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Thanks to everyone for the reviews and support. I hope you enjoy reading Sybil's letter.

Chapter 4

It was lunchtime at Downton Abbey and the delightful smells of Mrs. Patmore's kitchen beckoned more than one of the hungry staff. The family might be away and a few faces absent from the staff, but nearly everyone was busy with tasks only done when the family was away. The lunch was a blessed break from the humdrum of cleaning, cooking, and working. Branson, who had long been accustomed to the temperamental cook's delicious cuisine, was early and reading the newspaper in his usual spot. Unlike the rest of the staff, he had fewer tasks to do while the family was away. He would tinker with the cars and drive the other Crawleys and Lady Violet around, but there were many long hours of nothing.

Freedom should've been a blessing; it meant he had more time for leisure and with Lord Grantham's library, more books to read during it. But free time had become a curse of late and Tom knew exactly why-Sybil and that blasted kiss. Almost five weeks had passed and there wasn't an hour that went by without his mind replaying and embellishing it. Her lips had been so soft and her eager response had nearly unmanned him. It seemed he more alone time he had, the more erotic his thoughts. He often imagined her soft white hands on his chest, his abdomen. What his hands could do to the curves of her body. But it went beyond physical attraction (although there was a good deal of that). He often thought about what she was doing at that moment, what she would say about some newspaper article or another. However, his thoughts often drifted into melancholy, imagining other men kissing her hand at balls or taking her for long strolls in the park. The isolation of his cottage merely exacerbated the longings and the depressing thoughts. So staff lunches became a welcome reprieve from his anguished reflections, not to mention his heated thoughts.

Slowly the staff filtered into the kitchen, sweaty, dusty, and hungry. Tom exchanged pleasantries with William, Anna, and Gwen, their friendship easy and jovial. Poor William was slightly withdrawn due to the recent passing of his mother. Tom cracked a couple of jokes and the women laughed. William offered a sad smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. It seemed unlikely the young footman would laugh anytime soon.

They ate lunch; steaming bowls of soup with thick slices of crusty bread. Tom complimented Mrs. Patmore several times. She could give my ma a run for her money, he thought.

Mrs. Hughes, always the last to arrive, bustled in with a stack of letters and took her seat at the head of the table. With Mr. Carson gone she took her meals with the rest of the staff. While she didn't chitchat in the same good-humored way the other staff did, she was still a pleasant presence.

She began to hand out letters to the staff, "Anna, William, and Thomas, here you are" She frowned slightly then said, "and Gwen, there's one for you. It seems to be from London, from Lady Sybil".

Tom's eyebrows shot up as he (along with the rest of the staff) turned to stare at Gwen. She had a letter from Sybil? he thought. What would Sybil have to send her?

The redhead blushed slightly and mumbled, "It's probably just some pamphlets on typing or something."

It was likely true. Sybil, even in during her London Season, wasn't apt to stop helping Gwen achieve her goals. As the letter was passed to Gwen, Tom couldn't prevent the slight burst of jealousy.

It wasn't that he was mad at Gwen. She, like him, was one of Sybil's favorites. In fact, he actually admired Sybil for keeping her promise to Gwen. The problem with the letter was that it wasn't for him. He knew she would forget about him, had even predicted that she would, but the letter was physical, tangible proof that she had. Here she was sending letters to Gwen, fulfilling her promise and yet she seemed already to deny him the promise of her love. No matter that he had told her to forget.

He knew his thinking was irrational, but damn if Sybil didn't make him crazy. He felt her absence from Downton every day. The place was darker, gloomier, and emotionless without her. He longed for news of her. Even a brief note with the beaus she danced with and the men who were courting her was something. But he had nothing. He, as was fitting of a chauffer, was forgotten.

Tom quickly finished his lunch and left the table glummer than he had been in days. It shouldn't matter that she had written to Gwen. But it did. He might spend hours since her departure, thinking she might still care about him, that her declaration had meant something, foolishly hoping her love was true. But the truth was she had forgotten all about him in the excitement of the Season. Good thing I didn't return her declaration. It would've been nothing but a shame to us both now, he thought.

Walking back to the chauffeur's cottage, gravel crunching under his boots, Tom knew he needed a distraction. Long hours stretched before him; dinner wasn't served until at least 6 and that was a lifetime away. A long afternoon stretched before him with nothing but reading and thinking about a woman he couldn't have. The woman who forgot him in an instant. Hurt, frustrated, and angry (with himself mostly), he needed work. Reading might be mental work, but it was the pure physical kind that distracted. Physical work helped one to forget. Throwing off his coat and donning some greasy clothes, Tom headed to the garage to work on the cars. His afternoon was spent replacing all of the tires, cleaning the leather interior, changing the oil, and other tasks that were extensive and hard.

By 5:45 he was exhausted and covered in grease, wax, and sweat. Washing his face and arms, he quickly made his way to the kitchen. Tom was proud of himself; physical labor had taken the sting out of her rejection and he was in a much better mood than when he left the kitchen. He ate more of Mrs. Patmore's divine food and lingered over a cup of tea with the other servants. By the time dinner was over, he was feeling more like himself. He didn't need Sybil's company. In fact, the other workers were cheerful and delightful enough, even if they didn't discuss politics. He bid goodnight to everyone, put on his coat, and headed for the back door.

"Tom, wait up," a voice said behind him. He turned around only to find Gwen walking quickly towards him in the hall.

She looked around suspiciously and then pulled out a letter from her apron.

"This is for you from Lady Sybil." She said, smiling shyly. "I didn't read it. I'm sure it's…private"

A letter? For him? Really? Not hours ago he had been cursing the absence of a letter, but now he was genuinely surprised. Dumbfounded, Tom took the letter and put it in his pocket "Thank you, Gwen. I owe you one I'm sure."

He practically ran back to the cottage, a silly grin plastered on his face. He finally had news of Sybil. Yet even in his bliss over her letter, he knew he shouldn't write back. It would only complicate matters. He would merely read it so as to ascertain how she was, read just to know what it said.

Resolved, he sat down in the same chair she had once sat in, reverently opened the crisp paper, and began to read.

Grantham Terrace

Mayfair

19 June 1914

Dearest Tom,

You thought I would forget you, but I have not, I cannot forget you. You thought I would felt shame over our kiss, but all I can feel is elation, anticipation at the thought of another kiss from your sensual lips.

You might be back at Downton, but you are constantly in my thoughts here in London. I often think "What would Tom think of this…" or "How Tom would laugh at this…". I attend parties nearly every night with my family, but I take little pleasure in them. Oh I dance and socialize, I smile and nod, but it's all an act. My father once told me that we all have roles to play-lord of the manor, valet, butler, maid, and chauffeur. I play the role of Lady Sybil Crawley (very well I might add), daughter of a peer and debutante in her first London Season. But it's just that: an act, a farce, an allusion. It is only at night when the curtain finally goes down. Alone in my room (as I am now) I am myself. I am Sybil Crawley, the woman who's in love with you.

I don't need to pretend with you. But more importantly, I can't. I can't pretend that my love for you isn't real because it's the most genuine thing I know about myself. Being with you, talking with you, kissing you is like finding the other half of soul. Maybe you'll laugh but in my favorite novel, Wuthering Heights, Cathy says of her deep and passionate love for Heathcliff that "whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same". As a young girl I would often sigh dramatically at that moment and dream of finding my own (albeit nicer) Heathcliff. Now it seems I have. I can think of no truer statement to describe the love and connection I feel with you.

I dreamt of you last night. We were back in your cottage on the night of my accident, the night I told you I loved you, the night of our passionate kiss. And we didn't stop. You didn't pull away and I didn't leave, my feverish fantasies filling the gaps where my experience fails. Maybe you think me wicked for dreaming such things, but it's no more than I have thought before. I woke up gasping for air, covered in sweat, and missing you. Why did you pull away? Sometimes I think the moment was so perfect that it couldn't be real. Then I remember the pressure of your lips, your hands on my face, my neck and I know it is. There is no way my mind could conjure such sensations.

Frankly, I'm not sure of the purpose of this letter. I wanted to assure you that I haven't forgotten you, nor do I intend to. I long to hear your voice, to hear your opinions. And maybe I long to know your feelings. Do you feel anything for me? Is it just lust? I know I come off as bold and confident, but separation from you has made me unsure of my own judgment. Some sign, some word would be enough. My love for you still stands strong, even in the tide of London's Season.

Yours,

Sybil

He was humbled. Moved. Overwhelmed. Her letter was so open and sweet, just like the woman herself. She dreamt of him? The thought of her alone in her room, dressed as she was in his cottage, fired his blood more than his own restless thoughts of past weeks. She was so brazen and honest in her passion for him. Her words were like a balm to his soul, soothing the separation of long weeks. To think she could still love him, miss him even with all the other more worthy men. It made him feel powerful, strong. And she wasn't sure if he even cared for her at all? She thought it was just lust? Did she not feel the intense connection between their bodies and their hearts? Did she not feel how close she had driven him to the edge? How much restraint it took for him not to show her with his body what his mind already knew? He knew that he hadn't said the words, but he thought the kiss had at least assured her of the return of some sentiment. Her vulnerability, particularly for someone so proud, was endearing. To write such a letter, with such insecure thoughts in her head, took some nerve.

He knew he shouldn't write back. It would only serve to hurt them both. But after finishing such a heartfelt and passionate note, it took a mere 30 seconds for him to realize it was impossible for him not to respond. Impossible not to respond quickly.

Grabbing a piece of stationary from his small and precious collection, Tom penned an answer to Sybil.

At lunch the next day, Mrs. Hughes posted a letter to Grantham Terrace from Gwen.

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