Work Text:
“What a tiresome fellow,” said Lord Grantham to Bates as he helped him on with his jacket. Thomas knew listening outside doors was a bad habit but there was hardly any reason not to now – after all, there was little else they could do to him now he was being sent away without a reference. If His Lordship and Bates were going to stand and gossip about him, he had the right to hear what they said.
“If I’d cried bloody murder every time someone tried to kiss me at Eton, I’d have gone hoarse in a week.”
Thomas froze, convinced he must have misheard because there was no chance His Lordship had just said what Thomas thought he’d heard – was there?
Thomas had worked at Downton Abbey for years, he’d been barely older than a child when he arrived, and every day since then, in the back of his mind, he had dreaded being discovered. All those years marred by the assumption there was not a member of the Grantham family that wouldn’t have turned him in if they’d known – except perhaps Lady Sybil, but even during the war when he had considered her a friend, he never dared put her presumed tolerance to the test.
But now – what? – Lord Grantham not only knew about Thomas’ nature but cared so little that he could make jokes about it – and with Bates of all people. How ironic, he thought, to find out just as he was forced to leave, that he’d been safe here all along. Or, not entirely safe, but much more so than he had known. By rights there should be a thousand feelings welling up inside him, relief, sadness, or the righteous indignation he was all to used to being driven by. He had no idea when he’d gotten too tired to stay angry at the world. Should he be grateful that all this time His Lordship had been tolerating him willingly? It hardly seemed relevant now that soon they would never see each other again.
Deciding he didn’t need to hear anymore, Thomas started back to his room.
-o0o-
Lord Grantham called Thomas into the drawing room after breakfast.
“Good morning, Barrow. I hope you’re feeling on form for the match this afternoon.” His Lordship was irritatingly chirpy as he stirred a lump of sugar into his tea.
“I’ll do my best, milord. You’ll forgive me if I’m not in the highest spirits though.”
“Ah yes, about that,” he said, suddenly remembering why he’d called Thomas in there, “Bates was filling me in on the whole sorry situation.”
Thomas stayed quiet.
“Yes well, it seemed absurd to me that you be forced to leave over that.”
“I - thank you, milord. I’m sorry to be leaving.”
Lord Grantham shook his head, “You’re misunderstanding me, Barrow. I do not think you should leave and provided you’re amenable, I would like you stay on – as underbutler.”
There was nothing Thomas could do to stop his eyebrows shooting into his hairline. He had been surprised when he thought Lord Grantham had called him in to say goodbye, but this -,
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Well, I must say its quite satisfying to have rendered the Thomas Barrow speechless,” he smirked, “Shall I assume you accept the position?”
“Yes,” Thomas almost shouted. He composed himself, “Yes, milord, of course.”
There was a beat of silence between them and Thomas knew he should just say thank you and leave the room.
“Can I ask, milord – why?”
“Why?” Thomas wasn’t sure if he was imagining it or if Lord Grantham looked mildly offended.
“Yes, milord. I presume Mr Bates told you enough specifics about the situation that I’m just – surprised that you’d -,”
Lord Grantham held up his hand to interrupt. “Perhaps precisely because of those specifics we should speak no more about it,” he paused, “Except perhaps to say that I have never an issue with your nature, which I am sure can also make life more challenging. That was certainly the case for others I have known.”
Thomas had a thousand questions but not a single one it would be proper to ask.
“What’s more,” he continued, “you have always conducted yourself with discretion and until now it has never caused any problems for this household. Moreover, this present mess I am inclined believe is more James’ fault than your own – not helped, I am sure, by Mr Carson’s propriety.”
At this point, Thomas didn’t think he could have spoken even if he’d wanted to. His Lordship’s inflection on the last word, it almost felt like the two of them sharing a joke at the expense of the old-fashioned butler. To whom, his mind supplied, he was now underbutler. The sheer absurdity of the whole thing caused a short, sharp laugh to escape from him.
“Apologies, milord. I just – apologies.”
Lord Grantham frowned at the outburst but there was no malice behind it, “Yes, well, now that is all sorted, I expected an impressive performance in the match later, I will not lose another year running.”
At that, Thomas left, the weight of the last few days getting lighter and lighter with every step he took back towards the servants’ hall.