13Author's Note: "Who best bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best." –On His Blindness, John Milton
Disclaimer: I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.
William Mason did not complain of the extra work that had fallen to his lot since Thomas' departure to the Army Medical Corps. His only complaint was that he himself was not also in the Army.
"There'll be time enough for that later," Mr. Carson advised him. "Remember, William: 'They also serve who only stand and wait.'"
Branson would always remember his first time.
It was at the tail-end of a crisp afternoon, and he had been leaning easily against the door of the motor looking lazily for the bird he could hear singing close by. He marveled at the light show as the sun filtered through the glorious reds, greens, and golds of the autumn foliage, turning the tree-lined street where he waited for Lord Grantham into a cathedral to rival the stained glass glory of St. Patrick's at Evensong.
In addition to the beauty of nature, there was pulchritude on offer in the persons of the three young women standing across the way, giggling. He had noticed them, because they kept looking over at him and whispering to each other, and he had assumed at first that, like Lady Edith, they were interested in the motor. Or, considering the way the prettiest of the three was blushing, in him. He smiled at them encouragingly, and they ducked their heads together in apparent embarrassment. Branson was no coxcomb, but he did not think he was mistaken in thinking that the other two girls were urging the pretty one to approach him.
She finally did. A girl younger than Daisy he judged, and dazzlingly fair, beautiful in a way opposite to the beauty of Lady Sybil, a slight, golden, waif-like creature, she tripped up to him and held out a tiny closed fist, palm down. "Take it!" she demanded breathlessly, in the treble accents of an angel.
Branson, like any young man totally unopposed to a little light flirtation, reached for her hand with both of his own. "What do you have for me, darlin'?"
She opened her fist and released something into his hand, yelling, "Just what you deserve, coward!" then turned and ran, her friends tearing away after her, as though Satan himself chased them, though so complete was his surprise, the chauffeur had not moved. He stood still looking down at her 'gift,' a bent and bedraggled little white feather.
Branson's attention was caught by movement near the ground. A black and white bird, perhaps the same one who'd been singing earlier, confronted him belligerently.
"Did those girls steal this from you?" Branson asked the avian, black leather-clad fingers absently straightening the bent rachis, and smoothing the barbs and barbules of the vane back into order.
The little bird chirped his displeasure.
Branson glanced up the street the way the White Feather girls had gone. "Not very brave of them to run away, was it?"
The bird fluttered up into the tree, while Branson pulled out his memorandum book and placed the feather safely between its pages. He admired their willingness to demonstrate on behalf of their beliefs, but their valor did not inspire him to join the Army.
God had relented. At least six of Lang's fellow soldiers and no less than two superior officers saw the shell explode when Lang at last went down. So even though there was no visible wound to be found on his body, the tag that was attached to his person, which sent him mercifully away from the front, bore an honourable W, and not the hated S.
It was a great good fortune that Joseph Moseley disliked beer. Men of his class were not often called upon to drink wine, and George at the Grantham Arms had strict orders from old Mr. Moseley never to serve young Mr. Moseley more than one hard cider at a sitting. If Joseph wanted to drink any more, he was given sweet cider.
Had he liked beer, this war would have made him a drunk, because they served no non-alcoholic malt beverages.
But there was no real safety to be had in the pub. On occasion, the White Feather girls ventured even here.
"Let's see what cowards there are in here seeking Dutch courage!" one of the woman said, barging into the taproom. She offered one of her feathers to Mr. Moseley, who stared at it and began stuttering. His hands shook as they gripped his cider. Couldn't they leave him in peace?
"Here you, woman," one of the men said, "We don't want none of that in here." The other men shooed the woman to the door, where she met Branson coming in.
"I'm already a Tommy," Mr. Moseley heard the young man say, "but I don't mind wearing your favor, since you're so kind to offer it to me." As he entered the taproom he was sticking the feather in his peaked driving cap, tucking it securely between the crown and his goggles. He stepped up to the bar. "A pint, please, George."
The barman grinned, and filled the young man's order.
Mr. Moseley blinked, but picked up the feather the woman had left on the table next to him, and tucked it jauntily through his buttonhole.
