~14:30, 33rd Ash, 4514
While it was the truth that Thomas had no ambition to be a kept man, he was able to admit that there was something gratifying in the borrowed prestige that came to him shortly after Lord Alistair made it clear to everyone in the Silver Sunset Society that Thomas was to be considered a member of his personal retinue. For one thing, none of the other Lords and Ladies asked him for anything any more. Instead, they treated him like he didn't exist, which as far as he was concerned was an improvement. Before, he'd been a well-used kitchen knife, picked up by whoever had a need. Now, he was polished and kept in a drawer. On the nights when Lord Reid attended the Society, Thomas was at his elbow, ready to assist with anything his Lord required. On the nights when he wasn't in attendance, he actually had a bit of free time, something that had been in scarce supply since he'd ended up on the streets. He spent it carefully mending his clothes with purloined needle, thread, and buttons and shining his shoes to a mirror shine. They were cardboard soles and vellum uppers, but with enough shellack and polish, they took on a weight that made them pass as the sort of loafers a minor Lordling would wear.
Yesterday, a ticket and the accompanying paperwork had arrived in the post for him (addressed to him and everything!) from Lord Alistair. It even included a personal note with notes on where to meet the Lord within the station: a place called Sarbane's Tea Room and an accompanying reservation. Thomas didn't have an appropriate outfit for a tearoom, but this had given him twenty four hours to acquire one and he felt his new shirt would work. Such a shame that Lord Collier's fine linen shirt had been boiled instead of washed in lukewarm water by an inattentive laundress, but there was no coming back from that mistake, and it fit him well enough once he took in the waist. Lord Collier never missed a meal, something Thomas only wished he could say of himself.
He stowed all of his clothes and what personal effects he'd managed to hold on to into a valise; he had no surety on the date of his return trip and no illusions that the servants in the Society would rob him blind the moment he was gone. The fact that he didn't have that much to take with him, and that the valise itself was clearly secondhand may raise some eyebrows, but he'd done his best. Hopefully, Lord Alistair wouldn't mind.
The station itself was not at all what Thomas had expected. He had no great familiarity with trains, but had spent lots of time down at the docks with Ned before the other man's passing, and he kind of expected a station to be like that: a place for loading and unloading goods, lots of rough workmen around to assist in that endeavor, and a great many people whose job it seemed was yelling at everyone else. He had vaguely thought it would be fancier, of course, because this was a means of conveyance for Nobles and the middle classes, but he had thought it would be fundamentally similar.
It wasn't.
Everything was white marble, brass fixtures, and shiny wooden benches from the hardwood forests Thomas had learned about in school but had never seen. Natural light streamed in from windows that had to be several stories tall; he hadn't known plate glass could be so big. Wasn't it fragile? With a shake of his head, he asked a smartly uniformed station attendant for directions to Sarbane's and, when the latter raised a polite eyebrow, handed him the invitation Alistair had given him. It seems he arrived at the place first, and once the waiter ensconced him at a small table toward the back, he was provided a menu. They offered a full high tea, but Thomas had no earthly idea if his benefactor would be interested in something so hearty, so he stuck to a pot of tea and some scones, hoping that Alistair would arrive before long because he had no way to pay for any of this, and presumably the bill would come due eventually. In his experience, it always did.
He tried to project the poise of someone who had been here a dozen times and was a bit bored with it. He focused on the patterns on the tablecloth, the ornate "S" stamped into each piece of flatware. Then when the waiter brought the tea service, a silver spoon disappeared up his sleeve because old habits die hard. He waved the waiter away airily, stirring his tea idly with the affected languor of someone who had nowhere important to be.
Yesterday, a ticket and the accompanying paperwork had arrived in the post for him (addressed to him and everything!) from Lord Alistair. It even included a personal note with notes on where to meet the Lord within the station: a place called Sarbane's Tea Room and an accompanying reservation. Thomas didn't have an appropriate outfit for a tearoom, but this had given him twenty four hours to acquire one and he felt his new shirt would work. Such a shame that Lord Collier's fine linen shirt had been boiled instead of washed in lukewarm water by an inattentive laundress, but there was no coming back from that mistake, and it fit him well enough once he took in the waist. Lord Collier never missed a meal, something Thomas only wished he could say of himself.
He stowed all of his clothes and what personal effects he'd managed to hold on to into a valise; he had no surety on the date of his return trip and no illusions that the servants in the Society would rob him blind the moment he was gone. The fact that he didn't have that much to take with him, and that the valise itself was clearly secondhand may raise some eyebrows, but he'd done his best. Hopefully, Lord Alistair wouldn't mind.
The station itself was not at all what Thomas had expected. He had no great familiarity with trains, but had spent lots of time down at the docks with Ned before the other man's passing, and he kind of expected a station to be like that: a place for loading and unloading goods, lots of rough workmen around to assist in that endeavor, and a great many people whose job it seemed was yelling at everyone else. He had vaguely thought it would be fancier, of course, because this was a means of conveyance for Nobles and the middle classes, but he had thought it would be fundamentally similar.
It wasn't.
Everything was white marble, brass fixtures, and shiny wooden benches from the hardwood forests Thomas had learned about in school but had never seen. Natural light streamed in from windows that had to be several stories tall; he hadn't known plate glass could be so big. Wasn't it fragile? With a shake of his head, he asked a smartly uniformed station attendant for directions to Sarbane's and, when the latter raised a polite eyebrow, handed him the invitation Alistair had given him. It seems he arrived at the place first, and once the waiter ensconced him at a small table toward the back, he was provided a menu. They offered a full high tea, but Thomas had no earthly idea if his benefactor would be interested in something so hearty, so he stuck to a pot of tea and some scones, hoping that Alistair would arrive before long because he had no way to pay for any of this, and presumably the bill would come due eventually. In his experience, it always did.
He tried to project the poise of someone who had been here a dozen times and was a bit bored with it. He focused on the patterns on the tablecloth, the ornate "S" stamped into each piece of flatware. Then when the waiter brought the tea service, a silver spoon disappeared up his sleeve because old habits die hard. He waved the waiter away airily, stirring his tea idly with the affected languor of someone who had nowhere important to be.
