New story! This one is in response to this anon prompt I got on tumblr:

I know you must get bombarded with fic requests, so please don't feel like u have to write this; it's just something that is very personal to me and would love to make people more aware of the problem. As a child, I had a stutter. It was terrible. I was bright, but found it difficult to communicate. With family I was fine, but it was when I went to school or got nervous that it came out. I always wondered how Tom would have dealt with that. He is very confident NOW, but how would he handle it coming out as an adult. Maybe he's never told Sybil about it, but it comes out when they're confronting her family? Disabilities were never really talked about then, but Sybil would be so sweet and compassionate about it, and what a great way to show people that you can get over it. I still stammer when i'm nervous, but I have learned some great techniques to control it. I know this is a "serious" idea, but it could also be cute as well as educating.

I intended for it to be a one-shot when I started, but it was getting long so I decided to post it in pieces. I have the first three chapters done, and I'll be posting them (and the last two) in relatively quick succession. Writing someone with a speech impediment has been a challenge, and I've tried to be as sensitive to the issue as possible. Obviously, how people who stutter/stammer are seen and treated has changed considerably since the Edwardian era. How I've depicted the Branson family may seem unrealistic to some, but in every universe I believe that Tom grew up in a loving environment, and that family support is at the foundation of his confidence and his beliefs as an adult.

The story begins just before Tom walks into the drawing room to make his announcement with Sybil. You can assume that Tom and Sybil's story has unfolded as it did in canon. Tom's background will be revealed as the story goes along.

Last thing: I couldn't have written this story without the help of the awesome babageneush, so this is dedicated to her.

Hope you enjoy!

Standing in the middle of the small sitting area in the chauffeur's cottage Tom looked down at his mismatched suit and laughed.

It would have to do. There was nothing else that was his own for him to wear. The pants that had come with the jacket had snagged on a nail in the chest of drawers in his bedroom his first month on the job. He hadn't bothered to try to mend them. He could have bought a new suit, but he preferred saving his money. And now that she'd said yes, he was glad to have done so. They were going to need every penny to get settled in Ireland.

Tom thought again of that magical moment in the garage when Sybil had come to him, much like she had been doing for months—years, really. But instead of demurring and giving him a coy look that said more than she could or would, Lady Sybil Crawley finally spoke aloud what had been burning inside her waiting to be said for too long. It wasn't all plain sailing after that. Her sisters had seen to it, but the forced waiting had been good for them. Instead of getting swept up in their long-repressed dreams and desires, they'd made careful plans. They'd made arrangements with his mother, reluctant though she'd been to help them. He'd found a job, a real job that would demand much of him but that offered promise in return, one that did not require deference or servitude or bowing to those he did not respect.

Lord Grantham was a fair employer, and not a bad man. Nevertheless, if not for Sybil, Tom might have left long ago, not because Downton Abbey was a terrible place to work, but because it was a dead end. For him and for Sybil. But no matter what Tom might say to the family tonight, he knew Robert would not give his blessing. Of all the possible outcomes tonight, Tom expected at least that much. He knew Sybil hoped for it despite her own efforts to prepare him and herself for the absolute worst, but Tom knew better. Even so, he and Sybil had resolved that her family deserved the truth, and there was no going back now.

He heard the clock in the corner of the room chime the bottom of the hour.

It was time.

Tom pulled on the sleeves of his shirt beneath the jacket. He thought of his older sister Caitlin and the way she used to tug on the shoulders of his jacket before school as she reminded him to mind the nuns. He smiled and shook the thought of her out of his head. He'd see her soon enough.

He stepped out of the cottage, walked through the empty garage and started up the gravel path to the front of the house. He glanced at the light above the door into the servants hall. There was nobody in the yard, which meant the staff were all having dinner. Tom wondered whether anyone would make note of his absence. Despite Miss O'Brien's early protestations, he'd made a habit of eating with the staff, doing so more often than he didn't. It didn't matter, though. Not on this night. They'd learn where he'd gone to eventually.

As Tom made it to the front door, he felt his heart begin to race. He took a deep breath. As he reached out for the doorknob, he saw that his hand was shaking. He took another deep breath.

"In a week, we'll be in Dublin," he said aloud. "In a week, we'll be home."

He turned the knob and breathed a sigh of relief to see that it gave as he pushed. Mr. Carson won't be happy that Thomas failed to lock the front door, he thought with a laugh. His heart was still racing, but he could feel the adrenaline begin to pulse through him. He wouldn't turn back, not when everything that he dreamed of was on the other side of that door.

He walked through, and barely taking a breath, he marched determinedly into the main hall toward the drawing room. The door to it was closed. Tom took one more breath before opening it and stepping inside.

Immediately, he felt all their eyes on him. He looked around the room for her, but for a moment everything blurred together. He took another breath and spoke.

"I'm . . . I'm h—I'm . . ."

He closed his eyes. Not here. Please. Not now.

"Branson," he heard Robert say. "What in heaven's name are you doing up here? Is there something the matter?"

Another breath. He opened his eyes again and finally their eyes met and he opened his mouth to speak again, not to the room, but to her.

"Sybil?"

XXX

Ireland, 1894

"So there's nothing physically wrong with him?"

From his spot beneath the kitchen table, 5-year-old Tommy could hear the sigh his mother, Claire, let out as she considered her husband's question. Tommy was pushing an old wooden toy train back and forth, but his eyes were on Colin Branson's feet as he paced the floor, as if looking for the answer that continued to evade them.

Claire was standing in front of the stove, stirring the stew her daughter, Caitlin, had made for dinner while Claire had spent the afternoon taking her youngest son to see yet another doctor. It was the fourth one they'd been to this year, but the answers were always the same.

"There's no medicine for a stammer."

"He could talk normally if he wanted. He just has to try."

"He's backward—nothing can be done about that."

There was no need for Claire to stir the stew. It was done and cooked well. Caitlin was only ten, but she already knew her way around the kitchen. Still, Claire needed to be moving her hands, to be doing something to release the nervous energy that she'd stored waiting all afternoon for the doctor to see them.

"He said what they all said," she answered, finally. "So don't ask me to take him to another."

"And what about school?" Colin asked.

"What do you mean what about school? He'll start this year, just like the rest of them."

"But what'll the nuns say? Suppose they send him home 'cause they think he's not right in his brain?"

"Well, then I will tell them there's nothing wrong with his brain," Caitlin said firmly, coming into the kitchen.

Tommy smiled at the sound of her voice. She was so sure of herself. Even for one so young, Caitlin always knew what needed to be said and did so in a determined cadence. Tommy, by contrast, had a head full of words, but for reasons that nobody knew, his lips could barely get them out, so he usually just didn't speak at all.

"You know better than the doctors, do ya, lass?" Colin asked, a smirk coming over his face. She was his only girl, and her father's favorite, and as such got away with much more cheek than the boys did.

"The doctors haven't given any good answers," Caitlin said, putting her hands on her hips. "They don't know Tommy. He knows his numbers, and he can read already. Better than Kieran, Michael and Sean all put together."

Colin laughed and bent down on one knee to look under the table. "So you're clever one, are you boy?"

Tommy looked down at his train and shrugged.

"Oh, leave him alone," Claire said, wiping her hands. Pointing to Caitlin, she said. "You, go fetch your brothers for dinner."

Caitlin did as she was told, but not before bending down to ruffle Tommy's hair beneath the table.

"Tommy," Colin said, standing back up, "Come help your mother set the table."

The young boy crawled out from under the table and walked over to his mother, who was holding a stack of bowls for him to take. Tommy held out his hands to take them from her. Very carefully, he walked back to the table and began setting the bowls in their spots one at a time. When he got to the head of the table, where his father was already sitting, Colin put his hands on his young son's shoulders.

"You don't like to talk much, do you, son?"

Tommy shook his head.

"Is it because you can't get the words to come out right?"

Tom bit his lip and looked down, then gave a small nod.

Colin sighed and pulled him into his arms. "I reckon that's all right. Even a fool, when he holdeth his peace, is counted wise: and he that shutteth his lips is esteemed a man of understanding."

Tom pulled away to look at his father. "What . . . what, mmmwhat's it, um . . .what's it mmmmean?"

Colin winked. "Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to open one's mouth and remove all doubt."

Tommy laughed and his father, warmed by the sound, pulled him into another hug. "Now go wash up for dinner."

Colin looked up to Claire, who had been watching them as she leaned on the kitchen sink. "What kind of life is he going to have?" he asked.

Claire turned back to the pot and moved it over to the center of the table. "I don't know, but there's no sense in worrying about what's going to come. It'll come whether we like it or not."

Colin scratched his head. "Maybe we shouldn't coddle him. If discipline is what he needs, we should force him to talk. Having him recite lines until he gets them right."

"We'll do no such thing!" Claire said smacking her husband on the head with her ladle. "His life will be hard enough—I'll not have you make it worse by being cruel to the poor boy. He'll talk when he's good and ready."

"And if he never talks?"

"Then, praise be, I'll have one less person in this house to ask to keep quiet."

Colin laughed and smacked her on the bottom.

A few minutes later, the entire Branson clan—mother, father, four boys and one girl—held hands as they said grace.

Bless us, Oh Lord, and these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty, through Christ, Our Lord. Amen.

Tom usually just moved his lips, but on this night he recited the now familiar words along with his family. He'd spoken softly, but he'd gotten through the prayer without any stumbling. From his seat at the end of the table, he looked around to see if anyone had noticed, but they were all digging into their stew without thought to him or anything else. He smiled to himself and took his first spoonful into his mouth.

Note: This quote from Colin—"Even a fool, when he holdeth his peace, is counted wise: and he that shutteth his lips is esteemed a man of understanding."—is from the Bible, Proverbs 17:28. And this one—"Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to open one's mouth and remove all doubt."—has been attributed to both Mark Twain and Abraham Lincoln.