Where to from Here

By: piperholmes

A/N: Firstly thank you so much for the kind response to my last story; particularly those who reviewed (The Irish Chauffer, Candy, Katie, shana(dot)rose X2—b/c your name was removed by the site on the last fanfic I posted. Sorry about that!—Bristol Fashion, browneyes, Anges Robinson, beyondgurl, Peachdreamsandperseus, cloudlessangel, MissPixieWay, and hifinewtune). SO grateful! Now, this is a new thing for me. This is episode 6 of series 1 with a little bit of rewrite. I've never written anything like this before so I'm opened to input and rely on you wonderful people for your honest opinions. Feel free to go all Violet on my booty! As usual, this is unbeta'd, just not enough hours in the day, but hopefully you are all in a forgiving mood. *cue puppy eyes*

"Where to from here, m'lady?" Tom Branson called over his shoulder as he rounded a busy street in Ripon.

"What do you mean? We've arrived," insisted Lady Sybil with glee, her excitement driving clear and rational thought to the background. This was not a moment of calm respite, no; this was a moment of change. This was a moment not to be missed.

"The meeting's in one of these buildings here?" Branson pressed slowing the car, still unclear of their destination. Of course he knew the count was to be called very soon but he had received a stern dressing down from Lord Grantham, warning him of the dangers of taking a young, impressionable member of the aristocracy, more importantly his youngest daughter, to such politically heated events. It was made clear that this was not to be allowed without the Earl's expressed approval. And that approval was to come from him directly. Branson had nodded mutely, pressing his lips tightly together to stave his anger. Truthfully he had very little ground to stand on. Sybil was not even eighteen yet and therefore under her father's protection. But that rationale didn't stop Tom from feeling the sharp knife of resentment. Disappointment was a powerful and decisive arrow that struck at the heart of a person. However, Branson was not yet willing to topple the crown, and knowing Sybil had received the same mandate, did not even consider they would be in Ripon for anything other than one of Sybil's committee meetings.

"This is the meeting. We're here for the counting of the votes," Sybil insisted, startling the young chauffer as she jumped up. He brought the car to an immediate stop, jerking the vehicle a bit.

Turning to Sybil he called, "I don't understand. I thought that…" But his words were interrupted as the Lady jumped down full of spirit.

"Don't be silly Branson. You didn't think I'd miss my very first by-election?" She teased, her face shining with anticipation before she turned her back on him.

Behind him a motor honked in frustration, adding to the panic he felt. "I don't think his lordship would approve," he tried to reason, but was met with a casual glance over her shoulder and further insistent honking.

Sybil was not to be deterred. "Let me worry about him."

Branson felt the world spin wildly out of control. He was sure this would mean the end of his employment but what could he do? He doubted his Lordship would thank him very much if he bodily picked up his daughter and forced her back into the car. "I have to park the car. Don't move. Stay where you are!" he commanded, his fear overriding correctness.

"Really, Branson, I thought I gave the orders." She replied cheekily, her body practically bouncing with the feeling of new found freedom.

The motor behind them continued to protest and Branson waved in frustration then quickly pulled away, frantic to find a place to leave the car and chase after the young mistress.

With an angry curse he plowed the car into the first available spot he saw and tossing his hat on the seat he dashed towards the contentious crowd. If circumstances were different, if he weren't desperately afraid for his own lively hood and for the safety of his new friend he would have been very delighted to find himself among the vocally and openly political group. He would have been highly interested in the results of the vote, but as he shoved his way through the throng the words being shouted down from above were merely a rush of sound.

He felt a moment of relief as he spotted an unharmed Lady Sybil, and fought down his resentment of her highhanded treatment. His priority was her safety; he would deal with the rest later.

"Can we call it a day, m'lady?" he implored when he reached her side, his eyes darting around nervously and still shoving to keep her safe.

"Don't be silly. This is the moment we've come for," She declared, but her voice had lost some of its resolve.

"This lot aren't interested in politics. They're spoiling for a fight," he insisted, though part of him wanted to cheer her on, help her stay strong in her defiance, except he knew that this wasn't her fight; not yet. Sybil, with her soft smile, warm blue eyes, and mischievous sense of humor, was strong and brave and something in him knew she would one day have to fight, fight for something she desperately believed in, but her world was just beginning to open up and there was too much she wasn't prepared for. He couldn't help the arm that shot out and encircled her protectively. He had to get her out of there.

"Sybil!" A voice called out and Branson pulled her slightly behind him.

"What on earth are you doing here?" Matthew Crawly demanded adding his arm to her protection.

"I couldn't miss this," Sybil replied, her voice raspy as her breathing grew rapid and uncertain.

"Couldn't you? I could." Matthew shot back, and Branson ignored the derision in his tone. The group of men that had just entered through the archway caused a heavy weight of dread to settle in his chest.

"I don't like the look of this m'lady," he warned, knowing that Sybil's fine dress made her a clear target. Anxious to forestall any violence against her he invaded their approach pleading, "Look, look, I'm on your side. Don't cause any trouble; you have to believe me."

Strong arms encircled him from behind and he was wrenched back causing him to lose his footing.

"What's your problem then, Mr. La-di-da?" he heard the ring leader demand of Matthew, and Branson fought desperately against his capture.

"My problem is you," Matthew quipped and Branson fought harder, the heavy stench of beer filled his nose.

"Oh-aye." Came the taunt and the two men came to blows.

With every bit of strength he had in him he yanked free and tackled the ringleader to the ground just as Mr. Matthew was sending his fist forward. He heard Sybil cry out and risked a glance backwards in time to see Mr. Matthew catch her stumble but his distraction cost him greatly as the ringleader caught him on the chin. It was enough to keep him down and before he could react he felt a force hit him in the side, knocking the air from his lungs. Seeing the booted foot come at him again he tried to twist out of the way but it was too late; he had become the focus of the rage of the group of men and their kicks and punches sent him against the stones of the ground. There wasn't much he could do in the heat of their onslaught and simply did his best to keep his face protected. A foot came down hard on his wrist and he felt a sharp pain in his side and then it was over. Other men had jumped into the fray and began evening the numbers and Branson felt someone grab the back of his uniform and try to drag him to his feet.

"Come on Branson," Mr. Matthew commanded sharply, striving to pull the chauffer upright.

Branson fought to find his footing, stumbling as his mind worked to propel him forward faster than his injured body was willing to go. The solicitor's strong hand kept him from hitting the ground again and suddenly he felt her body align with his as she tucked herself under his arm.

"Lean on me Branson," Lady Sybil said softly, shakily, and he could hear her fright and worry.

"Thank you m'lady," he forced out, at least he tried. Pain radiated through his body and his vision swam. He tried not to put his weight against her but a wave of dizziness threatened to send him back to the ground and he was forced to rely on her somewhat. She held him valiantly, her warm softness refusing to allow him to fall.

The trio made their way out of the crowd and onto the street. Branson worked to focus his attention on placing one foot in front of the other and remain upright. He felt awkward and uncomfortable leaning on his employer's daughter. His eyes cut to her and he saw her hat was missing; her hair springing from the intricate coif that he knew had taken Anna all morning to achieve. 'Refuses to be tamed,' he thought randomly, not comprehending how inappropriate that idea was, especially at that moment.

"Steady on chap," Matthew said gently, guiding them across the street with a firm hand. "My office is just here."

"I'm alright," he wanted to say, to end the frantic look in her eyes, the sorrow, but honestly he didn't know if that was true. Everything had begun to go numb, shut off, and confuse him. Instead he allowed himself to be lead by the future Earl of Grantham and worked to fight the instinct to wince from the pain in his wrist as she gripped tightly to the arm resting on her shoulders.

They entered the building and Mr. Matthew led him to a chair. He couldn't help the gasp that escaped as a wave of pain shot through his body, forcing his eyes closed. He managed a few deep breaths, grateful at least that it appeared no ribs were broken, and finally opened his eyes.

She was there, kneeling before him, her concern radiating off her body. "I'm sorry Branson, so sorry," he heard her whisper, her stunning blue eyes even more vivid behind the glossy sheen of unshed tears. She was digging through her little bag and pulled out an impossibly small and delicate white handkerchief.

She carefully reached forward and, realizing her intent, Branson jerked back. He ridiculously was unable to allow her to dirty something so beautiful despite how desperate the situation may appear. Sybil hesitated, looking directly into his eyes, and time slowed. He saw her guilt and she saw his deference. They sat frozen until, by unspoken agreement, he relented and allowed her to press the piece of cloth against the corner of his lower lip. He jerked slightly at the sting which caused her to jump but she quickly recovered, dabbing at the seeping blood. She stared at his lips, blinking rapidly, sending a single tear down her cheek.

Branson knew in that moment there was nothing he couldn't forgive her. His tongue felt fussy but he was desperate to reassure her.

"Please don't worry m'lady. I'm sure I look worse than I am," he told her, trying to reach out and dry her cheek, but he couldn't. His arm felt heavy, too heavy.

At his words Sybil sent him a sharp look. "Branson?"

"I've gotten some water," Mr. Matthew interrupted, stepping into the room.

Branson hadn't realized he'd gone and tried to bring his focus to the man but when he brought his head up he was rewarded with a wave of nausea for his efforts.

"Matthew," Sybil stated, but Branson could hear the urgency in her voice.

Branson felt warm, and the lights in the room began to dim. No, that wasn't right, the lights weren't fading. It was him. His head now felt heavy and he worked to refuse its attempts to loll back.

"His coat," he heard Mr. Matthew say but that didn't make sense. Then he felt her hands on him, pulling relentlessly at the buttons. Tom wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it but he found it suddenly very hard to catch his breath.

His vision was hazy and some how distant. Sybil seemed miles away rather than practically in his lap. He felt the front of his uniform fall open.

"Matthew! Fetch Dr. Clarkson," he heard her call frantically. "I…I think he's been stabbed."

'Whose been stabbed?' he wondered his lids lowering.

Her hand came to rest against his cheek. "Oh no. Oh please God no," she breathed and Branson closed his eyes.

To be continued?

*poking head out* Is it awful? I've always wondered at the lack of follow up between Sybil and Branson post "the count incident" and then I got to wondering how she would feel if it was him that was hurt rather than her. I'm not usually one for openly dramatic and physically intense moments—meaning I've not written them before, I love to read them though!—so I'm interested to know if its rubbish. (And to The Irish Chauffer you HAVE to let me know if I've sent Branson out in his underwear again. LOL!)