Yes, I plan to continue this fic. Since where I live (Poland) Christmas period lasts till 2nd February, I hope to finish it by then. I was writing this chapter while a terrible storm was raging outside my window (though there was no snow). Hope that you'll enjoy.

For your information - Matthew is alive in this fic as well.


Snowstorm


The next morning was even colder. During the night a severe snowstorm turned a picturesque winter wonderland into a snowy fortress. The air was no longer pleasantly refreshing, but painfully cold, discouraging even the toughest from venturing outside.

When Sybil opened her eyes, Tom was still sleeping soundly. He went to sleep very late last night, working at his book until he dozed off at the desk. Sybil had to wake him up and lead him to their bed.

She didn't have heart to wake him up now, though. Instead, she placed a gentle kiss on his hair and rose from the bed with the aim to visit the nursery.

When Sybil entered the room, Saoirse was still sleeping. It always amazed Sybil how much the little one was similar to Tom; and Tom was quite a sleep-lover. He loved to stay in bed long and savour the lazy mornings. Sybil, on the other hand, preferred to be on foot as soon as she woke up. The young woman supposed that their differing preferences were a result of their upbringings – Tom had been often denied the luxury of a long sleep when he had been working at Downton, while Sybil had had serious problems with participating in the leisure lifestyle she had been expected to lead. She thought that she had fulfilled her share of leisure in life already; now it was the time to be as active as possible.

Saoirse was definitely her father's daughter, then. She didn't like to wake up early. Sybil watched tenderly as her daughter was fidgeting lazily in a little bed. The young mother was well aware that Saoirse would not wake up very soon. Since she was not expected today at the hospital, Sybil sat on a chair that stood by the window on the other side of the nursery, and began watching the winter image that was spreading behind the pane of glass.


Tom Branson loved to lie long in bed in the mornings. Even if he was awake, he never immediately left the bed. Unless, of course, when he had to, which had been very often the case during their life in Dublin. Reluctantly, the young man began to open his eyes. The first thing he laid his eyes on was the window and the raging snowstorm outside. He lazily sighed and decided to lie in bed even longer.

Suddenly, the bedroom door opened and Sybil Branson entered, carrying a very much awake toddler. Saoirse finally woke up and wanted to see her Da. To be honest, Sybil also wanted to spend some time with her husband.

Smiling, Sybil approached the bed and laid Saoirse beside her father. The little one screamed in delight and Tom had no more excuses for lying still among the sheets. Not that he minded it; he cheerfully reached for his daughter and put her into a warm embrace.

"Now I'm jealous," Sybil said.

"You can join us if you wish, Mrs. Branson," Tom stated in a matter-of-fact tone, and caressed fondly Saoirse's locks.

"Thank you for the permission," replied Sybil sarcastically. Despite her ironic tone, however, she was smiling tenderly at the two people that she loved most in the world.

"I remember the times when I had to wait for the permission to kiss you," Tom suddenly pointed out in a teasing tone.

"It was only once. And it was you who was waiting for a permission, not me demanding it," his wife decided to remind him.

"Well, after waiting for so long… Though I admit that later I didn't have to ask anymore… I had to often remind you that we needed to be careful, actually. It turned out that you liked kissing very much indeed. I couldn't have a moment of peace".

"Maybe now you'll accuse me of harassing you," mocked Sybil light-heartedly, and reached for the pillow.

"Instead of beating me with that incredibly dangerous weapon, allow me to kiss you again, milady," Tom said, laughing.

He didn't have to encourage her for too long. Soon Sybil was at his and Saoirse's side and the Branson family was complete.

The snowstorm behind the window made them hesitant to leave the warm safety of the bed for hours. All three of them preferred to lie in bed close to their loved ones and to exchange kisses each time the snowstorm started to rage with more power.


In the evening, the snow did not cease to fall, but the storm was gone. Now the snowflakes were falling peacefully, in a perfect harmony with the rest of scenery. Tom decided to finally sit to his work. But to avoid the temptation of a warm bed, he made up his mind to work in the library instead of in his and Sybil's bedroom.

Tom Branson loved writing, especially about social injustice. But the quiet atmosphere of the library, the Christmas decorations hanging everywhere, and the twirling snow outside the window proved to be successful in distracting him. He laid down the pen and focused his attention on the window.

"Here," a soft voice whispered unexpectedly into Tom's ear.

Tom turned his eyes away from the window and saw Sybil standing by the armchair with a tray. On the tray there were two cups of some hot liquid. The smell coming from the cups was unbelievably tempting.

"What is it?" the young man asked his wife.

"I went to the kitchen and made us two cups of hot chocolate," explained Sybil.

"Did you make it all by yourself? Did they allow you to do so?"

"Mrs. Patmore knows that I like to spend time in the kitchen. Same with Mrs. Hughes. And Carson was nowhere in sight," responded Mrs. Branson. "So, are you going to taste it or not?" she inquired.

Tom took one of the cups from the tray and raised it to his mouth. The taste was heavenly. The hot chocolate did not only fill him with warmth, but also with the sense of safety, comfort and childhood memories. The liquid sweetness completely erased from his mind any thoughts about work.

The journalist turned his eyes towards Sybil and saw her quietly pointing at the window. At first, he didn't know what she was trying to communicate to him, but then he heard it. He heard the blowing wind which was howling outside; he heard the wild cry of the universe which was determined to disturb the silence of the December evening.

Tom put down the cup on the table and instinctively reached for his wife's hand. Holding Sybil's hand was often exactly that – an instinct, something inscribed in his brain, as organic and natural as putting a coat on when someone goes out into cold weather. She and no one else was, had always been and would always be the source of his strength and comfort - no matter what.

The fire was burning brightly, sending a warm glow upon the shelves and the richly ornamented books. The aroma of perfectly prepared hot chocolate was spreading throughout the room. But Tom's main source of contentedness was that he was holding Sybil's hand.

He couldn't care less anymore about what was going on outside.


Christmas 1914

Tom Branson was just finishing repairing the brakes, when he heard that someone had entered the garage. He turned back quickly and saw her. The first thing that his eyes registered was that she was smiling, and smile did not appear frequently on her face as of late. The war had changed everyone at Downton, even those who had no relatives fighting on the Continent. Sybil Crawley had become quieter and more pensive during the last few months. She didn't smile as often as she had done before. Though when it came to Lady Sybil, smiling less did not mean not smiling at all. Tom had also observed that while the young girl was becoming more and more serious, her innocence and naivety about the world outside Downton were still not completely gone. What was most important for him, then, was that her passion and interest in the real world remained unchanged.

"I hope that I'm not interrupting you?" asked the youngest Crawley girl tentatively.

"Of course not, milady," Branson quickly replied. "How can you even think so?"

In response, she rewarded him with her beautiful smile. He couldn't imagine a better Christmas present than that.

"I know that it's a bit late, but I wanted to give you a Christmas present," Sybil informed him, blushing.

He had bought a present for her as well, but had left it in his cottage. Damn. He needed to tell her that.

"No problem, Branson. There will be plenty of opportunities for that," the young woman ensured the chauffeur and handed him a small package.

It was a book. Judging by the ornamented cover, an extremely expensive book. He looked at the title. It was A Christmas Carol.

"I know that you must have read it already and perhaps even more than once, but I wanted to give you something that will remind you of my friendship every Christmas. And I know how much you like books. Also, I'm sure that you have nothing against Charles Dickens. The themes of social injustice, the plight of the poor…"

Tom interrupted her. "Do you always explain to each other the rationale behind your Christmas presents? I've personally learnt to cherish everything I get as long as it is given with honest intentions. And I'm certain that your intentions are entirely honest. Besides, I really like A Christmas Carol," he finished with a small smile.

Sybil began to think just how much she loved his smile, but quickly mentally reproached herself and decided to go home. "I think that I should go. They must be wondering where I am".

Branson only nodded and thanked her for the present. His attention, though, was more focused on the graceful figure moving quickly towards the garage door than on the book that he was keeping in his hands. Once Sybil left the garage, he gave out a wistful sigh and sat on a nearby bench. He needed to return to his work. The only problem was that he was no longer able to concentrate on it.

"Branson?"

The chauffeur jumped when he heard this voice again. Lady Sybil was back.

"I… just… I went out of the garage, but there is a huge snowstorm outside. I… Can I stay here until it stops snowing?" Her cheeks turned pink, but Tom couldn't tell whether it was because of cold or… something completely different.

"Of course, milady," he replied quickly.

The awkward silence fell between them. Neither of them knew what to say.

After a few awkward moments, Tom got an idea. "Why don't we sit on the bench and pass the time reading a Christmas Carol together? We may take turns."

Sybil loved the idea, though she was cautious not to express just how much she loved it. So, she simply nodded approvingly.

They sat on the bench together and soon Tom's baritone filled the enclosed space of the garage. The wind was howling loudly outside, but Sybil Crawley was too caught up in listening to Tom's incredibly pleasant voice to pay any attention to what was happening outside. The light of a single lamp illuminated the two sitting silhouettes as well as the golden letters on the leather cover of the book. Slowly, the two moved closer to one another and two hands unconsciously met each other on the bench between their owners' bodies. They then parted hastily when Sybil and Tom realized what was happening and consequently moved towards two separate edges of the wooden block. For neither Tom nor Sybil the touch was unpleasant, though. Quite the opposite – it filled them with a strange feeling of content.