"Mrs Baxter, you mentioned that you've known my dad forever," Emma began, starting a conversation with the new maid. She had a feeling that Mrs Baxter was a kind maid. Her dad would never help a mean maid get a job. Besides, the woman simply didn't look deceitful.

Baxter smiled nervously, the memory of the past and the promise she had made to Thomas still fresh in her mind. "That's right," she said, trying to smile warmly. "I was friends with his older sister."

"Then you must know my Mama too, right?" Emma asked, her eyes wide with curiosity.

Baxter struggled internally. She didn't want to hurt Emma, but she had to keep the promise she had made to Thomas. "I'm not sure," she replied. "Thomas never introduced me to his... uh... wife."

"But you lived in the same city! You must have seen her," Emma persisted.

"I can't tell you anything."

"Yes, you can! You knew Mama!"

"Emma, it's complicated," Mrs Baxter tried to explain.

"It's not complicated. I asked you a yes or no question."

"I'm sorry," Baxter shook her head. Emma looked at Baxter disappointedly. "Why can adults never be honest?" she muttered to herself and left the servants' hall with a sigh.

Baxter breathed a sigh of relief. She didn't want to lie to the girl, which was difficult if she didn't want Thomas as her enemy. She finished her sewing, and Mrs Patmore joyfully took her kitchen apron from her. Phyllis had hoped to relax when the next Barrow entered the servants' hall.

"Another person pulled into the fray," remarked Thomas, lighting a cigarette.

"I'm grateful for this job, Thomas, and we both know why, but what does all this mean?" wondered Mrs. Baxter.

"Well, there will be changes at Downton. It has to be."

"I can imagine."

"That's why I want to know about every plan the family has. Every detail – no matter how insignificant. Do you understand?", Thomas asked.

"Were the other maids your informants too?"

"Mrs. O'Brien, yes… but we fell out," replied Thomas curtly.

"And Emma?", Mrs. Baxter asked.

Thomas's expression hardened. For a while, he found it convenient that Emma told him everything she overheard, but he certainly didn't see his child as an informant. He didn't want to use his child for his schemes – not anymore – at least not if it could be avoided.

"You haven't told me anything about her," Baxter tried to keep the conversation going.

"I don't see why I should have," Thomas retorted snappily.

"She resembles her so much," Baxter reminisced, "I would have liked to know about Emma earlier, Thomas."

"It's better if as few people as possible know about Emma's background… including Emma herself," he said and took a deep drag of his cigarette, exhaling the smoke slowly. His eyes focused on an invisible point in the distance as he thought. Again he inhaled deeply and blew the smoke out slowly, trying to conceal his emotions. "You understand why it has to be this way, don't you?"

Baxter nodded slowly, "Why doesn't Emma know the truth?" the maid concluded.

"Can't you really figure that out?" wondered Thomas.

"You're not protecting Emma from the truth, Thomas. You're just delaying it, and one day, when Emma finds out she's been lied to her whole life…"

"She won't," Thomas interrupted confidently, "I won't tell her, and neither will you, Mrs. Baxter."

"The Turners are Emma's family...," Mrs Baxter began to continue her explanation, but Thomas interrupted her angrily: "A wonderful family that would rather see the child dead!" he hissed and stormed off.

Emma silently observed Daisy's emotional outburst. The young kitchen maid had curled up in the pantry, quietly sobbing to herself.

"Daisy had been crying and blaming Ivy for Alfred leaving," Emma explained. "Because Alfred is in love with Ivy, but Ivy loves Jimmy, and Daisy loves Alfred, but nobody loves Daisy."

Thomas raised an eyebrow. He had suspected that the two kitchen maids were in love with the footmen, but his daughter's detailed explanation had unraveled the romantic chaos far beyond what he had grasped.

"That sounds like a real drama," Thomas concluded, with a hint of amusement in his voice.

Emma seized the moment to transition to her main question. "How was it with you and Mama? How did you meet and fall in love?"

Thomas flinched slightly, almost choking on his cigarette. He coughed a few times and avoided direct eye contact with his daughter. In love? He and Martha? That had never been part of their story. They had been friends, good friends, had met at school, but there was never any love involved, let alone marriage.

Emma watched Thomas' reaction closely and immediately sensed she had touched a sore spot. She recalled previous conversations where her father had revealed little about her mother. Nevertheless, her curiosity about the mother she had never known remained strong.

"School," Thomas finally said, after recovering from his coughing fit. He looked out to the backyard, his thoughts drifting far back into the past. Hadn't he told his daughter this exact thing many years ago? Because it was true. They had met during their school years but had never fallen in love.

Emma nodded and waited patiently to see if he would say more. But Thomas did not. Emma sighed. Why was this so typical of Dad?

While Emma sat in school, listening bored to her literature teacher, Alfred bid farewell to the staff and set off for his new job as a chef at the Hotel Ritz. Emma didn't find it particularly tragic not to be present for the farewell. Although she had reconciled with Alfred in the end, it didn't make him anywhere near a good friend she would miss.

The school day took a 180-degree turn when she clashed with Arthur Sinclair. Arthur, the boy she had once called cute, continued to mock the 'little dwarf'. Emma had had enough of his big mouth and decided to help him keep it shut.

"Dad, I've done something bad!" exclaimed Emma, breathless as she burst into the midst of the servants' lunch. She was supposed to be at school, but she couldn't go back. Not today, not tomorrow, and possibly never again.

"What happened?" asked Anna, while Thomas silently observed his daughter.

"I punched Arthur in the face!" she declared, visibly upset. "Now my hand hurts."

"You did what?" Mrs. Hughes gasped, looking at her almost speechlessly. "You can't just hit your classmates!" This was exactly the lesson the girl had anticipated. Perhaps Mr. Carson would even fetch a cane and strike her on the back of her hands or spank her — though she had never been physically punished before, she knew the consequences from her friends' stories, so she anxiously awaited her father's reaction.

"Did he deserve it?" Thomas asked now, interested, as he lifted his teacup to his lips and took a sip.

"Yes," Emma nodded. "He insulted me and you."

"Did it hurt him?" Thomas posed the next question.

"Yes," Emma nodded again. "He cried and his nose bled."

"Good job," praised Thomas. "Let Mrs. Patmore give you some ice for your hand."

"Mister Barrow," Carson said, appalled, slamming his hand on the table. "You can't condone your daughter's behaviour!"

"Exactly, my daughter, Mister Carson," emphasised Thomas.

"Nevertheless, you can't condone the child!" grumbled the butler.

Thomas sighed. "Come here, Emma Grace," he indicated with an additional gesture. Emma realised with horror that her father might administer a painful lesson. She swallowed hard before reluctantly approaching the dark-haired man. Thomas took her trembling hand. As he looked up at her, Emma was certain he would strike her, or slap her face, so she squeezed her eyes shut, but Thomas merely examined her hand, which bore the first bruising from the blow.

"How exactly did you strike him?" he asked curiously.

She cautiously opened her eyes, forming a half-closed fist.

"You'd better make a proper fist," explained Thomas, adjusting her fingers into the correct position. "Thumb here," he placed her thumb within the fist, hidden under her little fingers. "So next time you strike, make sure to aim the blow precisely here, then it won't hurt as much."

Bates set aside his cutlery, sitting opposite Barrow, silently observing the lesson, which Carson clearly did not endorse.

"Mister Barrow," Carson grumbled, "this certainly isn't a technique a young girl should be exposed to. I suggest you discipline your daughter so she learns from her mistake and never raises her fist again."

"You've hit the nail on the head, Mister Carson. Emma is a young girl and one day a young woman who needs to learn to defend herself in this world out there," countered Thomas as he released his daughter's hand.

"The world out there is surely not dangerous. After all, we're in Britain," sniffed Carson.

"I think it's perfectly fine," Anna said. "Mister Barrow will know what his daughter needs for her life, and a lesson in self-defence seems very sensible."

"Self-defence all well and good, but the child can't go around punching her classmates," Carson sniffed skeptically.

Thomas slid his chair back slightly so Emma could sit on his lap. "Listen, little one. I admire how you want to defend us, but next time you might want to use words instead of fists."

"It seemed unwise to argue with words when he had insulted me with words. I wanted to teach him a lesson," Emma countered.

"Fair point," Thomas remarked.

Emma was excited when Lady Rose entered the servants' hall that evening and announced that a London band would be arriving any moment, as they were the surprise for his Lordship's birthday party.

"We may be country people, but we do know a bit about city life," Carson said with a smile. As quickly as his smile appeared, it disappeared again when the band singer appeared. There were many surprised faces. Even Thomas formed his lips into an 'O', like many of the servants. Emma was perhaps the only one who simply stood between her Dad and Mrs. Hughes. She neither twisted her face in shock nor lowered her gaze to the ground. The man looked so different. But why?

"Have you ever thought about visiting Africa?" Mr. Carson asked as the band settled into the servants' hall and tuned their instruments. Thomas and Jimmy were now upstairs attending to their duties. Mrs. Patmore and the kitchen staff had been busy preparing the food. So only a small part of the servants remained in the servants' hall.

"Why should I travel to Africa, Mr. Carson? I'm no more African than you. Well, not significantly more. My family came over here in the 1790s. We don't delve into how or why," Mr. Ross said.

"What happened in the 1790s?" Emma asked curiously.

"Oh no, let's leave that aside," Carson quickly agreed. "If it's historically important, you'll learn about it one day in school."

"Mr. Ross, you've actually managed to mention something from the past that Mr. Carson disapproves of. Well done," praised Mrs. Hughes.

Normally, she was forbidden to be in the grand hall upstairs, but the presence of a London band piqued Emma's curiosity. She stood near the green door, silently observing the scene unfold before her. Lord Grantham and Lady Grantham danced to the music, as did nearly all the guests. Some men stood at the side with glasses of wine, engaged in lively conversation. Jimmy and Thomas diligently poured wine. Carson, grumpy as ever, stood in the corner watching the dancers.

"You shouldn't be up here," a voice cleared its throat behind her. Emma turned and recognised Mr. Bates.

"I just wanted to watch," Emma remarked.

"You've seen enough," the valet said, glancing at his pocket watch. "You should be going to bed. It's late."

"I doubt you have the authority to tell me what to do."

"I can fetch Mr. Carson if you prefer," he replied.

Emma sighed. Why did that stupid Mister Bates have to catch her? She just wanted to listen to the music and observe the good atmosphere. Feeling sulky, Emma retreated behind the green door into the servants' area. Slowly, step by step, she ascended to her room. Because if there was one thing she had learned, it was that Mister Bates would indeed fetch Mister Carson...

Flashback Feb 1918

It was during the time amidst Emma's tantrum phase and Bates' return as his lordship's valet. Emma skipped down the stairs, her stuffed dog in hand. She stopped at the large green door.

"You must never go through this door," she remembered Mister Carson's words.

"I don't want you ever going through this door, little dwarf," her father had said not long ago. Because there was that one time she had been behind that door – when the mean kitchen maid hurt her and she was looking for her Dad – anyway, there were lots of men in pyjamas behind the door.

And as it goes when a child is in a tantrum phase, the girl paid no heed to any rules. She cautiously opened the door just a crack and slipped through. The upstairs was much friendlier than downstairs. There were so many pictures on the walls, large carpets on the floor. The furniture looked much comfier than the chairs in the servants' hall. The last time she was up here, she hadn't noticed that. Probably because she was desperately searching for her Dad.

"You know you're not supposed to play up here," a voice cleared its throat behind her. Emma turned slowly, smiling innocently as if she had just gotten lost in the big house. Unfortunately, her innocent gaze didn't sway Mister Bates.

"Come along," he said, reaching out his hand towards the girl. Emma backed away, but Bates managed to grab the arm of her stuffed dog. Emma pulled, but Mister Bates held onto her dog tightly.

"I said you're coming with me," he repeated tensely. Emma shook her head, tugging once again at the dog in hope that Mister Bates would let go. He didn't, instead pulling on the dog's paw to bring the child closer to him, to take her to Mister Carson. Then it happened. The paw, along with the arm, tore off from the stuffed dog's body. Emma's eyes widened in shock. Instinctively, she brought the halves of the dog and her hands up to her ears, pressing them close while letting out a loud, never-ending scream: "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!"

By now, every soldier, Crawley family member, kitchen maid, and housemaid knew that a little five-year-old girl was defying the rules and wandering around the grand hall.

"Stop screaming. Nothing happened," Mister Bates tried to handle the situation. Emma's tears poured from her eyes, rolling down her cheek. Her face suddenly turned angrily red. Nothing happened? She looked at her broken stuffed dog. So her stuffed dog meant nothing?

Mister Bates took advantage of the child's silence. "Let's see what Mister Carson says about your little adventure," he said, grabbing Emma's shoulder. A huge mistake, considering a five-year-old child was on the verge of a tantrum. Emma began to scream again, thrashing wildly.

"Mister Bates!" Carson appeared behind the man. But before Bates could explain the situation, Thomas appeared.

"What's going on?" he asked, confused. It took just a fraction of a second to assess the situation. Bates still had a tight grip on his child's shoulder.

"Let go of my child!" he demanded with a hiss. Bates released his grip, while Thomas pulled his daughter towards him. "Did he hurt you?" he asked, bending down to be at eye level with the child. Emma's face was streaked with tears. She couldn't get a word out quickly enough, prompting Thomas to straighten up and turn his gaze to Bates. "Did you hit my child?" At the same time, he pushed Emma behind him to stand like a shield between the two.

"I didn't hurt her, Thomas," Bates explained.

"Sergeant Barrow," he corrected first. "Well then, why was she screaming?" he asked with a sharp tone.

"I caught her up here."

Carson cleared his throat. "So you're implying that Emma Grace started screaming for no reason?"

"Yes, Mister Carson, that's exactly what I'm saying. As you must have noticed, the girl is going through a very difficult phase right now."

"You're right there, Mister Bates," Carson agreed with a heavy sigh.

"What?" Thomas blurted out, as the two men swept the incident under the carpet and resumed their duties.

"Daddy," the girl caught his attention, "Dog is hurt," she explained with a fragile voice, pointing to her stuffed dog. Thomas gathered the remnants – paw, arm, and cotton wool. He took Emma's hand and led her into the servants' hall. O'Brien was the only one sitting at the table on that sunny afternoon, doing her sewing.

"O'Brien," Thomas spoke, "Do you think you could mend the dog?"

O'Brien looked at the destroyed stuffed dog but did not say anything. She sighed softly before starting to sew the paw back on with small, deft stitches. Emma's eyes followed every move of hers while she still clung tightly to her father.

"How did this happen?" Thomas asked gently, while soothingly stroking Emma's shoulder.

Emma looked at her repaired but still slightly battered stuffed dog. "Mister Bates hurt him, Daddy," she said quietly, yet firmly.

"Bates?" the maid queried with interest. Her gaze fell on the five-year-old girl, whose tears had dried by now. Emma nodded.

"Breaks a child's toy and plays the hero in front of Mister Carson," stated Thomas.

O'Brien finished her work, filled the dog with fresh cotton, and sewed up the final stitches. Then she handed it to Emma, who immediately clung to it as if fearing she might lose it forever.