The fall had been especially cool and wet. Sybil had made quick work of Dubliners and was now looking forward to Christmas. Even though it would not be as grand as the pre-war Christmases, it was still a festive time, complete with a trimmed tree in the main hall. Most days she was able to maintain a brighter mood, though the war was never too far from her thoughts. The worst were the mornings that the post bore especially difficult news – one more young man of her circle killed or wounded. Most had died in the active battle, but Sybil now knew two who were killed not by the cold, hard metal of a bullet, but by one of the many diseases that ravaged the British army. As difficult as the days following this news inevitable were, she was grateful for the ever greater freedoms that she had enjoyed since returning from York. It was as if her family did not want to risk plunging her back into the darkness and was willing to accept this new behavior so long as she did not wear such a long face in the drawing room or at the dining table.
The estate comprised over 1,000 acres and Sybil came to know them better than ever that fall, traipsing through woods, along the river, and more than once even walking alone to Ripon, something her parents never would have allowed previously. She ordered the car at least once a week and had taken to having Branson drive nowhere in particular and also visited him in the garage most weeks. He never knew when she might visit and, not wanting to miss her, took to spending more and more of his time there. The car had never looked or sounded better; even his Lordship had complimented Branson on the care he showed it. Branson tried to interest Sybil in the driving lessons that Edith enjoyed so much (even if her progress was painfully slow), but Sybil was uninterested, saying she preferred to spend their time sharing memories, discussing literature, current events, and even the war.
The nearer Christmas approached, the more this grandest of holidays consumed their conversations. She told him of the "the game," the Crawley family's most cherished of Christmas traditions and described the great hunts of previous years. He told her stories of Irish Christmas, the quiet beauty of Midnight Mass, the old Gaelic carols sung at home, far from the watchful eyes and ears of the British.
Two days before Christmas, Branson returned to the garage after returning the Dowager Countess to Dowager House to find Sybil sitting on a workbench, waiting. Mary and Edith had had a tremendous argument during dinner, the Dowager Countess intervened, noting that just because there was a war on didn't mean everyone should forget their manners, and the evening had devolved, then ended, quickly. The entire dinner had amused Sybil greatly; she was even more pleased that the entire family had retired to bed early and she had slipped, unnoticed to the garage. The evening was cold and fat snowflakes had begun falling as she entered the garage. Even bundled against the cold, Sybil was glad she hadn't needed to wait too long before hearing the gravel crunch under the weight of the car.
"Milady, it's late – and cold. What are you doing here?" Branson asked as soon as he had parked the car.
"Dinner ended early and the rest went to bed in a terrible humor, so I thought I'd come see you." She told him about Mary and Edith's argument, mischief in her eyes.
"I thought the Dowager Countess was in an especially poor mood," Branson replied, silently thinking, "and so this great family is just like all the rest – although I suppose I already knew as much."
They were both quiet for a moment watching the flakes settle in a light layer just outside the garage. Branson was about to speak when Sybil rose from the bench and took a step in his direction.
"Happy Christmas, Branson!" she beamed, holding a small package toward him.
Branson was rarely speechless, but this gesture was so unexpected that he could only reach out and take the package from her hand. He unwrapped it carefully, aware that she was watching him expectantly. Inside he found three handkerchiefs of the finest material, each delicately embroidered with the initials "TB."
"I stitched them myself," Sybil offered proudly, before he could say anything.
"Thank you, milady. You've done a fine job. But how did you know my first initial?"
He wracked his brain trying to think when, if, he might have told her his first name. He was certain he hadn't – he wasn't even certain his Lordship knew that his name was Tom. Surely she hadn't asked Mr. Carson, the only person he is certain knows his name.
"Don't be silly, Tom," she said cheerfully. "I thought perhaps I would find it in the mail. I spent two weeks intercepting the mail before William or Carson could get to it, but of course you never got any letters when I was looking. Next I thought perhaps I'd find it in the library register. Now, you only sign 'Branson,' but the first weeks you were here you wrote your full name: Tom Branson."
She was laughing by the time she finished and he was thoroughly impressed. He made a mental note to never underestimate her resourcefulness or determination. Less consciously he was also aware that hearing her speak his name, his real name, stirred something deep within him and he wished he could ask her to call him Tom instead of Branson. This he could not do, however, no matter their friendship, a thought that pierced him briefly before he reconnected with this most unexpected and, well, magical moment.
"Wait here, milady; I've something for you as well."
He disappeared inside his cottage and reappeared with one arm behind his back.
"I've not had time to wrap it, so you must close your eyes and hold out your hands."
Sybil did as instructed and felt the weight and shape of a book placed gently into her upturned palms. When she opened her eyes she saw he had given her a small book with a blue fabric cover. Inside he had written simply, "Lady Sybil: Happy Christmas, 1915." Turning the pages she was face-to-face to Dublin, Donegal, Cork, and the many other places in Ireland he described so vividly over the course of their friendship. The images were beautiful, breathtaking, and it was her turn to be speechless as she studied each photograph intently. The last page was an illustration, a rough sketch really, and she looked up quizzically.
"It's a book that many Irishman pack among their possessions when they leave Ireland. I didn't, but I did ask a friend for a copy recently. Of course, he thought it was for me, but I always knew it wasn't, milady. The last page, though, the illustration, is my mother's home, where I grew up. That one I drew."
"Branson, it's wonderful. Thank you."
All her life she was accustomed to receiving the finest frocks, jewels, and leather-bound books that that Grantham fortune – and many others – could buy. Yet this simple, hand stitched, lightly covered book gave her a joy that she had never known upon receiving any of these grander gifts.
"Happy Christmas, Lady Sybil. Perhaps you had best get back inside before you get too cold."
Before she went to sleep that night she opened it again, tracing the inscription with her index finger and then trying to commit each image to memory. Growing up, she had seen Mary often tuck books or letters beneath her mattress and wondered what could be so special that she needed to keep anything in this way. She did not think of Mary as she tucked the book carefully under her mattress, and drifted into the deepest sleep she had known in many days. The last image she saw before the black of sleep enveloped her was the sketch of the Branson family home.
Anna normally washed the sheets on Saturday. This week, though, Christmas Day was Saturday, so she planned to do the beds Friday instead. As she deftly pulled the sheets from Lady Sybil's bed, a small book fell to the floor. Lady Mary had been hiding books under the mattress since before Anna arrived at Downton, but she had never known Lady Sybil to do such a thing. It was not her place to question the ways of her mistresses, but as she picked it up to replace it, the cover fell open. Reading the inscription, Anna knew immediately where – who – the book had come from.
Folding the new sheets onto the bed, Anna struggled with what to do. Should she tell Mrs. Hughes? No, she decided. She wasn't meant to see it and, besides, Lady Sybil had been so happy lately, it was Christmas, and Mrs. Hughes had enough on her mind these days with Gwen's replacement having left that fall and needing to find a new girl yet again. And, of course, while it was certainly her place to give Branson away, it would never be her place to give away Lady Sybil. It was so complicated when people did not keep with their own kind as they were ought to do. She replaced the book with a sigh, then quietly left the room and closed the door behind her.
Nothing else Sybil received that year compared to the small book from Branson. How had he managed it? She was glad she had stitched the handkerchiefs herself; she would have felt terrible if her own gift seemed any less heartfelt than his. She wished to talked to him about it, learn more about the pictures, and especially tell him how much it truly meant to her. Yet this week was impossible. The last week of the year was always a busy one and 1915 was no exception. Her Aunt Rosamond visiting, her grandmother was a constant presence, and old friends of her father filled the guest rooms and dining table. The final days of the year slowly ticked by. As Sybil dressed for the last that New Year's Eve, she couldn't help thinking that the war raged on, the losses were mounting terribly, and 1916 promised to bring more of the same. At least she had Branson's friendship to look forward to.