So, in an attempt to satisfy those of you who have written to me and asked what then happened immediately after Tom returned to Downton, well…
Chapter One
Return Of The Prodigal Son
As the summer sky continued inexorably to darken and the first few drops of rain began to fall, with the noise of the fair drifting towards them in the hot still air, together, the Bransons and the Crawleys strolled contentedly across the wide expanse of green lawn and towards the distant house; the happiness surrounding the two families being almost tangible.
Having promised faithfully to answer everyone's questions in due course, at least for the moment and understandably so, Tom only had eyes both for his beautiful dark haired wife and for his young family. By tacit, unspoken agreement he and Sybil together led the way back to the abbey. To everyone else following in their wake, it was obvious that for the present the two of them were all but lost in their own private world; heedless of all propriety, arm in arm, continuing their exchange of lingering, loving glances, hushed and whispered words of endearment, and a welter of gentle touches and soft kisses. As Sybil cradled Saiorse against her in one arm, her other was wrapped tightly around Tom's waist while, now wearing his father's cap, Tom had hoisted young Danny atop of his broad shoulders.
Behind the happy young couple walked the rest of the equally delighted family, among them the earl of Grantham, although Robert seemed completely oblivious to the fact that he was trailing behind the family's erstwhile chauffeur. However, if the present earl of Grantham had failed to notice the complete reversal of the social order, it had not escaped the vigilant eye of the Dowager Countess. Irrespective of dear Tom's antecedents, as lord and master here, in her view it should have been Robert leading the way back to the abbey.
This apart, several minutes earlier, on reaching Tom and Sybil, Robert had immediately taken a firm grasp of his Irish son-in-law's right hand and pumped it almost unceasingly, had repeated the words "My dear, dear boy!" over and over again. Then, when Tom had made some off the cuff remark about the fact that he supposed he would have to change for dinner, Robert had said that given what Tom must have been through that mattered not one whit. Thereafter, as Robert continued to beam from ear to ear, Violet had begun to wonder if her son had taken complete leave of his senses.
As she and Cousin Isobel slowly brought up the rear of the party, the Dowager Countess reflected sanguinely that to date there had been but one recorded case of incipient madness in the Crawley dynasty and that adroitly managed to the extent that no-one outside the immediate family knew anything about it.
Admittedly, it had all occurred two centuries ago, when a direct descendant of the eldest son of the second earl, he who had so disgraced himself by supporting the cause of Parliament in the Civil War, had begun to behave very oddly indeed. Had begun mixing great thoughtfulness and generosity towards his tenants and employees - for which read Branson - with a disarming degree of aloofness and arbitrary actions and behaviour towards his own family. The latter had taken a variety of forms amongst which was the habit of communicating with his two unmarried sisters who lived here with him at Downton only by letter delivered to them by a footman. So, if instead of asking her to dine each evening at the abbey, Robert started writing long rambling letters to her at the Dower House, Violet would know that the time had come to take matters firmly in hand which indeed might prove necessary as, rregrettably, there was, of course, precedent for these unfortunate lapses to resurrect themselves in later generations.
Nevertheless, one had to be thankful for small mercies; after all this was England not Bavaria and the Crawleys were not the Wittelsbachs. With Matthew and Mary now happily married and anticipating a happy event of their own, the succession to the earldom was apparently now secured. Of course, there was the slim chance that the expected, long-awaited son and heir might turn out be a girl but Mary was convinced her child would be a boy. In any case, if her first child was a girl, no doubt next time around, it would indeed be the requisite son and heir.
So, thought Violet, if, in due course it transpired that Robert had to be discretely taken away and confined at some remote location in order that the Crawleys did not become a topic of conversation, then so be it. Somewhere close at hand but, in order to preserve the family's reputation, also out of the county. The Northumberland County Lunatic Asylum, just across the border in the county of the same name, would do very well indeed; failing that, if Robert could be managed, if necessary kept sedated, then, perhaps, somewhere closer to home, say, the North Riding County Asylum at Clifton near York.
Of course, Cora on the other hand could be forgiven for her open display of affection towards the returned Irish prodigal upon his wholly unexpected reappearance but then, after all, she was an American. As Violet had closely observed, Cora had indeed been visibly much overcome by Tom's unexpected return, had been openly demonstrative of the fact but this had far more to do with something else and nothing whatsoever with what Violet ascribed to be a regrettable consequence of what she herself saw as her daughter-in-law's unfortunate colonial antecedents.
While, naturally, Robert had tried to spare her the details of what had happened at Allihies, whatever Violet's opinion of her, Cora was no fool. Seeing how overcome her husband had been by the news conveyed to him by Matthew contained in the letter he had received from Lieutenant Bentley at the Victoria Barracks in Cork, intuitively she had realised that Robert was keeping something back from her; especially when he had said there was no hope of Tom being found alive. That being the case, Cora had pressed Robert to tell her exactly what it was that had happened. When, finally, she learned what had come to pass at the abandoned mine at Allihies over on the far west coast of Ireland, seated in her bedroom Cora had been utterly appalled and horrified.
"Alive you say?" Her hand had flown to cover her mouth. She had felt sick to the very pit of her stomach. "How could anyone do such a terrible thing?"
"Matthew described it as man's inhumanity to man," had replied Robert and nodding his head in sad affirmation of the fact whereupon having had already to break the terrible news to Sybil upstairs, he had then broken down completely as Cora herself burst into heart-rending cries.
Now, in their shared grief, not only for the death of darling Tom but also for Sybil and her children, let alone their own individual sense of loss, together, enfolded in each other's arms, in an attempt to console each other, Robert and Cora had held each other tightly. Their embrace did little to muffle the sound of their shared sobbing, of which, on this occasion both remained entirely heedless, as together completely distraught, they had mourned for the son-in-law whose engagement and marriage to their youngest daughter they had both, albeit for different reasons, once bitterly opposed.
A short while later, having done her very best to compose herself, in her own grief realising that it must be nothing as compared to what darling Sybil herself must be experiencing, red-eyed from weeping, Cora had gone upstairs and knocked quietly on the door of the day nursery, praying that Nanny Bridges and whom she herself had engaged, would not be in attendance.
"Come in," called Sybil, her voice to Cora sounding clear and, all things considered, both surprisingly firm and resolute.
Opening the door and then closing it swiftly behind her, on the threshold of the nursery, Cora paused. Across the large, airy room, over by the window, through which there streamed bright sunshine somehow both at variance with and belying the enormity of what had happened, both outwardly calm and composed, there sat Sybil in her nurse's uniform. With Saiorse in her arms, while in front of her little Danny played contentedly on the floor with a group of wooden farm animals which Cora knew had once belonged to Tom when he was a child, the three of them all made the perfect picture of a young working mother and her children. Of course neither Danny nor Saiorse had any idea what had occurred; that their father would never return. Saiorse of course would have no memory whatsoever of Tom, but with Danny it was different, for, although the little boy was but scarce a year old, from Sybil, Cora had learned that father and son had been especially close.
And yet, in the face of the appalling news from Ireland, as re-laid to her by her father instead of dissolving into tears, Sybil had remained dry-eyed throughout; had, said Robert, remained remarkably and unaccountably composed. And, it was now on entering the day nursery that Cora herself saw this to be so. There sat Sybil sat, talking to little Danny or else quietly staring out of the window; had not, as might have been expected, resorted either to wailing or to lamentations. No doubt she was as utterly appalled as Cora herself had been. But when Sybil slowly turned her head, Cora saw that the expression on her daughter's face was not one of grief at all. Sybil seemed… unmoved? No, that was not it either. What then? And, now, as she considered the matter further, Cora remembered something else which Sybil had told her during one of their many recent fireside chats.
Following Tom's disappearance, with Skerries House having been burned to the ground, following Sybil's return here to Downton, most evenings sitting for some time on their own together in Sybil's old bedroom, before Saiorse had been born and with Danny sleeping peacefully beside her in his cot, from her youngest daughter, the countess of Grantham had learned a very great deal of what had befallen Tom and Sybil while they lived at Skerries. She now knew all there was to know of what had happened there to Tom when he was but little more than a boy, how his cousin Maeve had tried to use him as an innocent scapegoat to conceal her incestuous passion for her brother Christopher and of the child that had been born of that illicit union.
What had become subsequently of Maeve, Sybil had known nothing until, some time after her return here to Downton, when Matthew had gently explained to her of what he had learned of the shooting at the Imperial Hotel in Cork which had killed a British officer named Stathum and his fiancée. Not that Sybil had shed a tear for either of them; Captain Miles Stathum, as Mary and Edith could well attest had been an exceedingly unpleasant individual who had done his very best to make Tom's life as difficult as possible for reasons which Sybil did not full understand although, of course, for the present, she knew nothing of the part Stathum had played in Tom's disappearance. As for Maeve, given how she had so abused and hurt Tom, Sybil shed not a single tear; as you sow, so shall you reap. She did, however, spare a thought for the young lad she had seen at the farm, wondered if he knew what had happened to his real mother. Still, with Skerries burned and Maeve now dead, all that was now in the past. Leave it so.
The overwhelming impression that Cora gained from her fireside chats with Sybil was just how undeniably well suited she and Tom had been. How could any of them here at Downton, herself included, not have seen this to be so? Horrified as Cora had been to learn finally the full extent of how as an orphan, Tom had been both abused and appallingly treated by those who should have protected him, she drew comfort from the fact that once he was happily married to Sybil, the memory of what he had suffered had begun to fade, eventually passed beyond the point of recall and no longer had the power to hurt him.
The picture that Sybil painted for her mother was of a couple who were absolutely devoted to each other and who trusted each other implicitly. Without any embarrassment, Sybil had said that each night, as they drifted off to sleep, it was Tom's name that she whispered and he, in turn, hers; it was Tom's blue eyes that met hers each morning and Sybil would not have changed any of it for the world. That Tom loved Sybil deeply and that she in turn adored him, that they were pledged to each other, heart and soul, Cora already knew to be the case. That they shared an intense physical need of each other, something which, on the morning of Mary's marriage to dearest Matthew, Cora herself had described as "fun", again without embarrassment, Sybil now readily admitted to her mother; a passion that was, she said, at times overwhelming. Tom had but to smile at her, to touch her however chastely, even just to glance at her across a crowded room and she would find herself suffused with an irresistible desire for him; something which she could never see changing, even as they grew old.
"Was this how it was for you and Papa?" asked Sybil softly as having crossed the room to check on little Danny, she returned to sit by the fire. In the quiet of the lamp lit bedroom, Cora had stared intently into the flames for a few moments before replying. She lifted her head and then ghosted a smile.
"Don't embarrass…" Cora began but then, unexpectedly, she stopped what she had been about to say; instead looked directly at her youngest daughter. Sybil had been candid with her and she deserved an honest answer in return.
"That part of our marriage, has always been… satisfactory but have either your Papa or I ever experienced the depth of feelings for each other that you and Tom share?" Cora gently shook her head. "No, never but then I suspect that few couples are as blest as the two of you have been".
This frank exchange on the more intimate aspects of a marriage apart, much of what Cora also learned during her evening talks with Sybil was of mundane things: in summer of Tom repairing his newly acquired motorcycle by the front steps of Skerries House and when the opportunity permitted it, their shared long walks together, arm in arm, along the wide sweep of the sea strand down below the sea girt mansion and, if Danny came with them, as he almost invariably did, paddling at the water's edge, looking for shells and Tom skylarking about in one of the many rock pools; of the occasional trip by train into Cork and of the bustling, lively city as it had been, with a visits to both the thriving English Market and its many, colourful stalls selling all kinds of merchandise and then before they caught the train back to Skerries Road spending time at one of Tom's favourite haunts, the Carnegie Library, just off Albert Quay and which had been destroyed in the burning of Cork on the same night that Tom had vanished.
In winter the scenes Sybil conjured were perforce confined to indoors but because of that made even more homely: the warm, lamp lit kitchen of the decaying house, with, on a wild wet night, she and little Danny seated together by the range eagerly awaiting Tom's return and then the three of them seated together around the scrubbed table enjoying their evening meal. Of the cosy domesticity of them both sitting in the drawing room, she beside the fire darning his socks - at the image that evoked, Cora had indeed lofted a brow; Tom at his desk, typing out yet another article, to send back to distant Dublin; explaining with a rueful smile that at times, Tom's language became somewhat colourful, especially when he found himself lost for a word or a phrase or else when his thoughts on something ran away with themselves before he could get everything down on paper.
And there had been that something else too.
Sybil had spoken with a complete and unassailable conviction that she and Tom shared such a perfect understanding that Sybil was convinced that if anything had indeed happened to him, she would have known about it; would have received some sign but that even then death would not end their union. They were, she said, bound to each other for eternity.
Of course, Cora's upbringing railed against such a fanciful notion but on reflection, who was she, someone who as a young girl had been despatched across the Atlantic to marry a man she did not love, in fact scarcely even knew; her fortune to be used to shore up the crumbling foundations, almost in a literal sense, all in exchange for an aristocratic title, that of countess of Grantham. That she and Robert had reached their own form of understanding was to be commended but if something happened to Robert would she herself know? Cora thought not. They did not and never would share the same depth of passion that clearly existed between dearest Tom and darling Sybil.
Naturally, the Dowager Countess knew nothing of the heartfelt conversation between her own daughter and youngest grand daughter which had chanced to pass one evening in Sybil's bedroom; indeed Violet never would and, for that matter, neither would anyone else.
However, it was because of that conversation, that when Tom had reappeared so unexpectedly before them all, Cora alone knew how much his longed for, safe return would mean to Sybil; knew too how deeply and passionately he cared for her, knew how complete Sybil's life was made by him and it was for this reason that the welcome home Cora extended to darling Tom had been so fervent. So, as the countess of Grantham and the others followed slowly in the wake of Tom and Sybil, he dressed in the rough clothes of a working man, she in her nurse's uniform, the two of them arm in arm, carrying their children, seeing them so openly demonstrative in their feelings, the loving glances, the gentle touches, the soft kisses and as they walked, Sybil's head resting contentedly against Tom's broad shoulder, Cora nodded to herself seeing in all of this merely visible confirmation of all that Sybil had told her.
As for Matthew, he was absolutely delighted by his best friend and brother-in-law's seemingly miraculous return from the dead; was eager to learn more, as indeed were they all, as to how Tom had survived what had happened to him and the other prisoners at Allihies and moreover, where on earth it was Tom had been for the last six months so as to prevent any trace of him having been found, either by the British military authorities or else by the private detective agency which Matthew had engaged. He was positively delighted to see Tom looking fit and well, sunburnt and obviously full of both health and vitality. There was more to all of this that met the eye and Matthew was agog to hear what Tom had to tell.
After his exemplary, not to say heroic conduct here at Downton on the night of the fire, that Tom was thoroughly dependable and resourceful, Matthew did not doubt. By his unselfish actions, Tom had shown that to one and all and in the process earned the grateful, heartfelt thanks of the entire family, Matthew included. Yet even if each knew the other to be both thoroughly decent and honourable too, saw in the other a kindred spirit, considered him to be the brother he had never had, if the truth be told, Matthew was somewhat in awe of Tom. After all, both he and Sybil had had the courage of their convictions to do what they had done. Would he and Mary have dared to flout convention and propriety? Matthew some how doubted that. No, be honest; they would not have done. Mary cared greatly what people thought and so too, albeit to a far lesser extent, did Matthew himself.
This apart, Matthew could not have been happier; while shaking him warmly by the hand, had ribbed Tom good-naturedly about his lack of sartorial elegance and had told him he needed a good shave. What was more, although judging by the way he and Sybil were looking at each other, Tom might well have other plans and who could blame him if he had, after dinner, if Tom was up for it, Matthew was looking forward to a decent game of billiards; his aristocratic father-in-law having proved a lacklustre opponent.
Besides which, with Mary expecting their first child, Matthew had some questions to ask in private of Tom and which he felt only he could answer. After all, he could hardly broach the subject with Robert who, while doting on his three daughters, had proved rather hopeless at the whole business of fatherhood, especially as his little girls grew and then matured into three spirited young women. Both Sybil and Tom appeared to have taken to parenthood like ducks to water. Watching Tom as he walked along with little Danny sitting on his shoulders merely served to re-affirm this and it was obvious to Matthew that his brother-in-law was very comfortable with the realities of fatherhood; just as Sybil had taken to motherhood as if it had been created for her.
Both Mary and he had been desperate to start a family, something which seemed to have caused Tom and Sybil no problem whatsoever. With Mary and he though, the matter of it had not proved so straightforward and when things did not go as planned there had been all those embarrassing tests and questions to which both of them had to submit, although, once the problem had been identified and Mary had undergone a minor surgical procedure, not long afterwards she had fallen pregnant so they must have been doing something right! And, to slightly misquote Shakespeare, Matthew now fervently hoped that all which had, eventually, started well would, in due course, end well too.
However, while Matthew had been very much smitten with the idea of becoming a father, he had soon realised that the reality of it, when it sunk in, was proving somewhat different to how he had imagined it to be. Like Tom, his own father had died young and like Tom he too had been an only child so there had been no-one to ask about certain… matters. There, of course, the similarity between the two of them ended. Living rough on the streets of Dublin, in order to survive, Tom had learned how to fend for himself, something which Matthew had never had to do. As a result, at a comparatively early age, Tom had become worldly wise in all manner of things, some of which he had imparted to his best friend and brother-in-law, some of which he had not. But just now, having seen ample evidence of how good Tom was proving at coping with the demands of fatherhood, if this evening's chat with him materialised it would, thought Matthew, help to put his mind at rest and dispel the feelings of total inadequacy he had at the prospect of becoming a father. However, knowing Tom's sense of humour, no doubt to begin with, Tom would do his very best to make Matthew feel he was even more hopeless than he imagined himself to be.
As they now neared the house, Matthew found himself smiling broadly.
He had never had the courage to ask Mary exactly what the difficulty had been which had prevented her from conceiving a child in the first place and, even if his nerve had not failed him in this regard, he would have thought it quite indelicate to do so. On the other hand, had Sybil experienced such a problem, then he had no doubt whatsoever that both she and Tom would have been quite open with each other and, given the fact that she was a nurse, they would probably have sat up late into the night discussing it all. Although from what Tom had told him, it was likely that they would have been otherwise occupied in the active pursuit of far more pleasurable nocturnal activities!
As Mary had said to Sybil, while they were both sitting outside the old garage, she owed an enormous debt of gratitude to her brother-in-law and when, like darling Matthew, she had believed Tom dead, Mary had been utterly distraught; knew that Sybil would be utterly bereft without him and then, when he reappeared before them all on the lawn, she had been overjoyed.
In the dreadful aftermath of the bomb explosion at the Shelbourne Hotel, Mary's opinion of Tom had undergone a complete volte face. As she had freely admitted to Sybil, not only had he had the courage to tell her a few home truths about herself, but he had also shown himself to be a true gentleman in every sense of the word; as well as physically and morally courageous. She thought back to how he had rescued Sybil and Edith in the aftermath of the explosion, how later, single-handedly he had stood up to the might of the British Army when soldiers had raided the cèilidh held after Tom and Sybil had been married and how here at Downton he had guided and shepherded all the family to safety across the icy leads of the abbey roof. Moreover, he had proved to be what Sybil had always said he was, deeply loving of her and now a wonderful father to their two children.
Long ago, Mary had come to realise that she and Tom were in fact kindred spirits. Both were passionate about what they believed in and were equally pragmatic when it came to finding a way of accommodating each other here at Downton. And for both of them, family meant everything and, given the fact that by marriage Tom was very much part of her family, Mary knew in her heart that, come what may, she would fight tooth and nail to defend him. That said, as with Matthew, Mary often found Tom's sense of humour to be not only unintelligible but also unpredictable. Even so, when those two "boys", as Mama laughingly referred to them, were together in the billiards room after dinner, both Sybil and Mary were in agreement: they would dearly like to be the proverbial fly on the wall to hear what was being said about them by their husbands.
And it was Tom's sense of humour that had risen decidedly to the fore when he had greeted Mary this afternoon upon his return. Picking up on her father and husband's observations about Tom's decided lack of sartorial elegance, after the warmest of embraces, Mary had stood back and looked Tom up and down. She smiled. No wonder Sybil had fallen for him; for, Matthew apart, darling Tom had to be the handsomest man she had encountered. Mary's eyebrows twitched expressively.
"Did you lose your suitcase on the way over, Tom?" she asked, trying desperately to keep a straight face. Dressed in the height of fashion, wearing an elegant black and white dress, which did nothing to disguise the bulk of her advancing pregnancy, Mary looked radiant; impending motherhood suited her. Tom grinned.
"And I thought penguins only lived in Antarctica!"
Matthew chuckled and slipped his arm around his wife's waist, pulling her close.
"Yes, she does look rather like a penguin, doesn't she?"
Honestly! Mary raised her eyes and sighed with resignation. She should have known better. When these two were together…
After Sybil, Edith had been the next member of the family to greet Tom. Having handed Saiorse to Sybil, when Tom had finished becoming acquainted with his little daughter, he had placed her gently in Sybil's arms. Looking up he saw Edith regarding him furtively and through downcast eyes. Well aware of how much she cared for him, in turn, Tom was very fond of Edith; recognised her true nature and hoped that one day she would find someone to love her as much as he loved Sybil.
"Edith?" Seeing the tears glistening in her eyes, Tom opened his arms wide and without further ado she walked forward into the warmth of his embrace, content as but minutes earlier, Sybil had been, just to be held. She rested her head against his chest.
"Tom, darling…" As Tom continued to hold her, Edith got no further with words. Her voice faltered and her eyes misted with tears. Well, let them, she thought.
"Bí i do thost anois, a rúnsearc," Tom murmured softly and kissing her gently on the forehead. Conscious of where they were, they drew slowly apart, Tom continuing to regard Edith thoughtfully and to hold her lightly by the hands. He grinned broadly.
"So then, do I take it then, that you missed me?" He chuckled.
"What do you think? Welcome home, dearest Tom!"
As Tom turned to speak with both granny and to Cousin Isobel, for a long moment, as Mary had done before her, Edith regarded her Irish brother-in-law thoughtfully.
Despite all of what had happened over there in Ireland, all the terrible heartache that Sybil had suffered, Edith would, in an instant, gladly have changed places with her youngest sister; knew that if Tom had asked her to do so, had he been there to meet her, she would have walked barefoot in her nightgown all the way to Constantinople. Edith envied Sybil her good fortune; truly, she did, now recalling to mind how it was in the magnificent splendour of the dining room of the Shelbourne Hotel, just after Mary had left, even before the bomb had exploded, that, having heard Tom's declaration of love for Sybil, she herself had first come to really appreciate him; could, even now, recall the very words he had spoken which had touched her heart:
"I love your younger sister. I always have. I absolutely adore her. I love her to distraction. I want to spend the rest of my life with her, want to have children with her. There never has been … there never, ever, could be, anybody for me, but Sybil".
To have found someone like Tom who loved her to distraction and whom she truly adored, Sybil was very lucky indeed. To love and be loved in return were the greatest of all possible gifts. Unexpectedly, Edith found herself thinking back, further in time to that long gone night at the Swan Inn; to the moment just before the three of them returned here to Downton, to the look of pure love she had seen then on Sybil's face as she had gazed at Tom across the dimly lit hotel bedroom. Edith hoped desperately that one day someone would look upon her that way.
There was, of course, that Austrian archaeologist, at the Archaeological Institute in Vienna, who had seemed to take an interest in her and whom she had first seen at the reception given for Professor Franz Studniczka from the University of Leipzig and who she had encountered again at a series of lectures given by Professor Karl Watzinger on the excavations of synagogues in Galilee. Not that they had been introduced, let alone spoken; Friedrich somebody or other… a man of considerable private means so it was said, who owned a beautiful estate, somewhere south of the Austrian capital. Edith sighed. If only Tom…
No, it did not do to dwell upon the past, so, instead, Edith summoned up a smile that belied her own inner feelings. As she raised her head, she found Matthew's eyes upon her. He smiled and nodded, recalling to mind what she had said to him earlier that same day up on Rylestone Ridge while they sat their horses on the edge of Bluebell Wood overlooking the railway; knew instinctively that for Edith, Tom's homecoming was bittersweet; a two-edged sword.
Knowing just how happy he made her youngest grand daughter, the Dowager Countess of Grantham was equally delighted to see the safe return here to Downton of her Irish grandson-in-law. Not that Violet was as effusive as some other members of the family had been in her welcome of Tom. While she was, as she had freely admitted, a woman of many parts, effusiveness was not in her nature. Nonetheless, she was genuinely glad to see him; would never forget how bravely and selflessly he had acquitted himself over there in Ireland at the Shelbourne Hotel and also here at Downton on the night of the fire; circumstances which would have unnerved a lesser man. How was it that Kipling had put it?
If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs…
And, there were, reflected Violet, more lines in that same poem which also could apply to Tom:-
If you can dream and not make dreams your master;
If you can think and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same…
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings nor lose the common touch...
Yes, Tom was undoubtedly someone who seemed able to relate to one and all. Not that Violet really approved of anyone having the common touch. Social distinctions needed to be maintained. Still, times had changed and things were not as they once were. That Tom could be relied upon was obvious, as indeed was the fact that he was every inch a man. Even at nearly four score years and ten Violet could see that, so no wonder darling Sybil had fallen for him and it was very clear that he absolutely doted upon her. Was it any surprise then that…
Discretely, Violet regarded Edith. It was high time that she found someone of her own. Not that Violet altogether blamed her younger grand-daughter; after all, dear Tom was undeniably handsome. It was now though, as the Dowager Countess regarded her Irish grandson-in-law through her lorgnette that she noticed something she had not realised before. The more she watched him, the more she realised that Tom reminded her of someone from her past; someone whom she had not thought of in years and who, as a young woman, she had met long ago, in St. Petersburg. The resemblance was indeed quite startling; yes, give Tom a haircut and put him in the uniform of an officer of the elite Preobrazhensky Regiment and there he was: Captain Alexei Sheremetev, a scion of one of the noblest and wealthiest families of Old Russia.
Violet and her late husband had travelled there to Russia, as guests of the Sheremetevs and to witness the splendour of the coronation of the late Tsar's father, Alexander III, early in the summer of 1883. Good Lord! That had been a lifetime ago and nearly half a century had passed since she herself had trod the broad pavements of the Nevsky Prospect in St. Petersburg ; Violet found herself now wondering how many of the people she had met and the beautiful places she had visited had survived the traumatic upheaval of the violent revolution that had swept Russia in 1917 and brought down the centuries old Romanov dynasty. If Alexei was still alive, why, he would be an old man now. No, it did not do to become maudlin and dwell on the past. Violet heard Sybil laughing; watched, as placing his workman's cap on the little boy's head, Tom now hoisted his giggling son, Violet's great grandson, onto his broad shoulders. The Dowager Countess smiled. Before her, in the guise of a lively sixteen month old baby boy there beckoned the future; so, time to bid farewell to the past.
Isobel Crawley was as delighted as anyone in the family by Tom's unexpected reappearance. After such a long absence, especially after the terrible news from Ireland when all had believed the very worst, Isobel was overjoyed that Tom had returned alive and well to Downton; not only for the sake of darling Sybil and the children, but also for Matthew's sake too. After all, Isobel knew very well just how much her son Matthew had grown both to admire and to respect Tom, thought of him as the brother he had always so much wanted and never had; knew too, more than anyone, Mary excepted, just how devastated Matthew had been by the dreadful news from Ireland when it was believed Tom had been killed and in the most appalling circumstances imaginable.
Isobel was also aware that Matthew did not give his friendship easily. At both preparatory and public school he had cut rather a diffident, solitary figure while during the war, as a captain in the army, Matthew had kept himself very much to himself. Put simply, he was, by nature, both quiet and reticent. So, for Tom to have drawn Matthew so much out of himself and for the two men to have become such close friends in such a comparatively short space of time said a very great deal about the softly spoken Irishman. Naturally, Isobel would dearly have loved to have had more children, but after giving birth to Matthew, sadly, no others had followed. So, given the fact that long ago she herself had recognised the inherent decency in Tom Branson, in a way Isobel herself had come to look upon him as the second son she had never had.
Having given the small package for Lady Sybil directly into the hands of its intended recipient, Mrs. Hughes had returned straightway to the house. A short while later, just as the family ambled slowly back across the lawn, the housekeeper came up from below stairs in search of Mr. Carson whom she found in the hall, attending to the afternoon's post.
"Mr. Carson, about this evening's…" she began and then stopped in mid-sentence, like the earl of Grantham but a short while earlier, disbelieving the very evidence of her own eyes. "Oh, my, will you look Mr. Carson!" Mrs. Hughes now pointed excitedly in the direction of the group of people crossing the gravel towards the house. The old butler followed the direction of the housekeeper's gaze and seeing who she had seen, metaphorically speaking, his jaw dropped several inches towards the ground.
"It can't be…" he blustered.
Moments later, just as the storm which had been threatening at last broke overhead, led by Tom and Sybil, he with little Danny still sitting on his shoulders and she with Saiorse in her arms, the entire family reached the front door of the abbey. Seeing the old butler and housekeeper standing together side by side at the entrance to the house, Tom remained impassive; nodded his head as if he had just ambled up to the abbey from the village and which, at least in one sense, it could be argued, was exactly what he had done.
"Hello, Mr. Carson, Mrs. Hughes," Tom said and in the most prosaic of tones.
For his part, after a lifetime spent in domestic service, Mr. Carson was not one who allowed either emotion or personal feelings ever to cloud his judgement or to interfere with the performance of his hallowed duties as butler here at Downton Abbey and, even with a clearly overjoyed Mrs. Hughes standing beside him, nor did he do so now.
"Good afternoon, sir. And may I say that I am certain that I speak for everyone here on the domestic staff, Mrs. Hughes and myself included, when I tell you that we are very glad to see you safe and sound and looking so well".
At that, Tom broke into a smile and nodded his head again.
"Thank you, Mr. Carson. I'm very glad to be back, for sure".
Author's Note:
From 1180-1918, the Wittelsbachs were the ruling house of Bavaria. Some of its members were decidedly odd, among them Ludwig II (1845-1886) who succeeded to the throne when he was eighteen years old, formed a close friendship with the composer Wagner and proceeded to spend all the royal revenues on lavish artistic and architectural projects. Ludwig was subsequently deposed in 1886 on the grounds of insanity. If, as some assert, Ludwig was not insane, modern opinion is agreed that his younger brother Otto (1848-1916) was an undiagnosed schizophrenic.
Professor Franz Studniczka (1860-1929) was a German professor of classical archaeology who had studied in Vienna.
Professor Karl Watzinger (1877-1948 was a German born archaeologist and a member of the Austrian Archaeological Institute.
The lines quoted by Violet come from Rudyard Kipling's well-known poem, "If".
The Preobrazhensky Regiment was one of the oldest of the elite regiments in the Russian Imperial Army. Disbanded in 1917 in the aftermath of the Russian Revolution, it was reformed in 2013.
Before the Russian Revolution, the Sheremetevs were indeed one of the wealthiest and influential noble families in Russia. There may well have been an Alexei somewhere in the family tree!
The Nevsky Prospect was then the main thoroughfare in St. Petersburg.