Chapter 10 - The Red Lion

A/N: So! Here's my first Thomas chapter. I feel oddly protective of him, for some reason. The women that I like to write about – Phyllis and Elsie – also feel protective of him, in their own ways. It would be nice to think, after hitting such a nadir emotionally, Thomas would be able to heal, and even, find love, of all kinds, not just romantic love.

~CeeCee

He walked into the village slowly, enjoying the mild breeze that ruffled his hair and blew the smoke of his cigarette in a thin, white banner behind him. It was quiet at the big house tonight, with the Talbots and Tom Branson in London for a few weeks for the season.

As he strolled, he thought of Downton, back before the war. The bustle, the glamour, the grandeur of the place, of its inhabitants. That was a different world, a fairy tale, really, that even the very richest in England had to say good bye to, after the destruction of so many of its youth.

Oh, it had been a beautiful time, and he missed it sometimes; the servants' hall filled to overflowing; the ladies in their tea dresses; dashing, wide-eyed junior footmen, so handsome in their livery. So handsome, and so out of reach, of course, for the likes of him. But…that beautiful time, that fairyland, were also the years his heart became bitter, when something that had been hopeful, even good, inside of him had begun to decay.

Those were the years when he had bound himself to Sarah O'Brien, no more a bad person than he himself had been, but whose own darkness fed his. They each could have been a true friend to the other, but that wasn't the way it turned out. He had thought, for so long, the shadows were the only places for him. It took some time to get used to the light, to the person Thomas Barrow was now.

Certainly, his job as butler of Downton wasn't exactly what Mr. Carson's had been, but he loved the place, to his core. It's where he belonged. It's where he finally felt at home, found friendships that still startled him sometimes: the sisterly, unwavering affection of Phyllis Molesley and Anna Bates. The warm, no-nonsense partnership he was building with Elsie Hughes, running the place beside her. And the children, of course: George and Sybil were some of the brightest spots in his daily existence.

Yes, Downton was no longer at its apogee of splendor, because the lines between the classes, between people, were softening, blurring. Oh, they were still there, but it was all getting rather muddy. Thomas was glad of it. The hard lines of the world he'd been born into were reflected in the hard lines of the scars across his wrists.

Change is good, he thought, and smiled, taking a deep drag on his cigarette. As is trying new things. He'd heard, through a few acquaintances in the village and just beyond, that the new pub, The Red Lion, had a slightly more relaxed, varied clientele than the staid Grantham Arms. And, if one were to stay until last call, the evening might prove even more interesting...Not like London, nay, not even close. But get yourself down there one night, Tom. Preferably a Sunday, and you'll see what I mean. His friend from the village, Clarke, has said to him a few weeks ago, with a grin.

Thus, here he was, strolling through the rather quiet village square, and up a sloping side street, to the unmarked building with the scarlet-painted door. His stomach fluttering a little in anticipation, a sensation he hadn't felt in years. He had no idea what to expect from the evening once he walked inside, but as he ground his cigarette out, and pushed the door open, he found himself intrigued to discover what lay beyond.

oooOOOooo

"So, Tom? 'Tis exactly as I said, isn't it? And we've not gotten to the lock-in yet, nor the snug in the back," Victoria Clarke grinned at him over her drink, which she threw back with abandon. Clarke, who was nearly as talented a seamstress as Phyllis Molesley, worked in Ripon, out of the men's haberdashery there, on any sort of bespoke creation the clientele could imagine. Some they couldn't.

It was no surprise, then, that the dove gray three-piece suit she herself wore was perfectly tailored to her tall, rather boyish figure. Her fair hair was short even by modern standards, with spit curls along her cheeks, pointing at her thin, wide mouth. He could hardly fathom what she was doing, or why she stayed, in Yorkshire. But he was glad she was here, in any case.

"I think I'll reserve my full judgement until the end of the evening, Clarke," Thomas took a sip of his own drink, something dangerously delicious with gin that the bartender had made for him, after assessing him up and down, twice. He looked around and couldn't help but grin. The Lion, even before the after-hours party started, certainly wasn't anything like the Arms, not by a mile.

Though Clarke was certainly one of the most flamboyantly noticeable patrons, there were several other women in menswear, and vice versa. The place was very low-lit, resulting in a rather smeary, warm, casual approach to both dress and comportment of the patrons. If someone wandered into the Lion unawares, he or she might very well stay unawares, if he or she wasn't paying too close attention. That seemed to be the point of the place, Thomas felt.

"Let's go into the back, right?" Clarke jumped off her barstool as the publican shouted "Last call!" Thomas wasn't sure whether or not to laugh at the man's exaggerated winking and mugging as he said it or not. Everything was feeling a bit surreal at the moment, including catching the eye of Septimus Spratt, who, under normal circumstances, he couldn't stomach, but in this setting he felt a certain camaraderie towards.

They toasted each other, grinned briefly, then the other man turned back to his conversation, still smiling. Clarke pushed aside a heavy, dark velvet curtain that revealed a door behind it. She ushered Thomas into the room beyond, then shut the door behind them.

The snug was a bit smaller, a bit dimmer, than the two main rooms, but it was the atmosphere that Thomas was struck by: he supposed, if he thought about it at all, he was expecting exuberant debauchery when Clarke led him here. But that wasn't what this place was, he suddenly realized; it wasn't an escape.

It was a refuge.

There was a small, curved bar in the corner, where several patrons sat drinking and smoking. Others were seated, in twos and threes, on chaise lounges and love seats. One couple was kissing; the trio beside them was playing a game of cards. There was a Victrola playing something sweet and melancholic, as a half-dozen couples made up of a variety of pairings, revolved slowly around the tiny dance floor.

He let a breath that he hadn't realized he was holding out. Something inside of him relaxed, completely, for the first time in a long time.

"You need another," Clarke gestured to his empty glass. "And I want you to meet my new boss." He moved carefully through the dancing pairs. One of them, a man and woman in their fifties, smiled at him, said hello. He was almost certain it was the grocer and his wife, but who, honestly, could say?

He and Clarke were at the bar, and he held up his glass to the female barkeep. She nodded, got to work on his drink. His friend tapped the shoulder of one the seated men, and he looked up, turned towards them.

"Clarke, you minx, of course you're here tonight. Where's Sally, then?" The man greeted her with a hug, as Clarke shrugged a response. Then he turned to Thomas, still smiling.

There was a split second where everything seemed to stop. It was so quick, he wasn't sure it actually had happened. But then, suddenly, heaving a breath as if he'd been holding it, his heart pounding furiously in his chest.

"Hello," the stranger held out his hand, and Thomas took it, squeezing his fingers in his own. "Francis Holmes."

"Thomas Barrow," he replied, surprised his voice sounded so calm, so normal. What was happening to him? The man in front of him was taller than he, and bigger, and roughly his own age. He had a head of thick auburn hair, and a well-manicured beard that was three shades lighter, the color of fresh honey. His suit was impeccable, even more beautiful than Clarke's.

The moment was broken by the arrival of dark-haired young woman in a drop-waisted silk dress and cherry-red lipstick. "Vee, come now, love. Sorry boys, I'm stealing her away."

Thomas and Francis Holmes took a minute to watch Clarke and her paramour join the dancing couples, who were now moving more briskly to a jazzy number. Thomas was grappling with himself, trying to find purchase.

"Clarke called you 'her new boss' on the way over to meet you," he started, turning back to Francis, who yes, was as handsome as he'd been moments before, much to his chagrin and pleasure. Thomas bit back crazed laughter; his stomach rolled pleasantly.

"Oh, yes!" The man's light gray eyes lit up. "I've always wanted a shop of my own, and the spot in Ripon belonged to my uncle, for a long while. He's decided it was high time for retirement, and, just like that, the place is mine." Francis took a long sip of his drink, grinned at Thomas. "Yorkshire's a bit different than Picadilly, but it suits this former country lad alright for now. Especially when I've got Clarke, finding spots like this. Well, 'spot' I should say, as I am sure there's not more than one like the Lion anywhere closer than York, if at all, in this county."

"Funny, Mr. Holmes – I'm a city lad who's dedicated the majority of my life to a grand house in Yorkshire," Thomas replied, settling into his seat, charmed by the easy friendliness of this man, his openness. "The city streets brought me up, but 'twas here I landed, and here I stayed."

"You're the butler at the estate, then, right? You've been there long?" Francis turned towards him, leaned forward. He smelled of cigars and beard balm.

"Yes, I'm the butler at Downton," Thomas answered, thinking. What to tell? And how much? He took a deep breath, a chance. "And I've wanted to say that for most of my adult life, if I'm honest. It's new enough to feel a bit thrilling, still, to tell people." He grinned at him, and the other man grinned back. He looked away, mildly embarrassed, then took a cigarette out of his jacket pocket, proffered the pack at Francis, who pulled one free.

"What happened? If you don't mind me asking, Mr. Barrow?" He gestured to the half-glove that covered Thomas' missing fingers, his lingering shame. "The war?" Francis Holmes gave him the perfect out, a way around the truth, without evening knowing it.

"Yes," he cleared his throat, thinking back to the blood, and the mud, and the fear and the death, stinking the air around him. "Yes, Mr. Holmes, it was the war, though that's not the whole story. It's not the easiest story to tell, I'll admit."

"No one gets through this life unscathed, Mr. Barrow, either inside or out," he smiled again, a gesture that went all the way up to his eyes, and Thomas breathed easier. "You know, though, I – or Clarke, clever devil that she is - can probably fashion you something more attractive, and more practical than that glove." He paused, put out his cigarette. The bartender brought them another round of drinks, unasked.

"Let me see," Francis Holmes held out his hand, and, like a man in a fever, Thomas stretched his own towards it. The other man's hand was warm and sweaty, the tips of his fingers calloused from his trade. His bushy brows furrowed, turning Thomas' gloved hand this way and that. "Yes, if you stop by sometime next week, the pair of us will get you sorted."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes, I appreciate that," Thomas' stomach flipped again, and, oh, did he relish the sensation. Imagined taking the street car to Ripon, to see this warm, handsome man in his newly-inherited haberdashery.

"Francis, please, I think. Or Frank, if you prefer," he looked up at Thomas. He was still holding his gloved hand in both of his.

"Well, Francis, thank you," he replied. "Then you must call me Thomas. I don't allow many to call me 'Tom', though Clarke tends to get away with it, somehow."

The other man burst out laughing. "She does, doesn't she? She gets away with most things," he glanced over at the dance floor, where Clarke and Sally were dancing closely, to another slow, sweet number.

"Thomas, then," he looked back at him, then down at their hands, atop each other. Then his face shifted a little behind his amber beard, and Thomas saw…he was looking at the raised scar along his wrist, that was no longer covered by his shirt cuff. "Thomas…" Francis trailed off a little, then looked up at him. "Sounds a bit like 'promise'. I never noticed that before."

Thomas searched the other man's face for any hint of treachery and saw none. Something inside him floated up, up, up, just as something else dipped low in his belly. He took a breath. A promise. Yes. Okay, Frank. Let's see. A night of promise.

"Francis," he gulped half of his new drink, then looked across at him. "Would you care for a dance? I'll try not to intimidate you, but I'm rather good."

The other man's face broke into a broad grin. "I'd love a dance."