Thomas and the Society of Sentinels (3/15)
Chapter Three
Not expecting it to be the same. Thomas wondered if his lordship had guessed what he’d been thinking earlier-or worse, knew, somehow. Sentinels could tell when you were lying; maybe they could tell…well, other things.
Either way, he supposed he ought to be grateful that his lordship had been so direct with him. At least he wouldn’t be the same fool twice. He’d just have to remember to keep a professional distance, despite the unusual intimacies of the situation. His lordship was no different from Lord Grantham; that was the way to think of it.
Except that Lord Grantham hadn’t been interested in men. His lordship wasn’t interested in him.
That means there’s a chance he might change his mind, doesn’t it? Some traitorous part of Thomas’s mind whispered. Maybe, if Thomas was charming and affectionate-
Except that he was terrible at both of those things, and was-if recent experience was any indicator-even worse at distinguishing hard reality from fond hopes. No.
He could take a hint. If it was blatant enough, anyway.
When they went into the dressing room, he began establishing the new routine of professional distance. His lordship already had a habit of touching him-nothing improper, just on his hand or arm, but it reminded Thomas of the way he’d been with Jimmy, and if he kept doing it, Thomas wouldn’t be able to stop himself thinking things he wasn’t mean to think. He only had to step out of the way of his lordship’s hands a few times before he began keeping them to himself. His lordship was cleverer at taking a hint than Thomas was. Thomas almost wished he hadn’t been, but quashed that thought firmly.
After seeing his lordship settled in the smoking room, Thomas went looking for the butler’s pantry. He got a bit turned around, and had to be pointed in the right direction-humiliatingly-by Kip.
“Are you looking for Mr. Weatherby?” he asked in his awful little accent. “’is room’s down this hall and to the--” He paused and glanced down at his hands. “-left. Yeah. Left.”
“Thanks,” Thomas said. “And by the way, while you were blathering at me this morning, you could have mentioned I was supposed to have a cup of tea ready for his lordship when I woke him.”
“You said you knew all about it, didn’t you?” Kip countered before scampering off.
Finally, he located Weatherby, slightly surprised to find his pantry exactly where Kip had said it would be.
“Good morning. Are you settling in well?”
“Yes, thanks,” Thomas said, carefully keeping his recent disappointment off his face.
“I’m glad to hear it. Is Lord Pellinger in his rooms, or…?”
“The smoking room,” Thomas said.
“Good. We don’t need to rush, then, since the duty Guides will see to anything he needs. Ordinarily, if you haven’t any other duties to attend to, you can relax a bit when your gentleman is in the club rooms. You can’t go far, since they’ll need to be able to find you if he asks for you, but there’s the Guides’ hall and sitting room-I’ll point them out when I show you around.”
“All right,” Thomas said.
Weatherby started by telling him a bit about Sentinels. He started with what everyone knew-that their senses were more acute than ordinary people’s. Sight, hearing, touch, even taste and smell. “Acute senses can be quite painful if they aren’t controlled, and having Guides nearby helps Sentinels to control themselves. None of them really knows why, although some of the scientifically-minded gentlemen are studying it. The most important part of our job is simply being there. That’s why Guides stay closer to their gentlemen than ordinary servants-why you sleep in his lordship’s rooms, for instance.”
He went on to explain a little more about enthrallment-apparently, it involved the Sentinel becoming so absorbed in one sense that he lost track of the others. “As you can imagine, it can be quite dangerous in some circumstances.”
Thomas could. The Sentinels had seemed shocked that he was at the Front by himself; personally, he was a bit shocked that Sentinels had been there at all. Going stock-still and falling over could get you killed, there.
“Having a Guide nearby makes it much less likely to happen, and we can bring them out of it by speaking to them-usually quite easily. I understand you’ve done it twice already?”
“Yes,” Thomas agreed. “And linking; I’ve done that, too.”
“Good. Linking is generally used when a Sentinel needs extra control over his senses. Professional Sentinels often use it to increase the acuity of one sense or another-doctors and policemen and so on. Since Lord Pellinger is a gentleman, it won’t come up terribly often. If he’s troubled by a loud noise or strong odour, something like that.”
Just as well, Thomas supposed. It seemed like a strangely intimate thing. It had seemed, with both his lordship and the Detective, like he’d gotten a hint of what they were feeling. But perhaps he’d imagined that, or perhaps it was something you didn’t talk about.
That, apparently, was all Weatherby felt Thomas had to know about Sentinels in particular. His next subject was the Society itself. “A few of our members reside here on a more-or-less permanent basis; your gentleman is one of them. Many more stay for a few days or weeks when they come to Town, if they don’t have a London house or don’t want to open it. And of course the gentlemen who do have residences in London often come in for a meal or part of the day, as in any men’s club. Regardless of for how long they are here, we want our gentlemen to feel at home.”
Thomas nodded.
“We offer the same facilities as any club, with the important addition that the gentlemen are attended on entirely by Guides. There are different roles for Guides here. The first is to attend on the gentlemen in the club rooms; they’re known as duty Guides. They’re typically assigned to a particular room, and they provide anything a gentleman needs while he’s there-drinks, newspapers, that sort of thing-and keep the room in order.” Weatherby smiled. “Clear enough?”
Thomas said that it was, and Weatherby continued, “Others are assigned to the dining rooms. They set the tables, serve the gentlemen their meals, that sort of thing. We call them serving Guides, but the job is really partway between being a footman and a waiter in a restaurant. I usually have the new fellows start off as serving or duty Guides, but there are always some more experienced men on those jobs as well, to make sure everything goes smoothly.”
“I see,” Thomas said. He wondered if he was going to end up waiting at table as well as looking after his lordship; it seemed a bit much for every day.
But Weatherby went on, “You’ll be beginning as a personal Guide-roughly comparable to a valet.”
Thomas had suspected as much, but was glad to have it confirmed.
“Most of our gentlemen bring their own personal Guides with them if they stay overnight or longer, but if they don’t, we assign one. They serve one gentleman exclusively-one Sentinel, I should say; of course, the ladies have them as well. They dress the gentleman and take care of his clothing, wait on him in his rooms, and keep his rooms in order. You aren’t responsible for the heavy cleaning; that will be done when he’s out of his rooms during the day, but you’ll straighten and tidy, make the bed, make sure he has everything he needs, that sort of thing.”
“That all sounds familiar enough,” Thomas said.
“Good. It can be a rather difficult job. You’ll typically be in his rooms, available to attend on him, any time he’s in them. Lord Pellinger spends a great deal of time in his rooms. Personal Guides do not have a great deal of privacy or time to themselves.”
Thomas nodded. It didn’t sound like it. He’d be on duty nearly twenty-four hours a day. Still, he didn’t like that Weatherby sounded dubious that he’d be able to handle it. He could manage as well as anyone.
“It works best when there is a bond of affection and trust between the Sentinel and the Guide. Usually a great deal of care is taken in the selection of a personal Guide. Often they choose someone they’ve known for many years.”
Whereas his lordship had chosen him the moment they met, because he’d had no other options. “I understand,” he said.
Weatherby nodded, looking relieved. “That said, being a personal Guide is considered a highly desirable position. There are quite a few men here who would have liked to have your job, if only they were a suitable match for Lord Pellinger. As I said, he is well-liked. I’m sure you’ll find him pleasant to work for.”
“Yes, he seems very kind,” Thomas agreed. So, he had a job everyone wanted, not because anyone thought he deserved it, but because of the happenstance that he could link with his lordship. It was a bit like how all those years ago Bates had walked into a position as valet because he happened to know Lord Grantham from the war. He had better watch his back. “I’ll do my best.”
“Good. Now, I’ll show you where you can find everything you’ll need.”
The downstairs offices were larger and more complex than Downton, which he supposed was fitting. Even on a slow day before the start of the London Season, there were more gentlemen dining or staying here than Downton would have for any but the largest parties. Mr. Weatherby showed him the kitchens first-there were two, one for the regular cooking, and one for baking and preserving. “Trays ought to be made up for you by the kitchen staff,” Weatherby explained, pointing out the cupboards for silver and china, “but it’s always best to check that everything is as it should be, before you take it up.”
The ironing and mending areas were smaller than Thomas would have expected; Weatherby explained that the personal Guides usually did most of that sort of thing in the dressing room. “You found what you needed, yesterday?” he asked, scrutinizing Thomas’s livery.
“Yes,” Thomas answered. He waited for Weatherby to point out anything that was incorrect about Thomas’s appearance, but he just moved on.
“But never use any chemical solvents-benzene or the like-in the dressing room,” Weatherby cautioned him. “The odor bothers many of the gentlemen, so if there’s a stain to be removed, bring the garment down here to work on it.”
“What about shoes and boots?” Thomas asked. “Do I do those, or is there a boot-boy?”
“Oh, yes, those are done in here,” Weatherby said, showing him into yet another room. “Ordinarily, you leave them here-be sure to attach one of these tags, with your gentleman’s name. Er-I expect you can read and write?”
“Of course I can.” He might be a sodomite, but he wasn’t an imbecile. Or a filthy street urchin, for that matter.
“A few who come here can’t,” Weatherby said mildly, and continued, “Shoes are usually cleaned by the next morning. If he’ll need them sooner than that, it’s better to do it yourself. But do those down here, as well.”
He was also shown the club rooms-the smoking room, where he glimpsed his lordship sitting by a window, and the reading room, the games room, the formal and informal dining rooms, various other sitting rooms.
Next, Weatherby showed him the service passages around the gentlemen’s private rooms, pointing out the linen cupboards and where to get coal and kindling. “The cleaners should bring in the coal and lay the fires, but if you should happen to run out, there’s some kept here.”
Finally, he saw the attics, where luggage and out-of-season clothes were kept. “His lordship likely has some things up here,” Mr. Weatherby said, “but I’d have to check the record-book to find out what and where it is. He’s been in residence for several years now.”
He and Mr. Weatherby arranged to meet again in a few days to discuss any questions that had come up, and Thomas, after checking that his lordship was all right, went to the servants’ hall and flicked through a newspaper someone had left there.
After a while, he became aware the Guide sitting across the table was watching him. Thomas glared back at him a few times, but it didn’t seem to have much effect. Finally he said, “What do you think you’re staring at?”
The other Guide-a sandy-haired, round-faced adolescent-blinked back at him and said, “What?”
“Do you have some sort of a problem with me?”
The boy looked confused, and his face started to crease up, like a child that had skinned its knee and was trying to decide whether to start wailing or not. Thomas looked on in shock and horror as another Guide came over and put his arm around first one’s shoulders. “It’s all right, Sammy.” To Thomas, the other man said, “He doesn’t mean anything by it.”
“Sorry,” Thomas said, as his mistake started to dawn on him. “I didn’t realize he was a half-wit.”
“He’s not a half-wit,” the other man said sharply. “A bit touched, that’s all.”
“Fine,” Thomas said. “Whatever he is. I didn’t know.”
The other man watched him for a moment, then said, “All right, then. I’m Franklin. This is Sammy.”
“Thomas,” he said guardedly.
“You’re the one’s looking after Lord Gerald, right?”
“Lord Pellinger,” Thomas corrected.
“Yeah, him,” Franklin said. “He’s nice. I used to look after him sometimes.”
Good for him. “Did you,” he said boredly, looking back down at his paper.
“Yes. So if you need any help with him….”
Now Thomas looked up. Likely, this Franklin wanted Thomas’s job for himself. He’d just love it if Thomas went to him for advice; that way, he’d have a golden opportunity to make Thomas look foolish or incompetent. “The way I understand it, none of you lot were able to be a proper Guide to him. So I think I can manage.”
“Right,” the other man said, getting up. “Good luck with it, then. Come on, Sammy.”
Thomas watched them go, feeling, somehow, as if that hadn’t gone quite the way he wanted it to.
#
Over the next few days, Thomas seemed to settle in to his work, but remained a little shy of Gerald himself, inhabiting their rooms like a pale and silent ghost. He usually hid himself away in the dressing room, rarely venturing out to sit with Gerald and not saying much when he did. Gerald wanted badly to comfort him, but he shied away every time Gerald tried to touch him. He seemed most at ease when left to himself, so Gerald resigned himself to doing so.
He was, however, meticulous about his duties. Oddly, given how touch-shy he was, he was unruffled by helping Gerald into and out of the bath-a process that was always a little awkward, given that Gerald was both wet and naked at the time. And he gave Gerald more help than he really needed with dressing and undressing-trousers were, admittedly, difficult, but he’d always done up his own ties and so forth. Thomas seemed to enjoy doing them for him, and usually gave his coats a final brushing after putting him in them, something Gerald found unnecessary, but soothing.
Just having him there eased Gerald’s senses considerably. Before, he’d often struggled with excessive sensitivity-ordinary sounds or smells would suddenly become overwhelming, sending him to his bed to lie very still until it passed. It hadn’t happened once since Thomas came. Even his missing leg seemed to give him less pain than it had before. He’d learned to live with a constant, dull ache that left him nauseous and disinclined to do much of anything; it was only when it faded away that Gerald realized how bad it had been.
He had kept to his usual routine at first, staying in the Club and dining in his rooms, but one afternoon, as he sat at his writing desk below the window, finishing a letter and looking out at the bright, clear day, he decided it was time to begin venturing out a little more. “Are you busy, Thomas?” he asked, sealing the envelope. He didn’t seem to be-he was sitting at the table, looking at a magazine-but Gerald thought it polite to ask.
“No, my lord,” he said, standing up. He nearly always stood up when Gerald spoke to him. Gerald rather wished he wouldn’t; more than once he had bitten back some inconsequential remark because he didn’t want to disturb his Guide.
“Let’s take this down to the pillar box, then,” he said. “I’ll need my hat and coat.”
“Yes, my lord. I could take it for you, if you like.”
“Thank you, but I think I’d like a bit of a walk. Or a bit of a limp, I suppose you might say. We might even take a turn around the park-I’ll see if I feel up to it when we get there.”
It had been about a year and a half since Gerald had last tried leaving the Club for anything other than the most essential purposes. Hopping down the front steps on his crutches, he felt oddly free. “It’s a fine day, isn’t it?” he said as they started down the pavement.
Thomas agreed that yes, it was, my lord.
Well, as a conversational gambit, it was not particularly adventurous. He tried again. “I was just writing my family to tell them a little more about you-they were so pleased to hear I’d found a new Guide.” Thomas didn’t respond-he often didn’t, if Gerald hadn’t asked a question-so he pressed on, “What about your family? I expect they’re glad you’ve landed on your feet.”
Thomas was silent for a moment. “I haven’t any-well, that is, I don’t write to them, my lord.”
“Whyever not?”
“They prefer it that way.” Thomas’s face was expressionless.
“Oh,” said Gerald. “I’m sorry.” He hesitated. “Is that because of the arrest? Because we could try to explain….”
“No, my lord. I mean, it’s because of the same sort of thing, but…years ago.”
“You were in trouble with the law before?”
“No, my lord.” Thomas sounded, for a change, mildly exasperated instead of blank.
“Oh, you mean kissing boys. But why would-” Gerald had been about to ask why Guide parents would reject their son over something like that, but that was the point-they weren’t Guides. “That’s dreadful,” he said instead.
Thomas said nothing and dropped Gerald’s letter into the post box, which they’d just reached. “Did you want to go around the park, my lord?” he asked, glancing across the street at it. He couldn’t have made any clearer if he’d said it that he would not welcome any further questions about his family.
“Yes, let’s,” he said. The crutches were beginning to chafe under his arms, but he the idea of going back to the Club already seemed too depressing for words. “We might find a bench, and sit for a bit.”
The first few benches were in use, occupied by nurses either pushing prams, or keeping eagle eyes on small children playing. By the time they found a place to sit, Gerald was decidedly sore under the arms, and not particularly looking forward to the trek back. He sat, handing his crutches over to Thomas and wishing he wasn’t too much of a gentleman to rub the affected areas in public. “You can sit, too, if you like,” he added, as Thomas hesitated.
Thomas did so. “If you don’t mind my asking, my lord….”
Goodness. Thomas hadn’t asked him anything since his first day. Maybe this walk was worth it after all. “Yes?”
“Why don’t you have a wooden leg, or a Bath chair? It seems like it would be…easier.”
Gerald wasn’t sure precisely what sort of question he had expected, but that wasn’t it. “I have both, as a matter of fact. I just don’t use them. The Bath chair’s cumbersome, and makes me feel like too much of an invalid. The prosthetic leg was quite painful. I developed a sore on my….” He wasn’t entirely sure what to call it. His leg? His stump? “Well, about here,” he said, pointing instead. “So I stopped using it.”
“Probably something wrong with the fit, my lord,” Thomas ventured.
“Yes, that’s what the doctor said,” Gerald agreed. “I was supposed to go back and have it re-fitted once the sore had healed, but I never felt up to it.” Hospitals were difficult places for Sentinels at the best of times, and going to the War Hospital without a Guide had seemed like torture. “But I should go, since I’m hoping to be up and about a bit more, now.”
“Yes, my lord,” Thomas said.
He didn’t venture anything else, and after a few moments, Gerald asked, “Are you settling in all right?”
“Yes, my lord.”
There was a slight hint of anxiety to his scent, so Gerald hastened to add, “I thought so. I hope you’re comfortable.”
“Yes, my lord.”
After a bit more sitting, they made their way back to the Club. On the way in, they met Lord Finsworth, an old friend of Gerald’s. “Boko,” Gerald said. “How nice to see you. I didn’t know you were in Town.”
“Marianne has a cousin she’s bringing out,” he explained.
“Ah,” Gerald said. Marianne was Boko’s wife, he recalled-married hastily before the war, as so many others had. “Well,” he said. “We should dine-except I imagine you’ll be quite busy.”
Boko agreed that he would be, but suggested they dine together that night. “Marianne and Cousin Florence are coming Friday, once we have the house open, so I’m on my own for a bit yet.”
Heartened by the success of his brief outdoor adventure, Gerald agreed to the engagement, and they parted. “Bother,” Gerald said to Thomas as they took the lift back up to their rooms. “Now I’ll have to dress.”
Unsurprisingly, Thomas said, “Yes, my lord.”
#
“Thomas, do you have a moment?” Weatherby asked, as Thomas passed his pantry on the way back from returning the tea tray.
Thomas supposed he’d better have. Not that he really had anything else to do-with tea over, his lordship wouldn’t want anything else until dinner. At Downton, he would have taken advantage of the lull to have a bit of a natter with Jimmy…or O’Brien, back in the old days…or whoever happened to be around and wasn’t on his active enemies list that day. But here, he’d been holding himself aloof-he didn’t want to get into trouble, or give anyone an opening to make trouble for him. Instead, he occupied himself with his duties. There was plenty to do in his lordship’s dressing room.
So whatever Mr. Weatherby wanted to talk to him about, it certainly wasn’t idling or gossiping. “Of course, Mr. Weatherby,” he said.
Weatherby, it turned out, wanted to ask how he was settling in.
“Fine,” Thomas answered cautiously. First his lordship, now Mr. Weatherby-he wondered if there was some problem he hadn’t noticed. He certainly hoped not. As it was, he couldn’t show his face downstairs without someone asking if he needed help finding something or had any questions. He always said no-he didn’t want to give anyone a chance to trick him with false information, or give them any more excuses to feel superior.
“Do you have any questions, now that you’ve been here a few days?”
“Not really.” If he did, he wouldn’t want to ask Mr. Weatherby anyway, considering he already thought Thomas wasn’t up to his job.
“Are you sure?”
Well…he had been wondering if it was possible to leave the building in Society livery without having things thrown at you, but that question had been answered. Although now that he knew it was safe, he had a few errands he wanted to run. “I was wondering when I might have a chance to pop out to the shops.”
“What do you need?” Weatherby asked.
“Cigarettes, mostly.” Also hair oil, the salve he used on his hand, and stamps, so he could write to Downton about getting his things back, but he decided not to go into detail.
“Most of the new lads just nick them from the smoking room, I believe,” Weatherby said dryly. “I appreciate your restraint. You should be able to nip out while your gentleman is in the public rooms, but in the circumstances, I’d suggest you ask Lord Pellinger first.”
Which circumstances were those, Thomas wondered? Probably the ones where he was here instead of prison. He nodded.
“You have money?” Weatherby asked.
“Yes.” Not much of it, unless Carson could be persuaded to cough up what he was owed, but a little. There wouldn’t be much point in going out to buy things if he didn’t, would there?
“Good. You’ll have to speak with your gentleman about scheduling your half-days, too. I’ll assign someone to look after him while you’re out.”
Thomas wasn’t sure he’d bother with that-there was nowhere he wanted to go, and anyone filling in for him would have a perfect opportunity to undermine him in one way or another. “Thank you.”
Weatherby nodded. “Is that all?”
Was there supposed to be something else? “I think so.”
“You feel that you understand what’s expected of you here?” he pressed.
Thomas could think of no reason that Mr. Weatherby would be asking that question if he were not about to tell Thomas precisely how he had fallen short of expectations. “His lordship hasn’t had any complaints,” he said stiffly. He’d been told his duties; he was doing them. If Mr. Weatherby had left something out, that was hardly his fault.
But Weatherby just said, “Good,” sounding surprised. “In that case, you should probably be getting back to him.”
#
“I might as well start dressing, I suppose,” Gerald said. The gong hadn’t gone yet, but he knew it would take a while, and he knew Thomas had his things ready-he’d bustled around in the dressing room for almost an hour after tea. “If I’m early, I’ll have a drink in the library first.”
Thomas said, “Very good, my lord,” and helped him up to start the journey to the dressing room.
“I didn’t realize what a dreadful bore it is, dressing for dinner, until I got out of the habit of doing it,” Gerald remarked as Thomas helped him out of his smoking jacket and day clothes. He wasn’t too surprised when Thomas didn’t answer, although nearly any other Guide would have. “Still, I suppose one can’t be a complete hermit.”
“Some gentlemen find the new dinner jackets make a bit of a change, my lord,” Thomas said.
Gerald hadn’t meant the clothes, precisely, but he was glad to hear Thomas venturing a suggestion. Sitting down to take off his trousers and work the evening ones on, he said, “Perhaps a visit to the tailor is in order…after I’ve seen about my wooden leg, I think.” It would probably make a difference in what the tailor thought best. “We might telephone the hospital this week…I have the specialist’s card in my desk somewhere; we’ll have to shuffle through there first, and find it.”
“Yes, my lord,” Thomas said, helping him to stand and fastening the trousers. The waistcoat was next; it hung loosely on him, and Thomas fussed over adjusting the little strap at the back. Gerald must have lost a bit of weight since wearing it last-between the pain and the trouble with his senses, he hadn’t been eating as well as he ought. “Do you have a preference as to links, my lord?”
He didn’t, really. “Just the plain ones, I suppose.”
Thomas put them in, then did up his tie for him. As he was helping him into his tails, Thomas said, “My lord?”
Gerald turned to look at him-awkwardly, since Thomas was behind him, and he had to get his crutches back first. “Yes?”
“Ah-never mind, my lord. It’s not important.”
“You might as well tell me,” Gerald pointed out. Thomas didn’t seem to have quite figured out yet that Guides typically talked to their Sentinels.
“Ah. Well. My lord. I just wondered if it would be all right if I went out to the shops. While you’re downstairs.”
“Yes, of course,” Gerald said, a little puzzled. He wondered if that was really what Thomas had wanted to ask; it didn’t seem the sort of thing he ought to be nervous about.
“Thank you, my lord,” Thomas said.
The clothes-brush rasped against the back of his coat, not at all unpleasantly. Gerald wondered if horses felt like that, being groomed. “Do you have money? If it’s one of the shops nearby, you can have them send a bill in care of the club.”
“I do.” There was something sharp in Thomas’s tone; he softened it with apparent effort and added, “My lord. Thank you.”
“All right. I think I’m ready to go down, then, if you are.”
#
Thomas hesitated by the door, feeling uneasy. His lordship was fine-settled in the library with a whiskey and soda, and the duty Guide would see him into the dining room when it was time. He had permission to be out, from both his lordship and Mr. Weatherby. And he’d seen the tobacco shop and the chemist’s on their walk, so he knew where he was going. And anyway, it wasn’t as though he’d never been out and about on his own in London before.
Of course, it was the first time he’d done so wearing ridiculous green livery. But he had to do it sometime-if he didn’t buy stamps, he couldn’t tell them at Downton where to send his normal clothes.
He almost wished he could ask someone to go with him. It was possible some of the people constantly asking if they could help him with anything really meant it. But he had no idea which ones, and he wasn’t about to risk giving the wrong person the impression he was afraid to go out on his own.
Particularly since he sort of was.
Taking a deep breath, he went out. It felt like everyone who passed was staring at him, but no one said anything-well, except for the tobacconist, who just asked if he was new.
Thomas said, “Yes,” paid for his packet of Woodbines, and left.
The chemist had stamps and hair oil, but didn’t stock the stuff for his hand. “Could get it in,” the woman said. “Or sumthin’ else. What’s it for?”
“Scar tissue,” Thomas answered. “To keep it supple.”
“Hm. You, or a Sentinel?”
“Me.”
She rummaged around behind the counter for a moment and slapped a tin on the counter. “Try that.”
Thomas supposed he’d better; the hand was getting stiff. “All right.” He handed over more money from his rapidly dwindling supply, waited impatiently as she wrapped his purchases, and started back to the club.
#
Gerald let his eyes drift shut and listened to Thomas’s footsteps as he made his way back through the service passages. He wasn’t sure if Thomas meant to pop out to the shops tonight or another time-he’d quite lost track of which day they had their evening hours. Euan would have said, as a matter of course, and would have also told him where he was going, and what for, and would have recounted the whole adventure afterwards….
Well, Thomas was different, that was all. It wasn’t as though Gerald needed to know where he was going and what he was buying. And if he tried to find out by listening in on him, likely as not he’d enthrall himself, which would certainly not help Thomas to feel at ease. With an effort, he pulled himself back to the hear-and-now, just in time to see Ace coming in. He called out a greeting, and the other Sentinel came over. “Hullo,” Ace said, slinging himself into the wing chair opposite. “I’m a little surprised to see you out and about at this hour.”
“I’ve a dinner engagement,” Gerald explained. Realizing that he might be too out of practice to carry conversation by himself, he added, “Are you meeting anyone? You ought to join us, if not.”
“No, I’m on my own. I’d be glad to. Things must be going well, with Thomas?”
“Yes, very well,” Gerald agreed. “We went for a walk today.”
“Good,” Ace said, smiling. He started to say, “Morgan mentioned he’s--”
At the same time that Gerald said, “Oh, there’s Boko.” Ace fell silent as Gerald waved the other man over. “You know Ace, don’t you? I asked him to join us.”
“Yes,” Boko said, nodding. “Mr. Langley-Smythe.”
“Lord Finsworth,” Ace said, nodding back.
It was only then that Gerald remembered the two of them hadn’t gotten on, back in their mutual University days. Ace had been part of a much more studious set, one that didn’t have much time for the fellows who were there as a sort of holiday between school-days and adulthood. Boko’s much livelier group of friends had had a similar lack of patience for those they felt took the academic side of things far too seriously. Gerald like them both, but it might have been better to see them separately.
Too late now, though, so as Boko got settled and told his Guide to fetch him a drink, Gerald asked Ace, “I’m sorry, Morgan was saying what?”
“Oh,” Ace said. “That Thomas didn’t seem to have made many friends yet, among the other Guides.”
“Well, he’s in my rooms with me nearly all the time,” Gerald pointed out. He’d made a point of going down for a little while each day, having lunch or just sitting in the smoking room for a bit, to give Thomas a bit of a break, but he still spent a great deal of time in his rooms. He’d hoped that the time together would help Thomas learn to relax around him, but perhaps more time apart would be better?
“Yes, well,” Ace said, with a sidelong glance at Boko. “I gather that when he is downstairs, he hasn’t made it easy for the others to get to know him.”
“He is very…reserved,” Gerald admitted. An unusual quality in a Guide, but Thomas had had rather a difficult time of things, before coming to Gerald. “My new Guide,” he explained parenthetically to Boko.
“Oh-the one out with you today?”
“Yes.”
“He’s handsome enough,” Boko noted, casting a look of slight dissatisfaction at his own Guide, who was offering him his drink on a tray.
The fellow was a bit unfortunate-looking, but Gerald thought that was quite un-called for. Ace apparently thought so too; he said, rather sharply, “Looks aren’t everything.” Glancing up at Boko’s Guide, he added, “Gregory’s always been so sweet.”
“Well, yes, of course,” Boko said, finally taking the drink Gregory was offering him, and letting the poor man escape.
#
“You can’t do that here.”
Thomas paused in the act of lighting his cigarette. “What?”
“You’re not supposed to smoke in here.”
The man speaking was dressed in livery, but not the Society’s, and was even stupider-looking than Alfred. Since he was in the Guides’ hall, he must be a Guide, Thomas thought, but he didn’t work here. “Why the hell not?” He knew he was being more snappish than the fellow really deserved-even if he was stupid-looking-but the strain of having to be respectful and grateful to his lordship from dawn to dusk was beginning to get to him. He was used to having plenty of time belowstairs, where he could vent his temper on those too meek or too far below him in status to do anything about it; here, he had to take his opportunities where he could get them.
“The smoke lingers in your clothes. A lot of Sentinels don’t like it.”
“Mine doesn’t mind,” Thomas answered. At least he assumed his lordship didn’t, since he only left his own rooms to go to the smoking room.
“Some of them do.”
Thomas shook his head and lit up-it had been almost a week since he’d had a cigarette, and he would be damned before he’d let some jumped-up footman, or whatever he was, stop him now.
The other man stared at him for a moment, then left the Guides’ hall. Thomas reveled in his victory for a moment.
But only until Mr. Weatherby came in and said, “Thomas, smoking isn’t allowed in here,” proving that the footman or whatever he was had grassed on him.
“Oh?” Thomas said, standing up and assuming his most innocent expression. “I’m sorry, Mr. Weatherby. I didn’t know. I’ll just--” He glanced down at the cigarette in his hand, genuinely unsure where to go with it. He didn’t think Weatherby would be terribly pleased if he stubbed it out in the saucer he’d been planning to use as an ash tray.
“Outside,” Weatherby said.
“Really?” Driving a man out into the cold-not that it was particularly cold, just now, seeing as it was August-to enjoy a simple cigarette seemed a bit much.
“Yes, really.”
Weatherby’s tone was sharp enough to forestall any further protests. Thomas went, taking only a moment to glower at the footman-or-whatever as he passed him in the corridor.
Outdoors, he found an out-of-the-way spot to lean against the wall and continue his cigarette. Doubtless the visiting footman was telling Weatherby that he’d told Thomas about the smoking rule…but how was he to know that someone who looked that stupid knew what he was talking about? It wasn’t fair.
He’d finished his cigarette and was contemplating a second one when Morgan, Mr. Langley-Smythe’s Guide, came out. “Ah,” he said, selecting a patch of wall near Thomas’s and lighting a cigarette of his own. “There you are. How are things going?”
“Fine,” Thomas said shortly. He’d give almost anything for a day when nobody asked him that. It wouldn’t have been so bad if he could speak freely, but he was afraid that any complaint he voiced would make its way back to Mr. Weatherby, or worse, his lordship. Morgan would be a particularly risky confidante, since his employer seemed to be friends with his lordship. There was no one he could really talk to-but he also couldn’t get a moment’s peace with his own thoughts, except when he was working in his lordship’s dressing room.
“Good,” Morgan said, nodding. “Mr. Langley-Smythe had some business with the club secretary, and he decided to stay and dine,” he explained, and looked at Thomas expectantly.
“His lordship’s dining with someone called Boko.” He didn’t see why it was any business of Morgan’s, but apparently he was expecting some explanation for Thomas’s presence downstairs.
“Ah. That’d be Lord Finsworth to you and me. They were up at Oxford together.”
“I see,” Thomas said.
Morgan smoked in silence for a moment, then said, “You know, Thomas….”
“What?”
“I understand you’ve been in service before.”
“Yes. I have.” What was it to him?
“But being a Guide is a bit different. I think you’ll find that advice from other Guides can be very helpful, if there’s anything you’re unsure of.”
Was this about the smoking? It was starting to seem like he couldn’t get away with anything in this place. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Good,” Morgan said. “I heard the downstairs dinner is shepherd’s pie tonight; they do it well here….”
Thomas was glad of the change of subject, and managed to keep his ill temper under wraps for the rest of the evening, but it was a relief when he was able to retreat to Lord Pellinger’s rooms.
His lordship said little-just that dinner had been fine, but he was tired-and went straight to bed. Thomas busied himself brushing his evening clothes and tidying the sitting room, then, when it was clear his lordship was asleep, settled down to write his letters.
The first, addressed to Mr. Carson, was very brief and simply asked that his things be sent on, and suggested that the freight charges could be taken out of his wages owed. The second, to Miss O’Brien, required more thought.
He knew he wasn’t exactly in her good books at present. And she had, knowingly or otherwise, instigated that disastrous late-night visit to Jimmy’s room. At times, he thought that she had intended things to go precisely as they had.
But she was also the oldest friend he had, and she’d helped get him out of the trenches. He couldn’t really believe that she’d deliberately set out to destroy him. And she was the only person he could think of who might help him get his things back, if Carson proved unhelpful. So he wrote her a fuller explanation of his circumstances, including a humorous description of the livery he was forced to wear, and wound up by suggesting that she might either intercede with Carson on his behalf or smuggle his things out directly.
He wasn’t entirely happy with the letter, but after several attempts decided it would have to do. Sealing and stamping it, he slipped his jacket and tie back on and took both letters down to the night-porter, to be put into the morning post. Now they were gone, and it was no use thinking about them again until the replies came back.
#
“Thomas,” Gerald said, as Thomas started clearing the breakfast things.
“Yes, my lord?”
Gerald hesitated. Ever since Thomas had first come in with his morning tea, he’d been trying to think of a way to say, “What on earth is that god-awful stench?” without actually saying, well, that. He felt as though his entire head had been stuffed with camphor and mint. “Are you using some sort of new soap? Or after-shave, or something?”
“No, my lord.”
“There must be something. It’s, ah, rather strongly scented.”
“There’s some salve, for my hand,” Thomas said, putting his injured hand behind his back.
“That must be it.” The stuff did smell vaguely medical, now that Thomas mentioned it. Gerald waited for Thomas to respond, only realizing at great length that he wasn’t going to. “Well, it won’t do,” he said awkwardly. “We’ll have to find something else you can use.”
“Yes, my lord,” Thomas said, and went back to clearing the table.
Concealing his irritation-after all, Thomas wasn’t a trained Guide, and he clearly didn’t understand-Gerald went on, “In the meantime, perhaps you could, er, wash it off?”
Thomas said, “Yes, my lord,” but made no move to do so.
“Thank you,” Gerald said, and continued to look at him until Thomas, finally, got the point.
“You want me to do it now, my lord?”
“If you don’t mind,” Gerald said. Worn out by the whole thing, he added, “I’m going back to bed. Wake me if I’m not up by lunchtime.”
#
Not even here a week, and already things had gone horribly wrong. Thomas didn’t know why he was surprised-it was just so bloody typical. He made one mistake-yes, he should have listened when the ugly footman told him not to smoke; he realized that now-and everything started fraying at the edges.
He wondered if his lordship had heard about it, and that was why he was making such a fuss about the way things smelled all of the sudden. The salve didn’t smell that much, and it wasn’t particularly unpleasant.
Of course, he didn’t know how things smelled to a Sentinel.
Still, it seemed like a lot of fuss over such a small thing, for his lordship to go back to bed immediately after breakfast without even asking Thomas to….
Well, what he might have asked Thomas to do, Thomas wasn’t sure, but he felt there had to be something pointed in it. Doing his morning’s work in the sitting room while his lordship was right there wasn’t particularly comfortable-but now it seemed like he couldn’t even stand to be in the same room with Thomas.
He washed his hands and threw the salve away, but he doubted it would do much good. Trying to fix things after he’d cocked them up never seemed to help.
Even after washing his hands until they were nearly raw, the mildly spicy scent of the salve seemed to linger. Eventually, he realized that it had seeped into his glove, so he washed that, too, leaving it rolled up in a hand towel to dry as he considered what to do next.
Yesterday, his lordship had said that “they” would have to go through his desk to find the wooden leg specialist’s card. Thomas hadn’t been sure at the time whether this was one of those situation when “they” meant “him.” He’d planned to find out after breakfast. Now he’d missed his chance. The way things were going, when his lordship finally got up, Thomas would be in trouble either for go through his desk on his own or for not doing so.
After staring at the desk for a long moment, he decided, with frustrated petulance, that if nobody was going to tell him what he was supposed to do, he’d simply do nothing. He sat on the sofa-something he’d never quite dared do when his lordship was in the room-and paged through one of the illustrated papers, trying ineffectually to convince himself that he derived some pleasure from this small rebellion.
#
Gerald woke for the second time groggy and out-of-sorts. Keeping Ace and Boko away from each other’s throats had been more taxing than he’d realized at the time. Apart from the petty disputes of their university days, the only subject of conversation the three of them had in common was the war. They’d fallen back on it frequently, and Gerald had slept poorly in consequence of the memories stirred up.
Thomas’s mood seemed no better-he answered Gerald’s ring of the bedside bell with a “My lord?” that struck him as downright sulky.
“I suppose I’ll get up,” he said. “What time is it?”
“A quarter till twelve, my lord,” Thomas answered, getting his dressing gown.
Plenty of time until luncheon, then.
“Did you want some tea, my lord?”
Now that he mentioned it, Gerald did. “Is there any?”
“I could go down to the kitchen and get some, my lord.”
“No,” Gerald decided, putting on the dressing gown. “If you do that, you’ll be going down for lunch almost as soon as you got back.”
Helping him stand, Thomas said, “You’re having luncheon up here, my lord?” He still sounded sulky.
“Yes.” Gerald accepted his crutches and arranged them under his arms. “That’s not a problem, is it?”
“No, my lord,” Thomas said, trailing him as he started for the dressing room. “It’s just that you’ve been going down to luncheon, the last couple of days.”
“I don’t feel up to it. Just some flannel bags and my smoking jacket, I think.” Thomas had laid out a suit, but that seemed like too much of an effort.
“Very, good, my lord,” Thomas said, whisking the suit away with a faint hint of disapproval.
Gerald sat and watched him do it. There was something a little bit different about him. His hair was slicked back; that was one thing. The effect was much more severe, with the lock that sometimes fell across his forehead in a charmingly boyish fashion brought firmly under control.
It was not an improvement, as far as Gerald was concerned, but he’d better not say so. Now that he’d been awake a few minutes, he remembered that he’d had to speak to Thomas earlier about that ghastly stuff he’d had on his hand-which might explain the sulkiness. No, the hair cream really wasn’t any of his business, even if he didn’t care for how it looked.
The hand salve, though, that they had to get sorted. Thomas seemed to be trying to use his left hand as little as possible-perhaps it hurt him. If so, they’d have to find a substitute quickly. “That stuff you use on your hand; what’s it for?” There were some doctors among the Society membership; perhaps one of them could be tracked down and asked to recommend something.
“Keeps the scar tissue from getting stiff, my lord,” Thomas said into depths of the wardrobe.
“Oh-then the stuff I use on my leg might work.” That would be much easier than tracking down a doctor.
“What stuff is that, my lord?”
“Oh, I don’t know. There’s a tin in the bedside table; try it and see if it suits. Weatherby will know where to get more of it.”
As Thomas was helping him into his trousers, Gerald noticed that he wasn’t wearing the flesh-coloured glove that usually covered his left hand. It was his first chance to look at the mysterious war wound-he knew nothing about it other than that Thomas didn’t welcome questions on the subject.
He’d thought he managed to avoid showing any excess of interest-he didn’t particularly enjoy having his own injury stared at, either-but he must not have succeeded, because once his trousers were on, Thomas held his hand up and said, in a voice with just a hint of steel in it, “Did you want a better look, my lord?”
“Ah,” Gerald said.
Thomas apparently was going to insist on more of an answer than that; he stood there, looking grimly defiant.
Gerald went ahead and looked. There was a perfectly round crater on outside edge of the palm, under the last two fingers. It looks like a bullet had passed straight through; Gerald had no idea how it could have happened, nor how Thomas had managed to keep his hand. “You’re, ah, lucky to still have the use of it, I should think,” he ventured.
“Yes,” Thomas allowed, finally dropping his hand back to his side. “I suppose I am, my lord.”
Then he brought him his shirt and smoking jacket, as though the momentary confrontation hadn’t happened.
#
Thomas took advantage of the few moments when his lordship was occupied in the WC to fluff the sofa pillows and hurriedly stuff the London Sketch back into the magazine rack. The teacup he’d left on the side table was a little more difficult to deal with in the time allowed; finally, he decided to put it on the dining table and pretend it was left over from the breakfast things. His lordship probably wouldn’t notice it was a servants’ hall one.
Maybe. But he’d have to be blind not to notice that Thomas had left his glove on the edge of the sink. He wasn’t sure where he was supposed to leave it, considering his bedroom was also his lordship’s dressing room. But not there.
If he’d just given Thomas some warning he was getting up, he’d have tidied everything up, and gotten him his bloody tea. What, was he expected to be able to see into the future now? Somehow, it didn’t seem entirely out of the question. He’d been doing his duties as well as he understood them, and by this point had a decent grasp of the routine and knew where to find everything he needed regularly, but he had a growing sense that he was missing something important. His lordship sometimes seemed to look at him as though he was waiting for Thomas to catch on to something-but he wouldn’t just say it, whatever it was.
His lordship didn’t say anything about the state of the sitting room or Thomas’s leaving his things lying about, but when Thomas went down to the kitchen, Mrs. Groach more than made up for it.
“A lunch tray?” From her tone, you’d have thought he was asking for kitten stew. “You said he didn’t want one. We’ve just finished setting them up!”
“You’ll have to set up another one, won’t you?” Thomas answered.
“To keep a kitchen this size running smoothly, I’ve got to plan ahead. How am I supposed to keep anything organized if you lot are all the time making changes at the last minute?”
“His lordship. Changed. His. Mind,” Thomas said, between gritted teeth. “Would you like me to tell him he’s not allowed to change his mind because it inconveniences you?”
“You’ve no call speaking to me like that!”
“Haven’t I?” Thomas was about to say more, but reined in his temper when he saw Mr. Weatherby approaching.
“Is there something wrong? Thomas? Mrs. Groach?”
Thomas managed to get his story in first. “Mrs. Groach is angry because Lord Pellinger wants a luncheon tray.”
“Just now,” Mrs. Groach put in. “At the last minute. And last night, after we made up a dinner tray for him, he said he didn’t want it!”
“As I said,” Thomas said, “his lordship changed his mind.”
“I see,” Mr. Weatherby said. “Mrs. Groach, I’m sure Thomas understands that you like to have as much notice as possible about the meal trays. Don’t you, Thomas?”
“Yes, of course,” Thomas agreed, although he hadn’t given the matter a moment’s thought before she started screeching at him about it.
“And I’m sure you understand that sometimes the gentlemen change their plans at the last moment. I realize it’s an inconvenience, but we must be flexible.”
Mrs. Groach sniffed. “I suppose so.” Turning to Thomas, she said, “What about tonight? Does he want a dinner tray or doesn’t he?”
“I…expect so?” Thomas said. “Probably. He hasn’t said.”
Weatherby sighed. “Ask him, and when you bring the lunch things back down, you can give Mrs. Groach a definite answer. All right?” He looked back and forth between the two of them.
“Yes, Mr. Weatherby,” Thomas said.
“All right,” Mrs. Groach said.
“Good.” Weatherby left the kitchen, shaking his head.
Once the tray was prepared, Thomas made a point of checking it over carefully. Spoiling for the fight that Mr. Weatherby had interrupted, he was a little disappointed that everything was correct.
#
Gerald was surprised to find that, once his luncheon was in front of him, he was actually a little bit hungry. Usually, sleeping all morning left him without much appetite. Thomas was typically quiet over the meal, but now seemed sad, or perhaps worried, rather than sulky. Perhaps he had been before, as well. Gerald knew he’d been a bit impatient with him, earlier, and regretted it, but it was difficult having a Guide who wouldn’t talk to him.
“Well,” he said, as Thomas cleared the lunch things, “tackling that is probably the next thing.” He nodded towards his desk. He wasn’t eager to do it-he’d been letting correspondence pile up, and he knew the prosthetics specialist’s card would be near the bottom. He’d be lucky to only find half a dozen things he should have dealt with ages ago, on the way there.
“Yes, my lord,” Thomas said. “My lord?”
“Yes?”
“Will you be going down for dinner tonight?”
Gerald stared at him for a moment. Why on Earth would he?
Smelling anxious and, if Gerald wasn’t mistaken, shuffling his feet a little, “Mrs. Groach, ah, the cook. She likes to know. About the trays.”
“Has she been giving you a hard time?” That would explain Thomas’s questions about his lunch plans earlier.
“She was a bit cross, my lord,” Thomas admitted, looking down at the dishes he was clearing.
Was she, indeed? “That’s not something you need to worry about,” Gerald said firmly. The cook had no right being cross and upsetting his Guide. “I wonder if I should speak to Weatherby.”
Thomas glanced up sharply. “I shouldn’t think that’s necessary, my lord.”
Well, if he thought it would make things worse, he was probably right. Guides usually were, about that sort of thing. “All right. But you may tell her, if she has any further complaints, she can refer them to me.”
“Yes, my lord.” Thomas hefted the tray and left, not seeming noticeably cheered.
#
Apparently, he’d guessed right about not starting on his lordship’s desk without him. When Thomas returned from taking the lunch things back down, Lord Pellinger had already started on the chore. Thomas’s own role seemed to be to sit next to him and occasionally accept some bit of paper or another that his lordship passed to him, saying something like, “I should answer that; hold on to it.” He also, on his own initiative, kept the large and untidy pile of things his lordship planned to save from getting mixed in with the smaller pile of things that could be taken away and burnt. The former pile included letters, news clippings, advertising circulars, theater programs, and more; the latter was mostly invitations to events that had come and gone months or even years ago.
If he’d felt a bit more confident, Thomas would have tried to engage his lordship in conversation a bit, over the task-perhaps he could ask him about some of those programs and invitations; that way, he could find out more about what his life had been like before the war, and what pursuits Thomas might expect him to take back up as he recovered. But his lordship seemed tense-still angry over that morning’s incident, or over something else that Thomas didn’t know about. He thought it best to keep his mouth shut unless he was spoken to.
“I suppose we’d better pay that,” his lordship said, passing Thomas a tailor’s bill. “I never even picked them up, but I don’t imagine they’ll want to make me a dinner jacket if I don’t.”
The bill was for two sets of replacement uniforms; going by the date, his lordship must have ordered them just before his injury. “Yes, my lord.”
A few layers of documents later, his lordship unearthed a small folder, the sort photography studios used. He opened it; Thomas got a glimpse of two men in Army uniform, one seated, the other standing behind him with his hand on the seated man’s shoulder. His lordship stared at it for a moment, then passed it to Thomas. “Here, d’you want to see how I used to look?”
Now that he had a better look, Thomas saw that the seated man was his lordship, with a rather unconvincing moustache. He looked…younger. Not quite so careworn. The other, in a corporal’s uniform with Guide tabs, must have been Euan.
“We had that taken just before we left,” his lordship went on. “For our mothers, you know. In case we were called on to make the ultimate sacrifice for king and country.” He said the last phrase in a mock-heroic voice, and sighed. “I don’t know whether to hate him or pity him.”
“Euan, my lord?” Thomas asked. Neither sentiment seemed entirely appropriate.
“No. Me. Him,” his lordship added, pointing to his own image in the photograph.
Oh. Thomas wasn’t sure how-or if-to respond to that, and before he could decide, his lordship went on.
“Did you think it would be a bit of a lark, when you signed up? Home by Christmas, covered in glory?”
“Not exactly, my lord,” Thomas admitted. He didn’t think it would be at all wise to say outright that he’d expected it to be bloody awful and had signed up for the medical corps in the mistaken impression that it was the soft option.
“Then you were cleverer than I was.” He stared at the photograph that Thomas was still holding, not sure what to do with it. “Sometimes I-well, never mind.” He took the photograph back and tucked it inside his smoking jacket. “That card won’t find itself.”
He did eventually find the card, after going through nearly everything on the desk. His lordship wrote a quick letter asking for an appointment at the specialist’s convenience, then, after posting it, Thomas started shifting the “keep” pile back, attempting to impose some kind of order as he did so. His lordship sat by the hearth and fed faded invitations into the fire, one by one.
The next morning when he took the breakfast things down, Thomas found answers to his letters in his pigeon-hole in the Guides’ hall. He felt a bit sick, taking them out and looking at the return addresses. Silly of him; he’d never gone in for premonitions.
Still, he took them outside to open them, wanting to face them with a bit of privacy and a cigarette in his hand.
The one from Mr. Carson was what he should have expected-a couple of terse lines saying he wasn’t owed any wages, and if he contacted the house again Carson would inform the police. Disgust dripped from every word.
Naturally. Well, of course he’d be like that. Thomas had had to try, though. He opened the other envelope with shaking fingers.
Seconds later, he dropped the letter, grinding it frantically beneath his foot, as if it had spilled out live spiders. It might as well have.
I had a good laugh hearing about your new livery, she had written. Now maybe you’ll look almost as foolish as you are. I can’t imagine why you think I would help you. I’d send your things to Africa, except that the naked savages might catch something. What you did was against all the laws of God and man. I’m only sorry that you escaped prosecution for your disgusting crimes…
He hadn’t read the whole thing, but what he had was enough. He didn’t think he could be shocked anymore, after Jimmy’s betrayal, but this was, if anything, even worse. O’Brien had always known, about him. There was only one reason for her to come over all shocked and disgusted now-she’d planned this, somehow, to get back at him. Maybe she and Jimmy had even worked together on it.
He felt sick at the idea that the two people at Downton he’d actually liked had conspired to ruin his life. True, he’d never been particularly happy at Downton-but he’d never really expected to be. He’d been there long enough to know the place inside and out, and when he’d been away, during the war, he’d thought of it as home. Being forced out without a second thought hurt more than he’d wanted to admit-but now, faced with this last betrayal, he couldn’t hide that fact from himself anymore. Not one of the people he’d known and worked with for years had stood up for him-and the ones he’d thought he could trust had engineered his destruction.
Had given it their best shot, anyway. If it hadn’t been for the happenstance that he was a Guide, he’d have been ruined. Absolutely ruined. As it was, he was stuck in this damned place where he didn’t know how anything worked, surrounded by charity cases who couldn’t take care of themselves but felt they had a right to teach him his job. It was utterly sickening, and all O’Brien’s fault. And Jimmy’s. If Jimmy had been in on it.
Why had he ever trusted either of them? He must be some sort of…congenital imbecile.
Somebody else came out to smoke-another Guide Thomas didn’t know-and he quickly picked up the now-mangled letter. He’d throw it in the first fire he saw. The idea of anyone else reading it didn’t bear thinking about.
He did his best to compose himself on his way back upstairs, but he must not have succeeded. As soon as he entered the sitting room, his lordship said, “Thomas? Are you all right?”
“Yes, my lord,” Thomas said.
“Are you sure? I mean-you seem….”
He trailed off. Thomas didn’t finish the sentence for him-wasn’t sure he could, without crying or screaming or something equally inappropriate. He just waited, breathing steadily, until his lordship flicked his fingers in a gesture Thomas could plausibly interpret as dismissal, and escaped to the dressing room.
There, he spent some time working on his lordship’s clothes. Whoever had been looking after him before had tended to put him in the same things over and over; there were plenty of suits and shirts in the wardrobe that just needed a bit of pressing or buttons sewn on, and they’d be perfectly good again. It was calming, doing the work that he knew so well-as long as he didn’t think about who had taught him to do it. He did know his job, this part of it at least. His lordship had never appeared in public anything less than perfectly turned out since Thomas’s arrival, and that was something to be proud of, given that he’d be happy to slop around in his oldest trousers and that ragged smoking jacket if Thomas didn’t stay on top of things. The man sorely needed a good valet.
And Thomas was one, just like he’d always wanted. His lordship appreciated that; he’d remarked on it once or twice. So Thomas would be just fine here. He didn’t need Downton or any of the people in it.
Link to Chapter Four
Not expecting it to be the same. Thomas wondered if his lordship had guessed what he’d been thinking earlier-or worse, knew, somehow. Sentinels could tell when you were lying; maybe they could tell…well, other things.
Either way, he supposed he ought to be grateful that his lordship had been so direct with him. At least he wouldn’t be the same fool twice. He’d just have to remember to keep a professional distance, despite the unusual intimacies of the situation. His lordship was no different from Lord Grantham; that was the way to think of it.
Except that Lord Grantham hadn’t been interested in men. His lordship wasn’t interested in him.
That means there’s a chance he might change his mind, doesn’t it? Some traitorous part of Thomas’s mind whispered. Maybe, if Thomas was charming and affectionate-
Except that he was terrible at both of those things, and was-if recent experience was any indicator-even worse at distinguishing hard reality from fond hopes. No.
He could take a hint. If it was blatant enough, anyway.
When they went into the dressing room, he began establishing the new routine of professional distance. His lordship already had a habit of touching him-nothing improper, just on his hand or arm, but it reminded Thomas of the way he’d been with Jimmy, and if he kept doing it, Thomas wouldn’t be able to stop himself thinking things he wasn’t mean to think. He only had to step out of the way of his lordship’s hands a few times before he began keeping them to himself. His lordship was cleverer at taking a hint than Thomas was. Thomas almost wished he hadn’t been, but quashed that thought firmly.
After seeing his lordship settled in the smoking room, Thomas went looking for the butler’s pantry. He got a bit turned around, and had to be pointed in the right direction-humiliatingly-by Kip.
“Are you looking for Mr. Weatherby?” he asked in his awful little accent. “’is room’s down this hall and to the--” He paused and glanced down at his hands. “-left. Yeah. Left.”
“Thanks,” Thomas said. “And by the way, while you were blathering at me this morning, you could have mentioned I was supposed to have a cup of tea ready for his lordship when I woke him.”
“You said you knew all about it, didn’t you?” Kip countered before scampering off.
Finally, he located Weatherby, slightly surprised to find his pantry exactly where Kip had said it would be.
“Good morning. Are you settling in well?”
“Yes, thanks,” Thomas said, carefully keeping his recent disappointment off his face.
“I’m glad to hear it. Is Lord Pellinger in his rooms, or…?”
“The smoking room,” Thomas said.
“Good. We don’t need to rush, then, since the duty Guides will see to anything he needs. Ordinarily, if you haven’t any other duties to attend to, you can relax a bit when your gentleman is in the club rooms. You can’t go far, since they’ll need to be able to find you if he asks for you, but there’s the Guides’ hall and sitting room-I’ll point them out when I show you around.”
“All right,” Thomas said.
Weatherby started by telling him a bit about Sentinels. He started with what everyone knew-that their senses were more acute than ordinary people’s. Sight, hearing, touch, even taste and smell. “Acute senses can be quite painful if they aren’t controlled, and having Guides nearby helps Sentinels to control themselves. None of them really knows why, although some of the scientifically-minded gentlemen are studying it. The most important part of our job is simply being there. That’s why Guides stay closer to their gentlemen than ordinary servants-why you sleep in his lordship’s rooms, for instance.”
He went on to explain a little more about enthrallment-apparently, it involved the Sentinel becoming so absorbed in one sense that he lost track of the others. “As you can imagine, it can be quite dangerous in some circumstances.”
Thomas could. The Sentinels had seemed shocked that he was at the Front by himself; personally, he was a bit shocked that Sentinels had been there at all. Going stock-still and falling over could get you killed, there.
“Having a Guide nearby makes it much less likely to happen, and we can bring them out of it by speaking to them-usually quite easily. I understand you’ve done it twice already?”
“Yes,” Thomas agreed. “And linking; I’ve done that, too.”
“Good. Linking is generally used when a Sentinel needs extra control over his senses. Professional Sentinels often use it to increase the acuity of one sense or another-doctors and policemen and so on. Since Lord Pellinger is a gentleman, it won’t come up terribly often. If he’s troubled by a loud noise or strong odour, something like that.”
Just as well, Thomas supposed. It seemed like a strangely intimate thing. It had seemed, with both his lordship and the Detective, like he’d gotten a hint of what they were feeling. But perhaps he’d imagined that, or perhaps it was something you didn’t talk about.
That, apparently, was all Weatherby felt Thomas had to know about Sentinels in particular. His next subject was the Society itself. “A few of our members reside here on a more-or-less permanent basis; your gentleman is one of them. Many more stay for a few days or weeks when they come to Town, if they don’t have a London house or don’t want to open it. And of course the gentlemen who do have residences in London often come in for a meal or part of the day, as in any men’s club. Regardless of for how long they are here, we want our gentlemen to feel at home.”
Thomas nodded.
“We offer the same facilities as any club, with the important addition that the gentlemen are attended on entirely by Guides. There are different roles for Guides here. The first is to attend on the gentlemen in the club rooms; they’re known as duty Guides. They’re typically assigned to a particular room, and they provide anything a gentleman needs while he’s there-drinks, newspapers, that sort of thing-and keep the room in order.” Weatherby smiled. “Clear enough?”
Thomas said that it was, and Weatherby continued, “Others are assigned to the dining rooms. They set the tables, serve the gentlemen their meals, that sort of thing. We call them serving Guides, but the job is really partway between being a footman and a waiter in a restaurant. I usually have the new fellows start off as serving or duty Guides, but there are always some more experienced men on those jobs as well, to make sure everything goes smoothly.”
“I see,” Thomas said. He wondered if he was going to end up waiting at table as well as looking after his lordship; it seemed a bit much for every day.
But Weatherby went on, “You’ll be beginning as a personal Guide-roughly comparable to a valet.”
Thomas had suspected as much, but was glad to have it confirmed.
“Most of our gentlemen bring their own personal Guides with them if they stay overnight or longer, but if they don’t, we assign one. They serve one gentleman exclusively-one Sentinel, I should say; of course, the ladies have them as well. They dress the gentleman and take care of his clothing, wait on him in his rooms, and keep his rooms in order. You aren’t responsible for the heavy cleaning; that will be done when he’s out of his rooms during the day, but you’ll straighten and tidy, make the bed, make sure he has everything he needs, that sort of thing.”
“That all sounds familiar enough,” Thomas said.
“Good. It can be a rather difficult job. You’ll typically be in his rooms, available to attend on him, any time he’s in them. Lord Pellinger spends a great deal of time in his rooms. Personal Guides do not have a great deal of privacy or time to themselves.”
Thomas nodded. It didn’t sound like it. He’d be on duty nearly twenty-four hours a day. Still, he didn’t like that Weatherby sounded dubious that he’d be able to handle it. He could manage as well as anyone.
“It works best when there is a bond of affection and trust between the Sentinel and the Guide. Usually a great deal of care is taken in the selection of a personal Guide. Often they choose someone they’ve known for many years.”
Whereas his lordship had chosen him the moment they met, because he’d had no other options. “I understand,” he said.
Weatherby nodded, looking relieved. “That said, being a personal Guide is considered a highly desirable position. There are quite a few men here who would have liked to have your job, if only they were a suitable match for Lord Pellinger. As I said, he is well-liked. I’m sure you’ll find him pleasant to work for.”
“Yes, he seems very kind,” Thomas agreed. So, he had a job everyone wanted, not because anyone thought he deserved it, but because of the happenstance that he could link with his lordship. It was a bit like how all those years ago Bates had walked into a position as valet because he happened to know Lord Grantham from the war. He had better watch his back. “I’ll do my best.”
“Good. Now, I’ll show you where you can find everything you’ll need.”
The downstairs offices were larger and more complex than Downton, which he supposed was fitting. Even on a slow day before the start of the London Season, there were more gentlemen dining or staying here than Downton would have for any but the largest parties. Mr. Weatherby showed him the kitchens first-there were two, one for the regular cooking, and one for baking and preserving. “Trays ought to be made up for you by the kitchen staff,” Weatherby explained, pointing out the cupboards for silver and china, “but it’s always best to check that everything is as it should be, before you take it up.”
The ironing and mending areas were smaller than Thomas would have expected; Weatherby explained that the personal Guides usually did most of that sort of thing in the dressing room. “You found what you needed, yesterday?” he asked, scrutinizing Thomas’s livery.
“Yes,” Thomas answered. He waited for Weatherby to point out anything that was incorrect about Thomas’s appearance, but he just moved on.
“But never use any chemical solvents-benzene or the like-in the dressing room,” Weatherby cautioned him. “The odor bothers many of the gentlemen, so if there’s a stain to be removed, bring the garment down here to work on it.”
“What about shoes and boots?” Thomas asked. “Do I do those, or is there a boot-boy?”
“Oh, yes, those are done in here,” Weatherby said, showing him into yet another room. “Ordinarily, you leave them here-be sure to attach one of these tags, with your gentleman’s name. Er-I expect you can read and write?”
“Of course I can.” He might be a sodomite, but he wasn’t an imbecile. Or a filthy street urchin, for that matter.
“A few who come here can’t,” Weatherby said mildly, and continued, “Shoes are usually cleaned by the next morning. If he’ll need them sooner than that, it’s better to do it yourself. But do those down here, as well.”
He was also shown the club rooms-the smoking room, where he glimpsed his lordship sitting by a window, and the reading room, the games room, the formal and informal dining rooms, various other sitting rooms.
Next, Weatherby showed him the service passages around the gentlemen’s private rooms, pointing out the linen cupboards and where to get coal and kindling. “The cleaners should bring in the coal and lay the fires, but if you should happen to run out, there’s some kept here.”
Finally, he saw the attics, where luggage and out-of-season clothes were kept. “His lordship likely has some things up here,” Mr. Weatherby said, “but I’d have to check the record-book to find out what and where it is. He’s been in residence for several years now.”
He and Mr. Weatherby arranged to meet again in a few days to discuss any questions that had come up, and Thomas, after checking that his lordship was all right, went to the servants’ hall and flicked through a newspaper someone had left there.
After a while, he became aware the Guide sitting across the table was watching him. Thomas glared back at him a few times, but it didn’t seem to have much effect. Finally he said, “What do you think you’re staring at?”
The other Guide-a sandy-haired, round-faced adolescent-blinked back at him and said, “What?”
“Do you have some sort of a problem with me?”
The boy looked confused, and his face started to crease up, like a child that had skinned its knee and was trying to decide whether to start wailing or not. Thomas looked on in shock and horror as another Guide came over and put his arm around first one’s shoulders. “It’s all right, Sammy.” To Thomas, the other man said, “He doesn’t mean anything by it.”
“Sorry,” Thomas said, as his mistake started to dawn on him. “I didn’t realize he was a half-wit.”
“He’s not a half-wit,” the other man said sharply. “A bit touched, that’s all.”
“Fine,” Thomas said. “Whatever he is. I didn’t know.”
The other man watched him for a moment, then said, “All right, then. I’m Franklin. This is Sammy.”
“Thomas,” he said guardedly.
“You’re the one’s looking after Lord Gerald, right?”
“Lord Pellinger,” Thomas corrected.
“Yeah, him,” Franklin said. “He’s nice. I used to look after him sometimes.”
Good for him. “Did you,” he said boredly, looking back down at his paper.
“Yes. So if you need any help with him….”
Now Thomas looked up. Likely, this Franklin wanted Thomas’s job for himself. He’d just love it if Thomas went to him for advice; that way, he’d have a golden opportunity to make Thomas look foolish or incompetent. “The way I understand it, none of you lot were able to be a proper Guide to him. So I think I can manage.”
“Right,” the other man said, getting up. “Good luck with it, then. Come on, Sammy.”
Thomas watched them go, feeling, somehow, as if that hadn’t gone quite the way he wanted it to.
#
Over the next few days, Thomas seemed to settle in to his work, but remained a little shy of Gerald himself, inhabiting their rooms like a pale and silent ghost. He usually hid himself away in the dressing room, rarely venturing out to sit with Gerald and not saying much when he did. Gerald wanted badly to comfort him, but he shied away every time Gerald tried to touch him. He seemed most at ease when left to himself, so Gerald resigned himself to doing so.
He was, however, meticulous about his duties. Oddly, given how touch-shy he was, he was unruffled by helping Gerald into and out of the bath-a process that was always a little awkward, given that Gerald was both wet and naked at the time. And he gave Gerald more help than he really needed with dressing and undressing-trousers were, admittedly, difficult, but he’d always done up his own ties and so forth. Thomas seemed to enjoy doing them for him, and usually gave his coats a final brushing after putting him in them, something Gerald found unnecessary, but soothing.
Just having him there eased Gerald’s senses considerably. Before, he’d often struggled with excessive sensitivity-ordinary sounds or smells would suddenly become overwhelming, sending him to his bed to lie very still until it passed. It hadn’t happened once since Thomas came. Even his missing leg seemed to give him less pain than it had before. He’d learned to live with a constant, dull ache that left him nauseous and disinclined to do much of anything; it was only when it faded away that Gerald realized how bad it had been.
He had kept to his usual routine at first, staying in the Club and dining in his rooms, but one afternoon, as he sat at his writing desk below the window, finishing a letter and looking out at the bright, clear day, he decided it was time to begin venturing out a little more. “Are you busy, Thomas?” he asked, sealing the envelope. He didn’t seem to be-he was sitting at the table, looking at a magazine-but Gerald thought it polite to ask.
“No, my lord,” he said, standing up. He nearly always stood up when Gerald spoke to him. Gerald rather wished he wouldn’t; more than once he had bitten back some inconsequential remark because he didn’t want to disturb his Guide.
“Let’s take this down to the pillar box, then,” he said. “I’ll need my hat and coat.”
“Yes, my lord. I could take it for you, if you like.”
“Thank you, but I think I’d like a bit of a walk. Or a bit of a limp, I suppose you might say. We might even take a turn around the park-I’ll see if I feel up to it when we get there.”
It had been about a year and a half since Gerald had last tried leaving the Club for anything other than the most essential purposes. Hopping down the front steps on his crutches, he felt oddly free. “It’s a fine day, isn’t it?” he said as they started down the pavement.
Thomas agreed that yes, it was, my lord.
Well, as a conversational gambit, it was not particularly adventurous. He tried again. “I was just writing my family to tell them a little more about you-they were so pleased to hear I’d found a new Guide.” Thomas didn’t respond-he often didn’t, if Gerald hadn’t asked a question-so he pressed on, “What about your family? I expect they’re glad you’ve landed on your feet.”
Thomas was silent for a moment. “I haven’t any-well, that is, I don’t write to them, my lord.”
“Whyever not?”
“They prefer it that way.” Thomas’s face was expressionless.
“Oh,” said Gerald. “I’m sorry.” He hesitated. “Is that because of the arrest? Because we could try to explain….”
“No, my lord. I mean, it’s because of the same sort of thing, but…years ago.”
“You were in trouble with the law before?”
“No, my lord.” Thomas sounded, for a change, mildly exasperated instead of blank.
“Oh, you mean kissing boys. But why would-” Gerald had been about to ask why Guide parents would reject their son over something like that, but that was the point-they weren’t Guides. “That’s dreadful,” he said instead.
Thomas said nothing and dropped Gerald’s letter into the post box, which they’d just reached. “Did you want to go around the park, my lord?” he asked, glancing across the street at it. He couldn’t have made any clearer if he’d said it that he would not welcome any further questions about his family.
“Yes, let’s,” he said. The crutches were beginning to chafe under his arms, but he the idea of going back to the Club already seemed too depressing for words. “We might find a bench, and sit for a bit.”
The first few benches were in use, occupied by nurses either pushing prams, or keeping eagle eyes on small children playing. By the time they found a place to sit, Gerald was decidedly sore under the arms, and not particularly looking forward to the trek back. He sat, handing his crutches over to Thomas and wishing he wasn’t too much of a gentleman to rub the affected areas in public. “You can sit, too, if you like,” he added, as Thomas hesitated.
Thomas did so. “If you don’t mind my asking, my lord….”
Goodness. Thomas hadn’t asked him anything since his first day. Maybe this walk was worth it after all. “Yes?”
“Why don’t you have a wooden leg, or a Bath chair? It seems like it would be…easier.”
Gerald wasn’t sure precisely what sort of question he had expected, but that wasn’t it. “I have both, as a matter of fact. I just don’t use them. The Bath chair’s cumbersome, and makes me feel like too much of an invalid. The prosthetic leg was quite painful. I developed a sore on my….” He wasn’t entirely sure what to call it. His leg? His stump? “Well, about here,” he said, pointing instead. “So I stopped using it.”
“Probably something wrong with the fit, my lord,” Thomas ventured.
“Yes, that’s what the doctor said,” Gerald agreed. “I was supposed to go back and have it re-fitted once the sore had healed, but I never felt up to it.” Hospitals were difficult places for Sentinels at the best of times, and going to the War Hospital without a Guide had seemed like torture. “But I should go, since I’m hoping to be up and about a bit more, now.”
“Yes, my lord,” Thomas said.
He didn’t venture anything else, and after a few moments, Gerald asked, “Are you settling in all right?”
“Yes, my lord.”
There was a slight hint of anxiety to his scent, so Gerald hastened to add, “I thought so. I hope you’re comfortable.”
“Yes, my lord.”
After a bit more sitting, they made their way back to the Club. On the way in, they met Lord Finsworth, an old friend of Gerald’s. “Boko,” Gerald said. “How nice to see you. I didn’t know you were in Town.”
“Marianne has a cousin she’s bringing out,” he explained.
“Ah,” Gerald said. Marianne was Boko’s wife, he recalled-married hastily before the war, as so many others had. “Well,” he said. “We should dine-except I imagine you’ll be quite busy.”
Boko agreed that he would be, but suggested they dine together that night. “Marianne and Cousin Florence are coming Friday, once we have the house open, so I’m on my own for a bit yet.”
Heartened by the success of his brief outdoor adventure, Gerald agreed to the engagement, and they parted. “Bother,” Gerald said to Thomas as they took the lift back up to their rooms. “Now I’ll have to dress.”
Unsurprisingly, Thomas said, “Yes, my lord.”
#
“Thomas, do you have a moment?” Weatherby asked, as Thomas passed his pantry on the way back from returning the tea tray.
Thomas supposed he’d better have. Not that he really had anything else to do-with tea over, his lordship wouldn’t want anything else until dinner. At Downton, he would have taken advantage of the lull to have a bit of a natter with Jimmy…or O’Brien, back in the old days…or whoever happened to be around and wasn’t on his active enemies list that day. But here, he’d been holding himself aloof-he didn’t want to get into trouble, or give anyone an opening to make trouble for him. Instead, he occupied himself with his duties. There was plenty to do in his lordship’s dressing room.
So whatever Mr. Weatherby wanted to talk to him about, it certainly wasn’t idling or gossiping. “Of course, Mr. Weatherby,” he said.
Weatherby, it turned out, wanted to ask how he was settling in.
“Fine,” Thomas answered cautiously. First his lordship, now Mr. Weatherby-he wondered if there was some problem he hadn’t noticed. He certainly hoped not. As it was, he couldn’t show his face downstairs without someone asking if he needed help finding something or had any questions. He always said no-he didn’t want to give anyone a chance to trick him with false information, or give them any more excuses to feel superior.
“Do you have any questions, now that you’ve been here a few days?”
“Not really.” If he did, he wouldn’t want to ask Mr. Weatherby anyway, considering he already thought Thomas wasn’t up to his job.
“Are you sure?”
Well…he had been wondering if it was possible to leave the building in Society livery without having things thrown at you, but that question had been answered. Although now that he knew it was safe, he had a few errands he wanted to run. “I was wondering when I might have a chance to pop out to the shops.”
“What do you need?” Weatherby asked.
“Cigarettes, mostly.” Also hair oil, the salve he used on his hand, and stamps, so he could write to Downton about getting his things back, but he decided not to go into detail.
“Most of the new lads just nick them from the smoking room, I believe,” Weatherby said dryly. “I appreciate your restraint. You should be able to nip out while your gentleman is in the public rooms, but in the circumstances, I’d suggest you ask Lord Pellinger first.”
Which circumstances were those, Thomas wondered? Probably the ones where he was here instead of prison. He nodded.
“You have money?” Weatherby asked.
“Yes.” Not much of it, unless Carson could be persuaded to cough up what he was owed, but a little. There wouldn’t be much point in going out to buy things if he didn’t, would there?
“Good. You’ll have to speak with your gentleman about scheduling your half-days, too. I’ll assign someone to look after him while you’re out.”
Thomas wasn’t sure he’d bother with that-there was nowhere he wanted to go, and anyone filling in for him would have a perfect opportunity to undermine him in one way or another. “Thank you.”
Weatherby nodded. “Is that all?”
Was there supposed to be something else? “I think so.”
“You feel that you understand what’s expected of you here?” he pressed.
Thomas could think of no reason that Mr. Weatherby would be asking that question if he were not about to tell Thomas precisely how he had fallen short of expectations. “His lordship hasn’t had any complaints,” he said stiffly. He’d been told his duties; he was doing them. If Mr. Weatherby had left something out, that was hardly his fault.
But Weatherby just said, “Good,” sounding surprised. “In that case, you should probably be getting back to him.”
#
“I might as well start dressing, I suppose,” Gerald said. The gong hadn’t gone yet, but he knew it would take a while, and he knew Thomas had his things ready-he’d bustled around in the dressing room for almost an hour after tea. “If I’m early, I’ll have a drink in the library first.”
Thomas said, “Very good, my lord,” and helped him up to start the journey to the dressing room.
“I didn’t realize what a dreadful bore it is, dressing for dinner, until I got out of the habit of doing it,” Gerald remarked as Thomas helped him out of his smoking jacket and day clothes. He wasn’t too surprised when Thomas didn’t answer, although nearly any other Guide would have. “Still, I suppose one can’t be a complete hermit.”
“Some gentlemen find the new dinner jackets make a bit of a change, my lord,” Thomas said.
Gerald hadn’t meant the clothes, precisely, but he was glad to hear Thomas venturing a suggestion. Sitting down to take off his trousers and work the evening ones on, he said, “Perhaps a visit to the tailor is in order…after I’ve seen about my wooden leg, I think.” It would probably make a difference in what the tailor thought best. “We might telephone the hospital this week…I have the specialist’s card in my desk somewhere; we’ll have to shuffle through there first, and find it.”
“Yes, my lord,” Thomas said, helping him to stand and fastening the trousers. The waistcoat was next; it hung loosely on him, and Thomas fussed over adjusting the little strap at the back. Gerald must have lost a bit of weight since wearing it last-between the pain and the trouble with his senses, he hadn’t been eating as well as he ought. “Do you have a preference as to links, my lord?”
He didn’t, really. “Just the plain ones, I suppose.”
Thomas put them in, then did up his tie for him. As he was helping him into his tails, Thomas said, “My lord?”
Gerald turned to look at him-awkwardly, since Thomas was behind him, and he had to get his crutches back first. “Yes?”
“Ah-never mind, my lord. It’s not important.”
“You might as well tell me,” Gerald pointed out. Thomas didn’t seem to have quite figured out yet that Guides typically talked to their Sentinels.
“Ah. Well. My lord. I just wondered if it would be all right if I went out to the shops. While you’re downstairs.”
“Yes, of course,” Gerald said, a little puzzled. He wondered if that was really what Thomas had wanted to ask; it didn’t seem the sort of thing he ought to be nervous about.
“Thank you, my lord,” Thomas said.
The clothes-brush rasped against the back of his coat, not at all unpleasantly. Gerald wondered if horses felt like that, being groomed. “Do you have money? If it’s one of the shops nearby, you can have them send a bill in care of the club.”
“I do.” There was something sharp in Thomas’s tone; he softened it with apparent effort and added, “My lord. Thank you.”
“All right. I think I’m ready to go down, then, if you are.”
#
Thomas hesitated by the door, feeling uneasy. His lordship was fine-settled in the library with a whiskey and soda, and the duty Guide would see him into the dining room when it was time. He had permission to be out, from both his lordship and Mr. Weatherby. And he’d seen the tobacco shop and the chemist’s on their walk, so he knew where he was going. And anyway, it wasn’t as though he’d never been out and about on his own in London before.
Of course, it was the first time he’d done so wearing ridiculous green livery. But he had to do it sometime-if he didn’t buy stamps, he couldn’t tell them at Downton where to send his normal clothes.
He almost wished he could ask someone to go with him. It was possible some of the people constantly asking if they could help him with anything really meant it. But he had no idea which ones, and he wasn’t about to risk giving the wrong person the impression he was afraid to go out on his own.
Particularly since he sort of was.
Taking a deep breath, he went out. It felt like everyone who passed was staring at him, but no one said anything-well, except for the tobacconist, who just asked if he was new.
Thomas said, “Yes,” paid for his packet of Woodbines, and left.
The chemist had stamps and hair oil, but didn’t stock the stuff for his hand. “Could get it in,” the woman said. “Or sumthin’ else. What’s it for?”
“Scar tissue,” Thomas answered. “To keep it supple.”
“Hm. You, or a Sentinel?”
“Me.”
She rummaged around behind the counter for a moment and slapped a tin on the counter. “Try that.”
Thomas supposed he’d better; the hand was getting stiff. “All right.” He handed over more money from his rapidly dwindling supply, waited impatiently as she wrapped his purchases, and started back to the club.
#
Gerald let his eyes drift shut and listened to Thomas’s footsteps as he made his way back through the service passages. He wasn’t sure if Thomas meant to pop out to the shops tonight or another time-he’d quite lost track of which day they had their evening hours. Euan would have said, as a matter of course, and would have also told him where he was going, and what for, and would have recounted the whole adventure afterwards….
Well, Thomas was different, that was all. It wasn’t as though Gerald needed to know where he was going and what he was buying. And if he tried to find out by listening in on him, likely as not he’d enthrall himself, which would certainly not help Thomas to feel at ease. With an effort, he pulled himself back to the hear-and-now, just in time to see Ace coming in. He called out a greeting, and the other Sentinel came over. “Hullo,” Ace said, slinging himself into the wing chair opposite. “I’m a little surprised to see you out and about at this hour.”
“I’ve a dinner engagement,” Gerald explained. Realizing that he might be too out of practice to carry conversation by himself, he added, “Are you meeting anyone? You ought to join us, if not.”
“No, I’m on my own. I’d be glad to. Things must be going well, with Thomas?”
“Yes, very well,” Gerald agreed. “We went for a walk today.”
“Good,” Ace said, smiling. He started to say, “Morgan mentioned he’s--”
At the same time that Gerald said, “Oh, there’s Boko.” Ace fell silent as Gerald waved the other man over. “You know Ace, don’t you? I asked him to join us.”
“Yes,” Boko said, nodding. “Mr. Langley-Smythe.”
“Lord Finsworth,” Ace said, nodding back.
It was only then that Gerald remembered the two of them hadn’t gotten on, back in their mutual University days. Ace had been part of a much more studious set, one that didn’t have much time for the fellows who were there as a sort of holiday between school-days and adulthood. Boko’s much livelier group of friends had had a similar lack of patience for those they felt took the academic side of things far too seriously. Gerald like them both, but it might have been better to see them separately.
Too late now, though, so as Boko got settled and told his Guide to fetch him a drink, Gerald asked Ace, “I’m sorry, Morgan was saying what?”
“Oh,” Ace said. “That Thomas didn’t seem to have made many friends yet, among the other Guides.”
“Well, he’s in my rooms with me nearly all the time,” Gerald pointed out. He’d made a point of going down for a little while each day, having lunch or just sitting in the smoking room for a bit, to give Thomas a bit of a break, but he still spent a great deal of time in his rooms. He’d hoped that the time together would help Thomas learn to relax around him, but perhaps more time apart would be better?
“Yes, well,” Ace said, with a sidelong glance at Boko. “I gather that when he is downstairs, he hasn’t made it easy for the others to get to know him.”
“He is very…reserved,” Gerald admitted. An unusual quality in a Guide, but Thomas had had rather a difficult time of things, before coming to Gerald. “My new Guide,” he explained parenthetically to Boko.
“Oh-the one out with you today?”
“Yes.”
“He’s handsome enough,” Boko noted, casting a look of slight dissatisfaction at his own Guide, who was offering him his drink on a tray.
The fellow was a bit unfortunate-looking, but Gerald thought that was quite un-called for. Ace apparently thought so too; he said, rather sharply, “Looks aren’t everything.” Glancing up at Boko’s Guide, he added, “Gregory’s always been so sweet.”
“Well, yes, of course,” Boko said, finally taking the drink Gregory was offering him, and letting the poor man escape.
#
“You can’t do that here.”
Thomas paused in the act of lighting his cigarette. “What?”
“You’re not supposed to smoke in here.”
The man speaking was dressed in livery, but not the Society’s, and was even stupider-looking than Alfred. Since he was in the Guides’ hall, he must be a Guide, Thomas thought, but he didn’t work here. “Why the hell not?” He knew he was being more snappish than the fellow really deserved-even if he was stupid-looking-but the strain of having to be respectful and grateful to his lordship from dawn to dusk was beginning to get to him. He was used to having plenty of time belowstairs, where he could vent his temper on those too meek or too far below him in status to do anything about it; here, he had to take his opportunities where he could get them.
“The smoke lingers in your clothes. A lot of Sentinels don’t like it.”
“Mine doesn’t mind,” Thomas answered. At least he assumed his lordship didn’t, since he only left his own rooms to go to the smoking room.
“Some of them do.”
Thomas shook his head and lit up-it had been almost a week since he’d had a cigarette, and he would be damned before he’d let some jumped-up footman, or whatever he was, stop him now.
The other man stared at him for a moment, then left the Guides’ hall. Thomas reveled in his victory for a moment.
But only until Mr. Weatherby came in and said, “Thomas, smoking isn’t allowed in here,” proving that the footman or whatever he was had grassed on him.
“Oh?” Thomas said, standing up and assuming his most innocent expression. “I’m sorry, Mr. Weatherby. I didn’t know. I’ll just--” He glanced down at the cigarette in his hand, genuinely unsure where to go with it. He didn’t think Weatherby would be terribly pleased if he stubbed it out in the saucer he’d been planning to use as an ash tray.
“Outside,” Weatherby said.
“Really?” Driving a man out into the cold-not that it was particularly cold, just now, seeing as it was August-to enjoy a simple cigarette seemed a bit much.
“Yes, really.”
Weatherby’s tone was sharp enough to forestall any further protests. Thomas went, taking only a moment to glower at the footman-or-whatever as he passed him in the corridor.
Outdoors, he found an out-of-the-way spot to lean against the wall and continue his cigarette. Doubtless the visiting footman was telling Weatherby that he’d told Thomas about the smoking rule…but how was he to know that someone who looked that stupid knew what he was talking about? It wasn’t fair.
He’d finished his cigarette and was contemplating a second one when Morgan, Mr. Langley-Smythe’s Guide, came out. “Ah,” he said, selecting a patch of wall near Thomas’s and lighting a cigarette of his own. “There you are. How are things going?”
“Fine,” Thomas said shortly. He’d give almost anything for a day when nobody asked him that. It wouldn’t have been so bad if he could speak freely, but he was afraid that any complaint he voiced would make its way back to Mr. Weatherby, or worse, his lordship. Morgan would be a particularly risky confidante, since his employer seemed to be friends with his lordship. There was no one he could really talk to-but he also couldn’t get a moment’s peace with his own thoughts, except when he was working in his lordship’s dressing room.
“Good,” Morgan said, nodding. “Mr. Langley-Smythe had some business with the club secretary, and he decided to stay and dine,” he explained, and looked at Thomas expectantly.
“His lordship’s dining with someone called Boko.” He didn’t see why it was any business of Morgan’s, but apparently he was expecting some explanation for Thomas’s presence downstairs.
“Ah. That’d be Lord Finsworth to you and me. They were up at Oxford together.”
“I see,” Thomas said.
Morgan smoked in silence for a moment, then said, “You know, Thomas….”
“What?”
“I understand you’ve been in service before.”
“Yes. I have.” What was it to him?
“But being a Guide is a bit different. I think you’ll find that advice from other Guides can be very helpful, if there’s anything you’re unsure of.”
Was this about the smoking? It was starting to seem like he couldn’t get away with anything in this place. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Good,” Morgan said. “I heard the downstairs dinner is shepherd’s pie tonight; they do it well here….”
Thomas was glad of the change of subject, and managed to keep his ill temper under wraps for the rest of the evening, but it was a relief when he was able to retreat to Lord Pellinger’s rooms.
His lordship said little-just that dinner had been fine, but he was tired-and went straight to bed. Thomas busied himself brushing his evening clothes and tidying the sitting room, then, when it was clear his lordship was asleep, settled down to write his letters.
The first, addressed to Mr. Carson, was very brief and simply asked that his things be sent on, and suggested that the freight charges could be taken out of his wages owed. The second, to Miss O’Brien, required more thought.
He knew he wasn’t exactly in her good books at present. And she had, knowingly or otherwise, instigated that disastrous late-night visit to Jimmy’s room. At times, he thought that she had intended things to go precisely as they had.
But she was also the oldest friend he had, and she’d helped get him out of the trenches. He couldn’t really believe that she’d deliberately set out to destroy him. And she was the only person he could think of who might help him get his things back, if Carson proved unhelpful. So he wrote her a fuller explanation of his circumstances, including a humorous description of the livery he was forced to wear, and wound up by suggesting that she might either intercede with Carson on his behalf or smuggle his things out directly.
He wasn’t entirely happy with the letter, but after several attempts decided it would have to do. Sealing and stamping it, he slipped his jacket and tie back on and took both letters down to the night-porter, to be put into the morning post. Now they were gone, and it was no use thinking about them again until the replies came back.
#
“Thomas,” Gerald said, as Thomas started clearing the breakfast things.
“Yes, my lord?”
Gerald hesitated. Ever since Thomas had first come in with his morning tea, he’d been trying to think of a way to say, “What on earth is that god-awful stench?” without actually saying, well, that. He felt as though his entire head had been stuffed with camphor and mint. “Are you using some sort of new soap? Or after-shave, or something?”
“No, my lord.”
“There must be something. It’s, ah, rather strongly scented.”
“There’s some salve, for my hand,” Thomas said, putting his injured hand behind his back.
“That must be it.” The stuff did smell vaguely medical, now that Thomas mentioned it. Gerald waited for Thomas to respond, only realizing at great length that he wasn’t going to. “Well, it won’t do,” he said awkwardly. “We’ll have to find something else you can use.”
“Yes, my lord,” Thomas said, and went back to clearing the table.
Concealing his irritation-after all, Thomas wasn’t a trained Guide, and he clearly didn’t understand-Gerald went on, “In the meantime, perhaps you could, er, wash it off?”
Thomas said, “Yes, my lord,” but made no move to do so.
“Thank you,” Gerald said, and continued to look at him until Thomas, finally, got the point.
“You want me to do it now, my lord?”
“If you don’t mind,” Gerald said. Worn out by the whole thing, he added, “I’m going back to bed. Wake me if I’m not up by lunchtime.”
#
Not even here a week, and already things had gone horribly wrong. Thomas didn’t know why he was surprised-it was just so bloody typical. He made one mistake-yes, he should have listened when the ugly footman told him not to smoke; he realized that now-and everything started fraying at the edges.
He wondered if his lordship had heard about it, and that was why he was making such a fuss about the way things smelled all of the sudden. The salve didn’t smell that much, and it wasn’t particularly unpleasant.
Of course, he didn’t know how things smelled to a Sentinel.
Still, it seemed like a lot of fuss over such a small thing, for his lordship to go back to bed immediately after breakfast without even asking Thomas to….
Well, what he might have asked Thomas to do, Thomas wasn’t sure, but he felt there had to be something pointed in it. Doing his morning’s work in the sitting room while his lordship was right there wasn’t particularly comfortable-but now it seemed like he couldn’t even stand to be in the same room with Thomas.
He washed his hands and threw the salve away, but he doubted it would do much good. Trying to fix things after he’d cocked them up never seemed to help.
Even after washing his hands until they were nearly raw, the mildly spicy scent of the salve seemed to linger. Eventually, he realized that it had seeped into his glove, so he washed that, too, leaving it rolled up in a hand towel to dry as he considered what to do next.
Yesterday, his lordship had said that “they” would have to go through his desk to find the wooden leg specialist’s card. Thomas hadn’t been sure at the time whether this was one of those situation when “they” meant “him.” He’d planned to find out after breakfast. Now he’d missed his chance. The way things were going, when his lordship finally got up, Thomas would be in trouble either for go through his desk on his own or for not doing so.
After staring at the desk for a long moment, he decided, with frustrated petulance, that if nobody was going to tell him what he was supposed to do, he’d simply do nothing. He sat on the sofa-something he’d never quite dared do when his lordship was in the room-and paged through one of the illustrated papers, trying ineffectually to convince himself that he derived some pleasure from this small rebellion.
#
Gerald woke for the second time groggy and out-of-sorts. Keeping Ace and Boko away from each other’s throats had been more taxing than he’d realized at the time. Apart from the petty disputes of their university days, the only subject of conversation the three of them had in common was the war. They’d fallen back on it frequently, and Gerald had slept poorly in consequence of the memories stirred up.
Thomas’s mood seemed no better-he answered Gerald’s ring of the bedside bell with a “My lord?” that struck him as downright sulky.
“I suppose I’ll get up,” he said. “What time is it?”
“A quarter till twelve, my lord,” Thomas answered, getting his dressing gown.
Plenty of time until luncheon, then.
“Did you want some tea, my lord?”
Now that he mentioned it, Gerald did. “Is there any?”
“I could go down to the kitchen and get some, my lord.”
“No,” Gerald decided, putting on the dressing gown. “If you do that, you’ll be going down for lunch almost as soon as you got back.”
Helping him stand, Thomas said, “You’re having luncheon up here, my lord?” He still sounded sulky.
“Yes.” Gerald accepted his crutches and arranged them under his arms. “That’s not a problem, is it?”
“No, my lord,” Thomas said, trailing him as he started for the dressing room. “It’s just that you’ve been going down to luncheon, the last couple of days.”
“I don’t feel up to it. Just some flannel bags and my smoking jacket, I think.” Thomas had laid out a suit, but that seemed like too much of an effort.
“Very, good, my lord,” Thomas said, whisking the suit away with a faint hint of disapproval.
Gerald sat and watched him do it. There was something a little bit different about him. His hair was slicked back; that was one thing. The effect was much more severe, with the lock that sometimes fell across his forehead in a charmingly boyish fashion brought firmly under control.
It was not an improvement, as far as Gerald was concerned, but he’d better not say so. Now that he’d been awake a few minutes, he remembered that he’d had to speak to Thomas earlier about that ghastly stuff he’d had on his hand-which might explain the sulkiness. No, the hair cream really wasn’t any of his business, even if he didn’t care for how it looked.
The hand salve, though, that they had to get sorted. Thomas seemed to be trying to use his left hand as little as possible-perhaps it hurt him. If so, they’d have to find a substitute quickly. “That stuff you use on your hand; what’s it for?” There were some doctors among the Society membership; perhaps one of them could be tracked down and asked to recommend something.
“Keeps the scar tissue from getting stiff, my lord,” Thomas said into depths of the wardrobe.
“Oh-then the stuff I use on my leg might work.” That would be much easier than tracking down a doctor.
“What stuff is that, my lord?”
“Oh, I don’t know. There’s a tin in the bedside table; try it and see if it suits. Weatherby will know where to get more of it.”
As Thomas was helping him into his trousers, Gerald noticed that he wasn’t wearing the flesh-coloured glove that usually covered his left hand. It was his first chance to look at the mysterious war wound-he knew nothing about it other than that Thomas didn’t welcome questions on the subject.
He’d thought he managed to avoid showing any excess of interest-he didn’t particularly enjoy having his own injury stared at, either-but he must not have succeeded, because once his trousers were on, Thomas held his hand up and said, in a voice with just a hint of steel in it, “Did you want a better look, my lord?”
“Ah,” Gerald said.
Thomas apparently was going to insist on more of an answer than that; he stood there, looking grimly defiant.
Gerald went ahead and looked. There was a perfectly round crater on outside edge of the palm, under the last two fingers. It looks like a bullet had passed straight through; Gerald had no idea how it could have happened, nor how Thomas had managed to keep his hand. “You’re, ah, lucky to still have the use of it, I should think,” he ventured.
“Yes,” Thomas allowed, finally dropping his hand back to his side. “I suppose I am, my lord.”
Then he brought him his shirt and smoking jacket, as though the momentary confrontation hadn’t happened.
#
Thomas took advantage of the few moments when his lordship was occupied in the WC to fluff the sofa pillows and hurriedly stuff the London Sketch back into the magazine rack. The teacup he’d left on the side table was a little more difficult to deal with in the time allowed; finally, he decided to put it on the dining table and pretend it was left over from the breakfast things. His lordship probably wouldn’t notice it was a servants’ hall one.
Maybe. But he’d have to be blind not to notice that Thomas had left his glove on the edge of the sink. He wasn’t sure where he was supposed to leave it, considering his bedroom was also his lordship’s dressing room. But not there.
If he’d just given Thomas some warning he was getting up, he’d have tidied everything up, and gotten him his bloody tea. What, was he expected to be able to see into the future now? Somehow, it didn’t seem entirely out of the question. He’d been doing his duties as well as he understood them, and by this point had a decent grasp of the routine and knew where to find everything he needed regularly, but he had a growing sense that he was missing something important. His lordship sometimes seemed to look at him as though he was waiting for Thomas to catch on to something-but he wouldn’t just say it, whatever it was.
His lordship didn’t say anything about the state of the sitting room or Thomas’s leaving his things lying about, but when Thomas went down to the kitchen, Mrs. Groach more than made up for it.
“A lunch tray?” From her tone, you’d have thought he was asking for kitten stew. “You said he didn’t want one. We’ve just finished setting them up!”
“You’ll have to set up another one, won’t you?” Thomas answered.
“To keep a kitchen this size running smoothly, I’ve got to plan ahead. How am I supposed to keep anything organized if you lot are all the time making changes at the last minute?”
“His lordship. Changed. His. Mind,” Thomas said, between gritted teeth. “Would you like me to tell him he’s not allowed to change his mind because it inconveniences you?”
“You’ve no call speaking to me like that!”
“Haven’t I?” Thomas was about to say more, but reined in his temper when he saw Mr. Weatherby approaching.
“Is there something wrong? Thomas? Mrs. Groach?”
Thomas managed to get his story in first. “Mrs. Groach is angry because Lord Pellinger wants a luncheon tray.”
“Just now,” Mrs. Groach put in. “At the last minute. And last night, after we made up a dinner tray for him, he said he didn’t want it!”
“As I said,” Thomas said, “his lordship changed his mind.”
“I see,” Mr. Weatherby said. “Mrs. Groach, I’m sure Thomas understands that you like to have as much notice as possible about the meal trays. Don’t you, Thomas?”
“Yes, of course,” Thomas agreed, although he hadn’t given the matter a moment’s thought before she started screeching at him about it.
“And I’m sure you understand that sometimes the gentlemen change their plans at the last moment. I realize it’s an inconvenience, but we must be flexible.”
Mrs. Groach sniffed. “I suppose so.” Turning to Thomas, she said, “What about tonight? Does he want a dinner tray or doesn’t he?”
“I…expect so?” Thomas said. “Probably. He hasn’t said.”
Weatherby sighed. “Ask him, and when you bring the lunch things back down, you can give Mrs. Groach a definite answer. All right?” He looked back and forth between the two of them.
“Yes, Mr. Weatherby,” Thomas said.
“All right,” Mrs. Groach said.
“Good.” Weatherby left the kitchen, shaking his head.
Once the tray was prepared, Thomas made a point of checking it over carefully. Spoiling for the fight that Mr. Weatherby had interrupted, he was a little disappointed that everything was correct.
#
Gerald was surprised to find that, once his luncheon was in front of him, he was actually a little bit hungry. Usually, sleeping all morning left him without much appetite. Thomas was typically quiet over the meal, but now seemed sad, or perhaps worried, rather than sulky. Perhaps he had been before, as well. Gerald knew he’d been a bit impatient with him, earlier, and regretted it, but it was difficult having a Guide who wouldn’t talk to him.
“Well,” he said, as Thomas cleared the lunch things, “tackling that is probably the next thing.” He nodded towards his desk. He wasn’t eager to do it-he’d been letting correspondence pile up, and he knew the prosthetics specialist’s card would be near the bottom. He’d be lucky to only find half a dozen things he should have dealt with ages ago, on the way there.
“Yes, my lord,” Thomas said. “My lord?”
“Yes?”
“Will you be going down for dinner tonight?”
Gerald stared at him for a moment. Why on Earth would he?
Smelling anxious and, if Gerald wasn’t mistaken, shuffling his feet a little, “Mrs. Groach, ah, the cook. She likes to know. About the trays.”
“Has she been giving you a hard time?” That would explain Thomas’s questions about his lunch plans earlier.
“She was a bit cross, my lord,” Thomas admitted, looking down at the dishes he was clearing.
Was she, indeed? “That’s not something you need to worry about,” Gerald said firmly. The cook had no right being cross and upsetting his Guide. “I wonder if I should speak to Weatherby.”
Thomas glanced up sharply. “I shouldn’t think that’s necessary, my lord.”
Well, if he thought it would make things worse, he was probably right. Guides usually were, about that sort of thing. “All right. But you may tell her, if she has any further complaints, she can refer them to me.”
“Yes, my lord.” Thomas hefted the tray and left, not seeming noticeably cheered.
#
Apparently, he’d guessed right about not starting on his lordship’s desk without him. When Thomas returned from taking the lunch things back down, Lord Pellinger had already started on the chore. Thomas’s own role seemed to be to sit next to him and occasionally accept some bit of paper or another that his lordship passed to him, saying something like, “I should answer that; hold on to it.” He also, on his own initiative, kept the large and untidy pile of things his lordship planned to save from getting mixed in with the smaller pile of things that could be taken away and burnt. The former pile included letters, news clippings, advertising circulars, theater programs, and more; the latter was mostly invitations to events that had come and gone months or even years ago.
If he’d felt a bit more confident, Thomas would have tried to engage his lordship in conversation a bit, over the task-perhaps he could ask him about some of those programs and invitations; that way, he could find out more about what his life had been like before the war, and what pursuits Thomas might expect him to take back up as he recovered. But his lordship seemed tense-still angry over that morning’s incident, or over something else that Thomas didn’t know about. He thought it best to keep his mouth shut unless he was spoken to.
“I suppose we’d better pay that,” his lordship said, passing Thomas a tailor’s bill. “I never even picked them up, but I don’t imagine they’ll want to make me a dinner jacket if I don’t.”
The bill was for two sets of replacement uniforms; going by the date, his lordship must have ordered them just before his injury. “Yes, my lord.”
A few layers of documents later, his lordship unearthed a small folder, the sort photography studios used. He opened it; Thomas got a glimpse of two men in Army uniform, one seated, the other standing behind him with his hand on the seated man’s shoulder. His lordship stared at it for a moment, then passed it to Thomas. “Here, d’you want to see how I used to look?”
Now that he had a better look, Thomas saw that the seated man was his lordship, with a rather unconvincing moustache. He looked…younger. Not quite so careworn. The other, in a corporal’s uniform with Guide tabs, must have been Euan.
“We had that taken just before we left,” his lordship went on. “For our mothers, you know. In case we were called on to make the ultimate sacrifice for king and country.” He said the last phrase in a mock-heroic voice, and sighed. “I don’t know whether to hate him or pity him.”
“Euan, my lord?” Thomas asked. Neither sentiment seemed entirely appropriate.
“No. Me. Him,” his lordship added, pointing to his own image in the photograph.
Oh. Thomas wasn’t sure how-or if-to respond to that, and before he could decide, his lordship went on.
“Did you think it would be a bit of a lark, when you signed up? Home by Christmas, covered in glory?”
“Not exactly, my lord,” Thomas admitted. He didn’t think it would be at all wise to say outright that he’d expected it to be bloody awful and had signed up for the medical corps in the mistaken impression that it was the soft option.
“Then you were cleverer than I was.” He stared at the photograph that Thomas was still holding, not sure what to do with it. “Sometimes I-well, never mind.” He took the photograph back and tucked it inside his smoking jacket. “That card won’t find itself.”
He did eventually find the card, after going through nearly everything on the desk. His lordship wrote a quick letter asking for an appointment at the specialist’s convenience, then, after posting it, Thomas started shifting the “keep” pile back, attempting to impose some kind of order as he did so. His lordship sat by the hearth and fed faded invitations into the fire, one by one.
The next morning when he took the breakfast things down, Thomas found answers to his letters in his pigeon-hole in the Guides’ hall. He felt a bit sick, taking them out and looking at the return addresses. Silly of him; he’d never gone in for premonitions.
Still, he took them outside to open them, wanting to face them with a bit of privacy and a cigarette in his hand.
The one from Mr. Carson was what he should have expected-a couple of terse lines saying he wasn’t owed any wages, and if he contacted the house again Carson would inform the police. Disgust dripped from every word.
Naturally. Well, of course he’d be like that. Thomas had had to try, though. He opened the other envelope with shaking fingers.
Seconds later, he dropped the letter, grinding it frantically beneath his foot, as if it had spilled out live spiders. It might as well have.
I had a good laugh hearing about your new livery, she had written. Now maybe you’ll look almost as foolish as you are. I can’t imagine why you think I would help you. I’d send your things to Africa, except that the naked savages might catch something. What you did was against all the laws of God and man. I’m only sorry that you escaped prosecution for your disgusting crimes…
He hadn’t read the whole thing, but what he had was enough. He didn’t think he could be shocked anymore, after Jimmy’s betrayal, but this was, if anything, even worse. O’Brien had always known, about him. There was only one reason for her to come over all shocked and disgusted now-she’d planned this, somehow, to get back at him. Maybe she and Jimmy had even worked together on it.
He felt sick at the idea that the two people at Downton he’d actually liked had conspired to ruin his life. True, he’d never been particularly happy at Downton-but he’d never really expected to be. He’d been there long enough to know the place inside and out, and when he’d been away, during the war, he’d thought of it as home. Being forced out without a second thought hurt more than he’d wanted to admit-but now, faced with this last betrayal, he couldn’t hide that fact from himself anymore. Not one of the people he’d known and worked with for years had stood up for him-and the ones he’d thought he could trust had engineered his destruction.
Had given it their best shot, anyway. If it hadn’t been for the happenstance that he was a Guide, he’d have been ruined. Absolutely ruined. As it was, he was stuck in this damned place where he didn’t know how anything worked, surrounded by charity cases who couldn’t take care of themselves but felt they had a right to teach him his job. It was utterly sickening, and all O’Brien’s fault. And Jimmy’s. If Jimmy had been in on it.
Why had he ever trusted either of them? He must be some sort of…congenital imbecile.
Somebody else came out to smoke-another Guide Thomas didn’t know-and he quickly picked up the now-mangled letter. He’d throw it in the first fire he saw. The idea of anyone else reading it didn’t bear thinking about.
He did his best to compose himself on his way back upstairs, but he must not have succeeded. As soon as he entered the sitting room, his lordship said, “Thomas? Are you all right?”
“Yes, my lord,” Thomas said.
“Are you sure? I mean-you seem….”
He trailed off. Thomas didn’t finish the sentence for him-wasn’t sure he could, without crying or screaming or something equally inappropriate. He just waited, breathing steadily, until his lordship flicked his fingers in a gesture Thomas could plausibly interpret as dismissal, and escaped to the dressing room.
There, he spent some time working on his lordship’s clothes. Whoever had been looking after him before had tended to put him in the same things over and over; there were plenty of suits and shirts in the wardrobe that just needed a bit of pressing or buttons sewn on, and they’d be perfectly good again. It was calming, doing the work that he knew so well-as long as he didn’t think about who had taught him to do it. He did know his job, this part of it at least. His lordship had never appeared in public anything less than perfectly turned out since Thomas’s arrival, and that was something to be proud of, given that he’d be happy to slop around in his oldest trousers and that ragged smoking jacket if Thomas didn’t stay on top of things. The man sorely needed a good valet.
And Thomas was one, just like he’d always wanted. His lordship appreciated that; he’d remarked on it once or twice. So Thomas would be just fine here. He didn’t need Downton or any of the people in it.
Link to Chapter Four