Work Text:
“And here’s one for Barrow,” Dr. Hartley said, taking the last of the packages, a small, rectangular one, down from the mantelpiece. The Christmas gifts-for-the-servants ritual was, like so many other things, much less formal in Hartley’s household than at Downton. The whole household—himself; Hartley; Mrs. Poysner, the cook-housekeeper; the two maids Elsie and Dinah; and Granby the outside man were all gathered in Hartley’s parlour. Granby and Dinah were actually sitting on his sofa. Despite having been here for almost a year, Thomas was still a little appalled.
He was also a little curious about what Dr. Hartley was giving him in front of the others. He’d been promised a more intimate celebration later, after everyone else had left to spend Christmas evening and Boxing Day with their families.
Once the package was in his hands, it was clear that it was a book. Thomas gave Hartley a skeptical look. Hartley knew he wasn’t much of a reader—and the book couldn’t possibly be dirty, if he was taking a chance on the others seeing it.
“All right, Dinah,” Hartley said. “Go ahead.”
That couldn’t possibly be right. They ought to open them in order of rank. There might be some room for debate about whether he outranked Mrs. Poysner or not, but he definitely did Dinah.
“The youngest always opens first in this house,” Mrs. Poysner explained, patting his hand.
Dinah started with the Christmas card. Even though she was reading it silently, she still moved her lips. Finally, she moved on to the parcel. Hers was bigger than his, Thomas noticed. That didn’t seem fair, either.
It proved to be a picture of a horse. “Ooh, Doctor, ‘e looks just like Star!” she said. “Thank you! I’ll put it in me room.”
Where else would she put it?
“I’m next!” Elsie said brightly. She, at least, took only a brief glance at the card before tearing into her parcel. Smaller than Thomas’s, it proved to be gloves.
“Now you, Thomas,” Mrs. Poysner urged him.
The card was the same one the others had got, with a sprig of holly and some sort of bird on it. Hartley had signed it, “Love, JH.” Thomas wondered how he’d signed the others’. Too bad he didn’t know how to read lips, or he’d already know. There were also banknotes equal to a week’s wages in there, a fairly standard gift for domestic staff. It was almost a little insulting coming from his lover, but Thomas supposed it would have looked funny if Hartley hadn’t.
Then he unwrapped the book. It was called My Man Jeeves. Thomas might have thought he’d been wrong about it not being dirty, based on the title, but the back cover featured an advertisement for no less respectable a publication than the Strand.
“It’s about a valet,” Hartley explained.
“Oh,” said Mrs. Poysner, kindly. “You’ll like that.”
“I’m sure I will,” Thomas said, a little dubiously. At least he knew now why he’d been given it—Jonathan knew he’d always wanted to be a valet. Of course, the others probably had some idea of that too, because of how he insisted he was one despite being the only male servant in the house. But Jonathan knew because Thomas had told him. “Thank you, Dr. Hartley.”
“Go on, Mrs. Poysner,” Granby said. “I can’t see what mine is until you’ve done yours.”
Mrs. Poysner got a broach, and Granby a pipe and a tin of tobacco. It was rather nice, Thomas supposed, that Hartley chose something for each of them instead of just giving the men cash and the women cloth for making dresses out of. But Hartley was like that. Nice.
They all had a cup of tea and a slice of Christmas cake there in the parlour—apparently that was another part of the Hartley household’s Christmas tradition—and then Hartley shooed the rest of them out. “Go on,” he said. “I won’t have you back here before tomorrow evening, mind. Happy Christmas.”
Granby made a quick retreat, but the women bustled around clearing up the tea things. “Are you sure you won’t come over to me sister’s, Thomas?” Mrs. Poysner asked. “Always room for one more.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Poysner,” Thomas said. This was at least the third time she’d invited him. “But I’ll be just fine here. I’ll read my new book.”
“All right, then,” she said. “Happy Christmas—careful with that tray, Dinah—and Happy Christmas to you too, Doctor.”
Thomas and Hartley sat quietly—Thomas actually taking a look inside his new book—until they heard the kitchen door close.
Thomas got up, saying, “I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?” Jonathan asked.
“I just have to get something.”
He ran up the front stairs to his room and dug through his underwear drawer for Jonathan’s present. It wasn’t anything improper, in fact—only a necktie—but he’d still thought it best to hide it in a place none of the others would possibly look.
By the time he’d trotted back down to the parlour, Jonathan had poured them each a glass of brandy, and moved from his armchair to the sofa. He handed Thomas one glass and patted the cushion next to him.
Thomas nestled happily against his side. “There,” he said, handing over the present.
“You didn’t have to.”
“I know I didn’t.”
Jonathan unwrapped it carefully. Thomas found himself hoping he’d like it. The point was more to give him something, anything—servants didn’t give Christmas presents to their employers. “Oh, that’s very nice,” he said.
“It’s to go with your brown suit,” Thomas explained. “In place of the one that’s so awful.”
Jonathan laughed and kissed him on the temple. “That’s very sweet of you, Thomas.” He reached into his jacket pocket. “Here—one I didn’t want to give you in front of everyone.”
The new present was a cigarette case. That wasn’t particularly likely to raise an eyebrow, as a gift from a man to his valet, but the inscription was: TJB—Carry my love close to your heart. JWH. “Thought you wanted me to quit that filthy habit,” Thomas remarked.
“I do,” Jonathan agreed. “But I know you won’t. And as long as you don’t, you’ll see this at least half a dozen times a day.”
Thomas ran his thumb over the inscription. “You know,” he said. “A very stupid man once told me that his mother told him never to put anything in writing.”
Jonathan answered, “As you said, he was very stupid,” and kissed him.