Downton Abbey:
The Sufficiency of Service (formerly "Guy(s) Night")
by Mirwalker
Chapter Forty-five: Heard on low
Tuesday, 24 December 1912
Over the next several days, Thomas resisted the urge to write Ian daily, or even save up pages of the thoughts and feelings he had, to send as a single, bulk set. For all their sakes, he couldn't impose too much on the reader at Ian's end, nor be too open in speaking through her. Instead, he scribbled a little each evening about the swirling flurries and festivities as Downton Christmas neared, to provide both members of his audience an insight into northern observances as requested. And, hoping each post for needed notes he knew should and would arrive no more frequently than his own, he instead read and re-read Ian's first letter until he could recite it from memory.
He managed to slip away once to the cottage, to clean it up if not out. While there was no specific expectation that Ian would return to him here and need it—quite the opposite in fact, Thomas still needed to remove most evidence of its recent use, just in case someone happened to check it. He doubted O'Brien would out his secret without good reason, but best not to tempt either fate or that fury. And honestly, after a week without Ian, he simply wanted the chance to be near as he could to the absent man. And so he'd relished the hour he was able to carve from an afternoon run to the village, to find the space had been left clean and tidy. Certain nothing was left to spoil, he then sat as he long as he dared in the now gloomy room, wrapped in their blanket, and holding the single sketch he'd found on the table: an anonymous, if instantly recognizable, smile he hoped to take some credit for, and to see again soon.
Demonstrating his worthiness for more time off later and occupying himself from his loneliness now, Thomas didn't take his usual Saturday half-day, and instead focused on caring for the visiting relatives and occasional other guests. Lady Rosamund and her lady's maid had settled in; and were supplemented daily by meals, teas and other drinks with a parade of Crawleys, Dowager Countesses, physicians, estate agents, vicars and other annual village notables. Final dining and décor preparations took up other time, never mind his expected attendance at both the family's and the servants' nightly Advent wreath lighting, beyond the always mandatory morning prayer.
Between duties, he scoured the daily papers for opportunities in London, seeking not so much in service, and certainly not in labour. Rather he put his hopes in the growing variety of offices—government or private, expecting that his diligence, discretion and, dare he say, dashing good looks would carry over well from fine families to flourishing finance. While he had little direct experience, he'd spent a quarter of his life doting at the elbows of captains of state, if not industry; thus, he was confident he could handle the people, and learn the details. But beyond his own dearth of familiarity with the industries, the opportunities seemed sparse at this time of year. Perhaps after the holidays. Perhaps Mrs Crawley or, if absolutely necessary, her son could offer some suggestions, if not connections.
In the meanwhile, there remained the open footman position at the Painswick home. Since Lady Mary's rather blunt proposal, Lady Edith approached him, apologizing for her sister's utter lack of tact, and offering to put in a good word to her aunt, even though she'd hate to lose such a supportive friend at Downton. Sybil made a similar offer, simply because she thought everyone ought to be near their family, even if some behaved like her oldest sister sometimes. Mrs Crawley had gladly provided her biscuit recipe, adding that she would miss him, but certainly understand if London served him best. And Lady Rosamund casually affirmed that, while she was loathe to pilfer staff from her northern kin, her butler, Mead, would certainly give his application the highest consideration. He thanked them all, but would not yet commit to them or the merely geographical job shift. Not just yet.
And adding to his being lonely, busy, and balancing trays along with competing interests, Thomas struggled not to grow anxious, even concerned, when his promised parcel failed to arrive each day. For as swiftly as his separation from Ian seemed to be going, the silence since the single initial letter seemed infinite. He'd mailed his second letter to London, knew Ian had opened his Christmas gift already, and assumed the grocer had by now delivered Mrs Babcock everything they needed to make Mrs Crawley's biscuits, along with a freshly butchered goose for her troubles and general good measure. But with only this morning's post to go until after Christmas proper, there'd been no additional news from two hundred miles south.
So, it was with near-desperation masquerading as eager duty and resigned cheer that Thomas stayed near the servants' entrance on the morning of Christmas Eve, intent on greeting the post himself. Before and after both the upstairs and the downstairs breakfasts, he'd smoked in the courtyard and stalled in the kitchen as long as he could, well past the usual delivery time; but had eventually been dispatched to the boot room for a final polish of the entire household's Sunday shoes, for the next morning's church service. Leaving the door open, he perched on the edge of a stool at the near edge of the workbench, and listened for the jingle of bells other than Father Christmas'.
Nonetheless, it was one of the hallboys who happened to be outside when the final delivery finally arrived. "Some help at the door?" the young Michael called down the stairs and hall.
Nearly dropping the patent leather oxford he'd just polished a second time, Thomas bolted to the call, announcing, "I have it!" as he sprinted.
Passing a carefully balancing teen as he stepped into the grey chill, Thomas was greeted not by the postmaster's son on his usual bicycle, but by the village postmaster himself, helping to unload the Thirsk greengrocer's horse cart.
"Happy Christmas, Thomas," the produce supplier said, as he and the postmaster shifted crates.
"And to you, Mister Cox," he smiled back, more interested in what the other, unusual passenger had for him, than the forced wishes or crate of winter produce handed down to him. Heading in with his load, Thomas tried to discern whether and where on the cart or in another staff members' arms, was the mail.
Arms full of outgoing sweet and savory baked goods gifts, Daisy slipped out past him as Mrs Patmore shouted up after her, "One bundle to each, and come right back. And don't invite them in unless they specifically ask! We're grateful, to be sure, but not done for the day. Not by a long shot! Spices here, Michael!"
With the kitchen already full of in-process excess, Mrs Hughes waved Thomas on to the servants hall instead, where everything would be sorted out properly. "All the way down, please," she instructed everyone, calmly watching from her sitting room door.
A few trips more, and the sudden flurry along the hall was over as quickly as it had begun, having lured even the cantankerous butler from his study. The anthill then shifted to the dining table where Mrs Hughes took stock of each bushel, brace, jar and box, before dispatching a young staff member to deliver it to the larder, cold stores, pantry or even back out to locked cabinets in the courtyard—the coldest place on the property at this time of year. Unless Mrs Patmore called for it specifically, finally able to task Daisy to use it immediately.
Once enough of the table had been cleared away, Carson took his seat at its head, and began sorting the much less grand, but still larger than usual, stack of letters and parcels.
Internal deliveries complete, everyone except the freshly resourced kitchen staff seemed to dawdle in the area, hoping not to wait until luncheon for any last minute Christmas greetings or goodies.
Thomas worried the pile looked rather sparse on parcels; and that the few parcels were themselves rather spartan. Not that he knew what to expect from London.
With a great deal more haught than haste, the butler reviewed each envelope and small package, flipping through the entire stack once, then twice, before even beginning to sort.
Looks amongst the staff surely contradicted the spirit of the holiday. Even docile William seemed ready to leap in and take over the absurdly simple task seemingly drawn out intentionally to punish them all.
Intrigued by the hush that had fallen over the hallway, Mrs Hughes smiled to herself as she approached the loose crowd around the foot of the stairs, clearing her throat just as Mr Carson proclaimed, "The post!"
Caught between their two seniors, the maids and men awkwardly tried to sort themselves into some semblance of a line.
"For heaven's sake," Mrs Hughes exclaimed knowingly, pushing through to stand behind the butler and his stacks. "Everyone's eager, I know; but let's just have Mister Carson call out each person in turn."
As good as system as any, the butler harrumphed in agreement, and named each staff member in turn, handing over one or few small envelopes or packages. Each was accepted and clutched as the recipient said or nodded thanks, and slipped away to quickly enjoy the precious connection to family and the outside world. Until at last, there was only the housekeeper and first footman left, as the butler tidied his stacks and made to stand, only the family's items left to distribute upstairs.
"That's it then, Mister Carson?" Thomas asked, his pained smile barely hanging on.
"As I have called no additional names amongst the staff, it would seem so." Carson nodded at them both, took a handy silver tray from beside the stairs, and headed up for a mid-morning round of the main floor.
Rooted in his disappointment, Thomas just watched him go, only gradually becoming aware that Mrs Hughes remained watching him.
"You were expecting something," she deduced with no small sympathy. Something that didn't come? Best she knew, he'd rarely had any mail from family, or anyone else for that matter. At least until very recently. Perhaps something from Belgravia? given the scuttlebutt Carson refused to acknowledge, much less inquire after.
"Hoping…," he nodded. "Apparently foolishly." He turned back to his polish and pity.
"Thomas!" Daisy's voice rang from the kitchen with her normal bashful excitement. "I've something for ya!"
"No more biscuits, please," he begged, having been barraged with variations on Mrs Crawley's recipe once the young woman learned of his recent, alleged interest in them. "I'll be big as barn…"
"No silly," she appeared with full smile and arms, nodding sheepishly to the housekeeper as well. "This was brought in with the herbs and spices. Someone must have thought it a bouquet, but it's addressed to you. And smells of nothing..."
His mouth dropped open in relief and revived surprise, as she handed over the oddly shaped, but clearly stamped bundle.
"Well," Mrs Hughes chuckled, "Are you going to stand there staring at it all morning, or open it?"
Waking from his exhilaration, he realized she and Daisy were both waiting for him to offer them insight into his new arrival as well.
Sensing his quick nervousness at that prospect, and knowing the moment's rarity for him, the housekeeper suggested with a nod, "While Daisy and I check the root vegetables for more hidden messages, you're welcome to use my sitting room." She nudged him onward, as she turned the disappointed younger woman back into the kitchen.
Laying the package gently on her side table, Thomas closed the door and returned to sit beside it as carefully, relishing that its lack of return address should only mean one special sender. Unrolling it, rather than unwrapping it, he caught and set aside a tight scroll of papers that fell free, as the bulk of the contents shifted and rustled mysteriously. With a few turns more, the course outer wrappings fell away, and a brilliantly white form blossomed from it like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon.
He had received a handmade, papercraft angel, wings spread and trumpet held high. And it was wearing a top hat and footman's tails.