Fifty Common Years

"I almost wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days - three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain." ~John Keats

Part I

Sybil can still hear the echo of shouting ringing in her ears when Mary presses the door close and archly asks, "So is there someone you were planning on running away with?" The tension in the room had eased like a deflating balloon after Mama and Papa had left, but is replaced now by something new.

Sybil knows well that tone of Mary's—curiosity tinged with suspicion, and one usually reserved for Edith—but she chooses to ignore it for now, in part because she doesn't quite understand what Mary is trying to ask, and because her head aches so very much from the fall; from fighting with her father. "I don't know what you mean," Sybil finally says a bit mulishly, pushing herself off her bed to walk to her dressing table to look at the wound in the mirror. There is a redness at her temple just below the halo of her hair, but the blood has all been washed away. She wants to be too sensible to long for a scar-her first war wound in the battle for rights for women-but she is young and she can't help the touch of romanticism the creeps into her imagination to think of the faint mark there always.

"You don't need to be coy with me," Mary says, taking Sybil's place on the bed, idly brushing at the covers with her slender hands. "I saw how you looked at Cousin Matthew after he rescued you from the mob." Mary looks down, then up again, her eyes trained on Sybil, her expression soft and sad, and altogether not very Mary. "One might come to the conclusion that you had a bit of a crush on him. He seemed to regard you well, too, I dare say."

Sybil laughs, then covers her mouth with her hands. "Mary, are you implying that I would like to run away with Matthew?"

"Am I on the mark then?"

"Oh, Mary!" Sybil tries to conjure up Matthew's face-the kindness in his smile, the delight in his eyes-but there is only the quietest stirring-a leaf falling to the ground instead of a windstorm. "I mean, he was very brave. When Branson was pulled away by the crowd Matthew punched a man who was bothering us, you know. I was not expecting that."

"You needn't deny it if you like him, Sybil," Mary says stiffly, "I'm sure Mama and Papa would be thrilled if one of us were to marry him. Goodness knows they've been throwing him at me all this time. But if he's willing to be caught and you're willing to catch. . ." Mary stops, and looks pained for a flash of a moment before the mask is back up and she moves away from discussing their cousin. "I'm sure Branson would be willing to be your getaway driver if you were to run away. He was very concerned about you, you know. Moreso than he was about losing his place here. He even had the presumption to ask me to update him on your recovery, though I suppose that is understandable since he possibly feels some responsibility for what happened."

"He asked about me?" Sybil says, her mouth gone dry, the reaction surprising her. She thinks of his hands guiding her through the crowd, of their long, interested conversations during their many drives, and of the trouble she's dragged him into now. She holds her left wrist with the thumb and forefinger and feels her pulse beating beneath the skin. "Oh."

"You'll have to remember to defend him again to Papa again tomorrow if you can manage it without as much shouting. Branson won't be dismissed tonight, but one never knows if his Lord Grantham might have a change of heart come sunrise. Branson will need all the defense he can get."