"Branson, I've been waiting. Where have you been?" Sybil was agitated, having waited some 20 minutes in front of the hospital for the car. Fortunately they were not expecting anyone for dinner tonight and no one would notice she was a bit later than usual.
"I'm sorry, milady, I lost track of the time." Branson shifted uncomfortably in his seat, tugging his cap down around his ears.
"But where were you?" Sybil noticed he looked a bit disheveled and narrowed her eyes suspiciously.
"You don't look like you've come from Downton. Or even from the shops." The wheels were turning and there would be no stopping her now.
"Goodness, Branson, you were at the demonstration, weren't you? Oh, Branson, how could you? You know Papa will have your head if he finds out!"
"Then he shan't find out, milady, shall he?" Branson was irritated at being called out like a school boy and allowed his irritation to show in his tone.
"Perhaps not this time but, Branson, you must promise me no more protests. Please. Promise me that."
"I will do no such thing."
"Really, Branson! You can be so impossible. You'll be sacked if he finds out!"
"That would appear to be my concern, milady, and my concern alone."
He had no sooner spoken the words than they arrived at Downton and ceased speaking. She threw open the door in a fury, charging out of the car before Branson could help her down. Carson exchanged a look with Branson who merely shrugged and offered, "I'd say she's had a bad day at the hospital." He shrunk away from Anna's steely gaze bearing into him, though, confirming for her that the hospital was not the cause of Lady Sybil's agitation. As Branson drove the car around to the garage, Anna tore off after her mistress, taking the stairs two-at-a-time so to catch Lady Sybil and try to calm her before she said or did something she might regret at dinner that evening.
"Anna, I swear, he can be so impossible. He makes me so angry sometimes."
"Dr. Clarkson, milady? Why what happened?" It was always better to play the innocent, and Anna knew the story would come out in its own good time. Mary and Edith were visiting Rosamund in London so they had some time alone before Sybil would be expected downstairs.
"No, not Dr. Clarkson. Branson."
"And what has the chauffeur done to upset you so badly today, milady?"
"Oh, Anna, promise not to tell mama or papa."
"Your secret is safe with me, milady, I can promise you that."
And so the story came out. It began with the row over the afternoon's protest, but before Sybil could stop herself or Anna knew what was happening, Sybil told the entire story, from the confession in York to the exchanged Christmas presents, the illicit picnics, and even the stolen slice of cake (so that's where the plate went off to, Anna thought, poor Mrs. Hughes has been looking for the lost plate for months). For years now Anna had carried the secret of Lady Mary's dead Turk and for nearly as long she had harbored suspicions about Lady Sybil and Mr. Branson. Yet, nothing could have prepared her for Lady Sybil's tale. As she sat silently, trying to process what she had been told, she could only think "What will happen when she learns he's been called up?," for only that morning Branson had received his call up papers in the post.
"You'll not give me away, will you Anna?"
"No, milady, your secret is safe with me. But, I think if you want it to remain a secret – if you don't want others to be suspicious, I mean – I think you need to be more careful than you were this afternoon. Mr. Carson was quite surprised by your behavior. You can't have him, or anyone else, thinking you are quarreling with Mr. Branson. It wouldn't be right and, if you're worried about him leaving, he can't be seen to not get along with your ladyship. That would certainly be the end of his employment."
"Thank you, Anna, and I believe you are correct. As usual, your advice is very wise."
And my burden is very heavy, thought Anna, and my burden is very heavy.
He tossed and turned, trying to sleep. He had not meant to tell her about his cousin. At least not in that way. Now she was angry again, but so was he, really. Her words bounced around his mind: "not at our best in Ireland, not at our best in Ireland, not at our best…" For all she had seen of war, she could still be quite naïve sometimes. More and more they had these arguments; it seemed they spent half their time arguing and the other half apologizing. Of course, the tension between them was such that he shouldn't have expected anything else. Sleep finally came, but by then the eastern sky was a shade lighter than the west; it took several cups of coffee before he was fully awake the next morning and he was grateful it was Sunday and the family and the servants were away at church. Normally he would have driven them, but after weeks of soggy, bleak weather the skies had finally cleared and Lord Grantham sent word the night before that they'd not need the car. Lost in his newspaper, gulping down throat-fulls of coffee, he'd thought he was alone and was surprised to look up and see Anna standing near him.
"Good morning, Anna."
"Good morning, Mr. Branson."
"I think we're the only ones who've not gone to church this morning."
"I believe Mrs. Patmore is in the kitchen finishing the afternoon meal but otherwise, yes, I believe you're right." She hesitated.
"Mr. Branson, I have something for you. Before I give it to you, I'd just like to say that, that, I understand and if you ever need to talk, well, I'm here. Sometimes it's nice to have someone just to listen."
She reached into her pocket then and handed him a piece of paper, neatly folded into quarters. He opened it slowly, then slid it across the table for her to read.
Dear Branson,
I'm very sorry to hear about your cousin, truly. I wish you had said something at the time so that you didn't have to bear your loss alone for so long. And I'm sorry for what I said about the British in Ireland, as well. I only wish that you weren't always so angry, as it seems you are ripe for a fight every day now and I miss how you used to be.
Friends again?
Lady Sybil
"Would you like to take a walk, Anna? We should have a bit of time before they return from church."
"Certainly."
They were hardly away from the house before he asked, "So she told you? About the British in Ireland, I mean."
"Yes."
"I don't know what came over me, speaking to her that way."
They walked quietly for a moment.
"Perhaps it's not my place to say, but she cried every night for a week after you received your papers, Mr. Branson. It's not easy for her, either."
He stopped and closed his eyes slowly.
"So you know." It was a statement this time, not a question.
"Yes, she told me the evening you were late to drive her from the hospital."
"How much did she tell you?"
"She told me enough."
"Did she tell you…what I said to her in York?"
"She told me that you loved her. And I think that's very brave of you. I only hope you know what you're doing."
"You won't say anything, will you, Anna?"
"I told her and I am telling you, your secret is safe with me. But while you might not control what's in your hearts, I've told her and I'll tell you, you must both do a better job of controlling what's in your heads. You know as well as I do, Mr. Branson, that the moment you're found out by anyone else, you'll be packed off to Ireland."
"Thank you, Anna, and please tell Lady Sybil that the answer to her question is yes." He fingered the letter she had given him and Anna nodded in understanding as they parted, she toward the servant's hall and he to the garage.
Anna knew. In a way it was a relief, really, and she had been so kind about it. He liked knowing he had an ally, for in many ways, the closer he had grown to Lady Sybil the more alone he had felt in the rest of the world. He certainly couldn't write a letter home to the effect of "Dear Ma, I'm in love with a Lady."
The fighting that summer was as fierce as any of the war, and the casualties mounted steadily. In mid-summer, as the Battle of Ypres raged yet again, Downton Abbey, like so many of England's great houses, had been converted into a convalescent home. The change meant that Sybil now spent more time at home, typically volunteering at the hospital only two or three days a week, compared to the six or even seven day weeks she had been working since returning from York. In many ways this had been her idea and so she tried to keep up a cheerful pretense when anyone mentioned how nice it was to be able to work at her home; in truth, she missed the real nursing duties terribly and chafed at spending so much time at home. Worse, she no longer needed the car to travel to the hospital each day, so she found fewer opportunities to converse with Branson than in the past. Occasionally she'd sneak out to the garage after dinner to see and talk to him and on one of these visits she had confided these feelings to him.
"I miss the hospital terribly some days, Branson. When I first began nursing, I didn't see how I could possibly do it. I may have told you, but I was sick after witnessing my first operation and I couldn't imagine seeing such wounds day after day. But I've rather grown to love the work, and bringing around a tray of drinks or checking bandages just isn't the same."
He nodded.
"Hospitals will still need nurses when the war ends, milady. Men might not be shot in Flanders, but there will still be plenty of people who'll fall off horses or have an accident at the farm or with their car. If it's what you love to do, I'm sure you can find a way."
They had chatted on, from nursing to America's entry into the war (although they both asked, why had the American soldiers not yet arrived to fight?), to the Bolshevik Revolution, to the growing hostilities in Ireland, the beginning of food rationing in the UK, and even the fashion designer Coco Chanel, whose fashion exploits ("profiteering," Branson declared derisively) cropped up in the papers from time to time.
"Oh, but Mary is just dying to own the latest Chanel. She met a friend in London who was just back from Deauville and Mary said the new styles are just smashing." Sybil had rolled her eyes at this last bit, causing Branson to chuckle.
"I'm sure Sir Richard would be happy to indulge her," Branson said, coming as close as he ever had to mocking a member of his employer's family. He knew how Sybil felt about the man, but in truth he had similar feelings toward Lady Mary and rather felt they deserved each other. It was common knowledge among the staff how she had kept Matthew waiting until his position was clear; despite their early misgivings, the staff had grown to genuinely like Matthew and felt the loss was entirely Mary's.
Eventually Sybil had headed back to the house, the late afternoon rays leaving streaks of gold across her back as she left the garage, regretting that every visit could not be this jolly.