November 1916
What a difference two years had made.
Two years ago, he wasn't sure what sort of woman Sybil Crawley would become.
Two years later, he had his answer:
the perfect one.
The summer of 1914 had turned into fall, then winter, then 1915. She never pursued the fated hand-touch and neither did he. The war was still very far away then and life continued uninterrupted. Lady Sybil saw her friends and went to tea and even managed to make it through, with his encouragement, her very first serious political book, A Vindication of the Rights of Women. He continued to drive her and anticipate the times they would be alone together and could speak freely about the world inside and outside of Downton.
But by 1916, life had changed. It was like a rainy day that wouldn't abate. Scarcity and death had replaced decadence and joie de vivre. There were no more hunts or shooting parties, no more bands of suitors come to see the Crawley girls. The sisters spent their days at home; if they went visiting, it was just to see their grandmother or Mrs. Crawley. Matthew had been sent to the front. The trauma of that event, suffered in secret of course, had sealed Lady Mary's entrance into adulthood. Lady Edith was born old, and had always been a loner; her life seemed to be the least changed. As for Lady Sybil, her time of dances and balls and romance had been derailed before it had begun. It was not clear what her future would hold, but given that she was third of three on Lord and Lady Grantham's to-do list, with two older unmarried daughters before her and the heir off to war, no one was paying much attention to Lady Sybil.
Which, as she once told him as he steered the car up the drive, was the way she preferred it. "The same thing happened in the nursery," she said with a shrug. "By the time I was old enough to play, everyone else had left." Then with a nonchalance that was not at all affected she added, "I don't mind. I can find ways to entertain myself."
That was how she came to start visiting the garage.
Summer 1916
"Will you please put down that newspaper and come sit with me?" Lady Sybil demanded, gesturing to the workbench and the oil drum serving as a makeshift table. "The world will still be here in an hour, I swear it."
He narrowed his eyes over the fold. "I'm not playing bridge." But despite his protestation, he did as she asked.
"We don't have enough for bridge," she informed him, as he came over to sit down. "We're playing whist."
There was only one workbench, because there was only supposed to be one person in the garage. The bench in question was about three feet in length. He sat down as far as he could on the opposite site, conscious not to touch her. When he sat down, she (consciously or not) moved herself further towards her own edge. It was a small movement, but deftly executed. He wouldn't have noticed it at all, if he hadn't been observing her profile in the warm afternoon light.
Her hair was, as it always was now, very prettily pulled into a series of elaborate and interwoven curls that met at the nape of her neck. Her clothes were more plain than before, but she wore them better; with confidence and command. That's what she displayed in her little slide to the side- taking command to prevent something illicit, confident that being as attractive as she was, something illicit was bound to be afoot.
"Don't you need four for whist too?" he asked.
She started to deal out the cards between them. "This is two-person whist."
"Honeymoon variant."
She stopped mid-deal and looked at him with such abashed surprise, he wondered if he had intruded on her thoughts. "What?"
"That's what it's called," he explained. "A honeymoon variant. Honeymoon whist."
"Oh."
The blush on her cheeks outed her and he couldn't resist pushing a little. "Because you only need two, you see."
She knew exactly what he was doing. "Well," she retorted, not missing a beat, "I should hope so." She resumed her dealing.
He grinned and relented. "You'll be surprised to learn that I occasionally take a break from the revolution to play cards. And of course, to be of service to milady."
"Oh Branson," she said, shaking her head, "when are you going to realize that everything you do with me is in service to the revolution?"
Now it was his turn to be abashed, as he desperately tried to unhear what she just said. Everything was such a broad word...
"Now, make your bet," she instructed.
"Hold on, hold on- I've barely looked at my cards."
"Something on your mind?" she inquired innocently.
"Yes," he answered. "Beating you." His deliberation lasted less than a minute. "Alright. I bet seven."
"But seven's the highest you can bet."
"So?"
"So it's the hardest hand to play." He did not appear to understand her point. "Why not bet six and make it at least a little easier on yourself?"
"You don't win as much if you bet six."
"If you bet seven, you probably won't win at all, unless you have an unbeatable hand, like four aces and four kings."
"What do you bet?"
"I don't have to tell you. I just have to decide to take your bet or not."
"Well then, decide."
She considered her cards, moved them around in her hand, chewed on her lip, and ignored several pointed looks from her opponent. "I've decided," she finally announced, "that I'll take it."
November 1916
They were alone together in the garage. Again.
Today, though, he was legitimately trying to fix the clutch and she had been legitimately trying to schedule a trip to the printer to make more programs for the war benefit concert.
"Branson, can you drive me to the printer's? I have to get more programs made."
"When, milady?"
"How's tomorrow after lunch?"
"Of course, milady."
That fifteen-second exchange had taken place an hour and half ago. She had stayed, chattering, wandering around the garage, while he worked under the car. At last, he succeeded in taming the temperamental clutch and pulled himself out from underneath the motor. She came over to where he was, as he wiped the oil off his hands.
She noticed a book on the driver's seat and reached through the frame to pick it up. "What's this?"
"A book by James Joyce. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man."
She threw him a look. "Thanks for that- I'd never have guessed." It was the closest Lady Sybil ever came to sarcasm. "Is it new?"
"Yes," he replied. "Just published in fact. It came in the post from Ireland two weeks ago."
"From whom?" she queried, sounding a little too interested.
"My brother, if you should know."
She turned smartly to him and retorted, "I should. Which brother?"
"My younger brother," he said, crossing his arms in so much disregard for class rules.
"Because the older one is too busy working and wrangling babies to do much else," she finished, parroting his rather harsh critique. "Which I suppose is fine enough. For him, that is."
He grinned at her. He liked when she needled him. "And here I thought Your Ladyship didn't listen to anyone.."
A funny expression came over her face. "My mother's 'Your Ladyship.' I'm just Sybil." That was a strange correction; it was obvious he was just teasing. He wondered what she meant by it, but she had already returned her attention to the book. "May I borrow this when you're finished?"
"Take it. I finished it last night."
She laughed. "Honestly Branson, I've never met anyone who can consume so many words in so little time. Don't you ever sleep?"
It was funny she should put it like that. Because lately...
"It says it's set in Dublin- that's where you're from, isn't it?"
"Tis."
"Did reading it make you homesick?"
He shook his head. "Quite the opposite. It made me feel like I were back there. For awhile anyway."
"Do you miss it ever?"
"Sometimes," he admitted. He never spoke about home, but then, he never spoke much to anyone except her. "I miss the way people talk. Not just that they speak as I do, but also what they say. The Irish are a very expressive people. They sing out, they laugh full. Love ya or hate ya, you'll know about it- they say what they think about everything."
A sly smile crossed her face. "I can't imagine."
Oh, the things I think and haven't said to you...
"Fair enough," he chuckled.
"Do you think you'll ever go back there?" Was that wistfulness in her voice?
Not with this verbal cowardice, I'm practically a traitor to my country.
"Depends," was all he replied. The word was true enough.
He waited for the follow-up question: "On what?"
But he could see she dared not ask it.
How did her eyes always seem to match the color of the sky, when the color of the sky was not fixed. He was well aware, as he always was, that he shouldn't be looking her in the eye at all. Yet she was staring back directly at him. Finally, she spoke and broke the spell of possibility.
"I have to go. You don't mind if I take this?"
"Not at all."
"I'm not as fast a reader as you, but I'll try to finish it soon so we can talk about it while it's fresh in your mind. Maybe you'll tell me more about Dublin, what it's like there."
She left and he was alone in the garage. Again.
