Chapter Text
The rain fell in a relentless drizzle, cloaking Ashwood House in a grey shroud that seemed to seep into its very stones. The manor, nestled in the rolling Yorkshire countryside, was a faded relic, its limestone facade pockmarked by time, its ivy-clad walls sagging under decades of neglect.
Inside, the servants’ hall was a cavernous space, its chipped oak table dwarfed by high ceilings, the air heavy with damp and the faint tang of coal dust. A single bare bulb swung overhead, casting harsh shadows across Thomas Barrow’s sharp features; high cheekbones like blades, a jaw taut with defiance, and grey eyes narrowed against a world that had never been kind. He stood alone, polishing a silver candlestick. The candlestick, ornate but unused, was a relic of Ashwood’s past, when grand dinners lit up the dining room. Now, it was just another futile task in a house that felt like a tomb. One more pointless task in a house that felt like a mausoleum, silent save for the creak of ancient floorboards and the distant tick of the grandfather clock in the entrance hall.
Thomas had come from Downton Abbey, where life was a vibrant symphony of clinking crystal, whispered intrigues, and the hum of a dozen servants bustling through grand halls. Ashwood was a dirge, its silence broken only by the creak of floorboards and the distant tick of the grandfather clock in the entrance hall. The staff was meager: Thomas, valet and butler; Mrs. Carter, a dour cook whose evenings were spent knitting in her room. From the bare hall he could hear her needles clicking like a metronome. Jenny, a flighty maid of nineteen who slipped off to the village whenever possible, her laughter trailing out the back door, as if she was taking all the life out of the house when she went.
Sir Mark Stiles and Lady Margaret, the elderly couple who owned Ashwood, lived in a world of naps, weak tea, and tepid soup. Their days were as predictable as the rain that battered the leaded windows. Their sons, two bright young men, had been lost to the Great War, and with them went the house’s vitality. Now it was less a home and more a hollow shell.
His routine was maddeningly simple, a cycle that grated on his nerves. At eight, he laid out Sir Mark’s tweed suit. There were three worn in endless rotation. One was grey with elbows worn to a dull shine. One was brown and the fabric smelled faintly of pipe tobacco. One was drab olive and Thomas thought this must be the oldest of all. Sometimes he was tempted to switch the order and see if Sir Mark noticed, but what would be the amusement if he did not? Why risk a job if he did?
At seven he set out an equally ancient set of dinner wear. When Thomas arrived it might have been more accurately called ‘gray tie’ but he had bleached and starched the corpse of fashion into at least the proper shade if not entirely the proper form.
By nine p.m., he carried a silver tray with tea to the old man’s bedroom, the porcelain cup rattling as he navigated the creaking stairs. This was a daily constant, the cook putting out the same cup and cloth. At least Thomas thought it was the same one. For all he knew they family had a set of dozens tucked away in Mrs. Carter’s ever-defended kitchen.
Each morning helped Sir Mark dress, buttoning the waistcoat with practiced ease, and watched him shuffle to his study to “work”. That meant dozing over The Times, his snores rattling the oak-paneled walls like a distant motor.
“Thank you, Barrow,” Sir Mark mumbled daily, his watery eyes barely meeting Thomas’s, his voice a thin rasp.
Lady Margaret, frail and half-deaf, spent her days in the parlor, her knitting needles clicking over scarves no one wore, piling up in a wicker basket like relics of a lost era. Her only requests were for a shawl or a cup of weak tea, both commands delivered with a vague, trembling smile that made Thomas’s stomach twist with pity and frustration. Some evenings she dressed for dinner, her gowns as faded as her husband’s suits. Some evenings she managed with a gilded wrapper out of the Victorian age.
By nine p.m., Thomas helped Sir Mark into his flannel pajamas, the old man’s hands trembling as he gripped Thomas’s arm. By ten, if not earlier, the couple were asleep. Nothing more for Thomas to do until morning.
The mail arrived twice daily. Thomas wrote out the checks for Sir Mark’s signature, or if it was household accounts paid them himself with a checkbook on the local bank. The rare personal letters he left in the library. Twice he had brought letters downstairs, once for Mrs. Carter and once a postcard for Jenny from her sister who worked in a different manor house in another county. Nothing came for him. No one had anything to say.
That was it. No dinner parties, no guests, no life.
“I’m wasting away here,” Thomas muttered, his voice sharp as he tossed the polishing rag onto the table with a soft thud.
He lit a cigarette, the match flaring briefly, the smoke curling toward the ceiling like a ghost escaping its chains. Was he a ghost? He had tried to become one. Had he succeeded?
At Downton, he’d thrived on schemes, taking joy in outwitting Carson’s stern oversight, sparring with O’Brien’s venomous wit, navigating the servants’ hall like a chessboard where every move was calculated. Here, there was no one downstairs to outwit. There was no one upstairs to impress.
In what should be the servant’s hall Mrs. Carter rocked in solitude. If she spoke at all it was a mutter, her voice a low drone through the thin walls. Jenny took her half days as full evenings. She was always off with her beau, Charlie, a farmer’s son who worked for the baker and with his younger brother did the little groundskeeping the manor got. Mostly this meant between them they scythed the front lawn low enough to leave the front path walkable and clear a space for the grocery deliveries.
Lack of company left Thomas to pace the servants’ quarters, his footsteps echoing in the empty corridors. The silence was a physical ache, a reminder of his isolation. He’d considered leaving, his mind drifting to London’s bright lights or even a new grand house, but where could he go? A servant with no prospects, no family to fall back on, and secrets that could ruin him? He was trapped.
“Another thrilling day,” he said to the empty room, his sarcasm as sharp as the knife he used to open the mail. He stubbed out his cigarette in a cracked saucer, the ember hissing, and headed upstairs, the creak of the floorboards his only companion. Might as well head up. At least if he was unconscious he wouldn’t have to listen to this silence. He paused at the landing, glancing out a window at the sodden fields, their green dulled by the rain.
“There’s got to be more than this,” he whispered.