Champagne Charlie

by deeisace (elspeth_jones)

Summary:

Mr Branson, being a socialist, is old friends with the Banners, and as such they journey up to Yorkshire to spend a weekend. Mr Carson is confronted with someone from his past.

Chapter 1

The house was, as ever even in these leaner of times, a hive of activity. They had more staff now than the war years, that was true, but Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes still had something of a time organising the day up to standard.

Today was a Friday in June, and on top of their usual duties, there were visitors arriving in the afternoon. Tom Branson had invited them, whoever they were, which Thomas didn't think much of at all. He would've asked the permission of Lord Grantham, that was certain, but that didn't excuse him. It still rankled Thomas some that Branson had been able to better himself so much, to treat this house as his own.

Thomas had heard the night before, from Bates at dinner via the Earl, that there were to be three guests - they were part of the socialist movement, which is how Branson knew them, and Thomas would lay a bet that the Earl didn't think much of that, although Bates himself hadn't commented himself of course. Far too high of an opinion of himself to lower himself to "petty gossip" - never mind that's how this place is run, in Thomas's opinion. Enough information, you could do what you pleased, plain foolish to overlook that.

Mr Carson confirmed they were to have visitors at breakfast, having finished going through and passing out the morning's post, by announcing the same. "Mr Branson's weekend guests are arriving from London on the five o'clock train today, and Mr Branson is considerate enough to fetch them from the station himself. To that end, we are opening three guest rooms on the second floor - Mrs Hughes informs me that they are Fontenoy, Mortham and Thornbury, so please do remember that's where they've been placed. Mr Barrow, if you might wind the clock in the small library before lunch service. Beyond that, we know our tasks." This seemed to be enough of a dismissal, and the servants, as bid, went about their mornings.

--

Lunch service went off without a hitch - except Molesley almost forgetting a tray, with talking to Baxter, and how downcast Lady Edith was - and so Branson got off to the station in good time to meet his guests from their train.

He saw Mr Banner just as the older bearded man was stepping down from the third class carriage, and went to greet him. "Mr Banner, how good to see you!"

"Mr Branson!" They shook hands, "I was glad to receive your letter inviting us up here, we haven't been out of London in the longest time."

"That and Mr MacDonald is giving a speech tomorrow and you want to hear it." The good natured ribbing came from a slender woman with close-cropped hair who turned as she spoke to extend a hand to another woman - this one with greying hair, glasses and a blue dress - to help her down from their carriage.

"Well, yes, but it's good to see you anyway, and I'm glad to see you in good spirits."

"Thank you." Tom shook hands with the short-haired woman to say hello, "Tom Branson, how do you do?"

"Nancy Astley. Bit of a trek up here, isn't it? I'm glad to be off the train!" She smiled, "This is Flo, Ralph's sister, if you've not met before?"

"Oh, we have once, I think. We were at the same meeting, some years ago, and you knew Ralph."

"Yes, I remember."

"Cy's just gone to get our cases, he'll be along in a minute and we can get going."

"Cy?" Tom asked, confused.

"Cyril Vaughan. I think your in-laws might term him our 'ward'?"

As if summoned at the use of his name, Cyril joined them, carrying two cases. The lanky dark-haired fellow was of an age with Tom, and he smiled as he ambled up. "My ears are burning. Sorry, Dad, the cases took a minute, the porter'd stacked them not half precarious." He passed Nancy one of the cases, so he could shake Tom's hand. "Hello, are you Mr Branson?"

"I am. Sorry, but no one told me you were coming?"

"Oh, no, Dad, I thought you sent a telegram this morning?"

"I did! I thought I sent it in time for it to reach you."

"Ah well, we only get the one post a day out here, unless there's something urgent. I wouldn't worry, I'm sure the housekeeper can open another room for you before too long."

"My, you sound rather grander than last we spoke in person, Mr Branson." Flo smiled to show she was joking.

"Well, if it's too much trouble, I can certainly find rooms somewhere else, I don't want to be a bother. Just that I got a few days off work, thought I might go to the speech with Dad."

"I'm sure one extra person won't trouble Lord Grantham, or the servants. I honestly wouldn't worry, Mr Vaughan."

"Might make the car journey a bit of a squeeze, though! Come on, I'd like to put this case down."

"I'll take it, Miss Astley. I've parked the car just 'round the corner, it's not too far to walk." Tom paused, and continued, "If you'll give me a minute, though, there's a new telephone kiosk at the station entrance. I can call ahead, let Mr Carson know we've an extra passenger!"

--

Branson was correct that Mrs Hughes and Mrs Patmore didn't mind the extra person a jot, but Barrow thought it very interesting, the look on Carson's face when Miss Astley was introduced to the family. He might've swallowed his tongue, though no one else seemed to notice.

Dinner service, as with lunch, passed without comment, except that the guests seemed somewhat uncomfortable to be dining in such a manner. Mr Banner seemed unsure of his forks, and took cues from Mr Branson to his right, and Mr Vaughan wasn't at all sure how to address anyone until the Countess took pity on him. Miss Astley, on the other hand, was quite practiced in her manners, but seemed uncomfortable only with the uncommon pomp and circumstance that surrounds the Crawleys even when they try to hide it. She seemed most uncomforted by Lady Mary, Thomas thought, but she hid it fairly well. She also appeared to be sneaking glances at Carson when she thought no one was looking, which Thomas thought was just as interesting as Carson's picture of a face upon hearing her name. What was going on there? Was the venerable paragon a hypocrite after all?

Chapter 2

There were no new clues forthcoming in the servant's hall after the upstairs dinner either. Barrow was told that if the bell rang for Lauffeld, he ought to go as that was where Mr Vaughan had been placed. Molesley was to go for Mr Banner, in Fontenoy, and Madge was tasked with attending to Miss Banner and Miss Astley, but Mr Carson doubted that any of them would ring, and made it exceedingly clear that standards should not drop, never mind anyone's personal opinions of Mr Branson's guests.

"Personal opinions, Mr Carson? I've only heard good things about them. Do you know any different?"

"Mr Barrow. As always, you would do well not to gossip, and simply do your job."

Barrow began to reply rather waspishly, but quieted at the quelling glance he received from Baxter. Instead, he frowned and shook his paper out, leaning back in his chair discontentedly as Carson left for his office. As Thomas turned his page (onto a page that was chiefly taken up with adverts for modern conveniences), a bell rang from the wall. Looking up, he saw it to be for Fontenoy, and put aside his paper to go and see to it. Perhaps his questions would be answered, you never know. Maybe he'd discover if the long glances upon the arrival of Mr Vaughan were quite as he'd perceived them to be. No crime in hoping, after all.

Barrow was followed out the servants' hall by an unusually harsh "No rest for the wicked," from Mr Bates, and afforded him only a scathing look.

In the corridor upstairs, before knocking at Fontenoy, Barrow wondered if he was being too hopeful. He hadn't had much luck in - Lord, it surely hadn't been an entire decade since the Crowborough debacle? He took a steadying breath and knocked, entering the room at the reply from its occupant.

Mr Vaughan was seated on his bed, as Fontenoy was not equipped with a chair, and perhaps Mr Vaughan hadn't noticed the large enough windowsill, or perhaps -- and he looked up at Thomas's entrance into the room, slight frown giving way to a smile at the sight of him. (Thomas let himself think several immoral hopeful thoughts at the picture, before shutting himself away so as to be professional.)

"Yes, Mr Vaughan?"

"Hello, Mr - Barrow, it was Barrow, wasn't it?"

"It is, Mr Vaughan."

"Can I be forward, and ask your given name? I remember those so much easier than otherwise - I've got my dad's - Mr Banner's, I mean - his memory, mine is terrible, the same -" Cyril fell silent, quite embarrassed at his babbling.

"My name is Thomas, Mr Vaughan." Thomas gave a questioning look, wondering at why he'd called him. Was he being foolish, hoping? It wouldn't be the first or last time, he knew that.

"Oh, I am rude, I do apologise. If I might call you Thomas, then my name is Cyril, of course."

"Of course, Cyril," Thomas echoed him, a little bemused, then, "I can think of a great deal more forward than asking my name, Cyril." That was too forward a thing to say, wasn't it, too bold - but Cyril's quiet smile had broadened, just slightly.

A door closed, down the hall, and Thomas looked up at the noise. Cyril too was brought to his senses some, and fell against his pretext for asking Barrow up. "I - I don't suppose you know how to get a gravy stain out of a white shirt, do you?" He held out his arm, a spot as proof at his cuff, and continued in his nervous babble again. "I spilt it at dinner, and I haven't another clean shirt here, so I really need it for tomorrow, really, and well, I've only just noticed it, really," That's too many 'really's. He took a breath. "Can you help?"

Thomas was even more bemused at this turn. "A gravy stain?" He came to look at it. "It's not a bad one. If you let me have it, I'm sure I can have it out for you by morning." Thomas was also sure he wouldn't ordinarily be so freely kind but he found, quite unlike him, the answering relieved smile to be payment enough.

"Thank you, Thomas," Thomas so rarely heard his given name these days, and never with such a smile, and he found the simple familiarity surprising (only that) enough that he fought a blush at it. Cyril continued, "How would you do it?"

"Do what?" The blush was there, horror.

"Take the stain out. What would you use?"

"Oh. Bicarbonate. The stain'd be be taken out quickly enough that I could have the shirt dry by morning."

"Could I see how you do it? I'll be in similar scrapes soon, I'm sure, and without any help." Cyril wore a self-depreciating smile.

"Well." Thomas swallowed hard, thinking.

"If it's - "

"No, no, it's just, I think everyone will've gone up by now."

"Right?"

"Right." Thomas made his mind up. He might still, he wasn't sure, but - "Come on downstairs, then."

Cyril did as bid, following Thomas to the baize door and down the servants' stairs. As they came to the last flight, into the basement, Thomas went first by a large margin, looking out for any light and listening hard for any sign of the other staff. Some part of him felt silly, being quite so cautious, but then the idea of being out by Carson or anyone that might give him away again, though neither of them had said anything, or done anything, and as he'd once said, it's not illegal to hope - he wasn't certain of Cyril, still, quite, but he had a hope - and the kitchen was deserted. Cyril followed in after him, whispering in the dark. "So what do we need to do?"

Thomas found the light switch and the shelf with the bicarbonate of soda on it, and shook the jar at Cyril, giving it to him. He then found a little bowl from the cupboard, and half filled a glass with water, placing these and a spoon in front of where Cyril stood at the table. "Mix two spoons of the soda with a bit of water, to make a paste."

"Oh, am I doing it, then?"

"Well, it's your shirt. And you said you wanted to learn." Thomas paused, taking a breath. "I'm being unprofessional enough bringing you down here, may as well carry on."

The paste looked right enough to be given a nod of approval from Thomas. Cyril unbuttoned his cuff, and then his shirt, heedless of Thomas's quickly hidden alarm and his quickly returned blush. "Do I just put this on and wait then?"

"Er. Yes. I'd check it in a few minutes, and we can put more of it on if the stain doesn't look shifted."

That done, they looked a pair, silent for the moment, each tall as the other and dark-haired, stood side by side somewhat awkwardly now, one in his undershirt and the other still in uniform.

"So," Cyril swallowed.

Thomas tried not to stare, but he wasn't sure what to say, nor as prone to rambling as Cyril seemed to be. It was a rare thing he got time away from Downton, and rarer still that he got to any sort of point as this. Though what point this was he couldn't say, standing with a shirtless man in the kitchen.

What point it was was answered without him having to voice a question, as Cyril turned fully and put a hand to his face, pausing carefully for permission before kissing him.

Chapter 3

The following day, Barrow returned Cyril's now-clean shirt to him before breakfast. After, Messrs Banner and Vaughan left for their day of speeches, having persuaded Mr Branson to accompany them, to the quiet disapproval of Lord Grantham and Mr Carson. This left Miss Banner and Miss Astley being shown a tour of the gardens by Lady Grantham and Lady Edith before lunch. The conversation as they walked was light and unimportant, with none of the women particularly wishing to be impolite.

"The roses are doing quite well this year, don't you think, Edith? We might win the flower show trophy from your grandmother next month!"

"Yes, Mama, I think we might have a chance this year."

"They are quite beautiful, those red ones. What's their name?"

"Those are the Duke of Edinburgh. I'm told they're quite difficult to grow, our gardener does a good job with them."

"There was a section on gardening in my magazine last month. I'm not sure if it will be continued in the next issue, I'll have to consult my editor - she always knows best, I find." Edith smiled.

"A woman editor? Oh well done, you'd never have seen that in my day."

"Yes, it's a new venture for both of us, but it's going quite well so far. My office is in London, I'll have to take a trip down soon."

"Perhaps we can meet up when you visit? What do you think, Flo?"

"Well, maybe not that place on Hertford Street this time, Nance, but we could go for a coffee one day, certainly."

"You know the bar on Hertford Street?" Edith tried not to give an alarmed look at her mother. "A coffee one afternoon sounds lovely. I'll get your address from Tom nearer the time, if you don't mind, and let you know when I'm next in the city."

"Oh, how lovely, Edith, see how the carnations are doing? So much better today than last week."

--

The three men returned from York about an hour before dinner. They were full of ideas, and talking excitedly between themselves on subjects which didn't much impress Lord Grantham but would have fascinated Daisy the assistant cook.

Seeing this, and being unwilling to stick around for an argument - though she was a good deal more knowledgable on such subjects than when she first came to Quilter Street - Nancy chose to beg off going to dinner under the guise of feeling a little ill. It was a rather transparent effort, to Flo, but Nancy was left to happily make her way to her room with only a knowing look, and Lady Grantham wishing her to feel better.

Upon reaching her room, Nance pulled the bellpull for the maid to come, feeling odd as she did. She hadn't done so in something approaching four decades, and now it seemed strange to ask someone to do something for her in such a way.

"Yes, ma'am? Is everything alright?"

"Everything's fine, thank you - I'm sorry, I don't think I was told your name?"

"It's Anna, ma'am. Madge was supposed to be looking after you, but she's been drafted in for kitchen work, and I'm not busy until Lady Mary needs to change for dinner." Anna smiled.

"Well, Anna - oh, it is a bit odd still to be called ma'am. Am I old enough for that already? Miss Astley, if you please."

"If that's what you'd prefer, m- Miss Astley."

"It is, thank you." They smiled a bit together. "Now, I've begged off dinner. It's rude of me, I know, but I've no desire to be caught in an argument. I said I was ill - don't let on that isn't true, will you?"

"Of course not, Miss Astley, I understand. Mr Branson and Lord Grantham can both be enthusiastic in their opinions."

"Yes, I saw a bit of that starting last night, I'd rather not be present if it does, well, get enthusiastic."

"Of course. Would you like me to send something up on a tray for you?"

"Please, Anna, that would be lovely. I'm only sorry to add to Madge's extra duties!"

"Not to worry, it's no extra work. Just some stairs!" Anna laughed "I'll send something up in about half an hour, if that suits?"

"It does perfectly, thank you. My saviour!"

--

Anna met Barrow on the stairs, going down from Thornbury as he was going up to his room, on a mission to find his gloves for service.

"Miss Astley has asked for a tray in her room, could you tell Mr Carson when you see him, while I let Mrs Patmore know?"

"I'm sure he's quite aware already." replied Barrow, privately thinking he would do so anyway, if only to see the look on Carson's face at the mention of her. He really was out of sorts, there must be some sort of story there.

The look on Carson's face, as it turned out, was harried exasperation, which didn't tell Thomas overmuch about this mystery, given that seemed to be Carson's default position. "I'm aware, Mr Barrow. Now I'm going up to let the family know to go in for dinner, if you wouldn't mind finding your way to the kitchen now you've found your gloves."

--

Nancy had been correct in her feeling, there was indeed an argument at dinner. It was chiefly, as always, involving Lord Grantham and Mr Branson - though, apart from the norm, Tom had the Banner siblings at his back, and Cyril as a quieter support. Fortunately for them all (though perhaps not for Barrow's entertainment levels), Cora was able to quiet the table, and dessert was uneventful in conversation - though not in enjoyment, it being Mrs Patmore's famous Apple Charlotte.

Nance passed her dinner hour rather quieter. She changed from the day's skirts into a shirt and trousers - not as shocking as forty years previous, but she thought she might still have given the maid who brought her tray up a bit of a start anyway. She leant at the window, smoking, for a while, pondering on why Mr Carson seemed at all familiar. She was sure she didn't know him, but there was something to him. Perhaps he just had one of those faces.