Downton Abbey:

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

by Mirwalker

Chapter Forty-seven: The Best Begins with Closure

Tuesday, 31 December 1912

After the anxiety leading into Christmas, Thomas' holiday spirit was maintained by the clockwork arrival each afternoon of a single, small, return-less envelope from London. Addressed in a noticeably improving script, each contained not a letter yet, but rather one or two sketches of something or someone in London, providing him some ongoing insight into Ian's exploration of the new city. A pigeon pecking at a cracker. A low angle look up at some gargantuan building. A spangled guard marching. A boat disappearing under a river bridge. A busy street. And more personally, a partial self-portrait, showing signature curls just beginning to reappear. All word-less welcomes, should a certain country footman come south soon.

Though Thomas never opened the notes around others, at least a few tablemates noticed the new pattern, and whatever of his happy reactions slipped past his quick squashing of them. Whether curious about him or hoping for another awkward O'Brien moment, most did nothing more than observe and trade glances with one another. Reaching past him for her pin cushion as he lingered over the two freshly delivered letters today, Anna mentioned with a smile, "Seems Lady Mary's not the only one to have gotten on some list."

"New year brings new things," he smiled cryptically, happy to confound the interest in his affairs, whatever their motivation. Without further comment, he stood and reported to their leader, who was just returning from delivering the housekeeper her day's arrivals, "Ah, Mister Carson, I've almost got the greens frames organized, and if there's nothing new needed for tonight's merriment, I thought I might finish them off now?"

Quite pleased with the newfound work ethic in his first footman, finally, the butler nodded him on, "Very good. Just mind your livery for dinner."

"Is no one else curious what daily news Thomas is suddenly receiving?" asked an exasperated Gwen once he was well gone, finally looking up from her own sewing.

But before anyone else could speak, the butler harrumphed and pronounced the subject closed. "If you must know what your colleagues receive by post, I suggest you write to them yourself, and thus be sure and satisfied."

In truth, Thomas had already finished cleaning and putting away the metal skeletons for the Abbey's legion of wreaths and garlands, and the anchoring system for its large Christmas tree. By butler fiat, the perishable Christmas trimmings had been removed as they wilted; by descending size, all were chopped into firewood proper, added to other fires for their pleasant wintry scent, or dried into potpourri for use throughout the year. And, by tradition, the rest of the Yule décor would be whisked away by Twelfth Night, whatever its state.

Instead, the footman made his way to the warmest of the attic rooms, for a rare private moment to savor to Ian's latest dispatches. He had sent a note to London immediately after Christmas, letting Ian know that Mrs O'Brien was awestruck by her drawing, and Mrs Crawley, teary at hers. I was both myself on opening your knick-of-time delivery as well. And Mrs Hughes, our housekeeper, all but suggested such an artist should not be unattended as his star rises..., he'd written truly, if carefully. And, knowing he'd miss his desired midnight kiss tonight, today's delivery would be Ian's last words to him until the new year.

Opening Ian's own dispatch first—a sketch of Westminster Palace and the Big Ben clock tower at dusk, Thomas dared imagining their walking together along the Thames toward that view. Arm in arm, much less hand in hand, was out of the question; and he knew he could never put his arms openly around Ian as they shivered in the river breeze. But, in the chill of the unheated storage atop the Abbey, he dreamed of the opportunity just to be there, beside Ian, in person; and of having a private room to return to at day's end…

Flush despite the attic's cold, Thomas shook off the tempting daydream, opened the second letter addressed in the finer weekly script, and unfolded a surprise three pages. The first sheet made him smile.

Dear Thomas,

We all thank you for the Christmas goose and baking goods. You are too, too generous. The biscuits Ian attempted were also very tasty; what we did not enjoy ourselves, he took to share at work and church.

I have not met anyone so enraptured by the city or Christmas services, or willing to help despite his infirmity. A truly special young man.

Our thanks again until we can say so in person in the new year.

M. Babcock

PS: Ian has insisted on copying out a message in his own hand; enclosed. Such persistence!

The referenced second page, complete with a corrected spelling, both warmed and ached his heart.

My Dearest Thomas,

It is very cold here. But my coat keeps me warm when outside.

Beyond Mrs Babcock's hospitality, I much enjoy my work, though it will be some time before any of my drawings are published. Until then, I have tried four new teas from the trolley. And also a -txxxl- trifle, which is very good.

Also, I burnt some of Mrs Crawley's biscuits; so I fed them to the pigeons, who seem not to care. I named one for you; you can meet him when you get here. (Soon?)

Happy New Year!

Yours,

Ian

He laughed aloud at the third page: a sketch of what he presumed was the referenced, and indeed rather dapper pigeon.

Not quite alone at the top of the house, Thomas realized he was ending the year with several certainties. In a way he had never known before or imagined possible, he loved and was loved in return. For the first time, he had a more than selfish motivation for, and an actual life opportunity to move beyond waiting at others' feet, at least for paltry pay. And so, for both causes, he would indeed be applying for the Painswick footman position, and would make his case to several office jobs he'd worried over. For need and love, he would get to London sooner than later.

Monday, 6 January 1913

Daily duties and undecorating aside, Thomas remained busy through New Yew Year's week. He'd volunteered for any extra duties he could, continuing to angle for favor and time off from Carson. O'Brien and Mrs Hughes also noticed; but neither said so, observing with a smirk and smile, respectively. The butler gave no indication of any kind.

Thomas also carefully composed and sent off several letters of interest to London employers, including a particularly stirring pitch to a large law firm who'd advertised for a new position to handle client hospitality. He'd included one of Ian's sketches of him, in hopes appearance was as important to them as to aristocratic households. He'd even considered asking Mrs Crawley for her son's connection in the legal community; but wasn't ready to incur that debt unless it really was needed.

At the strike of the new year, he'd closed his eyes, giving thanks for Ian and the positive end to 1912, and praying for his changed luck to stick into 1913. He'd written back to Mrs Babcock and Ian, enclosing a horribly drawn, but smiling stick figure footman. He'd passed along a request to Ian from Mrs Crawley, hoping for a drawing of her Matthew, to complement her own. "I believe I have a photograph I could lend, if that would help. I know they only met the once...," she'd offered.

Applications and requests sent, he could do little more than look forward to a daily drawing, pine for more direct contact, and dote on the Crawleys and their 1913 priorities.

"While I know it will surprise you, I'm not thinking of myself," Mary tossed across the table as they worked on the last of their Christmas thank you cards. "I simply thought my dear sister might be interested in seeing some of the fashion and festivities. It's only a year now until your season, Sybil; and all our stories can't do it the justice of seeing it for yourself."

"Styles may have changed by then…," their mother pointed out, sensing the three daughters working together to push the travel agenda.

"Well of course they will! But, the protocols won't have," the eldest persisted, with a wink. "And by then, we'll have had another Christmas, and a birthday each, to update our wardrobes appropriately."

"The details you should focus on now, are in your correspondence," Cora nodded to their stationery and incomplete lists. "Being relations, the Marquess and Marchioness of Flintshire may overlook late gratitude and poor handwriting; but the rest of London society certainly will not. Impress now to earn invitations later..."

The dressing gong cut off any further discussion.

"Oh, dear, is that the time already?" the Countess sighed, as everyone moved to obey the call. "Well, as it's just family this evening, we'll finish after dinner. Thomas, please let Carson know of that small change. If we can complete the last few notes tonight, we can put away all this and have one less space to worry about tomorrow before the Ball…"

He nodded at the largely thoughtful gesture, as she followed two daughters out. He and William would be moving the table and chairs either way, but one item off his own list tonight, however small, was now one less task obliging him to the Abbey. He was counting down.

Trailing slightly behind, having made a point to tidy her stacks fastidiously, Edith nodded back toward the table as she passed him at the door. "I wonder if you'd seen today's paper?"

Needing to tidy the room himself before relaying her Ladyship's message and heading to his own supper, Thomas was initially annoyed at the odd question, worried it suggested more work for him.

Attending to their table before the tea service, he started where Lady Edith had been sitting, and the referenced newspaper sat folded. Picking it up irritably, Thomas realized immediately which headline she'd intended him to note. Nearly dropping into the vacant seat, he devoured the article, relishing the scant details of how "Tragically, the Baron Greenhalgh and his driver both were killed, when their car ran off the road into the Rochdale canal…"

Lady Edith might not appreciate the full impact of that watery justice; but he could relish it enough for every oblivious person in the county. Happy new year, indeed!