Downton Abbey Fic: Driving Lessons (6/?)
Title: Driving Lessons (6/?)
Author: mrstater
Fandom: Downton Abbey
Characters/Pairing: Sibyl Crawley/Tom Branson, Gwen Dawson
Rating & Warnings: PG for innuendo
Format & Word Count: WIP, 2598 words in this chapter
Summary: Sometimes, when you get lost on the road, you have to stop and ask for directions.
Author's Note: I've really got to stop saying the next chapter will be the last one, because it never is, lol. I suppose I could have kept going and made this chapter the last, but it was getting long. So I'll just say there will be at least one more chapter after this one. Only planning on one, but I may well end up surprised again at the direction (and length!) it takes and following the plot bunnies, wherever they take me. Fingers crossed that's a good direction, in the case of this chapter! Thanks again to all who are following this story. It's a pleasure to share the Sybil/Branson love with such lovely people. :)
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five |
Part Six
Nearly a fortnight later Sybil receives a note from Branson, by way of Anna, asking if she can make up an excuse to be in Thirsk for an evening; he has someplace he'd like to take her which he believes will be of interest to her. This comes as quite a surprise, as Branson has left her in no doubt that he doesn't share her opinion that putting an end to their romance is for the best. She was sure he'd want nothing to do with her beyond the required shuttling her around to the village or Ripon--which she has avoided as much as possible, and then only in the company of her mother or sisters--and, indeed, for his part, he's not spoken a word to her beyond yes, m'lady since the day she broke it off with him, though his eyes in the mirror have spoken volumes to her of his longing.
Yet here he is, carrying on almost exactly as he always has with her, as if nothing, good or ill, has happened between them.
Well---perhaps not exactly. The silence between them as he hands her up into the car and speeds away from Downton is not the companionable one of friends or even the polite one of mistress and servant. Tension pulls between the back of the car and the driver's seat, the air almost electrified with Branson's lingering hurt and anger and Sybil's own sorrow and regret that it had to come to this.
So her astonishment is all the greater when Branson pulls the car over to the side of the road where they usually do to move seats.
"You'll still let me drive?" she asks, blinking at him in disbelief.
" Just because we're not kissing anymore doesn't mean we have to give up all our covert activities. And you've not had much opportunity to drive after dark. "
Warmth prickles Sybil's cheeks at his frankness--and underlying flirtation--but she steadies herself with the reminder that Branson, whether flirting or simply conversing, is never anything less than frank with anyone. She doesn’t look away demurely, instead smiling her relief that he is not so hurt that he cannot be friends with her. "Oh, I'm so glad!"
But her blush deepens when, after assisting her down from the back seat, Branson keeps hold of her hand and gazes at her intently.
"Anyway," he says, the corners of his mouth curving slightly upward, "I don't believe I've kissed you for the last time, Lady Sybil."
She would rebuke him for taking liberties, but his pairing of her title with the reference to their romance--and dear God, the intensity of his eyes--nonplusses her. Then, abruptly, his hand releases hers, leaving her with the sensation that her fingers are cold despite her glove, and he boosts her up by her elbow into the driver's seat. She sits, gripping the steering wheel with hands that now sweat profusely inside her kid gloves, until she has recovered from a wave of dizziness brought on by the disconcerting moment.
It gets better before it gets worse, however, as Branson doesn't immediately come around to his side of the car. Instead, he opens up the back, and Sybil glances over her shoulder to see him remove his hat and high leather driving gloves, tossing them carelessly into the rear seat. When he begins to undo the buttons across the front of his coat, she whips back around to face the front of the car, but her eyes stray more than once to watch his reflection in the mirror as he changes his chauffeur's uniform for an ordinary suit of clothes.
"Going incognito?" Sybil asks when he finally comes around to the front, trying not to be too obvious in her admiration of the grey tie and cap that bring out the colour of his eyes or the way his hair spills out from beneath the brim, though Branson's broad grin gives her the suspicion that she might not have been entirely successful in that endeavour.
"Now, I can't very well turn up where we're going wearing chauffer's livery and not driving, can I?"
He slides into his seat, and Sybil starts the car and turns back onto the road in the direction Branson had been driving.
"Where are we going, anyway?"
"Thirsk."
Sybil must concentrate on the unhelpfulness of his answer to distract herself from how attractive she finds his smirk and raised eyebrow when she glances sideways at him. "So you said--but where in Thirsk? A political meeting?"
"We may be meeting some people who may be political, yes."
Sybil shoots him a look of exasperation, but as her eyes turn back to the road she laughs quietly. "I see you're determined to cloak our destination in mystery. I suppose that makes it even more exciting."
"I prefer to think of it as a surprise. Though I'm glad you're excited about it."
The conversation lapses, Branson apparently expecting Sybil to continue, she unable to do so because she's not confident she can without returning his flirtation. It's impossible to interpret his words and actions in any other way than spoken and done with the intent to woo. Her natural impulse is to give in to his confident persistence which she honestly finds appealing, but she clutches the steering wheel again as if keeping control of herself as well as the car, half-tempted to turn around in the road and return home, if they can't have an outing together as friends without the undercurrent of more. Understandably they require time for the romantic feelings they have for each other to fade, but Branson seems determined not to let them.
Sybil presses the gas pedal deeper into the floor, accelerating as fast as she has yet dared to drive. Doesn't Branson realise this decision isn't any easier for her to accept than it is for him? But she does because it's for the best, for both of them. Because she cares more for his dreams than she does about her own.
His dream is her dream now.
Heaven help her if she does anything to jeopardise his already tenuous chances of seeing them realised.
She's so lost in her own thoughts, which Branson makes no attempt to interrupt, that she doesn't notice the countryside slipping away until suddenly the bright lights shining out of dozens of windows alert her to their arrival in the twilit town of Thirsk.
"You can park just there," Branson's voice at last breaks the silence, and Sybil's eyes follow the line of his pointing finger to a not generous opening alongside the kerb, between a dogcart and a dented Ford with chipped red paint.
Sybil fleetingly thinks how ostentatious her father's Rolls Royce is going to look parked between the two vehicles, and also how the parking situation seems so representative of her own state of being caught between two eras, two worlds.
"Now I know why you've brought me here," she says as she lines the car up with the gap. "The parallel parking test you set me wasn't challenging enough."
"If you're not comfortable, I can do it for you."
"No, I'll do it," says Sybil, shaking her head.
Branson flashes her a grin of approval. "I know you will."
In the end she manages to squeeze into the tight space, with a little help from the horse pulling the dogcart, which spied a clump of grass growing up through a broken cobblestone and opened up the gap a little wider when he went to eat it. Even though Branson teases her about giving the horse credit for this portion of her examination, Sybil basks in her success and doesn't wait for him to get her door for her before alighting from the vehicle.
The instant her feet touch the pavement, she becomes aware of the strains of fiddles and flutes and a piano drifting out from the open upstairs windows of the public house before them, along with the telltale clamour of stamping feet, clapping hands, and voices raised in laughter. Sybil's stomach constricts as she looks up at Branson, stood beside her now and looking down at her for her reaction.
"You've brought me to...a dance?"
"A mate of mine was married this morning. He and a lot of the other lads in town are shipping out in a fortnight, so they decided to make the wedding supper a farewell party, as well."
"Good God!" cries Sybil, reflexively reaching out to clutch Branson's hand. "This isn't your way of telling me you've joined up, as well?"
She feels sick with fear and a sudden rush of shame that she's been so wrapped up in her own pursuits of learning to drive and kissing Branson that she's given little thought to the very real troubles in the world that threaten to disrupt all their lives. Indeed, the war has already taken its toll on their own household, Thomas--astonishingly--and William having joined up immediately, along with a number of the gardeners and groundskeepers. And of course the great talk is whether Cousin Matthew will go, and what that might mean for the estate and for Mary.
Branson's eyes hold her tenderly as he presses her hand in reassurance. "No, m'lady. Not yet, anyway." She lets out her breath, and he adds, "This is my way of telling you there are places where we can dance together, if we're patient."
Sybil's heart begins to pound, in tempo with the music coming from the wedding celebration, and she nearly throws her arms around Branson and dances with him right there in the street, elated that he has proved her wrong.
Just as quickly, she reminds herself that he hasn't proved anything at all.
"Branson, this doesn't--Gwen?"
For at that moment, the pub door swings open to reveal a copper-haired woman whose familiar pale face is lit by the same beaming smile she wore the day Sybil had the joy of giving the former housemaid the happiest news in her life. Close at her heels--to be precise, his hand rests intimately around her waist--follows a uniformed man about Branson's age.
Gwen freezes on the stoop. "Lady Sybil? Tom?"
Branson reaches out and takes her hands in greeting. "This is a treat! I didn't know you'd be here. You know the happy couple?"
"Helen operates the switchboard--and Peter stood up with John."
Gwen introduces her soldier, one Peter Masters, and as Branson shakes hands with him, Sybil asks, "You enjoy your work for Mr Bromwich, then?"
That Gwen's face could beam any brighter seems impossible, but somehow it does. "I feel I was born to be a secretary."
"Bromwich says she's the best secretary he's ever had, and he's had a few," says Mr Masters, and Gwen flushes, but Sybil is pleased to see that her smile doesn't falter modestly.
"I'll never be able to thank you properly for getting me the job, Lady Sybil."
"Your happiness is more than thanks enough," Sybil says. "And do let's dispense with the formality now we're free to really be friends."
"All right," Gwen says with a little uncertainty. She glances at Branson, and Sybil plainly sees the questions which she's dying to ask.
Apparently Branson does, too. Rubbing his hands together, he says, "Right. I'm an Irishman, and I've been stood outside a pub for ten minutes. Can I get anyone a drink?"
His joke breaks the tension, but when the two men retreat inside the establishment for a pint and Sybil links arms with Gwen for a stroll up the pavement, away from the noisy party, she finds herself at a loss to begin the conversation.
Thankfully, Gwen relieves her of that burden. "I'm still so surprised to see you, m'lad--Sybil, I mean. You're really here for the dance?" She glances over her shoulder, then back at Sybil, lowering her voice. "With Branson?"
"He's been teaching me to drive, you see..."
Sybil shakes her head at her own feeble effort at hiding the truth. Though not in the habit of confiding in Mary or Edith, at the moment Sybil can think of nothing she'd like better than to talk her troubles over with a person she now realises she's long regarded as a sister. Though Gwen hasn't expressly invited her to do so, Sybil can't imagine she would mind returning the favour of providing a listening ear and advice, if she has any to give.
So she tells her everything.
"Well, I'm not surprised, at least not on his part," Gwen says when Sybil has finished. "It's been obvious for months that Tom's taken a shine to you."
"But you're surprised that I feel the same way about him?" Sybil is, frankly, a little miffed at the idea that the very woman with whom she'd formed a close camaraderie whilst in service in her house might not expect the same disregard for class boundaries in romantic relationships, as well.
Gwen seems to catch Sybil's undertone. "I only mean that you weren't as obvious with your feelings as he was with his."
"I wasn't aware of my feelings," Sybil concedes, "till after you left."
"Truthfully, I thought it was a pity for Tom, because the pair of you had the stuff good matches are made of, if only he weren't the servant and you weren’t the lady. Only I see now I shouldn't have worried after him."
Sybil stops walking and turns to her friend. "You mean you don't think it's hopeless for us?"
She searches Gwen's face for an answer, but the former housemaid has years of experience schooling her features to mask her thoughts.
But after a moment, Gwen says, "I think I owe you an apology,"
"Whatever for?"
Gwen's eyes cut away guiltily before she drags them back up to meet Sybil's and says, her low voice a whisper of remorse, "For thinking that being well-born means your dreams are surely in your grasp. The truth is that if I followed my dreams I had nothing to lose. You've got everything."
The acuity of the observation produces a pang in Sybil's chest and makes a prick at the back of her eyes. She blinks quickly against the moisture, draws up her shoulders, and twitches her lips into a smile which she hopes is brave, but which she has a feeling looks more like the sardonic one Mary wears whenever someone manages to strike a chord. She hopes she doesn't sound like Mary when she says, "Thank you, Gwen. Truly, I appreciate that--though it doesn't exactly fill me with hope for a happy ending with Branson."
She tucks her arm through Gwen's again, and Gwen gives her a sad little smile. "I don't know if it's hopeless for you or not. But the world is changing, that much I'm sure of."
Sybil hmms her agreement, a reserved response to the idea which ordinarily fills her with an exhilarating sense of having a mission in life. "I suppose the question is whether I want to be the one who changes it."
They turn back toward the pub, where Sybil is unsurprised to see Branson stood by the door, watching them--waiting for her--and she thinks that right now it would be much easier to change the world by chaining herself to a railing and going on a hunger strike for women's rights.
Gwen releases her and gives her a gentle nudge toward Branson. "Maybe a dance will help you make up your mind."
Read Part Seven
Author: mrstater
Fandom: Downton Abbey
Characters/Pairing: Sibyl Crawley/Tom Branson, Gwen Dawson
Rating & Warnings: PG for innuendo
Format & Word Count: WIP, 2598 words in this chapter
Summary: Sometimes, when you get lost on the road, you have to stop and ask for directions.
Author's Note: I've really got to stop saying the next chapter will be the last one, because it never is, lol. I suppose I could have kept going and made this chapter the last, but it was getting long. So I'll just say there will be at least one more chapter after this one. Only planning on one, but I may well end up surprised again at the direction (and length!) it takes and following the plot bunnies, wherever they take me. Fingers crossed that's a good direction, in the case of this chapter! Thanks again to all who are following this story. It's a pleasure to share the Sybil/Branson love with such lovely people. :)
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five |
Part Six
Nearly a fortnight later Sybil receives a note from Branson, by way of Anna, asking if she can make up an excuse to be in Thirsk for an evening; he has someplace he'd like to take her which he believes will be of interest to her. This comes as quite a surprise, as Branson has left her in no doubt that he doesn't share her opinion that putting an end to their romance is for the best. She was sure he'd want nothing to do with her beyond the required shuttling her around to the village or Ripon--which she has avoided as much as possible, and then only in the company of her mother or sisters--and, indeed, for his part, he's not spoken a word to her beyond yes, m'lady since the day she broke it off with him, though his eyes in the mirror have spoken volumes to her of his longing.
Yet here he is, carrying on almost exactly as he always has with her, as if nothing, good or ill, has happened between them.
Well---perhaps not exactly. The silence between them as he hands her up into the car and speeds away from Downton is not the companionable one of friends or even the polite one of mistress and servant. Tension pulls between the back of the car and the driver's seat, the air almost electrified with Branson's lingering hurt and anger and Sybil's own sorrow and regret that it had to come to this.
So her astonishment is all the greater when Branson pulls the car over to the side of the road where they usually do to move seats.
"You'll still let me drive?" she asks, blinking at him in disbelief.
" Just because we're not kissing anymore doesn't mean we have to give up all our covert activities. And you've not had much opportunity to drive after dark. "
Warmth prickles Sybil's cheeks at his frankness--and underlying flirtation--but she steadies herself with the reminder that Branson, whether flirting or simply conversing, is never anything less than frank with anyone. She doesn’t look away demurely, instead smiling her relief that he is not so hurt that he cannot be friends with her. "Oh, I'm so glad!"
But her blush deepens when, after assisting her down from the back seat, Branson keeps hold of her hand and gazes at her intently.
"Anyway," he says, the corners of his mouth curving slightly upward, "I don't believe I've kissed you for the last time, Lady Sybil."
She would rebuke him for taking liberties, but his pairing of her title with the reference to their romance--and dear God, the intensity of his eyes--nonplusses her. Then, abruptly, his hand releases hers, leaving her with the sensation that her fingers are cold despite her glove, and he boosts her up by her elbow into the driver's seat. She sits, gripping the steering wheel with hands that now sweat profusely inside her kid gloves, until she has recovered from a wave of dizziness brought on by the disconcerting moment.
It gets better before it gets worse, however, as Branson doesn't immediately come around to his side of the car. Instead, he opens up the back, and Sybil glances over her shoulder to see him remove his hat and high leather driving gloves, tossing them carelessly into the rear seat. When he begins to undo the buttons across the front of his coat, she whips back around to face the front of the car, but her eyes stray more than once to watch his reflection in the mirror as he changes his chauffeur's uniform for an ordinary suit of clothes.
"Going incognito?" Sybil asks when he finally comes around to the front, trying not to be too obvious in her admiration of the grey tie and cap that bring out the colour of his eyes or the way his hair spills out from beneath the brim, though Branson's broad grin gives her the suspicion that she might not have been entirely successful in that endeavour.
"Now, I can't very well turn up where we're going wearing chauffer's livery and not driving, can I?"
He slides into his seat, and Sybil starts the car and turns back onto the road in the direction Branson had been driving.
"Where are we going, anyway?"
"Thirsk."
Sybil must concentrate on the unhelpfulness of his answer to distract herself from how attractive she finds his smirk and raised eyebrow when she glances sideways at him. "So you said--but where in Thirsk? A political meeting?"
"We may be meeting some people who may be political, yes."
Sybil shoots him a look of exasperation, but as her eyes turn back to the road she laughs quietly. "I see you're determined to cloak our destination in mystery. I suppose that makes it even more exciting."
"I prefer to think of it as a surprise. Though I'm glad you're excited about it."
The conversation lapses, Branson apparently expecting Sybil to continue, she unable to do so because she's not confident she can without returning his flirtation. It's impossible to interpret his words and actions in any other way than spoken and done with the intent to woo. Her natural impulse is to give in to his confident persistence which she honestly finds appealing, but she clutches the steering wheel again as if keeping control of herself as well as the car, half-tempted to turn around in the road and return home, if they can't have an outing together as friends without the undercurrent of more. Understandably they require time for the romantic feelings they have for each other to fade, but Branson seems determined not to let them.
Sybil presses the gas pedal deeper into the floor, accelerating as fast as she has yet dared to drive. Doesn't Branson realise this decision isn't any easier for her to accept than it is for him? But she does because it's for the best, for both of them. Because she cares more for his dreams than she does about her own.
His dream is her dream now.
Heaven help her if she does anything to jeopardise his already tenuous chances of seeing them realised.
She's so lost in her own thoughts, which Branson makes no attempt to interrupt, that she doesn't notice the countryside slipping away until suddenly the bright lights shining out of dozens of windows alert her to their arrival in the twilit town of Thirsk.
"You can park just there," Branson's voice at last breaks the silence, and Sybil's eyes follow the line of his pointing finger to a not generous opening alongside the kerb, between a dogcart and a dented Ford with chipped red paint.
Sybil fleetingly thinks how ostentatious her father's Rolls Royce is going to look parked between the two vehicles, and also how the parking situation seems so representative of her own state of being caught between two eras, two worlds.
"Now I know why you've brought me here," she says as she lines the car up with the gap. "The parallel parking test you set me wasn't challenging enough."
"If you're not comfortable, I can do it for you."
"No, I'll do it," says Sybil, shaking her head.
Branson flashes her a grin of approval. "I know you will."
In the end she manages to squeeze into the tight space, with a little help from the horse pulling the dogcart, which spied a clump of grass growing up through a broken cobblestone and opened up the gap a little wider when he went to eat it. Even though Branson teases her about giving the horse credit for this portion of her examination, Sybil basks in her success and doesn't wait for him to get her door for her before alighting from the vehicle.
The instant her feet touch the pavement, she becomes aware of the strains of fiddles and flutes and a piano drifting out from the open upstairs windows of the public house before them, along with the telltale clamour of stamping feet, clapping hands, and voices raised in laughter. Sybil's stomach constricts as she looks up at Branson, stood beside her now and looking down at her for her reaction.
"You've brought me to...a dance?"
"A mate of mine was married this morning. He and a lot of the other lads in town are shipping out in a fortnight, so they decided to make the wedding supper a farewell party, as well."
"Good God!" cries Sybil, reflexively reaching out to clutch Branson's hand. "This isn't your way of telling me you've joined up, as well?"
She feels sick with fear and a sudden rush of shame that she's been so wrapped up in her own pursuits of learning to drive and kissing Branson that she's given little thought to the very real troubles in the world that threaten to disrupt all their lives. Indeed, the war has already taken its toll on their own household, Thomas--astonishingly--and William having joined up immediately, along with a number of the gardeners and groundskeepers. And of course the great talk is whether Cousin Matthew will go, and what that might mean for the estate and for Mary.
Branson's eyes hold her tenderly as he presses her hand in reassurance. "No, m'lady. Not yet, anyway." She lets out her breath, and he adds, "This is my way of telling you there are places where we can dance together, if we're patient."
Sybil's heart begins to pound, in tempo with the music coming from the wedding celebration, and she nearly throws her arms around Branson and dances with him right there in the street, elated that he has proved her wrong.
Just as quickly, she reminds herself that he hasn't proved anything at all.
"Branson, this doesn't--Gwen?"
For at that moment, the pub door swings open to reveal a copper-haired woman whose familiar pale face is lit by the same beaming smile she wore the day Sybil had the joy of giving the former housemaid the happiest news in her life. Close at her heels--to be precise, his hand rests intimately around her waist--follows a uniformed man about Branson's age.
Gwen freezes on the stoop. "Lady Sybil? Tom?"
Branson reaches out and takes her hands in greeting. "This is a treat! I didn't know you'd be here. You know the happy couple?"
"Helen operates the switchboard--and Peter stood up with John."
Gwen introduces her soldier, one Peter Masters, and as Branson shakes hands with him, Sybil asks, "You enjoy your work for Mr Bromwich, then?"
That Gwen's face could beam any brighter seems impossible, but somehow it does. "I feel I was born to be a secretary."
"Bromwich says she's the best secretary he's ever had, and he's had a few," says Mr Masters, and Gwen flushes, but Sybil is pleased to see that her smile doesn't falter modestly.
"I'll never be able to thank you properly for getting me the job, Lady Sybil."
"Your happiness is more than thanks enough," Sybil says. "And do let's dispense with the formality now we're free to really be friends."
"All right," Gwen says with a little uncertainty. She glances at Branson, and Sybil plainly sees the questions which she's dying to ask.
Apparently Branson does, too. Rubbing his hands together, he says, "Right. I'm an Irishman, and I've been stood outside a pub for ten minutes. Can I get anyone a drink?"
His joke breaks the tension, but when the two men retreat inside the establishment for a pint and Sybil links arms with Gwen for a stroll up the pavement, away from the noisy party, she finds herself at a loss to begin the conversation.
Thankfully, Gwen relieves her of that burden. "I'm still so surprised to see you, m'lad--Sybil, I mean. You're really here for the dance?" She glances over her shoulder, then back at Sybil, lowering her voice. "With Branson?"
"He's been teaching me to drive, you see..."
Sybil shakes her head at her own feeble effort at hiding the truth. Though not in the habit of confiding in Mary or Edith, at the moment Sybil can think of nothing she'd like better than to talk her troubles over with a person she now realises she's long regarded as a sister. Though Gwen hasn't expressly invited her to do so, Sybil can't imagine she would mind returning the favour of providing a listening ear and advice, if she has any to give.
So she tells her everything.
"Well, I'm not surprised, at least not on his part," Gwen says when Sybil has finished. "It's been obvious for months that Tom's taken a shine to you."
"But you're surprised that I feel the same way about him?" Sybil is, frankly, a little miffed at the idea that the very woman with whom she'd formed a close camaraderie whilst in service in her house might not expect the same disregard for class boundaries in romantic relationships, as well.
Gwen seems to catch Sybil's undertone. "I only mean that you weren't as obvious with your feelings as he was with his."
"I wasn't aware of my feelings," Sybil concedes, "till after you left."
"Truthfully, I thought it was a pity for Tom, because the pair of you had the stuff good matches are made of, if only he weren't the servant and you weren’t the lady. Only I see now I shouldn't have worried after him."
Sybil stops walking and turns to her friend. "You mean you don't think it's hopeless for us?"
She searches Gwen's face for an answer, but the former housemaid has years of experience schooling her features to mask her thoughts.
But after a moment, Gwen says, "I think I owe you an apology,"
"Whatever for?"
Gwen's eyes cut away guiltily before she drags them back up to meet Sybil's and says, her low voice a whisper of remorse, "For thinking that being well-born means your dreams are surely in your grasp. The truth is that if I followed my dreams I had nothing to lose. You've got everything."
The acuity of the observation produces a pang in Sybil's chest and makes a prick at the back of her eyes. She blinks quickly against the moisture, draws up her shoulders, and twitches her lips into a smile which she hopes is brave, but which she has a feeling looks more like the sardonic one Mary wears whenever someone manages to strike a chord. She hopes she doesn't sound like Mary when she says, "Thank you, Gwen. Truly, I appreciate that--though it doesn't exactly fill me with hope for a happy ending with Branson."
She tucks her arm through Gwen's again, and Gwen gives her a sad little smile. "I don't know if it's hopeless for you or not. But the world is changing, that much I'm sure of."
Sybil hmms her agreement, a reserved response to the idea which ordinarily fills her with an exhilarating sense of having a mission in life. "I suppose the question is whether I want to be the one who changes it."
They turn back toward the pub, where Sybil is unsurprised to see Branson stood by the door, watching them--waiting for her--and she thinks that right now it would be much easier to change the world by chaining herself to a railing and going on a hunger strike for women's rights.
Gwen releases her and gives her a gentle nudge toward Branson. "Maybe a dance will help you make up your mind."
Read Part Seven