Author's Note: History is passing, even as our hero and heroine become engrossed in their own affairs.
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.
To Lord Grantham's great surprise, Branson apparently had not a single word to say about the "Message" despite having been given several openings on the trip to Malton. Really, he knew the boy had been distracted of late, but this was ridiculous.
Lord Grantham tried again on the return trip, making several provocative remarks about the Paris Peace Conference to no avail. Finally, he resorted to a direct question. "Do you think it will work, Branson?"
There was a short pause. "Milord?"
"Do you think it will work?" his lordship repeated.
"Will what work, milord?"
"No need to be coy, Branson, we're just talking between friends here. What do you think?" He'd never known the chauffeur to be shy about expressing his political opinions in the past, for pity's sake. What was wrong with the boy?
Something clearly was. "I'm sorry, milord. About what?"
"About what?" Lord Grantham repeated. Was he serious? "About the 'Message.'"
"What message, your lordship?"
"What message? Who are you, and what have you done with Branson?"
Branson turned in his seat to glance back at his passenger. "Milord?"
"The 'Message to the Free Nations of the World,' of course! What message, indeed." Lord Grantham shook his head in amusement.
Branson looked at the road, a little apprehensively. "I'm afraid I don't know what that is, milord."
"Are you joking?"
"No, milord."
"It was in all the newspapers."
"I haven't seen a newspaper, milord."
"You haven't seen a newspaper?"
"No, milord."
His employer raised an eyebrow Branson couldn't see in disbelief. "Well, you'd better go and find one." He refused to utter another word on the subject, except to repeat, "Just go and find a newspaper."
In fact, Branson did not have to look for a newspaper. One was waiting for him inside the garage in the eager hands of Lady Sybil. She handed it to him. "Read that," was all she said.
Branson read, pausing every so often to exclaim, "Oh, my God." He read it through to himself twice, then read aloud, "Ireland…calls upon every free nation to uphold her national claim to complete independence as an Irish Republic…" he grinned at his fiancée in delight. "We are definitely going home."
Edith had unlocked the garage so Sybil could wait for Branson with the good news. She eventually returned, either to see whether he had returned, or because she was bored.
"Have you heard from your mother?" Sybil was asking Tom.
Tom glanced at Edith, then said, reluctantly, "Yes, I have."
"What did she say?"
Instead of answering Sybil, Tom looked again at Edith.
"Just pretend I'm not here," Edith told him.
Tom sighed. "Why not?" He pulled the letter out of his pocket and handed it to Sybil. She read it silently, wide-eyed, then said, "Golly." She looked at Tom for permission, tilting her head towards Edith.
"You might as well go ahead," he said.
Sybil passed the letter to Edith, who started to read it, then stopped almost immediately to ask, "What does 'amadán' mean?"
"'Fool' or 'idiot.'"
Edith grinned and kept reading, laughing aloud several times. Her brow wrinkled. "What's 'switching your legs'?"
Tom looked at her sourly. "It's fun torturing me, isn't it, milady?"
Edith glanced up from the letter to look at him, amused. "It is, yes." When he didn't explain the phrase, though, her tone hardened, "I said, 'Tell me what it means,' Branson."
Six years of servitude died hard. Tom loosed a sigh. He stared at the wall. Sybil watched the two of them in fascination. Quickly, as if it were all one word, Tom said, "'Hit with a long, flexible stick." Then, "Happy now?" He was blushing.
Both girls stared at him as if they'd never heard of such a thing. Tom wished he hadn't. "No one's ever switched your legs? In your whole lives?"
They shook their heads.
"Well, you're lucky. It hurts."
There was a short silence, each of the three thinking their own thoughts. Then Lady Sybil began, "She wouldn't really…?"
"No. Not now. It's just the way she talks. Mam never hits anyone once he's gotten his first job and moved out. After that she says you're an adult, and she doesn't have to be bothered, because life itself will give you your lumps."
"Who will give you your lumps?" Lady Mary's voice asked, as she walked into the garage.
"Life," Tom repeated.
"Do you mean like you're going to get when you get caught with all of us in here?"
"For heaven's sake, milady, how am I to keep any of you out?"
"Her name's Mary," Edith suggested, mischievously.
Lady Mary looked at Branson challengingly. He met her eyes, then lowered his own submissively. "I don't have permission to use Lady Mary's name," he explained to Lady Edith softly.
"Mary," Sybil objected, reprovingly.
"He shouldn't be using any of our names. Anyone could walk in here. And how is he going to explain it?"
"Trust me," Branson told her, "no one just wanders in here but the three of you. Everyone else sends in their transportation requests in a timely fashion through regular channels. I don't think his lordship has set foot in this garage in the entire time I've been employed here."
"Hullo, the garage," Lord Grantham called, just before walking in. He looked at the four young people. "This is quite a powwow. I hope I'm not interrupting anything."
Branson swallowed his heart, which had leapt into his throat at his employer's sudden appearance. "Of course not, your lordship. Can I help you?"
"No, no," Lord Grantham said, airily. "It's just the old saw."
'What,' Branson thought, 'Speak of the devil, and the devil he doth appear?'
Since the chauffeur didn't respond to his witticism, his lordship explained, "'When doors are open, dogs enter.'" He gestured to Isis, who was wandering around the garage, sniffing everything with interest. "Found a newspaper yet, Branson?"
"Yes, thank you, milord," Branson's smile was a little tremulous.
"And now you're planning the revolution with the help of my daughters, I suppose?" the older man teased.
"I—"
Lady Edith, in a rare burst of mercy (albeit she had her own self-interest in mind), interrupted, "We'll go on Wednesday, Branson. I see you're taking Papa to Thirsk then, so I'll take Lady Mary and Lady Sybil in the Cabriolet at 2 o'clock. Sound good?"
"Yes, milady. I'll have it ready for you."
"So that's one day at least you won't be able to spend plotting the overthrow of my 'oppressive tyranny,'" his lordship quipped.
Fortunately, Isis, having finished her inspection of the garage, completed Lady Edith's 'rescue' of the chauffeur by pulling his lordship outside in search of the stable cats.
Lady Mary looked at Tom.
"Yes, milady. You told me so. You and Mam both."
Tom stood looking down towards the floor. Shame sat on his neck with the weight of a yoke and kept his head lowered. The cuffs of his short trousers were unbuttoned, the long stockings they normally held above his knees had fallen or been pushed down to his ankles. His shins and calves were already striped red.
The guilt he felt was terrible. Normally, when he did something wrong, it was through ignorance or inadvertence. Not this time. He hadn't seen any other way! He wanted to beg for mercy, but knew he deserved none. This time, he had acted in the full knowledge that what he was doing was wrong. And yet, what was it he'd done? His mind raced. He had no idea. And that wasn't right. He should know for what fault he was being 'corrected.' He didn't.
He saw the stick come in for the next strike. He hoped it would jog his memory about what he'd done. He felt the impact as it hit his leg, and watched a welt rise in response. An aura of wrongness pervaded his consciousness. It didn't hurt. Tom knew for a fact that a blow hard enough to raise a welt like that should hurt a lot. His legs were a mess, he should be in agony. He was in agony, but from guilt, not pain. Perversely, he wished it would hurt so he might feel less guilty. What had he done?
Tom found he could now raise his head, so he looked up at his mother to ask her, and saw that it was not Mam who was beating him. It was Lord Grantham.
Tom woke with a start. He was sweating, and he felt as though his heart had been replaced by the telegraph straight key: it raced short-short-short-long short-short-short-long. Tom told himself it was just a dream, but despite himself, he threw off the bedcovers in the dim light of false dawn. He pushed up the legs of his pajamas and found his shins and calves smooth and unmarked.
As his heart slowed down, he realized that while the physical marks of the dream had been ephemeral, the overpowering shame and guilt remained with him, but there was a terrible difference. He now remembered what it was he'd done. And what he still intended to do.