A/N: Thank you, Reader, for your kind review. I do plan a happier ending for Thomas, though it might not seem like it at the moment.

***chapter 34***

Norman Jacobs was not used to being summoned by kitchen maids. Well, to be fair, one kitchen maid. And, to be even fairer, Daisy Mason was no ordinary kitchen maid. She was destined for far greater things than the life of drudgery sweating over a hot stove and scrubbing pans from dawn till dusk, which future it would seem awaited her when first she stepped over the threshold to the servants' entrance at Downton Abbey.

Daisy was now Mrs Patmore's right-hand assistant, trusted to take charge in the kitchens and dispense orders in the cook's absence. In addition, in her free time she was learning so quickly about agriculture and rearing pigs and poultry from her late husband's father that Mr Mason declared he would swear she had been born a farmer. And while it was extremely rare for a young female servant to read weighty tomes about history and politics, Daisy read them, sometimes for her studies, sometimes for pure pleasure, devouring these subjects with such appetite it was as though she had been starved of intellectual pursuits since birth. Which indeed was the case, for like most girls from an impoverished background she was expected to do nothing more than marry and bear children.

Mr Jacobs, who considered himself an expert on politics (with his meticulous nature, he pored over every detail of Parliamentary and Government affairs that the more sedate newspapers he regularly purchased loftily reported) had, upon one memorable evening, to his great surprise and despite his usual taciturnity, found himself embroiled in a fascinating debate with the kitchen maid over whether a Socialist or Conservative government was best for Britain. Young Daisy certainly knew her stuff, he conceded, and even left him questioning whether his support for Mr Baldwin was a rational choice or one borne out of fear of toppling the status quo.

For Norman Jacobs did not take kindly to change. A creature of routine, he strongly resented the interruption to his leisure pursuit of pipe, paper and ponder, for which he allowed himself, the Crawley family not requiring his services permitting, exactly half an hour at precisely the same time every afternoon, to be resumed, if free, for exactly the same amount of time at the same hour every evening. He did, however, make a rare exception when he saw the interrupter was Daisy. Like everybody else, he had a soft spot for the sweet-natured, straight-talking Yorkshire lass.

"You gotta come quick, Mr Jacobs!" Daisy did not waste time explaining. "Please," she tagged on to the abrupt command as a polite afterthought. She had been alarmed upon her return from a shopping trip on behalf of Mrs Patmore to find the scullery maids "runnin' round like 'eadless chickens" as she told Miss Baxter later, while Lottie sat on an enormous chair in the middle of the chaos, sobbing hysterically about a murder, and Mrs Patmore shouted cooking instructions in almost as hysterical a voice as Lottie.

Daisy quickly learnt the reason for the commotion. Lottie refused to believe Mrs Bates was not murdered, and Mrs Patmore and her underlings spent so long trying in vain to persuade the maid-of-all-work otherwise, or even calm her down enough to reveal how she came by such a wild idea, that the Crawleys' lunch was going to be very late. As Mr Jacobs had taken a very much alive Anna to the hospital, Daisy concluded the quickest way to reassure Lottie was to bring Mr Jacobs into the equation.

Thus summoned, he neatly folded his newspaper, tapped out his pipe and rose to follow her without any sense of urgency. Daisy, who preferred to do everything faster than the speed of light, bit her tongue to stop herself from chivvying him along. The elderly servant, who was saving hard for his rapidly approaching retirement, never hurried anywhere and lately seemed to have only one foot in the here and now and the other firmly placed in his future dream of a little cottage where he would keep hens and grow his own fruit and vegetables.

Daisy was proved correct in her assumption. While nobody else could persuade her, Lottie was finally convinced by Mr Jacobs when he told her, in his usual slow, concise way of speaking which never failed to give great weight to his words, that Mrs Bates fainted, was brought round, and was in good health when left her at the hospital to visit her husband. And then, being a man who believed in doing only what was required of him, no more and no less, he announced succinctly, with a clap of his hands as though shaking off dust, "That's me done then," and abruptly and unhurriedly departed.

"How on earth did you come by such a ridiculous notion in the first place?" Beryl Patmore patted her chest rather belatedly to stop the heart palpitations that had begun when Lottie first made her dramatic announcement notwithstanding she already knew there was no truth in it, for Mr Carson had earlier briefed Downstairs on both John and Anna Bates's progress.

"Vinnie said he accidentally killed her," Lottie whispered, her face bright red from embarrassment at the fuss she had caused.

"You should know by now Vinnie exaggerates," Mrs Patmore tutted. "Don't let the potatoes boil over, you silly girl!"

Confused by all the frantic running about that was ensuing in the kitchen, Lottie at first thought potatoes boiling over must be a new expression for not believing everything she was told, then she thought Mrs Patmore expected her to see to the potatoes and almost got up to do so before she realised the cook was talking to Sally, the scullery maid, and had already hurried across to prevent the predicted disaster.

"There, now, Lottie! Nowt to worry about after all," Daisy concluded.

"But Mr Barrow were right upset when I told him Mrs Bates were dead," Lottie said guiltily, recollecting how quickly he strode off after leaving her with Mrs Patmore. She had never seen him so distressed before. She had heard the other servants say how he was when Lady Sybil died, but Lottie didn't work at Downton Abbey then and never met Lady Sybil. Oh, not so anybody could see he was distressed. It was more a feeling she had about it. He wasn't himself, she knew he wasn't. He was already unhappy and Lottie telling him about Mrs Bates made his unhappiness a thousand times worse.

"Oh, I don't think you need fret yourself about Mr Barrow. He'll be right as ninepence." Like most people, Daisy did not realise exactly how perceptive Lottie was and believed her to be worrying unnecessarily. "But I do think it's all been a terrible shock for you. Best you go up to your new room and have a little rest. I'll tell Mrs Hughes you were feeling poorly."

She was relieved when Lottie nodded obediently and left without protest. Well, that was one less person causing chaos! She looked towards the next.

Mrs Patmore, in her efforts to demonstrate to Sally how to boil potatoes in what she fondly imagined was a patient manner, was making matters worse. Sally, who was not very bright and more usually and happily employed in washing dishes and cleaning floors, not cooking, was becoming more agitated by the minute.

Daisy sighed. What with Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes busy sorting the household accounts, Mr Barrow disappearing, Vinnie making a brief reappearance only to vanish again, Anna and John Bates at the hospital, Lottie making startling claims about murders and Mrs Patmore causing more mayhem than there was to begin with, it was like running Downton Abbey single-handed, she thought! She would have to inform Her Ladyship that Vinnie was quite safe, apparently just having decided not to work or see anyone at the moment. But Vinnie could wait. With another sigh, she entered the battle to restore order in the kitchen.

Having advised Lottie to return to her room, she gave not a second thought to where the young girl was actually headed.

xxxxx

To say Lady Edith was surprised by her sister Mary asking her advice is an understatement. Edith was more than surprised. Startled, shocked, stunned, roll these words and more into one and they still did not portray the true depth of her feelings in relation to her arch enemy.

She had shouted a distracted "Come in!" in answer to the knocking on her bedroom door, expecting one of the maids to disturb her extremely pleasant reverie.

For her mind was far, far away, re-living every wonderful moment she spent with Marigold earlier, and her heart fit to burst with happiness at the news the cottager family currently caring for her beloved child were amicably agreed - or at least as amicably as Mrs Drewe's attachment to the little girl allowed herself to be - to Marigold coming to live permanently at Downton Abbey within the week. Edith couldn't stop smiling as she idly brushed her hair.

Unlike Mary, who as eldest was consistently spoilt in Edith's opinion, she was not considered important enough to have her own lady's maid, being a mere second-born, yet another bone of contention between them. While Miss Baxter filled the role when Mama could spare her, which wasn't often, it was more usually Miss Pritchard or Miss Hunter or Miss Montgomery sent by Mrs Hughes to help her dress.

And even though lunch, in this instance in honour of Tom Branson and Sybbie's return, did not require the same level of formality as evening dinner dictated, and Tom and his daughter would now be considerably late (Tom had since telephoned to say so) Edith fervently hoped it wasn't the latter of the maids, for Miss Montgomery, a formidable woman in her late fifties, always managed to give the impression she strongly disapproved of Edith's own attempts. She most certainly did not approve of the way Lady Edith brushed her hair, for one, and would inevitably take the hairbrush from her hand and begin brushing in a brisk manner that suggested Edith should never be trusted alone. No doubt, however, if called upon to attend Perfect Mary while Anna was with her husband at the hospital, she would dote on her! But she shouldn't be ungracious when there were more important concerns, she rebuked herself. John Bates had been badly hurt in his fall although, thankfully, Dr Clarkson believed he would make a full recovery. And her thoughts returned to Marigold.

Her hair was growing fast now. While it was still the same beautiful russet brown as her father's with glints of Edith's own strawberry blonde locks, it was turning slightly darker. Not as dark as Sybil's had been and definitely not as dark as Mary's, but there was a stronger hue. Edith loved to run her fingers through those soft, glossy tresses and Marigold loved to sit on her lap, giggling while she did so. She was such a sweetheart, so slow to tears, so quick to smiles, and, oh, so shy except with Barrow whom she liked immensely…

The two short raps requesting entry broke into her train of thought. And though she could see her visitor well enough in the mirror's reflection, Edith swung round in disbelief.

Her good mood evaporated. "Whatever you've come here to say, Mary, say it and let's get the argument over with."

Her older sister rolled her eyes, then quickly collected herself, remembering why she had lowered herself enough to call on her rival. "You've heard about Bates's accident? When he went to fetch the Veuve Clicquot I requested to celebrate Tom and Sybbie's return from America?"

"Of course I've heard. Do you imagine you're the only one in this family important enough to be kept informed about anything?"

Mary resisted the urge to deliver the sarcastic reply resting on the tip of her tongue. She was already regretting her impulsive decision to consult Edith about George. "I need to ask you something and you're not making this easy for me," she said testily.

Edith snorted derisively. "Mary, I've had a lifetime of you not making things easy for me. Naturally, I'm truly sorry for Mr Bates and Anna, but Dr Clarkson assures us Bates will make a full recovery and that Anna, too, is absolutely fine. Unless anything has changed...?" She paused anxiously.

Mary shook her head. "No. Quite the opposite, I believe Bates has woken and Papa gone to see him."

"Well, then." Edith returned to brushing her hair albeit with more ferocity than required, reminding herself of the intimidating Miss Montgomery. "If you've come to steal my personal lady's maid in lieu of Anna, you'll be sorely disappointed. Unlike you, I never had one. And if the problem is, who's going to fetch the champagne now Bates is indisposed and Papa ordered Barrow to rest, I suggest you ask Carson. He can't do enough for his precious Mary."

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, Edith!" Mary sank into the nearby chair, thinking it wise to cut to the chase before a row she hadn't initiated for once escalated. "Why doesn't George love me?"

She suddenly had Edith's full attention. "But he does," she answered, puzzled. And suspicious. It was most uncharacteristic of Lady Mary Crawley to be uncertain about anything and even more uncharacteristic of her to confide in Edith.

"No, he doesn't! He prefers Barrow."

"Oh, but all children love Barrow! Marigold, George and Sybbie adore him and I recollect Tom saying he was always very patient with the village children, too." Edith smiled, while feeling out of her depth. Were she and Mary actually sharing what could pass as a civil conversation? She waited warily for the poisoned arrow she was convinced her sister would fire any moment. Sure enough, it came.

"Not more than their own mother, though. Marigold cares for you more than George cares for me." Believing herself to be making a huge effort to be friendly, she was unprepared for Edith's angry reaction.

"Mama told you!" she flung down the hairbrush, sorely tempted to fling it in her sister's direction. "Or was it Tom? You and he have spent long enough talking together since he got back."

"I meant," Mary carefully drew out her words; "that Marigold loves you like she would love her own mother. But then she would, wouldn't she? Because you are. You are her mother!"

"Go ahead. Say it. Now we're both sluts." Edith pursed her lips, furious with herself for disclosing the secret she realised she need never have disclosed. Mary was unlikely to forget Edith calling her by the derogatory name after the scandal about her affair with Kemal Patuk came to light and Mary was capable of harrowing cruelty where Edith was concerned. Not that Edith couldn't be equally vindictive. Her letter to the Turkish Embassy revealing Patuk had been discovered in her sister's bed was proof of that.

"Well, well, well! Saint Edith, our very own paragon of virtue, with an illegitimate child! I always did think there was more to your relationship with Marigold, but Tom flatly refused to breathe a word."

"Congratulations, now you've sated your curiosity." Edith's face was aflame. "Can you just say what you've got to say about it and then leave me be?" she asked bitterly.

"What I have to say about it is that we're both modern women making our own choices." Mary swiftly dismissed the topic, to her sister's astonishment. In reality, the revelation came as no surprise to her. She had suspected – no, known – for a long time that Marigold was Edith's daughter, lacking only the solid evidence to prove it. And she had been saving that interesting fact to be cruelly used at some future date against her. Until George broke her heart. "It was Sybil's birthday last Saturday," she added reflectively.

"I know." Edith had visited church last Saturday. Not her usual church, where the Crawley family and their domestic staff attended service every Sunday, but the Catholic one some miles outside Downton, where she had gone to light a candle in Sybil's memory. Tom had told her about the tradition when, curious about his religion, he had taken her there once. She liked the idea, felt close to Sybil when she offered up a silent prayer as she she lit the candle and placed it on the candle-stand where other worshippers had previously placed lighted candles for their own loved ones. There was something calming and timeless about watching those flickering yellow flames while outside the quiet of the old church with its stained glass windows and its smell of wood and incense people were going about their everyday lives. Driving back to Downton Abbey, for all the sadness of Sybil being gone, she felt somehow happy and at peace.

"Tom and I stayed up all night talking about her."

"I miss her." Edith was unused to Mary's quieter moods, of the two exchanging confidences this way. The last time, the only time, was shortly after Sybil's death. But then, after that brief reconciliation, they were enemies again. "I think about her all the time."

"Me too. She hated us to quarrel."

"She hated anyone to quarrel." Edith remarked pensively, then finally said what was on her mind. She was still shaken by Mary's confession she already knew the truth about Marigold and she still distrusted her. "Look, Mary, what exactly is it that you wanted? This kind, caring sister act isn't you."

"No. It isn't. I admit it. But something Tom said about blood being thicker than water made me realise. Like it or not, we're sisters. We should be here for one another." She swallowed. "You're good with Marigold. I'm not good with George. And I wanted to ask you, sister to sister, not enemy to enemy, if you think there's any substance in what Mama and Papa suspect about Barrow attempting to kill Bates? If we should keep our children away from him?"

Edith gave a cynical half laugh. "Are you trying to tell me the grand Lady Mary wants us to call a truce?"

"Look, I care about my child!" Mary snapped, losing patience. "You might be a bloody saint, but is my wanting to be a good mother really so hard to believe?"

"Yes. You don't care about anybody but yourself. You never did. Hardly surprising George wants Barrow instead of his mother." The words were out before Edith could stop them, the years of being hurt, of their mutual hatred, bristling at Mary's outburst. She regretted saying them immediately. It had been their chance to bond as sisters, as Sybil always wanted. Mary had held out the olive branch and she had thrown it back in her face.

"Mary, wait…" But it was already too late. The door was slammed, the discussion ended. Forever.

XXXXX

Mary was furious with herself. How stupid was she to believe Edith might actually listen? Worse, prepared to sacrifice herself for the sake of her son, she had shown herself to be vulnerable. She would have preferred Anna or Tom as a confidant, but Anna was with her husband and Tom was vague about what time he would return, a family matter, he claimed, taking longer than expected. She had an idea what the family matter might be. Tom and she had talked long and hard about his brother last night, sharing secrets.

But Tom wasn't here and she needed answers now because she needed George to love her now. Why were children so damned difficult to understand? Why did they always want to turn everything into a game, then lose interest two minutes into the game and want to play something else? Why did they cry for no apparent reason or resort to tears and tantrums when you tried to explain why they couldn't have their own way? Unlike when he was with Mary, George never behaved badly with Barrow.

He loved spending time with the under-butler and because she would do anything for George she would have sought Barrow out when first he asked for him. But what if Barrow had tried to kill John Bates as Mama and Papa believed? What kind of mother would she be if she encouraged a friendship between the beloved child she wanted to always cherish and protect and someone capable of murder?

Sybbie loved Barrow too. Would Tom still allow Sybbie in his company when such dark suspicions surrounded him? Then there was Marigold. Whenever she saw Thomas Barrow, she would smile brightly although the shy little girl hid her face in Edith's skirts if anyone else even glanced at her.

It had been a huge mistake, however, to seek Edith's advice over whether or not she should grant George's request. She had made the impulsive decision to consult her over her dilemma because, to her chagrin, her sister could relate to children far better than she could. But, thanks to Edith's petty jealousies and unwillingness to forgive past wrongs, they were further apart than ever.

Fine. She didn't need Edith's help. She didn't need anyone's help. Papa was currently with him at the hospital, but Mary needed answers now so she would find Barrow now and demand to know what happened. She was confident of her ability to know whether he was telling the truth because ever since childhood, as Edith often spitefully liked to remind her, she'd known how to be cunning and devious. She liked to think she'd matured since then, but there was still a grain of truth in Edith's claim. Mary knew Thomas Barrow's mind because it was her own.

Since Tom had telephoned to say he would be late, there was plenty of time in which to interview Barrow before her brother-in-law's celebratory lunch. With rare thoughtfulness, she had already despatched a maid to inform Mrs Patmore that it should be served much later than originally planned. She would have been surprised to know the Downton Abbey cook was sent into paroxysms of despair at the altered arrangements.

"After all that rushing about to get everything ready!" she complained to Daisy, who calmly stepped into the breach as Mrs Patmore fanned her face over the shock of it all.

But Mary had other things on her mind than the kitchens of Downton Abbey. So, too, did Lottie…

A/N: God, I found that conversation between Mary and Edith so difficult to write! I was trying to strike a balance between their sibling rivalry (to put it mildly!) and the bond of sisterhood. Don't know if I succeeded, I can only let my readers judge.