No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is made from this work of fiction.
Also, the writer would like to note her strong dislike of tobacco in general, but very little was really known about it in the 1910s, and it was a way for women of the time to show their disregard for previous societal strictures.
I.
Dr. Clarkson would be furious, but Thomas didn't care. After carrying more stretchers than he had imagined could exist in all Yorkshire, his back was screaming. He needed a rest, even if only for a moment.
He leaned against the outside wall of the hospital and took a slow drag from his cigarette, then looked out into the mist. Home. In France, he'd thought he'd never see it again. After surviving that hellhole, even if the price had been a good bit of his left hand, he now beheld anything familiar with a tinge of affection. Even Lady Sybil Crawley.
II.
Thomas had heard from O'Brien's letters that Lady Sybil had gone off to train to be a nurse, but other than raising eyebrow, he hadn't given it much thought. Of any of the three sisters, she would undoubtedly be the one most likely to do her bit for the war in ways more substantial than fundraising concerts or rolling bandages, but still, there were limits even to his rather substantial imagination.
When he'd transferred to the cottage hospital, now packed to the gills with the maimed and dying, he hadn't expected her there. He certainly hadn't expected her to last.
III.
Thomas had never spent much time with the youngest Crawley sister aside from occasionally waiting at table. Still, he knew she lacked the shrewish temperament of Lady Edith or the utter self-involvement of Lady Mary. Maids gossiped, and he listened to everything anyone said out of habit, remembering that a single stray word could someday be to his advantage. Lady Sybil, in his opinion, was probably kind-hearted and more than a little naïve. He could find a way to use that. Even she must have secrets. Now, he had the opportunity to observe her closely, and that could prove profitable.
IV.
Lady Sybil at least knew what she was about in the hospital. He'd spent enough time in them now, both as a patient and as a worker, to be able to spot a mildly interested gentlelady who was likely to swoon away at the first sign of blood. A few other daughters of the elite had tried their hand at being the newest version of Florence Nightingale, and they had all abandoned their posts within a week. Even he admitted the wards could be nightmarish, and he couldn't blame them for wanting to escape. Lady Sybil proved to be the exception.
V.
It took a lot to impress him, but Lady Sybil managed it on a bad day in his second week. Wounded had poured in, cases so horrific even he'd felt ill more than once. But she'd unflinchingly carried out the doctors' orders.
At one point as she was carrying a tottering pile of bedpans, a soldier had convulsed, accidentally knocking her down, and she'd spilled the mess all over. She'd grimaced, but checked on the man and apologized, blaming own clumsiness. She'd cleaned it up herself rather than having the overworked staff do it, then continued with her work.
VI.
He wasn't sure at first if she remembered him. He'd worked at the Abbey for many years, but it wasn't unusual for the family not to recognize a name or a face who'd been there far longer than Thomas had. Sometimes he wondered if they'd notice if half the house went missing. They took it all for granted. Still, he knew he was handsomer than average, and that had been to his benefit more than once, and in the case of the Duke of Crowborough, he'd nearly made it into a small fortune. Damn the man for burning those letters.
VII.
There was little time for idle chitchat on the wards, and when a spare moment did appear, Lady Sybil usually spent it with the other nurses. They were working class girls, born worlds away from her sphere of experience, but they took to her. It wasn't sycophantic folderol either. He could tell they actually liked her from how they spoke to her. It helped that she was also a very good nurse.
Still, he had no idea if she knew who he was until the evening a voice at his elbow whispered, "Sergeant Barrow, do you have a spare cigarette?"
VIII.
He'd been more than a little startled. He'd taken his usual evening break outside and was smoking, thinking, and breathing air untainted by the scent of death for a few minutes and had let his guard down enough that he hadn't even heard her approach.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bother you," she said quickly and turned to go.
"No, that's quite alright," he said quickly, patting his pockets. "I do have one here, Lady Sybil."
"It's just Nurse Crawley here," she said, smiling as she took the cigarette and lit it from a match in her apron pocket.
IX.
"Thank you," she said, taking a practiced draw from it that showed she wasn't new to smoking. She looked left and right, then added, "I'd appreciate it if you kept my tobacco habit quiet. Papa would go into fits. I wouldn't have asked, but it's been a very long day."
"Two shifts, wasn't it? Back to back?" he asked.
She nodded and slumped against the wall, looking remarkably human. She remained silent, a trait he appreciated, smoking the cigarette nearly to its tip, then stubbing it out on the ground.
"Thank you again, Corporal," she said, disappearing inside once again.
X.
Thomas had avoided promising to keep her secret, as O'Brien would undoubtedly have noted. Nurse Crawley, as she preferred to be called, did not repeat the request again, but only because she appeared to have her own stash of cigarettes, several of which he'd caught her smoking on his own breaks. She'd given him a rather conspiratorially grin and put her finger to her lips a few times, and he'd smiled back pleasantly enough, but aside from the fact that the daughter of the earl was smoking, he'd picked up only one other clue that he could use against her.