Summary: Follow Tom and Sybil through their relationship as they navigate the carefully placed, sturdily built divides between their respective classes and the changing era they live in. This story is non-linear so we'll go forward and backward and all over the place.

Author's Note: Hello! This is a story that was written a long time ago that I have stumbled upon and finally decided to post. It's not my best work but meh. Anyway *DISCLAIMER* I am not Irish or English and I am no expert in either's history so please don't be angry at my blatant inaccuracies! I have tried. Thanks in advance for reading this ole shit.

Where It All Began

Tom pulled the car around a few minutes past two to wait for Lady Sybil, who had requested the motor for a ride into Ripon. She didn't specify where in Ripon she wanted to go, so Tom sat there hoping that the trip would be short. A leak had sprung in the roof of his cottage the previous night, and he had gotten little sleep. He had fixed it that morning, but the whole ordeal had left him rather grumpy. Rubbing his tired eyes, Tom wished that he had visited Mrs. Patmore to get a cup of coffee before, but it was too late now.

After only a handful of minutes, the grand doors of Downton opened and Mr. Carson emerged, followed closely by Lady Sybil. Tom followed her movements out of the corner of his eye as he got out to open the door for her. He thought that she was by far the prettiest of the sisters, dressed in her dark blue coat and matching hat. He knew he wasn't supposed to look at her or her sisters in that way, but he thought that was a preposterous rule. What made him unworthy to appreciate her beauty? How could he simply not notice her bright blue-grey eyes and shining, dark hair and her voice…? She gave him a sincere smile as he handed her into the motor.

Re-positioned behind the wheel, Tom shifted the Renault into gear and drove gently around the circular drive away from the grand house. He flexed his hands and shoulders and blinked his eyes to keep himself alert. He couldn't wait to get onto the open road where he could drive faster.

"Branson," said Lady Sybil's from the back, not long after Downton Abbey had disappeared behind them.

"Yes, Milady," Tom answered. There was that voice again. He couldn't understand it, but the way she talked…He shook himself slightly and shifted gears with the precision acquired after years of practice.

"Branson, have you ever been to any of the political rallies in Ripon?" she asked.

"Yes, Milady," Tom replied. "I've been to a few." He smiled slightly to himself at her question. Her interest in politics amazed him; especially because she seemed to be so liberal. She was such an oxymoron- an aristocratic liberal.

"Did you find them to be very interesting?"

"I did. There were some very good speakers."

"I think I should like to attend one." Tom blinked his eyes hard and shook himself again. Had he perhaps heard incorrectly in his drowsy state?

"I don't think that would be a very good idea," Tom said. "Sometimes things can get a bit rough. Some men are very passionate about their opinions."

"Like you," she pointed out. Tom sighed.

"That's correct, Lady Sybil, but unlike others, I've not come to blows over what I believe. One shouldn't get involved in politics unless he…or she…is willing to put up a good fight." Tom hadn't exactly lied, but he hadn't told the truth either. The truth was really that he hadn't come to blows over his beliefs since he was twenty years old, working back in Ireland. It was one of his only fistfights, and he had walked away sporting bloodied knuckles a busted lip and a good few bruises across his jaw and on his left temple. He thought himself lucky- his opponent had acquired a pair of black eyes.

His warning to Lady Sybil was not false however. Some men at the rallies got riled up far too much over a speaker that expressed views contrary to their own, and politics was a dirty business that needed a careful, analytic mind to make sense of. That was one of the things that so intrigued Tom about the subject- sorting out the lies, bias, and propaganda from the truth. The political section of his morning newspaper was always dotted with annotations as he commented on the writers' particular biases, the methods of persuasion used, and the general topic of the article.

"Still," Lady Sybil pressed on, "I think it would be rather interesting. I am so eager to learn more and wouldn't going to a rally be the perfect way?" She didn't wait for his opinion. "I was wondering if you might be willing to go to one with me- perhaps the one taking place in two weeks' time."

Something jumped in Tom's chest at her proposition. He knew that he would be more like a chaperone to her on the outing, but it did sound rather like a friendly invitation, almost as if she believed them to be on equal footing. Tom knew that it was probably wishful thinking on his part, but the thought did make him glad.

Tom decided to reply sensibly. "What would his Lordship say? His youngest daughter attending a political rally with a socialist," he scoffed. What would his Lordship say? Certainly he wouldn't be pleased that his eighteen year old daughter was going off to listen to political speakers amid a rowdy crowd of middle-class men- never mind her companion and his political affiliations.

"His Lordship wouldn't say anything as long as you didn't inform him of where we were going," Lady Sybil said. "Branson, I promise you that you will not be reprimanded for taking me to a rally. No one would know and, even if they found out, I would stand up for you and take the blame."

"Well I suppose I can't say no," Tom said hesitantly, "And it seems as though you are not likely to be dissuaded." He could almost sense her smiling widely. He could certainly picture it, and he heard it in her voice when she next spoke. "It'd be better if I agreed to go with you than to have you go there by yourself and get into trouble."

"Thank you, Branson. I know I'm putting you in a bit of an awkward place, but I assure you that no harm will be done. I simply want to hear what the speakers have to say. Even though I can't vote, I would like to be more informed."

"That's wonderful! It's more than what some men do before casting their ballot. Did you find the pamphlets I gave you of any interest?"

"Yes they were. Thank you." She was quiet for a moment then before asking, "Branson, do you think that women will gain an equal right to vote anytime soon?"

"I do. It seems so obvious to me that women and men should be on equal standing. You're more than enough proof of that." He paused, wondering if he had overstepped. Lady Sybil was quiet though, and he wished that he could see her face to gauge her reaction to his words. "I'm a strong proponent of equality and rights for all, though," he continued. He was about to say something more to Lady Sybil about the equality of all people and working for the common good, but they had just arrived in Ripon, and he wondered where to go.

"Where to?" he asked. "You never said."

"Oh just to the accessory shop. It's Edith's birthday in two weeks' time, and she is so hard to shop for." He could imagine her rolling her eyes, if aristocratic ladies did that, that is. If there was an aristocratic lady to perform such a middle-class action, it would be her, Tom thought. If there was a woman to start some bit of change, if would be her.

He stopped in front of the large store and walked around the Renault to help Lady Sybil out. She smiled at him in thanks again, like she always sis, and went inside while Tom was left to himself with the motor.

If she were a girl back in Dublin, Tom found himself thinking as he sat in the car waiting, like if she were the baker's daughter, I think I'd ask her to walk out with me. Tom shook his head. It was a silly thought, even for him, but he couldn't seem to shake it from his mind. Up until Lady Sybil returned, he found himself imagining where he would take her and what they would do and say.

If she were a Dublin girl, he would ask her out to see a picture show. He wondered if she would like that. Maybe she would rather do something more exciting. They could go out for dinner, walk in the park, talk of politics and history…anything and everything. He imagined that she had a lot of interesting things to say. And when the night was growing old, he would walk her to her doorstep. He wouldn't kiss her goodnight because he'd want to be a gentleman. Later, he would ask for another date. He shook himself again. It was foolish to imagine walking out with Lady Sybil Crawley because she wasn't a Dublin girl. She was a Lady.

"Is the library empty?" Tom asked William. The footman was just passing in the hallway.

"His Lordship just left," William replied. Tom nodded his thanks and slipped into the grand room. He paused to gaze at the walls filled floor to ceiling with books. No matter how many times he had ventured into Lord Grantham's library, the sight of so many books always made him pause.

And that's not all, he thought, remembering that Lord Grantham also had a second small library elsewhere in the house. What I would give to own a fraction of these books…

He had gone to the library to return the book he had borrowed the previous week, The Land of Heart's Desire by William Butler Yeats. Tom hadn't thought a staunch Tory and proud Englishman like Lord Grantham would have such an array of political books in his collection, including the works of numerous Irish authors and even a hidden copy of Engel. There it had been, probably purposefully shunned out of sight- The Conditions of the Working Class in England. The pages were stiff, as though it had never been opened. And it probably hadn't. Tom didn't think anyone in the house would appreciate Engel.

Well, maybe one person, Tom amended, thinking of the youngest Crawley sister. She was quite the anomaly. Tom found himself intrigued with her. Well, he was many things with her…intrigued, inspired, infatuated…He shook his head at the last thought. Not infatuated, he corrected mentally. I find her interesting and attractive. That is all.

Tom returned the book to its proper place and signed it back in before walking around, perusing the contents of the room, waiting for a title or author to catch his eye. He was humming all the while- a little tune from back home that had gotten stuck in his head for one reason or another- and wondering whether he should pick up The Conditions of the Working Class in England even though he had read it thrice already.

"Having trouble finding something?" said a familiar voice from behind him. Startled, Tom jumped and turned to find Lady Sybil standing by one of the plush couches in the center of the library holding a book in one hand. She smiled at him in that warm way in which she always smiled. He doubted that any smile from Lady Sybil would be insincere. She strolled a bit closer to where he was standing.

"I'm not sure that anything's striking my fancy at this moment," Tom said to her. "I'm sorry, Lady Sybil, I should leave you." He bowed his head slightly to her and made to move past her to the door.

"Oh no," Lady Sybil protested, stopping him in his tracks. "You needn't leave because of me." She looked at him for a long moment, seeming as though she was thinking something over before she said, "Perhaps we could help each other find something to read."

"I don't know that my taste would quite suit you," Tom countered.

"Actually, Branson, I am quite interested in your politics, as I'm sure you very well know by now, and I would like to know more. It's hard to believe- I know- but I assure you that I am being sincere." She sounded slightly bitter about it. Suddenly struck with an idea, he quickly reached into his coat and pulled out a thin paperback.

"I didn't know Papa had this," she murmured. The title read The Soul of Man under Socialism by Oscar Wilde.

"It isn't actually his," Tom explained, "My brother sent it to me last week and I just happened to have it with me. Sorry, I've underlined a few things already."

"Well, thank you, Branson," Lady Sybil said with another pretty smile. "And really, that's no bother, but it seems as though you are without entertainment." She looked down at the book she had been holding earlier and handed it to Tom. "Since you gave me the last book that you read, it's only right that I do the same."

Looking down at the book in his hands, Tom let out a sigh. It was Austen. More specifically, it was Pride and Prejudice.

"Are you up to the challenge, Branson?" He chuckled quietly to himself, shaking his head at the novel in his hands. He had read a couple pages over his sister's shoulder when she had read it and had been completely bored.

"Yes, well, I suppose I am."

"Good. Perhaps we could discuss it at a later time, after you've formed an opinion on Mr. Darcy and after I've gotten some much-needed background information. I don't have anyone to discuss politics with, really, and I feel as though we could…That is to say, we are sort of like friends, aren't we, Branson?"

"Is that so wise, Milady?" Tom asked nervously, stressing the last word. Conflicting emotions roiled in his chest. He was elated that Lady Sybil considered him to be a friend. He certainly liked her a lot. She was smart and political and kind and not to mention beautiful. He wondered, though, if it was such a good idea to grow close to the Earl's youngest daughter. Then again, he thought, who says that I can't be friends with a Lady? I am no less of a person than she.

"I thought that you were in a rather modern mindset, Branson," Lady Sybil said, sounding slightly disappointed. "But you did say that you weren't a revolutionary."

"I am a socialist, though," Tom said with the hint of a smile on his face. "And I suppose that it would be the socialist thing to do to break down the barriers between bourgeoisie and proletariat." She smiled.

"You'd better get reading, then," Lady Sybil said and she strode over to the library ledger to check the book out. "Don't forget that you're taking me to the rally next week," she added as she headed out the library.

"Of course, Lady Sybil," Tom said after her. He stood there staring at the door through which she had disappeared for a long moment, thinking, before letting out a long breath and signing the Jane Austen out. He smiled to himself and shook his head, staring at the blue book and curling golden lettering.

Lord, what in the world am I getting into? He didn't know what exactly to make of Lady Sybil yet, but he recognized the deep feeling of affection blooming in his chest. He wondered if anything could come of it. Tom smiled to himself. That would certainly be something, he thought, a Lady and the chauffeur.

With a slight spring in his step from his conversation with Lady Sybil, Tom walked leisurely out of the library, whistling the same tune that had been in his head earlier. As he whistled, he sang the words in his head:

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

So deep in love am I

And I will love thee still, my dear,

'Til all the seas run dry.

"That wasn't it either!" protested Sybil. She hit his shoulder playfully. Tom laughed.

It was late at night, but neither of them could sleep. Sybil had gotten up to make a cup of tea, followed closely by Tom. He had the idea to go up to the roof and stargaze for a while, so he grabbed a couple blankets and the pair climbed carefully up to the roof.

"I used to go up to the roof to think at night," Tom confessed as they were curled up together on one of the blankets, the other spread over them. "And sometimes I would go there simply to get away from my brothers."

Tom told stories of late night wonderings on the roof of his childhood home and other times spent up there playing pranks with his brothers or friends. Sybil spoke of a climbing tree she found as a child that she would go to when she wished to be alone. It was secret for all of two weeks before she was discovered and promptly berated by her mother, grandmother, and governess for climbing trees.

"A girl of your age climbing trees?" mocked Sybil, using a rather bad approximation of a German accent. "Why, I've never heard of anything so preposterous! You are a Lady, not some farm hand!"

It was later that they had begun to talk of their recent marriage and wonder when exactly they felt that little spark; when they had gotten the first glimpse or a first hope of something happening between them.

"Alright then," he said. The challenge was clearly in his voice. "When did it all start?"

Sybil thought back.

"Oh, hurry up, Sybil. Really, we must be going. The appointment is in forty-five minutes." Sybil rolled her eyes and followed her sisters out the door and down to where the car was waiting for them.

They were going into Ripon for yet another dress fitting. Sybil had wanted to stay back and finish the book she had been reading, but her protestations fell on deaf ears. It was a shame, she thought, to waste a day so perfectly bright and clear in a dress shop being poked and measured and listening to Mary and Edith bicker when she could simply take a walk in the gardens and find a shady place to read.

"Come along, Sybil."

As the sisters approached the motor, the chauffeur made his way around to hold open the door and help each of them inside. Sybil realized then as she watched him hand Mary inside that they had gotten a new chauffeur. She hadn't realized that Carson and Papa had employed one yet, though she knew they had been looking since Taylor left. Sybil hoped that the new chauffeur was a least as interesting as Taylor had been. An older man, he had a grandfatherly way about him and always had a smile and kind words for everyone and Sybil had adored him.

Edith was handed into the motor and the chauffeur held out his gloved hand next for Sybil's. She took it gently and smiled in his direction politely, covertly studying his face. She was surprised to see how young he looked- he couldn't have been much older than she, perhaps around Mary's age. He had the bluest eyes, too. They were like a robin's egg and…looking right at her. She blinked. He blinked. And then she was in the motor and his hand was away from hers and the door was shut with a thud. The new chauffeur hopped quickly into the drivers' seat, and then they were off.

He was a good driver; that was for sure. Sybil watched the back of his head, short brown hair sticking out from under his chauffeurs' hat, as they drove, preferring not to take sides in Mary and Edith's current argument.

Sybil finally leaned forward and asked in a quiet voice, "What should we call you?" Mary and Edith were too involved with each other to notice. The chauffeur jolted, seeming startled that she had spoken to him.

"Uh…Branson," he replied, his voice heavy with a foreign accent. There was no 'milady'. Sybil wondered whether she should be affronted, but was more curious than ever about the new chauffeur and so dismissed it.

"Branson, where are you from?" she asked.

"Ireland…milady," he replied. There it was, though it sounded as though he were pained to say it. Sybil was preparing to ask why he was so very far from home when Mary's voice sucked her into her sisters' conversation.

"Sybil, dear, are you alright? You've been awfully quiet."

"Oh, of course," she said. "Mary, do you think that I might be able to skip the fitting and go to the Ripon bookstore instead?"

"Really, Sybil, what would Mama say? You're too concerned with books and things." Sybil rolled her eyes. Books, she thought, are certainly more worthy of concern than dresses.

They drove into Ripon in record time- Branson did drive faster than Taylor had- and parked outside of the dress shop. Branson hurried around to hand them out. When Sybil stepped out, she gripped Branson's hand again and looked over at the new Irish chauffeur. He was looking at her again.

"Thank you, Branson," Sybil said with a polite smile. He nodded his head once to her and Sybil though she saw his lips move, as though he was about to smile. As she turned away, she thought briefly that he was quite handsome and wondered if he had left behind a sweetheart in Ireland.

"Am I hearing this correctly?" Tom asked with exaggerated disbelief. "Did I just hear that Lady Sybil Crawley believes in love at first sight? I thought that I was supposed to be the romantic in this relationship."

"Of course not," Sybil protested quickly, shoving Tom on the shoulder. "And that's Mrs. Branson to you, by the way."

"Yes ma'am," Tom grinned and pulled his wife closer to him. She rested her head on Tom's chest, her hand over his heart. She sighed happily in his arms.

He wouldn't have it any other way.

Ending Author's Note: Thanks for reading! Next chapter will detail Sybil and Tom's arrival in Ireland and should be up sometime next week. Please review if you would like. I thank ya kindly.