The first days of 1916 brought Sybil a succession of letters, each announcing the death of yet one more young man she had known in what she now thought of as her previous life. In the year and half since the war began, the list of friends, acquaintances and, yes, suitors, who had met death in fields, trenches, and hospitals far from home had grown until she could no longer remember exactly who was still among the living. Each day it became harder to remember – and heed – Isobel's sage advice. Thoughts of the war threatened to overwhelm her most days. Only at the servants' ball, where she had laughed with Daisy and Anna, sipped three cups of Mrs. Patmore's punch, and danced – first with Carson, then William and finally, wonderfully, with Branson – had thoughts of the war fallen away.
Yes, the ball. As it began her father bade everyone to "enjoy the music as never before" for it would be the last, he announced until the war ended, one more piece of life sacrificed to the war. No one, including Lord Grantham now believed that the war would end quickly and everyone at Downton Abbey, as across England, began 1916 steeled for another terrible year. Sybil closed her eyes and smiled to herself as she remembered the ball. Specifically, she wanted to remember her two dances with Branson. Each time he had approached her after dancing in turn with her mother, Mary, and Edith, but she was certain he'd looked happier dancing with her, and had drawn her a bit closer to him, than he had the others. As the memories of their dances filled every recess of her mind, she felt the familiar knot deep in her stomach. It had been there while they danced, too, and she had spent much of the evening trying to settle herself down. Why was she so flustered? She felt a strong urge to cough rising from deep in her chest and tried to push it aside, to focus on the hazy images of the servants' ball floating in her mind instead.
In the days after that ball she contracted a bad cold, which had given way in succession to a sinus infection, bronchitis, and a deep, lingering cough. Even now, many weeks later, Sybil was still fighting the rattling cough that had developed just as her chest and sinuses finally cleared. The coughing fits that wracked her body were terrifying, for her and for those who heard them. Her entire chest ached following each one and the ribs on her left side had been sore since one especially bad episode. She had winced so badly when Anna laced her corset almost two weeks ago that her mother abandoned the project and allowed Sybil to go without a corset. Normally Sybil would have been pleased for this victory, but the persistent soreness constrained her pleasure tremendously.
In this condition, a drive to Ripon, or anywhere else, was well out of the question, and she missed her conversations with Branson. Sybil made every effort to speak with Anna as she had with Gwen, but came quickly to realize that she might depend on Anna as an ally, but not quite as a friend. Three times Branson had brought Dr. Clarkson to Downton Abbey; the last time he had not been able to help himself and had commented, as he returned Clarkson to the hospital, "It seems serious, Dr. Clarkson. Do you expect to return to Downton Abbey to check on Lady Sybil again soon?"
Branson was relieved when the doctor demurred and indicated that Sybil's illness was not too serious, but only of a long duration. Branson had enough on his mind these days, what with the deteriorating situation in Ireland, without having to worry about whether Lady Sybil was going to recover from whatever ailed her. He had seen her only twice since the ball, each time reading on one of the benches when she had convinced her mother she needed fresh air. Most recently he had seen her last week, wrapped in a blanket, paler and thinner than usual. All of the servants knew Lady Sybil was ill and just the night before Anna mentioned the rattling cough that would not give Lady Sybil peace, even and especially at night. Still, Branson had been unprepared for its strength and was alarmed when he heard it. No one else was around and so he approached the bench to check on her.
"Milady, are you quite alright?" he asked her, worried.
Another bout of coughing ensued before she could respond.
"This cough is so dreadful, Branson. Yet, I feel better and stronger each day."
"I'm glad to hear it. Is there anything I can get you?"
She hesitated.
"Milady, if I can get you anything, please say so."
"Would you mind terribly asking Mrs. Patmore or Daisy for a cup of tea? I know it would help."
"Certainly, milady. I'll fetch a cup for you and bring it here."
Branson was relieved that Daisy was alone in the kitchen when he entered the kitchen. He told her quickly of Lady Sybil's request and Daisy complied while tut-tutting over her.
"Poor Lady Sybil. Anna says she's been coughing for weeks. I don't know why she's got to sit outside."
Branson shrugged his shoulders and thanked Daisy for her help. He didn't understand why she wanted to sit outside either. The bite had gone out of winter, but the warmth of spring hadn't fully arrived and, despite her assurances that she was on the road to health, anyone could hear or see that it was a long and bumpy road.
"Thank you, Branson," Sybil said, gratefully taking the cup of tea from Branson and bringing it to her lips.
"It's lucky you found me here, Branson. I couldn't bear another afternoon inside, but I should have thought to ask Anna for tea before she returned inside."
A quiet moment passed before Sybil turned to him again and asked, "How have you been?"
"I'm well, milady," he said simply, if not entirely honestly. In truth, he missed her terribly and was constantly worried about what was happening in Ireland.
"I have missed our talks, Branson. I have so much I want to share with you," a deep, rattling cough wracked her then. Her entire body shook and she clutched her ribcage as though trying to physically hold herself together.
Branson looked away, unable to watch her pain and hopeful that Dr. Clarkson was correct that it was nothing serious. Sybil herself had said she was better. How bad had it been?
"...but not today," she gasped. "I think you should help me inside, please."
"Yes, milady."
He offered his arm and steadied her as she rose, still wincing. He carried her book and teacup in his free hand, arranged the blanket gently around her shoulders and helped her toward the house. Carson met them in the main hall with a furrowed brow and downturned expression. As Sybil bade them both good day and slowly climbed the stairs, Branson explained to Mr. Carson how he had heard Lady Sybil coughing so terribly that he had fetched the cup of tea and assisted her back to the house. Carson turned toward Sybil, whom he offered a stern look, before turning back to Branson to offer grateful approval for the chauffeur's thinking and care.
"I think she'll not be leaving this house again soon if her mother or any of the staff has anything to say about it," Carson offered tersely before dismissing Branson back to the monotony of the garage.
Indeed, Sybil did not leave the house again soon, not until her cough had completely disappeared, by which time the flowers of spring abounded, the battle at Verdun had been raging for weeks, the battle at Kut was just beginning, and the servants' ball was some three months in the past. Still, the letters came for Sybil. Would the men she knew never cease to die? Again she began to despair as she had in London.
Easter was late in 1916; had it fallen earlier that year she likely would have been too ill to attend the Easter services, where she prayed as never in her life. Dear God, Sybil prayed, be merciful. Show us the way and make it end. Please, God, I cannot bear this any longer. Her prayers were despairing that year, save for her gratitude to God for Branson's constant friendship. Do not let the war carry him away from Dowton, from me, some small and quiet part of her prayed. She knew not from whence the prayer sprung, only that once it entered her mind it was as pure and true as any prayer she had ever offered up to her Heavenly Father.
If the mails brought bad news to Sybil that spring, they brought worse news to Branson. In early May he received a hurriedly written letter from his mother. The Easter Rising had been vicious and bloody. The English had brought in troops from Belfast and elsewhere, amassing some 16,000 troops to crush the rebellion. Hundreds had been killed and thousands wounded. Most had been shot, but many had been bayoneted in acts of sheer brutality by the English soldiers. Worse, his own cousin was among the dead, shot walking down King Street for "probably" being a rebel. The words on the page were splotched; Branson imagined his mother's tears falling as she penned this hardest of letters. He added his own tears to hers, the anger bubbling and boiling inside him until he felt he might explode.
For the first time in weeks, he heard Lady Sybil enter the garage and call to him. He was in no mood to speak to any of them, not even Lady Sybil, and he remained inside his cottage until she left. As soon as she left Branson regretted his silence, for she was the one constant in his world, but his feelings that afternoon – pain and anger, heartbreak – were too powerful to share even with her.
It would be another week before she returned again. Each was in a black mood that day and for the first time, their conversation was uneasy. He did not wish to speak of Ireland and she deflected all questions about the illnesses that had kept her confined to the house for the better part of the year thus far. Even talk of the war provided no relief as she mentioned the death of a friend at Verdun. When she spoke, her tone was different than usual.
"He always made me laugh just so, and I always felt that when I married I hoped it would be to a man such as him. Perhaps I had even hoped it would be to him."
Branson could not remember what had come over him but he spoke to her then more harshly than he ever had. Thinking about it, he realized, he had probably spoken to her more harshly than anyone had ever spoken to Lady Sybil, save possibly Lord Grantham in his anger following the count.
"I cannot share your grief for one soldier any more than for another. Every soldier at the front made some young lady laugh once upon a time."
She was silent for a moment, and then replied, "Yes, Branson, you may be correct. I am just so very tired of this war and of the feeling that every man I've ever known lies buried in an unmarked grave deep in the French countryside."
"Your losses are no greater than anyone else's, milady. In fact, they're probably less," his furious words tumbled forth before he could consider them.
She looked to him as she never had before, shocked, stung. He saw her blink back tears, inhale deeply, and exhale slowly before responding. An eternity seemed to pass before she rendered a verdict on his cutting remarks.
"I'm sorry, Branson, I never meant to burden you."
As he contemplated his response she turned on her heels and fled.
He had not meant it, any of it, and deeply, deeply regretted the way he spoke to her. Branson cared for Lady Sybil more deeply than he cared for any other human being on earth and inexplicably he had inflicted great pain on her. He had missed her for the months she had been ill and it had been foolish and rash, to say nothing of cruel, to speak to her so harshly just now. He must make this right and soon.
The envelope that bore Sybil's name the next morning was thinner than most she received. Opening it, she found only one sheet of paper enclosed, instead of the usual three or four. The paper was thinner, too, of the kind she knew enlisted men to use, as opposed to the heavier, finer paper that officers preferred. Carefully she unfolded it and began to smile as she read the words in front of her.
Lady Sybil,
My words yesterday were unkind – and untrue. You and your cares are never a burden. I do not know what came over me, but I apologize for speaking to you in such a way. I hope you will continue to be my friend.
T. Branson
"Good news, for a change this morning, Sybil?" her mother inquired gently upon seeing her daughter's happy expression.
"Yes, mama, I have good news for once. I think I'd like to take the car to Ripon. May I?"
"Of course, my dear."
"Carson, please send for Branson. Please tell him Lady Sybil would like to drive to Ripon…" Cora looked to Sybil for the appointed hour.
"At once, mama."
"At once, Carson. She would like to leave at once."
"Yes, milady," Carson said. "I shall send for Branson at once."