Note: I don't own Downton Abbey and I wish I'd watched season 5 before starting this fic, but oh well. Have you guys been watching Season 5?
Chapter Fourteen
Edith came downstairs in time for the King to begin his address. Luckily, His Majesty was brief and they continued to eat and have their tea and mulled wine by the fire. The children were eager to open their presents and play with their new toys. The family moved from the library to the hall, where piles of presents sat under the tree. Mary attempted to instill order by distributing the presents to each child. Of course, that didn't last very long.
Sybbie and George sat beside each other as they tore the wrapping paper more delicately than the younger girls did.
"Ooh!" George exclaimed, unwrapping a toy airplane. "Look at this, Sybbie! It's like the one Charles Lindbergh flew in!"
Sybbie looked over the toy, but only saw an aeroplane. She remembered Charles Lindbergh, that American fellow, making the flight across the ocean on his own in 1927, but George had been agog with planes ever since.
"Let me see that, George," Da said. "It's a good model of it, from what I remember."
"Found it in a toy store in London," Uncle Charles said.
"Gosh, wouldn't it be the most wonderful thing to fly?" George said. "Thank you, Father."
Sybbie caught the look on Aunt Mary's face. She was within earshot, despite helping Ruthie with tearing off the paper on a present, and she made a look of distaste. Flying seemed awfully dangerous to Sybbie, although Da said it was no more dangerous than riding in a train. Or a car, too, though Da never said it. That was how Uncle Matthew, George's father, had died. Da handed the plane back to George.
"I can't wait to show it to Luke Brearley," George said. "We pretend to be flying reconnaissance missions."
"He played Joseph, didn't he?" Sybbie asked.
"He did," George replied with a nod. "What did you get, Sybbie?"
She opened the small package in her hands. It felt like a book and it was, a small book with a blue cover and eyes and lights on the cover. The Great Gatsby. By F. Scott Fitzgerald.
Sybbie tried it out: F. Scott Fitzgerald. Now, that was a writer's name.
"Irish?" George asked, seeing the author's name.
Sybbie turned the book around and read the summary. "No, American."
Auntie Edith, who had come down late and hadn't talked much, seemed to perk up. "I do hope you'll like it, Sybbie. It's not his most popular novel, but I think it the best of his lot. He's very talented. He wrote me a note after my essay was published in the Saturday Evening Post. Very kind. His short stories are often in there."
"Thank you, Aunt Edith."
# # #
The children played with their toys and the adults withdrew back to the library, where Cora and Mary had the servants' wrapped packages ready for distribution. It was always a challenge for Tom to think of something to give to Robert, Cora, and Mary, but the new hat, the handkerchiefs, and the book on estate economics seemed to please.
"You're a bit down in the mouth," Cora said to Edith. "Is this about Caroline?"
"I suppose," Edith said. "I suppose I'm seeing now that I actually want to be a mother and I see no way around what I've done."
"Well, that is sure enough," Cora said. "You can't pop back to London with a nine-year-old child. How will you explain it?"
"Perhaps because the child's parents' died, you, as the godmother, stepped in to take the girl?" Charles said. "Even so, at nine years old, she knows you as her godmother and the Drewes as her family."
"I can support her, financially," Edith said. "There's plenty of room in my flat for her. We've always said I'm her godmother and of course, there's nothing legal and formal with the Drewes...perhaps I ought to just return to London. Forget about these feelings. There's nothing to be done."
"Well," Cora said. "Can we at least invite Caroline up before you leave? She'll be here for the tenants' reception, won't she? She can come up to play with Sybbie and George."
"Oh, Mama, just because you want to know your granddaughter..."Edith said, drifting off. "She'll be here for the tenants' reception." The conversation turned; they heard crying coming from the hall and Mary rushed out, saying that it was likely little Vi in need of a nap. Charles and Robert were talking about the New Year's shoot with Rose and Tony. Cora left the library to ask the housekeeper a question, leaving Tom and Edith.
Edith looked up and gave him a sad smile. "It's a tangle, Tom."
He nodded. "So it seems."
She shook her head. "And a quirk of fate. He went to Germany to divorce his wife. He would have married me in an instant if he was legally free. That was...that was before I knew such things could be prevented."
"Ah. But you don't regret bringing your daughter into the world, surely?" He asked.
She was silent for a long moment, but finally shook her head.
"I used to regret not standing up more for Sybil, when she was in labor," he said. "Not...not being insistent."
"There's nothing you could have done," Edith said. "But there are still many things we can do."
# # #
The tenants all came up en masse on Boxing Day, for some mulled wine and small hors d'oeuvres and Christmas carols. The servants, too, were allowed to join in with the tenants, working and enjoying the party. Tom circulated among the crowd saying hello and wishing everyone a happy Christmas. Sybbie, George, and Charlotte were allowed to stay up to enjoy the party and they were in a knot of other children, including Luke Brearley, Ellie Stockett, and one of the Bates children. He wasn't sure if Caroline Drewe was in that knot, but he hoped so.
"Hello," he said to one of his farmers. "How was your Christmas then, Bill?" He said to another. Tom turned around in the crowd to find himself face to face with Annie and an older woman he assumed was her mother. "Hello Annie. Happy Christmas."
"Mr. Branson," Annie smiled. "This is my mother, May Doyle."
Doyle? Irish name. Tom smiled at Mrs. Doyle.
"It's wonderful to meet you, Mr. Branson," Mrs. Doyle, who had a broad Yorkshire accent, said. "Annie said she met you in Ripon for Midnight Mass."
"We did. Was your late husband Irish, Mrs. Doyle?"
"Well, his parents were Irish. Himself was born in Middlesborough. Still, though, you remind me of him."
Tom grinned in Mrs. Doyle's direction, then said to Annie, "Ruth and Vi are upstairs and one of the maids is keeping watch. Where's Josie?"
"Miss Sybbie took her by the hand some time ago," Annie said. "Is it wrong of me to be not entirely sure where Josie is?"
Tom gestured. "Sybbie is over there. I'll go and see Josie, then, shall I?" He left them with a nod.
He didn't hear Mrs. Doyle say to her daughter, "He really does remind me of your Da, Annie."
Tom found little Josie in a chair besides Sybbie. The toddler looked droopy, her eyes half-closed, obviously fighting sleepiness. Tom smiled at his daughter and picked Josie up.
"I'm going to take her back to her Mummy," Tom said. "How are you getting along here?"
Sybbie nodded. "Oh, we're fine. We're voting on a carol to sing." He saw a blonde among them: Caroline Drewe. Caroline Geneva Rose Drewe. Caroline Gregson. "So far, a number of votes for 'Good King Wencelas.'"
"Keep it up, love," Tom said, once again drifting into the crowd. Little Josie was light and she was sleepy, but not fussy. He remembered carrying Sybbie around when she was this small, how the girl had clung to him, how her little body felt against his chest, how she sometimes drooled or crooned and later, talked as he carted her around. Was this what some mothers meant when they said they missed having small children about? That feeling of nostalgia.
"Let's go find your mother, Josie," Tom said. "So many people here, eh? You're a good girl to not be scared or cranky."
The little girl looked up at him and gave him the sweetest smile, slightly tinged with drool.