AN: If you squint, there's a spot of *gasp* Thomas/Jimmy in this chap!
Consider a shawl.
Those words haunted his climb to the Morning Room. The Dowager Countess was seventy eight this year and she didn't wear a shawl! What on earth had possessed him to suggest in front of main household staff that Elsie Hughes would ever have need of a shawl? And the humming? He was a stupid, stupid, oaf of a man. Stupid!
Charles spent the rest of the morning trying to prevent his mind from returning to that moment. Unnecessary spot-inspections of the bedrooms and attics had helped. Briefly. But the more he tried to sink into the role of Butler, to merge himself with the fabric of his suit, the more he was aware that he was putting on a performance, and a bad one at that.
He wanted to go to Mrs Hughes - to apologise for his ghastly attempt at… at what? A compliment? Taking care of her? Charles wasn't even sure what his intentions had been, now that he thought about it. But he knew that he didn't think her in need of a blasted shawl, or… or old, like he was. He wanted to tell her-
"Like this, Mr. Carson?"
Pulled from his thoughts, Charles had to blink once, twice, to place himself back in his pantry, the edge of his desk biting into his thigh. James was holding up a silver platter, rarely used by the family, and using large exaggerated movements to bring out his reflection.
"Small, precise circles," he snapped, snatching the platter away from James and demonstrating how to polish correctly for the umpteenth time. "It's in the wrist not the elbow!"
Rubbing at the bottom of a salt cellar, Alfred frowned. "Like this Mr. Carson?"
"Not over the hallmark!" Charles thundered, grabbing the container that Alfred was polishing before the young footman could react. "Good God, man! The make still needs to be legible when you are finished!" He treated them both to his sternest glare. "Can neither of you be trusted? Do either of you listen to a word that I say?!"
Alfred wilted, losing several inches height in a matter of seconds. James stared straight ahead at the silver safe, fists clenched, eyes dangerously close to watering.
Too late, Charles realized how cutting his words had been. "I... think that's enough for today," he said carefully, placing the platter and salt cellar down as gently as he wished he'd treated the boys.
The footmen hesitated.
"Go on," he encouraged. "I'll finish up here."
James immediately dumped his apron on the table and strode out of the room, but Alfred lingered, folding his apron with infinite care. "I'm sorry, Mr Carson-"
Charles shook his head. As usual, he couldn't find the words to make this right. "I'll call for you both in an hour," he said eventually, pushing his polishing cloth around the table. Alfred nodded, closing the door behind him with a muted click.
Surveying the complete mess he'd made of his footmen's first silver lesson, Charles dropped into his chair with a loud, undignified thump.
Mrs. Hughes was having a bad day. Six sets of bed linens and their pillow cases were mysteriously missing from the linen closet, disappeared off to God-knows-where, and, to top that off nicely-
"But why can't we have a copy of the key made? You can't tell me it doesn't make sense!"
-her tentative truce with Mrs. Patmore had just broken over the blasted key to the store cupboard.
Elsie took in Beryl's stance – feet planted firmly on the stone flooring, hands on hips, apron stained with that evening's dessert – and knew she had to nip this in the bud. "You know it doesn't work like that Mrs Patmore-"
"But it isn't right!"
Taking a deep, calming breath, the housekeeper counted to ten. It wouldn't do to completely lose her cool with the kitchen-maids watching. "Mrs. Patmore. Let me make myself perfectly clear. The next time you summon me, it had better be for a good reason."
"Or what?"
Mrs. Hughes let the question hang in the air for a few moments, eyes narrowed. In her peripheral vision, a large metal pot began to boil over. Nobody moved.
"Or I'll have to start advertising for a new cook!"
Daisy and Ivy flinched. Slowly, like a drawbridge on rusted hinges, Beryl's mouth dropped open. Past caring, Mrs. Hughes turned on her heel and stormed out of the kitchen.
"Mrs. Hughes," Anna began, falling into step with the Housekeeper, arms full of white pressed linens. "We've found the-"
"Not now, Anna."
"But the-"
"I said not now!"
Taken aback Anna came to a stop, allowing Mrs. Hughes to continue barrelling down the corridor, towards her sitting room. The door slammed shut behind her.
"I don't see why Mr. Carson's in such a foul mood."
O'Brien paused, mid-stitch. It had been several years since the deaths of the Crawley cousins and most of Lady Grantham's mourning clothes were in desperate need of updating. However, she couldn't help setting down her work for a moment to regard her slumped-shouldered, clueless nephew trudging into the Servant's Hall behind the loudly-complaining James.
"I'm sure if you think hard enough you can come up with something," she droned, re-threading her needle with practised hand.
The young men pulled out two chairs and sank into them heavily. Alfred sighed. "We're terrible at polishing silver."
The ladies' maid tutted. "No – think again."
"Well, they're not great." A few seats away, Thomas smiled scornfully. "I could hear our esteemed Butler's 'voice-raising' from the Livery Room," he explained, drawing out a frown on both Alfred and James' young foreheads, "… no offence chaps."
Stretching out his gloved hand he offered them each a cigarette. Alfred supposed it was the under-butler's way of being kind but declined, politely. James accepted his. Grudgingly.
O'Brien pursed her lips as Thomas lit the cigarette between James' teeth but she said nothing, shifting her work away from the fumes. Alfred cleared his throat uncomfortably. "So if it's not us who's… who's upset Mr Carson then what?"
"Lady Sybil," James shrugged, blowing smoke towards the ceiling. "Bound to be, in't it."
There was a long pause in which Sarah looked down at the delicate black dress cradled in her lap.
"Perhaps," she agreed eventually, when she could be sure that her voice was steady. "But, I think that Mr Carson's problem has more to do with a woman who's… alive and kicking."
The sound of a slamming door echoed down the corridor. No one moved to investigate. It was probably safer not to.
"What about Mrs. Hughes?"
O'Brien turned to look at her nephew proudly. He was finally catching on. "Exactly, Alfred. Mrs. Hughes."
Pleased that he had got there in the end, she found her place on Lady Grantham's dress and resumed sewing.
"But… what does Mrs. Hughes have to do with Mr. Carson's bad mood?"
Sarah sighed. Sometimes she wondered if Alfred really was related to her. "Cast your minds back to breakfast…"
The footmen looked at each other blankly.
"It's obvious!"
Thomas rolled his eyes. "When those two fight, the rest of us suffer. Haven't you picked up on that yet?"
"Yeah, 'course," James bristled, puffing out his chest. "It's a chain of command thing."
O'Brien snorted.
"What are we talking about?"
The group started at the unexpected voice. Anna had entered the servant's hall and was hovering near the head of the table with a pile of linens.
Sarah cursed the head-housemaid's soft step. "What are we talking about?" she repeated, stalling for time. "Oh… just-"
"Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes," Alfred supplied helpfully.
He was completely unaware of the glare this earned him from Thomas and O'Brien.
"Oh." Anna took a moment to brush the table of imaginary crumbs before setting down her linens. "Then it's none of our business, is it."
James pointed at her with his cigarette. "It is when we're getting unfairly chewed out."
"Especially not when we're getting chewed out," Anna retorted. She eyed James' cigarette with a look of distaste that O'Brien suddenly found herself tempted to light up.
"You don't interfere with the relationships of others," the head-housemaid continued, speaking to the room. "It's just asking for trouble. They'll sort it out; you'll see."
"If you say so," dismissed O'Brien, stabbing Lady Crawley's sleeve viciously with her needle.
"Wouldn't dream of it," Alfred smiled.
Nodding, Anna gathered up the linens and swept out of the servant's hall before the scent of cigarette could take.
"Good for nothing busy-body," O'Brien muttered darkly.
Smirking, Thomas lit up. "Hmm," he pondered, smoke escaping his teeth like the breath of a dragon. "Asking for trouble…"
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Dun dun Duuuuuuuuuh! ;)
P.S. I know there wasn't any Chelsie interaction in the chap, but I promise there will be in the next. Thanks for sticking with me, dear readers.