Written for the DAKinkMeme. Five times Sybil was kind to Thomas. And one time Thomas was kind to Sybil's daughter, in return.
This work is not intended as copyright infringement. I do not own Downton Abbey or its relative characters, nor do I make any money from this. My writing is done purely for entertainment purposes.
I. 1910
He cannot admit that his first week as footman has been very pleasant. Mr. Carson's instructions come fast and without pause, the first footman refuses to answer his questions, and the rest of the staff have yet to really speak with him, other than to tell him to get out of the way or to hand them his plate at mealtimes.
Today is the first day he's been allowed to do a task on his own, without Mr. Carson watching him from across the room, and he is glad of it. Mr. Carson makes him nervous, but he wouldn't admit that to anyone. His duty for the morning is to move the furniture in the library so that the maids can clean, and he finishes it quickly and easily before making his way back through the house, toward the servant's staircase.
He turns the corner and suddenly collides with someone coming in the opposite direction, and hears the other party gasp in surprise. It is a woman, and he hopes that it is just a maid, because if he were to make such a mistake as colliding with a member of the family, on his first week, no less, he can't imagine what sort of trouble he'd be in with Mr. Carson. It takes him a moment to regain his composure, and he looks down to find that it is Lady Sybil he has bumped into.
"I'm terribly sorry, m'lady. I didn't see you there and I-"
"Oh, don't worry about me," she says, waving her hand dismissively. "No harm done."
He watches as she inspects her dress and brushes a few minute specks of dust from the lilac-colored skirt.
"I'd like to apologize, m'lady. If the dress is-"
"Oh, it's fine," she says. "No, I don't believe it's damaged. I don't think it would be from simply colliding with someone in the hall."
He nods his head, and is about to bid her a good morning and leave when she speaks.
"You're Thomas, the new footman, aren't you?"
"Yes, m'lady, I am."
He sees her eyes travel up the length of his body, giving him the cursory examination that comes with being a footman, and she simply smiles.
"I'm so very glad they picked you. I saw a few of the other candidates, and they weren't nearly as handsome. But don't tell anyone I said that."
"Never, m'lady."
She smiles up at him, and says, "Well, I wish you the best of luck. I must be going now."
"Thank you, m'lady."
He bows his head as she passes, and as he watches her retreating form down the hall, he cannot help but smile, his hopes for his future here suddenly brightened by her kind words.
II. 1913
He stands at the back of the throng, watching, and wonders why they have a Servant's Ball at all. The family dances a few sets with whoever propriety dictates they need to dance with, and then they're off to bed, leaving the staff to clean up after it's all over. It's all one big show, one big farce, one night to pretend that they actually care about the people who serve them, and then it's all back to normal by the morning.
He is glad, though, for the occasion, if only to be able to spend the evening in something other than his livery. His suit is much more comfortable, and a lot less stiff, and if he has to make it through the night, he's at least glad he can be comfortable. Lady Edith has retired early with a headache, but he's danced with Lady Grantham, and with Lady Mary, and if he hadn't noticed before, he now sees the similarities between the mother and eldest daughter of the house.
His eyes roam the crowd, and settle on Lady Sybil, sitting alone at one of the tables, sipping on a glass of punch. He's bored, and perhaps she'll be a better conversationalist than her mother or sister. He takes a chance, and moves his way around the room, over to the table she's occupying.
"M'lady, might I have the honor of this dance?"
She nods her head in acceptance. "Of course, you may, Thomas."
He escorts her around the tables, to the edge of the dancing crowd, and allows her to place her hand in his, his arm coming around to her back. He feels her hand settle on his shoulder, and they ease into the mass of dancers, letting the music guide their feet. They twirl for a few moments in silence before she speaks.
"You dance very well."
"Thank you, m'lady, but not as well as you."
He sees the blush creep into her cheeks, and finds himself smiling down at her. "I've had quite a few lessons. I stepped on many a foot before I was any good at it."
"I suppose everyone makes a few mistakes in the beginning."
"Yes, I suppose they do," she says, looking up at him. "Where, then, did you learn to dance?"
He chuckles. "A little bit here and there, m'lady."
"Dance halls?" she asks.
"A few, perhaps."
"I'd like to go to one someday. They sound like marvelous places. But I don't suppose they'd allow it."
He knows to whom she's implying, and he nods in understanding, knowing that His Lordship and Her Ladyship would never allow their daughter to attend a dance hall.
"You're not missing much," he says, hoping to quell her spirit on the idea before she does something too irrational.
The music slowly comes to end, and he spins her one last time before thanking her and leading her back to her seat.
III. 1917
He slumps against the wall, the tears beginning to sting at his eyes, and knows that he should have done something. He should have pushed harder against Dr. Clarkson's orders. He should have stayed with Edward, knowing that he was depressed. He should have been there to prevent it, to have talked him out of it, to have told him that he had his whole life ahead of him. Now, the only thing he can do is stand against the wall, and even that becomes impossible, as his knees weaken and he slides unceremoniously to the floor.
He tries to breathe away the tears that are threatening to fall, but the effort is futile, and within moments, the tears break the surface, and the sobs begin to wrack his body. He cries noiselessly, rocking back and forth with each breath, until there is nothing left, and when he finally regains some of his composure, he begins to wipe the tears from his face.
The door pushes open slightly, and in that moment, he really doesn't care who sees him like this. "Go away," he says, looking toward the floor, the tears threatening to fall again.
The person simply closes the door, and he knows by the sound of the shoes that it is a woman. The skirt appears in his line of sight, and suddenly, there is a hand on his shoulder.
"I'm so sorry," she says, and it doesn't take but a moment to recognize the voice as Nurse Crawley's.
He doesn't respond, simply letting the room go silent, and feels her sit down next to him on the floor. Their shoulders are touching, and he knows that isn't proper, but he does not have time to move away before her head is on his shoulder, and he can feel the sobs shaking her body as well.
A few moments pass in silence before she speaks, her words slightly muffled against his uniform.
"I've always seen them die of their wounds. Something becomes infected, or the heart gives out, or the brain…never this," she says, sniffling.
He nods, and feels her moving against his side. In a few moments, she is standing, and he looks up at her in confusion.
"I'll be right back," she says, pushing open the door and moving into the hall.
Minutes pass in silence until the door opens again, and she slips back inside. She sits back down next to him, their shoulders still touching, and hands him a cup of what he can smell is tea.
"Where'd you get this?" he asks, staring down into the hot liquid.
"I made it," she says, and there is an air of pride in her voice that does not go unnoticed. It is hard to imagine the daughter of an Earl making tea, but here, she is just a nurse, and he is suddenly glad that she is.
"To Lieutenant Courtenay's memory," she says, raising her cup.
He lifts his. To Edward.
IV. 1919
He lingers down the hall, knowing that there will be luggage to be taken down shortly. It is early, the morning sunlight streaming into the hallway, and he can almost hear the motor coming up the drive. He snorts to himself. He cannot imagine giving up their life to run away to Ireland with the chauffeur, but he imagines she must have a good reason. He certainly would need a very good reason to leave all of the grandeur behind.
He sees the bedroom door open, and Her Ladyship appears in the hall.
"Ah, Thomas, there you are. Lady Sybil's luggage is ready to go down."
He nods, and watches as Her Ladyship, then Lady Mary, and Lady Edith exit the room. He waits as they go down the hall, wondering why Lady Sybil is so far behind, and as the moments tick by, he goes over to the doorway to have a look inside.
She is seated in front of the dressing table, and he sees her expression change as she notices him in the mirror's reflection.
"Come in, Thomas."
He moves inside, and glances at the carrying case and pair of trunks on the bed, wondering where the rest of it is.
"Is that all, m'lady? The trunks and the valise?"
"Yes, that's all of it." She pauses, turning to look at the small pile of luggage. "I won't need much in Dublin. Not the kind of things I wear here, anyway."
He nods, and begins to move toward the stack as she continues speaking.
"What are they saying? The staff, I mean. Do they think we're as foolish as everyone else believes?"
He stops, his eyes finding hers for just a moment before answering. "Mr. Carson's not too pleased, m'lady, but I think he finds Mr. Branson more at fault than you. Anna, I think she would support anyone's decision, as long as they were happy."
There is a pause, and for a moment, he wonders if he's spoken out of turn, but she continues.
"And you? What do you think?"
"Honestly, m'lady, I don't quite know. But I believe if you're happy, then it doesn't matter what anyone else says or thinks."
She laughs softly, standing. "Why, Thomas, I didn't know you were a romantic!"
He cannot help but smile. "I don't claim that I am, but if you say so, m'lady…"
She smiles, coming over to stand in front of him. "Thank you," she says, and he feels her fingers wrap around his arm, squeezing gently. "It makes it so much easier to know I'm not hated by everyone."
He nods, and she removes her hand, taking a step back before looking up at him and continuing, "If you ever find yourself in Dublin, I do hope you'll find us. It would be nice to see a familiar face now and then."
"I will, m'lady," he answers, before taking the trunks and making his leave.
V. 1920
He goes into His Lordship's dressing room at the appointed time, even though the Earl has yet to arrive back from his trip into the village. If nothing else, he can set out the dinner attire and make sure the cufflinks and studs are properly cleaned for tonight. He pulls out the correct jacket, hanging it on the back of the wardrobe, and makes one last check of the dress shirts, just to make sure they're really there.
The door opens, and he straightens, expecting His Lordship to enter, his mind already forming the usual greeting. The words are just about to leave his mouth, when he stops. Instead of His Lordship, a woman's figure appears in the doorway.
"I'm sorry, m'lady, His Lordship has not yet returned. If you'd like me to let him know that you were looking for him…"
"Oh, no," Lady Sybil says, her hand on the doorknob. "I suppose I'll just wait here for him." She pauses. "You don't mind, do you?"
"Of course not, m'lady."
He watches her slip inside, and oddly enough, close the door behind her. He knows she notices the confusion on his face, and she answers accordingly.
"Oh, don't worry. I don't think anyone will notice anyway, and even if they did, I don't think they'd make anything of it, not with me as big as I am." She chuckles, as if to put him at ease.
"I wouldn't do anything of the sort, m'lady," he says, turning back to the wardrobe. "Though I don't think I'd worry so much now about His Lordship. Mr. Branson, perhaps, may have other ideas."
She takes a seat on the chair by the door, and sighs. "No, I don't think Mr. Branson would mind at all. He's not like that."
"No, m'lady."
He should take his leave and go back downstairs to wait for the bell to ring, but suddenly, there is a sharp gasp from her direction, and he immediately turns toward her, hoping she's alright. His heart begins to calm when he sees she is smiling, her eyes cast downward at her swollen belly, hands tracing the fabric over her midsection.
"Are you alright, m'lady?"
She looks up at him, beaming as any young mother should. "Yes. I'm sorry I startled you. I just…the baby just kicked."
He nods, unable to hide the smile that forms on his lips. "I can't say I know the feeling, m'lady."
"Come here," she says, waving him over, "And we'll remedy that situation."
"I don't think that would be entirely appropriate, m'lady."
"Oh, nonsense." She beckons him over with a commanding wave of her hand, and he steps closer.
She catches his good hand in her own, and without warning, places it over her swollen belly. It only takes a few moments for him to feel the tiny flutter of her child, and as he removes his hand, he thanks her and bids her good evening, the smile not leaving his lips for a long time afterward.
I. 1925
He adjusts the stack of dress shirts in his arms and pushes open the door into the main hallway. His Lordship is in the village this afternoon, off on an errand, and Thomas has taken the day to clean and mend a few shirts. He turns the corner, and feels something soft collide with his leg.
There is a soft thump, and he looks down to find that little Sybil Branson is on the floor, obviously having been knocked down at his sudden appearance from around the corner. He quickly sets the shirts on the small hall table and kneels down to the girl's level.
"Are you alright, m'lady? Did I hurt you?"
"No, I'm fine," the little girl says, and he cautiously extends his hands to help her up. To his surprise, she does not hesitate to place her small hands in his, and he gently pulls her to her feet.
"I'm so sorry, m'lady."
"Don't call me 'm'lady'," she says suddenly, and he is momentarily taken aback at just how outspoken she is.
"Oh, then what should I call you?" he asks, humoring her.
"Sybil," she says, "I like to be called Sybil."
He smiles, and nods his head. "Well, then, Sybil, I don't suppose you were running away from your governess, were you?"
The girl's face turns forlorn as she says, "She doesn't care about me much. She likes Robbie and Catherine better."
He knows jealousy when he sees it, and he can only imagine being in the same nursery as Mr. Matthew and Lady Mary's children.
"Well, then," he says, "How about I show you someplace special, just this once?"
She nods her head in excitement, wavy brown hair bouncing with the sudden movement.
"Alright, then. Let me just put these shirts away, and then I'll show you."
She follows him down the hall, and he quickly puts away the shirts as she stands just outside the door. He glances over at her as he shuts the wardrobe door, and though he never knew Lady Sybil as a girl, Mr. Carson was probably right in saying that the young Sybil Branson is a spitting image of her late mother at that age.
He leads the way back down the hall, and pushes open the servant's door, letting her pass inside ahead of him. She excitedly peers through the railing, looking down toward the ground floor for a few moments, and then sits down on one of the stairs.
She pats the space next to her with her hand and says, "You can sit, too, if you like."
He smiles, and takes a seat next to the little girl. They sit in silence for a few moments, Sybil unusually reserved and quiet, and he wonders if the girl beside him will be as opinionated and precocious as her namesake.
She finally breaks the silence, her small yet confident voice echoing through the stairwell. "You're very nice. Will you be my friend?"
He looks down at her and smiles. "Yes, of course I will."