Tom Branson (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
irish_radical) wrote2012-09-03 04:50 pm
irish_radical) wrote2012-09-03 04:50 pm
[Milliways]: Below stairs
“You shouldn’t have eaten with us,” says O’Brien, her ladyship’s maid. “The chauffeur always eats in his own cottage.”
Branson looks up from his paper in surprise. He hadn’t thought anyone would mind.
“Steady on,” answers Bates, his lordship’s valet, from his seat next to Branson. “You can cut him a bit of slack on his second day.”
Perhaps he wasn’t finding his feet as well as he’d thought, but at least Bates seemed to think there was no harm in it.
“I’m waiting to take old Lady Grantham,” Branson explains. It seemed a waste to go all the way out to his cottage for dinner and then come back to wait again.
“Even then, Taylor never et with us,” O’Brien points out. “You’re taking advantage of Mrs. Hughes absence.”
Now that, he certainly wasn’t doing, and he was sure O’Brien knew it. He’d worked with her type before, trying to lord it over whoever she could, seeing herself as higher than them. So instead of answering, he looks over at Bates. “What are you doing?”
“I’m sewing the collars,” he says. “Removing the ones that have come to an end.”
“What happens to his lordship’s old clothes?” Branson asks, genuinely curious.
“What’s it to you?” O’Brien buts in. “Clothes are a valet’s perk, not a chauffeur’s.”
“I get some,” Bates says, a frustrated look on his face directed at O’Brien rather than Branson. “Most of it goes into the missionary barrel.”
Branson sighs. So like the nobility to think the best they can do for the poor is give them their discarded, unwanted belongings. “I know it’s meant to be kind,” he says. “But I can think of better ways of helping the needy than sending stiff collars to the equator.”
Bates smiles, friendly and amused, and looks up at O’Brien, who gives him a sour look in return.
Branson was starting to get his bearings here too. Family politics extended below stairs as well.
Branson looks up from his paper in surprise. He hadn’t thought anyone would mind.
“Steady on,” answers Bates, his lordship’s valet, from his seat next to Branson. “You can cut him a bit of slack on his second day.”
Perhaps he wasn’t finding his feet as well as he’d thought, but at least Bates seemed to think there was no harm in it.
“I’m waiting to take old Lady Grantham,” Branson explains. It seemed a waste to go all the way out to his cottage for dinner and then come back to wait again.
“Even then, Taylor never et with us,” O’Brien points out. “You’re taking advantage of Mrs. Hughes absence.”
Now that, he certainly wasn’t doing, and he was sure O’Brien knew it. He’d worked with her type before, trying to lord it over whoever she could, seeing herself as higher than them. So instead of answering, he looks over at Bates. “What are you doing?”
“I’m sewing the collars,” he says. “Removing the ones that have come to an end.”
“What happens to his lordship’s old clothes?” Branson asks, genuinely curious.
“What’s it to you?” O’Brien buts in. “Clothes are a valet’s perk, not a chauffeur’s.”
“I get some,” Bates says, a frustrated look on his face directed at O’Brien rather than Branson. “Most of it goes into the missionary barrel.”
Branson sighs. So like the nobility to think the best they can do for the poor is give them their discarded, unwanted belongings. “I know it’s meant to be kind,” he says. “But I can think of better ways of helping the needy than sending stiff collars to the equator.”
Bates smiles, friendly and amused, and looks up at O’Brien, who gives him a sour look in return.
Branson was starting to get his bearings here too. Family politics extended below stairs as well.