Author's Note: "Custom has made dancing sometimes necessary for a young man; therefore mind it while you learn it, that you may learn to do it well…" —Lord Chesterfield

Time period for this chapter is very late 1913 or very early 1914.

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.


The valet and lady's maid were still presiding over the table pending the arrival of the butler and housekeeper, while the kitchen maid Daisy was laying the tea, but talk was already general around the long table about the fast approaching, much-anticipated annual Servant's Ball.

"Chauffeurs don't attend, of course," Miss O'Brien cut in, no doubt with malice aforethought, "not being indoor staff."

Mr. Branson had been invited to take tea with the servants today, because he was there anyway awaiting his lordship's pleasure to depart for Richmond.

The chauffeur had strict personal rules for dealing with Lady Grantham's prickly lady's maid: no arguing and no backtalk. He smiled at her with grave respect and said, "Of course not, Miss O'Brien, I wouldn't expect to." He'd been glad enough of his exclusion a few months before when the 'treat' on offer was playing cricket for the house team, so he couldn't really grumble now, though he would have enjoyed dancing with Lady Sybil. He imagined his beautiful young employer's slender ankles executing the rock move. It wouldn't be that kind of dance, anyway.

Daisy, who normally avoided crossing Miss O'Brien as assiduously as Mr. Branson did himself, noted his happy smile and was emboldened to ask, "Don't you want to go to the Ball, Mr. Branson?" She could conceive of no greater pleasure than dancing with the first footman Thomas, as she had when he'd taught her The Grizzly Bear.

Mr. Branson shot a glance across the table to Mr. Bates. Would he really not be allowed to attend?

The valet looked thoughtful, then raised an eyebrow, and exchanged a look with Anna. Mr. Bates had attended only one Servants' Ball at Downton; he did not think Mr. Taylor had been in attendance. Anna gave a tiny shake of her head. No, the chauffeur did not attend the Servants' Ball.

Mr. Branson's answer, while officially to Daisy, was intended for other ears. "I'm sure I don't want to push in anywhere I'm not wanted."

Miss O'Brien, correctly interpreting his answer to mean that he wished to go, but accepted that he could not, gave a tiny smile of satisfaction, and nodded.


He couldn't escape it. A day or two later, he walked into the Servants' Hall at a time of morning when the long room was normally deserted to find the housemaid Lily dancing with the hall boy Daniel, while William played a waltz for them. The boy stepped wrong, and the girl laughed and broke away. "He's hopeless!" She danced out of the Servants' Hall to go back to her duties.

Daniel stood forlornly looking after her. "I'll never get it right."

William had turned around at the piano and saw the chauffeur. "Can you help us out, Mr. Branson?"

The chauffeur nodded, thinking this was as close as he was likely to get to going to the ball. He shrugged it off. He was there to work, not to dance… well, right now he was here to dance.

"Here, you can lead," he said, stepping up and taking the boy's hand in his right hand and laying his left lightly on the boy's slender shoulder. "From the top, William." On the downbeat he stepped back on his right strongly enough to pull the boy forward on his left.


He would not have envisaged Lady Mary in the rôle of fairy godmother. "Are you looking forward to the Ball, Branson," she asked, "or dreading it?"

"Neither, I'm afraid, milady."

Her slender neck cocked, intrigued. "That's a curious answer," she probed. "Do you want to go, or not?" But she didn't wait for his reply. "It's your duty, regardless. You know posh people are all about balancing the numbers, and there are a frightful number of females from upstairs to be balanced. Of course you can dance?"

"Of course, but—"

"But what? Your mother will be ill that day, and you'll need to attend to her? Or you planned to 'wash your hair' that night?"

"No, but—"

"Whatever your lame excuse is," his passenger insisted, "it won't be acceptable."

"Milady—"

"It's part of your… what's the opposite of noblesse oblige?"

"Feudal obligation?" he suggested.

"Exactly."

"I'm only too willing to fulfill my feudal obligation, milady, but I don't think I'm actually allowed to go to the Ball."

"You sound like Cinderella."

"Indeed. I gather the Ball is only for those who work in the house."

"Don't worry, Branson," Lady Mary assured him. "I'm sure I can persuade Carson that you're necessary personnel, but make sure you leave before midnight, or the motor may turn into a pumpkin."


"Mr. Branson!" Mrs. Patmore said in surprise, seeing him sitting alone at the table in the darkness of the courtyard after the Ball.

He looked up at her somberly. "Did you enjoy the ball, Mrs. Patmore?"

"I did," she said. "I always do, but now I could use a bit of air." She sat down next to him on the bench. "What made Mr. Carson change his mind about your going, do you know?"

"Lady Mary told him he should let me, that it would help to 'balance the numbers.'"

"Hmm," the cook murmured. "That was kind of her."

"It was," he agreed.

"You seem saddish," the cook opined. "I saw you danced with all three of the young ladies. Everything all right?"

He smiled at her, unsure himself why he felt as he did. "It's this staid English dancing, Mrs. Patmore. Makes me long for a jig."

"Perhaps you should do one then," Mrs. Patmore suggested, and to his surprise began humming "Kitty Come Down to Limerick."

Laughing, the chauffeur rose to oblige.