Author's Note: This chapter begins on the night of Thursday, 29 May 1913.
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.
Most of the servants had gone to the fair in the village, but the lady's maid and the valet were still at the table, and the cook and at least one hall boy were still in the kitchen. Branson excused himself, and ventured back into the cook's domain.
"Mrs. Patmore?" he asked.
The short, buxom red-head regarded him in surprise. "Mr. Branson, isn't it?"
The new chauffeur nodded.
Why was he in her kitchen? Mrs. Patmore sincerely hoped he would not turn out to be another Mr. Taylor. She had had quite enough of—
"I just wanted to say that I thought dinner was wonderful, and that I appreciate your hard work in preparing it."
Mrs. Patmore stared at him for an instant, then seeing the rosy blush starting to rise on his pale features, said, "Did you indeed?"
He nodded.
"Well, it was my pleasure to prepare it. As well as my duty." She bit back a smile.
The boy looked away, embarrassed. "Well, again, thank you, Mrs. Patmore."
"You're quite welcome, Mr. Branson," she said, releasing her smile as he escaped back to the servants' hall.
"Mrs. Patmore," Mrs. Hughes said a few days later, "can you step into my sitting room for a moment?"
"Certainly, Mrs. Hughes." The cook shot a look at Daisy, then started out into the downstairs hall. Mrs. Patmore was not one to automatically suppose that every private conversation was a reprimand, but the possibility did exist: after all, why would Mrs. Hughes need privacy? In the general way of things, Mrs. Patmore had no business with the housekeeper that her staff could not hear.
She entered the housekeeper's sitting room to find the new chauffeur there. Mrs. Patmore regarded the two with a kindling eye.
"Mrs. Patmore, we have a proposition for you." Mrs. Hughes began.
Mrs. Patmore glared at the chauffeur. So this was how it was, was it? She well remembered the last 'proposition' regarding a chauffeur. Mr. Taylor, in his quest to become a cook fit to run a tea shop of all things, had managed to rub the cook the wrong way on several occasions.
Mrs. Patmore had no problem with a man wanting to learn to cook; some of the best cooks were men. Still, the kitchen at Downton belonged to Mrs. Patmore, she wanted things done her way, and she hardly needed a chauffeur to tell her how to go on. Did she go out to the garage and tell them how to drive or tend the motors? "There's a kitchen in the chauffeur's cottage, is there not?" she growled.
If Mrs. Patmore had thought the Irishman had blushed the other night in the kitchen, it was nothing to the color he achieved now. He bit his lip and looked at the floor.
Mrs. Hughes glanced over at the boy. "There is, in fact." She looked back at the cook. "But Mr. Branson suggested it might be easier if he stayed in the servants' hall on the nights the Dowager dines here, rather than our having to send someone to fetch him when her ladyship is ready to leave, and I agree with him. We can square it between the house and garage accounts, but Mr. Branson was concerned you might feel you were being taken advantage of."
The chauffeur looked up, and met cook's eyes with the sweetest, shyest, most wistful smile she had ever seen. "If it's too much trouble, Mrs. Patmore, I understand."
One corner of the cook's mouth curled up. "Oh, I suppose it's not too much trouble to feed one more hungry lad amongst the multitude here."
The housekeeper turned to the chauffeur. "Satisfied?"
He nodded.
"Off you go then."
"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes, Mrs. Patmore."
"Mr. Branson?" Mrs. Patmore said as he passed her.
He stopped. "Yes, Mrs. Patmore?"
"I trust you'll remember not to bite the hand that feeds you?"
"I'll remember," he assured her.