Disclaimers: Everything is owned by the producers/writers/geniuses at ITV.

A/N: S/B make my day. I can't wait till Season two! This is a first story, so do attempt to be kind. I have a load more S/B stories brewing in my head so, keep an eye. Many thanks. I hope you enjoy.

Sybil Crawley had a list.

This renowned list had beenwritten one dull, rainy afternoon when her two sisters and she were confined to endure each other's company indoors. It had been a horrible time; their parents and grandmother had been away and they had been left in care of the governess. Fidgeting from boredom, her oldest sister Mary had suggested that Edith fancied Jonathan Jones. In fact, she had not only suggested it – she had screamed it. This had prompted Edith to shriek in pure protest; her face had flashed crimson and she had lunged at Mary with resentment in mind.

Sybil had watched them, unsure why they fought. Jonathan Jones had been the son of Earl Alexander – a visitor they had a mere fortnight ago. He was much too old for her, but correctly adept for Edith. He had nice, dark features and a pleasing smile. It was to Sybil's observation that Jonathan was far fonder of Mary than Edith – but she refrained from ever uttering it as it was clear that Edith's protest was all false. Sybil wondered if Edith understood that the more she objected – the more evident her affection became.

'What's wrong with Jonathan?' Sybil had asked, scratching her head with innocent confusion.

'What isn't?' Mary scoffed, brushing her hair as she smirked at Edith's expression, 'He's an utter bore; but I'm sure you adore him, Edith.'

Edith merely scowled.

'I would not mind a boy who looks like, him.' Sybil nodded.

Mary rolled her eyes, 'Oh, Sybil. Do not talk of boys. You are far too young to know what you favour and what you do not.'

'I do know what I favour.' Sybil gasped, a crease forming on the top of her head, 'And I may talk of what I wish, Mary.'

'Is that so, sister?'

'Yes,' The small, dark haired girl nodded, 'and I can write a list if you wish it.'

Lists were something their governess had loved; to Sybil at the time, it had looked like an utterly good way to organize things. Considering she had never written one, she thought it would be a wonderful way to practice her calligraphy. Mary had simply nodded, rolled her eyes moodily and released Sybil to do what she wanted.

If it was to stop Sybil's big mouth from talking; she may write all the lists in the world.

In the end, she only wrote one and the content of it was as follows:

Sybil and what I favour:

1. He must be of distinguished position; a prince would do.

2. Dark hair (resembling Jonathan).

3. He must be strong.

4. He must be kind and loving.

5. Papa must commend him.

6. He must be a good singer. (this one had been inspired by Sybil's recent trip to London and the experience she had in the opera; the singing had been breathtaking and as a young girl, the idea of being serenaded in Italian of all languages had become a requirement as a result.).

7. He must be kind to my sisters.

8. I must be fond of his relatives.

9. He must have an exalted profession.

10. He must love me above everything in the world. Every song. Every jewel. Every flower. Every frock. Even his own relatives!

Sybil had vowed that all these requests must be satisfied for her heart to ever be bought. For a little while, she had thought that the only person to ever fill them all would be Jonathan Jones. And due to this, she had grovelled after him – but it was not long when they were given the news that the boy had died of a horrible infection.

And Sybil had buried the list, believing that she would never find another to take dear Jonathan's place

As a young woman, Sybil Crawley had little interest in love. She had been given a front row as to the very problems that it entailed and found that her heart belonged to a much larger cause. Besides, the house had been suffocated with bitterness from love and she could not stand the very thought of 'union' and 'marriage' – not when Mary made it look like such a dreary prospect. Sybil was pleased she had not been born eldest; being younger, the longevity of her freedom was greater.

She was free; as free as a young lady of her class, of course.

But this was her obstruction. Her barrier. Sybil had little support in her home for the cause she endorsed; rights, for women. How tasteful the idea that women would be as admired and valued as men! It all seemed to make sense. It all seemed to be rational and coherent – why was it that it was so difficult for people to comprehend? It all made sense in her head and she was certain that someday she would rectify where society went wrong. It was a shame that her dear father did not encourage her as much as he had encouraged her in all her other pursuits; men did not like women's views. Simple.

Until Branson of course.

The plucky man from Ireland. A socialist-turned chauffeur with a brainy mind and a sharp-witted tongue. How funny Sybil had found him – for she had never met a man who would support a woman's cause to vote. But Thomas had backed her from the beginning. He had found her extraordinary – considering how much she risked with her position. But Sybil had found her title as a positive, not a drawback.

'You are a funny one, Lady Sybil.' He had told her one day as she had walked up to him and told him about the recent developments she had been hearing from her friend in London.

'How so?' Sybil had asked, unsure if what he was saying was intended to be kind.

'Because you are determined,' He mused, smile permanently dancing on his lips, 'and that's a rarity.'

'I like being a rarity.' She had responded with a capricious flick of the hair.

'I like it too.' He nodded smiling before dashing back to his work.

Sybil had watched him leave, grinning - deciding that the slight pink visible on his cheeks was one caused by the chill in the air.

'So you had made a list of all the men you like?'

'No,' Sybil had corrected him as she walked through town, holding the piece of paper tightly in her hand, 'I made a list of what I like of men.'

She had been tittering over it all morning; giggling ever-so-often as she recalled the day she had written it. How she had pictured dear – Johnny? Johnson? – in her mind as she scribbled rule after rule. The tone of the list had been far-fetched, but still undeniably innocent.

Branson arched a brow, eyeing her bemused expression,

'I believe you have grown a little senseless, Madam.' He retorted with a smile as he escorted her by the shops.

'I haven't,' Sybil stated with a small scoff, 'I am just astonished as to how precise my list remains.'

'Would it pain you to share a few of your requirements?' He then questioned, primly biting his lip as he added, 'Perhaps I may recommend a man or two.'

Sybil just laughed delicately, lifting the list to her eyes and handing it to him.

'Enjoy, dear Thomas!' She said gleefully, twirling a little as she skipped, 'Enjoy the dear musings of a young girl impoverished of her Prince Charming!'

Letting their walk fall into silence as she watched his expression – Sybil had taken the list back as he offered it. Another, gentle giggle fleeted from her lips as her eyes fell on number six in particular. How nonsensical! A man who could sing – but what a bonus! Considering Sybil herself could not sing a note in tune. She had the harmony of a little, sick duckling for goodness sake!

'So, what of it Branson?' Sybil asked, grinning chicly, 'Think I shall find a man who corresponds to all?'

'I don't know, Madam,' Branson nodded, 'But perhaps you should not set your standards so highly.'

'Why ever not?' The dark haired lady asked, furrowing her brow, 'Is it not my right to be given the best?'

This had been given in good humour, of course. But Sybil could not deny the seriousness that crossed her acquaintance's face.

'I do not believe you deserve any less.' He nodded.

'Good,' Sybil gave him a tiny nudge, hoping to prompt off a smile from his suddenly glum face, 'So. Any men you find appropriate to my requirements?'

A tired smile fell on his face.

'I can honestly say that I have not met a good man of such, as of yet.'

Sybil sighed, affectionately as she laughed,

'Oh, love. How it disappoints us.' She nodded at him, eyeing his face with distinct warmth.

'Indeed.' Branson agreed as they approached the car.

'But it is not as if I would like to find a man of such calibre,' Sybil continued with a resolute nod, 'I believe men are overconfident, self-assured and vain. I am almost too wilful to be hauled and wrenched by such monsters!'

'Monsters,' Branson was smirking, 'Not all men are monsters.'

'Not you, Branson,' Sybil agreed, with a small, friendly wink, 'You are far too -' She stayed quiet. Branson watched her, gently.

'Far too -?' He asked.

'Irish,' Sybil nodded, beaming brightly, 'And I adore that about you.'

His mood seemed to brighten; Sybil's intention, of course knowing how irish pride coursed through him like blood.

'So, you shall not go hunting for this perfect man then?' Branson then asked - clearly, the chill was making his cheeks adorably rosy once more!

'Perhaps not,' She nodded, shrugging her shoulders, 'If he is perfect - perhaps he shall come find me.'

As they came closer, Branson offered a hand to help her board the vehicle. Sybil took it gently and found herself blushing like a maid as her grasp on it suddenly tightened – more mortifyingly for no reason whatsoever! Branson eyed her with a rather self-conscious smile as he retrieved his hand and progressed to position himself on the driver's seat.

Sybil remained silent the whole journey home – magnifying her blush with the impish thought of the warmth of her chauffeur's hand.

'It is quite temperate back there, m'lady?' Branson mocked her as they approached home. His lips were curved – clearly he had been observing the crimson that had grown on her face.

'Oh, hush you,' She scowled, pouting her lips a little, 'It is not my fault that now I feel poorly.'

'Do you?' Branson's face became lopsided with concern, 'Do you feel poorly?'

'A little.' Sybil nodded.

'Oh… well, I shall fetch someone immediately.'

The speed of the car suddenly increased and Sybil sat wordless, deciding that she was definitely in poor health. A horrible, swollen feeling sat in her stomach as it fluttered and flounced.

It was cruel; for the last time she had felt this poorly was when Jonathan Jones had last waved her farewell.

'Tell me,' they were driving up to the front; Branson was glancing back at her, 'I have not displeased you, have I?'

Sybil shook her head.

'No, don't be daft,' She nodded, 'You cannot possibly upset me.'

And my goodness, how true that was. Branson seemed more at ease as the car grumbled and stopped.

Sybil watched as he dashed outside, feeling like her heart was going to combust out of her chest. She waited for him, eagerly – he returned within moments.

'I have informed, Carson,' He nodded, opening the door instantly, 'He shall tell your lordship.'

Sybil nodded weakly, and smiled softly at him. How she was reminded of the way cousin Matthew gazed at Mary – such a dour thought now. This was enough to force her cheeks to redden once more and she decided that taking his hand would be far too harmful to her fragile health.

Disembarking, Sybil smoothed the front of her dress and began to hobble forwards. It was here that she heard Branson's voice –

'Lady Sybil.'

Sybil turned and glanced at him. He was holding up a piece of paper.

'Your list,' He whispered softly, gesturing towards it, 'You have forgotten it.'

He ran up to her; she took it with little objection.

'Tell me,' Branson then added, eyeing her amiably, voice subtle, 'if you are alright.'

'Concern does not look good on you, Mr Branson.' Sybil teased with a chuckle.

'I don't wish you poorly.' Branson nodded, clearly sheepish in his manner.

Sybil could not help admire how endearing such a manner looks.

'I won't be,' she assured him delicately, 'You tend to me well.'

Branson smiled, simply and left as Sybil was ushered inside.

Seated at her desk, Sybil Crawley decided that she was going to have a new list.

This new renowned list was going to be written against the backdrop of a long, sleepy evening after dinner. She had barely been comprehensible at dinner and had left early; excused by her sudden 'illness'. Sybil was to be seen by the practitioner tomorrow but she was giddily certain that they shall find nought! For her ailment was not the cause of cells, and science.

But of something entirely different. She gazed at her old list and found herself feeling once more the urge to laugh; some of the old list shall remain. But the unimportant things would be crippled and discarded.

Sybil and what I favour:

1. Dark hair (resembling Jonathan).

2. He must be strong.

3. He must be kind and loving.

4. He must have a delightful sense of humour.

5. He must be a good... driver! A fantastic driver actually (good enough to be a chauffeur.)

6. He must be respectful of my values.

7. I must be fond of his peculiarities as he is of mine.

8. He must tend to me well.

9. He must love me above everything in the world. Every song. Every jewel. Every flower. Every frock. Even his own relatives!

Sybil had always thought that the ninth rule would be the most important. But she realized now, that it wasn't. Number 10 was the most crucial of the lot:

10. If at all possible, he must be Irish; his accent perfection.

Later on that night, Sybil tore the old list in quarters and buried them in her things - deciding that there may be someone that could replace her dear, Jonathan Jones after all.