Where to from Here Part 2: Straight Ahead By:piperholmes
A/N: Thank you so much for the amazing support for the first chapter in this story. With each review and alert I received I only felt even more motivated and inspired to try and make this story as good as I possibly can. I'll admit part of me was vastly intimidated and I hope this chapter will not prove a disappointment! But what more could a writer ask for than a group of awesome people who pushes her to be better? A huge thanks to beyondgurl, peps281, dare-to-dream22, heythere, anon, hifinewtune, cloudlessangel, Syblime, , repmetsyrrah, browneyes, Agnes Robinson, Seasideshipper, and The Irish Chauffeur (your help—and friendship—is invaluable!). Please enjoy!
"I don't like the look of this m'lady," Sybil heard him state loudly, calling out over the ruckus of the crowd. She twisted in his arms and saw for herself the angry faces of the men pushing their way through the people. The reality of the situation finally settled on her shoulders and she couldn't help the way her hand gripped at the front of Branson's uniform, but he was already moving away from her, standing to protect her. This wasn't what she had intended.
"Look, look, I'm on your side. Don't cause any trouble; you have to believe me." She heard him argue, and she was struck with the intensity of his voice; there was no concern for his own safety, his fight was for her.
She didn't know what to do. Part of her wanted to cry out for help or demand order, but she knew there was no way she'd be heard. She was so rarely heard. Her heart began to race as she saw Branson fall back forcefully. There was no time to even gasp at the horror of seeing her friend so mistreated; a particularly gruff looking fellow who walked like a bull and smelled rather similar to one as well was in Matthew's face exchanging insults.
There was nothing she could do, nothing she could think to do. Her mind was flooded with panic and fear and her body tense. With no clear path in mind she began scrambling back awkwardly.
"Oh-aye." She heard the ruffian say and wanted to cry out in warning as he raised his fist, his target her handsome cousin's face, but was nearly knocked off her feet as a body pushed passed her. Branson had tackled the ruffian to the ground.
Cousin Matthew reached out, gripping her arm hard, keeping her on her feet, but still the world moved perilously out of control as she watched Branson get hit, then kicked.
"Matthew!" she begged, hoping he would know what to do, what she wanted him to do. There was still too much noise, too much fear pounding in her blood. Instinct took over and Sybil felt her foot go out as she aimed a kick at one of the attackers, now blinded by desperation. Her uncoordinated movements combined with Matthew's tight grip sent her wobbling.
Matthew yanked her back to him. "Sybil!" he shouted back and she heard the accusation in his voice, heard the reprimand, the disbelief, but she would not be silenced.
"Help!" she screamed, "Please!"
As she suspected there was no immediate response, but it seemed enough to grab the attention of a few fellows. Those close to her turned at her cries and quickly taking in the situation began throwing punches and kick as well. There was no explanation, no calm inquiry or discussion, it was chaos. It was righteous indignation and puerile fanaticism personified, but Sybil didn't care; he was free and that was what she wanted, the rest of those present be damned. Any shock at the escalated violence was drowned out by relief as cousin Matthew propelled her towards the chauffer, whose booted feet were valiantly trying to find purchase and stand. His hair had fallen forward, dancing about his face as he scrambled to his feet, making him look more boy than man. Sybil's stomach lurched at the blood oozing from his bottom lip and the smear of dirt painted along one cheek. She was grateful for Matthew's presences as his strength was able to steady Branson and help him move toward the archway.
Realizing the young Irishman was still quite unsteady and, eager to be of some help, she pulled free of Matthew's grip, moving quickly to Branson's side and placed his limp arm around her shoulders. She ignored the gasp of horror she heard in her head, which sounded remarkably like her Granny, and paid no attention to the way her heart hammered at the feel of his heavy body pressed so tightly against her own. She had never been allowed such intimacies with a man before but the urgency of the moment wouldn't allow such distractions. She doubted if Branson would find the situation any more comfortable and so instructed in as strong a voice as she could muster, "Lean on me Branson."
The chauffer gave her a surprised look.
"Thank you m'lady," he whispered so quietly that if Sybil hadn't been looking at his face she had no doubt she would have missed his words. It was clear that at first he was trying to keep his weight off her but she felt the shift in his stability and steeled herself against his heavy body, allowing only a small stumble before she righted them both.
Matthew guided their steps out of the mêlée. She could feel the arm around her neck begin slipping and griped tighter, refusing to believe she was fighting a battle she was sure to lose. Branson was failing, growing more awkward and difficult to sustain.
"Steady on chap," Matthew said gently, guiding them across the street with a firm hand. "My office is just here."
Sybil looked toward the grey stoned building, and took a deep breath. It seemed miles away, but it only took a glance at the damp brow of her friend for her resolve to solidify. One step in front of the other was all she had to remember; one step at a time. She resisted the urge to groan at her own hypocrisy. Had this not been what her father had warned her against? Her own naïveté? She had run full speed ahead and crashed beautifully, only she wasn't the one to pay the price.
Her thoughts were interrupted as Matthew opened the door to the building, taking Branson's full weight onto himself as he guided the young man to a chair.
"I'll get some water," Matthew offered, but she was too distracted by the pained cry Branson had given. Her eyes were riveted to the blood on his lip as she knelt before him trying to surmise as much of the damage as she could. When he finally opened his stormy ocean blue eyes she could see the uncertainty in his gaze.
"I'm sorry Branson, so sorry," she breathed out on impulse, having no other words to offer her abused friend. Her heart raced at the injustice of his injuries and her chest felt the press of responsibility and quilt and she could feel her eyes burns with tears. She had no right to cry, her emotional upheaval was nothing compared to his pain. Swallowing hard, she turned from him to search her bag for a handkerchief.
Pulling out the snow white material and cautiously reaching forward to try and wipe away some of the evidence of her selfishness, she froze when his head snapped back, away from her touch. On instinct she searched out his eyes, it was a response borne of the easy and sudden friendship they had established. It was the habit to seek his expressive eyes to see if he was laughing at her, if she'd challenged or impressed him, or if he was about to argue with her. That is how their strange and unfamiliar relationship worked, and even now, as he sat disheveled and bleeding, their eyes communicated easily.
Her cheeks burned with mortification as the magnitude of the trouble she'd caused slapped her into reality and she silently pleaded with him to allow her a moment of reprieve, and his is eyes softened in answer. She dabbed at the cut on his lip, feeling overwhelmed with gratitude, and, despite her best efforts, a single tear escaped down her cheek.
"Please don't worry m'lady I'm shur I lood wer…" Branson began speaking, his words slurring and breathy.
Sybil felt her own breath catch. She could see his head begin to bob and his eyes grow unfocused. His face was pale and there was a light sheen of perspiration along his hair line. She called out to him, her chest rising and falling quickly as dread worked steadily into her heart.
Matthew had returned, mumbling something about water but Sybil was riveted in horror as she watched Branson begin to loose the battle with consciousness. "Matthew," she pleaded for a second time that day.
At the urgency and panic in her voice Matthew followed her gaze. It was clear there was something desperately wrong with the chauffer, something they couldn't see perhaps.
"His coat," he stated, taking charge of the situation.
Grateful for some direction, she followed his unspoken command and quickly jumped into action, forcing the buttons of his coat out of their designated homes. The warmth of his body infused her shaking fingers, keeping her focused on the task. She shoved the coat open, her eye roaming the white shirt underneath. The air rushed from her body, her vision growing fuzzy as red and white blurred together.
In a haze of shock she cried out, "Matthew! Fetch Dr. Clarkson. I…I think he's been stabbed."
She watched, frozen, as Branson's eyes began to roll back. Uninhibited, her hand reached out to rest against his cheek, to will her own strength into him as she prayed, "Oh no. Oh please God no."
Despite her pleas, his eyes finally closed, his head falling forward against his chest, unconscious.
"Damn," Matthew ground out, getting a better look at the deep gash in Branson's side. He spared Sybil an apologetic look for his language before slipping an arm around the limp body. "Help me get him to the floor."
Sybil offered whatever assistance needed, working with Matthew to make the transition from chair to floor as carefully as possible. She could only watch as her cousin ripped at the already torn shirt, exposing the wounded flesh further. This time Sybil could not contain her gasp. She had never seen so much blood.
Matthew pulled off his coat, and turned to her. "I'm sorry Sybil but I need your coat as well," he informed her with as much patience as he could spare under the circumstances.
"Of course," she replied, as if she understood, but she didn't. Nothing made sense at the moment, she couldn't think straight, so she simply did as he bid.
"I don't think it would be wise to take him to Downton and I don't think we have time to wait for Dr. Clarkson to get here," he explained gently as he balled up her coat and pressed it to Branson's side. "I've a friend, a doctor, who lives near here. I will see if he's home and if not then we'll…figure something out," he finished lamely as he used his own coat to tie around Branson's middle, securing his makeshift bandage.
He stood, and, realizing his intent to leave, Sybil pressed wildly, "What do I do?"
Matthew allowed her an encouraging look. He liked his young cousin dearly. Of the three sisters she had always worked to make him feel welcomed, and her genuine, open manner had charmed him. He was protective of her, a dear little sister, and it hurt to see her beautiful face so marred by the ugliness of the world. Truthfully he didn't know what to do. He was doing his best to keep a bad situation from going worse, and he was beginning to feel his own inadequacies threatening what little calm he clung to. "Try to keep him comfortable," he advised, and, as he ran out, threw over his shoulder, "try talking to him."
Sybil wanted to cry out for Matthew to come back, not to leave her, but of course she didn't. He was getting help and they, or rather Branson, needed it desperately.
She was alone with him now, her ears filling with the sound of her own harsh breathing as her knees pressed against his leg where she knelt next to him. For a moment she could only stare at him, her new ally in her fight for change, lying so still on the floor. She had called him revolutionary and he had corrected her, but to her he was revolutionary; he spoke to her about important things, listened to her opinions without chastisement or a look of patient indulgence. He encouraged her. This was quite revolutionary to her.
'Keep him comfortable; talk to him,' Matthew's words repeated in her head and she began to move, initially not sure what she was going to do to help but then found herself lifting his head gently and placing it in her lap.
"Is that more comfortable?" she asked him quietly, her voice husky and dry. She pulled off her gloves and, by natural response, began stroking his hair away from his face. She could smell the pomade he used and was surprised at how soft his hair felt against her skin.
"I'm sorry Branson," she told his silent figure, feeling her guilt renewed. "I'm sorry I was headstrong and refused to listen. I…" she licked her dry lips as she considered her words, then realizing this was perhaps the one time caution in word choice could be forgotten began to speak, truly speak from her heart. "I get so frustrated with the unfairness of it all. I didn't understand before, before you came, just how much the world seems to strive to keep people down. I want everyone to have a voice…I want a voice. There are times I feel ashamed to want more than I've already been given. I see that the life I live is one of privilege and it seems…" her ramblings trailed off as she heard a low groan.
"Branson?"
She shifted slightly, keeping his head in her lap but she could now gaze down at his face easier. "Branson, please, wake up."
She was reward with a slight grunt. Her hands now framed his face as she softly ran her fingers across his skin. "That's it, wake up Branson. Do you hear me? Wake up," she implored desperately.
"I…hear you, m'lady," he answered finally, his words slow and quiet, then mumbled faintly, "I always hear you."
He had yet to open his eyes but Sybil didn't care. Her emotional response was so overwhelming she couldn't help the rush of tears that came. In that heartbeat she prayed as fervently as she ever had before, bargaining what she could for his safety. His eyes fluttered slightly before his face scrunched up in pain, but then his fair eyelashes began to move, and Sybil gave a small whimper when her eyes finally met his.
Confusion and pain clouded over his face. "What—" he croaked simply
Sybil sniffled loudly and pressed her words out around the lump that had formed in her throat. "You got injured in the fight, more severely than we first thought. Matthew's gone to fetch a doctor."
"Can't…breathe," he labored to say.
Sybil nodded. "You've a deep cut in your side. We've bound the wound. Take shallow breaths, and try not to talk too much."
"Little…chance…of that." Branson whispered, closing his eyes against the pain.
The seriousness of the situation still gripped tightly to Sybil and it took a moment to realize he was making a joke, but through her tears she offered a disbelieving and unladylike snort.
At the sound Branson opened his eyes, a hint of his familiar mischievousness shining through.
"You are ridiculous," she scolded lightly.
"Made…you smile…though."
Sybil grew somber again at his words. "Please, don't do that. Don't try to make this easier on me. It's my fault you're in this situation. I shouldn't have…"
"No," he quieted her, cutting through her apology. "You should have…and I hope…you always will," he said, his eyes conveying the conviction his breathless voice could not.
His words were cryptic but she allowed herself to believe she knew his meaning. Sitting in Matthew's office, acting as if there was nothing untoward with his shirt open, head in her lap, and she understood she was forgiven.
"Hush now," she cooed gently, remembering the comforting words that had been whispered to her by a particularly caring nanny. "I'll watch over you while you rest."
She could see him swallow, saw the effort it took, the way his lips pressed tightly together and lost their color. He offered her the barest of smiles, and Sybil's heart broke at the gesture. Before she had time to think her actions through, she was reaching out for his hand, lacing her fingers through his and giving a small but firm squeeze. No more words were shared, no more words were needed as they sat holding hands and waiting for help to come.
Phew! This was a difficult chapter because I've never written a story where Sybil and Branson aren't already madly in love with each other. It was hard to keep them declaring their love! *giggle* Thank you for reading and please feel free to let me know if I need to stick to writing oneshots. *nervous giggle* As always this is unbeta'd, sorry for the errors.