Fanfic: And Then There Were Us (Gen)
Title: And Then There Were Us
Fandom: Downton Abbey
Characters: About half of the entire cast makes an appearance here. Several pairings are mentioned, but they are by no means the centre of the story.
Rating: PG-13
Warning: a little sad and angst-flavoured, considering the subject matter.
Word Count: ~5000
Note: This fic might not make much sense unless you know what Murder on the Orient Express is and for those who don’t, whyyyyy D: Basically, I took the cast of Downton Abbey and put them into a similar setting as that of the background situation of Orient Express. There might have been some influence of the 1974 film too, because I adore it so much.
Anyway, it’s all reana_camellia’s fault, so all complaints should go to her /is bricked
---
(the lady)
Mrs. Curtis watched from her bedroom window as a car came into the driveway and wheeled quietly toward the front door. English decorum decreed that a hostess should have been downstairs, ready with a smile and a hand offered to welcome her guests into her house, but she did not. For Mrs. Curtis, it was a custom which belonged to a time long gone, when politesse still mattered and laughter was not a stranger.
The white, delicate curtain fell, soundless, as she moved away from the window toward her dressing table. The picture of her smiling daughter and son-in-law in an ornate silver frame sat on the left corner, before the mirror, away from bottles of perfumes and various cosmetic paraphernalia. Even now, after six years had passed since the tragedy, a glance was all she could bear. Time healed all wounds, all except those which simply could not stop bleeding for lack of closure.
This was one of those wounds.
Seating herself in front of the vanity, Mrs. Curtis unlocked the left drawer with a small key chained around her neck and retrieved a white envelope from a pile of letters addressed to her name. She had memorised every word, every turn of phrase and humble sentence with which the news had been conveyed, but the thought of what was waiting for her downstairs compelled her to read the letter once more. A simple manner of postponement, perhaps.
Despite its folds and creases, the paper felt smooth under her stiff fingers. It began with a greeting she had not heard in person for years, a name she had cast away and vowed never to remember again. Odd how one always tried the hardest when it came to the inevitable. She read every word carefully, to assure herself-yet again-that she was not mistaken and every detail was indeed in place; that the time had come to put her plan in motion.
It was a brief letter and ended all too soon. She refolded it slowly, carefully, corner to corner matching its old marks, and then looked into the mirror. Every morning, she saw a woman haunted by ghosts from her past; today, a woman ready to confront them stared back at her.
Mouth set into a thin line of determination, Mrs. Curtis put the letter into her pocket and prepared herself to go downstairs.
---
(the batman)
He was the first among the servants to arrive.
The butler who opened the door to admit him into the house was thin, slightly built, with an immaculately groomed moustache above an expressionless set of lips. Bates immediately thought of Mr. Carson and what a sea of differences there could be between one butler and another.
He followed the butler’s steady, unhurried pace into the library. Unlike Downton’s, it was located at the far end of the house, a cloistered retreat instead of an office. “Please wait here for a moment, sir,” the butler murmured tonelessly, and then left him alone with memories of a place now too far away, separated by time and space and yet not unlike this one. Tall cases filled by rows of books. Gleaming wooden wainscot. His lord sitting at the writing table. The Cheerful Charlies.
Sentimentality was a sign of old age, his mother would say. He had been there when Mr. Carson breathed his last. Illness had been quick to prey on him, after the family he had served for almost thirty years had crumbled in a matter of months, right before his eyes. The proud butler of Downton had died a man grieved and broken.
And then his lord. His kind lord. His only lord. Bates had known firsthand many degrees of bitterness, but there was none which could surpass the knowledge that a man so generous and compassionate could have been defeated by grief, so fatally and utterly. To be sure, Lord Grantham’s health had been steadily declining for quite some time, but there should have been no real cause for alarm, not for many years.
The kidnapping had been the undoing of many.
A car had arrived. Bates stood listening for a moment as the front door swung open, followed by an indistinct rumble of voices-real voices, not the lingering echo of reminiscences or the cruel product of his nightmares. Drawn by the sounds, he left the library and retraced his steps toward the front of the house.
And then he saw her.
---
(the head maid)
Anna nearly dropped her valise when she saw him.
The span of six years had changed him very little; it was her first thought as her feet slowed to a stop, waiting for his approach. Perhaps there were a few lines added to his aged face, a few streaks of grey in his neatly combed black hair, but her heart recognised him for who he was: the only man she ever truly loved.
“How are you, Mr. Bates?” The question fell from her lips far too easily, restrained neither by time nor unease. She always began; he always followed.
“Quite well, thank you, Anna.” His smooth, melancholy voice was unchanged. But his cane was nowhere in sight and he no longer walked with a limp. For a moment, she was stunned by the revelation.
But of course. That man would never have hired a valet with a limp.
“And you?” he asked, eyes never leaving her. Anna felt a sob and a contemptuous laugh bubbling up her throat-small talks! after what they had been a lifetime ago.
“I’m getting on,” she said, still quiet and controlled, beyond doubt a most accomplished liar. She used to be honest, brave, straightforward, once upon a time.
He did not respond. She wondered if he noticed, if he cared.
But then her lady called for her, and Anna was surprised to find that she was glad for the excuse. Her footsteps on the polished wooden stairs were loud enough to drown the hammering sound of her heart. He remained where he was, watching her escape, but she did not look back.
The pain, the wonderings, were unbearable.
---
(the dowager)
English climate always made Violet acutely aware of her age. After living in Nice for so long, she had almost forgotten what it was like to wrap oneself so thickly in furs against the horrid wind.
Now comfortably seated by a cheerful fire, she let her gaze roam about the brightly lit room as her maid prepared for her change of dress. The house was certainly nothing like Downton, but at least these chambers were comfortable enough, though somewhat modern. Its remote location, however, made any sort of travel rather difficult; really most inconsiderate of Cora, although she supposed these efforts at discretion and secrecy were not entirely without merit.
Her window afforded a generous view of the countryside, but under so sombre a grey sky, it failed to elicit any feeling of fondness in her. How typical of an English autumn. Violet forced herself to contemplate the unpleasantness of a return journey in a hailstorm rather than follow her thoughts down the memory lane, to a similar day when she had buried her only son. No mother should have had that experience. It was a most unnatural order of things, monstrous even.
All of a sudden, her quietly undulating melancholy gave way to hate, so strong she must make an effort not to let it show. Everything here reminded her of those happier times. The conundrum of an entail, once a great matter, now felt petty and childish. It was a wonder how she could have lost so much sleep over such a trivial affair.
Violet closed her eyes wearily. In any case, she would only stay here for one night. It was understood by the concierge at her hotel in Birmingham that she was merely making a visit to a friend today. Foul weather and its most injurious effects to an old lady’s health could always serve as an excuse to stay the night. No suspicion could be attributed to her brief absence, should something go amiss in the plan.
All the same, she wished that it would be over soon-and quickly. And then perhaps she could finally rest.
“Will you be wearing the purple satin, milady?”
Violet opened her eyes and considered the modestly stylish dress her maid had laid up on the bed. The last time she had worn it, she had been surrounded by smiles and people now long gone, a particular memory which brought a cold, bitter pang to her heart.
“No,” Violet said solemnly. “The black one. It suits the occasion better-if it could ever be called that.”
“Yes, milady.”
---
(the chauffeur)
It was a long walk, but Branson did not mind. The wind was strong, carrying a hint of rain in the air, but the cold numbed his face and it was exactly what he wanted. English weather. English verdure. English autumn. Even after all these years, England remained the country he hated and loved above everything else.
To be sure, his new home had its charms. Broken dreams and ideals too preposterous still for such a rigid country as his motherland had brought him to the less inflexible cousin, the States. Branson did not remember his beginning in the successful detective agency which had been his workplace for the last five years (Americans were nearly as bad as the English when it came to their fellow human’s secrets) but he remembered what it was about the profession which had attracted him so: to investigate, to have a chance to discover a sprinkle of truth when the government and legal system he had once put so much hopes in had failed.
Sybil. Even the barest whisper of her name could not fail to bring a smile to his lips, sad and bitter though it was. He could be the best detective in the world and still he would have no chance at investigating her death, for there was nothing to investigate. A car accident, the kinder voices had said; a guilt-driven suicide, the more malicious ones no less vigorously asserted. She had been a young woman plagued by discontent, jealous of her sister’s happiness, her sister’s wedding, her sister’s husband. It was not difficult to imagine that a young woman so at odds with her family, a young woman of unconventional and unseemly ideas-not to mention unsuitable friends-could have been driven by jealousy to desperate, sometimes appalling ends. No doubt it was an effect of those ‘progressive’ thoughts.
Branson knew better. She would not have committed suicide; the mere idea of it was laughable. Then it must have been an accident, which despite overwhelming evidences nevertheless rang false to his ears. She would have not driven so recklessly, if not for the whispered accusations, the printed questions, the sceptical glances sent her way, the silence of her own sisters.
But he was the one who had taught her how to drive. He had had a hand in her death, and Branson could not use logic to walk around such burning guilt, such desire to blame himself for lack of anyone else to blame.
Except there was someone to blame. Oh yes, there was; he had found him, purely by accident while he had been working on an unrelated case. And now the time had come to deliver judgment, so long postponed, so long buried, so long festering into hate-filled vengeance.
The murderer would pay.
---
(the kitchen maid)
At twenty-six, Daisy was no longer the timid girl she had once been, scurrying from one fireplace to another, in terror of being seen by a member of the family. The same girl, who had bustled about in the kitchen, acting as Mrs’ Patmore’s third hand as well as bearing the worst of her temper, was a picture long gone. And yet here she stood, before the entrance of this house-smaller than Downton, but to her eyes no less imposing-once more uncertain, timid, intimidated.
It was like going back in time. So many years had passed and yet she could see it only too clearly in her mind, the succession of happy and unhappy days. For Daisy, one moment stood above the rest: a flash of dark blue, before the kitchen door swung shut and left her alone with her guilty silence.
She had seen Lady Sybil, repeatedly, leaving the house through the servant’s entrance and going away with the car despite Lord Grantham’s disapproval of such unladylike behaviour. This had become her favourite method of escape whenever something unpleasant had occurred, since the family’s increasing displeasure at her way of life. There had been some pretty nasty talks, or so Anna had said.
Daisy had seen Lady Sybil that night, after her terrible row with Lady Mary. She had heard the sound of footsteps, had glimpsed the dark blue of her clothes-those peculiar and mannish clothes Lady Sybil had taken to wearing in the past year-and yet again, that timid kitchen maid had said nothing. If the lady wished to be alone, then it was none of her business. She was only a young servant of no consequence.
Such a convenient excuse.
The next morning, little Master Robert had disappeared and she had found the kitchen door unlocked.
A fair share of suspicions had come her way, oh yes, but Daisy knew that she was innocent of that sin. The other sin, the sin of neglect, the sin of blindness and ignorance-this was the one which had forced her to leave service. Missions became her life, far from Downton and England, far from the only things she had known. A sort of penance, one could say, although she knew very well that not even the greatest atonement could erase such sin.
If only she had said something. If only she had stopped her. If only she had been less timid, less eager to hide behind conveniently placed excuses.
This was simply another way to atone. She told herself so and raised a trembling hand to press the bell.
---
(the first footman)
“You’re early.”
Mr. Bates’s only response was a stony look. Thomas smirked. By now, they had spent far too much time in each other’s company not to pick up each other’s signals, wordless or otherwise.
“Never thought he could spare you a whole day,” he continued, offhand and completely undaunted by the older man’s silence. “You must have been very persuasive, Mr. Bates.”
This particular comment did not even earn a habitual glance from his companion as Mr. Bates transferred his attention to the window. Thomas followed his gaze but immediately lost interest in the view-an adjacent field of nothing but barren grass. Nothing could be duller. He concentrated on his cigarette instead, enjoying each lungful of smoke as his eyes idly made a comparison between this library and the one so engraved in the back of his mind.
The memories of his footman days brought a contemptuous smile to his lips. Thomas had always known that he was different-too sharp, too quick to learn, too smart to be a mere footman. The Great War had taught him many things, among them alternative ways to move ahead in the world. To be a butler, after all, would have been a dull vocation for one with his brain and character.
Not that his present job did not have its moments of dullness. Still, all things considered, he must admit that being a secretary wasn’t half bad. His employer might be a bastard with a temper to match, but Thomas had learned to play deaf and hold his tongue-yet another thing he had acquired from the war. The pay was good, and if every now and then he would be invited to join his employer in bed, then it was nothing he hadn’t done before.
And of course, there was Mr. Bates.
The man still sat unmoving in his chair, his gaze still fixed on the dreary stretch of green outside. As always, there was something in his stolid manner which never failed to rile Thomas, like an annoyingly persistent sound in the background, grazing the surface of his consciousness but only just. He decided it was time for another attempt.
“What did you tell him?”
The question invited a heavy gaze, weighed down by grimness and such overwhelming melancholy that Thomas nevertheless had come to expect from his silent companion-it was the hassle of one year of close existence, whether he liked it or not.
“Lies,” Mr, Bates finally answered, his voice no less burdened by the same ghosts.
“Obviously. But what, to be specific?”
“A funeral.”
Thomas arched an eyebrow. “Not a man of subtlety, are you, Mr. Bates?”
“Not a man of lies, that’s all.”
Thomas’s mocking smile was subdued, hidden behind a white curl of smoke. It had been too easy to fabricate a family emergency, at least on his side, but then again he was used to subterfuges and deceits. Mr. Bates was by no means the product of the same school. If he were, then perhaps Thomas would have enjoyed their collaboration better, like that of his and Miss O’Brien’s.
He never stopped to examine his reasons, why he would embroil himself in this conspiracy, for a revenge he did not particularly want, for a family he did not particularly like. But when Mr. Bates had come to find him in London, one year ago, it had taken him less than two minutes to decide. Of course he would join in the plan. Of course he would play the part of a stranded-in-the-East, penniless young man eager to have a secretarial job. For one thing, it would surely be a change, an opportunity to make use of the new skills he had discovered. An aptitude for foreign languages was but one of them-once more, courtesy of the war.
A strange period of excitement had soon followed afterwards. It had been quite a challenge to hatch a scheme and arrange a ‘coincidence’ in order to set him up as the new secretary, after deposing the old one, but certainly nothing out of their combined prowess. Despite his insistence to appear correct and saintly in front of others, Mr. Bates had quite a few tricks up his sleeve, not to mention a mind full of ingenuity.
In a way, Thomas did not dislike him now the way he had once, under the roof of a different house. In many other ways, he still did-and it was why these occasional efforts to irritate him were amusing sports as much as firm testaments to their old enmity. At the very least, they would help alleviate some of the boredom which inevitably came with his role in this charade.
If none of these could provide an acceptable explanation of why he had taken the job, then Thomas would only be too happy to remain oblivious.
“At least it’s an adventure,” he spoke aloud, both for his own sake and the other man’s. “I’ve always wanted to be a point man.”
“Good for you,” Mr. Bates said wearily, not even batting an eye.
---
(the second footman)
There was something about contemplating a sin which both tempted and revolted. A murder was not exempt from this rule, but it nevertheless occupied a different plane. A much different plane.
This was not, William often reasoned with himself during bleak moments of doubt, entirely about revenge. This was more about the injustice of it all. That those horrible tragedies had befallen such kindly and decent family was bad enough, but that the chief perpetrator should have escaped from law’s punishment was not only appalling, but also downright wicked.
Perhaps the war had changed him. No one could have seen the kind, soft-hearted lad who had once worked at Downton, as a man so determined on revenge. That William had disappeared. Now he was Major Mason, a respected member of the British Army, a hero in his family and friends’ eyes.
There was certainly nothing like death to propel one forward.
The same heroic, distinguished major was now circling the garden for the third time, slowly but restlessly. He was stalling, William knew at least that much-he had battled himself far too many times at this front not to recognise a mere excuse for delay. Once he set foot into the house, there would be no turning back. A murder was a murder, whatever the reason.
With a sigh, he tried to seek solace-and perhaps a bit of enlightenment-from his surroundings. The garden was not grand, but well-tended. He remembered bearing trays of refreshments at the seasonal hunting party, threading his way quickly but carefully among horses and hunters alike. Even now, with more money than he could ever spend, William could not shake the feeling that he should still be downstairs, polishing silver and ironing newspapers. There was comfort in such simple life, constant and peaceful, away from dark thoughts and even darker deeds. Not for the first time, William blamed the war.
His third round soon ended. William embarked on the fourth, waiting.
---
(the housemaid)
Gwen had seen him before he saw her. She waved, and with a reserved, subdued smile, William approached.
They had met a few times in London. The first had been entirely by accident-she enjoying her free afternoon and he hunting for a wedding gift for his soon-to-be-married sister; a hopeless errand, as he had called it, and Gwen had been quick to offer her help. The second time, only three days later, he had taken her to see a performing circus
This was unlike any of their previous meetings. Gwen could feel the strain in her smile as they made their slow round in the garden and filled the emptiness with remarks on the weather and the garden-safe, meaningless, strictly impersonal. Neither of them felt that their joyous London encounters were at all appropriate for a topic of conversation, considering the circumstances. As their small talks dwindled to long stretches of silence and awkwardness, her own thoughts inevitably drifted toward the real reason of this small reunion-if it could ever be called such, so harmless a name for so harmful a scheme.
And Lady Sybil.
The thought of her still brought Gwen pain; her lady, the one who had made her what she was now, the one who had made it possible for a lowly maidservant to hold so high a post: a secretary to a junior government minister. It would have been beyond her, utterly and eternally, but Lady Sybil had taught her to hope, to fight, to believe.
“He deserves it.”
Even Gwen was taken aback at the amount of vehemence spilling into her voice as those words fell from her lips. If William was at all surprised, then his countenance was a perfect mask of inscrutability to hide any of it. His gaze was steady, watching emotions surge and shift on her face.
“He does.”
The sheer calmness and resignation in his soft voice made Gwen stare at him. She could not help but wonder, how many men he had killed in the war, if he regretted any of them, some of them, all of them-if he found their planning of a murder now just another banality. None of these made it past her lips. Gwen held her silence and stubbornly looked at the shrubbery to her left, strangely annoyed at her own stubbornness.
But then he touched her hand, very gently, a mere brush of fingertips against the gloved palm of her hand. She let them stay there, and felt a little braver.
---
(the sister)
Edith waited until the footman had departed, and then said to her husband, a tinge of hysteria in her voice, “This is madness, isn’t it?”
The Viscount Branksome replied only with silence and a look which could as well say nothing and everything at once. Edith laughed, a sharp sound utterly devoid of mirth, and turned away from him, finding some measure of escape in the cloudy sky beyond their bedroom’s window. Any distraction it might have provided was short-lived. She felt his arms coming around her waist, a warm, tangible presence which nevertheless only heightened the gale inside her into a madman’s shriek.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Evelyn’s voice was soft, soothing, and yet it harboured no nonsense; he had always been one of the most pragmatic men she ever knew.
“I am,” Edith replied, strangely defiant in the shelter of his arms. “Are you?”
He drew her even closer and she could feel the warm caress of his breath against her right cheek. “I am with you,” he answered, quiet, steadfast, “every step of the way.”
Of all love declarations he had had the chance to make-Edith closed her eyes as tears ran freely down her cheeks. But she had been blessed, despite everything. He was the man who looked at her and saw what she really was, the man who knew of her flaws, the man who still accepted her in spite of those flaws. He was, would be, until the end, her one and only husband.
This was not a journey she had to make alone.
---
(the lady’s maid)
Sarah O’Brien walked with the air of a woman sure of her place in the world. Even the grim atmosphere of an old English house could not deprive her of that confidence, difficult to earn and yet a satisfying proof of her hard work. It was but one mark of her success.
One had to be hardy, and in some measure ruthless, to be a successful businesswoman-that, and leave England with all its rigid class system and stuck-up aristocracy. It was only America, the land of opportunity, who could give her a chance. She had seized the opportunity after the war, soon after the Grantham household had crumbled. Sarah had always been a fast learner and the complexity of trade had given her very little trouble. She worked on her form, her speech, her self-esteem, and everything else shortly followed,
In various ways, she rather enjoyed being her own mistress, a woman of independent means with not even a husband or a brother to obey. The absence of the class system, in particular, had taken her some serious adjustments, but she immediately saw the merit of it. The better part of life, which until then had been closed off from her due to her lesser status, was now a field of rights she was free to explore. Sarah O’Brien had changed, both her person and situation, mostly toward the better if she were to admit.
But then she saw her lady, descending the stairs with slow, graceful steps, her features greatly changed since the last time she had seen her and yet the fire in her undimmed, and the old thorny vines of guilt-misery-bitterness once more twined around her heart. In the end, she was still the same Sarah O’Brien who had brushed Lady Cora’s hair, who had mended her dresses, who had killed her unborn child-who knew she would go to hell and back to atone for that one crime.
She would do anything for her lady, or die trying.
---
(the twelve)
She waited until they were all seated, each face and posture wrought with varying degrees of tension, and then took the letter out from her pocket.
“I received this letter three weeks ago from Mr. Molesley,” Cora began, her voice clear and strong in the library’s gloom. “He expressed his regret at being unable to join us, but he could not afford to leave his post. Not if he wished to remain a conductor of the Calais coach.”
Silence stretched in the absence of response. Any response. Fear gripped her heart all of a sudden, a laugh cold and cruel echoing in her desperate ears; of course it would come to this, now that the execution was imminent, the danger clear.
“If any of you has second thoughts-”
And everyone began to speak at once; Edith’s vehement denial, Evelyn’s resonating calm, her mother-in-law’s aloof scoff, Anna and Gwen’s eager claims, Branson’s angry defiance, Thomas’s drawling voice, William’s flustered alarm, Bates’s unruffled melancholy. In the storm of voices, Cora found her epicentre, a sacred oath between them all, to honour her and her family’s memory-and she nearly broke down to sobs.
Robert, she thought, the name delicately twisting her heart. Robert.
After his death, she had married her childhood sweetheart, but neither Fred nor America could erase the ghosts she had been running from. A new life was but a façade to hide behind when it was her own shadow she was trying to outrun, each day blending with the next and the next in a hazy, colourless blur. Then the accident had happened, Fred’s mountaineering accident, only fourteen months after their marriage.
Poor Cora. Life has been unkind to her. Surely nothing is worse than to be widowed twice. The marriage was only one year old too. You don’t suppose there is anything sinister in it, do you?
The idle talks had not been lost on her, but Cora had gone beyond caring. She had remained in New York, living in their large, comfortable house as the misanthropic widow, Mrs. Curtis. Then one day, Tom Branson had come to find her, filled with vengeance and fury as he had always been since Sybil’s death, but no longer aimless. A plot had begun to form on the periphery of her mind, first faint, but growing stronger with each sleepless night. Cora knew that she could never rest before her ghosts did, and they would never rest before their murderer died.
Now the plan was ripe and here they were, the twelve hinges of the grand design. She watched their faces, one by one, and them moved toward a large table at the middle of the room. With William’s help, she unrolled a diagram of the Calais coach in the Orient Express.
“This is what we will do.”
And then she began.
The End
---
Note: Here's a list of the corresponding characters for anyone who's curious:
Lady Cora Crawley / Mrs. Curtis - Linda Arden / Mrs. Hubbard
Mr. Bates - Masterman (Mr. Beddoes in the film)
Anna - Fräulein Hildegarde Schmidt
Lady Violet Crawley - Princess Natalia Dragomiroff
Branson - Cyrus Hardman
Daisy - Greta Ohlsson
Thomas - Hector McQueen
William - Colonel Arbuthnot
Gwen - Mary Debenham
Edith - Countess Andrenyi
Evelyn Napier - Count Andrenyi
Miss O'Brien - Antonio Foscarelli
Mr. Molesley - Pierre Michel
Thank you so much for reading and please let me know what you think :D
Fandom: Downton Abbey
Characters: About half of the entire cast makes an appearance here. Several pairings are mentioned, but they are by no means the centre of the story.
Rating: PG-13
Warning: a little sad and angst-flavoured, considering the subject matter.
Word Count: ~5000
Note: This fic might not make much sense unless you know what Murder on the Orient Express is and for those who don’t, whyyyyy D: Basically, I took the cast of Downton Abbey and put them into a similar setting as that of the background situation of Orient Express. There might have been some influence of the 1974 film too, because I adore it so much.
Anyway, it’s all reana_camellia’s fault, so all complaints should go to her /is bricked
---
(the lady)
Mrs. Curtis watched from her bedroom window as a car came into the driveway and wheeled quietly toward the front door. English decorum decreed that a hostess should have been downstairs, ready with a smile and a hand offered to welcome her guests into her house, but she did not. For Mrs. Curtis, it was a custom which belonged to a time long gone, when politesse still mattered and laughter was not a stranger.
The white, delicate curtain fell, soundless, as she moved away from the window toward her dressing table. The picture of her smiling daughter and son-in-law in an ornate silver frame sat on the left corner, before the mirror, away from bottles of perfumes and various cosmetic paraphernalia. Even now, after six years had passed since the tragedy, a glance was all she could bear. Time healed all wounds, all except those which simply could not stop bleeding for lack of closure.
This was one of those wounds.
Seating herself in front of the vanity, Mrs. Curtis unlocked the left drawer with a small key chained around her neck and retrieved a white envelope from a pile of letters addressed to her name. She had memorised every word, every turn of phrase and humble sentence with which the news had been conveyed, but the thought of what was waiting for her downstairs compelled her to read the letter once more. A simple manner of postponement, perhaps.
Despite its folds and creases, the paper felt smooth under her stiff fingers. It began with a greeting she had not heard in person for years, a name she had cast away and vowed never to remember again. Odd how one always tried the hardest when it came to the inevitable. She read every word carefully, to assure herself-yet again-that she was not mistaken and every detail was indeed in place; that the time had come to put her plan in motion.
It was a brief letter and ended all too soon. She refolded it slowly, carefully, corner to corner matching its old marks, and then looked into the mirror. Every morning, she saw a woman haunted by ghosts from her past; today, a woman ready to confront them stared back at her.
Mouth set into a thin line of determination, Mrs. Curtis put the letter into her pocket and prepared herself to go downstairs.
---
(the batman)
He was the first among the servants to arrive.
The butler who opened the door to admit him into the house was thin, slightly built, with an immaculately groomed moustache above an expressionless set of lips. Bates immediately thought of Mr. Carson and what a sea of differences there could be between one butler and another.
He followed the butler’s steady, unhurried pace into the library. Unlike Downton’s, it was located at the far end of the house, a cloistered retreat instead of an office. “Please wait here for a moment, sir,” the butler murmured tonelessly, and then left him alone with memories of a place now too far away, separated by time and space and yet not unlike this one. Tall cases filled by rows of books. Gleaming wooden wainscot. His lord sitting at the writing table. The Cheerful Charlies.
Sentimentality was a sign of old age, his mother would say. He had been there when Mr. Carson breathed his last. Illness had been quick to prey on him, after the family he had served for almost thirty years had crumbled in a matter of months, right before his eyes. The proud butler of Downton had died a man grieved and broken.
And then his lord. His kind lord. His only lord. Bates had known firsthand many degrees of bitterness, but there was none which could surpass the knowledge that a man so generous and compassionate could have been defeated by grief, so fatally and utterly. To be sure, Lord Grantham’s health had been steadily declining for quite some time, but there should have been no real cause for alarm, not for many years.
The kidnapping had been the undoing of many.
A car had arrived. Bates stood listening for a moment as the front door swung open, followed by an indistinct rumble of voices-real voices, not the lingering echo of reminiscences or the cruel product of his nightmares. Drawn by the sounds, he left the library and retraced his steps toward the front of the house.
And then he saw her.
---
(the head maid)
Anna nearly dropped her valise when she saw him.
The span of six years had changed him very little; it was her first thought as her feet slowed to a stop, waiting for his approach. Perhaps there were a few lines added to his aged face, a few streaks of grey in his neatly combed black hair, but her heart recognised him for who he was: the only man she ever truly loved.
“How are you, Mr. Bates?” The question fell from her lips far too easily, restrained neither by time nor unease. She always began; he always followed.
“Quite well, thank you, Anna.” His smooth, melancholy voice was unchanged. But his cane was nowhere in sight and he no longer walked with a limp. For a moment, she was stunned by the revelation.
But of course. That man would never have hired a valet with a limp.
“And you?” he asked, eyes never leaving her. Anna felt a sob and a contemptuous laugh bubbling up her throat-small talks! after what they had been a lifetime ago.
“I’m getting on,” she said, still quiet and controlled, beyond doubt a most accomplished liar. She used to be honest, brave, straightforward, once upon a time.
He did not respond. She wondered if he noticed, if he cared.
But then her lady called for her, and Anna was surprised to find that she was glad for the excuse. Her footsteps on the polished wooden stairs were loud enough to drown the hammering sound of her heart. He remained where he was, watching her escape, but she did not look back.
The pain, the wonderings, were unbearable.
---
(the dowager)
English climate always made Violet acutely aware of her age. After living in Nice for so long, she had almost forgotten what it was like to wrap oneself so thickly in furs against the horrid wind.
Now comfortably seated by a cheerful fire, she let her gaze roam about the brightly lit room as her maid prepared for her change of dress. The house was certainly nothing like Downton, but at least these chambers were comfortable enough, though somewhat modern. Its remote location, however, made any sort of travel rather difficult; really most inconsiderate of Cora, although she supposed these efforts at discretion and secrecy were not entirely without merit.
Her window afforded a generous view of the countryside, but under so sombre a grey sky, it failed to elicit any feeling of fondness in her. How typical of an English autumn. Violet forced herself to contemplate the unpleasantness of a return journey in a hailstorm rather than follow her thoughts down the memory lane, to a similar day when she had buried her only son. No mother should have had that experience. It was a most unnatural order of things, monstrous even.
All of a sudden, her quietly undulating melancholy gave way to hate, so strong she must make an effort not to let it show. Everything here reminded her of those happier times. The conundrum of an entail, once a great matter, now felt petty and childish. It was a wonder how she could have lost so much sleep over such a trivial affair.
Violet closed her eyes wearily. In any case, she would only stay here for one night. It was understood by the concierge at her hotel in Birmingham that she was merely making a visit to a friend today. Foul weather and its most injurious effects to an old lady’s health could always serve as an excuse to stay the night. No suspicion could be attributed to her brief absence, should something go amiss in the plan.
All the same, she wished that it would be over soon-and quickly. And then perhaps she could finally rest.
“Will you be wearing the purple satin, milady?”
Violet opened her eyes and considered the modestly stylish dress her maid had laid up on the bed. The last time she had worn it, she had been surrounded by smiles and people now long gone, a particular memory which brought a cold, bitter pang to her heart.
“No,” Violet said solemnly. “The black one. It suits the occasion better-if it could ever be called that.”
“Yes, milady.”
---
(the chauffeur)
It was a long walk, but Branson did not mind. The wind was strong, carrying a hint of rain in the air, but the cold numbed his face and it was exactly what he wanted. English weather. English verdure. English autumn. Even after all these years, England remained the country he hated and loved above everything else.
To be sure, his new home had its charms. Broken dreams and ideals too preposterous still for such a rigid country as his motherland had brought him to the less inflexible cousin, the States. Branson did not remember his beginning in the successful detective agency which had been his workplace for the last five years (Americans were nearly as bad as the English when it came to their fellow human’s secrets) but he remembered what it was about the profession which had attracted him so: to investigate, to have a chance to discover a sprinkle of truth when the government and legal system he had once put so much hopes in had failed.
Sybil. Even the barest whisper of her name could not fail to bring a smile to his lips, sad and bitter though it was. He could be the best detective in the world and still he would have no chance at investigating her death, for there was nothing to investigate. A car accident, the kinder voices had said; a guilt-driven suicide, the more malicious ones no less vigorously asserted. She had been a young woman plagued by discontent, jealous of her sister’s happiness, her sister’s wedding, her sister’s husband. It was not difficult to imagine that a young woman so at odds with her family, a young woman of unconventional and unseemly ideas-not to mention unsuitable friends-could have been driven by jealousy to desperate, sometimes appalling ends. No doubt it was an effect of those ‘progressive’ thoughts.
Branson knew better. She would not have committed suicide; the mere idea of it was laughable. Then it must have been an accident, which despite overwhelming evidences nevertheless rang false to his ears. She would have not driven so recklessly, if not for the whispered accusations, the printed questions, the sceptical glances sent her way, the silence of her own sisters.
But he was the one who had taught her how to drive. He had had a hand in her death, and Branson could not use logic to walk around such burning guilt, such desire to blame himself for lack of anyone else to blame.
Except there was someone to blame. Oh yes, there was; he had found him, purely by accident while he had been working on an unrelated case. And now the time had come to deliver judgment, so long postponed, so long buried, so long festering into hate-filled vengeance.
The murderer would pay.
---
(the kitchen maid)
At twenty-six, Daisy was no longer the timid girl she had once been, scurrying from one fireplace to another, in terror of being seen by a member of the family. The same girl, who had bustled about in the kitchen, acting as Mrs’ Patmore’s third hand as well as bearing the worst of her temper, was a picture long gone. And yet here she stood, before the entrance of this house-smaller than Downton, but to her eyes no less imposing-once more uncertain, timid, intimidated.
It was like going back in time. So many years had passed and yet she could see it only too clearly in her mind, the succession of happy and unhappy days. For Daisy, one moment stood above the rest: a flash of dark blue, before the kitchen door swung shut and left her alone with her guilty silence.
She had seen Lady Sybil, repeatedly, leaving the house through the servant’s entrance and going away with the car despite Lord Grantham’s disapproval of such unladylike behaviour. This had become her favourite method of escape whenever something unpleasant had occurred, since the family’s increasing displeasure at her way of life. There had been some pretty nasty talks, or so Anna had said.
Daisy had seen Lady Sybil that night, after her terrible row with Lady Mary. She had heard the sound of footsteps, had glimpsed the dark blue of her clothes-those peculiar and mannish clothes Lady Sybil had taken to wearing in the past year-and yet again, that timid kitchen maid had said nothing. If the lady wished to be alone, then it was none of her business. She was only a young servant of no consequence.
Such a convenient excuse.
The next morning, little Master Robert had disappeared and she had found the kitchen door unlocked.
A fair share of suspicions had come her way, oh yes, but Daisy knew that she was innocent of that sin. The other sin, the sin of neglect, the sin of blindness and ignorance-this was the one which had forced her to leave service. Missions became her life, far from Downton and England, far from the only things she had known. A sort of penance, one could say, although she knew very well that not even the greatest atonement could erase such sin.
If only she had said something. If only she had stopped her. If only she had been less timid, less eager to hide behind conveniently placed excuses.
This was simply another way to atone. She told herself so and raised a trembling hand to press the bell.
---
(the first footman)
“You’re early.”
Mr. Bates’s only response was a stony look. Thomas smirked. By now, they had spent far too much time in each other’s company not to pick up each other’s signals, wordless or otherwise.
“Never thought he could spare you a whole day,” he continued, offhand and completely undaunted by the older man’s silence. “You must have been very persuasive, Mr. Bates.”
This particular comment did not even earn a habitual glance from his companion as Mr. Bates transferred his attention to the window. Thomas followed his gaze but immediately lost interest in the view-an adjacent field of nothing but barren grass. Nothing could be duller. He concentrated on his cigarette instead, enjoying each lungful of smoke as his eyes idly made a comparison between this library and the one so engraved in the back of his mind.
The memories of his footman days brought a contemptuous smile to his lips. Thomas had always known that he was different-too sharp, too quick to learn, too smart to be a mere footman. The Great War had taught him many things, among them alternative ways to move ahead in the world. To be a butler, after all, would have been a dull vocation for one with his brain and character.
Not that his present job did not have its moments of dullness. Still, all things considered, he must admit that being a secretary wasn’t half bad. His employer might be a bastard with a temper to match, but Thomas had learned to play deaf and hold his tongue-yet another thing he had acquired from the war. The pay was good, and if every now and then he would be invited to join his employer in bed, then it was nothing he hadn’t done before.
And of course, there was Mr. Bates.
The man still sat unmoving in his chair, his gaze still fixed on the dreary stretch of green outside. As always, there was something in his stolid manner which never failed to rile Thomas, like an annoyingly persistent sound in the background, grazing the surface of his consciousness but only just. He decided it was time for another attempt.
“What did you tell him?”
The question invited a heavy gaze, weighed down by grimness and such overwhelming melancholy that Thomas nevertheless had come to expect from his silent companion-it was the hassle of one year of close existence, whether he liked it or not.
“Lies,” Mr, Bates finally answered, his voice no less burdened by the same ghosts.
“Obviously. But what, to be specific?”
“A funeral.”
Thomas arched an eyebrow. “Not a man of subtlety, are you, Mr. Bates?”
“Not a man of lies, that’s all.”
Thomas’s mocking smile was subdued, hidden behind a white curl of smoke. It had been too easy to fabricate a family emergency, at least on his side, but then again he was used to subterfuges and deceits. Mr. Bates was by no means the product of the same school. If he were, then perhaps Thomas would have enjoyed their collaboration better, like that of his and Miss O’Brien’s.
He never stopped to examine his reasons, why he would embroil himself in this conspiracy, for a revenge he did not particularly want, for a family he did not particularly like. But when Mr. Bates had come to find him in London, one year ago, it had taken him less than two minutes to decide. Of course he would join in the plan. Of course he would play the part of a stranded-in-the-East, penniless young man eager to have a secretarial job. For one thing, it would surely be a change, an opportunity to make use of the new skills he had discovered. An aptitude for foreign languages was but one of them-once more, courtesy of the war.
A strange period of excitement had soon followed afterwards. It had been quite a challenge to hatch a scheme and arrange a ‘coincidence’ in order to set him up as the new secretary, after deposing the old one, but certainly nothing out of their combined prowess. Despite his insistence to appear correct and saintly in front of others, Mr. Bates had quite a few tricks up his sleeve, not to mention a mind full of ingenuity.
In a way, Thomas did not dislike him now the way he had once, under the roof of a different house. In many other ways, he still did-and it was why these occasional efforts to irritate him were amusing sports as much as firm testaments to their old enmity. At the very least, they would help alleviate some of the boredom which inevitably came with his role in this charade.
If none of these could provide an acceptable explanation of why he had taken the job, then Thomas would only be too happy to remain oblivious.
“At least it’s an adventure,” he spoke aloud, both for his own sake and the other man’s. “I’ve always wanted to be a point man.”
“Good for you,” Mr. Bates said wearily, not even batting an eye.
---
(the second footman)
There was something about contemplating a sin which both tempted and revolted. A murder was not exempt from this rule, but it nevertheless occupied a different plane. A much different plane.
This was not, William often reasoned with himself during bleak moments of doubt, entirely about revenge. This was more about the injustice of it all. That those horrible tragedies had befallen such kindly and decent family was bad enough, but that the chief perpetrator should have escaped from law’s punishment was not only appalling, but also downright wicked.
Perhaps the war had changed him. No one could have seen the kind, soft-hearted lad who had once worked at Downton, as a man so determined on revenge. That William had disappeared. Now he was Major Mason, a respected member of the British Army, a hero in his family and friends’ eyes.
There was certainly nothing like death to propel one forward.
The same heroic, distinguished major was now circling the garden for the third time, slowly but restlessly. He was stalling, William knew at least that much-he had battled himself far too many times at this front not to recognise a mere excuse for delay. Once he set foot into the house, there would be no turning back. A murder was a murder, whatever the reason.
With a sigh, he tried to seek solace-and perhaps a bit of enlightenment-from his surroundings. The garden was not grand, but well-tended. He remembered bearing trays of refreshments at the seasonal hunting party, threading his way quickly but carefully among horses and hunters alike. Even now, with more money than he could ever spend, William could not shake the feeling that he should still be downstairs, polishing silver and ironing newspapers. There was comfort in such simple life, constant and peaceful, away from dark thoughts and even darker deeds. Not for the first time, William blamed the war.
His third round soon ended. William embarked on the fourth, waiting.
---
(the housemaid)
Gwen had seen him before he saw her. She waved, and with a reserved, subdued smile, William approached.
They had met a few times in London. The first had been entirely by accident-she enjoying her free afternoon and he hunting for a wedding gift for his soon-to-be-married sister; a hopeless errand, as he had called it, and Gwen had been quick to offer her help. The second time, only three days later, he had taken her to see a performing circus
This was unlike any of their previous meetings. Gwen could feel the strain in her smile as they made their slow round in the garden and filled the emptiness with remarks on the weather and the garden-safe, meaningless, strictly impersonal. Neither of them felt that their joyous London encounters were at all appropriate for a topic of conversation, considering the circumstances. As their small talks dwindled to long stretches of silence and awkwardness, her own thoughts inevitably drifted toward the real reason of this small reunion-if it could ever be called such, so harmless a name for so harmful a scheme.
And Lady Sybil.
The thought of her still brought Gwen pain; her lady, the one who had made her what she was now, the one who had made it possible for a lowly maidservant to hold so high a post: a secretary to a junior government minister. It would have been beyond her, utterly and eternally, but Lady Sybil had taught her to hope, to fight, to believe.
“He deserves it.”
Even Gwen was taken aback at the amount of vehemence spilling into her voice as those words fell from her lips. If William was at all surprised, then his countenance was a perfect mask of inscrutability to hide any of it. His gaze was steady, watching emotions surge and shift on her face.
“He does.”
The sheer calmness and resignation in his soft voice made Gwen stare at him. She could not help but wonder, how many men he had killed in the war, if he regretted any of them, some of them, all of them-if he found their planning of a murder now just another banality. None of these made it past her lips. Gwen held her silence and stubbornly looked at the shrubbery to her left, strangely annoyed at her own stubbornness.
But then he touched her hand, very gently, a mere brush of fingertips against the gloved palm of her hand. She let them stay there, and felt a little braver.
---
(the sister)
Edith waited until the footman had departed, and then said to her husband, a tinge of hysteria in her voice, “This is madness, isn’t it?”
The Viscount Branksome replied only with silence and a look which could as well say nothing and everything at once. Edith laughed, a sharp sound utterly devoid of mirth, and turned away from him, finding some measure of escape in the cloudy sky beyond their bedroom’s window. Any distraction it might have provided was short-lived. She felt his arms coming around her waist, a warm, tangible presence which nevertheless only heightened the gale inside her into a madman’s shriek.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Evelyn’s voice was soft, soothing, and yet it harboured no nonsense; he had always been one of the most pragmatic men she ever knew.
“I am,” Edith replied, strangely defiant in the shelter of his arms. “Are you?”
He drew her even closer and she could feel the warm caress of his breath against her right cheek. “I am with you,” he answered, quiet, steadfast, “every step of the way.”
Of all love declarations he had had the chance to make-Edith closed her eyes as tears ran freely down her cheeks. But she had been blessed, despite everything. He was the man who looked at her and saw what she really was, the man who knew of her flaws, the man who still accepted her in spite of those flaws. He was, would be, until the end, her one and only husband.
This was not a journey she had to make alone.
---
(the lady’s maid)
Sarah O’Brien walked with the air of a woman sure of her place in the world. Even the grim atmosphere of an old English house could not deprive her of that confidence, difficult to earn and yet a satisfying proof of her hard work. It was but one mark of her success.
One had to be hardy, and in some measure ruthless, to be a successful businesswoman-that, and leave England with all its rigid class system and stuck-up aristocracy. It was only America, the land of opportunity, who could give her a chance. She had seized the opportunity after the war, soon after the Grantham household had crumbled. Sarah had always been a fast learner and the complexity of trade had given her very little trouble. She worked on her form, her speech, her self-esteem, and everything else shortly followed,
In various ways, she rather enjoyed being her own mistress, a woman of independent means with not even a husband or a brother to obey. The absence of the class system, in particular, had taken her some serious adjustments, but she immediately saw the merit of it. The better part of life, which until then had been closed off from her due to her lesser status, was now a field of rights she was free to explore. Sarah O’Brien had changed, both her person and situation, mostly toward the better if she were to admit.
But then she saw her lady, descending the stairs with slow, graceful steps, her features greatly changed since the last time she had seen her and yet the fire in her undimmed, and the old thorny vines of guilt-misery-bitterness once more twined around her heart. In the end, she was still the same Sarah O’Brien who had brushed Lady Cora’s hair, who had mended her dresses, who had killed her unborn child-who knew she would go to hell and back to atone for that one crime.
She would do anything for her lady, or die trying.
---
(the twelve)
She waited until they were all seated, each face and posture wrought with varying degrees of tension, and then took the letter out from her pocket.
“I received this letter three weeks ago from Mr. Molesley,” Cora began, her voice clear and strong in the library’s gloom. “He expressed his regret at being unable to join us, but he could not afford to leave his post. Not if he wished to remain a conductor of the Calais coach.”
Silence stretched in the absence of response. Any response. Fear gripped her heart all of a sudden, a laugh cold and cruel echoing in her desperate ears; of course it would come to this, now that the execution was imminent, the danger clear.
“If any of you has second thoughts-”
And everyone began to speak at once; Edith’s vehement denial, Evelyn’s resonating calm, her mother-in-law’s aloof scoff, Anna and Gwen’s eager claims, Branson’s angry defiance, Thomas’s drawling voice, William’s flustered alarm, Bates’s unruffled melancholy. In the storm of voices, Cora found her epicentre, a sacred oath between them all, to honour her and her family’s memory-and she nearly broke down to sobs.
Robert, she thought, the name delicately twisting her heart. Robert.
After his death, she had married her childhood sweetheart, but neither Fred nor America could erase the ghosts she had been running from. A new life was but a façade to hide behind when it was her own shadow she was trying to outrun, each day blending with the next and the next in a hazy, colourless blur. Then the accident had happened, Fred’s mountaineering accident, only fourteen months after their marriage.
Poor Cora. Life has been unkind to her. Surely nothing is worse than to be widowed twice. The marriage was only one year old too. You don’t suppose there is anything sinister in it, do you?
The idle talks had not been lost on her, but Cora had gone beyond caring. She had remained in New York, living in their large, comfortable house as the misanthropic widow, Mrs. Curtis. Then one day, Tom Branson had come to find her, filled with vengeance and fury as he had always been since Sybil’s death, but no longer aimless. A plot had begun to form on the periphery of her mind, first faint, but growing stronger with each sleepless night. Cora knew that she could never rest before her ghosts did, and they would never rest before their murderer died.
Now the plan was ripe and here they were, the twelve hinges of the grand design. She watched their faces, one by one, and them moved toward a large table at the middle of the room. With William’s help, she unrolled a diagram of the Calais coach in the Orient Express.
“This is what we will do.”
And then she began.
The End
---
Note: Here's a list of the corresponding characters for anyone who's curious:
Lady Cora Crawley / Mrs. Curtis - Linda Arden / Mrs. Hubbard
Mr. Bates - Masterman (Mr. Beddoes in the film)
Anna - Fräulein Hildegarde Schmidt
Lady Violet Crawley - Princess Natalia Dragomiroff
Branson - Cyrus Hardman
Daisy - Greta Ohlsson
Thomas - Hector McQueen
William - Colonel Arbuthnot
Gwen - Mary Debenham
Edith - Countess Andrenyi
Evelyn Napier - Count Andrenyi
Miss O'Brien - Antonio Foscarelli
Mr. Molesley - Pierre Michel
Thank you so much for reading and please let me know what you think :D