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One evening after the upstairs lot had gone to bed, Thomas and Patches were invited into Mrs. Hughes’s parlour to join her and Mr. Carson for their evening sherry and gossip. She did that occasionally, now that he was under-butler, but not often enough that the sight of Carson letting his hair down—as much as he ever did, at least—had ceased to cause him an almost horrified fascination. At the moment, he was carrying on about a house party that Downton was hosting in a few weeks, predicting all sorts of doom and gloom.

“And to top it off, Benjamin has handed in his notice. Going off to Manchester to be an office-boy, of all things.”

“That sounds like a lovely opportunity for him,” Mrs. Hughes noted. “There isn’t much room to advance here.”

True; with two footmen and an under-butler cluttering up the place, there wasn’t much chance of a hall-boy ever becoming anything else. “Shall I go and speak to the schoolmaster, Mr. Carson?” Thomas offered. As under-butler, he ought to have had charge of the footmen and the hall-boys, but Carson rarely let him supervise anyone.

“No,” Carson said repressively. “Mrs. Hughes or I will speak to him.”

Big surprise, that. “Suit yourself.”

“I will, thank you,” Carson answered, in a tone that left Thomas feeling particularly small and grubby.

Patches got up from his spot on the hearth-rug and scampered over, putting his paws on Thomas’s knee. Thomas ruffled his ears. “I should take him out,” he said to no one in particular. As the most junior member of the party, he ought to have waited to be dismissed, but he’d found that Patches provided a ready pretext for excusing himself from any situation he didn’t particularly want to be in.

#

A few days later, Elsie put on her best coat and hat and started down for the village school. Really, Mr. Carson ought to have let Thomas do this—it wasn’t as though the selection of a hall-boy really required the attention of one of the two most senior members of the household. But when she’d repeated the suggestion, outside of Thomas’s hearing, Mr. Carson had responded with a mock shudder and a reminder that they did not want a repeat of the “James situation.”

Elsie had decided not to remind him that Thomas had had no hand in the selection of James as a footman.

She had arranged with the schoolmaster to arrive just before the end of the school day, when she could observe the highest class doing their recitations. He’d given her the names of the two boys who were looking for places, and she paid particular attention as the schoolmaster called them to recite.

The first, Charles, was a tall, sandy-haired youth, neatly dressed and well-spoken. He caught her eye and smiled as he recited a bit of Longfellow—clearly, he’d caught wind of what was afoot. Charles also made his way ably enough through a few sums and a bit of geography before returning to his seat.

“Now let’s hear you, George,” the schoolmaster directed.

George was the other lad she’d been told to watch. He was a small, shabby-looking creature, his clothing inexpertly mended and none too clean. He’d learned his recitation well enough, but his posture was poor, and his accent worse, broad Yorkshire dripping from all his vowels. He stumbled a little over his sums, causing Charles to turn his head and give her a knowing look.

“Very good, George,” the schoolmaster said, releasing the boy to scuttle back to his seat. After instructing the class about the lessons they were to prepare for the next day, he dismissed the school. Elsie stood back as the tide of pupils swept out, from the six-year-olds of the first class to the school-leavers of thirteen and fourteen. Charles and George stayed in their places.

The schoolmaster said, “Charles, George, you may tidy the room while I speak with our visitor.”

A clever move on his part—Downton wasn’t looking for a boy to recite and do sums, after all. Charles fetched a pail of water and began cleaning the chalkboard with precise, somewhat showy strokes, while George, his head down, got a broom from the cloakroom and started sweeping.

The schoolmaster, a Mr. Williams, invited her into his tiny office to the side of the classroom. “Well, you’ve seen the lads,” he said after she’d been seated.

“They’re both school-leaving age?” she asked. George didn’t look as though he were fourteen.

“Yes,” Mr. Williams answered. “As of last week, in George’s case. Charles is nearly fifteen.”

Another mark against poor George, Elsie thought. “Which one would you recommend?” Charles seemed the more obvious choice, but she rather thought Downton had quite enough arrogant young men below-stairs. She rather hoped that young George had something to recommend him.

“Well, they’re both good enough lads,” Mr. Williams said. “I wouldn’t recommend against either of them. Charlie’s older, of course, and higher in the class. But he isn’t quite as hard a worker as George. He—Charlie, I mean—is the youngest of a large family, small-holders. He’s been a bit indulged, but he’s keen to make something of himself. I don’t see him being content as a hall-boy for long, but he’ll be eager to impress. And I’m sure you noticed he has a fair bit of polish to him.”

If they were looking for a lad to fast-track to footman, Charlie would be the one to choose, Elsie translated. But they weren’t—neither Alfred nor Jimmy seemed inclined to move on soon, and even if they had, the male ranks were already a bit crowded at the top. “What about the other boy?”

“George. Yes.” Mr. Williams seemed to be trying to decide where to start. “The father is a farm labourer; widowed, and George is the only child. He’s certainly more accustomed to hard work than Charlie is. He’s been assisting his father with his duties for years now, and as a result he tends to miss a great deal of school, particularly at shearing and lambing times, or on any occasion when his father is…indisposed. He manages to keep up, though not brilliantly, as you may have noticed.”

“Why does he want to work out?” Elsie asked, though Mr. Wiliams’ hesitation before the word “indisposed” gave her a hint. “It sounds as though he’s needed at home.”

With a glance at the door, Mr. Williams lowered his voice and said, “The father is a nasty piece of work, particularly when he’s been drinking. George is…eager to leave home, and I doubt he’ll miss it much.”

“I see,” Elsie said. Mr. Carson, she knew, would not have allowed himself to be swayed by such considerations, but she was now leaning decidedly toward George. “I’d like to speak to each of them. I’ll start with Charlie, I think.”

#

George watched as Charlie swaggered into Mr. Williams’s room, to talk to the lady from the big house. He didn’t know why he’d bothered staying, really—he was going to be late to his chores, and even a simpleton would realize that Charlie was what they wanted for a place up at the big house. The best George could hope for was that Charlie would get this place, and another one would turn up before anyone else reached school-leaving age. He’d take anything, as long as room and board was included.

It was probably just as well he wasn’t going to get the place. The path he took back to the Henderson farm looked down on Downton Abbey; it looked like a fairy castle. He’d make a fool of himself, in a place like that. Not to mention probably get lost on his way to bed.

George was tipping the floor sweepings into the stove when Charlie came out of the schoolmaster’s office. “How’d it go?” he asked, trying to sound like he was pleased for Charlie.

“I think she was impressed,” Charlie answered with a grin. “She said I’d be hearing from her in a day or two—but she does want to talk to you.” He added, “Good luck,” but he didn’t sound like he meant it.

“Good luck,” George echoed. He put the broom carefully back on its hook in the cloakroom before going to Mr. Williams’s office.

Now that he saw her up close, the visitor was even more intimidating than she’d seemed when she was standing at the back of the schoolroom. She wore a jacket and skirt, finer even than what Mrs. Henderson wore to church, and a hat with a ribbon and artificial cherries on it.

“Good afternoon,” she said. “George, is it?”

“Yes, mum,” he answered, then wondered if she was, perhaps, a “my lady.”

“I’m Mrs. Hughes, the housekeeper at Downton Abbey. I understand you’re looking for a place?”

“Yes, mum,” George said again. Idiot. She was likely to wonder if he could say anything else.

“Tell me about the sort of work you’re used to doing.”

“Mum? It would be my first place, mum.”

“Yes, but I understand you help your father with his work?”

Oh, that. “Yes, I do, mum.”

“Tell me about that.”

So George explained how before school he cleaned out the lamb pens, milked the cow, and fed all the stock, and how after school he did it all again. And how he stayed up with ewes lambing, and caught the sheep for shearing, and how when Dad was ill he looked after the kitchen garden and mended fences and whatever else needed doing, really. He doubted any of it had much to do with what they would want doing at a place like the big house—but there was an awful lot of it. More than Charlie ever did, he was sure.

Once he’d finished, Mrs. Hughes said, “Well, the only difficulty I can see is that Lady Mary’s son is named George. We can’t have two.”

Really? He was losing the place because of his name?

“So we’ll have to call you something else,” she continued. “What’s your second name?”

“Uh—Walter, mum.” Mum, before she’d died, had called him “George Walter” sometimes—it had been her brother’s name, he remembered vaguely, an uncle he’d never met.

“All right, then, if you don’t mind being Walter, you can start on Monday.”

“Mum?” He must have misunderstood something—it sounded like she was saying that he had the place.

“If that’s all right,” she added.

“Oh—yes, mum, that would be lovely. What time?”

“Your duties begin at five o’clock in the morning. It might be best if you came Sunday afternoon or evening; that way you can get settled and meet everyone before you start work. How does that sound?”

“It sounds wonderful, mum,” George—or Walter—said. “Thank you, mum. You won’t regret it.”

“I should hope not.”

#

The next week, Thomas stalked through the downstairs corridors, in his outdoor coat and hat, looking for Patches. He usually had a free hour between downstairs lunch and upstairs tea, and used it to take the dog for a walk. Everyone knew it, including Patches—all Thomas had to do was go for his coat, and the puppy came running.

So where was he now? The only answer was that somebody must have shut him up in a cupboard or something—whether by accident or otherwise—and since Thomas had spent a great deal of time teaching the dog not to bark and whine when he wanted Thomas to pay attention to him, the only way to find him was to look in every place.

He finally found him in the old scullery, where Patches and the other puppies had been born, but he wasn’t alone. That new hall-boy—the short one who smelled faintly of cow shit—was sitting on the floor, clutching his collar.

“Hey!” Thomas said. “What are you doin’ with me dog?”

The boy stammered out some sort of explanation, centering on the preposterous excuse that he hadn’t realized whose dog it was.

“Well, don’t do it again,” Thomas snapped, interrupting him. “Come on, Patches.” Patches scampered over to him, wagging his tail frantically. Thomas scratched under his chin, to make sure he knew he wasn’t the one Thomas was angry at. Before leaving he added to the hall-boy, “Don’t you have work to do?”

Back in the corridor, he saw Mrs. Hughes watching him. “Was that really necessary?” she asked mildly.

“Yes,” Thomas answered. He couldn’t have the hall-boys thinking it was funny to hide his dog; nor could he have Carson thinking he was making the hall-boys take care of his dog—he’d been quite clear about that. Thomas wished that he could just make a rule that no one below him in rank was allowed to touch the dog, but Patches wouldn’t cooperate. He had no sense of dignity, and would let anyone pet him, no matter how lowly.

#

George found his first week in his new place a confusing blur. The one thing he didn’t have to worry about was getting lost—his duties rarely took him any further than the distance from the servants’ hall to the boot-cleaning room, which were at opposite ends of the same corridor. Fred, the senior hall-boy and his immediate superior, was only allowed to venture upstairs late at night, after the family had gone to bed, to collect shoes that had been left outside the bedrooms for cleaning. George himself was strictly forbidden to go upstairs at all.

Most of the upstairs work was reserved for the footmen—tall and impossibly grand in their elegant livery. The first time George had seen one of them, he’d thought he must be one of the gentlemen from upstairs, and even after a week it was a bit of a shock to see them sitting at the servants’ hall table with their jackets off, chatting or playing cards like ordinary people. Fortunately, they didn’t take much notice of him, or of Fred, either—it was like the two of them were invisible, which suited George just fine.

The same, unfortunately, was not true of the butler, Mr. Carson, who was even more finely dressed and intimidating than the footmen. He assigned George and Fred their duties, and checked their work, which never seemed to be good enough. Fred assured him that they didn’t have to pay much mind to Mr. Carson’s growling, as he was only allowed to beat them if they did something really wrong, but George wasn’t able to take it quite as casually as Fred did.

There was another one, too, a Mr. Barrow. He was called the under-butler; George couldn’t figure out for the life of him what he did, beyond walking around looking cross, but it must have been important. Even the footmen seemed too impressed to interrupt him.

By far the most nerve-wracking part of George’s day was serving dinner—and it came right at the end, after the upstairs people had had theirs, so he spent all day dreading it. Everyone was there, from Mr. Carson on down, and he and Fred had to carry in the food, and clear the dishes, and pour everyone’s drinks—he lived in terror that he’d drop or spill something.

Then it happened. Sunday evening—the end of his first full week—he was going around with a pitcher of cider. He’d over-filled it a little, and slopped some onto the tablecloth when he was filling James’s glass. “Watch it,” the footman said, glaring at him.

As he stepped back, George focused on keeping the pitcher steady and not bumping James. He didn’t notice the downstairs dog coming out from under the table to see what all the fuss was about. George tripped over him, barely managing to catch himself on the table, and in the process slopping the cider all over Alfred.

The dog whimpered, and Alfred rose to his full, impressive height, shaking himself off. “Look what you’ve done!”

“The dog,” George said, looking to see if he was all right. But he’d disappeared, called back over to the under-butler.

“It’s not his fault you’re a clumsy oaf,” Mr. Barrow snapped. “Is it, Patches? Are you all right?” he asked, leaning under the table to look at the dog.

“For goodness’ sakes, Walter, go get a rag and clean up this mess,” Mrs. Hughes added, standing as well and taking Alfred by the arm. “Come, Alfred, let’s get you dried off.”

George wished very sincerely to die, even before Mr. Carson started lecturing him in front of everybody.

#

“—remain in this house, you will be much more careful than that,” Carson pronounced.

Now that he was done with the hall-boy, Thomas waited with bated breath for Carson to turn on him, or maybe Patches. Staying out of the way during meals was one part of the dog’s training that was not going particularly well—unless Thomas slipped scraps to him under the table, which Mr. Carson didn’t much like, either.

But he didn’t; just left the hall-boy quaking in his boots and turned to talk to Mrs. Hughes on some other subject. Thomas relaxed, though he did make extra-sure that Patches was safely confined in Mrs. Hughes’s parlour before going up to the library to see how much of a mess the upstairs lot had left before going up to bed.

Fortunately, they hadn’t managed to inflict any serious disarray; there were just a few glasses to be removed for washing and decanters to be topped up.

When he came back down, Mrs. Hughes’s hearth-rug was empty. He had a moment’s panic, wondering if Carson had done something, or—more realistically—if Miss O’Brien had sought revenge for Alfred’s spoiled livery. But Mrs. Hughes said, “The new hall-boy took him out.”

That was the last thing they needed, was Carson finding out about that. Thomas was pretty sure he wasn’t allowed to make even disgraced hall-boys take care of his dog.

He hurried outside, only to stop abruptly when he found the clumsy hall-boy sitting on the ground, clutching Patches and crying.

Thomas considered several responses, including going back inside and pretending he hadn’t seen anything, or telling the hall-boy to get back to work.

He might have done either of those, but for the memory of Mrs. Hughes finding him in a similar position, in almost the same spot—admittedly, in much more dire circumstances, but then, he wasn’t a child.

For a moment, he considered going and getting Mrs. Hughes—she, surely, would know how to handle this. But no, he was an under-butler. Weeping hall-boys were definitely in his remit.

And, with that earlier incident in mind, he at least knew how to start. “Surely it can’t be as black as all that,” he said.

Hall-boy looked up. “Oh, Mr. Barrow,” he said, and cried some more.

Unfortunately, now that he’d started and more-or-less committed himself to seeing the thing through, Thomas had no idea what to say next. To buy himself time, he hitched himself up onto a convenient wine crate and lit a cigarette. Finally he said, “He’s all right, you know.”

“Mr. Barrow?”

“Patches,” he explained. “You didn’t hurt ‘im.” Fortunately. He’d have found it a lot harder to be sympathetic to the hall-boy if Patches was actually hurt.

“Good,” the boy said, between hiccups and sniffles. “I’m glad.”

That wasn’t what he was upset about, then. Giving up on finding a subtle way to ask, Thomas said, “What’s the matter with you, then?”

The boy wailed, “I don’t know,” and then started babbling incoherently about how he was very sorry and he hadn’t meant to ruin Alfred’s uniform and he’d be more careful if he could only have another chance.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Thomas said, once he finally caught on. “What, is that the first time Mr. Carson’s threatened to sack you?” Thomas thought the new boy had been there almost a week—he must be doing pretty well.

“Yes,” the hall-boy said uncertainly.

“He does that all the time,” Thomas said dismissively. “Don’t worry about it.” Then he realized that, as under-butler, advising a hall-boy to ignore Carson was probably unwise. “That is, you’d best not make a habit of it, but if you are more careful in future, I expect you’ll be all right.”

“Really?” Hall-boy said, with more sniffling.

The sniffling was getting pretty revolting, Thomas decided. Taking his handkerchief out of his pocket, he balled it up and threw it at him, saying, “For God’s sake, blow your nose. And yes, if Alfred didn’t get sacked for spilling a plate of lobster on the Dowager Countess, I can’t imagine you’ll be sacked for spilling cider on Alfred.”

The hall-boy, in mid-blow, looked up at Thomas with wide eyes. “Alfred did that?”

“Yes,” Thomas said. “And if he gives you a hard time about his livery, you have my permission to remind him.”

“I daren’t,” hall-boy said, his eyes going even wider.

“Why not?”

“He’s…a footman.”

“Yes, but he’s Alfred,” Thomas pointed out. Surely not even a lowly hall-boy could find the beanpole intimidating. But before the hall-boy could elaborate on what he found frightening about Alfred, he put the wadded-up handkerchief down on his lap, causing Thomas to leap off his crate, saying, “Don’t let him eat that!”

Hall-boy just stared at him like he’d gone mad; Thomas had to rescue the now-slobbery hanky from Patches’s jaws.

At least now he couldn’t quite tell how much of the dampness was Patches and how much was hall-boy-snot. “That’s not food, Patch,” Thomas scolded. Honestly, it seemed like he spent half his days now making sure that Patches didn’t eat things he wasn’t supposed to. Mrs. Hughes assured him the puppy would eventually grow out of it, but so far, he hadn’t.

Patches abandoned the hall-boy with one last lick to the face, then started bouncing around and pawing at Thomas’s coat pocket, trying to get his “toy” back. “Stop that,” Thomas said in his sternest voice. Patches was unimpressed, perhaps because Thomas was scratching his ears at the time. To the hall-boy, he continued, “Are you all right now?”

For a long moment, he didn’t answer. After Thomas had stared at him for what seemed like an uncomfortably long time, hall-boy said, “Are you talking to me, sir?”

“Yes,” Thomas said. Hadn’t they been having a conversation? “You, what’s-your-name. Are you all right now?”

“George. Walter. Yes, I’m all right.”

Thank God; Thomas certainly didn’t have any idea what he would have said if he wasn’t. “Right, then, George Walter, I’m taking me dog for a walk. I suggest you go to bed.”

#

A faint smile on her lips, Elsie retreated to her parlour, before young Walter could see that she’d been lingering in the corridor. She’d thought that the lad might be in need of a sympathetic ear after the mishap at dinner. She hadn’t been sure it should be hers—the lad seemed a little in awe of her—but Anna and Mr. Bates had gone back to their cottage for dinner that evening.

Of all the possible candidates to fill the role, she certainly wouldn’t have expected Thomas. But he had handled it—not the way that she would have, to be sure, but Walter seemed happier, and that was all that mattered.

#

“Mr. Barrow!” George Walter darted out of the servants’ hall just as Thomas came inside from his afternoon walk with Patches. Patches lollopped over to greet him.

“Don’t run in the house,” Thomas scolded both of them. Patches sat and wagged his tail; George Walter just looked sheepish. “What?” he asked the boy.

“Alfred told me to clean the wax off that big candle-holder from the dining room,” George Walter explained.

“So?” Thomas asked, taking his coat off and hanging it.

“So I don’t know how to do it. Do I just scrape it off with a knife, or--”

“No,” Thomas said firmly. “Not unless you want to scratch it. Use hot water to soften it, and if that doesn’t get it all off, you can scrape with a toothpick or the wrong end of a match.”

“Thank you, Mr. Barrow, you saved my life.”

Thomas doubted that. “Why didn’t you just ask Alfred?”

“I couldn’t!” George Walter said, and scampered off, after giving Patches one last pat.

Splendid, Thomas thought gloomily. Now the hall-boy found him less intimidating than Alfred. “This is all your fault,” he told Patches.

Over the next few days, it became clear that Thomas was now going to be treated to all of George Walter’s questions, not just about his duties, but on weighty matters like why Mr. Matthew was called that and not Lord Matthew, or why sometimes Ivy and Daisy acted like best mates and other times like they hated each other. Thomas had no earthly idea about the latter question, but fortunately, George Walter took, “Because girls are daft,” as an answer.

George Walter also made a habit of inviting himself along for Patches’s evening outing and of playing with the dog during his spare moments. After about a week of this, Thomas realized he wasn’t actually annoyed by it—he couldn’t do his job and pay as much attention to Patches as the dog would have liked. And it was rather nice being looked up to by someone who walked on two legs.

The morning that the guests were to arrive for the house party, Lord Grantham said at breakfast, “Barrow, I’ll be too busy to walk Isis and Ramses today. Take them along when you walk Patches, would you?”

Thomas inwardly scoffed at the notion that an under-butler would be any less busy than his lordship on the first day of a house party—in fact, he hadn’t expected that he’d have time to walk Patches at all. But he just said, “Of course, my lord,” thinking that at least this way, Carson wouldn’t be able to assign him something else to do during his usual walking hour.

He hadn’t expected it to be a problem—it sometimes happened that they met up with his lordship and the other dogs on their walks, and after a little initial awkwardness, they’d settled into a habit of letting the three off their leads for a romp, while Thomas and his lordship made slightly stilted conversation about the weather and how big Ramses was getting.

It turned out, however, that getting all three dogs to the field where they usually played was a challenge. Isis walked sedately at Thomas’s side, but the two puppies pulled at their leads, either trying to drag the party in opposite directions or tumbling over each other and getting hopelessly tangled. The journey to the field took at least twice as long as it usually did.

Once they were released into the field, Thomas sat on the fence and got to work undoing the knots the puppies had made of their leads. He hoped that when it was time to return, they’d be too tired to disobey, but his hopes were not fulfilled. He had to call until he was hoarse just to get them to come back into sight, and then when they were nearly within reach, Ramses caught scent of a rabbit or something and took off, the other two bounding after him.

He returned to the house barely in time for tea, and so muddy and disheveled that Carson decided to have the footmen serve it instead.

#

“No, Patch—you have to wait here. Damn it! Bloody dog.”

George peered out of the boot room to see Mr. Barrow standing at the door with his coat on and the two upstairs dogs on leads. Patches, without his lead, jumped around, bouncing off the other dogs and Mr. Barrow’s legs. George’s breath caught in his throat when he saw Mr. Barrow shove Patches back with his foot, but it must not have hurt—Patches seemed to think it was a game. “Mr. Barrow? What are you doing?”

“Trying to take his lordship’s dogs for a walk.”

“Patches can’t go with them?”

“No.”

George almost asked why not—he didn’t think dogs would care—but Mr. Barrow didn’t seem in any mood to explain things to the likes of him. Still, as an idea formed in his head, he ventured, “Will you take Patches later?”

“Probably not, I’m too busy. He’ll be all right.”

“I could take him.”

Mr. Barrow looked unconvinced.

“Please? I’ll be real careful. And I’m done all my work until it’s time to lay the tea.”

Mr. Barrow peered down the hallway. “Where’s Mr. Carson?”

“In his pantry, doing the wine ledger.” Doing what with it, George had no idea, but James had said never to interrupt him when he was doing it, if you valued your life.

“All right, get yer coat. Hurry.”

The afternoon walk was among the most glorious hours of George’s young life. He felt very grown up and important, helping the under-butler with one of his important jobs. Mr. Barrow didn’t talk to him much, but that was all right—George didn’t imagine that an exalted personage like an under-butler would have anything to say to the likes of him. On the way back, Mr. Barrow even let him take the lead of one of the upstairs dogs, Ramses.

He returned to the servants’ hall feeling ten feet tall.

“Where have you been?” Alfred asked crossly. “I was looking for you to bring in the coal.”

“I were helping Mr. Barrow walk his lordship’s dogs,” George said proudly. That wasn’t a lie, since he’d walked Ramses on the way back.

Alfred looked as if he’s smelt something unpleasant. “He do anything funny?”

Miss O’Brien, the lady’s maid, looked up from her sewing with an interested expression.

“No,” George said uncertainly. Was Mr. Barrow known for being funny? George didn’t think he’d ever seen him tell a joke.

#

When, on the third day of the house party, his lordship once again asked Thomas to walk Isis and Ramses, Thomas decided that no one could possibly object to his conscripting George Walter to help with the task—it would have fallen to a footman or a hall-boy anyway, if not for the fact that his lordship thought Thomas was fond of dogs. He would walk Isis—who, as the senior upstairs dog, was more deserving of an under-butler’s services—and the hall-boy could take Ramses. And because Isis was good on the lead, he could take Patches along, but George Walter was very clearly taking care of his lordship’s dog, not Thomas’s.

It was so clear, in fact, that Thomas decided there was no need to explain it to Mr. Carson, and was very relieved when all five of them got out of the house without attracting his notice.

The walk to the field went smoothly, except that George Walter kept giving him inquisitive looks out of the corner of his eye, like he was waiting for Thomas to do something. After they released the dogs, Thomas perched on the fence, lit a cigarette, and asked, “What are you lookin’ at?”

“Nothing, Mr. Barrow,” George Walter said, struggling to climb up the fence. “I was just wondering if you were going to do anything funny.”

Thomas’s pulse hammered in his ears. “What?” he managed to get out.

“Yesterday, when I said I’d been walking the dogs with you, Alfred asked if you did anything funny. Do you know lots of jokes?”

Thomas’s panic faded. Alfred certainly had meant something sly by the question, but it had sailed right over George Walter’s head. “Yes, but you’re too young to hear any of them.”

“Oh.” Finally having achieved the summit of the fence-rail, George Walter almost toppled over the other side.

Thomas steadied him with a hand, and searched for some neutral subject to introduce, before the lad could ask anything else about his “jokes.” “D’you have a dog at home?” he asked, nodding out at the ones in the field.

“No—well, I did once.”

Thomas nodded. “I had one for a little while, but my parents made me get rid of it.”

“Mine, too,” George Walter said. “It were a sheepdog pup. ‘e got out one day and herded all t’weanling lambs into the pond, and they drowned. So dad drowned ‘im, too. In a sack with rocks in.”

Thomas thought he had a fairly strong stomach, but it was hard not to let his mouth drop open in horror, either at the story itself or at the way the boy related it, as though it were an amusing anecdote. “Christ,” he said weakly, scanning the field until he saw Patches, to reassure himself that he was all right.

“I didn’t think it were right,” George Walter continued. “It’s their instinct to herd sheep, and he must’ve seen how after he got them in the pond, they didn’t try to run away. He dinn’t know they were drowned.”

“Ah, no, I’m sure he didn’t.” And here Thomas had thought his dad was a nasty one—all he’d done was make Thomas take the puppy to a bit of waste ground very far from home and leave him there. “Your dad’s a farmer, then?” he asked, to change the subject again.

“Just a farm worker; it weren’t our own place.”

Thomas nodded and smoked. Once he decided that the subject of his “funniness” had been left to rest long enough, he added casually, “By the way, better not go around telling the others that you’re helping me with the dogs.” He didn’t want Carson getting the wrong idea about it. “They might be jealous.”

#

George got to go on walking the dogs with Mr. Barrow for two more glorious days before the house party guests—who George had not so much as laid eyes on—left. George was fairly sure that Mr. Barrow wouldn’t need any help walking his own dog, but after clearing the lunch dishes, he lingered in the corridor, watching Mr. Barrow put on his coat while Patches larked around his feet.

“His lordship’s walking his own dogs today,” Mr. Barrow said.

“I know,” George said. “I mean, I can see the others aren’t here.” He hesitated, then asked boldly, “Can I come anyway?” He and Fred usually got an hour to play after lunch, if they had finished all their duties.

Mr. Barrow looked down the corridor. “Have you done all your work?”

“Yes.”

“In that case, it’s a free country, but don’t go saying I asked you.”

Grinning broadly, George grabbed his coat.

When they neared the field where the dogs played, Patches started pulling at the lead, which Mr. Barrow had kept hold of himself. “Bloody buggering hell,” Mr. Barrow said. George looked at him in alarm, but all he did was say, “Keep your mouth shut.”

When they got to the field, one of the upstairs dogs came running over—Ramses, George thought it was. And there was a man in a tweed coat standing at the fence. “Who’s that?” George wondered.

“Shut up,” Mr. Barrow said, between clenched teeth. He bent and unclipped Patches’s lead, but instead of getting up on the fence like they usually did, he stood a little distance away, with his hands behind his back, like a soldier.

The man looked over at them, smiling pleasantly. “Good afternoon, Barrow.”

“Good afternoon, my lord,” Mr. Barrow said.

That was his lordship? No wonder Mr. Barrow had told him to shut up. George was torn between trying to hide behind Mr. Barrow, or just going very still, like a rabbit, in hopes that he wouldn’t be noticed.

“Who’s this?” his lordship asked.

Quite on their own, George’s legs made the decision that he should dive behind Mr. Barrow. Mr. Barrow hauled him back out by the collar of his jacket, saying, “George Walter. New hall-boy, m’lord. Fond of dogs.”

“Ah,” his lordship said, looking right at him. “I hope you’re minding Mr. Barrow.”

Oh, God, he was going to have to answer, wasn’t he? “Yes, my lord,” George managed, in an undignified squeak.

His lordship nodded and wandered back over to the fence to watch the dogs. Mr. Barrow seemed to remember that he still had a grip on George’s collar and let go of him, putting his hands behind his back again. George copied him.

Fortunately for George’s nerves, his lordship whistled up the upstairs dogs and headed back to the house not long after. Mr. Barrow had to catch Patches by the collar to keep him from going with them, which would have been very funny if George hadn’t been worried about what would happen if he hadn’t succeeded.

Once they were out of sight, Mr. Barrow let Patches go and leaned against the fence, lighting a cigarette, saying, “That was Lord Grantham, if you didn’t realize.”

George nodded. Was he allowed to speak now? He hoped so. “Did I do anything wrong?”

“No,” Mr. Barrow said, shaking his head. “But we’re going to have to do something about your accent if you’re ever going to be a footman.”

George wasn’t sure if he was more startled by the notion that he had an accent, or that Mr. Barrow thought he might one day be a footman. The second one won out, and he blurted out, “Can I?”

“What?”

“Be a footman.”

“Not until you’re at least a foot and a half taller and can pronounce your r’s properly, you can’t,” Mr. Barrow said. “Just for starters. But that is the next thing to try for after you’ve been a hall-boy for a while.”

Somehow, George had never quite realized that he might not be a hall-boy forever—or that James and Alfred, logically, must not have been born in livery. “Were the others hall-boys, once?”

“James was. In a different house. I was.”

Somehow, that wasn’t quite as shocking—Mr. Barrow seemed more human than Alfred and James.

“Rumor has it that Mr. Carson might have been, though I can’t imagine it myself. Alfred was a hotel waiter, if you can believe that. His auntie got him the job here. At least you got yours on merit. Don’t tell anyone I said that. Anyway, if he can be a footman, there’s no reason you can’t, once you’re grown up.”

Considered up-close, the idea was terrifying. George still got nervous serving at the servants’ hall table; if he had to do it in the upstairs dining room, he thought he’d die. But, envisioned in some safely remote future when he was all grown up and significantly taller, it was thrilling. “Will you help me?”

“With what, getting taller?”

“No, my accent. And everything else,” George added, remembering that Mr. Barrow had said that his accent and being taller were only two of the things he had to do.

“I suppose,” Mr. Barrow said, throwing his cigarette on the ground. “All right, first off, it’s ‘my lord,’ not ‘la-ard…’”

#

“—and Lady Mary, Mr. Matthew, Mr. Branson, and the children will be having a picnic luncheon by the folly,” Carson concluded the run-down of the day’s events. “Mr. Barrow, you will serve.”

Thomas smiled and said, “Yes. Mr. Carson,” but cursed inwardly. That was one more thing he didn’t need in an already busy day. First he’d have to break the news to Mrs. Patmore that she’d have to prepare something special for them, then get the gardener to set up a table and chairs for them, cart everything out there, serve the meal like usual, and then haul everything back. Just like that, his free hour after lunch and the time he’d been planning to use to get ahead on a few tasks before his upcoming half-day, vanished like a puff of smoke.

Sometimes he wondered if the upstairs lot had the slightest idea how much extra work their little whims made for people.

Branson ought to, at least, but the ridiculous thing probably hadn’t been his idea.

After getting the table set with linen, silver, and china, Thomas raced back to the house to check on the progress of the picnic food. Mrs. Patmore was still getting the basket ready, so Thomas took advantage of the momentary lull to whisk Patches outside to do what he needed to do.

It was a fine day—unfortunately, otherwise the blasted picnic would have been rescheduled—and the dog was not eager to go back into the house. Thomas thought he might have to pick him up and carry him back in, with disastrous consequences for his livery.

Sometimes he wished Isis had gotten in trouble with a dark-haired dog. It would have been so much easier.

Once they were back inside, Patches didn’t want to settle down in Mrs. Hughes’s room, not even with the inducement of a nice meaty bone that Thomas had cadged from Mrs. Patmore the day before. Patches would lie down and gnaw on it as long as Thomas was standing there, but as soon as he tried to leave, the dog jumped up and tried to worm his way out the door with him.

“Now you’re just being silly,” Thomas said sternly. “You know I have to work. Stay here and behave yourself. We’ll go for a long walk tomorrow.”

Patches was characteristically unimpressed by Thomas’s logic. There was just no reasoning with dogs. Thomas managed to exit Mrs. Hughes’s parlour by opening the door just enough to squeeze his body through, and closing it very quickly behind him. Patches scratched at the other side of the door and whined. “Be quiet! Go lay down!”

A pink nose snuffled at the gap under the door. Giving up, Thomas went to go hurry up Mrs. Patmore.

The picnic was now nearly ready, and under Thomas’s watchful eye, Ivy finished packing it in record time. After a brief stop in Mr. Carson’s pantry for the champagne, Thomas was ready to go.

But to get outside, Thomas had to make it past another young creature. George Walter poked his head out of the boot room and whispered loudly, “Mr. Barrow!”

Thomas hesitated between steps. “What? I have to get this out to Lady Mary and the rest of them.”

“I know. I thought…you aren’t going to have time to walk Patches, are you?”

“No. He’s in Mrs. Hughes’s room; he’ll be fine.”

“I thought maybe I could take him out. By myself. Since you’re busy.”

Thomas hesitated.

“I’ll be careful, I promise!”

Mr. Carson wouldn’t like it—but Mrs. Hughes wouldn’t be happy if Patches ransacked her sitting room, either. Between the two of them, Thomas thought Mrs. Hughes was a more important ally in ensuring Patches’s continued residence at Downton. “Only if you’re done all your work,” Thomas said, after looking up and down the corridor to make sure no one was spying.

“Yes, Mr. Barrow. Thank you!”

Thomas started to go, then turned back and added, “And don’t let Mr. Carson find out, whatever you do. This is just between us.”

#

After lunch, Elsie decided to take Mr. Carson a cup of tea and a biscuit in his pantry. He’d barely eaten, fretting over how Lady Mary’s precious picnic was going—everything from whether the fourth-best china was perhaps too informal for the occasion to whether they should have had the gardener put up a pavilion, to make sure the babies didn’t get too much sun.

And the subject was still on his mind—when she entered the pantry, his first words were, “They’re still not back yet.”

“I expect that means they’re having a nice time,” Elsie soothed, putting the teacup and biscuit down on his desk without comment. Thomas likely wasn’t having a particularly enjoyable time, missing his own lunch to stand in the sun watching three adults and two infants eat theirs, but Elsie was quite sure that if there was the slightest hint of a problem, Lady Mary would have handed the baby back to the nurse and returned to the house.

“I should have overseen the preparations myself,” Mr. Carson groused, picking up the teacup.

“I’m sure Mr. Barrow can hand around a plate of sandwiches as well as the next person,” Elsie pointed out.

“That,” Mr. Carson said, “is precisely what I’m afraid of.”

Before he could elaborate on that remark, young Alfred tapped at the door. “Mr. Carson. I’m sorry to bother you, but I think there’s something you had better know.”

Mr. Carson put the teacup down in the saucer and pushed it away. “What is it, Alfred?”

Alfred glanced at her, and back at Mr. Carson. “It’s about Mr. Barrow.”

Oh, no. Thomas couldn’t possibly have been foolish enough to get himself in that sort of trouble again, could he?

“Ah,” Carson said. “Mrs. Hughes, perhaps you should--”

Considering how likely it was that whatever Alfred was about to say was either a misunderstanding or an out-and-out lie instigated by Miss O’Brien, Elsie wasn’t about to be shuffled off that way. “Shut the door?” she suggested. “Yes, I will.” She ushered Alfred inside and suited action to words.

Mr. Carson sighed heavily. “Very well. What is it, Alfred?”

Alfred glanced over at her again. “I think he’s done something to Walter. Somethin’ improper.”

#

“We put some lunch aside for you, Mr. Barrow,” Ivy said as Thomas handed over the last of the picnic china. “Do you want it in the servants’ hall?”

“Yes,” Thomas said. He’d thought he might starve to death waiting for the blasted picnic to be over. He wouldn’t have been above stopping on the way back to scarf down some leftovers—provided nobody could see him—but he hadn’t been sure what had been touched with slobbery baby-hands and what hadn’t. “I’ll be there in a minute; I just have to check something first.”

He ducked into Mrs. Hughes’s parlour, where Patches was curled up on the hearthrug with his nose on his flank. He looked up and thumped his tail when he saw Thomas, but didn’t get up.

Good. Thomas crouched next to him and ruffled his ears. “Did you get a nice walk after all, boy?” Patches stretched and rolled over onto his back. “Good,” Thomas said, scratching his tummy. “I hope you thanked George Walter. It’s too bad you couldn’t come with me—babies drop a lot of food; did you know that? But I’ll get you something nice when I go into Ripon--”

“Mr. Barrow!” Carson thundered from the doorway.

Thomas jumped to his feet, mentally running through what he had just said, to see if there was something in it to account for how angry Mr. Carson seemed. Not unless he’d heard the part about George Walter, and Thomas was nearly sure he hadn’t.

Maybe Patches had done something, while he was out? Escaped upstairs again, or made a mess in Mrs. Hughes’s parlour?

“Yes, Mr. Carson?” Thomas asked hesitantly.

“Once again, Alfred has come to me with a very disturbing account of your behavior.”

“What?” For a moment, Thomas didn’t have the slightest idea what he could be talking about, unless Miss O’Brien had made something up out of whole cloth.

Then he remembered it had been Alfred who asked George Walter if Thomas had done anything “funny.”

Oh, Christ. If that was what Alfred suspected, Thomas almost couldn’t blame him for running to Carson with it—unlike the other thing, which was really no-one’s business.

But before he said anything else, he’d better make sure that it really wasn’t some new, ridiculous lie. “Is this about George Walter?”

Carson closed his eyes briefly. “Yes. And I hope I need not tell you that this is even more shocking and revolting than the previous incident. Pressing your attentions on a grown man whom you believed to be similarly afflicted is one thing, but—” He shook his head, apparently too disgusted even for words.

“It’s not anything like that, Mr. Carson,” Thomas said quickly. “I mean, I agree. I’d never do anything like that to a child. Alfred—misunderstood. George Walter likes my dog, and I gave him some advice about his job. That’s all.”

Disbelief and disgust were still painted on Mr. Carson’s features. “Then why, earlier today, did Alfred overhear you saying, ‘Don’t let Mr. Carson find out, whatever you do. This is just between us’? Alfred assures me that those were your exact words.”

“I….” Thomas’s mind raced for an answer that did not require coming clean about the dog-walking. He couldn’t think of one, and it was very clear that Carson wasn’t going to be put off by any feeble excuse. “That was about Patches.”

“Patches,” Carson repeated skeptically.

“Yes. George Walter’s been helping me with him. Only when he’s caught up with his work,” Thomas added, which was both true and, he hoped, a mitigating circumstance. “I wasn’t going to haven’t have time to take Patches for his walk, with the picnic and everything, and he asked if he could take him. I said all right, but only if he had finished all of his work.”

“And you felt that this ought to be kept a secret from me?”

“I know I’m not supposed to have the hall-boys take care of my dog,” Thomas admitted. “But he wanted to, and Patches behaves better when he’s had his exercise.”

“I see. And that is your story?”

“It’s the truth. You can ask George Walter.” George Walter might try to deny it, thinking Thomas would want him to, but Thomas didn’t think he’d hold up long under questioning.

“I shall, Mr. Barrow,” Carson said repressively. “And we will speak again once I have. You may rely on that.”

#

Returning downstairs after being summoned by Lady Grantham to discuss doing “something different” with the drawing room, Elsie found that Thomas had already returned, and been confronted by Mr. Carson—the way he was toying with his lunch of leftovers while looking simultaneously guilty and put-upon was a sure sign.

Elsie was as certain as she could be that Thomas wouldn’t do anything to harm the child, but she wasn’t sure how to convince Mr. Carson of that. She’d hoped to be present to hear what Thomas had to say for himself, but now that she’d missed that chance, she’d have to have it secondhand from Mr. Carson.

Mr. Carson was predictably reluctant to discuss the subject, but he eventually consented to summarize Thomas’s defense.

“Oh, well, then, that’s all sorted out,” she said, vastly relieved, once she’d heard it.

“You think he’s telling the truth?” Carson asked skeptically.

“Yes, I do,” she said firmly. “I’ve seen them together, and I never noticed anything unwholesome.”

“Why haven’t you said anything to me about it?”

“Because I didn’t see it as any cause for concern. I think it’s quite a refreshing change to see Thomas being kind to someone.”

“Need I remind you what happened the last time Thomas took a special interest in another of the male staff?”

“It’s hardly the same thing. Walter is very young, and most men ‘like that’ are no more interested in small boys than normal men are in little girls. I trust there would be no need to worry if you were seen being kind to a maid the same age as Walter?” It was difficult to imagine Mr. Carson in the parallel circumstance, though Elsie admitted to herself that if it did happen, Mr. Carson wouldn’t be foolish enough to encourage a girl to keep the friendship a secret from her.

Mr. Carson shook his head. “How is it that you know so much about ‘men like that,’ Mrs. Hughes?”

“Never you mind about that,” Elsie said. “Have you spoken to Walter?”

“No, I gave him some errands to do in the village, so he wouldn’t be here when I confronted Mr. Barrow. I’d like to avoid it, but I think I shall have to speak to him when he returns.”

“I’ll speak to him, if you don’t mind,” she said. “Walter is very intimidated by you. And I think I can find a way to ask without letting on precisely what we’re wondering about.” Provided that nothing was actually amiss, she didn’t want to give Walter a reason to feel uncomfortable around Thomas.

“That might be best,” Mr. Carson agreed. “But answer me this. If all they’re doing is walking the dog, why would Mr. Barrow insist that it be kept a secret, from me in particular?”

Elsie sighed. “Because he’s somehow convinced himself that if there’s the slightest amount of trouble over the dog, you’ll insist he get rid of him. I’m sure that you wouldn’t really be so cruel—” She ignored Mr. Carson’s scoff. “—but I thought it best not to tell him otherwise, since he’s been making such an effort to make sure that Patches doesn’t inconvenience anyone, and we don’t want to discourage that. But perhaps that was a mistake.”

#

George hurried back up the path from the village, hoping he wouldn’t be late for tea. He’d gotten through the list of errands Mr. Carson had given him promptly enough—it was a funny sort of list, nothing that seemed particularly important, but he’d had to go to four different shops. But Mr. Carson had said that he might spend one penny of the change at the sweet shop, and he’d lingered over his choice, not sure whether to get the boiled sweets, which provided the most for a penny; liquorices allsorts, which for some reason he thought Mr. Barrow might like, if he shared them; or a single, very tiny piece of chocolate.

He settled in the end on the boiled sweets, since he thought it very likely that Fred would take at least half of them off him, and that way he’d still have some left. But it had been a hard decision.

When he’d first come to the big house, he’d been surprised at how well they ate downstairs—four meals a day, and there was usually meat for at least two of them. Miss Anna said it was because of how hard they worked, but back on the farm he’d worked harder, and ate a lot less. But he’d gotten used to it now, and he’d be sorry if he missed his tea, sweets or not.

Fortunately, when he got in, Fred was still laying the table for tea. George said he’d help him as soon as he gave Mr. Carson the things from the village, but before he could do that, Mrs. Hughes called him into her sitting room.

George went in hesitantly. Mrs. Hughes was nice—Mr. Barrow said so—but he was still a little in awe of her. Patches was there, though, and came over to greet him, which made George feel a little better about things.

His nervousness returned, though, when Mrs. Hughes said, “Please sit down, Walter.”

Giving Patches a last pat, he perched on a chair, keeping a wary eye on the housekeeper.

“It’s all right,” she said. “I’m not going to bite you.”

“No, mum,” he said.

She took a seat across from him, seeming to hesitate. “How do you like working here?”

“Very much, mum,” he said anxiously. “I think I’m starting to get better at it. At least, I hope so.”

“Yes, you seem to be learning your duties quite well.” She hesitated again. “What about the other staff? Has everyone been kind to you?”

“Yes, mum,” George said. No one had been precisely unkind, at least, although most of them didn’t take much notice of him at all. That was all right with him—he was used to getting a clip ‘round the ear, or worse, when he was noticed.

“Good. What about…Mr. Barrow? He seems to have taken an interest in you.”

George sat up a little straighter, proud that she had noticed. “He lets me help with the dogs, sometimes,” he explained. It would be all right to tell her, he thought, since she wouldn’t be jealous. “And he tells me how to do things.”

“What sort of things?”

“Like…talking better, and how to clean things, and waiting at table. He says there’s a lot of things I have to learn if….” Now George hesitated. He wasn’t sure whether to say that Mr. Barrow thought he could be a footman one day. Mr. Barrow had brought it up as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world, but George harbored a nagging fear that the others would laugh at the idea.

“If what?”

“If I could ever be a footman, when I’m bigger.”

“I see,” Mrs. Hughes said. She was smiling, but not in a mean way. “Yes, Mr. Barrow would be a good person to help you with that.”

“Yes, mum. He knows everything.”

“Perhaps not quite everything,” Mrs. Hughes said. “But he knows a great deal, yes.” There was another one of those funny little hesitations. “He hasn’t asked you to do anything…unusual, has he?”

George shook his head, puzzled. The question reminded him, somehow, of Alfred asking if Mr. Barrow had done anything “funny,” but he couldn’t put his finger on why. “No. Except for walking the dogs; I don’t think he ever lets Fred help with that.”

“Yes, that’s fine,” Mrs. Hughes said. “And you do know that you can come to me or Mr. Carson, as well as Mr. Barrow, if there’s anything you need?”

“Yes, mum,” George said obediently, though he didn’t think he would—Mr. Barrow was so much easier to talk to than either of them.

“All right, then, you may go.”

George hurried to the servants’ hall where, as he’d expected, Fred moaned about how he’d had to lay the table all by himself, and relieved him of over half his sweets.

#

Elsie had intended to speak to Thomas after tea, but made a swift change of course when she saw the frankly murderous glares that Alfred was sending in his direction. Instead, she invited Thomas to bring his tea into her parlour, and resolved to talk to Alfred afterwards.

Thomas went into her parlour like a condemned man heading for the gallows, and as soon as the door closed behind them, said, in a low, defeated tone, “I know what Alfred thinks, Mrs. Hughes, but I swear it isn’t like that.”

“I know,” she said soothingly.

“Oh,” Thomas said, standing up straighter and, she thought, attempting to look as though he’d known that. “Yes, good.”

“Please, sit,” she suggested. Thomas did so, in the same chair that Walter had taken. Patches sat at his feet and gazed up at him adoringly; Thomas stroked his ears absently. “Now, Mr. Barrow, what, exactly, did you think you were doing telling a hall-boy to keep secrets from Mr. Carson?”

“He was only walking my dog,” Thomas said sulkily. “That’s not a crime, is it?”

“No, it isn’t. So why the need for secrecy?”

“Because Mr. Carson doesn’t want the hall-boys taking care of my dog. Or the footmen, but they haven’t been a problem. The hall-boys won’t leave ‘im alone. I don’t want Mr. Carson getting cross about it and saying he has to go, do I?”

“Mr. Barrow,” she said. “Mr. Carson is not sufficiently divorced from reality that he believes it possible to prevent boys from playing with a dog.” It would have been funny if she hadn’t known how thoroughly Thomas meant it. He’d been the same way about the question of keeping the dog in the first place—so convinced that something dreadful would happen if anyone even realized that he liked the dog. “He simply doesn’t want the hall-boys, or anyone else, neglecting their duties on the excuse that they need to care for your dog. If they wish to play with Patches during their free time, Mr. Carson will not object.”

Elsie was once again treated to the spectacle of Thomas trying to look as though he had known something that he very clearly hadn’t. She was reminded of a cat that had fallen off a window-sill, stalking away with its head held high as if it had simply decided it was time to get down.

“Well,” Thomas said, “I said George Walter could only walk Patches if he was finished with his work.”

“Good,” Elsie said. “And I think it’s very kind of you to advise him about his job, and I know he appreciates it—he spoke very highly of you.”

Thomas sat up a little straighter at that—much the same way George had when she’d mentioned Thomas’s interest in him. It seemed to Elsie that both of them were getting something out of the friendship. “He’s a good lad,” Thomas said.

“I think so, too,” she agreed. “But surely you can see why Alfred was a bit…alarmed.”

“Because he’s--” Thomas—wisely, in Elsie’s opinion—decided not to finish that thought. “There’s nothing wrong with it. He’s like a little brother or something. What, I’m not supposed to be nice to people now?”

“No one’s saying that,” she said. “But only being nice to him in secret, and asking him to conceal things from the rest of the staff, makes it look as though there might be something going on that needs to be kept hidden.” Beyond that, Thomas was simply not very good at secrecy—privately, Elsie thought that the only reason Mr. Carson hadn’t noticed the friendship was that he didn’t pay quite as much attention to his most junior members of staff as he really ought. She wasn’t about to tell Thomas that, though.

“I hadn’t thought of it quite like that,” Thomas admitted. Elsie was surprised to hear that—not surprised that it was true, mind, but surprised Thomas was saying it out loud. “I suppose I…didn’t want anyone telling him about…what happened last year. I figured somebody would, if they knew I was looking after him. Either to warn him, or just to be nasty.”

Elsie had little doubt which “somebody” Thomas had in mind. “I agree, it is not a subject young Walter needs to hear about. Mr. Carson or I will make sure that Alfred understands that there is nothing he needs to be warned about. And as for--” Miss O’Brien “—the other aspect, we’ll also make it clear that the subject remains off-limits for gossip.”

Thomas looked startled, as he always did by kindness. “Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”

“Good,” she said. “Go on doing what you’re doing—just don’t be so secretive about it. I know you’ve been advising Walter about his career. You might think about how, for the sake of your own, it’s important that the others see you can take an interest in junior members of staff without there being anything unseemly in it.” Mr. Carson could stand to see that, too—another point she wouldn’t share with Thomas.

“Yes, you’re right. Thank you, Mrs. Hughes.”

#

After tea, Mr. Barrow went outside to have a smoke, with Patches in tow. Casually, George joined them, taking out one of his remaining sweets.

“What are you doing here?” Mr. Barrow asked.

George shrugged, and tilted the sack of sweets in his direction. “Do you want one?”

“No,” Mr. Barrow said, smiling. “Thanks. Keep them.”

“D’you think Patches wants one?” George wondered.

“Probably, but don’t give him any. Bad for his teeth.” Mr. Barrow leaned against the wall and took a pull from his cigarette. “By the way, I talked to Mr. Carson about you helping with Patches.”

“You did?”

“He says it’s all right, as long as you don’t do it when you’re meant to be working.”

George nodded eagerly. “I won’t, I promise.”

“Good.”

When they went back inside, Alfred met them in the corridor by the coat-rack. “Mr. Barrow,” he said hesitantly.

George wondered what a footman had to feel anxious about. He hoped Alfred wasn’t going to ask to take over his dog-helping duties.

“What is it, Alfred?” Mr. Barrow asked.

Alfred glanced down at George. “I just wanted to say, I’m sorry about…I mean, Mrs. Hughes explained. I thought….”

“Yes, I know what you thought,” Mr. Barrow said. “It’s fine.”

“Thank you, Mr. Barrow. And—Walter, I hope you know Mr. Barrow isn’t your only friend here.”

Noticed by Mrs. Hughes, Mr. Carson and a footman on the same day, George walked on air for the rest of the evening.

#

Thomas was inexplicably nervous about putting into practice Mrs. Hughes’s suggestion of being kind to George Walter where the others could see. He had some worries about what the others would make of it—particularly Miss O’Brien—and beyond that, it was difficult to find an opportunity. George Walter tended to save his questions for when they were alone, whether because he was naturally shy or because he’d picked up Thomas’s habit of secrecy, Thomas wasn’t sure.

Either way, he could see that Mrs. Hughes was right—unlike many others of Thomas’s connections, there was no need to hide this one, and George Walter wanted taking out of his shell a bit, if he was going to make a footman. After a few awkward initial attempts, Thomas got into the habit of advising George Walter on his serving technique during meals, and of explaining what he was doing when he noticed the hall-boy watching him about his duties. He was secretly thrilled when he noticed James and Alfred similarly taking Fred under their wings.

Not only that, but Mr. Carson seemed to have noticed—and approved. One day during lunch in the servants’ hall he said, “Since the ladies are going to the Dower House for tea, I’ll handle the gentlemen on my own this afternoon. Mr. Barrow, James, Alfred, that will give you some extra time to set the table for dinner. You might take the lads with you, and show them how we do it.”

Down at the other end of the table, Fred and George Walter exchanged wide-eyed glances. “You mean us, Mr. Carson?” George Walter asked.

“Yes, of course I mean you. If Mr. Barrow and the footmen don’t mind.”

“I think we can manage that,” Thomas said, glancing at James and Alfred. “Can’t we?”

James said, “Of course, Mr. Barrow,” and Alfred nodded along.

“Mind your shoes and hands are clean,” Carson told the boys, “and don’t touch anything, unless Mr. Barrow says you may.”

George Walter was so excited about this adventure that he went as far as suggesting that they cut short Patches’s walk in order to get right to it. He settled down a bit when Thomas reminded him that they had nearly six hours before the dressing gong even went , but remained quite keen, bouncing around like Patches in anticipation of a treat.

Both lads got very quiet when they went upstairs, looking around at the dining room with wide eyes.

“They eat here every day?” George Walter asked in a whisper. “I mean, it’s not for best?”

“’course they do,” Fred said scornfully—but just as quietly.

“It’s all right,” Thomas said, amused. “His lordship and Mr. Matthew are all the way over in the library; they won’t hear if you talk normally. Now, Alfred and James are going to start by putting on the under-cloth, which goes between the table and the good tablecloth…”

Around the time that they were finished setting the table, Mr. Carson came. After surveying the table and finding everything correct, snapped, “Walter. How many forks are placed on the table?”

Walter, already standing at attention, stiffened his spine even more. “No more than four,” he answered.

“Four?” Carson asked. Thomas had the distinct impression he was trying to sound kind, but it was not very convincing.

“Yes, sir,” George Walter said confidently. “Three to t’left of—” He paused, adjusted his accent, and continued, “the plate, and if there’s an oyster fork on the right, that makes four.”

“I see. Yes, that’s correct, Walter.”

He went on to ask Fred about the placement of the napkin; when Fred answered correctly, Alfred shot Thomas a triumphant look.

So this was a competition now, was it? Good—Thomas was quite confident that his protégé was the better-prepared of the two.

Carson went on quizzing the boys on what they had learned, alternating questions between the two of them. Fred’s answers were generally correct, but a bit less complete than George Walter’s. Fred was able to explain, for instance, the placement of the two wine glasses that were on the table—but George Walter remembered what Thomas had said about what additional ones might be used for a more formal dinner.

When he’d run out of questions to ask, Mr. Carson said, “I must say, lads, I’m very impressed by your knowledge. Particularly you, Walter—you’ve learned a great deal in such a short time.”

George Walter beamed. “Thank you, Mr. Carson. But it’s really thanks to Mr. Barrow—I wouldn’t have learned so much without his help.”

Carson came perilously close to smiling at that. “I see. Then I commend you as well, Mr. Barrow.”

“He’s a quick study,” Thomas answered.

Nodding, Carson went on, “James, Alfred, you might follow Mr. Barrow’s example, and take a bit more care with Fred.”

As they went downstairs, following in the butler’s wake like ducklings, Thomas found himself feeling rather more pleased with himself than he ever had. But really, he thought, someone ought to have mentioned Patches, when they were all standing around congratulating each other. The dog had started it all.

Fin