Downton Abbey:

Guy(s) Night

by Mirwalker

Chapter Twenty-two: Public

Friday, 22nd November 1912

"Mrs Crawley," the physician stood as she was shown into his office at the Cottage Hospital.

"Dr Clarkson," she smiled back, accepting his wave to the chair across his desk. "So kind of you to make time to see me, especially unexpected."

"I'm happy to, of course," he assured, sitting only once she had taken her seat. "Is everything alright? We could move to the exam—"

"Oh no, thank you. There's no need for that. I'm well enough, I suppose," she seemed to dither. "I was passing by, and really just stopped in to say 'hello.'"

They sat pleasantly smiling at one another, basking in her quest completed.

"Not that it isn't lovely to see you…," Clarkson broached his busy schedule delicately, "But are you sure there isn't something…? I'm afraid I'm not accustomed to people just dropping by the hospital without some concern… of a medical nature."

"Well that is most unfortunate for everyone, Doctor, given your experience and expertise. But, today, I am hale of body. Thank you."

Another awkward silence, as he nodded his pleasure at her well-being.

"Though I suppose…," she glanced over her shoulder nervously at the closed office door.

And… we have it at last, the Doctor nodded without moving.

Her calm seemed to slide away as she confessed her non-physical woe. "…I must admit more than a little concern, over the as of yet unresolved assault on the north road. One almost expects to hear of such activity in the large cities; but so near here… And myself having only just arrived to Downton as a lone widow, and the apparent subject of no small discussion in the village… With only two staff in the house, neither much younger than myself…."

Clarkson tried to put on his most calming expression and tone, as he tried to halt the growing flood of anxiety from the new, nearly noble. "Mrs Crawley, I can assure that you needn't worry yourself…"

"That's very kind of you to say, Dr Clarkson," she continued, her pace of sharing not letting up in the least. "But, we both know that it's what you're expected to say… And my concern isn't just for myself. As I believe you may have heard, there was quite the… reaction at the Abbey to initial reports. Not just amongst the young Ladies, mind you; but some of the staff as well. And being a good father and master, His Lordship has firmly forbidden any mention of the matter, so as not to prolong the worry. However, people are rightly afraid," she grimaced appropriately, "And I hope you'll forgive my appearing to criticize his decision… But we all know how all-consuming forbidden fruit can be, and how badly it is likely to end."

His expression fell somewhere between sympathy and discomfort, understanding how the newcomer must feel, while not wishing to agree with her at the expense of their Earl.

She took a deep breath, as if bracing for another list of burdens the situation placed on her and her kin; but instead she seemed to calm. "And while quick assurances and stoic silence have their place, Doctor, as with a physical illness, simply making nice or ignoring a malady of the mind entirely doesn't actually help. Rather, I think this understandable anxiety calls for a little less darkness, and a little more fresh air and light, don't you?"

He paled, and swallowed noticeably.

Turning from client to counselor, Isobel placed her hand on his desk, as if to share the reassuring confidence she now expressed. "I understand that you and the constable are on good professional terms; cordial really. I wonder whether he might have shared with you the specifics that recently closed his investigation, and whether you might share that resolution with me. Of course, I'll not share the details with the girls, or let His Lordship know I know, much less where I learned it. But I would so appreciate your confidence—doctor to nurse, physician to fretful patient—just to give this old woman, a stranger to the town and alone all the week, some peace of mind for herself; and so that she can more honestly reassure her kin at the manor."

Well, well, he thought, she's re-made the police matter into a medical one, and set me up to be the bad healer if I don't share. But… she's also given me the space to do that without actually crossing his Lordship; and the constable's findings weren't scandalous, when properly edited, or fear-heightening; quite the opposite, in fact.

So, he shared, "I do apologize that my reticence to involve you in such affairs has instead added to your ill ease, Mrs Crawley. Honestly, I had not considered that you would have any interest in such a disturbing situation; but I can certainly see where it was concerning for exactly that reason. So, please let me reassure you, honestly, that all our original worries were for naught; there was no attack or crime—barely an accident in fact."

She looked slightly calmer, but still very curious. "Oh?"

He continued, "The police were able to track the shoe and jacket you'd heard about, back to an elderly Mancunian gentleman who had passed through Downton on the night of the storm. When presented with the found items, he explained that he had made the unfortunate decision to press on in their journey that night; and that just beyond town, his car had become mired near a fallen tree. He and his valet were forced to use some gifts intended for his nephew as tyre traction and to dry off."

"But wasn't there blood?"

"It would seem, rather than the feared assault, the driver had simply cut his hand while working, which explained the stained jacket... Once free, they abandoned the damaged and soiled items on the spot; the shoe must have been carried off by some animal afterwards, and the kerchief by the storm. It was all apparently an unfortunate series of events that appeared far worse than the reality."

"Well," she sighed and sat back slightly in her seat, inwardly quite skeptical but outwardly much comforted, "I am relieved to hear that it was only a breakdown in mechanics, and not in local social order. I shall certainly sleep easier knowing there are not bandits about; and I suspect those at the Abbey will as well."

The doctor looked pained at the suggestion his sharing would spread.

"Not to worry, Doctor Clarkson," Isobel quickly reassured with a grateful smile and carefully chosen words, "I shan't announce the details at dinner. I'm simply able to be confident in my own assurances to my staff and to the Downton Ladies. We can all take some comfort that nothing is being kept from us, because there is nothing to keep."

However, she knew that this gentleman was keeping something from the police, and that the attack had very real, if its motive and actual victim were still unknown and worth hiding.

Saturday, 23rd November 1912

During their early afternoon stroll into town, Thomas walked a few steps ahead as Ian once again broke off to stare at something novel to him. Turning back, he found the young man leaning over the low bridge wall, watching the gentle flow tumbling over stone and stick, on its happy meander to the sea. Or at least to York or Hull…

"We have to keep movin', if we're to make it on time…," he reminded, glancing around for traffic or fellow travelers.

Ian turned with sheer joy on his face, "There's fish! I think…"

"You can have fish when reach the pub—warmer and tastier fish," Thomas smiled at him. "Should've sent you ahead at dawn, if I'd known you'd stop at every turn and tree."

Ian hurried to rejoin him, taking his arm, braced against the crisp chill of the sunny day. "I've told you, I've not gotten out much. Ever. You keep introducin' me to all these new things…"

Thomas looked over at him, his wide eyes still darting all around them in the—to seasoned eyes—largely barren wood. Ian's flushed cheeks stood out brightly against his pale features, like balls of holly berries popping through snow. And little puffs of breath burst forth past his unfrozen smile, regular indicators of his ongoing excitement.

Ian's roving glance happened to catch Thomas' obvious stare. "What?"

"I like watchin' you to take it all in," the guide explained, his eyes smiling. "And, I've never seen you in actual sunlight."

No longer the timid patient, and now oblivious to or uninterested in other possible eyes, Ian stopped them, turned, and haltingly slid his ungood arm around Thomas, to lock them face to face. "I'm happy, 'cause what I see makes me happy."

A nervous look overtaking him for a moment, Thomas glanced around again, still on guard against those who would not find this sight a happy one. And honestly, that was any and everyone else.

"Please be happy?" Ian asked, understanding the vigilance, but not the vigil. "You deserve to be happy, you know. You're allowed to. For me?"

"Because of you," Thomas corrected with a kiss, savoring the face, the shared breath, the taste, the moment.

Ian inhaled and opened his eyes slowly as they finally parted, a wicked glimmer taking over quickly. "Are you courtin' me, Mr Barrow?"

"Is it workin'?"

A faux seriousness overtaking him, Ian slid away and headed on. "Depends on how good this promised fish is…"

Even nearly bald and dressed differently, Thomas couldn't take Ian to the Grantham Arms for the nicest possible dinner, out of the two choices, in Downton. The staff there had seen the younger man scant weeks before, and might recognize him despite the change in appearance, clothes and company. And more certainly, Thomas' funds were not limitless; and he'd spent quite a bit on Ian of late. Happily to be sure; but the joy was deeper than his pockets. So, more in keeping with Thomas' finances, risk tolerance and longer habit, the Duck and the Dog was their late lunch destination this footman's half-day off.

Offing their caps, Thomas pointed Ian toward an out of the way table, nodded to the man behind the bar, and grinned back at the bar maid across the room. Instructing Ian just to take it all in, he went up to the bar, exchanged some niceties with the staff, and returned shortly with two brimming pints. Introducing Ian to "bitters," they took advantage of not having to be quiet or secretive, and talked and laughed through Thomas' second glass, and a heaping plate of fish and chips each.

As they chatted, Thomas described some of the town they'd seen on the beeline to lunch, and catalogued some of the characters they'd seen about, or passing through the pub. Knowing it was their first public foray together, Thomas was reminded many times that this was among Ian's first experiences outside the orphanage—positive at least.

And with each patient correction or explanation, he was more aware of his anger at the people who'd so intentionally sheltered the young man from even mundane, everyday life. He had been kept, to a greater degree even than the other children in the home, from developing useful experience with society. And not for his protection, but to keep him dependent on them, and then his… patron.

Ian laughed aloud at something he'd said, and even harder as a piece of chewed chip nearly fell out of his mouth.

And then Thomas' rage was yet again swept aside by the sheer joy with which Ian approached everything: mistake and learning. And by the adoration he showered back on the lowly footman for being his guide and companion.

"That was very much worth waitin' through a week of cold meals," Ian grinned as he licked his fingers clean, before gasping audibly. "I'm sorry! That sounded like a complaint; and I've none against you…" He looked fearful that he'd offended.

Thomas leaned in and held Ian's gaze since he couldn't hold his hand. "I wouldn't be doin' it, if I didn't want to. I'm not keepin' track, 'cause it's not a debt to be paid back." He playfully kicked at Ian's leg under the table, not pulling his foot away so as to maintain a more covert physical connection. "Besides, the adventure is excitin'; and the company is more than I could've ever asked for. I've no doubt I'm doin' more than alright in this deal."

Ian blushed so hard with gratitude, it looked like he was going to burst. Such undemanding affection was so unknown to him, it was hard enough to believe it, much less know how to respond to each reminder of it. "I know you're my angel, Thomas; my miracle. And still, I wanna find a way to pull me weight. I just don't know what work I can do…"

"I may have a lead on that as well, my boy," Thomas sat back a little, wanting to raise the next issue carefully, as it was risky. "I'm no art critic; I only know clocks, cocktails and cutlery really. But I sent off some of those pictures you drew, to some contacts in London. There's some new players in publishin' down there; and I'm hoping we can get your sketches in front of the right people… If everythin' goes well, you could be illustratin' for a fancy paper or magazine before Christmas."

"Do you really think my scratches are good enough?"

"It's not just me, Wink," Thomas chuckled as he added his next plume to the collected timber and tobacco cloud hanging over the room, and checked his pocket watch. "When I was mailing them off, one of the… better placed ladies in the village saw them, and took an interest. She's asked to meet you and see you work. So, we'll stop by there next, on our way home."

So focused on gauging Ian's response to the surprise professional introduction, it took him a moment to see past the shorn man's humility at having his talent complimented, and his nervousness at having to meet, and impress, someone important with it. In fact, it wasn't until he realized Ian was no longer looking trustingly at him or bashfully down, that he grasped that Ian had stopped moving entirely, having flushed red and then paled in an instant.

Surprised and then concerned, Thomas followed Ian's frozen stare toward the door. There, Tessie had just given a big, familiar hug to an incoming customer, whom she then guided to a table near the bar. As the new arrival removed his hat and turned to sit, Thomas understood Ian's reaction. This was one of the men Ian had sketched for him; a bandit from that fateful night.