A Sybil & Branson fanfiction 3

It was September of 1916, and Tom Branson sat in the Downton Abbey garage, sipping a cold tankard of water, reading 'The Yorkshire Observer' with interest. The Rolls Royce was spotless, and he allowed his bottle green eyes to inspect it once again, and he saw his own face staring back at him.

He heard light footsteps, and he didn't move, expecting Lady Sybil Her visits had become regular lately. However, to his disappointment it was Lady Edith. He rose to his feet, his eyes downcast accordingly.

"Hello, Branson," she said, in her flat and monotonous tone.

"Hello, m'lady. Do you need me to drive you somewhere?"

"No." She said sharply. "You should have been doing something more constructive than reading the paper, you don't get paid for that."

Branson inwardly disagreed strongly. He thought there were few things more constructive than being aware of the affairs in your surroundings. So, instead he said, "Pardon me, m'lady. .. But with the War-"

"You would do better to fight in the War, than read about it." She snapped.

He decided not to argue further, for his job's sake. He wasn't prepared to agree with her either though. He stood, waiting for further instructions.

Lady Edith cleared her throat and glanced around her. She lowered her voice. "I want you to teach me to drive."

He was shocked, he had never seen this coming. "M'lady… I don't think his lordship would approve-"

"I don't think he'd approve of you sneaking about with my sister, either." She hissed. A sound of footsteps came in to earshot. Edith raised one pale finger to her lips warningly, as her mother, Cora appeared.

"Oh, Edith," said Cora, frowning slightly. "Are you going to the village?"

Edith shook her head. "No, I was only passing, Mama, and was checking on the car… I had better go find, er, Mary, she borrowed my comb. Good day." She turned around quickly and left the garage.

Cora watched as Edith departed. Returning her focus to Branson, she said, "I need you to take Sybil, the Dowager Countess and I to Rippen in twenty minutes, we will be attending Mr Barclay's funeral, to represent the Earl. He has been poorly."

Branson nodded, and sat in to driver's seat, preparing the car, as Cora left the garage.

Exactly twenty minutes later, Countess Cora appeared, with Lady Sybil at her side.

Branson held his breath. He bowed his head, but his eyes were on Sybil. She wore a stygian dress that ended a couple of centimetres above her slim ankles. There were small silvery beads that formed an elegant belt around her waist. Even in the lifeless colours, her bonny yet imposing face did not fail to awe him.

Cora, however had opted for a simple black linen gown that almost covered her feet completely, and a black silk hat with a transparent veil that reached the arch of her nose. The Dowager Countess, Violet , wore a very traditional funeral outfit, and carried a handkerchief Branson was certain would cost him a month's wages.

He tried not to listen to the three generations of women as they spoke to each other behind him.

"Branson," came the voice of Violet. "It seems you have not enlisted with the Army, to support your country in this difficulty we face."

Branson did not openly acknowledge the fact that the Great War was more than a 'difficulty.' "Well, Madam," he replied, not turning over his shoulder so as not to be intrusive to their compartment. "This isn't my country."

"It is while you reside here." Said Violet.

Branson did not say anything.

"Branson doesn't really believe in the War," Asserted Sybil.

"Oh, my..." Violet spieled. "I believe you are, as they would say politically, a conscientious objector."

Branson said nothing.

"No!" Argued Sybil abruptly.

"Sybil, be proper in company." Sibilated Cora, in her Cincinatti accent.

"But he's not a conchie," muttered Sybil, and Branson could hear her fold her arms sourly.

"Conscientious objector." Contributed Violet wisely.

Branson halted the car outside the small church in Rippen town. He got out of the car, and opened the door, as Cora, then Violet, then Sybil, who glanced at Branson, left the Rolls Royce, and walked respectably up to the church, leaving Branson feeling confused.

He was a conscientious objector, or at least, he intended to be. He wanted his opinions voiced, and that voice heard. He didn't care how, as long as Sybil was alright.