Downton Abbey:

Guy(s) Night

by Mirwalker

Chapter Fifty: Proper Places

Tuesday, 21 January 1913

The wine merchant had surely only just stepped out the servants' entrance, when there was a knock at Carson's office door. Apparently, someone else had been as eager to approach the butler as the businessman who'd pitched his "first of the new year" samples.

But instead, "Mister Carson, do you have a moment?" a soothing Scottish accent queried.

"Of course, Mrs Hughes," he softened as the housekeeper peeked in. He waved in offer of a chair as he shifted the tray of tasting glasses to one side of his desk.

"Any grand finds?" she nodded to his burden, taking the seat.

The butler harrumphed as he sat, "His Lordship may rest assured that I already provide him and his guests with the very best in vintners and vintages…"

She smiled at his understandable pride, even if curious at another's response. "The salesman didn't seem too unhappy as he left…"

Almost sheepishly, the estate sommelier admitted quietly, "He may have left without my dissuading him from returning with the 'latest and greatest in liqueurs from across the Empire.'"

Her knowing smile hung for a moment, not entirely surprised at his alleged generosity, while knowing the poor man's second visit would most likely also be in vain.

"How may I help you?" Carson moved them along, confirming no such futile future.

Mrs Hughes nodded, and wrung her hands slightly, "Ah yes. Well, you see, I've just come from a word with her Ladyship, who was very complementary about the staff's handling of Mrs Crawley's unexpected arrival for luncheon."

Carson nodded confidently, himself unsurprised.

"Only, it seems that she came as she did bearing some unfortunate news, which she shared with her Ladyship afterwards."

"Oh?" Now the Earl's second in command was concerned.

She smoothed her skirt unnecessarily, as she asked, "I wonder whether you've noticed a… change… in Thomas, since he returned from his time in London?" She looked at him as though she already knew the answer, and was not so much asking.

Carson considered for a moment, lips pursed in recollection. "I suppose he has been less attentive and enthusiastic with his responsibilities—especially compared to his admirable verve around Christmas…"

She nodded, without yet elaborating.

His eye shot open, betrayed on several levels. "I've had no inquiry from Belgrave Square. Surely he hasn't been offered a position there without any reference from Downton at all?!"

Mrs Hughes sighed, shaking her head that this was not the case or cause.

"If he was not considered, surely remaining at Downton is no reason for melancholy," Carson continued to gape. "And he told me he had only applied as an understandable courtesy once Lady Mary had suggested he do so…"

"I have no knowledge of his status with the Painswick household or plans beyond. And that is not why Mrs Crawley visited so urgently."

Carson clearly could think of no other reasons explaining, much less excusing, the sudden return of the footman's poor performance.

"Bless," the housekeeper muttered, not meaning the subject of their discussion. "Mrs Crawley shared that she had happened to meet and to assist Thomas' younger cousin with a health issue, and then with securing work in London."

More of that woman interfering with and corrupting my staff, his eyes clearly said. "If Thomas has been dishonest with me about his travels…," he more safely began aloud…

But Mrs Hughes wouldn't hear it, snapping, "The boy was struck by a car and killed! Just as Thomas was arriving, late, to visit the family," she calmed quickly, having interrupted the objection with an obituary. "Mrs Crawley learned from the employer, whom she knows; and wanted to make sure Downton knew, for whatever understanding we could extend him. And she'd like to express her condolences to him directly, if that could be arranged."

"Well, I-"

She stood to see herself out, disappointed and finished on several levels. "Of course he's been off these last days… Despite watching it happen before his very eyes, your poor footman's not made a single complaint or excuse, after reporting back to you punctually, despite it all."

Carson's mood and tone had changed at the dire news and dressing down. "I am sorry to hear it, obviously," he acknowledged. "I will speak with Thomas. And I believe we were already expecting Mrs Crawley for dinner Friday evening?"

Mrs Hughes nodded at the door, suggesting, "Indeed. And he'll recover more quickly with some kindness."

"We're all only interested in your future-"

"With all due respect, Mister Carson, and appreciating the good intentions," Thomas could contain himself no longer. He clenched his hands and forced as much composure into his voice as he could, "my plans and dreams are no one's business but my own. Not yours, not her Ladyship's, and certainly not Mrs Crawley's." Besides, I buried all my dreams in a box north of London. All because every one of you 'interested' people couldn't spare me for a single, sudden, selfish luncheon. "As there's nothing more to be done, I'd prefer not to dwell on it, just to focus on my work. I know, sir, how much you can appreciate that desire; and so I do hope you'll pass it along to everyone, upstairs and down."

Slightly taken aback by the impassioned, if cool, back talk, Carson couldn't disagree with his thinking. In fact, he admired the singular determination to return to duty, as one should in such situations. To that very end, he said simply, "Very good, Thomas. That will be all."

Thomas stepped out into the hallway, to pause and compose himself. Needing a smoke, but still hesitant to step into the courtyard where it all began, his mind raced with reactions to these continued kicks while he was so, so down. Whatever her charitable attention to Ian, how DARE she share my personal details with the family! How DARE they all expect my gratitude for the very condolences they'd made necessary in the first place! How dare they pity me now, as if this was the first, only or unrelated harm imposed on me. How dare they plod on with their stodgy selves, when Ian-

He took a deep breath and wiped his eyes, lest he break down completely there in the main corridor. His thoughts drifted to the bottle of borrowed wine that awaited him on the ledge outside his window; and to how the household owed him many more based on the too little, too late and self-serving farce of their feelings. Taking the odd bottle was easy enough for him; and there were others who could be blamed should the self-important domestic general even notice.

And speaking of Carson, Thomas noticed the overseer's coat as he headed for his nicotine hit. Trusting git, he left his wallet in the pocket as always; and wouldn't miss the few notes Thomas liberated as he passed. And, if he could do it once so easily, perhaps he'd exact such reparations on an open-ended schedule…

Friday, 24 January 1913

"Broke his neck, poor chap," the Earl shared with Matthew a few nights later, between pulls on his cigar. "At least he didn't suffer…"

In the service corridor just beyond the door, Thomas gripped the counter to the point it creaked under the strain. Luckily, that was all he did to express his fury that these men should so casually and callously chat about and diminish, Ian's death and life. He suffered! What do you know of his life? What do eiotehr of you know of suffering for that matter? he wanted to burst into their after dinner dalliance, shouting. So nice of you to pass judgment between imported sips and puffs, after your elegant food was delivered to your upholstered seat by stiffly dressed men with downcast eyes, who were up before and would be awake long after these gentile consumers. 'Gentlemen,' indeed?

"Are his Lordship and Mr Crawley still at digestifs?" Carson shattered his seethe on returning to continue closing down dinner.

"Yes, Mister Carson," he reported more coolly than he was feeling. As always, only their drinks have depth.

"Thomas," Isobel took his arm firmly as he held the car door for her at the night's end, seeking his eyes for the same direct connection. "I wanted to say-"

Refusing to meet her gaze, he ground his teeth and reminded simply, "I remain thankful for everything you did…"

"Please let me finish," she asked.

"Mrs Crawley," he firmly but politely cut off her with a corresponding stare. He wanted to scream at her, to lecture, to make her understand how little servants had that was theirs alone: just family, if any, and feelings. How everything else in their lives—time, effort, belongings, plans—all belonged to their masters. But how Ian had been his alone, his rescue, his retreat. Their affection had been a rare thing beyond the Granthams' god-like control, if not knowledge. The greedy world had taken Ian from him—sin enough. But then she stuck her nose further into his business, and proceeded to hand over his private grief to Carson and the Crawleys, so that they could define whether, when and how he should feel. How her meddling had taken even his loss from him, had imposed his employers' pitying glances and polite comments into his personal loneliness. How she had betrayed him at his lowest moment, all so she could feel good for her magnanimity; and he wouldn't –he couldn't stomach that typical self-serving intrusion.

But for what good she had done, and because it was the hard truth, he said simply, "There are lines."

She blinked at the calm rebuke. She knew she probably did not understand all the nuances or depths; but she understood that she had overstepped, again and in some significant way. He was reminding her that, with the Guy Fawkes' Night mystery solved, and their young project gone, they had nothing left to connect them except their roles.

Swallowing the urge to argue in defense of her intentions, or to assert her condolences, she nodded and let him see her into the car. Such was her position.