"Who's this for, then? And why are you doing it down here?" wondered Thomas.
Emma looked up curiously from her homework. Her gaze moved from her father to O'Brien and finally to Alfred, who had spread out the evening shirts on the table.
"This is for Mr. Matthew. It wasn't quite smooth, so I had it ironed down here," explained Alfred.
"You've never attended to him before," observed Thomas, quickly asking the next question, "What about Mr. Molesley?"
"He's staying at Crawley House," Anna explained.
"Oh, and why wasn't I asked?"
"Mr. Carson thought it was better this way," said O'Brien.
"Really?" doubted Thomas, glared at O'Brien angrily, "How did that come about?" and turned back to Alfred, "And if you're intent on learning your trade, never spread a shirt in a room like this, as it could get stained," he advised, "And it could crease. Do it in the dressing room and nowhere else."
"Thank you very much," he said a little intimidated.
"Yes, thank you very much, Thomas," the maid whispered, "For always being so exceptionally helpful."
Before Thomas could respond or sit down, the dressing bell rang. Emma sighed. She had actually needed her father's help with her homework. Why did the bell always ring at the most inconvenient times? Suddenly, the servants' hall was empty.
Emma gathered her books and homework, feeling a pang of frustration. She had been hoping to get some assistance from her father. Schoolwork was difficult enough without the distractions of life at Downton Abbey.
She made her way towards the kitchen. There she found Mrs. Hughes overseeing the preparation of the evening meal. Daisy Patmore was busy chopping vegetables, and Mrs. Patmore was scurrying around, ensuring everything was in order. Emma hesitated for a moment, feeling a bit out of place among the busy stuff. Then she approached Mrs. Hughes, who looked up with a warm smile.
"What can I do for you, Emma?" Mrs. Hughes inquired.
Emma cleared her throat nervously. "I was wondering if I could get some help with my homework, Mrs. Hughes."
Mrs. Hughes nodded understandingly. "Of course, dear. I'd be happy to help you with your homework. What subject are you working on?"
"It's history," Emma replied. She began to explain the topic and the questions she was struggling with.
"Well then, let's have a look, shall we?" she said with a warm smile. "I'll assist you today, but in the future, you should seek help from Mister Molesley. He's the best at helping you with history."
A few evenings later, the servants were particularly stressed. Mr. Molesley rushed up the stairs breathlessly on his way to Mr. Matthew, Daisy couldn't get the oven to heat up, Mrs. Patmore had the usual kitchen madness, and then Thomas came running into the servants' hall, clearly upset, "Where are they?"
"Where should what be?" wondered Anna.
"His damn evening shirts! That's what it's about!" Thomas hissed angrily and fixed Alfred with a steely gaze, "Where have you put them?"
"I haven't touched his evening shirts. Why would I?" Alfred said, and Thomas's eyes immediately turned to O'Brien, "Did you do it?"
"Thomas, why would I know anything about his lordship's shirts?"
"If I find out..." threatened Thomas, but O'Brien waved it off, "Stop with the theatrics and hurry up. Her Ladyship is already in the drawing room. And his lordship isn't even dressed yet?" From his expression, Emma was pretty sure Thomas was considering a comeback, but he just hurried up the stairs to the upper floor.
Then came the news of the broken oven, and an unconventional house picnic for the upstairs was now to take place. The only positive thing was that the servants actually forgot her presence and connection to Thomas.
"Who brought them back?" asked Thomas angrily.
"What?," asked Anna, to which Emma slapped her hand against her forehead - which none of the adults saw, because apparently, tonight she was invisible to everyone - anyway, Anna had been there earlier when her dad was looking for the shirts.
"The shirts. Who brought them back?"
"Oh, they're back, are they? That means you must have overlooked them in your search," O'Brien chuckled amusedly.
"Don't tell me what that means, Mrs. O'Brien. I can only warn you."
"Oh, listen to you talking. You sound like Tom Mix in one of those Wild West films. Stop warning me and get his lordship's pyjamas ready instead."
Emma quietly followed her father outside. Her dad had already lit a cigarette and took a deep puff. He exhaled the smoke from his lungs and gave Emma a wry smile. "I'm smoking outside, and you still follow me," he remarked.
Emma approached and perched on one of the many stacked delivery crates. She was nearly as tall as her dad now. "I can tell you who it was," she said, and that piqued her father's interest, as he looked at her expectantly.
"Alfred," she revealed. "I saw him bring back the shirts."
"I suspected as much," Thomas said and took another drag of his cigarette. "What else can you tell me?"
Emma briefly considered how much she should reveal to him. Eventually, she decided to be as honest as possible. She knew her dad had a dislike for Alfred and, more recently, O'Brien. "Alfred and Reed kissed," she finally said. "And I think Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Hughes are keeping a secret too. And Mr. Carson is trying to find out Mrs. Hughes's secret."
Her father leaned against the house wall and looked thoughtfully at the smoke rising into the sky. "Those are indeed valuable and interesting pieces of information, Emma," Thomas acknowledged before showing a small smile. "You seem to have your ears everywhere, don't you?"
Emma just shrugged and played with a lock of her dark brown hair. "On some days, I seem to be invisible, as none of you seem to notice me."
Thomas affectionately nudged her shoulder. "I always see you, my little dwarf," and couldn't help but grin. "I really appreciate your honesty. You've earned some sweets."
So, the next day, she had enough pennies to buy a mixed bag of various candies from Griffiths' grocery store after school. "Are you looking forward to the next wedding?" Phoebe, the 12-year-old daughter of the shopkeeper, asked.
"My enthusiasm is quite limited," Emma replied with boredom. "I was flower girl at Lady Mary's wedding, but at Lady Edith's, the children from Sir Anthony Strallan's relatives will take on the task," she shrugged. "But I don't really care, because I hardly have any contact with Lady Edith."
Once again they sat together to eat.
"Miss O'Brien, may I ask what you've confided in Mr. Molesley but kept from the rest of us?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"Mr. Molesley has apparently given your ladyship the impression that you are planning some sort of change."
"What does that mean?"
"Oh... I apologize. I thought your ladyship knew," Molesley said hesitated.
"Knew what?"
"That you're planning to leave." Molesley explained.
"I must insist! How dare you accuse me of such a thing!"
"But..."
"Isn't it time for the dressing bell, Mr. Carson?" Thomas quickly changed the subject.
"Indeed," Carson agreed and headed for the bell.
"But..." Molesley stammered, looking at Thomas.
"Excuse me, Mr. Molesley, but I have something to attend to, unlike you," Thomas brushed him off, briefly placing his hand on his child's shoulder. "See you later, little dwarf."
"I'll have to deal with you later," O'Brien threatened.
"Now you're in a fix... I wouldn't want to be in your shoes for a gold watch," Daisy remarked. So, only Emma and Molesley remained in the servants' hall.
"Mrs. O'Brien is a nasty witch," Emma confided. "I'd be careful in your place," and she packed up her school things.
Lady Edith's wedding took place on a school day, which meant that Emma couldn't attend because she had to go to school. She only found out in the evening that the wedding had been called off. Sir Anthony Strallan had left poor Lady Edith standing at the altar.
Emma looked disgustedly at the dinner spread. Just because the wedding had been canceled, did they have to eat like the aristocrats? Why didn't the upstairs residents eat the food? They had requested it. Why did she have to suffer because of it?
"Is this all we're getting? Just these little appetizers?" Alfred asked.
"Well, not quite," sighed Thomas. "These are canapés, Alfred. How about some truffle and egg on toast as a starter, perhaps? Or do you want Oysters a la russe."
"What's next?" Alfred still didn't seem convinced by the food selection. Emma, however, could completely understand. She found the food quite off-putting and unappetizing.
"There's lobster pie in Musselin sauce or duck glazed with Calvados. Or would you prefer asparagus salad with Champagne-saffron vinaigrette?" Mrs. Patmore took over the further explanation of the menu.
"When I think of how much trouble it's been for you," Mrs. Hughes spoke.
"I'm not important," sighed Mrs. Patmore. "What about the pain that poor girl is going through?"
"To be left at the altar... I don't think I could survive such a disgrace," O'Brien remarked. Emma looked at the nasty witch in horror. Who would willingly want to marry Mrs. O'Brien?
"Well, luckily, there's never been a proposal, has there?" Thomas quipped. Emma wanted to laugh, but she tried to hold it back and suppress a giggle. Her dad seemed to have had exactly the same thought as she did.
"Poor thing... how can she find the strength to keep her head up?" Anna empathetically considered.
"I swear I would run away and hide. Somewhere where nobody knows me," Daisy said.
Emma sat quietly, listening to the adults' conversations, and thought that most of them were making too much fuss about Lady Edith's failed wedding. Alfred apparently couldn't understand either. "I think she got off well," he said.
"Why would you say such a thing?" Molesley was shocked by Alfred's comment, prompting Emma to intervene.
"Why is it so bad that Lady Edith didn't marry that super old man?" Emma suddenly asked, capturing the attention of everyone in the room. "He could practically be her grandpa. I would never want to marry such an old man." They all stared at Emma, surprised by her sudden intervention. Even Molesley was speechless.
"Emma is right. Lady Edith is still young, and she doesn't look too bad. She could get something much better than such an old, frail man."
"Sir Anthony may have let down a daughter of this house, but he doesn't deserve to be called that by a servant or an 7-year-old girl in such a way," remarked Mr. Carson.
"I'm 8 years old," Emma corrected.
"I think he does, Mr. Carson. He deserves that and worse," Mrs. Hughes shared her opinion.
"Well, perhaps this one time," grumbled Carson.
"Alright, what would you like to eat?" Mrs. Patmore asked the group. "Lobster, duck, or asparagus?"
"Mrs. Patmore, may I please have a jam sandwich?" Emma asked hopefully, looking at the cook and Mr. Carson with pleading eyes. Carson spread his napkin over his lap, visibly annoyed by the child's special food requests. However, he usually couldn't resist Emma's gaze. But before he could allow her to have a jam sandwich, Alfred voiced his request, "Do you have cheese as well, Mrs. Patmore?"
"Well..." Mrs. Patmore hesitated, just as Carson began to speak, "We eat what's on the table!"
Taking care not to serve Emma high-end cuisine, Thomas decided not to fill his child's plate. He started with the appetizer - truffle and egg on toast - and brought the fork to Emma's mouth as if she were still a little baby. Emma took a small bite, immediately frowned, and shook her head in disgust. Toast with egg might have been delicious, but the taste of truffle was just too much for her.
Thomas purposefully skipped the oysters. Those slimy things were something his daughter wouldn't even dream of eating. Next up was the lobster pie. Emma spat her portion back onto her father's plate, which earned her an annoyed look from him. After all, there was still an unused plate in front of Emma.
"I'm so glad I don't belong to those upstairs if they have to eat such disgusting things," she whispered in Thomas's ear.
He merely smiled, swapped the two plates, and put a small portion of asparagus salad on the fork. After all, the child did eat asparagus with hollandaise and potatoes. Thomas considered it a great success that Emma didn't spit out the food but swallowed it down. "The aftertaste is yucky."
"That's the Champagne," Thomas said. If she had to choose a dish she liked the most, she would go for the duck in Calvados. It was the only dish that didn't make her feel like spitting it out.
"Is everything all right with you, Miss O'Brien?" Thomas's voice sounded the next morning. Emma was hidden in the kitchen doorway. She couldn't help but eavesdrop on the conversation.
"Oh, everything is perfectly fine with me, but things won't be fine for you soon. Remember my words."
"Oh, how's that, Miss O'Brien?" His grin was still wide on his face.
"I can't tell you now, not yet, but soon... you can be sure of that."
AN: Thank you so much foryour lovely comment! It helps me a lot to find the motivation to continuewriting. And I really like reading your opinion and ideas. By the way it seems that O'Brien is up to no good...