Chapter 2
Sybil ordered the car as she'd said she would, albeit after the fact (or rather fib), checking with Papa first thing that morning if Branson could drive her to visit an old friend at a clinic in Newby. The clinic was real enough but the friend was fictitious, as were his injuries, an excuse to put some distance between them and Downton. Ripon would have been too conspicuous and one of her sisters would no doubt have begged to join her.
She even wore her nurse's uniform so as not to arouse suspicion, another detail she'd tailored in whilst lying awake half the night staring up at the canopy of her bed. She disliked creating such an elaborate facade and hated lying to her father even more but she simply had to talk to Branson, alone, and straighten this mess out.
Sweeping through the lobby door held open for her by Carson, she halted as her mother flagged her down emerging from the hall with a young maid in tow. "Sybil darling, I had Mrs Patmore make up a lunch basket for you and your friend." Cora ushered the girl and the wicker basket outside to the waiting car.
"Mama!" Sybil protested.
"Now darling, who knows what kind of food they'll have at this awful place, if anything at all."
"Mama, it's Newby not the moon." Sybil rolled her eyes but couldn't bring herself to refuse her mother's overprotective gesture. "Very well," she conceded, "thank you." A delighted Cora kissed her daughter's cheek and waved goodbye as she headed toward the drawing room.
Sybil caught Carson's amused expression as she turned to leave. "Goodbye Carson," she smiled.
"Goodbye my lady."
Sybil took a fortifying breath, padded out of the house into the courtyard and straight into the moment she'd been dreading. Branson, bent over the crank handle, looked up toward the sound of crunching gravel. He stood slowly absently wiping his hands with a rag, his penetrating gaze fixing her for a loaded instant. How did he manage it, to see into her very soul at a glance and stoke some fire inside of her? Sybil shook herself inwardly and looked away, cursing her racing heart and blushing cheeks for betraying her.
Chin resolutely firm, she walked briskly to the passenger door, suppressing the urge to run like a rattled deer as Branson neared. Gaze never leaving her face, he unlatched the door and she stepped quickly into the refuge of the cabin. Half a minute later Branson took the wheel and the car lurched forward, chugging down the long drive.
A few miles down the open road and Branson could no longer brook the awkward silence. "You didn't tell them then?" he prompted. "Your family?"
Sybil looked genuinely confused. "Tell them what?"
Branson swung a knowing glance over his shoulder, his lips quirking into a roguish smile. Sybil caught his meaning.
"Oh." She frowned. "Don't be ridiculous. Of course not!"
"It's not that far-fetched y'know."
"What? Telling my father over scrambled eggs and the morning paper that I kissed the chauffeur? You can't be serious?"
"So you admit you kissed me?" he teased.
Sybil cursed inwardly. "I could hardly deny it," she owned, smoothing her skirt and blushing into her lap. "But it doesn't change anything. You must know that."
"It changes everything," he contested boldly. "You're just too scared to admit it."
Sybil humphed and stared frustratedly out the window at the passing scenery. She was scared alright; she had good reason to be. The fact that he challenged her on it, on most things, only irked her more. The silence stretched again and grey clouds rolled into view threatening to soak the countryside.
"Turn right up ahead," she pointed. "There's a narrow lane behind those trees over there."
Branson blinked. "I don't understand, I thought we were going to visit your friend. Newby is this way."
Sybil relished throwing Branson off guard for a change. "But we're not going to Newby."
"We're not?"
"No."
"What about your friend?"
"Oh him. I made him up," she said matter-of-factly.
Now Branson really was confused and strangely relieved. When Carson had passed on Lord Grantham's instructions to take Lady Sybil to visit an old friend, he'd paled, conjuring mental images of some dandy from London who'd danced and flirted with her at a ball. "Thank Christ for that," he muttered.
Sybil's brow hiked in surprise. "Why Branson, you sound almost jealous."
Branson recalled his urge to ring the non-existent cad's neck. "Jealous? Of course I am." He half swivelled in his seat, meeting her stunned face. "I'm jealous of anyone who gets to spend time with you."
Leaving his candid revelation hanging in mid-air and Sybil's mouth agape, Branson turned his attention back to the road. Following her directions, he steered the car carefully off the main road and along the lane, which was barely more than a dirt track.
His words still resonating, Sybil felt oddly bereft at the loss of Branson's warm gaze and regretted goading him so. She seemed to be guilty of always underestimating the determined chauffeur; the one man who demanded the most from her, who disoriented her and made her question who she was and who he was and how things really were.
Sybil swallowed the lump in her throat and looked through the window at the approaching stone cottage.
"We're here," she declared croakily, sitting forward on the edge of her seat.
Branson rounded the building and brought the car to a standstill in the yard behind the house. He studied the cottage and threw Sybil a questioning glance before stepping out of the vehicle. Dutifully opening the passenger door, he handed Sybil down to the muddy ground, holding her hand and gaze for a moment longer than was necessary.
"Where are we?" he asked, watching her get her bearings.
"A farm, or it will be. This land belongs to my father. He's restoring the cottage and intends to let it - when it's ready." Sybil stared proudly up at the old stone cottage as she strolled casually to the door, stalling as she realised Branson was not beside her.
"It's quite alright," she beckoned. "No-one's here, the house is empty."
Branson remained by the car, his gaze flitting nervously from her to the cottage and back again when it dawned on Sybil that she'd neglected to fill Branson in on her plan. "I'm sorry, I should've said. The friend I needed to see - is you."
Branson stared dumbfounded. "What d'you mean?"
Sybil hesitated. "I thought we should talk," she explained to the floor, "...away from Downton, about ..."
"...us," he chimed in, a disarmingly cocky grin lifting the corner of his lips.
Sybil blinked up at him and was suddenly conscious to her toes of the flaw in her 'grand plan'. Cheeks burning she continued to the door. Branson followed.
