She heard his blood-curdling scream over and over in her mind as he drove her home. Every time they hit a bump on the town road she could see his fall again, every time their eyes met in the rear-view mirror she felt once more the need to scream herself, as she had done, in fear or guilt or both.

Tom had been invited to speak at the political meeting – on recommendation from Cousin Isobel at the plea of Sybil – to debate with parliament politicians about current economic relations with Ireland. He was in his element (this was blatantly something he was very passionate about) – and Sybil was beaming with pride.

Suddenly, reporters with somewhat controversial opinions began rioting, throwing rocks at Mr Branson until Sir Richard Carlisle – newspaper mogul and Lady Mary's ex-fiancé – had decided it was enough.

He stood up on the stage wearing his evil, cheeky grin. It was a smirk she had never taken to, and planned never to.

The crowd became silent as he spoke, calm and clear; "Fellow noblemen. We have gathered to listen to a professional, in-depth, debate on our relationship with Ireland. Cascading a poor Irishman with stones from the ground will not help. Maybe you could write about such an event in one of your magazines?"

The crowd now laughed and applauded until he silenced them again, "This young man is not a politician."

The crowd was silent; some in shock, some in horror and disgust. "He is but a mere serving boy, a chauffeur for none other than the Earl of Grantham, and his… family. Including my old lover – his eldest daughter."

You could see the atmosphere change from entertained crowd to slightly annoyed at Mr Branson, to angry mob, "And, ladies and gentlemen, the beautiful young Lady Sybil over there." He gestured and she blushed.

"To who, I can only imagine, has been wooed and besotted by the Irish charm and masculine appearance of our friend Tom, here." He had stepped back a little and placed his hand on Tom's shoulder at the appropriate moment.

He shook it off and, keeping his composure, walked off the stage to be greeted by an equally aggravated Sybil. "Let's leave." He suggested – and she had been thinking the exact same thing.

"COWARDS!" a Sir near the back yelled – it was followed by a continuous chant as the mob formed, coming into fruition, and chased them, throwing rocks all the while. By the time Tom and Sybil had reached the edge of the town plaza, an experienced politician intercepted them.

They shuddered to a halt but he ushered them smoothly down the alley from which he had appeared. "That's a nasty cut on your head." He pointed. Tom's hand instantly flew to his forehead where he felt the damp, warm blood. It tingled and he squinted.

"I wouldn't touch it," Sybil offered and moved his hand from its position hovering in front of his face, his eyes followed the movement.

The politician broke the awkwardness of his presence by complimenting, "You'll make a great politician one day," Branson's eyes moved from his enveloped hands to the other man's kind, wrinkled face,

"Say, why don't you come speak at my party conference on Saturday?" Branson was in such a state of ecstatic shock mixed with brief agony that Sybil had to speak for him,

"He'd love to, where?"

"Here," came the enigmatic response, "Manchester centre, just ask for Mr Brownlee." He clarified. That was when Carlisle found them. He looked raggedy, bedraggled, his face ablaze with furiousness and adrenaline. Teeth gnashed, he firmly gripped the opening to the alley, clean maids' washing fluttering above in the oncoming winds. It would probably rain soon.

Carlisle then cautiously removed his right hand, which had only been grasping the cold Yorkshire stone with two fingers. Tom stood up to head the confrontation but almost instantaneously fell back down with another blow to the head. He recoiled and screamed, she screamed. Carlisle simply hollered; "Have that for politics, chauffeur!"

Tom had been hit with a heavy stone, wrapped in the 'Current Affairs and Politics' page of a newspaper. Masses of newsprint, probably one from the obnoxious Sir Richard's empire.

Driving home now, the old politician had helped Sybil carry Branson back to the motor; where he had woken up. He had insisted he was fit enough to drive her home – she shouldn't have been there anyway but had insisted herself. It could have been her that got hurt instead of him; he wouldn't let that happen again.

The heavy downpour arrived and despite Sybil's persistence that the large, wet drops of rain would do nothing for his wound he was decisive that he would get her home, 'safe and sound'.

Upon arrival back at Downton she let herself out and snatched Tom's hand. "We're getting that cleaned up." She declared; no need for any indication as to what 'that' was.

Still clasping his hand, Sybil almost dragged Tom up to her bedroom before she spun around to face him and inspected his head. He squinted again at the slight pressure on the cut. "It will hurt." She explained softly but her face sunk as she did, encouraging him to be brave and not complain for her sake at least.

She fetched a left over bandage from her dresser and chuckled to herself, "Anna wondered why I kept these," she said, "Now it's an excuse to have you treated here." They smiled and as she finished applying the dressing, their eyes met again. His sky blue eyes not showing any pain and the sadness in hers were gone almost immediately.

She kissed his forehead and, gently leaning her own hairline against the material, muttered "If only 'kissing better' could heal everything." She sighed but said, "That shouldn't scar, I'm glad you're feeling better." She began kissing the rest of his face until she came to his lips, a peach colour that perfectly contrasted with his lightly-tanned face. He placed his hand on her waist as he had once before and seducing, illustriously whispered "Just say when."

It was at least an hour before either of them reappeared.