The pre-dawn drizzle had given way by mid-morning to a patchy blue sky, dotted with many white and grey clouds, allowing the much-needed warmth from the sun through in patches where its rays glistened on heavy dew-covered grass, and beaded rain drops left on the dark green leaves of the many clumps of daffodils that decorated the river side outside of the village.
Emily allowed her son to run ahead after they'd left the road, giving him freedom to explore as a young boy would, so long as he stayed a safe distance away from the river, which ran powerful with churning currents below its deceivingly calm surface.
Despite the hostility she'd received from Mr Barrow at first, she considered her visit to the couple a success. They kept up a good cover, as was sadly necessary, but thanks to her more open-minded upbringing she could read the two men's relationship clearer than most who couldn't comprehend the idea of two men being in love like a married couple. Her father had been reluctant to answer her questions about Mr Barrow and Mr Ellis – not wanting to gossip or betray the two men's secrets – but had told her Mr Barrow had not had an easy life and to give him some time.
The dew dampened her shoes, numbing her toes as it seeped through the material, when she spotted her target sitting on a seat facing the river, gently rocking a pram with her shoe. Helen was exactly where Mr Ellis had said she would be. Emily adjusted the heavy basket on her arm, laden with groceries for the farm. She could have asked for David or Larry to come to pick her up and save her the hassle of carrying such a load, but refrained on the account of needing an excuse to sit next to Helen before her plan could begin.
"Alfie, we'll rest for a moment," she called to her son, who carried a paper bag containing a small loaf of bread from the bakery using both his hands.
"Can I go play mama?" the boy asked, pushing the bag towards her in his eagerness to explore.
Emily put the basket and the bag down beside the seat, at the opposite end of where Helen sat. "I'm sorry," Emily said, "I wouldn't interrupt you, but as you can see …" She spread her hands out in a gesture of exhaustion and made a bigger fuss than necessary of arranging her shopping.
"Mama?" Alfie impatiently repeated.
"Yes, off you go, but you know the rules, not near the river and not out of sight, okay?"
"Okay," the boy answered, already running off over the grass.
"Go ahead," Helen said. "You seem to have your hands full. I imagine that will be me when my Chris grows up."
Emily sat and admired the dozing baby in the pram. "Shame they can't stay that way forever; it would be easier sometimes." She felt a comforting surge of satisfaction knowing that Helen had unknowingly opened the door for her to bring up the topic of baby Chris and his uncle. "Chris is a lovely name. My father has a friend of the same name, works in the bookshop."
Helen stiffened, hesitating, her lips pinched together in a thin line. "That will be my brother," she said with an unmistakable note of resentment. "Chris Webster."
Emily knew she could get straight to her point but refrained – she had to tread carefully. She peered over towards a clump of young trees, shielding her face against the bright morning sun, pretending to watch Alfie as she measured her next words out in her head. "You're local then? I'm not. I'm from here but moved away when I got married several years ago. My father is Matthew Tomlinson, a farmer." She hoped her causal response, and appearance that Helen's spurned attitude towards her brother did not phase her, would put Helen at ease.
"No. I'm here with my husband, we're visiting. He'll be joining me later. My brother's presence is only a coincidence." Helen looked towards her, diverting her gaze to the wheels of the pram at the last moment. "We're not close," she added, her voice growing quieter.
"You didn't name your son after your brother, then?"
Helen let out a huff. "I did, actually, for what good that's done."
"My Alfie has that in common. It was the name of my younger brother." A hollow pang, one that had never truly left even after so many years, accompanied Emily as she watched her son. Alfie was kneeling on the ground, mud sticking to his knees as he crawled under a tightly packed area of undergrowth. He sat cross-legged, laughed, and waved at her. It had been a decision both her father and husband had questioned at first when she'd named her baby after her brother. They hadn't wanted it to cause any more grief as a constant reminder of who they'd lost as a family. She'd questioned it herself, but in the end had found comfort in knowing a small part of her brother was still with them. Emily took a deep breath before continuing. "He was killed in action and never returned home."
"I'm sorry to hear that. The war took too many," Helen said sincerely.
"I feel as though my son will grow to be just as much trouble as my brother was," Emily said with a sad smile. "I wish he could have known his uncle; they would have got on well, I'm sure." Emily clasped her hands together repeatedly. The moment had come for her to make her move. "Your brother … don't throw him away over something he cannot be blamed for … for something out of his control."
Helen's expression soured. "What do you know about my brother?"
"I … I know that he's … different."
"You know nothing, and you'd do well to mind your own business." Helen stood; her glare fixed down on her.
"No wait," Emily said, standing as well. "I know I have no right technically, but I can't stand by and watch you ruin a relationship—"
"A relationship? Really? My brother and that man?"
Emily's gaze darted over their surroundings. Helen didn't keep her voice down. "I meant between your son and his uncle, but yes, that too. Look, I'm here as a friend, to your brother, but to you as well, if you'll let me? All my Alfie will ever know of his uncle will be the odd stiff photograph and stories my father and myself tell him, and those will fade in time. He will be a name in our family history, nothing more. But you have your brother alive Helen, he can be a part of your family if you only let him. I've heard how fond he is of his nephew. Don't take that away from him."
"My brother is a sin; his nature is a sin – the bible says so."
"Didn't God create everyone in his image? Doesn't the bible also say that? God only finished working on creation when it was perfect. Your brother was meant to be the way he is, and he's been that way since the day he was born. Or are you suggesting that God made a mistake?"
Helen bit her lip.
"I'm not here to debate religion, just give him a chance. Talk to him, hear his side of the story, listen to what he has to say before you make a decision you may never come back from."
Helen took a step away from her, and for a moment Emily thought she'd lost, but the other woman sat back down, heavier this time. "I don't know how I—"
"You don't have to understand anything, only show that you're willing to try—"
"No. No, you misunderstand me, Mrs …?"
"Emily Walker."
"Mrs Walker, I can't talk to him. I threatened to turn him over to the police, him and the man he's with." Helen looked down at her hands that grasped the cuffs of her coat.
"You could try? You'd have little to lose. He's not got many to turn to, and I bet he'd give you another chance, if not for you, for the sake of your son."
"I can't just accept him, you know? The thought of it … two men … I can't …"
"I know. But take small steps. See him as your brother before you try to understand the rest." Emily picked up her groceries and beckoned Alfie back over. She couldn't do any more, but she hoped her work was done.
…
Silver cutlery clinked and scraped against fine China plates; elegant glasses filled with only the finest beverages caught the warm lights from the table centrepieces spaced out evenly down the long table of the dining room. The curtains, draped closed against the evening darkness and cold outside, cut the room and its inhabitants off from the outside world – a wealthy cocoon in a world of relative poverty.
Thomas stood rigid and invisible to his employers as another decorative feature of the room. That was what Stephen, himself and any other butler or footman were – an accessory to show the wealth of the house. He could grumble about it, but it suited him to be unseen and had served him well in the past. One could learn a great deal from overhearing conversations at dining tables or in drawing rooms by people who didn't consider the servants as people worthy of any concern.
Tonight, the conversation had rendered nothing useful or interesting. Downton's main dining room played host to a visiting member of parliament and his wife, who's avid – and, in Thomas's opinion, addictive – interest in motor sports had gained the interest of Mary's husband, Henry but few others. Thomas had listened at first, thinking he could relay some of the conversation to Richard, who'd had more of an interest in cars than him. Larry would have been a welcome addition to the table, which desperately needed a dash of his charismatic humour, but since he was keeping his head down and living the life of an average person at present, joining a lavish dinner wouldn't have suited his purpose. In the end, when the subject moved away from the excitement of the races to the technical aspects of mechanics and even Lady Mary seemed to struggle with faking her interest, Thomas found his attentions drifting elsewhere. He kept a professional eye on the table as he should, giving Stephen the minutest of nods when he should assist him in refilling glasses or clearing away plates, but found his thoughts drifting to his and Richard's moment in the kitchen at the beginning of the day. He counted down in his head the number of days until his next half day. It was on a weekday in the morning, which wasn't a problem save Richard working. Thomas bit down on this lip to suppress a grin. Stephen had Sunday morning free next. If he could persuade him to swap, maybe see that the footman could have the whole Saturday instead, he and Richard could recreate the last morning he'd had free, skip church, and spend it in bed or wherever they fancied – this time without the interruption of Richard's mother.
The sound of the door opening to the side of him pulled Thomas back into the present. Phyllis stood by the open door, hands clasped together, fingers twisting back and forth. "Mr Barrow," she whispered, beckoning him over with a tilt of her head.
"What are you doing here, Mrs Baxter?" Thomas was not about to keel over in shock like his predecessor might have done at the sight of a maid in the dining room, but Phyllis's unusual presence sparked concern all the same. The conversation at the table continued to drag on in the background.
"I know. I'm sorry, but it couldn't wait."
Thomas' heartbeat stuttered and quickened at the first thought to come to mind. "Richard—?"
"No, he's fine," Phyllis said, quickly reassuring him and preventing the need to say more about his secret lover in front of strangers. Thomas noticed attention focused on them, the volume of chatter dying. "It's your sister," Phyllis hesitated, "she's downstairs."
Thomas took a step back. The pleasant daydreams of before became a distant memory, forgotten in the wake of her words. "What?" He felt sick. "Here?"
"Baxter? Is anything the matter?" Lady Grantham asked. "Barrow?"
Thomas' mind raced. Memories of decades before came flooding back. His sister had once been his friend, someone he looked up to, but none of those times resurfaced. Instead, all he could remember was the sour look of disgust that she shared with their parents when he and David were outed and caught. He squeezed his hands into tight fists, to hide the shaking that he had no hope of controlling. He may as well have been a terrified boy again.
"Your ladyship," Phyllis answered for him, "they need Mr Barrow downstairs."
"No trouble, I hope Barrow?" Lady Mary interjected.
Thomas took a deep breath to compose himself enough to answer. "I'm – forgive me m'lady, I …" He threw a pleading look to Phyllis and hoped she'd understand.
"Mr Barrow's sister needs to see him urgently, m'lady."
"I'm sorry I didn't know she'd – that is, I never expected—"
"Barrow, you're excused. We're almost finished here anyway," Lady Mary said. "I'm sure Stephen can finish up here?"
"I'll handle things Mr Barrow. You go," Stephen said, offering him a faint smile of reassurance.
"Thank you, m'lady, Stephen," Thomas said with a polite nod to Lady Mary and curious faces bearing down on him from the table.
"I did not know Barrow had a sister," Lord Grantham said as Thomas followed Phyllis out of the room. "I wonder what that was all about?"
"He didn't look pleased to hear about her," Thomas heard Lady Mary say, knowing the gossip about his private life will be on their tongues.
"I expect whatever it is will reach us eventually," Lady Grantham added. Thomas closed the door, leaving his employers to their new and more interesting subject of conversation, hoping they'd remember not to delve too far into his personal life because of what they know.
"Couldn't this have waited until after dinner at least?" Thomas asked, a couple of steps behind her on the stairs, their shoes echoing against the sparse stairwell.
"We tried that, only I recognised her when she first arrived, demanding to see you. I'm afraid she's rubbed everyone up the wrong way. Even Mrs Hughes was getting to the end of her patience with her demands and insulting remarks."
"What has she said?"
"Too much to repeat, but she thinks herself above us all. She's different from when I knew her as a girl. We were good friends then. Margaret's changed," she said solemnly as they reached the final landing.
Thomas reached forward and grabbed Phyllis by the arm, forcing her to stop. "Is Richard here? He said something about coming up to see me later."
"No, and I think that's just as well."
"Yes." Richard would have been an extra complication, and another thing to explain. Margaret always had a brilliant talent for spotting the minor details and Thomas feared she'd see right through them, no matter what façade they played to fool her.
They reached the bottom of the stairs, chatter led by an unfamiliar woman's voice radiating out from the servant's hall. Thomas held back, grasping the stair rail with his good hand. "Thomas?" Phyllis said, observing him through worried eyes.
"I don't know what to say to her," Thomas admitted. "It was them against me. I was overpowered by all of them."
"That was then, and this is now. You're in charge here. You've done well for yourself and nothing she can reveal about you can hurt you here."
"Because everyone knows anyway?"
"Yes, we're on your side, Mr Barrow, and she's not won many friends here."
"What about you, though? She was your friend once. If she made you choose?"
"I'd choose you. Now come on, hear her out, whatever she has to say."
Thomas took a deep breath and strode into the room, hoped he appeared more authoritative than he felt. The woman, about Phyllis's age, sat at the table. Upon seeing him, she placed a half-finished cup of tea down slowly on the table without breaking eye contact. At first, Thomas didn't recognise her. She'd been a younger woman when they'd last seen each other, and himself more of a boy than a man, but certain features were familiar. The steel look in her eye, the colour of her hair – albeit touched with flickers of grey amongst the black – the way she pursed her lips making him feel small – there was no doubt in who she was or why she was here. He had only himself to blame for that.
"So, it is you, Thomas. I thought I was being deceived when this lot told me you were the butler," Margaret said. Her words could have been interpreted as proud of him, but her tone conveyed the opposite. "Still, I suppose it's a job."
"Margaret. What do you want?" Thomas asked, his words cutting through the silence that filled the room, despite it being filled with most of his colleagues.
"You've received my letters?"
"I have."
"You didn't reply."
"No. I didn't see the reason to, just like you ignored mine those many years ago."
"That was different. This concerns a family matter."
Her words stung. "Wasn't mine the same? Was I not family too?"
Margaret hesitated, all eyes on them. "Not after what you became."
Her words stung Thomas to the core. Deep down, he had hoped that his assumption of being disowned when he ran away with David was just that. Some mutterings from the other servants brushed past him, not quite registering.
"If you have something to discuss with Mr Barrow, then I think it best you do so in private," Mrs Hughes said, the look of fury barely contained within her. She was doing her best to remain professional, if not polite. "You may use my sitting room, Mr Barrow."
"Thank you, Mrs Hughes, but we'll speak in my office, sister," he said, the final word sounding curt.
"Not yet Thomas." A cruel sneer spread across her lips. "First, I have a few things to say to these 'friends' of yours, then we can discuss how you've failed as a son to your dead father."