Hello again! It's been a while, I know *hangs head in shame* but I am very excited about this chapter as it will set the ball rolling for some big events and big revelations in the near future! HELLO TO ALL NEW READERS who have started to follow/read this story! And of course, HELLO TO YOU who have been continuing to read and follow this story as it clonks along. Special dedication to Welsh Mama-happy belated birthday dearie!
Hope you enjoy and please share your thoughts! Thanks as always for reading!
Chapter Seven
"The Right Man for the Job"
London's clubs and ballrooms were notorious for spreading gossip like wildfire, especially during the Season, yet none of them could ever hold a candle to what was spoken and whispered in a servant's hall. By the evening, before supper was served, all members of 149's staff had heard how Mr. Branson had "handled" Miss Levinson's uninvited guests.
"He punched him!?" Daisy gasped, staring up at Thomas with wide eyes.
"Mr. Branson actually punched a duke!?" Ivy asked, looking just as shocked as the other kitchen maid.
"He did not," Gwen protested, coming to Mr. Branson's defense.
Thomas turned and glared back at Gwen. "You weren't there, you didn't see—"
"I wasn't standing there gawking like you, if that's what you mean," Gwen retorted, before turning and looking at the curious kitchen maids. "But I was close by, and I can assure both of you, Mr. Branson did not punch—"
"Merely threatened to break his hand is all," Thomas muttered, which instantly won the audience back to his side.
"WHAT!?" Mrs. Patmore gasped, dropping what she was doing and now leaning in, rather eagerly like Daisy and Ivy.
"Thomas…" Gwen groaned.
"It's true!" Thomas insisted. "I saw it! Mr. Branson grabbed the Duke's hand and practically bent his arm backwards!"
"But why!?" Daisy gasped, looking back and forth between Thomas and Gwen.
Mrs. Patmore snorted. "Must have had a good reason," she muttered.
Thomas looked at the cook as if she had grown a second head. "Good reason!?" he sputtered.
Mrs. Patmore seemed determined to stand by her words. "We've all seen the likes of them coming to this house when they're not invited; Mr. Carson sometimes had to take charge to get them to leave," she reasoned.
"Mr. Carson never threatened physical violence on them!" Thomas hissed. He lifted a match then to light his cigarette, which seemed to be trembling between his lips. "Mr. Branson's a madman; a right lunatic who's going to murder us all in our beds!"
"Oh for heaven's sake, Thomas," Gwen groaned, this time rolling her eyes.
"Mr. Carson tried to warn us about him…" Thomas added.
"He did no such thing!"
"He made it clear he didn't approve of Miss Sybil hiring him, and now we know why!"
Mrs. Patmore was shaking her head, clearly siding with Gwen, while Daisy and Ivy continued to look puzzled. "If Mr. Carson thought that poorly of Mr. Branson, he wouldn't have left."
"Miss Sybil practically booted him out of the house!" Thomas hissed.
"Ha!" Mrs. Patmore laughed and shook her head. "No one could do that, though I won't deny, that's a sight I wouldn't have minded seeing!"
Gwen and the kitchen maids giggled along with the cook, while Thomas rolled his eyes and looked at the lot of them with disgust. "Sure, laugh all you like, you'll be whistling a different tune when one of us is found dead in the morning."
"Thomas, you need to stop," Gwen groaned, fixing the footman with a look of warning. "Look, I know you're sour that you didn't get the job—"
Thomas practically choked on his cigarette. "This isn't about that!"
"Oh no?" Mrs. Patmore challenged, before nudging Daisy's shoulder and turning Ivy back towards the kitchen. "Come on, back to work."
Thomas' face was burning still from Gwen's accusation. He turned to her and pointed his cigarette at her. "It's not about that!" he insisted. At least it wasn't entirely about that.
Gwen gave him what he supposed was meant to be a look of "sympathy", but he didn't want it; he didn't want any of it. He rolled his eyes and turned on his heel with a huff, a cloud of cigarette smoke following in his wake. He didn't stop moving until he reached the back entrance, and he let the door slam in his wake, not caring if it fell off its hinges. This was not going according to his plan…
"Penny for your thoughts?"
Thomas turned his head and realized then that he wasn't the only one sneaking a cigarette break. "Did you hear about Mr. Branson?" he asked her.
Edna released a cloud of smoke from between her lips and flicked some ash from the end of her cigarette before responding. "Threatened to break the Duke of Crowborough in half, I understand."
Thomas made a face. His confidant wasn't going to be much help, she sounded positively "aroused"; looked like he was going to have to deal with 149's butler all on his own. "You're welcome to have him," he muttered, throwing his cigarette on the ground and stomping it out.
At this, Edna gave a soft laugh. "Just as well, darling, I don't think you're his type."
Thomas glared back. "Oh, and you are?"
Edna simply smiled before exhaling another long cloud of smoke. "If not yet, I soon will be."
What the hell does that mean? She was up to something, clearly.
"Are you going out this evening? After Miss Sybil has gone to bed?"
Thomas glanced at Edna shrewdly, before shrugging his shoulders in answer. Even though Edna was the closest person under 149's roof that he could call "friend", that didn't mean he trusted her with all of his secrets. In truth, she was the last person he trusted.
"Where is it that you go?" she asked, looking both curious as well as devious. "Come on," she practically purred, reaching out and running her hand up his arm. "You can tell me—"
"Where do you go?" he muttered, shrugging her hand off him. He wasn't the only one who liked to take a "midnight stroll" after the lights went off.
If his question had unnerved her, she didn't show it. "Don't be such a sourpuss," she teased, a giggle escaping her throat as she blew some smoke towards his face. "And don't take your annoyance about Mr. Branson out on me."
Thomas rolled his eyes. "Please, I have much bigger fish to fry," he muttered.
Edna's brows rose with interest. "Now that's more like it; do tell!"
"Thomas!"
Both he and Edna turned annoying faces to the younger footman, who was standing at the doorway and peering out at them. "What are you doing?"
"Planning the assignation of the Kaiser—WHAT DOES IT LOOK LIKE I'M BLOODY DOING?" Thomas growled in annoyance at William. Edna had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.
Poor William turned beet red, before mumbling, "Best get inside; dinner's almost ready and you know Mr. Branson will be—"
"Yes, yes, I'll be right there!" Thomas groaned, shooting daggers at William who after all these years, had finally learned to just leave him alone after delivering whatever news he had brought to tell him.
"My, my," Edna giggled after William turned on his heel and quickly made an exit. "We are testy tonight, aren't we?"
Thomas ignored her and without another word, pushed the door open and went back inside, counting the minutes right then to when he could take his leave for the night. He had some rough waters he needed to smooth, and quite frankly, he wasn't looking forward to it. Yet it needed to be done, if his plans were to work out.
Perhaps that was why both he and Edna were such "chums"? They both had grand plans—plans for a better life. Yet he didn't see how the Irish butler fitted into whatever plan she had concocted for herself. Maybe he didn't? Maybe he was just meant to be a "bit of fun"? Or maybe she was hoping of distracting the Irishman long enough to carry out whatever "secret weapon" she had in her arsenal?
Whatever it was, Thomas knew he had to beat her to the punch.
It was a great relief to Sybil that the police didn't come pounding on 149's door after Branson had "removed" her uninvited guests from its steps. Such was her relief that she was willing to put up with Branson's self-assured smirk that he had been right, when he had told her neither Tony nor the Duke would do any such thing in "pressing charges". What surprised her was when she went to her aunt's house to attend the meeting for her suffrage group the following afternoon, no tongues were wagging.
It had been rather public, when the incident took place. Even if people weren't walking down the street, there were cabs passing and a person could simply just look out their window and witness the scene. Lavinia swore to her she wouldn't say a thing, and Sybil believed her, but even so, it was still a surprise in a town that thrived so much on gossip to not encounter any upon entering her aunt's parlor. I suppose I can relax then, she thought to herself as she sat back on the settee after tea had been served and before the speaker rose to call everything to order. Such treatment to such…gentlemen…was scandalous indeed, yet all Sybil cared about was making sure Branson stayed in her employment and not behind bars.
"Sybil!" She turned her head and smiled at Rose who quickly took the vacant spot on the settee next to her. "Oh I'm glad you're here; these things can be so boring sometimes," she muttered under her breath.
"Rose!" Sybil gasped, frowning at her friend's words. She did honestly wonder sometimes why Rose was even bothered with The Cause. Whether it was canvassing or attending meetings, she seemed rather unimpressed by it all.
"Oh don't give me that look," Rose muttered as she helped herself to a biscuit. "Especially when I know you share my opinion."
Sybil's mouth fell open at that accusation. "I most certainly do not—"
"Yes you do," Rose cut her off. "When the three of us last came to your house for dinner; you made mention how you wish sometimes we would 'let our words become actions'!"
Sybil frowned, though more from puzzlement this time. "That isn't the same as believing our meetings are 'boring', which I don't—"
"But you will admit that if given the choice of sitting around, talking about The Cause versus going out and doing something like…like a staging a protest…you would choose the latter?"
"I…" Sybil found herself at a sudden loss for words. The truth was, she had only attended one protest, and…well, yes, it had been rather exciting, but she also knew they could be very dangerous, as that one had become when the police arrived and started to cart speakers and protesters away. Her aunt had been with her, and even before the men dismounted their horses, had pushed Sybil into a passing cab to be returned to the safety of Eaton Square.
It was foolish, of course, to see such things as "thrilling"; foolish and belittling.
…And yet Rose did have a point. It did seem as of late, that a bulk of what they did, her suffrage group, was meeting and talking and discussing the facts about The Cause and reaching out to gain new members (mainly women within Society who were viewed as powerful allies because of their connections), and perhaps on occasion…as they had done the day she had met Branson…they would go canvassing, but…their words did seem to be lacking in action…
"By the way…" Rose mumbled between biscuit bites. "…How are things with Branson?"
Sybil whipped her head perhaps a bit too fast. "W-w-what?" she stammered.
Rose grinned. "I must say, Sybil, he does look rather dashing in his livery. Now that's something I never thought when I looked Carson, but Branson…" she let out a wistful sigh. "Perhaps that's why so many butlers are of a certain age?"
Sybil's face was burning like a beacon. She wanted to reprimand Rose, but she wasn't exactly sure on what to say.
"Ladies, shall we begin?" Aunt Rosamond clapped her hands, gathering everyone's attention. Sybil straightened her back and forced a smile, trying her best to dismiss what Rose had said and focus on the meeting at hand. After all, Rose was simply being…Rose. She didn't mean anything by it, and she did love to tease Sybil…
But now her head was being flooded with images of Branson in his livery, and yes…she would have to agree with Rose, he did look rather…dashing, as she put it. Though in all fairness, she had always found him handsome—JUST as she had always found Thomas to be handsome…and William for that matter, even Carson! Oh for heaven's sake, even Tony and the Duke of Crowborough were handsome, looks had very little to do with anything!
Sybil set her jaw and lifted her chin, determined to not let these thoughts distract her from what was being said. The Cause was her life—this was what she had chosen to dedicate her life too, and truly, this was why she had hired Branson in the first place! He understood her passions, he even agreed with them! And of course he had proven to be very reliable in turning away her unwanted guests, there was no mistake about that. Yes, she was very pleased with him, she couldn't be more pleased. And he apparently has some sort of knowledge when it comes to letter writing! Yes, she mustn't forget that, how he had kindly offered to look over the article she was writing and planning to submit to the papers. See? He really does suit you! It was a wise decision, hiring him!
And suddenly thoughts of their first encounter flooded her memory, images of him fighting that giant, shirtless, sweaty, his muscles rippling—
"Sybil?"
She was shaken (thank goodness) from her thoughts, and with wide-eyes she turned her head to the voice addressing her, blushing furiously as she realized everyone had turned to look at her, as if waiting for her to say something. Oh God, what was it? What had she been asked?
"Sybil?" her name was repeated. "The article?"
Article?
"…That you volunteered to write?"
That she volunteered…
Oh, the article!
"Yes!" Sybil answered a bit too loudly. Rose snickered next to her, but she ignored it. "Yes, the article, it's…it's nearly finished; I shall have it finished by tomorrow if not tonight."
Lady Mae, who had been the one to address her, gazed back at her thoughtfully with raised eyebrows, but then gave her a smile and nodded her head in approval, before turning and addressing everyone else. "Well, the only other order of business I would like to bring up is the possibility of having just one more meeting before the charity ball."
Aunt Rosamond's eyebrows rose at this. "Oh, well…I suppose we could—"
"Rosamond, you are too, too kind, but I think your home and your staff deserve a bit of a 'holiday' in terms of putting up with us," Lady Mae tittered, which earned several giggles from around the room. Lady Mae Loxley was like the Queen in that sense; if she laughed, you laughed, and if she suggested something, you immediately went along with it.
"What about one of our younger members?" Lady Mae murmured, smiling specifically at Sybil and Rose, who were seated in the middle of the entire throng. All eyes turned to them and Rose immediately began to pale and shrink back a bit on the settee. While Rose adored attention from gentlemen suitors, she was, as she had admitted to Sybil once, a little bit intimidated by Lady Mae and her disciples.
"I couldn't possibly host a meeting!" she hissed in Sybil's ear. "Mummy wouldn't stand for it!"
That was something that set Sybil apart from the rest of her young friends. Lavinia, Imogen, and Rose all lived with their families and were still quite dependent upon them, whereas she…
Sybil sat up a bit straighter and cleared her throat. "I will host our next gathering."
The room was filled with hushed voices then, and Lady Mae beamed at Sybil with what one might call "maternal pride". "Splendid! Thank you my dear, it's been quite some time since our group gathered at 149 Eaton Square."
The whispers and murmurs grew a bit louder, but like Lady Mae, the other women there began to nod their heads and smile in agreement.
"In fact…may I offer a suggestion?" Lady Mae continued, looking at Sybil with eager eyes. Sybil swallowed but nodded her head, completely missing the suspicious look her aunt was giving their grand leader.
"I suggest…that we have dinner at 149 Eaton Square."
"D-d-dinner?" Sybil stammered.
"Dinner!?" Aunt Rosamond hissed.
"Ooohhh, dinner!" went the collected and delighted gasps of the ladies around them.
Sybil felt her face darken with a little embarrassment, but despite it, she continued to keep her back straight and her chin lifted and with a forced smile, nodded her head in approval. "So it shall be," she answered, hoping she sounded a great deal more confident than she felt.
Lady Mae looked back at her, ignoring the applause that went up after Sybil confirmed the invitation. "Are you certain, my dear?" she softly asked. "I wouldn't want to put you out—"
"No, it's fine," Sybil reassured, again trying to sound sure and confident. "And…let's have the dinner this Friday, if that suits everyone?"
Her aunt's eyes went wide with shock at Sybil's suggestion. "My dear, that's only three days—"
"That will be plenty of time," Sybil confidently answered, keeping her gaze locked on Lady Mae rather than the concerned face of her aunt. What are you doing? Branson isn't ready for this! He has to manage it, not you! But she told herself that this didn't have to be a "grand dinner", this was simply another meeting…the only difference being that a bit more food would be involved. And their group wasn't that large…
Lady Mae smiled at her, again looking quite proud, before nodding her head and repeating what Sybil had said earlier, "So it shall be," thus concluding the meeting.
"Crikey," Rose softly swore under her breath. "That was strangely exciting!"
Sybil rolled her eyes at her friend, though she did find herself smiling back. "Sybil!" Lady Mae's voice filled her ears, and Sybil turned and quickly rose to face the grand woman who was smiling benevolently at her. "Oh my dear, thank you very much for offering to host our next meeting."
Sybil blushed and gave a little polite bow of her head. "It was nothing, really."
"Quite the contrary!" Lady Mae argued. "Young ladies like yourself and Lady Rose here," she gestured towards Rose who blushed deeply at being addressed, "are the future of England, as well as our fine movement. You will be the ones who will carry the battle further, and therefore must begin by stepping forward and taking charge!"
Rose nudged Sybil's arm with her shoulder, but Sybil ignored her and kept her focus on Lady Mae.
"I just hope I didn't bully you into volunteering," Lady Mae sighed, looking back at Sybil with what she supposed was meant to be a sheepish expression.
Rose snorted at this, and it was now Sybil who was nudging Rose's arm, silently telling her to keep quiet.
"Not at all, Lady Mae; I am rather looking forward to hosting our meeting!" And she was, even if she did momentarily feel a bit overwhelmed by the idea.
Lady Mae smiled at this, and reached out to affectionately touch Sybil's chin. "That's why I knew I could count on you," she murmured with fondness, making Sybil blush but smile back.
She was close to Lady Loxley, yes; the woman had taken Sybil "under her wing", first in matters involving The Cause (it was she who truly had welcomed her to into Aunt Rosamond's meetings when she was a child), and then with other matters as well. She had been a great help during those early months in helping her set up 149, and after the unexpected death of her father, had offered her support and guidance in dealing with his solicitors. Sybil was very grateful to Lady Mae, for everything she had done and for her continued friendship. "Thank you," she humbly murmured, truly honored by the confidence the woman had in her.
"Ahem…"
Sybil turned her head to see her aunt hovering close by, the look on her face demanding a private moment as soon as possible. Lady Mae must have noticed this as well. "Well, do not worry about sending invitations or anything of the sort; I'll make sure word gets out. You just concentrate on the evening itself—and it will be a small gathering, I think; certainly no more than twenty, perhaps twenty-five, but most likely twenty."
Twenty guests? Good heavens, 149 had never seen such a number! Though compared to the balls held at Loxley House, she supposed it was a small number.
"AHEM!" Aunt Rosamond cleared her throat a bit louder, no longer bothering to hide her irritation.
Lady Mae glanced at Rosamond with some amusement. "Well, best not keep your aunt waiting…Rosamond was never very good at it," she softly tittered to herself, before turning and striking up conversation with another.
Sybil hadn't even reached her aunt's side, before the woman began reprimanding her. "What do you think you're doing!? Volunteering to host a dinner—you're not ready!"
The words that had originally been in Sybil's throat died right away and her brow now creased with a combination of confusion and irritation.
"I've hosted meetings before—"
"Yes, but those were like these meetings—tea meetings—not to mention you had Carson helping you then!"
Sybil felt her defenses rise at her aunt's unspoken assumption. "I am more than positive that Branson is up to the task," she whispered.
Rosamond gave a laugh, but there was no humor in it. "I…I honestly don't know what's come over you," she muttered under her breath. "Hiring that man—"
"Branson, Aunt Rosamond, he has a name," she muttered back in irritation.
"Why did you let Carson go, Sybil? He was perfect for you, and understood your wishes—"
"I appreciate all the hard work Carson has done, and yes, he proved to be most dependable and dedicated, but perhaps that was his downfall as well?" she tried to explain. "Carson would have stayed until his death, I am sure of this! He was putting his own life and future on hold for me—"
"Sybil, he's a butler, that's what they do—dedicate their lives to the people they serve, that is Carson's life!"
Sybil made a face at this. "Well not anymore," she muttered, folding her arms across her chest. "Yes, I 'forced' him to retire, but now he and Mrs. Hughes can finally marry and live the rest of their lives together for each other and themselves, and if I should feel bad for that, well then I'm sorry, because I don't!"
Her aunt continued to look displeased. "You admitted yourself when you took on Branson that he was never a butler before—"
"He has experience in service; he was a footman at his previous positions—"
"Which you've still neglected in telling me where those were and who he's served," Rosamond cut in, giving Sybil a challenging look. Sybil turned her gaze away, not wanting to reveal anything further to her aunt…or in this case, reveal the lack of information her aunt was demanding. Aunt Rosamond would waste no time in interfering if she knew the full truth about Branson—that he had no reference to offer, and that Sybil had more or less decided to hire him after encountering him in East London in an illegal boxing match (and shirtless on top of that).
"My dear…" Rosamond sighed, sounding more tired than irritated now. "I'm sure he's a very good, hardworking man, but…a footman and a butler are not the same—"
"If I lived in some grand country manor or estate like…like Downton Abbey, then yes, I would agree with you completely, but I don't; 149 isn't even a quarter of that size, it's even smaller than your home!" Sybil stretched her arms out for emphasis. "He, along with the rest of my staff, can manage this…and I will manage it as well, we can do this!"
"Is everything alright?"
Both Sybil and Rosamond turned their heads to the curious face of Lady Mae.
"I apologize, I didn't mean to eavesdrop, you just…sounded rather distressed, my dear," Lady Mae explained, looking sympathetic at Sybil, before flashing curious…and possibly accusatory eyes at Rosamond.
Rosamond didn't miss the look and it was clear she didn't appreciate it. "I don't believe it is wise for Sybil to host this dinner," she explained, keeping her voice low so only the three would hear, but none the less, Sybil's face burned with embarrassment at her aunt's words.
"Oh?" Lady Mae turned her eyes to Sybil. "You seemed so confident earlier—"
"She has a new butler now, but I believe he'll be 'over his head' with all this," Rosamond continued, completely ignoring Sybil's shocked and humiliated expression.
Thankfully, for Sybil, Lady Mae always seemed to be on her side.
"Oh, Carson has gone?" she asked. "I never thought that man would ever retire."
Sybil swallowed, but forced a smile and nodded her head. "Yes, quite recently," she explained. "Though my aunt is quite mistaken," she went on, glaring back at Rosamond who was now avoiding her eyes. "My new butler, I am confident, is more than up to the task."
"He's never helped with hosting or planning such a party because he wasn't a butler before," Rosamond grumbled. "And he's young."
"Young?" Lady Mae asked, her eyebrows rising with surprise.
"Very young," Rosamond muttered.
"He was a footman before!" Sybil defended, trying her best to keep her voice down. "He is not completely ignorant, but even so, all people must begin somewhere! If we do not provide others with chances and opportunities, how can experience ever be gained?"
Lady Mae glanced back and forth between the two of them, like one watching a tennis match. At Sybil's last statement she smiled, and there seemed to be a look of approval in her eyes. "Well said, my dear, well said." She turned to Rosamond then, assessing her rather coolly. "I think Sybil is right, and who are we to question her confidence in managing her staff?"
Rosamond didn't say anything, though it was clear to Sybil that she wanted to. A touch of guilt squeezed at Sybil's heart; she knew that her aunt loved her and was merely looking out for her, but she needed to trust Sybil and let her make these choices and…though she hoped otherwise…also let her make her own mistakes.
"I will concede with your aunt and say, don't plan on anything too 'elaborate'," Lady Mae advised. "It is a dinner, yes, but not a ball."
Sybil nodded her head, though that being said, she knew she still needed to put her "best foot forward" as hostess to such a meal. While other young ladies perhaps dreamed of the grand dinner parties they and their houses would host for Society, Sybil's dream parties were always filled with passionate discussion and a sharing of political ideas. She wanted 149 to become a center for The Cause and other progressive movements.
"Well, we all have our jobs to do," Lady Mae gave Sybil's hand a squeeze. "I will send you a list of who to expect for the dinner tomorrow, and you best get back to inform your new butler of this little gathering that will soon be descending on your home."
Sybil blushed but smiled and murmured a "thank you" to Lady Mae, as well as a little curtsey, before turning on her heel and moving quickly to fetch her coat, hat, and gloves to hurry back to 149 to do just that.
"Everything alright?" Rose whispered, coming up to Sybil's side. "You and your aunt seemed to be having a rather…passionate 'discussion'."
Sybil groaned, wondering how many others had taken notice of this "discussion". "She's simply concerned about whether or not Branson will be able to handle it since he's never done this sort of thing before."
"Because he's a boxer and not a butler?"
"Rose!" Sybil hissed, before glancing nervously around them.
"They're too busy gossiping about Lady Mae's upcoming ball to be paying attention to us," her friend dismissed. "And who cares? Branson isn't your 'typical' butler anyway; especially when you actually want your butler to 'keep all men away', though why it has to be 'all men', I'll never completely understand—"
"Rose," Sybil interrupted, fixing her friend a look. "I know you find Branson's 'previous employment' rather amusing, but please, do not talk about such things where others might hear, especially in my aunt's house!"
Rose sighed but nodded her head. "Alright, I'll keep quiet, though I honestly don't think it's anything to be 'embarrassed' about—"
"It isn't about that," Sybil muttered. "But what he did that day in White Chapel was illegal, and I don't want him to be arrested!"
Rose's eyebrows lifted in surprise; she clearly hadn't thought about that possibility. Though her look of surprise soon became smirk, and with a giggle, she whispered, "why Sybil, you do seem rather attached to your butler."
Why her face was burning, she didn't know. Why she was letting anything Rose had said both earlier and now get this reaction out of her, she didn't know. "Well, he is rather perfect for me," she answered, trying to sound calm and composed and level-headed. "And he more than meets the needs that I require."
She only realized after the words had left her mouth how they sounded if taken in an entirely different sort of context. And leave it to Rose to take them in that way. "Oh I can only imagine," she giggled.
One of the "perks" about being a butler, Tom soon came to realize, was that you had the freedom to "come and go as you please" (so long as his presence wasn't required, his employer wasn't about, and that he wasn't gone for extensive periods of time), but even so, it was a great deal more "freedom" than he had when he was a footman or even a chauffeur.
Unless an errand for the house dealt specifically with something to do with the kitchen, Tom found it was under his authority as butler to run it. One of those jobs was taking and retrieving the post, as well as stopping at the newsagents to pick up the evening additions of several newspapers that Miss Levinson read (all small, left-leaning publications, with the exception of The Times). Tom couldn't help but grin every time the newsagent handed him the neatly tied stack, wondering how many butlers did what he did, collecting so many newspapers for just one person, and a woman at that? Of course, he always took this opportunity to get a newspaper for himself, one that wasn't a part of Miss Levinson's order, an Irish, pro-republican publication that was only available once a week, but it was the closest thing to "real Irish news" that Tom could find.
He was briefly scanning the various headlines to this paper when he came upon the stranger, "lurking about" 149, looking up at the curtained windows, before glancing nervously at the steps that would lead down to the staff entrance.
"What do you want?" Tom asked a bit gruffly, but the truth of the matter was, after his encounter with his employer's uninvited guests, he quickly realized that he couldn't afford to be anything but intimidating.
The stranger whirled around, and Tom's eyes widened as he realized that the man wasn't a stranger at all, but rather, "Eamon?"
His cousin tipped his hat back a little, revealing his face a bit more, despite the early evening shadows that were creeping around them. Tom hadn't seen his cousin since he had started working at 149, they hadn't even had a chance to exchange messages, but despite his first instincts to move forward and embrace the younger man, Tom found himself whirling around, looking every which to way to see if someone—anyone, was watching them.
Eamon must have realized what he was doing, because he started to answer, "I walked around in several circles, just in case—"
"Quiet," Tom hissed, moving forward and grabbing his cousin by the elbow. "Move," he ordered, gesturing towards the steps with his chin. Eamon didn't reply, simply did as Tom said and went down the stone steps that led to the servant's entrance. Tom wasted no time, pushing the door open and pushing his cousin inside.
"Mr. Branson, are you back?" Mrs. Patmore called out from the kitchen.
"Aye!" Tom answered, now pushing his cousin towards a corridor just off to the side, trying his best to make sure no one saw him.
The cook came around the corner, wiping her hands on her apron. "Miss Sybil hasn't returned from her meeting yet, but I imagine she'll be here soon. Shall we serve supper—?"
"Whatever you think is best," Tom interrupted, forcing a smile at the cook. "I better change into my livery; I'll be by shortly."
Mrs. Patmore frowned, looking confused at Tom's rushed tone, but Tom paid the woman no heed, he simply turned down the corridor, grabbed his cousin's shoulders, and pushed him into a room just off to his right—the butler's pantry and Tom's quarters.
Eamon stumbled a bit, but once he regained his balance, looked around the room with wide eyes. Compared to the bedrooms of the grand houses Tom had worked in, the butler's quarters was nothing. But compared to most servants' rooms, it seemed palatial. And it was definitely cleaner than the tenement that until recently, they had shared.
"Holy…" he gasped, staring in surprise at the bed in the corner. "That's the biggest bed I've ever seen!"
"Hardly," Tom muttered, shutting the door and locking it.
Eamon shrugged his shoulders. "Bigger than anything I've ever slept on," he mumbled.
"Forget the bed," Tom muttered, turning back to his cousin. "Why are you here? What's wrong? What happened? And most importantly, are you absolutely positive no one saw you!?"
Eamon swallowed, but nodded his head. "Like I told you, I made sure I circled the place several times, just in case—I never saw anyone follow me, but I was careful, Tommy, I swear!"
Tom sighed and ran a nervous hand through his hair, trying to keep himself calm. "Alright, alright, I believe you, I do…" he muttered. "But what happened, Eamon?" Dread was pooling the pit of his stomach, but he had to ask the next question. "…Is it Archer?"
Eamon grimaced at the mention of the mobster and Tom closed his eyes and groaned.
"His men have been by," Eamon explained. "Twice."
Tom swallowed and took a deep breath before asking his next question. "Are they looking for me?"
Eamon grimaced again. "Sort of," he mumbled.
Tom frowned. "What does that even mean!?"
Eamon shoved his hands into his pockets. "It's the money—"
"Fecking hell," Tom swore, practically ripping his coat off and throwing it at the bed in frustration. "He'll GET his fecking money, I just paid him—"
"That's just it!" Eamon hissed. "You paid him that two-hundred quid; you settled your debt to him as you promised and before the week was out! And now—"
"And now he's wondering where I got it from…" Tom sighed, shaking his head at his own stupidity. Of course Donald Archer was wondering this. The man was a thug, but he was also a shrewd businessman, and he knew that if Tom had gotten his hands on that kind of money in such a short period of time, then he wanted to know the money's source.
…And that was something he could never, ever, let Donald Archer discover.
"I did what I could to 'throw them off your trail'," Eamon explained. "The first time when they came by, I didn't tell them anything, I pretended I had no idea about the money, even said I hadn't seen you in several days, tried my best to play ignorant with hopes they would think I didn't know anything…"
Tom knew without being told that "act" would only last for one encounter. Donald Archer and his men knew Tom far too well, and knew how highly he regarded "family". They knew that Tom wouldn't just leave without saying anything, so more than likely the reason they "bought" Eamon's initial story was out of courtesy to them, taking amusement in Eamon's "ignorance", and feeling generous, allowed both he and Eamon a bit of time to "get their stories together". Clearly, Archer must been in a good mood at the time to let that slide.
"The second time they weren't so easily convinced," Eamon mumbled. "I knew I had to say something, so I just said that you had found work—"
"Did you say where?"
Eamon shook his head. "I told them that you hadn't said much to me, just that you had disappeared for a few days, then came back to get your things, and that you would return for good after you had finished paying off your debt."
It was a shaky lie, but at the same time, it sounded like something Tom would say to his cousin. Just as Tom knew Donald Archer wasn't stupid, so too did Donald Archer know that Tom didn't trust him one bit. Again, he would probably find Eamon's answer amusing, but instead of just being satisfied that he was getting paid, Tom knew that Archer would want to know more—and his curiosity in that regard would only kindle more and more.
Because he's a greedy bastard and wants to know the source of my sudden income so he can take more than he's due. Tom's knuckles cracked as his hands balled into tight fists at the thought of Archer of any of his goons descending on 149 and threatening any of its occupants…especially Sybil.
"What should I do?" Eamon asked, his question getting through the haze that clouded Tom's brain. "I mean…I know they'll be back, you know they'll be back, they're going to want to know more—"
"I'll send you a message," Tom interrupted, his brain going forward in attempting to concoct a plan. "The day after tomorrow, if not sooner, I'll have a message sent explaining what to say—"
"But surely they'll be watching for that?" Eamon argued, his brow creased with confusion.
Tom nodded. "I'm counting on it, actually. Whether they confiscate the message before you receive it, or you hand it over to them after they decide to pay you a third visit, it will hopefully lead them away from suspecting that you know anything, and have them snooping elsewhere."
Eamon slowly nodded his head. "So…it will be a 'false letter' then?"
Tom nodded. "In a manner of speaking…though I haven't figured out what it will say just yet, but I'll concentrate on that tonight," he sighed. "But don't move out of the tenement, Eamon; just…go about your day as you always do. They're going to be watching for anything suspicious, and if you try to leave, they'll know you're keeping something from them."
Eamon lowered his eyes and nodded his head slowly again. Tom could see the anguish on his cousin's face, knowing he was upset about the trouble that had gotten them both into this mess, but he wasn't going to let Eamon take this opportunity to again go on and on about how sorry he was. "It's alright," he told him, reaching out and squeezing his cousin's shoulder. "We're going to be alright, understand?"
Eamon swallowed but nodded his head, forcing a smile and trying to look positive.
"Right…" Tom sighed, before moving back to the door and unlocking it. "Better go now before it gets too dark. And…better not come by here again, just in case."
"But what if—?"
"If you need to get a message to me, go to Eli. I'll figure something out—find some sort of excuse to go to the bakery, but don't send anything here…and ONLY send something to Eli if it's dire, understand? Otherwise, just…wait."
Again, Eamon nodded and promised he would do as Tom said.
Satisfied that they had a plan of some kind, Tom opened the door and poked his head out into the corridor; the sounds and smells from the kitchen began to drift towards them, and Tom winced as he heard Eamon's stomach growl behind him.
"The posh feed you well," Eamon mused, trying to sound humorous, though it didn't relieve any of the guilt Tom felt at having to send his cousin away empty handed. He dug into his pocket then, and stuffed whatever coins it contained into his cousin's hands.
"Get some chips or something before you head back," he muttered Eamon, before attempting to guide the younger Branson out of the house just as he had guided him inside. However, unlike before, this time they did not go undetected.
Tom had just opened the door to the servant's entrance, when someone practically barreled into them from the outside. Tom's eyes widened as he realized just who that someone was.
"Branson!" Miss Sybil gasped, blushing deeply but smiling widely at the sight of him.
Tom's face went pale and his throat suddenly went dry. "I…" he swallowed. "Milady, what…what are you doing coming in this way—?"
"I needed to speak with you right away—both you and Mrs. Patmore, actually, and thought it would just be simpler to go through the servant's entrance—oh!" She ceased her rambling then as she took notice of Eamon just over Tom's shoulder. "Oh, I…I'm terribly sorry, I didn't realize…" her voice trailed off, clearly unsure who Eamon was, or what business he had with a member of 149's staff.
As for Eamon, he blushed but also smiled at Tom's pretty employer, and remembering his manners, quickly removed his cap and bowed his head. "It's alright, Miss, I was just going…"
Tom groaned the second the words—or rather, his cousin's accent—left Eamon's mouth, because he knew what was going to follow next.
"Oh!" Sybil's smile suddenly grew even wider. "Are you…?" she looked at Tom then, waiting for someone to confirm what she was suspecting. Just because he's Irish doesn't mean we're related, he thought to tell her. Only in this case…they actually were.
"Is this your cousin, Branson?"
Tom looked at Sybil in surprise. She remembered that?
"I'm Sybil," she introduced to Eamon, not bothering to wait for Tom to confirm or deny her question, and extended her hand for him to shake. "Sybil Levinson, how do you do?"
Eamon was still blushing, but his own smile was growing all the wider, and he reached forward to accept her handshake. "Thank you, Miss, and…forgive me, but I know who you are," he bashfully murmured, looking down like a schoolboy struck by Cupid's arrow. Tom couldn't stop himself from rolling his eyes.
"Aye, this is my cousin, milady; Eamon," he finally answered. There was no point in playing ignorant with her. Besides, it was just a name, that was all. What harm could there be in her knowing his cousin's name?
"Oh! Well, I am very pleased to meet you, Eamon; why don't you stay for supper?"
Tom flashed his cousin a harsh look and Eamon quickly began to shake his head. "That's very kind, Miss, but…I'm afraid I have to get going—I have the night shift this evening," he explained, which Tom knew was a lie as there was no "night shift" at Eamon's job, but Sybil didn't know that, and really, the less who knew about his cousin's existence at 149, the better.
"Oh…well, I will not keep you any longer," Sybil apologized, before stepping aside so Eamon could pass. "But I do hope you will come and visit again soon!"
Eamon blushed once more, but nodded his head. "Thank you, Miss," he murmured, before turning and rushing up the steps and back to the street. Tom watched his cousin go, hoping that Eamon remembered to be equally as careful returning to the East End as he had claimed to be in coming to Eaton Square.
"Well he seems nice!" Sybil's voice broke through his thoughts. Tom realized then that just as she had been blocking Eamon's exit, so too was he blocking her entrance into the house. He quickly stepped aside and she slipped past. "A shame he couldn't stay," she sighed.
Tom couldn't help himself. "Aye, a shame a guest you invited couldn't impose himself upon Mrs. Patmore's hospitality."
Sybil turned and looked at him, surprised by his words. They had come out a bit harsher than he had meant them to sound, but he was a bit "on edge" after everything he had recently learned.
She opened her mouth to say something, and Tom prepared himself for the reprimand, but she closed her mouth and lowered her eyes, her cheeks growing reddening right away. "You're right; I invited him to stay for supper when he isn't my guest to ask, but yours. And that wouldn't be fair to Mrs. Patmore when nothing was planned…"
Miss Sybil Levinson was a strange one, Tom found himself thinking (for the hundredth time since he had met her). Sometimes it was hard to remember that they weren't equals. She let him speak so freely with her; he honestly had never experienced that with any employer from his past.
"Well, he is welcome here, Branson. You don't need my 'permission' to invite him to stay for a meal. Though you are right about Mrs. Patmore…we all know who truly runs the kitchen here," she softly giggled, which did warm Tom's heart at the sound. For the first time since Eamon's arrival, he felt himself relaxing slightly.
"I'll keep that in mind, milady," he murmured, smiling at the look Sybil gave him for again, addressing her by the wrong title. "Now, you said you wanted to speak with me and Mrs. Patmore about something?"
"Oh yes! Something has come up and I need to tell you both immediately!"
And that was how Tom learned in the minutes that followed that along with trying to come up with some sort of plan to lead Donald Archer and his men off his track and away from 149 Eaton Square, he would also be planning, organizing, and helping his employer in making all the arrangements necessary to host a dinner that Friday evening for a group of twenty-some suffragettes.
…He honestly couldn't say which task he found to be more daunting.
Just a quick note: so in this story's universe, Rose *is not* related to the Crawleys, she's simply a good friend of Sybil's via her suffrage group. Also, I did borrow Lady Mae Loxley from "Mr. Selfridge", though I want to emphasize that this is the Lady Mae we met in S1 of the show and not S2. Just keep that in mind as it goes along :oP
