Hey, wonderful people – new chapter! I really hope you enjoy this one, because I enjoyed writing it. I just want to thank all you guys who are continuing to read this story. It really means a lot, and I've had some great conversations with some of you (lizzy384 *wink*). So thanks again!
Sparki: I own nothing!
From across the table, George shot his cousin a pointed look.
Do you want to go? His gaze inquired. Where she sat, Sybbie gave a barely perceptible shake of her head. She wanted to, of course - very much. But she couldn't. Not with all these people – important people, she supposed – here to celebrate her birthday. Staring down at her plate, she gave a heavy sigh. No, she simply couldn't.
As she gazed miserably at her meal, a low, barely audible whistle caught her ear. Sybbie glanced up, and searched around for the culprit. It couldn't be George; he couldn't whistle to save his life. After a moment of searching, her searching gaze landed on her father.
Tom Branson gave his daughter a grin. He was sitting meekly, wedged between her grandfather, and some gentlemen Sybbie didn't recognise. However, as she watched, he slumped slightly in his seat, and gave a silent snore. Sybbie giggled. Beside her, Aunt Edith gave her niece a soft, affectionate nudge.
"What's so funny?" she whispered. Sybbie giggled again.
"Nothing," she replied, a smile beaming through her words. Edith raised one fair eyebrow, but after a moment, returned to her meal. As soon as his sister-in-law's attention was diverted, Tom slouched even lower, and snored once more. Sybbie laughed again, and this time, having caught wind of his uncle's antics, so did George. The two children sat across from one another, giggling joyously.
Fork in hand, Lord Grantham peered suspiciously at his grandchildren. "What is going on?" he asked with a steadily growing smile. Both children froze, but their smiles did not wane.
"Nothing," they responded, almost in unison. Their grandfather looked unconvinced, and it was at that moment, that Tom chose once more to slip lower in his chair. Sybbie exploded into laughter. Lady Grantham lowered her fork.
"Honestly, Sybil!" she sighed, attempting to hide her exasperated smile. "What are you laughing at?"
"It's her birthday, Lady Grantham," Tom chuckled, inching back to his full height. "Can't she chuckle if she wants?" He shot his daughter a conspiratorial wink. Lady Grantham's smile grew wider.
"So, Sybil," Aunt Isabelle, who was seated beside Aunt Mary, began, smiling at the girl, "have you received any marvellous birthday gifts yet?" She shot Tom a somewhat teasing smile. "Or did your father forget?" At this, Tom feigned a gasp of indignation.
"Cousin Isabelle," he addressed the woman warmly, "do you honestly believe that I would forget to buy my own daughter a birthday gift?" Aunt Isabelle smiled, but did not respond. Spiking a ruby tomato slice with her polished fork, Sybbie beamed.
She loved her family.
Perhaps, I could hide in the pantry. No one would look for me there.
And then what? Thomas wondered, as he hurried down the corridor. He could hear Daisy calling for him, somewhat desperately. Upon reaching the kitchen, Thomas stood for a moment, frozen in the doorway.
Anarchy. There was no other word that could possibly describe the situation before him. Never, in the eighteen years he had worked at Downton, had Thomas seen Mrs. Patmore so very flustered. She waddled around the kitchen, yelling orders at Ivy and Rachel. She brandished a hefty spoon each and every time Alfred of James stumbled into her path. Dish upon dish upon dish of splendid-looking food covered the dusty table, and it seemed that no sooner had the footman whisked one away, another took its place. Thomas whistled, low and soft.
"Thomas!" Daisy cried. She stood far across the room, guarding the monstrosity of birthday cake. She motioned him forward frantically. Dodging the scrambling maids and a rampaging cook, Thomas hopped over to where the girl waited, wide-eyed. "What is it?" he murmured.
"I know you're not a footman no more," she began, almost apologetically, "but I need your help! Jimmy and Alfred are running mad, and we're still not getting the food up fast enough!" She indicated a tray, piled high with freshly-cooked meat. "Can you take it up, do you think?"
Thomas blinked. "A valet in the dining hall?" he hissed, disbelievingly. "Mr. Carson would have an aneurism." Daisy looked on the brink of tears.
"I know, and I'm sorry!" she cried. "Truly, I am, but I don't know what else to do." She peered worriedly at Mrs. Patmore. "I think she's going to kill someone!"
Following her gaze, Thomas had to agree. With a huff, he stepped towards the table. With a practised flick of his wrist, he took up the tray of meat. In his gloved hand, he grasped another, simular tray of the same course. With a sigh, he turned back to Daisy.
"On my way, then," he deadpanned, to which the girl gave him a grateful smile.
Hurrying up the stairway, Thomas almost ran head on into a very flustered James. The younger man stopped in his tracks, and stared down, confused, at Thomas.
"What're you doing?" he exclaimed. Thomas couldn't help but roll his eyes.
"Planting a rose garden," he drawled, and James glared at him, unimpressed. "Well, what does it look like I'm doing?" he snapped. James looked from the laden trays, to Thomas' scowl, and back again.
"Mr. Carson's not going to be happy," the footman pointed out. Thomas scoffed.
"You're telling me." With that, he pushed on, past James, heading for the dining hall.
Tom pretended that his chest didn't hurt. But it did.
It ached.
Sitting there, surrounded by the laughter and chatter of Sybbie's birthday feast, he honestly felt as though someone had poured molten rock down his throat. Hesitantly, he raised a somewhat shaky hand to his throat, praying that no one would notice. As he pressed his fingers gently against the warm skin, Tom was overcome by the need to cough.
For a time, he remained silent, holding his breath. The urge would pass, surely.
But it did not.
With each second that ticked by, the pain beneath his hand grew more and more intense. He needed to breath; otherwise, Tom feared he may pass out. But if he breathed, he would surely cough. And then, the fuss –
Tom choked.
Gasping, he dissolved into a violent fit of coughs. He pressed a hand against his mouth, hoping to minimize the impact his outburst would have. The gentle hum of conversation dwindled into stunned silence, as he barked, on and on.
"Tom!" It was Robert. In his peripherals, Tom could see the older man, standing by his chair, concern in his eyes. "Good God, man! Are you quiet alright?" Struggling for air, Tom held up a hand.
"I'm fi...ne, t-truly," he rasped. Across the table, Sybbie leapt to her feet.
"Papa!" she cried. "What's wrong?" Tom tried to smile.
"Nothing, love," he assured the girl. "I'm fine, I'm just-,"
He choked again. Shuddering, another fit took what remained of his breath from his screaming lungs. The horrid coughing flayed his chest, and raked themselves up his throat. Desperate, Tom brought a nearby napkin to his mouth.
"Tom!" Mary gasped, worry in her eyes. "Breathe, Tom!"
He found himself suddenly surrounded; Mary on his left, Sybbie clinging to his right. In the distance, he heard Robert demanding that someone call for Dr. Clarkson. Rasping, Tom shook his head.
"No!" he gasped, holding back yet another cough. "No, I'm alr-," He broke down once more. Through the pain, he felt a reassuring hand on his back.
"No, you're not alright," Mary murmured. At her words, Tom pulled his hand from his mouth, dragging the handkerchief with it. At its sullied state, he blanched. Upon the crisp linen, was a splatter of blood. Mary's eyes grew wide.
"We need to get him upstairs," she demanded, gripping tight Tom's arm. Through his dizziness, Tom heard Sybbie, crying for him. He turned, trying to find her, but his vision remained blurred.
"I'm ... I'm s-sorry," he tried, but his voice cracked, and vanished. The last thing he saw was Sybbie's frightened eyes, before he broke down into coughing.
"Tuberculosis?"
Anna nodded gravely. "That's what Dr. Clarkson said," she sighed, rubbing a weary hand across her eyes. Thomas sat back in his chair, a little taken aback. Branson's display at dinner had been horrid, yes, but...
"Tuberculosis?" he murmured. Anna nodded once more.
"Well, will he be alright, then?" Thomas asked, leaning forward. At this, Anna shrugged apologetically.
"I don't know," she admitted. "It's a tricky thing." Thomas sighed, and fell back in his chair. He wasn't overly fond of Branson, but he didn't wish to attend his funeral. However, whether his concern was more for the man himself, or for his daughter, Thomas struggled to decide. He was suddenly aware of Anna studying his face. She appeared just about to speak, when Mrs. Hughes hurried into the servant's hall.
"You two, upstairs, now!" she ordered, and both who sat at the table could see the worry in her eyes. Anna rose to her feet. "What is it, Mrs. Hughes?" she asked. Mrs. Hughes sighed.
"We can't find Miss Branson."
Thomas felt his stomach clench – an unwanted, unpleasant sensation, a mix of discomfort and dread. Slowly, so as not to appear rattled, he slowly followed suit, and stood across from Anna.
"What do you mean?" he asked slowly. Mrs. Hughes sighed again.
"We've looked everywhere," she exclaimed. "Now come along. Her Ladyship's in a right state." With that, she turned on her heel, and headed for the stairs. Sharing a short gaze, maid and valet followed.
Hope it was alright : )
