Chapter Text
The bell hadn’t even finished ringing when Thomas slipped into the breakfast room.
He was early. Just enough to pick a seat at the far end of the table; two places down from Bates and four from Carson’s chair at the head of the table. The others filed in behind him, speaking in quiet pairs, low and measured. No one said his name. That was the worst part. He could weather an insult. He could counter a glare. Silence, though, it buried itself deeper.
He kept his gaze down as he ate. Toast, buttered too cold. Porridge, heavier than it should have been. He barely tasted it, yet chewed each bite carefully. Having something to focus on helped keep the attention away from him. A rhythm, at least, to keep himself from sneering or snapping. He didn’t speak. No one spoke to him. The room moved around him as if he weren’t there at all.
It had been over a week since the Jimmy thing. Everyone knew by now. It had passed in whispers, half-formed accusations, and looks he was well-practised in ignoring. Officially, it had been a misunderstanding. Unofficially, it confirmed everything they’d always suspected about him. He even didn’t bother denying it anymore. Let them talk.
From the hallway Carson’s voice carried through the walls. Unmistakeable, steady. Thomas froze with his spoon halfway to his mouth. He didn’t catch the words, just the shape of them. That clipped precision like footsteps on polished tile. The room held its breath with him for a moment. Then the voice moved past the door. Footsteps carried on. Thomas exhaled slowly and forced himself to swallow. He scraped the bowl clean just to hear the sound of it. Anything to fill the quiet.
He hadn’t spoken more than five words to Carson since – well. How, exactly, do you speak to someone after they tell you directly to your face that you should be horsewhipped for the mere act of loving another man?
You don’t. Not if you can help it. You endure it. Then you avoid their eyes. Keep your answers short. You wait for the floor to open and swallow you whole, and when it doesn’t, you keep going anyway.
Carson had looked so sure, so certain. And Thomas hadn’t argued. It took everything in him to stay quiet, not bite back. But the fear of losing his job without a reference – or worse, being handed over to the police – was greater than any urge to bite back. And later, when the rage came, it was cold. He was still waiting for it to fade. Some part of him still thought the anger might pass. The rest knew better. It always found a way to stay.
When he stood, the scrape of his chair echoed louder than it should have. A few heads turned. He nodded stiffly to no one in particular, murmured something about checking the silver, and left without waiting to be acknowledged.
Miss O’Brien’s voice called out for Anna in the distance. He leaned against the wall beside the stairs and tried not to think of how long he’d lasted here. Fourteen years? More? It didn’t matter. He was still the wrong shape to fit into the house. Always had been.
Out in the hall, the morning post had arrived.
Mrs Hughes was sorting it with practiced efficiency, lips pursed. “Anna, this one’s yours. Alfred, two today.”
Thomas hovered a few feet off, hands behind his back, pretending to study the wallpaper. He never got anything. Not anymore.
“And one for you, Mr Barrow.”
He looked up.
She was holding it out already. Cream-coloured. Thick paper. The name written across it in a careful hand. The ink deep and clean. Too many stamps. Not English, at least not this part of England. He didn’t recognise it.
He stepped forward, took it without comment.
No return address. Just his name. His full name.
Thomas Barrow.
“Well,” he whispered, too quietly for anyone to hear, “that’s new.”
He turned it over in his hands once, then tucked it inside his jacket. His fingers lingered at the seam of the pocket before he let them fall. Then he straightened his back and walked away, steady as anything.
Behind him, the corridor swallowed the sound of Mrs Patmore complaining about the jam delivery, and Daisy asking twice if she’d mislaid a spoon. Normal things. Morning things. Comfortable, if you belonged in it. Thomas didn’t.
By the time he reached the scullery stairs, he heard Carson again. Closer this time, asking after tray arrangements and luncheon service. The sound pressed sharp against the side of his head. He didn’t stop to listen.
There was nothing urgent to be done. Nothing he’d be missed from. He headed out to the small courtyard beside the laundry door, where the sun hadn’t yet cleared the east wing and the air still smelled of ash and wet stone.
He lit a cigarette with the same hands he used to polish silver. Smooth, precise, practiced. One drag, then two, before he let his mind circle back to the letter.
His thoughts pulled back to the envelope, still tucked against his chest. Not recognising the handwriting had unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
It wasn’t a name from his past, at least not one he could summon on sight. People didn’t write to him unless they had reason, and no one did these days. It wouldn’t be from a friend; he hadn’t kept any. Definitely not an old schoolmate or anyone from his past life. He wasn’t popular. Wasn’t loved. That much he’d made peace with.
For half a second, he thought of his father. Then realised just how ridiculous that sentiment was. Hope, even the foolish kind, had a funny way of resurfacing when you weren’t watching.
He stood there until the cigarette burned low. Then he flicked the stub down the drain and glanced toward the door.
He’d read it later.
———
He read the letter in the boot room. It was the only place he could think of where no one would come looking for him. No one ever needed boots once the midday lull had settled in. The sun cut through the narrow window above the shelf, catching on the dust and the dull polish of unlaced boots. It was too bright in here, really, but at least it was empty.
Thomas took the letter from his pocket and laid it flat on his knee, smoothing it out with his palms. The return address was to Boston, United States.
Then it clicked.
The handwriting wasn’t as unfamiliar as he’d initially thought. It was, however, neater than he’d remembered. It looked like it was trying not to sound too formal but couldn’t quite help itself.
Thomas,
I hope this isn’t unwelcome. Anna wrote to me recently. Said there’d been… trouble. I won’t pretend to know the details, but I can guess. You don’t have to talk about it. Not to me, not to anyone.
I can’t pretend our situations have been remotely the same, but Downton wasn’t always kind to me either. I understand what it’s like to need a new beginning.
So I thought you should know that if you’re thinking about leaving, I’ve a place here. It’s small, but there’s an extra bed. Me and Sybbie are getting by, but just about. Could use another pair of hands. And I figure, well, you could use a change of air.
No expectations. But the offer is there.
Tom Branson.
A crooked little drawing of what might have been a horse or a very unfortunate-looking dog. Presumably from Sybbie.
He read it again. Slower this time.
Then again.
Each time, the words sat heavier in his chest. From suspicion, rather than sentiment. Thomas didn’t trust people who changed their minds about him. Branson and he had never directly had any conflict with each other, but it was well known even amongst the other servants that they never saw eye to eye.
Thomas resented Branson in many ways. How everything came so easily to him. He hated how a grubby little chauffeur could fall in love with the earl’s daughter and then suddenly he was dining with her grandmother and he was the one being driven around. And the feeling was mutual. Branson didn’t resent him – at least he didn’t think so – but he’d always had something against him. He didn’t know what. Maybe it was because he was cruel when bored and clever when cornered. Maybe it was just because he put extra emphasis on the Mr before the Branson once he and Lady Sybil were married. Or maybe it was just because Thomas was English.
He folded the letter sharply and shoved it back in his pocket.
The walk to the servants’ hall was short. The indignation carried him the whole way. Anna was sitting at the table, attending to some darning. Polite of her not to look surprised when he appeared.
“Anna,” he said. “You wrote to Branson?”
She looked up. “Yes. Is that a problem?”
“You might’ve mentioned that you were sending him reports on my private life.”
Her cloth slowed, then stopped. “It wasn’t a report, Thomas.”
Thomas waved the letter in her face, tone sharpening. “Then what is this?”
“He asked how you were. I told him the truth.”
“And that gives you the right to–”
“I was worried about you.”
He cut her with a look. “Don’t make me laugh.”
She sighed, stood properly, placed the cloth down with slow precision. “I’m not trying to. And I didn’t tell him anything that wasn’t already known.”
“That I tried to kiss another man?” he hissed, voice dangerously low. “That I got caught? That I’ve been sleeping with one eye open in case Carson decides to set me alight?”
Anna’s gaze hardened. “I told him you’d been treated like dirt for something that shouldn’t be anyone’s business and that I thought you deserved better. That’s all.”
Thomas looked away. "I didn’t ask for charity."
"It’s not charity," she said evenly. “What did he say?”
“He said he’s got a place. In Boston. Wants me to come stay with him.”
“Then why are you shouting at me?”
“I’m not shouting.”
“Yes you are.”
He looked at her. “It’s insulting. He thinks I’m so pathetic, so ruined, he’s offering me a bed out of pity.”
“That’s not how he meant it.”
“You should be grateful someone even thought of you," Anna added, softer now. "Because most people wouldn’t have.”
He looked up at that. “Grateful? Grateful that the Irish socialist who abandoned his beliefs the minute he got in with the family now wants me to babysit his daughter and split his rent?”
“Grateful that someone sees you in trouble and thinks you deserve a second chance.”
She didn’t blink. “Not everyone’s trying to humiliate you, Thomas. And people care more than you realise.”
He laughed. “Do they? That’s news to me. Funny how they only find their kindness after I’ve been made a spectacle.”
Anna didn’t flinch. “You know, sometimes it’s hard to tell whether you want kindness at all. Or whether you’d rather be miserable because it proves you’re right.”
He went very still. “Excuse me?”
“You are your own worst enemy, Thomas,” she said quietly. “You always have been.”
His voice dropped. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
"I think I do."
Thomas straightened. Cold again, sharp around the edges. “I wish you were right. If my only problem was myself, that would be a lot easier. My worst enemy’s the entire bloody country. The law. The church. Every single man who can say whatever he likes without ever having to be afraid."
“You think it’s easy for me?” His voice was even lower now, edged with something brittle. “To smile and nod and carry on as if I’m not one wrong glance from being dragged into the street and beaten for it?”
“No. I don’t think it’s easy. I think it’s awful. I also think you have more strength than anyone here gives you credit for. But it’s being spent on proving everyone wrong instead of letting someone be on your side.”
He hated how much that got to him. Hated how calm she was when she said it. Like it didn’t matter that he had built himself brick by brick out of spite and shame and self-preservation, and she could tear it down with a few well-placed words.
She sighed, quietly. “Do what you want with the letter. Burn it. Pretend it never came. But don’t stand here pretending you don’t need help.”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he nodded once, sharply, and left the room. Back in the corridor, his hands were shaking again. He shoved them in his pockets and walked, not sure where to.
But the letter was still there, tucked against his chest. For the first time, he wondered what it would be like to say yes.
He didn’t want to owe her. Or Branson. Or anyone, really. Gratitude was a slippery thing. Much easier to give than to carry. People liked you more when they wanted to help, and then less once you actually needed it. And anyway, he’d never been good at saying thank you. It always stuck somewhere in his throat. Made his skin itch.
Maybe he would go. Maybe he’d even mean it. But not because of pity. Not because Anna had decided to take it upon herself to fix him. Not because Branson suddenly wanted to play the saviour from across the Atlantic. If he left, it would be for himself. To stop waking up in a house where every closed door might hide a whisper with his name in it. To stop pretending that survival meant anything close to living.
Still, the offer was there. Real. Uninvited, but not unconsidered. And that was the part he didn’t know what to do with. It was that part that made it feel worse than kindness, worse than cruelty. It felt like someone had looked at him and not turned away. Not yet, anyway.
———
He read it again that night, once the house had quieted down and he was finally alone.
The boot room had been far too bright for Thomas’s liking earlier. Now, in the stillness of his own quarters, the words landed differently. By the dull light of the lamp near the window, knees drawn up on the small cot he never quite fit, the letter sat open in his lap. The creases were a little softer now from where he’d folded and unfolded it throughout the day.
“Thomas,” he said aloud. “I hope this isn’t unwelcome.”
He glanced toward the empty room as if waiting for someone to confirm it was. Then, wryly: “It is.”
But he didn’t stop. The sentences stretched out this time, slower. He read some more of it aloud under his breath, as if saying it in someone else’s voice would dull the edges. It didn’t; it just made it real.
“‘Downton wasn’t always kind to me either.’”
His voice was low, dry, barely more than breath. “‘‘If you’re thinking about leaving.’”
“‘Could use another pair of hands,’” he repeated, dragging the words. “‘And I figure, well, you could use a change of air.’” He snorted once. “That’s one way to put it.”
He paused on the drawing. The not-a-horse. That stupid scribble from Sybbie, lopsided and enthusiastic. It really was dreadful. Unmistakably affectionate, but dreadful. Thomas tilted the page, eyeing it with exaggerated scepticism. “Brilliant. Kid’s a genius.”
But he didn’t stop reading.
Each time he went through it, something pinched at him. It didn’t strike a feeling of hope in him, but gave him a memory of what it used to feel like. That feeling that used to look like freedom, back when he didn’t yet understand what men like him had to lose.
Eventually, he folded the letter, slower this time. He didn’t tuck it away just yet. Instead, he set it beside him on the bed, and took in his surroundings.
He looked around the room – the small box of it, the uneven drawer, the dent in the wall behind the coat hook. It was quiet; the whole house was. Maybe because he was finally letting himself picture what it would mean to leave. Not just Downton, but England. His entire life.
Fourteen years spent climbing his way from junior footman to under-butler, clawing for every inch of dignity he could claim. And what had it earned him? A cold seat at a quiet table. A few coats that still fit well enough. A reputation that would never shake free.
Once, he’d thought staying long enough would earn him a kind of safety. By being useful, that would outweigh everything else. But it seemed not even Downton cared about that. Not when it came to men like Thomas who couldn't even be quiet in the right way.
So now what? Pack up, move across the ocean, and start again in some cramped Boston flat with a man he’d barely spoken to and a child who probably wouldn’t like him?
Or worse: one who did. He didn’t know which would be harder. A child who cried when he looked at her, or one who clung to him. Thomas wasn’t cruel enough to wish himself on someone that young.
Branson probably thought he was being kind. Maybe he was. But kindness was something Thomas had never trusted on its own. It always came with far too many strings.
He stood suddenly. Couldn’t sit with it anymore.
The suitcase was already half-full, out of practicality more than anything. He wasn’t planning on leaving. Not tonight, anyway. But a man like him always had to be prepared. Always had to be ready to go, just in case
He opened the wardrobe and reached for a shirt. Folded it once, then set it on the narrow bed. A tie next. Something dark. Something plain. Then stopped. He stood there a while, one hand resting on the wardrobe’s edge, the other at his side.
He ran a hand down the back of his neck. He couldn’t leave tomorrow. That would be reckless. Ill-planned. The journey alone would take days. He didn’t have a ticket. Or references. Or anything more than a half-packed suitcase and a letter signed by someone he barely trusted.
He was being impulsive. And Thomas Barrow was many things, but impulsive was not one of them.
He couldn’t just walk out like that.
But he could. That was the thing.
He could picture it now. Walking down the stairs in the early hours. Slipping out through the side door. Making it to the station with no one the wiser. He could be gone before the house even noticed. O’Brien had floated the idea once, back when he was younger. It’d be a lie to say it didn’t have an appeal to it. Who would stop him? Carson? The law? Anna, if she had her way, would probably help him pack.
But Thomas had too much pride for that. Too much need to be seen, even when he was leaving. He had never been a coward. If he went, they’d know about it. He’d see to that.
Maybe he wouldn’t leave tomorrow. Maybe not even the day after. But for the first time in years, one thing had settled in his chest.
He was going.