When His Lordship ordered the motorcar north to Scarborough for some ruddy English crumpy by the name of Moody, Branson knew the hour-drive back to Downton could end up in two ways.

Baneful, as expected.

Or in a bloodbath straight from the feckin' heart of hell, as could be anyone's guess.

Either way, someone was handing over home with a broken nose.

Because when an Irishman and Englishman found themselves forced together on the same turf, like a pair of greyhounds, the only thing they knew best how to do with each other was scrap. And on 2 out of 3 occasions, scrappin' always started with some chappie's poor sweet mam accused of being a pox horse's cuckholding floozy.

Was His Lordship testing him?

Wasn't it only last Sunday, as Branson was chauffeuring the Crawleys home from the parish, that he overheard Mr. Carson mumble to the Earl, "He may be a wheel horse, my lord, but he's frightfully full of himself. Is it not in poor taste for a chauffeur to speak so openly about politics and history in front of the ladies?"

"Actually, I find it rather amusing," Lord Grantham had answered. "It's quite refreshing to have a second opinion on such matters."

Surely, His Lordship was aware that not all Englishmen felt the same?

Did he already suspect how many broken noses Branson had begotten since he was thrown off the boat from Ireland?

All Tom ever wanted was a chance to find a way to his dreams in Yorkshire, but nothing ever seemed to change. Until Downton's last chauffeur bowed out to start his own tea shop, Branson knew it was as good a chance for him as any.

It wasn't ever his intention to be a lick arse to the Crawleys, but he needed this job.

And so long as his English passenger behaved himself, and didn't take issue with him being Irish, or Catholic, or a Socialist-

"Oh, aye? A socialist, you say? I see," James took out his pen and wrote the word on the underside of his wrist for safekeeping. Making a mental note to add it to his ongoing word collection later. "I've been searching far and wide for one of ye. I'm something of a novelist, you see, and for ages, I've had this idea for a book I can't seem to button down. Being a progressive fellow myself, I'd be glad to hear your say."

And after that, it was hard to tell they'd only just been rough acquaintances before.

Chelpin' away about politics, and motorcars, and steamships in general, and how fast the Renault had gotten them away from Scarborough in only an hour.

Neither of them having any regard for the British Prime Minister, Herbert Asquith, who had recently proposed a third Home Rule Bill to solve what he deemed the "Irish Question", limiting Ireland's political autonomy in the United Kingdom.

Branson couldn't believe Moody was just a sailor. He'd known sailors before–grisly-smelling, salty-tongued, drunken-sun-leathery, old-seadog-superstitious type–but James had an educated gentleman's way of carrying himself, without the inflation of self-importance, and a way of listening to folk that made even a chauffeur feel that he was someone worth noting.

Branson respected Moody for how lettered the man was, seeming to know the right word for everything at just the right time he needed it, and Moody respected Branson for how devotedly the Irishman used those words to light the fire of his idealisms.

As far as James was concerned, whether a poor Irish or untitled English, he and the chauffeur were on the same side against a mutual enemy.

Old money.

The monied folk taking over Scarborough with their agonizingly paltry southern way of speaking down to the lay people.

The same sort who owned everything through the luxury of never actually working for it, liggin' about horse-back riding, making a show of themselves at evening soirees, and throwing weekly parties for shooting and garden-carousing. The same breed of lofty tourists who believed they could simply bagsy Scarborough as they pleased, where the summers were fair and the North Sea breathtaking (despite the "pestilent inconvenience" of the Scarborians like James who already lived there).

And they always had a poetic talent for renaming things that nangled them on their long afternoon rides along the seaside.

"Rustic scum", "peasant farmer's bastard", "sheep-fornicator"-being the darlingest of their repertoire.

There was certainly no limit to their imagination in harassing James, should he ever feel in the mood to "accidently" fail to notice their horse buggy trotting along a country road behind him, as he took his precious time strolling down the middle of it.

Hot to trot a man down before they ever missed the opera, dressed to the nines in their elaborately stuffed Gainsboroughs, Merry Widows, Derby toppers, and lacey parcels-lest the vampires should wither away by any small mention of sunlight.

Ah yes, when it came to making 'eck for those maungy rich, James Moody took no prisoners.

Branson couldn't have met a more agreeable brother-in-arms looking out for the common people.

And by the time he parked the Renault on the drive of Downton, and the two lads stepped off the front bench of the motorcar, the chauffeur was sorry to learn that the Englishman's stay at Downton would be short.

"Here's one to send ye on yer way," Branson offered one last hoorah to Moody, as he lugged James's suitcase out of the back. "Young lad asks his rich uncle, 'how did ye get rich?' The old codger says, 'Aye, son, it was 1854, and I'd just come back from the war. Was down to my last pence, I was. So I took that pence and got me an apple. Sat about all day polishing that apple. Then I sold that apple for 6 more pennies. I invested those 6 pennies into 2 apples, polished 'em, and sold them for a shilling. After a month, I had made mi'sen a fortune of 5 pounds. Then mi'wife's father died and left us with 20 million."

James grinned as Branson passed him his suitcase.

"I'll do ye one better," James kept the fun going. "An old pecunious chap and his 3 sons die unexpectedly, and arrive at St. Peter's gate. St Peter says to the old geezer, 'we've been expecting you, but not them. They don't belong here.' And the old man says, 'Well it's my fault, really, because on the day I died..."

The joke abruptly stopped mid-way, as James suddenly went quiet.

Leaving the smirking Branson waiting on a punchline that never came.

Unaware that Moody's gaze had been quietly stolen by a young woman pulling open the white shutters to one of the long Jacobethan windows, allowing more light into the second floor of Highclere Castle.

From where he stood, it was hard for James to guess if she was a lady's maid, or a lady dressed warmly by a maid in traveling costume for a drive on that grey melancholy March afternoon.

She was plainly done up in a black frock coat with a satin notch collar, opened up to a lacey white high-collar pinned by a modest pearl brooch. White trimmed black buttons fastened her coat smartly over her elegantly fitted bodice and full skirt. Her hair was the color of roasted chestnuts, curled and pinned into a low rustic side chignon with a softly twisted side part.

Against her window ledge, she was busy doodling in a journal of some sort.

And since she appeared to be so hard at work with making something of the window, James went with his first guess.

A lady's maid.

At length, she looked up again, her hazel eyes diligently scanning the corners of the window, making careful notes of its length, width, and lighting, before she traced it by memory in her journal. It wasn't long before she leaned forward against the glass to study the width of the stone ledge just below her window in the same calculating manner.

Then contemplated the distance from the window ledge to the drive below.

Until her eyes gradually found Lord Grantham's parked Renault, and inevitably, James.

It's a tired cliche, really. The romantics of Austen's day were infatuated with that dreamy idea, that when two people meet for the first time, the world stops.

It couldn't have been further from the truth.

Because most assuredly, it'd never be true for them.

The world as they knew it would never stop for them, or relent for such a meeting.

And though they knew how inappropriate it was to stare a moment longer at each other, both were too stunned to drop their gaze.

For James, it was this nagging feeling that this first meeting wasn't actually their first.

He felt something instinctually familiar about her, as if he'd known her for ages, even if he couldn't pin down where, or under what circumstance, or by what name.

Though, it was very unlikely that he ever had.

He could count on one hand how many times he'd been to Downton when his father's legal consultation was required. And not once did he ever have a reason to make acquaintance with the Earl's daughters, or their lady's maids, for that matter.

He guessed he was confusing faces, as he'd met so many of them at sea...but...after traveling the world to Australia, South America, Africa, and back again, nonesuch a face as hers had ever invoked in him the memory of the girl he'd lost in the cemetery.

That chance would be a hundred-to-none, and he was just playing to the gallery with himself by hoping for it.

Besides, it was hard to tell for certain, being positioned so far below her window.

But after seeing him standing there, something in the Miss's expression immediately changed.

The contemplative, intelligent focus he couldn't help but stop and admire in her before suddenly turned into pale and silent panic. As if she'd forgotten how to breathe properly and was going pale trying to remember how to do it.

James's brow furrowed curiously.

"Wonder what's come over her?" he thought. "Looks as if she's just seen a ghost."

But before he could make anything of it-

"Mr. Moody?"

It was the third time Branson had called his name, before James remembered the chauffeur was still standing there.

"Aye?" James managed to speak again somehow, turning back to the chauffeur. "That girl in the window there...you wouldn't 'appen to know her name?"

"Lady Sybil, you mean?" The slight hardening of Branson's tone dared him to say yes.

Making James do a double take back at the window to confirm who it was he had saw.

Dumbfound again for the tricks his mind kept playing on him.

The girl standing at the shutters now was not the same one from only a moment ago.

Instead, Lady Sybil Crawley's wintry blue gaze sparkled down at them.

Her lovely Belgian chocolate hair pinned into an elegant pompadour pulled back from her embroidered white winged collar adorning her silk lavender blouse. A dainty emerald pendant around her neck serving as yet another sign to James that she was no lady's maid, and could never be mistaken for one.

A rosebud of a good finishing school, this little richling was, with that subtle smile on her peony lips making her beauty more distracting.

If there was anyone else there before her, it was a secret that remained only hers, as was the nature of kept secrets between girls.

But James could've sworn on his life that another girl had been there, and that something in her eyes knew him.

"She's the Earl's youngest daughter," Branson informed him, throwing a suspect eye at Moody. "And is there any reason you won't stop rubbernecking her?"

"N-No, sir."

"Then don't," Branson warned James firmly, marching the Englishman away from the drive to the guest reception, where Mr. Carson was waiting. "Let her go out of your head, Mr. Moody. The siren awaits thee there, singing song for song. Many a sailor have been dragged down to his death on account of one of 'em. Lady Sybil may not seem anything like the rest, but you'd be a damfool to try."

"What do you suppose she was doing there?" James asked Branson's opinion of the illusive 'beautiful-girl-of-the-window' mystery.

"Best we forget about it and say we saw nothing," Branson advised him. "I wouldn't put it pass Lady Sybil looking for new ways to quietly sneak away. You can't expect her to sit idly in this house, when her cousin calls in on her. Lady...Blimey, what was that lass's name again? Mildred...Minerva...Matilda? Lady Mariella, or whichever it was, is staying at Downton for her coming-out. And I'll bet my money on it, they're up to some mischief. Shame you won't be around here when His Lordship and Sir James finds out."

Sir James?

James's father must've forgotten to mention that Sir James Crawley, Lord Grantham's first cousin and heir to the Earldom, would be sitting in on their legal counsel.

And if Sir James was here, there could be no doubt that his rotten lot for an heir-with his hell-born moggy-was lurking around here some place.

What was the name of that bastard again?

Oh, right.

Patrick Albert Fucking Crawley.