TA DA! I updated! I know, I know, hard to believe. I apologize for how long it took (not just with this story, but all my stories) but if you're still reading my stuff, I thank you for your patience and continued support :o)
This chapter is interesting in that a different couple and characters sort of "stole" the spotlight, shall we say, from Tom and Sybil ;o) but that's ok, I felt it was needed and I liked exploring that side/aspect of what is going on with other members of the family. Anyway, I really do hope you enjoy it and look forward to hearing your thoughts! Thanks, as always, for reading!
Chapter Ten
Mary sat with her back straight and rigid, her eyes focused at some corner of the library. Yet every so often, they would drift back to the hunched figure of her father, who was braced against the fireplace, his hands gripping the mantle so tightly, Mary wondered if he would somehow crack the stone. His entire body was tense, and his gaze was fiercely locked with that of the fire before him. He hadn't muttered a single word since she had entered and told him the news. He simply turned towards the fire and proceeded to contemplate the flames. Of course, Mary knew better. Despite his best efforts, her father was never very good at concealing his true emotions.
"So it is to be done then," he finally murmured.
Mary closed her eyes and let out a long sigh, before answering, "Yes, Papa. He has accepted."
Robert gave a snort at that. "Of course he has," he growled, before pushing himself away and turning at last. "Any other man would be a fool not to leap at the chance of 'lining their pockets' by marrying an earl's daughter."
Mary lifted an eyebrow at this. "But not Branson?"
Robert shook his head, his gaze now fixed on the bookshelf over her head. "No…no, Branson has far more sinister motives."
Mary couldn't help but feel alarm at these words. What on earth did her father mean? Sinister motives?
"Leftist ideas, political anarchist…" Robert muttered. "If the French Revolution were happening today, he'd be the one manning the guillotine."
"Papa, really," Mary groaned, one of her hands rising to rub her forehead, attempting to sooth the ache in her head. "I know this is far from ideal—"
Her father scoffed.
"—But does it really matter?" Mary hissed, her voice lowering just in case any other ears were close by. "He's not going to survive…the odds are against him."
"His fever has broken," Robert muttered.
"Momentarily," Mary added. "Even Isobel has cautioned that there is still a strong chance it will come back. He's far from being out of danger."
Robert nodded his head while listening…and then a shadow crossed over his face, and his features began to soften. "Good God, what have we become?" he whispered. "Hoping for a man's demise…"
Mary swallowed and looked down at her clasped hands, still resting elegantly upon her lap. "The odds were never in Branson's favor, Papa," Mary murmured. "It's a miracle he's survived this long."
Another snort came from Robert then. "Miracle? Or Fate's cruel joke?" The question was, upon whom was the joke being played?
Mary didn't add to that. "We're doing the right thing, Papa. I know that might seem hard to understand, but…but we're giving Branson some vestiges of happiness with the time he has left—"
"By offering up your sister," Robert grumbled.
"—By allowing the both of them to indulge in this…this…'childish infatuation' they've been harboring over the years," Mary finished in frustration. She had repeated, over and over again, since first announcing the plan with her father, that by supporting Sybil's decision to marry Branson and not blocking her way, she would forever be in their debt, thus safeguarding the family (and Sybil) from further scandal. Still, it was a hard pill for Robert to swallow.
"I still can't believe it," he sighed, before finally sitting on the settee opposite of her. "I still can't believe that…that I never…never even suspected that something was…was…"
"It wasn't like that, Papa," Mary quickly assured. "They never acted upon it; Sybil swears it, and on this I wholly believe."
Robert frowned, but he didn't argue otherwise. Perhaps he simply wanted to believe that was true. It was the only excuse he could shamefully muster to explain his blindness over the years, when it came to his daughter's interactions with the chauffeur.
"I had hoped…" he began, then paused as he took in a deep breath and leaned further back into the settee. "I had hoped that…that at least he would see reason."
Mary frowned, suddenly feeling rather defensive of her sister. "What do you mean?"
"I may not agree with any of Branson's political leanings, but the man is in no ways a simpleton. For someone who has had little to no formal education, he's very well-read and intelligent. And therefore I simply believed that at least he would see this for what it truly is—an act of 'charity'." He rose from the settee then and stalked across the room to pour himself a glass of brandy. "And no man wants to be turned into a 'charity', regardless of who he is."
Mary remained silent, her father's words sinking into her. However, it wasn't Branson to whom she thought about then, but someone else. Was that why he broke his engagement with Lavinia? He feared that she was only going to marry him because she pitied him now? Because he believed she was making a charity case of him? Shame suddenly filled her, and Mary felt her cheeks grow hot. While she wasn't to Matthew what Lavinia had been, she was every bit as guilty of pitying him. Perhaps that explained why he was being so distant to her as of late? Ever since he came to Downton to convalesce, he seemed to do whatever he could to avoid her. Whether it was taking his meals with the other officers, or having a nurse wheel him about the gardens rather than herself, Matthew was certainly making it clear, as far as Mary could see, that he preferred there to be distance between the both of them. But wasn't that how it should be? After all, she had her own fiancé, and her own wedding to plan…
"I'll need to speak with your grandmother," Robert continued, interrupting Mary's thoughts. She was rather grateful, in all honesty. "She said she would speak with Travis about…about all of this…" he muttered, before taking a deep drink from his brandy glass. "And your mother insists on letting Dr. Clarkson know," he added with some annoyance.
"And Sybil wants Isobel and Matthew there as well," Mary whispered. She honestly couldn't imagine anything more awkward; standing near Matthew, while witnessing the bedside marriage between her youngest sister and the family chauffeur.
"It will be a miracle if we're able to keep all of this under wraps," Robert groaned, finishing his brandy.
Mary lifted her head, her eyes filling with determination. "We can and we will. You know we can trust Carson, Bates, and Anna to be discrete. Mrs. Hughes as well."
Robert frowned. "I'm not so sure about O'Brien."
Mary bit her lip to hold back a groan. No, she doubted her father was wrong in that respect. She only prayed that her mother hadn't revealed anything to her maid; her mother was very close with O'Brien, and against her better judgment, trusted the woman whole-heartedly.
"We'll continue to keep everything a secret and not allow the staff to know."
Robert shook his head. "We'll have to tell Carson, just in case something does get out. He can squash a rumor and keep it from spreading a great deal better if he is aware of what's going on."
Mary couldn't argue that point, and at least Carson would sympathize with them. "Let me tell him," she asked, surprising both herself and her father by her request. She quickly added, "You're upset enough about the situation, and I fear that in explaining it to Carson, you'll only agitate yourself further."
Robert sighed and nodded his head in reluctant agreement. "Well, I cannot deny that."
At least if she spoke to Carson, the Downton butler might understand the mad reasoning for allowing Sybil and Branson to marry.
"No doubt your sister wishes for this to take place 'sooner' rather than later," Robert grumbled, bitterness dripping from his voice, as well as reluctant acceptance.
Mary sighed and rose to her feet. "I know this is difficult for you…and it is for me as well, but…but we must try, Papa; try to be 'happy' for Sybil, at least for a little while. Because her grief will come, and when it does, she will be inconsolable…but not forever," she stated firmly. "Sybil will grow out it, and she will remember with fondness this kindness that was performed, and then she, and the rest of us, will be able to move on at last. But believe me when I say that it will be easier if we go along and do this, rather than fight it."
Robert sighed and nodded his head once again. "I suppose this is no one's fault but our own. We've spoiled her far too greatly."
Mary frowned at that, and once again felt her back come up. However, she didn't argue otherwise. She simply moved to her father's side, and in an act of daughterly affection, one that she didn't often show, she kissed his cheek, before turning and exiting the library in search of Carson. She hadn't gone far before she crossed paths with Matthew, who was just being brought back inside by a nurse who had been pushing his chair out in the gardens. Whether it was the sight of the warm, genuine smile of thanks Matthew gave the nurse, the pretty blush which colored the nurse's cheeks, followed by a soft, tittering laugh, or simply the sight of Matthew himself, after days and weeks of near-avoidance…something set Mary off, and like a bull being taunted by a red flag, she charged towards him.
"Mary!" Matthew gasped in surprise, and then gasped her name again when she seized his chair and pushed him directly into the dining room, knowing they wouldn't be disturbed by either nurses or officers. "Mary, what on earth—?"
"You had NO RIGHT!" Mary accused, rounding on him and glaring back with pent-up fury.
Matthew looked more confused than afraid. "No right?"
"No right to interfere!" she hissed.
His frown deepened. "I honestly have no idea what you're talking about."
Mary rolled her eyes. "Oh please, you're not stupid, Matthew, so stop acting like an ignoramus."
Matthew's frown didn't lessen, but realization did seem to dawn on him at last. "If you're meaning…Branson and Sybil—"
"OF COURSE I'M MEANING THEM!" she almost shouted, though was quick to rein in her voice. The last thing she needed was an interruption from an over-concerned nurse or passing member of staff. She lowered her voice, though her tone remained harsh and clipped. "Why did you go hospital? What in heaven's name compelled you to—"
"Mother had a message sent to me; told me about the…about the fight between Sybil and Branson," Matthew explained, looking annoyed, but also regretful, as if he were betraying some sort of trust. And in a way, Mary supposed he was, because she had no idea that there had been any sort of fight between her sister and the chauffeur. All that she knew was that apparently Matthew had been taken to the hospital, not for any reason of his own, but to speak with Branson…and then the next thing she knew, Sybil was giddily telling her over the telephone that Branson had accepted her proposal. Mary inwardly groaned at the memory of her sister's voice; she sounded so…happy.
How could she be happy? Branson was dying! Didn't she realize that? Mary knew that Sybil was reluctant to accept the truth, even from Isobel, but…despite all the obvious signs, and despite this obvious allowance of the family not interfering because they saw the whole thing as a "last request", Sybil's joy at the fact that she and Branson were going to be married, could hardly be contained.
She would never admit it, but Mary envied her sister; envied her happiness, no matter the circumstances. The life of her own fiancé didn't hang in the balance, and her family accepted Sir Richard (which was far more than could be said about Branson). Sir Richard might be "one of them" but he was certainly closer to being one of them than the chauffeur ever would be. True, by marrying Sir Richard, she wouldn't become a duchess or countess, but she would have a grand house, both in the country and in London, and have so much money, she could buy anything that she wanted—enough gowns and jewels to last a lifetime! She would easily become the envy of all Society, and if she hosted a dinner or threw a ball, people would be climbing over each other in hopes of receiving an invitation. The future that lay before her was practically perfect!
…And yet Mary couldn't summon anything close to the joy her sister was exuding, despite the fact that she was marrying a dying man who also happened to be so far beneath them.
"I don't understand you…"
Mary was shaken from her thoughts by Matthew's voice. She focused on him once again, and was taken aback by his frown, as well as the look of disappointment in his eyes. It unnerved her, that look. And for a moment, that vulnerable side she often worked so hard in keeping hidden, was exposed to him. Matthew had an uncanny way of getting under her skin.
"Me?"
"You, Robert—all of you, really," he explained, turning his face away and shaking his head. As she had with her father, so too did she feel her back go up at what she could only interpret as a look of disapproval. "You give Sybil your approval—"
"Approval," Mary scoffed with a roll of the eyes.
"Your blessing, then," Matthew corrected in annoyance. "You grant her permission to marry Branson, when it's quite clear you'd wish for anything but!"
Mary narrowed her eyes at him, annoyance fueling her as well. "You know Sybil; she would roll her eyes at your words and mutter something along the lines of 'since when do I need permission'?"
Matthew rolled his own eyes. "You're avoiding the point."
"Oh, am I?"
"Yes!" Matthew snapped, his eyes blazing. Mary remembered that look; it was one she hadn't seen in years, but one she remembered quite well, one that he exchanged with her rather frequently in the early days of their acquaintance. It rather stunned her, seeing that angry fire once again. Later, when she was alone, she would reluctantly admit that it also caused her heart to ache.
"If you don't wish it, if you don't approve, then why allow it? And yes, I do know Sybil, I know how stubborn she can be—she's your sister, after all," he muttered, somewhat under his breath, but it was still loud enough for her to hear. And Mary had a feeling he meant for her to catch it. "I'm aware that if you told her 'no', she would fight it if she so wished, but what I don't understand is why YOU aren't 'fighting it'?"
Mary groaned and threw her hands up into the air. "Dear God, Matthew, make up your mind! Are you upset that we're not beaming with happiness for this match, or the fact that we've chosen not to stop her?"
"It's the hypocrisy of it all that upsets me!" he thundered. "You won't stand in their way, but you won't support them either!"
"Well how can I!?" Mary thundered back. "She's my sister, Matthew! My youngest sister, the daughter of an earl, and she's purposefully choosing to marry a man who has no future!"
Matthew straightened in his chair at her words, his jaw practically cracking at how rigid it was set. "I think you mean, not a future you deem as being worthy."
There was a beat of silence and the ghost of an argument they once shared seemed to float between them momentarily.
She swallowed and straightened her own back. "He's dying, Matthew."
"You don't know that—"
"Dr. Clarkson says he is; your own mother has said—"
"Mother has said his chances are grave, but there is still a chance that he'll pull through."
Mary opened her mouth to reply, but then stopped herself. Her father's words came back to her then: "Good God, what have we become? Hoping for a man's demise…"
"But even if he didn't survive, that's not the point…" Matthew continued, his tone softening but his eyes continuing to hold hers in a blazing gaze. "When I spoke to Sybil earlier, offered her my congratulations…she thanked me for my words, embraced me, and I was struck by…" he paused then, swallowing a lump that seemed to have formed in his throat. Mary felt a similar lump in her own. "…I was struck by…by how 'fragile' she seemed."
Sybil? Fragile? Sybil was many things but Mary would never use the term "fragile" to describe her.
"She was trembling, Mary…trembling with what felt like…relief."
Relief. Relief at what exactly? Sharing her secret? No longer having to hide these feelings she had supposedly been keeping from everyone for years?
No…no, she knew the answer, even if she didn't want to dwell on it. Sybil's relief stemmed from having someone accept, and even welcome her news. She and their parents may have given their blessing, but that wasn't the same as acceptance. And it would be just like Matthew to offer that…
"I'm sorry if I upset you…or if you feel I've somehow betrayed your trust," Matthew murmured, lowering his eyes to the ground momentarily. "I know you love Sybil—I still remember the fear that clouded your eyes that day she was injured…"
She would never forget that day; it was the same day when she and Matthew finally set their stubborn pride aside and opened their hearts at long last to one another.
"But I'm not sorry for…for 'interfering'," he added, his eyes finding hers again. "They love each other…they deserve to be happy, even if it's just for a short while." He looked down and whispered in such a quiet voice that Mary wondered, briefly, if she had imagined it. "We should all be so lucky."
His hands fell to the wheels and he began to push himself forward. It was tempting to stop him, but she didn't dare. She understood, perhaps better than anyone, the semblance of pride and the need to keep one's head held high, even at the cost to one's heart. God knows she had enough practice in her life, or so it felt. Still, before he left the room, Mary couldn't help but speak up one last time.
"Did you ever think that perhaps that was true for you as well?"
Matthew paused, his hand on the door. He didn't lift his eyes. He didn't even speak. Mary watched the muscle of his jaw throb as her question washed over him.
"Don't you deserve to be happy too?" she pressed onward, willing him to look at her, silently begging him to do so. But he remained where he was, silent and frozen in thought, which filled her with passionate anger, anger that was even hotter than when she had first pushed him into the dining room. "Do your own words mean nothing?" she bitterly asked, glad to see that her question had struck a nerve based on the way his jaw seemed to clench. "You had it, you know…love," she practically spat the word. "I would dare say you still have it, and yet you pushed it away, just as you're about to push that chair out of this room!"
He turned and looked at her then, his jaw clamped tightly shut but his nostrils flaring as he breathed out and glared up at her. She would not look away.
"You claim to know what is best for my sister—for her and Branson. You say that their union should be 'celebrated' or at the very least, fully supported because they love each other; that it doesn't matter if he only lives a few more days, he—both of them—should be granted this chance at happiness. And yet you refuse to do the same for yourself!"
"It's not the same," Matthew growled, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.
"No, of course it's not," Mary snapped back. "You're not lying in the hospital, preparing for a 'deathbed wedding'. Though if a person didn't know any better, they might think that you were," she sneered in disgust.
Matthew's eyes went wide, shock replacing fury momentarily. Mary was shocked as well; she thought that perhaps later she would regret her words. But not right now. Right now, she needed to speak her mind. It was a great deal easier than speaking one's heart.
"Am I supposed to be 'happy' because I'll never walk again? Happy that some other distant relation will one day assume the title of 'Earl of Grantham' because I'll never a child of my own?" he bitterly snarled. "Of course, there's Edith's 'Patrick' to consider—even if he isn't who he says he is, might as well just give him—"
His sentence came to an abrupt halt by the force of Mary's slap across his cheek.
…It stunned them both, and Mary knew that she would regret the action later. However at the moment, it felt more than necessary—anything to stop him saying that imposter's name or even suggesting the idea that he take Matthew's rightful place.
"You are alive," Mary whispered, her voice soft but her tone deafening. "You're alive and you're home, surrounded by people who…" she stopped herself just before saying the word "love", and quickly sucked in a breath to collect herself. "…By people who care for you very much." She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. "I can't begin to imagine what you're feeling, but you don't have to face any of it alone. So stop pushing us away, or pretending we're not here, or thinking that you're not 'deserving' of any sort of happiness. You are!" She grabbed the door herself and pushed it open. "We might be hypocrites, Matthew, but we hardly have the monopoly." She stalked away from him then, determined not to look back or shed a tear until she was well away from his sight and the sound of his voice. Let him stew in her words; even if he dismissed everything she had said, at least it would linger momentarily.
And linger, it did. For as Matthew silently watched Mary storm away, one sentence she had spoken continued to repeat itself over and over in his mind:
"You had it, you know…love. I would dare say you still have it…"
She meant Lavinia, of course, and Matthew's mind did wander to his former fiancée…but not at first.
No, at first a different woman had filled his mind when she had spoken those words…but that couldn't be. He had lost Mary's love before the War.
His mind was in a whirlwind. He was supposed to be resting, conserving what strength he could to continue fighting the infection that plagued his body. He wasn't out of danger yet, so both Dr. Clarkson and Mrs. Crawley had told him. And to prove them right, his fever spiked several degrees higher once again, leaving him thirsty and exhausted. It took a great deal of convincing from Mrs. Crawley, Dr. Clarkson, and even himself, for Sybil to be parted from him. She wanted to stay and keep vigil, and perhaps believed she could "get away" with doing that now that they were engaged. The dark circles under her eyes spoke volumes, and Tom knew she would never get any rest if she were left to watch over him. So he forced a smile (which took more strength than he had expected) and murmured that he would see her again tomorrow, before clumsily lifting her hand and brushing his lips against her knuckles.
She had sighed, clearly reluctant to leave, but leave she did, although not without first drawing a gasp from their small audience (and even himself) when she boldly leaned over and brushed her sweet lips against his own dry ones. "Nothing will change," she had whispered, her beautiful face lingering over his for a moment, before finally rising and promising that she would be back early the following morning.
He knew what her words meant, as strange as they may have sounded. It was still so…surreal…this strange understanding that Sybil truly loved him. Loved him and wanted to marry him…and, if he were perfectly honest, that was the main reason he encouraged her to go. He needed some time to truly process everything that had happened to him—to them—and the knowledge he had been given.
"Tom, there's more…"
He groaned at the memory. The happiness that had filled his heart was quickly snatched away as Sybil stroked his bruised cheek and explained that they didn't have to wait until he was out of the hospital—that they could get married right away, that the Crawleys themselves would make all the necessary arrangements to have Mr. Travis come down to the hospital to perform the ceremony at his bedside.
…Just as he had done for William and Daisy.
Tom closed his eyes and gritted his teeth as, despite his fever, a terrible coldness filled his chest and squeezed his heart.
Death. They thought he was dying. He very well might be dying, right at this exact moment! His fever hadn't gone away, it was coming back with a vengeance based on what he had overheard Dr. Clarkson murmur to the night nurse who was on watch. And it suddenly made sense why Lord Grantham would allow his youngest daughter to marry Downton's chauffeur. Because they believed there was no hope for him to make a full recovery.
"I don't believe that…"
Tom's eyes opened as Sybil's words washed over him once more.
"There's still a chance. There is always a chance. And they don't know you like I do…you're terribly stubborn."
It hurt to laugh, but he couldn't help but chuckle at her words, as did she, while sniffling and blinking back tears.
"We must prove them wrong…"
Her hands cupped his face, her touch both gentle and tight, as if she could will all of her strength into him.
"And we will."
He was surprised by his reaction, which…wasn't really much of a reaction. He didn't try to push her away like he had before; in fact his doubt didn't even attempt to fight him. Looking into her eyes, he believed her, more than ever before, that she loved him, and that her wish to marry him had nothing to do with guilt or pity.
And even though he had been told, not in so many words, that the odds were stacked against him and that men from Dr. Clarkson to Lord Grantham were expecting him to die…he felt strangely calm.
Was that Sybil's doing? The way she spoke—never saying the word "you", but "we"—"we will prove them wrong". His mind wandered back to that random day, sometime before the War, when quite out of the blue, she had murmured that she hoped he would go into politics, thinking it a "fine ambition". And when he scoffed at the notion, she remained insistent. She never doubted him, not once. She believed he could do or be anything he set his mind and heart to. And clearly, she thought the same now.
"We must prove them wrong…and we will."
He didn't want to die. He couldn't die, not now. His life would never be the same again, and there was the chance that he might never walk again. But, no pun intended, he would cross that bridge when it presented itself. Now, what he needed to concentrate on was somehow surviving this fever and the infection it was fighting.
One day at time, he thought to himself. Fight this sickness, rebuild his strength, heal, and live, one day at a time.
A strange peace seemed to fill him then. The cold grip around his heart lessened, and he felt his body relax again (or relax as best it could). The tension in his mind eased, and with it came the siren's lullaby for sleep. But before he succumbed, he promised himself that he would awake again. He had to.
After all, he couldn't sleep through his own wedding.
"I would just like to remind you—"
"Travis," Violet Crawley cut the vicar off before he could repeat what he had already said the previous day. "I am well aware about your misgivings—believe me when I tell you are not the only person present who shares them. However, that being said, you will perform this service…or I will personally write to the Bishop himself."
Travis closed his mouth and gave a stiff smile and nod of his head, before holding the door open for the Dowager Countess. Behind them, and walking a much more sluggish pace, were the bride's parents. Cora glanced up at Robert, wondering (not for the first time that day) if her husband would require smelling salts. At least they were in a hospital, should the need arise. "Come along, my dear," she whispered encouragingly into his ear. Robert grimaced, but continued to move, one foot in front of the other. He felt like a man being led to his execution.
Behind Lord and Lady Grantham moved their eldest daughter, and Robert's heir, who insisted on pushing himself, despite the offers of help from numerous nurses. Matthew glanced up at Mary, wondering if he should say something to her. They hadn't spoken since their argument in the dining room the previous day, and her words had been plaguing his mind (as well as his heart). Looking at her now, she was all "pale and tragic", and it wasn't missed by Matthew that she had chosen to wear black. He frowned and without pausing to think, muttered, "Your attire is not what one would traditionally see, being worn to a wedding."
She kept her eyes focused directly in front of her, before muttering back, "Perhaps that's because this is far from a 'traditional' wedding?"
Matthew thought then that perhaps it was best to continue their journey in silence.
At the back of the processional was Edith, who was walking beside the bride and who couldn't help but steal glances every so often, taking in the blushing glow and joyful aura that Sybil was positively radiating. It amazed Edith, both how she hadn't been aware that there was something going on between her sister and Branson, but also how despite all the negative prospects facing poor Branson, Sybil could look so…happy.
"Do you truly want this?" Edith whispered into Sybil's ear, taking hold of Sybil's wrist and urging her to slow her steps, putting a bit more distance between the two of them and the rest of the family.
Sybil looked surprised at Edith's question, but a smile spread across her face and she gently nodded her head. "I do," she answered, before blushing and smiling even broader as those two little words sank in.
Edith wanted to be happy for her sister; the match was unusual, yes, and Branson certainly wasn't…well, he wasn't like any of the gentlemen who they typically kept acquaintance with, however…she did like Branson, and she always appreciated his encouraging words (even when she knew he was gripped with terror whenever she got behind the wheel of a motor). Besides, the only other possible prospect that Sybil had was Larry Grey, and Edith definitely approved of Branson far more than Larry, even if he was one of…well, more like them.
Still, she struggled with understanding Sybil's happiness, considering the obstacles that lay ahead. "Would you do this even if…" Edith bit her lip, trying to best choose her words. "Even if he…he weren't—"
"Yes," Sybil answered, without pausing. And then also adding, "But he's not going to die, Edith."
Edith frowned. "You don't know that—"
"You're right, I don't," Sybil sighed. "And I'm well aware of what both Cousin Isobel and Dr. Clarkson have said, but…" she stopped moving and looked directly into Edith's eyes, and Edith felt her breath catch at the faith and love she saw reflected. "I can't explain it…I just…I just know."
Oh, how she wanted to believe her. She truly did. Just as desperately as she wanted to believe that Lt. Gordon was truly Patrick. Edith squeezed Sybil's hand and smiled back at her, her own eyes shining with tears. "I will continue to pray for him," she whispered. Sybil returned Edith's smile, as well as the squeeze, and together they resumed their walk.
The odd parade eventually made it to Tom's room, and Sybil's smile grew even more as she met his eyes, ignoring everybody else around them. She knew, despite their words, that they didn't approve. Perhaps Isobel, Matthew and Edith did, but she wasn't foolish enough to believe that her parents or grandmother, or even Mary, were truly happy with her choice. But she didn't care, because this was her choice—one she should have made years before.
Tom sat up a bit straighter in his bed, or as best he could, considering the circumstances. Isobel stood nearby, and she smiled at Sybil, as did Dr. Clarkson from the corner where he stood, though his was a bit forced. But she didn't care, she kept her eyes on Tom, his face washed and shaved, his hair combed, and who wore a brown jacket over his pajama top. His cuts were healing, and the bruising seemed to have gone down. She knew he wanted to look his best, though in her opinion, no matter what, he would always be handsome.
Unlike her, Tom had a harder time shutting out the frowning faces of their "wedding guests". But in some ways, he was grateful for the disapproval; he felt a new sense of strength fill him, and even more determination to prove their assumptions about him—about them—wrong.
The vicar cleared his throat then, winning everyone's attention at that moment. "Well…I suppose we should get started…" he sighed, not even bothering to hide his obvious displeasure.
"Yes, we shall," Sybil announced then, and with a sweet smile, removed her coat, revealing her wedding frock at long last, and earning a gasp from everyone in the room. Poor Travis looked like he might be in need of smelling salts, while Lord Grantham groaned and the dowager countess muttered something incoherent under her breath. As for Tom, he couldn't help but grin…and even chuckle, as his eyes danced with merriment and love at the sight of his bride, her legs swathed in blue silk in what Tom endearingly thought of as her "harem pants".
Sybil winked at him, sharing a secret smile, before walking directly to his bedside and taking his hands in her own. Tom couldn't resist and brought her knuckles to his lips once again, kissing them and gazing up at her with wonder and love. To hell with the rest of them and their opinions; she was all that mattered.
"Ready?" she whispered, squeezing his hands.
"Aye," Tom murmured, returning the squeeze before looking over at Mr. Travis, who was still pale from the shock of Sybil's attire.
Travis, realizing that everyone was staring at him, quickly closed his mouth and swallowed, before forcing his eyes away from Lady Sybil and down to the book in his hands. "Right…" he cleared his throat once more and took a deep breath, before lifting his face back to the couple before him. "Dearly beloved…"