Having finished Lady Grantham's braid, Baxter stood shifting on her feet waiting to be dismissed. Her Ladyship continued gazing into the mirror but appeared not to see herself - or anyone else in the room. A nearly imperceptible expression of concern creased her brow.
"Will that be all, m'Lady?" Baxter finally ventured.
Roused from her trance, the Countess acknowledged her maid for the first time in several minutes. "Oh. Yes, you may go," she said waving the servant off with flick of her hand. Her daughters observed their mother curiously. Mary lounged in a chair, filing her nails. Edith sat on the bed, shoulder against a bedpost. The Countess did not watch her current maid leave the room. Silently she sat, searching her mirror for something that was not there. She missed the soft but firm hands of her previous maid. Hands that, each night, would tie off her hair, then gently press her shoulders to indicate she was set for bed. O'Brien making intentional physical contact with her had been so rare that Cora could almost remember each instance. Of course the maid had to touch Cora when dressing her or sewing her into a gown, but always so lightly, so briefly, only as much as was absolutely necessary, as if the Countess were a delicate porcelain figurine or a red hot kettle. Occasionally she would lay her hand over Cora's for the briefest moment when Cora handed her a brush or pin. There was the time she had tripped on her train and O'Brien had suddenly appeared, catching her around the waist, lifting her back to her feet. When Cora righted herself O'Brien had such an expression of discomfort and embarrassment that Cora blushed and could hardly manage to thank her. They immediately parted ways in the hall and never spoke of the incident again. Edith told Cora how O'Brien braved the Spanish Flu for her, sponged her brow, wiped her nose, held her hand, held her hand, would not leave her side all night. But she had almost no memory of her illness. To Cora, O'Brien was singularly professional and forever guarded.
The Countess respected her maid but she had longed for more. She envied the intimacy between Mary and Anna. There had been moments when she felt like embracing O'Brien the way Mary might hug Anna, but O'Brien certainly was not Anna and Cora feared she would only embarrass the woman again. Then Sybil died. Cora saw her eyes beginning to glisten in the mirror. She had stayed in bed for days, in the dark, curtains drawn. O'Brien came in to check on her, asked if there was anything Cora needed, anything she could do. There wasn't. After nearly two days without eating O'Brien had sat on the bed next to her, so close, closer than ever, coaxing her to at least have some tea. Cora did not need tea, she did not need her shoulder pressed, she did not need her hand squeezed, she needed to be held while she wept, while she wept so hard her entire body might shake apart, she needed to be held together. O'Brien did not touch her. Maybe that was the beginning of the end. She had resented O'Brien for that moment. She knew that her maid had been very concerned and likely hadn't any idea what to do for her. No one had. And still she resented O'Brien's reticence more than anyone else's. It was completely unfair. What she wanted would have been entirely too familiar and unprofessional. She knew that, but a coldness grew between them. Cora wished she could go back, wished she could fix things, but it was too late.
"Mama, are you alright? You've been quiet this evening," Edith asked.
"Yes you were rather cold to Baxter. Has she done something?" Mary asked.
"What? No, Baxter is fine," Cora said absently, continuing to stare at her reflection.
"Well, Rose is very remorseful for whatever it is she thinks she's done to displease you." Mary said.
Cora finally turned to face her daughters. "Rose hasn't done anything. It's her mother who ought to be feeling remorseful, though I'm sure she isn't."
"I just can't believe she would desert her maid," she shook her head, frowning, "How on earth is O'Brien supposed to get home? She could be starving in a gutter as we speak."
"Oh, Mama, really I don't understand how you can worry yourself this way over a servant who proved herself so unfaithful," Mary said.
"She was with me for nearly twenty years. How would you feel if it was Anna?"
"Anna would never steal away in the night without a word," Mary said.
"Well I never thought O'Brien would- It doesn't matter," Cora turned back to her dressing table.
"I'm sure she's been able to find other work," said Mary, trying to comfort her increasingly despondent mother.
"Without a reference?" Cora spat.
"Maybe she's found a husband," Edith suggested.
Mary snorted.
Cora looked at Edith incredulously. She said nothing at first, then turned, speaking to no one in particular, "I was always of the impression that O'Brien isn't the kind to be very interested in men."
"Most career women aren't. But she doesn't have a career now so-" Edith pursued.
"No," Cora said, returning her attention to Edith, "I think her interests lie elsewhere," she paused, tilting her head forward, willing her middle daughter to grasp her meaning, "in the other direction," she clarified further.
"Really?" Mary raised an eyebrow, "And that never bothered you?"
"Barrow was your father's valet for years and nobody minded," Cora said.
"Wait, Mr Barrow is-?" Edith tried to catch up with the unspoken conversation.
Mary rolled her eyes at her befuddled sister.
"And besides," Cora continued, "it's not as if she was the first one I'd ever seen. I went to school with Gertrude Vanderbilt and everyone knows she's a -. And of course you know your grandmother has always been eccentric. Several of her New York society friends were that way. She says Helen Astor is one. I hear Nora Carnegie has recently become a racing car enthusiast. And your grandmother's interior decorator, Elsie de Wolfe, has lived for decades with a woman everyone calls her wife. It's nothing so shocking to me. They were all pleasant enough women. "
Her daughters were speechless. Mary had stopped filing. Finally she asked warily, "And is grandmama-?"
Cora laughed, "Oh, no not-" she paused, tilting her head thoughtfully. She was quiet for several seconds, then abruptly she concluded, "No, I'm fairly certain she's not. Most likely not."
"At any rate, I say, why concern oneself in the private affairs of others. O'Brien's preferences were none of my business. She was an impeccable lady's maid and I can't help but worry what's become-"
"What do racing cars have to do with anything?" Edith interrupted, furrowing her brows, "I find racing cars exciting. That doesn't mean I'm-"
Mary shot a knowing smirk at her spinster sister.
"Oh do shut up," Edith squinted back.
The girls embarked on another round of endless bickering and Cora continued her thought quietly to herself. O'Brien had been such an attentive lady's maid so her absconding in the night truly was a shock. Cora never could have imagined it. She had never thought O'Brien would leave her because she had been sure O'Brien was... was what? Was - despite the aloof exterior, was - in love with her? The countess choked with the sudden realization of what she had always thought but never acknowledged to herself. God! She had been such a ridiculous fool, flattering herself that the occasional warm attentions of a paid employee were anything but professional courtesies. She had taken O'Brien's affinity for her as a given, selfishly, knowing she couldn't possibly return such affections. Could she? And in the end, the joke was on her, the affinity was all in her mind. O'Brien's departure hadn't disappointed her because of the betrayal. It had only been a blow to her ludicrous conceit. Cora's cheeks flushed with shame.
And yet, she had been so sure - the way O'Brien had looked at her sometimes- hadn't there been something- She felt sick with herself, reading into every expression, every minute incident of physical affection, pathetic. She wished her daughters would leave her alone. She wished she could stop worrying herself over an unfaithful maid; especially one whose concern for her was only ever a fiction the Countess had invented to augment her vanity. But Cora couldn't shake the nagging uncertainty. What had become of O'Brien? She returned her gaze to her mirror. She had little interest in her own reflection, she only stared at the empty space behind her.
Entering the Bull and Castle Sarah's senses were flooded with the familiar must of stale beer, pint glasses clinking, and soft light reflecting off dark wood paneling. The place really was, as Mr. Fitch had said, just like home. Looking around, she could hardly believe she was in India and not England. She never had been much for public houses but the solitude of her travels was wearing on her. Working in service, a maid could scarcely find a minute to herself except to sneak a fag outside. Now there was no one telling her what to do, no one telling her where to be, no maids sniggering at her wisecracks, no footmen dancing in the servants hall, no conversations worth eavesdropping. The transition to independence had been more grinding than she expected.
Sarah took a seat at the bar. Mr. Fitch was raised in Bombay. On the day she told him she would be staying in India rather than returning with the Flintshires, he suggested if she ever made it over to Bombay herself she should be sure to visit the old Bull and Castle. She had liked Fitch. He was waggish and cheeky and she supposed some would say handsome. Thomas would. And Mr. Fitch would have liked Thomas as well. What had become of old Fitch, she wondered. Most likely driving for some other British family in Calcutta. Her thoughts were interrupted by the barmaid.
Too hot for a heavy pint, Sarah requested a Jameson - neat - drinks were always served neat here. While she waited for her drink she took another look around. Something didn't square but Sarah reckoned it was because the place looked like a Yorkshire pub torn up by the roots and dropped smack in the heart of India. That had to be enough to confound any person. Her drink came and as she sipped a voice next to her said, "Got a light?"
Sarah turned to the speaker, her countenance remaining hard. She wasn't usually inclined toward chatting with strangers at a bar. Although, she had hardly had a word with anyone for days. The stranger wore a white linen shirt with several pockets and cropped blonde hair, finger-waved in the fashion of the day. She was rather pretty and appeared to be wearing lip rouge. She smiled at Sarah with a friendly, amused expression, "Don't think I've seen you before. What brings you to a pub like this?"
"Friend suggested was a place I might like," Sarah answered charily passing her matchbook to the stranger.
"I see," the woman said, the corner of her smile curling up in an almost mischievous manner. Her expression prompted Sarah's eyes to narrow apprehensively and take another look around herself. Yes, there was something very off about this place. At last, Sarah realized the oddity was in the way the patrons were grouped. A couple of women chatted quietly at that table, a couple of men gossiped at this one. Not a single man spoke to a single woman. Finally she noticed the two blokes at the end of the bar whispering close together, one with his hand resting scandalously high on the other's knee. Sarah's eyes went wide. She pursed her lips, "Fitch!"
"Pardon," the stranger asked.
Furrowing her brow, Sarah tilted her head and stuck out her chin, "Nothing. I think someone is having a laugh at my expense," she mumbled.
"Oh," the stranger's smile waned, "I gather you'll be making a run for the door then?"
Sarah looked down at her whiskey, contemplating quietly for a moment. Then she shrugged her shoulders and said with a sigh, "Well I suppose I did want an adventure."
Her drinking partner raised an eyebrow, "So you're an adventurer are you," she said with a laugh. Seeing Sarah's tight expression the woman's tone softened, "Forgive me, I just thought - since you're wearing thick black linen in the sweltering oven that is Bombay - I assume you're working in service? I wouldn't imagine you folks tend to have much free time for adventuring. That's all. I meant no offense."
Sarah took another sip of her drink. She didn't like that her clothes gave her situation away so easily. "I was in service, but the lady I served went home to Scotland."
"And you stayed here."
"She wanted me to pay for my own passage back so I stayed."
The woman raised her fingers to her lips, "you didn't have the money?"
"No, I did," Sarah said, almost affronted, "But only just. I almost asked her Ladyship to reconsider, knowing of course that she wouldn't, when it occurred to me - I could spend my life savings, arrive in Scotland wi' nowt and be forced to work for a woman I'd resent to my dying day, or I could just - stay. I could stay and have an adventure. The money was going to be spent either way and it will take me a lot further here than it would at home."
"And when the money runs out?"
"That will be a different kind of adventure I suppose," Sarah finished her whiskey and the barmaid brought another. She was suddenly feeling more talkative than she had in a very long time.
"Well I think you're very brave," said the woman leaning forward to clink her glass with Sarah's. They chatted over two more drinks, or was it three? The stranger was a journalist and of course, Sarah could tell by her accent, an American. She was investigating Indian resistance to British colonial rule. Sarah had no opinions. Although, she did enjoy the company and felt a twinge of disappointment when the blonde stood up from the bar and said, "It's getting late."
"Well it was nice talking," said Sarah, forcing a smile.
Appearing to reconsider, the journalist said, "Is it stuffy in here? I think I'll have a smoke on the terrace before I go...if you're interested."
Joining her new acquaintance on the dimly lit terrace, Sarah leaned her shoulder blades against the stone wall to steady herself on her feet. Thomas had always chided her for being a lightweight. She clumsily pulled out a fag and let the American light it for her with the matches she hadn't returned. "Nice night," Sarah mumbled looking up at the stars, she hated smalltalk. "This place is pretty deserted," the other woman commented. They smoked quietly for several minutes. Maybe they had run out of things to discuss. Fragments of thoughts sloshed around Sarah's drink-soaked brain, none coherent enough to put to words. Then, all at once, the journalist was standing very close to her. Sarah froze. Heart beginning to race, she gazed down at the unnaturally red lips only an inch from her own. She opened her mouth but no words escaped.
"So - how adventurous are you?" the stranger whispered, arching an eyebrow.
Before she could respond Sarah was being kissed. The night had been relatively cool but suddenly her face and ears felt hot. Eyes clenched shut, brow furrowed, Sarah tasted gin on the stranger's tongue. She dropped her cigarette and ran her hands through the blonde waves. It had been a long time, years. She'd not realized how quickly, how easily, she could slip back into the habit of sending and picking up on subtle signs - the lingering gaze, the brief touch of an arm, the casual invite to a secluded location. The American was kissing her neck then her collarbone and back up to her mouth as hands began gathering up her skirt. Sarah felt soft fingers caressing her knee, they swept slowly, deliberately up her inner thigh until-
She pulled away from the kiss, looking anxiously over at the vacant doorway back to the pub, "Somebody could come," Sarah said breathlessly.
"Let's hope so," the American grinned, moving her fingers again at last, touching Sarah in a way that made her eyelids flutter and her breath hitch in her chest.
An hour later, Sarah was alone in her hotel room, lying on her back, arm resting up behind her head. She stared contentedly at the ceiling, exhaling a swirl of smoke and recalling the unexpected events of the evening. Things had gone rather smoothly considering the time elapsed since the last time she did anything like that. She supposed the joke was on Fitch. Her lip curled into a self-satisfied smirk. In her mind, Sarah visualized the moment when her knees began to tremble and her breath became ragged against her impromptu lover's neck. A bell-tower had clanged in the distance. Midnight. Though she was preoccupied, clutching the journalist's shirt, moaning into her mouth, feeling the woman's fingers curl inside her, she could not prevent her Ladyship's schedule sliding unwarranted across her mind again. She would just be finishing her afternoon bath. Sarah saw her, Lady Grantham, standing naked before her, waiting to be dressed, gooseflesh drying in the afternoon breeze. A stray droplet of water perched precariously on her collarbone then trickling slowly - down - resting just above a hard nipple. Sarah reached up her hand to caress it away; and with this image burning in her thoughts, she came shuddering and gasping against the stranger.
Alone on her bed, Sarah's cheeks flushed again remembering the conversation after. The American had chuckled saying she had never before had anyone quite so polite. She wasn't used to being called "m'Lady." Sarah had smiled uncomfortably, relieved the darkness hid her reddening cheeks. Would she ever escape Lady Grantham? Did she want to? Surely she was safe five-thousand miles away. She had been fighting those visions, those fantasies for years, terrified of what might happen if she let them run rampant through her mind. Her unnatural yearning for her mistress was so strong she feared if she did not keep it tightly restrained at all times it would become as obvious to everyone as if it were written across her face. She would not even allow herself to touch the Countess more than absolutely necessary for fear that the power of her desire would conduct like electricity through her skin and then her Lady would know. She would know. And then what? The only thing more shameful than being desperate for someone so above her would be the mortification of that fact being discovered. Sarah was safe from that fate now. She could fantasize about anything she liked. Yet somehow, her mind usually tended to drift toward the most mundane of fancies. Sarah glanced over at the clock on the nightstand, quarter til two. Her ladyship would be taking her Friday afternoon constitutional.