Chapter 1
O'Brien sighed inwardly and tapped her pointed shoe discreetly against the hard floor.
Another insufferable dance.
Another bloody Servant's ball.
She peered around the room, taking in the plethora of mingling bodies.… It didn't matter that this whole thing was a clear violation of the unspoken boundaries between servant and master, it didn't matter that these kinds of things usually started with a small touch and ended with a nine month leave from service.
Not that Sarah would know. She pursed her lips severely; she'd heard enough stories, though. She wasn't naïve. Her lips grew into a thinner line as Cora Grantham and Charles Carson swept across the room, laughing.
Think they can just bring out their servants, their toys, when they want to, don't they?
At that moment a rather gleeful Dowager Countess and Thomas waltzed past. Despite being (apparently) deep in conversation, Thomas stole a moment over the Dowager Countess's shoulder to send O'Brien a triumphant raise of the eyebrow. In spite of herself, Sarah found herself smirking in response. Thomas may be rash, but he certainly had a way with the women.
Leaning slightly against the pillar wall, O'Brien closed her eyes briefly, shirking any thoughts of dancing, and mentally mulled over a list of things that had to be done by tomorrow.
Suddenly, a warm voice broke through her steadily morbid inner dialogue.
"Ms O'Brien, are you quite alright?"
Sarah eyes flew open to find Matthew Crawley standing in front of her, looking rather sheepish.
What on God's Green Earth…? Lady Mary's Matthew?
She blinked and gave a curt nod, "I'm fine, sir."
He shifted uneasily, "ah, good, then."
Sarah screwed up her eyes slightly, oh God I hope he's not going to-
"I was wondering- that is- I came over to ask you if," he extended his hand graciously, "if you would like to share this dance with me."
Sarah stared at his hand like it was some kind of alien tendon. She moved slightly back, preparing to reject the proposal, until propriety mentally slapped her in the face. This was a dance. A dance for the amusement of her employers; to make them feel better about stuffing them all below ground-level for the better part of every day. While she was sure he'd been forced into dancing with her through intensive cajoling, she couldn't deny that servant's had their own set of guidelines; dos and don'ts when it came to these matters. These declarations demanded that she accept his offer and dance. End of story.
She took his hand.
"I will."
They began to move onto the dance floor, taking a couple beats to find each other's rhythm and movement. His grip on her was strong, but not restrictive; she could follow his direction easily.
Thank God. There's nothing worse than two people tripping over each other like arses when trying to dance…
Neither of them made much conversation for a good minute and a half. Occasionally, Matthew would clear his throat and mumble something about the music, or the dinner, or some other mundane subject, and O'Brien would reply obediently, knowing that he probably wasn't listening to a single word she was saying. He seemed distracted; he kept peering around them-
-No doubt searching for Lady Mary.
Sarah watched his breath hitch when he finally caught sight of the eldest Grantham child, and that's when she knew she was done. DONE. She was getting to old for this melodramatic child's play. If she wanted to get mashed to death by romance and angst, she'd accompany Anna to the jail everyday.
She felt her feet plant before she registered that she'd made her decision about how to handle the situation. Matthew tripped clumsily, momentarily pressing his body against Sarah's immovable figure. He sputtered an apology, stepping back with slightly bewildered eyes.
Sarah stepped away, "I'm not dancing anymore. I have work to do," she turned to leave, but the damned servant's propriety kicked in, a defense against the possibility of losing her job, "and I don't…feel well."
Almost immediately, Matthew's bewildered stare melted into concern, "are you alright, Miss O'Brien? Can I get you something?"
Yeah, she thought tiredly, a nice, smoking fag.
"No, Milord. I am quite fine." She paused, "I'm sorry."
And with that, she bustled away from the dance floor, determined to actually get some work done, hoping her scruffy apology would keep her from getting into too much hot water with Lord and Lady Grantham.