Written for plums4peace, who requested a genfic with Edith and Branson either in Ireland at the wedding or during episode 3.01 and which touched upon their past history of driving lessons. Spoilers for 3.01!
Edited 08/04/13
Edith led the way.
Out of the house, down the steps, across the yard – a pent up eagerness propelling her onwards at a rather fast clip. Eyes fixed forward, she occasionally chanced a glance to her side, where a trudging figure in muted browns walked silently and rather morosey beside her. Edith could sympathize. Even after over twenty-five years of practice, a Crawley family dinner still contained enough hazards to test her well-seasoned nerves, and last night had not exactly been kind to the prodigal couple.
Branson (or Tom, rather, as she mentally reminded herself), walking along the springy lawn, may have at that moment felt himself to be sinking into the earth; but Edith's spirits were high and buoyant that cool afternoon. She was proud of herself, for having maneuvered this entire scheme with such aplomb: the faint suggestion to Sybil – "It would be good for Tom to step out of the house for a time, don't you think?" Acquiring the necessary permission from Papa – "It would give some breathing room for Sybil, some time to reacquaint herself with the family without Tom always at her elbow." A perfect combination of altruism and finesse, united as only a true Lady can manage. But Edith was no Florence Nightingale, was not even a Sybil, and in all honesty the beneficiary of her machinations was mostly herself, the whole scheme meant to manufacture an opportunity for indulging in favorite yet now forbidden pastime.
Her breath quickened with anticipation as the scent of motor oil invaded. The garage was only a ten minute walk away, and upon arriving Branson peered inside his old stomping grounds, his feet edging in slowly, reluctant to breach the entrance. Edith thought to assure him that they hadn't installed any booby traps set especially for errant chauffeurs in his absence, but refrained.
"And his Lordship approved?" he asked warily.
"Of course he did." Edith charged inside. "I dare say he was rather looking forward to getting you out of the house for awhile."
Branson tensed, and Edith covered her mouth as she laughed. He tossed her a stern look, and the dense tension in the air began to deflate. The old Renault was hardly ever used these days, and Branson casually walked over to remove the heavy tarp draped over the motor, puffs of dust wafting up into the stale air.
"And are you sure he doesn't mind me driving?" he asked.
"I told him I was going out for a drive with you, and that he had the choice of either me or you at the wheel."
The last of unease on Branson's mien evaporated, leaving behind a residuum of his natural self-possession, which she truly never noticed until Ireland, until she saw the man in his natural habitat.
There was no mistaking it now:
"And he chose me?"
Edith sighed. "He hasn't forgotten what happened to the gear box three months ago. Pratt insisted it was all my doing."
"Probably was."
Edith frowned. He certainly had never dared such cheek before he was her brother-in-law.
Marriage must be suiting him.
"I could still change my mind, you know, and instead of driving about the country you could spend your afternoon taking tea with Granny…"
The small spark of fear reentered his eyes. "You don't have to be so hasty. I would like to take her out again, at least for old times sake."
"That's more like it!" Edith made to clamber up into the driver's side when an affronted voice stopped her.
"I thought you said his Lordship wanted me to do the driving?"
"I never would have thought you to be particular about something Papa says," she snapped. "And besides: I haven't driven in ages and I'm determined to do so today!"
"His Lordship said."
"Tea with Granny?"
Branson smiled. "How about a compromise: I'll drive there and you drive back?"
Edith paused to consider. "All right." And she slid across the bench to the passenger's side.
Country lanes are by nature rough and dusty, and Branson as a rule detested them. Cars, in his opinion, were meant for the city, for the smooth, paved roads that spoke of progress and modernization.
They jumbled pleasantly along. Edith, not for the first time, reveled in the short locks that no longer slapped against every spare inch of her face as the wind whipped them around. Her cheeks stung, for it was very early spring and the air had yet to warm; but she basked in the pain and the biting air and the utter freedom of it all.
"Do you get to do much driving back in Ireland?" she asked him with a smile.
"No. But sometimes I help out fixing up motors."
Edith laughed. "I wish I had the luxury. I suppose you can't keep yourself away?"
"Not really. We just need the money."
The remainder of Edith's laughter was gulped down into her throat. She didn't like talking about money, especially with him. As much as she knew Branson liked cars and liked fixing them – they'd spent enough time in this very car discussing details that no one else at Downton Abbey found even remotely interesting – it was uncomfortable to be reminded that her hobby also doubled as someone's occupation.
Branson drove around a few wide bends before striking the conversation back up.
"So Mr. Pratt doesn't like have you around the cars, then?"
"He's convinced Papa that there's no need. Not that Papa ever needed much convincing about things like that." She sighed with a floppy wave of her hand. "You know how he can be."
"I really don't know at all. I barely know the man, and I don't think I ever will."
"I wouldn't despair so much after only one day. Give it time; although I suppose you feel dreadfully out of place."
"Like a fish on dry land."
"And gasping for breath?"
Branson laughed. "I'll admit that some of your grandmother's looks are fit to kill." He turned to look at her. "Was it like that for you? In Ireland?"
"No," she replied. "Actually, I rather liked Ireland. Nobody expected anything out of me, and the company was…. pleasant, if nothing else."
"I'll be sure to let my family know how pleasant you found them."
Edith pulled a face. "You know what I mean." She caught a faint whiff of spring's cloying perfume in the passing air, breathed it deeply in. "But really, I did like it. It's always nice to go somewhere new."
"Better than being forced to come back some place old."
"Don't expect any pity from me. You knew what you were getting into when you married my sister. And I wouldn't worry, Tom, really I wouldn't. You'll learn to fit in better in time, and you're hardly the first person to feel out of place in that house."
There were no cars around, and Branson risked a second glance over to his sister. He observed that familiar strained sadness about her eyes, the slight purse in her lips – small signs which told him she was speaking from personal experience – not that he'd needed telling, for he'd driven around the Crawley family long enough to know which member was the odd one out.
They had only a few minutes to admire the calming blue waters of the lake when the rainfall began.
Edith tilted up her head to the clouds. "I thought it looked like rain…"
Branson removed his coat and held it over their heads as they huddled together. "Then why didn't you say so?" he asked as they trotted back towards the car. The impromptu cover did its best to save their hats from ruination, but they were both a bit moistened as they neared the car and Edith breathlessly exclaimed:
"I suppose I didn't care! I'd rather suffer a wet pair of stockings than miss out on a chance for a drive."
"So says the Lady with a closet filled with clothes…"
"It's hardly pouring out, and I'm sure your tie will be bone dry by dinner."
Branson opened the back seat door and inclined his head towards the interior. "Get in the car. I'll drive us back."
"What do you mean?" Edith argued. "We had a deal didn't we? You drove us here, and now I drive us back."
Branson shook his head. "You'll get soaked…"
"I don't mind! It's a spring rain; not the kind to give one a chill."
"I'm not going to let you get drenched while I sit in the back seat. I wouldn't be comfortable with it."
"I would think you'd be used to being uncomfortable by now. She shoved passed Branson, climbed into the unprotected driver's side, and motioned to the backseat. "Well, then. Get in!"
Branson was also in a mood for disobedience, and instead walked round the car and climbed in beside Edith.
"At least this way we'll both be uncomfortable," he explained.
"A move for social equality?"
He laughed. "Something like that."
The rain wasn't heavy – a slight drizzle that pattered soothingly on the roof of the car and made Branson feel as if he were strolling through the morning mists of Dublin, that perpetual thin blanket of moisture that never seemed to fully evaporate.
Droplets of water formed on Ediht's face and trickled jollily down as she drove. She looked positively gleeful, and Branson feared for her impaired vision. She always drove entirely too fast, as was her wont, and Branson, as was his wont whenever Edith clutched maniacally at the wheel, was disposed to forget there was no brake pedal set securely under his foot.
"You're going too fast!" he charged when said foot began to cramp.
Edith laughed. "Maybe that's why they won't let me drive anymore."
"But really, Edith, why don't they?"
Edith shrugged. "I suppose they don't think it's necessary, now that the war is over."
"Why should it matter if it's necessary, as long as you enjoy it?"
"I'm a Lady, Tom. None of us are supposed to know what's good for us, whether it's driving cars or choosing husbands. You of all people should know that," she said, and much too bitterly to be in reference to a mere revoked hobby.
"Are you talking about Sir Anthony?"
Edith was startled before she was indignant, taking a rather severe turn that nearly sent Branson flying out of the window.
"Rather observant, aren't we?" she said tersely as he rubbed the new bump in his head. "I haven't even said a word to Sybil and here you go on as if you know everything!"
Branson smiled, ignoring the "frightfully full of himself, indeed" which muttered audibly under Edith's breath. "Well. I was your chauffeur for six years. And your lot tends to have very loose lips when you're all out for a drive."
"Hmmm…. I thought I'd rather stopped that after our driving lessons."
"You got a bit better, I suppose. But even now Sybil still has trouble remembering that the people milling about aren't paid to keep her secrets."
"A few embarrassing moments in paradise?"
"More than a few," he replied, stone faced. They lapsed into silence for a time. "I'm sorry I brought it up," he said at last. "You don't have to talk about it."
"No, it's all right." She gave a tired sigh. "The thing is," she went on, "the more I try to convince him that we should be together, the more he pushes me away."
Branson was silent for a few minutes. "Is he in love with you?"
Edith pondered. "I believe he is. But he's got it in his head that he's far too old for me, and he feels so useless with that arm." She shook her head and tightened her grip on the wheel. "I don't understand it!"
"Sometimes people need time. If you know he loves you, then you'll just have to wait him out."
Edith looked dubious. "You really think that will work?"
"It did for me," he said, lips drawing up in a rather pert smile.
Edith laughed. Three years ago she had first climbed into the Renault, fresh faced and rather nervous about mastering such a complicated machine. She could barely control her own life, such as it was, and the sheer power of that rumbling engine had frightened her. But Branson had been a patient teacher, and over the months as his pupil he had become less of a stranger. And the power she felt when she finally had the roaring engine under her complete control had been the most liberating thing she'd ever experienced.
He helped me achieve that, Edith mused. I owe him a small part of my self-confidence. Knowing him as she did now, that realization was hardly surprising, since Tom Branson seemed the kind of man who had more than enough confidence to spare.
But now those lessons seemed very long ago, and Edith thought it should feel strange to be chauffeuring around her former chauffeur. But there was no awkwardness to be had, not even as they were now, sniping at each other like proper in-laws and swapping love advice. She'd lately decided that she rather liked having a brother, especially one that could drive, and who didn't mind being driven.
"Yes. I suppose it did work for you," Edith agreed as they drove through the gates. "And do you know, Branson?"
"What?"
Edith honked at a few scattered geese barring the road. "I'm rather glad for it!"
END