As She Loosened Her Hair
January, 1914
Half an hour. Hickory dickory dock. The nursery rhyme ran through Sybil's head, taunting her, as she paced up and down the floor. No one was with her, not even Anna. She had sent them all away, wanting to spend her last moments in solitude; peace. Downton was beautiful, a diamond in the midst of the frost. The walls were adorned with white flowers, and below she could hear the excited chatter of bridesmaids, complimenting each other on their beautiful dresses, with a casual remark about how the bride looked "Lovely, quite beautiful actually." She could feel the seconds slipping away from her, and she gripped the side of the bed in her room.
'It will not end,' she murmured to herself, distractedly. There would be times when she could have a moment to herself, give her aching jaws a rest from the forced smile they were contorted in to. Times when she could strip off the façade of the doting Lady Grey and cry to herself. Sybil laughed bitterly. Such a cheerful vision. Here she was, moaning to herself like a discontent old hag on what was supposed to be the happiest day of her life. Of course she wished that she could wait, find a man who would make all of her dreams come true. She had read of such men in novels, Mr Darcy, or Will Ladislaw. But those men were the product of lonely, middle aged women, seeking comfort in the heroes they had dreamed would come for them. She sat down in front of the mirror. She was alone. Suddenly she ached for the moments of loneliness, curled up in her father's library, reading Chaucer, Austen, Elliot. In her new home there would be no real books. There were the dusty religious volumes, which no one had touched for five centuries; the books on fox hunting and horse racing written by the blustering old men who ached to be back on a horse. But nothing real, nothing that would draw you in to a different world.
Sybil's hands were trembling. Ten minutes. The tick tocks of the clock were deafening now, they seemed to get louder at every minute. The truth was, she was frightened. Her entire future was rushing before her eyes, her breath coming out in short gasps. To entertain an endless number of guests, to smile and laugh and to wish she was somewhere else every second of every day. To wear beautiful dresses and to be admired and petted, no one caring for the flow of thoughts that occupied the now redundant space they called her mind. And to bear child. To lie down with a man she abhorred and bear him children. For her daughters to be despised by their father and for her sons to be beaten for showing sensibility, kindness. It was that which reduced Sybil to the pale, shivering wreck she was.
Her dress fell to the floor in a shimmering mass of cream silk, the red roses, which adorned her dark curls bringing out her pale complexion. She was beautiful; Sybil knew that. Apparently she had been quite a catch, with every mother grooming her son to marry Lady Sybil Crawley. Whilst her fortune was less than Mary's, it was enough to send every Honourable in the country bowing and scraping at her feet. But there was nothing she could do and nobody she could turn to. But she wouldn't cry. They could carry her out dead for all she cared, but he wouldn't make her cry. She remembered his proposal with a sudden surge of vehemence.
Sybil had leant against the balcony railings, bored stiff by the small talk Larry Grey was forcing on her. She nodded and smiled as she mentally screamed at him for enquiring how her "Little suffrage hobby" was going. Keeping boredom at bay by playing Mrs Pankhurst's latest speech in her head, she was startled out of her reverie as Larry took her hands in his.
"Sybil," he began, "I think you are the most ripping girl, honestly. I can provide a good home for you, the Grey estate will survive the war and I know I can make you happy. And our parents would be thrilled, what could possibly be better?" She pulled her hands away in shock, turning away to mentally prepare herself for the ordeal of refusing him. Larry was handsome; it was true. Many a girl of her age had swooned over his dark curls and (here she snorted) handsome brow. But the truth is, he repulsed her. His arrogance, his casual assertion that he had a right to everything in the universe. As she turned to face him, she was trying to be sympathetic.
"Larry, I really am flattered, but…" No sooner had the words left her lips, he had lead her out on to the veranda and behind a tree in the gardens, well away from the estate. He forced her against the tree.
"Now Sybil, let's not be hasty. You do realise what you are turning down." He narrowed his eyes, "I have fifty thousand a year, an estate in Kent, a house in London and a country home in Shropshire. Surely you could not be naïve enough to expect a better offer than this?" Seeing her defiant face, he grabbed her elbow, twisting it until she cried out in pain.
"I warn you, don't aggravate me," Larry purred, "I am accustomed to getting my own way, and believe me, I am not going to beg for this." He sneered at her. " Your father owes mine a lot of money, enough to ruin him and Downton. If you refuse my proposal, I shall tell my father to call in his debts. You and your family would go to rack and ruin." His eyes narrowed. "And it would all be your fault. Poor, darling, selfish little Sybil." His grip tightened, and he kissed her with a violence that terrified her, as he forced her on to the ground. As the tears rolled down her cheeks and her arm drew close to breaking point, she knew she could not refuse him, not at the expense of her family. Sybil knew that in a short while, she would be Lady Grey.
There was a knock at the door. Startled out of her reverie, she called for them to come in. Edith entered, a shy smile on her face. Edith had had her fair share of woes before the war, and now in its early days she had resigned herself to being a spinster, and had a truckload of wool sent in so that she could start knitting for the soldiers. Good with a needle and no longer filled with the bitter resentment that had so defined their childhood, Edith melted in to the background, quietly managing the household affairs and making things as comfortable as possible at home, despite the restrictions brought on by war.
"Are you ready? Papa is waiting down stairs. Mama is beside herself with joy; after the disappointment of last summer she is relieved to see at least one of her daughters married off." Edith's voice trailed off, and she seemed on the brink of tears. Sybil attempted a smile, and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. For one moment, she had thought perhaps she could tell Edith, tell her why she was marrying Larry Grey, why she had confined herself to a life of misery and constraint. But how could she now, when Edith longed so much for what Sybil dreaded? When her heart was clearly bursting with jealousy at Sybil finding a husband, at how good-looking he was. No, this was her cross, and she must bear it alone.
"Go downstairs, I'm on my way. Just…preparing myself for the day, I have a few loose curls." Edith nodded and left. Sybil straightened her veil, and left her room, accepting her fate. Before she could descend the steps, however, someone grabbed her wrist. She turned back to see Mary, her eyes searching Sybil, pleading with her.
"Sybil darling, believe me when I tell you this. You cannot marry Larry Grey. I will not let you make a mistake that will cost you your happiness for so many years."