Chapter Text
“I’ll bet you he becomes one of us,” said Lord Percival as they watched the under butler bleed out in the bathtub. “All the suicides do, and the murders.”
Sybil couldn’t believe her ears. Thomas was slowly dying and here everyone was rubbernecking and making bets on whether he would pass on to the other side or not. Percival had been a guest of the house in 1810 where, upon cheating the future third Earl of Grantham out of five hundred guineas in a card game and getting caught in a dalliance with the future Countess, had lost his life in a duel. The gunshot wound had made a hole in his chest that if they were so inclined, one could look through and see out the other side, his cream silk waistcoat was eternally marked with a blooming rose of blood.
“With what? You don’t have anything to bet.” Mr Pamuk scoffed. Sybil glared at him then quickly averted her eyes. One of the biggest indignities of being a ghost was that you were stuck wearing the clothes you had died in, which in Kemal Pamuk’s case was absolutely nothing. Sybil found herself glad she had at least died in a nightgown, even if she had bled on it quite heavily in her last moments.
“I’ll let us swap rooms if you win,” Percival said, still anxious for a bet even after a hundred years. Mr Pamuk had been relegated to the room he had stayed in on the bachelor corridor and had always complained about how cramped and dark it was. Percival haunted the Peach Bedroom where Cousin Rose had once stayed and had mooned over her for months, writing bad poetry in her honour. It was empty now but had some pleasant views from the window and caught the morning light.
“And if I lose?” Pamuk said raising a perfectly arched eyebrow.
“You have to tell me what it was like getting fucked to death by Lady Mary.”
“You can’t talk about Lady Mary like that!” William squeaked going pink at the ears. He was still in his army-issued pyjamas, looking as fresh-faced and innocent as he had done in life. Sybil knew first-hand that underneath he was almost torn to shreds.
She and William were the most recent additions to Downton’s ghosts. Among their number, in addition to Lord Percival and Mr Pamuk, was a young maid named Hettie who had hanged herself in the attic almost fifty years ago and whose neck lolled at a strange angle, as well as Lady Catherine the first Countess of Grantham who had drowned in the lake on the estate, her sodden robe a la Francaise and ruined curls in disarray. The oldest and most powerful ghost among them was the Black Monk, who had been murdered sometime in the twelfth century who took the form of a hooded figure in a black robe and never spoke. The legend was that his throat had been cut which explained his silence if it were true.
Sybil had learned that Lavinia Swire had passed on to…wherever it was that people went to after death, and she had searched the grounds for Cousin Matthew when she had learned of his untimely death. If he was still around, it wasn’t on their land. That was the strangest part of it. They had all died on the property and were thus confined to it for all eternity. Sybil had learned that she could venture out to the edge of the estate but once she attempted to go any further, she was met with some impenetrable force that blocked her path. Why the dead had to abide by land laws she would never know.
“It might be nice to have another servant among us for a change.” Hettie mused.
“Clock’s ticking Kemal.” Percival taunted.
“Very well, I’ll take the bet.” Pamuk snapped. “I for one hope he doesn’t join us. That little snake is the reason I’m dead in the first place.”
“That is the most astounding display of mental gymnastics I have ever seen.” Lady Catherine said.
“Can’t we do something?” Sybil cried. Unlike William and Mr Pamuk, she was rather fond of Thomas Barrow and she’d be damned if she was going to let him languish in this dusty old house for all eternity.
Thomas still had a few minutes left before he bled out by her approximation. Maybe one of them could make a noise to draw someone’s attention. But with the exception of the black monk, none of them could muster up the energy to do much of anything. She could barely move a dust mote and no amount of screaming could get Tom to notice her. It was worth a try at any rate and Sybil hastily stepped into the bath and dug her incorporeal hands into Thomas’s chest. Living people usually felt a chill when they walked through a ghost. It was unpleasant, like a static shock.
“Just hold on, Thomas. Just a little longer,” she cried as she felt the under butler’s heart flutter in her hands. Thomas shuddered, his eyes fluttering open for only a second or two and for a moment Sybil could have sworn she had seen a hint of recognition in them.
She didn’t have long to think about it when the sound of frantic footsteps could be heard on the stairs and the bathroom door suddenly crashed open as the footman, (Andy?) forced the lock. Sybil could only watch with relief as Thomas was hauled out of the bathtub while Baxter and Mrs Hughes did their best to staunch the bleeding.
“Yes!” Pamuk cried with delight. “I win. Enjoy your monk’s cell, Percival.” He glanced at the Black Monk, “No offence.” The Black Monk said nothing.
“That doesn’t count. He didn’t even die.” Percival complained.
“Nothing was said about dying.” Pamuk said pedantically, “Only whether he would join us or not, and he clearly hasn’t.”
“What’s the matter, my Lady?” William asked. “Aren’t you glad he’s all right?” Sybil noticed that she was still standing in the bathtub, up to her knees in bloody water. She wished he would stop calling her that. Surely there were no class distinctions among the dead. And she wished he didn’t treat her with kid gloves. After the fits she’d endured when she’d died, she had found that she wasn’t quite herself. She forgot things, sometimes she even forgot she was dead, her moods would change for no reason or she would get confused.
“This might seem ridiculous, but I think he saw me,” she replied.