They had returned from London full of good cheer. Despite Cora's misgivings about the lack of a season, they found many friends installed in the city that month and, while no one would go so far as to organize an actual party or ball, many of their evenings had been spent in the company of their old set. The only thing amiss from the old days, Edith had noted was the lack of young men. Nearly everyone was mourning someone and the soldiers in the uniforms of assorted regiments – or former soldiers with assorted injuries – were a common enough sight, but it had been so good to be back in the old house and amongst familiar faces that the mood when they returned to Downton had been jolly.
"You wouldn't believe the number of lady drivers in London," Edith had swooned, while Mary had been full of the latest fashions and her success in convincing Sir Richard they should not set a wedding date until the war had ended.
"It would be too unseemly to plan such a grand affair when the rest of the world is at war," she'd said, and Sybil did not bother to point out that just now many couples were marrying as an antidote to that very same war.
They settled back into their old routines quickly and Sybil was good to her word to Mrs. Hughes and curtailed her late night visits to the garage. Just when she felt that she must, must, find a way to see Branson, her mother asked her to pick up a few items in town one afternoon. Ordinarily she would have been displeased to be asked to leave her nursing duties, but the promise of sanctioned hours in Branson's company was too rich a prize to protest.
"Shall I take the car, mama?"
"I don't believe Edith has returned yet. She has been pleading with your father to go for a drive since we returned from London. The sight of all those women motoring about was too much for her! You may ask Branson to drive you in the new car, if you like, although I still can't get used to riding in it."
The new car was Robert's pride, but the Crawley women all preferred the older car, especially Cora and Mary who practically refused to ride in it.
"In that case, I'm happy to walk."
"Please ask Branson to accompany you."
Sybil didn't mind the new car the way her mother and sisters did, but she had calculated, correctly, that her mother would want Branson to chaperone her and walking would mean significantly more time with him that driving. She nearly laughed when she thought of him acting as her chaperone, but simply nodded her agreement and started off toward the garage.
"How can I help you?" Branson asked, seeing her, for afternoon visits were nearly always a matter of business.
"Mama has asked me to pick up several items for her in town. She has suggested I walk and asked that I have you accompany me."
As they set out toward town, Sybil set a decidedly slower pace than normal, determined to savor the afternoon.
"Bates and Carson returned in an excellent mood. It seems they enjoyed themselves in London."
"But not O'Brien?" Sybil asked, a mischievous glint in her eye. She turned toward Branson, closing the distance between them so that instead of the customary two steps behind that he was maintaining, he found himself less than a step behind her. He laughed.
"I trust your family enjoyed their visit, as well."
"I think they did, yes. Especially Edith. Apparently she is mad for all the lady drivers she saw in London and is determined to be among their ranks the next time she returns."
"She'll be putting me out of a job in no time, she will."
"Won't you put yourself out of a job? When you return to Ireland, that is?"
"That's up to you, milady," he said quietly.
Sybil did not respond and Branson decided against pushing the matter. Nothing positive would come of ruining an afternoon with her by arguing, and he was particularly loathe to do so as Lady Grantham's request required that they spend the afternoon in one another's company.
"Are you pleased that they've returned?" His normal tone and voice had returned and, as if to thank him for not pressing her, Sybil turned and smiled broadly. At this rate the walk into town would take all afternoon.
"I am rather, yes. In some ways I did enjoy my independence while they were away, but it is nice to see them again." She paused for a moment then asked, "Do you miss your family, Branson?"
"Every day, milady, I miss them every day."
"You've often told me about your siblings, but I feel I know very little of your mother. Would you tell me about her?"
He did not know if it was genuine curiosity that led her to ask or if this was a peace offering for refusing to have the conversation he so desperately wanted to have with her, but it pleased him to speak of his mother and so, for the rest of way into Ripon he spoke of her mother. He told her of her sense of discipline, how she valued education, how hard she worked, and her nights by the fire sewing and stitching until her fingers nearly bled.
"I should like to meet her one day," Sybil said as they arrived at the shops, and it was all Branson to could do to stand calmly outside while she collected what her mother requested. If that wasn't an indication that she was thinking, seriously, of running away him, then what was? He whistled in the sunshine while she made her purchases and then carried them for her as they walked back to Dowton together.
And then with the late night knock at the door, the idyll was shattered as Sybil waited with the rest of her family for Matthew's battered body to arrive from the battlefield of Amiens. Every person at Downton, upstairs and down, waited with trepidation. Anna coped with her sadness the best way she knew, asking Mr. Bates to walk with her to the village church to pray. When she spoke to him of the troubles they were all facing back at Downton she thought most immediately of Matthew's and William's injuries, but as she offered up her prayers she considered all of their troubles – that Mary had lost her one true love in irreparable act of selfishness and that Sybil would either be denied hers, or else tear the family apart in choosing him. The trouble with Mrs. Bates seemed trivial compared to the troubles facing the Crawleys at the moment.
Sybil would have liked very much to go to the church herself, but she knew it was more important to be by Mary's side when Matthew arrived at the hospital. By now, Sybil had seen scores of the wounded arrive fresh from the killing fields of France and she was prepared for the mud and the blood that inevitably abounded when they first arrived. How Mary would cope she could not imagine, and the last thing she'd needed as she steeled herself for her most difficult challenge as a nurse yet was an argument from Branson over showing her feelings.
Was Mary still in love with him, Branson had asked and the truth was she feared so but hoped not. Matthew would marry Lavinia and Mary would marry Sir Richard and this was the way their lives would be. Remembering what might have been would be of no use to anyone. Could he not see that?
For Branson the exchange was one more exercise in futility with Lady Sybil. They discussed virtually everything and had almost no secrets – except for their, and especially her, innermost feelings and desires. If she couldn't even admit that Mary still loved Matthew – which any fool could clearly see – how would she ever find the courage to admit she loved him?
They drove to the hospital in silence.
The sight of Matthew was worse than Sybil expected and she was surprised at how well Mary bore up when they brought him in. She remembered her first encounters with the wounded in York and how she had recoiled from them and their wounds. The only thing more surprising to her than Mary's newfound strength was the appearance of Mary's small stuffed dog falling from his uniform. Yes, Mary was still in love with Matthew, but was it possible that Matthew was also still in love with her? It would be bad enough to see Mary wed Sir Richard because Matthew no longer loved her, but for the two of them to be in love with one another and yet each still wed others because of pride or circumstance seemed a crueler fate than any Sybil could imagine.
When Branson picked her up from the hospital that evening she asked her to drive him around back rather than to the front of the house. He pulled the car into the garage and still she made no motion to move. It wasn't until he turned around and faced her directly that she spoke.
"She's still in love with him, Branson. Very much so, I believe. Worse, I believe he's also in love with her."
She told him then about Mary's stuffed dog, that favorite toy she had carted with her everywhere for years, and how it was the only non-military issue item to make the journey with Matthew. By the time she finished she was close to tears.
"But I don't understand, milady, if they're both still in love with one another as you believe, then why not just marry each other?"
"Because, Branson, they're too proud and too stubborn to admit it, and too afraid of how it would look to break their engagements to Miss Swire and Sir Richard."
"But isn't it too high a price to pay to not be with the one you love out of pride?"
"Mary certainly looks miserable, yes, but I suppose that's a question only she – and he – can answer."
"I only hope it's a question you'll be prepared to answer as well."
She leaned toward him slightly, as though contemplating what it would be like to kiss him, before she straightened her back, opened her door, and stepped from the car. He was right of course; she was on a collision course with her future for she loved him desperately and could no longer imagine a life without him by her side. Yet, she could no sooner imagine summoning the necessary strength to break with her family than she could imagine a life without him. The only aspect of war for which she was grateful was that it delayed the decision she must make and the questions she must answer.
The next days at the hospital had been worse than the day Matthew arrived, for Dr. Clarkson soon decreed the damage to Matthew's spine permanent. He would not walk again, he would not have children, and Downton would again be without an heir. When her father asked Sybil to inform Branson that Mary would be on the late train that evening she also hoped to share some of these weightier concerns with him. Yet, he seemed to be more interested in the czar than in Matthew Crawley himself. Yes, politics and the affairs of the world interested her, but still she had needed to muster an inner calm not to shout, "Matthew Crawley will never walk again and you're concerned about the czar," as he moped about the Russian imperial family.
And then he had started in on his talk of sacrifices. At that moment, with two men whose own sacrifices left them in various states of injury and death, this artificial talk was more than she could bear. She turned on her heels to leave and that was when she felt his hand on her waist. His hand was warm and strong and in that moment she knew that she would choose a quiet life with him over titles and fortunes and estates. She wanted badly to lean into him then, to kiss him finally and forever, she wanted to with every ounce of her being but, no, she decided, she would wait.
With Isobel's arrival and the stabilization of Matthew's condition, Sybil was needed less at the hospital. She did not see Branson for several days, until he drove her, along with Edith and the Dowager Countess to the church for William's funeral. Branson liked William very much and was especially sad for him to have died in what were certainly the waning days of the war. Although he had not found cause to enter the local church in the five-plus years he had worked at Downton Abbey, Branson made an exception that day and stood along the back wall listening to the service.
As the congregation intoned the closing prayer Branson felt the power of the words: thy will be done. It was what he prayed each morning when he arose and each night before he slept. The entire service really was not so different from what he was used to in the Catholic Church, he had to admit, and wondered again at the way that men and nations made war upon one another. He did not attend the burial itself, waiting at the car while the three women paid their last respects along with Mr. Mason, Daisy, and a small handful of the staff.
"It's so sad," he heard Sybil say to her grandmother and Edith as she entered the car. "They were married for less than one day."
"But at least they were married," Edith responded. "I should think it would be better to have known love and lost it than to have never known it all."
"I disagree, Edith. I don't believe the heart ever fully recovers when love is lost. No, better to live unfulfilled but unknowing than to have true love torn apart."
"I should think Mary would agree with Sybil," the Dowager Countess said, then seemed to think better of it. "Of course I wouldn't try to tell her that."
He reminded himself to be patient; all signs indicated that she loved him and that she would one day own up to this love. In the meantime he must wait. He pressed his hand tightly into hers when he helped her from the car that day, anxious for the day he might finally hold her hand for longer than it took for her to climb in or out of the car.