Chapter Thirteen

"And Still They Gazed And Still The Wonder Grew"

After …

In the soft, warm, velvet darkness of the summer's night, they lay drowsy, naked in Tom's bed, listening to the sound made by the falling rain of the sudden storm, drumming upon the slate roof of the quiet house in Clontarf. Outside, while, for the time being, the insistent rain may have made the night its own, here within the secure confines of Tom's bedroom, in the intimacy of his bed, no-one, thought Sybil, not Ma, not Ciaran, not Donal, not Emer, not her parents, not granny, not Matthew, not Mary or Edith; nothing, not the weather, not society's disapproval, not the political tumult, nor the increasing violence, now engulfing Ireland, could ever, would ever, intrude upon the safety and sanctity of their private world.

Sybil snuggled back closer against Tom, who sighed contentedly and, if it were at all possible, sought to enfold her tighter within the comforting circle of his arms which rested just beneath her breasts. For her part, as she lay there, gently caressing her fingers up and down Tom's fore arms, Sybil, gradually, became conscious of an increasingly pleasurable drowsiness enveloping her entire body, giving herself over to a delightful free-floating sensation. It was as if her whole being had turned to liquid silk.

Earlier, despite their all-consuming ardour, for all their urgent need of one another, if the truth be told, Sybil had been somewhat apprehensive about their first moments in bed together. But, so as to spare her any lingering embarrassment born of her straitened upbringing, while she slowly divested herself of her nightgown, while Tom hurriedly discarded first his trousers and then his underpants, he had even taken the time to break reluctantly from her enfolding arms, to extinguish the lamp upon his desk.

In their love making which followed, there were moments of incredible tenderness, such as when Sybil found and then caressed the raised scars on his back, the lasting legacy of the beating Tom had received from his uncle. Sybil hugged him to her in her arms, his tear- stained face resting against her shoulder. And as Tom sobbed quietly against her shoulder, the origin of the scars suddenly dawning on her, Sybil kissed Tom's tear stained face over and over again.

"My love, my darling. My dearest, dear. It's over. It's done with. Gone for ever. Let the past go my love".

And, then, for the first time ever in his adult life, here, enfolded in the comforting arms of the woman he loved to distraction, God how he loved her, in the most intimate of lovers' embraces, at last, deep within him, Tom felt the agonized, heartbreaking memories of his stolen childhood begin to recede: to dwindle, to fade, to vanish beyond the point of either recall or remembrance. They could hurt him no longer. Now, he had thoughts only for Sybil who was moaning, enfolding him tightly in her protecting arms, raking his skin with her scouring nails. And then, Tom had no thoughts even of her; for nothing in fact, except drowning in the sheer physical sensations that were claiming his entire body.

For Sybil, the pleasures of their love making had been no less enjoyable, no less intense. Tom had been so gentle with her, calming her fears, as for that very first time they became one. He had been just as considerate of both her lingering fears and her needs, when they had made love again for the second time, but a short while later. And after, when he had enfolded her in his comforting arms, she felt the luckiest girl in the world.

And now, afterwards, and so as to cause the least disturbance possible, Sybil turned herself slowly in Tom's enfolding arms until she was facing him. She raised her head and kissed him fully on the lips, murmuring gently, "Tom I absolutely adore you".

Tom stirred softly.

Although he was by now half asleep, he opened an enquiring eye, raised his face to gaze at her, before resting his head back against Sybil's shoulder where, he made himself more comfortable, held her closer still if that were possible.

"Well, milady" he said sleepily, "it's just as well you do …" Here Tom stifled a satisfied, half yawn. "After what we've just done".

Why, thought Sybil, does he always have to be so infernally pleased with himself? Not that she really minded. Gently she batted Tom's chest, snuggled closer in his arms. God, she thought, why hadn't they let this happen earlier? But, on reflection, she felt sure, no knew for certain, that now had been the right time - for both of them.

Thereafter, until but a short while later, she fell asleep, Sybil gave herself over to reflect upon their forthcoming wedding now but a week or so distant, and to what she had but recently learned of Tom's past history.

Their wedding plans had proceeded very smoothly indeed. This was despite Sybil's earlier misgivings about the religious divide existing in Ireland between Catholic and Protestant, not that it was, to be truthful, something which they had discussed that much. Of course, it was true that there difficulties between those who professed different faiths in Ireland, but mixed marriages between Catholic and Protestant were quite common, and the religious divide in Dublin, while it existed, was rarely marked by violence.

All of that was, of course, before Tom had told about his childhood, and it eased matters enormously, to learn that Tom, the son of Anglo Irish parents, notwithstanding that his late mother had been French, whilst having been brought up a Catholic, did not profess much of a religious faith. Given what had happened to him in his boyhood, that, thought Sybil, was hardly surprising. No-one could criticise him for that, least of all herself.

And, while Tom readily assented to Sybil in her wish to be married in church as to opposed to in a civil marriage, to save any difficulties, Tom was quite content to be married in a Protestant, Church of Ireland ceremony; and it was upon that which they had, after some deliberation, decided. After all, from time to time, along with other members of the household staff, Tom had attended services with Sybil's family in the parish church at Downton, and was familiar with the rituals of the Anglican Church.

But, there was something else they had had to consider.

Before they had left for Ireland, both Tom and Sybil had agreed that while Ma, Ciaran, Donal, Emer and their spouses could not, should not, and would not, be kept in ignorance of Sybil's true antecedents, no-one else should know the whole truth.

Given the present situation in Ireland, if anyone found out Sybil's true parentage it would like as not place both her and Tom in serious danger. So, they had come up with a perfectly plausible story. Tom and Sybil had met where Tom had been employed in England and where Sybil had been working as a nurse. After all, there was no disguising the fact that Sybil was English and the story they had put together was not that far removed from the actual truth. But that Tom had been the chauffeur to Sybil's family in England and that Sybil was the youngest daughter of the earl and countess of Grantham was something which must be kept secret - for all their sakes.

It was not a question of lying, merely a case of refraining from volunteering information. After all, provided they did not advertise the fact, it was hardly likely that anyone here in the bustling city of Dublin, midst all the bubbling, swirling ferment of threatening insurrection, would pay any attention to the marriage of a handsome young reporter on the Irish Independent to a pretty dark haired young nurse now working at a hospital in one of the poorest parts of Dublin.

But there was no escaping from the fact, that Tom's revelations to her last night, now placed them in yet further danger. She could well see that no-one, not even her own family, must, for the time being, if ever, know anything of his connection to the Bransons from near Cork, nor of his ownership of what he had told her was, down in Munster (the southernmost of the four provinces which along with Ulster, Connaught and Leinster made up Ireland) known locally as the house on the strand: Skerries House.

Shortly afterwards, and while it was still yet dark, as the summer storm passed away, to the sound of the swish and whisper of fading rain, Sybil fell asleep, safe and secure in Tom's strong enfolding arms.

It was some hours later, the rain having ceased, with the coming of the dawn, outside, down on the still deserted seashore, that the last of the men who had taken it in turns to watch the silent house, turned up the collar of his rain flecked overcoat, extinguished his final cigarette, walked up on to the promenade, boarded the first tram of the day, and headed back into Dublin.

Although he could not have foreseen it, Mr. Carson's most singular indiscretion was shortly to bear extremely bitter fruit.