Earlier update than planned, but I probably won't have time tomorrow, and I didn't want to keep you waiting. Thank you so much to everyone for the kind reviews so far.
two.
I should be hoping but I can't stop thinking
"Mr Branson, are you quite well?"
"Of course."
"Is everything all right, Mr Branson?"
"Yes, Mr Carson."
"Branson, you look a bit ill, are you feeling well?"
"I'm perfectly fine, your Ladyship."
"Is anything the matter, Mr Branson?"
"Nothing at all."
"Mr Branson-"
"I'm fine!"
.
.
Tom lingers around the staircase in the dim light, casting glances down each end of the corridor. He really should be getting back to his cottage to bring the car around, but something more urgent is keeping him here.
He almost jumps in front of Miss O'Brien as she comes hurrying down the stairs, and the look she gives him makes him feel threatened for his relatively peaceful relationship with her.
"What are you standing around here for?"
"Have you seen Anna?"
He regrets the question the second it passes his lips and sees the slight raise of Miss O'Brien's eyebrows. That should be sufficient for at least a week of speculation.
"No, I haven't. As I recall, that is not my job."
"Of course, not," he answers quickly, nodding with a polite smile that is, naturally, not returned.
After Daisy almost runs him over with a large tray in her hands, he decides that tomorrow might be another chance, and that one more day could do no worse. Just as he turns around to make his way out the back door, he hears quick steps on the stairs.
"Anna, could I talk to you for a minute?" he calls through the corridor as he sees Anna's bright hair in the relative darkness of the house. She looks around and meets his eyes.
"Of course."
With quick steps she is standing in front of him, a red dress draped over her arm. Tom gulps, all of a sudden very nervous. He has never been good at this, but his bad conscious has already taken the few hours of sleep from him that his broken heart and trashed dignity spare him.
"Only...," he begins, looking down at his hands, fingers intertwined, "I wanted to apologize. I was out of line yesterday."
Anna smiles kindly up at him, eyebrows quivering for a moment as she apparently carefully contemplates her words.
"Don't worry, Mr Branson. No harm done," she assures him, taking a heavy burden off his chest, "But, if you ever wish to talk about something, things you don't wish to discuss with Mr Carson or Mrs Hughes-"
Her words only add to the shame and pain that threaten to burst out of him like flames. Somehow, he has always been sure that Anna knew, or at least suspected. Too caring for her own good, too perceptive of everyone else's pain and heartbreak.
"Thank you, Anna. But I doubt there'll be much need to discuss anything in the foreseeable future."
The compassionate smile that has accompanied her offer faints into reluctant acceptance as she slowly nods.
.
.
The piece of paper with names of newspapers in Dublin lies before him like an obituary. All excitement he might have felt at the prospect once now seems rather dull, as if the price for it was too high to pay.
.
.
She comes into the garage much later than usual, and when he sees the quiet fear in her eyes, he knows she has made her choice.
In his mind, he thinks if he could make it to Dublin by Wednesday afternoon.
.
.
"This is my decision. You have to let me go," she says so very quietly, it is almost a whisper, and he tells himself that it is because her voice knows the lie and fraud it is forced to give life to, "I don't love you. Not the way you love me."
Maybe this is true. The pain he feels at this final rejection seems proof that he loves her more than she ever loved him, or ever could. But then, a contradiction to every word she has just uttered in the darkness of the garage, Sybil reaches out her hand, gently rests her palm again his cheek.
The softness of the silk that envelops her hand frustrates him. Not even in these final moments, not even in the minutes he knows will be goodbye can there be no barrier between them. Still, he leans into her touch, a final rebellion of hers, maybe. Or an act of kindness. Compassion. Guilt. He chooses to cherish it, the soft, caring warmth of her palm, the gentle brush of he thumb.
"You cannot keep wandering around here because of me, because of something we will never have. There is no place in this world for us."
Her last words really are a whisper, and he longs so much to wrap her up in his arms, if only this once. But she denies him even that when she slowly drops her hand.
"You have a life to live, without me. Find someone else who you can love as much as you claim to love me. Someone who deserves it. Someone who loves you equally with all their heart," she says calmly, a sad smile crossing her beautiful face.
Tom only nods, lost for words now that is has all come to an end.
"I ought to go back, it's very late," Sybil mutters, suddenly unable to look him in the eyes. He understands, in an odd way. However much might be true about her words, she must know she broke his heart, and to look him into the eyes now, that is an act of bravery he does not expect from anyone.
She is halfway out of the garage by the time he finds his voice again.
"I hope he treats you well," he says with a much cooler voice than intended. He means what he says, every words of it. There is no sarcasm or irony, not a hint, but somehow his broken heart make him wish there were. "I hope you'll be happy."
She smiles softly, nodding.
"I hope you'll be happy, too."
Then she disappears into the night once again, for the final time.
.
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The last thing to do is fold his uniform neatly, one last time.