Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Careful there!”

Relishing in the power afforded to him with his temporary position as His Lordships valet, Thomas shot the young man dressed in the simple uniform of a railway porter a sharp look as the case was almost dropped for the third time.

He wasn’t the only one supervising the luggage being loaded onto the train which had been laid on to transport passengers from Waterloo to Southampton, many a stern looking valet twice his age doing exactly the same thing to ensure that their employers belongings arrived safely and free from damage.

There were even a couple of ladies maids present although they were interfering far less, content to let the porters work unless something was terribly wrong such as a delicate hat box being placed below a heavy case, risking the expensive contents.

Theirs was the second so-called “boat train” as they were being referred to, the first having departed almost two hours earlier carrying a mixture of second and third class passengers, many of whom would have been taking all their worldly possessions with them which left Thomas eternally thankful that Her Ladyship had refused to even consider His Lordship travelling without his valet for even the tiniest portion of the journey and insisted on him travelling on the later train with the other servants.

Technically he held a second class ticket but for people such as the Grantham’s exceptions could be made and so an additional carriage had been provided for the valets and ladies maids who were to travel with their employers.

Having seen the last of the cases onto the train, Thomas turned and made his way along the bustling platform to where His Lordship was chatting amiably with Mr Patrick, Mr James and a couple of vaguely familiar gentlemen, both of whom were smoking.

“Pardon me, Milord,” he murmured, doing his best impression of Mr Carson when the butler had to politely interrupt a conversation for whatever reason. “The last of the luggage has been loaded so you may board whenever you’re ready.”

“Thank you, Barrow.”

Only the slightest stumble remained of the hesitation that had plagued his time as Lord Grantham’s temporary valet, the man so used to calling him by his first name that having to address him by his surname caused him to stumble over his words.

It had been amusing at first, then annoying, so it was relief for it to finally be gone.

Nodding, he turned and made his own way onto the train, seeking out the servants carriage towards the back and settling himself down into one of the window seats.

They’d agreed ahead of time that Thomas wouldn’t be needed for the duration of the journey which gave him leave to retrieve the small paperback book from his coat pocket and relax into his seat, loosing himself to the world of Sherlock Holmes.

He barely even noticed when the whistle sounded and, with a jerk, the train began to move, steam flooding the station as the engine struggled for a moment before getting underway and rapidly gaining speed once it was safe to do so.

“Right on time,” someone muttered, their pocket watch clicking shut a moment later. “My employer will be pleased. Likes things done precisely on time, does that one.”

The journey was expected to take about two hours, half the time it took them to get to London the day before, and the scenery was much more pleasant in that it was wholly unfamiliar whereas Thomas had made the journey from Ripon to London many times.

When he’d agreed to step in as His Lordship’s valet following Mr Watson’s sudden departure, a departure that had come as a shock to most but not to Thomas or Miss O’Brien who’d been aware of the older man’s light-fingered habits for a long time before he pinched something that would be noticed and got himself caught, he’d never expected that one of his duties would be to accompany His Lordship on a business trip to America with his cousin, Mr James Crawley, and his young heir, Mr Patrick.

He’d been in the post for almost two months now, long enough that he’d just begun to hope that perhaps His Lordship might decide to make the promotion a permanent thing when he’d been informed by an unnecessarily smug Mr Carson that upon their return from America a new man would be starting having been selected from the dozen or so who’d responded to the advertisement which had gone out after Mr Watson’s departure.

Miss O’Brien had been even more angered by the news than he had, grumbling about “unnecessarily bringing in an outsider to disturb the running of the house” whenever the butler and housekeeper were out of earshot, whilst Thomas kept his thoughts mostly to himself on the matter, knowing full well that complaining would only bring him trouble.

A flicker of resentment burned within him, nonetheless, but he refused to give in to it and let it affect his performance; if the new valet proved unfit for the position then Thomas didn’t want anything to stand between him and stepping into the role again.

He might be young, approaching his twentieth birthday as he was, but he wasn’t stupid.

“Good book?”

Glancing up at the young woman who’d settled opposite him, her coat clearly a few years old and carefully mended so as not to show how much it had worn out, he offered her a polite smile and a nod, not wanting to give the wrong impression.

He was handsome, he knew that well enough and for the most part he enjoyed the attention it brought him, but the last thing he needed was a young woman to get the idea that he was flirting with them.

Truly, he had enough of that back at the Abbey with Daisy and Maud, one of the junior housemaids who genuinely seemed to believe that everything he did was a declaration of his love for her even when it was something as simple as passing her the salt.

“I’ve never been on a boat before.”

Ah, he thought to himself, so that was it.

She was nervous.

“Nothing to it,” he declared confidently even though he himself had never set foot on one either. “You’ll be so busy looking after your employer you won’t even notice.”

“But what if something goes wrong?” she asked, voice rising so much that several of the other servants in the carriage took notice. “I’d feel better if the ship weren’t so new.”

“The ship might be new but the crew isn’t,” another valet pointed out, his voice gruff but his words kind. “They’ve been working a sea for years so there’s no need to worry.”

“Plus she’s just gone through all her sea trials,” another, younger valet added. “My employer had been following their progress ever since she was announced.”

She wasn’t the only one to visibly relax with each reassuring statement.

“Anyway, didn’t you hear? She’s unsinkable.”

That got a laugh, everyone clearly having been sent the same pamphlet about the Olympic class of passenger liners which stated that both Olympic and the newly commissioned Titanic had been designed to be unsinkable.

“They’ve said that before, though, haven’t they?”

The White Star Line company had indeed made such outlandish claims about other ships they’d commissioned over the years but this was first time people believed it.

Thomas wasn’t so sure. 

Nothing could be completely unsinkable, he reasoned, but he assumed what they really meant was that thanks to the state of the art design and building techniques she would be safer to travel on than any of the Atlantic passenger liners that had come before her.

He hoped that was the case, anyway.

Rather than stop the trains at the main station in Southampton it had been arranged that both the third and second class train and the first class train would be diverted to the docks themselves so that they could transfer from the boat to the ship with ease.

As such a startled cry sounded when the train noticeably began to slow down,

“There she is!”

The might as well have been a gaggle of children rather than professional servants, the way they all scrambled out of their seats to press themselves against the glass in order to get their first glimpse of the enormous ship they would be travelling to America on.

Someone swore softly.

Another crossed themselves, praying.

Thomas, meanwhile, was stunned into silence.

He’d never seen anything so big in all his life, the ship taller than even the tallest buildings he’d seen in London and far, far longer, stretching out along the dockyard.

No wonder she’d taken so long to build if this was the size they’d been working to.

Knowing that he’d need to hurry off the train to find Lord Grantham he replaced his bookmark and slipped the book into the pocket of his coat, collecting his hat from where he’d stored it above his seat before rising from his seat and moving to the door.

He wasn’t alone, several of the other servants having come to the same conclusion, and by the time the train came to a stop at the station there was a queue at either end of the carriage and the doors were flung open the moment it was safe to do so, allowing them to hurry along the platform to where their employers were alighting at a much slower pace, chatting amongst themselves and gazing up at the ship in wonder and delight.

None of them needed to worry about their luggage at this end, or so they’d been told.

Everything had been carefully labelled so that their various cases could be transferred directly to their cabins whilst the passengers themselves were still being welcomed aboard, valets and ladies maids included although theirs would go to something called the Maid's and Valet's Saloon for them to collect and take to their own cabins later on.

“Barrow!”

Mr Patrick’s voice cut through the hubbub, the young man having spotted him first, raising his stylish bowler hat to make their location easier for him to find in the throng.

He looked younger than he was, his floppy golden curls taking at least four years off, and as he grinned up at the ship it was even harder to believe they were the same age.

“Apologies, Milord, I couldn’t see you,” Thomas murmured as he joined the three men who were hastily retrieving their tickets and boarding passes from their coat pockets as they joined the flow of passengers moving towards the ship, prompting Thomas to do the same as he slipped into place behind the three men. “Mr Crawley. Mr Patrick.”

The entire dockside was alive with activity.

Passengers were being directed to their respective boarding points which, for Thomas and his employer, meant they were instructed to climb a set of enclosed stairs before emerging onto a gangway that was almost level with one of the top decks of the ship.

Below them, Second Class passengers boarded via a ramp towards the front of the ship whilst those travelling in Third Class were put through a physical inspection before being allowed on board, uniformed men checking them for live and other infectious diseases.

Luggage was being carried aboard whilst other, larger items, were being lifted over their heads by and enormous crane and lowered into the ship via a hatch on the top deck.

Thomas could hardly believe it when he saw a motor car being lowered into the ship.

A motor car.

“Name?”

“Thomas Barrow,” he answered automatically, handing his ticket and boarding pass over to the smartly dressed steward who’d spoken to him. “Valet to the Earl of Grantham.”

Nodding, the steward stamped his boarding pass before returning it and his ticket.

“Welcome aboard the Titanic, Mr Barrow. I hope you have a pleasant journey.”

Chapter Text

Thomas had thought he’d understood luxury, had thought he knew what to expect from the “ship of dreams”, and yet as he followed his employer into the First Class stateroom he found himself stunned into silence by the sheer opulence laid out before them.

It didn’t seem possible for such a room to have been built within the confines of a ship.

He would learn, later, that cabin B-76 had been designed in the style of Luis XV and featured decorative carved panels made of French oak and matching oak furniture.

His Lordship, however, merely nodded his head in approval as though he could have possibly found something wrong with the large room, moving to peer out of the large porthole while Thomas oversaw the delivery of his cases by a pair of young porters.

“No, not that one,” he ordered quickly. “That case belongs to Mr Patrick Crawley.”

“Oh,” the young porter mumbled, frowning down at the label. “Sorry.”

“No need to apologise,” Thomas reassured him, using the same tone of voice he used with the hall boys when no one was around, allowing him to be himself and not the cold mask he’d been forced to adopt in order to survive as a footman. “He’s just next door.”

When arranging their crossing His Lordship had been the one to suggest they book three of the adjoining rooms that shared a bathroom on B-Deck rather than have completely separate rooms which might have left them using the public bathrooms and toilets.

As such whilst His Lordship was in B-76, Mr Crawley would be staying in cabin B-78 and Mr Patrick was in B-80, the latter being the smallest of the three staterooms and usually reserved for a ladies maid or valet, depending on who was staying in B-78 at the time.

This arrangement was why Thomas had been allocated a cabin down on D-deck.

Directing the porters to place the last of His Lordship’s cases at the foot of the bed he dismissed them with a murmur of thanks and set about unpacking Lord Granthanm’s things, going through the familiar motions under the older man’s mildly curious gaze.

“I won’t need to dress for dinner this evening, it isn’t the custom on the first night out,” Lord Grantham declared as Thomas ever-so-carefully hung up his dinner suite in the ornate wardrobe. Thomas nodded in agreement, having already been briefed by Mr Carson in great detail precisely what to expect during the crossing. “So once you’ve unpacked for the three of us I won’t be needing you again until at least eleven o’clock so please feel free to take your time getting yourself settled in and explore the ship a bit.”

“Thank you, Milord,” he responded automatically before he’d even fully processed what had been said, prompting him to add, “It’ll be good to familiarise myself with the ship.”

That he’d be acting as valet for Mr Crawley and Mr Patrick hadn’t been discussed until they’d literally been boarding the ship, His Lordship refusing the offer of having one of the ship’s stewards unpack for him as he was travelling with his own valet before calmly offering up Thomas’ services to the other two men when the same question was posed to them, the public nature of the offer making it impossible for Thomas to do anything but smile and nod when Mr Patrick had turned to enquire whether he’d have the time.

It didn’t take him long to unpack His Lordship’s things, even with the man in question watching him work, as the trunks only had what he’d need for the crossing whilst the rest of his wardrobe for the business trip was secured in a separate trunk in the hold.

The same could not be said for Mr Crawley.

Reclining on the sofa in his room with a glass of brandy in his hand he barked out orders to Thomas throughout the process, overruling him on several occasions regarding the proper storage of his clothes, some of which would need to be pressed before he could wear them simply due to where Mr Crawley had wanted Thomas to store them, while a number of items had to be returned to the trunk as they were only for use in New York.

Thomas was forced to clench his teeth more than once to stop himself snapping back.

It was a relief to find Mr Patrick had already begun laying things out on his bed for Thomas when he was finally done unpacking for Mr Crawley, the young man quickly stepping aside so that Thomas could quickly work his way through the items of clothing.

“Sorry about my father,” the younger man, admittedly only by a few months, murmured suddenly, eyes flickering over to the door. “I know he can be a bit testy but that’s just…”

…the drink.

“No need to apologise, sir.”

It was the kind of secret that could only exist in the Crawley family, where everyone knew about the issue but said nothing, not to each other and certainly not to anyone else, but on more than one occasion Thomas had been ordered to either water down drinks that had been ordered or refuse them entirely in order to keep Mt James sober.

His drinking did nothing to help the negative opinion the Dowager Countess had of him, declaring him too similar to his mother who she had notoriously fallen out with years earlier although no one knew the reason behind the explosive end of their friendship.

“If that’s everything, sir?”

“Yes, thank you. I can manage the rest myself.”

Finally dismissed, Thomas slipped out of their rooms into the crisp white corridor, sidestepping to avoid a harried looking stewardess carrying a large stack of towels.

Now came the challenge of finding his way down to Maid's and Valet's Saloon to collect his own luggage, a task that was made infinitely easier when he came across a pair of valets and one sour looking ladies maid being led by one of the ships stewards, a quick confirmation of their destination all it took for Thomas to slip into place behind them.

The journey from the First Class cabins down to what was the ships equivalent of the servants hall back at the Abbey was relatively simple in the end, the steward leading them down the smaller of the two staircases dedicated to First Class passengers.

“And here we are,” he announced as they reached the next deck down, turning left at the bottom of the stairs and indicating a simple wooden door which had been propped open to make it easier for those collecting their luggage to move in and out. “Please feel free to speak to any of the stewards or stewardesses you see about getting directions.”

Thomas wasn’t the only one to let out a sincere murmur of thanks.

Finding his suitcase in the saloon took him a few minutes, the long room filled with four table almost identical to the servants table back home, minus the butlers chair at the head of the table, and each of those tables was covered with cases and boxes and one even had a birdcage resting on it, the cage covered with a specially made black cloth.

He hoped his cabin was nowhere near whoever owned that.

A quick check of his ticket confirmed that his cabin was down another level on D-Deck and so, hoping he was heading in the right direction, he followed a couple of the others towards a stairwell marked ‘CREW’ and made his way down to another white corridor.

Why did it all have to look so similar outside of the First Class parts of the ship?

Turning, he caught sight of a small enamel sign mounted to the wall and moved to check what it said, finding to his relief that it was a notice about what lay in each direction although that relief was short lived when he realised it didn’t help him.

“You look confused.”

Surprised, he spun to face the own of the soft voice only to himself initially facing an empty corridor until he looked down, the stewardess who had spoken to him so short the crisp white cap on the top of her head barely reached the middle of his upper arm.

“Sorry,” she apologised with a rueful smile. “I didn’t mean to start you.”

“It’s fine,” Thomas assured her before answering her question, “And I am confused.”

“Perhaps I can help?”

“Where are the odd numbers?” he blurted out, gesturing towards the sign. “This is the only sign I’ve seen since boarding this maze of a ship and it only mentions cabins with even numbers and the Second Class dining room so where are all the odd numbers?”

“Oh, I see,” she tittered slightly, her smile remaining just as bright as it had been before. “All of the cabins are split the same way; the even numbers are on the port side of the ship which is where we are at the moment. The odd numbers are on the starboard side.”

Port?

Starboard?

“Port is left,” she explained in response to his confused frown, “and starboard is right.”

“I see,” Thomas murmured even as he wondered why they couldn’t just use left and right like everyone else. “Then how to I get to the starboard cabins? Specifically, cabin D-61.”

A kind smile lit up her face as she nodded,

“This way.”

She moved with the kind of ease that spoke of years working on board ships like this, bringing him across to an identical set of stairs on the opposite side of the large ship.

“Next time, use this stairwell and you’ll pop out right here.”

Frowning, he turned in the direction she gestured and found himself facing his cabin.

“Oh,” he exhaled. “Well, that’s nice and convenient.”

His cabin, it turned out, was on the inside of the ship and was completely surrounded by other cabins, the narrow white corridor and the equally narrow crew only staircase.

No ocean views for him, then.

Swapping his suitcase to his other hand he reached for the handle, pushing to door open and coming face to face with an older man in the process of unpacking his things.

“Oh,” he greeted Thomas cheerfully, his Scottish accent so thick it took the younger man a moment to process what he’d said. “Hello. I hope you don’t mind but I’ve given you the top bunk even though by rights your ticket entitled you to the bottom bunk. Salt air is playing merry hell with my knees, however, and I don’t think I’ll manage the top.”

“No, no, that’s fine,” Thomas agreed, stepping fully into the cabin which was about half the size of his room back at the Abbey, reaching up to put his suitcase on the top bunk. “I don’t mind taking the top bunk. Thomas Barrow,” he offered his hand to the older man who paused in his unpacking to give it a firm shake. “Valet to the Earl of Grantham.”

“James McTavish,” the older man all but purred, moving out of Thomas’ way so the young man could assess how much space was left in the small wardrobe and drawers. “Valet to Lord McLeod. I’ve done my best to only take up half of the storage space.”

Thomas couldn’t help but let out a huff of amusement at the stereotypically Scottish names of the older man and his employer, very much in keeping with his thick accent.

It was as he was unpacking the last of his things that he felt the vibrations beneath his feet grow stronger as the engines came to life, a surprised gasp escaping him when he felt the ship beginning to move, indicating that they were leaving port for the first part of their journey, and without a second thought he offered his roommate a parting murmur before hurrying out of the cabin, up the narrow staircase and then joined the flood of people moving up the larger staircase, eventually finding himself on an open deck from which he could watch the ship as it moved away from the dock now filled with people.

He knew no one, how could he, and yet the atmosphere was contagious and he found himself waving down at the hoards of well-wishers, incapable of holding back a smile.

The ships whistles sounded, piercing through the jubilant cries and music, the ships band playing somewhere, and then assisted by a fleet of little tug boats they began to turn away from the land and move out into the estuary, forcing the large ship to turn.

There were two other liners moored together, their golden names glittering in the sunlight; the Oceanic and the New York, both significantly smaller than the Titanic.

It was as they were passing the two ships that something seemed to go wrong, the New York drifting towards them where she was moored on the outside of Oceanic, putting so much strain on the giant ropes meant to hold her in place that they began to snap one by one until she was, terrifyingly, free and drifting closer and closer towards their ship.

“They’re going to hit us!”

“What are they doing?!”

Without the knowledge the officers and men of the Titanic possessed, Thomas had no was of knowing that had happened and could only watch on in horror, straining to see over the heads of those stood in front of him so that he could watch as two of the tugs hurried towards the New York to stop the two liners from colliding, lines thrown and tied off so that she could be pulled away from the Titanic who had noticeably come to a halt.

It would later be documented that the power of Titanic’s enormous propellors, even at the relatively slow speed she’d been travelling at, had created enough suction to drag the smaller ship towards her so violently that they came dangerously close to colliding, a mere 4ft remaining between them before the tugs got New York back under control.

“Well,” someone exhaled loudly when they finally began to move again some time later, many others letting out cheers or sighs of relief. “That was a rather interesting start to her maiden voyage but at least that should be the worst of the gremlins worked out.”

Chapter Text

The ship paused again a little while later, men climbing down form the open hatches to one of the tugs, and then finally they were off, making their way out of the estuary and around the Isle of Wight, all the while gaining speed as the engines were opened up.

Thomas, rather than go back down to his cabin, joined the hundreds of other people exploring the ship, first making a loop of the open decks before heading back inside to try and figure out where everything he could possibly need to visit might be, finding himself stopped by quite a few unexpected dead ends and staircases that only ran to certain levels, forcing him to find another one before he could continue his journey.

It truly was like a floating city, filled with everything a person could need.

He paused in his explorations occasionally to help people navigating the ship with their luggage, carrying more than one case for a harried looking maid or a family with young children, giving him an unexpected tour of the Third Class accommodations which whilst clean were significantly smaller and simpler than even his Second Class cabin.

Due to the incident with the New York they were slightly late arriving at Cherbourg than planned, arriving just as the First Class dinner was being served which meant that those passenger embarking at Cherbourg were taken straight to the dining room rather than to their cabins and as Thomas watched the well-dressed men and women filing into the luxurious room he realised that this was precisely why the passengers didn’t change for dinner on the first night as has the like of Lord Grantham been properly dressed the late arrivals would have appeared terribly out place irregardless of their glamourous attire.

His own meal, taken in the Maid's and Valet's Saloon, was a surprisingly lively affair.

Everyone was in a convivial mood, chatting about their employers, their homes, their journeys to the boat and most importantly their employers cabins and their own, each of them discretely ascertaining which of them held the senior position whilst onboard.

Thomas, much to his surprise, was considered more senior that several of the older valets simply because they worked for minor gentry or wealthy businessmen whilst his employer was a member of the peerage although there were still several above him.

“So, Mr Barrow, if you don’t mind my asking how did someone so young become valet to the Earl of Grantham?”

Turning, Thomas offered the middle-aged lady’s maid a smile before answering.

“I don’t mind at all,” he declared, preening at finding himself the centre of attention for the moment. “His Lordship’s previous valet was discovered to be somewhat…light-fingered and was dismissed without a reference. I was first footman and had previous experience valeting for guests so His Lordship asked me to step in whilst he finds a more suitable replacement.” He had to work hard to keep the bitterness out of his voice at not being considered a suitable replacement himself. “So for the time being I am acting as His Lordship’s valet and gaining valuable experience for when the time comes for me to become a valet on a permanent basis. I’ll admit, I wasn’t expecting a trip to America on the Titanic’s maiden voyage when I stepped into the post but here we are.”

Mutters of disbelief and disapproval at his predecessor’s actions transformed into murmurs of understanding, a couple of the valets even offering his nods of approval.

It was so different to how everyone had reacted back at the Abbey that he needed a moment to compose himself, eagerly following the conversation as it shifted to a humorous story about a previous valet who’d also had to leave at short notice after being seen out and about with a young woman whilst dressed in his employers suit.

None of them had blinked at the idea of Thomas stepping up.

None of them had argued that he was too young, as Mr Carson had, or expressed concern that he mind be overwhelmed with the responsibility, as Mrs Hughes had.

Each and every one of them had accepted it as the logical solution.

Desert was followed by coffee, a luxury he’d never tried before and he found far too strong for his liking no matter how much milk he added, prompting him to switch to a cup of tea when it was offered to him by the young stewardess serving their table.

How could people willingly drink that?

“I suppose we should be heading up,” the de facto senior valet murmured once most of them had finished their hot drinks, pushing his chair back in much the same manner that Mr Carson did at the end of each meal. “Wouldn’t want to be late now, would we?”

Thomas agreed, joining the flow of smartly dressed servants heading out of the saloon.

Most of them headed straight for the nearby staircase, Thomas included, heading up to B-Deck and dispersing in search of their relevant cabins, some quickly getting turned around and having to double back once they realised they were on the wrong side.

Thomas, mercifully, remembered his way without issue.

Knocking on Lord Grantham’s door he waited and, upon getting no answer, entered.

The cabin was empty, his employer most probably still enjoying the after dinner coffee and cigars with the rest of the First Class passengers, so he took the opportunity to get Lord Grantham’s clothes ready for the following day and laying out his night clothes.

That done he did a quick sweep of the cabin, making sure everything was in the correct place, before stepping into the ensuite bathroom and coming to an abrupt halt, gazing enviously at the enamel bathtub as he wondered what sort of bathing facilities he would end up having access to on the ship.

There was a small sink in their room, clearly designed for shaving more than anything else, but no mention had been made of which toilets or bathrooms they were to use.

The likelihood was that they’d be expected to share the same public facilities that were available to the Second Class passengers although where they were located, he had no idea, and the realisation was beginning to hit him that he probably wouldn’t be able to have a proper bath until they reached New York, something that filled him with disgust.

He hated not being able to have a quick bath in the morning.

Not only did it help to wake him up, mornings having always been an enemy of his ever since he was a child, but he despised the feeling of stale sweat lingering on his skin.

He could do without his weekly “pamper bath” as he mentally called them, his Sunday evenings dedicated to luxuriating in the hot water and massaging the oil scented water into his skin to keep it soft and supple, something he’d begun doing after reading about it in one of Lady Edith’s discarded fashion magazines and sourcing a cheap enough oil.

But returning to only washing standing at the sink like he’d had to endure as a child was something he dreaded, memories of cold flannels and lingering sweat making him gag.

If only Lord Grantham would let him use his bathroom for the duration…

Unlikely, no matter how generous his employer was, but that didn’t stop him from reaching out to turn the taps, water immediately gushing out into the enamel tub.

“Huh,” he found himself murmuring with a frown after running his fingers through the water, finding it cold rather than slowly increasing in temperature as it should have been, prompting him to check that he had twisted the hot tap. “Well, that’s not right.”

Wiping his hand on one of the luxuriously soft towels provided he poked his head out of the cabin, glancing along the corridor and finding to his relief one of the smartly dressed stewards slipping out of a cabin with a large stack of already used towels in his hands.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Thomas called out, hurrying along the corridor towards the other man. “But there’s no hot water in my employer’s bathroom and I’m not sure…”

His voice trailed off somewhat helplessly as the steward turned to face him.

He was exactly the type of man who caught Thomas’ attention.

Tall, taller than Thomas himself and there were few he’d met who could claim that, with dark brown hair slicked back into a style similar to his own, both stylish and practical.

His eyes were brown, almost as dark as his hair, with noticeably long eyelashes.

“No bother at all,” he declared, voice rumbling in his chest in such a way that Thomas felt his cheeks flush with heat. His smile, slightly crooked, made it even more difficult for him to control the colour of his face, not that the steward commented on it. “Let me just get rid of these and then I’ll come and have a look at it. What’s the cabin number?”

“B-76.”

“I’ll be right with you.”

Nodding his thanks, Thomas returned to the cabin and pressed his hands to his cheeks, willing them to calm down lest they give away his secret to the steward upon his return.

It had happened much the same with Philip, his body displaying his attraction to the Duke long before he’d meant to, but at least then he’d had some idea that his feelings might be reciprocated having watched the other man when he visited Grantham House.

He’d enjoyed their summer dalliance, as Philip had insisted on calling it, and had just begun to believe that it could become something more when Philip had begun to pull away from him, referencing the fact that he’d been ordered to find a suitable bride in one of the last letters he’d written to Thomas before he stopped responding entirely.

It had hurt, the lack of true closure, and a small part of him still hoped for reconciliation.

The steward, however, had been nothing but professional with him and therefore was probably as heterosexual as all men were supposed to be, was the law to be believed.

Anyone with an ounce of common sense knew better.

Hell, even Thomas, the son of a Yorkshire clockmaker who’d attended only the bare minimum of school required of him, had heard tales of homosexuality in the Ancient world which made the current argument that homosexuality was a recent issue idiotic.

“Right,” the steward declared, appearing in the doorway with a smile. “Let’s take a look.”

It would take a stronger man than Thomas to not watch the other man’s buttocks as he leaned forwards to turn on the tap and test the water for himself, the action pulling the fabric of his trousers tight, his fingers tingling with the urge to reach out and touch…

“I’ll ask Mr Rous, the ship’s plumber, to come take a look,” the steward announced, righting himself too quickly for Thomas to avert his eyes. A knowing smirk appeared on the older man’s handsome face. “Hopefully it’ll just be a valve that needs opening up.”

“Thank you.”

He went to move out of the other man’s way only to find himself pressed back against the doorframe as the steward cut past him, deliberately brushing their bodies together, and there was no stopped the gasp of arousal that escaped him at the blatant contact.

Another smirk confirmed once and for all that there was no need for him to hide his reactions from the other man but before either of them could say anything further the cabin door opened, Lord Grantham appearing mid-conversation with his companions.

“I’ll send Barrow through once I – oh!” he broke off, surprised by the sight of them even though both men had instinctively separated to a safe distance. “Everything alright?”

“Yes, Milord, I was just reporting an issue with the bathroom,” Thomas explained, grateful that his voice came out steady. “Currently there is no hot water to the tub.”

“I’m just going to alert the ship’s plumber, sir,” the steward explained, offering Lord Grantham a reassuring smile that was infinitely different to the flirtatious smirk he’d flashed Thomas moments earlier. “He’ll have everything sorted out in no time at all.”

“Ah, thank you,” Lord Grantham grunted, moving further into the room and positioning himself so that Thomas could begin to help him out of his travelling suit. “I’m glad you thought to check that, Barrow, as I would like nothing more than to wash the day away.”

Preening at the praise, simple though it was, Thomas got his employer changed into his nightclothes, dressing gown and slippers before moving next door to offer the same service to Mr Crawley and Mr Patrick, the former accepting whilst his son declined, and by the time he returned to Lord Grantham’s cabin the uniformed plumber had arrived.

He was muttering to himself, kneeling to get a look at the pipes underneath the bath, before moving to check something hidden with a cupboard Thomas hadn’t noticed.

“There’s the problem,” the young man muttered to himself, collecting a wrench from the wooden tool box he’d brought in with him and returning to the cupboard. “Right. Now…”

Turning on the offending tap it didn’t take long for him to pull his hand back with a happy grunt, steam beginning to come off of the flowing water a moment later confirming heat.

“All fixed, sir,” the plumber reported cheerfully. “Sorry for any inconvenience.”

“Oh, no need to apologise,” Lord Grantham assured him. “These teething troubles are bound to crop up on a ship’s maiden voyage. Just glad you were able to fix it so swiftly.”

With the plumber duly thanked and dismissed, Thomas set about running his employer a decadently hot bath, using some of the complementary bath oils available to fill the entire cabin with the soothing scent of lavender as swirls of steam filled the night air.

“Thank you, Barrow,” Lord Grantham murmured as he stepped out of the bathroom to report everything was ready, the towels hung on the warmer. “That will be all for today.”

“Very good, Milord,” Thomas murmured, please to be dismissed so early. “I believe breakfast is served from 8am to 10am. What time would you prefer to be awoken?”

“Oh, not to early. 8am? Shouldn’t take too long to get me up and out, should it?”

“No, Milord, not long at all.”

Slipping out of the cabin Thomas turned, intending to head straight down to his cabin, only to pause when he caught sight of the steward lingering in front of the baize doors that separated the cabins from the aft staircase and, more importantly, the restaurant.

“Never did catch your name.”

“Barrow,” he supplied, striding towards the taller man with a slight sway to his hips, the kind that Philip had seemed to enjoy when he was feeling flirtatious. “Thomas Barrow.”

“Arthur Greenaway. Artie, to my friends.”

They shook hands, the action appearing innocent when in reality the older man stroked his thumb across the inside of Thomas’ wrist, pointedly holding his gaze with his own.

Thomas swallowed, arousal flaring at the base of his spine.

“And is that what we are? Friends?”

“I guess that depends.”

“On what?”

Arthur, Artie, smirked, leaning in close to whisper in Thomas’ ear,

“Whether or not you fancy a quick fumble some place private.”

Thomas could hardly believe that the older man was being so forward, given the fact that what Artie was suggesting was very much illegal, and yet his offer didn’t change even as Thomas hesitated so rather than do as common sense demanded and protest his innocence the nineteen-year-old valet responded with a flirtatious smile of his own,

“How private are we talking?”

“Private enough that no one will be any the wiser,” Artie answered confidently, voice little more than a whisper still, head ducked slow to Thomas’ own. “But sadly not so private that I’ll be able to hear you scream as loudly as I imagine you can, pretty boy.”

Heat lanced through Thomas’ body at the lewd suggestion, his skin visibly flushing.

“I could be quiet.”

“Oh, I have no doubt you’ll be quiet for me,” Artie chuckled, leaning back and pushing his way through the baize doors, a raised eyebrow prompting Thomas to follow him down the staircase which was thankfully deserted. “But you’re a screamer. I can tell.”

It was a good thing no one would ever need directions to what turned out to be a linen cupboard from him as he had no recollection of the journey from that moment onwards, his mind struggling to get past how excited being called a “screamer” made him feel.

Yes, he could be loud, always had been ever since he’d realised that touching himself felt good and that touching himself inside felt even better but Philip had preferred him quiet, too fearful of discovery, as had his previous lovers, few and far between as they were, but there was no denying the fact that Artie deemed being loud to be a good thing.

A very good thing.

He didn’t even notice that the ship was underway once more, steaming away from the French coast and back towards Ireland, all of his attention on Artie locking the door.

“Is this…”

“A linen cupboard? Why, yes, it is. Few places for privacy on board the ship.”

The linen cupboard was warn, almost painfully so, but that didn’t matter as within moments of coming together once more their clothes had been removed, draped carefully over stacks of perfectly pressed bedsheets so that they wouldn’t crease.

Strong fingers traced his ribs, dipping lower and lower until they could follow the V of his hipbones to his rapidly swelling cock, a strangled gasp escaping him at the first touch.

“Oh, yes,” Artie purred above him, crowding him back against the wall, hand moving with the confidence his senior years granted him. “I’ll bet you’re such a vocal creature.”

“Yes,” Thomas choked out, his own hands scrambling for purchase, one finding the stewards shoulder while the other clutched at the man’s strong waist for a moment before copying him and reaching down. “Yes, I am,” he confirmed, hand working to stimulate the older man to full hardness. “What about you? Are you a screamer too?”

“No,” the older man grunted, hips jerking forwards. “I’m a biter.”

A…what?

Thomas had little time to process the older man’s answer, his body suddenly spun in place to press him against the wall, giving Artie access to his buttocks and the tender hole hidden between them, the older man spitting on his fingers to help ease them in.

A guttural sound escaped Thomas as he found himself filled so quickly, legs trembling as they parted to steady himself, one hand scrambling to find purchase on the wall above his head while the other reached back to clutch at Artie’s powerful forearm.

This was nothing like the slow that Philip had preferred, nor was it anything like the youthful fumbling’s that had led to him being thrown out of his childhood home.

This was raw and powerful and oh, so wonderful.

“Please…”

Lips nuzzled at the side of his neck, just low enough that any marks that were left behind would be hidden by the starched collar of his suit, sucking at his skin as his strong fingers worked him open as swiftly as any lover had ever managed to before.

And then, pain.

Delicious.

Wonderful.

Pain.

A guttural groan escaped him as his body was filled in the most pleasurable way imaginable, the force of the older man’s thrust sending him up onto the balls of his feet, and it was all he could do to cover his mouth the hand not clutching at the wall.

Artie let out an animalistic grunt against the flushed skin of his neck moments before his skin burst to life in twin arcs of pain as the older man did as promised and bit him.

Yes.

Hands gripped hold of his hips, pulling his hips aback to meet the older man’s, and he let out a near delirious moan into the palm of his hand when the teeth in his neck moved further down, digging into the point where his neck met his shoulder and holding on.

He’d never been bitten during sex before, never even bene used roughly, and it surprised him how much he like both, his own neglected cock swinging heavily between his legs.

Everything about their coupling was hard and fast, a burst of energy linking the two of them together, and all too soon he felt the older man’s hips begin to stutter wildly as his pleasure reached its peak, flooding Thomas’ body with his seed before finally stilling.

Thomas’ entire body trembled with need, a desperate whine escaping him as he pulled his hand away from his mouth and twisted his head round to meet the older man’s gaze.

“…didn’t strike me for a stingy bastard.”

“Give me a moment,” Artie laughed breathlessly, thumbs stroking across Thomas’ sweat slicked skin as his own hips continued to jerk with aftershocks of pleasure. “…fuck…”

There was no stopping the snort of amusement that burst out of him, riding on the high of the moment, and he was still giggling absently to himself a few moments later when Artie suddenly pulled himself free, spun Thomas around and sank to his knees in front of the young moan, swallowing the nineteen-year-old’s cock with an obscene slurp.

“Oh, fuck,” Thomas choked out, mimicking the older man’s earlier curse as his hands flew to sink his fingers into Artie’s dark hair, pulling on the brylcreemed curls. “Fuck!”

He didn’t last long at all, too worked up and already riding high on pleasure, and all too soon his was bringing a hand up to his mouth muffle his cries, biting down on his fist.

Artie leaned back, smirking, and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, 

“Alright?”

Alright?

He was more than alright?

He was perfect.

Huffing out an unsteady laugh, Thomas nodded, helping the older man to his feet with a groan, his body aching in all the intimate places that had been neglected for some time.

It was a little awkward, cleaning themselves up and dressing, just like it always was.

Their smiles never slipped though, not even when Artie used one of the crisp linen pillowcases to wipe them both clean and added it to a small pile of already soiled laundry, and Thomas struggled to get it back under control as they bid each other farewell, Artie leaving the linen cupboard first to make sure the coast was clear.

“Perhaps I’ll see you again?”

“Well, you never know. It’s a small ship.”

Thomas couldn’t help but snort, heading back towards the stairs as he called out,

“No it’s not!”

He received a wink in response, one that stayed in his mind right up until he’d managed to crawl into his bunk and curl up around the small pillow, sleep quickly claiming him.

Chapter Text

R.M.S. Titanic
11^th April 1912

Dear Miss O’Brien,

Please forgive me for writing to you but His Lordship is sending a letter to Her Ladyship and offered to let me include a letter of my own should I wish to do so and I wondered if you might like to have a souvenir of the ship’s maiden voyage. You never know, if might be worth something one day should the Titanic prove as impressive as they say she will.

You would not believe the size of this ship. It truly is like a floating city. I have yet to manage to walk from one end to the other in a single journey, always finding myself waylaid by one thing or another, not to mention there are only a couple of places where a direct route is possible, most of which are only for the use of First Class passengers, although I have been informed that the Crew Alleyway on E Deck runs the entire length of the ship and that Third Class passengers are also permitted to use it so I may be able to make use of it going forward even though I am technically travelling in Second Class.

Providing I can find where it is, of course. I wish there was a map or something to aid with navigating your way around. I’ve found myself turned around so many times since coming on board yesterday, mostly when I’ve been traversing from First Class to Second as there are staircases that don’t go past a certain level and passageways that just stop.

My cabin is located on D-Deck and although small, smaller than my room at the Abbey, it is comfortable and I’m only sharing with one other valet whereas some of the others are in rooms of four or six. I should’ve been on the bottom bunk but have agreed to take the top as my cabinmate, Mr McTavish, would have trouble negotiating the ladder due to his age. It wasn’t too bad last night, and the bunk was surprisingly comfortable, if narrow.

Should Mrs Patmore ask you can reassure her that her food is better than that being served to the valets and lady’s maids aboard the Titanic but I’m afraid she can’t hold a candle to the food they’re producing for the First Class passengers. I’m told, however, that the company hired only the best specialist chef’s so perhaps that’s not surprising.

I can’t wait for one of her jam tarts as the one I had just now was dry as anything.

His Lordship, Mr Crawley and Mr Patrick have adjoining cabins on B-Deck which share a bathroom and as you might expect they are the height of fashion and luxury, even Mr Patrick’s which is the smallest of the three and has no porthole (window). There was a slight issue with the bathroom, no hot water, but I was able to get that sorted out quickly.

It looks like I’m going to have quite a bit of free time during the crossing as His Lordship only has need of me in the mornings and evenings so once I’ve finished my letter and posted it with His Lordship’s I am going to go and have a proper look around the ship.

I’ll write again once we’ve reached New York and update you on the rest of the journey.

Yours sincerely,

Thomas Barrow  

~ * ~

“Excuse me,” Thomas called out to a passing Stewardess as he slipped out of Lord Grantham’s cabin, envelopes in hand. “Where might I find the ships Post Office?”

“Oh, it’s down on G-Deck but if you take them to the enquiry office on C-Deck they’ll have them sent down for you,” she answered brightly, her voice reminding him of Lady Sybil’s with its slight raspiness. His next question must have shown on his face as she quickly answered it without prompting, “The enquiry office is by the grand staircase.”

“Thank you.”

He hadn’t been looking forward to finding the Post Office given the maze-like design of the lower decks so the alternative was much appreciated, his feet easily carrying him along the familiar path to the grand staircase and down to the next level of the vast ship.

There were five postal workers on board, tasked with sorting some of the almost 3,500 bags of mail which had been brought aboard the ship in Southampton as well as dealing with letters such as the ones Thomas carried as per the White Star Lines contract with the British Royal Mail, Titanic joining the fleet of ships carrying mail across the Atlantic.

He didn’t envy them their thankless task, nor being trapped in the bowels of the ship.

A window, he had realised, was a blessing and one he would miss during the crossing.

Dropping the letters off, Lord Grantham’s significantly thicker as he’d written to each of his daughters as well as his wife and simply placed them inside one solitary envelope, Thomas turned and made his way up onto the promenade deck to get some fresh air.

Lady Cora was meant to have joined her husband for the trip but unfortunately both Lady Edith and Lady Sybil had come down with such bad head colds that they’d been restricted to their beds by Doctor Clarkson and she’d opted to stay behind, leaving Lord Grantham alone in his cabin and snatching away Miss O’Brien’s chance to join them.

He wasn’t sure what his friend would have made of the ship.

Too big, probably, and too noisy down below.

After all, there was nothing Miss O’Brien liked more than to complain.

The promenade deck encircled the whole of A-Deck and, together with the middle section of the Boat Deck above, was the designated outdoor space for First Class, somewhere they could enjoy the sea air and take exercise during the long journey.

As a personal servant Thomas was permitted to use it at the discretion of his employer, Lord Grantham happily granting him full access to the ship whilst some of the other valet’s and lady’s maids had been restricted to the Second Class Promenade at the aft end of the Boat Deck above, and so he was able to pass unchallenged as he made his way aft towards the open part of the promenade where he could spark up a cigarette.

He probably could have gotten away with it in the enclosed portion but there were already people making use of the reclining deck chairs and children playing with spinning tops or porcelain dolls that he didn’t want to risk becoming a nuisance.

Nodding politely to the passengers he passed, Thomas made his way confidently to the back of the ship until he reached the very end of the promenade, moving to lean against the barrier as he produced a cigarette and his matches, sparking one up on the first try.

As well as the two large cargo cranes the open portion of the promenade deck sported wooden slatted wrought iron benches, most of which were already occupied by people enjoying the sunshine and admiring the view of the ocean behind them as they steamed towards Ireland for the final stop of their journey before they entered the Atlantic Ocean.

“Mr Barrow!”

Turning, he met the cheerful gaze of Mr Patrick as the handsome young man moved to join him, his golden curls fluttering wildly in the breeze, his hat clutched in his hands.

“Mr Patrick,” he greeted his employers heir with his own smile. “Enjoying the sea air?”

“Well, I was until it tried to send my hat over the side,” he chuckled, wiggling the hat in question whilst still visibly holding on to it as tightly as possible. “If it wouldn’t cause a complete scandal I’d have left it back in my cabin but you know how people can be.”

“I do, indeed,” he responded, his own hat perched on his head and shifting ever so slightly whenever the breeze grew stronger, only the fact that he preferred to wear it quite tight keeping it in place. “I believe we should be arriving in Queenstown shortly.”

“Yes, that’s correct,” Patrick murmured before letting out a deep exhale and shooting Thomas a look that was both sheepish and hopeful. “Look, I don’t suppose I could steal a cigarette from you, could I? I’m gasping and my father doesn’t approve of me smoking anything but his specific brand of cigars but honestly I can’t stand the wretched things.”

“I’ve only got Players,” Thomas warned him even as he produced the packet and offered it to the young man who let out a deep sigh of relief, retrieving one as quickly as possible and grinning like a naughty schoolboy when Thomas offered him his matches next. “I’d let you keep you the pack but that’s all I’ve got to last me for the rest of the crossing.”

“I understand,” Patrick blew out a long stream of smoke, grinning. “Oh, that’s better.”

Although Patrick had visited the Abbey regularly this was the longest Thomas had ever spent in conversation with the young man and he didn’t seem in a hurry to move along, leaning against the barrier alongside Thomas with all the boyish charm he possessed.

“I wasn’t too keen on the idea of this trip, you know?” he chattered amicably, seemingly unconcerned that Thomas was a servant rather than one of his peers. “I’m missing a couple of important lectures for it but my friends have promised to take notes for me.”

He was studying at Oxford, Thomas remembered, History or the Classics, something suitable for a young man who’s intentions were to join the Foreign Office and pursue a career in the Diplomatic Services, and although not a natural scholar he was doing well.

“But Papa was insistent I join him and then when he convinced Uncle Robert to join him, well, I could hardly say no, could I?” he laughed, leaning backwards suddenly and only just catching himself in time, swinging childishly from the barrier. “Important family business and all that. Plus how often does one get to be part of a ships maiden voyage?”

Thomas had a feeling his important family business had less to do with the financial meeting his father needed to attend and more to do with his unofficial engagement.

A loud clanging sound startled both of them along with almost every other passenger, the ship jerking ever so slightly a moment later before coming to a halt, a crew member appearing a moment later to announce that they’d just dropped anchor in Queenstown and that any passengers set to disembark needed to report to their respective entrance.

“I didn’t realise people would be getting off as well as getting on here.”

“I didn’t realise we wouldn’t be docking at a port,” Thomas countered, gesturing around at the fact that they were still quite some way from the shore with a pair of smaller ships moving to join them, bringing the last of the ship’s passengers. “I wonder why that is.”

“Not deep enough, probably,” Patrick reasoned. “She’s a big girl, don’t forget.”

“How could I?” Thomas snorted. “Given the number of times I’ve got lost already.”

Without intending to move the pair found themselves drifting across to the other side of the ship to get a better look at the last passengers being brought out to the Titanic by the small ships, aptly named the PS Ireland and the PS America, the majority of which were Third Class passengers if their reception was any indication whilst a small group of six or seven were visibly welcomed by a steward before being ushered inside the large ship.

Second Class, he suspected, knowing full well that appearance mattered more than practicality for the majority of First Class and so even if Queenstown had been more convenient geographically they would have travelled to Southampton to join the ship.

As they watched a collection of even smaller boats made their way out to the liner, local vendors attempting to sell their wares to the wealthy passengers on board, a few of them even managing to succeed, whilst another boat brought an alarming number of bags of mail which were lifting up onto the ship in a large net and lowered into the hold.

“Gosh, I’m hungry,” Patrick announced suddenly, cigarette long finished. A quick flash of his watch had him gasping in surprise, “Good Lord, is that the time? I’m late for lunch.”

Thomas barely had time to murmur a polite goodbye in response to Patrick’s own bark of farewell, the handsome young man hurrying off with the air of someone who was about to get a sharp telling off, almost bumping into a pair of well-dressed ladies.

He reminded Thomas of the younger maids when they were about to be reprimanded by Mrs Hughes or, worse, Mrs Patmore, jumping at everything on their way to the guillotine.

His own stomach gave a rumble a short while later, his body clock struggling with the fact that the Second Class meals weren’t at the times he usually had his meals back at the house, but a quick check of his own watch confirmed that by the time he’d managed to find his way down to the Maid’s and Valet’s saloon it would be time for them to start serving lunch so with one final glance at the passengers struggling to board the Titanic from the tenders he turned and headed inside, moving towards the familiar staircase.

“Ah, Mr Barrow,” someone called out as he entered the saloon a short time later having only gotten turned about once, drawing his attention to the table furthest from the door where a group of the younger maids and valets were sat. “Would you like to join us?”

Nodding, Thomas took the final empty seat on their table and thanked the stewardess who appeared from nowhere to set a bowl of soup and two bread rolls in front of him.

“How have you found the ship so far, Mr Barrow?”

“Well, if nothing else I shall certainly be able to confirm that she is every bit as large as they claimed her to be,” he answered convivially, hoping to make a good impression on his fellow servants, earning chuckles of agreement. “And my cabin is pleasant enough.”

“I’m on a bed in my lady’s cabin,” one of the maids announced, her voice lilting charmingly. “I swear, I’ve never felt sheets so soft but there is one tiny problem.”

“Oh?”

“My lady snores.”

Guffaws of laughter filled the room as one by one they jumped in with realisations they’d had whilst travelling in close quarters with their employees, Thomas one of the few who chose not to participate as he was too focused on eating the delicious vegetable soup.

“Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen,” one of the stewardesses assigned to their saloon called out a short while later, interrupting a story about a clandestine visit to Paris, drawing everyone’s attention to where she stood by the wall clock. “We ship will be departing in ten minutes time so if you wish to watch the sailing I would advise making your way up to either the promenade or boat deck now. Our next stop will be New York.”

Thomas wasn’t the only one to hurriedly finish the last of his meal and rise, pausing to brushing the crumbs off his trousers before bidding his farewell to those who weren’t interested in watching their final departure and making his way back to the open deck.

It wasn’t as busy as when they’d left Southampton but it was certainly busier than it had been earlier, the word clearly having been spread throughout the ship, and he ended up having to settle for a somewhat restricted view of the proceedings, straining his neck in order to see the last of the tenders respond to the whistles Titanic issued and depart.

A clanging sound filled the air moments later, similar to the one he’d heard earlier on sounded, and around him children jumped over covered their ears to block it out.

“What is that dreadful noise?”

“The anchor, ma’am,” a sailor answered the visibly annoyed passenger, her nose wrinkled in a show distaste as she stood with her friends. “Shouldn’t take too long.”

As the anchor continued to rise out of the water, slowly freeing the ship, Thomas was convinced he could hear the sound of bagpipes playing somewhere but figured he was imagining it as there was no way one of the bands on board would include bagpipes.

He was right, of course, none of the bands laid on for the entertainment of the First Class passengers utilised that particular instrument, but on that crisp April afternoon the notes of “Erin’s Lament” filled the air courtesy of steerage passenger Eugene Daly who had brought with him on his transatlantic crossing his prized set of bagpipes.

As the engines came to life, plumes of smoke appearing above them from the top of the great funnels, Thomas was struck by an unexplainable feeling of dread, his stomach churning unpleasantly as the ship began to turn and then, with a final blast on her powerful whistle, head away from the coast of Ireland and towards the Atlantic Ocean.

Thomas watched as men in the unmistakable black uniform of the White Star Line moved around the ship, securing her for her ocean voyage, whilst many of the First Class passengers retreated inside out of the wind that had begun to pick up again.

He found himself watching their strong hands has they worked, spotting their muscles as they bulged underneath the tight sleeves of their jumpers, and felt his cheeks burn.

“Quite the sight isn’t it?”

He jumped, startled by the unfamiliar voice, and hurriedly snapped his eyes away from a particularly handsome sailor in charge of coiling up a length of thick rope, dread pooling in his stomach as he turned to face it’s owner who turned out to be a handsome young man, probably a couple of years older than Thomas but no more than that and dressed in a smart hat and coat that were unmistakably American in design and production.

“The open sea, I mean,” he murmured with obvious amusement, his American accent noticeably more pronounced than Lady Cora’s who had resided in England long enough for her manner of speech to have been affected by those around her. “Although as far as sailors go that one is quite the specimen, isn’t he? You’ve noticed his thighs, of course?”

Thomas choked in disbelief, glancing around to make sure no one had heard them.

“No need to panic,” the American laughed, flashing Thomas a mischievous smile similar to the one he often wore himself. “I waited until you were all alone before coming over.”

“You can’t just…”

“What, compliment the view? I think you’ll find I can.”

Against his better instincts Thomas couldn’t stop himself from huffing out a laugh of his own, shaking his head in disbelief at how blatant the other man was being about it all.

“You can’t just go blurting out something like that to a stranger,” he found himself pointing out even as the American continued to grin at him. “I could report you.”

“But you won’t,” the American all but sang. “Because you have noticed those thighs.”

Turning away, Thomas exhaled loudly,

“Jesus Christ.”

The stranger laughed cheerfully behind him, completely unbothered by the genuine danger he’d just placed both of them in, his eyes straying back to the handsome sailor.

“So, do you fancy a drink?”

What?

“Or a smoke? Or…”

He trailed off, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively as Thomas spun to stare at him in shock, another startled laugh bursting out him as he tried to hush the other man,

“Seriously, you can’t be so obvious about–”

“What happens on the ship stays on the ship,” the American interrupted him, fluttering his eyelashes flirtatiously, his implications as clear as could be. “So? What do you say?”

Thomas could hardly believe this was happening.

Not again.

And certainly not with a passenger.

Did he have a sign on his forehead marking him out as a homosexual or something?

“Well?”

He shouldn’t.

He really shouldn’t.

“Fine,” he responded, his nerves making his voice sharper than it probably should have been, not that the American cared if his triumphant smile was an indication. “Where?”

He’d better not suggest finding a linen closet…

“Why, my cabin, of course.”

Of course.

Was he really going to do this?

Go with a stranger for the second time in as many days?

Risk everything for a moment of pleasure?

Another roguish grin was all it took to confirm that, yes, he was.

“Well, then, you’d best lead the way.”

Chapter Text

Thomas could feel eyes on him as he followed the American back along the promenade, passing the luxurious windows that looked in on the First Class Smoke Room where he spied Mr Crawley playing cards, a large glass of something very alcoholic in his hand, and a cabin he hadn’t even noticed was there at first until he caught sight of a smartly dressed man pulling on his hat and coat in what he clearly presumed was the privacy of his room, not realising that with the blinds drawn anyone on deck could look in on him.

It was a strange place for a cabin, near the Aft Grand Staircase and completely alone, and he would later learn that it was one of two cabins that were added late in the ships constructions, the other located directly opposite on the port side like a mirror image.

So late an addition were these two cabins that they didn’t even have numbers and whilst the other cabins occupant had no trouble finding it having designed the ship himself, the occupant of the cabin Thomas passed had struggled to find his cabin.

They passed the First Class Lounge, filled with ladies in cumbersome but stylish hats taking tea together and sharing the upper-class version of gossip, some visibly tittering behind their hands whilst others were gasping in shock, scandalised by what they’d just heard, and Thomas could easily picture the eldest two Miss Crawley’s in their midst.

Lady Sybil, on the other hand, would be exploring the ship or taking the air.

Entering the luxurious atrium of the Grand Staircase Thomas hung back slightly, giving the impression that he was following behind the American in his professional capacity as he followed the handsome man across to the port side and through the baize doors separating most of the cabins on A-Deck from the hustle and bustle of the staircase.

“Here,” the stranger murmured, producing his key as he led Thomas off of the main corridor and down a side passage which contained only four doors, two on each side, and ended in what appeared to be a small laundry cupboard. “This is me – A-28.”

The cabin was smaller than His Lordships, pretty much on par with Mr Patricks except as an outward facing room it was flooded with natural light through its large windows, light that was quickly extinguished when the American moved to draw the thick blinds.

One noticeable difference was the bed which, as well as being noticeably smaller than His Lordships, had a metal bedframe instead of the wooden ones he’d assumed were standard given that His Lordship, Mr Crawley and Mr Patrick all had wooden bedframes.

It wouldn’t have looked out of place in a modern townhouse, he noticed, and when the stranger dropped down to sit on it, legs spread invitingly, he bounced from the springs.

“Help yourself to a drink, if you’d like.”

Thomas glanced at the decanter on the side table, entirely too reminiscent of some of the ones they had back at the Abbey, and found himself moving to pour himself a glass before he’d even really thought about it, knocking back the first glass of what turned out to be an American brand of whiskey, something his Lordship would never have touched.

Pouring himself a second glass he arched a questioning eyebrow towards his host.

“Please,” the American nodded, reaching up to loosen his tie and pop the top few buttons of his crisp, white shite. “Thanks,” he murmured, accepting the glass from Thomas before snagging hold of his hand to stop him from moving away, effectively dragging Thomas over to stand between his spread legs. “So, do I get to know your name? Or would you prefer to keep things a little more anonymous? I don’t mind.”

“Oh, now you’re worried about being discreet?” Thomas couldn’t help but snort, reaching out to tuck a strand of golden hair behind the other man’s ear. “Thomas.”

“Hello, Thomas,” the American all but giggled, clearly mocking the formal way he usually had to respond to introductions. “I’m Theodore but only when I’m in trouble–”

“So, all the time, then?”

He yelped as the other man pinched his bottom in retaliation of his cheeky comment.

“As I was saying, I’m Theodore but everyone’s calls me Theo except my grandmother who calls me Teddy and my sisters who for a reason known only to them call me Dora.”

“Dora?”

Theo laughed, his face split by a slightly crooked smile, and nodded,

“Dora.”

“I’m assuming you’re the youngest?”

“Youngest but one,” Theo confirmed, hand absently stroking up and down Thomas’ thigh, his touch leaving a burning hot feeling in its wake. “My brother, Ambrose, is a couple of years younger than me. Want to take a stab at what my sisters call him?”

The answer was all too obvious and came to him within seconds.

“Rose?”

“Got it in one,” Theo laughed. “They’ve never said as much but I think, as much as my parents were hoping for a boy, they had their hearts set on us joining their sisterhood.”

“I think you might be right.”

In each of his previous sexual encounters Thomas had been the submissive partner, not necessarily through choice but circumstance, but their current positions left him feeling like he was more in control of how things were going to play out, all but towering over Theo’s seated form, the other man forced to tilt his head back to meet Thomas’ gaze.

It sent a bolt of unexpected desire down his spine and, without thought, he reached out with his free hand to firmly cradle Theo’s smooth jaw, tilting his head back even further.

A soft gasp of arousal escaped the other man, his cheeks flushing before Thomas’ eyes.

Holding the other man’s gaze he slowly brought the glass to his lips and took a generous gulp, Theo’s gaze dropping to watch Thomas’ throat as he swallowed before rising back to meet his once more, lips parted so invitingly that Thomas couldn’t stop himself from leaning down and pressing his own to them in a firm kiss, swallowing Theo’s whimper.

“So exactly how did you want this to play out?”

Theo hesitated, a flicker of nerves breaking through his previous confidence, dropped his gaze ever so slowly to the front of Thomas’ trousers, subconsciously biting his lip.

“Oh, I see.”

He took a moment to enjoy the way Theo was all but panting for more at the slightest touch and the mere implication of what was to come before moving to set his glass down on the vanity which doubles as a bedside table due to the surprising snugness of the cabin, freeing up his hands to remove first his jacket and then his waistcoat, draping both over the back of the rooms lone chair with a flourish so they wouldn’t get creased.

Turning back to Theo he found the other man had barely moved, leg’s still spread invitingly, head tilted back, mouth slightly parted even as his eyes followed Thomas.

Slowly he began to unbutton his trousers, his braces keeping them from falling down as he moved to stand between Theo’s legs once more, the action finally snapping the other man out of his daze and he couldn’t help but laugh when his hands were batted away before he could free himself from his underwear, the American reaching inside the thin cotton to take hold of his rapidly stiffening cock, twin moans of excitement filling the air.

And then, for the second time in as many days, Thomas could do little more than moan as a stranger began to suckle at his cock, his hands moving to cradle the back of Theo’s head when his inexperience became apparent, choking when he tried to go too quickly.

“Easy,” Thomas urged him, controlling the movements of his head. “That’s it.”

He’d never felt so powerful in all his life as when Theo blinked trustingly up at him, mouth relaxed and hands moving to clutch at the fabric covering Thomas’ thighs.

Theo, for all his inexperience proved to be a natural when coached.

His mouth was like fire, his tongue firm and strong, gliding against Thomas’ skin with ever growing confidence, and when Thomas muttered for him to use one of his hands as well it was only a matter of seconds before he was groaning out a sharp warning that he was about to finish and that if Theo wasn’t prepared to taste him he should pull back.

Eyes locking with Thomas’, Theo stayed precisely where he was.

“…fuck…”

He willingly lost himself to the sensations, his legs trembling by the time his climax had passed and he stumbled back a step, breaking their connection, and it was only then that he realised Theo had worked a hand inside his trousers and was doing everything he could to reach his own, tears of desperation glistening in the American’s blue eyes.

Thomas batted his hand away without thinking, pushing him to lay back on the bed a moment later so he could focus on all but ripping the other man’s trousers down in his haste to take Theo in hand and show him just what a man could do with his mouth.

“…oh…oh my…”

A hand fluttered nervously around his head for a moment before the American finally grabbed hold of his hair and tugged just enough to send a fresh bolt of arousal down his spine, his spent cock giving a half-hearted twitch of interest.

Humming softly, Thomas gave himself over to the taste of the other man.

He had always loved the tang of another man’s skin and Theo’s skin was no exception, his tongue almost tingling as it undulated against the silky-smooth flesh.

“…Tho…Thom…shit…I’m…”

Thomas smirked around his mouthful, increasing his efforts.

“…I’m going to…I’m…shit…”

Even better than the taste of a man’s skin was the taste of his pleasure, Thomas always having preferred savoury foods over sweets, particularly those with a slightly bitter or sour edge, and he relished every drop he managed to drag from Theo’s gasping body.

Theo was remarkably useless in the wake of his pleasure, barely able to lift his head, which left Thomas to wipe them both down with a damp washcloth and get them stretched out on the bed, clothes removed for the sake of comfort.

He placed the pillows against the headboard, giving them something far more comfortable to lean against than the metal bars, and reached down to retrieve his cigarettes and matches from his jacket pocket.

“Oh, yes, please,” Theo groaned as he came back to himself at last. “May I have one?”

Chuckling to himself Thomas offered him the packet, watching as the American struggled to retrieve one before effortlessly knocking his own out and lighting it.

“Show off,” the American chuckled, leaning in to light his own off the tip of Thomas’s, gaze holding the young valets as some of his earlier confidence returned. “Kiss me.”

Thomas didn’t even try to pretend he wasn’t eager to obey, closing the distance between them once they’d both moved their cigarettes out of the way.

They tasted of each other, he realised, heat churning in his belly at the thought, and when they finally parted to lay panting, absentmindedly smoking their neglected cigarettes, he couldn’t help but let out a soft chuckle.

“What?”

“I was just thinking,” he murmured, cigarette perched between his lips as he stretched his arms above his head, shoulders crunching audibly. “I’m not sure this is quite what they had in mind when the called her the ship of dreams.”

Theo snorted, choking slightly on his own cigarette.

“Oh, no, I’m sure this is precisely what they had in mind,” he laughed flippantly, trailing his soft fingertips up and down Thomas’s hipbone. “I can just see them now. Mr Ismay all pompous and proud, Mr Andrews coming up with the logistics. Single rooms are definitely required,” he put on an accent that Thomas assumed was meant to be an imitation of one of the men he mentioned. “Else how will the homosexuals manage?”

It was Thomas’ turn to snort then.

“Oh, we’d manage,” he announced, taking the other man’s hand and linking their fingers together over his stomach. “I’m told there’s plenty of linen closets on a ship this large.”

“Linen closets? Surely not!”

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” Thomas chuckled, drawing their hands over to one of the bruises he’d discovered on his body, a perfect line where he’d been pressed against one of the shelves the night before. “Although it was a little stuffy for my liking.”

“…no…” Theo exhaled incredulously, choking out a laugh when Thomas nodded in confirmation. “Holy shit, that’s insane! Where…I mean…wha…when…who…that’s…”

A bolt of unexpected pride shot through Thomas at the other man’s stuttering.

“I think it was on C-Deck but I have to be honest I wasn’t paying that much attention to where we were heading,” he answered, allowing Theo to move their hands to trace the outline of the bruise. “And it was last night, not long after I finished settling my employer in for the night, and as for who, well, I’m afraid I don’t kiss and tell so…”

Theo’s laughter was one of pure delight, his eyes flashing to the bite marks on Thomas’ skin that he definitely hadn’t put there before slowly leaning in to kiss the nearest one.

“I’ll admit, I’ve been wondering who gave you these…”

“Oh, yeah,” Thomas chuckled, shivering slightly in response to the gentle touch as Theo twisted to press a firmer kiss to the bite mark. “He did warn me he was a bit of a biter.”

In an instant the touch became a press as Theo let out what was clearly an involuntary moan at the image his mind had created, his eyes filled with a mixture of yearning and lust, and Thomas couldn’t stop himself from pushing up into the firm touch with a sigh.

“…did you let him fuck you?”

“I did.”

His own voice, already slightly hoarser than usual thanks to their previous activities dropped with his own building arousal, his cock twitching with growing interest.

“…can I fuck you?”

He couldn’t resist, annoying though it was, and responded teasingly,

“I don’t know, can you?”

Theo groaned, both annoyed and amused by his response, before snatching Thomas’ cigarette away and placing both of them in the little dish on his dressing table, freeing up his hands to flip Thomas’ willing body over on the bed.

His body was quickly blanketed by the other man’s, his renewed arousal delightfully evident as it pressed against the meat of Thomas’ backside, and he was helpless to do anything but push his own hips backwards in a primal display of interest.

“…may I fuck you?”

“Yes,” Thomas all but groaned, arching his back just enough to shift the pressure of the other man’s cock from the meat to his buttock to the valley between them. “Please.”

There was no comparison between what followed and what had taken place in the linen cupboard the night before, Theo passionate and energetic but still caring and gentle, his touch firm but always careful, and Thomas relished in it every bit as much as he had the forceful mix of pleasure and pain of the night before.

Another cigarette followed, sweat drying on their skin, and there was no fighting the pull of sleep that overcame Thomas, his body resting more and more against Theo’s until he absentmindedly rolled to place his head on the other man’s chest and let himself sleep.

He woke only because he started to get cold, the pair of them entwined naked on top of the covers, and found himself plastered to the other man’s chest with Theo’s arms wrapped almost too tightly around him, holding him close as he too slept peacefully.

Even with Philip he’d never been permitted to sleep next to him afterwards, the Duke all but shoving him out of his fine bed and banishing Thomas back to the attics, so he did his best to ignore his growing shivers for as long as possible, relishing the domesticity.

Oh, how he envied people who could relax together like this whenever they liked.

Perhaps one day…

Theo stirred eventually, stretching like a cat and inadvertently dislodged Thomas, almost sending him rolling off the edge of the narrow bed.

“Shit!” the American apologised, grabbing hold of him quickly to save him. “Sorry!”

Thomas couldn’t help it.

He laughed.

Theo looked so distressed by what had almost happened, his eyes wide and his brow furrowed in such a way that Thomas was inexplicably reminded of William.

The favourite who could do no wrong in the eyes of the family and servants alike.

Congenial and lovable, earnest and kind.

Oh, how Thomas hated him.

Envied him.

“No harm done,” he murmured, dragging himself back to the present, pushing himself up on one elbow to look down at the embarrassed man beside him. “I’m guessing you’re about as used to sharing your bed with someone else as I am?”

“That, and I’m not used to such a small bed.”

The bed was, admittedly, a little narrow but it was certainly nothing compared to his own bunk down on D-Deck which was about two-thirds the size.

Curious, Thomas stretched, one of his shoulder popping audibly, and reached for his jacket to check the time on his lovingly maintained pocket watch, finding to his shock that they’d slept through most of the afternoon too and it was already approaching the time he’d need to dress Lord Grantham, Mr Crawley and Mr Patrick for dinner.

“I have to go,” he blurted out apologetically, hurrying to wash himself at the small washstand before pulling on his clothes one item at a time, all while Theo lounged across the bed with nothing but the thin sheet to cover him. “I had no idea how late it had gotten. His Lordship will be wondering where I’ve got to if I leave it much longer.”

His status as a servant had never expressly been discussed, Theo only shooting him an amused smile now as though his suspicions had been confirmed, before sighing sadly.

“I guess I’ll see you around, then.”

Thomas doubted their paths would cross again unless he was very, very lucky, but he still offered the other man an encouraging smile before slipping out of the door, careful to make sure that the coast was clear, and made his way back to the Grand Staircase.

No matter how many times Thomas approached the Grand Staircase he was still struck by how impossible it seemed to be that something so luxurious and impressive could be located on a ship making its way across the Atlantic Ocean and not in a luxury hotel.

He wasn’t the only passenger to pause, head tilted back to admire the extravagant glass dome above them, illuminated by the warm afternoon sunlight, nor was he the only one to let out an involuntary smile when the crystal chandelier hanging from its centre let out a series of delicate tinkles as the vibrations of from the ships engines increased.

One young girl, no older than five, let out a gasp of childish wonder from where she and her mother was stood at the balustrade of the Boat Deck’s interior balcony, dressed in matching outfits that spoke of both the sheer wealth and good taste of the girl’s mother.

Thomas was somewhat unique in his fascination with the clock on the central landing between the Boat Deck and A-Deck, his fingers itching to get their hands on it to see if its inner workings were as beautiful as the carved figures on either side of its round face.

It kept good time, Thomas having paused to test it against his own watch the day before, and the movement was as smooth as you’d expect from such a clock but appearances could be deceiving, many of the broken clocks he’d grown up helping to fix proof of that.

Often the finest looking clocks had the worst mechanisms, at least in terms of how they were cared for by their owners, and couldn’t keep time which was one of his motivations for taking extra special care of the clocks back at the Abbey, both upstairs and down.

The carved figures, he’d learned, had been named 'Honor and Glory Crowning Time' while the bronze cherub at the foot of the staircase had no name at all.

Perhaps they hadn’t thought he needed one, being only a light fixture.

Making his way down one flight of stairs he admired the fact that even the balustrade supports had been taken into account by the designers, the sturdy iron twisted in such a way that it looked deceptively delicate and decorated with bronze flowers and foliage.

It was an entirely unnecessary step, hardly anyone paying attention to the banister as they moved around the ship, and yet as with the rest of the First Class areas of the ship no time of expense had been spared in creating the most luxurious ship currently afloat.

Emerging onto B-Deck, Thomas heard the rattling of the elevator door being opened and wondered if he’d ever have call to test out the reportedly smooth-gliding lifts that could run First Class passengers from A-Deck to E-Deck or if not one of the three First Class elevators then perhaps the Second Class one which spanned all the way from the Boat Deck to F-Deck and as such seemed to be even more popular than the First Class ones.

His Lordship’s cabin was mercifully empty when he arrived, giving him time to prepare everything his employer would need for dinner that evening so that when he did arrive a short time later it appeared that Thomas had been ready for him far longer than he had.

“Are there any entertainments laid on for yourself and your fellow servants, Thomas?”

“Not as such, Milord,” Thomas responded absently, focusing on doing up the other man’s cufflinks, a tricky task at the best of times. “Although from what I understand some of my fellow Valet’s joined the Third Class celebrations last night and plan to do so again tonight, along with a couple of the Ladie’s Maids who want to go dancing.”

He wasn’t expecting Lord Grantham to perk up in response to his answer.

“Dancing! What a wonderful idea. You should join them,” Lord Grantham declared. “You can take the rest of the night off once you’ve laid out my nightclothes. Enjoy yourself.”

Thomas blinked, taken aback by the older man’s enthusiasm.

But he could hardly say no to his employer, could he?

“Thank you, Milord,” he murmured instead. “That would be lovely.”

Chapter Text

“What’ll you have then?” one of the older valets enquired as they made their way up the Third Class staircase towards the source of the noise. “Beers decent, or they’ve got Ale.”

Thomas wasn’t in the mood for a drink but knew better than to refuse the offer.

“I’ll try the Ale, thanks.”

Nodding, the valet split off from the group to duck into what Thomas would learn was the Third Class Smoke Room to visit the bar whilst the rest entered the General Room.

A handsome young man was perched somewhat precariously on the lap of a giggling young woman who’d clearly already been sat on the piano stool when he’d decided to perform for the gathered people, his tenor voice rising over the animated conversations,

“When the Moon is shining yellow,
And a girl is with her fellow,
Both are getting nice and mellow,
It's a surprise to find.”

Many a young lady was smiling hopefully at him, trying to catch his eye, whilst around the room couples were already dancing to the jaunty tune, however badly it was played.

He might be a good signer but a natural pianist he was not.

“If the Moon-Man should discover,
Sweethearts meeting under cover,
Can you blame that girl and lover,
If they say Turn off that light!”

He’d clearly been working the crowd before the gaggle of servants arrived, twisting his head dramatically to nod in time with his playing as he encouraged everyone to join in. 

Thomas was, surprisingly, one of the few voices that didn’t bellow out,

“Turn off your light, Mr. Moon-Man,
Go and hide your face behind the clouds,
Can't you see that couples wanna spoon, Man,
Two is company and three's a crowd!”

“Here.”

A glass of ale, paler than he would normally like, was pressed into his hand and it was automatic to take a sip, tasting the bottled brew and comparing it to Downton’s local.

“Not bad,” he conceded. “Thanks.”

It wasn’t bad.

It wasn’t good, either, but it certainly wasn’t undrinkable.

“Now, if you’ll please excuse me,” the valet who’d fetched him the drink grunted as he ducked around Thomas, eyes of a group of young women in distinctively Scandinavian dress. “I spy the young lady I was dancing with the other night and fancy another spin.”

She was clearly just as taken with the valet as he was with her, greeting him with a smile and placing her hand in his as soon as it was offered, letting him lead her away from her friends and join the couple bobbing cheerfully around the surprisingly crowded space.

Thomas was pleasantly surprised by the Third Class areas of the ship.

He’d expected far worse, presuming incorrectly that the White Star Line would treat its lowest paying passengers similarly to how landlords treated their lowest paying tenants.

And perhaps, in time, things might change.

The brilliant white paint might not be maintained, growing smoke-stained or perhaps rusted over time, and the linoleum covering the hard floor might grow scuffed and torn, the patterns or colours worn down by the thousands of feet that would traverse the ship.

He’d been advised to keep his ticket on him during their trip to Third Class and, having now seen the barriers that separate them from the rest of the ship, he understood why.

A crewman had let them through cheerfully enough, wishing them a good evening, and it had bene one of the Lady’s Maids who was also new to the group who’d asked softly,

“But how will we get back through?”

“Same way we got through just now; by showing them out tickets so don’t lose them!”

Absently, he reached into his inside jacket pocket to check his ticket was still there.

Until that moment he hadn’t realised they were so strict about keeping the Third Class passengers contained to their areas of the ship but, according to his fellow servants, it was a requirement of the American Government that those emigrating had to be kept separate from those travelling for pleasure, claiming it stopped the spread of disease.

Spotting an empty chair at the edge of the room, Thomas made his way over and, following a quick enquiry to check that it wasn’t being kept for someone, lowered himself down into the wooden chair and continued his assessment of the room.

As well as the free-standing chairs scattered around the room, most of which had been adjusted for friends and family to sit in together, there were several slat-seated benches bolted into place down the centre of the room and against the walls, filled to bursting.

No upholstery, Thomas noticed, not even something plain, just freshly varnished wood.

During the day the room would have been illuminated by the rectangular windows running along one of the walls but as it was there was nothing but the vast darkness of the ocean outside them so all of the rooms light came from the rows of naked bulbs set high in the ceiling, the glass of the bulbs slightly clouded so as not to shine too brightly.

As far as decorations went in place of the portraits that adorned the walls of public spaces of First and Second Class, the walls of the Third Class General Room were bare except for a few posters advertising the White Star Line’s other vessels and ports of call.

Given the number of people crammed into the room, large though it might be, Thomas was soon feeling the heat and joined the example of most of the men, shrugging off his jacket and laying it carefully over the back of his chair before rolling up his shirtsleeves.

Mr Carson would have been horrified to see him in such a state but no one so much as blinked an eye; well, apart from a trio of attractive young woman who giggled alarmingly.

He kept his gaze averted from them, not wanting to give them the wrong impression.

A different voice rose up next, singing in a language Thomas couldn’t place but several people around him seemed to know if their cheerful cries were any indication, their own voices rising and falling with the singers while a young woman produced a wooden flute of some kind and began to accompany the singer, the pianist doing her best to join in.

“Haven’t seen you down here before,” a distinctly Irish voice murmured from his right, drawing his attention to the family sat beside him, a couple and their four children, the oldest of which could be no more than twelve and was gazing around them in wonder. “And trust me, I’d have noticed, what with the womenfolk fluttering their eyes at you.”

“…what?”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed the stir you and the rest of you caused when you arrived,” the wife crowed, as amused as her husband. “Men. Oblivious to the last.”

“Not all of us, my love.”

“Oh, not oblivious, were you? Tell me this, Cillian O’Phelan, who proposed to who?”

“Now, that’s just not fair, Katie, love,” her husband protested, clearly enjoying every moment of their playful argument. “You know full well it was your father who informed me of our pending nuptials,” he teased her, earning a sharp gasp and a smack on the wrist. “Although now that you mention it, I do remember a conversation before that…”

“…when I told you to pull your blasted finger out or I’d marry the next man I saw.”

They were couple very much in love, Thomas thought with a soft smile even as he was distracted by one of their younger children moving to lean trustingly against his leg, his big brown eyes fixated on a young couple spinning significantly faster than all the rest.

“Travelling alone, are you?”

“No,” Thomas answered automatically, reaching out a hand to help steady the child when he stumbled, instantly reminded of his nephews, neither of which he’d seen since they were about the child’s age. “I’m travelling with my employer, Lord Robert Crawley.”

He wasn’t trying to be boastful but a small part of him was pleased when their eyes widened in shock at his response, both of them taking in his appearance more closely.

“And what, pray tell, do you do for this Lord of yours?”

Thomas smiled, enjoying the suspicious tone the wife, Katie, had adopted.

“I’m his valet,” he explained simply before going into more detail at their blank expressions. “I look after his clothes and such, make sure he’s presentable.”

“And there’s money to be had in that, is there?”

“Each house is different but Lord Grantham is known for being a fair employer so, yes.”

“…I thought you said his name was Crawley?”

“Lord Robert Crawley, Earl of Grantham,” Thomas explained, noticing how some of the people listening in on their conversation perked up, clearly interested now that nobility had been mentioned. “He is addressed as Lord Grantham because of his rank and title.”

“Are the rest of your friends also…”

“Valets?” Thomas finished for the other man, nodding. “Yes. Or Lady’s Maids.”

Over at the piano a young girl, no older than twelve, begins to play.

She was clearly nervous, her mother or another older relation having urged her forwards, but the crowd was supportive enough that she visibly began to relax.

“Oh, I love this song!” the O’Phelan’s eldest gasped and, showing no sign of nerves like the other girl, darted off before her parents could protest to ask, “Can I sing with you?”

She barely waited for the girl to nod in agreement before climbing up onto an empty chair in front of the piano, smiling across at her parents before starting to sing loudly,

“Come Josephine in My Flying Machine,
Going up she goes! Up she goes!
Balance yourself like a bird on a beam,
In the air she goes! There she goes!
Up, up, a little bit higher,
Oh! My! The moon is on fire
Come Josephine in my flying machine,
Going up, all on, “goodbye!”

“Well, there’s no denying she’s your daughter, Cillian O’Phelan,” his wife chuckled, watching fondly as her daughter performed for the appreciative crowd with an air of confidence that came from being young and unafraid. “What would your mother say?”

Her husband only laughed in response before springing up to collected his daughter from the chair as the song came to an end, the crowd applauding loudly as he carried her back to their seats, the pair of them wearing matching smiles, right down to their crooked front teeth and the way their eyes all but disappeared as their cheeks rose.

A faster, much livelier tune began next, the new pianist calling for his friends to join him on their own instruments until they’d formed an impromptu band, and before Thomas realised what was happening one of the young women he’d inadvertently encouraged earlier on bounded over to him, seizing his hand in both of hers and pulling him up.

“Dance with me!”

It would have been utterly humiliating for her had he refused and so, reluctantly and knowing it would only spell trouble for him, he reached back to place his half-finished drink on the small table between him and his new acquaintances, both of whom were laughing unsympathetically, and allowed himself to be led into the throng of dancers.

He didn’t know the steps, the song wholly unfamiliar to him, but it quickly became apparent that that didn’t matter, everyone dancing however they were most used to.

His partner was light on her feet, more so than he was, and tilted her head back as they spun, clearly enjoying the motion, her blonde hair coming loose of her pins and braids.

It was more fun than he’d expected it to be.

He hadn’t had much opportunity to dance outside of the annual servant’s ball on New Years Eve and even then the dancing had been significantly more sedate, old-fashioned even, and with watchful eyes on them at all times to make sure they didn’t take liberties.

His partner wasn’t at all worried about anything like that, encouraging him to hold onto her waist with both hands as the song came to an end, allowing her to tilt back further.

“Thank you,” she panted up at him when the song finally came to an end, people applauding the musicians and the dancers, Thomas and his partner garnering a noticeable amount of praise themselves. “I don’t suppose you’d like to go again?”

Before he could even think to politely decline one of her friends appeared, announcing,

“No, Emma, it’s my turn now. Go find yourself another partner.”

They were so similar in appearance that they must be sisters, his first partner shooting the second a look of annoyance that could only have been caused by a sibling before she slipped away to do just that, leaving Thomas trapped into accepting another dance.

“Honey dear, when you're near,
Just turn out the light and then come over here,
Nestle close, up to my side,
My heart's on fire, with love's desire.
In my arms, rest complete,
I never thought that life could ever be so sweet,
'til I met you some time ago,
But now I know I love you so.”

The first singer was back, crooning out the popular ragtime song, and Thomas found himself instinctively copying everyone else, bouncing along to the fast beat rather than trying to dance properly, his partner happily following his lead with a blush and a smile.

He could feel sweat beading on his brow and more across his back, soaking into his shirt and causing the white fabric to cling to his skin, and he made a mental note to pack it away once he got back to his cabin and wear his other shirt for the remainder of the voyage as there were no facilities on board for him to wash it and he didn’t want to smell like stale sweat whilst helping Lord Grantham and the others dress and undress.

Thank goodness he’d packed two shirts and wasn’t relying on just the one.

Not that Mrs Hughes would have let him travel with only one, the Housekeeper having checked over his luggage before he’d finished packing to make sure he had everything.

“Oh! you beautiful doll,
You great big beautiful doll!
Let me put my arms about you,
I could never live without you;
Oh! you beautiful doll,
You great big beautiful doll!
If you ever leave me how my heart will ache,
I want to hug you but I fear you'd break,
Oh, oh, oh, oh,
Oh, you beautiful doll!”

His second partner wasn’t quite as light on her feet as her sister but she made up for it in stamina, keeping to the fast tempo far better than he did and by the end of the song she was ready for another whilst he all but stumbled his way back to his drink and seat.

“I’d enjoy your rest while you can,” Mr O’Phelan chuckled as Thomas gulped down most of his remaining drink, his wife snuggled against his side whilst their youngest slept on her lap, thumb tucked into his cherubic mouth. “Now you’ve opened the flood gates.”

He wasn’t wrong.

Thomas was repeatedly dragged back onto the floor by the enthusiastic young women of Third Class, some coming back for a second or even a third dance, and by the time a steward appeared to warn them that it was time to bring the party to an end he was exhausted and dripping with sweat, his hair a mess and his waistcoat long abandoned.

Returning to his seat after the final dance he saw the O’Phelan’s attempting to figure out how to carry all four of their children back to their cabin, each of them having dozed off one by one as the night had gone on, and it was instinctive to extend his arms and offer,

“Need another pair of hands?”

They’d been so kind to him all evening, keeping up a pleasant conversation between dances and guarding his belongings; Mr O’Phelan had even stood him a second drink.

Carrying one of their children was a small price to pay.

Their cabin, it turned out, was pretty much in the bowels of the ship of F-Deck.

“Thank you for this,” Mrs O’Phelan murmured as they emerged onto the correct deck, only one more to go before they reached the crew only areas of the ship. “This way.”

Thomas couldn’t hold back his chuckle of amusement.

Their cabin was, quite literally, the final cabin on the ship, their door marking the end of the corridor behind which would be the hull of the ship and then the Atlantic Ocean.

“…I honestly can’t tell if you’re fortunate in that you’ll never struggle to find your cabin or if this is the worst place to have a cabin because of how far away from things you are.”

“We quite like it, actually, so consider us fortunate,” Mrs O’Phelan declared, slipping into the cabin once her husband had opened the door and laying the youngest children on one of the bottom bunks, her hands moving to unlace their little boots. “It took a while to get used to the noise, of course, but being at the end is good for the children.”

It was only then he noticed the constant thrumming noise.

“It’s worse on the deck below,” Mr O’Phelan declared, easily lifting their eldest up onto the top bunk before moving back to take the boy from Thomas and putting him on the same bunk facing the other way. “They’re right above the propellors so it’s even louder.”

Of course, Thomas thought to himself with a slow nod, they were directly above the propellors keeping the ship moving towards int’s destination morning, noon and night.

As the couple set about getting their sleeping children undressed and under the covers, thick red and cream blankets bearing the White Star Line logo, Thomas couldn’t resist having a quick look around the cabin, comparing it to his own and to His Lordships.

It was smaller, of course, but not as small as it could have been.

The walls were panelled with white-painted pine giving the room a bright, clean feel while the floor was covered with unblemished salmon pink linoleum floors, no sign of any scuffs or marks and certainly no ripples as could happen with linoleum floors.

The bunks were metal and painted white and slightly narrower than his own bunk.

Other than the bunks the only other item within the cabin was a single washbasin, forcing the family of six to live out of their suitcases as best they could, but by far the most noticeable difference was the shape of the cabin; the left-hand wall was angled, following the shape of the ships hull, putting the bunks attached to it at an angle too.

“Not bad, is it?”

“We were expecting far worse,” Mrs O’Phelan added, drowning out Thomas’ hum of agreement. “I mean, you hear such awful stories about some ships but I suppose it makes sense for Titanic to be different. She’s so new, after all, and so much larger.”

Thomas agreed with her reasoning, thinking to himself that it made perfect sense for the Third Class cabins to be superior than those on other ships given the fact that the White Star Line had been determined to make the Titanic the most luxurious transatlantic liner afloat and it wouldn’t have made sense for only the First Class areas to have improved.

Having now seen cabins from all three sections of the ship Thoams couldn’t help wondering what the crew accommodations were like and if they were better as well.

If anyone was going to miss out on the company’s improvements it would be the crew.

They said their goodbyes, Thomas wishing them luck in New York where they were due to meet a distant relation who had promised them somewhere to stay until they found their feet in their new country, and he stepped out of the warm cabin with a smile on his face and headed towards the staircase, intending to retrace his steps back to his cabin.

It was only as he began to climb the stairs that he realised just how desperate he was for a breath of fresh air and so, rather than stopping at D-Deck for his cabin, he continued up until he was back at the now darkened Third Class General Room and followed the signs out onto the Aft Well Deck, finding the space populated by a few couples enjoying a final few moments together under the blanket of stars before heading to their cabins.

Something drew him towards the very back of the ship, his feet carrying him up the narrow stairs to the aft This Class promenade, finding it almost deserted with only a couple of people sat on the available benches, wrapped up in their coats or in the case of a pretty young woman a delicately knitted shawl in order to combat the cold breeze.

His feet carried him towards the enormous flagpole extending from the back of the ship, illuminated by both the ships lights and the sliver of moon above them, the equally large blue flag fluttering majestically behind them as they cut through the cold water below.

Leaning against the safety rail he pulled out his cigarettes and lit one, watching the smoke as it vanished almost immediately thanks to the noticeable breeze created by the ship’s movement, and let his mind wander as he gazed down at the churning water.

It was late enough that only a few people would still be up back at the Abbey.

Daisy, cleaning up after a hard days work in the kitchen.

Anna, probably and maybe Gwen, mending things either for themselves of their mistresses, the three Crawley sisters forever needing something mended by them.

Miss O’Brien would be long in bed, disappearing as soon as her Ladyship had been seen to, but Mrs Hughes would probably still be awake, sitting in her little room working or perhaps joining Mr Carson in the butler pantry to discuss the plan for the days ahead.

Mr Carson would retire like clockwork at 10:30pm unless the family were hosting or staying up late so, without His Lordship in attendance, he would only be up for another couple of minutes before climbing his way up the stairs and finally letting them all relax.

He hadn’t expected to miss them all as much as he was.

He missed the constant chatter that accompanied the maids, the women passing almost every minute of the day talking about something or nothing, inadvertently creating a soundtrack to their lives that he hadn’t realised he was so accustomed to.

He missed the equally constant smell of delicious food emanating from the kitchen, accompanied by Mrs Patmore’s brash voice scolding her latest victim, usually Daisy.

He missed the way each clock in the house had a sound all of their own, from the ornate and booming grandfather clock to the tinkling little clock on Her Ladyships mantlepiece.

All his life he’d longed to travel, to see something other than his small sphere, but now that he’d actually ventured out into the world all he could think about was how nice it would be to return home once Mr Crawley’s important business was finally concluded.

Chapter Text

Thomas woke slowly, brushing a hand over his face to discover what had disturbed him and to his mounting confusion he realised he was wet, his eyes flying open just in time for a large droplet of water to fall into his left eye, causing him to roll away instinctively.

His pillow was absolutely sodden beneath his head and his bedsheets weren’t much better, clinging to him like a second skin as he scrambled onto his hands and knees.

A glance around the cabin sent a bolt of terror down his spine.

Water was pouring out of every possible surface.

The ceiling, raining down on him like he was out in a storm.

The walls, running with so much water they could have been a waterfall.

The door, a stream of water pouring out of the keyhole.

A glance down confirmed that the cabin was already beginning to flood, the water reaching just below lower bunk where Mr McTavish was still sleeping peacefully.

Heart pounding, Thomas jumped down from his bunk, flinching as he hit the cold water.

Still Mr McTavish didn’t stir.

Panic rising, Thomas made for the door, tugging on the handle, but it wouldn’t budge.

It wasn’t locked, he checked, and the handle moved freely.

It just wouldn’t open.

He opened his mouth to scream for help but no sound came out, just a weak gurgle that had him clutching at his throat, backing away from the door without thinking about it.

His foot caught on something, he didn’t know what, and suddenly he was falling…

Thomas woke with a gasp, bolting upright in his bunk, his hands frantically checking for water and finding none – not on his face, not on his clothes, nor the pillow or bedsheets.

A loud snore came from below him, causing him to jump further, a glance over the side of his bed confirmed that Mr McTavish was still sleeping peacefully and that the rest of the cabin was as dry as he was, no sign of the water he’d fallen into moments earlier.

“…a dream…” he realised shakily, running and hand through his hair which was even more tangled than usual from all his moving about. “…just a dream…a horrible dream…”

He could only assume the alcohol he’d drunk the night before was responsible.

Knowing he’d never get back to sleep with the way his heart was pounding Thomas climbed down from his bunk, carefully so as not to wake Mr McTavish, and set about getting dressed for the day, retrieving his fresh shirt from his suitcase as he’d been correct in his assumption that the shirt he’d worn the previous day would be ruined.

It was still damp with sweat when he folded it away in the bottom of his case to be dealt with once they arrived in New York and he was already dreading what it would smell like.

The corridors were completely deserted, a testament to the early hour, and Thomas barely saw another soul as he retraced his journey from the previous night, emerging onto the Well Deck to find it bathed in the strange half-light that could only be found at sunrise and sunset, the darkness of the night melting away as the sun rose into the sky.

Ascending the narrow ladder to the Third Class Promenade he found the place utterly deserted, not another soul in sight as he moved to stand in exactly the same spot as he had the night before, eyes locked on the point where the sky was turning a vivid orange.

It was beautiful, the dark blue melting into pinks and purples where it met the suns rays, more and more colours appearing in the remarkably clear sky until at last the sun fully emerged from the horizon, instantly erasing the last few traces of the night with a flash.

Knowing he wouldn’t be needed for a couple of hours at least, His Lordship having slept in more during the crossing than he ever did back at the Abbey, blaming it on the sea air, Thomas crossed to one of the wooden benches and sat, legs spread out in front of him.

His hands moved automatically, retrieving his cigarettes and matches, and soon he was slumped, head tilted back against the bench as he exhaled smoke up towards the sky.

His posture was terrible, his lower back protesting even as his legs enjoyed the stretch, and there was a good chance his jacket would be creased beyond what he could repair without a proper iron but after his unsettling dream he couldn’t bring himself to care.

He was lighting a second cigarette when a voice startled him,

“Don’t suppose I could catch a light off you?”

Startling, not having heard the other man approach, Thomas was shocked to find the filthiest man he’d ever seen grinning down at him, every inch of him covered in coal.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”

His smirk told Thomas that he absolutely had meant to startled him.

“Forgot to bring any matches up with me and I’m not risking being spotted to go get them,” the man continued, producing a rather sorry looking cigarette from behind his ear that was quickly lit after Thomas obediently offered up his matches. “I needed that.”

“I’m guessing you’re not a passenger, then?”

A snort of amusement was his initial answer.

“You’d be guessing right. Dean Garroway,” the man chuckled, introducing himself, before wiggling the dirty fingers of his right hand. “I’d offer to shake your hand but…”

“No thanks,” Thomas laughed, all but snatching his own hand away. “Thomas Barrow.”

“Nice to meet you, Thomas Barrow,” the filthy man declared. “Now, before we go any further, is that a Yorkshire accent I detect under all that prim and proper nonsense?”

“Aye,” Thomas confirmed, letting more of his accent slip out. “You’ve got a good ear.”

“Takes one to know one,” Dean laughed, seemingly a cheerful soul through and through by how natural the action seemed to be. “Barnsley, born and bred and destined for the pit like my father and his father before him until I heard they were looking for men who knew coal for these newfangled ships of theirs. And yourself? I’m thinking…Whitby?”

“Close,” Thomas chuckled, impressed that the man had identified he was from the coast. “Scarborough by birth but I went into service as a lad in Downton, near Ripon.”

“Service, eh?” Dean whistled appreciatively. “Heard some stories about life below stairs from my sisters. They were both housemaids before they got married. Shocking what those prim and proper types get up to…”

Thomas snorted, thinking of the dreary routine His Lordship seemed set on continuing indefinitely. 

“Depends on the employer, I think.”

“Well-behaved sort, your lot?” 

“His Lordship is, certainly, although his daughters like to get up to a bit of mischief every now and then,” Thomas conceded, thinking of some of the escapades they’d gotten into since he’d come to the Abbey. “But they’re good people on the whole.”

“That’s good. My youngest sister worked for a wrong’un to begin with,” Dean huffed, long held anger rumbling deep in his voice. “Tried to get under her skirts. She got out of there before anything could happen but a friend of hers ended up in the family way.” 

“Shameful, but sadly not reserved to the upper class,” Thomas pointed out, thinking of the number of girls he’d seen disgraced back home. “You married?”

“I am indeed, and to a damn good woman too,” Dean declared proudly. “Tess. Heart of gold. Fists of steel. No messing with her, I can tell you, specially not where our kids are concerned.” 

“How many?”

“Two boys, two girls.” 

Thomas couldn’t help but wonder if his father had ever sounded as proud of him and his sisters as this man did of his children. 

“You?”

“No, no wife, no kids.” 

He played it off with amusement even as he wanted to gag at the very thought. 

He knew there were countless men out there who living double lives, married with kids even though they preferred the company of their own sex, but he didn’t think he’d ever be able to do that. 

It wasn’t the morality of if, lying to someone you were supposed to love and protect. 

No, it was the practicality of it all. 

He simply found intimacy with a woman physically repulsive, his skin crawling the few times he’d tried it just to confirm he was as damned as he feared. 

The one time he’d touched what lay between a woman’s legs he’d felt physically sick and had been grateful for the interruption that had occurred, sending the visiting Lady’s Maid scurrying off without a backwards glance. 

He’d avoided her for the remainder of her time at the Abbey. 

“Well, you’re young,” Dean declared. “There’s still plenty of time.” 

Thomas managed to him his grimace behind a smile, grateful when a head appeared at the top of the ladder nearest them. 

“I thought I heard your voice, Dean Garroway,” the young man declared as he bounced into view, dressed in the uniform of one of Titanic’s officers. “You know you’re not supposed to be up here now that we’ve got passengers aboard.” 

“Sorry, Mr Lowe,” Dean apologised insincerely, crushing the butt of his cigarette beneath his boot as he stood, hands automatically brushing himself down even though he was utterly filthy. “Just couldn’t resist catching a breath of fresh air. Didn’t expect anyone to be up here this early.” 

“Don’t let me catch you up here again.”

“Nice to meet you, Thomas,” the filthy man called out cheerfully as he hurried past the officer towards the ladder. “Safe journey.” 

“You too.” 

As soon as the other man had disappearing, whistling as he slid down the ladder rather than use the rungs like a normal person, the young officer turned to Thomas apologetically, 

“I do apologise, sir, I’ll be having a word with-“

“It’s fine, no need to cause a fuss,” Thomas assured him, adjusting his position to something more appropriate. “We grew up near each other so it was a pleasant enough conversation.” 

“Still, he shouldn’t have been up here…”

“Honestly, it’s fine,” Thomas insisted, not wanting the other man to get in trouble even though he barely knew him. “No harm done.”

Lowe’s eyes flickered over to the soot marks left behind on the bench Dean had been sat on before raising a single eyebrow at Thomas, more out of amusement than annoyance. 

“No permanent harm done,” Thomas amended his statement with his own amused smirk. “Nothing a damp cloth won’t fix.”

“Very well,” the young officer conceded. “I won’t report him this time but if I catch him up here again I’ll have no choice.” 

“Thank you.” 

Tipping his hat, as thought Thomas was someone important, the young officer took his leave with the confident stride of a young man used to life at sea. 

Thomas couldn’t imagine it. 

It was exhilarating, yes, and certainly enjoyable to be travelling across the Atlantic Ocean but he couldn’t picture himself making a living doing so. 

He’d miss the freedoms afforded to working in a country house, popping down to the village for a pint or going to the travelling fair when it came every year or simply going for a walk in the woods when it all became a bit too much in the house. 

You could hardly leave the ship for a moments peace, now could you? 

With the sun now fully above the horizon, Thomas checked his watch and found that breakfast would be ready soon in the Maids and Valets Saloon, the serving time early enough for them to eat before seeing to their employers, and so with one last glance at the peaceful world around him he descended back into the ship. 

“Mr Barrow,” one of the prettier Lady’s Maids called out to him as he stepped into the room, clearly delighted to see him. “You’re here early today. Would you like to join us?” 

“Couldn’t sleep,” he explained, moving to take the seat next to her. “Popped up top for a bit.” 

“I’m having the opposite trouble,” she giggled, pouring him a cup of tea without him asking for it. “I never normally struggle to get up but this week has been terrible.” 

She didn’t pour anyone else a cup even though several of the others were clearly without refreshment and Thomas was unpleasantly aware of the envious looks he was getting from some of the other Valets. 

He couldn’t help but preen, enjoying the attention even though he wasn’t interested in her in the slightest. 

“Have you got any plans for today, Mr Barrow?” 

“You mean, apart from seeing to my gentlemen’s needs?” he teased her just like he would Daisy back at the Abbey, watching as her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “I’m not sure. What about you?” 

“I’ve got some mending to do for my Lady so I was thinking of finding a sheltered spot up top to work in,” she responded, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “I wouldn’t mind company if you find yourself at a loose end.”

Oh, yes, that was definitely a jealous look he was receiving from one of the other Valets. 

“I’ll keep that in mind, thank you.” 

It was a testament to the blank mask he’d perfected during his years in service that none of his fellow servants picked up on the fact that joining her was the last thing he wanted to do, a mixture of envious looks and amused encouragement following him when he left the saloon a short while later to see to the gentlemen.

Dressing His Lordship took no time at all, the two of them working like a well-oiled machine to get him ready for the day, and Mr Patrick had mostly dressed himself.

Mr Crawley took longer, his breath reeking of the drinks he’d had the night before and his movements sluggish as he struggled to wake, his mood even grumpier than usual.

His cabin was in a terrible state, too, and so once the three gentlemen had departed for breakfast he set about tidying it, refusing to let word spread that he couldn’t take care of his employer and his travelling companions should a ships steward discover the mess.

With little else to do he spent his day exploring the ship before settling into one of the empty chairs in the Second Class Library to read one of the books available to borrow.

He’d never found the same joy in reading that some did, often finding it difficult to relate to the characters and situations, but by some stroke of luck he found he’d accidently selected a rather enjoyable book, if not one most men would choose given the subject; Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen; a tale of family, first impressions and above all love.

Lunch came and went without him noticing, surviving on the tea and biscuits available in the library rather than joining the other servants for the midday meal, and all too soon it was time for him to return to His Lordships cabin to dress the gentlemen for dinner.

“If you’d like to take the book with you, sir, you can do,” the library steward murmured as he reluctantly made to return the half-finished novel, gesturing towards a simple ledger open on the first page. “You’ll just need to sign the ledger and return it before we dock.”

“Oh, yes, please,” he murmured, surprised to find himself genuinely relieved that he’d be able to finish the novel, moving to sign the ledger and finding to his surprise that he was only the fourth person to take a book out of the library since sailing. “Thank you.”

The last thing he was expecting when he stepped into the cabin was to walk into the middle of a heated conversation, as close as the two men could get to an argument without it actually being one, Lord Grantham and Mr Crawley snapping at one another.

“Look, Robert I’m only saying–” 

“You’re only saying that my daughter isn’t good enough!”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying at all!”

Ah, so that was what had triggered the heated discussion – the engagement.

“I just want to be sure that Mary’s entering into this with honourable intentions.”

“Honourable intentions?!”

Thomas flinched, hurriedly shutting the door behind him to keep the raised voices as contained as possible, and shot a glance at Mr Patrick who wore an expression of tired embarrassment, confirming that this was not a new subject of conversation for him.

“Robert, I know how much you and Cora longed for a son to pass everything on to and I’m sorry that that didn’t happen, but you can’t pretend that our children marrying isn’t part of some great scheme to keep the Estate in the hands of your direct descendants.”

Had Thomas not known better he would have been completely taken in by the shocked expression on Lord Grantham’s face but he’d overheard too many discussions between the various members of the Crawley family regarding the subject of the “archaic entail” and how to get around it to ensure that Mary received the inheritance she believed she deserved, the Dowager Countess being the first to suggest the marriage over dinner.

“There is a much simpler solution, of course.”

“Is there, Mama?”

“If Mary and Patrick enter into matrimony she will retain her position within the house and the influence that comes with it and, eventually, Downton will pass to their heir.”

“Mama!”

Despite his initial protestations it hadn’t taken much for them to convince him of the merits of the arrangement and set things in motion, Mary accepting the proposal with grace even as she smile triumphantly to herself when she thought she was alone.

Thomas wasn’t entirely sure if it was securing her future that she was happiest about or spiting her sister, her fights with Lady Edith legendary amongst the staff, as the middle daughter had done little to hide her own infatuation with Mr Patrick and would have married him for far more honourable reasons had she been given the same opportunity.

“There is no scheme,” Robert eventually spat, voice visibly shaking with the effort it took to maintain his calm demeanour. “Only the hope that our family will continue to grow stronger through a union that, to my way of thinking, should benefit everyone involved.”

Focused as they were on each other, neither Lord Grantham or Mr Crawley saw the flash of incredulity that appeared on Mr Patrick’s face before his carefully controlled mask slipped back into place but Thomas saw it clear as day and couldn’t help but wonder if Mr Crawley’s objections stemmed less from his supposedly offended principles and more from the fact that he’d picked up on his sons reluctance to marry Lady Mary at all.

An ungentlemanlike scoff escaped Mr Crawley before he held his hands up in defeat.

“Let’s not spoil this pleasant evening,” he muttered, words growing more slurred together as whatever he’d had to drink continued to work its cruel magic. “If you say she’s in it for the right reasons then I believe you. I just wanted to be sure of things.”

“I understand,” Lord Grantham conceded tightly, clearly wanting to put the conversation to bed for the time being if not permanently. “We can discuss the wedding details when we get back from America,” he added, letting Thomas know what had sparked the tense discussion in the first place. “Barrow, I’d like my blue cufflinks tonight, if at all possible.”

“Of course, Milord,” Thomas murmured, stepping forwards to switch out the cufflinks he’d prepared with those his employer had mentioned, recognising the deliberate change of subject for what it was and eager to help move it on. “No problem at all.”

Miss O’Brien would be green with envy when she learned of what he’d witnessed.