The summer was hotter than usual and the heat did nothing for either of their temperaments. Sybil was to spend several weeks at her aunt's London home, not a proper season as in past years, but a break from the monotony of life at Downton nonetheless. She had arranged with Anna before she left to pass letters on to Branson that Sybil would send to Anna along with Anna's own letters. Anna doubted the appropriateness of this arrangement, and having seen the way Branson's eyes lingered on Sybil these days, she wasn't sure she wanted to do this, but ultimately agreed with a simple, "Yes, milady."
Sybil and Branson had argued during their last conversation before she left, when he drove her to the station for the train to London. She had been pressuring him for weeks to allow her to write to the friend whose letter he had read. As Sybil saw it, a letter from her would be a cheerful bit of mail and she hoped to send him cigarettes or chocolates as well. Branson did not understand why she wasn't satisfied writing to her own friends, her own kind. More importantly, he determined that while his friend had signed on to fight for the British – something he himself could never do – he would not appreciate a letter from an English aristocrat who thought she knew best what he needed in the trenches.
"Really, Branson, you can be so stubborn! You saw yourself what he wrote about the conditions in the trenches. I don't see the harm in sending a package of goods that he certainly won't find in the trenches in France!"
She had rebuffed his attempts to respond to her outrage and had nearly stomped away from the car, not even allowing him to assist her from the vehicle. He had turned his attention to her trunks and to checking that the train was on schedule (the trains ran later and later these days as more of them were needed to move troops and supplies south toward the Channel and eventually on to France or beyond). The train that arrived was largely filled with men returning for a few days' leave and Sybil's eyes widened as she took in their worn and tired presence.
Had Branson waited for Sybil to climb aboard, and not just ensured that the train would depart as scheduled, he would have seen her look for him, ready with a wave, in a belated attempt to part friends, and not on the heels of a quarrel. Instead, as she looked for him from her window seat, he was already on his way back to Downton, fuming at her obstinance. And she had called him stubborn! Yet, to his everlasting consternation, he couldn't help but admire the way she stood up to him. He allowed his mind to wander to a place he tried to avoid: what she might be like as wife. Lady Sybil certainly wouldn't be one of those meek and mild women he'd seen in Dublin, duly complying with whatever demands their husbands made or agreeing, mindlessly, with their husbands' views. The Dowager Countess was a formidable woman, no doubt, and he remembered some of Thomas's comments before the war about the way Lady Grantham would stand up to his Lordship on occasion, but he felt certain that Lady Sybil was the strongest and most spirited of all the Crawley women.
Anna was surprised to receive a letter from Lady Sybil less than one week after she'd left for London. Her ladyship seemed to have little news to report. There were soldiers everywhere. The trains overflowed with them, they poured forth from the pubs at all hours of the day, and lingered at the park benches in a state of numbness, as though their bodies were in London, but their minds were still in France. Worse than the soldiers were the men who were missing an arm or leg – or two.
Anna liked Lady Sybil and was happy to hear from her, but could not help but wonder whether her own letter was secondary to the thicker envelope that bore Branson's name. She liked Branson very much and was certain that, as evidenced by the envelope before her, Lady Sybil shared at least as much blame as Branson for a relationship that Anna sensed more and more was not entirely appropriate given their stations in life. Nevertheless, if Lady Sybil wasn't aware of the boundaries, Branson should be. Anna debated whether to say anything to him when she would give him the letter tomorrow morning.
Alone after their breakfast, Anna approached Branson.
"Mr. Branson, would you like to join me for a walk this morning?"
Branson thought it a strange request, but he liked Anna and didn't have a busy morning. Robert had taken the train the London the day before to spend a long weekend at his club in the city and the women of the house were scarce in this heat.
"I'd be happy to, Anna. Shall we start now?"
"Of course."
Anna set a steady pace that reminded Branson of his walk with Lady Sybil several weeks before. He wished they hadn't argued on their way to station. They walked quietly at first; just as Branson was about to ask why she'd invited him for a walk and then not spoken a word since they set out, she turned and spoke to him.
"I've a letter for you from Lady Sybil, Mr. Branson."
Oh, good god in heaven! Before he could react, though, she continued, and as she spoke he understood fully the reason for their walk.
"…know it's not your fault…Lady Sybil…just not sure it's appropriate…Lady Sybil…post my response next week…"
He simply could not concentrate on what Anna was saying. He could grasp no more than a few words at once, but as she stood there expectantly, he realized she must have asked him a question.
"I said, Mr. Branson, that if you plan to respond to Lady Sybil, will you please give me your letter within a few days so that I may post my response next week?"
"Yes, Anna, I can do that. I will reply this evening and have my letter to you tomorrow."
As Downton hove back into view and their walk ended, Branson and Anna were each lost in their own thoughts. Anna didn't know how she had expected Branson to react to her words of caution, but she had at least expected him to listen to her. Oh well, she thought, although she would miss him if he put himself out of a job. Although Branson couldn't be certain what, exactly, Anna had said to him, it was clear that she understood he and Lady Sybil were conducting a deeper relationship than permitted and that she disapproved. But, she had offered to post a reply, so that was something.
Four pages. When Branson opened the letter, he found four pages of text written in a neat and flowing, if florid, script. Mostly she wrote about the war in London and the scores of soldiers on their way to and from the front she encountered each day. She described the wounded men who filled the trains and stations in town and the tired, drawn widows and mothers in black who filled every other space. Many young women were working as nurses now and she envied them as she had envied Gwen before them. It would be lovely to be able to ease their suffering in some small way, she wrote, and to think my parents have never really approved of Cousin Isobel's work. What would happen to these men if there were no women to nurse them to health or make them comfortable until the end? She worried that she should not have come to London, that the war felt so much closer there than at Downton. She heard more and more of Gallipoli and what a terrible battle – and mistake – it was. Surely this would end Churchill's career. (This remark had especially impressed Branson, and he realized that while the war may have taken her attention away from politics, she still knew and understood a great deal more than he would have expected.) The men on the front were increasingly battling foot problems, which they called trench foot, from the standing water in the trenches. Imagine, Branson, to have feet so wet they become numb or swollen until open sores develop and then you're lucky if they can treat you. You're lucky to walk again, lucky they didn't have to amputate, or worse. My god, he wondered, where did she learn this stuff?
It was the last lines of her letter though that Branson read and reread and lingered over.
"I miss our conversations, Branson, and having a friend to share these thoughts with. The war is not for ladies in London anymore than it is at Downton, although I do try to read and listen to more than a real lady should. Thank you for helping me understand the war. I should feel a real fool if I hadn't some idea of how bad it was or where these battles are. You've been a true friend and I shall look forward to seeing you again when I return from London."
She missed him. Him, Tom Branson, chauffeur. She had finally put to paper what he had only hoped – she missed him and felt him a true friend. It was as much as he could have hoped for from her letter. He wished he could have lightened her burden, for the war clearly weighed heavily upon her. Unfortunately, he had received a letter the same day from Patrick's wife. He had been badly wounded and was being treated at a hospital in France. He would definitely lose one leg, and perhaps the other. He had asked her to write Branson, his closest friend since early early childhood. In his reply to Sybil, Branson wanted to tell Sybil what news of Patrick and felt he ought to suggest that she not send anymore letters for him. They couldn't afford – he couldn't afford – for Anna's suspicions to grow. (If only he knew the secrets Anna kept for her mistresses he mightn't have been so worried. But he didn't know, and so he closed his own letter indicating it would be the last until she returned and he met her at the station.)
Anna dutifully posted their letters the following day and was relieved when the next letter did not contain a second envelope. This letter was bleaker than the first, though; the war had claimed the life of two more friends, including the one who had been so badly injured months earlier. Having seen the wounded in London, however, Lady Sybil wrote that she wondered if the dead weren't, perhaps, luckier than the wounded. She no longer wished to remain in London, she continued, and would be returning from London early, having found the city too dispiriting in the midst of a war.
The Sybil who returned from London in August was not the same as the Sybil who had left Downton Abbey less than three weeks earlier. When she greeted Branson at the station she could manage only a wan smile, and Branson was grateful to Anna for having shared the contents of that last, gloomy letter.
"Milady," he said, with a slight bow of his head, offering a hand to help her from the train.
"Oh, Branson. I was so sorry to read what you wrote of Patrick's injuries, really, I was. This war is too terrible. Can you believe it's lasted a year and no end in sight? What shall the next year bring?"
"I'm afraid, milady, that it shall only be worse."
"But what can be worse than this?"
"More of this. More men injured or dead, fighting for honor or king and country or some other abstract idea."
"When I saw the wounded, Branson, and how they looked...well, I couldn't help but think that it might be luckier to die, to be killed cleanly and done with it, than to have to live as they live. What do you think?"
"I think I hope to never find out which would worse. Now let's get you home."
In silence they completed the rest of the trip from the train station, each bitterly contemplating the horrors of the war and the fate of those fighting it.