Chapter Text
Thomas was proud of himself. When Anna suggested that he might use his time left at Downton to reflect on what had brought him so low, he didn't roll his eyes, didn't make a sarcastic remark in reply, and didn't get angry. He didn't point out that he knew damn well what had driven him to suicide, and it included things beyond his control -- the laws of man and God that forbid him from finding romantic love, and the people who worked to enforce them. The fact that he was going to lose his home because the estate couldn't afford such a large staff. The fact that there weren't many jobs to be had.
Instead, he decided he would work on the things that were in his control: the way he treated others, and how he looked at the world. He would stop letting his anger fester, stop sabotaging himself, and stop giving people reasons to dislike him. (If anyone still hated him even when he was kind, that was on them, not him.) He would stop being the emotional equivalent of a porcupine. He would stop waiting for others to be nice, and start making the first gestures of kindness himself. Maybe he didn't quite know how to do that yet, but he would make the effort to figure it out. Baxter, Anna, even Bates ... everyone loved them. Surely he could learn by their example?
~* * *~
He'd been praying for this day, a day where the post brought acceptance instead of rejection; he just wished he could enjoy it more. He was pleased that Anna seemed glad he wouldn't be far, that it meant they would still see him -- he hadn't really expected that. But it still meant leaving the only other place he'd called home, and he still didn't want to go.
He also didn't know what to make of Carson's reaction. Was the man sincere when he said Thomas deserved it? Was he simply being polite? Was he actually being sarcastic? Or did he think the position was worthless, and such was all Thomas deserved?
~* * *~
When Carson said they wouldn't insist on him working out his notice, Thomas shouldn't have been surprised, shouldn't have been disappointed, but he was. Couldn't Carson have insisted? Was it that Carson thought he was being kind and helpful, or was he just still that eager for Thomas to go?
Patmore's reaction stung, but he didn't exactly blame her for being unsure if he was a good or bad thing -- she had always been motherly to Daisy, and didn't seem to have forgotten, much less forgiven, how Thomas had encouraged the girl's fancy of him to spite William. He supposed he should be touched that Patmore seemed nostalgic about their many years together, at least.
He decided to think better of Patmore and Carson both, believe they meant to be kind, and not hold it against them that they weren't very good at it -- neither was he, after all, and if he wanted a second chance, he needed to grant them one in turn, he supposed.
He didn't know what to feel about Bates, though -- he appreciated that Anna didn't want her husband to speak unkindly of his departure, but now Thomas would always wonder if that was even what the man had meant to do. Bates had been kind enough to join him for cards the night Thomas had nearly died, after all, and had been ... well, if not overly friendly, at least civil ever since. Was that out of pity? Was it that Thomas wasn't long for the Abbey, and no longer worth wasting a thought on? Or had the man inexplicably warmed up to Thomas? A strange part of Thomas would actually rather have heard a snide remark than been left to wonder one way or the other ....
Well, then again, it didn't really matter either way -- Thomas already understood that the only thing he could change about his life was himself. Let Bates continue to hate him if he insisted on it; Thomas could at least stop adding to the list of reasons why the man did.
~* * *~
The fact that Baxter, of all people, should comment that it wasn't like him to care only strengthened his resolve about his plan. If even she, who had always insisted on believing better of him, was surprised by him caring about Lady Edith -- even after he'd expressed worry for His Lordship (... or was she teasing him? He'd said at the time that he was surprised he cared, hadn't he?) -- then he had his work cut out for him. He wondered then if she even believed change was possible for him -- so he confessed his plan. He was relieved to find her encouraging -- and happy to realise there was a way he could return the favour.
He spoke from experience when he warned her away from Coyle. His father had similarly had a stranglehold on his own life ... until one day, he'd decided the man's opinion wasn't worth anything. His father had believed a charlatan over his own son, after all! And so Thomas stopped seeking his father's approval, and his sister's too. He wasn't going to change for them, and he couldn't expect them to change for him, so he'd stopped writing to them. He'd kept the letters to remind himself not to trust anyone, that love would only lead to heartbreak ... but that way of thinking had only kept him even lonelier, not protected him from pain. He realised now that keeping the letters had allowed them to still hold sway over him after all. Anna, Baxter, Mrs Hughes, Andy ... they all knew what he was and hadn't turned away when he needed help. There were people he could trust.
He went upstairs, gathered the letters, and burned them, determined not to carry that pain with him into his new life.
~* * *~
He never would have imagined saying goodbye would be so hard. He was happy for Lady Edith, truly, but to his surprise, he found himself wishing the whole of the family could have stayed until his last day, so he might have a little longer to ... to what? Get used to the idea? Spend more time with them? Postpone the inevitable? At least Lady Mary, Master George, and Lady Sybbie were staying to the end, but it broke his heart that Baxter was the first he'd have to say goodbye to -- he'd actually hoped she'd walk him to the station when it came time to go ....
It touched him more than he could say when she kissed his cheek, like his sister might have done. He wondered -- perhaps a little vindictively -- how his sister would feel if she saw this woman, who had once been her best friend, essentially taking her place in his life.
He was moved again when Bates offered his hand in friendship. Why couldn't it have happened sooner? Why were all the good feelings coming only when it was too late to bask in them? Still, he was glad -- better late than never, and better given freely than begged for.
The sentiment continued to nearly overwhelm him as he said goodbye to His Lordship and Her Ladyship.
Here was a man who'd kept him out of jail and in his house even after knowing for certain what he was, never mind the potential for scandal. Seeing now how other houses turned him away for the sake of even just the vaguest suspicion of what he was, Thomas, already thankful of the reprieve at the time, had come to appreciate it anew.
And here was a woman who had treated him as her trusted second during the war, allowing him, a former servant, to bark commands in her own home. He regretted now having acted in such a way as to ever have lost her trust and approval -- but was proud to have been able, at least once in his life, to have acted in a way that earned her gratitude.
Even so, he was a little awed when His Lordship offered not only well-wishes, but his hand. Thomas didn't recall ever seeing a servant aside from Bates or Carson (or Branson, and did he count, being family now?) receive such a sign of respect. He'd felt for a long while that he'd fallen far in the man's eyes, especially after the incident with Gwen -- indeed, Grantham's lecture had given Thomas much food for thought on kindness, words other people had since echoed (or perhaps it just took Grantham to finally make Thomas listen). Now, though, it seemed all was forgiven -- they even seemed fond of him!
This time, he wouldn't be leaving in shame, like when his father tossed him out. Perhaps this was what it was truly supposed to be like for a young man to leave the proverbial nest ....
He wished he had a chance to say goodbye to Lady Edith, but he was glad for her. If he'd really saved her for better things ... maybe he'd been saved for better things himself?
~* * *~
The time for final goodbyes had come. Anna, Daisy, Andy, Molesley, even Patmore wished him well -- and seemed to mean it! To think he'd thought himself so reviled just a few months gone, and here everyone seemed sad to see him go!
Mrs Hughes would surely never imagine how deeply her demand for a kiss moved him; in sterness and softness both, she was the closest thing to a mother he'd known since his own had died when he was a boy, and the only woman he'd kissed since last he'd seen his sister.
And Carson .... He'd often compared Carson to his father. Now, finally, he felt like he'd gained the approval he thought he never would. Okay, maybe it wasn't exactly of a resounding variety, but it was far more than he would have ever hoped for -- and like with the others, it felt like more than politeness. It felt ... heartfelt. And the truth of the matter was, the man had taught him a great deal, and was likely the most knowledgeable teacher anyone could wish for. He realised he would miss Carson, crankiness and all, as predictable as the clocks that Thomas found so comforting ....
Thomas was relieved Lady Mary brought the children down -- he didn't want to leave without saying goodbye to them, and her, but he didn't think he could have brought himself to seek them out. As it was, he was struggling to hold back the tears, and seeing them now almost broke the dam.
Especially when George asked him not to go.
Until this week, throughout his whole life, only Edward had ever wanted to stay with Thomas. Everyone else, sooner or later, tried to get rid of him -- or at least, didn't do anything to keep him or stay by his side. Even his mother -- he knew it wasn't her fault she got sick, but some childish part of him still felt abandoned by her. That same part, he supposed, felt the same about Lady Sybil.
But perhaps Sybil hadn't left him after all -- not completely: here was her daughter Sybbie, arms around him, clearly wishing like George (and apparently like Mrs Hughes) that he could stay.
When the goodbyes were done, he was almost grateful for the threatening tears, which urged him off before they could betray and embarrass him -- otherwise, he might never have found the strength to walk out the door.
He paused outside, taking deep breaths and drying cheeks that had gotten wet the moment he stepped outside, never mind the lack of rain. After a minute, he decided perhaps it was best to slip back on his old, cold, aloof self -- just until his journey was over. It was surprisingly hard to slip that mask back on, though.
And the effort was wasted when he came around the front, to the car that was to take him to the train, shock shattering his facade.
Tom Branson was in the driver's seat.
"Hullo, Mr Barrow! I've an errand to run, so I thought I'd take you myself, if that's all right?"
Thomas only managed a nod and a mumbled thanks as he slipped into the passenger's seat.
"I never did get around to thanking you, did I?" the man remarked as they drove off.
"For ...?" Thomas asked, truly at a loss.
"Her Ladyship said you were the one who clued her in to there being a problem with Nanny West. So thank you for looking after Sybbie."
"I would have done anything for Lady Sybil," Thomas replied honestly. "I could do no less for her daughter."
Branson chuckled. "But not for me, I know."
Thomas didn't know what to say to that.
"Did you think I was betraying her memory with Miss Bunting?"
Thomas paled. There was a bit of that, but it wasn't the whole of the situation. But either way, he knew Sybil wouldn't have approved of his thoughts about her husband.
"It's all right, Barrow -- to be honest, I half felt that way myself about the whole thing. And I know you think I overstepped myself, marrying Sybil in the first place."
Thomas cringed; so Branson had figured it out -- or close enough. "You make me sound like Carson," Thomas replied ruefully. "It wasn't really that, though -- not with you or with Gwen. It was more of ... well, jealousy, really. I'd gotten it in my head that you both must be looking down at me, since you'd gained rank, and it was galling. I'm sorry about the way I acted. Truly."
"Well, thank you, I appreciate that. For what it's worth, Barrow, I would have liked for us to be friends. We had fun at the fair a couple years or so ago, didn't we? Sybil spoke highly of you -- I think she would have wanted it."
Thomas suddenly wondered how different life would have been at Downton if Sybil had lived. There had been one other reason Thomas hadn't much liked Branson, a reason he knew was ridiculous and unfair but hadn't been able to shake: the notion that Sybil wouldn't have died if she hadn't married Branson. But if she had survived the pregnancy, then surely she would have wanted Thomas to treat her husband well? How could he do less on his own now than she would have asked of him herself?
Besides, wasn't blaming Branson akin to blaming Sybbie ...?
"I'm sorry now that we didn't become friends," Thomas realised. For caring so much about her memory, he hadn't exactly lived by her example.
"Well, it's never too late, you know. You'll be back to visit, and we could always write. I'd love any stories you might have of Sybil's nursing days -- I could read them to Sybbie!"
"I'll do that," Thomas promised.
When they reached the train station and unloaded the car, Thomas held out his hand. "Goodbye, Mr Branson. And thank you. For everything."
Branson chuckled and, taking the hand, drew Thomas in for a hug. "It's Tom, Thomas. And I hate goodbyes, so this is just 'Until next time.'"
Thomas managed a smile, though the threat of tears still stung his eyes. "Until next time," he agreed.
As he watched his new friend drive away, he barely resisted the urge to run after the car and beg to go back home.