THE SIGN

Now, as Branson stood alone in the shadow of the marquee at the garden party, he marvelled at how being in love could make him feel by turns joyful and sick to his stomach.

Watching Lady Sybil deep in conversation, he wondered yet again what she would think if she knew that thoughts of her crowded his mind throughout his waking hours.

Every time they were together he looked out for a sign that maybe she thought about him too. He wondered, when she smiled as he helped her into the motorcar, if the way her smile lit up those beautiful blue eyes was more than simple gratitude for his steadying hand. Or did she smile at everyone that way?

Just last week, she had held his gaze for longer than usual as he opened the car door for her. He had felt his cheeks colour ever so slightly at the intensity of her look, and he pondered it all the way to Ripon. The way she'd stared at him, it was almost as if she was seeing him for the first time.

Had it suddenly occurred to her that he wasn't just a servant? Had she seen him as a man for whom she could have feelings?

He didn't know what she was thinking, and it was frustrating the life out of him. What he needed was some kind of sign. Something to show that he was more than just a diversion who kept her occupied on boring motorcar journeys.

He didn't really expect that she could possibly be in love with him too – surely he was the only fool to be blindsided by such strong emotions – but if there was just some indication that she thought of him as more than servant, a friend even, then that would make him content.

For the time being, at least.

He was startled by the sound of movement behind him, and turned to see Mrs Hughes approaching.

"Mr Branson, what on earth are you doing there?" she asked.

"I er, I was just wondering if you might be in need of some extra help, Mrs Hughes."

"From you?" A frown creased her brow. "Well nobody needs driving anywhere but I suppose, since you ask, would you mind going up to the kitchen and telling Mrs Patmore we're ready for the sandwiches to come down? I'd send one of the maids but they're all busy."

"I'd be only too pleased to do that for you Mrs Hughes," said Branson, relieved that she hadn't questioned him further about why he was loitering at the party. He walked away quickly, resisting the urge to look over his shoulder at Lady Sybil.

I've seen her now, I don't need to look again, he told himself.

But as he reached the gravel driveway he couldn't help himself. He turned around for just one more quick glimpse of the woman he loved.

After he'd delivered Mrs Hughes' message to Mrs Patmore, Branson went to Mr Carson's office and collected the newspapers his lordship had already read, then took them to the servants' hall. With everyone else at the garden party or in the kitchen he had the room all to himself. There was plenty of space to spread out the paper on the table without O'Brien glaring at him from under that vain mop of curls because she felt he was taking up too much room – he who didn't belong in the hall in the first place.

He smoothed out the paper and started reading the main story, about further troubles in Austria, but the words made no sense. His mind was too full of other thoughts to process them properly. Eventually he gave up, and aware of his stomach growling with hunger, Branson folded up the paper and arose from his chair. If things weren't too chaotic maybe Mrs Patmore could be persuaded to spare a sandwich or two for him.

As he made his way towards the kitchen, a sharp, shrilling sound filled the corridor. Mrs Patmore and Mrs Bird stood at the table, their faces frozen in horror.

"Mr Carson's telephone's ringing," he said. "Isn't someone going to answer it?"

"I wouldn't touch that thing with a 10-foot pole," sniffed Mrs Patmore.

"Well, I will then." What was it with people? Why couldn't they welcome new things? He strode into the butler's office and picked up the telephone.

The voice at the other end asked if that was Mr Carson.

"No Mr Carson's busy, but can I take a message?"

He couldn't help smiling when he heard what the man on the other end had to say. "Of course I'll pass on your message. Thank you."

He grabbed his jacket from the servants' hall and buttoned it up as he made his way out of the house. He supposed he should go and find Gwen first; after all the news concerned her landing the secretary's job. But he knew Lady Sybil would want to be the one to tell Gwen, so it was her ladyship he looked for in the crowd. And of course he wasn't going to miss out on the chance to talk to Lady Sybil.

She had confided in him about trying to help Gwen become a secretary and his heart had swelled with pride in her even more. It was so typical of Sybil, going out of her way to help a servant. She admired Gwen for wanting to better herself, the same way she'd said she admired him for his determination to not always be a chauffeur. But how would she feel if she knew his ambitions included not only becoming a politician, but one day winning her love?

He spied Lady Sybil standing in a marquee talking to Lady Edith and the Mercer sisters, and he quickened his pace until he was running. He knew he should stand politely and wait for the women to acknowledge him but he couldn't help himself; he touched Sybil on the arm and said, "M'lady, I've got some news." Then he leaned close to her until he could feel her breath on his cheek, and he whispered, "Gwen got the job."

Her joy was immediate – her hands flew up to her face and she squealed. He knew she would want to find Gwen immediately and when she turned and raced off towards the serving marquee he went with her.

He realised it must look very odd, the earl's youngest daughter and the chauffeur running through the garden party but he didn't care. Her happiness was infectious and he wanted to be with her when she found Gwen.

They saw the housemaid carrying a tray towards a group of guests and ran over to her.

"Gwen, Mr Bromwich called - you've got the job," burst out Sybil, and it made him grin to see how thrilled Gwen was. She thrust the tray at another maid and in her joy, threw her arms around both him and Sybil.

Then Mrs Hughes' voice cut through their excitement.

"Something to celebrate?" she asked. The three of them spun around to face the housekeeper, and Gwen spoke, but Branson didn't hear a word she said. All he could think about was the fact that he was standing so close to Lady Sybil that their wrists were touching. He had no idea what possessed him, but he reached for her hand and took it in his.

As Mrs Hughes scolded, "There'll be time later for celebrating," the only thing Branson was aware of was Sybil's fingers threaded through his, and the scratchiness of her lace glove against his palm. For an instant her hand was limp in his and then he felt a finger twitch ever so slightly. And then, oh so gently, like the fluttering of a butterfly's wings, she squeezed his hand.

There it was, the sign he had been waiting for.

He sensed Gwen move away and he wasn't sure if Mrs Hughes was still there or not, so focused was he on the fact that he was holding hands with Lady Sybil. He looked down at their entwined fingers and then so did she, before they both looked up and their eyes met. Hers were wide with surprise and something else – delight, maybe? He wasn't sure. All he knew was he never wanted to let her go.

He began to ask her if, by any chance, she might need to be driven somewhere later that day but only got as far as "I don't suppose…" before Mrs Hughes, who hadn't left after all, broke in. "Lady Sybil, her ladyship is asking after you."

Sybil looked back at him, her eyes briefly catching his before she slipped her hand free and turned away. He watched her go, still reeling from her touch, and a smile lit upon his lips. If that wasn't some kind of indication of her feelings then he didn't know what was. She liked him. She'd held his hand. Squeezed his hand, for God's sake. It may not have been a grand gesture in other circumstances, but in their situation it was a huge declaration. She did feel something for him. She must.

He felt ridiculously happy, happier than he believed possible, and then he was brought back down to earth by Mrs Hughes. She gave him a stern but concerned look. "Be careful my lad, or you'll end up with no job and a broken heart."

For a moment her words took the wind out of his sails. "What do you mean?" he asked, although he understood perfectly well what she was saying.

She said nothing else, but gave him a knowing look before she walked away.

Branson hesitated for a second, then pushed Mrs Hughes' words out of his mind and made his way back towards the house, his head down to hide the silly great grin plastered across his face. He wasn't mistaken, there was something there, Lady Sybil did care. It might not be the same giddy love he felt for her but it was something nonetheless and given time, who knew what could happen.

Yes, it might seem impossible. Yes, it was too much to hope for. Chauffeurs and ladies did not fall in love and live happily ever after. But Tom Branson was nothing if not an optimistic man, and he was a persistent one too. He had something to aim for now, something to hope for. He would do everything it took to win her, and he would wait as long as necessary; she was worth waiting for.

Lady Sybil had given him a sign, and it was all he needed. For now.

Thanks for the feedback - this has been so much harder than I thought and has really made me appreciate all the amazing writing talent on this site. Please keep the stories coming - now that Downton Abbey has just finished here in New Zealand I am bereft!