A/N: If anyone out there is still interested in this story, all I can say is I truly don't deserve you after my appalling record at updating - especially as I am well aware I left you hanging in the middle of a story arc. So I apologize profusely for the 3 month delay in getting this out. That said, its a long chapter so I hope that makes up for it !

Recap (very necessary !): We left Tom and Sybil just after a fight about his presence at and subsequent disappearance after the burning of an Anglo-Irish house by the anti-treaty republicans. We pick up three months later.

Manchester, April 1923

Life went on. There was a house to run, a job to go to, children to be cared for. As the weeks went past, the rhythm of the family returned; he went to work in the mornings and Sybil managed the house and cooked his suppers. They couldn't afford the luxury of living separate lives. But the thread that bound them to each other whilst not broken, was badly frayed. His apology had been sincere and he tried to make it more than just words by being watchful and attentive of her moods, but he found he couldn't make Clonard go away. She wouldn't talk about it and turned in on herself, burying her feelings under the calm veneer inherited from generations of Crawley women. What had happened was never mentioned, but he knew she had not forgotten about it. He wasn't even sure if he was forgiven.

April bought Peter's birthday and the family party that went with it. Niamh and Aoife were favoured guests; there was no way the family could not go. Tom suggested that she went without him, but she vetoed that. She didn't want to give her family any reason to ask questions, although she did not explain that to Tom.

No-one noticed. Mary was too caught up with her own children and Cora had never really had the ability to read Sybil's mind. Clonard was, if not forgotten, resigned to very firmly to the past. Only Violet noticed their separateness, all the more obvious to her for their patent lack of it in the past.

She tackled Mary the day after the children's party.

"Sybil is looking weary," Violet said, watching her youngest granddaughter from across the drawing room. "The bloom has quite gone."

"Do you think so ?" Mary answered, looking closer at her sister. "I hadn't noticed. She was running around in the nursery this morning. She seemed to have plenty of energy with the children,"

Violet pressed her lips together tightly. "She's spending too much time with those girls. She'll spoil them."

"Honestly, Granny," Mary rolled her eyes. "She's their mother. I rather envy her, sometimes. I wish Nanny wasn't so strict with George and Peter's routine."

Violet's eyes widened in horror.

"Well, I should hope she is ! We don't want the future Earl of Grantham tied to his mother's apron strings. It won't help him when he goes to school."

Mary gave her grandmother a hard stare, then turned round and said airily

"Actually, we're not sure about sending him away to Eton. Sybil is right. There's a perfectly good day school in Ripon."

Violet nearly fell off her chair.

"Wha-what ? But the Earls of Grantham have been educated at Eton since the seventeenth century ! Have you told your father about this ?"

"Not yet,"

"And I really wouldn't listen to Sybil about such things. She might be happy to be middle class, but it simply won't do for George and Peter,"

"Their father is middle class, Granny,"

"Not any more, said Violet, darkly. "No, it just seems to me that Sybil isn't quite herself."

"What do you mean ?" asked Mary.

"She just seems a little…." Violet tipped her head to one side as if considering her next words. "…dispirited."

"You think Sybil is unhappy ?"

Violet said nothing. Mary looked at her sister thoughtfully.

"She was rather quiet at dinner last night."

"Tom, too….." added Violet thoughtfully. "I shall ask Sybil to have tea with me tomorrow morning. It's been too long since I have had a chance to talk to her on her own."

"Granny," warned Mary, "what are you planning ? You know Sybil –"

"Yes, I do know Sybil. That is precisely why I want to talk to her."

Sybil was none too pleased at being summoned to her Grandmother's but found herself unable to come up with an adequate excuse.

She assumed her grandmother wanted to see the children.

"I'll come straight after Nanny has finished breakfast, then Niamh can still have a nap before –"

"No, dear, I want to see you. Your children are delightful little girls, but they are not conducive to conversation."

Sybil bristled. Somewhere, she suspected, there was a barb hidden in that remark.

"I thought you'd want to see them."

"I have seen them. And I will see them when you come again. But for now, its their mother I want to see."

So she had dressed herself swiftly after breakfast, before Tom returned from the dining room and after a swift visit to the nursery, walked into the village. If she thought the relative earliness of the hour had caught her grandmother out, she was mistaken. Violet was expecting her and once she had her settled in the drawing room, she rang for tea.

"So," Violet flexed her fingers around the silver top of her cane, "the chauffeur has disappointed you."

It was a statement, not a question.

"Granny !" No-one at Downton referred to Tom as the chauffeur any more, not even privately.

"Tom isn't a chauffeur. He hasn't been for years. You know that."

"But you don't deny the disappointment ?"

She looked down at the cup of tea she was balancing on her lap, feeling the tears she'd not allowed herself to shed finally start to well in the corner of her eyes. She hurriedly put her cup and saucer down and stared out of the window, away from her grandmother.

"I'm just so angry with him," she said, turning back to her with her eyes shining. "How could he do it without even telling me ? "

"Ah, so its the telling rather than the doing that is important."

Unconsiously, she started to twist the dull gold of her wedding ring.

"Would you have stopped him if he had told you ?"

"Yes…maybe. I don't know. I still don't even understand why he did it," she said, getting angry again. "He said he wanted to be involved, but he's never wanted to take sides in this war. He doesn't like the treaty, but he hates the idea of people who stood together to fight for freedom fighting each other. Unless he has something personal against Lord Glenarvy," She shook her head and looked out of the window again. "It just doesn't make sense."

Violet watched her granddaughter as she stared rather hopelessly at the scene outside.

"Did you ever understand him ?" asked Violet, curious.

"Oh yes," came the definite answer. "and he understood me…."

Sybil turned back to look at her, no longer trying to hide her distress.

"Oh, Granny….. !'

Violet sighed.

"Oh, hush, child, hush. So your husband has disappointed you. Every husband disappoints his wife eventually. A man is only a mere mortal, after all. Most women of our sort know their husbands are a disappointment before they marry them. You chose yours for love, so he had farther to fall."

Sybil said nothing, her fingers trembling slightly as she wiped her eyes.

"I take it you do still love him ?"

She stared at where her hands had returned to her lap, twisting her ring again.

"I suppose if I didn't then I wouldn't be so angry."

"Then you must forgive him and go back to your life. A marriage is a long haul, Sybil, not to mention that you have two children. Mark my words, there will be other acts of foolishness. And not always from the chauffeur."

Sybil's head shot up.

"What do you mean ?" she asked.

"Only that one day, my dear, you will disappoint him."

Sybil dried her eyes and Violet rang for more tea.

"No, what you both need," her grandmother said, "is a holiday. "

"A holiday ? Granny – a holiday is rather impractical with two small children…"

"Not the children. You and your husband. Just for a few days, nothing elaborate. Niamh and Aoife can stay with their cousins."

"I don't think we can afford…."

"Which is why I have arranged for you to go and stay with Lady Marlow."

Sybil was taken aback. Her grandmother merely looked at her with a self-satisfied smile.

"Lady Marlow ? But I don't even think I know her !"

"Yes, you do. She came to a houseparty just before Mary's first season. I came out with her. She's a very peculiar woman, an artist. You'll like her."

Sybil raised a rather sardonic eyebrow.

"Granny, I really don't think this is a good idea."

"Oh, its all settled. You won't have to actually stay with her. She has a small studio on her estate at Hartland Abbey. She's quite happy for you and Tom to stay there for a few days. "

Sybil opened her mouth to protest at such unwarranted interference, but found that her grandmother's high handedness had left her speechless. Violet smiled at her encouragingly.

"April in Devon will be very pleasant, I should think."

"And what about Tom's work ?"

"I think, my dear, the appropriate question is what about your marriage ?"

Which is how they came to find themselves bowling down the Great North Road in a car borrowed from the estate on a Thursday afternoon, having left their daughters at Downton. Sybil was silent all the way to Leeds. It was the first time she'd left the children for more than a few hours. Niamh had been fine when she'd explained that she and her sister would be staying with their Granny and Grandpapa for a few days whilst Mummy and Daddy went on a visit, but had wailed piteously when it had been time to say goodbye. Sybil had nearly changed her mind, but Mary had shooed her out of the nursery to her accompaniment of her daughter's tears and hustled her down the stairs and into the car with no pause for thought. By Sheffield she had relaxed a little, though Tom could tell that the children were still playing on her mind.

"They'll be fine, Sybil."

"I know they will. It's just – when we've left them in the nursery before, I've only been a few doors away – not right at the other end of the country."

He gave a small grin.

"We'll probably get back to find they have completely forgotten about us."

She turned to look at him, unsmiling.

"That's not funny."

"I only meant…oh, never mind."

"It's not helpful."

"But you could give me some credit for trying," he muttered under his breath.

They drove on in silence for a few minutes.

"Look, its not too late to turn the car around and go back, if you want to."

"We can't. We've said we're going now."

"We don't have to. We can say one of the girls was sick or something."

"Yes, we do. We can't put Lady Marlow out."

Tom shook his head and stared at the road before him. The idea of a holiday had apparently appeared out of nowhere, presented in such terms that it was impossible to refuse. Arrangements had been made and they were expected. And given the way things were between them, he wasn't in a position to object. Sybil didn't seem particularly enthusiastic about the idea, but she seemed not to be putting up any resistance either, treating it rather as a fait accompli. He was owed time off at the paper, as he'd been working additional hours to get back into his editor's good graces. He had the nasty feeling that if they hadn't been so accommodating, they would have received a call direct from the Dowager Countess herself, something that he would never have been able to live down.

It started to rain just past Leicester. All through the Cotswolds they drove through a damp grey drizzle, the windscreen wipers creaking like a arthritic metronome. It slowed them down so that by the time they passed into Wiltshire, the daylight was fading and the rain had become heavier, drumming on the roof of the motor car and making the temperature drop rapidly. They stopped in at a pub in Westbury to have something to eat and to warm up a little, then drove through Somerset in the dark, the rain now settled in for the night. It was ten o'clock before the found themselves setting off across the open hills of Devon, the rain heavy and unremitting. It was hard to see further than the ends of the beam from the headlights and it was starting to drip through the seal between the door and the roof. Sybil pulled her coat around her more tightly and glanced over at Tom, his face impassively looking at the road ahead.

"You must be tired. Do you want to stop again ?"

He shook his head.

"There's not much around here. And to be honest, I just want to get there now."

She gave him a small nod.

"I'm sorry."

He looked at her momentarily, before dragging his eyes back to the road.

"What for ?"

"Dragging you all this way. I should just have told Granny –"

"Well, we're here now. We might as well make the best of it."

"Even so…."

"What is it you regret, Sybil ? Coming all this way or spending time alone with me ?"

His belligerence caught her unawares.

"Don't be silly."

"Don't belittle me. You've been avoiding me ever since I got back from Ireland."

"No I haven't !

"Yes, you have.. You don't tell me anything. I don't even know what you're feeling anymore."

Even in the dark, he could see her withdraw into herself.

"I don't want to talk about it. Not now."

"No," he said, staring ahead into the darkness. "You never do."

They drove the remainder of the way in silence apart from a few directions. As they approached the coast the wind got up, changing the steady drumming of the rain to wild squalls, as if some enraged weather god were hurling fistfuls of rain across their windscreen. The roads got smaller and the sparse hedges started to list, salt-pruned by the prevailing wind. Occasionally they would pass the lights of a small hamlet until finally they could see the horizon between the hills become a flat, inky black. They'd reached the coast.

They found the inn on Hartland Quay where they were to pick up the keys without too much trouble, the lights from the bar only dimly visible from outside. Tom rushed inside and reappeared a few minutes later with water dripping off the back of the brim of his hat. He took it off; his face and hands were wet just from the few yards to the door and back.

"It's back up the hill, he said, then off to the left before we hit the main road again."

Crawling back the way they had come, they spotted a turning off to the left about half a mile up the road. It was an exposed single track road and as they could see when they turned onto it, descending onto a steep incline. Tom put his foot on the brake.

"I don't like the look of this. Where is this bloody place ?"

"It has to be down here. This is the only road we've seen."

"I can't take the car down there. Not in this weather."

"What ?"

"It's too steep. I'll not trust the brakes in this rain. We'll end up off the edge of the cliff. Wait here." He grunted as he pushed the door open against the wind.

"Where are you going ?" she asked with alarm.

"I'll go and have a look and see if I can see anything,"

"Tom ! " But he had already let the wind slam the door and started striding off down the hill, his hand clamping his hat on his head, disappearing into the dark.

There was nothing she could do but stay put and listen to the rain. She pulled her coat to her chin and stared out miserably into the dark. She missed the children, she'd argued with Tom already, and they were in the middle of nowhere. It seemed as if Granny's idea was going horribly, horribly wrong. The car door opened and Tom stuck his head in, a stream of rainwater running off the brim of the hat.

"I've found it. It's down the hill. It's not far, but we'll have to walk."

She nodded, and pushed the car door open and followed him to be back of the car where he was dragging their bags out.

"Let me."

"No," he said irritably, " you go and open it up. I have to move the car." He gave her the keys and shut the boot, moving past her to get in the car again.

She set off down the hill and within minutes her feet, hair and legs were soaking. The rain ran inside her coat and down her neck. By the time she saw the house at the bottom of the hill her face was dripping. It was a small, white low-roofed cottage, set some way back from the road. It looked desolate, but at the moment she didn't really care. It offered shelter from the rain and the wind and that was enough to make her break into a run.

The lock on the door was old and temperamental and her fingers were cold and numb, but sheer desperation and brute force turned the key in the lock. The door swung open, revealing a small flagged hallway.

The downstairs consisted of two rooms running the entire depth of the house on either side of a small hallway with another room at the back. One was a living area with a sofa and a couple of rustic tables; on the other side of the hall was a room that was evidently some sort of studio, almost a glasshouse with a view onto what in daytime would be the sea. The room at the back was a small bathroom, complete with fresh towels. Someone was expecting them. The living area was neat and tidy, but with the air of a room not recently used. She shivered. It was also cold. A basket of logs sat by the fire and someone had already made up the hearth with kindling, ready to be lit. She pulled off her sodden hat and coat, slipped out of her shoes and went to light the fire before investigating further.

The fireplace was obviously well-kept and a small fire was soon beginning to draw. She wandered into the room on the other side of the hall and found a light switch – it was indeed a studio, with old canvasses stacked up against the back wall. The front wall had been opened up and replaced with large windows – during to day, the room would be flooded with light. A small latched door on the back wall revealed a narrow set of stairs when she opened it to investigate. Venturing up the first few steps, she could see that they lead to a bedroom underneath the eaves, with a large bed already made up. Also along the back wall of the studio was a sink and a small stove -obviously it served as somewhere to brew a cup of tea or make a simple meal. Again there was evidence that they were expected – a fresh bottle of milk and a loaf of bread stood next to a brown paper bag containing some tea, a pat of butter and a couple of eggs. She'd just lit the stove and set the kettle to boil and was in the process of peeling off her sodden stockings and skirt when the door opened and Tom appeared carrying their suitcase, bringing with him the smell of damp wool. He was pulled up a little short by the sight of his wife in nothing but her slip and a blouse with a water stain down the front, her soaking wet hair hanging like rats tails around her face.

"Let me take that," she said, hurrying to take the suitcase from him and swinging it onto a chair. She flipped it open and started rummaging through it until she found her nightgown, his pyjamas and a couple of sweaters, all of which she draped in front of the fire. "and best get out of those wet things. It's quite chilly in here"

She disappeared into the bathroom and trotted back with a pile of towels, her teeth starting to chatter in the chill. Tom, stripped down to his undershirt and trousers, began to towel dry his head vigorously.

"You're shivering," he said, putting the towel down. "Come in front of the fire."

She did as he bid and he started to rub her hair too, then her neck and shoulders and her arms.

"Your blouse is soaked through. No wonder you're cold."

Quickly they rid themselves of their wet things, hurriedly pulling on dry nightclothes and sweaters in front of the fire. She made some tea and they pulled the sofa up as close to the fire as they could, huddling together to share the warmth. She had pulled her frozen feet up, sitting on them to warm them up. He reached down and grabbed her toes, rubbing them slowly.

"Your feet are freezing, love. Come here," he said, opening his arms. Gratefully, she let him pull her to him, tucking her hands into the sleeves of her jumper.

"What was your grandmother thinking ?" he sighed. All trace of his earlier irritation seemed to have dissipated. 'Where do we sleep ?"

She looked up.

"Upstairs. The bed's already made up, but there's no fire."

"It'll probably be freezing up there."

"It can't be as bad as our flat in Dublin," she said.

"I sincerely hope its not," he said looking down at her. "God, that was cold. This is supposed to be a holiday."

Sybil snorted.

"Or Granny's idea of a holiday."

"I can't see the Dowager staying somewhere like this."

She giggled.

"I'd like to, though."

"That would be worth seeing," he nodded, smiling down at her. She returned his gaze for a moment, then turned away with a shy smile to put down her cup.

"We should go to bed. You must be exhausted."

He followed her up the narrow stairs to the bedroom, turning sideways to fit his feet on the steep stairs and nearly hitting his head on the ceiling when he reached the top. The room was indeed cold, so they tumbled beneath the covers and pulled them over themselves, shuffling close together for warmth. Tom was asleep within minutes. Sybil lay and listened to the rain, letting the small room and his closeness resurrect the ghost of their life in Dublin.

She awoke the next morning with a start. The room was awash with morning sunlight that streamed through a previously unnoticed window, reflecting off the whitewashed walls. Tom was still asleep and had turned away on his side during the night, leaving her face to face with his warm back. Whether it was the bright light or the unfamiliar surroundings she felt wide awake, sliding out of bed and softly slipping across the bare floorboards. The window was low and had a deep stone ledge, allowing her to sit and stare out. What she saw made her gasp. The view was almost perfectly bisected by the horizon, where a weak blue spring sky disappeared into a sea of an impossible aquamarine. The sun caught on the water, making its surface appear as a shifting quilt of darkness and light. Over to the left she could see the small quay with a couple of boats moored and behind that, another headland. She'd had few experiences of the sea, but had fallen in love with it every time she saw it. She looked back at the bed.

"Tom ?" she called, with a soft smile.

But he didn't stir.

No matter, she thought. On an impulse she opened the window a little and let the breeze play on her face, content to sit for a while and take in the briny smell. When she looked back at the bed again he'd turned over and flung his arm into the space she'd left, his face only half-visible in the pillow. Tom had never been one to sleep in, but in the last month it had become a common occurrence for his side of the bed to be empty when she woke with Aoife at six in the morning. She'd find him in the kitchen with a cup of tea, or already dressed and ready to get an early tram to the office. Even on a Sunday he would be awake before either of the children, unable to get back to sleep. She decided to let him sleep on, instead grabbing her robe and carefully navigating the narrow stairs to put the kettle on.

In the end she must have disturbed him, because he followed her down about fifteen minutes later, his eyelids still heavy with sleep and his hair falling over his forehead. Wordlessly, she passed him a cup of tea.

"Thanks, love. What time is it ?" he asked, squinting in the bright light of the studio.

"Half past eight."

His eyes flew wide

"Really ? I didn't realize it was that late."

"It doesn't matter. We don't have to be anywhere this morning. There's some eggs. Do you want some ?"

"Please." He nodded, padding barefoot to the wall of glass opposite them that now afforded a wide view of the sea.

"It's beautiful, isn't it ?"

"Yes. It reminds me of Ireland," he said, turning back to her.

She gave him a sad smile and returned to their breakfast. They ate their eggs and toast on the sofa in near silence, one not brought about by her, Sybil couldn't help thinking. This morning it was Tom who was keeping his own counsel and it concerned her a little to realize that she didn't really know where his thoughts were taking him.

When they'd finished, he gathered their plates up and took them into the studio, where she could hear him washing them under the tap. He reappeared, leaning in the door frame to the living room, with his arms crossed in front of him.

"What did you want to do this morning ?" he asked her.

"We really should go and pay our respects to Lady Marlow," she said, "but its such a lovely morning, perhaps we can go for a walk and visit her on the way. We needn't stay for long," she assured him as a trace of a frown crossed his features, "just really to thank her for letting us stay here. If we go this morning we can get it over and done with."

He nodded.

"Alright."

By the time they left the cottage, the breeze had dropped and the sun was warm on their backs as they walked back along the road towards the small village below Hartland Abbey. Sybil had pulled on one of her simple patterned cotton dresses and the straw hat she had worn to Matthew and Mary's wedding. She left her coat behind, welcoming the warmth of the sun on the back of her neck as a sign that Spring was well on its way. The hedges along the road had the pale, delicate green of new shoots and the grass verges were in need of their first cut of the year. She slipped her hand into Tom's arm as they walked along, and again felt the hint of something she had recently lost.

Hartland Abbey was a crenellated grey Victorian building that looked no more like an Abbey than Downton did – but it was on a much smaller scale, obviously built as a family home. The door was opened by an elderly butler, who showed them into a Victorian take on a baronial hall.

"Lady Marlow is working at the moment, milady. I will tell her you are here."

"Thank you, Heath."

With that he disappeared through an arched doorway, leaving them on their own. Tom looked with interest at his surroundings. The mock gothic was offset by a number of large paintings, some obviously pre-Raphaelite, long-faced medieval virgins looking imploringly heavenward, but there were other works he couldn't make head nor tail of. They seemed to be figures, but oddly composed of straight lines and angles that broke up anything recognizable, as if you were looking at the subject through a child's kaleidoscope.

"Cubism," said Sybil, coming to stand next to him. "It was very avant-garde, before the war."

"What's it supposed to be ?"

"I don't know," she smiled.

They were interrupted by a cough as the butler had reappeared.

"If you would follow me, milady, Mr Branson."

He turned elegantly on his heel and lead them back the way he had come, through a spacious and comfortable looking drawing room and through a set of French windows. Sybil looked at Tom curiously. Heath set off along a graveled path that lead behind the house, towards what looked like the garages. On reaching them, he opened a paint-blistered door, held it open and ushered them through.

The space did look very much like a garage, with a plain concrete floor and work benches arranged around the walls. But instead of tools Tom would recognize, they were laden with bottles of strange looking fluids, pots of brushes, knives and the other detritus of a painter. In the middle of the room was a tall woman of an indeterminate age wearing turban around her head and covered in a painter's overall. She was standing in front of a large rectangular canvas, obscuring whatever it was she was painting.

"Lady Sybil and Mr Branson, your Ladyship."

"God God, is that you, Sybil ? How you've grown ! You weren't out of the nursery last time I saw you. Come here, child, so I can have a proper look at you.

When she turned to greet them, it was easy to see that this woman was indeed a contemporary of the Dowager. In age, at least, for her demeanor was very much of one several decades younger. Tom was reminded of his wife's American grandmother. No wonder the Dowager had called this woman peculiar.

As they approached, the subject of her study came into view. Behind her was a small dias, in the middle of which was a chaise longue. On this stretched a young woman with her hands behind her head and one leg artfully bent, completely naked. Sybil did double take and looked up at her husband, who had looked uncomfortably at a corner of the ceiling, but not before, Sybil noticed, he had taken in the length of her lean, perfectly proportioned body.

"Ianthe, darling, that'll be all today."

The model had seen this too, as she was watching Tom's discomfiture with some pleasure. She continued watching as she got up slowly and deliberately, walking in front of them to retrieve her robe and turning to face them to knot the tie loosely, so that her dressing gown fell apart when she walked.

"Oh, this is my model, Ianthe Brookes. Ianthe, darling, this is Lady Sybil Craw – no, Branson, isn't it ? – and her husband. She is the granddaughter of my friend, the Dowager Countess of Grantham."

Ianthe held out her hand to Tom.

"Charmed, I'm sure," she smiled as she took his hand firmly. "And – Lady Sybil,"

"Miss Brookes," said Sybil coldly, offering her hand.

"Call me Ianthe," she said, "everyone does."

Sybil gave her a small, brittle smile.

"Now, have you settled in at the studio ? I had my housekeeper make sure everything was in order. I hope you're comfortable ?"

"Thank you, yes, we have. It's charming."

"Good. It doesn't get used in the winter. I only use it in the summer, when the light is good. You don't paint yourselves, do you ?" she asked

"Ah, no," said Sybil. "I'm a nurse and Tom – my husband – is a journalist."

"A journalist ?" The model looked back at him in interest. "What paper ?"

"The Manchester Guardian,"

"Oh, that. A little bourgeois for my tastes, I'm afraid."

"Ianthe only reads The Communist."

"You're a communist ?" asked Sybil.

"I'm a Marxist."

Sybil couldn't help giving a smile.

"My father thinks my husband is a Marxist."

"And are you ?" asked Ianthe, ignoring Sybil to raise an eyebrow at Tom. "I would have thought it unlikely if you work for the Guardian."

"I'm a socialist" he replied.

The model gave a dismissive laugh. "Socialists lack conviction. The only way there will be justice in this country is for the working people rise up and overthrow…."

"Oh, spare us another lecture, Ianthe," sighed Lady Marlow as she gathered up her brushes. "Go and get dressed, dear."

Ianthe just smiled at her.

"You can't avoid it, you know. People are restless after the war. There will be a revolution here, just as there was in Russia."

"Oh I do hope not. It would be terribly tiresome. Now," Lady Marlow turned to Sybil, leaving Ianthe to retire and change, "have you made any plans for tonight ?"

"We hadn't really thought that far ahead yet," Sybil said. "

"Then you must come here. I'm entertaining a few friends who are down from London. Nothing grand," she said, notice the uncomfortable look on Sybil's face.

"I'm afraid we didn't bring any evening clothes."

"Oh, don't worry about that. You'd never get these people in black tie anyway, so it will be very informal. "

"I'm not sure Tom will feel like driving tonight," said Sybil, glancing at her husband.

"Then I will send a car."

Sybil opened her mouth to protest.

"No, no, you must indulge an old woman, my dear, and not deny me your company."

"I can't promise we'll be terribly entertaining,"

"With the people who are coming, there will be entertainment enough, believe me. It will be nice to have someone with some sense there." Lady Marlow smiled and wiped her hands on a cloth, releasing an oily smell of white spirit. "I'll send my driver to pick you up at eight."

There was no escaping it. She looked up at him in apology and was rewarded with a small smile of melancholic resignation. It would seem as if their time was not destined to be their own this weekend.

As they were leaving the house, they saw Ianthe Brookes get into a small roadster and drive off at some speed.

"That's a nice car," he commented.

"And that's a very expensive outfit for someone who believes all property is theft," Sybil replied.

An amused smile spread slowly across his features.

"You don't approve of her."

"We haven't had the chance to become properly acquainted," she said stiffly. Tom's smile just widened. "What ?"

"You don't like of her."

"You clearly do," she said crossly, walking away from him.

"What ?" He followed her, mystified.

"Well, you obviously liked what you saw…"

"Sybil, don't be like that,"

She stopped and turned around, gripping the handle of her bag fiercely with both hands.

"Like what ?"

"Look, I couldn't really avoid it…the way she was….." He swept his hand in front of him vaguely, as if wiping out a rather distasteful image.

She lowered her gaze to a point several feet in front of the toe of her shoe., her mouth set in a dissatisfied line as she glanced up at him. He was smiling at her, a small, crooked smile of contrition.

"Ah, come on, love, lets forget about Miss Ianthe Brookes and go and have a look at the sea."

Despite herself, she couldn't help smiling back as he reached out for her hand.

They found a pub in the village for lunch then followed a dry dirt footpath along a small shaded river back towards the coast. The path brought them out on the clifftop overlooking the sea, affording them a sense of the coastline beyond Hartland itself, the meandering line that they saw on the map writ large before them, as if scribed by some ancient giant. Standing alone with Tom on the top of the cliff, Manchester and Downton seemed a world away; here, it was just the two of them and all this wide open space. Yet looking out to sea, she knew that as always Ireland lay beyond the horizon, just out of sight, but there all the same.

At eight o'clock sharp there was a knock on the door as Lady Marlow's chauffeur announced himself. He drove them sedately back the way they had walked earlier that day and deposited them at the door of Hartland Abbey, now open in welcome to his mistress's guests. Heath took their hats and coats and guided them back towards the sound of chatter and laughter, evidently coming from the drawing room they had seen earlier.

Lady Marlow had been right about the informality; there were few in black tie; most of the men were dressed for their club and a few were in shirt sleeves, which looked curiously ostentatious in the setting. Men outnumbered women, but the few women who were there were casually, if rather exotically, dressed. Sybil, wearing a plain but serviceable gown suitable for a quiet dinner out immediately felt a frump. And there, lounged comfortably on the sofa in the middle of the room, talking to a small dark man with a ridiculous moustache, was Ianthe Brookes.

Before they had had a chance to register their surroundings, Lady Marlow had gathered them up and, appearing to believe they were adrift, shepherded them towards an older couple and another man who were deep in discussion. The older couple turned out to be artist friends of Lady Marlow and the man an English teacher at a local boarding school. Everyone was very polite, but they couldn't help the feeling that they'd interrupted an easy exchange.

They made polite conversation with several of the older members of the party – or rather, Sybil made polite conversation and Tom felt himself at a loss. His upbringing had no time nor use for art – it was something he associated with an easy existence and the energy and passion with which these people spoke of it bemused him. It felt as if they were talking a foreign language.

Eventually he reached the bottom of his glass and he headed over towards where the butler was guarding the whisky. Heath had just handed him a refill when Ianthe Brookes appeared beside him, holding out her tumbler.

"So you came," she said simply.

"Sybil felt it would be rude not to, seeing as Lady Marlow had been so kind as to ask us."

"I knew you'd come."

"Did you ?"

"Oh yes," she said, turning to smile at him, "I did." She raised her glass to her lips, never taking her eyes from his face. Tom gave her a small smile and started to turn back to Sybil.

"Agatha told me you were the chauffeur when you married Lady Sybil. It seems you're quite the revolutionary," she said.

He paused and looked back at her over his shoulder.

"She said that you burnt down the house of an Irish aristocrat and they threw you in prison. You were nearly shot. That was very brave of you."

"No, it wasn't. It was a very stupid of me."

"You should be proud of it."

He turned back to her, his face clouded and obscure.

"Believe me, Miss Brookes, there is nothing to be proud of in turning a family out of their home."

"Well, I think it was heroic." She shifted her weight to close the gap between them a little and ran a finger over the lapel of his jacket, stopping as it rested over his heart. "And heroes should be rewarded."

She lent forward and whispered something in his ear. It made Tom put his drink down swiftly and look at her in alarm.

"I'm married," he said

"Marriage is an invention of the bourgeoisie, designed to keep women as property. In the glorious Soviet," she said, stepping closer, "women are free to love as they choose."

He picked his drink up again, holding it between them to fend her off.

"If you think my wife is a chattel, you are very much mistaken."

"Yet she is bound to you in law."

"As I am to her."

"I think you'll find that most married men have the freedom to seek their….. pleasure where they want."

He took a step back.

"But not all have the desire to."

She leaned in closer again, her scarlet lips parting to show even white teeth.

"I saw how you looked at me."

He shook his head.

"You're mistaken. I love my wife."

Ianthe looked back over her shoulder at Sybil, trapped in polite conversation with one of Lady Marlow's neighbours. A slow smile spread across her face.

"Really ? Well then. Perhaps I should suggest to her that we share."

Tom almost choked on his whiskey, coughing violently as it went down the wrong way. Sybil looked up in alarm, excusing herself and coming to his side.

"Are you alright ?"

"He's fine," answered Ianthe, grinning. "He's just had a bit of a shock."

"What do you mean ?"

"Only that your husband isn't as revolutionary as he'd like to think he is."

She smiled her slow, lazy smile, picked up her drink and sauntered over to a group of young men busy discussing an upcoming exhibition in London. She glanced back over her shoulder just once before casually interrupting them and making herself comfortable. Sybil watched her go.

"Lady Marlow says she's slept with half the men in the room. Even Kit Wood, whose tastes apparently lie in another direction altogether."

"That doesn't surprise me," he said. "Sybil – do you really want to be here ?"

"Not really. Why ?" she asked, a little suspiciously.

"Then can we go back to the studio ? "

Sybil looked back at the model, now laughing wildly at a tale one of the young men was telling.

"Alright. I'll tell Lady Marlow I'm not feeling well."

The chauffeur dropped them at the crossroads and they walked arm-in-arm down the hill back to the studio in silence. It was not quite dark, the embers of the warm spring day visible on the horizon, glowing where the sun had disappeared into the sea. The water looked dark and menacing, its endless shifting speaking of oblivion. It was beginning to get cold. They let themselves into the studio, shivering a little at the coolness that met them. Tom busily attended to the fire.

"What were you talking to Miss Brookes about ?"

He didn't look up and didn't answer her directly.

"Lady Marlow must have told her about Clonard."

"Oh."

Kneeling in front of the fireplace, he applied the match to the kindling, moving it round to make sure it caught everywhere.

"What was she saying about it ?"

He sighed.

"She has some very foolish ideas," he said. "She's thinks she's a revolutionary, but she has absolutely no understanding or experience of what she's talking about."

He heard her cross the room to stand beside him. She'd taken off her shoes and stockings, he noted.

"She certainly seemed impressed with you."

Her tone was neutral, but he sighed none the less.

"Sybil…"

He looked up and was so surprised by what he saw that he forgot about the lit match he was holding until the yellow flame reminded him and he dropped it, cursing.

Whilst his back was turned, Sybil had stripped to her silk knickers and nothing else.

She knelt to take his hand and turned it over in her palm, inspecting the tips of his fingers. Tom was aware that he was staring at her stupidly, as if he'd never seen her naked before.

"No harm done. You'll live."

Her hands followed his arms up to his shoulders, where she gave a little shove which pushed him back onto the floor. She shuffled a little nearer and pulled herself closer to him.

"I think," she breathed in his ear, "I need to remind you who you're married to."

He'd been staring at her mouth, partly open and just a few inches from his.

"Oh, love - I haven't forgotten," he breathed, before closing the gap.

It wasn't the first time they had been together since Clonard, for Tom had discovered that marriage hadn't just taught Sybil about love, it had also taught her about lust and greed. Those few times had been initiated by her and were intense and physical and devoid of almost any tenderness. Afterwards she had rolled away from him and gone to sleep, leaving him sated but emotionally bereft. This time hadn't exactly been about love, but it had at least been about them. She'd fallen asleep like a rag doll, draped over his chest with one leg thrown over his. He'd pulled a blanket off of the sofa and drawn it around them when the fire had died down, warding off the draught that crept in underneath the door. Time was when he would have lain awake with Sybil in his arms all night, simply content just to feel her skin against his and remember that it was all real. But life was more complicated than that and now nothing seemed quite right any more. Things he had been certain of were proving to be as mutable as the ever-moving sea. Sleep would not come; whilst Sybil's attentions had been a welcome pleasure, his mind was restless. He reached up for a cushion and gently moved her head from his chest, shuffling out from under her. She grunted in her sleep and curled up in a ball. He pulled on his trousers and a sweater and carefully, quietly, let himself out of the front door.

A/N: I've learnt not to make promises, but I really will try and update before too long !