Author's Note: I'll just write a little story about Tom and Sybil based on that little outing I mentioned in my last DA fic, I thought. It won't take long, I thought. It will probably be a one-shot, I thought. Many months later I see the folly in my thinking.
Way too much research went into this fic which I will point out with each chapter. In this one information on British and communist ideas comes from vengefulnoob, professional British communist. All the Irish WWI information comes from Kilmainhaim Gaol and an exhibit on the Irish in WWI that was at the National Library in Dublin last December. Enjoy!
Diversions
It had been three days.
Three days since he had answered the call that would change the life of his coworker.
Three days since that news had permitted him to talk to her in a personal manner in front of everyone in attendance at the Crawley's garden party.
Three days since he had held her hand in solidarity and joy.
And three days since Mrs. Hughes, ever the observant mother figure, had seen the action and warned him that his affections would lead to his ruin.
And while he tried to live in the memory of these things, it had also been three days since that garden party celebration had ceased to the low reverence of a funeral when Lord Grantham had the dubious honor of announcing that Britain was at war with Germany.
He tried, but nothing and no one would let him escape to those more pleasant moments; especially not his daily paper that he used to distract and inform himself with in between jobs.
Every page was another rephrasing of the same story, another editorial on the tension in Europe, another political cartoon showing an aggressive Germany intimidating and abusing Britain's allies, and another loud plea for all able men to enlist. He skimmed the pages for anything that could offer him more than what he has already read over the past few days and found nothing but new words on the same topics, always dripping with patriotism and fervor.
In theory, he understood why the war was happening, there were real issues hidden beneath the spiraling effect of every country in Europe frantically picking sides and declaring war out of camaraderie, but he truthfully felt detached from it. He was living in England but England was neither his home nor his master. He knew he would feel the effects, shortages of goods, propaganda on every corner, coworkers volunteering to fight or assist as Thomas was already planning on doing, but he would not experience the same pain or pressure to participate. If anything it was more important now than ever that Ireland became independent but what really was the right course in order to achieve that now . . .
His thought ceased when he heard the door of the garage that he had left ajar creak, causing him to brusquely look up from his paper. Even with the bright sun in his eyes pouring in from outside, he could still make out the silhouetted figure perched between the doors and he felt a slow smile tug at his lips for a second before the most likely reason that she had come to the garage occurred to him. He stood up from his relaxed position of leaning against the Renault and folded up his paper carefully, placing it on the table across from him.
"I'm sorry. I didn't get the message that you would need a ride today," he told her, grabbing his green livery jacket off the hood and quickly shrugging it on.
Lady Sybil took a few careful steps into the garage which allowed him to get a better look at her, the sunlight streaming in through the doors framing her dark hair like a halo. He noticed that she wasn't wearing a hat and seemed to be dressed casually in just a skirt and short-sleeved blouse, an unlikely choice for a woman who needed to go into town. She raised her hand to stop him.
"Oh, no. I don't need a ride, Branson," she said calmly, lowering her hand after a moment to cross her arms over her stomach.
At her gesture, he stopped smoothing out his uniform and left the front unbuttoned. He had been so worried that he had missed an assignment that it didn't occur to him until now how unusual her presence there was. She had never come into the garage before. None of the family had. He always got the instructions for when and where they would need to go and at that time he would pull up in front of the house. If Lady Sybil needed a ride, coming into the garage to ask him directly surely would make Mr. Carson's head spin at how unorthodox it was.
No, she was here for something else. And judging by the way her arms were pulled tightly in front of her like a shield and how her eyes had now retreated to the floor as if she was ashamed or nervous, it wasn't anything good.
"Is there something wrong, milady?" he asked gently. They were fairly accustomed to talking about their lives with each other but never outside of the context of a ride or a rally. Yes, he had seen her gloomy on the odd occasion but she was never so stricken that she seemed . . . lost. In another world, he would have taken her by the hand and asked her to unload her burden but alas, even as close as they were, it would be improper to do so. He was restricted to merely maintaining a respectful distance and accepting that if she wanted to talk, she would have to decide to without any encouragement from him.
She looked up at him, blue eyes watery as if she may have been crying earlier, and let out a breath as one does before pulling a trigger.
"Are you busy?" she asked, her brows furrowed in worry that she had interrupted him.
"No, no," he insisted fervently, the concern evident in his tone.
"Do you mind . . ." she started urgently, cutting off her sentence quickly when she realized how desperate she sounded. "Do you mind talking with me for a little while?" she finished embarrassed, glancing down at the floor again like she was afraid of his response.
"Of course not, milady," he answered, his slight smile returning at the thought that she had chosen him of all people to come to. "Would you like to sit-?" he stopped as he noticed her eyeing the various corners of the garage in confusion at what he was offering. There wasn't really anywhere to sit, no proper chair for her at least. He was perfectly comfortable leaning on the workbench or sitting on the running board of the car but those weren't really suitable options.
Quickly forming an idea, he took a few steps back and opened up the backseat door of the car and motioned with his other hand for her to enter. She grinned briefly at his solution and allowed him to help her into the car with a soft "thank you" on her lips. He could not guess how many times they had performed this ritual before, her hand in his as he supported her ascent into the back, but the second she reached for him he took note of her ungloved hand and his similarly bare one reaching towards her. A shiver went through him as he tried to hold onto the brief memory of her soft skin again his more work-worn fingers, her warmth, the briefest sense of her pulse, and the fact that such a strong woman could have hands that felt so small and delicate against his.
The cover around the car had been taken down for the summer so the entire back was open but she still sat down nearest to the open door, so they were facing each other as closely as they could with him still standing outside of the vehicle. Her amusement had faded and she looked down at her hands as if she was trying to search for her words. He thought about telling her to take her time but decided it was better to just wait until she was ready.
"I just," she started, stopping to let out a slow sigh. "I just have a lot on my mind and there isn't really anyone I can share it with. I can't stop thinking about. . ."
She paused and raised her head as if waiting for him to continue her thought for her and he nodded in understanding. It was no great mystery what she was getting at. There was one topic that he knew she could only seriously discuss with him: politics. And, as circumstance would have it, one of the biggest political events imaginable had happened three days ago and there hadn't been an opportunity for them to see each other by chance over those days. From the time war had been declared, his services had been commandeered exclusively by Lord Grantham as he made frequent trips into the village or to Ripon for reasons he didn't fully know but could gather that they were war-related. Lord Grantham was reluctant to talk freely about his business or even the topic in general in too much detail and it made him wonder if any of the other members of the Crawley family had contrary opinions they would willingly share.
And by the other Crawleys, he meant Lady Sybil.
The fact that she had sought him out to have this conversation left him hopeful that the friendship that had grown between them really was as important to her as it was to him.
"Me neither," he agreed solemnly.
"I don't even know what I'm supposed to think about it honestly," she admitted with a touch of exasperation. "I've been reading every word in the papers for the last few weeks and I still feel like I don't know how it came to this."
"I understand," he said, reflecting on his own thoughts right before she had arrived.
"I thought that the world was moving forward, towards something better. This feels like a roadblock. I mean, maybe this could finally put an end to all the tension throughout Europe but . . ."
"What if it doesn't? What if this creates more problems and stalls more progress?" he finished. He had been there. The last few days he had played with the same thoughts as she had and had similarly failed to come up with anything definitive.
"Yes," she concurred emphatically. "And on a smaller scale, I keep thinking about who will be going."
He had to admit that this was more of a passing thought to him than the political aspects. He wondered if his countrymen would be conscripted, the Ulster Volunteers were surely already enlisting to fight for king and someone else's country, but he knew no one who he loved would decide to fight willingly. Or, at least he hoped not. It had only been three days since war was declared and he had yet to hear any news from across the sea about how Irish nationalists stood on the topic of going to war. While it seemed unlikely to him that fighting for the kingdom was an effective step on the path to home rule, he knew not to underestimate the desperation of poverty and the steady paycheck a soldier could bring.
She, on the other hand, would probably need to watch many men who she knows give their lives to the cause.
"Thomas has already enlisted with the medical corps," he said. Without anything personal to contribute, he offered up the closest thing he could, unaware if she had gotten the message herself.
"I heard," she answered, with a tilt of her head. After a brief moment of silence she started speaking again, this time with a quiver of nerves in her tone. "I don't imagine you'd. . ."
He couldn't help but smile at the absurdity of the question she was about to ask.
"No, of course not," she finished with a pleased expression of what looked to him to be relief.
"It's not my war," he stated blithely, knowing that she had probably already made that connection. The topic of Irish independence came up in conversations between them about as frequently as women's rights.
She nodded in agreement with a faint smile of satisfaction.
"But you must have some opinion?" she inquired, clearly wondering if he might be able to offer some thoughts on the war that would help her to better formulate and articulate her own tentative opinion.
He crossed his arms and gave a noncommittal shrug, before offering up the only thing he felt sure of with all the English papers he had read and contradictory arguments: "It's the rich sending the poor to die for their ambitions."
Her eyes fell to her lap again as she contemplated this statement for a minute and a comfortable silence fell between them as they lost themselves in different thoughts on the same subject.
"I can't talk like this with my family," she admitted after a while, her volume low as if she was afraid someone other than him might overhear her. "I usually handle any troubles I have fine on my own but it can be quite lonely here when you really need someone to talk to."
Although his ego told him that he should not take pity on a girl as privileged as Lady Sybil, he found his heart breaking for her. He knew she was different than her family, it was part of what he loved about her, but he had never thought too much about how being a free spirit, even with all the resources at her disposal, could actually lead to loneliness, even for someone as independent as her.
"Even if I thought I could discuss these things, everyone has their own burdens to bear right now. My mother and father are still recovering from the loss of my would-be baby brother. Mary is trying to be strong but it's only been three days since Matthew retracted his proposal and I know she's not doing well. And I don't know exactly what happened to Edith but she's changed too. You would think she was the one who had her heart broken that day. I wish I could do something to help them but everyone keeps their problems so hidden that you can't even bring it up to offer them someone to talk to."
She chuckled gently on reflection of what she had just said about herself. "I guess it runs in the family."
"Well, you have Gwen," he offered weakly, knowing that it wasn't the best offering with Gwen's current situation but wanting to try to prove to her that she has more at Downton than just occasional chats with him.
"I'm so happy for her! I really am," she exclaimed with a bright, beautiful smile that nearly made him lose his footing. The smile, however, was short-lived as her face gradually fell to a look of shame.
"I don't mean to sound selfish but helping her, it gave me a purpose, something to occupy my time with and someone to talk to while working towards a common goal. And we succeeded."
She shook her head at her words straight away, looking disgusted in herself. "No. She succeeded . . . And now what do I do?"
He wasn't sure if the question was rhetorical but he wanted to give her something to ease her mind. He wanted to tell her that of course she wasn't being selfish. He wanted to tell her that he really admired how much she committed herself to helping Gwen find a job because it showed just how important her cause really is to her on a small scale as well as a large one. He wanted to tell her that she's actually one of the most kind-hearted and giving people he knows.
But instead he answered her question.
"You could join a women's club," he proposed. He knew she dabbled in many charitable organizations and had often thought about specifically devoting more time to campaigning for equal rights.
She perked up, clearly interested in the idea and gave a small nod.
"I'm sure I couldn't ask mama to recommend one," she joked, causing him to smile with her.
"Do you think you could help me with that?" she asked a bit more seriously as their amusement died down even if their joy didn't fade.
"Of course," he said gladly, already having plenty of resources in his cottage under the contingency that she might want them. When she had first mentioned the idea, he had gone on the hunt for information just in case she needed it.
They shared a smile for a time before the dark cloud that was tainting everyone's moods slowly passed over both their minds and they found themselves at fault for experiencing such a simple burst of happiness.
"Branson?" she said, her solemn tone having returned.
"Yes, milady?"
"When you need to get your mind off things, what do you do?" she asked hopefully.
It seemed as if she was looking for some kind of suggestion or possibly some sort of reassurance that now that she felt as if there was nothing to do but think about the unpleasant state of the world, for many others there were practical things to attend to.
"What you'd expect I imagine. When I don't have driving to do I read, work on the cars, write letters home," he answered, apologetic that he couldn't offer something more intriguing.
"But what do you do when you have time off?" she clarified, clearly thinking that would produce a different set of tasks.
"I don't have much of it I'm afraid," he admitted, leaning against the side of the car as he ran through his mental calendar of the last few months. "Aside from what I told you, if I need to buy something I might go into town. Maybe I'd go to church if there was something I felt really needed praying for."
"Is that really all?" she pleaded still looking expectant of some sort of comment she could latch onto.
He wasn't sure what kind of answer she was trying to pull out of him but it apparently didn't have anything to do with him running out of stationary or worrying about his father's health. A life in service was only glamorous by association and that association rested with her.
While he didn't have anything he could offer in the way of class, it wasn't too long ago that he was her age and was better acquainted with fun.
"When I worked in Ireland sometimes I would go to the pub," he said with a slight shrug of his shoulders at the last response he could think of. "I got to know some of the people in town and we'd chat, have a drink, maybe listen to music if there was anyone making it."
Lady Sybil's face lit up at his answer, her eyes shining in curiosity and a grin returning to her face.
"Would you dance?" she asked, leaning in towards him as if they were sharing a secret.
He caught her infectious smile and leaned in as well, lowering his voice furtively.
"If the mood happened to strike me."
"I would like to see that!" she exclaimed laughing until it faded to a sigh. "It's too bad there probably won't be a Servant's Ball next year with the way things are," she said, sounding truly upset.
"'Tis, milady," he settled quietly, surprised by how sorrowful she sounded. He searched her eyes for any more meaning than she was freely providing. He would have thought it would be such a minor thing for her to have to give up and he wondered, hoped really, that she would miss it for the same reasons he would.
Branson hadn't attended his first Servant's Ball earlier that year due to a virulent sickness. While everyone was preparing the day before he had felt the flutter of disease and had dedicated himself to drinking as much water as he could and not exerting himself but his efforts had turned out to be in vain when he woke up the next day unable to get out of bed. In between coughing fits he would tell himself that he needed to push himself upright and put on his best suit but every time he tried he was hit with a dizzy spell and found himself collapsing back into his pillow, visions of his missed opportunity to socialize with Lady Sybil in an environment where their friendship would not be suspect taunting him as he lay immobilized. When he had finally given up, he fell asleep to the thought that there was always next year and dreamt of leading her around the ballroom floor.
Except now that wouldn't be.
"I've never been to a pub," she blurted out, glancing away from him, only then instigating his realization that they had been holding each other's stares for longer than was appropriate.
"I wouldn't expect it to be the kind of place his lordship would want you going," he noted.
"No. If I even had a chance of his approval it would involve being escorted by a team who could be trusted to supervise. And even at that I'd imagine he'd want to make sure the pub was only filled with men and women who he deemed suitable."
He smiled at the image of a dingy pub filled with suited lords and ladies in their finest ball gowns, holding pints in their hands as they chatted away about the petty gossip of the nobility.
"Would you like to?" she asked ambiguously, disrupting his vision.
He furrowed his brows, not sure exactly what she was referring to.
"Go," she clarified.
"Aside from the people who live under this roof I'm afraid I don't really know anyone in town to go with. I could go alone, I suppose," he said, his lip curling up a bit in a show of distaste. Going to a pub was really more of a social activity and while he supposed he could meet people there he didn't imagine finding anyone in the village who could really provide much in the way of conversation unless that conversation was about livestock.
"You wouldn't have to," she said nervously, smoothing out her skirt in order to hide her shaky hands.
He raised an eyebrow at her to ask if she was suggesting what he thought she was suggesting and was met with a mildly defiant expression that was trying to hide her uncertainty.
"Milady, that's a daring proposal even by your standards."
"What if I told you I have a foolproof plan?" she insisted determinedly.
"Do you now?" he asked dismissively, still unwilling to entertain the idea. After what had happened at the count, he had become more protective of her but they had still managed to go to speeches that her parents wouldn't approve of. This, however, was in an entirely different category of risk, and while he would never doubt her cleverness, he knew all too well that there were forces beyond their control just waiting to ruin a perfect plan.
"I'm working out the details as we speak," she asserted confidently. "The next time you have an afternoon off, I could sneak out in disguise and we could walk to the village so none of the cars would be missing in case someone was to walk by the garage."
"And if we're caught?" he pointed out. "Need I remind you, milady, that my job was in jeopardy only a few months ago because of one your plans?"
He immediately regretted bringing that incident up as her face fell guiltily and she gave him a look of such remorse and pity that he wanted nothing more than to take it back, his mouth falling open to do so but she spoke first.
"And for that I am still very sorry but I know my faults there. I lied to you and didn't listen to you in a situation where you would know better than I. I have learned from that which is why I am being honest with you now when I say that this will work. Even if we are caught I know exactly what to say. The fault would rest on me alone and your job would be safe."
Her sincerity would be his undoing.
"And I think you and I could both use a distraction."