Downton Abbey:
Guy(s) Night
by Mirwalker
Chapter Twenty: Trimmed
The clear, crisp day had turned cloudy by evening, with another winter storm biding its time to drop a wet blanket across the county at any moment. Amidst a true countdown to Christmas beginning, the weather's turn did seem to mirror the Earl's tenuous temper of late—as questions about an heir persisted, relations of some family members with the newly come Crawleys remained rough, and an afternoon courtesy call from the police inspector had not provided him any reassurance about whatever they'd spoken briefly and privately.
For his own part, always anxious to get out of the house and to Ian, Thomas nonetheless felt the gloom outside was fitting, as he'd felt guilty the past two days. Ian had grudgingly agreed to sketch his attackers from the road—had trusted Thomas' interest enough to pick at that scab. But he'd suffered terrible nightmares the two nights since—waking them both several times with shouts and starts in his sleep. Despite, or perhaps because they'd clung to each other on the meagerly padded floor, Ian had wrenched his bad shoulder in one particularly energetic outburst. And there seemed only so much pain or memory that powder, a shot of borrowed brandy and an embrace of strong arms could relieve.
Hopefully, he'd finished the sketches today, and could be done with those faces in every sense. Just as his patient protector was ready to try engaging them…
"Everythin' alright, Thomas?" Daisy had asked with her personal mix of glee and anxiety, as she set down the bowl beside him once grace had been said.
If he hadn't known her delivery was largely a function of her blatant crush on him, he would have found it creepy. As it were, it was simply annoying, especially when several heads turned his way. That meant she wasn't the only one who had noticed his mood or was interested in his response. "Well enough, waiting on dinner," he cast a forced smile around the ring.
"You do seem less happy than you have the past few days," Anna concurred impishly.
The younger, junior staff all looked obviously curious. The older, senior staff just looked at him.
He knew the observations were correct, as his causing Ian pain had undercut his recent euphoria at having Ian in the first place. But that they'd noticed either extreme for his swing between them, meant he needed to be more careful. More like the Thomas they knew and expected, even if they didn't like him all that much. So, he reverted to form, "Well, if you're all taking your happy cues from the likes of me, that doesn't speak well for any of you… Though, I'll bear in mind this surprising power I have over you."
That he might have any influence over them, didn't sit well with anyone at the table. Their various blanches, blushes and averted eyes suggested he'd well reminded them to mind their own business.
"Potatoes?" he offered, having served himself to begin their true reason for gathering.
O'Brien joined him in a smirk at the point made, and also the point scored.
It was raining by the time he slipped out of the house at the end of the night. And while not hard, it was nonetheless steady enough to wet him along the way, as sound and light played out above him.
Slipping out of the drizzle after knocking between peels of thunder, Thomas was a little surprised when Ian latched onto him, wet coat and all, when a particularly loud crack shook them just as the door closed.
"Hey," he smiled, pleased and concerned. "Everythin' alright?" He made to run his hand across the curly head at his chin, only to feel a rough calico of... felt and wool instead. "Ian?!" he pulled away, squinting to see the face and get an answer in the pitch black.
"I'm OK," the familiar voice tried to seem more confident that it sounded. "Really. Come upstairs."
The good hand took his, and led them quickly up into the firelit room they'd secretly shared for just over a week. Dropping the satchel of clothes he'd brought with him, and without bothering to strip off his dripping coat, Thomas pulled Ian to where he could get a good look at him.
The younger man winced at the unintentional tug on his bad arm, and looked up at him with the discomfort Thomas had heard in his voice. "I told ya; I'm OK. My shoulder's been botherin' me; and the storm's got me a little… skittish, is all. It reminds me…"
Of that last bad weather night, Thomas didn't need him to explain. However, his own shock was over the unexpected lack of, "Your hair?!"
Ian smirked knowingly, as Thomas spun him around to see how exceedingly lop-sided and uneven his mane had become. "I know you like me curls; and I'm sorry. But my face is clearin' up, but this mop would still give me right away. You said as much… So I tried to cut it; but once I'd done this side, I couldn't get me other arm up far enough…" He nodded to the right arm he was again holding close against his side. "I think maybe it's the storm."
Distracted for a moment from the botched shearing, Thomas glanced at the tightly covered window, "An ache is one thing; but if it really hurts to lift a pair of scissors…" He looked back with worry on his face.
"It's better now that you're here," Ian smiled, and shifted up on his tiptoes for a delayed kiss of welcome from his beau.
Leaning into the connection, they breathed in one another for a moment, forgetting all else until the taller recalled he was also the wetter. He peeled himself away, grabbing a quick departing peck, and turned to change. "You didn't have to cut your hair; we could have coloured it."
"This was faster and easier, and must be less noticeable than a headful of curls in any colour!"
"Where you've left off makes it more noticeable actually, thank you very much," Thomas corrected as he donned his pyjamas.
"It'll grow back… And I was only tryin' to get so I could stop havin' to hide away here, makin' you do everythin' for me."
"You just want to get out to that pub dinner I promised…"
Ian smiled guiltily, as Thomas walked back over and picked at the shambles, "So you'll fix it for me then; so it won't look so bad?"
"You're hard to resist, even lookin' like a moss cleaven rock. So, I will trim your terrible topiary… on two conditions."
"Which are?"
"First, that I do it tomorrow; tonight, I am knackered." Weariness was evident on his face, now that the surprise and concern over Ian's ills and frills had passed. The late night and early morning stealth was wearing on him; but was so worth the good company with whom he got to spend the time between. "I would just like to knock out with my beautiful Wink…"
"And second?" Ian asked, guiding him to lie down on the bedroll before the fire.
"I'd like to send some of your sketches off to some contacts in London."
Ian bristled warily, settling Thomas's head into his lap, intent on soothing him to sleep while keeping his injured arm upright.
"We have to find you somethin' to do once we can get you outta here, bald or not. And until you're able to do some labour with that arm, your talent with paper and pencil is our best lead to gainful employment."
"But won't that let them know where…"
"I won't say who they're by or where he is. Just get them shown to some folks who might be able to get them purchased for publication, or maybe attract some commissions by the new, mystery artist…"
Ian had stopped running his fingers through Thomas' hair, his face wrinkling around the idea that anyone would pay for his scribbles. Or that the transactions would somehow become a trail back to people he'd left behind. He'd need a job, to be sure; but drawing? And publishing?
"Ian," Thomas interrupted confidently, reaching up to cup his hand on the thoughtful cheek, "Trust me. This is for the good; and I won't let anythin' bad come of it."
"Promise?"
"So help my beautiful hair," he grinned up into the cloud of worry.
"This pub meal had best be amazin'," Ian smiled back, and bent down for his goodnight kiss.
"'Night."
Wanting to relish this chance to cradle and comfort the man who'd done so much for him in just a week, Ian stroked the cheeks and admittedly well-styled coif before him, as Thomas quickly drifted off to sleep. Ian could make up rest during the day if he needed to, and would try not to worry more now if he could.
Wednesday, 20 November 1912
"Thomas?!" the upbeat voiced called from behind.
"Mrs Crawley?" he turned with a smile, snapping into his up-the-stairs posture and pronunciation, and blocking the cylinder he'd been addressing at the far end of the counter. "Good day to you, mam."
"And to you. I hadn't expected to see you in the village today," she all but asked.
But unlike most people, he didn't think she meant her statement as a challenge to his being away from the Abbey. And unlike most days, and with most people, he didn't take it as one. Still, and not that she hadn't always been uniquely human in her engagement with the staff, his business was none of hers.
"I'm in town again for Mrs Patmore, the cook. We're looking forward to having you, Mr Crawley and the Dowager Countess for dinner on Friday."
"I know any extra guests only increase the work for you; so that's especially kind of you to say."
Even if an expected nicety, Thomas appreciated her acknowledging the impact her enjoyable evening would have on him and his colleagues. And they smiled at one another in that mutual appreciation for an awkward moment.
Isobel blinked first, and looked down at his project on the counter, "And so, I'm sorry to interrupt and to bother you with yet another request. I know Lady Edith didn't leave you much choice but to be pulled into our… inquiries."
His faced dropped even more, as she stepped a little closer. "I also know you've continued asking questions since our trip the woods, and that Lady Edith did not put you up to that ongoing investigation." Though still smiling, her eyes suggested she was hoping for an explanation for his persistence.
"Downton is my home as well…" he began to explain, not untruthfully.
She held up her hand, "I'm sorry. I wasn't demanding a justification… I also visited the Grantham Arms, and the Dog and Duck," she volunteered, to make it clear that she was calling him in, not out. "And I wondered whether we might stop duplicating one another's work, by working together."
"Together?" he swallowed.
"Yes, just you and me… You, Lady Edith and I all are all interested in the recent roadside attack we know happened. Edith having had her visions and seen the evidence we have; and myself at the request of the Earl to chaperone his daughter's safety. As the police work on identifying the likely victim through discarded clothes, you and I have instead focused on the brigands. So, whatever your motivations, I would ask that we communicate, if not cooperate, to move that agenda along—without involving the rest of the family…" She somehow managed both an expression of geniality and mischief.
Her bluntness was both welcome and unusual; and his look must have communicated his wariness of that candidness despite his effort to remain composed.
"Thomas, I'm not giving you an order," Isobel continued to assure. "Rather, I'm asking for your help in resolving this mystery that clearly appeals to us both. And I hope you'll agree that this subject matter is hardly the place for a young woman or the local gentry."
He smiled back at her, immensely curious, "As we're discussing it, may I ask after your interest in an apparent trap and beating?"
She laughed, not surprised that he caught or questioned the apparent dual standard she was applying to the women involved. "I shall thank you for not pointing out that I am neither as young, nor noble, as my cousin. But, I do share your concern for Downton as my home, as well as a greater liberty than the Granthams to 'get dirty' in the pursuit…"
"What specifically are you suggesting?" he smiled back, accepting that she seemed to understand the local politics, whatever her underlying criminal interest.
She could tell he was smart and wary—good qualities for this game; and so she needed to make the first tangible show of being a worthy colleague and confidant. "That we compare notes, so to speak. For example, in my conversations with the local pubmasters, I've discovered that there were two noteworthy sets of visitors to the village on Guy Fawkes' Night: One party, genteel, continued on after dinner despite the weather; and the other, a rougher trio, also headed out into the storm unexpectedly. Coincidence?" Her expression made her opinion clear.
But, while trying to build the partnership, she hadn't really offered him anything he didn't already know. Like her, he knew there had been two groups at the two pubs that night, and that they'd apparently both left at about the same time, despite the storm. From his contacts on the respective staffs, he also knew that a boy had been paid to take a message from the nicer pub group, to those at the less savory establishment. And certainly unlike Mrs Crawley, he had actual sketches of the latter group; and knew the actual name of the nobleman whose car had been attacked by the tipped off or instructed roughians. He also knew who had suffered most in the incident that followed, and who had haunted Downton during a prolonged refuge there—something he expected no one else could do more than worry over.
"Interesting," Thomas said, non-committally. He considered what she was offering, not just in terms of information itself; and also what she expected in return. How much would she want to know, knowing he could not and would not expose Ian, much less his involvement with the young man? How much could he share without interfering with his own plans for those responsible? Would she seriously keep Lady Edith in the dark about what they learned, and how would that affect his relations with his employer? And, could she help with that balance, or with his intentions to make things right for Ian, in every sense?
Isobel must have seen the gears turning in his head, and understood his watchful silence to be doubt. Or insufficient motivation; perhaps she'd over-estimated his personal interest in this, and needed to offer some additional incentive. Being observant herself, she seized on the only thing she knew about him beyond his place of employment: what she had glanced quickly on the counter before he'd turned to block her view. "I see that you're posting some sketches of some kind? While I cannot claim to have a trained eye for art, I do have some connections in those circles, should they perhaps be of use to your… project."
His eyes narrowed realizing she'd seen and surmised his off-duty exploit; more than surprised, however, he was impressed. She could be a useful partner, on all fronts, if he were careful. "They aren't mine. This is for a friend," he smiled, knowing it was useless to argue over the fact of what she'd seen.
"Of course," she smiled back. "The offer still stands; both offers do," she reminded, ready to give him some time to understand the benefits of the alliance. From what she'd learned from Edith's story of getting him to help that first Saturday, he could be motivated with vinegar. But she sensed he was at least as amenable to honey. "Consider them?" she nodded, and turned to check in with her postmistress friend.
"The valet sent the note to The Dog and Duck," Thomas called after her quietly, clarifying his interest in seeing what else she knew, could find out, or do for him and Ian. "Not the gentleman, but his man. He seemed surprised that they would be continuing in the storm, and sent a message from the Grantham Arms, perhaps without his master's knowledge. I don't know the connection, beyond that the valet was also the driver of the car we know was attacked later on the road."
Neither had shown all their cards; but it was a start.
A/N: Apologies for the longer than expected gap since last new chapter. This one a little longer for the wait. And now, we're moving toward the more... public phase of the affair. More soon!