A/N: Because in 1914, 1920 is an eternity away.

Silver Lining

September, 1914

It's a gloomy day for this time of year. The sky is grey and rain beats down on the windows of the house as it has since the early morning: dreary weather for a dreadfully dreary afternoon. Sybil hates to be cooped up like this, hates the feeling that summer has ended already. But then perhaps summer ended prematurely at the garden party, on that beautiful afternoon last month, with Papa's announcement.

Conversation at dinner is usually about the War, and always, universally, optimistic: "We'll give the Huns a sound thrashing, what?" But as she stares out the window at the fading roses, all she can think about is the rain beating down on the ground below, turning it to mud.

She can't keep count of the times she's heard "It'll all be over by Christmas." What if it's not? How can they be so sure, these men, her Papa and their neighbours and the friends from his club? She'd snuck away from the drawing room one evening, after the ladies had gone through while the gentlemen lingered with their port and cigar, and stolen back to the dining room, pressed her ear up against the door, to see if their words were sincere, or simply intended to spare the ladies' delicate sensibilities.

Talk was just beginning to turn from Papa's war back to the present one when a creaking floorboard behind her forced her heart into her throat. The carefully crafted excuse to explain away her eavesdropping at her father's door should she be caught died on her lips when she turned and found herself to be confronted by the terrifying prospect of Mr Carson's eyebrows, raised in question. Instead, she'd stammered something about having taken a wrong turn, as though she could get lost in her own house! and hurried away.

These days she asks herself more frequently why it is that in a house so constantly full of people, only some talk to her with any frankness, only a few seem to realise that she is bursting at the seams with thoughts, ideas, and opinions, and only a very few seem to take an interest in finding out what those are, at all.

The rain continues to fall and the clock continues to tick, the only sounds breaking the silence in the room until she says out loud, "Oh, hang it!", and thinks, Why not?, and heads up to her room to change into a pair of older boots. As an afterthought, she grabs a shawl, and drapes it carefully over her hair, right before she steps through the front door and runs out into the rain.

The air is surprisingly warm; fat raindrops hit her face; Mamma and Granny would give her the scolding of a lifetime; Mary and Edith might be tempted to send her off to an asylum, but Sybil stands still and takes a deep, deep breath.

There is something strangely exhilarating about the weather now, experienced like this, directly, in person, rather than from behind a window, and she can't help but laugh out loud as she skips to the garage, quite deliberately tracking her feet through the puddles as often as she can.

Her breathing is heavy, her cheeks wet, but warm, and her heart feels lighter than it has all day when she rounds the corner and is met by the sight of Branson, crouched down by the side of the motor, with his back to her. "Hello, down there!" she calls out cheerfully, "Wretched day, isn't it?"

His head jerks up in surprise before he scrambles quickly to his feet, gives his hair a quick pat down, and turns to her, back straight, posture perfect. "Good day, milady. Will you be needing the m-"

Catching the lingering surprise at her sudden appearance on his face, she laughs again. "Oh, dear, did I startle you? I am sorry; only I'm so terribly bored, you see, being stuck indoors all day because of this ghastly weather, and so I rather thought I might pay you a visit."

Something about the way his lips curve when he gives her a half-smile makes her smile back immediately.

"Well. I shall say that I'm honoured, then, and not so sure I could call today wretched, now you've said that." He looks away then, down at the workbench, then at his hands as he wipes them with a rag. "...That is to say, I shouldn't like to take you out in the motor in this rain, milady."

"Oh, the rain! I don't care much about that, honestly." She casts off the dripping wet shawl, tugs it down from around her neck, bundles it up in her hand. "In fact, I think it rather suits me today."

Branson looks back at her and grins, raising an eyebrow. "I can see that," as he shoots a pointed look at the hem of her skirt, covered two inches in mud.

Sybil suddenly feels a little bit like Elizabeth Bennet, standing before Mr Darcy after the walk to Netherfield. It's silly to feel this way in front of a servant, she knows, but then she's always admired Elizabeth, and she hasn't thought of Branson as a servant in a long time. Perhaps ever, really.

For show, she hitches up her skirt a little, only to the tops of her muddy boots, mind you, and does a little twirl. "Why, Branson, this charming pattern is all the latest fashion in London, don't you know."

He rolls his eyes and snorts, a wry sound from the back of his throat, thereabouts. "I'd believe it."

"I'll have you know, I intend to ensure that running about in the rain become quite the thing during my next Season," she responds, putting on her haughtiest, most Granny-like expression..

His gaze shifts and locks with hers. "I'd believe that, too. And I'd bet you would succeed, at that."

Somehow at the same time both pleased at his words, and not quite sure how to respond to them, Sybil ducks her head and casts around for a place to lay out her shawl to dry instead.

Branson steps forward, takes it from her hand without a word and drapes it over the open door of the motor. "That ought to do, milady. I hope." He gives her another grin. "Though if it doesn't, please don't tell Anna. She'll have my hide if she finds I've got motor oil on it."

Again, she returns the smile. "She won't hear, not from me. What were you working on?" She frowns a little. "I'm not disturbing you, am I? I shouldn't like to be a bother, dropping in on you unexpectedly like this."

He lays his hand on the bonnet of the Renault with a degree of affection that amuses her as much as she finds it endearing. "No bother at all, milady. I was only giving her a look, general, like. Not much else to do, with the weather like this, and what with no one wanting to stir from the house." He busies himself with peering at the surface of the bonnet, narrowing his eyes at a possible scratch, before adding evenly, "Besides, it is your home, after all. You can come and go as you please, I would think. Only, won't you be missed?"

She shrugs slightly in response. "I rather doubt it. Everyone seems to be quite determined to be dull and bored on their own, today." Arching her eyebrows, she gives him a significant look. "Which is, of course, why I decided to go for a stroll after luncheon, only to find myself caught in rather worse a rainstorm that I had expected, you see."

"Mmhm," he murmurs in agreement, looking back up at her. "Of course. Bad luck, milady."

"Rather. So the only reasonable thing, really, was to wait out the storm in here, of course, with you."

"Of course, milady. It wouldn't do for you to catch cold." He tilts his head, considering. "I suppose I had better find you a place to sit, then, while you wait."

She takes off her damp gloves and places them carefully over her shawl. "Thank you, Branson, you are terribly kind."

"Not at all, milady." He disappears in the back of the garage, rummaging around for a minute or two, during which she takes the time to inspect this interesting new place. She'd never spent much time here, not even as a very little girl, when it had still been part of the stables, in the days when her family had kept more carriages than only the governess cart and the landau.

The garage smells a little of metal, of motor oil, of benzine, and although Sybil is too much of a romantic to find much beauty in the marvels of industrialisation and mechanisation, she decides that she quite likes the garage, if nothing else, for the dark green woollen livery, hung carefully on a hook on the door, for the newspapers, one folded open on the workbench, others stacked neatly in a corner, for the now cold cup of tea, carefully placed next to a manual of some sorts, and completely forgotten about.

This is someone's home, she thinks, or a home away from home, she corrects herself; and this unexpected peek at it is really rather fascinating. It's the first time she's gotten a look at this side of Branson, and she doubts she'd have gotten this look any other way.

He returns, then, carrying a high stool and sets it down near the workbench. "Best I can do, I'm afraid. I gave it a quick scrub down, but you'll want to mind your frock."

"Oh, I don't mind about all that, really! Besides, Anna does a splendid job with stains, and I-" she breaks off, all at once concerned that she might have sounded rather callous just now, as though she doesn't care a jot about her clothes, because she has a maid to take care of them and so many other frocks besides that it's hardly a matter of concern to her what happens with one of them. "Thank you, Branson," she says instead.

He inclines his head. "Milady."

A little uncertainly, she looks at the stool. It does seem rather high, and she's not quite sure if she'll be able to manage the first step without risking exposure of a little more leg than is covered by the tops of her boots.

She feels awfully silly asking, but... "Would you mind...?" She reaches out to him and to steady herself, her bare hand comes into contact with his bare forearm.

She's not sure why this touch is so different from the feeling of his hand against hers at the garden party, which was in itself so different from the feeling of his hand against hers whenever he helps her into the motor.

But it is.

Objectively speaking, and Sybil tries to consider things from an objective point of view as best as she can, the only difference between those situations and this one is the lack of glove, or gloves, singular or plural, and although that really oughtn't make any sort of difference, somehow, strangely, it does.

Branson looks terribly serious as he reaches out, places his free hand under her elbow, and boosts her up onto the stool.

Her hand still clutches his forearm and the skin there is more tanned than she'd have expected, as though on his half-days, he goes around the countryside in shirtsleeves, and for all she knows, he does; the sparse hair is light blond; his fingertips are rough, but not coarse; his grip is firm, secure, confident, but not painful.

He's standing close enough to her now that she is very aware of the fact that the top few buttons of his shirt are undone, that the hollow of his throat is visible, that she can catch a faint hint of shaving soap if she inhales deeply, and that she does so, several times, and that she wonders if his cheeks are smooth or rough with stubble right now.

She's not certain why she's noticing these things now, or why this noticing these things is almost dizzying, but she suspects it is not entirely unrelated to what happened at the garden party last month, when for a moment, he held her hand in his and she held his in hers.

She wonders if she's blushing.