The morning sun shone through the windows of Branson's small cottage, waking him before Mr. Carson sent William out to knock on his door. He lay in bed and watched the light as it streamed onto the piles of books on the desk, the green and gold uniform hung crisply in the wardrobe and the scattered pamphlets on the floor. In his dream last night, there had been a vase with bright blue flowers on his desk, which at the time had seemed perfectly normal, but rather odd now that he thought about it. A rapping noise at the door startled him.
"Time to rise, Mr. Branson. Mrs. Hughes has breakfast waiting for you in the house. She says mind you hurry up."
"Thank you, William," Branson said, through the door before he heard the retreating footsteps. He stretched and sat on the edge of his bed for a moment, his head in his hands before walking briskly over to the wash basin.
Today he was bringing Sybil and Lady Edith into town. Mr. Carson had informed him of the fact yesterday after dinner, and still Branson had no idea how he was going to manage. For a week now he had been in torment over taking Sybil to Ripon. He should have known what was in her mind, should have seen the determination, the fire, the spark in her eyes the first day he had driven her back from Ripon. Surely, he should have anticipated what she was going to do. He had never felt so helpless, so lost, so miserable in all his life as he first stared down at her where she lay, so white and still. It had given him nightmares since.
He splashed water on his face and dressed quickly before walking down to the house, which was calm now that the family was awake, dressed and at breakfast. He took a seat across from Bates who was chatting amicably with Anna. He ate his breakfast in silence, ignoring Mrs. Patmore's frequent scolding, most of which was directed at Daisy.
Meek and mild as a mouse, that one is. He thought, not for the first time.
In-between bites of toast he looked around. Bates, Anna, Daisy, Gwen, William, Mrs. Hughes each working hard so that others, upstairs, didn't have to. He thought about the unfairness of it all and he wondered how soon it would all change. Change was inevitable and more than that, it was coming fast.
"And what are you thinking about Mr. Branson that you crunch so loudly on your toast?"
He looked up from his toast ready to apologize when he saw Gwen smiling at him. Realizing she had meant nothing by it, he smiled back.
"Change," he said congenially "Everything in the world is pointing toward it, struggling for it, and all it needs is a small push to get it in motion."
Gwen smiled and seemed about to say something else when Thomas, who was having a fag at the end of table, broke in.
"Could we give politics a rest now that you've nearly gotten Lady Sybil killed?" Every word was articulated perfectly and dripping with cold disdain.
Branson's easy smile fell and his eyes dropped back to his plate. He had never liked Thomas, in fact, he thought he was a rather smarmy, insufferable bloke, but it didn't make what he said any less true. If he hadn't encouraged Sybil, would she have gone to Ripon? He thought he was helping her, letting her reach her potential as a free woman and instead she had gotten hurt.
"That's enough," he heard Bates say, softly.
"Why? I can't fathom why he's still here. Should have been sacked on the spot."
"And are you applying to be a chauffeur as well Thomas?" asked Gwen, angry.
Thomas sneered, "Don't be ridiculous, all they do is sit on their arse all day and steer."
"Aye, when now you only have to do half that," said Branson, surprising everyone.
Thomas' cool sneer never wavered, but Branson could see a flash of rage in his eyes. Gwen was suppressing giggles, William, it almost seemed, looked ready to hug him and Anna and Bates were smiling slightly. Only Daisy looked shocked.
"Mr. Branson," Carson said, appearing out of thin air, "Lady Edith and Lady Sybil will be ready to leave soon. I suggest you pull the car around."
"Yes, sir," said Branson, getting up and walking out of the room quickly, thrilled to have a reason to leave. Despite being what many in the house deemed a "radical" he was not naturally inclined to violence.
Stepping out of the house and into the crisp morning air, Branson realized he had to have some sort of plan of action where Sybil – Lady Sybil, was concerned. It was his overwhelming need to talk to her, to connect with her that had started the trouble in the first place. If only she hadn't been so interesting…and beautiful… and kind…
He stopped that particular train of thought before it got any further. This was just the sort of thing that he needed to stop. He needed to stop inadvertently thinking of her eyes and how they shone with passion and intelligence. He needed to stop his heart from beating like drum whenever he was near her. He needed to stop holding her hand for a split second longer than he held anyone else's when he lifted her in and out of the car. He needed to stop thinking about her without her title. He needed to stop hearing her voice when he was alone at night. And most importantly he needed to stop deluding himself into thinking, even for a portion of a second that she felt the same way about him.
Because she didn't.
She couldn't.
As he entered the garage and knelt to crank the car, waiting for it to sputter into life, he made a resolution. He was her chauffeur. He would be her chauffeur. Nothing more, nothing less. He would speak when spoken to, he would not speak otherwise. He would treat her like he didn't find her wonderful, incredible, intoxicating.
If it would keep her safe, if it would keep her happy, he would be the perfect servant.