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“I used to wonder what you got out of this arrangement,” said Thomas, deftly undoing the buttons up the back of Daisy’s dress. “Now I understand. It’s a valet.”
“More of a lady’s maid, wouldn’t you say?”
Thomas had to smirk at that. Over the course of the last few months, he’d been pleasantly surprised by this side of the assistant cook–she was witty, funny even, when she had a breath to say anything that wasn’t about savories or sauces. He caught the first glimpse of it when she suggested this arrangement, when she got the whole messy truth out of him one night despite protestations that it would “shock and disgust” her.
“But why not just…fudge it a bit?” she’d asked earnestly. “Lots of people get married for reasons less than honest. They couldn’t say owt if you pretended. You’re pretending now anyway.”
Thomas ran a hand over his face, wet with residual rain and poorly concealed tears. “It’s not that simple. No poor girl needs to be caught in the crossfire. And it won’t keep my job.”
“You’ll keep your job. You always do.”
Everything was so simple to her, wasn’t it?
She went on, offering a handkerchief from her apron, “There was a time I’d have given an arm to be yours. ‘Course this does explain a load of stuff Mrs. Patmore said to me then. I just thought she were saying I weren’t half good enough.”
“You’re too good twice over,” Thomas said.
“Split the difference,” she said.
He laughed then, despite himself.
After no small period of figuring out what that actually meant, Thomas and Daisy were married in the summer and not long after had a small cottage of their own. There were two small rooms, enough for them to split at night when they liked some space. But often, like tonight, they ended up in the same bed.
Both of them preferred the kitchen to anywhere else. It was nothing like the one at the big house–much older and smaller and rustier–but it was enough for Daisy to flourish. When they weren’t on duty, Daisy tended to get a bit creative, especially with sweets. There was a never-ending supply of biscuits or pastries on the table. It was a lucky thing Thomas had a fiendish sweet tooth. Either Daisy was getting better at her craft, or food just started tasting better as the months went on.
For the first time in a long while, Thomas felt like he was able to properly stand still and breathe. His marriage was unconventional at best and fraudulent at worst, but having a wife was having security. Something close to safety, even. He had someone to look after and someone to look after him. It wasn’t exactly “settling down” in the way that other men got to. But it was something. It was a stark contrast compared to a childhood spent with too many mouths to feed and he learned to feast or famine; it was a far cry from the cycle of constantly being on the move in some way, constantly trying and failing to outrun himself. So he stood still. He breathed. He ate his fill, sometimes more, and properly enjoyed it. The evidence was starting to press against his waistcoat after six months of this.
Daisy tugged a nightgown over her head and turned back to look at Thomas. “Someone walk over your grave? You’re miles away.”
“No,” said Thomas. “Just a bit full, is all.”
Indeed, his middle stuck out ever so slightly today after a few extra helpings of pudding nicked from the kitchen after servants’ dinner. His privileges as the assistant cook’s husband far exceeded the privileges of his position. In his own well-worn cotton pajamas, he burrowed under the covers beside her. He palmed his belly, feeling the tender swell of food beneath a layer of new plushness.
“Me too. I shouldn’t have done so much tasting as I went along with the treacle tarts.”
“At least you’re not getting podgy like me.”
“I am a bit. You’re supposed to get podgy when you’re married, ent you?”
“Are you?” He hadn’t been in close proximity to many joyous marriages in his life, at least not of his own class. Not likely a Crawley would ever let themselves get podgy.
“I think so.”
Daisy rolled over and flopped her arm around his middle, eliciting a soft oof that made her smile. She cuddled in closer, apparently having no trouble at all making room for the new heft.
“S’cold tonight. Don’t be putting your feet on me,” said Thomas. Every time he tried to snark even a bit, the real edge his words used to have only got duller. He could hear it. No longer did the remarks make anyone scarper in fear.
“Don’t be mardy,” Daisy answered. “That’s why you’ve got the extra timber, innit? And a bit o’ fur.”
“Oi oi.”
Maybe she saw something in Thomas’s face, which was never as neutral as he tried to fix it, because she gave him a soft look. “You’re not really bothered about it, are you? Because it’s not bothering anyone else none. And I know we never harp on it, but…well, I went to bed hungry plenty at the children’s home. Maybe our sort, if we are of a sort…”
She didn’t have to finish the thought. She was right. Didn’t mean he had to like it or feel one lick better for it.
“Oh, brillant.” He rolled his eyes. “You can have a husband who’s fat and sad as well as old and invert.”
“Stop that. It’s unkind.”
He huffed a sigh but didn’t protest further beyond the lingering pout of his lips. Daisy lifted her head to stare him right in the eyes. Every time she did that, since she first got up the guts to, he was a little thrown by how intense her pale blue gaze could be. It was like being stalked by a deer instead of the other way round.
“I’m sorry,” he found himself saying.
“Stop bein’ sorry. Stop bein’ sorry for yourself for having a scrap of happiness, if you’re really happy at all.”
“I am…happy.” In saying it, it came true, or at least rang true in a way he hadn’t allowed it to before. Talking was funny like that. Having someone to talk to, someone to bake him tarts and put her cold bloody feet against his legs and pull him kicking and screaming from his own wallowing, was funny like that.
“You’ve gone and gotten very philosophically sound when no one was looking, you know that?” he told her.
“I’ve been smart,” she said. “Difference is, someone’s looking.”