The summer of 1916 passed quickly. Sybil and Branson continued their easy friendship. The battle at Verdun raged on, the British and German navies engaged in the great battle of the Jutland, and in July the opening shots were fired at Somme. In Ireland, too, a war of sorts raged. Branson did not tell Sybil that his cousin had been killed; they discussed Ireland only in the abstract – or in the past, in stories. In August, Mary traveled alone of the three Crawley sisters to London, where she spent a month in the company of Lady Rosamund. Edith continued her driving lessons, finally making a degree of progress and leading Branson to believe she might yet master the motor. Sybil was pleased with herself that she even managed a picnic that August, during the few days that her parents were also in London.

As summer turned to fall, however, the old feelings of anguish and despondency crept back into Sybil until she felt she could no longer bear it. How fortunate that Cousin Isobel had been visiting Downton the morning of her deepest despair and suggested the training course in York. She felt the need to be of use so badly she ached; this physical pain began to ease as soon as Isobel uttered the words. Although it felt to Sybil like an eternity, within a week her mother had agreed that she could enroll. When Cora imparted this news over the breakfast table that crisp autumn morning, Sybil felt the weight rise from chest, so great was relief. Barely able to contain her joy, Sybil had raced to the garage to share her news with Branson.

"Branson! Branson!" she called.

"Yes, milady, I'm just here," came his gentle lilt from the back of the garage.

"I'm to be a nurse. A proper nurse. Cousin Isobel suggested it and just this morning my mother has agreed. The course will last for two months and when it's finished I'll be a volunteer nurse for the British army. Branson, can you believe it? Finally, I'll be doing something useful, something to help the men, help the war effort. It's such great news, isn't it?" her words poured forth in an excited tone that made him smile.

Two months? Lady Sybil would be in York for two months? Branson did not want to believe this. Before he could respond, she continued.

"When I saw the nurses in London, I never imagined I could join them. I still can't believe that mama and papa have agreed for me to enter the training course. I am so very, very happy."

With the last word she leaned forward, sweeping him into a celebration like the one they shared with Gwen when she got the secretary job. Had either of them had the presence of mind to do so, they would have considered how very different today's circumstances were from that day. Then, the world stretched before Gwen, whose job was purely for her own betterment. Today, beset by years of war, Sybil would train for a job to help the staggering numbers of wounded and dying men whose bodies and spirits had been shredded by the hard realities of war.

"Fantastic news. I'm happy for you." He smiled at her, his elation at their embrace mixing with his disappointment that she would be away for so long – and over Christmas, no less.

"Of course, Cousin Isobel has suggested I have to learn a few things before I leave. Making a bed, for example, and some basic cooking and cleaning. Really, though, I can't wait."

Branson wanted to laugh at this: the idea of any woman not knowing how to make a bed was preposterous to him and he was stunned to hear Lady Sybil would learn how to do this. On the other hand, he admired her eagerness and, well, better late than never.

"And when will your course begin?"

"I'm to start my training in York in just two weeks' time. I have so much to learn before then. I've asked Anna to teach me the cleaning bits, and of course Mrs. Patmore and Daisy will help me with my cooking."

"Best of luck, milady."

"I'm not leaving yet, Branson."

"No, but I thought you might need a bit of luck with all you've to learn," he grinned impishly.

"Yes, well, you may be right. Daisy said she could help me as soon as breakfast was cleared, so I best be off. Good day, Branson. And thank you."

"Good day, milady."

Branson stood shaking his head as he watched her leave. She was constantly surprising him. Would the wonders of Lady Sybil never cease?

Lady Sybil was the talk of the table at dinner in the servant's hall that night.

"She tries so hard," Daisy was saying, defending Sybil's first failed attempts as Mrs. Patmore shared Lady Sybil's misadventures in the kitchen with the rest of the staff.

"A sow's ear can try to be a silk purse, but that doesn't make it one," Mrs. Patmore responded.

"Mrs. Patmore." Mr. Carson's tone and arched eyebrows indicated the conversation was at its end.

The last person Branson expected to see the next morning when he entered the kitchen for a new cup of tea was Lady Sybil. She was there, though, in fine spirits, just pulling a beautiful cake from the oven, smiling as broadly as he had ever seen. So she was serious then, was she?

When she came to visit him that evening, she entered the garage with one hand behind her back.

"I have a surprise for you, Branson," she said a bit shyly.

As she said it she drew her arm from behind her back and revealed a small plate covered gently with a napkin.

"Remove the napkin," she commanded.

He did so and revealed a silver fork and small slice of cake.

"It's the cake I made this morning. I thought you might like to try it. To taste my progress."

He ate it slowly; if he was honest, he was surprised that it was delicious. He had not tasted cake in many months and it had been much longer since he had tasted any this sweet or moist. The flavors transported him back to Ireland and when he spoke it was to offer his highest praise.

"Your cake is as good as any I've tasted, milady. It reminds me of the cake my mother made before I left Ireland."

"Was it really good, Branson, or are you just pretending for me? Mama and Papa praised it, but Mary did make a bit of face."

"Then Lady Mary is a fool! Excuse me for saying, but your cake is delicious. Thank you for sharing."

She told him then of her preparations for York, how she was both excited and nervous.

"I've never been away from home, Branson, not really."

"Not like you," she added quietly.

"You'll be fine, milady. And it's only two months."

Only two months. This is what Branson tried to remind himself regularly now, when she spoke to him of her fears, when Daisy cheered her progress in the kitchen, or when Anna and Mrs. Hughes discussed the packing and other preparations. Only two months.

He told her then of the first time he left home, when he packed his bags for his first job as a chauffeur.

"I wasn't scared to leave, milady, because I knew I could always come home. I went with my mother's love and her blessing. I knew it would work out but also, a think it helped that I also knew in the furthest reaches of my mind, that if it didn't work out, I could come home and she would greet me with open arms."

"You were very lucky, Branson. I think sometimes that Papa, especially, would be only too glad if it didn't work out and I had to return home, beaten."

"Then you shan't let that happen, milday. But remember, not everyone thinks like his Lordship."

"Do you think I'll be a good nurse, Branson?"

"I think you'll be a fine nurse. If I were wounded, I'm sure I'd want to be in your care."

She was quiet then, looking intently into his eyes, as if trying to discern his thoughts.

"I've got to go do a bit of packing. Goodness knows what I'll find when I open my trunks if I let mother handle everything!" She laughed.

"I'm glad you enjoyed the cake. And you won't find me in the kitchen again before I leave. Daisy has pronounced my lessons finished now that I've made the cake. Tea, sandwiches, eggs, and cake. That should do for my training."

"I'm sure it will, milady. Good night."

"Good night, Branson." She looked over her shoulder as she left and gave him a smile that was more eyes than mouth. Yes, he would miss her.

Anna and her mother handled most of her packing, with input from Mary and Edith and last of all, she felt, herself. In the end they had packed more clothes than she felt she would need, but it was a small price to pay for her first taste of real freedom – and work. The night before leaving she packed the small bag that contained her most personal effects. Into she placed a favorite night shirt, a small stuffed bear that her had been a gift from her grandmother, a photograph of her family taken last Christmas, two novels, and lastly the small, blue book inscribed, "Lady Sybil: Happy Christmas, 1915." Before adding that last to her bag she opened it to where a small envelope lay between the pages. Opening the envelope she removed the thin sheet of paper and let her gaze rest on a single line. "I hope you will continue to be my friend." She closed her eyes for a moment, and allowed herself to picture him as he so often was in her presence: laughing, full of fun, with a glint in his eyes and his mouth turned up into a smile. She could picture his broad shoulders encased in the deep green wool of his jacket and the cap perched at a jaunty angle on his head. Oh God, she would miss him.

When she opened her eyes Anna stood before her. Anna was not especially quiet when she entered Lady Sybil's room; she had knocked gently and hearing no response had entered as usual. Sybil did not even hear the door, and was sitting at the edge of her bed with her eyes closed when Anna entered. At first Anna was concerned that Lady Sybil was regretting her trip to York – or worse – but when she saw the expression on her face and the blue book open in her lap she knew Sybil's mind wasn't on York.

"Milady, I've come to help you change for bed," Anna said, gently.

Sybil startled and her eyes snapped open. Quickly she fumbled with the letter and the book, eventually placing the letter in the envelope, the envelope in the book, and the book in the bag. While she did this, Anna fussed with the curtains and fire. As she watched Lady Sybil's trembling fingers struggle to place the paper into its envelope, Anna wondered if it was possible that she was the only person living or working at Downton Abbey who saw what was happening. There's none so blind as those that won't see, O'Brien was fond of saying, and Anna wondered now if the others – Mrs. Hughes, Daisy, Lady Grantham, Carson, even Lord Grantham – simply would not see. She had vacillated between believing the fault lay with Lady Sybil and believing it lay with Branson, but the body of evidence before her suggested their relationship was not sustained singly by one or the other, but was mutually nurtured.

"Will you write to me, Anna, when I'm in York? To tell me the news from home?"

Lady Sybil's words pulled Anna from her thoughts.

"You'll only be gone two months, milady, and I'm sure your mothers and sisters will write often."

"I know that, Anna, only I've never been away from home by myself before and any letters will be my links with home while I'm away."

"We'll see, milady, but I'll certainly try."

"Would you ask the others to write, too? Mrs. Hughes and Carson and, well, anyone who might have a a few spare minutes to write me of home?"

Anna was confident that there was only one person whose letters Lady Sybil hoped to receive and it wasn't Mrs. Hughes or Carson. She had known her mistresses for many years, understood what made them tick and, generally, how their hearts and minds worked. This request only confirmed for her what she'd been thinking a minute ago. Yes, Anna thought, Lady Sybil wants letters from Mr. Branson or my name isn't Anna Smith.

"It's a lot of work to keep a big house like this running, milady, but I'll certainly tell everyone downstairs that you're keen for any news of home."

"Thank you, Anna."

The next day, Sybil left for York. She was grateful for Branson's conversation as they drove away from home, for the closer York drew the more Sybil's excitement was replaced by true nerves. She tried not to focus on the two months ahead and instead regaled Branson with stories of failed cooking projects and her difficulty learning to make a bed. He did not tell her, of course, that these were the stories that had enlivened the servants' hall for the past two weeks.

Suddenly, the drive was over and they arrived at the training college. As he carried her bags toward the nurses' quarters, she'd exclaimed that she left something in the car and ran back before he could offer to retrieve it. Checking to see that he wasn't looking, she'd then dropped an envelope onto his seat.

And then they'd said goodbye. Sybil had felt her heart sink as Branson confessed his feelings for her. It wasn't that she hadn't known what he was about to say, or even, deep down, that she didn't want to hear him say these things. She knew. She couldn't say when she first realized how he felt about her – and she him – but she had known for many months, perhaps since last Christmas, or was it even earlier? No, his confession just made everything so much more complicated. Unspoken, they could continue as they had been, pretending they were only friends. Now that he had spoken these words, how would they ever go back? Still, she had not expected him to threaten to leave. Anything but that. What would she do if he left Downton? No, he must stay; the way he looked at her when they parted, she felt certain that he would but, oh, this was not what she wanted. She pulled her mind from their awkward parting and hoped that he would find the note she had left on the driver's seat that morning. Its contents paled in comparison to his own confession, but she hoped he would know what it had cost her to leave it just the same and that, if he wavered in his resolve to remain at Downton, her note might just convince him to stay.

Branson felt numb as he returned to the car for the return trip to Downton. True, she hadn't rejected him outright, but she certainly hadn't encouraged him either. What had he been thinking? No, he knew what he had been thinking, the question was, was he crazy? Had he only imagined that she felt toward him the way he felt toward her? The visits to the garage, the drives in the Yorkshire countryside, sneaking out of the house to bring him a slice of her first cake last week? No, he hadn't imagined it; he had only imagined that she would be as ready to reject the rules, their world, really, as he was. No, he hadn't imagined it; he recognized the look in her eyes when he'd said he would hand in his notice and be gone when she returned. Anger, fear, disappointment, sadness. All unspoken, yet written in her eyes plain as the day for him to read. Perhaps Mrs. Hughes was right and he should have listened more carefully to her counsel.

He was so lost in his thoughts that he nearly didn't see the small envelope sitting on the driver's seat. It bore no name, but clearly it was meant for him. Suddenly, he remembered Lady Sybil exclaiming over a forgotten item and racing back to the car as he stood, holding her suitcases. He smiled and opened it, trepidation and anticipation mixing in equal measure in his heart.

Dear Branson,

As you read this, I'm sure we've only just parted, but also that I miss you already. You have been my greatest friend since the war began and for that I'd like to thank you. It is your friendship that has given me the courage to pursue my dreams, starting with the nursing training here in York. I do not know how my life would be different if Papa had not hired you when Mr. Taylor retired, but I know that it would be different, and I can only imagine it would be less interesting and less fulfilling. I hope you'll write to me here at the college and keep me informed of life at Downton. I look forward to the end of my training, when I will see you come for me in Papa's old Renault and we can talk again, freely and in person.

Your friend,

Sybil Crawley

He reread it again, slowly, fully absorbing the words in front of him. No, she had not confessed her undying love for him, and it may not have cost her all she had to say these things as it had him, but it had cost her something, a great something indeed. As he folded the letter back into its envelope and tucked it into his pocket, he began to smile. He would be okay. They would be okay. It had been nearly two and half years since he had wrapped her fingers between his on the eve of war. What was two months?