January, 1909

Mrs. Patmore was on the warpath.

Servants dodged out of her way as she bustled through the hall and into the downstairs dining room. She screeched to a halt and slammed her hands down on the table.

"Alright, where's the coward who put that bruise on Daisy's face?!"

Carson, although he was sure he knew who the cook was referring to, simply could not have such outbursts at the breakfast table, and decided it would be wise to take charge of the situation.

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Patmore. If you have a problem with one of your colleagues you need to take the matter up with him or her in private, not in front of the entire staff at the breakfast table."

"I apologize, Mr. Carson, but I refuse to let her get away with it again! This is the second time in a month, and if you don't do something about it I'll have to go to Lord and Lady Grantham!"

From across the table, Thomas snickered. "You talk as though anybody cares. I can assure you, His Lordship isn't going to drop everything to investigate a little servant girl's bruises. He won't even know who you're talking about; even if he did care, you say "Daisy" and he'd go interrogate the gardener."

"Her Ladyship would care! She's got a soft spot for the younger staff, I can tell! And you know what else I can tell? Daisy's got more friends among the staff than you do. Your only friend is that child-beating witch Miss O'Brien. Now you'd better mind yer business if you know what's best for you!"

With that, Mrs. Patmore stormed out of the room.

Mr. Carson cleared his throat. An air of awkwardness had settled on the room and he was eager to clear it.

Back in the kitchen, the 12-year-old kitchen maid placed a freshly-baked loaf of bread on the counter to cool. The bruise on her cheekbone looked angry but Daisy seemed unbothered by it, having stopped crying over an hour ago. The red-faced cook marched in and busied herself by taking inventory, hoping it would calm her down some. She became so engrossed in counting the eggs that she nearly jumped when Daisy tapped her on the shoulder and asked in her sweet voice, "Mrs. Patmore, what was all that yelling about?"

"Err, nothing my dear."

"Oh." She paused for a moment. "Mrs. Patmore? Where should I put this bread now that it's cooled? It came out so nice and I'd hate for the dog to get to it."

"Oh don't worry, Daisy. I think Miss O'Brien will be staying out of the kitchen for a few days now."