Upon her sudden departure from the boot room, Phyllis Baxter had never been more grateful to hear the tingling of the bells followed by Mrs. Hughes calling for her to see to Her Ladyship. Every minute she spent upstairs was a minute away from Mr. Barrow's clutches. And at least now, her fabricated exit from the room would appear legitimate if he decided to investigate it further.
She took to prolonging each call upstairs as long as possible without rousing suspicion in Lady Grantham. She didn't need to draw anymore attention to herself, or give her mistress cause to view her as troublesome if she vocalized the situation she found herself in downstairs.
Still, the latest fashions weren't cooperative in enabling her escape from the conflict brewing downstairs for very long.
Nearly all the hooks and clasps had been replaced by zippers. And her ability to construct Lady Grantham's hair was down to a particular science now. They'd grown comfortable enough with one another, achieved a level of intimacy where they could anticipate each other's ministrations and reactions to such. Which is why Baxter's trembling fingers that fumbled to curl under each lock didn't go unnoticed by Lady Grantham.
"Baxter? Are you unwell?" Her blue eyes fluttered up in the mirror, arching an inquisitive brow.
"No, Milady," She shook her head, trying to steady her shaking hands before tucking several pieces of hair at the base of her neck. "I suppose I'm…just…not myself this morning."
"Probably still recovering from all the fuss that took place in London," Lady Grantham commented with a knowing half smile.
"Milady?" Baxter's face flushed irrationally at these vague musings.
"I meant with my Mother. I know she stretched you pretty thin. You probably haven't had that much time to fully recover." She explained dully as if it was a great annoyance that Mrs. Levinson had taken extensive liberties with her maid during their time away.
"Oh well...I'll be alright. Thank you though." Baxter remarked quietly, willing herself to focus more fully on the task at hand. Forcing any residual thoughts concerning Mr. Barrow to the depths of her mind, she resolved to come across as attentive as possible.
However, Lady Grantham appeared to know her better than she did herself at present.
"You should go,"She decided plainly, "take the afternoon to rest." She shifted beneath Baxter's outstretched hands, picking up the curls that slipped through Baxter's grip and tumbled down the back of her neck.
"O-oh I can manage..." Baxter started, casting a brief glance at the ticking clock resting atop the nearby dresser. Barely thirty minutes had gone by since she arrived.
"No need. The rest of it shouldn't be too hard for me to get on with myself. Besides, you look as though you could use a lie down," She assured her before swirling around in her chair. Peering up at her maid, there was a warmth invading her expression. A hint of merriment danced through her pale blue eyes as she remarked coyly, "I'm sure Carson's announced Lord Gillingham will be dining with us this evening? We'll save all of your efforts until then."
"Yes, Milady," Baxter nodded evenly in response, not thinking to question her Ladyship's request for her current dismissal. "I should uhm…I should be better long before dinner. Thank you."
She bowed out of the room, taking in a deep breath and then releasing it slowly in order to quell the painful clenching in the pit of her stomach. Dipping her face forward, Baxter hurried down the back staircase.
Her eyes darted to either side, discerning the correct route that would lead her back to the boot room in the most discrete fashion. If she went around the second landing, it would take her through the laundry wing, which was closer towards the back door just below the servants courtyard. If she continued the rest of the way down the steps, she'd come out just outside the servant's hall, which was heavily populated at this hour. She opted for the first, more secluded path.
As Baxter carefully slipped into the laundry room, a wave of heat hit her in the face. Steam coming up from the tubs of hot water clouded her vision, and she found the air denser as it seeped into her lungs. But the disorientation was only momentarily, and she felt a distinct chill as she pushed open the door to the ladies wardrobe room, closing it quickly behind her so as to not let any steam hit the delicate garments.
Here, her anxious gait intensified. She rushed past the open doorways, hand cautiously stroking the wall as though she were marking her progress. Every now and again, she glanced over her shoulder or paused a beat if someone turned to come toward her in the corridor. But fortunately for her, Baxter made it back to the boot room undetected.
She hovered for a split second in the doorway, expecting to find the pair of brown leather shoes she abandoned earlier. Only, they were not where she left them. Her heart picked up its pace, and that familiar, nervous heat spread throughout her cheeks again.
Stepping deeper into the room, her fingers brushed across the table top. She paused where Mr. Molesley once sat with a pair of Mr. Branson's shoes left in his charge. Perhaps he thought it beneficial to work on her Ladyship's shoes once he finished. He was rather helpful, and eager to be as useful as possible. She breathed easier at this supposed rationale, her eyes scanning the shelves of shoes for confirmation that she was right.
Her eyes darted frantically along third shelf from the bottom, designated for the lady of the house's footwear. But the tightness in her middle only intensified once she noticed they were truly missing. And a pair of shoes clicking hollowly behind her, prompted Baxter to whirl about. The question was practically perched on her lips as she half expected it to be Mr. Bates, by the sound of this particular gait. However, she swallowed her words and suddenly felt uneasy when she came face to face with the last person in the world she wished to see.
Thomas casually strolled towards the table, precisely setting the shoes back where she left them. His tone was even and cool when he spoke next.
"So why did you talk about Mr. Bates and Lord Gillingham's valet? What's the connection? Tell me."
He didn't look up at her. Instead, he kept his gaze trained on the shoes. And for a split second, she judged her positioning on the other side of the table to where he currently stood.
He was at the head closest to the door, but not entirely blocking it. And she was on the length that ran in line with the only exit. Her path to escape was clear, and so she aimed to take it without so much as a word to him.
Even with his focus downward, he could anticipate her next action. For he turned with his hand on the doorknob before she could even put the table behind her with any space at all, securely closing the door behind him.
"There's no point, in trying to find Mr. Molesley," He taunted roughly. "Because he can't help you now."
And at the realization that was just the two of them without any possibility of someone walking past and overhearing their conversation, she backed away. Every muscle in her body tensed as memories of long ago swirled about in her conscious thoughts.
The cool sting of a not yet delivered blow erupted across her cheek, and all Baxter could do was stare blankly at the shoes on the table. Focus, the voice in her head growled. She balled her hands into hard fists, fingernails imprinting on her palms, willing herself to stay in the present.
She felt the burning of his eyes staring down at her intently, searching for the most sensitive points to apply pressure.
But she wouldn't break. She'd gotten good at training herself to barely flinch when any reprimand of a physical sort was delivered to her.
Her jaw tightened and she waited. Waited for the hand to reach for her ear, her hair, anything really, and twist painfully until a cry escaped her throat or forced her to her knees. But it never came. Not this time.
"If that's how you want to play it," Thomas continued derisively, "I'll give you until upstairs dinner's finished. After which, I will ask to speak to her Ladyship. And I will tell her your story."
She swallowed. It was a threat. The only threat she feared more than anything. Baxter didn't need to look into his face to know he meant his words this time.
"Do you hear what I'm saying?" He leaned closer, the gravelly quality in his words resonating through her ear and sending a shiver down her spine.
Swallowing to alleviate the dryness in her throat, she croaked out tensely, "I can't tell you what I don't know."
"But you know something!" He snarled, and she flinched when his shoulder pressed against hers.
Flattening her palms on the table, Baxter braced herself in an effort to stay upright. Her upper body trembled visibly at his next words that in turn, made her blood run cold.
"And I think it links Mr. Bates to the dead valet."
He knew. She wasn't sure how the pieces came together in his mind, but they had. He knew. Which meant he had no use for her anymore. She wasn't anything. Not to him, or anyone else at Downton.
His footsteps faded into the distance. And it was at that point, Phyllis Baxter realized she was all alone.
This all consuming loneliness crashed over her, bringing her down onto her elbows. Her stomach turned as thoughts of Holloway flashed to the forefront of her mind. The eternal blackness, the wails of despair and cries of feigned pleasure shooting through the night, the smells of waste and decay coming from all sides. She shuddered to think of it all.
The outline of the shoes blurred, the shape and finer detail of them no longer discernible as her vision was comprised by her own misery. Her constrained sobs turned into choking gasps as she tried to regain her composure.
She hadn't even heard him walk in. It wasn't until his hand was on her left shoulder blade, causing her to nearly jump out of her skin that she realized she was no longer alone.
"Ms. Baxter? What's happened?"
Her face shot upward, and she felt her breath catch in her throat at the sight of him, her cheeks flushing rosy hue. She blinked back at him rapidly, pinching her brow together as if it could hold everything back. But it was too late. He'd seen.
So she lowered her face, and shook her head while stammering out, "It-it's nothing." Baxter brushed at her cheeks, dispelling any evidence that confirmed her distress, and moved past him swiftly while murmuring incoherently to a stunned Mr. Molesley, "Ex...cuse me...I-I...ought to..."
He sensed something was off since her abrupt departure from the boot room that morning. His speculations only became more solidified when he found her distraught and alone in the same place their paths crossed earlier.
It didn't take a scholar to guess where the root of her distress stemmed from. But even if he could find Mr. Barrow, he didn't have a clue what he'd say to him. Mr. Molesley already made his displeasure of his ill treatment towards Ms. Baxter known. And it didn't seem to make any bit of difference.
It appeared that whatever Ms. Baxter had done, it extended beyond the reach of Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes' authority. And it was this unsettling thought that consumed him while he sought to polish all of the silver Mr. Carson laid out for him.
He hoped she'd come down before the gong. That he'd have a moment or so to speak with her, if only to ensure that all was well or on its way to being as such with her. He hated to think of her as being mistreated, not whenever she seemed so kind and dedicated to those around her. She deserved better than how Mr. Barrow was treating her, and perhaps it was up to Mr. Molesley to be the one to remind her.
Each time he heard a pair of feet shuffle passed the china room, Mr. Molesley glanced up, hopeful it was her. But nearly each time he was disappointed.
When Anna passed by, he nearly broached the subject, only to have her inquire about Ms. Baxter's whereabouts instead. He surmised that if she wasn't on the main floor, she was still up in her room.
He thought about asking Anna to look in on her, but realized his request might appear inappropriate.
Aside from working together, and a few side conversations in the common areas, they weren't bound together in a conventional manner. They weren't counterparts as Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes, or married as Ana and Mr. Bates. So any special inquires, any sort of time alone together, would be sure to cause a stir among their colleagues. And Mr. Molesley was certain the last thing Ms. Baxter needed was to be at the center of any sort of gossip.
So he told Ana what he knew of Ms. Baxter, and continued about his work.
By the time he finished the candlesticks, the serving forks and spoons, and nearly half of the cutlery, he heard the familiar clicking of heels that could only belong to a few, followed by a deliberate pause that prompted him to turn around.
She stood in the doorway, uncertainly. Her eyes were widened in nervous anticipation, as if she was expecting some type of reproach from him. She wrung her hands together, smoothed out her skirts a bit, and then folded her palms flat together as if it would stifle their trembling.
He set down the butter knife and rag on the table, wiping his hands off on the apron that covered his front. Taking a few steps closer, Mr. Molesley met her beneath the archway.
He started talking, the soft reassurance resonating through his words catching him off guard, "Ms. Baxter...about earlier..."
"I don't wish to talk about it." She replied flatly, her eyes shifting to the side.
"Well..." He continued slowly, "...you don't have to. Not entirely anyway but...I want to help."
He reached for her forearm, wanting her to know he was sincere.
Surprisingly she didn't flinch this time. Instead, her gaze realigned with his, and after a few moments of surveying his expression, she inclined her head.
Shifting her stance so his hand fell away and more space was put between them, Ms. Baxter then tilted her head to the side and wondered, "Remember that day on the beach? When I told you there was something in my past that I'd done? And that Mr. Barrow knew what it was?"
"I remember," He nodded before offering up his own recollection. "And you said you weren't afraid of him any longer."
It was a conversation his mind returned to a few times since they returned to Downton. She seemed so sure of herself those days and now... "Is that not true anymore?" He asked, dipping his head lower to find her worried expression.
"Partially," Her head swayed from side to side, and she shrugged. "It's just...now he's..." She glanced over her shoulder before continuing in an even quieter tone, "...he's told me I have until upstairs dinner to tell him what I know about Mr. Bates." There was a pause, and he waited for her to steady herself once more.
"If I don't, he says he's going to tell Her Ladyship my secret."
When she looked back up at him, he saw her generally warm, kind eyes were full of fear. It was then he noticed the splotchy red patches across her high cheekbones that marked the passage of tears. She bit on her bottom lip, and lifted her brow in his direction. Molesley then realized that this was her way of silently asking him for help.
As he stared back at her now, he felt his heart tug painfully. He wished he could ease her inner turmoil. The trouble was, he could only think of one solution to her predicament. And based on her reservations on telling anyone a great deal about herself, he doubted she'd like his suggestion.
He watched her now as she blinked heavily. Her shoulders quivered slighlyt while she inhaled an anxious breath. It was evident she didn't know what to do. Didn't know of anyone she could turn to. Except him.
Clearing his throat, Mr. Molesley spoke confidently. "Go now. Tell her everything."
Her head shot up, mouth parting in slight horror at his suggestion. Her continued uneasiness was felt as she confessed to him, "You don't know what you're asking."
He couldn't deny it. He had no understanding of what it was she wished to keep buried. But he knew how Mr. Barrow operated here, at Downton, and he could save her on that score.
"I may not know your story, but I know it will be worse, if Mr. Barrow tells her first."
She looked around frantically, her teeth sinking into the bottom half of her mouth, as she inwardly weighed his suggestion against Mr. Barrow's threat. When she met his gaze once more, he still saw her trepidation still reflecting back at him.
Nodding his head, Mr. Molesley offered the most encouraging smile he could muster.
It seemed to be enough. Letting out another heavy exhalation, Ms. Baxter halfheartedly agreed, "Yes, you're right. Thank you."
She marched slowly down the corridor like a child headed to confess to a stringent parent. When she reached the bottom of the staircase and looked back up for his waiting, reassuring gaze, he caught her lips curl into a brief half-smile. A silent thank you for his advice, perhaps? He couldn't be sure. All he knew was once she took in another breath, rolled back her shoulders, and determinedly affixed her eyes up the stairs, was that she trusted him enough to heed his guidance.
She trusted him. You've trusted men before, that taunting voice in the back of her head chided mercilessly, look where that got you. But he was different. Mr. Molesley was good. He'd stand by the right choice, even if it was more difficult to do. She could be sure of that much.
And it was from this certainty that she drew strength. Even when she was facing Lady Grantham's incredulous question tinged with an almost humorous peal of laughter, Baxter thought of Mr. Molesley's reassuring smile, and she felt a surge of comfort course through her.
"What do you mean you have to tell me something before Barrow does?"
She stood tall, kept her tone even, her focus straightforward as she replied, "Mr. Barrow wants to tell you about something in my past, Milady. I've a secret you see, a bad secret."
Frowning dubiously at this statement, her mistress went on, hands clasped together at her waist. "Well I don't understand. What secret? How does he know it?"
"I was friend of his sister when we were growing up," Baxter explained plainly.
Pinching her brow, Lady Grantham asked, "But if he knew something wrong about you, why would put you forward for the job?"
Baxter couldn't give an exact answer without feeling like a traitor. Even though Thomas was wrong in vouching for her credibility, she'd gone along with him. She was just as much to blame for deceiving Lady Grantham as he was. And she couldn't just pretend it was all his idea in the first place.
Letting out a hefty sigh, her mistress sank down on one of the nearby armchairs. "I think you better tell me," She peered up at Baxter, her pale eyes turning cold beneath their heavy lids.
Taking in a deep breath to steady herself, Baxter nodded. "A few years ago, I worked in London as a ladies maid. For a Mrs. Benton who lived with her husband in Overton Square. I was there for about six months, and then I..." She paused, feeling the bridge of her nose tighten, and her throat constrict with raw emotion, "I...took some jewelry belonging to the mistress."
Steady now, she inwardly cursed herself for losing her nerve in front of her employer. Biting on her bottom lip, she inhaled again, keeping her eyes trained elsewhere until she could regain her nerve. Swallowing back the lump, she looked back to her mistress once more and stated matter-of-factly, "A necklace, a couple of bracelets, and some rings."
Her eyes widened and she exhaled in a less than audible tone, "You took them?"
Baxter slowly bobbed her head, "And then I tried to make it look like a burglary. But it didn't work."
"And Mrs. Benton reported the theft?" Lady Grantham prompted.
Her brow creased and she continued, the shameful memories flooding back. "They took me up a few hours later, my fingerprints were everywhere. And to make matters worse, I never gave the stolen items back."
"Why not?"
Blinking back her fears, she muttered reluctantly, "Because by then I didn't have them."
She heard another lengthy breath drawn in from Lady Grantham, and a question that prompted Baxter to glance up once more, "What happened?"
"I went to prison." She asserted boldly, the back of her eyes prickling as the spoken revelation shone painfully in the light. "For three years."
Lady Grantham opened her mouth to comment, but paused whenever the door behind her opened suddenly, and his Lordship strolled into the room.
Baxter's gaze, a wave of self-consciousness washing through her in his presence.
"Thank you Baxter," Lady Grantham remarked dismissively.
"Very good, Milady," Was all she could say.
As Baxter turned out of the room, the knot in her stomach loosened considerably. Her mistress' reaction was hard to gauge. She seemed to be in a state of shock by the news, but hadn't treated her unkindly. She could have revealed everything to his Lordship and dismissed her on the spot, but she resisted the impulse. Baxter couldn't tell why, except that it felt like a deliberate choice.
Even so, Lord Grantham's interruption still left everything up in the air. But in spite of the uncertainty where her future lay, there wasn't a sense of dread that loomed over Baxter's head as she descended the staircase any longer.
Upon rounding the corner, she nearly ran into Mr. Molesley, large tray carefully balanced in his arms. His large eyes were mingled with concern and intrigue whenever he asked quietly, "Well?"
She exhaled the breath she'd been holding in since her departure from the dressing room, "I told her."
"Now I'm not asking what you said," He assured considerately, "but I wanna be sure you held nothing back."
She hesitated briefly, looking at their surroundings before shaking her head to confirm his concerns.
"Good," He replied, clearly relieved for a split second. And then his curiosity got the better of him as he asked, "How was she?"
"I don't know. Shocked, but not unkind," Baxter shrugged, her expression lined with mild distress. Then she considered the other part to it, admitting uneasily, "Then his Lordship walked in so that was that."
Mr. Molesley took a step forward, angling his face towards her and lowering his voice, "The point is, if she allows you to stay, you're here in a truthful way and not on a lie."
If. She practically cringed at the word. There were no guarantees.
Arching her brow, she inquired nervously, "And if I'm not allowed to stay?"
"You're still not caught in a lie. That's what matters."
Yes, he was right. At least now, she could be truthful. Now she didn't have to hide or live in constant fear that Mr. Barrow might make her secret known. No matter what happened to her, she could go on living with a clear conscious. And she had Mr. Molesley to thank for that.
"I will tell you the story one day. But I'm loathe to..." Her voice caught and her expression contorted as she thought of his kindness throughout all of this. His unwillingness to withhold judgment, and trust in her. A trust that could easily shatter in the wake of him discovering who she once was and the sins of what she did. "…forfeit your good opinion of me. And I know I would."
"No, you won't," He shook his head, taking a step forward. An empathetic smile danced across his lips, an unyielding kindness radiating from his light eyes. "You don't trust me yet but…I'm on your side."
She opened her mouth to sing of the gratitude that filled the depths of her heart, but Mr. Carson's authoritative voice rang down from the rafters, forcing them apart.
"Mr. Molesley, might you take that up to the drawing room now?"
"Coming, Mr. Carson," Mr. Molesley called back, but not before turning back to flash her another smile, which she now felt courage enough to reciprocate prior to them parting ways.