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Chapter Text

Many years later, Thomas Barrow would look back and be able to say Yes. That was the moment my life went off the rails.

At the time though, it was simply another Tuesday.

Or well, not entirely just another Tuesday. Because it was also the 16th of April, 1912.

As first footman, Thomas was up early that fateful morning, just as he was every morning. As he was currently acting as his Lordship’s valet on top of his normal duties, he was also busier than usual, meaning he’d rushed through his breakfast, done his standard rounds of the ground floor on double time, and hurried off upstairs to carry out said valeting duties without managing to catch even the barest snatch of gossip.

This, combined with the unusually late arrival of the newspapers meant that he was entirely clueless of the overnight tragedy until he was handing the last silver breakfast platter over to the butler to place on the morning room’s sideboard.

“Is it true what they’re saying?” he heard as he quickly and quietly strode back towards the hallway. Lord Grantham’s tone was unusually sombre as he entered and passed him, and so Thomas slowed his pace, keeping a weather eye on Mr Carson; if the butler realised he was loitering, he’d be in for it.

“I believe so, my Lord.”

“I’m afraid we’ll know some people on it. I don’t suppose there are any lists of survivors yet?”

On it? Survivors? Lists of survivors? Now Thomas was truly intrigued. Had there been some sort of rail accident? A pile up on the London Underground perhaps? It must have been a particularly large accident or attack, to be concerning the Earl so much. Cautiously, he positioned himself on the inside of the hall doorway, careful to remain still and silent lest he draw any attention to himself. From there, he was able to not only hear the conversation, but also see most of the facial expressions and postures of the two men.

“I understand most of the ladies were taken off in time,” Carson continued in his deep bass a moment later, hands clasped neatly behind his back.

“You mean the ladies in first class?”

Carson only pulled a face at that, which was all the confirmation Thomas needed; it was only the toffs’ wives and daughters that had been saved from whatever it was. Bloody typical. Lord Grantham was apparently of the same mind, his grimace one of both disgust and commiseration.

“God help the poor devils below decks,” he added grimly, turning towards the table with a fine china fruit bowl in one hand. With his other, he grabbed a clean white linen napkin, and with a practised flick, settled it onto his lap as he sat. “On their way to a better life. What a tragedy.”

But Thomas was only half paying attention to those last lines, realising with slowly dawning alarm that below decks meant a ship. And ladies in first class meant a passenger liner. A luxury passenger liner most probably, just like the one his youngest sister, her husband, and their three young children had boarded at Southampton only six days ago.

Boarded as third class. Below decks.

Jaw clenched, his breath caught in his throat, he stared horrified across the room as Lord Grantham finally picked up his newspaper and opened it to a double page spread.

There, on the front cover in large blocky letters, was the confirmation that Thomas had been dreading.

TITANIC SINKS, 1500 DIE

A loud strangled noise escaped his throat before he could help it.

“Thomas?”

Wrenching his eyes away from the paper, he glanced further up to discover his Lordship gazing at him in clear concern. Behind him, Carson was glaring rather more murderously, one eyebrow raised in blatant condemnation. But Thomas couldn’t bring himself to care just that moment. Instead, his brain was stuck hollowly ringing with the words they’re dead.

They’re dead.

They must be dead.

“Are you quite alright?” Lord Grantham frowned at him, beginning to rise from his chair.

“What’s going on?” Lady Mary, the Lord’s eldest child asked as she also strode past Thomas with her sister Edith close behind. Their appearance spared him from having to answer immediately as they promptly moved to peer down at the pages their father had left spread open on the table afore him. “Oh, ghastly news, isn’t it?

“When Anna told me, I thought she must have dreamt it,” Edith carried on, seemingly oblivious to Thomas’ continued state of total shock.

“One moment girls,” the Lord cut over them gently, stepping around them and over towards where Thomas was still stood frozen. “Thomas I say, are you quite alright?”

“Yes m’lord,” he managed to stutter out after a moment’s more hesitation. It was weak even to his own ears, and given that his Lordship’s grimace only deepened, not in the slightest bit convincing. From the far side of the sideboard, Carson continued to try and kill him through looks alone.

“You’ve gone pale as a ghost man!” Lord Grantham objected, not unkindly. “I should think you ought to sit before you keel over!”

“I’m quite alright m’lord-” he started to say in the same stuttering tone. Only Carson chose that moment to finally act on his growing outrage with Thomas, swiftly walking over to the two of them and stopping only a pace from Lord Grantham’s right shoulder.

“I shall take him from here, my lord,” the butler intoned gravely. “Guide him back downstairs. He shall not disturb your morning further.”

“I should think the morning’s disturbance is rather beyond the blame of young Thomas,” the Lord huffed with a slight hint of wry amusement. “But very well. If you could send William up in your stead, it would be much appreciated.”

“Of course my lord.”

Carson gestured that he should proceed him with another arched eyebrow, and so Thomas quickly swallowed as much of his nerves as possible and began to turn and step through the doorway.

But once again, events were conspiring against him.

He had barely managed to move at all when the house’s third and youngest daughter, Lady Sybil, finally arrived to join her sisters and father. At the same moment, one of the hall boys jogged over with an engraved silver salver in hand, a brown telegram envelope sat atop it.

As was proper, Thomas automatically moved to take the salver from the boy so that it could be presented to his Lordship in the correct manner. This in turn meant that both Carson and Lord Grantham paused as well, the former moving swiftly to stand silently to attention against the wall once more.

“Good morning Papa,” Sybil greeted her father as Thomas subtly took a deep breath and began to turn back around. “Is everything alright? Aside from the obvious I mean. Only I couldn’t help but notice just now that poor Thomas looks a fright!”

Thomas managed to suppress an unsightly wince at that through sheer willpower alone. And thank goodness he had, for now Carson’s glare had progressed from mere murder to scalping and flaying first.

“He claims to be fine,” Lord Grantham muttered drolly, still staring at Thomas as he bent to drop a polite kiss in the air next to Sybil’s cheek. “Though Carson believes it best that he resolve the issue downstairs, whatever it may be.”

“Oh it’s rather obvious what the matter is, surely,” Lady Mary chose that moment to inject, her tone dry and a touch malicious. Both she and Edith had progressed to sitting at the table opposite each other, their own bowls filled and placed before them. Mary was turned slightly in her chair to face them, her gaze cool and assessing.

Thomas swallowed harshly again as Sybil joined them.

“Mary,” Lord Grantham scolded lightly as he too, retook his seat.

Alas, his scolding was to no avail.

“All I’m saying,” she continued regardless. “Is that to stir such a reaction from a well trained footman, the news of the sinking must be rather more personal for him than the rest of us.”

“Mary!”

Salver and telegram still in hand, Thomas found himself stuck awkwardly in the doorway, wishing he were anywhere on Earth but where he actually was.

“I’m sorry Papa, but I’m only voicing what we all already suspect. Or should suspect,” she smirked meanly at Edith, “if one is possessed with at least a dash of intelligence and basic intuition.”

“Oh for pity’s sake Mary,” Lord Grantham sighed, aggrieved. “A modicum of courtesy and kindness, please.”

“Well?” Mary demanded despite the multiple reprimands, peering at Thomas smugly. “I am correct, am I not?”

“Really now,” the Lord repeated rather more sternly. “Enough is enough.”

For a second, Thomas thought he’d finally escaped the ongoing humiliation as they all fell silent and picked up the appropriate pieces of cutlery. But then–

“Oh I truly do hope you don’t actually know anyone who was on board Thomas,” Sybil decided to address him directly with much more genuine concern. “That would be most horrid for you!”

Unfortunately for Thomas, everyone in the house – family and staff alike – were completely soft when it came to Lady Sybil. This meant where Mary’s repeated probing had eventually been cut off unsatisfied, his Lordship only rolled his eyes in exasperation at this inquiry. Thomas instead shot a look at Carson, silently begging the man to relieve him of the telegram so he could at last flee from this interrogation.

Carson, though, had only progressed to stabbing, whipping, scalping, flaying and a grotesque death.

Clearing his throat, Thomas resigned himself to his miserable fate.

“My sister and her family were all headed to America m’Lady,” he answered her softly. “Third class tickets.”

That at last, cracked Carson’s murderous veneer. A little bit. Maybe.

The family on the other hand, sat in stunned silence.

“We’ve not had word of any casualty lists yet,” Lord Grantham eventually spoke softly. “But when we do, you’ll be the first informed. I shall not offer our condolences yet, as I pray they will be unnecessary, but know that you will have them if they are.”

“Thank you m’lord,” Thomas replied woodenly, becoming more emotionally numb by the second.

“Carson, give the lad the rest of the morning off, to steady his nerves. And I’ll have that telegram now, if you would.”

At long last, the butler claimed the tray from him, finally freeing him the awful ordeal. With a final murmured thank you to his Lordship, Thomas nodded at the Ladies and all but turned tail and fled.

Anna was helping Gwen with the last of the bed making when Miss O’Brien slunk into the room with that particular expression of hers. The one that meant she’d gleaned some new information or news before anyone else and was now going to lord it over them all.

Anna knew that keeping her head down and focussing on her task was the best way of dealing with the aloof and bitter Lady’s maid. Giving her any sign that you were actually interested in what she had to say inevitably led to gloating, and on some occasions, attempts at leveraging favours out of you in exchange. Anna had fallen for that once and once only; working class she may be, but a fool she was not.

“I’ve just been taking her ladyship her breakfast and you’ll never guess what I just overhead,” O’Brien smirked, just as Anna had predicted she would.

Gwen, similarly inured to the woman, merely hummed noncommittally in reply.

“There I was, going about my work and minding my own business when there’s a knock at the door and in comes his Lordship with an expression so drawn I could not help but speculate he’d just received a death notice! But the thing of it is, he had!”

“I should imagine a great many folks will have the misfortune to receive one over the next few days,” Anna pointed out politely as she fluffed one of Lady Sybil’s crimson top pillows and replaced it at the head of the bed. Gwen was mirroring her actions opposite her, and once done, the two of them moved in tandem to continue smoothing the covers down flat.

“But none of those will affect us as this one will!” O’Brien smirked again. “Only it would seem that Mr Crawley and his son Mr Patrick had moved up their plans to travel to the Americas and were on board the ship when it went down last night.”

“But surely they will have gotten off?” Gwen frowned up at the woman in alarm as she quickly tucked the bottom sheet down along the bed’s side-boarding. “I know all those new passenger liners have plenty of lifeboats, I heard Thomas lecturing poor William about it just t’other day!”

“Well that’s the thing of it,” O’Brien sniffed imperiously. “Neither of them were picked up, that’s what his Lordship said.”

“Mr Crawley and Mr Patrick?” Anna asked for clarity, her worry growing. As the heirs to the Downton estate, losing both was not just a tragic loss of life, but a grave complication for the household too.

“That’s what he said,” O’Brien repeated with a small nod. “Her Ladyship were as white as this cloth,” she added, gesturing to the cotton and lace she had clasped in her hands.

“Well it’s a terrible shame if it’s true!” Gwen exclaimed as she and Anna finished with the bed’s final corners. That job done, the two household maids stood back up straight and hurried to complete the last of the room’s tasks. Glancing around rapidly, Anna collected a candlestick that needed a fresh wick and a near-empty water jug, ran a quick finger across the top of the dresser to ensure it had been dusted satisfactorily, and then hastened after Gwen and O’Brien who were already sliding out of the door and heading towards the servant’s back staircase.

“It’s worse than a shame, it’s a complication,” O’Brien continued as they bustled across the landing and into the stairwell, the words echoing Anna’s own thoughts.

“What do you mean?” Gwen questioned, apparently not having reached the same conclusion yet.

“Well what do you think?” the Lady’s maid scoffed back. “Mr Crawley was his lordship’s cousin and heir to the title.”

“But I thought Lady Mary was the heir?”

“She’s a girl, stupid! Girls can’t inherit! And now Mr Crawley’s dead and Mr Patrick was his only son. So what happens next?”

Gwen’s frown matched Anna’s own as the three of them finally reached the last stretch of the stairs that lead to the servant’s halls beneath the main house. The walls were much more plain and utilitarian down here, which despite the awful news of the morning, allowed her to relax a little.

Downstairs, you could just be yourself far more freely.

“It’s a dreadful thing,” Anna finished with, hoping that would finally be an end to Miss O’Brien’s bout of pompous gossip-mongering. Both she and Gwen had gotten through the conversation so far without one hint of extortion and only a handful of insults weathered, so she could count the interaction as a success if so.

“Hello.”

Stopping dead in her tracks, Anna fought to keep her expression neutral as she caught sight of what had made the other two pause suddenly in their descent as well.

There in the corridor, a cane in one hand and a brown leather valise in the other, was a well groomed middle aged man. He was a sturdy sort, with wide shoulders and a rounded face. Not portly by any stretch, just no longer thin and lanky with youth such as Thomas and William were. His complexion was fair, offset by neat dark brown hair, though he also had a strong healthy glow in his cheeks, sparing him from looking pale and pasty.

Anna couldn’t help but stare a little in admiration.

“I’ve been waiting at the back door,” the man continued, stooping to place the valise by his feet. “I knocked, but no-one came.”

“So you pushed in?” Miss O’Brien commented judgmentally. Impressively though, the man did not rise to the bait, merely maintaining his affable expression.

“I’m John Bates, the new valet.”

“The new valet?” O’Brien parroted back in the same judgmental tone.

“That’s right.”

Even standing behind her, Anna could sense the moment the Lady’s maid’s eyes dropped meaningfully down to the man’s – to Mr Bates’ obviously crippled leg, her scorn barely masked. Anna did wonder how the poor man would manage all the stairs, but unlike O’Brien, she recognised it was not her place to judge. All that mattered was if he could do the job or not and whether his Lordship was satisfied that it was being done well enough.

Thankfully, Miss O’Brien seemed to know better than to actually comment aloud on the matter and swiftly moved on.

“You’re early,” she remarked instead.

“Came on the milk train. Thought I’d use the day to get to know the place, start tonight.”

Well, no matter what else the rest of the staff might say, this Mr Bates at least seemed to be conscientious and taking the opportunity seriously. It reflected well on him, Anna thought, that he was making an effort to prepare for his new position.

“I’m Anna,” she stepped forward to introduce herself before Miss O’Brien could say anything else cutting or accusatory. “The head housemaid.” She smiled at him in warm welcome as he gripped her hand solidly for a long moment, receiving a firm but not crushing shake.

“How do you do,” he greeted back kindly as she stepped away once more.

“And I’m Miss O’Brien, her Lady’s maid,” O’Brien volunteered rather more coldly, not offering her own hand. “You had better come along with us.”

With that, the Lady’s maid raised her chin and strode off to the left to properly enter the downstairs rooms. Gwen followed her with nary a word nor look, but Anna shot him another reassuring smile before she trailed after the other two. Mr Bates returned it, she was glad to see, and in less than half a minute the four of them were stepping into the main kitchens.

It wasn’t nearly so grand or large as anything upstairs of course, but it was still a rather sizeable room. Glass windows ran the length of the back wall, their panes set high up to admit more light. Cupboards, shelves, and other storage were stacked below them, a long scarred wooden worktop set atop. To the right, the giant new range and stoves were positioned between yet more pantry space, while the opposite side of the room boasted multiple tall dark sideboards, the type that ran floor to ceiling and provided ample space for stacking and displaying all manner of crockery, jars, and pots.

Gwen mumbled something perfunctory about clothes washing and cleaning almost as soon as they’d entered, relieving Anna of her burden of candlestick and glass jug as she turned and hurried back out. Miss O’Brien, meanwhile, was dipping her head politely to the head housekeeper, Mrs Hughes, and relaying the news of Mr Bates early arrival.

The kindly but firm-mannered Housekeeper appraised the new valet with a critical eye, undoubtedly noting the cane and prominent limp just as surely as the rest of them had. Her expression stayed neutral however, and she was quickly stepping forward to introduce herself and shake his hand.

“Miss O’Brien informs me that you are to be the new valet?” she asked as they resumed to stand apart a polite distance.

“I am, yes,” he agreed with another one of his small but affable smiles.

“You will be able to cope, won’t you?” she indicated with a quick glance at his leg.

“Don’t worry about that, I can manage,” he assured quickly, expression unchanging.

At that moment, Gwen slid back into the kitchens with two other maids and William in tow, her arms now empty. William, the second and younger footman, settled himself in front of the range, while the other maids joined Anna behind the central work island. If the new Mr Bates minded the added scrutiny, he made no mention of it, verbal or otherwise.

“It’s just we’ve our own work to do,” Mrs Patmore then lamented far less subtly than Anna thought she ought to. Then again, the house’s matronly cook never was one for subtlety or mincing words. It was perhaps, Anna thought, a side effect of being able to remain downstairs out of sight at all times, never having to venture upstairs where she may have to interact with the Lords and Ladies of the house. Why train oneself to watch one’s words when it was a skill that was unneeded?

“I can manage,” Mr Bates reaffirmed with yet another nod and smile.

“All right, Mrs Hughes. I’ll take over, thank you.”

And that was Mr Carson returning at last.

Anna had always thought the butler to be rather more old-fashioned than was necessary, even for a man of his age and profession, but as with Mr Bates’ situation, she believed it not her place to judge. With dark hair shot through with silver and a face well lined by years of hard work and service, Mr Carson was stern and exacting, holding the staff at Downton to higher standards than almost any other butler she had worked for or with in the last ten years. But whatever faults he may have, he did at least run a tight ship, which protected her and the other staff from any potential scandal.

She did note however, that he was looking rather more dismayed and angry than he already had been last she saw him, which had been not long after William had relayed the news about the Titanic. It could just be that he’d also just learnt about the unfortunate status of Mr Crawley and his son, but given the depth of his scowl, she suspected it must be more than that.

“Mr Bates, glad to see you’ve arrived,” he rumbled, his voice clipped and laced with obvious false calm. “I trust the journey was satisfactory?”

“It was fine, thank you.”

“As you have no doubt gathered, I am the butler here at Downton. My name is Carson.”

“How do you do, Mr Carson.”

“And this is Thomas, first footman. Though he won’t be much longer unless he bucks his ideas up!”

Beside her, Gwen drew in a short, sharp breath as Thomas meekly trailed into the kitchen and positioned himself on William’s left. Ordinarily, Thomas was possessed of a superiority complex almost as severe as Miss O’Brien’s, and had a sneer to match. He was also one of the best master’s of the servant’s blank Anna had ever met, but right now his expression wasn’t just neutral, but full on vacant. Where normally his eyes were sharp and calculating, there was no light at all to be seen, and while he’d always been extraordinarily pale – almost alabaster, to quote an admiring Lady Sybil – he had somehow surpassed mere fairness and slid all the way into a sickly, washed-out pallidness.

In fact, he looked so bloodless and distraught that Anna felt the first pangs of sympathy stirring within her. Despite the fact it was Thomas.

“Goodness, Mr Carson!” Mrs Hughes interjected lightly as the butler turned to glower menacingly at the unfortunate footman. “What on Earth has happened?”

“A most disreputable series of events,” Carson harrumphed. “Drawing attention to himself in the morning room while his lord and the ladies were breaking their fast! Stuttering and complaining and flapping about as if this morning’s terrible news affects only him! Unprofessional in the extreme!”

Still standing awkwardly and leaning on his cane, Mr Bates was now struggling to conceal an expression which Anna could only interpret as By heavens, what have I gotten myself into by coming here? Mercifully, he had softened the line of his mouth and succeeded in lowering his quirked eyebrow before Mr Carson whipped back around to face the new staff member.

“Thomas here has been looking after his lordship since Mr Watson’s departure, though I wonder now what possessed me to think him capable of the responsibility. Nevertheless, it is to him you must look for guidance regarding your role as valet. Mrs Hughes, I assume everything is ready for Mr Bates arrival?”

If Mrs Hughes was wary of Mr Carson’s harsher than usual demeanour, it did not show, and she answered easily in the affirmative.

“I’ve put him in Mr Watson’s old room,” she explained genially. “Though he left it in quite the state, I tell you.”

“Hmm,” Carson grumbled disagreeably. “Another disappointment allowed to linger too long. Nevertheless, we must persist. Thomas! I trust, given your precarious situation, you will not seek to take advantage of his Lordship’s generosity? Instead, you shall lead Mr Bates to his new room, and then proceed to show him round the house and explain his duties. If I find any hint of you slacking, well. You know what the consequences will be.”

“Yes Mr Carson,” Thomas replied submissively, head still hung and his eyes still vacant.

My goodness, Anna thought sympathetically, What did the poor man do?

Carson had barely waited until the green baize door that lead from the main hall down to the servant’s work rooms had swung shut behind them before he rounded on Thomas and gave him one hell of a tongue lashing.

Thomas had taken it dully, his head still spinning with they’re dead, they’re dead, they must be dead.

And then it had been onwards to Carson’s parlour for yet another verbal smacking. This second time, Thomas had been expected to do more than just stand and accept it silently, and so had summoned up just enough Yes sirs, of course sirs, you’re right sirs to appease the man. Eventually, the butler had leant back in his chair behind his desk and fixed Thomas with a narrow stare.

“If you cause a scene like that ever again,” he had said, “you will be out that back door without a reference so fast you won’t have time to so much as blink twice.”

And that, had been that.

Or so Thomas had thought until he then found himself summoned to the kitchen to meet the man stepping in as the new valet. At any other time, Thomas would have been furious that he was not only being passed over when he had proven himself admirable at the task, but that he was then expected to kowtow to the man replacing him and show him the ropes. But with how utterly out of control his morning had spun, he just couldn’t summon the energy to care in all honestly.

It was with no little relief then, that he scurried away once he was allowed to step out of the kitchen with the new staff member in tow.

“Sorry about him,” he found himself mumbling as they began to climb the endless stairs up to the attic. It was completely out of character of him to be so kind he knew, but again… He just couldn’t bring himself to care about appearances. “I’d say it was unusual of Carson to throw his authority about like that, but I think you’d prefer to be prepared rather than suffer under false reassurances.”

“I was in the army for quite a number of years,” Bates mused with that same bland smile he had yet to drop. “I’ve served under a number of men like him and so thankfully know how to handle them. I thank you for the warning though; it’s much appreciated.”

“It’s no bother,” Thomas sighed tiredly as they kept ascending.

(They’re dead, they’re dead, they must be dead!)

When they finally reached the top, six half-flights later, they both paused on the landing and took a moment to breathe.

“The maids and other working ladies are all through there,” he nodded at the solid wooden door set on the right. “And us gentlemen on the left. Each side has their own bathrooms, with full indoor plumbing thanks to his Lordship’s generosity. We’ve just had a new boiler put in too, so there’s plenty of hot water to be had first thing in the morning and last thing at night.

“You’ll note that we still have gas lamps and candles downstairs and up here,” he continued blandly as he pushed on through into the men’s corridor. “The main house has electricity now, but we still do without.”

“The hot water on tap is already more than I was expecting,” Bates commented appreciatively as they came to a stop before one of the doors. Watson’s name was still scribed on the paper tag in Carson’s neat cursive, and so Thomas took a second to whip it out of the brass holder and place it in his trouser pocket. Then, he nudged the door open and gestured Bates in.

“Oh yes,” the new valet hummed as he strode to the middle of the room and glanced around. “I shall be comfortable here.”

Thomas nodded in acknowledgement, noting with absent disdain that Mrs Hughes hadn’t been understating Mr Watson’s lack of care; both the chest of drawers and windowsill were coated in a layer of dusty grime, and while the two single beds had clearly been remade recently with fresh covers, the metal headboard bars of the one nearest the window had greasy handprints staining it, blackened with charcoal dust and other dirt.

Still feeling like he was having an out of body experience, Thomas asked Bates if he’d like a moment alone to unpack or if he’d prefer to continue on to his Lordship’s rooms immediately.

Bates became thoughtful for a moment, face screwed up in contemplation.

(They’re dead, they’re dead, they must be dead!)

“Let me just shed my coat and set my case down,” the new valet declared after a few seconds, “and then we can proceed on. The sooner we get the basics out of the way, the sooner you can begin to impart your superior knowledge to me.”

Was that targeted flattery? Thomas wondered as he glanced blankly up at the dusky skylight. More likely it was just an absent minded statement of fact, as Thomas’ knowledge of his Lordship’s routines and preferences were currently superior, what with Bates being new. But still, it paid to pay attention to all possibilities.

Or so O’Brien was always telling him anyway.

As it was, Thomas soon found himself guiding the man back down the stairs and onto the first floor gallery landing. Carpeted in deep crimson and panelled in burnished oak, it was as stark a contrast from the servant’s accommodations as you could imagine short of believing they all slept outside. On every wall hung great oil paintings of past Lords and Ladies, ferocious battles being fought, or scenes of rolling hills and soaring mountains. The elegantly carved doors that were set at regular intervals between these works of art were polished to a burnished shine, and every lighting fixture mounted next to them on the fine silk wallpaper was opulent and gleaming.

(They’re dead, they’re dead, they must be dead!)

Numbly, Thomas led them around the corner and knocked on the door to his Lordship’s dressing room. No reply was forthcoming which meant the space was unoccupied, so the pair of them shuffled in quietly.

“We know it’s a tad unusual by aristocratic standards,” Thomas began with, the words coming out emotionlessly. “But the Lord and Lady of the house share a bed most nights. Which means they don’t bother to keep separate rooms. Instead, his Lordship just keeps a cot in here for the rare occasions he has to cede control of the master to her Ladyship.”

“Good of him to be the one to move,” was Bates only comment on the matter as he started to poke at the items laid out atop the main dresser.

“In here you’ll find the day suits, most of which are tweed,” Thomas narrated tonelessly as he opened up the nearest set of wardrobe doors. “Matching jackets, waistcoats, and trousers are always kept together obviously, while the shirts at this end can be paired up with whatever suit. I trust you know better than to pair a duck egg shirt with a green windowpane set, but if you need a refresher there’s usually a collection of tailors’ monthly in our hall.”

“I’ll have a peruse of those, thanks.”

“Ties, braces, handkerchiefs and so on are kept in the drawers below. Then moving on down the wardrobes you’ve got dress shirts of various cuts in the middle section, and both black and white tie in the far end. Ball wear is all in there too with the standard white tie. Shoes go in those drawers, hats are kept up top. That chest of drawers next to the door is for under shirts and nightwear and the like, and then finally that dresser is full of cufflinks and tie pins.”

“Is this everything his Lordship owns?” Bates asked as he peered up at the hat boxes stacked nearly on top of the wardrobes.

“There’s some cedar-lined cupboards in the attics,” Thomas explained as he closed the doors back on the tweed and day shirts. “For things that aren’t often worn. Travelling clothes and such. Mr Watson also used them to rotate the summer and winter stuff, so I’ll show you those later.”

“What about studs and links? Do I choose them or does he?”

“Lay them out unless he asks for something in particular,” he sighed tiredly as he moved over to point at his Lordship’s favourites which were already sitting open on the dresser. “Usually it’s these for a ball, these for an ordinary dinner, and these only in London.”

“I’ll get the hang of it,” Bates smiled pleasantly, adjusting his grip on his cane. He had to be ignoring Thomas’ utter lack of enthusiasm deliberately at this point, which surprisingly, Thomas found himself weirdly grateful for.

“Good luck with that,” Thomas tried to smile back, his lips barely managing to twitch upwards. Probably looked more like a grimace to be honest. “You don’t want Mr Carson on your back over poor performance.” And then, when Bates carefully lifted the glass cover over them, added, “Snuff boxes. His Lordship collects them. Anyway, I best get on.”

“Because it’s your back Mr Carson’s currently on?” Bates huffed with what Thomas chose to interpret as good humour.

“Is it ever,” Thomas quipped back weakly. “Have a rifle round in here, familiarise yourself with it all. I’ll come back in twenty minutes to show you to the attic cupboards.”

Then, with a final nod at each other, Thomas stepped back out into the upper hallway and let the door click softly shut behind him. If he could just make it to his room at the top of the house without meeting anyone along the way, he’d have just enough time for a smoke and maybe a quick nip of something strong to steady himself. Lord knew he needed it.

(They’re dead, they’re dead, they must be dead!)

But as was apparently the theme of the day, he barely got half a dozen strides before Miss O’Brien was stepping into his line of sight with a face like a cat that caught the canary.

“Can you believe you’ve been passed over for Long John Silver!” she smirked gleefully at him as they passed one another. “Told ya you should’ve spoken up when you had the chance!”

Thomas was, for once in his life, disinclined to be argumentative or even particularly disparaging. Instead he merely huffed a little and shrugged.

“Was always going to be passed over, want I?” he grumbled. “Doesn’t make much difference who for in’t end.”

“Yeah alright,” she scoffed back at him. “But don’t go taking your frustrations out on me! I said to you, I said you should speak up when you had the chance but you didn’t. And now you’ve to play second fiddle to a useless cripple, so more fool you!”

“What’s it to you anyway?” Thomas snarled back, finally, finally feeling some of that blank numbness lifting a little as his anger sparked. “Why’d you never have anything better to do than belittle others? Ever thought that we don’t need your belittling on top of everything else, huh? Ever considered that some of us have more shit going on than whatever latest petty little nonsense you’ve chosen to fixate on?”

“Thomas! My word!” Mrs Hughes gasped scandalised as she appeared from the direction of the portrait landing.

Too frustrated and fed up to care about the consequences, Thomas ignored her completely.

“All you ever do is stir it up,” he growled, pointing at O’Brien with a shaky hand. “Between you and Carson, it’s no wonder half the maids are always leaving service within a year of starting here! So yeah, Bates is a cripple. But at least he’s been polite, at least he hasn’t been ragging on me ‘bout not getting promoted. Which is bloody well negligible in the face of the fact that my sister and her wee kids were on the sodding Titanic!”

Exhaling hard one last time, he drew his shoulders up and pivoted on the spot. Mrs Hughes stood in his way as he started to stalk off, her eyebrows raised and her mouth parted in shock, but after a moment she let him pass without another word.

Hands still shaking at his side, Thomas finally got to flee to his attic room.

Chapter Text

There was something going on with Thomas. Only Anna wasn’t entirely sure what.

It had started with Mr Bates’ arrival – or perhaps just coincidentally began at the same time. Almost three months had passed since then, and the usually smug and aloof footman had slowly become more and more sullen and was now near silent and almost completely withdrawn. At first, everyone had speculated that he’d simply had another one of his occasional tiffs with Miss O’Brien, an idea supported by the way they suddenly stopped accompanying one another to smoke in the yard. Or speaking at all really. But those disagreements were typically resolved within a few days and the pair of them quickly back to scheming and plotting together like nothing had ever happened.

But now it was July and they were still avoiding each other like the plague.

What’s more, Thomas seemed to be mostly unbothered by the fact he was back to being first footman and first footman only. He’d growled and grumbled at the rest of the staff non-stop when Mr Carson had announced that a new valet had been hired and would be arriving within the week, complaining to anyone unfortunate enough to be nearby that his Lordship didn’t need a new man as Thomas had been managing perfectly well himself thanks.

But then Mr Bates had actually arrived and Thomas had gone quiet as a mouse on the topic. He didn’t even make snide remarks about the man’s use of a cane, or moan about how he and William were still having to do most of the fetching and carrying because Bates couldn’t.

No, rather extraordinarily Thomas almost seemed to like the new man. Letting him sit with him at meals, passing him booklets and leaflets once he’d finished them, walking down from the attics with him in the mornings (albeit in silence).

Something was up, and Anna would be damned if she didn’t sate her curiosity somehow!

“Oh, hello! Didn’t realise you were both in here!”

Pushing the rest of the way into the boot room, Anna found the two objects of her current fascination sat on opposite sides of the table. Mr Bates had a brown pair of his Lordship’s shoes in hand, while Thomas was peering intently at the innards of a small mantelpiece clock, gears spread out on a sheet of green felt in front of it.

“Good afternoon Anna,” Bates greeted her with his usual calm warmth. Thomas on the other hand, merely grunted without looking up and continued to fiddle with a pair of tweezers.

“I hope you don’t mind if I join you? Only something’s gotten Mr Carson on the warpath and I’d rather stay out of his way while I do this mending. Out of sight, out of mind you know?”

“Same reason we’re tucked away in here then,” Bates smiled, gesturing to the empty spaces at the other end of the table. “Happy to have you.”

“Carson’s ragging about because Mr Murray didn’t stay for the luncheon,” Thomas mumbled as she sat down. “He’s his Lordship’s solicitor. Means them lot upstairs still haven’t worked out how to break up the entail. Probably realising they can’t.”

“I’m not sure I understand all this entail business,” Anna pondered out loud, fishing about in her wicker basket for the shawl of Lady Edith’s that had a few beads starting to come loose. “I know it’s to do with the money her Ladyship brought to the estate when she and the Lord married, and how that gets inherited. But beyond that, I haven’t a clue!”

Which wasn’t strictly speaking true – she knew well and good that it meant the new heir could eventually run off with almost every penny and the roof over all their heads if he so fancied – but getting Thomas to do more than silently glower at people was her current main goal. A chance to pontificate was usually right up his alley.

And sure enough...

“When the current Lord proposed to her Ladyship just over twenty-four years ago,” Thomas sniffed self-importantly, sitting up a little straighter. “His father only allowed it to proceed to marriage once he’d forced her to put pen to paper and sign all her money over to sole ownership of the estate. Every single pound and shilling she had to her name became the property of the title the second they finished saying their wedding vows.”

“So if it belongs to the title,” Anna reasoned out, “then it only belongs to Lord Grantham right now because he’s the holder of said title, not because he’s her husband.”

“Exactly,” Thomas grumbled, holding a tiny gear up to the light and squinting at it. “Once he’s not the Lord any more, because well, he’ll be dead, then the money stays with the title.”

“And this mysterious new heir from… Manchester was it?” Bates contributed. “He’ll become the new Lord and get the title and all the money along with it I suppose.”

“And not just the physical money,” Thomas sighed as he poked the tweezers back inside the clock. “But all the money tied up in the land too. The house, the gardens and farm grounds. Even the village and station all belong to the title.”

“How’d you always know this stuff?” Anna asked him with a teasing smile. Not that she didn’t know, but again... he clearly needed some cheering up. It seemed he barely even managed to summon the energy to insult them these days, which had always been his favourite pastime. Honestly, at this point she’d almost be glad if he went back to permanently snubbing them all and acting like god’s gift to Downton kind.

“He’s a clever one, isn’t he?” Mr Bates grinned before Thomas could answer himself, his shoulders rising with muted laughter.

“I pay attention, that’s how,” Thomas narrowed his eyes suspiciously at them both. “I listen and watch. Observe.”

“THOMAS!”

All three of their heads swivelled towards the door at the sudden sound of Carson’s raised voice, Thomas sporting an expression of extreme loathing.

“Crikey, he really is on the warpath if he’s condoning shouting indoors,” Anna chuckled nervously. “Usually he thinks himself above such things, says it’s uncivilised.”

“Best go see what he wants,” Thomas grumbled miserably as he wiped the gear oil off his hands with a stained rag and stood up. “Don’t let anyone touch this,” he gestured at the dissembled clock. “Especially not William. Or Daisy, heaven forbid.”

“I’ll keep an eye on it,” Mr Bates reassured him.

And then Anna was alone with the new valet.

Fortunately Thomas had left the door open as he left, which covered her as far as any impropriety was concerned. Not that Mrs Hughes would mind overly much anyway, having long since grown to trust that Anna had a level head on her shoulders.

“I know I must have asked a dozen times already Mr Bates, but how are you settling in?”

“Very well, thank you.”

“Not having any trouble with the rest of the staff?” she inquired gently. “Usually I’d be worried about Thomas giving you a hard time, but I feel as if I hardly recognise him these days!”

“No, not at all. Lots of stony silences from Miss O’Brien, but you and the other maids already warned me that would happen, and it’s much better than the open hostility you presented as a possible alternative. And as for Thomas, I can’t really comment on that, not having been here before. Seems to be an alright lad though, if a little moody.”

“I swear he’s done a one-eighty since you started!” Anna shook her head fondly, reaching for her case of needles and thread again. “Well, maybe not a complete turn around, as that would mean he’d become as bubbly and friendly as William. But he’s certainly different! We all thought he’d openly resent you from the moment you arrived, bitter that he didn’t get your job. But here he is regularly choosing to sit with you and not being rotten at all! None us can make heads or tails of it!”

Mr Bates seemed to pause at that, his hand stilling in his brushing for a moment as he pondered something.

“I… overheard a bit of an argument, on my first day,” he said slowly, glancing at the open door before turning back to her. “Only the end of it, and I’ve kept my mouth shut about it because sharing it feels like telling tales. But it might explain why he’s been so quiet compared to what you say was usual.”

“An argument?”

“Between Thomas and Miss O’Brien,” Bates nodded in affirmation. He glanced at the door again, and Anna realised he was worried about being overheard. Sensible of him, if you asked Anna; even the smallest bits of gossip spread like wildfire in this house.

“We knew they must have had some kind of quarrel, to still be so at odds with each other when they were always in cahoots before.”

“Sounded to be a bit more than a mere quarrel,” Bates grimaced. “Whatever it was that O’Brien said that set Thomas off had him swearing at her.”

“Swearing!?” Anna gasped. “In the house and at a woman!?”

“Twice. And Mrs Hughes heard and let him get away with it.”

“Blimey,” Anna near-cursed herself. It really was outrageously shocking if he was telling the truth.

Bates obviously paused again then, seeming to have another internal debate. Anna let him, appreciating that it was always better to get ones thoughts in order before speaking of something potentially queer.

“I do know, I think, what caused him to go off like that,” he continued eventually, voice low and still keeping a wary eye on the door. “But it was rather personal so I’d rather not share it without Thomas’ permission. And I suppose Mrs Hughes must’ve ordered O’Brien to keep quiet or she’d have already told all and sundry about it.”

“Best follow Mrs Hughes directive and keep it to yourself as well then,” Anna nodded approvingly. “Still, it’s nice of you to look out for him even without that consideration.”

“He’s not a bad bloke,” Bates shrugged as he went back to brushing the shoes. “Little bit prone to brooding as I said, and perhaps not quite as patient as he could be with the younger staff. But I certainly knew far worse types when I was in the army, and patience can be learned.”

“I think you’re the first person to work with him that’s said that,” Anna smiled. “Nice to hear actually. He really did ought to have a friend who wasn’t Miss O’Brien.”

“I shall endeavour to be a positive influence then!”

“Good!” Anna grinned back, finally going back to her sewing.

Shifting to lie flat, Thomas raised his hand back to his mouth and breathed in a long drag from his cigarette. He held it for a moment, and then slowly, exhaled.

Silvery smoke filled the air around him, shifting and flowing in the moonlight streaming in through the window set in the roof above his bed. He ought to be sleeping really, but just as he had for many nights recently, he didn’t feel tired enough to even try.

Odd, considering how exhausted he felt all day, every day.

At least he’d finally had some good news this morning, a letter of thick parchment stock arriving for him at breakfast. The envelope had been expensively textured, the ink spelling out his name and address a rich mixture of emerald and cerulean. The handwriting familiar and welcome.

Dearest T, it had started once he pulled the small crisp sheet out and tenderly smoothed it flat.

Got your W. I have wrangled a visit to D and shall be taking advantage of LG’s hospitality by the end of the month. Can’t wait to see you! I have a plan and if all goes well…!

All my heart,
P x

Thomas allowed himself a small smile as he thought of his secret lover. More and more these days, the Duke of Crowborough felt like the only true friend Thomas actually had. That they usually communicated solely though coded letters and stolen glances across crowded London ball rooms was neither here nor there. Because it was at least real.

Which is more than what could be said for the camaraderie he had once shared with O’Brien. Two faced, turncoat –

On the other hand, he mused to himself a little hysterically as he once more brought cigarette to lips, Bates seemed to be alright. Despite the fact he’d stolen Thomas’ job and needed help with almost bloody everything.

He certainly didn’t whinge about every poor bugger going like O’Brien insisted on doing, an attitude Thomas suddenly found he had no patience for. Why couldn’t she just let sleeping dogs lie? So he hadn’t gotten the valet job, a role he’d been converting for almost as long as he’d been in Yorkshire. She hadn’t needed to rub his failure in his face and then act all high and mighty about it.

And it wasn’t as if Bates had planned to usurp him. The bloke had just been making use of whatever connections he had to get any job he could manage, that much was obvious. Thomas thought he might even admire his cunning at using his Lordship like that actually, just a little.

But never mind the people in this infernal house. Philip was coming!

With any luck, the Duke would stay more than just the one night and find some terribly convenient excuse to leave his man at home. That way Thomas could step in and “save the day”, not only giving him a brilliant reason to lurk alone in Philip’s rooms, but also giving the family another reason to appreciate his existence at the same time.

Heavens knew he needed every bit of good will he could find these days, what with Carson still being out for his blood. It had been nearly four sodding months since his small slip in the morning room and the butler was still watching him like a particularly malicious hawk. A situation made even more untenable by the fact he was supposedly doing it on Lord Grantham’s behalf when the Lord himself clearly didn’t mind one wit that Thomas had had a bit of a wobbly.

Thomas thought Lord Grantham rather liked him actually. He’d certainly been kind enough since. And he’d even indulged Thomas in a little bit of conversation occasionally back when he’d been acting valet.

And oh sod it, here he was thinking about the people in the house again, instead of fantasizing about all the things he and Philip could get up to. On those silky bedsheets in the bachelor wing rooms, the fireplace roaring and keeping them warm despite their state of undress…

How Thomas would get to peel every article of clothing off of him, putting all his newly polished valeting skills into practice once more. How he could kneel at the man’s feet as he slid first one shoe and then the other off, how he could gaze upwards and see only adoration returned.

Hmm, it was a pleasant mental image indeed.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as Thomas’ anticipation grew, an endless drudgery of serving, fetching, and carrying. Take the dishes up, wait an hour, bring them back down. Rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat. Answer the door, accept deliveries, dodge Carson. Head down, polish, polish, polish.

(Thomas swears to god, if he ever becomes a butler, the first thing he’ll do is hire someone specifically to polish the silver, purely so that the hall boys and footmen would never have to do it again)

But finally, the morning arrived.

Carson had them up at the crack of dawn that day, even allowing them to take their breakfast without his presence at the head of the table in order to free up more time for working. But Thomas was lingering over his bacon and sausages regardless of everyone else’s haste, knowing full well that most of what the butler had planned for them was just make-work; they’d already spent the last three days frantically doing every conceivable task in preparation for the Duke’s arrival, so what could possibly be left that didn’t usually get done anyway?

Certainly nothing worth dragging them out of bed early for, that was sure.

“Alright there Thomas?” William frowned from next to him as housemaids bustled around them.

The younger footman’s plate was almost cleared, only a small pile of Mrs Patmore’s homemade baked beans and a scrap of fried bread remaining. Thomas slowly raised his head to meet William’s blue eyes, suppressing a yawn.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he grumped, pushing a mushroom around with his fork.

“’Cause you look like something the cat dragged in,” O’Brien snipped from across the table.

“He’s not nearly that bad!” William protested on his behalf before Thomas could even open his mouth.

Which was another thing that had suddenly started happening in the last couple of months. First Anna Smith had taken to sitting with him whenever he hid in the boot room for a bit of peace. And then William had started tagging along too, sitting opposite him with Bates and blabbering on about whatever bit of nonsense he’d picked up from the gossiping maids.

Which had then somehow turned into the idiot defending him from every imagined slight aimed his way by anyone except Carson. It was rather infuriating. Thomas was perfectly capable of voicing his own retorts thank you!

“He is!” O’Brien smirked, no doubt noticing his annoyance. “Got bags under his eyes like he’s smeared coal dust under them!”

“Well maybe you can give us some tips on covering them up?” Bates replied with that same unruffled calm he seemed able to maintain no matter what was happening around him. “You must have so much practice hiding your own after all, given that yours are from age rather than a spot of temporary tiredness.”

Thomas couldn’t help himself and snorted at that. As did William.

“Think yourself clever, do you Mr Bates?”

“Thomas is the smart one actually,” Bates continued easily with a condescending smile. “Which is why it was ever so reckless of you to alienate him. Without him, your candles are burning but nobody’s home. No matter, your loss is our gain. Shall we gentlemen?”

Thomas had still only eaten half his breakfast, but the opportunity to walk away with a smug expression was too great to pass up. So he pushed himself upright along with the other two blokes and collected his plate without complaint.

“She’ll have you for that, you do realise?” Anna commented drolly as she followed the three of them out of the servant’s hall. “I heard from Lady Mary that’s she’s already been whispering in her Ladyship’s ear about you struggling with the job.”

“It’s only a bit of carrying he can’t do!” William protested as they turned into the kitchen to hand their used plates over. “And Thomas and I can manage that!”

Thomas, who actually did mind all the extra carrying quite a bit, employed his new-found tactic of shutting the hell up and waiting for someone else to speak instead. That way, he’d learned, he didn’t have to voice false pleasantries or end up with everyone looking to smack him just for being honest.

Plus, he did usually try not to be a hypocrite unless it was to save his own bacon, so if he was condemning O’Brien for belittling everyone from now on, he ought not to do it himself. Or not out aloud at least; he reckoned he could complain as much as he liked inside the sanctity of his own mind.

“And it’s been noted and appreciated,” Bates nodded as they reached the scullery sinks. “Truly, I am glad of your assistance chaps.”

Thomas made a vaguely agreeable noise and hoped it was interpreted as a your welcome.

“Oh, there you all are!” Mrs Hughes said from behind them just as they finished stacking their plates. “Miss O’Brien informed me you had all skulked off to hide and avoid helping, but I see now that she was mistaken. Anna, if you could join Gwen in taking up the clean bed linens to the south cupboards please. William, I know Thomas has already done it the once, but if you could have another quick scour round the ground floor for any stray glassware or crystal, it’d be appreciated. And I’m not questioning your ability Thomas,” she added pointedly when he opened his mouth to complain. “But I’m sure we’d all rather stay on Mr Carson’s good side today.”

“Yes Mrs Hughes,” both he and William repeated mechanically, William with rather more enthusiasm than Thomas.

“As for you Mr Bates, Mr Carson has asked me to inform you that his Lordship has requested the platinum and ruby pin set for today, which he’s fairly sure are up in the attics.”

“They are Mrs Hughes,” Thomas sighed. “Top right drawer of the George IV mahogany dresser.”

“If you know where they are, it would behoof you to guide Mr Bates to them,” she instructed him. And then, leaning in and speaking rather more softly, she added, “And I expect you’d be glad of an excuse to stay out of sight for at least the next twenty minutes.”

She was smiling at him conspiratorially as she leant back again, so Thomas only nodded.

“Well? Hop to!” She finished with, spurring them all into action.

William was the first to dart off, eager as a grey hound as usual. Anna slipped after him rather more gracefully, leaving Thomas to bring up the rear with Mr Bates and Mrs Hughes. The housekeeper split off from them once they were through the kitchen, already calling out to another couple of the maids, and so he and Mr Bates were left to proceed to the back stairwell alone.

“I’m surprised Lord Grantham is awake to request a specific pin set,” Bates commented mildly as they started up towards the top of the house.

“He won’t be,” Thomas grumbled back. “He’ll have mentioned it to Carson late last night, who’s then chosen not to pass on the information until thirty minutes before the bells are due to start ringing. Typical.”

“I should imagine that Carson has a lot on his mind given that there’s a Duke arriving in time for luncheon.”

“And yet we’re the ones doing all the prep work for it.”

“Such is life,” Bates chuckled. “At least we’re not getting shot at!”

“Do you have to be so bloody optimistic all the time?” Thomas groused as they reached the first floor access door and slipped through it.

“One of us has to be, and you’ve already claimed the coveted spot of group pessimist.”

“Oh so we’re a group now?”

“Yes, the knock O’Brien down a peg or two brigade.”

Thomas huffed in unwilling amusement. He appreciated the sentiment – the knocking down O’Brien part of it anyway – but he wasn’t sure he was into this whole pally-mates things Bates was apparently trying to instigate. What did Thomas need mates for? He had Philip and otherwise managed just fine on his own thanks.

To Thomas relief, they made most of the rest of the journey in silence, scrambling up the narrow and dusty access passage with only a little grumbling. It annoyed Thomas to no-end that you couldn’t get into this part of the attics from the servant’s accommodation corridor and instead had to climb up stairs steeper than the Scarborough cliff faces, but they did at least manage to reach the top of them without incident.

Lighting an old candle and then weaving their way through ancient furniture to the western eaves, they lingered only long enough to grab the needed boxes and then made their way down and out again. And then once they were back in the main house, they trudged quietly over to Lord Grantham’s dressing rooms to deposit their gains.

Only when Bates eased the door open, they were greeted by the sight of his Lordship already up and out of bed, standing in the middle of the room and absentmindedly scratching at his usual atrocious bed-head.

“Oh, that was fast Bates!” the Lord remarked. “I rang the bell not ten seconds ago!”

“Thomas and I were just on our way down from the west attics my Lord,” Bates explained genially, hefting the two boxes in question. “He was showing me to where the pins and links you requested are kept. We had thought to drop them off, but weren’t expecting you to be in here yet.”

“You found the platinum and ruby then? Good good. And do come in Thomas, you don’t have to hover awkwardly in the doorway. I don’t bite, honest!”

Thomas had rather been hoping to be dismissed actually, but he didn’t let his annoyance show on his face and stepped into the room as instructed, letting the door swing shut behind him.

“I do apologise for not inquiring again sooner my good man,” the Lord barrelled onwards as Bates stepped around him and began to gather up his Lordship’s shaving razors and related paraphernalia. “Only I’ve had rather a lot on my mind, as you can imagine. But did you hear from your family? Regarding your sister’s service I mean.”

“I’m afraid not, my Lord,” Thomas bit out.

“Goodness! I know you stated that you’re not on the best of terms with your parents, but to not invite you to the memorial service… Unconscionable! My offer still stands, if you’d like me to send someone to speak to them on your behalf?”

“It’s quite alright, my Lord,” he grit out, trying his damnedest not to sound angry and strangled. “I’ve made my own offerings in her memory down at the parish church, which will have been far more to her tastes, I believe.”

“Still, it’s a terrible shame to have to do so alone.”

“I accompanied him, if that would ease your mind si– My lord,” Bates informed him with a huff of self-reproach at the title-slip.

“I’m more concerned with whether Thomas found it agreeable to be perfectly honest.”

“It was appreciated,” Thomas forced himself to say.

“Then I shall do you the courtesy of leaving the matter alone from now on,” Lord Grantham intoned. “And I had best let you go about your work. As nice as it is to catch up, I’m afraid Carson will have both our heads if he discovers I’ve been distracting you on the day a Duke is set to arrive. That said, if he does complain about your short absence, do send him up to me and I’ll make your excuses for you.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” Thomas repeated again, this time far more genuinely.

“How is he, really?” Robert quizzed Bates once Thomas had slipped out. “Only asking Carson just gets me the expected platitudes and it’s not really my place to push for a more truthful statement.”

Bates paused in that thoughtful way of his, like he was contemplating every word and weighing it’s worth before speaking.

“He’s quiet my Lord,” he eventually offered. “Much more so than usual if the maids are to be believed. But he’s still working hard, and even in the short time I’ve been here, I’ve noticed that he’s actively been working on thinking before he speaks.”

“And he’s treating you with respect? I did worry he might resent not retaining the valet post permanently.”

“He’s been most welcoming actually, if almost entirely through actions rather than words.”

“That puts my mind at ease some,” Robert admitted with a small smile. Bates smiled back and moved to pull the dressing table stool out, cane hooked on his arm. Then he placed Robert's shaving set atop the glass with a quiet clatter and stepped back with the empty hot water bowl in his free hand.

“I shall just go get this filled, m’Lord. Shall I fetch anything else while I’m gone?”

“Hmm? Oh, no it’s quite alright.” But then he hesitated and reconsidered. “Actually, if you happen to pass one of the staff, could you ask for a cup of tea to be sent up? Only if you pass them mind, no need to go out of your way.”

“Consider it done,” Bates smiled one final time before he too, slipped out.

Alone once more, Robert gave in to the impulse to stretch and yawn widely. Ambling over to the dresser, he then rummaged for a pair of socks and a set of clean under clothes, eyeing the dark suit Bates had already laid out so that he might gauge what was appropriate.

Selected under-things in hand, he perched himself on the edge of his seldom-used cot and began to methodically strip himself out of his pyjamas; he’d leave donning his actual suit to Bates of course, but he could manage this much on his own, no matter how much his mother would scoff at him for it.

The role of the servants is to serve! He could hear her scolding as he pulled his under shirt down over his head. Don’t go depriving them of their purpose in life!

Smiling fondly despite himself, he smoothed his second sock out and stood back up, mulling over his financial and inheritance predicaments once more.

If only he could just choose a new heir, someone who he knew would have his family’s and the estate’s best interests at heart. It didn’t even have to be Mary, though obviously she was by far his first choice; after near twenty-five years of marriage to Cora, he’d long since outgrown the foolish notion that women were somehow lesser or too delicate to handle such burdens.

But alas, men of eons past had long since put pay to any idea of selecting successors, even going so far as to completely exclude any adopted sons from the line of inheritance. The option he was therefore left with, was praying to god that this solicitor from Manchester turned out to be a decent sort of a chap, one with good morals and a strong sense of responsibility.

“Here we are my lord,” Bates announced as he nudged his way back into the room. “The usual?”

“Clean shaven all round,” he confirmed as he seated himself in front of the dressing table mirror.

Bates proceeded through the normal morning routine swiftly from there, soon having Robert fully attired and groomed. His hair was once more tamed into decency, his suit lines crisp, and his shoes polished to a brilliant shine.

Bates really wasn’t half bad at this, Robert mused once he was ready. And as the only complaints he’d heard regarding the man’s leg had come via Cora’s bitter Lady’s maid, he was pleased he’d taken the chance and offered Bates the opportunity. He did so like it, when he could use his position to offer a deserving individual a leg up in life.

For what else was the purpose of power, if not to use it to help others?

And then it was down onto breakfast, where he was joined by all three of his daughters. Unfortunately, Mary and Edith were once again scowling at one another as they ate, destain evident whenever they thought he wasn’t paying attention. But he’d long since resigned himself to enduring their frequent bouts of mutual distaste so he didn’t let it disturb him. That was just how sisters sometimes were, Cora was always reassuring him, and he knew the natural bond between siblings would prevail over all else should it really come down to it.

Breakfast lead into the morning paperwork and reports, the daily auditing of finances and so on. A couple of the tenants had some small complaints regarding the state of their barn’s roof, but that was easily remedied with a dispatch to Ripon’s craftsman guild. And there was yet another note from Murray of course, detailing the same entail findings as every time before.

But nothing new or strenuous or alarming, and so he was able to have it all wrapped up satisfactorily in plenty of time to meet the chauffeur and head to the station.

“Once more unto the breach,” he muttered to himself as he climbed into the motor waiting at the front door for him.

Thanks to the grace of God (and no little divine intervention courtesy of Mrs Hughes), Thomas made it through the rest of morning relatively unscathed. He and William raced about making final adjustments under Carson’s careful supervision, setting the tables and polishing the good crystal and so on, and before he knew it, they were being lined up by steps to the backdoor for final inspection.

(Bates had temporarily attained saint-hood in Thomas’ eyes not long after ten by volunteering to finish polishing the last of the silver for him)

“You all ready?” Carson asked rhetorically as he gazed critically up and down at each one of them in turn. “Thomas, straighten the left side of your collar!”

“Yes Mr Carson,” he parroted dryly, deeply annoyed. His collar was fine, starched to perfection in fact, and Carson bloody well knew it. A quick touch of his gloved fingers to it confirmed that fact, which meant that the butler was once again picking on him just for the sake of it.

Git.

“Very well done the rest of you,” Carson nodded when he finally peeled his steely eyes away, flicking a piece of lint off of William’s lapel as he passed without comment. “Now, we shall go out to greet them.”

“And me, Mr Carson?” Daisy, the young scullery maid suddenly exclaimed. Thomas would put her at barely a day over fifteen if he were forced to guess, and at times her naivety was positively nauseating. This was one such time, but he supposed that the excitement caused by a Duke visiting was reasonable enough excuse for it. Just this once.

“No Daisy, not you,” Carson replied wearily, apparently of the same mind.

Daisy looked crushed in a way that was rather unsightly, but she had at least drawn everyone’s attention fully away from him, so Thomas was grateful to her regardless.

Carson shook his head again and turned to the head of the line. Mr Bates was already taking the first few steps upwards, but was forced to pause when the butler addressed him directly.

“Can you manage, Mr Bates? Or would you rather wait here?”

“I want to go, Mr Carson,” he replied simply.

“There’s no obligation for the whole staff to be present,” Carson insisted, despite the valet’s assertion of capability. Thomas had to refrain from rolling his eyes; if the man wanted to go, let him go and be done with it. Yes, he and William had to do half the man’s fetching and carrying, but walking up a set of stairs and standing on the driveway was hardly beyond him, was it? This repeated questioning of his abilities was getting embarrassing.

“I’d like to be there,” Bates reiterated with his usual small smile.

“Hmm,” Carson finally acquiesced, though it was obvious he wasn’t entirely best pleased. “Well, it’s certainly a great day for Downton, to welcome a Duke under our roof.”

And with that, Bates was finally able to start heading upwards again, the rest of them filing on behind.

Soon enough, they were lined up side by side to the right of the house’s front door. Pale gravel crunched underfoot as the family flowed out on to the driveway too, Pharaoh the Labrador bounding out happily alongside them. Gleaming in the late august sun, the family’s newest motor slowly trundled up the drive and eventually rolled to a gentle stop before them all.

“Welcome to Downton!” Lord Grantham announced grandly as he climbed out of the back of the vehicle after the Duke.

The Duke.

Thomas barely remembered to nod his head in respect, so fixated was he on not staring longingly. Finally, here was friend he could rely on, someone who was indeed more than a friend. Someone who would not only love him, but give him the respect he deserved.

“Lady Grantham, this is so kind of you!”

“Not at all Duke! I’m delighted you could spare the time!”

Thomas tuned out the rest, too busy rolling the sound of Philip’s words around his mind rather than paying attention to the words themselves. He knew introductions were being made, and that hands were being clasped and shaken, but it was all immaterial compared to the fact that the Duke was here to see him.

And then, just as Thomas had been longing for – praying for – Philip revealed the perfect pretence for getting Thomas alone. Oh my man was taken ill just as I departed, do you mind terribly if I borrow your footman?

Honestly, the day was finally looking up! Perhaps, at long last, things would start to go right for Thomas again!

It was precisely as he had this thought that O’Brien kicked Mr Bates’ cane out from under him. Sending him staggering into Thomas and leaving them both sprawled in the gravel.

Fuck’s sake.

Chapter Text

The late autumn air was chilly, the wind whipping round the work yard like an icy knife, stirring up fallen leaves and snapping the maid’s skirts about their ankles. One of the garden boys was tugging on the sleeves of his thick woollen work shirt as he paused for a moment’s respite, and two washerwomen were struggling to hang up a great white bed sheet, caught in an almost futile tug of war with mother nature herself.

Thomas sat on a stack of overturned fruit crates against the wall, huddled in his overcoat and struggling to get a match to catch.

Eventually one flared into a brilliant shower of sparks and he hastily cupped his hand around the small flame lest it immediately be blown back out. A cigarette was already hanging loosely from his mouth, so it was the work of a moment to set the end alight, and then finally, Thomas was able to draw in a deep breath of calming smoke.

“Mind if I join you?”

Thomas grunted and waved a hand, deciding he couldn’t be bothered to chase William off despite the fact he’d much rather be alone.

“Sorry about that butler job at the Crawley house,” the youthful blonde man sighed as he flipped another wooden crate over and sat down next to him. “I know you wanted it.”

“Was never gonna get it, was I?” Thomas gruffed. “Not when it was Carson sorting the hiring.”

“I just…” William trailed out, pulling his own coat tighter against the wind. “I don’t get why Mr Carson dun’t like you. You’re alright to me, even though you do get a bit snippy sometimes. And Anna says you’re okay.”

“Oh, Anna says I’m okay,” Thomas snorted sarcastically, exhaling a stream of smoke. “A truly ringing endorsement.”

“Everyone knows Anna’s good opinion is the most important one to have in this house,” the other footman smirked at him, elbowing him lightly in the ribs. “And even ignoring that, you are good at your job. Or I think so at least.”

“I bloody well have to be good at my job or Carson would toss me out on me ear as fast as you could snap y’fingers.”

“Actually, I can’t snap me fingers,” William admitted with a sheepish shrug. “So I suppose that means Mr Carson won’t ever be able to toss you out. Still though, I don’t think it’s right that he picks on you so. ‘Specially not when you’re good at valeting too. Why, even that awful Duke said you did a decent job of it!”

“Still can’t believe Bates caught him rummaging about in my room like some common thief. A Duke, skulking about and rifling through my belongings!”

Thomas was still exceedingly bitter about that whole sodding mess. Just a meaningless summer fling the onerous bastard had told him, despite Thomas having a raft’s worth of letters that said exactly the opposite. Despite him having said otherwise to his face the few times he and the Duke had snuck off together in London.

And the gall of the man, to then half-inch all those letters and toss them in the fire right in front of him! Accusing Thomas of plotting to use them as blackmail! Which was just plain stupid! Not only were they all in code, but to make use of them, Thomas would have had to implicate himself in the impropriety and he wasn’t suicidal thanks.

And then to really add insult to injury, he couldn’t even tell anyone the real reason he was so upset with the git. No, Thomas had had to make do with merely slandering his manners to everyone downstairs, telling them all that he’d been rude and abrasive and had insulted both his Lordship and Lady Mary behind their backs.

“Doesn’t surprise me, considering how you said he behaved after dinner that night,” William nodded sagely, unknowingly falling for Thomas’ tall tales once again. “’Course a man with no manners would go poking his nose where it’s not wanted. Anna says its a miracle that he stuck to our side of the hall. Imagine the scandal if he’d gone in Mrs Hughes’ room! Or one of the maids’!”

Thomas just grunted again, letting William interpret the noise how he liked. Truth was, Philip hadn’t been poking about just for the sake of it, had in fact been targetting Thomas directly so that he could steal the letters. But the fact he had been caught poking about fed into Thomas’ claims nicely so he was leaving well alone.

“What are you two doing huddling out here in the cold!? Cor, it’s freezing out here!”

As though summoned by them mentioning her again, Anna hustled out of the downstairs doorway, her black skirts held delicately in one hand so as to keep them out of the dirt of the yard. She shivered as as she stepped all the way out, some of her hair slipping free of her cap as the icy breeze caught it.

“Well I was trying to have a smoke in peace,” Thomas grumbled as he gesticulated at her with his cigarette. “Seems like there’s no peace to be found anywhere these days though.”

“Oh hush up you,” she teased as she hurried over. “If you were bothered about being talked to, you’d have sent poor William packing long before he got as far as sitting down next to you.”

“Why’s everyone always calling me poor William!?” the man in question moaned piteously.

“’Cause you whine like that,” Thomas huffed. “You sound like a puppy dog. Act like one too.”

“Do not!”

“Do too.”

“The pair of you are even worse than Lady Mary and Lady Edith at times, I swear,” Anna shook her head at them, one side of her mouth quirked up in amusement. “Teasing and taunting.”

A particularly vicious gust of wind swirled down and round the outside of the house then, buffeting into the three of them and the rest of the yard’s inhabitants. Anna shivered again and huddled miserably in on herself, so Thomas sighed and heaved himself to his feet. Whipping his overcoat off, he offered it to the housemaid with an expectant stare, and eventually she gingerly accepted it, wrapping it around her shoulders gratefully.

“Sorry, I should have thought to do that,” William lamented as Thomas perched himself back on the edge of his topmost overturned crate.

“And that is why I’m the one with valet training and not you,” Thomas smirked, flicking a large chuck of ash off his cigarette. Thankfully it was nearly down to the stump, so he wouldn’t have to sit out in the cold in just his sleeves for much longer.

“You could teach me some?” William suggested weakly, clearly not actually expecting a positive answer.

“When on earth have I got time to teach you valeting?” Thomas scoffed.

“To be fair, he’s not wrong,” William shrugged up at Anna. “Not with the way Mr Carson is. Poor Thomas is always being ordered about, bein’ treat’ like a clueless puppy dog!”

“Oi!” Thomas batted at William’s shoulder with the back of hand. “Come on you useless lump, we’d better get back in ‘fore this new Mr Crawley arrives. Wouldn’t do greet the new heir as anything less than fully prepared, would it?”

“What d’you think he’ll be like?” Anna wondered out loud as Thomas disposed of his butt in the pot he’d placed out here specifically for the purpose. “If you listen to Miss O’Brien, he and his mother will be worse than the scum we get stuck to our shoes. Not worthy of our service, nor our respect.”

“Good job none of us listen to that evil cow then, isn’t it?”

“Thomas!” Anna gasped, faux-scandalised. At least he hoped it was faux-scandal.

“What?” he grunted. “S’true.”

“Why do I put up with you again?” she sighed despondently as they all trooped back inside.

“For my excellent sense of humour and friendly and welcoming demeanour,” he snarked back, pulling the door closed behind them and shutting out the damnable wind.

Autumn turned into winter, and Christmas came and passed. The grass thawed, spring came, and John Bates settled ever more into life at Downton, content and fulfilled in a way he hadn’t felt for years.

He hadn’t been entirely sure what to expect when he’d arrive at the great Yorkshire house almost a year ago. Doubts and maybe some derision on account of his leg perhaps, but overall quiet camaraderie with the other staff. To be allowed to do his job largely in peace at least, if with occasional mild scorn from those forced to pick up his inevitable slack.

A mostly peaceful existence, where he could stay tucked out of the way and ruminate on his many mistakes alone.

But somehow he’d found himself with three potentially very good friends.

His… relationship with Anna was the easiest to parse, being based on what he thought (hoped) was a growing sense of mutual attraction. Of course John had to repress the bulk of what he felt, his situation being what is was, but he was not a young man any more and so was more than able to fully appreciate an entirely platonic association with a member of the opposite sex.

It was a shame that he would likely never be able to offer more, but that hardly invalidated or cheapened what remained. Which was a great deal of kindness, a commonality of general opinions, and a shared appreciation for time spent in one another’s company.

William was the second individual with whom he had struck up a friendship. The young man was barely more than a boy – as much in maturity as in age – but John appreciated his youthful outlook and general eagerness. Life hadn’t yet worn him down, and his boundless optimism was heartening. It was also rather bolstering to his ego that the boy was beginning to frequently look to him rather than Carson for both advice and validation, and a pseudo-mentorship role was one he was more than happy to step into.

And then there was Thomas.

William’s opposite in almost every way, the fourth member of John’s burgeoning little quartet was by far the most perplexing.

Unsmiling, standoffish, and often-times outright spiteful, Thomas was somehow still John’s closest friend within the house. The young man had almost none of the innate affability that William exuded, but still managed to be quietly supportive and helpful when John needed him to be. Actually, the fact that goodwill did not come naturally to his friend made John all the more appreciative that he so often received it from him.

And one also had to consider that by God, Thomas was sharp as a tack.

It seemed at times that almost nothing went on in the house or grounds that Thomas didn’t learn about within minutes of it happening. It was almost frightening how astute he could be, his eyes always roving about and assessing, his mind constantly taking notes and evaluating each tit-bit’s usefulness and potential. Several times now, Thomas had tipped him off regarding some small detail of gossip, allowing John to avoid putting his foot in it, or on one particularly notable occasion, letting him bring a matter to his Lordship’s attention before it could devolve into something far more serious.

Of course this impressive intelligence was offset by his perpetual impatience with anyone who couldn’t mentally keep up with him. Which was most people. Anyone unable to follow his latest leap of logic was liable to be scoffed at, especially when it inevitably turned out that whatever it was wasn’t a leap at all, but a rather sound conclusion to have reached.

What intrigued John the most though, was if anyone else had worked out why Thomas was so like a feral street cat; watchful in the extreme and liable to lash out defensively at the first perceived threat. Loyal to only those who had earned his wary trust.

He had a feeling Lord Grantham at least suspected, but it was hardly the sort of thing you could actually ask about. It was damn right dangerous to even hint or imply about such things, given that John could be entirely mistaken about who was safe to tell and end up dropping Thomas in serious trouble.

John himself was entirely unbothered that Thomas was, well, a different sort of man as people put it. He’d seen too much war and death to be upset by a man seeking love and acceptance. So what if he sought it from a different source than most? It was still consensual and genuine right? Nobody was ever hurt by such men, that was for sure.

So as far as John was concerned, there was too much hate in the world to go pushing away any harmless form of its opposite.

“My, you’re lost in thought this evening!”

Drawing in a deep breath and coming back to himself, John looked up from his nearly empty tea mug to return Mrs Hughes smile.

“Yes, I am rather,” he admitted easily. “Ruminating on how it’s been almost a year since my arrival.”

“I am glad you’ve settled here so well. You fit right in!” Mrs Hughes sighed fondly, moving to stand behind the other armchair before the dying fire. John had sat himself here more than an hour ago, listening to the others finish the last tasks of the evening and begin to head on up to bed. In fact, the only other person who was still downstairs was Thomas, who had nipped out for a final smoke before the back door was firmly locked for the night.

“I do like it here, very much,” John nodded in acknowledgement of Mrs Hughes kind words.

“I think most of us do,” she smiled at him once more. “And I don’t think I overstep too far when I say your presence has led others to also be more happy here than they were previously.”

She glanced meaningfully towards the stairs up to the yard as she said this, her implication clear. It seemed Thomas was on more than just his mind tonight.

“I say this only because you are already aware of the circumstances,” he offered tentatively after a moment’s thought, referring to the tragedy of the Titanic and the subsequent argument. “But I wouldn’t say happy is the right… descriptor. He’s been deeply hurt – more than once I think, so no, maybe not happy. But he’s making an admirable attempt at being content, and once he’s there, happiness won’t be far off. It’s just a shame that with his sister gone, he has no support from anyone outside this house.”

“We don’t speak of it, but you’re right,” Mrs Hughes sighed rather less happily. “I only have the barest details, but what I wouldn’t give to find that boy’s parents and give them a good shake.”

“And of course it doesn’t help that Mister…” John trailed off with a wince, realising a little too late that he perhaps did not ought to speak ill of Mr Carson to Mrs Hughes of all people. John appreciated and respected the butler’s skill and dedication a great deal, but he also thought there was a lot to be said for the man’s people management skills. Or lack thereof.

“Though it pains me greatly to admit it, I do believe your assessment is correct on that front,” she huffed irritably. “I was always afraid that Thomas was becoming a bully, but here he is the victim instead.”

“I’ve considered mentioning… that state of affairs to his Lordship. Quietly of course, but even then it’s a rather serious step to take.”

“And it may just make things worse,” Mrs Hughes agreed tiredly, her gaze turning distant. “Leave it with me for now. With any luck, I’ll get things talked down to a more reasonable level before we have to seriously consider our other options.”

She drew herself up then, her shoulders squaring once more and her expression firming.

“Speaking of Thomas,” she continued rather more robustly. “I’m going out to chivvy him up. I can’t retire for the night until I’ve locked up, and I can’t do that until he’s come back inside. If I have to brave his scorn to do so, then so be it.”

“You’re a braver woman than I,” John chuckled. “Good night Mrs Hughes.”

“Good night, Mr Bates.”

“So they’ve formed a sort of truce then? Over Mr Matthew?”

“For now,” Thomas shrugged as he flattened and refolded his polishing cloth yet again. “Doubt it will last.”

“Just so I know I’ve got this straight,” William frowned as he rubbed at a particularly stubborn patch of tarnish on the candlestick he was doing battle with. “Lady Mary’s got some new admirer who’s the son of Lord… Uh?”

“Branksome,” Thomas repeated irritably.

“Right, the son of Lord Branksome. Lady Mary’s been writing to him, so now he’s been invited to join this hunt we’re holding today, along with the Turkish bloke. The Turkish bloke is a diplomat and he’s ‘ere in England because of that Albania independence stuff. But because Lady Mary is interested in the Lord’s son, that means Mr Matthew is free to be picked up by Lady Edith instead.”

“Well I wouldn’t use the phrase picked up if I were you,” Thomas grumbled, turning the silver goblet over and wishing he could just glare it into submission.

“You know what I mean!”

Thomas just shot William a reproving look.

“Well anyway,” William blushed, restarting his polishing twice as fast. “Point is, Lady Mary and Lady Edith are in agreement that Lady Edith should be the one to go after Mr Crawley. Ergo, they’ve formed a truce.”

“That’s about the long and short of it,” Thomas nodded.

“And you heard all this from Anna?”

“Who was assisting the three Ladies with their evening wear as it was being discussed.”

“And how does all this tie in to Gwen having a typing machine then?”

Glad that they were hidden away in the under stairs storage closet away from Carson’s judgement, Thomas allowed himself to put the goblet down for a moment so that he could turn to glare at his fellow footman fully.

“It doesn’t. Gwen’s just set her sights on something better than spending her whole bloody life polishing other people’s belongings and it’s pure coincidence that it was yesterday that O’Brien grassed her up.”

Now William paused as well, letting his cloth drop onto the apron covering his lap. He was frowning intently into the darkest corner of the tiny room, his expression strange in the dual flickering candlelight. It was the only light they had in here; Thomas was always wishing Carson would let them do the silver polishing in the boot room or at one end of the servant’s hall table, but the butler claimed to despise the lingering smell of silver polish. So they were always forced to work shut up under the stairs where the scent could be trapped in.

(The other option was to take it all outside but with the last of the February snows only just finished melting, Thomas would rather take weak lighting than freezing his bollocks off.)

“Thomas. What would you do if you could leave service? Seriously, not just fanciful daydreaming.”

“Watchmaker,” he replied instantly. “Or failing that, a tailor. ‘Course you need the start up capital to open a shop to do either of those, so it’s never gonna happen. Not with the meagre savings we can scrape together.”

“’Spose I’ll end up with my parent’s farm eventually,” William mused, eyes still far away. “Provided his Lordship let’s me keep it o’ course, what with them being tenants. Do you think he will?”

“I doubt it matters much who’s running it so long as someone is,” Thomas rolled his eyes. Honestly, farming? That was a step down from service, not up! Even the bloody gardeners were better off than most of those poor sods!

“I think he probably will,” William nodded to himself. “Don’t know much about politics me, but his Lordship’s one of them progressives right? The uh, power to the common people types?”

“Right up until it comes to sharing the money out,” Thomas snorted derisively. “Or giving up the title and the house to live like the rest of us.”

“Can’t blame him for that though really. I mean, who’d want to live like us given the choice?”

“Touché,” Thomas conceded.

“Ey,” William nudged him with his elbow, sporting a smirk more fit for Thomas’ face. “Maybe one day you and I can con him into funding that shop of yours, and then go halfsies on the running of it. You can build everything in the back and I’ll deal with the customers so you don’t have to.”

“Sometimes you’re so naive you make Daisy look a font of ancient wisdom.”

“Well it were only a thought,” William grumbled, picking his cloth and candlestick back up. Thomas rolled his eyes again and also reached for his object of torment (the chalice), flipping it over to start working on the base of it. “Can’t run a shop and a farm at the same time anyway, so-”

William cut off in the middle of his sentence as the closet door was wrenched open and the room flooded with light. After working with nought but the two candles for so long, the daylight was almost blinding and it took Thomas’ eyes several seconds to adjust. When they did, the sight revealed was not a pleasant one.

“Are you two still not done?” Carson complained irritably as he peered in at them.

“Almost Mr Carson,” William chirped. “Just the tureen lid from the second Edward VII set left after this and that,” he hefted his candlestick with a nod to towards the cup in Thomas hands.

“Well they’ll have to wait. The Hunt's returning. Get yourselves cleaned up and into the entrance hall ready to greet them. Now boys!”

Knowing better than to complain about being addressed as boy despite how it rankled, Thomas scrambled after William out into the stairwell. They then raced up to the attic as fast as they could manage, and after a silent hurried exchange, decided not to jostle for first chance in the men’s bathroom. Instead, they shoved their way in together and scrubbed their hands and arms side by side.

Just as the first of the horses trotted back through the western gate and slowed to walk up the drive, the two of them stepped out in the main house.

“Hmm, acceptable,” Carson intoned as they approached him, snapping his pocket watch shut. “William, out front to welcome them in. Thomas, Mr Napier has brought his own valet with him, but the Turkish gentleman thought it wise to leave his man in London given that he doesn’t speak a word of English. You shall be filling in for him. Do not make me regret giving you this one last chance to prove yourself capable of the task.”

“Yes Mr Carson, I’ll do my best.”

“Hmmm.”

Thomas knew the tone of that hum meant but your best isn’t very good, is it? But he ignored it in favour of peering out the nearest window in attempt to work out which man actually was the Turkish gentleman.

“Thomas! Stop that immediately!”

“Yes Mr Carson,” he parroted again, rolling his eyes discretely. Could he not go thirty-bloody-seconds without being reprimanded!? “Only I was trying to determine which man it is I shall be serving.”

“Obviously I’ll be introducing you to him,” Carson scoffed self-importantly. “I’m beginning to wonder whether I should override his Lordship’s suggestion and take over his valeting myself! Though I suppose you won’t have an opportunity to fall down and disgrace yourself as soon as the introductions are made this time, so I can console myself with that at least. Come along then, let’s get this over with.”

Glaring at Carson’s back in silence, Thomas stomped after him with anger simmering hotter and hotter in his gut. Honestly one of these days, he was going to snap and-

Oh.

Oh.

Damn, that was a handsome man.

Cheekbones like cut glass, a jaw line to match. Flawless skin and glowing eyes. Hair ruffled delightfully and curling just so as one lock spilled down over his forehead.

Lord above, Thomas was going to enjoy peeling the clothes off of this one.

“Home is the hunter, home from the hill!” Lord Grantham announced grandly as he strode over with his wife close behind him. “Heavens, you have been in the wars!”

“Papa, this is Mr Pamuk,” Mary introduced the man with a beaming smile. Mary had good taste, Thomas smirked inwardly, forcing his face to remain in the servant’s blank.

Really rather exceptionally good taste.

“Stupid fucking MORONIC imbecilic idiot,” he cursed himself under his breath as he stormed across the landing back towards the servant’s halls.

There weren’t unshed tears burning in his eyes. There were not.

“You absolute utter fool, Thomas,” he hissed as he all but slammed the hidden door open.

He was really in for it now, and for once it was entirely his own damn fault. Thinking with his heart rather than his bloody head! Goddamned idiot!

Calm down he told himself as he paused in the silence of the back staircase. Deep breath. Think.

The real crux of the matter was that Pamuk could go ahead and blurt out his secret no matter what Thomas did. Sure, the duplicitous little worm had promised that he would keep his mouth shut if only Thomas did this one little highly disreputable and suspicious tiny thing, but that didn’t mean the man would keep that promise. No, more likely he’d use Thomas to his advantage and then go ahead and denounce him anyway.

After all, who would believe a mere footman over the word of a respected international diplomat? Thomas could point out that he was paying visits to people in the middle of the night until he was blue in the face and it would still likely just get brushed under the carpet.

Especially if turned out to be one of the Ladies he was planning on…

It didn’t bear thinking of to be honest.

No, Thomas needed to come up with a better plan and fast. Or at least a fail-safe.

Breathing a little steadier, he continued walking downstairs, hurrying passed the two maids loitering at the foot of them in silence. Hoping that no one saw fit to stop him, he then scurried towards the boot room and slipped inside with a sigh of relief.

Only it wasn’t empty. Bates was sitting at the old worktable with one of his Lordship’s tailcoats, a needle and thread in hand.

“Thomas? Are you alright?”

“Fine.”

(In another life, Thomas didn’t have any… tolerable acquaintances and so turned around and walked right back out at this point. And so in another life, well. Pamuk’s demand was met)

“Thomas.” Bates repeated with a raised eyebrow. “Are you alright?”

“I said I’m fine,” he snapped back, throwing himself into his usual spot on the bench opposite the valet.

“If you’re fine, then I’m the King of England.”

“Don’t let Carson hear you say that,” Thomas quipped, his voice still a growl as he patted at his pockets in search of his fags. “Making a mockery of the monarchy ranks even worse than blasphemy in his books.”

“I’m serious, your hands are shaking.”

“Fuck,” he swore under his breath, giving in and letting his apparently-shaky hands move to scrub down over his face.

“What’s going on?” Bates asked quietly, like he was talking to a spooked horse. “I’m not going to judge.”

“You bloody well will,” he mumbled back hysterically. “You bloody well should.”

“Thomas.”

“I did something… inadvisable,” he admitted lowly, staring at a deep scar pitted into the wood afore him. “And don’t bloody well try and make me say what, I feel stupid enough already. Only Mr Pamuk saw me do it and now he’s threatening me. Coercing me.”

“Coercing you into doing what?” Bates asked flatly, his voice like iron.

“He…”

“I’m judging him, not you. What he is he demanding as price for his silence?”

Thomas let out a ragged sigh, some of the tension leaking out him. Is this what it was like to have an actual ally? Someone who would take his side even if he had been a monumental idiot and cocked everything right up?

Christ almighty, O’Brien really had been a shit friend if that were true.

“He didn’t say it outright, but- He’s planning on making an illicit nocturnal visit to someone tonight. He told me I was to lead him to their room or he’d-”

“-snitch on you,” Bates finished for him with a deep grimace. “Classic blackmail. Bastard.”

“Think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you swear,” Thomas chuckled weakly.

“I reserve it for situations when it’s truly warranted. Makes it have more of an impact,” Bates huffed back wryly. “Right. Well the first order of business is to work out which of the young Ladies he’s planning on ambushing. Or do you think it might be one of the maids?”

“No idea, but one of the Ladies is most likely.”

“Which one? Think. Everything you’ve seen today, everything you’ve observed. I know you took it all in.”

“If I had to guess… Lady Mary was the one out riding with the gentlemen today, and it was she who introduced him to Lord Grantham. She was really rather pleased to be doing so, and the other Lord- the son of Viscount Branksome? Well, he was the one truly invited here by Lady Mary and yet she was all but ignoring him in favour of the ambassador.”

He paused and took another deep breath.

“Plus she was definitely eyeing him up,” he added with a touch of self-reproving sarcasm.

“Lady Mary then,” Bates nodded. “And now we go find Anna.”

Now they…?

“Now we what?”

“If she’ll agree to linger in Lady Mary’s room tonight, then if all else fails, she’ll be there to cry foul when Pamuk shows up.”

“Okay, okay a back up plan,” Thomas agreed. “Right, find Anna.”

They both heaved themselves back to their feet, sharing a resolute look across the table between them.

“Actually, you stay here and I’ll find her,” Bates suddenly changed his mind. Thomas frowned at him, not following his reasoning, but Bates waved him down and explained. “The second Carson see you, you’ll be up to your neck in work. No, the longer you stay out of sight, the more chance we have getting our heads together and making a real plan. So you wait here and I’ll bring Anna to us instead. Here, you can finish repairing this seam tear while I’m gone so that you don’t look like you’re just sitting around doing nothing if anyone does come in.”

Thomas nodded gruffly, taking the offered tailcoat with hands that were now much steadier.

Anna followed Mr Bates down to the boot room with her heart pounding in her chest.

She was fairly sure she knew exactly what idiotically foolish thing Thomas had done – or tried to do at least, but Thomas didn’t even know that she knew that he was… like that. And no-one else knew she knew either.

She’d always had her suspicions, right from when he’d first started at Downton in 1907 as the junior footman and had spent far too much time gazing across the halls at Mr Thompson, the handsome valet who’d left to become a partner in his elder brother’s new canning business. But she’d never been certain until that palaver with the Duke of Crowborough at the end of last summer. Anna had seen plenty of girls heartbroken from rejection and Thomas had resembled them to a tee for a month after that visit.

Moping about, looking weepy. Staring out of windows longingly. Sighing despondently at every hint of romance amongst the younger maids.

It was amazing she had been the only one to notice and put two and two together honestly.

And now he’d no doubt gone and gotten his heart broken again, the stupid fool.

Heavens above, what was it with men and their inability to not act on impure thoughts!? Apparently it was a universal trait, true even when it was not a woman that was the object of their... ahem. Desire.

“So. Mr Bates informs me you’ve gone and gotten yourself into a bit of a pickle,” she greeted him with once she’d double checked there were no listening ears lurking about.

Unfortunately, the footman looked rather like a kicked puppy and her exasperation melted away as quickly as it had come. “Oh Thomas, only you.”

Thomas only shrugged, his face curling up into a poor imitation of a sneer.

“Lady Mary will only allow Anna to remain in her room for so long before she grows suspicious,” Bates began with, pushing the door to with his cane as he sat. “So what we really need, is to get him hoisted on his own petard as early in the night as possible.”

“The Dowager Countess will want to depart only an hour or two after the evening meal is finished with,” Anna picked up. “Lord Grantham will undoubtedly arrange for Mr Crawley and his mother to return to the village with her, to spare Taylor from having to drive the motor to the village and back more than once.”

“The old lady will love that,” Thomas snorted quietly.

“That will just leave the family and the two house guests,” Anna continued outlining, ignoring Thomas’ little wisecrack. “With three guests already departed, the rest will soon retire for the night. At that point, you have to get the ambassador ready for bed as fast as you can reasonably manage while I drag out assisting the ladies.”

“In an ideal world,” Bates jumped back in, “what will then happen is Mr Pamuk will jump the gun thinking everyone else is now already abed, and try to sneak over to the family wing while I’m also still present. The three of us can cut him off en route, I can rush back to fetch Lord Grantham, and we can explain that he tried to force his way into Lady Mary’s room and that we caught him and prevented it from happening. With three against one, anything he claims will sound like falsehood born of desperation.”

“And Lady Mary will corroborate that story because the alternative is to suggest she was willingly about to be party to a heinous scandal,” Thomas hummed thoughtfully. “Clever.”

“She’ll corroborate it because it’ll be true,” Anna pulled a face at him. “He literally is going to try to force his way into her room uninvited!” Seriously, the way that man’s mind worked sometimes. Unbelievable!

“If you insist,” Thomas grumbled, pouting like a child. “I suppose plan B will be what happens if he demands I come back in the middle of the night instead?”

“Yes. And it involves us all loosing a disgusting amount of sleep, so pray we don’t need it,” Anna grimaced. The things she was having to sacrifice for these idiots, honestly. She really should have stuck to only being friends with Gwen.

At twenty-five minutes to midnight, Thomas found himself staring perplexedly down at the corpse lying in the middle of the main landing.

“Someone had better start explaining what on Earth happened here, and quickly,” Lord Grantham demanded, crossing his arms over his house robe, his expression thunderous.

“Well you see my Lord,” Thomas began, thinking rapidly on his feet. It was fine, this was fine. He could improvise. Bates and Anna would back him, Carson had been absent for most of it. It would be fine. “I had just returned downstairs after seeing Mr Pamuk to rights for the night, when the Chinese Room bell began ringing again insistently.”

Christ almighty, this was so not what they’d planned for.

“Assuming that Thomas had forgotten something,” Carson drawled, also staring at Pamuk’s body, “I immediately sent him back upstairs to rectify the probable mistake.”

“I see,” Lord Grantham bit out angrily. “And had you forgotten something?”

“No my Lord,” Thomas shook his head. “Mr Pamuk had in fact re-summoned me to attempt to bribe me into escorting him to Lady Mary’s room as soon as the lights went out for the night.”

“He did what!?” The Lord gasped.

(What had actually happened, was Mr Pamuk declaring that he’d changed his mind regarding the timing, and that Thomas should come back at midnight instead of one in the morning.)

“I refused of course,” Thomas quickly barrelled on. “And warned him if he made any attempt to bribe another member of staff to do his bidding or otherwise find his way to Lady Mary’s rooms, well, I informed him that I would notify Mr Carson immediately and that he would no doubt relay his attempted depravity directly to you, my Lord.”

“And then?”

“He flounced into bed rather melodramatically and dismissed me,” he shrugged, affecting as much bafflement as he could manage. “I thought the matter resolved, but planned to inform Mr Carson of the discussion regardless, in case there was any further attempt at impropriety.”

“But Thomas ran into me on his way to the back stairs, my Lord,” Bates jumped in, much to Thomas’ relief. “I was returning from your rooms, having delayed my departure from them in order to finish quietly rehanging some items I spent the afternoon working on. He informed me of what had transpired, and asked me to go and watch Mr Pamuk’s door just in case while he continued on to search out Mr Carson. But given my leg, I suggested we swap roles. I was about to head down when Anna came upon us too.”

“I had just come from Lady Mary and was headed to my own bed,” Anna deftly fabricated. “Thomas and Mr Bates gave me the barest outline, just enough for me to know that it was pertinent I return directly to Lady Mary’s rooms to… I hate to say such things aloud my Lord, but I was concerned for Lady Mary’s virtue and thought to act as a chaperone.”

“A sensible precaution that I thank you for,” Lord Grantham intoned gravely.

“And that is the point at which Mr Pamuk came stumbling down the corridor,” Thomas lied outrageously. The man was dead, he could hardly protest the claim now. “He did not look well.”

(He’d been perfectly fine until fifteen minutes ago.)

“It was almost as if he was confused,” Bates shook his head, clearly catching on to Thomas’ idea. Thank god. “Thomas and I attempted to ascertain what was wrong, but he just kept insisting he needed to get to Lady Mary. And then he just collapsed.”

“Presumably this is when Thomas came rushing into my parlour as though his socks had been set alight?” Mr Carson mused, both eyebrows raised. “Decrying a death had occurred?”

Thomas hadn’t even needed to act at that point. He genuinely had been startled by the man dying on him. Quite literally on him.

“Well we thought at first that he was just unconscious,” Anna shifted uncomfortably, averting her eyes once more. “So Mr Bates tried to rouse him. But once we realised he had…”

“I sent Thomas down to fetch Mr Carson and guided Anna a little away from the body, my Lord. The rest is fairly self-explanatory from there.”

Thomas mentally corrected that line to fill in the rest of the blanks yourselves, lest we give you too many contradictory details.

“It seems I owe the three of you a great debt of gratitude,” his Lordship sighed raggedly, one hand cupped over his mouth as they finished their tale. “Thank God you prevented him from getting anywhere near my daughter’s bedroom.”

(…Technically they hadn’t, but his Lordship needn’t ever learn that particular detail.)

Chapter Text

For all that it had been more than two months now, Robert found that he couldn’t quite stop thinking about that rotten Turkish gentleman.

To think of what could have happened!

Thank goodness for Bates and Thomas. And Anna of course, whose fortitude in the face of a near-scandal had been remarkable. Especially as it had been her that proposed the solution for keeping the awful situation entirely under wraps.

Robert could admit he felt a little put out that the detestable man’s reputation had survived intact as a result, but given that it removed any chance of Mary’s character being called into question... Well, it was a price he’d been more than willing to pay.

And so Robert had found himself assisting Thomas in surreptitiously carrying a dead body across the house in the dead of the night. They’d stripped him of his house coat, stuffed him back into his bed, and decided that they would all be terribly shocked and surprised when Thomas “discovered” him come morning.

No one would ever know he had gotten out bed, no one would ever know he had planned to intrude in Mary’s rooms, and so no one would ever so much as think to imply he’d been invited to do so.

(Which he hadn’t of course, but some people would try to imply it if only because being a man of the world meant Robert had developed his fair share of political rivals)

But for all that every loose end had rather neatly tied itself up, he just couldn’t get it out of his mind.

“You’re pensive tonight dear,” Cora turned to him, rolling over in their bed, her head propped on one elbow and a small smile gracing her lips.

“I apologise for all the frowning it causes, but I am rather,” he sighed tiredly. “It just feels like it’s been one thing after another since April last year. First loosing James and Patrick. Then all the mess with the entail that resulted in. Don’t get me wrong, cousin Matthew is proving to be rather a boon, but it was stressful when we knew nothing of his character. And then of course, that farce of a visit from the Duke of Crowborough. I gossip like a maid by speaking of such matters, I know, but did you hear of how hideously he behaved towards poor Thomas? No wonder the man turned out to be a mere fortune hunter, and a rude one at that.”

“On the subject of Thomas, I heard more or less the reverse from Miss O’Brien,” Cora rolled her eyes. “But I take less and less of what she says at face value with every day that passes.”

“We can suggest she moves on if it’s growing to be a problem dear. I know we like to leave matters of the staffing to Carson and Mrs Hughes, but it is still our prerogative to have final say.”

“No, it’s alright,” she shook her head, shuffling a little closer to him. “So far her only true crime is being miserable and resenting the other staff. Hardly a fireable offence, no matter what we might wish. Besides, whilst her attitude is a little lacking, she is competent.”

“If you’re sure darling,” Robert smiled at her. “But I digress – we digress. Where was I in my list of earthly woes? Ah yes, Lord Crowborough was all veneer and no substance. Which was of course followed by the near miss with the Dovetale twins at the London Christmas party.”

“Those foolish girls,” Cora tssked. “If they’d managed to go through with that idiotic plan, I dread to think what would have become of their prospects.”

“Indeed,” Robert frowned, tipping his head back to stare at the bed canopy. “For all that I so often grow weary of Mary and Edith’s constant sparring, at least they have the good sense to never let the battlefield stray beyond the house.”

“Girls will be girls as much as boys will be boys, Robert,” Cora chuckled. “It’ll settle once one of them is married.”

“So you keep telling me,” he responded dryly, once again meeting her eyes. “I really had hoped this Evelyn Napier would prove worthy. I feel as if we’re back to square one again, with Mary’s resentment of Matthew growing every day.”

“It wasn’t as if Mr Napier was unworthy,” Cora protested lightly. “Far from it in fact. It just so turned out that he and Mary were unsuited, that’s all. And there’s still time for Mary to come round on the subject of Matthew.”

Robert sighed deeply, now thinking on that mess of emotion and turmoil too.

“While I truly and sincerely hope she does, I won’t force the issue. It’s a modern world for modern women; I will agree to whatever match she desires even if I end up having to lump it rather than like it.”

“You really are growing more eccentric in your old age dear,” she teased him with a barely restrained chuckle. “Openly decrying the lack of feminine equality, championing the rights of working men, taking on a crippled valet, hiring an Irish chauffeur, hiding the unusual tastes of a certain footman-”

“How do you know about that!” Robert blurted over her, sitting up in alarm.

“Honestly darling, a young man that handsome walks into the house and we women all sit up and take notice. Only he was entirely oblivious to the attention. And I do mean entirely oblivious. Even your mama commented upon it.”

“Really?” Robert questioned, completely baffled. “And she didn’t insist he immediately be ejected from the household!?”

“Robert dearest, for all that both of you deny it, I am well aware from whom you inherited your eccentricity. No, she merely claimed that variety is the spice of life and subtly implied that he would make a suitable protector and escort for our daughters. Of course she immediately followed that up with a contradictory statement about routine and tradition being of foremost importance, but her meaning was clear.”

“You know, I had honestly never consider it in such a manner,” he hummed thoughtfully as he allowed himself to relax back against his pillows once more. “A man like that wouldn’t be the slightest bit interested in taking advantage of the girls, not matter how much opportunity he was given. A boon indeed.”

“We know better than to advertise such opinions, let alone truly speak of them,” she really did chuckle at him now. “But I suggest we bear it in mind for next year’s season.”

“Oh, you really are clever my darling,” Robert praised, bemused. “Having him lurking in the background at all of Sybil’s engagements truly would provide an-”

He cut off as his wife reached up and pressed a gentle finger to his lips.

“Let alone truly speak of them,” she repeated with a devilish smirk. “Now blow that candle out and let us sleep, lest we awake resembling racoons in the morning.”

“Yes ma’am,” he smirked back with a mock salute.

But as he plunged his side of the bed into darkness and settled down, he couldn’t help but note that his opinions on the Pamuk affair had now changed. No longer was he overly concerned about how near a miss it was, but was instead considering it wholly in the light of how much it showcased the loyalty of three of the staff.

(And Carson of course, but that had always been a given)

Anna, Bates, and Thomas had all truly stepped up to the mark. Surpassed it even, and by a long stretch. It was heartening, to know there were now even people in the house upon who he and his family could truly rely upon.

And with that in mind and a smile upon his lips, Robert closed his eyes and drifted off.

Thomas had, to use Anna’s favoured phrase, accidentality gotten himself into a minor pickle.

Another bloody one.

Fortunately this was far, far less serious than the last the corner he’d worked himself into – could in fact be considered a good thing by many measures – but it was still annoying.

During breakfast, Daisy had rather boldly asked him to attend the upcoming village fair with her. While William had stood there looking heartbroken and miserable. Poor sod.

And now Bates was teasing him something rotten over the whole mess.

“Will you give it a rest,” he groaned as he continued trying to bend one of the buckles on his lordship’s smallest suitcase back into shape. The newest and youngest of the hall boys had knocked it against a door frame whilst carrying it up from the motor, and in attempt to avoid facing Carson’s wrath, had quite literally begged Thomas to help him fix it before the butler found out. Tears streaming down his face and all.

Somehow Harold – the hall boy in question – had managed to run off and leave Thomas alone in the boot room with the damn case. And then Bates had ambled in with a disturbingly gleeful expression.

“Sorry, I just can’t get over how brazen she was, to blurt it out to you like that. I thought Gwen was going to faint in shock!”

“William was right there,” Thomas protested as he slipped the head of the screwdriver behind the bent catch once again, trying to get the right pressure on it without also ripping or marking the leather surrounding it. Seriously, how had a thirteen year old managed to mangle it this badly!? “Why couldn’t she have asked him! He would’ve swooned if she asked him!”

“Daisy has been totally incognisant of William’s entire existence ever since you offered to teach her that grizzly bear dance.”

Thomas groaned, knowing that it was probably true.

“That was months ago,” he mumbled piteously. “At least half a year surely!”

“Girls are not swift to forget young men who offer to dance with them and then do it well.”

“But I don’t want to go to the fair with her! She’s like, barely fifteen! Talk about cradle snatching!”

(That was far from the true reason of course, but he could hardly own to that. Besides, it was cradle snatching given that he was approaching his mid-twenties. Grown men courting teenagers made him twitchy and nauseous.)

“She’s seventeen actually,” Bates chuckled. “Eighteen next month if I recall Mrs Patmore’s ranting correctly.”

“Well that just proves William really is the better match,” he growled, tossing the screwdriver aside in frustration. “The imp is still nineteen himself. In fact, if we had more than two footmen, he’d still be the junior at best. I’m still shocked Carson promoted him from senior hall boy before his eighteenth.”

“You really don’t want to go with her, do you?”

“No, I do not.”

“You should have outright said no then, instead of just spluttering.”

“I didn’t say yes either! Too busy being gobsmacked that she just came out with it like that! It’s men who are supposed to do the asking! Where’s Anna, perhaps she can talk some sense into her?”

“Mrs Hughes sent her up to bed I’m afraid. She’s got a nasty cold developing.”

“Fantastic,” he spat sarcastically. “Just brilliant. And where the hell has Harold gotten to!? It’s his mess I’m trying to fix here and he’s scarpered!”

“Oh give the case here Thomas, before you do something you’ll regret,” Bates huffed with quiet amusement. “Get yourself outside for a smoke, calm yourself down, and then come back with some tea for us both.”

“And now I’m being managed like I’m a derailing train,” he hissed, pushing the suitcase away in disgust and storming off. See if he ever did anything nice for anyone ever again, huh?

Much to Thomas’ disgust though, he actually did feel much calmer after he’d gotten through three cigarettes and a cup of strong tea. So he claimed the damaged suitcase back from the valet, and with the help of a door stop and a cutlery knife pilfered from the servant’s hall, managed to to get the buckle mostly straightened out and functioning again.

Harold had then been starry eyed with admiration and gratitude when Thomas handed it over to be carried upstairs, which rather annoyingly softened his anger even further, and by the time they were sitting down for the servant’s dinner, he’d actually come up with a half-decent plan for his predicament.

“William,” he nudged his fellow footman quietly as they waited for Mr Carson to arrive so the meal could start. “I’ve an idea.”

“What?” the blonde haired streak of misery mumbled. He’d been sulking all day to no-one’s surprise. Despite the fact he wasn’t the least bit interested in women, Thomas knew he’d have been equally upset if the object of his desires had asked another man out for a walk right in the middle of making his own offer, so he sympathised. A bit.

“You’re going to ask Gwen to attend the fair with us, and then I’m going to monopolise her attention for the entire evening. Women don’t like it when they’re snubbed, right? And Daisy’ll be feeling snubbed by the time I’m finished.”

“Is that supposed to be a good thing!?” William hissed back, eyeing Miss O’Brien warily as she was watching the two of them whisper intently.

“It is if you’re there to act as the knight in shining armour and save her from humiliation.”

William paused at that, frowning intently.

“If you’ve got a better idea, I’m all ears,” Thomas grumbled as he leant back in his chair.

“What are you two conspiring about?” O’Brien demanded loudly just as the butler finally appeared and silence fell. “There’s nowt good ever came of two blokes whispering while staring at women!”

“That’s enough of that,” Carson demanded as they all scrambled to their feet. “Miss O’Brien, if you have concerns, you will raise them politely and privately.”

“Not sure there’s time for that Mr Carson,” O’Brien rebutted as they waited for the butler to sit down.

Carson merely raised a judgemental eyebrow and then slowly lowered himself into his chair.

“It’s quite alright Mr Carson,” William piped up eagerly as they retook their own seats. “I don’t mind explaining.”

“Well go on then, I suppose,” the butler sighed with a wave of his hand.

“As you’re aware,” the young man started with earnestly, “several of us have been given permission to walk down to the village and attend the fair this evening. Thomas and I were planning on walking down together, with Daisy and Anna you see, but now that Anna is too unwell to attend, we thought it improper for two men to accompany a lone young women.”

“Your astuteness does you credit,” Carson rumbled a little suspiciously.

“Well, Thomas suggested we invite Gwen in Anna’s place, so as to eliminate any thoughts of impropriety. Only we’re both conscious it would seem mighty unfair to treat Gwen as if she were a second pickings, when she’s clearly anything but. We were just discussing the best way for me to make her an offer of accompaniment when you arrived Mr Carson.”

Clever little bugger, Thomas thought, suppressing a smirk. Thomas’ cunning was starting to rub off on the boy. Maybe he wasn’t such a lost cause after all.

“Hmm,” the butler drew out, his eyebrow’s now furrowing downwards. “I see. Though I do not understand why you thought it best to whisper about it at the table.”

“Ah, that’s my fault as well, Mr Carson” William shrugged with a cheeky little grin. “I didn’t want Gwen to overhear and worry that we were discussing her behind her back. Thought it best that we keep it to ourselves until I could approach her directly, as is polite.”

“It’s much appreciated,” Gwen smiled softly down the table at the them before Carson could make another comment. “And yes, if it’s alright with Mr Carson, I will gladly accept your offer William.”

“Very well,” Carson sighed after a moment. “But you will all be on your best behaviour. Now, if I could finally begin serving the meat please?”

William waited until the butler was engrossed in carving up the steaming ham joint before turning to Thomas and smirking outrageously.

Oh yes, perhaps not a lost cause at all.

The late May evening air was warm as the four of them reached the village green. Thomas had been talking Gwen’s ear off as much as he could manage as they walked, asking every question about typing machines and secretaries he could think of, and then veering off into a discussion about middle class jobs in general once he’d run out of material. With a few pointed sideways glances at William and Daisy, she seemed to have caught on and had indulged his “fascination” as much as she was able.

And now they were here, starting to walk between the stalls and tents with Gwen at his side while Daisy huffed along at William’s. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem like the younger girl was the least bit interested in returning any of the attention William was paying her, but she had at least stopped glaring over her shoulder at Thomas every thirty seconds.

“What would you like to see first m’lady?” he turned to Gwen as they arrived in the centre of the green and peered round. There was a tall helter-skelter off to their left, and a coconut shy next to it. A series of try-your-luck stalls curved out from there; a hook-a-duck, a ring toss, and a strong man high strike were the ones that drew Thomas’ attention. Behind them meanwhile, was a large truck with pipe organ music wafting out of it, a series of circus performers, a fortune teller’s tent and a whole range of goods stalls selling everything from sweets to cider to scented candles.

“I think I’d like a drink first, if that’s alright with you Mr Barrow,” Gwen giggled back.

“He’s not a valet, got passed over didn’t he,” Daisy grumbled bitterly. “So he’s still just Thomas actually Gwen.”

Thomas ignored Daisy’s jealousy-driven snapping and offered Gwen his arm. Gwen took it with an amused expression and the two of them headed towards the food stalls, the other pair trailing behind them.

“Would you like a drink as well Daisy?” William offered, trying and failing to offer the girl his own arm. “I’m more than happy to buy you one.”

“I suppose. So long as it’s not some plain cordial or juice. I ain’t a child no more!”

“That stall there has homemade cider, look,” Gwen nodded in the direction of on particularly busy looking tradesman. “Must be good, seeing how big the queue is.”

“An excellent suggestion,” Thomas smirked, steering them all towards it.

Ten minutes later, they were all clutching battered tin mugs of the drink, all four of them blinking in shock at how strong the stuff was. Excellent tasting yes, but strong.

“Blimey, that’ll knock your socks off,” William coughed roughly as he took another swig. “No wonder there’s hardly anyone bemoaning the two shilling deposit for the cups.”

“Don’t go drinking it too fast or it’ll go straight to your head,” Thomas warned him sternly. “Carson will lock us up for a month if we go home drunk.”

“Aye,” William rolled his eyes. “And he’d take it out on you the most, I ‘spose.”

“He would n’all,” Gwen snorted as they began heading back towards the attractions. “Feels like he’s had it in for you all year. What did you do to tick him off so much Thomas?”

“Existed,” William scoffed on his behalf. “Thomas ain’t done nowt and we all know it.”

“He dun’t need you defending him,” Daisy complained, pulling a face. She was properly scowling at him, Thomas noted with despair.

“No, but he deserves the kindness of it,” William grunted as he once again tried to offer the girl his arm and had it ignored.

“I fancy a go on the high strike, anyone else?” Thomas suggested with forced cheer, annoyed by the rising tension. Gwen, fortunately, only seemed to find the whole predicament amusing, and so accepted the suggestion with good humour.

“Want to go first lad?” Thomas gamely offered his fellow footman once they’d paid the owner his dues. With any luck, he’d put the muscles he’d earned hauling round luggage and delivery crates to good use and create an impression on the increasingly sulky scullery maid. Thomas was growing more and more irritated by her by the second, so the sooner he could palm her off on William for good, the better.

“Don’t mind if I do,” William smirked back, clearly thinking on similar lines.

Only poor William failed to ring the bell. He was dead close, but he didn’t quite hit it.

“Go on then, your turn mate,” the young man sighed as he accepted his jacket back and handed the mallet over. Shrugging into his own shirt sleeves, Thomas then self-consciously lined himself up and rolled his shoulders a few times.

“Ha!” Daisy crowed as the bell dinged loudly, “I knew he’d be better than you!”

“Well I’ve got five years on him,” Thomas pointed out harshly, scowling. Lord above, could she not get the message? He and William were practically bloody shouting it at her at this point.

“Five extra years to mature like one of his lordship’s fine wines,” Daisy smirked dangerously.

“Daisy!” Gwen scolded as the high strike’s owner returned with a bunch of white flowers grasped in one hand as a prize. Thomas accepted them with a resigned look, having been hoping for one of the cigars, but then realised he could use them to further the point he was trying to make.

“My lady,” he bowed shallowly as he held out the posy to the red headed housemaid. “As thanks for the stimulating conversation on the walk down.”

“Oh! Thank you!” She beamed back at him.

This only made Daisy scowl harder.

“Come on, I’ll win you something at one of the other games,” William smiled weakly at her. “Which do you fancy next?”

“Fine,” the young woman sighed huffily. “There’s a coconut shy over there. Been ages since I tried a bit of coconut.”

And so the four of them weaved between the other fair goers, pausing a moment to admire the skill of the fire breather, and made their way towards the shy by the helter-skelter. The tent it was in was wide but not deep, a striped red and white with a matching painted wooden sign across the back.

Thomas once again paid for all four of them, ignoring William’s protests as he claimed the balls.

“I get paid more than you,” he reminded the younger man with a huff. “And you’ve got family to send your savings to. You can buy me some sweets after this to make up for it.”

“Yeah, but I don’t smoke so I save more of me wages in the first place!”

“Oh shut up and take a couple of balls,” Thomas scowled at him, all but shoving two of said balls into the man’s chest.

Two smashed coconuts later shared between them and they were headed back to the other side of the green for the promised sweets.

“I want nothing with liquorice in it, you hear me?” Thomas instructed William sternly as they approached the short queue. “I ‘ate the stuff, so if I find any in my- hold up, is that Mrs Hughes?”

It was. With an older gentlemen escorting her with a look of pure admiration on his face. Both of them were smiling and laughing like no-one’s business as they passed the stall covered in hand-knitted blankets and scarfs.

“It is ‘n all,” Gwen gasped, struggling not to chuckle. “Good for her, I say.”

“In’t she a bit old to be walking out with a man,” Daisy pulled a face as they watched the motherly housekeeper turn and walk towards the nearby ring toss, still arm in arm with the mystery man.

“There’s no time limit on love Daisy,” William protested. “Come on, let’s leave them alone. Deserves a bit of enjoyment does our Mrs Hughes, and peace from us lot bothering her.”

“Here here,” Gwen nodded. “‘Sides, it might just be her brother.”

“She hasn’t got a brother or we’d know it by now,” Thomas quipped before he could think better of it. At least he’d managed to clamp down on his tongue before he mentioned her sister as well. Mrs Hughes tried to never mention her, he knew, as the poor sister was wrong in the head and needed full time looking after. Given that many people thought men like Thomas were also wrong in the head and ought to be locked up in prisons and asylums too, it was one of the few bits of information he’d ever gained that he’d immediately vowed to never wield as weapon no matter what the circumstances.

“You know everything, don’t you Thomas,” Daisy sighed wistfully, entirely unaware of his moment of internal berating. Thomas partially turned his back on her and closed his eyes in frustration.

“Anyway,” he bit out sharply after a second. “William’s right and we should leave her to her evening.”

“Yes, let’s,” William added with a strained smile. “What sweets would you like Daisy? I’ll buy you which ever you fancy.”

“Oh give over,” Daisy finally seemed to loose her temper. “Why are you trying so hard to push in! I came here to be with Thomas you won’t let me! It’s not fair!”

Thomas scoffed as she quite literally stomped her foot like a child. He’d had it up to here with her this evening. Lord knows what William saw in her, but he was fed up with playing nice for his sake.

“Oh just go home Daisy,” he snapped. “If you can’t be nice to him, then don’t be near him at all!”

“Fine!” The young women snapped back, glaring mulishly at all three of them. “I will!”

And with that, she turned and stormed off back towards the house.

Thomas took a deep breath and held it, forcibly reminding himself to shut the hell up and wait for someone else to speak instead.

“Thanks Thomas,” William mumbled weakly a moment later. “I’m sorry for putting you through this for me, but I appreciate that you tried.”

Finally letting the breath out, Thomas swallowed back the next angry tirade he wanted to unleash as well.

“It’s alright William,” Gwen reassured him, putting a gentle hand on the younger man’s forearm. “She’s young and stupid, she’ll grow out of it eventually. You’re a good man and she’ll see that one day.”

“At least one of us is going to have to go after her,” Thomas finally forced himself to speak, keeping his voice as level as he could physically manage. “She can’t walk back alone or there won’t be anything left for Carson to murder once Mrs Hughes is done with us.”

“Here, give me the empty cider mugs and I’ll go get our deposits back,” Gwen suggested quickly, her expression dropping in horror. “Thomas, you go catch up with her now, try to get her to wait for us. William, get our sweets quickly so at least we’ll have some compensation for having to leave early, and then I’ll find you and we can go catch them up.”

“I’ll have to go find the other housemaids first,” Thomas shook his head. “I’m the senior male here, I’ll have to tell them where we’ve all gone.”

“No, I’ll tell Mrs Hughes instead,” William offered. “Here Gwen, give me the cups and take the money for the sweets. I can go find her, tell her what’s happened and that she’ll need to walk the other maids back up to the house. I know it’s interrupting her evening, but it’ll only take a moment and she won’t have to actually leave until she’s ready to anyway.”

“Good plan,” Thomas bit out. “Catch me up as soon as you can or who knows what I’ll yell at the stupid girl.”

And so he all-but jogged off of the village green, breaking into an actual run as soon as he was on the road and clear of most of the crowd.

He really was going to go back to belittling people out loud if they kept trying his patience like this. God, what was wrong with the idiots!?

William was in a miserable mood when he finally made it back to the house, and Thomas no better beside him.

What a horrid evening it had been.

“I’m going to bed,” Daisy spat as soon as they were through the back door, flouncing off in a whirl of anger and upset. Gwen shot the two of them an apologetic look and chased off after her, hopefully to calm her down a little before all hell actually did break loose.

(It had nearly happened on the way back, with Daisy tearing into Thomas something rotten when William and Gwen had caught up to the two of them. There were all sorts of foul words and names coming out of her mouth, and Thomas had just been standing there and taking it with a blank face)

“You’re back early,” Miss O’Brien greeted the two of them in that oily, condescending way of hers as she slipped out of the servant’s hall with a sewing box in hand.

“The others won’t be far behind,” Thomas smiled falsely, his lips tense and his eyes hard.

“Oh diddums, is there trouble in paradise?”

“I can’t imagine you’re familiar enough with the sensation to comment upon it,” Thomas immediately riposted. “Given that you’ve never come even close to having a meaningful relationship.”

“Speak for yourself, fancy man.”

Thomas’ already pale complexion went ash white, his taunt lips dropping as his eyes hardened further into a glare worthy of medusa herself. William supposed she was poking at the part of Thomas that everyone knew better than to ever mention. That’s if any of the others had even realised what was different about him; he supposed not, or someone would have raised a fuss about it long before now.

(William himself had almost raised a fuss when he first realised, before remembering his ma and pa always telling him that love thy neighbour always came first and foremost. The Parable of the Good Samaritan was one of his mother’s favourites and she was forever saying just because someone is seen as bad, doesn’t mean they actually are. Everyone deserves love and acceptance dear.)

“Come on mate, let’s see if there’s any tea to be had,” he sighed, all but dragging his friend past the odious women and into the kitchen. Thomas allowed himself to be pulled along by the forearm, his expression murderous.

“Everything all right chaps?” Mr Bates asked them, joining them next to the stove. Mrs Patmore had indeed left the kettle ready to be boiled, and so it was but a moment’s work for William to heft the giant metal device onto the lingering heat. He grabbed the jar of ground tea leaves next, and then the one containing the silk tea bags that saved them all from having to fuss about with a proper strainer.

“Not really, but we’ll live,” William sighed as he placed two mugs on the worktop and then turned around. “Thomas had the worst of it.”

“Hardly,” Thomas mumbled, crossing his arms across his chest and refusing to look at either of them.

“No, he did,” William shook his head. “Daisy was being, well herself I suppose. And Thomas was trying so hard to let her down gently and point her towards me, but she wasn’t having it. Then she lashed out of course, which was inevitable really I suppose, and she ran off. Poor Thomas had to literally go chasing after her, to stop her from trying to walk back on her own. And once he caught up to her, she was horrible to him again.”

Thomas made one of those grumbly noises he was always making these days, presumably when he was stopping himself from saying something mean. William admired him for making the effort, for the restraint must be quite hard on him and yet he still kept trying to be a better person than he used to be anyway.

Mr Bates blinked and let that gentle warm smile he was always wearing creep onto his face.

“She’s only young lads, she’ll grow up and grow out of it.”

“I hope so,” William sighed as he turned back to check on the stove kettle. He really was sweet on her, even if he was questioning why after the night he’d had.

“Just wished she’d do the growing up somewhere other than near me,” Thomas muttered. “S’tedious. She’s tedious.”

“All young people are at times,” Bates shook his head fondly.

“Water’s ready. D’you want a mug Mr Bates?”

“Oh, go on then,” the older valet smiled at him. “You missed meeting the new chauffeur by the way; he popped into the hall to grab a bite to eat and then sat with O’Brien and I while he was waiting on the old Lady. Seems alright. Wasn’t impressed with O’Brien at any rate.”

“Is he as boring as Taylor was?” Thomas huffed, finally pulling his eyes away from the far wall he’d been staring at relentlessly.

“He’s a young’n like you two actually,” Bates hummed as he shifted his grip on his cane. “And Irish.”

“Irish?” Thomas scoffed. “Now there’s trouble waiting to happen.”

“What’s wrong with the Irish?” William protested as he heaved the kettle over to the teapot he’d prepared, balancing the lower edge on it’s designated cork heat mat so that he could pour without having to support its full weight.

“Nothing, c’ept they’re on the verge of a revolution,” Thomas shrugged, plainly just stating facts. “They’ve already made a serious play for independence from Britain and it’s only going to get worse I bet. And for all that he’s one of them reformist types, his Lordship’s still very much an English Earl and therefore a staunch King’s man too.”

“You have a point there,” Bates frowned, clearly considering the matter. “Then again, that’s probably why Lord Grantham hired him. He always did like hearing both sides of the argument from primary sources wherever possible. Almost got him court-martialled once or twice over in Africa.”

“Really!?” William turned to stare at him, a little gobsmacked.

“Don’t go repeating that mind,” Bates asked dryly. “Her Ladyship doesn’t know and he’d like to keep it that way. But yes, he was rather ardently opposed to the practice of putting the natives in camps. And having seen some of them, I really don’t blame him.”

“Goodness,” William shook his head. “Puts a whole new spin on him.”

“He has my loyalty for more than just being beside me when we were getting shot at,” he chuckled. “He’s a good man too.”

“Well the tea’s ready,” William announced as he grabbed the wooden tray with the pot and the mugs on it and turned back around. “Where shall we take this?”

“Bootroom,” Thomas gestured with his head. “Mrs Hughes will be back with the others soon and I have a feeling that O’Brien is still haunting our hall like a bad smell. Would rather avoid both of them.”

“I suppose Mrs Hughes will have a hundred-and-one questions for us when she arrives,” William hummed in agreement. “Best not give her the opportunity to ask them until we’ve all got clear heads and our thoughts in order.”

“Then lead the way gentlemen,” Bates grinned.

Chapter Text

The summer of 1913 arrived in the usual blaze of muggy English heat. Both the servant’s halls and the attics rose to sweltering temperatures throughout the day, and so most of the staff took whatever excuse they could to vanish outside into the comparable coolness of the yard and gardens.

August was well and truly here.

Thomas was amongst the group that frequently absconded outside, and having grabbed a couple of Lord Grantham’s discarded newspapers before anyone else could, he managed to slip out only thirty minutes after the upstairs breakfast had been cleared away. William was already loitering with Anna in the shade of the woodshed when he ambled over, and a couple of the other maids – Gracie and Rosie – were off to the side and giggling at something one of the gardeners was telling them about.

“Hello you!” Anna greeted him cheerily as he leant on the rough wooden wall next to them. “Anything interesting in the papers?”

Thomas grunted wordlessly, not having had a chance to actually look at them yet.

“Just the usual stuff about the suffragettes,” William yawned. “Saw it before our breakfast when I was ironing the ink dry for his Lordship.”

“Oh they are brave that lot, don’t think I’d dare do half the stuff they come up with.”

“Looks like they’re still ragging on about that huge protest in Hyde Park last week,” Thomas confirmed when he’d gotten the first page flipped up. There was yet another blurry photo of the crowd beneath the headline, thousands of ladies surrounded by angry men and stern police officers.

“Trying to imply that the women involved were attempting to stir up trouble, no doubt,” Anna sighed as she moved to peer over his shoulder. “But I saw some of Lady Sybil’s pamphlets when I was tidying her room the other day. This was meant to be a peaceful pilgrimage with stops to give educational speeches along the way, but as usual with these things, I suspect there was quite a bit of interference from the men opposed to them.”

“Don’t really know why anyone wants the vote,” William hummed thoughtfully. “Not saying they shouldn’t have it,” he added hastily at Anna’s look. “Just that I don’t get what you’d do with it once you have it. All I know about politics is that Lord Grantham is one of them progressives, which I suppose means he wants everyone to have a fair say no matter how they were born. Reckon he’s right with that thinking.”

“Well there you go,” Thomas rolled his eyes. “If you think that, you’re a progressive too. So if you had the vote you should use it for the Liberals.”

“Liberals?”

“The main party of the progressives,” Thomas explained irritably as he flicked over the page and was greeted by a strange article about fifty sperm whales getting stranded on the Cornish coast. “Versus the Conservatives who think only the King and the Lords should have power. Everyone’s been discussing this for weeks now, how have you not worked out what’s what yet?”

“Well it’s not like any of us have the vote anyway, so why bother?” William shrugged. “You said you have to be a landowner or have bought your own house for that and every one of us is a tenant.”

Thomas admitted that was a fair point with a shrug of one shoulder.

“Maybe when women get the vote, they’ll do away with the property demands too?” Anna suggested, though it was clear she thought that was a bit of a stretch.

Not likely, you stupid fool Thomas went to scoff, only to remember at the last second that he was shutting up and waiting these days. Instead, he just grunted and shrugged again.

“Well, we can dream at least,” William huffed with a small smile. “Maybe I should ask what’s-his-name, the new chauffeur… Branson! He’s all political, isn’t he?”

“Or maybe his Lordship will have some books he can recommend,” Thomas proposed quickly as a counter. Branson was all the way over to the left and not afraid to crow about it; if William started repeating any of his more alarmingly radial statements, Carson would flog him and then ban the rest of them from ever glancing at a newspaper or pamphlet forever more. And Thomas liked keeping up with what was going on in the world. Spared him from going insane over the house’s petty internal politics.

Plus everyone else was always borrowing books from the upstairs library, so he didn’t see how it could hurt. All you had to do was write the title and your name in the ledger and then not do any damage.

“I can’t just ask his Lordship for book recommendations!” William gasped quietly. “He’s got better things to be doing than talking to me, surely! Carson will smack me for even considering the impertinence!”

“What’s all this? Sounds like a lot of carrying on!”

“Mrs Hughes!” Anna greeted the housekeeper with another bright smile. “Thomas was just giving us an overview of the news and suggesting that William borrow some history books from the main library.”

“Well I ought to tell you all off for hanging around outside not doing any work,” she shook her head as she joined them in the shade. “But to be quite honest, I don’t blame you. If I had to spend five more minutes downstairs in that oven, well, only the Almighty Lord would be able to forgive me for my subsequent actions.”

“It is rather ridiculous,” Anna agreed. “I was thinking of asking if I can bring my mending to the table out here actually, rather than have to sit down in the hall.”

“So long as you stay out of the way of the outside workers, I don’t see why not,” Mrs Hughes hummed agreeably in her faint Scottish burr. “That said, has anyone seen Gwen recently?”

“She had a bit of a funny turn just as we were finishing off our share of the upstairs bed making,” Anna frowned. “Mr Carson sent her off up to bed.”

“Nice of him to have passed that bit of information on to me,” she sighed. “Though I suppose even Mr Carson’s impressive wits have been more than a little fried by this heat.”

“Mrs Hughes, have you heard anything about that missing snuff box yet?” William then inquired with his usual over-the-top earnestness. Thomas wouldn’t have put it past his Lordship himself to have simply misplaced it, but he could hardly say that, so instead he’d just shrugged cluelessly along with everyone else when it’s absence was announced at breakfast. After all, the only other explanation that came to mind was that Bates had taken it. Which was a ludicrous idea for any who even slightly knew the man.

No, no doubt it would show up on some shelf somewhere else in the house at some point, along with a completely innocent explanation for how it ended up there.

“No, not yet,” Mrs Hughes echoed his thoughts. “Though no doubt we’ll find it somewhere entirely innocuous. Now I’m sorry lads, but you had best get yourself back inside and back to work. Got a big dinner party to cater for tonight after all.”

“Yes Mrs Hughes,” Thomas and William groaned together.

Grimacing at each other, they double checked their uniforms and hustled off to return to their tasks.

Anna woke the following morning with a distinct sense that something was off.

It wasn’t a tangible sensation, not a feeling she could put a name to or even put a finger on really, but there was something unsettling in the air. Like the sky itself was holding it’s breath, like the first hint a thunderstorm might be brewing beyond the far horizon.

Frowning to herself, she yawned widely and then slowly began to slide out from under her covers.

It was already warm in the little attic room she shared with Gwen, the stifling heat from yesterday not having fully dissipated overnight despite their window being open as wide as it would go. She therefore didn’t bother to grab her worn and fraying housecoat as she pushed herself to her feet and reached for her towel and small wash bag.

Gwen was already most of the way dressed by the time she returned from the women’s bathroom, and was kind enough to make both their beds while she climbed into her own clothing. They then quickly helped each other pin their hair up under their caps, and finally, they were presentable and ready to descend down to the servant halls.

Thomas was already in the kitchen when Anna swept in in search of tea five minutes later. The scowling footman was in the process of upending the contents of the stove kettle into the tall urn they usually used in the mornings, stoically ignoring Mrs Patmore as she marched about and furiously shouted at anyone who dared come within her range. Anna also decided it was the better part of valour to ignore the agitated cook and so greeted him with a cheery good morning, receiving a toneless grunt in reply.

Which was more or less what she’d been expecting from the man; Thomas was most definitely not a morning person.

Soon she had a tray in hand, loaded down with milk, sugar, and several steaming cups filled by Thomas’ steady hands. Sidestepping the still ranting Mrs Patmore, the two of them shuffled on through to the hall and settled into to their usual seats on either side of the long table; Thomas on Mr Bates’ left, while Anna lowered herself into the seat opposite the two men on Gwen’s right.

Within a few minutes, they each had a mug in hand and William had slid into his usual place on Thomas’ other side. Thomas looked like he was about to fall back to sleep right there at the table despite the drink he was gripping.

“Do I have to go check the main house over?” the sprawled out footman groaned as he took another large gulp of the hot liquid. “William do you want to do it instead? Play at first footman for the day?”

“I should think not,” the other footman laughed jovially. “Unless you fancy checking all of the upstairs cutlery sets, setting both upstairs tables, sweeping the entrance hall, and then overseeing the library airing instead?”

“Lord no,” Thomas groaned again. “And make Timmy do the sweeping. Little sneak palmed his share off on Harold again yesterday and thought I wouldn’t notice.”

“You really should tell Carson about that,” Mr Bates chuckled as he drained the last of his tea. “He’ll keep getting away with it until you do.”

“I know I’m an evil sod, but I’m not quite that mean,” Thomas snorted, tipping his head backwards. “The two of them are only fourteen.”

Anna smirked into her own cup. If someone had told her eighteen months ago that Thomas was actually a bleeding heart who only pretended at being miserable and malicious, she’d have laughed in their face and sent them packing. Or rather, she supposed, he was still short-tempered and frequently grumpy, prone to lashing out and snapping. Outright nasty if you pushed him too far. But that was all easily looked passed once you knew there was something to look for.

And his greatest weakness, she had learned over the past year, was children. For the few hall boys that were apparently young enough in Thomas’ eyes that they counted as such to him, this was a brilliant characteristic that they loved to take advantage of. No doubt because he spoiled them rotten and let them get away with all sorts of nonsense he shouldn’t.

Case in point she thought, as Mr Bates continued to try and convince him to report the mischievous Timothy to no avail.

“Come on then you lot, we better get started,” she eventually chivvied them once they’d lingered long enough. William was up on his feet in a shot, gathering their empty mugs back up to take them and the tray back to the kitchen before she’d even managed to finish the sentence, but the rest of them were rather more lackadaisical as they pushed themselves upright.

“Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,” Thomas intoned sonorously as he too stood and stretched. And then he was also gone, following after William and loudly ordering the two oldest hall boys to meet him in the upper pantry.

“You know,” Anna smirked as she watched him disappear round the corner. “I think that’s the first time he’s actually called us his friends.”

“About time too,” Mr Bates chuckled. “William has been calling him mate to his face for months now.”

“Typical of him to do it with a Shakespeare quote of all things,” Gwen shook her head. “Come on, let’s get the morning room sorted before they start laying the table in there. William will want the natural light to see by.”

Anna nodded her agreement and soon the two of them were climbing back up the stairs with their equipment in hand. Mrs Hughes nodded at them as they passed, the housekeeper no doubt headed for her own first cuppa of the day, and then they were by the green baize door.

Anna had just put her hand on it to push it open when Miss O’Brien also stomped down the stairs with an extremely smug expression colouring her entire face. The self-satisfaction was practically rolling off her in waves despite the early hour, and Anna near-shivered with foreboding.

The sour Lady’s maid did not greet them as she passed, but her smirk was vicious and gleeful in equal parts.

The sense of trepidation that Anna had had when she awoke returned three fold.

“What’s she gone and done now?” Gwen muttered suspiciously once they’d moved into the main hall. “She’s like the cat that got the canary.”

“Nothing good I expect,” Anna grimaced back.

“You don’t think she knows about me sneaking out?” Gwen hissed quietly as they pushed through the glass panel doors into the entrance hall and then into the morning room.

“No,” Anna shook her head quickly, flicking the lights on. “There was far too much going on yesterday for her to have time to notice, what with Lady Sybil’s horse going lame and then all the hysterics over poor Mrs Patmore.”

“Poor?” Gwen snorted. “Have you heard her the last few days? If anyone’s poor, it's young Daisy having to weather all that shouting and abuse!”

“Well I imagine it’s quite frightening to realise you’re going blind,” Anna tried to sympathise as they worked in tandem to open up the curtains and window shutters. Though in truth, she didn’t think that was quite enough of an excuse to justify the amount of vitriol being spewed.

“Still though,” Gwen pulled a face.

Anna didn’t reply again as she moved to turn the lights back off now that daylight was flooding the space. Once that was done, she set about plumping the cushions on the lone settee in the room, while Gwen made quick work of dusting off the sideboard and its ornaments.

And then William was striding in with his usual perfect posture, two large white table cloths tucked under one arm.

“Hello again!” he smiled at them as he unfolded the under cloth and swept it over the breakfast table with a practiced flourish. The table in this room wasn’t nearly so large or impressive as the main one in the dining room, but it was still fairly sizeable and made of burnished oak that gleamed in the morning light.

“We passed Mrs Hughes on the way up, so it won’t be long before she starts her rounds,” Anna smiled back at him. “Daisy seems to have finished with most of the fires already, Iris and Florence should be tackling the small library, and we’ll head to the saloon next.”

“Fair warning,” William grimaced with a hint of amusement. “Thomas just found a smashed crystal decanter in the drawing room so he’s livid.”

“Oh joy,” Gwen sighed. “So now we’ve got to watch for his temper as well as keep an eye on Miss O’Brien.”

“Why, what’s she gone and done now?”

“Who knows,” Anna huffed as she checked over the vase of flowers perched on the fireplace mantle. “She followed Mrs Hughes down with a face like she’d won the grand national.”

“That doesn’t bode well,” William pursed his lips.

“No,” Anna shook her head. “It does not.”

The dining hall was lively with activity as two of the kitchen maids raced about clearing the table after the servant’s luncheon.

The temperature outside had blessedly dropped a little, so it was almost tolerable downstairs again despite the heat from the ovens and range. Still, in deference to the lingering warmth, Mrs Patmore had had the girls assemble dozens of sandwiches made from cold slices of meat left over from last night’s upstairs dinner. They hadn’t had any cucumber in them as that was very much an upstairs delicacy, but they’d been stuffed with plenty of rocket harvested from the house’s flourishing summer salad gardens which almost made up for the lack.

Having eaten his fill, Thomas leant back in his usual chair, content and unwilling to return to his duties quite yet.

He’d have to soon though; half the maids and most of the hall boys had already scrambled off, and Mr Carson would scold them all dry if the rest of them were still sat around when he returned from the wine cellar.

“Any news of that snuff box yet?” Miss O’Brien suddenly spoke up, her smirk bordering on an outright sneer.

“No, not yet,” Bates smiled back blandly.

“What does happen if they don’t find it?” William asked as he too leant back in his chair looking relaxed.

“They’ll organise a search,” Thomas grumbled. God, he hated searches. The object in question always showed up eventually anyway, and if it was truly lost, well then looking for it in the house wouldn’t bring it back. Either way, searches meant wasting valuable hours better spent doing other more valuable things. Like sleeping and eating.

Plus he hated the invasion of privacy that was always the first part of one.

“I wouldn’t want to be you when that happens, not for all the tea in China,” O’Brien said directly to Bates with a poorly hidden chuckle.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” William frowned, his voice tinged with agitation.

“Well he’s the only one who ever goes in there, isn’t he?” O’Brien replied haughtily. “Doesn’t exactly look good.”

The Lady’s maid stood up then, her smile small but vicious. Her back was ramrod straight as she walked away, and her head held high as she sneered down at everyone who passed her.

“What is her problem?” William huffed once she was out of sight, crossing his arms over his chest, rucking up his dress shirt and waistcoat by doing so.

“She’s miserable and so wants the rest of us to be as well,” Bates commented flatly.

“Maybe she just needs a friend?” Anna suggested, ever the compassionate one.

“She had a friend,” Thomas scoffed. “’Til she turned on the poor bloke for no reason.”

“Pretty sure you were a lot less innocent than just being some poor bloke,” Anna teased him. “Though personally I think it was a good thing you ended up turning on each other. Or at least I think that some good things came out of it.”

“Oh like-” Thomas started to snap back irritably.

Only to stop.

And think.

“What?” Bates asked, suddenly sitting upright and turning all his attention to him.

“That conniving little-” he hissed.

“Thomas,” Bates demanded softly.

“She’s the one who took the snuff box,” he muttered angrily. “And I’ll bet my entire month’s wages that she’s hidden it one of our rooms. She’d love it if one of us got taken as a thief.”

Next to him, Anna and William exchanged horrified glances.

“We haven’t got time to search all four of our rooms,” Bates pointed out quietly. “It’s been missing more than twenty-four hours now. Carson and Mrs Hughes could decide to spring a search on us at any moment.”

“Boot room, now,” Anna insisted, already climbing to her feet.

Furious and a little panicked, Thomas scrambled upright too and followed the others out of the hall. They slipped into the little back room quickly, closing the door to but not completely shutting it so as to avoid attracting any eavesdroppers.

“Thomas is right,” Anna restarted once they were all huddled around the far end of the work table. “Mr Bates is right too. She has to have put it in one of our rooms, it’s why she’s been acting all smug all morning. Why she was baiting us just now.”

“Won’t be William’s room,” Thomas quickly dismissed, thinking rapidly. “She doesn’t care either way about you, no reason to target you. Possibly Anna, but only because it’s the easiest for her to access. The real question is whether her goading you,” he nodded at Bates,” was genuine or whether that was a deliberate misdirect.”

“Misdirect?” William frowned in blatant confusion.

“She’ll be hoping we don’t work out what’s she done at all, but in case we do, she would want us to waste time searching my room when it’s actually in Thomas’” Bates explained patiently.

“Right,” William huffed in realisation. “Is she that clever though?”

“She is,” Thomas growled in frustration. “Actually I wouldn’t put it past her to have planned that goading as a double blind. And as for motives, that’s a split between Bates and me as well. She doesn’t like either of us. Bates for outranking her despite his leg, and me for breaking off with her.”

“Doesn’t matter, we can search both. Or well, you three can. I can’t go in the men’s corridor.”

“Thomas’ room first,” Bates sighed. “She dislikes you more than me Thomas, as there’s revenge wound up in it too. With me it’s just principle. So you two go now, you can get up the stairs much faster than I can. Anna, best go give your room a once over just in case.”

Thomas growled under his breath again, annoyed that this is what being polite and biting his tongue had gotten him. Nothing for it now though.

With William hot on his heels, he strode straight back out of the boot room and headed for the back staircase. Three stories later and they emerged onto the cramped little landing, immediately barrelling through the door into the men’s side of the attics.

Thomas’ room was along the back side, one of the smaller ones that wasn’t quite wide enough to take a second bed. He also had very few personal possessions, so he could at least be a little reassured that if the snuff box was in there, they’d find it fairly quickly.

William went straight for his neatly made bed, beginning to pat down his lumpy pillow and pull his covers down. Thomas in turn, cracked the narrow wardrobe open and started rummaging through the pockets of his casual suit jackets and spare uniform pieces.

They’d progressed to peering beneath the furniture and rifling through his underwear drawers respectively when Bates arrived. The older man nodded silently at them in greeting, and headed for the last undisturbed place; the narrow table under the left skylight that was stacked with his valet service boxes and personal grooming gear.

Ten minutes later and they were staring awkwardly at each having found nothing.

“Suppose it’s not here then,” William shrugged uneasily. “Unless there’s some place we haven’t thought to look?”

Resisting the temptation the kick his chest of drawers in frustration, Thomas shook his head and then began to shoo the other two men out of his room and along the corridor. Bates’ door was only two down and across from Thomas’, but being on the opposite side meant that it not only had a proper sash window that over looked the central roof, it was also deeper and wider. Designed for two people really, but they were lacking in senior male staff these days so there was no need for any of them to share.

As soon as they were all in, they quickly set about repeating their actions, Thomas going straight for the wardrobe once more.

“Got it!” William suddenly yelled, half his body still under one of the metal bed frames. He wiggled out swiftly and climbed to his feet, the front of his livery speckled with dust and a loose bit of thread. “It were wedged under the edge of your bowler hat box.”

“And she knows you’re unlikely to wear that until the weather’s cooled off again,” Thomas growled to the valet. “Been wearing your flat cap all summer so I bet you would never have opened that box until it was too late.”

“I was planning on getting it out for the flower show tomorrow actually,” Bates stated with obvious repressed anger. “Though tomorrow could well have been too late.”

“Here,” William held out the small box to him. It was pale blue, Thomas noted, with a little painted miniature set in the centre of the lid and gold filigree wrapped around it’s edges. One of Lord Grantham’s more expensive collector’s pieces, if he recalled correctly.

Christ, Bates really would have been in the shit if they hadn’t found it before someone else.

“Give it to Anna,” Thomas bit out. “And she can plant it in the b- in her room. Turn about is fair play.”

“I’ll consider it,” Bates ground out as he carefully placed the item in his jacket pocket. “We had better go down before Mr Carson starts to wonder where we’ve got to.”

The rest of the day was fraught with tension, Thomas and the other three exchanging silent angry glances whenever they met in passing.

The upstairs dinner dragged on forever as well, despite it only being four courses for the family and no guests. Lady Sybil and Lord Grantham got into a lively discussion of politics quite early on and then didn’t stop even when Lady Mary started making coarse pointed remarks. Eventually, her Ladyship and the two older girls escaped to the drawing room, but Lady Sybil somehow wrangled her way into remaining in the dining room with her father as he had his evening port.

Carson looked like he was about to burst a vein over the breach in etiquette, but Thomas had been far more concerned about the fact it left him stuck hovering silently on the periphery. Unable to fully clear the table but not able to leave either.

Eventually the Lord had noticed Thomas and Carson hovering and had at least had the grace to look apologetic as he shuffled himself and his daughter off to join the others. But by the time he had, darkness had already fallen and most of the staff were preparing to shuffle off to bed.

And so when he finally managed to collapse into his usual chair downstairs, exhausted and irritated, Thomas really wanted to just abandon his remaining evening tasks and go straight to bed too.

But O’Brien was sat at the table as well and he refused to give her the satisfaction of seeing him slack off, of providing her with an opportunity to run to Carson and tattle on him. Especially as she was still looking all smug and high and mighty. Well, she’d get her comeuppance and soon.

Lord above, he really hoped Bates had taken his suggestion and run with it.

But he could sit for five minutes at least, give his sore legs a much needed break before heading back up stairs to lock the front doors and gather the last of the fine china. Have a smoke to take the edge of his agitation off.

“Well you look done in,” Gwen frowned as she appeared with Florence and claimed the seat directly opposite him. He glanced up at them tiredly, slipping his match book back into his inner jacket pocket as he brought his lit cigarette to his lips.

“The upstairs dinner ran longer than usual,” he remarked as blandly as he was able once he’d inhaled a good lung full. He fought to keep his tone mild, conscious of all the other people in the room. Wary that Carson could walk in at any moment and take him to task if there was so much as a hint of resentment in his tone.

And with how annoyed he’d been all day, he’d snap and say something he’d regret if Carson started in on him.

“An understatement, I’ll say,” Florence giggled. The small mousey maid was a quiet one usually, and so her existence barely registered to Thomas most days. Not out of any malice, but purely because they were normally all too busy to socialise with anyone other than the people they were actively working alongside. As the youngest house maid and first footman, not only did they rarely have tasks with any overlap, but they also had to sit at opposite ends of the table during mealtimes.

“Yes well,” Thomas sighed. “Lord Grantham and Lady Sybil were quite intent on familial bonding tonight.”

“She’s her head up in the clouds, that one,” O’Brien sneered, not looking up from the blue lace she was fiddling with. “Lord’s daughter or no, she’s a woman and should remember it. And he should know better than to indulge her and encourage that nonsense.”

“I thought you would have learnt better than to speak ill of our employers after your smack from her Ladyship last year,” Bates warned as he limped into the hall with Anna close behind him.

“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again,” O’Brien raised her head haughtily. “This is our place downstairs, for our opinions. If them upstairs don’t want to hear it, they shouldn’t come down here.”

“Isn’t that rather the opposite of what you just claimed?” Thomas pointed out smugly, squaring his own shoulders and letting his own sharp smirk twist his mouth. “Or are you trying to imply that we as the servants should be allowed to voice our opinions, but Lady Sybil should not?”

He breathed out a long stream of smoke, just to really rub it in.

“He’s got you there,” Gwen snorted.

“There’s having opinions and then there’s sticking your fingers in men’s politics,” O’Brien snapped.

“Well I think it’s good of her, to try and use her position in society for the betterment of everyone,” Anna retorted calmly as she slipped into the empty chair next to Thomas. “And I’m glad his Lordship supports her endeavours. It shows that he’s a generous and honourable man, and that he’s the type to expand that generosity to those of us downstairs.”

“Here here,” Bates nodded.

“Oh, Mr Carson!” Anna suddenly called out, leaning round to catch the butler’s attention. “Glad we caught you. We were wondering about that snuff box. Has it turned up yet?”

The room fell silent and Thomas forced his face into the servant’s blank as the older man strode in curiously. Silently, Thomas prayed that Anna had managed to have a word with Bates before starting this; for all he knew, the valet still had the damn thing in his pocket!

“I’m afraid not,” Carson intoned gravely.

“Well I think we should have a search,” Bates stated plainly.

So Anna had talked to him then? Good. That meant he could sit back and enjoy this.

“What?” O’Brien said flatly. Disbelieving.

“It doesn’t do to leave these things too long,” Bates continued in the same composed tone.

“Mr Carson can search the men’s rooms,” Thomas added placidly, suppressing his delighted glee with an iron will. “Mrs Hughes the women’s.”

“It should be right away, now we’ve talked of it,” Anna finished with in the same bland manner Bates was always using. “So no one has a chance to hide the box. Don’t you agree Mr Carson?”

Her last line was revealing a bit too much eagerness in Thomas’ opinion, but it hardly mattered. He could help her refine her slyness later, both hers and William’s. What was important right now, was the way that O’Brien had gone white as a sheet.

“Well perhaps it’s for the best,” Carson hummed thoughtfully. “Although I’m sure I won’t find anything. Ah yes, I’ll fetch Mrs Hughes.”

Thomas tipped his head to smirk at Anna conspiratorially.

She smirked right back.

“I think I’ll just…” Miss O’Brien stuttered out as she abandoned her sewing and rushed to her feet. “Better make sure it’s tidy!”

“Dare I ask?” Gwen bit her lip as the Lady’s maid raced out.

“Best not!” Thomas grinned as he leaned back again and took another long drag.

A second later and they all lost their composure completely, muffled laughter filling the hall.

Maybe, Thomas thought as he sniggered along with the others. Maybe biting my tongue all the time is worth it after all.

Chapter Text

“Are you sure this is a good idea darling?” Lady Grantham asked for what had to be the fifth or sixth time in the last quarter of an hour.

“I will be beside her the entire time,” his Lordship reassured her again, just as he had every time prior. “I’m taking Thomas, and Branson will be nearby and ready to fetch the motor the instant we need him to.”

“I know, I’m fussing,” she sighed with a small smile, placing her hands on either side of her husband’s chest. “I just dread to think of what could happen. You’ve seen the newspapers as surely as I have!”

“Which is why I’m also going and why I’m taking two dependable men with me. No harm will come to Sybil, I promise.”

Thomas wasn’t exactly sure when he’d flipped from being tolerated to dependable in Lord Grantham’s eyes, but he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Though no doubt a large part of the trust placed him had come as a result of the Pamuk affair – as Bates had reported his Lordship referring to it as – which was ironic in the extreme.

It had been more than a full year since that mess, and the full truth still remained a closely guarded secret. Other than himself, only Bates and Anna knew all of it. With any luck, it would remain that way forevermore.

Thomas still hadn’t the faintest clue how they’d gotten away with it so cleanly, especially considering how he’d nearly been pushed over the landing banister by the angry Turk. Well he did; turns out Anna and Bates are bloody good liars, is how. That and the sheer dumb luck of a well timed burst blood vessel. But it was still ironic that Lord Grantham trusted them so much because they’d lied to the man’s face.

“Seriously, if any harm comes to our girl at this rally, I will make you sleep in your dressing room for a week,” Lady Grantham teased fondly.

“She’d be fine even without me there and you know it,” the Lord grinned as he stepped back. Thomas then handed him his hat and gloves, politely averted his eyes as they exchanged a more amorous round of goodbyes, and then followed his Lordship out to where the motor was waiting with Lady Sybil already tucked up in the back.

Carson glared at him something rotten as they passed him, no doubt deeply offended by Thomas’ use of the front door. But the alternative was to make the Lord wait while he ran downstairs to the back door and then came back round from the servant’s yard. Even Carson wasn’t stubborn enough to insist on that, so out the front door Thomas went.

“All set?” Branson muttered to him once he’d climbed up front next to the chauffeur.

“All set,” Thomas confirmed with a nod, and then they were pulling away.

It was a dreary day despite spring almost being ready to give way to summer once more. The sky was overcast, the air damp with impending rain, and a chill crept in through the gaps in his clothes as they drove. The wind roared as they powered on towards Ripon, whistling through the exposed front cab, swirling around his head enough to make his cap ripple.

Still, this was the most peace and quiet he’d had in six months.

Mrs Hughes must have said something to Carson as the butler had finally backed off a little, at least verbally. The glowering and scowling were still very much present, but Thomas could finally do more than breath again without being criticised.

But unfortunately O’Brien had stepped up to fill the gap.

Bitterer than ever after having her snuff box trick turned back on her, she’d taken to snipping at him whenever they were forced to be in the same room. As her technical superior, Bates was doing his best to curb her tongue a little, but it wasn’t exactly a requirement that the staff get along and only Carson had the power to silence her completely.

Thomas could have shrugged it off if it weren’t for the things she knew about him.

The things she was getting dangerously close to revealing about him. Hinting at the edges of them, slipping subtle little indicators into her taunts. Never enough on their own, but collated… combined...

So Thomas had spent the last six months getting tenser and tenser. He knew he had reverted back towards his more snappish ways because of it, but he couldn’t help it. Not when his life was potentially on the line. It would only take one person working out what O’Brien was actually hinting at, one person to go running to the police…

People like Thomas died in prison. Beaten to death for being deviants and perverts.

“You alright?” Branson asked him over the low roar of the motor as they pulled out of the far side of the village. “You’re awful quiet recently. Even more than you already were.”

“I’m fine,” Thomas grumbled back.

“You shouldn’t take her insults to heart,” Branson continued on anyway, ignoring Thomas’ obvious glare. “Miss O’Brien I mean. None of us care what she thinks anyway.”

“I said I’m fine,” he repeated more forcibly.

“I’m serious! You have a face like you’re steps away from mounting the gallows these days. Makes a man concerned!”

“Will you shut up!” Thomas hissed at him, turning slightly to eye the two aristocrats conversing quietly in the back. It was one of the most basic rules of service; never let any downstairs drama make it’s way upstairs. Even as an outside man, Branson ought to know that as surely as Thomas did.

“Uh, right,” Branson coughed weakly. “Sorry.”

“You bloody well will be sorry,” Thomas growled under his breath.

Scowling even harder than before, he twisted to stare out the side window and tried to just stop thinking for once in his damn life.

Christ, but he really was going to have to do something about the horrible woman.

Two years ago Anna had sat in this self same chair in the servant’s hall and thought there’s something going on with Thomas. Only this time, she was fully sure what the something was.

And this time she was angry on Thomas’ behalf, not just baffled and curious.

Mr Bates was at opposite her as she carefully folded a strip of pale blue ribbon into a complicated little floret. Once it was pinned into the right shape, it was going atop one of Lady Edith’s hats, so that it would be suitable for wearing at the afternoon tea outings during the upcoming London season. But she was taking her time doing the work as her mind was half on Thomas, and half on the man sat opposite her.

Mr Bates had told her that he could not return her affections despite his wishes, as he was already married.

Slightly to her own surprise, she found that she wasn’t really bothered by that. She was upset of course, but what woman wouldn’t be upon learning that her interest could never amount to more than that? No, upset was expected, but she rather thought she also ought to be perturbed that she was good friends with a man who longed for a divorce, who wished to cast aside oaths of fidelity made before God himself. And yet she wasn’t. Not in the least bit.

Then again, she mentally revised as she slipped another dressmaking pin through the blue ribbon, she wasn’t bothered that Thomas was less-than-biblically-wholesome either. In fact, his occasional bursts of arrogant curtness were far more bothersome than his being that sort of man. Though, she also supposed, the former was actually probably a result of the latter; if one had to be constantly fearful that too much personal scrutiny would lead to one’s imprisonment, it was no wonder that he had resigned himself to keeping everyone constantly at arm’s length. What better way was there to ensure that nobody got close enough to notice than by being so awful that no one wanted to even try?

Not that he’d done very well at keeping them all at arm’s length in the last couple of years, she chuckled silently to herself. Once he’d allowed Bates to sit in silence next to him without fuss, both her and William had sat themselves down next to him too. And with how chatty William could be, well. Poor Thomas hadn’t stood much of a chance in the face of that, no matter how grumpy and standoffish he was.

Now the three of them just had to stop him from pulling away again. Which was the current crux of the issue.

Securing the end of the ribbon to the back of the floret, Anna allowed herself a small prideful smile at her neat work, and then slowly stretched. Surreptitiously, she used the motion to have a glance round the room – just like Thomas was always doing – noting who else was in the room and who might be tempted to listen in. But with the upstairs luncheon fast approaching though, the servant’s hall was mercifully empty. Aside from herself, only Mr Bates and Rosie were sat at the table, and while one of the hall boys (Benjamin?) kept passing through, he was clearly busy each time and therefore of little concern.

Still though, Thomas was always grumbling about how it was better to be safe than sorry, so best go somewhere quieter just in case.

“Mr Bates,” she opened with after another moment’s thought. “I was thinking of catching some fresh air in the few minutes we have left until the dressing gong. Would you care to accompany me? Only we’ve been cooped up in here all morning.”

Mr Bates took in an audible breath through his nose as he looked up from his own mending work. Then, once he’d parsed Anna’s words and noted her careful expression, he smiled slightly and offered a single nod.

She nodded back and they both made quick work of packing their sewing cases back up and stashing them in the appropriate baskets. Mr Bates then gestured for her to proceed her, and they hurried up the stairs out into the yard.

As she’d been hoping, the miserable weather meant that it was practically empty, with only a couple of the outside staff bustling round doing the necessary tasks. The two of them therefore moved quickly under the cover of the tiled woodshed, which not only saved them from the cutting wind and the few spots of drizzle, but also meant they could talk without much risk of being overheard.

“You have the look of a woman with an agenda,” Bates chuckled softly once they were safely ensconced.

“And I have one,” she admitted easily. “Just not sure how to go about raising the subject. It’s the sort of thing men always think women entirely ignorant of, and are too polite to ever mention even if they somehow do.”

“I’ve lived long enough to have learnt such thoughts are naïve,” Mr Bates snorted, leaning back on the rough stone wall. “All women know much more than any man has ever given them credit for. And what’s more, they handle such things much better than men in most circumstances.”

“Glad to know at least one of you has your head screwed on straight,” Anna grinned back. But then her smile slipped as her thoughts returned to her purpose for coming out here. “It’s Thomas,” she eventually settled on starting with. “With him out with his Lordship at that political rally all day, this is the first chance we’ve had in months to have a proper discussion without worrying about him hearing and taking it all wrong.”

“He has been… down the last few months,” Bates agreed readily. “Ever since O’Brien started implicating, uh...”

Anna took a breath, and decided it was best to just come out with it.

“That he’s not a Lady’s man,” she nodded sharply once. “If you take my meaning.”

“Take it and understand it,” Bates breathed out roughly.

“And you’re uh, okay with it?”

Bates shrugged, his face neutral.

“I’ve… met another man like Thomas before,” he eventually said slowly. “And once I stopped to think about it, I realised he was an alright sort. Good head on his shoulders, sense of duty and responsibility that would do any man credit. He was just also… like that. I won’t pretend I was kind and understanding at first, but after knowing him a bit, it was fairly obvious he hadn’t chosen to be that way and that it wasn’t anything he’d done that caused him to turn into that sort. So I figured he must have just been born that way. And no man can help how they’re born.”

And well. Wasn’t that reassuring. Mr Bates must now be of roughly the same mind as she was then, to make statements like that so boldly.

“Well I also won’t say I never thought it were anything but choice,” she sighed, angling her body better so as to watch for anyone who might approach them. Again, like Thomas always did. “But I think I’ve also learnt better since then; no man would ever choose to be that way surely, not with the law and life hanging over them like it does. And so if they’re just that way naturally, well then God must have made them that way. And who are we to question God’s design?”

She paused and blinked. That had almost become an impassioned tirade, which was not the sort of thing she usually did. Far from it in fact, even when she knew she had a wholly sympathetic audience.

“Sorry,” she continued sheepishly after a second. “All this talk about the suffragettes over the last year must have made me rather more free with my opinions than I ought to be.”

“You don’t have to apologise to me,” Bates quickly reassured. “Especially as I agree with you. In fact, when I was in the Army, there was this one young Captain who said If the law was a flawless guide to morality, slavery would never have been legal. Always stuck with me, that phrase. And I think it applies to this as well.”

“Think that’ll stick with me now as well,” Anna huffed, mildly impressed.

“Anyway yes, we’re in agreement. I don’t think Thomas is in the wrong for being as he is seeing as he can’t help it and it’s not like it can hurt anyone. Best he can do is live with it, so we ought to let him live with it without giving him grief.”

“Which is the opposite of what Miss O’Brien is doing,” Anna finished with another huff. “Unfortunately you and I are amongst the minority with thinking as we do, and she knows it. She doesn’t know our opinions I mean, just that the law and common thinking is on her side, and she’s taking advantage of it to back him into a corner.”

“And when he’s threatened and cornered, Thomas lashes out,” Bates shook his head.

“And when he lashes out, he’s not thinking much of the consequences,” Anna added. “Or of much at all beyond his initial goal of causing hurt. I’m worried he’ll plan some ridiculously overcomplicated scheme to get his own back, and end up using just enough rope to hang himself rather than her.”

Mr Bates seemed to consider this, face smoothing into that deeply thoughtful look of his.

“So we either have to talk him down,” he eventually said. “Or get to her before he does.”

“Those were my thoughts, yes.”

“Well I can say with some confidence that his Lordship doesn’t think much of her,” Bates grimaced. “He’s not one for casting aspersions, but I’ve heard him grumbling about O’Brien a few times. Doesn’t like the way her gossiping to her Ladyship always seems to be insidious, nor the way she’s usually so curt with his daughters.”

“While Thomas is solidly in his good books,” Anna hummed. “As evidenced by his taking him along today as muscle to protect Lady Sybil.”

“Yes. My point is, if we need the backing, Lord Grantham will be an easy sell. It’s Mr Carson we’re going to have to get round.”

“And he’s biased in the opposite direction where Thomas is concerned,” she sighed once more. “Perhaps we should let Thomas scheme after all and simply make it known that we support him. That way we can tame his wilder ideas and turn them into something workable. Lord knows I won’t be sorry to see the back of Miss O’Brien.”

Mr Bates paused again.

“I think you’re right,” he agreed eventually. “Only… I haven’t the faintest idea how we could approach Thomas with the matter. If he so much as suspects we know that’s he’s… like that, he’ll bolt and run for the hills. And I wouldn’t blame him.”

“We’ll have to just corner him and not let him run until he understands we won’t use the knowledge against him. Easier said than done, I know.”

“There’s also…” Mr Bates began before trailing off with a wince.

“What?”

“Well, we either have to work out how to approach William about this or decide the best way to keep him out of the loop. We can’t ignore him entirely, he spends too much time with us these days. Most of the time, where Thomas is, you find William too.”

And that… wasn’t a pleasant thought, she agreed. William was a truly lovely young man, who was kind and earnest and fair. But according to Mr Bates, he was also the sort to pray on his knees at the side of his bed each night, and the more devout a person, the more intolerant of Thomas’ sort they probably were.

Probably. It’s not like Anna had any prior experience to compare to. Or any stories she could refer to either.

“You know, life was a lot simpler before you arrived Mr Bates,” she teased. “But no matter, I’m sure we’re up to the challenge!”

“I know you will be at the very least,” he smirked playfully back.

The political rally had gone more or less exactly how Thomas had predicted it would. A bunch of self-righteous pricks had climbed up onto the stone walkway above Ripon central courtyard and yelled more or less the same things. A noisy bunch of working and lower middle class folks had stood below them yelling right back. There had then been a bit of brouhaha when the Liberal candidate started in on supporting women’s rights.

And then when the verbal outrage from that began to turn into an actual scuffle, Lord Grantham had decided they ought to be leaving and so he and Thomas had about turned and begun to shove their way out to where Branson was parked, Lady Sybil sheltered between them.

All told, the most unusual part of his day (by far) was that he’d been stood shoulder to shoulder with his Lordship for a good hour and exchanged small talk with him as if they were equals. First his using of the house’s front door and then that; Carson would have fits if he ever learnt the full extent of it.

Fortunately, Thomas had no intention of ever telling him.

And then when they’d arrived back at the house, the Lord had still been in high spirits, having been caught up in some deeply philosophical-sounding three way debate with Branson and his daughter over some bloke named Mark or Marx or whatever. Thomas hadn’t even attempted to follow the conversation, choosing instead to watch as the ominous cloud cover had begun to rumble in the distance. But the good mood it stirred in his Lordship had served Thomas well regardless of his lack of contribution, and so he’d been thanked profusely right in front of Carson and Mrs Hughes.

While Mr Carson had remained forcibly neutral on the subject, Mrs Hughes had been effusive with her praise for him, even going so far as to request that Mrs Patmore prepare an extra serving of pudding for him that evening.

When he’d finally sunk into his bed that night, he’d felt lighter than he had in weeks. And as he’d lain there listening to the rain pounding down on the roof above him, he’d figured that maybe he could hold his head up high and deal with O’Brien after all.

Or so he’d thought. Until this morning of course.

It had been almost a week since his unusual outing with the family, and Thomas had not exactly relaxed, but he’d been less tense than in the months proceeding. O’Brien had backed off a little, confining her distaste to sneers and grimaces rather than pointed words, while Carson had been coldly professional but otherwise tolerable.

It had been almost pleasant. Key words being had been.

“Mr Bates, Thomas, I should like to see you both in my parlour now the meal is finished with please,” Carson rumbled as the kitchen maids began to dart around collecting their used breakfast plates.

And well. The butler did not look best pleased.

There was nothing he or Bates could do though, aside from as they were told, so the two of them left their dishes and half finished tea mugs behind and followed after their overbearing boss. And then Thomas’ hackles were raised even further when Carson closed the door behind them and made no indication that they were allowed to sit.

“I’m afraid some concerns have been brought to my attention,” Carson began with sternly once he’d seated himself behind his desk. “Some rather serious concerns. In fact, I find myself quite alarmed.”

Bates shot Thomas a sideways glance, his eyebrows drawn into a faint frown. Thomas half-shrugged his shoulders back, just as clueless as the valet.

Carson, witnessing their exchange, only scowled deeper.

“I have been given a report of some less than acceptable behaviour involving the two of you,” the butler continued when neither he not Bates spoke up. “The sort of behaviour that no-one under this roof should ever even think to participate in, let alone actually do so.”

“I’m afraid that neither Thomas or I quite know what you mean,” Bates said levelly when the following silence began to drag once more.

Carson harrumphed and sat up even straighter in his chair.

“You suggest that the individuals that saw the two of you are not being entirely truthful then?”

“With all due respect, Mr Carson,” Thomas bit out, annoyed and offended. “We can neither confirm nor deny an accusation if we have no idea what said accusation entails.”

“I should think the implication alone is enough!” Carson snapped back.

Thomas shot another look at Bates, who’s expression was as blank as he knew his own was.

Carson sighed deeply, clearly exasperated. But what Thomas said was true; he had no idea what they were being accused of, and so had no idea what he was supposed to be defending himself from. Carson would just have to lump it; he certainly wasn’t going to guess and risk landing himself in an entirely different set of bother too.

“I shall be keeping a weather eye on both you,” the butler finally conceded. “Be warned, any further hint of unsavoury conduct will result in my taking the matter directly to his Lordship. Now, out of my parlour and back to work with you.”

Thomas needed no further encouragement and practically jogged back out into the empty hallway. And then as soon as they were passed the pantry door and outside the kitchens, he and Bates exchanged yet another silent glance and mutually turned and headed straight for the boot room.

“Harold, give me those and scarper,” Thomas all but demanded when he shoved his way in. The young hall boy handed over the pair of riding boots he had been polishing and shot out without a single argument, his eyes wide but his lips clamped shut. Bates then nudged the door closed behind them, and they both collapsed onto their customary stools with mutual expressions of loathing.

“What,” Thomas ground out, “the bloody hell was that?”

“Up until this point, I’ve been operating under the assumption that while Mr Carson doesn’t wholly like me, he does rather respect me,” Bates sighed deeply. “Once he’d gotten over my mobility limitations anyway. But short as it was, that was a bit more than just a smack.”

“Has to be something O’Brien has cooked up,” Thomas grumbled.

“No question of that,” Bates snorted back. “This has her fingerprints all over it. Only Carson very clearly said that it was more than one person that gave him a report.”

“So not only has she invented some nonsense to pin on us, she’s dragged at least one other bugger into it with her. Christ.”

Thomas, in a far more visible fit of frustration than he usually allowed himself to indulge in, dragged both of his hands roughly down over his face.

“We need to work out what she supposedly has on us,” Bates sighed deeply, his own frustration evident. “With how vague Carson was, it could be anything. I thought I’d left all this sort of nonsense behind when I started here, and yet here I am again.”

“What?”

Bates gave him a baleful look.

“For all your dramatics, you’re actually much better at holding your tongue than me,” the valet muttered self-reproachfully. “Though a secret for a secret is fair I suppose.”

“What?” Thomas repeated, rather more harshly.

“I’ve been trying to work out how to approach you about this for weeks now, so do not panic and run off,” Bates demanded, his tone far harder than Thomas had ever heard it before. Unfortunately for Bates, the words had rather the opposite effect to what he wanted.

“...Why?” Thomas narrowed his eyes, tensing up ready to leap if he needed. “What have you done?”

The valet visibly hesitated again, and then a look of deep resignation settled over him.

“I’m married,” he started with.

Was that it? Thomas had worked that one out nearly a year ago, though he’d figured it was actually worse than that and he was a full blown divorcee. Thomas had never been much fussed about the institution of marriage given that he would never be allowed to marry anyone of his choosing, but he knew most women were supposed to be gravely concerned about such matters. Couldn’t be seen to be courting someone who had already broken one set of vows, not if they didn’t want to be shunned by society for the rest of their natural.

Anna already knew what she was getting herself into, so why should Thomas care?

“Yes, and?” Thomas managed to restrain himself to. “That’s not exactly news to me.”

Bates just stared at him in silence.

“Well then,” the valet eventually chuckled softly. “That’s me told. Unfortunately, that’s only the half of it.”

When the other man once again failed to elaborate, Thomas made an impatient noise and shot him a hard stare. This made his colleague smile tightly and take a deep breath.

“The other half is that I spent three years in prison for theft.”

“You- what?”

“I confessed to stealing regimental silver from the barracks of my old regiment and was sentenced to three years for it.”

Thomas stared at the man in shock. Unlike the marriage business, he really hadn’t seen that coming. Bates, a thief!? But if that was true, why had he been so angry about finding the snuff box in-

Then Thomas stopped and thought about Bates’ wording.

“Who did you take the fall for?” he asked slowly. “You said you confessed to stealing, not that you actually stole anything.”

“You’re far too clever for your own good at times,” Bates grumbled so quietly Thomas barely caught the words.

“Hang on, you presented this as two halves of a whole. The second half is the theft, but first told me you were married.”

“Thomas-”

“It was your wife who stole the jewellery and you took the fall for her,” he finished with a growl. “You bloody fool!”

“Thomas-!”

“No, you are a bloody fool!” he hissed. “You clearly didn’t do it out of love or you’d have gone back to her after you got out. Not to mention your obvious bloody pining after Anna! Which means your motive was some twisted sense of duty. Any moron would have told you to let her have her just desserts and keep yourself out of it!”

In a mirror of Thomas’ early actions, Bates dragged a hand down over his eyes. In that moment, the valet looked exhausted, like the whole world’s woes were weighing down on his shoulders. There was a flicker of rage and frustration as well, but it was a weak spark, smothered almost entirely by his weariness.

“We married because of perceived obligation,” he sighed tiredly. “We were young and almost immediately it became obvious we were not well suited. We made each other miserable. We tried to make the best of it to begin with but her misery turned to anger and spite, mine to drowning my sorrows. Eventually I couldn’t take it any more and left.”

“If it’s that bad why haven’t you petitioned for divorce?”

“I have, several times. But she won’t agree to it. I’ve begged her to agree to it. And as things stand, I’ve got no legal recourse for pursuing one without her agreement.”

“Christ,” Thomas muttered dully. His opinions on marriage had just managed to sink even lower, if it were possible. Normal people ought to do what his sort did; midnight fumbles and only the sort of commitments that could be ended quietly and without breaking God-given vows.

“So when it came to the theft,” Bates continued, resignation saturating his voice. “I was drunk and angry enough that I decided what mattered to me was not that we resent each other to the point of separation, but that she was still my wife and therefore still my responsibility.”

Yeah, normal people really did ought to take a leaf out of Thomas’ kind’s book.

“Anyway,” the valet drew in a deep breath. “That spiralled into me sharing far more than I intended to, so back to my original point. Secret for a secret.”

“I don’t have any secrets,” Thomas quickly lied, keeping his voice dry. “So you’re fresh out of luck.”

“Needless to say, I don’t particularly want it getting out that I’ve been to prison,” Bates carried on as if Thomas hadn’t spoken at all. “So you can hold that over my head as security.”

“Lovely,” Thomas drawled sarcastically. “Thank you for the blackmail material but I don’t have any to give you in return.”

He did obviously, but he wasn’t going to go handing it out. Not even to Bates. He wasn’t that stupid, not by half.

“Actually I already have your secret, so I’m just levelling the playing field by sharing mine,” Bates then said.

Which-

Shit. He couldn’t know, could he? Even O’Brien was only skirting round the edges with her comments, not quite saying enough to-

But Bates had- if he’d put it together and- he-

He couldn’t. He couldn’t-

With far more outward calm that he felt, Thomas affected a confused expression, tipping his head to one side and parting his lips slightly.

“I’m not bothered you know,” Bates informed him pointedly before he could reiterate that he didn’t have a secret. “Some people are just like that.”

Oh god in hell, he really had worked it out.

“I’m afraid I don’t follow,” he swallowed instead of anything that could even loosely be termed an agreement. The first rule was always deny deny deny. Philip had at least taught him that much before pulling the rug out from under him.

“Thomas, I know you’re… not interested in feminine graces.”

Shit fuck bollocks damn-!

“Anna knows too,” the damn valet barrelled on, as if Thomas weren’t having a heart-attack right opposite him. “And neither of us think it’s a problem. You’re just a uh, different sort of natural.”

“I’m not like that,” he managed to deny again. "I'm perfectly ordinary."

He sounded strangled as he said though, the words spluttered and stammered. About as far from believable as he could have gotten short of making a wordless noise. And judging by the way his blood was pounding in his ears, he’d gone white as a sheet as well. Probably stiff as a board too to boot.

“This is why I’d planned on Anna being here for this conversation,” Bates muttered. “I’m serious though, I’m not bothered. I’m on you’re side. We’re on your side. You’re a man same as any other aside from this one thing, and it’s not like you being that way hurts anyone.”

Thomas couldn’t formulate a response to that. It sounded too good to be true, which undoubtedly meant that it was too good to be true.

But then again… Bates had just handed him blackmail material on a platter. Deliberately handed it to him. And why would he do that, if not to give him a means to coerce his silence if he needed it? He’d need to verify the valet’s tale was true of course, else the information became worse than useless.

But maybe- maybe he was okay with it?

“Who else knows?” he near-whispered.

“To the best of my knowledge, just Anna and I. And O’Brien obviously, given her snide comments were the catalyst for me putting two and two together.”

“Christ,” Thomas repeated, dropping his head into his hands. “You can’t tell anyone else. I mean it. A single other person learns of this from you and I’ll go running straight to his Lordship with your criminal record in hand.”

“You’d be better taking that to Carson,” Bates huffed in amusement. “His Lordship would probably just wave it off once he knew the full story.”

“You really don’t-?” he choked out, shoving his hands down under the table to hide their shaking.

“I really don’t,” Bates replied plainly. “And neither does Anna.”

Thomas let out a ragged breath, feeling his shoulders slump. He’d sort of abstractly realised that Bates and Anna were trustworthy after they’d helped fix his fuck up with Pamuk with nary a complaint. Even when that mess had gone off the rails, they’d stuck by him. But there was a fair bit off difference between covering up an accidental death in a way that protected their employers and therefore their jobs, and hiding a full blown crime that most also thought of as a serious sin.

To tell the truth, the only other person to not immediately publicly castigate Thomas when they learnt of his nature was his now-lost sister. And she’d had her own reasons for it, most relating her desperate desire to spite their awful parents. Refusing to cut her baby brother out of her life despite his unnaturalness had just been one more way to give them the metaphorical two finger salute.

“Well I was going to suggest we discuss the possibility that O’Brien has been insinuating to Carson that you and I are involved like that next, but I think you need a strong brew and a smoke before we tackle that nonsense.”

“God yes,” Thomas groaned, immediately fishing in his pocket for his cigarettes.

Chapter Text

The inside of the 3rd class carriage was warm as the train began to pull out of the city of York. In order to get to London, they’d had to change onto the LNER line as the one that ran through Downton was only a minor side branch. The best place to do that was – and probably always would be – at the large city station with its sweeping Victorian sandstone walls and glass arches.

The interior William was stuck in for the next several hours was pretty much the same as every other he had ever ridden in. Two narrow, sparsely padded benches placed opposite each other, a netted luggage rack above, and only just enough leg room for two people to sit facing one another. A single gas lamp above the door, no shutters or curtains, and a tiny sash window in the door that could be slightly lowered to let a weak breeze in.

Little more than the necessities basically, despite it being 1914 and a new age of prosperity for the working class.

Thankfully though, given the unusually high number of staff travelling with the family down to the London house, his Lordship had kindly sprung for two separate carriages for them. This meant he, Mr Bates, Thomas, Gwen, and Anna had been able to claim one to themselves, escaping both Mr Carson and Miss O’Brien who were sharing with the other two maids and the lone hallboy.

Mr Carson had initially insisted they split into all-male and all-female groups, but after being forced to share with a glowering Thomas all the way to York, had conceded defeat and allowed them to split as they willed for the rest of the journey.

The atmosphere was a lot less tense as a result.

“Do you reckon we’ll get much free time?” Gwen asked as she shifted her skirts over her knees once more. They were all in casual clothes for the travelling, their liveries and uniforms tucked away in their cases and stored in the racks above. It was strange to see them all dressed down all at the same time.

“Not likely,” Thomas grumbled, his arms crossed over his chest as he stared out the window.

“I should imagine we’ll be as busy as we were for Lady Mary’s first season,” Anna added knowledgeably. “At least three or four changes of dress a day, callers non-stop until luncheon, and then multiple outings for afternoon tea until dinner. Then most nights there’ll also be a ball or soiree of some sort to attend.”

“Blimey, no wonder Mrs Hughes asked her Ladyship if I might accompany you to assist with all the clothes,” Gwen remarked, with wide eyes.

“Let’s just say I’m thankful that I shall only have his Lordship to attend to,” Bates chuckled from the far corner.

“Meanwhile, William and I will be stood around most of the day doing naught but fading into the wallpaper,” Thomas complained with a deep sigh.

“There’s not even much silver to polish,” William commiserated. “Carson made us do the four sets we’re bringing with us several times already, so they’ll only need a touch up between uses at most.”

“Why’re both yous coming then?” Gwen frowned. “Specially as Benny’s coming too.”

“Carson point blank insisted that he absolutely couldn’t do without at least two footmen for the evenings that the family hosts dinner,” William explained, repeating what Daisy had overheard a couple of days earlier. “Apparently it was suggested to ‘im that we hire in a temporary footman just for those nights but he about blew the roof, said that if we were to stoop so low as to take on someone short term as if we were some sort of common work house, we would be doing that on top of the perfectly adequate staff we already had, not instead of.”

“Excellent, I’ve been upgraded to perfectly adequate,” Thomas deadpanned, finally turning away from the window.

“That has to be the highest compliment he’s ever paid you,” Anna teased.

“You lot are spending too much time hanging about together,” Gwen pulled a face. “You sounded right like Thomas saying that.”

“Least it goes both ways,” William grinned. “I caught him saying hard lines to little Timmy the other day. Proper Yorkshire phrase, that is! Must have picked it up from me.”

“You do realise that most of what you presume is unique to Yorkshire is actually just generically northern right?” Thomas grumbled as he shifted in his seat. “Heard more than half of what you come out with growing up in Manchester.”

Thomas was originally from Manchester? William had known he wasn’t Yorkshire born and bred like he was, but he’d never had anything more specific than not local to go on before. And by the looks on Anna and Gwen’s faces, this was news to them too.

“Being from Northampton, I must confess that a lot of your dialect escapes me,” Mr Bates admitted with a small smile. “The first time I ambled down to the village, I asked one of the locals to point me towards the post office and he directed me to cut through snicket. Took me a good minute to work out that a snicket is a back alley.”

“Sometimes we call ‘em ginnels too,” William grinned.

“Well snicket is specific to Yorkshire,” Thomas sighed. “But ginnel is common Mancunian.”

“...Mancunian?”

“Originating from Manchester,” Anna explained to Gwen, who was frowning intently.

"Oh," Gwen grinned sheepishly. "S'obvious when you think about it, isn't it?"

“So what part of Manchester are you from?” William asked, deciding to push his luck. Thomas would probably just clam up and tell him to mind his business, but maybe-

"Stockport. The decent end. Dad's a clockmaker, owns his own store and workshop."

"How'd you end up in service then!?" Gwen blurted. "Clockmaker's right middle-class!"

"Had eight siblings, didn't I?" Thomas grumbled harshly. "Shop's going to the heir and the spare, not the lowly good for nothing third son."

"You have eight siblings!?" William gawped. His parents had tried to have other children, but between miscarriages and infant mortality, he'd ended up an only child.

"I'm child six of nine," the other footman huffed with a flat glare. "That I know of."

The occupants of the carriage exchanged puzzled glances as Thomas turned back to staring out of the window at the countryside. William suspected that one or both of Thomas' parents had discovered his… inclinations and kicked him out for them. And that Thomas had received next to no family news since then. Given that he'd been in service from age fifteen at least, that that had probably happened more than ten years ago, and that ten years was more than long enough for him to have unknowingly gained an extra sibling or two.

As the train continued barrelling on southwards, William idly began contemplating how he could con Thomas into coming to his parent's farm with him; they'd never wanted William to be an only child after all.

Just as Thomas had predicted, the majority of the days at Grantham house were long and boring. He and William spent endless hours standing unproductively by the front door, occasionally receiving notes and short letters but otherwise doing little. Most days, none of the family were at home for anything other than sleeping and eating breakfast, so Thomas and William didn’t even get to go out to deliver missives instead all that often.

Even on the rare days when a member of the family was hosting afternoon tea rather than attending one elsewhere, Thomas and William were able to do little more than stand to attention in the drawing room for hours on end while it was ongoing.

"I don't understand why all these people can't just come calling themselves," William sighed quietly as the pair of them once again stood either side of the front door. They'd been here in London for nearly four weeks now, and Thomas was about ready to tear his hair out in boredom.

(and when he wasn’t bored, it was because he was trying not to fret over Anna and Bates knowing about– no, he was steadfastly avoiding thinking about that, thank you!)

"Because sending a footman with a note demonstrates that you're well to do enough to have footmen," Thomas told him in his best upstairs voice. "Visiting yourself is so plebeian, don't you know?"

"You can't say that having both of us standing around by the door all day makes sense though."

"No, that's just Carson being old fashioned and obstinate. These days, most households only have one footman or even a hall boy do this."

"Sounds about right," William sighed wearily.

Thomas eyed him sideways as they settled back into resigned silence. Mrs Bute, the London housekeeper, had all but ordered them all not to pester William about his mother but it was proving difficult for some of the staff thanks to the young man's constant pallor.

Thomas himself wasn't overly fussed; he hated talking about families anyway for obvious reasons. Therefore he was perfectly happy to actively have an excuse not to bring the subject up when a certain modicum of sympathy would have otherwise been expected of him.

God, he missed Annabelle and her weekly letters. Belle had been the only member of his family willing to still talk to him after–

But she was two years gone now and their father hadn't even let him attend her memorial service, threatening to set the police on him if he so much as dared show his face. Thomas should have known better than to even ask, but with Lord Grantham himself encouraging him he'd foolishly dared to hope.

The doorbell rang then, drawing him from his bitter thoughts. William moved swiftly to pull the door open, while Thomas slotted himself into the revealed gap, silver salver already in hand. An elderly looking footman in black and rich blue livery was waiting on the steps with a slip of crisp paper held out.

"From Lord and Lady Juniper," he intoned gravelly, his voice scarred in the way of a lifelong smoker. Thomas nodded in acceptance and allowed the Juniper footman to drop the note onto the tray.

Another nod in return and the man turned and fled back down onto the pavement and then off up the street. Thomas watched him go, grudgingly admiring the speed and agility of the silver haired man, and was about to step fully back inside when the Grantham London car pulled into the other end of the road.

"William, fetch Carson," he called over his shoulder instead.

William stuck his head out the door too instead of immediately doing Thomas' bidding, but spotted the car and scarpered before Thomas could actually scold him for it. Grumbling to himself instead, Thomas ducked back inside and slid the note into the silver bowl full of the rest of the morning's missives. Then he quickly checked over his uniform and prepared to go out and greet the car.

Only Lord Grantham was in the back, which thankfully meant Thomas only had to open the one door. As first footman, this job was technically beneath him, but if he waited for William to return, it would mean suffering one hell of a tongue lashing from Carson for forcing the Lord to wait too. He would put up with doing William's job to spare himself that indignity.

"Ah Thomas," his lordship greeted him with a smile, once again breaking the supposed barrier between employer and servant. In any other household, he would have been studiously ignored, but Thomas found he didn't particularly mind the deviation from the norm purely because it so annoyed Carson. "Apologies for returning early without warning, only our hosts for the day unexpectedly had to reschedule. Cora has decided to treat the girls to luncheon at the Ritz instead, and so I've found myself rather at a loose end. I don't suppose the kitchens could throw something together for me?"

"I'm sure it will be no imposition at all m'Lord," Thomas replied untruthfully as he followed the man into the entrance hall. In reality, Mrs Gould would throw a fit when she found out, but that wasn't Thomas' problem so he didn't really care.

"We weren't expecting you back until mid-afternoon at the earliest my lord," Carson rumbled as he appeared, hurrying out of the servant's stairwell.

"Yes, I was just explaining that to Thomas. We had an unexpected change of plans so Cora has taken the girls out while I've come to beg your forgiveness for my unanticipated return."

"There is nothing to forgive my lord," Carson immediately rebutted, his expression almost offended. In Carson's mind, the mere implication that the staff wouldn't rearrange their entire lives at the drop of a hat was sacrilege. Thankfully, Lord Grantham had far less of a superiority complex than his butler.

"Really, there's no need to go to any trouble," the Lord waved away easily as he handed his hat over to Thomas. "I'd even offer to come sit downstairs with the staff in order to spare you the effort of setting the dining room table if I wasn't aware I'd be encroaching upon your well earned privacy."

Now Carson looked as if he were holding back an aneurysm through strength of will alone. Thomas had to bite down a smirk.

"Thankfully my Lord," Carson cleared his throat meaningfully. "We still live in times where that much reduction in dignity has not yet become necessary. I shall have something sent up to you shortly. Will you be requiring anything else in the meantime?"

"No, and as I am the only one here, I won’t bother changing. So that will be all thank-you Carson."

The Lord then wandered off in the direction of the library, which doubled as a study here in London. Thomas stood watching until he passed out of sight, and then silently tried to return to his post by the door.

No such luck though; he'd barely gotten three steps before the butler was ordering him downstairs.

"What do you think you were doing, chatting to his Lordship in front of God and everybody?" Carson hissed at him as they carefully moved down the narrow creaky back stairs.

"He asked me a direct question, I did my duty and answered it appropriately," Thomas replied stiffly. This statement was not only correct according to etiquette, but also had the additional benefit of being entirely true and so was hopefully enough to get Carson to back down.

"A likely tale," the butler only scowled as they moved into the kitchen area. With the basement underlying the entire house, it wasn't actually much smaller than the one at Downton, and was currently just as busy. Kitchen maids were darting left and right under the cook's watchful gaze, and a young boy in a dark version of the usual hall boy's uniform was crouched most of the way inside one cupboard, scrubbing at its innards with a stained cloth.

"What's all this about his Lordship wanting a luncheon!?" Mrs Gould demanded as she waddled round waving a bronze ladle threateningly. "The servant's luncheon is nearly ready, but I've already started the cold dishes for this evening's dinner party! I haven't got time to go fussing over a single midday plate as well!"

"Well you shall have to!" Carson demanded right back.

Thomas used this distraction as an opportunity to escape and slipped out and round into what passed as a servant's hall in the capital. Unlike the kitchen, it was barely a third of the size of the Downton equivalent, the table was barely big enough to seat them all at meal times. And there was no fireplace at the far end so the hall relied solely on heat wafting through from the kitchens to heat it in winter.

Only Anna was seated at the table, brushing furiously at a petite pair of shoes. The London house didn’t have a separate boot room or a storage cupboard big enough to sit inside, so Carson was forced to let them work in the main hall despite his opinions on the smell of polish. This suited Thomas fine in spite of how it made the butler even terser than usual.

“Where is everyone?” Thomas asked as he stopped and leaned on the back of the butler's seat at the head of the table. He’d been expecting Bates to also be in here at the very least.

“Mrs Bute took the other maids upstairs to give the saloon and library a good going over while the family are all out, Mr Bates and Miss O’Brien have both been given their half days for the same reason and so have gone out, and William just scampered out into the backyard for a break while everyone was too occupied to demand otherwise.”

“Sensible lad,” Thomas snorted. “Might go join him while I can. Carson will have me setting the dining table for luncheon by myself if I don’t.”

“The table? Have the family returned early!?” Anna’s eyes widened with alarm, her hands stuttering to a stop. “Oh goodness, I thought I’d have at least another couple of hours to finish this work before I had to–!”

“Relax,” Thomas cut over her. “It’s only his Lordship. If anyone needed to worry, it would be me having to pick up Bates’ slack while he’s out. Luckily for me, Lord Grantham is already in suitable clothing and so doesn’t plan on changing.”

“Oh that’s okay then,” Anna sighed as she settled back onto the bench.

“I’m off out for a smoke. If Carson asks–”

“Then I haven’t seen you since breakfast,” Anna finished his sentence for him with a smirk. She really was getting devious.

Thomas tipped an imaginary hat at her with a smirk of his own and strode off towards the basement door, hands already dipping into his pockets for his fags and matchbook.

While Grantham house did have separate bedrooms for the Lord and Lady– as was proper in society – like at Downton, Robert and Cora had elected not to use both. Instead, they’d laid claim only to the Lordship suite, which had the benefit of having a second smaller closet room as well as the main dressing room. This meant they could both retreat to privacy in order to change, while still allowing them to share the double bed every night without having to traipse across half the house.

(This arrangement also had the added bonus of leaving the Ladyship suite free to be used by Mary, something which made their oldest daughter quite gleefully smug indeed. And thus more inclined to be cheerful and cooperative.)

Tonight, they were changing for yet another evening ball. For Robert, this meant tails and white tie with a black silken top hat. Bates was handling the task with his usual efficiency and competence, but Robert couldn’t help but notice his usual quiet good mood was absent tonight.

After enduring nearly ten minutes of near-stony silence, he eventually sighed and gave into temptation.

“I know it’s not entirely cricket of me to ask, but I’m going to have to inquire after what, precisely, has you in a less than amiable mood this evening?”

“Nothing of import my Lord,” Bates replied gruffly and entirely unconvincingly.

“If whatever it is is making you unhappy, I should like to think it is very much of import.”

“Just a spot of family issues my Lord. Nothing I can’t handle.”

“It’s not that ghastly wife of yours again, is it?”

Robert rightly shouldn’t be asking after that either, but he did like to take far more of an active interest in his staff’s wellbeing than any other man of his status would be inclined to. It was a habit picked up during his years in his Majesty’s armed forces; while Sandhurst had in fact encouraged rather the direct opposite, Robert had found that interacting with the men under his command as though they were equals in all but rank had encouraged a camaraderie and level of deep trust that had saved his and the men of his unit’s lives more than once.

Bates sighed deeply.

“I know it is impertinent of me to say so my Lord, but there are times when I wish you didn’t know quite so many details of my personal life.”

“Well the rest of the staff and yourself know all the ins and outs of mine, so it is but a fair trade,” Robert jested lightly back. “Now come on old chap, let the cat out of the bag.”

“I had my half day this afternoon and used it to see my ageing mother who now resides here in London,” the valet eventually began, his posture stiff. “Towards the end of the visit, Vera barged in with her usual litany of complaints. Nothing I can’t handle as I said, but I do wish I didn’t have to.”

“The ghastly wife again,” Robert nodded sympathetically. He could hardly claim to approve of divorce, sensible God fearing man that he was, but he did at least understand Bates’ desire for one. He certainly wouldn’t judge the man for it given that he had made several genuine heartfelt attempts to make it work. Hell, he’d recently learned that the man had gone to prison for the ungrateful woman, and she was still determined to make his life miserable!

Bates only sighed again and turned to collect Robert’s tails.

Five minutes later and he was fully polished and headed down the staircase to the entrance hall to await Cora and the girls. Edith was already there, quietly speaking to a little red-headed hallboy who was blushing furiously under the attention. Carson was also standing alert and keeping a careful eye on the situation though, so Robert felt confident everything was under control.

“Thomas is waiting outside by the motors my Lord,” the butler greeted him with a deferential dip of his head.

“Oh excellent, thank you Carson.”

Then turning to Edith, he greeted her with a polite kiss of her cheek.

“You’re looking delightful this evening darling,” he complimented her.

“Anna has done wonderfully with the lace, has she not?” Edith beamed back, gesturing to the hems of her sleeves.

“She has indeed,” he nodded gravely. In truth, he had little to no idea whether the lace would be considered an improvement or not. In fact, he would not have noticed its existence – let alone that it was newly added – if she hadn’t directly pointed it out to him. “Ah here comes Sybil and your Mama!”

The men of his club would call him a soppy bastard if they knew he entertained such thoughts, but he couldn’t help but believe that Cora needed no help from fashion to look ravishing. It was a cliché of the highest order he knew, but she really did age like a fine wine; exceedingly excellent to begin with and yet still even finer with every year that passed.

"Mary will be but a moment more," Sybil spoke to him first as the pair stepped off the bottom of the stairs. "Anna was just finishing with her hair as I donned my gloves."

"Oh, speaking of Anna, I have been meaning to ask dear," Cora smiled as she swept up to Edith and him. "How has…. Gwen isn't it? Yes, how has she been managing with assisting Anna?"

"Oh splendidly!" Sybil replied with a wide smile. "If she did not have her heart set on becoming a secretary, I would be recommending to Mrs Hughes that she be given the same additional training Anna received when she began acting as Lady's maid for us."

"I had honestly quite forgotten about her ambitions," Robert frowned. "It must be at least eighteen months since Carson told me of her typing machine."

“She’s had a few interviews, but no joy so far,” Sybil informed him. “She’ll find something though; she really does seem to have the necessary skill set and the drive to reach her goals.”

“Well I won’t pretend I’m ever happy to see our best staff members leave, but we can hardly begrudge her desiring to put new skills to use,” Cora commented demurely. “Oh, here is Mary!”

“I hope that you have not been waiting too long for me,” Robert’s eldest daughter drawled as she swept across the short hallway towards them.

“Only half an eternity rather than a full one,” Edith quipped before anybody else could say anything politer and more appropriate. Cora shot her a reproving look, but Edith only smiled back innocently. Robert refrained from visibly rolling his eyes by only the skin of his teeth (and by imagining what his dear old mother would have to say to him for using such an “uncouth” gesture) (never mind that she rolled her own eyes at least thrice an hour, every hour).

“Let us proceed out to the motors,” he said instead, using his top hat to gesture grandly at the front door.

Thomas was sure there were laws against this sort of thing. Pretending to belong to a higher class than you actually were. Or at least allowing others to presume you were by dressing like your betters and not saying anything to the contrary.

In truth, he wasn’t wearing anything nearly so fancy as most of the attendees of this ball, but he still looked much more middle class than working class. Dressed in a dark second hand wool suit that Bates had acquired from god knows where that Thomas had then tailored and altered himself, Lord Grantham had introduced him to the hosts of the ball as my right hand man and set him to keep an eye on his youngest daughter. Lady Sybil generally had a sensible head on her shoulders (when she wasn’t having her overly kind and gentle nature taken advantage of at least) so it wasn’t exactly a difficult job.

Still, Thomas felt wildly out of place.

Standing against the back wall of the main ballroom, he was holding a mostly full crystal champagne flute while trying to not bring attention to himself. He’d mostly succeeded, his job having given him lots of practice at fading into the background. But one or two guests in fancy frocks and expensive white tie dinner jackets had ambled over to speak to him despite his lack of bow-tie and tails, curious and not quite polite enough to refrain from asking.

“I dare say, I find myself perplexed by the mystery of your presence here!”

And of course, here was another such one. Joy.

“Lord Deepwater,” Thomas inclined his head, recognising the young Baron from a dinner during a previous London season. He wasn’t bad looking, but he was solidly not Thomas’ type either. Too… foppish, he supposed was the word. Like he was trying just a little too hard to come over as a dandy. “Thomas Barrow. I’ve accompanied Lord and Lady Grantham in order to keep a weather eye on their youngest daughter for the evening. It’s her first season.”

“Ah, that explains it!” the man replied jovially. “Now that you mention it, I find myself surprised that there aren’t more men like yourself in attendance tonight. I should imagine there are a great many fathers wishing to have an extra pair of eyes on their daughters after the news this week. Assassinating an Archduke! Ghastly business.”

“Ghastly indeed,” Thomas demurred politely.

“I do hope it doesn’t escalate,” Deepwater frowned, one hand rubbing at his freshly clean-shaven chin. “Though I hear Austria is rather up in arms over the matter; as you’d expect to be perfectly honest, given the sheer audacity. But I hear that it may get rather complicated due to the various alliances and treaties that could come into play. All depends on how drastically Austria responds and what actions its allies then take, I suppose.”

“Well both Germany and Russia are rather spoiling for a fight so I expect they’ll encourage Austria in that direction.”

That was what Thomas had gathered from his perusal of the house’s discarded newspapers and the general household gossip at any rate. His Lordship had apparently taken to discussing the matter with Bates several times a day, in the manner of old war chums reminiscing on battles once fought while speculating how they may repeat in the near future. And Lady Sybil had also proved to be a good source of information on the topic thanks to her recent interest in politics and tendency to muse upon them with Anna as she readied for bed.

“Quite,” the Baron agreed amiably. “I suppose all that’s really in question is whether we’ll be dragged into the matter as well. If Austria does declare war on Serbia, then Germany will immediately jump in of course. And then Russia will declare for Serbia. Which I believe may force France to also join thanks to an alliance with Russia? But then I understand that our participation would depend on whether Germany attempts to occupy Belgium and maybe Luxembourg in order to clash with the French.”

“You would know better than I,” Thomas told the Lord politely, though in truth, none of this speculation was news to him. Between the three of them, Bates, Anna, and Thomas had managed to piece together the current state of affairs quite well.

“If we are honest with ourselves,” Deepwater sighed, “we are almost certain to be at war by Christmas. Which then leads to the question of how men such as ourselves ought to contribute to the war effort. A small monetary contribution is to be expected of course, but short of buying a commission myself, I am unsure what else I may offer. A few of the chaps at my club have been discussing escorting some of their staff directly to the recruitment centres and contributing that way, but I must admit that I find the idea of forcing a man to fight distasteful.”

“Lord Grantham has stated that he is of the same mind regarding volunteering remaining voluntary.”

“Perhaps I ought to gather my staff and inform them that I would be pleased to assist with obtaining any of them a position with the more auxiliary units. The transport corps. Or medical perhaps, which would spare them from having to leave the country and fight on the front lines. Though obviously, I shall have to take care that my suggestion does not come across as an order. Volunteering, as you say, should remain voluntary.”

...Actually, that didn’t sound like a terrible plan to Thomas. All this nonsense about doing your duty to king and country seemed like a good way to end up very dead, very quickly to him. But if you signed up to do something far away from the actual fighting, not only were your odds of surviving greatly improved, but you were still in the army so no one could accuse you of trying to avoid doing your duty.

Of course, he would rather not join the army at all.

He’d take the idea to Bates, see if there was any merit to it. Perhaps as a last fall-back plan in case Carson took his dislike a step further and finally found an excuse to fire him.

“Anyway,” Baron Deepwater said, breathing in short and sharp. “I fear that if I take any more of your time, I shall have to start begging your forgiveness. I shall leave you to your duties and return to the shark infested waters known as ballroom socialising!”

Thomas also muttered a polite farewell and then breathed out a sigh of relief as he was finally left alone once again. Every time he had to speak to a toff, he was on edge, nervous that he’d say or do something that would give him away as a working class lad acting far above his station. Though admittedly, the news that Thomas had been “found out” would probably cause Carson to have a fatal heartache which was a highly entertaining fantasy. The butler had certainly had quite the conniption when Lord Grantham had asked to borrow Thomas for the evening, Especially as it had been a direct request and not a suggestion that could be turned down.

Smiling to himself, Thomas refocused his attention on Lady Sybil and the group of young ladies she was conversing with. She hadn’t gone far while Thomas had been distracted, but she had moved towards the doors to the gardens, and so he pushed off the wall and began to pick his way closer so that he wouldn’t lose sight of her if she did slip outside.

When William received a second letter, John Bates was unsurprised by its contents.

William’s mother’s health had apparently been declining noticeably over the last few years, so there was a reason that this latest bout of sickness had both him and the boy’s father on edge. Supposedly he’d managed to speak to his mother in person before leaving for London, but at that point it had just been a bit of a sniffle on top of her usual tiredness and she’d convinced him not to worry about it, that it was unlikely to develop into something more serious. Only, within a week of arriving in the capital, the first letter from his father had arrived, informing him that the sniffle had developed into something more serious and he’d best be prepared to leave for home in a hurry.

John had realised in the two years of his employment at Downton that Mr Carson could be a bit of a bully really, but that he wasn’t completely heartless. When William had told him of the contents of the first letter, the butler had immediately spoken to his Lordship and organised it so that William could catch a train back to Yorkshire with only a little notice.

Which was good, because from his expression, John suspected that he really needed to go home now.

“You alright there lad?” John asked him quietly as he slathered strawberry jam on a fresh slice of toast, concern colouring his tone.

“I’ve got to go home,” he numbly mumbled in reply .

Thomas, being the sort of bloke he was, immediately leaned sideways so that he could read the letter over William’s shoulder. William seemed content to let him despite the rudeness, probably reasoning that it was far easier for him to do that than to try and find the words to explain it himself.

“He does,” the other footman agreed after a moment. “Today, if Carson can be convinced. It’s his mum.”

“Your mother?” Bates repeated, more as confirmation rather than query. When William nodded miserably anyway, he dropped his unfinished breakfast back onto his plate and stood up, saying, “Come on then. You and Thomas can take the news to Mr Carson and I’ll make sure his Lordship is appraised of the situation whilst I’m dressing him. The rest of the bells will start ringing in a moment anyway.”

“Can’t I finish my beans first?” Thomas complained. But even as he said it, he was also already standing, so John supposed he was moaning just for the show of it rather than from any real upset.

Neither of them replied to him at any rate.

John split off once they were out of the tiny servants hall, leaving William to trail off behind Thomas towards Carson’s parlour. John meanwhile, glanced up the ridiculously narrow staircase to make sure that no-one was currently on their way down, and then began to slowly climb up towards the first floor.

He made it to the main landing without incident despite how awkward it was for a man with a cane to manoeuvre in a space so confined. From there it was only a few more steps to the door of the Lordship suite. Then he knocked quietly and waited.

O’Brien wrenched the door open with her typical scowl, clearly annoyed beyond reason by the necessity as usual. With the Lord and Lady both sharing the one suite and his Lord having graciously insisted his wife be the one to make use of the larger dressing room with an external hall door, John had to cross through the main bedroom in order to reach the entrance to the smaller closet his Lord was using as a dressing room instead. And obviously John couldn’t just walk in given that the Lady could well still be abed or otherwise in a state of undress.

So a system had long ago been established whereby the valet knocked and waited to be allowed in and then was escorted through by the Lady’s maid. A system that O’Brien loathed (and made Carson gnash his teeth with displeasure).

Lord Grantham was already out of his bedclothes and was in the process of pulling his socks on when John quietly slipped in and closed the door behind him.

“Ah, Bates! Excellent timing as always!”

“Good morning m’Lord.”

“Only four more days until we can all return to the peace of Downton and the countryside,” the Lord grinned cheerfully as he stood up and moved to sit in front of the dressing table. “I know the girls adore the season, but dear me, I do much prefer the quiet.”

“The season has gone well though, m’Lord?” John asked rather rhetorically. “Aside from the news from the continent that is.”

“Aside from that, it has gone quite well, yes,” Lord Grantham replied a tad more sombrely. “I feel as if we have hashed and rehashed the subject a thousand times now, but it does seem more likely with every passing day that we’ll be roped into the whole sorry business. Cora is not at all happy about it and I don’t blame her, especially as it’s now looking as if those rumours about new volunteer armies have more than a little grounding in reality.”

“Do you think it likely that you’ll be called to retake your post?” John voiced aloud for the first time, despite it being true that they’d had many a discussion along these lines over the last couple of weeks. He’d thought about doing so many times – especially with Thomas grilling him for information at every given opportunity – but had never actually asked outright until now.

“I doubt they will want me overseas at my age,” the Lord grimaced as he dipped a finger in the hot water one of the maids must have already brought up. “But if they get enough volunteer recruits, I suspect they’ll ask me to run a training camp here in England. I will accept and do my duty of course, but personally I’d rather they didn’t ask. For the sake of Cora’s nerves, you see.”

John didn’t speak again for a long moment, instead picking up the usual straight razor and inspecting the edge for nicks.

“They definitely won’t want me back,” he eventually said. “Despite my experience. No place in the army for a cripple.”

“A shame if you ask me, purely on the basis that I’d have liked to have you as my batman once more. I suppose they’ll saddle me with some plucky young chap fresh out of public school that I’ll have to train out of scraping and bowing every other second. Speaking of young chaps though, I’ve been meaning to enquire after our William?”

“Ah, yes my lord. I’m afraid I do have news on that front.”

“Oh dear, that sounds ominous.”

“The poor lad received another letter from his father this morning, informing him that he best make his way home post haste. I had Thomas take him to Carson to get it organised just before I came upstairs so hopefully the arrangements are already being made.”

“Given the circumstances, I think it best we get him on the next available train even if it means forking out a little more than usual for it. In fact, I think I’ll speak to Carson about the matter as soon as we’re done here.”

The lord paused for a moment, clearly pondering something.

“And I suppose,” he eventually added, sounding a little resigned, “that I also ought to remind Carson that it’s more than acceptable to put one of the older hallboys in livery for the next few days. I suspect that if I say nothing, he’ll run poor Thomas into the ground trying to have him do the work of two by himself.”

“That, my Lord,” John agreed with a small smile. “Sounds like an unfortunately likely possibility.”

Chapter Text

“That,” Thomas complained as he leaned back against the edge of the worktop in Downton’s utility room, “was horrendous.”

He had just finished hauling the last of the family’s travel luggage up the back staircases with only the help of Harold – who was the youngest, smallest, and thus weakest of the hallboys – and now felt like he would keel over of exhaustion if he did not manage to finally take just five minutes to stop and breathe. Ordinarily it would have taken far more work than that to have him begging for a mere moment’s respite but Carson had decided that he absolutely had to leave London a day earlier than the rest of them in order to escort the heavy luggage home.

Which meant that Bates had been left in charge of seeing to the family’s welfare. And Thomas in turn, had been lumped with organising both the packing and transport of the remaining luggage, and with the travel arrangements of the staff, and with ensuring that Mrs Bute had the closing up of Grantham house well in hand.

“Here, hold this,” William smiled weakly at him, holding out a padded and lined crate of crystal port decanters. “No don’t,” he immediately added when Thomas opened his mouth to protest. “I’m only giving it to you so you look as if you’re doing something useful if anyone walks in, not tryin’ to give you actual work to do.”

“Alright, fine,” Thomas grumbled as he accepted the box. It was smart thinking on William’s part to be honest, but Thomas didn’t really want to actually admit that.

“How were the last few days of the season?” the second footman then asked as he continued carefully pulling glassware and crystal out of the heavy travel cases and transferring them to their more usual storage boxes. “Anythin’ of note happen?”

“Not particularly,” Thomas shrugged. “Lady Sybil attended one final evening ball which I had to lurk awkwardly on the edges of again. Lady Edith had been planning on hosting an afternoon tea on the Friday but I gather her Ladyship talked her out it. In any case, she went out for the whole of that day and I was spared the ordeal. Other than that, there was only Carson’s reluctance to leave Bates in charge to contend with.”

“Why? He think Mr Bates ain’t capable of it?”

“Carson is convinced that he himself is the only person on the planet who could ever even hope to be up to the task.”

“Sounds ‘bout right,” William sighed forlornly. “Anyway, ain’t much to report on this end either. You know my news about me mum and other than that, there’s only been Iris’ new engagement. Mrs Hughes had her bring the lad to the back yard for inspection ‘fore she were allowed to accept his proposal but apparently he seemed to be of a decent sort.”

“What, that gardening bloke she’s been unsubtly fawning over for months?”

“Mmm,” William nodded as he quickly polished a fingerprint off of an elaborate fruit bowl. “Michael something?”

“Michael Holst, it’ll be. The short little mousey one with the stringy brown hair."

What Thomas refrained from adding, was that he thought Iris could do much better. The gardeners were decidedly Outside People in the social hierarchy while Iris had already made it as far as getting a housemaid position. In fact, given that Holst was only an under-gardener (and a very junior one at that), there was was a fairly good chance that Iris earned higher wages than him despite being a woman. Holst ought to be pining after one of the younger washer women or a farm lass rather than a proper housemaid but–

But he supposed that normal people got all funny and dimwitted when love was involved.

Shaking his head, Thomas shifted the crate he was still holding a bit and turned slightly so he was facing William more directly instead of sideways on. William placed another empty travel case atop the stack he was building on his left.

“Oh I think I know him, yeah. So Mrs Hughes said that Iris could go ahead and accept but only if she promised that everything would stay proper between them before the actual wedding. Dunno when that’ll be, they’ve not even organised the reading of the banns yet. Hang on, was that the bell? Do you reckon the family’s about to arrive?”

“Depends on what time it is,” Thomas replied as he quickly put down the case and tugged his waistcoat straight. “Their train was scheduled to arrive just under three hours after ours. If Carson would let us wear a pocket watch with our livery we wouldn’t have to bloody guess all the time.”

Thomas would even take a wristwatch over nothing, despite the fact that most men derided the new style pieces as too delicate for wearing by anyone other than a woman. Maybe it was the son-of-a-clock-maker in him, but he really did hate not knowing what precise time it was at any given moment.

Carson would undoubtedly say no to that as well though so he hadn’t bothered asking.

“I think it has been about that long.”

William pushed the crate he was halfway through emptying to one side and the two of them hurried out of the utility room. Judging by the way everyone was suddenly rushing about the downstairs rooms at double speed, Thomas surmised that it had been the bell that William had heard. Someone must have let Mrs Hughes or Carson know the car was coming up the drive and then gone to ring it to alert everyone else.

“There you two are!”

Thankfully, it was Mrs Hughes that had just spotted them rather than the butler, so Thomas was able to turn around to answer without fearing yet another smack.

“We’ve just been unpacking the last of the crystal for Mr Carson,” William quickly informed her, which was technically true if you discounted that it wasn’t what Thomas was supposed to be doing. And that he hadn’t been helping so much as standing around watching William do it.

“Well you need to hurry on upstairs. They’re all in the one motor so you’ll have to ask Mr Carson who’s opening what door; he’s headed up to the entrance hall. And I shall be right behind you, so no dallying!”

“Yes Mrs Hughes,” they both parroted before turning and hurrying towards the servant’s stairwell.

As she moved through the downstairs towards the servant’s hall with a fresh cup of tea in hand, Anna reflected that you didn’t have to be particularly observant to realise that Lady Mary had something on her mind tonight.

It was something more than the usual. Something more than just the looming but abstract threat of war or the fallout of latest spat she’d gotten into with Lady Edith. She’d been quietly pensive this evening as Anna was helping her change for dinner, her face screwing up into consternation whenever she thought no-one was looking. And though Anna would say that the consternation was more of the confused variety rather than dismay, there was definitely an element of deep concern to it. It was… troubling.

Bates was sitting in his usual place at the table when she entered the hall, as were two of the maids and the youngest hallboy. O’Brien must not have come back down from seeing to her Ladyship yet, while Thomas, William, and the other two hallboys were no-doubt occupied with sorting the last of the upstairs dinner arrangements under Carson’s watchful eye. Mrs Hughes then, had presumably taken the other two maids up to the saloon to give it a quick going over now that the family had likely finished using it for the day.

“Hello again!” Anna greeted Bates as she slid into one of the seats opposite him. In the kitchen next door, Mrs Patmore began yelling furiously at Daisy yet again.

“Good evening,” Bates smiled back warmly. “Was all well with the young ladies?”

Anna considered their current audience before speaking. All three other servants were seated at the far end of the table and engrossed in their own conversation and were unlikely to overhear anything even if they were actively trying to but–

“Lady Mary and Lady Edith are odds again,” she started with, as such tiffs occurred frequently enough to always be considered common household knowledge. “I gather the cause this time is their differing opinions on Sir Anthony Strallan.”

“The older gentlemen Lady Edith began occasionally conversing with whilst we were in London?”

“That would be the one, yes. I don’t believe there’s any romantic interest there, not from either of them, but Lady Edith does not often find anyone that takes as much delight in old architecture as she does. She was quite thrilled to have acquired a conversational partner but Lady Mary finds him dull as dishwater and has taken to teasing her sister as if she actually were being courted.”

“Will he visit, do you think? Sir Anthony that is.”

“I don’t know for certain of course, but I understand that her Ladyship usually issues him an invite to the garden party as he’s one of the local landowners.”

“Well if he is invited, Thomas and William can keep an eye on him while they are serving him and the other guests. See if they can learn anything about him.”

Bates paused then, his expression amused.

“Perhaps Gwen was right,” he continued after a moment, still smiling. “Perhaps you and I are spending too much time with Thomas. Two years ago my instinct would have been to say that we should let Lady Edith and Sir Anthony have their privacy and that it was none of our business and yet here we are scheming and gossiping like two old maids!”

“Having more information than most has gotten us out of a pickle or two though,” Anna pointed out as she took another sip of her tea.

“There is that,” Bates conceded easily. “There is definitely that. And times where not having enough information has gotten us into a pickle as well which is all the more reason to go out of our way to gather it. Take O’Brien’s latest meddling for example. I’d have thought she’d give it a rest after her little plot with the snuff box failed.”

“Have we decided what she’s trying now yet?” Anna asked, dropping her voice a little lower with a sideways glance at the other end of the table.

Bates shook his head.

“No, she’s not given anything away yet. But it’s likely to be yet another attempt to get either myself or Thomas the sack. Which, by the way, Thomas has come up with a contingency plan for. It’s a bit drastic, but not entirely daft.”

Intrigued, Anna raised her mug to her lips again and raised her eyebrows slightly. Bates leaned forward, and after a wary glance at the maids, hallboy, and either door, spoke in similar low tones.

“The RAMC,” he said.

“The what?”

“The Royal Army Medical Corps.”

“Thomas suggested joining the army!?”

“The medical division specifically, so he’d be well clear of the actual fighting” Bates expanded quietly. “Wouldn’t work for me obviously, not when I’ve already been permanently discharged on account of my leg, but for Thomas it would be alright. He knows how to keep his head down and do as he’s told, Carson’s forced him to learn that lesson well. He’s a clever lad, so he’d pick up all the new skills needed quick enough. And with this war that’s coming, well he could join one of the new armies they’re talking about and only have to stay until the fighting’s done if he wanted to.”

“Wouldn’t he be out of a job afterwards though? And can we really be sure he’d be away from the actual fighting?”

“To your first, well he’s still a fully trained footman and has experience valeting. Military Service will only make his character even better. So even if his Lordship is put in a position where he can’t take Thomas back himself there’s still plenty of other good families that’ll be needing staff.”

To replace all the men in service who join the infantry and don’t make it through, he didn’t add, but Anna heard all the same.

“And as to the second, the officers in charge will be wanting the regular army blokes to be the ones in the thick of it as they’ll be the ones with experience. Any new chaps will be kept back at the army hospitals here in England, filling in gaps left by the regulars being transferred forward. They might ship him to the continent if they get desperate, but they’ll keep him and his like at the port hospitals, preparing the injured men for shipping back home.”

“That does sound alright,” Anna conceded.

“I’ll be sorry to see him go, but it’s not a bad plan. He’ll only need it if things go awry here though.”

“And we’ll do our best to make sure it doesn’t come to that,” Anna nodded once in agreement. “I just wish we could work out what O’Brien is planning. Hopefully it isn’t related to whatever had Lady Mary frowning so much this evening.”

“You think it was something more than this business with Lady Edith and Sir Anthony?”

“I think so, yes. Maybe Thomas or William saw or heard something today that’ll give us a clue?”

“We can ask them once they’re done with the upstairs dinner,” Bates suggested. “Mr Matthew and his–“

He cut off mid sentence, sitting back abruptly. Anna glanced over her shoulder and immediately spotted why; Miss O’Brien had finally finished seeing to her Ladyship and had come back downstairs.

She didn’t seem to have noticed her and Mr Bates’ rapid separation thankfully, so Anna simply smiled at Bates slightly and then made a show of ignoring the dour and bitter woman when she started complaining about goodness knows what. Something to do with an advertisement it sounded like.

Instead, Anna downed the last of her tea and began contemplating which bit of mending or sewing she should start working on next.

The study at Downton Abbey was located in the back right corner of the ground floor, and was accessible through both the saloon and the main library. The entrance from the saloon was a white door with gold mouldings and a small amount of filigree which was currently closed, but in contrast the entrance from the library was simply a wide gap in the sweeping floor to ceiling bookcases, framed on either side by tall marble columns in the Greek style.

Robert’s desk was perpendicular to the northern windows, allowing him to look through to the library while still providing him with plenty of light from the eastern windows at his back. It was a large mahogany partner desk with drawers on the left and a cupboard on the right, and one deep red leather pad covering its entire top surface but for an inch margin along each edge. There were three additional drawers under the top writing surface, and an accompanying chair made of the same wood and leather that his grandfather had had specially commissioned to match.

Today, Robert was sitting at it and thinking a great deal more than he was doing.

What he was supposed to be doing, was auditing this week’s set of financial ledgers brought to him by Jarvis, the estate manager. What he was doing instead, was pondering – or rather dwelling – on the complications the impending war was about to bring to his family’s doorstep.

He was glad therefore, when Cora provided a timely distraction by quietly sweeping into the study from the library and rounding the desk to stand on his left.

“Hello dear,” she greeted him with a small smile. He smiled back and quickly hopped to his feet, offering her the use of his chair.

“No, no I insist,” he told her when she tried to wave his offer. “A woman in your condition should never stand for a second more than necessary!”

“I feel as though I have already said a thousand times that I am merely pregnant and not ill,” she sighed at him, but her smile didn’t dim as she said it and she did sit so he counted it as a victory.

“Despite the assurances of Doctor Clarkson, I am still not entirely sure I believe it,” he chuckled as he leant back against the edge of the desk. “Pregnant! At our age! And yes, before you ask again, I am still pleased.”

“Whether you believe it or not, it is still happening,” Cora joked lightly back. “Now, what was it that you were pondering that had you frowning so intently when I entered? There aren’t any further financial issues we need to tackle are there? I was rather hoping that the matter was resolved when you and cousin Matthew saw eye to eye over the subject of the entail.”

“No, no everything seems to be in order there,” he reassured her, pulling the ledger closer and tapping the bottom of the newest estate income column. He hadn’t verified it yet, but a glance at the two preceding pages reassured him that it did seem to be as expected. “Though I feel I should warn you that Matthew and I have been discussing some new farming and tenant management techniques that Jarvis is unlikely to be pleased with. They’ll involve an initial investment in new equipment and perhaps some shuffling of the tenants. We will not,” he added quickly, forestalling the argument he could tell was coming, “be evicting any of the tenants off of the estate nor depriving any of them of their means of income.”

“Oh good, you had me concerned for a moment.”

“Yes well, they are only discussions at this stage. With this war brewing on the continent, it’s likely that we’ll put them aside for now and revisit them later. Which leads me into what I was, as you put it, pondering that had me frowning so intently.”

“You’re certain then, that there will be a war?” Cora frowned herself.

“My contacts in and around the war office are certain, yes,” he sighed back. “Which I am sure you know will mean my participation.”

“I know you have to volunteer to take up the colours again dear, lest our family’s reputation be rendered irreparably to shreds, but does it have to be as part of a fighting unit? Yes,” she held up a hand, “I know you have a great deal of experience with leading infantry, but surely there must be something closer to home that would equally benefit from your talents? And I mean this as a simple statement of fact rather than implied insult, but you are not as young as you once were darling. I cannot see them choosing to send you overseas over a younger and fitter officer.”

“I–” he started, unsure of what wording to use. “I must do my duty to King and Country,” he tried carefully. “Not just because it will be expected of me, but because it is the right thing to do. And that will mean going where I am asked to regardless of my or your opinion of it. That might mean going to the front lines but…” he trailed off again. “But you are correct to presume that they will more likely want the younger officers to be the ones with the burden of leading the men into battle. No, at this stage I believe I will be asked to run one of the basic training camps for Kitchener's new army, here in England.”

Cora’s frown lightened at that, some of the lines in her brow smoothing out.

“That is… good news,” she told him, a little tentatively.

“I will still be doing my duty, I will just also be doing it in a way that brings you some measure of relief and reassurance,” he smiled down at her, reaching out to place his palm over the back of her hand. “But now I must admit that this was not what I was thinking on so intently when you entered. Directly related, but not the heart of the matter.”

He paused again, tilting his head up and taking in a deeper breath to give himself time to choose the right words.

“Darling?”

“As my heir, Matthew will be expected to attend the Royal Military College at Sandhurst and take a commission.”

“And as a junior officer, he will have to go overseas and lead men into battle,” Cora quickly caught on. “Where his life will be in danger.”

“And if we lose him to war, we could well be back at square one with the entail,” Robert confirmed.
“Of course, if the baby turns out to be a boy, losing Matthew will be a moot point in that regard. But that’s a big if.”

“It seems petty to be concerned with such things in the face of the threat of a life cut short, but–”

“Matthew’s passing would be a tragedy on a professional and personal level,” Robert consoled her. “Every man knows that it is an honour to die for King and Country but that does not mean it is not still a sad occasion when it happens, nor does it mean that it is without impact on the lives and livelihood of those left behind. Frankly, it would be irresponsible of us not to consider the implications.”

“You are right as always dear,” Cora sighed.

“Hopefully we worry for nothing though,” he continued with. “As it stands, he will be at Sandhurst for a full year as a cadet before he is given a commission and sent out to the actual fighting. The current consensus is that the war will be well over before a year has passed.”

“Do you agree with the consensus though?”

Robert mulled this one over for some time before answering. He had never been one for blindly accepting the status quo – his entire career in the House of Lords was testament to that fact – but he was also loathe to take the contrary position on principle alone. No, for all his tendency towards the less popular progressive route, he still very much wanted to see evidence and facts in support of it first.

And while this wasn’t strictly speaking politics, the same principles applied.

“For now, yes,” he eventually stated, choosing not to burden his wife with the details. He was well aware that a small number of the senior-most officers were claiming that any fighting would quickly ground to a standstill and they’d end up with a static front that would last for years. But he’d yet to hear a convincing argument for why that would happen so he would keep an open mind but agree with the majority for now.

“I will pray that your assumption proves to be correct then,” Cora smiled weakly. “Although obviously I would rather there be no war in the first place. Oh Mary darling, are you quite alright?”

Robert’s eldest daughter entered the study through the door from the saloon, closing it gently behind her with a quiet snick. She glided over the polished wooden floor boards, stopping at the left end of the desk with a contemplative expression.

“Mama, Papa” she greeted them both politely. “We were beginning to wonder where you had gotten to. Or Sybil and I were at least; Edith’s powers of observation remain lacklustre at best.”

“Mary,” Robert scolded lightly.

“You have probably noticed my distractible mood these last few days,” she continued, ignoring Robert’s reprimand entirely. Truthfully he had not noticed any such mood, but given that Cora immediately nodded knowingly, he surmised that he probably should have done and also made a vague noise of agreement.

“You have seemed a little lost in thought lately,” Cora added verbally to her nod.

“I wanted to be sure of my own opinion on the matter before bringing it to your attention,” Mary said next. “But honestly I feel as if I have only grown less sure the more I consider it. And then with your news yesterday, that I shall be gaining another sibling. Well…”

She trailed off with a sigh of consternation and Robert began to feel actual concern.

“The truth is, the other day cousin Matthew made me an offer of marriage.”

“Oh Mary!” Cora gasped, delighted. Robert felt his concern melt away into pleased relief.

“I did not say yes.”

“Mary!” Cora immediately gasped again, this time with considerably less cheer.

“I did not say no either!” their daughter hastened to add. “I told him that I was pleased to receive the offer but that I would do the sensible thing and think on it before giving my answer.”

“But you have now thought on it?”

“I have spent considerable time thinking on it! And I had in fact just about made up my mind to accept, except you then went and announced that you were expecting another child! What if you are blessed with a son!? Where will I be then!?”

“Just because Matthew might no longer be the heir does not mean he is not still a good prospect! You know your father would rather see you happy than– than–!”

Why, Robert thought forlornly to himself as his wife and daughter began to heatedly debate the relative merits of provincial solicitors versus entitled landowners, could they not have started this argument anywhere other than in my study?

Or they could least have let him out from behind his desk first. As it was he was thoroughly trapped by the two irritated women! And they weren’t even interested in his opinion on the matter!

Despite it now being well into the third week of July, the weather was currently being rather less than agreeable. Great storm clouds had rolled in two days ago and had been drowning Downton Abbey and its surroundings in a deluge of rain ever since. Occasional cracks of thunder could be heard, few and far enough between that they made everyone jump in surprise every time. And though it was without the chilling bite of winter, a strong wind constantly whipped at the clothes and hair of anyone who dared to venture out into the downpour.

Thomas was once again in the boot room, head bent over an antique hand-painted world globe that Carson had ordered him to bring down from the small library for a thorough cleaning. Some careful probing and tugging at it had revealed that it did not easily come to pieces, so he was instead delicately sliding a strip of cleaning rag down between the frame and the globe, praying that none of the wood polish stained anything other than what it was supposed to.

William was also in the room, standing in front of the sink at the back, his hands busy with his own task of scrubbing one of the large gas lamp covers from out the front of the house. The two on either side of the front door were some of the only lights in the main house that still hadn’t been converted to run off electricity instead, meaning that they still occasionally had to be taken down and cleaned of soot and then polished.

Thomas was of the opinion that a hallboy should be doing it rather than William but Carson didn’t trust any of the boys not to break one of the delicate glass panels. But at least it was quiet work for them both, tucked away out of sight from the rest of the staff. And thanks to the rain, it wasn’t even stiflingly hot inside despite it being the middle of summer.

Or it had been quiet work, until William apparently decided that they couldn’t continue on in silence.

“Do you think Lady Mary will say yes to Mr Matthew?” The second footman suddenly asked as he began to rinse off the gentle soap he’d used on the metal fixtures.

“I think she’s more concerned about whether or not she’ll get to be the next countess,” Thomas told him sharply. It had been a whole week since half the house had overheard that argument between her Ladyship and her eldest daughter (and quickly gone to share the details with the other half), but there was still no indication as to whether Lady Mary had made her mind up.

“You reckon she would have said yes by now then, if not for the baby?”

“Probably,” Thomas grumbled. “Mr Matthew will get pushed down to only second in line if it turns out to be a boy but until then, he’s still the heir.”

“Am I allowed to say that it seems a bit shallow, to be so concerned with whether he’s the heir or not?” William asked tentatively, glancing back over his shoulder to where Thomas was sitting. Thomas raised his eyebrows at him.

“You can say it to me, but god help you if Carson finds out you have.”

“Best keep me mouth shut on the subject then,” William grinned, before turning back to his scrubbing.

They continued on with their respective tasks quietly for another couple of minutes then, Thomas contemplating the best way to balance the globe so he could polish the underside of the stand without damaging the delicate item. He’d just about got it propped up securely and had picked his polishing cloth back up when the door opened and Bates limped in.

The older man made his way over to the stool opposite Thomas and settled himself on it. He’d brought his valet box and a pair of tweed trousers with him, and before he started to speak, he fished out a sewing needle and some thread and began to check the edges of a small seam tear near one hem.

“I’ve just seen Miss O’Brien go into Carson’s parlour with the most outrageous smirk,” he finally said.

Thomas stopped polishing as his head whipped up.

“Oh heck,” William muttered. It was a succinct statement.

“She was holding a piece of paper,” Bates continued with far more calm than Thomas thought was appropriate. “Folded as such that I suspect it was a letter. Did either of you notice if she got any post at breakfast this morning?”

“She did,” Thomas quickly answered. “Two envelopes.”

“Whatever she’s up to, she’s been plannin’ it for a while,” William grumbled, once again turning away from his work. “She’s been acting smug and sly since we all got back from London two weeks ago. More so than usual I mean.”

“Thomas? Any ideas?” Bates asked.

Thomas pondered the options.

There was no way she knew anything incriminating about the Pamuk affair. No one knew the whole of it aside from Anna, Bates, and Thomas himself. Not even William or Lord Grantham, the latter of whom knew just enough to protect the rest of them by ensuring no one else ever would learn the whole of it. In any case, Carson had also witnessed the tail end of that mess and so there was nothing O’Brien could reveal that the butler wouldn’t already know.

William, as far as Thomas knew, had behaved like a god-blessed saint his entire life. Thomas suspected he hadn’t even earned himself more than a couple of raps on the knuckles at school, such a goody-two-shoes was he. Even if O’Brien did have it out for the young man for some peculiar reason, there wasn’t anything to use against him.

And Anna was not far short of William in attaining sainthood.

Which left, as always, Thomas or Bates as her target.

“Depends on which one of us she’s gunning for this time,” he eventually sighed. “Though I doubt she could’ve discovered anything new about me, not unless she’s somehow managed to get my father’s address. And as he prefers to pretend I don’t exist and never did, I doubt she’ll have got anything from him other than I have no son by that name.”

William made an aggrieved noise at that, his expression twisting into one of disgust. Thomas privately reflected that he’d be disgusted for an entirely different reason if he knew why he’d essentially been disowned, but he didn’t and he never would if Thomas could help it.

“Well let’s assume for the moment that she’s targeting me again then,” Bates suggested. “That would mean there’s two pieces of potentially incriminating information she could be trying to leverage.”

“Except Lord Grantham already knows about both of them,” Thomas shook his head. “You have told him the whole of it now, yes?”

“Told him about what?” William half asked, half demanded.

Thomas bit back his first two instinctive responses of revealing the information as snidely as possible and insinuating that Bates should buy his silence respectively, and instead merely turned to look directly at the valet, trying to make it clear that the decision of what to tell William was in his hands. Bates met his level gaze with a small, appreciative smile, and then moved to face William.

“Half of it is that I am married but currently seeking a divorce,” he began explaining. “Which his Lordship was aware of before taking me into his employ.”

“Oh,” William said with remarkable blandness. “Is that all? What!? It’s not that shocking! I figured there must be somethin’ of the sort preventing you and Anna from courting. You’re remarkably close for a man and woman who ain’t walking out together.”

Thomas had shot the other footman a shocked look before he could think better of it, surprised that he wasn’t having some sort of religious crisis over the intention to break vows. Having had to share a cramped attic room with him at Grantham House in London, he now knew for certain that the other man really was the sort to pray on his knees at his bedside every night. So this mild mannered acceptance was quite unexpected.

“The other half,” Bates continued, more wearily, “is that I spent two years in prison for theft.

This, conversely, was met with ringing silence.

“…You what!?” William eventually blurted out.

“He’s a bloody idiot who took the fall for his estranged wife,” Thomas rolled his eyes when Bates didn’t expand the explanation himself.

William continued to gape at them both.

“Vera – my wife that is. Well, she stole some regimental silver from the barracks. The majority of my old comrades in arms knew very well that it was not I who had committed the crime, but I gave the police a signed confession stating otherwise so there was little they or anyone else could do.”

“Wha–? Why?”

“Because he’s a bloody idiot,” Thomas repeated himself.

“Regardless of my feelings for her, she was – still is my wife,” Bates insisted, as he always did when this topic was being discussed. “A man has certain duties to his wife.”

“For better, for worse,” William recited hollowly, quoting from the traditional Anglican marriage vows.

“Yes, exactly,” Bates agreed with a single nod.

Thomas still thought it was an absolutely idiotic thing to do and that marriage vows were hardly intended to cover such situations. But he’d already made his feelings on the matter clear and reminding Bates of them again wouldn’t be particularly productive right now.

“The point is,” he said instead, gesturing with the cleaning cloth he was still holding. “Lord Grantham should already know about the theft so theoretically we’ve unloaded her rifle before she can fire it.”

“I’ve told him,” Bates confirmed with a nod. “He was initially taken aback, but as you predicted, he quickly became understanding. I find myself rather glad I took your advice on the matter now, Thomas, despite my nerves convincing me that doing so would immediately see me sacked.”

“Everyone should always follow my advice,” Thomas grumbled. Though he suspected his pleasure at the compliment was colouring his tone somewhat, making him sound more amiable than he wanted to.

“How would Miss O’Brien find out about it though?” William then asked with a frown. He was clearly still processing the information, but the fact that he hadn’t started making ultimatums or immediately run to Carson with it was encouraging.

“Probably managed to get the contact details for someone at Bates’ old regiment and then wrote to them,” Thomas pointed out the obvious. “Or I suppose she could have written to or even met your Mrs in person. They are both Lady’s Maids and we were just in London for several weeks.”

“We had our half-days at the same time,” Bates grimaced. “You’d think she’d have better things to do than spend hers following me, but she could well have done. I went straight to my mother’s house and Vera invited herself in whilst I was there.”

“What I don’t understand,” Thomas sighed, aggrieved. “Is why exactly she has it out for you. This is a lot of effort to go to if her only motivation is trouble for trouble’s sake.”

“Oh well, that one’s obvious, innit?” William immediately quipped, abandoning his place at the sink entirely and moving to the end of the table. He placed his damp hands on edge and leaned his weight forward onto them, shirt sleeves still carefully rolled to his elbows. “Thomas fell out with her on the same day you got here, Mr Bates, and you’ve been mates ever since. She’s equated the two, thinks she got thrown over for someone better. Which I suppose she did, in a way, but she’s taking it out on you the same way a jilted lover would take it out on the new beau.”

Which, Thomas thought, made a surprising sort of sense really. Though he wished William had used an analogy other than that of a harshly ended romance. Judging from his facial expressions, Bates seemed to think so too – on both counts – and so for a moment, they all mulled over that idea in uneasy silence.

Outside, the sky rumbled with thunder once again.

“’Course all this contemplation might be for naught,” William added after those few tense seconds. “That letter could be about anythin’. Could be about Thomas instead o’ Mr Bates after all. Could be about Mr Carson, and she’s gonna blackmail him to get whatever it is she wants.”

“Now there’s a terrifying possibility,” Bates quipped with wry humour.

“Don’t you know,” Thomas puffed himself up with mock-self-importance. “Mr Carson sprung forth from the womb already fully formed and wearing his butler’s livery, and has done naught but behave beyond reproach ever since.”

Both William and Bates snorted at that, which had Thomas smirking in pleasure himself. William shook his head – almost fondly, it seemed – and pushed off the table to return to the sink. Bates resumed threading his needle, and so Thomas also reluctantly returned to his work, uncapping the tin of wood polish to re-soak his cloth.

Which as it turns out, was fortuitous timing.

As Mr Carson then appeared in the doorway, his face like thunder and his posture rigid.

“Thomas, Mr Bates,” the butler bit out. “You will accompany me to my parlour. Now!”

Chapter Text

Robert eyed the four men standing in Carson’s parlour with a great deal of exasperation.

From behind his desk, Carson was trying not to scowl furiously and not quite managing it. Every few seconds his brow would start to smooth out as he visibly reminded himself that his expression ought to be neutral, but his lips kept thinning and his eyes re-narrowing almost immediately.

On the left of the room, both Thomas and Bates were managing to… actually, what was that phrase they used? They were both managing to maintain the servant’s blank. It was clear that neither of them were impressed with the situation, but they were both doing an admirable job at remaining professional in front of their employer.

And then on the right in front of a locked wall cabinet, stood William, who quite honestly was confused and not hiding it. Given that Robert also had no idea why the young man’s presence had been requested, he suspected the look was fairly justified.

“So to summarise,” he stated, as impassively as he could manage despite his irritation. “Miss O’Brien received a letter earlier this morning that implied that these two men,” he gestured to Bates and Thomas, “were seen together in an indecent situation whilst we were in London. And you are inclined to believe this unnamed witness is speaking truthfully because you have also been harbouring some suspicion regarding their inclinations.”

“That is about the whole of it, my Lord,” Carson intoned gravely.

Honestly, Robert felt like laughing hysterically. Instead he took a deeper than usual breath in and massaged his left temple with one hand. The entire situation was, quite frankly, ridiculous.

“I would like to see this letter,” he said, forcing himself to keep his tone calm and level.

Carson handed it over with little fuss, picking up the single sheet of paper from his desk and holding it out without making any further remarks. Robert took it and smoothed it out, noting several things about it immediately.

The paper was thin and cheap, crackling between his fingers at only the barest hint of pressure. And the words upon it were written in a washed out black that suggested the writer had watered down the ink more than was advisable. The handwriting itself was largely unremarkable though; the usual neat cursive that everyone had to learn as children now that council schools had brought education to the masses.

Dear Sarah O’Brien,

I am given to understand that you are employed as Lady’s Maid to Lady Grantham of Downton Abbey and the Grantham Estate. I too, am a Lady’s Maid, though my position is not currently at a house nearly so great as yours. Nevertheless, I believe our similar employ means we share a great deal of mutual experience and understanding, and it is on this basis that I have chosen you as the one to write to with a matter of great concern.

Much like yourselves, my household and I were recently in London for the duration of the season. The timing of such resulted in my taking of two half-days whilst we were in the capital, and it was whilst I was returning from taking the second of these that I witnessed a most alarming and improper situation.

I am afraid that there is no delicate way of phrasing this as I must make absolutely plain what it is I saw. This is so that you may realise not just the severity of the situation itself, but so that the potential impact upon your employers’ good name can be fully understood. I therefore beg of your forgiveness for the resulting crude language and statement.

For you see, whilst I was returning to my household following the use of my second half-day, I passed by what I know to be Grantham House. As you will be well aware, the town house has a carriage passageway situated to its left, and that as each day draws to a close, it is oft not well lit. The resulting shadows are why I suspect that two of your male employees chose this location for – and I once again beg forgiveness for the crude phrasing – a most disgusting illicit rendezvous.

That is to say, they were acting together as only a man and woman should.

In deference to the potential impact upon the family which you serve, and upon yourselves as staff, I have refrained from taking this information to the police directly. Knowing that you must be a woman of upstanding character to hold the position you do, I trust you to do as needed in my stead far more discreetly than I am able to as an outsider to the household.

I have included below a description of the two disgusting men, for your ease of identification.

Yours faithfully,
B of London.

The postscript then went on to describe two men that were clearly supposed to Thomas and Bates. Robert had no doubt that the writer of the letter had been told exactly what descriptions to use to leave no question as to their identity.

Because he was sure this entire letter was a set up.

Thomas – for obvious reasons – he very well could believe could become entangled with another man. But he didn’t believe that the lad would be stupid enough to do so anywhere even half as public as a dimly lit alley in the middle of Westminster.

And even more tellingly, he knew for a fact that Bates was not that way inclined. The very idea of him taking up with Thomas was laughable.

“Bates,” he said, taking care to hide his amusement as he finished reading the clearly-scripted nonsense. “You wouldn’t perchance recognise the handwriting, would you?”

He handed the letter over, and after only a few seconds of reading, his valet’s expression confirmed his suspicions.

“The handwriting and the ink both, m’lord.”

“I suspected as much,” he hummed in response as he accepted the piece of paper back.

“My Lord?” Carson queried, one eyebrow rising in puzzled curiosity.

“This is signed only as B of London,” he began explaining, gesturing to the bottom of the letter. “In this instance, the B undoubtedly stands for Bates. As in Mrs Vera Bates.”

“My estranged wife,” Bates added when Carson’s expression did not change. “From whom I am attempting to seek a divorce.

“Ah,” the butler said with sudden understanding. “You believe the contents of the letter to be invented as part of an act of petty revenge.”

“I am fairly certain that that is precisely what is happening here,” Robert confirmed.

He wondered then, if he ought to draw attention to the fact that several small details had been included in the letter that could not easily be learned without a source from within the house. Details such as Thomas’ description as a young, tall man with pale skin and dark hair, dressed in a footman’s livery that includes a green waistcoat.

This contemplation however, was hastily set aside with Carson’s next words.

“In light of this new context, I agree m’lord,” the butler began with. “However our specific understanding of the situation does not remove it from existence.”

Robert refrained from directly saying the words how so? But he was sure his posture must have conveyed the sentiment anyway, as Carson’s shoulders drew back up and his expression firmed into one of a man resolving not to be swayed from his opinion.

“Regardless of its veracity, it remains that someone outside of this house holds vile information that is potentially damaging to your family’s reputation and good name. And equally as unfortunate, while this specific incident may be a fabrication, I have seen enough to conclude that it was not founded entirely upon falsehoods.”

“You honestly believe that these two good men might actually be involved?” Robert asked incredulously.

“I shall spare you the specifics,” Carson hedged, glancing sideways at Thomas meaningfully for just long enough for the look to be noticed. “But let us say that is most certainly not beyond the realm of possibility.”

Oh for heaven’s sake, Robert thought to himself in pure exasperation as Thomas’ expression noticeably tightened.

“I see,” he forced himself to say neutrally.

“They’re not,” William suddenly blurted, eyeing Carson nervously. “Uh, involved I mean. Um, sorry for speaking out of turn m’lord, but I couldn’t let such an accusation stand unchallenged.”

“That’s quite alright,” Robert acknowledged the apology.

“It’s only,” the younger footman continued with a little more confidence. “I don’t know when exactly they’d find the time to, uh, indulge in such an act even if they did harbour any inclination to do so. It is not,” he hastened to add, “that we don’t have any time to ourselves you see, only that almost all the time we do have free, either myself or Anna are with one or both of them. And Thomas and Mr Bates never have their half-days at the same time, so there’s not even an opportunity to leave the house and grounds together.”

“Thank you William,” Carson cut him off sternly.

Robert let him glare the boy into silence, still not entirely sure what, precisely, Carson was building up to. Permission to sack one or both of the men was a possibility, but not the only one, and perhaps not even the most likely. Carson was perfectly capable of hiring and firing the staff without Robert’s input after all, even over a matter as sordid as this one. So surely he must have something less drastic in mind.

Unless of course, he was angling for permission to turn either or both men over to the police?

That was definitely not happening.

“And what are your thoughts on the matter?” Robert then directed to both Thomas and Bates, giving the two men the opportunity to defend themselves. Likely for the first time, if the look they exchanged before speaking was anything to go by.

“I must profess that I don’t quite understand where Mr Carson has gained this impression of Thomas and I,” Bates spoke first. “I grant that he and I are friendly, but no more so than any other colleagues that live and work in the same shared spaces would be expected to be. We certainly have not been acting beyond the bounds of what is proper and appropriate, not in any capacity.”

Thomas, when Robert looked to him next, was far more blunt.

“O’Brien has had it in for me ever since I broke with her in the April of 1912,” he bit out without preamble. Robert immediately recognised the significance of the date. “This is not the first time she has attempted to engineer a situation which places either myself or Bates in the line of fire, merely the first time she has succeeded in doing more than making said attempt. There is no more truth in this accusation than any other she has tried to level our way.”

Denials on both parts then, as Robert had fully expected. (And an accusation as well, but they’d get to that.)

He turned to look back at Carson, who was once again frowning intently. The man seemed to mull something over for a few seconds, his lips pinching as if he were momentarily sucking on his teeth. And then his nostrils flared as he seemed to come to a decision.

“Be that as it may,” he began slowly, not quite meeting Robert’s eyes. “It still remains that there has been an accusation of serious and disgusting impropriety from outside of this house that acts as a blemish on its reputation, one that is in part supported by the observations of those within the house. I cannot in good conscience, allow it to pass without comment or consequence.”

Right. Carson was hoping to force Robert’s hand then.

“Then you and I will have to be sure,” he said flatly, folding the letter up and pointedly placing it in his inner-jacket pocket, “that the right people are the ones to experience the consequences.”

Sitting alone on an overturned fruit crate in the yard, Thomas’ hands shook as he attempted to light a cigarette. He was, quite honestly, shitting himself with nerves.

It was still raining hard, water still pouring down from the sky with the usual ferocity of a mid-summer thunderstorm. It pounded down on the cobbles hard enough for each drop to bounce, ran down the guttering pipes in a dull roar, and pooled in sizeable puddles deep enough to make a man wary of stepping even along their edges.

Even huddled as far back into the half full woodshed as he could get, Thomas’ shins were being splashed, grimy water slowly soaking his feet and livery trousers. He was a little sheltered from the wind by the walls surrounding him on three sides, but his legs were still growing cold as the dampness spread, making him even more miserable than he already was.

“Sodding bloody buggering fuck,” he swore to himself harshly as he shook his hands out. His cigarette was still stubbornly unlit.

He gave it up as a bad job despite how desperately he craved the calming effect of a good smoke. Something to do with the effect of the nicotine they contained on the brain, he knew. Regardless, he shoved the slightly squashed cigarette behind one ear for a moment and let his head fall into his hands, elbows propped on his knees.

“I’m going to kill her,” he groaned into his palms, actually fully meaning it for one bitter moment. He was fairly sure he wouldn’t be the only one to not mourn the loss of O’Brien right now, that Bates at the very least would probably stand right at his shoulder feeling equally content at her untimely death. Even William would likely just breathe a sigh of relief after the events of this morning.

But he discarded the idea almost as fast as it came. Moral implications aside, being taken and hanged as a murderer would do precisely the opposite of helping with the current situation. Not least because he was oddly sure that, for some unknowable reason, Lord Grantham didn’t want to see him tossed out on his ear despite the day’s revelations.

Carson did though. Carson very blatantly did want him tossed out. In the direction of a gaol cell if it could be arranged quietly enough.

Because that was the only thing that had actually saved him – and probably Bates as well – from immediately being dismissed without reference or character. The fact that the butler had first wanted to consult Lord Grantham on whether or not they should also summon the police. To see if his lordship thought it could be arranged without potentially calling the reputation of the house into question.

That was Carson’s concern. Not the well being and livelihood of the staff who lived under Downton’s roof just as much as the family did, not the very lives of those people. No, Carson was only concerned about what others might say of the upper class family, that other Lords and Ladies might decide that the Granthams had knowingly allowed disgusting homosexuals to work in their household and judge them harshly for it.

Thomas breathed out raggedly into his hands again and then finally raised his head back up. His hair had flopped forward into his eyes, escaping its thin layer of pomade thanks to the warm dampness of the air, and he scrubbed it roughly back, knocking loose his cigarette as he did so.

It landed in a sodden crack between two cobbles.

Swearing grotesquely to himself again, he reached into his coat pockets for a fresh one which he finally managed to get lit from only the third match. The slight burn at the back of his throat settled him as he took in a deep drag, and as he breathed slowly back out, he closed his eyes and for one long moment, pretended all was well in the world.

He smoked his way through two more cigarettes before the dampness of his feet began to grow too discomforting to ignore. Standing, he discarded the butts in the usual pot and reluctantly made his way back inside.

Anna was standing at the base of the stairs when he came down, almost as if she’d been waiting for him. She was frowning, her hands clutched tightly around a bundle of knitting, and one or two locks of her hair had escaped her cap. Clearly she’d heard how much shit O’Brien had landed him in.

“What?” he snapped out irritably as he tugged his overcoat off and headed for the coat hooks reserved for the staff’s use in the boot room. He was in no mood to be amiable.

“O’Brien,” Anna pronounced darkly, covertly checking over her shoulder. “Is a horrible spiteful little bitch.”

Thomas almost stumbled at hearing that kind of language out of the mouth of a woman. William did stumble, as apparently he and Mr Bates were already in the boot room.

“I don’t disagree,” Bates said equally as grimly.

“I’ve been filled in on the details,” Anna continued as though she hadn’t just shocked half of them into silence. “What a horridly insidious plot she has contrived. And colluding with Mrs Bates! The nerve of them both!”

Thomas grunted an agreement as he hung his coat up and then pulled out his usual stool. William had just about picked himself up and reseated himself as well, leaving Bates and Anna to claim the remaining two stools on the other side of the table.

For a moment, they sat in silence, sharing in their mutual loathing for the situation.

“They still haven’t come out of Carson’s parlour,” William then said to Thomas, updating him on what had happened since he’d stormed off into the rain outside. Which was not a lot apparently.

The three of them had been ordered out of the parlour following Lord Grantham’s grave pronouncement about consequences, insisting that he would resolve the matter with Carson alone. Thomas had initially been planning on loitering by the butler’s door and trying to overhear what was being said, but unfortunately Mrs Hugh’s sitting room was on the same short stretch of corridor and she’d shooed them all off immediately.

At least she hadn’t looked any happier about the goings on than the rest of them had.

“So,” Thomas breathed out irritably. “If I somehow manage to avoid prison, it looks like I’m going to need that back up plan. How does one go about volunteering for a specific corps of the Army, Bates?”

“What’s all this? The Army?” William immediately demanded. “And you ain’t going to prison, Lord Grantham obviously dun’t want that to happen so it won’t.”

“Lord Grantham,” Thomas sneered back at him, “might not have a lot of choice in the matter. The law’s on Carson’s side and Carson knows it.”

He was fairly sure that William was right, and that Carson wouldn’t summon the police if his Lordship asked him not to. Carson, after all, thought that the family he served ranked only one step lower than God himself. But Thomas had to be pessimistic because he had to be able to plan for all eventualities, including the possibility that his life might really go all to shit. Even more than it already had done today.

“It would help if we could get you an official RAMC recommendation,” Bates pulled them back to the original topic. “Doctor Clarkson might be able to provide that, or if he has the right connections, Lord Grantham might be able to pull some strings. He should do – have the connections I mean. He finished up the Boer War as a Captain of the Grenadier Guards so I have no doubt that he knows people of significant rank from every corps and regiment.”

“Thomas wants to join the RAMC?” William once again demanded. “Ain’t that the medical blokes? Don’t you have to be a doctor for that?”

“Not as an enlisted soldier, no.” Bates shook his head. “I’ve already explained all this to Thomas, but it’s only the officers of the corps that need to have a medical degree. The enlisted men, those who haven’t been to officer training school and join the army as a private. Well they do things like, well like looking after the cleanliness of the hospital wards and changing simple bandages and doing the basic stock taking for the drug stores. Stretcher carrying too, though as a new recruit that’ll only be unloading patients from an ambulance and taking them up to the ward beds.”

“How’d you know all this if you were in the infantry?” William asked next, apparently having taken over the conversation entirely.

“I spent some time in an RAMC hospital as a patient for my leg,” Bates answered him shortly. “I picked up a few things.”

“Oh,” William said, a little contritely. “But it’s still real war work right? I mean, you’re still a soldier in the army?”

“Very much so,” Bates told him in a serious tone. “Keeping the infantry alive and fit enough to continue fighting is just as important as the actual fighting.”

“But they’re not…” William trailed off uneasily, clearly worried that whatever he wanted to say next might sound insulting. Thomas watched him coolly, wondering whether he was going to put his foot in it anyway despite Bates having made his opinion on the matter clear. “They’re not right in the line of fire like the infantry is,” he eventually said. “I’m not calling them cowards! It’s actually… well I just really want to do my bit for King and Country, if we really do go to war. Only me Da said there ain’t no way I’m joining up, not if my life is at risk. He couldn’t take the heartbreak of losing me too, not after losing me Mum so recently. But the RAMC…”

“Bates told me they’ll only send the Army regulars up to the actual fighting,” Thomas informed him plainly. “No sense in sending newbies to do the most complicated work when they’ve already got trained men with experience ready to go.”

“D’you think he’d be alright with it then?” William bit his lip. “If I joined the RAMC with you and explained that it would mean I’ll be staying here in England the whole time?”

“How should I know? I’ve never met your father!” Thomas scoffed, only just refraining from throwing a few bloodies in there. Though actually, he doubted Anna would mind much given what she’d said about O’Brien not five minutes ago. Speaking of which. “How’ve we ended up talking about you anyway?” he complained. “It’s me who’s probably about to be out of a job!”

And possibly Bates as well, but Bates had the additional protection of both being his Lordship’s old war chum and not actually being a deviant. Unlike Thomas.

“Lord Grantham had you chaperoning his youngest daughter at high society balls all of last month,” Anna scoffed herself. “I doubt even this will have much effect on his good opinion of you.”

“His opinion of me was formed before he knew this about me,” he snapped back, mirroring Anna’s phrasing.

“Just so we’re clear,” William piped up cautiously. “The this you’re talking about is uh… Thomas’ uh. Walking out preferences?”

Thomas felt himself go stiff as a board with terror, suddenly remembering that only Anna and Bates had declared that they had no issue with him. William had decidedly not declared anything of the sort. William shouldn’t even know there was anything to know about Thomas.

William, who was always the first of them into the parish church on Sunday mornings, and one of the last to leave.

William, who had just turned to look directly at Thomas and had clearly noticed his look of abject horror.

“You shall not take vengeance or bear a grudge against the sons of your own people, but you shall love your neighbour as yourself,” the man unexpectedly recited calmly, still staring unerringly at Thomas. “That’s from Leviticus. And you’re not just me neighbour, you’re me mate as well.”

“Christ almighty,” Thomas swore in incalculable relief.

“Maybe don’t take the Lord’s name in vain immediately after being absolved by words from his good book,” William smiled wryly, playfully jostling Thomas’ shoulder with own. “If it’s any reassurance, I worked out about you years ago and haven’t done a thing against you since. Well. Not about this anyway. Did I get the cadence of the this right?”

Thomas was too busy having his world view rearranged again to reply to that. That was now three people who definitely knew about him and apparently didn’t give a damn.

“I don’t think there’s a specific cadence to it,” Anna chuckled weakly, obviously as taken by surprise by William’s easy acceptance as Thomas was.

“Well I agree with you,” William barrelled onwards. “’Bout his Lordship being on Thomas’ side. I dunno if you two noticed like, but Lord Grantham were talking about the this the same way I were. You know, acknowledging that it happens but not actually saying anythin’ bad about it. Carson said it were vile, but his Lordship never did.”

Which.

Which yes actually, now Thomas thought about it, he hadn’t. He’d definitely stated that he didn’t believe there to be anything between him and Bates, but he hadn’t actually condemned such relationships at any point, had he? And whilst that might well be because he didn’t think it actually needed saying, the same way one didn’t need to say aloud that murder and rape were bad to know they were, it was, Thomas supposed, an encouraging sign.

Signs and inklings however, could not – and should not – be relied upon.

“I still think it would be best if I left for the army,” he grumbled, keeping most of his musings to himself. “Even if Carson is forbidden from dismissing me, he’ll be unbearable to work for from now on. He already is unbearable to work for, but he’ll become even worse after this.”

“Then I’m going with you,” William announced earnestly. “Will serve him right to be left without footmen all of a sudden.”

“I suppose then.” Thomas sighed in resignation, “That there are a few conversations to be had.”

There’d be no talking William out of his decision now, not now that he’d seemingly found a loophole in his father’s demands. So Thomas decided he wouldn’t waste his breath trying.

(Even if it did mean he’d be tolerating the bloke’s presence for a few more months yet)

Fortunately for John’s nerves, they did not have to wait much longer to discover what decisions had been made. Lord Grantham exited Carson’s parlour and returned upstairs without asking to speak to any of them further, but he did leave instructions with Mrs Hughes that he and Thomas were to make themselves available in his study immediately after the upstairs luncheon had concluded.

Strange really, that there had been so much upheaval today and yet it was only just noon.

Thomas and William were required to serve at the luncheon obviously, which must have been a little awkward. William reported – in-between carrying dishes from the kitchen to the upper pantry and back – that both his Lordship and Carson were acting as if nothing were amiss, but Bates was sure there must be an air of forced joviality about it. Carson had certainly been quiet since he emerged from his parlour a good ten minutes after his Lordship had.

Still, the end of the luncheon seemed to arrive swiftly and so it was not long before he and Thomas were wending their way up the servant’s stairwell and pushing through the green baize door. The entrance hall was empty, as was the main library, so they did not encounter anyone as they walked through to the study.

Lord Grantham was sitting behind his desk. No one else was in the room.

“Thank you for attending my summons so swiftly,” he greeted them formally as they stopped in front of him. Bates had to consciously refrain from straightening up into military-perfect posture – bracing up, they’d called it in the army.

“My lord,” Thomas muttered with a deferential dip of his head. Bates echoed him.

“I shall start by reassuring you that the police will not be summoned and that neither of you will be dismissed,” the Lord began. “I have in fact, already burnt that odious letter so rest assured that there is nothing for the police to see even if they were to arrive.”

Thomas, Bates could tell, barely held himself back from sighing aloud in relief at hearing that.

“Thank you m’Lord,” Bates murmured on behalf of them both.

“That said, I must make it clear that Carson is correct in some respects; any rumour that we knowingly allow impropriety to happen in this house would have unacceptable negative effects upon all our persons. I know that in this specific instance the allegations of such were patently false but I also know that the potential for new allegations to be made does remain. I must therefore insist that while you are under this roof, you continue to behave at all times in a manner which does not invite speculation.”

His Lordship stared meaningfully at Thomas as he delivered this second part, making it clear that he definitely was aware that the young man was inclined a certain way with regards to relationships. But from his choice of words, Bates thought it was also clear that his Lordship didn’t take issue with how Thomas was provided he didn’t actually act on any of his… desires.

Thomas seemed to realise this too and some of the tension dropped from his shoulders. He inclined his head in a respectful nod again and muttered his assent.

His lordship sighed then, and let himself relax out of his perfect posture a little. Bates took this to mean that the formal section of the discussion was over and also allowed himself to relax some, leaning a little more of his weight on his cane and letting the corners of his mouth tug up into their usual small smile.

“Honestly this was not how I was intending to spend my morning,” the Lord huffed with wry amusement. “I mean for goodness sake, if I had screamed blue murder every time a boy at Eton made advances upon another, I’d have gone permanently hoarse by the end of my first term!”

Thomas had gone wide eyed next to him, but Bates was used to seeing this side of the Earl and hearing these sorts of remarks from him. The understated humour the man was capable of was one of the reasons that Bates liked him so much; not only was he a good person eminently deserving of respect, he was also funny.

“Not that I believe any advances have been made by either of you,” his lordship waved between them with more wry amusement. “Why Carson would believe you would make them specifically towards one another still defies my understanding! Quite honestly, of all the staff, it is Carson himself who most reminds me of some of my old school mates.”

“My Lord!” Thomas choked out in shocked mirth.

“We had best not go repeating that sentiment, I feel,” Bates chuckled himself. “I think Thomas and I have invited enough of Mr Carson’s displeasure already today. Best not go souring his mood further.”

“Ah yes, speaking of which,” his Lordship sighed, becoming a little more serious again. “I trust you understand that while I have put my foot down on this particular issue, it remains that Mr Carson is very much still in charge of the management of the staff. Regardless of our differing opinions on some matters, he is still a professional with a great deal of experience at his job, one who I know always does his utmost to place the best interests of my family above all else.”

He paused, a considering look crossing his face.

“Which is a slightly roundabout way,” he continued after a moment, “of bringing up the topic of your treatment under his management going forward. That is to say, I am aware that he will accept your continued presence under this roof only under sufferance and that it will likely not be a pleasant working environment for either of you. You should be aware that there is only so much I can do to lessen that strain without it being an overreach of my position and power; it does not do to interfere overly much with the running of the staff.”

“We have been... considering that situation actually,” Bates responded slowly after exchanging a speaking-look with Thomas, choosing his words with care. “We may have come up with a solution that meets your approval.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

“It is common knowledge now, m’lord,” Thomas picked up, obviously also considering his phrasing carefully, “that there is a war coming and that Britain will most certainly be involved. As you’d expect, there has therefore been much talk amongst the staff about how we may each contribute. For us younger menfolk, the obvious option is to volunteer.”

“William especially is keen to do his duty by volunteering for one of the new armies,” Bates informed the Lord. “To that end, he and Thomas have been discussing the options on offer. Once I had given them an overview of the various corps and regiments, they decided that the RAMC in particular was of interest to them.”

“I see,” his Lordship hummed agreeably. He clearly thought the idea had merit. “It does you credit, to be so keen to do your duty. The RAMC is not the choice I would have expected from either of you, but I have never held one aspect of His Majesty’s Armed Forces in greater esteem than any other; they are all of equal import.”

“And of course,” Bates added with a slight smile. “Thomas leaving the house to do his duty would have the additional benefit of placating Carson.”

“Well I doubt he’ll be happy to lose both footmen at the same time,” Lord Grantham snorted. “Even if it is only for the duration of the coming war and therefore temporary. Sacrifices must be made when war approaches though, and serving King and Country certainly takes precedence over waiting at table. But I take it from your careful presentation of this idea – yes I did notice that,” he interrupted himself to shoot them both an arch look. “But I take it you are hoping for my assistance with enlisting in the RAMC specifically?”

“It would be a great help if they had recommendations from a senior officer of the corps,” Bates stated carefully, treading the fine line between good humoured cheek and actual impertinence.

“Very well,” his Lordship sighed, a mixture of resignation and, thankfully, amusement. “I do have to travel to London this week anyway to discuss the impending installation of the new telephones with the relevant parties. It will be no hardship to have a word with one or two specific war office contacts of mine whilst I am there. Is it just William and yourself, Thomas, or am I making pleas on behalf of any of the other staff as well?”

“Ah, none of the hall boys are of age for military service yet, m’Lord,” Thomas quickly answered him. “And while I know that some of the gardeners and other outside staff have had similar discussions, I don’t know their corps preferences.”

“Then I shall arrange to speak to Mr Brockit as well before I leave,” the Lord nodded decisively. “Now I believe that is everything I needed to discuss with you. If you could ask Mrs Hughes to escort Mrs Patmore upstairs though, it would be appreciated. Seeing as I am apparently already offering to do my staff favours whilst in London, I might as well resolve that issue as well.”

Bates murmured one finally yes m’Lord and then dipped his head and limped out of the study with Thomas as fast as he was able.

Chapter Text

As July finally rolled into August, a morose air hung over Downton Abbey.

Though the summer garden party was but three days away, it seemed as if none of the family were looking forward to it any more. The sudden and unexpected loss of Lady Grantham’s unborn child last week had cast a pall over their excitement, leading them all to walk around with glum expressions and gloomy outlooks.

This in turn meant that the staff were also on edge. Most of them were sympathetic, especially the younger maids, but any member of the serving class knew that a decrease in their employers’ mood always correlated with an increase in how perfectly they were expected to perform their duties. Any discrepancy or mistake after all, was less likely to be forgiven if the Lord or Lady who noticed it was already unhappy.

Admittedly though, Thomas was more immediately concerned with Carson’s opinion of his work than he was with the family’s.

As they’d all predicted, the butler was only allowing Thomas to remain at the Abbey on sufferance. He was clearly deeply infuriated that he’d been over-ruled by Lord Grantham and so was watching Thomas like a hawk even more than usual, ready to pounce on even the slightest of perceived mistakes.

Thomas was therefore going well out his way to avoid making any.

“At least the weather’s improved, aye?” William smiled at him as they walked to the village side by side. Last night, after dressing the man for dinner, Bates had brought a message down to them from his Lordship, instructing them that they were to head straight to the village hospital today for a ten o’clock appointment. They were to receive their army physicals from Doctor Clarkson, and then all being well, return to Downton to fill out the last of their recruitment paperwork under Lord Grantham’s supervision.

Thomas was fairly sure this wasn’t the usual way things were done, but as it spared him from having to pay for the bus to Thirsk (or worse, York) and back, he wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

“It’s a bloody good job it’s warming up,” he responded to William’s remark, resisting the temptation to fiddle with his flat cap again. “Imagine the furore if we had to delay the garden party due to rain.”

William chuckled, though Thomas had not been trying to be funny.

The rest of the walk to the village was unremarkable, William chattering away non-stop about any number of topics. Speculation about what first aid training they might receive, a story about how one of the kitchen mousing cats kept finding its way into the hall boys’ room, his father’s request that he get his picture done once he had his RAMC uniform.

Once they arrived at the hospital, they were directed to the usual waiting room next to the small reception desk. A young man that Thomas recognised was already seated in there, and he popped to his feet and offered them both his hand to shake.

“It’s David, isn’t it?” William greeted the bushy haired man, pronouncing his name the Welsh way. He was only of middling height and most definitely still a teenager, albeit an older one. Eighteen perhaps, or nineteen at a push.

“It is,” David chirped back cheerfully. “Thomas and William, yes? David Awbrey. You here for the RAMC fitness test too?”

He must be nineteen then, as that was the new armies’ minimum recruit age. Unless he was planning on lying, which Thomas supposed he could be; it wasn’t like they’d been asked to bring any ID or other proof of name and age with them.

“Aye,” William replied affably, gesturing to the seats before them. “I take it you heard about his Lordship’s offer of an RAMC recommendation from the head gardener?”

David told them he had, and then he and William launched into an enthusiastic discussion on their predictions for what hospital work might be like. Thomas left them to it, instead fishing his cigarette case out of his pocket and settling down for a calming smoke.

Soon enough, Doctor Clarkson appeared and led first David, and then Thomas further into the hospital, leaving William for last. Thomas mused, as he stripped to his underclothes (minus his vest) and let the Doctor listen to his heart and lungs with a stethoscope, that he was simply seeing them in alphabetical order by surname.

There was also an eye examination, a hearing test, an inspection of his teeth and voice, an official recording of his height, weight and chest measurements, a slew of questions on his general health, history of illness and what vaccinations he’d had, and then oddly, an inspection of the arch of his feet and condition of his toes.

“Alright, last thing before we do the mobility checks,” Doctor Clarkson said once he had ticked some more items off the list he was keeping. “If you would lower your drawers to your knees please, and then stand smartly with your hands behind your back.”

Blushing furiously, Thomas did as he was asked and then endured a very uncomfortable couple of minutes. It was no wonder David had returned to the waiting room flushed and embarrassed.

Thankfully it was over quickly and all that remained was a short series of physical exercises to demonstrate his joints were all in working order – hopping on one foot, and windmilling his arms and so on. Then he was instructed to re-dress and handed a pocketbook sized card with his name and A2 written on, Doctor Clarkson’s signature scrawled along the lowest dotted line.

“A1 is the highest classification,” the doctor explained as he walked Thomas back to the front of the building. “Once you’ve completed your basic training, you will be moved up into that category. For now, you are A2 which denotes that you are fully fit for all forms of service at both home and overseas but require specific army instruction first. There are also B and C categories, which indicate that the man’s health is lesser but that he is still fit for some non-front-line postings.”

Thomas mulled this over as he exchanged places with William, wondering if that meant he’d be training and then working alongside many of these lesser-health men. After knowing Bates for two years, he was sure they could still contribute to some things, if not exactly fully pull their weight.

“What’cha get?” David asked once he’d seated himself next to the younger man. “I’m an A2 apparently. That’s good right?”

Thomas told him it was and then repeated Doctor Clarkson’s explanation. David then wanted to compare what examinations they’d just been subjected to and was soon chattering Thomas’ ear off despite Thomas mostly only responding in grunts.

William returned about twenty minutes later with his own A2 classification and they all thanked the doctor a final time before leaving the hospital as a group. After a moment of debate, they decided to pop into the village shop before heading back to the Abbey, reasoning that they’d already been gone long enough that no one at the house would notice another fifteen minutes.

It was nearing half-eleven when they finally passed through the rear delivery gates back into the Abbey grounds. David nervously followed Thomas and William up the gravel track to the house’s servant-door, his and William’s non-stop talking at last dropping off. As an apprentice gamekeeper – the current one apparently only having daughters and thus no son to train – David was Outside Staff and thus had never been allowed in the house before, not even in the staff rooms in the basement.

With this in mind, Thomas made them pause in the yard first.

“William, check his trouser cuffs and shoes,” he ordered the younger footman as he himself reached out to pull the lad’s collar a little straighter and smooth his tie down flat. “Lord Grantham is an amiable man,” he started instructing him as they tidied his clothes up, “so you’ll be fine as long as you’re polite and mind your manners. Don’t speak unless spoken to first and always call him my Lord. Nod your head when you first enter and then remain standing in his presence unless he specifically instructs you to sit. And lastly, refrain from asking him any questions, no matter how pressing you think they are.”

“Okay,” David swallowed anxiously.

“You’ll be fine,” William reassured him as he stood from his crouch. “It’s Mr Carson you’ve got to watch out for.”

“Amen to that,” Thomas grumbled as he also stepped back.

They went down the stairs into the halls then, thankful that it was Mrs Hughes who met them by the kitchen entrance. All three of them were in their Sunday-best suits rather than their work clothes, so as Thomas had expected, she took a moment to look them over and make sure they were presentable before letting them proceed up into the main house.

David peered about curiously as they emerged from the baize door on the ground floor, his eyes going wide when they entered the main library and he saw how many books there were. He was also noticeably being very cautious about keeping his hands to himself, gripping his flat cap between both hands to stop himself from reaching out to touch anything.

Then they ran into trouble.

Sort of.

Carson was stood in the gap that was the entrance through to his Lordship’s study, his back to one of the tall marble columns. He saw the three of the coming and his expression hardened as he moved swiftly to intercept them. Thomas and William automatically straightened up into a footman’s perfect posture, and after a moment, the young trainee gamekeeper attempted to imitate them.

The butler stopped in front of them and without saying anything, pulled out his pocket watch. He studied the face intently for a few seconds and then still without a word, snapped it close. Then he slowly raised one eyebrow.

“We had to see the doctor one at a time, Mr Carson,” William hastened to explain. “And then wait until after he’d seen all of us to get our results. We hurried back here as soon as we could.”

“And your excuse for why you thought it acceptable to come upstairs without changing back into your livery first?”

“Lord Grantham ordered us to attend him in his study as soon as we returned,” William once again answered for all of them. “We thought it best to not keep him waiting any longer than we already had.”

Carson made a short harrumph noise at that, which Thomas took to mean that the butler knew they’d made the right choice with their clothes, but didn’t want to admit it. He’d been looking for a reason to give them a proper smack probably, but William’s sensible (if… not entirely truthful) answers had disarmed him.

“Ah, is that the young men back from the hospital?” Lord Grantham suddenly called from the study.

“It is my Lord,” Carson called back, shooting Thomas one last poisonous glare. He gestured for them to proceed him through to the other room.

The last few weeks had been trying for Robert. Dreadfully so.

His complaints could thus be organised into three discrete categories:

One. Cora’s accident and the loss of the baby.

Robert would rather not dwell on that heart-rending tragedy any further, thank you.

Two.

That ghastly business with odious letter about Thomas and Bates. Or more specifically, the fact that he had allowed himself to be persuaded to not dismiss O’Brien from the household.

He’d refrained initially as the Lady’s Maid was more properly Cora’s servant than his, and so it was his wife who ought to have final say in the matter. He’d known even as he’d resolved to consult her first that Cora was a forgiving woman – a quality he usually admired greatly – but now he rather wished he’d asked for forgiveness rather than permission.

Cora – as a decent, upstanding lady – had done what was ordinarily advisable and had heard Robert’s explanation of the situation but then also gone and asked O’Brien for her side of the story. O’Brien had done as Robert knew she would and claimed that she hadn’t the faintest idea who had sent the letter, nor that it might be falsified.

Mrs Hughes had then somewhat hesitantly pointed out that if that were true, then Miss O’Brien had actually done the correct thing by bringing a potential scandal immediately to the attention of her superiors. As that was the same point that Carson had made whilst they were still in his parlour, Robert had reluctantly stayed his hand and allowed the contemptible woman to keep her job.

Oh, he’d made it clear to her that it was only on sufferance and his wife’s generosity, but to his displeasure, she was still a member of his household staff.

Which led him to the third category: that of the many and varied effects of the impending war on himself, his family, and his staff.

In truth this category was so large and complicated that he probably ought to subdivide it, but each part was connected to the others. Like a reflection of the circumstances that were leading to the coming war itself, what had started off small had rapidly snowballed.

Some parts were obvious and he’d foreseen them coming the moment the first rumblings of war had started on the horizon. A lot of it he’d been ruminating over for some time; the potential loss of Matthew for instance, or how the estate would manage the temporary reduction in both staff and farming tenants as the menfolk volunteered to do their duty and left Downton.

Some parts of it he hadn’t seen coming at all.

As he checked over the enlistment paperwork he’d just had his three young servants complete under his supervision, he mulled over the latest surprise development. It had come about as a direct result of his efforts to obtain said paperwork, but he really had been blind sided by it.

When he’d promised he’d spare some small time in London to speak to some of his old officer chums, he’d been imagining that all that would be required on his part was a brief word with the correct person. He’d ask for a few letters of recommendation, likely exact duplicates but for the name of the man it was intended for, and then simply hand them over to Thomas and be done with it. Mayhap he’d also have pointed the three young men in the direction of the nearest recruitment office, but no more than that.

Yet somehow he’d been cornered into also joining the RAMC?

It had happened like so:

To begin with he’d asked some of the men of his club for a recommendation on which RAMC officer he might request a small favour from. Several names had been offered up, most of them belonging to current-serving Captains or Majors of the regular army. They’d then debated who, from amongst these offered names, would be of the most immediate help to Robert and ultimately picked out two to approach; one first port of call, and a second in reserve.

A polite letter and two days later, Doctor Frank Merrilees – a RAMC Captain and relative of the current Baron Kafford – had then met with Robert outside of the main entrance of the Queen Alexandra Military Hospital, the RAMC’s main headquarters on the southern edge of Westminster. But they’d been no further along than making their introductions when Sir Arthur Sloggett, the Lieutenant General and newly appointed leader of the whole damn medical corps, had approached them and inserted himself into their conversation.

“I see,” the General had hummed thoughtfully once Robert had briefly outlined his request. “These young men of yours, they are keen for the RAMC specifically?”

“They are, yes,” Robert had nodded.

“And yourself goodman? You have the bearing of a man with his own military history. Africa perhaps?”

“I attended Sandhurst fresh from Oxford and then finished the Second Boer War as a Captain in the Grenadier Guards,” he had informed the officer.

“Oh very good! Quite the elite unit, the Grenadiers. I expect you will be rejoining them shortly, now that it is almost certain that Austria will declare war on Serbia?”

“I haven’t been approached directly as yet sir, but that is the presumption.”

And that was the phrase that had proven to be his downfall. He should have just said yes I will be and left it at that.

Restraining a sigh, he stared down at the half-filled in regiment transfer paperwork sitting beside Thomas’ now-complete forms. He shouldn’t have slipped into old habits just because he was faced by a superior officer in uniform, should have remembered that he was a bloody Earl now and could do more (much more!) than simply nod along with whatever was proposed. Even if it was a Lieutenant General doing the proposing!

He didn’t even have any medical training for goodness sake! He’d rather thought that was an immutable pre-requisite for an officer of the RAMC!

Alas, it had been his organisational and estate management skills that Sir Sloggett had been interested in and so it was apparently possible to… bypass the usual assignment process. According to Sloggett, the RAMC had plenty of senior officers who were capable of instructing new recruits in the medical side of things, but they were lacking officers who were experienced in running establishments that weren’t hospitals.

Thus Sir Sloggett had suggested that he would personally provide the three requested letters of recommendation if only Robert might perhaps agree to partner with a PMO for the running of a RAMC basic training camp. And of course, this would be so much easier to organise if he simply swapped his cap badge for a RAMC one. He could learn the basics of medical care as he went along, couldn’t he? He must be a clever enough chap for it, considering his Oxford background and previous promotion to Captain? He would hardly be expected to reach the level of understanding of an actual doctor after all.

None of this had been phrased as a suggestion so much as a fait accompli. By the time he’d remembered that he was allowed to object, it had been too late to do so without reneging on promises already made. He’d been thoroughly steamrollered by the Lieutenant General.

At least, he sighed to himself as he reluctantly picked his fountain pen back up, Cora will be happy to get her wish.

He was definitely bound for a training camp after all.

The morning of the garden party dawned bright and clear.

Anna was up at first light; which, with them being only a month past the summer solstice, was fairly early indeed. Gwen also reluctantly crawled out of bed and together they washed and dressed and made their way downstairs.

Mrs Patmore was bustling about the kitchen with a great deal of cheer when they slipped in in search of their first cuppa of the day. The matronly cook had been in much better spirits since she returned from London last week; Lord Grantham had paid to get her sight fixed and she was thrilled with the results. Which in turn meant the whole staff’s mood was improved. Daisy in particular, was much more relaxed and happy.

“Morning!” William chirped as Anna joined him in the servant’s hall. He was the only one of the men to have made it downstairs so far, and as usual, he was full of energy despite the early hour.

“Good morning William,” Anna smiled back, taking her usual place towards the head of the table. “Looking forward to today?”

“As much as one can, when one knows there’s a great deal of work to be done,” he grinned cheerfully. “Still, the garden party makes for a nice change of pace and it’ll be good to finish my time here on a high note.”

“You’ve heard some more then? About your, uh, orders?”

Anna thought that was the correct word anyway, orders. The official papers that told a military man when and where he was to report to begin his training or deployment. Lord Grantham had taken Thomas and William (and that other young lad, the Welsh one who worked outside) to Ripon yesterday to say their oaths and take the King’s shilling, so all that remained to happen now was for Britain to actually declare war and call up all these young men who had pledged their service.

“Not yet, no,” William shook his head. “They’ll likely come by post though, and won’t be sent out until Britain actually enters the war. His Lordship says that’ll happen any day now though, now that Germany’s declared against France as well as Russia.”

“Germany’s declared war on France too?” Gwen asked, sliding into the seat next to Gwen.

“Yeah, yesterday. His Lordship got a telegram about it late last night and then called the war office on the new telephone to confirm it. Bates told me about it after he’d seen him into his bed-clothes for the night.”

“I don’t think I shall ever get used to that,” Anna commented as she tentatively sipped at her tea to see if it had cooled enough. It hadn’t. “That you can just use one of these telephones and speak to someone at the other end of the country immediately!”

“I know, it’s mad innit!” William nodded in agreement.

Mr Bates arrived with his own cup of tea then, a grumpy Thomas trailing after him like a particularly cantankerous cat. They too, sat at the table, and after another round of good mornings, the conversation switched to what living arrangements Gwen might make if she were to get the secretary job with the phone company. They were based down in London and she was equal parts excited and nervous, now that it looked like her dream might become reality at last.

After another ten minutes they all began to peel off to attend to the first of their respective jobs for the day. William was the first to go, taking the eldest hall boy, Benjamin, up out to the yard with him. The biweekly grocery delivery was about to arrive, an hour and a half earlier than usual at Carson’s insistence.

Thomas meanwhile took the other two boys upstairs to begin the daily rounds of the ground floor. Anna and Gwen took everyone’s tea mugs to the scullery sinks and then followed after him.

The usual morning tasks were gotten through swiftly – opening curtains, plumping sofa cushions, dusting chandeliers and so on – and so it was not long before they were all trooping back downstairs to assist with the less routine tasks. Both Carson and Mrs Hughes were up and about when they reached the base of the staff stairwell, and so Anna quickly found herself asked to assist William with some of the marquee decorations

The marquees themselves had all been erected yesterday afternoon but were still unadorned and empty. Anna hitched her skirts up slightly with her free hand as she followed the younger footman across the grass to the left-most one, keen to avoid getting her hems damp from dew. There was a large tree stump just to the side of it, and it was here that they deposited the boxes and bags they’d been carrying.

They had just started unravelling a line of modest bunting when Thomas also came striding across the grass with… was that Benjamin, in footman’s livery?

“Right then,” he greeted them when he reached them, placing another box atop the tree stump. “The good news is, Carson’s finally seen sense and got us some extra help for today. Mr Mosley will be coming over shortly and bringing most of the Crawley House staff with him, and Benji here will be acting as junior footmen for the duration. Mrs Hughes has said that if he does well, he could well keep the job after William and I have left.”

“Really!?” Benjamin gasped, excited. “But I’m only just seventeen!”

“I expect Mr Carson will want to hire someone already trained and experienced to replace me as soon as he can, and William’s been promised his job back once the war is over,” Thomas told the boy dryly. “So don’t go setting your expectations too high.”

“Still though… Even if it’s only temporary, proper experience as a footman this young!? Me Ma will be well chuffed when I write to her!”

“You’ve been promised your job back as well, don’t forget,” William pointed out to Thomas as he resumed untangling the bunting.

“You’re having a laugh if you think Carson won’t find some way to keep me out once I’m gone,” Thomas snorted. “And you’re assuming I’ll want to come back after escaping his tyranny. Who knows, maybe I’ll like the army and decide to stay.”

“Maybe I’ll like the army and decide to stay,” William grinned. “Not sure me Da will be thrilled with that, but he was alright with this RAMC idea so who knows. Guess we’ll wait an’ see what happens.”

“Quite,” Thomas said shortly. “Now give that bunting to Anna and come help me carry the tables out. Benji, Anna is in charge until I get back.”

“Yes Thomas!” Benjamin nodded rapidly, still grinning ear-to-ear over his promotion.

Thomas and William then rapidly headed back towards the house, leaving Anna with the boy – young man, she probably ought to start thinking of him as, if he was to be a footman now.

Regardless, she quickly had him tying bunting up around the outer edges of the central marquee while she unravelled the next lot. Before long, Thomas and William reappeared with even more of the staff in tow. Tables were quickly set up, brilliant white cloths thrown over them, stacks of chairs brought out, and then at last they were all called back indoors for the downstairs breakfast.

Breakfast was a simple porridge improved greatly by Mrs Patmore having put aside a bowl of fresh summer berries for them all to share. They ate it quickly and quietly, knowing that soon they’d have to continue with the party set up and attend to the family. And sure enough, the youngest two maids had only just begun clearing the table when the first of the upstairs bells rang.

Lord Grantham from his dressing room. Bates quickly hurried away.

“A word, before you return to your work,” Carson suddenly demanded, gesturing to Thomas and William. Anna, curious, quickly reached for her mending basket as an excuse to loiter in the vicinity. “I trust there will be no more unscheduled disappearances today?”

“No Mr Carson,” William quickly told the butler, while Thomas kept quiet at his side. Anna had noticed that happening a lot recently; William doing the talking so that Thomas didn’t have to, sparing Thomas at least some of Carson’s vitriol. “No, yesterday was the last outing as best we’re aware.”

“Good,” the butler replied. “And I hope you showed your gratitude to his Lordship effusively, for his taking you to Thirsk on such short notice? It was very good of him.”

Anna bit back a smile as both William and Thomas assured Carson that they had. In truth, Carson had been outraged by his Lordship offering to take the three RAMC applicants to the nearest recruitment office. Not because of the generosity of Lord Grantham (this was to be greatly admired and commended), or even because he’d been left without both footmen for two hours in the middle of the day. No, Carson’s objection had stemmed from the seating arrangements in the motor.

With Branson driving and only one more seat up front, Thomas and William had ended up in the back. With Lord Grantham.

Carson had apparently tried to imply to the Lord that this was perhaps not appropriate, but Lord Grantham had waved off his concerns and insisted that sometimes practicality had to come before etiquette. The butler had demurred and kept a straight face until after the motor had departed, but had then stomped downstairs and become apoplectic.

The whole downstairs had heard him ranting to Mrs Hughes from his parlour, loudly insisting that Thomas in particular should have known better than to accept the offer of a lift, that all three men should have politely refused and taken the bus instead. And never mind that it would have meant their being gone for considerably more time than just two hours! Impending garden party or not!

Fortunately, Carson seemed to have got the worst of it out of his system before they returned (or Mrs Hughes had talked him down, more likely), as he had only given them a stern talking to rather than a proper smack once they did. This little speech this morning about unscheduled disappearances was hopefully the last of it.

“See that it doesn’t happen again,” the butler finished the reprimand. “Now then, I believe it is time to start taking the breakfast dishes upstairs. William, if you would see to the newspapers first though, and then – Timothy! More haste, less speed! The hallways are not a horse race track!”

Thomas and William both took the butler’s sudden distraction as a chance to scarper, so Anna stopped pointlessly reorganising her basket and also returned to her actual work.

The weather had turned out beautifully and the garden party was in full swing. Lords and Ladies and Gentlemen were ambling about in their summer whites conversing as gentle music played in the background, the staff were performing admirably despite the summer heat, and Thomas had at last handed in his notice. Carson was content.

It was a bit of a shame that he was losing William too, but truth be told, the younger footman had been a little too influenced by Thomas in recent years. Becoming more evasive, more prone to speaking half-truths than full honesty. No, as much a pain as it was to lose both trained footmen at once, it was for the better that he would have a blank canvas in Benjamin.

A blank canvas that Thomas would be unable to taint with his greasy little mitts.

When his Lordship had insisted that the repugnant boy be allowed to stay in the house despite recent revelations, he’d initially been taken aback. But Carson should have trusted the Lord more, for it turned out that he did have a plan to oust the boy. A rather marvellous one, if truth be told. By shipping him off to the army, he was not only removed from the staff, but removed in a way that reflected well on the house and family; other Lords and Gentlemen did so like it when a man so visibly contributed to King and Country.

Carson could not have arranged matters better himself. It really was a rather neat solution.

Keeping a careful eye on Benjamin, Carson strode across the lawn to Mrs Hughes, who was equally keeping an eye on the newest of the housemaids. He greeted her with a friendly nod and allowed himself a small smile when she also smiled at him.

“I think this has turned out rather well, Mr Carson,” she praised him in that kindly subtle way of hers.

“The trick,” he agreed with her, “is to plan these things well in advance.”

“And to insist on certain standards being met regardless of available time and manpower,” she nodded. “Do you think we shall cope with such a reduced staff? I dread to think how many more we shall lose to the army if war truly does break out.”

“Last I spoke to his Lordship on the matter, he was certain that any war would be finished by Christmas. I do not pretend to understand the strategies involved – such things are the domain of gentlemen officers far above our own station – but I gather the gist of it is that we would swiftly pen them in and herd them home like so much cattle. We would have them surrounded on all sides, you see?”

“I’m afraid it’s rather beyond my ken as well,” Mrs Hughes chuckled, folding her hands behind her back. “But I shall presume his Lordship has grasped the whole of it and knows what it is he says. Speaking of the male staff though, I feel there is a situation brewing that I ought to bring to your attention.”

“Oh?” Carson said, raising one eyebrow inquisitively.

“Merely the potential for one I stress, rather than something currently unfolding. But I shall be keeping an eye on it. Actually, now I consider it, as the young man involved is one of the outside staff and not strictly under your purview, perhaps it would be best if I held off on drawing you in until we must take actual action. If we ever do need to take action.”

“I trust your judgement entirely,” Carson acquiesced. And he did; unlike certain members of the staff, Mrs Hughes’ character was impeccable and beyond reproach. If she said she had the situation well in hand, then he believed that she did.

“Tangential to all this though,” she continued on, “I’m afraid we are about to lose yet another of the maids.”

“Another? Gracious me, that is the third in nearly as many weeks! Thank goodness her Ladyship was able to convince his Lordship to keep O’Brien on. I feel as if we are haemorrhaging staff left, right, and centre!”

“This one is hardly unexpected though,” Mrs Hughes hummed with an uncurrent of amusement. “Gwen has just received word that her interview with the telephone company was successful. She will be working out her month’s notice of course, but she’ll be leaving us at the end of August.”

“I must admit that you are correct; I did see that one coming,” Carson sighed.

“Saw it coming or not, it does mean you and I will be doing even more recruiting and interviewing than we already had planned on in the coming weeks.”

“Quite,” Carson sighed again. “Let us hope that Benjamin proves to be worthy of my investing time and effort into him, and spares us finding a replacement on that front at least. Now if you would excuse me, I have just spotted something that may require my attention.”

“And I as well,” Mrs Hughes muttered dryly, eyeing one of the maids who had handed her notice in. The one who was leaving to marry one of the under-gardeners, if Carson had it right.

They parted ways with another nod each and Carson made his way across the lawn away from the party, heading for the big oak off to the left of the house. A neat gravel path ran past it and a bench was at its base, and it was between the two that Lady Mary was standing and looking most unhappy.

“Are you quite well m’Lady?” he asked her softly as he slowed to a stop by her side.

She nodded, though the fact that she looked close to tears belied that response.

“Of course,” she added verbally, adding to the understandable pretence. “This is merely… a pause, not an ending.”

He turned to face her more directly, silently offering her his support as she audibly took in a deep breath and continued holding back tears. Her delicately gloved hands started moving towards her face again, but she caught herself and smiled weakly instead.

“It is only…” she started, only to pause and swallow hard. “You can keep a secret, can’t you Mr Carson? You always did when I was but a little girl.”

“For you, of course I would m’Lady,” he told her truthfully.

“It is only,” she tried again, her voice still wobbly “That Matthew and I had come to an agreement on the subject of marriage. I had told him you see, that I admired his courage, intelligence, and kindness greatly, and that those qualities would not change regardless of his fortunes in life. That any woman would be glad to have him as her husband no matter if he were to be an Earl or not.”

“That was very kind of you to say to him, m’Lady.”

“We were going to tell Mama and Papa straight away,” Mary hiccuped. “That we were at last engaged. Only Doctor Clarkson was summoned about the baby before we could and we decided it would be in bad taste to announce such happy news in the face of such horrible misfortune. We resolved to tell everyone this afternoon instead. But just now, he–!”

Her hands did come up to her face then, hiding her tears from the world. Carson delicately drew her towards him, carefully cradling her against him.

“He told me,” she sniffed miserably into his shoulder, “that with Germany having declared war on both Russia and France now, it would only be a matter of days before Britain would have to join in and also declare war. That because of this, he would be leaving Downton to attend Sandhurst and become an officer. That it would mean he would be gone for months so perhaps we should reconsider the engagement until after his schooling was complete.”

Carson sighed in sympathy. It was, in a certain light, rather sensible of Mr. Matthew to suggest a delay given that they had not yet made any announcements. But on the other hand, he did not see why they could not simply have a slightly longer engagement period and marry once he was returned to Downton.

It was not his place to judge though, only to support the young Lady through her moment of turmoil and upset.

“I know you have spirit, m’Lady,” he soothed her. “And that’s what counts. That’s all that counts in the end.”

She continued to cry quietly as he rubbed his hand up and down her shoulder.

Robert stared at the telegram in his hand. He’d absolutely known this was coming but he still felt his heart drop into his stomach.

“My Lords, Ladies, and Gentlemen,” he called out as the string quartet stuttered quickly to a stop. “Can I ask for silence. Because I very much regret to announce... that we are at war with Germany.”

They were bloody well at war, come what may.

Chapter Text

Thomas and William’s orders came in the morning post only ten days after Britain had declared war on Germany.

“We’re to take the train to Leicester on Monday morning and report to a Sergeant Willcroft at the camp being set up there,” William read out to the unusually quiet breakfast table. “Says here that the camp is under the command of a Lieutenant Colonel Haxley and that we’re not to bring any more than we can fit in a haversack.”

“Very well,” Mr Carson pronounced from the head of the table. “As per his Lordship’s request, you will finish your employment here at noon tomorrow then, so that you may spend your last day with friends and family. I expect you both to leave your rooms in the attic in a clean and orderly state, and to bring your livery down to my parlour before you depart.”

“Yes Mr Carson,” Thomas and William both replied woodenly.

“If you are to take only a few things with you, I trust you have both made arrangements for the rest of your personal belongings?” the butler then asked, one eyebrow arching up as it always did when he asked questions he believed to be rhetorical.

“Her Ladyship suggested that they might make use of some of the old chests in the storage attic actually,” Mrs Hughes answered cheerfully before Thomas could say anything. “It was a very gracious offer that I was pleased to accept on Thomas and William’s behalf.”

“I see,” Carson replied flatly. “Very gracious indeed.”

Thomas smothered a laugh when the housekeeper then smiled a little too innocently in Thomas’ direction. In truth, it was Thomas who had gone to Mrs Hughes three days ago to ask if he might leave some things at Downton seeing as he had no other home to take them to. Mrs Hughes had said that she saw no issue with granting the request but that Thomas ought to leave informing the butler to her.

“Her ladyship is keen that we look after the boys until they leave as well,” Mrs Hughes continued on, clearly deliberately ignoring Carson’s scowl. “I’ve been asked to offer them the use of their rooms until the actual day of their departure, and to make sure they know that they’re welcome to continue to join us for meals until then as well.”

“I see,” Carson repeated, equally as flatly.

“To quote her Ladyship, it is not everyday that a young man departs for war. We’re to make their remaining time here warm and enjoyable, so that they may carry the memory of that warmth with them to wherever they’re deployed.”

“I feel we’ve talked enough of war for one morning,” Carson then stated unsubtly after clearing his throat. “Iris, how are the arrangements for your wedding coming along?”

The housemaid lit up as her favourite topic was raised again, and she began enthusing about flowers and dresses and bridesmaids. Thomas hadn’t been interested the first time he’d heard all this, let alone the hundredth, so he rolled his eyes and tried to tune her out.

Thankfully it wasn’t long before everyone finished eating and began to leave the table. Carson was one of the first to get up as usual, and within a couple minutes of this, there was only the hall boys and the male members of Thomas’ little clique remaining. Anna and Gwen had tried to linger as well, but had had to scurry away when Mrs Hughes appeared with a stack of clean bedding that needed taking up to the landing cupboards before the bells started ringing.

Noting the absence of O’Brien, Thomas slouched in his seat and pulled his cigarette case out.

“So then Mr Bates,” he said as he breathed out a first curl of smoke. “Any last minute bits of army advice?”

Bates paused in that thoughtful way of his, mulling over his words before speaking.

“I doubt very much that you shall actually need them,” he eventually hummed, “but it might be a good idea to write a letter outlining your wishes in the event of your death. Just in case. Nothing so elaborate as a formal will, but something that a solicitor can take as a clear statement of intent.”

“I put me Dad down as me next of kin on me recruitment forms though,” William frowned, pushing his empty bowl back and forth on the table. “Won’t that cover it? Everythin’ that’s mine goes to him?”

“That will cover your army pay and any personal affects you have with you at your posting, yes,” Bates agreed mildly. “But you ought to consider what you’re leaving here too, such as the rest of your clothes and your post office savings account. Unless you’ve already added your father’s name to it, he’ll have to wait to get a formal death certificate from the army before he can access your money. And in a war, that can take a while.”

William’s hands stilled.

“No, I hadn’t thought of that,” he admitted.

“We’ll write some letters after we’re done with the upstairs breakfast,” Thomas decided for both of them.

Thomas hadn’t had a slightest clue who he should put as his next of kin now that his sister was more than two years gone. Eventually, he’d just stuck Anna’s name on the dotted line and claimed she was a cousin; she at least, would be able to inform the rest of the Downton staff of his passing – the ones who would care, anyway. He didn’t think his Lordship had noticed what he’d done despite the man peering over their shoulders the entire time they were filling out the forms, but if he had, he hadn’t mentioned it.

One thing was for sure though, Thomas would be damned if any of his actual family got hold of his things. His father would probably burn most of it given half a chance and the less money of his that lot had access to, the better. A letter that could be used like a will sounded like an excellent idea.

Carson came to chivvy him and William upstairs to finish the morning room table setting then, making them both go despite the fact that he was bound to make Benjamin do the bulk of the work as practice for when they’d be gone. They got through it fairly quickly despite Benji making a few minor mistakes and drawing the butler’s ire, and then it was on to serving the breakfast itself.

Breakfast blurred into mid-morning tasks without time for letter writing, and then mid-morning also slid into luncheon without pause. After a hurried midday meal of their own, Carson then banished all three of them outside to do as much silver polishing as possible before the upstairs dinner required attention.

“He really is trying to wring every last little drop of labour from us before we go,” Thomas complained bitterly as the new hall boy brought yet another box full up from the main storage room.

“Aye,” William huffed in agreement. “Least the weather’s good enough for us to do it out here. Imagine all three of us trying to fit in the cupboard under the stairs!”

“I know I’ve been walking through that storage room every day to get to me bed and back,” Benji goggled as he inspected the contents of an old cutlery tray. “But I don’t think I’d realised just how much silver we own! Mr Carson can’t possibly be expecting us to polish all of it, can he!?”

Thomas sighed wordlessly rather than dignify that with an actual response and reluctantly picked up a tureen.

They worked quietly for a while, Thomas leaving William to do the instructing when Benji needed it. The most commonly used pieces only needed a cursory wipe off and touch up, but there were plenty that needed a much more thorough cleaning. In fact, some of it was so old-fashioned that Thomas was sure it only ever came off the shelves when Carson was feeling particularly spiteful towards his footman; there was no way some of it was ever getting used in the dining room no matter how well they polished it.

“Oh, this makes things easier! I wasn’t looking forward to having to knock and wait!”

Startled, Thomas’ head shot up. Standing at the entrance to the yard was David. He was in his gamekeeper tweed, muted green stockings pulled up to just below his knees and an unloaded shotgun hung carefully over one arm. A slightly dusty black bowler hat was perched atop his unruly hair, which had the effect of making his already youthful face look even younger.

“Alright Awbrey,” William grinned at him, waving him over.

“Alright,” David grinned back. “I meant to drop by here earlier than this but Mr Millcroft found some signs of poaching just after breakfast so we had to sort that first. Just wanted to check you also got your orders letters this morning, and that they say the same thing as mine.”

“Aye, we did,” William nodded. Glancing over his shoulder at the servant’s door quickly first, he carefully put the old chalice he’d been working on down and wiped his fingers off on a clean rag as best he could. Then he stuck his hand down the front of his waistcoat and pulled out his letter.

David hurried over to his side and they pressed both sheets of paper flat on the table next to each other. With his own wary glance at the door down into the house, Thomas also shuffled over and took a look. As expected, they were identical but for the names and addresses.

“Same camp, same Sergeant,” David sighed in relief. “Guess we can take the same train on Monday morning as well then.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Thomas confirmed.

And then he quickly moved back to his side of the table and started polishing again. It didn’t do to tempt fate and it did even less to tempt Mr Carson!

Thomas rose not long after dawn and quickly stripped his bed linens for a final time. The room that had been his for just over seven years was almost bare now, emptied of what few personal possessions he had kept in there. His old haversack was hanging on the back of the door next to his favourite suit, his freshly polished shoes were waiting on the floor at the foot of the bed, and his shaving kit was sitting alone on the top of the dresser.

Everything else was packed away in the main attic.

Grabbing his straight razor and accoutrements, he made his way quietly down the hallway to the men’s bathroom. No one else was awake yet so only the sound of the shifting floorboards accompanied him, sparse motes of dust glinting in the dawn sunlight as he moved through the already humid morning air.

Bates had warned him that the washing facilities at enlisted training camps could be a little lacking, so Thomas took his time at the sink. He’d indulged in a long, hot bath yesterday evening, having spent the afternoon packing his things away and finally writing that just-in-case letter, so he just had to freshen up this morning.

He’d wanted to spend more of his time relaxing yesterday but despite the words Mrs Hughes had relayed from her Ladyship, Carson had kept him and William hard at work right up until the last moment. Though both she and his Lordship had said they were to finish at noon, the butler had insisted that they serve at the upstairs Luncheon and then clear the table and pantry before releasing them from their duties. As usual, that had taken them until almost two in the afternoon to complete, even with Benji’s enthusiastic help.

At least he hadn’t had to rush through his packing like William had, who’s father had insisted that he come home for one last home cooked meal and one last night in his childhood bed. William had tried to get Thomas to go with him for the dinner at least, but Thomas had no interest in spending half his free time walking across the estate and back just to sit awkwardly in another man’s house for a few hours.

He finished shaving then, and quickly wiped his razor clean. He patted it dry and slipped it back into its wooden box, and then, slinging his used towel over one shoulder, padded his way back to his room.

The towel went on top of the pile of used bed linens and the razor box into his haversack. He began to pull his suit on over his underclothes.

He heard footsteps on the stairs just as he was knotting his tie and as he’d been expecting, he then also heard a short series of knocks on the door closest to the landing. Paul had been recruited from the village school as a new hall boy only a few days after Benjamin had been promoted to junior footman, and as the youngest male staff member, it was now his job to wake everyone each morning.

Sure enough, Thomas only had to wait a few more moments before the boy reached his door. Seeing that it was already open and that Thomas was already up and dressed, Paul only smiled nervously before moving on further down the hallway.

Thomas started gathering his bag and left him to it.

The air outside was noticeably fresher than that inside when he stepped out into the yard about ten minutes later. Stacking a couple of empty fruit crates awaiting collection atop each other, he seated himself and pulled his cigarette case and a new match-book out his trouser pockets. His cigarette caught on the first attempt, and he leisurely smoked away the next three quarters of an hour.

Eventually he decided that his need for tea was more pressing than his desire for more nicotine and so he stood and slung his haversack strap back over his shoulder.

The staff hall had come to life while he’d been outside, most of the housemaids gathered around one end of the table gossiping away already. Anna noticed him and split off from the group, trailing behind him as he made his way through to the kitchens.

“Morning,” he grunted to her when he reached the stove. The usual tall copper tea urn was still half full when he checked inside it, so he held a cup under its spout and turned the tap on.

“You’re up early,” Anna smiled warmly at him.

“He were an’ all,” Daisy commented as she also stepped over to the stove top and began placing pans atop it. Thomas absent mindedly helped her position a large and heavy cast-iron skillet, which earned him a timid smile. “Us kitchen maids hadn’t even had our breakfast when Thomas came down. Not sure he even waited for the new hall boy to go up and knock ‘fore getting up!”

You bloody well should have noticed him go up, seeing as it’s your job to wake the hall boys, Thomas wanted to snip at her. Instead he just grunted wordlessly.

“You really were up early then,” Anna chuckled as she also refilled her mug. “Eager to be leaving at last?”

“Wanted a bit of time to me’self ‘fore I’m stuck in a train carriage with the two chattering monkeys for best part of the day,” he grumbled as he turned and leaned back on the bit of worktop next to the stove. “That young David is even worse than William for talking non-stop. Put the two of them together and your ears start bleedin’.”

“Is William coming back here before you go down to the station?” Daisy asked curiously, now unwrapping a package of back bacon. With practised ease, she also flicked a knob of butter into the skillet, which had apparently heated up enough already that it started to sizzle immediately.

“Aye,” Thomas grunted. “His Lordship wants to see us all off for some reason, so we’ve to be at the front door for eight o’clock sharp.”

“When’s your train?” Anna frowned.

“Nine-oh-five,” Thomas grunted again.

“Plenty of time to walk down to the station afterwards then,” Anna nodded, looking relieved.

“Provided his Lordship doesn’t take more than ten minutes saying whatever it is he wants to say,” Thomas agreed gruffly.

“Will you lot get out of poor Daisy’s way!” Mrs Patmore suddenly demanded loudly, making indignant shooing motions at them as she came bustling over. Thomas and Anna exchanged a glance and quickly hurried back through to the servant’s hall.

Mrs Hughes appeared only five minutes later and began herding the housemaids and hall boys upstairs, which meant Anna was also whisked away. Thankfully, Mr Bates had followed the housekeeper down, so Thomas was not left alone in the serving hall with only O’Brien for company.

(O’Brien had been suspiciously quiet since the garden party, spending most of her time frowning at something unseen in the distance whenever she wasn’t working. Thomas had thought she’d try to get one final dig at him in, but she’d seemed almost oblivious to his existence recently and he knew better than to provoke her just because he was curious about why she was acting so withdrawn.)

“You’ll put that somewhere safe for me?” he asked the valet once he’d shown him the make-shift will and sealed the envelope. “I know it ought to go in Carson’s parlour really, but I don’t trust him not to accidentality misplace it in a fit of pique.”

“I’ll tuck it away in my dresser when I next go up,” Bates reassured him. “No one but you and I will ever know it’s there.”

“Ta,” Thomas thanked him roughly. “There’s another copy in my chest in the attic just in case though, and I told William to write two as well and leave one with his father.”

“Sounds like you’ve thought of everything then.”

“Mmm,” Thomas hummed, hoping that he actually had.

They both resumed sipping their tea in silence.

It was another thirty minutes before William arrived back at the house, trotting down the stairs with his cheeks flushed pink from the exertion of walking so far, so early in the morning. His haversack was even smaller than Thomas’, one end of the strap showing signs of recent repair, but he was also holding a sizeable paper bag with the top folded down neatly.

“Morning folks,” he greeted them with a sunny smile.

Thomas mumbled a greeting back.

“All set then?” Bates asked as William dropped both bags onto the table next to Thomas’ and then pulled a chair out.

“Think so. Stuff’s all packed away, did me letters, double checked I’ve got everythin’ I need in here,” he patted the old navy haversack. “Any last pearls of army wisdom for us Mr Bates?”

“No, I think we’ve covered it all,” the valet smiled. “You’ll be fine so long as you remember what I’ve already told you.”

“Sergeants shouting and swearing a lot is normal,” William ticked off on his fingers. “Do as we’re told even if we’ve been told to do somethin’ stupid, keep our heads down and our mouths closed, and last but not least, befriend the quartermaster as soon as we can manage it.”

“And,” Bates deliberately over-pronounced. “Try to enjoy it. War is never pretty lads, and it’s definitely never nice. But do your best to make some new mates and have at least a little fun when you can.”

William nodded enthusiastically while Thomas just grunted again. He supposed it was a nice sentiment but honestly, he rather hoped he could just fade into the background a little. He’d never get any peace and quiet otherwise, not when he already had to put up with William and David’s blathering on.

As if to prove his point, William then launched into a detailed retelling of how he’d spent yesterday evening and last night. Eating a hearty lamb stew apparently, followed by an hour fussing over the plough horses and then reminiscing in front of the fireplace with hot chocolate made from fancy Cadbury’s. Thomas only half listened to him, more intent on mentally reviewing their itinerary and keeping an eye on the old clock above the bell board.

He kept watching it as the downstairs breakfast approached and the staff all filtered back into the servant’s hall. Once William had shifted his bags out of the way and everyone had seated themselves, they didn’t have to wait long for Carson to stride in and also take his place at the head of the table. Then Daisy was sweeping in with plates of sausages and toast and scrambled eggs.

And then breakfast was over and the upstairs bells started ringing and all that was left to do was saying their goodbyes.

“Good luck,” Bates said sincerely once most of the rest of the staff had muttered their own parting words and left, offering his hand. Thomas shook it, grip mutually firm.

“And write to us,” Anna added. “I mean it, both of you. As often as you can.”

“We will, promise,” William replied as he also shook Bates’ hand.

The four of them stood there for a long moment, not sure what else to say. Then Bates nodded firmly and began to walk towards the corridor and the stairwell beyond. Anna lingered a second longer, but then smiled and also headed off to do her job.

Which just left Mrs Hughes.

Technically Carson should have hung back to see them off too, but Thomas was both unsurprised and entirely unbothered that he hadn’t. They’d both already returned their uniforms to the man (or well, William had done so for both of them), and had their rooms checked by him last night, so there wasn’t any need to interact with him further.

“I suppose this is it then,” the housekeeper smiled softly at them both. “It has been an honour and a privilege, the both of you.”

“Thank you,” Thomas made himself say, and was then surprised that he mostly meant it.

“I don’t expect you to write to me as often as you will Anna, but I do want to hear how you’re getting on, alright? And I know this war isn’t going to go on long enough for you to earn much leave, but you are still invited to visit whenever you like. But most of all, stay safe you two, as much you’re able to.”

“We’ll do our best Mrs Hughes,” William grinned at her.

“We’ll not be leaving England,” Thomas agreed with a short nod.

“Lastly,” she said a bit more sternly. “Don’t hesitate to write if you need anything. Be that more socks, or reference letters, or just a small tin of Mrs Patmore’s best ginger biscuits. Whatever it is, just ask and we’ll do our best to provide.”

She waited for them to nod and murmur more agreements before she patted both their upper arms.

“I mean it,” she finished with. “Stay safe and keep in touch.”

And then she too, was sweeping past them and out into the corridor.

“Well then,” William breathed out once they’d watched her go. “Shall we?”

Thomas nodded and they picked up their bags and headed up out into the yard.

David Awbrey’s day began in much the same way that all his days had for the last four years. That is, he woke to the shrill sound of Mr Millcroft’s alarm clock echoing through the cottage, spent ten minutes grumbling to himself before he finally pulled himself out of bed and over to the wash basin in the corner of his room, and eventually stumbled through to the small kitchen.

As was also usual, when he entered, Mrs Millcroft was already in there stoking the fire under the little stove, ready for making breakfast and heating the water for tea. He wished her a good morning and headed to get the tin of tea leaves from the pantry cupboard. Shaking a few directly into the faded blue teapot, he carried it over to his bosses’ wife and then hurried over to the sink to fill a copper pan with water for her.

Even after four years of living here, he still sort of marvelled that he didn’t have to go outside to a pump or a well to get fresh water. Sure, the nationalisation of all the water companies at the turn of the century meant that everyone was supposed to be entitled to proper plumbing and sanitation now, but quite a few farmhouses and rural cottages still hadn’t been connected because they were so far from any existing infrastructure. It had been like that at his childhood home in northern Wales; just a little too far from the local mining village for anyone to want to go to the effort.

Not at Downton though. No, the previous Earl had apparently said that all his tenants were to get indoor plumbing immediately and the water company people had literally jumped to do his bidding.

David suspected much the same sort of thing had happened with this RAMC business. The current Earl will have asked for some places and the army people in charge will have simply nodded and said yes of course your Lordship, here you go your Lordship.

Must be nice, being so important that you only had to suggest you wanted something to guarantee that you’d actually get it.

But yes. David’s day began much the same way all his days did. He got up, helped make the tea, ate his breakfast, and then headed to the cottage’s front door with his boss. Except today, of course, was not a usual day and so it was here that the usual routine was cut short.

“You will be all right, won’t you lad?” Mrs Millcroft asked him as she fussed about straightening his tie. She’d just handed him an old biscuit tin too, full of game sandwiches and carrot sticks and a little glass bottle of lemonade that she’d fermented herself.

“Of course!” he chirped back cheerfully. “It’s only for a few months and then I’ll be back, you’ll see!”

“He’ll be doing his country proud, is what he’ll be doing,” Mr Millcroft pronounced grandly, clapping a hand down onto his shoulder. “A real man’s job, the army is.”

“I know, I know,” Mrs Millcroft smiled weakly as she moved on to smoothing his jacket lapels. “A mother just worries is all, even when the boy is only her son in spirit rather than blood. Oh it’s going to be so strange having an empty home again. I never did get used to the quiet after the girls got married and moved out.”

“I’ll write to you every week,” David promised gravely as he made himself step out of the open door onto the little gravel path that cut through the cottage’s front garden. “And if we get any half days or other time off, well I hear there’s a big cathedral in Leicester so I’ll pop in and light a candle or two for you, yes? Maybe find something nice in the local shops to send to you.”

“A candle would be lovely,” Mrs Millcroft smiled again. “Now go on, off to the big house with you before I do something daft as start crying.”

He shook hands with Mr Millcroft one last time then, and at last turned around and walked out onto the Downton estate. The little gravel path connected to a slightly wider but rougher track once he was through the garden gate, which then snaked its way through the trees until it met the road that ran down to the village.

When he reached the road, he paused. Usually he would walk past Downton’s main gates at this point and instead make his way up to the delivery entrance behind the house, but today he sucked in a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and dared to walk towards the driveway. His heart was beating slightly too loudly in his chest with every step he took, but his Lordship had told him to come to the house’s front door so he might as well do it properly.

He cautiously took a step through the gates. And then another and another.

And then he was standing before the house. Alone in the warm morning sunshine.

He wasn’t sure how long he waited there by himself but it couldn’t have been more than five minutes before Thomas and William appeared along the path between the trees that shielded the service yard from view. Like himself, they were dressed in their good suits rather than the uniforms of their professions – former professions now, he supposed – and each had a small single strap bag slung over their shoulders.

“Morning mate!” William greeted him with a wide smile when he and Thomas reached him. Thomas just grunted like he usually did, but David didn’t mind; some people just talked less than others did. “Nice day, innit?”

“Aye,” he agreed quickly. It still felt weird saying that rather than yes, but David had quickly learnt when he moved here that all the locals used it and that they teased him less for his accent when he used their dialect words rather than his own. “Much better than the downpour we had most of last month.”

“Aye,” William echoed him. “Wouldn’t be much fun walking down to the station in the rain. Much better that it’s warm and dry. And Mr Bates said we might be in tents rather than in proper barracks at the camp, so it’ll be better if it stays dry for that too.”

“Tents? Blimey! I ain’t ever been camping, not even when I were a lad!”

“They’ll be big tents, mind,” William added, looking thoughtful. “So I’m not sure it’ll be like proper camping even if–”

“Look sharp,” Thomas suddenly warned them.

Just like he’d seen them do in his Lordship’s massive library that day, the two footmen – former footmen now – immediately straightened up and snapped to attention like they’d already been in the army for years. He wasn’t sure he was doing it right, but David attempted to copy their postures as the front door swung open and Lord Grantham stepped out, followed by that scowling butler that made David nervous.

“Good morning,” the Lord greeted them with a formal-looking nod. Thomas and William returned it, so David hurried to copy that too.

“Good morning m’Lord,” Thomas also answered verbally.

“I trust you all had a pleasant last night on the estate? Good. Now, I know you have a train to catch so I won’t keep you any longer than necessary. I just have a few words to say to each of you and then you can be on your way.”

He eyed them then as if he was looking for something, though David couldn’t have told you what, not for love nor money. Whatever it was, his Lordship seemed to find it and approve as he nodded sharply again and then stepped forward with his hand held out towards Thomas.

“Thomas Barrow,” Lord Grantham intoned even more formally than before as he shook Thomas’ hand firmly once. “For stepping up to do your duty to King and Country, you have my thanks. As a token of this house’s appreciation, I would like to formally extend an offer of re-employment upon your return to civilian life. And for your years of dedicated service to the family, I present you with a week’s extra wages to do with as you will.”

“Thank you m’Lord,” Thomas replied just as formally with another deep nod.

“William Mason,” the Lord began again as he turned to the other once-footman next. “For stepping up to do your duty to King and Country, you have my thanks.”

He repeated the rest of the same words as before then, once again finishing by handing the man a sealed envelope that clinked with coinage. David was then treated to the same handshake and speech, and to his surprise, was also handed an envelope.

“Thank you m’Lord,” he stammered out much less suavely than either Thomas or William had managed.

“Godspeed gentlemen,” the Earl concluded in the same grave tone. “We shall all keep you in our prayers in the hopes that The Lord will watch over you and return you to us safe and whole.”

And with that, he smiled at them much more warmly and then turned and walked back into the house. The butler closed the door behind him with a final scowl and then the three men were alone on the driveway again.

David breathed out in relief.

“That was good of him,” William said as they all relaxed a little.

“It was rather,” Thomas concurred with a frown, as though he was surprised by his own agreement. “Now, we had better get a move on. I’ve no idea how these army rail passes work, so we’d best find a conductor and find out before we get on the train.”

“Tell you what though,” William nudged his arm with a grin. “How about’s we leave here using the main driveway? One final sod ya to Carson!”

“You know what William?” Thomas smirked back. “That’s the best idea you’ve had all year.”

They set off walking across the fancy gravel and David didn’t look back again until they reached the road. There, the three of them paused one last time between the grand stone gate posts and turned to face the way they way they’d come. The sun was high at their backs, shining down on the gardens and glinting off the dozens of windows, bathing the whole front of the house in bright warmth.

They turned their backs on it one last time and set off down the road towards their new lives.

Chapter Text

Thomas once again scrambled out from under his blanket just minutes before Sergeant Haxley stepped into their tent and began to yell at the top of his voice.

It was the start of their fifth week at the camp situated on the outskirts of Leicester and this had already very much become routine. Every day at exactly five-thirty in the morning, a loud trumpet call echoed across the camp, waking everyone and ordering them without words to get up and begin preparing for morning inspections. This meant packing up their sparse bedding and laying out their personal belongings, shaving and combing their hair, and as they were RAMC trainees, scrubbing their hands and forearms up to the elbow before donning their full uniforms.

All while their Sergeant shouted at them non-stop.

“Well it’s not quite non-stop,” William huffed wryly to Morley as they both hurried to wipe their faces clean of shaving cream. “He’s got to go yell at the other sections in the other tents as well, so there’s a bit of a lull ‘fore he makes his way back to ours for another go.”

“It’s not like he moves out o’ earshot though, is it?” Morley winced.

Which was very true, Thomas thought as they all overheard a particularly vindictive tirade about some man’s poor maligned mother.

“Barrow,” Young called from the place nearest the tent’s entrance. “Could you check this for me?”

Their section consisted of sixteen men split between two bell tents. Thomas thought they looked a lot like the Indian tepees he’d seen in books about America except these ones were all white and also had circular wooden flooring that sat about two inches above the grass of the field they were in. In each tent there was a stack of shared equipment immediately to the left of the entrance; things like the little spirit stove they’d been issued, a rough tin bowl for shaving and handwashing, and a sweeping brush. And they slept in the remaining space, forming a rough ring around the central wooden pole with their feet inwards.

Depending on the weather, the spot nearest the entrance was either the most coveted or the least. Thomas usually ended up about three people in from the front on the right, wedged in between William and a Cornish farmer called Lithglow. Usually rather than always, as there were nights when they all staggered back to their tent so exhausted that they more or less just collapsed wherever there was floor visible to collapse onto.

“Alright,” Thomas sighed.

“Cheers mate,” Young grunted as he shifted aside and let Thomas go over his small bundle of personal belongings, making sure it was all folded and stacked in the precise way demanded of them. According to their Sergeant, they were supposed to have footlockers when not on deployment, but they didn’t even have proper cots for the footlockers to sit at the end of, let alone the actual lockers. So instead they had to lay all their clothes and equipment on top of their empty rucksacks and then place their rolled up blankets neatly above them.

“Emergency ration tin’s not quite straight,” he told Young, nudging the item in question until it was it was perfectly perpendicular to his army-issued straight razor.

“How do you and Mason always manage to spot shit like that?” Young complained as Thomas shuffled back and grabbed his blue woollen uniform tunic. “I swear the two of you have even more of an eye for it than our Sergeant does! Thank you though; after yesterday I didn’t fancy another fucking bollocking.”

“I don’t think any of us fancy another fucking bollocking like the one we got yesterday,” Crispins grunted.

A chorus of ayes and indeeds and too rights sounded through the tent, everyone grumpily agreeing with the oldest man in their section.

Crispins was not only the oldest of their group, but had also already been working at a hospital as a porter before joining up. Apparently he’d been doing it for most of his working life and so was able to tell them all about the fetching and carrying they’d be doing. He’d explained that they would be carting patients to and fro on stretchers as expected, but that there’d also be lots of moving equipment around and that they’d probably be in charge of the carts that were used to take all sorts of things to be washed; everything from bed pans to food trays to whole mattresses had to be cleaned regularly and they’d be responsible for getting it all to the people doing the cleaning and back again.

He also spent a lot of time loudly ruminating on when they’d finally get to do some first aid training as that was what he had supposedly joined up to learn. So far they’d mostly done the same things as all the infantry trainees that were also in their camp. Namely, a hell of a lot of standing on parade, even more marching back and forth between the rows of tents, and sometimes so much running they were all on the verge of fainting before they were allowed to stop.

Thankfully this punishing physical training was occasionally interrupted so that they could receive lectures on uniform and equipment care, personal hygiene and camp sanitation, and general army structure. And while they spent far less time doing guard duty and piquet than the infantry chaps seemed to, they still did do it some evenings.

Still though, Thomas agreed with his section’s general feelings on the matter; the lectures that the recruits from every corps received were all very well and good and were at least mildly interesting, but what would be much better, was something a bit more specialised. Something a bit more related to them being RAMC recruits specifically.

“Have you bunch of lazy fuckers not fucking finished dressing yet!?” Sergeant Haxley suddenly bellowed in through the front of their tent again. Thomas jolted as he was knocked from his musings and tried to wind his navy blue puttees around his shins even faster. “Mason! Stop pissing about with Weissman’s kit and get your fucking belt on! Weissman, for the last fucking time, fold your own bloody blanket! Pull your own fucking weight or I’ll pull your skivvies up so hard that’ll you need surgery to unfuck your testicles!”

“Yes Sergeant!” William and– Mason, Thomas mentally corrected himself. He had to call him Mason now; the Army was a strictly surnames sort of environment. So: “Yes Sergeant!” Mason and Weissman both shouted in response, as was expected of them.

Thomas finished winding his second puttee and hastily put a knot in the cotton tape attached to the end, finishing by pulling his trousers down over the top edge a little. Then he also reached for his belt and shifted onto his knees to buckle it up over his tunic. His webbing went on next, and he’d almost got it on and was midway though doing his epaulettes up over it when their Sergeant rounded on him.

“Barrow if I find the slightest fucking hint of dust still on your knees once you’ve fallen in for parade, I will make so many cock-sucking jokes at your expense, you’ll still be sobbing for your whore mother come Christmas!”

“Yes Sergeant!” he yelled back as he quickly switched to crouching instead.

Lithglow was also treated to a choice insult before the Sergeant shouted that they had fifteen minutes until they had to be lined up outside. Thankfully, the man then strode off to the tent next door to yell at the other half of their section, leaving Thomas’ half to collectively sigh in relief.

“Bloody hell, that was rather mild!” Young exclaimed, not slowing down in buckling his own webbing. “He only screamed at half of us and he had to make up a reason to yell at Barrow! Dust on your knees, my arse!”

“You reckon he thinks we’re starting to get the hang of all this?” David Awbrey asked.

“Aye, maybe,” William – Mason dammit! – tentatively agreed. “But let’s not get our hopes up, just in case.”

In short order they had all finished dressing and moved on to cleaning and organising their tent. As they did this every morning, it wasn’t a particularly onerous chore, dirt not having any chance to build up. And after the first week of trial and error, they’d established a nice little system of who should do what and when, so they were no longer getting in each other’s way trying to do it all.

Crispins grabbed the sweeping brush and started working from the back of the tent forward. As it miraculously wasn’t raining, Young, Awbrey, and Lithglow hopped outside and began rolling the base flaps up to let air in. Weissman was in charge of similarly sorting the door flaps. Morley and Mason had to go tip their used washing water into the designated barrel at the end of their row of tents, which then left Thomas to quickly tidy their shared equipment pile.

Once that was all done, all that remained was to put on their stiff caps and line up out the front of their tent with the rest of their section.

“You’ve been here four full weeks now,” their Sergeant shouted about ten minutes later as he paced back and forth in front of their company – which was made up of six sections, all RAMC men, all of them standing carefully at ease. “Most of you have finally got the hang of the bloody basics at long last so I can finally let Major Eddings see you without worrying you’ll be nothing but a fucking embarrassment.”

Haxley paused, stopping mid stride and smartly pivoting to face them all.

“If,” he continued after a long moment. “And it’s a big bloody if. But if you pass muster today, then there’ll be a few changes ‘round here. Starting this afternoon, some of you will start working on stretcher exercises, some of you on the uses of emergency field dressings, and some of you on ward set up and layouts.”

This was met with a low rumbling murmur of approval and one brave sod muttering fucking finally. Haxley let them do it for a few seconds, and then shut them all up with a sharp call of Ten-shun!

“At ease,” he called again once he was satisfied they had settled. “You’ll be rotating through each duty as a section, so I want no fucking complaining about who gets to do what. You’ll all get a fucking turn, understand?”

“Yes Sergeant!” Thomas yelled, perfectly in time with everyone else.

“But that’s this afternoon,” Haxley clipped out as he smartly turned to face to his left again and took a couple of measured steps. “You’ve got a whole fucking morning of the usual drills and PT first! Ten-shun! Squaaaad slope arms!”

Thomas quickly hefted his wooden practice rifle upwards and transferred it smoothly to his left shoulder. He wasn’t looking forward to another long, gruelling morning of marching and running, but at least there was an end in sight now. And even better, it was now less than two hours until they got to go to the mess tent for breakfast!

They were all midway through breakfast when there was a knock on the yard door. Carson sent young Paul scurrying off to answer it, and when he returned, it was with a fist full of envelopes. Apparently it had been the postman.

Carson took the stack of letters from the hall boy and quickly sorted through them, putting any for the family on his left and handing off the ones addressed to the staff to Mrs Hughes. The housekeeper then saw to it that they were passed down the table in an orderly fashion, which is how Mr Bates came to find himself holding an envelope with his name on the front in William’s recognisable cursive.

“One each again?” Anna asked him as he began to carefully tear the envelope open. She was holding one as well, nearly identical to his but for the writing on the front – hers was penned in Thomas’ more angular handwriting.

“Yes,” he replied with a slight smile. “They’re definitely taking it in turns to write to each of us.”

“So next week you’ll get one from Thomas, and I one from William,” Anna nodded in agreement. “And then they’ll swap back again.”

John hummed in acknowledgement as he finished prising the letter out. As he’d already learned William’s letters tended to be, it was quite long and a little rambling. Anna also unfolded hers and together, they started reading.

2nd October, 1914

Dear Mr Bates,

I am once again writing to you from sentry duty! It is nearing two in the morning and the light is poor so please forgive my poor handwriting. There is only the one candle in our little wooden hut and we are encouraged not to rely on it, lest we ruin our night vision. I am currently on duty with an infantry chap who has only been at the camp a week, so I am experiencing the novelty of being seen as the old hand with lots of knowledge and insights. It feels rather odd after so many weeks of being the new boy!

This new chap is from one of the new pals regiments by the way. I presume you saw in the newspapers about those? Some of the men in our section have been joking that this means that Thomas, David, and I are now “Pals” as well as “Mates”. We have been taking this ribbing gamely and begun referring to one another as “my pal Barrow” and so on.

Speaking of Barrow, has he told you yet that he was selected to be Lance Corporal for our section this week? I said he should write to you and Anna about it, but he has been being surprisingly humble (for Thomas) about the whole thing and seemed reticent to do so. I am not surprised that he was chosen first though. It was Thomas who sorted out who should be doing what when we are readying our tent for inspection first thing in the morning, and he is the one that the other men in our section ask to check their kit and uniforms every day. Of course, it is only for this week and we shall all be Privates in perpetuity once we are posted somewhere with actual Corporals, but even so, I think it is quite impressive and thought that you would like to know so that you can be proud of him.

The reason that we need a Lance Corporal now though, is because we have at last started putting some of our training into practice! It is all make-believe of course, but this week we have done a set of basic “manoeuvres”. I presume that you, Mr Bates, will be familiar with these but I shall explain a little for the benefit of anyone who should like to also read this letter.

Manoeuvres are like practice scenarios of what being out at the front would be like. We put on our full kit and pretend that we are out there in France, mucking down with the rest of the brave boys! The first one we did was setting up a new ward tent and then filling it with volunteers who were pretending to be patients. We had to put everyone into the correct beds and make sure that the tags attached to their tunic buttons had the right information written on them. Then today, we were sent running out into the middle of a muddy field with our stretchers and tasked with putting field dressings on them and then “carrying them back to the collection post”.

Have I explained the chain of evacuation to you yet? I do not know if this is new since you were discharged from the Army, or if it was already in place when you were in South Africa. I simplify, but essentially there are the Base Hospitals right at the back here in England (this is where our section will go once we have completed our training), then there are Casualty Clearing Stations which are over in France but are away from the fighting. These were described to us as rest hospitals where the less injured and sick men might stay for a few days to a week before returning to their regiments at the front. And then actually at the front, are a series of Ambulance stations where first aid is given. They are called this because they will move forward when the front line moves forward. The collection post is the place that injured and sick men are first taken to when they are removed from a battlefield, and from there they are taken first to the ambulance station, and then back to one of the other hospitals I have already mentioned.

As I said though, Barrow, Awbrey, and I shall only ever see a Base Hospital. We were a little worried when we heard the news of the fighting retreat, but we have since also heard that we have now halted the German advance at a place called the Marne and begun pushing them back. We do not have access to any maps to be sure of this, but we have been told that the Marne is a river to the west of Paris? In any case, we have been assured once more that we shall soon overpower the Germans now that they are on the run and have them beat by Christmas!

I must wrap up this letter now, as it is almost time for me to brave the cold and march to the next hut along the perimeter to check in with them. I very much doubt they have seen any “signs of enemy action” here in windy and frosty Leicestershire, but I suppose I cannot be certain!

As ever, I am eager for news of home (however mundane)!

Yours,
W. Mason

After carefully reading it for a second time, John looked up from the letter. Anna had also finished reading hers and half the table where watching them both eagerly, waiting for them to share any news. Anna nodded nearly imperceptibly when he met her eyes, so John started talking first.

“William is well and he and Thomas are progressing nicely” he started with, after taking a moment to think. “Their training has just increased in complexity again, so it won’t be long now before they pass out and are given their deployments.”

“...Pass out? You can’t mean like fainting, right?” Timothy asked with a frown. The sixteen year old hall boy had an older brother who had joined up not long after Thomas and William had left and he’d been eagerly lapping up whatever military knowledge he could get hold of ever since.

“It’s a type of celebration parade,” John explained patiently when a glance at Carson revealed the butler seemed willing to allow the army discussion to continue for now. “When the recruits finish their training, they’ll line up in their best uniforms and do some marching in front of an audience and some of the senior officers. It signifies that they’re no longer recruits, but proper soldiers.”

“Thomas says that it’s looking more and more certain that they’ll be posted to a hospital somewhere in England,” Anna then spoke up. “Either in London or somewhere a bit more south he says, perhaps in Kent or East Sussex. Those are the two counties closest to France, aren’t they?”

“They are,” Mrs Hughes confirmed.

“Did you get a letter from them as well, Mrs Hughes?” Gracie asked from further down the table. Now that Gwen and Iris had both left, she was the senior-most housemaid after Anna, and as such, had become the one from that group inclined to speak up when needed.

“Not this time, no,” the housekeeper shook her head. “But I’m sure Thomas and William have included plenty enough details in their letters to Mr Bates and Anna.”

“William’s looks as if he were tryin’ to write a whole book!” Timothy sniggered. “Look, he’s even written on the back of the paper!”

“There’s quite a bit on here, yes,” Bates humoured the young lad again. “But he has quite a lot of things he’d like to tell me. This bit here for example,” he pointed at one paragraph, “is all about how Thomas has been made Lance Corporal of his section.”

“Lance Corporal?” came another question, this time from Benjamin. “What’s that mean? You told us ‘bout Corporals and Sergeants and how they’re NCOs and so different from proper officers, but you didn’t say anything about Lances. Is Thomas some sort of special Corporal then?”

Carson sighed deeply and loudly before Bates could manage to answer, so he knew that the butler’s patience with the topic was wearing thin. He didn’t forcibly change the subject though, so John cautiously decided he would explain this one last thing before moving the discussion onto something else himself.

“Lance means the promotion is temporary,” he told the newly promoted footman. “Sometimes that’s because they’re trying you out in the position to see if you’re any good at it before promoting your properly, and sometimes it’s because… well it’s a bit like when Mr Carson has to go away for a couple of days, perhaps to London to meet with a new wine merchant as he did in the spring. And while he’s gone, the senior most male staff member fills in for him.”

This time, Carson didn’t just sigh, but loudly cleared his throat and glared at John reproachingly. John forced himself to keep a neutral expression, but what he actually wanted to do was smirk – choosing to compare Thomas’ Lance promotion to stepping up as temporary butler had been very deliberate on John’s part, though in truth, the analogy would have been much more apt for a Lance Sergeant rather than a Lance Corporal

“Has anyone else got any news from their families this morning?” Mrs Hughes suddenly cheerfully asked, clearly as a way to prevent the butler from saying something cutting. “Florence, what about Iris? Are you still planning to use your half day tomorrow to go and visit her in her new cottage?”

John exchanged an amused look with Anna as they both folded their letters back up and returned to eating their breakfasts. Conversation was soon flowing up and down the table again, and Carson had more or less settled into his usual stern but otherwise amicable demeanour by the time the upstairs bells started ringing. Anna stood when John did and followed him towards the stairwell, and they quietly exchanged letters as they headed up to their respective charges.

When he eventually found time to read it much later in the day, he was quite unsurprised to learn that Thomas had neglected to mention his promotion to Lance. Still, it was good that he had been; it meant that Thomas at least must be getting on quite nicely with army life and that his talents were being noticed and appreciated more than they ever had at Downton.

Bates was quite glad for him really.

“Last one lads!” one of the Carter twins announced cheerfully as he and Johnstone came jogging out of the misty rain with Wood play-acting as injured on a stretcher between them. “And then I reckon we can finally bugger off to the canteen for some scoff and some warming!”

“Thank god, I’m bloody starving,” Morley grumbled from next Thomas. “And thank bloody god we’ve a day’s leave tomorrow. ‘Bout time we had one, been an age since the last!”

“Indeed,” Thomas agreed quietly, though it was actually only just over a week since their last day of leisure. In truth, he was still a little staggered by how much time off they all got. He’d never had more than a half-day every two or three weeks since he’d started in service at age 14 so the full day every week the army usually gave them – mostly Sundays, though not always – still felt utterly luxurious to him. And that was on top of having most evenings free; unless they were tapped for guard and piquet, once they clocked off at six, they could do what they like until lights out at 10:15.

Well, they could do what they liked so long as they didn’t leave camp to do it anyway. And actually, they had to be in their tents by 9:30 so it wasn’t really all the way until 10:15.

But still, it was a lot of free time for someone used to Carson’s much more demanding idea of scheduling.

“How many of us do ya think will have got leave passes this time?” Carter asked as he shuffled over so that he was only holding one stretcher handle rather than both at the front end. Thomas grabbed the one that was now free, and with Johnstone and Morley mirroring them at the back, they got Wood slid into the brackets in the back of the pretend-ambulance.

“Three or four of us maybe,” Thomas shrugged as he closed the rear doors on their six mock-patients. “I heard from Weissman that Sarge had definitely got some of ours approved this time seeing as none of us did last weekend and I don’t see why Weissman would have cause to lie.”

“Don’t think his sort are allowed to lie,” Morley commented. “Jews are same as Methodists about that, right?”

“Right, exactly,” Thomas agreed again, though in truth he hadn’t the faintest idea. He’d never met someone of the Hebrew faith before he’d been introduced to Weissmann on their first day at camp, and Weissman didn’t talk much except to reassure everyone new he met that he wasn’t German despite his odd surname and funny accent. Lloyd had said he was probably Yiddish, but Thomas was buggered if he knew what that was.

Corporal Fogg – an ageing army regular with half one hand missing – came marching over then, preventing them from continuing their discussion any further. The four of them stood up tall as they could and squared their shoulders – bracing up, it was called – and then swiftly lined themselves up neatly off to one side when Fogg gestured at them sharply.

The doors to the wooden box pretending to be the back of an ambulance were pulled back open. Fogg peered inside.

“Acceptable,” he bit out after a moment. “Though you’ll all need to speed the fuck up when you’re posted. No time for lollygagging and pissing about being neat when some poor bastard’s bleeding out in front of you.”

“Corporal,” Thomas clipped out in acknowledgement, perfectly in time with his section mates

“Right then,” Fogg continued on. “You lot in there get yourselves out,” he addressed to Wood and the other chaps lying on the stretchers playing at wounded. “You,” he pointed at Johnstone, “back to the surgical tent, quick march, to fetch the rest of your section, and then you’re all to fall in outside your billets. Sergeant Haxley will be along with the other couple of sections to address you all in no more than fifteen minutes so no dragging your bloody heels, understand?”

“Corporal,” they all repeated dutifully, though this time with a clear edge of curiosity.

Fogg didn’t offer up any explanation for the sudden change in plans and routine though, merely giving them all a stern nod before striding back off he way he had arrived. They watched him go a for a few moments, the rain still misting down on their sodden Kitchener Blue overcoats as the clouded sky began to darken further with sunset

The quiet was broken by Johnstone.

“I’ll grab the rest of our lads and we’ll catch up with you en-route,” the gruff middle-aged man said before he turned tail and jogged off as per his orders.

“What d’ya reckon’s going on?” William– Mason asked as he and the others began to climb out of the ambulance. “It’s right before tea, usually we’d be knocking off for the night about now?”

“Did he say other couple of sections?” Carter-the-other-twin also asked. “Ain’t there six in our company?”

“Hell if I know,” Thomas shrugged when everyone then looked to him for some reason. “But we’d best do as we’re told and get a move on so’s we can go find out.”

In short order, they were all back on their feet and jogging across the camp in a loose column. After a hasty stop-off at the RAMC storage hut to return their stretchers, the sixteen of them headed directly to the field where their Corps’ tents were all pitched. After the intensity of the training they’d all endured for the last two months, Thomas wasn’t surprised that they were all only a little out of breath as they quickly rearranged themselves into two lines of eight.

Another one of the RAMC trainee sections was already there and waiting as they fell in for the impromptu parade, and it was only another minute before the promised third arrived, this one with Sergeant Haxley jogging along at the back. Once this third section had fallen in, Haxley raised one hand and they all snapped to attention simultaneously.

“The weather’s as grand here in sunny England as it usually bloody is, so I shall keep this short,” the Sergeant joked mildly. “I’m not sure if you nitwits have realised it yet, but as of this afternoon, half your company’s been shipped off. Which means you sorry lot are somehow the most experienced Med Corps men still at this fucking camp.”

“What, really?” some brave but daft sod off to Thomas’ right muttered.

“Yes, really. God help us all,” Haxley replied with an arch look. “And with the news coming from the front being what it is, it’ll come as no surprise that you lot aren’t staying here much longer either.”

Unlike usual, Haxley made no attempt to curtail the stir this announcement made. Thomas heard Young and Morley whispering in front of him, repeating some of the rumours they’d all heard about there being trenches running all the way up to the North Sea now. And on his left, Little-Lucky-Luck (as they all called him) was asking Awbrey about the big battle that had supposedly just kicked off at some place called Eepres or Ypres some such.

Eventually, some big burly bloke with a squiffy-eye cut over all the muttering to loudly ask, “Where are they sending us then Sarge?”

Haxley braced himself up before answering, causing them all to mirror him and shut up. Once you could have heard a pin drop (were it not for the noise and ruckus from the entire rest of the camp), he called them all back into at-ease, and set off on his usual pacing back and forth.

“Some of you to London, some of you further south, some of you fuck knows where yet.” the Sergeant informed them. “All the postings are this side of the channel, but you’ll go where you’re needed, to fill in for the gaps left by the experienced men who are moving forward.

“How long until we leave?” Squiffy-eye called out again. “Time enough for us to see our wives and kiddies first maybe?”

“Good and bad news there,” the Sergeant clipped out as he continued pacing. “The bad news is, you can all fucking forget your day off tomorrow.”

Groans. Loud and theatrical. So many so that Thomas felt a bit odd-man-out for not instinctively joining in.

“Quiet! I said there’s good news too, you bunch of bloody halfwits! You’ve got no leave tomorrow any more, that’s true. But the pay off is that Major Eddings has wrangled every one of you ungrateful bastards nearly three full days off instead, to start noon on Tuesday.”

In direct contrast to the complaints of the moment before, this caused a great rumble of approval and even one startled cheer. Thomas did join in this time, though solely by way of a small but pleased smile. Mason, however – who was standing directly on his right – dared to lean over and nudge their shoulders together boisterously.

“I was supposed to have you useless bastards for at least another five weeks, but that’s clearly not going to happen,” Haxley eventually continued. “You being posted doesn’t mean your training is over though! You might be the old hats here, but where you’re going, you’ll all be back to the bottom of the fucking pile. You do as you're ordered no matter how shit the job is, you listen to your betters, and you watch and fucking learn, understand?”

“Yes Sergeant!” they all shouted.

“Fan-bloody-tastic. Now fall out and get yourselves off to the mess hut and out of this fucking rain. Fucking English weather, I swear to god!”

17th October, 1914

Dear mum &c.

Very pleased to have received your letter on Monday, the news about Gwennie is fantastic! More letters like that please!

Here, the weather has been truly awful all day again, but I suppose it is October now. Rain non-stop all week, that fine misty variety that soaks you to the skin no matter how good your woollens. We’re are all still in our Kitchener Blues (aside from Gregory Johnstone, who has somehow got himself a proper tunic) and they are not as good and warm as the proper khaki will be. We are also not much enjoying living in our tent any more, as there is little room to hang up our great coats and other clothing, and so it is ordinarily all still rather damp come the morning. Putting on damp boots day after day is miserable, I tell you.

We shall soldier on though, as we are told that the boys at the front have it much worse than we do! And we do at least now have all the lovely knitted blankets that Lithglow’s wife posted to us!

But in much better news, we were told today that we are to complete the last of our training in an actual war hospital rather than staying in the miserably cold and wet camp. This not only means that we will get our proper uniforms at long last (we are supposedly being issued them tomorrow, which means poor Thomas Barrow will be spending all his evening and the next tailoring them for us as he is so good with a needle and thread. We have arranged to pay him in good cake and good tea for his sacrifice), but also means that we have finally been granted some proper leave.

It was very good to see Mr and Mrs Willcroft on my last Sunday leave of course, but as lovely and kindly and welcoming as they are, there is no real substitute for a visit by one’s actual parents. Thankfully, by the time you receive this letter, I shall likely already be on the train headed towards you. I have a military pass for the rail & bus fares, and so I hope to arrive in Llanberis before dark has fallen on this coming Tuesday. I shall walk from the village to the farmhouse, but if any of my sisters should like to meet me at the bus stop and walk back with me, I would be most pleased.

Do not fret if I don’t arrive however. Both the officers and our NCOs (that stands for Non Commissioned Officer, if you did not already know) frequently like to remind us that There Is A War On and so we should be prepared to change our plans at only a moment’s notice. Indeed, Mason (William, that is) was telling me today that all the infantry in our camp are officially expected to be “ready to leave at an hour’s notice” at all times. I remain glad that I am not in the infantry!

On the subject of parcels – Thanks to Mrs Lithglow, we now have quite enough blankets. More than we shall be able to take with us when
On second thoughts, I shall explain this to you in person when I visit! If for whatever unfortunate reason my leave is suddenly cancelled, I shall simply send another letter with the missing details.

Missing you as dearly as always,

God bless, from your loving son,
Pvt David Awbrey

Chapter Text

27th October 1914

Dear Mrs Hughes,

It is with some surprise that Pvt. Mason and I find ourselves posted, not to London as we were originally informed, but to a Base Hospital in Chatham, which is a busy port town in Kent.

Tapping his pencil against the thin sheet of paper, Thomas paused to readjust the cigarette hanging from one corner of his mouth while he considered his next words.

The town is absolutely teeming with Royal Engineers (who I have learnt call themselves Sappers) as they have their headquarters here, but so far it has proved a pleasant enough place – if one overlooks the typically dull English weather. The view from the roof of the hospital looks out over the River Medway (which I am told eventually flows into the mouth of the Thames) and about a mile west as the crow flies, there is the most magnificent old castle. There is also a high street with a motley assortment of shops and stores just below us, and then one end of the great dockyards below that. This is thankfully not nearly the eyesore one would imagine, but can at times be rather an assault upon one’s sense of smell.

Pausing again to tug the collar of his woollen tunic slightly higher up his neck, Thomas glanced out over the landscape he was describing. For once, it wasn’t raining, but a low bank of fog had rolled in off the water during the night and was still settled on the lower streets and piers of the Kentish town. It made the cold air thick with condensation, and the thin breeze that was blowing in from the east was weak but had a really harsh bite to it when it did stir.

The hospital itself is a curious place. Upon our arrival three days ago, a particularly cheerful Captain took it upon himself to give us a good lecture on the history of the buildings, so I have learnt that it was originally built as a fort in the war against Napoleon. Though the site has been in use as a hospital for some 100 years now and most of the fort demolished, a few parts of these old defences are still visible if one knows where to look. But atop this is a sizeable modern building. In fact, the majority of this hospital only opened this year and it is rather –

“Oi, Barrow! Chadwick says the next train’s coming in ahead o’ schedule!”

Covering his startlement with a hasty inhale of cigarette smoke, Thomas looked up to find Morley leaning out of the doorway that led back down into the new hospital building he’d just been about to write about.

“Alright,” he replied, folding his letter up and stubbing out his fag.

As much as he’d been enjoying the relative quiet of the roof, it was a relief to get back into the warmth inside. The two of them hurried down the service staircase and then along the ground floor corridors back to the rear entrance hall where the rest of their old section was already gathering.

Or what was left of their section anyway. None of them had realised at the time, but when Sergeant Haxley had made the announcement that they were all being moved up, he hadn’t meant that they were being moved up together. Five of their original section – including Lithglow and Crispins – had been singled out and individually sent elsewhere in the country.

The remaining eleven of them had then been told they were being split between a new Field Ambulance camped just outside of London and a big RAMC hospital up in Liverpool of all places, but then at the last minute, they’d all been grouped back together and sent south to here instead.

“Morley tell you what’s happening?” Mason asked as Thomas strode up to the group.

“’Course I bloody did!” Morley grumbled as he also joined them. “Told ‘im the next train’s showed up early, I did!”

Thomas nodded and made a vague noise of agreement when everyone then looked to him for confirmation, which for some reason, then prompted Morley to preen like a prize peacock.

Thankfully Thomas didn’t have to dwell on that oddity for long, as the NCO they were assigned to for the week – a regular army Corporal by the name of Chadwick – then came marching in and ordered them all out into the yard outside. Once there, they fell into a short two-by-six column, and then set off at a quick march.

It was only about 500 yards over to their destination though, so they were falling out again within five minutes.

Chatham station was build into a sort of flat, wide recess dug into the hill such that the rail lines disappeared into tunnels at either end of it (not that it much looked like a recess, shallow as the hill was). But the town was big enough that the station held half a dozen proper platforms and then a couple of industrial sidings as well. It was beside the backmost of those siding lines that Thomas and the others were now waiting.

The usual group of vehicles were also lined up and ready, each one with at least one large red cross painted clearly on the side. This time there were two horse and carriage teams, and one little modified motor pulling a trailer, all being driven by privates from the Army Service Corps.

Then everyone tensed as they heard a whistle echo out from the coast-side tunnel followed by the unmistakable sound of a train slowing to a crawl.

“Oy vey, they are all freight cars again,” Weismann muttered as the front engine slowly passed them in a hiss of steam and a squeal of brakes.

They were all freight. Which wasn’t good. Wounded being moved back along the chain of evacuation were supposed to be transported in specially built ambulance train carriages, which were lined with triple bunk beds and had room for orderlies and a medical officer to accompany them. The fact that this one wasn’t one of those meant that there’d been more causalities sent rearward than usual again and they’d had to just use whatever was available for the overflow.

Finally, the train shuddered to a stop.

“Right then lads,” Corporal Chadwick called out in that same bland accent all the regular army men had. “Let’s get to it. You two,” he gestured at the Carter twins. “Boxes. You, and you,” at Lloyd and Shepherd. “it’s that car. And then the rest of you should bloody well know what else needs doing by now!”

By the time Lloyd and Shepherd had hauled the sliding door on their assigned carriage open, the two Carters had dropped a handful of empty wooden crates in front of them as makeshift steps. Young was the first one to hop up on one and then climb inside, but Thomas was quick to scramble up behind him.

“Bloody fucking hell,” Lucky-Luck then mumbled in utter horror as he too climbed inside.

Bloody fucking hell indeed Thomas thought in silent agreement.

They’d unloaded and reloaded hospital train cars almost half a dozen times now, having done at least one every day since they’d arrived. And while it was quite physically demanding work – especially when they had to transfer the stretchers in or out of the train car doors – the real strain was in bearing witness to the ragged state of the arriving wounded men. More often that not every man you looked at was still coated in an inch or more of stinking mud and blood, all of it mashed together and only half dry. Almost a quarter of the poor buggers were also missing hands or arms of even entire legs, and yet another quarter had that distinctive extra layer of rot wafting from them that Thomas was already learning to associate with horrific infections.

But it wasn’t that unfortunately-growing-familiar sight that had had Lucky-Luck swearing.

No, that would be the poor dead bastard only two foot from the door who seemed to have crawled across half the other occupants of the carriage before he’d finally copped it.

And left most of his guts strung out behind him.

Really, bloody fucking hell.

Aware that Awbrey and one Carter had now also stuttered to a horrified stop behind him, Thomas sucked in half a deep breath and then forced himself to square his shoulders.

“Well that’s less than ideal,” he managed to say dryly, hoping to bring some levity to the situation. “But I suppose we’ll manage all the same. Young, give us a hand with this, will you?”

Young had been a butcher in civilian life, his family owning an upmarket shop in the centre of Lincoln. He was rather middle class and had even gone to a local grammar school for several years before he’d left to take up his father’s trade, but he wasn’t too far up his own arse and would take advice from whomever offered without scoffing at their upbringing, so Thomas had decided he was alright actually.

And more importantly right now, because he’d been a butcher, Thomas reckoned he was the most likely of them to not lose his stomach when he had to… touch that unlucky bugger’s innards.

And indeed, the man shook off his shock and squared his shoulders almost as soon as Thomas started talking.

“Yes, I suppose we will manage all the same,” he agreed with the same morbid humour as Thomas, before he began nimbly stepping over the other men on their stretchers. Reaching the bloody but empty stretcher near the back wall, he stuck his hand through a loop of, uh, probable-intestines, and then with a flick of his wrist, began to coil it all up as he walked back towards them.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Lucky-Luck mumbled queerly again. “Think I’ll skip mentioning this bit when I next write home.”

Thomas snorted and then bent down to get to work himself.

It took four of them to finally get the unfortunate dead fellow back onto his stretcher and off of the train. And then it was straight back onto it for the next poor chap.

And then the next. And the next.

In fact, it was almost a full half-hour later when they finally slid the last stretcher into the back of one of the ambulance vehicles, which had been going back and forth between them and the hospital for the entire time they been working. Thankfully it had been just the one freight car this time, as almost none of the wounded were the type able to get off the train under their own steam and walk. All of the rest had all been stretcher-cases (as they were known), with most of the men lying on them insensate from either pain, morphine, or a combination of both. Or in a second unfortunate case, insensate from not having survived the journey.

Then, once that job was finally complete, came something equally as important.

Cleaning. Oh so much cleaning.

“Yes of course sir,” Robert repeated politely into the telephone again. “No, I understand. We are quite willing.”

It was now the end of October and anyone with even an ounce of intelligence could see that the original claims that the war would be over by Christmas were stuff and nonsense. In France and Belgium, the trench networks now ran all the way from Switzerland up to the North Sea, covering some 400 miles continuously.

400 miles!

And that was only one part of the whole horrible mess this war was turning into. Robert knew that there was another massive swath of fighting on the eastern side of the continent where Germany and Austria-Hungary were trying to push into Russia. Knew that Serbia were still having their own invasion problems on the southern side. Knew that the British war office was very quietly involved in some negotiations with Italy and that it was quite likely that a war front could open up along that stretch of the world too.

“This evening if we must, but–” Robert answered the Major General’s next question, shifting the telephone receiver slightly against his ear. “Yes, tomorrow would suit nicely. No, no I believe I have all the details still. Very good sir, and thank you for your time. Yes, Goodbye–”

Sighing, Robert cranked the magneto handle a couple of times to signal to the operator that the call had ended, and then slid the two parts of the telephone back onto the table.

“That didn’t sound like good news dear?”

Restraining another sigh, Robert turned away from the telephone to find Cora standing just inside the entrance hall, presumably having slipped through from the saloon while he was preoccupied.

“In a manner of speaking,” he told her honestly. “I’m afraid we’re about to lose another couple of our horses and three of the ponies to the war effort. Hardly surprising, but Lynch won’t be best pleased.”

“We shall have none at all by the end of the year at this rate!” Cora immediately protested. “And Mary will be heartbroken if she is prevented entirely from riding!”

“I know you are as sick of hearing me say it as I am of saying it dear, but there is a war on. Some sacrifices have to be made.”

This time it was Cora who sighed, her shoulders drooping slightly in resignation.

“No, you are right,” she shook her head. “I just wish this war wasn’t taking so much from us personally. I know we must all contribute, but with so many staff already gone and you now back in uniform full time and also due to leave any day now… truth be told, it is all rather trying on my nerves.”

“I know darling,” Robert apologised wearily. “If I could reduce the strain, you know that I would.”

“I know darling,” she echoed him with a weak smile. “Now come sit, if you are finished with your telephone calls.”

Returning her smile, he lightly touched his collar to ensure his tie was still straight and then followed her as she swept back through the main hall.

Robert had been wearing his new uniform for almost four weeks now. On the whole, he thought the new style of khaki service dress – which was what he wore during the day – was an improvement over what he’d worn in his last war. In particular, he much preferred that officers now had open lapel jackets rather than high neck tunics, and that as a consequence the grey woollen undershirts they'd once been inflicted with had now been replaced with a proper dress shirt in smart khaki hue.

But there were some changes he would rather have done without...

Predictably, the most jarring was that his cap badge and lapel pins had changed. Where once he’d been adorned with the flamed grenades of the Grenadier Guards, he now had an RAMC set – the Rod of Asclepius enclosed within a laurel wreath. He’d also been instructed to acquire a white armband with the red cross, and while his tailor had provided several, he had yet to actually wear one. Mainly because doing so made him feel…

Well, rather a fraud to be perfectly honest. Because he somewhat lacked in medical knowledge.

(And it also made him feel more than a little bitter, because he’d been a Grenadier who were considered la crème de la crème of infantry regiments and now he’d essentially been tricked into–)

“I presume that was the war office again, Papa?” Mary greeted him airily as he followed Cora into the saloon. She was sitting at the small mahogany table in front of the leftmost window, using the last of the pale morning sun to write what he presumed was a letter.

“It was, yes,” he answered her. “Another requisition request.”

“Request,” she muttered with wry humour. “I don’t know why they still insist on this veneer of civility. If you have no choice but to acquiesce then that is a demand, not a request.”

“Wars are already uncivil enough without setting aside our good manners too,” Robert lightly scolded her, making his way over to stand at her shoulder. And then, noticing the number of sheets of paper already covered in her near hand, he added, “Goodness! I had assumed you were penning a letter, but it seems as though you’ve an opening chapter of an entire book here!”

“It is a letter,” Mary told him curtly. “For Evelyn – Mr Napier of the Branksome estate that is. He was a member of the Household Cavalry reserves and thus one of the first to be called to serve over in France. He’s being rather exceptionally stingy with the details, but I gather that he’s having a rather rough time of it so I am attempting to cheer him up with news from home.”

Robert shot a surprised look over his shoulder to Cora, who was now sitting on the leftmost settee before the fire with Sybil. They’d both thought that Mary’s interest in Evelyn Napier had waned away to nothing – even in the platonic sense – in the months since that ghastly week when he’d visited with that horrible Pamuk.

“That’s kind of you dear,” Cora managed to say levelly despite surprise also colouring her own expression.

“I’m also plying him for estate-management tips, seeing as Papa is being so reticent on the subject,” Mary added with a grumble.

“I am not being reticent,” Robert objected. “I simply pointed out that there is little point in employing Jarvis if we then do all of his job for him!”

He did not add that Mary, as a Lady, had neither the education nor experience necessary to act as a land agent did. Oh, he had no doubt she was perfectly capable of gaining it if she so wished to, but Robert did doubt she’d maintain her interest long enough to actually do it; most of her determination so far had arisen as a result of Edith repeatedly insinuating she was incapable of rising to the task. So once Edith grew bored of muttering disdainfully on the subject, there went Mary’s motivation too.

Ultimately though, Robert had no intention of being away from home long enough for Mary’s interest (or eventual lack thereof) to become any sort of problem. Regardless of how long the war might continue on for, the fact of the matter was that Robert was going to be spending the duration of it deployed in a tidy little training camp near to Bath in Somerset, not in France. And while that was still some 250 miles away, it was in England and well connected to the railways; it wouldn’t be a hardship to return home every other weekend or so.

Oblivious to the turn of Robert’s thoughts however, Mary was already rebutting his last statement.

“I’m not planning on doing Jarvis’ job for him,” she complained sharply, jotting the nib of her pen a little too hard into the inkwell. “I am simply planning on seeing that your job is done in your absence, Papa.”

“The estate is long used to its master being absent for stretches of time, Mary,” Robert sighed. “We are away to London for the season for weeks at a time every year, and I doubt you have forgotten the long months we spent on the continent just before Edith’s presentation any more than I have.”

“In fairness Papa,” Sybil suddenly spoke cheerfully from the settee. “Whenever we are away from Downton for more than a few days, you take at least a ledger or two with you and then receive a great deal of reports on the estate for the duration. But if the Army is to keep you as busy as you say, how shall you manage to stay on top of this too?”

“Yes, exactly,” Mary grumbled.

Robert sighed loudly yet again, letting his eyes gaze out of the windows over the eastern grounds as he thought. Off to the right, the low roofs of the servant halls and yard were just visible behind a well planted screening border, but ahead there was nothing but an expanse of lawn dotted with a few trees and the old Georgian style fountain.

To be perfectly honest, having someone here keeping an eye on things wasn’t really too bad of an idea as he expected that he really would be frightfully busy at the training camp. Someone to cast a second eye over the book keeping, perhaps. To send off dispatches to the local guilds and trades as needed. To ride out occasionally as a visible presence for the tenants and villages so they would be reassured that someone from “the big house” still had their interests at heart, that they would know that hadn’t been forgotten or cast aside in the face of war.

It was just that…

Well.

It wasn’t really...

Oh, the lord damn him. Wasn’t he always telling his peers at Lords to stop underestimating their wives and daughters? And yet here he was, playing the hypocrite. Of course it was a man’s duty to provide for their ladies, but that in no way meant that they were incapable of providing for themselves when the circumstances called for it.

Forget all the suffragettes he’d spoken to in recent years, Robert had been married long enough to know that.

He turned back to his eldest daughter.

“It is less than three days until I am due to leave for Bath,” he told her sternly. “If you truly wish to take up this task, then there is a great deal we must discuss in those three days. First and foremost is that this is not a responsibility that you can just lay to one side when you grow tired of it. Our tenants’ livelihoods depend on our attention and dedication. Our livelihood depends on it.”

Mary looked up at him over her shoulder and smirked outrageously.

“I knew you would see it my way eventually Papa.”

“Yes, yes,” he rolled his eyes fondly. “You all think me an outrageous pushover once more.”

“Are you not?” Cora laughed delicately from behind him.

“I’m a man in dire need of a good strong cup of tea, is what I am. Is Carson still about or shall I have to ring for him?”

William had spent most his three days leave in Yorkshire with his father, travelling back up on the train alone after failing to convince Thomas to come with him. He’d asked several times, but all Thomas had done was pull a face and then get steadily more irritated with him, so eventually he’d dropped the subject and gone by himself.

It had been a nice little bit of leave anyway, even if he’d found it mighty strange sleeping in a proper bed after so many weeks on the wooden floor of the tent. His Da had been in excellent spirits, the weather had been largely agreeable, and when he’d stopped off at Downton for an hour on his way back to the village station, everyone downstairs had been right pleased to see him and had gushed over how smart he looked in his new khaki uniform.

Well, except for Carson of course. Who’d been just as polite and welcoming as decorum demanded and no more.

And now here he was. Deployed to a garrison hospital in Kent, doing proper war work with proper soldiers.

It was well into November now and a storm front had swept in from the south. Rain had been lashing down on the town since the early hours of the morning, while strong winds howled along the streets and battered against homes, businesses, and people alike. As he and Shepherd hurried along pushing a huge wheeled cage cart loaded down with soiled mattresses headed for the fumigation and laundry hall, he privately thanked god that they were billeted in a solid hut in the garrison grounds behind the hospital rather than in tents like the ones they’d had during training.

And thank god as well that this week, he wasn’t one of the unlucky buggers tasked with marching off to the station to collect new wounded every time a train with some came in. No, this week he’d finally managed to get a turn being assigned to a set of work known simply as wards.

Turns out there were an awful lot of jobs to do in a hospital that were only tangentially related to actual treatment and medicine. Because they were RAMC men, they were considered to be medical orderlies regardless of what task they were actually assigned to, but they all had to take turns at everything from cooking to running officer’s errands to garden work. In fact, William had just finished a seemingly never-ending week of manning the various guard posts around the edge of the garrison grounds alongside the regimental police. Day and night he’d had to be out there, come rain or shine.

“Banking left,” Shepherd suddenly clipped out as they approached a turn in the corridor.

William shifted quickly so that he was bracing the front left corner of the cart; they’d learnt pretty quickly that the rickety things were brilliant at going in straight lines, but as soon as you tried to turn, they were liable to tip and spill their contents onto the floor unless you pre-emptively held it upright.

“Ta lad,” Shepherd thanked him as they straightened back up.

“I wish we could use the lift at the other end of the hospital too,” William lamented as they then quickly shuffled themselves off to one side to let a group of four orderlies carrying a laden stretcher pass them, careful not to let the wheels ride up the rounded edges of the new hospital’s fancy floors. “Imagine how much quicker we could get this done if we didn’t have t’ push these things from one end t’ other first?”

“Not sure I like using just this one,” Shepherd grumbled back. “It’s useful as, I’ll give you that. But god gave us legs capable of walking up stairs for a reason.”

“I think it’s pretty neat, the things you can do with electricity these days. Besides, I hear miners have been using lifts and things for hundreds of years now. For going up and down their mine shafts, you know?”

“Yes, I suppose,” Shepherd sighed. “Though at least those ones use proper steam power or horses rather than this electricity stuff. It’s not natural, I tell you.”

“Wait ‘til you get a look inside the x-ray room,” William grinned. “They had me and Awbrey disinfectin’ in there on Monday afternoon and we barely dared touch anything! ‘Specially as there was some technician bloke in there too watching our every move. But I tell ya, wires from the ceiling, this great big panel with all these switches on it, and this cone-shaped thing on a moving arm that swung over the–“

“Major with a hat on ahead,” Shepherd suddenly cut him off.

William swore under his breath.

They quickly rammed the oversized cart to one side again and then jerked it to a halt, before stepping in front of it and standing to attention side-by side. The officer in question was ambling leisurely towards them, seemingly lost in a world of his own. He was indeed wearing his hat, which meant they had to treat him with all the formalities despite their being in the middle of a job.

After several tediously long seconds, William judged him to have come close enough and quietly muttered, “and... right!”

Both he and Shepherd saluted smartly in time, open palm hands coming to their temples in concert.

Finally, the Major noticed them and also paused and straightened up. He snapped off a crisp salute of his own before muttering an as you were and hastily striding passed them. William watched him leave curiously and then turned back to Shepherd.

“Who’d you reckon he was then? Wasn’t one of ours.”

“He wasn’t?”

“Nah, no red crosses. And his cap badge was a sort of star rather than the circle ones you mostly see round here.”

“Probably infantry or artillery then,” Shepherd shrugged, starting to push at the back of their cart again. “Barrow will probably know, if you care enough to ask him. I swear that lad knows everything somehow.”

“Seemed that way back in service too, a lot of the time” William hummed. “Turns out he’s just really good at paying attention and then sorting through gossip. Does a lot of book reading too, when there’s books to be had.”

“Oh now that, we all know. He just ought to spend a bit more time reading the Bible rather than those bawdy novels I keep seeing him with.”

As they were now finally approaching the rear service lift, William hummed again wordlessly rather than trying to tackle that line of thinking; he was pretty devout himself but even he thought Shepherd could be a bit... zealous in his opinions when it came to religion. And he didn’t think it was because Shepherd was a Methodist because Lucky-Luck was too and he was night-and-day in personality in comparison. But…

But William suspected it didn’t really help in this situation either.

Fortunately, the task of hauling the lift gates open and getting the cart inside was involved enough that the topic was dropped in favour of getting on with the work. And then once they’d got the cart positioned and the gates closed again, they had to concentrate on operating the lift as the Lieutenant-Colonel in charge of the hospital thought it was a waste of an orderly to have someone dedicated solely to that duty.

Which William supposed was fair enough; it had only taken Sergeant Tallow a couple of minutes to show a whole group of them how to do it after all, as all you had to do was push a little lever on a cylinder attached to the side wall forward for upwards, and pull it back for down. And then if you let go, deliberately or otherwise, the lever reverted to being upright and the whole lift just stopped.

William thought he was getting quite good at it now he’d had a few days practice; he only had to readjust the height at the bottom of the shaft the once in order to get the floors lined up this time. Then once they were level, they hauled all the gates open again and pulled the cart out into the ground floor service corridor.

Soon enough, they had it hauled out of the main hospital into the torrential rain and then very quickly into the adjacent brick building where the laundering was done. It was a big, hall-like structure, lined on one side with big scullery sinks, on the other with huge cylindrical steam vats for sterilising, and then all manner of presses and mangles and tanks and shelves and sorting stations were squeezed in everywhere else.

“And now,” Shepherd muttered unhappily as they parked their cart by the door. “Comes the paperwork.”

The old adage that had it that an army marches on its stomach was actually fairly accurate, but it was equally accurate to say an army marches on its paperwork. There was a form for everything from ration allowances to billet assignments via horse allocations and leave pass requests. When a wounded soldier was unloaded from a train and brought up to the receiving hall, there was a form to fill out. When his rucksack and other personals were taken and he was sent to the baths for cleaning, there was a form to fill out. When he was then issued with a baggy royal blue hospital uniform, there was yet another form to fill out.

Everything an army man did was inevitably accompanied by form filling.

Case in point. The mattresses they’d just brought down.

“You two again,” the corporal assigned to run the laundry room sighed as he came striding over, fag hanging out one side of his mouth. William didn’t know his actual name as everyone just called him the laundry-wallah — wallah being army-slang for the bloke who was in charge of such-and-such specific task.

“Us two again,” William smiled ruefully back. “Matron said to tell you that Ward C’s now got three more dysentery cases and that she’ll come down here herself for your head if you don’t give us the replacements immediately.”

“She can have some fucking patience, is what she can have.” the Corp’ scoffed. “The last lot we steamed are still drying and even the bloody Boche knocking on our door wanting a cuppa tea wouldn’t change that.”

William shrugged helplessly. Only an idiot looking to get clipped and confined to barracks argued with the Matron, but equally the laundry-wallah was right; the clean mattress would be dry when they were dry, and no sooner.

“This is why we should have a Wardmaster instead of a bloody Matron,” the man muttered disdainfully, reaching for a clipboard. “Never let a woman do a man’s job, especially in the army. Come on then, let’s do the damned chit.”

Having fallen afoul of the system once already and suffered enough for it to vow never to do so again, Shepherd had dutifully taken notes on which mattress had come from which bed, where exactly that bed was located, and what sort of mattress it actually was. The laundry-wallah equally carefully copied all of this information into the boxes on his form, initialling his name as he went down. Then Shepherd had to go down and initial the form too, signing his agreement that the numbers written were correct.

Then they were made to fill out another nearly identical form, this one to indicate that they were owed an equal number of clean replacements when they became available.

And of course the three different kinds of mattress covers they’d also brought were recorded on a linen form, not a mattress form. So they had to do two copies of that as well.

That all done, they were able to sign the last sheet of paper stating that they’d returned the mattress cart in one piece. And then finally escape the steamy laundry hall back into the pouring rain.

And from there, back up to the wards to face the wrath of the Matron.

Cushy.

Such an odd little word.

Thomas had never heard it before joining the army. In fact, he didn’t think he’d heard it all the way through training either. No, now he was thinking about it, he was sure it had started to crop up in his section-mates language about the same time they’d arrived here in Chatham. Which made sense given how liberally the poor bastards laid up in the wards used it; it must be some new slang they were bringing back from France with them.

It meant good basically, in the sense of something being particularly pleasing or nice, especially when talking about jobs and assignments. Working in the pharmacy was cushy, clerking when it was chucking it down outside was cushy, and getting to escort some of the up-and-about patients into town for an afternoon’s entertainment at the music hall was most definitely cushy.

You could also have a cushy things. Such as a cushy billet.

Thomas and his section decidedly did not have a cushy billet.

As he lay on his back on his mattress and listened to Lloyd clatter around and complain about having to polish all his uniform buttons again, Thomas silently bemoaned the squat little storage building they called home. Most of the hospital staff – the enlisted men that was, not the commissioned officers or the nurses – lived in purpose built tin huts with new corrugated metal roofs and asbestos lined walls within the hospital garrison grounds. These huts were designed to sleep twenty men in two neat parallel rows, had a stove and a little table at the far end, and had space enough for each man to have a wooden locker at the base of his bed as well as a shelf above his head.

In contrast, their hut was a draughty old thing. Squat and square and made of a crumbling grey stone, it had been full of building materials left over from the new hospital’s construction when they arrived, and its only redeeming feature was that the slate roof was still solid enough not to leak in the rain.

This was only of minimal comfort as both the tiny single pane window in the corner and the door did leak.

And also, much to Thomas’ consternation, it was frequently full of the chattering bloody monkeys he called his section mates.

“Did you hear?” Awbrey was saying from the bunk above Thomas – because of course, the space was so small they didn’t even get the privilege of single beds like the rest of the men. “London’s got a bunch of civvies to do the ambulance train unloading now!”

“You wot?” Morley immediately decried. “That ain’t right!”

“Heard it from Smithy who heard it from Jock,” Awbrey continued in the tone of a man enjoying having inside information. “Pulled me aside outside the rec room he did, and told me London’s got blokes from some volunteer column doing our job!”

“Which Jock?” Lucky-Luck then asked, because every Scotsman in the army not in a specifically Scottish regiment invariably ended up being known as Jock. “Dry stores Jock or blind Jock on M Ward?”

“Uh,” Awbrey hesitated. “...Neither? I think it was probably Jock in the clerk’s office actually, seeing as Smithy got ticked by the QM last week for thievin’ that extra soda and has been avoiding stores like it’s got the clap ever since.”

“Regardless,” Lloyd suddenly declared loudly. “We won’t be letting a bunch of civvies take our jobs here, will we lads? Unlike our London counterparts, we are no pushovers!”

By religiously following Bates’ advice to keep his head down and his mouth largely shut, Thomas had managed to form at least an amicable relationship with almost everyone in their little section. He had a bit of a reputation for being quiet and stoic as a result, but that was miles better than the snide and sneaky he’d originally been labelled as back at Downton.

Lloyd though, often made him grind his teeth together and wonder if an improved reputation was worth the effort of keeping his opinions to himself.

Having a smoke. That would help him not snap at the poncy stuck-up git.

Reaching for his discarded tunic, Thomas soon managed to extract his pack of fags and the new lighter he’d bought when he’d last been granted a half-day leave. Then, carefully not looking at Lloyd who was now pontificating on the subject of his public school boy days, he rolled to his feet, shoved his unlaced marching boots back on, and stomped his way to the door.

Outside, it was still raining but it was lights-out in less than fifteen minutes so he couldn’t exactly wander off to somewhere that afforded more protection from the elements. Instead, he huddled back against the front wall under the dubious shelter of the roof overhang, and cursed himself for not taking a moment to put his tunic back on or grab his greatcoat.

“You could just smoke inside, you know Barrow. Everyone else does when it’s pissin’ it down.”

Thomas forced himself not to sigh out loud as Mason also slunk out the door and stood on his right. He too, was just in his greyback shirt, though unlike Thomas, he’d also pulled his braces off his shoulders and left them dangling around his waist.

“The smoking’s not the point,” he grumbled.

Mason shot him a look like he knew that but hadn’t wanted to state the obvious. Thomas half-shrugged in acknowledgement.

They stood in blessed-silence for a few long moments.

Then, hesitantly, Mason made an unexpected request.

“...Giv’us a tab, would you?”

“...Huh?”

“One of your cigarettes, can I have one?”

“Why? You don’t smoke William,” Thomas frowned at him, slipping back to his Christian name out of long-habit.

For a moment, it seemed like this would be enough for Thomas to keep hold of his fags – they were decent Woodbines that he’d paid for himself rather than a pack of the cheap shite the army bought in bulk to hand out on wards – but William’s expression quickly firmed into determination again.

“Everyone in the army smokes.”

“Shepherd and Lucky don’t,” Thomas pointed out.

“Shepherd and Lucky have that whole religious abstinence thing going on. Come on, please? I feel like a right wet fish always bein’ the odd one out with this.”

This time, Thomas did sigh out loud. And then grudgingly, he pulled his pack back out of his trouser pockets, cupping his hand round it to spare them from the rain.

“Cheers mate,” Mason grinned at him victoriously.

Of course, Mason didn’t have his own lighter or even a matchbook, so Thomas had to hand his over as well. And because the weather was atrocious and Mason unpractised, it took him several attempts to get the cigarette lit.

And then the predictable happened.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” Mason coughed as he choked on his first inhale of smoke. “Oh Jesus! Fuck me blind, that burns like bloody damnation!”

Thomas laughed so suddenly and so hard that he choked on his own lungful of smoke, which in turn made Mason laugh at him and choke even more himself. It ended with them slumped on the sodden gravel leaning back against the front wall of their decrepit little hut, shoulders pressed together as they tried and failed to stop chuckling.

“Can you – Can you imagine Carson’s face if he ever found out I just swore and blasphemed like that,” Mason huffed mirthfully as he tentatively put his miraculously still lit fag back to his lips. “He’d have me guts for garters. I mean, I think me Da’ would have paled more than a bit at that too actually, but imagine Carson hearin’ the phrase oh Jesus, fuck me blind!”

“We’re in the B E fucking F now Mason,” Thomas snorted. “Fuck Carson and his fucking rules.”

“Yeah, fuck Carson and his fucking rules!”

As the rain continued to soak their khaki trousers and their bare arms pebbled with goosebumps in the cold, Thomas tipped his head back and laughed again.

They saw men broken and bloody and bleeding every day, they did hours and hours of back breaking labour (washing drying cleaning scrubbing fetching carrying hauling cutting sanding brushing soaping buffing digging dragging dredging dusting– ) and were then pulled out of bed at all hours to help whenever a fresh convoy of patients arrived in the middle of the night…

But his section mates were mostly alright, their billet was shite but still far better than the tents had been, and so far not one person had called him a bastard or a rotten sneak or a liar.

They were far away from the front, and they were far away from Carson.

So maybe there were trenches stretching from the Channel all the way up to Kingdom Come and the war wouldn’t be over by Christmas after all, but Thomas reckoned he could get used to being in the Army.

They had a pretty cushy posting after all.

Pretty cushy, indeed.

Chapter Text

Robert rubbed his eyes.

Another night of insufficient sleep and another long day awaiting him

The camp that was now his home-away-from home was about five miles north of the City of Bath, nestled in a group of fields on the northern edge of a village called Marshfield. The village was at the top of the long stretch of hill that sloped up from the city below, and was full old Georgian buildings and even some Tudor and Stuart houses.

While the recruits were billeted in marquee tents and the NCOs in new purpose-built huts in the camp, the officers had the privilege of staying in various rooms around the village. Most of them had been welcomed into the homes and spare bedrooms of the more well-to-do locals, but Robert had had the good luck of being assigned to one of the three guest rooms at the village inn, a lovely old building called The Catherine Wheel. This meant he got a proper bed in an unshared bedroom, access to a private breakfasting nook just off the taproom, and importantly, the use of a bathroom with indoor plumbing!

It was no Downton, certainly, but it was perfectly clean and comfortable, and the owners – a Mr and Mrs Hart and son – were as polite and welcoming as you could expect from any good British Citizen.

Now if only Robert could manage to sleep well.

It wasn’t noise keeping him awake. The village was almost as quiet and sleepy as Downton once darkness fell, and thanks to the government’s new Defence of the Realm Act, the small taproom was only able to serve until 9:30 pm. This meant that the men of the village had all cleared out by 10 pm each night and so Robert and the other officers weren’t disturbed once they retired to their rooms.

Neither was it disturbances from the enlisted men in the camp. Rumour ran rife in the army, every little scrap of news dissected and repeated until it no longer bore any resemblance to the original truth, but some of the pieces that had stayed fairly unaltered, were the tales of disorder coming from some of the other training camps around Britain. Stories of clothing theft due to uniform shortages were particularly prominent, along with those of groups of recruits absconding to the nearest pub without a leave pass and then returning drunk and disorderly. He and the other ranking officer of their camp had therefore been particularly strict regarding conduct and so far military order had been maintained.

So no, it wasn’t noise or the camp leaving Robert tired and restless.

Dare he say it, but he rather suspected that it was the absence of his wife! Bar the occasional night or two at his club in London, Robert hadn’t slept alone for quiet a number of years. Definitely not for stretches of time as long as he was enduring now. God help him, he truly was a pathetic sap.

Sitting up against the narrow headboard, he closed his eyes and let himself sigh deeply. Any moment now, the camp bugler would sound Reveille and another night’s torment would be at an end. Any moment now, Robert would instead have to begin the laborious task of crawling out of bed so he could prepare himself for the day.

Like the calm before the storm, the world beyond his cramped but cosy room seemed to almost be holding its breath.

… And there it is, he thought to himself as the first golden notes echoed faintly through the pre-dawn light. In the room next door, young Lieutenant Henderson’s brass alarm clock also began to ring shrilly.

Time to crack on then.

In fairly short order, Robert had wrestled himself into a fresh under-shirt and his serge breeches and gone to begin the daily orderly procession to the bathroom. As the most senior officer in the building, he had precedence, but that meant he had to get a move on as it wouldn’t do to hold everyone else up.

Upon his return, socks and boots were the next order of business. Rising to just above his ankles, his boots were good, strong leather, and while they weren’t yet as worn-in as he would like, they were excellently waterproof. Then it was time to wind his loathsome puttees around his lower legs, but he’d only just reached for the first one when a polite knock sounded on the door. Private Whitmore undoubtedly, come to act as soldier-servant.

Robert abandoned the blasted puttee and went to let him in.

“Major,” Whitmore greeted him, standing crisply to attention. He didn’t salute, but Robert wasn’t wearing his hat so he wasn’t supposed to. Apparently that was the way of things in the RAMC, even if Robert’s infantry-trained sensibilities were rather offended by the lack.

Whitmore was a reserve army corporal but was, as they say, getting a bit long in the tooth and thus had been held back from overseas service. Originally an infantryman with the Northumberland Fusiliers, he’d been in the army long enough to have been considered an old hand in the last war, and almost certainly would have been retiring for good about now if not for the mess on the continent. Instead, he was here, acting as the military equivalent of a valet while scowling at anyone who dared suggest he ought to hand in his uniform and go back home to his grandchildren.

“Corporal,” Robert greeted in turn. “As you were.”

He waved the man in.

Whitmore was rather more chatty than he ought to be, but he was also an efficient sort of chap so it didn’t take him long to see Robert the rest of the way dressed. And the chatter wasn’t too bad, given that he didn’t seem to expect much of a response to his ramblings; that is to say, it was irritating, but not quite enough to be worth making a proper point about.

“… So I had to explain it to him sir,” he was now saying as he finished squaring the buckles of Robert’s Sam Browne belt. “Batmen are for cavalry officers, not infantry or corps-men. Even if the officer mounts for marching, his man is still a soldier-servant, not a batman. One looks after an officer, the other spends most of his time looking after the officer’s horse.”

“Indeed,” Robert intoned, though he didn’t see why it particularly mattered. Bates’ had never been especially hung-up on the difference back in Africa, but he supposed Whitmore was correct in the technical sense.

“It’s the principal of the matter,” Whitmore continued on cheerily. “If you’re going to do a thing, you might as well see it done right. And if you’re going to name a thing… Well, I needn’t spell it out, sir.”

“Indeed Corporal,” Robert repeated in a slightly more irate tone.

Thankfully, Whitmore seemed to catch on to Robert’s growing exasperation, as he straightened up and quickly clipped through the last of his duties with far more military discipline.

Breakfast downstairs then proved to be a quiet and leisurely affair, with only Robert and two of the Lieutenants in attendance. Robert helped himself to a cup of café au lait as well as his usual portion of tea, hoping it might help him shake off the worst of his tired listlessness.

And then it was time to head outside and up to the camp.

The sun had risen by the time he was passing between the sentries posted at the front entrance, but it was a misty sort of morning, and a bitterly cold one at at that. He probably ought to feel bad for all the poor buggers sleeping out here in tents, but he reasoned that they’d all been provided with elevated wooden flooring to keep them off the frozen ground, as well as a little stove to complement their blankets.

And they wouldn’t be complaining about the cold right now, as the Sergeants seemed to have split them all into four groups and set them off running laps around the camp’s perimeter. Robert paused to watch the nearest group for a moment, and then made his way over to the wooden hut designated as the office block.

It was warm enough inside that he started to strip out of his greatcoat and hat as soon as the usual formalities were completed; the front half of the hut was where the unit’s complement of subalterns kept their desks, so there was quite a few of them to exchange salutes with. That done though, he started to make his way to the back of the room where a short corridor led to the more private offices; he and Major Brandon had a large one each, while the four Captains shared the two smaller ones between them.

Except he’d barely managed to sit behind his own desk before Major Brandon was knocking on his open door frame with a pinched look.

“Grantham,” Brandon greeted him with. “Apologies for launching straight into business, but I’ve just received a telephone call from London. I can hardly believe I’m saying this, but apparently its time to be moving our current recruits on so that we can receive the next batch.”

He and Brandon were technically of the same rank, but Robert had gone to some pains to reassure the other officer that as the new boy to the corps, he was well aware that he was really only second fiddle. Thankfully it turned out that while Brandon was a damn good doctor, he had little to no patience for army logistics or politicking and so was very glad to have Robert to hand.

That’s not to say Brandon couldn’t do it when necessary – he’d just much rather… not.

“Already?” Robert replied to this news. He gestured to the chair on the other side of his desk and the Major perched himself on it carefully, his posture military-perfect. “But we’ve not yet had them four weeks!”

“I’m as mystified as you are,” Brandon sighed. “I gather that someone at General Headquarters has decided that as non combatants, four weeks is all they need. I suspect this will be the norm going forward.”

“They cannot be serious.”

Major Brandon pulled a face, his thick white moustache scrunching up. Clearly he agreed that it was a ridiculous state of affairs, but he also recognised they could do precisely sod all about it.

Robert echoed the other man’s sigh, resisting the urge to swear under his breath.

“We shall have to dispense with the initial fortnight of physical conditioning,” he started planning aloud. “And introduce the stretcher drills almost immediately. You would know much better than I how to go about condensing the medical lecture series, but I can think of a couple of ways we could combine some of the field exercises. Those few that I have observed at least.”

“Perhaps when the new men arrive, we could add an extra hour to the day,” Brandon suggested, though it was clear he found this idea distasteful. “The current group would obviously not stand for it, but if we are to replace them entirely… the fresh recruits would not know it had ever been otherwise.”

“Perhaps,” Robert grimaced, imagining the complaints from all the NCOs and other enlisted men who most likely wouldn’t be leaving.

“In any case, we have but three days before we’re to march them down to Bathampton station and put them on a train to Aldershot. It was not stated explicitly, but I am given to understand that they shall be put to work in Cambridge Hospital for a spell.”

Throughout his life, Robert had been to Aldershot several times, as the camp there was functionally (if not strictly on paper) the main headquarters of the British Army. There were multiple groups of brick barracks there, for quite a number of the various regiments and corps, as well as a large military hospital, an army rail depot, and a significant number of warehouses and munitions storage buildings.

In fact, it was fair to say that the town of Aldershot had only grown into existence because of how large the military camp was.

It was also fair to say, that the reason he and Major Brandon been instructed to establish a new training camp all the way out near Bath of all places, was because back in August, Aldershot had been so overrun with New Army recruits that they’d run out of fields to pitch tents in. They must had have requisitioned enough surrounding land to have solved that problem by now, but Robert still couldn’t say he understood the logic in cramming in even more men.

That at least, was a problem for someone other than him.

Brandon’s posture had slipped slightly as they’d talked, and he now leaned back so that he could pull one puttee-wrapped ankle onto his opposite knee. He had thick white sideburns to match the thick white moustache, and he tapped the left one with his first finger, the rhythm rapid but steady as he frowned thoughtfully

“At least it will be some months before anyone considers sending them overseas,” he hummed consideringly. “I am aware that we ran out of both regular and reserve Field Ambulances back in early October, but those in charge won’t be quite that desperate for replacements yet. No, they shall pull New Army orderlies who have been posted to the south coast base hospitals first, and then if they are still short, there will be a shuffle of men forward from the regional territorial hospitals.”

Chatham, Robert suspected, was one the base hospitals in question. He supposed he ought to send a message of warning through to his once-staff somehow. Via Bates perhaps? Or would that not be entirely cricket?

Brandon, oblivious to the turn of Robert’s thoughts, sighed in an exaggerated manner and tilted his head until his neck cracked loudly.

“Honestly, dear fellow,” he bemoaned slowly. “My main issue with with this crackpot plan of the war office, is that not a single one of our current batch of recruits has sat their Red Cross exam yet!”

It took a moment for the implications of that to sink in. When they did, Robert did swear under his breath this time.

Bloody hell! Vis-à-vis the Geneva Convention, you weren’t allowed to sew red crosses on your tunics or otherwise mark yourself as medic unless you’d passed an appropriate examination. Which meant they had less than three days to not only organise the sitting of said written exam, but also to mark all the damn things too! On top of everything else!

“Would you kill me,” Robert chuckled humourlessly. “If I simply buggered off back home on leave instead?”

“Grantham! I am tempted to order you hung, drawn and quartered for the mere suggestion!”

Anna was finding Downton to be a strange place to live and work since the outbreak of war.

It was rapidly approaching Christmas now, but the usual festive cheer that enveloped the house seemed rather absent this year. All the usual decorations had gone up of course, and plans for a grand Christmas dinner (both upstairs and down) were in the works, but it rather felt like everyone was simply putting a brave face on it.

Her Ladyship was missing his Lordship, Lady Mary was missing Mr Matthew, and all of the downstairs staff were missing Thomas and William.

Well. Mr Carson wasn’t missing specifically Thomas and William. No, it was fairly obvious that what the butler missed was having two properly trained footmen in the house, but the overall effect on the downstairs mood was more or less the same. Especially as Miss O’Brien was the other exception in that regard; she was positively gleeful that Thomas in particular had left, and her good cheer almost always made everyone else glum.

Case in point, the atmosphere in the servants’ hall was currently utterly tepid thanks to the presence of the odious Lady’s maid. When Anna had come and sat down to work on some lace half an hour ago, three of the house maids, two hall boys, and Mr Branson from outside had also been enjoying the quiet, but only ten minutes of O’Brien’s presence had whittled that down to just Anna and Florence.

And now O’Brien was reading a letter. And smirking.

Which of course, was extremely suspicious.

Watching the woman out of the corner of her eye, Anna looped another bead through the cuff decoration she was working on and pondered her options. Three years ago, she would have just shrugged it off as none of her business and left well enough alone, but Thomas had taught her better than that. What if it was part of another plot to oust Mr Bates from the house? What if she was spinning some scheme to embroil Thomas or William in trouble with the Army? Or what if the target was the Ladies or the reputation of the family?

Anna didn’t think it would be that last one as ruining the family would ultimately result in her ruining her own employment, but the point was that there could be anything written in that letter.

It might even be something entirely innocent and innocuous. But then why was she smirking?

Anna wove in silence for a few more minutes, watching as O’Brien carefully folded the letter back up and tucked it inside her cardigan. In an ideal world, Anna would now think of a way to sneak a peak at it, but short of creeping into the woman’s bedroom and hoping that it had just been left in plain view, she didn’t think she’d manage it.

Perhaps Mr Bates would have a better idea?

Slowly, Anna began to pack away her small lace frame and weaving implements, placing them all in the wicker basket that she kept for that purpose. Then, carefully not looking at O’Brien, she murmured a farewell to Florence and picked her way around the table, intending to head towards the boot room. She and Mr Bates had not been secluding themselves in there often now that Thomas and William weren’t here to act as pseudo-chaperones, but–

The dressing gong reverberated through the house. Anna sighed and diverted her path towards the back staircase instead.

“Good evening m’Lady,” she curtsied as she entered the Ladies’ dressing room. Lady Edith was already seated in front of the leftmost dressing table, peering critically at one eyebrow.

“Anna,” came the fond reply. “I passed Sybil on the way up – she’s just gone to speak to Mama quickly and then she’ll be along.”

“Very good m’Lady.”

“Mary on the other hand,” Lady Edith continued with an eye roll, “was still ensconced in Papa’s study when the gong rang. Hunched over those ledgers again, you know? You might have to ask Carson to chase her out, if you want to have her dressed in time for dinner.”

“We’ll give her a few minutes yet m’Lady, before we resort to anything drastic.”

But then twenty minutes went by and there was still no sign of the eldest Crawley daughter. Anna had dressed both Lady Edith and Lady Sybil in their evening attire, had put their hair up in artful twists, and was now helping Lady Sybil select a pair of earrings and still, Lady Mary had not appeared.

“Perhaps I should go and ask Mrs Hughes to speak to her,” Anna fretted as she lifted another jewellery box out of the dresser drawer. She really would have to rush through Lady Mary’s routine now, to have her ready by the first course – and it would have to be the second course they aimed for, if she didn’t come upstairs within the next ten minutes.

“She really is being frightfully inconsiderate,” Lady Edith huffed in recrimination.

“I doubt she has done this deliberately,” Lady Sybil refuted with much more forgiveness. “She will have heard the dressing gong and then accidentality become engrossed in her work again. It is so terribly easy to loose track of the time when one is engaged in an interesting pursuit!”

Anna borrowed another leaf out of Thomas’ book and simply made a non-committal noise. That way she wasn’t agreeing or disagreeing with either of the Ladies.

“Here,” Lady Sybil then said as she reached up and took an earring from Anna. “There is only mine and Edith’s jewellery to choose now and I dare say we can manage that ourselves. That should give you a few minutes to pop downstairs.”

“Are you sure m’Lady?”

“Of course!”

Anna quickly bustled out of the room and went looking for the housekeeper.

She found her overseeing the transfer of the starter dishes from the kitchen up to the upstairs pantry. That was ordinarily a job for the second footman, but as they currently only had Benji, Mr Carson had (very grudgingly) conceded that Harold and Gracie could be trusted with the task in lieu. Anna quickly relayed the Lady Mary situation to her, hoping that she could leave the matter in her hands and return to finish her own current task.

But Mrs Hughes only sighed and shook her head.

“Mr Carson won’t thank me for leaving downstairs unsupervised right before dinner,” she lamented. “If Mr Bates were available, I could leave watching over the junior staff in his capable hands, but alas he’s still up in the attics. No, I shall have to remain here for the moment.”

“Of course Mrs Hughes,” Anna demurred, wondering what on earth she was supposed to do instead. Perhaps she could nip up to the dining room and ask Mr Carson to see to her? He wouldn’t thank her for disturbing him just as he was completing the table setting, but it looked as if there was no other option.

But it seemed that the housekeeper did have an alternative idea.

“You shall have to speak to Lady Mary yourself,” she declared boldly. “You’ve a sensible head on your shoulders Anna, I trust you to approach her with the delicacy and tact required.”

Anna hesitated. Mrs Hughes shot her a knowing look.

“Perhaps we shall neglect to mention this arrangement to Mr Carson, hmm?”

“...That might be wise, Mrs Hughes.”

The housekeeper chuckled fondly. Anna returned her smile and then turned and scurried back towards the stairs again; if she wanted to escape Mr Carson’s notice, it would be best to get this over with quickly.

As Lady Edith had stated, Lady Mary was sitting behind her father’s desk in his study, peering down at a collection of large tome-like books. She held a silver fountain pen inlaid with gold in one delicate hand, while the other was nudging a red bead on an abacus back and forth, her expression one of intense concentration.

There was no door to knock on, so Anna sucked up her courage and called out a gentle my Lady.

“Anna!” Lady Mary exclaimed in surprise, her head shooting up. She blinked a couple of times and then seemed to notice that darkness had fallen beyond the windows. Doing a double take, her gaze then swivelled over to the mantelpiece clock and her mouth dropped open slightly. “My goodness!” she said. “I’ve not paid attention to the time at all, have I?”

“You’ve a lot on your mind recently, m’Lady.”

Lady Mary grimaced, no doubt recognising that as the tactful platitude that it was.

“It turns out that running an estate is rather more involved than I first thought,” she admitted quietly as she stood and began closing the books. “Or rather, I should say that it involves a great deal more arithmetic than I had imagined. I think I’ve got a grasp on the agricultural spending now, but the abbey finances have my head in a spin. Did you know that my sisters and I each have an annual dress budget that’s four times your entire yearly pay? And I do mean each of us!”

Anna did know that, but had no idea how to say as much without sounding impertinent. Instead, she stepped forward and began to help with tidying the desk.

“And that’s to say nothing of the madness held within Papa’s investment portfolio,” Lady Mary continued. “It does seem to be making money but I find myself rather stumped as to how!”

“I’m sure you’ll get to the bottom of it,” Anna told her with a polite smile.

“I shall,” she declared, head held high. And then, with another guilty glance at the clock, she added, “But that is a challenge for another day, I should think.”

Indeed it was.

And so at last Lady Mary made her way upstairs.

Chatham in the winter was proving to be much like Chatham in the autumn; cold, wet, and frequently foggy. Storms and squalls still blew in from the North Sea regularly, only now they carried an icy edge as well as a promise of damp misery. And when it was dry, it was also either overcast or frosty. Or both.

But despite the poor weather, things were going alright for Thomas.

The eleven of them had been posted to Fort Pitt Hospital for nearly two months now and life had settled into a steady and manageable routine. As a general rule, they now all alternated one week on wards with one week doing everything else that needed doing around the buildings and grounds, and it was a hot topic of debate as to which half of the schedule was preferable.

Wards was Thomas’ firm opinion, even though he always spent what seemed like half his shift slogging away in one of the scullery rooms. He would never admit it out loud, but tackling the mounds of washing up that built up three times a day had certainly given him a new sense of respect for poor Daisy back in Downton. Or at the very least, a new appreciation for why she moaned and complained so often.

But yes, bastarding greasy plates and cutlery aside, life was alright.

“Do you know what I think the best part of wards is?” Lucky-Luck asked as he and Thomas methodically stripped the beds of all the patients who’d just been escorted down to the chapel for the Sunday Catholic service. The Anglican one had been earlier in the morning, and Thomas had gone only because people looked at you funny if you appeared to be abstaining from religion entirely. “Not having to do bloody parade out in the sodding rain! Look at it out there, it’s absolutely pissing it down!”

The two of them were assigned to ward K today, which consisted of two adjacent officer’s medical rooms with a scullery and a sink room in-between them. Medical, Thomas had learnt, simply meant that the ward was a general one for those that had an injury or condition which didn’t fit into the other more specialist categories – eye wounds, limb fractures, venereal diseases, and so on.

“Indeed,” Thomas agreed. “I’m not looking forward to trudging into town in it later.”

Lucky-Luck made the appropriate conciliatory noise and then asked, “You one of the lucky bastards whose Sunday pass was granted then?”

“I am. Though I’ll have you know it’s the first one I’ve put in for since we got here. Usually I let them with kiddies have them and just make do with the few hours we occasionally get on weekday evenings.”

Luck mumbled an acknowledgement at that and then hefted an armful of bedding over to the linen laundry sacks. Once he’d stuffed it all in, he hastened over to the where Thomas had left his notepad and dutifully added a tally mark for each item he’d just stripped from the bed; they all knew better than to risk the wrath of the laundry-wallah.

Thomas then shoved his own share of used bedding into the sacks and added his own tally marks.

That complete, he peered around critically and grunted, “Right then. Sister’s still in absentia so I reckon we can abscond to the scullery for five minutes before we tackle remaking these beds.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Luck agreed readily.

Lucky-Luck was still being a Methodist about the temptation that was smoking, so it was just Thomas who pulled a pack out and lit up once they were out of sight. If they’d have been on a men’s ward rather than an officers’, he could have smoked while out there stripping beds, but it wasn’t the done thing to smoke in front of the brass any more than it was to smoke in front of your social betters.

“Reckon I’ve got the time to make myself a cup of tea?” Luck asked, poking desultorily at the spirit stove and kettle.

“Reckon you might,” Thomas told him with a tilt of his head, “If you start doing all this washing up while you wait for it to boil.”

“...I suppose I did ought to look busy in case the Sister comes back.”

Thomas grunted wordlessly and took another drag of his fag.

When he’d smoked it down to his fingers, he threw the butt in the designated pot and left Lucky to his damp and greasy fate. He tackled the bed making first, then moved on to gathering up the patients’ abandoned tea cups. That led into dusting, and then into sweeping and he was just about to reluctantly give in and go help Luck with the breakfast dishes when Sister Easley finally returned.

Instead, he found himself sent to accompany Dawson – a freshly handless artillery Lieutenant – to the officer's baths.

And so went the rest of the morning, until it was time to deal with the patients’ midday meal. The ambulatory ones were rounded up and sent off to the officer’s mess hall, while the rest were provided with trays in bed. Thomas hung around the ward long enough to see everyone given a cup of tea to wash their food down with, and then smugly fished his leave pass out.

After a very quick dash over to their billet, he buttoned his greatcoat up round his neck and set off into Chatham.

The hospital and grounds were very conveniently located only one road up from the town’s high street, so it only took five minutes to walk from the front gates over to the café he’d pre-selected. Situated on the ground floor of an end-terrace building, it had been doing very well for itself recently, the result of it being the sort of place where it was seen as respectable for enlisted army men to meet their families regardless of their social class. And it also likely helped that the bloke who worked behind the counter most days brewed tea so strong that the tannins would probably strip the enamel off your teeth if you drank it too often.

The little bell above the door chimed as Thomas hurried in out of the rain. Pulling his peaked army cap off, he glanced around the modest space and was pleased to discover that only a couple of the tables had been claimed so far, leaving half a dozen others free. Beelining for the one in the far corner, he nodded politely at a Navy bloke and his wife who smiled at him, and then pulled out a chair and started to shrug his damp coat off.

Once he’d hung it over the back of his chair, he settled in to wait.

Less than ten minutes later, the little door bell chimed again. Thomas looked up and let himself smirk.

“Private Barrow,” Mr Bates greeted him warmly once he’d limped over. “You’re looking well.”

Thomas had already pushed himself back to his feet and now reached over the table to shake the other man’s hand.

“Thank you, Mr Bates; it’s quite wondrous what being out from under Carson’s thumb does for one’s constitution!”

Bates laughed, clearly appreciating the glib remark.

In fairly short order, the two men had bought themselves a pot of the infamous tea to share, as well as a bowl of soup and a slice of cake each. They exchanged the usual pleasantries as they poured their first cups – mostly complaints about the abhorrent weather – but by the time the scalding liquid had cooled enough to actually drink it, they’d moved on to far more interesting topics.

“So now Anna is worried that she’s plotting something nefarious again,” Bates grimaced, having just finished explaining that Miss O’Brien seemed to be returning to her old tricks; smirking at letters, and skulking about, among other things.

“She really is an odious woman,” Thomas sneered.

Bates shook his head silently and dunked a small chunk of crusty bread into his soup.

“I’d hoped that whatever queer mood it was that overtook her just before the garden party was going to be here to stay,” he remarked quietly. “But alas, she seems to be getting over whatever it was that had her being so meek and mild.”

“You’ll just have to keep an eye on her,” Thomas shrugged. “Wait for her to tip her hand.”

“Hmmm,” agreed Mr Bates.

“I’m glad we don’t have anyone like her at the hospital, that’s for sure. I think the closest anyone comes is Lloyd, but he’s mostly just a poncy git.”

“Ah, I think William mentioned him in one of his letters. Posh chap, spends most of his time either pontificating or talking about his bygone school days?”

“That’s the one,” Thomas nodded. “He seems convinced that he ought to be a commissioned officer really, but its fairly obvious he can’t even afford to supply his own uniform. How he thinks he’s going to fund the rest of an officer’s lifestyle is bloody well beyond me.”

“We had one or two like that in Africa,” Bates commiserated with him. “Just let him keep running his mouth; either an officer or an NCO will hear it eventually and then he’ll find himself hoisted on his own petard.”

Thomas tipped his head sideways in acknowledgement of that suggestion – he was fairly sure it was a tactic the Downton staff had used on him several times before Bates had come along and he’d learned to just keep his bloody mouth shut.

The café was starting to fill up now, the ambient noise level rising as more men came in with their wives and children. A Sapper – a solider from the Royal Engineer corps, that was – claimed the square table to Bates’ left, and Thomas absently noted that he was a rather handsome chap. His brown hair was slightly longer than regulation and so curled around his ears, and his pretty eyes glinted in the weak sunlight filtering in through the rain lashed windows.

“But you’re getting on alright?” Bates asked, drawing Thomas’ attention back to him. “Not much to complain about other than this Lloyd fellow?”

“It’s the army, there’s always something to complain about,” Thomas snorted. “Doing parade in the mud and rain, cold food in the mess hall, the sodding dinner tin. Honestly, I swear to god that if I ever find out who designed those bloody dinner tins, I’ll string them up like them Vikings used to. A spread eagle, or whatever it’s called when they crack your ribs outwards.”

“That bad, hmm?”

Bates was smiling at him fondly as he asked, so Thomas was easily able to deduce that the valet was deliberately giving him an opportunity to have a good moan. More fool Bates; Thomas was desperate to have a good moan.

“A dinner tin,” he began to explain with a derisive sneer, “is a three foot long solid metal trough designed as a torture device for innocent medical orderlies. They each have three compartments and a sort of false bottom that runs entire length, one that’s meant to be filled with hot water to keep the food warm. So of course, once the compartments actually are full of food, the damnable things weigh so much that it takes two of us just to lift it off the kitchen trolley.”

“Goodness. They do sound bothersomely heavy.”

“It’s not even the weight I really object to,” Thomas huffed, gesticulating with his soup spoon. “Carting stretchers around is much worse in that respect. No, it’s the grease I loathe, Bates. The grease.”

This time, Bates merely raised an eyebrow.

Thomas cheerfully continued his tirade.

“It doesn’t matter what food the cookhouse puts in the compartments, it all inevitably congeals in the base. Beef suet, pudding batter, milk skim, cold treacle, broccoli buds, stodgy gravy. All of it. And of course, it being three foot long means it doesn’t fit in the blasted sink. Add in that dry stores never issue you enough soda to last the week, and you’ve created the perfect washing nightmare!”

“And I suppose if you don’t clean it properly, whoever runs the cookhouse stores threatens to have your guts for garters?”

“Indeed,” Thomas concluded bitterly. The sergeant responsible for all of the hospital’s food serving implements was appropriately referred to as a the pan-wallah, and while he wasn’t quite as curmudgeonly as the laundry-wallah, he wasn’t far short.

“At least you don’t have to polish all the silver any more,” Bates joked. “Carson’s had me helping Benjamin with it, now there’s only one footman.”

“I suppose there’s not much proper valeting work to be done with his Lordship off at his camp.”

“No,” Bates grimaced. “There isn’t. In fact, there’s so little of it that Mr Carson had to be talked out of giving me the sack! Surplus to needs, was the phrase he used.”

“Bastard.”

Bates heaved a knowing sigh rather than agreeing verbally. Thomas sipped at his tea and silently thanked God that dealing with Carson wasn’t his problem any more.

“It was Mrs Hughes who talked him into keeping me on,” the valet eventually continued. “He’d waited until his Lordship had already left to tell me I ought to move on of course, so that he couldn’t be overruled easily. But Mrs Hughes reminded him that while Lord Grantham may be physically away from the estate, he was still in range of a telegram and wouldn’t be best pleased to hear I’d been sent away without his approval. Especially as he plans on visiting at least once a month. So now I’m to keep my job for the duration of his absence so long as I pitch in with other tasks around the house.”

“Like polishing the silver,” Thomas huffed.

“Like polishing the silver,” Bates echoed him. “And ironing the newspapers, and washing the crystal, and helping Anna with the Ladies’ dress alterations. Turns out there’s plenty to keep me busy once you start thinking outside the box, even considering the restrictions imposed by my leg.”

“Sounds like you’ve enough to be going on with then,” Thomas made himself say, instead of the they’ve got you sewing girls clothes!? that initially sprung to mind. It was probably a bit hypocritical to sneer at the man for doing woman’s work when he was technically a bloody nurse himself now.

Technically.

That word was doing a lot of heavy lifting to be honest, as the orderlies weren’t allowed to do any of the actual medical work, not when there were plenty of actual nurses in the hospital to do it. Apparently that wasn’t true over in France and Belgium, but here in merry old England, the nurses did the nursing, and the orderlies stuck to being general dog’s bodies.

It was a little bit irritating, when they’d had all that first aid training back in the Leicester camp. But they were still getting lectures from the Medical Officers at least once a week, and you picked up quite a bit of stuff just being around patients so often, so it wasn’t too bad overall. He wished that–

Thomas’ train of thought was cut off completely when David Awbrey suddenly barrelled into the café absolutely dripping wet, both his hat and his khaki greatcoat missing. His head swivelled round rapidly until he spotted Thomas sitting in the corner, at which point he began almost-shoving his way over to him.

“Barrow!” the young curly haired Welshman gasped when he reached the table. “I couldn’t wait for you to come back to the billet to hear the news! That Major everyone keeps seeing walking around, the one with the star shaped cap badge–”

“He’s a Coldstream Guard,” Thomas interrupted.

“–Yeah, him. Well, turns out he’s been assessing the hospital’s efficiency and now he’s decided there’s more orderlies than there needs to be. We all just got called into our mess hall so they could line us all up on parade for the Lieutenant-Colonel. And well… As soon as we were dismissed, I snuck out the side gate and legged it down here to tell you!”

“...Tell me what?” Thomas demanded. He could probably guess what, but...

“That straight after Christmas next week, they’re sending our section over to France!”