Pairing: Mrs Hughes/Branson. Don't worry, I haven't gone mad: it's a challenge fic! Though if I'm honest, I have been waiting for a change to write something like this!
For a while it was only thoughts of the war milling around her head, much as it was for everyone else, she supposed. Then a few hours later,- she blamed the tense silence of the servants' hall that left her with nothing else to do but brood- the thought of what she'd said to him came creeping back into her mind. Be careful, or you'll end up with no job and a broken heart. And more importantly, what had made her say it. She thought, she would have liked to think, that it had been because it was sheer common sense. The more sentimental interpretation of that was to say it was because she didn't want to see two decent young people getting both hurt and into a lot of trouble.
But, said the voice in her head- that always sounded suspiciously like her sister, who knew her well enough to be able to see right through her- those explanations didn't quite cover it. There was some little thing, some area of her motivations that she was missing, or just downright ignoring. Part of her wanted him to back off Lady Sybil because the fact of the matter was that he was just the type she'd have gone for twenty five years ago. A nice, handsome face; a sense of humour; an attractive accent and quite a dashing figure in his chauffeur's coat.
From where she was sitting, in her chair beside Mr Carson, she was momentarily very grateful for the fact that no one could see what was going on in her head- and if they could they were all too preoccupied to notice- for she feared that if they could they would have fallen clean off their chairs in surprise. She was currently experiencing the very odd sensation of realising that the last thing you thought was utter, undiluted madness. She must be- she made speedy calculation- a good twenty years out of his league, at least! And he had a wonderful smile, especially when he had his driving hat on. Quite the element of rugged charm. She shook her head vigorously, as if doing so might help dispel some of the thoughts lodged in there. It seemed that it was to little avail, it only caused Mr Carson to look at her curiously, as if he was wondering what she was doing.
"Are you alright, Mrs Hughes?" he asked in a low tone, but not low enough, it seemed.
Excellent. Now practically the whole room was looking at her. She felt a prize idiot.
"Fine," she replied, in what sounded to her like far too high a voice, "Perfectly fine. I'm just going to make some tea."
Receiving requests from all corners of the room to bring some tea for them too, she all but scarpered to the kitchen and set about making tea with almost alarming concentration. She shut her eyes tightly, resting against the bench while waiting for the kettle to boil. It was not unusual, she told herself, for people to think ludicrous thoughts when they were as tired as she was. And she was fairly certain that her thoughts qualified as ridiculous. She thought Mrs Patmore might oblige to tip a bucket of cold water over her head; she needed waking up, and quickly!
This was Mr Branson of all people! Mr Branson who drove faster than she thought was sensible; who could make blunt, bordering on insensitive comments at the best of times; who had had the unmitigated temerity to wink at her on his first day! The very same Mr Branson that she'd kept her eye on in case he caused trouble among the housemaids. Ha, irony, she thought bitterly, turning to attend to the whistling kettle. Now, she thought, was the time to be stern with herself: you simply can't... fancy, there was no other word for it, Mr Branson!
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