Downton Abbey:

The Sufficiency of Service (formerly "Guy(s) Night")

by Mirwalker

Chapter Forty-two: Split Attentions

Saturday, 14 December 1912

As threatened by Mister Carson, the Christmas preparation had begun in full earnest at the manor.

The formal twelve days of Christmastide began early Christmas Day and ended the night before Three Kings' Day, giving way to the Epiphany season, just as Advent led to Yule. But Downton downstairs had its own twelve days and more, these counting down to Christmas—each day and hour holding its own task and test of holiday readiness. Menus were planned and provisions were ordered. Decorations were pulled from storage, cleaned, mended and placed or hung. The great hall was re-arranged to receive and display the tall tree that was selected, delivered and decorated. In and outside the house, other fresh décor was received, entwined, hung and refreshed as needed. Linens, crystal and silverware were counted, washed, pressed and/or polished, and counted again for their singular annual use. Personal fineries were freed from cedared closets, felted drawers and tissued boxes, for their own freshenings. Even the staff had to review their special occasion wear, taking whatever steps were necessary to ensure that they did not detract from the spectacle upstairs. The same for the car, horses and carriages. And, of course, gifts were to be finalized, wrapped and labelled, with an equal amount of care for presentation and caution against prying eyes.

And for their hard work throughout the year, the staff certainly earned their few special moments of this season. A token gift from the masters and perhaps other staff members, an evening of observed freedoms at the Servants' Ball and a more varied cuisine. All the staff hoped that the Granthams would be invited to a large number of events at other estates, leaving them some free afternoons and evenings to catch up with tasks, or relax a little between them. Even better, this year, given the succession tension, the Earl and Countess had chosen not to host anything more than a ladies' holiday tea for a smallish crowd; fewer people visiting to inquire awkwardly, and thus to be served at all.

Already stretched by the usual long days, and a month's worth of longer than usual nights, by Saturday, Thomas was particularly exhausted by his efforts to show the butler that he was deserving of extra time off in January. He was also later leaving than intended, as the extra chores were in addition to the daily duties; and so his customary half-day was not to be. Noting the need to rest up for the race to Christmas, he honestly slipped away as early as he could after dinner service, and then slipped out of the house shortly thereafter.

His satchel grew heavier as he trudged toward the hideaway cottage, muscles weary and heart heavy; he was eager to see Ian as always, but loath to begin their last night together for the foreseeable future. Struggling with the competing desires, he stood before the door a moment, before accepting that his hesitation only diminished the scant hours, not delayed their start. With a deep bracing breath of night air, he knocked for what would be their last covert country congress.

With his free hand, he traced the rough shape of the ring in his inner pocket, the circle of silver he'd painstakingly selected on his London free day. He'd been composing a brief sharing and question to accompany it; but having only spare moments since, he'd struggled to hone the ramblings into a worthy sentiment. And he was unlikely to become more eloquent, only more emotional, as this long day stretched on.

On the subject of stretching on, Thomas realised minutes had passed, and still no answer at the door. Atop weary, he was growing cold, and now worried. He knocked again and looked about, as if he might see some reassuring light through the windows he'd covered, or detect some worrying movement outside the secret sanctuary.

Still nothing; and he was truly concerned. He fetched the hidden key, and let himself in. "Ian?" No sign of anything amiss on the first floor; but in the pitch dark, he likely wouldn't know. Up the stairs to the bedroom, a low fire caught his eye as pushed past the heavy curtain strung across the open doorway. "Ian?" No response or other sound, until his gasp at seeing a familiar form stretched out on the floor, face down, before that same fireplace. "Ian!"

The younger man started, and cried out as the sudden move wrenched his shoulder, and again as Thomas grabbed hold of him. "Steady on!"

"You're alright," the footman sighed, alternating between hugging and checking him for evidence to the contrary.

"'Course I am," the stiff and slightly confused sleeper assured. "I packed and tidied all day; must've dozed off studyin' the London maps. I thought you'd be sooner…"

"I meant to be," Thomas smiled in relieved apology, wiping the groggy eyes; and they settled on the floor together. He stole a kiss from the pouting lips as he unshouldered his bag. "I told you, the house gets very busy these weeks…"

"So not going to the inn was a good idea after all," Ian grinned victoriously.

Thomas rummaged in his bag, "For the record, I did not concede that you were right. But I appreciate your want to honour our arrangements to date, and not take me further from the early morning shift."

Ian took his hands, "I wanted every minute I could get, until you join me in London."

Deed and word interrupting his search, Thomas gazed back into the smiling eyes. "Mister Colson, this might be a bit forward of me, havin' only just met you a month ago, but I wonder whether you're seein' anyone of significance these days…"

"Well," Ian sat back playfully, "I am much in demand of late, pursued even..."

That Ian now could and would casually laugh about being hunted gave Thomas even more confidence in how far their relationship had come.

"But there might be this one chap I've taken notice of…," Ian continued.

"Does he give you gifts…?" Thomas wiggled his eyebrows, pulling out a large, tied bundle of biscuits.

Ian lit up even further, their game slightly derailed by literally sweeter subjects. "Mrs Patmore tryin' again? Her last batch weren't half bad…"

"Mrs Crawley sent these, actually; her best wishes for the new life." Thomas didn't share that she'd been shocked to find he wasn't accompanying Ian for at least the trip down, and had offered to advocate for him, or attend herself.

Breaking a biscuit to share, Ian mumbled through his mouthful, "I need to get her address, so I can send her note or sketch."

Thomas nodded knowingly, "So she can send you more sweets, you mean." Whether Ian had meant that or not, he knew that such a note would be expected to carry a return address on it. But he wasn't sure it wise for any Crawley to have details on where Ian lived, as it would be where they both would be soon. The less known, the less known…

Both heads snapped toward a creak from the stairs beyond the entrance curtain. They'd both spent enough time, enough nights, in the cottage to be familiar with all its aging, wintry movements and sounds. The stair creak was not one of them.

Not daring to crunch further, Ian looked to Thomas for confirmation he'd heard it too.

Nodding, and motioning him to stay put, Thomas quietly stepped to the fireplace, picked up the poker, and moved toward the door. With no additional sounds reaching them, he nonetheless motioned Ian to make some noise, to laugh or talk.

Understanding himself as a distraction, Ian swallowed hard, and picked up the conversation a little louder than usual. "I wouldn't complain if she sent more, of course. Are you sure you don't want one? Fine then; more for me. But don't say I didn't offer. And don't let me catch you pinchin' one behind me back…"

Having reached the door under cover of the one-sided sharing, Thomas whipped back the curtain in time with Ian's final phrase.

Only slightly more surprised than the two men in the room, perhaps because of the fire iron pointed at her, Sarah O'Brien nearly fell back down the stairs in fright.

Thankfully, none of the three actually cried out aloud at the reveal of the skulking lady's maid.

"O'Brien!" Thomas did hiss, and lower his weapon, mostly. "What the devil are you doing here?"

Exhaling deeply, even as she held a hand to her chest, O'Brien managed to retort only slightly breathlessly, "I could ask you the same, Thomas Barrow. I certainly am not hiding stowaways in his Lordship's homes…" Her voice grew stronger as she recovered from the fright, and attempted to take the high road.

"Come in," Thomas insisted lest she raise alarm across the shared walls, pulling her into the room un-gently and shutting the door behind the curtain. "I assume you're alone?"

"Only takes the one to spring the trap, apparently," she sneered, as she regained a more suitable posture and stride. "And who's this sweet thing?" she asked, approaching the now standing and staring Ian.

"Not that it's any of your business," her colleague insisted, coming over to stand between them, "but…"

"You were on the train to Manchester," she cut him off, as a wicked smile spread across her face. "I remember. You pushed in late like you owned the place. And now, here you are again, where you're not expected…"

"Mrs O'Brien, whatever you're thinking, I can assure you- "

"Ah ah," she tutted him, "Let's hear from the reappearing squatter." She looked expectantly at Ian.

Thomas looked to Ian, wanting to jump in again, as Ian knew little of how sharp O'Brien's perception and fangs could be; and they'd never discussed what to do in the event they were caught in the cottage together. The door, he realized. She'd not been satisfied with the story and a payoff, followed me down here and came in through the door I left unlocked in my concern that Ian didn't answer.

But, to both Downton staff's surprise, through their whole exchange Ian had simply stared at O'Brien and then begun to smile when she focused on him. Taking a cookie from the bundle, he pushed the rest at Thomas and stepped closer to the imposing figure in black. He gushed, energetic and bashful at the same time, "I am so flattered, Missus O'Brien, that you'd remember me."

He grinned and slapped Thomas' arm playfully. "But I told ya, didn't I, Tommy? I asked who that gorgeous woman was at the station; but you'd have none of it. I can see why you'd want to keep her to yourself, true enough. So you told me to mind my business, and keep my distance. But I couldn't then, not from her, not this vision; and now she has sought me out!"

The lady's maid and footman gawked at him in unison.

"How rude of my cousin, good lady, to surprise and shake a stick at you." Shaking his head shamefully, Ian offered her the cookie, and proceeded to take her by the receiving elbow, while waving Thomas to make space. "Please have seat, and enjoy what simple snacks and company we have to offer..."