It was Christmas, and the servants and kitchen staff sat together at the long table in the Servants' Hall for supper, each with a bit of wine.
Daisy sat at the foot of the table, talking in hushed tones with Ivy and the footmen. "I could never shoot a fox, I'd be afraid its little babies would all die without a mother."
Ivy cut in, "But wouldn't you love to have a fox pelt, just a little stole to wrap around your neck when the weather gets cold? You could wear it to the theatre!" Ivy sparkled at Jimmy, who gave her a charming little smile, but said nothing.
"When am *I* going to go to the theatre?" Daisy retorted. "Besides, I wouldn't want a fox pelt, not with its little legs and its eyes looking at everyone all the time. And the red would be no good for me."
Ivy gave a little giggle and glanced to the head of the table, where Mrs Patmore sat near Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes. "It would suit Mrs Patmore, if you ask me, a red fox stole would just match her hair!"
Mrs Patmore mock-glared down the table at them, having heard this last comment. "I'll not be wearing any fur fox nonsense, thank you very much! It's hot enough in the kitchen without it, and don't you forget it! Now, back to your supper, you lot, or you'll be of no use to me in the morning."
"Funny, innit, that they're already talking about the fox hunt so early in the season?" Mrs Patmore said to her end of the table.
Mr Carson gave a noncommittal "hmm" and Mrs Hughes responded, "Well, I suppose it gives us plenty of time to plan, which is always a help. Though why they must go on about the silver fox, is beyond me."
"I rather like silver foxes, myself. They're quite rare, but there are some native to Yorkshire. I wouldn't mind having one of them wrapped around me."
Mrs Hughes and Mr Carson both glared at Miss Shore. Lady Rosamund's maid was a little minx. She wasn't sure whether that comment had been intentionally racy, but something about it had rubbed her the wrong way. Miss Shore went on, "In fact, I've seen a fair few of them at Downton."
"Have you now?" Mrs Hughes recovered, took a slice of bread, buttered it nonchalantly, refusing to rise to the bait. "And pray tell, how did you manage that?"
"Well," Miss Shore replied, "I've seen some of them at higher elevations, looking down on the rest, but those are quite difficult to spot, even harder to capture. The best silver foxes are the ones that live below altitude, right where one can see them every day, can just about reach out and touch them."
Mrs Hughes took a bite of her buttered bread, chewed, swallowed. This was definitely intentionally racy, and certainly improper, disrespectful, but she wanted to see how far Miss Shore would push it. It was Christmas, and they needed a bit of fun. "My, my, but you do have quite a bit of experience with silver foxes. Do you have any advice on how one might… come in contact with a silver fox?"
"They're very shy. One must lie carefully in wait, not move too quickly, or they'll spook. I hear that they prefer other silver foxes, so I'm afraid I've never quite been able to attract one. Perhaps someday it will work out."
Did Miss Shore actually sound sad? This was a very strange turn of events. Miss Shore looked at Mr Carson, who was glaring at her, his face growing redder with every passing second.
He spluttered, finally, "That is quite enough about these — silver foxes. The hunt is not for weeks yet, and this discussion is at an end. Mrs Patmore, this stew was delicious, and I thank you for it." He stood up, causing everyone to stand, and promptly left the room. Mrs Patmore caught Mrs Hughes' eye from across the table, winked at her, and Mrs Hughes suppressed a grin, quickly recovered and put on a stern face for the rest of the meal. She had thought Miss Shore would be trouble, but this was amateur stuff, nothing to worry about.
Several hours later, Mr Carson was in his pantry, sipping a glass of scotch whiskey, neat. Staring at his desk, thinking. He gave an idle thought to the question of what to do about Miss Shore and her puppy dog crush on him, thinking it best to do nothing. A certain housekeeper with auburn hair, laced with silver, occupied most of his thoughts anyway.
Mrs Hughes knocked on the door, walked in without waiting for an answer, closed the door. Pushed his chair back, sat down on his desk, right in front of him. Took the glass of whiskey from his hand, sipped, enjoyed the burn as it went down her throat, looked him straight in the eye. Smiled a wicked smile, chuckled under her breath: "Silver fox indeed."
He never had been able to resist her, never wanted to, especially not now, with this smoky whiskey on her lips, said as much, and she leaned down, bringing her face close to his.
"Kiss me, Mr Carson" she commanded him, grasped his black necktie, pulled him to her, and he did, he kissed her, his hands on her pretty hips, his legs pinned between her feet, and there they sat, the butler and the housekeeper, snogging in his pantry, silver foxes, silver whatever, they didn't care as long as they had this together, this slow and consuming burn, this passion, this love.