Slowly, the shorter days of the dark season lengthened, the watery winter light grew stronger and brighter, roses and daffodils erupted in a riot of color, birdsong returned, and the first spring of the war was born. The fine weather was a blessing that allowed all three sisters to ride regularly, enjoy picnic luncheons on the lawn, and read their novels in the shade of the great trees that grew up around Downton Abbey. Sybil felt it all so incongruous. Here she was, luxuriating in the nicest spring she could remember, happily riding her favorite mare or losing herself deep in a novel, while in France and – according to Branson – more and more in Africa, Egypt, and many other places, great numbers of men died.
As the weather improved she made fewer trips into town and spent less time in the garage, but she still tried to have a proper conversation with him at least once a week. As the war deepened, and as her knowledge of it improved, he had become increasingly forthcoming with her, sharing what he heard of the Western Front and also of the unfolding campaign in the Dardanelles. Last week he found and purchased a map as a surprise for Sybil. With the map he could point to each of the places they discussed, sometimes marking places one or the other of them knew a friend or acquaintance to be posted. It wasn't that Sybil didn't know her geography, but she didn't know it in this context, and not when so many of the battles had multiple names. She had wanted to know, for example, why Gallipoli and the Dardanelles were one and the same, a question Branson could not answer.
The war had distracted everyone, not least Robert. Recently he had agreed for Branson to give driving lessons to Lady Edith and each of the sisters seemed to have a greater freedom of movement than they were allowed before the war. Lady Sybil's visits to the garage were just one sign of the less rigid ways of the house. Only yesterday Anna had informed him that Lady Sybil had planned an "adventure" for herself for the following day and would be wanting the car brought around immediately following breakfast. Lord Grantham himself had approved the plan, thinking his youngest daughter's proposal to find, collect, and catalog wildflowers in the Yorkshire countryside might be just the type of distraction she could use. Anna's words had been entirely neutral, but something about the way she looked at him while she spoke told him that Mrs. Hughes wasn't the only member of the staff concerned about his relationship with Lady Sybil.
"Do be careful, Branson," she had finished, kindly, before she left, and he knew she was not speaking to his skill as a driver.
That night he had slept restlessly, turning over in his mind what this adventure might be. Why had Lady Sybil said nothing of this to him herself? And collecting wildflowers certainly didn't sound like the way the Lady Sybil he knew would choose to pass the afternoon. It would all be clear soon enough, he figured, fighting for sleep.
As he pulled the car in front of the house, Lady Sybil and William were waiting for him. William held a large picnic hamper and an ever larger basket for, Branson could only imagine, the wildflowers Lady Sybil intended to collect. What had come over her? Loading the hamper and basket into the car, William also handed a pair of pruning shears to Branson, apologizing for their size. Lady Sybil had been adamant the gardener not know of her adventure, Lord Grantham had agreed, and so William had retrieved the older, larger pair from the shed. Yes, this would be quite an adventure indeed.
The car had not left the driveway before Sybil instructed Branson on the day. There would be a brief stop in Ripon to pick up a few things for Mary before they would be enjoying a nature walk and picnic, along with their wildflower collection.
"I just needed to get away from everyone for a bit, to clear my head. When I was a little girl, I loved to collect baskets of wildflowers and then I'd make little rings or necklaces or just a nice bouquet. So, of course when I suggested it, Papa agreed. And since I also wanted to be able to talk to you without Mama or Anna or anyone else looking for me, I suggested to Papa that the best flowers were a bit of a ways from Ripon. I suggested taking Dragon and the cart, but I knew Papa would say to have you drive me in the car. So. I want to know more about Gallipoli and the other battles you mentioned last. I hope you've brought the map. You don't mind terribly, do you?"
It had all come out in a rush and as Sybil waited for an answer Branson was not only pleased with himself for remembering to grab the map, but couldn't help thinking, "Mind? Mind? Of course I don't mind. A day with Lady Sybil and away from the wary eyes of Anna and Mrs. Hughes?" He couldn't have asked for a better way to spend the day.
Instead, he responded, "No, milady, I don't mind at all. And I have brought the map, along with a recent paper and a letter I received from a friend at the front. I thought you might like to see both."
He could feel her beaming from behind him and began to softly whistle as he drove. Before long, their errands in Ripon dispensed with, they arrived at the appointed spot. As Branson moved to unload the picnic hamper, Sybil instructed him to leave it be; they would walk first, then return to the car for the hamper – and the basket. He shrugged, but did not ask any questions.
As they followed the footpath into the woods, he noticed that while any number of trees shared this piece of land, few wildflowers grew. It was no wonder she'd instructed him to leave the basket. As they walked, Sybil in the lead and Branson a pace or two behind, Sybil began to point out the different trees and, more impressively, the birds that inhabited this woods.
"You seem to know a lot about nature, milady," Branson commented as they walked along.
They were not hurrying, but this was not the slow amble he had anticipated; Branson was impressed with her stamina as she quickened her pace and effortlessly navigated fallen branches and brambles.
"I wanted to go to school, to a real school, with other children, Branson. Mary and Edith and I always had governesses and tutors, but never a proper schoolroom. Sometimes, when I couldn't pay attention any longer, the tutor would bring me to the woods and teach me the names of each tree, flower, bird, and animal we encountered. He would then tell me how lucky I was because children in school didn't get to take such excursions, but I always knew he was only trying to make me feel better. I still wish I had gotten to go to school."
Branson was silent contemplating this. Even as his friendship with Lady Sybil had deepened and she shared more of her dreams and disappointments, he still had to remind himself that somedays being an aristocrat wasn't all it was cracked up to be.
"It's funny how we always want what we can't have, isn't it?" he asked after a moment. "When I was a lad in school, of course I wanted nothing but to run free. What was the sense in all this learning? I figured I'd work on the docks, like my father. I needn't to go to school to do that."
"What happened?" Sybil asked.
"One day they were unloading a ship and there was an accident. He never came home, except in a coffin. My mother went to work the next day and I left school when the term was up. As soon as I could never go back, why that was when I wanted nothing more. I spent my days learning to drive - my mother said no son of her would work on the docks after what happened to my father - and my nights reading and writing. I could have been a good student after that."
He hadn't meant to tell her these things, but as soon as he had spoken them it was as though a weight had been lifted from his chest. She had befriended him without knowing him and now that they were friends it seemed only fair to share his secrets with her as she did with him. The whole time he was speaking he had forgotten she was his employer's daughter, but thinking about that now he grew self-conscious. They continued in silence, Sybil absorbing Branson's painful past.
Sybil seemed not to mind the silence and after a few minutes her reminiscences as though this conversation were completely naturally. From time to time she looked back over her shoulder to make sure he was close behind.
"Mama says that in America all of the children attend school, even in the rich families. Sometimes I wonder how my life would have been different if we'd lived in America instead of England."
"Have you ever visited America, milady?" Branson asked.
"Twice. Once I was quite small and don't remember it so well. The second time, 1910, I was a bit older. Oh, it was exciting. There were so many cars and this big wonderful park, Central Park, and a crush of people in every direction. The Wright brothers flew together for the first time and everyone was so excited. It was such an exciting place and everyone was so nice. Maybe after the war I'll be able to visit again."
"You won't be afraid, milady? I mean after what happened to your cousin Patrick and all?"
"Oh, Branson, don't be silly!" As she said it, she stopped and grabbed his hand, an innocent, playful gesture, friend-to-friend, but one that caused his heart to beat more rapidly all the same.
"I can't live my life being afraid. I want to travel, to see what's beyond the walls of Downton Abbey and London. I want to see the world and I want to meet the people in different countries, really meet them. I might have been afraid, before the war. But not now." She dropped his hand and pointed to a bird cherry tree just beginning to flower.
"This used to be my favorite tree when I was younger. If I felt especially naughty, when the tutor turned his back, I'd swing onto the lowest branch and start to climb. Oh, how upset he would get!"
"We have these in Ireland, milady, and my brothers and I used to climb them as well. We'd tear our trousers and my mother would have to mend them. At first she'd be angry, but by the time she was finished she'd be having a good laugh."
She laughed then, tipping her her back and letting the sounds of her amusement fill the woods.
"Let's do it, Branson, let's climb this tree."
"Milady, no! Goodness know the trouble you'll get us both. Your father has only recently stopped mentioning how he should have fired me after the count."
She contemplated this, then walked to the tree and nimbly hoisted herself onto the lowest limb. Branson was impressed; it took a certain amount of strength to execute that motion and while she was wearing her plainest day dress, he still knew the dress must have made it more difficult. Why, that was often the reason his sisters gave for not climbing alongside him and his brothers. In any case, she seemed to be enjoying herself and he allowed his mind to wander to his own childhood climbing these trees. Her voice brought him back to reality.
"Branson!" Her tone was urgent sounding and a bit worried. "Branson, I seem to be stuck. I can't get down. Will you help me?"
He had feared this.
"How can I help, milady?"
"Please climb up here and see where my dress is caught. Then uncatch it for me, please."
Although he had his doubts, he did as instructed and soon found the source of the problem: an unwieldy branch growing at an awkward angle from the larger limb she had been walking on. Having freed her dress, he hopped down from the limb, falling to the ground as the drop seemed much longer on the way down than the way up. Sybil's eyes grew large. To preserve her modesty and give Branson additional fabric to work with in freeing her dress, she had sat on the limb. Now, though, the only way down would be to push herself forward from the tree branch - and clearly it was a farther drop than she remembered. How had she done this when she was younger?
Branson saw the alarm in her eyes and tried to think what to do. If she simply pushed herself off the branch, she would most likely tumble heavily to the ground. She could try to stand back up, but she would also risk catching her dress again.
"Push yourself forward, milady, and I will catch you when you fall."
"Won't that be dangerous?"
"No, milady, you'll see. I'll catch you. I helped my sister out of a tree this way once."
Once, Branson thought, and never again. She had also been much younger than Lady Sybil was now, but what choice did they have?
Sybil did as commanded and carefully Branson caught her in his arms, taking a large step backwards as the full weight of her body landed against his chest.
"I suppose you were right," she said cheerfully. "I shan't be climbing this tree again."
"I'm glad to hear it," Branson said, trying to settle his nerves and slow his heart. True the adrenaline and exertion played a large part in his altered state, but more than anything it was the weight of her body against his that was responsible for the pounding in his chest.
They emerged from the woods then, having taken a circular path that returned them to the car.
"What next, milady?" Branson asked, eager for this adventure to continue.
She directed him carefully to the moors, an area where the wildflowers would be abundant, and as she did so, he could not help but wonder how many times she had taken a similar adventure in the past. She exuded a natural confidence that he did not often see in her when she was at home. Arriving at the spot, Sybil was pleased to see they were the only ones about, as she had hoped to share her picnic with Branson, but was prepared for the possibility of him eating in the car while she picnicked had anyone else been in the area.
Carefully he spread the blanket over the grass while she examined the contents of the hamper. Mrs. Patmore had certainly sent ample food, enough that she could share what was meant for her with Branson, rather than him having to make do with the simple sandwich that was intended for him. They ate quietly and rather quickly; after finishing their meal, Branson pulled out the map, as well as a newspaper and the letter he'd received from a friend recently. The map he spread on the blanket, but the letter and paper he offered to Lady Sybil directly. "She wanted to know about the war," he thought, "then let her read about the war."
The newspaper she dispatched fairly quickly, but she took her time with the letter. As her brow furrowed now and again he tried to picture the words she was reading. It was not an especially long letter, so he knew she must be reading it more than once.
My dear friend,
My unit has now joined this vast Western Front, terrible trenches stretching for miles across a landscape of barbed wire and mud. Nothing grows here, for the men, horses, guns, and bullets have drawn the life out of every blade of grass, tree, or beast that was here before us. Our trenches are a sad affair, more mud than you can imagine, mixed with water to the ankles and rats as large as rabbits. Perhaps I should have stayed in Dublin as you said; I may have met the same wretched fate eventually, but at least I would have done so on the green hills of Ireland and not in a mud puddle in France. I might have slept better, too, for here we patrol day and night and I rarely sleep more than two or three hours at a stretch. When I do close my eyes, you can bet it's the streets of Dublin that flash through my mind. Should death find me here, I pray the same scenes will fill my last moments, for I should hate to meet my God with images of mud, guns, and wretched, tired men in my heart and mind. I will close here, and remind you again you were wise not to enlist. I look forward to your news when you're able to write.
As ever,
Patrick
At last she closed finished reading and closed her eyes. Slowly and deeply she breathed in and out, once, twice, three times. When at last she opened her eyes, Branson thought they were shinier than usual, but when she spoke next it was in her usual voice.
"Is it really so bad as that, Branson?"
"I'm afraid so, milady. And perhaps worse. The papers are censored these days, and so are the letters the men send from the front. It's not going well, that's for sure."
"But this letter wasn't censored."
"Not that we can see. Which means that what Patrick has written, we can know. The worse bits the men cannot commit to paper."
"I had no idea. Especially about the men in the trenches. The mud, the rats, how awful." She shuddered as she thought of the men, waiting for the sound of a sniper's bullet or lying wounded on a stretcher as she enjoyed the Yorkshire sunshine.
For a moment Branson wondered whether he had made the correct decision by sharing the news, and especially the letter, with her. She seemed to be thinking quickly though, forming a plan as only Lady Sybil could.
"You must let me write to him, Branson, or at least to send some things for him in your next letter. I've heard that many of the men receive packages with cigarettes or chocolates or even socks. Find out what he would like and then tell me."
"Yes, milady, I'm sure he would appreciate it," Branson said, not really certain if his friend would, in fact, appreciate such a package from an English aristocrat, but willing to go along all the same.
Sybil stood up then, stretching her legs, and asked Branson to fetch the shears and basket for her wildflower collection. She cut the flowers quickly, naming each to him and as she piled them into her basket he understood how fully this wildflower collection had been only the means to an end – a day away from Downton and, he hoped, with him. Her basket full, they returned to the car where, Branson was certain now, she gripped his hand tighter than usual as he helped her into the car.
Tired and warm from the day's exertions, Sybil fought sleep at first, then allowed herself to nod off to the sound of Branson's whistling. Her mother and Carson were there to greet her when they returned. Seeing Sybil's half asleep state, and the overflowing basket of flowers, her mother remarked, "My, you've had quite the day, Sybil. I hope you didn't wear poor Branson out."
Sybil only shrugged, then gave a brief look over her shoulder to Branson, who was already closing the doors to return the car to the garage.
As he lie in bed that night, the events of the day repeating in his mind, Branson knew then that something had changed. He had always liked Lady Sybil best of all the Crawleys and since the war began and Gwen left, there was no question they had become fast friends. Yet tonight, alone in the calm of his cottage, he admitted to himself that perhaps Anna and Mrs. Hughes were right. Lady Sybil was not just a friend. He liked her more than he'd liked any girl in Ireland. Mrs. Hughes's words echoed through his mind as he finally, restlessly drifted off to sleep.
"Be careful, my lad…"