HELLO! I'm back! :oD sorry for the delay! Anyway, here's a long chapter to make up for it! A little bit of flashback, a little more insight into Mr. Tom Bellasis, and Sybil's first moments at the Grantham Arms. And oooohhh she has a rather memorable encounter ;o) but you'll just have to read to see what I mean! HOPE YOU ENJOY!
Dedicating this chapter to my dear friend and awesome S/T writer, magfreak, who was one of the key people in getting me to write this story in the first place ;o)
Chapter Ten
Earlier that day…
Lady Nora watched from the front steps of Grassley as her son carried his own suitcase out to the car, securing it firmly, before turning back to smile at her. "Come now, I'll only be gone for a fortnight," he teased, no doubt seeing her sad expression. Yes, yes, she knew she was being foolish, and it wasn't as if this were the first time her son had gone away on long journeys without her (if a half-day's journey could be considered long), but still, there was a feeling she could not shake, a feeling as if…a great change was about to happen.
Ever since she had shared her theory with her husband about the "real" reason to why Tom was being called to Downton Abbey, these feelings of "change" grew stronger and stronger.
Would her son find love at the home of the Earl of Grantham? She never pushed Tom into a match, even if she thought a certain girl would be perfect for him. She had been lucky in finding love with Sir Joseph and she wanted her own son to have a similar marriage. But he was twenty-eight years old, and he always detested the London season; if he was going to meet a girl, it would have to be through such means as this, although she did not care for the "sneakiness" of the arrangement.
"What will you tell Lord Grantham when you arrive with no valet?" Lady Nora sighed, shaking her head at her son's foolish insistence. Ever since he had gone away to university, he realized that he could do just fine on his own, without a valet to attend to him. It was just as well at the time, since Grassley was beginning to experience its financial problems and they couldn't afford another servant. However, now that things were on the mend, financially speaking, Tom still insisted he could manage without a valet, and both she and Sir Joseph gave up the fight.
Tom shrugged his shoulders, clearly not bothered by the idea. "I've been dressing myself for dinner these past ten years, Mother; I think I can manage another fortnight without the aid."
She sighed. "I just don't want Lord Grantham thinking we're…well, that we're common—"
"Is that a bad thing?" he asked, frowning as he looked at her. "Being 'common'? Thousands—nay, millions, I am sure, get by just fine with less than a handful of servants, if any at all. Is that something to be ashamed of?"
Lady Nora sighed, doing her best to suppress an eye roll. "Your grandparents would be rolling in their graves, hearing you talk so."
He grinned proudly at this. "Good," he stated. "And as for Lord Grantham's opinion, I honestly couldn't care less what he thought of me, valet or no. Based on the little correspondence we've had since I accepted his invitation, I daresay the man can't afford 'snubbing' me, if he wants my help in advising him on ways to turn things around for Downton."
"Just remember that he is an Earl, Tom; earls are different from baronets, they have certain expectations—"
"I will treat Lord Grantham with the utmost respect, Mother, I can assure you of that. However, at the end of the day, he is a man like myself, like Father, and like Kinsley," he said, gesturing to the Grassley butler, standing not so far away. "Are not all men created equal in the eyes of God?"
"Oh good heavens, there you go quoting Thomas Jefferson again," she sighed with a shake of her head. "Just keep in mind, my dear, not all men are prepared to listen to such opinions, especially men of Lord Grantham's ilk."
He chuckled at this, but said nothing further. While Lady Nora thought herself a great deal more "progressive" than any member of the Dunn-Sainny family, even she found her son's ideologies to be a bit too "radical" for her tastes.
"You will write to us?" she asked, forcing a smile despite the emotions that were gripping her heart. "I know, I know, it's only a fortnight, but humor your bothersome mother—"
"I promise," he chuckled, leaning in and kissing her cheek. "I will even sit down tonight with pen and paper, and have a message sent first thing in the morning."
She smiled and lifted her hands to cup her son's face. Her darling boy…her sweet, darling boy. Sometimes…if she gazed long enough, she swore she could see a resemblance between her son and her husband. It was enough to sometimes fool her into thinking that yes, he was more than just the son of her heart, but also the son of her blood.
"Are you off?" Sir Joseph asked from over her shoulder. He came down the steps to grasp Tom's arm as a sign of affection, and Lady Nora found herself standing off to the side, watching as her husband and son smiled and laughed, giving each other a few parting words, and she clasped her hands in front of her, trying her hardest not to cry.
He is not of our flesh, but he is our son, she said to herself. She was so proud of him; so proud of everything he had accomplished and done. And yet…and yet she couldn't help it. Her mind wandered, as it sometimes did whenever she gazed at her beloved Tom, to that other baby…
Drumgoole Castle, Ireland, 1890
Nora glanced between the sliding doors that separated the library from the drawing room, eyeing the little disheveled woman who sat there, soaked from the storm that raged outside, staring hopelessly at a basket that lay next to her on the chaise where she sat.
"We can't do this, Nora…" murmured her husband's voice from behind her. "It isn't right, and you know that!"
She did. She did know that. She was shocked when the footman came to the library, saying there was a woman with a covered basket in the Servant's Hall, and she refused to leave until she saw Lady Nora. The only reason the butler hadn't thrown her out was because she had once worked at Drumgoole many years ago.
The second Nora clamped eyes on Margaret Branson, she remembered her. She remembered the housemaid very well. She remembered coming to the poor girl's defense, when one of Nora's brothers tried to play a nasty trick on the unsuspecting housemaid; her brothers were notorious for that, and her parents always turned a blind eye. The thing was, Nora had tried to help Margaret then, and she wanted to help her now. She led the woman away from the Servant's Hall and the looks of confusion on the staff gathered around, and listened as carefully as she could while Margaret sobbed into a soiled, worn handkerchief, explaining the recent, tragic news about her husband's death. Nora listened, her heart breaking as Margaret went on, talking about the struggles they were having with the farm, how her older children would have to leave school to work, but nothing, NOTHING, could have prepared Nora for what Margaret revealed to her next.
The basket which she carried had a blanket draped across the top. Margaret pulled the blanket back and Nora stared in wide-eyed shock at the two sleeping baby boys, lying side by side and looking peaceful and angelic, their little chests rising and falling in soft, oblivious slumber.
And that was when Margaret Branson made her heartbreaking, desperate plea.
"It's not right…" Joseph repeated, pacing back and forth in the study. "You do know that, don't you?"
She sighed and turned away from the sliding doors to face her husband once again. "I do," she answered. "It's not right to take a woman's children away from her. But…but at the same time, it's not right to let such innocent lambs starve, either!"
"Nora…" Joseph groaned.
"It's also not right that I haven't been able to fulfill my one duty to you," she moaned, tears stinging the back of her eyes, shame filling her heart.
"Your one duty? What on earth…oh, oh Nora, no, no—"
"Four years, Joseph! We've been married for four years, and I still haven't been able to give you a child, let alone a son and heir! If that's not a failure of duty, then I don't know what is—"
"Stop such talk!" he hissed, crossing the room to where she stood, taking her hands in both of his and squeezing them tenderly, before lifting them to his lips and cradling them against his chest. "I love you…and I would marry you again, over and over, even if I knew we would never have children…"
Nora thought she would burst with emotion a sweet declaration. She remembered how her family were against the match in the beginning, thinking she too good for a "mere baronet", however she defied all of them, and agreed to marry Sir Joseph Bellasis, even if it meant permanent exile from Drumgoole and the Dunn-Sainny family. However, due perhaps to some positive correspondence from one of her mother's friends about the Bellasis family, they now "tolerated" Joseph, although she knew deep down, they were all judging her and the fact that she had as of yet to give him a son and heir. Yet how many husbands would be so understanding, so good? Very few, she wagered.
She lifted a hand to caress Joseph's cheek, moved by his words and wanting him to know what they meant to her. But at the same time she was saddened to admit that despite all his kind words of faith and love, she would always feel that something was missing from her marriage if they were to remain childless.
"Beggin' your pardon…"
Both Joseph and Nora turned to face the timid voice that had come from behind them. Margaret Branson stood between the two sliding doors, having pushed them a little wider so that she could enter the study.
"I…I'm sorry," she apologized, looking down at her feet. "I…I did not mean to interrupt—"
"No, no, that is quite alright, Margaret," Nora reassured, quickly lifting a hand to wipe away any stray tears from her cheeks, before putting on a smile at the former housemaid. "It is I who should be apologizing to you, for keeping you waiting."
Margaret swallowed and lifted her eyes then. "I'd gladly wait all night, if I knew my sons would be in your care and never want for anything again."
Nora's breath caught in her throat, and she reached behind her, seeking her husband's hand to grasp. Oh Lord, give her strength; she was being faced with the greatest temptation.
"Margaret…" she softly began, taking a deep breath. "I…that is, we," she squeezed Joseph's hand then. "We just…we don't believe it's…" she was stumbling over herself.
"It doesn't feel right," Joseph intervened in a gentle voice. "Taking a child—or in this case, two children, away from their mother."
The skin around Margaret's eyes was red and puffy from all the tears she had already shed. One wouldn't think it possible that she had anymore to spare, but they once again began to brim at Sir Joseph's statement.
"Please sir…forgive me, I know I am speaking out of turn, but…but you are doing neither of us, I or my sons, any favors by letting them stay here."
Joseph sighed. "Mrs. Branson, I…I'm truly sorry for your loss, and…" he reached into his waistcoat pocket, and Nora's eyes widened as she recognized the old leather chequebook.
Margaret Branson must have recognized it too, because she began to furiously shake her head. "No, no, this isn't about money! I'm not asking you for money!" she reached forward then and put her hands on his to stop him from opening the chequebook. Such a gesture would hardly be tolerated by most, but Margaret Branson was a desperate woman. "I want my sons to have a better life! And despite your words about 'not wanting to part them from their mother', by letting them stay with me, you are sentencing them to death!"
Nora gasped and her eyes flew to her husband's. He was clearly troubled by what Margaret had said to him, but at the same time, he was still trying to hold firm to his beliefs. "Mrs. Branson, I know things seem bleak now—"
A scoffing laugh, border lining on hysteria, escaped the woman's lips. "Sir…have you ever gone an entire week without eating meat? Have you ever had a supper that consisted only of water and moldy potatoes? Have you ever had to ignore your children's complaints about their bellies hurting for lack of food, because there's absolutely nothing you can do? Or tell your eldest that they will have to leave school, because now that their Da is dead, they will need to help this family survive with the meager wages they make? Or have your entire family huddle together in bed for warmth, because the fire keeps dying due to the leaky chimney? Or face the fear that perhaps tonight will be your last night under a roof, because tomorrow your 'Lord and Master' may evict you from his land? Have you? HAVE YOU?!" her hands were gripping the lapels of his jacket, her eyes wild with desperation and grief. "Forgive me, Sir Joseph, but DO NOT tell me that things 'seem bleak now', because things have been bleak for many years, even before my dear Aedan, God rest his soul," she paused to cross herself, "departed this world. THAT is the world which my sons have been born into, and THAT is the world in which they will be condemned…IF they survive!"
Nora's vision was blurred by tears at hearing poor Margaret's sad tale. She had never realized it was as bad as that. How could her family have allowed such poor conditions with their tenants to continue like this? If anything it made her worry about the tenants back at Grassley; the estate and land were much smaller compared to Drumgoole, but there were still people who depended upon them.
She looked to her husband, and could see that the firmness he had been holding to earlier was beginning to waver somewhat.
"Perhaps…" Nora began, her eyes holding Joseph's while she carefully placed her hands on Margaret's shoulders to ease her away from him. "Perhaps we can…find a place for her near Grassley?"
Joseph's eyes widened in shock at her suggestion, however he didn't have to say anything against it because Margaret was shaking her head in sadness. "Oh milady…if…if it were only me and my boys, I might consider it…but…but I can't take all of my children away from here, the land where their father is buried," her words grew soft and she took several deep breaths to keep herself from sobbing anew. "And…and as kind an offer as it is, I doubt your fine house and grounds have a need for all of us."
It was true, Nora hadn't thought that far. They would have to create positions for Margaret and the older children, and Grassley wasn't so very big, therefore the need and demand for staff wasn't as great as it were here, at Drumgoole. And then there was the fact that she had learned that Margaret's two eldest would be serving there, and she doubted her parents would appreciate her stealing their newest, youngest servants, even if they didn't know their names or how bad their situation was at home.
"Please…" Margaret begged, turning her eyes to Nora, looking so frantic and helpless. "Please, milady…you're my boys' only hope! I have nowhere else to turn! And I know you'll take good care of them…I know that with you, they will want for nothing, but more than that; I know that with you, they will know love because you are good and kind; you always were to me…" she stopped then, her hands covering her mouth to hold back the sobs that threatened to escape. Just then one of the babies began to fuss, and Margaret quickly collected herself, before turning and rushing to the other room to see to her sons.
Nora turned and looked up at Joseph, Margaret's desperation and need running through her own heart. "Oh Joseph…surely there's something we can do?"
Her poor husband looked so conflicted. She knew he wasn't saying "no" initially to be cruel; nothing like that at all. She knew that he was struggling with the morality of the situation: separating a newborn (two newborns in this case) from their mother, their family, their homeland. No doubt these points were what fueled his next question.
"Mrs. Branson…I'm not saying that we will, but…" he took a deep breath. "If we did as you ask, what would you tell your other children?"
Nora looked at the former housemaid, curious to the woman's answer. And judging from the way Margaret swallowed and looked down at her feet, it was clear she hadn't thought a great deal about that particular detail.
"I…I would tell them that they died."
Nora gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. DIED!? Did it have to be as drastic as that?
"They wouldn't understand," Margaret murmured, as if hearing Nora's silent question and answering it. "They…they would hate me, surely, if they knew I had done this. They would think me a coward, a traitor; they would think I didn't love my boys, or that I didn't love them because I couldn't do the same for them—no, no, better that they believe them dead," she whispered with a heavy heart.
Those poor children. And Margaret! To have to go back and tell such a gruesome lie…
"There would be some truth to it," she whispered, once again answering Nora's unspoken thoughts. "They…they would be dead, as far as our world was concerned. They would no longer be my sons; my blood may run through their veins but they would not have my name. No, no, you would be their mother, milady," she whispered, looking up and holding Nora's gaze. "Both of you would be their parents; and…and I don't want them to know anything about me," she pleaded. "Nothing about me, their siblings, or the world in which they were born into."
Both Nora and Joseph stared back at Margaret in absolute shock. She was asking them to not only give her sons a new life, but to never tell the truth about their old one.
"But…but Margaret…" Nora began. "Wouldn't you want to—"
"No, milady!" she gasped, picking up one of the babies who was still fussing and rocking him in her arms. "No…no, I don't want to know anything. Please…don't write to me, don't even come looking for me. When you come back to visit Ireland, don't seek me out, I don't want to know. It…it will be easier this way," she whispered, attempting to lift her chin and appear determined, even though Nora could plainly see the battle the woman was fighting over the entire matter. "Promise me that, please?"
They hadn't even agreed to do what she wanted, and yet Nora found herself silently nodding her head. This isn't right; even if we take the children, it isn't right to keep such a truth from them, forever. She wanted to argue the matter further, or at least question it, but before she even had the chance to open her mouth, Margaret was practically thrusting the fussy boy she was holding into Nora's arms. The force of the motion practically caused her to stumble backward, and Joseph was just behind her, catching her in time. However, they were both transfixed with the tiny life that was now released into Nora's arms…while Margaret slowly backed away, willing her hands to lower to her sides.
Nora had heard stories about how easy it was for a mother to fall in love with her child; that upon the first seconds of holding their son or daughter, a bond stronger than any metal, would instantly be created.
Those stories were right. She stared down at the little boy that Margaret Branson had thrust into her arms…and right away, she felt her heart swell at the tiny boy, whose fussy immediately began to soften as he looked up at her, his eyes as blue as the ocean on a summer's day.
My son…
"What's his name?" she found herself whispering, lifting her eyes to meet Margaret's, tears already filling them.
"Whatever you wish it to be," Margaret answered, struggling to not take the child back into her own arms.
Nora bit her lip and turned to look up at her husband, wondering what he was thinking. She gasped as she saw tears welling in his own eyes, his gaze fixed on the baby in her arms…and with trembling fingers, she watched as he lifted his hand to touch the downy blonde hair on the child's head.
"See?" Margaret whispered. "See how easy it is to love them? See how well you look together?" she began to back away towards the basket where the child's twin brother still lay. She lifted the boy and held him close, forcing herself to take the steps needed to reach them and hand them that babe as well. "I knew…I knew this was the right thing to do…that…that you were perfect for them…" she whispered between crying hiccups.
Nora tried to swallow the lump lodged in her throat as she gazed back and forth between the two babies. They were twins, physically identical in every way. Brothers, whose bond some could argue was stronger than that between non-twin siblings. They belonged together…
And yet…
"Keep him," she found herself whispering.
"What?" Joseph asked, awaking from his stupor.
"What?" Margaret gasped, looking confused and somewhat flustered by Nora's words. Despite her look of confusion, Nora had a feeling that Margaret perfectly knew what she was talking about.
"Keep him," she repeated. "Joseph's right; it's wrong to take away a woman's child—and…and to take away both of them from you—"
"But—"
"Please, Margaret; I…I don't think I could live with myself, knowing that both of your sons were ripped from you. I certainly struggle with the idea of not telling them anything, however…" she paused. "However, I think…knowing that you have one boy, one darling boy who will grow up here, in his homeland, knowing your love and the love of his family, being able to proudly wear the Branson name—"
"But milady—"
"Please, Margaret," she pleaded. "Please…let…let us do it like this."
Nora didn't glance back at Joseph; she didn't have to. As soon as the boy was placed in their arms, she knew he felt as she did, and was immediately seeing the boy as his son. Our son and future heir. They would take this boy; take him back to England, back to Grassley and raise him as their own. She and Joseph would work out the details in how to explain to everyone there where the child had come from; perhaps they would stay abroad a little longer, long enough to fool people into thinking she had a child. But that was a job for later; right now, she just needed to convince Margaret to do this, to keep one of her sons.
Because as silly as it perhaps sounded, Nora felt that so long as one boy remained a Branson, then his brother would still have that connection to his past.
Margaret looked down at the child in her arms, and she immediately began to cradle the child closer to her body. Nora knew, deep down, Margaret didn't want to be doing this. That it had taken tremendous courage to come here on this stormy night and make her plea. Only the deepest love could motivate a person so; and at least one of those children deserved to know that love.
"You will…you will take him, then?" Margaret whispered, nodding her head at the tiny boy nestled now between Nora and her husband.
Nora nodded. "Aye; and…and you will keep him?" nodding her own head at the tiny boy held closely to his mother.
Margaret swallowed and looked down at the boy who was now sleeping in her arms. She lifted her eyes and nodded. "Aye…"
And so that was how Tom Bellasis came to be. The deal was made without anyone else's knowledge. Joseph did give Margaret some money, despite her protests, and in the end, she accepted it. She also gave a tearful goodbye to her son, but did not linger too long for fear that she would not be able to stop. She left hastily soon after, clutching her basket with the remaining child who began to howl. Just so, their son—their new son—began to cry and wail, as if he were calling out for his brother. Oh how it broke her heart to hear…
They named the child Tom, after the disciple who doubted, because Nora had doubted this day would ever come. Every summer they returned to Ireland, Nora wanting the boy to have some connection to his homeland. Because of these frequent visits, and because of the Dunn-Sainny family, Tom developed a strange sounding accent, one that was a mix of Irish and Yorkshire. He seemed to have a love for the Irish countryside, though he did not care for Drumgoole.
Nora kept her promise, though she struggled. She did not attempt to make contact with Margaret Branson; she did not write to her, nor when they visited Ireland, did she try to find out where she was. It was just as Margaret had wanted. Tom Bellasis grew up in complete ignorance, believing she and Joseph were his birth parents, knowing nothing about his background, the names of his true birth family…or the fact that somewhere out there, he had an identical twin brother.
Was it strange that she didn't feel nervous? Perhaps she did, but she was unaware of it because her nervousness was covered up with a sense of excitement and giddiness for the "adventure" she was about to embark.
Freedom.
It was strange, Sybil supposed, to see leaving a world of elegant luxury as an aristocrat's daughter, to going and working as a chambermaid as…"freeing", but it was. She wasn't so ignorant to know that there weren't harsh rules to follow for one who worked as a servant, but at the same time, she found those rules (which were vastly different from the rules in which she had been born into and grown up in) to be much more liberating; the façade to pretend to be something else just didn't seem to exist to Sybil, and so she walked with a quick and merry step to the village, eager to begin this new life at the Grantham Arms.
"Remember, enter through the servant's entrance in the back," she told herself, going over the details Sarah had given her. "The staircase to right leads to the servant's quarters. The staircase to left leads to the guest rooms. The door just beyond the kitchens leads out to the main floor of the inn."
She could do this; she could fall into Sarah's role and convince everyone there that she was Miss Sarah Crawford. And by doing so, she hoped she could manage to convince her family (and show the world) that she could look after herself and manage hard work just fine, that she didn't need to follow in the footsteps of her older sisters, or what was usually expected by the women of her class. She could do this…she would do this.
Sybil's pace slowed as the very inn she had been seeking came into view. There it stood, her home for the next fortnight. Now, she began to feel those nerves creeping in.
"Come on," she muttered to herself, urging her feet to continue. With chin held high, she marched onward, doing just as she had earlier reminded herself, going around the back of the inn, looking for that other entrance, the one meant for staff.
Her nose was assaulted by a repulsive smell.
"Oh gracious!" she gasped, her hand flying to cover her nostrils. The smell could have come from several places. There was a large, rubbish heap nearby, where several rats scurried back and forth, retrieving rotted food that had been thrown away. There was also what looked like a small slender shed…which Sybil quickly realized was not a shed, but in fact an outhouse. Oh goodness…was that…was that meant for them?
Is there no indoor water closet? She paled at the thought. Even at Downton, the servant's quarters had indoor plumbing! But this wasn't Downton, she had to remind herself. And if she wanted to prove to the world that she was strong and capable and could manage in "harsh environments", then she needed to get over her initial disgust and just accept this as a part of her new life.
With an even more determined step, Sybil moved past the offensive smelling rubbish heap and outhouse, and finally came upon the very door she was seeking. Right…here we go…
Her nose was assaulted once again upon walking through the servant's entrance, only this time the smell was the opposite of repulsive.
In truth, all of her senses were assaulted, not just her nose. The scent of something delicious wafted through her nostrils, steam from some nearby pot caused her eyes to water, the air in the kitchen felt stiff and hot, and her ears were flooded with the sound of an older woman barking orders at the scurrying footsteps of a younger one.
"Come on, Daisy, move it!" the older woman bellowed. "I can't season the chicken and stir the stew and make sure the pie isn't burning all at the same time, now can I?"
Sybil took in the chaotic sight, and any worries about feeling homesick disappeared as she was immediately reminded of the kitchen back at Downton (although here there only seemed to be one kitchen maid, whereas Mrs. Bird had quite a few at her disposal). Even though Sarah had given her strict instructions to go upstairs and change into something more suitable, she couldn't help but ignore that advice, and dropped her carpet back by the door, removing the hat and coat Sarah had given her to go and help the little kitchen maid (Daisy), as she rushed from one end of the room to another.
"Here, let me!" Sybil grabbed a nearby apron and threw it over herself, before moving to help the kitchen maid, who was carrying a large bowl filled with chopped vegetables in one hand, and a lugging a pail of water in the other.
"Oh!" Daisy gasped. "You're back! Mrs. Patmore, Sarah's back!"
"Already?" the cook muttered, wiping her hands on her own apron and turning to see. Sybil turned and smiled at the woman, remembering what Sarah had told her. "She may seem terrifying at first, but her bark is much worse than her bite. She's a kind soul, truly; and despite the way she seems to bully Daisy around, it's clear that she's very fond of the girl." "We weren't expecting to see you for at least another hour!"
Sybil couldn't help but smile. "I um…they…they didn't need me anymore," she explained, remembering the story she had created, about the sick housemaid and why Sarah was temporarily needed at Downton.
"She's on the mend then?" the cook asked.
Sybil looked confused at first, but then finally realized to what she was referring. "Yes, yes, they…they thanked me for helping, and of course thanked the inn for sparing me," she quickly added. "But my services were no longer necessary, so they sent me home."
Daisy looked a little confused, as did the cook, and Sybil panicked for a moment, wondering if she had said something wrong.
Suddenly, Mrs. Patmore burst out laughing. "Listen to you!" she chuckled. "Spends two days at Downton Abbey and already she's talking like one of their lot," she shook her head as she laughed, before repeating some of what Sybil had said in a slightly mocking "posh" voice. "My services were no longer necessary…"
Sybil joined in the cook's and kitchen maid's laughter, although she silently reprimanded herself for her manner of speaking. She would have to watch her words, as well as her tone; she wasn't Lady Sybil Crawley anymore, she was playing the part of her sister, who had worked all her life in service. She needed them to think she was Sarah; she needed them to believe she was her sister.
"Oh don't bother with that," Mrs. Patmore dismissed, seeing how Sybil was trying to take the water pail from Daisy's hands. "Edna should be back here helping, and no doubt is out there flirting with the guests…again," she groaned. "If you see her, send her back here at once!"
Sybil nodded her head, although she was completely clueless about this "Edna" person. She tried to remember if Sarah had mentioned that name in telling her about what to expect at the Grantham Arms, but her mind was drawing a blank.
"And here!" Mrs. Patmore lifted a tea tray and Sybil quickly stepped forward to take it. "Take this to Mr. Yardley…he'll no doubt be in his office."
Sybil nodded her head, although panic once again gripped her mind as she tried to recall the location of the innkeeper's office from what Sarah had told her.
"Well go on!" Mrs. Patmore frowned, looking confused as to why she was still standing there. "Good heavens, you look lost! Don't tell me after running around Downton Abbey these past few days you've forgotten how to get yourself around here?"
"I…" what could she say to that? Her face was growing hot with embarrassment.
"Just beyond the bar, to the right!" Daisy reminded, smiling and looking sympathetic, before quickly moving to finish her tasks at the harsh stare Mrs. Patmore sent her way.
Sybil smiled her thanks at the kitchen maid; perhaps she did have an ally in this place? She took the tray and turned in the direction Daisy had indicated, before Mrs. Patmore could ask another question. She walked down a very short corridor, and followed the sound of men's voices, leading her to the inn's main floor, where guests and patrons of the inn's pub were gathered, talking and having a pint; a momentary reprieve in their work day.
"Oi! There's my pretty girl!" she heard a man's voice grunt nearby. Good heavens…was he…was he talking to her? She lifted her head and felt her cheeks redden as a large, grizzled-looking man with a red beard, tipped his hat and patted his knee. "Come here, my girl! Come and sit on ol' Billy's lap."
"Leave her be, Bill," grunted one of his companions. "Can't you see she's got work to do?"
"Billy" seemed to ignore his friend, and rose from his chair. Good heavens, the man was a giant! "Come and give us a squeeze; I was only teasing, love!"
Sybil didn't know what to say or how to respond. Was he just teasing? Sarah hadn't told her anything about the patrons. Was this man, despite his teasing manner, truly a friend? Or was he an unwanted admirer?
"I've missed you," he pouted. "Haven't seen you these past few days, where've you been?"
Sybil swallowed, unsure if she should answer. Oh Lord, what would Sarah do in this moment? Ignore him and carry on with her work? Talk to the man? She had encountered people like him before when she was a nurse, but the difference was then that she knew how to handle the situation because she was herself, not pretending to be someone else.
"Haven't you heard?" came a woman's voice and Sybil turned her head to see a pretty blonde woman in a maid's uniform move up to the table where "ol' Billy" had been sitting. "She's abandoning you lot for Downton Abbey."
Sybil frowned and looked at the woman, who was proceeding to refill his pint glass. She lifted her pretty head and gave Sybil a smirk, but there was no friendliness in that smile.
"What?" Billy gasped, sinking back down into his chair. "Oh no, no, say it ain't so!" he looked genuinely upset by this. "Your pretty face is the only reason I come here, Sarah!"
"Hey!" the blonde pouted, swatting the giant's beefy shoulder. He turned and grinned and grabbed the maid by the waist, pulling her down onto the very lap he had been beckoning Sybil to sit on earlier.
Even though introductions had not been made, Sybil had a feeling this was the infamous Edna to whom Mrs. Patmore had been referring.
"Mrs. Patmore wants you in the kitchen…" she murmured, looking at the blonde and waiting to see if her assumption was right.
The maid rolled her eyes and waved her hand dismissively. "I'm busy, Sarah; can't you see that? Or has your time working as a fine Downton housemaid caused you forget what goes on at your real job?"
Sybil frowned, her eyes narrowing. She prided herself on trying to give all people the benefit of the doubt upon first meeting them, but every so often, there were a few she would encounter where the first impression was anything but positive. Edna was quickly becoming one of these people.
"Edna!"
Sybil practically jumped at the stern bark that came from just behind her. The voice clearly had an effect on the maid, because she too leapt to her feet, the mocking mirth wiped completely clean from her face. Sybil turned and looked up at the tall gentleman with silver hair and a beard to match. Based on the descriptions Sarah had provided for her, Sybil had a feeling this was Mr. Yardley, the innkeeper. Who else but an employer could have gained such a reaction from the obstinate blonde chambermaid?
"Sarah, good to see that you're back," he muttered, barely looking at her. "Edna," he spoke sternly. "Do as Sarah told you; go and see to Mrs. Patmore."
Edna's pout returned once more. "But Mr. Yardley—"
He held up a hand and Edna quickly shut her mouth. She mumbled a quick goodbye to the men she had been pouring drinks for, before setting down her pitcher and moving back to the corridor that led to the kitchens. Sybil bit her lip and glanced up at Mr. Yardley, who was muttering something under his breath while rubbing the bridge of his nose…a gesture she had seen her father do, many times in the past.
"I um…" she held up the tea tray Mrs. Patmore had given her. "I have tea for you, sir."
He looked down at her and the tray which she held. "Good, good," he sighed. "Take it into my office; I'm sure his Lordship will appreciate it."
Sybil was about to go and do just that, but practically lost her footing at the man's words. "His…his Lordship?" she practically squeaked. "The…the Earl of Grantham is here?"
He nodded, clearly not seeing the distress in her eyes at this revelation. Oh God, why was he there? Why had her father come? Oh no! Sarah! Had Mr. Yardley said anything to her father about "lending one of their maids" to help at Downton? She could just imagine the confusion on her father's face, and the questions he would ask, which would lead to suspicion for both Sybil and Sarah, and get one or both of them into deep trouble.
However, judging from the way Mr. Yardley was acting, it seemed clear that nothing of that nature had been spoken. He didn't seem to be raging or angry or upset in any way; he didn't even seem to find her behavior odd, as he had picked up Edna's pitcher and was moving around the pub, talking to patrons, refilling any glasses that were offered, more or less being a good, attentive innkeeper, while she stood there like a statue.
Before Mr. Yardley could bark at her the way he had at Edna, she quickly moved towards the man's office, at least wanting to appear like she intended to go in there and offer his Lordship tea, when in truth she was at a complete loss on what to really do. She couldn't go in there! Oh Lord, this was a disaster! WHY was he there? What had brought him to the inn?
"OH!" Sybil gasped as the door to the office suddenly swung open. She pushed herself back against the wall next to the open doorway and turned her head, praying that her father wouldn't turn to look—and he didn't. He moved away from where she was standing, reentering the pub and adjusting his hat and smoothing his jacket.
"Leaving so soon, your Lordship?" Mr. Yardley asked. "I had just sent one of my girls to bring you some tea—"
"No, no, that's very kind, but I must be going," Robert sighed, pulling on his gloves. "I have some special guests arriving today, and I should be going back to make sure everything is prepared."
Special guests? Sybil frowned. What special guests were coming to Downton?
"And you can guarantee the car's safe keeping?"
Mr. Yardley nodded his head. "I can, your Lordship; the garage around the back has a special lock and key that only I possess."
Robert sighed and nodded. "I confess, I'm not comfortable with the idea of leaving a car in the village, however it makes no sense to have him scramble back and forth to the house should we ever need him; and it will be nice to make one telephone call, request that he come, and not have to wait an extra fifteen minutes for him to go around and get the car ready."
"I quite understand, your Lordship," Mr. Yardley bowed his head. "I promise you, no harm will come to your motor."
Sybil's frown deepened. Why in heaven's name was her father leaving one of his cars here? For Pratt? She knew that the chauffeur lived in the village, but…why now? Why leave a car for him to access, now?
"And the room meets with your satisfaction, your Lordship?"
Robert nodded. "Yes, yes, it will do rather nicely, I have no doubt. And thank you again, for understanding our dilemma," he sighed, looking rather embarrassed.
"Of course, your Lordship; Mr. Branson is welcome to stay for as long as it takes."
Sybil was so confused. She still didn't understand the point as to why her father had come to the Grantham Arms, what business he was conducting with the innkeeper, why a car was being left in the village, and…who on earth was this Mr. Branson?
"Well, I'll leave you to it then," her father mumbled, shaking Mr. Yardley's hand, bidding him good day, before leaving the inn without a backwards glance. Only when she heard the door click shut did Sybil sag back against the wall and let out a long, shaky breath.
"Sarah! What are you…?" Mr. Yardley looked at her, puzzled as to why she was still there after ordering her to take the tea tray to his office. "Here, put that down," he took the tray right out of her hands. "And go make sure Mr. Branson has everything he needs; room 20."
She opened her mouth, wanting to ask him who this Mr. Branson was, but he was already walking away from her, and she felt it was probably best not to get on the man's bad side (she doubted Sarah was the sort to question her employer when an order was given) so she turned, searched for the staircase which she remembered Sarah telling her would lead to the guest rooms, climbed the steps quickly, counting the doors that she passed, seeking out the room Mr. Yardley had told her.
So he's a guest of some sort, this Mr. Branson? But…but how does he know Papa? Or how does Papa know him? Was that the reason Papa was here? But why? And I still don't understand why Papa was asking Mr. Yardley about leaving one of the cars here in the village…
She found the door to room 20 at the very end of the corridor. Now what? Just…knock and see if there was anything he needed? She supposed that would be something like fresh linens or towels or…perhaps something from the kitchens? Well, she would soon find out. Without any more hesitation, she lifted her hand and gently knocked on the door, waiting for an answer.
Nothing.
Had he heard her? Perhaps her knock was too quiet? She lifted her hand once again and knocked, a little more forcefully.
Still nothing.
Was he there? Perhaps he had already gone back downstairs to the inn's main floor? She had passed a few men on the way, several of them giving her "appreciative" looks, which only caused her to move quicker and further away from their lingering eyes. Perhaps this Mr. Branson was one of them? She didn't like that thought.
"Mr. Branson…?" she called through the door. When she didn't hear a response, she sighed and decided to peek inside, just to be sure. Although there were warning bells going off in her mind, she chose to ignore them and carefully turned the door knob, pushing the door open and calling out to the man whom her boss had directed her to see. "Mr. Branson? I was sent up here to see if there is anything you nee—OH!"
Her hand flew to her mouth…and she stared…at the man who stood at the other end of the room, a towel pressed against his face, his hair slicked back from water, droplets dripping down from his head, onto his shoulders, down his neck, down his back, down his chest…his naked chest.
He wore no shirt. She had just walked on him in the midst of washing his face and from the look of things, pouring water all over his head, hair, and the back of his neck—no wonder he hadn't heard her. And now the towel was covering his face, his large hands using it to naturally dry and wipe away the soapy residue from his head, though it dripped down his body…and Sybil stared at the muscles on display.
He was not the first half-naked man she had seen. During the War, she had seen many men in even further states of undress, some of them whose clothes she had to cut away and remove herself, to tend to their injuries. She had also bathed many of these men, running a sponge along their bodies, quickly putting aside any embarrassing feelings about propriety, and seeing to her work as a nurse.
…So why was this affecting her? Why seeing this particular man, without his shirt…the water and soap dripping down his neck…rolling over his broad shoulders…his muscular chest…his flat stomach…soaking the waistband of his dark trousers…
Her breath caught as he tossed the towel he had been using aside, her eyes widening even further as they drifted back to his face.
Apollo.
Good heavens, where had THAT thought come from? But it seemed appropriate; he was…very handsome. He had a strong jaw, a fine nose, there was a soft cleft in his chin, and his hair reminded her of some of the wheat fields she saw around Downton; a light brown in shadow, but when the sun poked through the window as it was just doing behind him, a dark gold color.
How long had she been standing there, gaping at him? He didn't seem to realize he had an audience until he reached for what she could only conclude was his shirt, and turned his body to begin putting it on…when he suddenly looked up, his eyes going wide as they met hers, and Sybil had to bite back the gasp at finally seeing the color of his eyes…a deep blue, with flecks of green.
"What are you doing?"
His voice was rich and warm, a lyrical tenor with a deep Irish brogue. Irish—he was Irish apparently.
"Who are you?" he demanded, and Sybil gasped, suddenly feeling so foolish for her silly behavior, like that of an addle-brained school girl preparing for her first London season.
"I…I…" she was stammering and no doubt her face was on fire, judging from the heat she could feel in her cheeks. Oh Lord, why couldn't a hole suddenly appear to swallow her up? "I…" she actually stomped her foot to get her brain to stop sounding like a broken phonograph. "I…I was told to come up here and…and see if you needed anything," she finally managed to get out, hating herself for how silly and stupid she sounded. Oh God, Sarah would never have done anything like this! She probably wouldn't have even tried to enter the man's room!
"Oh…" he murmured, still standing and looking back at her rather awkwardly. He still held his shirt in his hands, and had yet to make a move of putting it on. "Um…no, no thank you," he answered.
"Right then," Sybil swallowed, forcing her eyes to look at the ground and not at the man's naked chest or handsome face. "Well…" she began to turn then. "Well, I…I'll leave you to it." And without another word, she grabbed the doorknob and pulled it quickly shut.
Oh good God, what had just happened!? "I'll leave you to it?" What did that mean? Could she have sounded any more…any more…?
Oh God, she wanted to die.
Oh no, what would this mean for Sarah!? Would he say something to Mr. Yardley? About how some rude maid burst into his room and…and ogled him? She was no better than those men she had passed on her way up here! No better than that "Billy" from downstairs! She had promised Sarah she wouldn't do anything to jeopardize her name or work here, at the Grantham Arms, and her first day wasn't even finished, and she had probably done enough to be sacked. This was horrible, absolutely—
"Hey!"
Sybil froze, her eyes widening as she realized he was calling out to her. A voice in her head was urging her to ignore him, to keep walking away and pretend that she hadn't heard him, but then she started to hear his footsteps approaching, and so she realized walking away wouldn't be an option as he would no doubt follow her, so with a deep breath, she turned to face him, prepared to face whatever reprimand he had to give, and rightfully so—
"I didn't get your name."
Sybil's eyes went wide, and she looked up at him then, staring in disbelief…and feeling her knees weaken slightly at the rather roguish smile he was wearing. He was also wearing a shirt.
"My…my name?" she murmured. He wanted to know her name? That was why he had called out to her.
His smile only seemed to spread, and he extended his hand to her. "Tom Branson."
Tom Branson. Mr. Branson. Tom.
"Sybil…" she answered, moving her hand to shake his, then pulled back suddenly before they touched, realizing what she had just said. "SARAH! I mean Sarah," she corrected.
He looked a little confused, but that smile never seemed to waiver, and he took her hand in his and gave it a gentle, friendly shake. "Pleased to meet you Sybil-Sarah," he gently teased.
Sybil-Sarah. She was mentally kicking herself for her slip-up, but at the same time…she couldn't help but smile at his joke. Smile and blush…good heavens, what was the matter with her?
"I'm sorry I didn't hear your knock—"
"Oh no! No, no, you don't need to apologize, I shouldn't have entered!"
"But you have a job to do, and I understand how that can be," he sighed, before smiling at her again. "And I shouldn't keep you from getting on with your job, but…well…" he looked down at her, and Sybil swallowed the strange lump in her throat. She couldn't quite read his look…but she couldn't deny that she rather liked it.
"Sorry," he shook his head, cleared his own throat, and took a step back. "Anyway…like I said, I won't keep you, just…well," he seemed to be stammering now, and Sybil found herself biting her lip to keep from giggling. "I'm sure I'll be seeing you later."
He would? How did he know that? Unless he was assuming she would be coming to his room again, to check and see if she could bring him anything he needed. And once again, she still didn't understand his connection to her father. But he was already moving back towards his room, turning and giving her one final parting smile, before going back inside and shutting the door.
For the second time since arriving at the Grantham Arms, Sybil found herself sagging against a nearby wall, and letting out a long, shaky breath. Gracious, that had been close. Too close. She couldn't make stupid mistakes like that! She was just thankful that whoever Mr. Tom Branson was, he didn't seem like the sort to go and tattle on her to Mr. Yardley. With a resolute sigh, she pushed herself away from the wall and quickly made her way back down the corridor, back to the kitchens to see if she could be of any help there.
Perhaps by thrusting herself into hard work (the very purpose for which she was here), she would be able to forget Mr. Tom Branson's muscular form…or his startling blue eyes.