A WOMAN AFTER HIS OWN HEART

When he looked back, Branson realised he had been drawn to Lady Sybil from the moment he first saw her. It was hard not to be when she was one of the most beautiful girls he'd ever laid eyes on. The eldest Crawley daughter, Lady Mary, was regarded as the great beauty of the family and to be sure, she had very fine features, but Branson thought her looks somewhat haughty and glacial, much like her manner.

Lady Sybil, on the other hand, had a warmth that radiated from her like heat from the sun, and beautiful blue eyes that twinkled with just a hint of mischief when she smiled. It gladdened him just to look at her.

But as beautiful as she was, it wasn't just her appearance that attracted him. It didn't take him long to realise how bright and spirited and thoughtful she was, and to notice that she took a great interest in the world and matters like women's rights. She had a spark that was missing in many other women.

He couldn't help himself; he'd given her pamphlets about the suffrage movement and talked to her a little about his political leanings. She'd seemed curious when he said he was a socialist and questioned him about what was going on in Ireland. It didn't seem to occur to her that it might not be entirely appropriate for a young lady like herself to discuss such matters with a servant and of course he didn't discourage her; he enjoyed their banter. After a short while their conversations became lively and sometimes a little heated, both of them passionate about the causes they believed in. It wasn't long before ferrying her to her to meetings of various committees and organisations was the highlight of his week.

Their talk drifted to other matters and he knew she had warmed to him when she let him in on the secret of the special dress she was having made. He took care to be loitering outside the drawing room window when he knew Lady Sybil would be making her grand entrance, and he chuckled with delight as she showed off the trouser-dress in front of her stunned family. Good for her, having the courage to shock them with something new and outrageous, he thought.

Now there's a woman after my own heart.

Of course he hadn't known then that she would end up owning his heart.

It was not until he held her limp body in his arms that terrible night in Ripon that the realisation he loved her had struck him like a blow to the chest.

As he'd carried her to the car he looked down at the blood streaming from her face where she'd hit it and he felt sick with worry. He was not an especially religious man but he couldn't help praying as he pushed through the crowd, cradling his unconscious mistress.

Dear God please let her be all right. Please, she means everything to me. I love her.

He loved her. Of course he did. It should have dawned on him sooner. He loved her, and he couldn't bear to see her hurt or, dear God in heaven, to lose her.

In the car, as he drove through the fading light to Crawley House, he kept looking so often over his shoulder at her, slumped in the back seat, that Mr Crawley had to say, "Branson, I'm sure Lady Sybil is going to be all right. I think it would be best if you watched the road or we may all require medical treatment."

Once Mrs Crawley had tended to her she seemed much improved and it was an enormous relief when she walked out to the car from Crawley House, but his gut still twisted with worry as he drove her back to Downton Abbey.

He couldn't help but ask Lady Mary to keep him informed on how she was; as soon as the words spilled out he knew he'd crossed a line and her ladyship's chilly response to his request made him wonder if she suspected his feelings for her sister. But in that moment, he didn't care. He had to be sure Sybil was all right. He loved her.

The drama surrounding Lady Sybil was the main topic of conversation in the servants' hall that night and when Gwen told him that Lord Grantham had been heard bellowing throughout the house that he blamed Branson for his daughter's injuries, Branson felt his dinner churn in his stomach.

"You're for the chop then," muttered Thomas from across the table, his words spiked with malice.

Branson turned his gaze on the footman, determined to keep his face impassive. He wouldn't give that smug bastard the satisfaction of knowing how upset he was. Thomas of course would think his anguish was over the prospect of losing his job. He wouldn't understand it was the thought of losing Sybil that threatened to bring Branson to tears.

And then Gwen, who'd been in the corridor outside while Lord Grantham had berated his wayward youngest daughter, spoke again.

"Lady Sybil told his Lordship – actually raised her voice at him, can you credit it – that if he sacked you and you were gone in the morning, she'd never talk to him again. She even said she'd run away somewhere.

"It was just as well Mr Branson, I think she's saved you your job."

She stood up for me, he'd thought, and suddenly his spirits soared. She raised her voice to her father. For me. Why would she do that? Does she... might she… could it be possible that she feels something? That she cares about me too?

The thrill of knowing Lady Sybil had taken his side had kept him awake in his bed that night. And the next morning it had helped him to keep his back straight and his chin up when he was summoned before Lord Grantham and given a thorough dressing down. He had taken the harsh words - "you'd better not keep filling my daughter's head with your ridiculous socialist ideas, I won't have her corrupted, do you hear?" - without flinching. It didn't matter what the earl said, he was protected by the knowledge that Sybil had stood up for him. Could this mean that she might care… even just a little?