The Name Game

This is a one-shot set between ep 6 and 7 of series one. I own nothing, worse luck.

It had been bothering her for a while now, and as the motorcar chugged along the road towards Ripon, Lady Sybil looked at the back of Branson's head, took a deep breath and decided she would tackle the subject today.

"Can I ask you something Branson?" she said, leaning forward a little in her seat.

"Of course, m'lady." He kept his head still, his eyes on the road. "Ask me anything."

"What's your first name?"

"My first name?" He sounded taken aback. "Why do you want to know?"

"Because… because I was just wondering, that's all…"

Because it feels wrong to spend time with somebody I've grown rather fond of, and not actually know their given name.

He did not respond, and she wondered if she'd been too presumptuous; too personal. She was only too aware that she and Branson had become a little over-familiar of late, especially after the night of the count at Ripon, when he'd had to carry her out unconscious after the fight, and she'd had to stand up to her father to save his job. The experience seemed to have created a kind of easy bond between them, breaking down the formality that should exist. They now talked freely when it was just the two of them in the car, often in a way that she knew was not at all proper.

She understood only too well that Branson's job would be at risk again if her family – and her father in particular – found out about some of the lively discussions they had. But she couldn't stop herself being friendly with someone she liked, even if he was a servant. He was the only person at Downton who listened to her opinions and didn't treat her like a small child with a head full of fanciful notions about women one day having the same rights as men. The irony of the fact that he was a man had not escaped her.

There were things they'd talked about that she'd never mentioned to her sisters or her closest friends, and it seemed ridiculous that he should know her thoughts and feelings so well yet she didn't even know the name he'd been christened with.

"Branson?" she tried again tentatively. "Do you mind telling me?"

"I'm not sure what purpose it will serve for you to know," he said, glancing back at her over his shoulder. "We servants are only entitled to be known by either our first name or our last; we don't have the privilege of being known by two, like the aristocracy. I'm sure you don't know both the names of any of the other servants."

"I know Gwen's – it's Dawson," she said, a hint of defiance in her voice. But the only reason she knew that was because she'd been helping Gwen write application letters for secretarial jobs, and Branson was aware of that – she'd confided in him on a recent car journey.

She thought about some of the other servants. She wouldn't have a clue what Anna or Thomas or William's last names were. Likewise she didn't know the given names of Carson or Bates or O'Brien, and she'd never thought to ask. This was the first time she'd ever been curious about a servant's full name and that was because… well, it was because it was Branson.

And here he was, as he did so often, forcing her to look at aspects of life she had always accepted as normal and see them from another perspective. This was why she welcomed the time she got to spend with him – he opened her eyes to so many things that had never occurred to her and showed her there was so much more to the world than the cloistered confines of Downton Abbey. While she didn't always agree with all his views at least it made for spirited debates and she liked the fact that he challenged her, the way he was now.

"But you don't know anyone else's names, am I right?" he said. "See what I mean? Most of the time you only get to be known by one name when you're in service. It doesn't matter whether it's Daisy or William, or Bates or Carson. We're only worthy of one name, so it seems. It is another form of oppression."

His words were blunt but there was no sharp edge to his voice. He was just stating things as he saw them, she could tell.

"I can see your point Branson and you're right, it is completely unfair. But please, let's not have this discussion today." She was not in the mood for a debate on the evils of the class system. Today she had her heart set on finding out his first name, and she would do whatever it took to learn it.

He looked back over his shoulder at her and she was pleased to see he didn't look cross. "I'm sorry m'lady. I didn't mean to bend your ear. It's just that it gets me so riled up, you know, and there aren't very many people I can say these things to. Not many who actually care, anyway. But you… I know you take an interest in these things and you form your own opinions. It's good that I can talk to you."

"It's good I can talk to you too," said Sybil softly. She paused, letting her words hang in the air. Now might be a good time to mention how much she valued his friendship; how she had come to think of him as more than a servant. She should be brave and just come out with it. But it didn't feel right to direct such important information to the back of his head, while he was having to concentrate on driving. She would save it for another occasion.

For the meantime, she would focus on the task she'd set herself… finding out his name.

"But Branson, you still haven't answered my question, and I'm beginning to wonder if you are trying to avoid telling me your name for some reason. You do have a given name, do you not?" she asked again.

"Of course I do."

"I'll tell you what – why don't I try to guess it, and you can tell me if I'm right."

He glanced back at her again. "I suppose so m'lady, if that's what you want."

"It is."

She settled back in the seat. "Now, what's a good Irish name…. is it Patrick?"

"No, it's not Patrick."

"Francis?"

"Not Francis."

"Michael?"

"No, but I've a brother Michael."

"Daniel?"

"No, but funnily enough, I've another brother Danny."

"Any other brothers?"

"One more – Joe."

"So not Joseph then. John?"

"No."

"Peter?"

"No."

"George."

"No."

"Hmmm, this could take a long time… is it a traditional Irish name, something I'd never get?"

"I'm not telling." She could hear the smile in his voice and she was glad.

"Oh Branson!"

"Come on m'lady, I wouldn't have thought you would give up so easily."

"I won't. All right then. What about Sean?"

He shook his head.

"Seamus?" Another shake.

"Brendan?"

"No."

"Declan?"

"Sorry."

"Eamonn?"

"Wrong."

"Dermot?"

"No."

"All right, what about Arthur? John? James? Charles? Oh, this is not as easy as I thought. We could be here all day."

All day, in the car, with Branson. Now that was an interesting prospect, she thought.

"All right then, if you haven't guessed by the time we get to Ripon, I'll tell you," he offered.

"Thank you. But I would be happier if I was able to guess correctly. So, what about Cecil?"

"No."

"Henry?"

"Wrong."

"Not… Matthew?"

"No."

"Robert?"

"No."

She sighed and was silent for a moment. "All right then… I've got it! Ebenezer?"

He laughed, a lovely throaty chuckle that made her smile.

"No, but good try."

"Horatio?"

"No."

"Beowulf?"

He looked over his shoulder at her. "How did you guess?"

"Really? Beowulf?"

"No, of course not. I'm teasing you, m'lady. Do you think my parents were mad? Keep going."

"Montague?"

"No."

"Sherlock?"

"No."

"Lancelot."

"No."

"Hercules?"

Another laugh. "No."

"Maximillian?"

"No."

"Julius?"

"No."

"Brutus?"

"No."

"Well, thank goodness for that. Brutus Branson would be a hideous name. You don't look like a Brutus."

"I'm pleased to hear it," he said.

They were driving into Ripon now. He spotted a space by the kerb and pulled over.

"What about Humphrey?"

"No."

"Merlin?"

"No m'lady."

He switched off the engine and swivelled around in his seat to look at her. It was so good to see his face after staring at the back of his head and she was reminded again of the fact that he really was rather nice-looking. Especially when those bright blue eyes of his were dancing with merriment like they were now.

She paused, biting her lip. "What about Ethelred? That's a nice name. Very regal."

"Really?" he asked, his eyebrows shooting up. "Ethelred? You think it's a nice name? Would you ever call a son of yours Ethelred?"

An image flashed through her mind of herself cradling a tiny baby, with bright blue eyes and fair hair, just like Branson's. She was shocked at herself for thinking such a thing, and bent her head forward to hide the telltale blush. "No I wouldn't, but who's to say your parents didn't call you Ethelred?" she asked, looking up again. "Or is it Ethel for short?"

He threw back his head and laughed, and the sound warmed a place deep inside her. How wonderful it was to make him happy. She tried again. "Phineas?"

"No."

"Jules?"

"No."

"Marmaduke?"

"No."

"Are you sure? Marmaduke Branson has a nice ring to it."

"I'm sure."

"Hannibal?"

"No."

"Cicero?"

"No."

"Othello?"

"No."

"Oberon?"

"I think not."

"Romeo?"

"Good lord no. I grew up in a working class area of Dublin. I'd have had the living daylights beaten out of me if I'd been called Romeo."

"Well," smiled Sybil, "when your mother wanted you home for dinner she could have stood on the doorstep and called out, 'Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo – dinner is served'!"

When he'd stopped laughing Branson said, "You obviously don't know my ma. She never called us home for our meals. It was up to us to get back in time – if we didn't we missed out and that was our bad luck. It was a case of first in, best fed. Same in the mornings – first up, best dressed."

"And were you ever best fed and best dressed?" she asked, trying to imagine him as a small boy. With those bright eyes and cheeky smile he would have been quite an adorable child, she imagined, and she felt herself blushing again.

"Always," he smiled. "Now m'lady, you're getting distracted. You still haven't guessed correctly."

No, but in the last few minutes she'd learned more about him than she had in months. It had been worth getting distracted.

"All right then. My next guess is… Cornelius."

"No."

The game went on, Sybil coming up with more and more preposterous names as the two of them sat in the motorcar. Then she became aware of people walking past and frowning at them. Of course it wasn't appropriate, a chauffeur and his mistress talking so informally in a public place. She sighed and said, "I'm going to have to admit defeat and get you to tell me."

"All right m'lady."

He slid out from behind the wheel and came around to open her door. She took his hand as she got out. It was completely unnecessary of course; she didn't need his assistance at all but when it was just the two of them it had become a habit for him to hold out his hand to her, and she would have been affronted if he hadn't offered it.

"So?" She stood on the pavement next to him, her hand still resting on his. She wasn't quite ready to let go.

"It's Tom," he said, his eyes holding hers. "Just Tom."

Tom. Tom Branson.

Somehow knowing his whole name made him more real to her, more complete. He wasn't just the chauffeur, he was a man called Tom Branson.

"It suits you," she said, reluctantly releasing his hand.

And it did. She would still have to address him as Branson, of course, there was no getting around that, but from now on she would think of him as Tom. Just Tom.

Author's note: There's an awful lot of Branson looking back over his shoulder when he's conversing with Lady Sybil in the car (poor bloke is going to need a chiropractor at this rate) but I haven't written about their eyes meeting in the rear view mirror because there isn't one. (I've watched the DVD over and over for the purposes of research and while there are side mirrors, I cannot for the life of me see a rear view mirror.) It's a shame because I love how other people have written about their eyes meeting in the mirror! Time to get a new car, I think...