Sybil/Branson: She was Lovely and Fair as the Rose of the Summer
Set sometime in between Series 1 and 2.
1.
She was lovely and fair as the rose of the summer
Yet 'twas not her beauty alone that won me
Oh no 'twas the truth in her eyes ever dawning
It had become, in a half-sad way, his home. This small cottage. Single bed. Bookshelf. An old gramophone (to drown out the silence). Papers scattered about the floor like stepping stones. The other servants called it a Cavern. In the night the dim orange light of his lamp shone through the smeared windows. He was a notorious night owl. There simply wasn't enough time to read during the day. And the solitude and silence of the night gave his mind freedom to roam over extraordinary places.
There was the pinpoint of light. She felt languid, a moth flapping its wings slowly in the night air. Drunk on too much wine and dancing. Hum, hum, hum. Her body spinned. The night was violet and full of promises. But a different promise emerged at that beacon of honey-spun light. To escape. To escape from identical men in identcal suits saying identical things. Men that looked to the floor and made excuses when she tried to talk about the Home Rule Bill or the women's franchise question-- heaven forbid.
He was exactly how she imagined him, bent over a book, so engrossed she wondered if he'd ever notice she was there. But he did.
"Lady Sybil." He shot up off his chair. "Is anything the matter?"
"No, no..." She laughed, her cheeks rosy. "I just started... walking and... ended up here."
"I see." He said, clearing his throat. "Would you like some tea, or for me to fetch Mrs Hughes--"
"I wanted, well, a...conversation. A proper..." She squeezed her eyes in frustration. She suddenly felt very stupid, very much the little girl she sometimes suspected she still was. "Conversation. About things that matter."
"Is your Ladyship talking about politics?"
"Yes!" She exclaimed, embarassed when she saw his startled expression. She rubbed her face. "I'm sorry. I've probably had a little too much wine."
"Sit down, your Ladyship." He said, motioning to a chair. "Do you want something to drink?"
"Stop acting like a servant for once, please." She said, draping her legs over her chair. "Do you have any whiskey?"
He laughed. "You presume because I'm Irish I'll have whiskey?"
She raised her eyebrows. "Well, do you?"
"Well...that's beside the point..." He said, blushing a little. "I'm not sure your Father would approve."
She gave him 'that' look. That strong, daring look that made his throat go a little dry. He opened the cupboard and poured out two small glasses of Jameson's.
"Cheers." He said, and raised his glass. She clinked it against his and took a swig, before twisting her face in disgust. He laughed. "First time?"
"That's disgusting." She said, sticking out her tongue. "Oh dear, you must think me very silly."
"Not at all."
She bit her lip. "Can I have another?" He poured her and himself another. It made her cheeks flush rose petal pink and it took all of his restraint not to kiss them. And she talked, and he talked, and they clinged to one another in the dark space, laughing and joking. He'd never seen her more relaxed and he began to drop "Lady" when he addressed her-- and she didn't seem to care, for right now she was Sybil and that was all she was. Sybil and Branson (he never much liked Tom, anyway, and when she said it it sounded lyrical, Branson. The distance seemed to erode).
"Oh and this man, oh he was odious, but I had to dance with him because he is Papa's friend's son--" She took another swig, grimaced, and then pointed. "He said women had no place in politics. No place in politics!"
"Why didn't you say no?"
"To what?"
"To dancing with him."
"Oh, Branson." She sighed, leaning back in her chair, and in the dim light he could make out the muscles and features of her neck. "Because a woman's place isn't to refuse a man. It's always to say yes."
"Sybil?"
"Yes?"
"You never have to do that with me."
They smiled ever so intimately at one another, and then looked down at their glasses, swirling the amber liquid laguindly around, in order to break the heat of the moment.
"Did you dance with many women in Ireland?"
He chuckled. "My fair share, but I doubt it's the kind of dancing you do."
"Oh?"
"Like-- Irish dancing." He tried to explain. "It's a tad more...well...lively."
"Show me." She said, sitting up suddenly.
He laughed once again. "Lady Sybil--- how?"
"Your records!"
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because I'd have to touch you." He said, ever-so-quietly. Mrs Hughes' words echoed through him. Broken heart. To resist the urge to touch her all over. To keep every step and every smile miles apart from one another. But that stubborness of his wouldn't recede no matter how hard he tried.
She paused thoughtfully for the moment, before sliding out of her seat.
"Then let's not touch." She announced. "Let our hands float in the air." She paused, cocked her head at him, and her voice became silken, dreamy. "Branson, please. I want to have one good dance tonight."
He stood up and put one of his records on.
"OK, so your feet go like this..."
She looked down. "Like that?"
"Yeah. And then, we, well, we would...hold hands."
They both placed their hands up a few inches apart, and she giggled.
"And you turn and..."
He was surprised at how quickly she picked up the steps. How graceful she made the whole thing. Like painting the air with her limbs.
"You're awfully good, Branson." She said half way through, her laughter rippling through the air.
"You're not so bad yourself, Syb-- milady." He said, trying his best not to get caught in the moment, to let the lines blur into complete oblivion.
"I wish you could come to balls." She said, her body stopping, suddenly very sad. "It'd be much more fun to dance with a man I actually liked."
"Maybe one day." He said.
"Granny'd have your head. And mine."
"That means we could still dance, though." He said, and she bent over laughing, suddenly and without self-consciousness bridging the gap between them as she buried her mouth in his shoulder to try and stifle her laughter. He froze. She smelt of whiskey and promises. Rosy and fresh. Lovely and fair as the rose of the summer. Laughter tumbled out of her and it made his heart want to burst from the seams. Such a soft, lovely warm weight on his left shoulder. How he'd imagined it. Then he reached his hand out for hers' before he realised she had made the same move. Skin on skin, and it felt like fire and ice at the same time, not bordered by that ever present leather glove, or under the watchful eye of maids.
"Lady Sybil." A voice broke through the dream, shattering and sudden and cruel. Mrs Hughes stood there pale. Yet Sybil didn't move, just stood there laughing into his shoulder, and he had to smile too. He felt it through his uniform, that unmistakable impression of her lips, and they both pretended they hadn't been disturbed, just for a few moments.
"Lady Sybil." Her voice was sharper. "Your Mother is looking for you. Is this where you've been?"
"I was dancing." She said quietly, shutting her eyes and burying herself deeper into the material of his uniform. Just one more-
"I think it wise you both say good night now."
She peeled away from him. "Good night Branson, thank you for a lovely evening."
"Good night, Lady Sybil."
She left, still dreaming, smiling. He watched her leave, ignoring the fire in Mrs Hughes' eyes.
"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't give you the sack right now." She said, every word articulated, clipped by her now harsh seeming accent.
He smirked. "I was only following orders."
"You little--"
"We didn't actually do anything."
"That's not what it looks like."
"You have my word, and hers', most likely."
"Do you have any idea how it looked?"
"I'm sure it looked like two friends dancing."
"You were drinking and dancing with the youngest daughter of an Earl in your bedroom. You know what that is? Scandal."
"Oh Jesus."
"Now you look here." She said, sweeping towards him, eyes wide in fury and alarm. "I ignored the garden party, didn't I? I put my neck on the line. To trust you. What if it had been Mr Carson, hmm?"
"But it wasn't."
"What makes you think I won't tell him?"
"Because deep down you think this is all as silly as I do. That we share and live in their lives but we have to be so far apart."
She paused. Her lip quivered for a moment, her eyes waivered, before hardening again.
"She's using you, you know? I've seen it before. Grand ladies who find their amusement in toying with the feelings of servants."
"She's not toying with me."
"Oh?"
"Really."
"Then tell me you don't love her."
"... I can't do that."
"And you think she loves you, hmm? Her little act of rebellion?"
"Mrs Hughes, please stop, your lavish praise is going to make my head swell."
"Fool. Absolute fool."
"Tell me you've seen her happier with other men."
"What?"
"Go on, tell me. Tell me she's happy with those men who don't understand her. Who see her as a pretty thing on their arms. Who don't see her mind."
"Oh, and it's just her mind you appreciate, is it?"
"Don't make it all sound so cheap."
"Really? Because that's how it looks to me. And that's how it'd look to other people too. People far less generous than me."
"You still haven't answered my question."
She stood silent for a moment, staring at him with those cold hard eyes, that harsh pursed lip.
"...I like you, Tom, I really do." She said, her shoulders sinking. "Stop making it so hard for me."
Something rose up in his chest. "I think I can make her happy. I may not have the money, or the title..."
"Tom. Please. You know how this story ends? How it always ends? Badly." And she left, a sweep of black.
He paused, shoved his hands in his pockets, looked at the now empty glasses in the light of his lamp, at where her lips once lay, and smiled.
"I think you're wrong."
1.
She was lovely and fair as the rose of the summer
Yet 'twas not her beauty alone that won me
Oh no 'twas the truth in her eyes ever dawning
It had become, in a half-sad way, his home. This small cottage. Single bed. Bookshelf. An old gramophone (to drown out the silence). Papers scattered about the floor like stepping stones. The other servants called it a Cavern. In the night the dim orange light of his lamp shone through the smeared windows. He was a notorious night owl. There simply wasn't enough time to read during the day. And the solitude and silence of the night gave his mind freedom to roam over extraordinary places.
There was the pinpoint of light. She felt languid, a moth flapping its wings slowly in the night air. Drunk on too much wine and dancing. Hum, hum, hum. Her body spinned. The night was violet and full of promises. But a different promise emerged at that beacon of honey-spun light. To escape. To escape from identical men in identcal suits saying identical things. Men that looked to the floor and made excuses when she tried to talk about the Home Rule Bill or the women's franchise question-- heaven forbid.
He was exactly how she imagined him, bent over a book, so engrossed she wondered if he'd ever notice she was there. But he did.
"Lady Sybil." He shot up off his chair. "Is anything the matter?"
"No, no..." She laughed, her cheeks rosy. "I just started... walking and... ended up here."
"I see." He said, clearing his throat. "Would you like some tea, or for me to fetch Mrs Hughes--"
"I wanted, well, a...conversation. A proper..." She squeezed her eyes in frustration. She suddenly felt very stupid, very much the little girl she sometimes suspected she still was. "Conversation. About things that matter."
"Is your Ladyship talking about politics?"
"Yes!" She exclaimed, embarassed when she saw his startled expression. She rubbed her face. "I'm sorry. I've probably had a little too much wine."
"Sit down, your Ladyship." He said, motioning to a chair. "Do you want something to drink?"
"Stop acting like a servant for once, please." She said, draping her legs over her chair. "Do you have any whiskey?"
He laughed. "You presume because I'm Irish I'll have whiskey?"
She raised her eyebrows. "Well, do you?"
"Well...that's beside the point..." He said, blushing a little. "I'm not sure your Father would approve."
She gave him 'that' look. That strong, daring look that made his throat go a little dry. He opened the cupboard and poured out two small glasses of Jameson's.
"Cheers." He said, and raised his glass. She clinked it against his and took a swig, before twisting her face in disgust. He laughed. "First time?"
"That's disgusting." She said, sticking out her tongue. "Oh dear, you must think me very silly."
"Not at all."
She bit her lip. "Can I have another?" He poured her and himself another. It made her cheeks flush rose petal pink and it took all of his restraint not to kiss them. And she talked, and he talked, and they clinged to one another in the dark space, laughing and joking. He'd never seen her more relaxed and he began to drop "Lady" when he addressed her-- and she didn't seem to care, for right now she was Sybil and that was all she was. Sybil and Branson (he never much liked Tom, anyway, and when she said it it sounded lyrical, Branson. The distance seemed to erode).
"Oh and this man, oh he was odious, but I had to dance with him because he is Papa's friend's son--" She took another swig, grimaced, and then pointed. "He said women had no place in politics. No place in politics!"
"Why didn't you say no?"
"To what?"
"To dancing with him."
"Oh, Branson." She sighed, leaning back in her chair, and in the dim light he could make out the muscles and features of her neck. "Because a woman's place isn't to refuse a man. It's always to say yes."
"Sybil?"
"Yes?"
"You never have to do that with me."
They smiled ever so intimately at one another, and then looked down at their glasses, swirling the amber liquid laguindly around, in order to break the heat of the moment.
"Did you dance with many women in Ireland?"
He chuckled. "My fair share, but I doubt it's the kind of dancing you do."
"Oh?"
"Like-- Irish dancing." He tried to explain. "It's a tad more...well...lively."
"Show me." She said, sitting up suddenly.
He laughed once again. "Lady Sybil--- how?"
"Your records!"
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because I'd have to touch you." He said, ever-so-quietly. Mrs Hughes' words echoed through him. Broken heart. To resist the urge to touch her all over. To keep every step and every smile miles apart from one another. But that stubborness of his wouldn't recede no matter how hard he tried.
She paused thoughtfully for the moment, before sliding out of her seat.
"Then let's not touch." She announced. "Let our hands float in the air." She paused, cocked her head at him, and her voice became silken, dreamy. "Branson, please. I want to have one good dance tonight."
He stood up and put one of his records on.
"OK, so your feet go like this..."
She looked down. "Like that?"
"Yeah. And then, we, well, we would...hold hands."
They both placed their hands up a few inches apart, and she giggled.
"And you turn and..."
He was surprised at how quickly she picked up the steps. How graceful she made the whole thing. Like painting the air with her limbs.
"You're awfully good, Branson." She said half way through, her laughter rippling through the air.
"You're not so bad yourself, Syb-- milady." He said, trying his best not to get caught in the moment, to let the lines blur into complete oblivion.
"I wish you could come to balls." She said, her body stopping, suddenly very sad. "It'd be much more fun to dance with a man I actually liked."
"Maybe one day." He said.
"Granny'd have your head. And mine."
"That means we could still dance, though." He said, and she bent over laughing, suddenly and without self-consciousness bridging the gap between them as she buried her mouth in his shoulder to try and stifle her laughter. He froze. She smelt of whiskey and promises. Rosy and fresh. Lovely and fair as the rose of the summer. Laughter tumbled out of her and it made his heart want to burst from the seams. Such a soft, lovely warm weight on his left shoulder. How he'd imagined it. Then he reached his hand out for hers' before he realised she had made the same move. Skin on skin, and it felt like fire and ice at the same time, not bordered by that ever present leather glove, or under the watchful eye of maids.
"Lady Sybil." A voice broke through the dream, shattering and sudden and cruel. Mrs Hughes stood there pale. Yet Sybil didn't move, just stood there laughing into his shoulder, and he had to smile too. He felt it through his uniform, that unmistakable impression of her lips, and they both pretended they hadn't been disturbed, just for a few moments.
"Lady Sybil." Her voice was sharper. "Your Mother is looking for you. Is this where you've been?"
"I was dancing." She said quietly, shutting her eyes and burying herself deeper into the material of his uniform. Just one more-
"I think it wise you both say good night now."
She peeled away from him. "Good night Branson, thank you for a lovely evening."
"Good night, Lady Sybil."
She left, still dreaming, smiling. He watched her leave, ignoring the fire in Mrs Hughes' eyes.
"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't give you the sack right now." She said, every word articulated, clipped by her now harsh seeming accent.
He smirked. "I was only following orders."
"You little--"
"We didn't actually do anything."
"That's not what it looks like."
"You have my word, and hers', most likely."
"Do you have any idea how it looked?"
"I'm sure it looked like two friends dancing."
"You were drinking and dancing with the youngest daughter of an Earl in your bedroom. You know what that is? Scandal."
"Oh Jesus."
"Now you look here." She said, sweeping towards him, eyes wide in fury and alarm. "I ignored the garden party, didn't I? I put my neck on the line. To trust you. What if it had been Mr Carson, hmm?"
"But it wasn't."
"What makes you think I won't tell him?"
"Because deep down you think this is all as silly as I do. That we share and live in their lives but we have to be so far apart."
She paused. Her lip quivered for a moment, her eyes waivered, before hardening again.
"She's using you, you know? I've seen it before. Grand ladies who find their amusement in toying with the feelings of servants."
"She's not toying with me."
"Oh?"
"Really."
"Then tell me you don't love her."
"... I can't do that."
"And you think she loves you, hmm? Her little act of rebellion?"
"Mrs Hughes, please stop, your lavish praise is going to make my head swell."
"Fool. Absolute fool."
"Tell me you've seen her happier with other men."
"What?"
"Go on, tell me. Tell me she's happy with those men who don't understand her. Who see her as a pretty thing on their arms. Who don't see her mind."
"Oh, and it's just her mind you appreciate, is it?"
"Don't make it all sound so cheap."
"Really? Because that's how it looks to me. And that's how it'd look to other people too. People far less generous than me."
"You still haven't answered my question."
She stood silent for a moment, staring at him with those cold hard eyes, that harsh pursed lip.
"...I like you, Tom, I really do." She said, her shoulders sinking. "Stop making it so hard for me."
Something rose up in his chest. "I think I can make her happy. I may not have the money, or the title..."
"Tom. Please. You know how this story ends? How it always ends? Badly." And she left, a sweep of black.
He paused, shoved his hands in his pockets, looked at the now empty glasses in the light of his lamp, at where her lips once lay, and smiled.
"I think you're wrong."