The second Tom glanced at the small, dusty mirror adorning the bathroom of his new cottage, he couldn't resist a roll of his eyes. It was very... Green.

The afternoon following Tom's interview with Mr. Carson a letter was sent through the post to a 'Mr. Branson' at Grantham Arms. As the butler predicted Tom was offered the position of sole mechanic to the entirety of Lord Grantham's garage. Yet what was that line at the bottom of the letter?

Well ya did good Tom. Can't wait to write back to Ma on how her middle son is now mechanic AND personal chauffeur to the Earl of Grantham's household, can't ya?

He had to feel a bit undermined at the sudden development that was present at the bottom of Mr. Carson's letter. The advertisement never specifically requested for the position of chauffeur, just someone knowledgable in all things automobiles and mechanical. There was the additional line of knowing how to drive... But wouldn't anyone figure to truly understand a car you had to be able to drive it? Maybe that was just Tom.

So here he was in a livery of forest green, golden buttons adorning a top coat that stopped roughly at his hips. The cap atop his head was as equally green and foolish, the only saving grace that his trousers weren't also green to match. They were a dark charcoal. Underneath his coat was a black vest, white dress shirt, and the trademark black bow tie of service the upper class seemed to love assigning to their work staff. He knew the indoor staff didn't have to put up with such a troublesome dress code, the few maids and males he had seen between the interview and return to Downton dressed in the much more conservative greys and whites of service. There was that poor teenager adorned in an outfit only slightly more ridiculous than Tom's current dress. A footman he was, and had to wear tails and white gloves of all things!

Tom gripped his own pair of gloves in his hands. At least these were a supple black leather. Probably his favorite part of the outfit. For what was there to love about the Irish driver dressed to the nine's as both chauffeur and leprechaun extraordinaire?

Tom was still left a little uncomfortable. He let out a sigh and began walking to the garage not thirty feet away from his cottage. The new shelter was something unexpected; Tom assumed he was going to have to find a small room in the village below or in the worst case scenario occupy a bed in the main house itself. Having a structure all to himself free of charge and right next to his work was a blessing, something Tom figured he should probably thank someone for. At some point.

For now Tom was stepping up into one of two of Lord Grantham's Renaults. There was also a sparkling Rolls Royce and Classic Model T near the back of the garage. The former was used in only special occasions he had learned, and the latter more for novelty's sake than anything. Guess you couldn't count on anyone with money to not find a way to spend their money all the time. The American car did have a special place in his heart though, being the first car that was fiddled on in a Dublin junkyard a few years back. Tom figured he could let that purchase slide.

With a purr the Renault rolled back out of the structure, until Tom reached over and parked the machine. Closing the garage doors with a snap he stepped back into the black automobile and began the ascent up the trail to the front of Downton Abbey.

The roads surrounding the estate were plentiful and wide, nearly all paths leading to either the back of the mansion where the garage was located or turning round about to the front of the main doors. Following the curving sweep Tom drove around the left side of the building, spying the a couple of figures standing right outside the front of the manor.

Tom pulled the Renault to a slow stop and park, and gave himself a mental grin at exactly how perfect that parking was. If he was to be labeled as a chauffeur these wealthy faces were going to witness the best driving they would ever hope to see.

Tom looked over to the right where the ever excitable Mr. Carson stood, back straight as a rod, eyes narrowed, and gave Tom an abrupt nod of his chin to motion him outside. Harnessing back the waves of self-consciousness as he was to leave the safe metal walls of the car, Tom opened the door and stepped out, boots shaking up the small earthen crumbs of dirt that had made up the road.

Carson brought up the left flank of the small procession, where to his left stood a man equally as grey in hair although a tad shorter, a brown suit gripping his figure. While the color was plain the detail was anything but, and even Tom could appraise that the waistcoat and gold pocket watch in which it housed would have reached a fair price indeed at the pawn shop. The man also stood with the air of dignity that one learns to grow up with and embrace, a presence that denotes the final words and actions were to always rest to his own. There was a bit of belly in the waist however.

Robert Crawley gave Tom a solemn nod, before glancing back to Carson. The voice that came forth was not as serious in tone as Tom expected, the wrinkles now evident at the corner of the man's brow and mouth surely laugh lines. Or just ordinary wrinkles.

"As expected Carson, I say you have chosen us a mighty fine chauffeur."

"I aim to please, your Lordship."

The Earl of Grantham turned back to Tom, who straightened up quickly as attention was once again directed to him. "Welcome to Downton Branson. We are happy to have you."

Tom began to nod his head, catching Carson's sharp glare almost instantaneously. He ripped the cap on his head as tactfully as able, and cleared his voice to speak.

"I'm very happy to be here...

-Carson's brow creeped even further south.

...Your Lordship." Tom ended on the balls of his feet, standing still and at attention never a strength of his. Tom's nerves weren't settled any more at having to address a man with such a title as that. Mister he could handle. Sir just as well. But Lordship this and Lady that? It was going to be an interesting process to be able to say those words without them rolling strange on his tongue. Maybe he should practice in front of the mirror?

Tom snapped back to attention as his mind had trailed off once more. Carson was now introducing the two female figures not noticed upon his drive up. Tom's face was set in an impassive mask as he followed the introductions to finally put faces to names.

The first girl was closer to his younger sister in age if he had to take a guess, and radically different in appearance from the shorter girl at her side. Short, wiry red hair kept in place by some sort of hair, band, thing. He was always horrible at telling anything about women fashion apart, let alone upper class trivialities such as these. She was draped in a dress of yellow and cream, the yellow fabric extremely sheer over the darker color that consisted of the actual material. It gathered at her ankles, a light blue and flimsy looking cardigan embroidered with yellow flowers accompanied the look even in this hot summer weather. Her mouth was set to a thin line of mild irritation and boredom, her eyes as grey as her father's and remained impassive as she stood through Carson's introduction.

The girl also thin as a pole and flat as paper, he added as an afterthought.

The other girl was shorter, coming up only to her sister's shoulder. Whereas the elder sister was stone incarnate, already the spirit of the younger was breaking through.

Her hair was a deep brown and curly as well, however it was kept long instead of short. Hastily pulled back off her shoulders the girl stood without hair decoration, and was clad in a more conservative, collared frock. It was off white, with three buttons stopping mid-chest level. A black belt sat on her waist, embroidered in a more abstract design of swirls and shapes and colors than that of her sister. It also stopped halfway between her knees and ankles, sensible ash-colored boots covered the rest of her legs. A far cry from the elder sister's fashionable strap back pumps. Yet the plainness of her outfit balanced out well the vibrant girl underneath. The figure was as curvy as the other was straight, and simply looked more alive. Her eyes were a deep blue and quite large, sparkling at this encounter.

"The taller is his Lordship's middle daughter Lady Edith, the one to her side is the youngest, Lady Sybil. Her Ladyship is currently residing in London for the season with the eldest daughter, Lady Mary."

Edith stiffened at this statement, now very much bristling. Sybil ignored her sister, looking excitedly between the car and Tom. "This is the new driver PaPa? Now we can drive around in your motors! You promised to give the first ride to me!"

Edith broke her facade to give the younger a sharp look.

"Honestly Sybil, you act so immature sometimes. Prancing around and finding an excuse to be happy about any little thing. He's just a chauffeur who drives a motor car. Why you would even want to wheel around in a metal cage is beyond me. I don't even see the point of us standing out to greet some employee since I'm not even supposed to be stuck in the middle of this countryside while Mary is having all the fun dancing with Patrick-"

"Rant a little more Edith, the Green-Eyed monster is almost here-"

"At least I haven't been driving everyone inside up the wall with your nonsense about finally riding in a motor car-"

"It's called unbridled joy and anticipation. Maybe you should try it-"

"Sorry I chose not to act like an imbecile today-"

"I never would have guessed-"

"Girls! That's enough."

Tom thanked Lord Grantham's intervention, halting the bickering before it erupted into well, something probably very loud and screeching. He resisted a shudder at the thought of his mother not stopping at Colleen and instead supplying another daughter into the Branson Clan.

The redhead gave a very unladylike muffled shriek of frustration as she turned heel and stomped back inside. Sybil rolled her eyes at Edith's display, quite used to the moody outbursts as of late.

Lord Grantham shook his head as he watched Edith retreat, a frown still on his face. "God knows what sets her off these days." "I'm sure it's nothing to do with you my Lord. Lady Edith must have been flustered from the heat and... Excitement of the situation." Carson ever the diplomat.

Both Sybil and Tom scoffed under their breaths at the butler's excuse, stopping short as his eyes traveled to the two. Sybil met Carson's gaze head on with steely determination, while Tom chose to look up and away.

Lovely roof spires up there.

Her sister's mini-outburst did little to rebuke Sybil's enthusiasm, her eyes now set on her father. "PaPa please may I still go for a ride? Edith started the quarrel."

The Earl of Grantham shook his head. "I'm afraid you're in the fault as well my dear. Egging your sister on, in front of a new employee no less. Ones in our position must be expected to maintain a complacent attitude befitting of our rank at all times when necessary."

Lovely craftsmanship. So pointy too.

"Not today Sybil. Your mother wouldn't be pleased to know her two youngest daughters still can't step out the door ten feet and act civil."

"But PaPa!"

"Inside. Carson if you may."

"Certainly my Lord."

He walked up to the girl and clasped Sybil's elbow between his hands, leading the walk towards the doors Edith escaped to not moments before. "Come along now Lady Sybil."

Seeing the loss in the situation Sybil turned her head away from the two older men, twisting her neck back to catch Tom's eyes. "Until next time Branson! Don't you dare let Edith take a step near that car until I've had my drive!"

He gave a small nod as well as gulp, somewhat believing that there would be consequence indeed for allowing her sister to ride before her.


It had been a week since his introduction to three of the Crawley clan, the wife and eldest daughter still off somewhere in London gallivanting or whatever these posh folk do. After the two daughters unceremoniously retreated back into the house, he had yet to see them outside. They couldn't still be punished could they? Did Lords even punish their daughters? It had been a week since Branson's services had been requested by anyone but his Lordship...

Yes the title came a little easier now, even if Branson concluded there would always be a bit of hesitance in address. Chalk it up to his Irish spirit.

Branson was leaning over the opened hood of the very Renault he drove up to Downton's main gates, trusty wrench in had and green coat draped over the wooden work table to his right. The doors were left open in hopes of some breeze to be found in mid-July, Branson thoroughly engrossed in his work. This job was actually quite the catch from his conclusions, being able to be around cars and work amongst himself a majority of the time. One of the main reasons Branson grew distant from the mechanic shops in Dublin or Liverpool was the abundance of people coming in an out, or worse yet meddling with his own directions and projects. Few things in life peeved the Irishman more than having to repeat an explanation to an ignorant coworker, or clear out the mess an uneducated man made in the engine before the car was given to Branson's immaculate care.

Such concentration he had in his work was exactly why the shy steps of two others were left unnoticed.

Might need to pick up some oil in the village soon. If they even sell oil.

Branson would have to inquire about where in a small Yorkshire farming village would motor oil reveal itself.

He could just ask Carson himself, yet the image of the unsmiling stern-faced butler always seemed to unnerve Branson from his thoughts. His rare excursions into the main house always brought him into the middle of what he would describe as organized chaos. Maids and footmen flitted about in a sort of synchronized pattern, never managing to bump into the other even though such collisions in a small enclosed space seemed near inevitable.


Branson of course managed to run into someone the first time he stepped into the hall as an employee.

The goal was to inquire about how exactly the post worked at Downton. As he slipped through the hall with the intention to make a right towards the offices of Carson or the Housekeeper Mrs. Hughes(the latter a much more agreeable figure who wouldn't make him feel like asking a question was akin to questioning the British king himself), Branson found himself smashing right up against a tall, lanky fellow who held a cigarette in one hand and small tea tray in his left.

The tray clattered down to the floor, the silver kettle and cup thankfully of a more common variety as to not chip and shatter upon union with the ground.

Branson squatted down and began to pick up the tray and kettle, looking up at the black-haired man.

"Sorry 'bout that-"

"As you should be." Eyes were cast down at Branson with a look of bemused superiority. "Yet if you drive as well as you walk I feel like I should inform Mr. Carson of the potential consequences in hiring a mick for a chauffeur."

Tom backed up at his words, brow narrowed as he wordlessly handed back the fallen items. Yes this was his first encounter with the illustrious Thomas Barrow. Of course such exchanges weren't uncommon to Branson, who chose to shrug off most insults after learning the hard way in one too many fist fights. Yet it was just the tone this Mr. Barrow chose to unleash.

A pretty boy git if I ever saw one.

Branson chose not to reply and turned back round the way he came, not before hearing a raspy, female snicker from a voice that seemed to come from behind Thomas.

"Now if only the rest of his kind could learn to bugger off..."


"WOOF WOOF!"

Branson leaped up with a start, the top of his head banging on the metal tin that was the hood.

He hissed in pain as the wrench was dropped to the ground, hands over the small bump now fast forming over his crown. He took a spin around the garage, choosing to mutter a few choice utterances under his breath instead of yelling out a string of fragments that would have warranted a soapy mouth from his mother even hundreds of miles away.

He spun around for a minute or two until the pain receded, slowly remembering there was in fact a noise that broke his mental reverie in the first place. He halted at the open doors, now face to face with a yellow Labrador and familiar blue-eye girl, eyes wide in worry at the moment.

He tilted his head with a wince.

"Milady?"

At once Branson was blasted with the fiery blaze of determination that permanently housed itself behind the youngest daughter's optical lobe. The azure irises let loose a spark and sped out directly to Branson's own pale blue eyes. Few were impervious to her gaze.

"Start up the fastest motor and tie my luggage on top." She gestured quickly to the two boxes stacked at her left side. "Athena will ride in the back with me." The lab let out a sharp bark in agreement. "We will depart at once and keep driving until the Scottish border is crossed. I have left a note hidden in my wardrobe so our escape will go undetected until evening tonight when I am not present for dinner. I have also managed to smuggle out old jewelry we can trade for money or supplies on our journey. They were presents from my Aunt Rosamund so no one will miss them." Sybil raised her voice in what she assumed was a Lord Grantham-esque timber of authority as she shook the jingling bag.

"Any questions?" Hands now on her hips and a chin jutted out, Sybil Crawley meant business.

A few moments passed before Branson wearily rose an eyebrow at the girl in front of him.

"Whatever for is usually a good place to begin milady."

Thirteen year old Sybil brought her head back a few inches, puzzlement now encroaching on her well planned out 'General Crawley' act.

"Well... You're... Why you're running away with me of course!"

...

WHAT?!


The end of this chapter was fun to write. Also hello! Second chapter huzzah. Written entirely on my phone in-between work shifts today. It was a slight struggle to write up to this point, but hopefully now the writing will start to flow better since it'll be me writing scenes and progressing their storyline. As mentioned already tis 1910! Branson was born late 1890, Sybil 1897. I believe a good and lovely romance starts with friendship and mini "adventures" first, so that's more what we're going to follow down the road here. We will eventually catch up with 1913 and the proper storyline where such beginnings of this love story starts don't you worry. Of course with the plot I have in mind. (Still will be WW1 and such don't worry). Hope you enjoyed like always, and I apologize if I write "Irish" horribly like I probably did last chapter. I tried to scour the Internet but it's a tad difficult to google search "how to write Irish" no? So of course open to suggestions if anyone has. I mean no offense! Have a nice night/day everyone. And many thanks for the reviews and follows already. Means a lot c: