Downton Abbey:
Guy(s) Night
by Mirwalker
Chapter Forty-four: By Hook, Crook or Post
Friday, 20 December 1912
Turning away from the candlelit face of his handsome love that mid-December Sunday morning, was the hardest thing Thomas Barrow had ever done. He knew it was necessary, and only temporary; but the image of Ian's sad, strong, barely lit face in the doorway continued to haunt him, night and day, despite the holiday.
The first few nights back at the Abbey were the worst. Thomas found himself planning or even taking steps to slip from the house each late night, only to realize there was no elicit rendezvous to make. He had trouble finding rest in his own bed, as it had been a stranger for much of the past month; on his return, it was at first too soft, too large, too cold and ever too empty. At meals, he made to pocket a spare strip of bacon or slice of cheese, before realizing he had no one waiting for it.
And, lacking these actual connections to his absent angel, he again began to catch glimpses of tow-headed and even arm-slung figures across rooms and up staircases. Yet he dreaded taking a lone smoke break in the courtyard, lest no figure appear.
Despite the absence of a presence he'd grown so fond of, even dependent on, in just a month, his energy and work improved, even if his attitude did not. He was in bed earlier and waking later without the cottage runs to make; and eventually he was sleeping his lonely nights through, rather than …not sleeping accompanied. He applied the extra rest to his duties, better able, if not more interested in preparing and serving a never-ending stream of fine living experiences, entirely for others. And through the more painful performance, he constantly reminded himself that any hope for a quick reunion relied entirely on his pleasing the unpleasant butler. Even if he hoped to leave it behind permanently, his complete delivery and decorum now needed to be exemplary; and he made it so.
Downstairs, the other staff noticed the change in energy level, even if they didn't appreciate that his month of relative, if unexpected, cheerfulness seemed to have ended. Only Mrs O'Brien and Mister Carson didn't seem to care. The former because she thought she knew at least why he wasn't so tired anymore; and the latter humbug only concerned himself with the efficiency of the daily and Yule chores. To the man whose opinion mattered, a dour Thomas was perfectly acceptable so long as he was a dutiful Thomas.
Upstairs, the only perceived change in staff were those the family requested, as their expectations were high, and their attentions focused on a different mix of spirits. General holiday happiness mingled with the awkward integration of new relations into the traditional festivities. Some of the core family remained more welcoming than others, though even the hardcore mothers had to admit, both new Crawleys were handling themselves quite well. The Dowager Countess had suggested irritably that a certain Earl must be counseling them on Christmas social conventions, rather than spending that time fighting the inheritance entail. Lady Grantham had smirked at the suggestion; Lady Mary had rolled her eyes; and Lady Edith had smiled quietly to herself. Regardless of the reason, Violet faulted the interlopers nonetheless, if only for the suspiciously good behavior.
This particular afternoon, Edith smiled as she watched Mary smiling irritably at one of cousin Isobel's tasteful comments, while opening the next ornate card from the pile that had arrived in the morning's post. So popular was the trend among the good families across the realm, that Lady Grantham assembled all the Crawley women on several cold afternoons, between their occasional soirees away, to organize the political dance of updating their own recipient list and addressing each outgoing piece of winter wishes.
"A competition for the gaudiest greetings," the Dowager proclaimed, as she flipped disdainfully through an incoming pile as the others toiled.
"Some are quite nice," Cora made nice, holding up a rather colorful one. "Lady Austell notes that she's made each of hers by hand."
"Well, what else has one to do whilst wintering is Isselswich?" Violet judged only somewhat rhetorically.(1)
Cora smiled and looked back to her stack, having made her effort.
Mary picked up the volley, toward a different target. "Perhaps Edith should sign for those families she's written to most recently?"
"Oh let's not start this again," Sybil sighed. "It's nearly Christmas after all." She alone among the family seemed to be truly enjoying this year's season and the larger circle of relations they now had to celebrate.
"Biscuit anyone?" asked Lady Rosamund, not entirely clear on the reference, but knowing well that the afternoon fire and kettle weren't the only potential heat sources in the room.
"Thank you," Mary accepted, before moving over to the tea service, where she noted the immobile first footman among the decorations beside the window. "And have I heard correctly, Aunt Rosamund, that you're looking for a new footman at Belgrave Square?"
All eyes in the room shot up to either the speaker or her subject.
"I only ask," Mary continued coolly, "because, while accompanying cousin Isobel to London last week, we learned that our own able footman, Thomas, here… well, his cousin's just taken a position in the capital. And I believe you've other family there, Thomas? We'd hate to upset the ship of Downton, of course; but perhaps he'd like the opportunity to be closer to them all. London could have the complete- What's your family name, Thomas?"
"'Barrow,' my lady," Thomas eeked out.
"…Could have the complete Barrow set." She smiled as sweetly as the sugar she stirred too casually into her cup.
Half the table that she returned to stared in shock at the blushing footman, while he, the older cousin, and the younger two daughters stared in shock at Mary's public disclosure and suggestion he might be interesting in leaving. The grand and garish cards had been entirely forgotten.
Mary helped herself to another biscuit. She'd earned it.
"Mary!" Sybil intervened again, embarrassed for her favorite servant. "You shouldn't put Thomas, or Aunt Rosamund, so on the spot!"
Indeed, Cora's glare suggested, as she took the sweet from her daughter's hand and strove to take the attention off the grimacing young man. "Mary, you'll spoil you supper. And the only labor we'll be discussing at this table, is the pile of Christmas cards we've put barely a dent in…. Thomas, could we have more hot water?" She couldn't so easily dispatch her sister-in-law for a breather, but the young man nodded his obedience and appreciation as he quickly headed for the door.
Nibbling at her own handy baked bit, the Dowager Countess nearly grinned with delight at the drama. "Throw in a little music, and we'd all have front row seats at our own pantomime!"
Thomas paused in the staircase, finally taking a breath after all but sprinting across the gallery. What was Lady Mary thinking, to out his family business to this family? And to suggest he ought to leave, to choose Lady Rosamund and London over this family? What if Lord Grantham heard, thinking it was his idea? Or worse yet, should Mister Carson catch wind of it?
Besides, trading one footman's life for another was not his plan at all; but... it could get him to London. It wasn't perfect; but it was something, a start. And he so wanted to be in London, to be with Ian. In that breathless moment, he actually ached for what he missed, and might now have moved slightly closer to.
From his jacket, he pulled out the letter already read dozens of times since it had arrived the night before. It was the first contact he'd had with Ian since dragging himself from that candled threshold as the week began. As he'd arranged for a little extra each week, Missus Babcock had written out Ian's words to him, just as she'd read his writings back to her tenant. At least until Ian could write and read well enough on his own, or better yet, they were able to forgo the miles and post entirely.
He gently opened the crisp paper, hearing a familiar voice speak the delicate script:
Dearest Thomas,
Thank you so much for the beautiful drawing set. It's nicer than what I have at the office, and will allow me to practice my writing as well as my drawing at home. Watch for your gift parcel soon.
I remain disappointed that it has not worked out for you to join us, or even visit, by Christmas. But I understand, and hold hopes for the new year.
So that you know what you're missing, I have been invited with two other boarders to have Christmas dinner with the generous Mrs Babcock. Might you send Mrs Crawley's biscuit recipe? Mrs Babcock has agreed to let me try my hand at making some for us.
Please let me know how you are doing, and about Christmas at Downton. We are both so curious, and both look forward to news of when you'll come London way.
Until then, I remain,
Thomas chuckled at the different, the obviously rough, but the nonetheless clear lettering below: Ian. It seemed the scribe had likely coached the letter's form, if not its content; but she had ensured the true author took credit.
He knew that author would have liked to say more, as had he when he'd posted a note of his own first thing Monday morning. But for now, they had to temper both what and how often they corresponded. All the more urgency for creating a more direct connection.
Chuckling and yearning at the same time, he quickly read the second brief note enclosed from the landlady herself.
As you asked, I insisted Ian not wait until Christmas to open today's delivery from Wilkes & Garvey. It took some convincing, but at last he did; and, as his note suggests, he could not have been more beside himself with joy.
His penmanship is already improving, as this mailing's envelope will show. He is less confident in his reading, but could not try harder. He claims such determination runs in the family.
From his helpfulness and manners, to your generosity, it is very clear he comes from a good one.
Please let us know when we can expect to host a second Barrow gentleman in residence on Arundel Street.(2)
Yours sincerely,
M. Babcock
He folded the papers back into the envelope, and ran his fingers gently over his own name, roughly but lovingly copied there by a favored hand he so longed to hold again.
"Thomas?" Lady Mary's voice called from the foot of the stairs, as he crossed behind this last member of the family to head upstairs for the night.
They hadn't even made eye contact since the awkward situation she'd created that afternoon; but it was clear that she's tarried tonight in order to speak with him directly, and privately. "Yes, my lady?"
She wasted no time in jumping to her point, while remaining one step above him. "I am sorry if I put you out this afternoon. While perhaps… indelicate of me, making the connection publically was the only way I could be sure that Lady Rosamund will have to consider your application genuinely, if you are interested in the position in Belgravia."
He hadn't expected more than a mother-ordered apology; and despite his best effort, his face likely showed his astonishment. Sheer good training allowed him to utter, "I appreciate your… active interest in my career, but…"
Mary cut him off, gently but firmly. "I am happy that cousin Isobel has taken such an interest in you and your cousin; he was charming enough, and I wish him well in London, I do. But despite her being entirely too pleased with her charitable interventions, I also didn't need her to spell out on the train, repeatedly, that you clearly adore one another."
Thomas wasn't sure whether her observation was a good thing.
Not dwelling at all on the depth of the men's connection, she continued to explain a more pragmatic potential motivation for him. "Beyond any interest in being nearer to family, a smaller home in the heart of the city could mean many more opportunities for an aspiring servant, no? I certainly expect, and indeed hope, that our own butler position will not open for a great many years…"
Perhaps she really was just trying to help him move up?
"Should the opportunity appeal to you, any interest or action by you or Lady Rosamund is now arguably my fault. Where it would undoubtedly have been awkward for either of you to initiate inquiries, now you and she can simply be playing out my suggestion, merely to be nice to me." She smiled smugly, having rested her case.
Thomas just blinked at her complex, but solid, reasoning—a gift offered, rather than a trap set. A Christmas miracle?
Watching him consider, Mary didn't explain that, for all his good service to her, he had also become a clear ally of both Edith and Isobel through their Guy Fawkes' related escapades, even before the London introductions. And that alliance she couldn't let go unchecked. Moreover, especially with him in her debt for getting him to his family, she'd then have her own man well-placed near her always informed aunt, and in London more generally. Even if the job didn't work out for some reason, she'd still made the gesture; and so Thomas must still think twice about his Downton allegiances. Happy Christmas to her, all around.
"I am both grateful and… surprised," Thomas finally admitted honestly, wondering if this really was the reunion opportunity he'd not been able to create on his own. "Thank you."
She nodded graciously, reminding as she resumed her ascent, "I know you've kept my confidence concerning London. Besides, I'm heartless, not inattentive."
NOTES
1. Both the name and place are entirely fictional, to protect the guilty.
2. Just between Fleet Street and the Temple Station Underground stop near the River Thames, this side street was home to a number of actual boarding houses as of the late 1800s, according to Bradshaw's Guides. The short lane is now dominated by a new luxury flat complex.