Not one of the servants sitting in the servants' hall after a long working day came to aid when Tom Branson punched Thomas Barrow in his porcelain face. They had watched in fascination as the young Irishman grabbed the other man's collar, yanked him from his chair, and sent him with a well-placed bow to the ground. Just a minute before, they had talked in accustomed unity, sharing the latest rumours about the people living upstairs. It was Lady Grantham's miscarriage and the footman's cold-hearted dismissal of the unborn's death that set the hare running.
"They're no bigger than a hamster at this stage," Barrow had said, lighting his cigarette. He had not noticed how Branson pressed his lips hard onto each other, his eyes flickering in disdain. "She'll get over it."
"What is the matter with you, Thomas," Elsie Hughes, the housekeeper, whispered into the tense silence that had filled the servants' hall within seconds, "Kindly show some respect."
But Barrow only smiled. He enjoyed their attention, and he enjoyed teasing them until they broke. "She won't even remember in a week's time," he said, "She'll find a new dress or a new vase for the dining hall and all this is forgotten. " He took a pull on his cigarette and blew the smoke into Elsie Hughes' direction, "Without life, there is no death. It's as simple as—"
He swallowed the rest of his words as Tom Branson, the images of his stillborn baby sister and his mother's utter despair flashing through his head, grabbed the footman. Branson was fast and swift as he turned Barrow around and punched him. Neither Mr Carson who had remained uncharacteristically silent the whole time nor William, the footman sitting next to Barrow, had time to react. Only as Branson had punched Barrow a second time, and Anna, the housemaid, had started crying did they react.
Mr Carson grabbed Branson from behind and nearly carried him outside the servants' hall. William, on the other hand, had crouched next to Barrow who was still on the cold stone floor, unsure of what to do.
"He had that coming," O'Brian said, but her eyes were wide in surprise.
"Maybe," William answered. He felt cold fear growing in his stomach as he carefully nudged Barrow's shoulder, "Thomas?"
Under no circumstances would he have ever dared touch Barrow, and even now, it felt like he had to overcome an invisible barrier. He tried rousing the unconscious man for a second time, but the footman's features remained slack despite the busted lip. "What is it, William?", Mrs Hughes asked, and only as she crouched next to him, a flickering candle from the table in her left hand, could they see the pool of dark blood next to Barrow's head.
Mrs Hughes gasped, "Oh my—." William had already placed two fingers on Barrow's neck; his eyes mirrored his relief as he felt a pulse. "Shall I fetch Dr. Clarkson?" he asked.
Yes," Mrs Hughes said slowly, and then her demeanour suddenly changed as she ordered with a firm voice, "Mrs O'Brien, fetch a blanket and a clean towel for his head. I think he might have hit it quite hard as he fell-"
And it was true. It was not the punch that sent Barrow into unconsciousness but the uncushioned fall on the stone floor after he had lost his footing. As Mrs O'Brian reappeared, Mrs Hughes placed the blanket over Barrow's body and pressed the towel firmly against his head. "Now we can only wait for the doctor to arrive," she said grimly, her eyes never leaving the young footman who had just been sharp and loud, and dangerously full of life a moment ago and who was now nothing more than a broken porcelain doll.
They placed Barrow in the small room next to the servants' hall as neither dared to carry the man all the way up to the servants' quarters under the roof. The room was hardly used and smelled of dust and cold tobacco smoke. The doctor, working by candlelight, had wrapped a bandage around Barrow's head and was now listening to the man's chest for a second time.
"His heartbeat is strong," he said, putting his stethoscope away.
"Then why isn't he waking up?", Mrs Hughes asked. She had been standing in the door frame the whole time, watching the doctor's work closely; and Barrow who was still as pale and unresponsive as before. "Head injuries are dangerous injuries," the doctor started, "because we cannot see inside the head, see how much damage has been done. Some men only feel faint, and others never wake up again. They remain unconscious until they starve to death." Mrs Hughes gasped and sat down on the bed. Her legs were shaking as images of Thomas Barrow's funeral formed in her head. "I am sorry, Mrs Hughes, but I don't want to sugar-coat the situation. Even if he wakes up, he might be altered. He might display permanent symptoms like paralysis or he even might be in some kind of degenerative neurological state."
"Is there anything we can do to help him?" she asked after a while. "Keep him warm, and put a wet cloth to his lips a few times a day. It can be water or broth. If he swallows it, he might have a chance after all." The doctor stood up, "I'll be back tomorrow."
And then there was silence; deafening and heavy; and the fear of losing somebody who had been placed into her protection years and years ago consumed her. Elsie Hughes could neither move nor think. Instead she starred wide-eyed at the young man, who was the most complicated and vain person she had ever met but who also was just a lonely boy who did not deserve to die like this.