Ok, I promise, my next writing update will be to "Love's Journey", I know many people have been patiently waiting-but I really wanted to wrap the "Summer 1915" plotline for this story up. In the previous chapter, Branson dealt with that vicious green-eyed monster known as Envy/Jealousy; now we get to hear Sybil's side of things!
Once again, thank you to everyone, both for reading and for taking the time to let me know what they think! If you can, please leave some feedback, it really helps inspire and fuel me! THANKS!
Chapter Seven
Summer 1915 (part II)
July 1, 1915
Men.
Oh, they can be just…
If I could, I would…
Oh, they are the most…INFURIATING CREATURES TO ROAM GOD'S GREEN EARTH!
…
…
Why do we, women, even bother? I mean, honestly…WHY DO WE PUT UP WITH THEM AND THEIR RUBBISH? I am convinced that if it weren't for men, we wouldn't be in this bloody war! If it weren't for men, women would be equal citizens, could own property, be legitimate heirs to successions, and…and…and VOTE, DAMN IT!
…
…
Bloody men.
Bloody men and their stupid, arrogant, cock-sure…egos!
…
Oh I am just…so angry! Bloody Branson…
How many weeks has it been since our first argument? It was sometime in the middle of June. I came to the garage to tell him that Tom Bellasis had written to me, announcing his impending return to Yorkshire to visit Imogen and her family before leaving for France…and for no apparent reason, he…snapped at me like some wild, rabid dog!
All I ever wanted for was for the two of them to meet, for Branson to know another likeminded comrade. I thought it would be good, for him, for…for us. To prove to him that not all of us "English nobles" are…thoughtless snobs.
…Not that he's ever given any indication that he thinks of me like that, but…but still…if I could show him one other person…
I don't know. I don't know what I was hoping to accomplish. All I know is that…that…that HE RUINED EVERYTHING!
…
I've hardly spoken to him, not since he snapped at me in the garage that day. I've purposefully been avoiding him…well, there was that one time we ran into each other…and when I say "ran into", I should say that Mama requested the motor, and then "insisted" that I accompany her to Ripon for…I don't even remember what the purpose of the trip was, but I reluctantly agreed, but I REFUSED to meet his eyes, or even let him help me into the car!
…But he would insist on grabbing my wrist to stop me from following Mama into a shop. I gasped so loudly that it's amazing Mama didn't spin around and catch us! I tried to give him my most contemptuous glare, but…damn him; he looked at me in that way of his that always makes my heart spin in dizzying circles. He pressed something into my hands then, and then his eyes were just so…pleading…I...I…oh, damn him.
I took his letter. But I didn't read it…at least not right away. I was still so angry with him! And I hated myself for…for "giving in" so easily, just because he looked at me in…in "that way" of his.
So I was stubborn, and made it quite obvious that I would not read whatever he had written (even though I was burning with curiosity to know what it was he had said), but I remained steadfast in my decision, and stuffed the note into my reticule without another glance.
Later, as we left the shop, I could feel his eyes burning on me. I made sure I looked anywhere but his face. And I continued to do this all the way back to Downton, even as we left the car and returned to the house.
…Was I being childish?
I suppose I did go a little overboard. Even Mama remarked that I seemed rather "cold". I retreated to my room, Branson's note feeling like a hot coal and a heavy brick in my reticule. I threw the purse down upon the bed and paced back and forth, watching it warily as if it were a living creature, ready to spring and attack. Finally, after several long, agonizing minutes, I took a deep breath and prepared to open it…when Edith burst into my room, her face red and her eyes wild and her voice at such a pitch that it could only be heard by dogs…going on about receiving word that Sir Anthony was leaving for France, and how it was all Mary's fault, that if not for Mary's meddling, she would have been married to Sir Anthony by now and living quite happily and he would have no need to go to the Continent and be heroic.
I spent the rest of the day consoling Edith, which I cannot deny, was an excellent distraction.
I didn't look at his letter that night, either. I purposefully locked the reticule in a cupboard and gave Anna the key.
Two days passed and somehow, I managed to keep my curiosity at bay. Instead, I received a letter from Imogen, telling me about a party her parents were going to throw in honor of her cousin, before he traveled to France. She wrote that Tom was very adamant that I attend.
I should have been excited. I wanted to be excited…
But I couldn't stop thinking about all those things Branson had said. All those…those…horrible things! Demanding to know why Tom was coming back, why he wasn't in France already, why he has opinions at all about Ireland—as if Tom Branson has a monopoly on opinions! I just…I felt my anger rise, like a volcano ready to explode…and it was his fault! I marched straight to the garage and found him tinkering with some car—he's always tinkering with some car!—and before he even finished lifting his head from the bonnet, crumpled up Imogen's letter and threw it at him!
It bounced off his chest like a soap bubble.
I began shouting at him, just…full of so much rage and anger! It was his fault that I couldn't find joy or excitement about a friend's upcoming visit. How dare he speak to me in such a way as he had done all those days before! How dare he say such things about Mr. Bellasis, whom he has never met! I hurled various insults at him, while he stood there, sleeves rolled up, an oil-soaked rag clenched in his hands, his face unreadable, save for the grim line that was his mouth…which I couldn't help looking at…
Bloody Branson!
And what did he say? He accused me! Actually had the gall to stand there and accuse me of…not reading his letter.
…
…Well so what if I hadn't! How could he expect me to read it when I was so angry with him! And besides, he shouldn't have said what he said in the first place! How dare he turn this against me, as if it's my fault we're arguing! It's his fault for starting this whole bloody mess! (And I don't care what Mama or Mary or Granny say about how young ladies should speak) BLOODY, BLOODY, BLOODY!
In the past I've pretended to swat him. But oh…how I dearly, dearly wanted to punch that handsome—NO!—grimacing mouth of his!
I turned on my heel then, telling myself to leave, leave before I did try to punch him—but stopped when I heard him…chuckling! The…what is that word I've heard men use against one another? Ah yes, git! The git was actually chuckling at me! And it was a cold chuckle too.
He had picked up my letter and opened it, attempting to smooth out the crinkles so he could read it properly. I should have just kept walking, but instead I turned back to look at him, my eyes wide in surprise at his laughter, but quickly narrowing into small, angry slits.
Oh God, I remember what he said. "So the Savior of the War wants you to be his dance partner at some posh party? Isn't it a little early to be celebrating? He hasn't even crossed the Channel yet! But no doubt he'll single-handedly win the War."
…What's worse is…I remember my response.
"Oh yes, mock the soldier! Mock his bravery as he goes to fight for freedom and justice while cowards stay behind and make cruel jokes."
Oh merciful Lord, it only became worse after that. He demanded to know if I were accusing him of being a coward, to which I spitefully "apologized" for not being "obvious enough"—to which he accused me of being the coward, because, once again, I didn't read his stupid letter—and then I shouted something, and he shouted something, and I shouted something again…and we continued like this until finally he threw his oily rag on the ground and asked me, without blinking, if I would be happy if he simply went to Papa, handed in his notice, and enlist the next day.
…
…
I felt as if I had been slapped. Or at the very least, as if someone had thrown a cold bucket of ice water in my face.
I ran then. I turned and ran back to my room…the coward that I am.
I'm so angry with him, truly…but…I can't stand the thought of him over there. It's just…it's unbearable…
I didn't speak to him for the rest of that week. Or the week that followed. I avoided him at all costs, walking to the village if I needed to go there, feigning illness if Mama or anyone else wanted me to join them for a drive to who knows where. In fact…it was only yesterday that I finally spoke to him.
I mustered up what little pride or courage I had, and went to the garage to request the car for tonight...to drive me to Imogen's party.
Oh God, it hurt. It hurt, having to ask. And I don't mean for myself, but…for him.
Am I imagining things? I have long since given in to the fact that yes…I have a crush on Branson. But I am not some simpering school girl—I know that this is all it can be, and…with any luck, I'll grow out of it…although I don't like to think about that.
But…I'm sure he doesn't…see me as anything…but the daughter of his employer. He's not the sort of person to let something as…as…as silly…as romance…cloud his brain. He's much too serious for something like that, and I'm sure would laugh at me right now for seeing me write these words (Oh God, I pray he never sees and never knows!) But what I mean is…he does seem genuinely upset, about Tom, even though he's never met him.
Or, as I said, am I simply imagining things?
I must be; Branson's not jealous—if I remember correctly, it was what I said about Tom's views on Ireland and Irish independence that set him off.
…But it still hurt. It hurt having to ask, and it hurt…because…oh bloody hell…it hurt because I miss him. I miss my friend. I hate feeling this way! I hate being upset and angry with him! I hate…I hate myself, for saying those awful things to him…and for not reading his letter…until tonight.
A few weeks too late, I'm afraid.
When I went to make my request for the car, I was prepared for his cruel jokes and insults…even though my heart was already tired at the thought. But he didn't respond that way. He didn't even frown at me. He barely looked at me. He simply murmured, "As you wish, milady", and that was that.
Mama and Edith and Granny joined me. Papa was otherwise engaged and Mary claimed a headache. I tried to enjoy myself, but…I couldn't stop thinking about Branson. With every smile, ever joke, every invitation to join Mr. Bellasis for a dance…I found myself instead, thinking of Branson.
Thank heavens Granny told me she was tired. I insisted that we all say our goodnights and be on our way. I shook Tom's hand, wishing him the best and telling him to be careful and stay safe. He tried to lift my hand to his mouth for a kiss, but I snatched it away before he could, too ashamed to meet his eyes. Without another glance, I muttered a goodnight, and then led our group outside, to where the car waited…but Branson wouldn't look at me.
Now here I sit, in my room, fuming at first, feeling so angry, wanting to blame him for everything that's happened…but what good will it do? It won't make the pain stop…
I finally read his letter. I asked Anna to give me the cupboard key, after we returned.
…There's not much to say. It was short—but sincere.
Lady Sybil—
I had no right to speak to you as I did, and I feel utterly wretched for my behavior.
I pray you can forgive me.
Your friend, —Tom Branson
Oh Tom…my Tom…are we? Are we still friends? I hope so. Or have I ruined things? Have I allowed my anger and pride to get the better of me?
Do I dare write my own apology? No, I fear he would do what I did, and ignore it…or worse, feel I was mocking him.
No…to win his forgiveness, his trust, and his friendship, I feel it will have to be something much more drastic—like groveling. But even then…is it enough? I'm afraid to answer that question…
Well done, Sybil…well done.
