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" — has Mr Ellis already gone down?"
"I assume not, seeing as he has no duties this morning."
Cordial as always, Ellis thinks, and he stops what he's doing — folding up the quilt he'd kicked off of him in the night — to listen for more of the conversation he's hearing through the door.
But there isn't much left to hear.
"Er, thank you, Mr Miller," comes Mr Barrow's voice, and then there's a knock at the door.
Ellis makes a concerted effort not to grin from ear to ear, turns back to the bed so as to keep his hands occupied and give his eyes something to look at that won't make him lose his wits if it smiles, and calls simply, "come in."
And Mr Barrow does.
"We do have housemaids, Mr Ellis."
— the smile has already graced his lips again before he turns around. Frankly, he's tired enough he's unwilling to entertain the idea of pretenses, anyway, and after last night, he hopes he needn't make use of one.
"Good morning, Mr Barrow," Ellis says.
The way his face changes from a wry smirk (eyebrows raised, corners of his mouth turned up, chin tilted, a glint in his eye) to an awkward and abashed smile as their eyes meet is incredibly endearing.
Then, everything about him is incredibly endearing.
"Good morning," replies Mr Barrow, a long moment after he might've done otherwise, the words a rush out of his mouth.
First thing in the morning and he's already succeeded in flustering him.
It's a marked difference from the man with whom he'd stepped out the back door the previous day, snarky and bold and self-assured but guarded; the one he'd parted with in the attics late last night, pensive and tired and daring, with hope in his eyes and a coy smile that betrayed his sense that the world had been turned upside down; the man in the passenger seat who was so shaken he couldn't find words until Ellis took his hand off the steering wheel to lay his knuckles upon his knee and grip his hand the moment it was placed in his own, firm and bracing, and he'd wondered if Mr Barrow knew how much he needed to hold his hand himself after all that had happened —
"Mr Ellis?"
He starts.
The smirk is back.
Apparently, they take equal satisfaction in leaving one another breathless.
Ellis returns to folding up the quilt from the bed, trying, as he knew he would have to, to gather his wits as he does so — but it's more difficult to get oneself together when one's being watched.
"You really can leave it," Mr Barrow says. The smirk is gone; there's a hint of something more genuine at his lips. He's casually leaning against the doorframe, and the overall attitude is in contrast with his pomaded hair and starched livery. "It isn't your job."
"Least I can do," Ellis tells him. He wouldn't bother to strip the bed if he hadn't just been to see his mum the night before, she always has a good deal to say about both keeping up on his manners and the drudgery of maidwork, but there's no need for Mr Barrow to know that. "Oughtn't be the job of your housemaids — the resident girls get none of the fun and all of the aftermath."
That he does believe, at least.
It's unfair to the households they put up at to shoulder it all after the entourage has left, seeing as the Royal Household brings along its own housemaids and footmen.
"Can't say I'm very sympathetic, seeing as that's what I'm left with, myself."
He undoes a corner of the bottom sheet and tugs, gives him a sidelong glance.
"We had some fun of our own, I think, Mr Barrow."
The smile fades.
"That's one way of putting it."
First thing in the morning and he's already stuck his foot in things, rather — he opens and closes his mouth, finds all he can do is nod.
"Yeah," he manages to say after a moment, "yeah, it is."
That's not exactly the part he meant.
Mr Barrow straightens, and out of fear he might leave, Ellis does, too, unceremoniously dropping the bed sheet onto the mattress.
But he doesn't go anywhere: he stands still, gaze to the floor; his hands flex and curl.
Ellis watches the one in the glove.
"Don't know how I'm ever gonna repay you for that and all."
"Shouldn't ever have to," Ellis tells him, with a valiant but probably fruitless attempt not to sound too troubled or overly grave.
And God forbid Mr Barrow ever has a chance to do anything along the same lines for him, but even beyond that: he did not do what he did to incur a debt, nor for recompense, he did it because it was the only thing he could possibly have done under the circumstances.
Only thing he regrets is he couldn't do it for all the rest of them.
York's a small city, when it comes to it. He grew up there, his family's been in the town proper for several generations, and though he may have gotten in at Buckingham Palace at age fifteen and moved up to London without much ado, it's his home; it's where he learned to love. He'd first held the hand of a boy while walking along the railroad tracks, first kissed one while ducked under a postern in the city walls to escape the rain. The streets he knows better than the rest are the ones he's shared with someone.
The truth is that men like them aren't exactly a dime a dozen, and while Mr Barrow may not have anything of a social circle to speak of….
"That's not the point," he whispers.
Ellis sees the words on his lips more than he hears them.
The man looks so frustrated as he might cry. It would be long in coming if he did, he held up remarkably well for the circumstances the night prior… but this isn't the place for tears, nor the time.
He wishes they had endless time together, because as it stands all they're really getting is less than twelve hours. What came before wasn't the same.
The instant Ellis opens his mouth to speak, Mr Barrow's face is blank again, that practised, servile expression they've spent years of their lives perfecting.
He falters when he sees it.
"Blimey am I exhausted," he says, pressing the back of his wrist against his eye and cheek, and then he laughs, forced. "Sorry."
"A man can do something for another without expecting anything in return," he says carefully.
This gets him a look as though he'd just spoken in Persian.
Mr Barrow doesn't say anything more, and Ellis stares at his eyes and his cheekbones and his lips and thinks to himself, now, you could do it now, he's but three paces away, if that —
"Why are you so kind to me?"
"Because I like you."
Oh, what he wouldn't do to keep that smile on his face.
"And because it's the right thing to do, Mr Barrow."
"Yeah, well."
Ellis nods in silent encouragement.
"Means a lot."
He has to wonder what the man's been through that the mere idea of someone treating him well just because makes him crumble.
Then, it doesn't take all that much thought.
His own life hasn't exactly been a walk in the park.
"Any chance you can have a lie down today?" he asks, more hurried than he means to. "Kept you up late last night."
And then he'd kept himself up late, but he's got four hours on a train ahead of him. Mr Barrow's beginning a workday like any other.
"What would my mother say," he quips. He's come back to himself, somewhat.
Ellis leaves the linens in a heap on the bed and sits, crosses legs at his ankles.
He'd have a smoke if it weren't before breakfast; he's letting his nerves get the better of him.
"No need to worry about me, though, Mr Ellis, I'll get through." He takes a deep breath. "Plenty to do around here to keep me occupied."
To keep him awake with his mind off things, he means.
"I'll worry all I like, Mr Barrow."
And he shoots him a grin, takes excessive joy in the way his mouth opens and his eyes widen.
It's not all in his head, though it may be clouded by wishful thinking — he's come to know that look on his face fairly well, in the last day.
And frankly, how wishful is it, even? After last night... well, it's reality, surely, they're just both of them too shy to do anything more about it just yet. Every time he smiles at him the man looks like he's about to fall over, for crying out loud. Last night they'd set themselves up in the butler's pantry with tea and carried on talking until near four in the morning, and in his estimation the entire thing was flirting from half two on.
He was every bit as witty and charming and intelligent as he'd taken him to be, after he'd calmed down a bit, and he could hold his own in a conversation. Too well, maybe, they couldn't stop talking, but that's what happens when you find someone you can share yourself with after so long without, isn't it.
Once they'd made it up the stairs, it'd taken all the restraint he had in him not to take Mr Barrow by the shoulders and get his hands in his hair and kiss him until neither of them could breathe any longer.
It is currently just now at the present moment taking all the restraint he has in him not to do that.
Still with a hint of disbelief in his voice, but lighter, now, and smiling, Mr Barrow says, "Aside from you-know-what I think maybe that was the best night I've had in years."
He pauses.
"Or ever, to be perfectly honest."
That might be the most tragic thing Mr Barrow's yet said to him, and there's good competition.
Ellis says, "that wasn't all my doing."
Because he'd seen the light in his eyes when he spoke about what it was had gotten him arrested, and if he's to have any say in the matter, that's the part he'll remember the most.
Let the in-between become a blur, like a bad dream remembered years after the fact.
"No," he says thoughtfully. "It wasn't, but if it weren't for you…"
"No ifs, Mr Barrow, you're here now," you're not miles away in a jail cell, "and that's what matters."
He nods.
That was another chance he could have taken to get up and kiss him, just then.
Ellis thinks about murmuring against his lips and feels warmer than he needs to be.
"Why do you like me?"
It's flirtatious, but there's an undertone of uncertainty that concerns him.
Mr Barrow steps into the room and closes the door behind him — Ellis hadn't realised it was open.
He should really be practising what he preaches regarding discretion, but it's tough to think about those things when you feel so much for someone. Easy to forget they're not the only two men in the world.
"Everyone's gone down by now, I think," he says, which does help to make him feel better.
It also makes him realise how well they already know one another, that he thought to reassure him.
"Why do I like you," he repeats. Mr Barrow raises his eyebrows, smiles in a sly way. "Why shouldn't I?"
Out of nowhere, he laughs. "I'll write you a list."
He could write pages himself on all he likes about him and still not get to the root of it, he's sure.
"Mine'll be longer."
"Can't know that yet; I haven't started."
He almost seems determined to put him off, resolved — like he's expecting it'll happen anyway and he might as well get it done on his own terms. It won't, though, no matter how far Mr Barrow bends the branch.
They'd brushed up against this a few times last night: every time he'd come close to speaking ill of himself, Ellis had done his best not to let him, which is what he needs to do now. Because he's seen this before, with other men, men far less worthy of his time and attention than this one is, and he's not going to pretend he's never done it himself — it's an endless game, among men like them. They've all got more on their shoulders than ordinary men do; they've all learned from experience that nothing in life is certain, least of all love.
But it's not a game he cares to play. He's got his own, one with entirely different rules and aims, and they'll be partners, not opponents.
The behaviour would be irksome if he couldn't see so plainly how easy this man will be to love once he lets him, if they didn't hold so much in common and have so much alike, if Ellis weren't wholly certain that he should be equally guarded and suspicious were their places switched.
He looks him in the eyes, steady. "You ought to take me at my word, Mr Barrow, I tend to make good on it."
There he goes all disbelieving again.
They pause; Mr Barrow looks past him, out the window.
"I'm not used to people liking me."
He's taken aback by the candor of the admission, such that all he can do is nod.
"Always ruin it when they do."
So he's self-aware.
That already puts him a step above the rest.
"You ever worked at another house?" Ellis says, because he was to wonder, given all this.
He looks at him again, surprise on his face. "Not for too long."
There's something to ponder.
"Been here nearly half my life now, actually, it's more home than home ever was — why?"
How can he possibly explain to him what he's been unable to put into words for himself since the moment he got out of the damn car and saw him standing there?
"Didn't follow the Yorkshire tour before you knew we were coming, did you?"
Mr Barrow shakes his head; Ellis nods. The thought is comforting, for some reason.
He'll find out where he's going with this after the words are out of his mouth.
"Been to a lot of grand houses lately," he says, making an effort to sound effortless. "Bramham Abbey, Scampston Park, Howard Hall, the like."
Understandably, Mr Barrow tilts his head and squints at him like he doesn't know what any of this has to do with his self-esteem.
"And that's only the last month, Mr Barrow, seen plenty more over the course of my life."
Ellis pauses, looks him over — he may not quite be following, but he is listening. "Have you?"
"Erm, a handful."
He nods.
"Butler at Baysdale Castle's twice your age."
"How old do you think I am, exactly?"
"About my age."
Makes him laugh.
"Rest aren't all that much younger," he tells him, "and some of 'em won't be replaced. We're a quarter into the twentieth century, Mr Barrow, England is changing just as much the rest of the world."
"But not as fast," Mr Barrow counters, and he has a look in his eye that makes Ellis think he might be beginning to understand.
"No," says Ellis. "Not as fast."
"Ought to speed some things up a little."
He remembers what he'd said to him about flight during their walk up to the house.
They meet one another's eyes.
"Yeah."
It's clear that Mr Barrow remembers, too.
His mouth is suddenly dry.
"So I'm the youngest butler in all of England."
"Not exactly where I was going with this, but yeah, you're among them."
"Where are you going with this?"
Ellis clasps his hands in his lap and stares at his thumbs for a moment, thinking; when he looks back up, Mr Barrow has his eyes fixed directly at him.
"Anyone in this household planning on leaving service?"
He's not hiding his annoyance that his questions are being answered with questions, but until he speaks up about it, Ellis may as well keep doing it.
"Not that I know of."
"Three people were, at Raby Castle."
"Can you blame them?"
"No."
"Then – "
"A footman at Bramham turned in his notice the day I showed up."
"Reflects poorly on you, doesn't it," Mr Barrow says, that wry smile back on his face, and Ellis laughs harder than ought to.
"They'd just lost a housemaid at Hovingham, and so on and so forth," he says, once he's caught his breath again. Mr Barrow is looking at him with what appears to be abject fondness; his words catch coming out of his mouth, seeing it. "Every house someone's either trying to get in elsewhere or leave the damn industry — my mum'd've been livid if I'd left a job in a big house at twenty."
"Well, it was a different world back then, wasn't it, Mr Ellis."
He doesn't sound like he misses it.
It's true, of course, there are plenty of other reasons to leave, "but even in this day and age, Mr Barrow, there are benefits to service."
"Room and board and whatnot, you mean."
"More time off than there ever used to be, too, higher pay."
Fewer jobs.
"Nice work if you can get it," he returns, facetious. "I still don't understand what – "
"It's all for nowt if the folks one lives and works with make it hell."
There's a flicker of comprehension in his face, and then… something else. Knowing, maybe.
Mr Barrow raises his eyebrows, and says, "or maybe the working classes have realised they hate waiting on the upper ones."
He wonders if he's being contrary because he's figured out what he's trying to tell him.
"Oh, we've known that for centuries."
"Treason coming from you, isn't it?"
Ellis is decidedly unused to speaking with anyone capable of keeping up with him, and when he's not thrown off kilter by the notion that he's being flirted with, Mr Barrow can be a step ahead.
He's drawn to that part of him more than the rest, really.
"First thing I noticed downstairs was how much your staff seem to love you, Mr Barrow."
This, as he should have expected, throws him off kilter.
"Well, I," he starts to say, and then he's looking at the floor.
Ellis raises his eyebrows.
"I like to… think I'm not all that hard to work with – "
"As a person."
"That – "
"You lot may as well be a blood family," he interrupts again. It's true; he's never come across a set of staff so loyal and protective, so take-care-of-our-own. What they'd all intended to pull off the night before was so absurd, so ridiculous, by all rights it ought to have been impossible, they were breaking the law, if in a roundabout manner — and they did it without a damn hitch. That sort of esprit de corps doesn't come from a group of people who consider one another tolerable at best, which is all he's ever known, himself. The Royal Household is duty bound and in excellent order in the same way an assembly line in some dismal factory might be… albeit, he'll admit, with far better working conditions. "There's no other house like this in England, Mr Barrow, and seeing as you're at the helm of it…"
What he wants to say is, how do you not see how many people love you. How do you not see how much I want to be one of them.
He doesn't say either of those things.
"…I think you ought to know how special that is."
And Mr Barrow draws his head up and looks Ellis in the eye with a penetrating stare, one that makes him have to fight not to recoil — he's not taken aback by it, he's not afraid of it or demeaned by it, it's not that, it's that it's distinctly uncomfortable, how knowing it is.
In an instant Ellis realises that Mr Barrow has understood this conversation since before it began.
"Hasn't always been like this," he says eventually. It isn't all what he's thinking, either, by the look of him. "I mean, they've always – everyone's got on with everyone else, long as I've been here, can't deny that. But I wasn't… a part of it."
Well.
There's a missing piece of the puzzle, sad as it is.
Before they'd left for York — feels like years ago, after everything that happened — he'd spoken to some of the other staff, and prior to that he was present, of course, if working; there were things to overhear.
Always are, in a house like this.
He'd dismissed his impression that they knew, seeing it as a foolish wish, something he'd read too much into out of blind hope. Indiscretion is not a virtue; this is not an aspect of a man that should be an open secret. That's a constant, really, everywhere he's been. No shortage of blokes like them in service.
No shortage of blokes who've been dismissed for it, neither.
Exclusion and isolation don't make for a pleasant working experience.
Trying to be encouraging, trying to say, you can trust me, because he already has and there's no reason for him to stop now, Ellis nods.
"No one was ever all that kind to me until…"
His face turns grave; he brings a curled hand to his mouth, drops it, gives an awkward smile, lowers his eyes.
"Didn't deserve kindness, to be honest."
"Everyone deserves kindness, Mr Barrow."
For the most part.
The smile softens.
"Been putting a whole lot on your shoulders, haven't I, Mr Ellis?"
Not something he's ready to trust him with just yet, then.
He was getting ahead of himself, anyway; that first date didn't exactly go well.
Even if they spoke for hours last night.
Even if he'd...
"Don't mind playing Atlas for a bit," Ellis says, but he does his best to keep his tone light. This can end for now.
"Maybe another time?"
Those eyes.
Ellis stares at his mouth, willing himself to stand up, to take that chance, to be firm in the assertion that this is not a fling, that this was not one night and nothing more —
" — care for the Classics, do you?"
Chance is over.
May as well be honest. "Loved a man who liked his Greeks."
Mr Barrow laughs. "Oxford type?"
"Cambridge," Ellis replies.
That was a wonderful time in his life, until it was over.
"Never had one of those."
"They're not so different from each other as they like to think they are."
"You can say that again."
And now they're both laughing.
Once it's subsided, Ellis adds, easy, everything is so easy, with Mr Barrow, "me, I was more partial to the Victorians."
"Took to the Early Moderns, myself."
Because they've always been around, men like them, and it wasn't always as it is now.
And it won't always be as it is now.
Mr Barrow pulls his watch from his pocket.
"Breakfast will've already started," although he says it like it's a matter of no importance.
(It doesn't feel like it is, if he's honest, he'd certainly not mind continuing this conversation in lieu of it, but aside from the issue of their absence being noted he'd regret missing it for certain by the time the train was through to Leicester.)
"Right, shall we go down, then?"
Mr Barrow looks slightly taken aback by the question, and Ellis can't help but grin at him.
"Were you thinking you might dress first, Mr Ellis?"
It's at this moment that he realises he's been carrying on with this conversation in shirtsleeves and braces, tie slung around his neck, because it was just before tying it that he'd recalled his mother fussing at his collar the night before, and then he'd looked at the unmade bed and felt guilty, and now here he is undressed and ungroomed (he did shave, at least) with a man he likes very much in his room and they've just been talking on and on like he isn't.
"Why didn't – "
"Figured you knew," says Mr Barrow, with a smirk that gives Ellis butterflies, and then the door is open and he's gone.