Author's Note: "Nothing takes the past away like the future."
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.
It was not really a servant's door at all.
The 'hidden' bookcase-fronted door that Branson had nearly always used to enter the library back in the days when he had been the chauffeur did not open onto a servant's corridor. It opened into the Music Room.
The Music Room was a gorgeous chamber boasting a hardwood floor made for dancing, one east-facing and two south-facing windows giving stunning views of both Jackdaw's Castle and Heaven's Gate, walls vibrant with 16th century tapestries, and a high ceiling made glorious by a baroque painting of Athena Ascendant.
Nonetheless, it functioned as a kind of auxiliary servant's waiting room, a handy place to nip into if a family member unexpectedly entered the library or drawing room, because the current Crawley family were Not Musical.
Except for Lady Edith, whose little spinet lived in the room, ranged for safety against the interior wall it shared with the drawing room.
And now Branson, who found it an ideal place to practice his 'threes and sevens.'
This morning Tom had coaxed Edith to come and play jig tunes for him, and he'd brought Sybbie down from the nursery as well, so she could observe the proceedings from the safety of a heavy quilt set a little distance away. Edith had thought the noise might bother the child, but apparently not. Part of time she watched her father with wise baby eyes, the rest of the time she dozed, as if the lively jig and the click of Tom's shoes on the wooden floor were a lullaby.
"Tom," Edith said, when the Irishman had at last tired of his exercise, scooped up his daughter, and collapsed next to his sister-in-law on the piano bench.
"Edith," he responded smilingly, exhausted but charmed by the simple joy of being permitted to call her by name.
"Did you ever think we'd end up like this?"
"Have we ended?" he asked.
"I'm afraid so…. I think you missed the Revolution, Tom."
The voice of the former Laura Dunsany sounded again in his ears. 'I'll never forget what you did either.' "Perhaps the Revolution wasn't all it was cracked up to be," he opined.
The music and dancing had been pure pleasure. Unfortunately, now he had business to attend to. Maybe.
Branson arrived at the Dower House as directed that sunny late afternoon to find himself greeted not by the venerable Jamison, but by a plump and supercilious young man who so closely resembled Anthony Ryan that Tom half expected to hear the lilt of a jackeen, instead of the consciously deep-voiced tones affected by the stereotypical English pseudo-steward.
"I got a message Lady Grantham wanted to see me," he advised the new butler.
"You must be Mr. Branson."
"That's right."
"She's expecting you, Mr. Branson." The new man stepped back to allow the agent to follow him to her ladyship's study to face his doom.
"So you found someone," he greeted her when the door had closed behind the butler's retreating figure.
"Luckily for you," the Dowager agreed tartly. "What do you think of him?"
"I think he might be my half-brother's long lost twin."
A frown ghosted across the wrinkled face at his levity, but all she said, since her new butler was profoundly unlike Kiaran Branson, was, "Do you mean your brother Will?"
Branson looked surprised by the suggestion. "No, Tony."
The ancient brow wrinkled. Just how many brothers did he have? "His name is Spratt," she informed him.
"Tony's? And here I thought it was Ryan," he couldn't help teasing.
He was treading on dangerous ground. "No," old Lady Grantham fumed. "My new butler's!"
"Is it indeed? Spratt, eh? Who'd have guessed it?" The Irishman cast an involuntary glance back at the closed door, then faced forward again to smile at his now irate grandmother-in-law. "'Jack Spratt could eat no fat,'" he began reciting happily in a sing-song voice, very satisfied with himself. "'His wif—'"
"He hasn't got a wife," the old woman tried to cut him off.
"I could introduce him to Big Bertha in the laundry," Branson offered. "I've no doubt she'd be willing to help him lick—"
"Branson!"
The young man raised his eyebrows inquiringly.
"Vulgarity is no substitute for wit," she reproved.
He paused a moment, apparently in thought. After due consideration, he suggested, "It can be."
"Why did you want to see me?" he asked awkwardly, a good quarter of an hour later when she had at last finished scolding him, and he could again get a word in edgeways.
"Well," she sighed, "I may have had success in replacing Jamison, but Mrs. Jamison is another matter. So I thought I would check, just in case: how is your cooking?"
