Hey lovely people ;D Next chapter, as promised. Can I just say, I am stoked with the feedback you guys have given me, and in such a short period of time. A special thanks to all my reviewers: , Mary Austin, lizzy384 , Davy Tex and the guests who, unfortunately, I can't name. And to my followers and favouriters – happy Fanfiction-ing!

Sparki: I know nothing!


Upstairs, downstairs, and up again.

Can't a lad find a moment of peace?

The answer was, and would remain, Thomas supposed, no. Not with two birthdays of note to be celebrated within the month, and his Lordship throwing extravagant feasts every other evening. Thomas scoffed.

No indeed.

In fact, it was Lord Grantham whom was to blame for this latest disruption of Thomas' carefully constructed schedule. The footman had only just escaped from Carson's den, and was on his way to the library, when he was ensnared, once again, by the infuriatingly calm call of Anna.

"Mrs. Hughes says that his Lordship needs you upstairs," she informed him. With the slowly-ageing Mr. Bates in London, Thomas had again temporarily assumed the much coveted position of Lord Grantham's valet, and although he was elated by this opportunity to turn the tables on Bates' supposed superiority, he was less than infatuated with the increased work load.

Leaving Anna to shake her pretty little head at his retreating back, Thomas made his way up the grand stairway. All the morning, he had been struggling to overcome a serious case of 'the yawns'. Groggily, he muffled his latest outburst with a gloved hand.

Distracted by his lingering fatigue, Thomas rounded the corner, only to collide with someone racing, quite recklessly, in the opposite direction. He leapt backwards, and the books he'd been thus far unable to return to Downton's library landed with a thud upon the carpet. Thomas thanked his lucky stars that he'd not been carrying anything that would have been missed. However, where his shirt had once been crisp and white, a great smear, dark and ugly, tainted the freshly pressed material. Fuming, he glared down at his assailant. For a moment, he wanted to scream at the child. But as he eyes travelled over his ruined livery, the girl looked so very mortified, that his anger deflated at a rate he would have previously deemed impossible.

"And where are you off to in such a hurry, Miss Branson?" he inquired, raising a dark brow slightly. Young Sybil looked up at him, wide-eyed.

"Mr. Barrow!" she cried, clearly terrified. "I'm so sorry! Truly I am!"

It was then that Thomas noticed the muddy mess that caked the front of Miss Branson's frock. The blatant fact that he was not alone in his state of dishevelment, even if his partner was a child, lifted his spirits considerably. However, he doubted the girl's punishment could possibly be more severe than the verbal berate he would surely receive from Carson. Miss Branson, judging by her painfully displayed air of panic, seemed to disagree.

"You've got to help me!" she pleaded, her muddy hands clenched into tight little fists. Thomas honoured the girl with an odd look.

"I've got to do no such thing," he informed her, rather flatly. As she watched, he leaned down, retrieving the scattered books. "His Lordship has called for me, so I must be on my way."

He made to walk past her, but Miss Branson placed her small form promptly in the midst of the hallway. Even Thomas could not ignore such a display of determination, no matter how young the scowl.

"Never mind Grandfather!" the child exclaimed. "What about Grandmother? She's the one I'm running from!" With fumbling fingers, she held out the skirts of her ruined dress. "You can't imagine the trouble I'll be in if she sees me like this!"

Thomas found himself smiling. "I have an inkling, Miss," he murmured. At this, young Sybil very nearly leapt up and down upon the spot.

"Then you have to help me! You simply have to!"

With a sigh, Thomas placed the reclaimed pile of novels upon the hall table. "What exactly do you want me to do, Miss?" he ventured. He couldn't help but wonder what it was exactly that he was getting himself into.

"Hide me!" Miss Branson suggested in desperation. "Help me get back to my room before she sees me!" With a smirk, Thomas took in the girl's bedraggled appearance. 'Hiding her' would be a task easier said than done.

"May I ask," he began, "what exactly happened to you, Miss?"

At this, the little girl gave an indignant huff. "George thought it would be fun to have a mud fight." Miserably, she glanced down at the slowly-drying dirt that stained the pretty material. "Only, he didn't think to ask whether I thought it would be as well."

Thomas felt a wave of pity for the girl. He could only imagine what it must be like to share a nursery with the son of Matthew and Mary Crawley. Gazing past her, he threw an anxious look around the hallway ahead. His Lordship would be waiting for him... He turned his eyes once more to Miss Branson. She returned his gaze, looking so forlorn he very nearly agreed then and there. As he parted his lips, still not certain of the reply that would slip forth, they were both met with the dreaded click of heels travelling the carpet.

Before he could stop her, young Sybil dove beneath the mahogany table. From within her shelter, she peered up at him with pleading eyes. "Help," he appealed wordlessly. Decisively, Thomas planted himself firmly in front of the table, just as Lady Grantham appeared from around the corner. With a deceptively neutral smile, he dipped his head as she made to hurry past.

"M'lady," he offered. The woman stopped, and glanced up at the footman.

"Thomas," she sighed, her heavy accent accentuating the note of exasperation in her voice, "have you seen Miss Sybil?"

He could almost feel the girl freeze where she crouched, shielded from her grandmother's doe-like gaze by the barricade of his legs. Undaunted, Thomas gave a nonchalant shake of his head.

"I'm afraid not, M'lady," he replied. As the answer left his lips, he watched as Lady Grantham's gaze slipped lower and lower, finally resting upon his muddied livery. She raised her slender brows in question. Thomas glanced down at his shirt, in what he hoped appeared a fickle manner.

"A little mishap in the gardens," he gave by way of explanation. "Nothing a lick of soap won't cure, M'lady." Absently, the woman nodded, having already lost interest in Thomas' 'mishap'. "Just be sure to see it gone before dinner," she added, almost as an afterthought. Thomas gave a complying dip of his head. Lady Grantham sighed again.

"If you do see Miss Branson, tell her it would be best to find herself in the drawing room as soon as possible." With a rustle of skirts, her Ladyship disappeared down the hall.

Moments passed before Thomas dare move but a muscle. When he was finally certain Lady Grantham would not rush back to discover his dishonesty, he stepped away from the table.

"You can come out now, Miss Branson," Thomas informed the fugitive. With a sigh of relief, the little girl emerged from her hiding place. Luckily for her conspirator, she'd managed not to leave any stains upon the carpet or walls. Lingering on all fours, she gazed up at the footman with an expression of gratitude and awe. Thomas couldn't help but frown at the child's curious reaction.

"What is it, Miss?" he asked. Miss Branson's gape grew wider.

"It's just... y-you lied to Grandmother!" she exclaimed. "And she didn't catch you!" With a scrambling motion, the girl climbed to her feet. "She always catches me," she added, sounding somewhat envious. Thomas knew it was surely less than beneficial to encourage the Earl of Grantham's granddaughter in her pursuit of a successfully spun story, but he couldn't help but give her a somewhat sly smile.

"Practise, Miss," he told the child. "Practise is all it takes."

It wasn't much; a titbit of advice, nothing more. But Sybil Branson gazed up at him as though he'd just shared with her the secret to life-long health and happiness. Thomas involuntarily took a step backwards, uncomfortable under her silent appraisal. After a short time of silence, the girl shut her mouth promptly, her cheeks reddening ever so slightly.

"Thank you, Mr. Barrow," she murmured, suddenly very interested in her scuffed-up shoes. Although he was no longer in her line of sight, Thomas dipped his head.

"You're welcome, Miss Branson." Hastily, he reclaimed his forgotten book, and made the best one-handed attempt to right his ruined livery. "Now, how on earth am I to explain this to His Lordship?" he murmured, more to himself than to the girl. When he glanced down, Miss Branson was peering at him apologetically. A sudden image of the child bursting into a fit on uncontrollable tears, then and there in the hallway, flitted terrifyingly before his eyes. Thomas gave Miss Branson yet another smile.

Christ, how many am I to give the little thing?

"It's alright, Miss," he assured her. "No harm done." His eyes lifting from the girl, he peered down the hall.

"I'd best be off then," he told her. "Before your grandfather comes searching for me." Honouring the girl with one last glance, he offered a small bow. "Better run along, Miss Branson. Before your grandmother finds you."

With that, he moved past her, and made his hastily towards Lord Grantham's chambers, his mind working desperately for a way to explain his tardiness, and the mud now smeared across his front.

Oh well.


It was only later as Thomas stood in the dining hall, silently surveying the meal that played out before him, did he realise that on that frantic dash to His Lordship's aid, not once did the notion of exposing the girl's folly come to mind. In those few, hurried seconds, his nimble mind had overturned countless possibilities and scenarios: a muddy patch in the garden, a mishap in the kitchen, even a run-in with the ageing Isis. But never once, did Thomas consider blaming young Sybil Branson. Tray in hand, he made his way slowly around the expansive table, stopping when he was bid to, and passing by when he was ignored. As he neared the youngest members of the family, he saw young George Crawley attempting to fling a catapult of peas at his cousin whilst his mother attention rested elsewhere. But Sybil Branson could not have been less interested in the boy's attempts at infuriating her. She was watching Thomas with wide, smiling eyes. As the footman moved to pass the pair, the little girl spoke, her voice bright and clear.

"May I have some more pudding, please Thomas?"

Thomas froze. All eyes turned to the girl. But Miss Branson simply gazed back at them, her face calm, her small smile unwavering.

"What?" she questioned the askance of her relations. "Thomas is his name, after all."

Despite himself, Thomas smiled.


I hope you all enjoyed it. Next chapter coming as soon as possible – sorry in advance if there is to be a delay; I'm working on two stories at the moment. Please review, and read on!