Hello! LOOK WHO'S BACK! I apologize for the very long delay for this update, but I really wanted to get something out for St. Patrick's Day, especially since this is a story about Sybil and Tom moving forward in Ireland, so here it is! And it's going to be a two-parter! And don't worry, because the second part will be coming very soon, so you won't have to wait as long as you've been waiting for updates (and I hope people are still reading this and the delay hasn't put too many people off).

BIG THANK YOU to elleisforlovee for providing so much information about Irish Easter traditions, as well as the Gaeilge phrases and translations. Dedicating this chapter to her (I hope I did an ok job! Thank you again!) And thanks to everyone who has been so patient with this story, who have continued sending support for it, even during it's hiatus; I hope you do continue to enjoy it as we follow Tom and Sybil on their journey towards marriage, which is slowly but surely getting closer and closer. Again, thank you for reading, following, and please review if you can!


Chapter Eight

There was a scratching sound at her door, that soon became a soft, but consistent knock. Sybil groggily lifted her head from her pillow, her eyes first moving to the window and taking note that the sky was still dark before turning to towards the door of her tiny bedroom, a frown of confusion washing over her features.

"Sybil?" whispered a voice on the other side.

Siobhan. Sybil rose from the bed and moved across the cold floor to open the door, a shawl clasped tightly to her body to ward off the unwelcome early morning chill.

"Oh good, you're awake!" Siobhan sighed with relief. However, her smile began to fade as Sybil blinked back in confusion.

"Is everything—" she paused, her hand covering her mouth to hide her yawn. "Sorry," she apologized. "Is everything alright?" she repeated, dread filling her because clearly, judging from the look on her future sister-in-law's face, she had forgotten something.

"It's Easter!" Siobhan whispered, before smiling and saying, "Cáisc shona dhuit! (Happy Easter unto you!)"

Easter. Oh gracious, of course! Sybil couldn't believe how it had slipped her mind, especially after the last two days (her exhaustion must have caught up with her). And suddenly, everything she remembered about this morning, and what was going to happen (or was happening) came flooding back.

"Is everyone here already?" she hissed, becoming more and more awake as anxiety began to fill her.

Siobhan shook her head. "Mam's the only other one awake, but that's not surprising; I can't help but wonder if she even went to bed last night," she said with a sigh. "I came to check on you before waking Aileen and Moira. But you should get dressed and downstairs soon; the others will be here shortly as it's nearly dawn."

Sybil nodded and thanked Siobhan, whose friendly smile beamed so brightly, it would surely rival the Easter morning sun when it rose. She shut the door and quickly went to work, pouring some water into her basin and splashing it on her face, gasping at how cold it was, but that would just help wake her up even more. She moved to the wardrobe then and began eyeing the frocks that hung, biting her lip as she tried to decide what would be appropriate. It was Easter Sunday, her first Easter in Dublin, the holiest day of the Christian calendar; she should wear something to honor it. Yet at the same time, she would be spending a bulk of the day in the kitchen with Siobhan and Mrs. Branson, so she didn't want to wear something too nice, because no doubt (and knowing her) she would be getting flour and other such spices all over herself. In the end, she settled on her pink checkered blouse and dark skirt, the very ones she had worn to all those cooking lessons she took with Mrs. Patmore and Daisy back at Downton. She wrinkled her nose at first, thinking that perhaps they were too plain for such an occasion, but anything "fancier" had no place in the kitchen, and besides, what might seem plain to her aristocratic eyes may look very fine to another. "I can always come back up here and change if needs be," she told herself.

It was odd, in a way. After two days where a bulk of her time was spent in church, today of all days they would not be attending. It was explained to her (by Siobhan of course) that Catholics believed that Easter really began at sundown on Holy Saturday, the night of the vigil. And granted, they were in church quite late last night, getting back to the house well after dark. So the Easter Vigil served, in a manner of speaking, as their celebration of Christ's resurrection from the perspective of organized worship. Today, as it had been explained to her multiple times over the past twenty-four hours, everyone would gather outside before dawn and look east. Together they would watch the sun rise and continue the celebration of the resurrection in quiet, familial tranquility…before the chaos that was Easter dinner took place.

And they all descend upon us, she found herself thinking as she finished pinning her hair in place.

The Bransons were coming. All of them. Or at least all of them that lived in and around Dublin.

Come to see the English girl…

Come to see Tom's "posh" fiancée.

Come to see me make a fool of myself. Sybil hated that this thought continued to invade her mind, but it did. She felt guilty for unfairly judging his family. She knew that they were curious about her, curious to see the earl's daughter who willingly chose to give up her luxurious upbringing to come and live the life of working class woman, and she tried to tell herself over and over that this, as well as it being Tom's first Easter back in Ireland since before he had left to work in Yorkshire, were why so many Bransons had wanted to come and spend Easter at the home of Margaret Branson and her children.

And yet she couldn't shake the feeling that some of them desired nothing more than to see her fail. It was a horrible, cruel thought, but it wouldn't go away. Perhaps it was just her self-consciousness? She wanted to make a good impression, and not embarrass Tom or his mother.

A shiver went through her then as she thought about her fiancé. Even though she had seen Tom over the past two days while they were attending mass, she hadn't had the chance to properly speak with him, and certainly not alone. She groaned as again, her mind went back to their fight from Thursday evening. It was such a childish and silly thing, spawn from personal frustration, and while they both hadn't behaved at their best, she knew that she was the most to blame. And it was killing her, seeing him yesterday and on Good Friday, seeing him and wanting so badly to pull him aside, wrap her arms around his waist and bury her head against his shoulder, or at the very least, take his hand in hers, but a combination of circumstances and his own attempts at "giving her some distance", had prevented them from touching, not to mention really speaking to each other. And now it was Easter morning, and she had been told repeatedly by both Siobhan and Mrs. Branson that it was to be held in silence. God what she wouldn't give for a good scream; a good scream, followed by some apologies, before murmuring words of love over and over, and no doubt weeping while doing so.

But she would have to save those tears, apologies, and words of love and affection for later, after their morning observance, and even after the dinner, perhaps not until it was quite, quite late. But before her head returned to that pillow this evening, she would find a way to make things right with Tom. She had to. She needed to.

Her hand was on the doorknob when it turned, stepping back quickly as it opened, thinking perhaps it would be Siobhan, coming to fetch her, but the smile she had been wearing quickly disappeared as she looked back into the cold eyes of Tom's mother.

Margaret Branson's gaze narrowed as she looked at Sybil's face, and then her eyes did a sweeping motion over Sybil's figure and attire, clearly assessing her choice in wardrobe.

Easter morning was supposed to be met with silence, but Mrs. Branson was clearly going to break that ritual.

"We are to dress in our best," she muttered, her eyes returning to Sybil's with a hard gaze. "Is this your best?"

Both Sybil and she knew the answer to that question. Sybil thought about saying something back and even opened her mouth to reply, but instead closed it, and without a word, turned towards the wardrobe, and without batting an eye, began to unbutton her blouse and undo her skirt as she looked at her choices, before finally settling on a frock that would no doubt raise several eyebrows.

Mrs. Branson didn't say anything when she saw the gown that Sybil chose. She simply nodded her head in approval, before shutting the door and leaving Sybil a moment's peace to change. Well, you did say that you could always change if needs be. True, but she hadn't thought that "needs be" would be so soon after dressing the first time.

She ran her hands over the fabric of the skirt, smoothing out any wrinkles that were there (she hadn't properly had the gown ironed since she arrived) before slipping on her shoes and without any further disruption, exiting the room and moving quickly downstairs, no doubt the last one to join everyone else.

And she hadn't been wrong. They were all gathered in the tiny parlor, clearly waiting for her to join them. Both Moira and Aileen looked very tired, both yawning and trying to rub the sleep from their eyes. However, they did sit up a little straighter and their sleepy eyes did widen a little more as she entered the room. Siobhan had gasped, and then quickly tried to hide her smile behind her hands, especially when her mother gave her a harsh look for breaking the silence. There were others in the room as well, others who turned and looked at her with wide, surprised eyes, like those of the youngest two Branson girls. One such person was Tom's cousin Kieran, who blinked several times as he looked her. Next to Kieran stood Tom's brother-in-law, Sean, and next to him, sitting on a chair with her hand resting atop her enormous belly, was Kathleen, whose eyes grew the largest out of anyone in the room as they took in the sight of her.

No, that wasn't true. The person whose eyes grew the largest was someone whom Sybil hadn't met; a petite, dark-haired woman, with pale skin and brown eyes. She was practically hiding in the corner, her arms wrapped around herself tightly, looking most uncomfortable with being there. Who was she? Kieran didn't have a wife; was she his sweetheart perhaps? Sybil swallowed the nervous lump in her throat and attempted to smile at them all, her hands instinctively moving to smooth down the sides of her dress, as if sensing more unseemly wrinkles. No one spoke, and Sybil honestly couldn't decide if that was good or not. It made everything feel rather awkward, but at the same time, it prevented her and the rest of them from having meaningless conversation just to fill the air. Her eyes continued to scan about the room, seeing if there was anyone else there, any other family member with whom she was unfamiliar with, until finally the settled on the one person she had been hoping to see more than any other.

Tom.

She almost said his name, and a sigh of relief did escape her lips as she looked at him. She couldn't help but smile, and then felt her face darken with blush as his eyes moved over her, before returning to hold her gaze…and the smallest but most endearing of smiles began to spread across his handsome face.

Oh yes, he looked very handsome this morning. Was that a new suit? It wasn't the brown one he had worn when he had come to Downton the day they left. And it certainly wasn't the mismatched suit he had worn the night they made their intentions known to her family. It was dark, almost a charcoal color. He wore a red tie and his hair was smoothed back (not in the manner that it had been when he was a chauffeur, but his fringe wasn't hanging across his forehead as she had seen since they had arrived in Ireland). He gazed at her for several heartbeats, before finally moving across the room to the base of the stairs where she stood, her own heart beating so loudly in her ears she was amazed no one else had heard it.

There were so many things she wanted to say, the first of being "I've missed you", even though she had seen him yesterday. But words would have to wait, as just before Tom reached her, Mrs. Branson intervened, taking Sybil's hand and giving it a slight tug to follow her, before giving her son a mindful look. This was all done in silence, though the meaning behind the gestures and looks could be heard by a deaf man.

With Mrs. Branson leading the way, the rest of them followed, outside to the back garden to watch the sun rise. The air was cold, and their breath was visible. Sybil in her haste to come downstairs hadn't thought to bring a shawl, and her arms were exposed. She reached up to hug herself, but was stopped short as she felt something being draped across her shoulders. She looked up and felt her face blush even more as Tom's hands lingered along her arms, rubbing them through the fabric of his jacket. He smiled down at her and Sybil smiled back, wanting nothing more than to lean against his body and feel him envelope her in the warmth of his arms.

But she didn't even have to look at her future mother-in-law to know that the woman was frowning at the pair of them, so she resisted the temptation (for now) and hugged his jacket even closer to her body, smiling as she could smell his aftershave on the fabric, remembering how once on a January night in an inn that hugged the Scottish border, she had lifted the bottle to her nostrils and breathed in its scent for the first time.

Tom's hands did eventually fall away from arms, but his contact didn't disappear entirely. She tried to concentrate on the reason they were outside, her eyes focused along with everyone else on the rising sun, though her mind was more focused on his lingering hand, his fingers spread as they rested at the small of her back.

It was a beautiful moment, actually. Just standing there in the silence of dawn, eyes focused on the rising sun, remembering that it was not only the celebration of Christ's resurrection, but also a reminder that with the new dawn and the new day, it brought her and Tom one step closer to their new life. God willing, this time next Easter, the two of them would be standing just like this, only as husband and wife. And the thought brought a smile to her face, and despite the frown and possible reprimand she might receive later from his mother, she leaned into his touch, and smiled as she felt his hand move from her back to go around her waist.

They still needed to speak. She still needed to make her apologies and voice her concerns and share her frustrations, but more than anything, she needed to tell him how much she loved him. And she would, she vowed to herself. But right now, as they gazed eastward at the rising sun and listened to the sound of church bells ringing with joy, she would settle and smile with contentment at the peace of this moment, her head falling to rest on the shoulder of her soon-to-be husband.


"I'm starting to see why you broke the rules," Kieran muttered in Tom's ear.

Tom fixed his cousin with a look, but Kieran only chuckled and slapped Tom on the shoulder, muttering something along the lines of "loosen up a little!" before pouring himself another glass of whiskey.

"She is lovely, Tommy, there's no denying that," Kieran chuckled, pouring more whiskey into Tom's glass, though he hadn't drunk much from it.

"She's also incredibly intelligent, kind, compassionate, brave, charming, witty—"

"Alright, alright, you don't have to convince me," Kieran groaned, clinking his glass with his cousin's. "Drink up."

Tom held his glass, but didn't lift it to his lips. "It's not because she's beautiful that I love her; she's more than that."

Kieran rolled his eyes. "I never said she wasn't! I was just—Jesus, Tom, learn to take a compliment!"

"Oh, so your remark on Sybil's beauty is meant to be a compliment to me, is it?"

"Absolutely," Kieran answered, his glass near his lips. "Have you seen yourself in the mirror?"

Tom shoved his cousin's shoulder, but Kieran just threw his head back and laughed. "All I'm saying is, that if I saw a beautiful woman like her, in a gown like that every day, I might be tempted to win the favor of an earl's daughter myself."

Tom groaned but finally took a drink of his whiskey. "She didn't wear that gown every day, and certainly not for when I drove her," he muttered, though his eyes did soften as he thought about Sybil and her frocks, and how so many of them held a special place in his heart, especially the one she had worn that morning.

He had been fidgeting rather nervously in his mother's parlor, waiting for her to come down. While he had seen her both Friday and yesterday, they hadn't really had the chance to speak. God, he missed her. He missed talking to her, he missed being able to somehow find ways in which they could steal little moments together. He had foolishly thought that by coming to Ireland, they would be gaining their freedom at long last, but it seemed that they had traded one form of prison for another. The rules and protocols at Downton might be different to the rules here, but there were still rules and expectations and limits one was expected to follow. He didn't work in a garage where she could just pop down to whenever she felt like it. His mother was even stricter jailer compared to the likes of Lady Mary, and she was also a great deal harder to stand up to. In his time working at Downton he had seen the banter between Mrs. Crawley and Old Lady Grantham; he wondered if his mother would give the both of them a run for their money?

They were all observing the silence that fell on Easter morning, something Tom hadn't practiced since before he had left Ireland in 1913. And when one couldn't speak, one found other ways to try and release tension, and no doubt his mother was preparing to break her silence if he didn't stop fidgeting and pacing, but thankfully that didn't happen, because the creak in the floorboards on the stairs drew his attention, along with everyone else, to the woman descending…dressed beautifully in an all too familiar gown of black and gold.

"You're very late…won't they worry?"

The words spoken from that night came back to him when he heard her footsteps and lifted his head from his newspaper to see her approach. Of course he remembered everything about that night, from the gown that she wore, to the words that she spoke, to the touch and sweet taste of her lips, as her answer rang loud and clear in his head.

"I'm ready to travel, and you're my ticket."

She wore that gown again when they told her family that she was going to marry him. She had worn it on purpose, she later told him; it had only seemed fitting that the dress she wore she finally made up her mind to move forward would be the one she would wear when telling her family that very thing. And he couldn't help but wonder, as he gazed at her beauty, if she had worn it on purpose again, another declaration, another step moving them forward. She was a vision, and all he could think about in that moment was taking her in his arms and kissing her, before mumbling his apologies against her brow for the past few days.

He didn't think it would possible to stay angry with her for very long. Granted, they had had their arguments before, had held grudges and been foolish, and would no doubt continue to do so; after all, they were human. But these past two days had been miserable for him, perhaps even worse than if he hadn't seen her, because sitting in that church, sharing a pew, but with a few bodies between them, and not having the chance to speak to her, let alone hold her hand…it was unbearable. And now, after knowing her touch, her kiss, her embrace, hearing her voice tell him how she felt, that she loved him as deeply as he loved her…God help him, he could never get enough.

When they stood outside, watching the sun rise and greeting the Easter dawn, he immediately removed his coat before she even had a chance to shiver. And while he knew there a certain level of "decorum" one should observe, both because this was his mother's house and because of the day itself, he couldn't help but let his hands linger, just for a moment. He loved touching her; he loved the feel of her skin, the curve of her body, he loved feeling her breathe, as well as hearing it. He told himself at first not to overstep; after all, she had felt him hovering too close, which had led to this argument. Yet at the same time, after two days of seeing her but not being able to speak or touch, he couldn't help it, and prayed she wouldn't rebuke him for doing something that felt so natural, even instinctual.

His hand fell to the small of her back and lingered there, and he held his breath and waited. If she moved away, he would drop it and not press anything further. But to his joy and relief, she didn't move away, but rather leaned into him, to the point where the base of her skull touched his shoulder. And taking that as an invitation, his hand moved from her back to wrap around her waist, and he continued to breathe easily as he felt her head lean fully to his shoulder, her hair tickling his neck just slightly.

He knew that his mother didn't approve. She would no doubt mutter something about how it was inappropriate because it was Sunday and Easter, but in all honesty, he didn't care. He didn't care whether she or any of them approved right now, and if anyone said anything, he had a right mind to turn to them and say without blinking an eye, "sod off."

Thankfully, it didn't come to that. As the echo of the church bells began to fade in the distance, Moira turned to them all and with a loud, joyful voice, practically shouted, "Cáisc shona dhuit!" They all laughed and said the words back, trying to match her in both volume and happiness, though Tom doubted it could be done. And that was their cue; time to go back inside and prepare for the rest of the day. Soon the memory of the quiet Easter dawn would be just that, a distant memory. And the madness that was the rest of his family invading his mother's house would feel as if a century had passed.

Again, his mother took Sybil's hand and tugged her away from him. Tom didn't suppress the roll of his eyes, and to his happiness, Sybil saw it and didn't suppress the giggle that bubbled up in her throat. She was sent upstairs to change her clothes at once, and then ordered to report back to the kitchen to help with the meal. Meanwhile, he and Kieran were ordered to start clearing the parlor and setting up as many tables and chairs as they could for the great number of people that would be coming to "wish them a joyful Easter", or so the excuse would be.

But he knew better. They all knew better.

"I see that Frank is still missing," Kieran murmured, breaking through his thoughts. They had "taken a break" from their work, standing in the tiny alleyway between his mother's house and her neighbor, out of eyesight from anyone, and enjoying some whiskey that Kieran had brought just for the celebration. And while it wasn't even midday, Tom couldn't help but agree to some liquid courage that Kieran was pouring, feeling as if he would need it, especially when his aunts started fussing over the sight of him, pinching his cheeks and scolding him for staying away for so long, before demanding to know more about Sybil (rather than doing the proper thing and introducing themselves to her).

At the mention of his brother, Tom felt his jaw clench just slightly, and he put his glass down, thinking that perhaps it was best to abstain from the alcohol after all. "You know that he came here?" Tom muttered, lifting his eyes to Kieran. "Aileen saw him; told me the other day. He stumbled drunkenly into the house, collapsing on Mam's couch, and then before dawn, was up and out again." His voice was dripping with disgust. "Doesn't even have the decency to say anything to his mother—"

"His mother or you?" Kieran questioned, eyeing him suspiciously. "Are you really upset over Frank's disrespect to your mother? Or the fact that he's been avoiding you ever since you returned?"

Tom's jaw clenched again, and he counted silently to himself before speaking further. "I'm his brother; his only brother. I'm not asking for his approval—"

Kieran laughed at this.

"I'm not!"

Kieran's laughter only grew louder. "Oh Tommy, stop! I'm not an idiot!" he took several deep breaths to get his laughter under control. "Our approval has been the thing you've been desiring ever since you walked off that boat—ever since you wrote to your mother that you were bringing back an English girl to marry!"

Sometimes Tom hated the way his cousin could get inside his head. "I'm going to marry her, Kieran," he muttered, his voice low and serious.

Kieran lifted his glass as if in toast. "Glad to hear it! You've gone to all this trouble to bring her here, it would be a right waste if you started suffering from 'cold feet' now."

Tom groaned and rolled his eyes. "Whether I have yours or Mam's or Frank's or ANYONE'S approval, I will marry Sybil."

Kieran's eyes softened slightly then, and he finally put his own glass down. "Well, for what it's worth, you do have my approval," he told his cousin. There was a part of Tom that just wanted to roll his eyes at Kieran's words, but he knew that his cousin was in fact being sincere, and he did appreciate that.

"Look, she's a charming girl," Kieran continued. "Even a blind man could see that. And it's obvious, more than anything, that she makes you happy and you love her. So just…give them time. They'll see that and accept it, and if they don't, well…" he took his glass in hand again and simply threw back the rest of the whiskey without another word.

Tom sighed and lifted his own glass then. "I'll drink to that," he murmured, before gulping the contents of his glass in one swallow.

Noise was heard at the front door of his mother's house, and Tom sighed as he did up the buttons on his suit jacket, or rather, Sean's suit jacket which had been leant to him for the day. There were so many expenses to consider now. He would need some new suits for his job (he wouldn't always be condemned to sit at a desk and edit another man's writing). But they were going to need a flat of their own (he refused to live under his mother's watchful eye after they married), and then, of course, there was still the matter that he didn't have a proper ring for Sybil…

But those thoughts would need to be pushed away, at least for the time being, as he played host to their arriving guests. "So it begins," Kieran chuckled, slapping his hand on Tom's shoulder as he passed.

So it did. But the question Tom was curious to know, was how it was going to end?


Downton Abbey had hosted many grand dinners and parties in Sybil's lifetime, as had their townhouse in London. And while she recalled how some of those parties seemed quite lively and boisterous, none of them could hold a candle to the Margaret Branson's house, and the horde of people continued coming in and out in waves, one after another.

Just when she thought the house couldn't hold more, more would come, room being made because others would take their leave (only for a little while) to give Easter greetings to neighbors and friends down the road, promising to return later, when the next wave would then go and do likewise, thus continuing the cycle.

So much of her Easter was spent in Mrs. Branson's kitchen, which was not a very big place to begin with, and yet it seemed to somehow hold at least nine women at a time (with both Moira and Aileen and a few other children that Sybil could only conclude were cousins, rushing in and out to carry platters of food and return with dirty dishes).

Siobhan seemed to be permanently stationed at the sink, taking those dirty dishes her sisters would bring, giving them a good scrub, before passing them to someone else to dry, and then back they would return to whoever needed a plate next.

As for Sybil, after she had returned to the kitchen in the proper attire for such work, Mrs. Branson had her immediately go to the stove to begin stirring a sauce that she had already begun. "Don't let it get too lean!" the woman barked, but Sybil simply nodded her head and stirred, knowing what the woman meant, thanks to Mrs. Patmore's lessons (she couldn't help but wonder what the Downton cook and the Branson matriarch would think of one another?) She did more than just stir sauce; she cut vegetables, peeled potatoes, kneaded bread, and took various dishes in and out of the oven more times than she could count. In many ways, she was amazed that the house hadn't burnt to the ground with the amount of food they were cooking.

The main dish for the meal was lamb. Sybil had never cooked anything like it, and couldn't deny she was extremely curious as to how it was done. She was learning all sorts of things about her future in-laws and their various holiday rituals. For example, she had witnessed, much to her shock (and even a little to her horror) a piece of lamb's meat being nailed to the wall, at the kitchen entrance, right next to a crucifix! Sybil stared in disbelief as Mrs. Branson fetched the meat from a cooler, all wrapped in paper, though it was by no means fresh, in fact, it had a rather rancid smell. She quickly learned that the ritual of nailing the lamb's meat to the wall was a symbol of Christ's crucifixion, and that before the meal was underway, the meat would be removed and thrown into the fire, both a symbol of resurrection and cleansing.

She tried to imagine Mrs. Patmore allowing a piece of meat, old or fresh, being nailed to a wall in Downton's kitchens. The woman would no doubt turn the color of a beet, before throwing the offender out of her kitchen with her bare hands. Perhaps having the Downton cook and Mrs. Branson meet wasn't such a great idea? If her father and grandmother were present, she could just see them both looking aghast, before murmuring something about "barbaric Catholic practices".

Yes, she had a feeling her family wouldn't understand a bulk of the Branson family traditions. How were they spending their Easter? She imagined they had risen and gone to church, as was typical in the past, but she doubted that they were awake before dawn like she was. She imagined that they were having a feast of their own, yet she doubted it would be anything like this; grand looking dishes with grander sounding names, but hardly the thing that could feed and sustain the army of people who were coming in and out of Mrs. Branson's door. And what about Good Friday and Holy Saturday? Had her family attended a service then? Or would they see a day spent in church on both as being "overzealous"?

She couldn't help but giggle as she imagined her grandmother gasping if she had been doused with holy water by the passing priest the way Sybil had been. Siobhan had told her that was good, a sign prosperous blessings for the year. Sybil had blushed and glanced down the pew to where Tom was sitting. When they had returned to the house after mass on Saturday, Mrs. Branson put all of them to work, cleaning the house and working hard to make it shine. They had done that earlier, before leaving to attend mass as well, and Father Stephen had come by, carrying holy water with him to bless the house, as was the custom before hosting an Easter gathering. No wonder Sybil was exhausted; every waking minute over the past few days had been spent cooking in the kitchen, cleaning the house, or attending church. She had never known or thought that the celebration of Easter could be so tiring! But Siobhan had also informed her that it usually wasn't this exhausting, because they didn't always host a grand gathering like they were this year.

Sybil wiped her hands on her apron and looked across the busy kitchen from where she stood, offering what she hoped was a friendly smile at the women who stood at the other end, looking to be in deep conversation with one another…though they would every so often glance in her direction, their eyes looking her up and down, as if assessing her before making further judgments.

On two occasions, Margaret Branson had banished people out of her kitchen. If she couldn't move around in it, then it was too full. Sybil didn't mind helping, but at the same time, she wondered if it would be for the best if she left? Because she knew she was one of the reasons all these women (aunts and cousins and wives of family members) kept peeking in, though they would never admit it, of course. They would enter, asking if there was anything they could do to help with the meal, some of them bringing food themselves to contribute to the feast. But all of them would eventually crane their necks to the corner where she stood, over a little worktable, adding the final touches to her project.

The project in question was a dessert, a cake to be exact. Sybil was not the greatest cook, she wasn't even sure if she was a moderate cook. But she did love baking, and enjoyed making cakes when she had been taking lessons back at Downton. It was something both she and Daisy had shared, a fondness they had bonded over, because Daisy loved baking too, and she remembered how happy the kitchen maid was at the thought of helping Mrs. Patmore bake Matthew and Lavinia's wedding cake.

Her thoughts paused for a moment as she thought about poor Matthew. What was he doing today? She couldn't imagine her family not inviting both him and Cousin Isobel to the house for Easter, but at the same time, she couldn't imagine Sir Richard not being present either, and perhaps that would be awkward? Oh heavens, the entire situation was awkward, and she had only exchanged one letter with her sisters since arriving, and that letter had been very simple, not really saying much of anything other than the sorts of pleasantries her lot had been taught to write and say. Sybil couldn't help but groan in annoyance at her cousin and sister's foolishness, but they seemed determined to be just that: foolish.

"What?"

Sybil's eyes snapped up at the question, and they widened as she realized that the person whose voice had spoken belonged to the dark-haired, pale-skinned woman she had seen that morning, at dawn.

Nora Branson, Tom's cousin and the sister of Martin.

It was strange that she hadn't met Nora till now. Apparently Nora was staying with Kathleen and Sean. After the death of her father, she moved in here, and had stayed in the very room that Sybil was now occupying. But a year ago, she moved in with Tom's sister, and there she remained for the time being. Yet while Sean and Kathleen had come to Margaret's house for Sunday dinner in the past, Nora had never come with them.

"Oh! I…I'm sorry," Sybil apologized, blushing deeply with embarrassment, realizing that Nora had overheard her groaning.

Nora eyed her for a moment, her expression rather…cold and hostile. But she didn't say anything further, just returned her attentions to the dishes she was drying for Siobhan.

Sybil nibbled on her lip, wondering if she should say anything else. She looked down at her cake, seeing that it was ready for baking, and quickly placed it in the oven, before taking a discarded dish towel and picking up one of the many dishes and joining Nora in drying.

Nora stiffened as she realized that Sybil was now standing right next to her. She tried to take a step away, but the kitchen was so cluttered with people again, there was hardly anyplace to step.

"The lamb smells delicious," Sybil murmured. "I noticed how you helped Tom's mother with seasoning the meat."

Nora didn't say anything.

Sybil bit her lip, but decided to soldier forth. "I've never cooked lamb before," she continued. "But I would love to learn!"

Again, Nora remained quiet.

"Do you enjoy cooking?" Sybil asked. "I actually love baking, myself. Which was why, I confess, I begged Mrs. Branson to let me make a cake, I just wanted to contribute something to the meal, something that I could make on my own and it's nothing fancy, a very simple cake, but I do hope—"

Nora put her towel down, and without a word or glance, picked up the stack of newly dried dishes and proceeded to walk away, leaving the kitchen altogether.

"…that people will like it," Sybil finished, watching Tom's cousin disappear with her dishes.

Just let it go, don't be insulted, don't pursue it, her mind kept telling herself over and over. And yet she despite this sage advice that she knew she should be following, she found herself wandering towards the doorway of the kitchen, begging people's pardon as she passed for it was a tight fit, though they did seem to let her through, and continued to watch her with narrowed eyes.

She reached the kitchen's entrance and looked out into the rooms beyond, gasping a little at the amount of people that filled the house now. Kathleen was sitting near the door, playing the part of hostess and greeting people as they entered, all of them murmuring well wishes and congratulations to her and Sean and the baby that was coming, the words "Cáisc shona dhuit!" being repeated over and over. While some looked Sybil's way, Sybil was too busy looking for Nora, trying to find her in the sea of bodies that filled the small dining room and parlor. But just as two people entered the house and had finished speaking with Kathleen, Sybil spotted Nora approach Tom's sister, leaning down to murmur something in the woman's ear, before turning then and looking directly across the room, her eyes meeting Sybil's.

Sybil practically stumbled back at the harsh gaze from Tom's cousin. Kathleen turned her head too, her own eyes meeting Sybil's face, looking at her with a furrowed brow, before turning back to Nora and reaching for the dark-haired woman's hand, saying something to her that Sybil couldn't hear, but that looked like a plea of some kind.

But Nora shook her head, pulling her hands away before Kathleen could stop her, muttering something that did not look to be very kind…before turning on her heel completely, and leaving the house altogether.

Sybil stared at the now empty door, and then at Kathleen, whose cold, blue eyes were glaring back at her, an accusing light in their depths. You did this, you made her leave, was what that expression said. Sybil felt like a tortious, moving into its shell for protection and to hide from the world. She slunk back around the kitchen's entrance, retreating back to the corner where she had been standing earlier, swallowing the lump in her throat and trying with great difficulty not to cry. Don't give them more excuses to judge you, don't show weakness; they'll think your tears are those of a posh little girl who can't handle hard work. Still, she knew that Kathleen's accusatory stare was right; she was the cause for Nora's sudden disappearance, her and her babbling.

"Sybil?" Siobhan touched her arm and was looking at her with concern. "Are you alright? You look pale…"

Sybil swallowed and opened her mouth to speak, not exactly sure what to say, but thinking that perhaps an excuse of some kind would be wise, but before she could speak, Mrs. Branson entered the kitchen, clapping her hands to get the attention of the women there. "Right! Time for the lamb! Nora?"

But Nora wasn't there to help. Had Mrs. Branson not seen her leave?

"Where's Nora?" Margaret Branson demanded, scowling and she looked around the kitchen.

"I think the poor dear has gone," a woman at the other end of the kitchen explained, a woman whose name Sybil hadn't managed to catch yet. "She looked most upset," the woman continued, her eyes moving then to Sybil. "I can't imagine why…"

Sybil felt herself shrinking even further.

Mrs. Branson groaned and waved her hands in the air dismissively. "Fine, Sybil, you help me."

Sybil's eyes widened at the woman's words. "W-w-what?" she stammered, hating herself for how that had sounded, especially as she swore she heard some tittering coming from that gaggle of women in the kitchen corner.

"I can't carry this out on my own, and it's no job for a man," Mrs. Branson growled, not in the mood to be delayed further. "Now, you will help me carry this lamb roast to the table before it gets cold and people starve, or so help me, I will be roasting you for our supper, and I don't think Tom will like that."

More tittering filled the air, and Sybil felt her face burn with unwanted embarrassment. However, there was something in Mrs. Branson's eyes, a challenge of some kind, and Sybil felt her chin lift and her resolve steel itself as she gave a nod of her head, and moved to the place where the lamb was waiting. "Together," Mrs. Branson instructed, counting to three, before the both of them picked up the large platter that held the lamb, and with Mrs. Branson leading the way, carried it out of the kitchen and into the dining room.

The chatter and noise suddenly dimmed, and soon it was replaced by the sound of gasps and hungry murmurs as they gazed at the meat that was being presented to the feast. Mrs. Branson smiled at her guests, and then looked across the room until her eyes found those of her son. "Tommy?"

Sybil turned her eyes to Tom, a feel of relief washing over her again as she looked at him, of relief and renewed strength, and he smiled back. She watched then as he pried the nailed meat off the wall, before wrapping it up in the paper it had come in, and everyone in the room cleared the way as he approached the fireplace. Then, with a somewhat dramatic flourish, Tom threw the lamb's meat into the fire, and a great cheer went up around the room, before again, everyone started saying to one another, "Cáisc shona dhuit!"

Sybil was determined to learn this greeting before the night was over.

Plates were passed, cups were filled, and people began to pile what they could onto them. It wasn't like at Downton where they were all seated around the table—there were just too many people! Rather, it was like breakfast, where the table in the dining room served as a buffet, and people would form a queue to come forward, take food, before finding an empty chair somewhere in the room, and eating like that. Her grandmother would find the whole thing uncouth, but Sybil liked it. Family was clearly focus here, not presentation.

…Or at least not to the same point.

Sybil remained by Margaret Branson's side, smiling at the people who passed, some of them seeing her for the first time (she had been in the kitchen for so long) some smiling back and greeting her warmly, while others looked at her with curiosity, and yes, even a few with cold uncertainty. But she remained stoic, her head held high and her eyes bright with life, shaking her shell away and taking pride that she was here, in Ireland, amongst the Bransons, the family that would very soon become hers, standing proudly next to the woman who was to be her mother-in-law.

Tom approached then, his own face beaming with pride. "I don't suppose there's some lamb for me?" he asked, his eyes twinkling with mirth as he looked at her.

"I think that can be arranged," Sybil grinned back, taking his plate and passing it to his mother, who without saying anything, put a slice of lamb onto it.

"It smells wonderful, Mam," he was quick to tell her.

She smiled at this and gave her son a thankful nod, before handing his plate back to him. He turned then to Sybil and asked, "did you have a hand in making this?"

Sybil blushed but shook her head. "No, but perhaps your mother can teach me if you like it? It does smell delicious."

Tom grinned and was just about to take a bite of his food, when a voice interrupted, the voice of one of his uncles, calling attention to everyone gathered.

"A toast!" the man cried. "A toast to the fallen!"

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Mrs. Branson muttered under her breath.

Sybil looked confused. Toast to the fallen? She looked at Tom then, but saw that he had stiffened at his uncle's words.

"Tom!" his uncle cried, making his way to his nephew, a glass of whiskey already poured and handing it to him. "Tom, you make the toast! It's only appropriate seeing as how you were closest to dear Martin."

Sybil's eyes widened and she looked at her fiancé, trying to see his reaction to this, and bit her lip with worry as she noticed how tight his jaw had become at the suggestion.

"The Rising took place on Easter Monday," Tom explained in as calm a voice as possible. "It's more appropriate to remember and honor the fallen then, rather than today."

Sybil swallowed and looked then at Tom's uncle, who was scowling at his nephew's words. "On a day where we honor our Lord's return after his sacrifice, it is appropriate to honor those who sacrificed their lives—"

"SACRIFICED!?" Tom sputtered, looking at his uncle as if he were mad. Sybil reached out then and took hold of his hand, something that did seem to cause a gasp amongst some of the people gathered, but she didn't care. She gripped it, hoping it would provide him with a little peace, but also strength to face this trial he had not been expecting to encounter.

Tom squeezed her hand, though he kept his gaze focused on his uncle. "Martin didn't 'sacrifice' himself; he wasn't part of any 'revolution'; he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and was a victim of a meaningless crime."

His uncle glared back at him, the look on his face full of disappointment and perhaps even…betrayal. Sybil swallowed as she felt the man's eyes turn to her and practically burn right through her with their hostility. Tom must have noticed as well, because he stepped in front of her then, blocking his uncle's gaze.

The man glared back at Tom, before turning his back on him, and without another word, raised his own glass high, and said in a loud voice. "To the fallen!"

There was an awkward pause, but only for a moment, before others raised their glasses and murmured back in solemn voices. "To the fallen."

Tom did not raise a glass, but he did squeeze her hand, and Sybil recognized the gesture as one that was grateful for her presence.

It was a quiet toast, and many lowered their heads in prayer. Eventually signs of the cross were made, and she heard a man somewhere in the room murmur, "Beannacht Dé leat! (God be with you)"

Another silence filled the room, an awkward one this time, people unsure what to say or how to respond next. Thankfully, Mrs. Branson had the answer to that. "Eat up! There's far too much food sitting here!"

People chuckled then, and a sense of merriment seemed to return to the room once more.

Tom sighed and turned around to look at her. Sybil smiled at him, though it was one filled with sympathy for him. She knew how close he had been to his cousin, she knew how much he missed him, and how pointless Martin's death had been. And while she knew that Tom loved Martin and respected him, she also could understand his wish not to have Martin turned into some sort of martyr, when in truth, Tom was right; Martin's death wasn't part of some great revolution, but instead, the result of meaningless violence, which seemed to be waiting to erupt around every corner of Dublin.

The door to the house burst open with a bang, causing several people to gasp and jump at the sound. Tom turned his head, his brow furrowed and Sybil and Mrs. Branson looked as well, Sybil wondering if perhaps it was Nora who had come back.

But it wasn't Tom's cousin standing in the door, but a young man, a young man whom she recognized. And her eyes quickly flew to her fiancé, who was looking at the man with shock, surprise, before giving way to what could only be anger.

"Frank," Mrs. Branson murmured, looking at her second son with the same surprise as others as he grinned and approached the table where they were standing.

"Looks delicious, Mam!" Frank Branson grinned. He stopped just in front of Tom, taking an empty plate and ignoring his older brother as he filled it, not saying anything, just adding food to it, pausing here and there to take a bite, before continuing to add more. Mrs. Branson groaned. Sybil held her breath. Tom, she swore, was fuming.

"Mmmm, tastes as good as it smells," Frank announced, before looking up then at the man standing right in front of him. "Oh! Fancy that, Tom's here!" he put his plate down and held his hand out to shake, before asking in an obvious sarcastic voice. "How long have you been back?"

"OH!" a great gasp went up around the room, as the older Branson brother launched himself at the younger one.


UH OH! Part two coming soon!