After the dust had settled a bit, Thomas started to want to know exactly why things went pear-shaped with Jimmy. He typically prided himself on picking up the signals of interest but this time, his instinct had failed him miserably. At least nobody died, he would remind himself, still shuddering nearly a decade after the sight of the dead Turk.

He replayed every conversation with Jimmy, every moment with Jimmy over and over again in his head but couldn't for the life of him still understand how it all came to such an ugly conclusion.

Then one late summer evening after dinner, Thomas was in the yard smoking. The day had been ungodly hot and he was in his shirtsleeves with his tie undone. He blew out a stream of smoke as he thought of Jimmy's lips; that brief moment of contact that was etched into his heart forever. His cock began to stir, and he cursed out loud at it to stop, angry at himself for allowing his foolish, still lovesick heart to rule his body and his brain.

There was a low voice behind him, "What's that, Mr. Barrow?"

Thomas turned and saw the ginger footman loping his way toward him.

"Oh, just whinging about the heat," Thomas said as tried to subtly adjust his trousers and then ran his fingers through his sweaty hair. " I can't remember it being hot like this so late in the season."

Alfred wiped his brow with his jacket sleeve and said, "Hotter than the devil's bollocks, I reckon."

Thomas had a sharp reprimand on his tongue for such coarse language but decided to swallow it down and chuckle instead as he flicked his ashes onto the ground. (He and Alfred had come to some sort of unspoken understanding that there were no hard feelings between them and had actually become quite cordial to one another, if not downright friendly.)

Thomas leaned against a stack of crates, inhaled deeply and stared into the distance. The library window suddenly became fascinating and he tried to stare through the panes and find the bit of confidence he needed to say what he was about to say. Alfred followed his gaze to try and see what was catching the older man's interest.

"Alfred, may I ask you something?" Thomas exhaled.

"Certainly, Mr. Barrow," Alfred said as he unconsciously mirrored Thomas' pose against the crates.

"Miss O'Brien told me that you confided in her from time to time, yeah?"

"Yeah, I s'pose so," Alfred said and shifted his weight from foot to foot a bit uncomfortably.

"Well, she told me that you told her that Jimmy used to talk me up quite a lot to you."

Alfred looked confused, not fully understanding where the conversation was headed.

Thomas prodded a bit further, "She said that you said Jimmy was always going on about me. That he never stopped. Like, 'Thomas this, Thomas that' … that sort of thing."

Alfred squinted at the scorched twilight sky. He pressed his thin lips together and looked down at the ground, kicking an errant rock across the yard.

"There were quite a bit of talking about you, yes," he said slowly as he began to trace a shape in the gravel with his toe.

Thomas felt as though he'd been punched in the gut.

"And I used to tell Aunty—I mean, Miss O'Brien—things that Jimmy and I talked about, yes."

He continued to drag his foot through the gravel. Thomas swallowed hard.

"But it weren't Jimmy doing the talking about you to Miss O'Brien," Alfred mumbled.

Thomas turned to the footman in confusion.

"It were me."

The cigarette fell to the ground.

Alfred instantly took a few quick steps backwards and bowed awkwardly as if he'd just received a direct order from Lord Grantham himself, then turned on his heel and went into the kitchen.

Thomas felt as though the sky was going meet the ground. He stood breathless, staring at the door to the kitchen in disbelief, waiting to see Alfred and Jimmy inside clutching their stomachs, screaming with laughter, "Got him! Such a bloody fool!"

But there were only shadows etched across the walls, and the clatter of pots being scrubbed and the chatter of scullery maids as they went about their work.

Thomas suddenly felt something hot, very hot, burning into the side of his right shoe. His cigarette was still lit and quickly threatening to become a small, leather-fueled inferno.

"Bloooooody helllll!" he shouted as he stamped the cigarette out. He turned his foot to inspect for any damage when he noticed the shape Alfred had ground into the gravel with his shoe.

It was a heart.