AN: In posting this fic, I'm doing two things I've never done and that I swore I'd never do: I'm posting a fanfic without extensively editing, and I'm posting a fanfic without having first watched the episode in question numerous times. I've already devoted far more time than I had to give to this fic; I mean, I wasn't even an S/B shipper. But this wouldn't leave me alone, so I knew I'd never be able to get anything else done until I wrote it.
I am an American, so I may have used anachronistic and/or American slang in this fanfic. Feel free to point out any errors; I might even go back and change them someday. Some of these individual segments are ideas I've gotten from who-knows-where, so if you recognize yours, let me know and I'll give you credit.
Finally, I know that last episode has bitterly divided the fandom in regards to some characters, but I have tried to treat all DA characters fairly. I guess now would be a good time to say that I don't actually own Downton Abbey or any of these characters; if I did, do you think I would've killed off Sybil? At any rate, I hope you enjoy and that this fic turns out to be just what the doctor ordered.
Dr. Tapsell sneered disdainfully at the annoying country doctor. In his experience, all women were a bit hysterical before birth but they rarely suffered from any real complications. Women were such fragile, emotional creatures anyway, although Clarkson seemed determined to outcry the women…
Enough of this. He ignored the others and looked straight at the main authority figure. A few well-placed words were all that were necessary to placate the weak-willed and frightened earl; no father in his right mind would ever side with a provincial country doctor over a physician who had delivered the babies of royalty.
A C-section…what a ridiculous notion. Everything will be fine, and Clarkson and his radical ideas will appear foolish in the light of day. Where does a country doctor learn such radical notions anyway?
Isobel winced as she sipped the tea that Ethel had optimistically labeled "calming." Although she often disagreed with Cousin Violet, Isobel had to agree that a nice cup of tea could cure the world's problems.
Not that Cousin Violet would attempt to drink tea like this; she would surely have some well-placed barb aimed at poor Ethel…
Shifting uneasily, Isobel placed her cup of tea on the side table and began pacing. She had been feeling nauseous all day and had thus decided to stay away from Downton in order to avoid the risk of infecting Sybil so close to her delivery. Sybil had shown no alarming symptoms over the course of her pregnancy, but Isobel had always believed that one could never have too many medical professionals on hand for a delivery.
They're fine, she insistently thought once again. Dr. Clarkson assured me that between him and that expensive doctor, they would deliver Sybil's baby with little fuss. I still wish I could be there…
Dutifully taking another sip of Ethel's uniquely flavored tea, Isobel continued to wait for word from her son.
Matthew stared in horror at the scene unfolding before him as he stood near the foot of the bed in which Sybil had given birth only a few hours ago.
Is this how she felt? Matthew wondered as Sybil struggled to breathe. Which she?
Lavinia, gasping for her last breath as she fell victim to the disease that had ravaged the world. Sybil, standing at the foot of Lavinia's bed, watching in horror and agonizing over the helplessness of it all. And Branson…
He watched as Branson cried and begged and pleaded with his wife and he felt a twinge of guilt. I tearfully begged Lavinia to stay with me, but I never acted like that; I never acted the way I would have had it been…
Matthew looked at his own wife, proud of the way she tried to help even in the midst of utter chaos. His strength failed him, and he clutched the bedpost for support. Not because he couldn't or wouldn't try to help his wife, but because he knew from experience that nothing could be done.
"How can this be?" Robert asked as the impossible happened in front of him.
My whole world, gone over a cliff in one day? He remembered asking what seemed like a lifetime ago. But that had turned out alright in the end, hadn't it? He had mostly severed things with Jane, his wife had lived, and they had mended some of the damage done during the War.
Come to think of it, most of the things in my life that have seemed like they were going to be disastrous have turned out alright, Robert thought. Downton threatened financially? Someone's inheritance saves the day. Both Downton heirs die tragically on the Titanic? Cousin Matthew marries Mary. Family members are stricken with illness? They make miraculously full recoveries. So when is that going to happen here?
Robert watched helplessly, his eyes begging the man to whom he had entrusted his daughter to work a miracle. The doctor sheepishly turned away, no doubt already trying to figure out how to survive this blow to his career. And he will pay…
How was I to know? Robert thought as his baby girl painfully struggled for each breath. How could I possibly have known? What could I have done differently? He was the best. I only wanted the best. I only wanted what was best. All I ever wanted was what was best for her. He was the best, and Clarkson has gotten things wrong, and Tapsell seemed so confident…
The terrible gasping finally ceased, and all was silent as the whole world stopped.
Mary's mouth gaped open in an unintentional mirror of Sybil's as she finally allowed herself to stand still. She had tried so hard to do something while almost everyone else had lapsed into either hysterics or stunned silence, but once again, her efforts had resulted in nothing but an agonized, grey face.
The fear I felt initially, and then the rush of joy, and then the terror as he cried out and left me so quickly…and his eyes wouldn't shut, no matter how hard I tried…
His dead, grey face had haunted her nightmares for years, and his—their—actions had cost her and those she loved so much. Her encounter with Pamuk had eventually been discovered by most of Downton, but if Sybil knew, she never confronted Mary about it. And if she had found out…
She was the only one…
Mary clamped down on her emotions and brought up the mask she wore when she wanted to conceal everything from the rest of the world.
A mask that is dull, unmoving, and capable of keeping life at a distance. Maybe the dead can still instruct the living after all.
Edith had seen William die, and she knew that he had suffered a great deal of pain as his body had slowly succumbed to the injuries caused by the mortar blast that had wounded him and Matthew. His breathing had, at times, been labored, and Edith had wished that she could've done more to ease his pain. Still, at the end, he had gone peacefully, his wife and father sitting calmly if sadly by his side.
What she had just witnessed…maybe she would be able to write it down later, but she knew that she would never be able to put her feelings into spoken words. Edith was not blind to her faults; she knew that Mary and Sybil had always been better at talking to others than she. Mary had exploited this weakness for years.
But then again, Mary is good at exploiting everyone's weaknesses…
Edith pushed that thought aside as reality forced her to recognize that, as bitter as their past had been, she only had one sister left.
But not the sister who always encouraged me to do things, who always believed I could do things even when few others did.
Edith looked at the sister who had always stood up for women's rights but who had never seen her desires fulfilled and made one decision. She looked at the sister to whom she had never been close and made another.
Dr. Clarkson was proud of his abilities as a doctor, but he had never claimed to know everything. He always erred on the side of caution, carefully weighing all doctor/patient interactions in order to avoid giving false hope. Nurse Crawley had broadened his mind to an extent in terms of accepting the advances of modern medicine, but he had never promised to cure someone unless he was fully confident of his ability to do so.
Maybe if I had promised…
There would be time for recriminations later; judging from the expressions of some of the people in the room, revenge would definitely be served cold. Dr. Clarkson did not want to be involved in such discussions; he felt that he had already been proven right in the worst possible way. He wanted to blame Lord Grantham for hiring that buffoon in the first place, but the man had only tried to do what was best for his daughter by, as always, throwing money at the situation.
Judging from the expression on his face, nothing I could say could make him regret his decision more.
Dr. Clarkson remembered how passionately Sybil had mourned Lt. Courtenay's death and how she had turned her grief into a determination to act. He remembered her tirelessly serving wounded officers and comforting them in their sometimes terrible final moments. While he had sometimes had to reign in Sybil's enthusiasm, he had always respected it for what it could accomplish.
I'll never forget the first time an officer died brutally in front of her, Dr. Clarkson remembered. She did everything she could to help him; she begged him to fight, to live; and she wept when his last breath rasped roughly from his battered body. The officer's face had frozen in a rictus of pain and terror, and Sybil had looked up at me, so many emotions roiling in her eyes. But she didn't give up like some of those great lady nurses I've worked with in the past. Once she had recovered from the shock, she continued with her duties and finished her shift.
Dr. Clarkson began mentally cataloguing the medical services he could perform for the Crawleys and the Bransons in the upcoming days to make their lives easier, determined to follow Sybil's example from the War.
Cora heard the door close behind Mary and exhaled with relief. She truly loved her oldest daughter, but this was not a moment she could share with anyone.
Many women would at least consider sharing this moment with their husbands, a voice in the back of her head said.
She knew that Robert would never deliberately hurt Sybil.
Unless he is refusing to send her money to come to her own sister's wedding after refusing to attend her own wedding.
He only did what he thought was best for Sybil.
By refusing to allow our long-time family doctor to run a few simple tests on her that could've saved her life.
There was no guarantee that Dr. Clarkson would've been able to save both Sybil and the baby anyway.
But he could've tried, and Sybil was strong, she would've fought…
Images of Sybil fighting for every breath assaulted her memory, seeming to age her with each recollection. Losing the baby had been hard, but this…
Everywhere I go in this house, I will see Sybil.
Cora promised her baby that she would take care of Tom and Little Sybbie because she knew that's what her baby would want.
And because Robert will hate it.
Not even bothering to deny the voice, Cora delicately placed a kiss on Sybil's forehead. She looked at Sybil's bed, thought of her own, and was glad of her decision.
Carson walked to Mrs. Hughes' room, shuffling like an old man. He had disapproved of Lady Sybil's choices because they had so often clashed with his vision of tradition, but he had always admired her more than he'd let on. Lady Mary would always be his favorite, but Lady Sybil…who could dislike her?
He realized that he would have to be the one to tell all of those under him; he was the butler, after all, and standards must be upheld. But as he raised his hand to awaken Mrs. Hughes, he faltered.
Telling the staff is going to be harder than almost anything I've ever done, but telling Elsie…
Carson remembered Sybil as a little girl, running up and down the halls of the servants' hall and leaving smiles wherever she went. She had spent hours with Elsie, asking question after question about service and life downstairs and why things were the way they were.
Mary has always been my favorite, but Sybil has always been Elsie's.
He steeled himself, raised his fist, and knocked.
Mrs. Hughes awoke instantly in that manner that all long-time servants had. The next crisis was only ever one knock away, and the servants were always expected to keep clearer heads than their masters. She threw on her robe and opened the door, taking in Carson's haggard face. And knew.
Charles had long been able to talk to her without words, but she also had keen instincts that had served her well in her role as housekeeper of Downton Abbey. I've seen a bit of the world, and that's a fact, but never…
She had stared into the face of death and had come to grips with her own mortality, but she had never imagined that she would need to use that strength to cope with the death of the youngest Crawley daughter. Her heart also ached for Branson, and for…
"The babe?" Mrs. Hughes asked.
"Safe and healthy," Carson said. "A girl."
"Poor lass…" Elsie said.
"Indeed," Carson said. "But we all must be strong…"
Carson trailed off, but as usual, nothing more needed to be said between them.
Anna was walking towards the stairs with the goal of getting a bit of rest before once again having to comfort Mary, but she turned instead towards the courtyard.
I need to feel close to him right now; he's the only one that can help me through this, and he's not here.
She walked through the kitchen door and made for the ever-present pile of crates that she and John had sat on through all stages of their courtship. The tears had started to fall again, and a sob escaped her throat. Anna was startled to hear a cough from the shadows, but the smell of cigarette smoke clued her in to the cougher's identity. Making a quick decision, Anna decided to once again follow her heart.
Just like Lady Sybil would've wanted…
"Couldn't sleep?" Thomas asked, taking a drag and exhaling.
"I haven't tried," Anna said.
"Lady Mary being her usual demanding self?" Thomas asked, his voice oddly devoid of any real animosity.
"I offered to comfort her," Anna said. "I couldn't bear…"
"Of course you couldn't," Thomas said, smoke curling around his lips.
Silence rose up between them, but Anna decided to take a chance.
"I know you've never approved of John and me," Anna said, "but Lady Sybil was the one who inspired me to marry John in spite of how hard that might make my life later."
"Love's young dream," Thomas said, rolling his eyes.
"Lady Sybil once asked me to take her side in an argument with Lady Mary about Branson, but I told her she needed to be careful and that life would be harder than she could ever imagine if she married him. She looked at me like I had betrayed her, knowing that I was a hypocrite. Yet she never held that against me; it wouldn't surprise me if she knew I hadn't sided with her not because I didn't agree with her, but because I was afraid."
Silence reigned once again as Thomas dropped the cigarette butt on the ground, trod on it, and turned to walk away. He stopped, however, and turned back around to face Anna.
Multiple retorts flashed through his mind as they so often did, but he didn't have the heart for any of them tonight.
Of course I despise your husband; His Lordship chose him over me even though he can't even wait a table.
Why are you talking to me when we both know you hate me? You see Bates in prison as a tragic miscarriage of justice, while I see a chance to move up in the world.
Just because you saw me crying over Lady Sybil's death does not mean I'm going to open up to you.
Mind your bleedin' business and enjoy life married to a murderer, Mrs. Bates.
Images of Lady Sybil came to him; memories of her talking with him as an equal stilled his tongue in a rare moment of restraint. She had liked Anna, but she had liked everyone.
She liked me, even though I was different. Not that she ever really knew that…
Anna stood silently and expectantly, gazing at him with that annoying look of condescending understanding that she wore when she was inviting a confidence.
Maybe Bates is rubbing off on her.
The mental image of Bates rubbing off on anyone—let alone his wife—was one he could've lived without, and he really didn't want to be having this conversation.
"You should be glad I despise your husband, because everyone I care about dies."
Thomas walked out of the shadows and into the kitchen, leaving Anna alone with the crates.
O'Brien hovered protectively close to Cora as Her Ladyship climbed into the bath. Cora hardly ever bathed at this time, but O'Brien could not blame Cora for wanting to try to wash away the memories of what had happened several hours ago. Her Ladyship's eyes were unfocused, and her face looked as if it had aged ten years in the past few hours.
O'Brien handed Cora the bar of soap. She wanted so desperately to comfort Cora, but she knew from experience that the only way to comfort Her Ladyship after the loss of a child was to remain as loyal and attentive as possible. O'Brien prepared Cora's robe and busied herself with a few other minor tasks, never straying far from her listless mistress.
Eventually, Cora called for O'Brien to help her out of the tub. She did so cautiously, knowing that under such circumstances, a person could never be too careful.
Mrs. Patmore directed her staff, urging them on as they once again made food for a family in mourning. She knew that the food must not be heavy, but she knew that there must be plenty of it available. Everywhere she turned in what had been her kitchen for years, she saw Lady Sybil learning to cook. The tap, the oven, the table where she had decorated that cake…
"Mrs. Patmore?" Ivy said, snapping her back to reality.
"Yes?"
"Why are we making so much food for upstairs when nobody will likely want to eat anything anyway?"
Mrs. Patmore's memory flashed back 8 years previously to the baby-faced kitchen maid who had once asked her something similarly after the Crawley heirs had died. As it had then, her answer now came to her easily.
"Because nothing makes you hungrier or more tired than grief."
Mary once again stood by Sybil's bed, thankful that she had been arranged into a more peaceful pose. Were it not for the ashen color of her face, Sybil could be sleeping peacefully. Edith stood beside her, looking as if she were not doing any better at accepting what had happened than Mary herself was.
At least her eyes are closed, as they so often were to our faults…
"She was the only one living who thought that you and I were such nice people," Mary said, breaking the silence.
Granted, our relationship has improved over the past few years; I can't remember the last time we truly fought. And now…
"Do you think we might get along a little better in future?" Edith asked.
Mary looked down at the still body of one of the most open and honest people she had ever known. In her grief, she almost gave into the emotions of the moment; Sybil wouldn't have minded if she had. But to tell a lie over the body of her sister…
Edith is still Edith…and I'm still me.
Mary steeled herself, slipped on her mask, and told the truth.
"Probably not."
And yet…
Memories of the past several months came to her, and she suddenly realized that not only had she and Edith not really fought in a long time, but that much of the resentment she'd once harbored for Edit was…
What? Gone? No; that's not my way. Forgotten? Never. Maybe…less important. I'm married to the man I love, Sybil's dead, and Edith was jilted at the altar by the man—such as he was—that I lied to years ago.
Mary relaxed slightly, lowered her mask a fraction, and told the truth.
"But since this is the last time we three will be together in this life, let's love each other now, as sisters should."
She embraced Edith tentatively, conscious of Tom—poor Tom—standing in front of the window. The image made her unbearably sad, and she felt the sudden urge to seek out her husband.
Matthew was existing, dealing with Sybil's death by proceeding with the day's plans. While he never would've summoned Murray on such a day as this, Murray was here and—as with Sybil's death—he and the others would just have to accept it and carry on. Besides, why should Anna and her husband suffer any longer than necessary because of this great tragedy?
God knows the Crawleys have cost them enough already…
Thinking about the Crawleys and cost caused Matthew to grimace; pleasant or not, he was eventually going to have to have the same talk with Murray as he had had with Cousin Violet. Granted, he was not exactly in the best frame of mind to have such a conversation, but anticipating the conversation gave him something to do, gave him something else to think about besides…
Matthew latched onto the estate troubles like a lifeline, his mind unable and unwilling to let them go as it tried to protect itself from giving into grief. On the outside, he was stoic, a mask every bit as effective as the one his wife often wore firmly in place. The rational side of him knew this wasn't the time, knew this wasn't the place, knew that he could easily contact Murray later.
But he couldn't let it go, no matter how hard he tried. When Lavinia had died, he had latched onto his and Mary's guilt like it was a perverted lifeline. As terrible as the following months had been, his mind had fixated on that guilt as a way to block out the grief.
He talked to Murray of middle-class concepts like profit and mismanagement and change, all while trying to save the upper-class home his wife loved so dearly. He had been unable to protect Lavinia or Sybil, but he could and would protect Downton Abbey.
That's why I'm doing this, Matthew thought. As always, it's all for her.
He sensed her presence behind him, and a feeling of dread overtook him.
She won't understand, he thought desperately. So often, she doesn't understand…
Violet staggered into Downton Abbey, fully feeling her age for the first time. She knew that many considered her to be the ageless, feisty matriarch of the Crawley family, but today, she could feel every bad joint, every wrinkle, and every bit of grief. Looking up, she saw that Carson understood; Violet had never seen him look so old.
She said something to him about them having been through a lot together but that nothing had ever been worse than this, but the truth for them came between the words. The way he shuffled; the way the lines around his mouth and eyes grew more pronounced; the way he hid his pain behind his typical "carry on" stiff upper lip…
She teetered down the hall, the pain of it all forcing her to pause for a moment to gather her strength. As tears leaked out of her eyes, she accepted that this time, she would not be able to blame her tears and their results on a cold.
Not that Sybil would've believed that excuse anyway; her nurse's skills were too keen for that…
Thoughts of nurse's skills led her to wonder about Cousin Isobel. Where had she been?
If what I have heard is to be believed, the men stood around arguing and posturing while the women actually tried to accomplish something. Not that I believe this to be Robert's fault; the man he hired had such an impeccable reputation that I would've trusted him, too. But if Cousin Isobel had been there…
Violet might have been old, but her mind was still as sharp as ever.
Had Cousin Isobel been there, she might have been able to save Sybil's life by shifting the favor in Clarkson's direction.
Violet's memories retreated years ago to the overeager newcomer's plea to at least try to save that farmer's life by trying something new and unconventional. The words Martha Levinson had said after Violet had accused Americans of having no sense of tradition came back to Violet.
"Yes we do, we just don't give it power over us. History and tradition took Europe into a world war. Maybe you should think about letting go of its hand."
As much as she hated to give that dreadful woman credit for anything, Violet did have to admit that history and tradition had been partially responsible for the death of her granddaughter.
Branson felt the history and tradition of his surroundings pressing in on him, as much of a prison as the one poor Bates was stuck in. He acknowledged that he owed a lot to the Crawleys, and that his future—and more importantly, the future of his little girl—depended on them. As he held his newborn daughter, he looked out through the glass window that may as well have been iron bars.
He wanted nothing more than to flee Downton with the only Sybil he had left, to go back to Ireland with his family and friends where he belonged. Where we belong.
Branson could already imagine how things would be if he stayed here. The arguments, the tension, the blame, the hatred…and not just in them, he admitted. This place brings out the worst in me; it always has. Some of the things I've said to Sybil here, I never would've said in Ireland.
The walls closed in on Tom, and, like the character in that story by Poe he'd read years ago, he despaired of what would happen should he fall into the pit.
Bates at first attributed the new lines on his wife's face to something that he had caused, but the real reason for her sorrow shocked him out of such thoughts. He had always admired Lady Sybil and had regretted getting her in trouble all those years ago. Anna had claimed to have drawn courage from Lady Sybil's example of following her heart, so John felt a great deal of sadness about her passing.
And how she went…Maybe it's a good thing I'm locked up in here and Anna…"
"Stop it, John," Anna said firmly, startling him out of his waking nightmare.
"What do you mean?" he asked, putting on his best innocent face.
"I have loved you for nearly a decade, John, and I know that annoying gallant look you get when you're contemplating some noble sacrifice better than I wish I did."
"But what if—"
"If—and it's a big 'if'—it happened, then you would carry on and raise our child just like Tom is going to."
"But I could never live with myself if I caused your death that way."
"So you think Sybil's death is Tom's fault?"
"Of course not! But…"
"John, I love you ever so much, but when it comes to placing blame, your logic often makes about as much sense as the current status of British women's rights."
"It's a moot point anyway, right? I'm in here, and you're out there, and—"
"And someday soon, I am going to get you out of here, I am going to wear that scandalous garter I bought in the south of France, and I am going to spend a lot of time proving to you that I meant what I said years ago when I told you I was not a lady. And when the time comes—and when all of the times come—I will not assume the worst before it happens."
Silence reigned in the visiting room; John smiled when he realized that a few prisoners and their guests had decided that their discussions were not nearly as interesting as his and Anna's. He knew he should be concerned about Anna's reputation, but the news of Sybil's death made moments like this one all the more precious and such superficial concerns all the more meaningless.
Am I not as brave as Lady Sybil? She had defiantly said.
"Well then, you'd better get to it, Mrs. Bates." John said, smiling.
Anna's face fell as she contemplated her other errands. She would visit Mrs. Bartlett later, but first…
Gwen could not have been more surprised to see Anna at the door. The two had corresponded fairly regularly over the years since Gwen had left service, but they had drifted apart as life had grown more complicated. She had forged a successful career as a secretary, and she knew that Anna had finally married Mr. Bates only to have him snatched cruelly from her.
Inviting Anna in, Gwen noticed the drawn look on Anna's face. Her first thought was that something terrible had happened to her husband, but the way Anna was looking at Gwen caused dread to pool in her stomach. It was not the look of someone who desperately wanted to talk to someone about her own problems; it was the look of someone who did not want to talk to someone about something terrible.
As Anna haltingly told Gwen the truth, Gwen covered her face as if she could shut out the truth. She remembered celebrating getting her first job as a secretary with Sybil and Tom at that garden party, but most of all, she remembered the wonderful visit she'd had with the Bransons in Ireland only a few months ago. Sybil had been so radiant, so happy and full of joy at the prospect of having a child.
"Thank you for telling me," Gwen said at the end.
"I couldn't let you read it in a paper or hear it in the street," Anna said.
"You—all four of you—cared about me and believed in me when so few did. I'll never forget that."
Anna hugged Gwen, who wondered how many chances Anna had had to genuinely show her grief at that place. I have absolutely no regrets…
Daisy was glad that, as an assistant cook, she no longer had to lay fires upstairs.
Let Ivy deal with all of those ghosts, Daisy thought. Maybe the dead will talk to her instead, now that nobody uses that planchet no more.
Daisy knew that everyone thought she was simple, but she knew old Patmore well enough to know that she was seeing ghosts, too. Not that Lady Sybil would ever deliberately scare anyone, but sometimes Daisy would swear…
Oh well, there are so many ghosts in this house now that the addition of one more won't really matter.
Downton Abbey settled in for another night, its walls bearing witness once again to grief and mourning. It had seen more death and disaster than any house should have to, and its rooms and ceilings had been the last things far too many had seen. The house did not know if it believed in ghosts or not, but it knew that it would never forget the tread or the laugh of the sweet young lady who had died looking through its roof to the stars.