Poor Anna and Branson. They both needed a little bit of love. That's why I issued the challenge, and that's why I ended up fulfilling it myself! Written directly after episode 2.01.
Anna and Branson: In the Company of Fools
It was never his intention to pry, but Anna was sitting there, not bothering to hide her sorrow, and Branson can't help but stand quietly in the shadows for a few moments, pondering the fate of the once bright and happy housemaid as she heaves heavy sobs by the muted glow of candlelight.
There was a time when Anna was all confidence, Branson remembers. Like the dawning of day: a shining star rising up in her profession, sparkling with independence of mind and vision. But now that star has dimmed, snuffed out with the salty cries pouring forth into her small hands; and the tears – though not even shed on his behalf – still crash like wild waves against the dam he's built to keep his own ocean of sorrow at bay. He sways at their force, and wonders what it might be to have such passionate devotion reserved for him.
It would be best to turn away, he knows. Walk straight back out the door as if he'd never been there and leave the foolish girl to break her heart again and again over a man who was hardly worth the price of a ruined handkerchief. Yet brewing inside is a desire to comfort, and to somehow heal the open wounds bleeding out his heart with the balm of caring for hers.
"He's a fool, Anna, and you shouldn't let him treat you like that."
Anna startles at the voice, and looks up to see Mr. Branson leaning casually against the door frame, a book held loosely in the hand at his side, as hot blasts of shame quickly dry up the prickle in her eyes. A need for seclusion was what had brought her here, so late at night in the abandoned hall. She had assumed she'd found it, but had forgotten about the odd hours the chauffeur sometimes kept, letting the wax wane low into the small hours of morning as he filled his mind with the knowledge of the printed word.
He'll fly away one day, Anna is sure. Just like Gwen did, just like they all would, eventually.
Everyone except for her.
"Mr. Bates, I mean," he clarifies.
His frank tone, the one that she's always before appreciated in any young man, instead swells the painful tide already bursting from her chest.
"I know who you meant, Mr. Branson. What I don't know is why you feel it within your right to say such a thing to me!" she shoots back testily.
The words hit their mark. He leaves his vigil over the entryway, hands held up as a shield to her verbal sting, to stand directly before her. "I don't mean any disrespect," he assures her. "I've always thought you a strong and capable woman, and I only wanted to say that you deserve better than to be tossed aside like one of his Lordship's old collars."
Her mind reels from the audacity. Her mouth gapes at the bold reference. Her hands, still moistened with drops that have yet to dry, vibrate with the force of their tight grip on the chair. A hard shove backward sends out a loud scrape of wood on stone that screeches through the room as Anna jumps to her feet.
"And what would you know about it!" she says quietly, low and dangerous intensity boiling her words till potent with rage. "We're not all like you, Mr. Branson, just waiting for the world to make its big changes your always going on about! Some of us don't need all that. All I wanted was a simple life, with the one I love. How can you possibly know what it is to see that love, your one chance at happiness, throw it all back in your face, walk out the door and –" Grief steals away whatever more she had meant to say, while the hands that have recovered her eyes blind her to the pale face and stricken features set before her.
She's dealt a blow. Unknowingly, yes, but it still cuts deep. Branson considers leaving right then and there, but knows he can't leave her weeping alone into the open space, worse off than when he first arrived. He had meant to ease her pain, not aggravate it. He stares at her distraught form, an arms-length away, and Branson makes his decision. Two steps closer, and he removes the hands from her face and forces Anna to look into his.
"A few months ago," he begins, so quietly that Anna has to stretch her ears just to hear, "before Lady Sybil left for her training. I told her-" His throat clamps down, catching the confession before it can escapes past his lips.
"What?" she urges. "What did you tell Lady Sybil?" she asks, tears still flowing but despair momentarily forgotten in lieu of curiosity.
"I told her...that I loved her. I told her that I wanted to be with her. I said I would make something of myself one day, and that until I did I would devote every waking minute to her happiness." The declaration – one not even meant for her – still pricks at Anna's skin like slivers of burning ice. She shivers at their touch, and wonders what it might be to have such plain, unflinching devotion directed at her.
"And what did she say," she asks, not sure why she even bothers; for both Mr. Branson and Lady Sybil are still exactly where they ought to be, and it's obvious what her answer was.
"She said she was terribly flattered," he emphasizes the words like a stone falling in a bucket, plunked down flat in a tone Branson hopes sounds angry, but knows comes across as mostly pathetic. Anna leans in to peer at the young face through hazy amber air, and comes to a conclusion.
"Then she's a fool."
"No, I'm the fool!" he fires back. "For ever thinking that a girl like her would want a man like me!" The fire quickly burns itself to smoldering ash when he adds, defeated, "And why should she? Why would she give all this up –" his arms sweep around the room haphazardly "– grand homes and fine dresses – to live a life of hard work with a man born on the streets of Dublin, whose greatest accomplishment in life is getting a post as a chauffeur in her father's household?"
"I still think she's a fool. You're going to be great one day – I've always thought so – and Lady Sybil's going to regret what she said."
It's Branson's turn to lean in, warily searching out her dimly lit features for any tinge of sarcasm. But through the gloom he can see that Anna's not making fun of him, and instead reads only honest and open conviction in her deep blue eyes. Reassuring though it may be, it's still not quite enough to quell his doubts.
"Maybe."
"Not, 'maybe'," she whispers, bating her breath, close enough that she inhales his. Inside is an invisible force prodding them forward – beckoning them with a question skimming just outside their grasp – till her lips meet his and his arms come around her waist as they both attempt to find the answer.
It isn't starlight or sunlight. It's not fire or ice. Rather, it's warm and pleasant, just as any kiss should be.
And just what neither of them is looking for.
They break away as one.
"Anna, I don't –"
"I know, I know," she stops his protest while giving her head a small shake. "And neither do I. I was just thinking..." she trails off into a small, shy smile.
"What is it?" he asks.
"It would be nice, wouldn't it? If we could love each other?" There's no shyness anymore, only a flicker of wistfulness that passes between the two.
"Aye. It would be."
Her head settles down to rest on his shoulder, both savoring this falsely tender moment, and the fleeting vision of what might have been.
"What a pair we are!" she laughs into his chest. It rumbles under her cheek as he laughs in return. She backs away, only half a step, so they can see each other fully.
"A couple of gluttons for punishment. Will we ever learn, you think?" he wonders. This time she leaves the circle of his presence completely to stride over to the door.
"Not likely," she tosses back with something close to her old spark, before leaving the room altogether. Branson agrees wholeheartedly with her prediction, and with some measure of contentment settles down at the empty table to read with what is left of the candlelight.
They're still broken. But they know that now they can begin to heal. After all, they may both be fools – the biggest fools in all of England.
But at least they were in good company.
END