Author's note: Well, I finally felt encouraged enough to continue! I had gotten a little dejected thinking that all my readers had abandoned me, but it seems that there are still some out there, and I will keep writing as long as you keep reviewing and asking me to. So here we go: another chapter!
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Reentering the house, Sybil was startled to hear her name whispered in a sharp hiss from the direction of the library. Poking her head inside, she saw Edith, who beckoned her hurriedly to come closer.
"Mama knows that you've been at Branson's cottage," she said anxiously.
"What? How?" Sybil exclaimed, reaching out and clutching Edith's arm in worry.
"Don't panic," said Edith. "I don't think she suspects anything..." she searched for the right word, "…unusual. You must've been seen going in – O'Brien told her. I thought you should know."
"You haven't told her about us, have you?" asked Sybil.
Edith looked a little hurt at this suggestion. "Of course not," she said, her tone a bit indignant. "Didn't I promise you I wouldn't?"
"You did," Sybil said, feeling guilty for questioning her sister and looking down. Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she added, "I'm sorry."
"Well," Edith said, raising her chin a bit, "in any case, when she asks where you've been, you'd better tell the truth. Otherwise she'll know you're lying and think you've got something to hide. Which, of course, you do," she added, rather petulantly.
"What do you think I should I say?" Sybil asked nervously. "She'll want to know why I was there, and I can't tell her the truth… not yet."
Edith shrugged, still feeling a bit stung that Sybil had questioned her loyalty, and said, "I'm not going to tell on you, but I'm afraid you'll have to think up your own lies."
Sybil sighed; yes, she thought to herself, it was one thing to ask her sisters to remain silent, but she couldn't expect them to invent falsehoods on her behalf. "You're right, Edith," she said. "I hope you know how much I appreciate you keeping my secret." She gave her sister a little hug, which Edith grudgingly accepted.
"Well, go on," Edith said, looking slightly embarrassed, "before someone sees us whispering and wonders why."
oooooooo
"Oh, Sybil dear!" said Cora, putting her book aside as her daughter entered the drawing room. "There you are. I was looking for you earlier. Where have you been?"
How sly, Sybil thought to herself. She poses the question so innocently, as if she didn't know exactly where I've been. At least, thank God, she doesn't know what I was doing there.
"I was visiting Branson," Sybil said, taking a seat and giving the words as flippant an air as she could manage.
"In the garage?" Cora prodded.
"No," she answered, cocking her head as if to say 'What difference does it make?' "At his cottage. I heard that he was sick and I went to see if he needed anything."
"That was very kind of you, dear," Cora said patronizingly. "But do you really think it's appropriate to be visiting servants in their private quarters?"
Sybil bit her tongue and for a moment she felt herself flush, remembering Tom's quiet groan and the unstudied jerking of his hips as he spilled himself onto her stomach. Private quarters, indeed. Taking a steadying breath, she shook those thoughts from her head and replied with a touch of casual defiance, "I don't see why not. We're friends."
"Oh, Sybil," said Cora, with a tone that said Poor darling, you are hopelessly naïve. "Don't be silly. Branson's a nice man, but one isn't 'friends' with the servants."
"That's not true," said Sybil, feeling indignant. "You're friends with O'Brien, aren't you? And Papa with Bates?"
"That's different," said Cora firmly.
"How is it different?" Sybil asked. "They're servants too, aren't they?"
"It's different because Branson is a man and you are a woman," Cora said, very deliberately.
Oh, how well she knew it! Again, Sybil could scarcely believe that she was sitting in the drawing room with him mother placidly discussing the nature of relationships between men and women, all the while remembering the feeling of Tom's fingers pushing inside her, stretching her… her leg twitched at the memory.
"Matthew is a man and Mary is a woman," said Sybil, growing more defiant. "They're friends, aren't they?"
"Of course they are."
"And why is it that they can be friends and Tom and I can't?"
Sybil realized her mistake almost the moment she had said it, but there was no taking it back now, and acting as if it were significant would only make it worse. Unsurprisingly, Cora looked stunned.
"'Tom'?" she asked, her eyebrows shooting up. "So he's 'Tom' now?"
"Well," said Sybil with a dismissive shrug, "he has a first name, doesn't he?"
Cora's expression had changed from sermonizing to alarmed. "Did he ask you to call him that?" she said, lowering her voice as if it were too terrible to say at a normal volume.
"No," said Sybil, truthfully. It had been a break from formality that she had chosen, a line that she had decided to cross. "But I don't see why I shouldn't."
Cora looked aghast. "Because it's too familiar!"
Oh, Mama, Sybil thought with exasperation. If only you knew how "familiar" we really are…
"Really, Mama," said Sybil, irritated. "He's worked here for six years; do you not think that's a long enough time to be on a first-name basis?"
"He could work here sixty years and he would still be a servant," said Cora gravely.
"Do you have to keep using that word?" Sybil said, wrinkling her nose in disgust at her mother's snobbishness. "Can't you at least say 'employee'?" Suddenly the jump from "servant" to "employee" seemed a large enough gulf to help her mother over; the gap between "employee" to "fiancé" – and then, quick on its heels, to "husband" – seemed nearly insurmountable.
"It doesn't matter what word you use," Cora answered, shaking her head. "It doesn't change what he is."
"Which is what?" Sybil asked, exasperated. "Sub-human?"
"Of course not!" Cora exclaimed. "But there are lines, dear, and I'm afraid you're too naïve to see why they're needed."
Sybil looked down so that her mother would not see her eyes flashing with anger. She bristled at the accusation of naivety; what could be more naïve than to assume that there was an inherent difference in the worth of individuals purely because of who their parents were and what their wealth was? But she knew that if there were any hope of ever receiving her parents' blessing, she would have to hold her tongue in times like these. If her mother could not even accept the idea of she and Tom as friends, what hope was there of her accepting them as a married couple? Swallowing her pride and trying to quell a growing sense of hopelessness, she squared her shoulders a bit and looked back up at her mother calmly.
"I suppose you're right, Mama," she said diplomatically, not meaning a word of it and hoping only to end the conversation. "I guess I just don't think through things the same way you do." The words were double-edged; she knew her mother would take them as a compliment, but she added to herself – and I hope I never shall.
"Come here, dear," Cora said, holding her arms open conciliatorily. Sybil went to her reluctantly and let her mother put her arms around her, thinking bitterly to herself, She still thinks I'm a child – that I can be intimidated with vague warnings and placated with hugs. "I know you have lots of ideas about equality and social justice," Cora continued, saying the words "equality" and "social justice" as dismissively as if she were speaking about fairy tales and pirate treasure, "and I admire your passion. I just want you to be careful. It would be terrible if people got the wrong idea."
Sybil sighed and looked out the window across the broad green lawn. So her mother thought it would terrible. And she had so counted on her being the soft touch that would help to ease the blow for Papa.
She stood and moved to the window as her mother picked up her embroidery hoop and began stitching. "I'm going into Ripon tomorrow," Sybil said casually, "to see our dress-maker. I thought I might get a new frock for my birthday."
"Will Branson be taking you?" Cora asked, raising a slightly suspicious eyebrow at her daughter.
Sybil shrugged, as if it were of little difference to her who drove, knowing that nonchalance was key if her mother was not to suspect. "Him or Pratt," she said absently, referencing the family's other driver.
"No, Pratt's going to the station to pick up Mary and Sir Richard in the afternoon."
"Well, I suppose Edith could drive me, if she's not busy."
Cora laughed. "The last time Edith drove, she ran that poor cyclist into the ditch! Don't you remember?"
Sybil smiled, glad to lighten the mood. "So I heard," she said. "I'm glad I didn't see it; I'm sure I would've been very frightened."
"Edith's driving is frightening," Cora said, "but don't you dare tell her I said so."
"So I suppose Branson is my only option then," she said.
"Alright," Cora sighed, "but please be careful that you're not too friendly with him. I don't want him getting any ridiculous ideas."
"What on earth do you mean?" Sybil asked, feigning stupidity.
"I've seen how he looks at you, dear," Cora said. "I'm sure he'd be tremendously flattered to think that you favor him."
Sybil blushed. "That is a ridiculous idea," she said, her heart lurching in dismay.
"I'm glad you think so," Cora answered.
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The next afternoon, Sybil appeared in the garage, ready for Branson to drive her into Ripon. The trip, of course, was mostly a ruse: she supposed that she would have to make a cursory visit to the dress maker in order to cover her bases, but mostly it was an excuse to be alone with Tom away from the prying eyes at Downton.
Branson smiled as she approached. "Hello," he said, and leaned in for a kiss, but Sybil shook her head and let herself into the backseat.
"Not here," she said as he shot her a quizzical look, climbing behind the wheel of the motor and starting the engine. "Someone might see."
They pulled down the driveway and Branson looked at her in the rearview mirror. "Something got you spooked?" he asked, a playful little smile playing on his face.
"Yes, actually," she said, Branson's smile disappearing at the words. "O'Brien told Mama that I was at your cottage yesterday. I don't know how she knows, but obviously someone saw."
"Christ," Branson exclaimed. "Do you think they suspect anything?" His face in the mirror was furrowed with worry.
"No," said Sybil, "at least Mama doesn't. I'm surprised none of the others have said anything about it to you, though."
Branson sighed. "Probably waiting for the right moment to play the trump card," he said bitterly. "And hoping to gather more evidence, no doubt."
"I'm afraid we'll have to be more careful," Sybil said. "We can't have anyone finding us out before we tell my parents. I don't want them hearing about it from anyone but us."
"I dare say they won't believe it if it comes from anyone but yourself," he said, then added, "and maybe not even then." He smiled at her in the mirror, a bit sadly.
"I still don't want to risk it," she said.
"I understand," he nodded. "And I think you're right."
"Can you pull over?" Sybil asked. "I'd like to get up front now that we're away from the house."
"I'll pull over for a kiss," Branson said, "but I think you'd better stay where you are. We might meet someone we know along the road, and they'd think it very strange to see you sitting up front with me."
He eased the car off the road and put it into park, then craned his neck back over the seat to meet her lips. She kissed him ardently, taking his face in her gloved hands and holding him to her even when he tried to pull away, afraid that their current position was too conspicuous. She parted her lips against his and slipped her tongue into his mouth: soft, wet, insistent, and he groaned a little and returned the kiss, before again trying to pull away. Again, she pulled him back to her, and he laughed a little against her lips – though his body was taking the situation much more seriously indeed – and said between kisses, "We can't - do this – here – sweetheart – someone – mmm - might see."
"Then pull the car off the road," she said, undeterred.
But Branson shook his head and managed to extract himself from her. "Didn't we just get through saying we had to be more careful?" he asked, shifting the car into drive and pulling back onto the road.
"I don't think they'll come looking for us in the bushes and brambles," she said stubbornly. "If we can't be alone out here, we surely won't have any better chance of it at Downton."
"Then I guess we'd better tell them sooner rather than later," he said, meeting her eyes in the mirror, his expression grave.
Sybil sighed. "That's easy enough for you to say," she said softly.
"It's not easy for me at all!" Branson protested. "Frankly, I'd rather try my luck at smacking a bull on the arse than tell your father that I intend to deflower his youngest daughter."
Sybil actually blushed a little at this phrasing. "Well, I certainly wouldn't recommend that you put it like that," she said.
Branson shook his head. "Of course that's not what I'll say," he said, "but that's what he'll hear. That's what it'll boil down to, for him."
"Surely he'll give us both more credit than that," she said, though she wasn't sure she believed it.
"I'm not so sure," Branson said sadly. "And I know that he won't if he hears that we've been having private visits all this time. He'll think I've seduced you and that I'm just marrying you so I can finish the job."
"I'm afraid it wouldn't help our cause, to be sure," Sybil admitted.
"What did your mother say about you being at my cottage, by the way?"
Sybil's face fell, and Branson's heart sank at the sight of it. "Well," she said dourly, "she doesn't think we even ought to be friends, so I don't think it's much of a stretch to suppose she won't be thrilled at our engagement."
Branson sighed and gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. "Things aren't really shaping up the way we might've hoped, are they?"
Sybil sighed, too, and her silence was answer enough. They drove on for a ways, both wrapped in thought, before Branson spoke again.
"Sybil?" he said quietly.
"Yes, Tom?"
"We're going to make this work. I'm not giving up. Not now. Not ever."
Sybil smiled. "Me neither," she said.
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Branson had a good while to think while he waited on Sybil outside the dressmaker's in Ripon. He would've liked to see her excitement picking out fabrics and looking at patterns and scheming about designs – like she'd done all those years ago, with the pants – back when he'd first fallen in love with her, he thought wistfully - but knew very well that men were never welcome in such environments, at least not by the shopkeepers. And of course there was the ever-present class divide; what business could a chauffeur possibly have in a ladies dress shop? It would raise too many eyebrows, and so he waited.
To her credit, Sybil was as expedient as she thought she could reasonably be, wanting to be with Tom far more than she wanted a new dress. Returning to the car, he once again helped her into the backseat, and they were barely out of town when, to his shock, Sybil began clambering over the seat, struggling to navigate her skirts and landing rather gracelessly and with a bit of a thud on the front seat next to him. The car had drifted a bit towards the shoulder as this occurred, Branson's attention torn between this unexpected development and watching the road ahead of him, and he swerved it back rather abruptly, Sybil squealing in surprise as she slid into him, then giggling at his astonished expression.
"Well, hello there," she said coyly, placing her gloved hand softly on his thigh.
"Sybil, you're mad," said Branson, though he couldn't help but laugh a little himself, and his heart swelled with affection for the incorrigible, unflappable, daring woman beside him.
"I knew you wouldn't pull over to let me get up front," she said, adjusting her hat, "so I had to take matters into my own hands."
"You're very good at doing that, aren't you?" he asked, smiling at her determination.
"Didn't you find that out yesterday?" she purred, and she moved to kiss cheek, then his neck.
"Yes - very well, in fact," he said, groaning as she let her hand drift up his thigh to his crotch, as if to emphasize her point.
"Why don't we take the back roads?" she suggested deviously. "It'll take longer, but then again that's rather the point, isn't it?"
"I don't know that we should," Branson said ruefully, and Sybil pulled her hand away from where she had been teasing him to hardness through his trousers, looking at him with some surprise.
"It's just that," he paused and swallowed, "there's so much at stake – and now people are starting to suspect – and God, it's hard to resist you."
"Tom, I don't understand," said Sybil, genuinely confused at this rather rambling statement. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying," he said in a low voice, "that I don't think we should do all that anymore. Not until everything's settled."
Sybil was rather taken aback by this pronouncement, and in truth a little stung. She swallowed, and then said quietly, "Did I do something wrong? Yesterday, I mean. Did you… didn't you like it?"
"Oh, sweetheart," said Branson, "how can you even say that?"
"Well, I mean, I thought you did," she said, "but then again I'm just a clumsy virgin, so maybe I did it wrong."
Branson stopped the car quite abruptly and she could feel him looking at her, but she kept her gaze focused on her lap. She knew that she was being a bit ridiculous, but despite her forwardness and general air of self-assurance, a little part of her was very afraid that she would disappoint him – he had worshipped her from afar for so long, how could she ever hope to live up to the lofty ideal he had of her? Then also, there was a large part of her that was still very accustomed to getting her own way, that recoiled and rebelled at any obstacle placed before her, even though another part of her that knew that what he said made good sense – after all, she had proscribed it herself, the night she accepted him.
"Sybil, darlin', look at me," he said softly.
She did, reluctantly, and his eyes were very serious.
"I want you more than I've ever wanted anything in my life," he said firmly. "In every way possible. You have to know that."
"I do," she said, her eyes starting to tear slightly.
"And you've done nothing wrong; you couldn't possibly –" he struggled for the right words, and finally continued, frustrated, "What I mean to say is that I think you could slap and bite me and I'd like it, so long as it was you doing it." He smiled at her impishly, and she couldn't resist laughing a little herself.
"I promise never to slap you," she said, "though I can't promise that I won't – nibble."
Branson laughed and pulled her into a soft kiss. She relaxed against him, sighing against his cheek when he pulled away, holding his arms around her.
"So what you're saying, then," she said after a moment, "is that I can kiss you and that is all?"
She grinned at him then, having to admit that it was rather humorous to have her own words turned around.
"More or less," he said, smiling.
"Personally I'd prefer 'more,'" she said, "but I suppose if it's what you want to do…"
Branson shook his head. "Believe me, Sybil," he said, "it's a far cry from what I want to do. If it were as easy as that, I'd pull the car off some deserted road somewhere and show you what I want to do."
"Oh, why don't you?" she said, excitedly.
"You're very persistent, aren't you?" he asked, smiling but with a bit of a lower timbre creeping into his voice. In truth, her persistence and her apparent insatiability drove him quite wild with anticipation, and he gritted his teeth, determined to stick to his guns.
"I suppose I'd better get into the back again," she said, sighing.
"I wish you didn't have to," he said, but helped her down and waited until she was safely settled in the back seat before pulling the car back onto the road.
Sweet Sybil, complacent though she seemed, smiled deviously to herself as they rode on in mutual silence. After a moment, she leaned forward and ran her gloved index finger down the side of Branson's neck; he shivered and she pushed his stiff collar aside, then kissed her way up his neck to his ear. The car swerved when she pulled his earlobe between her lips and sucked on it softly; "Shit," Branson hissed, correcting the swerve, and Sybil smiled, feeling very wicked.
"Tom, are you alright?" she whispered into his ear. "You seem… distracted." She returned her attention to his neck, sucking at it sensually.
"Sybil," he said, "you're going to kill us both if you keep up like that."
"I don't know what you mean," she said innocently. "Besides… you didn't say where I could kiss you."
Branson couldn't help but chuckle. "My God," he said, "caught on a technicality. You know, I think you'd make a good politician yourself."
"I'm sure I'd be very corrupt," she teased.
"You don't know how sorry I am that I can't – ahem - further contribute to your delinquency," he said, keeping up the euphemism as she smiled and returned to her proper position against the backseat.
"Not just yet, I'm afraid" she replied, and then more seriously added, "I won't keep up in limbo much longer. I'd rather face Papa's wrath than your rejections."
"I hope you won't test my fortitude just to prove a point," he said, his playful tone masking a bit of real concern.
"Do you think I'd win?" she asked innocently.
"I know you would."
"That's not very sporting of you," she said, looking at him flirtatiously in the rearview mirror. "You should at least put up a fight."
"Is that a challenge?" he asked with a roguish smile.
Sybil smiled. "We'll see," she said.
oooooooooo
Author's note: Aha! The plot thickens. Will Sybil and Branson be able to keep their hands off each other? I wouldn't put money on it – but then again, they can't very well continue on like they have been, for a number of reasons. So what happens next? We'll see! Keep reading, and if you enjoy it, for the love of God, REVIEW!