AN: It's a little unclear from the promos/press when exactly the CS is set, so I'm assuming that it's September 1921, not 1920. And if it's not, well... it's my fic and I'll mess with the timeline if I want to. :)

September 1921

Even on good days, It's always there.

Sometimes Tom thinks he should at least try to get over Sybil. He's never been one to wallow, and it's not as if it does any good. She's gone and she's not coming back, so maybe he'd be happier if he put away her photograph. Stopped reminding himself of the exact way her eyebrow would quirk when she said something she knew was a bit wicked. But God knows how many of his memories of her have already slipped away; the thought of losing more is unbearable. That's why he gave his daughter the name he did.

The pain doesn't lessen: he just pushes it to the background like a chronic injury. Sometimes he almost forgets about it for hours at a time. If he's very busy, it'll remain a dull ache for days. In a way that makes it worse when it inevitably overwhelms him again, but he'll still choose activity over having unlimited time to think.

That's one of the reasons he stays when the family goes off to Scotland: being trapped idle in a castle for weeks sounds like a special kind of hell. That, and there's too much work to do here. A few days after they've left, though, he almost wishes he'd gone with them, the place seems so empty. Most of the servants are still here, of course, and it's not quiet by any means: Mrs. Hughes likes to get the heavy cleaning done when the family is not in residence. But he's never realized how much life their presence breathes into the house.

He manages to keep busy, though, between managing the estate and spending time with Sybbie. He prides himself on not being one of those distant fathers, coming up to the nursery at teatime to pat his daughter on the head. Sybbie might not have her mother, but to make up for it she will have as much of her father as he can give her.

They've been out on a walk over the grounds, which consists mainly of Sybbie falling about in the grass and then raising her arms in mute insistence that Dada pick her up so she can see such-and-such tree/flower/bird better. Once they're back on the familiar ground of the gravel drive, Sybbie squirms to be let down, and as soon as Tom opens the front door she toddles off toward the library, no doubt in search of her grandfather.

Tom follows at a more leisurely pace, entering the library to find Sybbie pestering one of the new housemaids. "I'm sorry," he says, "I'll get her out of your way."

"Oh, it's no trouble, sir," the maid replies. She's kneeling in front of Sybbie and she looks at her and pulls a face, making the child giggle. "She's precious."

"You've made a new conquest, then, eh?" Tom asks his daughter, but he scoops her up. The maid doubtless needs to get on with her work if she doesn't want the sharp side of Mrs. Hughes' tongue.

She stands up, brushing off her skirts. "You must be Mr. Branson," she says. "I'm Edna, the new housemaid." She bobs her knee and bends her head in a curtsey.

"Glad to meet you. And don't do that, please. I work here just like you do." He puts out his hand to shake hers and she accepts it, looking mildly surprised. "Well. We'll let you get on with it." He turns to leave.

"Mr. Branson," he hears when he's halfway to the door, and as soon as he turns he can see by her face that she's going to say something awkward. "They told me about... your wife. I'm terribly sorry." She swallows. "I know it's been a while, but I know how it is. My own mum passed on a couple of years ago and my dad... it just knocked the stuffing out of him. He still en't got it back."

She's just trying to be kind. "Thank you," Tom says. "I'm sorry about your mother." There's nothing else to say, and with a short nod he leaves.

As soon as they're gone Edna's lips tighten. "Stupid girl," she castigates herself. No matter what he used to do for a living, he's one of them now, she thinks. And those people don't like to feel that they're pitied, not by such as her.

-ooo-

Sybbie is obsessed with stairs. She goes up the grand staircase one step at a time, crawling down backwards, over and over. She doesn't seem to have any idea that she could fall, and she fusses if you try to take her away: she won't be distracted. So Tom is stuck behind her, step by dawdling step.

It must be the tenth or eleventh trip up the stairs and he's lulled into inattention. So he's slow to react when Sybbie, instead of dropping to her hands and knees to creep back down, bolts down the second-floor corridor. She's gotten rather quick on a straightaway.

"Sybbie!" He calls, following. She giggles and trips along even faster: what a splendid game to play with Dada! The maids are in the midst of deep-cleaning the bedchambers and the doors are all open. Suddenly Sybbie veers off into one of the rooms.

Into that room.

Tom comes to a stop. He hasn't been in there in over a year: not bodily, anyway. Many nights he still visits it in his dreams.

Sybbie's not coming out on her own. He can hear her babbling away in there, long strings of nonsense syllables. He shouldn't leave her alone. There might be sharp corners she could run into, small trinkets she could put in her mouth. He starts down the hall again. "Sybbie," he calls once more.

Fatefully, it seems, her utterances resolve for a moment into "Mamamamama. Mama. Mama."

Almost immediately she switches to different sounds, but Tom stands frozen in the corridor. "Sybil," he calls to his daughter in a choked voice.

He hears brisk footsteps coming up from behind: it's Edna, the housemaid. "I'll just fetch her out, shall I?" she says brightly, crossing the threshold like it's nothing. She emerges a few moments later, Sybil in her arms. "Here you are." She hands her to Tom.

"Thank you," he answers faintly, smoothing Sybbie's curls off her forehead.

"No need to thank me. She'd got quite fascinated with hiding behind the drapes," Edna says, dimpling. "Such a sweet one. Aren't you?" She reaches out to caress Sybbie's pudgy cheek.

"Well, thank you anyway." Tom moves off.

"Poor little thing," Edna murmurs, when she's sure he won't hear.

She's happy to have been able to help. She knows what happened in that room, of course: Mrs. Hughes pointed it out while they were going over the house on her first day. "I trust you'll treat this room with the proper respect," the housekeeper stressed, and Edna has. She and the other maids never laugh or chatter, like they do in the other bedrooms, when they go into Lady Sybil's bedchamber to dust or to change the unused sheets.

Mr. Branson and his little daughter have quite captured Edna's imagination. It's heartbreaking to think of the motherless girl, the man without his wife, who by all accounts was the moon and stars to him. Edna thinks it would be nice to be loved like that.

-ooo-

Tom never takes his meals in the dining room. Even with the smaller table, he feels ridiculous sitting there alone. Instead he has them brought to his office, where he works through them, or eats in the servants' hall. It's not as stilted as he would have thought a year and a half ago. The others are welcoming, if a bit formal, and even Mr. Carson no longer insists on standing when he enters the room. If Mr. Carson is not there, they'll sometimes even forget themselves enough to fall into the easy conversations he remembers from when he was one of them.

That's how he finds out that Edna has aspirations beyond service. One day after luncheon she starts flipping through a copy of Picturegoer, regaling her fellow diners with biographies of each film star. It seems she's taken the time to find out a lot about them, especially the ones with humble origins. Thomas rolls his eyes and scoots back from the table with an audible sigh. He's obviously heard this routine before. Tom's more circumspect, but he keeps an ear out for an opening in the conversation that he can use to politely take his leave. He doesn't have time to sit about listening to another Ethel Parks gab about how she's going to be the next Mary Pickford.

But then she makes him raise his eyebrows by saying she'd like to be a director just as well, if not more than a film star. "It'd be so satisfying, to see a film and know you made it," she gushes. "And it seems like it wouldn't be so hard to get in behind the camera. They hire lots of women directors in Hollywood." He must look surprised, because she smiles sheepishly at the expression on his face. "I know, I'm getting above myself. Is it true you were a journalist in Ireland?"

"'Tis."

"How exciting. It's encouraging, really. To know someone who didn't just settle for what he was born into."

He thinks of that long-ago time he told Sybil he wouldn't always be a chauffeur. Little did he know how true that was, but in how twisted a manner. "Thanks."

"Whyn't you go back there? Seems much nicer to be a writer than an estate manager."

He doesn't feel like going into the reasons he can't return to Ireland, so he just says, "I have to think of my daughter. It's best for her to be with family."

"Don't you have family in Ireland?"

"Yes. But writing's not always a steady income, either. If you ever have children, you'll understand." He rises from the table. "Speaking of steady income, I'd best go and earn mine."

After he goes Edna sits for a moment longer, musing. A secret smile touches her lips.

-ooo-

He sees the way she looks at him. He'd have to be blind not to. She doesn't slew her eyes sidelong beneath her lashes in the way of a lot of English girls: she smiles at him in frank admiration.

And she's getting bolder. The other day he had a bit of stuff on the front of his coat - or at least she said he did - and she obligingly brushed it off. Only she had some trouble, and it took her a little while, and one of her hands just happened to stray to his collar.

It's not that he doesn't think she's attractive. She is, very. But he can't go far down that path in his mind before he recoils in something like horror: it still feels like being unfaithful. He can't say this to her, though: not to this girl who didn't even know Sybil, whose yellow hair is so different from his wife's. But Edna's been kind to him and to his daughter, and he doesn't want to make her feel small. So he acts as distant as he can without being rude and hopes that she'll get the hint.

She doesn't. More often than not she's the one to bring him his meals when he works through them. He suspects she's switching duties with someone, wangling more time to be around him. He does all he can not to encourage her: he barely looks at her when she comes in to set down the tray, merely waving a hand in dismissal. But frequently she lingers, wandering about looking at his bookshelves and the pictures on the walls, prattling. He bites his tongue to keep from asking whether she doesn't have something else to be doing, somewhere else. Now he wishes he hadn't been so damned determined to put them on equal footing. As things stand he can hardly say, "Thank you, Edna, that'll be all," as Robert would.

As if that's not trying enough, Sybbie has taken a liking to the housemaid, following her about whenever she catches sight of her. Edna allows it with good grace. She seems genuinely fond of the child: she calls Sybbie her "little helper." It would be selfish in him to deprive his daughter of a friend just because that friend makes him uncomfortable.

-ooo-

On her half-day Edna goes into the village. After tea and a nice gab with a friend of hers who lives there, she decides it's a lovely afternoon for a walk: a bit chilly, but clear and not too windy. The fact that she happened to see Mr. Branson setting off late this morning on his weekly round of the estate has little to do with it.

Edna is not stupid: she's perceived his coolness towards her perfectly well. She just won't let it deter her. She'd love to fulfill her ambition of working in show business, but she also thinks it would be quite a step up to be the wife of the manager of such a grand estate as Downton, not to mention more secure than taking her chances in Hollywood or London. Besides, that poor child needs a mother.

And of course Mr. Branson is very handsome. And intelligent, and kind, and forward thinking. In short, he's just the sort of man she's pictured herself marrying since she was old enough to think rationally about what she wants in a husband. Even his sadness makes him rather a romantic figure, like Milton Rosmer as Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights. Edna would very much like to be the one to mend his poor broken heart. He just needs a little persuading, that's all.

So it is a happy coincidence when she comes across him on the path winding prettily through a little wood that stands between the western tenant farms and Downton green. She sees him from a ways off, seemingly lost in his own thoughts, and contrives to be at the side of the path worriedly inspecting her ankle as he approaches. She's always been told hers are quite lovely.

He hails her - not having much choice - and asks if he can help.

"I think it's just twisted," she says, giving him her best plucky-damsel-in-distress smile. "Might I take your arm? I'd better just stay off it until we get home and I can wrap it up."

Tom doesn't return the smile, but he does offer his arm. They continue down the path, Edna thinking she must remember that the right ankle is her bad one, Tom supporting her.

She asks him, "Will you be going to the fair in Thirsk?" The talk in the servants' hall has been of nothing else lately.

"I don't think so. Things are very busy just now with the harvest."

"Oh, but you must! Sybbie would so enjoy it."

"I didn't think of that." Now he smiles, at the mention of his daughter. "Maybe I'll take her."

Edna chews the inside of her cheek, considering what to say next. She doesn't want to seem too forward, but neither does she want to come away from this unsuccessful. Finally she ventures, "I'd be happy to help you keep an eye on her. I bet she'll be a handful, with all the excitement."

He stiffens: she's gone too far. "That won't be necessary. Thank you."

"Oh!" She stumbles, catching wildly at his arm. He reaches to steady her. "Goodness, did I step in a rabbit hole? What luck."

"Are you all right?" He looks her in the face, his blue eyes wary but concerned.

"I think so." Edna puts her foot down experimentally, winces. "Oh... fiddlesticks," she groans, "I've gone and done it now."

"Here, just put your arm round my shoulder - all right." They begin to limp along together, but Edna's too short. "This won't work," Tom says in consternation. "I think I'm going to have to carry you."

He looks discomfited, but she'll take it. "Oh, how embarrassing," she says, feigning dismay. "I don't know how else we'd be able to get back. I'm so sorry."

"No trouble at all." His averted eyes and clenched jaw bely his words, but he lifts her easily.

"I'm not too heavy, am I?"

"Not at all."

They don't speak again before they get back to the house, which is not far. Tom muses on what a quirky sense of humor fate must have. It seems he's destined to have the housemaid in his arms one way or another. Once they arrive, to much fanfare downstairs, there's nothing for it but that he must carry her up to her room.

Mrs. Hughes follows with the first-aid kit, clucking. "Well," she says resignedly, "I suppose we won't get those rugs in the saloon cleaned this week after all."

Edna colors and drops her eyes. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Hughes. I'll make it up to you when I'm better."

"You certainly will," the housekeeper says crisply. "What were you thinking, going walking in those shoes?"

Tom deposits Edna carefully on her narrow bed. Job done, he moves to leave so that Mrs. Hughes can wrap the maid's ankle, but Edna reaches out and catches his hand.

"Thank you so much, Mr. Branson." Her sincere blue eyes shine up at him.

"It was nothing," he replies. "Truly."

"Oh, but I really don't know what I'd have done if you hadn't been there." She smiles. "Now you just have to let me help you with Sybbie at the fair. Otherwise you won't get to have any fun. And I'll feel like I'm in your debt, and I hate that."

He understands that feeling well enough. And he supposes the nursemaid would appreciate a day off. "All right," he agrees.

-ooo-

In the end the trip to the fair isn't nearly as awkward as he feared it'd be. In truth, it's not awkward at all, because almost the entire house goes along. On the omnibus ride to Thirsk Sybbie will suffer no one's lap but Edna's. She stares fixedly into the maid's laughing eyes and reaches up to pat her blond hair.

"I'm going to think you don't love me anymore, sweetheart," Tom jokes. He's surprised at how light he feels today.

Sybbie turns her wide blue eyes to her father. "Dada," she tells him solemnly, and he laughs.

"All right, I suppose I can forgive you. Faithless little minx."

Once they arrive everyone enjoys themselves thoroughly. It's magic for Sybbie: the brightly colored booths, the crowds dressed in their best, the music and painted horses on the carousel. Her eyes stay open as wide as they can go, and her little head swivels back and forth in constant amazement. Seeing it through his daughter's eyes, Tom catches some of her sense of wonder. He takes her on the carousel, motioning for Edna to come too.

She hangs back. "Oh, I couldn't. You and Sybbie go on."

He laughs and beckons again. "Come on! I don't know if she'll do it without you." So he holds Sybbie up on a horse while Edna sits in front of them. As the ride's rotation speeds up the maid giggles and places a hand on top of her hat. Some of her yellow hair escapes from under it and she turns to smile at Sybbie and then at Tom. She does have a nice smile. He finds himself grinning back foolishly.

Later they stand together on the sidelines as people gather for the tug-of-war contests. Thomas and Jimmy and some of the other men from Downton are getting up a side; Barrow comes over to recruit Tom.

"Come on then, Mr. Branson," he says in his sardonic way. "We need every strong back we can get."

"Go on," Edna tells him. "I'll look after Sybbie." She already is. The child is nodding in her arms. "We wouldn't want the house's honor smudged." She grins.

"He's probably just worried he'll run out of breath in the middle of it," Tom says to her in an undertone, and she snorts with laughter.

Sybbie does fall asleep on the ride back to Downton, her head pillowed on Edna's shoulder. The housemaid rubs her back and hums to her all the way home. She seems loath to give her up. "Goodnight, little love," she coos after handing her over. Sybbie stirs momentarily, but drops back into slumber.

"Thank you for your help today." Tom shifts Sybbie's dead weight on his hip.

"I enjoyed it," Edna replies. She smiles up at him for just a bit too long before she leaves to go up to the servants' quarters.

-ooo-

Her heart pounds, and not just from the exertion of climbing three flights of stairs.

She doesn't know why she's so impatient. Neither of them is going anywhere, after all. The most prudent course of action would be for her to build their relationship block by block: a smile here, a conversation there, a touch every so often. And then, when he's ready, she'll be well positioned.

But Edna has never in her life been called prudent. Impulsive, headstrong, stubborn: these are words she's often heard in connection with herself. Other, even less flattering terms have been applied as well. She doesn't mind. She's managed to get on fairly well in life by following her impulses.

So she could wait, watching for signs that her warm, rose-scented presence is diminishing the power held by the memory of the first Mrs. Branson... but she doesn't want to wait. She wants to kiss.

And maybe more: she is plotting a liaison in the man's bedroom, after all. One thing tends to lead to another, as she well knows. But she'll start with kissing.

Edna opens the baize door to the bachelors' corridor just enough to peer out and make sure the coast is clear before she emerges. She walks down the hall soundlessly but not furtively; if someone catches her she'll say she just remembered leaving the duster in one of the empty bedchambers. She stops at the right door and hesitates a moment, drawing the key from her apron pocket, twirling it in her sweaty hands.

He shouldn't be asleep yet - she saw him leave his office not thirty minutes ago. She wonders if it mightn't have been more effective to wait until it's a bit later, creep into bed with him. But she's here now.

As she slots the key into the lock and turns it she can feel the blood surging rhythmically through her chest, through her forehead, through her temples. She begins to hyperventilate a little; she feels faint, she's so nervous. Fiercely she instructs herself to calm down. She opens the outer door, then the inner one, and steps quickly into the room, shutting both doors behind her.

-ooo-

Tom is heartily glad today is over and that presently he can crawl into bed to fall asleep over his book. The estate's paperwork has not decreased with the harvest, and he's been having to sit up later and later to keep up.

Unconsciously, he sighs as he undresses and hangs up his clothes. For what seems like the hundredth time he wonders how how long he'll be able to endure this life. Though each day seems to bring new trials at work, they don't invigorate him like they used to in Ireland, during the happiest time of his life. Or before that, when his main challenge was winning Sybil. Even in the moments he was most convinced that she'd never leave with him, he never felt this dull despair. Despite Sybbie, despite good days like the one at the fair, life now feels much like eating a favorite meal when one has lost one's sense of smell. He remembers what it should taste like, but all the zest has gone out of it.

It's these sorts of thoughts that are revolving through Tom's mind when his bedroom door swings open. It opens so quietly - no hinge is ever allowed to squeak for long in this house - that he's not even aware it's happened until Edna is in his room and the door is closed again.

It's so completely unexpected that he's stupefied, still holding the nightshirt he was about to put over his head. It seems like they stand stock-still at opposite sides of the room for eons, yet he can't seem to react. By the time his paralysis breaks she's closed the distance between them and her mouth is on his.

A burst of alarm shoots through him; he gasps and raises his hands to push her away. But she anticipates him, her arms wind around his neck, keeping him there. She opens her lips and her tongue slips out, running gently over his lower lip. Her hand caresses the back of his neck, she combs through his hair with her fingers. He feels himself responding: opening his own mouth, putting his arms around her instead of between them. It's sweet, sweet. It's been so long.

He makes an involuntary noise in his throat and she answers with a moan. She presses herself against him, breathing hard. A cold, small voice in his mind says: I must stop this.

But why? answers another part of him: the part that leaps eagerly ahead, but not too far ahead, oh no. To what happens once they get into bed, but not what happens after they get out of it. Pretty girls don't throw themselves at him every day. Why shouldn't he take his pleasure where he can find it?

"No," he mumbles, and now he succeeds in detaching from her. Quickly he steps back, putting space between them. She looks like she'll come forward again, but he holds up a warding hand. "No," he says, more forcefully this time. "You have to go." He looks at the floor. His heart is pounding.

"Mr. Branson," she begins, and he barks a short laugh. After that, she's still not calling him by his first name?

"Don't worry," he says, "I won't tell anyone about this. Just... stay away from me, Edna." He raises his head. Instead of retreating under his gaze, as he hoped she might, she advances.

"You can't tell me you don't want to," she tells him. "You do, I can feel it."

She's not wrong, but that's beside the point. "And what do you want? Are you in love with me?" He asks it directly, almost brutally.

That gives her pause, but not for long. "I want what everyone wants," she answers, shrugging. "A good life."

"And you think I can give you that. But you don't love me."

"I could." Her ice-blue eyes stare into his. "If you let me."

He sighs, picks up his shirt from the floor where he dropped it, and puts it on. "I can't," he tells her.

"Your wife." It's not a question.

"Yes."

"But you're still young. You'll want someone again one day." She slides closer until she's directly in front of him again.

"I don't know that I will. It doesn't feel that way now."

"You can't spend your whole life alone." she reaches her hand out for his cheek.

He catches it and firmly, but gently, pushes it back down to her side. "It'd be rather cruel in me to give you hope that turned out to be false. Don't you think?" He turns away. "You say you want a good life," he says, "so make it yourself! Go to Hollywood. Go to London. Whatever you do, don't stay here. This place is where dreams come to die."

"How sad it is that you don't seem to want to leave, then."

She stands for a minute longer, but he doesn't reply, doesn't look at her again. She leaves as silently as she came in.

-ooo-

November 1921

As much of Edna as he saw before the scene in his bedchamber, Tom's seen almost nothing of her since. She's the perfect servant, he thinks sarcastically. Well practiced at making herself scarce.

He prefers it that way, and he's not been down to the servants' hall lately unless he knows she's in another part of the house. His one regret is that Edna's powers of invisibility have lost Sybbie her new best friend. In the way of small children, though, she gets over it quickly and her father is again first in her heart - at least until Lord Grantham returns from Scotland.

One day Tom comes into the library at an odd time, looking for certain of his Lordship's papers pertaining to estate business, and finds Edna plumping the sofa pillows. She catches sight of him before he can slip out again.

"Good morning, Mr. Branson," she greets him, as if nothing untoward has ever happened between them. She throws the pillow on the sofa. "I'll just leave you to it."

"Please don't let me interrupt you. I'll come back later."

"Mr. Branson." He turns back. "I wanted to tell you I've given in my notice."

He feels his face getting hot. God, what a bastard he is. What a caricature: practically pushing a girl out of a job she needs because her feelings are inconvenient for him.

She seems to intuit the gist of his thoughts. "It's nothing to do with - it's because I've come into a bit of money, you see," she explains. "My dad passed on not too long ago, and he had some put by that he left me. So I'm going to America to try and work in pictures."

"That's wonderful," Tom answers with sincerity, before the full import of her statement breaks on him. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"They said it was his heart." The smile slips off her face. "He's better off, really. He's with Mum now."

"Still." He doesn't quite know what else to say. "I'm sure you'll do just grand in America."

"I hope so." For a second she seems unsure, and Tom notices how strange that looks on her.

"You will." He doesn't doubt it. As he reaches the door he says, "Let me know how you get on, will you?"

"You can count on it."

-ooo-

Mr T. Branson

Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England

February 8, 1922

Los Angeles, California, U.S.A.

Dear Tom:

I hope you will forgive my familiarity in address. This place has quite infected me with easy-breezyness! I must say L.A. could not be more different a place from Downton. It hardly ever rains here and the sky is always a deep clear blue, and everywhere there are palm trees and flowers growing, all year round.

I am not doing too bad. I have made many new friends and I've got hired on as assistant to an assistant director at Universal. With work and a bit of luck I expect I shall rise quick enough.

I wanted specially to say sorry about that time. You know the one I mean. I know you were sore at me for it , more than you let on but you were really a good sport and thank you. I certainly did not mean to make you feel bad and I'm terribly sorry if I did. But most of all I really want to thank you for getting me off my duff to come over here. I know you'll say it was nothing but really it was you who lit the fire under me. If it wasn't for you I am quite sure I'd be in service still.

Do let me know how you and Sybbie get on. I've got a big soft spot for that little girl of yours, she is a real peach and such a pretty thing and I am sure she could be in the pictures one day. Also I hope some day you can find something to do that makes you happy. I hope I'm not terribly out of turn. Being an estate manager is well enough I suppose but to be perfectly honest, I am not sure it's the thing for you.

If you ever find yourself in Los Angeles do look me up. It is really a lovely place and worth a visit.

Yours very truly,

Edna Beauclair

P.S. How do you like my nom de guerre? It's all the rage here to pretend you are foreign.