The first Christmas season of the war was one of false cheer, one short, dark day giving way to the next. The days between Sybil and Gwen's correspondence lengthened and Sybil realized how truly envious she was of Gwen's new life. Gwen had a job, a purpose each morning when she awoke and tasks to accomplish each day. Sybil had none of these and could scarcely imagine a life in which such purpose would be possible.
In the past she might have distracted herself with a visit with friends, but such entertaining was increasingly viewed as gauche; certainly no one had gotten up a hunting party this year and even the servant's ball had been a somber affair. Already two friends had been killed in France and a third badly wounded. In past years the ball had been the capstone to an entire festive season but this year it seemed to stand alone. William had tried especially hard to cheer her and her sisters and it had worked that evening, but now this cheer had worn thin and Sybil debated how best to cheer herself. The day was too wet to ride, a visit to Ripon for a new frock or even hat was out of the question, and she felt she had read every book of interest in her father's library. She settled on a visit to the garage to try to coax a story or two out of Branson.
The deeper into darkness and war the world around her plunged, the more she enjoyed Branson's company. This past Christmas had been the first that he'd been unable to return home during the Christmas season and, perhaps missing home and Ireland, he had begun to tell her a bit more about this Irish life. As Branson shared more of his life – the passel of siblings, an overworked and widowed mother, the sounds and even smells of life in Dublin – she liked him more and more. He often wore a mischievous grin as he recounted this life, his eyes would sparkle, and his brogue would deepen until she found herself listening as much to how he spoke as what he said. She could not know, of course, the darker parts of the story that he did not tell – the accident on the docks that had left his mother a widow, and the constant, and growing, tensions with the English, for example. She did know, though, that a dearer friend she did not have, and even if Branson would think her foolish for envying Gwen, he would at least listen to what was on her mind.
"Branson?" Sybil asked as she crossed the threshold into the garage.
"I'm here, milady," came a muffled reply from under the car. A minute later he slid out and appeared before her, carefully wiping the grease from his fingers.
"Just working a bit on the engine this morning. How can I help you?"
"Branson, I want to tell you something, and even if you think me very foolish, please don't laugh at me."
"I'd never laugh at you, milady. Now what's on your mind?"
Tentatively Sybil began telling him how she envied Gwen for her newfound sense of purpose. "I fear I shall never have such purpose, Branson, nor anything very useful to do with my life at all. It all feels so very hopeless, especially with the war."
He did not laugh, but looked at her very intently, and as she realized he was taking her seriously, she continued with more and more confidence, "…I don't know if I'd like to be a secretary, or to have any other job, for that matter, but I should like the opportunity to find out for myself. Is that very wrong of me?"
Of all the ideas that might have been on Sybil's mind, and that she might have wanted to discuss with him, Branson had never imagined that wanting to join the working class might be among them. This was a more shocking turn of conversation than last fall when she'd asked him about the war, and as her eyes bore into him, waiting to learn if he felt it very wrong of her to want to a job, or at least the freedom to discover if she wanted a job, he realized he must weigh his response very carefully. He remembered Anna saying at dinner one night how she often felt a part of her job was to dispense advice. She had commented that it was strange to dispense advice in private, and have it taken so seriously, to a class of people that, in public, possessed all the answers and wanted to tell their class what to do and how to live. How strange that he, too, now was being called upon to dispense advice to Lady Sybil.
"Milady," he began thoughtfully, "it's never wrong to want opportunity. If you want it badly enough, you'll figure out how to get it, just the same as you figured out how to get Gwen a job. Listen to your heart and the rest will follow."
He was rewarded for his efforts with a broad smile. Perhaps he wasn't merely offering the advice as part of his employment, he thought, but as a friend. After all, hadn't he done the same thing with his sisters for many years?
"Thank you, Branson," she said, "I knew I could count on you. You're the only person who is always completely honest with me and I admire you for that."
He lowered his head, briefly acknowledging her statement, unsure of how else to react. It was then that he remembered what he'd wanted to tell her – that three of the men who'd been involved in the Archduke's assassination had been hanged last week, a development that did nothing for the war they had caused, but which was in keeping with his promise to keep her informed.
"But not the actual murderer? The man who is most responsible for this war, this madness? Why ever didn't they hang him as well?" Sybil asked incredulously upon learning that, while three men had been hanged, Gavrilo Princip had escaped this fate.
"He was too young, milady; he was under 20 years old. The courts ruled he can be imprisoned for what he's done, but not hanged."
"It just doesn't seem right, Branson."
She fixed him with a look that told him, instinctively, that her next question would be whether he agreed with the courts, but before she could ask anything, they were interrupted by Anna's voice, calling for Lady Sybil. Sybil just managed to slide into the car, out of view, and give a furious shake of the head in Branson's direction – she did not want to be found out – before Anna entered the garage.
"Lady Sybil? Branson have you seen Lady Sybil this morning?"
"No, Anna, I've not seen her."
The look Anna gave him strongly suggested she did not believe him. Suspicion clouded her eyes for a moment before she asked him that, if he should see Lady Sybil, he should let her know she was wanted by her mother and soon, before turning on her heels. He liked Anna, truly, and felt ashamed for lying to her, but there was no misinterpreting that Lady Sybil did not wish Anna to know she was spending her morning in the garage. As Anna's footfalls grew more distant, Sybil reappeared from the car, a bit sheepish, though grinning like a small child who knows she's been naughty, but also knows she's gotten away with it.
"Thank you, Branson. I guess I had better see what mama wants. Before I go, I should tell you that I think I will be needing to make a trip into Ripon later this week."
"I'll be here, milady, just let me know when you need the car and I'll bring it around."
As Lady Sybil hurried toward the house and he slid back under the car to finish his work on the engine, Branson couldn't help but think, again, how different Lady Sybil was from the other aristocrats he had known. If he was honest with himself, he would admit that he even considered her a friend, and he'd never have believed he could be friends with one of them. An English aristocrat? Never. Perhaps he had as much to learn as he used to think Lady Sybil did.