Hey my lovely people! This is my first (successfully finished) Downton Abbey fanfiction story. I really hope you all enjoy it.
Sparki: I own nothing!
"Mr. Barrow!"
Thomas' feet stopped moving, even as his mind screamed to do otherwise.
Decision time.
He could feel the steady gaze of Mrs. Hughes, resting upon his back. He could almost see the frown of impatience upon her weathered face. With his own expression hidden safely, he rolled his pale eyes. Just ahead, not three steps away, the hall waited, beckoning him. Promising that, if he were to continue, he would surely find peace at corridor's end. Perhaps, even a cigarette.
I suppose I could keep going...
But no, he'd stopped when the old bat had called for him. She knew, God help him, that he'd heard her summon. There was nothing else for it. Begrudgingly, he spun slowly on his heel. A fake smile plastered against his pale face, Thomas addressed the housekeeper with as much poorly-disguised scorn as he could muster.
"Yes, Mrs. Hughes?"
"Mr. Barrow," the older woman began, choosing, for the moment, to ignore Thomas' shrouded insolence, "do you have a moment?"
Would it make a difference, I wonder, if I said no?
"Perhaps," he sighed, after a short time of consideration. "I was just on my way, but if it's a matter of life or death, I suppose I could spare you a moment."
At this, Mrs. Hughes threw a glance over her shoulder. "Come along," she urged gently. From where he stood, Thomas heard the scrape of a chair against stone, and the patter of small feet upon the floor. From behind the bustle of Mrs. Hughes' skirts, appeared Miss Sybil Branson. Perplexed at what this possibly had to do with destroying his moment of solitude, Thomas gave the woman an odd look. Mrs. Hughes sighed once more.
"I need you to help Miss Branson make her way upstairs," she told Thomas, with an air that booked no argument. "It wouldn't do for the child to find herself lost twice before tea time." The little girl lowered her small head, as a ruby blush, Thomas noticed, crept across her cheeks.
"I-I didn't mean to get lost," the child protested weakly. She glanced up at the housekeeper, her dark eyes sincere. "Truly, I didn't."
As Thomas watched with the faintest tinge of amusement, Mrs. Hughes softened, and gave the girl a rare smile.
"I know you didn't, Miss," she assured her charge. "But we found you, and that's all that matters for now." Thomas couldn't help but wonder what Branson's daughter was doing, poking around the kitchen, but he hadn't the time to ask, before Mrs. Hughes propelled the child in his direction. Standing before him, the little girl looked up at him with a wide, curious gaze. Thomas glanced back at her, his steady gaze holding a little less enthusiasm.
"You'll help her find her way, then?" It was not really a question, but Thomas nodded his head all the same. Satisfied that the child had found herself in safe hands, Mrs. Hughes disappeared around the corner. Thomas stared after her, wishing with silent spite that looks could kill.
With Mrs. Hughes gone and the girl still watching him with the fascination most reserved for a brightly wrapped Christmas parcel, even Thomas had to accept that defeat was inevitable. All chance of escape had been snatched from his grasp. Alfred was blundering around upstairs, and O'Brien had taken a rare trip to the village, and therefore was unavailable for use in his insult-hurling target practise. Left with no other option, he turned his annoyance upon the girl. She was still studying him with those wide, wondering eyes. Thomas frowned.
"And what are you looking at, Miss?" he asked in what he hoped was a sharply clipped, condensing tone. Despite his harsh approach, the child smiled up at him.
"Nothing," she replied simply. As Thomas studied her, he found himself struggling to keep hold of his frown. In the short time that they had resided simultaneously within Downton's halls, Thomas did not believe he had spoken two words to the little thing. Yet, standing there, smiling up at him in such a carefree, innocent manner, he felt her expression was almost too familiar for words.
She looks so very like her mother...
Annoyed at his own uncharacteristic sentimentality, yet unable to hold his scowl in the face of such a strangely-nostalgia stirring expression, Thomas promptly turned and started up the stairwell.
"Come along, then," he murmured, without casting another look at his young charge. After a moment, he heard the child skipping along behind.
As a force of habit, Thomas took the rickety steps two at a time, his long legs easily tackling the climb. And yet, when he reached the first, threadbare landing, he saw that the girl was yet to reach the top. In fact, when he poked his head leisurely around the bend, he saw that she had barely made half the journey. To his surprise, she looked up at him, a glare staining her young face.
"Thank you so much for waiting," she huffed, deliberately stomping her boots upon the next step. Thomas dipped his head.
"Forgive me, Miss," he atoned. Miss. Branson, upon reaching the landing, gazed up at him, and brushed an imaginary piece of lint from her sleeve.
"It's alright," she assured him, her smile reclaiming her face. "I wasn't really mad." Thomas couldn't hold back a wry smile.
"Well, that is a relief, now isn't it?" he muttered. Her smile grew wider, but Thomas found his own beginning to fade. "Now, shall we continue?" Miss Branson nodded mutely, and the pair once again resumed their journey from the depths of the kitchen, to the heart of the house.
As they walked, Thomas could feel the little girl watching him. His initial irritation beginning to fade, he felt the heated hand of discomfort beginning to grasp at his throat. For children were not a part of life Thomas was overly experienced in dealing with. And suddenly, he could think of nothing he'd like more than to scurry back to his cigarette, alone, child-free.
"What's your name?"
Brilliant.
Thomas cleared his throat. "Mr. Barrow," he replied shortly. The girl, who by now had managed to match his slowed pace, gave him a strange look. However, when he offered no other name, she nodded, satisfied.
"I'm Sybil," she offered. "Sybil Branson."
And what could he give in response to that?
I know.
Really?
You don't say?
No, it's not.
So, opting for the safest course of action, he said nothing. In the silence that followed, he could almost hear the child frown in thought.
"Are you always this quiet?"
Do you ever shut up?
"I'm afraid so, Miss," Thomas sighed.
After what had seemed an eternity of climbing, the odd pair had reached the final landing. Unlike those they had recently passed, the carpets that cloaked these wooden boards were lush and clean and smelt of scented oil. When he had first arrived at Downton, Thomas had found the strong reek all but overpowering. However, nearly two decades later, the heavy handed scent was as familiar to him as the odour of shoe polish, or the smell of soup. Yet, should Thomas be perfectly honest, he would rather the well-worn, naturally scented carpets that lay in the servant's quarters to the extravagant, overly floral-smelling rugs of the upstairs world.
"Do you like working here?"
Most of the time. When I'm not stuck minding impertinent little question askers, such as yourself.
"Yes, Miss, I do."
Walking a few steps ahead of the girl, Thomas ran a gloved hand wearily through his hair. The grand stairwell awaited, a few steps away. A few steps and Thomas would be free. At the top of the sprawling stairs, he stopped, and glanced down at the girl.
"Will you be alright from here, Miss?" he inquired with as much patience as he could muster.
Don't you dare say no. Don't you dare.
After a long, excruciating moment, the girl gave a small decisive nod. "Yes," she replied brightly. "I'll be fine."
Thomas, although he could not help but feel a wave of relief, found himself playing host to a most unusual visitor: a twinge of guilt. As an amendment, he gave the little thing a smile.
"In that case, I'll bid you good day, Miss Branson." He offered a small bow of his head, and to his amusement, she returned the gesture.
"Good day, Mr. Barrow," she smiled. "Thank you for your help."
Anxious to take his leave, and unfamiliar with in the light of thanks, turned and started down the hallway, headed for the stairwell that would lead him back to his own world. Just as he stepped through the narrow doorway, he heard the all too familiar patter of young feet behind him. With a barely suppressed sigh, he turned once more, and gave Miss. Branson a pointed stare.
"Yes, Miss?" he inquired, raising a single, dark brow as she smiled up at him, somewhat shyly.
"You... you can call me Sybil," she told him, in a tone that almost booked confidentiality, "if you like." Unwilling to encourage her to delve further down the much-ridiculed path of befriending servants, and yet unable to keep the smile from his lips, Thomas gave a small, apologetic shake of his head.
"I don't think that would be quite appropriate, Miss," he murmured carefully, lowering his gaze, not wanting to pay witness as the little girl's face fell.
"Oh," she mumbled softly. "Well, I'd like it if you would." Crumbling, Thomas gave a barely perceptible nod.
"I'll try my best, Miss Sybil." As her gentle name rolled off his tongue, the child's smile burst into a full, beautiful bloom. Happily, she skipped off down the walk. At the stairs, she stopped once more, and raised a cheerful hand to the somewhat stunned Thomas. He didn't return the gesture; he only offered a simple, unhinged smile.
"Thomas!"
Startled, he spun in place, and found himself staring down into the exasperated face of Anna. The lady's maid stood, one hand resting against the plainly-painted wood of the staff stairwell.
"Whatever are you doing?" she hissed. "Mr. Carson's be searching high and low for you!"
With his moment of surprise settling into annoyance, he frowned at Anna. "I was just running an errand for Mrs. Hughes," he informed her curtly. Without another word, he pushed unceremoniously past the young woman, and started alone the journey downstairs.
You can call me Sybil, if you like.
Alone, Thomas gave a small chuckle. "Sybil Branson," he murmured, as he tackled the stairs two at a time. "How odd you are."
I hope you all enjoyed it! Reviews make me smile : ) P.S. Sorry if it was a little soppy.