Author's Note: This chapter takes place during the period between Episodes 3 and 4 of Season Two; or, more specifically, after the dinner for General Sir Herbert Strutt, but before the scene outside the garage during which Branson tells Sybil that she loves him, but is just too afraid to admit it.
If you haven't yet read my Carson/Branson story Reasons, this would be a good time, since the action in this chapter will make better sense if you know what 'consequences' Branson is suffering.
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.
Violet couldn't put her finger on just what it was, but she knew when something didn't strike her right. "Branson?"
"Yes, your ladyship?"
"Are you well?"
"Perfectly well. Thank you, milady."
Which didn't seem to leave much room for doubt. So why did she still doubt?
"Robert," Violet asked her son, "have you noticed anything odd about Branson lately?"
Lord Grantham considered. "How do you mean?"
"He's not…" she did not know how to explain it. "… not himself." She let a moment pass in silence. "You haven't noticed it? Maybe it's just me."
"Mama…" Lord Grantham began, then hesitated.
"You have noticed it, then?" his mother demanded sharply.
"You know he was called up?"
"Oh my God, Branson's going in the Army?" Violet knew the boy didn't want to go. No wonder he was acting so queer.
"No, he's not," Lord Grantham replied quietly.
"He's not? What a relief!" then, realizing what her son had just said, she objected, "What can you mean? You just said he's been called up!"
Lord Grantham wondered if it was his place to tell his mother this, but continued anyway, mainly because she seemed so concerned. "He was… but it seems he has a heart murmur, so they don't want him." Either, he thought, but forbore to say.
"A heart 'murmur'? Is it serious?"
"Serious enough for him to be deemed unsuitable for service at any rate."
"He's perfectly suitable for service, he's just not suitable to be blown to Hades," Violet snapped, simultaneously irritated and relieved. If that was the boy's problem, he deserved a good swift kick. By rights, he should be thanking God for his good fortune. She hadn't even needed to enlist Dr. Clarkson's aid on his behalf. The Lord works in mysterious ways his wonders to perform. A heart murmur! Who knew?
But if he wasn't going in the army, then what was wrong with him? She turned ideas over in her mind. What would give them an insight into the young Irishman's thought processes if he wouldn't talk? Her eye fell on the ledger. Aha! "What's he reading these days, Robert?" That should be a clue.
"I've no idea," Robert responded. "There's the ledger; have a look for yourself."
The Dowager looked at the current page. It was filled with her granddaughter Edith's handwriting, signing books in and out on behalf of the convalescent officers. Violet had to search for the chauffeur's distinctive penmanship. She turned back to the previous page, then returned to the current one, now far more disturbed than she had been before. "Robert, come and look at this."
"Not reading Arcadian Adventures with the Idle Rich, is he now?" her son laughed.
"No," Violet told him. "He isn't reading anything."
"Jamison," the Dowager Countess of Grantham asked her butler, "how did Branson seem to you at luncheon?"
"He didn't eat with us today, my lady."
"Don't we normally give him lunch on long round days?"
"Normally we do, my lady, yes."
"So why didn't he eat with you?"
"Well, my lady, apparently this month isn't quite… normal."
"This month, did you say? What does that mean, Jamison?"
"I don't really know, my lady."
"How can you not know?"
"Well, for the past couple of weeks, when we've asked Mr. Branson if he would eat with us, he's said he 'couldn't.'"
"'Couldn't', do you say? Why not?"
"He has not confided in me, my lady."
"And… has anyone else 'confided' in you?"
Jamison gave his mistress the sidelong look that meant he knew something, if unofficially.
"Don't be coy, Jamison. Out with it. What do you know?"
"Well, my lady, rumour has it that he's not been eating with any other department either, but has instead been keeping himself exclusively to the chauffeur's cottage whenever he's not actually performing work."
"Is that right?" The old woman was thoughtful.
"So I'm told, my lady."
"Thank you, Jamison."
If Branson was choosing to eat alone in the teeth of invitations to dine in company, then something was definitely wrong with the young man, and Violet Crawley was going to found out what it was, or she didn't style herself the Dowager Countess of Grantham.
"Carson," Lord Grantham asked his butler, "do you think Branson is all right?"
For a split second, Mr. Carson was afraid Mr. Branson had done something. He would rend the lying ingrate limb from limb. Almost immediately, however, logic reasserted itself. The chauffeur had, on his own initiative, apologized for lying to Carson, and however wrongheaded the boy might be at times, Carson believed him to be sincere in his wish to remain at Downton. Ergo, he would not have done anything. "As far as I know, my lord. Is there a problem?"
"Not a problem, no. I just noticed that it's been several weeks since he's borrowed any books, and it isn't like him. I thought perhaps he might be taking being turned down by the army... too hard."
That's one way of putting it, Carson thought. What he said was: "I believe I may know what has happened, my lord. I'll speak to the boy."
"If there's anything I can do…" his lordship offered.
"I doubt that will be necessary, your lordship. I'm fairly sure it's simply a misunderstanding."
"A 'misunderstanding', Carson? A misunderstanding of what?"
The butler hesitated, sorry he'd mentioned it. "Your lordship, I'm afraid Mr. Branson is a little in disgrace at the moment. I've had occasion to… chasten him for… an attempted 'prank.' Nothing serious, you understand, my lord, but it may be that he believes his permission to borrow books has been suspended."
"Did the 'prank' involve books?"
"No, your lordship. Furthermore, I got wind of what he intended and put a stop to it before anything could happen. He has given me his assurance that he will never so much as contemplate anything even remotely similar ever again, my lord." Or I'll wring the wretch's neck for him like a roasting hen's.
"I see. So it's all settled then."
"Yes, my lord, I believe so."
"Very well. Thank you, Carson."
"Robert, I've found out something—"
"About Branson? I know all about it."
"You do? What do you know?"
"Carson says our tame revolutionary is in disgrace."
"In disgrace?" she queried.
"It seems Carson discovered him preparing a little prank and put a stop to it in no uncertain terms. Carson indicated the matter was settled."
Violet nodded and let it pass, but when she was again in the library, she checked the ledger. There was a new entry for the name T. Branson. For a wonder, he had borrowed a novel: Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment.
"Will you be taking luncheon with us, Mr. Branson?" Mr. Jamison asked.
The chauffeur eyed the older man. He wondered if this were a test. No other department had issued a single invitation since... since Mr. Carson had directed him not to accept. Only the Dower House. Yet the enmity between the two butlers was so well known, it seemed unlikely that Mr. Jamison would be willing to assist Downton Abbey's butler in testing the obedience of its chauffeur. He would be willing to subvert Mr. Carson's authority, however.
"With regret, Mr. Jamison. It isn't possible for me to remain. I thank you and Mrs. Jamison for the thought all the same."
"Well?" the Dowager asked.
Jamison shook his head.
If the matter was settled, why was he still keeping himself in seclusion?
"Branson?"
"Yes, milady?"
"May I ask you a question?"
"Certainly, your ladyship."
"Have you become a hermit?"
The chauffeur was silent, his mind racing. "Is that a rhetorical question, milady?"
"No," the Dowager snapped.
Branson wondered if there were some way he could avoid this conversation. He was ashamed of himself for not just admitting everything to her, but to do so would be dangerous. And stupid. And he had exceeded his quota of unforgivably stupid actions some time ago. He tried for a neutral tone, feigning innocence, hoping against hope to convince her that he had not the faintest notion of what she could possibly be driving at. "Of course not, your ladyship."
"So your sudden dedication to taking all your meals in the chauffeur's cottage is part of your punishment?" she demanded.
Oh, God. "Who says I'm being punished?" The automatic all-purpose defense of childhood had kicked in.
"Carson."
Well, he's the man who would know, Branson was startled into admitting, if only inside his own head.
Carson had told her. Branson felt suddenly that the air was too thin to allow continued breathing. He thought he might faint for a moment. What did her ladyship expect him to say? He considered and discarded at least half a dozen replies, but in the end remained silent. After all, what could he say?
Since Carson had told her, why was she even asking him? Just to see him squirm? It was what Lady Edith would do. It was surprising how alike old Lady Grantham and Lady Edith were when you came right down to it. Though Lady Edith would already have demanded he reply, and the Dowager was not saying anything. Branson prayed she would drop the matter. He tried to think of what saint to petition. He gave a silent snort of laughter. 'St. Telemachus,' Branson addressed his personal patron, the patron of idiots, 'please let her drop it.'
Branson concentrated on driving and on trying not to anticipate her next salvo. Thanks to Mr. Carson, Branson had had ample time to consider his actions vis-à-vis Mr. Matthew's commanding general, and had improved his time to the extent of coming inevitably to the only conclusion which was logically sound: that he himself was the maggot-headed author of his own misfortunes, so no matter what consequences ultimately ensued, he had absolutely no cause for complaint.
The chauffeur tried hard to resign himself to accept whatever her ladyship felt moved to say. It was not unlike going to confession: "Bless me, your ladyship, for I have sinned..." He doubted he would receive absolution.
Father James had been transferred out of the diocese a few weeks before, but he had still been there the evening Branson had gone into Ripon (with Mr. Carson's blessing) in order to confess his attempted assault on General Sir Herbert Strutt and the lie to Mr. Carson which had accompanied it. The priest had told the Irishman a number of very hard and very true things about himself by way of 'spiritual counseling,' and the penance which had been the priest's parting gift to him had been completed only yesterday. Branson shuddered.
The calendar had not yet run out on the penance Mr. Carson had imposed. And now it was moot. He wondered what the Dowager planned to do to him. Branson imagined himself with a servant who had attempted to pour slop over the head of a guest. What would he do with that servant? He would give him the sack. That was what he deserved. Branson sighed.
He did not want to leave Lady Sybil, even if she chose never to cast her lot with his. He did not want to leave. Please don't make me leave, your ladyship. I beg you... But he could not say that. He was responsible for what had occurred. He was at fault. He did not deserve mercy. Please don't make me leave...
When Violet finally spoke to him again, her tone was surprisingly gentle. "Would you like me to speak to Carson for you? Maybe I can help."
'Maybe I can help?' Branson was genuinely touched, the Dowager's compassion an unlooked-for miracle of grace. "No, but I thank you, milady. Truly."
"Does that mean you think you deserve this punishment?"
"No, your ladyship, I don't."
"You don't? Then why won't you let me—"
He laughed softly, regret mingled with gratitude and even humour in the lilting Irish voice."You misunderstand me, your ladyship," he told her. "I deserve worse."