Author's Note: "Rebuke not a scorner lest he hate thee. Rebuke a wise man, and he will love thee. –Proverbs 9:8.

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.

He's not the fastest dog…

"Milady," Branson began, "have you heard that Sylvia Pankhurst—"

"Hush, Branson." Lady Sybil interrupted, softly.

The chauffeur's eyes widened, but he hushed.

He focused his attention on driving, as he normally did when a passenger shut down his attempt to converse. Nearly all of them did so from time to time; it didn't mean anything. It was foolish to feel hurt. He knew she was interested in the women's movement. Maybe she was just out of sorts today, or had something else on her mind, or had the headache, or… or was still angry with him.

He wished he hadn't taken her hand after Gwen hugged them. No, that wasn't true. What he wished was that he was holding it again now. That he could rub the back of that delicate hand and apologize for offending her. But his apology would just offend her more. His black-gloved hand, remembering the feel of delicate crocheted lace and warm flesh, gripped the steering wheel.

Branson willed himself to relax. He was making a melodrama out of nothing. Old Lady Grantham told him to hush regularly. So did his lordship. But they always let him talk again later. So just because Lady Sybil wanted him to keep quiet right now, it didn't mean she never wanted him to talk to her again. He sneaked a look back at her set face. He hoped.

"Hush, boy," Grandda's words dropped abruptly into the flow of his grandson's chatter.

"But, Grandda, I—"

"I said, 'Hush!'" the old man bellowed.

Round-eyed, the Dublin boy obeyed. The old man's last use of that tone had immediately preceded Tom's unpleasantly intimate introduction to the old man's shillelagh: he had no desire for another taste of it.

Grandda listened intently for a few moments, then shook his head. He turned to the dog beside them. "Did you hear it, girl?"

The dog whined.

"Go see what it is, then."

The dog took off. The two humans waited in silence while the canine investigated, then returned, her tail wagging the 'all clear.' Whatever she and her master might have heard, she could find nothing dangerous.

The old man relaxed and turned to deal with his grandson. "You asked for my help, isn't it?"

Tom tensed. "It is, Grandda." He heard the anxiety in his voice and willed himself to relax. Grandda's hand alighted softly at the base of his neck. Oddly, the touch soothed him.

Very gently, the old man asked, "Did you hear me tell you to hush?"

Tom concentrated on keeping his breathing even, which wasn't easy with his heart hammering as it was. He swallowed convulsively and looked down at the turf, despite the fact that the old man had not been looking him in the eye. Both of them were still facing forwards. Gentle fingers massaged Tom's neck. "I heard you," the boy admitted.

Grandda kept his voice mild. "Do you know what it means to hush?"

Tom nodded, still looking down. He bit his lip.

"Tell me."

The boy took a breath. "It means 'stop talking.'"

"And when you heard me tell you to hush, did you stop talking?"

There was a long silence. Grandda waited patiently while Tom gathered the courage to reply. In the end, he could find only enough for a whisper, and when Grandda heard the answer, he knew why. "The second time I did."

"That's true," the old man agreed. "The second time I said it, you responded well, exactly the way I want you to respond whenever I tell you to hush."

Tom couldn't detect any anger in his grandfather's tone, so he ventured to look back up at him and nod his understanding. The fingers on his neck seemed to approve. He hoped they were finished.

They weren't. "Now," Grandda continued, still quietly, but insistently, "tell me what happened the first time."

This silence was even longer. Then, "I kept talking."

"So would you say you had obeyed or disobeyed?"

Despite his shame he forced the truth out: "Disobeyed."

"Tom."

Brimming blue eyes met those of the old man. Sorry. Waiting.

Incredibly, the old man was still not angry. "What was different the second time?"

Tom thought. "You repeated yourself… and you yelled… I was afraid."

Grandda pointed to the dog. "When I told her to go check out the noise, did I have to repeat myself?"

"No, she obeyed you right away."

"Did I have to raise my voice?"

Tom shook his head.

"Should I have to give you an order twice, Tom? Or raise my voice?"

"No, you shouldn't…"

"I don't want you to be afraid."

Tom was surprised.

"I want to hear the things you have to say… but I can't always… and sometimes, we have to pay attention to what's around us."

Tom nodded.

"So the next time I tell you to hush, what are you gonna do?"

"Stop talking."

"Good." Grandda looked at the boy's face a moment. "You have a question?"

"For how long… when you tell me to hush, Grandda, for how long do I have to stay hushed?"

Grandda considered. "Until I ask you something, or tell you that you can speak again," then, thinking about the way the boy chattered at night, "or if I've told you to 'hush and go to sleep,' the next morning."

Tom nodded, biting his lower lip thoughtfully.

"Something else?" the old man asked.

"Thank—" Tom cleared his throat. "Thank you for correcting me."

Days passed. Hope springing eternal as it does, the next time Lady Sybil had a solo errand in the motor, Branson tried again for a normal conversation.

"Milady, do you think—"

"Branson, hush."

He hushed immediately, dismayed. So it hadn't been his imagination. He closed his eyes for a moment, but opened them again almost immediately, because he was driving and needed to see the road.

'Be careful, my lad, or you'll end up with no job and a broken heart.'

The price for thoughtlessly taking Lady Sybil's hand was the loss of her friendship. He wished he had known that! He felt his eyes prick, and fill, and he blinked desperately. He felt like laying his head on the steering wheel. He could not cry now! Please. Later, yes. Later, he would weep, but while she was here behind him, it was imperative that he should control himself. Please, Blessed Virgin… help me. He wished he could really pray now, he needed to… God, how he needed to. One hand left the wheel and felt the pocket where he carried his little rosary. He felt the bumps that were the green beads under the cloth of his uniform and was soothed.

'Milady, I am so sorry,' he thought, but was forbidden to say.

And he could pray, after all, even if he had to devote part of his attention to driving, even if his currently implacable mistress was in the passenger seat behind him, even if his eyes were open, even if he wasn't kneeling, he could still pray, 'Iesu, mitis et humilis corde, exaudi me…[Jesus, meek and humble of heart, hear me…] … a desiderio ameris, Líbera me, Iesu.' […from the desire of being loved, deliver me, Jesus.]

"That is completely absurd, Branson!" Lord Grantham exclaimed. "An utter Utopian fantasy!"

"I'm sorry, your lordship, but I don't agree, and if—"

"Until will live in a world very different to this one, nations will have to fight to maintain their sovereignty," the older man snapped.

"Now that I do agree with, milord." The chauffeur chuckled a little. "But surely, you're not seriously suggesting that empires are mobilizing armies because they actually care about Serbian sovereignty? Now who's being naïve, your lordship?"

Lord Grantham was irritated by the boy's going against him, but if he accused him of it, he knew he'd only get Mill quoted at him. "We have a duty to help protect Belgium's sovereignty, at any rate," he suggested thoughtfully.

"Many nations desire their sovereignty, milord," the Irishman opined significantly, "yet kings and empires are unmoved."

It appeared the chauffeur had finally taken the hint. He had picked Lady Sybil up in front of the house for her trip to Malton, and they had set out with no words exchanged save the extremely perfunctory and formal greetings of any mistress and her servant.

For several miles there was complete silence, except for road noises, and the sound of the engine. Unfortunately, just as Lady Sybil was congratulating herself on having finally taught him the appropriate way for him to behave, he spoke: "Milady, where do—"

"How many times do I have to tell you to hush!" Lady Sybil detested doing this, but it was for his own good.

To her great surprise, he did not obey, but his tone as he continued was devoid of expression. "You haven't yet told me where I'm to take you, milady."

"Oh," she said, realizing he was correct. "I promised to look in on old Mrs. Stewart."

The chauffeur nodded, and took the turnoff that lead to the old woman's cottage.

The Crawley family had entered into a conspiracy to drive their chauffeur mad.

"Has she forgiven you?" the Dowager Countess of Grantham asked.

"N— Who, your ladyship?"

"Don't be coy, Branson. Lady Sybil, of course."

The chauffeur took one hand off the steering wheel in order to press it momentarily against his chest. His heart pounded furiously at this betrayal. "She told you?" he asked, his voice strained. Well, he already had the broken heart, he shouldn't be surprised that the 'no job' wasn't far behind.

"She didn't have to tell me, I saw the whole thing."

He glanced back. "Your ladyship?"

"At the garden party, Branson. Did you think the three of you were invisible when you and Lady Sybil hugged… the maid that's become a secretary, what was her name?"

"Gwen, your ladyship." He sighed. "Gwen Dawson."

"Exactly."

There was a moment's silence. Then, "Branson, I've been meaning to speak to you."

He waited. He was finished; there was nothing for him to say.

"Isn't it about time you got married?"

"What?!"

"I've been thinking that you should get married."

He shook his head. Clearly he had lost his mind. Or she had. He laughed. 'Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad.' Who said that? "I thought you said it was an inconvenience when servants marry."

The old lady tsked. He glanced back to see her aged hand wave away this objection. "Not a chauffeur. A chauffeur getting married is no trouble. You already have the cottage. Just stick the girl in there."

Branson felt like his head was exploding. She wasn't serious! Stick Lady Sybil in the chauffeur's cottage?!

"You're obviously smitten."

He was obviously a lunatic! This could not be happening. He was delusional. His hearing was playing tricks. "No, milady, I'm n—"

"I daresay you fancy yourself in love."

"No!"

"Branson. What have I told you about lying to me?"

He would be sacked if he told her the truth.

"There's no shame in it."

He was ashamed.

"And you appear to be well suited to each other."

Yes, very well suited.

"You should offer for her."

Branson thought. If this was a trick, it was very unlike the dowager. But it was like her to make him confess before… his eyes filled with tears. He was sick of crying, his knees ached from praying, he disgusted himself, and old Lady Grantham was going to make him say it before throwing him out. Fine. He took a breath. Suppressed tears filled his sinuses so he could hardly breathe, but still he managed to ground out the required sentence: "She's too far above me, your ladyship." He hung his head.

"I thought you were a socialist."

"I am."

"Doesn't that mean you believe everyone is equal?"

"Not that equal."

"What nonsense."

He gripped the steering wheel and glanced back at her. "Milady?"

"Branson, my father was a baronet. When I married the man who would become the 4th Earl of Grantham, I was marrying someone who was above me, yes, but not too far above me. My boy," she smiled at him fondly, "it's never too far when a couple are well suited."

Mercifully, he had braked the motor because a flock of sheep was crossing the road ahead of them. He was glad for the pause in their journey, as he feared risking the old woman's life if he drove while she said such incredible things to him. He wanted to believe her so badly. But ultimately, it didn't matter whether she supported them or not. Lady Sybil didn't love him.

"Milady, I'm touched. Truly. You don't know what it means to me that you're saying this, but…"

"But?"

"She doesn't love me."

"I think she does."

He was shaking his head. "And even if you accepted it, do you think anyone else would? With the difference in our stations?"

"Of course," she said. "Don't be such an idiot."

He was an idiot, that was clear. He smiled at her, idiotically amused, then turned back to the road, to watch the last of the sheep and their shepherd pass.

"And anyway, Branson," the dowager was saying. "I don't see why you're making such a big deal out of the difference in your stations. Even if she is above you these days, don't forget she started as an under housemaid."

Branson couldn't help it. He lay his head on the steering wheel and laughed.

"Branson," Lady Sybil said, leaning forward to allow the chauffeur to hear her better from his perch on the front bench. "I hear Mr. Asquith has declared the Home Rule Bill is to become law, and that it will be implemented as soon as the war is over. Perhaps as soon as Christmas!"

Branson glanced back, incredulous, one eyebrow on the rise.

The girl smiled at him, shrugging, "Well, after all, sometimes it's amusing to hear your chatter."