Six months had passed since Sybil and Tom's visit. Those few days had been particularly difficult for Mary. Had she been braver, it could have been her, and not Sybil, returning triumphantly from Ireland with Tom on her arm. Matthew had decided that it was the fact that her youngest sister was pregnant that upset Mary during the visit. It had been almost a year since their wedding after all, and there was no sign of an heir.
The Archbishop of York was the latest guest invited to dine at the Abbey. The table was resplendent and everything was passing smoothly until there was a thundering knock on the front door. When it did not cease after several moments, Mary excused herself to find out what it was, and to escape Matthew's questioning gaze.
"Do you have any luggage sir?" The footman asked while opening the door.
Mary did not have to look to see who it was, the gruff response told her all.
"I barely have the clothes I stand in,"
"Tom?" She called worriedly. "What are you doing here? Where's Sybil?"
He wore a pained expression, so bad that Mary believed him to be physically hurt.
"She's on her way, but please, Mary I need to talk to you."
Mary nodded and excused Alfred, telling Tom to go to Sybil's bedroom and wait for her.
She returned to the dining room, successfully being excused by feigning a headache. But she told her father the truth quietly, saying that Tom was upstairs...without Sybil.
▫️
He was upset when she let herself into the room, sitting on the bed with his head in his hands.
"God, Mary what have I done?" He croaked.
"I don't know Tom, what have you done?"
"Before I tell you, I have to know that you'll be on my side," Tom pleaded, pulling himself together somewhat.
"Of course I will, I'll always be on your side, no matter what."
That was all he needed to hear and so he began to tell her of the events in Ireland and how he was believed to be involved in a house burning.
"But Mary, when I saw them there, holding their children, their home in ashes, I was sorry." His tears flowed freely again and she took his hands in hers.
"I'm certain you regret it but that doesn't make it better Tom. What you did was wrong."
"Those places aren't the same for me Mary. When I look at them I don't see luxury and gracious living, I see something horrid. I see what took you away from me, what took my country from my people."
She released her hands as a wave of coldness washed over her.
"You still haven't explained about Sybil." Mary slowly spoke, trying hard not to hate him.
"She stayed behind to close up the flat. Hopefully she'll be on the boat by now."
"My pregnant sister. You left your wife who is six months pregnant behind in a foreign country and fled alone."
She stood, her pale hands shaking. What had happened to her Tom?
"You said you'd be on my side." He muttered.
"She's my sister Tom!" Mary cried, flailing her arms.
"I don't need to reminded of that. I know perfectly well she's your sister."
Deciding that a change of subject was needed, Mary told him that she would retrieve some dry clothes of Matthew's.
"I'm not wearing anything of his!" Tom barked, hurt at her suggestion.
"Papa's then." Came her small reply. She retreated to the door and was met by her furious husband and father. Resignedly, she left them to their interrogation without a word.
▫️
The next morning brought rain and Sybil. Cora walked her daughter upstairs, informing her of the night's drama.
"Mary?" Sybil called as she saw her sister through the crack in a bedroom door.
"Darling," Mary replied, joining the two women. She embraced her sister, relief washing through her.
"I'm perfectly fine Mary. Try not to hate Tom for this. I do love him so very much."
Lady Grantham linked arms with her youngest daughter and smiled.
"And he loves you,"
Mary followed the two, grateful that they could not see the tears forming in her eyes.
"Well, something good came from all of this. We can stay in Downton now," Sybil excitedly told the ladies.
▫️
It was the Spring of 1913 when Lady Mary Crawley met Tom Branson. Disgruntled that not one servant was around to tell the new chauffeur that the motor was required, Mary decided to tell him herself.
She sashayed down to the garage, and was met not by an old man, as she expected, but quite the opposite.
Clearing her throat, she waited until he noticed her standing in the doorway.
"Yes?" Came an Irish lilt. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, exposing his tanned, muscled forearms.
"I need the motor. You're taking me to York." Came her cold command.
"Am I now, who says?" Tom asked, looking her up and down and raising an eyebrow.
"Lady Mary Crawley, that's who." She snapped, unnerved at how his appreciative gaze made her feel.
She could tell that it was hard for him, bowing to authority. But he did it when he nodded and smiled apologetically.
"What time m'lady"
"Eleven," she said calmly, adding sarcastically "If it's not too much trouble."
"Course it isn't, Lady Edith was it?" He asked, wiping his hands on a cloth.
She met him with an icy stare. "No, it wasn't. Mister...?" Mary waited for him to reveal his name.
"Branson."
"Well Mr Branson, I'll see you in twenty minutes."