Downton Abbey - "Come With Me, Go Places", Sybil/Branson, T
Title: Come With Me, Go Places - 2/5Author:
lindentree
Rating: T
Character(s): Sybil Crawley/Tom Branson
Word Count: 5,146
Summary: What surprised Sybil most was how easy her family made it, in the end.
Notes: A couple of quick things. First, I wrote a significant portion of this fic, including this chapter, before 2x07 aired. So you can imagine my amusement when I found that I overestimated Sybil & Branson's cunning as far as eloping is concerned. Second, because in this story Sybil decides to run away with Branson a little earlier than she does in the series, their relationship develops differently than what we've seen in the series up to 2x08, making this fic firmly AU after 2x05.
Thanks to ishie for all of the support! HEARTS.
II
And a heart will always stay one day too long,
always hoping for the hot flashes to come,
for the glue to dry on our new creation;
come with me, go places.
***
Sybil said nothing more about nursing to her family. She arranged her shifts with the other nurses so that she would be present for more of the Earl’s visit. She did not visit Branson at the garage. She smiled and laughed. She accompanied her sisters to the seamstress to have new gowns made for London. She entertained Mr. Hales when he arrived, walking him about the gardens and sitting beside him at dinner as her parents beamed.
She hid a valise at the back of her wardrobe. She went through every piece of jewellery she owned and decided which pieces to sell and which were dear enough to keep. She wrote and crumpled and burned dozens of goodbye letters to her family. She stood in the empty library and traced her finger across the parchment in Papa’s atlas, following the route they would take, across the Irish Sea.
She waited. With patience she did not realise she possessed, she waited, until nearly two weeks passed and the night of a carefully planned dinner party arrived. A carefully planned dinner party and a carefully planned escape.
The dinner was lovely, as lovely as the best dinner parties Mama threw before the war came. The meal was one of Mrs. Patmore’s best, and the conversation sparkling. Afterwards, the party retired to the parlour. Sybil hung back by the door, watching her family and their guests talk and laugh and mingle, the room awash in the soft amber glow of the lamps. Papa leaned down and to speak into Mama’s ear, and she laughed, the rich pearls on her ears dancing as she shook her head. It was lovely, as perfect as a postcard, and Sybil hoped Downton would remain this way always in her memory.
The thought of Branson downstairs, anxiously waiting for the guests to leave so that he could dispense with his duties, brought a tight sensation to her chest and a smile to her face.
Mary approached her, a glass of port in each hand. She held one out to Sybil, who accepted it with a nod of thanks.
“Is something bothering you, darling?” Mary asked. “Only you’ve been quiet all evening, and at the moment you’ve got the strangest expression on your face.”
“Do I?” Sybil asked.
“You do. It’s... Oh, I don’t know.” Mary shook her head. “You look the same as you did the day you left for your nurse training in York. Sad and happy all at once, I suppose.”
Sybil looked at her sister’s curious face, and thought she was doing a dreadful thing, being dishonest with her. The way Mary was with her was not the same as how she was with other people. Mary had always been kind to her, a protector and a confidant in all things. All things but this.
“Nothing’s bothering me,” Sybil replied, giving an indifferent lift of her shoulders. “What do you think of Mr. Hales? He is quite nice, don’t you think?”
Mary raised an eyebrow, and then turned to examine the man, who stood across the room by the mantelpiece, talking with Papa. “He’s all right, I suppose,” Mary said unenthusiastically, before launching into a dry critique of Mr. Hales’s various shortcomings.
Sybil examined her sister’s profile, and the graceful line of her neck, and the exquisite beading of her gown, and the long silk gloves that covered her slender arms, and the lovely sapphire engagement ring on her finger.
I hope you’ll be happy, Sybil thought. I hope you’ll forgive me.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur, and soon the guests were leaving. Sybil said goodbye to Granny at the door, grasping her elbows and pressing a quick kiss to the woman’s dry cheek.
“My goodness!” Lady Violet said. “Let’s not fall to pieces over a mere farewell, my girl.”
“No, Granny,” Sybil replied, smiling as she departed. She caught a glimpse through the front door of Branson waiting by the car, and she turned away, her heart pounding in her chest. It wouldn’t do to give anything away now.
They all lingered in the entranceway a few minutes longer, as though no one wanted the night to end. Finally Papa announced that it was time for bed, and they went upstairs and parted ways in the long corridor that contained their bedchambers.
“You were lovely,” Mama said to her, kissing her cheek. “Mr. Hales seemed very smitten indeed.”
“That’s enough, darling,” said Papa. He kissed Sybil as well. “It won’t do to pressure the girl.”
Sybil forced herself to smile, and turned away before either of her parents could look at her too closely, or too long.
She walked to her chamber doorway and stood there as her sisters said goodnight to her and retired into their own rooms. Her parents disappeared down the corridor to their chamber, arm-in-arm and a halo of light surrounding them from the lamp Papa carried in his hand.
“Goodnight,” she whispered, watching as the light faded down the corridor, and all fell silent.
She went into her room, and closed the door behind her.
***
Anna had finished undressing her and gone. The house was quiet. Sybil’s valise was packed and sitting at the foot of her bed. A letter to her family lay on her pillow. She was dressed in her most practical and unfussy dress, and her coat and shoes and hat were on. Her gloves were held tightly in one hand.
She stood in the middle of the room, forcing herself to breathe deeply and regularly.
It was time. There was no more waiting left to do.
Giving herself a shake, Sybil slipped on her gloves and picked up her valise, and then turned out the lights. She eased her chamber door open as quietly as she could, and stole out into the hallway. Everything was dark; even Carson had gone to bed. She walked quickly down the corridor towards the servants’ staircase.
She reached the doorway, and opened it, and ran straight into Edith.
Her older sister stood in the dark stairwell with a lit lamp in one hand. Her hair was down and she was in her dressing gown, and the lamp cast harsh shadows on her face.
“Edith!” Sybil gasped, nearly dropping the valise.
“You must think us all terribly stupid if you think no one noticed what you were up to in the last fortnight,” Edith said softly.
Sybil stared open-mouthed for a moment before recovering. “Yet you’re the only one who did, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I suppose I am,” Edith replied, faltering slightly. “You were acting so strangely, going along with all of this Mr. Hales business as though you’d never objected. I ought to have gone straight to Papa when I realised what you were doing, but I suppose I wanted to confirm my suspicions absolutely. You’ve been reckless in the past, but part of me didn’t want to believe that you could be so foolish.”
“Edith, please -”
“You mustn’t do this. It’s terribly selfish of you, don’t you think?” Edith asked.
“How? How is it selfish? You and Mary are both as good as settled. I’m not hurting anyone’s reputation but my own.”
“You’re the youngest. You always did insist on having your way, and you almost always got it, in the end,” Edith mused, although her tone held no rancour.
“But it’s my life!” Sybil replied, struggling to keep her voice down. “Why shouldn’t I have my own way? Can’t you see that if I don’t go with him, if I can’t follow my heart and be a nurse, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life?”
“Mama and Papa will be devastated,” Edith said. “Have you thought of that? They’ll be sick with fear for you. We all would have been.”
“I left a letter,” Sybil replied, defensive at the idea that she could be so insensitive to their feelings. “I explained everything. I was going to write as soon as we got where we’re going, to let you know that I’m all right.”
“And where is that?”
Sybil stared at her sister, her throat tightening. “I can’t tell you that, of course.”
“I see,” Edith replied, her mouth thinning into a line.
“But I will tell you something I’ve never told anyone, that no one but me knows.”
Edith’s eyes were round and curious in the light, and she blinked. “What’s that?”
“I love Tom Branson. Truly. And I’ll never love another.”
“Oh, Sybil,” Edith sighed. “Isn’t there another way?”
“Please, Edith. I beg you. As my sister, please keep my secret. I’m only asking you to wait a few hours. Everyone will realise what’s happened in the morning, anyway. For you to do this for me would be the most precious gift, and I would never forget my debt to you.”
Edith continued to stare at her, and then she turned away. “Go, quickly, before I change my mind.”
Sybil leaned in and kissed her sister’s cheek. “I will never forget this kindness, Edith.”
“Go,” Edith repeated, seeming somewhat stunned.
“Goodbye,” Sybil said, gripping her valise tightly in her hand and skirting around her sister to hurry down the stairs. She paused on the steps, and the last thing she saw was Edith’s face through the balustrade, illuminated by the flickering lamplight. Her sister’s eyes shone with tears.
Sybil’s heart was in her throat as she rushed down the stairs and let herself out through the back garden. There was no time to waste; who knew whether Edith might change her mind. She hurried down the gravel path, towards the dark garage, where they had agreed to meet. She turned the corner and found Branson pacing up and down the walk by the side of the building. He stopped at the sound of her approach and turned around. It was the first time Sybil had ever seen him dressed in anything but his chauffeur’s uniform. He was wearing a plain brown suit and trousers that had seen better days, but were clean and pressed, and he had a cap on his head. In the moonlight, Sybil could only see part of his worried expression.
“There you are,” he whispered harshly, walking to her and taking her hand. He leaned in and kissed her cheek. “Was starting to think you’d changed your mind.”
“I haven’t,” she replied. “I ran into Edith.”
Branson’s eyes widened, and he glanced up at the house as though he expected a mob with torches to be coming after him at any moment.
“It’s all right,” Sybil assured him. “She’s not going to give us away.”
“If you believe her, I suppose I do,” Branson said, not sounding entirely convinced. “But are you very sure now, Sybil? This is it. You must be entirely sure.”
“I’m sure,” Sybil replied.
“All right,” he nodded, hefting his bag onto his back and taking her free hand. “Let’s go.”
They walked down the drive past the garage and Branson’s cottage and the stables, until the gravel beneath their feet petered into a dirt road. Later still it would become little more than a narrow dirt track as it veered into the woods. The moon was the only light to be had, and Sybil paused to look back at the house in the distance. Downton looked cold and austere in the blue moonlight, its dark windows producing no light to cheer it. She swallowed, and turned away.
They walked in silence. It was strange; Sybil could not recall a time when she and Branson had been together for any significant length of time and not talked. Even during those awkward times following his proposals, they had discussed the war and politics at least. He held her hand in his, his strides hurried. Although it was dim, Sybil’s eyes had adjusted enough that a sidelong glance at his face revealed his anxiety. He was scared. She supposed he was right to be.
Sybil laced her fingers with his and squeezed. It seemed to remove him from his worried reverie, for he glanced at her.
“Are you all right?” he asked. “I hate to make you walk so far, but I didn’t think it sporting to steal the man’s youngest daughter and his motorcar all in one night.” He smiled weakly at her.
“I’m quite all right,” she replied. “I’m used to being on my feet. In any case, it was wise. We would get farther faster in the car, but we would be easier to identify, I expect. Not to mention the noise of it would likely have woken the whole house at this hour.”
“Reckon you’re right. I want to get a little bit farther before daybreak, get some distance, but we should be able to find a place to stop soon enough. What do you think?”
“What sort of a place do you mean?”
“A barn, I suppose, or some other out-of-the-way place where we can rest a bit without being discovered.”
“Hm,” Sybil said noncommittally, frowning. Of course she knew what running away with Branson meant, and knew that once they were married, they would be spending all of their nights together. It was only that she had not given much thought to the nights that would precede their wedding, her mind too occupied with planning the elopement itself.
The idea that shortly they would be alone together truly for the first time gave her a moment of pause. What would he expect of her? What did she expect of him? She examined her feelings and found she was not sure.
Branson did not seem to notice her thoughtfulness, and they walked on in silence until the eastern horizon began to lighten, and the first birds of the morning began to softly chirp their songs from high in the trees.
“There,” Branson said, pointing ahead of them at a low stone barn in a field, barely visible through the grey haze of mist that surrounded them as the sun began to approach the horizon.
“Do you think the farmer will mind?” Sybil asked as they clambered through a section of dilapidated rail fence.
“I don’t plan on his finding out,” Branson replied cheerfully.
They made their way to the barn, where Branson forced the door open. The structure had obviously not been used in some time, and there were no animals or tools housed there. It was dark and a little decrepit; certainly not a place where they were liable to be disturbed. But the haymow above was dry and clean, if rather dusty and lacking in the heaps of sweet-smelling hay Sybil had imagined.
Once they had picked their way up the ladder, Branson pulled a blanket from his bag and spread it out over the modest pile of hay. He removed his cap and his jacket, folding the latter up into a pillow and setting it down on the makeshift bed.
They sat in the hay on either side of the blanket and each avoided the other’s eyes. As she shakily removed her hat and her coat, Sybil was grateful for the lack of light, for if her expression betrayed her anxiety, at least he could not see it.
“Are you hungry?” Branson asked, gesturing at the bundle of bread and cheese he’d liberated from the kitchens that afternoon.
“No, I think I’m all right. But you go ahead if you’d like. I won’t mind.”
“No, I don’t think I could eat,” Branson replied, loosening the tie at his neck before unbuttoning the top button on his shirt. Sybil watched him, fascinated and apprehensive in equal measures. It was such an intimate act to witness. Branson glanced over at her, his face mostly in shadow.
“Not much of a wedding night, I’m afraid,” he said.
“Yes, but we’re not married yet, are we?”Sybil replied. “So it isn’t, really. It’s rather more like a reverse honeymoon, I think.”
Branson scoffed. “A honeymoon in a barn? Reckon I’ve got a fair bit more pride than you have.”
“Grand surroundings aren’t everything.”
“Glad to hear you think so,” Branson said, smiling warmly.
Sybil eyed him for a moment, and then cleared her throat. “Branson -”
“I think it would be all right if you called me Tom now,” he interrupted.
“I suppose you’re right,” Sybil replied. “Tom.”
“Sybil.”
Something warm flushed through her chest at the way he said her name. It had never sounded like that before, coming from anyone else.
“Tom,” she said softly, testing the word, “the thing is, I know that we’re not properly married yet, but do you want to - or, do you think we ought to - that is, what I mean to say -” Sybil could feel a blush climbing up her chest to her neck and into her cheeks. It was so silly, really - there was no shame in a frank discussion of such things with the man who would soon be her husband. Yet she could not seem to make the words come out. Frustrated, she leaned forward and kissed him, hoping her actions would communicate something her words could not.
After a moment, Branson pulled away, exhaling an odd sort of sigh. “Don’t think I’m not tempted, but...” he paused, seeming to struggling for the right words as much as she had. It was strange indeed to see Tom Branson at a loss. “We’re hunkered down in a dank old barn. Doesn’t seem the place,” he said finally.
“Only I’m trying to be practical,” Sybil said. “If you ruin me, it won’t matter if they catch us. We’d be as good as married and I’d be unfit to marry anyone they’d throw at me. Then they might as well let us go.”
“I don’t want to ruin you,” Branson replied, grimacing at Sybil’s choice of words. “I want to marry you. This isn’t about beating your family in a game of chase. I want to do this right. I want it right there in ink that I’m your husband and you’re my wife, and nobody can say a word about it. In any case, there’ve been plenty of ‘ruined’ ladies, as you say, who’ve found themselves in patched up marriages that swept the whole thing under a rug. I don’t wish to speak ill of your parents, but I wouldn’t put it past them if they thought they could manage it. They’d think it was best for you.”
Sybil chewed her bottom lip at the thought of her parents. Sometime in the next few hours, her empty bed and her note would be discovered. Her stomach turned over as the gravity of their situation came rushing back to her. It was easy not to think about what she was really doing, what with all the excitement of the last few hours. She had successfully kept thoughts of their uncertain future at bay for hours, but now she could not help but consider what might happen to them.
What if her parents came after them? What if they found them before they could get to Ireland? What if they had Tom arrested, or sent away? What if they tried to force her into a marriage to stifle the scandal?
What if, when all was said and done and she and Branson were married, they never spoke to her ever again?
“Do you know, Tom, I’m rather frightened,” Sybil whispered.
He moved across the blanket to sit right next to her, drawing her head to his shoulder and wrapping an arm around her back. He made a gentle shushing sound.
“Don’t fret about things that haven’t even happened,” he said softly. “It’ll turn out all right for us, love. You’ll see. We’ll get some rest here and then carry on, and it’ll be all right. I know it will.”
Sybil nodded, pressing herself against the solid warmth of him. “I’m glad we’re here together. I wouldn’t want to do this with anyone else.”
“Likewise,” Branson replied, and he kissed the top of her head. “Are you cold?”
“A little,” she said.
Branson sighed. “I’m sorry we couldn’t stay some place with a fireplace and hot food, a proper place. It isn’t the money that’s the problem. I just didn’t think it safe.”
Sybil lifted her head and kissed him. “It’s no matter. We’ll just have to keep each other warm.”
And Sybil fell asleep in that dingy haymow a short time later, with Branson’s arms around her, their hands clasped together at her stomach, and his face pressed against her hair.
***
The rest of their journey to Liverpool went so without incident that Sybil began to wonder what troubles awaited them further down the road. After resting in the haymow for a few hours, they woke at midday and continued on their way, walking in the woods along the road so that they might not be seen by passing travellers. As they walked, Branson picked bits of hay from her hair and teased her by informing her that she snored.
“They’re very delicate, ladylike snores, mind,” he said, turning to look at her. He reached out and tapped the end of her nose with his forefinger. “Must be that aristocratic nose of yours.”
Sybil wrinkled the offending body part at him. “I think I prefer snoring, be it ladylike or not, to all the talking you do in your sleep. Don’t you have your fill of the sound of your own voice during the daytime?”
Branson scowled at her, blushing, and made a grab for her hat.
“Rude!” Sybil cried as she hopped out of his reach, their laughter echoing in the stillness of the damp late winter woods.
Late in the afternoon, a man driving an empty wagon passed on the road, and obliged them by giving them a lift as far as Skipton. There they felt safe catching a train, and bought two tickets on the evening run to Liverpool. They had a few hours to spend, and so they found a pub around the corner from the train station. There, Branson bought Sybil her very first pint of ale, and watched her drink it with a strange little smile on his face.
“What is it?” Sybil asked, self-conscious. “I suppose I’ve got froth on my nose, haven’t I?”
“No,” Branson replied. “It’s just... That’s the first thing I’ve ever bought for you myself.”
Touched, Sybil smiled. “Why Mr. Branson, I’m shocked. Here I thought you were a socialist, and opposed to capitalism.”
“Certainly,” he laughed. “But I’m also a human being, and the idea that it’s within my power to make you happy makes me very happy indeed.”
Sybil looked at him in the warm amber glow of the pub’s low lights, and marvelled at the ability he had to arrest her with his earnestness, as though he could not help but express his feelings for her at every turn. She had never met anyone like him before.
They ate the rest of their meal in companionable silence, and then walked back to the station hand in hand. They boarded a short time later, and it seemed to Sybil that the train had scarcely pulled away from the platform before she had dozed off, her head resting on Branson’s shoulder.
***
“I’m not really all that fond of pearls, to be quite honest with you,” Sybil said.
It was early morning, and the two of them were stood in the shop of a Liverpool pawnbroker, selling Sybil’s jewellery. The money was needed for their crossing to Dublin, but much to Sybil’s irritation, Branson seemed to have reservations about using the jewels she’d brought for this exact purpose. The pawnbroker stood behind his counter with Sybil’s pearls and garnets and jet laid out before him, a bemused expression on his face.
“Are you sure?” Branson asked, frowning. “Only it seems wrong somehow, you having to sell your pretty things just so we can get -”
“Tom Branson,” Sybil said firmly, “I really do insist. You’re an enlightened thinker - consider it my equal contribution to our venture. I can’t have you spending every penny you have on the train and our passage. Or, if you’d rather, you can consider it an act of socialist rebellion. I doubt anyone in my family ever worked for the money used to buy it.”
A smile tugged at the corner of Branson’s mouth, and he nodded. “All right then, if you’re certain. With any luck someday I’ll be able to replace some of it.”
“Goodness! I would love to have a - what did you call it once? Oh, a ‘shallow expression of bourgeois sentimentality!’”
“I did not call your jewellery that,” Branson protested.
“You did so!” Sybil replied, watching as the pawnbroker tallied the value of her jewellery. “Papa got me a pair of opal earrings for my eighteenth birthday, and the very first time I wore them out, you sat up in the driver’s seat carrying on about the dreadfulness of the ruling class’s excesses the whole time as though I was wearing pure gold from head to toe. Honestly!”
As the pawnbroker counted off a tidy pile of pound notes and handed them to her, Sybil glanced up to see Branson staring at her fondly. He gave his head a shake and leaned in, kissing her cheek.
Sybil felt her face flush with happiness and a little embarrassment. She tucked the money into her pocketbook, thanked the pawnbroker, and took the arm Branson offered her as they walked out of the shop and back in the direction of the docks.
It was a sunny day, and the breeze held warmth that hinted at the coming spring. Sybil was conscious of the money in her pocketbook, for she was unused to carrying large sums of money. Or any money, really. She glanced at Branson.
“Do you not mind my carrying the money, then?” she asked.
Branson frowned. “Why would I mind it? It’s your money.”
“It’s our money,” Sybil corrected. “It just strikes me as strange, I suppose. I was never allowed money before. Credit wherever we went, certainly, but it’s not quite the same, is it?”
“No, it isn’t,” Branson agreed. “Only the thing is it’s not my place to allow or not allow you anything.”
“And when we’re married?”
Branson stopped short by the side of the road and regarded her with a curious look on his face. “I don’t wish to marry you to keep you under my thumb. I want to marry you because I love you, and because you’re my dearest friend, and I want to be with you always. Everything else I reckon we can sort out between us, as equal partners with equal interests, as we go along.”
“All right,” Sybil agreed, unable to find the words to say anything more. To hear Branson’s somewhat radical ideas about marriage summed up thusly was strange yet comforting all at once.
“All right,” Branson repeated, smiling. He put her arm in his once more, and they continued to the docks to buy passage on the next ferry to Dublin.
***
“I wish I had a camera so I could take your picture,” Branson said, raising his voice to be heard over the strong breeze that blew around them, and the cries of the seabirds that tracked the ferry. “The sea air does you good, milady.”
Sybil smiled and turned her head away, watching as the west coast of England receded into the horizon. Soon there would be a sea between her and her family. She wondered what they were doing, how they were doing. With a stab of regret, she hoped Mama and Papa weren’t too worried.
After all, she thought with a sigh, there was nothing to worry about. She was a young woman with a free will of her own, which she was using to choose her own future.
There was nothing to worry about at all.
“Are you ever going to stop calling me that?” she asked, glancing at him.
“What?”
“’My lady,’” she replied.
“Probably not,” Branson shrugged. “Do you prefer ‘Your Ladyship’?”
Sybil laughed and gripped the railing in her hands as she leaned over to catch a glimpse of the grey sea beneath them, churning white against the hull of the ferry. When she stood up straight, Branson was leaning his forearms on the railing, gazing west, towards Ireland.
He stood there with his cap tipped back on his head, the strong wind pulling strands of fair hair loose. Gulls coasted on the air, and a group of small children played nearby, their laughter almost lost on the breeze. All at once Sybil felt young and free, as though her heart had wings that could carry her high over any obstacle. In that moment she believed truly that whatever trials they faced, whatever disappointments and heartaches and misunderstandings, there would never be a moment in this life when Tom Branson’s face would not be as dear to her as anything could possibly be.
It was a feeling that was at once thrilling and frightening. For it was only a belief, and there were many things she had once believed which turned out to be untrue.
Branson seemed to sense her stare, for his eyes slid to her and the corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile. “What’re you thinking on so hard?”
“I don’t know,” she lied. “It’s rather difficult to put into words.”
Branson gave her a curious look, and then reached over and took her hand in his.
“This’ll be quite the tale to tell our grandchildren someday, don’t you think?” he asked, after a moment.
Sybil thought of it, of sons and daughters raised to believe that they could be anything they wished in the world, that they could have any kind of life, and for it to really be true. Their children might go to university and become doctors, lawyers, politicians. Sybil glanced over to find Branson watching her. He believed that all of this was possible, in spite of the odds, in spite of everything. Sybil felt as though every minute cell in her body leaned towards that, towards him, towards hope, and she closed her eyes and prayed that somehow it might all come true.
“Yes,” she said, squeezing his hand and standing closer to him, relishing the feel of the salt spray on her face. “Yes, I rather think it will be.”
Branson’s arm came around her shoulders, holding her close, and Sybil wondered whether one leap of faith, one act of bravery, was enough to purchase one a life filled with nothing but the happiness she felt at that very moment.
Part III