Chapter Text
The silver tray was loaded rather precariously with two cakes and a larger than usual stack of plates, and a less experienced butler might have wobbled when the front door burst open, and two young children raced by like a hurricane.
“We’re not late for tea, are we Mr. Barrow?” Sybbie called as she blew past him.
“Tea is for civilized boys and girls, not rampaging elephants!” he scolded.
They both burst into giggles, but didn’t stop. He shook his head and redirected his steps toward the door, which was still hanging open. Before he could nudge it shut, however, a head popped through. It was a man’s head, very pleasantly shaped, fine-featured, and wearing a fashionable hat. The rest of his body followed as he sidled rather sheepishly through the gap.
“Pardon me,” he said. “I feel rather rude—but the door was open, and I believe I am expected. Guy Dexter?”
“Yes, of course, Mr. Dexter,” Thomas said smoothly. “May I take your coat and hat, sir?”
There was a brief pause, and they both looked down at the tray in his hands.
“That would be fine,” Dexter said, removing his own hat and shrugging out of his own coat. “And why don’t I take that for you in the meantime?”
“No.”
It was such a stupid question that the answer blurted out before he could rein it back—or maybe he was flustered by the arrival of film stars, after all, though he had laughed and rolled his eyes at Daisy all week. A dancing light came into Dexter’s eye.
“You must have a sweet tooth,” he said gravely.
“Beg pardon, Mr. Dexter,” Thomas said. He cleared his throat and set the tray on a narrow hall table, and took the actor’s coat and hat. “But it is the butler’s job to see to the trays, and if someone came out and found a guest carrying the tea cakes—well, it would be very irregular indeed.”
“Ah, I understand.” Thomas hung up his things in the hall closet, and with a polite bow indicated that the actor should follow him into the library. “I hope guests allowed to eat them, once the butler is finished putting everything in its proper place?”
Thomas snuck a glance at him. For anyone else, it might have been a withering glance—at stupidity or at a very stupid attempt at a joke—but Dexter was already watching him with an innocent expression undermined only by the slightest twitch of his lips, like they were in on it together. He paused on the threshold of the library.
“Of course, sir,” he murmured, just too low to be heard by the family talking nearby. “If you will be patient for approximately thirty seconds, I’ll fetch the tray again and you can enjoy the meal at your leisure.”
“Oh, good. I love cake. And Mr. Barrow—”
“Just Barrow, sir.”
“—don’t call me sir.”
“That would also be irregular,” Thomas said firmly, and he thought he heard a chuckle as he swept into the room.