Author Note: Really sorry this took so long. After the events of season 3 I wasn't sure I would continue. Thank you for your patience and encouragement anyway, particularly Sayuri-Kikio.
Chapter 10
Sybil gaped back at Thomas in shock, alarm clutching her stomach.
"Well, this is a turn-up for the books," Thomas crowed as he stalked into the garage.
Tom felt Sybil tense in his arms and bristled, eyeing the Corporal warily. Instinctively he eased Sybil half-behind him, shielding her as Thomas advanced. Something in his smug tone and casual manner set Tom on edge. He would milk this for all it was worth, Tom felt sure of it.
Pleased to have them on the back-foot, Thomas unhurriedly plucked a cigarette from his breast pocket. "Oh don't worry m'lady," he scoffed, planting the butt between his lips and fixing Sybil with a triumphant leer. "You aren't the first Crawley caught between the sheets with-"
Tom lunged before he could finish his sentence, hauling Thomas against the car with fistfuls of his lapel and a warning growl. He saw red; he couldn't stop himself. The slur aimed at Sybil was not something he would stand for, and she knew nothing of the rumours concerning Mary and the Turk. He'd wanted to spare her that much.
Sybil's hands flew to her mouth. "Tom!" she cried. "Don't."
Pinned to the motor, the wind knocked out of him along with his cigarette, Thomas coughed out a snigger, bolstered to know he'd touched a nerve. Righting himself, he stared Branson down, his expression undaunted. "Best do as the lady says," he taunted.
Sybil placed a pacifying hand on Tom's arm. "Tom," she cautioned.
Tom took one look at Sybil's face and came to his senses. No good would come of threatening Thomas. The man was a snake; it would only serve to provoke him. He glanced back at his whitened knuckles and heaved a defeated sigh. Grudgingly Tom released his collar and backed a safe distance taking Sybil with him. Still the sick feeling inside refused to abate. "What do you want Corporeal?" he demanded.
Thomas straightened his coat and raked a hand through his mussed black hair. "I'm not sure what you mean, Mr Branson," he replied, perching insolently against the motor he'd been slammed into moments before.
Tom almost laughed. "Come off it. You never did anything unless there was somethin' in it for you."
Thomas's bandaged hand seemed to twitch of its own accord. "You forget yourself, Mr Branson. I'm not the one havin' it away with his Lordship's daughter while others risk life and limb for King and Country."
Sybil saw Tom's jaw clench and caught his arm before he could pounce again.
Tom relented and bit his tongue but glared daggers at Thomas. "It isn't like that," he protested.
"Oh no?" Thomas's speculative gaze shifted from them to the floor.
Sybil tracked his gaze and flushed as she watched him crouch and retrieve her discarded headscarf, recalling the tantalising feel of Tom's fingers brushing the skin at the nape of her neck as he tugged the scarf free.
Thomas rose, holding the incriminating scarf aloft. "Could've fooled me," he smirked.
Tom and Sybil traded sheepish glances.
The former footman shook his head and tutted condescendingly. "I must say, I am surprised at you nurse Crawley. Running around with the chauffeur; I wouldn't have thought you had it in you." He sounded impressed. "Much less parade it right under everyone's noses."
Sybil glanced tellingly at Tom, realising Thomas must have seen them hand-in-hand at the concert.
Thomas registered her comprehension with a smile. "You've got bottle, I'll give you that. Have you any idea of the scandal...?"
Sybil's chin lifted defiantly. "I couldn't care less."
"And your family? What would they say if they could see you now, flaunting yourself? They'd be ashamed I'd wager."
Sybil blanched at the mention of her family, turning his words over and over until the sting of guilt made her eyes water.
Seeing him get under her skin made Tom's insides prickle. He balled his fist by his side, itching to smack that smug grin from Thomas's pasty face.
Sensing as much Thomas turned on his heels to leave, white scarf in hand. He had his proof. "The papers would have a field day," he added for good measure.
Sybil stepped forward, astonished that Thomas would betray her family to the gossip columns. "You wouldn't dare tell the papers, would you? What about the hospital, and everything my father has done for you?"
Thomas took umbrage with that and pivoted. He'd be damned if he owed anyone anything, especially not his former employer. Lord Grantham would've readily given him the boot if he hadn't acted first. Years of hard graft for meagre wages and that was his reward. Perhaps if he'd been given a choice back then, he might still have full use of his hand. The way he saw it, he was the one owed some recompense. No, any sense of loyalty he felt for the Crawleys ended when he swapped his livery for his dress uniform. Now it was his turn to look down his nose at his 'betters'.
"Sybil, don't waste your time," Tom told her, claiming her hand. "He couldn't give a monkey's uncle about you or your family. He's only interested in makin' a few bob."
"I'm shocked Mr Branson," said Thomas, feigning indignation. "Believe it or not, I'm not that crass. I've no intention of selling news of your tawdry affair to the papers."
Sybil looked hopefully from Thomas to her sceptical fiancé.
"No, I intend to do the right thing by everyone," Thomas stated proudly, almost believing his own rhetoric, "…and tell his Lordship exactly what's been going on behind his back."
Tom glowered. "I bet you will," he rasped, under no illusions that Thomas would take great pleasure in giving Lord Grantham his own sordid version of events.
Sybil frowned. "But we plan to tell papa ourselves, please Thomas?!"
"Pull the other one," Thomas sneered, not believing a word of it. Why would they confess? They'd be mad.
Tom gave Sybil's hand a tug, anxious to keep her within arm's reach. "Sybil, come away. It's falling on deaf ears. The papers will find out soon enough anyhow." His heart broke for her. She'd wanted so badly to part with her father as friends, if not with his blessing. It riled him to think of that viper poisoning any chance of a reconciliation between them.
The image of her father's face looped through Sybil's mind. She knew how let down he would be hearing this second-hand. "Please Thomas," she implored. "Please don't say anything to my father."
Thomas faltered for a moment. He knew only too well the disappointment of a parent hurt far more than a beating ever could, having received a generous helping of both. Lady Sybil should consider herself lucky; at least her old man wasn't the sort to raise a hand to her. Ignoring his better judgement, he approached Sybil, making Tom shift agitatedly. He leaned in, relishing the reversal of power. "It's for the best," he imparted, his words dripping with conceit.
Sybil pressed her lips together, fighting back the tears threatening to spill.
Tom grasped her by the shoulders and drew her close. "You son of a bitch!" he bit out. "When did you become so righteous?"
Thomas retreated to the garage door. "I may be no angel," he riposted. "But I consider it my civic duty to save Lady Sybil from ruin. His Lordship will know how to act."
The insinuation behind his remark made Sybil uneasy.
"I don't buy it," Tom countered, his Irish brogue thick with hatred. "You don't care about Sybil or anyone else for that matter. What's in it for you?"
For a moment Thomas considered lying. "Gratitude, Mr Branson," he answered squarely. "A commodity more valuable than money." A gloating smile curved the corner of his thin lips. "I imagine a favour from his Lordship will come in very handy." With that he stuffed Sybil's scarf inside his coat pocket and disappeared back into the night.
The embers of Thomas's cigarette smouldered in the dark as he strode back to the service entrance, congratulating himself and composing his conversation with Lord Grantham. He would have to be delicate of course. The Earl had a soft spot for his youngest and would not brook any disparagement.
It wouldn't take much to paint Branson as the cad who'd corrupted his daughter. The impudent chauffeur had clearly crossed the line, no doubt taking advantage of Lady Sybil's fondness for hopeless causes. His Lordship would be furious, Thomas mused delightedly. With any luck and a little prodding, he would be furious enough to put a stop to it and obliged enough to put himself in Thomas's debt.
Still rehearsing, Thomas ducked into the courtyard expecting to find it deserted at this time of night.
"Where've you been then?" asked O'Brien out of nowhere.
Thomas virtually skidded to a halt. "Miss O'Brien, bloody hell. You gave me a start. I thought you were Mrs Hughes."
O'Brien emerged from the shadows with a woollen shawl wrapped round her shoulders and the crisp remains of a fag between her fingers. "Not flamin' likely," she sniffed. "They're all in bed, which is where you ought to be at this hour."
Thomas smiled tightly. "I'm just heading there now," he answered evasively.
"Not till you spill what you've been up to," she pried as Thomas made for the door. "Or would you rather explain it to Mr Carson?"
Thomas halted again, irritated by the threat. "I don't answer to Mr Carson anymore, you know that."
O'Brien turned towards the door, calling his bluff. "You won't mind if I fetch him then, will you?"
Thomas capitulated first, snaring O'Brien's arm. "Alright," he grated out, hastily releasing his grip, "alright." He had to admire her fortitude. "Let's just say that Lady Mary isn't the only Crawley sister with a sordid secret."
O'Brien cocked an eyebrow. "Go on."
Thomas took a breath then promptly clamped his lips shut at the sound of footsteps and muffled voices. The noise drew nearer and O'Brien's eyes widened with surprise as Lady Sybil burst into the yard with Branson in tow.
"Sybil, just wait," Tom beseeched, trying to catch up with her.
"Thomas!?" Sybil summoned, squaring her shoulders.
Tom spotted O'Brien first and rounded Sybil, blocking her path. "Sybil, go back to the house and let me talk to him."
"You know I'm right, he won't listen to you," Sybil dismissed trying to peer over Tom's shoulder.
O'Brien instinctively disposed of her cigarette. "Uh, would someone care to tell me what in the world is going on?"
Thomas wore a faintly amused expression. "Lady Sybil?" he prompted as if daring her to come clean to her mother's lady's maid.
Sybil recoiled as Tom stepped aside revealing a po-faced Miss O'Brien waiting for an explanation. The prospect of telling the odious old maid seemed just as scary as confessing to her parents, but perhaps she held some sway with Thomas. Realising she had little choice, Sybil cleared her throat. "Tom-m and I, we're getting married."
Thomas nearly choked with surprise. He hadn't seriously considered it was anything more than a fling, a dalliance until Lady Sybil settled down with some nobleman's boring son.
"Is this a joke?" asked O'Brien, confounded.
Tom stood his ground. "It's no joke," he rebutted boldly. "We love each other and we're getting married."
Thomas inclined his head to O'Brien. "Told you so," he boasted under his breath, alluding to his big discovery.
O'Brien scrutinized the handholding pair, aghast. "It's not for me to say of course m'lady but I've never heard anything so absurd in all my life." A lady marrying the help, it just wasn't done. "What will your poor mother say? She'll not be happy; I can tell you that much for nothing."
Dispirited, Sybil looked up at Tom to find his deep blue eyes gazing back. "But I love him," she voiced, drawing strength from his unyielding presence. "We don't care about the money or any of that nonsense. We know what we're doing. We're just asking for your discretion until we speak with my parents. Please try to understand. You must have been in love once."
Thomas rolled his eyes and snorted but O'Brien remained quiet, an ache from years past constricting her chest.
Her ominous silence caught his attention. "You don't seriously believe this claptrap?" he pressed, feeling his 'reward' slipping away from him. "Mr Branson here is clearly only after a leg up in the world." Thomas fixed Branson with a suggestive leer as if to imply something sleazy. "Or was it just a leg over?" he goaded.
This time Tom didn't hesitate. His fist connected with Thomas's jaw with a satisfying thwack, and both Sybil and O'Brien gasped and skittered back as Thomas's head jerked sideward.
Tom shook out his hand, flexing his throbbing knuckles, breathing hard. As the fog of anger and adrenaline lifted, he realised there would be hell to pay but, for now, seeing Thomas bought down a peg was well worth it.
Thomas lifted his head and tested his jaw. "Do you see what he's like Miss O'Brien?"
Tom caught the sly glint in the Corporal's eye and his gut twisted. He'd played right into his devious little hands, as if Lord Grantham needed another reason to disapprove of him.
O'Brien cinched Thomas's face between her palms and tilted his head awkwardly to take a look. A nasty reddish bruise was forming across his skin but, from what she could gather by prodding here and there, nothing appeared to be broken. Thomas winced and squirmed. "You'll live," she declared stonily, turning to see Sybil enfolded in Tom's arms, the cracked skin on his knuckles glistening painfully where he cupped her shoulder.
"I think you should go now Mr Branson," O'Brien said firmly.
"Alone," Thomas chimed in, nursing his jaw.
"Yes thank you Mr Barrow," O'Brien intervened. "Wait for me in the kitchen please," she directed before Thomas could object.
Thomas gawped indignantly at O'Brien. He didn't appreciate being ordered about like a child, nor being cut out of the loop after doing all the legwork, but his jaw ached and he wasn't minded to argue. He threw Branson a cutting look and sulked towards the door.
"You should be getting back too m'lady," said O'Brien. "It's late. I'll be up shortly."
"But..." Sybil's conflicted gaze swung from O'Brien back to Tom, afraid that if she let him go now she might never see him again. Thomas would most certainly expose them at the earliest opportunity and in the worst possible light, and her father would be impossible to talk sense to after that.
A beat of understanding passed between Tom and O'Brien; they both knew Sybil would take her cue from him. "It's alright, go on," Tom urged, forcing a smile. "I'll see you soon," he reassured her, finding the way she bit her lower lip endearing even now.
Sybil hesitated, getting the uncomfortable feeling she was being managed.
"There you go m'lady," O'Brien concurred, attempting to sound cordial. "No sense catching a chill."
Sybil eyed O'Brien dubiously. She didn't trust her or Thomas as far as she could throw them.