Downton Abbey:
Guy(s) Night
by Mirwalker
Chapter Two: Stowaway
early Wednesday, 6 November 1912
Some Guy Fawkes Night it had quickly become. While no commemorative fireworks had been planned at this Yorkshire estate, the poor weather more than washed away even the idea of such festivity. The awkward getting-to-know amongst the cousins had proceeded politely, if as coolly as the damp autumn day. And Edith's outburst and claim had added only passing excitement, especially to the men who understood that there might actually be a bloodied figure awash in the storm.
And so, making the suggested excuse about the weather, Matthew and Robert had managed to convince their respective mothers not to venture out. That set the house and ladies' maids hurriedly preparing three extra bedrooms, and doing their best to provide adequate nightwear and night-readiness care for the unintended boarders.
Meanwhile on the main level, the footmen, valet and butler quietly made to secure the house against any additional, unplanned visitors. Misters Carson and Bates had not been specific about what led the Earl to believe these steps were necessary; and that mystery did little to calm concerns the male staff could surmise and had to shoulder.
They had confirmed secure all the doors and windows at or below ground level, to ensure that no one would have easy access through an unlocked or ajar opening. They had turned on all the lights in those rooms, and opened all the draperies on those windows, to cast as much light as possible into the surrounding darkness, and to be easily sure no one was at or through the windows. And, they'd opened all the doors on the ground floor, so that suspicious sounds would carry as far as possible.
But having such defense placed and able to be monitored, was only useful if someone was up and about to monitor them. For to have a night watch, required a watcher. And so, after an always already long day, and a larger than usual dinner service, first footman Thomas nonetheless found himself still awake and on duty as midnight chimed on the grandfather clock across the room.
To his presumed credit, Mister Crawley had insisted that he take a shift, or at least stay up as well, to carry part of the burden. But his replacing a footman was dismissed out of hand; and though Thomas had certainly not wanted a chaperone, he found himself destined to be alone and on patrol at a point when he could have been getting some well-earned sleep.
Unable to avoid that disproportionate duty, he had volunteered for the first watch, presuming any threat would be least likely to strike immediately after the house had clearly been awake. And, generously staying up later now would earn him the rare pleasure of sleeping in a little extra in the morning; whereas foolish William had been up later than usual, and now would be up hours earlier than usual to relieve him, with the promise of a few extra winks in the undetermined future. No, if he must sacrifice, best to go first, get it over with while least supervised, and at the same time gain certain sleep and appreciation from the superiors.
Mrs Patmore had left out a tea service, with quick instructions on keeping one stove burner stoked to boil a kettle. That pointed out, and with a final, stern look from Mister Carson, Thomas was left lord of the lonely lower two levels of the large house.
His initial worry that something might just happen as the storm continued to rage outside, quickly gave way to a wicked pleasure that he could walk, sit and even sip wherever and what he liked. He had a sherry in the library, trying each of the chairs and settees in turn. He had a biscuit seated at the head of the dining room table, and mimed ordering the butler to serve it, cut it up, feed it to him and then wipe his mouth. And he almost lit up a cigar in the study; but had no easy way to cover the smell or burnt evidence.
Eventually, bored and tired, and unable to think of a justifiable reason to wake William early, he took advantage of a break in the rains to step out the service entrance for a smoke. The back court was a virtual lake; and water continued to stream and drip in from various points around the big home above. Sending off the old ladies in the morning, if they were able to get away at all, was going to mean certain muddy messes for the staff at the front of the house. But, hopefully, and smartly, he'd be able to sleep through that.
Thomas was deep in imagining a splattered Mister Carson, his soaked eyebrows dangling like draperies over unhappy eyes, when a loud sneeze nearby evoked a habitual, "Bless you," from him.
Eyes instantly wide, he held his breath as instinctually, realizing that, if he'd heard correctly, he was not alone in the dark, enclosed space. And he was certain he'd heard correctly, and that the sneeze came from a stack of crates just beside the door.
He looked about, wondering whether William or someone else hadn't approached behind him, or who might have snuck around from the front to try some soggy prank.
"Someone there?" he asked, loudly enough, somewhat hoping for no response. But when none came, that actually was proof of nothing.
"Hello?" he called again, stepping carefully toward the possible source of the possible sound. "Who's there?"
Only the drip and trickle of rainwater answered.
Thinking it might be best to wait and bring William out when he was soon up, Thomas hesitated. But all he could do to prevent the mystery person's escape in the meanwhile, would be to stand on the spot until William came out to find him, if he did. But if instead, he—Thomas—were to find, and apprehend or run off said interloper, then he wouldn't have to share the family's gratitude. But what proof would he have if—
The crates moved.
Without thinking further, Thomas stepped up and flipped up the tarpaulin draped over the low stack, and jumped slightly on exposing a crouching figure in the shadowed space between the wall and the tower of boxes.
A shared startled gasp passed between them, as the shivering form asked haltingly of its backlit revelator, "Are you… you an angel?"
Thomas scoffed at the odd and unexpected compliment, marveling at its irony when applied to him, and still flattered by the perception. Smirking despite, or because of, his alertness for possible danger, he chose not to be too quick with an outright denial. "I'm… not often called that."
"If so," the perhaps young, but certainly man seemed to tremble beyond his chattering teeth, "You must know… there has been some mistake… in my Judgement… for I am not worthy… of your presence, …of this Kingdom."
"Britain has its moments," the dry man acknowledged, quickly tired of the other's self-indulgent religiosity. "But you're not dead, just trespassing."
The man gasped; but again Thomas couldn't tell if he was surprised, short on air or simply sobbing. At least until he spoke with newfound anguish, "Then please sir,… have mercy… Finish me?" He lowered his head and held out a shaking hand, pleading for and surrendering himself to the end he seemed fixed on finding.
"I'm no angel, but I'm no murderer, either," Thomas corrected, now done with the whole cold, damp exchange. He stepped closer to get the man up and on his fatalistic way. "But I'll face me own judgement if you're found out here, in any state, after my watch. Away you go!"
Taking hold of the proffered hand, he pulled the man out into the slightly more substantial light filtering out of the doorway. Finally getting a view of the person, not just the fugitive, Thomas paused at the sight before him: A dirtied, bruised and soaking young man, whose light, wavy hair was striped with blood, and whose once fine clothing fell in stained tatters about him. He clutched one arm to his side; the other, he continued to hold up and out in front of him, still staving off or pleading to his discoverer.
"I beg you, sir," the man whispered again, struggling to remain upright on his knees. "I've no wish..., and no strength…, to go on. If you won't help me along…, then please …forget me to the weather …and my fate. I won't judge."
Thomas stepped to one side, allowing the hall light to land more completely on his supplicant.
The narrow face was streaked with dirt, rain, sweat and perhaps tears, and peppered with open cuts; his upper lip was also split; and one dark eye was nearly swollen shut. As bloodied and beseeching as Lady Edith had accurately described him, he nonetheless didn't seem the grave threat to home and hearth against which they had all rallied so. In fact, were it not for his condition and the context, he might even be considered handsome; he could easily work at, live in, or be invited into such a grand manor as Downton.
"What happened to you?" Thomas asked, curious and trying to determine his next actions with the reluctant stowaway.
"I was set upon, on the road, sir. Robbed and beaten. I ran, and… in the distance, I saw the palace lights…"
Palace indeed! "What's your name?"
Pause. "John."
"What's your real name, then…?" Thomas asked with a smile at being onto the attempted feign.
"Ian," the visitor looked up directly at his inquisitor for the first time, and smiled weakly, caught. Despite his shudders and huddled posture, he maintained his one-eyed stare, perhaps impressed at his interrogator's continued insight, or at least unsure of his next action with the information.
He isn't stupid enough to be entirely honest, or to try to hide the truth from me. That's two points in his favor. "Take off your clothes."
"What?!" Ian started, with slightly more energy.
"I'm not going to hurt ya. But you can't very well come inside dripping wet… Come to the door, and at least get off your outerwear. You can wrap yourself in this," he offered a rough quilt they used to cover luggage in bad weather.
"No, sir. Thank you, sir. But you'll just have me… report to the police, and… I can't explain it, but… I can't."
"Of course, you can't," Thomas shook his head, knowing he should have guessed it couldn't be so simple.
The rain began to fall again, with every indication that it would be returning to its former fury.
"We won't be calling anyone tonight, and can sort it all out at a dryer and warmer moment." He held out the blanket, shaking it impatiently.
Sneezing again, Ian hung his head, and paused—considering his options? Hoping another would be offered? Or just gathering his strength to stand?
"Please?" Thomas asked softly, honestly meaning more than to be relieved of standing in the cold and wet himself.
With no answer beside dragging himself to his feet and offering a resigned, if trusting look, Ian approached as instructed and let his host help ease off the remnants of his shirt, vest, trousers, socks and solitary shoe.
Third virtue's a charm; he's hesitant, but still willing to trust me, at least to some point.
Thomas left the drenched and stained clothes just outside the locked door; and, when confident the cold and stiff guest would not drip mud or water through the halls, helped him as quickly and quietly as possible up several flights to his own bedroom. Leaving instructions for Ian to stay put and silent, he went back downstairs to put on some hot water, and to stash the tattered evidence in those same crates for later handling.
He was just cleaning up the last of the mixed footprints when a groggy William appeared at the foot of the stairs. "What's happened here, then?" he asked with a yawn.
"I was having a smoke after many boring hours of walking in circles for no reason this un-fine night, when I should've been sleeping. And the storm picked up again, just as I did." He shoved past, and dropped the rags in the common laundry.
Nodding toward the hall boys' alcove, he motioned the sleepy second footman into the kitchen. "As you're on 'til morning, I'd suggest some tea and biscuits, and to keep moving; that's all that's kept me up for nothing… I'm going to take a few and a kettle up, for a quick, warm wash before I'm out until luncheon."
"Luncheon?" William gaped, wondering how he thought he'd get to sleep until then.
Looking sympathetic, but unapologetic, Thomas suggested, "If I were you, William, I'd ask Mister Carson for a nap break once the house is awake. Surely he and Mister Bates can handle a house full of women." Not waiting for any reply, he handed William a cookie, and headed upstairs. "Enjoy your rounds, soldier."
He found Ian sitting unmoved from the chair where he'd left him, dryer, only barely warmer, and now half-asleep for the improvements. Breaking up a biscuit, he fed him a little, not sure whether the lack of resistance was a good sign. Handing him a little tea, Ian was not able to grip the cup without violently shaking it empty. And in the settled light of the bedroom, Thomas realized just how pale, battered and cold the man still was, how close he'd come to not hearing him outside, only for a body to be found when next the supplier picked up his empties.
"We've gotta get you cleaned and warmed up… Can you stand?"
His conditions combining to sap his strength, Ian could barely pull himself upright.
As he did, Thomas took off his own jacket and good shirt to keep them from getting soiled too. With a glance and listen for any other movement on the corridor, he all but carried his guest to the servants' bath round the corner in the hall.
Unable to assist or assert himself, Ian couldn't help but let himself be settled gently into the tub.
"The shirt's doing nothing for you; and I can lend you another," Thomas explained. "It may hurt a little, but we need to get it off you."
Gritting his teeth, Ian whimpered slightly as the sticky, fine fabric was peeled off his legion of cuts and bruises. Though thin, he was obviously no stranger to hard work; smooth muscles and a few older scars, affirmed the calloused hands. And, while not actually blue, he lacked any outdoor occupation-suggesting tan lines, and was unreasonably pale, even by English standards.
He leaned forward and used his good arm to brace himself on the side of the basin, as Thomas added a few inches of delivered water, and then poured a warm rinse over him, carefully wiped his wounds, and gently worked the matted blood from his hair. As the cleaner worked, Ian flinched occasionally at a sudden touch to a wound, and continued to shiver as he sat in his knickers and the reddening broth.
"That's better. Can you lay back? I'll get your face."
As Thomas wrung out the washcloth, Ian began to settle back, but then firmly grabbed his attendant's nearer forearm. Through tight, quivering lips and under the intense gaze of one good eye, Ian whispered, "Why?"
"Angel," his benefactor responded simply, and with a genuine smile and gentle wipe of a wet eye. He didn't elaborate as to whom he meant.
Resigned to or relaxing in the vulnerable care, Ian released his grip, and let his rescuer finish cleaning him off. The erasable evidence of his evening removed, Thomas applied plasters to the largest gashes on his brow and jaw, and ointment to them all.
Draping him with a towel, Ian's guide helped him pat dry, and then back to the bedroom. Swapping the towel for a spare nightgown, Thomas left him to get the wet pants off while he erased their evidence from the bath.
On returning, he explained, "I don't have anywhere else I can put you, where you're not likely to be found. So you take the bed; and we'll sort out things in the morning…"
"Thank you, but… still so..." Sneeze! Ian shivered visibly, as Thomas threw a blanket for himself over the nearby chair, before pulling the covers up over the sorely reclining roommate.
Glancing about the sparsely furnished space, and knowing the empty rooms nearby had nothing but bedframes in them, Thomas sighed. Taking a deep breath, he propped the chair under the doorknob, switched off the light, dropped his own trousers, and crawled into his occupied bed.
He felt Ian tense; but the same direct, front-to-front contact made it clear the young man was still very cool to the touch and trembling for at least that experience. "The blankets only hold in heat," Thomas explained as he wrapped his arms around the form too worn and weary to resist. "I think you were out there so long, you're not making much. I'll do nothing unbecoming, I promise."
Taller than his bedmate, Thomas tucked the curls under his chin, and reassured, "You're going to be alright."
Ian had clenched his fists between them, against Thomas' chest, perhaps as his best defense against the intimate imposition. But soon, as the shared warmth—physical and charitable—settled between them, he clutched at his savior.
As the shivering slowly subsided, Thomas felt the underlying shake of quiet sobs, as his ward cried quietly in his arms—afraid, ashamed, exhausted, comforted. "I've got you now. I promise," he assured. And he meant it.
tbc...