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"You got a valentine from the flippin' Duke of Crowborough?" Jimmy hissed.
"Shhh! Keep it down, will ya? I don't want the whole house to know." Thomas stood at the opposite end of the boot room, pulling a face and fiddling with his waistcoat.
Jimmy bit his lip. He stepped closer so he could whisper, "Can I see it?"
Thomas pulled an envelope from the inner pocket of his jacket, then pressed it into Jimmy's hand, careful that their fingers didn't brush. He inspected the front. There was no return information, but sure enough Mr Barrow was written out above the Abbey’s address in a tall, spidery script. He spread open the top—already neatly cut with a letter opener—and slid free a dizzyingly elaborate card. The top half was shaped into a heart, a pink-cheeked cherub sitting atop an overflowing basket of brightly-coloured flowers, two doves perched nearby. On the second portion, swirling scarlet letters spelled out, To My Valentine.
The back read:
Darling,
I hope the bitterness that passed between us many years ago hasn’t marred your pretty brow. If you have any fond memories of our time together, I may have a golden opportunity that will suit us both nicely.
See You Soon,
P.
Staring at the proof of it, Jimmy’s stomach executed a slow, sickening somersault. “How do you know it’s from him?” he asked, dry throat clicking as he formed the words.
“I recognise the handwriting, don’t I?” Thomas took the envelope and card from his hands and placed them back in his pocket. “And the lovely words that don’t mean a goddamned thing.” He was staring somewhere over his friend’s shoulder, jaw tight.
The vise that was squeezing Jimmy’s chest loosened slightly. “So—so you’ll write to him and tell him to shove off?”
Thomas snorted. “What, give him a sheet of paper he can use to ruin me? Not bloody likely.”
“But he said, ‘See you soon.’ What if he—”
“Don’t you worry about that.” Thomas smiled without an ounce of joy in it. “He won’t be coming here; the Crawleys have never forgiven him for how he played Lady Mary for the fool. And even if he did, there’s no job or whatever he means to suggest. He’s bored, that’s all.” He straightened his waistcoat and smoothed the line of the jacket, preparing to step back out into the corridor. “I’ll leave it be, and he’ll quickly move on to more entertaining prey.” Mr Carson called out from somewhere close by; the under-butler disappeared out the doorway in a flash of shiny buttons and flapping tailcoats.
“I hope you’re right, Thomas,” muttered Jimmy, standing like a lump in his silly apron. “I really, truly hope you’re right.”
That night, when he ought to have been in bed, he unlocked a drawer in his desk to pull out the envelope containing the second valentine he’d sent to Lady Anstruther. It had promptly come back to him with RETURN TO SENDER stamped across the thick, creamy paper. He’d made a small but crucial error when writing out the address, meaning the card couldn’t be sent on.
But had it actually been a mistake? The question nagged at him as he sprawled atop his sagging mattress, tugging out a card he'd bought for cheap at a store in town. Bobble-headed cartoon children stared back at him, their round eyes guileless and trusting. His handwriting looked like a childish scrawl, his message unconvincingly glib. The valentine was supposed to have been a joke. That's what he'd told himself when he'd signed it and sent it off in the post. A joke on who, though? The more he turned it over in his mind, the more it seemed to be a joke on him.
He rolled over onto his side, crossing his arms so that the card and envelope were crushed up against his chest. Here was the proof that he was so desperate to play the role of ladies' man that he would throw himself to the woman he'd fled from years before with tail firmly between his legs.
He wasn't an idiot. He knew his actions were a performance built precariously atop all the assumptions that came with his handsome looks and natural grace. He knew that deep down inside him a scared little boy sat curled up with his hands clutching his knees. He also knew there was no point in asking that boy what he might want. Little boys only wanted impossible things.
Impossible? Who says? asked the child, wiping a snotty nose on his sleeve. He loves us.
Except he might not anymore. Jimmy might give everything he had only to be found wanting. He might get laughed at. He might get hurt.
Jimmy Kent, said the boy, eyes dark and unyielding, you really ought to grow up.
Well. What could he say to that?
He clambered out of bed and stood over the wastebasket, tearing the card and envelope into tinier and tinier pieces until they swirled down like flakes of snow. He’d dodged a bullet with that mislabelled valentine and no mistake. Lady Anstruther was the sort to be given an inch and take a mile. Heaven only knew what she’d do if she thought Jimmy was game for a tumble. Likewise, he’d dodged a bullet with the faithless duke, but there would be other men. Blokes who would take one look at bold, brave, brilliant Thomas and offer him the world.
Jimmy couldn’t offer him the world. He could only plan as dazzling a night out in York as a footman’s salary would allow, with dinner and a film and a single red rose tucked discreetly into a buttonhole. He could only take Thomas aside after they’d arrived back at the Abbey—laughing and breathless—to place his tender, underfed heart in Thomas’ hands, to beg him to please, please be careful with it. It made him a little ill to think of it, but happy too. Thomas was a romantic, wasn't he? And those soft, lingering looks they shared from time to time meant something more than friendship, surely.
At last Jimmy crawled into bed. He dreamt of wooing Thomas out in the open, properly, their arms wrapped tight around one another as they twirled across the polished wooden floors of a dance hall.
---
The sour look etched onto Lord Grantham's face might have made Jimmy stifle a chuckle under different circumstances. As it was, he could barely keep himself from clawing the eyes out of the man who lounged carelessly in the armchair beside the Earl.
“I do hate to be a nuisance,” said the Duke as Jimmy set a tray of cakes down on the sideboard, “but honestly, I didn’t think we’d even make it down the drive."
The footman knew that Thomas would have better sense than to take on an unattractive lover, but nevertheless he'd held out hope that the man might have gotten old or fat or bald in the interim. No such luck. A faint sprinkle of grey touched his temples, catching the light when he turned his head, but that only made him look distinguished. Where was the aristocratic tendency toward weak chins and prominent overbites when a fellow really needed them?
"We'll have Tom take a look at the car," Lord Grantham replied through a clenched jaw. He stood with hands clasped behind his back, three of the ladies of the house perched on various chairs like wary birds prepared at any moment to take flight.
"My chauffeur Griswold has things in hand, I'm sure." The Duke smiled winningly. "I wouldn't want to be a bother. If you don’t mind, I’ll just use your telephone and tell Lord Aysgarth that I won’t be arriving until tomorrow.”
Jimmy fiddled with the serving tongs as an excuse to linger just a little longer.
“Where will you stay the night?” asked Lady Edith.
“Oh, there was a public house on our way through the village. I asked Griswold to see if they had any rooms available.”
“We couldn’t possibly let you board in a public house,” said Lord Grantham.
“Couldn’t you?” Jimmy wasn’t able to see, but he was quite sure the Duke was smiling again.
“No, Your Grace, we couldn’t.” Regrettably hung unspoken in the air.
Lady Grantham dove in for the rescue. “You must stay with us. We were already having a party, so it makes things easy. James?”
Jimmy turned on his heel to face her. He didn't miss the way the Duke's eyes swept up and down his body. The meaningful glance wasn't what made him see red; he was used to that. It was that he was doing such a thing with Thomas—the man he'd sent a bloody valentine to—standing only a few metres away, statue-perfect and staring off into the middle distance. Thomas deserved a fella who couldn’t keep his eyes off of him.
The command from Lady Grantham to tell Mrs Hughes to prepare an extra room in the Bachelor’s Corridor came to Jimmy as if from underwater. He nodded dumbly, turned around, and left. Once he was out of sight, he lingered on the landing of the servants’ staircase, leaving the door open just a sliver so he could peek through. The Duke droned on about his planned hunting trip with Lord Aysgarth, and how his wife had refused to come. "Well, you know how Americans are," he said with a grin to Lady Grantham. Her returning smile was noticeably strained.
All the while, Jimmy stared at an impassive porcelain face. Damn Thomas and his immaculate servant's blank! Was he pleased that his erstwhile lover had turned up? That would hurt, but it'd be far worse if he wasn't. What if inside he was squirming and desperate to get away? Jimmy knew just how it felt to be the fly caught on the web, to be lured onto a plush bed with velvet curtains, to be pawed at and cooed over like he'd been sold and bought at Sotheby's, to be ordered to lie down and close his eyes, and if he didn't enjoy it—well, he wasn't a real man after all.
Thomas' jaw had tightened when the Duke had been leering at Jimmy, unless he'd been imagining things. But if he was jealous, the question remained—as Mr Carson's heavy footfall echoed louder and Jimmy hurriedly shut the door behind him—which man was Thomas jealous on behalf of?
---
While the clock on Thomas' nightstand ticked on past midnight, Jimmy huffed and stubbed out another cigarette in the ashtray he'd set beside him on the bed. He sat near the foot, although every few minutes he would get up to pace back and forth, keeping an ear out for any sounds that might be a tired under-butler finally heading off to his room.
The Duke had requested that Thomas valet for him specifically; there'd been nothing to be done about that. Once again, Jimmy had tried to gauge how his friend felt at the prospect, but Thomas had responded with his usual tight-lipped smile for Carson and a neutral, "Very well." With an extra overnight guest added at the last minute to the dinner party, both Jimmy and Thomas were kept on their feet for much of the day. He had finally got the other man alone just after teatime, the two of them idly dripping ash onto the cobblestones of the courtyard.
"I need to tell you something," Jimmy had said, staring down at the tips of his shoes. His voice had wobbled, but he had cleared his throat and forged ahead. "It's very important."
Thomas had raised an eyebrow. "Go on, then."
"It's—it's too private to talk about here. Can we meet in your room before you go to undress His Gracelessness for the night?" He had smiled weakly at his joke, feeling the edges of his mouth tremble, then collapse when Thomas didn't return it. Jimmy was supposed to be the one person who could make Thomas laugh, truly laugh. When they were by themselves, he would melt into someone warm and touchable and shockingly human. Since the Duke had swept in with his fake stories and faker smirks, Thomas had been cold and distant. Did he worry about what might happen when he and the smug git were behind closed doors? Or was he dreaming of it?
“I doubt it,” Thomas had answered before taking one final, luxurious drag of his fag and stamping it out beneath his heel. “He wants to turn in early, he said.”
Of course he bloody did! Jimmy had wanted to scream until he was hoarse, to wrap his arms around Thomas so tightly no one could be certain where one man ended and the other began. But do you want to go to him? Tell me you don’t, and I’ll save you! I'll save you… somehow.
Thomas had inclined his head to face Jimmy, and for a moment the grey storm swirling in his eyes softened to a gentle mist. "Come to my room after everyone's gone to sleep, and we'll have a chat, aye?" He carefully patted Jimmy on the shoulder, the reassuring weight and warmth felt even through so many layers of stiff footman's livery. "Whatever's got you lookin' so grim-faced, we'll soon set it right."
A small flame of hope had flickered to life in Jimmy's chest. He had felt certain in that instant that Thomas still cared for him deeply, that his sincere, humble confession would overshadow any flash on the Duke’s part, for Thomas was that most beautiful of creatures—a gentle, lovestruck fool. And Jimmy had sworn then and there that he would never again take for granted that Thomas had been lovestruck by him.
Now it was seven—seven!—minutes after twelve o’clock. Thomas had yet to return from attending to the Duke of Crowborough for the night. Jimmy felt like the worst sort of idiot. He should've kissed Thomas out in the kitchen yard and bugger the consequences. Anything would've been better than to crack open his soul like an egg while Thomas stood looking down his nose, the scent of his rich lover's cologne kissing his skin, a shining signet ring on a pale, slender finger, and the keys to a new Rolls-Royce jingling in his jacket pocket.
Sod it, Jimmy wasn’t going to sit around waiting for that.
He stood up, this time to leave the room for good. He'd go to bed and tomorrow set about the business of repairing his damaged heart. Surely there was some girl in the village tolerable enough to distract him on his next half-day. And if Thomas looked up from his Prince Charming long enough to be jealous, too bloody bad for him.
Jimmy froze with his hand on the knob. No, that wasn’t fair. It always started with presents, didn’t it? Little trinkets, fizzing glasses of champagne, extra half-days on the rota—all ways to make a fellow feel he was in control, that this was something he chose. All ways to delay that moment when he realised it wasn’t bloody normal to feel ill after going to bed with someone. But by the time that understanding came, the other footmen were resentful of him, and the flinty-eyed butler was more than used to looking the other way. What could he have said, anyway? Men didn’t get taken advantage of.
He knew exactly how many days it’d taken him to leave. He’d counted them.
Instead of sneaking off to his room, he turned in the other direction when he exited out into the corridor, heading for the stairs. It was madness, he knew. No matter what, he'd be fired for certain—likely with no reference—for barging into a duke's bedroom without permission. At least he was still wearing his livery, so if he was stopped in the corridor he might be able to scrounge up some excuse. He placed his feet carefully upon the steps, nerves jangling at every echo on the stone.
Perhaps he was wrong, dead wrong, and Thomas would never forgive him for spoiling his chance. But if something was amiss, if either the carrot or the stick was luring Thomas into a trap, Jimmy would never forgive himself for ignoring the signs as others had done with him.
As he crept down the gallery, the low orange light seemed almost to mock him with its intimacy. The effect was heightened when, after nearly bumping into Anna exiting Lady Mary’s room, he spotted Lord Gillingham sliding neatly in to take her place. At this point, a perfectly miserable Jimmy wouldn’t have been at all surprised to learn that bloody Isis had a canine sweetheart hiding out somewhere in the Abbey.
He nearly passed by Lady Edith’s door, only for the unmistakable scent of smoke to hit his nose. He doubled back, leaned in close to the crack between door and frame. A faint sound that may have been the crackle of flames reached his ears. The wood was warm to the touch. After a moment’s hesitation, he threw open the door.
Heat pressed against him, snatching the breath from his throat. Smoke stung his eyes. Orange tendrils flickered along the carpet and up the furniture as if they had been drawn up from the bowels of Hell. A dark hump lay beneath the bedcovers, unconscious or worse. It felt unreal, another layer in the nightmare that this evening had rapidly devolved into. He inhaled, and coughed violently, and cried out in a thin, reedy voice, “Fire! Fire!” Then he simply stood there, a useless lump.
He knew he ought to run into danger, to carry the helpless maiden from the fire. It was what Thomas would do, he was certain. Thomas was brave like that. But Jimmy couldn’t move. He couldn’t even flee as he had at that fair in Thirsk years ago. The world went fuzzy around the edges, then crystal clear when he blinked and Lady Mary was shaking his shoulders.
“James,” she said, eyes dark against a paper-white face, “James, you have to help me get her out.”
This was familiar—one of the pretentious toffs giving him orders. This he could bear. He nodded. Next thing he knew, he was being pulled by his shirtsleeve into the flames, into tongues of fire licking at his boots and wooden beams creaking ominously. Lady Mary shouted Lady Edith's name, tears drying upon her cheeks nearly as soon as they fell, until the woman in the bed began to stir. With two sets of arms about her, she was half-dragged from the room out into the relative safety of the corridor. Even as she coughed and wheezed from the smoke, Lady Mary knelt beside her barely conscious sister, her soot-streaked hand clasped to a wan cheek.
"Breathe," she said, each word shredded to ribbons, "or I'll never forgive you. I won't lose another one."
It occurred to Jimmy, standing dumbly off to the side, what an obvious thing love could be, when the circumstances were right. If only it were so clear all the time, even to silly boys like himself. He couldn't help imagining all the joy he and Thomas could've shared together up to this point had Jimmy only let himself feel the most natural and simple emotion upon the earth. Now he was perilously close to losing the one thing that truly mattered to him—not to some honey-tongued duke, but to a force much more permanent and terrible.
He squared his trembling shoulders, turned to face the direction of the Bachelor's Corridor. He would lead Thomas by the hand out of this deathtrap of a house, and hold him close on the lawn in front of God and everyone. Once he felt Thomas whole and breathing in his arms, far from where the fire's hungry fingers could reach him, whatever happened afterwards would cease to matter. Never again would he let how he treated the man he adored be dictated by pettiness or jealousy or—or fear.
"James!" barked Lord Grantham. Over his shoulder, Jimmy could see Tom throwing a bucket of sand onto the writhing patches of orange and red. "Get my daughters out and away from the smoke. I’ll check the bedrooms.”
No. No. Lord Grantham might catch Thomas doing something—
“Let me check the rooms!” said Jimmy, staggering after him.
But the other man was already a dark shadow dashing down the corridor. “Now, man!” he replied before disappearing around a bend.
Jimmy could only watch, stomach sinking down to his shoes.
The rest of it was a blur. He found himself out on the lawn in the dark, firemen strutting around, upstairs and downstairs alike standing dazed in their nightclothes. Lady Mary shook his hand and thanked him for helping to save Lady Edith. Jimmy held out his hand dumbly, staring off to her right, where Thomas stood in a doorway with the Duke of Crowborough, discussing something quietly. His uniform was in a state of disarray, tie undone and waistcoat unbuttoned, as if he’d thrown it on in a hurry.
Jimmy had told himself only an hour or two ago that it only mattered if Thomas was alive and well, that he wouldn't demand more from God and the Fates than that. Still, he couldn't help feeling like the fire had gotten to him after all, that it was burning him up from the inside, leaving nothing behind but cold, dead ash.
While all the rest of the servants trundled back inside through their entrance, Thomas lightly touched Jimmy's arm, urging him silently with his eyes to hang back. They stood hidden in the shadow of the coal shed as echoey footsteps left the cobblestones one by one. Soon only the hush of nighttime hung around them, the round moon their only source of light. Jimmy reeked of smoke, he knew. At least Thomas couldn't quite see what a mess he looked, even as close as they were.
"You'd have found out tomorrow morning with the rest of them," Thomas said, sounding old and very tired, "but I wanted you to hear it from me first. I've been sacked."
"Did—did Lord Grantham say…"
"He didn't have to, now did he? After he saw what he saw."
Without hesitation, Jimmy said, “Tell them he forced you.”
Thomas snorted. “As if they would believe it. They all know what sort of a man I am. And anyway—” He straightened the line of his jacket, a protective gesture. “—he didn’t force me. He never had to force me.” Dully Jimmy registered a stab of pain blooming behind his ribs. Thomas continued, “I’ll pack before breakfast and leave as soon as I can in the morning. You can come see me off, if you like.”
"Will Carson give you a reference?"
"I reckon so. Neither he nor His Lordship want a scandal on their hands.” Thomas’ head dipped down. “Not that it matters much.”
Jimmy felt as if he might vomit. “Why doesn’t it matter.” It wasn’t a question, not really.
Lifting his head up, Thomas said, “Philip wasn’t lying about a job. His butler’s getting up in years. He needs to retire, and soon. With all that’s happened tonight, Philip’s offered to take me on right away. I’ll travel straight down to the estate, be trained in how things are done there, and slot neatly into the position in time for the old codger to retire.”
“Thomas.”
“Yes?”
Jimmy went silent for a while. “Do you love him?” He hated how he sounded like a child.
Thomas sighed. “Did you love everyone you’ve gone to bed with?”
“I haven’t loved anyone I’ve gone to bed with.”
As they walked back to the house, he nearly added, And I haven’t gone to bed with the one man I love. But in the end, he let the opportunity slip by them—like so many that had come before—back out into the night air, dancing among the bright needle-point stars, forever out of reach.
---
A small, dim winter sun had just begun the long process of burning away the watery dawn when Jimmy hauled the second of Thomas' valises into the delivery cart. He'd insisted on carrying them both down the endless flights of stairs, even as his arms protested every inch of the way. He hadn't saved Thomas from being caught, nor from the flames. This was the least he could do.
While he slapped his hands on his trousers to relieve the stinging, Thomas said, "Well, this is it, then." He looked up to find Thomas holding out his palm to shake. That porcelain face Jimmy could admire for hours on end had gone grey as a gravestone. The eyes were wet with unshed tears.
He raised his hand, stopped. He'd planned a whole speech lying sleepless in his bed the night before about how good a friend Thomas had been to him, how he had become a better man just by knowing him, how Thomas might not get a letter for a while because Jimmy was a poor writer—which was the palatable way of saying that for the moment it would be too bloody hard to hear about Thomas being happy without him. But the thing was, the man abandoning Jimmy looked every bit as heartbroken at leaving as he felt at being left behind. Thomas hadn't decided to go, he'd been thrown out on his ear. Thomas hadn't said he loved the Duke. He'd barely admitted to wanting him. There was still time to fix this. There was still time to be brave.
"I'm coming with you." His voice shook a little, but maybe Thomas wouldn't notice.
The other man froze, then slowly withdrew the offer of a handshake. "I—I'm sorry?"
"I'm coming with you. Right now." Jimmy took a step forward. Thomas took a step back.
"Jimmy, quit foolin' around. You don't have a reference."
"That don't matter."
"You don't have any luggage."
"That don't matter either." Jimmy reached out and gripped Thomas' arm through the material of his jacket. "Whatever happens, it'll be better than waking up tomorrow and knowing I might never watch you light a cigarette again, or hear you laugh, or… or… for God's sake, Thomas, I lo—"
"Jimmy." Pale eyes darted to the delivery man, who was watching them with steadily increasing interest, and back.
Well. Jimmy's mouth snapped close. There was the answer to the question that had plagued him since the Duke of Crowborough had turned up on the doorstep. Was Thomas still the man who would put it all on the line to love a man and be loved in return? The man who would've happily returned Jimmy's affections, and probably swept him up in a passionate kiss besides, whether or not they found themselves with an audience? No. He wasn't. Somewhere along the way, he had become the sort of bloke who wanted a good position in a great house more than he wanted a poor man who was hopelessly head over heels for him.
Which was fair enough. Every fellow had his limit, the point at which he set aside the dreams of youth and hardened his heart. If this new path was what Thomas truly desired, Jimmy wouldn't fight it. He had done all he could; now it was time to let Thomas Barrow go.
Finally, miserably, he shook Thomas' hand. "In case we don't meet again," he said, "I hope you find some happiness. I do, truly."
"I hope the same for you too, Jimmy," replied Thomas. He still grasped his friend, palm in palm. But the welling tears on his part were gone, replaced by an intense expression. Already he was plotting, scheming, leaving his once-love in the dust, and Jimmy was ruined afresh at the sight. "And I… I think you'll have it.” Another glance at the delivery man, who was now shifting impatiently on the bench. “Something brighter is waiting just over the horizon. Be patient, yeah? Promise me you'll be patient, that you won't do anything daft after I've left."
Jimmy nodded woodenly. He watched Thomas disappear below the line of the horizon, a tiny figure bumping up and down with the motion of the cart. That night, he snuck out to the pub and drank so heavily he weaved out into the road on his way home, and was nearly hit by a wagon. What Thomas didn't know wouldn't hurt him. And what hurt Jimmy had ceased to matter. Any ache on the outside couldn't hope to match the one that had carved out a permanent home beneath his ribs.
---
Two months later, Jimmy sat down for breakfast in the servants' hall, his one last hope tucked discreetly into the pocket of his livery jacket. It was a piece of paper, an advertisement torn carefully from a magazine—Choose Your Own Path in large, bold letters across the top and illustrations of happy men with happy women scattered throughout the text.
He'd made a decision, even if it had come at the cost of more than one sleepless night. Already he had an excuse at the ready about a dying aunt so he could have the time off he needed to go to London so he could be cured. Still, it shamed him more than a little to know that Thomas would never do such a thing. Not the lying, of course, but the treatment, as the advertisement described it. Thomas was utterly unashamed of who he was. Even during the hideous year when Jimmy hated him, he had worn his love for the footman like a suit of armour, had held tight to it as if it had been the best and brightest part of himself.
And maybe Jimmy’s love for Thomas was the best part of himself too. But he wasn’t brave. He was frightened, that was all, and horribly, desperately alone. Shortly after Thomas’ departure, he’d sent not one but two letters off, sent to the estate he’d secretly copied from Mr Carson’s address book, but he had yet to receive a reply.
He couldn’t bear the weight of his emotions the way Thomas so gracefully had. He needed to cast them off like an unwanted coat, to go back to the cruel, vain, silly boy he’d been before, to flirt with girls and break their hearts and never once wish they had big, strong arms to hold him safe and warm.
Mr Carson entered the hall, and the clattering of chair legs filled the room as the other servants got to their feet. “James, a letter came for you in the morning post,” he said before handing it over.
Jimmy automatically took it, eyes scanning the name and address scrawled across the envelope. He read them again—not trusting his eyes—and again, until Anna tugged discreetly at his sleeve. He glanced around in a bit of a daze to find that everyone else had long since sat back down to finish their tea and toast, while he was standing open-mouthed like a fool.
"Is that from Thomas?" Anna said to him after his trembling knees had guided him back down into his seat. "I hope he's getting on all-right at his new place."
Jimmy chopped a sausage on his plate into tiny pieces to avoid looking her in the eye. "So do I," he said. This was why his course of action was necessary. He wanted more than anything for those words to be true. He ought to share in Thomas' joy rather than begrudge him his good fortune. That was what Thomas deserved. It was what they both deserved.
When he finally trudged up to his room at the end of another long day without stolen cigarettes or warm smiles or a soft Mancunian purr, he threw the letter into a drawer, unopened and unread. Surely it was wiser to wait until he'd returned from London, having gotten the dreadful business over and done with. Not that he would ever tell Thomas about his treatment, but why rip open his own old wounds when in a fortnight he would be much stronger and steadier, able to hold something Thomas had touched without feeling burned by it?
In the end, it was precisely Jimmy's weakness that undid him. He'd hardly slipped beneath the covers before the letter called to him, pulling him from the bed with the gentle yet insistent motions of the tide. Heartsick and bleary-eyed, he clicked on the desk lamp, washing the creamy envelope in watery yellow light.
He rechecked the address beneath Thomas' name, half-expecting… he didn't know what. But of course it was the Duke's estate, just as he'd thought. Where else would it have been? Some Yorkshire inn, a sign that Thomas was going to turn up on a white horse any day now to carry him away? Christ, he needed that treatment more urgently than he'd realised.
Carefully, he tore open the envelope, slid the letter free. Only a couple of neatly folded pages—two sodding months had passed, and Thomas apparently had nothing more pressing to discuss than basic pleasantries. Less carefully, Jimmy unfolded them and smacked them down onto the table. They read:
Dear Jimmy,
Firstly I should apologise for not answering your letters until now. I didn't wish to give you false hope until I had things sorted, nor did I wish to trust my more intimate thoughts and feelings in the hands of the postal service. And there was the matter of the old butler, who makes our Mr Carson look like a lamb in comparison. Right up until he slunk back to whatever dank hole he’d crawled out of, he watched me like a hawk and probably read my mail besides, looking for any excuse to stay on another year. But if I've made you half as miserable with my silence as I've made myself, I'm certain I owe you a mountain of cigarettes and a shiny new gramophone to boot.
So, to business: I became the butler officially a few weeks ago, and as soon as I got a good look at the ledgers, I could see right away that someone had been nicking the wine. Last night I laid in wait in the cellar. Sure enough, one of the footmen came down and helped himself to a couple of bottles. If I wait a month to tell my new employer, then that should give you enough time to work out your notice with the Crawleys and make it down in time for the interview. Assuming, of course, that you still feel you would rather be here with me.
I hope more than anything that I didn't misunderstand what you tried to say to me on the morning I left. But I know better than to presume anything where our friendship is concerned. If you want the job, it's yours. If you wish for a deeper connection to develop between us upon your arrival, I shall happily oblige. Don't be concerned about You-Know-Who. I have informed him our relationship will strictly be a working one from here on out. If he doesn't like that, he can bloody well lump it. I've decided I'm too old to be someone's plaything. Especially when the opportunity for a true, steadfast companionship with a like-minded man has presented itself.
Write to me and tell me you'll come. Or write to me and tell me to go to Hell. Just write to me, Jimmy, please. Don't leave a sad, old fool to wonder.
Sincerely Yours,
Thomas
Jimmy blinked away a sudden blurriness in his vision, only to find dots of wetness sprinkled across the page, smudging the ink. This had to be a dream. Or else a very cruel trick.
No. No, never that. Thomas wasn’t that sort of man, not where Jimmy was concerned. His love had always been unwavering, although Jimmy couldn’t rightly say that it had been blind. He’d seen a spark of good buried within Jimmy, even at times when the man himself had been certain there was no good to be found. It would be the worst sort of betrayal to ignore the words penned in Thomas’ intimately familiar hand, to go off to London, to get back to the business of being a proper man. A betrayal of Thomas, of course, but also a betrayal of his own self—of the small, stubborn flame that, however much it may flicker, refused to go out.
Wiping away his tears with one hand, Jimmy felt about for a sheet of paper and a well-gnawed pen with the other. He had a reply to write.