Near Banbridge town, in the County Down, One morning in July.

Down a bóithrín green came a sweet cailín, And she smiled as she passed me by-

Yes it was July wasn't it?

The heat was the first indication, the summer of 1910 presenting itself to be much warmer than the standard, temperate climate Yorkshire often offered year-round. Taking care not to let the heat stick to the only suit a certain Tom Branson had carefully vested himself in that morning, he couldn't help but give a small sigh at his appending trek. It was but three days prior that in the post came a letter of inquiry, in response to his own first letter sent the week before. It was all because of an advertisement in the newspaper for a particular job-opening; all applicants without prior experience or knowledge of a certain modern invention "need not apply". This wasn't a problem for Tom who had all but jumped from the small table in the corner of some nameless pub in London, rushing back upstairs to his narrow, rented room to begin writing a letter of interest.

Tom Branson (previously of Dublin, Ireland), found himself on this side of the Irish Sea just the year before. He stepped off the boat in Liverpool with nothing but a trunk filled to capacity with various books. Tom recalled the struggle that took place back at his mother's, who was just baffled at her middle son's choice of belongings.

"You'd be running off to England, God knows why, and plan ta make yer fortune with a crate of books at yer side? You be daft boy! At least pack somethin' that will be useful…" His mother sat at the kitchen table in the humble house of Branson, arms crossed with her all too familiar frown of displeasure upon learning of Tom's choice of luggage. Three bedrooms with a parlor, kitchen and outdoor but well-kept privy instilled Aileen Branson with a sense of pride. While it would never be a brownstone or some 'posh' flat, Aileen knew she provided well for her four children plus one. The one being the drunken lout who claimed paternity on three of her children. Devin Branson was a man who came and went as the tide which bashed against the Dublin docks, being more a stranger to his own family that the pubs frequently visited in a five block radius. It was her belief of being a fine Catholic role model to the children that she never pursued divorce, instead simply pushing Devin out of the family's life. The fourth child who resided with the Branson's was really more a cousin in truth, Ian Murray but two years younger than Tom and only five when he first arrived at the Branson house. His mother and father had perished in two different circumstances, the former a disease unchecked and the latter an unfortunate drunken run-in with a British soldier. Upon his father's death Ian found himself dropped at Aileen's doorstep, and taken in by his mother's sister without a word edgewise. Tom had thus grown up closer with Ian than any other sibling, the age difference between himself and his older brother too great and the fact his younger sibling was a girl the reasons why.

"Ma for the last time, I'm not looking for a fortune." An eighteen year old Tom kicked the trunk, his features exasperated at the return of this argument. "I want ta be able to help the family. You and Ian and Colleen. God knows where Kieran is, although the fact he's not once bothered to look back since he turned eighteen is sign enough fer sure."

"So says this now eighteen year old son o' mine who wants ta boat off to a different country entirely! At least Kieran has the right mind ta stay where he belongs. Wit' his own people." Aileen narrowed her eyes, gaze unwavering from Tom. "If you had just stayed at Martin's shop like you have the past few years nothin' would be wrong. You had a good job there Tommy. You know yer mind is good enough wit' cars-

"'Cept I don't want ta be lying on my back wrenchin' an engine for some rich man's car all my life. There's a future fer me Ma. I need to find ta find it." "But not here."

Tom inhaled sharply, closing his eyes before opening them once more at his mother. "No Ma. Not here, not right now."

His words stood between them, for even Aileen couldn't argue. Ireland was not the place to make a living unless you were born lucky, and lived in those posh town homes or had been a trading family for generations by now. Tom's odds were well enough to make better money in England, and be able to send back more to his mother than he ever did working at the mechanics in their neck of Dublin.

A moment passed between the two, before his mother lowered her gaze down to the trunk. Of course Tom would miss his mother, the house he had grown up in, his younger sister and most importantly Ian. However there was nothing Aileen Branson could say to dissuade her Tom from changing his mind. He was stubborn since the day of his birth, and so set in his ways once that sharp mind of his was made up.

"But did you have ta pack only books?"

A small smile appeared, followed by a shake of his head. No one in the family ever truly understood his love of reading, who at eighteen when he left was already well optioned and knowledgeable about a great deal of aspects both historical as well as political. He liked to think it gave him an element of surprise in the sea of this country that was the Englishman. Nothing like firing back a quicksilver retort in a street side rally, shocking all those around him as soon as he opened his mouth and the accent spilled forth. No, letting your birth determine your ignorance was not a custom the Socialist Tom felt particularly inclined to follow.

He resumed his tune that had been broken by this retreat into his thoughts, the words of the well-known Irish ballad popping up into his mind as he whistled through his remaining walk. A great deal of the hill that led to his destination had already been traversed he was glad to notice, a finger tugging at the collar of his suit in the slightly stifling air.

Oh she looked so sweet from her two bare feet, To the sheen of her nut brown hair.
Such a coaxing elf, sure I shook myself-

"To be sure I was really there…" As if on cue the whistle-turned-singing died down on his lips, as the last great bend of the path brought him forward first to a lawn of immense green. A well-maintained dirt path continued up to what he assumed would be his final destination, the enormous building in distance.

Yes Downton Abbey hadn't failed to shock this young man from Dublin. As he got closer Tom tried to count the windows as they came into focus, giving up only when he realized the entirety of the outside façade was embezzled both in the exceedingly numerous amount of glass panes as well as crown molding. It looked rich, and Tom couldn't help but give an inward sigh. The benefits and pay in working for such an estate would surely provide much well-needed income for Tom and his family back in Ireland, however it didn't escape him that the payoff would be having to instill himself in one of the highest levels of British society he had learned to look not well upon, back in Ireland as well as here.

If the staff is even treated well to begin with…

He wasn't naïve enough to believe that all those in possession of great riches treated those who served them day and night with care and payment even to services rendered. If the upper class of Ireland was anything to learn from, of course such levels of society would be looked upon with a jaded eye. He had heard stories of the Earl's fair treatment of his employees however, after inquiring at the inn located back in the village greeting the start of this long trail.

Tom gave the building a withering glance before resuming his walk, now in the direction of the back doors to the estate. He had an appointment with the leader of the staff, who was in fact the butler. Tom remembered the snort he gave upon reading the words of this man, his writing echoing the distinguished honor he felt all those who were to work for Downton should instill in their hearts. Oh he was grateful to be sure to have any interview offered after a year of odds and ends working in areas most definitely not akin to his few skills, however the idea that he was to report to a butler for one of the richest families in Yorkshire… Who had even known butlers were real? He had always fancied such a figure as almost imaginary, as well as most of the tidings and going-ons of the upper class and serving staff life. So it was no surprise to knock on the wooden back door, wait but a minute or two, and find it opened by none other than a slightly portly man, tall with a gaze of silent determination second only to his mother. He wore a black coat of tails and silver trousers, properly ironed with not a thread out of place on the fabric as well as the silver hairs on his head. The gaze never fell, causing Tom to stiffen and straighten, a hand grabbing the cap on his head down to rest. He did however keep the man's stare, refusing the intimidation at hand.

"Tom Branson. And you must be Mr. Carson."

The clock kept ticking in the small office, Tom rubbing the handle of the delicate tea cup in his hands continuously with his fingers. The slightly feminine tea set was the third surprise of Downton Abbey and Mr. Carson. The first was how the man now sitting in front of him could make one feel ill at ease with nothing but a stern-set face and unblinking expression. After being let in he gave a small sigh of relief, realizing to follow Mr. Carson meant the man's back would finally be facing Tom. The second surprise was how small the staff truly seemed to be. Through the quick trek of the servant's halls Tom spied a table to his left, one that truly couldn't seat more than twenty at the most. Did it really take not that many people to properly care for the house and the family in which it resides? Maybe it was just a childless couple upstairs…

And now back to the present. With the teacups and kettle kept a brilliant white with blue flowers draping this way and that.

Tom brought the empty cup back to his lips for the third time now, devoid of tea left to drink exactly four sips ago.

"Well Mr. Branson, your references do seem to be in order as was stated in your letter. Of course there is the matter of your 'training'… Most recently in Liverpool six months ago at a service which features motor repairs and preceded by three years' work at a certain mechanic shop in… Dublin."

Tom brought the empty cup back down, nodding at Mr. Caron's findings, face impassive. His city of birth seemed to always leave a bad taste in any Englishman's mouth, the word growing increasingly bitter the further east and north from Liverpool and London you traveled. Not many Irish accents were heard in Yorkshire he figured.

Away from your people. Could always count on his Ma's voice to pop up unwanted.

"I must admit you're younger than his Lordship and myself were expecting. Eighteen?"

"Nineteen with twenty at the end of the year. But as you could well read Mr. Carson, I know what I'm doing. And how to drive an automobile."

"Hmn. Yes that was the position offered. Are you familiar with a Royce and Renault?"

"Those on top of the Sunbeam and Model T, and anything else that rolls on wheels and has an engine."

Tom didn't see the point of these questions. He knew what was asked of him and could provide. His references from Dublin and the shop in Liverpool detailed his strengths with a motor engine and its inner-workings. For Tom Branson nothing made more sense in his life than the automobile.

As a child he was the sort who would take apart anything that hummed or ticked, and was sure to include a rotating gear or small parts. The only reason his Ma hadn't boxed his ears to kingdom come was because of his equal ability to put the object back together again. Fiddling with mechanical items and the methodical patience required balanced out his own fiery temper, and allowed Tom to take a breather from the numerous scrapes Ian and himself often instigated or followed in their youth. Upon reaching his teenage years the next best thing to work on were the motorcars now seen even in the blocks away from the richest areas of the city. Many a weekend was spent dragging Ian into a junkyard to work his way through the abandoned metal innards and bodies, teaching himself from broken specimens the beginning of what would become a lifelong fascination with the automobile. Rolls Royce or Renault or even the American Model T, all of these metal exteriors gave way to a surprisingly similar interior. He found work at fifteen at his mother's friend Martin's shop, and from there the rest was history. As evident in his sitting in the small office of Mr. Carson this warm July early afternoon, sipping imaginary tea from an empty white and blue tea cup.

"His Lordship has just begun to embrace these automobiles, and as everyone else here we know not the proper care or maintenance expected. Or how to drive one. Of course his Lordship is not expected to learn how to drive one, and as such I asked you to come. Your letter of response was both well-informed from what I could gather about the area as well as presented itself in a very… honest evaluation of your skills. Even if it came off a little strong and sure of yourself."

Tom's left eyebrow rose up and his mouth settled into a firm line. If by that you mean I told you exactly what I could do and how well I could do it. Leave it to some British butler to find that off-putting.

Tom was a little smug. Carried over from childhood.

Mr. Carson stood up then, and gave Tom a final look of scrutiny across the desk.

He didn't take his role as employer lightly and personally interviewed only the best candidates to bring personal recommendation to the Earl of Grantham. While the idea of a young Irish, well boy really, who had not been in England for but a year and a half certainly rang outside Carson's usual comfort zone, this Branson had come well equipped and sure of himself and his abilities. Pride in one's skills was also a trait Carson himself personally favored, and the spark behind Tom's eyes didn't go unnoticed. He wanted to work and seemed to have a head on his shoulders.

With that Carson broke his stare and shuffled the papers on the desk back into order, handing them back over to Tom who in turn placed the tea cup onto the surface. He rose up from the chair, and shook the hand that appeared but a moment later.

"I'm most certainly not his Lordship and cannot give the final word, but I will put in good favor towards your qualifications and abilities Mr. Branson. I'm sure you will hear from Downton very soon."

Carson strode over to the door and opened it. Tom followed suit, and glanced back at Carson. "I trust you can find the way back Mr. Branson. Good day."

With that the office was closed.

Well that went well, he thought, and instantly felt assured about this job. Even if he still had to wait for a final answer, Tom had a feeling the butler's word would be true in the end. The interview proved itself worthwhile even if Mr. Carson monopolized the conversation with questions and a certain seriousness to its nature. In some odd way he could respect that, and started down the hallway back to the door with a small smile. Small, but it was there.

It was that night in the pub of Grantham Arms that Tom remembered he still didn't know exactly who lived up in that mansion on the hill.

The bartender's reply didn't fail to surprise.

Tom stared up into the ceiling now, the bed sheet thin but at least devoid of any scratching sensation. Sleep was tugging at his eyes, yet his mind was still ever working in an endless flurry.

Carson the Butler… Lord and Lady Grantham… and three daughters.

Tom couldn't imagine living with three sisters back in Ireland, let alone three surely spoiled future Ladies. Their names alone were as posh as could be; Tom was sure his mother would have given a scoff upon hearing them. Well the first two at least.

Lady Mary and Lady Edith.

Tom shook his head. Why people felt the need to make names as boring as possible, and then repeat them through generations was beyond him. He chalked it up as British aristocracy at its finest. One of the daughters did have a much more refreshing name at least. Not too stuck up that could stand on its own, to the beat of a different drummer.

He wondered if he would meet her. He wondered if she was anything like he mused in these last moments before sleep overtook his senses.

Wow I haven't written anything in ages. But whenever I read an amazing fanfic the urge just sticks in my brain until I let it out. (Love's Journey by Yankee Countess). I have a tentative plot I hope to continue. I want to contribute my own version of the wonderful adventure and love story that is Sybil and Tom. So here goes nothing. If you haven't guessed though, year differences might be a thing. Well they will be. Tom comes to Downton in 1910 instead of 1913. He's 19 going on 20. There is a method to this planning. I hope you enjoyed and look out for the next chapter.

The song Tom whistles/sings is Star of the County Down. .