I'm sorry, guys! I know this chapter has been long in coming, but life has been crazy. Now, I know that I don't think a whole lot of my work, but I'm secretly very happy and pleasantly surprised to announce that this story has been nominated for the June Highclere Awards! Wow! Was not expecting that one! Thank you all so much for your support, and for all my wonderful reviewers… you rock!
I'm not certain about this chapter. I would really appreciate some feedback ;)
Sparki: I own nothing!
What are you doing, Barrow?
"Thomas," Carson uttered, gazing up at the stony-faced under butler. "I'm not certain I understand what you're saying."
Thomas stood before the butler's desk, pale hands clenched firmly behind his back. They were sweating, so badly, that his fingers struggled to lock around one another. Thomas hated the office; it was so musty, so cluttered. It was too small for anyone, let alone a man as present as Carson, to dwell in. The walls seemed to loom, slowly closing in, ready to crash. Thomas closed his eyes, and allowed himself a single, steadying breath.
"I'm say," he murmured, "that it was me." Lowering his head, Thomas opened his cold eyes. "I poisoned Mr. Higgs."
Carson stared at his under butler, unblinking. So high upon his forehead had his bushy brows crept, Thomas feared they might merge with his receding hairline, and vanish.
"But… why?" he spluttered. "Why would… would you do such a -,"
"It wasn't intentional," Thomas cut in calmly. Hidden from the butler's view, his fingers slowly strangled themselves. "There… there was a mishap in the kitchen." At this, Carson gave him a pointed, questioning peer. But Thomas simply shook his head.
"I lost my balance, and bumped the bench," he continued. "There was a tin of…," Thomas gulped. "…of rat poison, on the shelf." He watched as Carson's eyes widened in horror. Lowering his gaze, Thomas sighed heavily.
What are you doing, Barrow?
"Dr. Clarkson said that it was poison," Thomas reasoned. "Well… the kipper was beside the tin, and according to Alfred, only Mr. Higgs ate the kipper before it was…," He searched for the right word, not wanting to remind the temperamental man of Alfred's earlier mishap, "ruined." He held out his hands, in defeat.
"There's no other explanation," the under butler sighed. Carson was ignorant to the history between James and Jonathan Higgs – as far as the older man was concerned, no one below stairs had any reason to lay a hand upon the financial agent. "I killed Mr. Higgs."
For what seemed an eternity, there was silence. It was the darkest, most terrible kind of silence; the complete absence of sound, when there is nothing left to say. And Thomas had nothing left. He'd given all he had to a man who had taken his heart, and cast it into the dust. Thomas stared at the floor. Inside, his heart threw itself against his chest, desperately trying to set itself free. But it could not. It was trapped – as was Thomas.
"Well… I suppose there's nothing more to be said." Refusing to meet the butler's gaze, Thomas shook his head.
"No, Mr. Carson," he whispered. "I suppose there isn't." He heard Carson sigh.
"I'll hand in my notice." Clearing his throat, Thomas finally looked up. Carson was watching him. But to Thomas' surprise, his eyes held no condemnation. In his dark gaze, Thomas found only disappointment, and a strange sadness. After a moment, the man nodded.
"Yes," he agreed gruffly. "I think that would be best." Slowly, Carson rose to his feet. He gazed at Thomas for a long, lingering moment. "I promise you a completely acceptable reference," the butler added, almost as an afterthought. Thomas blinked, surprised. He'd not expected that – not after he'd just confessed to taking a man's life. But he'd be damned if he said that he weren't gratefully. He bowed his head in thanks.
"Thank you, Mr. Carson," he murmured. With nothing left to utter, Thomas turned on his heel, and slowly made his way towards the door. Just as he placed his gloved hand upon the brass knob, Carson stopped him.
"Mr. Barrow," he called out. His hand lingering by the door, the under butler turned back to Carson. The man was studying him, an odd look on his face. It was as though someone had presented him with a most intriguing puzzle, and he was investing all he possessed into rearranging the jagged pieces into something that resembled a scrap of logic. Confused, Thomas frowned.
"Yes, Mr. Carson?" Carson mirrored his scowl.
"You… you aren't covering for someone?" he ventured. "Because, if you are, it is a noble yet futile and pointless exercise, I can assure you." Without a moment's hesitation, Thomas shook his head.
"No," he assured the butler. "No, I'm not, Mr. Carson." With a stiff smile, he turned the handle.
"Why would I?"
Jimmy didn't bother stepping away from the door. It swung open, so slowly, that he found himself wanting to leap forward and grasp the handle. He wanted to fling the blasted thing from his view, so that he could see Thomas' face, and know that he was alright. Jimmy needed to know that everything he'd just heard was nothing but the work of his sleep-deprived imagination.
Thomas wasn't leaving. He couldn't be.
The door closed with a soft click. In the silence, the sound echoed down the corridor. It was painfully loud, and Jimmy lowered his head. He wanted so terribly to look up, and see Thomas gazing down at him, a smile in his pale eyes. But it was not to be.
When he did look up, Thomas was staring at his, his eyes cold and unmoving. His beautiful blue orbs held no warmth; instead, they studied the footman as though he were something that had crawled from beneath a rock, or slipped from the rafters of an ageing attic. Jimmy felt so small – so very small.
"Thomas," he began. The older man narrowed his gaze. Jimmy felt his voice faltering. "I… I…," But Thomas raised a hand.
"Don't," he hissed. "Please, James. There's nothing you can say." He shook his head. "Not now."
The corridor was empty. Before he could stop himself, Jimmy reached forward, and placed a hand upon the older man's arm. Thomas glanced up, his pale eyes wide and surprised. But he didn't pull away. Slowly, Jimmy squeezed Thomas' wrist.
"Thomas," he tried once more. "Please listen." The older man didn't speak. And so, Jimmy pushed forward. He felt tears – shameful, unbidden tears – prickling at his eyes. But he pushed forward.
"You… you don't have to do this," he uttered. "I'll… go in there, and tell the truth. You don't deserve-,"
"It's what I want, James," Thomas whispered. Slowly, he pulled his arm from Jimmy's grasp. Chastened, the footman stepped away. With a heavy sigh, Thomas leant his head back against the wall. He buried his hands deep within the pockets of his jacket.
"I want to get away," he admitted. "I need to get away." After a moment, he glanced up, meeting Jimmy's searching gaze.
"Thomas…," Jimmy whispered. But Thomas shook his head.
What are you doing, Barrow?
What are you doing?
Next chapter coming soon!
