I had taken it upon myself to just ignore Thomas entirely, and this worked, if not to great effect, for the next few days. I was surprised to find that over a week had passed since I had returned to Downton Abbey. Life, I had found, had managed somehow to slip into a routine that felt absurdly normal. I had gotten used to being awoken at dawn and dressing alone in my cold bedroom, gotten used to working hard without a break with the other maids, hurrying about upstairs along the corridors I used to walk with elegance. I grew used to counting the hours until the evening, which was my main rest period. The other maids had the afternoons off, but I never completed my tasks in time. So, no, it wasn't an ideal life, and most of the other servants thought I was a creature out of a zoo, but it was food and shelter. And Anna and Mr Bates were quite nice. It wasn't so bad, except for Gwen looking at me like I had two heads every time I made a literary reference and sore knees from scrubbing floors. Really.
Two weeks later, Cora, or Lady Grantham as it was now more appropriate to call her, requested my presence in her room one afternoon, to which I attended her with nervous apprehension.
"Nellie," she drawled affectionately, when I had entered. "How wonderful to see you again. I hope I find you well?"
"Yes, indeed," I said, wondering whether saying "milady" would be too awkward and coming to the conclusion that it would.
"Good," she said, beaming. The conversation ensued with very little speech on my behalf, and then, when all the formalities had been accounted for, Cora dismissed me.
My plans to ignore Thomas completely did not go quite according to plan, as we were thrown together in the way that occurs in a hectic environment. I could not help but pass him occasionally in the corridor, or see him in the kitchen during communal meal and leisure times. However, I made it quite plain that I did not wish to converse with him at all, feeling he had let me down irrevocably after taking up O'Brien's side instead of mine. I knew it was petty, but I could not help feeling hurt by his actions. The problem, however, was that Thomas didn't seem to realise that he had done anything wrong. One evening, as I sat by the light of the fire, not unusually the last one around, hurriedly attempting to finish some sewing, he approached me in the kitchen, sidling up confidently.
Hoping beyond hope that he wouldn't remain there long, I was bothered when he actually went as far as dragging a wooden chair over to where I sat, sitting upon it backwards. Leaning on the back of the chair, he peered down at the sewing in my hands, which I was frantically trying to keep my eyes upon.
"That's good," he remarked. It was difficult to read his tone.
I said nothing, attempting to outstare my needles.
"Look," said Thomas, and I could tell he was thinking cautiously about what to say. "What am I supposed to have done?"
This wasn't what I had been expecting, and I looked up in surprise. I found myself looking into those lovely, grey eyes...but this was not the time, and I tore myself away from them, bitter.
"What are you talking about?" I said, sighing exasperatedly.
"Well," he said. "I've obviously done something wrong, or else you wouldn't have spent the last two weeks ignoring me and giving me sour looks."
I frowned and opened my mouth to retaliate that my looks were not sour, but found that something else annoyed me first. How could he not understand that he had upset me by siding with O'Brien? And why, despite my constant efforts to ignore him, was I still finding Thomas ridiculously charismatic?
"Look," I said, making preparations to stand up. "The very idea that you can't seem to comprehend that you have done wrong just makes my reasons for ignoring you even more graspable."
"I didn't understand a word of..."
I stood up, deciding that this conversation should end immediately before I said something I might regret. "You don't seem to be able to 'understand' anything, Thomas," I said, pausing momentarily to notice how odd his name felt to my mouth. "You can't treat me like dirt, and then expect me to just come crawling back to you. It's not going to work like that."
And with that, trying incredibly hard not to look into Thomas's hurt face, I turned and exited the kitchen, taking my incomplete sewing with me.
It was very difficult to describe my immediate emotions after this incident. True, there was a sort of twisted elation that emerges when one has done something a little out of their normal depth. But there was also a horrid, sickening feeling when I thought of what I had said, and the affect that my words had had upon another person. However, this was nevertheless the proper thing to have done. I had to show I was a strong, independent woman, and not one of those silly girls who got thrown over hither and thither by a handsome fellow, like Maryanne Dashwood. Or Lydia. But this idea, though easy to form, was not easy to put into practice.
And so, not only was I facing troubles from the footman himself, but my actions also seemed to have brought on a backlash of hate from O'Brien. I could not even walk down the corridor in a perfectly reasonable manner without being scrutinised and sneered at for one thing or another. I had sought, however, an unlikely friendship with William, who, though he had his gawky moments, was a generally amiable person whose company I thoroughly appreciated in times of dark.
x-X-x
One morning, I awoke to find my room characteristically cold, and light barely streaming in through the window. I fumbled about getting ready, everything seeming to take an extraordinarily long time. In fact, when I next looked at the clock, I found that I was running late. Concerned that I was about to live up to the expectations everyone had had of me, and that I had so far managed to go against (at least, I thought so), I hastily tried to put up my hair. However, when I went to pin back the inevitable fly aways, I found that my hair pins were not on the shelf where I had left them. After frantically searching the entire room, which took surprisingly little time, I decided to abandon all plans to appear neat and flew out of the room regardless of my hair.
Downstairs, however, I discovered that I was still late, even if searching my room had taken a short time.
"Ah," said Carson as I appeared in the kitchen. "You've decided to grace us with your presence at last."
"Yes," I said, gasping slightly having just run down the narrow stairs at an alarming pace.
"Nellie," exclaimed Mrs Hughes suddenly, apparently aghast. "What on earth has happened to your hair this day?"
My hands made their way up to my head, whereupon I discovered hair all over the place.
"Um..." I began, wondering what I could say that might redeem myself.
"'Um' indeed," said Mrs Hughes, raising her eyebrows. "I do recall telling you that you should always present yourself appropriately."
"Yes, Mrs Hughes," I said meekly, and went to light the fires, as I did every morning. Luckily, I made good time, enough to get to breakfast and enjoy it fully.
I took a seat at the table, the room slowly filling with noise once more. Down one end of the table, I could see Thomas trying to catch my eye. I steadfastly ignored him.
"What was it like? Being a lady?" asked Anna, her guileless eyes fixed upon me. I laid down my fork, at a loss. I really wished that she hadn't asked—though in her case, she probably meant no harm—because O'Brien and Thomas were close by.
"Er, well, it could be a bit… stifling. I mean—you always have to watch what you say, and, and, wonder if you chose the right words. And people are only your friends because you have nice things."
"Hard life."
"No one asked you, O'Brien," said Bates. "And wealth doesn't always bring happiness. Sometimes, quite the reverse."
"Spare us the platitudes," said Thomas. "A man with money in his pocket's always happier than a man with no shirt on his back."
"Yes, I don't have much to complain about, do I?" I murmured. "Fine things are nice while they last, aren't they?"
"Not when your shrew of an aunt's spending all your money on finery she can't afford and you get thrown out into the streets, it isn't."
We all glanced sharply at Thomas, who gave a casual shrug. "I read the newspaper."
"Well," said O'Brien. "You didn't try to stop her from buyin' you all that rubbish, did you?"
Before I could furiously contradict her, Carson announced the current need for breakfast to be sent upstairs, and our conversation was thus ended. I frowned to myself, contemplating the curiosity that was Thomas Barrow. In fact, I was so wrapped up in my thoughts that it was an accident waiting to happen when I was given a tray of crockery to carry over to the stores. It was all fine, the tray was firmly in my hands and I was making good progress across the room. Next thing, my foot collided with something solid on the ground, and the tray, the crockery, and not to mention myself, went flying across the floor.
Never before had I seen Mrs Hughes so angry. She had always struck me as a fair and reasonable person, but after the ridiculous scolding she gave me, I felt quite entitled to curse her under my breath as I was still sweeping shards of china, half an hour later. The expense had been deducted from my salary; and I had been banned from any excursions upstairs, obviously at risk of causing further accidents. This left me downstairs, purging the kitchen of my crime, and full of bitter thoughts. I did not even know what had happened to have caused such a disaster, and racked my brain to think of how I had actually tripped. But, already, my memory of the event was trickling away, irrecoverable forever. While I swept away, cursing Mrs Hughes and her ability to make people feel small, I also felt a sudden strong surge of hate for O'Brien, who simply couldn't wait to see me fail. Well, I thought bitterly, she was getting what she wanted now.
That evening, there seemed to be something of importance going on upstairs, and Carson could be seen bustling about fretfully, snapping at people when something wasn't done perfectly. I found out from Anna (I was still confined downstairs) that Matthew Crawley, who had been away on 'business', was returning to Downton, and Lord and Lady Grantham would be entertaining him and his mother for dinner. This, apparently, was an important affair, for all hands were called on deck to make sure the dinner got out on time and in splendour. I saw Carson's eyes widen when he saw William's buttons were done up wrong, literally seizing him just before he went upstairs to make sure he did them correctly.
Having been barred from doing just about anything that day (Mrs Hughes was leaving nothing to chance with me), I was left down in the kitchen with O'Brien and Anna.
"Well," said O'Brien. "I must say I don't think much of this whole affair, even if Mr Crawley is the new heir. I'm not bowing and blushing to Mr Nobody from Nowhere."
Finding some of my old, outspoken self from somewhere, I replied snappily, "No, that is why your presence has not been requested anywhere outside of this kitchen."
If looks could kill, I found myself wondering.
"I don't see why you should talk so boldly, girl," was O'Brien's reply. "I've noticed your presence is barely even requested in the scullery. And besides, I'm not the one who's in the doghouse today."
"No, not today," I said, airily.
O'Brien shot me a nasty look, ready to retort, but we were distracted from further action by the arrival of a flustered William in the kitchen, closely followed by a red-faced Carson.
"Where," said Carson, "is the vanilla blancmange specifically requested by her ladyship?"
Deviation of responsibility followed, everyone looking to one another for an answer. I was trying extremely hard not to catch Anna's eye, for the reliance upon a vanilla blancmange to retain order was, indeed, laughable.
"I think Nellie had it last," said O'Brien.
"What?" I replied, annoyed. "No, I didn't! I haven't seen a vanilla blancmange!" At this point, I couldn't help but smirk, feeling the whole affair quite hilarious. Carson mistook my expression for insolence, however, and spent the next five minutes speaking very seriously about attitude and blancmange, until the dessert in question was discovered still in the mould, and there was a rush to get it up to table. I was not allowed to forget it, however, and in a wild fluster during the cheese course, Carson threatened to speak directly to His Lordship, should I put another toe out of line.
x-X-x
Later, when the Crawleys had left, and peace had resumed, I sat on the staircase, listening to Thomas act maddeningly reserved while everyone attempted to hound him for gossip from the dinner.
"Lady Mary seems to have gotten over her aversion to a certain someone," he drawled.
"Would you mind telling us who?" I heard Anna's voice, which was unusually sweet, considering she usually reserved all her sarcasm for Thomas.
"Yeah, I would mind. 'Tain't right to gossip about our employers, you know."
"You really expect us to believe that, coming from you?" Bates's voice. I grinned.
"Perhaps I've turned over a new leaf. Same as you."
Silence ensued, in which I and everyone else wondered what that meant.
"William, what happened?" said Anna, choosing to ignore the above.
"Lady Mary was very nice to—"
"No, no, no, you can't tell a story worth a damn. Lady Mary couldn't seem to stop laughin' at Mr Crawley's jokes, even the bad ones. I heard them, they were bloody awful, even Edith said so. Always one to sum up a situation, Edith. She might marry him, I suppose, though I don't see what good it'll do—"
"It's the best that can be done," said Carson ponderously. "Obviously his birth is not the best that he can be expected—not even in Burke's Peerage or the Baronetage—"
"Couldn't even find him in the Baronetage?" said Thomas. "That is bad. Very good for Lady Mary to get her inheritance, though I don't see how it affects us; we'll continue on at Downton no matter who's in charge."
"I will serve the Granthams wherever they go," Carson retorted, sounding very stiff indeed, "and I expect every servant who is truly loyal to do the same."
"Well, that rules me out, thankfully."
Though several people huffed in righteous indignation, I couldn't help grinning, just a little.
"Her Ladyship wants to speak with you," said a voice right in my ear, a voice that I recognized with the utmost dread. O'Brien stood a stair above me, her eyes expressionless.
Looking her over warily (Anna had told me stories of the tricks she played on new maids, particularly when she didn't like them), I said, "She wants to see me now?"
"Aye, now, and don't keep her waiting."
I eyed her suspiciously, and her mouth quirked just a little. But the risk was too great to ignore her, so I got up and made my way to her ladyship's bedroom.
"O'Brien said you wanted to see me, your ladyship?" I said, after a 'come in.'
"Oh, yes. Nellie."
I nearly sighed with relief.
"Nellie, are you truly settling in well?"
"Er, yes?" I lied, hoping that she wouldn't see right through me. Judging from the look of benevolent doubt and concern she gave me, she obviously did.
"Nellie, I heard about the blancmange, and how you seemed a little…amused by it all."
Carson had told them, the—! No, I really mustn't call him that. "No, I wasn't amu—"
She held up a hand. "I understand perfectly. To someone of our sort, the little troubles of the servants can seem rather ridiculous. But when you consider that the management of a great house depends on the carefullest order and precision, I'm sure you'll understand. They're paid to do their jobs, and it's very important—to us and to them—that they do it well."
"Yes, milady," I whispered, feeling rather chastened, since I had laughed at Carson for getting so panicked over it.
"But that isn't what I called you here to talk about."
I glanced up, fearing the second topic even more. Had some new misdeed come to light?
"I've heard you have trouble completing all your tasks for the day, and never get time off as a result. You must be so tired."
"No, not at—"
"I want you to tell me if you feel you can't do the job. We could provide for your in other ways, dear; there's no shame in charity."
"No! I mean," I continued, struggling for a measured and respectful tone, "I am perfectly content, milady."
Lady Grantham gave me pained smile, which wasn't a good sign. More was to come. "Well, if it were only a matter of your happiness, it wouldn't be a problem, but you seem to be... slowing the other maids down."
"Oh," I said in a very small voice. "Well, I didn't know I was, but I'll work faster from now on."
"Of course you will. Now, run along, I don't want to keep you from your break."
She dimpled. I gave a sick smile and departed, fully aware of how ridiculous and inadequate I was.
Crossing my arms, I rested against the wall and had a good fume. I was sure to keep a lookout, however, in case someone caught me touching the precious paint with my dirty servant self.
Really, I hadn't gotten the impression that I was slowing everyone else down. The rest of the housemaids completed their duties in model time; I was the only one who suffered. Who had told Lady Grantham otherwise? Surely not Anna. Perhaps Gwen had complained to Mrs Hughes?
I tried to think rationally. The day really had been one disaster after another, with the hair pins, the tray of china, the dreaded vanilla blancmange. Everything that had happened seemed to have been my doing, and all of my doings had seemed to go wrong. I remembered the smug face O'Brien had worn all day, and felt a strong desire to hit something.
I felt for the locket around my neck, searching for its cool smoothness for comfort. I found it, and closed my eyes, thinking.
It was possible that Gwen was forced to work longer hours because of me. On Wednesday, it was true, I hadn't gotten all the beds made by three, and she had helped me finish up. She had been a bit annoyed...
But Gwen wasn't the sort to tattle.
Something strange, yet instantaneously familiar slipped into my mind. It was an image of O'Brien, walking away from my old bedroom upstairs at Downton Abbey. For some reason, I was suddenly struck by this image once more. And then, I found myself recalling her smug face at various points during my downfall that day. That smirk when she told me of her Ladyship's summons... And it clicked.
It had been O'Brien. O'Brien, I was quite certain, had been making insinuations about me to her ladyship ever since I had arrived. I was colossally stupid not to have realized it sooner; she was the lady's maid, and of all the servants, she had the most access to Lady Grantham. And, I thought, as my brain was rapidly making connections quicker than it had probably ever done before, O'Brien had stolen from me.
That oh-so-familiar image of her walking away from my room, which had been stuck in my brain for some reason unbeknown to me until now, had suddenly become clear. O'Brien had taken lace underwear and pearls and goodness knows what else William had been framed for stealing from me all those months ago. I felt a fresh surge of hatred.
"Hello," said a smooth voice in the corridor behind me, making me turn around. "I'm looking for some vanilla blancmange. Do you know where I might find some?"
The very nature of this comment told me exactly who it was, and it did not improve my mood.
"Oh, what do you want?" I sighed, frustrated, to Thomas.
"I told you," he said, maddeningly superior. "I would like some vanilla blancmange. I've been told you know where I might find some—"
"Oh, shut up," I snapped. And it was now that I remembered my oath to ignore him, and the words I had spoken to him before. I was now in serious need of my own company.
"Wait," he said, putting out an arm as I endeavoured to get past him. "You know I'm not being serious, right? I don't want to upset you."
No, I thought bitterly, because you've never done that to me before.
"No," I said, instead. "You are not quite always the subject for my woes, Thomas. No, I am only wondering what's the use of it all."
"Meaning?"
"This." I gestured at the corridor. "Being in service. I just wonder if I did the right thing, if—if I should have married...Banbridge. My aunt would have died happy, I wouldn't be bothering everyone here—"
"Funny you should say that. I just read that Banbridge ended the engagement."
"Wha-he did?"
Thomas nodded. "Apparently, the bride-to-be couldn't tell an Aston from a Ford. Dreadful."
"A dreadful crime indeed." I muttered.
"What's got you whining anyway?"
Not bothering to inform him that I was not whining, I crossed my arms again. "I was given a dreadful lecture, if you must know."
"Lecture?"
"Yes. You know, when someone goes on about how you did something wrong, and won't stop even though you said you were sorry?" I was suddenly hideously aware of how much I was sounding like Aunt Eglantine, and made a mental note to practice a different elocution from now on. "Lady—I mean, her ladyship gave me a talking to, and I am wondering what my purpose in life is."
Thomas offered a cursory smile. "What'd she say?"
"She said I mustn't laugh about Carson not finding the blancmange and—"
"She told her about that?"
"'She told her'? Who is 'she'?"
"No one," said Thomas, way too quickly.
"So O'Brien boasted to you about tattling on me, did she?"
"Well, aren't we sensitive. All she did was tell her ladyship that she was afraid you couldn't do the work, and wouldn't it be kinder to help you in other ways, and it wasn't right, that a lady get on her hands and knees and scrub like a common drudge. Quite kind, really."
My jaw dropped. I couldn't help it. "She's good, isn't she?"
"The best."
"I mean, I didn't think O'Brien was capable of that sort of manipulation. I thought all she did was be unpleasant."
"Oh, O'Brien has far more skills than that. I wouldn't keep company with her if she didn't."
"I'm so happy for you both," I said. "Now, if you don't mind, I think I'll be going."
"But—"
"I wouldn't want to keep you from scheming and gossiping, Thomas."
"I could always scheme and gossip with you."
"No, thank you. You'll only gossip about me with someone else later." And with a lovely and insincere smile, I pushed past him and went back to my room without a backwards glance.
Some time later, I was no closer to getting to sleep. I lay awake on my bed, still dressed, and staring up at the ceiling, and wondering where it had all gone so wrong. It had started with my aunt spending too much; that was the crux. Though, I supposed, if one really wanted to take it back, it had actually started with my parents. If they had not died, then none of this would ever have happened; never would I have gone to live with Aunt Eglantine, never would we have taken this ridiculous trip to Downton Abbey, never would I have had to watch my aunt die of Pneumonia and realise that I was now alone. Never would I have had to return here as a maid. And never would I have to put up with Thomas. I knew I was being ridiculous, speculating about what could never be changed, but I could not sleep, and my brain needed some kind of stimulation.
