A/N: Two little drabbles for you.
Thank you for the reviews and I hope you enjoy this one!
"No one ever learned anything from a governess except for French, and how to curtsy."
The Education of a Lady
Downton Cottage Hospital, 1918
"Do you want one?" Sybil looked up at the question, pulling herself out of her thoughts and back to reality—outside on her break from the hospital.
"I'm sorry? Want what?" she stepped closer to her fellow nurses.
"Do you want a fag, Nurse Crawley" Nurse Pomply held out the pack to her.
"Sybil. You can call me Sybil," she reached out and took the offered cigarette, "Thank you." Sybil studied the white stick in her hand; she'd never had one before. The other nurses always smoked together during their breaks, it seemed to calm their nerves, and she could use that after the morning she had had.
"Call me Sarah, " Nurse Pomply—Sarah—held a lit match for her and she leaned forward to light up. The other nurses gave their names too, "Lydia" and "Susan."
"Tough morning," Lydia commented. "We heard about Lieutenant Courtney."
Sybil coughed out a great plume of smoke, "Yes." She did not feel like elaborating and took another drag instead. The smoke felt thick inside her lungs and made her head feel dizzy. It was strange but calming. "My father would kill me if he saw this," Sybil gestured to the cigarette poised between her fingers.
"Not really appropriate for a Lady," smiled Susan.
Sybil's head shot up, she knew they hated her, "No, it's not," she replied curtly.
"That came out wrong… I didn't mean," Susan stumbled to correct herself. "I just meant, most fathers wouldn't like seeing their daughters smoke. Not just your fath…his Lordship."
"It's alright," her title had been an elephant in the room since the moment she started working at the Downton Hospital. "I just don't want to be treated differently."
"Of course not," supplied Lydia jovially. "You're a good nurse, Sybil, Lady or not."
Sybil smiled and put out her cigarette with the toe of her boot. She already missed the soothing feel of the thing on her lips. "So, where do I buy a pack of those?"
Dublin, 1919
"Wait here, Love and I'll get us a drink," Tom got her settled at a table in the corner of the crowded pub and made his way to the bar.
Mrs. Branson had not been too happy about them going out to the pub—"Really, Tommy, the local is no place for your fiancé, especially a Lady!" "Ah, Ma, she's tougher than she looks."—but she had relented and that is how Sybil found herself in the rowdy pub on a Friday night in Dublin.
Tom returned then with two pint glasses filled with a curiously black liquid, "There you are," he set one down in front of her and took a large gulp of the other.
"I've never tried beer before," she held up her glass to inspect the stuff.
"This isn't just beer, Sybil," Tom grinned. "This is Guinness, Irelands finest."
Sybil smiled back at him and took a tentative sip, "Interesting." She licked her lips and tried it again.
"That a girl!" Tom laughed and took another swig.
"I think I quite like it," said Sybil. Tom leaned over and kissed her squarely on the lips. She blushed, not quite used to such public displays, but smiled nevertheless.
"Tommy!" Sybil and Tom both looked up at the call. They saw Owen, Tom's oldest friend approaching with three glasses of an amber liquid in his hands.
"Owen," Sybil greeted him warmly, "We didn't know you would be here tonight?"
"He's always here, looking for a not-so-nice girl to take home," Tom stood and shook his hand.
Owen joined them at the table, "Not all of us are so lucky as you, Tommy, running off to England and comin' home six years later with a girl like Sybil here to warm your bed at night." Sybil's cheeks burned, Owen was very nice but tended to be rather crass.
"Watch it," Tom warned squeezing Sybil's hand under the table.
"Anyway," Owen continued unfazed, "I bought us a round." He passed the glasses around.
"What is it?" asked Sybil.
"Jameson's, of course."
Owen and Tom picked up their glasses, "You don't have to shoot it, Love."
"No, No. I've had whiskey before."
"Well then," Owen raised his glass, "Cheers." Tom and Owen threw back their whiskey quickly and efficiently. Sybil hesitated, but, feeling their eyes on her, drank hers in one gulp.
"Gosh," Sybil took a sip of her Guinness to sooth the burning in her throat. "If only Papa could see me now," she laughed, feeling rather warm and just a bit fuzzy.
A few hours later…
"Tom?" Sybil stood as they were leaving, slightly unsteady on her feet.
Tom put a steadying hand low on her back—very low, lower than he would every try if they had been sober—but she didn't mind. "Yes, Love?"
"I think I'm rather drunk."
