And so, here Sarah O'Brien was – back at Downton Abbey. It was, however, different than before when she was stood with Michael. He radiated a warmth that made her feel safe and secure, and without him here, it was brought to her attention just how cold and empty she actually felt. She stopped silent for a moment, listening for any sign of a heart beat or a hurried, anxious breath from her chest. Nothing. She could be floating like a mist through the hallways, or a fog across the gardens. There was no feeling when she grasped the bannister of the stairs, nor ruffle when she moved across the carpeted floor. There was no breeze left in her wake as she walked, no lingering smell of her hair or her clothes. She was a shadow of a whisper, aware of everything, but felt by no one. She beat the familiar route downstairs to the servants quarters, moving cautiously, carefully, still terrified that this was all an awful dream that she was about to be awakened from at any moment. She stopped as she reached the half way point of the stair case, straining her ears for any sound of her former co-workers who would be up and preparing the family for the day. The Downton Abbey servants quarters could hardly be described as colourful, but it seemed as though everything had been tainted grey. The usual browns of the wooden doors and the walls, the whites of the papers hanging from Mr Carson's notice board, the gold of the many bells that would call the servants to their stations had all be drained. They were like flowers that be been left in darkness for days – drooping, lifeless, and oh so very sad looking.
There came a murmur of noise, and Sarah continued down the staircase into the servants hall. There they were – Mr Carson, Mrs Hughes, Thomas, Anna, Bates, Alfred, Jimmy – all sat around the table eating their toast and chatting away casually as they started their day. Only, she could hardly hear a thing they were saying. She moved around the table, watching in fascination. Their voices were hollow and distant, echoing around her so it made it difficult for her to decipher much of what they were saying. She could feel a slightl pang of annoyance growing in her chest as she tried to concentrate on the words that were coming from Mrs Hughes lips. Her attention was drawn, however, away from the mouth of the housekeeper and to the sudden ringing of the bell on the wall that, she knew, was from Lady Grantham's bedroom. It was like a magnetic pull, calling to her through the nattering of the servants as they ate their breakfasts.
"That's for you-" Sarah turned instinctively to face the pillowed voice of Mrs Hughes. "- Miss Baxter." Miss Baxter?
"Of course, excuse me."
Younger than she was, she watched as the dark haired woman – who she hadn't even noticed sat in her usual spot - stood, taking a last sip of her tea before placing it down on the table and moving off into the kitchen to collect Lady Grantham's breakfast tray. Mrs Patmore's cooking hadn't changed in the slightest, but Sarah had to look over the womans shoulder to get a good look at what Lady Grantham was being served. Not enough butter on the toast. She likes her toast buttery. She likes to lick the butter off her fingers while she's reading the paper. Many a time Sarah would smile at the greasy finger prints she'd find on the corner of each page as she read the papers herself once Lady Grantham had finished with them. And what was this? Orange juice? Citrus burns the skin around her lips and gives her stomach cramps later on in the evening. Sarah had tried it when she'd first arrived here. Lady Grantham had insisted on continuing the daily moment of bliss, but Sarah O'Brien had stood her ground. "Maybe not every day, m'lady? Only I don't want you to be in pain of any kind, that's all." Trying to get a hold of orange juice back then was an awful challenge, and Mrs Patmore would go crazy.
She followed the woman up the stairs, watching her carefully. She had foolishly forgotten to anticipate her replacement. Of course she knew Lady Grantham would find a someone to take her place, but any thought of actually who she would be had not entered Sarah's mind. Though she did suppose having been told she was dead and had to in fact return to Downton as a ghost was enough to push any thought of Lady Grantham's new lady's maid out of her head. She watched the woman knock carefully on the door and wait for a few seconds before struggling with the door handle. Sarah didn't wait for her, and she closed her eyes as she pressed into the wood and passed into Lady Grantham's bedroom. She had opened the curtains(though rather messily, admittedly) and had returned to her bed. She turned her head, and for a second Sarah O'Brien froze as the soft, greatly longed for gaze of Cora Crawley seemingly looked right at her. She felt a crunching in her chest as she studied Cora Crawley's face – she seemed nervous, distant. She was looking at her like she would a stranger, like she didn't know her at all, like she wasn't even looking at her at all...
"Good morning, m'lady."
The door behind her opened, and the woman with the tray passed right through her. Cora Crawley's gaze followed the woman, and Sarah's throat clenched. Of course she couldn't see her, but for a moment, a sheer second of time, Sarah could pretend she could. She could pretend Cora Crawley smiled at her in greeting, she could pretend Cora Crawley would give her a small nod, or a shy 'good morning'. So from that moment, Sarah O'Brien decided that she'd step into the room just before this Baxter woman, just before Cora Crawley's attention was drawn away, so she could pretend for just a moment that she could be seen, she could be felt.
Sarah shook her head and stepped towards the side of the bed. She sat on the edge, watching as Baxter lowered the tray over Cora carefully. Both women were nervous – Baxter, she could relate. Was it this womans first day, perhaps? Nervousness would be natural, of course. But why would Cora be nervous? Why would Cora Crawley, Countess of Grantham, Lady of the house, be nervous around her lady's maid? Sarah frowned as she watched Cora's face.
"Here we are, m'lady. Now, I think I've remembered everything, but I'll just stay here while you check."
"Seems perfect..." She blinked, she's lying. She's missing the extra butter. "But... what's this?"
"Well, I know Americans often drink orange juice with breakfast... I thought you would like it." Kiss ass. She can see right through what you're trying to do... Sarah sighed. And she appreciates that you're trying.
"That is so..." Hesitation... she's conflicted about whether to be truthful or polite. She'll go with polite – she always does. "... considerate, Baxter. Thank you." Both women seemed pleased with their interaction. Baxter started to lightly tidy up the room, and Sarah sat watching Cora as she drank the orange juice. What is she thinking? Where has she gone? Her childhood back in America, where orange juice for breakfast was the norm? Or perhaps back to me, telling her not to drink it because of her reddened lips and her achy stomach? She's smirking... she's probably thinking 'screw you, O'Brien'.
"Good morning, m'lord."
"Morning." Robert Crawley had entered the room, but Sarah kept her eyes firmly on his wife, watching her as she drank the orange juice. "You look very jovial."
"Just Baxter reminding me of times gone by."
"You're pleased with her?"
"I am, thank heaven..."
And just like that, Sarah O'Brien was seemingly forgotten. The pull she felt to be around Cora Crawley was strong enough to make sure she followed the Countess wherever she went. She watched over her when she ate, when she bathed, when she dressed, when she read, when she sang, when she was alone, when she was surrounded by people. It was during one of her usual bedside vigils one afternoon that there came a knocking on Cora's bedroom door.
"Mrs Hughes?" Cora had been reading silently beside the window, lost in the words of her aged book, when the housekeeper, somewhat grim faced, stepped into the room.
"I'm sorry to bother you, m'lady, but Mr Carson and I thought you'd wish to know..." The aged woman fingered a small piece of paper in her hands nervously before gently stepping across the room and handing it to Cora. "It's Miss O'Brien, m'lady. I'm afraid she's... dead." Cora dropped to book to her knees and just stared. Sarah jumped to her feet. Had her body been recovered? Had Susan Flintshire been captured? She watched Cora carefully, her chest clenching. Would the Countess be upset? Indifferent? Happy? No, she was too good a woman to be happy about anothers death, even if Sarah had abandoned her in the night.
"What?" Cora raised a shaking hand to take the paper.
"We've just received this telegram... I'm afraid it's true. The cause of death has been recorded as self-murder, m'lady. A note was found in her room on the ship she was on with Lady Flintshire." The housekeeper watched Lady Grantham as carefully as Sarah did. Lady Grantham, however, remained silent as her eyes seared over the telegram. Baxter had ceased her work as was stood rather awkwardly.
"M'lady?" Cora seemed to be suddenly jolted awake, and she lowered the telegram to her knee. Sarah continued to watch, looking desperately for some sort of clue as to how she was feeling. Her expression was blank, unreadable, and Sarah felt so helpless. Her throat had closed over – it felt as though she was reliving her death over again.
"Say something, come on..."
"How terrible... " Cora opened the telegram again, but her face remained completely frozen and unreadable. "I wonder if I could be alone for the rest of the afternoon? I'll ring if I need anything Baxter."
"Are you sure-"
"Yes, Baxter, thank you." The two woman glanced at each other before turning and leaving the room. Cora followed them to the door, and Sarah watched her as she pressed a hand against the wood for a few moments. Sarah sat on the edge of the bed. Self-murder... so Lady Flintshire had gotten away with murdering her? They thought she, Sarah O'Brien, had scribbled a half-arsed note and flung herself into the ocean? They thought she'd killed herself?
"Damn that stupid woman! Michael! Michael, get down here! You get this sorted right now!"
The rage she'd felt in the cabin when she'd watched Lady Flintshire murder her returned, and she growled under her breath in boiling rage. How dare she do this? How DARE she!? There came a stifled sob from across the room, and Sarah, having for a second forgotten the Countess was there, felt her anger melt away as her gaze fell upon her charge. Cora brought her free hand to her mouth, biting down on her index finger as she tried to suppress the silent sobs that threatened to expose her complete despair to anyone who could be listening on the other side of the door. Sarah's rage was dispersed as she watched Cora wipe her face, trying to regain control of herself, so much that a great wave of sorrow come over her, and she felt her fingers begin to tremble. Before, she had wanted so desperately for Cora to show some sadness at the news of her death, but Cora's pain seared through her own chest, and she wished there was some way to rid the Countess of her grief. She moved beside her, hovering her hand over Cora's shoulder. She wanted nothing more right now than to have Cora feel her, even if just slightly, but she knew the wall between them both could never be moved, or cracked, or chipped. She was cursed to watch helplessly, unable to offer her lady any words of warmth or comfort ever again, and that broke her heart even further than she thought possible.
"Please don't cry... I'm right here."
She could have screamed with every ounce of energy she had, and Cora would never hear her words. The Countess moved across the room and stepped into the small closet that Sarah herself had organised. Her face was stained with her tears, and Sarah could see her shoulders still quaking from behind. She followed her, trying to control the shaking of her hands as Cora reached behind a fur coat she sometimes wore during particularly cold winters, and pulled out a small, battered old box. She returned to the bedroom and sat on the edge of her bed as she carefully pried it open with her long, trembling fingers. She placed the lid on the bed, and a fresh sob escaped her as she pulled out a tired looking, dusty old scarf. Sarah recognised it straight away – she'd bought it one winter a couple of years ago in the village. She'd never been one for fancy things, and the scarf had been quite cheap and practical. In her hurry to leave Downton that night, she'd obviously left it behind. How the Countess had come across it, she'd probably never know. Sarah watched mournfully as Cora brought the scarf to her chest and held it there tightly, breathing in something Sarah would never be able to smell. She sat down beside Cora and peered into the box, where she spotted an old sewing kit, a picture of all the Downstairs staff that had been taken a couple of years ago and the letter she'd scribbled the night she'd left in a hurry.
"Oh, my lady..."
What more was there to be for her heart to shatter over? What more would she have to stand through helplessly? She sat in silence for a moment, listening to Cora's muffled cries into the scarf, before she brought a hand to her own face to brush away the stray tears that had started to fall. How peculiar, Sarah O'Brien thought, and rather cruel, how the people we love most seem to always go away.
Night time had appeared, and Baxter had been called to prepare Cora for bed. The Countess sat in silence, all evidence of the box with the scarf hidden away again behind her fur coat, as Baxter finished plaiting her long hair for bed. Sarah was perched on the end of the bed, sadly watching the lady's maid work.
"Are you quite well, m'lady? You've been awfully quiet."
"I'm fine, Baxter." She glanced up through the mirror. "Thank you." The maid took this as her dismissal for the night and packed away a couple of things before leaving Cora alone. She turned off the lights, cloaking the room in darkness, and crawled into bed. Sarah remained perched on the edge, and for a while, she sat simply listening to the tiny cries coming from under the quilt until, after a couple of hours, they subsided, and Cora drifted into sleep. If this was simply the 'in between', the thought of hell made her feel sick, because surely nothing could be worse than this. Nothing could be worse than being able to see, but not feel. To be there constantly, but never be felt. It was pain Sarah never thought could even exist.
Michael hadn't explained how to actually enter the dream world, so Sarah sat in silence for a few more moments. It felt wrong for her to be entering Cora's mind, she felt like she was prying into her privacy, invading her personal thoughts. It was, however, the only way to prevent her from being damned to hell. She stood silently, and moved to stand over Cora as she slept. Concentrate... She closed her eyes, and hovered a hand over Cora's head. There was light pull, and complete darkness fell over her.
It was almost like she was in a tunnel. Her vision was blurred slightly, and her steps were uneven and unbalanced. There was a flickering light in the distance, and when she reached it, she realised it was the tiny flickering of a candle. She glanced around, finding herself stood in a wooden room, somewhat similar to the cabin the Flintshire's had used. There were sudden flashes of lightening, and the room began to rock back and forth. Sarah stumbled slightly, trying desperately to see through the darkness for any sign of the Countess, and then she heard it -
"No! Sarah!"
She ran towards the voice, calling out.
"Cora! Cora, where are you?"
And there she was – Sarah froze at the sight. Cora was on the floor, cradling a body – her body – crying hysterically.
"Sarah, oh Sarah... I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."
The body was lifeless, and Cora pulled it closer to her. There was blood pouring from its wrists, staining the wooden panels of the floor. As Sarah approached, her eye caught sight of another in the shadows, someone she knew ought not to be there. He was stood right behind Cora, hidden from her, muttering words into her ear.
"It's your fault, all your fault, Cora... you sent her away. You mistreated her... it drove her over the edge and she couldn't cope. Your words are poison... "
"Who the fuck are you?!"
The man spun around at Sarah's voice, and Sarah's stomach churned when their eyes met. She knew who this was straight away... or what he was, at least.
"Get away from her!"
They both began to circle each, keeping Cora in the centre. He was awful to look at. His skin was cracked, his hair was thin and mattered, his eyes were completely black. He smirked at Sarah, flashing a mouthful of sharp, pointed teeth.
"Ahhh, and here's the baby-killer, coming to save your precious Countess are you?"
"I said get away from her!"
He laughed, and Sarah felt every hair of her body alight with revulsion.
"She called for me, baby-killer. She's quite the catch... so much pain to feed upon, and so much potential, as well. I'll put ten shillings on her slitting her wrists before the week is out. And you know what that means... you come with me and we'll have some proper fun." He laughed again and turned back to Cora. "You should just kill yourself, Cora, you won't be missed. They all hate you, really. Your husband doesn't love you, you daughters don't need you. All your staff snigger behind you back... you're useless!"
"Don't listen to him, Cora!"
"You did this, Cora, look! Look!" Both women looked up in time to see another body – another dead Sarah – hanging from the ceiling, this time. It foamed at the mouth and thrashed painfully as Cora screamed in horror.
"Sarah!"
Sarah ran forward, pulling the body Cora was holding away. She knelt down and grabbed her by the face, pulling her so their eyes met.
"Look at me! Don't listen to him, don't listen! He's lying to you, he's playing on your emotions! It wasn't your fault, it wasn't you!"
Cora was still crying, her body was trembling.
"Don't listen to her, you know what I'm saying is true. Look around you!"
Cora dragged her gaze away, gasping and screaming, and Sarah spun around to see bodies and bodies coming towards them, each one seemingly killed differently. There was one that was soaking wet and swollen, one with its eyes gouged out, one with its throat cut. Cora was hysterical, trying to shuffle across the wooden floor away from them. Sarah tightened her grip and pulled her closer again.
"Look at me, Cora, me! None of this is real, he's lying to you! Look at me, darling, I promise you, just look at me and you'll be safe! I'll keep you safe!"
She could hear the demon laughing through the moans and grunts of the hoard of bodies. It was no use trying to calm Cora down. She was too hysterical and too terrified to think sensibly, and Sarah realised that her efforts to bring Cora's attention away from the demons words and onto hers were fruitless. The more she listened to him, the worse the dream become and the more powerful he seemed to be. She could see only one option...
"Wake up Cora! Open you eyes!" She grabbed Cora's chin and pulled their faces together. "WAKE UP!"
They were both shrouded in complete darkness, and Sarah felt herself go flying across the bedroom as the Countess sprang awake with a cry. She pushed herself up and ran to her side, glancing quickly around the room for any sign of the demon as she did. Cora was gasping for breath, and she shakily reached over to the dresser for a glass of water. Her hair had become tattered during the nightmare, and there was sweat dripping down her neck.
"Oh, Sarah..." she breathed as she settled back against the pillow. A fresh set of tears fell down her cheek, and she closed her eyes. "Where are you?"
"I'm here, m'lady... I'm right here."