As summer gave way to fall, the days shorter and cooler, the leaves falling in colorful heaps about the estate, Sybil noticed more tension returning to their relationship. Some days the Branson who greeted her was the kindly friend she had fallen in love with; other days, he was so tetchy that no sooner would she enter the garage than she would leave. She, too, was often moody, as the war dragged on and the toll her of nursing duties wore on her. Petrol was costlier than ever and increasingly difficult to come by; her father had denied her last several requests for the car and, on fair days, even expected she walk to the hospital. Although she had been displeased by her father's harsher attitude (What is the point of all these men in my house if you still insist on working at the hospital?" he had asked crossly), she had come to enjoy the walks to the hospital. Each day she took measure of the leaves: green-gold, then golden, deep orange, then floating through the air on their way to the ground where she trod over them. Just like my life, slipping away from green to gold, she thought one day, startled by her own mind. By November the leaves lay in heaps at her feet and the naked branches stood at attention, as though offering their own prayers skyward. It rained for two straight weeks that month, solid ropes of water whose misery was compounded by Sybil's own: a head cold of the likes she had known for many, many months. When the weather and her illness both finally cleared, Sybil snuck down the back stairs and through the servant's hall toward the garage at her first opportunity.
"Hello, Branson," she said, cheerily.
"Milady. How can I help you?"
"I've simply come to say hello."
"Thank you for that. Unfortunately, I'm quite busy this afternoon – no time for a social call."
His voice echoed from under the car. He had not even bothered to slide himself out. Yet, Sybil noticed that the day's papers were spread on the bench. It appeared he planned to have time to read the papers, so why not talk to her?
"I could come back," she offered.
"I'm afraid not today, milady."
Silence descended between them. After several moments this way, she turned and walked quietly from the garage, bumping into Anna as she entered through the servant's hall.
"Milady, you startled me!" Anna exclaimed, drawing her hand to her chest. She had been good and truly surprised.
"Anna, I think I'd like to look over my winter clothes. The days are getting colder and I may need some new things. Do you have time to help me?"
"Certainly. I've just to change my apron and I'll be right up."
Anna was good to her word and wasted no time making her way to Lady Sybil's room. This was a most unusual request from Lady Sybil; in truth, Anna didn't believe she'd ever made such a request before. Lady Mary, certainly, and Lady Edith occasionally, but not Lady Sybil. When Anna entered the room, expecting the wardrobe to be opened and her ladyship studying the winter clothes Anna had recently begun to bring down from storage, she instead found Lady Sybil pacing the floor, eyes downcast and slightly red.
"Is everything quite alright, milady?" Anna asked mildly. She had not prepared herself for the scene before her but of course a lady's maid, which more and more described Anna's work with every passing day, needed always to be ready for every eventuality.
"I just don't understand, Anna. He can be so heartless sometimes."
"Am I correct to assume that the 'he' you speak of is Mr. Branson?"
"Yes, Anna. Just today, well when I ran into you in the hall really, I went to see him, to say hello. But he didn't want to speak with me at all."
Hearing the words left Anna so very, very tired. She had her own troubled heart to think of and, though she truly like both Mr. Branson and Lady Sybil, their relationship wore her out. No sooner had the thought entered her mind than the kindness that was her very essence banished it. If I am worn out by it, she thought, how must either of them bear up. She was their only outlet.
"I believe I speak honestly, milady, when I say that Mr. Branson cares about you very, very much. I can't pretend to know why the two of you argue as you do; perhaps you're more alike in temperament than is truly good for either of you." Here Sybil began to protest, but Anna gently silenced her.
"It may not be my place to say, Lady Sybil, but I think you are both very brave. But sometimes, perhaps, you are angry with one another because there is too much between you left unsaid."
"Did you and Mr. Bates ever argue?" The question caught Anna by surprise.
"Only rarely. But I think Mr. Bates and I, well I think we might be made of less fire than you or Mr. Branson." Sybil laughed.
"Oh, Anna, thank you. Honestly, I don't know what I would ever do without you."
That evening, as she sat to down to her correspondence she noticed the date. It had been exactly one year since she had left for the nurse's college in York, exactly one year since Branson had confessed his love for and to her. My, but how life can change in a year, she thought. What will next November bring?
She decided to give him time and space; it would be almost one month before she would see him again, on a day trip to Ripon to do her Christmas shopping. On the way into Ripon they talked lightly, of the weather, of recent battles, of the increasing difficulty in finding various goods in the shops. Branson left her off in the town square, where she arranged to meet him two hours later. She had done none of her shopping this year, but unlike in past years, she at least knew what she planned to give as a gift for every person on her list. Moving from shop to shop, she collected an armful of packages: monogrammed stationery for her mother, the new Edith Wharton book for Edith, perfume for Mary, a leather-bound set of Sherlock Holmes for her father's library (more books he would never read, Sybil thought with regret), and a brooch for granny. Her last purchase – a silver pen set and blank book – was the most impetuous. By the time she returned to the car, she was laden as a pack horse, but Sybil bore a strange pride in carrying these packages herself, and not having Branson follow her around to serve as a porter as Mary might have done.
"It seems you've had a successful outing, milady."
"Yes, I have. I wasn't home for Christmas last year, so I've taken especial joy from my shopping this year."
Sybil waited for Branson to respond, sensing something was off.
"Branson? What is it?"
"I've waited to tell you, milady, but I'm going home for Christmas this year. To Dublin."
"Oh, Branson! That's wonderful! But, isn't it, well won't it be terribly dangerous?"
"It may. But, I've not been home for several years and the opportunity has arisen. When I spoke to his Lordship he agreed I should go."
Why did no one ever tell her anything? Branson was going to Ireland, to Ireland, and she was just finding out? How long had her father known? And Anna?
"How long will you be gone? When do you leave?"
"I'll be away two weeks, milady."
"But when do you leave?"
Very quietly Branson said, "tomorrow."
Sybil gasped audibly, but said nothing further. That night, however, she made her way to the garage after the rest of the household had gone to bed. She carried a small package with her.
"You're very late tonight, milady."
"I wanted to see you before you left." Branson smiled.
"Why didn't you tell me earlier that you were leaving?"
"It's only for two weeks and I didn't want to worry you. Was I wrong?"
"I suppose not. Of course it comes as a great surprise but, yes, I would have worried as soon as you'd told me. You will come back to Downton though, won't you? You shan't take another job in Ireland?"
Here Branson chuckled.
"I have a return ticket, milady, so you needn't worry on that account. And I assure you that I shan't take another job while I'm away."
Her brow was still furrowed, but she seemed to relax a bit.
"I thought you might visit tonight, so I've brought this out to the garage with me."
He handed her a beautifully wrapped box. She opened it deliberately and found…nothing. She looked up, her confused eyes meeting Branson's twinkling ones.
"I don't understand, Branson."
"Your gift will come from Dublin this year. The box is an 'I owe you,' of sorts." He laughed.
"Would you like your gift this evening, Branson, or do you prefer to wait?"
"I don't believe it's for the recipient to decide that, milady."
"In that case, here, I hope you like it."
He took the small package from her outstretched hand and removed the ribbon. Inside lay a small leather-bound book and the most expensive looking pen he had ever seen.
"It's silver," she said shyly, thinking perhaps she should have looked for a less expensive pen.
"It's lovely. The book, too. Thank you." Silently he wondered what had possessed her to purchase such an extravagant gift. A silver pen! Oh, but to tell the friends he wrote by which instrument their letters were written. Why they'd never speak to him again. Sometimes he didn't know what to make of Lady Sybil.
"Happy Christmas, Branson. And Happy New Year. I shall look forward to hearing about Ireland when you return."
"Happy Christmas, milady."
Branson left the next morning on the milk train, a silent prayer on his lips that the Christmas be a happy one for all as the great house disappeared from view. Although Carson and Mrs. Hughes had known for some weeks that Branson would travel home to Ireland for Christmas, most of the staff had only learned last night that the chauffeur would be away; Branson had not even told Anna his secret, not wanting her to be torn between her loyalty to him to keep it secret and her loyalty to Lady Sybil. If his absence had gone unremarked upstairs, downstairs the staff spoke of nothing else as they waited for Carson and their evening meal.
"I don't see why he's got to go home for Christmas when none of the rest of us do," O'Brien complained bitterly.
"I think it's rather nice that he can see his family. He hasn't been home since I've known him," Anna said, not wanting an argument.
"Must be some kind of miracle at home to get him away from here - and his..." Thomas sneered, the arch in his eyebrow falling as his voice trailed off. He had been on the verge of verbalizing what he suspected, and what he suspected others of the staff must also have suspected if they were honest with themselves, when he thought better of it. He was lucky to have his place under Dr. Clarkson and for once decided not to let his mouth run faster than his mind. The last thing he needed was to upset her ladyship - any of her ladyships - and lose his place and his lodgings.
"Why should it take a miracle?" Daisy asked.
"Thomas was just being rude," Anna said, "weren't you, Thomas?"
He sneered and lit a match. "Always."
They were saved then by Carson's approach and the conversation ended. For 'saved' is how Anna truly thought of it; Lady Sybil would have to be even more careful - if Thomas suspected her of having an improper relationship with the chauffeur O'Brien couldn't be far behind.
The next morning as Anna tied up Lady Sybil's hair for church so told her of the conversation in the servant's hall the night before.
"But how does he know, Anna?"
"Well he mightn't know. He might only suspect."
"But how? I'm very careful when I go to the garage."
"I don't mean to upset you, milady, but perhaps you're not as careful as you believe. Why just yesterday you ran smack into me coming in from outside!" Anna's words struck a cord and Sybil managed the trick only she was capable of, her cheeks growing rosy while the color simultaneously drained from the rest of her face.
"I'm afraid you're right, Anna. I will be more careful. Thank you for telling me - I feel you're a true friend to speak to me as you do."
It's all in a day's work, Anna thought, but she smiled kindly and dropped her chin in a respectful nod before finishing the hair style and sending Lady Sybil off to church as stylish as the times - or her ladyship - would allow.
The remaining days before Christmas passed quickly. Almost immediately, Sybil felt, Christmas morning was upon the great house. As they assembled to offer gifts to the staff, Sybil couldn't help but notice the place where Branson would have stood and hope that he was enjoying a lovely day with his own family. Her family had loved the gifts she selected, most especially Edith who was touched Sybil remembered how much she had enjoyed The Custom of the Country on the eve of the war. The days after Christmas were more languorous, as these were the days that previously would have been filled with hunts and parties, merry music and dances, guests and lavish feasts. Sybil volunteered for additional shifts at the hospital that week in an attempt to deny her mind the painful pleasure of too many journeys into the past, too many memories of the glorious Christmas week days she had known for so many years. The snow was deep and her father was obliging in her request to abandon the walk in favor of the car. ("As long as Edith doesn't mind driving you, that is," he'd said sternly.) In Branson's absence, Edith drove Sybil to and from the hospital, affording Sybil a view from the front passenger seat instead of behind the driver where she usually sat. The world looked different from the front, she had thought, as though you were in charge of your own destiny and not simply watching it roll past. From the front she could almost touch her world; from the back, she could only catch fleeting glimpses from the left or the right.
"I wish I had also gone to the nurse's college," Edith said forlornly the last evening on their way back to the house.
"I'm sure Papa would still allow it," Sybil answered, trying to be helpful, but taken aback by Edith's admission.
"The war will be over before I'd be a nurse," Edith complained.
"Well I shall be glad when the war does end, whatever the circumstance."
"I shall, as well, although I will miss the freedom the war has allowed us." Sybil looked at her sister quizzically.
"Well surely you can't expect that I'll be permitted to drive or you to work or any other nonsense once order is restored to the world."
"But don't you like driving?"
"Of course I do, and I'll miss it terribly," Edith lamented, though the voice she used was one of absolute resignation.
"Then you must not give it up. After the war is over, we must take the new with the old and make a new, better world," Sybil implored her sister.
Edith laughed. "Goodness, you should like the chauffeur," Edith remembered the conversations she'd had with Branson when he taught her to drive.
"I suppose I do," Sybil joined Edith's laughter, then rode silently the rest of the way, afraid whatever she might say next would show her hand.
"Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name…" Sybil knew the prayer by heart, of course, and could speak it, like most of the congregation, without thinking of what she was saying. And so, as she sat in church for last time in 1917 speaking the words of one prayer, silently she prayed the words of another.
"Dear God, for three and half years you have allowed war to rage across Europe. An entire generation – my generation – has been lost to this war. Many of those who have not been killed have simply witnessed too much to ever be whole again, perhaps myself included. I am tired, God; we are tired. Let the men who made this war end it and let there never be another. Let it truly be the war to end all wars. Dear God, I pray, when the time comes next year for New Year's services, may this war be in the past and may the future spread before us as a new dawn. And may Branson be part of that future. Please, God. Amen."
"A Happy New Year to you each," the reverend wished his congregation, as the bells began to peal, and the parishioners streamed forth from their pews, away from 1917 and toward the great new year, 1918.