Author's Note/Disclaimer: I don't have any excuses for this. I never have any excuses.

Downton Abbey was open all year long, but summer was, of course, its busiest season. Summer brought both school tours and Americans, and meant that Mr Carson (who was in charge of staff) took on extra people for a few months, only to let them go as autumn rolled around and Downton Abbey sank back into a state resembling hibernation.

Of course, there was enough interest, even in the winter months, that Downton was able to keep going (though on a greatly reduced scale) – and Jimmy Kent didn't have any intention of being one of the people who was let go. As work went, rattling off a fifty-five minute guided tour several times a day while pointing at some chandeliers and answering the same stupid questions over and over again…well, it was still work, but it was a sight better than a lot of other jobs, and he knew it. Accordingly, he'd made up his mind to hang on to this one.

The problem was, Mr Carson had not made up his mind. At least, not officially – though Jimmy had a strong suspicion that if it came down to him or Alfred, the other recently-hired tour guide, Mr Carson would have no trouble deciding.

It wasn't fair. Jimmy was polite and charming to both tourists and staff, and had polished his potted history of Downton, until his words gleamed like silver. Alfred meanwhile, stumbled over the simplest queries (who needed to pause before directing someone to the toilets?) and resembled a ginger English Lurch besides.

But Mr Carson still clearly preferred him.

"Of course he does. You're a blow-in," Ivy told him. Ivy did workshops in the kitchens and sometimes the traditional cottages, spending most of her day showing school-children and tour groups how to make bread and churn butter. (This was probably why she had adopted a strict wheat and dairy-free diet in her own daily life. "There's days I can't even look at a sandwich," she had said to Jimmy once).

"A blow-in?" Jimmy repeated.

"Not from around here. Most people at Downton, they're from nearby – you know, Thirsk, or Ripon. I've been coming here on school tours and weekends since I were this high," she said, fluttering her hand to rest at thigh-height.

Jimmy ignored this. "So, what – no matter how good I am, he doesn't like me because I'm not local? Alfred's not exactly the boy next door either."

Ivy shrugged. "Mr Carson's very traditional. And Alfred's aunt's been working here years."

"But not everyone's from here originally – Bates isn't, is he? Or Mrs Hughes?"

"I don't know," Ivy said. She frowned, either at the holes he'd poked in her argument, or at being pressed on a subject she'd never given much thought to before. "They don't really count, I don't think. I mean, they've been part of the place for so long, it's like they've always been here."

Jimmy gritted his teeth but made himself smile. "Well, I suppose I'll just have to stick around then. Become part of the family." Part of the furniture, more likely, he thought.

In spite of his glib words, he felt the pinch of apprehension. Besides the aforementioned aunt who'd been working in Downton Abbey for years, one of Alfred's long-ago relations had actually been a servant way back when Downton Abbey'd still had servants. The relative had been lady's maid to the Countess and sent vinegary letters to her family every other week. Alfred had once brought a bundle of these to Mr Carson, who'd pored over them with reverence.

Alfred, Jimmy suspected, was already 'part of the family' in Carson's mind – like having a long-dead relative who helped some long-dead Countess pull up her knickers every day made him somehow more real than Jimmy or something.

Ivy tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and said suddenly, "I wouldn't worry about Mr Carson not liking you. I mean…there's loads of other people who like you a lot." Her eyes flicked to his, and then away again.

"I hope some of those people are better looking than Mr Carson," Jimmy said, voice smooth and meaningful. Though as nice-looking as Ivy was, he said it mostly because it was expected. It mattered a lot more what Mr Carson thought of him. Ivy didn't employ him, after all.

"Wouldn't you like to know!" she said, looking pleased.

It was very obvious that Ivy fancied him. But workplace romances were trouble – they never lasted, in Jimmy's opinion, and even before they got messy they interfered with the job. Alfred spent half his day thinking up excuses to pop into the kitchens. He never seemed to consider how awkward the whole thing could get. The three of them, Ivy, Jimmy and Alfred, were sharing a small house in the village, to save on costs. It was a straightforward, simple arrangement that would inevitably become messy if actual relationships were involved.

Of course, Ivy didn't know about Jimmy's feelings on workplace romances, and he still flirted with her sometimes – reflexively. It was worth it, if only for the look on Alfred's face. Jimmy was not averse to stepping on someone's Achilles heel…especially if that heel belonged to Alfred.

He did other things too, of course. Things designed to get him into Mr Carson's good graces. Like asking him about the history of the house.

"Surely you have some idea of its history, James – unless you've been merely parroting the tour information."

"No – I didn't mean that. I just meant – the house has such a long and fascinating story, and I feel like we barely touch on it in the tours. I'd like to learn more."

Mr Carson was completely devoted to the estate, and never passed up a chance to talk about the deeply boring happenings that had transpired within Downton's walls in past decades. Surely this interest in Downton's history was the sort of initiative guaranteed to find favour with him?

Apparently not. Mr Carson's thick eyebrows beetled together, and he said, "Then may I suggest that some research might be in order?"

Pompous old codger. If Alfred had been the one asking, Jimmy would bet he'd have had a different reception. After that, Mr Carson kept finding these thick books on stately homes and the lives of servants on country estates, and handing them over to Jimmy with an arch, amused look to his mouth, like he'd caught Jimmy out or something.

Besides flip through the books and desultorily note a few dreary details in case Carson ever asked him, there really wasn't a lot that Jimmy could do. Other than be competent and professional at his job (well, moreso than Alfred anyway), help out with any extra work around the estate, and hope for the best.

That was, until the day Alfred appeared ten minutes late after his lunch. "You took your time," Jimmy said, wondering where Mr Carson was whenever Alfred decided to skip out on his duties.

"Sorry – it's just…Mr Crawley was in Mr Carson's office," Alfred said.

"I don't see why that's surprising," Jimmy told him. "Crawley's always around." Matthew Crawley was part of the Family. He'd married the eldest daughter, and he was forever nosing around the estate. He'd even stood in on one or two of Jimmy's tours.

"No, but – they were arguing," Alfred said.

"Him and Mr Carson?" Jimmy suddenly became interested. "About what?"

Of course, Alfred chose just then to have an attack of conscience. "I don't know – maybe I shouldn't…I didn't mean to listen, you know" –

"Yeah, but you did," Jimmy said impatiently, "So come on – let's hear it."

"Mr Crawley just said a lot of things about needing to maximise Downton's potential, and trying to keep up with the times" –

Jimmy whistled, trying to imagine the effect of those words on Mr Carson, whose whole life had maintained a stately ceremonial tread several steps behind the times. "You should have stuck around – you could have been a murder witness."

Alfred made a face. "Ha ha. Anyway, he's sending someone – Mr Crawley is. He said Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes need help running the place, especially if they're going to be making changes. And Mr Crawley's going to be busy when the baby comes, so he won't be around as much."

"Who's he sending?"

"I don't know. Never heard of him." Alfred leaned in a bit. "I'll tell you something though – Mr Carson knew who it was before Mr Crawley even said his name – and he didn't seem pleased at all."

Jimmy could sense it, just hovering a fingertip's reach away. Opportunity. The how and why of it was unclear, but the feeling itself was undeniable, a kind of thrumming just beneath his skin.

"Well, all right then," he said casually. "Tell us the name of this bloke who's got Mr Carson quaking in his boots."

"It's a Mr Barrow," Alfred said. "I think he used to work here before."

"Mr Barrow," Jimmy repeated, almost to himself, carefully turning the name over in his mouth. The held-breath feeling didn't go away.

Opportunity.

Definitely.