Hey wonderful people. So, new chapter. I know a lot of you were asking about the two new character, Jameson and Mr. Higgs. Well, I can tell you now; Mr. Higgs in essential to my storyline. Jameson is not; but he will be essential to Sybbie, in the future. All your questions will be answered, I promise.
I hope you all enjoy this chapter, as I thoroughly enjoyed writing this one. The tension between Thomas and Jimmy will also be explained, I promise. For now though, let's just roll with it, shall we? ;)
Sparki: I own nothing!
When Thomas stepped into the sitting room of Mrs. Hughes, he felt his stomach give a twist. The look on the housekeeper's weathered face was not an expression to take comfort in; on the contrary, it made the under butler wish he'd been summoned one again by Carson instead. Mrs. Hughes was not a sour woman, yet rarely did she look so very apologetic. Thomas heard bells of warning, ringing somewhere in the distance. Hiding his unease, Thomas nodded in greeting.
"Mrs. Hughes," he offered, his words steady. Mrs. Hughes gave a tight-lipped smile.
"Mr. Barrow," she began, "I'm afraid that I have some bad news." With a sigh, she lowered herself into the nearest, straight-backed chair. Once seated, she motioned for Thomas to do the same. He obliged, but wished he had remained standing. He felt so vulnerable, sitting there in that too-warm room. Mrs. Hughes' growing discomfort did nothing to calm his qualms.
"As you know, the new footman has begun his work here today." Thomas nodded. "Jameson," he supplied. "He seems a nice lad." Mrs. Hughes nodded. "Yes, he is," she agreed, and Thomas thought he detected a note of fondness in the woman's voice. When she spoke again, however, the warmth was gone, and left in its place, an odd undertone of guilt.
"Now, he will need somewhere to sleep," she continued. "From what I've seen so far today, Alfred has been quite the welcome party. More so, at least, than others I could name." Thomas held back a snort.
James.
"And so," Mrs. Hughes sighed, trailing her fingers along her worn skirts, "Mr. Carson and I think it best that he takes to bunking with Alfred." At this, Thomas nodded. "Well, I wouldn't put the lad with James," he mumbled. "Not for all the tea in China." Mrs. Hughes smiled briefly.
"No," she chuckled, "I don't think that would be wise." She cleared her throat. "However, there is the problem now, of where to put James." Mrs. Hughes fixed the under butler with a heavy gaze, and Thomas felt his insides groan in protest.
No. Oh God, please no.
"He could bunk with some of the younger lads," he suggested. "Benjamin, or Michael perhaps?" But Mrs. Hughes simply shook her head.
"I'm afraid he cannot, Mr. Barrow," she murmured woefully. "The first footman cannot share residence with a hall boy." She spoke as though this, one of Carson's many laws, was a more ridiculous notion than a parasol indoors. "That, and I'm sure you can imagine the fuss James would make." Thomas sighed.
"Yes, I can imagine perfectly well, Mrs. Hughes." Thomas knew what the housekeeper was about to suggest. He could almost see the words, forming on her lips. He could barely hear his trembling breaths above the beating of his panicked heart. He shook his head slowly.
"There has to be somewhere," Thomas implored. "Please, Mrs. Hughes. Anywhere." His voice had risen several octaves, and his words were almost a plea. Mrs. Hughes just sighed.
"I'm sorry, Thomas," she murmured, "but there is nowhere else."
He wanted to cry.
He wanted to scream.
But he didn't. Silent and resigned, Thomas gave a small nod. "Of course, Mrs. Hughes," he all but whispered. "I understand, of course." With that, he turned, and stumbled for the door. As he reached for the handle, when thought struck at his mind. He stopped, his fingers brushing the bronze knob. Looking over his shoulder, he found Mrs. Hughes still watching him.
"Why did Mr. Carson hire him?" Thomas asked, rather bluntly. "The lad looks as though he's only just crawled from a nursery. Why has Mr. Carson hired him as a footman?" Mrs. Hughes sighed again.
"We couldn't have another hall boy," she replied. Thomas frowned. "But we don't need another footman; Mr. Carson knows that. Alfred and James are more than capable."
Mrs. Hughes lowered her gaze. Studying her fingers, she closed her eyes, just for a moment.
"Jameson is my nephew," she admitted. Thomas blinked, as he felt a wave of understanding sweep through his being.
"Your nephew?"
Mrs. Hughes nodded. "My sister's boy," she explained. Slowly, Thomas stepped away from the door. Standing quietly, he gazed down at the forlorn housekeeper. She didn't look up; she simply sat, studying her locked fingers.
"About a month ago, I received a letter," the woman told Thomas. "Abigail, my sister... she had died." Thomas felt his heart give an odd little pang.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled. Mrs. Hughes smiled in thanks.
"Jameson was left alone, you see," she continued. "I'm his only living relative – if not for me, he'd have been sent to an orphanage. Or to the workhouse." Thomas couldn't help but wince at the thought. He waited for Mrs. Hughes to continue. But she remained silent.
And so, Thomas gave a small nod.
He left Mrs. Hughes' sitting room, feeling all at once empty, and all at once torn. For the first time in a long, long while, Thomas Barrow was afraid. He was afraid, not of James, but of what would become of being locked in a room together. He feared what James might do. But greater than that, much greater, was Thomas' fear of himself. What would become of Thomas?
He was no longer sure where he was stumbling. The servants' hall would be filled with smiling faces, and concerned eyes. It would be full of Mrs. Patmore, and Daisy, and Alfred, and Anna. People who would watch his usually-impassive face carefully, and ask, "What's wrong, Mr. Barrow?"
And how was he to reply?
So long had Thomas waited for the wounds inflicted upon him by James Kent to heal. The physical mutiny had left scars; Thomas could still see a small few of them. They had faded to nought but pale lines upon his fair skin. But it was the scars of his heart that had taken so many years of Thomas' life, as he waited for that day, when he could pretend they no longer ached every time he met James' oh so very blue eyes.
Slowly, they too had begun to fade, until they were but a distant, painful memory. But in their place, where Thomas had once hoped that he would find peace, and perhaps the will to forgive, there lay only a bitter sadness. This sadness, Thomas could never pretend that it did not exist. Nor would he ever try.
Outside, the world seemed a different place. The air, crisp and clean and cold, filled Thomas' mouth, washing away some of the filth that had threatened to claw its way up his throat. He closed his eyes, and felt the gentle breeze upon his lips. It tasted like a breath; a beautiful, pure swirl of air, from the lungs of one who wasn't burdened with the worries of the world.
Thomas walked slowly, listening to the grass cackled softly beneath his feet. The garden was quiet; it was the serenity that Thomas so craved. Every flower seemed so much brighter than it should. For a moment, Thomas felt the urge to pick each and every one from its green perch. He would place them carefully in his pocket, and carry them with him as he wandered through Downton's garden.
"They're so pretty, aren't they Thomas?"
Thomas smiled. "Yes, Miss Sybil," he agreed, "they are pretty." The little girl fell into step beside him. Looking down, Thomas saw that she held a small rose bud. The blood-red flower sat within the cup of her hands, beautiful and flawless. Thomas smiled once more.
"You're sad," Miss Sybil informed the under butler. Thomas' smile, despite his best efforts, dwindled into far less than it should have been. He glanced away. "Why do you say that, Miss Sybil?"
As they walked, the girl blew softly upon the flower. "Because I'm sad," she replied, as though it were the most obvious, most simple reason in the world. Which Thomas supposed, it was. "So, I know that you're sad as well." Looking up from her flower, Sybil Branson offered the man a curious smile. "Why are you sad, Thomas?"
For a brief moment, Thomas felt the strangest need to answer the child. But as he gazed into the little girl's eyes, he hadn't the heart to burden her with such troubles as his. Such troubles, far too big for one so small as Sybil Branson to understand. Instead, he rolled up the sleeve of his jacket, revealing a nasty-looking gash, just above his wrist.
"I hurt my arm," he muttered by way of explanation, and smiled as Miss Sybil's eyes widened. "As you can see, Miss Sybil, you're reason for being sad is far better than mine." But the girl shook her head, still staring at the wound marring Thomas' pale skin.
"Does it hurt?" she asked carefully. Thomas shook his head. "No," he assured her, covering it once more. It did hurt, of course; as does any wound, when inflicted accidently with a too-blunt razor. For a few blissful moments, the odd couple continued their walk in silence; Sybil captivated by her flower, and Thomas contemplating the fact that he was so enjoying the little child's company.
"I hate George," Miss Sybil declared, suddenly. Thomas raised an eyebrow, and glanced down at the girl's decisive frown. "And why is that?" he inquired. Sybil huffed.
"Because he's annoying," she replied, "and he always manages to get me in trouble." She looked up at Thomas. "That's why I'm in the garden, you see. We drew a line through the middle of the house; the garden is in my half." Thomas smiled at the girl's seriousness.
"And what happens is Master Crawley crosses this line?" he ventured.
"Isis gets to eat him." Thomas laughed.
"And if you cross the line?" At this, Sybil giggled.
"Well, I agreed that Isis could eat me," she began. "But I know that she wouldn't." The girl giggled again, and for a moment, Thomas wasn't sad any more. If Sybil Branson could be happy, even for the shortest of times, then so could he.
The silence. Oh, how he hated the silence.
He didn't want to talk to James. No, Thomas wanted to bury his head beneath his pillow, and pretend the footman didn't exist. Perhaps then, the silence would be easier to accept.
Thomas didn't mind the quiet; in fact, he much preferred the silence of his own company, to the cheerfully mindless chatter that inhabited the servants' hall. But when one was in the presence of another, and still such a silence reigned... well. Thomas could feel the beginnings of a migraine nagging at his temples. Of course, sleep chose to elude him.
"Mr. Barrow?" Thomas jumped. "Are you awake?"
Am I awake?
"No," Thomas mumbled.
"I think that you are," came the some-what blatant reply. Thomas almost snorted.
"Trust me," he muttered ruefully, "I'm not."
"C-Can I ask you... something?" James ventured, his words broken, his voice unsure. Thomas fought to hold back a groan. So many years of blissful silence, so many nights of solitude. And now this.
"No."
"It's... a little important."
"No, you may not use my comb."
"That is not what I was going to ask."
"Goodnight James."
"It was not!"
"Shut up, James."
"No!" Thomas heard a creak as James rose from his own cot. "I didn't ask to be here," he pointed out. With a sigh, Thomas rolled over. He studied James with a cold, clear gaze. "You didn't want to be anywhere else, either," the under butler shot back. He watched, with a measure of satisfaction, as James paled.
"Well, no... I didn't," the footman admitted. "I didn't want to bunk with a hall boy."
"I didn't want to bunk with a footman." Frowning, Thomas sat up. The cot creaked in protest. For a time, the two men glared at one another; both of them weary, both of them angry. The silence beat itself down, and Thomas could feel his mind beginning to cloud.
"So what now?" James finally asked. Without a word, Thomas dragged himself from beneath his starched blankets. Sitting atop his vanity, was a small, broken stick of white chalk. Taking it in his sleep ridden fingers, Thomas then did something. Something that was foolish, and something that was so very childish. He dropped to knees upon the cold wooden floor, and drew an unsteady line across the roughly cut boards. Within seconds, he had divided the room into two halves, with Thomas suspended in one, and James trapped in the other. Where the line met the closed door, only there would Thomas allow the division to end. Climbing to his feet, he turned his cold gaze back to James.
"Don't cross this line," he stated, simply and without emotion. As he met the younger man's confused and startled gaze, Thomas let the chalk fall from his fingers. It seemed to remain suspended in the empty air, for seconds on end. It hung, as though attached to some invisible cord. But then, it hit the floor, where it shattered into pieces.
Thomas lay down once more upon his hardened cot. Turning away from James, he closed his eyes, and let the darkness come.
This one was a little longer than most. Still, I hope you all enjoyed it. I have so appreciated your reviews and feedback, so please don't stop!
