AN: I promise I didn't plan the timing of this to coincide with Independence Day weekend in the US! :) We'll spend a few chapters in England, see some familiar faces, and have a little bit (OK, mayyybe more than a little bit) of drama.
Thanks for reading and reviewing, and thanks to wslowry for the beta!
Saturday
They'd been delayed out of Detroit and sat on the tarmac at JFK for two hours, so by the time Sybil and Tom made it through customs at Manchester they were well and truly knackered despite the fitful sleep they'd managed to catch. Flying first class was several steps up in comfort from Tom's previous trip over the Atlantic, but it was still many more hours than he cared to spend on a plane. He knew Sybil was anxious to see her home and family, but he couldn't help wishing the two of them could hole up somewhere before boarding the train to Harrogate. He'd rather face judgement on a bit more rest.
That judgement first manifested itself in the person of Charles Carson, who met them at the station. A tall, solidly built man wearing a severe expression and a bowler that set off his black wool overcoat, Carson appeared to have stepped forward in time from the previous century—and not the latter half of it, either.
Sybil greeted him like a favorite uncle. "Dear Carson," she beamed, taking both of his hands in hers. "It's so good to see you." She turned back toward Tom. "Carson, this is my boyfriend, Tom Branson. Tom, this is Charles Carson; he's worked for our family for as long as I can remember."
"Almost as long as I can remember, too, Lady Sybil," Carson responded, formally but not without affection. "Mr. Branson, I'm pleased to make your acquaintance." He looked Tom over with narrowing eyes that made his pleasure seem rather in doubt. Tom shrugged the strap of his laptop bag more securely onto his shoulder, resisting the urge to run a self-conscious hand over his hair. He'd cleaned his teeth and had a shave after they landed, but suddenly was keenly aware of his travel-rumpled state.
He produced what he hoped was a winning smile and stepped up to shake Carson's hand, saying, "Very pleased as well, Mr. Carson." The man's bushy eyebrows rose in surprise—what had he expected, a bow?—but he accepted Tom's hand willingly enough.
He balked when Tom tried to wheel the luggage trolley out to the car. "I can manage perfectly well, Mr. Branson," he rumbled, commandeering the trolley and steering it toward the exit.
Tom exchanged a glance with Sybil as they fell into step behind Carson. "I don't suppose he'd like it much if I told him to call me Tom," he muttered.
Sybil smirked. "Don't bother; he won't do it. I've known him all my life, and half the time he still calls me Lady Sybil."
"Lady Sybil. I'm about to see a whole different side of you, aren't I?" Tom chuckled.
"I hope not too different." Sybil raised her voice to speak to Carson. "I can't believe they made you come to fetch us. Does Papa not have a driver anymore?"
"Ms. Moorsum asked a few days' leave," Carson answered. His tone was flat with disapproval.
"Oh, of course, for the holiday. But I thought Edith might have come for us. Has she not arrived from London?"
"Late last night, Lady Sybil." At hearing the title Sybil rolled her eyes in Tom's direction, mouthing See? "I don't believe she'd awakened yet when I set out," Carson finished.
The car was a shock. I shouldn't be surprised they've got a bloody Bentley, along with everything else, Tom thought as Carson—what would one call him? Butler? Man-of-all-work?—bustled up and began loading the luggage.
Cocooned in leather upholstery and the muted swish of tires on wet pavement, Tom would have laid his head back on the seat and had a kip if not for the thought of Carson glancing into the rear-view mirror and frowning at him snoring. Instead he watched the rain-washed trees whip by as Sybil kept up a stream of chatter with the... butler, Tom thought. Pretty sure they'd call him a butler. He would have to ask Sybil.
Soon enough they arrived at the house, another shock. Tom had seen pictures but that was nothing next to standing in its shadow with the imposing facade frowning down at you. Not that there were many shadows today, as it was still pissing down and looked like it meant to continue into the afternoon. Fairy land, Tom thought, one side of his mouth curling up. Right. Carson came to a stop in the gravel drive and opened an umbrella to squire Sybil the short distance from the car to the front door, while Tom was left to keep himself dry as best he could.
"I believe your father and mother are in the library," Carson informed Sybil as he let them into the house. "I'll take your bags up."
"That's really not nec—" Tom began, but stopped when the butler gave him a look that was just this side of a glare. I hope I can make a better impression on the people Sybil's actually related to.
"Mr. Branson, you may think the way we do things a bit odd," Carson said through lips that barely moved. "But we've been going on like this for quite some time."
He said no more, but Tom got the message: Don't rock the boat. All right then. "Fair enough," he replied with a nod and a conciliatory half-smile. Carson merely inclined his head and went back out into the rain, shutting the door behind him with a sonorous thud.
They stood in the echoing foyer. Tom knew he was goggling, but he couldn't stop his gaze from traveling around the room, following the fluted pillars up—and up—to the molded ceiling. This space was obviously designed to impress interlopers, to make them feel insignificant and emphasize the financial and social, if not military, might of the lord whose house they were visiting. Well, it's working.
Sybil, on the other hand, let out a sigh of relief, and Tom remembered that to her this was just home. Between sleep deprivation and his experiences so far, the day was taking on the surreal quality of a dream.
"What do you think?" Sybil asked, slewing her eyes sideways at him.
"It's big." That was the understatement of the century. Half his mother's house could have fit in the entrance hall alone; two of them would stack in the room he glimpsed through the archway, where there was a Christmas tree so large that Tom half expected to see squirrels chasing each other through its branches. He wondered how they had fit it through the door, and then realized that the door was wide enough to drive a lorry through.
Sybil gave his arm a squeeze. "Don't let it intimidate you. It's just a house." Easy for her to say. "I suppose we'd better look in on Mama and Papa. After that I'm going to insist on a shower; I feel positively manky."
That sounded like a wonderful idea, though if he'd had any idea where his things were Tom would have suggested they have showers before meeting the parents. He followed Sybil through the hall into the soaring gallery, from which a door led to a library that looked like something out of Thackeray. The roaring fire, book-lined walls, and plush furniture made it cozy in spite of the formality. Sybil's father sat at an antique desk with a yellow labrador at his feet and her mother relaxed on a red velvet sofa. They could have been an oil painting, if not for the iPad propped in Lady Grantham's lap.
The dog was the first to notice Tom and Sybil's entrance, raising its head and thumping its tail on the floor. Lady Grantham rose as soon as she saw them. "Sybil!" She cried. "Oh, darling, I'm so happy you're home." She crossed the room to embrace her daughter, then held her at arm's length for inspection. "What have you done to your hair?" She reached out to take a lock of it between her fingers, eyebrows drawing together to raise a few lines on her smooth white forehead.
"Just something a bit different," Sybil answered a touch defensively.
Lady Grantham dropped the hair. "Well, I suppose red suits you. And this must be Tom?" She pivoted toward him and the eyebrows swooped upward as her eyes widened in expectation.
"Pleased to meet you, ma'am." Tom gave Sybil's mother his best interview smile and offered his hand.
"The pleasure is all mine," she returned warmly. "We've heard so much about you. Well... as much as we hear from Sybil about anything." She cast Sybil a reproachful look before turning her attention back to Tom. "Welcome to Downton, Tom."
"Thank you, ma'am."
"And please, call me Cora." The countess kept his hand in hers, fixing him with her prominent blue eyes until he agreed.
Meanwhile, Sybil's father had joined them. "Papa," Sybil greeted him, with more emotion welling up in her voice than Tom would have expected. The earl seemed moved as well; an expression half joyful and half wistful flitted across his rather fleshy countenance and melted into pleased surprise when Sybil launched herself into his arms.
"Well, now," he stammered, patting his youngest daughter's back. "It's good to have you home."
"It's good to be home." Sybil's voice was muffled in the cowl neck of her father's wool jumper. She stepped back and looked around the library. "I didn't realize how much I've missed it."
"It's missed you as well," the earl replied.
Sybil bent to scratch behind the ears of the dog, who was investigating Tom's trouser cuffs. "Hello there, Isis." It took a moment for her to remember that she had unfinished business. "Oh! Papa, this is Tom."
As Lord Grantham shifted his gaze, a veil of ice slid over his eyes and Tom understood that this was not to be the warm welcome he'd received from Sybil's mother. He was quite sure the earl wouldn't ask Tom to call him Robert. "Branson, isn't it?" Lord Grantham asked, grasping Tom's hand forcefully enough to make it an obvious challenge. "I say, you're not connected to the Bransons of Cork?"
Tom did not break eye contact. "I'm afraid not, sir. We're Dubliners through and through."
Cora moved to pick up the phone on the desk. "I'll ring for tea," she said. "You two must be famished."
"Actually I think Tom and I would rather have baths and a bit of rest," said Sybil. "It feels as though we've been on planes and trains for days now." Tom, more than ready for some time alone, nodded.
"Of course." Cora dipped her chin and put the receiver to her ear. "I'll just have Mrs. Hughes take you up to your rooms," she said, dialing.
Rooms? Plural? Tom sighed inwardly. "You're in your old room, of course, Sybil," Robert told her. "And I believe your mother has Tom in the bachelors' corridor." His eyes dared Tom to argue.
Tom could feel Sybil's apologetic smile on him as he responded. "I'm sure I'll be very comfortable, sir."
Moments later a hale woman in late middle age bustled in. "Mr. Branson, I presume?" she said briskly, her Scottish lilt contrasting markedly with the earl's Eton-honed accent and his American wife's hybrid drawl. "Welcome to Downton. I am Elsie Hughes and I'm housekeeper here, so if you need anything at all, please ask. And Sybil, it's good to have you home." She spoke with none of Carson's ceremony.
"I thought you said she and Mr. Carson were married?" Tom whispered to Sybil as they followed the housekeeper up the grand staircase.
"I kept my surname, Mr. Branson," Mrs. Hughes called from up ahead. Tom flushed; he'd have to remember that the woman had ears like a cat. "By the time we got round to it, I thought it rather late in life to change that along with everything else."
"Mrs. Hughes is quite the feminist," Sybil said. The corners of her mouth twitched.
"Well, I don't know about that," Mrs. Hughes demurred.
"But you agree with its aims, more or less," Sybil pressed. "We used to have some quite interesting talks, didn't we?"
"We did, dear. I remember being all agog at your description of what they do to the girls in Sudan."
"I wrote a paper on female genital mutilation in sixth form," Sybil whispered for Tom's benefit.
"And I very much appreciated the mental picture," Mrs. Hughes shot over her shoulder. They came to the first floor, whose galleries branched off in several directions and overlooked the saloon. "Sybil, I believe you know your way. I'll take Mr. Branson to his room."
Sybil pressed a quick kiss to Tom's cheek. "I'll come and get you in a bit."
Tom trailed the housekeeper through a succession of corridors that soon had him disoriented. "By the time I learn my way around this place, it'll be time to leave."
"There is rather a lot of house, isn't there?" Mrs. Hughes' tone was sympathetic. She stopped at one of the many doors along the hallway and sorted through the keys on the curly cord around her wrist. "If you ever get turned around, you can pick up any house phone and dial star-zero-zero to get me," she went on, patting the bulge of a mobile phone in her trouser pocket. "I promise I won't tell anyone. Ah, here we are." She threw open the door. "The red room."
They aren't joking, he thought. It was the reddest room Tom had ever seen. Red wallpaper; red curtains; a dark red coverlet on the wide mahogany bed. It was like being inside a heart. An extremely opulent heart. "Wow," he managed.
"It is aptly named, isn't it?" Mrs. Hughes bustled over to the wardrobe and opened it. "Oh, good, Charles has brought up your things." And had unpacked them as well, Tom noted with some embarrassment. He wasn't used to having to be self-conscious about his packing technique. Or holes in the toes of his socks. "Do you need anything else at the moment, Mr. Branson?"
"I don't think so, Mrs. Hughes. Thank you."
As soon as the door closed, Tom dropped to the bed. I'll just rest my eyes a minute. He knew the quickest way to get over jet lag was to adopt the local schedule, and sleeping away what remained of the morning wouldn't help. Just for a minute. Then I'll have a shower.
-o-
His eyes flew open at the click of a door latch. He had to remind himself of where he was: England. Yorkshire. In the 120,000 square-foot home of his girlfriend's parents.
Tom groaned and scrubbed a hand over his face. He had to fight not to let his eyes fall shut again; his brain felt like it was full of wet cotton. Fortunately, the interloper was Sybil. "Fell asleep, did you?" she remarked, amused.
Tom cleared his throat. "How long have I been out?"
Sybil sat down on the bed next to him. Her hair was damp and Tom got a pleasant whiff of floral shampoo. He doubted he smelled very good himself. "Half an hour... maybe forty minutes," she answered, pushing the fringe off his forehead. Her fingers felt lovely and cool, soothing. If only they could stay like this, with her stroking his head...
Another groan tore from Tom's mouth as he forced his eyes open once more and levered himself up off the bed. "I'd better get up now, or you won't see me until Boxing Day."
Sybil gave him a sympathetic smile. "You'll feel loads better after a shower. I did."
She was right. The bathroom was equipped with modern fixtures, including a truly transcendent shower head, and someone had thoughtfully provided mini shampoos and soaps and fluffy cream-colored towels. Tom thought this would be rather like a romantic holiday at a B&B, if not for the wrinkle of dealing with Sybil's family. And the separate bedrooms.
But it hadn't been that bad so far. Sybil's mother—it was difficult to imagine calling her Cora—had been welcoming enough, and he suspected he had an ally in Mrs. Hughes. Tom supposed it was natural for Lord Grantham to question the motives of anyone who dated his daughters. The man's unfriendliness was probably not personal.
Tom stayed in the shower for a good while, letting the warm tattoo of the water massage his travel-stiff muscles. When he emerged into the bedroom, his hips swathed in one of the cloudlike towels, he found Sybil asleep, curled on her side on top of the coverlet. Dressing as quietly as he could, he climbed onto the bed and fitted his body around hers.
"Mmm," Sybil moaned sleepily, and took his hand. "We probably shouldn't sleep too long," she mumbled. "We've still got to..." She trailed off in a tremendous yawn.
Tom kissed her ear. "Whatever it is, it can wait a couple of hours," he murmured, and closed his eyes, breathing the scent of her hair.
-ooo-
They were awakened by the resounding, atonal stroke of a gong.
Tom had no idea what it signified, but Sybil rocketed into an upright position. "Shit!" she hissed. "The dressing gong. We've slept all day."
Tom rolled toward the bedside table for his mobile and woke it up. Half past seven. "Dressing gong?" he asked, nonplussed.
"It means dinner's in half an hour. It's just something Carson does when we have guests... which I suppose we are." Sybil combed through her tousled hair with her fingers. "We'd better get down to the drawing room." She rose and moved toward the door.
Tom stretched mightily. He needed to clean his teeth again, but he felt like a new man after several hours of sleep. "Should I change clothes?"
Sybil took in his jeans and waffle-knit shirt with a critical eye and shifted course to the wardrobe. "Maybe chinos and a jumper."
Minutes later, and with Tom attired to Sybil's satisfaction, they made their way downstairs. Tom tried to inscribe the twists and turns on his memory, thinking he should have brought a pocketful of stones to mark his path. "Both your sisters are here, yeah?"
"Yes, and Matthew, I should think, unless he had to work."
Matthew had not had to work. His head was the first to turn toward the door when Tom and Sybil came in, his blue eyes inquisitive but friendly. The rest of the room's occupants seemed momentarily frozen. In that brief yet seemingly infinite moment between their entrance and anyone speaking, Tom felt like he'd plunged into deep water without knowing how to swim. He made himself stand side by side with Sybil, rather than shrinking behind her.
Cora rose from one of the gilded armchairs by the fire. "There you are," she said to Sybil. "I knocked earlier, but you didn't answer." Out of the corner of his eye Tom saw Robert's head jerk toward them.
"I fell asleep," Sybil said with a shrug. "It was a long trip."
Her answer seemed to satisfy Cora. "Something to drink?" she offered, motioning to a young man in an ill-fitting caterer's uniform who hovered by a table crowded with cut-glass bottles. Once they'd been supplied with alcohol, she turned back to the room at large. "We've all heard so much about Sybil's friend," she said. "It's so lovely to finally meet him. Tom Branson, everyone." She took his arm and led him toward a pursed-lipped silver-haired lady perched on the sofa. So this was Sybil's grandmother: the Dowager Countess of Grantham and the engineer of his presence here. She examined him with veiled eyes.
"Ma'am, I wanted to thank you for your generosity in bringing me over," Tom said. I certainly hope I'm worth the money.
Violet Crawley's cheekbones rose in amusement or disapproval, he wasn't sure which. "Nonsense, young man. Curiosity is a rare enough experience for me these days, and at my age I should think I'm entitled to satisfy mine." Tom was surprised to hear her admit to selfish motives so readily, though he doubted she was the sort of person who ever said exactly what she meant: the satirical edge in her voice spoke of a fondness for conversational fencing. Maybe she expected him to fawn a little more, do the dance.
"If only we could all be so confident of our rights," said another woman, several years older than Cora, who sat nearby. "But I'm glad you are, Violet, because I'm very happy to know anyone Sybil thinks so highly of." She gave Tom a friendly smile. "I'm Isobel Crawley, Matthew's mother."
"Glad to meet you, Mrs. Crawley," Tom said. "I'm happy to be able to know Sybil's family as well."
"You don't know us yet. If you did, I expect you'd be running the other way." The patrician drawl came from the fine-boned woman on the sofa next to Violet. Mary. Tom recognized her easily from a photo he'd seen on Sybil's desk of the three sisters, beaming, with their arms slung round each other's shoulders. Mary's smile was not so broad now. "So you're the famous Tom," she said, half-rising to greet him.
"Am I famous?" he asked with a slight smile.
"We've been talking of nothing else all evening. Isn't that right, darling?" Her head turned to acknowledge her husband's approach across the carpet. They looked good together, Tom noted: her dark sleek beauty made an attractive foil for his leonine blondness.
"Quite," Matthew said, resting a hand on Mary's shoulder. "The speculation has been rampant." His eyes danced with humor as he gave Tom's hand a firm shaking, and Tom liked him immediately. "I believe this is the most excitement any of the Crawleys have had in months. And for my part I'm glad to have a bit of new blood at the family gatherings."
Tom leaned toward him. "So have you got any advice for dealing with..." He tipped a confidential nod toward Robert, whom Cora had joined by the fire. "I don't think he's impressed with me so far." He recalled the narrowing of Lord Grantham's eyes earlier when they'd shifted from Sybil to him. Fathers were suspicious of their daughters' lovers, a mate of Tom's had told him once, because they remembered only too well their own youthful thoughts about women. Most of the time they were still thinking them.
"Ah. Well, I doubt that's your fault. Just hang in, old chap. He'll come round." Matthew put a sympathetic hand on Tom's shoulder. It was an easy enough thing for him to say, when he'd been the golden boy from the beginning, but Tom appreciated the solidarity.
Meanwhile Mary and Sybil were making their greetings and Edith had approached to flit around the fringes of the group, her strawberry-blonde waves quivering in uncertainty. Finally she offered a toothy, tremulous smile. "Hello, Tom," she said. "Sybil's told us all about you."
They keep saying that. He couldn't tell from her demeanor whether it was true or if it was just something to say. These people could be so bloody opaque with their unfailing, impersonal courtesy.
"I'm Edith," she continued unnecessarily. "I don't suppose you've heard much about me." She was not wrong, and what Tom had heard made him feel unaccountably sorry for her. Unlike her sisters', Edith's smile in Sybil's photo barely reached her eyes. Tom got the sense that she labored under a constant weight of dissatisfaction.
"Whereabouts do you live in London?" he asked, to get her talking. It worked: Edith perked up, told him about her flat in Kensington and her current events blog and the column she wrote for Tatler. It sounded like a ladette's dream life, except Edith seemed to be trying—and failing—to convince herself that it was her dream life.
She rattled on for a few minutes before tossing the conversational ball to Tom, asking about his upcoming dissertation. He'd hardly opened his mouth when Carson materialized, announcing that dinner was ready in the dining room. Since that morning, Carson had changed into a set of tails that looked as though they had been quite stylish in 1930, but left no doubt as to his function: he was every inch a butler. Sybil had not yet given Tom the promised lesson on dinner etiquette, but as they walked through the saloon she assured him that he didn't need to worry. "It's just family, so it'll be informal," she said.
"Tell that to Mr. Carson," Tom muttered, jerking his head in the direction of the well-starched butler bringing up the rear.
Sybil smirked. "I think he's showing off a bit tonight."
Despite Sybil's promise of relaxed standards, the dining room boasted two waiters in addition to Carson, who glided around pouring the wine once the family was seated. Crystal and silver gleamed from the linen-covered table. "So this is an informal dinner?" Tom muttered to Sybil. "What does a formal one look like?"
Cora heard him. "We don't have all this when it's just me and Robert, of course" she explained. "But with a larger group it's so much easier to bring in catering staff." Her smile was almost apologetic. "And I thought my mother's china might as well get some use."
"Whenever I eat from it I marvel at her nerve in choosing this pattern," Violet remarked, frowning down at her place setting. "Though I can see why she was so eager to foist it upon you when you married Robert."
They made it through several courses without too much awkwardness. Tom watched the others; that and a few discreet signs from Sybil were enough to keep him from embarrassing himself. Sybil's relatives were polite enough to pretend they didn't notice his minor missteps, though Carson glowered when he placed his napkin on his own lap instead of allowing the waiter to do it. Tom was no judge, but the food was excellent and despite his nerves he tucked it away as though he hadn't eaten in days. He'd just put a forkful of salad into his mouth when Violet's keen eye found him and she said, "So tell me, Tom, are you in support of this scheme of Sybil's to run off to the veldt?"
"Sybil should be able to do what she feels called to," Isobel said as Tom attempted to swallow an olive whole. "I for one applaud her desire to help people who need it. If only we were all so selfless."
Sybil sighed audibly. "Really, Granny, you make it sound like Africa is nothing but wilderness."
"Isn't it? My dear, your father was content to allow you to waste your holidays in the heart of darkness, but the rest of your life is quite another matter." The Dowager Countess turned back to Tom. "We've all tried to talk sense into her; perhaps you've had more success?" Her chin dipped in expectation of an answer.
Tom doubted she'd be pleased with his. "Sybil feels it's something she needs to do," he said. "What she does with her life is her own choice, and I'll support her in whatever she decides."
"Bravo!" Isobel cried.
Violet gave her a withering look before speaking to Tom again. "But surely the separation will make things difficult for the two of you?" she pressed. "Unless you plan to go with her."
"I'm afraid not," Tom replied, remembering to add a "ma'am. I've got at least another four years left in my program." He glanced at Sybil to find her watching him, her expression inscrutable. "I suppose we'll cross that bridge when we come to it," he continued with more assurance than he felt.
"Many couples deal with separation quite well," Cora said comfortingly. "Robert's cousin James travels extensively for his work, and as far as I know his marriage is very happy."
Violet scoffed, "I'm not surprised; Linda Crawley is the sort of woman who is improved by distance. I always wondered why James married someone so like his mother." She rolled her eyes toward the coffered ceiling. "And to think that one day she'll be Countess of Grantham and mistress of all this."
"Well, I'm not quite dead yet, Mama," Robert said briskly.
"Yes, we can only hope for you to outlive James. But Patrick inheriting brings its own set of problems," Violet lamented. "He's a lovely young man, but I don't think he'll ever settle down enough to produce an heir, let alone look after Downton properly. I'll never understand why you've chosen to make your will as you have, Robert."
Robert sighed. "Mama, as I've explained ad nauseam, I believe the seat should go with the title. You know that's what Papa always taught me." Tom could hardly believe this conversation was taking place in the twenty-first century. Heir? Title? Like the fussy table manners and the oil paintings on the walls, the talk seemed more suited to an era long past.
"Since it's been gone over so many times, perhaps we should talk about something else," Mary suggested, a thread of tension drawn through her voice. "I'm sure Tom finds our family business deadly boring." He started to demur but the look on Mary's face stopped him: her lips were compressed into a thin line of disgruntlement, a much stronger reaction than mere hospitality warranted. Obviously the subject was a touchy one.
The mention of Tom seemed to put him in Robert's crosshairs. "Sybil mentioned that you took your master's degree in public policy," the earl said. "Do you have political ambitions, Tom?"
Tom cleared his throat. "Not really. Though I am quite interested in politics, American as well as European. Government has a much more direct effect on people's daily lives than they realize."
Robert raised his eyebrows. "Indeed. I've often thought that the Americans have the right idea about government: it should get out of the people's way."
"Well, I don't mean that, necessarily." Tom straightened in his chair. "The government has an important role to play in infrastructure and encouraging innovation... and helping to level the playing field." He gestured, indicating the lavish table. "Not that most people could ever get to this level of wealth, of course, but everyone deserves the opportunity to make themselves a decent life."
A line appeared between Robert's brows that reminded Tom of the way Sybil looked when she was displeased. Tom wondered if he should have just kept his mouth shut; of course the man would be a dyed-in-the-wool Tory. "So do you also believe the government should be in the business of giving handouts to those who would rather not work?"
Tom ignored the antagonistic ripple just under the surface of Robert's voice. "I think most people do want to work," he said. "They also want to be paid fairly and have the chance to get ahead. It's not good government to defund aid programs because a few bad apples take advantage of them." He took a slug of his wine; it was a strong red and burned his throat going down, so he followed it with a sip of water.
Everyone turned their faces toward Robert, awaiting his return as though they were watching a tennis match. "But it is good government to support those who will boost the economy, rather than those who are a drain on it," the earl protested. "A rising tide lifts all boats."
Tom shook his head. "I doubt the miners and laborers who lost their jobs under Thatcher would agree," he retorted. "I'll bet a lot of them are still well and truly sunk."
"You must admit we can no longer afford to be profligate," Robert spat, his mouth tightening. "You see what's happening in Greece, in Spain. You can see where runaway spending has gotten them." His gaze had sharpened, but not with zest for a good argument. He was obviously unaccustomed to being challenged.
Yet Tom couldn't seem to back down. "And I see where austerity is getting them, too. Youth unemployment over fifty percent. Rioting in the streets. Do you think that's good for their economies?"
"Spoilt children having a tantrum," Robert scoffed. "Austerity is the only thing that's kept them from total collapse. They must understand that if they just stay the course, things will turn around at some point."
Tom did not bother to suppress a snort. "That's a great comfort when you're coming out of university with no hope of finding a decent job within five hundred miles of home, and knowing you'll be worse off than your parents."
His voice echoed in the sudden silence; he hadn't thought he was speaking quite so loudly. He felt everyone's ill-concealed distaste as they lowered their eyes in embarrassment. Tom realized how he must sound to them: the little informalities and quirks of his speech, the rounded borders of his Rs, incongruous with the old-world grandeur of this place. It made him feel small, and feeling small made him angry. He mashed his lips together and studied the tablecloth. This is no place to say what you really think about anything. He should have known that.
Violet was the one to break the tension. "I don't know about the rest of you, but hearing about the misfortunes of others always cheers me right up. It makes me so much more appreciative of my own lot in life." She directed a significant look at her son.
"Indeed, Mama, we should all follow your example and be grateful for what we have." Robert's words were hurried, perfunctory, and he would not look at Tom.
The pudding was brought in then, though Tom had lost his appetite. He could not regret voicing his beliefs, even if it meant Sybil's father would be set against him. But neither could he quell the roiling in his stomach.
After the meal Sybil and Tom both begged off joining the rest of the family back in the drawing room. "Oh, but darling, I feel we've hardly seen you," Cora protested, catching Sybil's hand in hers.
"Mama, we're here for nearly two weeks. There'll be plenty of time for catching up."
"I suppose." Cora glanced over her shoulder at the drawing room door, which spilled out warm bright light. Robert had gone inside without speaking to Sybil or Tom.
"I'm sorry, but I'm completely exhausted," Sybil said. She looked it, despite her long nap. Dark circles had appeared under her eyes, and she reached up to pinch the skin of her forehead as though her head ached. "Please tell everyone I said good night."
Cora pressed her daughter's hand once more. "I will." She turned to Tom. "It really is lovely to meet you, Tom." She looked as though she were going to say something else, but then just smiled tightly and walked away.
Sybil was silent as they went up the stairs. "Can you find your way to your room?" she asked when they reached the top.
"I think so," Tom replied. He wanted to say something—not an apology, though he didn't want to completely ignore what had happened at dinner—but Sybil looked like she was in the opposite of a talking mood. He bent to kiss her goodnight.
He couldn't tell whether she'd turned her head on purpose, but his lips landed awkwardly on her cheek. "You couldn't tone it down for Papa," she said when he'd straightened. "Not even a little." It had the air of something she'd been holding in. Her eyes came up and probed Tom's accusingly.
He sighed. "What do you want me to do, Sybil? Not have opinions while I'm here?"
She shrugged. "It is his house." Her gaze skated past him and off into the corner.
"So it's all right for me to have opinions, as long as they match the person's whose house I'm in."
She exhaled noisily; the hand came up again to massage her forehead. "That's not what I mean and you know it. But a little courtesy wouldn't be out of place."
He was not going to stand here all night at the head of the stairs, arguing about her fecking father. "All right, I'm sorry if I was rude. I'm sorry that I raised my voice."
"I'm not the one you should be telling that to."
The idea of groveling before Lord Grantham made the blood slam almost painfully into Tom's head. Robert would probably take an apology as an admission that Tom had been wrong: style was so much more important than substance for these people. Losing his temper had been a mistake, one that Tom did not care to repeat now, so he bit down on the You've got to be joking that wanted to come out.
"I'll think about it," he snapped. "But now we could both use a good night's sleep."
Sybil smiled thinly. "You'll get no argument from me on that point. I'll see you tomorrow."
Tom made it back to the red room with only a couple of wrong turns and lay awake in the too-soft bed, unable to settle. Part of it was having slept all day, but his rhythm was most disturbed by the confrontation at dinner and—if he was honest—his disappointment in Sybil. She hadn't made a peep in the dining room, even though he knew perfectly well her beliefs were similar to his. And then to castigate him for disagreeing with her father...
He'd predicted that Sybil might be somewhat reticent in her family's orbit; he hadn't thought that she would expect him to change. And yes, maybe he could've been more polite, but she could've been a little more bloody supportive. Would it have been so hard for her to speak up? To do anything, really, other than stare at her plate with reddening cheeks?
He knew how it was when he was home, how people would look at you oddly when you said certain things and before long you learned not to say them. He supposed it shouldn't come as a shock that it was the same for her, no matter how different the environment. But he was let down at how quick she'd been to chastise him.
Don't make her choose between you and her family, he told himself. You might not like her decision. He hadn't liked it much tonight, that was for sure. "I'm not the problem, though," he muttered to the empty room. True as that might be, it was little comfort.
-ooo-
This time it was not the sound of the door opening that woke him, but the feel of Sybil's warm bare skin against his underneath the sheets. Tom made an involuntary sound, somewhere between gasp and question, before coming up to consciousness. It must be the middle of the night, he thought: the room was still in complete darkness.
She didn't speak and only touched him to nestle into his shoulder. But he could tell that she was naked, or nearly so, and the knowledge stirred him. He half-rolled and fumbled for her cheek, using his hand to guide her mouth to his. Their tongues met, languid and then fervent. She was pulling herself on top of him, Tom was reaching down between their bodies, his hand practiced now, and before long Sybil trembled and stifled a cry in his neck. She sank down on him and his arms went around to bring her closer; he reached for her breast with his mouth, feeling errant strands of her hair cross his tongue, and for the first time since he'd entered this forbidding house he felt at home.
His hands spread open on her back, anchoring her to him as she moved. He wanted to hear her voice. Knowing it would coax a sound from her he closed his teeth on her nipple lightly, then harder, his own excitement heightening as a moan rose deep in her throat, locked behind pressed-together lips. The moan became a half-whispered keening as he circled his tongue softly and then sucked and nibbled until he heard her peak in the eruptive escape of a ragged breath, felt it in the bucking of the hips that were fused to his. He came then, hands tightening into claws on her skin. He couldn't keep as quiet as Sybil had. He pressed his mouth closed but his voice burst out, to be absorbed by thick carpets and heavy curtains.
Tom stroked her lower back and wondered how many other people had had sex in this room in its centuries of existence. The bachelors' corridor. This was where lords' sons would have slept when they came for hunting parties or to court the daughters of the house. No doubt many a housemaid had been tumbled into this very bed, willingly or not. Maybe an earl's daughter or two as well. Had there ever been love made here, or had it all been illicit rutting?
"I love you," he murmured.
He felt Sybil lift her head. "I love you," she said, dropping a kiss on his eyebrow. "So very much." She shifted to his side, her leg and arm still draped over him, and they listened to each other's steady breathing. "I know today wasn't easy for you," she said after a few minutes.
Here it comes, he thought. He closed his eyes and waited for it: she'd ask him to be the bigger man. And he would say yes.
She inhaled. "It wasn't fair for me to expect you to behave like someone you're not." Tom's eyes opened; it was still black in the room, but some of the thick shadows seemed to have lifted. Again he waited, but no longer with a sinking feeling. "And Papa was as bad as you, if not worse. It's almost as if he wanted to draw you into a fight."
You don't say, Tom thought, but she sounded so disillusioned that he hated to pile on. He let out his breath, which he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "I'm sure he just got caught up in the moment, like I did."
"Maybe."
Tom found her face with his hand, smoothed his thumb over her cheekbone. "Anyway, I'll try and play nice from now on," he said. It was funny, how her retreat had made him magnanimous. "Otherwise it'll be a long two weeks, yeah?"
Sybil chuckled. "You're right about that." Her hand moved up his arm, stroking it. "Tom?"
"Mm?"
"Thank you. For coming with me."
"I should be thanking you. If it weren't for your grandmother I'd probably be spending Christmas alone in my flat or looking at Bob bloody Hoekstra across Tina's dinner table."
"Heaven preserve us." She laughed lightly. "But really," she continued, serious again, "it means so much to me that you're willing to come all this way to spend all this time with people you don't know or care about."
"But I do care about them," Tom protested. "They're part of you."
Her arm tightened around him. "Tom?"
"Yeah?"
"What're we going to do? After this year's over, I mean."
The sinking feeling was back. "I don't know."
"Only... I still want to pursue volunteering. I need to."
"Of course you do," he responded, but there was a thickness in his throat that wouldn't let him say more.
"I can't pretend it's the same as it was before, though. I know we haven't been together very long, but I think about being apart for that long and..." Her voice had thinned, dwindled to a point.
Oh no, love, don't—He had to blink several times. "Don't worry," he said, "we'll figure it out. People deal with it all the time, it's like your mother said." He was surprised at how confident his voice sounded. He forced a laugh that felt almost natural. "Besides, maybe your father will kill me while I'm here and it'll be moot. Didn't you say something about a hunt on New Year's Day? Sounds like an awfully convenient opportunity for an accident."
That seemed to do the trick. "Oh, Papa would never," she replied with a giggle. "Mary, now... you wouldn't want to get on her bad side."
"So will you get in trouble if your parents find out you've been making unauthorized visits to the bachelors' corridor?"
Sybil snorted. "I'm a grown woman, and don't count your chickens. It's only been one visit so far."
"Will I get in trouble?" But he already was.
"They can hardly expect us to go two weeks totally separated," Sybil said. "I'm sure they remember a little about what it was like to be our age."
"You think so? People always seem to forget things like that by the time the next generation comes of age." Tom reflected that when Sybil's parents had been in their twenties, sexual revolution or not, they very well may have been expected to maintain separation before marrying. He wondered if people like Lord and Lady Grantham fell in love and lust like other people or if they only married as a form of alliance, a consolidation of resources.
"I suppose they do." Sybil yawned audibly. "I don't know why I'm so tired when I slept half the day."
Tom was getting sleepy again as well; he hoped he'd be adjusted by tomorrow. Today, rather—he could see grey light starting to leak around the edges of the curtains. "May as well take advantage of it," he murmured, wrapping his arm around Sybil. "Get on the right schedule."
She groaned. "I suppose I should sleep in my own room. No need to blatantly flout Mama and Papa." He felt an emptiness at his side as she rose from the bed, and a moment later the warmth of her nearness as she laid a hand on his forehead and bent to kiss him. "I'll see you at breakfast."
"You mean they don't bring you a tray in bed here? How disappointing."
"No such luck." There was a rustling as she put on her pajamas, a light hand on his shoulder, and then she was gone.
AN #2: The room where they have Tom at Downton is the same one Kemal Pamuk was assigned in S1. I couldn't remember/dig up/be arsed to watch the episode to find out whether it had a name on the show, so I crowdsourced it on tumblr; thanks to queenlovett, shana-rosee and dowagercountessofgrinning-soul (aka peachdreamsandperseus) for weighing in! I've called it the red room here, short for red room of dooooooooom. :)