OK, so I was wrong again. Two more after this one. This is just a bit of odd fluff and in-jokes for the old Branson/Hughes shippers. Then a dash of Carson/Hughes and a dot of Crawley/Hughes.

Prelude to the Performance: Mr Branson Gets a Shock; Carson is Not Amused and Sybil is. Elsie Has to Put a Stop to All of This Madness.

Mr Branson made the perfect jester, he had the right face for it, Elsie reflected with a smile as she came into the corridor on her way to the backstage area and found him adjusting the strap on the banjo he had on his back so that the ridiculous instrument did not trip him up. It came apart altogether and he swore under his breath. She couldn't help but snort a little bit- he did look rather ridiculous- drawing his attention to her presence. And then- for the second time in both their lives- he winked at her; bold as brass. Drawing herself up to a marginally more impressive height; she gave him her best look of disapproval. She had been right; red was a racy colour, no matter what Isobel said. Coughing a little in embarrassment and shuffling around in this silly dress- which she sorely regretted asking for now- she made a note to inform her friend that this was what came of trying to follow the fashions.

"You'd better sort that out," she told him flatly, "You've got to start us off, remember."

He was now just standing idle, staring at her. Hair down had obviously been a bad idea- what had she told them?- too. Though perhaps she really ought to count her blessings that she was in the dress this time. She decided to act as if he were not transfixed by her at all.

"Now that's not going to do it any good," she told him stoutly, taking the leather strap out of his hands and- seeing that he had bust the buckle good and proper- tied it in as tight a knot as she could muster.

This had little effect on wakening him up, however; he was watching her neck. She reflected that up until now he probably hadn't realised she had one. Or perhaps it was that wretched powder Isobel had put on her. She had insisted that it had been too much- she was quite pale enough as it was!- but then remembered that she had resolved to forget about that particular discussion for various reasons. She only hoped that when they did Romeo and Juliet she would be assaulted less and that would limit themselves to their bare hands- as opposed to powder brushes and wooden swords.

Mr Branson was still groggily.

"Come on, lad," she told him sternly, tugging his arm to turn him around and giving a good slap on the back to set him off in the right direction. Perhaps he realised that he was lucky not to be getting his ears boxed as well, for slowly but surely he went on his way. Elsie breathed a sigh of relief; realising that she had started to blush. When she realised that Charles was in the doorway to the corridor, she only did so all the more furiously.

"I don't have to worry about him as well, do I?" he asked in a low voice as she came down the corridor to meet him, nodding after the impudent chauffeur.

She reached up and made sure his collar was on straight; Isobel had confessed to her that she found Charles rather too tall to check on without having to stretch and she wasn't sure how kindly in would be taken if she overbalanced and fell on him.

"Well, if you like you, he and Lord Strallan can fight to the death for my honour when this is over," she told him, squeezing his hand a little, "I suppose we ought to get on with this, then." She glanced towards the door to the backstage area with some apprehension, "It's only one quick kiss," she reminded him.

"In front of the whole village."

"Minus one. I've seen Lady Violet look pointedly away when the moment comes. It'll make up for Mrs Patmore's goggling."

The cook and the other staff not directly participating had been invited to join the audience if they so wished. Hearing of the amount of... frivolity involved in the piece; Mrs Patmore had engaged herself a front row seat- though of course insisting in was so Daisy might be able to see without having to crane her neck over any tall gentleman's head. A likely tale.

"Thank God for small mercies."

"Quite."

"There you are, Mrs Hughes!"

They heard the door at the other end of the corridor go, stepping apart as they were used to doing. It was only, however, Isobel- her arms full of spare garments- and Lady Sybil- her voice raised.

"Has Branson gone to the stage yet?" Isobel enquired.

"Yes," Elsie informed her, "The cad."

It was a mark of how well Isobel knew Elsie- and what the servants here were likely to get up to- that she did not question this apparently perplexing remark at all.

"Come on," Sybil told the housekeeper, taking her arm, "You have to get ready to support my weeping person as we walk past Gwen."

"Very well, m'Lady."

She allowed Sybil to lead her in the direction of the backstage door. Isobel, when she caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of her eye, looked moderately harassed.

"Everyone for Act 1!"

They could hear her Ladyship in the backstage area, trying to organise her actors. With limited success, by the sounds of it. There was no time for Elsie to say anything, being tugged as she was towards the backstage area by Sybil, so, as she passed Isobel, she simply gave her elbow a little squeeze. She caught a half-hearted smile in reply.

"I say, Mrs Hughes, you do look splendid," Sybil whispered to her as they waited in the wings, watching as Mr Branson took to the stage.

"You're not the only one who thinks that," she replied a little ruefully.

Sybil followed Mrs Hughes' gaze.

"What? Tom?" she asked. She looked alarmingly ready to laugh. Elsie gave her a stern look; which unfortunately only acted to set her off into peels of silent laughter. Gwen had now taken to the stage.

"My Lady," Elsie hissed, as Sybil doubled over, "My Lady! Stop it! You're supposed to be weeping in about two minutes!"

When this continued for quite long enough, Elsie- counting down to their cue- was getting anxious. Sybil had straightened up, but remained the picture of mirth. Elsie bit her lip.

"My Lady, I'm dreadfully sorry to have to do this."

"Do what?" Sybil managed to heave quietly, before Elsie sharply boxed one of her ears. Really, with all the feathers she'd been ruffling recently, she was rather lucky that it hadn't before and, now that it had, it was done with the kindest of intentions.

"Thank you for that, Mrs Hughes," she said, taking her arm, sounding much more sober.

"Don't mention it, m'Lady."

Sybil looked sufficiently mournful just in time to be lead on stage.

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