"My Lady, I really don't think…" Tom's last protestations were heard by no-one. He glanced into the back, the smooth comfort and safe haven of the green leather seats mocking him. Looking to the doorway he saw her, Lady bloody Sybil. Her neatly dressed trim figure disappearing around the corner. Christ on the cross. Does this girl not think?

Tom well knew he could lose his job. As he roughly turned the wheel to manoeuvre the car and find somewhere to park his generally cynical thoughts about the aristocracy turned savage. Sweet Jesu! Is she trying to get me sacked? Damnable posh girls… 'Oh, I'll just run along to the election results where there are bound to be angry liberals looking to cause trouble – jolly fun!' Tom was seething.

He found a space to leave the car and near vaulted over the motor's door to get out and find her. To take her back home and let His Lordship deal with his own wayward daughter. As Tom strode, boot clad feet slapping the cobbles in his haste, he felt a twinge of more personal anger at her deception. If she had just seen fit to tell him! He might have sympathised… they might have found some sort of compromise. But no – she put his living on the line without asking him about it.

And he had thought that she might be different. He'd given her pamphlets to try and encourage her, had thought they might sometimes talk or even debate, perhaps even as equals. He felt betrayed, and that irritated him as much as her actions. He was more concerned than he should be – and not just about his job. An aristocratic daughter with a brain – an interest in politics – the sort of girl who could use influence to make change in the world. He must have bee mistaken. She was impatient, fool-hardy, selfish, impractical, thoughtless…

And beautiful his mind supplied as he caught site of her in front of the platform. It was undeniable. Here in this rough setting it was more pronounced. She was so small and delicate. The crowd pressed in, coarse and thick around her; she was a willow sapling in a forest, pressed in on every side by robust ferns.

She had never looked so fair. But, Tom thought as he began to fight his way through the crowd – keeping his gaze locked on her to keep his bearings in the ebbing sea of men – it wasn't just the difference between her and the other people. She was herself more beautiful here. Her face alive, intent, excited. Lady Sybil's pale eyes were wide and bright as she watched the exchanges of men on the platform, even as she was jostled by those flanking her. On her way to parties or picnics or when he occasionally saw her in the drawing room… she was never so enthralled and her beauty was enhanced by her captivation. Reposed poise was lovely on her, but excitement made the beauty real. It suited her.

Finally Tom reached her, instinctively using his greater height and breadth to shield her from the thronging crowd. His ire was largely diminished, but a new sense of urgency replaced it. More men were filling the square, packing the people closer together. Tensions were running so high that a fight was visibly brewing below the simmering surface of the crowd. His lady had taken a spot right in the centre of the crowd: any trouble would reach them quickly and they would have to fight tooth and nail to forge a path out.

Sybil had glanced back briefly when Tom had reached her, as though sensing his presence, but her head was once more turned towards the men on the makeshift stage. Her posture was focussed and she stood proud and intent now that Tom was blocking the worst of the jostling. The noise in the small space was growing. To Tom it seemed like thunder, foretelling inevitable lightning strikes. The Chauffer knew it was his moral obligation and his duty to act. Now.

"My Lady, we must leave - it isn't safe," Tom's tone was beseeching, be he was sure his eyes were frankly pleading. He had taken her arm, looking back he would see it was a bold move but at the time it was the least rash action that seemed appropriate. Had she not been a Lady, had her father not been his employer (and, perhaps most of all, if Mr Crawley had not turned up) he would have put her over his shoulder and carried her out of the throng then – and devil take the hind most!

Matthew Crawley then appeared out of nowhere, protecting Sybil from the other side. He began to speak earnestly to her, no doubt reiterating what Tom himself had been saying. Tom realised how tense he had been, how focussed he had been on trying to guard Lady Sybil from all directions and while Matthew talked he allowed himself to relax enough to have coherent thought. Tom glanced around. There was something going on. A whole troop of men had appeared – drunk. There was a hustling and-

Tom turned to warn them but before he could act Matthew had socked a scoundrel right in the jaw! Thank Jesus… but Lady Sybil was on the floor. Sybil was hurt, bleeding. God! The rushing movements all blurred around him but Sybil stayed in focus, so still and suddenly so pale. They had to get her out of here. He met Matthew Crawley's eyes and saw matching determination there.

…

Tom had hated it. Waiting and waiting while they tended her at Crawley House. And sent for Mary… the coldest one of the bloody lot. But she was pragmatic he supposed, and would protect Sybil from their father's wrath as best she could. Tom doubted she would do as much to guard his interests, but that seemed secondary now.

He still hadn't really seen Sybil. Only glimpses that were not nearly enough to satisfy his anxiety or appease his guilt. She had looked so frail and fragile, one moment vital and so alive, the next cold and dormant. Like a candle snuffed with only a tiny speck of an ember glowing, almost all of that vigor and spark blown out by her fall.

They said she was up and awake - that she was alright. Some stubborn protective part of him refused to accept their reports. He had to see, had to be sure. Mary said she would keep him posted but he didn't trust that promise. Tom's worst fear was nagging at him: if he was dismissed he would never see her again… maybe never know if she was truly recovered. He couldn't deny the voice in his mind that insisted he should have done more. The crowd reminded him so much of the riots in Ireland... Tom had seen how it would end.

If she suffered any side effects he would never forgive himself. He needed her to be safe. It was a need that lit a fire in his stomach and became a restless distraction in his mind. She wouldn't be kept cooped up here for long, and it was becoming clear to Tom that these stiff-shirt posh boys, nice as they were, would not often venture as far as she would. Her appetite matched only his.