He should've known this would happen.
It's no secret that Lady Sybil is pretty, possibly the prettiest of her sisters. Nor is it surprising that her fiery passion, her unbridled rebellion, her headstrong youthfulness, is intoxicating. (At least, it isn't to him, because he's experienced it first hand.) She just seemed so young. She seemed so innocent. How could she ever be ready to get shipped off to London to be married? Evidently, she agrees with this, while her mother does not.
"Sybil, darling, Lord Winthrop's son has quite the fortune coming to him and there are worse men in the world. You should be flattered that he's taken a liking to you."
(Flattered, flattered, he hates that word, God he hates that word.)
Lady Grantham's transatlantic accent puts a metallic taste in Tom (he does have a first name)'s mouth, like he's swallowing pennies. He knows it's not right to listen in on a conversation between a mother and daughter and he knows that what he's hearing really shouldn't matter, but the other servants eavesdrop too and perhaps they also have some forbidden connection to an employer.
(Employer does not seem like the right word to describe Sybil [they dropped the 'Lady' long ago], who confides in him freely, it's just that there's not much else he can say without giving up their secret. His secret. There will never be a 'they.' Especially not with Lord Winthrop's son around.)
"Don't pretend that you've set this up so I will be truly, genuinely happy," Sybil warns her mother. "You're just doing this because Mary's prospects have all but gone and Edith isn't-" Tom adores the way she stops herself from insulting her middle sister. "Interested," she finishes triumphantly. Her words are fierce, no doubt, and he likes to think that he inspired the sudden honesty Sybil speaks with now when he handed her the pamphlets on women's rights.
"My dear, I do not know what you are talking about." Lady Grantham's voice is robotic and controlled, like she wants nothing more than to mold her daughter to her will rather than slowly chip away at her veneer of politics. "From what Mary writes, she is enjoying the company of many men in London and Edith is receiving much attention. It is just that your debut in London has caused quite the stir and your grandmother has pointed out that it would be best to strike while the iron is hot."
If it is possible, Tom can hear Sybil rolling her eyes at her mother's antics. It takes all of his strength not to cheer her on.
"Why must it be up to Granny? Why can't my marriage be when I want it to be?" Her mother hesitates; the question is a legitimate one. Eventually, she settles on a response.
"Granny has experience with this sort of thing. And you must admit, your judgement has not been the best as of late, what with the count at Ripon and so forth."
Tom's face becomes a sheet at the mere memory of her mahogany hair stained auburn with blood. He feels Sybil's eyes on him as the car swerves ever so slightly: not enough to worry the Crawley matriarch, but just enough to announce his discomfort.
As usual, proper etiquette dictates that he must be ignored. He does not exist when people of a higher class are present. So, with no regard for his guilt or pain, the conversation follows the harsh road down which it is headed, filled with sharp comments and harsh retorts, until it ends with the acceptance of Lord Winthrop's son's visit. Lady Grantham gets out of the car too soon to hear her daughter's final, pathetic whisper.
"I just wish it were someone who knew me."
Tom allows himself to briefly fantasize that she means him.
Picking up Sybil's new suitor proves to be no easy task. As luck would have it, Tom is already in a bad mood when he brings the car down to the station. The smug look on Sir Winthrop's face does not help manners.
"I would appreciate it if you would not handle my luggage quite so roughly. There are some items of the utmost importance to me in there." Tom's jaw tightens.
"My apologies, your lordship." Just to defy the man who would be his rival in a fairer world, he throws the next bag in the backseat and slams the door with the force of all his anger.
He hopes the ride home can at least be civilly silent to save him the burden of acting indifferent about the one girl he's ever really loved, but, as with everything else, he does not get his wish.
"I suppose you don't know how the youngest Miss Crawley feels about me, do you? Although, you must hear a bit about the girls' private affairs when they're all in the car with you."
"It's not my place to listen to their conversations." It isn't, but he does. He's just smart enough to know how to protect his job, that's all.
"It's not your place to do much of anything, eh?" It's just an offhand comment by a smug, idiotic future lord, but it irks Tom just the same. That's the problem, he wants to scream. That's what needs to change. "I assume you do it anyways, don't you? Three pretty girls... How could you resist?" If he wanted to be honest, he'd say I can't. He doesn't, though, does he? No, that's the point. So he stays stoic and keeps his eyes on the road and hands firmly on the wheel. (If he dared let go, he might punch that bastard in the backseat.)
He can feel her resolve breaking.
Not in a way that would be at all noticeable to the rest of the staff; to them, she's simply fulfilling her duties as a lady by flirting and flouncing with this lord who somehow managed to avoid draft with the meager excuse of a bad blood sample. Tom knows, though. In the beginning, she scorned her pursuer. Now she is rarely seen without him. It hurts to know she could ever care for someone else, but maybe it's better that all false hopes be put to rest before they get too far.
As usual, the pair of them are in the car on the way to one event or another. A youthful, amorous euphoria blankets the automobile to a point that is almost sickening, especially if it's because the girl you should be with is slowly falling prey to the chivalrous antics of an arrogant young lord.
"If you're staying for Spring, perhaps you could come to the county flower festival. Granny always used to win, but a few years back she gave it to old Mr. Molesly. It was rather sweet of her. He deserved it, of course. His roses rival the ones in the king's garden, I promise you," Sybil declares dreamily, making Tom smile with her enthusiasm.
"I would love to," her companion agrees. "I dearly hope I will not be called down to London before."
"London?" Sybil's childish pout brings down the whole atmosphere. "What for?"
"Politics. I've become quite involved in the Conservative party, actually."
If Tom wanted the couple to last, he might have cringed in fearful anticipation. As it is, he smirks to himself because he knows that Sybil would never marry a Conservative, not for her life. (That is perhaps the one scenario that is more impossible than that of a chauffeur and a lady marrying.)
"Conservative? Really?" Her tone has darkened considerably. The lord chuckles.
"Yes. I find all these socialist ideas appalling, really. Perhaps if they spent less time complaining, they could get a real job." Tom can pinpoint the exact moment when Sybil's entrancement with the man breaks. Her silence draws on and on until her would-be beau prods, "Lady Sybil? Are you quite alright?"
"I have a very good friend who is a socialist and his ideas may be some of the best I have ever heard."
Tom cannot stop the smile from spreading on his face as he is directed to drive back home immediately. She gave up a marriage and cited him as the reason. She cares about him. She likes him. She loves him.
She just doesn't know it yet.