As Sybil readied for bed that night, she was of two minds, worried so worried, about what war would mean, and yet giddy with excitement over the events of the garden party itself. Gwen had gotten the job! She was going to be a secretary! And Branson. Branson had grabbed her hand, squeezed her fingers tight, and what was he going to say before Mrs. Hughes interrupted them? As the days passed, she received one letter after another from friends and former suitors announcing their enlistment and thought less of everything that happened before England went to war. In the early months, and like so many others, she believed the war would not, could not last more than a few months. Her father voiced this belief often, as he saw off the sons of friends and acquaintances, not least when Matthew enlisted.
Branson had laughed the first time she expressed this aloud to him, musing late one fall afternoon that she was hoping the war would end by Christmas, that Matthew would be home, that there would be Christmas crackers and puddings and even a ball to celebrate. He had hated to laugh; she was so earnest, so hopeful that afternoon, but to let her believe in this fantasy any longer…no, he could not do that. She had been angry with him and had not spoken to him for nearly a week when she decided she was being foolish. For one, she was lonely now that Gwen had left, moreso since Mary and Edith had both seemed distracted, not so much by the war, but as if each had retreated into herself, nursing untold wounds. However much he had hurt her feelings, Branson was her friend, and the only friend she had at or near Downton these days. The idea had also grown in her mind that Branson might actually know more about this war than she did and, just as he had opened the door for her to the women's right movement, he might now open the door for her to the war, the real war and not that one that lived in her imagination.
She had wandered to the garage after breakfast and, not finding Branson, returned with a note to leave on the car asking him to bring it round after lunch for a foray into Ripon. The note, written on crisp paper in Sybil's florid hand, was waiting for him when he returned from the servant's hall, where he'd needed Anna's help finding the matching green thread to mend his vest. Her note was a salve for his spirit, and he whistled happily as he shined the old Renault and tinkered with its engine.
It was an unusually fine day for late November and Sybil had no trouble obtaining permission to go into town. Officially her purpose was to mail several packages to the men she already knew at the front and to order a hat to wear at Christmas services. She also planned to purchase and mail an early Christmas present to Gwen. More importantly, she needed to ask Branson what he knew about the war, to convince him to share with her whatever news he heard, and to become more informed generally. If this was going to be a long war, it wouldn't do to be ignorant of it.
"Branson?" she asked, as the gravel of the long drive crunched under the tires.
"Yes, milady?"
"You don't think the war will be over soon." It was a statement, not a question.
"No, milady."
"Tell me why not."
By now he was used to, looked forward to, her conversation with him as he drove, but he was totally unprepared for this line of questioning. He knew Lord Grantham's views on the war and felt unprepared to contradict the man, yet he could not lie to Sybil.
"Branson?"
He cleared his throat. "Milady, it's a big war. Germany, France, Russia, and the Empires – British, Austro-Hungarian, and just last month the Ottoman Empire. British troops on the way to Africa. Australian troops on the way to Egypt. A lot of men have died already. Our side isn't going to agree to a treaty and neither is theirs."
She was silent for a minute and when she spoke again it was in a quiet tone that he hadn't heard before, "I didn't know about the Ottomans. Do you think me very foolish?"
"No, milady, not at all. I shouldn't expect it's the type of thing your father would discuss at dinner."
"Branson, I'd like to ask you to do something for me. When you hear news of the war, you must share it with me. I know you read the papers, and you must hear news from the front occasionally, from letters, or men in town back on leave."
He nodded slowly. Yes, if only she knew. He did know men at the front, Irish men whom he'd wished hadn't signed on to fight for the British, whose enlistment could only prolong the Irish servitude. Of course, there was also the footman from his last job, and Englishman who'd always been seeking the next great adventure – the reason the man had been in Ireland – and whose current adventure placed him somewhere in France. And Thomas, whose letters to O'Brien the woman sometimes shared with him, probably for lack of anyone else downstairs with whom she was even moderately friendly. He contemplated for a moment sharing their contents with Sybil, but quickly decided no woman, Sybil or no, needed to hear even a partial telling of the horrors Thomas had alluded to recently.
"Yes, milady, I shall be happy to keep you informed about the war," Branson said as they neared their destination.
The return trip was quiet, each of them mulling over what they had learned: Sybil, that the war was far more complicated than she had known, and Branson, that Sybil was perhaps more complicated than he had known. Women's rights, the harem pants, helping Gwen find a job as a secretary, all had surprised him, but he had still been unprepared for her wanting to know, really know about the war.
As he slowed in front of the house she said, "I mean it, Branson, I'm counting on you. I'll stop into the garage or arrange for trips into town, but you must tell me more about the war."