There's no one to tell in the end, Sybil decides. Nothing actually happened, except that Tom Crawley proved himself to be an ass. And she's new here, she doesn't want to make trouble. She knows that any sort of fraternizing on the part of female staff is grounds for instant dismissal and she really does need this job.
For now.
She has dreams and goals and plans. She won't be a housemaid forever, that's for sure.
However, she cannot help but be angry. At Tom Crawley and at this place for breeding working conditions where abuse and harassment of employees is tacitly tolerated. And angry at herself, angry that she won't speak up for her rights as a worker. To be honest, though, she's scared of him, too. Rightfully so. But worse than that, there's a feeling she can't shake, despite it having no earthly business residing in her soul – shame. She's ashamed of the whole incident as though it was her own fault, as though she brought it on herself by making some mistake, as though she should've known better somehow. That's what makes her most angry.
She quietly and indirectly tries to discover whether any of the other maids have been mistreated or attacked by Tom Crawley. Perhaps if she had some corroboration, she could speak out. But Gwen, the third housemaid, has stars in her eyes when she speaks of Tom Crawley; the scullery maids fall into blushing giggle fits when Sybil brings him up; one of the kitchen maids makes it plain in a low, cold, whispered threat that Sybil is to stay away from Tom Crawley but not, Sybil understands, for the safety of her virtue, rather for the safety of her eyes lest the kitchen maid scratch them out. Only Anna, sensible and honest and virtuous Anna, is immune to his charms, it seems, admitting that he can be a "handful" and has fallen into a somewhat disreputable state after the death of his brother. "But he didn't used to be like he is now," Anna explains, equivocating. "He used to be a very jolly and very likeable young man. A favorite amongst the staff. It's sad to see him brought so low."
Perhaps not so entirely immune to his charms.
She overhears a few snatches of conversation as she goes about her business which would indicate Mr. Crawley's own family isn't quite as generous as Anna. She hears the man's own father use words like "drunken layabout"and "bring shame on us all" and "carousing with unsavory sorts". Maybe she should go to Lord Crawley with her complaints after all!
She tries to swap duties with Gwen so as to avoid going back into Mr. Crawley's chamber, but Mrs. Hughes demands to know why the second housemaid wants to demote herself to third housemaid. Sybil can't give an explanation and she can't afford the demotion, so she has no choice but to enter the lion's den again. But she's careful to be completely silent when lighting his fire in the early mornings so he won't know she's there, her ears tuned to the sound of his breathing, listening for sounds of rousing and always hoping he got very drunk the night before. And she's careful to determine his exact whereabouts before going in to clean later in the morning, often forced to wait until the afternoon when he's finally dragged himself out of bed for luncheon and disappeared into the village or into Ripon on some business, likely of an intemperate nature.
Early one morning, she's crouched at the hearth as usual, just getting the fire to catch, feeding it, making it grow, willing the wood not to pop so damn loud, when a sudden and furious rustle of sheets from the bed alerts her, has her on her feet instantly and ready to reach for the fireplace poker. A figure launches from under the covers and out of bed. It's him, she knows, coming for her like a lust-crazed maniac. The brass of the poker touches her hand. The figure crouches like a feral beast and plucks something off the floor, scurrying for the door. Sybil's path is blocked now. She glimpses bare skin in the dim glow of the fire, smooth and pale skin. He's naked.
But then the fire catches roundness, slenderness, curves.
It's a woman, she realizes with more shock than if it were he and intent on her downfall.
Sybil can't see the woman's – or girl's – face in the dim light. Who on earth could it be? And then the woman has passed, hiding in the alcove by the door. Sybil stays frozen, listening to the hurried rustle of clothes being pulled on and the door opening, then shutting, the click of the knob like a shot in the night to Sybil's ears.
The shock and her quick breath and blood distracts and deafens her so that she's caught off guard again when she realizes the owner of the room is up now, too, on the far side of the bed, his back turned, grunting and taking a few stumbling steps toward the corner of the room. Still Sybil stays frozen, not wanting to draw attention to herself, playing invisible, even though she can now clearly see Mr. Crawley is completely naked. The firelight catches the broad plane of his back, strong and finely-shaped, tapering down to his round, curved backside, perfectly smooth and firm. She stares, completely immobilized, completely shocked, breathless. She should run.
Especially when she hears – and, frankly, smells - the strong stream of his piss hitting the chamber pot. He groans loud and long and sighs.
But Sybil has to assume by this he doesn't know she's in the room. And she's still entirely loath to give herself away, frightened of what could happen if she does. She waits, crouching down again, hiding. She's going to have to empty the damn pot anyway.
He finally stops and she hears him shuffle back to the bed. Thankfully, she can't see him from here; she doesn't need any more shocks. The bedclothes rustle, skin sliding over the fine cotton. God almighty, how long will she have to wait until he's asleep so she can sneak over there—
"Good morning, Miss Sybil," Mr. Tom grumbles, freezing her blood. Another shock after all. How on earth— "Either take the pot and get out, or remove your clothes and take the other one's place."
When she picks up the pot of his stinking urine, she longs to dump it over his head. She makes the mistake of glancing his way, expecting to find his eyes on her, shining in the near-dark and laughing at her. But instead she finds his eyes shut and face buried in his feather pillow, already falling back to sleep, unconcerned if she stays or goes. She goes.
TBC.
