They could so substitute Sybil and Branson for Christian and Satine in Moulin Rouge. Think about it - star-crossed lovers, he an idealistic, revolutionary minded poor boy, her a succesful girl trapped in a lifestyle she's somewhat ill-suited to...there are similarities.
If anyone fancied making a mock-up trailer...
1.
"I'll speak to my father, you know."
Two weeks, maybe three, he hasn't really been keeping track of time lately. He's been…preoccupied. But the weather's starting to slip into cold, there's a crisp in the air, and Sybil's wrapped in some great-great-aunt's luxurious fur coat (which she insists is awfully cruel but so very, very warm) as they sit together on the bench overlooking the estate, one stolen moment of time. She's offered to share it with him, wouldn't be Sybil if she didn't, and he's refused. Far more stoic that way.
Besides, with his driver's gloves on she'll never tell that his fingers are blue with cold.
"Not immediately, of course," she adds hastily, "and not quite so bluntly, as Granny would most likely have a fit and Mama would faint and Papa would sling you out on your ear without a decent reference before the day was out; but I will. You'll see." Her hand nervously inches over to his, squeezes tightly. They're neither of them quite sure to behave - Sybil's sheltered existence has never allowed a courtship beyond kisses on hands and flowered words, and he…well there's been the odd romance between parlour maids and shop girls, nothing to get too hot and heavy over, simply because he's always thought there was something more important. Besides, this is different. She's a lady. She's Lady Sybil. He often finds himself quite at a loss as to what he should do with his hands when he's around her.
…Oh, not like that.
Not that it's not an issue. He thinks about it sometimes – alright, a lot. He knows what's said about ladies who aren't virtuous, doesn't want her name coupled with scandal and rumour, would never do anything like that. Still, he's a man after all. His dreams have been getting very predictable of late.
Sybil nudges him gently and he blushes, horrified she might have somehow read his thoughts. But no, she's smiling. "You'll see. I'm not giving up without a fight." Her own cheeks colour, and her eyes drop as she smiles bashfully. "I'm not giving up without you."
Somewhere, deep down in his heart, he knows this can't last. That all they have – shared moments together, secret looks, snatched kisses in the hallways when no-one's around – won't last long, not for a moment. That continuing down this road simply won't work.
But right now it doesn't matter that he might lose his job over this, that she might end up in disgrace, that really, there's no honest future in this, in them. Right now all he cares about is that she's willing to fight for him; because she's got enough fight in her for the both of them.
2.
"Did you have many siblings?"
"Five brothers, two sisters. It used to get pretty noisy in our house at mealtimes, I can tell you! But the girls are pretty far apart, age-wise, they're not as – flung together as Lady Mary and Lady Edith."
"Lucky them."
"What about your childhood?"
"Pleasant enough. Mary used to create most of the dramas in our family. Oh, but I remember this one time, I was quite young, we were down at the village fair and Papa met one of his farmers going by with a pack of dogs, all different colours and sizes, only to hear him say they were all going to be killed the next day. I was so upset, I waited until no-one was watching and then smuggled the smallest puppy home in my little basket. I kept him hidden in my room for two whole weeks before he broke loose – my parents were furious!" She giggles, and then begins to sober. "Then Papa told me the reason the dogs had to be put down was because they had rabies, and had to be killed for the tenants' sakes, as well as ours. Golly, I cried for days after that."
Tom squeezes his arms tenderly around her, which brings a smile to her lips. It's a quiet day, quiet enough for her to beg Christmas shopping as an excuse for her to slip swiftly down to his cottage, a swift walk from the house. They're in what might be considered a parlour, a tiny, cosy little room with tiny, cosy seats; she half-perched in his lap with an abandoned book of Romeo and Juliet resting on her knees (while his collection of political and historical literature is commendable, she is taking it upon herself to introduce him to the glory of the Bard, no matter how many times he rolls his eyes. He, on the other hand, laughs fondly at her failure with anything mechanical, and swears that one day he'll teach her to drive). Just sitting, talking, sharing secrets. Sybil's beginning to prefer this room to any of the grand chambers at Downton.
She knows of girls who have done this sort of thing before, clandestine romances with members of staff or tenant farmers, for the rush, the illicit thrill of forbidden love, star-crossed lovers in the night. It brings a sour taste to her mouth. Honestly. As if love was a game, and those men a toy, to be caressed and petted and then flung away when they're not needed. For all these women's whispers over the thrill of secrecy, the horror that they may be discovered and shamed at any moment, they know they aren't truly endangered. Their part in the game will be hushed up, glossed over with strategic marriages (which of course they will happily go into, now that their fun is over) it will be their poor, pitiful lovers who suffer for it.
If they were discovered tomorrow she would jolly well keep that promise she made to Papa all those months ago after the count, walk after Tom with her head held high and not look back.
"Tell me another secret," she requests softly, resting the flat of her palm against his neck, feeling the faint beat of a pulse beneath her thumb. She really should be going, Mama's planning a New Year's cocktail party that she wants help with, is audibly scheming to introducing her to some 'absolutely fascinating diplomat's son – from Brazil, darling, you'll love him'. But she can't quite bring herself to mention it to him. She's not strong enough for that.
He plants a kiss delicately against her palm, folds her fingers over it. "You're the best woman I know," he whispers, "and that's not a secret." And with that he strokes his fingers against her hair, as if he relishes the feel of it, and rests his mouth against hers.
3.
"Gracious," Anna comments as he pops into the kitchen one morning after driving old lady Grantham around, hat stuck at a jaunty angle, whistling cheerfully. "You do seem cheerful all of a sudden, Mister Branson."
He does rather like Anna, a kind-eyed sisterly soul who never passes by a soul in need if she can help it – even if he does want to shake her and poor old Bates by the shoulders and tell them for the love of God to get their act together; because all their darting around and sharing secret smiles and lingering looks is incredibly distracting – and yes, given the circumstances, he knows it's very hypocritical of him. But honestly.
"It's a nice day, Anna."
"No, but really." Hand on hip, she narrows her eyes at him as he makes a grab for the paper. "You've been going around all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for a while now."
"Is it a girl?" This from Daisy, dreamier than ever and plaintively dictating letters to Mrs Hughes to send to William every week. "Is it? Oh, wouldn't that be romantic?"
"Now then Daisy," he winks. "Where'd I have time for a sweetheart, eh?"
Mrs Hughes is watching him with a steely look that could strike down buildings. He pretends to ignore her.
4.
The snow's landed, crisp and white, in a thick veil over the entirety of Downton when Mama approaches, letter in hand, fairly shaking with excitement. Christopher Donnally. Father rather important in the House of Lords, mother the survivor of a rather shady past but positively dripping with money, darling. And yes, I know you seem to have some sort of ridiculous abhorrence against anyone with a title or money, although why I simply do not know, but he's a lovely man. Charming, almost dashing, very well read. A friend of that dear Mr Napier, do you remember him? (She does, a very nice man who most definitely did not deserve to be passed over by Mary in favour of flirting with the admittedly far more beautiful Mr Pamuk). And his mother, a darling if not somewhat eccentric creature, has asked if he might stay for a few weeks while he's up in the country on business. Won't you be a darling and look after him, Sybil dear?
She sighs heavily. She's already promised to spend whatever she can with Tom, reading, going for long, aimless drives in the country, whatever takes their fancy. But she's already escaped Mama's dinner parties two incidents in a row now, she's bound to get suspicious. Carson's already started to look at her oddly when she tries to sneak out the door, he's somehow always there just when he's not needed. And besides, Mama does need a rest, a favour. The house has been especially gloomy, ever since Cousin Isobel let it slip that Matthew is thinking of enlisting. Mary spends most of her evenings hiding in dark corners and concealing her tears, Edith smirks and wrings her hands all at once over the fate of poor old Sir Anthony, disappeared off to Russia on some sort of diplomatic mission. Papa's bewildered beyond belief and Granny simply tsks; and Mama's left to pick up the pieces.
Besides, she's optimistic, willing to believe the best in people. It's unfair to dismiss a man without even meeting him. She's sure he'll be perfectly nice, in that bland, pleasant way most of Mama's ensnarements usually are.
"Of course, Mama. You can count on me."
5.
He doesn't pay attention to the young man in the back of the car for the whole journey back from the station. Some poor sod they've imported in to cheer up Lady Mary, still suffering over the prospect of Mister Crawley being blown up in some dark corner of France, he guesses.
(He never even thinks of the notion that he might be for Sybil. This is what being around her has done to him, made him thoughtless)
He's in a good mood right up to the moment when the man steps out, when Lady Cora greets him with a radiant smile and then, before any of them can so much as blink, adroitly adds: 'And you remember me telling you about my darling daughter Sybil, of course?'
(My darling Sybil, he wants to mutter)
She doesn't seem taken aback by what appears to be something of an ambush, smiles that bright, charming smile as she softly welcomes the young man to Downton, enquires after his journey, makes some witty little comment that he can't hear but summons laughter from all those surrounding her. She knew this was set up. She didn't tell him.
(Maybe that's what hurts the most)
When they move to go into the house the man offers her his arm. After a second of hesitation she slips her hand into the crook of his elbow.
(No. It turns out that that hurts the most)
The look she shoots him over her shoulder is rueful, utterly apologetic. He can barely summon up the flattest of smiles before turning to attend to the car.
6.
He's a nice man, a kind, decent soul, and that worries her more than all the other pig-headed, boorish, stuck-in-the-mud types that have been pushed towards her over the months. There's none of the fierce passion that infects her Tom's voice when he starts talking on rights and equality, but a gentle conviction, a soft patience that seems dependable and solid and sweet. Tall, well-built, a sweep of dark hair and a wry grin. And Mama was right, he is very charming. He recites Shakespeare by heart and can quote Keats at the drop of a hat.He's utterly disarming. Her parents beam all through dinner.
Sybil finds she gets on with him extremely well, and that frightens her. It cannot happen.
Drastic measures need to be taken, clearly.
"What do you think of women getting the vote?" she enquires sweetly. It's a dirty trick, and well-practised, one she picked up quite by accident in London. The simple question will convince any bore that she's some radical, crazed hair-raiser, and drive him off without so much as a breath of effort on her part. Surely this will push him away too, free her from this confusion.
To her utter shock, he smiles.
"To be perfectly honest," he replies, "I find those women to be incredibly brave."
Her grip loosens on the champagne glass she's currently holding; it nearly slips from her grasp.
"Don't mention it to my father. He's an awful stick in the mud," Christopher winks. "But we have to move with the times, yield to the inevitable changes. Why, what do you think on women and the vote?"
For the first time since she's even heard of the notion, she's utterly speechless.
7.
Sometimes he wants to take her away from all this, away from them, the landed aristocracy that think they're so much better than the rest of them. The Granthams are a decent lot, but he still remembers the way they looked at him after the count, the looks that spoke volumes. We think you're a decent chap, but remember who you are. You have a role to play, a place to fill. Stay in it. Sometimes he can't believe the one thing he wants to fight against is the one thing he's working for. Sometimes all he can think of when she steps in the car is driving away from here, far, far away. She's the best one of the lot. All he wants to do is take her away from them.
The next day he's called up to bring the car around, only to belatedly discover he's taking the Grantham family and their guest (the word sours in his mouth) on a picnic. Picnic his eye. Lord Grantham claims work, Lady Grantham oh-so suddenly remembers a much needed visit to the Dowager Countess' annex and drags a protesting Lady Edith away by the arm; Lady Mary walks to the car with a smirk on her face and then discovers she has to see to her beloved horse. He drives the two remaining figures to the woods with his teeth gritted so painfully he nearly cries out.
They seem to have a thoroughly enjoyable time from what he can see, sat sullenly in the car a good distance away, sat on a plaid blanket and laughing together. At one point Donally offers her a piece of cake while her hands are full, refuses to take no for an answer and finally pushes the morsel into her mouth himself.
He has to get out. Sometimes he thinks he just has to get away from here.
8.
Sybil finally corners Tom by the garage, sleeves rolled up, bent over the car's innards, working intently. His reply to her greeting is oddly muted; he can't quite meet her eyes.
"I haven't seen you up at the house recently. Don't tell me Papa's been threatening you with dismissal if you refuse to give up your socialist literature," she offers nervously, trying for levity.
"I've been busy," he says to the car's engine. "Both have, I reckon."
"Don't say that."
He glances up, manages a rueful smile, seems genuinely contrite. "Sorry."
Oh, it's not his fault. None of it is. If anything, it's all Mama's fault – Mama, who's been acting like the cat who's got the cream all week. Suddenly she feels a stab of guilt dig deep between her ribs. Christopher's a perfectly lovely man – she's sure he'll make some woman very lucky – but Tom's…her Tom. Nothing less than that. And she's been carrying on like some giddy child without a second thought for his feelings. It simply isn't fair.
"Listen," she says hastily, taking his face tenderly in her hands before he can move away from her again. "I know that this past week has been – well, distracted, but I've been helping Mama. That's all, nothing more." She feels him break into a smile beneath her fingertips, feels inspiration strike home. "Listen: tomorrow, after dinner, I'll claim I've a headache, come round to visit. We can catch up."
Somehow she knows the utter absurdity of her suggestion, what it might mean. A clandestine visit after dark – they've never done anything like this before. She knows what it means, what it might lead to. A flicker deep down inside whispers she doesn't care.
9.
He waits. Stupid word – he expects, he anticipates. He's nervous, so nervous that when he pours a cup of tea for himself half the liquid splashes out of the mug, because he can think of nothing more than what's going to happen when she comes, what's going to happen to them. So he's nervous, yes, and intrigued and desperate and excited; and so many emotions churn through him he can barely breathe.
He waits. Paces the length of the kitchen to kill time, flips idly through one of the books she's left behind at some point. Othello, he notes without paying much attention. Nine o'clock, ten o'clock. His breath halts in his throat occasionally. His hands dart to straighten some piece of furniture, a knickknack or two, even though he went over the cottage from top to bottom the second he returned, even begged an utterly bewildered Anna to check over every room in case there was something he might have missed. Eleven o'clock, twelve. He sits at the table, watching the dimming candle drip glowing slicks of wax.
When the clock on the mantelpiece strikes one, he knows she's not coming. He's never known how utterly poisonous jealousy can be, how cold it makes you, how powerless.
10.
She wears a new dress for the occasion – not her beautiful sea-coloured trouser suit, the one he's complimented so many times, but something new, and simple. Something that makes her beautiful, elegant, a woman. She has Anna dress her hair three times, all different styles before she's satisfied, allowing her hair to fall naturally over her shoulders like some mythical lady from Camelot. She doesn't quite know what she's doing, only that she wants everything to be so right.
Dinner passes too quickly. She's just about to beg leave from Mama when Christopher Donnally leans forward, asks if he might have her time for just a moment, as he has a rather fascinating case of a farmer he knew who's worked from near poverty up to the House of Commons.
The words slip between them, as do the hours. She doesn't realise how late it is until Papa gives her a nudge.
Mary's waiting for her in her room when she finally goes up, ready to snatch a coat and be off; eager for gossip. "Well, you were certainly enjoying yourself, weren't you?" she remarks tartly, but fondly. "In future, Sybil, I might try to talk a little less; a man can't kiss you while you're chattering away like a parrot. Good heavens, it's nearly two in the morning!"
Her eyes widen. Cold slips through her bones. "What? But it can't be!" Even as Anna enters, beginning to unpin her dress, she shakes herself wildly. "I have to – I have to go – "
"What? Don't be ridiculous, you need to sleep." Mary gives a little laugh. "And don't seem so scandalised, darling, we've been to parties that lasted far longer than this. It's not that late."
But she can't shake the feeling that it is, far, far too late.
11.
He feels sick. God knows, he probably looks it – awake reading all night, eyes darting to the open window and the ground below, hoping she might come and knowing she won't, until Miss O'Brien, who's mellowed since Thomas left, still finds it in her heart to acidly remark that he looks like 'a ghost sickening for something' – but most of all he feels it. Sick, right to the stomach.
"Where were you last night?" he asks, attempting to sound casual and failing miserably. They're alone in the library, a precious moment shattered too soon.
"I told you." They've been over this before, but every time she answers she looks away it cuts just that little bit deeper. She looks guilty, guilty of something. "I was talking with the company and couldn't get away." She looks at him, imploring. "It means nothing."
He remembers a quote from that book she left. O, beware, my lord, of jealousy! It is the green-eyed monster, which doth mock the meat it feeds on. He'd not given it much thought; suddenly it's now all he can think of. And today he can feel it, mingled with that fresh scent of rain and wind and books that he always associates with her, that sweet, warm, heady taste of a lie.
Without thinking he pulls her into his arms, presses his mouth against hers just that little bit rougher, needing to taste her, to feel her, regardless of who else might come in. God, he missed her, missed her so very much last night he can barely think. He groans softly into the kiss as she responds. It would be easy, so very easy to push that little bit further, undo everything and ruin each other in the process. It's everything he wants, reckless, impossible, so very frightening.
Almost sick with wanting, he lets her go abruptly. Whatever this was, full of lightness and gentle friendliness and tentative affection is suddenly alarming and fierce and consuming; jealousy taints everything until it's black.
"If I were wasting my time," he whispers quietly, and doesn't even feel shame when his voice shakes just that little bit (even though he knows he is, knows they're both wasting their time), "you'd tell me, wouldn't you?"
Sybil shakes her head, her dark eyes suddenly damp. "Please don't speak like this."
But what else can he say? They both know it, both feel it slipping away from them. It's strange and inevitable; perhaps the first time he realises there's no hope for them anymore.
12.
"For heavens' sakes, Tom, you needn't be so," too late, the door's already slamming behind him, leaving her standing numbly in the servants' corridor, "…ridiculous."
Sybil doesn't even know what's happening to her anymore. Brusque conversations, hurt looks, they can barely look each other in the eye anymore. When they kiss she feels as cold as ice. A simple comment – one about Christopher's MP fellow – leads to an argument, explosive and damning, culminates in the bitterest of words. That she's just like every other bored lord's daughter, killing time by looking for some dangerous fun before she moves on to her real life.
Her eyes tighten with desperation as she leans back against the wall, utterly helpless.
Of course he'll come back, press kisses against her palms, they'll both beg forgiveness and claim to forget. And lie when they say everything will be alright.
There's precious little joy in this anymore. What other girls might find exciting – the lies to her parents, sneaking out to sit and talk with him – she finds sad. There's no happy ending here for them, she knows better than to expect the ending of a novel, the poor stable boy finding happiness with the princess. While things stay as they are there's no acceptance for them, no hope.
Once she was determined to fight. Now she finds she's losing her strength.
13.
"If you love her," Mrs Hughes hisses, "let her go."
"How can I?" he mutters back, more angry than sad. It isn't fair. In the past few months the housekeeper's been what you might call a confidante, in a bizarre sort of way – provided they never speak of the matter outright. No names, no details, nothing that could ever be construed as anything other than a vague series of inscrutable comments. But she knows well enough.
Usually she reminds him of how foolish he is and then moves on. Tonight however she bars his way to the car.
"You might have nothing to lose," she remarks rather tartly, "but she has everything. Have you ever thought of that?"
He doesn't reply. What more is there to say?
14.
The Valentine's Day ball – organised by Mama, who's fairly grinning like the cat who's pinched the cream and found a mouse within – slips through her fingers like silk. Clad in red, the perfect colour for a lover, she stands miserably on the sidelines, watches as couples come and go. Edith's found a new suitor, a fumbling, bashful type with a shock of red hair who seems just her type; Mary's once more quarrelling with Matthew, visiting for the week but determined to leave for the front the moment his papers arrive. Mama and Papa are dancing slowly, caressing each other softly with their eyes. All she's left with is aching. She shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be here, should be at the cottage, the car, anywhere with him. She briefly toys with the idea of slipping Anna or Bates a message for him, dismisses it out of hand. Her options are running out.
Towards the evening Christopher approaches and announces that he and a couple of friends, a perfectly charming couple from diplomatic circles, are going for a quick spin in the twilight in his new motor; would she care to join them? Granny's watching, eagle-eyed, she can't say no.
When they step outside he's waiting by the car to take Granny home. His eyes widen when he sees her, and then turns abruptly away.
She knows he can't see her, but nevertheless mouths the word 'sorry' after him as they leave.
She doesn't see it as she enters the car, the moment when he breaks.
15.
"Oh, Tom, no!"
Ever since Thomas – the old Thomas, the one he could barely look at without wanting to smack that smirk off his face – left the staff have taken to call him Tom. He's found he rather likes it, particularly when Mrs Hughes does it. He feels like one of her lost souls to mother, which is an odd feeling for a grown man, but pleasant all the same. Now, however, she just sounds sad, despairing, when she comes to the door of his little cottage and he opens it, resplendent in the uniform of a corporal in the British Army.
"You said it yourself." He tries to keep a note of jauntiness to his voice, fails miserably. "You told me I have to leave her alone."
"I meant keep your distance, lad!" She throws up her hands in alarm; her Scottish accent is always the most pronounced when she's agitated. "Not – this!"
"I tried; it didn't come off." He sighs, shaking his head, realising just how exhausted he suddenly is. "It's not just her. I have to get away from here Mrs Hughes. It's everything I'm against, and being here, working for everything I oppose – " wanting it, needing it, "It's driving me out of my mind."
"As an amputation of the soul, I must say, it's rather extreme."
"Maybe, but at least I know it'll work."
Mrs Hughes smiles bleakly, shakes her head. The papers are sent off and everything's organised after all, what else is there to do? All of a sudden she presses her hand briefly against his cheek, as if he were a boy of ten. "You write to us, every day, until you're home safe."
He nods, is about to go and change when he finds himself enveloped in a matronly hug. He returns it. Against all odds it seems as if he has a family here. Sybil's not the only person he's walking out on.
"I don't know what you're going to tell Lady Sybil," Mrs Hughes remarks quite primly, the first time she's ever mentioned her name to him.
He doesn't either. That's the frightening part.