Author's Note: I'm not sure where I'm going with this. Expect the story to jump around in time a bit. This chapter is set during Season 3, after Sybbie's birth and Sybil's death.
Disclaimer: I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.
Mrs. Patmore looked up to see the object of her thoughts standing in the doorway to the kitchen.
"Mrs. Patmore," Mr. Branson said, quietly. "If it isn't too much trouble, I'd like you to show me where Sybbie's things are, and how you're preparing food for her."
"There's no need for that, Mr. Branson." The cook knew she was technically supposed to call him 'sir' now, but his name had just come out. Old habits died hard. "We're happy to take care of it."
"I know. And I'm grateful, truly. But… I'm her father, and I need to know as well." A ghost of a smile appeared on his pale features. "Sometime she might get hungry when everyone else is busy, and if that happens, you won't want to take the time to show me what to do and where things are kept."
Mrs. Patmore considered. Mr. Carson had made it plain that the former chauffeur was no longer welcome in the servants' hall. He had made himself part of the 'family' and should keep himself upstairs and like it.
"Please," Mr. Branson said.
Well, after all, the kitchen wasn't the servants' hall. And Mrs. Patmore herself was the one to say who was welcome in the kitchen. "Very well, Mr. Branson. Miss Sybbie's bottles are kept in that cupboard there, and the nursers are over here," she showed him, "and if you'll sit down at the desk, you can read the pamphlet on the 'Percentage Method' that Dr. Clarkson sent over for yourself."
His faint smile took on a little more substance, and the tiniest portion of his gloom seemed to lift. "Thank you, Mrs. Patmore." He sat down at the desk, and opened the pamphlet she handed him. The cook resumed her interrupted task.
Branson was still reading when Daisy walked in. "Mr. Branson," she said in surprise. Apparently the kitchen staff had a mental block concerning the currently officially sanctioned mode of address for their former colleague.
Branson looked up, comforted as he always was when anyone said his name, rather than the hated 'sir.' "Daisy," he greeted her.
"Mr. Branson wants us to help him learn to prepare bottles for Miss Sybbie. We'll help him with that, won't we, Daisy?"
Daisy looked at the former chauffeur approvingly. "Of course we will."