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“Mr Barrow’s cut his wrists—”
Tom froze, one hand on his bedroom door, unable to either push in or retreat. The maids—Madge and Alice—hadn’t seen him yet.
“Mr Carson said he had the flu!” Alice whispered.
“They’re keeping it quiet for Mr Barrow’s sake. But I heard Mrs Hughes an’ Mr Carson talking about it in the corridor. They didn’t know I were there, though. So don’t go tellin’ no one.”
Tom swallowed and pushed the door open. “Please, tell me everything you know.”
After the flustered and apologetic maids had explained—and begged forgiveness for gossiping—Tom sat on his bed and wrung his hands. His first thought was to go up and see Barrow; or it would have been if they were friends. Or even colleagues. But they were neither and they’d hardly shared a civil word even when they were colleagues. For his part, Tom didn’t dislike Barrow—but the under-butler seemed to hate Tom, if his thinly-veiled insubordination was anything to go by. Once, he’d wondered if Barrow was jealous of his relationship with Sybil—dear, kind Sybil, who had always spoken well of Barrow. He’d have thought Barrow in love with Sybil, if he didn’t already know Barrow was very unlikely to be in love with any woman. He’d been in love with James, apparently, if the gossip was to be believed. Tom smiled at that—oh, how Barrow would hate everyone knowing his business.
Though he probably had bigger problems now.
Barrow had always been a malcontent, but Tom didn’t mind that. Why shouldn’t a working-class servant speak their mind? Why should they learn to love their lot when the system itself was so stacked against their happiness? They shared many ideals—they could have been pals, if Barrow would have allowed it. But before Tom married Sybil, Barrow hadn’t wanted to be friends with anyone, and after he certainly wouldn’t have wanted to be friends with Tom. Barrow seemed to resent his upwards mobility—or that he’d dared to marry Sybil. And now—after a long battle of wills—Tom was really part of the family and Barrow treated him with the same cool disinterest he treated the rest of the upstairs lot.
No, Barrow didn’t treat everyone upstairs with equal dislike; he doted on the children. Barrow was discreet and Tom would never have known it, except Sybbie and George gave Barrow away by lauding his merits daily. Apparently, he played games with them. He talked to them. He snuck them biscuits and boiled sweets. He told fantastical stories and pretended to be a dragon or a sea monster or whatever the game required. Tom hadn’t disliked Barrow before, but after Sybbie had exclaimed “Barrow is my favourite!” with a grin—and George had enthusiastically agreed—he found a small ember of affection burning in his heart for the unpleasant, strange man.
Anyone who treated children with such kindness, couldn’t be a bad soul.
It was the thought of Sybbie and George’s distress if anything should happen to Barrow that eventually moved Tom to action. He went first to his motor and into the village, where he purchased cigarettes of the kind he remembered Barrow smoking and a book of crossword puzzles. Then, back at the Abbey, he scoured the library shelves for anything he thought might interest Barrow, until he had added a stack of five or six books to his pile.
He paused at the baize door; Barrow might well tell him to shove it all up his jumper. You never could tell. His mood seemed to change with the wind. Well, if he was rebuffed, he’d bring Sybbie along next time. That ought to do it.
By the time he’d reached the men’s corridor, Tom was having doubts again. He almost turned around, but then the memory of Sybil’s kind, wide eyes and sweet smile egged him ever onwards. Ever willing to find the good in people, been fond even of Barrow. She’d want him to at least try.
The room with Thomas’s name on the door was empty. Tom frowned, then continued down the corridor until he reached an unnamed room with the door propped slightly ajar; he peeped inside to see Thomas sitting up in one of the beds, a book open on his lap. He didn’t seem to be reading it, but rather staring at the page blankly. He looked incredibly pale and tired; his lips were the same bloodless white as his face. Tom knocked, once, then pushed in. Barrow looked up, his expression shifting from startled to surprised.
“Mr Branson?” he said, lacking any of his usual acid, “Can I help you, sir?”
“I heard you’re not well,” Tom said, trying not to look at the thick bandages at his wrists and failing, “thought I’d bring you a few books to pass the time.”
Barrow’s head dropped and he fiddled with the book on his lap. “So everyone knows, then?”
“No, not everyone.” He moved to stand beside Barrow’s bed and plonked the stack of books down on his bedside table. “But you know how it is in houses like this. Nothing is a secret for very long.”
Barrow nodded slowly, his eyes faraway and so achingly sad it made Tom’s stomach hurt in sympathy. He knew what the empty blackness of despair was like, and he’d had the shining light that was Sybbie—and the family that wasn’t yet his own but would come to be—to buoy him up out of the darkness. Barrow had no one, as far as Tom could tell.
Well, he’d had Jimmy, in whatever shape that relationship had grown into before Jimmy’s unceremonious sacking. Anyone who payed the slightest bit of attention to Barrow could see he’d been mostly miserable ever since. It smacked of heartbreak. Tom didn’t know if it was one-sided or not.
“I won’t pretend to know how you feel, or ask how you are as that seems bloody obvious,” Tom said. Barrow didn’t even look at him. “When I lost Sybil I...let’s just say if I didn’t have my little Sybbie to think about, I don’t know what I’d have done.”
Barrow’s brow furrowed. “Miss Sybbie is—” he licked his cracked, pale lips and Tom instinctively handed him the glass from his nightstand. Barrow blinked, surprised, but took a few cautious sips, as if he was afraid it had been poisoned. How unused to kindness he must be if such a small gesture garnered so surprised a reaction? “She’s a sweet thing.”
“She talks of you often.” Tom loitered awkwardly, then perched on the edge of the second, unmade bed—which seemed better than continuing to loom over Barrow. “She says you play the best games and tell the best stories. I’m almost jealous.”
The corner of Barrow’s lip twitched, as if the thought of Tom being jealous of Sybbie’s affection for him was amusing, though he said; “I doubt you have much to be jealous about, sir.”
“No, I don’t suppose I do.” They sat in silence for a moment before Tom remembered the cigarettes and handed the carton over to Barrow. “Something else to pass the time.”
Barrow took them with a small wince—the weight of the carton, though meagre, must have pulled at his stitches. “That’s kind of you, sir,” he said, sounding strained, “you needn’t have.”
“It’s nothing. And Sybil—” Tom swallowed. It still hurt to talk of her. “Sybil always spoke well of you. She would have done the same. Well, she likely wouldn’t have bought you cigarettes but she’d have done something. I’m not as good at being kind as she was.”
And then, something unexpected happened. Barrow brought both hands up to hide his face as a sob broke out of him. It was like the first stone shattering a window; once it cracked, it was impossible to stop the pieces tumbling out. Barrow was well and truly in pieces. Tom was at a loss for how to help; when Sybbie was upset he’d scoop her up, give her a cuddle and pet her hair. He doubted Barrow would appreciate that, so instead he offered his handkerchief with one hand and patted Barrow’s shoulder awkwardly with the other.
“I apologise, sir,” Barrow said, trying to gather himself. He scrubbed almost angrily at his face with Tom’s handkerchief and Tom wanted to still his hand, to wipe his tears away tenderly. Lord knew the man needed a little comfort.
“You don’t have to apologise. I pushed into your room. If you need to cry, then cry. I won’t judge you for that.”
Barrow sniffled for a moment then asked; “Did Lady Sybil...did she really speak well of me?”
Tom nodded. “She thought you were clever and funny. And a very good medic.”
Barrow clenched his jaw and blinked a few times against more tears. “She was kind to me when not many have been.”
“Was Jimmy kind to you?” Tom asked. Barrow’s face crumpled. “Ah Christ, I’m sorry.” Tom patted his arm again. “I’ve put my foot in it.”
Barrow sniffled. “He was a good friend. The only real one I’ve ever had.”
“Does he know about—” Tom gestured vaguely to Thomas’s bandaged arms, “you being unwell?”
“No. We…he…he said he’d write but…he must be busy and…he’s moved on, I s’pose.” Barrow gave a falsely indifferent shrug.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t pity me.” Barrow said. “I don’t want your pity.”
“It’s not my pity you have, Thomas,” Tom replied. He was surprised his use of Barrow’s given name went uncorrected. “It’s my sympathy. There’s a difference.”
Thomas frowned as if he didn’t think there was. “Alright.”
They sat in another awkward silence until Tom said; “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Ask his Lordship not to force me out,” Thomas spat. He looked away, his face stricken.
“You’re being sacked?” It was the first Tom had heard of it.
“I’m being asked to find alternative employment,” Thomas gave a very nasty smile, “which is the polite way of sacking me.”
“God, I didn’t know. Why?”
“In the interests of streamlining the household. Which I’m sure you’ll agree with.”
“No,” Tom said, rather more forcefully than he meant to, “I don’t agree with people being put out of their jobs—jobs they’ve done for fifteen years—just to make life easier for their employers. No, Thomas, I believe in the opposite of that.”
Thomas sneered. “Easy for you to say, now you’ll never want for a job. You’ll never be cast out from the only home you’ve ever really had—” he cut himself off. “If you don’t mind, sir, I’m tired and I’d like to sleep now.”
Christ, he’d fucked that up. “Alright. I hope you feel better soon, and I mean that.”
“I’m sure you do.”
Tom spent the rest of the day downcast, in a mire of regret over how things had turned out with Barrow. By bedtime, Tom had given the whole thing up as a lost cause—until he dreamed of Sybil in her nurse’s uniform, tending to Thomas’s ruined wrists. She looked up at Tom with sorrowful eyes and said; “Won’t you do something?” When Tom woke to the sunrise painting his room in yellow and gold, he was moved to try again. For Sybil.
After lunch, he collected Sybbie from the day nursery and explained that Mr Barrow was unwell.
“Has he got measles?” she asked, innocent blue eyes wide and imploring. “Maggie from the village got them and Nanny says that’s why we shouldn’t play with the village children.”
Tom raised an eyebrow. He needed to have a word with Nanny. “No, it’s not the measles, love. Sometimes grown ups get very sad and they can’t get happy again. Mr Barrow is very sad.”
Sybbie’s face scrunched up in thought as they climbed the servant’s staircase. “Why’s he sad, Daddy?”
“I don’t really know. But I’m sure a visit from you will help.”
“Does he miss James?”
Blimey. “I think so. What do you know about that?”
“James was Barrow’s best friend. But he had to go away,” Sybbie sighed, “which was sad because he used to pull funny faces at Georgie and me when Nanny wasn’t looking to make us laugh. Barrow cried about it once. He pretended he had a bit of dust in his eye but I hugged him anyway and that helped. Hugs don’t help dust.” She gave a knowing grin. “Everyone knows hugs help when people are sad.”
“You’re right there.” Tom replied. It appeared the only people who had noticed Thomas was suffering were the children. “Maybe don’t say all that to Barrow right now? He’s already feeling poorly.”
Sybbie nodded. “Okay! I’ll just give him a big hug and tell him about Maggie’s measles and George breaking his best soldier and crying.”
And then, they were at Thomas’s door. Tom knocked, but as it was ajar, Sybbie pushed her way inside.
“Miss Sybbie?” Thomas said. He was in the exact same position he’d been in the previous evening; propped up in bed reading a book and looking like a ghost. “Hello there.”
Sybbie darted across the room and was scrambling onto Thomas’s bed before Tom could do a thing about it. She threw her arms around Thomas and buried her face in the crook of his neck. “Barrow!” she exclaimed, “Daddy said you’re feeling poorly and you’re sad.” She pecked his cheek and Thomas smiled. “I’ve come to make you feel better. I’m good at it! Daddy says I could be a nurse like Mummy. You knew Mummy, didn’t you? Daddy said you worked in the hospital. Were you a nurse too?”
“A medic,” Thomas replied, before Sybbie steamrollered over him again.
“That’s like a nurse, though? So you and Mummy helped people together. Daddy says Mummy liked helping people. Did you, Barrow?”
Thomas seemed lost in thought for a moment. He caught Tom’s eye then said; “Yes. It was hard though. Not everyone could be helped.”
“Nanny says if we try our best, that’s good enough.”
Thomas smiled at Sybbie’s childish logic. “It would be nice if Nanny were right. The world would be better.”
Sybbie frowned but soon set off on a diatribe about measles and eating green vegetables and learning French. Tom watched on as Thomas smiled softly and nodded and asked questions in just the right places, and he immediately understood why the children adored him so. He was an adult who truly listened to them and he spoke to them as if they mattered. And it fanned the ember of affection in Tom’s chest into a flickering match-light flame.
Tom brought Sybbie—and after a day or two, a whinging George, who had insisted it was unfair that Sybbie got to go and see ‘Bawwow’ more than him—every day for the next week. There was something heartwarming in seeing Thomas propped up in bed with Sybbie on one side and George on the other as they talked or read a story. And the children were right—Thomas was the best at reading stories. Thomas didn’t really speak to Tom directly, except to thank him for bringing the children and to offer him a small, appreciative smile.
On Saturday, the weather was fine and so Nanny took all the children out into the estate for a picnic. Tom steeled himself and decided to visit Thomas alone. When he reached his room, it was empty; the bedding was crumpled and thrown back with books and bits of paper cast all over the floor as if someone had scrambled out of bed in a rush—or a rage. Tom loitered for a while, thinking Thomas had gone to answer the call of nature, but when he didn’t reappear after ten long minutes, a growing sense of dread rolled over Tom. Unable to sit on his hands any longer, he walked the short distance to the bathroom and knocked on the door.
“Thomas? Are you in there?”
Silence for a moment, then; “Mr Branson?” It was Thomas, though his voice trembled.
“Yes. Do you need help?”
“I—I uh—you could fetch someone I s’pose, though I don’t know who…” he trailed off.
“Thomas, just let me in.” When a full minute passed with no reply, Tom said; “Thomas, let me in, for gods sake, or I’ll break the door down.”
There came a shuffling from behind the door, then the click of the latch. Thomas cracked the door open; half his face was clean-shaven and the other was covered in a layer of shaving foam. There was a thin trickle of blood running down his throat where he’d nicked his chin. His lips and one exposed cheek were pale, his eyes wide. He steadied himself on the doorframe with a trembling hand.
“Ah, Christ,” Tom said, and took the razor from Thomas’s other hand. “You shouldn’t be doing this.”
“I thought I was okay. I thought…”
“Come on—” Tom led him inside and closed the door behind him. “Sit down before you fall down.”
Thomas, for once, did as he’d been asked and perched on the closed toilet seat. Tom fetched a towel and cleaned the blood from Thomas’s neck and chin, then wiped off the razor. “I’ll finish it for you.”
“There’s no need, sir.”
“For Christ’s sake, Thomas, call me Tom won’t you?”
Thomas blinked up at him owlishly and nodded. “If you like.” He seemed so small, so cowed and unlike the proud Thomas Barrow of old, that Tom wanted to shake him and ask what the hell happened. Tom moved into Thomas’s space, one leg between his thighs, and used his left hand to manipulate Thomas’s face, turning him this way and that as he carefully stroked the straight razor against his skin.
“My father had a tremor, before he died—” Tom said, for something to fill the thick silence, “kept cutting himself to ribbons. So I learned how to do this so I could help him. My mother said he should’ve just grown a beard.”
Thomas huffed out the ghost of a laugh and waited for Tom to pause and wipe the razor clean before responding. “Can’t go back to work with a beard. Don’t want to give Carson more ammunition.”
“You’re not going back already?”
Thomas shrugged. “I can’t keep sitting in that room all day. I’ll end up further out of my mind than I already am.”
“You need to recuperate. It was a close thing.”
“A close shave.”
“Don’t joke—” Tom said, “I don’t find it funny.”
Thomas frowned. “Why are you doing this? I don’t deserve your help—your kindness.”
Tom scraped the razor against the pale skin of Thomas’s throat. He could see his pulse fluttering beneath the surface, beating on even though Thomas had tried his damnedest to still it forever. “Because everyone deserves some kindness, Thomas. And what’s the good of wishing you well if I don’t do a bloody thing to help?” He fetched a warm, damp cloth and wiped the last of the shaving foam from Thomas’s face.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“How about, ‘alright then Tom, let’s have a civil goddamn conversation and see what happens?’” Tom said. He handed Thomas a clean towel. Thomas stared at it, and then at Tom’s face, as if he was searching for the catch. “I won’t bite.”
Thomas looked away. “I’m just…not sure you’d want to be friendly with me if you knew what sort of man I am.”
“I know,” Tom said. “I’ve said before; there’s no secrets for long in this house.”
“You know that I’m—”
“An invert? Yes.”
Thomas blinked, surprised by his forthrightness. “And you don’t…?”
“Mind? Why should I?”
“You’re a catholic.”
Now that made Tom laugh. “Yes, but I’m also Irish. And I married my upper-class boss’s protestant daughter. I hardly care about unconventional relationships.”
Thomas’s mouth quirked into an approximation of a smile. “Fine. Alright. Let’s have a civil conversation then.”
And they did.
Tom was surprised how easily they fell into friendship. Thomas was quieter and less abrasive than Tom remembered, which should have made him more palatable, but for some reason it didn’t. The more they talked, the more Tom worried about Thomas’s long-term prospects and health. The man was clearly hanging on by a thread, determined to think everyone hated him and they were all desperate to see the back of him. Tom knew this to be false, as over the course of the next week (in which Thomas had been forced to continue resting, despite his protestations) he’d found several other visitors at Thomas’s bedside; Andy, Anna, Mrs Hughes, Miss Baxter, Daisy, and, on one occasion, Mary and George. The latter had brought Thomas an orange, which had improved Thomas’s mood like nothing else.
On mentioning this to Thomas over a game of cards, he waved Tom off with a dismissive gesture.
“They’re only doin’ it out of obligation. That and pity, I s’pose,” he said, staring resolutely at his cards. “They’re colleagues, not friends.”
“Can’t they be both?”
Thomas shrugged.
“Jimmy was, wasn’t he?” Tom added.
Thomas was quiet for so long Tom thought he’d completely soured any good feeling Thomas might have towards him. Eventually, Thomas cast his cards down with a sigh. “I thought so. He said as much, just before he left. But then,” his shoulders dropped and, crestfallen, he seemed to fall in on himself. “Then he went away and I never heard a thing from him again. At best, I was a passing diversion for him when he was here. At worst, he only liked me because, idiot that I am, I fell over meself to help him.”
“You don’t believe that,” Tom started, but Thomas held up a hand.
“Don’t. I don’t want to do this. I can’t,” he said, his tone angry but the downturn of his mouth betraying his sadness. “If it’s alright with you, Sir, I’d like to sleep now.”
Damn. He’d really done it now. Tom collected up the cards in silence; Thomas didn’t even wait for him to leave before lying down and pulling his blankets up to his chin.
“I’m sorry if I upset you, I am,” Tom said as he left. Thomas didn’t answer.
There was more to this Jimmy business than Thomas would let on, but Tom wasn’t easily put off when he set his mind to something. Bloody minded, his Ma called him. He preferred to think of himself as determined. Either way, he was in a unique position to find out the truth of it; the staff downstairs couldn’t refuse to answer him and the family upstairs wouldn’t.
When there was a problem, it was always sensible to start with Mrs Hughes.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you why James was let go,” she said, “Mr Carson wouldn’t speak of it, except to say the word came from His Lordship himself. But it was all very sudden, if I remember rightly.”
Tom nodded. “And forgive me for asking an indelicate question but—” he paused.
“But you’re going to.”
Tom nodded and Mrs Hughes led him into her sitting room.
“Thomas and Jimmy...they were special friends?” Tom said, once the door was closed behind them.
“I’ll not pretend I don’t know what you mean,” Mrs Hughes said, somehow making it sound like she was a schoolmistress and Tom a cheeky schoolboy in need of correction, “but no, I don’t think so. At least, that’s what all the trouble between them was about in the first place.”
Tom vaguely remembered some fuss over Thomas one summer and how Robert was determined to keep him on at least until after the cricket match. “What happened?”
“I’m not sure Thomas would appreciate me telling you all his secrets.”
“Mrs Hughes, I’m trying to help him,” Tom said as earnestly as he could. “And I think he’s got more pressing concerns for now, don’t you?”
Mrs Hughes gave a resigned sigh. “Fine. But don’t you dare tell him I told you. Apparently he made some romantic overtures towards James and James was very displeased. Though I can’t say he didn’t bring it on himself. That boy could have made a sport of flirting. And Miss O’Brien was tangled up in it somehow, which can never be a good thing.”
There weren’t many people Tom truly disliked, but O’Brien had been one of them. He’d put good money on her being at the root of their disagreement.
“At any rate, that all blew over after Thomas got into that scuffle at the Thirsk fair.”
“Now that I do remember. He got a right good hiding.” He also remembered Jimmy’s guilty look.
“Which isn’t like Thomas at all. He has a quick tongue but he’s not a fighter. I can’t say exactly what happened, but it seems to me Thomas did something to win James over. They were thick as thieves after that. Mr Carson was most disturbed by it,” she rolled her eyes, “he was convinced they were up to no good.”
“Were they?”
“What?”
“Up to no good?”
Mrs Hughes tutted. “I’m glad to say I don’t know the intimate details of their relationship. But I do know Thomas went on the warpath after James left. Whatever was between them, Thomas was worse for it ending.”
Curiously piqued rather than sated, Tom determined to find a way to ask Robert the truth of it all. An opportunity presented itself after dinner, when the women had retired and only Robert and he remained in the quiet of the drawing room. Tom bided his time and waited for Carson to step out before broaching the topic.
“Robert?” Tom asked. He fingered his whiskey tumbler as he decided how to ask an indelicate question delicately.
“Hmm?” Robert looked up from where he was gazing into the fire.
“Tell me,” Tom said, “why did you fire James?”
Robert blinked. “The footman? Why? What’s bought this on?”
“I’ve been to see Barrow and I just wondered what happened there,” he lied.
“It’s not a topic for polite conversation,” Robert said. He was dodging the question.
“I’m hardly a lady in danger of fainting away, Robert.”
“It was an unpleasant business,” he sighed. “Do you remember the night of the fire?”
“Who could forget it?”
Robert took up his whiskey glass from its perch on the ottoman and swallowed the contents in one gulp. “Do you also remember how the Dowager Lady Anstruther invited herself to stay?”
“Yes, I do.” Ah, two and two were getting closer to making four.
“When I checked the rooms, to warn the guests of the fire, I found him in her bed,” Robert said.
That certainly muddied the waters, considering what he’d assumed about Thomas and Jimmy’s relationship. “And you sacked him for it?”
“It’s gross misconduct, to go to bed with a guest.”
“What about with the daughter of your boss?” Tom said, and regretted it when Robert looked stricken.
“That was different. You married Sybil. You didn’t commit a sin in the guest room.”
“I’m sorry, that wasn’t—” Tom shook his head. “Did it occur to you that perhaps James would rather have not gone to bed with Lady Anstruther?”
Robert frowned. “What?” Bless the man, but he was woefully naive about the real world.
“She turned up here out of the blue and put him in an awkward situation. You may not like to hear this, but James wouldn’t be the first servant to think they didn’t have a choice.”
Scandalised, Robert looked for all the world like a fish gasping for air. “That would never happen in this household—”
“But she wasn’t part of this household, was she? She pushed in. What could James do when she held his whole livelihood in her hand?” Tom said, then finished his whiskey to punctuate the point. “Did you even ask for his side of the story?”
“I - no. I didn’t.”
“Perhaps you should have.” Tom said. He left his glass on the mantelpiece and went up to bed.
Tom didn’t have all the pieces of the puzzle, but he had enough to get a broad-strokes picture. There had been something important between Thomas and Jimmy—important enough that Thomas still mourned the loss of it—and Jimmy had likely lost his place at Downton through no fault of his own. Tom might no longer be one of them, but remembered well what it meant to be in service. It was entirely possible—probable—that Jimmy had been forced into bed with Lady Anstruther, and then forced out of a job because of it.
There was only one thing to be done; he had to find Jimmy Kent. And he had a good idea where to look.
As it happened, Tom was due in London not two days later, and so he arrived, unannounced, at the home of the Dowager Lady Anstruther. She wasn’t home—apparently she was off, swanning around the continent with some new man she’d entangled in her web, but it didn’t matter in the end. The butler liked to talk and took little convincing to tell Tom all the gritty details. Jimmy had indeed gone back to work for Lady Anstruther, but had stayed a mere two weeks before doing a midnight flit. He had, however, left a forwarding address; a farm in Ashwell, not far out of London. Tom could drive past on the way home.
The village of Ashwell did not seem to be the sort of place one would expect to find a young man like Jimmy Kent. It was an agricultural village, only marginally larger than Downton village, and only then because of the Fordhams brewery offering more opportunities for employment. Perhaps the general opinion of Jimmy Kent as a debonair man of the world was incorrect. Or perhaps life had beaten all the sense of adventure out of him.
When Tom clapped eyes on Jimmy, it became immediately obvious that both were true. He was alone, his back to the room as he played a quiet, somber piece on an old upright piano in a secluded corner of The Three Tuns pub. Tom walked in and ordered two pints and all eyes turned to stare at the strange Irishman; except for Jimmy, who didn’t look up from his playing until Tom placed a pint on the top of the instrument.
“Oh—Mr Branson?!” Jimmy said, fingers tripping up over the keys. He stood—old habits of those in service die hard—and looked for all the world like a deer caught in the headlights of a motor. He looked older than Tom remembered, a deep line carved between his eyebrows, but otherwise well, with skin kissed to golden by days working outside and hair bleached to the colour of flax. He’d aged well, but seemed to have lost the joy of his youth. “What the hell—I mean uh, what brings you here—sir?”
Tom couldn’t help but chuckle. “Settle down, Jimmy. No need for that here.” He inclined his head towards a small table near by; Jimmy collected his pint and followed. Once they were seated, Tom said; “I came to find you, actually.”
Jimmy blinked. “Sorry sir, but I don’t understand.”
Tom took a large swig of his beer. It was now or never. “It’s about Thomas Barrow.”
Jimmy had needed no convincing to leave both job and home on short notice, pack an overnight bag and come back with Tom to Downton. That—and the silent tears he spilled as Tom told of Thomas’s misfortunes—convinced Tom he’d been right; there had been something important growing between Thomas and Jimmy, and for whatever the reason they’d been parted unfairly, before it could blossom.
Tom understood love and loss intimately. He would not let Thomas and Jimmy suffer heartbreak needlessly as long as they both still lived.
Sybil would do no less.
When they arrived back at Downton Abbey, Tom led a reluctant Jimmy through the front door, much to Carson’s obvious displeasure, and straight up to the servant’s corridor before anyone had chance to interfere.
“Ready?” Tom asked.
Jimmy gave a curt nod. “As I’ll ever be,” he said. He dropped his valise in the corridor and straightened his jacket.
“Wait here, I’ll call you in a moment,” Tom instructed. Jimmy only nodded, so Tom knocked and entered to Thomas’s call.
“No Miss Sybbie this time?” Thomas asked, looking up from yet another book. He sounded disappointed.
“My company not good enough?”
“Not compared to Miss Sybbie’s, no,” Thomas said, but gave a wry smile. Tom couldn’t help but smile back.
“I bought someone else to see you; he’s just out in the corridor—” Tom peeked out of the doorway and waved Jimmy in. He had taken his cap off and was twisting it in his hands, his mouth pressed into a tight line. He hesitated, took a deep breath as if to steady himself, then walked in.
There was a moment of silence where Thomas and Jimmy both stared at each other—Jimmy looking pale and on the brink of tears as Thomas gaped at him—then Thomas smiled and cried all at once and Jimmy dashed across the room to embrace him.
“Thomas—” Jimmy choked out, “bloody hell, Thomas. M’sorry, m’so very sorry—”
“It’s not your fault—”
“It’s not not me fault though either, in’t it?”
“You’re really here?”
“Really. M’sorry s’so bloody late—nearly too late—god I nearly lost y’forever y’bleedin’ bastard—”
“You left—”
“I didn’t want to.”
“Y’didn’t write—”
“It we’re too hard. I missed you—oh I missed you every minute an’ I tried to jus’ get on with life but—”
Tom—feeling he’d already heard more than he should have—left them to it, closing the door softly behind him.
Later, Tom was elbow deep in a car engine when Jimmy found him in the garage.
“I wanted to say thank you for writin’, sir,” Jimmy said, twisting his cap nervously once again. Tom wondered how the thing even stayed on his head with how Jimmy abused it.
“I’m glad I could help.”
“I—” Jimmy paused and worried his bottom lip between his teeth, “I shouldn’t ever have left him. Thomas—Mr Barrow—is more sensitive than people credit him. He needed me an’ I weren’t here. He could’ve—” he looked away and swallowed several times. Tom was surprised by his depth of feeling; he’d always had the impression Jimmy was a bit superficial and by all accounts he was an incorrigible flirt. Perhaps he was—or had been in the past, at least—but clearly he cared deeply about Thomas.
Oh. Oh. Perhaps his prior display of philandering was a distraction from where his real affections lay?
“I can’t thank you enough for findin’ me. I’ve been a bloody fool—ah, sorry!” he grimaced at his language and added a hurried; “Sir.”
“It’s nothing, really,” Tom said and wiped his hands on an old rag. There was no need for him to be messing around inside a motor—he wasn’t the chauffeur anymore—but he liked it. It quieted his mind, which recently had been far too busy.
“Thomas tells me you’ve been kind to him,” Jimmy frowned, “which is more than I can say for meself.”
“It was Sybbie and Master George who did the cheering, I just chivvied things along a little.” He smiled at Jimmy, but the other man didn’t return it. He looked to be in an anguish. “Jimmy, this isn’t your fault.”
“But it is—” Jimmy said, then shook his head. “You wouldn’t understand it, sir. All I can say is I’ve been a stupid, selfish bastard and Thomas has paid the price.”
Tom considered this for a moment then said; “If you’ve made mistakes, there’s only one thing to be done. You can’t go back and change the past, but you can try to be better in the future. You say you haven’t been good to Thomas? Then be good to him now.”
Jimmy gave a determined nod. “I mean to.” He made to leave, but paused at the doorway. “Thank you, sir. Truly.”
“You’re welcome.”
Jimmy was—to Carson’s palpable irritation—a permanent presence in the Abbey for the next few days. He fussed around Thomas like a mother around a mewling babe and shot nasty scowls at anyone else who dared to visit the under-butler, as if he blamed them all for Thomas’s predicament. Which wasn’t entirely unjustified. Tom paid a few brief visits with Sybbie and George, then dropped by later to bring Thomas a few more books. When he reached Thomas’s room, neither he nor Jimmy were inside. Concerned, Tom checked the bathroom and the servant’s hall to no avail—it was only when he enquired after them in the kitchen that Daisy mentioned she’d seen them both go outside. Tom followed them into the cool dusk, but the yard was also empty. Tom frowned and was about to give the visit up as a loss when he heard a noise from behind the arches; a soft sigh and a shuffling of feet. Tom edged closer, intrigued, and peeped around the corner of one arch; it was shadowed and smelled of soil and damp. It took a moment for Tom’s eyes to adjust to the darkness and then he saw them; the shapes of of two men—one blonde, one with hair as dark as the black shadows of the evening—pressed up against each other. Thomas was leaning against the wall, his head tipped back, his arms draped over Jimmy’s shoulders for support. Jimmy was mouthing enthusiastically at Thomas’s throat as his fingers fluttered all over Thomas’s body as if he were playing the man like a piano. Tom wasn’t particularly surprised to find them in such a compromising position. They made a lovely sight together; Jimmy small and muscled, Thomas tall and broad. Tom wasn’t that sort of man, but he could see as well as anyone that both Thomas and Jimmy were handsome.
“Jimmy—” Thomas whispered, his words almost lost in the dark.
Jimmy paused and gazed up at Thomas. “Yes, darlin’?”
“I’m sorry.” His voice cracked and Jimmy reached up to cup his cheek.
“Shh, y’don’t have to apologise. S’alright. We’re gonna be alright now.”
“How?”
“I dunno, but whatever we do it’ll be together now, aye?” He kissed Thomas on the mouth, and Thomas wrapped an arm around his neck hauling him closer. As they kissed and rocked together with breathy sighs and moans, Tom took his silent leave.
A day or two later, it was Thomas who sought out Tom, finding him playing in the walled garden with Sybbie and George.
“May I have a word, sir?” Thomas said, as formal as if he was on duty, though he was dressed in his smart brown suit rather than livery. Tom left the children in the care of their Nanny and walked with Thomas through the walled garden and out into the sprawling grounds.
“It’s nice to see you out of your room,” Tom said. He meant it; Thomas had barely left it since the incident.
“It’s nice to be out,” he said, a wan smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “I came to say thank you and goodbye.”
Tom stopped. “What? You’re leaving?”
Thomas pulled up beside him and nodded. “Yes. Don’t worry, I’ve not been sacked. Yet.”
“I wouldn’t have let—”
Thomas waved a hand. “I know. I appreciate it. I do,” he added, earnestly. “But I’m going of my own free will.”
“With Jimmy?”
“I never thought I’d be saying this, least of all to you, but yes. I’m leaving Downton Abbey with Jimmy, and it seems I have you to thank for it,” Thomas said. “And I am thankful. I don’t normally care for the upstairs lot meddling in my business,” he smirked then, teasing, “but I can make an exception.”
Tom chuckled. “Thomas, you are most welcome. What do you have planned, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“As you know, Jimmy has a small cottage in Ashwell. He’s made some calls and his job is safe; he told them his cousin was very ill and is coming back to stay with him.”
“You hardly look like cousins.”
Thomas gave him a look. “We’ll say cousins through marriage, then.”
“And work?”
“Jimmy has some ideas. I’m willing to leap before I look.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but it seems like that’s always been the case when it comes to Jimmy,” Tom said. Now it was his turn to smirk.
Thomas didn’t disagree, which was as good as admitting Tom was correct.
“Anyway, I best be off,” he said, “before I get all sentimental.” He held out a hand for Tom to shake; he took it in a firm grasp, then cupped Thomas’s elbow with his other hand.
“And Thomas,” Tom said, still holding tight to Thomas’s arm, “if you ever need anything—a reference, advice on farming, anything—you know where to find me.”
Thomas smiled the first proper smile Tom had ever seen from him and said; “Thank you, but I think from now on, things are going to be just dandy.”
And, as far as Tom ever heard, they were.