Thanks again to 3down1up for looking it over and her wonderful feedback! Also thanks to all those who reviewed. I wasn't expecting much response from this silliness and was quite overwhelmed!
Chapter 2
"There is no tax on talk" had been the common Irish phrase in their common Irish household, spoken almost exclusively in reference to his runaway mouth by his admittedly common Irish mother. That woman, the rock bed on which Branson had built the foundation of his life, was something of a hypocrite in that respect, for she herself often had a barrage of words dangling at her lips, usually in the form of quaint crumbs of advice, verbal remedies for any malady such that life may inflict.
It was to that source which Branson often turned to in times of distress – after Sybil's initial, heart splitting rejection, or upon receipt of the letter containing the news of his cousin's demise. But as he scraped the recesses of his mind, sorting through the menagerie for that one token bit of wisdom that might help him as he was now – saddled with the unenviable predicament of being isolated with Her Majesty the Lady Mary Crawley – his search turned up empty.
The two had watched in mute astonishment the lorry careening down the road and absconding with their spouses. A few seconds were enough to see it vanished altogether, the only evidence of its existence the fading echoes of an engine and a perversely large swell of dust.
The slowly drifting particulates had coursed over them like a fog, and though immediately waylaying Branson with a frenzied coughing fit (hale and hearty on the outside, his insides were a morass of prolapsing heart valves and asthmatic lung lobes), for Lady Mary, who had stumbled a few, inelegant paces into the brown swirl, its opacity ably masked her visible state of shock: lips parted, limbs slackened to rubber, her tall frame gently swaying like a reed in the breeze.
When his attack had yielded he recomposed himself and initiated his vain search for maternal council. Although now suitably versed on proverbs regarding the common Irish issues of over-drinking and wife selection, he was still without any direction on what his next step should be in this current dilemma, and so he simply smiled, inclining his head down the road.
"Looks like they forgot about us," he began.
"Yes. It appears they have," she answered rather mindlessly. Brows lifting, Branson eyed the maiden warily as her tottering became more and more pronounced, amplifying until she could have passed for a recently felled piece of timber.
I'm not catching her was his first, uncharitable thought. This was rapidly overruled by a second, that he had better well prepare himself for an entire fusillade of demands upon his person, for if Lady Mary was anything like those stately women in those mushy romance novels which of course he never read under cover of darkness, then she would soon be collapsing like a lamb preparing to be turned into an expensive rack of chops, bleating out pleas for assistance or being cast into "the vapors", whatever those were.
He approached her cautiously, unobtrusively, fearing any disturbance might overthrow her delicate equilibrium. But she must have felt the intrusion, for her head twisted sharply to his figure and her eyes roved over his face, appraising him in a puzzled fashion as if she'd never seen him before in her life.
That settled the matter – she's lost it – which thought thrust Branson into full on action mode. He closed the last of the distance between them. "I know it seems desperate, milady," he said soothingly, "but I think it'll be all right. I don't promise to be a great adventurer, but I'm sure I can get us over to that village in one piece."
Something about his tone, words, mien, or more likely a combination of all three, slapped her senses back into working order. Her swaying stopped. Her shoulders squared. And her angular features readjusted themselves to their normal expression of marble-like superiority.
She frowned.
"Forgive me, have I somehow misheard? Are you somehow in charge now?"
Branson took half a step back. "I never said that," he said carefully. "I only mean that there's no cause for worry, and that I'm fairly sure I can lead us safely back to the village."
"And why should you be the one to lead us?" Her voice was an ice cube, her tone of displeased inquiry ascending to unadulterated sarcasm. "Is it because I am as you suppose a mere frail woman, or, accounting for your more liberal leanings, a frail rich woman?"
"I didn't say –"
"And why should you be relied upon for our survival when it's your fault we're in this predicament in the first place?"
For a moment indignation was put off by speechlessness – a mewling lamb she was certainly not. Lady Mary was "the strong one", isn't that what Sybil always told him? Tough as nails, he was beginning to see, and just as palatable at that.
He decided he would have preferred the lamb chop.
"My fault?" he seethed, his face a storm cloud. "How is this my fault?"
"You call yourself a chauffeur, and yet you can't even repair a damaged motor when the need calls for it. How you ever remained in service for so long…"
"I was an excellent chauffeur! Everyone says so! And besides, I'm not a chauffeur anymore, and so it's no longer my duty to stow the toolbox in the boot before taking a pleasure drive." Neither was accustomed to giving way, and the pair lobbed meaty and measured glares at one another in the ensuing silence, until an exceedingly angry growl made Branson's accent nearly undecipherable. "You can well place the blame where it belongs, and it's not on me!"
Mary's mouth pressed into a slim, unforgiving line. Even in the harrowing days of Sir Richard she had never been shouted at. And how often had she kept the level of her voice even keeled, cheerfully holding her tongue in bondage to the chains of sisterly solidarity? For two years when they conducted their secret liaison; afterwards, in that awkward period where Sybil breezed about the house as if marrying the chauffeur were a weekly occurrence; at their wedding – at her wedding – and all for the sake of Sybil, who Mary would happily consent to be raked over coals rather than see injured by her own doing.
But Sybil was no more, and likewise the restraint that stayed the tongue, and with an invigorating release Mary felt the reins that held in her inner monologues snapping one by one.
She waved a dismissive hand.
"Yes, yes! It's always someone else's fault, isn't it Branson?" she clipped. "The government. Society. My family. Everyone and everything is against you, and just so unpardonably unfair, isn't it?"
His expression remained largely unchanged, but for the eyes that narrowed in strictly maintained ire. "So are we done walking on egg shells, then?" he said frankly. "Sybil's gone. Mr. Crawley's gone. No use acting like we're anything more than spiteful in-laws, is that it?"
"The facts are plain, and as you say: I don't like you and you don't like me. Now would you rather waste our energy canvassing a subject we're both well acquainted with, or shall we decide what our next course of action should be?"
"What's there left to decide? Whether I build you a new working motor out of thin air or just carry you on my back the whole way so your feet won't get dusty?"
"You flatter yourself that I prefer your backside over the much more pleasing aspect of fine, Yorkshire dirt. Besides, I already told you: I'm not walking."
Branson sighed. "Please be reasonable, milady. We're stranded here, without anyway of getting back. If we start now we can make it to the village before nightfall."
"That's your problem, Branson. You're sooner to act than you are to think. By all means be on your way; it would save my senses the trouble of pretending you're not here. But I think I'll wait for Matthew and Sybil to reach the village and send a motor on after us, if it's quite all right with you."
She swanned into the passenger seat with nary a feather ruffled, and observed her brother-in-law leaning against the bonnet in a gimcrack show of indifference. But she felt the tension; she sensed the anger; and with the way his lips pursed and his eyes narrowed, invisible cogs no doubt whirling about his thick, socialist skull, she surmised he was probably mentally preparing his next article on the vagaries and cruelties of the aristocracy, and she felt rather proud that she would soon be a featured example.
In the end he relented. "I suppose you're right. We'll just have to wait," he conceded tersely, kicking at a few middling pebbles.
As these things invariably went, the lorry driver, being of that obliging and compassionate sort, had made a surfeit of stops on the way to the village, picking up passenger after passenger until the bed of his vehicle was stocked like a cattle wagon on its way to the slaughter. Matthew, sweating buckets and intermittently gulping, certainly felt as though his neck were laid on the butcher's block. His options were as clear as they were narrow: leave Mary to her fate, or abandon Sybil to hers. Both were unthinkable to his profound sense of chivalry, and no matter what he chose he felt himself to be as good as cooked.
Smashed into sardine-like contiguity, there was little space for repositioning, permitting only a slight shifting of eyes with which Matthew could study his sister. He saw her with both hands perched on her abdomen, eyes closed and breathing deeply as if in imitation of sleep. But the illusion was incomplete, for every now and again she evinced a shuddering swallow, and, even more imminently troubling, was the excessive pallor of her skin becoming rapidly infused with another palette, a baleful hue ranging somewhere between pea soup and cucumber.
He took a few, preemptive scoots closer to the snoozing gentleman on his right, remarking, "Rather an unfortunate mishap, wouldn't you say?"
Her eyes remained sealed – "I know" – and she expelled a dejected sigh. "If only Tom had gotten me my sandwich before we pulled away!"
"Ye-es, there's that….but aren't you at all worried about them? About how they're faring?"
"Not really," she answered heartlessly.
"But it's getting quite warm," he said crisply. "And they're without any food or water."
Sybil's eyes slowly creaked open at his almost rebuke.
"Don't you think your rather exaggerating? They have my sandwich, after all. And besides, they're not children; they're both capable adults who know how to manage in a crisis. I'm sure they'll be perfectly fine." Her eyes fluttered shut in response to another round of indisposition. "No, the only ones I'm worried about are these people who are about to be covered in my breakfast."
Matthew gave up, consigning Sybil to her demons, and to his silence. Jostling along, he noticed after some time a blooming manifestation of the signs of life that signified a return to civilization. Smoking chimneys popped out from the horizon and people began dotting the roadside, while the main thoroughfare leveled out to a smoother grain.
Sat across from Matthew and Sybil were squashed a harmless looking middle-aged couple casting furtive smiles towards the protruding belly. This admiration, along with the ever-steadying road, did much to alleviate Sybil's symptoms, and before long the harmless looking wife leaned over and whispered conspiratorially, "So. When is the happy arrival due?"
Sybil beamed.
"The middle of June. We're very excited!"
"Of course you are! And your first, I suppose?"
Sybil nodded, rubbing fondly over the apex of her belly, cheeks pinked with heat and delight.
"Well, isn't that just wonderful! And you look lovely, my dear, much better than I ever did when I was in the family way." Her good-natured eyes shifted to Matthew. "I'm sure you two will be wonderful parents!"
Several discourteous exclamations were heard as Matthew elbowed his way upright in surprise.
"Oh! We're not – what I mean to say is – I think you're somewhat mistaken that –" he was cut off by a firm clap on the shoulder. The harmless looking husband was leaning deeply over, kissing the brim of Matthew's hat with his own.
"Let me tell you, son," he began, "becoming a father is never a mistake." The benign yet misinformed creature leaned back again and looked fondly at the pair, eyes crinkling as he expounded further his fatherly fonts of wisdom. "I know it may seem difficult at first – impossible, even – but you'll get the hang of it before time. I've got six boys, myself, and I've never regretted a second of it. Would do it all over again, isn't that right Maud?"
Maud agreed ever so, and Mrs. Jones, as the lady was soon introduced, cooked up her own helping of food for thought, tips on bathing and feeding, and that difficult to achieve but almighty blessed event of a good nap, which advice, mistaken presumptions aside, Sybil took in with absorbed rapture. And that one moment, that perfect opportunity to allay the Jones' misconception, to laughingly interpose with a "well, actually" and reveal to them the true nature of Sybil and Matthew's relationship, never did seem to arrive.
The short remainder of the journey catapulted forward under the diversion of the Jones' company. In short order they had arrived at Arbor Grange, an unpretentious little village a few magnitudes smaller than Downton's own. The lorry thundered to a halt, the cattle were herded off, and the Jones', clearly besotted with the devoted couple, were bequeathing them with promises to direct them to the local garage and any such provisions as they would require.
"The garage shall do just fine," Matthew said. "We'd like to get back to the motor as soon as possible and be on our way back home."
They were led to a dingy building manned by an assortment of hard-faced, heavily stained mechanics. "There it is," Mr. Jones indicated.
Matthew turned to Sybil, whose sweat-soaked face reflected his smile of relief.
"There, you see," she said. "We'll be out of this mess shortly!"
Mary stared, hard and unrelenting, on the vacant road heading north bound. No motors. No people. Not even a disruption of dust. She called out:
"Do you see anything?"
Branson, situated about a dozen yards away and staring avidly down the same road in the opposite direction, replied in kind.
"No."
"What?" she shouted over her shoulder.
"I said no!"
"I can't hear you!"
"I said I don't see anything!"
His reply wafted over as an incomprehensible jumble, and she indulged in a single, strangled cry – "The one time I don't want him to pipe down." Striding back to the motor, she saw Branson had likewise relinquished his search and was leaning against the bonnet. She opened the door and threw herself into one of the many, depressingly empty seats.
It was a savagely hot afternoon, and Mary, in keeping with the originally planned timetable, had neglected to bring a fan. But wondering briefly if Sybil had come more prepared, she reached back and began groping around the backseat. Her hand found nothing to alleviate the heat, but chanced upon another object that might find means to satiate a different need. She duly retrieved it and began munching away.
"Hey!" Branson cried. "That's Sybil's sandwich!"
Mary didn't bother swallowing before responding. "Which came from my parents' kitchen."
"And Sybil's parents' kitchen."
Mary looked up at him placidly.
"I do believe I heard a motor coming up from the north." She craned her neck to stare in the designated direction pointedly. "Why don't you exercise your new found job skills and investigate?"
The only sounds issuing from the north were dull spurts of hot air, but he left all the same – truth be told he, too, rather needed some space to think. He had tried, heaven knew how he tried! He ignored the comments whispered just loud enough for him to hear. He went along with their insulting farces whenever he was introduced to another curious acquaintance. He shut his trap whenever the topic at dinner turned to the "Irish troubles", suffering those over-indulged, privileged mouths to besmirch his entire people group without a word.
He thought of last night's dinner, Lady Mary very cleverly talking about everything and nothing all at once, dolled up in London's finest fashions, laughter rising like the bubbles of champagne – and that's what they all were, frothy bits of air, with absolutely no depth.
He stopped a number of yards away, though still within earshot of Her Highness, and sighed. As much as he tried he couldn't bring himself to begrudge the Crawley's their dislike of him, for it was no deep, dark secret of his heart that he wasn't fond of most of them either. He was here now, as he always was, for Sybil's sake and her sake alone. He suspected that it was exactly the reasoning her family had for bearing with his presence, and he marveled at how so many people could put up with so much for one, single woman.
Oh, but what a woman she was!
His tumble of reflections screeched to a halt when a loud, shrill voice summoned him.
"Branson!" Mary demanded.
He had a cursory desire to continue on his path and leave the lady to her fate right then and there, but too many years in service obliged his feet to her side.
"Yes?"
"How long does a fifteen mile drive take to accomplish?" she asked.
"Depends. At the rate they were going I'd say about thirty minutes, give or take."
"And another thirty for the motor to get back here…."
"Yes," he said, nodding, beginning to follow her train of thought. "And taking into account the time for them to arrange everything, then…"
Mary glanced down at the timepiece that Matthew had left behind in his jacket pocket and was now laid open on her lap.
"Then they should have been here…three hours ago."
"What kind of garage isn't open on the weekends?" Sybil huffed for the third time that afternoon. After the sky splitting row with the mechanics in which Sybil had threatened to do unspeakable things with a wrench, the Jones had kindly offered their small, family-run hotel as a temporary sanctuary. Matthew was there as an unwilling audience to her harangue while the two rested themselves in the vacant breakfast parlor. "Such a beastly bunch of mechanics! Covered in weeks worth of grease and barely intelligible. And that's to say nothing of the establishment itself – disgustingly filthy and unkempt, smelling of motor oil– completely nauseating!"
"It certainly wasn't the most inviting of places," Matthew agreed half-heartedly.
"Certainly not," she fumed. "Do you know, I simply cannot stand garages!"
Mrs. Jones entered in time to hear the last of Sybil's tirade, a tray of tantalizingly cool drinks balanced in her hand.
"I'm terribly sorry, my dear. Our garage isn't known for being the most pleasant, but that's Arbor Grange for you! Here now, you both look hot enough to roast a partridge. Have a drink, on the house!"
Barely a second elapsed between the tray softly landing on the table and the wayfarers' manic gulping. Matthew lapped up the final dregs of his drink, licking his lips as he asked, "I hope it's no bother, but could we by chance use your telephone?"
A hearty laugh was his response, followed by: "Don't have one, I'm afraid!"
Matthew started. "Oh, I see. Then could you perhaps tell us where we could find one?"
"Sure I do! The next village over, about twenty miles east of here." She laughed again. "Our village isn't wired for the telephone yet, I'm sorry to say. A bit behind the times, I suppose, but that's Arbor Grange for you!"
Matthew's ashen face looked to Sybil rubbing her belly in consternation. "A telegraph?" he suggested.
"Been out all week! Though old Nellie tells us it should be fixed up by the morning."
He frowned. "Seems rather an odd spell of bad luck."
"Like the universe is conspiring against us," Sybil sighed.
Matthew leaned over. "What do you think we should do?" he whispered urgently. "We can't just leave them there, stranded on the side of the road all night."
"But what else can we do? We're stranded here as well, there's nothing we can do about it. And they might have rightly assumed that something's gone awry, that we were somehow prevented from fetching them, and decided to walk over. They could be anywhere by now."
Sybil patted his hand, ending the impromptu side bar, and declaring for all who would listen, "I'm famished, and when I'm famished I'm surly." She lavished Matthew with a glittering smile. "Isn't that right, darling?"
Matthew stared at her, slightly baffled; but when the direction of Sybil's cue was at last perceived, he flourished a rather becoming shade of pink, gawping much like the pheasant he had just killed last Christmas. If ever there was a time to undeceive their benefactors, he was convicted, this was it. "Actually," he began, his voice contrite, "the truth is Sybil and I –" his attempts at honesty were laid waste by an unseen yet vicious toe that assailed him from under the table. "Ahem," he amended with a bout of throat clearing. "What I mean is…very surly, indeed. Rather abominable, actually."
Sybil burst forth with an angelic tinkle of laughter. "You see! Matthew knows me so well."
"Well, now!" Mrs. Jones cried, aghast. "Don't tell me you two have had nothing to eat since breakfast!"
"Not even a bite of luncheon," Sybil whimpered.
The good lady clucked her condolences. "How terrible for you, and in your condition, no less. Not to worry, my dear. We'll be serving supper at half past and you two are welcome to join us."
"The thing is," Mathew said, "we haven't got any money with us at the moment and –"
"No need to bother with that. The folks here at Arbor Grange aren't a heartless people. We'd never turn down such a fine couple, run afoul of a spot of bad luck. And as far as lodgings go, we've got a room on the third floor no one's using, and you're welcome to it."
They glanced towards each other, increasing the wattage of their bright, adoring smiles. Sybil was already well aware of the benefits of deception, but for Matthew it was a true revelation.
He grinned.
"It will be most welcome, indeed," he said, caressing Sybil's cheek. "Won't it, my darling?"
Branson watched the sun dip lower and lower, the surrounding air void of any sounds of life. The irascible heat had prompted a return to his old habit of shameless disrobing, and he stood guard by the bonnet with his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, his jacket laid sloppily over the backseat, his tie discarded in disgust. Mary, occasionally flinging severe looks at his state of undress, had several times contemplated removing her hat, but she refused to buckle.
In the intervening hours between the troubling discovery of their spouses' tardiness and the descending twilight, the talk had been minimal and to the point. At last Branson decided it was time they confront the inevitable.
"We should find a place to settle down for the night," he said.
"You're not serious…"
"No one's coming to fetch us, so unless you want to sleep here all night, we'll need to find a place to hunker down."
"And exactly where do you suggest we 'hunker down'?" But her words had no effect, seeming to bounce straight off of Branson's back as he strode away.
Mary grabbed Matthew's jacket and the remains of Sybil's sandwich, and scurried after him. When she reached him she heard him say, rather too smugly, "Decided to join me?"
"There's nothing to congratulate yourself over. It was a simple matter, really. I've been entrusted with your care, and if something were to happen to you Sybil would never forgive me."
Branson did his best to remain impassive as he struggled not to laugh, and was alerted by the crinkling sounds of unwrapping paper. He saw her with a familiar, much disputed object in her hand, nibbling upon the bare crusts that remained. Branson shook his head disapprovingly as she popped another bite into her mouth.
"You shouldn't plow through that so fast. We should conserve it."
"Really, Branson, we're not on an expedition in Antarctica. Next I suppose you'll start casting lots on who we should eat first."
"I can't see the point in that – I don't think there's any competition on that score."
"I suppose you're right. The choice seems plain; you'd provide far more meals than I ever would."
"But I'd be much too gamey," he protested. "All that manual labor. You might have less meat on you but it's of a finer quality. Spending your whole life feasting and resting - you'd be like the choicest cut of prime."
They passed the time more amicably then, railing each other with gratuitous cannibalistic comparisons replete with vague and various methods on killing one another, when in the distance Branson espied the orange glow of a nearby farmhouse, to which he pointed excitedly.
"We're in luck, Lady Mary! There's a barn out aways. We can rest there for the night."
Her eyes expanded for the briefest of moments before resuming their neutral position. "For heaven's sake, Branson, we're not eloping! I'm not going to sneak inside of a barn with you!"
"Come on, then. It won't be so bad." He grinned. "I'll even let you sleep in the haymow."
"How kind. But I shall one up you and generously leave the whole of the barn to your sole disposal."
"Suit yourself, then," he curtly replied. "You're welcome to the stars, milady." He finished with a mock salute, turned on his heel, and strode guiltlessly away towards the amber beacon without a backwards glance.
Mary took not another step, but stared daggers, pistols, entire armories at his back, wordlessly willing a speedy return to her side.
"Branson," she calmly commanded, though his pace did not abate.
"Branson!" she said again, a hint of agitation creeping into her voice. He continued on stridently.
"Branson!" she bellowed, halfway sprinting to catch up with his frighteningly downsized figure. "You come back here at once! How dare you leave me alone out here!"
Next time: Will Branson and Mary survive the night and resolve their differences? (spoiler alert: yes)
Thanks for reading!