Hello friends! Here is chapter 4, and as promised this one is about Thomas, written for Rosie80 who requested it. I hope you all enjoy it.

He had slipped out of the servants hall and into the courtyard bathed in moonlight, a pack of cigarettes and lighter in hand. Sitting down on the bench he pulled them out and lit one. Inhaling the clouds of smoke, he tried to breathe normally. But there was a choked up sob stuck somewhere within his throat. He coughed trying to release it, and in doing so a he felt tears well up in his eyes.

He couldn't help feel strange, a grown man crying. Maybe it's only my kind that do it, he thought bitterly. Then he reprimanded himself thoroughly. He knew why he was so upset. It had been one year since they'd been gathered in the servants hall and told by Mr Carson that Lady Sybil had passed away. To think that his emotions were out of check because he was different from most men was an insult to her memory.

There had never been many people kind to him in his life. Perhaps that was due to him. He'd always kept a cool exterior, ever since he realised how things were. That way he was never close to anyone, never friends with anyone and he wouldn't get hurt. That way was safer. But Lady Sybil had been different. She hadn't cared for his sarcastic comments, or his manipulative ways or the fact that he was determined not to make friends. She'd just been kind to him, the way she was to everyone.

After he'd come back from France, he'd been assigned to work in the hospital. He'd found it rather amusing at first, watching her tend to the wounded instead of doing charity work to "help the men over in France". But after a week or two, he'd been seriously impressed when he witnessed her deal with a seriously wounded chap who had arrived pale and gaunt, his body scarred with bloody cuts and scratches. She was completely unperturbed by the man.

Every now and then, they would find themselves in each other's company during the short snatched lunch breaks. They had talked heatedly, often finding themselves in a friendly argument in which they had fired retorts at each other with the speed and ferocity of the bullets fired in the battlefields. One sunny afternoon in April 1917, she had had left him stumped with her answer and burst into a fit of giggles when he couldn't reply. Her head had been thrown back in laughter, the sun glinting on her face. When she eventually calmed down, he threw her the wittiest remark he could muster, making her dissolve into laughter again. "You're sweet, Thomas," she said suddenly. "Did you know that?"

He closed his eyes, trying to stop more tears spill out but he could feel them slipping out from between his eyelashes. She was an exception. A rarity. In all his life he'd never met anyone like her. Kind, caring, compassionate, determined to live a full and happy life and completely uninterested in what others would think as she tried to pursue her dreams. Last year when it had happened, he'd been too wrapped up in grief to properly think. This year, he thought of her and realised how lucky he felt to have been able to know her and call her his friend. He rolled his cigarette between his fingers, watching the tip of it glow a fierce red against the dark, inky-coloured sky. He let out a slow deep breath. "Here's to you Lady Sybil," he muttered.

Just a side note: Massive thank yous to everyone who has reviewed this story so far. Keep them coming!

P.S. Who next? I have a few ideas, but if you want me to do anyone just ask. I'm open to suggestions.