A/N: Just a little thing to pass the time. Words fall out of my fingers when I'm bored, apparently. Please let me know if you'd like me to keep them to myself.
Disclaimer: Definitely still not mine. I'd try Julian Fellowes or ITV, if I were you.
Those Things We Never Said
Sarah O'Brien resented Tom Branson. Though they rarely had anything to do with each other beyond brief, meaningless exchanges in the servant's hall, Sarah resented him. Poor bugger had no idea why, and she was never going to enlighten him. Not the enlightening type, was she? It was enough that her feelings were evident in her every interaction with the young chauffeur; every tilt of her head, every twitch of her eyes, every click of her heels on the stone floor screamed the irritation at his very existence that the calm civility of her voice belied.
He'd left the hall mere moments before, no doubt less than encouraged by the manner in which she was approaching her darning, with every particularly vicious stab of the needle accompanied by a murderous glance in his direction. Sarah couldn't blame him for his sudden departure; given the chance, she wouldn't opt to be around herself when she'd been afforded opportunity to dwell. Her thoughts always left her in a foul, unforgiving mood these days...ever since the rumours of an unsuitable courtship had started.
He had no business persuing Lady Sybil. No business at all.
Sarah had learned and was obliged to keep her place, and he bloody well should've done, n'all! Her needle scraped a thick gouge in her darning ball, but she ignored it along with the wary glances she was recieving from Daisy who was tending to some irons across the room.
For nearly twenty years now, Sarah had held her tongue. Twenty years! Her Ladyship had looked at her with those big, shining eyes of hers, and Sarah had seen such longing in them so frequently that it near broke her heart. But she had ignored it all. Had pressed the impulses down so violently, had masked them from everyone, Her Ladyship included. Sarah knew her place.
How dare Branson go after what he wanted! And how dare Lady Sybil go right along with him!
What meaning did her sacrifice have if they went and proved what was possible? Yes, Sarah O'Brien resented Tom Branson; he made her feel foolish, like everything she'd tried to protect was perhaps not so great an obstacle after all...
Throwing her mending clear across the room, she slammed her palms against the table, causing Daisy to squeak and flee the hall and the unpredictable woman in it. With a huff and a roll of her eyes, Sarah picked up her skirts and stood, her eyes narrowing in sudden determination.
Twenty years was more than long enough for this charade.
Cora Crawley had always been terrible at hiding her emotions. Her family always ascribed it to her American heritage, the way her face would twist into a clear indication of precisely how she felt in that moment.
Never an unexpressed thought.
In the beginning, it had caused her quite considerable embarrassment. When she thought of the things she knew she was most likely projecting to the world when in the company of her maid...thank goodness Mama never had cause to see it! She suspected a character flaw such as this would not be covered by invoking the deficiencies of American blood, not even by the Dowager Countess.
Over time the embarrassment had faded and resignation had settled in for the duration. She'd had years to practice disguising the longing, and felt she was better at it, but it still stung to know that whatever she felt was far from reciprocated. O'Brien was perceptive, and Cora a flashing beacon of obviousness, besides. O'Brien was aware and had obviously dismissed what she'd seen because she didn't feel the same. That was all there was to it.
She tried not to dwell too often but sometimes, on rainy days such as this one, shut up alone with her thoughts, she couldn't help but allow her mind to wander...
Cora was only glad that O'Brien had stayed; it was comforting to know that her maid was fond of her, if nothing more.
The purpose in her stride carried her upstairs and to her lady's chambers much faster than usual. No doubt Mrs Hughes would advocate this sort of pace permanently, though Sarah doubted she would condone her intended actions. She smirked to herself as she approached the door, somewhat disappointed that she'd never get to have such a conversation - wiping the wry smile off the housekeeper's face would almost be worth the scandal.
Knocking as briskly as she ever did, she didn't even bother to wait for admittance. Cora sat on the chaise where she'd left her more than an hour ago, no indication that she'd moved beyond reaching for the book Sarah knew had been perched on the side table less than a foot away.
Honestly. It was amazing to think the woman still had the use of her legs.
Confusion was written plainly on the Countess' face, but Sarah didn't take the time to address it; there was no need. Cora's confusion was irrelevant to proceedings, really. Instead, she continued into the room wordlessly, until she stood at the other woman's side. Plucking the book from Cora's hands, she dropped it to the floor then pushed at the Countess' legs, creating a space to sit, before lowering herself onto the chaise beside her.
"I've been thinking, Milady."
"Oh?", Cora replied, her obviously-puzzled gaze flitting from the unceremoniously discarded book to her maid.
"Yes."
The silence stretched, Cora's brow furrowing further than Sarah had previously thought possible.
"Were there any thoughts you particularly wished to share with me, O'Brien, or am I to attempt to read your mind?"
"They say actions speak louder than words, My Lady."
Sarah watched closely as Cora breathed out a laugh,
"You are awfully cryptic today! So far, all I've divined from your actions is that you don't much care for my book."
"I was thinking that...that there 'ave been so many thoughts expressed in this room, Milady, over the years. So many thoughts spoken so very loudly, but so few voiced."
"O'Brien, I don't..."
Cora found herself cut off by the press of Sarah's - it felt wrong to think of her as O'Brien at this precise moment - lips against her own. As she wound her arms quickly around the other woman, lest she suddenly come to her senses and attempt to leave, she was glad Sarah had spared her the indignity of throwing her book across the room in utter delight.
It should be fairly evident by now that I have no idea how to end stories. Nevertheless, thank you for reading! Reviews are, as ever, appreciated.