A/N: This is both the first fic I've written in a very long time and my first Downton fic, so any concrit would be fantastic ;) Spoilers for 2x01.
He sees a bit of himself in the forgotten Crawley daughter.
It dawns on Tom just how alike they are, if you look hard or forget he's a chauffeur and she's the daughter of an Earl (but given recent events, he'll go for the former), when Lady Edith ventures down to her father's garage on a grey March morning, all tight red curls and defiant black coat, and demands driving lessons.
Her words spell determination, but her hands rest in her pockets and her voice trembles for a moment, unable to keep up.
Lady Edith Crawley has spent a lifetime trailing behind one sister or another, her pale features overshadowed by dark, sleek elegance, and her love of Austen and the Romantic poets unable to sustain conversation with her father like works on politics or philosophy.
Tom can tell.
She's funny, though. Tom didn't know she was funny; he'd heard hushed reports from Gwen and Anna about her cruel streak when it came to her sisters, her apathy or fake concern when it came to matters of Downton, but naught of her sense of humour.
"War changes everyone, that's what Granny and Father are saying," she explains. "Where would we be if you were, for whatever reason, unable to drive and there was some sort of emergency? I simply must learn to drive, Branson."
It's the sort of statement he'd expect from a certain other sister, all no-nonsense logic and dressed for her first lesson, not ready to take no for an answer, and he can't do anything but check with the Earl of Grantham and say yes.
Their conversations in the car seem oddly light and distant at first, until he comes to understand that Lady Edith tends to lend significance to simple sentences, a pattern that has become easy after years of her voice being lost in the cacophony of Downton.
Tom doesn't know if they became something almost resembling confidants out of happenstance or necessity (and he knows that, unlike Mary and Anna or Sybil and Gwen, she'll deny it to anyone who asks), but he's never quite been able to classify the whole thing a disaster.
And, somewhere along the line, before a perfect run down to the village and back and after the hospital debacle, Tom realises that Edith needs the car beyond just learning to drive for emergencies.
"It ought to be quite easy to follow this structure," she said that first day, nodding as he explained the clutch and the gears in the stationary car. "I think I will be able to understand the process."
"It's quite simple once you're used to it, milady," he agrees, and she smiles (and it's not sly or charming, but it's gentle and different and Tom decides then that he likes it).
Edith learns quickly thanks to the number of lessons she takes, that in itself a clue about her. In the car there is order, in the car there is the instant gratification that comes with each successful step taken; in the car she has a person's attention fixed wholly on her for a whole hour. In the car Lady Edith can get away from Downton.
She tells him about the tractor job before lunch the day she decides on it. She doesn't rush to find him in the garage and tell him the news, but her grin betrays her excitement nonetheless.
Tom feels a stirring in his chest and he wants to tell her he's proud along with offering a grin and congratulations, but refrains. "I've never driven a tractor before, milady. Perhaps there will be a few things you can come back and teach me."
He's sure he's outlasted any shred of necessity he may have had remaining now, with Edith coming back from the farm tired but content with a day's work well done, but a few weeks in and he spots her shadow in the garage door once more.
"Branson, would you mind going out for a drive this afternoon? I was hoping you could show me a particular manoeuvre we haven't tried yet."
Today Lady Edith is more talkative than usual, more clumsy than usual. Her foot stamps down too hard on the brakes, her left hand misses the wheel as she turns.
"How was Sybil when you visited her recently?" she asks, foot pressed firmly down on the accelerator. "Cousin Isobel says she is a very good nurse. Me, on the other hand, I was not so good at driving a tractor, as it turns out."
"I'm sure that's not true, milady," Tom says, knows there is no manoeuvre to learn.
"Sybil always gets her way straight away. Mary may make a mess of things, but will always eventually get her way. It seems I just make a mess."
He offers her a wry smile, heart too heavy at the mention of Lady Sybil to offer any more. "Pardon me, Lady Edith. I've always been much the same. It seems that we're in the same boat."
"Or in the same car, as it happens." Edith returns the smile. She slows the car down to a crawl and frowns, thinking. "No, Sybil has alwaysgotten her way." She doesn't wait for his hand when they reach the garage, hops out with a quick, "Thank you, Branson."
Tom thinks about it a few days later, cup of tea halfway down to the table when his breath catches in his throat and he wonders if she knows (she can't know – of course she knows, she wouldn't have said it if she didn't know) and howshe knows. He remembers her reply then when he once asked her if perhaps she found happiness in the silence of the car, as he often did: "It's nice to just sit and observe, something I think perhaps most middle children are quite adept at doing."
Poor old Edith, they never seem to talk about her.