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Chapter Text

He hasn't stopped thinking of it since his first glimpse.

Tom's memory of the library is imperfect—he was a bit nervy his last time there, wanting to start off on the right foot with Lord Grantham—but it impressed him as soon as he walked in. The old mistress kept hers closed up, the books moldering on the shelves, but Downton's library strikes him as a place that's lived in and valued, to say nothing of the inventory. Just seeing the room has elevated Tom's opinion of his new employer as a man... not that it matters to anyone but him.

And of course he promptly put his foot in his mouth. Gentlemen generally don't appreciate hearing words like "boring" from servants in connection with their betters. But Lord Grantham seemed not to mind; looked amused, even. So Tom felt emboldened to comment on his surroundings, and was even more surprised at his lordship's offer.

Probably thinks he's done his good deed for the day, Tom thought after he'd been dismissed. He's come across men like the earl of Grantham before, puffed full of noblesse oblige. Most of them wouldn't hesitate to sack a man who so much as pilfered an apple from his orchard. But now that Tom's been given the run of the library, he intends to take full advantage of it.

He doesn't wait long, though he's aware that Mr. Carson will likely look askance at the new chauffeur seeking out leisure activities before the ink's dry on the contract, so to speak. But the siren call of thousands of books is too tempting for Tom to worry overmuch about what Mr. Carson thinks, so just before he's to fetch the Dowager for dinner he finds the butler and asks if he might go into the library sometime in the next few days.

Mr. Carson glowers, but Tom has already figured out how to handle him: you just make your expression as respectful as you can and act as though you don't notice the beetled brows. After a moment Carson rumbles, "I dare say no one will be in there tomorrow morning before breakfast, Mr. Branson. One of the housemaids can show you in." Tom remembers his way perfectly well, but says nothing: Carson is eyeing him as if he might set the place on fire if allowed in by himself. "Mind you don't allow your reading to interfere with your work," the butler cannot seem to resist adding.

"Of course not, Mr. Carson."

The next morning Tom doesn't bother trying to find an escort—no need to interrupt one of the maids—and makes his way as far as he can through the bowels of the house before emerging into the hall. As per Mr. Carson's prediction, the library is deserted. The curtains have already been opened to allow dust-laden shafts of sunlight through the high windows, and there's a fire laid. An almost hedonistic thrill goes through him at the thought that he'll have the place to himself until the family finishes breakfast.

He's sat through his share of descriptions of the glories of Heaven, but Tom thinks that his personal version would be a library stocked with an infinite number of books, with unlimited time and plenty of comfortable nooks in which to read. A library not unlike this one (though he thinks St. Peter might look askance at the bordello-red sofa, whose high back is perfectly suited to shield improprieties from prying eyes). But here on earth his time is all too short, and Tom hardly knows where to start. There's a long list in his head of books he wants to read, but in the face of this almost obscene plenty, he can't recall a single title.

A few moments' time lends a modicum of familiarity to the novelty of his surroundings—he has, after all, been inside a library before—and Tom's mental paralysis eases. He ambles around, glancing at titles and trying to figure out the system by which his lordship has his collection organized, or whether there's a system at all. Some of the books look as though they've never even been opened: at a shelf of novels he runs a finger down the spine on a Sir Walter Scott, its gilt lettering as shiny as the day it was stamped.

The noise of the door opening and closing startles him and Tom whirls around with his hand still on the book, feeling as though he's been caught in something illicit. Maybe I should've hunted up a housemaid after all, he thinks, but it's not Mr. Carson or Lord Grantham: only a young lady. One of the daughters. Mr. Carson mentioned them in passing during Tom's brief orientation, but related little more than the fact that there are three of them, and while only the elder two are out in society, Mr. Branson should expect to spend a fair bit of his time driving all of them about.

"Oh, I'm sorry," the girl says in a voice that sounds more mature than one would think, coming from that fresh face. "I didn't know anyone was in here." She passes the book she's holding from one hand to the other and back again, the only indication that she's the slightest bit disconcerted. Her hair is not put up on top of her head but hangs down her back in an elaborate horsetail; Tom is well enough acquainted with the customs of upper-class femininity to know that this means she is not yet out, which must make her the youngest.

Tom draws himself smartly to attention and focuses on the bit of floor just in front of her skirt. "Not at all, m'lady," he says with a blandness that he hopes will mask his annoyance at the interruption. "His lordship told me I might borrow a book now and then. I'll be going." He trains his eyes on the door and his feet make as if to follow.

She raises her hand to stop him. "Please don't go on my account. I won't be a moment. I'm just checking one back in." She walks over to the table that holds the ledger and picks up the pen. "You're the new chauffeur, aren't you? Branson, is it?" She leans down slightly to write in the book and out of the corner of his eye Tom registers the graceful line of her neck beneath the glossy lanyard of her hair.

"'Tis, m'lady."

"I'm Lady Sybil." Tom merely inclines his head at this. "So you're a reader, then?"

"I am." He shifts his gaze to look her in the eye.

"I am too. I do love books." She smiles. "What do you read?"

He tells her what he told her father. "Mostly history and politics, m'lady."

"I'm afraid my knowledge in those areas is sadly lacking. I should have liked to know more about them, but my governess didn't think them very ladylike." Her smile slips a bit, turns rueful.

"I don't believe any area of knowledge is inherently masculine or feminine," Tom says before he can think not to. "Personally, I see no reason a woman shouldn't interest herself in whatever it is she finds interesting. M'lady." He's not sure what has made him speak so freely, only that Lady Sybil doesn't seem as though she'll mind. He finds himself liking her, and not just in response to her friendliness. Her face has an open, curious look to it, and of course they have something in common.

He judged her correctly: far from minding, she beams at him. "I wish more people thought like you." She puts down the pen and lays her book on the table to be reshelved, but instead of leaving she crosses the room toward Tom. "What were you looking at just now?"

He shifts his weight, wondering if she remembers that the library door is shut. He's not had enough time to feel things out completely, so he's not entirely sure how serious a problem it would be for him to be found alone in a room with the earl's daughter. He does know it'd be a fine thing to get the sack over a manufactured scandal before his first week is out. "I was trying to get a sense of the place, the way things are organized." He glances toward the door, hoping fervently that Mr. Carson or worse, Lord Grantham, will not open it.

"Oh, well, that's easy. Mr. Pathinson—he's our librarian—has everything arranged by subject area." Lady Sybil approaches, with a sweep of her hand to indicate the shelf Tom was perusing when she came in. "See, Literature is just here. And then they're in alphabetical order by author's surname."

"That makes sense, m'lady. Thank you; you've just saved me some time." Tom edges toward the door, willing her to dismiss him. The whole situation is too dicey: someone could come in at any moment and if there's any suspicion, he'll be the object of it.

"Was there something in particular you wanted?" She scans the shelves, oblivious to Tom's discomfort. "History is over here, I think..." Finally she seems to notice the distance Tom has put between them. "Is something wrong?"

It's surprising, really; you'd think that these posh girls' mamas and governesses would constantly be squawking about the importance of appearances. Or maybe the squawking is so constant that Lady Sybil has learnt to ignore it. And she is very young. "Beg pardon, m'lady. Only..." Tom tries to think of a diplomatic way to put this. "...It might seem a bit irregular, if someone were to come in right now." He spreads his hands, palms up. "With the door having been closed. The look of the thing, you see."

"Oh!" Lady Sybil's eyes widen and a slight blush stains her cheeks. "I'm so sorry. I didn't think." She hurries to the door, passing just close enough to for Tom to get a faint whiff of something floral. "I'll just come back in the afternoon."

Embarrassed at having flustered her, Tom nods.

She opens the door but pauses before stepping out into the hall, turning and giving Tom a smile that tells him that she has not taken any discomfort to heart. "It was nice to meet you, Branson," she says.

Tom smiles in return and bows his head. "Likewise, Lady Sybil."

Chapter Text

Despite Miss O'Brien's tongue-lashing about eating in the servants' hall the other night, Tom sees no reason he shouldn't be allowed a cup of tea from the kitchen every so often. Studious though he is, he's always liked being around people. A good thing too, growing up as he did smack in the middle of a tumbling kaleidoscope of brothers and sisters. So when midafternoon comes on Friday and he begins to flag at his task—Tom hopes his predecessor is better suited to entrepreneurship than car repair—he turns his steps to the big house rather than his own silent and musty cottage.

Whilst he fixes his tea the cook bustles around him with noisy but unarticulated impatience, seeming more annoyed at there being an extra body in her kitchen than the fact that it belongs to the chauffeur. After he's seated himself at the long table in the servants' hall Mrs. Hughes passes by the doorway with a brief nod to him, but no word. Implicit permission secured, Tom settles back to sip and look over the day's news.

He's not left to himself for long. A pair of maids come in, nodding to him and alighting at the far end of the table. He hasn't got all the names down yet, but the fair-haired girl is Anna, the one who got up Miss O'Brien's nose by daring to be ill. The other is that ginger-haired one he's seen about, her fiery hair offset by her sober day dress and a rather long face. She has a cup of tea; Anna takes out a bit of needlework. They speak in low tones which carry straight across this room full of hard surfaces. Apparently Ginger has received a disappointing letter in regards to an appointment she'd been looking forward to.

Tom's ears prick up when he hears her mention Lady Sybil. "She says she won't give up, though I'm sure it's no use. No one will ever…"

"Oh, Gwen, you mustn't think that way." Her companion cuts her off briskly but kindly. "You can't have done all that hard work for nothing. And if Lady Sybil is on your side, then you're halfway there already."

"I don't know," Gwen responds, still down in the mouth. "It's always an uphill battle for our lot, isn't it?" She sounds more resigned than bitter.

"Sooner or later something will come up. You'll see." Anna secures the needle between her fingers and reaches over to give Gwen's arm a little squeeze.

"You dressing the young ladies tonight?" Gwen asks. By now Tom has stopped trying to read at all, though to be polite he keeps his eyes on his paper. But he can hear a smile in her voice. "Wait 'til you get a look at Lady Sybil's new frock."

"Is it finished, then?" Anna has resumed her work, her deft needle slipping through the silk in her hand like a train rolling on its track.

"It is indeed. It's quite… well, it's gorgeous, of course, but it's quite shocking." Gwen blows on her tea and gingerly raises the cup to her lips, slurping a little.

The needle pauses. "Shocking? Well, now you have to tell me." Anna gives a small smile, her eyes on her work, and begins stitching again.

"It's nothing like that. Only…" Tom can feel Gwen's eyes turn toward him, speculatively. He frowns and turns a page, trying to look as though he couldn't be less interested in housemaids' chatter. And he tries very hard not to think about what a shocking dress might look like on Lady Sybil. Gwen lowers her voice again, but he thinks he hears her say "...Trousers."

"Good heavens," Anna responds, not without admiration. "I should like to be a fly on the wall in the drawing room when she goes down to dinner tonight." She shakes her head. "His lordship's not going to like it one bit."

"I think it's rather daring. Lady Sybil says we must move with the times, and that includes fashion," Gwen declares with a worshiper's fervor.

"It certainly sounds daring," Anna says. "And if anyone can bring it off, I dare say she can." She glances at the clock and snips off her thread. "Speaking of dresses, we'd best go up and change." And with a rustle of aprons and a couple of polite smiles to Tom, they are gone.

He should be off as well; the Crawleys and Old Lady Grantham are coming to dinner, and he wants to locate the source of a rather worrying noise the car's making before it's time to fetch them. But first he finishes his tea and mulls over what he's just heard. For all her concern about her father's and grandmother's fine sensibilities, it seems Lady Sybil is not averse to rattling their cages when it suits her. Tom decides that's something he wouldn't mind having a look at. Not at all.

A fly on the wall in the drawing room, Anna said, and of course getting that close would be impossible. But if, after parking the car in the yard, he should just happen to be going round the front of the house to the servants' entrance… and if he should just happen to pass by the drawing-room window before the family goes in to dinner…

He doesn't worry about what'll happen if someone sees him skulking around outside—or if, God forbid, one of the family should actually glance out the window and catch sight of him. Instead he remembers the happy surprise in Lady Sybil's voice when she thanked him for the pamphlets, and how resolute she sounded the other day when she told her sister she wanted a frock that was new and exciting. Having worked for perhaps the dullest old lady in the whole of Ireland, Tom well understands the desire for a bit of diversion, no matter what form it takes. Himself, he's never had the luxury of clothes being entertainment, but he does know how to relish the small satisfaction of shaking things up a bit. He'd like to see that satisfaction on Lady Sybil's face…

...and he'd very much like to see for himself just what she means by "new and exciting."

Chapter Text

"So you had your way."

Roused from her own thoughts, Sybil looks up to see the chauffeur in partial profile, his head twisted to the side to address her. The corner of his mouth curves up and what she can see of his left eye appears to be twinkling. "Sorry?" Branson has been at Downton for several weeks and by now Sybil has grown somewhat accustomed to his gregariousness, though she notices that it's only when she's in the car alone that he speaks without being spoken to first.

"With the frock," he clarifies. "You had your way."

Sybil drops her eyes, smiling. "You heard, then." She wonders what the talk was that evening, below stairs. Maybe she can get it out of him: Gwen has been uncharacteristically reticent on the subject, and of course Anna is a vault.

Branson's smile broadens and he turns his head back further than Sybil thinks might be quite safe, as fast as they're hurtling down the road. "I saw it, actually."

Sybil's brow wrinkles. "You... how?" The I-don't-know-what-it-is-but-it's-not-a-gown, as Papa disgustedly referred to it, has not made another public appearance since Sybil was undressed for bed on the night of its debut. That lecture wasn't much fun to sit through: Scandalous... suppose we'd had someone besides your grandmother and the Crawleys to dinner... waste of good money...

Branson, however, looks more amused than offended by the idea of a woman wearing trousers. "I happened to be passing by," he says mysteriously and then shuts his mouth, looking like the cat that got the cream.

I suppose I'll have to work that one out for myself. It's uncanny, how servants see and hear things when they've seemingly no way of doing so. From what Gwen says, the staff knows just about everything that goes on in Downton Abbey. "And what did you think?" Sybil asks with some cheek. "Was a look at my new frock worth the spying?"

That wipes the grin off his face. His head snaps back around to the front. "I didn't mean to speak out of turn, m'lady. I apologize."

Oh. He's taken it as a rebuke, when she really didn't mean it that way—it's just that living in a display window does get tiresome at times. Feeling eyes follow her in the village streets is one thing; in her own home it's quite another. Still, it was wrong of her to take out her annoyance on him. Sybil's cheeks redden at her blunder and for a moment she can only sit in awkward silence, staring at the back of Branson's neck as his own blush fades. She rallies soon enough, though, and leans forward to speak to him again. "I only meant... did you like the frock?" Her voice is as friendly as she can make it.

The tension goes out of his shoulders, though he's still a little on the defensive, tossing his response back with barely a turn of his head. "I'm no expert on ladies' wear, but I thought it very modern. And I mean that as a compliment."

Sybil leans back against the leather cushions, strangely gratified. "Well, I'm glad someone appreciated it."

The smirk is back in Branson's voice. "You didn't get quite the reaction you were hoping for from your family?"

"To say the least." Sybil laughs. "I thought Papa was going to blow his stack." She remembers herself and puts a gloved hand to her lips: it's well and good to say that sort of thing to Mary or even to Anna, but talking to the chauffeur about getting a scolding from her father seems a bridge too far.

Branson, however, replies with admirable diplomacy. "Well, some people embrace change more readily than others."

"And some don't embrace it at all," Sybil mutters. "Branson, do you think things will change for women in our lifetime? I mean really change, not just being able to wear what we like." She leans forward again, truly curious about his answer. He went to the trouble of giving her those pamphlets, he must have an opinion on the subject.

He is silent for a minute, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, but she can tell he's thinking about it. Finally he says, "It depends."

"On what?"

His head twists around again and Sybil's stomach drops slightly, though the car continues straight on its course. "On you. That is to say, on women themselves. Those in power aren't going to give you what you want unless you make them."

The corners of Sybil's lips curl upward. "I thought you said you weren't a revolutionary."

Branson gives a chuckle. "I only mean that women are the ones with a vested interest in pursuing their own liberation. Not that it's all got to be down to you, of course, but no one's ever gotten anything worthwhile by sitting and waiting for it to be handed to them."

"I suppose you're right." Sybil has never thought of rights that way, as something that might be taken rather than given.

"And if you don't mind me saying, m'lady, highborn women such as yourself are well placed to help the cause, if you choose to. You move in powerful circles. People watch what you do and take their cues from you. You could have a lot of influence."

Sybil turns her head to watch the countryside go by. Hearing Branson talk like that makes it sound like rather a heavy responsibility, and one she's not fulfilling very well. Charity work, helping Gwen… suddenly those things seem so insignificant, raindrops in the sea. But they're a start. And if what he says is true... "I could, couldn't I?" She asks the question of herself as much as the chauffeur.

"Without a doubt." He gives a decisive nod and smiles over his shoulder at her again.

She rides in silence until they've almost reached the turning to the house, and then moves into the opposite seat and leans almost into the Renault's cab. There's no one to overhear them, but nevertheless she feels that what she's about to ask calls for a lowered voice. "Branson?"

His chin comes up. "Yes, m'lady." He answers in the same quiet voice she used and she can see his eyes flick inquisitively in her direction, though he keeps his face forward.

"I think it would help me if—do you think you could get me some more pamphlets? On the vote? And... any other subject you think might be edifying."

He shifts along the bench in her direction, just slightly. "Certainly, m'lady." The corner of his mouth turns up. "Is there anything in particular you were wanting to know more about?"

"Oh, I don't know." She picks at a loose thread on her skirt. "Women's rights in general, I suppose." She thinks of Gwen and and how unlikely the housemaid seems to think it that her modest hopes will ever come to fruition. "Perhaps something about the workers' movement."

His eyebrows rise to the brim of his cap. "Rather subversive reading for the daughter of an earl," he remarks, his smile broadening.

"No more subversive than a revolutionary chauffeur. Forgive me—a socialist chauffeur." She quirks an eyebrow, enjoying the way she can be a bit saucy when talking to him. No one in her set has a sense of humor, or at least not the kind that appreciates repartee. Pranks and gossip—the latter more and more frequent and mean-spirited these days—seem to be the most Sybil can expect out of her friends.

He chuckles appreciatively. "Fair enough. If you want some background as well, your father has some books that might interest you," he says. "I could point you in the right direction, if you like."

"Good heavens. I didn't realize my father allowed propaganda in his house."

Branson laughs again. "I suppose they're old enough now to be historical rather than inflammatory. Do you know Mary Wollstonecraft? Olympe de Gouges? I know I've seen those names in the library."

"Wollstonecraft sounds familiar." Vaguely.

"They wrote in the eighteenth century. So you see, people advocating for women's rights is hardly a new phenomenon." His words tumble out as if he can't contain them, as if he's truly excited to be able to share knowledge with someone. So different to Fräulein Kelder. Sybil's governess has the curious and rather impressive ability to suck the life out of nearly any subject, when she can be bothered to give lessons at all: an increasingly rare occurrence, what with the good Fräulein being quite burnt out and her one remaining charge only too happy to indulge her "sick headaches."

"And the French Revolution wasn't only about cutting off heads," Branson continues wryly, "but democracy and liberty for women as well as men."

"I'd be very interested to read more about it." And goodness knows she'll have plenty of time on her hands, with everyone going up to London later this month. "Thank you, Branson." She'll wait until later to worry about how often Papa looks at the ledger and what he'll make of the sudden shift in her reading matter. Maybe he'll think Fräulein has gone political. She almost laughs.

Branson smiles again and his eyes touch hers, just for a second. "It's my pleasure, m'lady."

Chapter Text

Hurry up and wait: that's the job. Tom has brought the car around to the front of the village church, but there's no sign of his charges among the sparse crowd that spills from the doors and hurries through the warm rain that abruptly began to come down in sheets as soon as this morning's service ended, as if the Almighty has not found the congregation's personal hygiene to His liking. Tom bites his lip to suppress the small smile that rises to his lips, a reflex left over from the days when any hint of irreverence in church would earn him a box on the ear. Before he was half-grown his mother had practically been able to see the thoughts through his skull.

It's only the girls this Sunday, his lordship and her ladyship being occupied with preparations for the trip up to London, and frankly Tom is surprised that even the daughters have bothered to come. The Earl of Grantham and his family make dutiful and more or less regular appearances in the front pew, but they are hardly pious. Perhaps the elder two are looking to the state of their immortal souls in hopeful expectation of matrimony. The thought puts another smirk on Tom's face, which he wipes off when he sees Lady Sybil emerge from the church.

She's a picture against the weathered stonework and roiling clouds, wearing a wide straw hat and a light-colored frock—much less daring than her new one, which Tom has not seen since his clandestine peek through the drawing-room window a couple of weeks ago. He wonders what happened to it. Stuffed into the missionary barrel, perhaps, to be donated to some native girl in the tropics whose papa's moral sensibilities are not so finely drawn. A shame. Modern he called it when Lady Sybil asked his opinion, but he was shrewd enough to refrain from saying how well he thought it suited her. Young ladies are famously enamored of being told how lovely they are, but even the most progressive might be taken aback at hearing it from her father's driver.

He hurries up with the umbrella and holds it over her head, rain spattering his unsheltered half as they negotiate the flagged walk. Once he's handed her into the car she lowers herself to the seat and says with a smile, "You may as well get in and stay dry, Branson. My sisters looked as though they'd be a little while."

Tom raises an eyebrow—it's not Lady Mary's style to stand about gabbing with her fellow parishioners after services, nor to suffer Lady Edith to do so—but he doesn't have to be told twice. As soon as he's on the driver's bench Lady Sybil leans forward, apparently in the mood for a chat. "Are you looking forward to London? Having a change of scenery?"

Tom turns around to reply. "I am. I've not been before." He resists the urge to expound, to tell her how his heart vacillates between anticipation and unease at the thought of actually residing in that metropolis: bigger than Dublin, bigger than Liverpool, bigger than anywhere he's ever been. He's fascinated by the idea of millions upon millions going about their lives cheek by jowl—what stories there must be, just within a single square mile!—but like any large organism, a great city is liable to swallow up the unwary with hardly a whimper. He hints at none of this to Lady Sybil, just tells her that he expects it to be as different to Yorkshire as China is to Ireland.

She laughs and settles back against her seat. "Well, I've never been to China or Ireland, but you're right about London and the country. Especially during the Season."

Tom's heard some hair-raising stories about the traffic, but he doubts that would interest her much. "And you, m'lady? Are you ready for a bit of town life?"

"Oh, but I'm not going this year," she says with a smile, and the sudden drop in Tom's stomach surprises him. He'd assumed until now that the whole family would make the trip, not having heard otherwise. "I thought a bit of quiet and contemplation would be the thing for the last summer before my coming out. Honestly, I rather look forward to having the house to myself." Dimples appear fleetingly under her cheekbones; her eyes do a mischievous little dance to the side and Tom wonders what she's not saying. Doubtless she's also glad for a break from her mother and grandmother's fussing, the squabbling of her sisters.

But he has to own he's disappointed that she will not be joining them. He covers it with a smile. "Well, yourself and the staff," he points out, and she laughs.

"And the staff, of course." Her eyes drop into her lap for a moment. "It'll be nice for everyone, won't it, with things a bit more relaxed about the place."

"Relaxed?" Tom gives a chuckle. "I don't know about that. Mrs. Hughes has a list as long as my arm of things to be cleaned while the family's away." The housekeeper's been going on about it every time he's been in the servants' hall lately, to the housemaids' evident dread.

"Oh. I thought the servants might have a little more free time than usual." She sounds disappointed.

What, was she expecting to come downstairs for a nice long chin-wag every day? Lady Sybil is friendlier with the servants than some, but apparently that doesn't extend to having much actual knowledge of their lives. Tom only feels a small twinge of conscience at clearing away some of her illusions. "Quite the opposite," he says, but with a smile to soften it.

Her face clouds momentarily. "Of course. I hadn't thought. But at least I'll have plenty of time to catch up on my reading," she says, brightening.

"And how are you getting on? Did you search out any of the writers we talked about?" He hasn't had the opportunity to make further recommendations or follow up on his promise to secure more pamphlets for her.

"I did, and I've got A Vindication of the Rights of Woman on my bedside table now," she tells him. She sags a little, confessing: "Though I've not had time to do more than read the first few pages."

Time or inclination? "I know Miss Wollstonecraft's style can be a bit dense." Try as he might to keep his reply neutral, his mouth has other ideas. One disobedient corner of it curls upward, and the voice that issues forth carries a teasing swoop wholly inappropriate in a servant's speech to his betters.

Lady Sybil straightens in her seat, looking affronted, and Tom braces for the reprimand. From her it'll be gentle, but that'll sting all the more. However, it turns out her offense is due to content rather than style. "On the contrary," she retorts. "I find it quite spirited."

"Yet you've not—" Belatedly, Tom gets a rein on his mouth, clamping it shut on the sentence. He was coming dangerously close to dressing down his employer's daughter for her lack of application.

She remains silent for a minute, waiting, until finally: "You must think me dreadfully flighty."

"Not at all, m'lady." Tom does not presume to know what demands Lady Sybil has on her time. It might only seem to him that she and her sisters have luxurious masses of unclaimed hours, the days stretching out before them like an infinitely long roll of clean white paper ready to be written on, and that she is frittering them away.

"I do have projects," she tells him with a mysterious arch of her eyebrow that makes him wonder again what she's not saying. "But I'm determined to read at least two books a week while everyone's in town."

"A worthy goal," Tom approves, but he cannot resist adding, "Though understanding what you read is as important as the reading itself." He regrets the words as soon as they've left his lips, and the wounded look that comes into her eyes causes him to regret them still more. "Some meals aren't meant to be eaten and digested all in a day, is what I meant to say."

Lady Sybil purses her lips in an amused way and points her face toward her lap, cutting her eyes sideways under her lashes in an artless gesture that will no doubt captivate the gaze of every male in London in a year's time. "Especially not by someone who's accustomed to amuse-bouches, is that it?"

"Ah, come now, don't sell yourself short." He's not dissembling; Lady Sybil is far from stupid. And surely there has been something in her life she's had to work at, even if it's nothing that would earn anyone any bread.

"Well, I'll do the best I can." She leans forward again, her face inches away. "And when you come back I shall count on you to tell me if I've got things right." She cocks her head, dimpling, and Tom gets the distinct sense that she is having a bit of fun with him.

Still, he recognizes a command when he hears one. "I'll do my best as well, m'lady." He allows himself a grin. "Maybe I'll learn something in the process. Knowledge is meant to be discussed, not locked up inside one's head."

They exchange a brief smile before Lady Sybil glances through the rain toward the church door, from which the stream of people has slowed markedly. Still no sign of her sisters: Tom's been keeping an eye out, as neither Lady Mary nor Lady Edith would be best pleased by him leaving them on the stoop to be soaked.

"Have you enough reading to get through the month?" Tom asks. "Or would you like me to look out something more for you? I don't know how you'd like me to manage telling you which books—"

"Give Gwen a list." Lady Sybil breaks in smoothly, as if she's already given it plenty of thought. "You do see her from time to time, don't you?"

"Yes, m'lady, in the servants' hall."

"She'll be discreet. And please don't let anyone know what you're doing. My father's already noticed I'm not reading novels as much anymore; if he finds out you're giving me recommendations, he might start to think we're conspiring to foment revolution!" She gives a merry, indulgent laugh, as if in amusement at the antics of a precocious child, and Tom wonders how many other secrets Lady Sybil Crawley might have from her father.

He is not as inclined to find Lord Grantham's worldview harmless. Why would he have hired me, he wonders, if in the back of his mind he thinks my goal is to bring down British society? But the man hasn't done anything to contradict Tom's initial impression that he is essentially decent. Possibly Lady Sybil is exaggerating, either for dramatic effect or to impress upon him the importance of secrecy.

She needn't worry. "Of course, m'lady. And you might have a look at the ledger once I've borrowed a few more books. Some of them may interest you."

"That's a terrific idea, Branson." She grins, practically rubbing her hands together. Tom can't help but smile back, and his heart warms at the spark of shared intrigue that crackles between them.

From the corner of his eye he sees the ponderous movement of the church door opening, and the moment ends. The two elder Crawley girls come out together: Lady Mary looking slightly more disgruntled than usual, Lady Edith pink with elation or embarrassment. Tom brings them one by one to the car and they settle in with their sister as he drives off.

"Who were you talking to for so long?" asks Lady Sybil.

"Cousin Isobel and Matthew." Lady Edith's attempt at nonchalance is a complete failure; Tom reckons she's blushing six shades of red just at having said Mr. Matthew's name. She's a fidgeter and a flutterer, utterly transparent.

"Good God, I thought we'd never get away," says Lady Mary in the bored drawl that is her default timbre. "Thank goodness you'd already come out, Sybil. Cousin Isobel invited us to tea, but I told her you'd a headache and needed to go and lie down."

Lady Sybil laughs. "It wasn't very kind of you to lie, Mary. And to use me as your excuse!"

"Would it have been better to tell them the truth?"

"What, that you're irritated by their very existence?" Lady Edith sounds rather irritated herself. Perhaps she had been looking forward to tea at Crawley House.

"No," replies Lady Mary in her can't-be-bothered voice. "Only their presence."

They move on to discussion of the future: whom they expect to see in London, mainly. Lady Sybil falls silent altogether, and neither of the elder sisters mentions the true purpose of the household's month-long removal to the capital, though it must be on their minds. Tom is rather indifferent to what sort of matches the girls might make. He's never been one to become overly invested in the lives of those above him. Of course marriage is years off for Lady Sybil, and he wishes Lady Edith all the best; she seems as though she could use a nice chap, though chances are she'll not get one. As for Lady Mary, Tom is quite sure she can look after herself with or without his blessing. From what he hears downstairs she has great things ahead of her, which means that the toff she ends up marrying will probably be significantly richer and of bluer blood than most of the other toffs. Though Lady Mary is the purported beauty of the family, Tom does not think her especially beautiful: she is entirely too majestic. Her marbleized veneer has a glow, but it does not come from within. Tom likes a girl with a bit of spark to her.

Not that his opinion matters.

Chapter Text

Sybil is bored.

Back when everyone was here and rushing about like headless chickens, She looked forward to this time with relish. But now that they are all gone she wishes them back again. She misses the pre-dinner confabs in Mary's room; Papa clearing his throat through the paper at breakfast and Mama's mildly embarrassing embraces; even the constant sparring between her sisters. She does enjoy solitude, but she's never had quite so much of it before. Sitting in the library, the silence between the clock's ticks seems to press upon her ears. She considers ringing for more tea even though she doesn't want it, just to see a human face.

She decides against it; the servants have enough to do without her adding to their workload. Sighing, she reapplies herself to the book in her hand, which seemed so fascinating yesterday but is now screamingly dull. Soon enough her attention flies out the window again, following the specks of birds as they wheel in the high blue sky. A breeze bowls lamb-fleece clouds across it and Sybil thinks Maybe I'll have Lynch saddle Artemis. It's such a lovely day. If only she could blink her eyes and be out on the park, but getting there seems so much work: first someone would have to run out to the stables with the request, and then Anna would need to be found, to get Sybil dressed. She decides on a walk instead; not nearly as satisfying as a good gallop, but it's better than lurking in these dim rooms or wandering the corridors like a restless spirit.

Going upstairs for her wrap and hat, Sybil reminds herself that she could have gone to London with the family, as she has in previous years. But this summer the idea of being in the midst of the Season's hustle and bustle without being of it felt to her a little too much like standing in a sweet shop, mouth watering, and not being allowed a single taste. So she appealed to her father for permission to stay at Downton alone ("I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself, and of course Fräulein will be here and Cousin Isobel is just in the village") and, after a conference with Mrs. Hughes, permission was somewhat reluctantly granted. So here she is, having got what she wished for and trying as hard as she can to appreciate it.

Outdoors the weather is every bit as pleasant as it looked from the library, though gusty enough that Sybil's single hat-pin soon proves insufficient. She removes her hat altogether and lets the wind have its way with her hair. It's not as if there's anyone to see, once she gets out of sight of the outbuildings and into the fields. She huffs and puffs a little on the upslopes, cursing this stupid corset it's an instrument of torture, and feeling the constriction of her ribs draws her mind naturally to the other unjust curbs life imposes on her.

What she would really have liked for this summer was a change in the plan. She doesn't understand why she shouldn't be allowed to come out this year instead of next. Certainly she's mature enough—only seventeen, but she likes to think it's a wise seventeen—and it's not as if another year of Fräulein Kelder's sort of education will make her any more qualified than she is now. She has dim memories of the flurry of preparations that ensued in the months preceding Mary and Edith's debuts—the etiquette and dancing masters, the continual trips to Ripon, the frequent storms of tears on Edith's part and the maddening woolgathering on Mary's, punctuated by an occasional fit of pique about how none of the effort would make any difference when I'm only going to marry Cousin Patrick anyway. But Sybil was still mostly a child at that time, firmly entrenched in her own life and half in denial that she would soon be abandoned in the schoolroom, and she didn't pay much attention. It can't be that difficult, was her attitude. Balls and soirées and paying calls and being presented at court, and she knows how to dance and ride and make conversation and curtsy perfectly well. Well enough.

Yet her mother blanched and gave a nervous titter when Sybil went to her about it last month. "Oh, my darling, I don't think anyone's ready for that, least of all me!" When Sybil tried to remonstrate Mama became unwontedly stone-faced. "Sybil, you will not come out until next summer, and that is the end of it," she snapped, and to put a fullstop on the interview she slammed down her jewel-box lid with a decisive bang.

"It's because she thinks you'll be snapped up, you goose," Mary told Sybil that same night before dinner, the two of them draped in their familiar confidentiality before Edith wandered into Mary's bedchamber. "She doesn't want to lose you yet, and she doesn't want Edith to be shown up so soon." That last occasioned a contemptuous roll of the obsidian eyes in the dressing table mirror. Apparently Mary, even with her newly uncertain future, was not much concerned about being shown up herself.

This was rather a shock. Sybil has hardly even considered her debut as particularly related to her marriage. Yes, of course it will signal her marriageability, but thus far the concept has been an abstract to her, something other girls do. In coming out Lady Sybil Crawley will be joining the ranks of adult society, not just female society, and she is vaguely horrified at the notion that for some people this begins and ends with becoming a wife and mother. Also unsettling was Mary's transactional language: snapped up, she doesn't want to lose you—as if Sybil herself were nothing more than a pretty bauble lying on a bazaar table, waiting for the right buyer.

Since that conversation Sybil has considered and consolidated her position on matrimony, and decided that she is thoroughly opposed to getting engaged before the age of twenty. Others might scheme over her future, but ultimately the choice is hers, yes? No one will lock her in a tower and force her to marry an ogre, and any man worth spending a life with should not be opposed to a few months' wait. The specific traits such a suitor might possess are not something to which Sybil has given much thought, though she acknowledges an attraction to tall, lithe men with contemplative dark eyes and longish curls that tumble Byronically over high foreheads. Poor Mr. Pamuk was very much cast in that mold, though Sybil recalls that the longer she spent in his company the less inclination she felt toward him.

But of course anyone Sybil would love should have to be intelligent and well-read and progressive of mind. That she will marry for love Sybil has no doubt; she has no need for riches and no desire to become a great lady, at least not in the way society counts it. Her greatness shall stem from her deeds more than her name or her husband's (Branson's earnest you could have a lot of influence has echoed inside her head more than once during Sybil's musings concerning her future). The thought of marrying someone—becoming one flesh, the closest relationship that exists outside the bond between mother and child—merely for the sake of position is intolerable. Perhaps she won't get married at all. Granny and Papa are set against her going to university now, but Sybil is young and tenacious and who knows what the future holds? She loves Downton and she is neither eager nor reluctant to leave her childhood home for good, but more and more lately she burns with impatience for what comes next—whatever that is.

The sun is bright and Sybil is soon hot and windblown. Going home she turns her steps toward the back of the house, glad Granny won't be at dinner to remark upon the freckles she's almost certainly earned today. Downstairs, she runs into Lily and asks her to send Gwen up to draw her a bath. She wants to find out whether there've been any new developments in their little venture, which gives her an excited bouncy feeling in her stomach whenever she thinks of it. But she also feels as though it's been simply ages since she and Gwen talked. At first—despite Branson's veiled warning just before the family's departure—she had a sneaking hope that she and Gwen might be able to spend more time together, but Mrs. Hughes has indeed kept the housemaids busier than ever. As a child Sybil adored The Prince and the Pauper and for years she entertained a secret fantasy that one day a little maid who was her double might come to Downton. They'd switch places just like in the story and have grand adventures in their adopted lives, not to mention a laugh at having put one over on everyone. Gwen looks nothing like Sybil, of course, but even before she heard about Gwen's ambitions, the maid's sweet face and disposition made Sybil determined to make a friend of her. Gwen seems so different to the other girls Sybil knows: so much more grown-up and focused, with none of that disappointing combination of superficiality and calculation that certain of Sybil's friends have adopted lately. Whereas the dreams of Sybil's peers mainly concern future husbands, their bloodlines and fortunes, Gwen's goals center around herself and her own accomplishments. To Sybil, work seems a much more satisfying way to support oneself than marriage. It hardly occurs to her that Gwen's diligence is a product of necessity.

She can tell that Gwen likes her too. Each time they speak the wall of courtesy crumbles a bit more; Gwen trusts her, will laugh with her. Sybil would like nothing better than for the maid to consider her a true friend, one she can go to with the concerns of her inmost heart—but there are so many unwritten rules around such attachments, and they maintain such a delicate balance.

Today is no exception. Sybil bathes quickly and, as Gwen is helping her to dress, asks whether any likely secretarial posts have come up.

"I'm afraid not, m'lady, though not for lack of looking." Gwen does up the fastenings on Sybil's clothes—a simple skirt and blouse, no need to dress for dinner with everyone gone—and they move to the vanity to see to her hair. "I did write about one position I saw advertised, but they'd already filled it."

"I've been looking as well," says Sybil. "I haven't found anything yet, but as soon as I do you shall apply for it with my reference."

"You're very kind, m'lady."

"Has your mother come round to the idea of you becoming a secretary?" Sybil gives Gwen a lopsided smile in the mirror.

Gwen returns it and drops her eyes to her hands, which are busy dividing Sybil's hair into sections. "She's not so leery as before, now I've written and told her you've given me your reference."

"Good. And how are things otherwise? You've not been too busy?"

"I have been run off my feet lately," Gwen admits with a quirk of her mouth. "But I don't mind. I like being busy, it makes the days go by faster. And I've me half day coming up next week."

Sybil has a stroke of inspiration: she and Gwen could walk into the village, maybe take the governess cart and go into Moulton. They might stop into a tea shop, or a pub even, and have a grand time. "Would you—" She gets that far before it dawns on her that she has no idea how many days off Gwen has in a week, or a month. Maybe she'd rather spend the time visiting her mother, or choosing fabric for a new dress.

"Yes, m'lady?" Gwen prompts, her deft fingers working without pause.

Gwen will do whatever Sybil asks; but maybe it would be wrong of her to ask. So she says, "Would you tell your mother, when you see her, that I've every confidence in your success."

Gwen beams. "Of course I will, m'lady. It'll ease her mind ever so."

Sybil's boredom has not been completely unproductive. She's made significant inroads into the library shelves, and after her solitary evening meal (I really must ask Cousin Isobel to come to dinner this week, she reminds herself) she goes to exchange one book for another. She thinks Branson will approve of the way she has systematically worked her way through everything on the French Revolution that she hadn't previously read, and her chosen subject matter has the added benefit of satisfying Fräulein's halfhearted insistences that she practice her French.

Poor Fräulein Kelder; yet again she begged off dinner due to indisposition. Sybil believes the governess should have been quite relieved to lose her last pupil a year earlier than expected. Papa has promised a modest pension once Sybil is done serving out her sentence in the schoolroom, and Fräulein seems to be counting the days as eagerly as her charge. Sybil doesn't blame her or take her inattention personally. After merciless Mary and sullen Edith, she's lucky Fräulein didn't quit in despair and leave her saddled with a fresh governess. Being an empathetic soul, Sybil stays out of Fräulein's path as much as possible. Being indolent and temporarily free of supervision, Fräulein lets her.

At breakfast the next morning she reads letters, then peruses the papers. A word in Mrs. Hughes' ear has kept the Observer, the Times, and the Sketch coming here as well as to Grantham House. As a general rule Sybil skims the society pages—Mary doesn't seem nearly as prominently featured as she has been during previous Seasons, Sybil notes, though Mama's latest missive is as hopeful as ever—reads diligently through the news and political items, and devours anything to do with women's rights. In the papers the tone is distinctly different to that of Branson's pamphlets, which Sybil has read and reread until they are practically in pieces. Those present the idea of women gaining their rightful place in public life as not only possible, but the only reasonable and morally correct option. Whereas the "real" journalists seem to view female suffrage as something akin to letting beasts of burden run for office.

Surely not all men think this way. Branson doesn't. And even if he is more radical than most, Sybil feels sure that the views of Granny's generation, of Papa's, must soon be borne away in the rising tide of change. After all, the twentieth century is no longer quite new and things are possible now that wouldn't have been thought of when Sybil was a baby. If electricity can be wired throughout the house, if a maid can aspire to become a secretary and a chauffeur to go into politics, then the least that women of Sybil's station can do is try. She is not yet certain how to go about it; she doesn't know whether she has it in her to chain herself to a railing. But in the meantime, advancement begins at home.

With that firmly in mind, Sybil turns to the woefully small section of the classified advertisements that deals in jobs seeking women. Immediately one line of boldface black type stands out to her eye as if embossed on the paper in gold leaf:

SECRETARY WANTED

Chapter Text

The rules of working for gentlefolk are myriad and esoteric, but Tom has not found it at all difficult to pick them up. Following them is more of a challenge, but as his livelihood depends upon it—for now—he contents himself with the knowledge that at least he's not so blind as to believe in the reasoning behind the standards of behavior. And so, with most of Lord Grantham's family, he does not speak until and unless spoken to.

But he and Lady Sybil have an understanding.

The ambiguity doesn't bother him much. He's never been enamored of boundaries; he's not a man who needs to know his place in order to feel comfortable. Why shouldn't the two of them converse, if they've things in common? He likes her. She's bright and curious and easy to talk to, and in her own way she's as eager to push the boundaries as he is. He enjoys encouraging her interest in politics, and she seems to enjoy listening to him natter on. And of course it's always a pleasure to make a pretty girl smile.

So when he speaks first while driving her into Ripon for yet another committee meeting, he can see in the side mirror that Lady Sybil does not even raise an eyebrow.

"I'd have been happy to drive you to Moulton last week if you'd asked, m'lady."

There is a short silence from behind and then she says with a studied laugh, "I would have done, If I'd known Dragon was going to cast a shoe. But I didn't like to make you take out the motor just for me to pay a call."

He knows very well she wasn't paying a call, but he also knows he must tread carefully. "Most of them downstairs think it rather odd of Gwen to want to leave service," he remarks, "but I don't."

"I know you wouldn't," Lady Sybil answers, and he can tell that she is smiling. There's another pause while he waits for her curiosity to get the better of her. "But what makes you bring up Gwen?" Her tone is guarded, but receptive.

Tom takes a breath; this is where it gets ticklish. Finally he just comes out with it. "I happened to catch sight of her coming back in." Dressed in that expensive suit with mud up to her knees, on the same afternoon you went missing. It wasn't hard to put two and two together, once he'd heard about Lady Sybil's little mishap with the governess cart.

"You happen to catch sight of a lot of things, don't you?"

He shrugs. "I'm well placed for it, m'lady." This time the intelligence-gathering actually was incidental; he'd been in the yard, washing down the Renault. "I think it's very good of you to help Gwen move up in the world. Do you think she'll get it?"

"Get what?"

"The job, of course. I assume you were taking her for an interview? Dressed the way she was."

"You've worked out the whole story." She sounds incredulous, though she really shouldn't. It was simple deduction. "They've already written and told her no. But I do know she's qualified to be a secretary; she did very well in her course." Tom grins, because Lady Sybil's voice has taken on the warmth of a proud mother's. "And even if they didn't want her this time, it doesn't mean somebody won't."

"I don't doubt it, m'lady," Tom says. "Only... could I ask a favor of you?"

"What is it?"

"Next time Gwen has an interview, will you let me drive you? I should hate for you to endanger yourself again, no matter for how noble a cause."

Another silence. Then she says slowly, "That's very good of you, Branson."

Not a yes, not a no. Very diplomatic, m'lady. He chuckles to himself. If she were a politician and a man, they'd call her slippery bastard. If she were in politics as a woman, they'd call her something much worse.

"I'd like to help," he insists.

He wonders in passing why he is, in fact, so keen. It's not as if driving Gwen to an interview will shift the balance between rich and poor; he'll be helping a housemaid climb a couple of rungs up the ladder, that's all. And at no inconsiderable risk. He could very well be sacked if Gwen's caught shirking and it comes out that he's colluded in it.

But sometimes you have to take a risk for something you believe in.

He checks the side mirror and sees that Lady Sybil's eyes are cast into her lap, where she fiddles with the catch of her handbag. She looks uncharacteristically down, and it quickens his sympathy so that he speaks to her without thinking. "What's wrong?" It comes out low, soft: it's the voice he used to use with the little ones when they were upset, back when he still got home every so often.

She seems to notice the change in tone. Her head comes up rather quickly and she arranges her face into a neutral mask. "Wrong?" Tom studies the road ahead and keeps quiet until he hears a sigh, tinged with humor. For some reason it makes him think of the first fine day of summer: the light, sweet breeze combing through sedge. "It's silly, really."

"Then I suppose it's good there's no one else to hear, and that I'm not given to gossip." He half turns his head to see her smile, but her mouth stays closed and her eyes find her lap again. He goes on with only the suggestion of a teasing bounce in his voice: "Some might say it's a bit silly to drive a cart and horse to an important engagement when you've a car and driver at your disposal."

That cracks her reserve, and she gives a throaty chuckle. "All right then. Have you ever wanted to do well at something so very badly, and then it all goes wrong?"

So that's what it is. Lady Sybil has tasted failure, and she doesn't much like the flavor of it. He nods, a grin spreading over his face. "Many times."

"I've tried to keep my chin up for Gwen's sake. She's so gloomy about her chances anyway, I've got to. But to have it be such an ordeal, and then after all of it to be turned down anyway… it's rather a letdown." Her voice is cool and even, but there is a note of frustration in it that Tom doubts Gwen has ever been allowed to hear.

A thought opens in his mind like a night-blooming flower. "You won't give up on her?" He can hear the apprehension in his voice, even though he tries to hide it. Lady Sybil wouldn't be the first to abandon a good work when the going got a little tough, but he'll admit that he'd be bitterly disappointed if she did.

"Of course not!" She sounds only mildly offended. "I'm even more determined to make it happen now. And I can do it, I know I can."

I'm determined, I can do it. I. Something else clicks into place. I do have projects, she'd told him coyly before he'd gone to London, and he'd wondered what she meant. This is it; this is hers. And she doesn't want anyone's help with it, least of all the chauffeur's.

But Lady Sybil's wants are not the only thing to be considered here. "Tell you what," Tom says, as if he's settling in to haggle over the price of a new hat. "How about I bring it up with Gwen next time I see her. If she doesn't mind riding in the car to her next interview, then it's settled." This is bold of him, but the practical reality is that it's stupid for a livelihood to be lost for want of a horseshoe nail.

He can't resist letting his eyes flick over to check Lady Sybil's reaction in the mirror. Her mouth has fallen slightly open but she appears to be thinking about it, rather than shocked at his audacity. At length she says, "I suppose that would be the thing to do. I'd order the car, of course, and make up a reason for Gwen to go with me…" a slow smile curves her lips. "Yes, I think that could work very well."

"But I'll ask Gwen first," he repeats. He feels a need to impress upon her that Gwen and her ilk are people, not projects.

"Naturally. But please do go carefully; she's a bit skittish after her narrow escape last time. We wouldn't want to alarm her."

"I'll be the soul of tact, m'lady."

Lady Sybil laughs. "Thank you. It's awfully nice of you to take the trouble, Branson."

Tom twists his head far enough around to see that she's beaming, her eyes shining with altruistic fervor. Lord God, she could convince anyone to do anything when she looks like that. He gives her a casual nod and turns back to the road. "It's no trouble," he says. "No trouble at all."