Author's Note: The lessons continue.

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.

Except for her continued inability to start the car, Lady Edith's driving lessons were going well. She had no trouble learning to use the steering wheel. In first gear, she was able to direct the car around the gravel drive which circled the house. She could back the car up extraordinarily well according to Branson, who was so pleased by this particular accomplishment that he showed her how to park the car in the garage and take it out again, and gave her an impromptu tour of the garage and its equipment.

"You'll make an excellent chauffeur, milady," he praised her exuberantly.

"As soon as I learn to actually start the car?" she quipped.

His smile faded. "You know how, milady," he reminded her quietly.

"I just can't do it."

"You will, milady."

"When?"

"Soon," he promised.

Branson did not know how he was going to deliver on this promise. Certainly, her persistent inability to start the car troubled him as well. For one thing, he wasn't sure whether the problem was a lack of physical strength, or just an understandable aversion to being jumped on again by a nervous instructor. Either way, she needed to get past it. If she couldn't start the car, she couldn't drive it, it was as simple as that.

Could she really be so weak that she actually couldn't turn the starting handle? He found it hard to believe. Had Lady Edith been a man, he would have taken her to the pub and challenged her to arm wrestle, so as to get an idea of her muscular strength. He pictured Lady Edith in the Grantham Arms, arm wrestling with a pint before her. He'd never get away with it. Not even if he proposed to arm wrestle in privacy in the garage. Branson was certain Anna or Daisy would be able to crank the starting handle. Probably Lady Sybil could as well.

Branson was worried about Lady Sybil. She would barely speak to him anymore, and seemed very down. He had been glad to find himself ordered to take her to Malton on some errand so he could check on her, only to find her even more morose and uncommunicative than ever. He wondered if she had ever arm wrestled with Lady Edith.

It couldn't hurt to ask."Milady, have you and Lady Edith ever—" he stopped, because she had made a funny sound. Branson glanced back at her. "Is something wrong, milady?"

"David Varney's been killed," she said baldly. She did not explain who David Varney was.

Branson wondered about that, but said, "I'm very sorry for you're loss, milady…" then, as required by convention in his circles, he said, "Will you tell me about him, milady?"

"I'm sorry, Branson, I really don't feel like chatting today."

Branson nodded and kept quiet. He did not understand English grief. How could they keep everything bottled up? How did they bear it?

Branson put the matter aside, as he had put aside the matter of Lady Edith's inability to turn the crank, since there was nothing he could do about either one.

For their next lesson, Branson and Lady Edith moved on to shifting. "You may have noticed, milady," the chauffeur said pedantically, "that we haven't been going very fast."

"I have noticed that," the lady agreed, eyes shining at the prospect of Speed.

"So we need to learn to shift.

"This car has three speeds, and each has its own gear. When we reach the top velocity in one gear, we go up to the next. To do that, we need to separate the drive components by pushing in the clutch." He showed it to her. "Then we shift the transmission into neutral and de-clutch, that is, let up on the clutch so it disengages. When the engine revolutions match the revolutions of the gear, we push in the clutch again, shift into the new gear, and de-clutch to bring the drive components back together."

"All right," she said. "Let's do it."

They got in the car. Lady Edith pulled out the choke, gave it some gas, made sure it was in neutral, set the handbrake, and got out to crank. Branson watched her from the driver's bench.

"Branson!" Lady Edith yelled. "It moved!" He got out of the car to look. She tried again, and moved the handle about an inch, no more. She tried a few more times, and got a few more inches. This was not going to fire the pistons, but it was an improvement, so they smiled at each other as she gestured for him to do it. He did, and they got in the motor.

They drove down one of the service roads to build up speed to shift. Branson watched the tachometer, then tapped it to get Lady Edith's attention when it was time to shift. She pushed the clutch in, moved the stick to neutral, and de-clutched. They watched the revolutions drop.

"Now, milady."

Lady Edith pushed the clutch back in, went to the next gear, and de-clutched.

"Excellent, milady." They tooled along the drive awhile, enjoying their greater speed.

Finally, Branson said, "Why don't we try coming back down, milady? If you'd just push the clutch down until it engages."

Lady Edith pushed in the clutch, but apparently not enough. The gears ground together in protest, startling her. She thought she had gotten into neutral, but as she started to de-clutch, the engine sputtered and died.

"Oh, my goodness," Lady Edith exclaimed. "I haven't broken it, have I?"

"No, milady. You've killed it."

Lady Edith's gaze shot to the chauffeur. He was trying not to laugh.

"That isn't funny, Branson."

"Are you sure, milady?"

She tsked at him in mock disapproval. "What do we do about it?"

"More cranking, I'm afraid, milady."

"More cranking," she muttered. They got down to restart the car. Once again, it took both of them to manage it.