"You attend the funeral, you bid the dead farewell. You grieve. Then you continue with your life. And at times the fact of her absence will hit you like a blow to the chest, and you will weep. But this will happen less and less as time goes on. She is dead. You are alive. So live." - Neil Gaiman, The Sandman, Vol. 6: Fables and Reflections.
"Mister Branson, the dinner will be served at six in the evening."
"Thank you, Anna." Nodding his head in acknowledgement, Tom made sure to keep his gaze fixated on the chimney in front of him. He didn't remember the last time he had stepped outside of Downton Abbey to do something, other than to attend the funeral of his late wife a week ago, and even that had ended with his throat tightening and hands curling into loose fists as a desperate attempt to stop himself from falling into pieces in front of everyone else. Despite his best of efforts to remain composed throughout it all, the tears would not stop falling for a long time. Today, he presumed, was an exception to that, for he felt especially numb and unwilling to do anything at all. It wouldn't matter anyway whether or not he appeared to the family dinner, or so he told himself. After all, he wasn't part of this family to begin with.
His gaze travelled to a vase next to the fireplace in the darkly lit room. Had an entire week passed already? It felt like a lifetime to the widowed husband.
Anna was still standing close to the door and watching the young man, showing all signs of unwillingness to exit without getting something else off her chest. Tom knew the woman well enough like he knew everyone else with whom he had once worked – back in the good old days where he had been nothing but a mere chauffeur and… he didn't want to think about it. The thought pushed him into the most bittersweet of embraces: that of memories, and he found himself inclined to let Anna know he wasn't keen on striking up a conversation with her now or anytime soon. She was just like him, no different, so he supposed she would catch on to his burdening silence, offer some more words of empathy and then proceed to leave him alone.
Perhaps, had he felt any better, he would have scolded her for addressing him as though he was a stranger or someone important when he was just Tom. But Tom didn't feel well whatsoever, his facial features void of any type of emotion that would suggest otherwise. It didn't take a genius to figure out what he was suffering from; the doctor had called it a shock after the tragic death of Sybil.
Mary Crawley had called it a broken heart.
"May I speak freely?"
Slumped down in his seat, Tom sighed as his gaze fell back onto the flames licking on the wood in the fireplace; once upon a time, these flames would have managed to warm the coldness clinging to his skin. These days, he felt like that very same coldness had wrapped its icy fingers around his heart. "You don't have to ask me for permission to speak, Anna. I can hardly keep you from saying what's on your mind." It wasn't a refusal, but his exhausted timbre implied enough of his disinterest in participating in whatever conversation she wanted to lead him into.
A week ago, people had talked and talked; either to him or around him and he had grown weary of hearing the same sentiment all over again. All he wanted to do, was to shut himself away somewhere safe where people couldn't reach him; where he could silently cherish the memory of this woman he had loved and who had been taken from him at the peak of her youth, the beginning of her life. And who was to blame? Perhaps this was the most tragic part, for Tom could find nothing and nobody to direct his anger at. Their daughter was young, innocent - Sybil wouldn't have wanted for him to abandon the only living memory she had left behind, and he knew he wouldn't be able to find it in himself to reject her either. No, he loved his daughter, like any good man would.
But this death had been unnecessarily brutal, and there was nothing he could have done about it. No way to protect her, to shield her. It made him angry at himself - for having fallen in love with her, for marrying Sybil, for wanting a child. Had he refused to father this child, would she still be alive? Or would have fate found another way to take Sybil from him? The questions were endless.
Hesitantly, Anna stepped closer to the seat of the widower. Tom was still young, and though without his wife anymore, he was a good man; everyone knew that he could find another lovely spouse as soon as the mourning year had passed, to offer his daughter a mother in place for the one she had been forced to give up on. But amidst all these encouraging hushes and whispers, there was something that everyone who had ever loved someone could see written rather clearly on the features of the male in question; marrying someone for the sake of being married and being attached to someone out of love, those things could never be compared.
Anna, perhaps, would be able to understand this sentiment the best. Her love for John hadn't been easy either, and they had faced numerous obstacles throughout their time together; but death was an enemy you couldn't fight. So what could you do, if you had lost the love of your life during something so painfully natural? The female would never be able to give herself a satisfying answer to that question.
"I wanted…" The woman trailed off, unsure how to proceed. It wasn't every day that such an unfortunate death and its heartbreaking consequences were bestowed upon Downton Abbey and the fact that it had to be lovely young Sybil, of all, who had passed away, only seemed to make things worse for the entire household. Not only were the Earl and his wife lost in the depths of their sadness, but also encountering problems after news had come out that their youngest daughter could have survived, had Lord Grantham listened to the doctor's suggestion of transferring his daughter to the hospital, where she could have been taken care of properly.
Anna hadn't heard every detail of It, but if Lady Sybil's painful death had been enough to reduce the ever so stoic Thomas to tears, it was not too hard to imagine the pain of Tom Branson - and to think that she could have survived, if it hadn't been for the master's stubbornness? Anna found that this what if must have been the worst kind of additional heartache bestowed upon a mourning husband. She supposed it was true what they said: the devil would always be in the detail.
"The doctor has asked to inform you of your daughter's condition. She's very small, which he considers to be a result of Lady Sybil's –," she felt terrible for having to twist the knife in this deep, bleeding wound, but the wellbeing of Lady Sybil's daughter should be their first and foremost priority now, in spite of these tragic circumstances, "- condition prior to her death, but she should be fine if she's well-fed and cared for, though he has mentioned that an eye should be kept on her at all times, just to be certain for sure. She might encounter problems with her growth at one point in the future, though."
He wasn't made to be widowed, she realized, when he looked up from the chimney to finally meet her gaze with glossy eyes. No, Tom was meant to celebrate the birth of his daughter with his wife and hope for almost a dozen of beautiful, adventurous children. Not to be left alone like this and certainly not at such an age; not when he had been so much in love with a woman he had fought so hard for; not when that woman had been willing to give up the comfort of her status to live a life with him in the heart of a country she could never consider to be her home, only because her love for him was so much stronger.
Anna felt something break in her own heart at the downtrodden sight of the other. She had to swallow down the impending sadness that was threatening to rob her of the ability to speak, if she were to look at him any longer. This, she realized, was too painful and unfair.
"Anything else you wish to say?" His voice was weak as he stared back into the flames; timbre thick with grief, as though the mere idea of speaking while his dead wife had been buried six feet underneath the earth was blasphemous. But Anna knew better than to judge someone for their loss; how had Lady Mary put it when she helped her to wash the body of Lady Sybil for the funeral, during a rather emotional conversation?
"Grief does not change. It reveals." Perhaps this was the reason why Tom hadn't found it in himself to go and see his newborn daughter just yet.
"No, Mister Branson." She shook her head; the blonde hair underneath the bonnet neatly tucked back so that no strands could possibly fall into her vision. In spite of her desire to see part of the old Tom, the one who had been stubborn about what he believed in, who was a little too loud and a little too bold for his own wellbeing, she didn't want to press him any more than she already had. Had the positions been reversed and she would be the one mourning the love of her life, Anna wouldn't know whether or not she could find the strength to push through another day the way he did. In that sense, she almost admired him for being able to keep on living for the last gift his wife had left behind; their daughter.
"It's Tom."
She paused in her movements, one hand resting on the doorknob with the intention to vanish into thin air once more so she wouldn't prove to be a bother to him, before he had chosen to speak up again. He didn't look at her, kept his empty vision attached to the golden hue of the fire in the fireplace, as though it brought back a memory he had been fond of; in another life, things may have been easier. For her, him; for them - yes, in another life, maybe.
Anna wanted to smile, at his stubbornness, the ridiculous situation, at everything, but she found she didn't have any strength in her left to do so. "You owe it to Lady Sybil not to let her daughter forget, Tom. We all do."
Motionless, he remained in his seat.
"Do we already know when the shipment will reach London? I have been told some disturbing rumours about the capture of a few selected ships," Edith mused before bringing the crystal glass filled with red wine to her lips. The business aspect of most things was, as always, especially interesting to the second oldest sprout of the family and she hoped to offer some distraction; the death of her younger sister had left her with a bitter feeling in her mouth that seemingly didn't wish to vanish anytime soon. Edith hadn't been especially close to Sybil, with Mary always being the one who offered sage advice or gentle embraces had the younger been in need of it, but that didn't mean she hadn't loved Sybil just as much.
Still, the topic wasn't ideal either, brought back memories of the demise of the Titanic back in 1912; oh, how much time had passed since then. Edith wished things could go back to that, for the past had appeared much simpler to her, less complicated and not out on ruining her family's happiness the way the present seemed to be so intent on doing. "I was thinking about travelling to America next summer, or so. It appears as though there's a -"
"Edith." Violet Crawley's voice was as sharp as ever, which stood in great contrast to the paleness of her features, before the aged beauty averted her gaze to look at the dinner in front of her once more as to not hurt her granddaughter with her words. "Please." Please, as in we do not want to hear about this. Please, as in none of us have slept properly for a week and you're thinking about holidays? Please, as in you have just lost your sister, and I have lost my granddaughter and that's all you have on your mind?
Edith swallowed down any type of protest welling up inside of her.
"If you wish to go there, I can recommend Boston. It's quite the sight, and I'd imagine it to be enough to quench anyone's curiosity on how the New World works."
Porcelain clanked and heads flew around to meet the familiar sight of Tom Branson who, nonchalantly and completely oblivious to the surprise written rather blatantly on everyone's features, made his way to one of the empty seats at the table. Under normal circumstances, it would have been considered rude of him to barge in while the main course was being served, but those weren't normal circumstances. Not anymore, at least.
Lady Grantham's features subconsciously softened as she watched her surroundings; both of her daughters showed themselves to be considerably stunned, with Edith's mouth having dropped open in silent shock and Mary seemingly having forgotten that she had been in the midst of dining. Matthew, who was seated right next to his wife, appeared to be glowing with some kind of silent pride that Cora couldn't quite place, though considered to be something akin to brotherly relief.
"Mister Branson." Lord Grantham acknowledged the other's sudden presence with a slight bow of his head; Tom only nodded in response, the ghost of a distanced smile visible on his face. "Lord Grantham. I'd like to offer my sincerest apologies for intruding."
"Nonsense," Matthew was quick to chime in, his comforting tone proving to be enough to warrant his wife's confusion as she tore her gaze away from her brother-in-law to watch her husband, instead. "We have been hoping you would join us again. It's a pleasure to see you feel - ," he could feel Mary's hand reaching for his underneath the table, " - well enough to dine with the rest of the family." A quick smile was all the heir presumptive showed himself willing to reveal, before Mary pulled her hand away from his gentle grasp.
"Mister Carson? Would you be as kind as to lay a place for Mister Branson?" Lady Grantham's voice was soft when she chose to speak up; perhaps she couldn't quite understand the extensive consequences of her daughter's loss just yet, but she was willing to make amends. Tom, who would have never been Lady Cora's first choice for her precious gem of a daughter, was her son-in-law and the father of her oldest grandchild; as such, he deserved to be treated like part of the family. In spite of their history, it was time to start anew and while it would take some time for these wounds to heal, she knew that essentially, everything was possible if one only tried hard enough.
It was what Sybil would have wanted.
"Of course, Your Ladyship."
Seconds slowly slipped by and turned into minutes of thick silence, before the conversation was picked up again, with a few rumours here and there being exchanged or a story being told every once in a while. The political or economic situation within their respective countries only ceased to matter at the table tonight; too freshly engraved was the loss of the family's youngest daughter in everyone's mind. Even Mary, who had been known for her heartless ways back in her youth, clandestinely wiped the tears from her eyes when she hoped that nobody was looking.
She was the first to excuse herself from the table after dessert had been served, with Matthew following only moments after.
The first thing he noticed, was how large the nursery appeared to be. Tom's own childhood had been spent in a small house with a kitchen, a storage place and two bedrooms; one for his siblings and he and one for his parents. Things used to be cramped back then, oftentimes leaving his older brother Kieran with complaints about having to share a room with his younger sister of five years and one younger brother who always happened to have his nose in books.
Thinking frees you, was what he said when Kieran would once more chuck a pamphlet or book away, but it was never quite enough to keep him away from ink and printed pages; and in spite of all this, he was aware of his duties and what it meant to be the second-born son to a family who had next to nothing but did its best to keep their children healthy and happy. With that in mind, Tom made a point out of enjoying what little they had which served as the basis for his good relationship with his siblings; they were different from him, in a sense that he couldn't quite realize on his own, though was evident for all to see. Perhaps this had been the reason why his stubbornness and patience had been enough to charm a lady like Sybil into his arms.
"If I had been given this room as a child, I would have felt lonelier than I did on a cramped mattress with two siblings."
Mary raised her head in astonishment as the familiar voice reached her ears. Matthew, on the other hand, could only chuckle; it didn't surprise him that such words would come from the other male. He hadn't been raised this way, so it was only understandable that some things would be hard for him to understand. Matthew could understand that too; hadn't it been the same for him when he was thrown into the position previously occupied by Mary's cousin Patrick? Only this time around, there was a little baby involved in a drama she couldn't even properly understand.
"Does she need all of this space? Her cot could be placed in my room."
Mary looked down at the sleeping girl in her arms. "You'd be foolish to think that my father would allow that."
"What she means to say, is that Cousin Robert simply follows etiquette: as the oldest and only granddaughter, she will be given the education that her grandparents see fit for a lady of her status." Matthew looked at his wife and she silently returned his look. Be more tactful, he seemingly implored. But Tom only wanted to furrow his brows and say something about how this was his daughter, and not a nameless girl who would grow up to fill the space her mother had left behind. How she was both blood and flesh, a human being who would grow up to form her opinions and fight her own battles, the way her mother had. How this little baby was no replacement for the daughter that Lord Grantham had lost.
But he couldn't quite voice these thoughts, without choking on them.
Once more, the mood was laced with heaviness. Something in Mary's heart ached at the sight of the widower and without thinking any more about it, she stepped closer. "Do you want to hold her?"
Seemingly taken aback by her inquiry, it took the widower a few moments before he silently nodded his head. Matthew remained quiet, only his distanced gaze revealing how much concern he felt for his friend. How good that nobody was looking at him but paying attention to the sleeping girl who was now resting in Tom's arms. It wasn't the first time he held her and God knew it wasn't going to be the last, but there was an odd feeling of humble felicity that settled in the pit of his stomach.
"She sleeps without any complications and she eats very well. The midwife said she seemingly hasn't experienced any shock that could draw consequences. You're lucky, Branson. The girl's healthy, and she's all yours."
Mary was right, he realized that in the moments the words were tumbling out of her mouth. Maybe Tom didn't belong to them, but his daughter did – she belonged here, like her mother, and Tom would make sure they'd never forget. He would make sure that his daughter could grow up to learn what family meant within the walls of Downton Abbey; and how much Sybil would always mean to him.
A/N: Thank you, John Green and Neil Gaiman, for letting me borrow some lovely quotes. All credit goes to them. I own nothing, except for my own writing.
Happy new year, pals.