Thanks for reading and all that stuff! This chapter is for dustedoffanoldie, who has asked for this meeting several times ;) Hope it lives up to expectations!

March 1913

As her son got older and he grew into his father's handsome features, Claire Branson wondered what kind of girl Tom would attract. Although in the past he'd spoken adamantly about eventually wanting to marry a woman who would share his political interests, work ethic and intellectual curiosity, Tom had never been particularly effusive when it came to talking about girls who interested him in general, something his mother had attributed to the English influence in his upbringing. But in the early spring of 1913, Tom's more passionate Irish nature began to emerge, proving Claire's assumptions wrong. If Tom had seemed stoic before, his mother guessed now, it had been because he hadn't met the right girl. Apparently, now, he had.

Tom didn't realize it was happening, of course, which was a source of amusement for his mother. But there was a spark in his eye when he talked to Claire about certain books someone had recommended or about women's politics or about visits to Downton Abbey during which he'd had a particularly interesting conversation with the youngest of the Crawley daughters, the only resident of the big house whose words he ever seemed to remember verbatim. It was a subtle change that only the keen eye of a mother could notice, and while endearing to watch, the prospect also worried Claire a bit.

No English lady that she had ever heard of would be satisfied with a middle class life. And Claire knew that when the time came, the lengths that she and Isobel had gone to in order to protect Tom might well go out the window, because when it came to marrying into the upper classes, all bets were off. Claire never pressed Tom about his feelings, knowing that he always revealed anything that was important to him when he was ready. But she couldn't help her curiosity. And on the second Saturday in March of 1913, the fates conspired in her favor to satisfy her.

Some might call it the luck of the Irish. Claire Branson settled on divine intervention. What else would have compelled her to walk up to the front hall of the house at the precise moment Lady Sybil Crawley knocked on the door?

It had become Isobel's routine to visit the hospital on Saturday mornings, and on this particular day, she'd invited Tom and Matthew to see the progress that had been made in the rebuilding of one of the wings that had been shuttered in the time the Crawleys had been gone from the village. Ivy had gone to take a turn in one of the village parks with the footman from the big house who'd been coming around more and more often the last few months. Claire, having been entrusted with Ivy's well being by her parents when they'd left Manchester, insisted that Moseley serve as their chaperone, a role Moseley accepted with more enthusiasm than Ivy liked.

That was how Claire came to be left alone in the house. She chose to take advantage of the rare solitude by cleaning out and reorganizing her pantry, a task only a lifelong cook and housekeeper could enjoy. Tom liked to tease her that she guarded the cupboard so strictly—regularly chastising Ivy for not putting things back in the exact right place—that it was a bit like her second child. But having grown up in a family in which everyone was expected to work from the time they could walk, she had learned to take pride in a job well done. Pride, after all, was the only thing her parents had been able to afford to give to their children.

Once finished with the pantry, Claire reread the two letters from her aunt and cousins in Ireland that had arrived with yesterday's post. She wrote her responses in short order and then, in search of reading material, headed up to the parlor, where Moseley would leave the crisply ironed newspapers her son didn't finish reading at breakfast, so Tom could take them up again with his afternoon tea.

She'd only just crossed the hall when she heard the light knock. So soft was the sound that if Claire had been anywhere in the house except that very spot she might have missed it.

Divine intervention, indeed.

Surprised that anyone would be calling now, Claire smoothed out her skirt and moved to open the door. The young lady on the other side of it smiled brightly, though her expression made it clear she'd expected someone else.

"Oh, hello," she said softly.

"Good morning, miss," Claire replied in a friendly tone. "I'm afraid Mrs. Crawley is out at the moment. Would you like to leave a note or card? I'll be sure to give it to her when she returns."

"Is Mr. Branson in?" The girl asked tentatively.

Claire hesitated, turning her head slightly. "No, both he and Mr. Crawley have gone with Mrs. Crawley to the hospital."

"I see," she said, shoulders dropping ever so slightly. "Would you let them know Sybil Crawley came by?"

Claire recognized the name immediately. Given her training as a servant, her demeanor revealed nothing, but her mind was reeling.

My goodness, Tommy, the girl is beautiful.

"Certainly, I will."

"Thank you." Sybil smiled at Claire once more and turned to go.

Claire was about to shut the door, when she heard Sybil's voice again.

"Pardon me," she said coming back to the door. "I apologize sincerely for the impertinence, but . . . are you . . . Mrs. Branson?"

Claire was unsure as to how to respond. Tom had intimated to her that he'd revealed his parentage to Sybil, but in this moment, Claire wasn't sure what to do with that knowledge. "I am the housekeeper here, milady," was all she could come up with.

"I know!" Sybil exclaimed. Then, checking her excitement at having the chance to meet Tom's mother, she continued more quietly. "That is, Tom's told me about you. He speaks very highly of you. I've always wanted to say hello when I've come for tea with Cousin Isobel but . . ."

"A bit odd to ask the mistress permission to chat with the help?" Claire filled in for her, smiling at Sybil's exuberance.

Sybil nodded, smiling. Unsure of what to do next, she stood at the door and fidgeted with her small bag. "I'll be off then," she said finally, "Thank you for relaying the message. It was very nice to meet you." With her last words, Sybil stepped forward and offered Claire her hand to shake. Claire was a bit taken aback, but shook Sybil's hand, touched by the sincerity she could see in the young woman's eyes.

Sybil turned to go again, but this time it was Claire who stopped her.

"Lady Sybil?"

Sybil turned. "Yes?"

"I reckon they'll be back by and by, if you'd like to come inside and wait."

Sybil's face brightened and she followed Claire into the house.

Claire took Sybil's coat and hat, placing them on the hooks by the door. Then, she led Sybil to the parlor and gestured for her to sit. "May I get you some tea, milady?"

"That would be nice, thank you."

Claire smiled and headed to the kitchen. She was at the sink filling the kettle when she heard the steps of someone coming into the kitchen.

"Ivy, are you back already?" Claire asked without turning around.

"It's Sybil."

Claire turned, eyebrows raised in surprise.

"I'm sorry for the intrusion," Sybil said quietly, stepping into the room. "I thought we could chat while you prepared our tea."

Our.

Claire looked at Sybil for a long moment. The incongruity of such a delicate, well dressed, innocently eager girl in her clean but sparse kitchen made Claire smile in spite of herself.

XXX

"It's really coming along quite nicely, mother. You should be proud."

Isobel smiled at Matthew's praise as she, Matthew and Tom walked back to the house.

"It will soon be at full capacity again," she said. "I've come to the point I don't think adding beds will be too ambitious a plan."

"I am surprised at how welcoming Dr. Clarkson was of our help with the accounting," Matthew said.

Isobel laughed. "Your father was a stubborn man who needed to keep his hand in every part of the practice. Mercifully, Dr. Clarkson is not so."

"Finding efficiencies that allow for the purchase of more medicines was a convincing argument," Tom said with a smile, walking up to the door and holding it open for Isobel.

Isobel nodded as she passed him into the house. Walking through the hall, she stopped at the sound of laughter coming from the kitchen.

"Ivy and Mrs. Branson are in a bright way today, by the sound of it," she said, turning back to Tom and Matthew, who were walking in behind her.

"Happy spirits don't usually overlap with those two," Tom said.

"Alfred coming 'round may have something to do with it on Ivy's part," Matthew said with a smirk.

Tom laughed. "You may be right about that. I'll go tell them we're back."

But when Tom made it into the kitchen, it wasn't Ivy sitting and laughing at the table with his mother.

It was Sybil.

"Speak of the devil," his mother said brightly, as they turned to him.

Oh, dear.

Sybil stood. "Your mum's been telling me about your youth in Manchester."

"Which bits?" Tom asked, a bit nervously.

"The good ones," Claire responded innocently, also standing and starting to collect the empty tea cups.

"Like when you were eight and got stuck climbing up the tree in the yard and Dr. Crawley had to summon the constable to get you down," Sybil said, grinning.

"Overconfidence is not a trait that's developed recently," Claire said to Sybil, with a wink.

"Was there a, um, reason for your visit, Sybil?" Tom asked, nervously.

"There is, as a matter of fact," she said walking up to him. "Gwen's been given the afternoon off, and I thought if you were not busy, you might come by and talk about her interview."

"Of course. What time?"

"I was thinking three o'clock at our—" Sybil stopped short, remembering they were not alone. She glanced at Claire, then back to Tom. "Why don't we meet you at the gate?"

Tom smiled. "I'll be there."

Sybil smiled back, then turned back to Claire. "Thank you ever so much for the tea, Mrs. Branson, and the conversation. It was a delight."

"You're most welcome, my dear. Don't forget about us, now. Do come back and visit again."

"Certainly."

"Would you like me to walk you out?" Tom asked.

"That's all right. I'll go say hello to Cousin Isobel before I'm off. I know my way."

Once she was gone from the kitchen Tom turned back to his mother, who was smiling with a knowing look on her face. "She's quite a nice girl."

Tom looked down at the floor and scratched his head. "I think I'll go up to my room for a bit. Do some reading before luncheon."

"We're going to have this conversation," Claire said with a laugh. "Or do you think you can avoid me forever?"

Tom turned to go, unable to keep himself from smiling. "I can try."

XXX

Tom did manage to escape Crawley House that afternoon without further inquiry from his mother regarding Sybil's visit. He did not, however, escape the teasing of Matthew, who saw him in the hall on his way out of the house and asked what Claire had thought of the young woman.

"Or are you afraid to face her?"

"I'm not afraid of my mother, Matthew," Tom responded.

"Is that why you've been so bravely hidden away in your room since midday?"

"For your information, I happened to be finishing a harrowing read."

Matthew crossed his arms. "And what was that?"

"The Servile State."

Matthew laughed. "Not even you can get that excited about post-Industrial economic theory."

"How would you know? According to Belloc, the ultimate result of capitalism will be a devolution of the work force into de facto slavery."

"Well, you're not going to change the world this afternoon," Matthew said with a smile. "Aren't you spending it with Sybil?"

"As a matter of fact, we're helping a housemaid make a new life for herself outside the bounds of service."

"And that's going to change the world?" Matthew asked wryly.

"You don't know, Gwen," Tom said opening the door to leave. "It might."

Tom could hear Matthew laugh as he stepped out the door, and he smiled.

Since they'd met there at Christmas, Tom and Sybil had been returning to the place by the creek just inside the Downton Abbey gates on the occasional afternoon. Most of the time, they would discuss books or the news of the day. Twice, Sybil had brought poetry for them to read. From time to time, each of them still thought back to the moment they had shared dancing alone at the servants' ball and what had almost happened, but they never discussed it, somehow silently agreeing to retreat back into the comfort of their ever deepening friendship and leaving physical attraction and the complications that came with it aside for the time being.

Tom sometimes wondered whether Matthew ever suspected how much time they spent together outside the notice of their families, but if Matthew actually did know, he never let on. This morning, in the kitchen in front of his mother, Sybil had almost given the game away. Still, Tom couldn't help but be endeared when she called it "our spot," which she'd clearly just been about to do again. Gwen would be the first third party to be invited there. As Tom approached the gates, though, he only saw Sybil, who waved as he approached.

"Does Gwen have to work after all?" He asked, lifting his hat in greeting.

"She was delayed a bit, helping Anna make up a room for Aunt Rosamund. She's apparently decided to arrive early for Mary's birthday next week. Anyway, Gwen will be here soon. She knows where to go, so we can start walking there, if you like."

They fell into step together toward the creek, and Sybil held out a book she'd been holding behind her.

"I brought this for you."

"Excellent timing," he said with a smile. "I just finished one earlier today."

"Anything I would like?"

"Depends on your interest in theoretical economics."

Sybil scrunched up her nose in distaste. "Maybe if I'm having trouble sleeping."

Tom laughed.

"I understand that the two are intertwined," Sybil said, "but I must say politics is far more interesting and feels much more immediately relevant to our lives than economics."

"And what's this?" Tom asked, holding up the book she'd just handed him.

"A collection of stories by Joseph Conrad," Sybil responded. "It came in a box that papa ordered from London. I've not read it, but I know how much you liked Heart of Darkness, so . . ."

"Thank you," he said. "I have something for you as well."

"Oh?"

Tom pulled out a thick volume from the inside of his jacket. "It's called A Thousand and One Nights. I bought it from a colleague who read it after visiting the orient last year. It's mostly just a collection of tales and fables from the Arabian traditions, but the framework is rather interesting."

Sybil took the book from him. "How is that?"

"This Persian sultan's wife is unfaithful to him, and when he finds out, he has her killed. Then, he vows to marry a new woman at the start of each day and have her executed at the end of it to prevent from being cuckolded ever again."

"How gruesome!"

"Eventually, he marries a woman who uses her intellect to outsmart him and manages to keep herself alive the number of days on the title, at the end of which he lets her live."

"How?"

"You'll have to read and find out won't you," he said with a wink.

Sybil smiled and flipped through the book, stopping at an annotated illustration. "Scheherazade?"

"That's her name."

"She looks like she's wearing clothes by Paul Poiret."

"Who?"

"He's a French fashion designer whose work has Asian influences. He appears in London magazines all the time. His clothes are very beautiful, though I doubt we're likely to see anything like them here in the country."

"Why is that?"

"I don't know anyone brave enough to break convention in quite that way."

"Are you sure about that?"

She smiled. "It pains me to say it, but despite my almost 18 years of age, my mother still doesn't trust me to go to the dressmaker alone." Sybil laughed. "I can't say I blame her."

"What do you think she's afraid of?"

"Me choosing for myself, I suppose. I would try for something too unconventional."

"And we can't have that at Downton Abbey."

They both laughed. As they approached the rock by the creek where Sybil usually sat, she looked at Tom from the side of her eyes. "Speaking of mothers. . ."

Tom looked down to his feet and smiled. "We didn't talk much after you left, but I do think she enjoyed meeting you."

"I liked her very much," Sybil said. After a moment, she added more quietly, "I hope you didn't think it an intrusion. I just went over to tell you about Gwen and when she answered the door, well, I should have just left, but couldn't help myself."

Tom smiled. "I'm sorry it wasn't me who introduced you properly, although you now have ample evidence as to why I might have wanted to delay, given the exuberance with which she enjoys discussing the caprices of my childhood."

Sybil tilted her head slightly. "You're lucky to have her close. My parents have known families who have taken in children to improve their circumstances, but this is usually done with the condition that they cut ties with their past. Dr. Crawley was doubly generous in affording you an education and a life close to your mother. I can see her influence in you and you're a better man for it."

A slight blush came over Tom cheeks, not out of embarrassment, but pride. The frankness of Sybil's words affected him deeply. They revealed just how well she'd gotten to know him. She recognized and was attracted not just to the polish of education and gentlemanly manners that the Crawleys had provided, but also to the rougher, more ardent-hearted character that his mother had kept alive in him.

They looked at one another for a moment before both turning upon hearing footsteps.

"Begging your pardon," Gwen said tentatively, fearing she'd arrived during a private moment. "I don't mean to interrupt."

Sybil smiled warmly. "Don't be silly, Gwen." She stepped forward to take Gwen's arm and brought her to the rock, motioning Gwen to sit down. "We have it all planned out. Tom is going to make as if he's interviewing you for a job, and he'll be giving you advice on how to answer as you go. I'll be just over there."

Sybil pointed to a spot on the grass a short distance away where Tom had laid down his suit jacket as Sybil had been talking. He walked backed toward them and as he did so, he rolled up his shirtsleeves.

Gwen was too sensible a girl to get caught up in thoughts of men's looks, as Daisy was sometimes prone to do, but in that moment, watching him approach her with an easy smile, Gwen couldn't help but think to herself how handsome a man Mr. Branson was and how lucky Sybil was to have his attention.

Having left Tom and Gwen to their task, Sybil sat down where Tom had laid his coat with the intent of starting the book he had brought for her. After opening it to the first page, however, she couldn't stop herself from looking over and watching them interact.

Remembering her talk with Mrs. Branson earlier that day, it occurred to Sybil that both Tom and Gwen were children of people in service and that given their mental acuity and aspirations, they actually had more in common with one another than Sybil had with either of them. Sybil's aristocratic birth and upbringing, her lack of a formal education and her never having worked a day in her life—all of it embarrassed her deeply in the face of two people who had done so much for themselves and had worked to find their happiness. Sybil couldn't understand how it was that her father, her grandmother, even Mary could feel any sort of pride in a lifestyle they had not earned, where she only felt a longing to do more.

Sybil looked away and realized she was crying when the first tear fell on the open book on her lap. Of course, she immediately felt foolish for wanting more when life had already given her so much. But how could it be helped? None of the things her life afforded were things she wanted. What she treasured most—her friendships with Tom and Gwen—had come to her quite by accident. Sybil wondered now, in fact, if a marginally different stroke of fate might have resulted in Tom falling in love with Gwen and never giving Sybil a moment's notice. At this thought, she took a deep breath and looked down at the book again, determined to put any thoughts of Tom with anyone else but her out of her mind.

She cleaned off the tear that had fallen on the book and flipped through to the illustration that she had happened upon earlier. She ran her fingers over the image of Scheherazade, who was wearing a revealing top quite like a brazier and a skirt that looked suspiciously like trousers. Sybil closed her eyes and tried to remember the magazine photograph of the fashion model dressed by Poiret that this illustration called to her mind.

She opened her eyes and smiled to herself. Her mother had promised her a trip to the dressmaker next month.

All revolutions start somewhere.

XXX

Sitting on the rock, knowing there was nothing in particular at stake, Gwen still felt nervous as Tom paced back and forth in front of her.

"What's your name?" He asked in a serious tone.

"Gwen Dawson."

"And your age?"

"Twenty."

Tom stopped his pacing. "Answer in a full sentence. You'll sound more properly professional."

"I'm twenty-years-old, sir."

"Good. Now, what's your experience as a secretary?"

"I haven't got any."

Tom chuckled. "You can't very well say that."

"Well, it's the truth, ain't it?" Gwen sighed. "Oh, it's no use. How do I think this is possible? They haven't even written back with a date. It's likely they've forgotten all about me."

Tom walked over and kneeled in front of her. "Gwen, you don't know that. And if even if they don't write, there will be other jobs and other interviews, for which you will need to be prepared."

"But I don't have experience as a secretary! Am I supposed to lie?"

Tom looked down and smiled. "If jobs were only given to people with experience, nobody would get hired for the first time. There are thousands of secretaries working around England, and all of them had to begin somewhere."

"How did they do it?"

"How long have you been in service?"

"Since I was fifteen."

"OK, when someone asks you as to your experience, you say, 'I've been working for five years, and I've completed a secretarial course with top marks. I have good typing speeds, and I'm proficient in short-hand."

"But if I say that I haven't really answered the question."

"The question is beside the point. An interviewer just wants to know if you can do the job, and you have to convince them that you can. Tell them you can with every answer regardless of what they actually ask."

Gwen smiled and let out a long sigh. "I just wish I could believe it's possible."

Tom smiled. "Gwen, you do believe it. Everything about your life—your parents, your upbringing, your job as a maid, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes—all of it is built to convince you that you deserve only as much as you have and nothing more. Society beats the spirit of working class people down so they learn from early on that doing the bidding of those who are supposedly above them is all they are meant to do and so they fail in any attempts to rise above those circumstances. The fact that you've come this far, that this aspiration has not been beaten out of you is proof you believe it."

Gwen shrugged. "I might have already given up if it weren't for Lady Sybil."

"Well, we all need our champions, and you could not do better than her."

Gwen smiled at the catch in his voice when he said her. She looked at him for a moment with narrowed eyes. "Why do you have such confidence in me that I can do this? You barely know me."

"Because she knows you and because I know it can be done. How we live, not how we are born determines our fate—if that weren't true mankind would have died out long ago."

"I wish I knew someone who'd taken the leap, as it were."

"You know me."

Gwen looked at him curiously.

"My journey started at an earlier age and with more help than you've been given, but that doesn't mean you aren't capable of completing it just the same. By helping you I am repaying the generosity of my benefactor forward, and someday you'll give some other person this same help. And that person will do the same to someone else and so on and so forth. That's how we'll change the world."

Gwen smiled. "Thank you."

"Shall we start again?" He asked, standing.

Gwen took a deep breath, then nodded.

"What's your name?"

XXX

It was close to two hours later when Tom, Sybil and Gwen emerged from the wood and said their goodbyes before Tom set off back to Crawley House. He, Matthew and Isobel would be returning that evening for dinner.

Gwen still wasn't sure a job would ever materialize, but she at least felt more upbeat with regard to her ability to take an interview—if one ever came her way. The progress in her attitude pleased Sybil.

"Oh, Gwen, I'll miss you so when you are gone from us."

"You speak as if you know it'll happen."

"I do!"

Gwen smiled indulgently. "I wish I shared your confidence."

"Whereas I wish I had such an exciting challenge to look forward to."

The young women giggled at their own pining and linked arms to walk back to the house together. Their worlds growing larger before them through the power of friendship.