A/N: Here's my contribution for the S/T Valentine's exchange - just before the deadline ! This is for Syblime, who requested something with Sybil and Tom at least three years into their marriage reflecting back on their first valentine's day together. So I hope this fits the bill !
Downton, 1926
"Did she settle down ?"
Sybil looked up at her weary husband from her position curled up on the sofa with the Nursing Times as he came into the small but comfortable sitting room of the house that came with his job as Downton's land agent. He flopped down beside her, tossing the book he had been holding on the table in front of him. He reached automatically for one of his wife's feet and began casually rubbing his thumb into the sole. He could feel the bones and muscles supple just beneath the skin, like those of a small cat.
"Yes, eventually. I had to read the heffalump story twice !"
Sybbie had been ill with one of those terrifying childhood illnesses that blow in as violent as a storm, but are gone almost as soon as they come, leaving her tired, fractious and clingy. Sybil's second pregnancy was sufficiently advanced for her to have finished at the hospital, which meant she could look after her, but after several days with her Mama, tonight Sybbie demanded that her father read her bedtime story. Both Sybil and Tom took it as a sign she was on the mend.
"She prefers you to read to her. You can do the voices better than I can,"
"Jealous, milady ?' he asked, an eyebrow raised and the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Sybil pouted.
"No ! Well - maybe," she said, sinking deeper into the sofa and crossing her arms in front of her. "When she's hot and bothered and sick, she wants me, but as soon as she's feeling better, only Daddy will do,"
"Fickle child, " he smiled. "You're too good a nurse, that's the trouble ! Maybe this one will be a bit more appreciative, " he said, reaching over to rest his hand on her stomach. "How have you been today ?"
"Fit as a fiddle - which is just as well, given the number of times I've been up and down the stairs to satisfy madam up there !"
"She takes after you then," he teased.
"She does not !" She poked him in the stomach with a toe, making him yelp.
"Well, she doesn't get her demanding ways from my family !"
Sybil scowled at him and pulled her arms tighter to her chest.
"She may be a Branson, but there is a healthy dose of Crawley in our girl," he said, shaking his head, "you have to admit it !"
"No I don't !" she said, pulling a cushion from behind her and throwing at his head. A small but fierce tussle followed, which ended up with her firmly trapped in Tom's arms.
"Let me go !'
"Not until you behave ! See, this is where Sybbie gets it from...'
"Tom ! ...oouufff...let...me..."
"Ah ah, milady, no you don't..."
She struggled half heartedly for a few minutes longer, then gave up and collapsed against his chest. There they sat, content, with only the odd crack of the fire breaking the comfortable silence that had settled on the room.
"I'm sorry its not been a very exciting Valentine's day,"
"We've got a sick child," he said. "I think we can be forgiven for not being very romantic."
She turned in his arms and nestled her head a bit further to his chest, idling playing with a button on his waistcoat.
"When I was a little girl, I used to think being married was going to be so romantic," she smiled."I was going to meet a Prince, and he'd fall in love with me and whisk me off to his castle and we'd live happily ever after."
"And then you met the chauffeur and fell in love with him and he whisked you off to a tiny flat in Ireland instead."
"Which was even more romantic than I had imagined," she smiled.
"That freezing, tiny flat ?"
She nodded.
"I have very fond memories of that flat."
She felt his chest vibrate and looked up to see him grinning like a Cheshire Cat.
"Oh, so do I, love, so do I !"
Sybil just rolled her eyes.
"Honestly ! Is that all you can think about ? I loved that flat. It was the first home that felt it was truly mine. I still miss it sometimes."
He leant down to kiss the top of her head.
"Me too," he whispered. "And I'm so sorry that my foolishness meant you had to leave it and come back to Downton."
She stopped twisting the button.
"Don't be. Things have worked out for us. I love my life here. And who knows what would have happened if Sybbie had been born in Ireland ?"
"Still - all the same..."
She turned abruptly and sat up, extending an arm either side of his shoulders.
"Don't. That's all gone, Tom. What's done is done and there is no sense worrying about it. What's important is that our family is together and that we still love each other."
A small smile told her that he knew she was right. She burrowed down into the crook of his arm and held him tightly, breathing in the warm, heady smell of him, a slightly spicy smell of warm cotton shirt mixed with a tint of gunpower from the cartridges he's used to shoot rabbits for Mrs Patmore's pot. He pulled her tighter to him, so she colour feel his heartbeat, strong and steady underneath his waistcoat.
"We had our first proper Valentine's day in that flat."
He laughed at that and she felt him rest his chin on the top of her head.
"And that was very romantic - unblocking the sink !"
Dublin, 1920
The war had changed so many things, but she found that it was the trivial things that made it so impossible to remember what it had been like before. Before the War, Sybil had been a teenager and the most hopelessly romantic of her sisters. She benefitted from her position of being the youngest in her comparative lack of responsibility in terms of making a good match. Her parents would merely want to see her happy with someone suitable - the family's estate and connections would be secured by her two older sisters. Therefore Sybil had the greatest chance of marrying for love, and the temperament to be unhappiest without it. She wanted to have adventures, she wanted to fall in love and Valentine's Day had been a day for indulging in all of those dreams.
But then the war came along and suddenly the world became very real. Young men she had danced with and smiled at started dying. Dreams of romance had no place in this new world. She fell in love and learnt that it wasn't easy - that love is only the beginning of something, not the prize at the end of a story. Even though the soldiers in the convalescent home used to make Valentines to send home to their sweethearts, it had become a sombre day for Sybil - the idea of celebrating romance amidst all this death and destruction seemed foolhardy. Life and love had, like the war, become a serious business for her.
And of course she just couldn't make up her mind about Tom, so for years there was nothing to celebrate. And then when she did, everything happened so fast that she was married and pregnant with Sybbie before Valentine's day came round again. She was so happy it seemed almost redundant, but the opportunity to make a fuss of Tom in a way that she had never been able to at Downton was just too good to miss.
She wanted to buy him a present. Money was tight - she had given up her much-loved nursing job at the hospital and Tom, when he got paid at all, brought home barely enough to pay the rent and put food on the table. There was her monthly allowance from her father that helped, but Tom would not touch it for anything for himself. After the wedding Sybil had received a large cheque from her grandmother that Tom insisted she put in her own bank account and on no account use to pay the bills. That was for her to spend. And if she wanted to spend some of it on Tom, she thought, who was he to argue ?
She had decided on a small, pocket sized picture frame in which he could put pictures of the baby when he or she came, so that he could have a picture of his son or daughter always with him. She had already spotted one in the window of the Dublin branch of Smythson's of Bond Street, where her whole family had ordered their leather bound diaries and notebooks for a long as she could remember. It was green morocco leather, with three slots for photos, all folding in on one another to make something that would easily fit into a gentleman's pocket without spoiling the line of his suit. Not that Tom would worry about that, she smiled. She knew he kept a picture of her taken at their wedding in his wallet along with receipts, bank notes and odd bits of paper with notes scribbled on them. It would be nice for him to have something that would let him take his whole family with him wherever he went.
So the Wednesday before Valentine's day she boarded the tram across town and did a little window shopping in the smart part of Dublin before making her purchase. Her own clothes these days were practical ready made maternity wear from a small family run department store near where they lived, nothing as fancy as the smart dresses she saw in the huge windows of these shops. She had on her plain blue coat and hat and she looked like any other wife.
The assistant in Symthon's certainly thought so, giving her a cursory look as she entered the shop. It looked like it hadn't changed in twenty years. There was a glorious smell of leather mingling with the polished wood of the cabinets holding all manner of leather goods for gentlemen and ladies. Two rather smart looking women were already at the counter, looking at purses. Sybil idly wandered from display to display, waiting for the staff to notice her. The assistant stood behind the counter wearing a suit that looked as if it predated the war, with a stiff collar and tie. He was carefully adjusting a display of gentlemen's card cases and seemed not to notice her. She raised her hand gently, just to try and get his attention, but he seemed intent on his task, even though she was only ten feet away from him. She tried again, and this time caught the merest flicker of his eye towards her, but he didn't move. In the end she marched up to the counter and stood in front of him. Eventually, he looked up, taking in her plain, inexpensive coat and hat and pursed his lips together as he met her eye.
"Can I, er, help you, Madam ?"
There was an inflexion on the word Madam that assured Sybil that this young man had decided on her income, her education, her parentage and even possibly her address in the space of time it took him to look up from his cabinet. And she was incensed. How dare he decide that she couldn't afford to be there ! For the first time since she had come to Dublin, Sybil was grateful for her cut glass english accent.
"I am looking for a present for my husband."
The young man's eyes flew wide in surprise.
"Certainly, Madam," he said with a broad smile, obviously trying to cover up his faux pas. "Is there anything in particular ?"
Sybil pointed to the photograph frame and it was wrapped for her to take away. She couldn't help a satisfied grin as she wrote a cheque with a flourish and handed it over. The assistant took it meekly, stealing a stealthy glance down at the name before handing over her parcel. The bell over the door trembled as she pulled it open and swept out, making the other customers look up to see what all the fuss was about.
When she got home, she placed the parcel in the middle of the table, almost bouncing on her toes in excitement. She couldn't wait for Tom to come home so that she could give it to him. Originally she had planned to leave it by his plate at dinner, but she knew she just wouldn't be able to wait that long. Thoughts of dinner drew her to the kitchen. She had planned something specially for the occasion, even going as far to have written to Mrs Patmore for a particular recipe that she thought Tom would like.
Forty minutes later the dinner was in the oven and all she had to do was to clear up the kitchen. Finishing the washing up, she reached in to pull the plug in their old enamel sink.
Nothing happened. The dirty, greasy water rippled gently in front of her, quite happy with its lot. It wasn't going anywhere.
They'd had trouble with the drains before, but she could have done without this, today of all days. But she just gave a stoic sigh, rolled up her sleeves even further and dug around in the cupboard under the sink for the plunger.
Which is how Tom found her ten minutes later, applying a reasonable amount of force to the plunger, which was eliciting ugly, gurgling sounds from the sink. Dirty water was sloshing on the floor and Sybil's hair was falling in her face as she tried to make any impression on the blockage. Every attempt with the plunger was accompanied by a grunt that sounded very similar to the drain.
"Hello, darling."
She turned, brushing the hair out of her red, sweaty face with the back of her hand, only to see him leaning casually against the doorframe of the kitchen and grinning at her. He had one hand hidden behind his back.
"Tom ! Oh, I'm so glad to see you ! The wretched sink has blocked up again and I can't get anything to move !"
He leant over to kiss her on the nose.
"You look like you've been having quite a time of it. Something smells good though," he said, lifting his head to savour the smell
Sybil sighed in frustration.
"It's a boeuf bourguingnon. Mrs Patmore send me the recipe. It'll be ready in a minute. I wanted to have everything done for when you came home, and its was all going so well and then that bloody sink...'
His eyes raised at her language and smiled.
"Boeuf bourguingnon ? That sounds a bit special..."
"I wanted it to be special. It's our first Valentine's. Last year I was still hadn't really completely made up my mind, so..."
She was cut short by him kissing her.
"Happy Valentine's, Mrs Branson," he said, pulling a small but perfect bunch of roses from behind is back. "I know its not much..."
Sybil was quite overcome.
"Oh Tom, they're lovely ! Thank you so much !"
"I suspect you'll thank me even more for unblocking the sink," he said as he started to take off his jacket and unbutton his waistcoat.
But Sybil stilled his fingers with her own.
"Let's eat first. Before it ruins. But before that - I've got something for you."
Tom turned the small, expensively wrapped parcel over in hands, just looking at it.
"Go on - open it !" Her eyes were sparkling and she couldn't keep still with excitement. Slowly, he removed the wrapping paper and raised his eyebrows at the name on the box. He put it down on the table and very deliberately lifted the lid, then smoothed back the layers of tissue paper on top. A small, square of green morocco leather nestled beneath them. Sybil could stand it no longer and took it out to show him.
"it's for photographs," she explained, showing him the three little windows. "So when the baby comes you can take her with you wherever you go."
Tom looked up at her and all thoughts of how much it must have cost disappeared when he saw the depth of her smile and the eagerness in her eyes. A slow smile crept across his face.
"It's beautiful. I don't think I've ever owned anything so fine."
A small wrinkle appeared in the middle of her forehead.
"I know you'll probably think its very extravagant," she said, "but I used Granny's..."
"No buts," he said. "I love it."
They ate at the small table in the sitting room and shut the door on the mess in the kitchen. Once Tom had pushed back his chair, replete, they repaired back to the sink. Tom had several goes with the plunger whilst Sybil looked on, fascinated by the flex of the muscles in his forearms. But he made no more of a difference than she did, so he went to collect a spanner and a bucket to do battle with the U-bend of the sink.
So it turned out that much of their first Valentine's evening was spent with Tom lying on his back with his head under sink, whilst his wife sat on the kitchen table, her feet on one of their chairs, whilst they laughed about their day. Suddenly there was a yelp, followed by a stream of invective along with an ominous sucking noise. The smell of decaying matter spread outward into the room, like a silent, malignant mist. Sybil covered her nose.
"Ugh ! Are you alright, darling ?"
His head emerged from under the sink. Whatever that was blocking the sink was now liberally spread on his shirt, his face and even in his hair.
"Well, I think I found the problem," he said, turning a U shaped pipe upside down and letting a black, slimy paste dollop itself into the bucket next to him.
Sybil couldn't stop giggling, despite the awful smell.
"What is that ?"
"God knows, but my guess is that it's been there since the previous tenant !"
She slipped off the table and crouched next to him, her nose wrinkling in a most ladylike manner.
"You're covered in it. It's even in your hair ! I'll go and run you a bath," she said, suddenly getting up and striding towards the bathroom.
"Perhaps you can join me !" he called to her retreating back. She stopped at the door and turned back to look at him, her head on one side in mock contemplation.
"Hmmmm - only if you wash your hair first !"
Half an hour later, Tom heard the bathroom door click open and delicate footsteps pad across the floorboards. He opened one eye and caught a cascade of blue silk dressing gown fall to the floor beside him and Sybil's hips sway to the opposite end of the bath, where she proceeded to climb in and settle down between his legs. She turned around to smile at him. His wet hair was plastered to his head, throwing his features into a less familiar cast. He looked very much as he had done when he was first her father's chauffeur, only with a few more lines around the eyes. He pulled her back into his chest, his hand settling on the protrusion of her belly and buried his nose in her hair.
"I'm sorry my present wasn't as nice as yours," he said.
For an answer, she entwined her fingers with his and pressed their hands a little more firmly on her belly, turned around and kissed him.
"This is what you've given me, Tom. My child. My home. My life. What more could I ask for ?"
He thought a moment.
"Champagne ?"
And at that, Sybil had to laugh.