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2020-08-03
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2020-09-28
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Saints and Sinners

Summary:

Ever since Tom had entered into service at Downton he had heard stories of Thomas's bullying, of his cunning deceit, of his not-so-secret inner desires. But now it occurred to Tom that he and Thomas were of an age, and they had known each other for many a year, and in any circumstances other than master and servant they may have been acquaintances, even friends.

 

 

Or: Thomas notices Sybbie's treatment by Nanny West, but instead of going to Cora, he tells Tom. This is the beginning of a friendship neither man expected.

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

"The difference between the saint and the sinner is that everyone saint has a past, and every sinner has a future."

-Oscar Wilde

.***.

Thomas would never do it in the servant's hall, lest someone think him soft (-er than he knew he already appeared) but when he was out on the grounds, coming back from a short walk to the village, Thomas could sometimes be caught...whistling.

Not that there was much to be happy about these days. Most of the family had only just shaken the formal trappings of mourning, though Lady Mary clung to her blacks like a shadow. Thomas could understand that, the need for the outward signs of grief, afraid the dark monster would consume from the inside out if left unattended. Somehow the pain of Matthew Crawley's loss hung on the very fabric of Downton - and perhaps that was correct, the man was to inherit, after all. But Thomas sometimes saw Lady Mary drifting through the corridor like a ghost and wanted to remind her of the terrible long years of war, of all the loss they had endured in the past, of the men who had died in their halls, men and women who had died in Downton's beds, more before and more to come.

A trip out to the grounds was exactly what the doctor ordered. Every step away from the Abbey reminded Thomas that the world was still blooming, turning, bursting with life, that the hushed corridors may be his lodging but they certainly weren't his home.

He whistled again and heard a gurgling response.

"Why, that can't ever be Lady Sybil," Thomas called, kneeling in the pathway with his arms out. The toddler ran to him from behind a tree, pudgy hands outstretched. "Running away from nanny already?" Thomas asked as the little girl plucked at his collar and patted his cheeks. "You're still mighty young for that, lass. Why don't we find her together?"

He could already see the new nanny huffing towards them. She had set up a picnic outside and had Master George lodged firmly in one pudgy arm. "Step away from the girl this instant!" Nanny West cried, charging like a bull.

Thomas put several healthy steps between himself and little Sybbie, schooling his features into their normal impassivity while underneath he seethed. In the past, the nannies had always been charmed by the amount of attention he paid to Sybbie. Well, he'd just have to charge this one, too. "I was just saying hello to the little one, Nanny. Perhaps you don't remember - I am out of livery - but I am the first footman for the Abbey."

"Oh, I know exactly who you are," Nanny West bit out. "And I would appreciate it if you left the children to me."

Thomas blinked at the hostility in the tone. Could this woman be implying that she knew about...and even if she did, did she imply that it meant he could ever do anything untowards to the children? "I could remind you that I knew the girl's mother. You did not. I've gotten used to playing with her. Telling her stories of her mother. We served together in the war, you see."

"Oh, I see just fine, and you best get un-used to playing with her. Really! A servant and a girl...even this half-breed girl."

Well, that had definitely taken a turn. "Excuse me?"

"You cannot possibly think that a male servant would be permitted to play with one of the children in the house? I do not tell you how to do your job, Mr. Barrow. Please refrain from commenting on how I perform mine."

Sybbie, who had been clutching Thomas's pantleg, let out a moan of disapproval as the nanny tugged her away. Thomas watched as the little girl was frog marched back to the picnic. He watched as the Nanny pinched her upper arm for running off. He watched the little girl - not even talking yet, not even two - begin to cry.

And he marched off towards the Abbey. Not whistling, not this time. Now he needed to plan.

.

Tom Branson pursed his lips as Mary came into breakfast, a ghoul dropping a blanket of quiet sadness on the proceedings, and before he could try to tease a single word out of her she was off again. He knew that breakfast was hardly the appropriate setting, but for six months he had been trying to find a way to remind his sister-in-law that they were carrying the same burden, that he had been in the dark pit of despair and knew something about how to climb out.

Instead, he turned to Edith and asked about her editor, and told her about the problems with the tenants, and with the taxes due, and unsustainability and responsibility. He had found that Edith was always willing to listen, and though she rarely had solutions for his problems, she usually knew a Lord or two in a similar situation and offered to write a letter of introduction for Tom if he should want to visit with someone going through a similar situation.

Rose collapsed in the seat next to Edith, a cup of tea in hand and no food on her plate. Even though the London season still seemed ages away the youngest girl was already talking about dress fittings and corset sizes. "Oh, Tom, I've been meaning to tell you - I went up to the nursery yesterday. I thought I could bring Sybbie down to the village and maybe pop in on Granny, but Nanny absolutely turned me away. Perhaps you could speak to her? I know I'm not a mother, but I do believe I could keep a child alive for a two hour trip, and Sybbie is ever so sweet and manageable."

Tom did think it odd that Nanny would refuse a cousins' trip to the village, and opened his mouth to say so when Rose rushed to fill the silence. "I wouldn't have brought it up, except she did say that I could take George, and said that he should see his Granny. And, of course I think he should, but I found it so odd that I couldn't be entrusted with an almost two-year-old girl and yet I could be given a barely weaned boy. Or am I overthinking this? It's so silly." Rose looked down at her lap. "Nanny's right, of course, it's not like I am their mother, or any mother at all."

"I appreciate that you thought to take Sybbie," Tom said, warmly. "Of course I would have approved any trip you take with her. You may not be her mother, but nor am I. Nor is Nanny. I'll remind her of that when I get a chance."

Rose nodded, turning to engage Edith in conversation.

Tom leaned back against the back of the chair (something a well-bred man would never do, but he was hardly well-bred, particularly before his second cup of tea). Engaging with the nanny was one of many, many things he wished Sybil could do. Or Mary, come to think of it, as her child was also in Nanny's charge. He hadn't even interviewed the candidates: Lady Grantham had. It was a woman's duty to manage the female staff, and Tom didn't have the slightest notion of how many orders he could give to the person who cared for his child most of the day.

Blast it! Perhaps it was Ireland, or his lower-class upbringing, but he missed home, where children ran about and entertained themselves, minded by mothers and relatives. Here, he felt like he never got time alone with Sybbie, and felt more than a whiff of disapproval from Nanny as she hovered over their brief afternoon interactions.

He got up to get that second cup of tea and was surprised when Thomas stepped forward from behind the serving tray. "Could I speak with you after breakfast?"

Carson left the breakfast service when Lord Grantham departed, or else Thomas probably never would have approached Tom, even in the discreet matter he had chosen. It irked Tom, and he was irked by his own annoyance. Somehow Thomas always managed to get under his skin, as he had become a thorn for most of the downstairs staff with his snide comments and schemes. "I don't see why you should need to," Tom pointed out.

"Meet me in the yard after service." Thomas stepped back into his position by the window, and Tom rolled his eyes at the airs of mystery the man liked to put on.

If the morning hadn't been a slow one, Tom would have found a reason to not meet Thomas in the courtyard that abutted the servant's entrance, but after breakfast cleared, Edith went down to the train station and Rose went to change for a luncheon date with a group of girls in the next town over, and Tom had nothing to do until afternoon at least.

And, damnit, that air of mystery thing must work on some level, because Tom was definitely interested. He stomped off towards the yard.

Thomas was smoking but stubbed out the cigarette when he saw Tom approach. "Well, out with it," Tom said, a little more forcefully than he perhaps should have. "What are you after this time?"

Thomas looked offended. "I wanted to offer my help, but I won't poke my nose in where it's not wanted."

"What could you possibly help me with?" Tom wondered. He needed help with tallying figures and running down tenants and fairly using the land, and Thomas could do jack all for that.

"I heard what Lady Rose said about Nanny, and I wanted to say that I've noticed some things myself. I thought perhaps you'd want to do some snooping. Or...that I could."

Tom blinked. Of all the things he thought Tom would ask of him, talking about his daughter was not one of them. He didn't insult the footman by asking where this affection for Sybbie came from. Since the day she was born, Thomas had found reasons to visit the nursery. Tom figured it had something to do with Thomas's...affliction. After all, women seemed drawn to babies, so men like Thomas must have the same instincts. In time he'd even appreciated knowing that one of the servants loved his daughter so fiercely. Mary had Carson as her special friend. And Sybbie, it seemed, had Thomas.

"What have you noticed?"

"Not a sacking offense. Not yet, as it would be my word against hers. But...she doesn't seem to apply the same level of care to Lady Sybil as she does to Master George."

"It could be that George is but a babe, and Sybbie will be two next month."

"But she doesn't speak to her with kindness!" Thomas exploded, then lowered his voice. "I heard her call Syb - Lady Sybil a 'half-breed,' and you better know which half she was talking about."

Tom flushed. "I can't believe that. Lady Grantham assured me she possessed more than necessary qualifications, and outstanding references to boot."

"But think of it. Lady Rose wants to take Sybbie on a trip and Nanny tries to swap her for George," Thomas is warming to the story now. "And yesterday Nanny told Mrs. Patimore to stop sending eggs up with Sybbie's food."

Tom shook his head. "Perhaps she has an aversion to eggs, I know I did as a child."

"You probably disliked powdered eggs mixed with thin water - oh, don't look at me like that, my eggs were the same, weren't they? Awful, chalky things. No one can turn down Mrs. Patimore's eggs. She puts cheese and milk in. Like clouds, they are."

Tom grinned at the memory of the powdered eggs he'd eaten as a child. The first time he had a real egg was when he entered service. "That's true. Sometimes I forget that Sybbie is having a very different childhood than mine."

"It's what all men want for their children. To live better lives."

Tom nodded, and Thomas nodded, and they stood together in the courtyard and Tom remembered his own father, who drank and sang, who talked of the first cars coming over to Ireland, who had sent Tom to England at thirteen and died soon after. "I wonder what my father would think of me now," Tom mused.

"I don't have to wonder," Thomas muttered. "I know what mine thinks of me." The servant shook his head. "Anyway, about this Nanny business. I'll do some asking around below-stairs and you do some asking above. If everything's on the up and up, we'll leave it lie. If not..."

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it." Tom hesitated, then said. "Thank you for telling me about this, Thomas. Sybbie is lucky to have another friend in the house."

"She has a hundred friends," Thomas said. "Like her mother, she is. Befriends everyone she meets."

Tom blinked. Damn the tears! It had been years and still he found himself crying over her. "Sometimes I feel like she has disappeared from this house, and other days it's like she is in every room, and she exits moments before I enter."

He didn't know what prompted him to say that to Thomas. Thomas Barrow, of all people! The lying sneak of downstairs life. But that same Thomas Barrow nodded. "You know," Thomas said, "I have a half-day coming to me. Perhaps...perhaps we could drink together in the pub. And talk of her. I have some stories, from when I first got here. If you wanted to hear them."

For a wild moment, Tom wondered if Thomas could have been sweet on Sybil. But sweet or not, stories were exactly the balm he needed on this long and dreary year. "I would like that. Let me know your half day and I'll slip away from the family."

Thomas fumbled his next cigarette and fiddled with the package, and for the first time Tom looked and him and thought he could really see Thomas for what he was---ever since Tom had entered into service at Downton he had heard stories of Thomas's bullying, of his cunning deceit, of his not-so-secret inner desires. But here in the bright courtyard it occurred to Tom that he and Thomas were of an age, and they had known each other for many a year, and in any circumstances other than master and servant they may have been acquaintances, even friends.

Tom turned tail then, telling himself that he needed to be going and not that there was a chance that if he didn't leave he may actually befriend Thomas Barrow.

As he walked towards the long, winding driveway, he heard a clear, mournful whistled tune.

.

Later the next week, two men met in a pub.

They didn't go to the Grantham Arms. Thomas suggested to a slightly rowdier pub on the edge of town. There was music, and corners to hide in, and Tom agreed, liking the idea of not being spotted by every Downton passer-by.

They both walked, but Tom made sure he had business in town that day so there was no chance of meeting on the road. Exchanging stories over beers was one thing, but walking with Thomas on a quiet night involved a level of...intimacy Tom was certain they did not posses.

Although, after this week, perhaps they had more in common than he had initially guessed.

He waved when Thomas entered the pub, and the footman nodded in acknowledgement, speaking briefly to the bartender and making his way over to the table with two sloshing mugs of beer. "I already placed an order for drinks," Tom protested.

"The barkeep told me as much. I said to save it for a second round. Unless you don't plan on enjoying more than a single drink with me?" Thomas's eyes twinkled. Out of uniform and in the dim light of the bar he looked much more relaxed. A man walked by and clapped Thomas on the shoulder, and he shot a smile at the passerby so blinding that Tom wondered if the other man was secretly good all along, and it was something about being in Downton that made him seem so upright and spiteful.

"Two drinks," Tom promised, picking up the pint. "What are we drinking to?"

"How about being well rid of that bitch Nanny West?"

Tom burst out a laugh at the language but shook his head after he touched glasses with Thomas. "I hate to think of her being around the babies. Half a year and no one noticed anything. She could have hurt Sybbie. She may already have."

"Children heal," Thomas said. "And, anyway, everyone is so appalled by Nanny West that I'm sure Lady Sybil will be showered with attention. Below-stairs, too. One of the junior maids made her a doll, and Mrs. Patimore has been cooking up a storm, sending all manner of chocolate things to the nursery."

Tom shook his head in wonderment. "I had no idea. It's amazing how isolated the family can be from the servants, even as we leave our children in their care."

"And in a few years it will be time to get a governess rather than a nanny." Thomas smirked. "When I first got to Downton, the young Ladies were still young enough for a governess. All the servants engaged in elaborate games of helping them slip away."

"All the servants helped conspire against the poor governess?"

"She was hardly a poor governess! And she was very old fashioned. Mary was always being confined to her room for her 'unladylike language.' And Lady Sybil often nicked down to the kitchens. She said the afternoon lessons had her bored to tears, and she would either have her knuckles rapped for falling asleep or for skiving off, and she'd rather skive. She'd come down through the servant's stairs and run into the gardens. I was a hall boy then, and she'd often try to persuade Carson to let a group of hall boys and kitchen girls play games with her. Sometimes he caved. I taught her how to pitch a cricket ball."

"I've seen you on the cricket pitch."

"I've always liked sport," Thomas shrugged. "And everyone liked to have an hour or two to play ball. There were so many servants back then, before the war, and Mrs. Hughes was rather protective of us younger ones."

A small back started playing. The windows open to the cool summer night, a cold drink and old memories, Tom couldn't remember feeling this comfortable in ages, since before Matthew died, at least. "How old were you?" he asked. "When you started at Downton?"

"Oh, not as young as some. But...fifteen? Or sixteen." Thomas did some quick calculations. "Fifteen, I think. A few years older than Lady Sybil. The oldest of the hall boys, though I became a footman quickly enough. For some reason, tall boys are always chosen to be footmen."

"Though not as tall as Alfred."

"There are trees that aren't as tall as Alfred."

They laughed. More drinks appeared, and a plate of fried dough. "From Peter in the corner," the barkeep said as he set them down. "He says they're your favorite."

Thomas flushed and shrank into his collar. Tom laughed, "Do you come here often?"

"Too often, it would seem," Thomas muttered, glancing over his shoulder at the man Tom assumed to be Peter, a delicate-looking chap smiling in the corner.

Before the mood could dampen, Tom surged on. "Did Mary or Edith ever play in your cricket matches?"

"Never, though Edith used to have me run poetry with her."

"What in heaven's name is that?"

Thomas explained how the governess used to make the girls memorize long poems, and Edith was particularly ill-suited for the task, constantly fumbling rhymes. Once it was sussed out that Thomas could read and had a good memory, Edith used to accompany him on his chores around the house, reciting the poems on repeat while Thomas corrected her. "I think she came to me because she never quite fit in with her sisters. Everyone doted on Sybil and Mary was a force unto herself but Edith was often..." Thomas trailed off. "Anyway, I think she felt better talking to a hall boy. She knew I wouldn't tell on her."

"She'd follow you as you did your chores? Did you hold the book of poems as you polished the silverware?"

A shrug. "I've always had a good memory. If I see a book, I can remember what's written on it."

Tom blinked. "A photographic memory! I thought that was made up for Sherlock Holmes tales. I never knew a person to actually have it!"

"I'm hardly putting it to use solving murders."

"Not murders, perhaps, but there always seems to be a bit of drama at the Abbey, and you always seem to be in the middle of the storm." Tom caught the other man flushing and hurried on. "Though perhaps that's just a part of who you are. The Napoleon of Crime, Sherlock Holmes would say."

"Well," Thomas stuttered, "I suppose knowing the drama isn't such a bad thing, if it spares Lady Sybil the mistreatment at the hands of her nanny."

Tom sobered, remembering what had brought them to this pub in the first place. "I am glad you're looking out for her. And I'm happy you used to look out for Sybil, in your own way."

Used to look out for her, but then she'd died, a rich young lady in the lap of luxury, dying in childbirth like so many women before her. And no one could save her from that fate, not Tom or Thomas or the doctors. Not money or love. Tom took a long drink. "I can't believe it's been almost two years."

A hand touched his wrist. Tom looked up to see Thomas smiling sadly. "We were supposed to be here to talk of pleasant things, not dissolve into tears like a couple of old maids."

"Then let us turn the conversation back to those pleasant days," Tom said, glad for the reminder. He felt low and stuck often enough during dinner at the Abbey, and he didn't want to be a Sad Susan and spoil Thomas's night off. "I just want to say one more maudlin thing, and that is...well, I know Sybil's death took away one friend in the family, and I'd like to...I'd like to be your friend. If I can. You spared my daughter a great deal of hardship, and I'd like to repay that kindness when I can."

Thomas was quiet for a long moment, and Tom wondered if he'd overstepped some invisible boundary. "You know that I am someone who holds people to their debts," Thomas warned.

Tom rolled his eyes. "I'm not talking about scheming or blackmail. I am just saying that I could be your friend. Or at least I could put in a good word, should you need one."

"I'll take that under advisement." Thomas downed the rest of his pint and raised his hand for another round. Tom was surprised to see he'd finished his own beer.

The band was gearing up for another song. Some tables had been swept aside and some people began dancing. Dancing! When was the last time Tom had heard plain country music? A sweet fiddle and a strumming bass. His toe began tapping almost without his realizing it. He ate the fried bread and drank another pint and told Thomas about what he missed about Ireland, and about watching lambs being born just that afternoon, and Tom told him about growing up with a clock-maker, and his first years of service. They talked, a little, about the war, and about Matthew Crawley, but at the end they just talked about music, and the vote. They talked about Sherlock Holmes stories. Thomas talked about cricket. Tom talked about cars.

When they walked home, they walked together. Not quite a drunken stumble but something close. Thomas whistled. Overhead, a low, full moon lit the way towards the Abbey, and both men thought that for the first time the large and imposing building almost looked like home.

Chapter 2: Man's Best Friend

Summary:

Rescuing a dog leads to old stories and renewed friendship.

Chapter Text

It was the end of summer, the time of year when dark creeps up on you. After a balmy July, many days with hours of blazing sun, Thomas was startled to find himself in the streets of the village, twilight already settling like a cloak. He had the night off, and strictly didn't have to be back at the Abbey for the evening service. But...the staff was always looked askance for staying out after hours, fielding inquiring questions lobbed by Anna, or nosy Mrs. Patimore. Thomas had gone to the village to browse the bookstore, and was rather looking forward to a cup of tea and a new novel.

He whistled to himself as the dark took hold. As a child he had been afraid of the dark, and though he had grown to fear more salient things - war, for instance, and pain, and the deaths of good and decent people - he still whistled to keep from peering too closely as the shadows deepened in alleyways.

A thump. A cheer. A yip of pain.

Thomas froze, his bundle of paper-wrapped purchases tucked neat under an arm. He was a little outside the village now. Had he been further up the road he never would have heard the commotion. But he did hear it. And he turned towards the noise.

"Get the rock!"

"I thought we'd tie her up first!"

The yipping got louder. Not a human victim, then. It was the panicked, sad cries of a dog.

Thomas was silent as he approached. A group of four village boys had cornered a dog against a low brick wall and were alternately baiting it forward with treats and kicking it when it came close. Every time the dog tried to run another boy would catch it and throw it back in the circle. Thomas watched the scene with a growing fury.

He lit a cigarette. The hissing strike of the match and the low ember made one boy look up. Then another.

"How would you like to be tossed around?" Thomas asked the boys. He didn't shout. He kept his voice low and even. And angry. Oh, he couldn't stop from being angry.

"It's just a bit of fun," one of the bigger boys said. This boy was too old for childish games, nearly man-sized. Thomas knew his type. The kind of boy who cultivated alliances among the younger and more vulnerable, who set himself up as a big fish in a small pond. "What, you're going to stop us from having fun?"

"What is the fun in torturing a dog?" Thomas wondered.

One of the other boys still had the dog by the scruff of the neck and was shaking it. Thomas smacked the boy's hand. And was smacked back for his trouble.

He let out a low whistle. "You boys aren't ready for a real fight. That's why you're practicing on innocent creatures. If you want to wallop someone, practice on each other. There's a whole sport for men beating up other men."

Another fist came towards him in the dark, but Thomas turned and let it fly by. You don't get out of the King's Army as a queer man without knowing a trick or two. "Men beating on dogs, though. Well, that's the sort of thing that makes its way to the constable."

The biggest boy rolled his eyes. "How you gonna tell the constable? You don't hardly even know us."

"Jack Hastings," Thomas recited, dragging on his cigarette and pointing out each boy in turn. "Michael Kelly. James Fielding. And who's that in the back? You got your younger brother in this mess, Jack? Your mother will be really proud to hear about that."

The smallest boy let go of the dog. "I ain't getting in trouble with ma again!"

"Then you best think twice about going along with everything your older brother tells you," Thomas advised. "And if I hear tell of you laying a finger on another creature, any of yous, I will be telling the constable. This is cruel. What would your mothers and sisters think of you? Or your sweethearts?"

The dog curled into a sad, whimpering ball and the boys turned their own tail and beat out, though not before Jack gave Thomas a look of pure and utter loathing. That was alright, though. Thomas was used to being hated.

He knelt next to the dog, taking off his gloves and shushing it inanely. "Hold steady, old chap. There there, you're alright now."

The dog was slightly smaller than Isis, some kind of lab but scruffier, with slightly raised ears. Young. It whimpered as Thomas prodded into its fur, though never attempted to bite or to run. Thomas thought that was probably a bad sign. This was a creature that had been defeated.

Thomas settled next to the wall to wait out the dog's shaking, lighting another cigarette as he considered the people he could go to for help. The farmers would know more about helping an injured dog than anyone at the house, but getting to Mr. Mosely or far-off Mr. Mason would be impossible in the dark. Thomas wasn't even sure he could get the dog to the Abbey.

He could go back to the village. Dr. Clarkson was hardly a veterinarian but he would certainly know more than most. But it wasn't like Thomas could make it a point to drop in on one of the most prestigious men in town, and was loathe to lose good will capital over an animal the doctor may not be able to help anyway.

Still, the dog shook and moaned against the wall. Thomas hesitated, then put a hand on its head. The hair was matted but still soft. "There there, old sod. No need for all the bellyaching." He was sure there were those in the Abbey that might help. Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Hughes must know something about tending to bumps and bruises, and there was usually a hall boy or kitchen maid who grew up on farms and knew a thing or two about how to mend animal problems.

But how to get there?

"Thomas? Is that you there?"

.

Tom Branson had spent the afternoon having luncheon with several minor lords in the same straits as Downton. The county lords were trying to form a kind of coalition of support, an anxiety group to wave out fears and solutions. It had been proposed, quietly, of course, by the women of the households, and Tom wasn't supposed to go alone. Mary was supposed to be there as the mistress of the group, an acting hostess who understood the problems. But Lady Grantham had taken ill over the week-end and Mary had gone down the the same plague. She insisted the group still meet, but it couldn't be at Downton, and she could not attend.

"I'll be at the next one, Tom," she said, cheeks red as she sat up in bed. "You've done this enough times by now. You're no expert yet, but you've got some of the right experience."

It was supposed to be a vote of confidence, and Lord Grantham wished him the same (he was having his own luncheon with some of the wealthier crowd) but Tom couldn't help but feel as if he was being thrown to the wolves. He would die an outsider, and could almost make peace with that fact if not for days like these.

Still, the luncheon hadn't been too terrible, Tom had to admit. A few of the chaps had been snotty and standoffish but the conversation had quickly turned practical and Tom excelled in practicalities. By the time they had retired to the billiards room for some drinks and coffee, Tom was fielding all manner of questions as if he was some kind of bonny expert in all manners of construction, planting, and farming.

He hit it off with two lads in particular, outspoken sons of a minor Count the next county over, and the brothers had suggested a drink before Tom got on the road. At the local pub the boys exclaimed over Tom's car and his experience as a driver, asked him about his war service (and moved the conversation along quickly when Tom admitted to being passed over for a medical condition, a sure sign of both good breeding and the beginnings of good friends.) They talked about picture-shows and radios. The younger brother was something of a tinkerer, and was trying to perfect an indoor all-in-one washing machine that wouldn't flood the room every five minutes and wouldn't cost two arms and a leg.

Anyway, between it all the afternoon and most of the evening had entirely gotten away from Tom, and he begged off a third round of drinks, saying the family would send a scout out for him if he wasn't back before the end of dinner service. He was a little pleased when he realized that might actually be true, and at that moment there were probably people wondering in a grand drawing room about the whereabouts of plain old Tom Branson. That sort of fond fretting, he supposed, was what bonded a family.

He was almost home when his headlights glanced off of a huddled figure near a retaining wall. He slowed. And then practically leapt from the car when he recognized the long limbs and combed hair of Thomas Barrow.

It had been months since Sybbie had switched Nannys thanks to the early intervention of one Thomas Barrow, and the event had bonded the two men. Every month or so they went out for drinks, sometimes with the other footmen of the house, sometimes not. When Edna descended back into the Abbey, with lies and guile, it was Thomas who ran interference downstairs. When Lord Grantham beat a path to America to bail out a relative of Cora's, Tom had nudged his father-in-law to take Thomas as valet, reminding him of the straits the Bates' had recently been put through. And sometimes, during boring dinner parties when some lord said something particularly daft, Tom would lock eyes with Thomas from across the room, both of them working to smother fits of laughter.

So...yes, if pressed to put a definition to it, Tom might have to call Thomas Barrow his friend. He hadn't realized how deep the feeling went until he saw the other man huddled against a garden wall.

"Thomas? Is that you there?" Tom sprinted from the idling car. "Steady on! What happened?"

Tom reached out to grab Thomas's shoulders, start examining him, but the footman chuckled softly and pulled away. "I'm alright, Mr. Branson -" sometimes, when they were at the pub together, Thomas would call him Tom, but more often it was the title that rolled off his lips. "I'm not the victim tonight. Oh, look. You've scared it off again. Come on, sweets. Come on. We've got a car now."

Tom watched as Thomas Barrow, the cold, hard spook of below stairs life, gently and patiently coaxed a dog from the shadows. "Saw some village boys beating on it and chased them away, but I don't know the first thing about dogs."

"Nor do I, but he doesn't look too hurt." The car's headlights illuminated the dog, a lean, slightly shaggy creature who was trying to press its both into the space between Barrow and the garden wall. "Just scared and hungry. Do you think you could get him in the car? Lord Grantham dotes on Isis. I bet he'll know what to do."

"It's the middle of dinner service!" Thomas said, aghast. "I can hardly bring a sick dog into the Abbey and ask his lordship to please take a gander. Carson would have my head."

Tom nodded, holding his hand out in hopes to get the poor dog to look up at him. A new plan formed, nebulous. "Let me take him, then. I'll bring him into the drawing room and say I found him on the road. I'll leave your name out completely. I am sure that Lord Grantham won't turn his back on a dog in need. He's been trying to convince me to let him give Sybbie her own puppy to play with."

"He probably means a pure pup, you know. Not some stray."

"Oh, this wouldn't be the dog for Sybbie," Tom said, looking at the way the dog still had his forehead pressed against Barrow's neck, how Barrow was absent-mindedly stroking between the creature's ears. "This dog's meant to stay with you."

Thomas laughed, and coughed, and threw the butt of his cigarette into the ground. "And how would I manage that? I can hardly take care of meself below stairs."

"We both know that isn't true. You're one of the most senior staff!"

Thomas didn't look convinced, but he did stand up, slowly, and pick up the dog, even slower, and got in the car next to Tom. The whole short drive back to the house, Tom listened as Thomas murmured soothing phrases to the pup. "There, my love. Steady on. You'll be alright now. Shh, love. You're alright now."

When they approached the house, Thomas's grip on the dog became stronger. "Don't let the Lordship put him down. Even if they say that's the best way. Come find me first, and I'll find a safe place for him."

"We won't put him down, Thomas."

"I don't think there's nothing wrong with him. He's just scared. He was set on and now he's scared, but he's not a bad dog."

"'Course not."

Thomas gently extracted himself from under the pup, who moaned at the loss of contact. With one last look at the creature, Thomas, blinking in the blazing lights of the Abbey, turned tail and stalked back towards the servant's entrance.

It was only when Tom was getting the dog out of the car himself that he found the paper-wrapped package of a book. He pocketed it, glad for the excuse to find Thomas sooner rather than later.

.

Tom did find Thomas sooner rather than later. The servant was smoking on the patio, an ember in the inky dark. "I'll say, Barrow, it's a good thing that dog has a personality to him. Five seconds after meeting his Lordship and he's licking him to high heaven, giving his paw, rolling over. He's still a scared chap, mind, but he knows who to give his affections to when it counts."

Thomas put out his cigarette, and the loss of the light somehow made the courtyard brighter. The sky was half aflame with stars. "So he's all right then?"

"And being doted on by the family. Somehow Mary and Cora have forgotten their illnesses entirely and are sitting on the sitting room floor. I left when Rose started talking about asking Mrs. Patmore to make dog biscuits."

"That'll be the day," Thomas's lips twitched. "It's good the dog is doing all right. I'm glad."

"About that," Tom didn't want to pry, but even on their nights of drinking he rarely learned much about Thomas, and this seemed like an opening too interesting to resist. "I'm sure Lord Grantham has never given an indication he would hurt a fly, let alone a dog, and yet you seemed uncommonly worried for the poor chap."

The servant snorted. "You're far too perceptive, Mr. Branson. Why anyone would hire an insightful revolutionary for a driver is beyond me."

It was Thomas's usual conversational gambit. Pure deflection, and it often worked. Tom would talk about his own driving days, or mention that he was happy he was hired, for it had brought him Sybil, and Sybbie, and this strange, charmed life he was living. But tonight Tom let the silence hang.

And, eventually, it became too much for Thomas Barrow to bare. "You know that Downton wasn't my first post. As a servant, I mean."

Tom hadn't. In fact, he knew very little of Thomas's early life, except that he'd managed to stay in school long enough to learn to read and do maths.

"Until I was about thirteen I thought I'd be my father' apprentice, take over the family business. I always liked clocks, and I was patient with them. But...well, something happened, and my father and I never saw eye to eye after it. In fact, he threw me out on me ear."

"At thirteen?" Tom was sure he hadn't heard right. "What had you done, set the house afire?"

"He probably would have forgiven a fire," Thomas said. "But the end of it was that I was alone, and knew hide nor hair how to get a job. There was a house, in our town. Nothing like Downton, but a manor house that was always recruiting serving boys from the school. My teacher recommended me. I just wanted a job that had room and board, and suddenly I'm one of a half dozen servants in this manor house. You remember what it was like, the first time you saw proper silver, and the trappings and drapes and things."

"Aye. I thought it was horrid."

Thomas snorted. "Socialist," but he said it was something like fondness. "Of course you would. But...a boy of thirteen. Fine things. I was wide-eyed for a month. Lit the fires, kept the shoes shined, washed the pots. And minded the dogs. Lord Hemmingsbee didn't have hunting dogs or anything, but he had two old wolfhounds about as tall as I was. It was the hounds I talked to most. In the house I kept my mouth well shut."

"The Butler didn't like gossip, I assume." Different butlers ran different houses, it was obvious enough when Lords came to stay and their servants brought all manner of ideas with them.

"Gossip, chatter, anything untowards. The other servants would be able to slip out of the house for half-days and walks to the village, but meself and the other hall boy were kept on the grounds. Until we turned sixteen, was the rule, or were big enough to look like we could actually kick up a fuss about it."

"So you had each other and the dogs."

"I had the dogs." Thomas lit another cigarette. Offered it to Tom, who waved it off. Thomas put the extra behind his ear. That action, slipping a cigarette into a secret hiding spot, made it suddenly possible for Tom to envision the servant as a hall boy, scrawny and scared, dropped friendless in a big house with only dogs for company. "I spent my evenings avoiding the downstairs. After service was always the worst time for the hall boys. That's when the Butler would check our work, and no matter how long I was in the big house there always seemed to be something wrong."

"Who wouldn't skive off to walk the dog to avoid doing the same pair of shoes for the hundredth time?"

"Aye. And he'd get out the rod."

Tom winced. For all his bluster, Carson had never raised a hand to any of the staff, and Mrs. Hughes took a motherly interest in the hall boys and kitchen maids. But Tom had been in school, had been in other houses where those in authority liked to show their displeasure with a firm (and often public) beating. And wasn't it always the smallest and the friendless that got the worst of it?

"Me and Jack, he was the other hall boy, we'd try to even it out for each other. The Butler, he was always going to hit one of us, so we'd try to alternate days."

"Did no one in the house notice?"

Thomas snorted. "Who would? His Lordship?"

"What about the head housemaid? The footmen?"

"They were probably just happy it weren't them. Nah, it was me and Jack who it happened to, so it was me and Jack who cared, but eventually it was just me. Jack got tall first, you see, and he had eyes on being footman. His whole family was in service, so he knew how to advance in ranks and all. So he moved up and I stayed down. Just me, talking to the dogs." Thomas rolled his eyes. "Just like I'm doing now."

Silence settled over the courtyard, but it was a comfortable silence, the kind that held embers and crickets and the warmth of memories springing to life like ghosts. Tom stared up at the window of he knew was the nursery and tried to think of any offense Sybbie could commit that would make Tom want to excise her from his life.

"It's no story, really." Thomas dropped the cigarette to the ground. "I took the dogs for a walk and one caught his leg in a trap. I bandaged him, brought him home. His Lordship had a local guardsman put a bullet in his head. Made me watch."

There was a well of emotion in those sentences, and Tom found himself staring at the ground, unexpected tears clouding his vision. For the young boy Thomas was, and the distant man Thomas became. Was the man to be blamed for his aloofness? Or was it them, this society that allowed young boys to disappear into big houses without a friend in the world?

"Anyway, I'm glad the dog is all right."

Tom squeezed the servant's arm. "Thanks to you."

He could sense Thomas retreating, that brief window closing. He wanted to build fast this bridge, he wanted to know more about this man. There were glimmers of a hard-beating heart behind the wall of stone. And he had just the thing. "Before you go -- you forgot this." Tom fumbled with the volume. "In the car. You're a fan of Mr. Holmes?"

"It's a silly sort of literature," Thomas slipped the book under his arm. "Nothing like your political tomes."

"I wouldn't call any literature silly. I like Sir Doyle as well." Tom hesitated. Trying to entice Thomas out into the open was like trying to out-smart a cat. "I've never read this volume, though. Perhaps I could borrow it when you're through."

A familiar cunning expression showed in the shadows of Thomas's face. "I could give it up, if you wouldn't mind borrowing a book from Lord Grantham's library for me, once in a while."

"I thought all servants were allowed books from the library?"

"Carson banned me. Years ago, before the war. Perhaps he doesn't even remember, but I daren't put my name on the ledger. Besides, most of the books I like are not collected by great Lords."

It was strange, that Thomas bent most rules until hey broke and yet deprived himself of a past-time that obviously brought him much pleasure. "Then of course I don't mind. Let me know, and I'll smuggle them to you." He hesitated, then added. "Perhaps during one of our pub meetings?"

"My next half-day comes next Thursday. I expect I'll see you there, Mr. Branson."

"Tom."

"Tom, then." Thomas touched his cap and retreated inside. From high up, in one of the warmly lit windows, a dog barked the happy greeting of home.

Notes:

I re-watched all of Downton with by grandmother and my sister last fall, and we all just got around to watching the movie which means I could finally dive into the fanfiction. Here's my small addition.