Author's Note: The time is late June 1913.

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.

Thomas was bored. He tried to concentrate on the newspaper, but he really didn't care that Lloyd George had been acquitted, nor did he care that the ocean liner Imperator had docked safely in New York after its maiden voyage (however glad he might be that there would be no occasion for a repetition of Daisy's gloomy keening about the fate of the passengers of the Titanic).

Thomas lowered the newspaper and listened to the silence. The only sounds in the servants' hall that afternoon were the ticking of the clock on the wall, the muted murmur of the voices of the kitchen staff drifting in from two rooms away, and the occasional rustle as Mr. Branson turned the page of his own newspaper.

The chauffeur didn't speak, nor even look up. Had there been anyone else in the room, the first footman would have passed a remark on the news, but it seemed foolish to interrupt the chauffeur's perusal of the paper only to tell him about what he was already reading. Thomas wished he himself were as absorbed. He clicked his teacup against his saucer, just to hear a different sound.

The Irishman looked up the table at the footman. Thomas saw the blue eyes flash as they took in the cause of the noise: a teacup. The chauffeur blinked a moment, then the blue eyes returned to his newspaper.

Thomas' interest stirred. A good servant knows what is wanted without its having to be requested; it was obvious to the footman that the chauffeur wanted a cup of tea. Yet, he made no move to get one. Curious.

Thomas considered what Miss O'Brien had told him: that she had accused the chauffeur of taking advantage by eating in the servants' hall the night of the fair, and that the new man had taken her remarks to heart to the extent of making sure the house received credit for 'boarding' him when he dined there, though he had apparently omitted mention of Miss O'Brien's name in broaching the matter to the housekeeper. The lady's maid had been well pleased.

Thomas had himself heard the butler invite the chauffeur to dine with them that night, just as he had been present when Carson had issued blanket permission for the chauffeur to come to the servants' hall for the purpose of reading the newspapers. No mention had been made of tea. Here might be an opportunity for some amusement.

"Would you like a cup of tea, Mr. Branson?" the footman asked.

The blue eyes rose to consider this offer, their expression that of a polite and well-trained child who has been offered a treat he certainly wants, but one he is uncertain he has parental permission to accept. After a moment, the lilting voice, tinged with regret, demurred, "I don't want to make any trouble."

Thomas smothered a smile. "It wouldn't be any trouble if you went to the kitchen and got it yourself."

The chauffeur shot a worried glance towards the kitchen, from which the cook's strident voice was just audible. "I don't think—"

"Mrs. Patmore!" Thomas called, suddenly. "Mr. Branson is out here perishing for a cup of tea, but he's afraid you'll eat him if he comes into the kitchen for one. Are you going to?"

"Tell him to come in here and find out!" She called back.

The look of alarm this engendered on the chauffeur's face was delicious. Thomas nearly licked his lips with delight. "Come now, Mr. Branson," the footman urged encouragingly. "Faint heart never won a cuppa."

Mr. Branson rose, chuckling despite himself, and gave a mock salute. "We who are about to die salute you," before going into the kitchen to meet his fate.

Thomas followed at a discrete distance to enjoy the show, and found his afternoon enlivened by the spectacle of the stout redheaded cook showing the chauffeur how to draw water from the boiler to add to the big pot steeping endlessly on the stove, and advising him of his probable fate should he fail to return his cup to the counter when he had finished, because 'we aren't employed here to wait on you, Mr. Branson.'

Thomas was once again seated at the long table when Mr. Branson returned to the servants' hall, flushed, but clearly happy with a cup and saucer.

"She leave any marks?" the footman asked jokingly.

Mr. Branson smiled. "None that'll last." The chauffeur sipped his tea happily, then set the cup in its saucer, and looked at the footman. "Thank you, Thomas."

One black eyebrow rose. "I can't think what for, but you're welcome."