"It's rather complicated!"
Prompt number: 15
Fandom: Downton Abbey
Rating: Teen
Warnings/Tags: None
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Mr Carson stared at the envelope Ethel had handed him, irritated by the brevity with which the author had addressed it.
It simply said: TB. That was it. Nothing else. Not the slightest clue as to the identity of TB.
‘Where did you say you found this, Ethel?’
‘On the floor, Mr Carson.’
The butler bit back another wave of irritation. ‘Where precisely?’
‘Oh. In the officers’ lounge. Er, I mean the library as was.’
Carson’s face cleared a little. ‘Then it must belong to one of the officers.’
‘No, it doesn’t. I asked. There’s no patient here at the moment with those initials,’ Ethel said, proud of herself for showing initiative. ‘So, I thought I’d better give it to you.’
Unfortunately, the frown reappeared on Mr Carson’s face. ‘Hmm. That does not help me identify the intended recipient.’
‘We could steam it open, look inside to see who it’s meant for,’ Ethel suggested helpfully, quite happy to have a nosey inside the letter or card or whatever it was.
Carson bestowed a look on her that – if she were being entirely honest – had her quaking in her boots a little.
‘Steam it open? We will do nothing of the kind, Ethel! I’m not sure what kind of an establishment you are used to, but at Downton Abbey, we do not invade anyone’s privacy in such a manner.’
‘No, Mr Carson. Course not. It were just a thought,’ Ethel said, quickly.
‘Well, kindly refrain from thinking such thoughts again,’ Carson sniffed. ‘What if this belonged to one of the family or one of their guests? It would be a dreadful breach of protocol as well as privacy if we were to open their correspondence.’
‘None of them have the initials TB, though, do they? So, it’s not for one of the family,’ Ethel pointed out before she could think better of it.
‘Don’t be impertinent, Ethel,’ Carson reprimanded, making his displeasure abundantly clear.
‘Yes, Mr Carson. Sorry. Won’t happen again,’ Ethel muttered, wishing the old sod would just let her leave.
‘What’s going on here?’ Mrs Hughes asked, gliding along the corridor towards them. ‘Has Ethel done something I should be made aware of?’
Carson glanced at the maid, who was standing there obviously beginning to fear for her position, and took pity on her.
‘Ethel found this letter in the library and has brought it to my attention,’ he said, handing the sealed letter with the unhelpful initials on it to the housekeeper.
‘Oh, right,’ Mrs Hughes said, inspecting the letter. ‘Well, shouldn’t we just give it back to him?’
Carson frowned, glancing at Ethel, who simply shrugged, equally mystified. ‘Who?’
‘Thomas, of course. TB. Thomas Barrow,’ Mrs Hughes said, startled by his reaction. ‘I’m surprised you hadn’t put two and two together, Mr Carson. Who else is it going to be?’
‘Thomas! Of course!’ Mr Carson said, relieved the mystery was solved. He hadn’t even considered that TB could be the former footman turned soldier, currently acting above his station and lording it about upstairs in a most distressing fashion. Of course, the letter was for Thomas. He had regular access to the officers’ lounge. He must have dropped it in the course of his duties as the orderly in charge of the convalescent home.
‘Ethel, please give this to Thomas, and then carry on with your duties,’ Mrs Hughes said, handing the letter to the maid. ‘And by duties, I don’t mean lingering in the officers’ lounge, flirting.’
‘Yes, Mrs Hughes,’ Ethel muttered, taking the letter and trying not to let her resentment at being spoken to in such a way show.
= & =
‘You’re Thomas, aren’t you?’
Thomas glanced at the auburn-haired maid who had materialised beside him. He had a vague inkling her name was Elsie or Edie or something of that ilk.
‘That’s Sergeant Barrow to you.’
‘You can call yourself whatever you like, I’m sure, but this is for you,’ the maid said huffily and shoved an envelope with his initials on it at him.
He took it, looking at the fine, creamy paper and wondered who could be writing to him.
‘Who’s it from?’ he asked, looking up, but she’d already gone, which was a turn up for the books because she normally loitered like a bad smell, flirting with the officers under his care.
‘Sergeant Barrow? Can you come here?’ a voice called, one of the group of captains over by the window.
Thomas shoved the envelope in his pocket and walked over, pasting his servant’s blank onto his face.
= & =
It wasn’t until several hours later that Thomas remembered about the letter the maid had given him. Now, settled into his tiny office in the RAMC storeroom for his break, a cup of tea steaming in front of him, he pulled it out of his pocket and put it on his desk as he took out a cigarette and lit it.
With the cigarette firmly between his lips, he picked up the envelope and opened it, pulling out the paper and peering inside the envelope to check it was empty. He flicked open the paper and began to read.
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
You must know by now,
I think the world of you.
Your face and your eyes,
Your smile and your voice,
I honestly believe
That you are my choice.
The connection we have,
That we dare not speak of,
It fills my heart daily
So, I know it must be love.
All the things that you say,
And all the things that you do,
Have made me realise
I do want to run away with you.
Just give me more time,
Because I need to be sure.
But I feel more and more certain
That you’re my future.
Thomas blinked, his mouth falling open, his fag dangling from his lower lip.
It was undeniably a love letter. Well, a poem, to be more precise.
Somebody in this house had written him a poem to declare their love.
His heart raced as he wondered who it could be. And then, just as swiftly, it sank. That silly, flirty maid who had given him the envelope. It must be from her. Eliza or Alice or whatever she was called.
The adrenaline drained from him, the euphoric feeling of knowing someone loved him disappearing like a rat up a drainpipe. What on earth had he been thinking? Silly sod. Of course, it was a maid’s infatuation – what else should he have expected?
And now, on top of the bitter disappointment, he’d have to put the maid straight and tell her he wasn’t interested. Peddle the usual bollocks he had to hide behind. Flattered but too busy for anything, blah blah, blah, and hope she took the hint. A besotted maid trailing after him was the last thing he needed.
He read the poem again, wishing that he could inspire such feelings in someone he might have a chance of fancying back. Why was life so bloody unfair?
He sat back in the chair, tipping his head up and blowing out a ring of smoke, watching it slowly dissipate, his mood thoroughly torpedoed by the love poem that wasn’t for him. Idly, he wondered who its intended recipient was, scrolling through his mental list of the patients currently convalescing at the Abbey.
Suddenly, a thought struck him. The handwriting on the poem looked somewhat familiar. Frowning, he studied the poem more closely. Perhaps he should be thinking more about who had penned it than who it was for. Maybe someone he knew was harbouring a secret passion.
A knock on the door frame brought him out of his thoughts, and he looked up to see Nurse Crawley hovering in the doorway. He sat up straight, tapping ash into the ashtray on his desk.
‘Hello, Nurse Crawley. Can I help you?’
Sybil stepped into the office, coming up to the other side of the desk.
‘Sorry to bother you, Sergeant Barrow, but Lieutenant Stansfield is asking for more morphine. He’s due another dose soon anyway. I need the key to the medicine cupboard. Matron is assisting Doctor Clarkson at the moment, so as you’re the other keyholder today, could you open it, please?’ she said, outlining her reason for interrupting his break.
‘All right. Can he wait a few minutes while I finish my cigarette?’ Thomas asked, fiddling with his lighter as it rested on top of the poem that had so soured his mood.
‘I should thi-’ Sybil broke off, her face turning bright red as her eyes fell on the poem lying on the desk between them. She snatched it up, holding it close to her chest. ‘Where did you get this? This isn’t for your eyes! How dare you open it!’
Taken aback, Thomas blinked up at her. The cogs in his brain started whirring and, suddenly, he realised why he recognised the handwriting. He’d seen it enough times on duty rotas and medical notes.
‘You wrote that?’ he asked, surprised.
‘Why have you got it?’ she snapped, flustered almost to the point of panic. ‘And why did you open it?’
‘A maid gave it to me. She thought it was for me.’
‘Why would she think that?’ Sybil asked, bewildered.
Thomas gestured at the envelope. ‘It says TB on the front of the envelope.’
‘Oh, God. Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God,’ Sybil mumbled, sinking onto the chair opposite Thomas, her hand going up to cover her face, horrified by the situation she found herself in. ‘TB. Your initials are TB as well.’
‘Yes, they are. But as well as who?’ Thomas answered, his mind running at one hundred miles an hour, trying to figure out who the TB she’d meant to send the poem to could possibly be. Suddenly, he hit on a name, another TB they both knew, and his mouth dropped open as he stared at her wide-eyed. ‘No, it can’t be.’
Sybil stared back at him, a frightened rabbit, mute and panic-stricken.
Swiftly, Thomas rose from his chair and went to shut the office door before swinging back around to face her, his clanging thoughts desperate to escape through his mouth.
‘Do not tell me that’s for Tom Branson.’
Sybil said nothing, staring up at him, her eyes wide, the poem clutched tightly to her chest, trembling not with embarrassment but with terror that her secret was about to be exposed.
Thomas felt disbelief slam through him at her silent confirmation that his guess was correct. ‘Christ, it is, isn’t it?’
‘You’re not going to tell anyone, are you? Please, Thomas!’ she gabbled.
‘You and Branson? You’re… you’ve been… with the bloody chauffeur?’ he hissed, almost expecting Mr Carson to pop up behind him as he uttered such shocking words, conjured like an avenging angel by the impropriety of it all.
‘It’s rather complicated!’ Sybil whisper-shouted in response, casting a frantic look over his shoulder at the closed door.
‘Yes, I just bet it is! You’re… you’re… and he’s… bloody hell!’
Rounding the desk, Thomas dropped heavily into his seat, looking over at Lord Grantham’s youngest daughter, shocked beyond belief. ‘Well, excuse my language, milady, but bugger me, I did not see this coming.’
‘Are you going to tell anyone?’ Sybil asked, her voice small and tremulous.
Thomas stared at her, his mind still reeling with this revelation that had the potential to blow the roof off Downton Abbey. He waved his hand towards the poem she was still clutching.
‘That poem says you love him. Do you?’
‘Yes, I do. And he loves me.’
‘It also says you’re planning to run away together. That true, too, is it?’ he asked, barely believing what he was saying.
‘It’s… well, as I say, it’s rather complicated, but… yes, we have talked about it.’
He gawped at her, imagining the look on the faces of both Lord Grantham and Mr Carson when this became public knowledge.
‘But not right now! Not while there’s still a war on. I want to keep nursing while I’m needed,’ Sybil continued, the words tumbling out of her. ‘But I need to know if you’re going to tell anyone, Thomas.’
‘Dear God,’ Thomas muttered, rubbing his hand over his face, almost wishing that silly maid did have a crush on him and she’d written the damn poem after all. This situation had danger written all over it, and he was getting dragged into it through no fault of his own.
‘Thomas!’ Sybil hissed, leaning forward, looking at him desperately. ‘Are you going to tell anyone?’
‘You and Branson,’ he said, dropping his hand and meeting her eyes. ‘Seriously?’
Sybil nodded defiantly. ‘Yes.’
‘How long has it been going on?’
‘Well, nothing’s actually happened between us,’ she said, breaking off as he gave a disbelieving snort. ‘What? It hasn’t!’
‘Begging your pardon, milady, but come off it. If you’ve declared love to each other and you’re planning to run off with the blighter, something must have happened,’ he said baldly, not buying her claims of innocence.
‘We haven’t even kissed!’ she protested.
Thomas stared at her, and then blew out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘You haven’t even kissed. Christ Almighty. I thought Branson had more sense than this.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Sybil hissed, righteous indignation all over her face.
‘It means that you two silly buggers are risking absolutely everything without even having kissed each other!’ he retorted in exasperation. ‘Even if you didn’t know any better, I thought he would have.’
‘Well, it’s down to me that we haven’t kissed. I’m sure Tom wants to kiss me, but I want to do things properly,’ she said, all prim and proper as she explained the situation.
Thomas stared at her and then gave a wry laugh. ‘Properly? Since when is running off to Gretna bloody Green or wherever doing things properly?’
‘We don’t have a choice if we want to be together, Thomas,’ Sybil said, suddenly all quiet and earnest. ‘My father would never allow us to marry. You know that as well as I do. He won’t accept Tom as my husband. That’s why we have to keep things under wraps and do things in such an underhanded manner, much as I hate that. Don’t you think I’d rather have my family at my wedding? But I can’t have that and marry the man I love. I simply can’t.’
Silenced by her heartfelt words, Thomas continued staring at her, lost for words.
Sybil pressed her lips together, returning his gaze. ‘So, I need to know if you’re going to betray us? Because if you are, I need to make arrangements.’
He narrowed his eyes. ‘What arrangements?’
‘To bring things forward.’
Thomas gawped at her. ‘The wedding, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’d run off and marry him now, would you?’
‘If I had to. If that was the only way,’ she said calmly, her voice strong and true, no doubt in her eyes.
He sat back in his chair, looking at her thoughtfully, taking in the strength of character he’d always admired in her. He shook his head. ‘This is all going to end in tears, you mark my words.’
‘Mine and Tom’s? I don’t think that’s at all true,’ she retorted, indignantly. ‘You don’t know how we feel about each other. It’s real. It’s true love!’
‘Well, I’m very happy for you if it is,’ Thomas lied, unable to believe that Branson, of all people, had captured her heart. ‘But I was thinking more of his lordship when he finds out. He’s going to absolutely lose it.’
‘I know,’ she whispered unhappily.
He eyed her contemplatively. ‘But you’re set on it, are you? You and Branson living in marital harmony?’
‘I am.’
Thomas sighed. ‘Well, far be it from me to stand in the way of true love. I won’t tell on you, milady.’
Sybil’s face lit up, her smile wide and grateful. ‘Really?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, I’ll keep your secret. But I would be grateful if you don’t let on to anyone that I knew about any of this when it all comes out in the wash.’
‘I promise!’
‘Yeah, well, just mind you look after your love letters better from now on.’
‘I will,’ she said, fervently. ‘Thank you, Thomas.’
‘I never saw that poem. I have no idea what was in it. And I don’t know anything about anything, all right? Not one single thing,’ he said firmly, ramming the point home.
‘What poem?’ Sybil asked innocently, beaming at him.
‘Precisely.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Aye, well, let’s see about getting that morphine for Lieutenant Stansfield now, shall we, before he starts screaming his head off,’ Thomas said, standing up, ready to be done with all this drama.
Sybil nodded, shoving the incendiary poem in her pocket.
