Brothers United: A Time of War Part Five
Thomas stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the crisp uniform that adorned him. The rank and insignia of a captain gleamed on his attire, signifying the progress he had made in the British Army over the past year. It was a stark contrast to the days when he and his brother, Tom, had been part of the Downton Abbey staff. Their transformation into officers and journalists felt like a lifetime away.
A sense of nostalgia washed over Thomas as he remembered their last weekend at Downton with fondness. For once, they had been treated as guests of the Crawley family rather than servants. It had been an unexpectedly enjoyable experience, and Thomas attributed much of it to Tom's easy-going nature, which had a way of putting people at ease.
On that final Sunday evening, Mrs. Crawley had extended a kind invitation for the brothers to join her for afternoon lunch, a hearty roast beef dinner. Afterward, Tom, Thomas, and Lieutenant Matthew Crawley had ventured to the Grantham Arms for a few pints. It was there that they had discovered Matthew's exceptional skill in darts. He explained that there wasn't much to do at the front during downtime except drink, and darts had become a popular pastime. There was even a fierce competition between enlisted men and officers, a fact that amused them all.
Tom and Thomas had maintained a strong friendship with Lieutenant Crawley, considering him more than just an acquaintance. Thomas wrote to him regularly, not only for the sake of camaraderie but also to gauge the morale of the men at the front—a task appreciated by General Callwell. Tom, on the other hand, had thrived in his career as a writer. He was now in high demand, penning freelance articles for various UK newspapers and magazines. His role as a feature writer for 'Politiken,' a respected Danish newspaper, had earned him recognition and respect in journalism circles. The recent nomination for a Pulitzer Prize for international reporting, despite not winning, had opened new doors, including a commission from the prestigious New York Times.
The brothers' lives had taken them on separate but equally remarkable journeys since leaving Downton Abbey. As Thomas looked at himself in the mirror, he couldn't help but feel a sense of pride in how far they had come, both personally and professionally.
As Thomas stood in his military attire, he couldn't help but marvel at how much he had grown to enjoy his life in the army. It was a stark departure from his earlier years, where uncertainty and dissatisfaction had often overshadowed his days. Now, he relished the sense of purpose, the real work that awaited him, and the chance to utilise his intelligence and skills for the greater good.
The demands of his position thrilled him, and he embraced the challenges and pressures that came with it. He understood that the lives of his fellow soldiers depended on his proficiency, and that knowledge spurred him on. Meritocracy had taken root in his world, and for once, he found himself in a place where hard work and dedication were truly rewarded.
In his role, Thomas oversaw a department of fifteen men, ranging from privates who acted as his clerks to lieutenants who also served as translators. He wasn't blind to the fact that connections played a role in military promotions, with individuals from esteemed military families often advancing more rapidly. However, the grim reality was that many of those ahead of them met tragic ends in combat or suffered debilitating injuries that ended their service. Those who proved truly inept were reassigned to less critical positions, minimizing the potential for damage.
What Thomas cherished most about his army life was the camaraderie he found with his fellow soldiers. For the first time, he felt a genuine sense of friendship and belonging. Lieutenants Bertie Pellham and Harry Stiles, both translators in his division, had become close companions with whom he could share a drink and meaningful conversations. They didn't judge him by his lineage or make snide remarks about his half-brother, also named Tom. It was a refreshing change from his previous experiences.
Thomas stood before the mirror, his hands trembling slightly with a mixture of anticipation and nerves. Today marked a significant step in his life, and he knew there was no turning back. As a newly-promoted Captain in the British Army, it was time for him to take the next momentous leap into adulthood.
His gaze fell upon the velvet ring box resting on the dresser. Carefully, he picked it up and opened it to reveal the exquisite ruby and diamond ring nestled within. The vibrant red of the ruby symbolised love and devotion, while the diamonds that encircled it sparkled like stars in the night sky. With a sense of determination, he snapped the box closed and slipped it into his uniform pocket, ensuring that it rested securely against his chest.
The significance of the moment weighed heavily on Thomas's mind as he recalled the unhappiness of his earlier days at Downton Abbey. It had been a time of loneliness and longing, a period that had only brightened when his brother Tom joined him and eased some of the solitude that had plagued him.
Just four months ago, he had met Rosalie Stiles, the sister of his close friend Harry. The encounter had been unexpected, but it had set a course for Thomas's life that he never could have foreseen.
The memory of that chilly March night resurfaced in his mind. He and Harry had ventured to the local pub for a couple of pints and a game of darts, a simple night out that would lead to something far more complex. Tom, who had chosen to abstain from alcohol, had remained behind that evening, leaving Thomas and Harry to their own devices.
As they walked home in the crisp night air, their breath forming white puffs in the cold, Harry had broached the topic of his sister, Rosalie. At first, the conversation had seemed mundane, a brotherly introduction of a family member. But as Harry's words grew more cryptic and his eyebrows took on a life of their own, Thomas had sensed a shift in the conversation.
"Thomas, did I ever tell you I have a sister?" Harry had asked, swaying slightly in the night's chill.
Thomas had furrowed his brow, unsure of where this was leading. "No, I don't believe you have."
"She's a right corker, the nicest girl you'll ever meet," Harry had declared, his brows wiggling strangely.
Thomas felt a growing sense of unease. "She sounds wonderful."
"You see," Harry continued, "my sister, she's not like other girls."
Thomas had nodded, still uncertain about where this was headed. "Okay."
"Yeah, she doesn't want any babies," Harry had proclaimed, his eyebrows seemingly performing a dance of their own.
Thomas had blinked in surprise. "That does sound unusual. Most of the girls I've met are quite keen on having babies."
Harry had regarded Thomas solemnly, as if waiting for a more specific response.
Puzzled, Thomas had finally asked, "Harry, what are you doing with your eyebrows? They keep moving up and down."
Harry had let out a frustrated sigh. "Yes, Rosie is not interested in babies," he had repeated, casting a meaningful look at Thomas.
The revelation had taken a moment to register, but when it had, Thomas's heart had raced, and a cold sweat had broken out on his brow. He felt a surge of anxiety wash over him as he realised the implications of Harry's words.
"Why are you telling me this?" Thomas had inquired cautiously.
Harry's reply had been straightforward, if a bit inebriated. "Well, I thought I could introduce my sister, who doesn't want babies, to a man who doesn't want babies. Maybe you two could not have babies together."
Thomas had been stunned, his mind reeling from the unexpected turn of events. This was not at all where he had anticipated the conversation going.
"Harry, you're mad," Thomas had finally managed to utter. "I'm just a Lieutenant, and my mum was a maid before she got married."
Harry had waved away Thomas's concerns. "No, no, you've got it all wrong. Pa's a self-made man. He started working in a mill at twelve, but he impressed them enough to get an apprenticeship. He hates the toffs—they used to mock him before he became filthy rich. You, he would love—self-made, self-taught, making it big in the British Army. Ma's a bit snobby, but that's only because she wants to be accepted in high society."
Taking a risk, Thomas had decided to pursue the conversation further, using the alcohol as a potential excuse if things went awry. "Let's be clear here. You think I'm a homosexual, and you want me to meet your sister because you believe we'd be a good match?"
Harry had nodded enthusiastically. "Exactly! Rosie says she thinks she'd vomit if a man ever touched her. My ma and pa are constantly pressuring her to get married. You'd be perfect—handsome, no interest in touching my sister, and she speaks Dutch. You're always saying you'd like to learn. It's perfect!"
Thomas couldn't help but feel bewildered by the audacity of the situation. "I think a marriage needs more than my desire to learn Dutch, and that Rosie doesn't want to vomit," he had replied sceptically.
But Harry had been insistent, and despite nursing a hangover the next day, he had pushed Thomas to meet his sister, Rosalie. With trepidation, Thomas had agreed.
Meeting Rosalie had been a revelation. She was indeed a "corker," a term he would have never used before but found apt for describing her. At just 5'1" tall, she was surprisingly petite, with blonde curls, always trying to escape, no matter what style her maid tried and a laugh that could light up the darkest of rooms.
Despite the unconventional circumstances that had brought them together, Rosalie had been open to Thomas's advances. However, he was determined to build a genuine friendship with her before proceeding further. Honesty and transparency were paramount to him, and he wanted their connection to be built on a foundation of trust and mutual understanding. This, he believed, was the only way to navigate the intricate path that had opened up before them.
Thomas approached the Stiles's London Townhouse with a mix of excitement and nervousness. The elaborate façade of the townhouse was impressive, and it was clear that the Stiles family lived a life of privilege. As soon as Lady Stiles had noticed her daughter, Rosalie, showing genuine interest in a man, she had orchestrated the family's move to London. While she claimed it was to be closer to her son, the Lieutenant, everyone knew it was also to facilitate young Lieutenant Barrow's courtship with Rosalie.
Sir Cuthbert Stiles, Harry's father, was a self-made man who respected Thomas and his brother Tom for their ambition and accomplishments. He was delighted that his daughter had finally warmed up to a man of character and capability.
That evening, Thomas had been invited to the Stiles's family home for dinner. It was an important occasion, as he intended to have a heart-to-heart with Rosalie before asking the most significant question of his life.
As he approached the grand entrance, he couldn't help but feel a sense of foreboding mixed with anticipation. The footman welcomed him warmly, and Thomas offered a polite smile, nervously surveying the opulent surroundings. He could hear the chatter of the family inside, which heightened his anxiety.
Once inside, he was greeted with open arms and warm smiles. Thomas greeted the Stiles family with the same charm and politeness that he had perfected during his time at Downton Abbey. He exchanged pleasantries and engaged in small talk before suggesting to Rosalie that they take a stroll in the private garden shared by the townhouses in the square.
Sir Cuthbert Stiles and his wife shared knowing smiles, and Lady Stiles couldn't contain her excitement. She practically ushered her daughter out the door, knowing full well that this evening could be life-changing for Rosalie.
As Thomas and Rosalie walked to the garden, a playful smile graced her lips. "I hope you realise that they've all raced upstairs to get a good look at us through the windows," she said, her eyes twinkling with mirth.
Thomas nodded solemnly, his mind focused on the conversation he was about to have. He opened the gate to the private garden, ensuring their privacy.
Once inside the serene garden, Thomas led Rosalie to one of the garden benches that sat on neatly mowed lawns. He indicated that she should sit, and once she was seated, he joined her. The bench offered a partial side view of the house, allowing her family to watch discreetly, but it also provided Thomas a clear view of the garden gate to prevent any unexpected intrusions.
Rosalie's eyes shone with warmth and kindness as she gazed at Thomas. She took his hand in hers, a reassuring touch that conveyed her genuine affection. "You've been quiet tonight, Thomas. Is there something you'd like to tell me?" she asked, her voice gentle and caring.
Thomas took a deep breath, and his gaze swept across the tranquil garden, making sure they were indeed alone. He nervously squeezed her hand as he began, "You and I have gone on many walks together these past few months, and we've had many private conversations." He paused, feeling the weight of the moment. "I've shared things with you, things I've only told my brother, Tom. I've felt that we've developed an understanding."
"Yes, you told me that you are a homosexual," she agreed with him. Rosalie, her eyes filled with empathy. She felt his hesitation at the mention of the word "homosexual." Her thumb gently stroked the back of his hand, encouraging him to continue.
Thomas's face paled as he braced himself for the difficult conversation he was about to have. Despite Rosalie's understanding of his orientation and her brother Harry's suspicions, discussing it was still challenging. It was a dangerous subject that could have severe consequences, even life-threatening if exposed. Trusting her with this secret was a monumental step.
"I know we've talked about the possibility of a future together," Thomas continued, his voice low and earnest. "But I can't help feeling that I might be denying you the chance of a real husband." His gaze was filled with genuine guilt, a heavy burden he had carried for some time.
As they sat on the garden bench, surrounded by the tranquillity of the private garden, a deep conversation unfolded between Thomas and Rosie. Their connection had grown over countless walks and conversations, but now they faced a pivotal moment.
Rosie sighed softly, the gentle evening breeze rustling the leaves of nearby trees. "I know it's difficult to understand," she began, her voice carrying a note of vulnerability, "it's really difficult to explain it myself. But I don't want a so-called real husband."
Thomas's attention was solely on her as he listened intently. Rosie's eyes held a mix of emotions as she continued, "When I think of a husband who would want me to have sex with him, it fills me with dread and anxiety. And it's not because I'm frightened or just haven't found the right man yet." She glanced at him, her expression pleading for understanding.
"I'm 26 years old, not a young schoolgirl who knows nothing of the world," Rosie went on. "I've even looked at books, painting and photos, and I don't feel anything. I have no desire to see you or any man naked, and I certainly don't want sex with anyone." Her words were honest and unapologetic.
Thomas couldn't help but feel compelled to ask, "But are you sure?" He sought reassurance, a way to understand her perspective better.
Rosie's frustration was evident in her tone as she countered, "Thomas, I expect you've tried to find women attractive. Did it ever work?" He looked down at the ground and quietly replied, "No."
She gently lifted his chin with her finger, ensuring their eyes met. "Then believe me when I tell you I've tried the same. Wishing it doesn't make it happen," she assured him.
Rosie gazed out over the peaceful garden, her thoughts gathering for the weighty conversation they were having. Summer insects buzzed and danced in the warm evening light.
Finally, she turned back to Thomas, her expression earnest. "Life for women isn't great, whether rich or poor. A woman's sole role in society is to marry and have children. Unless I want to take holy orders, it's the only way I can have any social standing." She spoke with a sense of acceptance, her fate as a woman bound by societal expectations.
"I'm lucky, my father is rich, and he loves me. I know if I never married, he would support me for my entire life. But I would be looked down upon in society, and the older I become, I would become a burden, first to my father and then to my brother," Rosie explained, her gaze fixed on Thomas, making sure he was truly listening.
She continued, "If I were a middle-class woman, I might have some opportunity to make a living for myself, but it would be a paltry existence. I had resigned myself to my lot in life." A trace of sadness crossed her features.
"That was until my brother brought home a dashing young Lieutenant, who, although different from me, was also trapped by societal expectations," Rosie's tone brightened as she recalled the turning point in her life. She looked at Thomas, her eyes filled with warmth and affection.
"This kind Lieutenant was funny and intelligent, someone I could talk to for hours. Someone I could tell my deepest, darkest secret to. Who, in turn, could tell me his darkest secret. And for the first time, I didn't feel so alone. I felt free," Rosie explained, her smile growing brighter.
"I could be around this handsome Lieutenant and not feel anxious because I knew he would never ask me to be physically intimate with him, for the same reasons I would never ask him to be intimate with me," she confessed, and a rueful smile passed between them.
Their eyes locked, and Rosie concluded, "And our friendship grew from this understanding and was strengthened through our love of good conversations, languages, and learning. Until eventually, it turned into love, the type of love where no one has to get naked, but love, nevertheless." Rosie grinned at Thomas, and he couldn't help but return her smile, feeling lighter and freer after their candid conversation.
"If this handsome, now captain, would like a lifelong companion, a true friend, and a loving, fully clothed wife, I would be open to any questions asked of me," she finished speaking and looked expectantly at Thomas.
In response, Thomas, filled with reassurance and a deep connection, slipped off the bench and knelt on one knee. He pulled a ring box from his pocket and opened it, revealing the beautiful engagement ring inside.
"Will you, Miss Rosalie Stiles, do me the honour of becoming my wife, where I swear to love my wife while fully clothed for the rest of my life?" Thomas asked, his voice filled with sincerity.
"I will," she replied, a radiant smile gracing her face. She leaned forward and embraced him, her arms wrapping around his neck as she kissed his cheek. Her head rested on his shoulder for a moment, savouring the joy of the moment.
Eventually, she sat back on the bench, and Thomas gently placed the engagement ring on her finger. Rosie admired the ring with happiness in her eyes before looking at Thomas again. "We will have to have more discussions before we actually get married," she told him.
Thomas agreed, "Yes, we will have to discuss where we'll live."
Rosie added, "Not only that, but we should discuss any possible... paramours you might have."
Thomas was momentarily alarmed by the suggestion, stuttering, "What?"
Rosie laughed at his shocked expression. "Just because I have no interest in sex doesn't mean you should give it up," she quipped. "But we will be married, that would be cheating," Thomas protested.
Rosie chuckled, "See, I told you, we have a lot to discuss and logistics to sort out before we can get married."
With a nod and a knowing smile, she looked back at her house, where she couldn't see anyone in the windows but knew they must be bursting with curiosity. "Come on, let's go back to the house to tell them our good news," Rosie said, rising from the bench and extending her hand to Thomas. He looked at her hand, still somewhat stunned, before taking it.
Together, they walked back to her house, where her family eagerly awaited their return. Her ecstatic mother insisted that the evening's meal should be a celebration of their engagement.
As dawn's first light filtered through the curtains of the bedroom, Thomas Barrow stirred and slowly woke from his slumber. He knew it was time to prepare for a day at work, but today was no ordinary day. He had an important assignment ahead of him.
With a focused sense of purpose, he rose from his bed, his movements swift and precise. The room was well-kept and organized, befitting a man who valued order and discipline in his life. The walls were adorned with a few personal touches: a framed photograph of his family, a sketch of Downton Abbey, and a commendation he had earned during his time in the military, a reminder of his service and sacrifice.
Thomas had already laid out his attire for the day – a crisply pressed uniform, which bore the markings of his current rank. He dressed with care, each button fastened meticulously. His hands, which had often performed delicate tasks in various roles, were sure and steady as he dressed.
His gaze moved to the chair where his kit bag, portfolio, and briefcase awaited. Each item had been prepared with great attention to detail. The kit bag, a military-green canvas holdall, was packed with essentials for his journey: clothing, toiletries, and a few personal mementos that he carried with him everywhere.
The portfolio contained maps, documents, and notes related to the conference he would be attending in France. As a translator, his role was vital in ensuring clear communication between the different Allied forces. He'd be in conference with French, Belgian, Italian, and Russian leaders, and his proficiency in multiple languages was a key asset.
His briefcase held additional documents, codes, and encryption materials, all guarded with the utmost security. The information within was sensitive and classified. Thomas's intelligence and attention to detail had earned him the trust of his superiors, and he knew the importance of safeguarding these materials.
With everything in order, Thomas left his room and made his way to the kitchen, a place of familiarity and warmth. It was a modest yet comforting space, where the brother's meals had been shared during his time in London. Thomas's younger brother, Tom, was already there, seated at the kitchen table. Tom looked somewhat dishevelled, his hair tousled from sleep, but the aroma of freshly toasted bread and the warm embrace of a cup of tea offered a sense of solace.
"Morning, sunshine," Thomas greeted his brother, a playful glint in his eye. He poured himself a cup of tea and set a few slices of bread to toast.
Tom, still in a state of half-sleep, responded with a noncommittal sound, "Huh."
Thomas knew his brother had been up late, working on one of his stories. With a gentle smile, he inquired, "I heard you banging away at your typewriter last night. Did you get your story finished?"
Rubbing his eyes, Tom replied, "What? Oh yeah, I got it finished and down to the office by 4 a.m., so it could make the morning paper." A sheepish apology followed, "Sorry if I kept you awake."
Thomas chuckled as he spread butter on his toast. "Nah, I'm used to it now. I find it harder to get to sleep without the typewriter." He had, over time, grown accustomed to the sounds of his brother's late-night writing.
Curiosity about his brother's work lingered, and Thomas asked, "How come you're still awake?"
"I wanted to say goodbye before you head off to France," Tom confessed, his worry apparent in his voice.
Thomas reassured him, "We'll be miles away from the front. There's no need to worry. I'll be traveling with the top brass. The Army would never risk a general. I'll be perfectly safe."
Reluctantly, Tom mustered a smile, well aware that Thomas was indeed safer than most soldiers. Yet logic had little sway over the anxiety that accompanied war. He extended his arm and gave his brother an awkward, table-separated hug. "I do know, but this war makes me nervous," he admitted. "You're the only family I have, and I love you and worry about you, just as you worry about me."
Thomas affectionately responded, "I do know. That's why I don't give you too much of a hard time over it. And I love you too." He finished his tea and toast, then brought his mug and plate to the sink, where he washed them and left them to dry. As he walked past his brother, he bent down, placed a quick kiss on Tom's head, and ruffled his hair.
With a sense of urgency, Thomas declared, "I have to go. I shouldn't be gone for more than a week. I'll write when I'm in France and send you a telegram if it looks like I'll be delayed."
Tom rose from the table and followed his brother as Thomas put on his greatcoat and hat. Thomas collected the rest of the belongings he needed to take with him. "I can walk with you to HQ and help with your bags?" Tom offered, concern still etched on his face.
Thomas reassured him, "No need. I can manage. Why don't you head to bed, and I'll see you in a week?"
With a final goodbye, Thomas stepped out the door and made his way to army HQ, ready for the responsibilities and challenges that awaited him on this important assignment.
The gruelling five days of non-stop translation work had left Thomas mentally and physically drained. He had thought that bringing two competent lieutenants and a sergeant who were proficient in the five official languages of the conference would be sufficient for their mission, but fate had a different plan.
There was major cock-up, and it was a blunder that would haunt the British contingent. The Belgian representative, a native Flemish speaker, had arrived, only to discover that there was no translator who could communicate with him. His outrage was palpable. He vocally expressed his fury at the apparent negligence, especially since all the other delegations had multiple translators at their disposal.
Thomas, who had been diligently studying Dutch for the last four months, was the closest thing they had to a Flemish translator. He was reluctantly pressganged into the role, even though he was far from being a fluent speaker. The frustration was mounting within him, and the knowledge that the Belgian delegate spoke French only fuelled his irritation. He couldn't shake the feeling that the man was intentionally being a bastard.
Nonetheless, Thomas was a professional, and his military discipline prevented him from letting his anger show. He had, however, found solace in venting his frustrations through an expletive-filled letter to Tom, which he sent, sensors be damned. It served as an outlet for his bottled-up emotions.
The experience was unusual for Thomas, as he was typically the expert to whom others turned when they encountered a problem and maybe he hadn't always been as patient as he could have been. He was accustomed to being the one in control, the one who knew the answers. It had revealed a chink in his armour, and he was discombobulated by the extra work and the challenge of translating a language in which he was not yet fluent.
As he hurried through the drafty building where the town hall meeting was being held, Thomas couldn't help but suspect that his subordinates were taking a little too much pleasure in his disarray. Their sly smiles and subtle jests didn't go unnoticed, and he narrowed his eyes, all too aware of their amusement. Despite his irritation, Thomas pressed on, determined to make the best of a difficult situation and ensure that the conference proceeded as smoothly as possible.
The room was immense, filled with a constant hum of voices that created an incessant drone in the background. The relentless noise had settled as a steady throbbing headache behind Thomas's temples. It was anything but conducive to focus, and the ordeal he faced with the Belgian Delegate only made it worse.
Having grown up in a multilingual environment, where he'd used various languages fluently since childhood, translating on the fly was usually second nature to Thomas. His unique linguistic abilities typically required minimal effort or concentration. But not today.
The General had believed that the informal atmosphere of the Townhall would help in defusing tensions. The idea was for the delegates to engage in light discussions over tea, coffee, and light refreshments. Thomas and his junior officers were to mingle, ears open for useful information, and offer their translation skills as needed.
Most of the other delegates were bilingual, often speaking English or French, like the Russian General. However, Colonel Janssens was notorious for his aversion to the French language. He staunchly refused to converse in French with anyone present, causing Thomas to find himself tethered to the colonel's side.
Adding to his frustration was the constant, haunting echoes of whispered German phrases. Although too faint and indistinct to be pinpointed, it intermittently pricked at Thomas's consciousness. His recent studies of Dutch made him recognize the linguistic similarities between Dutch and German. He couldn't help but wonder if the mutterings were coming from the colonel's aide.
Furrowing his brows, Thomas scanned the room, looking for anything unusual.
Amidst the political discourse, Colonel Janssens signalled his desire to speak with Major-General Callwell. As they made their way toward the general, Thomas noticed that the colonel had launched into an impassioned request for military aid for his beleaguered nation. Thomas did his best to temper the colonel's language, but unfamiliar curses made the task challenging.
It was then that Thomas heard the Lord's Prayer in German, clearly and unmistakably. This time, he couldn't have cared less about his superiors. As the repeated prayer filled the air, he saw a Russian soldier, of average build, making his way closer, reciting the prayer in German. The man seemed to be in distress, sweating profusely in the stifling hall.
A cold realisation pierced Thomas as he spotted the butt of a pistol in the man's uniform pocket. Before the man could draw the weapon, Thomas shouted, "GUN!" with all the strength in his lungs.
He simultaneously pushed General Callwell and Colonel Janssens out of harm's way. The soldier, realising he'd been exposed, managed to retrieve the pistol, but not before Thomas threw a punch at his face.
The sudden violence froze everyone in the room, their eyes locked on Thomas as he landed a punch on the Russian soldier. A retaliatory uppercut struck Thomas in the kidney, Thomas had made a grab for the arm holding the gun and managed to get a well place to the attacker's knee. This had the unfortunate effect of making both men lose their balance and land in a heap, still fighting for control over the gun. Punching and grunting in their struggle. The gun went off once, then twice. Thomas felt a searing pain, but he couldn't let go, and the fierce struggle continued.
The room burst into action, and soldiers at last, leaped to subdue the attacker. Propaganda slogans in German spewed from the attacker, left no doubt that the would-be assassin was a German operative. They finally managed to pull him off a panting Thomas, who had an adrenaline-fueled haze blurring his pain.
Lieutenant Stiles leaned down to check on Thomas. "Now, Captain, you stay still. The General has sent for a medic."
Through a daze, Thomas realised he had been shot. His thoughts scattered, he mumbled, "Oh, Rosie," before the image of his brother, Tom, flashed through his mind.
"Don't you worry, Captain. I'll let Rosie and Tom know what's happened," Lieutenant Stiles assured him.
"The General..." Thomas tried to get up, but the searing pain that shot through his left side was unbearable, and the room spun. In the end, he succumbed to the pain and passed out.
The early morning at Downton was cloaked in a typical Yorkshire overcast sky, casting a muted, greyish light through the windows. The household was in a constant state of bustling activity, since it was transformed into a convalescent home for wounded officers during the ongoing war. The adjustment of having their grand estate serve as a place of healing was a significant change for the Crawley family.
In the cozy dining room, Lady Mary sat at the table, her delicate, porcelain features partially illuminated by the faint light filtering through the curtains. Her father, Robert, struggled to read the morning paper in the dimness, eventually summoning Carson, the butler, to turn on the electric lights.
Seated around the table, Mary's sisters, Edith, and Sybil, ate their breakfast while having quiet, sombre conversations. The war had wrought many changes to their lives, and the presence of convalescing officers in their home was just one more alteration to which they had to adapt.
As the family sat down for their morning repast, their routines disrupted by the war effort, the atmosphere was tinged with a sense of unease and anticipation. The sounds of clinking cutlery and hushed conversations filled the room, mingling with the aroma of freshly toasted bread and hot tea.
Suddenly, a soft knock at the dining room door drew everyone's attention. Carson, the dignified butler, approached the door and, with a customary air of discretion, admitted a messenger bearing a telegram. Carson exchanged a few hushed words with the messenger before gently closing the door behind him.
With the telegram now in his possession, Carson, who had served the Crawley family for years, approached Lady Mary. Her fair complexion paled noticeably, a clear indicator that a telegram in wartime heralded nothing but potentially dreadful news. Mary received the telegram on a silver platter with an air of trepidation and a silent prayer for good tidings.
The room fell into a hushed stillness, with everyone at the table sitting up a bit straighter, eyes locked onto Lady Mary. Robert, seated at the head of the table, shook out his newspaper and folded it neatly beside his plate, his expression a blend of anticipation and nerves.
As the telegram quivered slightly in her trembling hands, Mary took a deep breath and began to read the contents, her dark eyes scanning the words carefully. Her sisters watched with a mixture of concern and curiosity.
"Well?" Robert inquired, his voice edged with paternal alarm, his typically jovial countenance now softened with concern.
"It's from Tom," Mary announced, her voice carrying a note of relief. "He says Thomas was shot and is being sent to Downton Hospital for treatment and then to recover."
The news left the room in a state of slight confusion, and Edith voiced the collective sentiment. "Thomas was shot, I thought he was a translator?"
Mary, having read Tom's message more carefully, clarified, "Tom says he will be coming to Downton village too. He must have sent this telegram hastily; we should expect a more detailed letter in the first-class post tomorrow morning."
With a sense of concern still lingering, Mary asked her father the inevitable question, "Can Tom stay at the house?" she inquired, her voice carrying a note of determination.
Robert set down his teacup with a mild expression of surprise etching across his face. "What, at the house, as a guest?" he asked, clearly taken aback by her request.
Mary's response was unwavering as she nodded firmly. "Yes, Papa," she replied, her tone resolute.
Her father, the embodiment of traditional values and aristocratic sensibilities, furrowed his brow, reflecting on the unexpected proposal. His thoughts meandered through a maze of confusion, for he had lately been perplexed by Mary's choice of companions.
As Robert processed Mary's request, he couldn't help but draw a comparison. Here was his daughter, who had once rejected the respectable lawyer and current heir to Downton itself, Matthew Crawley as a suitor, now contemplating the idea of hosting Tom Branson, a writer of humble beginnings, at Downton, his former chauffeur. The contrast puzzled him.
He sat in contemplation, pondering the implications of Mary's request. The hospitality and status of Downton had always been important to her, and yet she wanted Branson's presence here, in the house, her attachment to the writer must be stronger than the family appreciated. But if Branson contributed to her happiness, Robert felt inclined to support her decision.
Mary's mind was already several steps ahead, and she anticipated the practicalities of Tom's stay. "We should also ask Mrs. Hughes to prepare a room for Miss Stiles as well, while she is preparing a room for Tom," she suggested, considering the logistics of accommodating Captain Barrow's fiancée too.
Edith, her curiosity piqued, probed for more information. "Who is Miss Stiles?" she inquired.
Mary took the opportunity to enlighten her sister. "You must remember," she began, "Rosalie Stiles is Captain Barrow's fiancée. I attended their engagement party a couple of months ago."
Edith's memory jogged as she pieced together the information. "Oh, right," she nodded, making the connection. "Rosalie Stiles, you say? Is she related to someone I should know?" she inquired, seeking further details.
Mary leaned in slightly, eager to share the information. "Rosalie Stiles is Sir Cuthbert Stiles's daughter, the wealthy industrialist from Sheffield," she explained, hoping to provide context for her father.
Robert's memory was stirred. "Ah, yes, I remember now," he acknowledged. "Did Branson mention she was coming as well?" Robert asked, Mary frowned at her father, "really Papa, it's Mr Branson now." Mary clarified that she didn't have that information.
"No, Father, but Thomas is her fiancé, and I imagine she'd want to be close to Thomas when he arrives at Downton," she speculated.
With the details of Tom's arrival discussed, Robert's curiosity persisted. "When can we expect Captain Barrow?" he inquired, glancing around the table.
Sybil, who had been absorbed in her own thoughts, was now serving as a nurse at the Cottage Hospital, interjected with insightful questions. "It depends on where he was injured," she said. "Tom mentioned in his last letter that Thomas had been sent 'to somewhere on the Western Front,' but he didn't specify the exact location."
Mary leaned on her sister's expertise, expressing her intention to inquire further. "I think it might be France, but I'll ask Dr. Clarkson when the next batch of injured men is expected at the hospital," Sybil offered.
Mary's expression reflected her gratitude as she realised how fortunate she was to have such a caring sister. She quickly finished her breakfast, knowing she needed to discuss the arrangements for Tom and Miss Stiles with Mrs. Hughes.
As Mary departed, Robert remained seated at the table, a thoughtful smile playing on his lips. He couldn't help but contemplate the twists and turns of life. Years ago, he could never have predicted that two former employees, Thomas Barrow and Tom Branson, would one day be guests in his home. The complex web of life had woven their paths together in unexpected and intertwining ways, demonstrating the ever-changing nature of the world.
Mary embarked on an unusual journey to the servants' hall to discuss the important matter of preparing rooms with Mrs. Hughes. For the unexpected stay of Tom and Miss Stiles, who were soon to arrive at Downton Abbey.
The air within the small, cozy room belonging to Mrs. Hughes bore an atmosphere of unwavering diligence and a profound sense of responsibility. Seated behind her tidy desk, she was immersed in the onerous task of reviewing the household accounts, a challenging responsibility that had grown even more intricate with the house's transformation into a convalescent home for wounded officers. Diligently, she pored over a sea of papers, assiduously segregating the finances of the Crawley family from the expenses incurred by the army. The painstaking nature of the task required her full concentration and meticulous attention to detail.
Mrs. Hughes' brow was furrowed as she examined a bill that included the purchase of 10 pounds of sugar. The minute details of the house's expenditures weighed heavily on her mind, her every movement and expression reflecting the depth of her commitment to the house and her job as housekeeper.
Her attention was suddenly disrupted by a sharp knock at her door, and she looked up, momentarily distracted from her duties. Before she could respond, the door began to swing open, revealing a most unexpected visitor: Lady Mary. Mrs. Hughes, known for her unflappable character, swiftly rose from her chair to greet her, a show of respect for the Lady of the house and her elevated status. Her voice, warm and welcoming, expressed genuine hospitality. "Good morning, Lady Mary. How can I assist you today?" she inquired.
Lady Mary, despite the war-time circumstances, was impeccably dressed, her usual sense of style and elegance undiminished. Yet her appearance, unusually sombre, conveyed the gravity of her mission. "Now, you don't need to worry, but I've just heard from Mr. Branson that Captain Barrow has been shot. Mr. Branson says that he is being sent to Downton Abbey to recuperate, and I've insisted that Mr. Branson stay at the house, too. So, he will need a room prepared for his stay."
Mrs. Hughes listened with rapt attention, the concern in her eyes mirroring the seriousness etched across Lady Mary's features. The welfare of Captain Thomas Barrow held a special place in her heart, as she had grown fond of the young man over the years as her served the Crawley family, especially in his role as the first footman. Hearing about his injury was a shock, as he was typically stationed in London. At the same time, her familiarity with Mr. Tom Branson, whom she had corresponded with regularly, gave her insight into the lives of both men.
As Lady Mary finished conveying the information, Mrs. Hughes inquired about the nature of Captain Barrow's injuries, her furrowed brow hinting at her unease. She hoped for more details about his condition, wanting to assess the severity of his wounds.
Lady Mary, however, could provide little additional information. "I am afraid I cannot answer your question Mrs Hughes, I just received a very brief telegram from Mr. Branson."
Lady Mary's smile returned as she spoke of inviting Miss Stiles to visit too. Mrs. Hughes, noting this gesture, inquired, "Captain Barrow's fiancée?" to confirm the identity of the guest.
Lady Mary nodded. "Yes, Mr. Branson introduced me to Miss Stiles at Captain Barrow's engagement party. She is a charming young woman, and I thought she would be more at ease if she could come and visit the captain while he convalesced," she explained, revealing her compassion and thoughtfulness, not often on display to the servants of Downton.
Mrs. Hughes was genuinely delighted to hear about Captain Barrow's engagement to Miss Stiles, which marked a turning point in the young man's life. She had observed his transformation from a reserved and sometimes lonely footman to a more multifaceted individual, especially since the arrival of his brother, Tom Branson, at Downton as the chauffeur. Mrs. Hughes had received Thomas's engagement photo and learned more about Miss Stiles from both brothers. She had gathered that the young woman was lovely and charming, and she looked forward to their meeting.
As the discussion progressed, Mrs. Hughes raised a question. "Will Captain Barrow require a room too?" she asked, concerned about the captain's potential stay.
Lady Mary, displaying her practical nature, responded thoughtfully, "I didn't know how injured Captain Barrow is. I thought it best to leave it in the hands of his doctors. After all, he is an officer, so they will probably want him under their jurisdiction." Her consideration for the captain's welfare was evident.
The upcoming arrival of Captain Barrow, Mr. Tom Branson, and Miss Stiles had created a new responsibility for Mrs. Hughes. She was determined to ensure that they would receive the warmest of welcomes and that all necessary arrangements would be made for their comfort during their stay at Downton Abbey.
Mrs. Hughes then considered her good friend, Beryl Patmore, Downton's steadfast cook, who shared her affection for Tom and Thomas. Believing that she should be the one to deliver the news, Mrs. Hughes decided to personally inform Mrs. Patmore of the recent developments. She emerged from her room, glancing out into the corridor where she spotted Anna, and asked her to invite Mrs. Patmore in for tea. Anna nodded in acknowledgment and went to carry out the request. For the time being, Mrs. Hughes set aside her ledger, realising that further work on the books would have to wait.
Shortly after, Mrs. Patmore, a rosy cheeked woman who had a shorter stature and stouter build than the housekeeper, entered Mrs. Hughes's room. Her distinctive red hair was neatly tucked away under her mop cap, an essential accessory to maintain tidiness in the kitchen.
Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Hughes had shared a profound friendship over many years, bolstered by their shared experiences within the grand Downton estate. They had supported each other through the many challenges they had encountered in their respective roles.
After setting the tea tray on a small table by Mrs. Hughes's side, Mrs. Patmore poured them both a cup of tea. As they sat down, Mrs. Hughes prepared herself to deliver the news. "Lady Mary was just down to me with news," she began, Mrs. Patmore arching her eyebrows at the rare event. "What did she want?" inquired Mrs. Patmore.
Mrs. Hughes continued, "She told me Thomas had been shot." The news startled Mrs. Patmore, and she instinctively covered her mouth with her hand, taking a few moments to collect herself. Since the loss of her young nephew in the war, Mrs. Patmore had grown particularly sensitive to any news about young men serving in the armed forces. "Is it serious?" she asked softly.
"Lady Mary doesn't know," Mrs. Hughes replied, "She just received a bare-bones telegram from Tom, informing her that Thomas had been shot and was being sent to Downton to recuperate." The two friends exchanged understanding glances as they sipped their tea, their expressions mirroring their shared concern.
Mrs. Hughes gently placed her cup back on the saucer and continued, "Lady Mary was letting me know that she would be inviting Tom and Miss Stiles, Thomas's fiancée, to stay at the house."
Mrs. Patmore considered the information thoughtfully. "Tom said recuperate at Downton and not going to the hospital in the village, so maybe it's not that serious," she speculated, her complexion slowly regaining its colour.
"Yes, you are probably right," Mrs. Hughes concurred, her tone laced with hope for Captain Barrow's well-being.
Their conversation then shifted to a lighter topic. "I do look forward to seeing Thomas's fiancée in person. She looked very pretty in the photo that Thomas sent you," commented Mrs. Patmore, her spirits brightening as they discussed the young Captain Barrow's romantic life.
Mrs. Hughes nodded with a warm smile, sharing her friend's anticipation. "I'm sure that Lady Mary will be contacting Tom and getting more information about Thomas's condition."
The two women completed their tea in a comfortable silence. When they finished, Mrs. Patmore took her leave, heading to the kitchen to prepare dinner for the family. Meanwhile, Mrs. Hughes had her own tasks to attend to, starting with the inspection of available guest rooms set aside for the family's use, as long as they were not occupied by the army. She knew she had a considerable amount of work ahead of her.