Her life gets significantly easier when Tom Crawley departs Downton Abbey, heading to London and points elsewhere for an indeterminate amount of time to do...whatever it is feckless, boorish young gentlemen do with all their responsibility-free time. Drink and whore and gamble and go to the races, is what Sybil assumes. Her whole being feels lighter with him gone. She even has time to take her afternoon break and get some mending done, now she's not usually spending that time cleaning Mr. Tom's room.
She's doing said mending one afternoon, trying not to think about the day Mr. Tom returns and ruins it all, when Mr. Carson comes in with the post. "Gwen, this came for you," Mr. Carson announces, handing Sybil a thick envelope to pass along down the table to Gwen.
"Who's that from, eh? Your secret sweetheart?" Thomas Barrow teases from the end of the table.
"Was there anything else for me, Mr. Carson?" Gwen asks, apparently unsatisfied with the envelope.
Sybil thinks someone could write an encyclopedia about the thousand-and-one expressions Mr. Carson's face is capable of. This one speaks volumes. "That the third housemaid should get any post in a year is rare enough, Gwen. Don't get above yourself."
"Yes, sir."
In fact, Sybil knows her roommate has been taking a secretarial training course via correspondence. Whatever post she's looking for must have to do with that. Sybil is a little envious of Gwen; she's doing what Sybil so far hasn't been able to – start to make an escape route for herself. She wants to do what Gwen's doing, but her mother's been sick and every extra farthing goes to Ireland to help her sisters care for mama.
On her half days or afternoons off, she goes to the village or into Ripon for any political rallies that might be on. There was even a lady speaker once, making the case for the women's vote. It was entirely thrilling. Sybil shook the woman's hand when she came down from the speaker's step. And with the occasion of the by-election approaching, Sybil decides she simply has to be at the announcement of the count, representing her sex in presence if not in voice.
Thus, on the morning of the count, she wakes up with a very bad "sore throat" and once everyone is at their morning's work, she makes her escape.
But upon arriving, Sybil realizes with a little alarm that this isn't like any of the rallies she's attended – it seems like the volume and intensity are turned way, way up. And there are absolutely no women to be seen. She begins to doubt herself. She's jostled and squashed in the heaving throng, but she isn't going to be intimidated. She wants to vote someday, by God, and if this is what it's all about, then she can get right down in it as well as any man.
However, when two strong hands clamp around her arms above the elbow, panic immediately swells within her and she stiffens, ready to stamp on some feet with her low heel if necessary.
"Don't worry," a voice behind her, close to her ear, says. "It's only me, Miss Sybil."
And she knows, her guts sinking – it's Tom Crawley. Only. The one man on earth who unnerves her completely and entirely. Only him.
She can smell his shaving soap and the freshness of his shirt. No alcohol staleness, she notes. His hands are still on her, holding her against his solid chest, and damn her eyes, she can't help but remember how his solid chest and other solidparts of his body looked without clothes! Horrible man.
She curses to herself but to him says politely, "I didn't know you were back, Mr. Crawley."
"Just got in."
"Welcome home, sir. I hope you had a pleasant trip."
"I didn't know you were political. A revolutionary housemaid. It seems a stretch."
"I'm not a revolutionary, sir," she disagrees, hoping to come over as demure, not a troublemaker.
But Tom seems to sense that's not her whole answer, prompting, giving her elbow a brief squeeze, "We're not in the house. You can speak openly with me here."
Fine then. "I'm not a revolutionary, I'm a suffragette."
"And the difference being?"
"I don't think it's a revolutionary idea that women be treated as having minds of their own, be treated as equals, be given a voice, be full citizens of the country where they live. It just seems fair. In my opinion. Sir."
She expects he'll mock her somehow or play his old "I'm the master, you're not equal" card, despite his claims of being able to speak freely with him. He's still lord and master and jackass. But instead he asks, surprising her, "So what's your opinion of all this, then, Sybil? Who do you think will win?"
"Will win, or should win, sir?" And when she turns her head to look at him, he's smiling at her, his big blue eyes shining bright. But she gets the impression he's not laughing at her, oddly enough. There's something almost warm in his face. He should smile more often. And his hands, they don't seem so vice-like now, not controlling her but rather...protective. Keeping her from being jostled. Like he's a rock in a river protecting her from getting swept away.
But suddenly they're both rocked off their feet by the swell of men, a burst of shouts going up on the other side of the courtyard, the whole throng surging back. Something's happening.
"A fight," Mr. Crawley answers her unasked question. "We should go, Miss Branson."
"You can go, if you like, sir. I'll be alright." That may have been more convincing if a bottle hadn't just sailed right over their heads.
"It's not safe," he insists, tugging on her arms. "Come along!"
She doesn't want to go, just to be ornery, but grudgingly admits he might be right. He grabs her hand, weaving their fingers together, a firm hold, his skin warm through her thin glove. She finds herself clutching his sleeve as they try to push through the crowd. She can't see where they're going. There's another great surge and she feels like she's in the ocean – she loses her grip on him and the wave pulls them apart, carries her away from him.
She thinks she hears him call her name and she tries to keep sight of his panicked face in the crowd but can't. Her feet leave the ground and she's no longer in control of her own body, at the mercy of a crowd, panicking. And then there's nothing holding her up and she's weightless, stony pavers suddenly smacking her tailbone, a sharp crack in her head—
She's moving. Rattling and jostling and bumping. She opens her eyes. She shouldn't have – her vision is a blur, things moving by way too quickly. She shuts her eyes again, her stomach heaving. She's going to be sick. She must make some noise because it prompts someone nearby to say, "We're almost to the hospital, Sybil. You're in my motor car. You'll be alright, my girl."
It's taking all her energy not to vomit, she has none left to make sense of anything else. She wills the jostling to stop and it seems an eternity before it does. But then she's moving again, being lifted up easily. Shaving soap and clean linen. The smells are familiar and seem to calm her stomach. Strong arms. A rock in a river. Hot skin pressed against her face. A soothing voice very close, very quiet, repeating calmly. You'll be alright, you're alright, don't you worry, Miss Sybil, darling girl. She's in the arms of Tom Crawley, the man she loathes.
"Dr. Clarkson said I'm perfectly capable of walking, sir, thank you," she protests crisply, feeling absolutely ridiculous.
"Capable, yes. Allowed, no."
So she's forced to be carried by Tom from his automobile to the back entrance of Downton, with each and every one of her co-workers, as well as some of his family, watching. Her hair is all undone and down and there's nothing she can do about it - she must look like a ravaged wild woman!
But the humiliation doesn't end at the door. He carries her inside and down the steps, past Mrs. Hughes' parlor, past Mr. Carson's office, past the kitchens and the pantry, every one trailing behind them, watching a master of the house carry the second housemaid like his newly wed bride. She can't bear the staring and the shame, hiding her face in Tom Crawley's neck.
When they get to the servants' stairs, she struggles again. This has to stop. He is not going to carry her up four flights of stairs. "I can manage the stairs, Mr. Crawley, please!"
"Absolutely not. Mrs. Hughes, Sybil has tomorrow off, is that understood? And she can't sleep tonight, she's had a concussion, so someone has to sit up with her, can that be arranged?"
"Yes, Mr. Crawley, of course," she hears Mrs. Hughes answer, sounding bewildered.
Her humiliation is complete only when he's entered her shared bedroom in the attic and set her down gently on her narrow bed. Good lord, her nightgown is hanging off the back of her chair – he's seeing her ruddy nightgown!
She sits stretched out on the bed, staring at her clasped hands, while he stands over her, silent, breathing hard. Is he waiting for her to thank him? Thank him for humiliating her? Thank him for rescuing her? Both? "Thank you, sir," she says quietly, politely, hoping he'll get out of her room immediately.
"Yes, well." He clears his throat, like he's coming back to his usual dour self and realizing the ridiculous spectacle they just made. "Good night, Sybil."
And finally he's gone. But Mrs. Hughes and Gwen and Anna and even Miss O'Brien are standing at the foot of her bed, question marks where their faces should be. "Well, Miss Branson? Do you want to explain what all that was about? And where you've been all day?"
She feels bad. Anna and Gwen work hard enough already and today must cover her duties, too. Gwen didn't sleep all night, sitting up with her in their shared room per Tom Crawley's instructions, reading to her, showing her how her to write shorthand, and now the poor girl is positively dragging and had managed to spill mop water all over her apron and dress in her tiredness. From the comfort of her bed, Sybil watches Gwen change her clothes. Sybil apologizes for the nineteenth time in the space of five minutes.
Gwen waves her off. "Don't worry about it, Sybil, my goodness. You're injured! So stop fretting."
"Well, I'll make it up to you, I promise."
"Fair enough. Now then, I'll have Daisy or someone bring you tea in a while. You just go back to sleep now!"
Sybil tries to do as instructed, just about succeeding, dozing, when a knock at the door rouses her. It must be the tea. She calls out sleepily, still buried in her pillow, and she hears the door open.
"Are you decent, Miss Sybil?" Her eyes fly open and she sits up like a shot, clutching the blanket to her chest, her mouth clutching for speech as she watches Tom Crawley walk in. "Because even if you aren't—"
"I'm not!"
"-I'm still coming in," he finishes, shutting the door behind him.
"I'm-I'm in my nightgown, Mr. Crawley!" she sputters, as though that's the worst of it.
"Nothing I haven't seen before."
"I'm-I'm— You shouldn't be in here, sir. It's-it's-"
He pulls a chair to her bedside and sits. "Don't worry, I know how to get up here without being seen. And how to get away without being seen, too." He leans back and gives her a cheeky grin. "I've been doing it since I was fourteen." He's so lewd and shocking and inappropriate and boyish when he grins like that and funny in a way and confusing and maddening. She clutches her blanket higher. "Oh don't worry, I'm not here for any funny business. I came to see how you are today. You're looking well."
She looks a mess, her hair in an unruly braid, her face unwashed. "I'm feeling very well, sir."
"Good. And I came to tell you that my father wants to sack you."
She'd been expecting this all night, in a way, but it still makes her breath catch. "I see. Without a reference, I assume?"
"No reference, that's correct." Her chest tightens painfully. "Because you don't need one."
"But I—"
"You're not going anywhere."
Now she has no idea what's happening.
"I convinced him not to let you go, Sybil. Your place is secure."
"Oh." And she should be grateful, she knows. But she can't help but wonder why he's done this. So that she would be grateful to him, owe him? Be in his debt? A debt he would expect to collect from her at some point? She can easily imagine how he'd expect payment. Her voice is tight and small when she says, "Thank you, Mr. Crawley. You have my sincere thanks. But..."
"But what?"
She puts on a brave face, looking straight at him. "But if you are expecting some form of reciprocity from me, beyond the sincerity in my heart, which I've expressed to you verbally, perhaps it would be better if I did leave."
He's very still, his face unreadable, but she knows he understands her meaning. There's very little to stop him taking his payment now. If she screamed, likely no one would hear her. "And what would you do if you did leave?" he asks.
She rolls her eyes, so tired of being threatened by him, and by the hold money has over her. "Survive," she bites out.
Tom holds up his hands. "No, no. I'm sorry, I'm not making myself clear. What would you do if you left here to go do something else? What would you like to do, is what I really mean. I feel certain your life's ambition is not to be a housemaid."
"There's nothing wrong with being a housemaid."
"Of course not. Except I would be very sad to hear you're still in service in five years' time. It would disappoint me."
"Why?"
"Because you're smarter than that, clearly. Would you want to be a secretary, perhaps? A nurse? A shop girl?" He throws up his hand dramatically. "An actress. That's it, isn't it?"
She bows her head, hiding a smile from him. "A secretary, at first," she admits finally. "But if I could, I'd be a journalist. I'd write about politics."
He smiles. "Naturally. Which reminds me." He reaches into his suit coat, pulling out some folded papers. "I brought these pamphlets for you. Some light reading."
She takes them, surprised, shuffling through them. The Woman's Liberty Bell. New Era. Why the Women of Britain Want the Vote. Ireland Unfree. Marxism For Our Times. Good god, if anyone found these in her possession... "So you are trying to get me sacked, sir."
He laughs, standing up, putting the chair back in its place. He seems about to leave, but then he stops, coming back to her bedside. He crouches down so that he's not looming over her but instead looking up at her. "Miss Branson. I know you think I'm lewd and crude and brutish, and I am when I'm drunk, when I'm hung over, even when I'm neither. I'm not much good at being a gentleman. But I hope you'll believe me when I say you have nothing to fear from me."
The first time she met him, he threatened her and almost attacked her. And every time she's encountered him since, he's been the most puzzling, alarming person she's ever met. But looking down at his face, so boyish and earnest, his big eyes so liquid and expressive and imploring, his forehead wrinkled with such concern and hope, she finds herself unable to say anything but a soft, "I do."
"Good. Good."
She can't remember when she stopped clutching her blankets, but she has and his hand finds one of hers. She's not wearing gloves this time. Their palms make a soft rasping sound, loud in the silent room, as he slides her hand into his, taking it, holding it. She thinks he might kiss her hand and, though she said she doesn't fear him, she does fear that, fears the fluttering it puts in her belly, and fears she might have some understanding of why her female co-workers get hearts in their eyes when mentioning Mr. Tom Crawley.
The bedroom door opens. "Sybil? Are you awake—"
Tom Crawley stands up so fast he almost loses his balance, stumbling away from her bed. Gwen, carrying a small tea tray, is rooted in place at the door, staring at them, her eyes huge. Sybil is equally frozen, equally discomposed. It's Gwen who speaks first, trying to back out of the room as she does. "Oh. I'm sorry, sir—"
"I was checking in on our patient, making sure she didn't die in the night," Tom offers.
"I see. You could've asked Thomas or Mr. Carson for a report, sir," Gwen says.
"Yes. Quite right. Apologies for the invasion, ladies. Good morning."
So much for sneaking away unseen. She and Gwen stare after him as he makes a hasty escape, and she laughs, trying to make light of the situation, of the ridiculousness of the man, hoping Gwen joins in, hoping she doesn't go running off to Mrs. Hughes to get her in trouble. "Can you believe the impudence? Coming into the female servants' quarters! I should report him to Mrs. Hughes, not that it'd do much good," Sybil tries, eager to derail the problem ahead of it building up steam.
But when Gwen sets the tea tray down on the table by her bed, the force makes the china clatter and her eyes are as fiery as her hair. And suddenly Sybil has an insight, clear as day: it was Gwen she saw scampering out of Tom Crawley's bed that early morning months ago.
TBC.