Chapter 7
"Please say you will?" Edith pleaded, chasing Sybil down a row of army-issue cots. "Mary's going to sing one," she harped, trying to bait her sister into appearing in the concert by appealing to her sense of sibling rivalry. It always worked when they were girls. On second thought, perhaps laying that particular gauntlet wasn't the most effective carrot to dangle, she concluded. Mary was the competitive one. Sybil was always happy doing her own thing.
"Edith, you know I can't carry a note," Sybil countered, making her way into the hall carrying a pile of folded linens.
Edith dashed around her blocking her escape. "It doesn't have to be singing. You could ..." Edith thought hard to remember exactly what theatrical talent her younger sister actually possessed.
"Precisely," Sybil riposted, brushing passed Edith to continue with her shift.
Edith caught up again. "What about a reading," she suggested flapping her arms. "Poetry or Shakespeare?"
Sybil paused and let out an exaggerated sigh. "I would love to help," she said honestly, "but I'll be on duty anyway." She felt bad for Edith. She worked so hard to keep the men entertained and was obviously disappointed. Juggling the linens, Sybil squeezed her sister's arm. "I'm sure you and Mary will do wonderfully by yourselves."
Edith smiled weakly. "It would have been much better with all three of us," she pouted.
Sybil's genuine surprise by Edith's sudden solidarity was overshadowed when she spied a familiar green jacket entering the hall. Listening half-heartedly to her sister, Sybil was startled to see Tom being led by Carson to the library, where she knew her father was working.
As soon as he entered the hall, Tom's eyes instantly landed on Sybil. On the rare occasions he was granted entrance to the house, he was always on alert for her, hoping he might catch a glimpse and more importantly that she might notice him. Today he was rewarded. Their eyes connected across the room and lingered for the time it took Tom to reach the library door.
It wasn't long enough, not for Sybil, and when Carson closed the door behind Tom her curiosity and anxiety got the best of her. Why had he been summoned to see Papa? Was something wrong? She was a bundle of nerves. She had to find out.
Oblivious to the tumult of emotions Sybil was going through, Edith rambled on. "The men have been so looking forward to the concert. It's really going to lift their spirits I think. Why just the other day, Colonel Foster said the sweetest- "
"-hold these for me will you?" Sybil shoved the pile of sheets into Edith's arms making her stagger backward a step.
Edith composed herself after being cut short so abruptly and watched Sybil march off without a backward glance. "-thing," she finished dejectedly.
Sybil made her way to the library with as much calmness and composure as she could muster. She stopped outside the door and leaned in as inconspicuously as any eavesdropper can. She couldn't hear shouting on the other side so that was a good sign but neither could she make out a word the muffled voices were saying. She was imagining all sorts; Tom being dismissed, Tom asking for her hand, Tom being strangled, and not necessarily in that order. She actually considered holding a glass to the door but there were too many people milling about.
Chewing her thumbnail, Sybil paced back and forth before the door like a caged animal. Nothing could be worse than not knowing. She knocked and entered. "Papa," she called casually trying to sound like her old self. To her own ears she sounded anxious and shrill.
Her father and Tom looked up in unison. The knot in her belly unwound, mostly. Tom was alive at least and her father, though surprised by her intrusion, appeared happy enough.
Sybil and Tom shared a secret look, one that seemed to ask the other 'What are you doing here?'
"Yes?" Robert pressed after an extended silence from his daughter.
Sybil suddenly realised she needed a reason to be there, a good one. "Uh," she pointed back to the door. "Edith is recruiting for the concert," she declared, glancing furtively again at Tom. "I'll be working but I thought perhaps you could volunteer ..."
Robert almost snorted and shook his head. "I think not," he answered with certainty.
"It would mean a lot to Edith, and the men too," she said, taking a step further into the room. "And I know you have a good voice," she cajoled.
"I wouldn't go that far," Robert remarked absently, shuffling some papers.
Sybil loitered and contemplated perusing the shelves for a book hoping she might blend into the background. "Is that all?" Robert asked, a note of impatience creeping into his voice. "I have a list of errands to run through with Branson before my man gets here with the ledgers."
'Errands', of course. "Yes, that's all," she replied, relieved to have her answer.
She wanted to tell her father about Tom more than anything, but when the time was right. They wanted to be prepared for the onslaught and show her father they weren't acting impulsively. Once their plans were set then they would tell him, together. Sybil had secretly been glad of the reprieve. She needed time to build up her courage.
With her father's head buried in his desk, Sybil flashed Tom a tender smile as she backed towards the door.
"Oh Sybil," Robert called, looking up. "Why don't you invite your chap to the concert? It is for the officers after all."
Sybil's stomach plummeted. Tom threw her a surreptitious look of concern.
She swallowed, feeling ill at the thought of further propagating the lie but what choice did she have. "Papa-"
"We can send the car for him if that's what's worrying you. You said yourself he's on the road to recovery."
Sybil felt the colour drain from her face. She looked to Tom whose complexion had turned just as pallid. "He won't be well enough to travel just yet," she mumbled.
The sympathy in her father's expression only made her feel worse. "What a pity," he said earnestly. "I was looking forward to meeting the gentleman you've become so fond of."
Sybil cringed inwardly at the assumption 'he' was a 'gentleman' and knew Tom would be feeling the blow just as keenly.
Retreating to the door, Sybil reached for the handle, her head swimming with shame.
"Perhaps I know his family," Robert proffered. "What's his name?" he asked casually.
Tom's head spun in Sybil's direction. She hid it well but her eyes betrayed her dismay. He wished he could do something to help. It was torture to keep up the pretence of formality and cold detachment when the opposite was true.
"I don't think you're acquainted with his family," Sybil replied, skirting the question.
"I might," Robert countered, getting an inkling of her caginess. "I could tell you if I knew his name."
Sybil tried despairingly to keep her tell-tale gaze away from Tom. Telling her father now, like this, would only ruin everything. He would never forgive them. She did her best to hide her panic but the silence stretched and her father wasn't relenting.
"Sybil," Robert intoned with a hint of suspicion. "His name?" he asked squarely. It wasn't a command but he was definitely pulling rank.
Trapped in her father's unflinching sights, Sybil's palms started sweating. She had no recourse and no excuse left. A feeling of dread overcame her. If she exposed the lie she would be exposing Tom as well.
Tom was forced to watch Sybil's ordeal in stunned silence. As a servant he was not permitted to speak out of turn much less intercede in the personal affairs of his employers. Lord Grantham would be well within his rights to sack him on the spot if he came to Sybil's rescue. He could only imagine his Lordship's reaction if that rescue included the truth. It would be worth it, he decided, seeing Sybil squirm helplessly.
Wringing her hands, Sybil was on the brink of tears when she heard Tom heave a breath to speak and saw him take a horrifyingly heroic step towards her father out of the corner of her eye. "Dimmesdale!" she blurted out.
Her father's brow knitted together ruminating on the name. "Who?"
A bloody good question, Tom thought, doing his best not to outwardly react.
Sybil looked from her father to Tom and back again. "Dimmesdale," she repeated, resignedly committing to the lie. "Arthur Dimmesdale."
"I don't recall the name in Burke's Peerage," Robert remarked.
No, he wasn't likely to.
