I find Thomas and O'Brien to be fascinating characters, especially in regards to their friendship, and have wondered about how they formed such a close knit bond. I'd like to thank jadeandlilac for betaing!
Planted Seeds
The morning post yielded for her a solitary letter, nearly a twofold increase than usual. Sarah O'Brien frowned at the unexpected interruption and set down her spoon. A trim fingernail neatly tore through the seam of the envelope, and with concentrated brows she began to read.
Her frown deepened.
Around her the breakfast clatter and chatter continued unabated. No one stopped to inquire over the identity of Sarah's correspondent. No one asked with restrained courtesy what news she had from home, from friends, from anyone at all connected to the taciturn Lady's maid. No one paid even the slightest heed at all, not to the way her eyes twitched as they read over the last, chilling lines, nor to the throat which swallowed sharp and hard as she slipped the letter into her pocket.
Rising without preamble, she escaped to an empty corridor to allow her mind to process without the strangling grip of another's gaze. She tarried there for a while, knowing her sudden absence would go unnoticed. Though confined indoors with dozens of others, Sarah felt as though she lived in a lonely garden, protected by deep thickets, tough and impenetrable.
Presently Sarah calmed her thumping heart, subdued her emotions, and returned to the kitchen to retrieve her Lady's breakfast tray.
A wisp of a kitchen maid shoved the cooling breakfast into her hands. "Where have you been?" she asked with due deference, but there was no mistaking her look of faint reproach. Sarah was not in a mood to be tested.
"I'm not late," she snapped, and leaned over the tray to say in a cool, steady voice, "Don't try and make it out that it's my fault you've set out Lady Grantham's breakfast early. And if she happens to ask you can be sure she'll know exactly whose to blame if her eggs aren't piping."
Leaving the girl to cower in her wake, Sarah ascended the steps. Her face was smooth as polished silver; nothing was betrayed on her way up the winding staircase. Each foot was placed unfalteringly above the other, and upon noiselessly entering the bright and airy room not a single rattle of bone china could be heard as Sarah laid down the tray over her mistress' lap, her face an impressive veneer of neutrality.
Not that she would have expected Lady Grantham to notice anything amiss, even had Sarah been formed from much weaker mettle.
I know you'll be surprised to hear from me, Sally, but I thought I ought to tell you –
Her Ladyship bid her "good morning" in that lazy, half-accented drawl, and Sarah duly refocused her attention. After a brief exchange of pleasantries and a warm smile of welcome, Lady Grantham proceeded to reduce the level of O'Brien's existence to that of the wallpaper, eyes glued downwards as she idly flipped through the first pages of her magazine and nibbled on a slice of precisely buttered toast.
Many and long minutes swept by in silence, the Lady reading while the maid worked. When it finally suited her, Lady Grantham began to speak.
"I'll be going out this afternoon," she said, her voice abrupt but casual. "Another fitting for Lady Mary." She said the last with a knowing set in her eyes, as though conveying the tedium of trying on new and expensive frocks for the third day in a row, not a jot of which could be comprehended by a lady's maid who wore the same dress everyday and had grown up mending rags into skirts.
"I'm sure all the extra outings must wear on you, milady."
Lady Grantham's eyes took to dawdling out the large, open windows as trails of breeze disrupted the peace of the drapery, and grew reflective. "My baby girl's first season. How time flies."
"Indeed, milady."
"I remember when she was only this bouncy, little thing demanding we buy her ponies and fascinated with mud." She sighed. "How much she's changed. I worry for her sometimes."
"Naturally, milady. A good mother always does."
"The whole prospect has made her terribly excited, but I don't want her to become too hopeful. Nothing's official, of course, but there are certain…duties, you understand, which the family expects her to fulfill." Her Ladyship often toed the line of discretion when it came to confiding in her maid. At the moment she favored prevarication, as if three nights ago Sarah's ears hadn't suffered the complaints for an hour straight of Lady Mary's utter disregard for Mr. Patrick.
But the tone was set. And Sarah could do nothing but follow the lead.
"It would be a very good thing for the family," she offered vaguely.
"And not just for the family. It's a brilliant match for Mary, but I'm not sure she sees it that way. She's determined to enjoy herself during her season. I imagine she's rather looking forward to flirting with handfuls of gentlemen and falling into a romance or two." She gave another sigh. "I just don't want her to be disappointed. Her opinion of herself is rather too high, much more than is good for her, and I'm afraid that she'll soon..."
Her ladyship blathered on. While Sarah was pointedly reminded of every single one of Lady Mary's perceived faults she never once ceased in carrying out her duties. A blouse was selected, a skirt draped neatly across the chair, Sarah all the while soaking up the cares and worries of her betters, a human sponge whose osmosis only ran one way.
She supposed her ladyship would never bother to ask after her life or family. Or whether or not she had anyone back home to be worried for.
Alfie's been caught out. They turned him out of the house, and I've only just got a letter from him yesterday –
Sarah's hand grazed over her pocket. In the span of rising from her repose on the bed to embarking on a new one on the chair by the vanity, her Ladyship had gone from whining over her perfect daughter to her perfect husband.
"I sometimes wonder about his taste," she confided while perusing her jewel case, one hand lifting out a delicate strand while the other beckoned for Sarah's assistance. "Do you like this one? I confess it was never my favorite, but it was a gift from Robert and you know how those things go."
She knew nothing of the sort, and never would. In one, graceful motion Sarah slipped the set of fine jet beads over Lady Grantham's swan-like neck, drawing upon every measure of willpower not to strangle her with them.
By the time Lady Grantham was properly gussied up for a busy morning of lounging, the hall was nearly emptied of occupants, the servants' breakfast long cleared away. It would be hours before she was again summoned, and for a while Sarah sat morosely by, repairing a detached seam on one of her ladyship's cream chemises. The flimsy slip of silk was already several years old, and a less thrifty lady's maid might have done away with the garment altogether. But Sarah found herself reluctant. It still had some life in it, and growing up with next to nothing made one painfully incapable of discarding the old adage "waste not, want not", no matter how many silk chemises a week's pin money could buy.
Nimble fingers worked with the slim needle and even slimmer thread until a row of tight, neat stiches proclaimed their decades of experience.
She grimaced at the sight.
He says it'll be the army, or perhaps the navy, for him. Think of it, Sally. Our Alfie, in the army! God help him -
"Having yourself a bit of a rest, Miss O'Brien?"
It took a shocking moment for Sarah to realize she'd been staring blindly at the mended garment for some time. Mrs. Hughes could be parsimonious in her reprimands when she chose to be, but now she spared nothing in revealing her displeasure at the apparent idleness. A lesser being might wither like a parched lily under those severe eyes and that pursed mouth; yet Sarah sat calmly by, undaunted.
"Just doing some mending for her ladyship, Mrs. Hughes. I've finished this one, as you can well see, and I'll be moving on to the next in due time, whether or not you care to stand over my shoulder and supervise."
The housekeeper bristled.
"Have a care, Miss O'Brien, and watch after that tone of yours."
In a sweep of skirt and a jangle of keys Mrs. Hughes was gone, perhaps to mete out to some other poor soul a vocal scourging – cords of reproach meant to sting and shame them into submission; but Sarah could not find it in herself to be properly chastised. She'd known Elsie Hughes back before she wielded the draconian authority of housekeeper, and it'd be awhile yet before her voice had the power to bid her to do anything.
The next article in her workbox, a hem that needed altering, was finished quickly, as was the next and the next one after, and she passed a number of hours in this way, unmoving and silent, until her basket stared back up empty from beside her. Another space of time elapsed as she sat idling, the length of which she hardly registered. Her life was guided by the tinkling of bells, not the sure, steady rhythm of the clock, and with nothing left to accomplish and her backside growing weary of the unforgiving bench, she escaped through the back door, to the feeling of fresh air and the illusion of freedom.
The door creaked open and Sarah felt the first burst of cold air nip at her skin. Rather than plunge on through she loitered in the doorway, teetering for a moment on indecision. A few paces away, her undisputed "spot", was just now occupied by a stranger.
Well, not quite a stranger. She'd never met the man – almost a boy, really – but she recognized the face through the cloud of smoke sauntering about him. It was the new footman, introduced that very morning at breakfast. But she hadn't heeded Mr. Carson's droning introduction a second longer than was necessary to glean that he was young and inexperienced, and for the life of her could not recall his name.
The boy must have heard her, for he cocked his head around and raised an eyebrow – an impertinence of the highest order, and already Sarah could tell she would not rub well with this new footman. He expelled a vapory puff, and his dark eyes roved unabashedly once, twice, three times up and down her thin form drowning in a sea of black cotton. Under a pair of dark, trimmed eyebrows two black beads glimmered in an audacious way, appraising her face.
"Want a light?" he finally said.
She brushed by him and stood several paces off. "Don't bother yourself."
But the young man would bother himself, and strode over as he struck a match. She soured her lips at the flame as it connected with the tip of the cigarette dangling between her fingers.
"No bother at all," he smiled. "Miss O'Brien, isn't it?"
She nodded.
A small silence gathered before O'Brien completed the introductions, in her usual pleasant way.
"And have you got yourself a name?"
"What, you mean you didn't catch it this morning?" He feigned an offended look, and then quietly chuckled. "Thomas. Thomas Barrow."
It was the laughter that clued her in.
"First post as footman?" she said, sucking in a breath. He appeared impressed.
"You got me pegged. Mr. Carson wasn't sure about giving the post over to a stranger with no experience, but I won him over."
And it was easy to see why. He was handsome, and winsome, and although Sarah didn't think herself obliged to offer any words of warning, his perfect smile and perfect hair made it impossible not to cast down torrents onto his triumphant parade.
"You might think you've got things made, landing a post like this, but I'll warn you now: their life isn't our life, and things aren't as grand here as they'd like you to believe." She paused and blew out a column of smoke. "Mr. Carson runs a tight ship, and he won't tolerate sloppiness."
"That's likely the only thing he and I will have in common," he replied, his free hand swiping imaginary specks from his immaculate livery. "Don't worry about me, Miss O'Brien. I know a thing or two about getting by, and they haven't got me fooled."
Sarah narrowed her eyes.
"We work hard here, everyday. Nobody expects anything less."
The shape of his smirk sent her teeth audibly grinding.
"You think me a lazy one, Miss O'Brien?"
"I think you're young, and with the brains of a clamshell." She threw down her fag, peering down at the embers as she stubbed them out, then treated him to her best look of contempt. "I'll try not to hold it against you. But just be sure that the next time I come out I won't have to suffer your witless chatter while I have my smoke."
She removed herself with a scowl, indistinguishable from her normal countenance, and unusually ruffled by her encounter with the young man – Thomas, she reminded herself. It was his easy urbanity that irked her, the smooth way he ingratiated himself with slick words and even slicker manners. Who was this tall, dark interloper, barely at Downton for three hours altogether before he felt it his right to intrude on her only place of comfort in this monstrous house?
They might not have him fooled, but he didn't have her fooled neither, and she resolved then and there to have nothing more to do with the snake.
Ruminating over all his faults, O'Brien stopped abruptly in the middle of the staircase as she realized that it had been the longest conversation she'd had with anyone outside of her ladyship all week.
Thomas didn't need to be told he was different. The fact of it was already well known to him, had hounded him the entire length of his life – from his father's home, to the streets of Leeds, and into every one of his short-lived posts. It followed him even here, to the northern wilderness of Downton Abbey. But no one inside of its ancient halls could know that as of yet.
He wondered how long it would be till they figured it out.
Hopefully just long enough to secure a tidy sum of cash, enough to strike out on his own. He knew he was clever and tenacious, and, most important of all, a survivor.
On his first day at the Abbey, after breakfast and the introductions, where he'd given his most winning smile, every straight pearly white flashing brilliantly, Walter had taken him on the grand tour. Drawing rooms, parlors, libraries, game rooms. Towards the end they all blurred together in a magnificent stream of opulence, searing his wonder with ornate sameness that at last ceased to amaze him.
It had struck him then that from this day forward he would be ever surrounded by the forbidden fruit, the riches within his reach. But they would never be his. An accident of birth, the curse of birth, would ensure that he would struggle every day till his dying breath, while the Crawleys would live on, happily unaware, blithe in their splendor, completely ignorant of the world aching and groaning at their feet.
There would be a training period, Walter had explained, on account of his not having waited a table before. The following weeks were spent under the first footman's rigorous tutelage, and by the end of the second he was finally allowed to handle the crystal.
"Careful, careful – hold the tray steady. It may be empty now but in time there'll be enough crystal to do in your wages for a month if you so much as chip one. That's good. It's all in the feet – you want to roll them, like – there, that's good, that's all right."
It went on in that vein for three hours. By the end of it Thomas longed for a smoke. Perhaps a bullet to the brain as well, but a smoke would do for now.
He made his way quietly downstairs. Outside the back door he saw a pillar of black ensconced in a cloud of grey: her Ladyship's maid, Miss Sarah O'Brien.
Thomas smirked.
She seemed an odd sort – a bit old, but that could hardly be helped – and something about her face made him suspect she appeared older than her years.
The thought gave Thomas a shudder. Ageing badly was one of his worst fears.
He walked over, planting himself firmly beside her.
"Fancy meeting you again."
She stared blankly ahead, any surprise ably masked.
"Hardly. We two are the only ones who care to smoke in this place."
Thomas flicked a sly glance at the few groundskeepers milling about and puffing away, but her shrewd gaze missed nothing.
"Outdoor staff doesn't count," she said with a tart look.
"Then I suppose there's no escaping each other."
Sarah looked him over.
"You could always get off and find your own spot. I've been smoking here for a good five years, now, and I'll not give it up for some upstart strutting around like God's gift to livery." Sarah waited for his indignant retreat, but though every other tender-hearted snowflake in the place would have expressed outrage at her frank dismissal, Thomas simply smiled, wide and toothless, a snake that'd caught its prey.
He repositioned himself directly by her side and within seconds had a cigarette lit and ready for consumption. He looked lazily at the ring of flame eating away the shrinking white paper.
"I like it here. And I don't mind the company," he said, taking a pretentious drag and blowing it out pointedly.
Sarah turned back to stare at the roaming gardeners. So that's how it would be – a new smoking companion, whether she liked it or not. She tapped some dangling ash into the dirt, surprised at not feeling repulsed at the thought.
The next few weeks settled them into a routine. Even the busiest of servants were granted a small parcel of time where there was little to do, and schedules aligned so that neither party was unattended when they took their smoke breaks.
The reprieves were largely silent and impersonal. Sarah still had cares enough to fill the Atlantic, all of them centered around the brother whose existence seemed by now washed away with the tide. But all that would stay sealed away, masked even to him. They talked very little, and what they did speak of was confined to the faults and failings of the other occupants of the Abbey, most often couched in an amusing anecdote or withering observation. Sarah had not realized the amount of pent up ill will she felt towards her employers, her colleagues, and the world in general. Too many bad turns had sent her down a never-ending spiral, and it was only this strange young man that seemed to have the power to lift her back out of it.
One Tuesday morning when a family outing guaranteed a lull in activity, they made their way out the back door in succession, she her usual sullen self, and he in a festive mood.
"Got me a hair cut," he informed O'Brien after they had both made themselves comfortable. "Did you notice?" She honored him with a blistering scowl.
"I've got better things to do than stare at your head wishing for a change of scenery. Why should I have?"
"Gracie Peters did."
Sarah snorted.
"Don't you go on supposing that I fawn over you like a fox in heat the way the rest of the girls do."
"I've got too much respect for you to ever think that, Miss O'Brien. I just wanted your opinion on my haircut, you being a lady's maid and all."
"That's right. A Lady's maid."
"Nothing wrong with wanting to look good."
"Men aren't supposed to care how they look, least of all our lot."
Thomas gave a single, humorless laugh.
"You're an odd one, Miss O'Brien."
She had plenty to say to that, but made the conscious decision not to. Who was he to call her odd? She adhered to the rules; she did her job and did it well. Perhaps she was slowly seething under the surface, but she never let it have the run of her. A part of her would always cling fast to the standard orders, even as she loathed them.
After a few minutes Thomas grew weary of the silence.
"Cat got your tongue?" he said though a blanket of smoke.
"You talk enough for the both of us."
"You talk enough yourself when you're with me. Course you're always awfully quiet at dinner."
"What's it to you? Why should I bother wasting my breath when I've got nothing to say?"
Thomas chuckled. "You're funny. I think people would like that about you."
Sarah didn't think much of his assessment until later that evening, when each of the servants, lined up in proper rank and file, for even on the bottom rung no one could escape the relentless stranglehold of English hierarchy, had sat down as one for the evening meal.
Sarah dug into her stew, steady and silent, as was par for the course. Thomas laughed and joked and flirted around his mouthfuls of lamb. Gracie Peters, head housemaid of two years, had taken a shine to the new second footman, and was conspiring with him from across the table.
"Do you suppose she'll get many offers?" she asked him.
"Who?" he replied.
"Lady Mary of course!"
Sarah overheard the nonsense from two seats up the table, and bit her tongue to repress her ugly reply. Of course. As if whole fractions of their lives weren't stolen away catering to their every whim and fancy, but now the tiny sliver of leisure time that remained to them must be spent discussing their love lives as well.
From the seat beside Thomas, Walter gave his tuppence on the matter.
"She doesn't need any offers, not with Mr. Patrick set to inherit."
At the head of the able Mr. Carson issued a deep rumble of disapproval. He might have spoken something as well, but Thomas didn't heed. He was fair along the way to memorizing every one of the butler's patronizing reproaches, and knew that the matter of Mr. Patrick and Lady Mary's betrothal was a "family affair" not to be discussed by such commoners.
"Maybe she won't want to marry Mr. Patrick," he said.
"That's right! She might get another suitor. Maybe she'll even fall in love!" Gracie squealed, sappy eyes set squarely on Thomas' face. He buttered her up with a reciprocal smile, which broadened to a smirk as he turned to Sarah and asked:
"What do you think Miss O'Brien? You having the ear of Lady Grantham and all."
All eyes were on her. She squirmed for a bit under the attention, seeking to forestall the addition of her input.
"What do I think about what?"
"Lady Mary's first season," he pressed. "Come on, then, you spend all day with her Ladyship, you must have some idea what Lady Mary's chances are."
Still Sarah was reluctant, pushing Gracie to impatience.
"But what does Lady Grantham think?" she fervently asked her. "Will Lady Mary get many offers?"
"With all her mother's money done up into the estate, tied up tighter than my corset?" Sarah scoffed. "I wouldn't count on it. I think she's likely to make a right fool of herself, and we'll all be lucky if she doesn't give her poor mother a stroke while she does it."
Thomas smiled his approval, Mrs. Hughes looked suitably shocked, and a few under housemaids tittered as Sarah sealed her mouth. According to Mr. Carson, she'd said more than enough.
She returned to her stew, silent once again, feelers of gratification radiating down, squirming their way through the brambly bushes, warming a tiny portion of that perpetually frozen heart.
She looked over at Thomas, and smiled back.
The days were growing warmer, longer, and every one that passed without additional correspondence, additional news as to the well being of young Alfred compounded her unease.
Sarah confided in no one. Not even Thomas, the young man who had lately dug a wormhole through the wall of thickets she had carefully cultivated around her. She carried out her duties as usual, and had thought her distress was well concealed, hidden behind the mantle of indifference. But as usual Thomas surprised her.
"Everything alright?" he asked one morning, just a few days before the family was set to leave for London. Sarah nearly jumped out of her skin at the inquiry.
"Why shouldn't it be?" she snapped.
"I saw you in the corridor the other day. You were reading a letter. Seemed a bit more pale than usual."
"And what are you, my mother?" She was close to yelling. "What gives you the right to be nosing about my business, stalking me like I'm some fancy piece of jewelry you're looking to nick?"
Thomas flung down his fag. "I suppose nothing," he replied, a touch too bitterly, and strode crisply to the door.
Before he had a chance to steal back indoors she spoke. "It's my brother," she said quietly, and he immediately stopped, turning back around to rejoin her. He lit another cigarette and was halfway finished before she continued. "My mum and dad have turned him out, so he's decided to join the army."
Thomas raised an eye. "You got a brother still at home?"
"He's more a nephew, like."
"I see. What'd they do that for?"
"Because they're a pair of awful creatures, the both of them," she practically snarled.
"Aren't they all? Boxed ears and endless canings, that's all normal enough, but it doesn't explain why they'd abandon him."
"I can't really say." She fumbled for an explanation. "He's…he's different."
"What do you mean 'different'?"
"He's not like other men. He's…" Sarah pursed her lips. "He's different, that's all." The next she said with more firmness. "And he wouldn't last one minute in the army! They'll tear him to pieces, they will!"
It was vague at best, but her words still spilled icy trickles down his spine. Even if his guess was miles off the mark, the plight of this brother or nephew or whoever he was struck an obvious chord – turned out of the house, not like other men – and where normally he'd relegate the troubles of others to the periphery of his notice, this time he decided to take action.
Thomas knew he would have to be careful, even with her.
Betray nothing.
"So write to him." Sarah looked at him with visible surprise. "You tell him to keep his mouth shut and to lay low. No more babying him. It's a harsh world, unforgiving, and it won't be easy for him if he doesn't learn to toughen up and start playing by his own rules. He's got to do what it takes to look after himself if he wants to survive."
His words were laced with an embitterment that she'd never heard before, and which troubled her, but he seemed to be speaking through the painful lens of experience, and she knew better than to dismiss them.
Sarah wrote to her brother, and relayed all that Thomas had advised. The day before she was to accompany the family to London for Lady Mary's first season, she received a letter from the elusive Alfie.
He told her that her friend's advice had been taken to heart. And that he was sure everything would be all right.
An hour before departure, luggage packed, Taylor stowing it neatly into the boot of the car, and Lady Grantham along with the Ladies Edith and Mary prettily yet comfortably dressed for the long journey. For the entirety of the morning Sarah had been sent to and fro, collecting last minute trinkets and forgotten necessities. She was running haggard, not a minute to spare, but spare she would if it meant a last glimpse of a comforting face before the whole lot of them, herself included, were dragged away to the stinking city in the middle of summer. At last she found a single blessed moment to herself, which these days meant a moment to share with him.
She stood outside once more with him. There wasn't time for a smoke, or even for a chat. But the presence was enough, the feeling of a kindred soul in the same vicinity, and the knowledge that between them a tiny kernel was germinating, into what she could not yet say.
