Chapter Text
Downton Abby, located on the outskirts of the village of Downton in North Yorkshire some 9 miles northeast of Ripon, is the primary residence of the Earl of Grantham. The house was built in 1657 on the foundation of a monastery that was disbanded during the reign of Henry VIII and has been renovated and extended several times throughout its history. The only surviving feature of the original abbey is the stone hearth in the salon that originally heated the monk’s dining room.
This stately home has more than its fair share of ghost stories, the oldest being the legend of the Black Monk. Sightings of this spectre have been recorded as early as 1171 following the murder of Simon de Lyon, a clergyman who had allegedly been in hiding at the Abbey for his association with Thomas Becket. Historians theorise that de Lyon had witnessed the assassination and exposed the assailants who then murdered him in an act of revenge or that he had participated in Becket’s murder and was murdered by the order when his identity was discovered. Unfortunately, the circumstances surrounding de Lyon’s murder are unknown and the assailant was never identified. There are no contemporary sources that connect De Lyon with Becket, in fact, the report of his murder is the only evidence of his existence.
The house’s residents and guests have regularly caught sight of a dark figure that appears by the fireplace or wandering the grounds. He is often seen in the rose garden where the abbey’s chapel originally stood. In 1863 a photograph of the 6th Earl and Countess at their wedding reception captured what appeared to be the dark hooded figure of a man behind the happy couple, although no one saw such a figure when the photo was taken. Even stranger was that the figure appeared to be transparent as the flames in the fireplace could clearly be seen through the figure’s body. The young bride, Lady Violet Crawley, was so incensed by the ghostly intruder that she demanded that the photographs be retaken. Sceptics have argued that the figure is merely a trick of the light or the result of a flaw in the daguerreotype. Nevertheless, the picture caused a sensation among paranormal societies at the time and Lady Grantham was bombarded by requests from spiritualists and mediums to tour the property which she promptly refused.
Anne Cross, 1971, The Roaming Wraith and Other Hauntings: A History of Yorkshire’s Ghosts, London: Borley Press, p174.
“Now, we should get him into bed and out of his wet things.” Mrs Hughes said as the three of them dragged Mr Barrow’s limp body out of the bath. Ms Baxter had temporarily staunched the bleeding with the dust ruffle from her skirt. It probably wasn’t the most hygienic solution, but they had needed to act fast. She instinctively thought of fetching Mr Barrow to handle the situation, only Mr Barrow was the one who needed help. Unfortunately, Mr Barrow was the only member of staff who had been properly trained in first aid and had on more than one occasion tended to the cuts and burns of clumsy kitchen maids. Mrs Hughes could apply a bandage if needs must or hand out aspirin and Beecham’s powders when people were ill, and she could keep a calm head in a crisis, but Mr Barrow was so much better at that sort of thing. He was completely unfazed by the sight of blood and had a surprisingly gentle bedside manner. He had once stopped Mr Carson from choking on a piece of fish by squeezing him around his middle despite the other man’s attempts to fight him off. She had no idea where Thomas had learned that, but it had worked far better than slapping someone on the back.
“I hope he won't mind if we undress him.” Ms Baxter fretted.
“He's past minding if we put him in a shy and threw coconuts,” Mrs Hughes said, and turned to Andy, “Now, you take his feet and we'll take an arm each.”
Doctor Clarkson arrived sometime later, although it felt like hours. Thomas’s lips had begun to turn blue despite their efforts to dry him and keep him warm with extra blankets. As she waited in the narrow hallway, she worried that they had been too late.
“Will he be all right, Doctor?” she asked as Dr Clarkson left Thomas’s bedroom.
“He was beginning to go into shock,” Clarkson explained. “I’ve administrated a saline fluid so he should remain stable, but I’d really recommend bringing him to the hospital so we can keep an eye on him.”
“You know as well as I do what will happen to him if he goes to the hospital.” Mrs Hughes said in a hushed tone.
“Mrs Hughes, I understand why you would want to be discreet about something like this, but had I arrived any later Mr Barrow easily could have died,” the doctor said sternly. “I cannot stress enough how dangerous this amount of blood loss can be and the fact that I’ve had to come out here means I can’t give him a transfusion which could put him at further risk. The rapid loss of blood pressure means the heart can’t pump enough blood to a person’s organs which means they can’t get enough oxygen. This can lead to organ failure, brain damage, these things are irreversible and often fatal. If anything happens, I want you to bring him directly to the hospital.”
“I will, doctor.”
“You’ll need to keep an eye on him overnight in case his condition worsens. Watch out for cold skin, pallor, a weak or rapid pulse, dizziness, confusion, anything out of the ordinary.” Clarkson instructed.
“I’ll sit up with him myself.”
*
Mrs Hughes kept her vigil despite Mr Carson’s protests over how inappropriate it was for her to spend the night on the men’s side. She had argued that she was a married woman and could go where she pleased and was the only member of staff who could be spared that evening. Eventually, they had compromised, Mrs Hughes was to spend the night in her old bedroom on the women’s side and Andy had been instructed to take over once it was time for bed and check on Thomas every hour or so and alert her if there were any problems.
Thomas’s room was tidy, and sparsely decorated, the second iron-framed bed had been stripped and pushed against the opposite wall. The bedside table had a wooden watch stand that held Mr Barrow’s silver pocket watch. It looked far nicer than her own or even Mr Carson’s and a cursory glance at the watch face showed that it was made by Barrow Brothers of Manchester. She had been aware that Thomas’s father had been a clockmaker, but she’d never have guessed that they made such fine watches. Next to the watch was a framed photograph of a woman with piercing eyes and sharp features holding a little boy on her lap. A little boy who was undoubtedly Thomas since they had the same pouting expression. A small collection of books was lined up on the dresser next to Thomas’s comb and his signature tin of Battersby’s Brilliantine. A few looked like they had been bought second-hand, a few were borrowed from Lord Grantham’s library and the rest were from the free library in Ripon. Mrs Hughes noticed Freud, Jung, and Nietzsche among the volumes. Perhaps he had been trying to decipher his own mind before he had given up. It seemed as though the decision to take his own life was made without much planning, otherwise, he would have taken the library books back.
Even when he had been at his prickliest, Mrs Hughes had always felt sorry for Thomas Barrow. He had had his guard up from the moment he set foot in the servants’ hall. He had only been nineteen then but had the bearing of someone who had needed to grow up too quickly. Mr Carson had been impressed with his work at first but was quickly put off by his aloofness, and his tendency to lie about things. The rest of the staff quickly followed suit. They didn’t understand that it was all a defence mechanism. Thomas deliberately kept people at a distance and endured their dislike because revealing his true self would leave him vulnerable to even worse prejudices. Back in Argyll, she’d had a cousin who was similarly inclined. It had been something of an open secret among the family, the laws hadn’t been as strict back then and the general opinion was that he would settle down eventually. That had been until he had been found beaten to death in the top field. Everyone in town seemed to know who had done it, but nobody came forward and said anything. They had sympathised with the murderers, instead of that poor boy in the mud and later in a closed casket.
“Mrs Hughes.” With a start, she realised that Thomas was awake and had caught her looking at his things.
“Mr Barrow. Oh, thank goodness!” she whispered. “How are you feeling.”
“Strange. I thought… I saw… Lady Sybil was with me,” Thomas said slowly, his voice heavy with morphine. Mrs Hughes looked at him worriedly. Was this the sort of confusion Dr Clarkson had told her to watch out for? “She was standing over me and was telling me to hold on. I must have dreamed it.”
“Perhaps you saw an angel, Mr Barrow,” Mrs Hughes said, feeling a little relieved. At least he sounded rational.
“Perhaps. For a moment I thought I had died, but there’s no chance I could end up in the same place as her.” Barrow said sadly.
“Well, I’m glad you’re still here and not with her, bless her poor soul,” Mrs Hughes said. “You try to get some sleep now, and we’ll talk in the morning,” she continued but Barrow was already asleep. She shivered. Perhaps it was just her imagination or the stress of the last few hours catching up to her, but the room had suddenly become unusually cold.