Surprise! A little tag-along to my previous story For Your Health. You probably should read that one first, but if you're lazy/don't have time, all you have to know is that Thomas has quit smoking.
For those of you reading my other story, A Long Road, I'm sorry. I'm having a rough go at it, as I find it's becoming a little hackneyed and not really going as planned. So I wrote this as a little break. Hope you in enjoy!
Okay. So ninety-three days smoke free was impressive. Applaudable. Awe-inspiring, even. His abandonment of all things tobacco had been the very model of an iron-clad will – a resolve that the others could only try to imitate – an exemplary determination that spoke of his worth as an under-butler – as a man.
And it was no less true now that there sat a burning cigarette between Thomas' lips.
No. It was still an achievement, and he was still all man.
A quick look up and down the lane proved he was still alone, so Thomas took a long drag and exhaled the smoke in a long stream. It didn't taste good, but by God was it heavenly. His body purified by ninety-three days of clean living welcomed the sinful buzz that now electrified his body, prickling at his brainstem and churning his stomach.
He supposed his statistic was still technically fact for all those not present, as they had not a clue that he was stealthily sucking at the fag as if his life depended upon it.
It would be his little secret.
Besides, one cigarette didn't make a pack; it was an insignificant blip in his progress, so minor that tomorrow, for all intents and purposes, would be his ninety-fourth day smoke free. Because Thomas wasn't stupid; he didn't buy a packet of cigarettes or a tin of tobacco with enough paper leaves to roll it with. He knew enough to realise that would have been disastrous and liable to give him the black lung. No, he bought a single paper and just enough loose tobacco to fill it. Yes, it earned Thomas a bizarre look from the man behind the counter, but the man could shove it and mind his own. After paying for his goods, he had then taken to the alleyway behind the shop to roll the cigarette in relative privacy.
Thomas huddled against the brick wall as he expertly sprinkled, rolled, and licked. With barely a look at his handiwork, he balanced the cigarette between his lips, lit a match with a flourish, and inhaled the sweet, acrid smoke until his throat burned.
Though now that this little tryst was coming to an end and the fag burned close to his clenched fingers, Thomas regretted buying such a limited amount. He could have bought more tobacco for safe keeping, only, of course, for such occasions when Thomas found himself alone in town. He'd still be smoke-free, most of the time; he'd just be a town-smoker – nothing wrong with that.
As Thomas pulled the last drag from his spent cigarette and tossed the butt onto the street, his eyes flicked up towards the mouth of the alleyway.
O'Brien.
O'Brien, in her gloomy black pools of fabric and her ridiculous hair, stood at the end of the yawning alley. Thomas was paralysed as he met her cold stare, and for a brief moment he thought they would stay there sharing cold gazes forever, but then one side of her lips curved upwards and she slipped away.
Oh Christ. No. No.
For all that is good and holy and oh, fuck it, who was he kidding? He was deeply and truly screwed.
He had returned from his errands in town in record time. The sight of the lady's maid had put the literal fear of God into him – or something like that – and he worked double time to gather all of the supplies he had been sent for and return to Downton as quickly as humanly possible. Mr. Carson was surprised and pleased to see the under-butler arrive without any delay, as he had expected the man to dally as much as possible in town. The butler was vocal in commending Thomas, but it was a reaction that Thomas could not savour, as he was much too flustered to do much else than worry about O'Brien and her wicked ways.
And so, he had floated through the rest of the day absently with a mind towards his idiocy and O'Brien's own unbelievably fortuitous presence in the alley.
He was an absolute dunce. Why oh why did he think he could get away with something like this? It had been too simple, too easy. Of course, something was bound to go wrong; it was his life, after all. Oh, but it had been so good. Certainly now he could have gone for a smoke to calm his nerves.
When he had, for the fourth time, reminded the footmen to set the crystal upon the dining table, Alfred finally spoke up.
"Is everything alright, Mr. Barrow? You seem," he looked towards Jimmy, "distracted."
"Mind your own work, Alfred. In fact, the both of you for once – mouths shut, head to task."
Thomas grimaced, confused at his own instruction, and fled from the room as quickly as he could manage whilst still portraying the dignity due to an under-butler.
The two footmen looked at each other, bewildered.
"But we hadn't been talking…" Jimmy frowned.
Thomas had other duties to attend to upstairs beyond the dining room, so it wasn't unusual for him to be absent when someone was looking for him. Downton was a large household with many tasks. There were also many clocks that needed winding, rechecking, repairing, and general dusting in parts of the house that Thomas knew would be clear of the others. Unfortunately, he could not hide away in the corners of the abbey forever, and so it was with dread that Thomas approached the servant's dining area. He wished his stomach hadn't chosen that moment to gurgle insistently, as he contemplated forgoing supper just to avoid the lady's maid all together. He physically shook himself from such thoughts and straightened his jacket.
He was Downton's under-butler, and he would be damned if some middle-aged lady's maid made him cower. Admittedly, she had at one point in his career made him cower because of her meddling, but he had, like a phoenix, arose from the ashes of his near tragedy and came away partially unscathed.
He glided into the packed room and took his usual seat next to Mrs. Hughes. Everyone was present, including Miss O'Brien, but when Thomas quickly looked towards the lady's maid she had her head turned away from him. He chose not to chance another look in case he helped to encourage her, so he spent the remainder of his dinner with his eyes trained on his plate, barely following the easy flow of the conversation around him.
The tension in his chest was slowly dissipating as the meal started to conclude. Just a few more minutes, and Thomas could slip away unaccosted. Granted it would leave him vulnerable to whispered insinuations behind his back, but hey, when was he not?
"Thomas, would you care to join me for a smoke out in the courtyard?"
Oh dear God, no. Not now, not when he had been so close. He shut his eyes in defeat. Of course now, you pillock. When else but now would she ridicule you, in front an empty hall?
The table stilled at her words, as the lady's maid and under-butler found very few occasions to speak with one another and had even less words to exchange.
"You must forget, Miss O'Brien," Mrs. Hughes laughed, "I know we all do considering how long Thomas once smoked for, but he has quit the habit."
"What did I hear you telling Mrs. Patmore, Thomas? Was it something akin to ninety days?" Mr. Bates asked.
Now was not the time to be "helpful". As much as the valet thought otherwise, Bates was not, in fact, helping matters. Thomas had never wanted someone to keel over and die so much as he did now. Knowing that was unlikely, he shot a heated look at the valet that he hoped signified just how little he wanted to talk about this. And it was ninety-three days, not that it mattered anymore.
"Oh, I must be mistaken," O'Brien admitted, "but I saw someone who looked remarkably like Thomas in Thirsk today smoking like a fiend in a back alley."
"Thirsk, you say?" Mr. Carson asked, suddenly interested – probably at the words 'back alley' and 'fiend' – and now suspicious of Thomas' earlier punctuality – of course it was a scheme to conceal something more dubious. Knowing Carson, it probably involved something much worse than sneaking a smoke.
"Oh yes. I was in town to get Lady Cora some of her toiletries and only stopped at the alley when I thought I saw Thomas," she turned her gaze to the under-butler, "but I suppose it were just your doppelgänger."
Okay, no, now he wanted someone to keel over and die more than ever before, and he made sure his molten glare showed it. The lady's maid merely smiled and returned his scowl cooly because she knew he was trapped underneath her claw.
Heads swivelled towards the under-butler, who had remained stonily silent throughout O'Brien's appeal.
Daisy stopped collecting the dirtied plates and her cry broke the silence that had followed, "It's not true, is it Thomas? Remember, you could die!"
Mr. Carson sighed. He rubbed at his eyes as he implored, "Daisy, I must ask you to refrain from your theatrics. Not everything must be quite so dramatic."
"But—but, the doctor?" She looked back at Thomas in alarm.
The under-butler started to feel a teeny-tiny slither of guilt crowd his overwhelming feeling of worry of being found out, as he realised there were some around the table who actually cared for him and were happy to hear of his ninety-three day streak. By not telling them he had indeed smoked as he was accused, he was lying by omission, ridiculing their concern and friendship.
But then again it was such a height from which to fall.
Oh damn it all. With a sigh, he nodded in admission.
Daisy stood, mouth agape, as she tried to process his confession. To his left, Mrs. Hughes gasped comically, and far off in the kitchen he heard an indescribable thump and a muffled curse.
"Yes, there you have it," he sneered at O'Brien before sweeping his gaze at his other tablemates, "It was me who you saw smoking in Thirsk, and you know what? I enjoyed it."
He thought it better to stew in private than to entertain the other's disappointment, so he stood from his seat and stalked out of the room before anyone had the chance to admonish him. He then very quickly hid in the silverware stores, which ultimately proved to be a very poor choice indeed, as Mr. Carson opened the door not even a few minutes later.
"Mr. Barrow! Can I presume you are in here to help with the dinner service, and not, for some nefarious purpose unknown to me, lurking in a darkened closet?"
Thomas grasped at the nearest item that he could find and nodded.
The butler eyed the ladle that Thomas held aloft sceptically and hummed, "Good. James and Alfred are now engaged with the family. I need you to look after the place settings. I haven't the time to inspect them myself."
"Of course, Mr. Carson," he replied eager to please and even more eager to leave the small room the butler had now cornered him into.
"Very good," Carson turned to leave but paused, "For what it's worth, any practice with which you choose to occupy your time when away from Downton is your own business, but it is still nasty and unhealthy. When the others hear of your habit, it upsets them. Please do not let your actions continue to distress the others. We would not like to encourage a repeat of your... troubles of a few months ago."
"Of course not, Mr. Carson," Thomas said earnestly, though he cared not for the butler's choice of words. He stared after the older man as he walked down the hall and then at the ladle in his hand.
All for one ruddy cigarette.
The dinner service that night concluded unremarkably in the precise and elegant manner typical to Downton. His other remaining duties of the night were finished in a similar way, and Thomas now found himself relaxing while he read the newspaper at the servant's dining table. A few of the others joined him, huddled at the other end of the table and chattering idly.
He looked up from his paper when Anna sat across from and slapped a tin onto the table between them. It was O'Brien's tin that she used to hold her cigarettes. He quickly looked around the room, in case the witch in question appeared, summoned by her totem.
"Where did you get those?"
"I stole them," she said casually, "from Miss O'Brien."
Living alone with Mr. Bates in that cottage had to have driven her mad; it was the only explanation.
"But wha—,"
"I just thought if she wanted you to smoke so much, then she ought to supply the means."
The slight smile gracing Anna's face looked much more devious than usual and actually made Thomas a little frightened.
He grasped the tin and inspected its contents. There were twelve very neatly rolled cigarettes nestled next to each other. As usual, O'Brien had rolled her whole reserve of tobacco in advance and put them in this tin so she wouldn't have to bother rolling when she found a break in her duties. These were her remaining fags.
"You stole the whole lot," he marvelled.
She shrugged, "It was all I could find."
And how, Thomas would never know, as O'Brien guarded this tin with the fury of a thousand badgers. Even when they had been somewhat friends, he could rarely get a cigarette out of it; he would never have thought to touch it, let alone steal it.
He looked back at Anna with something akin to awe.
"You can do whatever you like with those. Mr. Bates thinks me mad, but I think you'll make the right decision." She rose from her seat and bid everyone goodnight. Thomas noticed that Bates was now loitering in the doorway and smirking at the sight of the tin.
The 'right decision', whatever that meant. Right now, the right decision sounded an awful like smoking through these quick and dirty and then chucking the tinned evidence into the woods.
Then his mind cleared and a planned formed as if sent from above. He would just need the help of Mrs. Patmore and Anna, and he then was sure he could happen upon the right decision. In fact, he would go about making it right now.
Thomas woke up extra early in order to intercept Anna as she arrived at Downton, well before their communal breakfast. He slipped the tin back into her hand and instructed her to return it to its rightful owner. Hopefully, O'Brien had yet to notice its absence, and Anna could return without being caught. Anna looked slightly disappointed, but accepted her task. Beside her, Mr. Bates only looked bemused.
Thomas carried on as if it was an average morning, and even arrived at the breakfast table just a few minutes late so as not to arouse any suspicion; not that he had tipped O'Brien off in anyway but his plan was to be seamless. He devoured his porridge in his usual haste and even managed to share a laugh with Jimmy.
It was all that he could do to not stare after O'Brien as she stood and left the hall for her morning smoke. Many of the underling hallboys and maids had also left, so it was only Thomas and the more senior servants left. They were oblivious to Thomas as he smugly laid in wait.
He did not have to wait long before he heard a shriek followed by fit of coughing so loud and rough that all conversation ceased in the hall.
A moment later, Miss O'Brien burst into the room, breathless and angry.
"Who did this?" she asked in a raspy voice before erupted in another hacking cacophony. She thrust her tin towards the table and shook the container in a frenzy, letting the rattling of the remaining cigarettes ring out from her hand.
Mrs. Hughes asked with alarm, "Did what, Miss O'Brien?"
"Somebody has poisoned me cigarettes!"
At this the others shared amused glances that only served to rile the lady's maid further. She rounded on Thomas, and if looks could kill, he, along with his whole family six generations back, would have been eradicated from this Earth.
"It was you! I don't know how, but I know."
He met her fury with a measured gaze and a simple smile, "You must be mistaken. Perhaps it was just me doppelgänger."
She narrowed her eyes and growled before she stormed off in search of water to cleanse her palate.
Point 1, Thomas.
The others stared at him incredulously, except for the Bateses. Anna looked pleased and her husband was suspicious.
"What on Earth was she on about, Thomas?" Mrs. Hughes implored, still not having quite gotten over the wrath that was O'Brien.
He shrugged and elected not to tell them that Mrs. Patmore had helped him to unroll each of the lady's maids twelve cigarettes and lace them with a powerful punch of ground mace and nutmeg late the previous night.
Today was going to be a good day.