August 1920

Ever since Tom had telephoned with the news, Mairead found herself growing more and more anxious with each passing day.

It could happen any day now, she thought, remembering what Tom had told her, about there being no set date for the undertaking (he hadn't told her the exact nature of the event that was going to occur, only that it could put them in hot water if they weren't careful). He'd been able to give her an estimate, though, relaying what someone had said about it taking place late in the summer, and, only a few days into August as it was, it would be sure to happen within the week.

Every day, Mairead waited to hear from Tom, hoping that he would have something to tell her about what was going to happen, but there was nothing.

No telegrams, no letters, not even from Sybil.

Nothing.

No doubt the rest of Downton's staff had noticed the change in her as the summer wore on, from her sudden loss of appetite, to the way she couldn't seem to sit still, while other times she looked as if she might keel over from exhaustion. It was true that she was having difficulty sleeping, afraid that at any given moment, Tom and Sybil could be in danger, not to mention she still suffered from occasional night terrors, though they were nowhere near as bad as they'd been after...after Nathaniel.

Nathaniel.

Every time she so much as thought about him, she felt everything he'd done to her as if it was only minutes after Mr. Barrow had come to her rescue. She'd gotten better since then; she was no longer prone to sudden bouts of terror, not as often as she'd been in the first three months after the attack, when she spent more time cowering than she was proud of. Six months later, and her stomach hadn't grown in any way that suggested she was with child, which came as a relief for sure.

Every time she thought about him, she felt her cheeks burn with shame, and her chest would begin to constrict with dread. The feeling would pass- it always did- but there were times when she feared it wouldn't, that she would succumb all over again to the weakness he had left her with.

Tom, she would tell herself. Focus on Tom. He's the one in danger now. Any day, it could happen, you know it could. The riots in Belfast earlier this month are proof enough, as are the allowances made by the Restoration of Order in Ireland Act.

Despite all of the horrors that had rocked her country since Tom's warning, and how they were praised at the servants' table, as well as at His Lordship's table, Mairead could only keep silent. Foremost, because she didn't want to endanger her cousin or any of her family back home, or risk losing her job because she sympathized with her country and not their oppressors, who sat around and above her. Listening to them praise Churchill for the initiative to send former British Army officers to Ireland as reinforcements for the RIC made her stomach churn, but she couldn't excuse herself from the table. They knew she was Irish, that these were her people- her cousins, her friends, and most importantly, her country- that were being beaten down and treated no better than animals. Did they expect her to sit idle while they degraded her homeland?

She didn't speak up for a second reason, and that was perhaps the most frustrating for her. She didn't have the energy to defend her country, not in the state she was, waiting every day on the edge of her seat for word from Tom about what was going to happen.

Finally, on the day after the town hall at Templemore was burnt down by the British Army in reparation for the murder of one of their District Inspectors at the hands of a local IRA volunteer, something did happen.


"Will that be all m'lady?"

Lady Edith examined her reflection in the mirror, angling her body this way and that, her pale, peach-colored gown moving silently with her. "Yes, I think so," she said. "Thank you Mairead, and do tell Madge I hope she feels better."

"Certainly m'lady."

With that, Mairead turned and left, Lady Edith's day dress folded neatly over her arms, still mulling over yesterday's news.

Oh, it'd been in the papers here all right, painted as a victory against the Irish, but Mairead could feel that the British victory wouldn't last long. These days, that's how it worked- an eye for an eye. The IRA would retaliate, if they hadn't already, and the cycle would continue, until there was nothing left of her beloved home.

The topic of Ireland, thank goodness, was not among the conversations that filled dinner that evening, though that didn't stop Mairead from excusing herself early. Mrs. Hughes allowed her to go, but Anna expressed concern over the food Mairead had left on her plate- she'd eaten some, but her stomach was twisting too fiercely for her to continue eating. The lady's maid didn't comment, but her pointed look was enough to tell Mairead that her continued lack of appetite didn't go unnoticed.

She went straight for the door, not bothering to tell anyone where she was going. They could hear her, and she wouldn't be going far- just out to the courtyard for some fresh air- nor would she be gone long.

Once outside, Mairead could smell the promise of heavy rain, a promise that was close to being fulfilled, if the misty drizzle that she felt against her face was any indication. In the distance, she thought she heard the quiet roll of thunder, the feet of an army stopping and then starting again, nearing where Downton lay in peace. A storm was coming, the first storm of the month, and it would break before morning, Mairead decided, as heavy and seemingly endless as summer storms were.

Rain.

Vicious, torrential rain fell like pebbles on Tom's head as he hurried off of the ferry, trying to seem as inconspicuous as possible, in case the police here had been told what had happened. He had to get to the train station, where he'd find the next train going to York- he knew there wouldn't be any to Ripon- and hope that God was working for him and not against him. He needed to get as far away from Ireland as possible, at least until the ashes of the estate that he'd help burn to the ground were cool. The Irish Sea wouldn't be enough to keep him from danger at the moment; he needed to put land between him and the War of Independence, then he could decide what was to be done.

She sat just inside of the stone arch, her cheek pressed against the cool, damp stone and her eyes trained on the dirt road that went around the back of the Abbey. Her mind wandered down the road, and she thought of the stories she'd grown up with, stories about fairies and spirits that frequented roadsides on nights like tonight. She wondered if any of the creatures she'd been told about as a child in Ireland lived here, or if the English woods' inhabitants were cousins to those she knew.

Donal Brennan had mentioned that they had a correspondent in Liverpool, in case any of their number were forced to flee (though what good would hiding in the heart of the enemy's territory do any of them?), but Tom didn't want to risk it. Besides, he and Sybil had agreed to meet at Downton, an agreement that had been reluctantly accepted by Tom, who knew Lord Grantham wouldn't hesitate to turn him in once what Tom had done came to light. The earl might even enjoy it, and use it as proof that Tom was not fit to be married to Sybil.

It was a childish notion, and she should've known better than to act on it, but this sudden curiosity over English and Irish spirits compelled her to leave the safety of the courtyard and venture a ways down the road. She knew the way well enough that she felt confident enough to act on this whim, promising herself that she would stay within sight of the Abbey, where His Lordship and his family dined with the Archbishop of York. The exercise would do her good, and the rain was a welcome respite from the stifling warmth of the servants' hall, sprinkling her skin with clear, impish kisses.

Dear God, please keep her safe, Tom prayed as he ran onto the train bound for York, not daring to look back in hopes that Sybil had, by some miracle, made it onto the same ferry as he in Dublin, and would be coming right on his heels. However, he feared that he was being followed, and so he kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, the brim of his hat tipped downward and dripping water into his eyes as he settled himself in the third-class carriage.

The rain started picking up, becoming more bold as it fell in heavy drops against her skin, rolling down her neck and following the curve of her spine the way a marble rolls along a track, cold, solid and smooth. Strong winds passed through the leafy branches of the surrounding trees and raced after Mairead, begging for her to take her hair down like she might've done when she was younger.

Mairead only shook her head, tossing a few wet strands of hair to the wind before they fell back against her face. She was no longer at the age where wearing her hair down was permissible, regardless of how well-brushed she kept it or how pretty she thought it was. Besides, it was only milkmaids and country girls who wore their hair down, if anyone did at her age, and Mairead wasn't any of those things. She was a housemaid- head housemaid- in one of the finest homes in all of England; she was expected to show some level of sophistication.

For the entire train ride to York, Tom sat as still as a statue, trying to give the impression of calm to his fellow passengers, who knew nothing about why he looked so harried, or why he hadn't boarded with even an overnight bag. To them, he was just another passenger, a nobody. Not a man on the run, not an Irishman (he hadn't opened his mouth, for fear it would be what betrayed him), and not a man with anything to hide.

Outside, the rain continued to fall, hitting the roof of the carriage and filling Tom's ears with the sound of a thousand bullets firing in the distance. With each bullet fired, Tom felt his body tense, and his jaw tightened as his body twinged with each imaginary explosion on pain. Even with the Irish Sea and at least fifty miles of rail behind him, Tom still wasn't free of what happened, not yet, and neither was Sybil.

Her feet carried her towards the cottages along a wall that came to just above her waist, built from sturdy cement and cobblestones that were now slick with rain water. Overhead, the clouds let out a low rumble, closer now, and when the rain was the only sound once more, Mairead thought she heard footsteps coming towards her, each footfall splashing in the mud and puddles on the road.

God had answered his prayers, and there was a train about to leave for Ripon just as Tom's pulled in, which he caught and rode in the same silence that he'd observed between Liverpool and York.

He began running as soon as the train pulled into the Ripon train station, waiting until he was closer to the town outskirts to break into a full-out run, following the road sign to Downton village along the main road for as long as he dared. He knew the back roads and the woods would be the safest, and luckily, he knew the way from Ripon to Downton well enough from his days working as a chauffeur. Those had been simpler times, times he would never have back, for better or for worse.

Someone was coming.

He could see the Abbey in the distance, and his surroundings were beginning to become familiar. He could see the lights in the windows of cottages, one of which had been his, once upon a time, and the familiar, cobbled wall rose up on his side.

His lungs burned and his eyes stung with rainwater, and truth be told, he couldn't see much in the darkness, only the lights of the Abbey ahead, like a lighthouse beacon in the heart of a storm. The only noise that he heard was the sound of his breathing; he didn't think he'd ever run this hard in his life, though, then again, he'd never had to run for his life like this.

There had been games of hide-and-seek or capture the flag that he'd played as a child where he'd put his heart and soul into running as fast as he could to evade capture by the enemy teams, but this was different. Here, if he was caught, "jail" wouldn't be the base of the old oak at the top of the hill- it would be three walls and iron bars for life, not just until he was freed by his teammates. His flag was a slip of blue paper in the breast pocket of his coat that marked him as belonging to the prey of the Black and Tans, the enemy of the whole British presence in Ireland, though it was less of a victory flag and more of a scarlet letter.

Why didn't he get rid of it? Throw it to the side of the road, rip it into many tiny pieces and bury them in the runny soil, the way unbaptized children and suicides were- out of sight and out of mind?

Why did he even have it in the first place?

It was then that she turned towards the Abbey, her heart hammering in her chest, though she forced herself to refrain from running. She would only make noise if she ran, and she was probably making enough noise as it was, picking her way along the road now that it had begun to get muddy, hoping to spare her shoes from getting too dirty. She picked up her skirts, lengthening her strides and hoping that her skirts did not rustle like the trees, or that the trees would disguise the sound of her movement.

He didn't have time to answer this question before a startled cry caught his attention, and he dared to slow down, holding onto the wall for support. Feet plashed through the mud that the road had become, away from him and towards the Abbey. He could hear the panic in each step as he followed, only able to manage a steady jog as his legs and lungs burned despite the cold rain that plastered his coat and shirt to his body. Mud splattered his trousers and found its way into his shoes, almost causing his step to falter, which would've led to him tripping and falling flat on his face.

He was too near to the Abbey to give up now.

"To go back would be as tedious as to go o'er," he thought, finding the fact that, even despite his panic and his body's exhaustion, he was able to quote Shakespeare, and quite aptly, too. Mairead would be proud, though perhaps she would call him a fool for thinking about Shakespeare when he ought to be thinking about his own safety.

Someone was there.

Almost home, she thought, seeing the light that hung by the back entrance to the Abbey. As she passed through the stone arch, she slowed to a staggering halt, slouching forward as she made her way to the door, making sure her shoes didn't have obscene amounts of mud caked on them before she entered through the door, careful to close it quietly behind her so she didn't make herself too well known.

There were only about two hundred feet between him and the safety of Downton.

He'd given up on all hopes of Sybil having made it to England with him, because if she had, he would've stayed with her. He'd promised to take care of her for the rest of his days, come Hell or high water. If it were up to him, she would be by his side now, perhaps astride a stolen horse, because a woman as pregnant as she couldn't run, not without endangering herself or the baby.

Dear God, please protect her and her child. Don't punish them on my account. Let her get here safely, and then You can do as You will with me, he thought as he staggered to the front door, leaning against the old stone as he reached for the knocker, his arms as heavy as lead as he knocked on the doors of the great house.

"There you are," she heard Anna say. "Goodness, Mairead, you're soaking wet."

"I'll go change," Mairead assured the older woman, already making her way up the stairs. She'd have to redo her hair too, in order to correct the strands that had fallen against her neck while she was outside.

"'Cuse me Mairead," Alfred said as he barreled past the young woman, nearly knocking her down the stairs in his hurry.

He probably brought in the wrong sauce again, she thought, continuing on her way to the attic rooms. Poor lad.

She hurried to change, because dinner would be over soon and she wouldn't be late to take care of Lady Edith on the one night she'd been asked to fill in as lady's maid. She couldn't be caught slacking just because her promotion to head housemaid came with less work, especially since Mrs. Hughes had decided to allow Madge to continue training up to be lady's maid to Lady Edith for when the second Crawley daughter finally married. She'd been promoted on account of her hard work, and she wasn't going to let that disappear just because she'd been met with better fortunes. Her goal of housekeeper was still a ways away, and it wasn't going to be reached if she let the quality of her work go down.

He knocked again, wondering why no one had answered the door. The family would be in the middle of dinner, yes, but surely one of the footmen would come answer the door, or maybe Mairead would come and let him in. She knew he was coming-Templemore had been the sign he and the others had waited for, and he knew she would sense it too- though if she knew he was coming, why wasn't she there to greet him?

He knocked again.

"What had Alfred so in a hurry?" Mairead asked when she returned to the servants' hall. "He nearly sent me fallin' down the stairs, looked like he'd seen a ghost."

"If only," O'Brien remarked, her lips curling into a hint of a snarl around her cigarette. "According to him, Branson's here, soaked t'the bone, an'-"

Tom.

Tom was here.

Her heart seized with something that was part joy, part fear, and she found herself racing from the servants' hall and towards the stairs, where she almost collided with Mr. Carson.

"Pardon me, Mr. Carson," she said, noticing that the butler was carrying a tray with a bowl of squash soup (from earlier in the family's dinner, though, miraculously, it seemed to have some steam curling off of the surface), a couple of slices of bread from the servants' table , and a fresh pot of tea.

"I would think so," he said, peering down at her. "Might I ask where you were going in such a hurry all of a sudden? Lady Edith hasn't rung-the family isn't even through the main course yet."

The tray must be for Tom, she thought, doing her best to refrain from telling the butler that Tom didn't like squash (true, growing up as Tom and Mairead did didn't allow for one to be very picky, but Tom detested squash so much such that if there was another option, he would jump at it). That would only give Mr. Carson more of a reason to talk down to her, maybe even push for her demotion.

"Do you want me to take that up to To-Mr. Branson? No doubt they're missing you in the dining room, sir."

Why did she phrase it like that? It sounded too much like something Mr. Barrow would say, snide and clearly trying to get Mr. Carson out of her way. That wasn't her goal at all, it wasn't, she'd swear to it. She just saw it as a convenient excuse to see Tom, and really, she was doing Mr. Carson a favor, so he could go back to his usual place in the dining room.

Mr. Carson narrowed his eyes, watching her as a hawk watches a mouse in the field before diving in to snap it up for lunch. "I will not be long, Miss Hayes," he told her, still staring her down. "Not to mention it would be most inappropriate for a housemaid to be going into the bachelor's wing at this hour."

He's my cousin, for Christ's sake! she thought, but kept herself from saying those words. Of all the people in this house, it was Mr. Carson who needed to know the least about her relationship to Tom. She'd lie to no one else about it but Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes, the only people in the staff who held any real power over her.

"Please sir, I'd be glad to do it," she said, determined not to let him see the panic that was beginning to surface for reasons she didn't understand. Mr. Carson wasn't hurting her, nor did she see him as a threat, but her body was responding in a way that it responded to anything even slightly unnerving since she was attacked. "I'll just take it up and come back, I promise."

"I think I'd better take it," came his response, his tone firm and the underlying message beyond apparent. This is the end of the discussion, he seemed to say, still watching her with narrow eyes and rigid posture.

"Sir, I really don't see why I can't-"

"Because I said so, and my word in this house is law-"

But he's my cousin. My family. Don't I have a right to see him?

"- and I will not have you behaving in such an insubordinate manner."

"Mr. Carson, I didn't mean to be insubordinate, sir."

"Then let me pass, Miss Hayes, if you'd be so kind."

"May I ask what's going on here?"

At the sound of Mrs. Hughes's voice, both Mairead and Mr. Carson took a step away from each other, Mairead dropping her gaze to the ground while Mr. Carson met the housekeeper's grey eyes.

"Miss Hayes asked to go take the tray up to Mr. Branson," the butler said, conveying the matter as if Mairead had asked to do something more scandalous than take her cousin dinner.

"That's awfully kind of her, Mr. Carson, offering her time when she could be sitting with the others and a cup of cocoa," the housekeeper said, her gaze falling on Mairead.

"But it's hardly appropriate, wouldn't you think? A housemaid in the bachelor's wing? You haven't forgotten what happened with Ms. Parks, have you?"

Pain flashed across Mrs. Hughes's face, so quickly that Mairead almost missed it as the Scotswoman broke eye contact and looked at the floor for barely the space of a breath. "That was different," she said, meeting the butler's indignant gaze, her own expression now fierce and hard, injured, almost. "Mr. Branson is Mairead's ki-her friend, and her countryman, so is it so wrong that she's worried for him?"

"I'm not saying it is, but when it means she can come and go across boundaries that are clearly defined, there is a problem with it."

"To you there might be, but to me, there isn't, and it's I who have the final say in what she does, isn't that true?"

"I suppose it is." Mr. Carson cleared his throat. "What, if I may so bold, is your ruling in the matter, then?"

A small smile found its way to Mrs. Hughes's lips. "Let her take the tray up." She turned to Mairead. "You may visit with Mr. Branson, but if I hear of any shenanigans, I will not make such allowances again, am I understood?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Excellent. Mr. Carson, the tray, if you will."

Again, he cleared his throat before offering the tray to Mairead. "Here you are, Miss Hayes."

She took the tray without a word, only a polite nod to both the housekeeper and the butler, before she made her way up the stairs.

It didn't take long for Mairead to find the room where her cousin had been settled, no doubt by Alfred or Mr. Matthew, and she waited for her cousin's delayed "come in" before entering, still retaining her manners despite her worry.

First things first, she set the tray on the bureau and checked that everything was in proper condition, that nothing had sloshed around as she made her way up the stairs, and then she turned her attention to Tom.

If Alfred had seen a ghost, Tom had seen a whole host of spirits, he was so pale, his dark blonde hair rich brown from the rain water against his brow and he looked so exhausted, lying on the bed, his shirt (borrowed, most likely from Mr. Matthew) half buttoned and his hands spread out like Christ on the cross. Mairead could see the rise and fall of his chest, only now becoming less labored and more smooth.

"Tom," she breathed, going to sit beside him on the bed.

He looked up at her. "Mairead," he murmured, and she tried to shift his body so he could lay his head in her lap. "What are you doing up here?"

"Mrs. Hughes let me bring you something to eat," she explained, smoothing his hair away from his face. "It's squash soup, just to give fair warning."

He wrinkled his nose. "Where did you put it?"

"On the bureau. Let me get it for you," she said, easing herself out from under his head and going to fetch the tray. "Did it finally happen?"

He watched her. "Did what…? Oh." His eyes lit up with dull recognition. "Yes it did. It did, and Mairead...it was horrible...I...Forgive me for ever taking part in such a thing."

"Of course I do," she assured him. "And I'm sure Sybil does too."

"Mmhm."

Mairead's stomach twisted. Something wasn't right here. Sybil. Where was Sybil?

"Tom?"

"Yes?"

"Where's Sybil?"