Notes: I've been writing this story for weeks now, but it turned out a lot harderto write than I originally thought. It was meant to be a one shot, but then it turned into this multi-chapter story. I will post weekly, and am almost finished writing it, so no worries.
I want to thank my pre-readers on Tumblr, because they really encouraged me to even continue writing this. The title is taken from the poem Eloisa to Abelard by Alexander Pope, and the song lyrics are taken from the song This Woman's Work by Greg Laswell.
The story begins with an AU of episode 2x05.
one.
I should be crying but I just can't let it show
A sharp knock on his door ripping him out of a restless sleep.
His bare feet shuffling across the cold floor.
Eyes burning and prickling as the light is switched on.
Mr Carson pulling merely the coat of his uniform from the hanger by the door, pushing it into his arms.
He fell. Captain Crawley. He fell.
Wide awake as he rushes the car down the gravel path.
Doctor Clarkson's shocked expression as he lets him in the back of the car.
Shivering in the cold night air, the thin cotton of his pyjamas helpless against it.
He falls back into his bed in the early hours of dawn, shock and disbelief and a confusing sense of grief fallen upon him, as sleep does not come.
.
.
The funeral feels less like a last farewell to a lost cousin, than to an entire family, an heir, a future.
When his eyes fall upon Lady Mary, standing dutifully and upright next to Richard Carlisle, but clutching her youngest sister's arm, Tom remembers that he never really disliked her. He clearly remembers the terrified look in her cool eyes that night, so many years ago, when Sybil's blood had still stained his uniform.
She is crumbling right now, barely holding on.
Looking away, feeling as if she should at least be allowed to break apart in privacy, his eyes fall upon Sybil. A strong hold on her sister, her own face is sickened with grief and uncertainty. For a splint second, he believes to see fear flash across her eyes, before her handkerchief steals away his chance to properly see.
.
.
Edmund Crawley is married, has two young sons, and is a solicitor like Matthew has been. The day he first visits Downton upon knowing his future as heir to the estate and fortune, the mood within the old and battered walls is thick with unease.
Tom had not been working here after the death of the previous heir, but Anna tells him of those awkward first weeks, always treading on eggshells as Matthew Crawley had taken over the dead cousin's role in the family.
He sits down in the servant's hall by himself, waiting for everyone else to come downstairs from welcoming the next man in a seemingly cursed chain. Mrs Patmore is mumbling to herself in the kitchen, and from across his newspaper, he can see Daisy peeking up the stairs.
"It's not worth looking," he calls out to her, and she fringes a little upon the sound of his voice. Poor girl, he thinks, shaking his head to himself.
"What's he like?"
"Didn't say one proper word on the way up here. Was complaining about the train to his wife."
The familiar creaking of the weathered staircase and hushed voices soon announce the arrival of several pairs of busy feet, all shuffling into the servant's hall, straying all about the place. Voices mix to such a degree, that barely a single one is understandable. But as he listens carefully, he can hear O'Brien's harsh (but truthful) words about the man that has such big shoes to fill – looked like a fly, was walking around as if he already owns the place, talked as if he had every right to be here, did you see the old lady's face? Lady Mary looked as if she wanted to tear them all apart right there.
"Why ever is he not fighting?" Daisy asks quietly, promptly getting an answer.
"Invalided out two years ago."
"What do you think, Mr Branson?" someone asks, and Tom puts down the paper, shrugging.
"Only thing he said was complaining about the train. To his wife."
"There you have it," Miss O'Brien states with venom in her voice, making her way towards the courtyard with quick steps.
Staring blankly at the newspaper on the table, Tom knows he would never admit to anyone, especially not O'Brien, that he pities the man who has cast him a glare of disapproval this afternoon at the train station. Not a single soul in this house welcomes him here, everyone dizzy with grief, fear or anger, and yet he has to fill the shoes of someone he has never met.
There is no way for him to make things right, to take a right step on a path that was never meant to be his.
.
.
"He is a bit... impolite. But I suppose... it must have been a big change for him. I remember when Matthew first..." Sybil's voice drifts off into silence, and when Tom looks at her, she is fidgeting with the hem of her apron.
"But he learned it all, didn't he?"
She looks up, irritated and nervous, as she seems to be all the time now. Whenever he sees her these days, her hands are restless, her eyebrows pulled together, shadows forming underneath her eyes, and she seems constantly on watch, carefully planning each and every step as if a greater power is watching.
"He did," she agrees quietly, "But he was Matthew. It was not hard at all to like him."
.
.
Life goes on. One way or the other. Sun rises and sets, clouds wander across the sky and eventually, everyone has to come to terms with the new family members, with the stranger who claims ownership of things each and every one of the servants – from Mr Carson to Daisy – has more knowledge and a better understanding of.
.
.
Tom has forgotten the man's name the moment Sybil first utters it, banned it into the dark corner of his memory where he keeps knowledge he does not dare to allow to take shape.
It has been going on for weeks now, and with the end of the war drawing nearer, whispers among the house have gotten louder. Whispers that Lady Sybil has a suitor among the patients.
Once, he asks her about it, after hearing O'Brien hissing something about unprofessional behaviour during one of the rare dinners he spends in the servant's hall. The blush on Sybil's cheeks is more of an answer than the few words she finds to describe the situation.
That afternoon, he questions her no further, feeling her slip away, like a seam ripping achingly slow, thread by thread, one painful pull after the other, and he starts piling his books neatly on the small table in his cottage. Ready for any choice that might be made.
.
.
He knows she is avoiding him. Avoiding everything. Mr Carson's words from that fateful night echo in Tom's memory. Fallen. Fallen.
It seems morbidly true, that now everything seems to fall apart and crumble into dust underneath everyone's touch, beneath everyone's feet. Solid stone turning into shifting sands.
Hope is fading with each tick of the clock, and after years of waiting, he fears there is not enough time left.
.
.
The rush of leafs from outside as she opens the door mingle with the clicking of her heels. When he looks up, orange autumn dusk illuminates the garage, and he knows what has happened before she says it out loud, with an unsure and trembling voice.
The air is chilly, and Sybil wraps her gloved arms around herself, eyeing the floor shyly.
"He proposed."
He drops the greasy cloth onto the hood of the Renault, taking a few deliberate steps forward, but keeping much more of a distance between them than usual. No more approaching. No more crumbling of the divide that keeps them apart. He is crouched behind it now, like a brick wall that stares him blankly in the face.
"And why are you telling me that?"
She looks up, aware of the anger and despair in his eyes no matter how hard he tries to conceal them. Dignity, that is what comes into his mind first, before everything else. Years he has waited, and if she refuses him now, all he has left is to accept it with dignity.
"Because I think you deserve to know."
"Have you given him an answer, then?"
Looking down again, Sybil slurs her feet across the dusty ground, drawing a small circle.
"He only asked me today. I told him I'd think about it."
"Well, what do you think?"
The next time she looks up, her eyes are filled with unshed tears, tears he knows she will not let run down her pale cheeks. Not in front of him, anyway. Or anyone else for that matter. No matter how much she has grown over the years, no matter how far away from him this proposal has pulled her, it is still Sybil, Sybil's crystal-clear eyes that he looks at. Strong. Fiery. Proud.
She rushes out of the garage and into the early autumn glow without one more word spoken, leaving him behind once more in silence and uncertainty, only in the company of the sharp ache thrumming against his heart like the melody of a hopeless song.