LONG TIME, NO UPDATE! Ugh, first I want to apologize for that, but for those of you who follow my other stories, you might be aware as to why I haven't updated in a while. But still, sorry for the wait and THANK YOU for your kindness and patience! BUT HERE IS AN UPDATE! YAY! And yes, there is lots of flirting ;o)

This chapter is dedicated to dorkout! Why? Because she's awesome (also because Oct. 4 is her birthday!) But this is dedicated to her, and she herself is an amazing S/T writer, whose sexy stories I *highly* recommend. And once again, THANK YOU TO EVERYONE for their lovely support for this story which started out as a crack fic and has become...well, maybe it's still crack fic, but hopefully you're loving it as much as me! :oP Thank you as always for reading and reviewing! Hope you enjoy! And happy birthday dorkout!

Chapter Twelve

Sybil was not a stranger to washing up. Before she left for York, she had helped the kitchen maids with some of the washing up, just to have an idea of how to clean one's own plates and bowls and utensils. And while she was at York, she had to scrub various pots and bed pans, which truthfully was a great deal…nastier…than cleaning a stew pot. However, despite her previous experience in washing up, Sybil had never had to scrub and wash and soak so many dishes! And not just the dishes from their own supper—ALL of the dishes, including those used by the pub's patrons.

It was a harrowing experience, to put it plainly.

And would it ever end? Just when she thought they had managed to finish, one of the inn's hall boys would return with a bin filled with even MORE dirty dishes, and Sybil could only stare in sad horror, as she began pondering if she would ever go to sleep that night. Good gracious, was it like this back at Downton? Was this what Mrs. Bird and all the kitchen maids had to deal with? She would never look at washing up the same way again, in fact she was determined that after this one experience, she would talk with her family and insist on finding a way to be less…less…well, less wasteful! I mean really, did they have to have five or seven courses? And did they have to have so many glasses for wine? And so many different forks?

Different forks.

Sarah.

Perhaps for the first time all evening, Sybil's mind wandered to her sister, and she found herself wondering what was happening back at Downton. She knew Sarah was extremely nervous about "her first dinner", and both Sybil and Gwen had gone over multiple times about what glass to sip and what fork to use during the various courses, but still, it was daunting to sit and imagine doing something you have never done before…and with people you're supposed to know but don't. Sybil could certainly relate! Although, thank heaven, Mrs. Patmore and Daisy were very easy to talk to, and while the Grantham Arms cook could be a bit intimidating with her thunderous voice and harsh glares, it didn't take long for Sybil to see what Sarah had described: a good woman who you would be honored to call a friend and have fight in your corner.

Yes, it wasn't so bad, her first evening at the Grantham Arms. Of course that had been what she was thinking before it was time for the all-consuming task of washing up. But setting that aside, she had talked and laughed with "her fellow staff", and had somehow managed to ease into this role that she was pretending to be, much easier than she had ever anticipated!

She only hoped that the same was true for her twin sister. At least the police hadn't swept into the inn, demanding to know where the "real" Lady Sybil was.

"I think that's the last of them, Mrs. Patmore!"

Sybil bit her lip and glanced up through her eyelashes at the Irishman who had just set down yet another heavy-looking bin filled with dirty dishes. Tom Branson, her father's new chauffeur, had insisted on staying and helping, even though Mrs. Patmore had told him over and over that he was a "guest" at the Grantham Arms, and there was no need, he merely put on that handsome (and rather cheeky) smile he had worn during their meal, removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves to his elbows, and began to get to work right away.

"Look at those…" Edna had hissed to no one in particular, though Sybil had heard. She swallowed, knowing exactly what Edna was talking about, as her eyes watched the muscles of Mr. Branson's forearms flex as he got to work. Her mind was once again flooded with images of when she had accidently come upon him earlier that afternoon, and he had been dripping with water and missing a shirt. "Strong as tree limbs, those look," Edna whispered, wetting her lips. "Wouldn't mind being caught in them…"

Sybil's already red face seemed to grow hotter as she listened to the other maid talk. Now new images were coming to her mind, images of, as Edna had described, being "caught" in Mr. Branson's powerful arms…and she swore she could feel goose bumps spread across her skin.

If he was aware that he was being "observed", he didn't show it. Mrs. Patmore tried to argue with him once again, but he put on that kind and cheeky grin, murmuring something about how his mother would be horrified if he didn't do his part ("she'd box my ears if she knew I left all of you to clean up this mess!"), and then he got right to work, gathering pots and pans and then taking a bin out into the pub, and returning with mountains upon mountains of dishes alongside the hall boys.

"Sarah?"

Sybil jerked back to reality at the sound of Daisy's voice. She looked over at the kitchen maid who was looking rather confused as to what had her so distracted. She realized then that Daisy was holding a soapy plate for her to rinse, and Sybil muttered an apology, before quickly taking the plate and soaking it in the hot water in front of her, rinsing the last of the soap from it, before moving to put it in the drying rack beside her—

"Here, let me."

"Oh!" Sybil gasped, nearly dropping the plate. Thankfully his hand had already started to take it, otherwise there would be an even bigger mess to clean up (and while Mrs. Patmore had been very sweet to her so far, she did not feel like giving the woman a reason to unleash her fury upon her).

"Sorry!" Mr. Branson quickly apologized, although his face did bear a sheepish looking grin. "Sorry; I shouldn't have snuck up on you like that."

Sybil was blushing furiously, partially out of her embarrassment over what had almost happened, but mainly because the very man whose muscular forearms she had been ogling ever since he had rolled up his sleeves, was suddenly standing next to her, offering to dry the plate she had been holding.

"Oh, no, no, it's…it was my fault, I…I shouldn't have…well, what I mean is I should have…"

Good God in heaven, what was she trying to say? And why did he have to look at her with that…smile?

"Sarah!"

Sybil froze and tried her best to suppress the groan that was building up in her throat as she turned her head to the one person she had met whom, no matter how hard she was trying, doubted she would ever get along with.

Edna marched over to where she and Mr. Branson were standing and glared at the ground at Sybil's feet.

"Look at this mess you're making!" she fumed, pointing an accusing finger on the floor. Sybil looked down and bit her lip, feeling her embarrassment rise as she did take notice of the rather large and somewhat soapy puddle that had formed around her feet. "Ugh, now we'll have to clean that up too!"

Sybil swallowed and lifted her eyes to meet Edna's. "I'll take care of it," she answered in an even tone, trying her hardest not to lose her temper, though the blonde chambermaid was making it difficult.

"Bloody right you will," Edna muttered, before moving in and literally butting Sybil aside with her hip.

"Hey!"

Edna flashed her a harsh glare. "Well, go on!" she ordered, as if she were mistress of the kitchens. "Fetch a mop and a bucket and clean this up!"

Sybil had endured commands and reprimands from her teachers and fellow nurses when she had gone to school and worked shifts at the Downton hospital. She was not a stranger to being ordered about, and never once thought that simply because she was the daughter of an earl, that meant she should have "special privileges". At the end of the day, she was a person just like anyone else, regardless of the station she had been born into. And all people deserved respect.

…But respect was the last thing she wanted to give Miss Edna Braithwaite.

Sybil had opened her mouth, prepared to retaliate with something, but was stopped short once again by Mr. Branson, who put down the rag he had been using to dry, and began to step away, announcing he would fetch the mop and bucket, his eyes going directly to Sybil's, and asking (with a kind, and rather sympathetic smile), where he would find it—but before she could answer (and unfortunately she had no idea where the mop was kept)—Edna actually reached out and grabbed hold of one of the Irishman's arms, pulling him back to her side, protesting that he didn't have to do that, that "Sarah" was more than capable of cleaning up after her own messes, but in the process of grabbing and pulling him to her, Mr. Branson was completely taken by surprise…and soon found himself slipping in the very soapy puddle that he had just volunteered to help clean up.

Sybil gasped and leapt forward, holding her hands out to try and catch him and help him regain his balance. However, Edna was doing the same, although her efforts seemed to be pulling the man down rather than helping him back up. And soon the both of them found themselves slipping as well!

Poor Daisy turned to see what was happening, and Edna in a last ditch attempt to keep herself from falling, reached out with her other hand for the kitchen maid…and ended up pulling her down too. All four of them landed in a loud, wet, and inglorious plop on the floor, groaning as various body parts began to throb with pain, depending on where and how they landed. For Sybil, it was her backside and tailbone.

"WHAT IN GOD'S NAME IS GOING ON!?" Mrs. Patmore fumed, marching over and looking at the pathetic heap they had created. Sybil bit her lip and swallowed as she met the cook's wrathful glare. The woman was clearly waiting for an explanation.

"It's Sarah's fault!" Edna was quick to accuse. "She made a huge mess! Dripped water everywhere!" Sybil whipped her head to the woman and her eyes widened as she noticed that Edna was practically lying fully on top of poor Mr. Branson, who was groaning in pain at the very bottom of their heap.

Suddenly any thoughts of defending herself vanished, and she quickly scrambled to her feet. "Get off of him!" she ordered, her eyes filled with concern for the new Downton chauffeur. His face was contorted in such pain, and Sybil tried to recall if she had heard something crack when they all fell down.

Edna's eyes widened at her words. "WHAT!?" she gasped.

Sybil didn't have time for these stupid games. "I said GET OFF of him!" she hissed, grabbing Edna unceremoniously by the elbow and practically yanking her away with one tug.

"HEY!" Edna gasped, staring up at Sybil in shock and horror (and anger) as she was tugged off the groaning Irishman. She turned to look at Mrs. Patmore who was still standing there, hands on her hips and glaring at the lot of them. "Did you JUST see what she did—"

"I SEE A BUNCH OF FOOLS, THAT'S WHAT I SEE!" the cook growled, moving around Edna and going to Mr. Branson's other side. Sybil had just managed to help him sit up, telling him to move slowly, asking him where he had landed and what hurt. She wasn't Sarah Crawford anymore, but Nurse Crawley; and she didn't care if she would have to create some elaborate explanation later, or if she bore all the blame for what had happened, all that mattered right now was seeing to Mr. Branson's care.

"Ahhh!" Mr. Branson groaned, sitting up a little more and his hand immediately going to his left shoulder. "The…the brunt of my weight landed here…" he explained, hissing with pain as his fingers touched his shoulder.

Sybil bit her lip, praying it wasn't dislocated. Only once had she reset a bone, and it was the closest she had ever come to fainting. "Can you move it at all?" she gently asked, her own fingers rising tentatively to touch and massage the shoulder in question.

"I…I think so…" he muttered, hissing a little as he tried, especially when Sybil carefully dug her fingertips into the muscle.

"Here now, you're making it worse—!"

"SHUT UP!" both Sybil and Mrs. Patmore (and possibly even Daisy) all but growled at the blonde chambermaid, which thankfully, seemed to do the trick, because her mouth snapped shut and she stared back at the lot of them with a mix of wounded pride and pure outrage.

Mr. Branson gritted his teeth, but he did manage to move his shoulder without any problem, and based on what Sybil could feel beneath her fingers, he hadn't (thank God!) dislocated it, though it would no doubt develop some nasty bruises over the next few days. And she did want to keep it from swelling. Sybil turned to the cook, who was leaning over the pair of them, watching and looking far more concerned than angry at the moment. "Mrs. Patmore, is there a chance we can get some ice to put on his shoulder?" She didn't know how available ice was at the Grantham Arms, especially now as they were approaching summer…

But the cook nodded her head. "Daisy, I think we have some in that ice box in the larder; be a good girl and gather a bit."

Daisy nodded her head and went about her task, passing a sulking Edna on her way. Sybil had helped Mr. Branson up and over to a chair, her hands steadily holding his arm and guiding him…or was his hand, continuing to hold hers? "Um…" Sybil bit her lip and glanced around the room. "It would be best," she began, keeping her voice low. "If you could remove your waistcoat and shirt…"

The Irishman lifted his eyes to her and Sybil felt that heat suddenly return to her cheeks as he once again gave her that cheeky, lopsided grin. "Trying to divest me of my clothes again?"

Her eyes went wide. "What!?" she gasped. "No! No, of course not—"

He was chuckling at her. He was teasing her! Oh the arrogance of men.

"So that's a 'no' then?" he asked, his humor dancing in his eyes while he unbuttoned his waistcoat.

Sybil pursed her lips together, trying very desperately to keep from smiling back. She barely knew Tom Branson, but oh she could see that he could be a most insufferable man. Although…he was different, compared to the other men she had encountered. He certainly was no Larry Grey, thank heaven.

"I may need your help," he sighed, straightening himself and wincing as he attempted to pull his waistcoat off. The pain was obvious on his face, and Sybil didn't even hesitate, she quickly moved around him to help ease the piece of clothing off, and only realized that they had an audience when Edna gave a surprising gasp, followed by an indignant huff.

"MRS. PATMORE!?" she turned to the cook, looking at the woman as if she were expecting her to rain fire and brimstone down on Sybil for helping Mr. Branson out of his waistcoat.

"Oh go and get the mop, Edna," Mrs. Patmore groaned, rolling her eyes and marching over to where Sybil was standing. "Alright, you've done enough my girl," she muttered at Sybil, making a gesture with her thumb to step away from stripping Irishman. "I'll see to the rest."

Sybil's face flushed brightly, but nowhere near as bright as poor Mr. Branson. "I…I um…excuse me?" he asked, stuttering slightly as he rose to his feet and took a small step away from the cook.

"Oh don't flatter yourself, lad," the woman rolled her eyes again. "I'm probably old enough to be your grandmother! But it's far more improper you doing that here, or even going back to your room with her," she gestured to Sybil, "than with me, so come on! We'll get you upstairs, into bed, and put some ice on that bump of yours—Daisy!" The kitchen maid reemerged with the very ice she had been sent to retrieve. Sybil was looking down at the ground, feeling absolutely mortified for the implications Mrs. Patmore had mentioned. She had forgotten all about propriety, of course, because she was thinking like a nurse in that moment.

…Although as she turned her face just slightly to catch the outline of Tom Branson's muscular form, she wondered if she would have been able to be as…professional…as she had been in the past.

Good heavens, what has come over you? Since when have you ever…ever cared or…or thought about…?

She turned away and kept her eyes locked on the ground as Daisy passed her to hand Mrs. Patmore the ice.

"Alright," Mrs. Patmore growled, turning back and looking at the rest of them. "I expect that mess," she pointed to what remained of the puddle still, "to be cleaned up and spotless by the time I get back, and for the rest of those dishes to be dried and put it away, is that clear!?"

"Yes, Mrs. Patmore," all of them mumbled.

The cook gave a silent nod, before turning Mr. Branson towards the door. Sybil kept her eyes on the ground, although she could feel his gaze fall upon her as he passed. It was tempting to look up and give him a little smile, despite his cheeky comments to her, but she didn't dare. Not with everyone watching right now, certainly. As soon as both he and Mrs. Patmore were gone, Edna wasted no time thrusting the mop into Sybil's hands. "Take care of your mess," she muttered, before marching over to the other side of the kitchen where the hall boys were silently watching, and began to put away the pots and pans that they had been wiping clean.

Sybil's eyes narrowed as she watched the blonde chambermaid pass. It was her fault that this had happened in the first place!

Well…to a point. Sybil was the one responsible for the creation of the puddle, but Edna had made things worse by literally butting her away from Mr. Branson and then of course pulling him down onto the ground! Yes, the man was handsome, that could not be denied, but…was it worth it? To act so silly around a man? And just why did Edna despise Sarah so? Sybil couldn't imagine her sister doing anything so horrendous to earn such anger and detestation. Was it simply because she was that desperate for Tom Branson to notice her and only her?

Well…she can have him, Sybil told herself, pushing a fallen piece of hair out of her eyes. No man is worth that sort of headache, surely! Besides, even though she had only just met him, it was quite clear that the man was frightfully full of himself.

…Alright, once again, he was nothing like Larry Grey, but…but still…

…But still…

…But still what?

She shook her head and went about the task of mopping up "her" mess, trying her best to keep her mind focused on the true reason she was here; a chance to experience life without the shadow of her birth and title hovering over her, to be treated just like a "regular person", and to prove to her family that she truly was capable of taking care of herself, while giving Sarah the opportunity to get to know all of them and settle into what Sybil hoped would be her sister's future home. Yes, that was what she needed to focus and concentrate on, not on handsome, cheeky Irishmen, with dazzling blue-green eyes and muscular forearms—oh, bloody hell!

Not so far away, the night had been quite different for another Crawley sister.

Sarah groaned as she heard a light tapping on her door (Sybil's door). "W-w-what?" she moaned, trying to sit up and gasping as she sank a little further into the mattress than was expected. Just then the door creaked open, and Sarah looked up and saw the friendly face of Gwen peak inside.

"Sorry to disturb you," she whispered upon catching Sarah's eyes.

Sarah sat up more (or tried to) and shook her head. "No, no, it's alright," she insisted, covering her mouth as she yawned. Good heavens, she had never felt so lethargic! "What…what time…?" she squinted her eyes and tried to spot the nearby mantle clock.

"Half-past eight," Gwen answered.

Sarah gasped, practically bolting upright (or she would have, if the bloody mattress didn't keep pulling her back down. Good heavens, were all posh beds like this?). "Half-past eight!?" she squeaked. "That late!?"

Gwen couldn't help it; she burst out laughing then, and Sarah felt her face flush. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Gwen apologized between giggles. "It's just…well…I'm not used to hearing anyone who looks like a member of the Crawley family call half-past eight, 'late'," she explained.

Yes, Sarah could imagine that was true. She was still blushing, but also smiling herself now. "I can't remember the last time I had the luxury of sleeping in so late," she confessed.

Gwen sighed and shook her head. "Isn't it sad that we think of half-past eight in the morning as a 'lie-in'?"

Sarah found herself nodding her head. "Yes, it does put certain things into perspective…" she mused. Her smile faded then as she imagined her sister right now. Sybil would have had to have been up and on her feet for practically two hours now. How was she faring? She couldn't deny that last night she had been so worried about her sister, and kept wondering if the police would come barging through the doors of Downton Abbey at any second, demanding that the imposter who was posing as Lady Sybil Crawley, hand herself over. But surprisingly…that didn't happen.

Surprising, she was still here. Which meant that surprisingly, Sybil was still at the Grantham Arms—at least for another day.

"Don't misunderstand," Gwen continued speaking as she fully entered the room and walked over to the closet to rehang the frock Sarah had worn the other night, now pressed and clean. "Lady Sybil did rise early too, especially when the house served as a convalescent home; but that wasn't every day. Which is why I wonder if she's in for a rude awakening over at the Grantham Arms."

Sarah could only nod in agreement, and nibbled her lip as she thought of her sister. Oh gracious, poor Sybil—having to endure early mornings with Edna! Perhaps that was why she had fallen asleep so quickly last night? For the first time since…well, since she could remember…she had a room all to herself! And not just any room, but a room with a large bed…ALL to herself!

And it was strange to wake up and discover that she didn't have any specific responsibilities to attend to. No fires to light, no laundry to gather, no food to serve, no beds to make…

It would be a lie to say that there was a part of her that wasn't delighted with the idea of not having to do anything…but at the same time…she was already feeling frightfully…bored.

"Now what?" Sarah found herself asking, attempting to rise from the soft mattress.

Gwen seemed to find this question amusing, because she was giggling again. "Now…well, now I suppose you wash, dress, and then go downstairs for breakfast."

Alright, that made sense. But…after that? "And then?"

Gwen paused and looked up at Sarah, a troubled expression on her face. "I…I honestly don't know," she answered truthfully.

Both women looked at each other…and then burst into laughter, although it was the sort of laughter one would only reserve for a moment when you were absolutely uncertain how else to respond to something. How sad, to live with such uncertainty, Sarah found herself thinking. Yes, it was all very good to imagine not having to rise and perform certain duties for once, but…at the same time, to not have a specific purpose? Perhaps she could understand her sister's desire in wanting to leave this life?

"Well, what would you like to wear this morning?" Gwen asked, smiling as she opened Sybil's closet. "I did bring my sewing kit, in case we need to make any changes," she quickly added.

Sarah's legs were a bit wobbly as she crossed the room to the closet to gaze once again at the many gowns and blouses and skirts that hung on its hangers and were folded on its shelves. "I…I suppose I should wear something simple…nothing like what I wore last night?"

Gwen nodded. "Lady Sybil usually wears a very simple blouse, with a nice simple skirt; partially because she likes to dress herself as much as possible," Gwen confided. "In truth, while I come up here to 'offer her any help', normally she just likes to have me sit and talk while she changes."

Sarah smiled at this, imagining her sister doing just that, insisting that she dress herself, while also insisting that Gwen sit down and take a moment to relax before being forced to go about her day with whatever chores she was supposed to attend to. "It must be nice," she murmured, more to herself, though Gwen did hear. "Having a good friend like that…"

Gwen did smile at Sarah's words, although there was some sadness to it, not for herself, but for the young woman who had spoken. "It is," she agreed. "I...I mean, I'm not that naïve; I know that Lady Sybil is…well, she's a fine lady, the daughter of an earl, and I'm just a servant, but…" she blushed and smiled and looked down at her shoes. "She would hate it, hearing me talk like that," she murmured to herself.

Sarah glanced over at the housemaid and reached out to touch the girl's shoulder. Even though they were both, in essence strangers, just as she and Sybil were strangers, Sarah did feel a kinship with Gwen, just as she felt a strong connection with Sybil. "I've only known her for less than a week, which is much shorter than how long you've known her, but…but Sybil doesn't strike me as the sort of person who would look at someone, regardless of their birth, as 'just that'."

Gwen nodded her head. "You're right, she wouldn't. She never has, really. She's never cared for all that 'nonsense' as she would call it…which is why, I confess, I'm worried for her," she sighed. "She may not care, but that doesn't mean others won't."

Sarah bit her lip and found herself silently nodding her head. Yes, there was a great deal of truth in that. And it brought up other questions, too. While she was, without a doubt, Sybil's twin sister and therefore a Crawley by birth, she had also lived her entire life in a world quite the opposite of her sister's…and when the truth was discovered, how would the world respond? Sybil seemed convinced that it would embrace the both of them, and that her—their family, would accept her with open arms. But would they? Truly? Just because she looked like her sister didn't mean she was anything like her sister! That much was obvious the previous night, when they were all at the dinner table! Oh Lord, Sarah still remembered how frightening that had been, especially receiving the Dowager Countess' "evil eye" for daring to eat her soup in the wrong manner.

Oh yes, she had felt all their eyes watching her, all of them judging her, wondering what was wrong with her…

…Except him.

Sarah's face flooded with color as she recalled the kind, blue eyes of Mr. Tom Bellasis, her father's "special guest", sitting directly across from her at the table last night, and how every so often, when she would lift her head and catch his gaze…he would offer her a kind smile, before lowering his eyes again to his plate, so as not to draw attention to her.

Yes, that had been awfully kind of him, she thought. Very kind and very considerate.

"Who normally comes to breakfast?" Sarah found herself asking, turning her attentions back to the closet where Gwen was standing again, pulling out some blouses and skirts for her to consider.

"His Lordship, of course. And now that they're back, Mr. Crawley will be there, too. I suspect Lady Mary will be taking breakfast in her room, now that she's a married woman."

"And so will Lady Grantham," Sarah added. Mama…

Gwen nodded. "Old Lady Grantham—that's what we sometimes call her Ladyship, the Dowager Countess," Gwen explained, blushing slightly. "She'll not be there, or Mrs. Crawley, for that matter."

"And Sir Anthony Strallan and Lady Edith will be at their home," Sarah added again. "So it will be just…Lord Grantham and Mr. Crawley."

Gwen nodded. "Oh, and Mr. Bellasis, of course!"

Mr. Bellasis. Of course.

"Yes…" Sarah murmured, more to herself. She turned her face away, not wanting Gwen to see her blushing cheek.

"What do you think about these?" Gwen asked, holding up a pink blouse and dark gray skirt for Sarah to see. "Lady Sybil often wears this in the morning."

Sarah looked at the blouse and skirt and gave the housemaid a smile and a nod of her head, before proceeding to change out of her nightgown—or rather, out of Sybil's nightgown.

"Wait…" Sarah paused as she realized something Gwen had said. "What do you mean, 'in the morning'? I understand that she would have to change again for dinner, but…but surely that's it…isn't it?"

Gwen bit her lip in an attempt to keep her laughter from being too loud. "Oh milady…" she giggled. "The things you'll soon learn about being 'one of them'."

A few hours earlier...

Her back ached. Her limbs ached. Her head ached. Everything ached. Not since York, had Sybil slept in a more uncomfortable bed. Not since York, had Sybil been forced to share a room. Although the key difference was that at least in York, Sybil had gotten along very well with her roommate. This was an altogether different experience.

Of course she shared a room with Edna. Good Lord, how did Sarah manage it? After everything had finally been properly cleaned and dried to Mrs. Patmore's approval, Sybil slugged up the stairs to the room Sarah had described to her, only to find Edna snoring loudly (already) in her bed. Yes, the blonde maid had found a way to "sneak upstairs" before the rest of them were finished, not that Sybil tried to put up a fight. It wasn't worth it after everything that they had endured already in the kitchens, and to be quite honest, she was grateful to have the woman leave her and Daisy and the rest of the hall boys in peace. Yet when Sybil attempted to turn on a lamp so she could see what she was doing upon entering the darkened room, Edna practically hissed at her like a cat, warning her to keep the lamp off, before burrowing back under her covers and continuing to sleep.

And if truth be told, Sybil was so exhausted, that she didn't even bother trying to remove her clothes. She unlaced her boots, threw her apron over some piece of nearby furniture, and crawled into the hard, stiff bed, hoping that her exhaustion would give her some much needed sleep.

She wasn't so lucky.

Sleep did come, but not without a restless night of twisting and turning and trying to get comfortable. And when morning did come, it was no less pleasant, as Edna stomped around the room, muttering about how "not all of us can be fine posh lady's maids and sleep the day away". Sybil glared at Edna and opened her mouth to retaliate, but the woman was already out of the room, the door banging in her wake.

Oh if she could just put Edna and O'Brien in a room together…

Yes, she would love to hear Edna eat her words then!

She only had two dresses, according to what Sarah had told her. Two uniforms, and Sybil quickly stripped off the one she had been wearing, to put on the other one…muttering at the tightness around her hips and waist. While she and Sarah shared a very similar figure, it was clear her sister had a little less weight in her middle, and she would have to find some time later to let the dresses out so she could breathe comfortably.

Either that, or tighten her corset.

She shuddered in horror at the thought.

After changing clothes, she splashed some cold water on her face from the basin she and Edna shared, and ran a comb through her hair, wincing as she worked her way through the tangles, before finally twisting her hair into a bun, and pinning it up, along with her maid's cap.

There. The transformation was complete. At least from the outside.

"Sarah!" Mrs. Patmore gasped, staring at her as she entered the kitchens. Sybil froze, wondering if she had forgotten to put something on. She quickly looked down at herself to inspect her appearance, but when she saw nothing amiss, she lifted her eyes to the cook, who was still frowning at her.

"It's almost seven, girl! You're late!"

Seven. Seven in the morning was late?

"Sorry, Mrs. Patmore," she mumbled, lowering her eyes and moving to the table where Edna sat, sipping her tea and looking rather smug.

"Oh never mind," the cook muttered. "You were up very late last night, attending to a mess…" she glared at Edna then, who looked hurt by the silent accusation the cook was sending her way.

"It's not my fault that Sarah made that mess!" she answered indignantly.

Perhaps not, but it's your fault that it was made worse! Sybil wanted to shout back. And it was completely Edna's fault that Mr. Branson had injured his—

MR. BRANSON!

Sybil's eyes flew around the kitchen, looking to see if the Irishman was amongst them as he had been last night. But no, he was nowhere to be seen.

"He's already been up and had his breakfast," Mrs. Patmore muttered, not even looking up but sensing Sybil's question.

Sybil blushed then, feeling her cheeks heat at the rather obvious concern she was displaying. That's only because you think of him as a patient, her mind tried to reassure. No other reason.

Daisy came over to the table where Sybil sat and placed a bowl of porridge in front of her, a little knowing smile on her face. "He's doing much better," she assured with a little wink. Once again, Sybil's face heated, although she did smile back at Daisy's assurance. Edna just scowled at her from across the table.

"Right, best be getting out there and start serving the 'early risers'," Mrs. Patmore announced, looking over at Sybil's table companion. Edna made a face, but the stern look she received from Mrs. Patmore kept the chambermaid's mouth shut. So with a groan, she pushed herself away from the table and left the kitchen, taking a hot pot of coffee with her.

"Sarah, as soon as you finish your breakfast, I need you to go to the market and fetch the items on this list," Mrs. Patmore instructed, dropping a piece of paper onto Sybil's lap. It was a simple list of fruits and vegetables, all items she was familiar with, so thankfully she wouldn't look like a complete idiot when ordering the items.

She finished her porridge and tea quickly, and then took a large basket which Daisy had set aside for her. She was still yawning as she left the inn, her body still aching after her restless night, but it was nice being outdoors and feeling the warm spring sun hit her face.

"Good morning, Sybil-Sarah."

Sybil practically stumbled and may have had a nasty tumble, if she hadn't felt his hands suddenly reach out and grab her shoulders, pulling her back and righting her up.

"Careful! Don't want to be like me and have a nasty tumble!" Mr. Branson chuckled, his hands lingering perhaps a touch longer than they should on her shoulders, before finally releasing her.

Sybil swallowed and looked up at him through her lashes. "Mr. Branson, you…you startled me."

"Sorry about that," he apologized, sounding quite sincere, though a smile continued to linger on his lips. "And please, it's Tom…"

Tom. Tom Branson. Tom Branson from Ireland. Tom Branson who was now an employee at Downton Abbey, who worked for her father, the Earl of Grantham, who would drive his cars and serve as chauffeur to the Crawley family, and who would be living in that very cottage where she and Sarah had been meeting in secret, had they not nearly burned the place down.

Tom…whose crooked grin seemed to have some sort of strange effect on her stomach.

"I want thank you, by the way," his voice interrupted her thoughts, which was just as well, because her eyes were lingering perhaps a bit longer than they should on that patch of skin just exposed at the collar of his shirt.

"Thank me?" she practically squeaked, inwardly rolling her eyes at how silly she was sounding.

He nodded, grinning as he stuffed his hands into his pockets (a very casual gesture, one that Pratt or any other servant back and Downton would ever do in her presence!) "My shoulder," he explained. "The ice that you recommended; it helped a great deal."

"Oh! Oh, well…I'm glad," she murmured, blushing and smiling, although in truth, she was glad. "Daisy did say that you were doing better."

He nodded his head, his smile not so crooked now, but there was definitely a warmth in his eyes, that seemed to radiate further at the corners of his mouth. "I was lucky to have a good nurse there to look after me."

Sybil's stomach did a strange sort of flip flop at his statement, but she tried to hide her surprise with what she hoped looked like a genuine smile. "Yes, well…I um…I volunteered, you see…during the War, as an…an auxiliary nurse."

"Really?" he asked, genuine curiosity on his face. "Wow, no wonder! I mean, you seemed so…so 'in control' last night, the way you commanded everything…" his smile never seemed to lessen and the warmth Sybil was feeling in her belly just seemed to spread further and further.

"Yes, well, if I had 'proper control' of everything, you wouldn't have been injured in the first place," she mumbled, thinking about Edna's silliness…as well as her own, to a point. No, she couldn't blame Edna entirely, though it was tempting. But the truth of the matter was, if she had been paying proper attention to her task of washing up, rather than allowing her imagination to wander every time she caught a glimpse of Tom Branson's forearms, maybe that puddle wouldn't have formed in the first place?

"I'm learning all sorts of things about you," he murmured, drawing her attention back.

Sybil's eyes widened and her face grew hot. "W-w-what?" she stuttered, her stomach shivering again.

"Well, I just learned that you worked as a nurse during the War…and then last night I learned that you've served at Downton Abbey."

Oh Lord. "Not…not really," she said with a shake of her head. "I mean, I was only there for…for a few days, stepping in when one of the housemaids took ill," she tried to calmly explain, her mind rushing as it went over the elaborate lie she and Sarah had concocted for her "mysterious trips" over the past few days.

Yet if Mr. Branson had found her explanation odd in any way, he didn't show it. "That's still more than me," he chuckled. "Maybe you can provide me with 'important insider information'," he teased. "Like, 'how do I stay on the butler and housekeeper's good side', or 'who should I avoid—'"

"Carson likes order and is very traditional, but Mrs. Hughes, while firm, is very kind and appreciates genuine honesty…and O'Brien, Lady Grantham's lady's maid, is probably someone whose bad side—any side, really, you want to avoid."

Tom blinked at her for a minute, clearly not expecting her to take his jest seriously, but she simply stood there, grinning rather proudly at herself for being able to catch him somewhat "unawares". And why not? He certainly had that ability with her.

"Wow…" he murmured, his smile growing as he gazed at her. "See? This is what I mean; I'm learning all sorts of things about you, Sybil-Sarah."

Sybil blushed and looked down at the ground. "It's…Sarah," she murmured, feeling it was important to remind him who she was…or rather, who she was pretending to be. And keep that in mind because this isn't your life you're playing with, but the life of your sister and her good reputation!

He was gazing at her, and even though Sybil was keeping her eyes locked on the ground, she could feel the heat of his eyes on her, and it was doing much more than causing her stomach to flip and flop, but it also seemed to be having a strange effect over her chest, as well.

"I…I should go," she mumbled, taking a reluctant step back.

"Of course," he murmured, straightening himself. "My apologies, I don't want you to get into any trouble by keeping you from your work…" he glanced over his shoulder then at the small garage that belonged to the inn. "Perhaps I can drive you?"

Sybil's eyes widened at his offer. "Oh! Oh…no, no, thank you, but no, I…I'm only going to the market, which is just a few streets away…a short walk, I assure you," she explained. She knew this as it was something she had passed often on her way to the hospital during the War. "Besides, I don't want to keep you from your work either."

He sighed and nodded his head. "Aye, I'm expected up at the big house at half-past nine," he sighed. "But experience has taught me that when they say half-past nine, they really mean they won't see you until half-past ten…but they really want you there at half-past eight, just in case."

She looked at him and gasped slightly at the little wink he gave her, which was followed by a delicious sounding chuckle. Her face grew hot once more, but Sybil found herself giggling as well. "Well…I'll keep that in mind if I am ever asked to arrive at an appointment at half-past nine," she murmured.

"Do, do," he chuckled. "Ah, not that I mind too much; it will give me a chance to see his Lordship's garage, and familiarize myself with some of the other cars. Not to mention I still haven't received my livery—have to look the part, after all."

Sybil knew what the chauffeur's livery at Downton looked like…her mind was already imagining Tom Branson in the rich, dark green jacket…and how…snug, it would look, on his broad shoulders…

"Well…I…I better not keep you," she stammered slightly, giving him a quick smile, before turning and starting to once again make her way towards the high street where the market lay.

"Thanks again for the advice about Downton!" he called back to her retreating figure. "I'll be sure to give you a full report later!"

She found herself laughing at this, and looked over her shoulder, blushing furiously at the crooked smile he gave her, before he himself turned his back and retreated back to the inn garage. She smiled and then gave a resolute sigh, before once again embarking on her journey to the market.

It was only when she had rounded the corner that she realized a grave flaw in her and Sarah's plan.

Tom Branson was the new Downton chauffeur.

Which meant there was a very real possibility that Tom Branson would meet "Lady Sybil Crawley"…and recognize the uncanny resemblance she had with the chambermaid "Sarah Crawford" back at the Grantham Arms.