A/N: First of all, massive thanks to the very wonderful PiperHolmes for putting together the gif that is now the cover for the story. It's quite perfect ! And thank you for all the feedback from the last chapter - I'm very humbled that people are still enjoying the story.

So I guess "shortly" is a relative word, but finishing this off took rather longer and was more tortuous than I thought. But here is part 2 - although you may need to go back and read the previous chapter to remember what was going on ! I know I did !

He'd woken the next morning with a start and listened, convincing himself that the telephone hadn't rung. Niamh was in a better mood and was surprisingly co-operative over breakfast, so for once he managed to hand her over to Irene not covered in egg yolk or jam. Anxiety followed him to work, his mind wandering back to the hospital as he sat on the tram, wondering how Sybil had passed the night. He was certain that she was in the best place, but certainty didn't make up for not hearing her voice for days on end.

Monday mornings were always busy in the newsroom. He slid behind the desk he shared with Jarndyce and Pickering. Jarndyce was on his way out, his notebook stuffed into his jacket pocket. The same age as himself, but unmarried, Jarndyce thought Tom a fool for fettering himself to a family at his age when he could be out chasing stories and women with equal enthusiasm.

"No baby yet, Branson ?" he smirked as he picked up his hat and pocketed a packet of cigarettes.

"Don't know why you want to be there whilst it's happening," Pickering was older than Jarndyce and himself by at least twenty years and was practically part of the furniture. A small, quiet man with round horn-rimmed spectacles, his harmless looks belied the scathing prose that often flowed from his pen when he turned it on the Government. "A chap's best out of it, I've always thought. Much better idea to leave it to the women. Didn't see my two until they were a day old."

They'd had this conversation before. "I just want to know that my wife is alright."

Pickering looked at him intently, the thick lenses of his spectacles making his eyes seem unnaturally large and softly menacing.

"How long have you been married, Branson ?"

"Three years."

The older man grunted.

"It won't last, you know. This need to be always together. When you've been married as long as Mrs Pickering and I have, you'll be glad of a little time apart."

Tom smiled and shook his head.

"I don't see it happening. Not with Sybil and myself. We've already spent too much time separated from each other."

Pickering removed his spectacles, laying them neatly on the table in front of him and carefully crossing the arms at the tip.

"Sometimes, Branson, I wonder if you are not too sentimental for this job. If I didn't have hard evidence of your ability to carry a story, I'd be very sceptical. Very sceptical indeed. Now - give me your edits for that piece on the election and I'll take a look before you hand it off to Montague."

Tom passed over his latest article and started going through the mail from his local Irish contacts and the early editions of the Irish newspapers. Before he knew where he was, it was 11 o'clock and the smoke from a dozen pipes was turning the shy sunlight into something akin to a November pea-souper. He was just about to go to the small cafe across the road to get some tea and fresh air when he heard his name being hollered from the other side of the newsroom.

"Mr Branson ! Call for you !"

He shot out of his chair and stood stock still, staring at the secretary who was waving the phone at him. Pickering raised his eyes over the top of his glasses.

"Well, don't just stand there, boy ! Move !"

Tom swallowed and weaved his way between the desks without particular care, causing a few of his workmates to look up in annoyance. He grabbed the telephone.

"Branson."

"Tom, the hospital called. Sybil's gone into labour. Pratt says it will get fifteen minutes to get to you. Meet us outside your offices."

Cora was obviously in a hurry as she had rung off before he'd really had a chance to ask any questions.

"Everything all right ?" asked the girl.

He could feel that his palms were damp, so he unconsciously wiped them on the front of his waistcoat, before giving it a nervous tug at the hem.

"My wife's having a baby…."

He didn't hang around for the reply, instead hurrying back to his desk and pulling on his jacket, patting the pockets as he did so to make sure he had everything. Pickering favoured him with a sardonic smile.

"Just as well you're going. You'll do nothing constructive in that state. Don't bother coming back until you've calmed down."

"I'll be …"

"Just go, Branson !"

He was standing outside the paper's offices on Cross Street, his hands stuffed into his pockets, when Pratt pulled up in the town car. Cora was in the back and Tom hand jumped in beside her before Pratt even had the chance to open the driver's door. She put her hand on his arm.

"The nurse said that everything is going well. Her contractions started about an hour ago."

He nodded as Pratt negotiated the heavy traffic of central Manchester, biting his tongue to stop himself giving the chauffeur needless directions that he knew would only irritate him. It normally would have taken twenty minutes to cross the city and head for the hospital at Withington, but a coal lorry had slipped its load on the main road. They were only held up for a quarter of an hour, but he felt every single one of those minutes drag by as he fidgeted in the back of the car.

When they reached the hospital they hurried to the maternity ward, only to find Sybil gone.

"Mr Graham has taken Mrs Branson down to the delivery room," a neat staff nurse informed them.

"Already ?" asked Cora, wide-eyed. "But her contractions only started an hour ago !"

"Oh no," gasped Tom, "does that mean there is something wrong ?"

"I …." the staff nurse looked from Cora to Tom, made anxious by their reaction.

"Why has she gone down so early ? Is something the matter ?" Tom had unconsciously raised his voice and gestured rather wildly with his hat, making the nurse involuntarily taken a step back. Another nurse at the desk in the middle of the ward looked over at them with concern.

"Perhaps I'd better find Sister," she smiled and turned on her heel and trotted down the ward, her white shoes clattering rapidly on the glassy linoleum floor.

The Sister on duty was different to the one he was used to seeing during visiting times - stern and competent looking, she seemed to resent the intrusion of a patient's family on the ward, however well connected she knew them to be. She chose to address Cora rather than Tom, managing to imply that a baby's father was an irrelevance.

"What seems to be the problem, Lady Grantham ?"

"I understand my daughter has been taken down to the delivery room ?" Sister nodded.

"It just seemed rather - quick …."

"Mrs Branson was almost fully dilated."

"Is my wife alright ?" Tom butted in before his mother-in-law could reply.

Sister's eyebrows shot up and she gave him a pitying look.

"Mr Branson, your wife is having a baby. I'm not sure alright covers it. But rest assured Mr Graham was not concerned. Let me get one of the nurses to show you to somewhere you can wait."

"Then why…."

"Tom," Cora tugged his elbow gently. "Let's go and wait where we are supposed to and let these good people get on with their work."

"But …"

"This way, Lady Grantham."

Cora steered him firmly towards the door as he looked back over his shoulder as Sister returned to her office.

"Come along, Tom. We won't do any good here."

They were the only people in the room they were asked to wait in. The kindly nurse found Cora a cup of tea, which she sat sipping whilst Tom leant on his knees, spinning his hat in his hands. All Cora's experience in making conversation failed her when it came to Tom in this state. He seemed incapable of listening to her, or even stringing a whole sentence together. He wouldn't sit still, crossing and uncrossing his legs, getting up and prowling around the room, hands in his pockets, only to sit down again a few minutes later and check his watch. Cora watched him with the same impassive face she wore in the drawing rooms of Robert's more tedious friends, although she shifted in her seat every time he got up to resume his pacing.

"I just wanted to see her," he said suddenly, looking up at her. "Just to….in case…..."

To his surprise, his mother-in-law snapped at him.

"You have to stop this, Tom. Sybil trusts these people and so must we. You have to stop assuming the worst."

He looked so stricken that she thought he was about to cry.

"Come and sit down," she said, patting the chair next to her, "are you sure you don't want one of the nurses to find you some tea ?"

He shook his head, but did as he was bid and they resumed their individual contemplation in silence. An another hour passed. Cora found a newspaper and tried to read it, but Tom's anxiety had leached into the room and she found she could not concentrate. She thought of Downton, of Robert, of giving birth to Sybil all those years ago. And here was her baby going through the same thing, but in such different circumstances. She had never wanted or even imagined anything like this reality for Sybil. She certainly could not have foreseen herself sitting in the waiting room of a public hospital with only a highly strung Irishman for company whilst her daughter laboured to give birth. But in truth, she thought, the old world had nearly killed Sybil. Maybe this brave new one would give her life.

The door to the waiting room opened and a tall, balding man in a white coat entered. Alec Graham had known Sybil as a nurse, had an interest in toxaemia and was only to happy to look after her. He'd met her husband and mother before, but was not prepared for the speed at which Mr Branson leapt up from his seat, as if an electric current had just passed through the chair. His face was drained of colour and he appeared to be breathing very rapidly.

"Oh God," Tom spoke softly. The appearance of a doctor only a few hours after Sybil had gone into labour could not be a good thing. He looked grim and Tom felt himself go cold all over.

Alec looked blankly at Lady Sybil's husband, sensing that the man was about to become emotional. A middle class Scot from Glasgow who had served in the field hospitals of Flanders, he did not appreciate histrionics. He ignored Tom and spoke to Sybil's mother.

"Lady Grantham, you'll be pleased to know Lady Sybil gave birth to a healthy baby girl about half an ago." Tom's gasp of relief was audible. "Congratulations, Mr Branson," he said wryly, holding his hand out and giving Tom's a firm shake.

"Are they alright ?" Tom managed to ask faintly.

"Lady Sybil's very tired and sore, but it was a relatively easy birth, all things considered. You'll be pleased to know that Miss Branson has a very powerful set of lungs and was obviously in a hurry to make her entrance into the world. And," he said with emphasis, "there are no signs of toxaemia. I want to keep Lady Sybil under observation for another week, but I don't anticipate any problems."

"Can I see them ?"

"In a few minutes. A nurse will come and bring you through. Only one of you, mind, and not for very long. Lady Sybil and the baby need to rest. You can see her again this evening."

Cora smiled warmly at Tom as the door swung shut.

"Another little girl ! How wonderful ! Congratulations, Tom."

"Oh, thank God," he sighed, collapsing on one of the chairs behind him. He rubbed his face with his hand, shaking his head as he did so. "Thank God they're alright. At least…."

"Tom," warned Cora, "you heard what Mr Graham said. Now go and see your wife and your new daughter," she said, nodding towards the nurse that had just opened the door. Just as he was leaving she called after him.

"And send Sybil my love. Tell her I'm so very proud of her."

Sybil was lying on her side against the pillows, her gaze and one hand resting on the small canvas cot beside the bed. She smiled broadly when she saw him, her eyes tired, but bright and quick. She looked completely different from when he had seen her after Niamh's birth. She'd been smiling then too, but she'd been dazed and somehow absent.

"Oh, my darling." His relief washed over her.

"Come and see," she whispered and he came and sat on the bed beside her, ignoring the chair that had been put there for him. In the cot was a tiny white bundle topped off with a knitted white hat. All that was visible of the baby was the puckering of furiously closed eyes and a perfect miniature copy of Sybil's mouth. Two little fingertips were just visible, curled by her chin. Sybil watched as her husband's features softened like butter.

"Oh….she's beautiful !"

"Isn't she ?"

He leaned over then to kiss her forehead, as he had done before, but this time, she looked up and dropped a small kiss on his cheek.

A small sound came from the cot, a stutter that might be the precursor to a cry.

"Can I hold her ?"

She nodded, watching as he got up and carefully lifted the bundle into his arms, cradling her head in the crook of his elbow. The baby sneezed and her eyes flew wide with surprise. Father and daughter stared at each other in wonder, only for her to yawn and close her eyes again.

"I don't think she's very impressed with me," he laughed gently, not taking his eyes from her. "Love, I'm sorry I didn't get here in time."

"It's alright," she said, reaching out to cover one of his hands with her own. "Everything happened so quickly. She's an impatient little thing, this one," she smiled, reaching up with a finger to stroke the baby's cheek.

Tom captured her figures and pressed them to his lips.

"Oh, God, Sybil, I love you so much. I can't tell you how much."

There was a cry from the baby and Sybil took her from him, settling her against her chest. She quietened, happy to gaze up at her mother as she gently rocked her back and forth, a stream of baby nonsense dropping gently from her lips. Tom looked at them both, all thoughts of the future gone, for his heart was too full of the present.

Sybil spent the rest of the week in hospital, desperate to go home. She wanted to to call their daughter Aoife. When she had suggested it, Tom had pointed out that one princess Aoife of legend had attempted to murder her step-children and turned them into swans, but Sybil was not to be moved. So Aoife Mary Branson she remained.

A week later, Sybil and the baby were finally allowed home. As soon as she was through the door, Niamh fought her way out of her grandmother grasp and came running down the hall as fast as her little legs could carry her. Her small stock of words failed her as she clung on to Sybil's blouse and refused to be put down. The baby was fast asleep in her carry cot, and there they left her whilst her grandmother, Doris and Irene poured over her and exclaimed what a beautiful, good baby she was.

Aoife stayed asleep throughout it all, even when Sybil let Niamh peer over the cot at her sister, telling her that she, too, had once been that tiny and that she was going to have to be gentle with her little sister. Niamh had looked at the baby curiously, never letting go of her mother, before turning and burrowing her head back into Sybil's shoulder. Sybil looked at Cora for reassurance.

"Mary tried to poke Edith the first time she met her," her mother said, "so I think Niamh's actually done rather well, haven't you, darling ?" she asked, reaching out to smooth her granddaughter's hair.

Niamh place her thumb in her mouth and stared back, keeping her own counsel for now on the subject or her sister. Tomorrow, Sybil thought, was going to be a long day.

Tom watched as she carefully settled the baby in the cot after her eleven o'clock feed, the same cot that Niamh had slept in, placed once again in the corner of their bedroom. It felt familiar, but different; a new baby, but the same ritual. And like all rituals, it was comforting. He pulled the sheets back for her so she could crawl in beside him, grinning as she immediately shuffled into his open arms.

"I missed this so much," she said, laying her head on his chest. "I missed you. I can't tell you how glad I am to be home."

"Not nearly as glad as I am." He closed his arms around her, her weight and warmth already starting to erode the memory of a month of empty, lonely nights.

They lay in a contented silence, listening to each other and the small sounds coming from the baby's cot. After a few minutes, he reached over and switched off the lamp and they shuffled down underneath the blankets together. He rolled over and mindful of what her body had gone through, gathered her to him very gently, yawning as the tension flowed out of him at her touch.

"I'm not sure what Niamh thought of her sister," Sybil said into his chest.

"She'll be fine." He didn't even open his eyes.

"We'll have to make sure she doesn't feel left out," she continued, looking up at him. He hummed his agreement into her hair.

"I still can't believe that we have two of them now,"

He let out a snort.

"You will in the morning. Let's get some sleep, sweetheart. We're going to need it."

Sybil knew she should follow his example and allow herself to drift off, as the last week had tired her out terribly and the baby would be awake in a few hours wanting to feed. But she found herself fighting sleep. She wanted to feel every moment of being back in her own bed in her own home; the familiar shape of the mattress, the secret space under Tom's arm that she would nestle into, the way her feet would always find a place on his shins. It felt as if she could finally breath freely again and get on with the rest of her life. And what a life, she thought. No fortune, no ancient estate, no butlers or lady's maids, no days devoid of any occupation other than arranging flowers or her husband's social life, but a life of her own making with a family who needed her, as she needed them. A life that she could never have dreamt of and a life she nearly hadn't had. A thousand separate moments needed to have lined up to get her to this place and somehow, miraculously, they had.

"I think I must be the luckiest woman in the world," she whispered. There was no answer, just the susurration of his breathing. She shifted to tighten her hold on his body, now soft and relaxed in sleep.

"You waited for me all that time. I'm just so grateful that you still wanted to marry me. I was so stupid. I kept you guessing for so long when you could have walked away at any moment and then….." she couldn't finish the sentence, feeling unaccountably weepy.

She sniffed and wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand, not really understanding why she felt like this - she'd been desperate to get out of the hospital, but now she was home, she just wanted to cry. She sniffed again, harder this time, getting angry with herself. She was lucky. She could so easily have not been here, either through losing Tom or not surviving Niamh's birth. But here she was.

The bed creaked as Tom rolled away from her onto his back and started to snore. He was grinning inanely in his sleep, something that made him look quite ridiculous and turned Sybil's next sniff into more of a choked laugh.

"But then," she giggled to herself, "who else would have married you ?"