Lay Your Sleeping Head, My Love
As the gold and the glimmer of the sun-soaked summer began to creep upon the Abbey, and the remnants of spring retired wearily, Tom Branson's mind was eaten up with an image of infinite beauty: Sybil Crawley, gently spinning around, her head held high in adorable determination while her Ballets Russes-inspired silk trousers floated rebelliously. For days the image, the mental image that had been created as he peered captivatedly through the drawing room window panes, had haunted him, day and night, every time raising a smile that spread across his facial features.
Several times he had subsequently driven Lady Sybil back and forth to various destinations, shaking the smile that crept upon his features. He often caught her glancing in his direction, pleasantly puzzled, clearly attempting to figure out why he grinned so often, which only led to an enhanced grin. Smiling so often caused her to becoming naively self-conscious, he perceived, with heightened adoration. However, as they ventured along the road he attempted to banish these thoughts from his mind, reminding himself of the impropriety of such ideas.
Just as he had begun to push out such indecent notions, he heard her low voice gently direct a question towards him; her rough voice the volume of a pin dropping. He was immediately caught by her. She had questioned him about the reasoning behind his smirk, a glint in her brown eyes. Almost too quick, he dismissed it as "nothing", a noticeable embarrassed blush flushed his fair cheeks momentarily. "Oh," she replied, hurt by the force of the statement, a consequence of his speedy need for denial; she glanced downwards dejectedly, fiddling with her gloves, her lean fingers dancing gracefully between finger slots.
Tom turned around apologetically, for he knew he had seemed defensive, almost as if he had stated that it was none of her business. "I'm sorry milady, it's only… well, the object of my smiles, is, well… you, milady." At his recommencement of the conversation, her head had risen with humility, and by the end of his statement her expression mirrored that of a deer caught in the headlights: surprised - off-guard. "What I mean is – I saw you, milady; the other day, in the drawing room. It was inappropriate of me, I know, but… wow. You looked… and the dress! I knew you were up to something, I could tell by your rebellious words and excitement… I just wanted to see, that's all. And well, it was… I was speechless."
As he absentmindedly drew his appraisal of her to a close, Tom suddenly flushed as he realised he had stammered on, gushing indecent and misplaced compliments, as he had led them up the gravel, concluding on the drive whilst parking parallel to the Abbey. A sweeping glance to the backseat as he rose from the car allowed him a hurried glimpse of Sybil's face, ablaze with embarrassment: or was it discomfort, he asked himself. He felt ashamed, annoyed, he'd over stepped the mark, he knew he had. In a silence heightened by malaise, he stalked determinedly to the door, opening it as he forced a neutral expression upon his features, staring detachedly into the distance, waiting for her to alight. His expression of determined serenity wavered as the gentle touch of her gloved hand against his sent a tingling shiver through his body and as the muffled "thank you Branson" was breathed upon his ear, the warm air raising the fine hairs upon his lower neck. She had gently swung herself within inches of him, brushing his firm body delicately.
As quick as it had happened, she'd disappeared, seeming to Tom to have scarpered in disarray due to his inappropriate speech. He kicked himself for having been so impertinent, so unlike what he should be. She could never feel the same way about him, he knew this! So, why? Why did he insist on enhancing his own misery and her discomfort. Stupid! So goddamn stupid!