The piano jangled loudly, echoing across the yard. Branson opened the carriage house door wider and settled back against the workbench to read through the newspaper. Footsteps clicked on the flagstones outside and Branson grimaced, expecting a request to have him fetch old Lady Grantham or Mrs. Crawley. He looked up as Lady Sybil walked through the door, looking as beautiful as ever in her nursing uniform. He smiled at her, a thrill going through his stomach. She smiled hesitantly back and casually entered the garage.
"Sounds like a party down in the kitchen," she commented, glancing back over her shoulder into the courtyard.
"That'll be Charlotte," Branson said. "She took over playing the piano when William got called up. Mrs. Hughes and Carson went into town so the maids'll be taking a break, I expect."
"I always did love dancing at parties," Sybil sighed, looking wistful for the past.
Branson smiled at her in that way he had, like he wanted to make fun of her but kiss her at the same time. "I'm sure all your parents friends' boys loved dancing with you, too."
Sybil paused, her face thoughtful as she looked at him, her hands clasped in front of her. "That's not what I meant."
"But I'm sure it was true anyway," Branson said, still smirking at her.
Sybil looked away from him, to her feet, then back up and came to sit next to him on the workbench.
"Do you need a ride to the hospital?" Branson asked.
"No. My shift is in the morning," Sybil replied.
"Won't you be missed for dinner?"
"No. Mary's in London and Mama and Papa were invited to dine with the Henderson's. It's just Edith and I. She will probably just eat a tray when she's done with the soldiers for the night."
"It's good that she's found something to occupy her time," Branson commented idly after a pause.
"Yes, I suppose," Sybil sighed. She looked momentarily frustrated.
"What's the matter?"
Sybil looked up from her hands to find Branson's bright blue eyes staring at her, barley blinking. She was startled to find concern there. Her worries began to spill out without her meaning them to.
"It's Mary. Papa told me that Sir Richard Carlisle has asked her to marry him."
"And you…don't like Sir Richard Carlisle?"
"I just…don't see what Mary sees, I guess." She looked around the garage as if looking for something she'd lost. "It's not just her, either. Fig, one of the nurses down at the hospital, she just got engaged as well. And Alberta was married to her officer two weeks ago."
Sybil was avoiding looking at him.
"I expect people just want to be with each other while they can now, what with the war," he said slowly.
"I expect so." Sybil finally looked back at him, a calculating look in her eyes. She was trying to measure him, find honesty in his face to support his earlier words to her. "Is that why…you told me you want to run away with me now? Because of the war?"
"Yes. I figured, why wait? I care for you now and it won't be any easier later than it is now. You can see now, can't you, that the world is changing? We could be together."
Sybil stayed silent, still studying Branson's face.
The music changed, sounding a little more like an Irish jig. The silence between them grew louder. Branson put down his paper. "Come on, then."
He held out his hand to Sybil. She looked at it and back up to his face. Taking a small breath she carefully placed her hand in his. He smiled, amused at her hesitation. She did not smile back.
Slowly, he pulled her away from the workbench and out to the open space next to the car. He clasped her hand tighter and held it out to the side then reached with his other hand toward her waist. She kept her eyes trained on his face, completely neutral. His grin became a little smaller, a little less sure as his hand slid around to her back and he pulled her close. A hand's width between their chests.
Finally Sybil smiled a little mockingly. "This isn't how you dance properly. Wherever did you learn?" She tried to step back and take back her hand but Branson tightened his grip and smiled right back.
"This isn't proper dancing music, like you're used to. Come on, I'll show you. Put your hand on my arm. Go on, I won't bite," he said. A small bitterness escaped in his smile (oh, how he'd love to bite her a little! If only they were in bed …) before he could stop it but arrogance quickly replaced it. Sybil hesitantly reached up and rested her hand on his shoulder.
He took a step, then another to show her how to start. Then very suddenly they were dancing, hopping, twirling, laughing around the garage. Sybil relaxed against Branson's hands and let him do whatever he wanted. He got a startled but delighted laugh out of her when he suddenly changed direction or spun her around in front of him by her hand.
All too quickly the song was over and they stopped breathlessly in the middle of the floor again. Something softer, sweeter and more delicate drifted in.
Smiling gaily, her cheeks flushed, Sybil looked up at Branson. He had that serious look on his face, the one he had when he'd told her he'd spend the rest of his life trying to make her happy. He moved his feet and they were dancing again, slower this time. His arm tightened around her waist and he brought her other hand in, rested their clasped fingers against his shoulder. Sybil's other hand was up around his neck. They were close enough that she could kiss him. Right now. She'd barely have to reach up- his face was already angled down towards hers, his eyes wide and hopeful.
Forcing her eyes away from his lips- look at anything else, for goodness sake!- she said, "So that's how you do it in Ireland?"
Branson smiled a little sadly. "Yes. Just like home."
Home? Sybil felt a spasm of irritation at his words, then another at herself. It couldn't be jealousy? Don't be ridiculous. "I expect you had many girls who liked to dance with you, as well."
Branson paused mid-step, his eyes getting more intense, causing Sybil to bump chests with him. "Maybe a few."
Branson's lips distracted her again as he spoke, making the words unimportant. His body felt so warm against hers and he smelled so nice and his fingers were squeezing hers. Would it be such a mistake, really? She tilted her chin up and stopped, looking to see if he would close the distance. Abruptly the music cut short on a jarring crash of keys. They both looked out the doors, the moment broken.
Sybil started to pull away and Branson let her. "I should probably be getting back."
"You know, it was my brother Seamus that the girls always liked though, really. Molly, our neighbor, used to come over every Sunday just to sit and stare at him. Even though I was the first boy she'd ever kissed."
Far from having the effect he'd wanted, which was to draw Sybil into conversation so she'd stay just a little bit longer, Sybil completely pulled her hands out of Branson's, looking annoyed. He sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets moodily.
"I'll need a ride to the hospital tomorrow morning. Early. Good night, Branson," she said. She walked away but stopped when she got to the door, hesitated with her hand on the door jamb, then turned back. "I suppose Molly was your sweetheart before you came here, then?"
Branson bit back a short laugh. "No. I only meant to show you that you shouldn't be too impressed with me. I didn't dance much back home. Molly married Seamus a few years ago. They've got a little boy, about three, called Michael. She's expecting another in a couple of months."
Sybil looked pleased and tried to hide it. "Oh. Well, I think you don't give yourself enough credit."
"Thank you…"Branson's smirk faded slightly, "…milady. Good evening, Mrs. Hughes. What can I do for you?"
"Hello, Lady Sybil. I believe Her Ladyship has returned and is looking for you. She is in the library."
"Yes, all right. Thank you, Mrs. Hughes, " said Sybil. She turned back toward the house giving Branson a last regretful smile.
"What was that about?" Mrs. Hughes asked, halfway exasperated, halfway suspicious.
Branson shrugged, trying to look indifferent. "She asked me to take her to the hospital tomorrow morning."