Ever since a fatal fire in 1924, Downton Abbey sat abandoned and, according to many in the nearby town . . . haunted.

A few years after the fire, the Grantham line was thought to have died out. The government seized the estate, but left the house and its immediate surroundings intact. The local MP, a liberal but sentimental sort, gained temporary custody of it in the hope that it would be bought and preserved—or used in some meaningful way that would benefit the county.

But a buyer never materialized. The MP then assigned an aide to look into the family genealogy to see if a living heir could be found. After a few weeks of half-hearted investigating, the aide found nothing and passed the work on to a colleague. Over the years, the assignment gained notoriety among the MP's staff and was usually given to the newest hire, who'd toil away for several weeks until he or she was given a better, more fruitful task.

Ten years later, the house still stood, but a shadow of its former self. And still haunted.

Tom Branson—a former chauffeur to a prominent family in York and a socialist with political aspirations—first became acquainted with the property when he was hired by the MP. But unlike the many who'd been given the assignment before him, he was blessed with an unrelenting curiosity, an investigator's instincts and, above all, stubbornness.

It took him all of two months to find a living heir, a Manchester solicitor by the name of Matthew Crawley, who along with his mother, immediately took an interest in the MP's cause to rebuild the house and use it for some worthwhile purpose. Tom hadn't bothered to tell him all the ghost stories, because he didn't believe in such things … until the day he stepped into the house.

Her eyes were so blue, Tom felt hypnotized from the moment she looked at him. He'd thought he'd seen someone in the upstairs hallway when was walking alone up there earlier, but it was dark. It wasn't until he stepped into the library that he caught her, seemingly unawares and looked into her eyes. He approached slowly and directly, but felt as if he were in a trance. Just as he'd opened his mouth to say something, she moved quickly past him, never taking her gaze off him. She came close enough that he thought her real but something about being in that dreary old house, something ethereal in her expression that made him question his senses. After she'd passed him, he turned quickly. Already in the hallway, she looked back at him, put her finger over her lips, as if telling him to keep quiet, and then was out of his sight.

Tom felt cold and warm inside at the same time. He ran to follow her, but she was gone.

He looked around for a few moments, but decided it was his imagination all along and proceeded outside to the front yard, where Mr. Matthew Crawley, whom he'd brought to the house for the first time that morning, was already waiting for him.

"Sorry about that . . . I had, um, a funny encounter. I thought I saw . . . " Tom scratched his head. "I'm honestly not sure."

"Oh," Matthew replied with a smile. "Was it the ghost of Lady Sybil?"

"The ghost of who?"

"Lady Sybil . . . haven't you heard the story? I suppose I assumed everyone had. I met with the old man who used to be the butler of the place yesterday. He told me all about it."

"I've heard people say it was haunted, but I've never paid attention to it, to be honest."

"I can't say how much of what he told me was true. His mind comes and goes, according to his caretaker, but he knows everything about this house—at least everything that I saw today was just as he described. He worked here for decades before retiring to the village."

"Who was Lady Sybil?" Tom asked. "I never read much about the women of the family, since the lineage that only mattered back then, in so far as inheritance was concerned, was the male line."

"According to Mr. Carson, Lady Sybil had just been born when her father and sisters perished on the Titanic. The heir to the estate was the earl's first cousin, Patrick Crawley. He was still a very young man then, so he allowed Lady Sybil and her mother to stay here, but the death of her husband and daughters drove Lady Grantham slightly mad. They lived together here most unhappily for 12 years until the fire of 1924. Carson said Lady Sybil was a sweet precocious child—the staff and everyone in the village was apparently very fond of her."

"Well, I know Patrick Crawley drank himself to death a few years later and that's when the government and my boss got involved, but why should the young girl haunt the place, if she was so well liked? I would think her mad mother would make for a better ghost story."

"Her body was never found," Matthew said. "Over the years, there's been squatters staying here, so smoke will come out of the chimneys and such, which concerned Carson a great deal, but he said the villagers all turned a blind eye to it and said it was the young girl still playing in the house, finally happy that she was alone and free."

Tom thought for a moment. "Well, that wasn't who I saw."

"Oh, no?"

"You say Lady Sybil died when she was 12. The person I saw was . . . a woman." Tom looked back at the gloomy house again. "No, it was probably just my imagination."

After their visit to the house, Matthew Crawley had taken the afternoon train back to Manchester. Tom, who had additional constituent work to do for the MP, spent the rest of the day doing that and then stayed at a local inn, the Grantham Arms, where he had a restless night's sleep. Under different circumstances, he might have attributed it to not sleeping in his own bed. But the fact was, he could not get the image of that woman, her eyes, out of his head.

The following morning, as Tom settled the bill with the innkeeper, a humorless looking man with dark hair, Tom asked him about the ghost in the abbey. The man was named Thomas Barrow, or so Tom had learned the previous evening, and he looked likely in his 40s. He cast a stern expression at Tom and looked him up and down suspiciously.

"I'd stay away from there, if I were you," he said.

Tom smirked. "So you believe the stories?"

"Stay. Away."

Tom narrowed his eyes, wondering why the man was acting so defensive. "I work for Mr. Keating, your MP. I've just brought the new owner of the house to see it, and I guess I was just curious."

"What do you mean new owner?"

"Didn't you hear? A Grantham heir was found—a distant relation to the last earl, fifth cousin, once removed. He'll be taking it over in a few weeks, plans to turn it into a refuge for downtrodden women and children. At least, that's the plan. His mother will run the place."

For whatever reason, this news was very distressing to the innkeeper, who rushed Tom out of the place without saying anything more.

Once outside, Tom fought the urge to walk back to the house. He had several hours to kill before his train back to York, but he wondered how advisable it would be to go back alone. He had explored much of the house alone the day before, with Mr. Crawley, but having heard of the likely presence of squatters, and seeing what he had seen, he wasn't so sure now. He had just about tamped down his curiosity, and convinced himself simply to head to the train station to wait, when he saw the innkeeper leave the Grantham Arms in what seemed like a great hurry.

Without another thought Tom followed him leaving enough distance between them so as not to reveal himself. Tom couldn't put his finger on what had bothered him about the innkeeper, but something about his insistence that Tom not return to Downton Abbey had left him scratching his head. The innkeeper walked for several minutes and ended up at a row of cottages not too far from the village center. He knocked on the door of one and went inside. Tom sighed and wondered whether he'd misjudged the man's suspicious demeanor. He laughed at himself for having bothered to follow him. Obviously, thinking about the young woman he thought he'd seen had muddled his brain.

He moved to go back toward the train station when Mr. Barrow came out of the cottage again, now accompanied by a woman with red hair, who also looked about the innkeeper's age. The two walked briskly and Tom couldn't stop himself from following them, still flush with curiosity. Before long, they were on the road to the abbey. The fact didn't surprise Tom in the least.

When they reached the old gate, they stopped to look around and Tom quickly hid behind a nearby tree.

"What will we tell her?" Tom heard Mr. Barrow say.

"That we knew she couldn't stay forever," the woman replied. Her voice was defeated, scared even. "We knew this day would come, and now we must face it."

The two proceeded across the yard. Tom stepped from behind the tree and watched them walk past the main entrance and disappear down the path that led to the back of the house and what he presumed to be the former service entrance.

So she's a squatter, he thought. But if she has friends in the village, why not stay with them? Is she running from the law, perhaps? Or from someone?

An odd feeling came over Tom. He thought of her eyes again. They did not seem troubled or scared. Surprised to see him, sure, but open, happy even . . . curious. A thought tickled the back of his mind but he couldn't fully formulate it, like a forgotten task.

He watched the house for maybe a quarter of an hour, wondering if the pair who had gone in would be a trio coming out. He wouldn't get his answer for another quarter of an hour, and when he did, it was only the two that went in coming out again. From the same spot he'd been hiding, Tom watched them walk back toward the village. He was tempted to follow them again and listen in on their conversation, but looking at back at the house, he knew it held all the answers, so once Mr. Barrow and his red-headed friend were out of sight, he followed the same steps they had taken into the house.

He leaned his ear to the door. Hearing no sound, he gently opened it and stepped in. He took a few steps into what he guessed had been the old servants hall. Looking around he noticed how clean it was. There wasn't a decade's worth of decay and dust here, as he'd found in some of the rooms upstairs. After walking down the hall, he stepped into the kitchen, which was even cleaner than the dining hall—clean except for a tea tray sitting next to the sink. Tom approached the sink slowly, extending his hand out to put it on the pot. When he touched it, he jerked his hand back at the heat.

"Why have you returned?"

Tom whirled around, and there she was again. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her hand shook as she held a large knife out in front of her.

Tom's expression softened and he took a step toward her but she stabbed the air with the knife.

He raised his hands. "I came back to see you."

Her eyes narrowed. "Me?"

"I saw you yesterday . . . upstairs, then in the library. That was you, wasn't it?"

She brought down her hand and nodded.

"Do you live here?"

"What's it to you?" She replied, not raising the knife again, but jutting out her chin in defiance. "Are you . . . Mr. Crawley?"

"No, but I'm helping him."

She looked down again and seemed, to Tom, as if she were on the verge of tears again. "Are you . . . the ghost? The one that everyone talks about?" He smiled slightly, hoping to put her at ease.

"If I say yes, will Mr. Crawley stay away?"

Tom smiled again. "I don't think so, but I guess that means you're not a ghost, then."

She rolled her eyes. "Of course, I'm not! Do I look ridiculous to you?"

Tom couldn't stop himself from laughing lightly.

"Well, do I?"

Tom looked her up and down. She was wearing a white blouse and brown skirt, both looked worn, but he could tell that they'd been made of fine material. Her hair was tied back loosely with tendrils of curly hair hanging down around her face. Again he thought how little she looked like someone who was hiding because she was on the run.

"You don't look ridiculous at all," Tom said quietly. "You look . . . surprisingly lovely, actually, for someone who's in hiding."

Sybil smiled and a faint blush came over her cheeks.

Tom smiled back, realizing now that what had had him in a trance when he'd first laid eyes on her the day before was not fear or some silly supernatural factor. Simply put, she was the most beautiful creature he'd even seen. "Who are you, then? What's your name?"

She pulled her lips into her mouth and looked away. "You should go," she said. "And so must I, it seems."

"How long have you lived here?"

She opened her mouth to speak but seemed to think better of it and moved out of the kitchen, down the hall and into a large room that Tom, who followed her, guessed had been the office of the butler or housekeeper. Inside, an old desk that had been pushed to the corner was covered in books. On the other end was a cot, at the head of which was a dress form. Next to it was a rack of clothing with several swaths of loose fabric draped over it. Along the shelves were a number of trinkets and old photographs.

She hadn't answered his question, but he could see that she wasn't just squatting. This was her home and had been for some time.

Having finished surveying the room, Tom's eyes landed back on her. She had taken out a large carpet bag and had begun to slowly and carefully fold her clothes and place them inside.

"What's your name?" He asked again.

"Would that I could fit the whole world in here," she said with a sigh and sat down on the bed.

Tom pulled the chair at the desk over and sat in front of her. "I promise," he said quietly, "no matter what happens, I'll do what I can to help you, but I need to know who you are . . . why you're here."

She offered a small smile, and Tom couldn't help but feel a tug at his heart. She closed her eyes and a small tear ran down her cheek.

"I'm here because . . . I was born here," she whispered.

"What?"

She looked into his eyes again, and again Tom felt hypnotized by her, like the floor had dropped out from beneath him and he was floating. It was a foreign feeling, but not unpleasant.

"You seem rather a clever chap. Haven't you guessed by now?"

"Guessed what?" he replied, leaning in to her.

"I'm Sybil."

One year later

"And so, when you hear the floors creak and the wind howl, that's old Lady Grantham walking through the house and calling out for her lost family. And if you listen closely, you'll hear her say . . . BOO!"

A chorus of shrieks and laughter burst out from the crowd of children gathered around Sybil on the floor of the Downton Abbey library, which had been converted into two school rooms for the orphans who now lived in the house.

"All right, children, reading time is over! Time for lunch!" From the door to the library, Miss Thornton, the headmistress, called out clapping her hands to get the children's attention. The small group of them all thanked "Miss Sybil" for her time and lined up to head out of the room. Once they'd done so, Isobel Crawley came in and started to help Sybil pick up the pillows the children had been sitting on, on the floor, and the books some of them had taken from the shelves during free reading time.

"You do very well with them," Isobel said.

Sybil offered a small smile and shrugged. "Well, if anyone knows what it's like to be an orphaned child, it's me . . . though, it does feel rather unforgiving to have cast my mother as the house's new ghost. She was never a terrible person, just very sad."

"She endured a great loss," Isobel replied, "very few would have weathered it any better."

"Mrs. Hughes used to tell me not to let her neglect bother me because she was doing it to protect us both. In my mother's warped mind, if she didn't love me and I didn't love her, I'd not be heartbroken upon her death the way she'd been when my father and sisters died. In a way, she was right. Having learned to fend for myself early on, before the fire took her, I was able to survive on my own after everyone had gone from the house. I could never have done it without Mrs. Hughes, Thomas and Gwen, of course, but if I'd been a child who was doted on … things would have turned out differently, I suppose."

Isobel took Sybil's hand and squeezed it. "All that matters is that the truth is out, that you can live out in the open and that you have your whole life ahead of you. You're only twenty-two, after all."

Sybil smiled. She considered it a true gift from God that Matthew and Isobel had come into her life, not merely as distant relatives but as the loving family she'd always dreamed of and her determined protectors against the onlookers and gossip-mongers that hounded her those first few weeks after the story of Lady Sybil Crawley first emerged. And she'd never have known of them if it weren't for Mr. Tom Branson. Sybil's feelings about him were something else altogether.

Matthew Crawley and his mother, Isobel, were as shocked as Sybil to find that they had a distant relation living in the old abandoned house they had just inherited. But being the kind, warm-hearted people they were, they wasted no time in welcoming her into their fold and treating her as if they'd known and loved her all their lives. They made good on their plan to turn the house into a refuge for the downtrodden, choosing to open an orphanage in honor of the house having been Sybil's only parent for so long. But they did so only after securing Sybil's blessing and assuring her that it would be her home as along as she wanted and needed for it to be. The news that Sybil had not only survived the infamous Downton Abbey fire, but also managed to live in hiding in that same house for a decade made its way around the country like wildfire, bringing newspaper men, tourists and curious observers to the village and the house from all corners. Sybil never spoke to any of them.

Through Tom Branson and with the MP's help, she released a single statement to the press in which she explained the Cora Crawley's grief over the loss of her husband and two older daughters never ebbed and sent her into fits of wailing every night of Sybil's life with her. To avoid the sound of her mother crying, from a very early age, Sybil would seek refuge in the abbey's north tower during the night, where she'd usually fall asleep while reading by candlelight. Three members of the staff knew of this ritual: the housekeeper Elsie Hughes, housemaid Gwen Dawson and Thomas Barrow, the footman who made it his job to find Sybil in her hiding spot early every morning and return her to her room. This trio also knew, on the night that the family's rooms were ravaged by fire, that Sybil's body wasn't found in her bed because she was not there. Together, they made the decision to hide her from her cousin Patrick that very night. By that point, the last believed Grantham heir was already in the grips of London's seedy nightlife, and despite his initial generosity toward them, he had grown to see Sybil and Cora as a burden. He too was haunted by Cora's cries and, after the fire almost took his life, vowed never to live at the abbey again.

Thus, knowing that an unforgiving orphanage would likely be her future, Mrs. Hughes, Thomas and Gwen kept her hidden away in the housekeeper's office in the servants hall during the week after the fire as the house was cleaned up and repaired. The rest of the servants were dismissed, save the butler, Mr. Carson, who was brought in on the secret and compelled to keep it out of loyalty to the girl's dead father. Sybil's guardians let her have the run of the house for the few years before Patrick's own untimely death. After, they pledged to wait until a new owner was set to live in the house before deciding what would be best for her. Months turned to years, and each of them settled in the village, taking turns bringing Sybil food, keeping her company and quietly fostering the notion that the place was haunted to keep people away. Despite the oddness of the arrangement, Sybil grew up happier than she'd ever been, reading every book in the house's vast library, learning to cook for herself and to sew, fashioning clothes for herself from old ones she found in her mother's old trunks in the attic and eventually supporting herself as a seamstress for people in the village, who assumed that Miss Dawson had taught herself the trade for extra money.

Eventually, time took Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson's right mind. Gwen and Thomas were at a loss as to how to bring Sybil, now a grown woman, into the light. It was Tom Branson's sleuthing and search for an heir that set in motion the series of events that led to her discovery. Some newspaper stories would cast him as the white knight who saved the lost princess locked in the tower, but Tom rejected this notion out of hand. In her survival, he believed, the princess had saved herself. Still, he remained steadfastly by her side in the days and weeks following that fateful day he'd followed Gwen and Thomas into the house, and along with the Crawleys, he joined Gwen and Thomas among the people Sybil trusted with her life.

"Well," Isobel said as she and Sybil walked from the library to the now empty entrance hall, "Every old country home needs a good ghost story, and it couldn't be you anymore now that we all know you're not really dead."

"I do hope it doesn't scare the children," Sybil said sheepishly.

"Nonsense, they love it, and they love you," Isobel said. "It makes me wish you weren't leaving us."

Sybil blushed slightly. "That's kind of you to say."

Isobel smiled. "I mean it, though I suppose I don't blame you for leaving either. This is a wonderful opportunity. When do your classes start?"

"Not for a month, but I thought it a good idea to take the extra time to get settled. I will miss being here, but it's high time I moved on."

"Are you sure nursing is what you want to do?"

Sybil nodded. "I know being seamstress or dressmaker might be a better choice given how that's what got me through all this, but … it felt like a good time to make a fresh start. I like the idea of helping people."

"It's a wonderful profession."

"I just hope I'm good for it."

"And Mr. Branson is meeting you at the station in York?" Isobel asked.

Sybil nodded, hoping the warmth she felt in her cheeks at the mention of his name wasn't obvious. "He offered to make the trip with me, but it's short, and anyway, I feel it's important that I leave this place on my own."

"And Gwen and Thomas?"

"They'll be at the station tomorrow to see me off, and of course, they'll want to check up on me once I'm settled, but they've already given me too much of themselves. I know they'd never say as much, but I feel as if I tied them to this place in a way they never intended. They're well settled in the village now, but they're no longer obligated to stay because of me."

"I doubt either of them would put it that way," Isobel said.

Sybil looked down at her hands. "Still, I don't want them to worry. Mr. Branson will be there to help me, if I need it."

"He seems very fond of you."

Sybil felt her cheeks warm again. "He's a good friend."

Isobel held back a smile, knowing that Sybil, as isolated and sheltered as she'd been, would need time to understand her own feelings about the young man who'd become such a close friend and confidant over the last year. "Well, I won't take any more of your time. I know you have much to do before tomorrow."

Sybil nodded and watched Isobel and she walked down the hall into the old parlor, where she and the headmistress kept their offices. Sybil walked back into the library and looked around. The fact was she didn't have much more to do to ready for her departure tomorrow, except prepare herself emotionally for the journey away from the house that had guarded her, saved her in so many ways. And prepare herself for her new life.

xxx

"This will be your room," Sybil's new landlady said the following afternoon as she showed Sybil and Tom, who was carrying her suitcases, around the boarding house that would be Sybil's new home in York. "The maid comes through only once a week, so it's up to you to keep it clean."

Sybil nodded. "That's no problem at all, Miss Goddard, thank you."

The middle aged woman put her hands on her hips and watched Tom with stern eyes and he set Sybil's cases next to the bed. "And don't get used to this, young man," she added. "You've been given permission to bring up her things, but gentlemen callers are strictly forbidden in the bedrooms. Courting is done properly in my house and confined to the parlor as God intended."

A bewildered Tom replied, "Oh … oh, I'm not—"

"Don't bother," Miss Goddard said, pursing her lips. "I have eyes."

Tom and Sybil looked at one another and both smiled sheepishly.

"Well, I'll be going downstairs now, and I expect you to follow in five minutes, young man, or I'll come back up to chase you out."

"Of course," Tom said, nodding.

Once they were alone, the pair laughed at the woman's implication but also sensed a change in the air between them. A good change.

"She seems nice," Tom said quietly.

Sybil laughed lightly. "Indeed."

Tom smiled. He took a step toward Sybil while fiddling with his hat. "You know, there is a park not too far away from here. Perhaps on Saturday, once you've settled in …"

He trailed off, as Sybil stepped forward and closed the distance between them. Feeling a surge of affection for him, she put her hand on his cheek and whispered, "Yes."

He smirked, even as he leaned into her touch. "You don't know what I was going to say."

Feeling emboldened by how far she'd come in that year, that day, Sybil stood on her toes and placed a small, light kiss on his lips.

Pulling away, she replied, "Yes, I do."