With many thanks to HamiltonAsparagus for your detailed and lovely review. To be honest, I never know what to say other than thank you when anyone reviews, but reviews are always very much appreciated.
***chapter 22***
After Lottie told him of the conversation between Thomas Barrow and Phyllis Baxter, Mr Molesley deemed it prudent to seek out Miss Baxter immediately. He knew the young maid-of-all-work confided in him without any malicious intent, being more concerned about her "friends" arguing than its content. But it had certainly been a most interesting discussion, he thought, as it played around in his mind again.
"Mrs Patmore gossiping about Mr Bates and Miss O'Hara doing much more than flirt has helped us enormously."
"it hasn't helped me. You know perfectly well I'm only agreeing under duress to say I saw them kissing."
"But you're agreeing to my plan just the same. Surprising what some will do to protect their own interests, Miss Baxter."
"Surprising what some will do for revenge, Mr Barrow."
"Just do it, Miss Baxter. You know the consequences if you don't. I will not hesitate to inform Lady Grantham of your criminal past before coming to Downton, which naturally will be confirmed by your previous employer."
Joseph Molesley was back on duty soon but he was keen to get to the bottom of what was going on. He found Phyllis Baxter concentrating on some sewing, and he paused, thinking how beautiful and tranquil she looked in the glow of the lamplight, and wondering how best to introduce a topic that would unsettle her. It was not the accusation of Miss Baxter being a criminal that troubled him. That, he did not believe that for a second. Lottie either misheard or it was just another of Mr Barrow's barbs. If there were any truth in the matter at all, which he doubted, the most likely explanation was that her previous mistress was neither kindly nor compassionate, and she had threatened to take action over some accidental "crime" Miss Baxter committed; she spilled some expensive perfume, perhaps, or mislaid a silver hairbrush, or broke an antique ornament.
But then there was the rest of that peculiar conversation. There was gossip about Sarah O'Hara and John Bates being more than friends; however, Miss O'Hara was a notorious flirt, Mr Bates happily married, and Mr Molesley took little notice of gossip. So why would Miss Baxter, so honest and trustworthy, agree to Barrow's plan to claim she saw them kissing? What consequences was the under-butler hinting at? Mr Molesley could not possibly imagine genteel Miss Baxter having a dark past so what exactly was Barrow blackmailing her over?
Anxious not to alarm her unduly, he kept his expression neutral - or so he thought. It would seem in this he was very much mistaken.
Phyllis Baxter sensed a movement and glanced up from her needlework. Her heart sank. There was something different in Mr Molesley's manner. Normally, he was pleasant and polite, keen to avoid confrontation. But his lips were pressed together in a thin, resolute line and there was a look in his eyes she had never seen before.
As if he saw into her very soul and the secrets hidden there.
As so often happened when Joseph Molesley was in the company of a lady he wished he could be more to than a mere acquaintance, he became tongue-tied. He would not hurt Miss Baxter for the world. Would she believe he was questioning her good standing if he broached such a sensitive subject?
Phyllis put down the garment she was mending. Waited for him to say something. When he didn't, she swallowed nervously, and broke the silence.
"You know." Her voice was little more than a whisper.
He felt both guilt and relief at not having been the one to speak first. What was he thinking, to confront the sweet-natured Miss Baxter in this manner? It was not the behaviour of a gentleman and he prided himself on being a gentleman, courteous and caring towards the opposite sex, even if they did unnerve him when it came to romantic liaisons. He chose his next words carefully.
"I know Mr Barrow is blackmailing you. I want to help."
She looked down at her hands neatly folded on her lap. "I don't see how you can, Mr Molesley. It is true I stole jewellery from my previous employer. It is true I went to jail for three years."
This confession, he had most certainly not expected. Nor was he sure how to respond.
Small wonder at Mr Molesley's silence! Phyllis was too ashamed to meet his eyes, picturing the disgust that must be there. But it was good to tell someone. To be honest at last. She didn't know how Mr Molesley came by his knowledge. Perhaps Thomas, in anger or in arrogant assumption he was untouchable, told him. Perhaps Mr Molesley put two and two together. Perhaps it was all guesswork. She really didn't care any more. She was tired. Tired of lying, tired of being someone she wasn't.
"The story of my employer emigrating to Australia isn't true either," she continued, in the same dull tone. " There never was any such person as Lady Sarah Hammond-Martin nor her family..."
Joseph Molesley had been worried that the minutes he had to spare before being back on duty would not be sufficient time in which to talk with with Miss Baxter, but he was wrong. Phyllis, too, surprised herself. She wondered if she would have been so open with anyone else. She imagined being guarded and uncertain even with Anna, her closest friend at Downton.
But she trusted Mr Molesley. Because – and this was odd because she lived such a lie – he trusted her. In so brief a time, she told him everything. How she knew Thomas as a child, being good friends with his older sister Kate, how she fled in embarrassment and without explanation when she learnt the man she was to marry was already married and a father of three children. How, many years later, she finally traced Thomas by pure chance and learnt he lost his best friend, his sister and his younger brother to an outbreak of diphtheria. How she sent a letter, confiding in him how Peter Coyle persuaded her to steal jewellery from her her mistress and for which she was jailed. Her delight when Thomas secured for her the position of ladies maid to Lady Grantham - only for him to use the information as blackmail.
"So, you see, Mr Molesley, I am not what I claim to be. You must despise me," she finished despondently.
"You?" Joseph Molesley was astounded. "You were coerced into committing a crime by a man you loved. You paid dearly for that mistake. You put your trust in someone you believed to be a friend, only for him to betray you. No, Miss Baxter, you are wrong. It is Mr Barrow whom I despise."
"Please don't." She braved meeting his gaze once more and found nothing but sympathy where she expected to find revulsion.
"For your sake, Miss Baxter, I will try, with great difficulty, not to - although I fail to understand your faith in a despicable excuse for n human being."
Phyllis gave a half smile at the irony of his words and he quickly corrected himself. "I'm sorry. I said I would not despise him. Though it is hard not to."
"Mr Barrow is confused. The world has been very unkind to him."
Joseph Molesley bit back the sarcastic reply the world was very unkind to a lot of people but they didn't use it as an excuse for being vindictive. "Very well. I accept your explanation for his...ah...behaviour. But you do see something must be done? Mr Barrow cannot expect to act the way he does with impunity."
"Nothing can be done, Mr Molesley. If I refuse to do as Mr Barrow asks, he will inform Lady Grantham of my obtaining the position of ladies maid by deception."
"And supposing you tell Her Ladyship before he does?"
The question took Phyllis by surprise. It was something she had not considered. Nor was it without risk. "Then I would still lose my home and my position."
"But you would regain your self respect and Mr Barrow would no longer have a hold over you. You are not alone in this, Miss Baxter," he added earnestly. " I will do all I can to assist you."
She looked at him with renewed hope, her heart beating like a drum. Tell Lady Grantham the truth. Could she?
"Perhaps it might help to sleep on it?" He suggested, understanding her apprehension. "But know I will support you whatever your decision." The shrill ringing of the servants' bell reminded the footman he was required upstairs. "Would you be kind enough to let me know your conclusion tomorrow, Miss Baxter?"
"I will, Mr Molesley. And thank you."
He nodded in acknowledgement. He had no idea exactly how he could help if Her Ladyship did choose to dismiss her ladies maid, but modest, quiet Miss Baxter brought out Joseph Molesley's protective side and he was determined that he would.
XXXXX
"No, Mr Bates, whatever you're about to do..." (for, announcing it was his turn to wait on his wife, John had stood very suddenly from the dinner table where they had lately eaten their evening meal and where his walking stick still rested) "I am your wife. I will tend to you."
"You are my wife?"
"Yes." Anna wondered where this was going. She could tell by his smile that her husband was going to tease her in that gentle way he had of teasing. Oh, but that smile! It melted her so and always made her feel as if she were a young girl in the very first flush of womanhood and love. If she hadn't already been seated she would surely have fallen down.
"And, as my wife, you agree your husband is Lord of The Manor?" Mr Bates's lips twitched. Their cottage was small but homely, cramped but clean, cold and draughty but warmed not only by the fire crackling in the hearth but by their hearts. They intended to name their cottage one day and have its name proudly displayed above its door. Perhaps it would keep their nickname of The Manor, perhaps not, there were so many names they thought of, and so much laughter and happiness in trying to decide, but until then it must be content as they.
"Yes." Anna was amused and curious.
"Then, M'Lady..." With a bow that would have done justice were Downton Abbey playing host to Royalty and he in attendance, albeit with one fist pressed on the dinner table to keep his balance, John Bates withdrew the hand strategically placed behind his back and placed before her an aluminium gold cigarette case. Anna frowned in puzzlement until she realised. It was fashionable for chocolate boxes to be disguised thus these days, Heaven alone knew why!
"As Lord of The Manor, my word is law, Mrs Bates. Therefore, despite your protests, I will pour tea. And you will eat chocolate."
She laughed, then gasped as John, her strong, dependable John, growing too confident without his walking stick to aid him, suddenly stumbled forward, and she quickly caught hold of his arm.
"Will you always keep me so steady, Mrs Bates?" And though he smiled, he meant the question as far more than a joke as he leaned over his wife from his vantage point above. She knew his history. His miserable marriage, his first wife's malevolent attempt to have him found guilty of murder, his deep despair at being crippled and his spiral into alcoholism because of it, the demon drink which still he had to fight hard to avoid, knowing one sip would damn him forever.
"You know I will, John."
It was Mr Bates's turn to melt. Anna said his given name rarely and only ever when they were alone. If she addressed him in company it was by the polite and formal address of Mr Bates. But when Anna said John that simple name became as music to his ears and made him believe he could conquer the world.
He loved her so much he wished he could take her in his arms and make tender love to her there and then, but his wife was heavily pregnant and lovemaking uncomfortable for her now. Of course, there were other positions, but Anna, his sweet, beautiful Anna, so knowledgeable in matters of the heart, was coy and inexperienced in matters of the flesh. Perhaps, in years to come, she may be bolder. But not tonight.
And so, with smiles shared and hands brushing as he retrieved his walking cane at the same moment Anna reached to pass it to him, he poured the tea Anna had made, as he said he would, and his wife took a chocolate from the box.
And as you and I gaze upon this wonderful scene of domestic bliss, I hear you remark "Well! Did they never argue?" Oh, but yes! They argued often. A dozen or more times a week they quarrelled over petty concerns; an idle comment that the potatoes tasted a little burnt, an impatient observation a floor had just been mopped when a certain person limped across it in muddy boots, a careless remark about windows being open or closed. No couple in history never had a cross word and neither did John and Anna Bates, for the course of true love, it never did run smooth.
But their quarrels were quickly resolved with a few more heated words, a few more tears, with kisses and promises, and if their promises were sometimes broken and must be built again, what did it matter? They were only human, as are we all, and we will agree and disagree, we will be kind and we will be unkind, we will be selfless and we will be selfish, it is the way of the world. So it was with Mr and Mrs Bates.
And so smoke curled from the chimney of The Manor – until it learns its name we must call it so - on the most bitter of evenings while under its roof all was well. Its occupants gave not a thought to Thomas Barrow, nor pondered on when or how or why he would wreak revenge on its Lord.
XXXXX
Thomas remained characteristically impassive as, after the kerfuffle from the few domestic staff who espied the trio using the back of Downton Abbey to access the servants' staircase, and who were also entrusted with the secret their presence was not yet to be revealed lest they spoil the Grantham family's pleasant surprise, he prepared to leave outside the drawing room, as per prior arrangement, the unexpected arrivals from across the vast Atlantic Ocean.
The travellers were to make the last leg of their long journey alone.
Now, told by her beloved Daddy they needed to be silent as possible in order not to be detected too soon, Sybbie started the ascent of the staircase with the very best of intentions. Still clutching Thomas's hand, the normally talkative little miss tiptoed carefully, tongue pressed to upper lip in concentration, and said not a word. On the fifth stair, however, with thudding steps, she began to play "climbing a mountain" - in all fairness, the stairs seemed so steep to Sybbie and Sybbie's legs were so small she probably was.
And by the eighth stair, fondly imagining she was speaking quietly, she was yelling to Thomas and her father to watch out, they needed to reach the top fast, for there (according to Sybbie) a ship awaited, and below (again, according to Sybbie) there was a sea (so Sybbie confidently declared) where sharks were seeking to attack.
Her father, bringing up the rear with the wooden train carriage and doll his daughter had given him to carry (like all young children with a doting parent, Sybbie knew how to play her papa and he knew how to slavishly obey) cautioned her they must keep the noise level down "for the surprise", and Sybbie meant to be quiet, she really did, but she was not yet quite four years old, and like all youngsters of such tender age, her mind flitted from topic to topic, thus she constantly forgot. And Thomas wasn't going to remind her.
Bloody idiot, inflated sense of his own importance, he thought scornfully of the good-natured Tom Branson. Who cared if his presence was announced or unannounced? – well, apart from Mr Carson, who was a stickler for rules and etiquette, even if it was only a former chauffeur with delusions of grandeur.
Still, the Crawleys would be delighted to see Miss Sybbie. Little mischief maker! He noticed, and she shushed him with a finger to her lips when he did, the clockwork mouse she surreptitiously pulled from her coat pocket to admire when they left behind imaginary seas and ships and sharks and approached the drawing room where the family would be relaxing.
They shared a conspiratorial look, he and Sybbie, she with the broadest of smiles, as she quickly hid the toy again, Thomas shaking his head and stifling a chuckle. He only wished he could be there to see the expressions when a very realistic looking grey mouse scurried across the floor. No doubt Carson would be scandalised while that clumsy fool Molesley, if he was back on duty yet, would chase after it with a poker, trip over something and fall flat on his face.
"Thank you, Mr Barrow. You've been most helpful." Tom turned politely to the under-butler. When the only response was a dismissive snort he was inclined to remark he didn't know why he bothered trying to be civil. But there was Sybbie, and Sybbie adored Barrow, and so he kept his counsel as he took his daughter's hand, idly wondering why she kept the other firmly in her coat pocket.
Thomas, who knew exactly why Sybbie did, had his answer as to how everyone would react to the "mouse" sooner than expected. Their entrance must have been realised at once because he had barely set foot on the servants' staircase again when shouts and laughter came from the drawing room – and in the midst of it all a little girl's voice could be heard piping up, "I've got a real mouse but I have to turn the key so it's alive!"
"You have to be sneakier than that to trick people, Miss Sybbie," he muttered in amusement. "I'll teach you."
Seeing her again made him reflective. Poor little kid, growing up without a mother. He wasn't much older than Sybbie when he lost his own Mam but at least he had memories of her whereas Sybbie had none. And though his own father had been cruel to Thomas, Branson obviously cared deeply for his daughter.
He reluctantly had to concede, too, that John Bates would be a good father. Anna's baby was very much wanted and would be very much loved. No, he couldn't deprive a child of a loving parent, and if his scheme succeeded and Anna wanted nothing more to do with her husband, then it might well be the result.
He would tell Miss Baxter of his change of plan in the morning. Think of some other way to have Bates dismissed without splitting up the little family. Ensuring Miss O'Hara, too, was cast out in disgrace could wait a while longer. He would get back at John Bates first. All he had to do was think how.
His chance came sooner than he anticipated...
A/N: I did some research on what a box of chocolates would look like in the 1920s and discovered they would often be given in an aluminium gold cigarette case. Like Anna, I have no idea why! :D
