A/N: First, thanks (!) to everyone who has read and for those who left the kind reviews and encouragement. I sincerely cherish every one. As long as folks enjoy the stories, it makes the hours of writing worthwhile. I have a few more ideas rattling around in my brain, and at this point, I've abandoned the canon story I was working on, preferring to cannibalize it to put these chapters together. Screw Fellowes, I'm perfectly happy in my alternative reality right now.

This is the obligatory Christmas chapter and if no one has guessed, yes, I have a lot of fun writing Tom and Matthew. :)

Chapter 4: Remember the Children

(Downton, Christmas, 1923)

Winter's chill descended on Yorkshire in early December, summoning the arrival of another Christmas. In many ways, the Seventh Earl of Grantham willingly complied with the traditions, formality and customs assigned to his station, by delegating various responsibilities to those more suited for them. But, in others, he was an attentive master of the estate and cared intimately about certain minutiae, such as the selection of the Abbey's grand Christmas tree.

When his daughters were little girls, he relished carting them to some remote corner of the estate, soliciting their opinions on the perfect tree for the house. The great foyer tree had become his own contribution to the history of Downton Abbey and he took tremendous pride in the expedition for it. Servants were given a half-day's rest and allowed to participate in the search party if they chose to do so, and the evening was spent hanging ornaments and draping tinsel, the aroma of hot cider wafting through the corridors. It was a household affair that beckoned a happy holiday season of dinners, balls, and the warmth of family.

But, for the first time in more than twenty-five years, he elected not to go. Well, forced really, by a vicious cold that kept him indoors and away from everyone, especially the children for fear of infecting them. It was awful timing, for he believed that to not have a tree positioned and fully decorated by the first full week of December was terribly bad luck. Moreover, his generosity always extended to the tenants and local townspeople, and on certain days of the week, they were permitted (and they expected) to step inside the majestic house, if only for a precious moment, to observe Lord Grantham's festively decorated foyer. The tree had to be found and festooned despite Mother Nature's conspiracy against him.

Recognizing that traditions survived in part by the acceptance of future generations, he instructed the future earl to lead the hunting party. Through coughs and sneezes, Robert offered precise details on the height and girth of the ideal tree, and suggested several varieties from which to choose. In recent years, he had particular success at the Drake farm, and strongly recommended Matthew begin there.

Almost as an afterthought, Matthew invited his brother-in-law to give him a well-deserved respite. Over the previous month, Tom had been mired up to his eyeballs in outlining plans for the old Morse farm, a sad patch of property left in atrocious condition by the prior tenant. Matthew suggested they take both Bobby and David, who were now old enough to truly enjoy the yuletide fun. The entire group, Matthew, Tom, the two children, along with the footmen, hall boys, and a few of the grounds staff, set out for the Drake farm on a crisp and cloudy afternoon.

John Drake was more than happy to brag on his stand of trees and offer one to the great house. He stood aside the future earl, pointing to this one and that, explaining how Lord Grantham had imported the species, a Norwegian Spruce, from the continent when he was a young man.

"They're quite lovely," Drake said, rubbing his gloved hands to keep them warm. "My father tended to them when they were first brought over and it took a lot of hard work to keep them shaped just right. But, I think we've done a right good job with them."

"You certainly have. They're extraordinary," Matthew replied in awe, then pointed to a lush tree in the middle. "That one is particularly fine. It looks as if it popped right off a Christmas card."

Drake smiled proudly. "Would be an excellent selection, sir."

Jimmy, the first footman, strode up and tipped his hat. "We're looking for some good garland material, Mr. Drake. We need enough for all the main rooms and some extra to parcel out in the others."

"I'll show you where 'tis," he said. "Take your time, Mr. Crawley, and make sure you pick the right one for Lord Grantham. He's mighty particular about the house Christmas tree." He wandered off with the footman to help locate the holy, ivy, juniper and an appropriate amount of mistletoe to complete the house's decoration.

Matthew arched his back a bit to observe the beautiful tree in all its grandeur. The full thick limbs formed a near perfect triangle from the base to the tip, which pointed heavenward as if calling the Christ child himself. The branches, thick with impeccably formed needles and tiny brown cones, spared no light from the far side and possessed such a deep shade of green that it seemed almost a shame to think of it anywhere but here, suspended above a blanket of white snow. Excitement bubbled deep within him, anticipating his father-in-law's reaction when they tugged it through the front door.

"I think we've found exactly what Robert was looking for…..Tom?" Matthew hitched his neck to spot his brother-in-law near the edge of the woods, staring at a lone, solitary tree. He walked over, carefully dodging the fistfuls of snow tossed in his direction by his son and nephew.

"What about this one?"

Matthew observed the tree suspiciously. "This one?"

"That's right," Tom replied, reaching out to pull a tendril of needles to his nose. "It smells lovely."

"Don't be ridiculous." Matthew tried not to sound too incredulous. "I mean…its listing to one side a bit. It won't balance the hall."

"Of course it will."

"Tom, the needles are too long, the limbs are too large, and there are too many gaps between the branches. It looks like an engine with missing parts."

"And when was the last time you looked at an engine?"

His patience waned with the Irishman, who now sported an unusually brash grin. "If we came back with that unfortunate thing, Robert would disown me."

"Why?"

"It's horrid, that's why," Matthew retorted as Drake wandered up to them.

"Found something you like better, Mr. Crawley?" the farmer asked.

"No."

"Yes."

Drake raised his brows at the immediate disagreement between the brothers-in-law. He had only known them to be quite chummy in Mr. Branson's three years as estate agent, scarcely a harsh word between them. He cleared his throat. "This one's a Virginia Pine," he explained cautiously as the two men glared at one another. "As I understand it, Lady Grantham's mother sent a batch of them over, I say, twenty years ago now. Thought it would plant a bit of America on the estate. Most of them died off, though, only a few hardy ones left."

"You see," Matthew asserted, "It's not even native to this side of the Atlantic. It has no business inside that house."

Tom felt a sudden kinship to the tree, and smiled. "Bobby!"

Matthew narrowed his eyes. "Please don't."

"Bobby, be a good lad and come help your Da." The little boy darted through the snow, leaving his younger cousin with Alfred who had been teaching them the art of molding a perfect snowball. Tom scooped the boy up as he lunged into his father's arms and then gave him a smacking kiss on his frigid cheek. "What do you think? Is this the perfect Christmas tree for Downton?"

Bobby leaned back, deliberated for a brief moment, and then bobbed his head with one confident nod.

Matthew buried his face in his hands as David toddled over and tugged at his trousers. "Papa – I wan' twee!" he crowed, happily pointing at the haggard looking pine.

"That's government at its finest," Tom declared haughtily. "The mandate of the majority."

"Only you would turn this into a political statement."

Tom winked at his son and placed him back on the ground before signaling for the groundskeeper. He parked his fedora on the little boy's head and jogged over to lend a hand, gripping one end of the cross-cut saw.

Jimmy strode up to Matthew with a wary expression, gloved hands stuffed in his coat pockets. He sniffed against the cold air. "Any suggestions, sir?"

"Decorations. Lots of decorations."

He shrugged. "Maybe we could cut some branches from the nicer ones. Stuff them in the gaps to fill it out."

"Perhaps. But I think our best chance is to get it up and decorated before Lord Grantham sees it. We'll just do the best we can."

"Well, sir, they say Christmas is the season for miracles."

Matthew hoisted his two-and-a-half year old son up into his arms and wondered if even divine providence would save him from Lord Grantham.


Robert strode slowly down the carpeted stairway, his legs weak and unsteady. The blasted cold driven him into bed for nearly a week. He was a relatively healthy man and couldn't remember the last time an illness had affected him so. Perhaps age is creeping up on me at last, he thought sadly, securely holding the banister with every tired step. But, as he heard the staff milling in the hallway, excited laughter and merry banter, he couldn't help but smile. Christmas was, indeed, his favorite time and he anticipated all the joyous festivities, made brighter every year as more grandchildren arrived. Three so far, and another on the way. I'm truly a blessed man.

He greeted the under-butler just as the staff began hoisting the tree into place at the far end of the hall by the grandfather clock. "Good afternoon, Thomas," he said, brightly, descending the last step.

"And a good afternoon to you, sir. Glad to see you're feeling better."

He stopped suddenly. "What on earth is that?" Robert asked, swiping at his nose.

Thomas bit back a smile. "This year's Christmas tree, of course."

"It can't be," he breathed, shaking his head at the offending object. "Where's Matthew?"

"I'm not sure I would lay in to Mr. Crawley quite yet, sir. I understand Mr. Branson offered quite a strong opinion during the search."

Robert's brows wove together indignantly at the sight of the future earl treading through the front door. "Matthew, what's the meaning of this? You were given strict instructions to select a tree worthy of this house."

Matthew deposited David onto the carpet and shrugged off his overcoat, handing it to the under-butler. "Don't blame me," he said innocently, kneeling in front of his son to peel off the child's wintry clothing. "I was outvoted."

"By whom? Tom?" If his face wasn't already red from the remnants of his cold, it certainly would have been by now.

"Not entirely," he muttered.

"Grandpapa!" Bobby charged into the hallway, his dark gray flat cap dusted with snow. He stopped at his grandfather's feet, gasping for air. His cheeks pinked from the afternoon's activities in the wintry air, he stared up at the older man. "We found your Christmas tree!"

"Bobby, lad, take off your hat when you come indoors," Tom gently reminded his son. He doffed his own hat, handing it to Thomas.

Robert narrowed his eyes at both sons-in-law, not knowing upon which to cast his fury first. He glanced back down at his eldest grandson, who had obediently plucked his tiny cap.

"Isn't it pretty?" Bobby smiled proudly, his little blue eyes lit with joy.

The grandfather opened his mouth to speak, but then quickly puckered his lips into a forced smile. "It's positively unique."


Dinner was a quiet, casual affair that evening, served shortly after tea. The family and staff gathered shortly thereafter in the annual tradition of decorating the house, complete with cider, sweets, and in recent years, accompanied by festive music from the gramophone. Sybil and Mary abandoned their husbands in the hive of activities, preferring the solitude of the drawing room, with only the occasional housemaid slipping in to stuff holly and ivy into a tureen or drape greenery over the mantel. As much as she anticipated watching her grandsons decorate the tree, Cora soon grew exasperated with her husband as he directed the hall's ornamentation. He remained techy from the lingering effects of his cold and Tom functioned as the most convenient target, given his role in the tree's selection.

To his credit, the Irishman accepted the barbs with forced smiles and self-deprecating humor, at least at first. But, once Lord Grantham subtly referred to the tree as a yuletide pariah, Tom returned fire with allegations that the earl had deliberately snapped branches while hanging tinsel. The truce that existed between the two, largely attained through a mutual love of Sybil and Bobby, was inevitably destined for occasional re-negotiation. Once Cora realized this was one of those moments, she rolled her eyes and decided join her daughters in the drawing room, leaving Matthew and Edith as the reluctant intermediaries.

Basking in the warmth of the fire, Sybil sipped slowly on a cup of tea, pensive in thought, which didn't go unnoticed by Lady Grantham.

"You're very quiet this evening," Cora noted.

Her youngest daughter smiled. "I was just thinking how lovely it is to be here with you all, the whole family."

Mary raised a knowing brow. "But…."

Sybil's shoulders sagged with a gentle laugh. "But it can't go on forever," she responded, glancing apologetically at her mother. "I think it's time Tom and I found our own place. Start our own home."

Cora sighed, disappointed yet relieved. The decision had been a shoe waiting to drop, and everyone knew it. "I do wish you would reconsider," she said. "Downton will always be your home if you'd let it, all of you. And I love having my grandchildren under one roof. It makes the house such a wonderful place."

"And I loved growing up here and being with you these past few years. And I'll always have those memories. But this isn't us and it isn't right for our children. When we visited Tom's brother a few months ago, Bobby asked how his Uncle Kieran lived without a butler and a cook. Poor Tom was humiliated – we both were. He's at that age where he is beginning to perceive differences in social classes, in rich and poor, and in occupations." She reached out for her mother's hand, and glanced at them both. "Please. Could you mention it to Papa and Matthew? Just ask if there is a property available. Something reasonable."

Cora squeezed her hand. "Of course. As long as you promise to come over all the time. I won't be separated from my grandchildren for long."

The three women startled at a high-pitched squeal emanating from the doorway. Mary's hand flattened protectively against her heart. "I may send mine with you if he doesn't abandon this horrible screaming habit."

David scurried into the room as fast as his little legs could carry him. He proudly displayed a colorful paper chain of red and green, babbling something about "Aunt E." "That's wonderful, darling," she declared, kissing his blonde head. "Have Papa help you put it on the tree." She shook her head as he scampered back out, the chain billowing behind him. "To be so happy and content this evening, he certainly showed his temper this afternoon when they returned. I thought his head would start spinning when Nanny told him he needed a nap. It's like having a miniature version of Jekyll and Hyde."

Sybil laughed. "Bobby was like that as well. At one point Tom convinced himself he was either a completely incompetent father or we needed Father Dominic to perform an exorcism. Thank God he grew out of it."

"I don't remember him being quite this dreadful."

"That's because when he started misbehaving you always left the room. But, there's no escaping it now…"

"All children go through a bit of a rough patch at that age," Cora reassured her. "The three of you certainly did, although I think Mary may have been the worst."

"That's very kind, Mama," her oldest replied, not entirely amused.

"Only because you were the first. It lessened the shock once Edith and Sybil reached that phase. You were just helping me learn."

Mary glanced back to her younger sister, whose hand gently stroked the peak of her rounded middle, swathed in a sea of dark blue velvet. "It would be easier if I didn't have an eight-month-old as well. You were wise to wait on this one. I wouldn't recommend having them so close together." She furrowed her brows as a wistful look passed between her mother and sister.

Cora placed her cup and saucer on a nearby table. "Speaking of Jekyll and Hyde, I should check on your father and make sure he's not overexerting himself."

Mary waited for her mother to leave the room. "What was that about?" She wouldn't be deterred by her sister's non-answer. "Sybil?"

Sybil's eyes seemed momentarily entranced by the flickering fire. "I had a miscarriage. About two-and-a-half years ago," she confessed quietly after a long moment. "I was barely two months along and had only just realized I was pregnant again."

"Darling, why didn't you tell me?" Mary kept her voice down, wary of the housemaids who had brought in additional armloads of greenery.

"You were days away from giving birth to David. It just didn't seem like the time with everyone anticipating a new baby. And, later, I honestly didn't want to relive it. Since I hadn't told the family, I didn't see any point in bringing it up. Only Mama knows."

"And Tom?"

She nodded. "He was devastated. When I realized I was pregnant, I was terribly upset. I didn't know if I even wanted another one so soon. I had just gone back to nursing at the hospital, Bobby was only a year old, and I was perfectly content with the way things were. And, then when I lost it I was ashamed of how selfish I had been." Her hand drifted protectively to her stomach. "A year went by, and then another. We started to wonder if we would have another chance."

Mary shook her head. "You had nothing to be ashamed of. There were certainly times when I was pregnant with Teddy that I wondered how on earth my sanity would survive two small children at once, even with Nanny."

"I'm sorry. I know I should have told you."

"I understand, but I'm glad you have now." She rested a soft hand atop her sister's stomach, a warm smile lighting her pale features. "And it seems the ship has been righted, so all's well that ends well."

"Indeed," Sybil blushed. "We just had to be persistent."

"Spare me the details." She rolled her eyes as she heard her brother-in-law bark an artificial apology, followed by what she suspected was an Irish profanity to an unknown recipient in the hall.

Tom stormed in the drawing room, hair disheveled, tie askew, jacket absent and his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow. Edith trailed quickly on his heels, her face painted with an almost terrified expression.

"Finished already?" Sybil prodded.

Her husband brushed bits of greenery from his wool waistcoat and joined her by the fire. "No. I thought I better leave before either you or your mother became a widow."

"Papa's getting that way again," Edith warned.

"I don't understand," Tom shrugged innocently. "It's just a tree." He sank down on the plush sofa next to his wife and planted a quick kiss on her temple.

"It's not just a tree, just like we don't just have a cricket match every year."

"Men are so terribly unobservant." Mary professed, and then cast her brother-in-law an amused glance. "You've been at Downton for ten years and you still don't know what you married into." Her eyes scanned the room. "And where's Matthew?"

Edith searched for a decanter of something suitably strong. "He's still out there, poor thing. But we assume he's probably safe since Papa isn't likely to kill his own heir." She filled a glass and joined the group.

Sybil noted her sister's gloomy countenance as she stared into the fire. "Do you plan to visit Mr. Gregson before Christmas? It's been a while since you've seen him."

Edith surveyed the others and sighed heavily. "Well, I suppose I'm safe soliciting this group's advice," she said. "I was thinking of inviting him here, for Christmas."

"As in under this roof," Mary responded, flatly. "Overnight?"

She frowned at the veiled implication. "He'd stay in the bachelor quarters of course. I hate to think of him spending the holiday alone. He's no family, other than his poor wife in that lunatic asylum."

"Between Tom's tree and your invitation to Mr. Gregson, we may have to reserve a room there for Papa."

Tom furrowed his brows, offended. Sybil patted his knee supportively. "Speak with Mama first," she suggested. "She'll help pave the way for Papa and Granny."

Matthew rambled in the room, his blonde hair ruffled and his bare forearms scratched red as if he'd been fighting with a rosebush. The tree had proved an uncooperative and unwilling accomplice to the evening's festivities, as if intentionally defying Lord Grantham's attempts to make it reasonably presentable. He glared at his brother-in-law. "If I were you, I'd go to bed."

"Why?"

He snatched a decanter from the table and poured a hefty drink. "Cousin Robert just dug tinsel out of a box and asked Bates how to tie a noose."


At first, Tom didn't have particularly strong feelings about the tree one way or the other, but as the days and weeks lingered on, accompanied by almost daily snide comments from his father-in-law, he grew increasingly defensive of the foreign pine. In fact, Robert's accusations that the tree didn't exhibit the proper degree of dignity or a decent pedigree had actually become downright insulting. At one point, Tom found the planter suspiciously dry and secretly suspected the earl of depriving it of water. As Christmas neared, the barbs and hostile glances culminated into an atmosphere alternating between artificial civility and arbitrary outbursts.

Flanked by her sons-in-law, Cora attempted to maintain a peace at least through Christmas Eve dinner, though she imagined the Treaty of Versailles was negotiated in a far friendlier environment. The arrival of Edith's editor and 'friend,' Mr. Gregson merely propelled her husband into dramatic eye rolls and stubborn ill-timed silence. Sybil was assigned the strategically positioned peacemaker chair next to Mr. Gregson, who was seated as far away from Edith as possible and still be in the same room. Tom took pity and engaged the editor in pleasant conversation and found him refreshingly enlightened on most current topics including the situation in Ireland. When Gregson finally declared that he found the family's Christmas tree both enchanting and festive, Robert nearly choked on a bit of turkey. He scowled over at his son-in-law as if the Irishman had covertly hidden a bone in his food.

The Dowager Countess finally leaned over to her oldest granddaughter. "What on earth has gotten into them?"

"Tom picked this year's Christmas tree and Papa didn't approve."

"I quite agree," Violet said. "It's rather hideous."

"It's one of Mother's Virginia pines," Cora offered.

"Well, that explains it. I thought perhaps the forest had been infested by a recent plague." She then turned to her son. "But, it has to come down in a few days anyway, so why the protracted hostilities?"

His fork clicked on the plate. "Because he knew how important it was to me and he deliberately interfered with Matthew's assignment."

Cora's eyes rolled in defeat. "Robert, really."

"I did not!" Tom snapped from across the table.

"Tom." Sybil cast him a warning glare.

"Gentlemen, please!" Matthew implored. "Enough. I feel like I'm back at the bloody Somme. It's Christmas. Let's just enjoy the season. Glad tidings and all that."

Mr. Gregson cleared his throat after a moment of awkward silence, glancing at his neighbor. "Mrs. Branson, when do you expect the happy occasion?"

Sybil had already warmed to the man, as he was one of the few family acquaintances to refer to her by her married name. "At the end of February, or early March."

"And do you have a preference, boy or girl?

"Tom insists it will be a girl and I have to agree. We girls maintained a stronghold until recently and we've been suddenly barraged with an influx of boys. I think it's time for the balance of power to swing back in our favor. We mustn't let them become too overconfident of their place in society."

He chuckled. "I can see where Edith derives her confidence of opinion."

"Sybil, dear, your father and I have a surprise for you and Tom." Cora glanced to her husband, silently pleading with him to desist with the ongoing battle with his son-in-law. "Judge Brooks has decided to move to Sussex to be with his daughter after the first of the year, and Downton Cottage will be available then."

Sybil watched her father, patiently, waiting for his reaction. "I'm, sorry, Papa. I know you would like for us to stay, but we both feel quite certain this is the right course."

His youngest daughter's poorly concealed smile had a predictable melting effect. "No apologies necessary, my dear. I'm grateful to have had you here these past three years, but I understand."

"Thank you," Tom said with a genuinely appreciative smile. "We're truly grateful."

"Consider it a Christmas present," Robert replied flatly. "Besides, with your own house, you can install a palm tree next year if it suits you."

"Papa…" his daughter cautioned softly. "Of course we were expecting to accommodate the property with our own expenses…"

"I won't allow it. But if you wish to argue that point, you can do so with your brother-in-law. He's in charge of the books."

"The house won't be ready until late spring," Cora apologized. "It hasn't been renovated since Judge Brooks moved in, and needs to be completely re-fitted for electric and plumbing. But that should give you plenty of time to have it organized and collect yourself after the baby arrives."

"When Mary told me you were looking," Matthew said, "I knew it would be perfect. It has just the right number of rooms, it's near the hospital, and has a wonderful space on the southwest corner for an office or library."

"Grandpapa gave it to his oldest sister, Vicky," Mary added. "She never married and lived quite a Spartan lifestyle, so the house has an inherent efficiency to it."

"Although she had a very dear friend," Edith offered, smiling across the length of the table at Mr. Gregson. "And they were rather devoted to one another. An Italian artist she met while on holiday there. It was quite the scandal in its day."

Robert cut his eyes at his daughter. "Edith, there's no need to bring that up."

"They never thought of getting married?" Matthew inquired.

"No."

"Why?" Tom asked. "Because he was Catholic?"

"No," Mary replied, a wry smile. "Because he was a she."

Matthew coughed on his drink.

"Really?" Tom was genuinely intrigued.

"Try not to look so smug," Violet decreed. "Every family is a microcosm of the world at large. The important thing is how you control the information."

The family was spared any further exposés as the door flew open, nearly smacking Carson in the back. The butler glowered at the knee-high urchin as it dodged around Alfred and Jimmy, both delicately balancing trays of food. Clad in flannel pajamas, robe, and slippers, little Bobby hurried directly to his father, fat tears threatening to fall.

Wide-eyed, Sybil dropped her fork. "What is it, darling?"

He wedged his small body between the chairs of his father and grandmother. "I forgot to write Father Christmas!"

With a sigh of relief, he perched the little boy onto his lap. "Well, after you told me what you wanted, I wrote him myself, so you've nothing to worry about."

"But I didn't tell you everything."

Tom paled. "Why not?"

"I forgot," he replied, brandishing a scrap of paper from a magazine.

"Hornby Clockwork Train," Cora read over his shoulder.

"That would have been good to know," Tom muttered, passing the advertisement down the table. "I'm afraid it may be too late, Bobby. Father Christmas has already arranged his packages and is probably on his way by now."

"Hornby," Matthew mused. "Seems like I recall some contract work with them. Isn't their factory in Liverpool?"

Bobby's eyes lit. "Father Christmas could get it on the way to Downton!"

Tom glared down the table at his brother-in-law. "That was brilliant, Matthew. Thank you."

"Darling, why don't you try calling Father Christmas."

An abrupt silence engulfed the table as everyone turned to Sybil. Tom's brows knit in confusion. "What?"

"On the telephone," she suggested. "If he doesn't have any trains left, at least we'll know and Bobby can go back to bed."

"Please, Da!"

Tom scanned his son's face, his little blue eyes pleading, and melted. "Alright, then. Let's go ring Father Christmas." Tom stood, Bobby impatiently tugging him toward the door. Sybil offered a reassuring nod, but he briefly wondered if she had suffered a sudden bout of insanity or if she simply wanted to punish him as an unrepentant culprit in the Downton Tree Debacle of 1923.


"Oh, Bobby, there you are!" Mrs. Hughes clasped the front of her dress as she found them in the hall. "I'm sorry, Mr. Branson, but I went to check on the children and one of them was missing," she hinted, narrowing her eyes at the little boy.

Bobby put a tiny finger to his lips and whispered. "We're calling Father Christmas."

"I see," she replied, taking his offered hand. As housekeeper, she refused to play favorites among the children, but found it hard with Bobby's irresistible combination of his father's charm and his mother's sweet spirit.

Tom picked up the receiver, shaking his head a bit, and suppressed a finger on the hook switch to avoid an embarrassing situation with the operator. "May I please speak to Father Christmas?" Tom said loudly, suddenly horrified by his inept acting. "He's busy? Then may I speak with his secretary? Thank you." He paused for effect. "Yes, I need to make a last minute request. Well, I hope you can help me because my son Bobby has been a very good boy this year. Yes, we did write a letter, but he forgot to mention that he wanted a Hornby Clockwork Train. Do you happen to have any left or perhaps Father Christmas could pick one up on the way? Yes, I'll wait." He winked down at his son. "Oh, I see," he said, a slight frown, listening patiently to a non-answer on the other end. "Well, that would be very kind if you would do that. That's right, his name is Bobby. Bobby Branson at Downton Abbey."

The little boy tugged on his father's trousers. "Tell Father Christmas about the milk and biscuits."

Tom nodded. "Right. Bobby wants him to remember that there are milk and biscuits on the table. Yes, by the tree." He furrowed his brows. "I suppose we could. What would he prefer? Really? Well, I'll see if we can manage that. And thank you." Tom deposited the receiver and hoisted his son into his arms. "As I suspected, Father Christmas has his entire trip already planned. I'm afraid he's not likely to find a train for you, but his secretary promised that he would put one on order for your birthday and leave me a note where and when I can pick it up. I'm sorry your Da couldn't do better."

Bobby exhaled a forlorn sigh, his little shoulders drooping in disappointment. "It's alright, Da," he said, wrapping his arms snugly around his father's neck.

"I'm sure Father Christmas has some splendid things in his pack for you," Mrs. Hughes comforted, "but he'll not have a chance to leave them if you're still awake."

Tom pressed a kiss against his cheek. "How about a quick bedtime story?" Nuzzled into his father's shoulder, Bobby nodded meekly. "Alright then," he said, strolling toward the stairway.

"Mr. Branson?" Mrs. Hughes called. "The milk and biscuits?"

"Oh, right," he remembered, pausing at the landing. "Father Christmas has milk and biscuits all night long and asked if we could put out something different. He's rather fond of Mrs. Patmore's trifle, so he'd like a big plate of that, and a glass of Irish Whisky." Bobby's head popped up with a curious grin. Tom smacked another kiss on his cheek and winked. "Apparently, his mother was from Cork." He draped the boy over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and charged up the stairs, his son shaking with laughter as they bounded toward the nursery.

Mrs. Hughes smiled. 'Tis wonderful to have children in the house again, she thought. No matter what age they are.


After lulling his son to sleep with Mr. Clement Moore's tale of reindeer and rooftops, he re-joined the others in the drawing room. There was no billiard game with his brother-in-law this evening. Rather they spent the waning hours of Christmas Eve with their family, happily ensconced by the fire, wondering aloud how the children would react upon seeing the mountain of presents under the tree. Eventually, Violet grew tired of the chatter and the party gradually dispersed. One of the footmen ushered Mr. Gregson to the bachelor's quarters under the watchful eye of Mr. Carson, after which Robert and Cora believed it safe to retire to bed. Once the grandparents exited the room, the Bransons shared an affectionate kiss under a snippet of mistletoe that materialized from Tom's pocket.

Matthew cleared his throat awkwardly. "We have to put the presents under the tree."

Tom groaned. "You know where they are, can't you do it?" The suggestive whispers by his wife only seconds ago seemed a far more satisfactory way to spend the evening.

"No." His brother-in-law waited sullenly by the door.

"Go." Sybil gently swatted her husband as he planted a playful succession of kisses against her mouth. "I'll wait up."

He followed Matthew upstairs to a dank old room where Father Christmas had concealed the gifts from pint-sized prying eyes. The grandparents, of course, had already littered the tree with presents, much to the chagrin of the parents, who worried that overindulgence, even at Christmas, would spoil the boys rotten. But, if it hadn't been the grandparents, then it would have been the staff, who forged their own conspiracy with trinkets and goodies. It had been so long since the house brimmed with the banter of children, especially boys, that the entire household anticipated the morrow's activities.

After jamming the last present under an exceptionally prickly limb, Matthew ran a tired hand through his hair, his eyes coveting the contents of a nearby table. He reached down, earning a smack on the hand by his brother-in-law.

"That's mine." Tom forked up a mouthful of trifle and nodded toward the tree. "It's not all that bad, is it?"

Matthew scowled. Mrs. Patmore's trifle was a personal favorite. "Not after we swaddled it in enough tinsel and cheer. Robert won't easily forget it, you know."

Tom swallowed the last of the delicious dessert and washed it down with a few generous sips of Irish whisky. "As I said, it's just a tree."

"But to Lord Grantham it's a cherished tradition. With Downton forced into the changes we've made so far, and the ones yet to come, perhaps we should allow him these harmless indulgences. A yuletide olive branch, so to speak."

Tom finished the contents of his glass. "I might have been a bit too politically driven," he conceded, glancing eagerly toward the stairway. "I suppose we all have our own traditions that make the holiday special, and I certainly wouldn't want him to ruin mine."


Trees be damned, Tom mused, this is my favorite part of Christmas. It had become their own tradition, not consciously (at least not at first), but driven by practicality. Their first year together, they were poor as Church mice and agreed not to exchange gifts. Besides, they had only just learned about the baby. So, they shared a brief dinner with his family and attended Midnight Mass before returning to their small cold flat, tumbling into bed together, warmed by the friction of their skin. And each subsequent year, they shunned the presents and frivolities in favor of each other. After all, from the time he was hired at Downton until their marriage, he anticipated nothing more than the annual Christmas Servants Ball and the rare opportunity to wrap her in his arms. By their fifth year of marriage, his Christmas wish hadn't changed, except now they were permitted more than a simple dance, shy smiles, and chaste glances in the company of her family and his former colleagues.

It had been so long since she carried their son, that intimacy required they re-discover some of their more creative encounters. With patience and concentration, though, they maneuvered into a comfortable, but efficient position. And it was like coming home, instinct leading the way. Sybil's back melted into him, the hair of his chest, his abdomen, and parts lower brushed softly against her skin and sent shivers through her spine as they writhed on their sides. The air of their room was shrouded in a winter chill, cast in by a fresh dusting of snow that had fallen the night before. She freed one hand from his to tug the duvet further up their bodies, but as her fingers reached the hem, he somehow sank further into her (how he managed to do so in this position, she would never know) stroking a spot that conducted a surge of euphoria, a pre-cursor, deep into her core. His hand floated down her arm, disengaging the coverlet from her weakened grasp and drew it around their shoulders.

She remembered her previous pregnancy, the final uncomfortable month or so when her body enlarged rapidly, when daily activities ultimately became a painful chore. Her sexual appetite finally stagnated, postponed until her body returned to normal and adjusted to nurturing a new life. She knew they might still have a few weeks to enjoy one another, but nestled in his arms, their fingers interlaced and gripping frantically as his hips furrowed rhythmically into her, she secretly wish Mother Nature had been kinder to women. To trade one for the other, even if only for a few months, seemed so viciously unfair.

Since their wedding night, he reveled in watching her as she came, somehow controlling both nature and his sanity long enough to see her set free. But just as often, as on this Christmas Eve, he gave into his own desire, sharing each wave with her. Come for me, my darling, he whispered. I'll never let you go. It was the kind of invitation that had she been standing, would have crumpled her to the floor. His intoxicating voice, the soft Irish timbre sweetened this evening by the flavor of whisky, melted in a soft murmur against her neck. He could feel her body, sheathed warm and clenching around him, willingly respond and he let himself go. Mindful of their child, he clutched her gently, one arm wrapped around her shoulders as he burrowed into her neck, his mouth slack against her, weakly calling her name. Her fingers first dug into his hip and then steered his hand below her swollen middle, in a wordless plea. Her neck arched against him as one nimble finger slipped downward, teasing urgently, and her breath escaped with languid, raspy sounds. The final tremors coursing through them, neither worried about the reverberations from the pale patterned walls or even considered tempering the whimpers or soft moans. Shaking with satisfied fatigue, they finally relaxed, effectively melting into the other.

His warm mouth pressed to her shoulder, he placed a weary hand on her stomach. "Baby's getting bigger."

She laced her fingers with his, savoring the slight movements both above and below. "Along with everything else," she replied softly. "I had almost forgotten how foreign my own body could feel carrying a little person around inside."

"And I had almost forgotten how beautiful you were like this."

"How beautiful we are like this," she corrected, fighting a contagious yawn.

He hummed his approval, the gentle vibrations tickling her skin. "Go to sleep, love," he whispered. His fingers brushed her cheeks, urging her eyes to close and he waited, each breath longer and deeper than the next, until she grew heavy in his arms. He burrowed his face into her neck, his hand resting protectively above their child, and drifted into a peaceful sleep.


Despite being the earl's son-in-law and sleeping under the aristocratic roof of the estate's grand house, Tom insisted on maintaining a degree of independence. Part of that included having his own motor, rather than being driven about the estate by the family chauffer. He needed the freedom to come and go as he pleased both for his work as resident agent as well as for his own sanity. Although Matthew suggested he purchase one at the estate's expense, Tom adamantly refused and contacted his brother in Liverpool to find something both sturdy and economical. He finally settled on a little mass-produced American Ford model manufactured in Manchester. So, before dawn on Christmas morning, fatigued but euphoric from a decided lack of sleep, the parents puttered along to the Catholic Church in Ripon with their son wedged snuggly between them under a nest of blankets.

Sybil didn't mind that her husband wanted their son baptized and raised Catholic, although her father vocalized his own opposition during the first few grueling months. Just as she was raised with the rituals of the aristocracy and ultimately chose her own path, she trusted that with good parenting their children do the same, that they would be guided by choice and not custom. Tom wasn't particularly religious, at least in terms of attending regular services, but he held fast to the faith of his native land, and it seemed to keep a little part of Ireland with him when he couldn't go home. So, on occasion but always on holy days, he would take their son to mass. It was their time together, father and son.

Her views on religion were much more abstract. She didn't feel a cultural connection to the Anglican services from her childhood. To her, faith was a much more private and introspective act. The rituals of crossing and candles, wafers and wine, didn't bring her closer to God. But, when she accompanied her husband and son and patiently sat at the back of the church watching the two of them together, she felt more divine presence than at any ceremony she ever attended as a child. Such as this Christmas morning as she watched Tom instruct their through the liturgy of the Dawn Mass, teaching him the correct position of his little fingers to make the sign of the cross.

On the return in the frigid morning air, Bobby entertained his parents by asking countless questions, including when they could finally open presents. He was a bit disheartened to hear they had to wait until after breakfast and for Granny Violet to arrive, and worried that David and Teddy had probably already opened their gifts. But, he was reassured when his Da declared that no one at Downton Abbey would dare start Christmas without the Bransons. Puffing his chest proudly, he snuggled into his mother's side and babbled through another round of childish questions.

The children enjoyed a rare meal with the family, albeit relegated to a small table in the corner of the family dining room. Attended by the footmen and watched carefully by their parents, the two boys barely registered the meal of eggs and sausage in front of them and instead ogled over the tiny tree placed in the middle of their table. They poked at ornaments of nutcrackers and hobby horses, toy soldiers and motors, wondering aloud if they were allowed to divest the tree of its inviting decorations. After the adults had exhausted the boys' patience (and vice versa), Lord Grantham finally relented and released them into the hall like two little cannonballs.

Mary relaxed on a sofa moved to the hallway for the afternoon's activities, her youngest son perched on her lap and clutching a stuffed bear. Teddy sat, wide-eyed and chewing on his chubby fist, watching in fascination as his older brother and cousin lifted and shook colorful boxes. She laughed as her husband attempted to decelerate David's eagerness to rip into his presents. He barely considered one toy before tearing into a new one, including a roadster petal car from his Granny Isobel. Taking it for a test drive around the room, he first ran over Alfred's toe and then bumped into a walnut table. Cora immediately designated the petal car an 'outside toy' and diverted her grandson's attention toward his unopened gifts.

Seated beside her oldest sister, Sybil absorbed the scene of her family, all of them, laughing at the delighted squeals from the children who tugged and pulled at ribbons and paper in front of the tree. Tom had seated himself in front of her, on the floor, leaning back against her knees for a child's eye view of the scene. Lifting her sister's wrist, Sybil smiled at the magnificent diamond bracelet. "This is new."

"A Christmas present from Matthew. I told him there was no need for such things, but he insisted."

"And I suppose you insisted on something for him as well," she hedged.

"Nothing exciting I'm afraid. Cufflinks," she responded. "What about you and Tom."

Sybil cleared her throat, her hands drifting down to his shoulders as she kissed the top of his head. "We exchanged last night."

"So that's what that was. Sybil, darling, I remind you that the architect did a wonderful job re-modeling the house, but he didn't make the walls sound-proof. You see, we have an ulterior motive in moving you out of here."

"Sound goes both ways, Mary," her sister replied.

Mary blushed as Tom chuckled wickedly. "Not last night, it didn't, I assure you. We were both too worn out from David's latest rampage to even consider it."

"Then who…."

Their ears perked at the harmonious giggling across the room where Edith stood suspiciously close to Mr. Gregson.

Mary lofted a thin brow.

Sybil smiled, a bit of suppressed glee. "It's about time."

"Mama! Da!" Bobby suddenly crowed, his eyes glued to a partially unwrapped box. "My train!"

All heads turned toward the excitement, as ribbon and paper flew into the air. Tom craned his neck for a closer look, unbelieving as the box popped open to indeed reveal a little green tin train with red trim and matching coal car. He exchanged an astonished but gratifying smile as their son scampered over beside them and babbled excitedly about his gift, his fingers deftly turning the wheels. They both glanced to her father, who shrugged and shook his head.

Lord Grantham ambled over to the butler, who seemed genuinely content at the scene before him, both little boys eagerly clearing a space on the carpet, free of ribbons and paper, to play with their new gifts. "What do you make of this mystery Carson?"

"I'm as bewildered as you, my lord," he replied innocently.

Edith received a fresh cup of tea from Alfred and joined them. "Now, Carson, we both know that's not the case."

Robert peered first to the butler, then to his middle daughter, inquisitively. "What do you mean?"

She caught a glimpse of his reddened jowls and smiled. "I saw Hodges at the garage this morning when I went to collect Granny. Seems he had to put more petrol in the motor before I could go…."

"What's this all about?" Robert asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Oh, very well," the old butler relented, casting an annoyed glance at Edith. "Mrs. Hughes has a nephew employed at Hornby's. After she heard Mr. Branson speaking to Father Christmas, she telephoned him on the small chance that he could locate one of those bloody trains."

Robert was flabbergasted. "You mean you went all the way to Liverpool and back in the middle of the night? On Christmas Eve?"

His shoulders sagged. "No, my lord. Half-way. Mr. Branson's brother was gracious enough to meet me at Leeds. And, on that note, I owe your lordship two bottles of brandy."

"Well, this was quite the clandestine operation. Although I must say, I'm disappointed you didn't bring me in on it. I certainly would have helped in any way possible."

"And ruin the surprise? I don't think so."

Robert pulled two small goblets as Alfred offered a tray. He handed one to the butler. "You know, I've always delighted in the Christmas season. I suppose after the girls outgrew presents and surprises I focused too much on the trivialities and lost sight of what's important. I had forgotten the children, but I thank you for reminding me how blessed I truly am."

The old butler smiled, graciously accepting the drink and tipping it at his employer. "We should never forget them, my lord," he replied. "They make children of us all."


A/N 2: After proofreading, I realize I should also give a hat tip to Charles Shultz, because I think I stole a bit of Charlie Brown with Tom's tree story. Also, in trying to find the perfect coveted toy for a little boy of the early 1920s, history came to my rescue (as a historian, I appreciate that). The popular Hornby Clockwork Train was manufactured in Liverpool.

A Merry Christmas to everyone – I've fallen behind on reading all the wonderful stories out there, so I need to spend the next few days catching up!