Tom Branson (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
irish_radical) wrote2012-09-03 05:08 pm
irish_radical) wrote2012-09-03 05:08 pm
[Milliways]: Pamphleteering
He’s taking Lady Sybil to Ripon, and he knows he probably shouldn’t, but it’s only the two of them, so he calls back over the puttering of the engine, “Will you have your own way, do you think? With the frock?” He glances over his shoulder to see her clearly surprised expression and then explains himself. “Only, I couldn’t help overhearing you yesterday, and from what her ladyship said, it sounded as if you support women’s rights.”
He hadn’t expected to find someone like that in a family as old as the Lord Grantham’s.
“I suppose I do,” Lady Sybil answers, a cautious tone to her voice.
“Because I’m quite political,” Branson confesses. “In fact,” he reaches under the seat quickly, “I brought some pamphlets that I thought might interest you,” he says, handing them back to her. “About the vote.” It’s a risk, and it’s overstepping his bounds a bit, but from what he’s seen of her, she’s not the one to protest something like that or to mention it where someone might.
“Thank you,” she says, looking them over. “But…please don’t mention this to my father. Or my grandmother. One whiff of reform, and she hears the rattle of the guillotine.”
Branson smiles, relieved and pleased by her response.
“It seems rather unlikely,” she continues, “a revolutionary chauffeur.”
“Maybe,” Branson agrees. “But I’m a socialist, not a revolutionary. And I won’t always be a chauffeur.”
He can just see her thoughtful expression out of the corner of his eye.
Not just a pretty face, then.
He hadn’t expected to find someone like that in a family as old as the Lord Grantham’s.
“I suppose I do,” Lady Sybil answers, a cautious tone to her voice.
“Because I’m quite political,” Branson confesses. “In fact,” he reaches under the seat quickly, “I brought some pamphlets that I thought might interest you,” he says, handing them back to her. “About the vote.” It’s a risk, and it’s overstepping his bounds a bit, but from what he’s seen of her, she’s not the one to protest something like that or to mention it where someone might.
“Thank you,” she says, looking them over. “But…please don’t mention this to my father. Or my grandmother. One whiff of reform, and she hears the rattle of the guillotine.”
Branson smiles, relieved and pleased by her response.
“It seems rather unlikely,” she continues, “a revolutionary chauffeur.”
“Maybe,” Branson agrees. “But I’m a socialist, not a revolutionary. And I won’t always be a chauffeur.”
He can just see her thoughtful expression out of the corner of his eye.
Not just a pretty face, then.