Fic: Blackmail
Title: Blackmail
Fandom: Downton Abbey
Pairings: Branson/Sybil, (oh God please forgive me) Branson/Thomas
Rating: PG
Beta: asakiyume
Disclaimer: If it were mine, it would probably be the Sybil 'n' Branson ('n' Gwen) show.
Prompt: hc_bingo, blackmail.
Summary: Thomas needs a ride into Ripon to take advantage of a business opportunity. And he knows just how to get Branson to drive him there...
Thomas unfolded the paper, eyes on Branson - watching for a reaction - but Branson, puzzled, didn’t react till Thomas read, “My dearest Sybil - ”
Then Branson flinched.
Also on AO3, here.
Branson was halfway through the final polish of the Renault’s hood, reciting one of Sassoon’s new poems under his breath to keep himself awake - he’d been up late reading - when Thomas’s voice broke his concentration: “Such a good servant you are, giving the motor one last polish.”
Branson jumped. Thomas laughed, plucked a cigarette from his checkered waistcoat, and said, “I need a ride into Ripon.”
Good God. Bad enough how he bullied Daisy; did he think he could order the rest of them around now too, fancy acting-sergeant as he was? “I’d have to ask his lordship about that,” Branson said, evenly. “And I expect he’s in bed, so it will have to be tomorrow.”
Thomas took a drag on his cigarette and smiled. He looked like a Greek statue, with the moon on his face - or he would have, if his mouth weren’t so cruel and thin. Dracula might look like that: alluring but repulsive, all at once.
“No, you’ll take me tonight,” Thomas said, all that acting-sergeant arrogance in his voice.
Branson eyed him warily. Thomas was the worst sort of person. He liked to feel his power, like a cat playing with a mouse. “Why will I be doing that, now?”
Thomas flicked ash off his cigarette. His eyelids half-hooded his eyes, and that nasty little smile twitched at his mouth. Did he ever smile like a normal person, just because he was happy?
The joke in the servant’s hall was he had a clockwork heart, though Branson disagreed. “Machinery doesn’t bedevil you if you treat it well,” he’d pointed out.
“He’s got the devil in him, then,” Anna had replied matter-of-factly, and Branson couldn’t disagree.
Now Thomas blew out a stream of smoke, smirking. He lounged against the wall. “It’ll be worth your while,” he said. “Now, if you please.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Branson said incredulously, and took up his rag to attack the last of the polishing.
Thomas stubbed his cigarette, extracted a folded slip of paper from his waistcoat with such leisurely slowness that Branson found himself unable to look away, like a mouse caught in a cobra’s eye.
The paper looked almost ready to fall apart, the outer corners worn round. Thomas unfolded it, eyes on Branson - watching for a reaction - but Branson, puzzled, didn’t react till Thomas read, “My dearest Sybil - ”
Then Branson flinched. Thomas smiled. “I found that book you mentioned - ”
“Where did you get that?” Branson demanded.
“Found it,” said Thomas. He gave the paper a shake, and affected an Irish brogue as he read on. “and it’s been a comfort to me - ”
It was far from the most incriminating thing Branson had written Sybil, but - My dearest Sybil. The salutation would be more than incriminating enough if Thomas took it to Lord Grantham.
Thomas was taller than Branson, and heavier, and he’d enjoy nothing more than watching Branson try fighting him to get the letter back. That wouldn’t have stopped Branson - but even if he’d succeeded, what then? More than likely Thomas would tell Lord Grantham about Sybil and him, just for spite; and though Thomas wouldn’t have the letter anymore, his lordship would happily believe it of Branson, and he’d find more proof easy enough when he went looking.
And then he’d rain hell on Sybil’s head.
(And sack Branson, of course, but Branson didn’t mind that so much. He did freelance for some papers in Dublin already, it couldn’t be too hard to get a more permanent job, with so many gone for the war.)
“ -Your most obedient servant,” Thomas finished. His lip curled back in a sneer. “What a good little servant you are.”
If Branson had anything heavier at hand than a rag, he’d have chucked it at Thomas’s head. “What do you want?”
Thomas folded the letter so sharply that one of the creases tore. Branson winced, and cursed himself, because it made Thomas smile. “I’ll have the motor out now, if you please,” Thomas said, drawling the order in an approximation of Lord Grantham’s voice.
Branson clenched his jaw, and fetched his driving gloves.
***
A scrawny rat scuttled past the beams of his headlights as Branson maneuvered the car into a narrow alley behind a squat, ivy-covered brick house. He’d expected some seedy bar and a lot of drunks who might do God knows what to the Renault, but this place looked deserted. “What’s this, then?” he asked.
“Business opportunity,” Thomas said. He swung out of the car, tilting his bowler hat to a jaunty angle. “Just getting some comforts for our fallen heroes.”
“What? You can’t just steal it from the cellar again?” Branson said.
“Nothing like that,” Thomas said. “Just some pictures. The sort of thing Lord Grantham doesn’t keep in his library - at least, in the public areas.” He pushed back a screen of ivy, revealing a battered wooden door. “Coming?”
Branson hesitated. He ought to stay and guard the car, probably; but the streets seemed deserted enough, and sitting in it would just draw attention.
Besides, Branson was curious. That always was his downfall.
He caught up with Thomas just as the door opened. A blonde woman, pretty enough but cold-eyed as Thomas, scowled out at them. “Brought a bodyguard this time?” she said, eyeing Branson. “Bit scrawny for it, he is.”
“Lettie,” said Thomas, and kissed the woman’s hand with an exaggerated flourish.
Lettie’s lip curled up. “Come on in, then,” she said.
A paraffin lamp guttered on the table, and the smell reminded Branson briefly of his childhood; only in his mother’s flat the table would have been swept clean, not piled with newspapers and dotted with crumbs, and there wouldn’t be that smell of mildew and mouse droppings rising beneath the paraffin.
“It stinks,” said Thomas, wrinkling his nose.
“D’you think abandoned houses have maid service?” Lettie demanded. She swept the newspapers off the table with her arm, and cast herself in a chair, legs sprawled like a man’s. Branson felt uncomfortable. She really would’ve been pretty if the coldness of her eyes didn’t suggest that maybe she wore a collection of her enemies’ teeth around her neck.
“Sit down then,” Lettie said, and uncorked a bottle of gin. Thomas took the only other chair, so Branson stayed by the door. The headiness of cheap gin drove away the stench of mildew as Lettie filled two dented tin cups. “Bottoms up!” she ordered.
Thomas kicked back the cup. “So what’ve you got for me?” he asked.
“Splendid things,” said Lettie. She unlocked a strongbox beneath the table and brought up a sheath of photographs, and spread them out as easy as a lady’s maid laying out handkerchiefs. “Here’s a nice one, very popular with the lads,” she began, holding up a photo of two beautiful girls kissing, positioned to show their splendid breasts at full advantage.
An uncomfortable flush rushed through Branson’s body, and he looked away at once, staring at the great drifts of cobweb in the corners. He hadn’t been with a girl in ages, because of Sybil: because it seemed unfair to take his pleasures elsewhere while she had to remain chaste and pure.
That didn’t mean he didn’t burn.
“And these, of course - awful popular with public school gents - ”
Sybil’s letter…practically falling apart, it had been, with those little rips where the creases crossed, and the corners worn down. Like she carried it around in a pocket and read it, again and again.
Had she noticed she’d lost it yet?
“And this un’s French, if you can believe, you’d think they’d have better things to do just now…”
If she had, she’d be half mad with worry. He had to get it back.
Another round of gin splashed in the cups, and Branson’s head swam from the fumes. He’d been up half last night reading, and he was so tired. “And here’s a Greek boy I saved up special for you, Thomas,” said Lettie. “Go on then; what do you think?”
“The girls sell better,” said Thomas, but he held up the card to look at it better and Branson caught sight of it: a naked young man draped on a rock, muscled like a Greek statue. The image seemed to stick in Branson’s eyes even as he tried to blink it away, and he lost his balance and stumbled against a stack of packing cases.
He hadn’t been with a fellow in - ages, it had been. It wasn’t a particular vice of his; but any port in a storm.
The clatter caught Lettie and Thomas’s attention, and they were eyeing him critically when his vision cleared. “He’s not up to your usual standard, this one,” Lettie said, and he felt suddenly quite exposed in his shirtsleeves.
“Oh, he’s pretty enough,” Thomas said negligently. He drank the rest of the gin, eyeing Branson over the rim, and his cheeks flushed red as wine. Branson’s face flushed too, but he forced himself not to look away.
He had an idea how to get that letter back now.
***
Once he’d wrapped up his business, Thomas made Branson stow two boxes of pictures in the boot. “It’s an awful lot,” Branson said, slamming the boot shut.
“They’ll sell out within the month,” Thomas said, trying to get into the backseat and falling back with a grunt. Branson caught his arm to steady him, and Thomas caught his breath.
Oh, yes, this was going to be easy.
“Even the Greek?” said Branson.
“Don’t think he’ll sell?” Thomas said.
“I’d buy one,” said Branson, and met Thomas’s eyes for a moment; then looked hastily away, like a blushing girl, and got in the drivers’ seat. It would be all right, he thought, starting the car. Thomas was attractive enough, in his way.
“Thought you was in love with Lady Sybil,” Thomas said, spreading himself across the back seat.
“I’m not likely to get anywhere with her, now am I?” Branson said, and felt cheap and unclean for saying such a thing; and maybe Thomas heard that in his voice, because he laughed, and Branson’s hopeful thought about Thomas’s attractions collapsed into ashes.
But Thomas didn’t speak again as they drove out of Ripon, and he was pretty enough as long as he kept quiet. Branson’s hands grew sweaty in his gloves. He stripped gloves off and grasped the wheel in his bare hands. His heart beat a little too fast, and it was not unpleasant. God, it had been a long time.
He downshifted. The gears ground horribly, and he winced and apologized silently to his poor Renault. “What’s that?” Thomas asked.
“Engine trouble,” Branson said, and pulled up on the verge. “I’ll just pop out and…check the engine.”
He gave the bonnet a consoling pat before he opened it. The precise interlocking engine calmed him: here was simplicity, here was something he understood. And then he was awash with misgivings. Thomas would see through this fool plan like glass, and even if he didn’t, what chance it would work? Thomas seemed the type to take his pleasures: he might not bother taking off his waistcoat, and how could Branson get at the letter?
But if it had even a tenth chance of success, surely he had to take it. What if Thomas tried to blackmail Sybil next?
He slammed the bonnet shut, and for the second time that evening jumped in surprise at the sight of Thomas, who leaned against the car with a cigarette dangling from his long fingers. “All fixed, then?” Thomas said, and took a drag.
“She’ll get us home, anyway,” Branson said.
Thomas blew a smoke ring. It floated, glowing, in the moonlight. “Never knew why they call cars she,” he commented, holding out the cigarette to Branson. Branson hesitated. “It’s lucky I found that letter,” Thomas said, lazy-eyed, and Branson took the cigarette to give him something to distract him from Thomas.
He coughed on it: he didn’t smoke much. He felt a little sick.
Thomas laughed and took the cigarette back, and ground it to ash beneath his boot, and swung around to pin Branson against the car bonnet. Thomas pressed his hips against the car, and grinned when Branson drew a sharp breath, though it was as much panic as lust.
He hadn’t realized how tall Thomas was; and how much larger than Branson, and how unyielding the car against his back. Thomas’s hands flickered lightly down Branson’s waistcoat buttons, and Branson grabbed his wrists. “Is this part of the blackmail?” he blurted, and cursed himself, because that didn’t matter, he was doing this to get the letter back; except it did matter, horribly, and he felt sick to his stomach.
“No,” said Thomas, as if affronted by the question, and began to draw away.
Giddy relief burst low in Branson’s stomach. “All right then,” he said, and his hands rose to Thomas’s waistcoat. His hand trembled so that he tore loose the top button, and Thomas hissed and slapped his hand away.
“Like I’d blackmail the likes of you for that,” he said.
Affronted for all the wrong reasons apparently. “Work on your sweet talk,” Branson snapped.
Thomas just started in on his own buttons. “Why waste it on you?” he asked, and in that moment Branson hated him. “What, do you call her my lady when you fuck her in the backseat?”
Branson slammed his fist into Thomas’s face. Thomas reeled back, and Branson lunged after. He slammed Thomas to the ground, knocking the breath out of him. “Don’t you dare talk about Sybil like that,” he hissed, yanking Thomas’s waistcoat so the buttons popped free. The letter poked out of his pocket.
“Or what?” gasped Thomas. “You’ll - lecture me - ah!” He grabbed Branson’s wrist just as Branson got the letter from his pocket, his grip bruising tight. “Damn you!” His other hand snaked out, grabbing Branson’s other wrist. Branson kicked him in the knee. “Hell! What’ll you do, lecture me about Marxist theory?”
“No,” Branson snapped, clenching his fist round the letter. “I’ll tell Major Clarkson you tried to have your way with me, and you’ll have the shiner to prove my story.”
“He won’t care,” Thomas snarled, all bravado, but his face was very pale under the moon.
“He will when I tell him you’ve been bothering the soldiers under your care,” Branson said, and was oddly invigorated at his own vile scheme.
“That isn’t - ”
“True?” Branson said scornfully. No wonder Thomas was so awful all the time, there was a giddy pleasure in it. Lead us not into temptation - “Everyone’ll believe it of you; it’s the kind of thing you’d do. That one that killed himself right after you made acting-sergeant - ”
Thomas’s forehead smashed against Branson’s cheek. Branson fell off him and rolled to his feet, fists up, blood pumping. He was going to lose and he didn’t care, as long as he knocked Thomas’s face in first, he’d hold Thomas down and he would feed that stupid letter to him -
Except Thomas wasn’t coming after him. “Come on then!” Branson barked, and Thomas lurched to his feet.
But he didn’t spring on Branson, only stumbled against the hedgerow. “I didn’t have nothing to do with that,” Thomas muttered, voice clogged, and abruptly Branson’s evil glee fell away and he felt empty and awful, because maybe Thomas hadn’t got a clockwork heart after all.
He opened his fists and looked down at his crumpled letter to Sybil. One of the words was water-blotted. Probably a spill, not a tear, because it had been a cheerful letter; and he liked to imagine her rereading it, perhaps, during quick breaks at the hospital, to cheer her on hard days.
He couldn’t imagine how it would hurt him to be responsible - even just to be accused of being responsible - for hurting her.
“I’m sorry, Thomas,” he said.
Thomas regained control of himself. “Oh sod off,” he snapped. “You hate me anyway, don’t pretend you don’t.” He drew a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, hands trembling. “Waste of time to sweet talk you, you’d know it was all lies.”
Branson plucked the still burning match from his hand, and lit the letter. The worn paper went up at once, nipping his fingers as the last of it burned, and he dropped it and carefully stomped the embers with his boot. “Well, maybe I like being lied to,” he said.
“’Course you do,” Thomas said sullenly. He blew a cloud of smoke, ghost-like in the night. “You know she doesn’t love you really,” he said. “They never do, with the likes of us.”
“You’re wrong,” Branson said.
“You’re that sure she loves you, then?” said Thomas, and his sneer was back.
“No,” said Branson. “But if she doesn’t, it’s not because I’m an Irish chauffeur.”
“Hardly need me to lie to you, when you lie to yourself so well,” Thomas muttered.
But Branson had seen letter, which she’d kept despite the danger and worn from a thousand readings, and felt surer than he had. And suddenly he felt almost a fondness for Thomas, for giving him that - never mind Thomas hadn’t meant to -
“What d’you plan to do?” Thomas demanded. “Live like a monk till her ladyship goes mad and runs away with you? Can you see her giving up Downton for a coldwater flat and a passel of Irish brats?”
Branson spent most of his thinking ahead on the glorious socialist future, not his personal life; but as far as it went, that was his plan. It sounded ridiculous spelt out like that. So she loved him enough to read his letter to pieces. She still might not want to give up everything for love, and who could blame her?
Thomas must have seen something in his face, because he held out his cigarette again, a mocking lilt to his eyebrows. Branson licked his dry lips. “I can’t,” he said. “It’d be betraying Sybil - ”
“Come off it,” said Thomas. “You can’t betray someone you’re not even courting.”
Thomas was wrong, somehow, Branson thought; maybe it wouldn’t be betraying Sybil, but it’d be a betrayal of something. But he was too tired to think it through; and then Thomas lifted Branson’s hand, fingers brushing Branson’s palm as he fitted the cigarette between Branson’s fingers. Branson caught Thomas’s wrist, and Thomas stepped in, lifting his other hand to Branson’s face, and kissed him.
Oh. Yes.
The cigarette slipped from Branson’s hand. It had been a very long time.
The car door handle dug into his back. Thomas reached around him and pulled the door open, and half-pushed Branson into the back seat. “Well then?” said Thomas. “What about it?”
“Oh sure,” said Branson. “If you’re lucky,” he told Thomas, breathing hard, only a little scornful, “I’ll even call you my lord."
Fandom: Downton Abbey
Pairings: Branson/Sybil, (oh God please forgive me) Branson/Thomas
Rating: PG
Beta: asakiyume
Disclaimer: If it were mine, it would probably be the Sybil 'n' Branson ('n' Gwen) show.
Prompt: hc_bingo, blackmail.
Summary: Thomas needs a ride into Ripon to take advantage of a business opportunity. And he knows just how to get Branson to drive him there...
Thomas unfolded the paper, eyes on Branson - watching for a reaction - but Branson, puzzled, didn’t react till Thomas read, “My dearest Sybil - ”
Then Branson flinched.
Also on AO3, here.
Branson was halfway through the final polish of the Renault’s hood, reciting one of Sassoon’s new poems under his breath to keep himself awake - he’d been up late reading - when Thomas’s voice broke his concentration: “Such a good servant you are, giving the motor one last polish.”
Branson jumped. Thomas laughed, plucked a cigarette from his checkered waistcoat, and said, “I need a ride into Ripon.”
Good God. Bad enough how he bullied Daisy; did he think he could order the rest of them around now too, fancy acting-sergeant as he was? “I’d have to ask his lordship about that,” Branson said, evenly. “And I expect he’s in bed, so it will have to be tomorrow.”
Thomas took a drag on his cigarette and smiled. He looked like a Greek statue, with the moon on his face - or he would have, if his mouth weren’t so cruel and thin. Dracula might look like that: alluring but repulsive, all at once.
“No, you’ll take me tonight,” Thomas said, all that acting-sergeant arrogance in his voice.
Branson eyed him warily. Thomas was the worst sort of person. He liked to feel his power, like a cat playing with a mouse. “Why will I be doing that, now?”
Thomas flicked ash off his cigarette. His eyelids half-hooded his eyes, and that nasty little smile twitched at his mouth. Did he ever smile like a normal person, just because he was happy?
The joke in the servant’s hall was he had a clockwork heart, though Branson disagreed. “Machinery doesn’t bedevil you if you treat it well,” he’d pointed out.
“He’s got the devil in him, then,” Anna had replied matter-of-factly, and Branson couldn’t disagree.
Now Thomas blew out a stream of smoke, smirking. He lounged against the wall. “It’ll be worth your while,” he said. “Now, if you please.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Branson said incredulously, and took up his rag to attack the last of the polishing.
Thomas stubbed his cigarette, extracted a folded slip of paper from his waistcoat with such leisurely slowness that Branson found himself unable to look away, like a mouse caught in a cobra’s eye.
The paper looked almost ready to fall apart, the outer corners worn round. Thomas unfolded it, eyes on Branson - watching for a reaction - but Branson, puzzled, didn’t react till Thomas read, “My dearest Sybil - ”
Then Branson flinched. Thomas smiled. “I found that book you mentioned - ”
“Where did you get that?” Branson demanded.
“Found it,” said Thomas. He gave the paper a shake, and affected an Irish brogue as he read on. “and it’s been a comfort to me - ”
It was far from the most incriminating thing Branson had written Sybil, but - My dearest Sybil. The salutation would be more than incriminating enough if Thomas took it to Lord Grantham.
Thomas was taller than Branson, and heavier, and he’d enjoy nothing more than watching Branson try fighting him to get the letter back. That wouldn’t have stopped Branson - but even if he’d succeeded, what then? More than likely Thomas would tell Lord Grantham about Sybil and him, just for spite; and though Thomas wouldn’t have the letter anymore, his lordship would happily believe it of Branson, and he’d find more proof easy enough when he went looking.
And then he’d rain hell on Sybil’s head.
(And sack Branson, of course, but Branson didn’t mind that so much. He did freelance for some papers in Dublin already, it couldn’t be too hard to get a more permanent job, with so many gone for the war.)
“ -Your most obedient servant,” Thomas finished. His lip curled back in a sneer. “What a good little servant you are.”
If Branson had anything heavier at hand than a rag, he’d have chucked it at Thomas’s head. “What do you want?”
Thomas folded the letter so sharply that one of the creases tore. Branson winced, and cursed himself, because it made Thomas smile. “I’ll have the motor out now, if you please,” Thomas said, drawling the order in an approximation of Lord Grantham’s voice.
Branson clenched his jaw, and fetched his driving gloves.
***
A scrawny rat scuttled past the beams of his headlights as Branson maneuvered the car into a narrow alley behind a squat, ivy-covered brick house. He’d expected some seedy bar and a lot of drunks who might do God knows what to the Renault, but this place looked deserted. “What’s this, then?” he asked.
“Business opportunity,” Thomas said. He swung out of the car, tilting his bowler hat to a jaunty angle. “Just getting some comforts for our fallen heroes.”
“What? You can’t just steal it from the cellar again?” Branson said.
“Nothing like that,” Thomas said. “Just some pictures. The sort of thing Lord Grantham doesn’t keep in his library - at least, in the public areas.” He pushed back a screen of ivy, revealing a battered wooden door. “Coming?”
Branson hesitated. He ought to stay and guard the car, probably; but the streets seemed deserted enough, and sitting in it would just draw attention.
Besides, Branson was curious. That always was his downfall.
He caught up with Thomas just as the door opened. A blonde woman, pretty enough but cold-eyed as Thomas, scowled out at them. “Brought a bodyguard this time?” she said, eyeing Branson. “Bit scrawny for it, he is.”
“Lettie,” said Thomas, and kissed the woman’s hand with an exaggerated flourish.
Lettie’s lip curled up. “Come on in, then,” she said.
A paraffin lamp guttered on the table, and the smell reminded Branson briefly of his childhood; only in his mother’s flat the table would have been swept clean, not piled with newspapers and dotted with crumbs, and there wouldn’t be that smell of mildew and mouse droppings rising beneath the paraffin.
“It stinks,” said Thomas, wrinkling his nose.
“D’you think abandoned houses have maid service?” Lettie demanded. She swept the newspapers off the table with her arm, and cast herself in a chair, legs sprawled like a man’s. Branson felt uncomfortable. She really would’ve been pretty if the coldness of her eyes didn’t suggest that maybe she wore a collection of her enemies’ teeth around her neck.
“Sit down then,” Lettie said, and uncorked a bottle of gin. Thomas took the only other chair, so Branson stayed by the door. The headiness of cheap gin drove away the stench of mildew as Lettie filled two dented tin cups. “Bottoms up!” she ordered.
Thomas kicked back the cup. “So what’ve you got for me?” he asked.
“Splendid things,” said Lettie. She unlocked a strongbox beneath the table and brought up a sheath of photographs, and spread them out as easy as a lady’s maid laying out handkerchiefs. “Here’s a nice one, very popular with the lads,” she began, holding up a photo of two beautiful girls kissing, positioned to show their splendid breasts at full advantage.
An uncomfortable flush rushed through Branson’s body, and he looked away at once, staring at the great drifts of cobweb in the corners. He hadn’t been with a girl in ages, because of Sybil: because it seemed unfair to take his pleasures elsewhere while she had to remain chaste and pure.
That didn’t mean he didn’t burn.
“And these, of course - awful popular with public school gents - ”
Sybil’s letter…practically falling apart, it had been, with those little rips where the creases crossed, and the corners worn down. Like she carried it around in a pocket and read it, again and again.
Had she noticed she’d lost it yet?
“And this un’s French, if you can believe, you’d think they’d have better things to do just now…”
If she had, she’d be half mad with worry. He had to get it back.
Another round of gin splashed in the cups, and Branson’s head swam from the fumes. He’d been up half last night reading, and he was so tired. “And here’s a Greek boy I saved up special for you, Thomas,” said Lettie. “Go on then; what do you think?”
“The girls sell better,” said Thomas, but he held up the card to look at it better and Branson caught sight of it: a naked young man draped on a rock, muscled like a Greek statue. The image seemed to stick in Branson’s eyes even as he tried to blink it away, and he lost his balance and stumbled against a stack of packing cases.
He hadn’t been with a fellow in - ages, it had been. It wasn’t a particular vice of his; but any port in a storm.
The clatter caught Lettie and Thomas’s attention, and they were eyeing him critically when his vision cleared. “He’s not up to your usual standard, this one,” Lettie said, and he felt suddenly quite exposed in his shirtsleeves.
“Oh, he’s pretty enough,” Thomas said negligently. He drank the rest of the gin, eyeing Branson over the rim, and his cheeks flushed red as wine. Branson’s face flushed too, but he forced himself not to look away.
He had an idea how to get that letter back now.
***
Once he’d wrapped up his business, Thomas made Branson stow two boxes of pictures in the boot. “It’s an awful lot,” Branson said, slamming the boot shut.
“They’ll sell out within the month,” Thomas said, trying to get into the backseat and falling back with a grunt. Branson caught his arm to steady him, and Thomas caught his breath.
Oh, yes, this was going to be easy.
“Even the Greek?” said Branson.
“Don’t think he’ll sell?” Thomas said.
“I’d buy one,” said Branson, and met Thomas’s eyes for a moment; then looked hastily away, like a blushing girl, and got in the drivers’ seat. It would be all right, he thought, starting the car. Thomas was attractive enough, in his way.
“Thought you was in love with Lady Sybil,” Thomas said, spreading himself across the back seat.
“I’m not likely to get anywhere with her, now am I?” Branson said, and felt cheap and unclean for saying such a thing; and maybe Thomas heard that in his voice, because he laughed, and Branson’s hopeful thought about Thomas’s attractions collapsed into ashes.
But Thomas didn’t speak again as they drove out of Ripon, and he was pretty enough as long as he kept quiet. Branson’s hands grew sweaty in his gloves. He stripped gloves off and grasped the wheel in his bare hands. His heart beat a little too fast, and it was not unpleasant. God, it had been a long time.
He downshifted. The gears ground horribly, and he winced and apologized silently to his poor Renault. “What’s that?” Thomas asked.
“Engine trouble,” Branson said, and pulled up on the verge. “I’ll just pop out and…check the engine.”
He gave the bonnet a consoling pat before he opened it. The precise interlocking engine calmed him: here was simplicity, here was something he understood. And then he was awash with misgivings. Thomas would see through this fool plan like glass, and even if he didn’t, what chance it would work? Thomas seemed the type to take his pleasures: he might not bother taking off his waistcoat, and how could Branson get at the letter?
But if it had even a tenth chance of success, surely he had to take it. What if Thomas tried to blackmail Sybil next?
He slammed the bonnet shut, and for the second time that evening jumped in surprise at the sight of Thomas, who leaned against the car with a cigarette dangling from his long fingers. “All fixed, then?” Thomas said, and took a drag.
“She’ll get us home, anyway,” Branson said.
Thomas blew a smoke ring. It floated, glowing, in the moonlight. “Never knew why they call cars she,” he commented, holding out the cigarette to Branson. Branson hesitated. “It’s lucky I found that letter,” Thomas said, lazy-eyed, and Branson took the cigarette to give him something to distract him from Thomas.
He coughed on it: he didn’t smoke much. He felt a little sick.
Thomas laughed and took the cigarette back, and ground it to ash beneath his boot, and swung around to pin Branson against the car bonnet. Thomas pressed his hips against the car, and grinned when Branson drew a sharp breath, though it was as much panic as lust.
He hadn’t realized how tall Thomas was; and how much larger than Branson, and how unyielding the car against his back. Thomas’s hands flickered lightly down Branson’s waistcoat buttons, and Branson grabbed his wrists. “Is this part of the blackmail?” he blurted, and cursed himself, because that didn’t matter, he was doing this to get the letter back; except it did matter, horribly, and he felt sick to his stomach.
“No,” said Thomas, as if affronted by the question, and began to draw away.
Giddy relief burst low in Branson’s stomach. “All right then,” he said, and his hands rose to Thomas’s waistcoat. His hand trembled so that he tore loose the top button, and Thomas hissed and slapped his hand away.
“Like I’d blackmail the likes of you for that,” he said.
Affronted for all the wrong reasons apparently. “Work on your sweet talk,” Branson snapped.
Thomas just started in on his own buttons. “Why waste it on you?” he asked, and in that moment Branson hated him. “What, do you call her my lady when you fuck her in the backseat?”
Branson slammed his fist into Thomas’s face. Thomas reeled back, and Branson lunged after. He slammed Thomas to the ground, knocking the breath out of him. “Don’t you dare talk about Sybil like that,” he hissed, yanking Thomas’s waistcoat so the buttons popped free. The letter poked out of his pocket.
“Or what?” gasped Thomas. “You’ll - lecture me - ah!” He grabbed Branson’s wrist just as Branson got the letter from his pocket, his grip bruising tight. “Damn you!” His other hand snaked out, grabbing Branson’s other wrist. Branson kicked him in the knee. “Hell! What’ll you do, lecture me about Marxist theory?”
“No,” Branson snapped, clenching his fist round the letter. “I’ll tell Major Clarkson you tried to have your way with me, and you’ll have the shiner to prove my story.”
“He won’t care,” Thomas snarled, all bravado, but his face was very pale under the moon.
“He will when I tell him you’ve been bothering the soldiers under your care,” Branson said, and was oddly invigorated at his own vile scheme.
“That isn’t - ”
“True?” Branson said scornfully. No wonder Thomas was so awful all the time, there was a giddy pleasure in it. Lead us not into temptation - “Everyone’ll believe it of you; it’s the kind of thing you’d do. That one that killed himself right after you made acting-sergeant - ”
Thomas’s forehead smashed against Branson’s cheek. Branson fell off him and rolled to his feet, fists up, blood pumping. He was going to lose and he didn’t care, as long as he knocked Thomas’s face in first, he’d hold Thomas down and he would feed that stupid letter to him -
Except Thomas wasn’t coming after him. “Come on then!” Branson barked, and Thomas lurched to his feet.
But he didn’t spring on Branson, only stumbled against the hedgerow. “I didn’t have nothing to do with that,” Thomas muttered, voice clogged, and abruptly Branson’s evil glee fell away and he felt empty and awful, because maybe Thomas hadn’t got a clockwork heart after all.
He opened his fists and looked down at his crumpled letter to Sybil. One of the words was water-blotted. Probably a spill, not a tear, because it had been a cheerful letter; and he liked to imagine her rereading it, perhaps, during quick breaks at the hospital, to cheer her on hard days.
He couldn’t imagine how it would hurt him to be responsible - even just to be accused of being responsible - for hurting her.
“I’m sorry, Thomas,” he said.
Thomas regained control of himself. “Oh sod off,” he snapped. “You hate me anyway, don’t pretend you don’t.” He drew a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, hands trembling. “Waste of time to sweet talk you, you’d know it was all lies.”
Branson plucked the still burning match from his hand, and lit the letter. The worn paper went up at once, nipping his fingers as the last of it burned, and he dropped it and carefully stomped the embers with his boot. “Well, maybe I like being lied to,” he said.
“’Course you do,” Thomas said sullenly. He blew a cloud of smoke, ghost-like in the night. “You know she doesn’t love you really,” he said. “They never do, with the likes of us.”
“You’re wrong,” Branson said.
“You’re that sure she loves you, then?” said Thomas, and his sneer was back.
“No,” said Branson. “But if she doesn’t, it’s not because I’m an Irish chauffeur.”
“Hardly need me to lie to you, when you lie to yourself so well,” Thomas muttered.
But Branson had seen letter, which she’d kept despite the danger and worn from a thousand readings, and felt surer than he had. And suddenly he felt almost a fondness for Thomas, for giving him that - never mind Thomas hadn’t meant to -
“What d’you plan to do?” Thomas demanded. “Live like a monk till her ladyship goes mad and runs away with you? Can you see her giving up Downton for a coldwater flat and a passel of Irish brats?”
Branson spent most of his thinking ahead on the glorious socialist future, not his personal life; but as far as it went, that was his plan. It sounded ridiculous spelt out like that. So she loved him enough to read his letter to pieces. She still might not want to give up everything for love, and who could blame her?
Thomas must have seen something in his face, because he held out his cigarette again, a mocking lilt to his eyebrows. Branson licked his dry lips. “I can’t,” he said. “It’d be betraying Sybil - ”
“Come off it,” said Thomas. “You can’t betray someone you’re not even courting.”
Thomas was wrong, somehow, Branson thought; maybe it wouldn’t be betraying Sybil, but it’d be a betrayal of something. But he was too tired to think it through; and then Thomas lifted Branson’s hand, fingers brushing Branson’s palm as he fitted the cigarette between Branson’s fingers. Branson caught Thomas’s wrist, and Thomas stepped in, lifting his other hand to Branson’s face, and kissed him.
Oh. Yes.
The cigarette slipped from Branson’s hand. It had been a very long time.
The car door handle dug into his back. Thomas reached around him and pulled the door open, and half-pushed Branson into the back seat. “Well then?” said Thomas. “What about it?”
“Oh sure,” said Branson. “If you’re lucky,” he told Thomas, breathing hard, only a little scornful, “I’ll even call you my lord."