It was all Sybil could do to not rush to the garage the evening Branson returned. Twice that night she wrapped herself against the cold, but each time Anna's words came back to her that she must be more careful. The next day it snowed, fat, wet flakes just the other side of rain, which allowed a plan to form. In mid-morning she approached her father in his library.
"It's snowing, Papa."
"Mm, is it?" He looked up briefly and out the window. "Yes, I see it is."
"Might I ask Branson to drive me to the hospital for my shift this afternoon?"
"I thought you weren't needed at the hospital today, Sybil?"
"I wasn't. But Dr. Clarkson said one of the nurses has taken ill so he asked if I might cover for her." This was very risky, bringing Dr. Clarkson into her lie, but she knew her father didn't particularly care for the man and wasn't likely to remember why she had gone to the hospital, let alone follow up with the doctor himself.
He sighed. "And will you be home for dinner?"
She nodded, "Yes, Papa."
"Very well, you may ask Branson to drive you."
"Thank you, Papa."
"And ask your mother and sisters if they need anything from town."
She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before hurrying away to do as instructed. She also wanted a quick word with Cousin Isobel before she left. With Matthew at the front and Isobel watching over the convalescent home and the hospital from early morning until well after dark, she had offered Mr. Molesley and Mrs. Bird the entire month of January away from Crawley House. The Dowager Countess had been outraged ("But they're working people, they like to work. And you wouldn't want them to get ideas that they might not like to work," she had protested), but Isobel had been resolute and, as was so often the case now, had prevailed.
"Isobel, Papa has agreed for Branson to drive me to the hospital this afternoon."
"That's very nice, my dear. How long are you needed?"
"Only for a short shift." Sybil was grateful that the nursing schedule did frequently change and so, while unexpected, Isobel was not suspicious of the change.
"I remember you said the door to your parlor has been troubling you, that it doesn't sit properly and is squeaking, but that Mr. Molesley wasn't able to correct the problem."
"That's quite right, Sybil. You have a good memory."
"Only, I thought if you'd like, I could ask Branson to take a look at it while I'm at the hospital. I'll only be a couple of hours this afternoon. He could fix it while I'm working and then wait for me in town."
"That would be wonderful. Thank you."
The pieces of her plan (her lie, she thought darkly) thus in place, Sybil happily made her rounds to the convalescing men. Most of the men had been with their families at the holidays; many of their families had come to visit them here at Downton Abbey, but a lucky few had been deemed well enough to travel home for a brief visit. Regardless of the terms of their visits, to a man the patients were in high spirits and had even begun to speak of organizing a concert in the coming weeks. When Anna passed through looking for Lady Mary, Sybil took the opportunity to request that she let Branson know she needed him to drive her to the hospital after lunch. She spent the rest of the morning checking bandages, dispensing medications, and bringing hot drinks around to the men while focusing her true attention on her plan for the afternoon. Finally Mr. Carson came to tell her that Branson had the car waiting; it was time to leave for her shift at the hospital.
"Good afternoon, milady," Branson said cheerfully, as he helped her into the car.
"Hello, Branson." More quietly she added, "I missed you. I hope you had a nice visit with your family."
As they set off toward the hospital she instructed him to stop first at Crawley House where she then insisted he check to see that no one was approaching up the street. He was reminded at once of the day she tricked him to driving her to the count, but even that had been easier to understand than why he was skulking around Crawley House in the middle of a snowstorm. Once he gave the all clear Sybil exited the car, removed Isobel's silver key ring from between the folds of her jacket and led Branson into Crawley House by way of the servant's entrance. The house was much colder than she expected; perhaps her grandmother had been correct and dismissing the servants for the month had been an act of madness. At the same time she was impressed, though, for surely this meant Isobel tended her own fire when she came home in the evening. (Of course, more nights than not she occupied the guest room that had most notably been that in which the Turkish gentleman drew his last breath – officially, that is – but Sybil forgot that for the moment.)
"Milady, would you mind explaining this to me?" Branson opened his arm in a wide gesture to show "this" encompassed all of Crawley House.
"I don't have to work at the hospital this afternoon, Branson. I wanted an opportunity to speak to you, alone, but I couldn't risk coming out to the garage so soon. So, I told Papa that I had to work at the hospital today, as it is snowing and I was certain he would allow me to use the car. But, I still wouldn't have a place to speak with you. So then I remembered that Cousin Isobel is having trouble with her parlor door. It squeaks when it opens and doesn't sit squarely on its hinges. So, I suggested to her that you could fix it while I was working my shift at the hospital. As it was a short shift, I explained, you wouldn't need to drive back to Downton before returning for me."
"Which was important because you weren't going to be at the hospital."
She nodded, her eyes slightly downcast. It had not occurred that to her that Branson might not approve of this elaborate lie, but the look he was giving her told her that perhaps he did not. Rather than disapproving, however, Branson was simply confused. Her story had been a bit difficult to follow and he was certain a few key pieces were missing. Nevertheless, he had to admit he was impressed at how she had thought it all out – he never would have thought to develop and entire plot in order to speak with her, but then he wasn't Lady Sybil. He realized, too, that he had never stood a chance against her at the count all those years ago; her will was clearly forged of stronger stuff than most anyone else he had ever known.
"But why, milady? Why did you go to the trouble of creating this story?"
"While you were away, Anna told me that Thomas made a rude comment at the servant's dinner. That he suspected us of an 'improper' relationship."
"He said that!" Branson was shocked, not so much that Thomas would voice his suspicions, (for if he were honest, he would have been surprised if none of the servants were suspicious, as he knew that Lady Sybil regularly used the servants' entrance on her trips to the garage) but that neither Carson nor Mrs. Hughes had so much as looked at him askance since his return.
"Not quite. But Anna was certain that was where he headed before Mr. Carson arrived. Anna told me that evening, and she said I must be more careful about coming to the garage to see you."
"I see. And in order for your plan to work this afternoon, you hoped I could fix Mrs. Crawley's door?"
"You can, can't you, Branson?" For a moment she looked worried, but as a mischievous grin formed on Branson's lips, her flustered countenance gave way to a bright smile and she laughed.
"You might have told me or I would have brought my tools. But, I think I can fix it all the same."
As Branson worked on the door, Sybil turned her attention to his visit home, asking about the city, his mother, how they celebrated Christmas, even the crossing. It was as though she was trying to picture it all in her mind, asking for details about which goods were scarce in the shops, how he had filled his days, and even what the soldiers had looked like in their uniforms. (This question had been too much for Branson who had said irritably, "Milady, you have spent the last year working with men in uniform. You don't need me to explain to you what they look like.") She told him about Christmas at Downton, how she had worked additional shifts at the hospital to pass the time, how the families of the patients had streamed through town and house, how she missed the old traditions and the hunts, even while embracing this new life. He laughed when she told him that Edith said she sounded like him one afternoon and it took every bit of strength he could muster to resist sweeping her into his arms in the middle of Mrs. Crawley's parlor. For a moment there was quiet and then he reached into his pocket and withdrew a small, lumpish package which he held toward her.
"Your Christmas gift, milady. I almost forgot."
She took the package, her fingers working at the ribbon, untying and removing it before slowing unfolding the tissue paper that encased her gift. When at last the shawl was revealed she let out a small gasp, then stretched the delicate lace before her, admiring Cathleen's fine work.
"Branson, it's beautiful. Thank you!" She leaned toward him then and planted a small, light kiss on his cheek, the same gesture he had seen from Lady Mary or even Sybil toward Carson in the past.
"If you recall, I said your gift would come from Dublin this year."
"Oh, Branson, it's lovely, really."
"It's my sister, Cathleen, that stitched it. She sends her regards along with her work."
"It's beautiful. Please, send her my thanks when you write her. I only wish…I only wish I could wear it, Branson." Sybil was impressed that such fine and delicate lacework had come for from his sister's hands and longed to know whether she had known for whom her loving stitches were bound as she pulled the needle.
"There's a war on, milady. I thought you'd given up such finery." His eyes danced seeing how happy this gift made her. "Someday you shall wear it proudly; I've no doubt. Now, we've got this door here fixed and it seems to me that Nurse Crawley's shift is just about finished at the hospital. Shall we return then?"
"Yes, Branson. And, thank you. For everything."
"You're quite welcome."
After checking that no one was about, he signaled to Lady Sybil who then locked the door and climbed into the car, squeezing his hand tightly as she did. When they arrived back at Downton, Branson opened the car door and, as she stepped out onto the drive he said, "Remember now, you've got to be careful." To Mr. Carson the chauffeur's words were a caution against the patches of ice that had begun to form. Sybil, however, understood their true meaning of his words.
Alone with Anna that night, Sybil withdrew her treasure from the small bureau drawer where she had tucked it and displayed the shawl proudly to the maid.
"What a lovely gift, milady," Anna said demurely, silently summing up the hours she knew this shawl had cost. If only she knew, Anna thought. "Mr. Branson's sister must have a high regard for him to create such a fine piece of lace at his request."
Sybil, enraptured by its loveliness, had not previously considered the amount of time this Cathleen had spent creating it and a wave of guilt washed over her thinking of the poor girl, for she knew Cathleen was even younger than her, spending Christmas making a shawl for an unknown English aristocrat.
"No doubt he told her it was for a special friend, milady, and I should think you'd be very proud to wear it."
"But that's just it, Anna. I wish I could wear it, but the first time Mama or Mary noticed it…" her weary voice trailed off and Anna again wondered at the toll of this illicit relationship.
"Well that's very simple, then. If I recall, a friend of yours will be visiting from London at the weekend. You've not her in over a year, you told me that yourself. So I think it would be very natural if she brought you a small gift, which you might then wear easily after she's left."
Sybil was amazed at the delicious simplicity of Anna's suggestion. It was true. Lady Cornelia Reeves was visiting Downton just this coming weekend for the first time since the war; their last visit together had been during Sybil's truncated visit to London in the early part of the war. Cornelia would naturally bring her a gift, and how easy it would be after she left to include the shawl amongst her offerings. Sybil beamed.
"Will you tell Branson of your suggestion, Anna? In case in future he should hear any reference to the shawl and wonder."
"Yes, milady, I'll be happy to."
The plan worked just as Anna had suggested. In the days, and then weeks, following Cornelia's departure, Sybil was rarely seen without it wrapped around her shoulders, displayed on her bed, or otherwise in the proximity of her person.
"You'd think God himself offered it to her," Mary huffed one evening when Sybil had run upstairs to grab it before dinner.
"Maybe Cornelia brought it as a favor to someone else," Edith suggested quietly, closer to the truth than she ever could have dreamed.
"But who? Sybil hasn't got a beau," the Dowager Countess reasoned.
Sybil reappeared in the drawing room then and Mary, who seemed increasingly agitated these days, determined to needle her further.
"Sybil, dear, what is it about that shawl that you have it on your person nearly every minute now?"
"It was a gift, Mary, you know that."
"Lots of things are gifts, Sybil, but we don't cart them around day and night like a child with its favorite toy." It was a poor choice of words, for they triggered some memory in Edith then, who deftly turned the conversation.
"You mean like that little dog you used to cart around with you, Mary? And where is he these days? I haven't seen him in ages."
"Someone I knew needed him more than I did. I gave him away, as a lucky charm of sorts."
"That's rather unlike you, isn't it?" Edith retorted.
"Girls, girls, enough," Cora entered then, wondering why her daughters took such delight in provoking one another.
"Sybil, dear, it's a lovely shawl and I'm sure Cornelia would be delighted to know how you admire it. Edith, what Mary's done with her stuffed dog is none of your concern. Now, let's move to the dining room before the soup is cold."
Yes, Anna had been brilliant, Sybil thought, and quietly followed her sisters into the dining room.