Couldn't resist starting a new story. I was curious about Branson's backstory (we really don't yet know much about what makes him tick since he makes his first appearance in epi 4) and also wanted to explore the characters below stairs. Let's see where it goes. Comments, reviews, speculations are a delight to read and ponder. Enjoy!

Chapter 1 - Chauffeur Wanted

Late April 1913, Liverpool

"Tom he's comin' at ya!" a voice said but the warning came too late;
SLAM! up against the wall;
sharp pain—staggering—foggy—blood trickling down forehead;
breathe, get bearings—breathe, figure out next move to shut up loud-mouthed bloke;
Recoil hand—deliver hard punch to the gut—upper cut to jaw;
THUD! loud-mouth hit the floor.

That's how Branson remembered the fight in the pub the first week he arrived in Liverpool looking for work. That night some random Joe and his mates just wouldn't let up on him and his brother Kevin. No matter how hard Branson tried to diffuse the situation and get back to enjoying his pint of ale, the insults and bigotry kept flying. Then random Joe stupidly took a swing at Kevin and that was that.

The next morning at his brother's house Branson took stock of the outcome of that unfortunate exchange: a jagged cut at his hairline. Not good. Its unflattering presence did not befit the proper grooming of a servant to the upper crust. He respected Kevin's resolve to support his wife and children, but he wasn't keen on joining his brother at the rough and tumble docklands. The atmosphere of aggression that encompassed that vocation, as the wound on his head testified, was a world he wished to extricate himself from. He'd worked too hard to raise himself up from a life of grinding labor to go back to that kind of work. He had different ambitions for what he was going to do with his life; he had ideas.

So Branson wagered that if he were going to stay in England he'd be better off finding work elsewhere, preferably in service. Ideally somewhere not in a city, someplace peaceful, some small town far away from trouble would do just fine.

He sat down at the kitchen table and Katie, Kevin's wife, served him tea and some bread. Reviewing the newspapers he came across this advertisement that seemed to fit his abilities and needs to a tee:

CHAUFFEUR – WANTED for large family. Must be contentious driver and good mechanic with exceptional references. Apply by letter to Mr. Charles Carson, Downton Abbey, Yorkshire.

He thought he'd give it a try. He wrote a letter of application and crossed his fingers for a response. And a reply did arrive a week later requesting his presence for an interview.

Keen that this was the perfect job for him, Branson bid his brother's family goodbye and decided to try his luck. If he didn't get it, then he told Kevin he'd join him on the docks.

According to the letter from Mr. Carson, he was to travel via train to a town called Ripon and then take a coach to the village outside of Downton Abbey. Branson's interview was for three in the afternoon and he was advised that it was a short walk from the village to house.

The town was quaint with no more than about hundred residents he'd reckon. Donning his best and only suit, Branson set out about two o'clock on his way to the estate. As he walked along the road he breathed in the fresh country air, crisp and sweet in comparison to the smoky choking air that blanketed Liverpool and Dublin.

While he was keen on securing this position, what Branson craved most of all was some sense of balance in his life. In the bigger picture, he'd grown weary of the poverty that had marked most of his youth. From this life's lesson he came to believe that the poor deserved as decent a life as the rich. His work as a chauffeur gave him a window into the world of the wealthy—his so-called social betters. He'd learned they were flesh and blood too, with foibles and virtues just like most of the folks with whom he'd grown up. One ambition he possessed was to correct that social imbalance, but he had yet to determine the best way to undertake such a daunting mission.

But on a more personal level he was tired of being thrown into the midst of conflict. He wanted to escape the disagreements between those in his family back home in Ireland who had expectations of what he should do, and where and with whom he should be. He also yearned to avoid the constant berating (and occasional battle scars like the one almost healed on his head) he'd encountered because he favored Irish independence from Britain. He was willing to speak his mind on that volatile issue and other viewpoints he supported such as a woman's right to vote, and to defend—with his fists if necessary—his political opinions. In principle he abhorred violence and believed that reasonable informed debate was the best way to forge productive change. But every now and then, he realized more forceful means were required. However at this point he was keen on a respite and this remote part of North Yorkshire just might be the antidote that could quell all the turmoil that had crept into his life.

As he trod up the road, a welcomed breeze rustled the leaves in the trees overhead. By mid-May, the early spring wildflowers had since yielded to an underbrush of ferns that carpeted the forest. A farmer with a horse drawn cart stuffed with bales of hay approached and passed him along his journey, but otherwise he enjoyed the solitude of his walk. In about a half an hour he arrived at what he assumed to be the gate of the estate—a large three arched gothic structure, and his pulse quickened at the prospects of what lie beyond. The dense forest gave way to hay meadows and then a manicured lawn with clumps of trees planted on the rolling verdant landscape.

Branson stopped for a moment and wandered off the road. Taking off his cap and wiping his brow, he surveyed the extraordinary vista. The raw beauty of the land was not unlike the wilds of the countryside he remembered from his childhood. Far in the distance he could see a figure, that of a woman cutting across the grounds and surmised it must be one the estate's denizens. After a bend in the road Downton Abbey came into view—embellished with spires and towers it was a regal three-story fortress that sat on a rise in the land.

He walked through the iron-gate and headed toward the service entrance around the back of the house. Once arrived at his destination he rang the bell.

A petite kitchen maid answered the door, "Yes sir, how can I help ya?" she asked.

"Good day miss, I'm here for a meetin' with a Mr. Carson 'bout the chauffeur's position. The name's Branson, Tom Branson," he nervously replied to the young woman who couldn't be more than 15 or 16 years of age.

"Oh, Mr. Carson's been expectin' ya, please come this way," she said and led him through the lower level of the house and knocked on a door. He could see various servants scurrying about in what appeared to be a large kitchen beyond.

"Daisy where ya gone off to again?" came a high-pitched voice from the kitchen.

"Mr. Carson, there's a Mr. Branson to see ya," she said hurriedly.

"Thank you Daisy, you'd best get back before Mrs. Patmore sends out a search party," came a deep bass voice that bellowed from inside the room.

"Yes Mr. Carson," she said dutifully and rushed back to the kitchen. "I'm right here Mrs. Patmore…"

Then the owner of that distinctive voice appeared in the doorway. He was an older man with greying temples dressed in a black suit with a bright white starched shirt. "Mr. Branson is it? Please come in and have a seat," Mr. Carson said as he sized up the candidate.

"Mr. Carson, sir," Branson replied nodding his head in deference to the head butler who sat down at a large desk.

"I've reviewed your application and you seem to be well qualified for the position we've advertised, although we didn't expect to hire someone from as far away as Ireland. Have you references?"

"Yes sir, I do," and Branson handed Mr. Carson two letters from previous employers.

"Thank you," Mr. Carson replied as he took the letters and began to read them taking notes in a black book.

While he waited, Branson glanced around the room to get a sense of the person who ultimately would recommend him for the position to the owner of the great estate. The office was meticulously organized with keys and clipboards hung on the walls. Cabinets lined the room all neatly buttoned up like the gentleman butler who now reviewed his employment history. He intuited that Mr. Carson could be a demanding head of the household, but there was also something about his facial expressions and tone of voice to suggest that fairness was an integral part of his temperament. These qualities put Branson at ease and gave him the confidence that this might very well be the ideal position for him.

"These letters from your former employers give you their highest recommendation. You are characterized as attentive, affable, and reliable. Your driving ability is highly praised and your knowledge about motorcars is described as extensive. This is certainly a good start Mr. Branson," he offered in a measured tone of voice.

"Thank you sir," Branson responded politely.

"Let me tell you more about the position, the household, and respond to any questions you might have," Mr. Carson began. "You would be in the employment of the Earl of Grantham. Your duties would be to drive his Lordship, his family, and their guests from the house to various destinations locally, including once or twice a year down to London. You will also be responsible for the maintenance of the motorcars and we of course would provide you with any tools or parts you might require in your duties. The position pays a generous seventy-five pounds annually, plus food, lodging and of course, your uniform. The chauffeur lives above the garage and typically takes his meals separate from the rest of the staff given your likelihood of being on call during dining hours. Although from time to time it may make sense to join us here for a meal," the butler paused for the applicant to absorb the list of duties he had just spelled out.

"That sounds quite reasonable Mr. Carson. And yes, I do know my way 'round an engine, so she'll be in good hands. I like to keep to myself so being in a cottage suits me just fine," Branson confidently replied pleased at the job's details thus far. The pay also meant he could send a sizable sum back home to help his family.

"Now," he continued. "We here at Downton Abbey demand sterling service and behavior beyond reproach from all in employ whether above or below stairs. His Lordship and Ladyship have the highest expectations from their household staff and it is my responsibility, along with the head housekeeper Mrs. Hughes, to assure that their standards and needs are met. While other households may have slackened in their manner of the execution of their duties, we do not tolerate deception, sloth, or thievery. If these requirements do not suit your inclinations, then this is clearly not the place for you," he said with a conviction that indicated Mr. Carson took his responsibilities with the utmost seriousness. "Do you have any questions about this Mr. Branson?"

Branson appreciated the older man's forthrightness and conscientiousness in carrying out his duties. It indicated an abiding loyalty that must be a consequence of a good relationship between master and servant. Thus he deduced that Lordship must at least be a decent employer. "Mr. Carson, that all sounds satisfactory. Can ya tell me when the position might begin?"

"Well to be honest, Mr. Taylor our current driver retires at the end of this week and we've had difficulty finding his replacement. It would seem that most young men with your abilities yearn to be in bustling London or Manchester, so life up north in the country isn't as appealing," Mr. Carson confessed with a hint of exasperation at his inability to find a suitable applicant. His folded his hands and raised his brows, which meant he had started to weigh his options. "Hmm, when might you be available to start should his Lordship approve of your hiring?" the butler inquired.

Branson responded gleefully to that tidbit of news, "Mr. Carson I can start as soon as ya need me."

"Well then, you seem to be eager and confident—these would certainly be a plus around here. You're the last of our applicants. I'll see if I can get an answer from his Lordship by tomorrow. I believe you're staying in the village?"

"Yes sir, I took a room with a Mrs. Beecham and can be reached there," he replied.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Branson," Mr. Carson rose and shook the young man's hand.

"Mr. Carson," he nodded in appreciation. Pleased at the tenor of his interview, Branson headed down the hall and out of the door.

He strode back around the house and again commenced down the road to the village. He was in high spirits. Just beyond the gate he noticed the person whom he had seen in the distance walking the grounds was now crossing the forecourt of the driveway. Upon closer inspection it was a young woman who walked briskly and carried a small book in her hand. She appeared to no more than seventeen or so with a long ponytail of raven hair emerging from under her straw hat. He watched as Mr. Carson, back at his station upstairs, opened the imposing front door for the young woman who disappeared inside the grand house.

When he returned to Mrs. Beecham's, she had prepared a meal for her boarder. While he ate his food, the proprietress shared the local gossip that animated her life in the small village. After a passable plate of stew and potatoes, he bid goodnight and retired to his room to read for the rest of the evening—a pastime he enjoyed immensely. Lulled by a cool breeze through the open window coupled with the peacefulness of the country guaranteed that he had a good nights sleep.

The next morning at breakfast Mrs. Beecham passed on a note that had arrived from Downton Abbey. He unfolded it and read:

Sir, His Lordship has approved your hire as the household's chauffeur. If you accept this place at Downton Abbey, please go around to Mr. Harcourt's shop this morning to be fitted for your new uniform. We will expect you at 1 o'clock this afternoon to begin your duties. Sincerely, Mr. C. Carson.

He smiled and thought that not only could this be a new threshold of opportunity, but also a step toward some sense of stability. Things were indeed looking up.