Downton Abbey:
Guy(s) Night
by Mirwalker
Chapter Thirty-four: Race for last
"O'Brien had nothing to do with this, mama," Edith corrected quickly, not letting her furious mother gain more steam as she and her co-accused stood facing the nearly dressed-for-dinner Lord and Lady Grantham.
Well, well, a backbone, thought the lady's maid stoically. Who'd've suspected? Good to know, and appreciated. But I hope you don't think I owe you anything for it; if anything, you still owe me for getting you there and delivering Thomas. Even though you let him off too easily…
"She had mentioned needing to do some shopping as well," Edith continued with a bravada that was based in impudence, as much as confidence. "And I made the connection between that need and the opportunities in Manchester."
"And I thought I'd been quite clear that no family or staff were to accompany Mrs Crawley and Thomas," Cora reminded as she simmered on the edge of the settee, continuing to glance between the nervous daughter and the always grim maid.
"And we didn't, as I've said. Realizing Manchester offered Christmas shopping options York did not, I decided to go there, not with cousin Isobel, just at the same time."
"On the same train!" her mother pointed out.
"How else could I make a day of it, other than starting early, just they did? It's not my fault there aren't as many options west as to London… Besides, O'Brien didn't realize I intended to go as far as Manchester when we boarded. If anything, I would think you'd commend her accompanying me through the day, rather than taking her half-day in York."
"Is this true, O'Brien?" the Earl finally entered in, dubious, and a little surprised Edith was defending the servant more than herself.
"I did wish to do some Christmas shopping, that's true, your Lordship, and did mention so to Lady Edith. And I'm sorry if that sparked the idea of Manchester, I am. But, once underway, I didn't feel I could leave her go into the city alone, especially not when we had no way to let you know so." That was all she really needed to say, all she'd been asked; and it painted her as the put-upon savior, sacrificing to save the wayward daughter. But she needed more certainty of her own safety, and saw a way to throw another, even more appealing target under the bus. "If it makes your Ladyship feel better about the travel, I would add that Mrs Crawley was with us into Manchester, and offered us advice on good shops and dining." She didn't send Edith home either…
"You neither are her responsibility, O'Brien," the Countess countered the unsaid suggestion. "And she's hardly in a position now to make a bad impression on the family. Had you thought of that Lady Edith? No? Despite your imposition on her Christmas shopping trip, for which she'd requested some privacy-perhaps to shop for your gift-she was kind enough to help."
"But we didn't shop with her; she sent us on directly from the station, and we shopped on our own," Edith returned to her own defense, as O'Brien swallowed at her failed decoy. "William's brought several cases up to my room if you'd like to see the proof."
"Only, you shouldn't, milady," O'Brien interrupted to everyone's surprise, "as some of it is intended for the family. I'll vouch for the shopping done, until you all open your gifts at Christmas."
The Earl looked exasperated; the Countess unconvinced. The latter stared a moment more before wrapping up the affair enough for dinner. "Lady Edith, however generous your motives, you nonetheless knowingly and intentionally disobeyed me, which we will neither forget nor forgive lightly. But that's for another time. Beyond Mrs Crawley, you also placed Mrs O'Brien in a very difficult situation, in which she ultimately gave up her half-day and risked our displeasure, in order to chaperone you. It seems you owe O'Brien a debt for her risk and sacrifice; and I think a day's wages from your account will begin to compensate her for the day's unexpected duties."
Edith couldn't say much against that; and O'Brien just nodded modestly at the financial justice.
"Now, so as not to inconvenience any additional family or staff, you'll change for dinner at once. Go."
Swallowing any desire to push for less or better considering how mildly this had actually turned out, Edith nodded to all and took her leave.
"Is there anything I can do to prepare your Ladyship for dinner?" O'Brien asked as pleasantly as she could.
"No, thank you. Perhaps you can see to my afternoon dress, and give some thought to what would be good for services in the morning."
O'Brien nodded and moved to gather the discarded outfit on the bed.
As she reached the door with it, Lady Grantham called out, "And O'Brien? We are grateful for keeping an eye on Lady Edith today, to be sure. But, I know you to be smart, as well as loyal. Please do not let Lady Edith, or anyone else, put you into that position again."
Said sweetly, the sting was still there; and O'Brien could do no more than nod once, look down and leave.
Once the door shut behind her, Robert asked, "Do you believe them?"
"Not for a moment," Cora insisted with a sigh, before turning and putting on her gloves. "But I can't prove the contrary either."
"I can ask cousin Isobel; hear her version of what happened," he offered.
"Only, you've already asked her to work with Edith on her… 'investigation.' I think this shows how well that's worked out."
"Perhaps, but she was involved at my request, and so should be happy to tell me whether this jaunt was related."
"Well, whatever she says, you must ask her to end it, once and for all. Culpable or not, at least we know O'Brien would keep her out of trouble; but if Edith gets bolder or more reckless…"
Robert nodded, unable to argue how the grand scheme seemed not to have achieved its reverse-intention goals. He chuckled, "Do you recall when they all were just crawling? All we had to worry about their dashing off, were the stairs…"
Cora smiled up at him and his nostalgia. "We have three girls, Robert; young women, really. They're all sprinters now."
Sunday, 1 December 1912
As was his usual, Thomas paid little actual attention to the weekly church service. He was prompt, quiet, faced forward, and stood, spoke and sang as was scripted; but there was nothing in that hour a week that was relevant to him. It was an escape from the Abbey, and welcome for that if nothing else; but in many ways it was simply stepping out of the service of one Lord, to be reminded about his duties to another, even more powerful and austere one.
For it wasn't that Thomas didn't believe in God—he thought he did. It was just that God, or at least his earthly representatives, didn't offer Thomas much more than a promissory note for a better afterlife—no current comfort for the string of hardships his life had been. And even that eternal promise was conditional on not being what Thomas was: in love with another man. Like he did to his material masters at Downton, each Sunday was a reminder that Thomas was expected to sacrifice everything for little more than the honor of serving, with no more long-term prospects than more worship and service. At least the Crawleys wouldn't cast him into the fires forever; not on most days.
Still, service at the estate was the best deal for his mortal now, until something better came along: a higher role, a higher family, or an escape to a home of his own. That dream was still far off, but closer by far than heaven. Only, he'd recently populated that dream with a second occupant; he'd dared to share that dream with someone else who'd seemed interested, and fit perfectly. In the past few weeks, his plans had begun to change, to take shape with a companion, opportunities away from rural Yorkshire, and as of yesterday, a sizable nest egg of aristocratic penance money.
But, once again, he, or God, or life more generally had swiftly seen to it that no such happiness would be his. When perhaps it most mattered, he'd hadn't believed. Hadn't believed he could actually have found something, someone so good. Hadn't believed he could be worthy of it. Hadn't believed in Ian. He'd projected Greenhalgh's treachery and his own scheming suspicions onto his angel, and in doing so, had cast him off into the cold, strange night some seventy miles away.
This cold, sunny morning, Thomas sat in the stiff pew among the stiff people, with a swollen lip, a pocket stuffed with money, and a heart that would ache audibly if it weren't so empty. As the vicar prattled on, he wondered how hell could be any worse.
The congregation stood to pray; and he stood to recite along mechanically. But in his head, he berated himself with the details of his latest loss for the millionth time:
How the night before, he'd managed not to get entangled with the police in Manchester, despite his bleeding lip and Bowers' ranting about his ruining everything. Passers-by had confirmed that he had been attacked on the street unprovoked; and the butler's boozy breath, general dishevelment and cryptic accusations led the officers to cart him away without further questions. Thomas guessed that because of his own parting revelation about the gang in Leeds, the Baron had decided it best to keep hold of the butler by threat of ruinous reference, and instead to make his life of service all the more miserable. They deserved each other.
Mrs Crawley had come looking for the cousins, just as he'd headed back in to find her. And she'd been focused enough on nursing his split lip that she didn't make much fuss at his excuse that Ian had realized the time, had to get home, and sent his apologies and thanks. She hadn't noticed he'd shoved Ian's abandoned cap into his coat pocket, joining the shoe and the blood money. She looked forward to seeing him again as they worked out the London arrangements, not knowing that Thomas sat before her, worried he'd stupidly seen that that would never happen, for either of them.
As they'd trammed back to the Crawley home to repack for the return to Downton, he'd politely listened to her friendly chatter even as he strained to see any sign that Ian was nearby. He'd taken as much time as he could at the house, making time for Ian to calm down and arrive; and willed him to be on the porch or the street when they finally headed back to the station.
He'd gotten her settled aboard in Manchester, and nearly missed that same train as he scoured the station for some sign that Ian was following, if furtive. On the transfer at York, he'd actually laid a hand on the arm of a close-cropped man, who turned out to be a soldier on leave. And even at Downton, while unloading at Crawley House, and through the long, lonely walk back to the Abbey, he hoped every shadow, every shine and every sound was Wink grudgingly giving in and coming back.
But the key lay undisturbed at the hideaway cottage, both when he first checked, and when he snuck back out of the house and spent the night, sleeping there in case Ian arrived. He had evidence of Ian—drawings, musky blankets and a lock of curls he'd kept; but no twinkle save sparks in the hearth, no heat but burning wood. And the promise of unending fire beyond this wretched, stupidly self-made, lonely life.
Shifting his focus from angels to demons as the congregation began to sing, he'd managed to avoid Mrs O'Brien through the late night and again this morning, despite the other staff's questions about his swollen lip. "Shopping accident," he'd curtly answered. Not sure what exactly had happened when she and Lady Edith returned, he suspected it wasn't great; and she was in no hurry to share through breakfast or their walk into the village. Even this tenuous alliance was withdrawn; sitting near the center of the packed church, Thomas was truly alone.
As the service broke, and the staff made the long walk back, O'Brien seemed no more interested in reconnecting. Daisy kept glancing at him, focusing on his bruised mouth, blushing and looking away. And were it not for the crippled valet pulling up the rear with a pitying Anna, Thomas would be last.
Still lost in regret and recrimination as they turned up the drive, he happened to turn his head aside from the head-on wind. And there, beside a small copse of bare trees just off the road, he saw movement. He looked up just enough to glimpse a brown clad, light-headed figure.
"Thomas?" a deep, irritating voice behind him asked. "Everything alright?"
He'd apparently stopped and gaped enough to catch the attentions of Anna and Bates behind him, concerned and haughty, respectively.
"I'm fine," he lied at them, turning back to find the woods unoccupied. "Just makin' sure the snail makes it back so the rest of us don't have to cover for him."
"The tortoise wins the race, Thomas," Bates corrected with a smile.
Fighting the urge to dash into the spare foliage, Thomas glared, turned and stalked toward the house and luncheon service. His eyes searched the grounds for some other sign, just as he'd look for the soonest opportunity to slip away and to confirm what he thought he'd seen. What he hoped he had.