Downton Abbey:

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

by Mirwalker

Chapter Forty-eight: Liberation

Tuesday, 7 January 1913

Buoyed by such a just start to the new year, Thomas' spirits remained high into the next evening, when the noble family skipped their formal dinner, and ceded the evening instead to a celebration for and with, if still almost entirely by, their servants. Scrubbed clean for the rare hours when they could be above stairs at all, or at least openly, the full staff of the estate—inside and outside—stood in awkward, if spiffy and gawking, lines in the great house's great room as their Earl extoled them.

"Finally, our cousin, Mister Matthew Crawley, sends his sincere regrets that he cannot be with us this evening. But he does share his thanks and best, and hopes to continue meeting members of our treasured Downtown family over the many, happy days to come.

"And so, on behalf of myself, her Ladyship and the entire Crawley family," he led everyone gathered in raising their glass, "we thank you all, and wish you the very best for new year. Enjoy this Servant's Ball. To Downton, all!"

Eager to move to the rare food and drinks offered by, and not just delivered to, that big house, the crowd smiled, shouted back, chugged and moved as quickly as was polite to the waiting tables of sips and bites.

The older staff members had the courtesy to pay their respects to the family members before focusing on the free fare. The outdoors staff made slow circles of the atrium, taking in a scale they only saw in churches, barns or garages; this was their annual reminder that horses, automobiles, the Lord, and the Crawleys all had larger homes than they. With a less philosophical focus, Daisy and the younger maids giggled and took note of the ruddy, younger stable and groundskeepers, or avoided the stares of the ruddy, older ones. And the house staff silently hoped that everyone would eat all and spill nothing; for all its rare rule- and role-breaking, this party was nonetheless theirs to clean up at night's end.

Thomas had noticed, and then contentedly ignored a strapping new assistant gameskeeper; that dance card was now entirely full, and he was determined not to be long for Downton anyway. He nodded to the vigilant butler, who apparently approved of his selection of the Dowager Countess, and not a Crawley daughter or impressionable maid, for his first dance of the evening. Were Carson's cheeks a little rosy already?

Taking two glasses from the punch table, he stepped up beside the absolutely unruddy O'Brien. "Such a long face on the one night we get to mingle with them all."

Accepting the offered drink, she corrected, "When we have to mingle with them, you mean." Clearly she meant more than the family.

"Could be worse. I hear one estate has a masquerade in an underground ballroom. The drinking and debauchery reach such heights, you don't know who you're dancing or… more with. And it takes the staff days to clean up after it, if they're not ill or sacked from the night's behaviour."(1)

She smirked and took a swing of the admittedly nice alcohol. "I'll just be grateful we've already had our excitement for the fall, and that there's not a soul here I'd get ill for or with. Or in London, thank you very much," she cut off his attempt to remind her of a certain admirer. "If you really are heading that way, you keep him put there."

So she'd heard too? Of course she had. "You think I should try for the Painswick's?"

"You're a fool if you haven't already. You'd be in the city. You know the mistress well enough; and she's here or traveling as often as not. Only the butler's a mystery; and you can get a sense of him fast enough."

That was positively permission from O'Brien. "Would you miss me?" he sipped and smiled.

She threw him a side glance instead. "You're not the first upstart footman I've trained; and likely not the last. Besides, I'd expect to be kept up to date on the comings and goings there."

"You and Lady Mary both…"

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that comparison," O'Brien scoffed and headed for another drink, as there was a lull at that table. "Meanwhile, Daisy's making eyes at you again. I know you'll miss those biscuits."

Ignoring the cook's goods, Thomas instead smiled at a few other guests across the room, cleared a few empty plates from a table when he saw the butler was watching, and quickly grabbed two full punch cups once the lady's maid had skulked away. "Fleet-footed as ever, Mister Carson," he greeted his superior with said drinks, as the older man's dance with Lady Mary ended.

"Thank you, Thomas," Carson nodded for both the cup and compliment. "It seems you're making a tradition of the first dance with Dowager Countess."

"I respect my elders most. And, she simply insists that don't let her fall, as though she's not an elegant stepper in her own right." While officially "off" this one evening, it still never hurt to flatter upwards.

"Graceful indeed," Carson concurred, with a sip of punch, before quickly pivoting to what he knew was also motivating his footman's golden tongue. "And so, would you not miss all this if you were to take a position in London?

"Ah…," Thomas stuttered, intending to bring up London, but not to that end.

"I don't know whether you've applied," Carson explained, "though your recent eagerness for extra tasks and early hours suggest you are polishing as much reference as silver…"

Alright, we'll go there…. "Actually, sir, it was you who'd reminded me of the high expectations on us all during this busy time. If I was working toward anything, it was to show you how seriously I do take that responsibility …and, honestly, in hopes that you would look favorably on my request to spend a few days with my family." Truth drizzled in flattery was the new holiday treat.

That earned a sip and a side glance from the butler, who had never presumed anything other than career advancement as the footman's sudden motivation. While the young man had inquired, the older man hadn't considered he might actually have, and value, relations over service. Connecting other goings on below stairs, and aiming to remind that he knew all such things, Carson dared acknowledge the common curiosity, "And would this also explain your flurry of correspondence of late?"

Thomas half-feigned a sigh at being so fully understood. "Unable to be with them in person, I endeavoured to share the holiday with my family best I could. They send their best to you, the staff, and our generous patrons."

While impressed at the man's commitment to this to-date hypothetical family, Carson could hardly let on any concern for them at the expense of their actual, shared and properly pedigreed one. The Barrows' relevance to him had ended on producing and rearing the young son he was now molding into a meaningful contributor to society… He punctuated that stroke of good fortune—for Thomas—with another sip of punch.

And, relishing the spiced warmth of the holiday mix, he did have to admit that his pupil had shown considerable growth in his short years at Downton. And a notable increase in initiative and effort in the past few weeks alone; since recovering from his post-Guy Fawkes sick bed, in fact. He took some pride at that, as he continued to sip and survey the gentle flow of music, chatter, refreshments—in sum, an orderly, and therefore happy, post-holiday home. Just as it should, and would, be—so long as Charles Carson served and supervised.

Flush with purpose, pride and punch, Carson turned and handed Thomas his first beneficence of the night. "On the condition that you keep me fully informed about your intentions with Belgrave Place, and you maintain your recent energetic efforts of late whatever the outcome there, you may have leave as soon as we can spare you next Monday. And because I'm feeling particularly generous this evening, you needn't return until Thursday afternoon, so that we have you back in plenty of time to prepare for Mister Crawley's return."

Thomas was suddenly flush himself, having hoped for more time, of course, but not actually expecting three full nights away!

Unconcerned, Carson gifted him a second time, finishing his cup and handing it empty to the still unbelieving footman. "Never let it be said that Charles Carson is ungenerous or ungracious." Without another look, he set off on another extension of his caring confidence. "Mrs Hughes, might I have the honour…?"

Monday, 13 January 1913

Leaving later than he'd intended because the housework, of course, never ended, Thomas made it just in time to catch his third choice train. But, with almost another week's extra effort, some clarity of intentions by the barrister heir, and the grimacing late departure, he'd managed to have his return time extended until Friday morning.

Gathering his breath as he settled in, he could barely sit still on the ride to York, much less on the connection to London. Finally free of service concerns for perhaps the longest period of time in his brief career, if not entire life, he catalogued his few, if vital tasks behind and ahead.

First, he'd spent the night after cleaning up the Servants' Ball writing to the London law firm, indicating his imminent visit to the capital, should an in-person meeting be of interest. And they had accepted, with what he felt was significant gusto for attorneys.

Second, he'd similarly arranged an interview with Lady Painswick's butler, letting Carson know he felt he must, out of courtesy to everyone after Lady Mary's public suggestion. Her involvement had softened Carson's post-party irritation, understanding it would be "awkward" not to at least go through the motions…

And last but not least, he'd exchanged two rounds of letters with Ian and their landlady, letting them know of his scheduled afternoon arrival. He'd share tea with Mrs Babcock, settle into their room, and await Ian's return from the office—likely as quickly as the young man could possibly get away.

In preparation for all these appointments, he'd laundered and packed his best suits—packing all three he owned—so as to be prepared, and immaculate, for everyone he needed to impress this trip. This morning, he was up early, to scrub himself especially well, and not just for the breakfast service and luncheon prep that originally stood between him and his emancipation.

Then, the butler had refused to release him until after luncheon when her Ladyship had surprised them all with a last minute invitation to Isobel Crawley. Apparently, the daughters' insistence on London season considerations had finally convinced her that the new nobles should be prepared for their likely part.

And so, he'd ground his teeth through their seemingly endless chatter about inane subjects, basically taunting him with talk of a London fantasy they were keeping him from. Finally freed, but with Mrs Crawley not knowing to wait with the automobile, and with the wagon off on a supply run, he'd had to sprint to the village, cursing them all.

With no time to spare in Downton, he'd just managed to send a telegram from York; the same apology and updated arrival information to both Babcock and Ian, hoping someone at the office would read Ian's to him. He hoped both had received the messages, and so would not worry or rush unnecessarily on his account.

Settled in for the longer leg to London, he could now do little but imagine what the next few days had in store. Of particular urgency and importance, and bringing a smile to his lips for the first time since when the morning had still been on schedule, were the words he practiced to accompany the silver band still in his pocket. If this day would not stick to plan, he was adamant this part of the reunion would contain the polished crux of his intentions from this day forward:

"I'm in love with a professional artist, who looks at and loves me in deeper ways than I could have dreamed for anyone, much less someone like me. You claim I saved you Guy Fawkes Night, stepping out of the light when you needed me most. But in truth, it was you who wandered into my life that night, you who were the miracle I hadn't even realised I needed, much less could deserve.

"Ian, you have taught me of love, reminded me of strength and given me hope for something better in this world. Not just a better station, but a richer life. And I thank you for that. There's so much more I want to say, so much more for us to be. And so, my precious Wink,…"

A bended knee.

An earnest question.

A resolute answer.

A happy forever, or near enough as two poor blokes could have together.

Rehearsing the joyous moment to himself the entire trip, Thomas' mood had improved greatly by the time they arrived slightly early to an icy King's Cross. Pushing his way firmly through the crowds, he kept an eye out for Ian, in case a shared urgency had pulled the handsome boy here directly. Thomas both hoped for that good sign, and perhaps slightly more against it. He'd been scripting this perfect evening for more than a week; and part of him wanted to stick to the in-room, out of view rendezvous as planned.

Not seeing any familiar faces on the platform, or in the station proper, he paused atop the busy street stairs to take in the moment of this new chapter of shared possibilities. The continued cold and gathering dusk had quieted the big city, anticipating the coming reunion, if not openly able to celebrate it. This will be home, our home, Thomas committed as he pulled up his collar at the brisk city breeze, and turned toward the most direct route to the boarding house. Looking across the busy Euston Road as the traffic paused, he was instantly warmed to catch sight of Ian's familiar face hurrying to cross and greet him, as unable to wait as he was.

Much, much later, Thomas would take some small comfort that they had clearly seen one another, both were smiling, and neither saw the car which jumped suddenly from the otherwise still queue.

NOTES

1. Search for information on the extravagances at Welbeck Abbey, Notts.