Here it is! The promised companion piece to "Love's Journey", exploring the missing years between Series 1 & 2.

If you are reading this story without having read "Love's Journey", you may find a few things confusing. Because there is no knowledge of what exactly happened during those missing years (late 1914 to early 1916), a bulk of this story is based off of characters and incidents found in my main fic. I would recommend that you take the time to read it (up to chapter 40); it sets the stage for the chapters and events of this piece. Just like "Love's Journey", this story will also continue to explore the romance and relationship of Branson and Sybil through letters, diary/journal entries, and POV scenes.

This story is meant to be a "short" (my goal is to keep it under 12 chapters), and will cover incidents/events/emotions that so far have been briefly mentioned in "Volume 2" of "Love's Journey" (chapter 41 and higher).

FINALLY, I would like to thank all the lovely readers and reviewers who encouraged me to do this; I mentioned it once and many responded with enthusiasm that they would like to see this companion piece, so I dedicate this to all of you and thank you for your wonderful support. I hope you enjoy! Ok, I've ranted enough; happy reading! ~Yankee Countess

Love's Journey: Stepping Stones

By The Yankee Countess

Chapter One

Late Summer 1914

Branson looked up at the pub sign and then back at the small piece of paper in his hand. The Rat and Parrot. Despite the name, the place looked tidy and respectable, at least from the outside. He ran a hand through his hair, straightened his jacket, and stepped inside, his eyes squinting as they adjusted to the pub's semi-dark lighting.

"Tom!"

Branson quickly turned his head, recognizing the accent faster than the voice that spoke his name.

There, standing by a small table in a far corner, was a man he had not seen in nearly three years, but who he knew right away. "Martin!"

"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes!" his cousin laughed, before moving quickly to where Branson stood and embracing him. Branson eagerly returned the embrace, joining in his cousin's laughter.

"Come, come, I'll order you a drink!" Martin grinned, guiding Branson to the table he had been occupying. "Guinness? Or perhaps something stronger?"

"A pint of Guinness would be lovely," Branson agreed, taking a good long look at his cousin while Martin made the order. Martin was two years younger than himself, and a few inches shorter. He also had a wild shock of thick, black hair, which only seemed to make his eyes appear even greener. The last time Branson had seen his cousin, he was clean-shaven and a bit on the scrawny side. Now, his arms, shoulders, and chest had broadened, and there appeared to be a thick, black beard growing from his cheeks down to his chin. "Look at you!" Branson laughed, reaching across and slapping Martin on the shoulder. "You've put on some muscle since last I saw you…and what do you call this?" he joked, poking a finger at Martin's bearded chin.

"Ha, ha," Martin answered, although he couldn't hide his own smile. "You haven't changed much."

Branson shrugged his shoulders. "Never was daring enough to attempt to grow a beard," he laughed. "But I must say, I think it suits you."

Martin's smile grew. "Really?" he ran his hand across the beard and grinned. "Rachel told me she likes a man with a beard…thinks it makes me look 'distinguished'."

Branson laughed and thanked the bar maid who brought them their pints. "Ah, so there's the truth of it!" He handed Martin his glass and raised his own as if to offer a toast. "The things we do for love and women…"

The mirth that had been dancing in Martin's eyes suddenly disappeared at Branson's words. Branson could feel his own mirth disappear as soon as the words left his lips. While his cousin forced a smile and nodded his head, awkwardness fell across the table while they both took a drink from their pints. If he could, Branson would kick himself for the thoughtless remark. Even though Martin hadn't said anything in his letter about Branson's confession that he was in love with the daughter of his employer, Branson knew that his cousin disapproved.

Branson had written his letter on the night of the Garden Party, the day of which war had been declared—August 4, 1914. It was August 30 now, and he had only just received a reply from Martin five days prior. That letter had simply read,

Yes, would still like to see you. Any time within the next two weeks suits me. I'll meet you at a pub near the place I work, The Rat and Parrot. They also have some rooms you can rent should you wish to spend the night. Let me know as soon as you are able if you'll come. —Martin

On a separate sheet of paper Martin provided directions to the pub. And that was it. There was nothing about how he was, or how he and others around him were reacting to the news about the War. And there certainly wasn't any acknowledgement to Branson's declaration of love for Lady Sybil Crawley. Well, no written acknowledgement. It was obvious to Branson that the timing of the letter, the shortness of its length, and the lack of details, spoke volumes to how Martin really felt about the matter. Which was why he had been so surprised (pleasantly so) by Martin's warm reception when he walked through the pub door. The anxiety to which Branson had been feeling while preparing for his journey, traveling to Devon, and walking into the pub, all but disappeared as soon as his cousin laughed and grabbed him in a strong embrace. It was just like old times, the two of them sharing a joke while drinking a pint—God, he didn't realize how much he missed those moments! And he hated himself for ruining it. Well, it would have been brought up at some point, he bitterly thought to himself.

"So…" he attempted to lighten the conversation. "Will I be fortunate enough to meet the lovely Rachel?"

"Tom…"

Branson could feel his spirits sinking lower. All that anxiety began rushing back, and once again he began to question his reasoning for coming to Devon.

Mr. Carson had told him many, many months ago that he could take an extended holiday sometime during the months of August or September. The time off would only amount to a week at most, hardly enough time to travel to Dublin, but it would be ample if he chose to visit his cousin. As soon as he had learned this news, he had begun making plans, eager to see some reminder of home, some connection to his past. He had always been close to his cousin; his mother said it was because the two of them were so close in age. No doubt that had a great deal to do with it, but there was more to it as well. They both shared many common interests, including a fascination with cars. The same neighbor that had taught Branson to drive when he was a teenager also taught Martin. They also looked out for each other; whenever one of them got into a scrape, the other was there to help. Between the two of them, Branson was the superior fighter, and therefore better at fending off unwanted bullies. But Martin was better at schemes and the "art of falsehood". Once, in their early teens, they had been cornered by some police for sneaking several bottles of wine from a nearby store cart. Branson remembered gazing up at the men in terror, but Martin, without blinking an eye, immediately launched into an elaborate tale about how their priest was taking Communion to wounded soldiers, recently returned from the Boer War, but upon arriving at the hospital, discovered he didn't have enough wine, and so they were simply being good altar boys, and fetching him some…and by some miracle, the police bought it! That week, Branson went to confession twice—although he failed to go into details why he needed God's forgiveness.

"Thick has thieves, you two," his mother had said once. A wistful smile passed over his face at the memory. When Branson announced he was traveling to England to find work, Martin looked absolutely crushed. But then he got that mischievous glimmer in his eye, and it didn't surprise Branson that his cousin was already concocting some scheme. And low and behold, not a month after he arrived, he learned that Martin had also come to England, and had also found work as a chauffeur.

So there was no question in Branson's mind as to who he would visit and where he would go with his holiday time. But he hadn't anticipated that within the time Mr. Carson had given him the news, and the moment of actually arriving…he would have told Martin everything about his feelings for a particular lady. And if he were completely honest with himself…it hurt that his cousin didn't show any signs of support or understanding.

"Tom…" Martin sighed, looking up from his pint glass and locking Branson's gaze. "There's something…well…there's something I need to tell you."

Branson swallowed the lump in his throat and squared his shoulders. He had told himself over and over on his journey that he should be prepared for Martin's vocal disapproval, not to mention the argument that would surely ensue once it had been voiced. Still, he reminded himself, his cousin cared about him and was naturally worried for him. He couldn't fault anyone for thinking that way; no doubt he would as well, if the situation were reversed. "Go on…" he urged.

Martin ran a hand through his hair and sighed once more, before taking a quick drink from his glass, as if willing the liquid to give him courage to say whatever it was he wanted to say. "It's about…well, it's about your letters."

Branson also took a hefty drink from his own glass. "Are you saying you don't want me to write to you for a while?" He considered saying "ever again", but if that were the case, he wanted Martin to tell him straight forward, and then provide him with reasons which would undoubtedly lead to an argument.

Martin paled at Branson's question. "What? No! God no, nothing like that."

Branson's brow furrowed in confusion…then a nervous laugh escaped his throat. "Well…good!" he chuckled, before taking another drink. "I'm glad to hear that at least…" he lifted his eyes to meet his cousin's, but saw no hint of humor.

"This is serious Tom," he murmured, somewhat gravely.

A cold shiver raced down Branson's spine. This didn't have anything to do with him or his feelings for Sybil. No, the way in which Martin spoke, the way in which he began this turn of the conversation…

"Good God, Martin…don't tell me you…you…" he didn't even know if he could finish the sentence. "You're not serious…surely…you didn't…you didn't enlist—"

"Enlist!" Martin hissed, a look of surprise and disappointment clouding his dark features as he stared at Branson. "You honestly thought I enlisted?"

Branson glanced at the pub's other occupants, but none of them seemed to be paying any attention. To say he was relieved that his cousin wouldn't be joining His Majesty's army to fight for king and country was an understatement. Still, he knew there were a great many patriotic Englishmen who felt differently, and whose pent up tensions were itching for a fight.

"Since when did I ever go looking for a fight?" Martin muttered, before taking a drink. "Come on, Tom, you know me better than that. You're the fighter, not me. You're the political anarchist, when I could care less!"

"Socialist," Branson corrected.

"Whatever," Martin grumbled. "No, this has nothing to do with the War. Give me some credit, please!"

Branson inwardly groaned, but chose to keep his thoughts to himself. "Then please…tell me. Enlighten me on what you're trying to say."

Martin sighed and took one last, long drink from his glass, before pushing himself away from the table, as if preparing to rise and leave. "I'm going back."

Branson's eyes, which had been narrowed in confusion by his cousin's mysteriousness, suddenly widened in surprise. "You're leaving?"

"Aye," Martin sighed.

"Are you serious? I come all this way, and now you're going back to the house without a by your leave—"

"What in God's name are you talking about, Tom?" Martin interrupted, now wearing the look of confusion Branson had been wearing earlier.

"I just got here, we haven't seen each other in years, and we've barely had much of a conversation, and now you want to go back to your home—"

"Yes, I do want to go back home!" Martin hissed, leaning across the table until his face was in Branson's. "Home…to Ireland!"

Branson sat frozen, his cousin's words slowly washing over him. "Ireland?" he finally murmured.

Martin nodded his head. "Aye…remember it? It's our home," he emphasized, his voice taking on a somewhat bitter edge. "It's where we belong."

They both sat in silence for a moment, staring at the last of the Guinness that settled in Branson's glass. Hundreds of questions were flitting through his head at Martin's declaration, the main one being "why?"

Martin leaned back in his chair and sighed, before folding his arms across his chest. "I can't believe you thought I was talking about Devon—"

"I can't believe you're seriously considering leaving," Branson muttered in his defense. He too leaned back in his chair and also folded his arms across his chest. "I thought you liked it here. What about your job, and the money you were earning—"

"I'll get another one in Ireland," Martin grumbled. "There are plenty of posh snobs looking for drivers."

"Aye, but will they pay as good?" Branson countered. "And what about Rachel? Have you told her your plans? Is she coming with you?" Martin flinched, and Branson could tell he had hit a weak spot.

"She's not the only girl in the world," he muttered under his breath.

Branson never felt so much disgust for someone he loved. "Does she know that, at least?"

Martin couldn't look him in the eye. He grabbed his empty pint glass as if to take a drink, only to put it back down in frustration.

Branson sighed and shook his head. "This was Uncle Michael's idea, wasn't it? To drop everything and return to Ireland?" Martin glanced at him and Branson could see his cousin's answer. "Oh Martin…"

"Oh don't start, Tom," Martin muttered. "Now that war has started, Da makes an excellent point."

"I'm sure he does," Branson muttered back, pushing his own empty glass out of the way in frustration. "No doubt he assumes that the 'wicked English' will swoop down and grab you up and 'force' you to join their army."

"Why not?" Martin defended. "They've done it before!"

"No, they've bore down on us and 'encouraged' us to join, but they've never, literally, forced us," Branson corrected. "Besides, as a servant you have to first have permission from your employer before you can join. And there are plenty of eager and foolish young lads ready to step in and sign up, that they have no need for conscription! You're better off here than back home!"

Martin shook his head. "No need for conscription…yet, Tom."

Another cold shiver ran down Branson's spine. He had a suspicious feeling his cousin was right, but he didn't want to focus on that, at least not right now. "Look, if you truly want to go back to Ireland…then go. But do it because it's what you want to do—not because someone else says you must, and then uses guilt and fear to drive you there."

It was obvious that Martin resented those last words, but he didn't say anything, he merely looked out a nearby window. Branson sighed, and wearily rose from the table to order two more pints. This was not how he wanted the reunion between himself and his cousin to go. He had been prepared for criticism and censure; he had been prepared for Martin to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, asking if he was daft. But he hadn't imagined the two of them arguing over the matter of whether one of them would stay in England, or go back to Dublin. It had been nearly three years since the two of them had seen each other; how long would it be if Martin went back to Ireland?

"You know Da never supported the idea of me coming here," Martin sighed after some silence had passed. "Say what you will Tom, about guilt and fear, but you haven't had to deal with his letters." Branson winced, knowing what his cousin was talking about. His uncle was a fearsome man, known for flying into a rage over the littlest thing. He also had a hard time trusting others, and if he didn't understand something, then he immediately declared it as being no good. The man had always been like this, but ever since his wife, Martin's mother, had died in 1910, he had steadily gotten worse.

"Every month it's the same; l receive a letter, and the same questions are asked in each one: when are you coming home? When will you come to your senses and return to the family you abandoned?" The bar maid brought them their pints, and Martin grabbed his and took a long, deep drink. "Lately, his letters have gotten worse. I receive one nearly every fortnight, sometimes twice. And after war was declared…" his voice trailed off, and Branson felt his heart swell with pity. He hadn't thought about the burden Martin was carrying when it came to Uncle Michael. "He blames you, of course," Martin muttered, before taking another deep drink.

"Nothing new about that," Branson sighed. "I've always been Uncle Michael's scapegoat."

A tiny smile lifted at the corners of Martin's lips, but his eyes were downcast, gazing into the dark depths of his pint. "He would never accept Rachel."

Branson felt his jaw clench at the despair he could hear in his cousin's voice. Despite the words Martin had uttered earlier, it was obvious that the man was head over heels in love with the raven-haired housemaid he had written about all those months ago. It pained Branson to see his cousin in such a hopeless state; and it angered him that Martin was allowing his father to dictate his future.

That will never be me, he furiously thought. No matter what others might think or say, I will not abandon my heart's desire. I will not let anyone tell me how to live my life…or whom to spend the rest of my days with.

Another long silence passed between them, neither looking at the other, neither acknowledging the words that had been spoken, or voicing the thoughts that were running through their heads. They sat and drank in silence until the last drop of Guinness had disappeared.

"When do you leave?" Branson finally asked, pushing his empty glass away from him.

Martin finished his drink and leaned back in his chair. "The end of September."

That soon, Branson thought. Martin wasn't even going to finish the year in Devon; he was leaving as soon as he would be able to.

"Come with me, Tom."

Branson's eyes shot up to his cousin's face, the color draining from his own. Did Martin just ask…?

Indeed he had, for Martin was leaning on the edge of his chair, his eyes lit with hope and the mirth he had shown upon Branson's arrival. "Come back to Ireland with me," he grinned. "It will be just like old times! We'll find jobs in Dublin…or someplace else. Maybe Killarney, Shannon, Cork…" His smile was growing wider by the second. "We'll get a flat together; spend our nights at the pub, charming the ladies and getting into scrapes. Can't you see it? Two roguish bachelors—"

"Martin, stop," Branson held up a hand, his own face showing none of the mirth his cousin was feeling. "I…I…I can't go back."

The light went out from Martin's eyes, and his smile disappeared altogether. A shadow clouded his features and he leaned back in his chair once more. "Can't…or won't?"

Branson ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Is there a difference?"

Martin groaned and shook his head. "Good God, Tom…you can't be serious! You know nothing can come of it!"

So they were going to have this conversation. Well, he had been prepared for it. "I don't know that."

Martin gaped at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. "Are you mad? Have you completely lost your mind?" He leaned forward so no one around them could hear. "Not only is she the daughter of your employer, but she's an aristocrat!" he hissed. "And you're just a servant!"

Branson felt himself bristle at Martin's words, but he forced himself to ignore them. "You don't know her, Martin—"

"I don't have to know her," Martin interrupted. "I know what she is, and that's enough. So what if she's progressive? So what if she believes in equality between the classes? So what if she even likes you, it doesn't change a thing! You're still a working class Irishman, and she's still the posh daughter of an English noble! NOTHING will ever come of it!" He leaned back in his chair, his chest rising and falling with each embittered breath. "And you know I'm right."

Branson's eyes hadn't left Martin's during the whole tirade. His hands were clamped together to keep his temper at bay and his fists from flying. "Even if I believed you, and I'm not saying that I do…but even if I did…I still wouldn't go."

Martin's anger and frustration seemed to instantly melt into sympathy and pity. "Oh Tom…" he sighed. "Why torture yourself? What good is it to give yourself false hope?"

Branson let out a long, shaky breath. How could he make his cousin understand? They both were head over heels in love with two very different, but very special women. However, unlike his cousin, Branson didn't see an impossible future. Unlike his cousin, Branson had faith.

"I mean…has she given you any indication that…that she feels the same way you do?" Martin asked.

He immediately recalled the Garden Party, how the two of them stood side by side while Gwen explained her good news to the stern housekeeper, and how the world suddenly came to a halt when Sybil reached over and took his hand in hers. It was a small gesture, one that had not been repeated since…but it was enough to give him hope that perhaps Lady Sybil Crawley truly did see him more than just a chauffeur. And even more than just a very good friend.

"I honestly don't know what she feels," Branson sighed. He could hope all he wanted that she saw him as something more, but the truth of the matter was that he honestly didn't know. And he didn't feel confident enough to confront her about it, at least not yet. "But…I do know that I'm not ready to leave her."

Martin shook his head and looked down at the empty glass before him. "I don't understand you, Tom. I'm trying, but…I just don't understand it. It's masochistic, if you ask me."

Branson couldn't help but smile a little at his cousin's words. That was exactly what the rational part of him had been saying for months. "Maybe," he conceded. "And maybe you're right; maybe I'm simply setting myself up for biggest heartbreak known to man." Mrs. Hughes' words came rushing back at him in that moment. Be careful my lad; or you'll end up with no job and a broken heart. But as he had then, he pushed those words aside and looked directly into Martin's eyes. "But right now, I'd rather risk facing that pain, than a day when I won't see her face or hear her voice. If I leave now, I know I'll always wonder 'what would have happened if I had stayed?' And that speculation would cause me far more suffering than any broken heart ever could."

Another silence passed between them, each holding the gaze of the other. Branson kept his head high and his jaw tight, even though he could feel pain ripping at his gut. He had spoken his mind and his heart; he was being true to himself. But it had come at a cost, for he knew things would never be the same between himself and Martin after this day.

Martin sighed, and then leaned across the table and gripped one of Branson's shoulders. "Then I wish you the best, Tom," he murmured, a small smile forcing its way across his face. "I truly do."

Branson swallowed the emotional lump in his throat and mirrored his cousin by also gripping Martin's shoulder. "And I wish you the best as well. I hope you'll be happy, back home."

Martin smiled, although it was one full of sadness. "I'll try. And I'll write you as soon as I'm settled."

"You better," Branson chuckled, trying to bring some light-hearted humor back into their reunion. "Or I'll sic Kathleen on you!"

Martin laughed, a genuine laugh, and Branson felt his heart warm at the sound, even though at the same time it was mourning the loss of his dear cousin and friend. Even though Martin was nowhere near Yorkshire, it had always provided Branson with some comfort knowing that a family member was there, in the same land as he. Now, he truly would be alone…

"Want another round?" Martin asked, pointing to his empty glass. Branson nodded his head, eager now, more than ever, to laugh, get drunk, and push the reality of the situation far away. When the bar maid returned with full glasses, Martin lifted his in a toast. "To the future! May it bring good health and happiness to us all."

Branson nodded his head and lifted his glass. Indeed, he prayed that the future would bring more health and happiness to everyone he cared for, and that the uncertainty of it all with the looming war on the horizon, would soon become a distant memory. He prayed that it wouldn't take years until he saw his cousin again, or any of his beloved family. He prayed that Martin would find strength to overcome the regret he was sure to face in the weeks to come. And most of all, he clung to the hope that Sybil's tiny hand had given him all those weeks ago, at the Downton Garden Party.

Because it was that small glimmer of hope, that was truly getting him by each and every day.

Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment and let me know what you think!