This is my very first attempt at fan fiction - I felt inspired by these wonderful character created by Julian Fellowes. I own nothing (unfortunately).

A LOSING BATTLE

Branson should not have been there. Now that the garden party was underway he wasn't needed; all of the guests had arrived and there was nobody else to collect from the station. It would be several hours yet before people were ready to leave and he'd be called upon again, so he should have been making the most of this quiet time to read the paper in peace up at the house while everyone else was working.

But instead here he was, lurking beside the marquee where tables had been set up to serve lunch, and searching the crowd for Lady Sybil. He hadn't seen her for three days now, what with all the errands he'd had to run for Lady Grantham and Mrs Hughes in preparation for the party, and he was desperate for even a quick glimpse of her.

It took just a moment to find her. She was standing in the shade of another marquee talking to a young woman and an older man he didn't recognise, and like every other time he saw her, he was taken aback by how utterly lovely she was. Just seeing the sparkle in her eyes, the curve of her lips, the way she tilted her head to the side while she listened intently, made his heart beat that little bit faster.

He knew it was futile to have these feelings about the daughter of an earl, and God only knew, he'd fought them for the last three months. But try as he might, it was a battle he was rapidly losing.

Losing his heart to the aristocratic daughter of his employer was the last thing Branson could ever have imagined when he accepted the job as the Earl of Grantham's chauffeur. He was too busy worrying about whether he'd actually be able to do the job, given his deep-seated hatred for titled families and all they stood for.

His family and friends in Ireland had thought him mad when he told them he was going to England to work for a member of the aristocracy, the very thing he despised so much. He had to admit his first reason for doing it was financial. He could earn twice as much money working for the upper classes in England as he could at his job in Dublin, and God knew, his family needed the money.

His mother had been widowed five years ago and without his father's wages as a clerk at the town hall, life was a struggle. Ma had been working as a cleaner and taking in some mending but the money she earned barely paid for the rent, let alone much else. His older brother Michael couldn't help out – he had his own family to support now that he was married and the father of two little girls. And although his older sister Teresa gave what she could, her wages as a maid did not go very far.

Branson knew it was up to him, as the next child in line, to help where he could. There were still five mouths at home to be fed, including his mother, and he was not going to let them go hungry.

And while he'd been sending money home for his mother he'd also been putting a little aside every week for his 12-year-old brother Danny, who was the smartest person Branson knew and deserved a proper education. Going to university had been out of the question for Branson, but if he could save enough money, hopefully it wouldn't be too late for Danny.

This was why he managed to swallow his pride to go and work where he'd get a decent salary. Plus, as Branson had told his friends, working for the aristocracy had another use; it would provide him with very beneficial insights into the workings of a class system he abhorred.

"You watch," he'd told his cousin Donal, who was horrified when he heard about Branson's new job. "When I go into politics I'll be able to talk with authority about how the aristocracy are and why it's so wrong. I'll have seen it first-hand. It will give me credibility, you wait and see."

Donal didn't seem convinced but Branson knew he was doing the right thing. He just would have to be careful to keep his temper and not let his frustrations about the class system get the better of him.

He remembered the day he'd arrived at Downton, and first seen his employer's home. The house managed to be both magnificent and obscene at the same time. He appreciated good architecture and this was a very fine building, with its honey-coloured stone and ornate towers. But it was downright wrong that this enormous edifice was home to just one family when in so many other places, his hometown of Dublin included, large families were living in one tiny room.

It was wrong that these people should have crystal chandeliers and shiny silver and fancy carpets and expensive paintings when so many other people could not afford to put food on the table. His previous employers in Dublin had been rich but nothing on this scale, and seeing the opulence in which the Crawley family lived often incensed him.

On his first day, as Mr Carson showed him into the library to meet Lord Grantham, Branson wondered if he had made a terrible mistake; if seeing the lives of the aristocracy up close would raise his ire so much he would find it impossible to do his job properly.

But to be honest, it hadn't been as hard as he expected. Of course he hadn't completely kept his political feelings to himself, he could no more do that than stop breathing. He'd let his interest in history and politics be known from that first day and to his credit his lordship had seemed to take having a socialist for a chauffeur in his stride.

And Branson had to admit, as much as he hated everything Lord Grantham stood for, he actually quite liked the man himself. In fact he was probably the member of the Crawley family – other than Lady Sybil of course – for whom he had the most time.

He thought his lordship treated his servants very fairly – you only had to look at the allowances he made for poor crippled Mr Bates – and he really did seem concerned about the welfare of the tenants on his land, judging by some of the conversations Branson had overheard after driving his lordship to visit them. If they had problems he would go out of his way to help – for example for several weeks he'd got Branson to deliver a daily hamper of food to one family, after the mother had badly scalded herself and was confined to her bed until her burns had healed.

He liked that Lord Grantham took a genuine interest in their wellbeing and he noticed that they chose to respect him because of the kind of man he was, not merely because of the title he had inherited.

He most definitely was not the snooty, arrogant, loathsome upper-class idiot Branson had always imagined members of the aristocracy to be. And that confused him a little. He realised he would have to revise his opinions slightly. While the aristocracy might be unfair and oppressive and just plain wrong, it didn't necessarily mean aristocrats themselves were.

One of the other reasons Branson had a bit more time for his lordship was that like Lady Sybil, he was one of the few members of the Crawley family to actually talk to him. Of course they hadn't discussed political topics like he had with Sybil, and their conversations were always brief, but there had been a number of occasions when the earl had asked about his family, or what he thought of England. And he did seem genuinely interested in what Branson had to say.

Of course that had all been before the dreadful night of the by-election count in Ripon. Branson had not been the earl's favourite person after Sybil was injured in the fighting that broke out; he was furious with the chauffeur for taking her to the count. Branson could not blame him; he too would have vented his fury at whoever he believed responsible for endangering someone he loved.

Lord Grantham still made polite conversation occasionally when he was in the back of motorcar – impeccable manners had been bred into the very bones of him – but he seemed much more wary of his chauffeur. And he had good reason to be cautious, noted Branson, much more than he could ever imagine.

What on earth would his lordship think if he knew how man driving him around felt about his daughter?

He'd kill me, thought Branson. In as well-mannered a way as possible.

But chances were he'd never know. Nobody would ever know. Because despite the hundreds of different scenarios that played over and over in Branson's head, he would never be able to tell Lady Sybil how he felt. Chauffeurs just didn't go around declaring their love for the daughters of earls. He might as well just give up now.