Chapter Text
Someone knocked on the door of the butler's pantry, and Thomas ran a hand through his hair and stifled a groan. His head hurt and he hadn't slept well the night before. Hot weather tended to carry nightmares, and the heat wave of the last month had him on edge. Still, he couldn't ignore his staff when they knocked. "Come in."
Albert poked his head in and Thomas' annoyance eased. Albert was a good lad, quiet and hardworking, and he was probably interrupting to tell Thomas that the new linens had been delivered. The young footman slipped into the pantry and shut the door behind him. He stood in front of the door at a considerable distance from Thomas, his shoulders tense and hands clasped tightly behind his back, his head ducked so that his brown wavy hair shielded his face. The lad looked like he wanted to bolt from the room and his body was turned slightly to the side as if he didn't want to face Thomas head-on.
"Albert?" Thomas prompted, thrown by Albert's unmistakable fear. He set aside his checklist and turned his full attention to the boy in front of him.
Albert shifted on his feet. "Mr. Barrow." He paused, eyes darting. "It's about the guest, Mr. Barrow." Albert hesitated. Due to a lack of appropriately-aged and experienced servants, Thomas and Bates had recently begun cross-training Andy and Albert in valeting duties, alongside performing their routine footmen duties. The visiting Honourable Henry Wharton, the younger son of the Earl and Countess of Wharton, was Albert's first real guest as a valet; Albert had proved more proficient than Andy at the fussy details of sock garters and bowties, and an Honourable was a low enough rank that Albert wouldn't be too intimidated.
Thomas beckoned for Albert to sit and Albert shuffled forward and sat, his posture perfect even as he worried at his lip.
"Did something happen when you valeted for him last night or this morning?" Thomas asked. Most likely Albert had made a minor mistake - misplaced socks or summat - and Wharton had not been understanding. Well, honeyed words could unruffled many feathers, and of course it was expected that Albert make a mistake or two.
Albert shook his head then paused and nodded. "No, Mr. Barrow, I mean - I got him undressed and dressed alright, only - " He exhaled. His hands twitched as if he was barely keeping from wringing them. Thomas sat very still, an inkling of dread sprouting in the pit of his stomach. Albert was acting so unlike himself. Something was very, very wrong.
"Go on." Thomas kept his voice gentle.
"He - Only I think I did something wrong?" Albert finally looked at Thomas, his fine brows furrowed in fear and confusion. "I must've done something to make him think - He touched me. My face." Albert raised his hand in a dreamy re-enactment, curving his fingers softly around an invisible swoop of cheekbone. A faint chill pricked at Thomas' skin as a familiar horror circled him.
Albert continued. "He asked me if I'd serviced anyone before, said that a, um, a pretty thing - " Albert winced and lowered his eyes, his cheeks flaming pink " - like me would have to learn some things about what men liked. I pretended like I didn't know what he was on about but I could tell he knew I was lying and he moved his hand behind my neck and I thought he was going to - he didn't but he just kept staring at me with his hand on my neck and no one ever said anything about providing that kind of service for them and we don't - I don't have to - " His voice shrank into a nervous question. "Do I?"
The stuttered words washed over Thomas in a frigid wave. Albert had talked around the incident but the meaning was clear as day. Thomas' limbs were heavy and wooden, stuck fast in the chair, and he glanced down and saw that his hands were trembling. It wouldn't do. He had to be strong and steady now, for his own dignity as well as for Albert's comfort. He could fall to pieces later in the privacy of his own quarters. "No, you don't have to do anything like that."
He wasn't sure it was strictly true. He had never dared to come to Carson about this sort of thing and he had certainly never asked Lord Grantham about it, but Thomas was in charge downstairs now and he would be damned if allowed his staff to be used or threatened. He had a duty of care and he would fulfill it, even if Carson never had. Albert all but drooped in relief.
First things first. He had to get Albert out of the way. "I'll tell them you're sick. Until I tell you otherwise, you stay downstairs. Andy and I will handle serving, and Michael can help downstairs. It's past time he's been trained as a footman anyway."
Wharton would still need a valet but he couldn't in good conscience send Andy to do it. People like Wharton took joy from abusing their power over others, and even Andy, tall and gawky and married, might not be safe. He didn't want to foist Wharton onto Bates either, though it was clearly the reasonable thing to do. This was too personal. Besides, Albert had come toThomas for help.
"What about the guest?" Albert asked even as Thomas pondered his choices.
"Don't worry about him," Thomas advised. "I'll take care of it."
"Thank you." Albert gazed at Thomas with something akin to hero worship. Thomas flushed, embarrassed by Albert's gratitude - Thomas hadn't even done anything yet, and moreover he was only fulfilling his basic duty as guardian of the male staff.
Albert left, a light bounce in his step, and Thomas leaned back in his chair. Unwanted memories of unwanted touches licked at the back of his mind but he shook them off. The past was behind him. He had to focus on the present, on how to stop or get rid of Wharton. He knew little about Henry Wharton. So far Thomas had gotten only an impression of astonishing ordinariness. Wharton was chubby but not fat, neither particularly pale nor dark, with thin brown hair and languid brown eyes. Nothing about his outward appearance recalled a monster, but Thomas had dealt with enough monsters to know that they could wear any guise. He needed more information. Unfortunately, he had no way of getting any here at Downton, rural and isolated as it was. There was one person he could ask, someone located in a central hub of gossip, but Thomas was loath to involve Richard in something like this. The Wharton family was based in Westmoreland as well, far from London, so Richard might not be able to even find anything - but Thomas had to admit that Richard was his best chance of getting information against Wharton.
It was still before noon and he wasn't sure if Richard would be busy. As the line rang he prayed that Richard was out buying hats or shopping for fabrics or whatever a King's valet did when not valeting, and his heart thudded as the Royal Housekeeper bustled off to find Richard. Somehow his heart both sank and soared when Richard's broad Yorkshire accent sang over the wire.
"Mr. Barrow? This is an early hour to call. I hope everything's alright?"
Richard's voice was thick with concern; even so Thomas felt his dark mood lighten. No matter how bitter he felt, hearing Richard inevitably sweetened his day. "Hello, Mr. Ellis. Sorry to bother you but I have a rather important question."
"It's no bother at all."
"You see, we're having some difficulty accommodating the son of Earl. I was hoping you would be able to gain some information. Anything that would help us… take care of him better." He hoped Richard would understand his meaning and wouldn't ask too many questions.
"You need… information on a fellow?" Richard sounded bemused. "Well, I can't guarantee I can find anything. Perhaps only servants' gossip."
"Servants' gossip is fine, Mr. Ellis. Every little bit helps."
"I see." Richard clearly did not see, but Thomas couldn't elaborate over the phone. That was one good thing about having to speak circuitously. "What's his name?"
"The Honourable Henry Wharton, second son of the Earl of Wharton."
Richard sighed. "I'll see what I can do. I'll ring you tonight if I find anything."
"Thank you, Mr. Ellis. I'm sorry this wasn't a social call." He would much rather speak to Richard about more pleasant matters but now he could waste no time lingering.
"Ah, well, we'll get to speak again tonight, I hope. Goodbye for now, Mr. Barrow."
"Until later, Mr. Ellis."
For the rest of the day Thomas immersed himself in the dual role of footman-butler. He recruited Michael the hall boy to assist as Thomas and Andy polished, cleaned, served lunch, and cleared the table. Their guest was on a day outing with Mr. Talbot and Branson, so fortunately Thomas could avoid seeing the fellow until it was time to dress him for dinner.
Thomas knocked on the door to Wharton’s room and waited. His hands were shaking again and he clasped them behind his back and lifted his chin. He would act professional. He was forty now, secure in his position, and he would not be intimidated by some handsy peer who was younger than Thomas by at least five years. Thomas could handle it.
Wharton blinked in surprise when he saw Thomas. “Hello? May I help you?”
Thomas gazed straight into Wharton’s eyes and hoped his voice would come out cool and aloof. “I’m here to dress you for dinner, sir.”
Wharton tilted his head. “I had a young lad this morning. What happened to him?”
“He’s fallen ill, sir.”
“Oh, that’s a shame. I liked him.” Wharton turned and went back into the room, leaving the door slightly ajar. Thomas followed.
Wharton gave him no directions. He made no friendly chatter, simply stood still without looking at Thomas as Thomas laid out his clothes and began to undress him. The clothes might have been magically arranging themselves for all that Wharton acknowledged him. When Wharton was fully dressed Thomas stepped back, prepared to leave, but before he could Wharton gave his first order. “Wait.”
Thomas paused. Wharton perused himself in the mirror, taking in the impeccable shine of his shoes, the sharp crease of his trousers, the perfect knot of his tie. “Not half bad. You’re quite experienced, aren’t you?” Wharton’s drab eyes flicked over Thomas with renewed interest.
Thomas kept his face blank and his voice level. “Yes, sir.”
Wharton smiled, a brief quirk of his lips as if Thomas had told a mild joke. “What did you say your name was?”
He hadn’t. “Barrow, sir.”
“Barrow,” Wharton murmured, still staring. “I expect you back here around, say, 11 to dress me for bed. That will be all.”
“Yes, sir.”
As the door clicked shut behind him Thomas let out a breath he hadn’t been aware he'd been holding.
The first course was a cold soup, and Thomas sorely wished that the broth was piping hot and that he could dump the lot on Wharton's head. Instead he carried out his duties in fuming silence. After dinner they cleared the dishes and brought coffee. Branson told a story - something to do with a malfunctioning car - that had Wharton chortling, and the sound grated on Thomas' ears and made him clench the coffee pot. He had a few hours before he had to valet for Wharton again and the knowledge dogged him, dread nipping at his heels as the evening progressed.
He shut himself in the pantry to finish some paperwork; doing the work of three people had put him behind schedule, and he would be up very late at this point. It was only the second day of Wharton’s stay at the Abbey; by the end of the week Thomas would be drowning in delayed work. Distracted by potential dining preparations, he jumped when the phone rang.
“Downton Abbey. Mr. Barrow speaking.”
“Good evening, Mr. Barrow.”
His weariness and dread abated and Thomas couldn’t help but smile into the receiver. “Mr. Ellis.”
“I hope this is a good time.”
“It's always a good time to hear from you.” Perhaps that was too forward over the phone, but it was nice to hear Richard’s voice for a second time today.
“I did some asking around,” said Richard. “Unfortunately I couldn’t find much on your man. He likes racing, both horses and cars. Bit of a big spender, to his father’s chagrin. And… some gossip. Not good news, I’m afraid.”
“Is it ever?"
Richard didn't sound amused. “He, ah, apparently has a habit of getting quite handsy with servants, sometimes violently. He’s gotten some maids in trouble, but rumour has it he goes in for lads as well. I’d steer well clear of him.”
Too late for that, and the gossip was nothing Thomas didn’t already suspect. “I don’t suppose there’s anything more specific? Names of the maids, or anything like that?”
“No. Thomas - ” Richard was certainly worried if he was using Thomas’ Christian name over the phone. “Be careful.”
“I will. Wish I could chat longer but I've got work to do. Good night, Mr. Ellis.”
“Good night, Mr. Barrow.” Before they hung up they hesitated, each unwilling to be the first to end the call, and in the space of silence Thomas thought I love you and willed it through the wire, hoping that somehow Richard would hear his unspoken thought.
Restlessness stole upon Thomas as 11 approached. As much as he was dreading undressing Wharton again, he almost ran to the guest's bedroom so he would arrive at 11 on the dot. Better to get it over with. He worked with easy efficiency, and as before Wharton paid him no attention until the end when the Honourable asked suddenly “How old are you, Barrow?”
Thomas adjusted the drape of the silken robe across Wharton’s sloping shoulders. “Forty, sir.”
“Mmm. You’re quite trim for your age. They must keep you running up and down stairs all day.”
“Yes, sir.” Thomas was tired and he ached to leave but Wharton, dressed for bed, stood unmoving between Thomas and the door. “Will that be all, sir?”
Wharton didn’t answer the question. “You’re experienced as well. You must know how to please your betters.”
Thomas bristled. Wharton smiled patronisingly and put his hand on Thomas’ shoulder. “Show me.”
The hand pressed on Thomas’ shoulder, urging him downward, but Thomas didn’t kneel. All dread and fear had fled, and he seethed with cold anger. The Honourable's condescending tone, coy insinuation, the soft palm that revolted him with its touch - Albert had experienced these things as well, had been uncertain whether to give in, and had come to Thomas terrified and ashamed. How dare this man lay hands upon Albert then try again with Thomas? How dare he think he had a right to Thomas simply because he was the son of an Earl? The hand pressed more insistently and Wharton’s smile strained.
“No.” The flat denial caught even Thomas off guard, and both servant and lord blinked in surprise. Thomas had never refused such an order before and the word felt nice in his mouth. No. So much power in such a small word!
Wharton’s soft features hardened into an ugly, lopsided sneer. “I beg your pardon?” he snapped.
Thomas let himself grin, abandoning his docile servant’s blank, and smirked at Wharton. “No.”
Positively gleeful, Thomas sidestepped Wharton and strode to the door, leaving a speechless Honourable behind him.
The attics were sweltering. Thomas tossed and turned under his thin sheet, and when sleep finally descended it was a fitful rest. Tonight he wasn't haunted by an electroshock machine or No Man's Land or the gut-wrenching horror of his secret exposed. This nightmare pinned and gripped and invaded him, his limbs immobile and useless as a great weight bore down on him, suffocating him as he was forced open, and his lungs burst with smothered screams - he could not cry out - Thomas gasped awake, breathless and sweating. He tossed his sheet aside and lay panting, counting the clamorous beats of his heart as he tried to calm himself. The nightmare and the memories that had sparked it were long over. It had been over a decade since anyone had hurt him like that, and he had thought he'd moved on. He was a different person now. He liked to think he was better, stronger. Cleaner. He had washed his past away in a bathtub of his own blood and came out renewed. He could not let himself be broken again, especially not by a weakling toff who was in no way entitled to Thomas' body. Richard had shown him that - that Thomas was worthy of love and protection, that he didn't have to earn dignity or basic respect. That he was worth loving, just as he was. No one could take that away from him now. He wouldn't let them.
In the morning he dressed Wharton in defiant silence. Wharton eyed him warily and flinched at sudden movements. Thomas was the taller and stronger of the two, and Wharton had no way of knowing that Thomas despised physical violence. Thomas hoped to keep it that way. Let the entitled little worm cower. Thomas had the upper hand now.
At breakfast Wharton sulked as Talbot nattered about a local football match. His attitude didn't go unnoticed.
"Is everything alright, Mr. Wharton?" The Countess did her best to look polite and sympathetic.
Wharton tossed his head. "I was thinking, Lady Grantham, that it's a pity that people nowadays don't know their place. The servants are especially egregious and uppity, don't you think?"
Andy, who was pouring water for Branson, looked up and frowned. The Countess sipped her tea then replied, "I do hope you're not referring to our own staff."
"I certainly am!" Wharton's fork clattered against his porcelain plate. "That one is particularly insolent!" He pointed at Thomas forcefully as if he was hoping to smite Thomas then and there, but the reaction he received was undoubtedly not the one he'd been looking for; Thomas froze but Branson snorted and Lord Grantham waved his hand dismissively.
"Oh, no, that's just Barrow's way," he said. "One gets used to him."
An enraged spasm worked across Wharton's face and the Crawleys, interest piqued, all stopped eating and regarded him with wary curiosity. "My father would certainly never keep such an obstinate wretch - "
"Barrow - " Lady Mary interrupted, to Thomas' surprise. "Barrow is a valuable member of this household. He has been loyal to us for a long time and has proven himself a capable and efficient butler. By insulting him you insult my family, Mr. Wharton."
Andy raised his eyebrows and Thomas felt his face heating up. The vehemence of Lady Mary's defence was unexpected but he smirked at Wharton just the same. He wished Carson was present to hear Lady Mary’s good opinion of him; that would show the old codger that Thomas was someone to be respected.
"I see now why the Crawley's reputation is so tarnished," Wharton barked, and the Countess and Lady Mary gasped. "Not only do your servants not know their place, but you have so little money that your butler must act as valet as well."
Lord Grantham sputtered. "If you find us so poor and inhospitable you are welcome to leave, Mr. Wharton, and pray don't come back."
“Gladly.” Wharton threw down his napkin and stalked out of the room. No one followed.
Lord Grantham turned to Thomas. “Care to tell us what that was all about, Barrow? Why did he say you were valeting as well?”
“Albert was valeting but he fell ill so I took over, m’lord.”
His Lordship frowned. “I’m sure Bates could have been of assistance.”
Thomas had no answer to that. Lady Mary twisted around to look at him. “Well, what happened? He was awfully upset about something you said or did.”
The entire family was looking at him. He couldn’t tell them the whole story. It was inappropriate conversation during a meal, and he didn’t want to expose Albert’s shame or his own. “I couldn’t say, m’lady.”
“I’m sure you can.” Lady Mary narrowed her eyes and stared at him. Clearly she knew he was lying.
“It’s not appropriate for - ”
“We can decide for ourselves what is appropriate, thank you,” Lady Mary cut in. Lord Grantham threw Thomas a look that clearly said it was best to give in. Mr. Talbot jerked his head, shifting his eyes in a minute Go on gesture, and Branson and Andy were watching Thomas closely.
Thomas opened his mouth then closed it again. He had no idea where to begin. For as long as he could remember no one had ever spoken openly about carnal relations between servants and those they served. In general he had always been told to keep his head down and his mouth shut. Keep the toffs happy, whatever the cost. Now he chose his words carefully, keeping his gaze on the glistening water glass set next to His Lordship’s plate. It was easier to not look at anyone. “Yesterday morning Albert came to me, very distressed. He had been valeting for Honourable Wharton when the Mr. Wharton made an unwanted advance on him. I decided it was too dangerous to have him valet for the man again and I could not risk sending anyone else to valet for him. Mr. Wharton made an advance on me as well and I refused him.”
“Oh dear,” the Countess fluttered.
“You don’t think he would have - forced - ?” Branson started, letting his question trail away into shocked silence.
The glass that held His Lordship’s cold water was sweating. The beads of condensation decorating the glass were strangely hypnotic. “I don’t know if he would have attacked Albert, but I have heard rumour that in the past Mr. Wharton has demanded inappropriate services from both maids and menservants, sometimes violently.”
“Pity it’s too early for brandy,” muttered Lord Grantham.
“I don’t want that man in our house any longer,” said the Countess. “We must make sure he leaves as soon as possible.”
“Oughtn’t we call the police to remove him?” Lady Mary asked.
“Oh, we’ll remove him,” said Branson darkly.
No one had accused Thomas of lying; they had believed him without question or doubt. No one had said that he hadn’t done his job or chastised him for refusing Wharton. He had not been commanded to be quiet, or shamed, or sacked. In the past he had been told over and over that no one would believe him, that he ought to be ashamed because it was his fault, that he would be destroyed if he complained about what was expected of him. It had all been a lie. He dared to glance up at the faces of the family he had served for years. Every face was stormy with anger on his and Albert’s behalf. Something crumpled inside of him, heavy in the center of his chest, and as Wharton marched in to hurl a last insult Thomas trembled with barely controlled emotion.
“You will be lucky to receive any respectable company again, Lord Grantham. I knew your family had fallen far but I didn’t realise how disgraced you really are.”
“If you’re respectable company then I’d much prefer disreputable hooligans,” Branson shot back.
“Spoken like a true Fenian terrorist!” Wharton replied loftily.
Lord Grantham stood abruptly. He didn't look very intimidating but his face was red with anger, and Wharton shrank back. “Get out of my house.”
Wharton sketched a small bow that he somehow made look sarcastic, then turned on his heel, luggage in hand. Evidently he meant to walk to the train station instead of lowering himself to ask for the use of a chauffeur. Thomas hardly registered the echoing slam of the front door. He felt like he was waking from a nightmare, weak and shaky but safe nevertheless. Words were crowding in his throat, things he had never said but felt he could - maybe - say now. He covered his face with his hands, trying to push back tears, but a dam that had been built long ago had cracked and he couldn’t hold back. In front of the family and Andy, he leaned against the dining room wall and wept into his hands.