"I really don't think it's manageable, Miss Sybil."

"Gwen, honestly. There's plenty of options for you."

Gwen was nineteen, only two years older than the newly seventeen Sybil. Her first job was here, at the Downton house, and ever since, Sybil had been encouraging her to find somewhere better. The day that Sybil found a poem she had written, dropped from her purse, she had never let Gwen forget of her dreams to write. Gwen set down her bucket, and frowned at the girl leaning in the doorway. "No one in my family has gone to college yet."

"There's a first time for everything," Sybil announced, twirling a loose brown curl on her forefinger. "I think you can do it."

Gwen dipped a sponge into her bucket and started scrubbing the bathroom tiles on the floors of the third floor guest bathroom in the stately house on Downton Avenue. It was a nice yellow color, much like the color of Mr. Crawley's office. However, the Downton house was freestanding, with a number of garden plots around it, with flowers in bloom during every season. Scattered through it were little enclaves, surrounded by hedges, perfect for reading on a nice afternoon, or just to be alone during tea. One or two of them were large enough for a garden party. Sybil's favorite area had a little fountain where she kept turtles. It was just a few blocks down from Observatory Circle, where the Vice President's Residence was. And it required a lot of upkeep. And Sybil resented it.

"Miss Sybil, I'm thankful enough to have a job. I really don't think it's fair to just turn my backs on them."

"The way my father talks about working your way up from the bottom, you'd think he'd invented the idea." She rolled her eyes for emphasis, making Gwen snicker. "I recommend you keep on your mother's healthcare, but he'd be a horrible hypocrite if he treated you badly for wanting to leave for an education."

"Miss Sybil-"

"Gwen, honestly, just call me Sybil. Every time I ask you…"

"It's habit. If I mistakenly call Miss Mary just 'Mary'…"

"She has a heart, Gwen."

The maid went back to her tiles, making little circular patterns, slow and forlorn. Sybil continued to twirl her hair in the silence, thinking with a furrowed brow, watching the rhythmic pattern of the scrubbing.

"What if you just applied to college? I'll pay for your application fee."

"I don't want to be indebted to you."

"You won't be."

"Miss-"

"Gwen."

"… Sybil, I just don't think it's a good time to be optimistic."

Her boots removed, Sybil crouched next to her housemaid on the tiles, pulling another sponge from the arsenal, and began mimicking Gwen, trying to clean the other end of the bathroom that the other hadn't yet started on. "There's no bad time to be optimistic."

"Sybil, this has bleach in it, you'll ruin your clothes."

"Are you kidding? Bleach looks great on jeans. And seriously, Gwen, you can just say you took a gap year to work. You can apply this fall. There's lots of good community colleges if it's the grades you're worried about."

Gwen gritted her teeth, and scrubbed harder. "You don't get it. Even if I had the money, what am I going to do after? I have no passions other than poetry and prose, and lovely as it is, it won't get you anywhere. Besides, what can you do with an English degree other than teach? I could never be good enough to get published."

"Well, that's what school is for, isn't it?" Sybil gave a wry smile.

"Speaking of, you have like, ten minutes before it starts."

Without another word, and without breathe, Sybil sprinted out of the bathroom and off to the streets of Georgetown. "Thank you!" she shouted before the door slammed behind her.

Gwen could only chuckle and return to work.

"What do you MEAN, you can't walk there? Take the metro, take a taxi! Why must I do it?"

The office, though large in comparison to the others lining the charming, narrow streets of Georgetown, was all to small when Mr. Crawley was angry. He had not been here long, and yet there was almost daily comparisons to Mr. Crawley's temper and the earthquake last year. The stronger force, at least amongst the personal assistants, coffee boys and secretaries, was obvious. Tom found it hard to fit in. At noon, everyone would leave for lunch, most of them headed for Clyde's. Since he was uncomfortable asking to go along, he would just score whatever the special was at the closest food truck. His desk was mostly separate from the others, across from Bates's, and he didn't socialize well enough to join everyone else in the hall. Mr. Bates had told him he would fit in eventually, but he doubted more as every day passed. Tom was very alright with being solitary, but it would be nice if someone would make a casual reference to an inside joke as they passed his desk from time to time.

"Cora, you know the numbers for a town car. They don't all smell like smoke. I don't care if she's going to meet the King of England, I'm busy." A resigned sigh fell from Mr. Crawley's lips. "Alright, I'll see what I can do."

The door swung open, and the room, previously silent, hung with a sort of fear. "Tom, may I have a word?"

"I'm not sure if I know the way, but-"

"Oh, it's just around the corner. It said you were a chauffer for a time on your resume, did it not?"

"Yeah, my brother owned a shop up in Boston before he came to Philly and he had a limo, and I did it for a while through college, but-"

"It's quite good enough for me. Is your car large enough to carry three in the back?"

"Well-"

Mr. Crawley sighed, as he was prone to doing of late. "Take my car."

Tom balked. "I really can't, sir-"

"Part of your duties here are to assist me. You're the most qualified here to drive around my family, and today, you'll have to do just that. I'm sorry for pressuring you like this but my daughters have an appointment and it really cannot be missed. "

There was no getting out of this. He had to bite the bullet. Washington driving, especially if it was beyond the beltway, was notorious for being terrible. But it was an order, and he really wasn't going to argue with a man who could have his pick of the lot. There were many law students who would kill for this job. Tom swallowed his pride."Alright."

Tom went to the garage where the car was parked. A BMW, Mr. Crawley said it was.

He clicked the key. The lights went on.

Before Tom was the most magnificent custom car he had ever seen. If he scratched it, Tom gulped, death was sure to follow.

"The third left. The house is yellow." Cora pretty good with directions. She was largely helped with the layout of the city, which was essentially a grid, but back in the neighborhoods, it got a bit turned around.

"I don't really care if we go or not, mom. You know I would rather become a plumber than go to a debutante ball." Sybil was enraged at the idea of lining up with a bunch of girls and being presented like she was some prize a guy had to be smooth enough to win. It was disgusting and chauvinistic and she wanted no part in it. If it weren't for her dear old grannie, she would have never agreed to it. Grandma was forceful and insistent, and however mortifying she could be, Sybil did not want to let her down. Though if she could get her mother to let her skip, she absolutely would.

"Oh shush, you know you'll have to. It's tradition."

"Is Mary coming? We all have to get fitted, right?"

"Well, Mary's chest hasn't gotten any larger since second grade," mumbled Edith. "I can't imagine why she would need to come."

"Edith!" Cora blanched at her daughter. "Be kind!" Edith just huffed in response. Sybil stifled a laugh. Her mother gave a look of daggers at her middle daughter and turned her gaze away, to focus on giving directions. "You're in Robert's car, right? I think I see you coming up the way. Our number is 0924."

"I can't believe we couldn't just take a taxi." Edith glared over at Sybil. "We'd better hurry over, traffic should be reaching rush hour now."

Sybil shrugged. "If we miss it, we miss it."

The car pulled in.

Cora sighed with relief, something she picked up from her husband. "Girls, let's go."

I loooooove reviews, guys!