Thank you, as always, for reading and reviewing. I'm so happy that you've all liked this story and accepted the possibility that Tom may have had this kind of background.

This chapter is the last part of the drawing room confrontation, and the last flashback, which takes place at Downton. The last chapter will just be Tom and Sybil immediately after they leave the room, which will be their first chance to talk about Tom's speech impediment and why he chose to keep it to himself. It's been fun posting this one in pieces. Thank you all for indulging me.

Enjoy!

A fuming Robert looked back and forth between his two oldest daughters.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, YOU KNOW?!"

Mary, growing irritated at her father's lack of composure, answered bluntly, "I hoped it would blow over. I didn't want to split the family when Sybil might still wake up."

After she spoke, Mary looked from Robert to Sybil and shrugged her shoulders ever so slightly. Sybil sighed. It was an honest answer and Sybil couldn't fault her sister for it—neither of the two—even if she wished they could better understand why she wanted what she wanted.

Robert turned back to Tom, "And all this time, you've been driving me about, bowing and scraping and seducing my daughter behind my back?"

Tom's jaw tightened. "I don't . . . I don't, um, um, I don't—"

"You don't belong here," Robert said angrily turning away. "And you don't deserve—"

"I DON'T BOW AND SCRAPE!" Tom yelled out, causing Robert to whip back toward him. Tom hadn't meant to yell, but he felt some satisfaction in having done so and in finally having spoken as he'd intended. "And I've not, um, I've not seduced mmmanyone," he added. His outburst had released some of his nervous energy, and he was finally feeling a bit more in control. "Give, um, your mmdaughter some, um, um, credit for . . . for knowing her own mind."

Robert's eyes narrowed. "How dare you speak to me in that tone. You will leave at once."

"Oh, Papa!" Sybil finally cut in, her own anger at her father boiling over inside her.

"This is a folly!" Robert said, turning back to the rest of the family, with a humorless, uneasy laugh. "A ridiculous, juvenile madness!"

His eyes finally landed on his own mother, but Violet had had enough from everyone, including Robert.

"Sybil," she said as calmly as she could. "What do you have in mind?"

"Mama, this is hardly—" Robert tried to cut in, but Violet held up her hand to stop him speaking.

"No. She must have something in mind. Otherwise, she wouldn't have summoned him here tonight."

"Thank you, Granny," Sybil answered more quietly, taking a deep breath. "Yes, we do have a plan. Tom's got a job on a paper. I'll stay until after the wedding; I don't want to steal their thunder."

Sybil looked over at Matthew who gave her a small, sad smile. His young cousin appreciated the gesture more than he knew.

Sybil continued, "After that, I'll go to Dublin—"

Cora's audible gasp caught Sybil off guard. "To live with him?" Cora asked, her eyes bugging out of her head in fear. "Unmarried?"

Sybil swallowed the fury that her mother's presumption sparked in her and said, "I'll live with his mother while the bans are read. And then we'll be married . . ."

At this Sybil looked up at Tom, who had been watching her since she'd begun talking. She smiled and felt warm inside—the fear, the doubt, the anger, all of it giving way to the love she felt and that had seen her through so much already.

". . . and I'll get a job as a nurse," she finished finally.

Violet pursed her lips in disapproval. "What does your mother make of this?" She asked Tom.

"If you mmmust know, um, she thinks, um, she thinks we're very foolish."

Violet couldn't stop herself from chuckling. "So at least we have something in common." She looked Tom up and down, really seeing who he was perhaps for the first time in his many years of service to the family. "And what of your stammer?"

"It, um, um, it comes and goes. I've, um, I . . . I've mostly grown out of it, but, um, um, sometimes—"

"It comes out when you're nervous?" Matthew finished for him.

Tom nodded. "It's never stopped me from, um, making a living."

Matthew was about to ask something else, when Robert, who'd gone to lean on the hearth to compose himself, turned back around to face the couple.

"I won't allow it! I will not allow my daughter to throw away her life!"

With that Sybil had it. "You can posture it all you like, Papa, it won't make any difference!"

"Oh, yes, it will," he responded menacingly.

"How? I don't want any money and you can hardly lock me up until I die!" Sybil took a breath, then looked around the room again—the people she loved most in the world, the ones for whom she'd considered giving him up, all of them unwilling to question why the family's position in society should come before her happiness.

What else is there to say? Sybil thought glancing at Tom. They are never going to understand.

"I'll say goodnight," she added, no longer angry, but resolute as ever, "but I can promise you one thing, tomorrow morning nothing will have changed."

She turned to go and with a quiet, "Tom," beckoned him to follow her.

XXX

Yorkshire, 1913

"Mr. Branson?"

Tom turned from where he was reading the newspaper, leaning against the bench in the garage. It was Anna, the head housemaid.

He hadn't been at Downton Abbey more than a week, but he already knew her to be a kind, thoughtful person—much more so than the uppity lady's maid whose face seemed to have frozen into a scowl and who enjoyed pointing out just about every night how "incorrect" it was for the chauffeur to sup with the house staff and continued to do despite Mrs. Hughes, the housekeeper, having made it clear that it was all right.

"Yes?" He said straightening and setting the paper aside.

"Mr. Carson said to tell you Lady Sybil is ready. You can drive up to the front."

Tom nodded and walked over to the hook on the door where he'd hung his jacket and cap. "Shall we pick up something from the dressmaker for you?" He asked teasing.

Anna laughed. "Whatever she's likely to buy might end up in my hands eventually—actually, it's Lady Sybil, so . . ."

"What? She doesn't like given her extra clothes to the servants?"

"Oh, no!" Anna said. "I don't mean that at all. Quite the opposite. Lady Sybil is a bit more . . ." Anna trailed off as if looking for the right word. "Well, conscientious about what she has. Lady Edith and Lady Mary rarely keep a dress longer than one season, but Lady Sybil's more likely to keep one until she's worn it out—well, not worn out, perhaps, but at least, when she's finished with it, it doesn't still look brand new. She's a bit less inclined to ostentation. Not to say that—"

"It's OK, Anna," Tom said with a smile. "I know what you mean. And don't worry. I don't believe you capable of saying an unkind word about anyone."

"I'm perfectly capable when the circumstances are right," she said with a smirk, turning to go.

Tom watched her go for a moment and thought about what she'd said about Lady Sybil.

Conscientious.

It was an interesting word, and an apt one going by what Tom had seen and heard of the young woman in his first few days here.

That very morning, having asked Carson permission to take a book while the family were still having breakfast, Tom had spent several minutes perusing the shelves in the library. He finally settled on Maria Edgeworth's Castle Rackrent for a bit of home. Tom was rarely one to go for novels over history, politics or philosophy, but knowing his selections would likely be monitored, Tom had figured he'd not make waves, at least not at the start. There would be plenty of time to play to the audience.

As he was writing the book's title into the ledger, he'd noticed the title in the entry just above.

The Subjection of Women by John Stuart Mill

Then, he'd noticed the name next to it.

Sybil Crawley

Thinking of Lady Grantham's remark to her about women's rights in the motor the previous afternoon, Tom stared at the name a good long time. Then, unable to abate his curiosity, he turned back to the previous page, to find her previous choice.

Middlemarch

Then the previous.

A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court

Then the previous.

Jane Eyre

And so on until he'd almost gotten to the front of the ledger. By themselves none of the books, save perhaps Mill, necessarily stood out from the rest as being of particular interest to Tom. But in aggregate, they created the outline of an intriguing person who seemed interested in things he'd have considered beyond the purview of a daughter of the aristocracy. She seemed, for lack of a better term, liberal.

Tom laughed at the memory now, as he buttoned his coat and hopped into the motor. He was about to start it when he noticed, below where he'd set the newspaper, some pamphlets he'd picked up on the way into Downton, from some suffragettes passing out literature on their cause in the train station in York. They'd been delighted to find a young man who supported their ideas, and Tom had been happy to have interesting reading material for the ride into Downton.

Before he knew what he was doing, he jumped out of the motor and grabbed them.

A few minutes later, he was at the front of the house, where Lady Sybil Crawley was waiting.

He came around to open the door for her, and she offered a small smile as he held his hand out to help her in. When he opened his own door again, he noticed the pamphlets again. He didn't notice the now rather hurried beating of his heart.

It wasn't until they were driving through the village that he thought about how to engage her so he could give her the pamphlets. He glanced back at her then looked ahead again. He opened his mount to speak several times, but every possible thing he could say seemed to get stuck in his throat.

Excuse me, Lady Sybil?

Pardon me, milady?

Lady Sybil, do you have a moment?

He shook his head, trying to shake the sudden case of nerves. Best not say anything, he thought, lest I start stammering again and make myself look the fool. Tom looked down at the pamphlets. What's worse, a man with a stammer or a woman without a vote?

He took a breath.

"Will you have your own way, do you think? With the frock?"