Note from author: Thank you for all your encouraging reviews. I've finally found some time and inspiration to continue this story. I will try to keep the chapters coming if they're liked.
Chapter 4
As the motor rolled to a stop in front of the Abbey, Branson silenced the engine and sat for a long, thoughtful moment watching the rain pelt fiercely against the windscreen. Squeezing the steering column, he resisted the temptation to glance behind him and, with sheer force of will, wrested himself from his seat into the torrential rain, quickly rounding the car, his shoulders hunched against the downpour. He unlatched the passenger door and held out a hand, reminding himself to breathe as Sybil slid her fingers over his. Hesitantly accepting his aid, she stepped into the deluge alongside him.
Branson couldn't tear his eyes away from her. She looked almost ethereal in the mist, droplets of water staining her cheeks like tears. Paying no mind to the weather, Sybil stood rooted to the spot, regarding the closed door to her home rather warily. She swallowed and turned her sad gaze from the looming house to face him, blinking through the rain to share his torment. Tom opened his mouth to reassure her but found his voice replaced by Mr Carson's baritone exclamations. "My dear Lady Sybil, saints preserve us! You'll catch your death! Come along inside and I'll have Daisy fix some tea to warm you."
Shaking open a large black umbrella, Mr Carson trotted towards them, placing a fatherly arm about Sybil's person leading her towards shelter. Tom felt his stomach drop at the thought of letting her go and managed to give Sybil's fingers a light squeeze before she was wrenched away. Standing in the cold, rain dripping from his cap, watching the woman he loved being escorted away to a place he couldn't follow - Tom felt utterly helpless. He hadn't imagined it would be so hard bringing her back to Downton, for however short a time, but as Sybil looked back over her shoulder imparting a warm smile, the promise of one word kept him going - "Soon."
Sybil left Carson in the lobby and trudged dazedly towards the staircase. "Sybil dear?" Blast! Sybil rolled her eyes at her granny's distant summons and stopped in her tracks. She needed time to catch her breath and wasn't sure she was entirely equal to the task of performing just yet. Sighing, Sybil turned on her heels back towards to the drawing room, patting her chignon and tucking a few stray damp locks neatly under her headscarf.
Her grandmother was perched, afternoon tea in hand, on the adjacent chair to her mother, their heads together like a pair of gossip-mongering confederates. Judging by the thinly veiled curiosity plastered on their faces, Sybil suspected she was top of the list.
"Ah Sybil, you're back. Your mother and I ..." A frown formed on her grandmother's feather-capped forehead. "Good heavens, what on earth have you been up to?"
Sybil's eyes widened, fearing the secrets of her heart were somehow visible for all to see.
"Your petticoat is disgraceful," said Violet aghast, pointing a gloved finger at Sybil's skirt.
Sybil glanced down to find her hem caked with mud from the farmyard, a stark reminder of her day with Tom.
"Don't tell me you've decided to take up farming like your sister," her grandmother sniffed.
"No of course not," Sybil refuted, flushing. "I ... the rain ..." she stammered, trying to think of an excuse.
"I hope you didn't meet your soldier friend looking so dishevelled," Cora admonished.
"Indeed," Violet concurred. "One doesn't catch fish with a shabby net."
Sybil's head began to ache and she rubbed her temple at the banality of it all.
Thomas flitted from drawer to drawer, pulling open one after the other, cupboard after box, rummaging hastily through every nook and cranny the garage had to hide. Come along Mr Branson, everyone keeps love letters somewhere close to home. He'd done so himself, regretfully, much to the glee of a certain Duke.
"Damn!" Thomas slammed the last toolbox lid shut. He felt sure he'd find something to incriminate that cocky Teague; some note or bauble, but nothing. Not a thing, not even in the chauffeur's cottage - he'd checked there too.
Doubt began to spring its seed - perhaps he'd been mistaken. The mind plays tricks after all. Perhaps he'd misread the awkwardness of their exchange. Thomas shook his head, dismissing that notion offhand. He wasn't wrong. He might not be attuned to the female mind but he knew men, all kinds of men, and there was no mistaking the primal reaction roused in Mr Branson that night.
Still, he had no evidence that Lady Sybil reciprocated and that was all that counted. "Bugger." Raking his good hand through his hair, Thomas turned towards the door, bang into the purr of an engine growing louder by the second. He froze at the sound of the motor parking outside and footsteps marching straight towards him. The door creaked open and Thomas scrambled for the first object within reach. There was nowhere to hide, his only recourse was -
"Corporal Barrow?" said a surprised Irish voice.
The last person Thomas wanted to run into. "Mr Branson." He smiled amiably.
Branson regarded him with no small amount of suspicion. "Is there something I can help you with?" he asked, eyeing Thomas's clenched hand.
Thomas held his hand out to reveal the shiny metal tool in his grasp. "I needed to borrow ... a wrench."
Branson frowned.
"To fix my bicycle," Thomas added for detail. If Branson believed that one he was a bigger fool than he first thought.
Branson strolled to the workbench, picked out another tool and offered it to Thomas. "You might have trouble. That's a ratchet you've got there, Corporal."
Thomas exhaled. He narrowed his eyes and made a show of examining the tool in his palm. "So it is," he agreed, swapping the tools and itching to wipe that smug look off Branson's face. Brushing passed the chauffeur he vowed to do just that, preferably whilst improving his own situation.
"Be sure to return it," Branson called after him in a sarcastic tone, alluding to Thomas's past indiscretions.
Pausing at the threshold of the garage door, Thomas winced. Oh he'd return the favour alright, in spades. "It's none of my business Mr Branson," he said evenly, "but you really ought to be more careful." Thomas noted Branson stiffen with satisfaction, allowing him a moment to digest the threat for what it was. "If Mr Carson sees the state of those boots he'll have your guts for garters." Thomas nodded in the direction of Branson's mud-streaked hessians and smiled smugly.
Recalling the sloppy farm, Branson instinctively looked down to check what he had already guessed, that his boots were indeed layered with dirt. He couldn't help but savour the memory of how they came to be so, of carrying Sybil back across the muddy yard to the car. Naturally she had objected to being carried, at first, and made a valiant attempt to cross the quagmire unaided. The pleading looks she threw him and her mortification at having to be rescued he would never forget, nor the sensation of scooping her into his arms and seeing the flare of awareness in her darkened eyes.
Branson looked back up to find Thomas gone.
