Author's Note: Quite a long gap between Season 1 and Season 2, wasn't there?
Disclaimer: I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.
In the end, for Lady Edith even to begin to believe that her dreams of driving might become a reality required an Act of Parliament. When the Military Service Act of 1916 came into effect in March 1916, for the first time men who had not enlisted were forced into the army. While men from the estate as well as the village had been enlisting since the start of the war, once all single men 18 - 41 were subject to be called to serve, things really began to change. By May 1916 the act was amended to allow the call to extend to some married men as well. With the men leaving, women had to take their places. Women were running farms, delivering mail and telegrams, they were wearing trousers, and they were driving. Accordingly, Lady Edith began to moot the idea that she should be taught to drive. At first, Lord Grantham dismissed the idea, but as more and more women were seen driving and doing other men's work, it began to seem more reasonable.
Meanwhile, something affected Tom Branson's dreams in May 1916 as well.
Anna waited impatiently at the long table in the servant's hall. Finally, Mr. Bates arrived from upstairs.
"Thank God you've come," she greeted the valet.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"I don't know that yet," the head housemaid admitted. At Mr. Bates' look, she continued, "Do you see Mr. Branson at this table?"
"No. Is the Dowager not dining here tonight?"
"She's been in the drawing room this half hour."
"Did Mr. Pratt bring her?" Mr. Bates was looking at the newspaper lying folded on the table.
"No, Mr. Branson did."
Mr. Bates picked up the paper. Someone had spilled something on it: there were grayish-black spots where the ink had mixed with drops of liquid, then dried. "So where is he?"
"He said he'd be in the yard."
Mr Bates evinced surprise. "Did he go out there to talk to someone?"
"No."
"Then why would he go outside?"
"I think something must be wrong with him."
The two went outside to check on their friend.
As Mr. Bates opened the door to the courtyard, Anna heard a strange sound. She glanced at Mr. Bates to see if he heard it. He did.
"What is tha-" she began, but the valet put a finger to his lips for silence. In any event, the eerie wailing had stopped in the noise of the door opening.
The yard was shrouded in darkness. "Mr. Branson?" Mr. Bates called softly.
"I'm here," the chauffeur's voice came unsteadily from the darkness in the direction of the battered old trestle table. No one else was outside.
"Are you all right?" Anna asked.
"I don't think so."
Anna and Mr. Bates sat down with him and waited for him to speak. When he didn't, Anna said, "Can you tell us what's wrong?"
Mr. Branson shook his head.
Mr. Bates thought at first that the chauffeur meant he did not want them to know what was wrong, but the boy was pulling something out of his pocket. He handed a folded square of paper to the valet, who was seated next to him.
Mr. Bates perused the missive in silence, then handed it to Anna. It was a letter was from Mr. Branson's mother, dated from Dublin, 25 April 1916.
'Dear Tom,' the letter began, 'I have no idea when you'll receive this, as they've stopped the mails, but I couldn't delay telling you...' Mr. Branson's cousin had been killed.
That last night at his cousins', after the farewell dinner was over, instead of everyone trouping outside to see him on his way down the street, only one of the young men accompanied Tom out the door, the others having decided the two should be allowed a final private moment alone.
"Tom," his cousin had said, "In case we don't see each other again—"
"We will, a dheartháir," Tom interrupted.
His cousin put two fingers on Tom's lips to stop him from speaking. "Is binn béal ina thost, a dhlúthchara. I need to say this." He removed his hand, and Tom stayed silent.
"I know I told you I didn't want you to go. I was wrong. Ireland needs good men, and will need good men, but you need to do what's right for you. Sometimes I forget that." The young man smiled. "I know this is right for you, but I will miss you so much."
They embraced. Tom, his head snugly against his cousin's shoulder, whispered, "And I'll miss you."
Mr. Branson was brought back to the present by the pressure of Anna's hand on his. She was telling him she was sorry. She looked sorry.
Mr. Bates was touching him as well, a comforting hand on Mr. Branson's shoulder. "I'm very sorry for your trouble," the valet said. Mr. Bates thought about his Irish mother, whom this boy reminded him of in many ways, and what would comfort her. "Will you tell us about your cousin?" Mr. Bates suggested.
Mr. Branson said nothing for a moment, then began, "He was a good man." From previous conversations with the chauffeur, both Mr. Bates and Anna were aware that the phrase "a good man" constituted the highest accolade in Mr. Branson's vocabulary.
The chauffeur's friends listened to his remembrances of his cousin: their boyhood escapades, their similarities, their differences, their closeness, his cousin's interest in the Gaelic Revival and all things Irish, as opposed to Branson's own focus on equality of all people, all nationalities... and the way his cousin could talk him round whenever Mr. Branson happened to "get maggots in his head." The boy chuckled when saying this last, at which Mr. Bates opined that it must be nearly time for dinner, so the three went back inside.
It was not quite time for their dinner, so Mr. Branson resumed his newspaper, while Mr. Bates disappeared for a few minutes. Anna saw Mr. Branson's slender fingers investigating one of the dried inkblots, but no more were added to them.
The servants assembled for their dinner, but mere minutes after the first of the usual two courses was served, the Dowager rang for the car.
It was an occupational hazard. Mr. Branson rose immediately and shrugged himself back into his coat.
"Come back after," Mr. Carson invited. "Mrs. Patmore will keep it in the warmer."
Mr. Branson nodded and left the room.
When the chauffeur returned to the servants' hall, the others had finished their meal, but many of them were still at the table, relaxing, drinking cocoa or tea, and singing along to the songs William played, a surprising number of which had Irish themes, so he had lots of company while he ate.
When Mr. Branson had finished eating, William struck up a new number, vamping for a good dozen bars, before beginning: "Johnny O'Connor bought an automobile. He took his sweetheart for a ride..."
Mr. Branson laughed and came over to the piano. "Where did you get that?"
"Lady Edith gave it to me, she said she thought it might be popular down here." William continued the accompaniment under their conversation, and Mr. Branson picked up the words at the chorus: "He'd have to get under, get out and get under, to fix his little machine..." Anna, Bates, and Carson traded satisfied glances as the others crowded around the piano, singing of the poor automobile driver who was interrupted repeatedly in his courtship by the need to make mechanical repairs... "...get out and get under, and fix up his automobile."
The impromptu concert lasted until Mr. Carson saw Mr. Branson yawning repeatedly, at which he reminded the assembled company that it was long past time for bed. Yet even then, when William said he'd like to "stretch his legs a bit" before retiring, Mr. Carson made no objection, and the footman followed Mr. Branson out the door.
