Lady Sybil looked resplendent in her finery, gowned in Worth's satin and smiles. It was not her own dinner, but Katherine Clary's, a girl she did not know well but was intimately bound to by the common demands of their station, especially during the London season. The Lady Clary was smiling at the young men who flanked her sides at the table and flirting in the particular way of debutante beauties—listening attentively and laughing at their comments.

Sybil took a sip of wine. The Season was exciting, but rather exhausting, and she had attended countless dinners, breakfasts, balls and galas already. They tended to blur together like a pretty dream. Perhaps because so many of them had been spent twirling in dances. Arriving from the country to see so many new faces all at once brought an abundance of energy that subsided into dogged stamina as the summer and soirées wore on.

Although she sat at dinner, her night was far from over. There remained the theater, and Katherine had made quite clear her expectations that she should see all of her guests again at Elizabeth Lane's ball later that night.

Mary was not far away, responding to something in lofty tones that must have impressed her dinnermates even as it alienated them. She could not see Edith, but knew her to be sitting next to a nice young man she hoped would overcome his shyness.

Both of her sisters had been surprised to receive invitations to this dinner, and to the gala afterwards. Sybil suspected Katherine's machinations on this front. Early on the youngest Crawley girl had proven a popular invite to the social functions, and sometimes her sisters were prevailed upon as an ingratiating measure.

"You seem preoccupied," said the man sitting to her left. Roger Tell was near to her age, the son of Lord Candler, and he was a nice young man.

"Oh—I'm not, really," said Sybil.

Roger smiled and set his spoon down elegantly. He did everything elegantly. "Will you be attending Elizabeth Lane's gala this evening?"

So many of the questions directed at her since she'd arrived in London began with those words, "Will you be attending...?"

The last question she'd been asked in Yorkshire had been, "Have you read about the Pankhursts' latest?"

Sybil answered Roger, "Yes, I think so," although for a wild moment she entertained the thought of begging off, citing a headache. Mama wouldn't like it.

"My cousin Lelaine shall be there, so you won't be lacking for good conversation," said Roger, still smiling.

Lelaine was witty, in the cutting way of London girls. She was a little older than Sybil and they had known each other somewhat through the aquaintanceship of their fathers. Sybil had once thought Lelaine quite worldly and grown-up, but now that they were young women, Lelaine's conversation had not seemed to change much from when they were girls.

"That will be lovely," said Sybil. She did like Lelaine.

"Of course, I hope it's our conversation you're drawn to more," said the man to her right, raising his wine. "If we find it's Lelaine your attention swings to in favor, we may have to steal you for a waltz. I will." He laughed. "So perhaps I shall be intentionally boring, if only to have a dance."

Sybil smiled behind her glove, seemingly at Peter's remark, remembering a certain comment made to her the day before: how self-referential posh table talk was, never seeming to get off the topic of itself. Their exchanges did rather seem to go round and round in the same fashion.

"Oh, do try not to be boring," she said, certain Peter and Roger would get their dances one way or another. They laughed and looked pleased.

All of a sudden she felt bold, and said, "After all, how could discussion grow dull, with all that's happened? When an Archduke has been murdered and there's talk of war every day?"

Katherine overheard and said, "Oh don't let's discuss that, let's talk of pleasant things."

Before Sybil could reply, Roger cut in and said, "It's too gruesome a subject for ears that should only hear delightful things."

It was so poetic Sybil could only blink. She was fairly certain that was meant to be complimentary; certainly his tone suggested as much. But even in a house so decorous as her own father's, talk of the Archduke was not taboo, why shouldn't they speak of it here? Ignoring a thing would not make it go away.

Sybil tried again. "My ears are not so delightful as that," she said, playing along, "Don't you think, though, that Germany will be looking to invade Belgium? After all, they—"

Peter laughed. "Why, you're political."

Something in his tone was indulgent.

"I am," said Sybil.

Katherine looked over at her fondly. "Our Sybil. Next thing she'll be attending the women's rallies, won't you?"

Bemused, Sybil sat back a little. "Well, I have attended a rally or two," she replied, omitting the disastrous result of the second outing.

Her dinnermates looked quite shocked. "Sybil!" Nearby, Cecilia Hannery gasped more dramatically than Sybil thought the revelation warranted. "A rally! Really, the sort of people you'd find there!"

For having joked about it, Katherine was astonished too. "How daring. Sybil, you must be careful."

"Why are you keen on the vote?" asked Roger, genuinely wondering.

"Because I'm a woman, and I have opinions," said Sybil. She was beginning to feel vexed and regretted having brought it up.

"Well, I have opinions, too," said Cecilia, picking up her spoon, "and in my opinion, Elizabeth's party will be a sorry affair if Nellie Melba doesn't show up to sing."

And so the conversation spiraled into another direction, which both relieved and annoyed Sybil. Perhaps she would beg off that night.

After dinner she stepped outside with Mary, Edith and their Aunt Rosamund. Lord and Lady Grantham were engaged for the evening so Matthew had campaigned to act as their chaperone. Mary had been stubborn, insisting they'd be surrounded all night by proper gentlemen and Branson would be close by to see them from place to place. Sybil simply thought she didn't want to be around Matthew until she'd made her decision.

And he wasn't her fiancee yet, so even though he was family, it would have been inappropriate. In the end Aunt Rosamund had agreed to accompany them. It was hardly necessary; in the country the girls were a little more independent, but in London they were supposed to have a chaperone even if they didn't need one.

"You're coming to the theater, aren't you?" said Peter as the Crawleys' chartered car came up, a Renault like their own. Branson hopped smartly out of his seat to open the Renault's door for them.

Feeling resigned, Sybil said, "I am." Behind her, Edith and Mary hesitated before climbing into the automobile.

"Perhaps I should share your car. Four lovely women must not be left to themselves at night, after all."

"Is the chauffeur invisible?" wondered Mary aloud, as though to Edith. "Branson, show yourself at once, we've a play to attend."

His expression was faintly sardonic as he continued to hold the door open.

"That's—kind of you Peter, but won't Roger and Graham be expecting you in their car?" asked Sybil.

It was not so much that she minded company, but the insinuation that she must have it.

"Besides," said Edith, "we're only taxiing from place to place. It's nearly a carnival train, we shan't get lost."

Oh, thought Sybil, but if only Edith knew she was wonderful. However Peter was not to be put off, and with further gentlemanly entreaties he followed them into the car, sliding into the front seat. Branson snapped the door shut and wordlessly resumed his place on the driver's side.

"Girls of the country are audacious, aren't they?" commented Peter over his shoulder once they were settled and Branson had put the car into gear. "Going about at home without chaperones."

"It's not really necessary in Yorkshire," said Edith.

"Even so. Sybil tells me she's attended rallies. Are you all so political?"

Her sisters looked uncomfortable. "We've not attended them ourselves, no," said Edith in reference to herself and Mary.

Peter smiled at Sybil. "So you're the black sheep of the family."

Mary twitched her eyebrows, inspecting a seam on her glove. "I'd say we're each of us the black sheep of the family."

Their guest gave Mary a lingering look, which she ignored. Edith stared at her knee. Aunt Rosamund looked prim, having elected to let the discussion play itself out.

"Well, spirit is an admirable virtue," said Peter.

In a horse, thought Sybil, and a belle. She suspected he'd think rather less of it in a wife. "Spirit we have," she said with a smile, not adding she was losing the energy to maintain it tonight. And so long to go.

Branson braked gently to make a turn.

"An excellent dinner, although I daresay I hope for greater variety from Katherine in the future," said Peter, adjusting his cuff. "Rather an overreliance on Dauphinoise potatoes, don't you think? They're good, of course, but I thought we'd all turn Fenian by the end of the night."

Sybil frowned, and glanced to the front. "I quite liked them," she said. "I must remember to mention them when I write to thank Katherine for the dinner."

Peter shrugged. "Her cook's Irish, I heard, so there you go. I suppose they know their way around a potato. She must have been gobsmacked the first time they gave her actual meat to cook with."

Now Mary's gaze flicked to Branson, who sat silently in front.

Sybil fidgeted with her gloves. Here, in front of others, it would be so easy to keep silent or change the subject, or hoped it changed of its own accord. Instead she said, "That's not kind."

Eyebrows raised, Peter said, "What's not? Oh, I was only joking."

The topic blessedly changed to the theater, with Edith struggling to talk through the sudden awkward mood that must have struck Peter as quite odd, not knowing their driver as the girls did. Sybil surreptitiously watched the back of Branson's head, but of course she could not guess at his face. She wondered how often he heard flippant derision against his land from people who barely noticed him.

At last they reached the theater. Peter exited the car and gallantly helped down Edith and Mary, followed by their aunt.

He held out his hand for Sybil, but she had already taken Branson's and stepped from the automobile.

As the others walked into the theater she gave him a small smile, and his face softened very slightly. Her sisters went on, having forgotten the brief exchange already.

The theaters went as theaters do, nobody paying particular attention to the stage. The real drama, Sybil reflected, occurred in the audience, as the girls giggled and whispered, and the men made clever remarks.

Curtain up, stage, intermission, stage, curtain down. Sybil wove through the throng of beautifully dressed women and dapper gentlemen, into the night where the chauffers leaned against the automobiles and smoked. Branson was ignoring them as he usually did. He sat near a lamplight, reading a paper by the dim glow.

He looked up as she approached and she was about to speak, but the start of his smile snapped to something formal as he glanced behind her shoulder and she turned to see Roger Tell striding her way. For an instant she felt irritation; couldn't she have one moment?

"I hear Peter winkled his way into escorting you here. I don't suppose I could get the drop on him and offer to accompany you to Elizabeth Lane's gala?" He said it with a smile.

Sybil suddenly felt foolish and did not look at Branson. The courtship of the Season seemed like such a silly game when acted out in front of someone who was not a player. She smiled nonetheless and said, "Actually, Roger...I think I may have to excuse myself for the rest of the night. I've rather a headache."

He immediately became concerned. "I could fetch a doctor."

"That's quite all right, I'll have Branson take me home."

Before Roger could make any charming appeals, Mary, Edith and Aunt Rosamund walked up with Peter and yet another boy—Graham—in tow. "Are you unwell, darling?" Mary asked with a knowing look. Edith hid a tiny smile. "Branson, take my sister back to Grantham House, please. The rest of us will soldier on. Mr Tell, surely there's room in your car, isn't there? We'll arrive at Miss Lane's together."

Sybil sent her a silent look of thanks. Mary responded with making a minute gesture of sweeping her finger across her lips. After saying goodnight to Edith and Aunt Rosamund, and sweetly playing down the boys' disappointment ("Give Lelaine my best, I'll see her soon"), Branson helped her back into the car.

When they'd rounded a bend, Sybil leaned her head back and exhaled. "How claustrophobic," she said.

She couldn't see Branson's face but heard the wry note in his voice. "They might as well run all the debutantes in a derby and be done with it."

Well used to him by then, Sybil only smiled. "The derby's never done, not 'till August."

"Do you really have a headache, m'lady?" Branson asked, turning the wheel again.

"No." Though she would likely have developed one in earnest. She folded her hands in her lap. "I wouldn't mind all this if there wasn't such a lot of pressure about it. If it really were only visits, and dances, and dinners, and not things disguised as them. Or maybe just not so much of it." She liked being friendly, after all. "Do the Irish girls do anything like this?"

No, of course not, Sybil thought immediately, she should not have asked. But Branson replied, "Yes, but an Irish jubilee is not for the faint of heart."

Sybil laughed. "I think I'd have a stout enough heart for it." Then she sobered and looked at the buildings passing slowly by. Everything was alight for the night's festivities. "I'm sorry for what Peter said. It was unkind."

"So you said to him," said Branson, "which was kind."

She could not have said why she blushed. Perhaps it was the idea that Branson would gladly receive an insult if only to hear Sybil counter it.

Most of their ride was spent in companionable silence, unusual for them. Oftener they chatted right up to the destination. But it had struck Sybil at that moment that she would likely end up marrying one of the polished young men she met at these functions and the idea rather astonished her, to have possibly met her match already without knowing which one he was. That was the point of the Season, after all. The thought made her quiet.

Roger was sweet, Peter was pompous but not all that bad, just unaware; Graham was pleasant once he found the nerve to speak. Larry Grey was...Larry Grey. Sybil had made a great many friends, just none yet that she could envision marrying. But it was only her first Season.

"Are you all right, m'lady?" asked Branson, applying the brake to allow for a mounted policeman to pass.

"Yes, only I have too many friends."

Branson was smiling, she was sure of it. "Is that a real problem?"

Only to someone with no real problems. To a chauffeur, an Irish republican living away from his home, it wasn't. "No. I don't suppose I have real problems."

He was surprised. "I didn't mean that as an insult."

"I know," she said, "Don't worry, I was only thinking. I've been thinking it all night really. I enjoy the Season, I do, it's just a little overwhelming. One night to myself, that's all I need."

Branson drove down another street. After only a few weeks he'd become knowledgeable of the London labyrinth, and he steered with mindless certainty.

It was true, she did like the Season. She honestly did not know why she felt uneasy. There was no reason to be fretful. Perhaps it was the threat of war, or the inevitability of marriage. Either way she was struck with the vague sense that the winds of change were beginning to blow in from a direction she could not pinpoint yet, and until she knew which way to turn her sails she would go on feeling this way.

She nearly said as much to Branson but managed to stop herself. Sybil always felt inclined to confide in him more than was proper, despite their friendship. Another friend among the many she didn't know what to do with already.

Grantham House appeared ahead. Branson drove up to the front of the gate, and disembarked to escort her to the door.

Carson received them with surprise. "Why, Lady Sybil, we weren't expecting you all night. Is everything alright?"

"I'm fine, thank you Carson, I just have a headache. I think I'll lie down."

Branson dipped his head respectfully and Sybil turned towards the stairs. When she reached the first landing, she glanced back at him but he'd gone out the door already, headed to Elizabeth Lane's party where he would sit outside the car and ignore everyone until her sisters and aunt were ready to leave. It would be a long night.

Sybil spent most of it thinking.

Please forgive any historical errors. I just wanted to write something taking place when they were mostly carefree! I assume the Crawleys would have taken Branson along and have him drive a rental or whatever, I can't think they'd have paid him to veg out with a newspaper back in Yorkshire all summer. If that's inaccurate sorry!