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Void. She felt void. Of anything. Of anything except perhaps a very slightly queasy sense of dread. A malaise. And this icy and heavy unknown something wasn't leaving her belly: it felt as though liquid lead had been poured inside her stomach like it sometimes was inside a convict condemned to torture, but instead of it being hot molten burning lead it felt cold, very very cold. Anyway, it felt as dense and heavy as lead.

When Branson finally stopped shaking and shuddering he collapsed onto her. He too felt very heavy on her body, she reflected. She had already experienced his full dead weight lying entirely on her, though, but it had never felt that heavy before.

She simply refused the mere idea of what he just said, of what she just heard. She didn't want it, he hadn't any right to!

Denying... For a few nearly blissful seconds, denying seemed the ideal solution, the best way to deal with it. If she did as though he hadn't said anything, perhaps the disturbing thought would disappear and the awkward feeling would go away, and things would just revert to be like they were only five minutes earlier... She just wanted to bury this deep inside her pocket and shove her handkerchief over it, so that she could forget it and never think or hear about it ever again.

But somewhere in her head the logical part of her mind knew this couldn't be the solution. She needed to do some thinking, she knew that. If only to let it sink in so that she could then better deal with it. She didn't want to think about it, but she knew she had to.

Flee. She wanted to flee, to run away from there, from him. He was still sprawled over her, his slowing breathing being the only sign that he was recovering: the rest of him was still totally motionless, as unmoving as if he were sleeping, limp, still. His weight was pinning her down.

She tried to move, to get away: she couldn't. She then tried to move him off of her: impossible. She noticed that his forehead was resting – or rather had fallen down – right onto the mark he had unintentionally imprinted in her skin three days earlier when he had involuntarily bitten her shoulder while climaxing hard in the throes of searing pleasure.

And today's romp had started with Branson undoing the top five buttons of her dress so that he could ask for forgiveness with his lips to the skin he had damaged. Stopping the unbuttoning there, he had then pushed the velvet of the dress and the linen of the chemise to the side and made amend for his past behaviour by showering the slightly broken skin with soft and light kisses and caresses. But as the offended party, she had considered that this reparation wasn't satisfying enough and demanded redress – and not in the sense of 'dressing again', of course! And sure enough, the kind of compensation she claimed implied in fact a bit more undressing – mainly on his part – and a great many lot of touching and mingling. Things had then escalated quickly and soon they found themselves on the floor with hitched up clothes, moaning voices and interlocked bodies...

For Branson, life was wonderful at his moment. Well, it had been so since the day they shared a first kiss in this same room some months ago. Before that, he would have never dared to think she could reciprocate his feelings. But then, they kissed, and a whole new world of possibilities opened for him the instant her lips touched his... quickly followed by intense and deep disappointment a few seconds later when she expressed her regrets at what just happened...

Hearing her words he had felt his heart sink down to his heels and the bright future he had allowed himself to imagine for the two of them during these seconds of eternity suddenly crashed on his head, shattered in millions of tiny bits of broken dream, trickling down his being like a cold shower.

But a few days later, even more happened between them, something that he hadn't even let himself imagine before – hum, or almost, he had to admit, having fantasised quite a bit about her; and hope burgeoned again in his heart that she truly felt for him what he was feeling for her – after all, she wouldn't make love with him if she didn't mean it, right? –only to receive just afterwards the same cold shower as earlier.

But after a few weeks, she finally accepted to embrace this new turn in their relationship and things had been idyllic between them since then. He's been living in heaven for a few months. Or almost. And this 'almost' was taking up more and more space in his mind and heart, tinting his bliss and happiness with hints of unpleasant malaise.

Yes, things had been idyllic, but frustrating. Branson didn't lose sight and awareness of the world they were living in: they might be in love, but he still was only a servant while she was a noble lady, an earl's daughter, and his master's at that! He couldn't just go to her parents and ask for her hand in marriage, despite everything. They had to keep their love and relationship secret, and it was making him immensely sad. He was desperately trying to come up with a way for them to be together, to have a future together, but he still wasn't seeing any. That's why he had never dared talk about their future with her, about making plans or anything. They had to live only in the present, in the immediacy. To take everything they could when they could, be it pleasures of the flesh or spiritual nourishment.

And right now, all he wanted was to cuddle her, to take her in his arms and trace light circles on her back with his hands and the tip of his fingers, to gently hold her and caress her skin until the time came that she had to go back to the manor... Well, once he had recovered enough from their lovemaking to be able to move a limb, anyway!

And now all what Sybil wanted was to go away. As soon as possible. But pinned under her collapsed lover as she was – 'lover', quite the right word it seemed! – she was trapped by him and couldn't move despite her attempts. At last, as a last resort she raised her free arm and awkwardly poked a few times at his shoulder with her forefinger to get his attention.

Branson laboriously rose his head two inches up to look questioningly at her face. His eyes were still a bit glazed from his petite mort but he did his best to focus on her.

"Uh..." she hesitantly began, "could you please..."

With her hand she made a lifting motion.

The message took some time to reach his hazy brain, but he finally seemed to realise that he was completely crushing her.

"Oh..." he breathed, panting. "Sorry..."

Gathering his strength, he managed to push slightly on his legs and arms to take some of his weight off of her. In doing so, he watched her face and finally seemed to notice her flustered and unfulfilled state, as well as the lack of the very becoming rosy colour her cheeks usually took when pleasure exploded in her. He could see that her eyes were still rather piercing and not at all dazed or out of phase, even though she wasn't looking straight at him but was rather trying to avert her eyes and to avoid his gaze.

"Oh!" he gently murmured, "you didn't..."

He left his sentence unfinished when, a bit sorry, he realised that she hadn't joined him in the pleasure feast. Yet. But his sentence was the only thing he intended to leave unfinished since, thanks to her guidance, he now knew what to do to remedy that kind of situation and was improving each time he practised; after all, it wasn't the first time it happened...

"Just wait..." he tenderly breathed, slowly moving down her body, leaving a thin trail of saliva down her belly while his right hand was already making its way between her legs.

"No," she simply told him while sitting up sharply, her hand pushing him back a little bit. She looked awkward, and he was totally at a loss as to why: it wasn't the first time he offered to service her that way, and in fact the first time it had even been her initiative! But since she just told him no, he simply stopped.

"I– I must..." she stuttered, "I have to go. I..."

She swiftly slipped from under him and quickly got up.

"I must go," she repeated as she was hastily setting her state her dress in order, thrusting her left breast back inside her corsage and buttoning it up, smoothing her skirts down, and finally straightening her headdress.

"But it's still early!" Branson protested, not understanding the reason for the sudden rush.

He was still sitting on the floor, half naked, his softened intimate parts exposed; he wasn't self-conscious or embarrassed anymore now around her about nakedness. But for a reason he couldn't fathom, she suddenly avoided looking at him.

"I've promised Lady Edith I would go for a ride with her before supper," she made up.

He chuckled.

"One would think you've done enough riding for today, though," he told her cheekily, reminding her of some part of their very recent lovemaking.

For once, it didn't make her laugh. Didn't even get a smile out of her. He was puzzled. Had he been that mediocre, today?

Once she was decent, she hurriedly headed to the door and simply mumbled:

"Goodbye, Branson."

He really preferred when she called him 'Tom'.

But with Mary being now fully recovered, Sybil knew she would have to be more careful. Still, she was very happy and relieved at Mary's recovery; she didn't wish her sister any ill, quite the contrary.

So yes, things were wonderful; this new part of adult life she had discovered in the stableman's arms was absolutely wonderful. She couldn't even bring herself to be too sorry about neglecting her studies; or his, for that matter.

Over the last couple of weeks, Sybil had noticed that Branson sometimes spoke during the course of the act or of the foreplay. Well, not really 'spoke', but said little things, sweet nothings, more on impulse than anything else, nearly unconsciously, without overthinking these; most of the time it was things like 'you're beautiful', 'so sweet', 'you're amazing', 'I've missed you so much', 'you're wonderful', or simply 'oh M'lady'.

At first it had seemed a bit strange to her, all the more so that Branson wasn't really loquacious in the other aspects of his life, as far as she had noticed him interact with others. Or with herself. And Sybil, for her part, wasn't the talkative sort in these 'special moments'.

But the first time he called her by her first name in the heat of the moment, only her fist name, not 'Milady', not 'Lady Sybil', but her fist name only without any title or mark of her rank, it made her get off and fly high above the earthly world. Just 'Sybil'.

And he noticed the effect it had on her, the sly little fox! From this day on, he sometimes moaned her first name during their foreplays, and she strongly suspected he was doing it on purpose, the tease! But when he panted "Sybil" on the climb to pleasure or cried it out on the brink of it, she thought it was just spontaneous: they weren't then in a state of mind that was clear enough to overthink those things.

But apart from during their intimate sensual moments, he never addressed her by first name only, of course: it just wouldn't be seemly. He was the servant and she was the master, he was the pupil and she was the tutor. That was the way the world worked. The order of things...

By the way, and just out of curiosity, what was Branson's Christian name? She'd have to ask him some day...

Yes, things had been going blissfully well, until a certain afternoon in their shed. To do justice to their commitment to things of the mind, they had actually been studying Saint Augustine's Confessions for one hour before hands decided on their own to sensually explore, and caress, and stroke, and fondle.

And after some time they found themselves partially naked in the middle of discarded quills and parchments, with their limbs passionately intertwined, sweating and occasionally kissing as he was setting the pace on the scale leading to seventh heaven.

Good... good... feels really good... was all what Sybil's mind could think at this precise moment.

In the middle of the heat rising and growing, higher and stronger, of the burning tickling in their loins intensifying, in the middle of panting and clutching at each other's bunched up clothing, in the throes of passion and between two thrusts of his hips, he blurted out:

"Oh Sybiiiil... 'love you!"

Good, good, good, soooo gooo– ...WHAT???

To Be Continued

1. "Her studies allowed us to withdraw in private, as love desired it, and then with our books open before us, more words of love than of reading passed between us, and more kissing than teaching. My hands strayed oftener to her bosom than to the pages; love drew our eyes to look on each other more than reading kept them on our texts. [...] In short, our desires left no stage of lovemaking untried, and if love could devise something new, we welcomed it. We entered on each joy the more eagerly for our previous inexperience, and we were the less easily sated." Historia Calamitatum, by Pierre Abélard.

But now that the frenzy, the physical craving, the arousal, the moment of craziness, the mad excitation were over, now that the lust and the need were calming down, the haze of physical desire and of sheer madness that had been clouding her reason was dissipating and her mind was reverting to its usual sanity and wisdom. Reality and sense hit back.

So. They had lost any grip on themselves again. It was becoming a pattern: they were both in the stable's workshop with only the best intentions, clearly intending to only study, and meaning it; and then somewhere along the way, one thing leading to another, the lesson derails, goes off track, things heat up and finally get out of hand. Or too much in hand, in a manner of speaking.

And now Sybil was once again sobering up, through the now almost familiar feeling of coming down from cloud nine. Not unlike a hangover, but far far gentler. Far more sobering, too.

So...

They did it again. What a fine mess! But how marvellous, too. Well, as long as no one found out, that was.

Right under her was Branson's body, supporting and welcoming hers like a mattress. His skin pressed against hers vividly reminded her of what they had just been at, a short few minutes before. And how it had been.

The warmth and heat and arousal rising, growing and heightening as and when they were climbing the steps to seventh heaven; all those sensations reaching a peak; their hands and fingers intertwined all through the intercourse; and then extreme, sweet and violent pleasure exploding everywhere.

Absolutely everywhere; inside her, inside her body, inside her head, her skull, inside her legs, down to her knees and even in her ankles, heels and toes. Around her, too. She couldn't tell for sure, since she thought she had then closed her eyes – or else had she just been blinded for a few seconds? – but she thought pleasure invaded the whole shed, splashing onto each wooden wall, projected on these into flashes of bright colours. And somewhere under her, between her thighs, Branson had trembled a lot and moaned a bit. Or was it rather trembled a bit and moaned a lot? She couldn't tell, the scene was still hazy in her mind, her memory of it was foggy. Anyway, what was certain was that he had squeezed and crushed her hands in his own at this precise moment: her knuckles were still a bit sore from it, and his nails had even marked her skin, leaving some semi-circular small imprints on the back of her hands.

But now she had come down. Had cooled off, too, and the very thin layer of sweat covering her back was starting to make her feel a chill of cold. She really should get dressed again before she freezes to death.

Part of her still wanted to stay just where she was, lying right against his skin, enjoying the feel of it, of his breathing slowly coming back to a more normal rhythm; basking in the feeling of the warmth emanating from him, from their joined bodies, from their touching chests and thighs... But the sensible part of her mind knew that it was time to go now that their coital session was over and that their respective compelling physical hungers had been satisfied.

Only this time she didn't say anything about not doing this ever again. She now knew better. No more vain wish, no wishful thinking anymore. No more drunkard's promise.

Yes, she knew better. She knew that they would do it again, whatever she was thinking right now or repeating herself over and over. The need, the thirst, the lust were too strong. Apparently much more than her very weak will. And than his, for that matter.

Yes, it was time to leave. Not uttering a word, she slowly and reluctantly pushed on her arms to release him: she had been crushing his body under her weight and she worried that it had been uncomfortable to him, but that he wouldn't dare complain. With some effort, she gathered enough strength in her spent limbs to roll on her back right beside him. She let out a sigh, both out of exertion and of regret at not feeling his warmth anymore: the floor was cold, hard and rough under her back; all what his skin and body weren't.

She didn't say anything. She looked at the roof, thinking hard now that her common sense was fully back. Absent-mindedly, she noticed old and dusty cobwebs here and there on the timber frame. Her breathing went almost back to normal.

A chill ran along her spine. Time to get dressed!

On an impulse, before sitting up she slightly turned her head to him and swiftly landed a quick kiss on his shoulder.

Why on earth did she do that, she wondered. That was preposterous: their passionate intercourse was over for today.

A bit awkward at the instinctive but unseemly gesture she just had, she rubbed her face with her hands and then quickly got up, gathering her discarded pieces of clothing here and there in the room.

Picking up her headdress from the workbench, she looked cherishingly at the worn wooden piece of furniture, fondly remembering their second unplanned mating session: in addition to the extra kind of use as a desk Branson had come up with for it years before, that day he had also found a third utilisation of it when he had sat her on it in order to better thrust into her, pounding harder and harder until...

Hum, well, time to get dressed as best as she could, now. But her clothing was complicated and not meant to be put on all by oneself: fine ladies were always dressed by maids.

As she was contemplating the matter at hand, she heard his voice gently tear the silence:

"You're beautiful."

She turned, surprised: he was still lying flat on his back, but had turned his head toward her and was watching her still naked figure intently, with something akin to awe and also surprise in his eyes.

Under this apparently appreciative gaze, she strangely felt a blush creep to her cheeks. She fought it back and won this fight, returning his scrutiny.

"You're not bad-looking yourself either, you know," she playfully retorted in an attempt to lighten the post-coital awkwardness they had experienced before.

Well, it was true, she thought, and she indulged in a few seconds of admiring contemplation of his stark-naked body.

Well, perhaps Branson was the solution to her current predicament, she thought. Even though his job had nothing to do with helping his masters get dressed...

But maybe he was still too tired and exhausted for that? He was still lying on the floor, hadn't moved at all, except for turning his head a little bit. Perhaps his limbs still refused the slightest effort, after the intense and draining climax?

His gaze had followed her arm down to the workbench that she was idly grazing with the tip of her fingers; his face lit up with a blissful smile: he too was probably remembering the very non-academic use they had made of it one month earlier.

She cleared her throat to get her voice back and asked him:

"Do you think you'd be fit enough to get up right now?"

His eyes widened.

"I need you," she added matter-of-factly.

He stared at her with bulging eyes.

"Wha... Again, Milady?" he asked, surprised "Right now? So soon after... I mean... I'm afraid..."

He didn't finish his sentence, but instead looked sheepishly at his now deflated nether regions.

Sybil was totally puzzled at his 'again'. What did he mean...?

Suddenly, it dawned on her.

"Oh!" she cried out. "Oh, no, I didn't mean..." She followed his gaze down to his softened crotch. Oh! What just happened to it? she wondered. Or is it its normal state and size?

She shook her head to clear her mind.

"I meant could you stand up? Get up on your feet?" she saw fit to clarify. "I need your help in getting dressed..."

So with awkward and clumsy fingers he held out each piece or garment to her following her instructions, helped her slip them on, fumbled through fastening the pins and lacings, and hid her dishevelled hair under her headdress. That would have to do for now.

They didn't talk. She didn't want to discuss or overanalyse what had just happened – again! – between them. She knew it would happen again, despite the danger it was putting him in, despite her reason telling her it was a useless waste of time and energy, despite Mary's awareness of their private lessons. She knew they shouldn't, but she also knew they would. Because it was too good, too tempting, because he was too appealing, because their kisses were too intoxicating, and because finally he apparently wanted her as badly as she wanted him.

She hated her own weakness. She didn't want to talk. She silently finished checking her state of dress as he was standing in the middle of the room, still stark-naked, waiting for her to say something. Anything.

"It's getting late," she simply stated, "Brother Thybault might already be waiting for me and people will wonder where I've gone."

Not at all the kind of 'talk' Branson expected.

"Tomorrow, same time for your next lesson," she told him while crossing the threshold. "We'll carry on with Aristotle's dialectics."

And on this very teacher-like note, she left him and briskly walked back to the manor.

At this, she looked totally surprised.

"What?"

"Did I do something wrong?" he asked again. "Please Milady, tell me what. Whatever it is, I didn't intend to offend you, I swear!"

"But... but..." she stuttered, puzzled. "No Branson, you didn't do anything wrong."

He took another step to her. She took a deep breath in.

"But I must have," he insisted. "And I don't know what it is, but you seem to... to resent me for something."

"I don't, Branson, I swear!" she assured him, instinctively taking a step forward to emphasise her words.

Oh, dear! she thought, horrified. He had noticed the distance she had tried to put between them, and he was taking it for himself, felt he was to blame for that, when she was! Poor man.

"Then if it is not me, it's something else!" he told her. "Please Milady, tell me what is wrong, and I'll try to make it right! Insofar as I can, of course..."

He took another step forward, she took one back, and she hated herself for that.

"Has it..." he hesitated, a very unpleasant thought sprouting in his mind, "has it anything to do with Sir Lawrence Grey? Is His Lordship envisaging giving him your hand in marriage...?"

"WHAT?" she cried out "I certainly hope not!"

She eyed him suspiciously.

"Why do you...?" she asked, slightly alarmed. "Have you... Did you hear anything about such a project?"

She looked horrified.

"No!" he immediately said to reassure her. "No, nothing that sort. I just thought... I mean, I thought that something must have happened to you..."

Then he blanched as another idea hit him:

"You are not... you wouldn't be... ill, Milady? You are... fine... in good health I mean, aren't you? No serious illness..."

"I am all right, Branson, rest assured, I am all right." She smiled at him, to confirm her words. "No illness. And no marriage. Everything is fine."

He let out a relieved sigh, taking another step to her without thinking. Relief made him even dare take her hands in his, instinctively, with no ulterior motive. But it triggered something in her, in both of them.

He felt his mouth go dry but simultaneously he also felt it water exaggeratedly. What a strange feeling, he reflected. He had to swallow. Hard. She stared at his Adam's apple, hypnotised by the movement it made it make. Then she tore her gaze away from his throat only to settle it again on his face, feeling her own getting rather pleasantly warm. Her breathing went short, her heartbeat sped up.

Later, when she'll recall this moment, she won't remember who leaned first, who dared first, who touched first his or her lips to the others', but she'll remember what it felt like, kissing him. How felt his lips, which she had been fantasising about for months, what his intakes of breath felt like, what the wetness of his mouth felt like, the warmth of it, the feeling of his tongue tentatively gliding along hers, responding to hers.

And the sensation of his hair between her fingers, as she was sliding her hands through it at the back of his head. And the touch of his hands and fingers tentatively holding her waist, and then her hips, a bit unsure.

This wild whirlwind of crazy and strong sensations that emptied her mind of any rational thought, of any thought at all was both exciting and terrifying. She wanted conflictingly to sink deeper down into it but also to retrieve what could still be salvaged of her sanity and reason.

Gathering all the strength she was still capable of calling upon to clear her mind and tear it from this sweet but dangerous folly, she finally managed to pull away, panting, flushed, dizzy, but horrified at her own boldness and selfishness. But at the same time, this sweet and intense foretaste of heaven left her craving for more. Much more. A 'more' that she wasn't morally allowed to take from him, she knew that. If only for his own good. But also simply out of respect for his own will.

Later on she wouldn't remember who really initiated this kiss, but at the time she was sure she was the one who did, and who took advantage of him. Their respective stations in life said so. Her role as his tutor also put her in another dominating position. And she was the one who had been aroused at the mere idea of him for weeks and weeks now. Lusting after him. Even dreaming of him at night – and what for a dream it was!

She was the Lady, the master, the tutor, here. And the one who had been having very improper thoughts for months now. She was responsible for what just happened, and was ready to take all the blame for it.

But she would have never thought before this moment that it would be so hard to stop herself from further kissing and fondling him.

"No," she forced herself to whisper between two short intakes of breath, as much aimed at him as to convince and chastise herself. "I shouldn't have."

He looked at her, feeling dazed, appalled, dreamy, awed, confused, ashamed, all this at the same time.

"Milady..." he managed to utter breathily, at the cost of great efforts.

"I'm sorry," she cut him, not daring to look him in the eyes, "I shouldn't have... I..." she swallowed a lump in her throat. "I apologise. I... I don't know what craziness has gotten into me... It was a stupid thing to do."

Well, yes she knew what got into herself. It was called lust. But she could never admit it to him. She then forced herself to look at him and added:

"Please Branson, forgive me. Let's forget..." She paused. "Please let's put this behind us. It wasn't anything, I swear. I promise... I promise I shan't do that ever again. "

She hastily thrust a parchment and a quill in his hands, forced a strained smile on her lips and ordered him with the falsest detached tone she'd ever heard anyone use:

"Now sit. You aren't finished with what you were working on."

Feeling inwardly dejected, Branson hazedly complied.

I'm sorry to do this through a letter, but I don't trust myself to speak it loud and clear in front of you. I know I'd back off. Or I'd bumble and falter. That's why I chose the written form, so that I could lay down what I want to tell you, and have a chance that you would read it to the end whereas if I were saying this aloud in person, you might tell me to keep quiet, to stop talking nonsense, or even to go away.

Please don't tell me to go away. I know you haven't asked me anything, I know you don't want anything from me, haven't done anything for me to feel this. I know you never did anything wrong, never thought about anything that sort about me, but I beg you to understand that I haven't done anything wrong either.

I'm not expecting anything from you, I'm not asking for anything else than your presence and your continued lessons and encouragement.

If I were one of yours, a well-born baron or a noble knight, I would ask for your permission to court you, and I would go to your father and tell him that my intentions are pure and serious. If we were living in a world where mere villeins weren't promised to the gallows for courting their Lord's daughter, I would dare tell you in person of my feelings, and I would ask you to leave with me. And you would answer either yes or no, but at least I would have the right to ask you without risking my life or condemning you to live as an outcast, to a life of misery, of constantly running away, of hiding. Perhaps such a world will exist in a few decades or centuries, perhaps I was born several centuries too early, perhaps in half a millennium I would have dared to ask you to leave with me.

And very probably you would have answered no anyway, but at least I would have asked.

But in the real world, in the world we are living in, I can't. I hardly have the right to tell you that I love you with my whole being.

But all the same, I do it: I have fallen hopelessly in love with you. I love you.

You can do whatever you want with this letter: keep it carefully hidden, burn it, or show it to your father: if I am to be beaten because of what I feel for you, if my fate is perhaps even to die because of this love, then so be it: what remains of my family is far away, they are safe of any retribution from yours, or from anyone else. And if I die because you were offended by this letter or afraid of my feelings, know that I won't resent you. If I am to die because of this love, be sure that my last thought will be for you, and my last prayer to the Lord will be for your happiness.

Branson re-read his unfinished letter for the umpteenth time. Despite what he claimed in it, he didn't feel ready to die, he certainly didn't want to; he wasn't terribly eager to get a severe beating either. And most of all, he didn't feel ready to face her very probable rejection of his declaration. Of his feelings.

He had written this letter weeks ago in his clumsy and hesitant scribbling, but he still hadn't had the guts to give it to her, hadn't plucked up the courage to do so.

He sighed. He was still hesitating, had already been on the verge of handing her this parchment, had always backed off at the last second, still unsure whether it was a good idea or not.

And after all, what good would it do in the end? Yes, what would it do except possibly making her feel bad about him, about this unrequited affection? Except perhaps scaring her away from him?

He remembered this day Lady Mary had seen her come out from the shed: Lady Sybil had told her nothing untoward had happened. She had been able to say this without lying at all. But if he were to give this letter to her, if he were to tell her about his feelings for her, then she couldn't say this without it being slightly untrue...

And what if she decided never to see him ever again?

"Listen, Mary," Sybil said, "this is not what you might–"

"Sybil!" her sister interrupted her, "have you lost your mind? What on earth were you doing in this dingy shack?"

"Mary, I know what this looks like, but I assure you it is absol–"

"Well, I don't even want to know what this looks like," she told her younger sister, "but the possibilities are more than disturbing. So no, I don't want to know what it looks like, I want to know what it actually is!"

"Mary, I swear, nothing happened!" Sybil assured her.

Not that I didn't want it to happen, she thought inwardly. If she were to be caught and chastised, then she'd have rather actually done, fully done, what she'd be rebuked for.

She sighed.

"Nothing improper or even remotely unseemly happened, Mary, I assure you," she told her eldest sister.

Mary looked at her questioningly and intently, as if trying to gauge her, to assess the truthfulness of what she was saying. But she loved her baby sister and wanted to believe her. But what if that stable boy was abusing her ingenuousness and trusting nature with ulterior motives?

Her scrutinising gaze settled on the man. Sybil's eyes followed hers: he was pallid, white as a sheet, and looked downright frightened.

Oh. She hadn't thought about it. But yes, of course: he was risking much much more than she was. In fact, his life could very well be at stake here, if Mary or their father, or whoever with some power or influence mistook the situation.

She fully turned to him:

"All right," she said, "let's tell her."

He looked at her, a bit unsure. A lowly servant who could read and write, how eccentric, and let's say it, subversive!

"She is my sister," Lady Sybil insisted, "I trust her. And anyway, we're doing nothing wrong! Show her, Branson."

He didn't really want to share his 'secret' with someone from the castle. From the Earl's family. Even though it wasn't really secret; let's just say he didn't advertise about it around his masters, as he thought it was none of their business.

"Show her, Branson," Lady Sybil repeated, "or Lady Mary will end up getting the wrong idea..."

His eyes widened again in fear. She was right, he couldn't risk Lady Mary suspecting anything improper; and that would really be too bad being punished for what didn't happen. At least he wouldn't end up being hanged or broken on the wheel for just wanting to be able to read or write. Yet, he didn't like the idea of disclosing to anyone else what had been his and Lady Sybil's little secret. Little world, in fact. Some secret garden of theirs.

Not totally convinced, he hesitantly yielded to her, reluctantly holding to Lady Mary what he had been hiding behind his back all this time.

A roll of parchment and a quill? Mary was more than puzzled at that. She didn't know what she had been expecting, but certainly not this! She took the parchment and unrolled it: it was covered with writings. About what? She would have been at a loss to say it, since she couldn't read.

Fortunately for Branson.

But Lady Mary still didn't have a clue and asked her sister:

"How is this supposed to enlighten me as to what you were doing in this shed? And what's more, with this stable boy!"

"I'm teaching him how to read and write," Sybil explained. "He's made wonderful progress!"

Lady Mary eyed her sister suspiciously. But in fact, it was just like Sybil to take a lowly servant as her pet project and take pity on him. Sweet Sybil... her good heart would be her downfall. If anyone were to learn that she spent hours one-on-one with a male servant hidden in some dingy shack behind the stables, her reputation would be damaged forever! And Lady Mary knew firsthand about the price to pay for even a stain on a reputation; she hadn't forgotten, even if in the end it turned out well for her, after a very long while.

But a shabby Irish stable boy wasn't a Byzantine emissary, and even though pure and sweet Sybil probably didn't think a slight second about... well... about having a roll in the hay, the mere idea of these private lessons might leave a permanent stain on her record if anyone were to know about those.

That's why she decided not to tell a soul. For Sybil, and only for her.

And because she trusted her and her word.

Sybil, for her part, had just only then realised what all this implied for Branson: if she gave in to her needs and desire, he would risk not only his position but much more than that: his skin. Quite literally, in fact: a flaying as punishment wasn't unheard of. And it could also be said that he would risk his neck too, since the noose was the likely outcome for whoever lowly manservant were to make the beast with two backs with their lord's daughter; after all, the Earls Grantham had the right to life and death on their serfs.

She really, really shouldn't impose herself on Branson, impose her physical desires on him: first, because he didn't want her, wasn't asking for anything, but wasn't in any position to refuse her. And then, because she could very seriously endanger him.

Yes, she would bottle up this inside her. Anyway, it would eventually pass. In the end... And if not, or if it was too hard, she could still ask someone else... Someone her rank. Someone who wouldn't risk too much playing this game with her...

But right now, the immediate danger was coming from Mary.

"Please Mary," she told her, "Branson is so talented! That would be a real pity for him to stop his schooling!"

"What?" her sister answered. "You're asking me too much, Sybil. I agree not to tell anyone you've been giving lessons to a servant, but I can't let this situation go on! What if anyone discovers you and gets the wrong idea? No Sybil, I can't let you carry on with this folly."

"Please Mary, please! There is nothing wrong in learning, in getting knowledge! He's made so much progress! We mustn't stop here!"

Mary knew she had to be firm, that Sybil's whim was foolish. She wanted to say no. But her baby sister was so enthusiastic about her project, about her own achievements as an improvised tutor, there were so many stars in her eyes at this simple idea that she couldn't resist. People often thought she didn't have a heart; they were wrong: she had one, one which beat warmly for her younger sister.

And Mary simply didn't have the heart to deprive Sybil of her new toy. So, against her better judgement, she promised. Not to tell a soul, and not to ask her to put an end to these foolish and useless private lessons.

Loving someone really was inconvenient, Lady Mary reflected with an inward sigh.

"You're wonderful, Mary!" Sybil exclaimed before taking her hand in a very child-like excitement. "Thank you so much!"

"Thank you Milady," Branson mumbled, still a bit unsure but clearly relieved too.

"I'm not doing this for you!" she told him. "Now go! I'm sure there are horses needing you."

He didn't need to be told twice and disappeared to the stables.

"Thank you Mary," Sybil repeated. "Now, it's my turn to do something for you: stop riding until the child is born. It will only be two months now."

"Stop mothering me; I'm older than you are, may I remind you?"

"Well, if you don't listen to me, maybe you'll listen to your husband! I'll have Matthew tell you not to ride until you give birth. For both you and the child. He cares for you both, so he'll agree with me."

"Pooh!" Mary answered dismissively, "I always get him to do whatever I want!"

And with this she made her horse turn and gallop to the woods.

Her. Of all people, he had to fall in love with her.

That couldn't be. He surely was mistaken. He had to be. His troubled and tired mind was playing tricks on him, nothing else.

And as if her being his master's daughter and a woman with clearly no interest in romance wasn't enough, she was his tutor! What would she think of him if she could currently see the troubled thoughts wandering in his mind? Feelings and thoughts so far from knowledge, from philosophy, from wisdom! From logical reasoning!

Oh, no, he just couldn't be in love with her. He was mistaken. Yes, he decided, he was, he had to be mistaken. Just some marvelling of the moth for the star. Admiration from the pupil to his teacher.

Yes, that was nothing more than just that.

He was nearly convinced of it when he made the mistake to raise his head, turn on his stool and look back at her. But the moment his eyes stopped on her, on her figure and most of all on her face, he knew. He knew he had just been lying to himself, he knew this was no simple crush for a higher lady.

And the moment his gaze met her eyes, he was lost. Truth exploded in him, and he couldn't deny it anymore. What he was feeling was too true, too accurate. Too obvious. He loved her. He simply loved her.

And there wasn't a single chance she loved him back. There wasn't any reason for her to love him, he was painfully aware of that. He was neither bright nor well-bred, was hardly knowledgeable; he had nothing to teach her, she wouldn't find in him anything of what she was constantly seeking. She was generously giving him her time and efforts to lift him away from ignorance and was exchanging views with him; this was very kind of her and already much more than any other of her peers had ever done for him, but he didn't have any right to expect anything else from her.

And sure enough, she was standing a good dozen feet away from him, having retreated right at the opposite corner of the small room, as far from his stool as she could. She was standing, stiffly leaning against the wooden wall, both hands clasped behind her back, trapped between herself and the boards. Not exactly the stance of a woman ready to let herself be courted. Or even thinking about it.

But Tom couldn't help himself feeling what he was currently feeling. You can't give orders to hearts. Yet Tom Branson would have wanted to command his to slow down, to be still, and wise, and reasonable. Not to race, to pound like that.

Really, he should tear his eyes away from her. He should. He should stop looking at her. It wasn't doing any good to his racing heart and his wandering mind.

He was insane: what did he think he was doing, falling in love with Lady Sybil Crawley? But it was already too late, he discovered. He hadn't become aware of it before he was past the point of no return.

And there she was, patiently waiting for him to hand her his prose, totally unaware of the silent thunderstorm that had just hit him. She was looking at him, a strange and unreadable expression in her eyes. Well, he thought, she was probably puzzled by his intent and insistent gaze on her.

He finally managed to tear his eyes away from hers, but only to look a few inches down and rest them on her lips. Big mistake. He stared at these with wonder, feeling incredibly drawn to them. His own mouth watered and his breath caught.

Oh no! Good Lord, no! Fantasising over his master's daughter certainly was the last thing he needed, and Lord Grantham or his chamberlain Carson could have him caned for just imagining kissing her if only they knew. But fortunately his thoughts were his and his only, and no one but himself was inside his head.

And yet, the idea of kissing her seemed so sweet... akin to honey and milk. 'Sweetness drops from thy lips, honey and milk are under thy tongue' (1), he suddenly remembered.

He sighed, forced himself to think of something else, anything, and turned his attention back to his parchment.