Downton Abbey:
Guy(s) Night
by Mirwalker
Chapter Seven: Shattered
Thursday, 7 November 1912
In the wee hours, and for all the rare joy the sharing brought him, Thomas had finally abandoned the bed to Ian, whose temperature had continued to climb. Despite his flush, Ian insisted he was freezing; and the shivering and protests to Thomas' uncovering him had only set off further fits of wet, deep coughing. Not knowing what else to do, the forced nurse had left the duvet on him, fetched a chamber pot and some chill water, pulled up a chair and spent the rest of the early morning cold-clothing his patient.
In his fever, Ian shifted between sleep, apologies to Thomas for causing such trouble, and mumbles about "him" and "them." He didn't seem able or willing to answer questions; and Thomas quickly gave up asking, between spare moments of sleep and reacting to his restlessness.
By the early hour when his alarm went off, Thomas had yet to work out a way to care for Ian better, or to skip work for the day without inviting obliged supervisors to check in on him/them, or to get help without getting them both into significant trouble. And so, he resolved himself to again balance his professional obligations with this personal concern; and set about to make his care as comfortable as possible for his workday.
"Ian, let's move you to the chair over here, where you can stay upright; that seems to help your coughin'. That's good," he coached the weak, sweaty man across the short distance. "I'm goin' to leave this pan beside you, should you feel ill, and this glass of water where you can reach it. We'll cover you up, so you can stay warm..." And not be seen so easily.
The guest now relocated to a less-obvious-from-the-door spot, Thomas remade the bed to specs and tidied the room before completing his own morning preparation routine. Should anyone look in now, they'd see a properly neat room, save the duvet "airing" on the chair in the corner.
"I'm goin' now, Ian," he explained as he cracked the window above the drowser, hoping the day's cool might offset the nesting fever. "Don't answer the door or go out for anythin'; and I'll pop in to check on you as often as I can."
As he passed by to leave, Ian reached out and snagged his hand, repeating his cogent-moment mantra, "Thank you. Thomas. Angel." From his standing perspective, the swollen eye looked like a macabre wink, above a more-grimace-than-smile.
A swash of warmth passed through Thomas' cold anxiety; and he passed his hand over the wet brow one more time. "My pleasure, really. Get some rest."
"I just think it's odd that some wealthy man's been set upon, and yet no one has reported any crimes to the police, that's all," Gwen was saying around the servants' hall table, as Thomas arrived.
"Well, His Lordship and Mr Carson had all us men check 'round the house again first thing after the police was here; didn't they, Thomas?" William sought agreement from his fellow footman. "And we didn't find nothing more; nor did the estate workers neither."
"Unless he was beaten and killed," Thomas said, hastily lighting up a smoke, and adjusting his vest. "And the body hidden well. Then there'd be no one to report the deed, and nothing to find..."
"That's a horrible thing to say: someone dying!" Gwen protested.
"But no surprise, given its source," reminded Bates, with a quick smile to Anna, as she passed by shaking her head at his stirring the pot.
"But, we know that someone came to the house and the door, and he weren't dead then," William tried to console the women folk.
"Storm droppings, hallucinations and odd circumstances, that's all it is," Thomas dismissed with a particular derision. "But that's enough to give us all extra work, and keep us up all hours."
"That's clear as day on you," O'Brien chimed in finally and helpfully, looking up from her needle and thread. "You don't look well at all, Thomas. Everything alright?"
The whole room turned to look, assessing his bloodshot eyes and the bags under them.
"Never felt better," he lied in character, throwing in a cough to bolster his appearance, and his alibi.
"He coughed all night long," William shared with his colleagues after Thomas marched out. "He actually sounds much better now…"
"Edith, you do realize that one is not required to prove one's surname in order to have a handkerchief monogrammed?" For effect, her grandmother punctuated the question-critique with both a head tilt and a pleasant smile.
"Well, yes of course, grandmama," she acknowledged, having hoped for more than more mockery from the family matriarch. "But I think it safe to presume that no one fabricated a false initial before dropping it on our doorstep." She dropped her shoulders ever so slightly, all but defeated by the lack of progress for her morning's investigations, "If you can't recall hearing of any other 'G'-named gentlemen traveling through the area of late, then I've no more leads than were I to ask about possible ghosts at Downton."
Taking advantage of Edith's downtrodden eyes to roll her own, the Dowager Countess reminded, "While I do pride myself on remaining 'in the know,' if not relevant, it is Downton that is the hub of society in the area. No one is required, or bothers, to notify me of their comings and goings these days; not the family, much less the wider nobility."
Seeing the conversation turning toward the Dowager Countess' displeasure at not being the center of the local world, Edith summarized, "None of this would be necessary, if 'G' would just let someone know what had happened to generate all the worrisome evidence. I just don't understand why someone hasn't come forward to report the attack? Wouldn't they want a record of their losses, want police help toward justice, or simply to warn others of the risk?"
"There are many reasons why one would not seek to make one's pain, pilfer-able wealth or 'eccentricities' the public's business," the elder continued the youth's education of the obvious.
"Are you suggesting this 'G' was involved in something… improper?" Edith blanched.
"I wouldn't think to suggest anything. In fact—and I don't mean to dissuade you from taking up interests, my dear; goodness, no... But I cannot recommend thinking deeply in general, as it rarely produces the desired calm or closure of answers or simplicity. Why not occupy yourself with something more… productive? Knitting, perhaps?"
The tea and their talk finished, and wishing the same for the visit, the again smiling Violet rang her bell. "So nice of you to have stopped by…"
On the ride home, despite her grandmother's not entirely unexpected disdain, Edith resolved herself to write to the geographically nearest "G" families, to inquire casually after any recent visits to the area, and losses of any personalized accessories. Barring that, she might check the society pages of recent papers, or with family friends in surrounding big cities, to ask who might have been visiting or traveling recently.
In the meanwhile, and more immediately, she'd put away the generous parting gift of the Dower house's spare yarn and needles, and follow advice that her grandmother had also given her, before growing tired of her questions and company. She would check the numerous portraits and occasional photographs at Downtown, for anyone she might recognize as her 'wounded man.' While a spirit seemed less likely given the physical evidence, however coincidental, it was a possibility she couldn't ignore. And it was certainly a line of inquiry the family, and the police, would not be pursuing.
"Welcome back, your Ladyship," the always ready butler greeted her, as a rather weary-looking footman helped her from the car. "I trust the Dowager Countess has recovered from her unplanned overnight with us?"
"Rest assured that she is as crisp and dry as ever, Carson," Edith smiled back knowingly.
He nodded, letting her know that "Their Ladyships have just gone up to change for luncheon. We'll let Mrs Patmore and her Ladyship know that you have returned in time to join them."
Handing Thomas her coat and borrowed sewing bag as Carson closed the door behind them, she nodded and requested, "Carson, could you also let Mrs Hughes know that I'd like to walk through all the bedrooms this afternoon, to check the portraiture? There's no need to open them fully; I'll just step in, turn on the lights and have a quick look."
"Very well, milady," he nodded to Thomas to handle the notifications.
"Ah, Edith, you've made it back," interrupted the Earl, as he left his study and headed across the grand hall toward the library. "Any headway with your 'research'?" he doubted.
"Grandmama actually gave me several good suggestions," Edith reframed cheerfully, as she headed toward the grand staircase.
Sharing a surprised look with Carson, Robert waved him to follow, "If you have a moment, Carson, I'd appreciate a word before the flurry of luncheon…"
As they headed off, Edith had paused on the stairs, methodically looking at each portrait in the house's central atrium, before pausing at each along the route to her own bedroom. None looked anything like the thin, light-headed man in her quick glimpse two nights earlier.
With time enough to change before heading down again, she continued past her room at the top of the stairs, and continued her inspection of the hallway artwork. Still nothing, as not every piece had a person—landscapes and still lifes, and not every person was real, related or a man. Still, she had to check that she hadn't imagined into existence, the image of a character she'd been seeing, if not noticing, since childhood.
Completing her round of the first floor gallery without success, she took hope that there were another three dozen unoccupied bedrooms to check, plus the more public showpieces on the ground floor. Surely, there was something in one of those…
Turning to pass the top of the main stairs again, a movement ahead caught her attention. Glancing up, she expected to see her younger sister, or perhaps a maid moving between rooms. Instead, and in an instant, she took in the sight standing in a patch of sunlight at the far end of the corridor: a tall, pale, thin figure in a long white gown blocked her path. Golden curls topped a ruddy-cheeked face that would have been beautiful were it not for an odd disfigurement across one eye.
Paused as she was at the juncture of the largest spaces in the building, the entire house heard her scream as the ghostly vision reached out to her, asking, "Angel?"