Thank you to Guest for reading and reviewing. And to everybody else for reading.
A/N: I do realise a part of the first scene in this chapter is quite funny, but there was no other way round it. And, anyway, I love being funny! :D (The story I wrote prior to this one was a humorous Harry Potter fic)
***chapter 33***
To learn how Lottie came by news of Anna Bates's demise, we must take a step back in time and re-visit the concealed staircase. As did Lottie.
Having made up her mind she would consult with Mrs Bates regarding her dilemma of how to explain to Lady Mary it was Mr Barrow, and not Lottie, who looked after Master George when he was abandoned by his nurse, she took a deep breath to summon courage. Which was greatly needed because the prospect of having to overcome her shyness enough to talk to someone was frightening enough without the added terror of lurking spiders. Trying to tell herself the spiders were more afraid of Lottie than she was of the spiders - and wishing that were true! - she pushed open the door at the back of the rarely-used cupboard to gain access to the hidden stone steps.
They were, as Mr Barrow said, advising her never to attempt them, uneven and unsafe. And, as she greatly admired Mr Barrow Lottie would normally have heeded the warning, but she was doing this for his sake, she reminded herself, as she gingerly placed her foot on the first worn step. To judge by the sharp pieces of iron that jutted out here and there, some kind of basic handrail once existed to aid the servants in their ascent and descent, but over the centuries the rail had broken away and, the stairway fortunately being narrow enough for her to reach and as she'd seen Mr Barrow doing, Lottie was able to keep her precarious balance by stretching out her arms to place her hands against each damp and foul-smelling brick wall.
She squinted in the semi-darkness as she cautiously began her journey, for once again the only source of brightness was a sliver of autumn sunlight creeping in under the arched door at the bottom. How much easier it would have been, she muttered to no one in particular, her arms and shoulders aching from the unnatural angle at which she held them, and tearing her skin painfully when her palm slipped on some mildew and caught on a broken piece of handrail, if she had a candle or lantern to guide her way like they did in the olden days. Although Lottie did not further explain to no one in particular how she would be able to carry either candle or lantern when both hands were required to press against the brick walls. Eventually, however, the flight of steps being of no great length, she reached the end of them. That was when she came across the next hurdle, and a serious one at that.
Not for an instant had it occurred to the young girl she would not be strong enough to open the door.
Far too late, she recollected how much difficulty Mr Barrow experienced in trying to push it open and that it took him several attempts before it yielded even slightly. Lottie couldn't make it budge an inch.
"Let me out!" She pleaded, kicking it in frustration. The door must not have taken kindly to violence, however, as it pointedly ignored the instruction. But to her astonishment somebody else replied.
"You're supposed to be on the fifth floor!" A disembodied voice outside shakily accused, making her jump.
Lottie was usually too shy to engage in conversation so easily, but the barrier between them gave her confidence. Besides, she was curious. What did the fifth floor have to do with anything? Was there another way out? Her imagination ran riot with the possibilities. A secret tunnel, perhaps? A trapdoor leading to a cellar? A false wall behind a portrait? Or was the reason more mundane? Did the person on the other side of the divide somehow know she was looking for Mrs Bates and was aware the elusive Mrs Bates could currently be located on the fifth floor? "Why?" she asked, not unreasonably.
"It's where you haunt, not here!" the voice was no less shaky, accusatory or emotional than it had been before.
"Where I� Oh!" Realisation dawned. Like all the servants, the maid-of-all-work was familiar with the rumour the fifth floor of Downton Abbey was haunted by a White Lady, the idea of which she found quite terrifying until nice Mr Barrow told her ghosts did not exist.
Puzzled by the highly unusual case of mistaken identity ā she had been called by the wrong name sometimes, but never before had anyone assumed she was a ghost - Lottie nonetheless turned her attention to more practical matters. And as she had already come so far, bypassing spiders, venturing on to the dangerous stone steps, and overcoming her shyness, she became bold enough to criticise. "Don't be daft! I work here. There's no such thing as ghosts. Can you open the door?"
Apparently reassured, the anonymous caller attempted to oblige. Several times. They couldn't. "It's no go," they stated mournfully. And Lottie was convinced again there were tears in the reply.
"Why are you...so upset?" she added, after a moment's hesitation, uncertain whether or not to ask something so personal.
"I killed someone!" the mystery visitor wailed.
This information did not inspire confidence. For the first time, it occurred to Lottie that whoever or whatever she was talking to might not be human. Ghosts were infamous as spectral sightseers, known to be particularly fond of visiting places where murders had been committed, and were, too, renowned for their wailing. The irony of being mistaken for a ghost and in turn considering the possibility of the other person being a ghost, although the thought was fleeting, passed her by. She trusted Mr Barrow implicitly. If he said ghosts did not exist, then ghosts did not exist.
"Who?" she asked, rather awkwardly. What exactly did you say to someone who made such a startling announcement? "Wait! Is that Vinnie?" suddenly realising she recognised the voice. She relaxed again. The dramatic revelation was probably just another of his silly stories. And, silly stories aside, she was quite fond of Vinnie.
Like herself, he never fitted in. Nor did he ever annoy Lottie the way he annoyed the other girls. He knew how shy she was and so never teased her. Quite the opposite. Sometimes, if nobody else was around, he would place a couple of toffees or a bar of chocolate in her hand or apron pocket (Vinnie spent most of his wages in the local tobacconists buying sweets and cigarettes) whisper "That's for you" and wander off again without waiting for her to say anything, even thank you. Lottie didn't believe for a second he'd killed anyone. It would be another of his tall tales told to impress. The other servants were always saying they wished he'd grow up and stop telling them.
"Yes. That's Lottie, isn't it? I thought it was! What are you doing in there?"
"Trying to get out." Lottie glared at the door, but it was impervious to death stares. "What are you doing out there?" She was genuinely puzzled. Mr Barrow told her he estimated the ruins as being several miles from Downton's cottages and Downton Abbey's lake on the fringe of the estate, adding it was extremely well camouflaged by the centuries of vegetation. It would be exceptionally difficult for anyone to find its entrance.
"Hiding. The cops will be searching for me. Don't tell anyone where I am!" The earlier desperation returned to his voice.
At that moment Lottie agreed with the staff who yearned for Vinnie to grow up. She sighed in the manner of someone dealing with a particularly awkward 5-year-old and couldn't help speaking as if he were. "Why on earth would the police be searching for you?"
"I told you. I killed someone!"
"Oh, Vinnie, please stop playing games! I don't have time for them. I need to speak to Mrs Bates and it's very, very important."
"I'm not playing games, Lottie! It's true. I killed Mrs Bates!" He launched immediately into a garbled explanation. "I didn't mean to. It was an accident. I told her about Mr Bates being very ill and in hospital like His Lordship told me to and Mrs Bates collapsed and died and Mr Jacobs came in the motor car, but..."
But Lottie didn't wait to hear any more. Somehow she scrambled back up the stone steps, not caring any more about spiders. The mop and bucket were exactly where she'd left them as a ploy should anyone happen in the rarely-used corridor and demand to know why she was there. Her legs refused to take her any further then and, sobbing, she sank down on to the window seat.
Where Thomas found her weeping because "Mrs Bates was dead".
XXXXX
"Mama, can Mr Barrow read me a story?"
"No, darling, Mr Barrow can't." Lady Mary Crawley tenderly smoothed back her small son's hair and was not a little hurt when he shook back his golden curls. "I want Mr Barrow!" he pouted.
"Now, George," Mary warned, "you know perfectly well Mr Barrow is very busy."
George didn't know anything of the sort and he didn't care if he was. Mr Barrow would come right away if he knew he was upset. Sybbie said once, showing off, that Mr Barrow told her a story when she was hiding under a chair. George's lower lip trembled. He didn't want Mama to read the book. Mama was too serious. Mr Barrow always made things fun, what with giving him rides on his back and playing knights of old and charging horses. It wasn't fair Sybbie got a story and George didn't. It wasn't fair he had to go to bed when it was still daytime. Everybody said he must be very, very tired and it was best if he went to bed for a little while. They fussed and fussed over him because Nanny ran off, but nobody fetched Mr Barrow when he asked for him, did they? Nobody loved George! The first fat tear splashed down the toddler's cheek.
His mother sighed impatiently although her heart twanged in guilt. The eldest Crawley daughter didn't know if she resented George's friendship with Thomas Barrow or was glad of it. It was good to know there was someone who could stop his terrible tantrums but she would not be human if she didn't feel a twinge of jealousy that Barrow could stop them, with jokes and kind words, when she couldn't, not with jokes and kind words, nor with threats, bribes, kisses and promises all thrown into the mix.
Mary did not find motherhood easy. Of course she loved her small son but she imagined all that being a mother entailed would come naturally. It didn't. Mourning for Matthew for so long after his tragic accident meant she did not give George the attention she felt she should have in his first few months of life and thus they never quite bonded as fast as she believed mother and baby would and should. But Mary suspected this would have still been the case had she not suffered so great a loss.
She would readily admit children were fine, even awfully sweet at times. In small doses only. It was beyond Mary's understanding why some people voluntarily spent hours in their company. Barrow would probably have been quite happy to play games with George, Sybbie and Marigold all day long if his butlering duties didn't interfere. Anna was so looking forward to the birth of her baby. Cousin Rose hated to be apart from her daughter and never stopped talking about Victoria whether in letters, telephone calls or in person. PrissyMissy ā Mary felt a childish sense of triumph at referring to Edith by the name she used for her in their nursery days - was besotted with Marigold. She would never dream of saying the name aloud in front of George, however.
Little pitchers have big ears, as her own Nurse was fond of quoting if young Mary happened to be present. From an early age, she got a perverse satisfaction out of causing trouble. It was almost as if she couldn't help it. With her sharp tongue and petty spite, she had much in common with Barrow, she thought. Though she didn't know why she did what she did. Perhaps because it was so satisfying to get up PrissyMissy's nose, Edith was such a goody-goody, perhaps because her brain was too quick for most, perhaps because life was boring without some action. Sybil had another theory. She remembered when they were children and Mary deliberately stood on Edith's doll after a quarrel how Sybil had put her hand on her arm, her big blue eyes almost tearful and said, "I wish you wouldn't make people unhappy just because you're unhappy!"
Mary swallowed the lump that came to her throat. It would have been Sybil's birthday last Saturday, She still missed her sister dreadfully. Especially in moments like this when she, so strong and self-assured, felt helpless and uncertain. How was it a mere servant could unfailingly placate her child when his own mother couldn't?
She would have defied her parents earlier today and summoned Barrow to the drawing room when George begged for him, and then had flung himself on the floor and screamed in protest at his demand not being met. Except they were quite firm he should be kept away as they had something extremely serious to discuss with the under-butler. There was, Papa whispered, a suspicion he may have tried to kill John Bates. And she would have sent for him now, heart scalded to see her son so sad and feeling powerless that her love didn't seem enough, but such shocking news about Barrow gave even Robert Crawley's rebellious daughter pause.
And so she kissed her son's salt-teared cheek, whispered "I love you, my little man", tucked in the bedclothes she knew he would immediately kick away in anger - every bit as wilful as his mother! - and rang the bell that brought the maid she had Mrs Hughes arrange until a new Nanny could be appointed, scurrying deferentially in from the annex next door.
"Master George is ready to sleep now, Wilcox," Lady Mary declared, and without further ado she swept from the bedchamber, calm and in control, and broken inside.
XXXXX
With every step, Thomas's head thudded in time with his heart. He couldn't hear his footsteps, drowned out as they were by the thud-thudding of mind and heart growing ever louder. The afternoon was more intense. The chill breath of the wind was colder, the icy air sharper, the darkness cast by the huddled old trees that silently watched him thick as cloth. He walked quickly, with purpose.
By tonight, he would be gone.
No longer part of a world where he had never belonged. Ever since he was a boy, despised, rejected and beaten for being different. But what did that matter now? What did anything matter?
Anna and her unborn child were dead. Even if John Bates were, by some miracle despite Dr Clarkson's optimistic prediction, to survive Thomas's vicious attack, losing Anna would destroy him. God, he hated the man for taking away his status in the servant hierarchy, the only thing that ever gave him an identity and respect when he needs must hide his true self. But he hadn't known he hated him enough to kill him.
He admired and despised Bates in equal measure. He was like a younger brother, Miss Baxter remarked, always in competition with him, always wanting to outdo him, the same way he and Ben were rivals long ago. A love/hate relationship. If they outgrew it, they'd be friends, she said. Maybe she was right. Maybe in some distant imaginary future he and Bates would've been mates. Too bloody late now. Thomas wouldn't be around to find out. Not that anybody would miss him. They would mourn John and Anna Bates but his own death would pass by almost unnoticed.
An empty chair in the servants' kitchen. Soon replaced. Some anonymous person he would never know sitting where he used to sit. And the mood around the table would be lighter after a very short while, after they'd quickly forgotten him, their laughter easier and more often without Thomas. Didn't Mr Molesley say something once about him never wanting anyone else to be happy? Yet here he was, giving happiness to the lot of them! Happiness in spades!
And then strange to say, he smiled. To be brave. Because he wasn't brave, not really, despite what Miss Baxter claimed when he tried the excruciatingly painful and debilitating aversion therapy, desperate to turn himself into someone he never could be. If anyone was brave, it was Phyllis Baxter. Standing up for what she believed was right even when she could lose everything.
But Thomas, he was scared. So, so scared. Like the small boy he used to be, cowering in fear from the beatings his father regularly doled out to him for being who he was. But he had to do this. For everyone's sake.
Black as night in the quietly falling darkness of the autumn's bleak late afternoon, shrouded by dark clouds and clusters of trees, Downton Abbey's lake, deceptively placid and welcomingly deep, was waiting.
When he slipped into the shadows forever, no tears would be shed.
