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Please pick up, please pick up, please pick up, please pick up, Thomas thinks, and then he has to wonder if maybe he's waited too long. Maybe Ellis goes to bed early when he has the chance; Thomas certainly couldn't blame him for that. Or maybe he's got longer hours than they do, that would make sense, too. He's probably got hundreds of cufflinks to polish and shoe soles to mend.
"Ellis, Royal Household."
Very prim and proper.
He's suddenly extremely nervous.
"Hi," he says, and then he wants to kick himself, it's hardly a mature greeting, "this is – "
"Mr. Barrow?"
"Er, yeah."
"How on Earth did you get this number?"
But he sounds like he's thrilled.
"...you did give me your calling card, Mr. Ellis."
"Oh, did I? — well, it'd have been last night, wouln't it."
"Last night," repeats Thomas. "Yeah."
"Christ, feels like years ago already, doesn't it," says Ellis, and then there's a long exhale. "I'd forgotten."
"Easy to forget, am I?"
"No."
That's all there is to it, no, not like he's foolish for joking (asking) (he can't help but worry, after all) about it, but like there's no other possible answer.
"Neither are you."
"You're very much a memorable one, Mr. Barrow."
"Right," says Thomas. He manages, finally, to sit down and stop fidgeting with the piece of cardstock in his hand. "That makes two of us, Mr. Ellis."
"An excellent pair."
Thomas laughs, because he's nervous, and then so does Ellis, and even though it's only been a day (less than a day) he finds that he's really, really missed the sound.
"Didn't think I'd be hearing from you so soon," Ellis adds. "But it's a welcome surprise, I promise you."
The way he talks has Thomas utterly and completely enamoured, and for no good reason, either — it's not like he isn't surrounded by men with Yorkshire spilling out of their mouths, so it can't be the accent, and there's no lack of drollery at Downton Abbey, they've got that going for them if nothing else, but… there's just something.
"I'm full of surprises, Mr. Ellis," he says.
He has decided that he is going to spend this conversation flirting like his life depends upon it, because God knows he took none of the (many, and obvious, in hindsight) chances he had for that during the visit.
"If I may, Mr. Barrow," Ellis starts, and Thomas can just imagine the twinkle in his eye, but maybe he shouldn't, because he's far gone enough already, "I never doubted that for a moment."
Mrs. Hughes lets her hand hover over the doorknob, then drops her arm back to her side.
Mr. Barrow is clearly in the middle of something, and it's late enough now that he might have assumed she'd already gone back to the cottage to stay — they've all been running around all day, getting things back in order, and Charles had been exhausted from the effort.
They shouldn't have brought him up, she knows in the back of her mind, and it was all very lucky that he had no trouble with the palsy, but now he's worn out and Mr. Barrow is put out, from what she hears, although it did seem to her he'd had a nice morning.
His voice is only just audible through the solid of the door: "…can't imagine what you mean by that, Mr. Ellis."
Laughter.
"I am, am I?"
Quiet.
"…means a lot, actually, that you think so."
More quiet, followed by more laughter.
So he's very well having a nice evening, too.
Owing to Heaven knows what, she finds herself possessed to listen in.
"...which was interesting."
"I've never been to America."
"Wouldn't expect that you had," says Thomas, a little blithe. "Not in the Empire anymore, is it."
"Haven't been to much of the Empire, either — or not as a valet, at least. His Majesty doesn't venture far, these days."
"So I've heard," says Thomas.
"It'll make the papers if he ever does again."
"It makes the papers when he goes outside," he points out.
"And to Yorkshire, for that matter," Ellis returns, breezy. "Nothing but headlines out of Buckingham Palace, Mr. Barrow."
But his tone's changed.
It doesn't take long for him to realise why.
"No such thing as too careful, is there," says Thomas, hesitant. Like maybe he shouldn't bring it up.
This pause is a very short one.
"No, Mr. Barrow," Ellis sighs, and despite the whirlwind the past few days have been it's the first time Thomas has heard him sound anything near tired. "No, there isn't."
Beyond tired. Weary, even.
He takes a breath to steel himself, tries to determine the risks of carrying on talking about it or changing the subject, and he goes for the latter: "were you hoping I'd ask where you've been as not a valet?"
"Might have been," that's a yes, Thomas finds himself delighted that anyone's bothering to try and impress him rather than irked at words that from any other man would come across as full-of-himself, "nice to leave England every once in a while, even if one's working as one does it."
"You like travelling."
"I like seeing new places," he corrects. "But all the ships and trains get to be rather much, after too long."
Surprisingly, Thomas can't relate to that — leaving out the war, he's had good luck where journeying is concerned.
Then again, the longest he ever spent on a ship was coming back from New York, and he'd passed most of his time off-duty in bed with an able seaman out of Connecticut. Which is not the sort of travel experience he is especially inclined to share with a man he is currently after.
He coughs.
"Never a fish out of water, are you, Mr. Ellis?"
"Well, not in this respect."
There is that whole other thing.
"Where have you gone off to, then?"
Without skipping a beat: "I was a footman for the Durbar, back in '11."
He sounds very smug about this.
It is, admittedly, something he deserves to be smug about, so Thomas makes an appreciative noise and says, "and how did you find Delhi?"
"Mrs. Hughes?"
"Oh! Miss Baxter! Good evening."
"I thought you might have gone by now," says Miss Baxter softly, and then her eyes widen ever so slightly. "Is – is everything all right with Mr. Barrow? Shall I fetch – "
"No, no, nothing to worry over."
Mrs. Hughes pats out the front of her skirt and straightens, sheepish.
"I did mean to leave, and some minutes ago, at that," she adds, clasping her hands in front of her chest, "but when I went to look in and tell him goodnight…"
From behind the door comes a laugh, unmistakably that of Thomas but brighter than either of them have ever before heard it, and though it's stifled almost as soon as it happens…
"Well," says Mrs. Hughes, now in a whisper. "I suppose I thought it would be unkind to interrupt."
"And so you decided to stay and overhear," replies Miss Baxter in likewise low tones.
But she's smiling very knowingly.
"Oh, I ought to be getting on, now. I'm sure I've overstayed my welcome."
And she steps back from the door.
"Yes," says Miss Baxter, nodding, face now neutral. "We mustn't pry. He wouldn't like it."
"Although I daresay he's done plenty of prying, in his years here – "
"Is that an excuse, Mrs. Hughes?"
"Well, no."
Mrs. Hughes looks suitably chastised.
"But I suppose it is a very good reason," says Miss Baxter after a moment.
They share a look, mischievous.
"...not as much as you do, sounds like. Had what I needed."
And he didn't need much, but he knew how to listen and picked things up quick when he wanted. Besides "yes" and "no", though, the only phrases he can remember ten years out are things like mords ça, t'as une clope, bientôt fini.
Hardly romantic.
Well, that last one might be, in the right context.
"We all made do, I suppose."
"You'll have to focus on the stuff I don't need, if you're going to teach me," Thomas says. There are only so many delicate ways to change a subject. "I could do with some frivolous French."
"Could you, Mr. Barrow?"
"Could do with some frivolous anything."
He's come to realise what he's been missing, over the last week. If Ellis was serious in the offer, this might be a fun place to start. Never in his life has he been more motivated to learn a language.
It has nothing to do with the subject and everything to do with the teacher. He's not fooling himself, and he's not even going to bother to try to fool him, either.
"I hope it won't be entirely useless," says Ellis airily. "For all her faults, France does have advantages."
Oh, Christ, that's a line if there ever was one.
Not that it'll ever happen in reality, but it's something to think about.
Preferably at night, while he's alone.
"Does she, now?"
" – it's getting late."
"Hadn't noticed," Thomas says, trying and likely failing to be coy.
"Much as I want to talk all night," oh, you do, do you, "we ought to be wrapping this up."
"Yeah. Big day for you tomorrow, and all."
"Not looking forward to it, if I'm honest."
Interesting.
"That's not very patriotic of you," says Thomas, matter of fact — teasing, but not laying it on thick, he hopes.
"You know how it is," Ellis returns, nonchalant. "Much to do, not enough time to get it done."
"Day in and day out."
"Domestic service has its drawbacks."
"Even for you, huh? Best job in the Commonwealth?"
"Oh, I could do better here, if I wanted."
If he wanted, like the world is his for the taking.
Thomas could do with some of that attitude. He stopped feeling that way years ago.
"Not very ambitious, Mr. Ellis, are you."
"Benefits are better, being the second choice," he replies smoothly. "I'm quite content where I am."
"Except for the drawbacks."
He hums.
Maybe he should have let that part go, kept on with the change in subject.
"The duties are fine," says Ellis after a moment. "Only I've been thinking lately that I don't get home damn near as often as I'd like."
And that's a feeling he's never had, especially.
"Well, your folks clearly like to keep you when they have you."
"Huh," says Ellis, quiet. "Didn't even say sorry for that, did I?"
Thomas laughs, suddenly breathless.
"No," he replies, pointedly, "but there was, er, more to worry about, by the time you had the chance."
Ellis makes a noncommittal noise, like a verbal shrug. "Have one now, then."
"Yeah?"
"I am," Ellis says, all official and courtly, "very sorry that I kept you waiting, Mr. Barrow, and I hope you'll find it in yourself to forgive me."
He's a touch roguish when he says it, and it makes Thomas feel warm all over — he's so smitten he's got no idea what to do with himself, because it has been a very, very long time since he was with anybody, let alone anybody who's smitten back, too.
Not that Ellis is smitten, he's probably not, but he definitely likes him, too, Thomas thinks he can be sure of that at this point.
(He feels like a boy again, fumbling and uncertain.)
"Be something of a hypocrite if I didn't, wouldn't I, Mr. Ellis?" He pauses, and then he lowers voice, out of instinct more than anything else. "Late or not, I… I'm grateful you showed up when you did."
"I know."
And then, "how are you doing, after all that? You had a night."
"That's one way of putting it."
"Best way, over the telephone," Ellis says, a little sharp, but there's concern in it.
He's right, of course.
"I'll be all right," says Thomas. "I can handle myself."
"Do so discreetly."
…that's the only thing he's not fond of, thus far, is the little reminders. They make him feel too much like a child to really be helpful.
And in this case, he'll never make the same mistake twice.
"Er, I hope you know I don't normally… do that."
A beat.
"What, behave with discretion?"
Bloody tease.
"Was thinking more along the lines of leave the house, as it happens."
Ellis hums.
"Well, we can't have that, neither. Why don't you strike a balance?"
Go out, but don't get arrested, he means.
"You know how it is," he repeats.
"There's a time and a place for silliness, Mr. Barrow," counters Ellis. "We'll just have to find it for you."
Oh, hell, he could melt into the floor.
So he says, hasty, breathless and still smiling and extremely embarrassed, "I should let you go, shouldn't I, don't you have things to do?"
"I'm sure you've got a good many irons in the fire, yourself, up at the country house. But yeah. You… you should."
"Right."
"Yeah."
"I'll let you get on," says Thomas, stupidly. "Er, goodbye, then?"
"Goodbye."
He doesn't say anything more. He's going to wait for him to hang up, he decides, because it'll be easier that way. Feels odd, not wanting the last word, but he finds he doesn't need it here.
But Ellis doesn't hang up; he can hear him breathing on the other end of the line, still.
"I'm right pleased you phoned."
"Pleased I had the courage, myself."
"We could all do with more courage in our lives, couldn't we," Ellis murmurs, thoughtful, and Thomas finds he doesn't quite know what to say to that.
"What's it we're all listenin' at the door for? Has he got a guest or something?"
Daisy has a basket full of root vegetables in one arm and a stack of kitchen towels slung over her other, but this doesn't prevent her from coming to a halt right outside of the butler's pantry.
"At this hour? No – but he has got a caller, in the modern sense."
A towel falls to the floor.
Miss Baxter shushes them and retrieves it.
The valet? mouths Daisy.
They both nod.
She murmurs, "at least the King's good for one thing, if it gets him happy," something neither Miss Baxter nor Mrs. Hughes have the heart to shush her for saying.
Daisy settles the basket on her hip and tucks herself between Miss Baxter and Mrs. Hughes, ear pressed to the door.
"…you'll have to hang up, then," says Ellis. He makes it sound like it's flying the Atlantic, or mountaineering Everest.
If he's honest, it is like mountaineering Everest. They've each said goodbye about three times now.
"Was waiting for you to."
Ellis laughs.
Thomas wonders if he's always like this, or if it's something he brings out in him — he certainly doesn't make a habit of smiling as much as he has been, today, himself.
It hasn't gone unnoticed, either: the second Miss Baxter was back in the house from the sendoff, some minutes after the others had come in, she'd come to knock on his door. It was the first thing she noticed, him being all smiles. He couldn't stop himself.
And as it turned out, she'd gotten a kiss, too. They'd spent luncheon peeking at each other like back when they were children.
"Come to an impasse, Mr. Barrow, haven't we."
Not one he minds.
He says that out loud.
"Me neither, but you – " His tone changes, slightly scolding, but kind, always kind. "You ought to put the phone down and get some rest, what with all that needs to get done at Downton come morning."
"Can't imagine I've more work to do than you have," says Thomas, and then he thinks, up at the country house, huh, and adds, "being… what was it you said yesterday, provincial?"
Ellis laughs, and the sound of it is warm and rich and all heart.
For a split-second, Thomas is extremely glad they're not in the same room, because he can't stop himself from beaming like an idiot.
"I recall apologising for that remark, myself."
He had done, before Thomas had even had a chance to process it, and then he'd gone on about being from York and living in London and knowing what it's like to feel out of place, like you're different from everyone around you, and at the time it had felt rather patronising — Ellis was obviously many things, and worldly was definitely one of them. He was at ease in Downton, more grace and serenity than demented kicking, as he put it, and he almost definitely could have made himself seem just as at home in York or London or Paris or Bombay or God knows where else, so why he'd feel different or odd-one-out was anyone's guess. Thomas had sort of assumed they were empty words to make him feel better about the whole thing.
Because he's a bloody idiot and hadn't realised until after Ellis had kissed him on his way out this morning that the whole damn conversation on their drive into the city was his way of going I'm like you, are you like me.
Once bitten, twice shy; every time Thomas had suspected anything, he'd kicked himself for it and done his best to reign in the puppy dog eyes.
Funny that all that was only a tad more than twenty four hours ago, and now here they are.
"Facetiously."
"I was entirely sincere – "
" – when you called me provincial."
"I don't think you're provincial, Mr. Barrow," exasperated, and Thomas grins. "Far from it."
"A regular metropolitan, then?"
"Wouldn't go that far, either."
"I can hold my own in a city, when I have to," Thomas tells him. And then he remembers the previous night and feels like he's saying all this without anything to back it up. "Most of the time, at least."
"I don't have any doubts, what with all you said about New York."
"You also don't have any proof," he says. His palms are getting clammy, but he is about a thousand times more sure of himself now that he's not weak in the knees from looking Ellis in the eye, so he goes for it. "I'll have to come up to London one of these days and show you firsthand."
Ellis makes a sound like he swallowed water down the wrong way.
"You're bold."
It wasn't meant to be suggestive, but if the cap fits…
"Something tells me you might be bolder, Mr. Ellis."
He thinks he might do anything to make this man laugh like he is now.
"I - er - "
Oh, he's made him stutter. That's something else he doesn't mind being responsible for.
"I'd like that very much."
Now it's him who's speechless, and he takes a deep breath and nods.
"You would, would you?" he asks, after he's come back to himself and remembered that this is a telephone conversation.
"Yeah," replies Ellis. "Yeah, I would."
"Me, too."
And then neither of them say anything.
Thomas watches the clock, the tick-tick-tick of the secondhand.
He wonders what Ellis is looking at, what his surroundings are like. He'll never find out, they could never swing it, but he wants to know all the same. Without a doubt he's got a better setup than any of them do at Downton, everyone in the entourage had made that crystal clear — although he hadn't, actually, he'd been very gracious. About everything.
About Thomas.
"When Parliament's in session…"
Oh, if only.
"They don't move the whole household up," Thomas says. "Not like they used to."
"We'll think of something in due time."
He says it with such confidence that Thomas believes it with no reservations. They're resourceful, the two of them; that at least was something they figured out about one another fast.
"I really should be going," he says slowly.
"Plenty to do, I'm sure."
"Wine to decant, drawing rooms to lock up, and all of that."
"You'll think of me, won't you?"
"I haven't stopped since you – "
There is indeed a limit to what they can actually say over the telephone.
Be more circumspect in the future; best way, over the telephone; do so discreetly.
"Left," he finishes lamely. "Since you left."
It's been about fourteen hours, at most.
A pause.
"Nor've I, Mr. Barrow."
"My name's Thomas, actually."
Ellis clears his throat.
"Nor have I, Thomas."
The first time he says his first name is to tell him he hasn't stopped thinking of him.
It's an excellent start.
"Good that we're on the same page, Mr. Ellis."
"Mine's Richard. My name."
"I know."
Ellis — maybe he can think of him as Richard, now that he knows it officially, how they got through several days without either of their Christian names coming up, Thomas hasn't the faintest —
Richard seems taken aback. "How do you – "
"Says on your card."
He flips it over between his fingers, back and forth. It's heavy stock, embossed, very sophisticated. Their Majesties apparently don't skimp on the servants.
"Oh," says Ellis (turns out that feels more familiar than his forename, somehow, without the Mr attached, because that's what he'd gotten used to, last night.)
And then: "it must, huh."
"Says a lot, your card," Thomas returns. "I have your name, your workplace, because that I had no idea, obviously, would never have guessed," and Ellis laughs again, even though it wasn't nearly as funny aloud as Thomas thought it was in his head, but he's certainly not complaining, "your telephone number, proof that I'll owe you for the rest of my life, your mailing address…"
He says them like they're all things of equal weight.
It almost feels like they are.
Ellis has stopped laughing.
"Meant what I said, about sticking together."
Thomas closes his eyes and thinks about the drive, the walk from the garage, passing through the stableyard, going through the backdoor and up the stairs to the attic. How when he said goodnight he thought his heart might jump out of his chest for want of kissing him.
And then he thinks about when they did kiss, and his heart starts racing.
"Still there?"
"You know I am," he says quickly.
Earns him another chuckle. Whether it's at him or with him he can't tell, but he doesn't actually mind either way. It's good-natured, is what it is.
"Don't… go calling me Richard, though; Mum's the only one who does."
Huh.
"Your card doesn't say that," Thomas says, and then, feeling confident, he adds, "what do I get to call you?"
"Whatever you'd like, Thomas."
Well, that's affecting.
" – my friends call me Dick, as it happens."
Which is exactly what he'd have guessed, given what his Christian name is, so it's boring in that respect, but it's also unbearably endearing.
"Is that what we are? Friends?"
"You ought to make good use of that mailing address," comes the reply, swift and sure and just a little too soon. It's his own fault; he walked right into it. "Send some letters. No need to tell me yours."
"Not too many Downton Abbeys."
"Not too many Thomas Barrows, either."
"Don't know about that," he says, cheeky, but hopefully in a charming way, because that's how he means it, "there were about three or four in the line before I came along, and that's not even going into cousins – "
Ellis — Dick, that's what he's going to call him, because for some reason the thought of using a nickname gives him butterflies even if it's the most ordinary thing in the world to call a man what everyone else in his life calls him, except that maybe it's too soon to jump to yet, even if he did just say to call him what he likes —
Ellis interrupts him with a steady, "only one for me, though," voice warm and bright like maybe he's smiling, and Thomas feels his breath hitch and his chest tighten. In a good way, if that's possible.
"Yeah," he starts, "I," and then he huffs, because for some reason those words just broke him and he can't think straight, so all he knows to do is repeat them. "Only one for you."
"That's what you've found, I think, Mr. Barrow, someone for you."
Breathe, breathe, he needs to bloody breathe, but his heart is pounding and he feels like he could fly.
— there's a clamour from the hallway, a rumble of things falling to the floor followed by an "oh, my" from Mrs. Hughes and an "oh, dear," from Miss Baxter, who'd been planning on walking back Molesley (naturally, he overstayed his welcome) (Thomas hopes that either she wasn't held up for unfortunate reasons or just got it over with early), Mrs. Patmore shouting out, "oh, my God," and then, "sorry, Mrs. Patmore, I were only – "
And then utter silence, which is… not typical for any of his staff, but least of all three of the four.
It draws him out of the moment.
Whatever happened is probably something he ought to go deal with, what with his job description and all.
They apparently have awful luck, as far as interruptions go.
"...I need to go."
"We keep saying that, don't we."
"No, I actually do, now, something just – "
And he keeps his voice low, now, cautious, because he doesn't want to think about why most all of the women downstairs are in the hallway at once.
"Oh."
The disappointment in his voice is so palpable that Thomas strongly considers barricading himself in the pantry until dawn, just to keep talking to him.
"This was excellent," he tells him, soft and kind as he can.
"Phone again," says Ellis, equally so.
"I will."
"I do mean it. I want you to."
"Same hour?"
"Or a bit later."
"Soon?"
"Yes, please, hell, even tomorrow would be — Thomas, I'm going to hang up or I'll keep you all night."
"Another time."
That is meant to be suggestive.
"For Pete's sake – "
He interrupts himself with a very handsome laugh, and then Thomas is laughing again, and…
Damn does he really need to go see to whatever the hell all of that noise was about.
"Right. Goodbye," he says. And then, because he's still feeling forward, he adds, "sleep well, Dick."
"I certainly will, thank you."
So he can be suggestive, too.
Isn't that something.
"You've earned it."
Nothing, for a moment.
Thomas hopes he's smiling.
"Goodnight, Thomas."
Except that he still can't bring himself to hang up the bloody telephone.
Evidently, he's having the same conundrum on the other end of the line.
"Thought you weren't going to keep me all night?" Thomas says, coy.
"I did say that."
"You did."
"Don't always do exactly as I say, Mr. Barrow."
"I'm beginning to get that impression."
A short laugh, and then, "right, shall we do it at once?"
"Yeah, yeah, I – okay, three, two, one – "
When he goes into the corridor, he's greeted by Anna, who has Johnnie in her arms, both evidently on their way out, as well as an assortment of vegetables scattered on the floor. From the kitchen, he can just barely make out the sounds of the women talking in hushed voices.
He has a suspicious feeling about the nature of their congregating.
"What's all this?"
"Couldn't say," says Anna. "We were just leaving."
He raises his eyebrows.
She shrugs, but there's something in her eyes that makes him think she knows more about the matter than she's letting on.
"Say goodbye to Mr. Barrow, Johnnie," she says, giving him a bounce.
"Bye," Johnnie says.
It's one of very few words he's got the hang of that they can all understand.
"Goodnight, Johnnie."
Johnnie yawns.
Thomas reaches out to him, gives him a tickle under the chin, and Johnnie wraps his little hand around his finger and giggles.
Anna beams.
"I'll be back to take care of Lady Mary and Lady Edith in an hour or so, whenever they're returned. Mrs. Hughes has promised to look after this one."
"An hour sounds about right to me," he replies. "I'll be here, obviously, still got things to take care of."
Carson got all the fun and none of the cleanup.
And he has to lock the doors and do the lights and everything, too, of course.
"We missed you last night," she tells him, as if reading his mind, and he blinks at her. "And I never thanked you properly about the footmen."
The look on her face now is less motherly pride and more friendly mischief.
"No need," says Thomas, and then, "I was sorry to miss out, myself." It's true, in fact, but he's certainly not about to trade it for anything.
Well, he'd trade bits of it.
"Were you?"
"Er - "
"You didn't look very sorry at breakfast this morning."
Definitely mischief.
"I - "
She doesn't bother with his stammering, which is good, really; it's not like him to stumble and he'd hate if it were drawn attention to by Anna, of all people.
"Did you have a very nice time in York?"
"I did, yeah."
He looks away from her and stares at a parsnip that's up against the baseboard.
"Who was it you went with?"
She knows very well who; she was there when he got roped into it — and from the look on her face, she knows he remembers.
Nothing he can do about it, either, he's not about to snipe at her for just that, so he tries to sound nonchalant.
"The valet," he manages. He's fairly certain he must be pink in the cheeks; he's still in a state just from talking to him. "Mr. Ellis."
"Mr. Ellis," she repeats. "He seemed a nice sort. Not too big for his britches, like the rest of them."
"He is a nice sort."
She raises her eyebrows, and he hastens to add, "helped with the footmen, in fact."
"A schemer, too?" she asks, glint in her eye.
She definitely knows, or has guessed, at least, because Baxter's the only one he's told and she wouldn't have shared a thing like that, but Anna's so gentle about it he can't find it in him to be irked.
"You must have got on very well, then, Mr. Barrow — will you be keeping in touch, do you think?"
"I like to think so."
It's more honest than he intended to be, gives away too much of his nervousness, but she keeps on smiling, and he meets her eyes, again.
He has to wonder how many of them besides her and Baxter have figured it out already.
"Well, I'm pleased to hear it," she says at last. "It's always lovely to have a friend."
He nods. "Yeah."
She gently unhooks Johnnie's hand from his finger.
"And everyone else downstairs agrees with me on that matter, I should say." She smooths out the boy's shirt front and pets his head. "Upstairs, too, when it comes to it. I realised earlier I didn't know if anyone had ever thought to tell you, that we… feel that way."
He stares.
Stunned doesn't begin to cover how he's feeling, but it comes closer than any other words could.
"No," he says, bashful, even though he really doesn't want to be, "no, I don't believe…"
The parsnip is worth looking at again.
"Er, in an hour, then, Anna," he says, recovering, businesslike as he can muster but still awkward, because what little she's said has told him volumes and it's making him feel more than he can handle at the moment — but Anna doesn't press, only tilts her head and looks at him warmly.
"See you then," she replies, and he gives her a nod and waves at Johnnie before they head to the door.
He agrees with her, too, himself.
It is very lovely to have a friend.