AN: Well, new Downton Abbey fanfiction in forever. Mostly a product of me, idiot that I am, deciding to rewatch Series 3 only to spend the next hour weeping and shaking, so this is the outlet for my feels because I needed the image out of my mind and voila! I may add more chapters later on from different PoVs, but I haven't settled on the time frame of the other characters yet so...
My medical knowledge is at zero, so please forgive the disparities.
In any case, reviews please and enjoy!
Tom
"Have you seen her? She's so beautiful," Sybil had whispered, the joy and the pride and the love that he could not put into words reflected in her eyes, the warm weight of the daughter who, even with the newborn wrinkles, the puckered eyes and the matted golden curls, he could already tell would become the image of her mother.
A minuscule part of him wanted to recoil in fear. Perhaps, this was all a dream and he would wake to find himself in the chauffeur's cottage, that very night after York, empty-handed and broken-hearted. But no, this was real and they were real and he could not doubt that in any way as he held them both in his arms, his wife and his daughter, his family. Everything else slipped from his mind then – Ireland, their exile, the fears and doubts of a few mere hours ago; Just lie back and look at the stars – none of that mattered, not with them here.
"She's so beautiful," he echoed. "Oh my darling, I do love you."
He could hardly contain his emotions, even with the small crowd who have gathered around them. We will be so happy, he thought. They will be so happy and in one way or another, he will win back their freedom.
My darling Sybil, my darling little girl, I promise to devote every waking minute to your happiness.
He would have stayed. He would have stayed with both of them and spent the night till dawn admiring this tiny creature they have made together, watched every rise of her small chest, memorized every one of her small features, damn what his aristocratic father-in-law decreed about dressing rooms and propriety.
But Sybil needed her rest and in the pain and exhaustion and his own hopelessness and uselessness in the time that had led to this, he could begrudge her nothing.
Then came the screams and Sybil was hitting her head begging a release for her pain, and then – and then –.
Mingling with his own pleading, he could hear that of his mother-in-law and of Mary imploring her sister to listen to her.
"She can't breathe! She can't breathe!"
"There's nothing to be done."
Before his eyes, he watched his wife's body contort strangely, seizing, searching for oxygen. She was already slipping into a place they couldn't reach her. The alabaster of her skin was turning grey and more and more she was looking more and more lifeless. He could feel his own heart slowing, his stomach churning, his brain numbing – not one part of him could accept this gruesome spectacle playing before him.
No! No! Something has to be done. He can't lose her. Not now. What cruel trick of fate would give him everything, dangle before him, tantalizing him, only to pull it back in an instant to leave him with nothing?
"Just breathe, love, breathe," he begged over Cora's and Mary's own tears. Breathe, love.
In the blink of an eye, the fulfillment of his greatest dreams had morphed into his greatest nightmare.
Please don't leave me. I need you. Our daughter needs you. She needs her mother! We have so much plans for her – we need you here with us to make them happen. I can't do this without you, Sybil! Just breathe, love, please.
"No!" he cried as her body stilled, motionless. "No! No!"
Because he can't lose her, not now that their life is just beginning, not now that they have a daughter who needs them both. Not now when their happiness was close at hand.
Somewhere, distantly, he heard a baby's cries, his daughter's cries. She could not understand what happened, what she had just lost. His poor, motherless girl, crying out for sustenance, crying out for her mother.
You can't leave us, Sybil. We need you.
His child continued to cry out into the night but he could not move. Everything in him refused to accept what was happening. He refused to leave his wife's side, refused to release her still hand. The cries were becoming louder, more urgent.
Then, he felt movement.
Her hand slipped from his abruptly as her body jerked in an attempt to take in air. Mary was holding her back upright as she coughed from great inhalations. His hand found hers again as he watched her fall against the pillows, panting. Her eyes, the blue eyes he had almost believed he would never see again, locked on his, her breathing labored.
"Tom," she whispered, breathless and barely audible. "Tom, the baby…get…her. She's…crying…somebody needs…to get…her. Please."
He was still, and then – "Oh my darling," tears flowed freely, dampening his suit. He felt his body shaking. He was frantically kissing every inch of her that he could reach. Beside him, he could hear Cora weeping. "Oh my darling, never do that to me again. Never scare me like that again," he cried.
"Tom," Sybil repeated. "Our baby…get…her. My…daughter. Please."
"I-I'll get her," Mary answered, shaken back to reality and hurrying out the door.
She came hurrying back within seconds, running, as if fearing losing her sister once she was out of sight. She held the crying bundle to her chest.
"She's here, darling. Your daughter is here."
"Give…her. She's…hungry. Needs…me."
"L-lady Sybil, I-I don –,"
Tom's eyes rounded on the stuttering voice that had called out in the dim light. Beside him, he could feel his wife feebly reaching for their daughter as Mary protested and pleaded. He could barely hear Sybil's own voice, softer and more breathless it was becoming. His daughter's cries were becoming louder and more desperate with none of them knowing how to act or what to do.
He had very nearly lost them both tonight. Sybil, she…so weak, there was still a chance…
I can't lose her. We need her.
He saw nothing but red.
"GET OUT!" he screamed at the figure of Sir Philip Tapsell, trembling in the far corner of the room. "GET OUT AND DON'T YOU DARE SAY ONE MORE WORD OR SO GOD HELP ME!"
He realized that he matched his breathing to hers, regular for now as she slept peacefully; peaceful for now at the very least.
He clutched her hand and took comfort in its enduring warmth. If he concentrated enough, he could even feel her pulse.
Early in their marriage, a picnic basket between them in Phoenix Park, she had taught him how to measure a pulse, how to determine if the speed of its beat constituted a normal reading. The heart pumps blood to the body by the distribution of the veins, then the arteries pump it all back, she said. Darling, don't you find it amazing that the pulse in your wrist is every bit a sign of life as the heartbeat? Not for the first time then, he wondered that if only she had been allowed to pursue an education, if she would not have become a wonderful doctor?
He can't recall the reason why she had taught him pulse reading in the first place but he could not help feeling grateful now because he could tell that her pulse was normal. It was a sign of life – she was alive.
She was alive now when exactly a week ago, in an eternity when he had also held her hand and pleaded, begged her not to leave him, when euphoria had instantly and without warning turned into agony, she had not heeded his call. Seven days ago, he had watched his wife, the woman who was so full of life, slip away from it.
But I haven't gone! Her pulse told him. Did you really think I would leave you when I burned my bridges to follow you?
But everything remained precarious, Doctor Clarkson lamented that even at this point it could still go either way and the possibility of him losing her – of them losing her, remained very real.
Seven days, and not once did he stop holding his breath.
Seven days and he was becoming accustomed to the clinical scent of the ward, the sterility always hanging in the air. Seven days and he had memorized every water stain in the wall beside him. Seven days and he felt his whole body aching in the stiff chair that had been accorded him but he dared not leave her side.
Seven days of praying relentlessly to God and to every saint he could evoke to spare her. Please.
It had also been five days since he had last seen their daughter. Five days since he had heard her soft mewls, since he had held her warm weight in his arms.
The seizures had recurred once more in the night the doctor had decreed, breaking out of his trance as he insisted she was too weak, in too dangerous a condition to attempt to feed her daughter now, that she should be transferred to the hospital immediately before the seizures and the delirium began anew. Whatever happens, the equipment and medicine were greater in number to cope with the situation, she would be safer there. The baby as well, if only to be sure. At the very least, the infant formula stocked in the wards would do for now, until a wet nurse could be found.
In the flurry of this nightmare, he had vague and detached memories of the events that succeeded that dark moment of fear that his whole world was taken away from him, and then that cautious and fearful sigh of relief when Sybil opened her eyes.
He recalled running down the stairs two at a time with his wife in his arms, running for the motor with Matthew at his heels, Mary, his mother-in-law and his baby daughter rushing after them in a second motor, in the frantic rush through the village and into the hospital. He remembered the black fear taking over his heart once again at the second onslaught of seizures before Dr. Clarkson administered a doze of tranquilizers and stationed oxygen beside the bed should the need arise. He could still remember the feeling of his baby daughter's weight against his chest after the wet nurse had placed her there, cheerfully reporting that she had eaten her fill and was quite content now.
Dr. Clarkson had sent her home two days later, declaring that there was no more cause for concern, at least for the baby, but her father had taken his wife's hand in his own and dared not follow his child as her grandmother took her away from the hospital.
As he had done every day for seven days now, Tom kissed his wife's palm, murmuring as he had on that night, "Please don't leave me, love. Please don't leave us."
The seizures did not end that day, and twice now, they had again feared the worse when for several minutes she would not respond to the administration of oxygen. Once she had been as she had that night, grey and still, and he had feared their battle was lost.
When they did not come, delirium was his enemy.
The very morning after that night, she had woken in confusion, screaming for her mother, asking where she was, and demanding why the new chauffeur was crying and holding her hand. That cut straight to the heart.
Three days ago, she had smiled at him and for a short while and he had reason to believe that perhaps the day would bring about the improvement they were waiting for until she asked for Martin and became hysterical when he answered that he did not know who Martin was. Mary saved the day in patiently telling her that Martin was still in the attics, where he had always been, explaining to her sister's husband who was also near hysterics that Martin was Sybil's favorite stuffed mouse, a present of their grandfather the day Sybil was born.
Most painful was last night when she, in a brief moment of clarity, had inquired after the baby. He had told her that she had already been taken back to Downton with the wet nurse. But why on earth would she be in Dowton when we're here? Sybil had promptly asked, fear in her eyes. Here, love? He answered. Why should our daughter be in England when we're here in Dublin? Why is she there, Tom?
I miss home, Tom. When are we going home? You promised we'd take a week end off, bring the baby with us to Malahide, even if only for a day.
Yet delirium at least was the lesser evil. It was painful, certainly, and cut to his core, often a choice between the loss of all they had survived together, from the confession in York to the life in Dublin they have built, or an exhibition of all the faults he had recently done.
Still, it offered him very little comfort.
They were alone, only the two of them, illuminated by only a soft shade of yellow, emanating from the lamp in the far corner of the nursery. There was no sound in the room but the faint noise of his daughter's soft baby breaths.
His mother-in-law begged him to go home to sleep, to see his daughter. Not for the first time, he refused, unwilling to leave Sybil's side, fearing the worst would come in his absence.
Cora had also been there all that time, only conceding to leave her daughter at night when Doctor Clarkson insisted that the ward was becoming too crowded, and even given the circumstances, he could only allow one visitor to stay with Sybil at all times. With no qualms, she had ceded the privilege to her son-in-law, after all, he was her daughter's next of kin now, a fact her own husband had so heartlessly overlooked that night. She refused to make that same mistake, and recognized that it was he who had everything to lose if –. Still, she returned faithfully every day just after the crack of dawn, a wicker basket for them both, a change of clothes for him, and always bursting with news of her granddaughter, recounting to him even the most insignificant details.
In those dark hours, Tom had been consoled by the realization that he had found a friend and an ally in his mother-in-law. Their love for Sybil had brought them together in the same camp and should war break out, he knew that they would fight on the same side.
She had refused his address of Lady Grantham, and from then on, he would only think of her as Cora.
But that night Cora was insistent and refused his no's as an answer.
Though still limited enough for comfort, Sybil's moments of lucidity had increased in number and there was, minuscule as it was, a decrease in her episodes. Not for one moment had he left her side, spare the very brief moments Mrs. Crawley had brought him to her house by force and shoved a decent meal down his throat as Molesley boiled hot water for his bath. But Cora pleaded that Sybil was a little better now, and he hadn't seen his daughter in almost two weeks.
"It is still very likely that she could lose her mother," she told him seriously. "But her father is still here. Sybil can't be here for her now, but you can. She needs you, Tom and I can't let my granddaughter be abandoned by either of her parents. Go, Pratt is waiting for you. I won't leave her alone for a single minute and I'll call you the moment anything changes."
His daughter's soft cries, letting him know she was awake, brought him back to the present.
She couldn't be hungry, he knew. Her nurse had informed him she had just been fed before she had been put down for a nap. Still he went to her and took her in his arms, swaying gently, settling on the rocking chair nearby.
"Shh, my darling. Shh," he whispered. "It's alright now. You're alright now."
The puckered lids opened to reveal his own eyes staring back at him. Soon, the wails had softened into soft coos as the baby studied her father. No doubt he was a stranger to her now. In her short life, he had spent much more time away from her than with her. Yet, she did not fret, as if she knew by instinct who he was. As if she had recognized his voice from the womb and knew that it was her father's arms that cradled her now.
"You just wanted my attention, aye? Just like your mother," he teased, running a finger down her apple cheek.
She's so beautiful.
How many times had had he looked at that tiny face since the day of her birth two weeks ago? When had he really studied he really studied the beautiful face before him and told himself that that was the face of his daughter? The truth was that in the panic and fear of the past days, he had not and with the changes two weeks had brought, it was as if he was looking at her again for the very first time.
The baby continued to watch him as he watched her.
In her rosebud mouth, he could see the miniature of Sybil's, and likewise in her nose. The shape of her face too was her mother's entirely, her ears, her cheeks, even the downy hair on top of the baby's head were already curling in a manner that told him that Sybil's hopes for their child's hair had not been granted – their daughter had inherited her unruly mane and it would be a job to tame it once she started school.
Gone were most of the newborn wrinkles and the pink skin of that night had already faded to her mother's alabaster.
The color of her hair was honey like his own, but that could still change over time. Barring that and her eyes, she was the image of the mother she may never meet – and for almost the entirety of her life, the father that she did have had stayed away.
He knew without a doubt that Sybil would have his head if she knew.
Suddenly, the baby's mouth opened wide in a yawn but she did not fall back asleep. Instead she began to wriggle as if trying to break free from her swaddled clothing. Tom loosened the blankets a bit but the baby continued to squirm until her father conceded to undo the swaddling entirely.
"Quite demanding aren't you. Alright then, there you are. Better?"
The baby returned to her cooing in response.
It took a moment for Tom to realize that the sobbing came not from his daughter, but from himself and once it started, he could do little to stop the tears coming, pulling his daughter tighter against him.
"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
He kissed his daughter's downy head, then her apple cheeks, kissing every part of him that he can, pleading forgiveness for her abandonment, yet almost unable to promise to do otherwise, not while her mother was still in danger.
"I'm so sorry, my darling girl, but I promise you we will get through this. We won't lose your Mama and whatever happens, the first thing she'll see when she wakes tomorrow, is you my little Sybil. You will be the first thing she'll see."
