A/N: Apologies to those following this story for the long delay in updating. I moved house in July, then went on holiday and have only got internet connection this week as no Virgin Media in this area. Also, have carpal tunnel syndrome, which can be quite painful, so not advisable for me to spend too long on computers.

***chapter 24***

"Ah, Barrow! The very man!" Thus Lady Mary cheerfully accosted him astonishingly early next morning, for the eldest Crawley daughter was rarely to be seen before even half past eight. "Mrs Hughes has informed me that Mr Carson is quite unwell. I daresay it's a virus, as Dr Clarkson calls these bouts of ill health that strike us out of nowhere," she speculated, speaking more to herself than Thomas. "I believe poor Miss Baxter was taken poorly yesterday too." Suddenly recollecting that she was speaking to a lowly servant, she quickly recovered from the the mental malady that Thomas observed seemed to have afflicted all members of the Crawley family since Tom and Sybbie Branons's return, even the normally unflappable Lady Mary. "As Mr Carson is indisposed, would you be so kind as to fetch three bottles of Veuve Clicquot champagne when you serve lunch?"

"Certainly, M'Lady." Thomas had already been notified by the same informant of Charles Carson's sudden illness. Mrs Hughes, as she was still known despite her marriage, had been distracted, worried about her husband and not at all happy that Thomas was now head butler. Neither were the rest of the staff. Sod it, they'd just have to put up with it being a tougher regime. Carson may be a soft touch at times, but Thomas had no intention of mollycoddling anyone. And he particularly liked being in the know about what was going on.

So the Crawleys were going to celebrate. He didn't need to be a genius to figure out what they were celebrating. Bloody hell, the way they carried on about Branson's return, you'd have thought it was the second coming of the Messiah! Sybbie, he could understand. Eldest grandchild, niece and cousin, and all. She was family. Tom Branson, however...apart from being Sybbie's father, what was so special about him? Everyone else might have forgotten he nearly got Lady Sybil killed in Ireland, then succeeded in cutting her life short anyway when he didn't have the guts to stand up to the Harley Street doctor who said she'd be fine where she was after Sybbie's birth instead of insisting she be treated at the hospital, but Thomas never would. He still hated the man for it.

XXXXX

The chance for Phyllis to tell Lady Grantham the truth about her background almost slipped by. Almost. Her Ladyship was so excited to have her son-in-law and granddaughter home for good that she paid scant attention to anything else.

"M'lady, I have something to tell you that..."

"Oh, for goodness sake, Baxter! Can't it wait?" Cora was usually a patient listener, but there was a sigh in her voice. She hardly slept the night before, having talked and talked with Robert about the return of the absentees. So many plans for Sybbie! How wonderful it would be for the little girl to spend time with George and Marigold again! Whatever to do first?

Lord Grantham was equally delighted. And not just about Sybbie. His initial dislike of Tom Branson, believing an ex-chauffeur and socialist not good enough for his beloved daughter and that he was only interested in her money, was long overcome. He came to realise Tom truly did love Sybil and nowadays looked upon him as a son. And as a son, he wanted him to take more of a role in running the estate. It was something else he and his wife discussed as they burnt the midnight oil. Miss Baxter's petition that morning as she helped her dress barely registered.

"Yes, of course, Madam." Phyllis heard herself reply. She, too, slept badly the previous night but for a vastly different reason. The decision whether or not to reveal her past was not an easy one to make and she tossed and turned with anxiety. When finally she slept it was only to dream snatches of unpleasant, confusing dreams: she was back in prison, she was cast out in disgrace, she was a ragged beggar in a crowded market place. Of course the right thing to do was to be truthful. Mr Molesley promised he would support her. But he owed her nothing and realistically how was this to be achieved? If Lady Grantham chose to dismiss her at once – and surely she would – she would need somewhere to live and money to buy food until she could find work. She was not Joseph Mosley's responsibility. Moreover, a footman was paid a footman's wages, not a King's ransom.

Cora instantly regretted speaking harshly at once. Tiredness always made her uncharacteristically irritable. She was lucky to find such a perfect ladies maid, one who even went to the trouble of ensuring she had freshly squeezed orange juice with her breakfast each morning and who had taken pains to discover, without her mistress breathing a word, that she loved bluebells. Not even Robert knew his wife preferred the cheerful wild flowers to the showy floral bouquets he was apt to buy her and he had been highly amused when a dainty vase of bluebells frequently began to adorn his wife's breakfast tray.

"How the dickens did Baxter know when I didn't?" He asked, still entertained by the added breakfast item, and after Cora explained a sea of bluebells had been one of her first impressions of England and thus contributed to her love of the quiet, slow-paced English villages, far removed from the busier and bolder, but often brasher, American cities.

"I suspect our dear Miss Baxter may be psychic," Cora joked.

But she was delighted with the bluebells and delighted with how well Phyllis Baxter looked after her. Not even Sarah O'Brien, for all the years in her employ and sharp as a tack, noticed how Cora's gaze would stray nostalgically to the carpet of blue flowers that grew in abundance in the shade of the mighty oaks at the end of the Downton estate. Thinking of O'Brien caused her to think of the surly and mean-spirited under butler. It was odd how both ladies' maids had been good friends with him. Thomas Barrow really was an enigma. There was no denying the children were very fond of him and he of they; somehow he always made time to give them what the English quaintly called donkey rides, carrying them around on his back and playing at knights of old on charging horses. Nor did Sybil ever make any complaint about him when they worked together in the cottage hospital. But then it would have been more of a surprise if darling, sweet-natured Sybil ever complained about anyone. Perhaps Barrow could exude charm when he wished to, for he was extremely unpopular with everybody else.

"You do still seem rather pale, Baxter," Cora said now in conciliatory tones. "Perhaps we should ask your friend Barrow to take greater care of you."

"I am perfectly well now, thank you, madam." Phyllis started at hearing her blackmailer's name, not knowing whether to be glad or sad that her confession was to be deferred. Nor if she would ever find again the courage to confess.

Lady Grantham, however, did not miss the reaction. That was odd. Most odd. She had, of course, spoken in jest when she referred to Thomas Barrow. He was simply on her mind when she compared Baxter and O'Brien and she knew it had been his personal recommendation to Carson that secured her employment at Downton. Was it her imagination or was it the mention of Thomas Barrow that elicited such a peculiar response?

"I understand you and Barrow have known each other for a great many years?" She tested her suspicions.

"We have, M'Lady. His sister and I were very good friends when we were young." There again. That flash of fear in the woman's eyes. But why?

"Baxter." Cora addressed her through their reflections in the mirror as her maid finished pinning up her hair. "Something is troubling you. You were about to confide in me and I am sorry I refused to listen." She swung round from the dressing table to face her. "Will you tell me now?"

Phyllis's heart leapt to her throat. This was it. Tell the truth and be damned. A memory stirred of Thomas as a boy cynically saying those same words when he stole a pie from Jackson's grocers and she urged him to either pay up or return the stolen pie and confess to Jim Jackson. He ate the pie. And said nothing to the grocer. But later that day she noticed him helping the elderly man unload some heavy boxes. Because Thomas, or Tommy as everyone but she called him back then, was never very good, but he was never very wicked either.

Tell the truth and be damned. She would. Whatever the consequences.

XXXXX

Phyllis Baxter was keeping well out of his road this morning. Thomas liked to call the shots and it irritated him that she was nowhere to be found. He had instructed her to claim that she saw John Bates and Sheila O'Hara sharing a passionate kiss at ten o'clock. That was the time Master George's nanny came down to the kitchens to engage in her inane chatter and shameless flirting, and the time Pegleg inevitably appeared in the kitchens for his regular mug of strong, sweet tea. The plan might not be going ahead due to Thomas's change of heart and the other fact Mrs Hughes had made him aware of that morning – as Mr Bates would not be required as valet until later that day Lord Grantham had given him permission to stay with his heavily pregnant wife at the cottage until the afternoon. But it would do no harm to let the elusive Miss Baxter, who was no doubt serving Lady Grantham's requested breakfast in bed, think it was all going ahead to keep her on her toes.

Lady Mary excepted, who was doubtless modern miss enough to think nothing of forfeiting sleep to stay up all night to talk with Tom Branson, retiring instead when most of Downton Abbey's inhabitants had long since shaken off the shackles of slumber - the shadows under her eyes and her behaviour when they met suggested this had indeed been the case - the Crawleys and the Bransons were choosing to rise much later after being very late abed.

Lady Grantham had ordered breakfast in bed and only Lord Grantham and Lady Edith were to be found at the breakfast table. Neither wished to dwell over the meal. Lord Grantham was anxious to attend to some business in the city and Lady Edith was anxious to visit her ward, Miss Marigold, who was spending some time with the cottager family. Consequently, after checking his reluctant staff were pulling their weight, Thomas was able to make a leisurely detour to the old brown clock ticking away at the bottom of the nursery stairs, having noticed yesterday it was running four minutes slow. Being a clockmaker's son, he never could bear for any clock to be out of step, and he was busy adjusting the dials when for the second time that day his help was sought without the summons of a bell.

"Mr Barrow?"

"Yes, Lottie?" He closed the clock hatch, satisfied with a job well done, and smiled at the young girl. Lottie seemed even more flustered than usual, he noted. Her face was flushed, her cap askew, and her hair spilled out. And she sounded as if she'd been running. He'd have to make sure she wasn't being worked too hard. She may have been in domestic service at Downton Abbey for a great many months now, but he wished the other staff would remember she was a kid of fourteen, not a serving maid of middle age with many years experience under her belt.

"Miss O'Hara has gone."

"Gone where?" Thomas was baffled. Why did the maid-of-all-work feel the need tell him Sheila O'Hara had gone down to the kitchens much earlier than usual this morning? Or did she mean the nanny had already taken Master George for his walk in the grounds before being taken up to his mother, Lady Mary? It was possible albeit highly improbable. Little George was never taken out until after breakfast and breakfast in the nursery was never before nine o'clock. Then again, Downton Abbey was topsy-turvy today, what with Lady Mary retiring to bed when most of the household was already long up and about, Branson presumably recently retired too, being conspicuous by his absence at breakfast, and Miss Sybbie, who rather unconventionally had been allocated the small chamber next to her father's and a housemaid to sleep in the same room with her, no doubt still fast asleep after her 5,000 mile journey across a stormy Atlantic Ocean.

"I don't know where they've gone, but I think..."

"Master George and Miss O'Hara?"

Lottie shook her untamed locks, a loose hair-pin flying unnoticed to the floor. "No, Mr Barrow. I mean Miss O'Hara and Mr Platt."

"Lottie, you're not making any sense," Thomas said gently. He always spoke gently to Lottie. Poor kid was so timid one raised voice would have toppled her over.

He knew Sam Platt, of course. The sun-tanned, snub-nosed youth, who was twenty or thereabouts, the same age as the flame-haired nanny, regularly delivered bread to the Downton Abbey kitchens. But what the devil did the baker's assistant have to do with anything? Apart from being the latest Downstairs gossip, that was.

He had long been considered "a good catch" by most of the maids - personally, Thomas couldn't see the attraction – but especially now there was a rumour he had lately come into a small inheritance from a distant aunt on his mother's side and which Sam Platt's step-father was apparently so keen to get his hands on he had already begun siphoning off some of the cash. But that was all if was. A rumour turned into an exciting crime story by vivid imaginations. Couldn't be nowt else, surely? And Sheila O'Hara's only connection with Sam Platt was that sometimes they would talk if he happened to be making a later delivery when she happened to be out with her charge. It was true she flirted with Platt, but then she flirted with most of the delivery drivers.

"Miss O'Hara and Mr Platt have run off to Gretna Green to be married, Mr Barrow. They've been sweethearts forever," she elaborated, picking up on the fact her statement took him so much by surprise that he was momentarily speechless. Funny how nobody thought she saw anything, even nice, kind Mr Barrow. But she always had so much work to do all the time, and being always here, there and everywhere, Lottie saw everything too. "Miss O'Hara told Mr Platt they don't need to because they're already of an age by law, but it would be very romantic if they did."

Sometimes Master George's nanny would ask the maid-of-all-work to pass Mr Platt a note, telling her it was to order an extra loaf. Of course, Lottie didn't believe that for a second. Mrs Patmore the cook decided how much bread was needed, nobody else, and anyway Lottie noticed how two pinks spots would appear on Miss O'Hara's cheeks whenever she spoke with Mr Platt and how Mr Platt would smile a special smile whenever he spoke with Miss O'Hara. And this was all before the rumour of Mr Platt's inheritance - naturally, Lottie knew of that too even though she never had time for idle chit-chat, and was too shy to talk to anyone even if she did. Miss O'Hara had always been in love with Mr Platt and Mr Platt had always been in love with Miss O'Hara, Lottie knew, and she wasn't the least surprised when she heard them whispering about the Scottish village where couples too young to marry by English law could romantically run away and be legitimately wed.

"Lottie, do you think next time you could keep me informed with what's going on?" But Thomas's faint reprimand was light-hearted. So he didn't need to get rid of Sheila O'Hara, she had gone of her own accord! Still, he was slipping. This little affair had been taking place right under his nose without him even being aware that it was.

"Yes, Mr Barrow." She was about to tell him she'd reported the conversation she'd overheard between him and Miss Baxter to Mr Molesley when she remembered the reason she'd sought him out to begin with. "But with Miss O'Hara being gone Master George is all by himself, and when I was mopping the floors I heard him crying and I..."

Lottie didn't have the chance to explain further how she was afraid of going into the nursery in case she got into trouble because with the hasty order, "Wait right there! Don't move!" Thomas was up the stairs in a trice.