Downton Abbey:
Guy(s) Night
by Mirwalker
Chapter Twenty-five: Twisted and turns
"We'll have to make an appearance at the train station," Thomas explained as they turned away from Crawley House and headed away from the direction of the Abbey and its cottages. "Small town; people talk."
"I don't mind more time out. Together," Ian smiled and leaned in just long enough to register the linger.
"Careful," Thomas warned and moved away, glancing toward and across the square for familiar faces and interested eyes. "Small town..."
"Have I done somethin'?" Ian asked hesitantly. "The lady seemed pleased with my sketch, and to like me. She even made me up some biscuits 'for the train,'" he indicated the tied paper bundle. "But you've seemed cross since she asked us to supper, and got on about me arm again…"
As they passed out of the village proper, and onto the short road to the station, Thomas couldn't help but notice the unease that had crept into Ian's voice, and the concern with which the brown eyes focused on him as he trudged them on.
"You done nothin'," he smiled through his worry. "You were brilliant, actually, with words and pencil. How could she not like you? And I couldn't be more impressed or prouder. I was just… worried when she seemed intent on takin' us to the Grantham Arms, where you might get recognized."
"Or you get seen out with her," Ian guessed correctly.
"She doesn't understand how improper that would be, even if she's not actually nobility. And it would come down the worse on me at Downton if word spread. Never mind explainin' you to his Lordship or Mister Carson." Or O'Brien…
"You handled that quick enough, remindin' her of the train, and turnin' to my drawin's. There's more to it," Ian persisted, his look shifting from concerned to soul-searching.
"You haven't known me long enough to think you can-"
"But I know you well, angel." Ian stopped walking. "I can sense it on you. Please tell me?"
Thomas turned back, the shadows of dusk doing nothing to hide the intensity of his walking partner's stare or steadfastness. He smiled nervously at the younger man's insight on him, which both unnerved and invigorated him. And he could easily accept that exciting tension, if it weren't that the source of his concern was also a risk to the source of his joy. He walked the few steps back to Ian, and stood closer than his instincts suggested was safe. Damn social expectations. "Mrs Crawley was honestly concerned about your arm," he confessed in a whisper born of guilt. "As we stepped out, she begged me to get you looked at. I'm afraid I've been too protective of us, and not attended enough to you. If I've waited too long, and-"
The quick kiss was enough to interrupt the slide into self-blame; and the good hand that joined his in his coat pocket, enough to lead him on toward and beyond the station lights ahead in the growing darkness. "You can take me to the doctor after you've taken me home tonight."
"I meant what I said earlier today," Ian said as they lay together before the fire later that evening. It was only on this rare half-day off that they were able to be together any amount of time at all, much less with Thomas not needing to sleep immediately so that he could be up all the sooner in the morning. And today had been a largely wonderful, and long, such window of time. As the extended visit had wound down, and the temperature dropped, they'd made it back to the cottage in time to share a cookie and more…
"What's that?" Thomas asked, thumbing a bead of sweat off the brow above the cool, dark eyes.
"Among other of me favorites, you do have nice hands," Ian smiled, catching and inspecting the passing paw. "Strong, nimble, rough enough to show you're a hard worker; gentle enough to let me know I'm important. And they fit just right." He nestled his cheek into the palm, proving his point.
"It takes two to a match," Thomas reminded, with a caress to the cradled face. "And speakin' of, I think 'Thomas and Ian Barrow' had a nice ring to it."
"I don't know," Ian squirmed.
Thomas looked concerned.
"Age afore beauty is nice enough I suppose; but I think 'Ian and Thomas Barrow' sounds better…"
"Wha—?!" the second mister stuttered, before the first's grin and attempt to slide away elicited a round of laughter and a careful, rolling embrace. Quietly of course.
Sunday, 24th November 1912
Greenhalgh. Grotton. Gwilliams.
"These names are quite different," Edith turned her nose up at the list he'd slipped her on the way into the house after church. "Are you certain she needs information on all three?"
Thomas shrugged with an understanding smile, as he helped her slowly out of her coat. "I don't understand why Mrs Crawley wasn't able to be more specific. I'm to ask after their servants; and she hoped you had either heard from them, or could gather information on them and their relations from the registry."
Her mind raced with this most tangible lead since she learned of the monogrammed initial. Thomas had relayed that neither he nor her cousin in the village had been able to make any meaningful headway tracking down the assailants, as had been the most recent plan. People either knew nothing, or were willing to share nothing—either possibility only adding to the mystery! And that lack of progress was even more disappointing given her father's rather comprehensive ban on her previous work to identify the moneyed victim. But this new lead, however broad, was enough to show the trail was not cold, the adventure not done. But it must proceed with more caution, and haste, than ever!
She tempered her grin quickly, handing Thomas her scarf and gloves. "I shall need your assistance to access the library without anyone else knowing. I imagine papa, if not Carson, will be watching that copy of Burke's like hawks."
"Of course, milady," he nodded, as the same butler looked back at what was delaying him and the middle daughter.
"Thank you, Thomas," she sensed enough to feign a struggle with her hat, and comment loudly, "That will be all."
"Milady," Thomas almost coughed, eyeing the piece of evidence she still clutched.
"What? Oh," she realized, discreetly popping a button off the coat he had already taken from her, and then visibly handing it back to him, along with the elicit paper slip, before proceeding upstairs to prepare for luncheon. "Of course. I do love that coat, and will expect an update on its mending by this evening."
"Is there a problem, Thomas?" Carson asked as the footman finally approached the service stair, after tarrying with Lady Edith, and then in the coatroom, far longer than usual.
"No, Mister Carson," he assured, looking puzzled. "Why do you ask?" He conspicuously closed his hand around the large, loose button, before brushing a drop of melted snow off the matching woman's coat on his arm.
The butler pursed his lips as his eyebrows twitched in tune, before his whole face fell still and fell. "No; I suppose not. Do let Mrs Hughes know if you need assistance restoring that button for her Ladyship."
"Of course, Mister Carson," he relaxed and assured his supervisor. "Though, I do like to think I'm quite handy at tying up loose threads."
"How about you, Thomas? Just one more hand?" O'Brien asked with a mock pout across the servants' table, as the younger William rose, yawned and headed upstairs.
Thomas looked a little shocked, even irritated, that she was pushing for yet another round on the already late Sunday night. He tapped the playing cards in his hand on the table, and tossed them onto the discard pile.
"What's the matter?" she goaded again. "Got somewhere to be?"
"As a matter of fact, I do. It's called a 'bed,'" he reminded, standing to take his leave to it.
"I see," she nodded agreeably, before looking up at him with clear mischief, "And where would that be located this chilly, lonely night?"
"Are you well?" he turned to ask with a concerned look on his face. "Where do you think my bed is?" What was she on about?
It was clear that O'Brien was taking her time gathering and arranging the cards into her hand. She always did. "Your bed is in your room, I know. But that's not what I asked you; and that's not where you said you were goin'."
Thomas gripped the back of the chair, holding himself up on it, as he battled the urge to flee the room, or to fling it at her, or both.
Her feigned nonchalance continued, as she inspected and shifted the odd card. "You've been far too chipper of late, if a little tired-looking. You're up late, and up early for no good reason. And I'm fairly certain that your bed, in your room, has been empty at least a few nights recently…"
No outright accusation; just assertions, to test his reactions. Even more delicate and dangerous.
"I told you," he looked over his shoulder to the hall and stairs, "Or better, you'd already figured out, that I've got somethin' workin' for the middle young Lady…"
"Overnight? For a fortnight?" she was more honestly skeptical and cool. "She's not even that attractive…"
"I said 'for' her," he recoiled honestly. "Not 'with'…"
"And I didn't say nothin'," she reminded, setting down the cards, and looking up at him for the first time. "But I do know that you're not the only one who gets a half-day off. And that the good Mr Molesley is far too eager to please, or too frightened not to…"
He knew his face had gone as white as his knuckles; but he couldn't help it. He could appreciate how this… cold fury could frighten a man when she wished to.
She stood, and walked slowly around the table toward the door, "Remember, Thomas, unlike the others, I'm not stupid. And I know you've been steppin' out more nights than not of late." She slowed as she passed behind him. "I'm glad you got to visit with your cousin, I am; but that's only a single afternoon accounted for. And, I'm less likely to wonder, or to inquire, and I can better cover for ya, if I know when and where you're off to. And then we can all sleep better… Wouldn't you agree? Good night."
Without waiting for a response, she passed into the hall; and her footsteps faded up the stairs.
The light snow drifting against the high windows was not the only thing piling up on Thomas' plans this night.