Thump.
Thomas threw a wadded-up shirt at the wall of his room. It was late. Jonathan had already crept out through the back door on some important mission. All around were the sounds of servants getting ready for bed; maybe reading a bit or writing a letter to some beloved relative or sweetheart. Thomas was remembering his childhood; a congregation of boys standing in front of an old abandoned house, tossing balls. It was an intense game. If you hit the peeling wood of the door; one point. If you broke a window; two. If you could manage to get your ball up on the roof and through the skylight, you were thumped on the back, reimbursed, and let into the inner circle of the mysterious club that held its secret meetings in the rotting shed on the edge of the village every Tuesday. But there was one boy who never threw balls. He stood at the edge of the empty lot that surrounded the house with his hands in his pockets and watched. At first the lads would call to him, tell him to join in, that it was a good game and not very hard. He would just shake his head, without really knowing why, and let his eyes wander for a few seconds to prove his disinterest before coming back again to observe the game. Eventually the boys' calls turned to taunts. He was too good for them, he was not good enough, he should just go home to his precious little mother's lap where he belonged. The boy wouldn't budge but stood there, expressionless, his back stiffened as if the insults would bounce off it if he ignored them hard enough. As time went on the boy grew taller and stronger and his face formed itself into a permanent scowl. One day the boy's father took him out to a big, open field and put a small rubber ball in his hands. He told him to throw it as far as he could, maybe try to hit that tree over there. The boy's father meant well; he thought that maybe if he spent a little time with his son he would grow to be a man instead of staying a sullen child who just looked on as the game was played in front of him. The boy took the rubber ball and threw it on the ground at his father's feet. His father didn't try anymore after that, and was killed a year later by a distracted doctor speeding his carriage through the cobblestone streets to deliver a baby. The son didn't cry. His father had just been another person who tried to make him into something he was not, one more person who didn't understand that he didn't belong with those boys in the empty lot; those boys who were now learning to be stable hands and locksmiths and clockmakers. He was different. He hated it, but he was, and there was no changing the fact. He would make his own way, and never mind those boys. Sod 'em. There was had to be a corner for him somewhere.
Now that boy was a man. He had grown to be one, whatever doubts his father may have had, and he was trying to make his own way but it was tough. He hated everything good and he hated everything bad, and fighting his corner was never as hard as when he found himself attached to someone who fell somewhere in between the two. He just wanted to make it, to make it really well so he could go back and show those boys in the lot that he was too good for them after all, too good to play their stupid games and too good to be a humble stable hand or a poor clockmaker. Thinking of this, Thomas picked up the shirt he had recently taken off, bunched it up in his hand, and threw it at the wall as hard as he could. It felt good. Almost as good as getting a ball onto the roof and into the skylight. He threw a jacket. Then a shoe. The other shoe. Thud after thud echoed through the servant's hallway, waking many sleepy, irritated heads. Mr. Carson silently cursed whoever was making the noise as he made his way to the source of the sound, his robe drawn around him and his thick eyebrows unusually wild. It was strange for Thomas to be making a scene, Carson thought as turned the doorknob. He was usually the one hastily plotting during the distraction of other people's scenes. Opening the door, he blinked as he took in the sight of his Lordship's valet hurling a handful of cufflinks. Thomas froze.
"What on Earth do you think you are doing?" Carson growled at the noisemaker in disgust. "Do you not realize that people are trying to sleep?"
Thomas could think of no possible excuse for being caught abusing his wall at midnight. "I, um…" he began, stammering, "I had a brief fit of insanity, Mr. Carson. I lost control, as it were." Thomas struggled to find his usual calm attitude but found he had thrown it away with his clothing.
"I'm fine now." He added.
Mr. Carson did not know what to make of it.
"Well…" he said, after a few moments bewildered silence, "Just be sure to contain your fits of insanity from now on, especially when they occur in the middle of the night. This sort of behavior does not suit someone of your job status, and I hope you know that."
"I do, Mr. Carson." Thomas replied.
"And go to bed at once!" ordered the butler.
"I will, sir." Thomas assured him.
Carson gave him one last suspicious glance before turning to leave, but before the older man could shut the door behind him, a thought bubbled up from the depths of Thomas Barrow and was spoken aloud before said Barrow could do anything to stop it.
"Wait, Mr. Carson." He said, "I think you aught to know- there is an intruder in Downton."
Carson whirled around, his face suddenly sharp and alert.
"Who?" He demanded, "Where?"
"Well you see sir, he is not in the house right now, but he'll be back. He comes and goes, you see." Thomas said, heartily regretting his decision to speak up.
"What do you mean?" Carson asked him, suspicion dawning on his face once more.
"I mean there is a man who has been hiding here for awhile…he's been blackmailing me so that I wouldn't tell you, but I think it's my duty to, sir."
Thomas did his best to strike a virtuous pose.
"Blackmailing you with what?" the butler enquired.
"It's private, if you don't mind." The valet returned in as respectful a tone as he could muster.
"Well, then," said Carson, exasperated, "If you would be so kind as to tell me the details you are at liberty to discuss."
Thomas took a deep breath.
"A few days ago, a strange man cornered me when I was in one of the side-rooms in the hall. He told me he wanted to speak to Lydia, and said he would expose a rather disturbing rumor about me if I did not help him. I refused to do so, and he hung around, trying to get me to find him some time alone with her, but I just didn't think it was right. Now that you know, though, Mr. Carson, I trust you will throw him and his rumors out into the street."
Carson's face could not hold enough surprise.
"You protected Miss Harrison at your own personal risk?" he asked, trying very hard not to think well of the snidely valet.
"I suppose so, Mr. Carson." Thomas said with a small smile.
"Well…she aught to be grateful then."
Carson seemed to mistrust the words coming out of his mouth.
"Well, make sure you call me the instant this scoundrel re-enters the house." He continued, "We must find out how he managed it in the first place so that no more blackmailing ruffians can find their way into Downton."
He started to leave again, but turned back at the last moment with a rather pained look on his face.
"Thank you for informing me of the situation, Thomas. It must have been very difficult for you."
"You're welcome, Mr. Carson." Thomas said brightly, and watched as the butler left the room.
Once he was alone again Thomas's smile melted. It was a lucky escape, to be sure, and a good lie, but he couldn't help wishing it was the truth.
