Sybil sleeps fitfully. Every noise in the night jolts her into consciousness; she wakes sucking in air with a gasp, heart racing as if she has been running, nightgown clinging to the sweat dampening her back. Sometimes she remembers right away the reason for the terror, but sometimes she can't recall and her confused mind searches for a few moments, I was injured at the count…no, Mother and the baby…no, and then she remembers; war. She doesn't know how many times she jerks uncomfortably awake before she gives up and decides not to go back to sleep. She sits in bed for a while, but the darkness seems to press in on her and in the quiet there is nothing to distract her from the fearful, terrible worries invading her mind. She gets up and paces around the room, scrubs her face, brushes her hair, opens and closes her biscuit jar disinterestedly. Finally she wraps herself in a dressing gown and creeps into the hall, trying to remember the last time she and her sisters snuck around Downton in the dark. It must have been a very long time ago.
She paces quietly upstairs for a while and then walks as silently as she can down the great staircase holding one hand slightly raised in front of her in the dark. She thinks she hears hushed voices and footsteps rising from the staircase to the kitchen and realizes that she is not the only restless soul awake in the house this night. A light moves across the floor and she watches it enter the library. She follows its path thinking it must be her father coming to seek solace and advice in his beloved books, but as she approaches she sees that it is not her Papa. It's Branson, dressed in his shirt and vest (and she wonders if she has ever seen him without his jacket before) looking like he hasn't even tried to sleep. He doesn't notice her presence, so she clears her throat and speaks quietly.
"Hello, Branson," he starts in surprise at her voice and turns around, eyes widening when she steps into the pool of light from his lamp.
"M'lady! Did I," he looks confused for a moment, "wake you?"
"Goodness, no. I was already downstairs when I saw the light. I thought it might be Papa."
"I was just returning some of his books. I couldn't sleep and saw Mrs. Hughes sitting up in the kitchen. She said it would be alright if I was quiet and thought I might as well do it now before," his voice trails off into silence. She watches him writing in the ledger and suddenly feels heavy with sadness.
"You're going to leave, aren't you," it isn't really a question.
"Yes, m'lady."
"It doesn't seem right."
"No, m'lady."
"Politics."
"Politics," and there is a wry laugh in the word. She remembers something from the garden party, and before she can stop herself the words are coming out in a rush.
"It seems ages ago now, but I wonder if I ever apologized for that day at the count. You were quite right, Branson, to want to leave. I'm afraid I was rather naïve and reckless, I just thought...I didn't want to miss something important and exciting, but I was wrong to put us and your job in danger. It was selfish, and I do hope you forgive me." He doesn't reply at first, only stares at her and she clasps her hands behind her back to keep from fidgeting under his gaze. When he finally does speak in his lilting accent, she finds it hard to meet his eyes.
"I know what it is to wish for something different, and to want to be part of something important. That's nothing to apologize for. But I…I never want to see you hurt. You gave me quite a fright." His words are light, but his face is carved into a mask of intensity that suggests the depth of his fright was more than Sybil had even guessed, and the thought scares her.
"Well, I'm sorry I gave you a fright," she has to work hard to force the words past her throat and her voice sounds jarring and mangled to her own ears. She tries to smile, but the effort dies when he raises his hand between them and reaches towards her face. For a brief moment she considers turning on her heels and bolting from the room, but stays rooted to the spot as his fingers lightly brush against the temple of her brow where a faint scar marks her complexion. Anna always arranges her hair to conceal it, and she sometimes forgets that it's there at all, but Branson remembers exactly where it is. His hand curls into a soft fist at her cheek and his thumb traces the too-white lines and patches against her skin. Sybil closes her eyes and thinks she might just shatter into a thousand tiny pieces at his touch, Branson closes his and remembers that night when he returned to the kitchen after watching Matthew lead Sybil into Downton.
He had barely opened the door when Gwen rushed towards him, half-crying as she asked what had happened and if Lady Sybil was hurt badly. He doesn't remember answering her, just walking over to Mr. Bates and asking numbly if he knew how to get the blood stains out of his jacket sleeve. Somehow Mr. Bates had made everything calm and sensible, shushed Gwen's fretting and took him in hand, showed him how to clean the jacket and placed a hand on his shoulder with a strength that made him miss his father. He remembers scrubbing and scrubbing and watching the red blood seep from the fabric into the water that dripped down his hands. "Her blood," he thought, and his mind was a storm of images and thoughts and desires.
He knows just touching her is dangerous, he would certainly lose his job if Mrs. Hughes saw or the family knew, but losing his job is now the least of his worries. He is beginning to wonder if it was ever really important. Sybil can feel blood rushing to her head and steps away from Branson's hand before he can feel the sudden warmth in her cheeks. His arm drops quickly to his side and he begins to stammer out an apology. He looks crestfallen and maybe even a little hurt and suddenly she has to fight the inexplicable urge to circle her arms around his middle and pull herself tight against his chest. If she could only hold him, just for a moment, to know the weight of him in her arms, to feel that he is real and solid before he leaves her with only images drawn from memory. Her eyes grow damp and the corners of her mouth begin to pull and quiver seemingly of their own accord. The horrible realization that she is about to cry in front of Branson eclipses every other reasonable thought. She presses her hand against her mouth as if she can force tears back inside her and turns away from him feeling ashamed and little. For a few moments he is so quiet she thinks he must have left, but then she hears his voice, cautious and uncertain.
"I am sorry, m'lady, it was too forward of me."
"No, it's not that," she manages to whisper.
"Then what is it," he asks, and she finds that she can't bring herself to speak the words out loud, and can only draw a shuddering breath.
"I am afraid too, my lady," she hears him say. And then, whispered like a precious secret, "Sybil."
She turns back to face him and his eyes are blue and shining like a clear sky, like freedom, like hope. This time it is she who reaches for his hand and weaves her fingers with his. They stand together, quiet and still, until she finds the strength to speak again.
"You will try to be careful and not do anything terribly brave."
"I must try and do my duty."
"Branson, I know you are more than a chauffeur, but do try and come back to Downton. Please."
"If you ask, I will try to return to you."
She has a mad fancy to pull a ribbon out of her hair and tie it around his arm and almost giggles at the thought of it. Instead she smiles, raises their clasped hands and seals her lips against his fingers.
"I am asking." A voice in the back of her mind sounds an alarm, because she is the daughter of an Earl and her parents would be furious and no one would ever allow it and she'll be ostracized and more than likely penniless and maybe even ruined and what if he doesn't come back…
He clasps her hand in both his own and presses it to his lips. Softly, he kisses her fingers, her palm, the inside of her wrist, and before she's at all prepared he leans forward and brushes his lips against hers. It is over in an instant but for hours, days, weeks, months she can feel his kiss burning on her mouth like a fire branded promise.
