You know it's going to be a bad day when you smack your head on the expensive belly of the motorcar upon hearing your employers beautiful daughter enter the garage, alone.
Even worse when she doesn't close the door behind her.
But it's difficult to be sulky when you see her outlined against a pink, buttery sky, the golden sunset that is so rare in Yorkshire. And it's difficult to forget that she came to see you, and you alone. Just like the dreams that you hang on the walls of your imagination, her face lit up by the dying sun, close to yours, and the frantic worry of streaks of dirt across your chin, of your heart surfacing in your eyes, doesn't matter. Not anymore. Because she's come closer, and your stomach twists, feels weak. Your skin tingles. Sybil. Her name is soft, sibilant, and you think how its richness suits her, in mind and body, You wonder if she's watching you.
"Branson?"
Her voice snapped him out of the soft paths of his mind, brought him to the surface, where he gazed at her in surprise.
"Erm... yes?" His lack of title runs through her slowly, like a clear brook in amidst her teeming mind. Sybil is constantly aware these days, of who, or what, is behind her, ahead of her, the decisions her untiring spirit is fuelled from, but his eyes never seem to leave her these days. It's as though he's always watching her, as though he's reached in and taken hold of her heart. And the feeling terrifies her, but it doesn't upset her. Not like it should.
"I was wondering how you are."
The words are out of her mouth before she can stop them, and she blinks a little in surprise as Branson takes her in, amused. For his part, he's wondering how so many thoughts can occur in such a delicate space, wonders if her mind really can be at such odds with her body.
"I'm very well thankyou, how about you?"
He still doesn't use her title. Or her name, come to think of it. He doesn't call her anything at all, and whilst it's not quite 'darling', it is different to everybody else's address. It isn't what he really wants to ask her. He wants to ask what she thinks of the pictures he discovered this morning, of the old city in Greece with the lion gates, and the gold faces they found there. He wants to tell her the world is bigger than this little garage. Just not without her in it. He's oblivious to her answer, and a long, slow silence follows, as her blue-eyed chauffeur slowly becomes aware he's daydreaming, again.
Sybil watches him shake his head slightly with affection, wonders what he is thinking of. Does she wish it were her? She came here to tell him of the dream she had last night, of the colourful trees and river the same shade as his eyes, and that he was at the centre of it, and the woody, leafy smell of outside that she loves so much was implicit in him as he pulled her closer. That it was a whole different world with him, and she felt like dust, unseen particles floating through without purpose, without drive, but beautiful nonetheless. And it is with every fear in the world that she draws in her breath and releases, without question, the request that hampers her long days, that whispers to her through the night. He watches in shock as she steps up to him (did he never notice before how tiny her hands were against his?) and whispers to him, for fear of the idea shattering in the noise of reality, show me the world. Sybil doesn't pretend to know what she's doing as she leans up towards his face, and notices how the fading light casts itself across his bright eyes, long lashes. She brushes her lips slowly across his, more an experiment than anything else, and is reminded of the giddy feeling being alone at the rally gave her, in such uncharted waters as these. She expected shock, but his body is fluid, warm, his hands travel across her arms to wrap round her, tightly, and before she can work out how best to pull him closer, he suddenly lifts her up, pushes her back against the bonnet of the car. Sybil gasps in the suddenness of it, the fact that Branson's body is now pressed firmly into hers, and the parallels between his name and his proximity thrill her.
He's more than aware of how young she is, untrained in love, and yet he bears down on her with that hunger that drives men to madness, opening the floodgates of his mind and allowing all the love and warmth to pour into her. He shudders as she wraps her delicate fingers into his hair, and can't resist pushing his hips up into her, gently, sending sparks convulsing up his spine. He feels her gasp, and the fact that she, an aristocrat's daughter, is not pulling away, only fuels his longing for her. He slowly traces the shape of her long legs through her thick skirts, before a noise from outside this little world shatters the illusion, pulls his hair sharply till he wakes, gasping, from her soft mouth. To breathe, and to pray the door will remain empty.