I'd Wait Forever Chapter 2, a downton abbey fanfic

I can't believe how wonderful it feels to have reviews for my first story! Now I know what you're all talking about!

Thanks especially to elleisforlovee for all the help and encouragement!

So here goes…

And when you're needing your space

To do some navigating

I'll be here patiently waiting

To see what you find

June, 1914

"Branson?"

Tom Branson smiled. Two years had passed since he'd come to Downton, and to all outward appearances nothing had changed. He drove aristocrats around, polished motor cars, sent his pay home to Ireland, and avoided Barrow and O'Brien whenever possible. He was teaching Lady Edith to drive, he had worked his way through most of the history books in Lord Grantham's library, and he had begun to pen letters to the editors of some of the liberal papers in Dublin.

Many of his efforts had been well-received, coming from the viewpoint of an Irish citizen abroad, one with unique experience in service to the English peerage. "Well, I won't be a chauffeur forever", he reminded himself, and some days he actually believed it.

He had not foreseen, however, the isolation he would experience as an Irishman in rural England. That some of it was his own fault was not disregarded in his self reckoning during the long nights alone in his cottage. The absolute worst place for an Irish republican was the bosom of the British aristocracy; he found himself incapable of keeping his opinions to himself when he sat in the servant's hall and listened to Carson wax poetic on the godliness of their employers.

While some, like O'Brien and Barrow, sneered at his passionate defense of women and the poor, others thought him eccentric but harmless, and and a few admired his spirit. Still, he had little in common with any of them, and consequently took most of his meals in the cottage. He spent his days in silence, an unnoticed extension of the cars he drove, and his nights with his books and papers, writing.

And the closest thing he had to a real friend was the youngest daughter of his employer. Hardly a day passed without her showing up in the garage, ostensibly to order the motor but usually leaving a good while later having forgotten to do so. He had given her pamphlets about women and the vote, and then had suggested books from her father's library.

Recently they had begun a sort of game — he would read a book, usually on history or politics, and she would check the ledger and sign out the same book. Or she would select a book—usually a romance, and he would sign it out after her. He loved challenging her to read William Patrick Ryan; she paid him back with Jane Austin. And they talked.

They talked for hours. He loved the sound of her husky voice, the way she waved her hands in order to press home her point, her eagerness to know…everything. Two weeks ago he had taken her to a rally for women's rights in Ripon, and had found difﬁculty in extricating her when tempers began to rise and the crowd became menacing.

She'd chattered like a magpie all the way home, indignant that the politicians they'd heard seemed bent on resisting changes that she saw as inevitable, and he was sure that she would feel compelled to bring up what she had heard at the rally during dinner that night. He was also pretty sure that no one would listen. They never listened. It was the reason she sought him out so frequently, the reason the garage had become her secret escape.

"Branson?"

"Yes, m'lady?"

"I need a ride into Ripon tomorrow; I have a charity meeting, and I simply must be there."

"Certainly, m'lady. But, is your father aware of this? I seem to remember that there was a bit of a brouhaha the last time I took you to Ripon."

"Oh, Branson, would I ask you to take me anywhere if Papa was against it? Don't be silly!"

He slanted a look at her. "Must I answer that, m'lady?"

As the motor wound through the streets of Ripon, Tom noticed the crowds heading toward the government buildings, and wondered. Why so many on the street? A cold wave of apprehension began to build in him. The instincts sharpened on the streets of Dublin in his youth were screaming that something was wrong here. There was a sense of purpose in the crowd, a feeling of anticipation and impending frenzy.

"Stop here!", Sybil shouted suddenly."

"Here?" Branson was confused. "But I thought —"

She jumped from the back of the motor, her eyes sparkling. "You don't think I'm going to miss my very first by-election, do you?"

Oh Lord, the count! He'd forgotten all about it. That was the reason for the surging crowds, the disquiet in the street.

"I don't think his lordship would approve!" he countered desperately.

She ignored him and began to walk away.

"I have to park the car! Don't move, stay where you are!"

Sybil turned, backing away as she laughed at him. "Really, Branson, I thought I gave the orders!"

And she disappeared into the crowd.

Tom Branson was shaking. Waves of fury, fear and self-loathing swept through him like a storm over the Irish Sea, buffeting his mind and leaving him weak and sick. How could he have let this happen? Why had he not stopped her? What the hell had she been thinking? And above all, would she be alright? He had known that there would be trouble when he saw the gang of toughs striding into the crowd at the count. She was an innocent, and she stood out like a diamond in the sand. A perfect target; everything they hated, the symbol of all that was wrong in their miserable lives.

And she had refused to move! Had stood there like a damn rock, arguing with him! Then her cousin Matthew had spotted them on his way home from his law ofﬁce and entered the fray. Although he liked Mr. Matthew and was at first relieved to have another man for support, things had deteriorated with his arrival. Attempting to stand up to the bullies, Matthew had made the situation worse, and Branson could only watch helplessly, his arms pinned back by two of the thugs, as Sybil was pushed onto the corner of a wooden cart and thrown to the ground to lie unconscious and bleeding.

The rest of the evening was a blur. Carrying Sybil's limp body to Matthew's house, fetching Lady Mary from Downton, and then waiting, waiting. Would Mary remember her promise to tell him how Sybil was getting on? Pacing helplessly outside the abbey, he realized that his heart had crossed a barrier today, and he knew that somehow he had to get it back. Even if they let him keep his job after this, Lady Sybil Crawley and the family's chauffeur could no longer be as close as before. His friendship had cost her too much … this had to stop.

Sybil lay in bed, head and heart aching. How could she have been so stupid? What if she had cost Branson his job with her stubbornness? Would he ever forgive her for lying to him? She remembered being carried to safety in his strong arms, how she had wanted to remain there forever. Never at any point during the violence at the count had she been afraid, because he was there. He would keep her safe, take care of any threats or danger.

God! What an idiot she was. Never once had she thought of anyone but herself; she wanted to go to the count, so it would happen. She couldn't get permission, so she lied. She had acted just as someone of her station would do, using Branson and throwing away his rights, his feelings, and perhaps even his position. Sybil knew that he was supporting his sisters, sending home most of his pay so that they might have the chance to go to university as he had not, but did that matter to the almighty Lady Sybil? No, rights for nameless women meant more to her than those of the one person she held closest to her heart.

Sybil sat up suddenly and then clutched her head as a military band paraded through it. Served her right, she groaned. Holding her head carefully in case it was thinking of falling off, she began to plan. She would ﬁx this, she thought. She had been selfish and utterly thoughtless, had behaved with total disregard of the possible cost to the man she loved above all else. This had to stop.