A/N - Nothing like JF's bait and switch storytelling to tick a girl off and inspire her to start writing a new fan-fic the way the storyline should have unfolded. My last longish fic was inspired by all the things that JF and crew left out of Sybil and Tom's story in DA2, so this one is to cheer up all my fellow S/T shippers out there in the world (Scarlet Court – keep hope alive!) It is a sort of "what if" story that reimagines 3x05 onward – so BEWARE SPOILERS. Let me know what you think – your comments and suggestions always fuel the imagination since I do more or less make this up as I go along. I don't own these characters but am just inspired by them. Enjoy!
Chapter 1 - Loss
And there, free and yet fast/Being both Chance and Choice,/Forget its broken toys/And sink into its delights at last.
William Butler Yeats
Amorphic patches of green—brown—grey was all Tom Branson could see as he stared vacantly out of the large window. Withdrawn into a hollow space of loss, he could perceive color, faint sounds, a peculiar medicinal scent that permeated the room but nothing more. The world contained no shapes and no meaning. He felt numb and he only felt that because of he could still detect the faint beating of his now broken heart. In a state of shock, his soul felt utterly bereft.
Tom had seen death—its finality—before. His father had passed away when he was only eight years old. Back then he was far too young to comprehend the devastating loss his mother must have felt at the sudden death of her beloved husband. He remembered vividly his father going off to work in the yards one the morning. Da whistled his favorite tune as he walked out of the door. His father returned later that evening, his body battered and bloody, carried by his fellow shipwrights. His older sister tried to shield him from witnessing the horrific homecoming of their father, but it was Tom's last chance to see Da so he turned his head. He'll never forget seeing his father's lifeless, colorless hand dangling from the soiled stretcher as the men carried Da's body through the sitting room and up the stairs. His father died a few hours later. That scene was forever etched in his memory. He recalled the void his father's death left in his life. Sadly that same feeling of hollowness, amplified by the wisdom that accrues with adulthood, had mercilessly intruded back into his life.
Mary walked into the room. "Tom," she said quietly.
But he did not hear Mary's address—he was enveloped in the fog of grief. He dwelled for a moment upon his life as a chauffeur. He knew well the subtle timing of shifting the clutch to avoid locking the gears. But how could life shift so rapidly from the joys of giddy expectation to the deep abyss of loss? Surely the human heart revives after being beaten down by such a brutal blow?
"Tom," Mary raised her voice to gain his attention. "Please believe I'm so sorry, so very sorry," she said offering her condolences.
He didn't stir.
"Tom, we've done as you requested. They say you can see her now."
He turned around. Words escaped him, but he nodded in gratitude at his sister-in-law's kind words. He followed her out of the room.
Tom remembered death. He feared what he was about to witness. Nonetheless, he desperately needed to see Sybil in spite of the recent twist of fate that had devastated their lives. As he approached her bedside, she lay bathed in an aura of peacefulness. This was not the case only an hour ago when she convulsed in pain. Her violently writhing body struggled to cope with what Dr. Clarkson had astutely diagnosed as the onset of eclampsia. She had gasped for air as she struggled to stay in this world and with him.
To his loving eyes, even after such trauma, Sybil looked as beautiful as ever. He remembered when he first opened the door of the motorcar for the youngest daughter of his new employer and how the raspy voice of a spirited young girl desirous of discovering her independence through women's suffrage had sparked his curiosity. He recalled what an exquisitely beautiful woman she had become, the radiant confidence she projected, the night she had wandered into the garage to finally tell him she would leave Downton with him. The day of their wedding he remembered her elegant silhouette at the top of church aisle—she appeared like an angel. He savored the recollection of her scent of orange blossoms and the beauty and suppleness of her unclothed body as they consummated their love on their wedding night. He had never experienced such a profound connection to another human soul. She was his life. He loved her now more than ever, even as grief overwhelmed those happy memories.
He sat down on the bed and picked up Sybil's limp hand. He must be brave for them both. But touching her again unleashed a torrent of tears. He sobbed inconsolably repeating again and again, "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry…"
"She's finally resting", a familiar voice came from behind.
But Tom was too absorbed in his sorrow to hear the voice. "I'm sorry," Tom pleaded one last time as he raised Sybil's hand up to his face. When his lips met her skin Sybil's reflexes responded with a gentle squeeze. She knew he was there. Tom gazed up at her face and gently stroked her cheek, "Love, I promise it will be alright. I promise."
Tom then stood up and turned around to Dr. Clarkson. He wiped away the tears with his handkerchief.
"She's been given a heavy dose of morphine to ease the pain of the Caesarian procedure. She'll sleep till the morning."
Tom looked back at his wife's shallow breathing.
"Mr. Branson, please accept my condolences. I'm indeed sympathetic to your loss," the doctor relayed to him.
Tom nodded.
"I know this is a difficult time for your family. But you have to believe that you made the right decision letting us bring your wife to the hospital. We got her here before the malady became untreatable," Dr. Clarkson reminded him.
Tom recalled that split second decision to ignore Sir Phillip's empty assurances and heed Lady Grantham's wise appeal.
Dr. Clarkson had been right about the signs of eclampsia. But the local doctor also accepted the responsibility that he should have been more forceful in pressing Lord Grantham to bring Sybil to the Cottage Hospital sooner. "We were able to save Lady Sybil, but I'm sorry we could not do the same for her baby," the doctor offered his apologies and condolences for the young man's tragic loss
"Thank you Dr. Clarkson. "My wife survived, but our ch-child," Tom stuttered at the mention of his now dead first-born. "What was it? No one told me. Was it a boy? A girl?"
"It was a girl," Dr. Clarkson regretfully informed him.
A tear streamed down Tom's cheek, "may I see her?"
"Mr. Branson, that's quite un…I have to tell you that it may not be wise," Dr. Clarkson advised. But the doctor also understood the course of grieving and this father's request to see the infant. "Please, please give me a moment. I'll have the nurse bring her in."
"Thank you," Tom gave his barely audible reply.
Returning to Sybil's bedside, he stood over her and watched her sleep. Thank god, he thought, that Sybil had made it through such a horrific ordeal. Given her sedated state she was unaware that their child had not survived. He realized that nothing but heartbreak awaits his wife when she awakens. He needed to regain his strength to help her through this dark time in their lives. He leaned in and kissed her forehead. "I'll say…" but his voice cracked and he couldn't finish. He mustered all the courage he had to assure her, "I will say goodbye to our daughter for both of us."
After what seemed like an eternity, the nurse walked in with a small bundled wrapped in white cloth. The older woman said nothing as she handed the baby to Tom.
How light his daughter seemed. Swaddled in white she was like a feather. He remembered holding his newborn nieces and nephews. Then it hit him like a load of bricks—there was no squirming or soft cries coming from the little bundle—his daughter was dead.
But Tom refused to unleash the flood tears he had dammed behind his resolve. For just this moment he needed to channel a lifetime's worth of love that would have been his daughter's birthright. He walked over to Sybil's bed and sat in the nearby chair. Clutching the baby in one arm he reached over and entwined his fingers with Sybil's.
"Little one, this is your mother—Sybil Branson and I'm," but he couldn't finish.
"Ahhhh…," he drew in a deep breath to regain his composure, "and I'm your father Tom Branson."
To find some semblance of hope, Tom tried to imagine how his daughter might have sounded. "We—we want you to know that we would have taken good care of you," he began as he looked upon the tiny but frozen face that peeked out from beneath the layers of cotton.
He gazed lovingly over at Sybil and squeezed her hand, "your ma here is a nurse. A very fine one, she is. It's because she has the kindest heart of anyone I know. And she would have showered you with so much goodness. I know she would. I'm sure you would've had her soft pale skin and long wavy hair, but I reckon its color would have been light like mine. Your blues eyes would have danced in the light like your mother's do. You'd have grown up to be a beauty. Driven the lads wild." His eyes brightened at the prospect of who she might have been.
"I'm going to tell you about Ireland. A place you'll never see," Tom thought for a moment, would he ever see his beloved home again? "We live in Dublin a big busy city compared to where your Ma is from, this small village here in England. Your ma and I made sure you had a home to call your own. We were getting a room ready for just for you. I couldn't wait to take you to the countryside. The hills are greener than anything you've ever seen. I can picture you now—ripping through the meadows, stopping to pick wildflowers and sticking them in your hair. A sight of pure joy you would've been. The smell of the moss, the sound of the waves hitting the shore—that's Ireland our home, where you came from."
Looking down at their daughter, he told her, "You didn't have much of a chance to know your ma and me or for us to know you. But I'm sure something will come from the short time you had with us. I know it will. I just know it."
Tom swallowed hard and continued, "you weren't long in this world but I promise you won't be forgotten. Your mother and I will always have a special place in our hearts for you. You were made from our love. Good-bye my girl, God bless," he kissed the cold forehead of his daughter. "Good bye."
Tom looked lovingly over at Sybil for several seconds, maintaining the connection the three of them had for as long as possible. When it felt right that he given their daughter a proper farewell, he gently let go Sybil's hand and stood up.
He walked over to the nurse and handed his daughter back to her. "Thank you," he kindly expressed his gratitude for being allowed to say farewell to his child.
Once the nurse departed from the ward, Dr. Clarkson returned.
Tom began, "Doctor, I know that was an unusual request, but thank you for time alone with my wife and child. You may tell Lord and Lady Grantham they can see their daughter now." The doctor returned to the sitting room to retrieve Sybil's parents. Mary came in right away.
"Mary, thank you for arranging this time with Sybil before your mother and father see her. It was important to me and I'm sure to her."
"It's what little I can do at a time such this," Mary said sympathetically. "Let me know if there is anything else I can do to help."
Lord and Lady Grantham walked into the ward and immediately went to their daughter's bedside.
Satisfied that he had done what Sybil would have wanted, Tom left the ward and went back Dr. Clarkson's office. He would wait there for further word of his wife's condition. He wanted to make sure that he was there when she woke up. He needed to be the one to tell her that their child had not survived.
As he entered the dark paneled office, he noticed the many vials and bottles with long complicated names behind the glass doors. And yet all the medical knowledge in those containers couldn't save his daughter. What was it all for? How much was one in control of one's life and how much was the outcome of mere chance?
He had to be decisive—for him and his wife. He considered what to do next. They would move on, he resolved. They would pick up their lives and move forward not backward as he had promised Sybil. Tom took a deep breath and returned to his vigil at the large window.
Up next: Sybil awakens.