Sorry for the lateness of this update! Lots of distractions, blah, blah, blah, but here it is! This chapter is a little more "filler" between the rest of the story and the first chapter, but some things start to be set into motion for future scenes between our witchy Sybil and Tom Branson. Also, this fic *could* fall into the EAST category, as Edith/Sir Anthony are a minor plotpoint ;o) anyway, I hope you enjoy, and THANK YOU SO MUCH to all the lovely support and reviews and follows I received last week! I'm glad folks are enjoying this fun little Halloween season romp :oP Thanks as always for reading!

Also, dedicating this chapter to the AMAZING Sybil/Tom fandom manip artist angiemagz (check out her tumblr blog if you haven't! You will be blown away by her talents!). She made the lovely cover-art for this story-THANKS ANGIE!


Chapter Two

He was trembling as he sat in the open air motor, but it wasn't because of the harsh chill that was blowing around them.

Tom Branson swallowed and stared straight ahead, his expression vague, as if he were simply looking off into nothingness. But before him the memory of her face—her beautiful, blushing face—kept coming before his eyes, and with every heartbeat, he felt himself fall even deeper.

Sybil…her name was Sybil. He smiled as he whispered her name to himself. "Sybil…" It suited her; it was the perfect name, because…because it was hers. God in heaven, he had never felt this way about ANYONE! He was drunk…drunk on love. Completely intoxicated, and he found himself hoping he would never sober up.

The doors to the house opened then and Tom swallowed, took a deep breath, and quickly rose from the car to open the door for his employer, who tipped his hat to his hosts, thanking them again for the evening, his eyes lingering, it seemed on someone in the background, before finally turning and moving quickly down the steps to the waiting motor.

"Thank you, Branson," Sir Anthony greeted, climbing inside as Tom nodded his head and shut the door.

He quickly returned to the front and began to drive the car away, although he couldn't help but glance back again at the house they were leaving. Because somewhere behind those daunting walls, she was there.

"Did you have a pleasant evening, sir?" he asked his employer, trying to focus on the road before him, rather than continue to crane his neck and look back at Downton Abbey.

"Hmm? Oh, yes, yes it was," Sir Anthony answered, although Tom did notice that his employer would every so often make a face, as if he were trying to get a bad taste out of his mouth.

"Was the meal to your liking?"

"What? Oh, oh um…yes, it was…for the most part," Sir Anthony replied, trying to still say the polite thing, even though it was clear he was thinking otherwise.

"And the company? I understand that the Crawleys are greatly respected around here…"

"Oh yes, very respectable family, very hospitable," Sir Anthony answered, and Tom noticed as he glanced back, how there seemed to be a bit of a dreamy-looking smile forming on the baronet's lips.

"I…I understand that Lord Grantham has…three daughters?" Tom bit his lip, wondering if he was starting to push too far. He normally wasn't this "chatty" when he drove people around, but he desperately wanted some answers about the beautiful and mysterious Lady Sybil Crawley.

"Hmm? Oh yes, yes, very charming ladies," Sir Anthony murmured, that smile once again forming on the man's face. "Especially Lady Edith…"

Tom didn't know who Lady Edith was, but it was obvious based on what he could see of his employer's face in the dark, that the man was clearly…intrigued, with the woman in question (his mother would say "smitten").

"Lady Mary is lovely too, of course," Sir Anthony added after a brief cough and clearing of his throat.

Tom held his breath. "And…and the third one…?"

Sir Anthony frowned. "Lady Sybil you mean? She wasn't present at dinner; something about headache, I heard. And while yes, she's very pretty, she is practically a child still; although I do think I recall Lady Grantham mentioning that she would be attending a special ball at the end of the month, to honor her twenty-first birthday that took place earlier in the summer." He shrugged his shoulders, clearly not interested in the subject, though Tom found himself hanging on every word.

Twenty-one. Sir Anthony was right, she did look young, but not as young as Sir Anthony seemed to be implying. Of course, there was a much wider age gap between his employer and the youngest Crawley daughter. Would she think a man like him too old? He was only twenty-seven, but—wait, why was she having a special ball now, if her birthday had happened earlier in the summer?

And as if that were only question. No, the biggest question was why had she been dressed like one of the kitchen maids? Because that was what he thought she was when he first met her; one of the members of the kitchen staff, in her flour-covered apron…and there had been flour on her hands…her arms…a little up on her cheeks…even a little in her hair…God how he would love to run his fingers across her cheek and through her hair…did it feel as silky as it looked? He was sure it did. And no doubt her cheek would be softer than a dove's breast…God, his fingers ached to touch her, to feel her, to kiss her, to—

"Branson, be careful!"

Tom gripped the steering wheel and pulled the car back onto the road (they had been dangerously teetering near the side of the ditch). "Sorry, sir!" he quickly apologized, embarrassed by his sudden foolishness. He had never driven so sloppily before; what was wrong with him?

Sir Anthony looked at his new chauffeur with concern. "Are you alright?" he asked, wondering if the Irishman had fallen ill. The references Branson came with were quite excellent, and even though the man was young, so far he had seemed to be a good driver.

"I am, sir, my apologies," Tom apologized again, trying to focus all of his attentions on the road before him and not on the memory of a certain lady's deep blue eyes. "Do you think you'll be returning again soon?"

Sir Anthony was trying to relax once more in the backseat. "I'm not sure; I mean, dinner was pleasant…enough," he murmured, still making that face as he had done before, Tom noticed. "Hmmm, perhaps it would be better to make a social visit sometime when a meal isn't being served…"

Tom saw his chance. "I…I would be more than happy, sir, to deliver any messages for you."

Sir Anthony glanced up, looking a little surprised by his chauffeur's offer. "That's very thoughtful and kind of you, Branson, but I don't think that will be necessary. After all, Downton Abbey is less than ten miles from Locksley, I'm sure just a simple note to the post—"

"That could take a day, though," Tom interrupted. "And…and if I deliver the message, it will reach them that very afternoon—I could deliver a message tomorrow, sir, I don't mind!"

Good God, what had come over him? He knew he was playing with fire, the way he was pushing his employer, and yet he was desperate to see her again, and Tom honestly didn't know if he could simply sit around and wait until Lord and Lady Grantham sent his employer another invitation.

Thankfully, Sir Anthony didn't seem to find Tom's instance about being a personal delivery man to Downton Abbey at all odd or suspicious, in fact…he looked as if he were giving the idea some heavy thought.

"Well…now that you mention it, I would very much like to reassure her Ladyship that I did enjoy this evening, despite that one little incident at dinner…"

Tom didn't know what Sir Anthony was referring to, but he honestly didn't care. He needed to make the most of this opportunity. "Then let me deliver that message for you tomorrow, sir. I'll even take it first thing the morning."

Sir Anthony laughed then. "I appreciate your service, Branson, but that won't be necessary," he chuckled. "I doubt I'll write it tonight, but tomorrow, after breakfast, so you can deliver it around luncheon."

Tom inwardly groaned. That felt too far away! But he knew better than to argue the matter, and he was glad that Sir Anthony had at least agreed to do this. But even so, did that guarantee he would run into Lady Sybil again? No, it didn't.

But it might.

And right now, "might" and "maybe" were better than "nothing" and "not at all".


Sybil was weary. She had spent the last few hours serving her "punishment" for ruining Mrs. Patmore's treacle pudding, by helping all of the kitchen maids with the washing up, while the Downton cook and witch sat at a nearby table and helped herself to a glass of sherry. Sybil was tempted to try that "telekinetic washing spell" she had learned a few years ago…although if memory serves, more dishes ended up broken than clean, and right now, it was best to avoid magic altogether in the cook's presence.

Now that the task was done, she trudged up the stairs to her room, ready to collapse on her bed and pull the covers up over her head. But what good would that do? No, she needed to through the spell book and try and find an alternative solution to the mistakes she had made this evening. October had just started, and she had until the 31st to complete her task of giving both her sisters a spell for their benefit.

And she was running out of time.

"Oh there you are," Sybil groaned, seeing the ginger cat rise up from the pillow he had been lounging on when Sybil entered her bedroom. "You know, this is all your fault!" she accused, shaking a finger at Alfred. He simply tilted his head, looking at her curiously. "I told you to stay out of the kitchens, but you just had to enter, and because of your hijinks, I put salt instead of my potion into the pudding!"

Alfred opened his big mouth and gave her a yawn by way of an answer.

Sybil rolled her eyes. Typical.

A knock on her door drew her out of her thoughts. "Sybil? Are you awake?" Sybil looked down at herself and groaned at the sight of herself in the flour-stained dress she was wearing. She hardly looked like someone who had gone to bed, complaining of a headache.

"Just a second!" she called back to her sister, quickly doing what she could to divest herself of the dress and throw on her nightgown. She had gotten better at dressing/undressing herself without the help of a housemaid, but when it came to something like her corset, she still needed help with those wretched things.

"If you're too tired, I can always—"

"No, no, it's alright!" Sybil reassured, kicking her now discarded dress and slip under the bed for Alfred to chase, while throwing her nightgown over her corset. She'd deal with that later. "Come in!"

The door creaked open and Sybil put on a smile for her sister as Edith poked her head into the room. "Are you sure I'm not disturbing you?"

"No, no, please…" Sybil shook her head, making a gesture for her sister to enter the room. "Tell me, how was dinner?"

Edith's pleasant smile faded slightly, and Sybil winced. Oh Lord, had it really been that bad? She was hoping that maybe the pudding hadn't ruined the entire evening…or her sister's chances with Sir Anthony Strallan.

"Well…for the most part it was lovely," Edith explained, forcing a smile and choosing not to dwell on the salty pudding, which Sybil was rather grateful for.

"And…Sir Anthony?" she asked, nibbling her lip and looking eager for her sister's response.

A small blush colored Edith's cheeks and Sybil felt her insides melt at the sight. Oh this was a good sign! Perhaps she wouldn't have to use as potent a potion as she thought?

"He was very polite, of course," Edith explained. "Now that he's settled back in Yorkshire, he wants to modernize his estate; he talked about some of the unique farming instruments that are all the rage, apparently, on the Continent."

Sybil lifted her eyebrows at this. This was getting better and better! "And…and did you talk about the aid in which you provided the tenants in driving the tractor for them during the War?"

Edith blushed but smiled and nodded her head. "Yes, he was rather impressed by that. He asked me a little bit more about driving; he loves to drive himself, but because of the injury he sustained during the War, he finds it best to have a chauffeur, at least for any drives after it gets dark."

Now it was Sybil's turn to blush. Yes, she remembered Sir Anthony's chauffeur very well. Indeed, he was a handsome looking man, and how could anyone forget that accent? But despite his good looks, it was his words that stuck with Sybil.

"It's your life; you should do something that makes you happy, something you love!"

All her life, Sybil felt she didn't have choices. She was the Crawley witch for that generation, and she had a "duty" to serve as such, according to her grandmother. But she had never really ever…"enjoyed" being a witch; even after all the hard work she had done over the years. Yes, she had made some improvements, as her mother said she would, but still…in the end, she found the whole thing rather bothersome and tedious. Oh, to have the freedom to do what she wanted with her life! To be more than just "the Crawley family witch". But was it possible? Or was it all just a dream and nothing more?

"Oh by the way, Patrick wrote to us…"

Sybil snapped out of her thoughts and stared at her sister with wide eyes. "Patrick?" she gasped. She hadn't heard her cousin's name spoken in weeks.

Edith nodded. "He's still in Montreal; but he says he hopes to return before the end of the month," she explained. "Most of the letter was about this Canadian railway company he thinks Papa should invest in," she said with a shrug of her shoulders.

Sybil eyed her sister, taking notice that Edith continued to not seem as enamored as she once had been for their cousin, which in her opinion was a very good thing.

"And…Sir Anthony?"

Edith frowned. "What about Sir Anthony?"

Sybil nibbled her bottom lip. "I mean…well…what do you think of Sir Anthony?" she asked, hoping she sounded casual and not at all obvious.

Edith's frown deepened. "Well…as I said before, I think he's very polite and good natured, and he's very much a gentleman—"

"Do you like him?"

The words had burst out before Sybil had even a chance to rein them in. Oh Lord, now she had gone and done it.

Edith's face turned a dark crimson and she quickly rose from the edge of the bed where she had been sitting. "I…why Sybil, I…" she blushed even more and began to fidget, her eyes looking anywhere but her sister. "Sir Anthony is very…he's very amiable, I mean…of course, he is, but…but…"

Sybil bit her lip. This didn't sound positive.

"I mean…he's Papa's age, not that age really matters, of course, I mean it's obvious he has a young spirit, but…but Granny wouldn't approve anyway, and…oh for heaven's sake, Sybil, why did you ask me that?" Sybil was asking herself that very same question, especially based on the glare she was receiving from Edith. Clearly she had pushed too far. Perhaps I should rethink that thought about how much potion to use next time…?

"I'm going to bed," Edith announced. She bent down then and gave Sybil's brow a little kiss, before turning on her heel and quickly exiting the room. "Goodnight!" she called over her shoulder, before shutting the door, and leaving Sybil to sit and stew with her thoughts.

"Goodnight…" Sybil muttered to the echo of the door. With a groan, she flopped back onto the bed, and Alfred came and snuggled just next to her side, his purr loud in her ears as he proceeded to groom his paws and wash his face.

Oh why did things have to be so difficult? Why couldn't Mary inherit Downton? Why couldn't Edith find true love with Sir Anthony Strallan? Why did their cousin Patrick have be such a beast? Why did she have to be a witch!? Why couldn't she take Tom Branson's advice and choose not to settle for the cards which life had dealt her?

Tom Branson.

…She remembered his name.

A smile slowly curled at the edge of her lips, and then it was quickly followed by a blush as she recalled the look of horror on his face when he realized who she truly was. No doubt he thought her one of the servants, based on the clothes she had worn. Had he been disappointed when he learned the truth? Or was that simply her imagination?

She sighed and rolled over onto her side, her eyes meeting the cat's, as he paused in his grooming to look at her. "It was nice," she murmured to the cat. "Simply…talking to someone, without them knowing who I was…or what I am…" she sighed.

Alfred yawned again.

"Oh you're no help," Sybil groaned, poking her tongue out at the cat. "I have a good mind to put on a spell on you; turn you into one of the footmen, or something."

The cat's eyes widened at this, and he gave what could only be described as a disgusted yowl, before hopping off the bed and leaving Sybil to lie there and try to think of what her next best plan of action would be for both her sisters.

…And not about her encounter with Sir Anthony's chauffeur.


Sybil was on her way down to the breakfast room, when a knock was heard, echoing off the large front doors of the house. Carson would be busy in the breakfast room, and there were no footmen in sight, so Sybil decided since she was there, she would simply answer the knock, although she couldn't think as to who would be paying a call at nine in the morning.

"Oh!" she gasped, the color draining from her face, before quickly flooding it once again as she stared into the blue-green gaze of Sir Anthony Strallan's chauffeur.

Tom Branson.

"Milady!" he gasped, clearly not expecting to see her either, and his gloved hand rose to quickly remove his hat, the gesture so fast that it caused some of his hair to fall across brow, a light, sandy brown color, that had traces of dark gold…

Her fingers actually twitched with a yearning to brush it aside.

She moved her hand behind her back, as if the gesture would cease the temptation (and its thought).

"Um…" Sybil blushed, feeling rather awkward. "Can I…help you?"

He was staring at her, his eyes intense and searching, his gaze hypnotic; she was finding it rather difficult to look away.

"I…" he began to speak, but his words seemed to lose themselves in his throat as he continued to look at her. The heat in her cheeks only grew hotter. "Forgive me, I…I just…"

Just what? He hadn't explained his presence at all.

"Is…is Sir Anthony here?" Sybil asked, a note of hope in her voice. Had the baronet come to call on Edith? Perhaps she could convince him to come into the breakfast room, have a cup of a tea with them at the very least; she could run up to her room, grab her potion, and offer it to him as "sugar" for his tea—

"No, I…I'm afraid not," he murmured, looking down at his feet then.

Was he disappointed? His voice sounded that way. But why? And why was he there? Not that his presence was unpleasant or anything—quite the opposite, actually! But…ever since their odd and brief encounter last night, Sybil hadn't dreamed that the Irishman would be back so quickly, or that the two of them would find themselves in such a situation where they were practically by themselves, talking once more.

"Here now! What is the meaning of this!?"

Both of them jumped at the sudden thunderous bellow of the Downton butler, who was marching towards the door, a deep scowl covering his face as he glared at Sir Anthony's chauffeur with suspicion. "Thank you, Lady Sybil for answering the door, I shall take it from here," Carson growled, his eyes still fixed on Tom Branson. Sybil frowned; good heavens, there was no need for that attitude. "Yes, sir? How may I be of service?"

Despite his words, the butler didn't sound remotely interested in "helping" Mr. Branson, or providing him with "service", whatever his reasons for coming. And clearly the Irishman understood that, because Sybil noticed as she looked over Carson's shoulder, the way Mr. Branson stiffened, lifting his chin, his jaw straight and a deep frown crossing his own features as he returned Carson's formidable gaze with one of his own.

"Sir Anthony asked me to bring a message to you," Mr. Branson declared at last, his hand moving to the pocket of his livery jacket, and producing a small envelope.

Carson frowned. "At nine o'clock in the morning!?"

Sybil rolled her eyes. "Thank you, Branson!" she said with a pleasant smile, pushing her way around Carson and snatching the letter from the chauffeur's hands. "I'll see that it is delivered! Did Sir Anthony say to whom it was for?" Please say Edith, please say Edith, please say Edith!

"Her Ladyship, thanking her for the dinner and lovely evening," he explained.

Sybil's heart sank a little at that. Of course, that was the "proper" person for Sir Anthony to write to and thank, but still, she had been hoping that perhaps the man had been so enamored with her sister the other night, that he had insisted on having this message sent straight away. Why else would Mr. Branson be here so early? It seemed odd that if the message were the basic thank you one would send to a host…why go to all the trouble of having it delivered, specially?

Sybil realized then that Mr. Branson was still looking at her, a smile lifting at the corners of his mouth as he gazed, completely ignoring the harsh expression that graced Carson's face. "Is that all, sir?" Carson growled, moving until he was blocking Sybil's view of the chauffeur, and vice versa.

Yet before an answer could be given, the voice of Violet Crawley was suddenly ringing in Sybil's ears and off the walls of the house's great hall. "SYBIL!? SYBIL, WHERE ARE YOU!?"

Now what?

Sybil gasped and she glanced over her shoulder at Mr. Branson, who was looking a bit confused by the loud, trilling voice of her grandmother. Violet lived in the Dower House, which was a little closer to the village, and normally had Pratt drive her back and forth from Downton. Yet every so often, if Violet desperately needed to get to the house or somewhere as quickly as possible, she would use that teleportation spell which Sybil had seen referenced in the Crawley family spell book, but which her grandmother declared was "far too advanced" for a witch of "Sybil's stature". She only prayed that Mr. Branson would not find the matter odd—or that he had noticed the sudden appearance of her grandmother out of thin air.

"SYBIL!? Where is that troublesome girl?" Violet muttered to no one in particular, or so Sybil thought, until she heard some voices murmuring in response. Oh lovely, her grandmother was in the breakfast room. Sybil groaned; so much for a peaceful meal that morning.

"Thank you for delivering your message, Mr. Branson," Sybil politely thanked, before turning and moving quickly to the breakfast room before her grandmother's voice brought everyone on staff and half the village to see and hear whatever it was that had her so agitated. Oh no, does she know about the pudding?

Straightening her shoulders, she gave a resolute sigh and entered the room, hoping she was prepared for whatever reason her grandmother felt it so important to descend upon Downton now, at this hour, rather than wait until she usually arrived sometime between luncheon and tea.

"OH! Oh good, there you are!" Violet declared, practically tugging Sybil into the room and forcing her down on a chair.

"Good morning to you too, Granny," Sybil muttered, wondering what on earth this was all about.

But Violet was practically beaming. "It's happening, my dear, IT'S HAPPENING!"

Sybil was even more confused. "What? What is happening?"

Without a word, Violet slammed a piece of paper down in front of Sybil.

"Read that!" Violet grinned, pointing at the paper.

Sybil didn't dare contradict her. She looked at the paper and realized it was a card…with gold trim and beautiful lettering.

To Lady Sybil Patricia Crawley,
By order of his excellency, the Grand Warlock,
you are invited to attend the 1133
rd Annual All Hallows Eve Masked Ball
October 31
st, 1919
Downton Abbey, Yorkshire

Sybil's eyes grew wide as she reread that last line again.

Downton Abbey, Yorkshire

Downton Abbey, Yorkshire.

DOWNTON ABBEY—her Downton Abbey?

"The ball is to be held HERE!?" Sybil gasped, turning and looking up at her grandmother with unbelievable eyes.

"WHAT!?" Robert coughed, dropping his newspaper and staring at the invitation his mother had given Sybil. He also turned to Violet, waiting for an explanation, but Violet simply stood there, looking proud, before marching around the room and muttering about changes that will need to be made to make sure the house is prepared for such a gathering. "MAMA!" Robert practically bellowed. "WHY is this ball being held here!? AND WHY WASN'T I INFORMED!?"

"Oh Robert, you needn't worry about it, I'll have it all under control!" Violet practically sang as she moved out of the room and began to assess the rest of the house, Mrs. Hughes following at her heels, taking notes as Violet read them off. Mary and Edith were stunned speechless. Robert was fuming. And even though her mother wasn't there in the breakfast room, Sybil had no doubt that if she were, she would be looking very angry that her mother-in-law has once again tried to "retake the reins" of what was once her house when she was still Countess of Grantham. Sybil, however, felt any appetite she did have quickly disappear, and so without a word, rose from her chair and quickly retreated, desperate for some fresh air. Within a matter of minutes, she found herself in the gardens, trying to calm the erratic beating of her heart as her mind processed all this new information.

The annual masked ball, held every year on All Hallows Eve, was going to be there, at Downton. Every witch and warlock in English Society, would be descending on their house, and even though the instructions hadn't been given, Sybil knew that she would be expected to play hostess, because she was the Crawley family witch. And this would be the ball where she would come out into society at last.

…And she still needed to finish her spells for her sisters. Oh Lord, this was an utter disaster! How would she be able to concentrate on all of this? It was too much!

The sound of footsteps crunching on some twigs nearby drew her out of her thoughts and she whirled around, gasping a second time as her eyes met those of Sir Anthony's chauffeur. He immediately stopped where he stood, holding his hands up in a gesture that was meant to be non-threatening. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to startle you," he quickly apologized. "I…I just…I was about to leave, honestly, but…but I saw you come out, and you looked upset and…" his voice trailed off, and Sybil noticed how he kept wincing, as if he were in pain.

"Are you alright?" she asked, moving towards him, wondering if he truly was in pain.

"What?" he looked at her with confusion. "I…no, I'm fine, I…I'm sorry, I…" he groaned and shook his head. "I'm sorry, I'm making a complete arse of myself—" he winced again, no doubt at his very casual (and some may even call it "crude") speech. "Sorry," he muttered again, shaking his head and turning to leave her alone.

"It's alright!" Sybil called after him, hating that she had made him feel even more awkward. After all, he was simply showing her kindness, and while it did make her blush, it also made her smile, his concern and his notice that she seemed upset. "Thank you," she added, hoping her gratitude, which was genuine, would ease any anxiety he was feeling. "I am fine, honestly, just…" she glanced over her shoulder at the house. "Just feeling a bit…'overwhelmed', at the moment."

He removed his hat again, and Sybil noticed how once more, those strand of hair fell across his brow again (and once more her fingers twitched with a desire to brush it aside…as well as run through his hair—good heavens, where had that come from!?) "Is there anything I can do to help?"

He was being earnest. His offer to help was quite genuine; she could see that in his eyes. "No," she murmured, smiling at him, touched by his offer, but the sad truth was, he couldn't help. These were things beyond his understanding, beyond anyone's understanding who wasn't a witch, like herself. "But thank you, for the kind offer."

He nodded his head, a small smile lifting at the corners of his mouth. "Well…" he sighed, his gloved fingers fidgeting slightly as he held his hat. "Well, I…I best return, then."

Sybil felt her heart sink a little at the chauffeur's announcement, but she knew he was right. After all, he had come and done his duty, and then he had gone above and beyond by asking if she were alright when he noticed her agitation.

"Thank you, Branson," she murmured, smiling at him and then boldly offering her hand for him to shake.

"Milady…" he murmured, taking her offered hand, though he didn't shake it, at least not straight away. Instead, Sybil's breath caught in her throat as she felt his gloved fingers curl around hers. The way he held her hand was as if he thought it thought was the most precious thing in the world…or was that simply her wishful imagination?

They shook hands, though it was a bit awkward, and then his finally released hers…though there did seem to be some reluctance (once again, most likely her imagination). He took a few steps away from her, before sighing and turning on his back to return to the car he left in the gravel drive but a few feet away. Sybil smiled and moved her arms around her body to hug herself as she watched him go, appreciating the calm she had felt in the brief moment they had just shared together. The man was a stranger to her (not to mention the servant of their neighbor) and yet…he did have a strange way, in the few times she had met him, of putting her mind at ease.

…At least of what was happening in the world around her. Yes, he could put her at ease with those things, although he also had a way of bringing a different sort of anxiety to her mind…and body.

"I do mean it!"

He had turned around to face her once more, just before reaching the motor.

"If there's anything I can do…anything at all for you…I'll do it."

Sybil's mouth fell open. She honestly didn't know what to say! Why…why was he making such promises to her? He didn't know her! But…but even so, it was nice to hear. Very nice. And…yes, she believed he meant it, truly.

"Thank you," she answered, blushing but smiling and nodding her head in gratitude. "You're too kind."

He seemed to smile then, a rather shy, sheepish smile, one that Sybil could not deny melted her heart a bit. But he didn't say anything further, simply nodded his own head, before climbing into the car at last, and driving it away from Downton.

Strange, she found herself thinking. And yet…she was smiling, because for the first time since…well, perhaps ever…she felt as if she had a friend. Which is utterly absurd, since you hardly know him, and this is only the second time you've met him, and yet…and yet…

And yet in those brief conversations, both the night before and just now…that was what she felt. A connection, a bond, something…between herself and Mr. Tom Branson.


Tom had to pull the car over after passing the gates that led to Downton Abbey. His body was shaking in such a way, that he if he didn't stop, he would run the risk of rolling off the road and into the ditch has he had almost done the night before.

Good God, what had come over him? Why was he behaving like this? He had barely gotten any sleep the night before, because all he could think about was her. He was so desperate to see her again, so hopeful that maybe, just maybe he would have that chance, and when he arrived with the message from his employer (there wasn't much to it, just a basic thank you to Lady Grantham) he had not been expecting for her to open the door.

A part of him had been wondering if this was all just a figment of his imagination. That because of the tea he had drunk last night (and the odd reaction he had had to it) that he only thought himself enamored with Lady Sybil Crawley, but with the dawn of a new day, he would soon realize that the feelings racing through his mind and heart were nothing really…

But then seeing her open the door, seeing those striking blue-gray eyes, her pink cheeks, her lush lips parting and gasping in surprise, and hearing her voice…

His heart throbbed in such a way, he was sure he would collapse if he weren't gripping one of the doors to keep his balance.

But good Lord, he had been such an idiot in front of her! Stumbling over his words, both at the door, and then in the garden. What did she think of him? Probably nothing, because you're just a servant in her eyes! He gritted his teeth and lowered his head until his brow was resting against the steering wheel. This was an absolute, utter disaster. Why? Why did he have to fall in love with a beautiful, posh woman like her? She was too far above him! This was complete madness!

…And yet he couldn't stop. It was love. There was no doubt that was what he felt for her; complete, head over heels love. "I'm doomed…" he groaned. What was he going to do? Romances like this always ended badly, didn't they? It was impossible!

Or is it? He frowned at the hopeful voice that seemed to come from his heart. Remember how you saw her last night. She's clearly like no posh girl you've ever met before; how many earls' daughters dress like kitchen staff and help with cooking? True…and he still didn't know the truth behind that reason, but he had a feeling Lady Sybil had an interesting story to share. But even so, why would she willingly give her heart to a man like him?

Then he remembered how she had briefly opened up to him last night, telling him how frustrated she was feeling, that everything she touched seemed to fall apart, that everything she did was a failure. He remembered at the time feeling pity for her, more so because she clearly had been led to believe these things about herself. He remembered then how he wished he could say or do something that would ease her burdens…and now, seeing her so upset, hearing her tell him how she felt so "overwhelmed"…now, more than anything, he wanted to help her.

…And maybe that was the answer? Maybe…just maybe…she would return his feelings, if he showed her how deeply he cared…by at the very least, simply being a friend?

"Aye," he murmured to himself as he lifted his head from the steering wheel, a sense of calmness and confidence washing over him as he restarted the car. "That I can do."


To be continued...