Jimmy barely slept. The rain which had dribbled listlessly down the window while he had been sitting with Thomas became torrential, battering against the windowpane like bullets. He tossed and turned restlessly to the sound of them all night, unable to find a comfortable position where he couldn't feel the heavy weight of guilty confusion in his stomach. His thoughts were like bullets too; conflicted, lost, too fast for him to catch.
No matter how hard he tried, his mind refused to succumb to sleep. Instead, Jimmy was left with a head full of smoke and Thomas and the feeling of the soft, raised scars under his clumsy fingertips. He felts as though everything had somehow been thrown off course and was suddenly all jumbled up, not at all as he'd planned— although he had no idea what he'd planned in the first place. No matter how much he thought about it, he couldn't understand it at all. In fact, the more he thought about it, the less sense it all seemed to make; it was as though the fragments he'd been piecing together in his mind to create a stained glass window were being worn away to heavy grains of sand, making Jimmy's head ache dully against the pillow.
Eventually, when the rain grew fiercer still and the hands on Jimmy's alarm clock read just after four thirty, Jimmy threw back the covers in defeat and stumbled out of bed. The cold air hit him in a rush, and he pulled on his robe clumsily before exiting his room as quietly as possible. He managed to feel his way along the pitch-black corridor and down the stairs, and after a couple of moments fumbling in the darkness of the servants' hall, lit the lamp on the table.
Dull yellow light ebbed out into the room as Jimmy slumped down into the nearest seat with a heavy sigh, pushing a hand through his rumpled blonde hair and groaning quietly. He didn't know why he couldn't sleep, why it was all bothering him so much.
It wasn't just curiosity and questions that filled his thoughts any more; it was guilt and frustration and insecurity that all weighed so heavily in his chest and churned so agitatedly in his stomach that he couldn't sleep at all. His thoughts were too muddled, too jumbled up. It felt as though there was an impenetrable mist between himself and his thoughts, and he couldn't see them at all, couldn't understand what was happening.
Jimmy couldn't remember ever having felt so uncertain in his life. It simply wasn't in his nature; Jimmy had always been arrogant and sure of himself, and never gave a second thought to anyone else. But perhaps that was the difference; Jimmy thought about Thomas more than he'd ever thought about anyone before.
He didn't even know why. One moment, Thomas had just been another servant, and the next, he had somehow got closer to Jimmy than anyone else had. It suddenly struck Jimmy as ironic that in a sense, Thomas had got what he wanted. He was the person closest to Jimmy. The only person Jimmy really thought about. The only person Jimmy caredabout. And Jimmy hadn't even noticed it happening. It was distinctly disconcerting to have been in one place and then suddenly in a completely different one without any recollection of the transition; as if the world had suddenly skipped from summer straight to winter, and all the flowers and blossom were coated in frost and the sun was melting the snow as it fell.
Jimmy shivered. The servants' hall was even colder than his room had been, but he found he couldn't bring himself to care. He was painfully awake and exhausted at the same time, and didn't know what to do with himself; didn't know how to make the thoughts and questions stop churning through his mind.
With an almost inaudible sigh, Jimmy rested his head on his arms and fell into a brooding stupor at the table, staring at the silent piano in the corner of the room. Blurry images flashed through his mind of him and Thomas sat side by side on the piano stool only a few nights ago, laughing and playing all the wrong notes. He could almost feel the smooth coolness of the piano keys beneath his fingers and the warmth of Thomas' leg pressed against his on the piano stool, the way Thomas' gaze lingered on him as he played.
Blearily, Jimmy wondered if Thomas had stopped playing when he injured his hand. He still felt determined to get Thomas to play again, to find out what exactly made him stop. Was it when he'd injured his hand in the war? Was it when he came to Downton and started smoking? Was it after his father sent him away? Jimmy knew that they were just temporary, individual answers— but at least they were answers, and he was desperate to find some answers, even if they weren't quite the ones he was looking for.
It was hard to find the answers you were looking for when you didn't even know what the question was. A highly dangerous occupation, Thomas had told him when Jimmy had said he was thinking. Jimmy suddenly couldn't help feeling how painfully right Thomas had been.
Jimmy was still slumped at the table, staring moodily at the sheets of music scattered before him when he heard the sound of footsteps in the hallway. He looked up blearily, eyes aching, hand half-tangled in his tousled blonde hair to see Thomas standing in the door way.
He was fully dressed and as immaculate as ever, his grey eyes sharpened with carefully-concealed surprise. He seemed very definite; a clear, concise full stop to the blurry haze of Jimmy's thoughts; an answer— only Jimmy didn't know to what question.
His heart was suddenly thumping uncomfortably in his chest as Thomas' whole stance seemed to stiffen slightly, and Jimmy could see the clouds slide across his eyes. The tension in the air was almost palpable; Jimmy could feel it making his skin prickle uncomfortably and his heart beat faster. It suddenly seemed like only moments ago that he had Thomas' hand in his and Thomas' cheeks were flushed and Jimmy could feel the warmth of his pulse fluttering under the fragile skin of his wrist. The heat of it made Jimmy's cheeks burn now, although he wasn't sure why.
"You're awake terribly early," Thomas commented evenly after several moments, in what was neither a question nor a statement. His voice seemed out of place in the intensity of the silence that hung heavily between them, not even broken by the raindrops being shattered against the darkened windowpane.
"Couldn't sleep," Jimmy mumbled, pushing his hair out of his face and rubbing his eyes tiredly. He felt caught off-guard, uneasy, uncertain of what to say. He knew he'd crossed a line again, but wasn't sure how bad the damage was even now that Thomas was standing right in front of him, painfully real. It suddenly seemed even more uncertain with him there, clouding Jimmy's thoughts like smoke into oxygen. "What— what are you doing up?"
"I'm catching the first train into London," Thomas reminded him coolly, sitting himself down in the seat furthest from Jimmy and setting a plate of toast and a cup of tea down on the tabletop. Without a further word, he opened his newspaper with the same surprisingly elegant fingers that lit cigarettes for Jimmy every day, and began to read. Jimmy could almost hear the tension in the air buzzing between them; it was so tangible that it felt as though the oxygen was drowning in it, and it made his head hurt and his stomach twist uncomfortably.
With every growing moment of silence, Jimmy felt increasingly agitated and uncomfortable. He was desperate to say something— anything— but he recognised how closely he was treading to the fragile line of their friendship, and didn't want to do anything to shatter it. He'd already thoughtlessly stepped too close to the line once again last night. Instead, he settled for watching Thomas with a mixture of intent curiosity and frustration as the other man drank his tea and picked at the piece of toast on his plate, eyes resolutely fixed on the newspaper in front of him. Jimmy knew that he wasn't reading it, though; Thomas' eyes didn't move, but stayed fixed on the same spot on the page. The thought that Thomas was just as affected by the uncomfortable atmosphere was vaguely gratifying.
Eventually, when Thomas had almost finished his tea and the quiet was ringing in Jimmy's ears, he could bear the silence no longer.
"You— you better think up some good questions while you're gone, Mr. Barrow."
Thomas' head snapped up instantly at the words as though he'd been waiting for them, expression completely unreadable. Jimmy felt distinctly uncomfortable under Thomas' scrutinizing gaze for a moment, before the rigid line of the other man's jaw softened subtly and his grey eyes flickered slightly.
"Same goes for you," he replied evenly after a moment. He took another sip of tea, fingers perfectly steady around the handle of the cup, and raised his eyebrows ever so slightly at Jimmy across the table.
Jimmy couldn't help grinning tiredly in return. "Try and stop me."
Thomas' mouth quirked slightly, but he didn't quite smile. Instead, he merely looked at Jimmy for a few moments before dropping his gaze back to the newspaper in front of him. This time his eyes flickered across the page, reading, and Jimmy felt relief wash over him; Thomas had relaxed, even if it was only the slightest bit.
They sat in silence again for a while, but the silence was much more comfortable this time. The rain continued to batter against the windowpane in icy gusts, and Jimmy fiddled with the scattered sheets of music in front of him, the notes blurring together on the paper to his aching eyes as he played out the melodies thoughtfully in his head.
"What have you got all the music out for?" Thomas asked suddenly several minutes later, making Jimmy look up in surprise at the sound of his voice.
Thomas kept his face impassively questioning as he drained the last of his tea, grey eyes lingering on Jimmy and the sheet music covering the table.
"I'm trying to decide which would be best to play as a duet when you get back," Jimmy admitted, pushing a hand through his tousled blonde hair again as he looked up at Thomas.
"You say that as if I have no say in the matter," Thomas remarked, eyebrows raised slightly. He set his teacup down on its saucer with a soft clink.
"Well, I'm sorry to say it, Mr. Barrow, but you don't," Jimmy countered seriously.
Thomas shook his head slightly, but Jimmy could see the smallest of smiles pulling at his lips which were red and still subtly moist from the tea. He folded up his newspaper abruptly and got to his feet, chair scraping across the floor.
"I'd better be going," he said curtly, buttoning up his jacket. "I'll see you in a few days, then, Jimmy." He paused for a second, eyes lingering on Jimmy for the smallest of moments before he dropped his gaze, jaw clenched softly.
"Goodbye," Jimmy agreed, a horrible, sinking feeling in his stomach as Thomas turned and made his way over to the doorway. "Remember to think of your questions. It'll— it'll be really boring without you, Mr. Barrow," he added on impulse, and Thomas paused in the doorway. He turned around, eyes catching Jimmy's. He smiled fleetingly, unguardedly, for a split second— and then he was turning back around and exiting the room, and Jimmy knew that, for now at least, he was forgiven.
Although perhaps, Jimmy reflected, in Thomas' mind it wasn't Jimmy who needed to be forgiven— it was Thomas himself. And Jimmy knew from experience that Thomas wasn't likely to forgive himself easily. Jimmy felt awful that Thomas was probably blaming himself for something wasn't even his fault in the first place, but Jimmy's.
With a small sigh, Jimmy turned back to the sheets of music in front of him, suddenly feeling exhausted. Outside, the rain was softening again, glossing the windowpanes in the cold November dawn.
Despite the relief of having parted with Thomas on relatively good terms under the circumstances, Jimmy's mood went rapidly downhill as the morning progressed. The day was bleak and bitter, and did nothing to improve his spirits. Even although the house was full of the usual bustle, it somehow felt uncomfortably empty without Thomas to run into in the hallways or catch his eye across the table in the servants' hall, and by luncheon, Jimmy was in a foul mood.
He had been told off twice by Mrs. Hughes for not paying attention to his duties, managed to offend at least half of the staff, and had even reduced one of the upstairs maids to tears. Avoiding everyone's glares at the table in servants' hall, he gulped down his bowl of soup as quickly as he could even though his stomach felt too knotted up to be hungry, and slipped out of the steamy airlessness of the kitchen and into the yard.
The silence of it should have been a relief, but it only made him feel more out of sorts. Mist swathed the yard in tendrils of ugly fog that seemed to hold every single leaf and branch in place as though it was frozen, completely motionless. It was too quiet; the sound of him scoring the match to light his cigarette with numb fingers was far too loud, and only reminded Jimmy of his solitude. It felt almost wrong to be on a cigarette break without Thomas; Jimmy wasn't sure he'd ever actually had one without him, since he'd only really taken up smoking as an excuse to spend time with the other man when their friendship had been shaky and new. Now Jimmy didn't need an excuse at all, but he still smoked with Thomas, and the smoke only caught in his lungs occasionally.
I don't want to be the reason you're isolated from everyone else,Thomas had said to him yesterday in the very same spot where Jimmy was standing now against the wall, smoke curling from his mouth. Jimmy hadn't realised it until now, but he was isolated from everyone else— but not because of Thomas— because he simply didn't want to socialise with everyone else; it just seemed so pointless. Talking to Thomas had never seemed pointless, even when they hadn't been friends.
With a heavy sigh, Jimmy leant back against the wall, watching the smoke spiral out from his lungs up into the dense mist that hung almost tangibly in the bitter air of the yard. He couldn't remember having felt so churned up, so miserable, without really having any idea why.
A pang of frustration shot through his chest; Jimmy knew that the answers were there, right under his fingertips— and yet he couldn't see them for his life. It was like Thomas' leather covering the contorted, surprisingly soft skin of his palm; Jimmy would only be able to see it if he asked the right questions.
However, before Jimmy could brood on the matter any further, the yard door swung open and Ivy approached, smiling prettily at him through the icy mist.
"I thought you might like some company," she said eagerly, crossing the yard to stand beside him. Jimmy winced at the soft, flowery scent of her perfume that clashed with the grey smoke and the mist. "You seem awfully out of sorts today, Jimmy."
"I'm fine," Jimmy said tightly, tapping ash to the concrete at his feet.
"You can tell me, you know," Ivy pressed, her brown eyes full of sympathy. "After all, we are friends, aren't we?"
Jimmy made a non-committal noise that she could interpret in either direction.
"Well, why don't you come down to the village with me after supper? It's my night off," Ivy offered, nudging up closer to Jimmy in the sheltered space and making Jimmy's jaw tighten. It felt wrong, having her standing in the spot where Thomas should be standing beside him, smoke and sarcasm curling from his mouth in equal measure.
"I might just get an early night, I'm bloody wrecked," Jimmy replied honestly, taking another drag of the cigarette. It felt strange having one all to himself rather than passing one backwards and forwards, sharing.
"Oh, please, Jimmy. It'll make you feel better. We can go for a drink or something— I haven't been to the pub for ages. I'm sure I can cheer you up…" Ivy trailed off suggestively, her cheeks reddening slightly. Jimmy looked away, dropping his gaze to the ground.
Are you really saying you'd rather spend your time with me than with a pretty girl? Thomas' words suddenly echoed in his head, making Jimmy's thoughts churn uncomfortably. Jimmy didn't even have to choose now, because Thomas wasn't here anyway. And of course Jimmy would rather spend time with a pretty girl than his friend. It's what every young man would prefer. Perhaps he'd just never given Ivy the chance. Maybe spending time with Ivy would provide him with at least a few answers to distract him from the horrible, restless feeling inside of him.
"Alright, then," he agreed reluctantly, exhaling the last of the smoke from his lungs.
"Really?" Ivy exclaimed, eyes wide.
Jimmy nodded curtly, stubbing his cigarette out.
"I'll meet you in the servants' hall after supper, then!" Ivy called after him as he made his way back towards the door to the kitchen, head still aching with exhaustion and unanswered questions.
Spending time with Ivy couldn't have been more different than spending time with Thomas. Everything about her was different— her eyes were chocolate brown and naïve instead of icy and discerning, she chattered away all the time with nothing to say instead of succinctly in cryptic sarcasm, and above all, she was painfully easy to read.
Jimmy knew that Ivy fancied him, but even if hadn't, it would have been the easiest thing in the world to deduce; she hung on his every word and blushed when he looked at her, constantly complimented him, touched his arm too many times, and made far too many suggestions about meeting up again. She really couldn't have beenmore different to Thomas— Jimmy knew that Thomas was in love with him, but if hadn't, he was sure it would be virtually impossible to guess.
Thomas challenged most of the things Jimmy said, treated him with nothing more than warm indifference, and never touched Jimmy's arm when he was talking to him. He concealed his feelings masterfully, to the degree that it was often easy for Jimmy to forget that they existed. The only times that Jimmy might have been able to guess were the times when he ignored Thomas' subtle warnings and got too close— like the time Jimmy had got him to bandage his hand for him or when they'd played duets, or last night, which still brought an uncomfortable, ashamed heat to Jimmy's cheeks for being so thoughtless. It was only at these moments that the cold grey armour of Thomas' gaze was broken down to heavy pupils and intensity; only at these moments that Jimmy could really see the depth of Thomas' feelings for him.
As Ivy giggled coyly and laid her hand on his across the pub table, it struck Jimmy once again how perplexing it was that the insincere charm and good looks which girls fell for so easily didn't appear to affect Thomas at all. He couldn't understand it at all; if Thomas could see so easily through the charm that could be turned on and off with the flick of a switch, why on earth did he feel the way he did towards Jimmy?
People had only ever paid Jimmy attention before because he was handsome or charming— but nothing more. Jimmy wasn't sure that he wasanything more than those things. He'd never really wanted to be. But perhaps he did now. If it hadn't been for the occasional glimmers of how Thomas really felt towards him when Jimmy got too close, he wouldn't have believed it. He felt as though he should somehow be more worthy of Thomas' feelings; right now, he couldn't understand how Thomas was in love with him at all.
"… And then Mrs. Patmore said that Daisy should be doing it, just because she's been here longer. It's ridiculous, I know you wouldn't stand for things like that, would you, Jimmy? You must feel so proud, being first footman. Of course, it is a shame for Alfred, but you really deserve it, you work so hard," Ivy gushed, taking another sip of her glass of ale and smiling warmly at Jimmy across the table of the pub.
Jimmy, already on his third glass, manufactured a smile.
"I think you should be promoted," Ivy continued, still smiling hopelessly at him. "I don't see why Mr. Barrow suddenly got to be under butler."
Jimmy's jaw tightened. "Mr. Carson must have thought he deserved it," he commented as indifferently as he could manage, taking another gulp of ale.
"Well, you deserve it more," Ivy smiled gushingly. "You're a much nicer person than Mr. Barrow will ever be, andyou're a much harder worker."
"That's not true," Jimmy burst out, and Ivy blinked, looking at him in surprise. "I mean," Jimmy backtracked, trying to gather himself. "I mean— I don't work that hard."
"Oh, but you do!" Ivy insisted warmly. "Why else would you be first footman?"
Jimmy shrugged indifferently, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. "What about you?" he asked, wanting to steer the conversation in a different direction. "Do you want to be head cook one day?"
"Oh, no," Ivy shook her head, giggling. "I don't think I want to stay in service. I don't want to end up like Mr. Carson or Mrs. Hughes or Mr. Barrow."
"What do you mean?" Jimmy frowned, taking a long gulp of ale and setting his glass back down on the table.
"Well, they're awfully serious. I think all the years of hard work must make you bitter," Ivy said flippantly.
"Mr. Barrow is much nicer than everyone seems to think," Jimmy retorted, setting his nearly empty glass back down on the table. He felt a little light-headed.
"Well, you're far nicer than he'll ever be. I don't know why you're always jumping to his defence," Ivy blinked.
"No, you wouldn't," Jimmy snapped, pouring himself another glass.
"Jimmy?" Ivy appealed. She looked prettily hurt and bewildered.
"I'm not a nice person at all, Ivy," Jimmy blurted, taking a long gulp of ale and clumsily wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as though doing so would somehow erase the words that had spilled clumsily from it.
"Oh, but you are, Jimmy—" Ivy protested, looking scandalized.
"No, I'm not. And I don't know why you think I am," Jimmy said roughly, setting his glass back down on the table unsteadily. "Is it just because I'mhandsome?" he spat out the word as though it was stuck in his throat.
"No, of course not," Ivy insisted, brown eyes wide.
"Then what is it?" Jimmy demanded. "Is it because I'm so kind or so thoughtful? Because if you say it is, then that's not true, because I've never been either of those things and I never will be. I have absolutely no idea why anyone would like me if it's not for my lovely looks or my charm," he spat, feeling sick.
"Jimmy, what ever is the matter?" Ivy exclaimed, her eyes round with worry.
Jimmy shook his head slightly, suddenly feeling unsteady. He wasn't sure why he'd suddenly started blurting it all out, why he was feeling so wound-up. The alcohol sloshing in his stomach suddenly seemed to be much more powerful than it had done a few moments ago.
"I just… I don't understand. I don't understand why…" Jimmy broke off, unfocusedly taking another gulp of ale. He suddenly felt vaguely guilty for having shouted at Ivy. "I'm sorry," he added curtly, although he didn't really mean it.
"It's alright," Ivy said at once, her brown eyes full of concern and confusion. "What is it you don't understand, Jimmy?"
"Never mind," Jimmy said, the two words slurring together slightly. He suddenly felt reckless, determined to do anything to try and find some answers. He didn't even care what they were any more, he just couldn't stand the complete miasma of uncertainty that shrouded his mind any longer. "Can we go now?"
"Of course," Ivy nodded, immediately getting up and tucking her arm through Jimmy's as they left the smoky warmth of the pub and went out into the contrast of the sharp, cold November night. Jimmy disliked the feeling of her arm linked softly through his, but he was unsteady enough on his feet not to protest.
"You know," Ivy began as they started slowly up the lane to Downton, "you can always talk to me if there's something troubling you, Jimmy. I'd be happy to help in whatever way I can."
"'M fine," Jimmy mumbled, stumbling slightly as the path narrowed.
"Are you really?" Ivy pressed, gently squeezing his arm.
Jimmy nodded wordlessly, focusing on walking as steadily as he could along the frosty path. Everything felt as though it was in the wrong place; as though all the pieces of a jigsaw had been forced together in the wrong places. He felt tired and dizzy and slightly sick, and didn't have the energy to try and shake Ivy off.
They walked in silence most of the way back to Downton under the starless sky. It was a bitterly cold night, and the frosty air stung Jimmy's cheeks as he stumbled along beside Ivy, wishing his thoughts would straighten themselves out and stop making his head throb.
"I should prefer spending time with you, shouldn't I?" Jimmy blurted out suddenly, when Downton was looming on the horizon and he felt marginally more sober.
"What do you mean?" Ivy frowned, coming to a halt.
"I should like spending time with pretty girls like you."
"Don't you?" Ivy blinked.
"Yes— yes of course."
"You don't do it very often. Perhaps if you did, you'd like it more," Ivy suggested hopefully. "How can you know you like something unless you try it? Quite often you don't realise how wonderful something it is until you try it, Jimmy."
Jimmy staggered to a halt, Ivy's arm still wrapped round his.
"Yes— yes, you're right," he slurred, heart suddenly thumping.
"…Jimmy?" Ivy's eyes were wide in the darkness.
He felt unsteady and reckless, determined to try and fill the answerless void in his mind with whatever he could. On impulse, he pulled Ivy closer and pushed his mouth clumsily against hers, stumbling slightly.
It felt wrong. Jimmy didn't know why; his head was too clouded with alcohol and desperate thoughts and too many questions; but he knew instantly that it wasn't right. Her mouth was too full, too sweet and wet, and her soft, flowery scent was overwhelming. The sloppy feel of her tongue against his made his stomach churn and were her hands held onto the small of his back the skin prickled uncomfortably.
He pulled away, heart thudding, thoughts in turmoil.
"Jimmy?" Ivy's voice was slightly breathless in the night air that was suddenly so cold it stung Jimmy's skin and made his lungs hurt.
Jimmy staggered backwards, his mind spinning. He could still taste her in his mouth, could feel the places on his back where she'd hung onto him, and it made his stomach lurch sickeningly. It was all suddenly too much; the endless questions drumming at his skull and making his head throb with uncertainty, the wet smudge her lips had left on his own, the exhaustion of being awake all night, the surprising loneliness, the way that her hands still tried to hold onto him, too innocent and unmarked.
He felt panicked, scared, utterly lost. Some half-drunken part of him had hoped that kissing Ivy would have made things clearer, but they were suddenly more jumbled than ever, so much that it choked him. Jimmy stumbled away, mind spinning nauseatingly, until he was leaning weakly against one of the trees and being sick, Ivy's anxious protests buzzing in his ears.
The following morning was, if possible, even worse than the previous one. Even before the end of breakfast, Jimmy was fervently wishing that the day was over. His head was thumping dully, his stomach was churning sickeningly, and he was wondering how on earth he was going to survive the next few days before Thomas returned. He had got up early to avoid Ivy, and slipped out into the yard to avoid the breakfast table, still feeling nauseated.
As he lit a cigarette with slightly shaky hands, he vaguely wondered what Thomas doing in London. He wondered if Thomas was sitting down to breakfast at the table in a foreign servants' hall, as immaculate and carefully emotionless as ever, inky hair smoothed back to show off the sharpness of his features. Was Thomas thinking up questions to ask him as he drunk his tea, or was he just reading the newspaper as usually did in the mornings?
Before, thinking about questions to ask Thomas had been something which had excited Jimmy and brightened his mood, even if it made him impatient at the same time, but it no longer seemed to have the same effect. Instead, if made him feel agitated and uncomfortable, and impossibly impatient for Thomas' return.
It was strange— before becoming friends with Thomas, Jimmy had been perfectly content in his own company, but now it was somehow never quite enough.
Jimmy was just finishing his cigarette when the yard door swung open and Mrs. Hughes marched out into the frosty yard. Jimmy winced slightly, bracing himself for another telling off, but Mrs. Hughes merely stopped in front of him, looking more flustered than angry.
"James, might I have a brief word?" she asked briskly as Jimmy stood up straight and dropped his cigarette to the ground, crushing it under the heel of his shoe.
"Certainly, Mrs. Hughes," he replied as politely as he could manage, trying to look as though he didn't have a splitting headache and uneasy stomach.
"I'm afraid I rather need to ask a favour of you, James," Mrs. Hughes said, sighing. "I know its short notice, but the party in London have decided that they need another valet for the ball tomorrow— I know you're not fully trained as one, but Mr. Bates is ill with a cold and Mr. Carson can't possibly go, so I'm afraid you'll have to do it."
Jimmy's heart was suddenly beating very fast. "London?"
"Yes, I'm perfectly sure you heard me correctly the first time. Now, there's a train leaving at twelve thirty. The chauffeur will be able to give you a lift down in an hour or so if you can manage to get packed by then?" she paused, looking questioningly at Jimmy in a manner which suggested he didn't really have a choice— not that Jimmy would have argued anyway.
"Of course," Jimmy agreed, heart still thudding in his chest with relief. He was going to get to see Thomas again. He had to bite back a grin at the thought.
"Mr. Barrow will meet you at the station in London to take you to the house," Mrs. Hughes announced. "Although I daresay, he'll have enough on his plate. Half the staff there have gone down with colds too."
"I'll help as much as I can," Jimmy said sincerely, making to go inside, but Mrs. Hughes stopped him, the sharp, efficient expression softened slightly.
"James— I know that you told me earlier nothing was the matter, but if you change your mind, you know where to find me," she said, her tone almost kind.
"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes," Jimmy replied hastily. "But I meant what I said. I'm absolutely fine, just a little tired."
"I hope you're not coming down with a cold too. You look awfully pale," Mrs. Hughes frowned. "Best get packing and off to London before it catches up with you."
Jimmy nodded, tucking his cigarettes back into his pocket and making his way hurriedly inside up to his room, bad mood suddenly forgotten.
Outside in the yard, the first few flakes of tentative November snow were beginning to fall.
A/N: Just a quick thanks to you lovely people who left comments on the last instalment, thank you so much! I hope you all enjoyed this chapter… Feedback would be amazing. I'll update as soon as I can! 3
