Mary did not particularly want another sister. She was not alone; she had heard Grandfather specifically request a grandson, but Mamma had put a hand to her rounded stomach and said "I am sure it is another girl." Grandfather scowled and Granny sighed, but Mamma did not look very upset. Just a little worried. Mary was worried too, because as far as she was concerned she already had one sister, and it was one too many. Still, the day came when the doctor was sent for and Mary and Edith were ushered downstairs out of the way as maids rushed back and forth and up and down. Finally, after what felt like days, Papa came to fetch them. He picked up Edith with one arm and held out his other hand to Mary.
"Come and meet your new sister," he said, and Mary reluctantly put her hand in his and let him lead her upstairs to Mother's room. As they entered, the baby was crying in Mamma's arms. Mary scowled disapprovingly, and watched as Mamma rocked the baby and spoke to her gently.
"There, there my little darling, hush," and to Mary's complete amazement, the baby hushed. Mary was intrigued by this odd behavior, and began to think that anything that made Mamma look so happy could not be all that bad. Still, further examination was needed before judgment was passed.
"Can I hold her, Mamma?"
"Yes, Mary. Come up here with me." Papa lifted her onto the bed and she sat as close as she could to her mother. "Now, be very gentle, she is brand new," Mamma said as she placed the baby in Mary's lap. She looked down at the little pink face and could not resist reaching out to touch her cheek. As soon as she did, something strong and inescapable pulled at her heart and Mary knew with certainty that she wanted this sister.
"Well, Mary, shall we keep her?" She knew her father was teasing, but Mary was completely serious when she replied.
"Yes, we shall keep her, Papa. I love her very much."
Mary did not see much of her mother or the new baby for a few days. She knew she was not supposed to, but she liked to sneak into her mother's room while she and the baby were resting. Mary would stare into the basinet and wonder about her new sister; wonder what she would look like when she got older, wonder what she would want to talk about, and sometimes Mary would wonder why she liked her so much better than she ever liked Edith. One morning Mary was making her way downstairs to the kitchen intent on convincing the cook to let her steal some strawberries when she heard the unmistakable voice of Carson talking to one of the housemaids.
"Three daughters! My word, in a few years we'll be beating the suitors away with a stick."
"She is a lovely little babe. No doubt she'll be a beauty like her mother."
"I daresay she's not as pretty as Lady Mary was when she was born, but she appears to be a very fine Grantham, indeed."
"Oh, go on. Have ye seen her open those eyes? There's an old soul, and no mistake."
Forgetting the strawberries, Mary ran upstairs and quietly opened the door to her mother's room. When she saw Mamma was still asleep, she walked over and leaned into the basinet to peer curiously into her sister's eyes.
"Is that what you are? An old soul," she whispered. The baby grabbed a tiny fistful of Mary's hair that dangled down in front of her, and promptly put it in her mouth. "Hmm," continued Mary dubiously as she tugged her hair out of the baby's grasp, "Either way, Carson says we'll be beating our suitors away with sticks. I'm not sure what that means, but it sounds rather dangerous."
...
Branson spends half the night awake in his bed trying to remember the events of the previous day, but somehow great pieces of the experience live in his memory only as a series of brief moments and incomplete images. He does not remember how she fell, just that one moment she was standing and the next there was a crash and Lady Sybil was lying on the ground. She was so horribly still and pale. After that he remembers the dark color of her blood against the white of Matthew Crawley's hand, the sickening way her head lolled back when he lifted her in his arms, Matthew muttering "Lord, she won't stop bleeding," in a strained voice as he held her securely against his chest in the back seat. Putting her in the car, deciding to take her to Crawley House, the long journey there; these things must have happened, but Branson has no memory of them. What he does remember is gathering Lady Sybil into his arms again as Matthew rushed ahead to open the door and wake his mother. As he lifted her from the car he heard her come to with a sharp intake of breath. He looked down and saw her grimace.
"I'm sorry m'lady," he began, but stopped short when she grabbed a handful of his jacket and turned her face into his shoulder. Branson swallowed thickly; uncomfortably aware that he had recently found himself imagining a similar scenario alone in his cottage during the dusky haze between sleep and waking. He suddenly wanted to apologize again to her (although he was not sure for what exactly), but just then Matthew called and waved from the door. He carried her inside, lowered her to the sofa and was immediately swept aside by Mrs. Crawley.
"Can I do anything to help" Branson asked anxiously.
"I expect you've done enough, thank you," answered Matthew, the biting sarcasm in his tone unmistakable. Branson was not one generally given to violence, but it was all he could do not to lay him out on the spot.
"Really, Matthew. Branson, I think you may need to fetch someone from Downton." Mrs. Crawley interjected, and then began to pat Sybil's cheek. "Come, my dear, let me have a look at your eyes." Branson watched as Sybil swallowed and began to raise her eyelids. He stood by awkwardly, wanting to see her wake, wanting her to know that he was there with her, wanting to hear his name on her lips, wanting to hear her tell him she was alright.
"Matthew," she whispered, and Branson bowed his head under the sudden weight crushing down on him.
"Yes, Sybil," Matthew replied, kneeling by her side. "I'm here. Is there something you need? Shall I send for your father?"
"No," her voice was weak but clear, "send for Mary instead. Please."
Before Matthew had time to stand, Branson was on his way out the door.
Morning light creeps through the window and Branson groans. There is no use trying to get any more sleep so he washes and dresses. He considers going to the kitchen, but brings a chair outside and settles in it to read a book instead. Someone will either bring him orders or the news that he is out of a job, and he would rather not face any more questions or accusations until then. The hours grow but no one comes, and Branson begins to wonder if he is expected to pack his bags and leave quietly. When he cannot bear to wait any longer he stands and begins to stride away from his cottage thinking that he might as well wash the car before he leaves when someone calls his name. He turns to see Lady Mary walking towards him leading her horse.
"M'lady," he ducks his head and tries not to fidget under her keen stare.
"You will be glad to hear that you still have your place at Downton, but prepare yourself for a stern talking to by Lord Grantham."
"Yes, thank you m'lady," he pauses, hoping she will continue. When she does, she sounds almost reluctant.
"Lady Sybil is a little worse for wear this morning, but that is to be expected. A day or two and she will be herself again. There was no real harm." Branson breathes a sigh and smiles, but freezes when he sees the stern look on Lady Mary's face. When she speaks again her voice is equally sharp. "Sybil is a sweet girl." Surprised at this comment, Branson struggles to think of an appropriate response, but before he does Mary continues, "Do not misinterpret or take advantage of her nature. I won't have you toying with my sister." A surge of anger rises in Branson's chest and he can't stop himself from striding forward, but before he can speak Mary raises her voice. "Do we understand each other, Branson?"
He steps back and rubs the palm of his hand down his face. He wants to tell her that it is not at all like that, that he has no evil intentions towards Sybil, that she is his friend, but the words sounds inappropriate and ridiculous even in his head.
"Yes, m'lady," is what he says instead. Lady Mary nods and begins to walk away, but after a few steps she stops and looks back.
"Lord Grantham wanted to throw you out into the night, but she fought for you. I thought you should know that."
She fought for you. Branson stands rooted to the spot, repeating Lady Mary's words over and over again in his mind until it is replaced with a single, startling realization; if he thought he was in trouble before, it is nothing compared to the kind trouble he is in now.