The Dowager Countess watched Branson sharply but the man yielded no other expression than detached fatigue, and his gaze traded focus between empty air and Cora, who struggled through her words.
"So you see," said Cora, her eyes shining with fresh sorrow but also a deep, abiding relief, "She was going to die, Tom; I know it's such little consolation, but do know that no one was to blame for this, and there were no measures not taken that would have made a difference."
Tom returned his eyes to her and did not react. After a moment he said, "So I'm to understand that Dr Clarkson made the right diagnosis and Dr Tapsell made the wrong one but it didn't matter either way?"
It was flatly said and Violet stiffened, but her composure otherwise did not change. Dr Clarkson was standing beside her chair, hands folded solemnly behind his back. Several faces looked to him for assurance on this point, and Violet was relieved to see the stiff joints in Dr Clarkson's pride allowed his chin to decline in affirmation. Branson barely acknowledged him.
A long stretch of silence fell upon the room like a dreary fog. Branson did not appear inclined to say anything but Cora, as well as Mary, Matthew, Edith, and more surreptitiously, Robert, were waiting on him to respond and so he gave the most minute of nods.
Violet breathed with relief and relinquished the stranglehold grip on her cane.
Branson watched them leave the library, one by one. Cora had her hand on Robert's arm. When Edith asked if Violet were coming with them, Violet deferred a moment and said she'd join them presently, after she spoke a moment longer with Dr Clarkson, something about hospital board business, and presently only she remained with the doctor and the former chauffeur.
He remained still, looking terribly sad, eyes fixed on the door through which everyone had vacated.
Dr Clarkson cleared his throat, sent Violet a despairing look she quite ignored, and said in an encouraging manner, "Tom, I hope this gives you some peace of—"
He broke off as Branson's stare snapped back to him and Violet saw a dull, cold fury there.
"Save your breath," he said.
He broke his rigid stance and turned on his heel. "If any of that were true, you would have said so already to give us peace of mind." He fairly spat the words. "You tell me it wouldn't have mattered, but at the time, when it happened, it seemed to matter very much."
Dr Clarkson was a decent enough liar when unchallenged but now his personal indignation at the lie and continuing sorrow stilled any protests he didn't really have the heart to make.
Violet had the heart to make them, and she stood. "Dr Clarkson said what needed to be heard." Her cane tapped for slight emphasis.
Branson's expression was derisive, then subsided into misery. Then he said to them, "Why didn't you come to me sooner?"
His voice cracked. "Why did you wait so long to ask me? By the time you gave me the choice, the chance was gone. I would have listened, I would have had her taken to the hospital, she would have…"
And Branson passed his hand over his eyes, and his shoulders shook in a sob.
Dr Clarkson looked on with helpless pity, and Violet recalled the night, the anxious uncertainty, far too vividly.
They hadn't asked him sooner because even then, in their minds, he had still been less Sybil's husband than the former chauffeur. Would that they had remembered. The doctors had made their arguments and the family their debates and yet no one had thought of Branson. All he'd been allowed was a tiebreaking vote in a decision made hollow for being too late.
The doctor opened his mouth to speak but Branson shook his head. "Lie to them, I don't care. It's nothing to me."
Violet heard the contempt and bristled. "In the wake of tragedy," she said, steadying her cane, "they need to find comfort in one another. They need each other. By knowing what Dr Clarkson has rightly told them, they can begin to heal."
She did not specify the pair of whom she spoke; she did not need to. Branson wasn't blind, he'd seen the dissension beginning between Robert and Cora and simply hadn't cared. It was not so much a vindictive disregard as a general apathy, Violet knew, but she would have him understand.
The chauffeur snorted. "You mended the tear between them because you knew he wouldn't. Fine. It was cruel to lie to Lady Grantham but it would be crueler for me to contradict it now."
Violet held up her head. "I am protecting my son."
"You're his mother, that's your concern. But don't pretend you're protecting me."
Never had Violet been spoken to in this fashion and for a moment they stared at each other with bald animosity, the extremely uncomfortable doctor all but forgotten. Had Branson's contentiousness really been present all along, lying beneath an affable demeanor as he'd driven the family and worked for them? Violet was again struck with the reminder that she hardly knew this man her granddaughter married.
Don't pretend you're protecting me. There rested the chief impasse between their worlds: Robert's, and Downton Abbey's, which lay suspended in a perpetual fancy and which they had always defended against grim reality until the war; and Branson's, the world outside, which had never been able to afford such protection and therefore despised it.
Violet thought she understood.
"Tom," she began softly, "your wife died in the most tragic of circumstances. Sybil was radiant and young and you loved her so very much. Her death might have been prevented, and yet she died, and it is all the more painful for that." She paused. "You will endure it because you have to."
It was this honesty, and not the fabrication, that he could bear, and the others couldn't. Branson nodded and turned away, tears tracking down his face and he made no effort to stop them.
Dr Clarkson stood with his head bowed.
A full minute passed during which Branson was unable to speak. At length he lifted his head and studied the pieces around the library. Did they seem the same to him as they had before? Or did even the books, the chairs, have a different, graver spirit to them now that Sybil had died?
Men like him were not used to the idea that Downton Abbey eclipsed the lifetimes of its inhabitants, and they were certainly not reassured by it.
Violet waited, and battled her grief.
"You should not have lied to them," said Tom, clearing his throat. "It was manipulative. That man will continue his practice with a spotless record, do you realize that? Lords like Robert will keep on putting their faith in him."
"Dr Tapsell has delivered many children—"
"He did not deliver my wife."
Violet raised her chin. "As you said, it would be too damaging to rescind the doctor's opinion now."
Again she paid no mind to the disgruntled movement from Richard Clarkson. Tom glared and the Dowager matched it, blue against blue.
"Robert's your son," said Branson bitterly, "so I suppose you think he's worth it."
Then the man sagged and the energy left him again. It was only in reserve, she knew, to reappear when conflict over the christening next arose.
He'd pick his fights, and Violet would pick hers.
.
.
end. Wasn't best pleased with Fellowes's 'resolution' for that dispute.