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Alfred wasn’t a complicated sort of bloke and thus his view on the world was a simple one: some things were right, others were wrong and there was very little middle ground in between. The war had been bad, but it was for the greater good. To work hard was good - to slack off bad. He tried to live by the law (good) and the Bible (very good) and what his parents had taught him, and avoid anything that wasn’t quite all Sir Garnet.
People fell roughly into the same two categories too: Mr Carson, Mrs Hughes, Mrs Patmore, Ivy, Daisy - they were good. Mr Barrow was bad. His auntie had been, to his shame, bad also. That one was a sensitive topic, as he’d been under the false impression that she was good and wanted only the best for him. Which had proved to be wrong, and had pushed his world view a little off its axis.
Jimmy - well, he was more complicated still.
On the surface Jimmy seemed good and bad in almost equal measures - he was a bit mardy and dramatic and he definitely only messed about with Ivy because it annoyed Alfred but - well, with what had happened with Mr Barrow and all that, Alfred couldn’t really be too angry with Jimmy for wanting to let the world know he were a proper, red-blooded bloke.
But then, for some unfathomable reason, Jimmy had done a complete about-face and was now the greatest of pals with the one and same Mr Barrow who had caused all the fuss in the first place. Which Alfred couldn’t understand for the life of him, but felt had something to do with the time Mr Barrow had gotten his smarmy face punched in at the Thirsk fair.
The fair notwithstanding, Mr Barrow was still definitely bad - so did that make Jimmy wholly bad too, by association? Well, if Alfred were going to live by that logic he’d have to paint himself as black an’ all, considering how his aunt had turned out.
And at any rate, sometimes when it were just the two of them, Jimmy would joke and laugh and muck about with Alfred as if they were real mates. Most of Alfred’s old mates hadn’t come back from the war, and the ones that were left were miles away and Alfred was too low down their list of priorities to ever get to see them.
Being in service didn’t exactly leave much time for anything or anyone else anyway.
And recently Jimmy had abruptly lost interest in Ivy and had stopped pestering her every chance he got, which made things between them more friendly still. Perhaps it was because of some care for Alfred’s feelings on Jimmy’s part, but more likely Jimmy had just grown tired of what had turned out to be a fruitless chase. Or else he’d found someone looser or more willing to bother with instead.
So Alfred was friends with the both-good-and-bad Jimmy - more out of convenience than anything else, but most of the time he didn’t mind him.
Until the moments he did.
“Come on you lanky shite, if you can’t reach to string that bloody thing up, no one else has got a cat in hells chance, ‘ave they?” Jimmy snapped, impatiently shaking the ladder he was supposed to be steadying, as Alfred reached up towards the top of an archway to hang a pretty holly and ivy swag.
Alfred rolled his eyes; he’d found the best course of action when Jimmy was in a snit was to just ignore him.
“Gone deaf ‘ave ya? Pity you’ve not gone dumb an’ all,” Jimmy sniped.
Alfred managed to push the pin into the ceiling and thankfully the festive swag stayed where he’d plonked it.
“Well, that looks right shite,” Jimmy huffed.
Alfred descended the ladder with a sigh.
“Looks like Father Christmas threw up in here,” Jimmy snarked, looking around the heavily-decorated great hall.
“Yeah, and left one of his elves behind,” Alfred quipped, unable to resist.
Jimmy was not impressed. “I’m not bloody short,” he hissed, “Goliath would’ve looked a midget next to you, you great spindly git.”
“You are sensitive y’know,” Alfred said, folding up the ladders. “If I said half the stuff to you that you said to me, you’d blow a gasket.”
Jimmy narrowed his eyes, his face twisting in that comical way it often did. “Sensitive? Whatcha implyin’ then?”
“Nuthin’!” Alfred shook his head. “You’re impossible to work with sometimes y’know.”
“Then you can do it on your own!” he huffed and stormed off.
Alfred took the ladders back down the staff staircase alone - not an easy task - then decided to find Jimmy and apologise before the idiot went and did something spiteful like taking up with Ivy again. He looked in the kitchen and servant’s hall, but he wasn’t there. Outside then - he could often be found slacking off in the yard, smoking up a storm with the horrible Mr Barrow.
Alfred meandered outside - it was cold and a light dusting of snow had fallen over the yard since breakfast. He couldn’t see Jimmy but the scent of cigarette smoke hung in the frigid air - he was probably tucked under the arches to get out of the chill wind. Alfred approached but stopped short at the sound of voices - Jimmy’s and Mr Barrow’s.
Eavesdropping was certainly on the bad side of the list but, well, he’d often wondered what they could possibly have to talk about all the time. They always seemed to be engrossed in quiet conversations and sometimes exchanged a handful of seemingly random words or phrases before both falling into fits of laughter. Alfred couldn’t make head nor tail of it when they did that; it was if they’d developed their own language or something.
“I’m not short, am I?” Jimmy said, from somewhere behind a stack of crates. He actually sounded upset.
A huff - that must’ve been Mr Barrow.
“A bit, for a footman,” Mr Barrow replied, “but not really. And anyway, it’s cute.”
Alfred blinked. Cute was not a word he’d ever have thought to apply to Jimmy.
“Shut it,” Jimmy said, but without any actual venom behind it, “I’m not cute. I’m rugged and handsome. Like Douglas Fairbanks.”
A snort of laughter then; “Blimey, you do think highly of yourself.”
“Not as highly as you think of me,” Jimmy replied.
“No, probably not,” Mr Barrow said, all smoothness, “but then I’ve always been a fool for a pretty face.”
“Pretty?” Jimmy said, outraged. “I’ll show you pretty, Thomas,” then there was a horrible wet smacking sound which Alfred realised, to his horror, was the sound of kissing.
Mr Barrow and Jimmy were kissing. In the yard. Together. Kissing each other.
Jesus.
He turned on his heel and very carefully walked back inside, straight to the servant’s hall and sat down at the table in a state of complete shock.
Anna was perched at one end of the table, doing something delicate with a dress and bit of lace. She took one look at Alfred’s face and said; “Whatever is the matter Alfred? You don’t look very jolly?”
“I don’t feel very jolly - I wish Father Christmas would run me over wiv his sleigh if I’m ‘onest,” he replied.
“Goodness,” Anna blinked, “it can’t be as bad as all that, can it?”
She was a kind soul who came down firmly under the ‘good’ category. She could be trusted. “I just,” Alfred started, but found he couldn’t repeat what he knew to a lady. “Never mind, I’ll survive it.”
It played on Alfred’s mind for several days, and as they continued to prepare the house for Christmas he found he couldn’t help but scrutinise every interaction between the under-butler and the footman. Placed under the new lens of what he had heard in the yard, it were actually obvious something unseemly was going on.
Take Mr Barrow for example. To call the man prickly was an understatement so great it was almost useless as a description - there were less prickly hedgehogs in existence. He was snide and rude and self-serving and just plain nasty, and Alfred tried as much as possible to avoid any dealings with him lest he accidentally cause insult. Because when Mr Barrow decided to set himself against a person, they invariably didn’t last very long.
Even when he was ostensibly being nice, it was all fake smiles and snipped words. Alfred would’ve thought the bloke was heartless if he hadn’t himself seen the devastation on his face the night he’d walked in on him kissing Jimmy. And the under-butler’s mood changed like the wind - some days working under him was like walking around with a handful of gunpowder and pebbles and hoping not to get blown to kingdom come.
It was made all the more difficult as Mr Barrow didn’t like Alfred one bit, and Alfred sort of understood it - his aunt had set them against each other from the beginning and the whole kerfuffle with Jimmy and the police hadn’t helped. That being said, the under-butler didn’t seem to like anyone all that much.
Except Jimmy.
With Jimmy, Mr Barrow was almost a different man. Still sarcastic and sly, but there was a good-naturedness to it that wasn’t present with anyone else. And the preferential treatment extended to their work: if Jimmy made a mistake, Mr Barrow covered it. If Jimmy tripped, Mr Barrow caught him. If Jimmy was bound for trouble with Carson, Mr Barrow averted it.
Mr Barrow often smiled at Jimmy, and not one of those horrible closed-lipped affairs he used on everyone else that looked more like a knife-wound than a smile, but a real, proper beaming grin that showed a line of perfect, white teeth. And occasionally he would laugh in earnest and drag a hand through his hair, loosening it from the hold of, in Alfred’s opinion, too-much pomade so it fell in strands over his brow like dark fingers against the pallor of his skin.
The under-butler even held himself differently when he was with Jimmy - the usual squared-shouldered and straight-backed formality eased off, and sometimes he leaned on things or slouched at the table for a moment, like he was so comfortable he’d forgotten there were other people present. With Jimmy he seemed softer around the edges and more real, as if Jimmy had breathed life and warmth into some inanimate statue cut from marble and shadow.
Jimmy too, was different, but perhaps in a lesser way than Mr Barrow. After all, Jimmy was no great shakes at hiding his emotions from anyone - the twist of his mouth and the over-expressiveness of his blue eyes told Alfred everything he needed to know; if Jimmy were in a good mood or bad, if he were only joking or trying to be hurtful, if he were lying or telling the truth. How he ever won at cards was a miracle - or rather, as Alfred suspected, a result of cheating. But even so, around the under-butler he put on less of an act, made less of a show of himself, as if no-ones attention but Mr Barrow’s mattered at all.
It was about a week later, and well past Alfred’s usual bedtime, when he ventured back down to the servant’s hall to fetch up a Beecham’s powder for his splitting head. He was half dressed in his undershirt, trousers, and socked feet, which was a risk if Carson should happen to come back down for something, but he dared it anyway. He was almost at the kitchens, where he knew Mrs Patmore kept a stash of the powders in a little metal tin by her desk (it seemed cooks were prone to stress-headaches), when he heard a noise and tensed; by all rights there shouldn’t be anyone downstairs and all the lights had already been put out.
He listened and yes, there it was - low voices coming from the boot room. He edged closer and heard; “Well that’s as it may be,” in Mr Barrow’s restrained Mancunian lilt, “but you shouldn’t have said it.”
“I dunno why I do these things y’know,” Jimmy replied, sighing. “I speak before I think.”
The door was open only a crack and there was a single candle on the table lighting the space. Alfred edged close enough to peer into the gap, but was careful to keep out of sight, close to the shadowed wall of the corridor. Jimmy was pacing to and fro, clearly upset about something.
“You speak and do not think at all,” Mr Barrow said, still out of Alfred’s line of sight; he almost sounded irritated.
“Don’t be angry, please,” Jimmy said, stopping to stare at where Mr Barrow must have been standing, “I can’t bear your anger an’ all.”
A sigh then; “I’m not angry,” and the under-butler stepped into view, pulling Jimmy into an embrace. Jimmy’s arms came up around Mr Barrow’s back and his head rested in the crook of his neck.
“You’re not?” Jimmy asked, his voice small and completely void of his usual swagger.
“No,” Mr Barrow soothed, “I just worry that one day you’ll step so far out of line that I won’t be able to save you.”
Ah, so Jimmy had done something stupid again and Mr Barrow had saved him again. The usual.
Jimmy closed his eyes and sort of melted into Mr Barrow’s embrace; the under-butler caressed Jimmy’s hair in a move more affectionate than Alfred thought him capable of.
“Please try harder,” Mr Barrow said softly, “I couldn’t stand it if you were sent away Jimmy, I couldn’t.”
Alfred had never heard Thomas deign to say please to anyone, let alone in that imploring tone.
Jimmy nodded then leaned up to kiss Mr Barrow’s cheek, then fully on the mouth. Alfred had to clench his jaw so as not to gasp at the sight of it - it wasn’t what he’d expected. He didn’t know what he had expected if he was honest; two men kissing wasn’t something he’d spent any time thinking about, but he’d supposed it would be different somehow, which was stupid - men had the same apparatus for kissing as women did. And it was neither disgusting nor twisted - if anything it was the most tender kiss he’d ever witnessed.
Jimmy’s hands came up to rest on Mr Barrow’s shoulders and the kiss intensified, all open-mouths and urgency - Alfred’s eyes went wide and he blushed hotly when he saw a flash of Jimmy’s tongue as he pushed it into Mr Barrow’s mouth. When the under-butler groaned in pleasure, well, that was his limit. He turned on his socked heel and fled upstairs, his headache and the Beecham’s long forgotten.
The next two weeks were so busy Alfred barely had chance to think about what he’d witnessed in the boot room; his days were too full of carrying trays of canapés and hauling prettily wrapped gifts and taking coat upon coat from one guest after the next. Christmas Day itself eventually rolled around and with it a blessed lull - the family, kindly, served themselves a buffet lunch so the servants might enjoy their own Christmas dinner.
His Lordship had gifted them with a whole crate of red wine - much finer and stronger than anything Alfred had ever had before - and by the time they sat down to lunch they were all well into their cups. There was much mirth and laughter around the table - even Mr Carson was smiling and wearing a paper hat.
Jimmy leaned over and thrust his cracker under Alfred’s nose.
“Come on, pull this will ya?” Jimmy said, waggling the thing at him. Alfred rolled his eyes and pulled it - he won and grinned at Jimmy’s scowl of disappointment as he put on the little hat.
Alfred unfurled the joke and read it aloud: “What do you get if you lie under a cow?”
“I don’t bloody care,” Jimmy sniped.
“A pat on the head!” Alfred finished with a guffaw. Jimmy sneered and turned away.
Mr Barrow had been watching the exchange, bemused. He leaned across the table and held out his cracker towards Jimmy and said with a smirk; “Have a pull, why don’t you?”
“Don’t mind if I do, ta,” Jimmy grinned wickedly and Alfred hid a snort of laughter behind a sip of wine.
Of course, Jimmy lost the pull and immediately went into a sulk, his lips pulled into a sullen pout. Mr Barrow sighed and held out the paper hat and joke for Jimmy to take.
“Here you bleedin’ child, have at it,” he said quietly, with a roll of his eyes. Alfred pretended to be focusing on his dinner, even as he strained his eyes and ears to better observe them.
Jimmy’s face transformed into a brilliant smile and he reached out for the prizes - his fingers wound around Mr Barrow’s for a moment as he took the hat and joke, and they shared a look.
“Merry Christmas, Mr Barrow,” Jimmy said, putting on the hat.
“Merry Christmas, Jimmy.”
Much later, when Mr Carson sent Alfred to his pantry to fetch another half-dozen bottles of wine, he noticed something strange - the door to the wine cellar had been left slightly ajar, which was a mistake Carson would never have made himself. Curious, he slipped in and slowly descended the stairs, into the darkness of the cellar. There was a gas lamp burning somewhere between the shelves, casting strange twisted shadows up into the arched ceiling and along the walls.
As Alfred reached the bottom of the stairs he heard a muffled groan and the clatter of someone bumping up against the shelves, wine bottles ringing as they clacked together.
A whisper: “Be careful!” It was Mr Barrow.
“Sorry, I’m just - ah oh - that’s wonderful,” came Jimmy’s breathless reply. “Thomas, oh!”
Alfred blinked. What on earth could Mr Barrow be doing to make Jimmy sound like that? In the trenches he’d heard talk of all sorts of lewd things that people could get up to in the bedroom - as yet he’d personally experienced none of them, and had trouble believing anyone in their right mind would actually do some of them. His stomach twisted - by all rights he should turn around and go back the way he came as quickly as his legs could carry him, but he was drawn towards the sound of Jimmy panting and mumbling like a moth to a gas lamp.
“Thomas - ah - please that’s!” Jimmy stuttered and Alfred slipped through the gate and into the wine cellar proper - he edged towards the lamp and peered through the shelves. Between dusty bottles of claret, each worth more than he’d earn in a year, he saw Jimmy on his back, his jacket under his head like a pillow, his eyes pressed shut, his face red and screwed up in pleasure.
Mr Barrow was kneeling between Jimmy’s legs in his shirtsleeves, most of his buttons undone, and bobbing his head up and down, the light from the lamp shining on his hair like an oil-slick on water. It took Alfred about ten full seconds to grasp what was happening; Mr Barrow had Jimmy in his mouth and was making a low, almost growling noise of pleasure, as he sucked at Jimmy’s length.
Alfred had to choke down a gasp. He’d heard of such things going on between ladies of the night and the men who paid for them, and one of his mates back home had convinced the girl who worked in the pub to do it to him once - Alfred had listened to every lurid detail of that encounter with red cheeks, the warmth of arousal pooling in his stomach and threatening to make him hard. This though - seeing the usually inscrutable Mr Barrow with his lips stretched around Jimmy as the footman moaned and writhed - it was entirely too much.
Because it wasn’t repulsive or abhorrent or any of the hateful words the vicar used in his Sunday sermons to describe men of Jimmy and Mr Barrow’s sorts. It was, well, for want of a better word, erotic. And Alfred had never once in his life found a single bloke attractive - why would he when the curve of a soft arse or a pillowy breast held such tantalising appeal? And even now he found neither Mr Barrow or Jimmy attractive, thank heavens, but the act itself was intrinsically appealing.
Alfred turned away then, worried he might get too hot under the collar himself if he watched them any longer, and beat a hasty retreat back up the stairs before he was missed and landed all three of them in hot water.
When he returned to the servant’s hall with the wine Anna said; “Wherever have Mr Barrow and Jimmy gotten to? They’re missing all the fun?” The ‘fun’ being a mad game of cards that had erupted on the table, with giggling housemaids and whooping hall-boys all fighting to accomplish whatever it was they needed to do to win at such chaos.
“Out for a smoke,” Alfred lied.
“Of course,” Mr Bates rolled his eyes, “where else would they be but scheming and smoking together.”
If only you knew, Alfred thought.
In the few days between Christmas and the servant’s ball, Alfred spent rather too much time ruminating on what he had seen in the wine cellar. The exchange between the under-butler and footman had been obscene, yes, but not because they were both men. He felt unsettled by it though, and struggled with whether he should tell anyone what he’d seen.
But Alfred being Alfred, mostly affable and lacking of the sort of malevolence Jimmy and Mr Barrow were known for, he didn’t want to get either of them sacked or worse, thrown in jail, for something that wasn’t hurting another soul. And that was the crux of it really; what they were doing was between them and, if they believed in Him, God. But that was their issue to work out, not Alfred’s. As far as he remembered the Bible said ‘Judge not, that ye be not judged’ or something along those lines.
The servant’s ball finally arrived in a flurry of paper streamers and excitement. Alfred hoped to dance the first dance with Ivy, but she was immediately scooped up by one of the over-eager hall-boys, so he decided on a glass of punch before cutting in for her second dance. Mr Barrow and Jimmy were standing off for one side, engaged in a quiet conversation and making no attempt to involve themselves in the merriment.
Mr Barrow said something into Jimmy’s ear and he flushed pink, then made a hasty escape to the library. The under-butler waited a good two minutes before sloping off and closing the library door behind him. Alfred looked about - no-one had noticed them go as they were much too caught up in the gaiety. He dumped off his now-empty punch glass and decided to sneak in through the small library.
By now Alfred had grown cautious when entering a room where Mr Barrow and Jimmy might be alone and up to no good - he pushed the door as slowly and quietly as he could and tiptoed in; the main lights were off, the room lit only by the glow from the fire and a half-dozen candles, so he was concealed by the shadows that hung to the corners of the room. He pressed himself up behind one of the bookcases and peeped around the corner, half-expecting to see something lewd happening on the family’s furniture.
But no - they were just dancing. Mr Barrow had thrown off his jacket and was leading Jimmy around the rug in a slow waltz, the footman’s hands resting softly on his waist, his head leaning into the crook of his neck.
It was intimate. Like something out of one of the soppy love pictures Ivy had dragged him along to see.
Except, of course, they were both blokes.
“I wish we could do this out there, with the rest of them,” Mr Barrow said, “I hate having to keep you in the shadows.”
“You’re not keepin’ me anywhere I don’t want to be,” Jimmy replied, one hand wandering up to tangle in Mr Barrow’s hair.
“Just - I just sometimes think you should have a normal life...”
Jimmy pulled back to look Mr Barrow in the eye. “What life? I wouldn’t have a life without you. Not one worth living at any rate.”
Mr Barrow ducked his head and smiled softly. “Ah Jimmy, when you say things like that I...you make me believe this could be forever...” he trailed off.
“Thomas,” Jimmy said - he put one hand to the cut of Mr Barrow’s cheek, a gesture so affectionate it made Alfred smile despite himself. “Thomas I love you, don’t you know that by now? This - us - it is forever.”
Mr Barrow’s usual indifferent mask was gone - his face almost crumpled at Jimmy’s words, his eyes glassy. Alfred had only seen Mr Barrow look so emotional once before - back when he’d interrupted them kissing in Jimmy’s room and everything had gone to hell in a hand-basket.
“Jimmy, my darling, I love you so,” he said and they kissed. Alfred half expected a musical score to rise and the end cards to roll, so emotionally charged was the moment. He felt bad then, for intruding on something so - so important and private as a declaration of love.
So they were in love and that - well, Alfred had never thought that men of their sorts might be in love. He’d been taught those sorts of affairs were all awful lewdness, impassioned by twisted lust and a wrong and sinful soul, but - but that couldn’t be the truth of it. Because the more he’d observed of Mr Barrow and Jimmy, the more Alfred’s world had slowly skewed off its axis, until now when it tumbled completely off and rolled away, and he realised that he’d been seeing the world in black and white when in fact, every single thing in it was a shade of grey.
He leaned heavily against the bookcase, troubled, and didn’t notice that a huge volume - something old and leather-bound - hadn’t been reshelved properly and was teetering on the edge. Alfred’s weight was enough to cause the bookcase to lean a little further forwards than usual and, before Alfred’s very eyes, the book took a slow-motion fall - he reached out and grasped for it to no avail; it thumped to the floor, the sound echoing in the still of the room.
Mr Barrow and Jimmy jumped apart like they’d been caught with their hands in the silver cupboard, both pale faces and two sets of wide eyes turning to see Alfred, half-behind the bookcase.
“Alfred!” Thomas exclaimed, taking half a step forward, as if to shield Jimmy with his body. “Ah, that - I don’t know what you thought you saw but - it wasn’t - I mean Jimmy didn’t do anything wrong I...” he stuttered, trying to find a lie to cover what they’d so obviously been doing.
Jimmy might as well have been a pillar of salt - his face was the same hue as one.
“I’m not an idiot, Mr Barrow, despite what ya may think,” Alfred said, stepping out fully from behind the bookcase and retrieving the offending tome before slotting it properly into its place. “I know wha’ I saw.”
“Which was?” Mr Barrow challenged - his chin was held up in a defiant sort of arrogance but his eyes were wild and like a shattered mirror.
“You two dancin’ then kissin’,” Alfred said simply and Jimmy looked fit to faint, one hand grasping Mr Barrow’s elbow in distress.
Mr Barrow seemed to be considering his options. “I was simply teaching Jimmy to dance as he didn’t know how,” he lied, “and I took a liberty. The fault is mine, please,” his voice shook then and Alfred felt a funny sort of twist of pity that this normally bold man be so reduced, “please, don’t hold Jimmy accountable for it.”
Of course, he would sacrifice himself for Jimmy. He loved him, after all.
“What?!” Jimmy hissed, “Thomas no, you’ll not fall on your sword for me this time you bloody idiot,” he grabbed Mr Barrow by the front of his shirt. “Whatever happens, we face it together.”
Mr Barrow nodded dumbly and they both turned to Alfred, faces grim.
“And what,” Mr Barrow said, his voice broken, “do you plan on doing with this information, Alfred?”
Alfred thought for a moment. Right and good dictated he should tell - Mr Carson at least, the police at most - but - but he couldn’t reconcile himself with it. It had been different the first time, when he’d found Mr Barrow in Jimmy’s room, because then he was under the illusion that Jimmy was a victim rather than a willing participant. That sort of thing, whether involving men, women or both was always wrong.
But now - this was consensual and ostensibly because they loved each other. Although how anyone could love either Mr Barrow or Jimmy, was beyond him - they were both as horrible as the other. Perhaps that was why and how; they were the same.
“Nuthin’,” Alfred said, not realising he was going to say it until the word had already left his lips. “I won’t be tellin’ no one.”
Mr Barrow and Jimmy both gaped, glanced at each other, and gaped some more.
Finally Jimmy said, with some trepidation; “Truly? You won’t tell?”
Alfred shook his head. “That is - you’re in love, ain’t ya?”
Jimmy went crimson from his neck to the tips of his ears and a line of blush appeared on Mr Barrow’s cheekbones, like someone had run a paintbrush of rouge over his face.
“S’not your business that,” Jimmy hissed - Mr Barrow gave him a quieting look.
“Yes,” Mr Barrow said, chin up again, “we are. It is possible Alfred, for our sort to love.”
“I don’t doubt it now, Mr Barrow,” Alfred replied, earnestly.
“You’ll really not tell?” Jimmy asked. “Not even if we fall out or if you feel spiteful?”
“Not even then,” Alfred said. To use it against them when he felt like it or to dangle it like the sword of Damocles over their heads - that would be so firmly under the heading of bad and wrong it hadn’t even occurred to him. “I’ve kept me mouth shut this long, ain’t I?”
“What?” Mr Barrow frowned, “How long have you known?”
“‘Bout a month - jus’ after we decorated the main hall I heard ya in the yard. An’ ya might want ta be a bit more discreet ‘bout it - I’ve caught ya at it more than once since then.”
Jimmy’s blush renewed itself, his face a red beacon in the dark room.
“Blimey,” Mr Barrow said, and gave Jimmy a soft sort of look, “not as circumspect as we think, are we?”
“Apparently not,” Jimmy ground out.
They regarded each other warily for a moment, no one sure what to do next.
“I’m sorry fo’ before,” Alfred said, “I thought I knew what were what ‘bout it an’ I’m not ‘fraid to admit I were wrong. Not tha’ I understand it really - an I don’t want ta,” he added quickly, “but I don’t condemn ya for it neither.”
“...Thank you, I think,” Mr Barrow said curtly. Jimmy nodded dumbly.
“I’ll leave ya to it then,” Alfred said and made his escape back to the main hall.
“Where ‘ave you been?” Daisy said, sidling up to him, her big blue eyes gazing at him in that oddly childlike way she had about her.
“Nowhere,” Alfred smiled, then said; “D’ya want ta dance wiv me then?”
Daisy nodded vigorously, her eyes now like dinner plates, and let Alfred lead her out for a waltz.
“Daisy,” he started, then paused as they swished past His Lordship and Mrs Patmore, “d’ya ever think we’re lucky, really? I mean our lives an’ tha’. Could be worse, couldn’t it?”
“I’d like not to have to get up at the crack o’ dawn then sweat all day making things I’ll never get to eat, for the rest of me life,” Daisy replied, “but there’s worse jobs out there, an’ that’s for certain.”
Alfred nodded and span them past Ivy - she was giggling and dancing with Mr Branson.
“Not jus’ our jobs an’ tha’ - I mean, we’re free really, to love who we love, ain’t we? I mean Mr Branson even married her upstairs,” Alfred shook his head, unsure where he was going. It wasn’t like he could tell Daisy - she probably wouldn’t understand it even if he did. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Jimmy sneak out from the library, his hair askew and lips swollen like he’d just been mauled. He rolled his eyes - very discreet.
“Whatcha mean?” Daisy said, those big eyes fixed on his.
“Nuthin’,” he grinned and wheeled her around the floor. Mr Barrow appeared at the other end of the great hall - at least he had the decency to look as put together as always.
When the dance ended he deposited Daisy next to Mrs Patmore and Jimmy almost immediately skulked up to him, his face pulled into a ridiculously bad attempt at nonchalance.
“Alright Alfred?” he said, and his voice came out all squeaky. He coughed and tried again, “I mean - cheers mate.” He looked terrified.
Alfred nudged him with his elbow. “Bloody relax will ya? Yer look fit ter explode any minute.”
Jimmy gave a sigh and his shoulders dropped from where he’d been nervously holding them up around his ears. “I err, I’m sorry for always bein’ such a git to you,” he said, “what you said in the library I - I don’t deserve your help.”
Alfred shrugged. “Let’s just agree ta get on a bit better now? Eh?”
Jimmy nodded. “Y’know I don’t always mean it when I’m nasty. I don’t even know I do it.”
“I know. And I ain’t bothered by it neither. ‘Cept when you mess Ivy about, that ain’t fair, considerin’.”
Jimmy had the decency to look rueful. “I won’t do it no more, not now. An’ it upsets Thomas anyway,” he smirked, “silly, jealous old git.” It sounded like an insult, but Jimmy said it with such affection it made Alfred grin along with him.
“D’ya honestly love ‘im?” Alfred asked.
Jimmy coughed and spluttered, his face twisting like one of those gargoyle’s you find on a castle roof, and Alfred laughed.
“Shh, bloody hell Alfred,” Jimmy finally managed, “be careful with the uh, pronouns, alright?”
“Sorry, sorry.”
Mr Barrow was dancing now, his arms dispassionately around Lady Edith as he led her in a foxtrot. Alfred wished he had half of the under-butler’s grace - he was hardly a small man but he danced the way he did everything else; with poise and precision. Jimmy’s eyes followed his path around the great hall and the corner of his mouth lifted into a smile.
He turned his blue eyes on Alfred and said earnestly; “Yeah Alfred, I do - truly, I do.”
“Then good luck ter ya,” Alfred said, clapping Jimmy on the back, “good luck ter both of ya.”
And, to his surprise, he found he meant it.