitiful redundancy, with nothing to show for it but a few cast off frocks and ten heavily calloused fingers.

Snowfall pattered the windowsill as Sarah perused her face in the mirror. Everyday she looked that much older, was that much slower. Her eyesight hadn't begun to fade, but how much longer before Lady Grantham decided she preferred the gay, sprightly creatures featured in the classifieds of her magazines to the dour face that required the shifting of mountains simply to crack a smile?

But she needn't have worried about age doing her in. By Christmas time, she had sensed her undoing long before it came: deep in her lungs – the influenza, the doctor had said – with a necessary several months rest at least to ensure that it didn't escalate to pneumonia. With perfunctory ease Mrs. Hughes had displaced her role in the house, seamlessly arranging for every gap to be filled.

"Grace can take care of her Ladyship while Miss O'Brien is recovering, and Anna –" a blonde head had perked – the young housemaid's eagerness rivaled any Deb on her premiere ball – "Do you think you can look after Lady Mary and Lady Edith?"

"You can count on me, Mrs. Hughes!"

Gracie Peters was young, efficient. She had not developed the expertise at needlework that for Sarah came instinctively, but like any skill it could be mastered in time. And while her manners could border on awkward and her flattery at times straddled too close to the line of sycophancy, time, as well, could iron out the wrinkles, sand away every rough edge till she gleamed like a polished stone.

One day ago Lady Grantham, in a magnanimous display decried by her mother-in-law as outside the bounds of any propriety and indeed common sense, had personally visited her convalescing maid to dole out the standard sympathies required of the noblesse oblige.

"Dear O'Brien, don't feel too down." Lady Grantham had been perched on the bed like a delicate dove, and Sarah had noted, with annoyance, the parcel of curls pinned far too loosely. "Just be grateful that we caught it early. Dr. Clarkson believes you'll make a full recovery in time." Her smile had been maddeningly sincere. Sarah preferred her disdain completely certifiable, and she could barely look the woman in the face as Lady Grantham had condescended to take her hand and pat it fondly.

Today marked the end of her second week since that first, fateful cough. The snowstorm whirling outside intensified, barraging the window till it rattled. Sarah sighed, and quit the seat at her washstand to sit upon the edge of her bed. On normal days her aching feet would sell half their soles for a few hours leisure; but now there was time enough for selfish restfulness, for painful ruminations, laying day after day in this moribund idleness. Once the initial fever had broken, all that remained was the endless stretch of recovery, a slow and steady march to inevitable yet healthy unemployment.

She knew herself to be walking that desolate road, but it was paved with a tiny consolation: she had a single ally in this great big house, and she prayed that his overtures of loyalty would prove to be more than empty promises of beguiling fruit.

By mid-January Sarah was nearly mended. She could walk about for a mote of time, do a few menial tasks before she had to get her feet up again. Though ordered to remain separated from the uninfected world, snatches of gossip still reached her quarantine – Gracie had been doing quite well for herself, by all accounts, and while such news was bound to cause a momentary lurch in her gut, she was only truly troubled when she heard the updates from the one source that mattered.

The doctor was gone, having just left off violating her person when Thomas sauntered boldly up the wrong set of staircases to enter her room during a lull in the afternoon. He was leaning casually against the wall, with enough gall to actually smoke in a sickroom. Fortunately for him, she did as well.

"Thought the good doctor recommended you lie like a sack of rocks for another two weeks at least," he said.

Sarah puffed angrily. "Sod the doctor. The man wouldn't know a healthy face from the grim reaper's own if it walked up to him and shaved off his mustache." She stood up from her place on the bed, suddenly prodded along by a foreign pair of antsy legs, and stationed herself by the window. The ground was soggy, overlaid by piles of dirty slush. "So Anna tells me Gracie's doing all right," she prompted.

"Maybe." There were no ashtrays here, these rooms barred from sullying with the scent of tobacco, and Thomas stubbed his cigarette into the empty glass on the nightstand as carefully as he chose his next words. "She's been yapping on about how well she and her Ladyship get on."

Sarah twisted around. "Has she?"

"She's got her eye on the prize, that one."

"Well then she's got eyes too big for her stomach. I've seen her handiwork; she doesn't know what it takes to be a proper lady's maid," Sarah clipped out vehemently.

"Maybe not." Thomas paused. "But Lady G's more nice than particular. And no one's heard her complaining."

However brutal, it was the bald-faced truth, which jaded realists like them always appreciated. But he was still made uncomfortable by the features that crumpled before him.

"Go on, then. I'm going to have a rest," she said, belying her abrasive tone with the body that slumped across the duvet in defeat.

Gracie was agog that morning, and as unbearably bubbly as she was every morning.

"And then her ladyship tells me that by spring she'll have no use for that light blue frock, the one with all them beads on the hem, and I can have it myself." Anna nodded gamely. "But can you imagine?" she squealed as her eyes grew two sizes. "I've never had something so nice of me own!"

Thomas grabbed a chunk of sawed off sponge cake – meant for luncheon, but Mrs. Patmore never minded his habit of sneaking a scrap – and headed off in the direction opposite of Gracie's voice. He passed by the library on his mission of avoidance, catching in his periphery the faint, familiar sight of a robust mustache wiggling in front of Lady Grantham's face as the mouth beneath it moved, and conveniently recalled that he had some tidying up to do in that very room.

Neither party took notice of a footman's ubiquitous presence as Thomas busied about one of the many desks.

"Tell me, Doctor, how is she?" he heard her Ladyship ask in subdued, concerned tones.

"Better. I listened to the lungs this morning and they're much clearer. She claims she's healed enough to begin working again…."

Her head cocked. "But you have a different take on the matter?"

"In my professional opinion…at her age, Lady Grantham, it is always best to be cautious."

"I see. Thank you, Doctor Clarkson."

As was his wont, Carson materialized at just the right second to escort the doctor away as Lady Grantham bid him adieu. Chin upturned, poised on the sofa as a Grecian statue, she did not suffer a single muscle to shift as she called out smoothly:

"Thomas?"

He nearly jumped. Used as he was to being on par with the furnishings, he had to remind himself that just because his presence was treated as unnoticed didn't necessarily mean it was not noted.

He moved wordlessly to her side.

"I think –" She turned her head to face him. Her expression was indiscernible. "I think perhaps it might be best for her to keep to her bed a while longer. Till she is completely recovered." There was no need to specify of whom she spoke. "Carson will be ringing the dinner gong any moment. Could you inform Miss Peters that I'm going up now?"

Thomas bowed, and left the room.

Only one hand was allowed to turn the key that partitioned off the men's and women's corridors, and that hand steadfast in its quest to maintain the chaste order, probably even now clutching the set of keys like a life preserver, nightmares of colluding maids and footmen sifting through her slumbering mind.

But they had the foresight to pre-arrange, and with all his natural boldness Thomas was able to sneak quietly through the most decidedly unlocked door. Unconsciously counting the number of doors as he went, he paused about halfway down the corridor. The placard bearing her title was spotless. He opened her door a finger's space, peered through, saw the wakeful figure awaiting him by candlelight, and did his best not to audibly snicker at her ridiculous nightcap.

He went inside, the door shutting on noisy hinges behind him.

"About bloody time!" was all he received as greeting for his trouble. "I'm a sick women – I do actually need some of the night for sleeping!"

"Easy, Miss O'Brien." The small flame added a sinister appeal to his smile. "Got away as soon as I could manage. And I'd thought you'd had enough of dozing during the day, locked up in here like some lunatic wife."

She sat down and looked at him expectantly. Without delay he relayed to her the day's proceedings.

"So it's Miss Peters, now, is it?" O'Brien stormed, pacing as she went. The acidity in her voice could not be buffered even tuned several decibels lower in volume, and she continued on in harsh whisper: "She may as well announce she's got a new lady's maid and tell me I've got the sack!"

Thomas spanned the next few minutes with silence, letting the night soak into her pores in the hope that the chilly darkness would calm her down a few notches. At length she began to relax; her expression molded back to its preset indifference and she reclaimed her seat on the bed.

"Not so hasty, Miss O'Brien," he finally replied. "You know these soft types. They're scared of illness. One thing money can't save them from, after all."

O'Brien scoffed.

"She's got naught to be worried about. Grew up corn fed in middle America like the cows. I've never seen that woman get so much as a trifling cold the whole time I've been waiting on her. Ten to one but she'll live to be hundred without ever sneezing."

She was growing agitated once again, mouth puckering, eyes narrow and astringent. Thomas smothered a groan at her fidgeting hands.

"Take a breath. You look a fright enough as it is without flashing that manic face around." He moved to the door, balanced his hand on the knob, and said firmly, "There's no need to worry."

"What do you mean? A few more days of me doing nothing and it will all be decided without any say so from me."

The handle turned.

"I've taken care of it."

"Have you?"

The door creaked open a slice.

"I have."

Sarah wavered. She shouldn't ask for details. She should let him leave and leave him to it. Nodding her head once, she said nothing, and climbed under the thick, scratchy blanket as he made his exit.

She heard the soft click of a closing door, and slept like a lamb the rest of the night.

The cry went up the next morning at breakfast.

"Lord Grantham has informed me that a pair of Lady Grantham's earrings have gone missing. I trust this was merely an oversight, an innocent misplacement, and that none of you," he punctuated with controlled menace, "were personally involved in its disappearance."

Carson's eyes probed unforgivingly, but every face was carved into the expressionless mask that years of training had hewn. He would get nothing out of them, and trusted to integrity, to the common decency, and to the proper order to carry the day. With a last wilting scowl Carson left as forebodingly as he came, and the room let out a collective breath.

"Now what could that be all about, I wonder?" Anna asked innocently.

Mending a shawl from beside her, Gracie barely paused for breath before elaborating.

"Oh, Anna, I know all about it! I was tending to her ladyship just this morning and for some reason she was looking over her jewel case, and what do you know, but she gives this little yelp – like a right puppy, she was – and asks if I know where the sapphire studs have gone off to."

Anna blinked. "But what's happened to them?"

"Cant' say." Gracie held the garment aloft before her. A touch crooked at the bottom, Thomas noted from over the paper he was not even attempting to pretend to read. "Her Ladyship's a flighty sort," she continued. "Always leaving things here and there." She shrugged. "I'm sure they'll turn up."

Thomas smiled.

"I'm sure they will."

The walls in the attic hid nothing, their paper-thin divisions seemingly built for divulgence.

Morning was calm. The afternoon hummed as it always did during the changing hour. It was near to evening, not long before dinner, when the commotion struck, tumultuous chords vibrating down the hall.

The first thing Sarah heard was wailing. Beginning softly, the curdling cry quickly crescendoed till ringing right outside her door, and then petered out to nothing. A door slammed. Another noise, succinct as the last one was broad – a pair of sharp-tipped, clacking shoes – followed the same pattern, germinating in volume as they moved quickly past Sarah's door, then down two more, to creak open and bluntly shut into what was Gracie Peters personal quarters.

She could hear nothing from this far over, and went outside her confines into the empty hallway. She stared at the door to the occupied room emitting a range of muffled noises, and pressed the side of her head flush against it. Mrs. Hughes' brogue was sadly muted, but Gracie's shrill cries cut a straight path to her burning ear.

"I didn't steal nothing!"

An indistinct mumble answered, then:

"Honest, Mrs. Hughes! I've been framed, that's what!"

Several minutes of high-octave whimpering ensued, placated by a rich, maternal alto whose comforting specifics Sarah was mercifully spared from discerning, before the abrupt tinkling of metal keys forewarned a hasty discovery. Sarah jumped back, quickly strode back to her door, and slipped discreetly inside.

Not smiling, but not frowning either, she dressed herself – proper this time, not the makeshift job of this morning – and set her hair into the tightly laced style so unbecoming on anyone else. Within the hour she was summoned, and she bounded down, a slightly extra bounce to her curls. Lady Grantham needed an extra hand in getting her gown on, Mrs. Hughes informed her, for Anna, though a quick study, was simply not yet ready to undertake such a task alone.

"And to think, she's been thieving the entire time!"

It was the first sunny day all month. The beams bounced merrily through the room, setting the flamboyant hat that Sarah was now inspecting to good advantage. The maid's throat itched as if one of the extravagant plum plumes had been stuffed down her esophagus, and though a single cough might alleviate the discomfort, she stifled down any such suicidal inclinations and pressed forward.

"It's a terrible thing to consider, milady," she replied, only mildly rasping. "I think it best you not dwell on it any longer. It will only do to upset you."

"You're probably right." Lady Grantham sighed, light and fragile as the first autumn breeze, and Sarah wondered that she could have ever despised them. "It's so difficult to find good help these days. I feel lucky that I've already got you." Sarah pinned down the hat onto a perfectly shaped bob, and caught the slight curve in her lips peeking behind her lady's preening head dancing from side to side. "Dear O'Brien, what a relief it is to have you back! I don't think my hair can thank you enough."

It was gratifying to be here, Sarah realized. Her exile lifted, flitting about in the bright and spacious room, even if on behalf of another, did much to mollify her spirits. Sarah had no doubt that time would veer her course back to the tepid waters of embittered servitude, but for the time being she relished the open, airy views and the refreshment of activity, and could almost count herself happy. The Countess gave a last parting primp before floating out of the room and down the staircase, her appearance nothing short of heavenly when Taylor rolled the car around to take her and the girls into Ripon. Sarah saw them depart from the high-perched window, watched the snugly fit feathers flapping in the wintry wind, and then finished tidying up the dressing room.

Luncheon approached as she finished and Sarah, healthy and restored, strode with a lion's heart down to the hall.

Mrs. Hughes stopped short in the midst of her eighteenth task for the day when she saw the previously indisposed lady's maid alive and kicking.

"Miss O'Brien. It's good to see you up and about."

"Is it?" Sarah replied, only a small step away from archness. "I thought you'd not care to see me so quickly recovered, grooming Gracie up to take my place as you were."

Elsie's lips pursed. "What I care most about is having a fit, capable, and honest staff. What with Walter's dismissal and now that horrid business with Gracie…yes I am most assuredly glad to have you back, whatever you might take away from that."

They convened at the long table where scullery maids had already dished up their pleasant helpings of stew. Sarah felt something like a princess at a ball the way everyone's eyes roved over her pallid yet confident face. She noticed with delight the absence of Gracie Peters, and was amused to see that Anna had been promoted a seat closer to the head of the table.

"So, Anna," Sarah began. "New head housemaid?"

Anna started. She could not recall the last time Miss O'Brien had addressed her directly.

"That's right," she answered cautiously. "I'll also be looking after Lady Mary and Lady Edith, and I suppose Lady Sybil as well, once she's out of the school room. Seems a bit of a challenge, looking after all three." Her face grew pensive. "And me having hardly ever spoken to any of them…."

"Of course you haven't," O'Brien said with a small, barking scoff. "And why should you have?" But there was some sympathy, a tiny shred of solidarity, as Sarah recalled her christening as a lady's maid, remembered how daunting the landscape appeared when she first put the brush to the fine mane of a real lady. No more folding linens in the darkness – now she must take center stage for the family, converse with them, dress them, ply them with flattery and cloying sentiments like a master confectioner.

"Maybe if I need some help…." Anna started somewhat shyly, but not apologetically. "You wouldn't mind showing me a few tips? Secrets of the trade, and all that?"

"I might not. Just mind that you put in the proper time yourself before you even think of coming to me for help," Sarah replied, surprising herself with her generosity.

The whole of the meal she did not glance even once in his direction, occupied as they both were in other conversations. The meal ended. Everyone dispersed. Lady Grantham and her daughters had not yet returned from their expedition.

She stepped outside and took an eager breath of fresh air. He was smiling when he approached her, as was she, and they stood together, side-by-side, two trunks grown tall and strong, deeply rooted.

He brought the smoking stick to his lips. "Didn't I tell you I'd take care of it?" he asked with a smirk.

"You did."

And I won't ever forget it.

Sarah held few things sacred, but loyalty ranked as first. There may be those that would try to fell them, but they would never succeed, not while they had each other. And while time might never be on her side, she had an even better ally that was.

She had tasted the fruit, and it was good.

END

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