Chapter Text
Brimsley remembers his very first meeting with Reynolds in the kitchen somewhere within the lower floors of the King’s palace.
This was before he had become the Queen’s man and before he and Reynolds had known each other intimately.
This was way back when Brimsley held the position of senior footman below stairs, when his only dream was to become a valet to someone of importance.
Brimsley’s background with waiting on the upper classes, or any one upstairs for that matter, was pretty well established at the time for someone of his age. He had started out as a hall boy in a countryside house. The butler, bless him, had been kindly and had taken notice of his hard work and promoted him to junior footman after five years in service to the family.
From there, his job consisted mainly of serving tables, answering the door, running errands for the family and such. Until one day, the family decided to leave England and somehow, one referral to another, Brimsley had ended up at the King’s doorstep as a senior footman. He is still working below stairs but, he is this much closer to his dream of hopefully becoming a valet and working upstairs some day.
As a servant (for that is exactly what Brimsley is) below stairs, one is never given a second look. One is taught to be invisible, neither seen nor heard. They were, after all insignificant amongst those who lived above stairs.
Except for one person who defied those rules.
“That’s ‘im right there,” the cook points with her floury rolling pin, “Reynolds he’s called. He’s one of us, but he’s much too busy to be down here. Head’s a bit too big if ya ask me.”
“He’s the King’s man,” one of the maids says and Brimsley notes the dreamy look in her eyes directed towards said King’s man.
He has seen enough to know that sometimes, the staff in service ended up starting families together. After all they were the only ones who saw each other early in the mornings and late at night. They were the ones who struggled together to bring about the success for their masters and mistresses upstairs.
At every house there was a favourite amongst the maids and at the palace it seemed it was the King’s man.
Reynolds…
Brimsley casts his gaze upon the man. Tall, taller than him by at least a head, perhaps more. Blond, hair the colour of gold, like the sunset in the evening or a wheat field ready for harvest. Chiseled features, a prominent nose, high cheekbones and a jawline sharp enough to cut. And eyes, eyes a piercing icy blue that seemed—
Brimsley startles, realising that those eyes are locked with his now as the King’s man makes his way over to the kitchen.
Brimsley hurriedly drops his eyes going back to polishing the cutlery set out before him. He’d taken to doing his duty in the kitchen for company. The cook and the maids were pleasant, easy to talk to and they had become fast friends.
“Sir,” the cook greets.
“Sir,” the maids follow in quick succession.
Brimsley remains, head bowed, intently polishing the silver spoon he held as though his life depended upon it. He knows that he should probably stand and greet the King’s man in kind. Knows that it is probably expected of him to do so. Knows that he might get a scolding if he does not.
But he had been caught staring not moments before and he should have stood up the moment the King’s man entered the room. It was courtesy shown to those of a higher position despite them all being of the same serving class, yet Brimsley’s bottom remained glued to the wooden stool he had chosen when he had first begun the job of polishing the cutlery in the kitchen. He feels that it is too late now to stand and greet the King’s man without it seeming too awkward.
Brimsley doesn’t dare to look up from his work at all.
“I have the King’s request for dinner here,” Reynolds says, his voice a velvety deep sound that washes over Brimsley. He can see why the maids are smitten with the King’s man. “His Majesty has also requested for a glass of warm milk to be sent up before bed. I shall ring for when it is to be served,” he continues as he sets a slip of paper down on the table, white gloved hands sliding it towards the cook.
Brimsley watches from his peripheral vision as the cook dries her hands on her apron and takes the paper.
“Very good, we’ll get it done,” the cook says.
Brimsley notices the King’s man still standing there and he is quite sure those icy blue eyes are trained on him. What emotion they held however, Brimsley did not want to know. So he continues to work trying his hardest to ignore the other man’s presence.
He hears the sound of footsteps, feels the King’s man stop before him, sees his reflection, distorted as it is in the silver mirrored surface of the spoon.
“Any more and you’d sharpen that spoon to a point.”
Brimsley slowly looks up at that, eyes climbing a cream waistcoat to meet sharp blue eyes. They are like nothing that Brimsley has seen before and they capture his attention, render him defenceless.
He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. He had a reply to that, seconds ago but now it seems to have gotten lost upon his thick tongue.
“Any form of polishing should be carried out in the silver room lest you wish to poison the King?” the King’s man continues nodding across the hallway to the silver room at the other side.
Brimsley follows the man’s gaze looking to the silver room where he should originally have been. That break in their gaze, seems to have allowed his thoughts to resume.
“They have yet to begin preparations for dinner,” Brimsley says, suddenly finding his tongue, “I cannot possibly poison the King when no food is being prepared, can I?” he counters, “I shall move as soon as they start. You see I thought only to have some conversation with others seeing as I’m new here and have yet to make friends.”
The King’s man studies him, a flicker of what Brimsley thinks is amusement or perhaps annoyance crossing his features, “You are here to serve the King,” he says, his tone authoritative, cold almost, “Friendship is secondary to your duty. See to it that you perform your duty in the appropriate manner and place, Brimsley,” he finishes looking highly pleased with himself at the look of growing astonishment that must have spread across Brimsley’s features when he said his name.
The King’s man said no more as he turns and leaves the kitchen with a swish of his navy blue coat.
Brimsley looks from the man’s retreat to the cook and back. He doesn’t know what to make of it or for that matter what to comment on first; the man’s poor manners or his sad outlook on a duty driven life in the palace, void of any sort of friendship.
“He’s always been like this,” the cook fills in now, “The golden boy, strict one he is. Always walking about in his neat blue suit, not a smile on his face. Too serious for us lot.”
“But handsome,” one of the maid chimes in with a giggle as she sets about preparing the pots for the King’s meal to be cooked in.
‘Handsome indeed…’ Brimsley finds himself thinking as he looks at the path the King’s man had taken his leave from.
“I suppose he’s dedicated to his work,” Brimsley says as he sets the spoon he had been polishing down, deciding to pack his things up and return to the silver room as instructed before he gets into any more trouble.
“Well that’s good’n all for the King innit? But not exactly for us,” the cook continues, “He never interacts with us save for when he’s giving His Majesties orders,” she says waving the piece of paper about.
“He doesn’t take his meals with us either,” one of the maid laments as she fills a large pot with water setting it on the stove, ready to boil.
“Is that why I haven’t seen him around before today?” Brimsley asks as he returns the stool he had been sitting on to a corner of the kitchen.
The cook nods, “Ones like him don’t hang ‘round ‘ere much anyway, ‘part form giving orders and such to us lot.”
“I see,” Brimsley answers feeling a strange sinking feeling inside him. What did it matter to him anyway, this man’s presence below stairs? He recalls those icy blue eyes staring at him across the distance, holding his gaze. “I suppose there are perks then, to being the King’s man?”
The cook lets out a bark of laughter, “Of course! The King’s man has his own apartments for him to carry out his own personal matters. Though I doubt there’s much business for him to conduct in private any how.”
“Why is that?” Brimsley asks, gloved hands holding a bunch of silver spoons now ready to transport them back to their rightful place.
“Hear tell that he takes his meals in his apartments. There’s no need for him to be here with the likes of us given that big place,” the cook sniffs, picking out onions and potatoes from a basket of dried produce.
“So…I won’t have to run into Reynolds much, will I?” Brimsley asks, returning from the silver room after depositing the spoons.
“Don’t you worry about the King’s man,” the cook assures him good-naturedly, “That Reynolds won’t come sniffin’ about here unless it’s to deliver the King’s requests for lunch and dinner. Best it’s kept that way, less of them stuffy lot around, right?”
“Right…” Brimsley answers with a small smile as he looks to the staircase leading upstairs, silently hopeful for the King’s man’s next visit.
Perhaps one day soon he would be working upstairs, for now, he has silverware to polish.