"This is a bad idea," Thomas said to both himself and Richard, fiddling with the buttons on his sleeve, his injured hand not making doing the cuffs up any easier. "I feel as though I'm about to step into enemy territory – I suppose I am." Richard gestured to him to hold out his wrist, after which he completed the task, with the efficiency one would expect from a former royal valet, squeezing Thomas's hand for good measure. Thomas appreciated Richard's act of kindness, though it did nothing to quell the thumping in his chest that had been with him since the moment he'd woken and realised what the day had in store for him. "God, Richard, this is a mistake. I can't do this. Tell me, please; everything is going to be fine, right?"

"You're doing the right thing. You don't want to regret not being there in years to come."

Thomas tilted his head back and groaned at the ceiling. "Richard, can't you lie to me just once?"

"I'm afraid not," Richard said with a soft smile. "I'm not good at that with you."

Thomas knew he was right. Richard had a way with words, even in difficult situations – the story he'd spun the York police to save him was proof of that. However, over the time they'd had together, Thomas noticed Richard's irresistibly adorable habit of twitching the corner of his lip whenever he tried to lie to his face. At present, he wished Richard would tell him what he wanted to hear.

"You won't be on your own. Phyllis is a godsend at being willing to go with you, and you'll have each other's backs. I know that. If things were different, then I'd be there by your side."

Thomas huffed to himself. "If things were different, then you and I would have sat around the dinner table with my parents multiple times when they were both alive and I'd be sobbing tears over my dead father. I know why I'm going; my stubborn sister won't take no for an answer. There's no other reason."

"Still, he was your father, Thomas. Speaking from experience, I deeply regret not being at Jack's funeral. I know it would have potentially posed a risk, but I still wonder if it was a convenient excuse that I could endanger myself by being there. I'll never know."

"That was different – he was your first love, and you mourned him properly. I haven't done the same, and I bet people will have something to say about how I don't look like the heartbroken son I should. Then there are the endless stares I'll get as the recently returned black sheep of the family, the gossip behind my back, the words to my face—"

Richard stopped his words with a single touch on his shoulder. "Your tie is uneven, Mr Barrow. Allow me." Thomas held his breath the entire time, watching as Richard's nimble fingers worked. He finished by smoothing the palms of his hands over Thomas's chest, perhaps to remove creases, or maybe just to touch him.

"But, Richard I—"

Richard placed both hands on either of Thomas' shoulders, those delicate fingers kneading into his tight muscles. "You're a good man. Brave, intelligent and beautiful, inside and out. People will think and say the opposite – as much as I'd like to, I can't deny that – but don't lower yourself to their level. Play along, and then when the day has passed quicker than you expect, you'll come back here – to me." Richard let his hands slide down to Thomas's hips where – with a little tug – he pulled Thomas closer to him. Thomas closed his eyes and let himself sway forward. Their lips met with ease once, then twice and once again. "When you return, I'll be here for whatever you need: to talk, rant, cry – or to distract you with any sort of pleasure you require."

Thomas ducked his head, feeling the heat grow in his face as he threw a glance towards the door to the hallway where Phyllis, his companion for the day, had been waiting the entire time. "Richard," he whispered through his teeth, which only earned an adorable chuckle from Richard that vibrated through Thomas's own body as they kissed again, with further earnest, Thomas enveloping his arms around Richard's waist, and enjoying the sensation of the pressure Richard applied to the small of his back to get them closer together still. Thomas tilted his head back to allow Richard better access to his mouth, tongues colliding, breaths mingling, and as Richard let out a soft moan, Thomas almost abandoned his sister's pressured invitation in favour of pulling Richard out the door, past Phyllis and up the stairs to their bed.

Almost.

A soft knock, followed by a polite cough, broke their kiss that Thomas supposed Richard meant to be only reassuring. "Mr Eliis, he'll be alright. He's going to a funeral, not off to war," Phyllis said from the doorway.

Richard stepped back, took a breath to compose himself, and coughed. "Yes, quite right. You can't miss your train."

"Can't I?" Thomas asked, earning him a sympathetic smile from both Richard and Phyllis.

Richard squeezed his hand momentarily as Thomas passed him. "I'll be here when you return." Thomas only answered with a nod and didn't speak again until Phyllis and he were outside in the small alley by the side door.

"I'm sorry about ... that," Thomas said, jerking his chin back in the kitchen's direction. "Not for keeping you waiting—I mean I am sorry about that but I mean I'm sorry for ... Richard and I and anything we said or insinuated I—"

"Mr Barrow—Thomas, don't you worry. I've seen you both together before and I should be flattered, not needing your apologies since your Mr Ellis called me a godsend."

Thomas relaxed as they stepped out into the street, the village still muted in the early morning. "He's right. You have your own reasons for today to be tricky. I know I'm not the only one facing the past."

"It's true, but with help from you, I've put that behind me. Like Mr Ellis said, we'll play our part and try not to let them get to us."

"And by 'us' you mean me?" Thomas asked. Phyllis's expression slid into a frown. "It's alright, I only mean you're better at controlling emotions than me. You sure we can't pretend the train is cancelled indefinitely and spend the day some other way?"

Phyllis chuckled. "As much as I like the notion of playing truant, it's best we don't. But when you say things like that Mr Barrow,' she continued, using his surname now they were out in the open, "I feel reminded of the boy you once were. In some ways, you haven't changed a bit."

"Perhaps," Thomas said. He couldn't trust himself to say any more than that. He'd changed a great deal, and those faces of the past he was going to meet head on would see right into him.

…

Thomas stood at the back of the church hall with a glass of something that both Mr Carson and he would agree was a poor excuse for wine in his hand, trying his hardest not to attract any attention. Ignored for much of his life, he despised it most of the time, but now it was his only wish. He didn't want to talk, not trusting himself to take Richard's advice, and instead looked out over the sea of black clothed people who were enjoying his father's wake – if enjoying was the right word to use at a funeral – and let his mind wander back over the morning.

Phyllis and he had arrived late. Thomas had asked her if they could since it would make it easier to avoid awkward pre-service conversation with a load of people who were too young to know who he was, or even worse, old enough to recognise the boy they knew over twenty years before. They had timed their entry to the small church, so they had arrived as the congregation was mid-hymn. They took their place in a pew at the back of the church and had remained unnoticed until the room fell silent. Heads had then turned, hushed whispers had buzzed through the air, only silenced as the vicar spoke. Thomas had kept his face neutral, back straight and head high, much like how he'd stand in Downton's dining room. As the vicar spoke about his father and phrases such as 'a loving father', 'sorely missed' and 'devoted Christian' rang through Thomas's ears, his hand had gripped the service sheet so hard, he'd crumpled some of the printed words into an illegible mess. He'd kept his eyes off the coffin at the front of the church. It was a darkened wood and of simple design. He found his gaze fixed on it, as though tearing himself away was some grave sin. Memories of the last time he'd seen his father, red faced and livid with fury, tossing a case out of the front door and telling him not to come back or he'd have David and him arrested, resurfaced. Phyllis had given him a sympathetic look. Thomas had been sure she'd misinterpreted his expression for a type of grief. Maybe it had been. He did not know how he felt.

When the service ended and the coffin was led back down through the church in a solemn procession, a thought had entered Thomas's head: if he had been different, he might have been one of the men who carried the coffin, struggling to hold back tears while trying to appear strong. But instead – nothing. The congregation in the rows in front of them joined the procession, Phyllis and Thomas, tagging on at the back. More whispers, more looks – some of confusion, some of distaste. A boy, around thirteen, craned his head around to look at him, but was quickly told to face forward by a man who walked beside him.

Outside had been the worst. As Thomas's father was lowered into his last resting place at the far end of the churchyard under a greying sky, Thomas caught sight of his mother. Her glistening eyes had met his – only for a fraction, but it was enough. Her quiet sobs paused as she looked at him. She seemed to see right into him and Thomas had an overwhelming need to run, hide and ever look back. They say a mother's love is boundless and unconditional. Thomas had wondered if the look in her eyes had been regret – he had hoped it was. Her love for him had not been enough to stop his father's threats.

As the various friends, relations and family members had paid their final respects, Thomas had hung back. He allowed Phyllis to proceed ahead until only he remained with an open grave. He had imagined doing various things, but remembered Richard's words to play along. As he gathered a handful of soil, he squeezed it so the earthy scent wafted into his nostrils and strained his skin, then dropped it so fragments scattered over the wooden coffin lid.

An annoying chatter pulled Thomas's mind back to focus on the present. He drained his glass, convinced he and Mr Carson would agree on the hideous quality of the wine, and found his attention being pulled towards a couple of elderly women standing nearby, close to the table of pre-poured drinks and refreshments. He recognised them both, despite their significant aging. They still seemed to wear clothing that was in fashion several decades before. One had a black hat trimmed with lace that obscured her eyes from a side view, the other relied on a wooden walking cane for support. Their speech was more of a babble and since Thomas found them hard to follow, he searched the room for another place to stand by himself – Phyllis still caught up in a conversation with his mother – but then he heard both their names on the old women's lips.

"Can you believe they'd even dare? After what she did and after what he is, it's a disgrace."

"His sister invited him, but as for her, she came with him, on his arm, it seemed."

Lace hat gasped. "Not as a couple, surely?"

Wooden cane shook her head. "Absolutely not. Likely he couldn't face being here on his own with no one in his corner, and you remember Thomas – he would not marry any woman for the sake of at least trying to appear decent."

"Not that marrying Phyllis would achieve any such thing, even if he had a proper inclination towards women. Do you know the details of that whole affair?"

"Surely I do." Wooden cane tutted loud enough for half the hall to hear her. "Stealing fine jewels from her employer, who must have placed great trust in her. It's shameful and her criminal record is well deserved, though it's a wonder to know how she appears to be doing so well now. One can't think of many reasons other than greed to do something so selfish—"

Thomas had heard enough. Restraint encouraged by Richard shattered and he marched over to the two women, taking them both by surprise. "You must be even more ignorant than you look."

"Excuse me?" Lace hat asked.

"You heard me. There are a dozen or more reasons a person may commit a crime, and for your information, not all stem from selfishness and greed. Have you thought about that? Phyllis had no choice."

"Whereas you did, didn't you, Thomas?" Wooden cane said, giving him a deliberate look of smugness.

Thomas supposed this would happen, eventually. "You'll have to enlighten me, madam." He would not make it easy for her. Most people didn't even like saying the many words that were used for men who preferred men, as though speaking it would give them a contagious disease.

"You know perfectly well and I'm surprised that you'd even show your face since it offends the memory of your departed father, God rest his soul. He was right to mould you into the right sort of man, but he could not work miracles. You've not changed—"

"Ah, well, we can thank God for that at least," Thomas said through a thin, tight-lipped smile.

"It's a sinful state to live in. David and yourself. He probably got that from you."

"Don't you dare slander him as well." Thomas felt the suppressed anger threaten to surface. He needed to end this, to get out or for Phyllis to come and rescue him. He wanted to search over the many heads surrounding the room to find her, but the need not to appear scared or weak got the better of him.

Wooden cane was glowering at him now. "It's unnatural what you are, unnatural and—"

"Oh, let me guess? Foul and twisted? Is that what you were going to call me? Don't bother, I've heard that before and am over it. I've probably heard every insult in the book. Now I have better things to do with my time than this. In fact, if it were up to me, I'd have better things to be doing than being at this whole sorry affair at all, but since I'm stuck here and required to play some part of the dutiful son, then I'm determined not to waste my breath speaking with you both over something that we'd never agree on."

"Your father would be ashamed—" Lace hat began.

"Quite." Thomas shrugged, leaning on behaviours he'd become accomplished at during his decades at Downton before Richard, letting them think nothing phased him. "You listen to me. If I hear another word slandering Phyllis, then I will see that your greatest hidden sins are part of the neighbourhood gossip from this day on. Say what you like about me, I'm no secret, but not a word on her," he emphasised.

"You don't know a thing about us, Thomas," Lace hat said.

"I was a quiet child, kept my head down, but I listened and observed. I know more than you think." Thomas showed a smug grin. In truth, he didn't know any shameful or gossip-ready stories about the two old women, but he'd learned over years of only having himself to fight his battles that most people had some secret they'd prefer to keep private. Observing the sudden silence and the way both women averted their gaze, Thomas concluded he was right.

"Good." Thomas rocked back on his heels, stretching muscles in the back of his legs. "Right, well, I'd best be getting on." He took a glass from the table and raised it in a mock toast. "Enjoy the rest of the funeral." He swivelled around on his heel and strode away, not giving them the chance to reply.

He headed for the exit. Phyllis rushed over to him, a worried frown plastered on her face. "Thomas, what was that all about?"

"You heard?"

"Not much, but I saw enough. I would have come over, but your mother – she's not been as bad as I thought she'd be actually – kept me talking. She asked after you. You could talk to her?"

"Not now. Those two old witches were slandering us both. I know what Richard said, and I wish he were here, for he would have stopped me and said something wonderful to ease the conversation, like he always does. They were saying things about you."

"What things?" she asked in a timid voice.

"About your past, the jewellery."

"Oh."

"I put a stop to it. They won't say another word. But Phyllis, I'm exhausted. I need to get out of here. If you're okay with being on your own for longer—?"

"It's fine. I can take a little gossip, but I'll take care to avoid Margaret. Take a break Thomas. But speak to your mother before we leave?"

Thomas didn't answer. He didn't know how. He settled for a small nod, and reached into the inner pocket of his jacket to fetch the cigarette case he'd smuggled into his clothes whilst Richard wasn't looking earlier that morning, before making a beeline for the door.

...

Thomas hadn't stopped outside the church hall. He had lingered nowhere nearby. As he wondered, he kept coming across places and buildings that were all so familiar and yet distant, as though he was walking inside his own vivid dream. The memories of his life as a child, and a young man, came crashing from all directions and in the end, he'd left the streets behind and wandered into the woods nearby, where David and he had played as boys. He'd even found the tree they always climbed, and the place they first kissed. It appeared as if he had been transported to the past, and he experienced that same strange mix of fear and excitement.

In the end, Thomas found his way back to the churchyard, and the grave, filled with fresh soil. A gentle mist swirled around him as he stood transfixed at the soft fresh soil – similar to the type moles dug up to make their warren of tunnels. Mist turned to drizzle and soon, tiny droplets formed and settled on his coat, catching in his eyelashes – he was sure the moisture around his eyes was only the weather. He remembered back to the last time he'd stood over a grave in a London cemetery with Richard. Richard had spoken to Jack then, and it turned out Jack had heard him. Thomas was pretty certain his father wouldn't hear him. He never believed in ghosts and roaming souls. The opportunity wouldn't come about again soon, so, after checking he was alone, Thomas talked.

"It was always going to be this way, father. I was never coming back to find you, and you would never look for me. I'm not saying I didn't want to. As a young man—no, a child I didn't want to be out in the world alone and despite your threats over the police, I thought about coming back and begging you and mother to let me back in. It was your fault, not mine, that I was scared. I believed you at first, thought you were right – a child always thinks their parents are right in the end – and for a time I believed I was some mistake or broken. I even tried to fix it once. That's not what I know to be true now. The way I am is the way your God made me to be, not a mistake since apparently he doesn't make those." Thomas smiled to himself, as he remembered Mr Tomlinson's words to him once. "I own it and am proud of it. If I was normal as you wanted me to be, I wouldn't have met friends or the most amazing person I could ever l—" Thomas stopped himself. He had already said too many things he'd never dare say to his father if he was living. What if he could hear him? With a surge of courage brought on by knowing the dead couldn't touch him anymore, he continued. "I wouldn't have met the most amazing man I could ever love. If this news makes you shudder in your grave, then fine. His name is Richard and we live together. We share a flat and a bed. His parents welcome me as someone who is nothing short of their son-in-law. I never believed them or anyone would take my side, but they do. Lots, and more than I could ever imagine. Funny that, for a child who was told he'd always be alone.

"I suppose you weren't always a bad father. There are memories of when I was too young to know anything about myself where I loved you. You were the person I looked up to. I wanted to be the next owner of the family business. I'm a butler now of a big house, but I still maintain the clocks, despite it being the job of the footman. You were a perfectionist with your work and I am, too." The drizzle had grown heavier. Droplets now pattered on the ground and his hat as they grew into rain. Thomas would have to stop soon, or risk looking like the stereotypical pathetic figure standing over a fresh grave. "I just wish that you could have seen me recently. Seen how happy I am. Maybe it would have changed your mind and I would have been allowed back home, even if it was over twenty years too late." Thomas sighed and shook his head slowly, beginning to walk away. "I guess we'll never know."

...

Despite the rain, Thomas had no wish to return to the church hall yet. Phyllis would wonder where he'd gotten to, but he wanted to wait a little longer. He had found a narrow strip of dry ground, light compared to the paving that was fast forming small puddles and tiny rivers before him, up against one side of the church. He'd pressed his back against the stone wall, his back cold from his efforts, and smoked his way through his second cigarette, watching as the smoke dissipated amongst the rain, thoughts muddled in his mind.

"Can I have one?"

Thomas jumped, letting out a little cry of shock and, worst of all, dropping his third cigarette into a puddle at his feet. "Bloody hell!" He whirled around, shocked to see a boy, the same one who had been staring at him in the church earlier, looking at him with an expecting grin. The boy held his cap in one hand by his side, raven-black hair, much like his own, sticking to his forehead with dampness. "What?" Thomas asked, dumbfounded.

"A smoke? You've got spare?"

Thomas scoffed at the boy's cheeky manner. "Yes, but they're mine and no, you can't have one. They're not good for you."

"Then why are you smoking them?"

"Because they make me feel better," Thomas snapped, wishing he'd go away. He did normally have a way with children, or so he'd been told, but he couldn't be dealing with one now.

"That's a lie."

"What?"

"If they make you feel better, then they're not working because you look miserable." The boy smirked and shrugged, as though he'd just had a private thought. "I suppose you're not supposed to look happy at a funeral though, right? I mean, if we were both rolling around on the floor with laughter, people might get the wrong idea. My mother would think it's rude and disrespectful, which almost makes it worth a try."

Thomas did a double take at the boy, struggled to keep a straight face, failed and broke into a smile, accompanied by a light chuckle. He pocketed his lighter. "What's your name?"

"William. I know I'm not supposed to say those things, but I have a habit of saying too much out loud. Gets me into trouble, but it was a funny thought, and you looked like the sort of person who would get the joke."

"Do I? Can't think how. I saw you watching me in the church. Why?" Thomas made a beckoning gesture to get William to stand by him out of the rain. To his surprise, William didn't hesitate.

"Lots of people seemed to be. I was curious to see what was such a big deal. I wanted to come over, but again, it was disrespectful to talk to you at my grandfather's funeral. Not sure why – I could talk to other people, not you."

Thomas took a step back, his free hand falling flat against the wall behind him, not taking his eyes off William. "Your grandfather?"

"Yeah. I sort of liked him, but he could be intense with bible stuff," William said, not noticing Thomas' reaction.

"Your mother is Margaret?"

William rolled his eyes. "Obviously. Grandfather only had two children, my mother and her brother Thomas. I've never met him. He left town years ago, in disgrace, they say."

Thomas felt weak. He knew his sister had children, but it never occurred to him he'd meet them, or that they'd even know he existed. "Do they talk about him?"

William shook his head and leaned back against the wall, mirroring Thomas' posture. "Not much, and never to me. I just hear things. I often listen in, and people usually ignore me, so it's easy to do."

Thomas felt a pang of something within him. William's words reminded him of himself as a boy. "And ... what do they say?" He wanted to hope the boy didn't know too much.

"Just stuff. Like ... that he and another boy got involved in some things that are wrong and ... depraved." William lowered his eyes at the last word. "I thought maybe he was one of those creeps who likes children in the wrong way, but I didn't think that for long. Thomas was only young himself when he left, so it can't have been that. I only thought that when I wondered if he was older than my mother."

A hollowness filled Thomas's chest. William knew very little about him at all, as if someone had erased him from life. Only those vicious rumours and accusations remained hanging in the air like a foul smell. "Have you ever seen a picture of him?"

"No. They got rid of them all," William said. Thomas's heart sank. "But some people say I'm the spitting image of him when he was my age. My mother hates it when people say that."

"She's worried you'll turn out like him."

"I suppose, which is stupid."

Thomas looked ahead of him into the heavy rain that now cascaded down in front of their small sanctuary. All the while, he felt William's gaze on him, looking him up and down.

"We have the same colour hair," William said, matter-of-fact.

"We do." Thomas knew that curious frown on the boy, his nephew's face. It seemed as if he was peering into a mirror that mirrored the past. "My sister is called Margaret," he said, without thinking.

"Oh." William's frown grew along with his narrowed eyes. "But ... no ... you're not Thomas? You would have said."

"I wouldn't have, but I am. So it seems."

William gawped up at him. "You're my uncle Thomas?"

Thomas nodded, not trusting himself with words. He needed Richard again.

"Why didn't you just say?"

"Honestly, I didn't know what you have been told about me or what your reaction—"

"Then you're an idiot!"

Thomas smiled again at William's forwardness.

"My mother doesn't speak of you. No one tells me anything. They think I'm too young or silly to understand. But how am I supposed to understand if no one tells me? They don't get how I can't make my mind up about you if I knew nothing about you or hadn't ever met you. And you seem to think the same way!"

Thomas held up his hands in a peace-offering manner. "William, I don't think that way. I'm the last person who will judge without knowing the facts. I wasn't always, but I am now. I don't think you're stupid either, far from it. You remind me of myself."

"And that's a good thing?"

Playing along, Thomas gave a half-shrug and returned to his position against the wall. "You tell me."

"I think it could be," William said, after pausing for thought. "You're not a creep."

"Glad to hear it," Thomas said dryly, making William chuckle.

"But you ran away when you were young, right?"

"I did."

"Why?"

Thomas hesitated. He didn't want any trouble from his sister if she found out they'd been talking, let alone what they'd been talking about. "I'm sorry. I can't. Your mother wouldn't be pleased if she even knew we were talking."

"I figured. There's no one around and we won't tell anyone. I promise, cross my heart."

Thomas recognised William's frustration. He was at the age where he was too old to be treated like a child, but too young to be an adult. "I didn't choose to leave. People found out about me and my friend. We were ... how do I put it ... more than friends. It was a different love to the one that people are happy about. I'm not sure how much you know about that."

William blushed. "Oh! Yes, I know about the birds and the bees and such. Your friend then, she got into trouble like they say?"

Thomas squeezed his eyes shut, his heart quickening. This was going to be harder than he thought, and he hadn't reckoned on having this sort of conversation at his father's funeral. "Not exactly. She was ... in fact ... a ... um ... he."

"Bloody hell."

"I don't think you should say that."

"Swearing? You tell me you're a ... well, one of those men and you're telling me not to swear?"

Thomas stepped back into the rain, fear pounding through his head. He'd messed up. Of course, he couldn't expect William to understand or react in his favour. "No, you're right. William, I'm sorry. I don't want any trouble. Please."

"You're getting all wet, uncle."

Thomas took a couple of cautious steps back into the dry.

"I wondered. People have lots of words for men of that way and I've heard the use of them when talking about you. I'm observant, you see."

"It's up to you what you do about this, but most people already know. That's why they were all looking at me. This is the first time I've come home since my father kicked me out."

"Grandfather did that to you?" William asked in a small voice. "That ain't right. You were fifteen, only two years older than me. You must have been scared."

"Sixteen," Thomas corrected, but yes. He didn't want me as a son. I'm sorry you have to hear that. You can still be fond of your grandfather, even if he isn't so much to me."

"What did you do?"

"Worked in this place and that, got lucky as a hall boy in a house called Downton Abbey."

"I know it! My mother went there to find you after your letters went missing," William exclaimed.

Thomas found it curious how William was more interested now in Downton than how he'd just met his uncle who'd admitted his preferences to men. It filled him with a warm sense of hope, and he thanked whoever for giving William the intelligence to make up his own mind. "Missing?"

"Yes, she said you didn't get the letters, went to find you herself. Anyway, where did you go after Downton?"

"I didn't, though I was away a few times. The war and then I was given notice, but I came back. I always seemed to come back."

William gave him a mock look of seriousness. "You're not still a hall boy, right?"

Thomas laughed, much to his surprise. "No! I was a footman, second then first footman, valet for a while, under butler. Then some things happened, and those I will keep to myself, but all you need to know is I'm the butler now."

"Nice, so you got the top job?"

"I did."

"Is it lonely in a big house on your own?"

"Not married, you mean? No, I have friends. True, some hated me at first, but it worked out. I don't live in the house, I rent a room with a friend in the village. I prefer that." Thomas felt a craving to tell him about Richard. He often wanted to spill every detail of his feelings for him, as though he'd burst if he did not, but it wouldn't have been wise.

"Could I come and visit sometime?" William asked.

"I-I don't know. Your mother—"

"Doesn't own me."

"No," Thomas said slowly, "but she would worry if you came to see me without her knowing, and I think she'd stop you if you told her."

"But would you like me too, even if I have to wait a few years? It will be a bit of an adventure. I've not been too much place else."

Thomas nodded. "Maybe then. You'd be welcome. Richard would like to meet you."

"Richard?"

"Oh ... the friend I lodge with."

"Friend?"

"Yes! Not what you're thinking," Thomas said, lying easily. He looked at the sky. The rain was lessening. He'd been away from the church hall for too long. "You'd best get back. I'll follow on after. But not a word about this, right?"

William tapped the side of his nose with his index finger and gave him a knowing look. "I never saw you, uncle Thomas." William stepped out into the rain. "Could I have a smoke now that you're my uncle?"

"Not a chance!" Thomas chided through a laugh. "Now go, be off with you."

William grumbled and muttered something as he ran off back down the path.

Thomas waited, smiling. He looked toward his father's grave. "Bet you never saw that coming, father."

Note: This chapter was going to be far longer. I have two more scenes to add to it. I'm trying to end a chapter when it is natural to do so, not just because of its word count. However, this one was going to be gigantic if I didn't cut it off here and I might not have been able to get it edited and uploaded for some time. Therefore, the rest of this chapter will be the chapter 21.