Hooray for quick updates! I was so inspired by the wonderful feedback that you all sent that I sat right down and wrote this today. After the Christmas Special aired, I was like "WAIT! They have Servant's Balls? You mean we could have had Sybil & Branson dancing together?" So I had to answer that frustrating revelation with this chapter...it won't be the last of it's kind ;o)

Once again, thank you all so much for your readership and feedback! I hope you enjoy and let me know what you think!

Chapter Three

Christmastide 1914

The clock chimed midnight, but no one seemed to notice. They were too busy laughing, drinking sherry, and trying to put on a happy demeanor, while the world outside raged, both there…and across the Channel.

It was snowing quite heavily, and Sybil felt sorry for the poor gardeners who would have to shovel the path before retreating to the warmth of their beds. She couldn't blame them for wanting to delay the task, so naturally they continued dancing and drinking, doing whatever they could to warm their bones before facing the white monster outside. She couldn't blame anyone for wanting to live within the bubble that was the Downton Servant's Ball, a reminder of what life had been like before war erupted.

Had it only been a few weeks ago that Sybil had witnessed yet another squabble between her mother and grandmother over the issue of the ball? Her mother wondered if it were in good taste; the patriotic excitement that had been all the rage a few months prior was beginning to dwindle. Horrible stories about collapsing trenches, poison gas, and guns that fired multiple bullets at lightning speed were whispered amongst the servants, who knew someone fighting on the Continent. And the list of those dead or dying was beginning to outgrow the list of injured. Why only a week ago, Sybil had received news that Mr. Ewing, the first man she had danced with at her coming out ball, had been killed. She wasn't close to the gentleman, and the message had been more for her parents rather than herself, but it still had shaken her to the point where she had to excuse herself from the breakfast table and find a quiet corner to sit and take it all in. Someone she knew, someone she had touched once…was dead. For these reasons, her mother argued that perhaps the Servant's Ball should be canceled, to show respect to those connected to Downton, that no ball would be held until each and every one of them had returned.

Her grandmother felt differently. In her mind, the Servant's Ball represented a light of hope during dark times such as this. And what could bring more joy and happiness than a ball around Christmas? Sybil was in the drawing room during this argument/conversation, attempting to sew a pair of socks; it was "all the rage", apparently. "It means so much to our young men of arms to receive a pair of hand-sewn socks from ladies such as yourself and your sisters," her grandmother had explained. Mary and Edith simply smiled and did the task, knowing better than she to argue with the true matriarch of the family. Sybil, whose needlework always brought shame upon her governess, grumbled while attempting to sew her quota. She doubted her socks would bring any joy to the poor soldier they landed upon. It would mean far more to him if he didn't have them.

As she sewed the argument between the two countesses escalated until Mrs. Hughes purposefully interrupted with a tea tray, even though none had been called. That was when Granny unleashed her best artillery, turning to the housekeeper and saying, "don't you think everyone would appreciate a sign of stability during these uncertain times?" Sybil felt so sorry for Mrs. Hughes, who looked back and forth between her grandmother and mother, as if wondering whose wrath would hurt more if she sided with the other. That was when her mother threw her arms up in the air and muttered her consent, before stalking off in search of her father to complain to. Naturally, Granny was beaming.

"She really ought to be a general," Sybil had murmured under her breath to Mrs. Hughes.

The housekeeper nodded her head. "The War would be over within a fortnight!"

Sybil didn't know whose side to take in the argument. While she agreed with her mother's sentiment about showing respect to those who had gone to fight, at the same time she felt a thrill run down her spine at the thought of the ball…

She wasn't one who generally cared for balls, mainly because she knew very few people at them and it seemed that most of the talk that went on at a ball had very little depth. It was all idle gossip, and commentary on the various gowns women were wearing. But this wasn't just any ball. While some of those aspects would be present, such as gossip about various people, and commentary on what people were wearing, Sybil could safely say that she knew practically everyone who would be in attendance. And she could safely say that there would be at least one person to whom she could have a meaningful conversation with…

Like a giddy schoolgirl, she all but abandoned her sewing project and walked very briskly to the garage, knowing Branson was there because her father, for the first time in weeks, hadn't ordered the motor to take him to York. "We're to have a ball!" she declared, her face glowing as she found him, bent over the engine of a car.

Branson lifted his head, a confused expression on his face, but a smile glowing in the blue-green depths of his eyes. "Beggin' your pardon?" he chuckled.

Sybil couldn't help but grin back at him. It seemed so rare these days, having the chance to sit and talk with him as they used to before the War started. They were both so busy; he doing his job for her father, and she…doing whatever she could to feel useful. "I have just come from the trench that is the Downton drawing room; Mama surrendered to Granny over the issue of the Servant's Ball. We are to have it!"

A deep blush spread across her face. She had never shown this sort of excitement over a ball before, including the Servant's Ball. In the past, she had gone because it was tradition, and she had danced a few dances with various servants, including Carson, who felt it was his duty to dance with each lady of the house. But she spent most of the time sitting in a corner, keeping Granny company because Granny couldn't dance a great deal; "not as young as I used to be!" she would say.

But things were different now.

Now…she had a reason to be excited about the ball.

Last year, Sybil had been ill and unable to attend the ball. She had spent a great portion of the Christmas holiday in bed with a small fever and a congested head. Her mind had wandered several times to the ball; she could hear the music floating up the stairway to her room. She wondered who all had come, and who was dancing with whom. And yes, if she were honest with herself, she even wondered about a particular chauffeur; it was his first Christmas at Downton, and he had told her in the weeks leading up to it that he was feeling a little homesick. Sybil remembered begging Branson to tell her what they did in Ireland at Christmas, and she remembered him laughing and grinning, and then scratching his head, trying to think on where to start. She loved those stories, the ones where he told her about his home and childhood; she could picture him quite clearly as a boy, getting into mischief! When she had finally recovered, the first place she visited was the garage. He teased her, as was his nature, and she poked her tongue out at him and pretended to swat him with her fist. And after they had finished laughing, she finally asked him what he thought about his first Christmas at Downton. He smiled and told her that while it wasn't the same as being home with his family, he had enjoyed himself. And after a little more hedging, Sybil finally asked him what he thought of the Servant's Ball…

"Are your feet still sore?" she had casually asked, while pretending to be interested in his chauffeur's toolbox. "No doubt you were one of the more popular dance partners at the ball." She snuck a glance his way through her lashes, and was surprised to see him grinning, before letting out a deep, loud laugh.

"Oh Lord almighty," he chuckled. "If my mother could hear you say that, milady! 'Popular dance partner'…she would be laughing even harder than I am!"

Sybil couldn't help but scowl, slightly. He hadn't answered her question. He just continued laughing! Still…as in the past, his laughter was quite catching, and she soon found herself laughing too. "Well?" she managed to ask. She wasn't going to be deterred from finding her answer.

Branson finally got a hold of himself, but his grin never faltered. "I didn't go, milady."

Sybil stared at him, surprised by his answer. "Didn't go?" She thought the Servant's Ball was required? "Were you ill too?"

He continued grinning, but shook his head. "No, no, I was perfectly fine."

She couldn't shake her confusion. "Then…why?"

His teasing grin seemed to transform into something else…something tender. "What point was there in going, when you wouldn't be there?"

Sybil's mouth fell open at his words. She was at an utter loss. But she remembered her heartbeat suddenly speeding, and her cheeks suddenly burning…

William arrived then, telling Branson that her father wanted the motor. Not knowing what to say, and fearing she would embarrass herself further, Sybil muttered a goodbye, before retreating to the house. However, her mind thought of nothing else for the rest of that day…and the days that followed.

Now it was a year later, and once again, she was standing in the garage. But unlike last year, she was in excellent health and would be able to attend the ball.

Branson smiled, but his eyes did not reflect the excitement she was feeling. Sybil bit her lip, and began to feel her spirits fall. Was she imagining things? Her feelings confused her now, more than ever. Just when she thought she had a grasp on what they were and possibly meant…

"I'm happy for you, milady," he murmured. "And for the staff too, of course," he quickly added. "They will be very happy with a ball; I think her Ladyship was right to insist upon it."

Sybil's face fell even more. She hadn't missed how he had referred to the staff…as if he weren't a part of them. "Yes, I think you're right," she agreed, her eyes never leaving his face. She noticed that he was avoiding her gaze. "But…what about you?"

"Me?" he asked, finally meeting her gaze.

Sybil nodded. "Yes…are you happy, about the ball?"

Branson put on a smile for her benefit. "Of course I am," he forced the grin, but it soon slipped away. Once more, he turned his gaze back to the engine he was working on. "I um…I will be sad to miss it."

"What?" Sybil gasped, rushing over to the other side of the car and gripping its edges. "What do you mean? Why will you miss it?" The confusion on her face suddenly melted into a look of horror. "Oh God…you…you're…" her palms were so sweaty that they were slipping off the sides of the car. "You've…enlisted?"

Branson's eyes went wide, and he reached across the car and gripped her shoulders, giving her a good shake to keep her from fainting, because in that moment, that was exactly what Sybil felt like doing. Branson going to war…Branson in a trench…Branson gripping his throat and coughing as poison gas filled his lungs—

"SYBIL!"

She gasped and looked up into his eyes, surprised by the loud shout and the harsh shake he had given her. But she was thankful for it, because it revived her from the horrid images that had been clouding her mind, and brought her back to the present.

"I didn't enlist," he calmly reassured, although his tone was clipped and his fingers never once loosened the somewhat painful grip on her shoulders. She didn't care; it kept her grounded and reminded her that he wasn't in one of those horrible trenches, but standing right there, safe in their haven. "Do you understand me? Please…nod your head at least, so I know I'm getting through to you."

His voice sounded so desperate, and Sybil felt like a fool for just standing there like a mute doll. "I understand," she reassured, nodding her head at the same time. "I understand."

A look of relief washed over him, and he loosened his harsh grip. "Sorry," he murmured. Sybil opened her mouth to tell him it was alright, but all thought of speaking escaped her…as his fingers began to rub soothing strokes across her shoulders and upper arms.

Butterflies danced in her stomach. Her heart did several somersaults. Had she forgotten how to breathe? Because when he looked into her eyes, she swore nothing passed through her lungs. They held one another's gazes, and his fingers stilled their soothing massage…before finally, and much to Sybil's disappointment, they fell away. A great gush of air escaped her body then, and her breathing began to resume once more.

"My sister Kathleen is getting married," he explained.

Sybil realized that he was explaining his reasons to why he would miss the ball. "So…so you're going to Ireland?"

He nodded his head. "I received the announcement a few days ago; I went to his Lordship this morning, asking if I could take an extended holiday," he looked down at his feet. "He was very kind and generous, I must say. Said I could go and stay during all of Christmastide."

All of Christmastide; December 25 to January 6. The Servant's Ball was traditionally held on Twelfth Night. He wouldn't be back until after the ball.

"Well," Sybil took a step back and forced a smile, trying to make it look as convincing as possible. "That's wonderful!"

Branson smiled softly, but he still continued to look down at his feet. "Yes," he sighed. "It's been a long time, since I've seen all of them."

Sybil nodded her head, doing her best to keep her disappointment at bay. "And you will be able to see your cousin again, too! That's wonderful!" She inwardly groaned, realizing she had already said that. But Branson didn't seem to notice, and she felt awful for being so selfish and thinking only of her own disappointment that he would miss the ball…and her opportunity to dance with him…that she quickly pressed on. "How long has your sister been engaged?" She could kick herself for the lack of tact and consideration; her mother would be horrified by her bluntness.

"Nearly two years," Branson answered, not seeming to mind the forwardness.

"Two years!" Sybil gasped. Long engagements were not the fashion, it seemed. How many of her sisters' friends, who had received proposals during their seasons, were married before the year ended? At most they would wait a year, so the wedding could be held during the following season. But it seemed that the sooner the wedding could take place, the better. "Little time for 'second thoughts'," her grandmother had explained.

Branson nodded his head. "Sean is a good, patient man," he smiled. "And he adores my sister, which is what matters to me, of course."

Sybil felt her insides warm at the way he spoke, his voice full of love and brotherly protection. When she was little she had wished for a brother; someone who wouldn't mind getting dirty and playing sports, unlike her refined sisters.

"They've been saving for a house," he explained. "She told me that they have enough money to buy a pretty brownstone, in Dublin."

Sybil smiled and nodded her head. "Well, their waiting paid off, it seems."

Branson chuckled. "Indeed. But what's two years when you love someone?"

Time froze then as they both met and held each other's gazes.

Then the sound of footsteps crunching on the frost-covered gravel outside broke the spell, and Sybil quickly retreated to the garage door, opening it so William could enter. "Thank you, milady," he gave her a small bow, before turning to Branson and telling him that her mother wanted the car. Just like last year, she thought to herself. It seemed that the younger footman was destined to come "to the rescue" whenever an awkward moment fell upon them both.

"Well..." Branson sighed, shutting the bonnet and reaching for his livery jacket.

"Yes…" Sybil sighed too, unsure what to say exactly. What else was there to say? He would be going to Ireland for his sister's wedding and she would be here, spending Christmas with her family, and just like previous years, sitting in a corner at the Servant's Ball, keeping her grandmother company.

Only this year…like the year prior…she had been looking forward to going, and dancing with a particular servant, other than the Downton butler.

And so here she sat…on Twelfth Night, listening to people laugh and make merry, while she occupied a chair in the corner, like all those previous years. Except unlike previous years, there were more "wallflowers" than usual. It made sense, sadly; many young men had enlisted.

"Sybil dear, I don't think I've seen you dance once!" her grandmother admonished, just to the right of her.

She turned her head to her grandmother and once again, forced a smile. She had been doing that throughout the entire Christmas holiday, and by now thought she was getting rather good at it. "I think I had too much pudding at dinner, Granny; my stomach is a little sore."

"Oh you and pudding," her grandmother grumbled. Sybil's fake smile disappeared into a frown, but she didn't have time to rebuke, because Carson was standing before her and bowing.

"May I have the honor of this dance, milady?"

"Oh go on," Granny urged. "It will do your figure some good."

Sybil bit her lip to keep herself from hurling back an insult, and forced another sweet smile, this time at Carson, before taking his hand and allowing him to lead her to the dance floor. She could dance at least one dance, for tradition's sake, with the butler.

"A fine party," Carson congratulated, as if she had anything to do with it.

"Yes, I do think Mrs. Hughes did a fine job in organizing it," Sybil agreed.

Was it her imagination? Or had Carson stumbled slightly at the mention of the housekeeper's name? "Yes, well…" he cleared his throat. "And her Ladyship, of course," he added quickly. Oh Carson; loyal to the end, giving all the credit to those above him.

"I beg your pardon, milady, but may I speak freely?"

Sybil was surprised by Carson's question, but she quickly nodded her head. This should be good.

"You seem to be in a state of…low spirits," he explained.

Ever observant. "I think I ate too much pudding at dinner," Sybil explained, choosing to go with her previous lie.

Carson pursed his lips, his brow only furrowing further. "Beg your pardon, milady, but…I am not merely speaking of this evening. You seem to have been in low spirits for…quite some time now."

He wasn't wrong, but she couldn't very well tell him the reason, now could she? Yes Carson, I am in low spirits; I have been ever since I learned Branson would not be able to attend the Servant's Ball. I've only waited to dance with him for a year. And the only time he and I have danced have been in my dreams…

Her cheeks burned as she recalled that all too vivid dream, the night after her coming out ball.

"It's the War," Sybil explained. That wasn't entirely untruthful. "They had said it would be over by Christmas…and yet here we are, in a new year, and it still rages on."

Her answer seemed to satisfy the butler, although it made Sybil feel incredibly guilty. She would ask for God's forgiveness later, before going to bed. "I have no doubt our English boys will come out victorious, milady."

She tried to smile at his words, but she didn't have Carson's blind faith. "Perhaps; but how long will that be? How many will have to suffer until that victory is won? And what about the others?"

Carson's brow furrowed. "Others, milady?"

Sybil nodded her head. "Yes; you mentioned 'our English boys', but what about our allies? Or our Welsh boys, our Scottish boys, our…" her voice caught, "…our Irish boys?" She needed to retreat to her room. She could feel the sobs building up in her chest, ready to explode like a blubbering mass.

Carson looked down at her with sympathetic eyes. Sybil was surprised by the look; it was one he normally reserved for Mary, and Mary alone. "You have a great heart, milady," he murmured with reverence. "I won't pretend I understand half of the 'causes' you rally behind, or that I agree with all of them…but…I cannot deny that I do admire your courage, and your steadfast heart."

Sybil felt a few tears run down her cheeks. It was the sweetest thing the old butler had ever said to her. "Thank you, Carson," she managed to say, wrapping her arms around the man's waist and giving him a fierce hug, before turning and retreating from the room, trying her best not to make a scene. She wanted to be alone right now.

Upon reaching her room, she was surprised to see a small figure, kneeling in a corner by the fireplace, attempting to light the evening fire. "Daisy?"

The kitchen maid gasped and leapt to her feet. "Oh! I…I…I'm sorry, milady! I thought I still had time before anyone came upstairs—"

"It's alright," Sybil reassured. "I was just surprised. I thought you would be at the ball?"

Daisy shook her head. "Well, I was, briefly, but…I needed to get this done and your room is the last and…" her voice trailed off. The poor girl wasn't supposed to be seen upstairs, and she clearly looked shaken.

"Don't worry, Daisy. You just finish your work and then get some rest."

Daisy gave a small curtsey. "Thank you, milady," she whispered, before adding under her breath, "I always said you were nice." Sybil blushed at the girl's words, but didn't want to disrupt her work, so sat down at her dressing table and began removing her jewelry while Daisy finished building the fire. Within a matter of minutes, a fire was roaring to life and quickly warming the room.

"Thank you, Daisy," Sybil smiled as the kitchen maid gathered her supplies. "Goodnight."

Daisy smiled back, and was about to slip out of the room, before pausing and turning back to face Sybil. "Beggin' your pardon, milady…"

Sybil looked up at the girl, surprised. "Yes?"

Daisy nibbled her lip, shifting somewhat uncomfortably on her feet. "I…well…we received a letter this morning…"

"We?"

Daisy nodded her head. "The servants," she explained. "It came from…from Mr. Branson."

Sybil felt her breath catch. Branson had written to them? She missed Gwen terribly, but especially at moments like this. In the past, Branson could have written her a letter and simply send it to Gwen, who would make sure she received it. Now that Gwen was gone, Sybil wasn't sure who she could trust as deeply to exchange such letters.

"He wished us all a Happy Christmas and New Year," Daisy explained. "And wrote to tell us that he and his family are having a wonderful holiday as well."

Sybil smiled at this, glad that he was. She missed him, and she was disappointed that they couldn't share a dance tonight, but deep down, she was very happy that he had this time to be with all of them. "I'm very happy to hear that," she murmured. "Thank you for sharing that with me, Daisy."

Daisy smiled, but then a deep blush flooded her cheeks. "And…beggin' your pardon, milady, but…he also wanted me to pass this message on to you, if I saw you by yourself."

The girl's words were practically a whisper, and Sybil found herself leaning in close to understand. "W-what?" she stammered slightly. What had Branson asked the kitchen maid to say?

"Only that…that he's sorry he couldn't be here, tonight, to…" she blushed very deeply then. "To teach you an Irish jig, and show you off, properly."

A laugh escaped Sybil's throat then. Daisy practically jumped at the sound. "Thank you, Daisy," Sybil managed to say before her laughter took hold. "Thank you for sharing that…it's…it's a private, inside joke," she explained. She knew she could trust the kitchen maid's discretion.

Daisy nodded her head and bobbed one last curtsey, before shutting the door and leaving Sybil alone to her giggles. Oh Branson…wonderful, cheeky Branson! He had just given her the best Christmas present of all!

Sybil fell back onto her bed and laughed some more, while memories of Branson boasting about his dance skills filled her head. She let out another loud laugh as she recalled him telling her he had once won a prize in school for dancing. But despite all the laughter, she did feel such warmth, especially around her heart. He hadn't forgotten her; in the midst of family and friends and holiday festivities in his home country, he had managed to send her a message and tell her, without saying the exact words…that he missed her…and wished he could be there with her, tonight, at the Servant's Ball.

"Oh Tom…" she whispered, wrapping her arms around her body and hugging herself fiercely, imagining his arms instead.