He's been carrying the pamphlets in his jacket pocket for days, waiting for a chance to give them to her, to talk to her. He wishes it didn't have to be like this; he'd rather approach her openly instead of waiting until she was alone in the back seat and then shouting over the noise of the engine, but here she is and he doesn't know when he will next have an opportunity like this. Still, it feels underhanded somehow, like he's had to engineer something that should be natural. Besides, he doesn't know if she'd even be interested in talking to him. She might think him too forward, or worse, she might not find him as fascinating as he finds her. He steals a glance of the back seat in the mirror and imagines sitting with her in the shade of a tree in the heat of a summer day talking and laughing and he knows that it is worth a try. He can't think how to begin so he starts in what sounds like the middle of a conversation, as if they are already friends.
"Will you have your own way, do you think?"
...
He knows she is going to wear the new frock tonight, and Branson is determined to see it. He would never have guessed he would find himself so interested in fashion, but after hearing the argument between Lady Sybil and the family dressmaker Branson knew he had to see it. And if he could be completely honest with himself, he would admit that the frock does not hold his interest as much as the wearer. Branson can't remember the last time he felt so ridiculous, but here he is sneaking along the wall of the house and peering into windows until he gets to the right one. When he finds it, he does not worry about anyone noticing because everyone is staring at Lady Sybil, and with good reason. It's sensational. She is almost scandalous and she is glowing. Her body is posed prettily so that no one can be in doubt of the frock's design, and her face is alight with triumph. Unexpectedly, she meets his eye through the glass. Before he can even think of being embarrassed at being caught she raises her eyebrows and he can practically hear the question written on her face. "Well?" All he can do is smile and shake his head in amazement and not a little admiration. There is something knowing in her look, as if she expected him to be there and suspected he would approve. Branson thinks he's never met a girl so appropriately named. And if he could be completely honest with himself, he would admit that he is lost.
...
It seems as if every inhabitant of Downton is waiting inside the door when Branson arrives with the doctor. Mr. Carson urgently ushers him in and the two men rush upstairs towards Lady Cora. The maids and Mr. Bates start to follow as well until Mrs. Hughes gestures at the small crowd to stay back before hurrying up the stairs herself. Everyone left behind seems to sway uncertainly, bewildered and uncomfortable. Branson looks around and realizes he is standing close to ladies Mary, Edith and Sybil. The three are clustered together, each looking exceptionally young and pale. Lady Mary clutches Lady Sybil's arm above the elbow as if she has no intention of ever letting go. Branson watches the two and can see each working to reign in their fear and hide emotion from their face. He is surprised to see them so quiet and still, and wonders if it is shock or a mighty effort of self control. A small sob rings out and breaks whatever spell has been holding everyone in place. Little Daisy, peering in from the next room with a face smudged in tears and soot, is pulled away downstairs between Anna and Gwen who scold her in hushed tones. Mr. Bates and the footmen start to follow, but not before Lady Edith begins to tremble. Lady Sybil casts a panicked look around and then hastily puts her arm around her sister's waist to lead her away to privacy. Lady Mary doesn't relinquish her hold on her younger sister, and Branson wonders who is going to give comfort to Lady Sybil. He remains by the door between the car and the family he serves, and waits for his next orders.
Later that evening, tired and troubled, he is making his way down to the kitchens when he turns a corner and crashes into a small body. In a glance he sees Lady Sybil and takes a hasty step backward.
"Sorry, m'lady!" He exclaims at the same moment she cries out "Oh! I am sorry," adding "Branson" a second later when she sees his face. He expects her to continue on her way but she stays put and they stand for a few moments in uncomfortable silence. Branson nervously looks over his shoulder to make sure they are alone before meeting her eyes and speaking in a low voice.
"Is everything alright, m'lady?"
"No, not everything," she answers in a broken whisper. "Mother is going to be alright, but it's been…so terrible." She rubs slowly at her forehead. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't tell you this," she continues, still rubbing at the invisible spot "I just…" Her eyes leave his and stare unfocused at the empty wall.
The sensible part of Branson's mind that sounds remarkably like Mr. Bates warns him not to, but he can't stop himself from reaching out and taking the hand at her forehead in his. Her fingers are cold and there is a slight tremor that stops when he presses her hand gently with his own. He aches to pull her close and tell her that he would take her sadness for himself if such a thing were possible, that he wishes he could change things, or at least stay at her side and comfort her. But he says nothing, and contents himself to stay hidden with her for a few moments in a lonely corner of Downton Abbey. After a short while her eyes regain their clarity and she looks back at his face.
"Thank you for your help today, Branson. I must get back." Branson holds her fingers a moment too long so that her arm is pulled behind her body as she turns, but she walks away as if she never realized her hand was in his at all.
...
The three of them have lost all sense of propriety and he can't remember the last time he's felt so happy. Gwen's elation is infectious, and he's already grinning like a fool before she throws herself into his arms and somehow the arms of Lady Sybil as well. They hold her up between them and for a perfect, sunlit moment they are all pressed together, smiling and laughing. Branson knows this is one of those moments; a moment of unbridled happiness born of unexpected joy, a moment so full of light is leaves no room for any darkness, a moment made even more beautiful because it is fleeting. He knows moments such as these are gifts meant to be enjoyed and seized. And so there, in the bright sunlight and in front of everyone, he takes Lady Sybil's hand in his. This time she does notice. She looks from their joined hands into his face, and the pain of hiding from her becomes unbearable.
"I don't suppose," he begins, but then the moment abruptly ends.