I'm standing in your driveway
It's midnight and I'm sideways
I have to find out if you feel the same
Won't be easy, have my doubts too
But it's over, without you I'm just lost, incomplete
Yeah you feel like home, home to me
In the dark of her room, Sybil kicks her blankets off. The sweltering heat of the day has cooled somewhat, but she still feels stifled. Sleep eludes her: she sees him gazing at her, with all the worship in his heart reflected in his eyes. She cannot stop thinking about the flutters and electricity she felt earlier that afternoon. She hears Mary and Anna in the hall, talking in quiet tones on their way to Mary's room, and she glances at the clock on her bedside table. It is almost midnight, and she decides to sneak out of the house to see him. She tiptoes out of bed and hastily dresses (thank goodness she's learned to do it without a maid), but leaves her hair braided.
The bright moonlight shines her path to the garage. A single light is on, and she spies him fastidiously tidying the interior of the Renault. He has discarded his hat, jacket, and tie, and his uniform shirt is open at the neck and the sleeves rolled up. He closes the door, and moves to turn off the light.
"Branson," she softly calls, peeking around the garage door.
His head snaps sharply toward the sound of her voice. "Milady? What are you doing here this time of night?"
She blushes and bites her lower lip. She hasn't exactly thought this through. "I couldn't sleep. I'm sorry, I didn't think how late it must be and that you might be tired. How thoughtless of me."
"I'm not worried about that, Milady. I'm more worried that someone would catch you here and I'd be sent packing without a reference."
"I've come here lots of times," she says, a little hurt that he isn't exactly pleased to see her.
"Not at this time of night."
She steps farther inside the garage, so close to him that in the electric light he can see her cheeks tinted rose and her sapphire eyes ablaze. "Do you want me to go?" she whispers.
He falls under her spell again and there is no other answer. "No."
There is nowhere for them to sit in the garage, and he doesn't offer entry into his cottage. So he opens the door of the Renault and helps her inside. He switches off the electric light and the garage no longer is bathed in an incandescent glow but a moonlit one. He climbs in the backseat beside her, and hesitates, his hand on the door, and decides to leave it open.
"Thinking about a quick escape?" she says in jest.
He runs his hand on the back of his neck. "It feels strange to sit in the back, is all, Milady," he chuckles, his laugh low and warm.
She sees that charming smile and her pulse and her breath quicken in response. There is something rather reckless and exhilarating to be sitting in the shadows and silence of the dark with him. A realization dawns on her: she no longer cares about the details. She looks at him and sees her best friend, who makes her laugh, who encourages her to be a better version of herself, and who challenges her—emotionally and intellectually. She's never known anyone like him—all swagger and passion and vulnerability wrapped up in this person sitting next to her—and she's afraid to lose him. She's almost lost him several times, when he decided to hand in his notice, when he was called up, when Carson almost sacked him. And now she realizes he is her heart's desire and she doesn't want another moment to pass before she can reveal her own heart. "Would you call me Sybil? Just Sybil, without the honorific?"
Those questions are a point of no return, and the answer is a moment of truth. They feel it—their hearts, not their heads, tell them what is true. She is laying herself bare, unshackling herself from the constraints of her title, and he knows this is a courageous declaration of her own.
"Only if you call me Tom," he replies.
The sound of her hushed, husky voice pronouncing his Christian name intoxicates him. She smiles alluringly, like she's keeping something secret, and he wants to wade into her, to be let in on the mystery. He resists the temptation to touch her, to pull the black silk that binds her plaited hair, fearful of crushing this fragile camaraderie. So he smiles back, watching the way the moonlight highlights the contours of her face. "I was feeling downcast earlier, and I wasn't expecting to see you this afternoon," he says.
"I wanted to see you," she says simply and honestly. It feels good to be open with him, at this moment, to shed the pretences and not hide behind manners and the ceremony that polite society demands. This is what it must feel like to be a liberated woman, to tell people how you really feel, she thinks.
"I'm glad you came by. I was hoping to see a friendly face. The news from Russia has really shaken me."
Conscious of that slim space that separates them, she moves deliberately closer on the seat, almost imperceptibly, and places her hand on his. "At the risk of sounding flippant—and I really don't mean to be—I don't want to talk about politics tonight."
For a moment, he is riveted by the sight of her hand on his, then he takes hold of it. He turns it over and slowly runs his thumb on her wrist and her palm. Her skin is smooth and fine, and he raises her hand to his lips and kisses the back of it. He is relieved that she doesn't pull away. "Sybil, do you love me?"
"Yes," she answers without hesitation. "I really do. I love you." A feeling ripples through her, intense and intimate. Oh how she wants to press her lips to his, but she knows she's been forward enough.
He wants so badly to show her how happy he is to hear her say those three words, but something tells him that now is not the time to kiss her, and not in the backseat of her father's car. So he simply looks straight into her eyes, saying, "It's never been a secret how I feel about you." She brightens, holding his hand in both of hers, and lays her head on his shoulder.
They sit in comfortable silence, wrapped up in romantic heartstirrings, loving glances, and the feel of each other's skin.
This pas de deux lasts only a few minutes that seem to stretch for hours. Negative thoughts of what may come to pass but have not yet become reality start to insinuate and intrude, and she doesn't quite know what they do next. But she knows that she can't linger. She has to go back to the house, and he to his cottage. "I have to go," she sighs, breaking the spell.
All those nights I stayed awake
Thinking of all the ways to make you mine
All of those smiles were never faked
Never run out of ways to blow my mind
He can feel the warmth of her fingers laced through his as he walks her partway back to the house. At the edge of the lawn, he doesn't quite let her go yet, and he feels like he might be pinched awake from this dream. He needs to hear the words one more time before she goes. "Say it again," he implores.
"What?" she coyly asks.
He grins sheepishly. "Are you still making this rough on me?"
Her lips turn up in that secret seductive smile. "I love you, Tom Branson."
He exhales. Let the rush of consequences and the challenges of tomorrow come—he feels ready to take them straight on if she is by his side. And tonight, in this moment, God knows it's enough that she has finally said she loves him. He would sleep restfully, sound in the knowledge that they have shared an irrevocable moment. His eyes roam over her face, the curve of her jaw, the curls that frame her lovely face, the scent of her that reminds him of how angels ought to smell. He is imprinting the memory of it all to carry with him into bed tonight. "Good night Sybil. Sleep well."
"I'll see you when I can steal away," she promises.
"When will that be?" Suddenly he is anxious to know when he would see her again.
"Have a little faith in me, Tom." She squeezes his hand reassuringly, and then adds with an impish twinkle in her eye, "I've gotten quite good at sneaking off, or haven't you noticed?"
They part, and he stays on the edge of the lawn, watching as she disappears back into the great house. It is way past midnight, and like the change that occurs at that time in fairy tales, she turns back into Lady Sybil and he into Branson the chauffeur.