I’m doing a playlist for my boy Thomas Barrow and what is the first suggestion from Spotify (you know when you make a new playlist and suggestions come up)
well I’ll tell you Spotify recommended “Don’t Try Suicide” by Queen
So, hah, still not finished with the fun fluffy thing I was distracting myself with, because LO! I’ve been writing what I’m supposed to instead! Hahah!
One of the things that has been driving me bonkers about the Thomas-As-Heir fic is the Barrows. We won’t be seeing much of them - even less now than we have in the past - but I just...........I’ve not been able to convince them to be people instead of stiff, two dimensional, wooden puppets. I think I’ve finally had the necessary break through to at least get Mr. Barrow into the third dimension.
I’d introduce you to Samuel as well, but he’s really just there to open the door, fetch Dad, and Not Look Like Thomas. (Not that I describe him much in this version...)
The man who entered the room was tall, broad, and oddly lean, like someone who should have weighted more than he did. His eyes were dark, his hair - what was left of it - was pale, and his face had a decided oval shape to it. His hands, when he laid them on the counter, had very long fingers, the sort that seemed custom made for playing the piano or engaging in delicate crafts. In short, he looked every inch the clock maker, and not a thing like either Thomas or the young man who had let Robert in. “Lord Grantham,” the man greeted respectfully, his voice deep and slightly graveled with age. “Samuel says you’ve come concerning my older son, Thomas.”
“I have,” Robert confirmed, keeping his tone carefully pleasant. Even though he was forced to admit, on some level, that Thomas looked more like Cora than either Mr. Barrow or Samuel, looks weren’t proof of anything. After all, Edith didn’t look a thing like anyone in the family. One of his old war chums had once commented on the fact in a rather embarrassing manner. Robert had barely forgiven the man, and only because they’d both been squiffy at the time. “I’m sorry to trouble you on a Sunday, but I’m afraid it’s quite urgent.”
“It’s no trouble, my lord,” the man replied, his words much more distinct and deliberate than either of his children. Something in his manner made Robert wonder if his slow speech was from more than respect. A medical ailment, perhaps. Hadn’t Barrow taken time off a couple of years prior because his father had been ill? “What can I do for you?”
“It has come to my attention that your son Thomas might, in fact, be adopted,” Robert informed him, working his way through his carefully prepared lie. He’d spent the entire train trip rehearsing it. “If that is true, then there are legal steps that I, as an employer, need to take. It’s nothing you need worry about,” he assured, “Simply a matter of taxes and paperwork resulting from the new adoption laws.”
The other man blinked, clearly perplexed. “I was unaware that the new laws involved taxes at all.”
Inwardly Robert cursed. He’d hoped that the other man would know as little about the new laws as he did. “I believe it only applies to domestic staff living in. Anyone not keeping servants wouldn’t know about it.” He prayed that the Barrows weren’t so well off that they kept a maid.
Thankfully, the other man seemed to accept the bluff. “I see,” he nodded, then frowned again. “And Thomas serves you? In your house?”
“He’s been part of my household for sixteen years and currently holds the position of butler.”
“I see.” Mr. Barrow sounded impressed by the fact. He was silent for a minute, then nodded. “Yes, I see. I’d have not thought him capable of such dedication, but if he has I am pleased to hear it.”
It was Robert’s turn to frown. “I take it you don’t keep much contact with him? Your younger son, Samuel, seemed surprised to learn he was alive.”
“As you said, my lord, we’ve not heard from him often since he left. He did write to let us know he’d taken a position in a house before the war, presumably yours, but the last we heard from him he’d joined the war effort. As we received no letter from the war office informing us of his death, the missus and I assumed he’d come through, but Samuel was still young enough he might have thought otherwise.”
“I take it Samuel was too young to fight?”
“He was just old enough when the war started, but he didn’t join until he was conscripted. I was not well at the time, so he was needed at home.” In case there was any doubt, the man added, “We were honoured when he was called, of course, and grateful when he was returned to us. He is our greatest joy.”
“More than Thomas?”
Mr. Barrow nodded. “Yes, my lord. You see, Samuel is ours. Thomas, as you have been made aware, was adopted. We had given up on a son, by the time we took him in. My wife did not do well in child birth and my brother-in-law, a doctor, was quite concerned for her well being. When Samuel was born, seven years after we took Thomas in, she was bed ridden for months after. We were afraid she might die.”
“Good God,” Robert winced at the thought. The other man told his story well enough that it was difficult not to believe. “Who took care of the children while she was ill?”
“My daughter Peggy was thirteen. She’d accepted a job as a maid for one of the local families, a solicitor, but we brought her home.”
If Peggy was anything like his own daughters, Robert couldn’t see that having gone over well. Still, with a daughter to oversee things and a son who was actually their own, he could easily see the Barrows losing interest in the boy they’d adopted. It was a well spun story and he reminded himself firmly that it probably wasn’t true. Trying to get his investigation back on track, he asked, “And you never told Thomas he was adopted?”
“It is never a good thing, for children to know the people raising them are not their natural parents,” the other man informed him. “It would encourage disrespect and poor behavior, at the very least. True, with Thomas we’d need not have worried about his natural parents coming to claim him once he was working age. His father is unknown and his mother died in childbirth, although her name is on the birth certificate. Still, we felt it best to keep it to ourselves.”
And there was the place where the stories intersected, the one Mr. Barrow was telling and the one from the journal. They lined up, to the letter, which meant they had to be true or very well rehearsed. Baiting his hook carefully, Robert asked, “I don’t suppose you can provide any proof that he was adopted?”
