Author's Note: It's still Wednesday morning, the day after the Hospital Benefit Concert. Action resumes immediately after the end of Chapter 13.
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.
After Lady Edith had gone, Branson returned to work on the valve he had been grinding. When he paused a moment to measure it again, he heard heels clicking on the concrete floor. She wouldn't sneak up on him again.
"What did you forget, milady?" he called, laughing.
"What would I have forgotten?"
Branson whirled. The husky, dulcet tones of Lady Sybil were unmistakable. "Milady?" He stopped when he reached the main part of the garage.
It was indeed Lady Sybil, but not the Lady Sybil who had been moping around Downton for the past several months. This was the girl he had glimpsed through the drawing room window dressed as a lady of the harem on that long ago, magical day. He had thought then that he had never before seen anything so lovely as this girl he had come to work for, so independent, courageous, and free spirited. But truly, literally, he had seen then through a glass darkly, and now he saw her face to face.
He had a voice. "Has something happened, milady?"
"Yes, Branson. Something wonderful." Her eyes glowed, her soft lips curved into a delicate smile, sweetly, to tell him her news. "Cousin Isobel has got me a place on a nursing course in York. We'll leave on Friday morning. It's two months, then I'll be able to work at the hospital. Real work, Branson. A real job, just like we've always talked about. Just like Gwen. Just like you."
'Just like me,' he thought. 'I'm not going to die from loving her. I'm already dead, or I'm dreaming.' "That's grand, milady. I'm so happy for you."
Lady Sybil's smile warmed into a grin. This was why she liked to bring her triumphs to Branson: he was always glad, and supported what she wanted to do, a nice change from the reactions of her family.
"I have a cousin who's a nurse, milady," he was saying. "She enjoys it very much. It's hard work, she says, but to know she can help ease suffering, to help someone get better..."
"I know I'll love it," she agreed. "I can't tell you how the very idea of being of use has changed things for me."
"I can see that it has, milady."
Lady Sybil cocked her head inquiringly at that, earrings dancing at the edge of the full, smooth chignon, against the creaminess of her neck. Her near olive complexion was radiant, she actually seemed to glow, like an incandescent bulb.
Branson inclined his own head towards her attire.
Lady Sybil followed his glance down to her frock. It was a work dress, very plain, similar in style to the green dresses the maids wore for morning cleaning, but hers was pink with a sort of red diamond figure. She laughed then, a ringing peal that reminded him of one of the larger bells in a bell choir. "Daisy and Mrs. Patmore are trying to acquaint me with the basics in the kitchen. I thought I'd better dress the part."
"It's very pretty," he complimented.
Marvelously, she both smiled and frowned at the same time. He knew she meant the expression to discourage him, so he looked down momentarily to show he understood and accepted her unspoken rebuke, then looked back up and said, businesslike, "What time will you be pleased to leave on Friday?"
"The opening ceremony is at three, but I'd like to get settled in before that, so when do you think we'll need to start, Branson?"
"If we leave by eleven or even half past, we should be there in good time, milady."
"That's fine, then. Eleven o'clock on Friday."
"I'll be ready, milady." Lady Sybil nodded and left the garage.
That evening during the family dinner, Branson took the opportunity to slip up to the library. He made sure the coast was clear (just to be on the safe side, though he was quite sure the family were all in the dining room), signed his book back in at the ledger and re-shelved it.
His favorite shelf looked subtly different. He inspected it closely with careful eyes and a gentle finger. 'Ah-ha!' There was something new. Branson pulled the book out and gasped when he saw the title.
This was the greatest day of his life. First Lady Edith's astonishing "discussion," then Lady Sybil's joyful announcement of her career news, now this. He stroked the book lovingly. A slip of paper was sticking out of the top of it. This was unusual. Lord Grantham did not believe in leaving papers in books, he said it would damage the spines, and Branson was always extremely careful about taking care of the books his employer was so kindly willing to lend him.
Branson pulled the paper out of the book and looked at it. It was not a bookmark: there was writing on it. A bold hand, in peacock blue ink had written, 'I saw this book in a shop and remembered that you wanted to read it. Enjoy.' The note was not addressed, it was not dated, it was not signed.
Branson brought all his mental powers to bear in an effort to dissuade himself from believing that this note was intended for him. It could be for anyone, from anyone. But the paper, and the ink, and the handwriting, were Lord Grantham's, the same writing that had appeared on a hundred notes telling him when Lord Grantham wanted the car. His lordship's handwriting was quite different to that of Mr. Carson or Mr. Bates. And Branson distinctly remembered the conversation in which he had told his lordship how much he wanted to read this book, and that he had had no success in finding a copy.
He floated to the ledger, still in a weird state of disbelief, heart aching from the strength of his desire to believe... in something so unlikely. As he signed the book out in the ledger, he whispered, "Thank you, Da."
On Thursday, Branson did his best to keep himself out of the servants' hall. He knew from Daisy that Lady Sybil would be in the kitchen, and he knew if Mrs. Hughes saw him there, he would be in a fair way to bringing her prediction that he would 'end up with no job and a broken heart' to fruition.
He occupied himself with various work projects for a few hours, he rode along to the village while Lady Edith practiced her driving, but some things are just more than mortal man can stand.
Inevitably, Branson gave in and went to the servant's hall. Mrs. Patmore tolerated his coming into the kitchen and getting a cup of tea, primarily because she was occupied with Daisy and Lady Sybil, who quite frankly looked like a domestic goddess, in a lilac blouse and long white apron. He took his tea into the servants' hall and pretended to read the paper.
He could hear the women's voices in the kitchen, not the words, but the strident tones of Mrs. Patmore (milder than usual in Lady Sybil's honor), Daisy's eager treble, and Lady Sybil's sweet alto, like warm honey.
Tom Branson held up the newpaper, but he could not read a single word. He was thirsty, so he drank his tea. When his cup was empty, more distinct words floated in from the kitchen.
"But are you sure it's ready?" he heard Lady Sybil ask. The cake they were baking must be done.
"I know it's ready." That was Mrs. Patmore.
"Go on now, you don't want to spoil it," Daisy urged.
Branson had risen without thinking and was headed back in to the kitchen. The chauffeur's steps brought him even with the stove. Lady Sybil was lifting the cake out of the oven. Branson stood at gaze a moment, empty teacup in hand, smiling. If he could have stopped time, he would have done it, mere steps away from this wonderful girl, ostensibly 'too far above him,' who was yet here, in the kitchen, not above him at all. For that one moment, he had all he desired in the world.
But he could not stop time. Branson made himself move again: he walked around to the sink to leave his cup, as Mrs. Patmore had trained him to do, then wandered back past the the three women at the work table, headed towards the servants' hall, admiring the ladies' tableau as they fussed with the cake, Lady Sybil pleased and proud of her success. The three were oblivious to his passage, ensconced in their own private world.
Branson made good his escape from the kitchen, then from the house itself. God help him. He was really lost now. There was no way he was going to be able to stop himself now from asking for what he wanted.
Friday morning, early, Branson returned the new book Lord Grantham had bought to the library. He had replaced the note with one of his own that read, 'Thank you,' because he was extremely touched and grateful for the gesture, even though he would never get to read it or discuss it with his lordship, because he was going to be sacked today.
Perhaps he was wrong. Lady Sybil was a kind girl, and she would be gone for the next two months, so if he was far luckier than he deserved, perhaps she would be allow him to resign and give a proper month's notice. It was not as if she would have to be troubled by his impudent presence. She would be in York. He did not even allow the word 'reference' into his head.
Branson was sorry to abandon Lady Edith. Perhaps Mr. Pratt could help her when he himself was gone. Mr. Pratt did not enjoy driving, he disapproved of both motorcars and 'shuvvers' on principle (even though he was half a 'shuvver' himself). He would be likely to see Lady Edith's wish to drive as a direct benefit to himself. At least, Branson hoped so.
The chauffeur wished devoutly that he could at least attempt to talk himself out of his plan. It was beyond maggot-headed, it was quite simply insane. Mrs. Hughes had been so right, he would end up with no job and a broken heart.
In fact, it was going to be broken twice: he did NOT want to lose this job, he loved it at Downton, but if he went through with this, the one thing of which he was absolutely certain, was that he was going to lose his job. It was merely a question of whether he was out on his ear tonight or not for another month. He already missed them all terribly. But he couldn't not ask. She couldn't say yes if he didn't ask.
Branson tried to think rationally. Lady Sybil could not possibly love him: he was the chauffeur. And she didn't love him, anyway. Anytime he had showed the slightest bit of admiration for her of a more personal or romantic nature, she had given definite signals that he should stop immediately. She was friendly to him, but she was not interested in him in that way.
Tom realized suddenly that he was weeping. Mercifully, he was back inside the chauffeur's cottage. He heard his gasping breaths, felt salt tears run into his mouth. He was going to lose everything he loved, for the crime of asking for what he loved the most.
She was too far above him. He would never reach her.
But her father had bought a book solely because he knew Branson wanted to read it.
And her sister (who had previously told him to remember his place, and not to speak unless he was spoken to) had sat beside him on the workbench in the garage, called him brother, and told him they were equal.
So no matter how much it was going to hurt when she refused him (as refuse him she undoubtedly would), no matter what it mean he would lose, that he was throwing away a job he loved, all the friends he had made here, and any possible hope of a reference, he couldn't. Not. ASK.