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What Love Can Do Chapter 8

As the house was turned into a convalescent home, he helped to set up the beds and in any other way he could. The biggest benefit to this was that he was able to see Sybil almost every day, as she was helping to set it all up as well. He could tell that Lady Grantham didn't appreciate Mrs. Crawley's plans for the house, and he laughed inwardly at how oblivious Mrs. Crawley seemed to be about the whole thing and Lady Grantham's feelings about it.

Sybil expressed the wish that the home could be for all wounded men, not just officers. He couldn't help but feel that the house would be to absolute capacity if they had anything more than officers, though he was glad that they were doing something to help. Though he didn't appreciate the army, he had nothing against the men that served in it, and he felt that they deserved to have all the benefits they needed once they were shipped off to slaughter at the front and after they came back from it.

As he was setting up the beds, he could not stop himself from watching Sybil as she supervised. Even in a nurse's habit she was breathtakingly beautiful. As the Dowager Countess expressed her surprise at mixing ranks among the soldiers in the house, Sybil said that people could mix ranks if they wanted to. He took this as a good sign, at least she supported mixing classes, otherwise he would have no chance with her.

After luncheon, Carson handed him an envelope. He wasn't expecting any letters, he had just written home a few days before, and he didn't expect to have an answer back so soon. He opened it, and he realized that he had finally been called. Now was his chance to show that damned army what he thought about them. He wasn't going to sit by and be killed at the front if he had anything to say about it. He was ready to go to prison for his beliefs, he had no problem with that, but he knew that he would never see Sybil again, and this cause him indescribable pain. But he had no choice. It was go to prison or die at the front, and he knew which one he would take.

Several days later, he was washing the car when Sybil came up to him, holding some blankets.

"Carson's told Papa you've been called up," it was encouraging how concerned he looked, but he was too angry about it all to care at this moment.

"There's no need to look so serious."

"You'd think me rather heartless if I didn't."

"I'm not going to fight," he said, simply.

"You have to," she said, looking confused.

"I will not. I'm going to be a conscientious objector," he said, matter-of-factly.

"They'll put you in prison!"

He looked at her, hoping this meant that she was concerned for him and said he rather be in prison than dead.

"When will you tell them?" she asked, quietly.

"In my own good time."

"I don't understand."

"I'll go to the medical, I'll report for duty, I'll go on parade, I'll march out front and shout it loud and clear. And if that doesn't make the newspapers, then I'm a monkey's uncle."

He couldn't stop himself from becoming excited. This was what he had always wanted to do, to become and rebel and fight for his causes, no matter what the cost. He wanted to get attention, to show the world that he was not afraid.

"But you'll have a record for the rest of your life," she said, as though he didn't understand the consequences of what he was doing. Of course he understood! He was the one who had spurred her interest in politics, he knew what he was doing! How could she'd think he'd care about that?

"At least I'll have a life," he said, rather shortly. He walked away from her, too angry to say anything more. It took it all he had not to go back and beg for her forgiveness. He knew that he had to stick to it on this one. He wanted a life. He would be willing to sacrifice a married life with her, if he could tell the world would how he felt. He would never forget her, but he had to fight for what he believed in.

A few days later, he was telling everyone the news from Russia, and when Carson came in, he wanted to hear it as well.

"Kerensky's been made Prime Minister," he said, trying not to sound too excited, "But he won't go far enough for me. Lenin demands with the bourgeoisie along with the Czar, he wants a people's revolution, that's what I'm waiting for. Won't be long now."

"And what's happened to the Czar?" asked Carson, ladling soup into bowls and passing them around.

"Imprisoned," he said, matter-of-factly, "In the Alexander Palace, with all his family."

"Oh, what a dreadful thing," said Mrs. Patmore.

"They won't hurt them," he said, he was confident in this, "Why would they?"

"To make an example?" said Anna, looking at him.

"Give them some credit," he said, almost angrily, "This is a new dawn. A new age of government. No one wants to start it with the murder of a bunch of young girls."

"You don't know that," said Lang, "No one knows who'll get killed when these things start. Look at her nephew," he gestured at Mrs. Patmore, "Shot for cowardice. Who would've guessed that when he was saying hello to the neighbors, or kissing his mother goodnight."

Mrs. Patmore looked crushed with grief, and ran out of the room. Everyone looked down at the table, not knowing what to say. None of them had known that that had been the fate of Mrs. Patmore's nephew, he had assumed that he had been killed.

"I'm sorry," said Lang, looking ashamed, "I never thought-"

"You should think, Mr. Lang," said Mrs. Hughes, standing up, "You're not the only member of the walking wounded in this house."

She left, clearly to go find Mrs. Patmore. They all stared at him. Then, after a second, Carson continued passing bowls of soup, and dinner continued.

After this rather subdued dinner, he went back to his cottage. He wondered how Sybil would feel if he was put in prison or shot for disloyalty. Would she even care?

Within the next few days, the final preparations were made for the house to become a convalescent home, and the place was in uproar. They were all so busy that he had pitched in to try and get everything done. He wondered how Sybil was feeling, as she had been so instrumental in making Downton a convalescent home. He supposed he would feel nervous, but Sybil had become so strong since he had first met her.

When they arrived, most of the downstairs staff was rushing around trying to get all the usual chores done. He had nowhere to go, so he stayed downstairs and out of the way. He read the paper and listened to Mrs. Patmore tell off Daisy again and again. He smiled to himself, at least the war hadn't changed everything.

Several days later, he reported for his medical examination. He was led almost immediately into a traditional doctor's office, and was told by the nurse to wait for the doctor. When he arrived, he was weighed, and then told to take off his shirt to be tested for breathing and heartbeat. He did as he was bidden, thinking that he was only a few steps away from wreaking havoc on the British army. The thought filled him with pleasure.

"Breath in," said the doctor, placing his stethoscope over his heart. He did so. They repeated the process several times until the doctor said, finally,

"And out," he took his stethoscope away and turned away from him, continuing, "I'm surprised they didn't get you before now."

"Some people have all the luck, sir" he said, looking at the doctor. The doctor didn't say anything except,

"You can get dressed," he spoke with a tone that said the conversation was over. He smirked slightly as he buttoned up his shirt, clearly the doctor didn't like his tone. But then, hardly anyone ever liked his tone. He turned the conversation to the army,

"Shall I report for duty in Richmond?"

"You'll be told what to do," said the doctor, barely sparing him a glance as he walked by.

He was ready to be gone. Maybe, when he was in prison, he'd be able to think better about his feelings for Sybil. He could return to Ireland and marry a nice girl who didn't care about his politics or anything else that he did.

But it was not smooth sailing for him. A few weeks after his initial examination, he received word that he could not be in service because he had a heart murmur.

What?, he thought, outraged, A bloody heart murmur? They have got to be kidding.

But it appeared that they weren't, and with that letter they stopped all his plans for upsetting the British army and getting away from Sybil. He loved her more than anything, but had come to accept that she would never love him in return, not when she had a comfortable life at Downton and men lining to marry her.

The day he received the letter, he found himself in front of the house, polishing the car before Lord Grantham came out to go to Ripon. He was still angry, and therefore was none too pleased to see Sybil, even though, past his rage, he felt his heart jump at the sight of her. Of course, she would be pleased her chauffeur wasn't going to die or go to prison, so her parents didn't have to find a new one, he thought, bitterly.

"Are you waiting for Papa, do you want me to go and find him?" she asked, smiling at him. He had to tell someone, and she was the only one he could tell that would remotely care, even if it was for reasons he didn't want.

"They turned me down," he said, angrily, slamming the car door, "The army."

"Why?" she said, looking at him with surprise.

"Apparently I have a heart murmur. Or, to be more precise, a mitrovalve prolapse, is causing a pansestellic murmur," he read from the rejection. They were looking at each other from across the car, and despite his anger, he still admired how beautiful she was. She shook her head slightly and said,

"I don't know what to say. Is it dangerous?"

He supposed he should have been pleased that she cared enough for his well-being to ask this, but he was too angry to care.

"Only if you're planning to humiliate the British army," he threw down the envelope as he said this, looking at it angrily. This anger made him feel reckless, and even though he knew he shouldn't take his anger out on her, he couldn't help himself,

"I suppose you're glad," he said, looking at her from across the car.

"You're not going to be killed and you're not going to go to prison. Of course I'm glad!" she said, with a small laugh. Normally her laugh was too infectious for him not to laugh, but his rage overpowered all else, even his love for her.

"Don't count your chickens," he said, looking at her intently, "If I don't get them one way, I'll get them another."

This caused the smile to slide off her face, she looked at him, and her face changed from fear to anger, and she said,

"Why do you have to be so angry all the time? I know we weren't exactly out our best in Ireland, but-"

She had touched a nerve, and he interrupted her,

"Not at your best?" he said, disbelievingly, he rounded the car to face her, more anger bubbling up inside him, "Not at your best?" he repeated not caring about the consequences of what he said to her, personal or otherwise, "I lost a cousin in the Easter Rising last year."

"You never said," she said, looking at him sadly.

"Well I'm saying it now. He was walking down North King's Street one day, and an English soldier saw him, and shot him dead. When the army asked him why he was killed, the officer said, 'because he was probably a rebel.' So don't say you were not at your best."

Before she could say anything in response, Lord Grantham came out, and said

"Sorry to keep you waiting, but we're going to have to step on it."

He opened the door for him and, giving Sybil one last angry look, he got in the car and drove away without a backward glance.

As he drove Lord Grantham to and from Ripon, his rage settled, and guilt welled up inside him. He had been unkind to her, unkind to the woman he loved, and if he had had any chance of winning her over, it was surely gone now. He shouldn't have spoken to her that way, but the way she talked about the Easter Rising as though it was no more than a brawl made him unspeakably angry. He had been close to his cousin, who was one of the most promising men in the family. He had had a good job and had just gotten engaged. He remembered the girl's face when she was told that her fiancé had been killed. Ireland did not deserved to be treated that way by the English army, and of course she wasn't going to say anything bad about them because she had been raised to only think well of them.

He shouldn't have blamed her or taken out his temper on her, but it was too late now. He was preoccupied all through dinner, and went to bed early just so he could think in peace. He tried to sleep, but, as usual, he dreamed of her, and even in his dreams, his guilt carried over, so that every time he saw her, his stomach twisted.

Several days later, he was cleaning the headlight of one of the car's in the courtyard, when O'Brian approached him and said,

"So, you're not going to war then?"

He felt a swoop of anger in his stomach. He tried to keep his temper in check, he didn't want to make an enemy of O'Brian, so he merely said, shortly,

"Apparently not," he continued, "Is it true about Mr. Crawley bringing a famous general here?"

He tried to sound nonchalant, but this was a matter of great importance to him.

"Captain Crawley," she corrected him, he felt his mouth twist in anger, but said nothing, "But yes, why?"

"No reason," he said. But this was not true. As he had said to Sybil, if he didn't humiliate them one way, he would do it another, and this opportunity fell right into his lap. He wasn't sure what he would do to the man yet, but he had time to think about it.

In the days before the captain's arrival, he tried to think about ways of doing something to the general. For a while he could think of nothing, but then he heard Carson complaining about the lack of footmen for entertaining such a great guest. He seized his opportunity when Carson was checking the silver.

"Mr. Carson, might I have a word?"

"I'm busy with this dinner for tomorrow night," said Carson looking distracted and stressed.

"That's just it," he said, trying to keep his voice casual, "I don't expect you'll be using Mr. Lang, not after last time."

Carson scoffed and said,

"I will not."

"So I wondered if I might be any help."

Carson looked at him, surprised.

"I've waited a table before," he continued, guessing what Carson was going to ask.

"Do you mean it?" asked Carson, looking thrilled. When he nodded, Carson said,

"I know I've no right to ask it of a chauffeur."

"We have to keep up the honor of Downton, don't we?" he said, knowing that this was the most important thing to Carson.

"I'm very grateful Mr. Branson, I'll not hide it, very grateful indeed. You know where to find a livery?"

"I do," said Branson, trying not to smile. He tried to not stare at the soup tureen that Carson was holding either. That was perfect.

"And I gather you won't be leaving us after all?" asked Carson, his back to him now. He looked at him and said, simply,

"Who knows what the future will bring."

Carson looked up at him and watched him go. He planned for the rest of the evening what exactly he was going to do to the general. He would use the tureen and fill it with something vile, and would then pour it over the general. He would surely get attention for that.

He took the opportunity to write a note to Sybil, knowing that after the dinner he would never see her again. He told her he was sorry and that he knew that he would be in prison when she read it. He finished the note with the hope that she would forgive him, and that that meant everything to him. When they all went out to greet the general, he slipped it into some clothes of hers that needed to be taken upstairs.

It would be a pity that he wouldn't be able to see William. He wished that he could tell him a real goodbye, but he only got to say a quick one, because Carson had him running around like a chicken with his head cut off.

When he put on his livery, he became a little nervous. He knew what he was doing, and he knew what kind of trouble it would get him in, but that wasn't what made him nervous. What made him nervous was the fact that he would carry out this deed of pouring slop all over a famous general right in front of Sybil. He knew he would lose any respect she had for him, and it was difficult for him to bear. But he knew he had to do it. It was his last chance.

As he walked upstairs, he passed Mrs. Hughes who said,

"Everything all right, Mr. Branson?"

"I think so, Mrs. Hughes," he said, hopefully not too quickly.

He looked down at the tureen in his hands, and thought maybe he should turn back, forget the whole thing. But he wouldn't. He would go through with it. He started up the stairs, for what he knew was the last time.

He walked through the halls, trying not to think about Sybil's expression when he did what he did, and into the dining room. He kept his facial expression in check when he saw them all in their finery, and saw where the general was sitting. He was sitting in the middle of the table, between Lady Rosamund and Lady Grantham. He wondered what their expressions would be when he got this mixture on their dresses.

Just as he was about to take off the lid, Carson's hand stopped him. He looked at him and tried to force it off, but his and was too strong.

"No!" he hissed looking at Carson.

"Yes," said Carson, calmly.

He thought about making a scene and trying to get to the general that way, but he looked at Sybil, and couldn't stand what she would think of him if he did. He loved her too much to embarrass her family in front of important people. She was more important than his politics. She was more important than anything.

He followed Carson calmly out of the dining room, and though Carson kept a firm grip on him, he knew it didn't matter, he wouldn't have tried anything anyway.

Carson grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and said,

"Get downstairs, now!"

Carson dragged him down there and threw him into the kitchen before saying anything else.

"All right, all right, there's no need to be so rough!" he shouted, trying to throw the butler off.

"There's every need," said Carson, looking outraged, "To stop a murder."

Confusion flooded through him.

"Murder? What do you mean, murder?" he said, looking around at the scene in the kitchen with fury.

"You were going to assassinate the general!" cried Anna.

"Kill the general?" he said, looking at them disbelievingly, "I was not."

They took the lid off of the tureen and Anna and Mrs. Hughes cringed away from it.

"I was going to throw that lot all over him," he said, bitterly.

"What is it?" said Anna, disgusted.

"Oil and ink and a bit of a cowpat, all mixed with sour milk," he said, shrugging, "He'd of needed a bath right enough, but not a coffin."

As Mrs. Patmore poured the foul mixture down the drain, Daisy came in and said,

"I thought you'd taken the soup up, but you left it in the pantry."

"We'll use this," said Mrs. Hughes, pulling a bucket down from the shelf, "It's not been heated but the hell with that, and we'll decide what happens to you later," she said looking at him angrily.

"Later? What about now? How are we to keep this dinner going?" asked Carson, giving him a filthy look.

"I'll serve, Mr. Carson, I don't mind," said William, "Who knows when I'll have the chance again."

They all looked at him, and he was immediately rushed upstairs with the bucket of soup.

"Go back to your cottage and stay there, Mr. Branson," said Carson as he left, "We will decide later."

As he walked back to the cottage, he knew he should have done it when he had the chance. But would he have had the strength to have turned around and looked right at Sybil as he did it? No, he wouldn't have. Her good opinion of him was more important than anything. At least he still had that, he thought bitterly as he walked back to his cottage.

He collapsed on the bed, unable to do anything else. Today had not gone as planned, but he still had a job and Sybil's respect.

He lay there for a long time, wondering if Carson would call the police and have him arrested, or if he would be fired. He hoped that neither would, but he would understand if either were true.

He sat there all night, until he finally fell asleep.

The next morning, Carson him woke him with a dirty look and a telling off. He kept waiting for the final words, the words that said he was fired or they'd be informing the police. But they did not come. Carson was just beginning to tell him how irresponsible he was for the third time when he said,

"Aren't you going to fire me, Mr. Carson?"

He looked at him, still looking disapproving, but not resigned or overly angry.

"No, we are not, Mr. Branson. I'd have to clear both with his lordship, and I would rather not tell him about the incident, if it can be helped."

Relief, warm, sweet relief flooded through him. He would be allowed to see Sybil again, his world would not end with this job. He looked at Carson, and felt that he couldn't express enough gratitude, even though Carson wouldn't know why.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Carson."

"Well, make sure nothing of the sort happens in future, Mr. Branson, or I won't be so forgiving, and I don't want you organizing or going to any more political rallies while you are employed here," he said, and with one last look at him, he left the cottage.

He smiled to himself as he headed to the garage. He had always liked Carson. He was a fair and just man, and he knew somehow that Carson knew he would have been devastated had he been fired. He knew that Carson knew how he felt about Sybil, and even though Carson wanted to run a tight ship, he also knew that Carson wanted to see all his employees happy, no matter what the cost.