Downton Abbey Thank You, Bramwell

_**Author's Note: **The idea for this story popped into my head months ago - and it wouldn't leave me be, so here we are.  
While reading (and adoring) P.G. Wodehouse's "Jeeves" stories, I was struck by the idea that Sir Anthony would very much benefit from having a Jeeves-like figure in his household - someone to provide timely advice from a neutral perspective, and to orchestrate things conveniently for our hero. I think Anthony's isolation was part of why things went so horribly wrong in canon. __Of course, I'd never dare to steal Jeeves himself - so I've created a fairly similar invaluable, all-knowing valet. Also, in order to emulate Wodehouse's style, I've written it from Anthony's perspective - I hope I've done justice to his inner voice._

_I love the cheerful silliness of Wodehouse's stories, and I thought Anthony & Edith could do with his inevitable-happy-ending treatment! So, this is part homage-to-Wodehouse, part self-indulgence. Edith & Anthony will get a few moments alone, I promise...but, certainly at the beginning, this is a story consists mainly of sly-matchmaking and Flustered!Anthony. ;)_

_My thanks must go - as well as to Mr. Wodehouse - to Baron Munchausen, for his invaluable assistance in proof-reading and checking for historical accuracy._

_I do hope you enjoy this - and I promise to up the romance in subsequent chapters!_

* * *

**THANK YOU, BRAMWELL**

It all started when I returned to Locksley, in the autumn of 1919.

Well, no – I suppose it really _started_ a good few years before that…but that autumn was most definitely the turning-point. That was when I hired Bramwell.

How much of a turning point could it possibly be, you might wonder: the substitution of one well-trained valet for another? Well, I can only say you'd be surprised – and not half so much as _I_ was.

I was, to be frank, in no great spirits on the day he came for his interview. His predecessor had been my father's man; had been with the family for most of his life, and was as familiar to me as the house itself. But of course, having served my late father and myself, poor old Brinsley was by then of rather an advanced age (those of you with a mind for arithmetic will have surmised as much already) and I could no longer in good conscience keep him on my staff. Having at last persuaded the old chap to take one of my cottages, I was then forced to search for a replacement.

Not to say that my motives were entirely selfless.

I confess I was relieved that this man, who had served my admirable father, would not need to become acquainted with the daily realities of my sorry, crippled condition. The war had…well, suffice it to say I was a shade of the man I had been. And I'd been inclined to think that even _he_ had been somewhat past his prime.

But, though I'd saved Brinsley the trial of it, _someone_ would have to play valet to Anthony Strallan the cripple – there was no getting around the matter. So, it was with resignation rather than anticipation that I took up an answer to my advertisement. It was with resignation that I had my butler show the aforementioned applicant into my library.

I could not have known how well things would pan out.

"Good afternoon, sir," were his first words to me. "Francis Bramwell, at your service."

He was a tall man – not far off my own height – and quite young, perhaps in his early thirties. Although, it was hard to say for certain – his otherwise-youthful face bore the subtle creases and shadows of a man who has been to hell and back. I wondered vaguely where this man's particular hell had been: Passchendaele? The Somme?

Despite this eerily ageless look, the man seemed fairly pleasant. He wore his cares lightly, and if his posture was any indication, took pride in his deportment and his work.

I stood to shake his hand.

"Sir Anthony Strallan. Ah, I see you've brought references."  
"I have, sir. I hope you'll find them satisfactory."

I took the papers he proffered, setting them down on my desk for perusal – and, feeling pathetically uncomfortable, despite the fact that _I_ was the man of station, I seized upon the first point of discussion I could.

"You're not from Yorkshire, I take it?"  
"No, sir – Hemel Hempstead. I worked in London several years – up until 1914 – in several fine houses. I am not inexperienced, sir."  
Something in his eyes suggested that, although I sat at a gilt-edged desk while he stood respectfully to attention, our 'experiences' may not be so very dissimilar – particularly in the last few years. Though _he_ still had both his arms, and all his confidence, apparently.

One thing was certain – this man was not like any valet I'd ever encountered. Not the least bit like old Brinsley – the poor fellow. But whatever else this Bramwell might be, he did seem competent – it was in his very air. There was a serenity in his countenance, and a respect which seemed inherent, easy and natural (rather than obsequious).

I learned that he was staying with cousins in the village, for the duration of the interview – and, after a few preliminary questions, sent him back to them with a promise to send word the next day – as soon as I had looked over his references. It was a formality, really – I knew already he would be suited for the position. As much as anyone _could_ be, that is – it would be no joy for him, I couldn't help feeling. This was evidently a man of intelligence, if not of formal education; and to spend his time making a crippled toff presentable…

So, the next day, Bramwell moved to Locksley and entered my employ. I was not much used to changes in my staff – yet we settled into a routine with remarkable ease. So easily, in fact, that I almost didn't notice it. Every now and then, however, something small would catch my attention.

For instance, I offered him the use of my library; and couldn't help noticing that the books he returned to me – though perfectly undamaged – were often left with the bookmark on a different page than the one I had been reading. I'd given him the loan of a poetry collection, and as I was returning it to the shelf I noticed that he'd bypassed Sassoon, and Wilfred Owen's _Disabled_, in favour of a poem by Robert Frost. A poem with rather a different tone.

_The way a crow  
Shook down on me  
The dust of snow  
From a hemlock tree_

_Has given my heart  
A change of mood  
And saved some part  
Of a day I had rued._

At any rate, we had a quiet, companionable understanding. I found I could relax around him, more so than with old Brinsley – that had been almost like having my father looking over my shoulder, in a strange way. So, despite my crippled state, things were settling nicely.

Until that Friday.

It was Bramwell's half-day, the first of his tenure with me, and he had decided simply to spend it in the village, seeing his cousins and getting to know the place. I would not be needing his services for the afternoon at any rate, as I'd had a (rather surprising) invitation from the Dowager Countess of Grantham, to take tea with her at the Dower House.

I bid him farewell, and we went off to enjoy our respective afternoons – one of us rather more than the other, as it happened.

When Bramwell returned around four o'clock, he found me in a decidedly different mood than I had been in upon his departure.

"Good afternoon, sir. I've just got in. I trust you had a pleasant afternoon?"  
The distracted "hmm" that passed as my response caught the man's attention – and he raised a curious eyebrow. Though he now busied himself fetching some newly-arrived letters for my perusal, an explanation seemed necessary – and I sighed.

"I, err…I actually had a rather awkward meeting today, at the Dower House. I understood that I'd be calling on the Dowager herself; but, err, Lady Edith Crawley – Lord Grantham's daughter – was there as well, by chance."

I got the sense that Bramwell was at once aware of the precise nature of my 'awkwardness', and at once resolved to let me share as little or as much as I might feel comfortable with. In an admirable display of discretion, he replied in a casual tone:  
"Ah yes, the Crawley ladies. This morning I made the acquaintance of a Mrs Anna Bates, who I understand is maid to Lady Edith and her sisters."

I managed a nod – grateful that Bramwell must presumably have been informed, by one villager or another, of my one-time almost-engagement to Lady Edith. Having to explain the situation to him would have been embarrassing for the both of us. As it was, he certainly seemed to have the gist of things (judging by the exaggerated casualness of his tone).

"Anna spoke very highly of the ladies," my valet continued, affably.  
"Oh, yes – they're perfectly amiable young women. The youngest two, especially – though Lady Sybil is married now, and living in Dublin. Lady Edith was telling us about her visit over there, for the wedding. She had a wonderful time, apparently."

I had no idea how I planned to extricate myself from this discussion – I only knew that I wished to skirt around the fact that 'breathtaking' would have been a more appropriate adjective than 'amiable' when it came to describing Edith Crawley – and the fact that this afternoon had left me feeling older and more pathetic than ever. Sitting across the tea table from such a fascinating creature, in the knowledge that she probably rued the day she met me…if she even remembered it…

"Well, I'm sure both ladies were pleased to see you back in Yorkshire, sir. After all, neighbourly bonhomie makes such a difference to the running of a county."  
"Quite," I agreed, and withheld a bitter laugh at the 'warm neighbourliness' of my feelings towards Lady Edith Crawley. Feelings which I ought to have well and truly repressed by that time, surely.

* * *

And yet, I showed no sign of such sense or discipline. A scarce few weeks into the new year, I was chauffeured into the village to meet with an old acquaintance, one Lord Cholmondeley, whose train was making a brief stop. After a poor night's sleep, I'd left for the meeting in middling spirits – only to have the day turn on its head when I bumped into Lady Edith outside the post office.

It would have taken a remarkably unobservant man not to notice the alteration in my mood when I returned that afternoon – and, as we've established, Bramwell is far from dim-witted.

"How did you find Lord Cholmondeley, Sir?"  
I was halfway through shrugging out of my coat by the time I realised that Bramwell was referring to the _intended_ highlight of my day. I struggled to cast my mind back.  
"Oh, fine. We took high tea in the village, reminisced, all of that."

Casual as I was playing it, I felt horribly like a schoolboy concealing from his parent the way he'd _really_ spent his afternoon; this despite the fact that my meeting with Lady Edith had been purely a matter of happenstance, and had consisted of nothing more than excruciating small-talk.

I also felt quite certain that Bramwell, in his subtle wisdom, would be able to offer a much-needed neutral perspective on our conversation – but then, how does one induce one's valet to consider (and comment on) matters of the heart?

"Actually," I continued, lightly, "Cholmondeley's train was late. I had to wait around in the village for some time, beforehand."  
"Indeed, sir?" said Bramwell – quite as though he expected me to go on.  
"Yes. It wasn't too much of a bother, though. I, err…well, I actually bumped into…Lady Edith Crawley".  
The corners of Bramwell's mouth turned upwards ever so slightly.  
"Ah yes, I think I recall your mentioning the lady."  
I rather got the impression that my feigned nonchalance had been unconvincing, and that the man was merely humouring me in playing along with it. (The cheek of the fellow!)

"And she is well, I hope?"  
"Oh yes, quite. Rather busy at the moment, what with her sister's wedding coming up, and all of that…but we had a little chat, all the same."

Bramwell nodded, placing my coat down for a moment in order to pour the cup of tea he'd evidently had set and waiting for my arrival. Wonderfully intuitive, that man.

Trying to relax in my favourite armchair, I attempted to properly broach the subject that had me in such a state of distraction.  
"Actually, I'm afraid I may've put my foot in it, rather. Sometimes eloquence deserts me – and this afternoon was one of those occasions. I only hope I didn't embarrass the lady."  
"What were you discussing, sir? If I may ask…"  
"Her sister's wedding – Lady Mary's. I, err, I may have commented on the propensity of weddings to remind a person of their own loneliness."  
I cringed inwardly in the remembering of it – but Bramwell simply passed me a teacup, and paused for a brief moment.

"Well…it's hardly a lie, sir. Perhaps a rather baldly-stated truth… But did Lady Edith seem off-put?"  
"Oh, no; she just smiled."  
"Indeed, sir?"  
"That hardly signifies, though – Lady Edith always smiles."  
Bramwell raised an eyebrow, as if to question the generalisation.  
"Well, at me."  
His expression changed again – and I couldn't help but fluster. I appeared to be painting myself into a corner.  
"Err, that is to say…"  
"What, sir?"  
The man had the cheek to look perfectly, damnably innocent.

"Err…nothing. In particular. That will be all, Bramwell."  
"Very good, sir."  
And with that he strode off, straightening the collar of my jacket as he went.

Sitting there with a rapidly-cooling cup of tea in my good hand, and cheeks rather warmer than was usual with me, I was sure of very few things – but high among them was that my valet would be of little help when it came to banishing foolish romantic notions.  
Why, he almost seemed intent on _fostering_ them.

And I was much too prone, as it was – where the bewitching Lady Edith was concerned.

* * *

**_A/N: _**_Do let me know what you think, if you've got a moment!_


End file.

Downton Abbey, Friendship, Romance