"You must understand, Thomas. Beautiful Thomas. The strict societal rules that we live under, especially we of the so-called privileged classes. It isn't as perfect as you might believe. There are expectations, responsibilities, obligations; obligations handed down to me, that render my feelings irrelevant, such as whom I love, and which cannot be overcome."
April, 1912
Once they were alone together, and Thomas had arranged for a footman, William, to bring up his suitcases, Thomas took off his livery-coat and poured them both a glass of scotch from the cut-glass decanter meant for His Grace, Philip noticed with a smile. A welcome sign of their familiarity, and too long awaited. He was a bit tired from the trip. A fire burned warmly in the fireplace. He was happy to let Thomas take the lead.
He relaxed as Thomas helped him out of his traveling clothes and into his dressing gown and slippers; relaxed into, and returned, Thomas' kisses and caresses.
"Tired, my darling." Thomas whispered, perceptive as always.
"Yes, a little." Philp sighed. He enjoyed Thomas' affections, but wondered if the arrangement would suit him, and for how long.
"Well, why don't you have a lie-down before dinner then. Fancy a drink?"
"If you'll join me." Philip walked over to the bed, sat down.
The whisky had the mild effect of making the already tired Philip even more drowsy, and his eyes fluttered closed for a few moments as he leaned back against the pillows.
Thomas turned the key to lock the door. He wouldn't be missed for awhile. It was all right; they had plenty of time. He smiled. Thomas was just as happy to lie next to Philip as he rested.
They'd met at the Crawleys' London residence where he had been a guest, during the summer season, and where Thomas had been assigned to be his valet. Thomas Barrow. The son of a London clockmaker, a guildsman, who also for a time worked with his father repairing clocks (that somehow appealed to Philip, the intricacies of the workings of a clock, the artistry of it, like the workings of a sharp mind) and first footman at Downton Abbey. Tall and splendid in his smart livery, befitting the status of a great house, with black hair and smiling blue eyes, not the grey and sullen, serious eyes of the man standing before him now. More sophisticated and refined than the other servants; but then a valet should be. As it happened, a sophisticated and refined lover too. He was a wonderful dancer, modern and up-to-the minute with the latest thing, and a decent enough cricket player. He could be fiercely ambitious, and naïve to the ways of the world was one thing Thomas was not. Philip just could no longer risk it. It seemed he had a knack for doing most everything well, and winning - without effort, even careless; whether at cards, at games of chance, although none of that seemed to matter to him, really. He seemed to be very blessed; apparently in all but for what he most wanted.
"Lucky at cards, unlucky in love, I'd reckon." he'd overheard Thomas say one evening, through a forced smile, in a moment of unguardedness, surprising him. It was the first time Philip had any indication that there was more to Thomas than his composed exterior did show, and that he was anything other than happy.
Music and dancing could sometimes be heard coming from downstairs when the servants were done for the day, after their supper and before they went to bed, music played on the upright piano in the servants' hall, or records played on the family's gramophone that on occasion they were allowed to borrow. Thomas took his responsibilities seriously though, and his eyes and demeanor never betrayed a thing when working; Philip had made these observations of Thomas discreetly. It had been most important to find someone who could be trusted.
Their limited and ever more anticipated chances at conversation, always punctuated by "Your Grace", but less and less of a barrier to them as they grew to know one another in more intimate and private moments, were refreshing in more ways than one, alleviating the boredom from the routine of social engagements and the endless number of eligible young women of suitable background paraded before him as potential marriage partners.
"I say Barrow, did you grow up in or around North Yorkshire?" he'd asked him, gently initiating conversation, as Thomas helped him with his evening clothes, a quick check to the shoulders of his tailcoat with a clothes brush so that he looked impeccable.
"Lancashire, Your Grace. Manchester."
"Ah, not too fair a distance by railway. Do you miss it much?"
"Sometimes, Your Grace, yes."
"There's no need to be so formal, at least when we're alone. It's all quite tedious isn't it? My name is Philip. And I may call you...?"
"Thomas, Your Grace."
And in this way, they were even able to attend and enjoy events together without anyone so much as batting an eye over any impropriety, such as the boat races and garden parties, concerts, picnics, afternoon strolls through St. James's Park. Their relationship had grown into quite a friendship and reckless infatuation over the summer months, even love, he'd daresay now. Too reckless; foolish heart.
When the Crawleys returned to the country at summer's end, he and Thomas corresponded regularly; whenever Thomas could get a chance to do an errand in the village and visit the post. There would be no easy way to break this to him. It killed him to hurt him in this way, not to mention the agony of possibly not ever seeing him again because of it. It wouldn't be the first time a man chose duty over his own happiness.
"So there it is, Thomas. I must marry and fulfill my obligations." he continued. "The estate is falling down around my ears. I'll have to find an heiress."
"But what about me?"
"I'll find someone so enamoured with title and position she won't even pay attention to me. An American!' he joked, looking up at Thomas with a sheepish grin, as he tried to make light of the situation, but Thomas wasn't smiling. At least until it became time to produce an heir.
"Can't you wish me well?"
"But you came here to be with me." Thomas insisted, speaking in a soft, low voice, slowly kissing Philip's hands, his face, his lips. And knowing and anticipating the response he would get, as well as enjoying it himself and the thought of what might follow, softly groaned in pleasure; and, dissolving into his touch, the Duke of Crowborough began to find it difficult to concentrate on the matter at hand.
"Yes, among other reasons. And to offer my condolences to Lord Grantham, of course."
"And I want to be with you." Thomas said tenderly, looking up at him and smiling at him intimately, holding his gaze as he slowly kissed his hand and held it to his cheek, and then kissed it again, and Philip smiled back at him, and closed his eyes in exquisite pleasure. And the sight of Philip's pleasure pleased Thomas immensely. "I could be your valet."
Philip sighed, but he was resolute. "I just don't see how it can work, Thomas. And besides, one taste doesn't make the man, does it?"
Yes, Thomas silently disagreed, sometimes it does. At least it had for him.
"You must understand, Thomas. Beautiful Thomas. The strict societal rules that we live under, especially we of the so-called privileged classes. It isn't as perfect as you might believe. There are expectations, responsibilities, obligations; obligations handed down to me, that render my feelings irrelevant, such as whom I love, and which cannot be overcome. You have much more freedom than people like me."
It would be unthinkable for Philip to give up his birthright, and Thomas would never ask or expect it.
Philip held out the sheaf of letters tied with ribbon he'd sent to Thomas over the months, and that his heart had leapt to know that Thomas had saved, meaning to toss them into the fire grate. They had meant something to him. He'd stolen them, really. What could he have been thinking. If anyone ever found them, he'd be ruined. And so would Thomas be. He couldn't take that chance, for either one of them.
"If I ever thought you would use these against me...I'll deny it. And who do think they will believe?"
"Don't take them...please...I'd never..." Thomas faltered, in profound confusion and disappointment. "Give them back to me!"
"Then you must give me your solemn oath." Philip interrupted. "Noone must ever know. Swear it. And I will keep the letters safely for us."
"I swear it." Thomas said. He understood that it was a frightening prospect, being found out, the disgrace and condemnation, even prison. Surely that's what this must be about. But others didn't understand that it was a beautiful thing.
"And one more thing, Thomas." He should be ashamed with what he was about to propose next, but there was no other way. "I'd like you to stay tonight, if you still want to. I'd like us to continue our relationship, even so. Nothing has to change. I'm sorry, I know this is coming out all wrong, but I need our friendship. This life of mine is so...so isolating. Say you'll think about it."
But Thomas would not stay, although he did not know what he would do in the future. He gathered up his coat and dignity, and went upstairs, back to his room in the attic servants' quarters. My dearest Thomas indeed; one step above a bloody rent boy was more like it. Shaken, his heart trounced, but he calmed himself, held back tears.
Why was happiness always just beyond his grasp.
tbc