The forceful knock on his cottage door made him leap up in surprise, absorbed as he had been in his evening reading.

"I'm coming, just a minute – Oh. Hello." For the door had swung open to reveal Lady Sybil, in a right state. He gaped for a second before she brandished a newspaper furiously in his face.

"Have you seen this?" she asked. "It's completely disgusting, the things they say about the suffragettes! And I quote, 'one is curious to know why the ladies are so intent upon rights for women when they are so obviously lacking in the feminine traits that would label them 'women' themselves.' They're simply being crude and vulgar now, I showed Gwen and she was as appalled as I am, I tell you – oh!" She seemed to suddenly realize where she was and what precisely she was doing. Dropping the newspaper on a nearby table, she said awkwardly,

"I seem to have interrupted you, Branson, I'm sorry, I wasn't even thinking…" He chuckled.

"Don't fret, you've not interrupted anything. I was just reading a letter from my sister." Her eyes lit up.

"How nice! I do remember Gwen saying you had sisters… I hope they're not anything like mine!"

"No, not at all," he replied, laughing as he imagined what Molly and Becky might have to say about the imperious Lady Mary, or the sour-faced Lady Edith. And what would they say to this Crawley sister? No - stop right there. "My sisters are both older, married now. They may have a go at each other, but I suppose they always babied me a bit." Sybil smirked.

"Do you have any nieces or nephews?"

"A few."

"And do they call you Uncle Branson?" She snorted in a decidedly unladylike way and clapped a hand over her mouth. He raised his eyebrows.

"Yes, I let Brian and Eileen climb all over me and call me Uncle. Satisfied? I told Gwen-"

"Is Gwen your sweetheart?" The words came out rushed and unsure. Branson felt a swell of pleasure in his gut and tried to shove it aside. Don't flirt with her, don't flirt with her, you shouldn't even be friends, don't –

"Why do you want to know?" Dolt.

"Curiosity, that's all," she said, placing her hands on her slim hips defiantly. God help me, does she know what she's doing?

"We-ell," he drew out the syllable playfully. "Gwen's a lovely girl, but no. No, we're not sweethearts." Their eyes locked. Branson's breath hitched. He felt as though he might drown in her eyes, and never once attempt to save himself. Then Sybil backed slowly out the door.

"You should read that article," she said softly, and he watched her walk away until her colors bled into the twilight.