Chapter 1: Touch

1916

He had held her hand plenty of times, in the way a chauffeur did when helping a lady out of an automobile. The leather of his thick driving gloves and the thinner, more expensive leather of her gloves would ensure there was no skin touching – in fact, it was such an impersonal gesture it could hardly be called 'touching' at all. But as he ran out into the garden to tell her the news of Gwen's success, Tom Branson hadn't put his gloves on. He hardly took the time buttoning up his jacket. While he didn't care much for the rules that separated the classes and indeed the upstairs and downstairs of Downton Abbey, he had learned to adhere to them, as a necessity, in order to keep his job. But right now, the happy news was more important than any repercussions from Mr Carson at being dishevelled.

The brilliant bubble of joy inside him bore him all the way through the crowded lawn, past the people all dressed up, eating and drinking, as if this was anything like a real picnic. As he whispered in her ear, and she quickly dragged him away, he was glad that it was because Sybil was as happy for Gwen as he was, not because she wanted him to be gone. In fact, the bright smile on her face and in her eyes was quite more delighted than she sometimes looked in company. As they found Gwen and told her the news, he couldn't stop smiling, and neither did they. That bright spark which had made him see lady Sybil differently than her sisters – not just a young lady, but one with opinions and an open mind – now burned clear.

She's learning how it feels to do good, Tom thought to himself, watching Lady Sybil speaking to Gwen. And not just the kind of good that is done with a basket sent to an ailing tenant, but the honesty of helping her fellow man, through diligence and hard work. He took her hand then, offering his own to hold simply by sliding his palm against hers. She had a pair of proper little gloves on, the sort his mother or sisters didn't even own, and it was thin enough that he could almost feel the softness and warmth of the skin under it.

A moment – an eternity – and he felt her fingers intertwine with his, hesitant at first and then squeezing his gently.

Sybil felt like there was a burning flame inside her, setting her alight from the tip of her nose to her fingertips. They had done it! Gwen wouldn't be miserable at Downton, dreaming about a future that couldn't be hers. Instead she was to be a secretary, a professional woman, and Sybil had helped her to achieve that goal. It was a strange feeling, to help someone else achieve a dream that she shared, but at the same time it was so much easier to help Gwen than help herself.

Life at the Abbey was set in it's ways, her father protesting any political expeditions she wished for and her mother always putting forward 'nice young men' that she should talk to. But they never wanted to talk about politics – they never wanted to talk about anything important at all! – and Sybil revelled in Gwen's exciting new future as if it was her own.

She hadn't wondered at all why Branson was the one to bring the message; there was surely some reason for it. But as he was here it was a grand thing to have him to share the joy with, as he understood better than anyone the longing she and Gwen felt to be useful, to do something of themselves. It was not freedom of vote for women, but it certainly meant freedom of dream for Sybil.

At first she thought Branson had touched her hand by mistake, and didn't consider it, but as the feeling persisted, she realised it was not. His hand was larger than hers, and she could feel the bare skin under her glove, a hand very much unlike any male hand she could compare it to. Branson's hand was used to hard work, she could feel the dainty fabric of her gloves catching on the calluses on his skin, the pads of his fingers almost rough.

Hesitantly she slid her hand into his, marvelling for a moment of the feeling of holding a man's hand. She was used to the gallantry of gentlemen, but that never affected her much, she had never thought it was anything more than rehearsed phrases. This was…more. Glancing up at Branson, she didn't realise that she was thinking of him as a man, a person, and not just a servant or a chauffeur. The feeling of their interlocked fingers had thrown her insides into a fluttery state and she wasn't at all sure what to do. It was Branson, after all! Branson, who spoke to her like an adult and gave her pamphlets and told her about the political news. When he talked to her he didn't just go 'yes milady' or 'no milady' like William or Mr Carson. He thought about her question and then answered – not out of respect for her title and position – but for her intellect and curiosity.

It was at the same time very shocking yet strangely natural, apart from the flutters in her stomach, the sensation of holding hands with Branson felt like something she had done regularly.

Mrs Hughes arrived with the promptness of a circling predator, scolding the blushing Gwen. For a moment Tom allowed himself a private smile over this little victory, however insignificant it might seem. If he had been courting a girl from the same circumstances as himself, holding hands would probably not have been such a huge steppingstone, but if the girl was Lady Sybil Crawley, who had never in her life touched a male servant in this way, the accomplishment was monumental. Her little hand in his gave him such hope as he hadn't dared to nourish before and he pressed her hand lightly to try and convey some of that.

Catching her looking up at him, her face a little surprised, but not displeased, he could not help but give her a half smile.

"I don't suppose…" he began, his voice low and almost a little breathless to his own ears. He wasn't quite sure what to say next, because this moment – this opportunity – had come when he didn't expect it, and it was one thing to unabashedly start a conversation about politics, astonishing Lady Sybil, and quite another to speak of other things. Yet as words formed in his mind, he couldn't help but to hope that the pressure of her hand in his had meant what he hoped, and that his words, his proposition wouldn't take her wholly by surprise.

But pressing her hand, he didn't get much further before Mrs Hughes took the situation in hand and all but dismissed Lady Sybil.

Tom could see how she didn't want to go, the curious spark in her eyes as she too wondered what he had been about to say. But while her longing to stay was obvious, it was also clear that whatever she suspected him to say, it was not the words he had been planning. Her face was smooth, she wasn't blushing and her eyes were warm, but not unduly so. This was not a young woman in love, this was one who wanted some decent conversation with a good friend, instead of tea and sandwiches with the gentry.

So he let her go, answering Mrs Hughes rather more harshly than perhaps he should have, trying to mask the feelings threatening to escape. Before this day he hadn't dared hope for anything, and now, having held her hand in his for just a moment, he suddenly had too much hope, more than he felt his poor heart could contain.