Author's Note: Our story takes place near the end of Season 1, U.K. episode 6, when Matthew is ready to leave after having eaten sandwiches, drunk his wine out of a tumbler, and proposed to Lady Mary.
Disclaimer: I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.
"I promise to think about it," Lady Mary said. "properly."
Matthew nodded. "That must be my cue to go home."
"Shall I order the car for you?" Lady Mary suggested.
"Don't bother. I'd rather walk."
"Not tonight, I'm afraid. You'll be taking the motor."
"There's no need to drag the chauffeur out again after the night he's had, poor chap."
"Do you really imagine he's gone to bed? He's waiting on tenterhooks in the servants' hall to take you back to Crawley House."
"How can you know that?"
Lady Mary smiled at him. "Woman's intuition. Besides, turnabout is fair play. You used Branson to bring me a message; I need you to take one to him."
Everything at the big house had to be a production number. God forbid a perfectly healthy young man should walk one mile home along an empty country road. Or, failing that, in light of the task he'd been set by Lady Mary, Heaven forfend he himself should walk down the stairs to the servants' hall and tell Branson it was time to go.
In fact, Lady Mary and Carson both felt the need to walk outside with him to make sure Matthew got himself into the car.
Branson already had the motor running and was seated on the driver's bench. Carson himself held the car door open for the estate's heir. Matthew saw Branson look at Lady Mary, but the chauffeur apparently felt he was not allowed to speak to her in the presence of Mr. Crawley and Mr. Carson. Lady Mary caught the chauffeur's glance and inclined her head very slightly towards Mr. Crawley. The chauffeur nodded his understanding.
Matthew looked into the interior of the car. "I'd rather enjoy the night air." He did not get in the car.
Mr. Carson cleared his throat ominously.
"Shall I put the top down, sir?" Branson offered.
"No need," Mr. Crawley told him. "I'll just ride up front with you." The young man had walked around the car and climbed up onto the driver's bench before either Carson or Branson could react. Carson slammed the passenger door and stepped back from the car.
The two young men drove off, Lady Mary and the butler watching them until they had disappeared in the darkness of the lane.
Once they were out of sight of the big house, Matthew spoke. "Lady Mary asked me to give you a message."
The chauffeur glanced over at him a little fearfully. Waiting.
"She said to tell you that Lady Sybil is well enough that when Lord Grantham yelled at her for disobeying him, she yelled back. From which, Lady Mary concludes there's no serious harm done." The chauffeur was surprised into a short, slightly incredulous laugh. "She thinks she and Lady Sybil have convinced his lordship that the incident was none of your doing, so she thinks you're all right, too." Branson nodded, grateful. "But she says if she's wrong, she's willing to make another attempt, so you're not to leave the village until you've heard from her again." The chauffeur still had not spoken, but looked over at Matthew again, a V-shaped set of lines between his brows. "If you should get sacked over this," Matthew confirmed. He waited for the chauffeur to process the information, continuing, "If you've nowhere else you can stay in the village, then come to me at Crawley House, and I'll get word to Lady Mary."
The chauffeur looked at the road, then back at his passenger. He said, quietly, "Thank you, sir… Can I ask why you're helping me?"
Matthew shrugged. "Lady Mary asked me to give you her message… and it doesn't seem right that you should be blamed for something that isn't your fault."
The chauffeur nodded, and looked at the road. He was grateful, truly, and touched. Too much so, in fact, to take advantage of the Englishman's generosity. He said, softly, "I'm afraid it may be my fault."
Matthew looked at him sharply, "Are you saying Lady Sybil was lying? She didn't tell you she was going to a committee meeting? You knew all along she was going to the count?"
"No, sir," Branson explained. "She told me we were going to a committee meeting, but not where it was. When we got to the square, and I asked for directions to the right building, she finally told me it was the square she wanted to go to for the count, and jumped out of the car."
"So how on earth is that your fault?"
"I should have stopped her then."
Matthew thought about that. "Could you have?"
Branson sighed, and looked speculatively at the road. "I could have set the handbrake, jumped out and gone after her, tossed her back in the car."
"You'd have been sacked if you'd done that."
"But she wouldn't have been hurt."
Matthew laughed softly. "No, Branson, you couldn't have done that. It isn't your fault… though if you're faced with a like situation again, you may want to consider doing just that."
Branson chuckled this time as well. "Yes, sir. I think I can promise that."
They had arrived at Crawley House. Branson stopped the car. "Thank you, sir. For everything."
"Thanks for the lift," Matthew smiled, as if that squared the account between the two men. He swung down, and went into the house. Branson watched the future Earl of Grantham until the door closed behind him, then turned the car to head home himself.
As he drove back to the estate, Branson felt his pocket and was reassured by the feel of the beads of his chaplet under the cloth. He promised himself he'd say a proper rosary when he got back to his cottage. He felt a deep need to say a few Ave Marias. He was intensely grateful to both Marys for their help tonight.