Author's Note: "We do not remain in Purgatory idle. There is much work to be done even while we suffer our torments."1 … "The souls immersed in those flames suffer only from love."2
1 "Insight into Suffering Souls," Louise D'Angelo.
2 from Notebooks, 1943, Maria Valtorta
Disclaimer: I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.
Mr. Bates, returning downstairs after dressing Lord Grantham for the afternoon, found the chauffeur already seated at the long table in the servants' hall reading the newspaper. Mr. Bates informed him that Lord Grantham was in the library, but would ring when he was ready to leave. Mr. Branson nodded, and returned to anxiously conning the newspaper, in a manner reminiscent of a schoolboy cramming for an examination he was sure he was going to fail, with disastrous results.
Mr. Bates, despite the benefit of years of acquaintance with the boy in which to become familiar with Mr. Branson's subtly nuanced 'Secret Language of the Newspaper,' was yet unfamiliar with this particular mannerism, and wondered what it meant. He considered how he might ask his friend about it, but the library bell rang before the valet had formulated a remark he considered acceptable.
The bell made Mr. Branson jump, but he recovered almost immediately, and stood, grabbing his uniform jacket from the back of his chair and shrugging himself into it in a fluid movement born of long practice. He looked down at the newspaper worriedly.
Mr. Bates said, "Is something wrong, Mr. Branson?"
Mr. Branson turned to his friend and said bleakly, "Nothing we're going to be able to do anything about, Mr. Bates." And then he was gone.
Tom's next letter from Mam arrived with an ominous quickness. It was think and heavy, in an oversized envelope. He found himself taking a deep breath to steady himself before he could bear to open it. 'Please, St. Ambrose, help her to be on our side,' he found himself thinking, almost desperately. Tom did not know what he would do if he had to fight his own mother. He loved his mother, but he was in love with Sybil. He slit the envelope. It contained a good half dozen sheets of paper and a sealed envelope.
A Amadáin,
Received your 'explanation.' Very well. I concede that to remonstrate with you further would be pointless, though I find I can't resist saying that since you intend to persist in your folly, 'kissing the rod' would be an empty, and therefore pointless, gesture. (Perhaps Lord Grantham has a copy of Obedience of a Christian Man which you could borrow to refresh your recollection of the idea the phrase is supposed to convey?)
Tom grimaced. He wished Mam weren't so right all the time.
Please give the enclosed letter to your lady for me. Do not allow her to open it in your presence, and do not ask her what it says. If I wanted you to know that, I wouldn't have sealed it, would I?
Did she really think he would open it? He looked at the sealed letter, address simply Lady Sybil Crawley. He did want to know what it said. Was she telling Sybil not to marry him? Would Sybil listen to her…? He put Sybil's letter down on the table, and returned to the letter he was allowed to read.
I hope she is like Danny. God knows your cousin was the only one who ever knew how to deal with your mad starts… she'll need his kind of toughness if she wants to make her life with you.
I thought I'd send you a partial list now, so you can get starting writing letters… The remaining pages contained a detailed list of the names and addresses of about a two dozen families, how he was related to them, what the households consisted of, where the employed members of these families worked, how likely they were to be willing and/or able to provide assistance to the young couple, and the kind of assistance they might be able to provide in their search for employment and lodgings. The locations ranged from San Francisco in America, to Sydney, Australia, and the types of work from acting to zoo keeping.
She closed saying she had begun negotiations with Father Cornelius on the subject of the latter's willingness to wed him to a Protestant.
I still think this is very foolish, but you're a grown man and must do as you think best. I'll do what I can to help.
Love,
Mam
Tom did not actually weep with relief, but he came close.
Lady Sybil walked into the garage to find Tom working at the desk in the office alcove. He rose automatically as she entered. Because they were out of the line of sight of anyone in the courtyard, they kissed in greeting.
"Don't look so apprehensive," Sybil said. "I'm here on business. Mama wants to change the time of her trip to Ripon tomorrow."
Branson nodded, and found the next day's schedule in the mass of papers. "What does she want to change it to?"
"Ten o'clock in the morning."
"That'll be all right," he said. He leaned down to mark the correction on the schedule.
"Why don't you sit?" Sybil suggested.
Branson looked at her in surprise. "Milady, I can't—"
Sybil interrupted him by leaning in with a kiss to his mouth, then pulled back again. "You can't sit while your fiancée is standing?"
Branson blinked at her.
"Tom, sit down," she pushed him into the chair. "I have to leave in a minute anyway. And my name is 'Sybil.'"
"Yes, Sybil," Branson replied in the same tone he would have used to call her 'milady.' He was looking down at the desk.
"What's wrong?" Sybil reached towards him, slipped a finger under his chin, and used it to gently raise his face so he was looking up towards her. He definitely looked troubled. She thought about the way she had heard Edith speak to him. She let a little steel creep into the gentle tone. "Tom, tell me what's wrong."
It took him awhile to answer. Her finger was still under his chin, and she felt some pressure from it as he started to try to lower his head again, so he would not have meet her eyes. Sybil stiffened her hand, letting him feel her silent resistance. If he didn't want to face her, he was going to have to move his head away from her hand. He stopped trying to look down, since she would not allow it.
"I wish—" there was a frog in his throat, and he paused to clear it. "I wish we could tell his lordship." Sybil removed her hand from under his chin. He moved his head as though to ease a crick in his neck.
"We will tell him, Tom," she assured him, "when it's time."
"Yes, but—"
"Tom, are we ready to leave Downton?"
"No."
"Then we can't tell him yet… what about your mother?"
"She's sent you a letter." Tom pulled it out of his pocket and handed it to her. Sybil made as if to open it, and he reached a hand to stop her. "Don't. Take it into the house. Read it in your room."
"Why?"
Tom sighed. "She says you're not to read it in my presence."
Sybil looked at him oddly. "You're mother's in Ireland, Tom, she won't know whether you've obeyed her or not."
"I'll know."
"Don't you want to know what she says?"
"Yes, I do, but she doesn't want me to know, according to the letter she sent me."
Sybil smiled in amusement. "And you're tied to her apron string, even though you've been living in England and haven't seen her in six years?"
Tom pursed his lips thoughtfully. "You know what they say about that in Ireland?"
"No, what do they say?"
"A boy's best friend is his mother, and there's no spancel stronger than her apron string."
'At least he's smiling now,' Sybil thought.
"Besides," Tom continued. "We need her help. And if we're smart, that means we'll do as she says."
Back in her room, Sybil slit the envelope and opened the letter that was addressed to Lady Sybil Crawley.
Dear Lady Sybil,
I understand from my son that you and he are engaged to be married.
Welcome to the family.
While my son has explained himself to me as well as he is able, I admit to feeling some concern. Tommy's ideas about the world do not always strictly conform to reality. I fear his optimism may bring him to grief.
On the face of it, it seems to me very foolish for the daughter of an earl to contract an alliance with the family chauffeur.
I hesitate to ask this, but would you be willing to tell me why it seems a good idea to you? If you are not willing, feel free to tell me to mind my own business.
Your obedient, humble servant,
Brenna Branson
Lady Sybil looked at the letter for a long time. How in the world could she answer?