1919
The best part about being a private nurse, besides the extra money she can send her mother, is the hat. She doesn't have to tie that giant napkin around her skull anymore, she has a small cap she can just pin in her hair. It cuts down on the headaches.
Comparatively speaking, her work now is very easy, almost leisurely. She wonders how the rich can stand it, living such boring, slow, pointless lives. It'd drive her batty.
Sometimes she catches Tom Crawley watching her with Matthew when she's pushing him around in his wheelchair or sitting with him, talking. Sometimes it looks like jealousy, but that's probably just her imagination.
The day Matthew Crawley shows her how he can wiggle his toes, something he just discovered the night before, she knows her days at Downton are numbered. If and when he walks again, he won't need Sybil any longer. But she still has no idea what she's going to do. Maybe ask Dr. Clarkson if she can come work at the village hospital, she's not sure.
Matthew asks her not to tell anyone about his toes, and she promises. It could a fluke. They wait and see if it becomes more than a fluke. But it's not long before she's ferreting out a cane and sneaking it into his room so he can stand up. Stand up. "When you were first brought back here, Mr. Crawley, I never thought I'd see this day."
Matthew smiles, though he's sweating and struggling just to stay upright. "Nor did I, Miss Branson."
They work in secret to strengthen his leg muscles. He wants to surprise his family with something more remarkable than hoisting himself up on a cane to stand teetering on wobbly pins. But when he's finally ready enough, he asks her to be present for the big reveal that night in the drawing room. She knows it will raise eyebrows, but she obliges, slipping into the room after the men join the ladies – including Miss Swire, whom Sybil didn't know had arrived at Downton. She feels strange standing there by the door and she can't bear to look at Tom and Lavinia.
She knows how Matthew plans to show everyone his new legs, but the plan is soon thwarted quite by chance when Lavinia Swire accidentally trips on a footstool and Matthew reacts on pure instinct, leaping up from his wheelchair to grab her and keep her from falling into the fireplace. The cat is out of the bag then, well and truly. "It's a miracle!" the Dowager Countess exclaims, breaking the surprised silence in the room.
"Well actually, Granny, it's not," Matthew says, shooting Sybil a small smile. He explains to everyone how the "miracle" has come about, tells them how they've been working in secret, and suddenly it's the homecoming celebration he never got upon his return. Champagne is brought in and she's welcomed into the celebration like she's one of them, one of the family. It's a nice feeling, but odd, and standing next to the women in their glamorous dresses she feels like an ugly duckling in her plain uniform.
Two strong hands on her shoulders turn her around and she's suddenly face to face with Tom and his shining eyes, his brightest smile. He pulls her against him right there in front of everyone, hugging her tight, a big bear hug. She's pretty sure she's jostled champagne onto his dinner jacket. He presses his head next to hers, his nose buried in her hair and his lips brushing her ear when he whispers, "Thank you, Sybil. Thank you so much. Thank you."
Lady Cora invites her to dine with the family the next evening, in gratitude for helping Matthew. She tries to downplay it – "I was just doing my job, m'lady," – but Lady Cora insists, even sending a few of her old dresses to Sybil's room for her to try on. "I would still wear them myself, my dear, but I'm not quite as slim as I used to be," Lady Cora appends, "But your figure is quite like how mine used to be. They should fit your beautifully. And I'll send Anna in to do something special with your hair. You have such lovely hair, Sybil! I think Matthew will be quite dazzled."
That rings all sorts of alarm bells in Sybil's head. Sometimes she had wondered if Tom asked her to stay in hopes she'd fall in love with Matthew instead. And now Lady Cora seems to be infected by the same notion! Yes, Sybil likes Matthew, he's a lovely man, very kind and gentle, and she's been so happy to see him improve every day, he's come so far. But if that's what Tom hopes, if that's what Lady Cora hopes, that she'll love Matthew, they're both very much barking up the wrong tree. She has less than no desire to be the next Countess.
The dress that suits best between the three Lady Cora sent over is silk and a lovely dark peacock blue with lacy sleeves. Her Ladyship even thought to include long cream-colored opera gloves. And Anna is a wizard with hair, which she's always known. She tells Sybil when she's finished, "You look just lovely, miss."
"Anna! My god, did you just call me miss?" Sybil laughs, surprised.
Anna seems to realize it and laughs too. "I suppose I did! Force of habit after helping dress a fine lady."
"You're too funny, girl."
She's feeling nervous when she heads down to dinner. She longs for the safety of her own clothes, her plain uniform, this dress is too nice for her, she feels like a phony, she's sure her arms look like sausages in these gloves. And then, naturally, she meets Tom on the staircase.
He's on the landing when she's at the top of the stairs. He stops, staring up at her fixedly, his mouth opening a little. She never grows accustomed to the sight of him in his evening clothes. She wants to turn tail and run back to her room. She watches her feet as she goes down to meet him.
"Good evening, Mr. Crawley," she says once she's in front of him. She gasps a little when he suddenly grabs her hand and presses his mouth to it. She's glad and unhappy to be wearing gloves.
"You look absolutely beautiful," he murmurs, letting go of her hand.
"That's very kind."
"We'll make a lady of you yet."
She meets his gaze. "I'm content to be a simple Irishwoman."
"There's nothing simple about you."
She notices now how flushed he looks, how high his color is. "Are you feeling well tonight?" she asks politely.
"Yes. Warm, maybe. I was rushing to get ready. We're both a little late, in fact." He offers her his arm. "Shall we?"
Everyone looks at them when they enter the dining room, they're all here already. This was a mistake, everyone's going to treat her like she's an exhibit in a circus, a monkey in a dress. Lavinia will probably claw out her eyes for walking in on the arm of her fiancée. When they treat her with nothing but welcome and kindness, she has to assume they're patronizing her. Tom seats her next to Matthew, who leans over and says quietly, "Relax, Miss Branson. You're doing fine."
She follows his advice, taking a deep breath, making herself settle down. No one's clawing her eyes out, no one's treating her like a freak except her own self, no one's staring at her. Except Tom. He tries to hide it behind long drinks from his water glass. She tries to ignore it. She also tries to ignore the weird, knowing little smiles Lady Cora keeps giving her and Matthew.
They're barely into the first course when Lady Cora puts down her spoon and announces, "Miss Branson, I'm so very glad you could join us for dinner tonight."
As if she had a choice. "Thank you, m'lady."
"I hope it won't be the last time. But I'm afraid I'm going to have to excuse myself, I'm not feeling too well this evening, as it turns out." And she rises from her seat, all the men rising in turn. "I'm terribly sorry."
"Are you alright, m'lady? Do you need assistance?" she asks, rising as well, putting her nurse's cap on for the moment.
"No, no, I'll be quite alright, thank you, you're very sweet." Sir Robert tries to offer assistance as well, but she puts him off, too, insisting they enjoy their dinner. "Good evening all."
She promises Sir Robert she'll check in on her Ladyship after dinner and the first course ends smoothly after that. The second course arrives, Mr. Carson serving her fish and a raised eyebrow of silent judgment for daring to reach above her station in life. She listens to the others talk about people she doesn't know and places she's never been, and she discovers the Dowager is actually a rather funny woman. She also discovers another reason why Lady Cora and Tom have the wrong idea if they think she and Matthew will soon be announcing their undying love for each other: as much as Tom is staring at her, she finds Matthew staring at Lavinia.
How very interesting.
One could start to get ideas and make plots.
God, this must be how the rich fill all these long days – navigating the murky waters of romantic entanglements, closing themselves off to honest feelings. If she stays here much longer, in Limboland, she really will become one of them.
A sudden clatter stirs her from her thoughts. Tom's knocked over his water glass. "I'm so sorry," he apologizes to no one in particular. He pushes himself up, suddenly looking very pale and unsteady.
"Tom, are you alright?" his father asks.
"I'm fine, I just..." And suddenly he's lurching around, knocking over his chair, and throwing himself on a tall vase, probably valuable, vomiting into it.
"Good god!"
Dinner's over after that.
"It's Spanish flu," Dr. Clarkson announces to the room. She figured as much in the time she had to think about it while she was hurriedly changing back into her nurse's uniform, before the doctor arrived. The rest of the family takes it with equanimity, all too familiar with the reports in the papers over the last few months. But their fear is palpable. Justifiably so.
Clarkson stays until the wee small hours, but there's very little he can do for Lady Cora or Tom. And there's very little she can do either except monitor them, try to make them comfortable. They're both asleep very soon, their fevers not too high, and the rest of the family go to bed eventually. She stays dressed and on duty, more or less - taking a few naps in her room because there really isn't much she can do.
But by mid-morning, both Tom and Cora are deteriorating rapidly. She tries not to show how concerned she is, keeping her professional mask in place. The truth is she's not concerned, she's terrified. Specifically for Tom.
Miss O'Brien insists on sitting with Lady Cora and Sybil shows her how to do her best to keep the patient cool with wet towels, for whatever good that can do. But she does the same for Tom, stripping off his sweat-soaked undershirt and keeping the wet cloths coming. He practically burns right through them.
By that evening, Dr. Clarkson is at the house again, on-call, and Sir Robert has taken up the vigil with the immoveable Miss O'Brien. Lady Cora will be lucky to survive the night.
She leaves her Ladyship's room and returns to her post in Tom's, where she finds Tom dead asleep, Matthew and Lavinia sitting with him silently, Lavinia resting her hand atop Tom's limp one. "Sybil?" Lavinia asks in her soft voice. "Will Tom... Is he going to..."
Live? Die? "I'm not sure," she answers honestly. "But I'm going to sit up with him and I will come get you immediately if anything changes. For better or worse."
"Thank you."
Matthew and Lavinia leave for bed, Lavinia pushing the chair he still needs, for now. Sybil takes up her own private vigil over her sleeping patient, pressing wet cloths to his face and neck and chest, wringing them out and wetting them again, over and over and over. It's good he's sleeping, he's been restless most of the day. She studies his face as she trails the cloth over it; he still looks so boyish when he's at peace. She combs back the sweaty hair from his forehead. His scalp is so hot under her fingertips. She touches his neck - it's scalding and his pulse is fast. He stirs, waking up, shifting restlessly, twisting up his sheets, groaning and muttering unintelligibly. "Shh," she hushes him, coaxing him to lie still, running her cloth over his skin. He opens his eyes, his dark blue eyes fuzzy and blinking up at her. She smiles down at him and he seems to focus, swimming up from the depths.
"Sybil?"
"How are you feeling?"
"Sybil, Sybil." His hand finds hers, covering hers as she rest the cloth on his chest. "Sybil. Darling girl."
"Shhh," she insists.
"No, no, listen Sybil." Even his fingers are hot as they stroke against her cheek. "I love you." She shakes her head, trying to shush him again. "I love you so much. I've always loved you. Did you know that? Do you know how much I love you? Always. Always."
It's too much. Her pulse is as fast as his. She threads her fingers with his. "Tom—"
"Do you love me?"
She presses his fingers to her lips. "Yes."
"Where are you? Don't leave me."
"I'm right here."
"I want to be with you forever," he murmurs, his eyes closing. "We'll be together forever. Soon. In the next life, love."
"Shh, darling, stop."
His eyes flutter open again. "Can I have a kiss before I go?" he whispers.
She smooths her hands over his face. "You're not going anywhere. I've got you," she chokes out, trying to speak around the tears.
"Please?" Tom begs.
She leans down and gently kisses him. She's not kissing him goodbye. His lips burn hers. She kisses him deeper, staying there, remembering. It's the same and it's new and it's been...forever. She's not kissing him goodbye.
He falls back into a restless sleep, sweating through the sheets. She won't say goodbye. He's not going anywhere. It's hard to convince herself that's true. Holding his hand, she slides off the bed and onto the floor, kneeling there beside him, clutching his hand to her wet face.
Most days she doesn't think about God, other days she thinks he's an impossibility. Tonight she begs God to let Tom live.
TBC.