July 1920

"Downton Abbey, Carson the butler speaking. "

"Mr. Carson"— the speaker was clearly Irish, and clearly out of breath— "it's Tom Branson."

The butler rolled his eyes. With the wine selection for the evening still to be finalized and any number of things that could go wrong between now and the Archbishop's visit, he simply didn't have time for this.

"How may I be of service, Mr. Branson?" he asked, the neutrality of his tone belying his irritation.

"May I speak with Mairead Hayes, please?"

"Mr. Branson, she's quite occupied right now, I don't think—"

"It's important," the Irishman said. "She'll understand."

Again, Charles rolled his eyes, but found nothing else to do but concede. "I'll see what can be done. Please wait a moment."

Dear God, he thought, setting the telephone down on his desk and taking long, quiet strides to the door of his pantry. That man is going to unravel this whole household if I let him, isn't he?

"Mr. Barrow," he said, glad to have caught the temporary valet heading in the direction of the servants' hall.

"Yes Mr. Carson?"

Stop being so smug. You aren't the cat who's got the cream, young man.

"Can you find Miss Hayes and bring her to my pantry?" Though it was punctuated as a question, both Charles and Thomas knew that it was to be regarded as an order, and nothing less.

"Any reason, in case she asks?"

"I would hope she has the sense not to question orders, Mr. Barrow, not if she wishes to keep her job."

Thomas gave him a curt nod. "Of course. I'll fetch her right away."

"Preferably now, Mr. Barrow," Charles said, arching his brows and glancing down at the valet, reminding him who was in charge here. "Time is of the essence, it would seem."

Without a word, Thomas sprinted in the direction he'd been walking either, the first place anyone with any sense would look to find one of the housemaids at this hour, and Charles breathed a sigh of relief. That relief was short-lived, however, when he remembered who was waiting on the other end of the line.

What could Branson want with one of the maids?

Hopefully the two weren't conspiring against the family, no, that wouldn't do, not at all. Mairead didn't seem like the sort- she kept to herself and was very thorough in her work, never slacked, rarely took half-days (almost never, come to think of it, save for that week in June, according to Mrs. Hughes)- and that at least was reassuring. What troubled Charles about this was how Branson had been dissembling enough to cover up his affair with Lady Sybil for God-knows how long, which caused him to wonder if Miss Hayes was hiding something too.

Was she secretly part of the radicals he'd read about when there'd been the rising in Dublin, so many years ago? Charles had heard about there being women involved, including a woman named Constance Markievicz, who was, from what Charles understood, a countess. It had been hard enough for the butler to accept an American as the Lady Grantham, so he could only imagine the trials and tribulations of having an Irish Republican in such a position.

"Mr. Barrow said you wanted t'see me, sir?"

The sound of the head housemaid's distinct voice brought Charles back to the present, back to England, and back to Downton.

"Ah, Mairead." He gestured for her to come into his pantry, and watched as she took a few cautious steps over the threshold, pausing before she came further into the room. "Mr. Branson called, and he asked to speak with you."

"Did he say why, sir?"

Charles shook his head. "Only that it was important and that you would understand," he told the head housemaid, watching for her reaction, which perhaps would provide some insight as to what this was all about.

Realization lit up her face for a moment before her usual professionalism returned, and she gave him a tight nod. "And I do," she said, glancing with what could almost be described as longing at the telephone. "May I?"

"Please." He stepped to the side and allowed her to take the device, resolving to stay in the room to supervise and make sure she wasn't up to any questionable activities. He knew she would understand, and if she didn't, she wouldn't comment or ask him to leave on account of his rank.

"Tom?"

Charles cringed at the brazen manner with which she addressed the ex-chauffeur; not even in his days at Downton had the Irishman been called by his Christian name, and no woman of Mairead's standing would dare to address a social superior in such a manner.

"Oh my Lord," Mairead murmured, biting her lip, and Charles saw some of the color drain from her cheeks as she shifted uneasily on her feet, as if she'd just received horrible news. "And their sister?"

He wondered if he should get Mrs. Hughes, in case something truly tragic had happened and the young woman before him needed to be comforted, but he decided against it. If Mairead wanted to be comforted, she would seek out comfort, preferably on her own time, and not when she was supposed to be working.

"Okay," the head housemaid breathed, the tension leaving her body and her eyes shining with relief. "God bless you both. Goodbye."

"May I ask what was so urgent, Mairead, that Mr. Branson felt the need to telephone a maid at this hour?"

She didn't flinch at the emphasis that he'd placed on the word "maid," nor did he expect her to. She knew her place, and all he did was remind her where she was, and where Mr. Branson was now, and how they were different.

"Good friends of ours were arrested, one of them...one of them was killed, sir," she said, her voice firm and even ("controlled," was a better word for it, really) as she spoke, her eyes fixed on the butler and her hands at her side, palms pressed to her skirt.

Fenians, no doubt, Charles thought, pressing his lips into an impassive line. If she was lying, it would be on her conscience, he decided. Things would come to light eventually, and Charles didn't want to be wrong in his assumptions, no matter how correct he thought he was this time. There was something about this whole business that struck him as odd, something between Mr. Branson and Mairead Hayes that almost seemed...conspiratorial, like from the moment the young Irishwoman arrived at Downton, something greater had set itself into motion, and the others could only sit back and watch.

"And their sister?"

She froze. "She wasn't at home, sir, when the Black an' Tans came." The firmness in her voice gave way to such obvious venom that Charles almost flinched. "And thank God for that."

"I see…" The butler cleared his throat and pulled at his livery, straightening it. "You may go now, Mairead, unless you have any more business to see to in here, which I know you do not."

"Of course," she said, bobbing a small curtsey. "Thank you, Mr. Carson."

He nodded, and she turned and left after casting a worried glance at the telephone, which didn't go unnoticed by Mr. Carson.

Best keep an eye on her, he decided, or, better yet, ask Mrs. Hughes to do that. It's more her place, and she'd scold you for interfering with her maids. She'll get to the bottom of this, I'm sure.