A/N: I am having massive laptop problems ie everything is disappearing, including Libre Office, which I am using to type this story. I doubt I will get a new laptop before Xmas so I am posting what I have written so far otherwise I risk losing a few thousand words. I will try and post a further chapter before Xmas but it depends what mood the laptop is in.

On another note, judging by the view count from several different countries, I know lots of people read this fic but when nobody comments I start to think it's rubbish, nobody likes it, that was a terrible chapter etc. It's soul destroying. Please let me know what you think, whether good, bad or indifferent. Thank you!

***chapter 27***

"But what if he's woken in the middle of the night?" Sheila O'Hara rested her knife and fork on the almost full plate, unable to swallow another mouthful, hungry though she was. She sighed deeply and looked around at the photographs that decorated the walls of the inn they had stopped at, of the village in a bygone era some fifty years previous, of men with horses ploughing fields, of women with numerous offspring of every age and ability helping and hindering the gathering of the harvest, of bearded gentlemen in top hats and frock coats attending some long ago meeting, as if in the photographs she might stumble upon an answer. "He does sometimes, you know, if he has a bad dream," she added mournfully, having found none.

Sam Platt, who had a hearty appetite and who until then had been thoroughly enjoying his dinner and his beer, set both aside to lay his hand on his sweetheart's. "Nay, lass. The sun were rising when you left and you said yourself he were so deep in the land of nod he were unlikely to wake for hours. And what about the maid – Lucy? The one you said mops floors every morn and would go in t' nursery if she heard the bairn crying."

"Oh, that Lottie! The girl is an eejit, to be sure! She's stupid enough to run away and hide instead!" Master George's erstwhile nanny was well aware she was venting her anger on the blameless young girl to avoid admitting to herself the enormity of what she had done. But they had no choice, she reasoned. They wanted to be married and start a family, but Sam's step-father was badgering him for "loans" and drink money every night, and strangers who lived many miles from Downton had begun knocking on the Platt's door with sob stories (for news of his inheritance from a distant maternal aunt spread rapidly) and gone away with a sum of money rather than the flea in their ear Miss O'Hara would have given them.

She truly loved Sam, so she did, but he was so gullible and such an easygoing fellow she worried there would be nothing left for themselves by the time her parents agreed to her being married – she must be at least twenty-two, they said, proud that their daughter held such a responsible position as nanny with such a prestigious family as the Crawleys. But she would not be twenty-two for two more years! How could she possibly wait so long? Running away to Gretna Green to tie the knot was the only solution. Oh, of course she could marry in England at twenty, and without her parents' consent too, but where was the melodrama and excitement in that?

Flirting and romance aside, Miss O'Hara was a very practical person. It was this very trait that earned her a reputation for being an exceptionally good nurse and thus she came to Downton with a glowing reference from her first employment as nanny to a babe in arms, and from her second employment, where for two years she patiently looked after three small children whenever their parents must be absent from home. Sheila most certainly did not dislike children, but she did lack the deep understanding of young minds that comes naturally to some folk and which children will instantly recognise such as we have observed in our Mr Barrow. Consequently, she had never built a bond with any of her charges although she could be relied upon to get them bathed and abed to the exact hour specified by their guardians, or to ensure they didn't disturb grown-ups with noisy games, or to know exactly what to do in the case of bumps and falls and sore throats and rashes and a dozen and one other accidents and ailments children are prone to. While she didn't realise it herself, her concern for Master George stemmed more from her love of order than from a stronger love for the child.

Sam, who was an honest and simple man, glanced longingly at his abandoned beef, cabbage, gravy and potatoes, but his heart snapped in two as Sheila gave another sniff and he chided himself harshly for thinking of food when he should be thinking of his wife-to-be.

For Mrs Platt his sweetheart was destined to be. It had been so ever since she happened to read a story in her weekly romance magazine where the young lovers, thwarted by cruel parents and other interested parties, fled to Gretna Green, with cruel parents and other interested parties in hot pursuit, and wed in the small Scottish village on the border of England just in the nick of time. The idea took root in her romantic heart and Mr Platt wished for nothing more than to make his girl happy. Thus here they were, many miles away from Downton Abbey, from where they had set off extraordinary early that very morning, in order to avoid the stark warnings and severe remonstrations Miss O'Hara was quite, quite sure would come from all, especially Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes; in fact, the only person she was quite, quite sure would not try to stop her was a certain Thomas Barrow, who would no doubt wave her off gladly.

And for several minutes Sam silently stroked her hand and Sheila sniffed while the hubbub of voices and clink of glasses surrounded the lovestruck couple, and clouds of tobacco smoke grew thick as fog, and an iciness seeped inside every time a patron of The Travellers Rest entered or exited, for they were much nearer Scotland now and the air so very much colder.

"And didn't you leave a letter for t' ladies maid, Miss Tasker?" Sam, who could remember faces exceptionally well, but never names, spoke at last, keen to comfort and console.

"Miss Baxter. Ah, indeed I did, indeed I did!" Sheila recovered enough to pick up her fork and stab at a potato.

It was a good sign, a very good sign, Sam thought, chiding himself again for thinking more of his rumbling stomach than his girl.

"And he'salways digging in for the custard creams, but what else was I to do when there was no needlework?" Sheila shook her head, but, reassured by the memory, happily resumed eating.

Sam was totally perplexed, but as his companion gave no more explanation, he decided further enquiries could wait lest dinner was interrupted anew. Thus the rest of their meal was spent quite happily and Sheila gave not another thought to the memory of her frustration at learning Miss Baxter had retired early and her needlework basket, where she planned to leave a short letter informing her Master George was alone and she had run away to marry, gone with her. So the staff biscuit tin, where someone would definitely find it - unfortunately, probably that sexual deviant Mr Barrow, who was known for his sweet tooth – had been used instead.

At length, refreshed and recuperated, Miss O'Hara and Mr Platt , both in excellent spirits, made their way to the railway station and boarded the train for the last leg of their journey in great excitement at the thought of soon being husband and wife. And while it is true, this being an age when pregnancy before marriage was unfathomably considered shocking, that a damning reputation and gossip that she might have had or was going to have a baby, did indeed follow Sheila O'Hara whenever it was learned they ran away to marry at Gretna Green, the train doors closed on their carefree laughter and Miss O'Hara is gone forever from our story.

XXXXX

No one was more surprised than John Bates when Thomas Barrow greeted him with a cordial good morning and a brief enquiry as to how he was today albeit without listening to his very well, thank you in baffled answer.

"Mr Carson is indisposed today. Lady Mary has requested that you supply three bottles of Veuve Clicquot champagne to serve with lunch."

"Her Ladyship askedme to do this, Mr Barrow?" He queried, puzzled by this unnaturally polite stranger. Snipes and sarcasm, not pleasantries, was the norm with Barrow. Moreover, attending at meals was the responsibility of butlers and footmen, not valets.

"Mr Bates." Thomas spoke as if addressing a particularly slow member of the domestic staff. "As Mr Carson is indisposed, I must step up as head butler and, as you are aware, His Lordship has urgent business in the city and your services as valet are not required until later, I have chosen to appoint you under-butler. You will recollect," he added; " I am no longer trusted with the wine cellar contents. I take my duties as head butler very seriously and have no wish to blot my copybook, as it were."

"Of course." The newly-appointed under-butler deemed it wise not to comment further. It was some years since Thomas hid a bottle of wine on his person with the intention of making him appear a thief, only to be thwarted in his efforts and made to sweat for hours over whether John Bates had planted the incriminating evidence back on himself, unaware he simply returned the stolen item back to its rightful place. So long ago that Miss O'Brien had still been in Downton's employ to aid and abet him in the scheme.

But Mr Carson did have a long memory and a hearty dislike of Thomas Barrow. Mr Bates could not call to mind a single instance since of Thomas being asked to fetch anything from the wine cellar, as it was euphemistically called, housing all of Downton Abbey's alcohol as it did. As head butler, it was naturally Mr Carson's domain and rarely was anyone else allowed to enter the hallowed quarters. A handful of times, Mr Molesley might be entrusted with the keys, and on even fewer occasions, both because carrying more than one glass bottle was difficult when hobbling on a walking stick, and with an understanding that being an ex-alcoholic he preferred to avoid the wine cellar, John Bates was sent; even once that harmless dandy James was asked to fetch a couple of new bottles, a decision later regretted when he was so busy charming a gullible new maid he forgot to lock the door.

But, no, he could not recall Barrow ever being tasked with the same errand – although, in truth, he had never given the matter a great deal of attention or thought. While it did make an odd kind of sense that even in the respectable and responsible position of under-butler, he would not be allowed in the wine cellar again after his shameful attempt to frame him, it was even odder that Barrow himself should refer to the reason for it.

"How is Anna?" Thomas swiftly changed the subject. "She must be very close to her time."

"She is." Mr Bates found himself in the rare situation of smiling at his enemy. Perhaps he ought to give the man the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps underpinning Barrow's good mood was simply the imminent arrival of the new baby. He was fond of children. George, Sybbie and Marigold adored him and with good reason. Barrow showed an enormous amount of patience and understanding with the youngsters. And while he had never been as vindictive towards Anna as he was to everyone else, he had actually been quite solicitous towards her since learning of her pregnancy.

"Due any day to give birth now, so Dr Clarkson predicts. She is in very good health indeed, thank you, Mr Barrow, but as I am anxious to return to the cottage for a short while before His Lordship requires me again would you be kind enough to assist me?" He indicated his lame leg

"Certainly, Mr Bates." Thomas's face was its usual mask of professionalism. It was like taking candy from a baby, as the Yanks said. He was picking up a whole load of American expressions lately. American magazines were flooding the market since the Great War and he'd got into the habit of purchasing one now and again when he bought his smokes and regular newspaper. Was in the middle of reading one at the moment, in fact. Made a change from the usual rags to see how the Yanks viewed the world.

Yep, candy from a baby, he thought, as he snatched John Bates's walking stick and watched the man fall forward. It went even better than he expected. Bates fell heavily, banging his head on the corner of a shelf. A bottle toppled over, smashing in jagged halves, lines of alcohol streaming across the uneven cellar floor like tributaries to a river. He would reek of alcohol. Thomas smiled in smug satisfaction.

And then he saw another liquid flowing with the rivulets. Blood was pouring from John Bates' scalp. An unfamiliar surge of remorse ran through him. Dear God, he'd only meant to have Bates sacked for drinking, not to...

... kill him.