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Chapter Text

A curious effect of tradition is the infamy it inadvertently begets. What better stage than for a tale of two star-crossed lovers than a place of tradition and ceremony, a place like Downton Abbey.

As long-standing butler of Downton and man who kept the house in order, Charles Carson upheld values and convention as much as, if not more than, any man of his age. It was peculiar, then, that when he retired, his successor should be a man known for being somewhat unconventional. As the newly appointed butler, Thomas Barrow nevertheless intended to keep the Abbey wound like a clock.

Since Mr. Molesly had taken up a full-time position at the village schoolhouse and with Andy Parker having run off with his new bride, Daisy, Downton found itself short two footmen at the beginning of the New Year, 1926. Barrow was not only responsible for refilling these positions but also found it the perfect way to announce what seemed to be a new era in the house, coinciding with his reign. He therefore did not take the process lightly. He did, however, soon find that he did not delight in it quite as much as he thought he would.

The first position was easy enough to fill, as Mr. Bates had a suggestion. A cousin of his had recently died, and her caretaker of five years, Colin McLean, was out of a job. Colin, while hulking enough to have Carson rolling in his figurative grave, had service on his references and came with good recommendation. Although naturally not from Bates’s cousin. It was generally assumed, however, that if she could have a say, she would have spoken of him most fondly.

As for the second position, the first man Barrow interviewed could conceivably be seen as a satisfactory footman, practice-wise, except that he proved to be a tad belligerent and had a grating personality in general. The second applicant had no real experience, which might be acceptable if it weren’t for the fact that he was thicker than frozen molasses.

The third man was legally blind.

On the morning that he would interview the fourth man, a brisk, dreary morning, the type of morning that reminds an Englishman what it is to be English, Barrow felt sensibly optimistic. As he prepared for the day, being pointed and particular as on any non-miserable day, he thought that despite his rotten luck, he at least had a decent turnout thus far, numbers-wise. Settling down at his new desk in his new spacious office, of which he was admittedly fond, he thought that if this interview didn’t go well and he didn’t have any more applicants, he could probably settle for the thick bloke. He’d chalk his gelatinous intellect up to his youth and hope that maybe he’d be eager enough to be taught. It would be better than a person whose flaws were ingrained in their character or a person who couldn’t, well, see.

Barrow laughed to himself.

Just then, there was a knock at the door and, still smiling, he said, “Enter.”

A tall man on the thinner side of an average yet triangular build peered in. “Good morning,” the man said, “Mr. Barrow?”

“Yes, please come in,” said Barrow.

Despite the shabby, scratchy, ill-fitting tweed suit he wore, the man entered the room with a buoyant, unyielding stride. He removed his derby hat to reveal a thick head of hair composed of soft brown curls that wreathed his tan face. His eyes were an amiable baby blue that seemed to have laughter stashed behind them despite little indication of emotion on his face. The dip in his lip beneath his Cupid’s bow, like the nib of a pen that could write the most devastatingly sweet poetry, rested daintily upon his lush lower lip. His sparsely bearded, square jaw was pronounced and wide and offset his cheekbones in such a way that it only begged to be stroked or brushed with tender kisses...

It was all most unfortunate.

One would think it a positive to have a handsome man in the vicinity. It was only that Barrow had a soft spot for a pretty face (memories of a certain Jimmy Kent swam through his mind), and he had, in fact, made a promise to himself not to succumb to such possibilities when undergoing the interviewing process. He wouldn’t want to be accused of abusing his position to take advantage of some fresh-faced flame. Hell, he only had to offer Andy help with his reading in order to be accused of indecent behavior.

Additionally, as a matter of personal pride, he had just recently taken upon himself to lead a more honorable life- especially after all the progress he'd made in the house with his reputation. And although he hadn't exactly accepted Jesus Christ as his personal Lord and savior, he had also more or less come to the conclusion that leading a more honorable life just might involve some manner of a chaste lifestyle.

Some manner.

Still, how honorable would it be to let this man, clearly without a ha'penny to his name, not have his due chance at a decent job?

“Bit nippy, innit?” said the man, clearly trying to fill the unmistakable silence that followed his entrance. While clearly Welsh, Barrow couldn’t otherwise place his distinct accent, and his voice was soft and subdued, and had a crisp quality, like biting into an apple.

“What's your name?” Barrow coughed, surfacing from his reverie indelicately.

“Beg pardon?” said the man.

“Your name?” Barrow repeated, with more punctuation, and he was surprised to find that his voice had a tone.

“Robert Douglas Moss,” he said, as he stepped forward and held out his hand with a smile that regrettably did his eyes justice. “I go by Bob or Bobby.”

“Good,” said Barrow, giving him a firm but brief handshake, and as Moss was brought into the light so did more of his grit and grime- a scar on his cheek under his right eye, a faded abrasion on his left temple, his patchy working-class color, the dirt beneath his fingernails. “Because his Lordship is Robert, not that you would address him as such. If you got the job, that is.”

“Ah. Bob or Bobby, then,” said Moss, fidgeting with his hat.

“Please, sit, Mr. Moss,” said Barrow

Moss sat, smiling obligingly.

“Tea?”

“Oh, please.”

Barrow poured Moss a cup of tea and placed it in front of him.

“I’m Thomas Barrow. I’m the butler here at Downton. Tell me about yourself, Mr. Moss. Do you have any experience in service?” He took a sip from his own tea, placed it on the desk, then sat back in his chair straightly.

Moss's face contorted into the all-too-familiar “I-knew-you-were-going-to-ask-that” grimace as he inhaled through his teeth. “No, no, I don’t. But I tell you what I do have, Mr. Barrow.”

“I'm all ears.”

“'Eart.”

"Heart’, you say?”

“Aye. You see me dad 'e 'ad a different way of going about things. 'E was a fisherman with not much to spare. But 'e would tell me and me brother: 'find what you love, and I’ll make it 'appen.' So, when I found the piano, 'e made it 'appen. 'E got me lessons and me own piano. And I knew that I was lucky, a fortunate person to 'ave such encouragement and opportunity. So, I practiced until me fingers bloody near wore to the bone. But I wasn’t content to stop at the piano. l found entertainment." His eyes lit up as though he was gazing up at a brilliantly lit marquee with his own name on it.

“Pardon the interruption, Mr. Moss, but you are aware the position in question is for a footman?”

“'Ear me out Mr. Barrow, if you please, 'ear me out,” he said gingerly. “You see there’s nothing what I set my mind to, I won’t give it me all. Whatever you teach me I’ll learn post'aste. You show me ‘ow to balance a tray, it’s my preoccupation. You show me ‘ow to shine a shoe, it’s my prerogative. You show me 'ow to polish the silverware, I’ll stay up all night polishing silverware," Barrow's lip twitched. "Until I get it right. I’ve got big plans, Mr. Barrow. Oh yes."

Barrow produced a cigarette.

“How old are you, Mr. Moss?” Barrow lit his cigarette and drew from it.

“Twenty-eight, Mr. Barrow. Twenty-nine in April.”

"And you're from Wales."

"This is true,” said Moss with a nod, “Pembrokeshire, specifically."

“That’s right on the tip, jutting out into the ocean?” said Barrow.

“Aye. I’m from a small fishing town,” said Moss.

"You’re a fisherman like your father?"

"That's right.” Moss smiled with intrigue.

“Bit of a peculiar career move from fisherman to footman."

"Aye, well, between fish and feet I've got the man part down." He winked.

Barrow stuck his tongue into his cheek and tapped his ashes into the ashtray, "And I take it service isn’t your life’s ambition?”

“No, sir. I’m going to be the next Charlie Chaplin."

Barrow simply stared, his blue eyes calculating.

“I do like me joke." Moss nodded. “Know me audience, though. The exit is this way, is it?” he asked, gesturing behind him.

Barrow took a drag, leaning back.

Moss cleared his throat and sat up in his chair. "Mr. Barrow," he said seriously, "I know I can be cute at times, and I'll try to cut down on that, at your request. The plain and simple truth is,” Moss leaned towards the desk and clumsily rattled his teacup, which he then steadied, “I do need this job. I'm in a bit of, well, a desperate situation, to be honest. I usually wouldn't dare to be so frank, actually, but I can see that you’re a good-natured man. And I work 'ard, I do."

Had his heartstrings been pulled? Did he truly believe that Moss was the best man for the job? Or was he bowing to temptation wrapped in a tweed suit? When it came right down to it, if Moss didn't live up to his expectations, Barrow could be accused of hiring him for his own gratification.

“You realize what a burden taking on a person with no experience would put on me? What a tax on my already tight schedule, training you would be?” asked Barrow

Moss searched Barrow’s desk, chewing his bottom lip thoughtfully, then looked Barrow in the eye. “Then why are you considering it, Mr. Barrow?” he asked.

Barrow smiled. “Very well, Mr. Moss," he said as he stubbed out his cigarette, "I'm willing to see if what you claim about your work ethic proves to be true, and perhaps your alleged talents in entertainment could provide a boost of morale. The job is yours.” Barrow extended his hand.

“Excellent!” said Moss and he swiped Barrow’s hand for a meaty, jovial handshake. His face lit up in a heartfelt smile while his blue eyes twinkled with praise, and he laughed with relief. “I look forward to working for you, I really do!”

“I look forward to it as well," said Barrow as he wondered what he did during the interview to give Moss the impression that he was a good-natured man.

Chapter Text

In a day’s time, former fisherman, flowering footman Robert Douglas Moss, moved into a spare room in the men’s quarters and had his livery fittings. Then, after (on Barrow's insistence) having a bath and a shave, he started his new position at Downton Abbey.

At breakfast, Barrow swept into the Servants Hall to address his staff, all of whom promptly stood at his presence– a moment in his day Barrow knew he would never tire of.

Only not exactly everyone did stand. Moss was evidently utterly preoccupied with the business of shoveling the entire contents of his plate into his mouth with the velocity of a person who hadn’t eaten in a fortnight. Baxter gently graced his shoulder with her hand. “Dear,” she said.

Moss froze and looked up at the others in the room, a pathetic piece of egg dangling from his fork. Dropping the fork, he stood forthwith and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I take it you have all been introduced to Mr. Moss,” said Barrow as they all took their seats.

“Introduced? Bloke hasn’t shut his gob since he got here,” said Colin.

Moss, who had resumed his meal, looked up at Colin with bemusement.

“That’ll do, Mr. Moss,” said Barrow.

“My apologies, Mr. Barrow,” replied Moss as he placed his fork down humbly.

“Also, Mr. Moss, please refrain from carting those miserable rags into our clean hall," Barrow gestured to Moss's woebegone juggling bean bags, which were mingling in Moss’s place setting, "They look as though they could spread typhoid and do us all in.”

“Right you are, Mr. Barrow," said Moss, and he hastily tucked the bean bags into his liveries.

"And Mr. Moss-"

"Mr. Barrow?"

"Your hair is terribly unkempt. Please have it taken care of."

"On the double, Mr. Barrow," said Moss.

Moss looked at his wonky reflection in his spoon and attempted to command his coif to little avail.

So, it continued. Soon Moss carved his niche at Downton Abbey as a man dedicated to his work, a loyal friend, and a reliable source of amusement. True, he wasn't everyone's cup of tea. Some found his antics aggravating and juvenile. Almost everyone agreed he could use some schooling in the arts of poise and repose. But happily, he was not universally panned. In time, he found most people put up with him. That is, except with one person in particular.

Mr. Barrow didn’t seem to take too kindly to Moss, no matter how he tried to please him. Barrow took every opportunity to bark orders, give snide criticisms, or reprimand him. It didn’t stand to reason in Moss's opinion. Barrow, although certainly cheeky and a sharp wit, seemed more or less friendly with everyone else. He would at least give everyone else their due shot. Barrow seemed to have it out for Moss for so much as sharing the same air as him. Maybe Moss joined the fray at the wrong time? Or Barrow couldn't abide clowns? Or could he be prejudiced against the Welsh?

One would hope that Barrow wouldn't be the kind of person to treat him this way just because he was different.

Chapter Text

Valentine's Day reared its boisterous head, and the kitchen was aflutter with young women whispering and tittering over covert cards, anonymous admirers, and rumored romances.  As the kitchen staff was preparing breakfast and the maids were loitering about, Moss swaggered in to indulge in his new favorite pastime: scrounging for food.  He labeled himself a “taste-tester,” but the women saw him more like a pitiful, yet conceivably lovable tramp.  While he was never explicitly told not to partake in this pastime, Moss more or less knew it was something he shouldn’t be doing.

Moss came upon a bowl of grapes. “You lasses ever play chubby bunny?” he said to the room as a whole.

“You ever do anything but play, Bobby?” asked the new kitchen maid, Emily Hickey.  A private yet chatty person, not much was known about Emily, except that she hailed from the South, had moved North to be closer to her ailing aunt, and had a penchant for sass.  The topic of her Aunt was, in fact, the one thing about her own life that she was willing to go on at length about.

“I do this one thing where I turn oxygen into carbon dioxide.  It's a gas,” said Moss.

There was a small smattering of giggles and groans.

"Are you proud of yourself?" said Emily.

"Pride's a sin, butt," said Moss as he chewed a bite he'd taken out of a biscuit.

“Go on then, Bobby.  Teach us how to play,” said Mrs. Patmore, who was perfectly happy to indulge Moss's customs and whims.

“What you do is take a grape,” said Moss as he plucked a grape, “and you pop it in your gob,” and he put it in his mouth, “And you say, ‘chubby bunny’.  And you keep going until you can't fit any more grapes.   And whoever fits the most grapes wins."

The room had now halted all activity and was watching Moss, prattling behind their hands.

Moss put another grape in his mouth and said, “chubby bunny.”  Then another, “’hubby ‘unny” 

Ominously, the giggling suddenly stopped.  Moss whipped around to see behind him an unamused Barrow, which anyone at Downton could tell you was a formidable sight.

“Moss, what are you doing?” asked Barrow, serenely.   

Moss smiled toothlessly and gave him a half-shrug, half-nod. 

“Mr. Moss, I asked you a question," Barrow said, coolly folding his hands behind his back.

Moss sputtered as his face turned red and his eyes welled over with tears. 

"Good Lord in heaven, he’s choking!” yelped Mrs. Patmore.

Moss coughed hard, bracing himself on the table. “No, no not choking.  Just a bit... gassy," Moss wheezed.

“Gassy?” asked Barrow with a look of mild distaste. 

Moss pounded his chest.  “Mmhmm.  I have, y'know, ‘eartburn." 

“Well, which is it, gas or heartburn?”

“Both.  At the same time.”  He thumped his chest again. “Now please excuse me, I ‘ave paperwork.”

“Yes, as footman, I’m sure you have scads of paperwork to attend to.”

“Glad we’re on the same page,” said Moss as he clapped Barrow on the shoulder, then jogged out, massaging his throat. 

"Come now, Mr. Barrow," squealed Mrs. Patmore, "It was only three grapes.  Don't you think that was a wee bit unnecessary?  He nearly choked to death!"

“Three grapes?  To me, it looked like he was distracting an entire room from its work," said Barrow as he plucked a grape. “Besides, how else am I to get him to do his paperwork?”  He popped the grape in his mouth with a jaunty grin.

Later that afternoon, while the kitchen staff was bustling about in preparation for dinner, Barrow stopped by for a spot of tea as well a spot of gossip.  Today’s brew was courtesy of Emily spilling about her poor, sick Aunt.

“Absolutely off her rocker, of course!” Emily said as she lobbed the head off a flounder.  “Me mam she told me to locate any valuables so as when she kicks the bucket, we’re not drawing the short straw.  Five days with the woman, I can’t find so much as an earring, and I finally mention it to her offhand.  You know, subtle-like.  Wouldn’t you know the daft old crone sews them into the hem of her drapes!” 

Barrow chuckled, then sipped his tea as he merrily strolled to his office.

When he reached his office, his eyes immediately caught sight of something otherwise unremarkable– but given the fact that it was Valentine’s Day and he so rarely celebrated it, the small gray card on his desk caused Barrow’s heart to beat just that much harder. 

Barrow sat and simply looked at it for an inordinate amount of time.  He picked it up, jogged it against his desk, then read it:

14 February 1926

I might have asked to know you in another place,

Another time.

But you wouldn’t be exactly the man you are.

And although I know sometimes you wish you weren’t

I would traverse planes of space and time,

I would shoulder any measure of labour,

I might never again allow a self–

Sustaining morsel grace my tongue

Just to meet

The man that you are.

Happy Valentine’s

-Your Secret Admirer

“What’s that, then?”

Barrow jumped; Moss was standing in his doorway.

“Oh, it’s you.  It’s a Valentine,” Barrow said as he clutched the card in an almost protective way.

“Aye.  You can't be too bad, then, can you?”

“Watch your cheek, Moss.”

“My apologies, Mr. Barrow.  “T’were not me intention to be cheeky.  I only meant you should enjoy that because you must ‘ave earned it.”

Barrow appraised Moss.  “Did you write this?”  he said seriously, “Because that’s not funn-.”

“I did not write that, Mr. Barrow." Moss said as he leaned against the doorframe and casually crossed his arms.  Barrow’s eyes narrowed.  “Trust me,” he added.

Barrow stared at Moss for several significant seconds.  There was then a foreign and inexplicable sensation that coursed through Barrow at that moment.  It was brief, yet true, and he somehow found himself completely convinced of Moss at his word. 

“Very well, back to work.” 

Barrow read over the poem again.  It was certainly sentimental, and he’d never had such a poem written about him before.  He decided it felt good.  Quite good, in fact.  Now all that was left to do was figure out who sent it…

He felt the unique sting of a lingering set of eyes upon him and looked up.  Moss was still in the doorway, smiling a slight, enigmatic smile.

“Moss, I know I’m easy on the eyes, but I do believe I told you to go back to work, not stand there staring like a halfwit,” said Barrow.

“I only came to inform you that there’s a bat in the Servants ‘all.” 

“A bat?  So, catch it.” 

“I’m afraid it’s a two-man job.”

 “Last time I checked, Colin is a man, although admittedly it wasn’t a thorough inspection–.”

“Colin is a scaredy-cat and incidentally ‘as gone missing in action.  I need you.”

“Well, it is good to feel needed,” said Barrow as he stood.  He ignored the slight flirtation in Moss’s turn of phrase, even as it brought a flush to his face, then folded his card and tucked it in his breast pocket.

“You grab a rubbish bin, I’ll get a cricket bat.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Mr. Barrow.”

Chapter Text

A small, solid gold Dalmatian statue went missing from the drawing room, and Cora was most upset. It was a family heirloom, and she remembered as a child that, although it was a sculpture and not a toy, she was allowed to incorporate it in her playtime. It, therefore, had more sentimental value to her than monetary, which was saying something because with its embellishments, it happened to be rather valuable.

“I don’t believe that anyone we know would do this. It must have been one of the new hires,” said Cora to Robert.

In the Servants Hall, they assembled the three new hires– Colin, Moss, and Emily. All three pleaded innocent and had reasonable alibis.

Cora, Robert, Mrs. Hughes, and Barrow stood out of earshot in the hallway, discussing their impressions.

“It’s clearly the bloke at the end. He hasn’t stopped fidgeting since we sat him in that chair,” said Robert.

“Mr. Moss, m'lord?” asked Barrow

"Mr. Moss– is that his title?”

“Bobby, my lord. I don’t think he’s nervous. I think he’s just bored.”

They all peered in at the servants, and sure enough, while Emily and Colin were sitting placidly and politely, Moss was jogging his leg and attempting to remove a hangnail with his teeth. Colin elbowed Moss in the rib, and he straightened up.

“He looks awfully guilty to me,” said Cora.

“Me as well,” said Robert.

“My apologies for interjecting, m’lord,” said Barrow, “but really, I believe that’s agitation, not guilt. I think boredom must be a rather harrowing emotion for a man as… invigorated as Mr.– Bobby. He's still adjusting to routine.”

They all looked back in at the servants. Moss was now tapping his finger on the table and appeared to be talking to himself under his breath. Barrow wasn’t sure just what Moss was doing, but whatever it was, he really didn’t think it helped his case.

"He's constantly nicking food–" said Mrs. Hughes.

"He does have a voracious appetite…" said Barrow.

"And isn't he penniless?"

"I believe so, but..." Barrow trailed off, eyeing Moss, mentally willing him to be self-possessed if only for a little bit.

“Mr. Barrow," said Cora seriously, "I believe you’ve made incredible strides in your demeanor and your disposition. It really has been a treat to see you grow over the years, and you know we will always cherish how you saved Lady Edith from the fire and how you stepped up when Carson had to retire. I, therefore, hate to hold this against you, but don’t you believe there might be some other reason that you might be defending Bobby when all reason points to his guilt?”

They all looked in at Moss, who, sensing four sets of eyes on him, gave an uneasy yet complaisant smile.

Barrow swallowed hard.

“No, m’lady. Innocent until proven guilty.”

“Very well,” said Cora, “We will shelve the issue for now. Mr. Barrow, loyalty does little good without integrity and maturity. Mr. Carson is a man of integrity and maturity, and if you want to remain in his path, you’ll do well to emulate him.”

Later that night, Barrow was alone in the servants’ hall, chain-smoking.

At least he thought he was alone.

“For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing a bang-up job,” said Moss, standing in the doorway with his hands in his pockets.

“And what would you know of a bang-up job?” said Barrow calmly as he stood, stubbing out his cigarette. “Here you say you can handle anything I can dish out, and for the past month, I’ve had to carry your weight. So, you think you’re gifted, you think you're brilliant, when actually you’re useless. Why are you smiling?”

For Moss had a grin on his face.

“'Cause I know what you say ain’t true.”

Barrow strode to him. “Are you calling me a liar?” he spat.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Then what are you saying?” Barrow’s tone had caustic fidelity, with a hint of bloodlust.

Moss took a step back into the wall. “I’m not sure.”

“Then don’t waste my time.” Barrow flit from the scene and escaped to his office. “And get a haircut!” he punctuated before he stormed through the door, then slammed it behind him. Once on the other side of the door, he threw himself against it and knocked the back of his head.

He wasn’t sure he knew himself anymore. For reasons he couldn’t entirely fathom, that which he had been trying to avoid seemed to be coming to fruition and, yes, had this been another time or maybe even another man, he would’ve been blissfully wrapped around his little finger. Reassurance like that would’ve had him putty in his hands. But with Moss, it couldn’t happen. He couldn’t risk it. There was too much at stake.

Barrow's chest heaved, and his shoulders shook. Then came the sob and, like clockwork, the tears. He already bitterly regretted the cruel things he had said to Moss. And how it stung to think of the way he stepped away from him.

More than anything, it had been quite the slap in the face when Cora accused him of giving Moss preferential treatment. Would he always be treated this way? Because of one stolen kiss?

Or was that irrelevant? Would he have been treated the same had that never happened?

He preferred not to dwell on it for too long.

The thing was, he wasn't even lying to Cora. Despite how he scolded Moss, the man was picking up how to balance a tray, or shine a shoe, or even polish silverware with ease, and while on the loquacious side, he was just as hard a worker as his whole song and dance suggested he’d be. It turned out the most difficult lesson Barrow had been trying to instill in Moss was simply to be still and statuesque. Whether or not Moss stole the Dalmatian, he didn't know, but the fact that he had ants in his pants was no valid indication of his guilt.

Barrow sniffled. Moss had looked awfully sweet standing in the doorway.

Wiping away his tears and composing himself, he opened the door and peered out, but Moss had already gone.