If Branson had been pleased to think he would see more of Lady Sybil now that she was back at Downton - and needing the car almost daily, no less - he was soon disabused of this notion. Her most frequent schedule had her at the hospital by 7, remaining there until dinner, or sometimes later. On these days, she would nearly drag herself from bed at 6. Initially Anna had risen earlier as well, preparing a tray and starting the fire before rousing Sybil for the day. Quickly, though, Sybil had dispensed with that, her guilt over Anna's shortened sleep allowance winning out over her desire for warmth on cold late-winter mornings. Instead, she had begun relying on the alarm clock she had first purchased in York and now woke to the sound of the bell rather than Anna's gentle voice. As a result, she was frequently tired, cold, and hungry when she met Branson in the mornings; she was happy to listen to him prattle on, but rarely contributed to the conversation these days. The evenings were little better, as her physical exhaustion then stemmed from hour after ceaseless hour on her feet, and she was often emotionally exhausted as well. He did not know why she never asked Mrs. Hughes or Mrs. Patmore to leave a little something for her in the morning, but at least this he could remedy himself by wrapping a dinner roll from the servant's hall each evening and offering it to her for breakfast. The first time he had done this she looked upon it as a traveler in the desert might look upon an oasis and consumed it with such and unladylike relish that he couldn't help but smile.
"Branson, I have to thank you for that," she said, brushing away the last of the crumbs.
"It was nothing, milady. You always complain of such hunger in the morning and there are always rolls left after dinner, so I thought you might like one for your breakfast."
"I'm afraid I've been an awful bore since I've returned from York, haven't I?" she asked lightly.
"You work very hard and you're very tired. I can't expect you'd be too energetic." When he was honest with himself he knew this was the truth. Nevertheless, he couldn't help being disappointed every time she got in the car with barely a nod and rode silently to her destination.
"I suppose you're right, but I do so miss our conversations."
They arrived at the hospital just then and as Branson helped her from the car each felt the other grip their hand more tightly than usual, as though offering an implicit acknowledgement that all was well.
Sybil found a pleasure in working as a nurse that she had never known before; it confirmed for her that she'd been correct two years before in envying Gwen's position as a secretary. Many of the volunteer nurses worked only three or four days a week, and then for no more than eight hours at a time; in contrast, Sybil volunteered for as many shifts as possible. It was rare for her to work fewer than six days in a week, and she almost always worked in 12-hour blocks. As a result, her skills as a nurse had come along tremendously, such that while many of the nurses tended to basic tasks such as dispensing pills, changing linens, and applying new bandages, Sybil quickly became the nurse of choice for more complicated procedures when a doctor needed a surgical assistant, or even for seeing to the newly arrived men whose wounds were often still packed with the mud and blood of the battlefield. It was often with great reluctance that she left the hospital in the evening; more than once Branson had parked the car and sat waiting until she finally emerged from the hospital with a quick apology and summary of her day.
Branson knew Lady Grantham would be cross with him as soon as the words had left his mouth, but he couldn't help it; was he the only person who saw how much this work meant to her? Of course, he should have thought that Lady Sybil might not be as forthcoming about her nursing duties with her family as she was with him, but he had not considered this, had simply spoken what was on his mind and so, as Lady Sybil reluctantly left the hospital, he attempted to explain or apologize in case he had said anything earlier that might cause trouble for her when she arrived home.
"I've a bit of an apology to make, milady."
"I know you came to get me as instructed, Branson, I'm not angry with you."
"It's not that, milady. Your mother was concerned that the hospital was working you like a, like a pack horse in a mine, I believe were her exact words. I told her I believed you liked it, although I don't think she appreciated what I said."
"A pack horse in a mine! Really, she can be so impossible!"
"So you aren't upset, milady?"
"Well, yes, yes, I am, but not with you."
She never mentioned anything about this conversation again, which he hoped was because her mother had not spoken of it after she'd returned home. Cora had been cross, but it was to Robert she had fumed, and not Sybil.
"He said he thinks she enjoys it! I can't decide which is worse - that he would speak to me that way, or that she might enjoy it. And how would he know? Unless she has said as much to him, but why would she? He's the chauffeur! Are you listening to me, Robert."
Robert looked up from his paper at the sound of his name.
"Robert?"
"Yes, darling?"
"You didn't hear a thing I said! I said…oh, never mind. Sybil should be home soon; I've asked Carson to ring the dinner gong as soon as she arrives."
Had Robert been listening, he may have been less dismissive of the entire incident, but he was not listening and Cora knew better than to raise the matter directly with Sybil.
"Nurse Crawley, I must commend you. You've become a fine nurse." Dr. Clarkson's tone was unusually kind.
"Thank you, Dr. Clarkson. I feel I've found a calling."
"I can only hope that may be true. Hospitals will need nurses long after this war is over, you know."
"Yes, of course. For now, though, I'm happy to do my part for the war effort."
"Very good. Nurse Crawley, we are expecting several ambulances of wounded men to arrive tomorrow – these men were wounded in an offensive on the Western Front. Judging from the numbers, it seems to have been a very costly offensive. Many of them have been very badly wounded, as badly as any of the men who have come into our care thus far. May I count on you to meet the ambulances with me tomorrow?"
"Yes, Dr. Clarkson, you may."
"Very well. Good day."
The next day had indeed brought dozens of badly wounded men into the hospital and with worse wounds than Sybil had seen. Her memory flashed back to the first amputation she assisted in York, but she quickly pulled herself back into the present, mentally assessing what was to be done for each of the men. Those men who came in with wounds of unknown origin were her first priority, and she spent much of the morning cutting off uniforms, and then locating and cleansing wounds, in one case extracting shrapnel from a young lieutenant's shoulder. She found it laughable, then, that her mother had sent Branson with a picnic hamper, as though she would have the time – or the inclination – to eat on a day like this. She really did not have time for this, and the second time he'd encouraged her to take the basket she had snapped at him in frustration.
"Really, Branson, I don't have anywhere to put that basket."
"But won't you be hungry, milady?"
"Have you looked around you? Even if I were to be hungry – and I don't believe I will – this is hardly the time or place to fix oneself a picnic!"
"Perhaps I could leave it in Dr. Clarkson's office then?"
"Branson, really, I don't care what you do with it. I need to get back to my work. Please."
He had stood dumbly for a moment or two longer, then quietly retreated from the hospital, the basket still firmly in his possession. He would have been shocked by the way she'd spoken to him, had he been able to push from his mind for just one moment the images of the broken men – shot, battered, bloodied men – who had poured into the hospital in just his brief time there. Of course it was worse than she could have imagined; it was worse than anything he could have imagined. In truth, he didn't believe he could do as Lady Sybil did now: awaken every morning to the casualties of war, minister to the bodies and wounds of those who might yet live, and minister to the souls of those who would not. He remembered his horror when she had been injured at the count; his immediate concern was for, but he had been horrified by her blood and even knew he had only mustered the strength to act as he had because she was in danger. Too, he remembered the time as a boy when a friend had been injured one afternoon in a fall from a horse. He'd cringed at the sight of his friend's injuries and had to look away; yet those injuries were child's play, quite literally, to what Lady Sybil faced each day. If she can be frustratingly stubborn or coy, he thought, I also must remember that she has greater reserves of strength than I could have imagined.
As she climbed into the car that night, she was especially somber.
"They won't all live, you know. I don't believe even most of them will this time."
He nodded.
"It's terribly pathetic, really. Such fine, young lives finished before they've even begun. As they say, it's old men who make war, but young men who fight it. And I am so very, very tired of war, Branson."
"I think you're very brave, milady."
"Brave? How so?"
"To care for the men as you do. I couldn't do it."
Her mood seemed to brighten and she laughed, perhaps imagining him in a nurse's habit.
"When I was young, my brother and I were riding with a friend. We only had two horses; I rode one and my brother and friend, his name was Seamus, they rode the other. We were galloping down the lane and their horse stumbled a bit. Nothing serious, at least not for the horse, but it knocked Seamus right off and onto the lane. He landed badly and one arm broke in a terrible way, so that it hung at an awful, unnatural angle, and he also broke his nose, which commenced to bleed. I couldn't look at him, so I rode for help while my brother stayed with him."
"That's terrible."
"Well it was and it wasn't. He was fine in the end, but my point, milady, is that every day you face things that many men – myself included – wouldn't like to see. And you don't have to. So I think it's very brave of you."
"Thank you, Branson. I, of course, think the lady ambulance drivers are braver than any nurse, but I suppose we all have a part to play."
"They may be braver, but you're less likely to be shot working as a nurse in the town hospital than ferrying wounded men from the front."
"How right you. And I shouldn't like to be shot, especially not as I've seen the results!"
Her smile was broad as she stepped from the car into the drive. Mr. Carson never would have guessed that of all the savage days she had spent at the hospital, this had been the worst.
"Lady Sybil, you look in a fine mood this evening," Mr. Carson was accustomed until now to a reflective, tired woman emerging from the car and was surprised by the smiling face that greeted him.
"Yes, Mr. Carson. I've had a hard day, but I am thankful for my work, my family, and my life. Sometimes I forget all that is right in this world when so much is wrong."
"Very right, milady."
The heavy door closed behind them and Sybil made her way upstairs towards a hot bath and a soft bed, very grateful indeed.