AN: Just a reminder that in this AU, Anna was not raped by Green.

"His lordship has asked me to speak to you about a very serious matter," Mr. Carson said to the assembled servants after their dinner had been cleared away.

Baxter lowered her eyes, wishing she could be excused from hearing the story yet again. Lady Grantham had told her that morning that his lordship had pressed her to report the assault to the police, and that the staff would be informed shortly—it was thought better for Carson to tell them the truth of the matter, rather than to let them learn what they could in the papers and let gossip rage downstairs.

Baxter was glad to hear there would be justice, and glad that he would not be free to strike again, and she had said so, but she loathed the fact that an impending investigation and trial meant that the attack would be front and center in everyone's mind for some time now. Yet she knew better than anyone that the memories would not easily leave Lady Grantham regardless, and she felt her mistress's pain acutely when her ladyship whispered that she saw his face every time she closed her eyes.

This morning Dr. Clarkson had been called and had examined her ladyship, a dark cloud of rage and horror in his eyes. Lady Grantham had borne it far better than Baxter had expected—she didn't think she herself could have ever been undressed before a man a mere week after her own assault—with the only betrayal of her terror in how tightly she had gripped the hand of her maid, whom she had asked at the last minute to stay with her.

And now, Baxter braced herself to hear it all again from Mr. Carson. She had sensed throughout dinner that he had been told, as had Mrs. Hughes: Carson's shoulders were slouched as though he carried a heavy wait, and his face seemed to have aged twenty years, while the housekeeper's mouth was set so firmly that Baxter wondered if she might be preparing to strangle Mr. Bricker herself.

"This is, I repeat, a very serious matter," Mr. Carson continued. "I wish to make it extremely clear that this is not fodder for downstairs conversation, and I will immediately dismiss anyone who is heard gossiping about it." There were troubled looks exchanged around the table, and Baxter envied the others their ignorance.

"I am sure many of you recall a Mr. Simon Bricker, who stayed in this house on two occasions, one of them last week. I regret to inform you that Mr. Bricker is to be arrested and charged…" Here he paused, and gave an uncharacteristic sigh. "Charged with…assault on her ladyship during his last visit."

There was a small cry from one of the younger maids, a soft gasp from Mrs. Bates, and a surprised, disgusted grunt from Mr. Barrow. But there was otherwise no movement at all.

"His lordship will ensure that Mr. Bricker will be persecuted to the fullest extent of the law for this heinous crime. In the meantime, you are to continue in your duties as usual, and it is understood that you will not discuss the case with outsiders, nor will you make it a topic of salacious gossip amongst yourselves. You are to regard this—atrocity—as the most private business of the family.

"However, if you have anything to report regarding this case that you believe the police may find useful, I expect that you will present yourself to me immediately. Furthermore, it is possible that certain of you may be called upon to speak to the police or to testify to your memories of Mr. Bricker's visit or to her ladyship's character."

Her ladyship's character, my eye, thought Baxter. She understood the reasoning, but she boiled with anger at the implication that Lady Grantham would be on trial at least as much as Bricker.

"I trust that, if called upon, you will all do the household credit. Have I made myself clear on all counts?"

There were a few murmurs of, "Yes, Mr. Carson," but there was otherwise an oppressive silence in the servants hall. Mrs. Bates, Baxter saw, was weeping quietly, and her husband had tears in his eyes. Thomas was gripping the table, a muscle working in his cheek, and Mrs. Hughes looked as though she might breathe fire.

Baxter was conscious of Mr. Molesley's eyes on her—no doubt he could remember their conversation the day after her ladyship's "fall"—but she would not look at him.

"May I be excused, Mr. Carson?" she asked softly. Several pairs of compassionate eyes turned toward her, and she realized they were all realizing how intimately this nightmare must have involved her as Lady Grantham's maid.

"Yes, of course, Miss Baxter," Mr. Carson said with another heavy sigh. "Of course."

She took refuge in the boot room, knowing a departure to her own room would mean she did not hear her ladyship's bell. She did not doubt that Mrs. Hughes or Mrs. Bates would cover for her without question, but she did not like to leave Lady Grantham.

"Your lady is not your friend," Baxter could hear her mother say, "and don't forget it. Don't make the mistake of growing attached to her. Lord knows, she's not attached to you." She had never doubted the truth of the advice and believed she'd avoided the catty resentment so common to her position by remembering that she was a professional, her lady was her employer, and that was all there was to it.

Yet she felt instinctively that this was an entirely different matter. She was not merely a maid here; she was the only woman her ladyship was likely ever to encounter who would identify with her trauma. And she had not minded listening to Lady Grantham's fears, reassuring her that it would all fade eventually, and holding her hand as she wept. She only wished her sincere gentleness could somehow be a suitable penance for her own role in the attack.

She would have to testify, she was sure. Baxter shuddered at the thought. She did not mind describing the details of the night she'd found the countess sobbing in her room or bearing witness to the bruises she'd seen, but would they press for more? Would the police and the attorneys read her own story in her eyes and force her to recount it before the court?

"Miss Baxter?" she heard Mr. Molesley's voice call out softly as the door opened behind her. "I came to see if you were all right."

"I'm fine," she said, and even she could hear the tension in her own voice.

"You're crying," he said quietly.

Was she? She was surprised to find she was. Silently, he passed her a handkerchief, and she dried her eyes. She noted dirt still visible at the edge of his fingernails—it had been his afternoon off, and he had spent it with his father in the elder Mr. Molesley's garden. She loved that about him.

"You've known all along, haven't you?" His tone was gentle, and there was no accusation in it. "It was the night you said her ladyship fell."

"She called me up to her room right afterwards," Baxter said. It was a story they would all know soon enough. "It was…" She shook her head, not sure how she could possibly describe it. "My heart broke for her."

"It must have been horrible for you."

"Not as horrible as it's been for her."

He nodded solemnly. "I don't doubt that."

"They'll want me to testify, you know." She was slowly realizing that she would not only be testifying; she would be one of the star witnesses. She was the only one to have been made aware of the crime the night it had happened, and she was the only one to have seen her ladyship in the immediate aftermath. She'd been the first to hear about and see her injuries, and, having undressed her ladyship several times a day since, she had inadvertently memorized the map of bruises that had spread across her body and taken careful note of what was most painful to avoid hurting her as she helped her in and out of her clothes. She spent nearly as much time with Lady Grantham as his lordship did.

"Of course," Molesley said.

"I'm dreading it," she confessed.

"Why? I'm sure you'll be a great help in putting Mr. Bricker away."

"I know, and I'm glad of it. I want him locked up; you have no idea how badly. And I—you know I owe a great debt to her ladyship." Baxter would never forget the unexpected, undeserved mercy she'd been shown earlier that year. "But I dread—I dread speaking on the stand." She hoped desperately that he would never know precisely why.

Molesley was silent for a moment, and she looked away, unprepared for the softness in his gaze. "Perhaps you should speak to Mrs. Hughes. I doubt she can get you out of testifying, but she might at least be able to tell you what to expect, or to prepare you for it. Half the household was called into court when Mr. Bates was on trial some years ago; she's familiar with the process."

Baxter knocked mechanically on the housekeeper's door before bed that evening, not sure what it was she expected Mrs. Hughes to tell her.

"Oh, Miss Baxter…" the housekeeper said as she stepped inside, "are you quite all right?"

She took a seat at the table Mrs. Hughes gestured towards. "Do you know if they'll want me to testify?"

Mrs. Hughes did not blink at the suddenness of the question. "I imagine they will. It was you who helped her ladyship that night, wasn't it?"

Baxter nodded, feeling tears in her eyes again at the kindness in Mrs. Hughes's voice.

"So his lordship said. I understand they're both very grateful to you."

They shouldn't be, she thought, closing her eyes momentarily at the guilt.

"So yes, I expect they'll want you to testify. Does that trouble you?"

"Yes," she said. If only you knew why… "I–I dread it. I…do you know what they'll ask? Will it only be about that evening?"

"Well, I expect there will be a bit more to it. They'll want you to describe her injuries—you can do that easily, I'm sure?" Baxter nodded. "And as unfair as it may seem, they'll likely ask you about her ladyship, and what you know of her character. Whether she's the sort to have an affair, whether she's had one before."

"I think that's disgusting, Mrs. Hughes," Baxter said frankly.

"I quite agree, but they'll ask it all the same. And I imagine they'll want to know if you're sure it was Mr. Bricker who attacked her ladyship."

"Of course I'm sure!"

"You did not witness it, though."

"No, but…" She could not begin to tell Mrs. Hughes how she'd known it was Mr. Bricker. "That's what her ladyship said. And who else would it have been?"

"You'll want to do better than that on the stand," Mrs. Hughes said gently. "The defense will have plenty of ideas who else it might have been."

Her stomach twisted in fear of what she might be called upon to reveal, but the door opened before she could respond.

"Mrs. Hughes—oh, you have a visitor," Baxter heard Mr. Carson say.

"I was just going, Mr. Carson," she said, standing. "Thank you, Mrs. Hughes."

"Miss Baxter," the butler said as she passed him. He was silent for a moment, and she saw again the sadness in his eyes. "Please know you are not alone in your—distress at…at what's happened. I have known her ladyship since she was quite a young woman, and I…I find this news quite distressing. Quite distressing indeed." Such a pronouncement from the very formal butler was, she felt, the equivalent of anyone else breaking down in tears. Carson had, she remembered, joined the household as a footman shortly after Lord and Lady Grantham's marriage, and Baxter considered for a moment how very much of their lives he had seen over the last thirty-odd years. He had known Lady Grantham as the young, perhaps rather homesick, American viscountess, and he had seen her carry her children and observed her as a young mother.

"I'm sure Mrs. Hughes has conveyed to you how grateful his lordship is for your kindness to Lady Grantham this last week," Carson continued. "But I wanted to be certain that you knew you had my thanks as well, Miss Baxter."

She nodded and slipped out of the room, not trusting herself to speak.