Downton Abbey:
The Sufficiency of Service (formerly "Guy(s) Night")
by Mirwalker
Chapter Forty-six: The Joy of Giving
Dearest Thomas,
I so hope this reaches you in time for Christmas. It took longer to complete than I had expected, as I am still learning this skill. When I saw what someone at the office had made for the tree there, I thought immediately to make this for you. May it bring you joy, and keep you well until we are reunited.
-Ian
And scribbled below that, No surprise, he wanted it to be perfect… A Happy Christmas to you, Thomas. -Myrtle Babcock
It had been several awestruck minutes before Thomas could turn from the delicate paper sculpture and its clear sentiments, to the tightly rolled supplements to this absolutely last minute arrival. Not that he needed the accompanying note to understand or appreciate the gift, but having more of Ian's own words simply added to the joy.
The quick letter also acted as a cover sheet to a few pages of sketches he now looked through: Several immediately recognizable London landmarks. A cavernous room of desks he assumed to be the publisher's office. A blushing but unfinished landlady—perhaps a draft of another piece gifted to her for Christmas? A regal take on their benefactress, Mrs Crawley. And finally, a perspective sketch—the view from one side of a double-wide bed, looking across to the other, empty side. Where every other paper had the telltale "I" in the lower corner—a claim of artistry Thomas had taught Ian to make, this one instead explained in deliberate, if charmingly incomplete, letters "mis you."
A knock at the door reminded him this was no more his room than the drawings his world. At least yet. Wiping an eye, he coiled the papers, as the housekeeper gently opened and asked, "Thomas, may I…?"
"Of course, Mrs Hughes," he stood, unsure what to do with the unpackable angel, "It's your room."
Careful not to leave open sightlines to the inquiring eyes in the kitchen, the older woman's own gaze was drawn quickly from the bleary-eyed footman to the small glory beside him on her side table. "My, that's beautiful. I can see why you were so eager that it arrive."
"I knew something was coming; but, I had no idea…," he haltingly explained.
"The occasion's clear," she continued, shutting the door and bending to admire it a little closer, "but, might I ask who's the artist or admirer?" She didn't need to say that, beyond the kitchen maid, he was the least likely member of staff expected to receive such attention or elegance.
Thomas actually blushed. "My cousin. He's just taken a job as an artist, and wanted to show off his skills a bit, I think."
"A little Barrow showmanship?" she chuckled, unsurprised. "He's not sent you such wishes before. I think I'd remember if anything so grand had ever before arrived at Downton, intended to stay below stairs."
"We've only just discovered one another, as adults," Thomas fidgeted, both appreciating the compliments on Ian's behalf, and not liking his business on display or under discussion.
"And is this newfound relation part of the draw to London?" she pondered with a friendly, if impish look.
He stiffened at the mention of the job there. "I am flattered that their Ladyships thought to suggest or consider me; but I've been very clear-"
"I wasn't judging, Thomas. Word of the opportunity, and of your polite demurs, have reached certain ears on this level. There is no shame in being wanted, in either house. Or in wanting to be near family, especially if they care enough to make their affections clear."
"Mister Carson seems to agree with only one of your priorities."
"More correctly, in Mister Carson's case, work and family are simply one in the same thing," she countered, with a saddened tone, before turning back to him with a little more hope. "Not everyone is so fortunate as to have one such, much less multiple, good options. Whatever you choose for you, Thomas, I hope all the others possibilities will understand. Even Mister Carson."
She patted his arm on which she'd laid her hand as she spoke. "Now, as there is a kitchen full of curious cooks, and a butler giving no pause for such sentimentality, I suggest you get your angel settled in, and finish that polishing. We've a full house through dinner, all of whom expect everything, and everyone to twinkle for Christmas." Stepping toward the door, and nodding to the kitchen, she smiled kindly, "I'll buy you a moment to get to the stair."
Trying not to ask too obviously after his unusual package, Daisy nonetheless did bring Thomas a plate of biscuits after the staff's supper that evening. He stuffed one in his mouth almost immediately, so as not to be able to answer questions; and then he passed the plate around the hall to share the holiday generosity.
Wednesday, 25 December 1912
The next morning, amidst "Happy Christmas-"es swapped around the breakfast table, he was also the first to receive Daisy's, and by default, Mrs Patmore's gift to their colleagues: a new sweet pastry, seasoned to mimic the singular Crawley cookie. Though tasty, it did elicit some grins around the table as he bit in, and couldn't hide a wearied reaction.
And after Christmas morning church service, and the expanded luncheon service after, he was flattered to receive yet another batch, of the originals this time, directly from their creator. As none of the staff opened their gifts in front of their masters, he thanked Mrs Crawley genuinely when she stepped forward to present it on behalf of the family, and he to receive it graciously. Between that presentation and their still-expected afternoon duties, as the others gawked at their books, or hand-me-down clothes, or other largely impersonal and obligatory trinkets, Thomas simply placed the unopened tin on the servants' hall table, and went for a smoke instead.
As the staff regrouped for one of their most luxurious meals of the year, including some reworked leftovers from the upstairs Christmas luncheon, he kept waiting for Daisy to drop yet another platter of sweets before him—perhaps reworked as rolls or seasoned vegetables. Instead, his undesired offer came from an unsurprising corner.
Once everyone was eating, and conversation turned to what everyone had heard from families, O'Brien took advantage of the briefest of pauses to ask, "And Thomas, you've apparently been the good boy. Who's your mystery, last moment penpal, and what beyond biscuits did they send?"
Eyes around the table turned to him, most having little or no knowledge of the late find in the prior day's deliveries. Surprise was on most faces, worry on the housekeeper's, concern on the butler's, and winter snow innocence on the asker's.
Wiping it from hers quickly, Thomas smiled and engaged with none of the irritation or evasiveness everyone at the table was expecting. Ensuring everyone was watching, he explained cheerfully, "A relation in London sent me a handmade Christmas decoration; but he didn't write to me alone." Reaching into his jacket pocket, he handed her a single piece of paper rolled up and tied with leftover pieces of red and green ribbon.
As was his intent, all eyes and expectations shifted back to her, as she held the scroll like a snake in her hand. She looked to him for some indication of what she was holding; but he simply smiled and forked another mouthful of the delicious dinner. He would give gifts, but no aid.
"Go on, then," an unlikely ally chuckled from across the table, as Anna shot that valet a 'behave' look.
"Mrs O'Brien, it is customary to open and enjoy gifts, not simply stare at them skeptically," joined the chief of staff.
"I shouldn't like to enjoy a gift, when no one else has one here," she smiled nervously.
"We don't mind, truly," Anna assured on everyone's behalf.
Seeing no alternative, the lady's maid nodded, turned the scroll in her hand, ever so slowly untied the ribbons, set them on the table before her, and finally opened the paper very low and near to her.
"Let us have look!" encouraged Gwen, as excitement around the table grew at O'Brien's reluctance, wide eyes and then pallor.
She dropped her hands into her lap, and looked at Thomas with what the others would only describe as a "shaken" expression.
Not daring to grab and pass it around, an apparently disinterested Thomas continued eating, and whispered loud enough for all to hear, "You have to admit, it's a good likeness…"
"Mrs O'Brien, do share," even Mrs Hughes suggested.
"They'll only think up worse if you don't show the truth," the first footman reminded.
Hoping for a swift end at the hands of the most powerful and least tolerant critic at the table, she sighed deeply and handed the paper to Carson.
Shoulders around the table dropped, also expecting him to tear up or torch the mysterious message rather than share it.
Sighing himself under the burden of responsibility, and with furrowed brow and pursed lips, he carefully unfurled the page, and simply stared at it without reaction for what seemed forever.
"Mister Carson?" the housekeeper prompted, now growing concerned at what had been introduced at the table.
Eyebrows now up in… satisfaction, the butler passed the paper to his right, where Mrs Hughes took up the scrutiny.
Another endless pause, until, a smile broke out across her face. "Why, it's lovely, Mrs O'Brien! You needn't be ashamed…," she turned the page around to show everyone, before passing it along. "It's beautiful sketch of our very own lady's maid. What a wonderful gift indeed!"
A buzz went round the table, as the potentially titillating secret was exposed as an equally enthralling pencil portrait of the stern woman at Carson's left hand. The always encouraging head house maid was not the only colleague to add compliments to the art, artist or subject.
If anything, the sincere positivity seemed to make O'Brien even more uncomfortable. "Fine, fine. That's quite enough," she barked, almost snatching it back when Thomas passed it over from William. "I'm not some sideshow or pantomime character. Eat your suppers."
Thomas relished the glare he got from her, along with every attempt by the others to re-engage her about it through that meal and beyond. While she never acknowledged it again, or thanked Ian through him, he couldn't believe she wasn't also actually flattered at the truly respectful and flattering rendering he'd sent to seal her silence on their meeting. In fact, Thomas thought he caught her peeking at least once that night, before she bustled it away, never to be seen again.
With almost everyone in good spirits after the also extravagant upstairs dinner that Christmas night, Thomas took advantage of seeing off the Dowager Countess and the Crawleys, to thank the younger mother genuinely for the "biscuits, and everything." He truly couldn't reciprocate all that she'd done for Ian, and thus for him; but he could slip her a piece of paper from his chest pocket, adding, "Ian sends his gratitude and best wishes well."
Knowing they had little time or privacy just outside the coatroom, Isobel unrolled it quickly and cautiously. Finding an elegant sketch of herself, she smiled and teared up. "Oh! Ian is too kind, of pencil and heart. I shall treasure it always!"
Looking as though she was about to kiss his cheek, she caught his look of alarm at the unacceptable familiarity, and instead clutched his hand. Not even at Christmas, then...
"I will pass that along to him," Thomas reassured. Hopefully in person, and soon.