Here it is...the final chapter to "Stepping Stones".

THANK YOU to everyone who has been following this companion piece to "Love's Journey"; thank you to all those who left comments, to those that followed it through story alerts, to those that added it to their favorite lists, and to the many, many readers who stumbled across it and followed it to this point. I hope you have enjoyed my exploration into those "missing years" between Seasons 1 & 2 of "Downton". It has been fun writing it, and I look forward to jumping back, with both feet, into "Love's Journey". If you haven't read that story, I hope you will consider it. But either way, THANK YOU for reading this.

Please, if you are so kind, let me know what you think and leave a review! I really truly appreciate them! And without further ado...the final chapter...


Chapter Twelve

Spring 1916

To Mr. Tom Branson [STOP] Downton Abbey, Yorkshire—

With deepest sadness regret to inform you [STOP] Martin was killed two days ago [STOP] shot during the Rising on North King's Street [STOP] little is known why [STOP] Uncle Michael had a stroke when he heard [STOP] please send word as soon as possible [STOP]

Five times.

He had read his sister's telegram five times, and he still couldn't digest the news fully.

Martin is dead.

He had just finished washing the Renault, when Daisy came rushing across the gravel drive, her cheeks flushed and her brow moist with sweat. He was a little confused to see her at first; normally William was the one to fetch him if the car were needed, but he offered a pleasant smile nonetheless. However, that smile faded when she stopped before him, her teeth chewing on her bottom lip and her eyes filled with worry.

"This just arrived," she explained, holding out a trembling hand to him.

He looked down and noticed the small yellow envelope she held. The sort of envelope that telegrams arrived in.

"The messenger said it was urgent…and…and…" her eyes fell to the ground then. "And…he offered his sympathies."

Sympathies?

Branson felt a cold shiver run down his spine as he took the telegram from Daisy's hand. He could feel dread filling his very core.

"I…I'm sorry," she whispered, before grabbing her skirts and running back to the house, leaving him to read his telegram in private. Only…he wasn't sure he wanted to be left alone. He wasn't even sure if he wanted to open the blasted thing. The flimsy piece of paper felt like the heaviest of weights. But the anxiety about the telegram's contents would do him far more harm than confronting the dreaded news. Or so he had convinced himself.

He staggered back into the garage and quickly sat down on the bench as he tore open the envelope…and read Kathleen's urgent message.

Martin is dead.

The first time he read it, he felt a terrible squeeze clench at his throat. The second time he read it, he felt bile rise up from his stomach. The third time, a strange, keening cry escaped the invisible, clenching fingers, and by the fourth time…he could barely read it, because his vision was blurred by the cold sting of tears.

Now, as he read it for the fifth time…he felt hollow.

Martin is dead.

Martin…

Damn him.

WHAT WAS HE DOING ON NORTH KING STREET IN THE FIRST PLACE?

His flat was nowhere near the bloody place, and why was he out at all?

News about the Easter Rising had been difficult to find; it seemed no one in Yorkshire really cared about what was going on in Dublin, especially when all eyes were turned towards the Continent. For weeks his mother had written to him about the tensions rising in Dublin, about how there were rumors that the rebels were planning something, some kind of uprising against the British soldiers. Branson wanted Ireland to win her independence, absolutely; but at what cost? He chastised himself later for having such thoughts; revolutions weren't won without serious action. However, he found himself wondering, again, if brutality justified those actions?

Every morning, as soon as Mr. Carson was finished with the paper, Branson would roam its pages, trying to see if there was any news about anything happening in Ireland.

And on the first Tuesday after Easter Sunday…he found it.

It wasn't a tiny article, but by no means was it eye-catching, either. The editors certainly didn't give it the worthiness of the front page. He scanned the article quickly, and then read it again slowly to soak up every detail. They were calling it "The Easter Rising".

He had to admit, he felt his heart swell with pride.

And then it began to plummet as he read about the number of civilians caught in the crossfire.

It seemed that war, no matter which side of the ocean it was fought, had a way for making the innocent suffer the worst.

That had been two days ago.

Every day since, he scoured the papers, looking for more articles, more news about the Easter Rising, and praying that the list of causalities would lessen—but they never did.

He would glance up at Mr. Carson, wondering if he had read the article, wondering if he would say anything about those "Irish barbarians"…but he never did.

No one said anything…not even Sybil.

The Tuesday he had read the first article, she came to the garage, a bright smile on her face. One of her charities was making Easter baskets for children of deceased soldiers, and she had volunteered to help deliver them. Her official reason for the visit was to order the car, but as usual, she would take her place on the garage bench and begin prattling about whatever was on her mind.

He debated about interrupting her, and telling her about the news of the Rising, about his worries and fears for his family, as well as about his conflicted feelings over the "cost of freedom and justice". They had discussed Irish independence before, it was not a foreign topic; they were both careful not to insult the other's nationality, and Branson was glad he could openly talk about such things with her.

But for some reason…this time, he kept his mouth shut.

He told himself it was because he wanted her to initiate the conversation; that he was waiting to see if she had made the discovery, waiting for her to come to him and ask after his family, after his own personal thoughts on what was happening…

But that was unfair. He later berated himself for thinking like that, and for not saying anything. He vowed to bring it up when he next had the opportunity, but he didn't see her the next day, or the day after. She was either busy with her charity, or helping her mother or grandmother or Mrs. Crawley with something. And when he wasn't passing the hours worrying about events going on back in his homeland while tinkering with an engine, he was worrying about his life and the safety of others, while beginning driving lessons with Lady Edith.

Martin is dead. Shot and killed two days ago…

"Damn you, Martin…" he hissed, the telegram crinkling in his trembling fist. "What were you DOING in the midst of all this, you bloody fool!"

"Branson?"

He froze at the sound of her voice.

No…no, no, no, he did NOT want to see her now!

…He did not want her to see him like this; a blubbering mess.

"Branson?" she called again as she approached.

Had she been skipping? Her feet sounded so light and rhythmic upon the gravel drive. Please, Sybil…just go away!

"Oh! Good, I'm glad I found you, I thought maybe you and Edith…" her voice trailed off as she entered the garage, finding him with his back turned to her, his body hunched over, trembling in a desperate attempt to get himself and his emotions under control. "Branson?" her sweet voice which had been so light and gay was etched with concern. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," he muttered, quickly rising to his feet and purposely moving across the garage to a darkened corner where she wouldn't be able to see his face, or the marks of tears that had once stained his cheeks.

She wasn't convinced. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, milady," he coughed, telling himself, again, to get his emotions in check. "Is there something you need?"

He avoided her eyes, but he could feel them burning into him. "No…" she murmured, before taking a tentative step towards him.

He nodded his head. "Does someone else need the car?"

Sybil shook her head. Under any other circumstances, between any other chauffeur and lady, that would be the end of the conversation.

But he and Sybil weren't like those chauffeurs and ladies. And for the first time ever, he wished they were.

"Branson…what's wrong?"

"As I said before, nothing is wrong, milady."

He glanced up at her from the confines of his shadows and briefly caught her eye. She was not prepared to back down.

"Branson—"

"Milady, please—"

"Oh stop it with this 'milady' business! Something has happened, I know it! Please, why won't you tell me—"

"OH FOR GOD'S SAKE, WILL YOU DROP IT?"

His roar startled him just as much as it startled her. She had been advancing upon him but came to a halt, and may have even jumped back when he raised his voice. He cursed himself, both for taking his frustration out on her, as well as for drawing any further unwanted attention to the garage. They both stood frozen, his eyes on the floor, the sound of their breathing, heavy and labored, filling the void between them.

Finally, Sybil released a shaky breath before speaking. "Alright…" she whispered. "I'm sorry, I…I didn't mean to upset you—"

"No, please," he had to interrupt; he didn't deserve her apology. "I'm sorry…I shouldn't have shouted."

Another long silence passed between them. He carefully lifted his head, and felt his breath catch at the sweet concern he saw reflected in her eyes.

"Tom…"

Oh God, the way she said his name. It was both heart soaring and heart breaking.

"If I can help…in any way…" she was quietly, and gently beginning to approach him once more. "Even if it's just by sitting…and quietly listening…"

He knew he could trust her. He knew that he could pour out his pain and anger to her, that she wouldn't judge him too harshly if he began muttering curses in Gaelic against the British; she would know that it was his grief talking. Why not tell her? Why not share with her your grief? Who better than she to understand? He knew that if he started…he wouldn't be able to stop. He would show her the telegram, tell her how angry he was at Martin for being caught in the crossfire, for being stupid enough to be out while this was going on in the first place, for leaving a perfectly decent and well-paying job back in Devon, where he was SAFE from all this!

He hated the soldiers who shot his cousin, who were occupying Dublin in the first place.

But at the same time, he hated the rebels too, hated them for causing such chaos that led to this bloodshed. Had it occurred to them that civilians would be killed too? Martin was no rebel! Did ANYONE pause to think about that possibility?

He wanted to rail against the injustice of it all. To shake his fists at God and curse the Almighty's name, before slamming them down, hard, on the car in front him, not caring if he left a dent. He wanted scream and tear at his hair and destroy something! And then he wanted to give in to the sobs that were threatening to burst, to crumble on the ground, his knees finally giving out, while he lost himself on a sea of tears.

…And maybe, just maybe…she would come to him then, and put her arms around him.

He would welcome her embrace. He would lean into her arms, and sob into her shoulder. To hell with what they said about men being stoic and keeping a "stiff upper lip" and all that nonsense. He was Irish; he was allowed to show his emotions and give in to passion every now and then. She wouldn't hold it against him if he cried. She wouldn't think him weak. No…his Sybil would hold him, gently rock him against her, and he would let her. He would cling to her and weep until the last ounce of grief had left his body. And even after that, he would probably still hold tight to her if he could and she allowed it. And if she didn't initiate the embrace…well, he would put his pride aside and crawl to her if need be. She wouldn't deny him then, surely? No, not his Sybil. Her heart was too big, too pure, and too good—she would take pity upon the poor wretch at her feet and hold him tight, he was sure of it.

Tell her. Show her the telegram. She wants to help, LET HER!

"Tom…?"

He looked at her and met her eyes; her beautiful, concerned, blue-gray eyes. And he opened his mouth to speak…

…But something inside him, something deep down, something that felt a strong kinship with his cousin…told him remain silent.

"Thank you, milady," he murmured, lowering his eyes once more. "But…I'm fine, truly. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to finish my work."

He winced at the coldness of his tone. He didn't dare look at her, coward that he was. He didn't have to; he could feel the pain in her gaze.

She didn't say anything. She simply turned on her heel and left the garage, no backwards glance or dramatic exit, no stomping or muttering or cursing under her breath. Nothing. She simply did what he had asked…and left him alone.

Well done.

Why had he done that? He didn't know…

No, that wasn't entirely true. He didn't invite her in because…there was some twisted part of him that felt he owed Martin this much.

Sybil knew about his cousin, but only in name. She knew that Martin once worked in Devon and had returned to Ireland shortly after the War started. And she knew that he and Martin were very close. But that was all. She didn't know their history, she didn't know the details about their childhoods, and she didn't know all the secrets he had shared with Martin, including the ones that involved her. She didn't know about the disagreement they both had when Martin announced his plans to return to Ireland, and Branson chose to stay behind. She didn't know that Martin thought him foolish for falling in love with a woman above his station. She didn't know that despite Martin's feelings on the matter…he still continued to write to his cousin over the last year and half about his hopes and dreams to one day have her love returned.

There were things he shared with Martin that no other living soul knew or ever would. There was a trust, deeper than any other bond he held with anyone else in his family. And right now…with this news about his death…that trust and that bond felt very, very sacred.

And for some strange reason…he felt he would be committing sacrilege if he said anything, even if it were sharing his grief with his dearest friend…and the woman he loved.

He sighed, and tossed the crumpled telegram into the rubbish heap. It would be a long time before she forgave him for this. She would either avoid him or return his coldness with her own, and he would deserve it.

Of course, there was the possibility that she would return and insist that he tell her the truth; she was stubborn enough to do just that, and he couldn't deny that he desperately wanted her to…

But he wouldn't get his hopes up.

Martin is dead.

Damn him. Damn them. Damn the War, damn the revolution, oh God above, damn it all…including himself.

Indeed, damn himself for his own weakness and cowardice, not just for keeping his grief to himself, but for all the time he had wasted in pining for Lady Sybil Crawley rather than acting on his feelings.

Your cousin just died, and that's all you can think about, you selfish git?

He let out a growl, before climbing into one of the cars, not caring that he wasn't wearing his livery, or that he had no official errand to run, or that it wasn't even his car to do as he pleased…

He didn't care. He would deal with the consequences later. Right now, he just needed to get away.

Martin was a driver, just like him. And like Martin, Branson wanted—no, needed to hear the engine screaming in his ears while the wind whipped against his face as he forced the car to accelerate faster than it had ever driven before.

And…maybe, somehow, Martin would feel it too.

To Be Continued…

The story continues in Chapter 41 of "Love's Journey"...