Tom Branson poked his head around the window frame to peer into the room. He broke into a grin. He couldn't help himself.
In the room, Lady Sybil twirled in her light blue "frock." She pulled out the pant legs to show everyone, her face under the headband aglow with pleasure at her family's surprise and her Granny's horror at the modernity of such an article of clothing.
Branson remembered how Lady Sybil had responded when he asked her whether she thought she would get her way with the frock. She had been momentarily silent and he had hoped she wouldn't take offense that the chauffeur had spoken to her out of turn. But she hadn't. Neither had she taken offense when he handed her the pamphlets about women getting the vote. He had been right to assume that she was a free-minded woman, not controlled by her family's fear of change.
Looking at her now, through the glass of the library, he knew she wasn't contained by the walls and stone of this house.
Branson watched her smile and turn, all grace and glamor. His mind turned a faint shade of blue, just looking at her and her "frock." He liked the way it fell about her hips and flowed around her legs. He tore his eyes away from her midriff and looked at her face. Her smile sent a chill through him. Branson tried to imagine that she was smiling at him.
He suddenly wondered what They, Lady Sybil, Lady Crawley, and the Dowager Countess in particular, would think of him spying on them through the library window, if they happened to look over in his direction, from just the right angle to see around the plant on the table... He pulled back quickly and leaned against the stone wall. He closed his eyes and saw Lady Sybil's image superimposed on top of the bright, brilliant green hills of the estate.
Branson tried angrily to shake Lady Sybil from his vision.
But she persisted.
He tried telling himself quite firmly that the daughter of an Earl and the Earl's Irish chauffeur would never work. Never. This could end badly, he tried. You'll just break your heart, he warned. You're just an Irish socialist servant, he thought, but he interrupted himself mid-warning.
Soon, that wouldn't matter any more. What was he thinking? Wasn't that his cause? He turned and walked towards the garage with a hint of a swagger in his step.
And anyway, he thought, as he whistled a jolly tune, if she loved me, I'm sure she'd get her way, one way or another, just like with that frock. She was a stubborn and persistent girl, that Lady Sybil, and her image in his mind was as persistent as ever, digging its heels into the rolling hills of his mind. Not that his mind was putting up much of a fight anymore.