Downton Abbey:

Guy(s) Night

by Mirwalker

Chapter Five: Ruminations

"Oh, I don't know," O'Brien contradicted, blowing a long plume of smoke. "Other than having to attend to Mrs Crawley—who sent me away almost immediately, and the Dowager—who just wanted to leave as soon as possible, I've rather enjoyed the day. You flustered by being kept up all hours, and then running about forgetting things all day. Lady Edith's got all the family irritated over her visions, only to have the police show up to ask us all to stay sharp for an actual injured gentleman. And Mr Carson near to a heart attack over the all these 'disruptions'… They can't write such entertainment in the magazines! And all this for free…"

Thomas didn't often see his colleague so amused; and normally, he would be right there with her, reveling in the spectacle that could be their employers and their workplace. That was one shared interest that had connected him to the closest thing he'd had to a friend under the Downton roof. That and a mutual respect for the other's capacity for inflicting… unpleasantness on those who crossed them. Better an ally, than an adversary.

But tonight, the glee was in part at his expense, much more than she knew. For beyond his admitted sleepiness as they squeezed in the smoke before upstairs dinner, he had a feverish stranger hidden in his room. And now, not having had the chance to ask that man properly about how he and his injuries came to be at the Abbey, the local police had shown up looking for someone just his size and condition. Thomas' early morning act of mercy had grown increasingly more complicated as the day had gone on.

"Surely you find some of this intriguing? I'd hate to think you were going soft on the family," she nudged him for his unusual lack of shared gloat.

"Better than the cinema," he agreed as prompted, realizing she was expecting some affirmation. "Just don't like that it's my sleep what gets cut short for their whimsy. And, now I get to serve them all dinner as if nothing's amiss with them or me."

"Well don't nod off between courses. I still expect a telling of your guard duty, and their chatter over pheasant tonight."

"I imagine I'll just head up and pass out immediately tonight," he explained both truthfully, and to set expectations for his further scarceness.

"Make notes, then," she insisted, as she tossed her lit end into a puddle, and headed inside.

"Yes, mam," he agreed, himself curious what more he might learn eavesdropping over five courses. And not give away.

Thomas struggled mightily through dinner service. He was slightly tired from the altered and insufficient sleep the previous night and that morning. He was also preoccupied with thoughts of- with questions about his rescuee. Given Carson's announcement at servants' supper, he couldn't help but wonder about possible connections between his secret guest, and the apparent attack in the area. And as the family talked as directly as decorum allowed, he was desperate to pick up anything else that might help him make sense of the mystery he alone knew, and the larger picture he didn't.

"Tea is better steeped, Thomas; not so, butter sauce," barked Mrs Patmore as he dared to pause in the kitchen.

Darting upstairs again, tray and head full, he resumed pondering on what the "G" on the handkerchief might stand for, much as Lady Edith seemed dedicated to discovering.

One eye on the table and his task master, and one ear on their social prattle, he chewed in his own mind: It was a quick leap to surmise that Ian was likely, but not surely, the man who'd been attacked and dropped the jacket. That he was the man Edith had seen; he'd said he'd come toward the house, drawn by the lights. And he must have dropped the handkerchief at the door.

So, was Ian from Manchester? Or his clothes were. And given their quality, and apparent desirability to bandits, he had some money… But what wealthy 'G' family, indeed, Edith? And what had he been doing on the road near Grantham Village at all, so late and in such weather? Was he alone under such conditions? And who had known, and chosen, to attack him, leaving no more trace of their crime than what was on, and dropped from, his person?

Another course served without new revelations from the family. At least not beyond the beginnings of Christmas plans, nearly seven weeks away.

But, even beyond being a little froggy from cold and wet, Ian didn't exactly sound aristocratic. And from what Thomas had glanced of his body under the fragments of fancy clothes, he was no stranger to manual work. It could be a function of stress and hunger, but his eating manners were not noble; and he seemed unfamiliar with local gentry and geography more generally.

Serving dessert, Thomas realized that Lady Mary had been unusually quiet tonight. Perhaps her tongue was held by an unspoken concern for a missing victim or his at-larger attackers. Or more likely, by her younger sister's unspoken, but clear glow of triumph over her disbelieving detractors.

Whoever his fostered fugitive actually was, perhaps the most disturbing questions about Ian were, Why he had approached the house, even come to the door, but not knocked and sought refuge from enemies and elements? Why had he found his way to the darkest area along the house, and so poorly hidden in the shadow of sanctuary? Why had he thought himself dead, and then wished himself so? And why had he been so adamant that he was not worthy of saving, in this life or the next? For such a nice, seemingly gentle, and even… beautiful… man to be so beaten on so many levels… What had he done? Who was he?

"Thank you, Thomas," Robert repeated, more loudly.

Thomas snapped to, stepping away so the Earl could enjoy the space left by the dish he'd just removed; and the family could make their migration to the sitting room. He didn't bother to look at the butler; he could feel the displeasure directed at him from across the room.

"My apologies, your Lordship," the gruff voice chastised him at the same time. "Thomas seems not to have fared so well with the shift in schedule as did young William."

With great effort, Thomas did not shift his face from its honestly pensive-weary presentation. Nothing to be gained by protesting the largely accurate, if unbalanced critique, here, now or otherwise. Best to suffer gladly, so they'd all get on with their evenings. He certainly wanted to get back to his questions, and to the answers that only Ian could provide.