AN: This is a multi-chapter I've been working on for a while; in fact, one of the later chapters sprang from some of the first (unpublished) S/T fic I ever wrote. So it's safe to say it's been a long time coming.

I'll try to avoid any direct or significant contradictions of canon, at least through Series 2, but there will be some fudging of the timeline (and I'll be writing things that I'm pretty sure are not within Sir Fellowes'' vision—such as it was—for these characters). Starting right off, I couldn't resist setting Tom and Sybil's first meeting in the library. This takes place a couple of days after Tom has started work at Downton (the "women's rights begin at home" scene in the car is after this).

Thanks to sakurasencha for relevant feedback.

May 1913

He hasn't stopped thinking of it since his first glimpse.

Tom's memory of the library is imperfect—he was a bit nervy his last time there, wanting to start off on the right foot with Lord Grantham—but it impressed him as soon as he walked in. The old mistress kept hers closed up, the books moldering on the shelves, but Downton's library strikes him as a place that's lived in and valued, to say nothing of the inventory. Just seeing the room has elevated Tom's opinion of his new employer as a man... not that it matters to anyone but him.

And of course he promptly put his foot in his mouth. Gentlemen generally don't appreciate hearing words like "boring" from servants in connection with their betters. But Lord Grantham seemed not to mind; looked amused, even. So Tom felt emboldened to comment on his surroundings, and was even more surprised at his lordship's offer.

Probably thinks he's done his good deed for the day, Tom thought after he'd been dismissed. He's come across men like the earl of Grantham before, puffed full of noblesse oblige. Most of them wouldn't hesitate to sack a man who so much as pilfered an apple from his orchard. But now that Tom's been given the run of the library, he intends to take full advantage of it.

He doesn't wait long, though he's aware that Mr. Carson will likely look askance at the new chauffeur seeking out leisure activities before the ink's dry on the contract, so to speak. But the siren call of thousands of books is too tempting for Tom to worry overmuch about what Mr. Carson thinks, so just before he's to fetch the Dowager for dinner he finds the butler and asks if he might go into the library sometime in the next few days.

Mr. Carson glowers, but Tom has already figured out how to handle him: you just make your expression as respectful as you can and act as though you don't notice the beetled brows. After a moment Carson rumbles, "I dare say no one will be in there tomorrow morning before breakfast, Mr. Branson. One of the housemaids can show you in." Tom remembers his way perfectly well, but says nothing: Carson is eyeing him as if he might set the place on fire if allowed in by himself. "Mind you don't allow your reading to interfere with your work," the butler cannot seem to resist adding.

"Of course not, Mr. Carson."

The next morning Tom doesn't bother trying to find an escort—no need to interrupt one of the maids—and makes his way as far as he can through the bowels of the house before emerging into the hall. As per Mr. Carson's prediction, the library is deserted. The curtains have already been opened to allow dust-laden shafts of sunlight through the high windows, and there's a fire laid. An almost hedonistic thrill goes through him at the thought that he'll have the place to himself until the family finishes breakfast.

He's sat through his share of descriptions of the glories of Heaven, but Tom thinks that his personal version would be a library stocked with an infinite number of books, with unlimited time and plenty of comfortable nooks in which to read. A library not unlike this one (though he thinks St. Peter might look askance at the bordello-red sofa, whose high back is perfectly suited to shield improprieties from prying eyes). But here on earth his time is all too short, and Tom hardly knows where to start. There's a long list in his head of books he wants to read, but in the face of this almost obscene plenty, he can't recall a single title.

A few moments' time lends a modicum of familiarity to the novelty of his surroundings—he has, after all, been inside a library before—and Tom's mental paralysis eases. He ambles around, glancing at titles and trying to figure out the system by which his lordship has his collection organized, or whether there's a system at all. Some of the books look as though they've never even been opened: at a shelf of novels he runs a finger down the spine on a Sir Walter Scott, its gilt lettering as shiny as the day it was stamped.

The noise of the door opening and closing startles him and Tom whirls around with his hand still on the book, feeling as though he's been caught in something illicit. Maybe I should've hunted up a housemaid after all, he thinks, but it's not Mr. Carson or Lord Grantham: only a young lady. One of the daughters. Mr. Carson mentioned them in passing during Tom's brief orientation, but related little more than the fact that there are three of them, and while only the elder two are out in society, Mr. Branson should expect to spend a fair bit of his time driving all of them about.

"Oh, I'm sorry," the girl says in a voice that sounds more mature than one would think, coming from that fresh face. "I didn't know anyone was in here." She passes the book she's holding from one hand to the other and back again, the only indication that she's the slightest bit disconcerted. Her hair is not put up on top of her head but hangs down her back in an elaborate horsetail; Tom is well enough acquainted with the customs of upper-class femininity to know that this means she is not yet out, which must make her the youngest.

Tom draws himself smartly to attention and focuses on the bit of floor just in front of her skirt. "Not at all, m'lady," he says with a blandness that he hopes will mask his annoyance at the interruption. "His lordship told me I might borrow a book now and then. I'll be going." He trains his eyes on the door and his feet make as if to follow.

She raises her hand to stop him. "Please don't go on my account. I won't be a moment. I'm just checking one back in." She walks over to the table that holds the ledger and picks up the pen. "You're the new chauffeur, aren't you? Branson, is it?" She leans down slightly to write in the book and out of the corner of his eye Tom registers the graceful line of her neck beneath the glossy lanyard of her hair.

"'Tis, m'lady."

"I'm Lady Sybil." Tom merely inclines his head at this. "So you're a reader, then?"

"I am." He shifts his gaze to look her in the eye.

"I am too. I do love books." She smiles. "What do you read?"

He tells her what he told her father. "Mostly history and politics, m'lady."

"I'm afraid my knowledge in those areas is sadly lacking. I should have liked to know more about them, but my governess didn't think them very ladylike." Her smile slips a bit, turns rueful.

"I don't believe any area of knowledge is inherently masculine or feminine," Tom says before he can think not to. "Personally, I see no reason a woman shouldn't interest herself in whatever it is she finds interesting. M'lady." He's not sure what has made him speak so freely, only that Lady Sybil doesn't seem as though she'll mind. He finds himself liking her, and not just in response to her friendliness. Her face has an open, curious look to it, and of course they have something in common.

He judged her correctly: far from minding, she beams at him. "I wish more people thought like you." She puts down the pen and lays her book on the table to be reshelved, but instead of leaving she crosses the room toward Tom. "What were you looking at just now?"

He shifts his weight, wondering if she remembers that the library door is shut. He's not had enough time to feel things out completely, so he's not entirely sure how serious a problem it would be for him to be found alone in a room with the earl's daughter. He does know it'd be a fine thing to get the sack over a manufactured scandal before his first week is out. "I was trying to get a sense of the place, the way things are organized." He glances toward the door, hoping fervently that Mr. Carson or worse, Lord Grantham, will not open it.

"Oh, well, that's easy. Mr. Pathinson—he's our librarian—has everything arranged by subject area." Lady Sybil approaches, with a sweep of her hand to indicate the shelf Tom was perusing when she came in. "See, Literature is just here. And then they're in alphabetical order by author's surname."

"That makes sense, m'lady. Thank you; you've just saved me some time." Tom edges toward the door, willing her to dismiss him. The whole situation is too dicey: someone could come in at any moment and if there's any suspicion, he'll be the object of it.

"Was there something in particular you wanted?" She scans the shelves, oblivious to Tom's discomfort. "History is over here, I think..." Finally she seems to notice the distance Tom has put between them. "Is something wrong?"

It's surprising, really; you'd think that these posh girls' mamas and governesses would constantly be squawking about the importance of appearances. Or maybe the squawking is so constant that Lady Sybil has learnt to ignore it. And she is very young. "Beg pardon, m'lady. Only..." Tom tries to think of a diplomatic way to put this. "...It might seem a bit irregular, if someone were to come in right now." He spreads his hands, palms up. "With the door having been closed. The look of the thing, you see."

"Oh!" Lady Sybil's eyes widen and a slight blush stains her cheeks. "I'm so sorry. I didn't think." She hurries to the door, passing just close enough to for Tom to get a faint whiff of something floral. "I'll just come back in the afternoon."

Embarrassed at having flustered her, Tom nods.

She opens the door but pauses before stepping out into the hall, turning and giving Tom a smile that tells him that she has not taken any discomfort to heart. "It was nice to meet you, Branson," she says.

Tom smiles in return and bows his head. "Likewise, Lady Sybil."