I'm back! Or I should say, THE TWINS ARE BACK! Sorry for the delay, blah, blah, blah, I know you've heard it all before, but finally, here is an update! For some reason this chapter took me forever to write; not sure why as I knew what I wanted to do/say with it, but anyway, here it is at last! And once again, remember: Sarah, playing "Sybil", is at Downton. I'm dedicating this chapter to the lovely magfreak who helped answer some questions that I had about "investing/improving/saving" the estate, the way Matthew and Tom did in her wonderful story, "If Things Were Different". Let's just say that Tom Bellasis is very similar to the Tom Branson of her story (maybe they're long-lost twins too?) :oP

Thank you again for reading, for all the lovely comments and follows, and despite the delay between chapters, I hope this has been worth the wait and that you do enjoy! Thanks and if you can, please share your thoughts! I LOVE FEEDBACK! :oP

Chapter Thirteen

"Turn at the end of the corridor; go to your right. The staircase is just around the bend. After descending it, take a left. The door to the breakfast room will be just to your right, and most likely open. Follow your nose if you get lost…"

Sarah kept repeating Gwen's words over and over in her head as she made her way to that very place, trying her best to familiarize herself with the house that had been her twin sister's home all her life, and that she was supposed to know as Sybil would.

She was grateful she had woken up as early as she had, an old habit from so many years of working in service. It had allowed both her and Gwen a chance to talk, just as Gwen may do with Sybil. The thought did bring a smile to Sarah's face, as well as a worried frown; oh how was her sister doing today? Sybil had apparently survived the night at the Grantham Arms, otherwise the authorities would no doubt have come pounding on the doors, informing Lord Grantham that there was an imposter under his roof. But no such knock had come, much to Sarah's surprise, in a way. Sybil must have not only managed the inn's busy workload, but also somehow managed to survive the night with Edna. Poor Sybil, Sarah thought to herself. She bit her lip as she tried to imagine her poor sister having to deal with that woman. Of course…in the short time Sarah had known her twin, Sybil had more than proven that she was capable of taking care of herself. Perhaps it was Edna who needed her sympathy? The thought caused Sarah to giggle.

She stopped at the top of the grand staircase that would take her down to the main floor. Though the voices weren't loud, she could hear some muffled conversation coming from what was no doubt the breakfast room to which Gwen had described.

Her father was in that room…her true father. Not the drunken fisherman who wanted nothing to do with her, and upon the first chance, more or less left her to live the life of an orphan in that cold, gray school…but the man's blood she shared, the man who…who was the Earl of Grantham!

It suddenly occurred to Sarah that she, being the daughter of an earl, meant that she was…that she was a Lady! Oddly enough, when she had learned the truth about her parentage and the fact that she an identical twin sister, it had never really sunk in that this meant she was a Lady as well.

Lady Sarah, she mused. Oh gracious, how silly! Even if that were technically true, because of who her birth parents were, she wasn't a real Lady, not like the other Crawley girls…her sisters.

A shiver went down her spine as she recalled the previous night, being surrounded by all those strange faces, people whom she had never met and who were still, very much, strangers to her. And yet she could not deny, she did feel something with them, some sort of "connection", if it were. Did they feel the same?

No, she doubted it. To them, she was "Sybil"; and despite her twin's optimism that this "experiment" of switching places would somehow do the trick in winning the rest of the Crawleys over into accepting her, Sarah still had a great many doubts.

She was at the bottom of the stairs now, having walked down them at a very slow pace while processing her thoughts about the previous evening. The delicious aroma of sausages wafted into the hall and Sarah didn't realize how hungry she was until that smell filled her nostrils. Only on very special occasions, such as holidays or one's birthday, was her breakfast anything more than porridge. Luxuries like sausages and bacon were reserved for the upstairs, not for the servants. A growl from her stomach interrupted her thoughts, and Sarah took a deep breath, nodding her head to no one in particular, before taking the determined steps that were needed to enter the breakfast room at long last.

…Yet she quickly realized that no amount of "mental preparation" could truly prepare for once again greeting her estranged family.

…Or Mr. Bellasis.

As she finally came around the corner to the room, she found her father sitting at what she could only think of as the "head" of the table, his newspaper open while he sipped his tea, her brother-in-law, Mr. Crawley, on left (his back to the door which Sarah had entered), and Mr. Bellasis on her father's right…whose eyes met hers the second she appeared.

She had interrupted their conversation. Mr. Bellasis apparently had been speaking to Lord Grantham about something to do with…modernizing farming methods back at Grassley (she remembered this being his own estate, somewhere else in Yorkshire), but that conversation quickly came to a stop as she stood in the doorway, his eyes holding hers briefly, before the sound of a chair could be heard scraping back on the carpet, and gripping his napkin from his lap, the man rose to his feet and gave a polite bow of his head. "Lady Sybil," he murmured in greeting.

Sarah swallowed and tried to tell her blushing cheeks to cease their silliness at once, before putting on a smile and nodding her head in return.

Both Lord Grantham and Mr. Crawley took notice of Mr. Bellasis' behavior and turned their eyes to the doorway to acknowledge her just as he had done. "Ah, good morning, Sybil," Lord Grantham greeted, though he did not rise from his chair. Mr. Crawley did, however, and his smile was very bright and handsome. He also murmured a good morning, and even leaned close to brush a brotherly kiss against her cheek, before returning to his own plate of eggs, sausages, and toast.

Sarah swallowed the nervous lump in her throat, before turning away from the table and seeing that the butler—Carson, she reminded herself—was standing at attention, offering her a plate to help herself. "Thank you," she whispered, not feeling out of place for saying the simple words, as she had no doubt it was something Sybil would say, if she were here. And Carson certainly didn't look perplexed, he simply nodded his head, before murmuring "milady", and once again adopting that proud, "English butler stance", his hands clasped behind his back and his chin held high, as he waited for any further instruction or command to be given to him by his Lordship.

Sarah turned her attention to the dishes and trays that had been set out for them. That growl her stomach had given earlier soon became a roar as her eyes took in the different offerings, each smelling better than the last. She didn't waste time in putting several sausages on her plate, as well as healthy spoonful of eggs and tomatoes.

"Well, Mr. Bellasis?" she heard Mr. Crawley's voice speak up. "You were saying?"

Sarah glanced over her shoulder, and felt heat rise to her face as her gaze, once again, caught those of the Crawley family's guest.

"Mr. Bellasis?"

The man turned his head back to Mr. Crawley, cleared his throat and muttered some sort of apology, before taking a sip of tea from his cup and continuing with whatever they had been talking about before she had entered.

Sarah turned her head back to the buffet, though her face was still quite pink. Perhaps she could blame that on the steam rising from the dishes? She noticed that there was toast on the table, as well as butter and jam, and a pot of tea too. Now that she had her plate and was ready to sit and eat…she suddenly realized she wasn't quite sure where she was supposed to sit and eat.

Oh gracious…what was the protocol for such things? Surely she shouldn't go and sit at the opposite end of the table, away from the others? Yet she didn't want to interrupt their conversation any more than she already had. And…she doubted it would be proper for her, a young unmarried woman, to sit next to…

Her face flooded with color once more, and she shook her head, before turning her attentions to the man who was her brother-in-law. Yes, she would sit next to him, surely that was proper. Yet she hadn't taken one step, before a pair of heels were heard clicking on the floor outside the room, and everyone turned to see the lovely Lady Mary enter, smiling and glowing radiantly as she greeted everyone.

"Good heavens, what are you doing?" Robert asked, his brow furrowed as he took in the sight of his eldest (and married) daughter, taking a plate from the just-as-perplexed looking Carson, and helping herself to the buffet. The only person who didn't seem surprised by her arrival was her husband.

"While being married does allow a woman 'the luxury' of breakfasting in bed," Mary commented, while filling her plate. "Because today is a special day, I thought it best to simply join all of you."

Robert's confused frown only deepened. "Special day?" he asked.

"Oh yes," Matthew confirmed, rising from his place and pulling a chair out for his wife to sit. Sarah watched with somewhat wide eyes as her sister proceeded to sit down…next to her husband. "We thought we would take Mr. Bellasis on a tour of the estate—show him the farms, the fields, everything surrounding the village."

"We?" Robert asked, his confused frown on deepening.

"That's right, Papa," Mary continued. "Matthew and I will one day be Earl and Countess of Grantham, and as such, we feel it's best to approach all decisions in regards to the future of Downton…together."

She smiled sweetly, though from what Sarah could see, there was a bit of a challenge in that sweet smile, as if she were daring Lord Grantham to say something contrary. Robert refrained from comment, however he did lift a brow in somewhat skeptical manner, before proceeding to drink his tea and return his attentions to the newspaper before him.

Mary and Matthew exchanged a little smile, and Sarah watched as their hands briefly held and squeezed one another, before releasing to go back to eating their breakfasts. She remembered what Sybil had told her, about how Matthew, a distant cousin, was Lord Grantham's heir, and how when this knowledge was learned, Mary was furious. After all, it only seemed right, her being the eldest, that she be the heir, but of course Sarah knew, as did many, that daughters did not inherit estates. Yet thanks to the "meddling" of the Dowager Countess, the encouragement of others…Matthew and Mary, who started out as enemies and complete opposites, became friends…and then eventually fell in love. And now here they were, the future Earl and Countess of Grantham, just as Mary had said…happily married from the look of things, and ready to face all manner of "important decisions", together.

Just as a couple should, she thought to herself, though she knew nothing about marriage, let alone courtship. In fact, until now, seeing the obvious love that Lord and Lady Grantham had for one another, as well as the love that both Lady Mary and Lady Edith had for their respective husbands, Sarah realized that she hadn't seen many "positive" examples of love and happy marriages. She certainly couldn't say that the marriage of parents (the man and woman until recently she had always believed to be her parents) was happy, and then there were the unhappy marriages of the people she worked for, including the Bryants.

A shiver coursed through her as she recalled one such member of that household, and how he tried to "lure her" with romantic promises, when it was clear that what he was after had very little to do with love or devotion.

"Sybil, why on earth are you standing there like that?"

Sarah was shaken from her thoughts as she turned her eyes back to Lady Mary, who was frowning as she gazed at her. Her cheeks reddened and…without another thought or word, did just as her sister commanded, sitting quickly down at the table…right next to Mr. Bellasis.

She swallowed and did her best to avoid his eyes, though he seemed to be rather intensely focused on the food of his own plate at the moment.

As for Mary, she turned her attention away from her little sister and smiled back at Tom Bellasis, hoping to learn more about what had been discussed before her arrival.

"Mr. Bellasis was telling me about some of the improvements they made through the use of 'modern farm equipment'," Matthew explained to his wife.

"Well heaven knows that will give Edith something to crow about," Mary sighed. "She always likes to remind us about how this is Anthony's area of expertise—good heavens, Sybil, what are you doing!?"

Sarah gasped and practically stabbed through the piece of toast she was spreading jam across. Her face paled as she stared at her sister in confusion, her chest rising and falling rapidly, wondering what on earth she had done to earn such a horrified gasp.

Mary was eyeing the toast in Sarah's hand before lifting her eyes to hold Sarah's gaze in one of confusion and…something else. Suspicion, perhaps?

"You're going to make yourself ill!" Mary scolded, before reaching across and snatching up the jam jar.

Ill? How so? Oh Lord, was there something she didn't know? Something Sybil hadn't told her? It just occurred to Sarah then that they had never discussed certain intricate details, such as favorite dishes and foods one simply never ate.

"That's my fault," murmured a voice beside her, and Sarah's pale face suddenly became quite warm as Mr. Bellasis spoke, her eyes shyly meeting his kind, blue eyes. "I had asked for the strawberry jam; never was mad about marmalade," he explained, his voice light in an attempt to bring in some humor to ease the sudden tension at the table, as well as to perhaps relieve Sarah of some of her…embarrassment. Or so she found herself wanting to believe…

Mary sighed and put on a smile, her focus completely on Mr. Bellasis. "It's alright, quite understandable and…well, no harm was done," she said with a smile, before turning her eyes on Sybil with a slight frown. "Pay more attention, dearest," she whispered, handing the jar of strawberry jam to the butler who was standing by, ready to be of service to Lady Mary in any way he was capable.

"Sybil is allergic strawberries," Robert explained, as if Mr. Bellasis hadn't figured that out. Sarah, on the other hand, found this information both useful and illuminating. Oh gracious, was there anything else she should know about her sister's health? "Swells up like a balloon if she eats them," Lord Grantham continued, a soft chuckle in his voice no doubt recalling such an incident that had happened to her poor twin sister. Even though he was talking about Sybil and not herself, Sarah still felt her face burn with embarrassment, feeling rather mortified by the whole conversation.

But just as he had done the previous night at dinner, Mr. Bellasis was quick to diffuse that mortification.

"That sounds like what happens to me when I eat crab," he spoke up, drawing all the attention away from the red-faced Sarah, to himself. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and saw that he was wearing a sympathetic…and somewhat sheepish grin.

"I didn't know I was allergic until I was twelve," he continued to explain. "We were in Ireland, for Christmas; I was now deemed 'old enough' by my grandparents to join them at the main dining table. But not long after I consumed something with crab meat at the table, my face started to swell, my lips started to burn, and large, pink blotches began to appear on my skin—my poor mother, she was panicking, while my grandparents looked horrified that their Christmas dinner was being interrupted."

He chuckled then and turned his gaze back to her, and that strange sensation Sarah had felt the previous evening, like her stomach turning somersaults, happened again, followed quickly by her eyes lowering to lap…but not before she managed to tiny, and somewhat shy smile back.

"Well, we must make sure Mrs. Bird doesn't serve anything with crab while you are here then, Mr. Bellasis," Mary announced, turning and looking at Carson who nodded his head in acknowledgement. The eldest Crawley daughter's eyes moved from the family guest to her youngest sister, and Sarah glanced up to notice that Mary was studying her carefully. She lowered her eyes once again, focusing on the sausages on her plate, and went about the task of cutting and eating her breakfast, deciding to simply listen that morning, rather than join in any of the conversation.

While they were eating, the Downton housekeeper entered the room, looking a bit flustered. She murmured a soft "good morning" to Lord Grantham and the rest, before moving quickly to where Carson stood, standing up on her tip toes and whispering something into the butler's ear. Sarah noticed the exchange, and noticed as well how the intimidating butler frowned at whatever the housekeeper had said, before turning his eyes back to the table…and looking directly at…Mr. Bellasis?

Sarah swallowed, a lump of apprehension growing in her throat.

Carson cleared his throat and bowed his head, murmuring, "If you will excuse me, your Lordship, something has been brought to my attention downstairs; it shan't take a moment, I assure you."

Robert glanced up from his newspaper, clearly unaware that anything was amiss. Of course, Sarah didn't know if anything was, either, she just…had a feeling. "I think we'll be fine, Carson, thank you," he kindly dismissed, before going back to the paper and continuing to read. The butler bowed his head, and then turned to quickly follow the housekeeper out of the room, an agitated walk in his step.

What on earth was that about? Sarah glanced again out of the corner of her eye to the man who was next to her, also engrossed, or so it seemed, on his own breakfast. And why had Carson looked at Mr. Bellasis in that way?

Downstairs, just beyond the Servant's Hall, Tom Branson sat uneasily in the butler's pantry, trying to ignore the different sets of eyes that would keep passing and peeking in, trying to catch a glimpse of "the new chauffeur". He could understand a little curiosity, whenever someone new joined the staff, but this was ridiculous.

The moment he arrived, there was a stunned gasp by a passing housemaid who happened to glance his way as he stood in the Servant's Entrance. She nearly dropped whatever she was carrying, and even though he tried to reach out to steady her, she staggered away from him, her eyes wide and only getting bigger with every step she took.

A few other housemaids, and a hall boy or two also stared at him; the only people who seemed unfazed were the kitchen maids; they just looked confused.

"What the bloody hell is everyone's problem?" muttered a voice from around the corner, and a tall, dark-haired man, a cigarette hanging between his lips, entered the Servant's Hall then…and he too came to a stop when he met Tom's eyes.

That's what I'd like to know, Tom thought, before straightening himself and lifting his chin. "I'm Tom Branson—his Lordship's new chauffeur," he informed them.

"New chauffeur!?" gasped several of the housemaids, looking at each other's stunned faces, before back at him.

"Tom…Branson?" the dark-haired man (Tom could only conclude he was a footman, based on the livery he wore).

Tom frowned but nodded his head. "Aye…" he answered, though a little warily, especially at the continued strange looks he was receiving.

The dark-haired footman continued to eye him with suspicion, before turning and muttering something to one of the housemaids, and then muttering a little louder "go get her!" which sent the housemaid scurrying off, crying out as she went, "Mrs. Hughes! Mrs. Hughes!"

The footman folded his arms and eyed Tom up and down, as if assessing him with a certain amount of skepticism…and something else. Admiration perhaps? "So…Mr. Branson," the footman murmured, his eyes once again returning to Tom's. "You're…Irish?"

Tom stiffened slightly. He had no time for prejudiced English gits. "Is that a problem?" he asked, perhaps a little too defensively.

The footman lifted an eyebrow at this, before proceeded to dig out a match book from his pocket and lighting the cigarette that was dangling from his lips. "Shouldn't be," he casually muttered, expelling a long cloud of smoke. "Spent your whole life there?"

Tom's frown never lessened. Was there something the footman was trying to get at? "Aye," he answered. "Dublin," he clarified, even though the other man hadn't specified.

The footman nodded his head at this. "And your family?"

Tom stiffened a little at this. He was very protective of his family.

"You have any family over here?"

"Is there a reason for the interrogation?" he practically barked, tired of the man's questions, especially since he felt the footman was purposefully trying to be a wanker and who believed he had some sense of "superiority" over him.

Both of the footman's brows lifted at this. "Interrogation? I'm just asking a few questions; being friendly is all."

Tom turned his head to roll his eyes, not believing the other man's words for a second.

"You never answered my question."

Tom turned back and glared at the footman. He opened his mouth to make a retort, but stopped from doing so by the appearance of an older woman who, judging from her appearance, was clearly the housekeeper. "Thomas, girls," the woman eyed the footman and other gathered housemaids with a harsh look. "Back to work now," she muttered to all of them, before finally turning and fixing her gaze on Tom. Like the others, she seemed to eye him suspiciously, however she didn't stare at him as if he were some sort of…freak of nature. "I'm the housekeeper, Mrs. Hughes," she introduced, extending her hand towards him.

Despite her harsh tone, Tom did smile at the woman, finding her Scottish brogue rather soothing amongst the sea of Yorkshire accents he had been hearing since his arrival. "Tom Branson," he introduced, taking her hand and shaking it. "Lord Grantham's new chauffeur."

Mrs. Hughes nodded her head in understanding, though she continued to eye him with that look of…confused suspicion. "Forgive me, lad, you just…you surprised us, that's all," she tried to explain, before making a gesture with her hand to follow her. "Mr. Carson, the butler, is upstairs, helping with the breakfast. He's the one you'll be answering to, and he'll go over things with you. Why don't you wait in the butler's pantry while I go and fetch him?"

He nodded his head and entered the man's office, taking the offered seat, kindly turning down the offer of tea, before being left to wait for the housekeeper to return with the butler in tow…while others would pass by and peek through the crack in the door and look at him, whispering things he couldn't quite hear to other passersby.

Perhaps Kieran was right after all? Maybe taking this job wasn't such a good idea? Oh what he wouldn't give right now to see a friendly face…like that of "Sybil-Sarah".

For the first time since walking into that house, Tom found himself smiling.

"Mr. Branson?"

Tom quickly rose to his feet and stood at attention as the door to the butler's pantry opened and a formidable man, tall and broad, stepped into the office. His own eyes widened as he took in the sight of Tom, and he turned and looked over his shoulder at the Scottish housekeeper who had followed him into the room and was now quietly shutting the door behind herself. Tom frowned as he watched the two exchange a glance. Something wasn't right…

However, he didn't have time to truly contemplate that, as the butler turned and faced him once more. "It is…Mr. Branson, yes?"

Tom nodded his head, a little confused by the question. Had they been expecting someone else? Surely they were aware that Lord Grantham had hired him—

"Well, it's good to have you here at Downton, Mr. Branson," the butler spoke with a nod of his head. "I'm Carson, the butler; you've met Mrs. Hughes, and some of the others, I understand."

Tom felt his face burn a little as he recalled the strange stares he had received by those "others". "I have, thank you," he replied, nodding his head again at the housekeeper, before turning his attentions back to the butler, who was still looking at him with a rather perplexed expression on his face. Tom couldn't help but squirm slightly under the gaze, which Mrs. Hughes must have noticed, because she cleared her throat and even gave the butler a slight nudge with her shoulder, bringing his attention back to the present.

"Yes, well," Mr. Carson coughed and straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin, once again adopting that "formidable" stance that Tom had no doubt was a common trait amongst all English butlers. "Come along, Mr. Branson, I'll show you to the garage."

Tom nodded, grateful to be getting out of that office and quite frankly, out of the house in general, after his very odd welcome reception. He did his best to avoid the eyes of any remaining housemaids, hall boys and footmen as he followed the butler out, matching Mr. Carson's stride as they made their way to the garage.

Tom had already seen the garage when he had arrived that morning (he had driven Lord Grantham's Renault and even went to the trouble of parking it inside), however he had not been so bold as to explore it, at least not without a formal introduction. Next to the garage was a somewhat dilapidated looking cottage, its wood discolored and a stench of smoke permeating off it. He recalled the information he had been given, about how there had been some sort of "accident" within the chauffeur's cottage, something to do with the chimney, hence why for the time being, he would be staying at the Grantham Arms in the village, until the cottage was properly restored.

Perhaps it was a blessing that the cottage was in the state it was in? After his brief introduction with some of the other members of staff at Downton, Tom wasn't sure he would have wanted to spend more time than was necessary at the big house.

"Now, I'm sure his Lordship explained to you the purpose of your duties as second chauffeur—after all, we do have another, Mr. Pratt, though he keeps a cottage in the village," Mr. Carson explained.

"I do," Tom reassured the man. "While I will, on occasion, do some driving for his Lordship and her Ladyship, my primary duties will be seeing to the care and maintenance of his motors."

Mr. Carson nodded his head. "Yes—as well as possibly driving her Ladyship, the Dowager Countess, and his Lordship's daughters, Lady Mary and Lady Sybil."

Tom's brow furrowed at the butler's words. "Lady…Sybil?"

Mr. Carson frowned at this. "Yes…" he eyed Tom suspiciously, his frown only darkening. "She is his Lordship's youngest daughter…and will very soon be engaged, I have no doubt."

Tom recognized the butler's unnecessary warning, and did his best to bite back the laugh that was threatening to leave his throat. Have no fear, old boy; getting involved with some posh girl is the last thing I want to do…

"And all these belong to his Lordship?" Tom's hand gestured towards the row of cars, feeling that was a much safer subject to discuss, rather than how Lord Grantham's youngest daughter's name had momentarily caught him by surprise.

Mr. Carson's eyes followed Tom's hand and he nodded his head to confirm Tom's question. "Yes, except these two," he gestured to two cars near the end. "The new Rolls-Royce belongs to Mr. Crawley, Lady Mary's husband and his Lordship's heir," Carson stated with pride. "The Roadster…" he pointed to the other car just next to the one that had been indicated as Mr. Crawley's, "belongs to his Lordship's guest, Mr. Bellasis."

Tom simply nodded his head, taking a moment to admire both cars, especially the Roadster. It was not as fancy or new as Mr. Crawley's Rolls-Royce, but just from outward appearance, the Roadster looked to be well taken care of. He lifted his eyes back to Mr. Carson for any further instructions, and found himself frowning again when he noticed that the butler was looking at him again in that strange, suspicious manner, just as he had done upon their first meeting.

"Yes, well," he shook his head and cleared his throat. "Mr. Pratt will be by later; arrangements have already been made for him to take her Ladyship into Ripon. However, you will most likely be needed to drive her Ladyship, the Dowager Countess to and from Downton this evening, and dinner is at eight, so be prepared to leave at seven, understood?"

Tom nodded his head, used to how things ran for a chauffeur, as this wasn't the first time he had worked in such a position.

"Good," Carson nodded his head. "The chauffeur's livery is pressed and hanging over here," he indicated to a deep forest green uniform that hung on a hook at the far end of the garage. Carson eyed Tom again, before adding, "And I trust that your accommodations at the Grantham Arms are satisfactory? No doubt you have been told about the…setback, with the chauffeur's cottage, but it shall be repaired soon, a fortnight at most, really—"

"I understand," Tom reassured, though he did feel his heart sink slightly at the butler's words. "A fortnight at most…"

"Well…" the butler murmured again, looking around the garage and nodding his head in approval. "Well, I shall leave you to it. Welcome again to Downton, Mr. Branson."

"Thank you, Mr. Carson," Tom returned, bowing his head slightly to the butler who, as he had said, "left him to it."

"See what I mean?" Mrs. Hughes hissed at Mr. Carson when he returned to the Servant's Hall a few minutes later.

"An odd coincidence, nothing more," the butler insisted, though despite his efforts, he didn't sound quite as convinced.

Mrs. Hughes lifted an eyebrow at his words. "Very odd," she muttered under her breath, her eyes moving to a nearby window just beyond Mr. Carson's shoulder, a window that had a view of the Downton garage and where the newest member of staff, who bore more than an "uncanny" resemblance to his Lordship's guest, had been left to work.

Back in the garage, Tom took a moment to himself to walk around and familiarize himself with the place. Near the chauffeur's log, he found an inventory list of all the tools kept in the garage, though he couldn't help but wonder how "up to date" the list was, and what sort of condition the tools and equipment were in. Though the words had not been said, Tom had gotten the impression from Lord Grantham, based on the short interview he had had with his man of affairs, was that while Mr. Pratt was a very good driver, he was not the best when it came to motor upkeep. And he had a suspicious feeling that it was also true in how the man kept the garage organized.

After examining the inventory list, he moved on to examine the individual cars, being sure only to check the ones that Mr. Carson had told him belonged to Lord Grantham. It would be a long time before he would have to go and fetch Old Lady Grantham, and there was no time like the present, so with a resolute sigh, he took off his jacket, undid the buttons on his sleeves, and began to roll them up to his elbows so he could get to work.

Tom Branson had always admired cars; it was something that bonded all of the Branson men, according to his mother. His father, though he had never known the man, loved motors too, she said, and Kieran confirmed this for him. This always brought a smile to Tom's face, a strange way for him to be connected to the father he had never known. At thirteen, Tom was taught how to drive, thanks to Kieran, and even though he was the youngest, Kieran declared him "the quickest learner", and thought him a "natural" when it came to working with cars and understanding how all the different bits and pieces of an engine worked. While politics was his first love, cars were a close second.

He rummaged through the tool box, finding the right tools he was looking for, and double-checked to make sure they were on the inventory list. He then proceeded to cross the garage to his Lordship's Renault, the car that was left in the Grantham Arms keeping, while he remained there. On his journey to the house, there was an odd sound coming from beneath the clutch pedal. The drive from the village to the house was thankfully short, but Tom would not be so comfortable driving the car back without a proper look.

That was where he was, laying on the ground, on his back, his entire upper body hidden under his Lordship's Renault, when he heard a pair of footsteps enter the garage, followed by a man's voice…with an odd accent, one with a strange mixture of English and Irish…call out to someone close by, "no, I insist, let me drive!"

UH OH! :oP