Another hole plugged – this conversation occurs after the hospital scenes in DA2 episode 2. Thanks Myrtis Violette for the suggestion of a talk in the car (well this one is out of the car). Comments, reviews and pointing out more holes to fill welcomed. Enjoy!

Chapter 3 – What Exactly Do You Mean?

May 1917

Did she really mean she couldn't go back to her life before the war? Branson wondered as he drove down the road between the estate and the village. Her few months as a nurse had opened a new window onto the world and she was clearly seeing things she could have never imagined from inside the hermetic realm of Downton. What she was witnessing about how decisions of those in power affect the lives of many innocent men was clearly shifting her values. And if that was how she truly felt, it gave him hope that perhaps he was right that she would be willing to leave a life of privilege behind. That was at least a good sign he nodded to himself. Additionally, the fact that she didn't want to reveal his intimate declaration to her parents or Mr. Carson, which would surely have gotten him dismissed, also gave him hope that she cared for him in some fashion. But he was also looking for a sign that it was more than just their friendly rapport. He couldn't know just yet, he'd just have to be patient.

He could tell she was changing, but too bad her parents did not seem to notice these things about their youngest daughter. Lady Grantham had dispatched him to ferry her from the hospital back to Downton. She had already informed her mother on more than one occasion that she preferred to walk back home, but her Ladyship insisted on sending the chauffeur to collect her daughter. He had been called to Lady Grantham's sitting room where she instructed him that he had to "be sure she comes on time to dress for dinner. Her father is counting on her presence, it gives him a sense of continuity with life before the war." But he knew Sybil would be more than annoyed by their overbearing insistence, but he had to do his duty.

One last patient to see before she finished her shift, fortunately for this one officer she only needed to administer his medicines rather than change his bandages as had been her duties most of the day. Thankfully it went quickly, as she was exhausted. It had been another busy day with soldiers arriving with new wounds and others being shipped out. The number of patients had increased sevenfold since she started at the Cottage Hospital.

Once done, she went to the small room where the nurses kept their belongings. She removed her cap, folded it and put it on a shelf. She grabbed her coat and hat, and rushed out of the door into the courtyard. She still had about an hours worth of daylight, so if she walked briskly she could get home before dark. Once home, she would race upstairs, change into an evening dress, and slip into the sitting room just before the family went into dinner. That was about as much she could muster after a taxing double shift tending the wounded men crowded into the hospital's cramped wards.

As she set off through the village the spring air was fragrant with the smell of budding trees and early blooms. She liked to walk back home after a grueling day. The peacefulness of the journey gave her time to mentally adjust from din of the hospital—the chaos of everyone moving about, the noises and smells of men's lives in the balance. The chasm between the shear physicality of her work and the languid life of Downton could only be brokered during these walks. Her mother, however, was none too keen on the daughter of the Earl Grantham walking home from work like one of the servants. "At least you could allow me to send Branson to pick you up in the evenings," her mother pleaded for some modicum of civility in exchange for allowing her to serve as a nurse. Would Mama never let up," she wondered. The one positive outcome of her mother's meddling was that if Branson were to pick her up, then she was glad that she could still talk to her friend. His insights were even more important now that she had taken her first steps into the world of work. She needed him in her corner. How much she relied on his support and advice amidst the chaos of wartime was beginning to surprise even her.

Just outside the village limits he noticed a figure walking along the road, as he drove closer he recognized the woman's blue coat and realized it was Lady Sybil. She had decided to walk home. He slowed down and put on the brake and politely informed her: "milady your mother insisted I bring you home in time for dinner."

She threw up her hands and huffed "what does Mama not understand?"

"Sorry but I'm just the messenger."

"I know, I know," she said apologetically. She then looked down and kicked the dirt, "Why don't they listen to a word I say?"

He wasn't sure how to respond. He had been polite to her, but dare not return to their familiar rapport prior to her time in York. He only offered: "I'm sure her Ladyship has your best interests at heart."

"Oh, so you're siding with them now are you?" she accused him. Thinking that perhaps he was erring on their side because she had rejected his affections.

He decided to get out the automobile and stood rigidly in his pose of service, hand behind his back: "I side with no one, I am merely fulfilling my duty, which is to bring you home for dinner." He opened the car door and gestured for her to step in, "Please milady."

She stood on her side of the road, put her hands on her hips, and declared: "I chose to walk and walk I shall." And she turned to continue on her way.

"Argh, bloody hell," he said under his breath. He got back into the car to turn it around. Once he was heading back in the direction of Downton he drove past her and then stopped. He jumped out, took off his hat and threw it on to the seat. He ran back to her. "Look would you please stop. Just stop and get into the motorcar," he pointed toward the vehicle.

"Why should I," she asked defiantly.

"Because I'm to bring you home so that you can be on time for dinner," he repeated his charge.

"But why is Mama being so insistent?" she queried him.

"You will have to take that up with her Ladyship," he wisely decided to stay out of this family tiff.

"I will do just that when I get home," she tried to walk around him. But he would not let her and held up his palm to stop her.

"Look, would you please stop."

"Tell me then why should I?"

"If you need to know it's apparently important for his Lordship to feel that the war has not disrupted everything in his home," he finally revealed her mother's intentions. Sybil could be annoyingly implacable when she wanted her way and this was one of those times when she was going to make it more difficult than the situation required. As the sun was beginning to set, there they stood arguing in the middle of the road.

"Is that what Mama told you? How can they be so unfeeling?" she couldn't believe that her parents were ignoring how the war was ravaging the lives of so many around them. Poor William had just been called up. How could they insist on these formal meals together when the world around them was flying apart into a million pieces.

"If you don't mind my saying, I really don't think they're being unfeeling. Quite the contrary," he calmly replied. Perhaps she was being too harsh on her parents, they simply wanted to have their family near in a time of crisis. As someone far from home and his family, he could sympathize with them in that regard.

"What hasn't the war disrupted? You certainly don't believe that things should go on as before?" she emphatically asked. He was being stubborn not engaging her question.

"As I said they are being quite reasonable. Anyway this seems to be more about your independence than anything else," he tried to get down to the root of the problem at hand.

"Well I do wish mother hadn't send you to hover over me. I can walk home on my own steam I assure you."

"As you know I have the utmost faith in your determination. And believe me I'm by no means trying to hover over you," he replied put off by her accusation. In fact he'd expressly tried to avoid her these past few months.

"Well thank you for the vote of confidence, but you are still avoiding my question," she challenged him wanting to know what he thought.

"I am not avoiding your question, as I said I think they are being reasonable. They merely wish to have their daughter present for the family dinner," he lobbed back at her. He remembered from his childhood that trying to catch fish with his bare hands was much easier than trying to reason with her when she got a particular notion stuck in her head.

"And I'm asking you if you think life, even dinners with the family, should go on as before this horrid war began?" she exclaimed and knitted her brow.

From that look on her face, he could tell she was getting angry. Part of him wanted to jump back in the motorcar and return to Downton to avoid this unnecessary confrontation. However another part of him did not want to lose this argument with her, plus he suspected there was something else at the bottom of her prickliness. "I think they are two different issues—one's about your family and the other's about the world beyond."

"And they aren't one in the same?" she kept prodding.

That did it. He was tired of this elliptical conversation and her sophomoric behavior. He was just trying to do his job and she was turning it into an ideological battle. "Blast woman! Why are you making this so difficult?" he replied exasperated at her resolve to stay on her course to get home on foot.

She folded her arms. "Well don't yell at me Tom Branson. You started it!"

"I started it? What do you mean I started it!" he said taken aback by where this argument was heading when all he wanted to do was get her home as he had been asked.

"You once told me that my family typifies why the aristocracy would lead the world into war. You claimed that it was the old monarchies of Europe who weren't allowing the people to have a say in how they are governed. You said that the peasants and workers would overthrow those who ruled. As you may recall, I didn't believe you then and stood my ground. I wasn't going to budge. Surely you remember our little disagreement?"

He remembered that heated argument well and she was succinct in her recollection of what he had said. He thought she might just slug him because he had made accusations about her inherited rank that were brutally honest—particularly caustic words for the chauffeur to say to his mistress. But she defended her family and position with great gusto he recalled. She could be tough and resilient. In these heated moments he found her immensely attractive, especially her quick wit and her sharp retorts. "Of course I remember our 'discussion.'" What he really meant to say was "fight," but didn't want to throw kerosene on their current disagreement.

"Well, now I understand why you said that and what you meant," she confessed. "Yesterday, you saw all the soldiers coming into the hospital. Limbs torn off, eyes ripped out of their sockets—grisly wouldn't even begin to characterize what bullets and bombs have done to their wretched bodies."

"Indeed a sad sight that was," he agreed as his mind flashed back to the injured men sitting outside the hospital wall and the newly arrived patients limping into its wards. It was a harrowing scene. He was sorry she had to witness such carnage. But he also respected her bravery at being in the frontlines of their care and added: "But you are there and I'm sure they are grateful."

She looked away for a moment and bit her lip. At the root of her agitation she realized were recent revelations about what she had been observing in the course of her duties. She needed to share what was on her mind with someone. Her sisters wouldn't understand the questions swirling inside her head. But he would. So she began, "you know in the evenings before I go to bed I read father's newspapers. I look over the pages. Headline after headline proclaim the noble cause of this great war." She sighed heavily, "quite honestly I no longer see what's so honorable about having half your face blown off."

It was a chilling observation for her to make. All he could do was listen intently.

"I know Papa wants to fight. He looks at Cousin Matthew and desperately wants to join him in the trenches. But I also know that other men, his peers don't want to go and would rather send these lads off to die for them. So you see you were right about them, about the nobility. They should no longer rule. The old ways of doing things, even my family's dinners, must change. We can't go back. That's why I'm not so keen on being home each night. I'd rather be working where I'm needed, doing something useful." Toiling all day in the wards had taught her far more in a few months, than she had learned in all her years at Downton. She had taken his words seriously and listened to what he was trying to tell her. She had had no frame of reference to gauge his strong stance—until now.

She really was leaving her old life behind. He was impressed by how perceptive she had become about the interconnectedness of international politics and everyday life far from the battlefields. He appreciated that she was willing to tell him what she was encountering, thinking, feeling. It somehow drew her closer to him. He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to give you a hard time." Then he added slowly and deliberately: "I just think his Lordship and her Ladyship care about you and want you near in these difficult times—as any parent would."

She cracked a smile and gave an inch, "of course they do and you are quite right. I'm fortunate to have parents who care."

Happy to have calmed the turbulent waters, he finally replied, "and to answer your question, of course life has changed for all of us. For you, for me." Then he had a revelation of his own to tell her: "I could be called up any time myself. And truth be told I don't know just yet what I'm going to do when it happens." He had never told anyone at Downton his moral dilemma about conscription, but he trusted her.

Upon hearing his words, she remembered her previous panic at the prospect of him dying in battle and chill came across her. The color drained from her cheeks.

"What's wrong, are you alright? You seem unwell suddenly. Are you cold, shall I give you my jacket?" he perceptively noticed a change in her demeanor and appearance. She gazed up at him and stared into his caring eyes with a look of utter desperation.

"Called up? You can't…" she gasped as her heart skipped a beat at the thought of him going off to war to be maimed or killed. Then she quickly composed herself and wiped her brow. "Yes, thank you for asking. I'll be fine. It's been a long day. I think I'm just hungry. I wonder what Mrs. Patmore has prepared. Here I am wasting your time about nothing, you'd better get me home."

"It was more than nothing. I'm glad I was here to listen to what you've been encountering in your new work. I really do admire your determination and commitment."

They stood looking at one another not sure what else to say. Eventually as twilight approached they walked back to the motorcar. He opened the door and she stepped in. After their passionate exchange in the middle of the road, they drove back to the house in silence—both were deep in thought.

She was glad they had ended their disagreement on good terms. She smiled as she watched the fresh spring landscape pass by—it was the first time that she had any inkling of what her feelings for him really meant.

He was pleased that they had found common ground in the end. He smiled as he drove the car up to the front door—it was the first time she had called him by his first name "Tom."