Um...hi, remember me? So it's been A LONG TIME since I updated this story, so I honestly don't know if there's anyone out there still reading it (or still interested in reading it) but if you are, *THANK YOU* for sticking around and being patient as I deal with all sorts of life changes in the past year. Anyway, I've made a New Year's resolution to update at least one story a month, so here's my contribution for January (just under the deadline) and hope to update it again soon. So anyway, thank you for reading and continuing to read and support and I hope you enjoy!

Chapter Twelve
"Kindred Spirits"

Sybil gazed at her reflection in the mirror of her dressing table, her brow furrowed as her hands played with her hair. Up…down…up…down…

Normally, when she was home, Sybil would wear her hair down. It was an unusual custom, especially for a woman in Sybil's position and who was "out" in society, but she never cared much for hairpins (always scraping and scratching her scalp), and really, when she was in the comfort of her own home with no plans to go out or entertain anyone, what was the point? And even then, she rarely wore her hair up when her friends came to visit. But Miss Bunting wasn't a close friend…at least, not yet.

The door to her room opened after a short knock, and Gwen entered, carrying Sybil's newly laundered dress from the day before. Gwen caught Sybil's eyes in the mirror and smiled. "Would you like me to put your hair up for you, Miss?"

Sybil sighed and squinted at her reflection once again. "I can't seem to make up my mind," she grumbled. "Miss Bunting is a guest and I don't want to appear too informal, but…"

"But you also want to be yourself," Gwen finished, smiling kindly at Sybil with an understanding that only existed between friends.

Sybil returned the smile, although it soon fell as she gazed at her lady's maid, who was busy hanging the dress back in Sybil's wardrobe. "Gwen…I…I want to apologize for how I spoke to you the other night…as well as yesterday, when you were voicing your concern for my welfare in regards to the protest."

Gwen's eyes widened slightly and her face began to darken. She lowered her eyes and mumbled, "There's no need to apologize, Miss; I spoke out of turn—"

"No, you didn't," Sybil interrupted, rising from her stool and quickly crossing the room to where Gwen stood. "And it was wrong of me to be so harsh. And…well, while nothing got out of hand at the protest, you weren't wrong when pointing out the key differences between the rallies I attended in the past, to what happened yesterday."

Gwen's brow creased with concern at Sybil's words. When Sybil had returned home from the previous evening, she did assure Gwen as soon as they saw one another that everything had been fine, nothing bad had happened—no rioting, no arrests—but she did mention, briefly, that there had been some heckling. However, she hadn't given Gwen the exact details to what the hecklers had said…or what had happened to a particular few when their paths crossed those of Branson. In fact, that was one detail Sybil had purposefully chosen not to reveal.

"I imagine the difference between the two is that when you attend a rally, you're surrounded by like-minded people, who are there to show and share their support," Gwen observed, offering a small smile, though there was still concern in her eyes.

Sybil nodded her head in agreement and returned Gwen's smile, her own a little broader with hopes of putting whatever concerns Gwen felt, at ease. She turned back to the mirror and once again gathered her hair and lifted it up. "I think you're right, Gwen," she finally said at last, before releasing the mahogany curls and letting them tumble around her shoulders. "If I hope to become friends with Miss Bunting, which I do, then I need to be myself."

Gwen smiled back at Sybil's reflection, before turning her attention to the wardrobe once again. "Do you have anything in mind to wear today, Miss?"

Sybil glanced over her shoulder at the wardrobe. "I was thinking the lavender and white tea dress—or do you think that's too plain?"

Gwen lifted her eyebrows at Sybil's words. "I don't know if any of your gowns can be accused of being 'plain', Miss."

Sybil felt her cheeks flood with color. "You're right," she groaned, closing her eyes and giving her head a shake. "That was a bit insensitive, wasn't it?"

"I don't know if I would say that, Miss; it's all a matter of perspective, really," Gwen offered, while fetching the gown which Sybil had mentioned. "If I may be so bold as to say, when what one wears is typically black and white with the occasional shades of brown…well, anything with a bit of color is the opposite of plain." Gwen gave Sybil a teasing grin, which warmed Sybil right away. She felt things were truly returning to normal between the two of them.

"How are things downstairs?" Sybil asked, picking up her brush and returning to face her reflection once again in the dressing table's mirror. "I know that Mrs. Patmore can sometimes get a bit carried away." It was true; her cook often treated high tea like a grand luncheon.

"She has a lemon cake baking as we speak," Gwen whispered somewhat conspiratorially, before erupting into giggles.

Sybil swore her stomach growled at the mention of cook's famous lemon cake. "She best be careful; Thomas may try to snatch it while it cools!" she teased, knowing her footman's affinity for Mrs. Patmore's cakes.

Gwen giggled but shook her head. "I don't think you'll have to worry about that. Mr. Branson is good about keeping everything in order down there."

At the mention of her butler's name, Sybil's head perked up just a little. "Oh?" she murmured, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible (and no doubt failing). "Well, I'm glad to hear it," she added. "And…would you say he's fitting in well with everyone?"

She glanced in the mirror to catch Gwen's reaction. She noticed how her lady's maid bit her lip, before giving a quick nod of her head. "Yes, Miss, I would."

Sybil's brow furrowed slightly. The answer sounded a bit "forced". "Really Gwen?"

Gwen lifted her eyes and met Sybil's in the mirror, before quickly glancing away. "We work very well together, Miss. And Mr. Branson is very good at his job," she finalized, before going back to her task and carefully laying Sybil's lavender and white tea gown on the bed and smoothing the fabric.

Now Sybil was the one biting her lip. Should she push the subject? It was clear there was…something…Gwen wasn't telling her, but on the other hand, perhaps she was making Gwen uncomfortable by putting her on the spot and asking her to more or less "tattle" on her colleagues? Well, she could always speak with Branson himself, after all, and made a mental note to do just that. And speaking of which…

"Gwen, when we finish here, would you please go and find Branson and ask for him to meet me in the library?"

Gwen looked a bit surprised by Sybil's question. "Of course, Miss, only…"

Sybil paused and looked at Gwen with a frown. "What is it?"

"Well…Mr. Branson had to step out."

Sybil's eyes widened. "Step out?" she repeated. Step out where?

"Oh, he assured us he would be back soon! And I'm sure he will—he knows that you have company coming," she quickly added, forcing a smile thought she looked a bit uncertain.

Sybil's frown only deepened. "Did he…did he say why he was 'stepping out'?" It was a silly question, really. Carson had "stepped out" to take care of various business dealings for the house when he had been her butler. It was not uncommon, and other than Miss Bunting, Sybil wasn't expecting anybody else, so really…why was she fussing?

Gwen was looking a bit worried now. "I…I'm afraid I didn't ask, Miss. I didn't feel it was in my place—"

"It's alright," Sybil interrupted, offering her friend an apologetic smile. "I'm sure it's nothing to be concerned about. I'm just anxious, thinking about today…honestly, I don't know why I'm feeling so nervous; although I swear I'm more nervous about having Miss Bunting for tea than I was for that dinner only two nights ago!" She forced a nervous laugh, which seemed to bring some ease back to the situation. She wasn't lying; she was feeling a bit more nervous about the afternoon's tea for some reason. She very truly wanted to make a good impression with Miss Bunting!

Gwen still looked a bit unsure. "Do you want me to go downstairs and see if he's back?"

Sybil shook her head, feeling rather silly for her earlier questions. "No, it's fine, really. And it's nothing urgent, I…I just wanted to ask him something, but that can wait till later." She turned away and quickly resumed her brushing, this time being the one to avoid making eye contact.

A loud silence seemed to fill the room then. Gwen went about the task of laying out fresh undergarments and stockings, as well as fetching the appropriate shoes, while Sybil finished brushing her hair until it appeared to be somewhat "ruly". She then rose from her dressing table and prepared herself for the inhumane torture that was the corset. Oh, how she hated the wretched things. Sometimes she fantasized about not wearing one at all, but even she wasn't that radical. It was one thing to greet Miss Bunting with her hair down, but quite another to forgo a corset.

Sybil grasped the bedpost and sucked in several deep breaths as Gwen began her work of lacing and tugging. "Have you given any more thought on what you'll wear for Lady Mae's ball?" Gwen asked, as a way to help distract Sybil from the pain of having her ribcage squeezed and cinched.

"Actually…" Sybil sucked in a breath and gritted her teeth as Gwen tugged on the laces. "…Remember that magazine picture I showed you?"

Gwen paused briefly in her work, and then let out a gasp, "you mean the one with the…" she lowered her voice as if it were the most scandalous thing she had ever heard, "trousers!?"

Sybil couldn't contain her laughter. "Well I did say I was going to order it," she proudly declared.

"I know, I mean I remember you saying that, but…but I thought you were just teasing!"

Sybil's grin only spread further. "Oh Gwen, surely you know that whenever I say something 'outrageous' I'm being completely serious?"

At that, Gwen did giggle. "True," she sighed, before returning to her task at hand and tugging on Sybil's corset strings. "Have you told anybody else?"

"No," Sybil muttered with a bit of a wince. "I want it to be a surprise."

"I have no doubt it will be that, Miss; especially for Mrs. Painswicke."

Sybil made a face at the mention of her aunt. They hadn't spoken since the night of the dinner. Sybil had considered stopping at her aunt's after the protest, as a means to reassure her that everything was fine, as well as take the opportunity to "prove her point" that participation in such events was nothing to fear or be ashamed of. But Sybil had a feeling if she did go to her aunt's, a row would break out. Rosamond would feel that Sybil was mocking her concern, and…if Sybil were honest with herself, she very well might be found guilty of gloating. And she had no right to gloat, especially considering what could have happened yesterday. She would need to make amends with Aunt Rosamond, and vowed to do so after her tea with Miss Bunting.

"Ow!" Sybil hissed at a rather tight tug of the corset strings.

"Sorry, Miss!" Gwen apologized. "It's the last one, I swear."

Sybil nodded her head and glanced over at her mirror, catching her reflection in the confounded garment. "Do you think Madame Swann would take my measurements for a brassiere?"

Gwen lifted her head in wide-eyed surprise at Sybil's words. "A brassiere?"

Sybil grinned and turned around to face Gwen. "Yes, they're becoming more and more prominent in some of those magazines—oh Gwen! We could both be measured and then you wouldn't have to deal with a bloody corset either!"

Gwen blushed at Sybil's words, but a tiny smile lifted at the corner of her mouth at the thought. "Oh, I…I don't know…" she mumbled, looking down due to embarrassment, but not before Sybil caught sight of what looked like keen interest at the idea.

"We could have Madame Swann come to the house if you'd prefer; it might be more discrete that way."

Gwen wasn't so sure about that. She was a bit more familiar with how walls could suddenly grow ears, not to mention a pair of eyes. And knowing both Thomas and Edna, there was bound to be speculation.

"At least consider it," Sybil urged, squeezing Gwen's hands, before turning back to the clothes Gwen had laid out for her and continued to get dressed for the day. Fifteen minutes later, she was descending the stairs and eagerly entered the tiny drawing room, which looked polished and tidy and ready to receive Miss Bunting as soon as she arrived. There were even fresh flowers in the various vases around the room. Her heart swelled and her smile broadened; thank you, Branson, she quietly thought.

"Everything to your liking, Miss?"

Sybil gasped, surprised by the voice. "Oh, Thomas, you gave me a start!" she said with a slight chuckle. Really, she needed to calm down.

Thomas bowed his head. "Beggin' your pardon, Miss."

Sybil smiled back at him. "It's alright, I'm simply anxious. And to answer your question, yes, everything looks wonderful."

Thomas bowed his head once more. "I'm glad, Miss; I do understand that today means a great deal to you."

Sybil was a little surprised by this declaration. While she liked to think herself on friendly terms with all the members of staff, she admitted that she didn't speak as freely with Thomas as she did with Gwen…or Branson, for that matter.

If you're honest with yourself, you speak even more freely with him than you do with Gwen! For some reason, the thought brought heat to her cheeks.

"Is there anything I can do for you, Miss?" Thomas asked, oblivious to her blush or the cause behind it.

Sybil smiled at his offer and shook her head. "Thank you, Thomas, but I am fine and I think Branson has taken care of everything else, so now we shall simply wait until Miss Bunting arrives."

At the mention of her butler, Sybil noticed a muscle twitch beneath Thomas' left eye. "I am at your disposal, Miss," he calmly murmured with an obedient bow of his head. It struck Sybil as a bit strange; it wasn't that Thomas wasn't good at his job, but…she couldn't recall the last time he was so…forward…with his offers to serve.

"Thank you," she returned, smiling back at him and even bowing her own head in appreciation. "Well, there are some letters I wish to write before Miss Bunting's arrival, so I will be in the library—"

"Of course, Miss, I shan't keep you," Thomas stepped aside and lowered his head. This really was altogether strange. "And as I said, I am at your disposal when the time comes…especially since Mr. Branson is unavailable."

That caught Sybil's attention. She looked at Thomas with surprise. "Unavailable?"

Thomas nodded his head. "Yes, Miss. Mr. Branson said something about needing to 'run an errand', but gave no indication when he would return. And that was well over an hour ago."

Sybil recalled Gwen saying something similar. "Well, I'm sure he'll be back soon," she offered, forcing a reassuring smile. She certainly hoped that he would. She wanted him there for when Miss Bunting arrived.

Thomas once again bowed his head and lowered his eyes. "Of course, Miss," he replied in that obedient manner servants were taught to do. "But even so, I will be at the ready to step in and serve in his place."

Something about his offer to help struck Sybil as…not necessarily being one of great sincerity. Or rather, an offer that seemed to hold a certain weight to it, as if there was an expectation attached with it.

She really didn't know how to respond, so she simply forced a smile and mumbled her thanks once again, before moving past the footman and entering the library, shutting the door behind her. Why was Thomas acting so…peculiar? And where had Branson gone to? What was this errand he had to run? And had he really been gone for over an hour?

Oh stop it, she scolded herself. It's his business, whatever it may be, and he has proven himself to be quite reliable, so he'll be back when you need him. She nodded her head to her thoughts and then sat down at her writing desk to work on those very letters she had mentioned to Thomas. Still…she couldn't stop her mind from wandering to the mysterious Irishman…and reminding herself that while yes, he was reliable, and he was someone she could most certainly speak openly and freely to…there was still a great deal she didn't know about him.

Sybil groaned and rolled her eyes at herself. Good heavens, from the way her mind was working, you would think the man was harboring secrets for the government, like some sort of spy. She shook her head and muttered to "control herself" under her breath, before dipping her pen in the inkwell and getting to work on her first letter. Honestly…her mind never wandered like this with Carson!

Tom frowned as he watched his cousin stuff another massive bite of the sandwich Eli's wife had kindly made for him. Eamon had barely managed to swallow the last bite, but he kept eating the sandwich as though he expected someone to snatch it away. "Easy," Tom cautioned as Eamon took another bite. "Don't make yourself sick."

Eamon managed to smile sheepishly, despite the fact that bits of bread and meat and cheese were sticking out between his lips. Tom's frown only deepened. Did his cousin not have any food or money to buy food? How bad had things gotten?

Eamon paused to swallow the last bite of sandwich at last, before wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. "Sorry," he mumbled, although he didn't look sorry—if anything, he looked happily satisfied. "It's just been so long…"

Tom tensed at this. "When did you last eat?"

Eamon's smile faded to a frown. "Jesus, I'm not starving Tommy, if that's what you're thinking."

Tom lifted an eyebrow at this. "And yet you ate that sandwich like it was your last hour on this earth."

Eamon rolled his eyes. "All I was saying was that it's been so long since I ate something GOOD like that—fresh bread, cheese, meat…" he had only just finished eating, but he looked as if he were going to start drooling for another. Eamon shook his head and sighed. "The gruel I'll be eating later won't begin to compare…"

Now it was Tom's turn to roll his eyes. "It's not as bad as all that," he muttered.

Eamon scowled. "Says the man who's eating three-course meals every night."

"I'm not eating three-course meals," Tom defensively muttered.

"Eating better than I am—better than anyone in that tenement," Eamon muttered back.

Tom rose to his feet, his patience little more than a shoestring. "Want me to quit my job? Want me to come back to that tenement with you so the both of us can share in your gruel?"

Eamon rolled his eyes. "I'm just saying—"

"I won't be made to feel ashamed!" he spat, a bit too harshly. He was overreacting, he knew, but ever since his meeting with Lady Mae, he was on edge. That meeting was a reminder that he couldn't stay in London, no matter how "comfortable" things felt with his new job. Last night, while he lay awake in his bed, he came to the conclusion that really only two things he needed to see done: lay low and earn enough to get himself and Eamon out of Britain, and make sure Sybil was taken care of…

Taken care of…like a dog or a child, not like a grown woman who knows her own mind…

Tom gritted his teeth and turned his face away before Eamon could question him about what the matter was.

"I wasn't trying to 'shame' ye," Eamon defended, the look on his face a mixture of annoyance and regret.

Tom sighed and took a deep, calming breath. "Aye, I know," he murmured.

Silence passed between the two cousins, before Eamon finally broke it. "So…I suppose you want to hear what's been going on since you left?"

Tom stiffened slightly, but nodded his head. The meeting had been his idea, and was long overdue. He had awoken early, even before Mrs. Patmore had risen, and saw to the drawing room, cleaning and polishing the room himself, before popping down to the florist and bringing back fresh flowers to fill the vases. He knew Sybil was excited for the day; when he had seen her the night before, she was breathless and radiant, gasping about having a special guest coming for tea, a fellow suffragette whom she had met earlier that day and who she had quickly come to admire. Despite his meeting with Lady Mae, and despite the uncomfortable conversation that transpired between them (and the even more uncomfortable thoughts that followed), Tom couldn't help but smile warmly as he listened to Sybil go on and on about Miss Sarah Bunting, and how she was so excited to be hosting the woman. Everything about her is infectious, Tom found himself thinking later when he was alone in his room. Proving once again, why he needed to leave.

Eamon gave a little shrug of his shoulders. "Nothing, really. I mean, I haven't seen or heard from Archer or his men since the last time I spoke to you."

Tom frowned at this. "They haven't come back, demanding an answer to where I am?"

Eamon shook his head. "If they have, it hasn't been while I was around. And you know if they wanted to, they could find me."

He did know that, yes. Donald Archer ruled London's East End the way a lord ruled a manor. Very little got past him, and he had people everywhere prepared to deliver him whatever information he required. This was why Tom had to be so careful. It was out of the question that he go back to the tenement, as no doubt Archer had someone—maybe even one of their old neighbors—keeping watch at all times. And that same person was probably watching (and reporting) Eamon's every move…and whatever messages arrived. Tom had to be creative with finding ways to get his messages to his cousin, and was grateful he could rely on Eli's delivery truck to help with getting one to Eamon that morning.

"Maybe he's satisfied with your payment?" Eamon offered.

Tom snorted. "Nothing satisfies Archer's greed, not even payment with interest," he muttered.

Eamon didn't argue the matter. "Perhaps…he's focusing on something else? Has bigger fish to fry?"

Tom shook his head. "Even if that were true, he'd still have someone spying on his behalf, gathering information about any debts owed to him." Or people who have disappeared without any word of warning, Tom thought.

"So…what are you saying then? That Archer is simply 'lying in wait'? Trying to lull us into a false state of security so when our guard is down, he'll spring?" Eamon didn't even bother to wait for Tom's answer. "No, no, he's much more direct than that."

"Perhaps, but that doesn't explain why things have been so quiet as of late. I may be 'up to date' with my payments, but I still owe him money." Not to mention that Archer's curiosity to how Tom was able to pay his debts, especially since Tom no longer worked for him, would be at the forefront of his mind. Donald Archer was not one that liked surprises (although he did like to "surprise" others…and often, without warning).

"So what are you going to do then?" Eamon asked, breaking through Tom's thoughts.

Tom groaned, hating the answer he was about to provide, but knowing it was the only logical offer. "I need to meet him."

Eamon's eyes looked ready to burst. "Meet him!?"

"Aye," Tom muttered. "Meet him face to face and offer…some kind of explanation to where I've been, and how I'm able to pay him back."

Eamon look of shock transformed to a look of discomfort. "But…but I thought you didn't want him to know about your work?"

"I don't," Tom confirmed. "But if I keep avoiding him, he'll eventually find out where I am and…" his hands clenched into fists as he thought of that bastard and his mongrels getting into Sybil's house. And cornering Sybil. He swore a growl escaped his throat. "No, I need to meet him—at least that way I have a chance of…of getting him to look elsewhere rather than learn the truth."

Eamon was frowning. "But…do you really think Archer would try anything—?"

"You know him, Eamon, you've seen what he can do," Tom growled.

"Aye, but…but its Eaton Square, Tommy—I mean, Donald Archer would stick out like a sore thumb—"

"That doesn't matter!" Tom snapped. "I'm not going to risk…" he stopped himself just in time from mentioning Sybil's name. He lowered his eyes, not wanting Eamon to see the defensive fire that was burning within them. "…I'm not going to risk him ruining things for us."

Eamon looked confused. "Us?"

"Aye," Tom answered, finally looking back at his cousin. "This job is going to be our ticket out of London—literally."

That surprised look returned to Eamon's face. "You mean…really leaving?"

Tom nodded. "If we're careful, by the spring we'll have enough money to get passage to America."

Eamon's face fell slightly at Tom's words. "Spring? We couldn't go sooner?"

They could, though it would be difficult. But wasn't impossible…however then there was no guarantee for Sybil's safety. And Tom wouldn't leave until he knew she was protected. And happy, he added. Yes, her happiness mattered very much to him…

"Spring," Tom repeated, giving his cousin a firm look. "And until then, just…keep your head down and go about your business as usual—and DON'T go seeking Archer or any of his men out yourself."

"But Tommy—"

"I mean it," Tom hissed. "Let me deal with him. I'll…somehow…make arrangements to meet him, tell him my story, and…hopefully…that will satisfy him at least for the moment." He wished he could feel as confident as he was sounding. And just what would he tell Donald Archer? Because whatever lie he concocted, he knew Archer would have him followed, and try however he could, to get more out of him than was necessary. But he would cross that bridge when it came; right now, he just had to find a way to get in touch with the crime lord.

"Tom? Eamon?" Both men turned to the sound of Eli's voice, the baker wiping flour from his hands against his apron. "I have a delivery to make near Docklands at 2 o'clock; do you want a ride back?"

Tom's eyes went wide at Eli's words. Good God, he'd completely lost track of the time! "Mind what I said!" Tom barked at his cousin, before grabbing his hat and jacket and sprinting out of the bakery without a backwards glance, racing down the road and praying a streetcar would be able to get him back to Eaton Square in time.

The sound of the mantle clock in the drawing room quietly chimed the hour, announcing that at long last, it was two in the afternoon, the time when Miss Bunting would be arriving. It was a bit early for tea, but the hour was what suited Miss Bunting when Sybil invited her to call, and besides, Sybil had a feeling Miss Bunting was every bit "unconventional" as herself. As a fellow suffragette, it was practically a given.

Sybil glanced for what was no doubt the millionth time at the clock, her rigid posture somehow managing to tense even more as she waited for the arrival of her guest…as well as her butler.

Where could he have gone? Surely Branson would have sought her out the moment he returned, which meant he was still missing. No, not "missing", simply…running an errand of some sort; an errand which must have been very important (although she had no idea what on earth it could be, and that was beginning to vex her, if she were honest). But surely he would return in time? Surely he would appear in the hall, ready to open the door and greet Miss Bunting the moment she rang the bell? Not that that was the reason Sybil was eager for his return. She wanted him there for when Miss Bunting arrived so she could introduce Miss Bunting to him, and reveal the brave ally who had supported them yesterday, and helped drive their hecklers away.

"Still no sign of him, Miss," a voice announced. Sybil turned her head to the sight of Thomas, who was standing tall and looking every bit the polished footman one would expect to find in a grand manor house. She appreciated her great-aunt's help when it came to hiring staff, but honestly, Thomas was better suited to a place like…Downton Abbey, than her own London townhouse.

Sybil sighed, looking down at her lap and smoothing her skirt, trying her best to hide her disappointment. She hadn't asked Thomas to check for her, but no doubt he had read her thoughts. She was sure they were plain as day across her face.

Just then the doorbell rang and an inner spring seemed to launch Sybil to her feet.

"I'll get it, Miss," Thomas announced with a pleasant smile, seeming almost eager to fill in for Branson. And it would be proper, for him to act in Branson's place while her butler was absent, yet Sybil's own unconventional side immediately took over, and she stunned Thomas by practically flying past him and beating him to the door.

"Thank you, Thomas, but I'll greet Miss Bunting. Would you be so kind as to see that tea is brought up?" she asked, offering him both an apologetic and pleading smile. Thomas still seemed to be in shock from her rushing to get the door. He gave a mute nod of his head, before turning and going about the task she had requested, leaving Sybil to greet her guest all on her own. With a deep breath and a grin of anticipation on her face, Sybil opened the door.

Miss Sarah Bunting was indeed standing there, with her back turned on Sybil as she seemed to be taking in the surrounding street and its black-iron fences and white-washed stone columns. She turned at the sound of the door opening and seemed to share an expression similar to that of Thomas' at the sight of the lady of the house holding the door open.

"Oh! Miss Levinson!" Miss Bunting gasped with wide eyes. "I…forgive me, you've caught me by surprise—"

"Good afternoon, Miss Bunting," Sybil answered, her grin only seeming to grow wider. "Please, do come in, I am so glad you came!"

Miss Bunting returned Sybil's smile, although there was a slight touch of reservation in it, before stepping inside 149's hallway. Miss Bunting's eyes were immediately drawn to the crystal chandelier that hung overhead. "Oh my," she whispered. "That must have cost a fortune!"

Sybil glanced up at the chandelier with some surprise. If truth be told, she had never really given the chandelier much thought. In fact, she couldn't say where the chandelier had come from—it very well may have been there when she arrived at 149. She knew that it was dazzling, thanks in part to Edna and the other members of 149's staff keeping it clean, but…other than that, she never really paid close attention to the shimmering crystals that hung overhead.

"May I take your hat and coat?" Sybil offered, turning her attention back to Miss Bunting.

"Oh! Um…thank you," Miss Bunting mumbled, still seeming a bit uncertain as she slipped her arms free from her coat and handed both it and her hat and gloves to Sybil. Sybil turned towards the coat closet and frowned, realizing that it would be difficult to open the closet with her hands full. How did Branson do this? He made it seem so easy! Oh honestly, you're simply hanging a coat, not trying to undo the Gordian Knot!

"Would you like some help?" Miss Bunting offered, seeming to notice Sybil's momentary dilemma.

Sybil's cheeks burned but she forced a smile and shook her head. "It's alright, I have it," she told her guest, carefully draping Miss Bunting's coat across her left arm, thus freeing her right hand to open the closet door and fetch a hanger. She managed hang Miss Bunting's coat, as well as carefully place her hat and gloves on an overhead shelf in the closet, without too much trouble, although even she had to admit that the job would have been handled a great deal better (and much more smoothly) by Branson, had he been there. Thomas was willing to do it, and yet you all but shushed him away, she quickly reminded herself. She honestly wasn't sure what had exactly come over her, other than that she felt an urgent need to prove to Miss Bunting that she wasn't completely helpless.

"Do you always greet your guests at the door, Miss Levinson?" Miss Bunting asked when Sybil finally closed the closet door. She blushed deeply but gave Miss Bunting a cheerful smile.

"I wanted to be the first to welcome you to my home," Sybil explained, smiling somewhat bashfully. "And may I say how honored I am to have your company this afternoon."

Miss Bunting smiled back at Sybil, a smile that seemed quite genuine and not at all uncertain or suspicious as she had looked earlier. "Well, thank you, Miss Levinson. I am honored to be here as well."

"Sybil, please," Sybil insisted, smiling and gesturing Miss Bunting into the drawing room. As if on cue, Thomas entered at that very moment, carrying the tea tray.

"Ah, thank you, Thomas," Sybil murmured to the footman, before turning back to her guest. "Please have a seat, Miss Bunting. And how do you take your tea?"

"Milk and one sugar," Miss Bunting replied, her eyes on Thomas as he set the tray down. "And…Thomas, is it?"

Thomas froze at the sound of Miss Bunting's address and lifted his gaze to hers in confusion. Miss Bunting didn't blink, simply met his gaze and smiled and seemed to wait for some form of acknowledgement to her question. "Yes, Miss," Thomas murmured, lowering his gaze and bowing his head, slightly, before rising once again to his full height and turning his attention to Sybil. "Is there anything else I can do for you, Miss?"

Sybil smiled but shook her head. "Thank you, Thomas, but I believe we're fine."

Thomas nodded, but kept his eyes on the ground as he backed away, before turning at last and disappearing through the door he had previously entered.

Miss Bunting watched him as he departed. "Interesting…" she murmured, more to herself, but Sybil did hear.

"I beg your pardon?"

Miss Bunting looked back at Sybil and offered a small smile. "Was he the person to whom you mentioned yesterday?"

"Oh! Oh no, no, that was Branson," Sybil explained, handing Miss Bunting her tea.

"Branson?" Miss Bunting repeated, accepting the cup and turning her gaze once more towards the door Thomas had disappeared through. "And Branson is your…butler, I believe I remember you saying?"

"Yes he is," Sybil answered with a nod, and then felt it was important to explain why her butler was absent. "He had some business to see to earlier; otherwise he would have been here."

"I see…" Miss Bunting murmured as she quietly stirred her tea. "So…I suppose that means you don't always answer the door when your guests arrive."

Sybil felt her face grow hot and glanced up at Miss Bunting from her own teacup, catching the other woman's eye and noticing the somewhat "conspiratorial" smile on her face. She returned the smile somewhat sheepishly.

"In all fairness, I may very well have beaten him to the door too, had he been here," Sybil confessed, earning a chuckle from her guest which put her more at ease.

"Well, do please pass along my thanks; it was most fortunate indeed that he was present when those cads chose to heckle us."

Sybil frowned at the memory. "They were absolutely abominable," she groaned, recalling the scoundrels.

Miss Bunting nodded her head in agreement, but gave a resigned sigh. "They were…but I have faced much worse."

"Truly?" Sybil asked, leaning forward with interest. "Have you participated in many demonstrations?"

Miss Bunting took a sip of her tea. "Counting yesterday, I've participated in twenty-nine."

Sybil's eyes went wide. "Twenty-nine!?"

Miss Bunting nodded, lowering her teacup. "Twenty-nine this year," she further explained. "I don't know if I could tell you how many overall; I've been going to these things since I turned fifteen."

Sybil sat back in her chair, stunned by this revelation. Stunned, and suddenly feel a bit…inadequate. Miss Bunting had been attending protests and marching in the front lines for The Cause since she was a girl, and Sybil…had been attending luncheons and teas at Selfridge's, while passing out pamphlets. The two were hardly alike…

"I would attend more if I could, but so many take place during the day, and I'm unable to get away from work," she went on, oblivious to Sybil's inner turmoil.

Sybil lifted her eyes to Miss Bunting's, curiosity replacing her shame. "Oh? May I ask what you do?"

Miss Bunting smiled and lowered her teacup. "I'm a school teacher," she announced with obvious pride. "At Miss Pritchard's Foundling School for Girls; it's in the East End, near Poplar."

Sybil's eyes grew wide once again, and just like Miss Bunting, she too was smiling. "Oh, how wonderful!" she exclaimed, surprising Miss Bunting. "I always longed to attend school—and how fortunate for those children to have someone like you teaching them!"

It was Miss Bunting's turn to blush at Sybil's compliments. "Well, I do try my best, although I'm sure a few of them would not necessarily share your sentiment," she sheepishly admitted. Her expression became one of puzzlement. "You didn't attend school?"

Sybil blushed but looked down and shook her head. "No, my aunt and uncle hired governesses for myself and my cousins."

"Ah, I see…" Miss Bunting murmured, bringing her teacup back to her lips. "Well, I'm sure you received the very best money could afford."

Was it Sybil's imagination? Or had there been an…edge…to the woman's voice? "What I mean is, I would very much have liked to have gone to school; to be in a class with other children, to learn all sorts of topics and subjects that I doubt my governess would have taught."

Miss Bunting lifted an eyebrow at this. "And what do you suppose those are?"

Sybil sighed and looked down at the brown liquid in her cup. "We covered very little history, outside of naming kings and queens," she grumbled. "Sometimes, I was sure our governess wanted to erase all traces of my 'American character', and thought perhaps by having me recite English kings and queens over and over, that would do the trick."

Miss Bunting did giggle at this and shook her head. "Well, I do hate to disappoint you, Miss Levinson, but I also teach the history of England's monarchy to my students."

"But surely you do more than simply have them recite kings and queens?"

"Well…yes, in fact we most recently were discussing the impacts of the Magna Carta on British government through the ages—"

"You see!? THAT! I was always curious about politics, but none of my governesses ever taught me anything on the matter."

Miss Bunting looked rather sympathetic at hearing this. "That is a shame, however I can't say I'm surprised," she sighed. "So often governesses are at the mercy of their employers, including what they do or do not teach."

Sybil frowned at this. She couldn't imagine either her aunt or uncle forbidding anyone from teaching Sybil or her cousins a more "in depth" history of England. However, that didn't mean it didn't happen elsewhere. And…if she remembered correctly…wasn't her great-aunt the one responsible for the hiring of their governesses?

"Forgive me, Miss Levinson, but…something you said has me a bit confused. You mentioned your aunt and uncle…but…I understood that you are the daughter of—?"

"Yes, Sybil confirmed, looking down again. "My mother passed away when I was very young, and…while I know my father loved me dearly, he thought it best that I be raised in Britain with my Aunt Cora, his sister, and my Uncle Robert and my cousins, Mary and Edith."

"Ah, I see," Miss Bunting murmured. "So that's how the 'American heiress' came to London."

Sybil blushed at her words, but offered a bashful smile in reply.

Miss Bunting took another sip of her tea and gazed at Sybil thoughtfully for a moment. "Tell me," she asked, placing her cup back on the saucer and leaning a bit closer, a curious smile curling the corners of her mouth. "Why do you support The Cause?"

Sybil was a bit surprised by the question, and despite her passionate feelings on the subject, found herself a bit tongue-tied. "I…well, when I was a young girl, I happened upon a meeting at my Aunt Rosamond's, and Lady Mae—that is, Lady Loxley, invited—"

"No, Miss Levinson, you misunderstand; I'm not asking how long you've been involved, but why you are involved." Miss Bunting's eyes held Sybil's captive. "Why do you care?"

Again, Sybil was taken aback. She knew deep in her heart that Miss Bunting was emphasizing the word "why" in her question, but the way Sybil heard it was "you"; why do you care?

"I know that sounds rather blunt," Miss Bunting continued, not seeming to be aware of how her question had shaken Sybil or perhaps not caring. "But for many young ladies of a higher place in society, The Cause is seen as rather…'chic."

Sybil didn't realize her mouth had been hanging open until she closed it at hearing these words. Miss Bunting's assumption was quite clear.

"You believe I only care about women's rights because it's fashionable…" She didn't phrase it as a question.

Miss Bunting glanced down at her teacup and gave a slight shrug of her shoulders. "You mentioned Lady Loxley—"

"She is a dear friend, and has been a great ally for The Cause!" Sybil defended.

Miss Bunting did not seem phased or surprised by the interruption. "Her luncheons at Selfridge's are a thing of legend," she conceded. "Yet one can't help but wonder the true reason as to why women across London are eager for an invitation."

The accusation stung, and yet Sybil couldn't summon the words to argue against it. Because she too had sometimes wondered about the true feelings of the women in their organization—did they truly care about winning the vote? Or did they simply desire to belong to an "exclusive club"? What about the women who had attended her dinner the other night? Had they come due to a shared desire for equal rights…or to see the interior of 149 Eaton Square?

Miss Bunting had lifted her eyes from her cup and was now examining Sybil pensively. "You are a most fortunate woman, Miss Levinson."

Sybil lifted her own eyes in surprise to Miss Bunting's words. The other woman's tone wasn't as accusatory as it had previously been, and yet she wouldn't quite call it "complimentary" either. But much like Miss Bunting's expression, her tone was one of contemplation and curiosity.

"Truly," she continued, easing back in her chair, her eyes now gazing about the room. "The freedom your position offers—financial stability that allows you to do as you please, without care or conern…" The woman seemed to sigh with longing. "I imagine you to be the envy of many women of your acquaintance."

Sybil swallowed the strained lump in her throat. "It's not as freeing as you might think," she countered, before taking a long sip from her cup.

If Miss Bunting had heard her, she did not acknowledge what she had said. Instead, her voice as well as her eyes grew distant. "For some, life will continue to 'go on' if we do not succeed…" she murmured. "But for others…our very lives depend—"

The sudden swing of the parlor door at the far side of the room caused both Sybil and her guest to jump slightly. They turned their heads in surprise and Sybil's eyes widened even further as a somewhat winded-looking Irishman practically stumbled into the room. She found herself biting her own lip in response to Branson biting back a curse at his sudden clumsiness, and didn't realize she was holding her breath until he had straightened and turned his gaze upon her.

"I beg your pardon, Miss; I did not mean to interrupt," he formally apologized with a slight bow of his head. He briefly ran the palms of his hands down the sides of his livery, silently assuring that his coat was straight, before folding them behind his back and standing at such a rigid posture that even Sybil found herself straightening her back in response.

She glanced at Miss Bunting, whose gaze had not left Branson since he had stumbled into the room. Had her guest been her aunt or any number of ladies of her typical social circle, they would no doubt be inwardly scathing him for his brief bout of unprofessionalism. Miss Bunting, however, was not one of those "typical" ladies, and if truth be told, the school teacher seemed to be gazing upon Sybil's butler with…interest?

"You must be Mr. Branson," Miss Bunting announced, before rising from her chair. Sybil quickly set her tea cup down and rose as well, but before she could say anything further or even offer proper introductions, Miss Bunting was crossing the room to where Branson stood, her hand extended. "I'm Sarah Bunting."

Branson, meanwhile, seemed somewhat taken aback by Miss Bunting's bold greeting. And Sybil hadn't missed the rather…informal…way the other woman had introduced herself.

His eyes quickly met Sybil's, confusion in their depths, before once again putting on a face of "professional indifference". "Miss Bunting," he murmured, his gaze only briefly meeting Sybil's guest and offering another slight bow of the head.

That, however, did not seem to satisfy Miss Bunting, and she continued to extend her hand towards him. "Sarah, please," she politely insisted, her gaze never leaving that of the Irishman.

In the time he had been working under her roof, Sybil had never seen Branson look uncertain. At least not in the presence of any guests she had visiting. The only times he ever seemed to let his "professional guard" down were when the two of them were alone. The thought suddenly brought a wave of heat to her face. She swallowed and unconsciously lifted her fingers to her cheek as if to cool it.

Her eyes met Branson's and she found herself feeling a strange mix of emotions—pity for the sudden awkwardness of the situation, as well as something else…something she couldn't quite put her finger on just yet.

"Miss Bunting organized the protest that I attended," Sybil found herself piping up, before moving across the room to where the two of them stood. She offered a kind smile, somewhat surprised by how forced it felt. "I had explained to her that you had helped with driving those imbeciles away."

Branson's eyes went back and forth from her to Miss Bunting, for swallowing and finally (and somewhat awkwardly) taking Miss Bunting's still offered hand in his own and giving it a polite shake. "I was glad to be of service," he politely replied, before releasing the woman's hand and turning his gaze back to Sybil. "I apologize again for interrupting, Miss, but unless you need anything—"

"Are you going?" Miss Bunting asked, a look of disappointment seeming to cross over her face. Once again her question seemed to take Branson aback…as well as Sybil, if she were honest. She knew that she herself could be quite "untraditional" in how she interacted with her staff, but that was always in private, never in front of others.

It was for reasons like this, where the awkwardness of the situation seemed to unhinge even the most professional servant. Even Carson would no doubt be sputtering at the forwardness of Miss Bunting's conversation.

But the Irishman was not her former butler, and Sybil was once again reminded when he locked eyes with the school teacher and after a brief moment's pause…gave the petite woman a casual grin.

"I'm afraid that I must," he replied with another polite bow of his head. "My errand had taken longer than I had anticipated, so I must catch up on my work. But unless you need anything Miss…?" he lifted his eyes to Sybil's and she suddenly found herself flushed and tongue-tied. The only response she could muster was a shake of her head. "…then I will leave you both to your tea and conversation," he finished, before lowering his eyes and quietly backing out of the room.

Why had she suddenly lost the ability to speak? She opened her mouth but for some reason the words refused to form. Not that it mattered, however, as Miss Bunting answered for the both of them. Well, answered for herself, at least.

"Thank you, Mr. Branson, and thank you again for your help yesterday," Miss Bunting replied, before once again extending her hand to the Irishman.

For some reason, Sybil found herself gritting her teeth at the gesture.

He glanced at Miss Bunting's hand, but unlike the previous time, did not pause with taking it. Nor did he look to Sybil as if gaging her reaction. Which…for some reason bothered her. Not that it should, of course, but…it did.

"My pleasure," he murmured, and Sybil felt her jaw clench at the response. Good heavens, what was wrong with her? Why was she acting as if she were…

No, no, she was NOT…jealous. That was absurd! She was simply…not used to Miss Bunting's "informality". Yes, that was it, and she had been feeling sorry for Branson and any awkwardness Miss Bunting's questions may have caused him. Not that Miss Bunting had behaved rudely to him, simply…well, it just wasn't proper for a guest to question one's employee in front of his employer—

Oh God, would you listen to yourself? What a snob you are! Not to mention hypocritical…

"A pity he could not stay longer," Miss Bunting's words interrupted Sybil's silent berating. She looked up at her guest and suddenly realized that the two of them were alone once more. "I would have liked to learned a bit more about him," Miss Bunting continued, passing Sybil and returning to her chair once again.

Sybil's brow furrowed at Miss Bunting's comment. "Oh?" she asked.

"Mmhmm," Miss Bunting murmured around the rim of her teacup. She must have interpreted the look on Sybil's face as one of confusion, because she quickly added, "What I mean is, that he is unique."

Sybil once again felt her cheeks grow hot, and she lowered her eyes as she sank back down into her own chair. "Yes, he is," she all but whispered. She wasn't sure if Miss Bunting had heard her, for when she finally lifted her eyes to the schoolteacher, she found the other woman looking off into the distance, rather pensively.

"I honestly cannot recall the last time a man took a stand to defend The Cause," she explained. "He's certainly the first in a long time…"

Sybil noticed the way Miss Bunting's voice had trailed off, and she couldn't help but feel…bothered…by it.

But why? It didn't make any sense why she was suddenly behaving so…so…strangely! She had wanted Miss Bunting to come to tea, she had been so excited about the prospect of having this extraordinary woman in her home and introducing her to Branson for whom she was so proud and honored—

Good heavens, you make him sound like some prized pet! She once again chastised herself and gave her head a firm shake, as if by doing so the bizarre feelings that had taken control of her ever since Branson had happened upon them would vanish.

Noticing that her guest's cup was empty, Sybil reached for the pot to refill it, but Miss Bunting politely lifted her hand. "Oh, no thank you, Miss Levinson, I'm afraid I must be on my way."

"Oh…" Sybil couldn't deny she was a little crestfallen by this announcement. They hadn't really gotten a chance to talk, or at least not in the way Sybil had imagined. Prior to their tea, she had hoped the two of them would part as dear friends. However, based upon the questions Miss Bunting had asked, Sybil couldn't help but feel that she had been found "wanting" in the schoolteacher's eyes.

Perhaps Miss Bunting had sensed this, because she glanced at Sybil and offered her hostess a kind smile. "I am sorry, truly, but I have a great deal of work to finish: papers to grade and an article to finish—"

Sybil perked up at this. "Oh? Like a newspaper article?"

Miss Bunting chuckled, although it sounded rather mirthless. "In a manner of speaking," she sighed. "It's for our chapter's newsletter…of which, as of late, I have become the sole reporter and editor," she grumbled. "Still, someone must keep our ladies informed of all that is going on." Again, she must have detected or seen something in Sybil, because with a furrowed brow, she asked, "Do you write, Miss Levinson?"

"Oh, I…well, not an article per se, but I have written letters to the editor of The Times," she explained with a blush.

This gave Sarah Bunting pause. She looked at Sybil with raised eyebrows. "The editor of The Times?" she repeated, in a tone of what sounded like astonishment. "And…have you had a response?"

Sybil suddenly felt rather bashful. "Well…my latest letter did appear in the editorial section, although they did not give my name—well, they gave my initials, but…it was the first time they published one of my letters," she explained, pride filling her heart.

The look Sarah Bunting was giving her was as if the schoolteacher were seeing her with a new set of eyes. Whatever wariness Sybil had felt projected her way previously was gone entirely.

"I…I can't tell you how many times I've written to The Times over the years…only to have my letters either returned unopened or with short, dismissive response 'thanking me for my interest'."

Sybil bit her lip, but it was impossible to hide her smile. She felt that she had truly impressed Miss Bunting and prayed that perhaps this was a chance to gain the other woman's favor. She so wanted to be friends, as well as to learn more about ways she could be of better use to The Cause.

But then Sybil recalled how she had a little help with the letter. And although her first instinct was to withhold the truth from Miss Bunting, she knew it wouldn't be right to claim all credit. "Actually...to be fair, Branson did help me."

Now Miss Bunting stood at full attention, and her eyes appeared to light up at this bit of information. "Your butler helped you?"

That gnawing feeling of reluctance bit away at Sybil's consciousness, but she forced it down (as well a smile) and nodded her head. "He did, he offered to edit it for me and I…I honestly believe it helped." She made it sound as if he had written it for her, when in truth he had simply read it and offered her a few tips. Still, she did believe that his help had perfected the letter and without it, she wasn't sure if it would have seen the light of day.

"Well…" Miss Bunting murmured, more to herself than to Sybil. "Mr. Branson truly is intriguing…"

That strange, "jealous-like" feeling washed over Sybil once again. "Shall I have Thomas fetch your coat?" She immediately winced at her stroppy tone…not to mention the realization that she had emphasized the name of her footman instead of her butler.

"Oh no, that's quite alright," Miss Bunting replied, oblivious, it seemed, to Sybil's tone, as well as to Sybil herself. She floated past her hostess and opened the coat closet herself, taking the coat without a word and putting it on without any help. She didn't even bother to wait for someone to open the door for her, something to the horror of Thomas, who appeared quite suddenly, looking pale and embarrassed for his tardiness.

"Beggin' your pardon, Miss, I—"

"It's quite alright," Miss Bunting assured the flustered footman, before turning to Sybil and politely thanking her for the tea. "I'm sure we'll be in touch again soon," she added with a smile. Then without another word or look, she walked out the door.

Thomas stood there, his mouth agape, before turning to Sybil, apologizing profusely. "I'm so sorry, Miss, I hadn't heard the bell, I would have come sooner had I—"

"It's alright, Thomas, truly," Sybil quickly reassured, giving her footman a smile that she hoped would put him at ease. And it was…or so she kept telling herself, although she wasn't thinking about Thomas' tardiness, which honestly wasn't his fault as he was correct, no one had rung the bell. But just when she thought that perhaps she had won Miss Bunting's respect and approval…the woman's attention turned elsewhere.

No, not "elsewhere"…to Branson; to her butler.

And it hadn't been missed that Miss Bunting had never once "insisted" that Sybil call her by her Christian name, whereas she had offered it quite freely to Branson.

Sybil groaned and lifted a hand to her temples. "Thomas…I…I'm sorry, would you please inform Branson that I won't be eating in the dining room this evening? I have a headache and think I'll go to bed."

Thomas looked surprised by this news, even concerned. "Shall I ring the doctor for you, Miss?"

"Oh no, no, that's not necessary," Sybil reassured, smiling at him and even reaching out to pat his arm. "Thank you, but truly, rest is what I need, nothing more."

Thomas nodded his head before offering a slight bow. "I'll clear this up for you then, Miss," he murmured, indicating the tea tray. Sybil gave him a grateful smile before turning and heading towards the stairs, hoping that after a good rest her head would clear up from whatever strange thoughts and emotions were coursing through it.

As for Thomas, he watched his mistress depart, still a touch concerned, but at the same time, feeling quite triumphant. Where had bloody Branson been all this time? Nowhere. Thomas had been the one to see to Miss Levinson's needs, Thomas had been the one for whom she could rely in that moment, and Thomas was damn determined to prove that he would have made and still would make a far superior butler than that Irish bastard.

…And if he played his cards right, come Christmas Branson would be out on his arse, and Miss Sybil would be engaged to the Duke. And then he and his lover would have everything they desired…and Thomas would have everything he deserved.