five times lady sybil thought about marrying the chauffeur and the one time she did
one
early summer 1914
"Good night, Anna."
"Good night, milady," Anna replied with one of her gracious smiles, shutting the heavy wooden door behind her as she left Sybil in the moving darkness, only illuminated by the small bedside lamp and a stray candle on the mantelpiece.
Bursting with a rush of excitement, Sybil walked over to gently blow out the candle, inhaling the smoky scent as the orange flames faded into semi-darkness.
She was sure it was most certainly not going to be a night of much rest. With so many thoughts always dying to burst free from the constraints of her mind, she never found sleep easily. And with the prospect of tomorrow's journey and the upcoming weeks, there surely were too many things that were going to keep her from resting.
For so long she had thought about, even before Mary's first season, what it would be like, whom she would meet, where she would go, what she would wear. Now, that it was all just a few turns of the clock away, Sybil began to feel reality dawning on her.
She slowly sat on the edge of her bed, contemplating whether or not she was quite ready for the darkness yet. It always seemed to bring on a tidal wave of thoughts the mind appeared to be keeping from her conscious throughout the light of day. Hesitating, she withdrew her fingers from the light switch, folding her fingers in her lap instead.
Maybe this was going to be the last time she slept in this bed without a real prospect for a husband. Maybe, when she returned, she would not have to consider the light switch but her answer to a proposal.
It seemed surreal, really thinking about it. Marriage. Surely, it was, in the end, what the upcoming weeks where meant to find her. Still, no matter how often she had imagined herself in a lavish white dress like her mother, it had never really included a husband. Who would it be? One of the many faces in the crowd? How would he be like?
She started to wonder what to talk about, realizing that the polite words she shared with guests did not seem quite enough to find a suitable husband. How would she know if they were ever going to hold a proper conversation when it was, well, improper to have one in the first place? Spending her life filled with those shallow conversations, was that really what it was all going to be about?
With Branson, she could talk about everything. Politics, her opinions, remarks on guests and parties, complaints about this and that. He listened and he always had something interesting to add. Something that enlightened that excitement inside of her to keep talking, to keep listening, to empty her mind of at least a handful of the thoughts it had to keep in.
Yes, she supposed she could spend her life talking to Branson. It would be rather fine, having the chauffeur to talk to. Giggling a little, she realized where her thoughts were heading. Spending her life with Branson. Was she thinking about marrying the chauffeur? Merely because he was easy to talk to?
As she finally decided to switch off the light and fall into her uneasy slumber, she struggled to admit to herself that maybe it was the only thing that really mattered. Having someone to talk to. Someone to listen. Someone to understand. But how silly was she being?
She shook her head into her pillow, trying to think of the excitement London in the summer promised instead.
two
14, August 1914
Restlessly, Sybil turned around underneath her cover, some strands having come loose of her braid and tickling her neck in the humid heat.
War.
She knew there had been talks about it, hushed and not-so-hushed words, determined conversation that she was not included in.
Worry about what the future would bring now, fear of this three-letter-words that bore so many horrors and unimaginable tales of pain and grief, sent shivers down her spine, despite the terrible heat.
But apart from the fear and the heat, something else kept Sybil awake that night, something that made her feel so terribly guilty in face of the turn this innocent day had taken. She tried hard to focus her mind on other, more appropriate things, or simply on the joy about Gwen's success, but all that seemed to want to run through her mind was the feeling of her hand wrapped up in his.
She did not dare think of his name. And the one time the word chauffeur echoed in her mind she wanted to bite her pillow. They had not spoken a word after Mrs Hughes had ended that odd moment in the gardens, but Sybil found comfort in telling herself it had happened in the spur of the moment, in the rush of joy, that their hands had simply found their way together.
But his words kept echoing in her memory, destroying every little hope she had that what had happened had not been long in coming.
I don't suppose...
The words kept repeating over and over in her head, like the merciless ticking of a clock in the nightly silence of her room. Her curiosity was almost painful, biting on her mind like the passion and dozens of opinions she always had to keep locked inside of her. Waiting to burst free. What had he wanted to say before Mrs Hughes interrupted him?
Sybil was amazed by his bold move of taking hold of her hand in the middle of the garden party, where everyone could see, where nobody understood. But understood what?
She remembered that late night many weeks before, when her thought had been similar but so much more innocent and foolish, childish, almost joking. Now, she kept remembering how right it had felt to have her fingers intertwined with his.
In the bright sunlight, she had felt surprised and taken aback, holding on to his hand without further doubt or question. Now, in the darkness and silence of the night, she knew she should feel horrible for the inappropriate breach they had shared. Instead, she found herself wondering what it would feel like to lean closer, to really feel his presence by her side. To share an embrace. A kiss.
What a scandal it would be, indeed. Marrying the chauffeur. Sybil could hardly imagine Granny's face at the prospect.
And how ridiculous it was to even spare the thought, she wondered, turning around once again, fanning her hand against her sweaty neck to cool herself down a little, before finally beginning to sink into a restless sleep.
three
autumn 1916
A part of her had wanted to say yes so terribly that she finally lost the strength to hold back the tears aching to run free.
Up until today, those rare thought she had spared on a development like this, on things being this way between them, had been silly, born of another line of thoughts, never standing on their own feet. But now she was standing in front of the tiny mirror in the tiny bathroom, back bent to see the tears slowly run tracks along her flushed cheeks.
His pained disappointment at her refusal had made her wish so badly to be in a position where she could have accepted gladly, fallen into his arms and spend the rest of their lives together. But the war was not over, the world, as much as it might be changing, was not changed.
Surely, she would enjoy Branson's company for the rest of her life, their conversations, sometimes calm, other times heated. That was not hat it was all about, though. In the end, would she want to be his wife? Would she really want him to be her husband?
She had grown up so guarded from everything, from the world and the troubles and the sorrows, that she had not even been granted a peek behind the flawless facade of her parents' marriage. There must be so much more to it, to share your life with someone else completely.
Washing away the traces of her tears, Sybil took a deep breath. It must all mean something, ran through her mind like a horse on a race track. Her guilt for refusing his proposal (which had been so brave of him she now realizes), the terrible wave of fear when he had suggested handing in his resignation, her wish deep inside for a chance to accept, flashing and bright glimpses of a possible future lightening in her head like the flickering of fire.
The muted sound of the door outside opening pulled her out of her thoughts and back into reality. The reality where she was standing in this tiny room, all by herself, away from everything she knew, considering a future even more abstract than this.
With a last, fleeting look into the mirror, Sybil opened the door to the small bedroom she shared with two other girls, smiling at them as she sat down on her simple bed. They quietly continued their conversation as Sybil began to remove the pins from her hair, finding herself wishing to wake up another person, in another life, where this decision would have been made with less sorrow.
four
spring 1918
This isn't fairyland.
Mary was right, of course. Sybil knew what a sacrifice would become necessary to act on those slowly growing, hesitantly thinking feelings that blossomed inside of her. Yet, until she had to promise her sister to not make any hasty decisions - stupid, as Mary had chosen to describe it - Sybil had not really felt the impact of this realization. The look of shock and disbelief in her eldest sister's eyes, softened only my her protectiveness over her, had felt like a slap to Sybil.
Even if she could make up her mind and find a structure to the whirlwind of emotions that was constantly rushing through her mind, and be one hundred percent sure that she wanted to spend the rest of her life with Branson - the chauffeur? Branson? - it would not change a single thing about her family's reaction.
It seemed there was no difference in being sure about her feelings and wanting to marry him, and the mere consideration.
Would she ever be sure enough to accept the consequences? To face her family's disapproval? To face the possibility of never seeing any of them again? To become a stranger in the eyes of her sisters, of her mother and father? To be turned into a less scandalous story to tell everyone who cared to ask about the lost Crawley sister? Would she vanish from her family's history, drowning in the depths of lies and covers and stories like Patrick had been taken by the icy waters of the Atlantic? Never to return, to be replaced, forgotten?
When she saw the flicker of light in the garage, her steps down the path slowed down slightly, the clicking of her heels announcing her arrival. She had to tell him about her confession to Mary. After all these years and indecision, she owed him the truth.
Turning her head, Sybil let the sight of the big house, illuminated only by moonlight, sink in. It was a symbol of all the constraints she longed so much to break free from. Still, at the same time, it was the home of all she held dear. Could she ever let go? Was it worth it?
What did you think? You'd marry the chauffeur and we'd all come to tea?
five
early 1919
She realized that she had never sat in the front of the car before. Kneading her hands - she was so nervous, so so much more nervous than during her first season, nervous they would be caught before they had even left, nervous someone might catch them before they even had the chance - Sybil listened to the crunching of the gravel as Tom secured her suitcase.
In her haste to leave, rushed by the fear of anyone having noticed something, anything, she had only packed a handful of things, probably nothing she would really need, and had written a short letter to her family. She might have made her decision - marry the chauffeur; Mary's voice echoed in her head - but she still felt the bitterness of sorrow wash over her. That the prize was such a high one, it was all so terribly unjust.
Her chest seemed to constrict, all the air threatening to burst under the pressure of the corset. What if today had been the last time she ever set eyes on her sister and her parents? What if they would never forgive her for what she was doing in this moment?
"Sybil?"
The sound of his voice next to her startled Sybil for a moment. As their eyes met, she saw concern, worry, almost a gentle touch of sadness in his.
"Are you sure this is what you want?"
His voice sounded very similar to the day he proposed to her, years ago, although it feels like ages. It sounds vulnerable, open, and honest.
"I am sure," she said reassuringly, reaching out to take his hand in hers. She remembered how she had imagined this that day after the garden party, when the world had changed, imagined holding his hand, touching him, being around him like this. Now that it actually is the way her mind had coloured in to many shapes and forms, it comes so naturally, and still ignites a tingling underneath her skin. "I only wish it were different."
He turned his hand to intertwine their fingers, and only nodded shortly. There were no words that would matter, that would suit the moment. They both realized what they were doing, and that there was no way back, no return. There was no comfort he could give her but the promise he made years ago.
Sybil knew what she was giving up, and what she knew for certain was that no one could predict if her family could ever forgive her for this. But that was the risk she realized she had to take. The last step.
"We are going to be married. That I know for sure."
six
summer 1919
"Really, Edith. There is no need. I was going to pin it up the way I always do," Sybil sighed, running her fingertips through the longs strands of hair cascading down her back. From the corner of her eye she could see Mary inspecting the simple dress that was hanging on the door of the small wardrobe.
"Well, that's just it. You are not always getting married. So, sit and let me do it."
Sybil knew there was no real point in a quarrel with her sister, so she sat down on the chair, folding her hands in her lap. Raindrops were racing down the window, and for a brief second she remembered her childhood at Downton, how she used to walk from one of the many windows to the other, keeping track of the raindrops as they chased each other down the glass.
As Edith began to run a comb through her hair, Sybil felt both comforted and saddened by the rush of homesickness. It was familiar, and not surprising, but it still hurt more than she liked to admit. With the presence of her sisters in the small bedroom, it all felt better, though. The merging of the two worlds, of her two lives, past and present, might not have gone as smoothly as she had wished, but here they were, three sisters, on the morning of her wedding.
The expression on Mary's face when she had entered the small flat that would soon be her's and Tom's had been expected. Typical Mary, to show her dislike with so much constraint. Edith had tried hard not to react to the creaking floorboards, but even she had not been able to hide the judging glare as Sybil had walked them through the few rooms.
"I'm going to get a glass of water," Mary said calmly, rushing out of the room before either Sybil or Edith could say anything about it. When she returned, she was not only holding a glass of water, but a small bag in her hand, as well.
"What is it?" Sybil asked, eyebrow twitching in pain as Edith pinned her hair in place.
"Open it," Mary said calmly, placing the embroidered bag on the small table in front of Sybil. Sybil was surprised by the faint smile on her eldest sister's lips, the first real sign of kindness since she had arrived. Maybe, she thought, all Mary had needed were a few hours of warming up.
Surprised by the gesture, Sybil pulled the two smooth strings to open the bag, feeling the light weight of it as she reached her fingers inside.
"Mary, you shouldn't-"
"I won't hear it, darling," Mary interrupted her, holding her hand up to stop Sybil, "I know they are your favorites. Wear them. I won't argue about it."
The two small earrings, pale blue with tiny pearls forming flowers on the glossy surface, were shining on Sybil's palm, and she stared at them in awe.
"I didn't think you would still have all my things."
"Mama and Papa have kept all your things in your room. Your clothes, the jewelery," Edith informs her, taking another pin from the table to secure Sybil's hair.
Maybe they are hoping you will return to it all one day.
Neither of them needed to speak the words as they echoed through each of their minds.
"I really was hoping they would come," Sybil whispered, her gaze sinking to her lap.
Mary stepped closer, resting her hand on her sister's shoulder.
"I am sorry, darling," she said quietly.
The next minutes passed in silence, Mary brushing her fingers across the fabric of the wedding dress, Edith pinning the last strands of Sybil's hair in place, while Sybil closed her eyes, wishing both for some time for herself, while cherishing the time with her sisters. Still, nothing could hide the stray tears that gathered in her eyes at the thought of a wedding without her parents.
"There," Edith finally said, breaking the silence. Mary, who had been sitting on the edge of the bed, stood, inspecting her sister's work. With a chaste smile, she walked over to the closet to take the dress off its hanger.
"Turn around, darling."
As Mary finished the last button, Edith clasped the second earring closed. Sybil ran her hands over her sides, feeling the smooth fabric underneath her palm enveloping her.
"You look lovely, darling," Mary said quietly with a smile as she looked at her youngest sisters. A bride.
Taking a deep breath, Sybil stepped in front of the mirror, both stunned and scared of her reflection. She had imagined this moment many times, in many different ways, but now, looking at herself in between her sisters, it all felt real.
"Where did you put the bouquet?" Edith asked, resting her hand on Sybil's back.
"It's by the mantelpiece in the living room," Sybil answered, and Edith rushed out of the room with a glance at the clock.
Mary stepped closer to Sybil, smiling at her reflection in the mirror.
"You really are marrying the chauffeur, then?"
Lips spreading into a wide smile, eyes glistening with tears of joy, Sybil nodded.
"I am."