Downton Abbey:
Guy(s) Night
by Mirwalker
Chapter Thirty-two: What Future Follows
From across the street, she watched as Thomas exited the bank with the nervous man in the trying-too-hard suit.
From across the street, he watched as Thomas exited the bank with the mousy Mister Tutwiler.
Thomas exited the bank with the nervously priggish warden of the orphanage, glad the man had put up no more fight splitting the cash, than he had in agreeing to come in the first place.
Unlike the Baron, this man was weak and tempted only by things, not crafty and a servant to desires of the flesh. He'd thrown the doors to the Youth Charity Society wide open at the mere suggestion that Greenhalgh had sent another potential "patron," and had promised to seal them as quickly against the old wretch lest a recent escapee take his shoe, and his story, to the authorities and the 'papers.
Less useful were the man's sharings on Ian's past and pastimes. The young man's physical file contained only an admission register—he'd been found on the Home's doorstep in late September 1894, nothing known about either parent—and a note of his voluntary departure—into the employ of one '6th Baron Greenhalgh,' with 'both mature excitement and some reluctance to leave his beloved Strangeways home.' No indication of health, education or behavioural issues, or anything else for all of eighteen years.
That Ian was "very popular with everyone," the staff, the other children and patrons alike, was even less reassuring, if more believable. "He's friendly, unbecoming, a handsome young man—I'm told." No, he hadn't left the home with any other of their supporters. "Not that we weren't occasionally asked about outings, even adoptions; but…" Yes, he'd dutifully visited with, and charmed, many donors and dignitaries. "He's always been amongst our best ambassadors."
Through all the anxious smiles and prattle, the warden never directly acknowledged anything untoward, on or by Ian, himself, Greenhalgh, or anyone else. (Well, he'd admitted that Hiram Bowers was a previous placement of theirs with the Baron; so the foul arrangement obviously went back a long time.) But he also made no mention of Ian's lack of expected literacy or skills training, the conceivably normal-childhood scattered scars, or Ian's drawing talent, whether unknown or simply unvalued.
And, so despite being distracted by the Baron's ill-intended questions, and gaining no real evidence against their implications, Thomas had carried out his original plan, and was now walking away with three-quarters of the Baron's gift, as restitution. Assured that was the best—the only—way both to avoid the scandal, and to ensure the newly stringless Greenhalgh patronage, Tutwiler had been all too happy to deposit and unevenly split the money with the mystery 'Mister Colson.'
Eager to be done, and left to his unresolved issues, Thomas stuck out his hand, and squeezed with his coldest smile. "And remember, Milton: I am watching, and will know if he ends his financial contributions, or if you continue your physical deliveries. In either case, I shall return with cameras and constables in such numbers as even your greedy mind cannot imagine. Let's not meet again, shall we?"
Unsure whether "yes" or "no" was the appropriate response to such cheerful threats, the little man mumbled something neutral, swallowed his smile, and dashed away.
Thomas watched after him briefly, and sighed. He had achieved great success on all his errands this afternoon: Greenhalgh found, confronted, effectively confessed, stopped and paying dearly. His scheming valet had been all but outed to his master. The child farm's most heinous practices had been stopped, with a stern warning and its better services continuing. He himself now had more money in his inner pocket than he'd ever seen in his entire life. And Ian was getting treated, and would benefit from—
Ian.
It had all been for Ian. Avenging him. Healing him. Hiding him. Holding him. And today specifically, doing it all so that he could move on; so they could move on, and move up. Together.
But for all his clear treacheries, the despicable Baron had still managed to plant just enough question in his head, so that Thomas doubted. Like his Biblical namesake, he was no longer resolute in his belief in his recent angel. Had he been taken in by well-played, if real, distress? Was he only the next, the latest in a line of "patrons" for the pretty young man? Had he, the cool and calculating social climber, been bested at his own endearing game? Had he made a home, made sacrifices and planned many more, for a charming cad who happily invited and accepted every benefit he could? Who, even now, was flashing his best bashful smile at Mrs Crawley and a hospital full of doctors? And who, once dressed, healed, protected and connected, would move on to another, better provider–some London publisher, perhaps? And leave Thomas alone, heartbroken and spent, "taken" in every way except "along with"?
"It's really none of my business," interrupted a familiar voice out of nowhere, and out of context. "But standing afore the bank in some kind of daft trance is likely not the smartest state…"
His head snapped around to face Sarah O'Brien, who suddenly stood beside him with her smuggest look spread across her curious, concerned and victorious face.
"If you've recovered from your financial daze, I cannot wait to hear how you explain what brought you to a fancy home, an orphanage and a bank, in a different city, in the span of a few hours."
He recovered enough to scoff, and set off toward the city centre, knowing she wouldn't actually just go away. "I wanted to make sure you got a good show, after all the effort you made to get here today," he mocked.
She easily, if nonchalantly, kept pace. "Weeks of your acting strangely, slipping out at night, whispering with her middle Ladyship and the barrister's mother, who suddenly decides she needs you-and only you—to accompany her on a sudden shopping trip to Manchester… Wherever did I get the idea that there was something more afoot than a ghost hunt?"
"Perhaps Lady Edith isn't the only Downton resident with an active imagination?"
"How will you explain your stops today to her, then?" she countered effortlessly.
"By telling her the truth… Less obvious is why and how you found me across town and hours after you and her Ladyship parted ways with Mrs Crawley and me."
"That's easy really. I knew you'd be going to the Crawley's house first thing, to drop that trolley of luggage, an address I'd made a point of confirming some weeks back. And it was only good fortune that her Ladyship dispatched me to check on you just in time to see you leaving their tram stop alone, going back into their neighbourhood."
He swallowed, but gave her no further satisfaction.
"And if that weren't strange enough, you then appeared to… assert yourself into a different, wealthier address. After that, you're across town to a youth home, which you then leave in the company of some Society official, only to warn and shake hands with him after a brief visit to a bank. Have I missed anything?"
"Sharp-eyed and suspicious as ever," Thomas confirmed and complimented.
"Best I could come up with, is the preposterous idea that you've gotten some young woman… into trouble," O'Brien explained bluntly, almost laughing. "And I'd have to say I'd be surprised, impressed even."
It was clear that she was questioning his interest in bedding a woman, at least as much as his knowing better than to do so. But he certainly wasn't going there with her, or anyone else. But, as always, she'd need something juicy to occupy her rabid curiosity.
"Well then, I guess you'll be less surprised to learn the child I was checking after… is Lady Edith's."
O'Brien stuttered noticeably in her step.
Thomas smiled without breaking his stride. "But, as you'll both need to head back soon if you're to reach Downton in time for dinner, shall we find her Ladyship, and tell the tale together?"
The woman had acted faster than he had, outside the bank. And as the chatting pair stuck to busy streets, he'd need to follow, and wait for a less public opportunity...
"We have a few minutes before we're to meet Thomas," Isobel explained as she buttoned Ian's coat over his loosely bound right arm. "If you're up for it, I thought we might walk the few blocks up to the University, and catch the tram there. How does that sound?"
"Yes, mam," Ian agreed and fell in beside her, entirely unaccustomed to the well-intentioned fuss, now publically heaped atop her arranging and, he was sure, paying for the physician's interview, x-ray, diagnosis and prescription. A 'proximal humerus fracture' he practiced silently so as to remember it, glad they had explained it wasn't 'funny' but rather the name of the arm bone whose 'ball and socket' he'd broken.
"I know it's not comfortable or the most fetching," Isobel was reminding him as she they walked. "But it's only for a few more weeks; and will help the bone heal as best it can."
Given how long you've been using it, even minimally, since the injury, it may never heal properly. I'm afraid you're likely to experience some pain, if not restricted movement, for a long time, Doctor Lennox had explained, solemnly but kindly. While showing Ian a picture of his own bones, the doctor had continued, Whatever your employment's been to date, going forward, you'll need to find something that doesn't require a great deal from this arm.
"And," Isobel reminded, showing she was both a nurse and mother to a once younger man, "Don't fall prey to the temptation to carry anything in the sling. Your arm needs to hang naturally; it is not a rucksack."
"Yes, mam," he agreed with all the enthusiasm of a harried son.
"I don't mean to nag," she smiled as they continued. "I suppose it's been some time since I had child or patient to care for." She didn't share with her surrogate ward how now, at Downton, she felt like the troubled sheep, not the shepherd. How times, and roles, had changed…
Bells above and beside them startled them both from their reflections, as the doors to the Holy Name of Jesus Church opened; and a happy crowd poured out onto the sidewalk behind them.(1)
"What's that then?" Ian asked, unsure exactly what he was witnessing.
"It looks like a wedding," Isobel turned, and clasped her hands happily at the joyous group focused on the soon emerging white gown and dapper suit. She looked over to find Ian transfixed at the spectacle of shouts, smiles, clapping and rice throwing. "An artist, and a romantic as well?" she chuckled, realizing he was watching with more than just a passing curiosity. "Are you picturing such a scene with your special someone?"
Ian blushed, and shook his head, turning quickly to continue on.
"Is that no someone, or no such plans yet?" she pressed him.
"I daren't get me hopes up falsely," he demurred quietly.
"She'll be a lucky woman, whenever that times comes," Isobel assured him. "And perhaps she'll join you in London, when that works out. Let's be confident, shall we? You deserve it."
Knowing he couldn't tell her the truth, or how officially impossible was her imagined happy ending, Ian nonetheless appreciated her good wishes. And her ongoing generosity. And her company in this hometown, and peopled world, that he barely knew.
"And who knows, I might be involved in a wedding myself soon… My son's that is," she remembered aloud, before turning toward the tram stop opposite them, near the brown sandstone and red tile roofs of the Victoria University of Manchester's main buildings.
Ian had never seen or met Mrs Crawley's son, the hopeful heir to the country palace. Thomas had explained his own indignation that this man, and his mother, could magically show up one day, and somehow be more worthy of the palatial estate and patronly esteem, than was he. He too had had middle class roots, of sorts; and hadn't he worked harder for Downton than this distanced distant relation?
No, Ian didn't understand the intricacies of aristocratic politics; but he did understand excess and want. Mrs Crawley's home was less grand than the palace Thomas served, but was still grander by far than anything he'd known until recently. And yet, for an excess of smiles, she was as kind and generous as only Thomas had been to him. He wondered whether Thomas might be less harsh on the son, for the deeds of the mother. Or whether a relocation to London, if no wedding, might make the resentment moot; whether distance, and liberation, could make the heart grow less harsh, if not fonder.
Perhaps they'd all soon see.
NOTES
1. Located just north of the Royal Infirmary, the Church's tall tower facing Oxford Street today was added after the time of this story, in 1928.