Downton Abbey:

Guy(s) Night

by Mirwalker

Chapter Twenty-Four: Drawing Lines

Still smiling smugly, Thomas found Ian dutifully waiting almost directly across the square from the direction of the pub, kicking the dirt and keeping a low, observant profile.

Smiling himself at the sight of the happy angel, Ian's expression grew concerned as Thomas approached, surmising enough to ask, "What happened to put such a grin on your face?" What could have happily happened in confronting and punishing him?

"I'll tell you more later," Thomas promised, his expression changing unexpectedly to… pride, as he took in the sight of his not-entirely-victim. It was almost hard to imagine this vision shattering teeth and snapping fingers; but being both beauty and beast could be a useful combination when the world hated you… "For now, just know that I have a little more information to use against the whole lot of 'em; and none is the wiser of your safe recovery."

Ian made to press for more than vagaries; but Thomas cut him off with a quick finger to the lips. "To gather a little more knowledge, and to add blazin' success to the layers of our settling of scores, we have an appointment to keep now. How are you with your lines?"

Thomas turned and nodded them off in the direction of the largest home on the square. Flexing the fingers on his slightly stinging right hand, he got his biggest rush in recent moments when Ian intentionally grazed against him, the touch lingering enough to express a heartfelt appreciation and affection, whatever the details.

Isobel looked up from the book through which she'd been leafing. "Yes?"

Molesley looked even more uncomfortable than usual, as he seemed to work up the courage to explain, "It's Thomas, mam, the footman from the Abbey. He's at the kitchen door, with another young man, saying that… that you invited him?"

"Ah yes," she smiled. "I'm sure I told you to expect guests for tea."

"They are the guests?" he seemed flummoxed.

"I believe I just made that clear. Please show them in; we'll take tea here in the study."

The butler blinked, closed his mouth, blinked again, and finally headed off as instructed. He still seemed bewildered when he returned with the uncommon, common guests moments later. "Thomas and Ian Barrow, mam."

Ignoring his awkwardness with the situation, and the two guests shared a grin, she rose and greeted them warmly. "It's so good to have you both. Please do come in."

They smiled and nodded, standing their ground and holding their hats just inside the room.

Sensing their discomfort, she moved toward them instead, and took the known visitor's surprised hand. "Thomas," she smiled and shook, before turning to the unfamiliar face.

"Mrs Isobel Crawley, this is my cousin, Ian," Thomas introduced in his upstairs accent.

"A pleasure to meet you, my lady," Ian bowed, as he'd been coached, to flatter and invite under-estimation.

Thomas was appropriately embarrassed by the scripted protocol mistake, standing Ian upright with a stern look.

"I'm sorry… 'mam'?" Ian looked between them for approval. "I've not much experience with meetin' nobility."

"Nor do I with being mistaken for them," Isobel laughed at the genuine innocence, before turning to the apologetic-looking Thomas. "Whyever didn't you come to the front door? I am not royalty; and you're here as guests," she chided, as if hurt that they didn't feel welcome despite her explicit invitation.

"I am a servant, mam; here at your instruction," Thomas smiled, giving no indication of insult at that fact.

The lady's face and shoulders dropped at the reminder of that stark and persistent divide, one she was still learning and not comfortable with. Recovering, she forced the return of her hostess smile, and waved them to join her at the table, "Well then, let us meet at what crossroads we can."

Only with an affirming nod did Ian accept Thomas's obvious nudge to take the seat across from her, as the older man took up a spot just behind and beside his younger relative.

Mrs Crawley looked at him, but accepted his subtle headshake that this was all he could do, both for his professional comfort and all their appearances. She sighed, resigned, and turned her attention to the less status conscious cousin, as he tried hard not to gawk about the room too obviously as the tray arrived. "Ah, Molesley; thank you."

Thomas was surprised by this unexpected and unnecessary gratitude toward a staff member; and might have been moved by her acknowledgement of a servant, were it not the man who'd taken his rightful position as valet to the Mister Crawley.

Himself bothered by having to wait on a lower-ranking and younger servant, Molesley shared a pain look with his mistress, who remained oblivious to those nuances of hierarchy and peasant pride.

Isobel's smile persevered through what she could tell was some kind of protocol tension; but she decided that now was not the moment to try to unravel this latest knot of infuriating etiquette. Any breach was done, and calling any further attention would only prolong it.

"Tea?" she served herself and Ian, and offered to Thomas, hoping a cup and saucer to handle would encourage him to sit.

"Thank you, mam; none for me," he demurred. "We've just come from lunch in the village; and I am more than full. But, I'm sure Ian could be tempted with a bit and biscuit."

The younger man grinned at the suggestion, before a friendly hand on his shoulder reminded him to sit up more and smile less.

Glad for the small success, Isobel moved the plate of cookies closer to him, and poured her own cup as he tried one. "Ian, I suppose that Thomas has explained why I asked you both here today?"

He nodded, chewed and tried not to smile, torn between hastily refreshed manners and the rare, sweet indulgence.

"So you'll know I'm very happy you were scheduled to visit this weekend, so that I could meet you. Are you staying with your cousin at Downton? Can you…?" she wondered, having never thought about whether staff could have guests, never mind how specifically.

"I'm…," Ian began to attempt to explain, not having prepared an answer for that question.

"He's just visiting for the day, Mrs Crawley," Thomas grinned and playfully rubbed the fuzzy head. "I'm to have him back at the station for the last train back to York."

"I see. Well, if it's a question of space or protocol with your employers," she indicated Thomas, and turned back to Ian, "you'd be more than welcome to stay with us at Crawley House. It would be our pleasure."

"That's very kind, Mrs Crawley; truly," Thomas continued to take the lead, as Ian looked unsure how to respond. "But… it wouldn't be… proper." His look and intonation made it clear that larger powers deemed this yet another line uncrossable.

Blocked again at the simplest kindness, Isobel sighed again. In what warped web has Matthew's bloodline caught us? To business then- Except… "Ian, I am sorry to pry; but I can't help but notice how significantly you favor your left arm."

"Yes, mam. I'm left-handed, I use it for everythin'."

"Even his drawing," Thomas confirmed and boasted.

"Even so, is your right arm… injured?"

That she continued to veer into unanticipated topics confused both Ian and Thomas. Given the constraints of mannered conversations, Thomas had presumed the widow Crawley would confine herself to pleasantries and the specific business. Even with her middle class upbringing, her interest in local crimes, and her appreciating servants, offering guest beds to strangers and prying on their medical issues was well beyond the expected. How interesting she would be, if her chatty wonderings weren't imperiling his plan and partner. He had to think of something quickly, to dull or deflect her curiosity…

"I fell on me shoulder a few weeks back, mam," Ian confessed with an embarrassed blush, after no more than a moment's pause. "Just stumbled on a curb, tryin' to avoid a car on the street. Clumsy of me…"

"If it still bothers you so notably, we should have it looked at. Doctor Clarkson is just-"

"I thank you for your concern, mam," Ian continued improvising. "But, it's comin' along well enough. And as I said, I much favor me left anyways."

"I was trained a nurse; and would be happy-"

"And, I have to catch me train," Ian reminded warmly, if firmly, and took another bite of biscuit.

Giving up on the unsuccessful intricacies of courtesy and concerns, she nodded, and returned to the purpose of their meeting. "Very well, then. Ian, your cousin has shown me some most impressive sketches, most impressive. Where were you trained?"

"No trainin', mam. I guess I'm self-taught…" Ian returned to script, including its charming, if not entirely spontaneous, humility.

"Well, there's no need to be embarrassed by talent, young man," she chuckled at his hesitation. "That shows it's innate, and not forced. A gem some publisher would love to polish rather than mining from the start."

Thomas placed his hand on Ian's good shoulder, proud of the drawing and acting talents.

"As I promised in the post office, Thomas, I did check with my contacts, colleagues of my late husband's, who are publishers of medical texts for universities and private practices. And they asked me to send them some additional examples of Ian's work, especially those of human anatomy, as everything you shared was still life or landscape." She patted the thick book she'd been looking at when they arrived.

"So if you can take a break from the tea," she cleared a space before Ian, "I thought you might sketch something quickly for me, so I can see your skill in that realm. Thomas," she reached out to him, "perhaps you'd be so good as to model for us?"

"Me, mam?" he looked shocked, and genuinely was so. But Ian, while suddenly nervous, nodded to him, eyes twinkling in aesthetic approval.

"Of course; don't be modest," Isobel laughed. She took his haltingly offered hand, and pulled him around to the table as she stood. She placed his left hand on the surface before Ian, gently flattening it with a pat. "Such lovely hands, Thomas. Don't you agree, Ian?"

"Yes, mam, very nice," he nodded, before grinning up at its owner, making clear he meant it more than she meant or knew.

"They're just hands, mam," Thomas blushed.

"Indeed. But they are also among the more difficult body parts to draw well: proportions, junctures, textures—quite a bit of physiology crammed into a small, taken for granted space."

The men looked at one another, and back to her.

"I've gathered this pencil and paper for you, Ian. They may not be the materials you're accustomed to working with; but I hope they'll suffice."

"Well…," Thomas began to intercede in the trial, however well intentioned.

"Thank you again, Mrs Crawley. I'd be happy to," Ian interrupted. "But, I wonder whether I might just draw me own hand, as I'll need it to hold the paper." Doing his best to cover a passing grimace, he brought his right hand up onto the table, secured the paper with the convenient reference, and picked up the pencil with his left hand. Two confident messages delivered in a single action.

Both his audience members chuckled at his cheek and determination. The man winked.

"Perhaps we can allow him some space to work?" Isobel suggested, waving Thomas over to the chairs nearby. She sat; and he stood facing her, pleasantly. "Thomas, if the invitation is not enough, would it help if I ordered you to sit down?" she wondered, exasperated at the continuing caste trappings.

He obliged uneagerly, also perching so he could keep Ian in at least the edge of his vision.

"Thank you for coming, and for bringing him," Isobel began, finally able to converse with her guest at an even physical level, if nothing else. "I do apologise for the surprise task. The publisher asked me specifically to confirm he is actually the artist, as they apparently get a good number of unsolicited submissions… I hadn't considered the market for such artists was so crowded, or potentially dishonest."

"It's likely there is no pure market, village or city, mam."

"Sadly true," she conceded, before dropping her voice, "Including our own, as our highway bandits are still at large."

He acknowledged her broaching the shared subject by turning slightly toward her, to spare his cousin the distraction and distress, of course.

She continued, "I have not shared this with Lady Edith yet, as I hesitate to encourage her further to no purpose; but I understand that the police have traced everything back to a bachelor gentleman north of Manchester, who claims the car became stuck in the mud, and his driver bled on a nephew's clothing they were using to free it. But his story is clearly a fabrication, as it does not account for the felled tree, the other men sent forth from the Duck and Dog, or realistically how the shoe and kerchief got so far away…"

"And I suppose, with no victim or reported crime, the authorities will not be pursuing those loose ends any further?" Thomas surmised.

She shook her head in disappointment. "While I can't be sure, it doesn't seem they even checked with this nephew, to confirm he is actually safe and well. I suppose, I could inquire with the barmaid at the pub; without realizing why I was interested, she told me that one of the men there that night, was her own brother."

"No," Thomas disagreed, not surprised by that disclosure, and having just worked that lead himself. Not that Mrs Crawley needed to know that, or follow up on it. "I know Tessie; and she won't give up her brother, not without tipping him off, even innocently. And it's not like he would confess to anything, even if we reached him. Perhaps for his own reasons, the old man is clearly covering up whatever did happen. Did you by chance learn his name?" he hoped.

Isobel shook her head again. "So we're back to no good leads, unless one of us can convince the constable to name the gentleman, or Tessie, her brother. And Lady Edith will not sit idly much longer; she's quite headstrong, I am learning."

Agreed on that point, the pair sat dejected at the apparent dead end in their investigations. They turned to look at the busy Ian, and what progress he was making, both on the biscuits and the sketch before him.

"I do hope this works out for him, Thomas. He seems such a charming young man-The nephew!" her sharing changed suddenly enough to start both her guests. "Fancy dinner at the Grantham Arms before your train?" she smiled, excited. "We can get his description from the staff there, and use all our connections, Lady Edith included, to find the nephew!"