Downton Abbey:

Guy(s) Night

by Mirwalker

Chapter Twenty-six: Packing

Tuesday, 26th November 1912

"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to worry ya," Thomas promised, when he finally pulled Ian to him again, as soon as they stepped into the upper room two nights later. "I'm sorry; but I couldn't risk it. Not with enough snow on the ground to mark my trail clear as day. And not with a… a colleague startin' to take note of my absence each night. Goin' ahead, we've got to be more careful." His cold hands stroked the warm cheek; and he kissed the forehead and fuzz for the umpteenth time in minutes.

"I trust you," Ian assured with more confidence than his relieved clutch suggested. "And I had enough food, and paced me firewood."

Which he couldn't step out to fetch more of without likewise leaving tracks in the snow! "You must be freezin'; I'm sorry! Here's a parcel from tonight's dinner; you start on that, and I'll go and get you some logs while I've still got me coat on."

Moments later, Thomas had let himself back in with an armload of wood quietly pulled from the neighbour's doorside pile. As had been the case for the last fortnight, he hoped they wouldn't notice or think much on their rapidly dwindling kindling.

Still wrapped in the blanket he'd worn to open to the door, Ian was sitting by the low fire, well into the newly delivered meat pie.

Thomas could see he wasn't using his right arm at all, but that the desk where he now draped his own coat was covered in new sketches. For two days, Ian had obviously had nothing else to do but draw, and so had paper captured a few additional Manchester buildings, a murky Abbey, his own hand from various angles, and some people—from the pub, Mrs Crawley, and a rather austere-looking Thomas Barrow.

"Is this how you see me now?" he wondered with a smile.

"It's how you were at Lady Isobel's," Ian explained, wiping his chin. "The way you talked, and held yourself while we were there. Like a whole new man."

Quickly stripped for bed, Thomas settled in behind him with a worried look on his face. "I suppose you've never seen 'upstairs Thomas,' have you?"

"I like my Thomas much better," Ian smiled, twisting to steal a kiss, and then fed his visitor a chip. "But it was good to see that part of what you do. And see what I might need to learn to do…"

"The plan is that you never have to live in service," he reminded them both. "And that I won't have to for much longer."

"Is there news from London?" Ian asked, almost hopeful the optimism was based in something tangible.

"Not yet; too soon. But if the publishers are eager, we should hear back any day—from mine or Mrs Crawley's." He rested his chin on Ian's good shoulder, taking in a contented breath and letting the smell of the musty room, crackling fire and hearty pie, be replaced by the unique, faintly musky scent of his storm-delivered sweetheart.

Finishing off his plate, Ian leaned back into the full body embrace, relishing both gifts from his saving angel.

Thomas felt the sigh as Ian nestled against him; and quickly began to drowse as Ian stroked his wraparound arm, connecting their mutual contentment.

Then the caress stopped. And Ian's breathing stopped. And he weakly whispered into Thomas' chest, "Either way, I have to go, don't I?"

Already worried and guilty for his unplanned and unannounced absence due to the simple, if sudden, wintry blanket and coworker's suspicion, Thomas nearly died where he sat as he understood Ian also believed banishment was still the unavoidable consequence.

It hurt all the more when he admitted to himself that, to some degree, and from a certain perspective, Ian was correct. As he'd said himself, they couldn't keep this up indefinitely.

Or, in the wonderful case that Ian's attributes were recognized more widely than Thomas and Mrs Crawley, that his artist would visit, and then move permanently to London. Must follow the livelihood, not the love. And even should Thomas be able to join him, there was not yet even an inkling of a plan for how or when he could depart Downton, for any job, much less for a better position. At least for the foreseeable future, Ian's escape promised only an obstacle, not an opportunity, for their being together.

Holding this now familiar gem more precious than silver, Thomas realized once again that his wretched life would strike him only a devil's bargain, would beat him about the heart with the bittersweet cliché: to save Ian, he'd have to lose him. Eyes wet, he held Ian closer and sighed, "Aye. You do…"

Though he would not have thought it possible, Thomas felt even more pain when Ian made no reaction to his blunt agreement, so unsurprised was the younger man at that inevitable ill turn of fortune, and so resigned to it he seemed. There was no shudder, shrug or clench; no push, pull or fight. What fire he'd shown in the pub just days before, what passion that night, was gone. Reality was cold and harsh as the recent snow; and Ian seemed to understand that it had hunted him down again, despite the protective embrace around him. Perhaps, if he just didn't move, just perhaps the moment would hold, like the encircling arms.

Pulling that blanket tighter against the cool future, Thomas pressed his cheek against Ian's fuzzy crown and gave the only additional gift he could, "You do have to go; that's true. But I promise, I will follow quick as I can…"

Ian clasped the open collar of Thomas' undershirt, a habit both had learned to find comforting since their first, stormy night together.

Rocking him ever so slightly, Thomas knew he needed to find a ticket ensuring their joint escape from the current circumstance. And if he couldn't guarantee that opportunity for them, he would need to acquire the resources to create it.

Thursday, 28th November 1912

"Carson, I am sorry to arrive early, and unannounced as well. But I had hoped I might consult with Mr Bates on a few questions about my son's wardrobe. Molesley is very efficient, to be sure; but I'd like to get a second opinion to inform my Christmas shopping."

"It would be our pleasure, Mrs Crawley," the butler lied dutifully. "However, Mr Bates is currently seeing to his Lordship's evening attire." And how they would find a time and place to connect this guest and her evening's schedule with a staff member she would never normally encounter…

"Of course," she laughed, "How silly of me not consider that this is one of his busiest times of day. So busy for all of you…"

Carson pursed his lips and nodded in actual and expected agreement with her sudden insights.

Isobel looked around as if disappointed at the situation she'd created, before allowing her eye to fall on the stoic footman who'd also hurried to receive her. "Oh," she thought aloud, "as he's likely to be the one to carry in the trunk I've brought with me, and I know your sharp eye will be needed elsewhere until cocktails, I wonder whether the footman… Thomas, is it? Might I pose a few questions to him, before everyone gathers?"

"Thomas is neither a valet nor a butler, Mrs Crawley; and so does not have the training or experience…," Carson corrected, making that same footman flinch at the status reminder so easily handed down.

"Actually," he was cut off, "I think my son would also benefit greatly from another… younger man's eye, for what is 'the fashion' of today. If there were any way you could spare him to help occupy me at the moment, and with full assurance that I should also treasure your and Mr Bates' learned opinions, when you can spare a moment later this evening…"

Carson blinked at the quick, if disruptive, logic. "Very well… Thomas, please bring Mrs Crawley's trunk into the library, and be smart with your counsel. Mrs Crawley, if you'll follow me, I'll see you in, and then let her Ladyship know that you've arrived."

As he unfastened the victor's luggage, Thomas caught both his silent, defeated harrumph, and her knowing wink as the butler waved in the guest.

Once alone in the library, Thomas helped Mrs Crawley lay out a variety of shirts, slacks and jackets for inspection.

Knowing ears and eyes might linger to ensure the private consult was at least beginning well, Isobel narrated, "It's a selection of what Mr Crawley currently owns, and of items I sent for in preparation for Christmas parties, and as possible gifts."

"Much of this is actually quite nice, mam," Thomas had to admit, before pausing at one vivid ensemble. "Though…"

"Be honest, Thomas. He needs to present the proper image; and I assure you I can handle a little couture critique," Isobel smiled.

Perhaps for those same potential ears, he simply smiled, shook his head and re-folded the offending set. "This jacket, however, is quite smart…"

"You seem surprised, Thomas," she joked, before stepping over and dropping her voice. "Unless you note something particularly off, I expect we'll keep most of it. In the meanwhile, the charade of our debate will allow us to speak…"

He paused to take in her covert confidence, indeed a little surprised.

She cocked her head as if to remind him that he'd been the one to send word that they needed to speak. Had she misunderstood when Edith arrived Wednesday afternoon with this night's dinner invitation? Had she also gone through the half-pretense of this pre-holiday fashion show, and arranged their rare moments alone, for no reason?

Thomas was indeed surprised, and impressed. But private time would be as fleeting as it was manufactured. So, as they continued to tut over sundry articles from the trunk, he began with no further introduction, "Despite her father's instructions, Lady Edith has managed to track down some good possibilities for our bachelor gentleman. I need to go to Manchester to check with some contacts there; but a Saturday afternoon won't be enough to travel, enquire and return…"

"Could Lady Edith request you accompany her for the day, to assist with Christmas shopping perhaps?"

"No, mam. She could not," he stated simply, shaking his head at one outdated pair of shoes.

Isobel sighed, realizing, "It would be 'improper' for a young lady to travel accompanied only by an unmarried male servant…"

"And, his Lordship would sense something afoot immediately. London and York are more familiar destinations for her; why the 'G' gentleman's Manchester?"

"And you would actually be responsible for her, should she manage to get you both there…? Then I shall request you to accompany me," she decided with a reactionary resolve, perhaps as he had hoped. "Surely I am old enough to need no chaperone, and to invite no scandal. It's a city I know well; and I am known well enough in it. My going there should invite no suspicion."

"And not being able to do more here in Downton…"

She smiled at his deeper understanding, "Even briefly, I shall be able to escape this rigid system of my own accord, and to my own ends. Yes." That possibility elicited a sigh and smile from her, before she seemed to remember another point they should consider. "And speaking of Manchester, how is your younger cousin?"

Comparing the stitching on two dress shirts, Thomas actually started at her bringing Ian into this mix, and with such assertive concern. "My cousin?"

"I don't need youthful eyesight to tell that he adores you; and I think you, him. So precious, that bond between relations… But I ask because I also got the sense that, for fear or finances, he wasn't keen on the medical attention. I'd guess he's not darkened the door of any physician?"

"No, mam," Thomas wilted in guilt, "I don't believe he has."

The former nurse pursed her lips and looked at him with no small amount of irritation, her thoughts clearly racing toward what she would like to say, or have happen. Finally though, larger plans clicked into place, "Beyond some escape and inquiries, it would be nice to check in on several friends in the city before the holidays. So, I'll do this—ask for your travel assistance—on two conditions."

"Mam?"

"First, we shall actually do some shopping; so that we neither are lying."

He nodded. "And the second?"

"While you make your rounds, I will see your cousin properly to a doctor."

Pleased at the overdue care, if further guilted that it would still not be him who arranged it, Thomas smiled nervously. Even more importantly, his past promises to Ian, and his own agenda in Manchester required that Ian not be with him; if Ian would even deign to accompany them back to the city he'd escaped, he would have to stay separate from Thomas for much of the time there. And if the Mancunian lady could keep him from Thomas, Ian would then have to be prepared for any range of questions and conversations with her; her curiosity and insightfulness could be dangerous. Never mind what a good doctor might deduce about Ian's injuries, or diagnose from them. And, even before all those concerns, as far as Mrs Crawley knew, Ian was already back in Manchester-a ticketing and railcar puzzle he'd have to solve to even get them started.

"Is that a problem, Thomas?" Isobel asked, seeing his mind race at the suggestion. "I understand you can't speak for his commitments; but again, I can see how mention of his injury troubles you. Whatever your methods, I shall have to impose on you to secure his participation. Will you?"

It had to work. He needed it to. And Ian did, most of all. He smiled, honestly grateful for her compassion, for her offering to address a concern thus far beyond his ability to safely resolve. "I will, mam... He may not like it; but we both appreciate your kindness. Me especially."

His exhale and decision were greeted with a genuinely pleased smile. "Then I shall speak to her Ladyship over drinks this evening, and secure your release for this Saturday."

"One final thing, mam… In applying your able arguments with her Ladyship, you'll need to explain why none of your own or our other staff are better suited to accompany you, and to ensure that no one else, their Ladyships included, joins us."

She held up a final jacket for his approving nod, and winked. "That shall be no problem. Your insights this evening have already proven you to be an invaluable and irreplaceable resource. I should invite and accept no one else!"