Thank you to HamiltonAsparagus for your lovely review

A/N: This story is AU

***chapter 15***

"Early night, Mr Barrow?" Anna asked pleasantly as she donned coat and hat and deliberately ignored her husband's meaningful frown at the question. Mr Bates had never liked the arrogant under-butler, but Anna refused to give up on anyone, believing that a friendly manner broke down barriers and reciprocated a friendly response. Even from Thomas Barrow. Well, eventually.

Thomas looked down his nose at the lady's maid. It wasn't difficult. She was all of five foot two, perhaps three on her tiptoes, while he towered above and had got sneering down to a fine art.

"And may I ask what business is that of yours, Mrs Bates?"

John Bates stopped flicking through the pages of the book he was browsing whilst waiting for his wife. The Crawleys were quite happy for staff to borrow books from their extensive library, and happening to see a book his wife had once mentioned as being a great favourite in her childhood, he couldn't resist surprising her. It was worth it to see Anna's delighted expression even if the Earl of Grantham did raise his eyebrows at his choice.

"Little Women." Robert Crawley observed, biting back a laugh. "I'm sure you'll enjoy reading all about the March girls and their romances, Bates. I remember Mary, Edith and Sybil loved to read it over and over when they were very young."

"It's for Mrs Bates, M'lord."

"Hmmm." Robert knew that perfectly well. But it always amused him that in all the years he'd known his friend John Bates could keep a stiff upper lip in even the most trying of circumstances. Only Thomas Barrow could surpass him in not displaying any emotion. The difference being, Bates gave away his mirth with his eyes. Barrow was a closed book.

An appropriate simile at this moment, he thought, as he shut again the Louisa M Alcott classic. He hadn't opened it to tease Bates. He'd opened it because he knew the exact page and the exact place where his late daughter Sybil, aged eight, had signed a picture she'd sketched of Jo March. He had no qualms about lending his valet something so preciously sentimental. He knew the Bates's would take exceptional care of it.

Although he didn't envy being the recipient of one of Barrow's acid comments if he discovered his chosen reading material, as he remarked.

"Oh, I think I can handle Mr Barrow's idiosyncrasies, M'lord." John Bates smiled his slow smile that Anna told him never failed to set her heart a-fluttering. Despite now holding the respectable position of under-butler Barrow was still angry that years ago Bates was promoted to Lord Grantham's valet over him and took every opportunity to undermine the crippled older man, but to his fury, his jibes didn't trouble him in the slightest.

As it happened, Thomas Barrow had other things on his mind that evening. He wanted to read again Phyllis Baxter's unexpected and lengthy letter and he was damned if he was going to read it in the kitchen area where anyone could poke their nose in. Normally, he had more time and patience for Anna, but Long John Silver with his superior attitude always unsettled him. Like now, as he looked over the top of his glasses to regard the under-butler with contempt. So it was Anna who had borne the brunt of his sharp tongue although it was her husband who provoked it.

"Don't waste your breath, Mrs Bates." The older man advised. "I believe dumbwaiters are not renowned for their powers of conversation."

He was rewarded with a most unBarrowlike slam of the door followed by the under-butler's clipped footsteps. "My, my, touched a nerve." he added, with satisfaction.

His wife was unamused, however. "That was cruel, Mr Bates," she chided. "Mr Barrow is how he is because he's unhappy and he's usually quite kind to me. Promise me you'll apologise?"

John Bates sighed. But he would do anything for Anna. Anything. Climb mountains. Catch moonbeams. Walk barefoot over broken glass. Read to her from what seemed to be a mawkish story and definitely not to his taste – unfortunately, he had randomly opened the book at Beth March's death – the way he read to her every evening after supper as she sat by the fire in their cosy cottage, feet raised on a footstool as Dr Clarkson advised, hand rested on her swollen stomach.

It was a happy marriage. Too happy, he worried at times. He and his late wife Vera had begun married life full of hopes and dreams too although it had also begun on a lie when she told him she was pregnant. Anna seemed incapable of lying. One of the thousand and one reasons he loved and would do anything for Anna. Even apologise to Thomas Barrow.

"I promise," he said.

"Thank you, John."

And he smiled his slow smile that set her heart a-fluttering so she stole a kiss.

*****.

Damn Long John Silver and his self-righteousness. Thomas's good mood - if Mr Barrow could ever be accused of making the acquaintance of good moods since little Miss Sybbie's departure to America – evaporated. He sorely missed the uncomplicated company of the children and it had been denied him even more so since Margaret Mottram's marriage and the new Nanny's strong belief friendships between servants and the Crawley children should be actively discouraged. Hence, her determination to break up the fledgling friendship between the under-butler and little Master George.

He knew he would ensure Sheila O'Hara's dismissal eventually, but his duties swallowed up almost all of his time and the opportunity not yet presented itself. She was not particularly lax in looking after Master George, but being young and exceptionally pretty she was often too busy enjoying flirting and turning heads to pay the little boy any extra attention. And he'd had such a miserable childhood himself that he would always look out for children.

Which was why Marigold concerned him. Lady Edith sometimes brought the pale, thin little girl with the mass of light brown curls to visit Downton Abbey. She supposedly belonged to a family of cottagers who lived on the estate, but some of the staff inclined to gossip speculated that Lady Edith may have a very good reason for her interest. Personally, Thomas couldn't care less if Lady Edith had given birth outside of wedlock or not. His only concern was for the child. He'd noticed Marigold's big scared eyes when she walked up the steps, tightly clutching Lady Edith's hand. She was well aware she was a talking point among the servants while the servants were totally unaware that she knew. Kids were far more perceptive than adults gave them credit for.

He'd banned Downstairs from spreading "malicious rumours" about Marigold's background although he knew certain die-hard chin-waggers would ignore the order. It was one of the few times he and Bates were in total agreement. He'd overheard *Steadfast Tin Soldier quash a couple of conversations before the more dedicated rumour-mongers got into their stride. Not because of Thomas's instruction, no, even though the title of under-butler carried more weight than valet, Bates always managed to convey that smug air of being the better man. Thomas acted because he worried about Marigold. Bates acted because he worried about Marigold, Lady Edith, the Crawley family, the cottager family, the downstairs staff, and the whole damn bloody world. Nobody was that perfect, but John Bates had to be. He could tolerate Anna – no, more than tolerate, she had always been friendly to Thomas, never scorned his homosexuality; it was impossible not to like Anna. But that bloody self-righteous cripple…! Just seeing him there, looking holier than thou and flicking importantly through some book – probably the Goddamn Bible! – had been enough to get his back up and make him snap at Anna.

Thomas blew out a breath of air. He was exhausted. If he hadn't been wearing his butler uniform, he might well have broken the habit of a lifetime of being meticulous about his appearance and thrown himself on his bed. Having full charge while Charles and Elsie Carson were away for the week – Lady Crawley had insisted that they enjoy a break in a seaside holiday home she owned; she felt they deserved it for all their service and loyalty over the years - was taking a toll as heavy as a midnight bell.

They were back the day after tomorrow, thank God. Not that he'd ever admit it to Carson, but being butler had been a thousand times more taxing than being under-butler. He knew the work inside out, ran Downton Abbey like a well-oiled machine and enjoyed issuing orders...People were another matter altogether.

Why the hell couldn't they just do what he said right away without feeling the need to point out potential problems or being resentful or becoming emotional? Ida the scullery maid burst into tears when he'd told her to re-do the kitchen floor, but cleaner this time, then Mrs Patmore interfered to insist the kitchen was her domain and nobody else's, which led to whispers of agreement and rebellion from Alma, Jane and Winnie, the three kitchen maids on duty.

Anna had hinted speaking more kindly might create better relations with the staff, but he had no intention of pandering to their whims. If he were completely honest with himself, he did feel a tad guilty for criticising Ida's work, she was only thirteen, after all, little more than a kid, but he hadn't raised his voice and simply wanted everything to be perfect under his watch. And the more others opposed him, the more determined he was to be as awkward as possible. Mrs Patmore and every kitchen maid who'd been present, except young Ida, could look forward to a very tough and unpleasant time on Mr Barrow's last day in charge.

The cripple was another who would feel his wrath, but in his case it would be a much greater revenge than one bad day. In the mean time. there was Miss Baxter…

He'd read the letter so many times in the weeks since receiving it, he could almost recite it ad verbatim. Smiling to himself, he skimmed over its contents yet again, randomly picking out paragraphs here and there.

...As it was Annie's day off, Mrs Meadows was alone cooking dinner. Mercifully, although some lodgers suffered from the effects of smoke inhalation, there was only one death. Mrs Meadows had fallen into a drunken sleep while a pan was burning on the stove…

...dinner would be. Annie had left early that morning to spend the day with Joe Wilson. I don't think I mentioned she had a beau? Joe had not had much schooling and could barely read or write but they had known each other since children and he was a kind, honest and hard-working man, not clever with his books, but clever with hammer and nails and earned a living making furniture. I knew he would care well for Annie and they would...

...thus Mrs Quinn had become a friend of sorts, albeit never a close and trusted one, and after her death following the short illness, I was fortunate enough to secure work as laundrywoman in a large hotel. I often enquired after the health of a certain guest I became fond of, who had travelled from Scotland to see a favourite physician from her girlhood, and one day she enquired if I would be willing to accompany her as a ladies companion. I was in Scotland for several years. My kindly elderly mistress kept a small staff and as always I kept myself to myself. But when she passed away, I...

...to search for you in vain. Strangely, it never occurred to me that you may have chosen a similar path to mine! Knowing how bright you were, I assumed you to have perhaps taken up employment with a bank or perhaps now worked as a newspaperman or earned enough to open your own business. When the Great War came, I scanned the press reports every day, in dread that like so many young men you had perished. Sometimes on my days off I would travel to places nearby where...

It was, however, the last two pages that interested him most.

...and how I had sworn never to love again, but my heart was not mine to own any more. I knew I would do as Mr Coyle asked and carry out the theft because I could not bear to see him unhappy. It shames me to say that I stole from my employer Mrs Benton, who had trusted me implicitly and never borne me any ill will, several items of jewellery, two diamond bracelets, a pearl necklace with a ruby clasp, four rings, an antique brooch with…

He almost laughed out loud at Miss Baxter's naivety. Of course Peter Coyle did a moonlight flit. Reading between the lines, it was obvious that he would. Her remarks on how he would flatter her, make her feel special, talk about marriage. It may have come as a surprise to Phyllis Baxter, but it was no surprise to Thomas Barrow that immediately after the staged burglary Coyle and the stolen jewellery disappeared. He would have quickly realised what Thomas remembered well about his sister's old friend: her strong Christian values.

Even Kate, for all her regular attendances at church, was human enough to sometimes lose her temper or tell a fib or filch the odd item, a hair ribbon here, a toffee there, even once a whole shilling that she saw a customer drop on his way out of the clockmakers. Not so the saintly Miss Baxter. Always the listener, always keen to help, always seeing the good in everyone – ha! Did she live in the real world? Nobody kept the innocence of kids forever; it was dog eat dog out there. Looking out for everybody else instead of herself made Baxter the perfect victim. Or sucker, as the Yanks so succinctly put it. Even after being coerced into committing the crime, she was still daft enough to take all the blame…

...no matter how glad I was to be released, those three years in prison could never repay my terrible debt. But now I am free and wish for honest work my criminal record denies me. I have applied for so many positions only to...

...and I realise, Mr Barrow, this has been quite the book! But I wanted to be totally honest with you when I am appealing to my only friend for help...

Well, Miss Baxter was going to be lucky. Or at least, think she was lucky. Millie Powell, who had taken over as ladies maid since Edna O'Brien's departure, was leaving to look after her elderly mother and Lady Grantham urgently needed someone to replace her. Carson had been so relieved when the under-butler announced an old acquaintance of his was seeking the very same position that he actually lost his composure and stumbled over his words, so keen was he to tell Mr Barrow he must write to this acquaintance immediately.

It was most unconventional, but so pressing was the need that Miss Baxter was hired on Mr Barrow's recommendation alone and without having to attend an interview. She would be arriving tomorrow evening to take up her new post the following day.

And Thomas ("her only friend") would be waiting. He would keep to himself his knowledge about her criminal record. While it suited him. Something to blackmail her with...

AN: *In The Steadfast Tin Soldier by Hans Christian Andersen the toy soldier has only one leg