shallowness: Five panels featuring pictures of different female characters based on my interests at the time. (Downton Abbey Edith)
[personal profile] shallowness
Title: Lass, th’art a lady
Fandom: Downton Abbey
Rating: G
Characters/Pairing: Sam Thawley/Lady Rose MacClare
Summary: The likes of her with the likes of him.

Disclaimer: Not profiting from this fan fiction
Author's Note: Spoilers for 4.02. 670 words.


Lass, th’art a lady: shallowness


Sam didn’t want to think about it, he wanted to think of soft, warm lips pressed to his and flattering words. He wanted to believe that Rose Smith was a housemaid, like she’d said, who had a farmer she was promised to, but it was a fair step from Downton Abbey to Ripon and nippy to boot. His daze lifted from him like morning mist, and as he thought over all that had happened, his mind took hold of one thing.

That hadn’t been a housemaid’s hand he’d shaken.

He should have known before, for he’d held Rose’s hand at the dance, not to mention taking it at Downton, being so free as letting his thumb roam over her knuckles, but her pretty smile and eyes took up all his attention.

Her story that she was working to make herself fit to be a lady’s maid and that her accent was so posh at times because she’d travelled all around no longer sounded convincing. Sam had wanted to believe Rose’s reasons for the little things that didn’t quite add up about her, like the way she didn’t quite look right in that uniform, so he had believed them.

He’d been happy to fight for her at York, so much so that on the long way to Downton Abbey, Sam had started to think, for the very first time, that here was a lass he’d like to court, a thought he hadn’t planned on having until he’d got on a bit in the world. But he hadn’t liked letting her go into another man’s arms, not one bit. Before, he’d always been willing to yield a dance partner, because there’d be another, but Rose had been different, a mixture of carefree joy and starts. Sam had wanted to keep that smile on her face, but he realised that he’d wanted to protect her too.

So he’d made his way from York to Downton Abbey, and a lot of that journey had been on foot, all to satisfy himself that Rose Smith was unharmed after the ruckus and that he hadn’t imagined how very pretty and shapely she was. He hadn’t imagined anything. If anything, his memory hadn’t done her justice. It would now.

Her friend Anna keeping him outside had seemed a little unwelcoming, the first glimmer that Rose might think an under-gardener like him was all right for dancing with and no more. But Rose had come out to meet him and Sam had said his piece.

He hadn’t been surprised that she’d turned him down. A lass like that was bound to have a man already, no need to wait for a lad like him to make good on his prospects. He was ready to walk away, although a door of possibilities had been opened for him to peer through that day. She was beautiful and a little mysterious, but she’d chosen another man. Sam could take that.

But she’d kissed him - aye, that were a kiss - and then she’d given him her telltale hand, soft like rose petals, to rest awhile in his great big paw that had known frost, had delved into mud and mulch.

Rose Smith didn’t exist. That uniform wasn’t hers. She belonged in finery like she’d worn that afternoon. She belonged in some other man’s arms, not a farmer or a man with calloused hands from a hard day’s work. Her name probably wasn’t Rose at all.

Why she’d come to dance with the likes of him, Sam weren’t altogether sure. For a lark? You wouldn’t have carrying-on like that at Lord Ellis’s. She’d smiled and laughed plenty as they danced, but he wasn’t flattering himself in being sure that she’d been sincere in her kiss and what she’d said.

Sam walked tall into Ripon. After all, he’d defended a lady’s honour that day, and it could well be that that lady was right, that someday a lass would put her hands in his and they’d feel as if they belonged there.





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