Story takes place months after "On the Morning of My Wedding Day: Reflections".

Chapter 1: Sybil

Dusk was settling on the leafy neighborhood, where little boys and girls had been happily enjoying hot, sticky temperatures. It was a moist evening, one in which just standing still and breathing made one break out in droplets. The air hung oppressively, enveloping Sybil like a shroud, a cocoon of unhappiness that hung over since that morning and she was desperate to shrug it off.

Soon the footsteps and garrulous banter of Tans would replace the children's jovial voices and the calls of their mothers. The minutes continued to tick on. Waning light above the trees was casting a filigree of shadows on the pavement. If she stood at the window long enough, a bright cold silver moon would then emerge in the sky, against the backdrop of a sable night. How many nights has she stood at this window, waiting for her husband to come home? Tonight, especially, she urgently wished he would come home soon. Should she stay up and wait for him? Should she wait for his key to turn in the lock—and then? Would she greet him, or sneak up into bed, pretend to be asleep? Would he want to see her after all that had been said?

But Sybil couldn't hover at the window any longer and replaced the curtain. Where is he? she kept thinking. I want to tell him how much I love him, I'm sorry.

x-x

They had parted that morning angry, the last sounds that echoed through their house were hissed, vituperative words and the slam of a door. Sybil was left standing in the kitchen, grown cavernous and hollow as Tom had shouted, "Maybe we shouldn't have gotten married!"

Of course, now having spent the entire day left with nothing to think about except that stinging row and with no one to keep her company except a kicking baby in her belly, Sybil let loose all her pent up emotions and wept long heart-wrenching tears. In those sobs she released feelings of loneliness, anxiety for Tom's safety, regret for the argument, and longing for her family. She thought of lines from her mother's letter she's taken to reading over and over: We miss you terribly…. Papa and I were thrilled to hear your news! We would love for you and Tom to come home—for as long a visit as you both can make….Your Papa sends his love.

You silly girl, she chastised herself, wiping away her tears, how did your life become a war zone? Had she gotten caught up in the romance of living happily ever after with Tom? After what he said this morning, perhaps he was no longer able to keep his promise of devoting every minute to her happiness. Mama always told her that things would be better in the morning. How wrong, Sybil thought. It is not always clearer in the morning.

Sybil shook her head and drew in a breath. She knew better. She did not want to let those thoughts out of Pandora's box—she wanted to keep them locked away. To entertain them would be to let doubt's cold fingers creep and encircle her heart and her mind, squeezing out happiness and love, consuming any flicker of feeling for Tom.

Deep in the recesses of her heart she knew his job was putting incredible pressure on him—despite the harsh words exchanged that morning. He worked hard, took his work very seriously, and took pride in what it bought for them. After their wedding she was excited to move out of Mrs. Branson's home and into the red brick 2-story house Tom and his brother Tristan found. And it was all theirs—bought with Tom's savings, earnings, and the dowry granted by Papa. She hardly realized she had any sense of the aesthetic but somehow, it was brought out of her and she delighted in decorating and furnishing her own home, pleased that Tom gave her free rein in choosing fabrics and wall colors. She relished in her creativity in bringing out each room's character and personality. The overall effect was tasteful, but not garish or gauche, practical and comfortable. It was very much a home, a space that she was happy to share with Tom.

She placed her fingers on her lips as she smiled at the memory of the first few days in this house. Tom wanted to "christen" every room, and she found herself eager to comply. The hardwood floors and chafing rugs did nothing to dampen her desire for him, and the more she knew about her husband—really knew—she couldn't get enough. A whole world of knowledge had been unlocked since her wedding night and since then she ardently matched Tom's passion. He knew just how to set her pulse racing and hot blood coursing in her veins. She tingled whenever he murmured her name or an endearment sotto voce, shiver in response to his roaming fingers that lightly brushed her all over. In those moments nothing else mattered except being with the one man she could not live without.

She remembered the night they were in this room, when he looked right into her eyes and said, "I can't believe you're with me," she let herself surround him, intertwining her fingers with his so she couldn't tell anymore which were hers. He pulled her into his embrace, and they collided urgently, her waves of thick hair tumbling on her shoulders, covering them both. She felt him bringing her to a crescendo, all consuming, like the crash of an ocean wave. And afterwards, lying with him within and under blankets, in a tangle of limbs, she couldn't imagine ever being separated from him. She pressed so close to him, feeling his chest rise and fall and his heart beating beneath her palm. Looking at his fine profile, she watched his nose flare gently as he breathed. She'd felt such warmth—both inside and out—and she closed her eyes, the last thought before drifting to sleep…wondering whose body was warming whose.

A nudge from her baby shook her from her reverie, quickening her heart. She instinctively placed her hands on her growing midsection. A leanbh, you probably came about in this very room, she thought. As Sybil turned from the window her eyes fell upon the first framed picture she and Tom bought for this sitting room.

They were at an art dealer's shop and Sybil had marveled at a picture of a park scene, featuring a serene lake and two trees whose leaves were shades of crimson, gold and amber. In the far corner of the picture, a solitary couple sat on a park bench, hand-in-hand, facing the lake. The man's head was slightly tilted up to gaze upon the blue sky. "Look, darling," Sybil had said. "That's us. And the whole of the natural world before us." Tom chuckled, considering the picture, "I rather agree," and he squeezed her hand before looking for the dealer.

Now she looked at that picture, hanging above the mantle in the sitting room—thinking how long ago it seemed that she saw herself and him as that couple at the cusp of realizing such promise, beholding a world of possibility. She sighed and walked to the kitchen to wrap Tom's dinner. He'd be late coming home again. "Or maybe not at all," she remarked to the empty air. Her movements slow, hampered by her distended belly, she covered the breadbasket, and wrapped the plate of chicken and potatoes with a kitchen cloth and put it inside the oven. On the stovetop, she put pot lids over the vegetables and the gravy. She smiled at her gravy—she may still be somewhat hopeless at making roasts—but she took great pride in her gravy, for finally, she could get it right. She started to wash her own dinner dishes when the ring of the telephone pierced the silence of the house.

Heavily and a little clumsily, she made her way over to the telephone in the hall. Sybil swallowed, hoping it was Tom. She picked up the handset. "Hello?"

An Irish lilt came clearly over the line but it wasn't the voice she hoped for. "Sybil, how are you dear? How are you doing in this heat?"

"Oh, hello, Ma. I'm fine, just feeling tired and a little unenergetic."

"Baby okay? Have you eaten?"

"Yes, baby's fine. I just finished dinner, but Tom's not home yet."

Mrs. Branson sighed. "I worry for him. It's so dangerous everywhere."

"I know. But he's got a deadline so I think he'll be coming home late again." Sybil's mind flew back to the morning's argument and she blinked rapidly to keep tears from falling and so her mother-in-law wouldn't hear her voice quivering.

"Bloody Tans everywhere. Just yesterday Tristan had a run in with a pair of them—piss drunk and spoiling for an argument."

Sybil's heart lurched and the memory of Tom's face, twisted in anger and pain as he told her of his cousin's death at the hands of an English soldier flashed before her. "Oh please tell me that Tristan's all right."

"Thank God that he's not that sort to get all fired up. He talked his way out of it, not to worry. Ah, but I shouldn't have told you, dear. I don't want to trouble either of you."

Sybil let out a breath of relief. She couldn't bear Tom's reaction if anything had happened to his brother. "I won't say anything to Tom—one less thing he needs to worry about. And I agree, Tristan's the exact opposite of Tom, but it's always a miracle to escape those Tans unscathed."

"I can't think why you two wouldn't consider going back to Downton, you know—just for your safety, until the babe comes."

If only Mrs. Branson was privy to the source of contention from just this morning. "Well, Tom's busy. I don't want to take him away from his work." She could almost picture Mrs. Branson's brow furrowing.

"Are you sure? I can talk to him. I've knocked sense into him before."

"It's all right, really, Ma. I appreciate it."

"Ah well. So do you want me to come over tomorrow? You need help with anything?" Of late Mrs. Branson had devoted her free time to helping Sybil and Tom with whatever cleaning and cooking they needed. Sybil had warmed to her, especially since she missed her own mother's hands-on care.

But she thought that she didn't really want her mother-in-law's boisterous company right now. "How about I call you if I do need you to come? I promise."

That seemed to pacify Mrs. Branson. "Well, all right. Drink plenty of cool water. And mind you don't need to get the oven going with any cake baking right now. Don't wear yourself out or get overheated."

Sybil couldn't help but smile. "You always are full of good advice, Ma. Thanks."

x-x

Sybil did have company for a brief time earlier that day. She was clearing all traces of the spoiled breakfast when she heard a knock on the back door. Pretty Mabel Gallagher stood at the threshold, head tilted, and lifting her hand in greeting. Mabel, originally from Canada, was a widow who'd lost her husband Michael a few months ago. Michael was a docker and union leader who was one of the key players in halting a movement of British supplies. There was talk of Michael's death as being an assassination, a reprisal for challenging the authority of the British navy, many of whose vessels were still standing out to sea.

Mabel was still deciding whether to return to Ottawa, but in the meantime, Sybil was grateful for her friendship. When she and Tom first moved into their house, and Sybil discovered that Mabel was a fellow expatriate, she rejoiced to have found a kindred spirit right next door. Slender and honey haired, with a porcelain face that almost glowed when she smiled, Mabel had an openness and warmth about her. Whenever she smiled, her expression diffused from her eyes, and it was a heavenly complement to her mellifluous laughter. She didn't smile as often these days, but Sybil admired her all the more for being one of the bravest people she knew.

"Hello. I'm on my way to the post office," she said brightly. "Do you want me to mail any letters for you?"

Sybil thought of the letter she had written to her mother the night before, a letter written during a long night of waiting again for Tom, one that, if her mother read between the lines, would say volumes about how lonely and tired she was, about how sometimes she thought about being a little girl again, how nice it would be for her mother to put her arms around her, about how she wished for one night to pass without the sounds of gunfire.

"Sybil?" Mabel was looking intently at her and reached out for her arm. "What's eating you?"

"Nothing," Sybil smiled. She made room for Mabel to step inside the kitchen. "And no, I don't have any letters for posting. Thanks for the offer."

Mabel sat on a kitchen chair and noticed the bits of broken ceramic on the dustpan. Her blue eyes searched Sybil's face. "I heard shouting this morning." Sybil blanched, and Mabel quickly reassured her, "Of course I don't mean to pry, you don't have to tell me anything, but I was out front and called out to Tom but he ignored me."

Mabel wore her heart on her sleeve, she had an infectious sweetness and unwavering loyalty—qualities that reminded Sybil of the best parts of Mary, Gwen and Anna. But the difference was that Mabel wasn't her moody sister. Or her maid, someone who was deferential to her, was trained to say the right things. Mabel called things how she saw them. Sybil decided to unburden herself. "We had a row. It was massive—we were both so spitting angry. We've had animated discussions before, you know, over politics, over when to quit the hospital, over his hours at the paper, even what to name the baby."

Mabel nodded. "I think discussion is a sign of a healthy relationship. It only shows that you both care enough about what the other thinks."

"But this was different. It's not just that we were being expressive or opinionated. We were vile, really unkind to each other." She hesitated, wanting to ask a question of Mabel that might mean bringing back painful memories. Only Sybil knew that while she put on a brave face to the world at large, Mabel was vulnerably lonely, especially whenever she talked about her late husband. But she was desperate for advice and she had no one else to talk to about this, so she went ahead and asked, "Did you and Michael ever quarrel?"

Mabel turned her eyes from Sybil's face and looked away, but she seemed to be looking inward, searching her memory. "Do you mean did I ever find Michael a pain in the ass? Of course I did. He was stubborn and pigheaded sometimes. But see, those qualities were also why I fell in love with him. He didn't give up on me, even when I wasn't sure about anything. He dug in his heels and said he wasn't leaving Ottawa without me."

Sybil twisted her ring, wanting to relieve some of the pressure it was causing on her swollen finger, but it was snug. "What finally convinced you to leave and come here?"

Mabel smiled softly, remembering. "He said that he couldn't help how he felt about me. He said he was born with a name that meant 'love of foreigners,' and if I took his name, and took a chance to leave my country behind, he would do everything to make me happy." Sybil tried to bite back tears—Tom had made her that same promise. She could never forget how he had earnestly held his hat in his hands, anticipating, hoping for a return promise from her, and she had dismissed his declaration.

Mabel looked back at Sybil, "Listen, you want to know what I think? Fight. It's better than not talking to each other or giving each other the silent treatment. But fight fair, and respect each other. I'm embarrassed to admit that I was a downright harpy when I got mad at Mike. But he never laid a hand on me, or cussed at me or called me names, even when I deserved it." Sybil nodded, and Mabel continued, "No matter what happened this morning, you still have Tom. And if anyone understands how hard it is to be here, so far from home, you know I do. It was a sacrifice, but I did it because I believed Mike was worth it. And if I can survive leaving Canada—which is a continent away—you can survive this."

x-x

A fragment of a memory flashes: a harsh glare of eastern light penetrating the kitchen windows, broken ceramic on the floor, a tipped teacup with spilled tea dripping from the table, amber liquid pooling, cooling on the polished linoleum. She unflinchingly locks gazes with Tom's icy eyes, which lower from hers. She remembers heaving, raging, feeling confrontational. A sibilant syllable started spewing from her mouth, and it turned into a phrase that she never thought she'd utter to him. "Sod off, Tom."