Thank you so much for all of the kind reviews.

This is as far as I anticipated going when I started to write this, but now I'm thinking of extending it. I don't think that Thomas is going to let that comment in Chapter Two go quietly. I'd also like to throw a little William/Daisy into the mix because as far as I know there's only one fanfic about them on this site and it's in Spanish.

Let me know what you think.

As always, I own nothing.

Being the perfect servant had not worked after all. Branson threw a sideways glance at his companion, walking steadily beside him. The afternoon sun cast a haze over the clearing where they had stopped. The flowers, the grass, even the rocks glistening on the bottom of the brook, were all brighter, more vibrant versions of themselves. It was a relief to Branson who, after all of the forced formality and the cold knowledge of separation between Sybil and himself, had developed an uncharacteristic headache.

It was quite forgotten now that he was walking arm in arm with Sybil, who also looked more vibrant than ever. Branson marveled at her beauty. She was, at least in his opinion, the prettiest of Sir Crawley's daughters. Mary was striking, he admitted, but rather proud. Always, she wore a mask of icy indifference; he had only seen it falter once, when she was concerned for her sister's injury. Edith was pretty, but there were definitely qualities about her which seemed lacking.

Sybil – Sybil was something else entirely. There was a warmth about her, as if she had a hearth at the very core of her which burned constantly, and, Branson knew, could roar into a mighty fire when roused. And yet, she was so soft, so pleasant, so yielding when he held her in his arms moments before. She must have heard how loud his heart was beating or at least felt it through his uniform, the way her cheek was pressed against it. If she did, she gave no indication of it. She was smiling, speaking in her sweet, low voice about Gwen and her hopes for the future.

"It's just so frustrating! All of the advertisements ask for experience, but of course Gwen doesn't have any experience when it comes to being a secretary, but she's worked so hard for it, and she wants it more than anyone else could."

Branson nodded "If employers based their decisions on a person's character, the world would be a very different place." Thomas certainly wouldn't be employed, he thought to himself.

"All she needs is a chance, I'm sure she'd prove to be an excellent secretary. She just needs someone who's willing to take her on."

"She's lucky to have you. Some families might scold her, for thinking above her station."

"I don't believe in stations. We're not all born to be stuck or – or immovable for our entire lives."

"Too many people have grown accustomed to the way things are done. They look around them and see the world the way it is and think 'This is the way it must be.' They're afraid of breaking away from convention because they've become too comfortable with society. Take Mr. Carson, for instance, I respect him a great deal, but I'll bet my hat that his parents were in service and their parents before them. The man probably had no thought of being anything other than a butler."

Sybil stopped abruptly beside him and when he looked at her he was surprised to her smiling, her eyes shining with mischief.

"You would bet your hat on it?"

She looked so beguiling, so impish and intriguing that he knew he should be wary, but found it was much more fun to be reckless.

"Yes, I would," he said and watched her smile grow wider. He would bet every stitch of clothing on his body if she would smile like that.

"Place your hand over your heart."

"What?" he asked, completely taken aback.

"Place your hand over your heart," she said, slower this time, taking care to enunciate each word.

Branson complied, though he was still confused.

"Now repeat after me;" she said, "I, Tom Branson,"

A thrill went through him as she said his name; he had to clear his throat before speaking.

"I, Tom Branson,"

"Do solemnly swear,"

"Do solemnly swear,"

"Never to reveal what Sybil Crawley has told me today to another living soul."

"Never to reveal what…Sybil Crawley had told me today to another living soul." He debated adding her title to the oath, but her eyes warned against it. She had chosen to accept him as an equal, even if he was still too terrified to do so.

"Alright then," she said, watching his face expectantly, "What if I told you that the venerable Mr. Carson used to be," she paused for dramatic effect "on the stage?"

Branson was flabbergasted. His mouth hung open for a moment before he sputtered out, "As- As a piece of scenery?"

"No," said Sybil, laughing "Singing and dancing! He had a whole act, with a partner and everything."

"No."

"Yes!"

Branson tried to picture Carson as a younger man, singing in front of a crowd, it didn't work, but found that he had a greater deal of respect for the stern old man. He shook his head in disbelief.

"So about that hat…" Sybil said smiling playfully.

Branson's attention turned back to Sybil and he was about to speak when she continued.

"Since it is a part of your uniform, I could hardly take it from you. But I might be inclined to accept something else as the spoils of my victory."

"What would you like instead?" he asked smiling, although, truth be told, he couldn't think of anything of his that she could possibly want.

Sybil thought for a moment. Branson could see her eyes suddenly light up and she nodded.

"A handkerchief! That seems fair doesn't it? Rather like something out of Camelot."

"Or Shakespeare," said Branson, smiling wider, pleased that he could so readily comply. He undid the top buttons of his jacket and reached into the pocket near his heart. His mother had given him a set of five handkerchiefs before he left for his first job as a chauffeur. At the time she had not understood that it was the custom to embroider only the initials, so tucked away in the corner of the cloth, spelled out in blue thread was the name Tom. He looked at it fondly before handing it to Sybil.

She held it gently, as if it were something precious, before looking up at him with eyes that shone with more than gratitude.

"Thank you," She suddenly looked very shy "Is your full name Thomas?"

Branson shook his head "My parents were never ones for complication. That's my full name right there," he pointed at the handkerchief.

"Tom," she said, running her fingers over the embroidery.

Again a thrill went through him as she said his name. Did she not realize that it made him want more than he could have? Did she not realize how much he wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her? He wanted to believe she would welcome it. He wanted to believe that she wanted the handkerchief simply because it was his. He wanted to hear her whisper his name into his ear deep in the middle of the night. He glanced at the car, waiting for them by the bridge.

"We'd better be getting back to Downton or your sister will beat us there."

Sybil stared at him, a curious expression on her face, then sighed. "I suppose we must."

They walked back to the car, but Branson watched as Sybil stopped by the bank of the brook and bent to pick a bright, white flower. He helped her into the carriage and cranked the car until it sputtered into life, and just like that, their moment of refuge was gone and they were on their way back to Downton.

From his mirror Branson could see Sybil slip the handkerchief into her purse. The ride was short and Branson cast about for something to say but could come up with nothing, so he stayed silent. When they pulled up at Downton William and Thomas were waiting for them. Branson handed Sybil down from her seat and was surprised when she gave his hand a squeeze. He coughed and saw her grin. He flitted his eyes toward Thomas to make sure he hadn't noticed anything, but the footman's eyes were straight ahead. Sybil walked into the house and Thomas and William gathered the parcels from the car. As they were taking them inside, William being the far more burdened of the two, Sybil came rushing out again.

"Sorry, I dropped my glove in the car," and before Branson could help her, she popped into the carriage and a second later, leapt triumphantly onto the gravel, brandishing the offending glove.

"Thank you Branson," she said, giving him a small nod, her eyes shining again.

Later, when Branson had pulled the car into the garage, he glanced in the mirror and caught a flash of something white in the backseat. He turned around to get a full view and saw a bright white flower sitting just where Sybil had been. And still later that night, sitting at the edge of his bed, he held the flower to his nose and inhaled the sweet scent before pressing it between the pages of one of his books and setting it among the many tomes stacked on his desk. Then, with visions of a dancing Carson and handkerchief he blew out his candle, settled into his bed and drifted off to sleep with a smile still hovering on his lips.