Hey wonderful people. You are all amazing, and I thank you so much for hanging with me here. Special shout outs: lizzy384, Davy Tex, , and Saya White. Extra, extra big hug for PetiteElefant, just cause I wuv you ;D BTW, novel extract is from Frankenstein, by Mary Shelley.
Sparki: I own nothing!
Tom sat alone, silent in his bed. His hands, clasped together, were cold against his nose. But he buried his face in them all the same.
Not since that cold, wintery night – the night he'd lost his Sybil – had Tom found himself feeling so miserable, and so lost. He felt so useless, sitting in his warm bed, wrapped up in his blankets and nightclothes. And yet, worse than the misery, worse than the confusion, was his guilt. For Tom Branson had decided, that he was truly the most terrible father in history.
He wanted to cry. He was so ashamed; ashamed of his inability to make things right, no matter how hard he tried. Tom had promised himself that 1928 would bring the happiest birthday of his young daughter's life. But instead, he had watched it crumble around her ankles.
Dr. Clarkson had ordered Tom's immediate hospitalization. After Sybil's... death, Tom was not about to ignore the man's advice. He wasn't afraid; which was strange, because Tom supposed he should be. Tuberculosis was not the common cold; it could not be cured with a few shots of aspirin. Tom's only blessing, Dr. Clarkson had said, was that the disease had been caught, and so very early. With constant care, the doctor suspected he might just pull through.
Dr. Clarkson could treat Tuberculosis at Downton. And so, Tom would be taken to London, as soon as the morning's sun showed it bloody face. But of course, Tom didn't want hospitalisation – he wanted his daughter. That is, he wanted to be there, at Downton, with his daughter, and for his daughter. He didn't want to be whisked miles away, and Sybbie forced to travel half a day just to see her father. With a great, heaving gasp, Tom fell back against his pillow.
But what was the alternative? Should he remain at Downton, he would die – Clarkson had made this abundantly clear. It all came down to, Tom supposed, what he wished for his daughter; a few months without him, or the rest of her life, fatherless. Tom closed his eyes against the horrid thought, and fought down another, brimming wave of coughing he felt rising through his chest.
"And so," he breathed to the empty room, "I go to hell." For was there anywhere Tom Branson would rather be less than London?
"Alfred, I marvel at your maturity," Thomas sighed, staring blankly at the trail of smoke, rising from his cigarette's butt. Across the table, the footman, ignoring Thomas' comment, continued to fling bits of meat at James.
For a time, James pretended not to notice his fellow footman's antics, but Thomas could see his eyes roaming, searching for a weapon. Shaking his head, Thomas returned to his novel. He settled back in his chair, and held the book up a little higher, managing to block out most of the scene playing out before him. Swallowing a lung full of smoke, Thomas attempted to focus on Shelley's words.
"For some days I haunted the spot where these scenes had taken place; sometimes wishing to see you, sometimes resolved to quit the world and its miseries forever. At length I wandered towards these mountains, and have ranged through their immense recesses, consumed by a burning passion which you alone can gratify. We may not part until you have promised to comply with my requisition. I am alone, and miserable; man will not associate with me; but one as deformed and horrible as myself would not deny herself to me. My companion must be of the same species, and have the same defects. This being you must crea-,"
"Ha-ha!" With a great whoop, James threw a hunk of cold, untouched spinach at Alfred's unknowing smirk. It hit the taller man in his nose, and, startled, he fell back in his chair. The ruckus was unbelievable; any minute, Carson would emerge from his den, and flay them all alive.
Thomas snapped.
"That's enough!" He slammed the book upon the wooden table. Both footmen looked up with a start. Where she stood, tea in hand, Daisy froze, and turned to study Thomas.
"When are you going to grow up?" he hissed. Surveying the mess the young men had made, he rose from the table. "Now, I am going to forget my book," he began, his voice cold, "and when I come back to retrieve it, I expect this place to be spotless." He eyed the abandoned spinach pointedly, before storming from the servant's hall, leaving two very confused footmen, and one very concerned cook in his wake. Staring after him, Alfred cocked an eyebrow.
"What's his problem, then?" he asked, looking down at Jimmy. But Jimmy didn't reply. He stood still, one hand resting lightly upon the muddled table. He was watching the place where, only moments ago, Mr. Barrow had stood, glowering at him. At the memory of the older man's cold, stony eyes, Jimmy blanched, ever so slightly.
When are you going to grow up?
Thomas did not return to the servant's hall that evening. As he sat alone upon the creaking stairway, he longed for the comfort of his well-worn novel. But he did not wish to face them. Not again.
He slammed a fist against the carpeted step. It gave a dull thud, but nothing more. A part of Thomas wished the thing would crumble beneath him. But it wouldn't, so he gave in, and cradled his hand in his lap.
As he sat there, staring into the darkness, he pulled from his pocket, a piece of yellowing paper. In the stairwell's dim light, the faded script was almost illegible. But Thomas didn't need to read the letter; he knew those words by heart. They were branded across his mind, and nothing he could do would ever erase them.
Mr. Barrow,
I regret to inform you that your mother has died. As you know, she was admitted earlier this month with chronic tuberculosis. Last night, she was found in her bed, with no signs of life. She was later declared dead.
Mr. Barrow, you have my deepest sympathies. I would be much obliged if you would offer your presence for a short while, in order to set about making the necessary arrangements. Please contact me, and define when you are next available.
Many regrets,
Edward Seech, Dr,
Regent Medical Establishment, Yorkshire
So many nights, Thomas had sat, and held the godforsaken note in his hand. So many nights, he had thought to burn it, or tear it, or simply let it fall from his window. But he never did. He simply sat, and held it in his hand. Before he finally collapsed, from fatigue and an overwhelming sorrow, he would return the letter to its place, slid carefully within the pages of the oldest novel, hidden in his lowest drawer.
And as he lay awake, pretending not to dwell on those words, he wondered why he had kept them, for so very long. In the silence of his mind, he could say he didn't know why. But in his heart, Thomas knew why he could not bring himself to banish the letter from its miserable existence.
It held back the monster.
Those words had the power, Thomas knew, to hold back all the sorrow and hatred and shame that had made him the man he had once been. The man who walked atop others; who used them, without a thought, save for that of his own gain. The man who would spit at the heavens, and walk through hell with a smile.
Thomas squeezed tight the brittle paper.
He didn't care, they said. All who had ever known Thomas Barrow, whispered to one another that the man could not care. And as Thomas closed his eyes, and allowed his mind to fall silent, he could not find it in himself to blame them.
All was silent within the servant's hall, as I walked slowly through the doorway. Glancing around the table, I saw nothing but a festoon of gloomy faces, and watering eyes. Despite myself, I felt a small pang of sadness within my chest.
No. I would not be saddened.
"What a long-faced lot," I mumbled. Carson glared up at me, eyes wide and livid.
"Kindly show some respect!" he demanded, appalled. By now, the rest of them had turned their stupid faces towards me, and their cold eyes watched me with contempt. I felt my chest tighten, so I looked away.
"Come on, Mr. Carson," I reasoned, reaching nonchalantly for a biscuit. Mrs. Patmore had left them lying about, and I found my stomach suddenly groaning. "She'll get over it. They're no bigger than a hamster at that stage." He glanced at Carson, who appeared at a loss.
"Will you shut up?" Bates growled, his voice low and murderous. I turned my condensing gaze upon him, but as expected, the cripple did not flinch. I smirked.
"I agree," Mrs. Hughes, who until now had been silent, all but hissed. "What is the matter with you, Thomas?" Lowering my gaze, I studied my cracker.
"I don't know," I mused. "I suppose all of this makes me feel claustrophobic." With the weight of their eyes still upon me, I took a small bite. Its crackle was painfully loud in the silence. "I mean, I'm sorry, of course I am. But why must we live through them? They're just our employers: they are not our flesh and blood."
If a pin had dropped, it would have been heard. Where she stood, Daisy appeared t be fighting tears. "Thomas," she gasped, "don't be so unkind."
"Is there nothing left on earth that you respect?" William, arms crossed rigidly across his chest, glared up at me. In the silence of my mind, I allowed myself a moment of pain.
No, there is not. Not anymore.
"Look at him," I smirked. "Blimey, if he carries on like this for the unborn baby of a woman who scarcely knows his name, no wonder he fell to pieces when his old mum snuffed it."
The silence that followed was absolute. Not a soul moved; none dared to breathe. My cold smirk remained, but inside, I wanted to die.
I truly wanted to die.
And so, when William hit me, I was not entirely disappointed.
The blow sent me crashing upon the table. Every inch of my face was screaming, but I was not sure that I cared. Through my pain and dizziness, I heard Carson's shout.
"William!" But the lad paid no heed. He leapt upon me, pushing me further into the table. He hit me again, and I felt my lip break. The metallic taste of blood was almost sweet upon my tongue.
"Thomas!" Carson bellowed. "William! Stop that! That is enough!"
William moved to strike once more, but my body reacted before my mind could focus. With a heavy groan, I pushed the boy off the table. But his grip on my forearms didn't slacken, and so, I fell with him.
The floor was hard against my body, as we writhed, struggling against one another. I had ended up, once more pinned beneath William, and so when he struck me again, there was nothing I could do but take the blow upon my jaw.
For a moment, I felt as though I might black out.
But then, the anger – the white-hot fury – I knew had been simmering, barely below the surface, burst forth. It was not anger towards William, but where else could I direct such a toxic flow of emotion. Wrenching free my arm, I socked him, right in the face.
William reeled back, and I caught a trail of blood, crawling from his nose. This hesitation was all Branson needed. He swooped down, and dragged William to his feet.
"Leave him!" he demanded, not unkindly.
I felt Carson's arms tight around my chest, dragging me from the floor. But still, I struggled. I knew it was over; I knew I had lost. But something within me would not go to rest. So I fought against the man's restraint.
"Calm down!" Carson hissed. In one last, surging fit of anger, I pulled myself free. I stood gasping for air, my eyes wide and weary. William glared at me, as though he would like nothing more than to run me through with Mrs. Patmore's skewer.
All around me, the silence loomed. The walls seemed suddenly too close for comfort.
Without another word, I spun on my heel, and stormed from the servant's hall.
Through the corridors, past the locked doors and closed windows. Into the cold night air, I ran. Only then, when the stars shone above me, and the evening's breeze rustled my hair, did I allow myself to weep.
He hated himself. Oh, how he hated the man who had once been Thomas Barrow.
Letter in hand, Thomas rose, and stepped silently up the stairway.
Hope you all enjoyed ;)