Chapter Text
The train is stopped at Downton Station, and still steaming. Thomas picks up his two cases, and takes a deep breath. This is it—the first leg of his journey that will take him to a warmer, sunnier place, and a prayer of a chance at an honest life.
He turns his head to look at Guy, and his heartbeat quickens when he sees that Guy has done the same thing at the same moment. They look into each other’s eyes, and share a shy, but devilish smile. It must be a good omen of better things to come—he and this man he barely knows think the same things at the same time.
The moment is shattered, though, by the sound of his name, in a voice he has known for longer than he can remember.
“Thomas?” she calls.
Damn it. Damn it all. He is finally getting away, and she has to ruin it by coming here to try to make him feel guilty for leaving. Well, he doesn’t feel guilty. At least not until he turns around, and sees not only Phyllis walking toward him, but Mrs. Hughes, too.
Damn it.
Judging by the redness of her eyes, Phyllis has cried all the way here. Mrs. Hughes isn’t crying—she usually doesn’t, when she has someone else to console—but her lips are set in a hard, thin line, and her eyes are filled with worry.
The two women approach him, and before either of them can say anything, he asks, “What are you doing here? We said goodbye, back at the house.” He wonders how well he is doing at disguising his annoyance as surprise.
Probably not very well, because now Phyllis really starts crying, tears falling from both of her eyes. “I know, but…” she starts.
“We just thought it wouldn’t be right, no one here to see you off,” Mrs. Hughes offers. She and Thomas share a look, both knowing that more false words have probably never been spoken.
Phyllis clears her throat, and begins to explain through her tears. “I know we said goodbye before, but I wanted to give you something, before you go. It isn’t anything really, and I had talked myself out of it… but then I changed my mind, and I felt terrible. Mrs. Hughes said maybe it wasn’t too late, so… we rushed over, and…”
His irritation melts away, and he is surprised to know that it isn’t replaced by guilt this time, only love.
“And you’ve found me,” he whispers. “Just in time.”
Like she always does.
She nods, and tries to smile, but fails.
“I think I’ll jump aboard,” Guy says, also rather failing to hide his true feelings with a smile. He claps a hand on Thomas’ shoulder, and adds, “You’ve a few minutes before they load everything… and everyone. I’ll see you inside.” He does not add If you’re still coming.
Thomas turns back to Phyllis. He still clutches both of his cases in his hands; if he puts them down, it might look as if he may change his mind, and stay.
But when Phyllis finally holds out her gift to him, he has to set them down. Not because he is staying, or even because they are getting heavy. It’s because this is ridiculous.
He can’t believe it, but it’s difficult not to laugh. For there in her outstretched hand, is a shriveled and browned rose bud, that in its prime, was once white.
He swallows his smile, and says softly, “You dropped everything, and rushed all the way over here, to give me a dead flower?”
Now he can see that she is trying not to laugh too. She gives into a bit of a smile, and says “Well, when you put it like that…”
She doesn’t finish, so he reaches for it, and takes the brittle and delicate little thing in his gloved hand. “Er… thanks,” he says.
She looks him in the eye now, and says softly, “It’s from my bouquet. From my wedding.”
Oh.
He glances at Mrs. Hughes. She looks back at him, but remains silent.
He turns back to Phyllis. “And you wanted me to have it?” he asks. “Why?”
“Oh, Thomas,” she gushes. They are running out of time, and she knows it. “I thought you were angry with me. We’ve hardly spoken since… since my wedding.”
“What d’you mean?” he asks. He keeps his eyes on the flower. “I’m not angry with you. I walked you down the aisle, didn’t I? Like you wanted?” He flicks his eyes up to hers at this last part.
“So you’re not… angry?” she asks, nearly pleading.
Why would he be angry? Because they’ve all paired off, like little turtle doves, a husband or a wife for everyone? Everyone except Thomas, because he’s different… and not even Richard could resist the temptation… No. No, he’s not angry. He’s leaving.
He shakes his head. “’M not angry,” he mumbles.
“But something has changed,” she insists.
He looks into her watery brown eyes, for what he knows may be the last time for months, or years. Maybe ever. How can he leave her? But no. He is leaving. He sees now, though, that he can’t go without telling her how much she means to him.
“Phyllis,” he says steadily. He leans down close to her ear, so only she can hear. “I have no memory of not knowing you. You’ve been my touchstone, and saved me from myself at least twice. Probably more.” Then he pulls back a little, so he can look in her eyes again. “I love you,” he whispers, and they both know she is one of only two people to whom he has ever whispered these words. “But I’ve got to go.”
She wipes away her tears, and nods silently. Then she kisses his cheek, and pulls away. “It’s just something to remember me by, that’s all,” she says, indicating the delicate bloom still in his hand. “Because you were there for me when I got married.”
He looks from one to the other of them, and nods. Then he looks at the train. It whistles, calling him. He shakes his head. “I just… you all have found someone now. Every one of you. And I have a chance to—” The train whistles again, insistent. “I’ve got to go,” he says again. “Thank you. Thank you for coming to see me off.”
Mrs. Hughes steps toward him, and says, “Give me a kiss, now, and quickly.” When he leans down to do as she asks, she whispers, “You take your chance, brave one. Go on now.” He pulls away a little, and manages only a nod. He wishes he could say the three words to her, too, because they are true, but he just can’t. At least he knows that she knows.
He stoops down, and manages to hoist both cases in his good hand, so he can cradle the fragile flower in his left. Then he looks at Phyllis one last time, nods downward at the flower, and says hastily, “I’ll look after it. Forever. I promise.”
Then he turns to go, and Phyllis reaches for him, trying to touch him one last time, but he has already moved beyond her touch. Just as he climbs the steps into the waiting train, it lurches forward, pulling him away.