The blonde tail of his Lordship's labrador retriever batted lightly against Lady Grantham's knee as she walked. With Robert so regularly away in London, Isis had become Cora's constant companion on her strolls through the gardens. Adjusting her hat brim to better shade her eyes from the glare, the countess wiped perspiration from her temple with a white-gloved hand. The sun was intense today - but surely not as intense as it must be in India. Damn! This obsession with the fate of her former maid was becoming truly bothersome. Why couldn't she escape these intrusive thoughts? She would likely never know - had no right to know - what happened. The woman did not belong to her, she had left.
Still, Cora spoke down to Isis, "If O'Brien were here she would be walking with us. She'd never stay inside to chat up Mr. Molesley." The dog whinged in response. "Oh you're right. Poor Baxter. I am very hard on her, aren't I. I really must stop condemning the woman simply for not being O'Brien."
The pair had come to a bench in the shade and Cora seated herself. Isis laid her head on Cora's knees in supplication, hoping for the reward of an ear rub. "But she's not O'Brien, is she," Cora continued, running her fingers through the appreciative animal's thick golden fur. "I miss the way she - oh but you probably didn't even like her," Isis tilted her head at her human companion's address, "your master certainly didn't." Robert had thought O'Brien practically machiavellian, Cora's nose wrinkled in indignation, as if his wife was only a gullible fool.
"Well let me set the record straight, my dear," Cora said, taking the lab's snout affectionately in her hands, "O'Brien was never anything but exactly what I wanted her to be," she looked into the big bewildered brown eyes, then out to grassy knoll. "Of course O'Brien would order me to stand still, command me to turn my head this way or that, scold me when I dawdled. She kept me apprised of all the goings on downstairs and up. She'd give her opinions freely and bluntly and without pretense, but all this only because she knew it pleased me for her to do so." Isis rolled over onto her back, tongue lolling, euphoric at such lavish attention, she exposed her belly for scratches and Cora obliged. "O'Brien could solve any problem, Isis. At the end of the day she was my relief, my reassurance." Cora sighed despairingly. Now there was no relief and her duties as mistress of the house felt at once tedious and overwhelming. "Well at least I have you, old girl."
Just then the dog jumped to attention with a bark and bounded away across the grass. Cora frowned, rolling her eyes.
"Good afternoon, m'Lady," a man in uniform was wheeling his bicycle up the walk to the house. Cora went to greet the postman and to shew the barking lab out of his way.
"Oh no, have you had an accident?" she asked, bending to inspect his dented front wheel-frame.
"Yes, m'Lady, as you can see, this old heap has had me running behind since morning," said the tired postman.
"Well I'm heading back to the house just now, why don't I take the post and save you the trip?" Cora offered. The young man thanked her profusely, handing her a stack of letters before turning back the way he came.
Strolling in the direction of the house, Cora began separating the letters for family from the ones for staff. She would hand those off to Carson when she reached the great hall. Flipping through the missives she glanced at each recipient until she stopped at one directed to Mr. Thomas Barrow. Something about the handwriting caught her attention. The travel-worn envelope was adorned with four large green and purple postage stamps and a few haphazard ink stamps, all in a mixture of English and foreign script. A purple stamp in the corner depicted a man in a turban with a banner reading Travancore Anchal, underneath that India Postage & Revenue. India! The handwriting was O'Brien's, it must be! Cora felt a sudden urge to tear open the letter and read it where she stood on the lawn. Instead, she deposited it surreptitiously into her pocket and continued on to the house.
Later in the drawing room, as Mrs. Hughes recited the menus for the week, Cora gazed down at the purloined envelope on her writing desk. She would have to return it to Barrow. Maybe it wasn't even from O'Brien. There was no return address. The handwriting was familiar but could she really be sure? Plenty of people have impeccable handwriting. For all she knew, Mr. Barrow had a brother in India. "-if it pleases you m'Lady." Cora's musings were interrupted.
"Pardon? I'm sorry, Mrs. Hughes."
"If the menu pleases your Ladyship I'll tell Mrs. Patmore," Mrs. Hughes repeated.
"Oh yes it's fine, thank you, Mrs. Hughes," Cora dismissed the housekeeper. "Actually," she stopped her, "Do you know if Mr. Barrow has family living in India."
Mrs. Hughes blinked in surprise, "Ah, well, I think- Yes, m'Lady, I do think I remember some mention of a cousin in India." Cora tried to hide her disappointment. Mrs. Hughes noticed but was mystified as to the cause or solution, "Will there be anything else, m'Lady?"
"No, thank you. Will you please send for Mr. Barrow?" the Countess said, turning back to her desk.
Upon Barrow's entry into the drawing room, Cora attempted clumsily to explain how her underbutler's mail had come into her possession. "I have a letter for you- I mean, I found your letter- I mean, well I didn't find it- I mean, it was mixed in with his Lordship's letters and so- anyway," she sheepishly held out the tattered envelope, "It's from your cousin in India."
Barrow looked warily down at his oddly behaving mistress, "Stephen's written?"
Cora blushed realizing Barrow had never actually told her personally about his cousin.
He took the letter from her and examining it, his suspicion turned to amusement. "Oh, no, m'Lady, this is from Miss O'Brien," he laughed.
Cora's heart leapt, "So you are in contact with her?," she beamed.
Barrow jumped, obviously taken aback by the Countess's abrupt earnestness, "Erm, well not exactly. I get a letter like this from her every few weeks or so but I've not written anything in return."
"Because of your falling out?" Cora asked. Barrow looked wary again. She really must stop invading the poor man's privacy. Next she will be asking if he's kissed any footman lately.
"No, m'Lady, I never have been able to hold a grudge for long, even when I probably should. I've not written back because, as you can see here," he showed her the envelope, "there's never any return address."
Cora nodded, "And- how is O'Brien?" she finally asked, her brow knitted with concern.
"Quite well, I imagine, she's been travelling all over India. 'S mostly what her letters are about - her 'adventures'. Last one was all about feeding monkeys on Elephant Island, or the monkeys stealing her biscuits more like. Apparently there are no elephants on the island, only monkeys. And she must have seen about a hundred Hindu temples by now."
"Really, oh that's wonderful news. Those letters must be so fascinating to read," Cora almost finished her sentence with a request but of course she could not impose on her employee that way. She simply smiled at Mr. Barrow.
The underbutler shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "I suppose, your Ladyship could read them, if you like," he said awkwardly.
"Oh no I could never pry into your private correspondences, Barrow," Cora feigned surprise.
"Not very private. The letters really are only about travel. I'll bring them down, if it pleases you, m'Lady. I don't think she'd mind. Miss O'Brien was fond of you, even considering how she-" his voice trailed off.
At this last reassurance, the Countess gave a sentimental smile, "Yes, it would please me very much, thank you."
Over the next week, Cora read and reread and reread the entire stack of letters Mr. Barrow had proffered to her. Apparently, to Cora's great relief, O'Brien had chosen to stay in India mostly of her own accord. The Countess actually admired her former maid's pugnacity. However, she did feel the slightest twinge of apprehension at the fact that none of O'Brien's letters indicated any plans for the future. While Lady Grantham did not pretend to fathom the financial constraints of the working class, she could appreciate that money must run out much faster for such people. This concern nibbled at the back of her mind. Still, Cora couldn't help but be enthralled by O'Brien's colorful descriptions of her adventures.
O'Brien had visited the Taj Mahal twice. Evidently, her first experience accompanying Susan Flintshire had proven rather unsatisfactory, with O'Brien carrying the woman's parasol and water and dinner pail and Susan deciding the crowd was too much after only a few minutes anyway. She returned again on her own and from her account the monument sounded as stunning, if not more so, as any description one might read in travel books. O'Brien had also visited several ancient fortresses with names Cora could not begin to pronounce. She described the vibrant clothing worn by the locals and the foods she had tried. More than once O'Brien thought she may have actually melted her tongue right out of her mouth with the spices. There was one letter several pages long, describing in great detail her experiences smoking from a hookah pipe. Cora imagined the information was much more interesting and comprehensible to Barrow. O'Brien discussed meeting and talking with a Sadhu holy man with wild beard and paint on his face and a Buddhist monk wearing saffron robes and hair shaved down to the scalp. In these letters O'Brien showed herself more philosophical than Cora had ever imagined her to be, the former maid was fascinated by Buddhism. Although, for whatever reason, O'Brien did not care much for the concept of Karma.
Each letter ended abruptly without conclusion, only a simple S. O. as valediction. Each finished that way, save one. The first letter, based on the envelope's post-date stamp, was signed Sarah O'Brien. She likely intended to make certain Thomas knew the origin of this unexpected letter from India. Cora gently rubbed the signature again with her thumb. The looping letters were becoming smudged and faded with habitual worrying. It seemed a silly thing, of course the Countess had always known O'Brien had a Christian name and that it was Sarah, but she could not remember ever seeing it written out like that, in her maid's own hand. She had never received a letter from O'Brien. Why would she? The woman had lived in the same house with her for twenty years. The closest she had come was a note, a simple hastily scribbled note with no signature at all, left behind for Mrs. Hughes to deliver. A note, the contents of which Cora preferred not to think of just now.
Sarah O'Brien. Sarah O'Brien. Suddenly Cora longed to have letters of her own from O'Brien, letters with that name, Sarah, elegantly inscribed at the bottom. If only Cora could write to her in India, if only there was some way. Gazing out her window at the rain, Cora bit her lip. Sarah would have found a way. The Countess looked back to the letters all spread out over her bed. Staring at them intently she tried to think like Sarah would think. She noticed something. At the top of several letters there was a blue emblem. Each of these letters was written on the same stationary several weeks apart. The emblem depicted a tiger and the name of a hotel in Bangalore. Sarah must stay at this hotel regularly, possibly a kind of headquarters for her excursions. Cora could write a letter to O'Brien there and the concierge could deliver it to her the next time she returned.
The countess pulled the cord for her maid, "I must have pen and paper this second. Do hurry, Baxter."
Tiny waves lapped against the wooden hull as Jitendra, their guide, rowed a little blue boat carrying Sarah and three other Englandi down the Ganges river. Each passenger was awed into silence at the vision of the majestic holy city of Varanasi passing them on either side. In her hand, Sarah held a small notebook and her Eversharp. She had switched to the mechanical pencil following a highly inconvenient incident resulting in the ink-stained ruin of several of her belongings. Thomas wouldn't mind pencil. Sarah gazed out at the evening sunlight splashed across the ancient city and began mentally drafting another letter.
She opened as she always did with an apology. She apologized for her part in their falling out, for treating him harshly, for her calculating words which led to his humiliation, for forcing the exposure of his secret which she had once promised was "safe with her." She rolled her eyes. It'd not ring true at all. She wasn't really sorry. If Thomas had not bullied poor Alfred, if he'd not been such a little shit meddling in her delicate relationship with Lady Grantham… Sarah's jaw clenched, but soon she relaxed, sighing to herself. She had missed their friendship, and the coldness which followed was difficult. She was sorry for that. Maybe she would tell him how much what they'd had between them had meant to her, how she relied on their breaks together for her sanity, how her habit increased to nearly a pack a day after he came to Downton and she didn't even mind the affect on her pocketbook, how she had helped him into the position of valet - of course because of what he could do for her - but also because she truly believed he had the wits and the skill and deserved that position and more, how she pulled every string she had to bring him back to Downton during the war because she was desperate to see for herself that he was safe and sound, because she had missed him and worried for him every day. Sarah twisted her lip in disgust, shaking her head. No, far too soppy. He would hate that, it'd only embarrass them both. Clicking her pencil she began writing about the burning ghat to the left of their little boat.
"-not nearly as gruesome as you might imagine. It really is almost moving to a see person go like that, rather than stowed away in a pinewood box and dropped in the earth, out of sight out of mind, easily forgotten. You won't soon forget your mother up in flames atop a wooden pyre, ashes blowing away on the wind. Maybe I'll tell my sister that's what I'd like. She can set me ablaze beside the Mersey. Avoid a lot of silly expense really, no need for a casket or a stone," or a funeral nobody would come to. Sarah only thought that last bit to herself, it was too wretched to write down, no matter how true.
Now their boat passed a bathing ghat where the city's inhabitants washed themselves and their clothes in the river. Sarah had observed the morning ritual at sunrise that day from the steps. The men had praised the sun as it rose; flickering dots of orange light spreading over the whole Ganges. They chanted a monotonous sound that reverberated through everything, resounding in Sarah's ears and even behind her ribs. She would not tell of that experience in her letter. It was a private moment. Even if she had wanted to, Sarah could not likely find words to describe the calmness which had stolen over her at the sight, the profound sense of awe. She had learned, in life, how to maintain a steely expression while her mind ceaselessly calculated behind cool eyes. But this morning, unlike any other morning, there had been nothing behind them, only quiet, only breathing. Sarah was not religious and still she understood why this was a holy city. She watched the bathers. The afternoon was much less ritualistic. Men splashed water on their naked torsos. Women waded into the river fully draped in bright fabric.
Most of the women wore sarees more vibrant and extravagantly embroidered than the frock Sarah had made herself with cotton she bought from the textile merchants in Bangalore. Still, the jordy blue with silver embroidery was certainly a departure from her typical black on black - or possibly grey on grey for special occasions. She decided to tell Thomas about her new frock. He had always delighted in their discussions of women's fashion. The silver embroidery accented the neckline which was wide and hugged the shoulders, flattering her neck and collarbones. It had a drop waist and there was also subtly floral embroidery trimming the hemline of the skirt, cut higher on the calf than any of her previous frocks. The sleeves were elbow-length and wide enough to give a very comfortable airy feel in the summer heat. Sarah was quite pleased with her work and thought she might soon make herself another. "Maybe in red this time," she joked to her correspondent. Her black cloche no longer suited her blue dress and was rather hot besides, so, with Mr. Ramachandra's advice, Sarah had bought herself a sapphire blue silk scarf, printed with an intricate silver and bronze pattern, to cover her hair when necessary. She could imagine the expression of disapproval on Lady Flintshire's face if the old bag could see her now, her very native-looking scarf draped about her shoulders. The word "hybridity" echoed vaguely in Sarah's ears. She grimaced.
"You know, Thomas, there was once a time when I thought I might actually get on well with Lady Flintshire." The former lady's maid rolled her eyes at herself. Unbelievable. "The Marchioness had been so complimentary when the Grantham's last stayed at Duneagle. I realize now, from experience, that Lady Flintshire's fawning over another maid had been more about needling Wilkens than any flattery of myself." Sarah's hand paused, she must have been so miserable at Downton that any change seemed a welcome relief. She had actually convinced herself that Lady Flintshire's general dissatisfaction with the world was an advantage, that it might unite them in common misanthropy. But Sarah had never much cared for gazing at herself in the mirror.
"Lady Flintshire was too sour even for me, and I know that's saying something. She kicked a scullery maid, a girl simpler even than Daisy. Can you imagine Lady Grantham kicking Daisy? Never! But the nasty woman could find fault in anything or anyone. I don't know how she wasn't exhausted by hate. I was exhausted just listening to the bitch moan. Cook added too much spice on purpose or the maids kept the windows too clean and now the sun was shining too brightly into her room. Then of course it was appalling to hear her complain about something I myself loathed, spitting out the same scathing words I once uttered, my churlishness amplified from her mouth. Was I really so miserable? They say what we hate in others is often what we hate most in ourselves." Sarah lifted her pencil and looked at the page. If she continued she would surely begin confessing just how much she had hated herself, how she had been consumed with self-loathing, and how much she feared she still might be - and then she would have to drop the letter in the river. She could never send something so pitiful to Thomas. Revealing weakness, even from five thousand miles away, was unthinkable. She had probably already revealed too much. Sarah bit her lip, rereading her last sentences. She hated to waste paper. It would have to do. She signed with an "S.O." and stuffed the letter in an envelope, sealing it before she could change her mind.
Sarah's stomach growled. When the boat docked it would be time for tea. Lady Grantham would just be waking. Sarah felt, with sudden conviction, that it was time to pay a visit to Mr. Ramachandra again. She would leave for Bangalore tomorrow.
A/N: There will be more coming tomorrow