Sarah O'Brien sighed at her reflection in the mirror on her bedroom wall. It was a tiny mirror, echoing just how tiny she felt at this moment. She could only see her eyes in it. Dark eyes. Guilty eyes. It overwhelmed her for a moment and she turned her back and rested against the wall. Tears threatened to spill but she wouldn't let them, O'Brien never cried. This strong, obnoxious mask she'd built up about herself had protected her from all these years as a lowly servant and she was not about to let it slip away now.

She had never meant to hurt anyone physically. Especially not a baby. An innocent.

Her ladyship was quieter now, withdrawn as was her husband and the rest of the household. The grim fact that war had been declared didn't help much either. Sarah didn't like the Grantham Girls, they were all so snobbish, not taught to do anything but sit and look pretty for rich husbands. They were all miserably with their lot in life.

Hatred bubbled inside her chest and burned her as her guilt did. She couldn't live with this feeling. It strangled her. Eveytime she looked at her ladyship, caught her eye or even though of that little nothing in a pool of blood on the bathroom floor she wanted to scream and scream and scream and scream. Her heavy dress felt hot and tight against her chest as she tried to comfort herself. Curling her arms about her as if in one-sided hug. There was no one she could tell, and forgiveness was out of the question; she could never forgive herself.

A whimpering noise took her by surprise and Sarah started, looking around for the source of the noise. Her hands trembled as she traced the piercing noise back to her own lips. Grasping the shawl from her neck she attempted to silence herself, stuffing it into her mouth to shut off the sound of her own guilt. Shaking she slid to the floor, legs sprawled in front of her, body shaking in silent sobs. In some way the damp shawl was comforting. After a moment Sarah had calmed enough to listen to the silence.

It was raining outside.

Sarah like the rain. It smelt fresh. When she was little she would run outside in the rain and her aunts couldn't follow her there. She knew why she was miserable and bitter; her aunts had been and they had taken it out on her with their malicious punishments.

The rain sounded nice against her little window. It pattered in a soothing rhythm. Shakily Sarah stood up and walked over to her window. She leaned against the cool glass and caught her ghostly reflection. Her hair was down as she had taken the pins out earlier in her little mirror. Her features were harsh but her hair was long. Somehow that seemed to make up for it, waist length curls. Her aunts had cut it off once so she looked like a boy. How she had sobbed then. But not now.

From her window she could see the river. It rushed menacingly. A good punishment.

Still trembling she unlaced her boots and padded across the floor too her bedroom door. No need for shoes in a river.

Silently she walked through the house and out the kitchen door. She felt unreal. The rain hit her with a comforting coldness and in a moment she felt her body release the sobs she had been holding back. Her cheeks were soon wet with tears and her dress soaked with rain. She walked through the wet grass down to the river bank and stood for a moment. Her hair was now plastered to her face and back and her hands were shaking, but she was not afraid of death itself but what awaited her after it.

Was she condemned to Hell?

The river bank was muddy and stuck to her stockings. Sarah couldn't see anymore, her vision was blurred by guilty tears and she slipped and stumbled and fell to her knees. And then she finally screamed.

Screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed at the floor. Her voice was caught in the wind and she couldn't hear anything anymore. No one would come from the big house. She didn't want them anyway.

Sarah O'Brien stood once more, her skirts muddy and her hands red and unsteady. Her eyes red.

She walked into the river.

From his cottage John Knight could see the whole of Downton estate. He could see the flower beds and the well kept lawn and took pride in his work. To most he was simply the gardener but to himself he was the Estate manager. It wasn't much but it was better then being in prison.

His cottage was tiny but home; a kitchen with a table chair and fireplace and a bedroom with a big bed. He had always felt he didn't deserve the kindness Lord Grantham had show him by giving him this job.

He had been only a boy. Young and impressionable. His elder brother had rough friends who stole from the village where they had lived and he had wanted to prove himself worthy of his brother's affection. A robbery gone wrong. Just a little old widow on the edge of town had caught him stealing silver from her and had screamed at him so he reacted as any startled boy would and pushed her. Right down the stairs.

They didn't even let him attend her funeral to say sorry.

John had visited her grave when he had been released and found it overwhelmed him. He had never been back there.

He could till hear her scream as she fell. No. He could hear a scream now.

John looked back towards the kitchen window and could see only the dark grounds. He was imagining it. Memories haunting him, it was well past midnight. He just couldn't sleep, so he had made a pot of tea and sat by the fire, not that there was much comfort in that.

There the noise was again. Screaming on the wind.

Some poor soul down by the river, a beggar looking for a way out? He could see a figure now. Very much in the river, walking deeper and deeper.

In a split second he was out of the door, tea forgotten on the table, and flying with speed down the river to the spot where he had seen the ghost. Only there was no one there, just muddy foot prints and…a hand in the middle of the river grasping for help. John didn't even think about it, he just dived in and grabbed at the hand. It was harder than it looked. He was a strong swimmer but the current was strong and the rain was heavy. Involuntarily he was pulled under the water and once surfaced again he was completely disorientated. There was no hand to signal him anymore just the rush of water and…and a dead weight against his legs pulling him under. Drawing all his courage to him at once he went under again and grabbed the weight and heaved back to the shore in a vain hope of rescue.

It was a woman.

Spluttering water John pulled her from the river further up the back. She was deadly pale. But definably not a beggar. She was dressed in black, a servant's gown. Not pretty but rather handsome features and lovely long hairs that seemed to curl around his hand as he instinctively supported her head. Her skin was soft and frail and cold. No pulse.

Was she dead? How did you tell? In a moment of madness he shook her, it didn't work but then he had hardly expected it to. He had once seen a man woken by a nurse in the prison when he had taken too many white sleeping pills; she had pushed on his chest, forcefully. He looked down at the woman below him. Could he do that to her? She was a…well, a woman, she had a, ahem, chest. Still no movement. Her lips were very deep in colour, almost blue and her eyes were red. John could not let her die.

He pushed on her chest. Nothing happened. Suddenly angry at this woman for nothing he pushed again, harder and harder, over and over and then, as if by some force of god, she spluttered and opened her eyes, coughing up water. Immediately he rolled her to her side so she could breathe easier and spit out the river from her lungs.

"What d' yer think yer doin'?"

John was so taken aback by her angry tone he pulled he up to face him. She was pale and angry and nearly unconscious. But still she pushed him away, if feebly, and struggled against his arms back to the river.

"Lemme go, fool, lemme..."

She collapsed. Her full body weight suddenly on him john struggled for a moment before sweeping her legs from the ground and holding her against his chest.

Slightly he carried her back to his cottage. It had stopped raining.