"Excellent back shot, Duke!" shouted Tony Gillingham over the din of horse hooves hitting the soft blades of Kentucky Bluegrass at a frenetic pace. The game was incredibly tight with the competing clubs vying for the winning goal; and with each chukker, the winning score had seemingly volleyed from one side to the other. As the ball whizzed past his pony's nearside, Tony checked and turned just in time to swing his mallet along the offside. With a resounding CRACK, mallet head and ball connected, and the round projectile flew with perfect precision to the team's number four player. "Attaboy, Stanley! You can do it!" hollered Tony at the top of his lungs.

Just as Stanley was about to earn that "attaboy," a defender from the opposing team veered towards him, bumping the nearside of his pony and sending the ball into the sideboards. "Bloody hell," the man swore as he raised his mallet in the air, appealing to the umpire,"You lads are worse than dealing with Parliament!"

"The play's a clean one, Mr. Prime Minister," shouted the umpire just before blowing his whistle to signal the end of the sixth and final chukker. "Final score: Wakefield 5 Leeds 4," he called out.

"I guess the pints will be on us tonight, eh Tony?" Phillip called out as he trotted his pony towards a waiting groomsman. Swinging his leg over the pony's hind quarters, he smoothly dismounted and headed towards the refreshments table for a much needed glass of punch.

And now it was three weeks later, and Phillip found himself on a train headed for Downton Abbey of all places.

It had seemed like a perfectly logical decision at the time. Phillip needed ideas for how he might stop hemorrhaging his wife's money; Lady Mary Craw— no, wait, it was… Tablet? Tableau? Tab-something at any rate—had apparently figured out a way to increase her family's wealth. Paying a visit after so many years surely wouldn't lead to any awkwardness. Really, Phillip thought to himself wryly, they'd probably forgotten all about his visit over the course of the intervening years.

And yet, his stomach twisted with what he alternately imagined to be apprehension followed swiftly by anticipation. He didn't dare put the feeling into words, not even in the privacy of his own mind, but even as he tried to deny it to himself, he knew exactly for what he both dreaded and hoped.

For whom he both dreaded and hoped.

And just like that, a little seed planted itself in his mind and shot down roots to drink up his memories until it blossomed into a name. "Thomas," he whispered to himself.

"Did you say something, your grace?" asked Bradford, who hitherto had been snoring quite loudly with his chin tucked against his chest. But now, the old goat was alert and eager as ever to serve as a metaphorical—and Phillip supposed quite possibly literal—footstool for the aristocracy.

"No, Bradford. Just talking to myself," Phillip muttered as he gazed out the private compartment's window.

"What's that? You'd like a toffee for yourself?"

"What? No! I said I was talk—"

The elderly butler staggered to his feet, "I'll go see if the girl in the dining car has any toffees."

Thumping the back of his head against the headrest of his seat in frustration, Phillip groused, "Bradford! I don't need any bloody— Actually, never mind. I do need a toffee. Why not? Off you go."

"Very good, your grace," replied Bradford as he shuffled out the compartment.

Finding himself alone with just his thoughts for company, Phillip tried to picture Thomas in his mind's eye. It was a real shame that he never had any photographs taken of the man, for Phillip was quite certain that some of the details had become clouded by the passage of time. He supposed it was primarily nostalgia that formed an image of a beautiful man with high, sharp cheek bones and a secretive smile. As memories of pale skin and a firm body fashioned from hard work ghosted under his fingertips, the picture became clearer and clearer. And his trousers seemed to be getting tighter and tighter.

Of course, it was ridiculous to think that Thomas would still look the same. For all he knew, the man had gained a stone per year and was now the size of a pygmy hippopotamus. Phillip chuckled to himself. It would serve the blackmailing little shit right, wouldn't it? He was always so vain about his looks—hogging the mirror to comb pomade through his hair before sneaking back to work before anyone noticed he was missing—it really would serve him right if he were to grow fat. Fat and bald, now that Phillip thought about it.

Of course, it was equally ridiculous to think that Thomas would even still be working at Downton. A man with Thomas's ambitions would never be happy living a lifetime in service. Phillip was certain of it. And it was that certainty that had allowed him to carry out Mother's demands so many years ago. Really, what sort of life would that have been for either of them? "Darling, when you're done sucking my cock, I'll need you to shine my shoes and serve dinner to my guests. Now, off you go to sleep in the attic!" The more he thought about it, the more Phillip concluded that burning the letters had been a truly magnanimous decision.

And of course, it was absolutely ludicrous to even think that Thomas would still be harboring any feelings for him. After all, did Phillip spend day and night thinking back upon the summer of 1911? Even if he did, on the rare occasion, find himself drifting down memory lane and daydreaming about running his fingers through ebony locks of hair, it was only to relieve the stress created by a life of responsibility and duty.

There was nothing between himself and Thomas Barrow. And, just as the compartment door swung open with Bradford declaring that he had acquired a toffee apple for his grace, he concluded to himself that Thomas Barrow surely felt the same.