End March 1919

Reluctantly, Lady Sybil let go of the chauffeur's hand after he helped her out of the car, and she went to join her father and cousin Isobel by the front door. She had squeezed it, kept it a bit longer than was purely proper to, and stroked her fingers along his while letting go of it, in an attempt to both draw out the contact between their gloves and yet part while displaying gentleness to him in a caressing manner. All this being a way to express herself without using words.

He shortly drew in a breath, staring at his now empty hand. But he suddenly remembered his little plan and set it in motion before it was too late. Swiftly grabbing the book he had hidden under his own seat, he called:

"Oh, Milady, you're forgetting your book!"

He crossed the distance in a few steps and handed her the object, keeping a totally inexpressive and unreadable straight face. Puzzled, she hold her hand and took the book, lingering a bit and making the most of having both their fingers hidden to anyone's sight under the back cover to stroke his again. And again, he drew in a short breath, his cool and professional façade crumbling a bit.

She saw the corner of a folded slip of paper poke out of the pages, and lifted her gaze up to his again. With a slight nod of acknowledgment, she thanked him matter-of-factly, keeping a straight face all the while.

"Thank you Branson. It's a good thing you saw it, I would have not known were to look for it!"

She finally entered and joined her cousin Isobel and her father in the entrance hall.

"What is it you're reading, my dear?" Isobel asked.

Errr… That was an excellent question, Sybil thought. She stealthily peeked at the front cover.

The Ragged-Trousered Philantropists, it read.

"Oh!" Isobel exclaimed, "Excellent choice, Sybil!"

Oh God! Isobel knew this book and had read it! Just her luck! Let's pray she wouldn't ask anything about it…

"But," cousin Isobel went on "I didn't know Robert had bought it for his library. Not much his usual reading material, I'd say…"

Sybil looked at the book: it too was rather ragged itself. Well no, not really ragged, but quite dog-eared, with its cover worn out. Read and re-read, she thought.

"It's Branson's" she answered, probably not lying.

"Oh, I see…" said her cousin.

"See what?" Sybil asked with an edge of alarm in her voice, and far too quickly. She bit her tongue.

"Well," Isobel answered matter-of-factly, "just how this book has made its way up to this house, that's it!"

Oh, Sybil internally sighed out of relief.

"I just hope it's the first 1914's edition, and not last year's abridged one," Isobel told her.

According to the weary state of the book, it was.

Sybil excused herself and took her leave as fast and as politely possible, and then took the stairs two by two up to her bedroom.

She slid the slip of paper out of the book and unfolded it, but was very much disappointed when she saw that, instead of being covered with that now so familiar handwriting, it was typed. Not a message from her fiancé, then. But why else did he put on this act?

She peeked at the typed note anyway, and soon went from disappointment to excitement.

My wonderful sweetheart,

As you can see, I've embraced modernity and invested in a device that should help me, help us, find our way out of here and into our life together, in the form of a new job – if I ever find some newspaper interested in my prose, that is.

I know this typewriter costs a real fortune, I'm sorry, I've not forgotten we talked about saving as much as I could, but it should enable us to finally start a new life and build ourselves a future. So see it rather as an investment. A small sacrifice for a future worth having…

In fact, at this very moment, I feel not unlike Gwen must have five years ago. Except she probably typed thrice as fast as I do. To tell you the truth, I'm significantly much slower right now than with a pen, but practice makes perfect, doesn't it?

Do you know it sometimes feels difficult to concentrate on what I'm writing – or trying to write – because of you? It's like I'm always thinking of you, like I'm drunk with you, like you've hypnotised my mind. What sort of sorcery is that? Do you know that only yesterday, just while Lord Grantham was less than two feet from me, instead of focusing on what I had to do, my mind didn't stop daydreaming about you, about you and me, about you in a way I probably shouldn't be thinking about you.

And I just realise that I most likely shouldn't tell you that, let alone write that, given that daydreaming about one's true love in a certain state of undress is probably not entirely proper while still unwed.

I can't believe I've just written that. I probably should crumple this letter and throw it in the wastepaper basket, and rewrite it bar these previous three sentences, but we promised each other to be truthful towards the other, and not to conceal our thoughts or feelings. So I'll take the risk to let you read this version, and I'll pray that you won't think less of me or of the purity of my feelings for all that. Please don't.

Please, forgive me this instant of weakness. You have every right to give me an earful for that next time you see me, but please do forgive me eventually.

With my most devoted respect and my most sincere 3 (or my most respectful and wholehearted devotion, or my most sincere respect and my most devoted 3), yours always,

T

PS: Enjoy the book!