Author's Note: I have lost count of the number of times I rewrote this chapter.

Disclaimer: I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.


Tom's 'mentor' H.L. was back less than ten minutes after Tom had turned in his 'piece.'

"He says it's too long. Cut out about a hundred words."

Tom accepted the rejected article and resisted the urge to tear it up. He was sick of looking at it, having already rewritten it twice, one of those times because it was 'too short.' "Which words should I cut?"

H.L. rolled his eyes. "The least important ones."


"Thank you for your interest, Nurse Crawley." The man looked again at the letter of reference Dr. Clarkson had given her. Sybil watched the man's tongue move against his cheek inside his mouth. "We'll certainly keep you in mind the next time we have an opening."

'I bet you will,' Sybil thought sourly, but her reply was polite all the same. "I appreciate your taking the time to see me, doctor."

He smiled at her, glad she was taking the refusal so well. She rose to go.


She now understood Gwen's frustration trying to find a secretarial post. 'If only someone would give me a chance, I could show them what I can do!' But why should they, after all? They didn't know her; they didn't know Dr. Clarkson. And if they needed nurses, they could ask the catholic church. Sybil belatedly perceived the vast difference between offering one's services gratis to a hospital funded by one's own family, and actually trying to get paid work from strangers. Still, she was a long way from being beaten yet. Back on the street she checked the map Brenna had given her. There was plenty of time to try another place before it was time to return to the flat for lunch.


H.L. was back. "Aren't you done with that yet?"

"Yes, I've just finished it." Tom said.

"Will wonders never cease?" It was not a question. "Give it to Mr. E. then. The boss told me to tell you to get over to the Castle and find out what's going on."


They had set the wedding for the Wednesday following the third reading of the banns. Sybil wrote to Mary, enclosing the invitation with a card for the ceremony. The reply lay between the lovers on the settee: the Countess of Grantham's polite regrets on behalf of the three elder Crawleys, who were unable to attend due to illness, and a second letter from Lady Edith glorying in a verbatim chronicle of the family's discussion on the subject of which of them should 'lend countenance to this travesty of a marriage by lowering themselves to attend.' She and Lady Mary had 'drawn the short straws,' as she termed it.

"Fine!" Sybil declared in ringing tones, arms akimbo. "If that's how they want to play it—" she shook her head angrily. Tom smiled a little to see her drop earrings dance, a tiny consolation to set against the desolation delivered in the post. She was so lovely when she was angry. Or any time. He felt tears start to run down his face. 'Not now.'

"If that's as much as his 'blessing' is worth, so be it! Mary and Edith will come, and our family here is around us, and— Tom, are you all right?"

"Grand."

Sybil left off pacing to sit down next to him. "You don't sound grand."

"I'm sorry." He couldn't stop the tears, they would fall, no matter how ashamed it made him. He wiped them away with his hands, but more fell to replace them. "God, Sybil, I apologize, I'll just—" he started to get up, to leave the room.

Sybil put her arms around him, to stop his flight. "Don't—" she crooned.

'Don't cry? I'm trying not to!' The only sound he actually made though was a sob.

But she wasn't telling him to stop crying. "Don't try hold it back, Tom. Let it out." She cuddled him close, stroked his back, kissed his hair. "It's all right to cry, sweetheart. I love you, and I'm here. Everything will be all right."


As Brenna opened the door, she called out teasingly, "Make yourselves decent, children, I'm comin' in!" She felt genially justified to see them spring guiltily up from the settee. At least they were fully clothed. But what had Sybil done to the shoulder of her blouse?

It was… wet. Yet the girl's eyes were… dry. Tom's… were brimming, and his crimson face was streaked with tears that were still wet. His mother counted the days until the wedding, when dealing with her idiot watering pot of a son would be Sybil's problem.

Tom had closed his eyes. Waiting.

When his mother failed to say her next line, the watery blue eyes opened again. "Say it, Mam." His voice was expressionless.

Brenna glared at him. "Sybil doesn't want to hear this." Her son just stared back at her. Sybil felt the air pulsing with their mutual anger. This was a very old quarrel.

"Would I like…" he started for her.

"Would you like me to give you a reason to cry, Tommy?" Brenna snapped.

He blew out a sigh, as though extinguishing a candle. "No, I wouldn't."

"Are you done?" Brenna asked, in a surprisingly mild tone.

"I hope so."

"Then go and wash your face."

He nodded acknowledgement, and obediently left the room to remove the 'evidence.'

When he had departed, Brenna turned to Sybil. "What's the matter with him?"

"My mother's written. My parents definitely aren't coming."

The Irishwoman considered this news. "That's why he's crying?"

Sybil shrugged. "I suspected they might not come. My sisters will come over, though."

"Your father won't try to stop them?"

"It appears not."

The older woman's mouth quirked up. "If it's just to be the two of them, why not ask them to stay here with us?"

Sybil smiled. "I'd like that."

"Do you think—" Tom was back in the kitchen doorway, face scrubbed clean.

"Do we think what?" his mother asked gruffly.

Tom bit his lip and swallowed. His tone was wistful. "Do you think they'll bring Anna with them?"


"Sybil," Brenna's voice said in the darkness of pre-dawn. "I can get you a day's work as a private duty nurse if you get up right now."

"Brenna? How—"

"Do you want the job or not?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then stop talking and get dressed. I'll tell you as we go."


The Wolseley was so ancient it actually had a horizontal engine. Tom had never worked on one before. He contemplated the motorcar, the reward being promised for success, and the likely penalty for discovery.

"Well," Natan asked. "What do you say?"

"I'll do it," Tom agreed. 'but please, Lord, let me not get caught.'


"What did he say," Brenna asked eagerly.

"He said he'd do it."

She stirred sugar into her tea. "Do you think he can?"

Natan shrugged. "If God wills it."

"If his Lady finds out," Brenna warned, "there'll be the devil to pay."

"Well," Tom's boss replied, "in that case, we'll just have to keep some pitch hot, won't we?"


Sybil and Dara had been invited to dine that night at the O'Neills. Two things struck Sybil odd: Tom's hands were red, and there was a bar of pumice soap by the washbasin. When she asked her fiancé about these matters, he was evasive. When she pressed him, he said, "I was helping Mr. Engerski sort type."

A perfectly reasonable explanation: this was Wednesday night, and the Intelligencer came out on Thursday. Sybil wondered why she thought he was lying.


"Brenna," Sybil asked the following day, "have you ever known Tom to lie?"

The older woman smiled. "Is that a joke?"

"No, I'm serious."

"Sure. He's got no halo, Sybil. He lies just like the rest of us whenever the occasion seems to warrant it."

"What?!"

"Come on, Sybil. Haven't you ever lied to Tommy? We know you've lied to your father."

Sybil had the grace to avert her gaze. "I think he's lying to me."

"About what?"

"He told me he was helping sort type."

"Why wouldn't he be?"

"Do you think he might be working on cars?"

"Are you going to call off the wedding if he is?"

"Of course not!"

"Then you have three choices: ignore it, ask him, or check up on him."


On Sunday, Sybil attended her second-ever mass with her Irish 'family,' including her possibly lying-like-a-rug fiancé:

"I publish the banns of marriage between Lady Sybil Crawley and Mr. Tom Branson of this Parish. If any of you know cause or just impediment why these persons should not be joined in Holy Matrimony, ye are to declare it. This is the second time of asking."