Author's Note: "We do pray for mercy, And that same prayer doth teach us all to render The deeds of mercy." ― William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

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.

… but he is the most obedient.

Lady Mary Crawley knew a secret. She had promised Sybil she would not betray the chauffeur, but she had to do something.

The big double doors of the garage were open. Lady Mary walked inside. "Branson?"

"Yes, milady?" He walked out of the office alcove shrugging into his uniform jacket, the little piece of machinery he'd been working on left on the desk, while he attended to her.

Facing him now, Mary wondered what she had thought she would say. Promise me you won't do anything stupid? How dare you propose to my sister?

He was looking at her with concern, his expression so innocent, that Mary thought Sybil must not have told him that she knew. Or that Sybil had made it up even. Though why would she? Mary stared at the chauffeur.

"Milady?"

"Mama…" Mary groped for an excuse for having come out here. "Mama forgot what time she told you she wanted to leave tomorrow."

Branson blinked. "Tomorrow, milady? Her ladyship doesn't have a trip tomorrow, as far as I know. She's ordered the motor at ten the day after tomorrow to go to Malton." He ended the statement on a rising inflection, as though it were a question.

"Ah, yes, that's what I meant," Mary agreed, feeling like an idiot, but relieved. "At ten the day after tomorrow. I'll let Mama know."

"Thank you, milady," the chauffeur said. But he said it to the air, because the oldest Crawley daughter had fled.

"Should you be doing that?" the old man's voice was sharp with disapproval.

"No, Grandda," Tom answered. He stopped immediately, but he was pretty sure it was too late. He met the old man's eyes and saw the truth of his guess. The old man pointed to the ground next to him. Tom looked where his grandfather was pointing, but didn't move.

The old man was surprised. He stared at his grandson, brow creasing, then at his housekeeper Muirne, who was walking with them. She shook her head. She had no idea. To her knowledge, Tom had been called to account at least half a dozen times in this exact same way; he had never before refused to obey the old man's signal to come and stand next to him to receive the smack on the posterior and warning not to be told a third time which had become the standard disciplinary measure for a second infraction.

The old man considered his grandson thoughtfully. The boy looked anxious, not defiant, so why was he disobeying? He must know he was only going to be— a vague memory teased and the old man sought and found the answer to the mystery in his grandson's eyes. If Tom hadn't remembered to follow the rule, it was clear he remembered how many times it had been brought to his attention. "This is the third time, isn't it?"

"Yes," Tom admitted softly, his tone conveying a regret that was edged with fear.

Well, there it was. The third time. Boy and man had both known it would happen eventually. "Do you know where my shillelagh is?"

Tom nodded slowly, eyes now on the ground.

"Tell me."

Tom visualized the last place he'd seen it. "It's in your bedchamber. In the southeast corner. Behind the door."

"Run and get it." The old man ordered flatly.

Tom took off immediately. The two adults watched him go. It was a goodly distance back to the farmhouse. He'd be blowing like a bellows when he returned if he kept up that pace.

"He's running," Muirne said, "to get the stick you're going to beat him with."

Brian looked at the old woman with a hint of amusement. "Naturally," he agreed. "Running is his only hope now."

"You mean to say there's hope?" the housekeeper asked in surprise. In her experience, which was extensive, Brian Branson was not given to leniency. And he had told her repeatedly that he felt he had made enough concessions already in the case of this 'city' grandson, who knew none of the things the other children at the farm had known from the cradle. Would he really allow yet another intercession?

The old man laughed. "You must think so, since you're about to make a plea on his behalf. Tell me, woman," he asked her, "would you be doing that if he weren't running?"

Tom was breathless by the time he reached the house. The stick was there, just as he'd known it would be. It had fascinated him the first time he'd seen it, because it was perfectly straight and because of its odd color. The second time he'd seen it, Grandda had used it on him. The wood was stained a strange purplish blue, the exact shade of the bruises it was going to give him. Tom grabbed it and tore out of the house back to his grandfather.

They were watching for the boy's return. It had taken him less time than the minimum Brian had thought would be necessary to cover the distance, so he had not dawdled along the way. Tom tried to hand the stick to his grandfather, but the old man waved him off. "Keep hold of it yet a minute, boy, while you catch your breath. I want to ask you something first."

'First,' Tom thought, shuddering. He planted one end of the stick on the ground, and held onto the other end obediently, leaning heavily against it while his lungs worked diligently to try to pull in enough air to keep him going. He stared at the ground, listening to the panting of his own breath, feeling vulnerable, his hands slick with sweat on the bluish purple stick, trying not to be afraid and not succeeding. The adults said nothing, either to him, or to each other, merely waiting patiently for him to be ready.

When his breathing had returned to normal, Tom heaved in a final deep breath, and looked up at the adults. "Yes, sir?"

"Muirne here thinks you should be spared. I want to know what you think."

Tom stared at Muirne, then at his grandfather. The adults' faces were unreadable. Grandda's 'best' dog was not with them, but Tom thought of her suddenly, thought of the way she looked at his grandfather when she'd done something wrong, the way the dog trusted the old man, even when she was afraid. Tom picked up the stick and offered it to the old man horizontally across his outstretched palms, and gave the only answer he could give: "I think it isn't up to me."

As the three walked back to the house, Tom's arm encircling the old man's waist, the boy said, "Grandda, can I ask you something?"

"What is it, boy?"

"Why did you decide not to…" his voice trailed off. He couldn't say it.

"Not to beat you?" Brian felt the motion of his grandson's head, now pressed against his side, nodding. "Well," Brian began, looking over at Muirne, who was walking contentedly on his other side. "It was because 'mercy… dropped as the gentle rain from heaven…' to bless both me and you." The old woman smiled at her master, but said nothing.

Tom's head had craned up to look at his grandfather. "Is that from the bible?"

"It isn't. It's from a play by Shakespeare. I'll show it to you tonight after dinner."

Lady Mary stared at the back of Branson's head. She should say something to him. Warn him away from her sister. She thought of Sybil saying she 'didn't even think she liked him like that.' Probably nothing would come of it. Poor Branson. Sybil might be an idealist, but she wasn't stupid. No one in her right mind wanted to be poor. For all his confidence, the chauffeur was likely to end up with a broken heart, even if he were lucky enough to keep his job. And keeping his job was by no means a certainty. If he got caught, he wouldn't even get a reference.

She thought of Branson the night of the count in Ripon, when Sybil had been hurt. Of Papa shouting "He leaves tonight!" Of Branson begging her, "You'll let me know how she gets on? …Please." Please. She had warned him that the blame for that escapade of Sybil's was likely to fall on his head, and his main concern had been whether Sybil was all right. Even though Sybil had lied to him and nearly got him sacked…. he was in love with her. Mary had known it then. She knew it now.

Granny had wanted to punish Lavinia for being in love with Matthew. Yet how could anyone help being in love with Matthew? Mary was, herself, God help her. She thought of Lavinia crying in the garden at Crawley House, saying she didn't think she could bear to live if Matthew were dead. Was that something for which the poor girl should be destroyed?

Did she truly want to punish Branson for being in love with Sybil? Sybil was so sweet, how could anyone help loving her? She could tell Papa or Granny, but they would make the most terrible fuss, Branson would be turned off without a reference, and Sybil would never forgive her. Please, he had said.

Mary wondered again why Carson had twisted Branson's wrist and propelled him out of the dining room on the night of General Sir Herbert Strutt's inspection. That had been very odd. Anna had followed them out with the soup tureen. Mary guessed Anna probably knew the whole story, but she doubted the maid would tell even under torture. Lady Mary had secrets of her own Anna was concealing, so she should be more sympathetic. Please, Mama, Mary remembered saying. She had wept and begged her mother not to tell Papa. And she had been shown mercy. Please, Branson had said.

Lady Mary said nothing to the chauffeur, just stared at the back of his head, while silent tears ran down her cheeks and dripped onto the breast of her coat.