Their room at the Abbey is on the second floor, not entirely set apart from the rest of the bedrooms, but certainly tucked away on its own. He picks up a suitcase and starts up the stairway, climbing up so that the cavernous main hall is out of sight – he can't quite believe this house, really, he can't – and continuing up, up, past the doors that line the hallway on the first storey.
He was honestly a little surprised that a flock of servants hadn't come to relieve them of their coats and bags the second they arrived in the house, even though Sybil had told him that only a few people lived and worked on the estate now – a couple of housecleaners, several gardeners, and an estate manager and his assistant – and those mostly to help with the weeks when the house was open to the public. No butlers, housemaids, or kitchen staff like in the old days. Lord Grantham had offered to help with the suitcases, but Tom had waved him off; this, at least, gave him a definitive task for a small while.
When he arrives at their room, Sybil's sitting inside, perching on the edge of the bed, still clearly a bit on edge after the initial contact with her parents. It had gone well, he'd thought – warm embraces and cordial greetings – but she'd built things up so much in her mind that it was clear she needed some time to recover. She picks at the edge of the duvet.
"One more to go," he says, regarding her from the doorway. He nudges the suitcase further into the room with his foot. "I can't believe that this house has fifty bedrooms and no elevator."
She smiles faintly. "Mama apologised to me for the stairs already. It's just that the rooms up here have been modernised more than the ones downstairs. Those don't have en-suites, and she said that she thought we'd be more comfortable if we did—"
He holds up a hand. "It was an observation, not a complaint. I'm still too in awe of this place to complain about it."
"I can imagine," she replies, shifting off the bed carefully and padding over to her suitcase. "I can start unpacking things."
He nods and heads back downstairs, where a suitcase and the big wrapped box that contains her gift are sitting at the foot of the stairs. He squints down at the box, frowning, trying to decide if it's feasible to lug the thing upstairs when she'll just find it in their room anyway. Looking up, he sees boxes and parcels all balanced underneath the massive tree in the hall. He pushes the box back into a corner beside the tree, figuring that he can move it later, maybe give it to her privately in one of the rooms downstairs – surely there are enough rooms for that.
Sybil's curled up on the bed, fast asleep, when he finally lugs the last of the suitcases up to their room. She stirs a little as he eases off her shoes, but he leans down and murmurs that he'll tell her parents she needed some rest, and she drifts off again.
He's not sure what to do without her in the house; he steps outside their door and peers down the hallway, hands shoved in his pockets. At the very least, he figures, he can go downstairs and look at some of the paintings he glanced at when they were ushered inside – he's pretty sure that was an actual Van Dyck in one of the rooms. As he's meandering his way back down the stairs, he looks up to find Lord Grantham, waiting for him below.
"Sybil's asleep," he begins rather apologetically. "She's been exhausted all day..."
Grantham nods slowly. "All right. I can imagine the trip would have done."
"Yes," he replies, suddenly very aware of all of his limbs and his facial expressions and his awkwardness. "I was just coming down to..." Well, really, what was he coming down for?
"Would you like a tour?"
He shuffles a bit, then descends the rest of the stairs. "Erm, yes, your Lordship, that would be nice."
Grantham makes a face at Tom's use of his title. "Please, Tom, you can call me Robert."
"Okay. Sorry. All right." He follows Grantham – he follows Robert – through the main hall (Sybil's father calls it the "saloon," which just makes Tom think of cars, or maybe the American west) and into the dining room where, indeed, there's a real Van Dyck portrait of Charles I on the wall. Tom nearly snorts. Of course Sybil's family was on the side of the royalists in that war, and probably every war, for that matter.
"So is the house Civil War era, too?" he asks, glancing about at the artwork on the walls. "I don't know anything about architecture, so I've got no clue."
Robert shakes his head. "No, no, most of the house is nineteenth century these days. My ancestors liked to remodel." He grips the back of one of the dining chairs. "Same architect who did Westminster, actually."
Tom can't stop himself from smirking – of course it is. "I did think it looked a little familiar when we drove up."
Robert just looks over at him and raises an eyebrow, before ushering him through a series of other rooms – a drawing room, a smoking room full of old portraits, and a rather impressive library, where Grantham offers him the run of the books for his visit.
They retrieve their coats from a closet just off the hall – he half expects a butler to pop out and scold them for helping themselves, but no, still no liveried figures showing up out of nowhere – and head out on to the grounds of the estate, "much smaller than they once were," Robert explains. He can't imagine. The lawns are expansive, and the long gravel road up to the house seems to snake along for miles.
"Sybil told me you like cars," Robert explains, leading him toward a large outbuilding behind the main house. "My father developed quite the collection over the years, and I just haven't had the heart to sell any of them." There's a cold chill inside the big garage, which smells of dusty concrete and motor oil. Robert flips a large light switch, illuminating a row of about fifteen classic cars – right off the bat he sees a little MG, a couple of old Austin-Healeys, and a racing green Triumph Spitfire that seems to have been conjured straight from his boyhood dreams.
"Jesus Christ," he says reverently, and Grantham laughs. "Quite a collection – holy shit, that's an Aston Spider."
Robert chuckles and takes him down the line. "The oldest one we've still got is the 1920 Renault – back from the days when there were chauffeurs and staff all over the place." He pats the bonnet lightly. "They used to bring it out occasionally when I was a boy, but now we mostly just rent it out to film productions and things."
"May I?" he asks, jumping into the driver's seat when Robert nods. He runs his hands over the steering wheel. "Amazing."
The earl shrugs a little. "I think so. I used to spend hours out here with my father when I was a boy. My girls have so far been wholly uninterested."
He crosses his arms over his chest and goes through a little internal debate before tentatively offering, "We just found out that the baby's a boy. Maybe he'll be a little more interested." The words taste funny as they leave his tongue – he hasn't yet really started to think of the wee thing as an actual person who will have actual preferences and ideas and a personality someday.
A strange look passes over Grantham's face; he looks up at Tom with a small smile, apparently knowing a peace offering when he hears it. "That's wonderful." He hesitates. "And Sybil's healthy, everything's fine?"
He nods slowly. "After the accident, she's been doing really well." He steps down out of the Renault. "I'm glad she wanted to come here. I've been worried that she'd regret not speaking to both of you, I can tell that your family is close."
Robert raises an eyebrow and shakes his head. "That's a mighty charitable thing to say after the way that you were targeted a few months ago."
"Hm. I suppose," he replies, shoving his hands in his pockets as he saunters over to the Triumph. "I think I had a poster of this one up on my wall when I was a lad."
"It's not to say that I'm not still wary about the entire situation," Robert continues, "but it's clear that the two of you love each other, and you haven't done anything yet that makes me too nervous about my daughter's happiness."
His chest tightens a bit, Sybil's edict about the engagement ring flitting through his thoughts. "I suppose I'm glad of that," he says. "I think it would be easier for Sybil if her entire family agreed with you on that point."
Grantham sighs. "Mary is difficult. Mary has always been difficult. But she has a great capacity for love, and she's loyal to a fault. And sometimes her attempts to protect the things she loves get a bit ... well, out of hand, to put it mildly." He watches as Tom smoothes a hand over the boot of one of the Austins. "And she's prouder than any human being should be, so she'll never say that she's wrong. But I know that she's contrite about the things she said."
"Sybil's already guarded enough," he says, not sure why he suddenly feels like he can unload his feelings on this relative stranger. "After the mess with the last guy – it's taken months for her to be able to trust me. And Mary hasn't helped by questioning Sybil's judgment. I don't think it was Sybil's fault that the guy was such an arse."
"He was an arse," Robert agrees, leaning against a workbench. "I really thought I might be able to find a way to have him deported." He fixes a pointed glare at Tom. "Just so you know, I think it will be far easier to get you kicked out of the country should you do anything at all to hurt my daughter or my grandchild."
Tom holds up his hands. "Noted."
"Well." Sybil's father sighs. "I'm not going to promise that Christmas dinner with my family will be all roses for you, but I do think Mary's learnt her lesson. And Matthew will be here, and that will help." He gestures about. "If you'd like to take any of these out on the estate later this week, just let me know."
It's his turn to raise his eyebrows. "That would be brilliant, thanks." He imagines Sybil sitting beside him in that Spitfire, laughing, her dark hair blowing about like mad as they speed down the gravel lane.
They head back up to the house together, chatting a little about the cars and when they were acquired, and Tom starts to feel like he might actually be able to like Sybil's father – which will surely turn his speeches into horrible shapeless pieces of drivel come election time. Corin will love that.
He finds Sybil in their room, sitting up in bed with her mother stretched out beside her. He hesitates at the doorway and starts to back away, feeling like an intruder, until Sybil urges him to come back inside. "No, don't go, we're just talking about dinner," she says.
He nods at Lady Grantham – Cora? Is he supposed to call her Cora now? He figures he should wait that one out. "Sybil told me that the baby's a boy," she says with a smile. "I hope you don't mind that she did."
Sitting down in a chair near the fireplace, he cringes a little. "Not at all, because I may have accidentally told your husband already, too. Sorry."
"Was he pleased?" Sybil asks, struggling a little as she props herself up higher against the pillows.
"I think he was," he confirms.
"Oh, how could he not be, either way," Cora says with a smile, pressing a kiss to her daughter's hair. "I'm just so happy you're here. Both of you."
Sybil offers him a quiet smile as she lets her mother embrace her, and he can almost read gratitude in her eyes.
The next few days pass in a blur of dinners and outings and events. Mary, Matthew, and Edith all arrive on the same train the next afternoon, and while Mary does not acknowledge his presence, she also doesn't do anything to pointedly exclude him. They stay busy. The Granthams have a stake in a local football club, and they take everyone out to see a match the day before Christmas Eve. Sybil sits beside him and burrows against his side for warmth.
The dowager comes up to Downton with Sybil's aunt and uncle on Christmas Eve, all spluttering about the drive in Marmaduke's car. "Hello, my darling," she greets Sybil, exclaiming a bit over the small swell that's now plainly visible beneath her clothing. "Don't you look just wonderful."
Sybil raises her eyebrows at him as her grandmother leans in and kisses him on both cheeks. "Tom, it's a pleasure to see you again. I hope you're well."
"I am," he confirms, trying not to laugh as Sybil pulls a face at him.
"Very good, very good," she replies, heading inside with the air of a general ready to inspect her troops.
Christmas, he discovers, follows a very particular pattern at Downton. The family opens gifts on Christmas Eve, and then on Christmas morning they go to church, have a light lunch, watch the Queen's speech on a television in the library, and have an elaborate dinner catered in by a local firm. Only once, Sybil tells him, can she remember any deviation in the schedule, and that was caused by her grandfather's dying two days before Christmas. "And even then, while Papa and Aunt Rosamund were helping plan the funeral, we all had to stop what we were doing to watch the Queen."
Dinner on Christmas Eve is the one area where Sybil's mother is apparently allowed full control of the menu, and every year Cora chooses a different world cuisine. This year is Italian, with plates of every kind of pasta he can think of, mixed in with dishes of fried calamari and mussels. Under her breath, Sybil's grandmother declares the entire spread "typical," but tucks in to a plate of gnocchi with great gusto.
He's pleasantly warmed by a good Italian wine by the time they adjourn to the hall – the saloon – to open gifts. Sybil sits between him and her mother on one of the low sofas while Edith and Matthew sort out the piles of presents. He's so shocked when two wrapped packages are laid at his feet that he doesn't know what to say. Sybil nudges his shoulder and smiles at him. One is from her parents – a cashmere scarf – and another from her grandmother. He opens the package tentatively, slowly unearthing a new watch from the tissue paper. "It's too much," he protests; he hates to think how much it might have cost.
The dowager clucks dismissively, but her eyes are dancing. "If you're going to be responsible for my granddaughter and my first great-grandchild, it's important that you're punctual."
"Oh, Granny, really, he's not responsible for me," Sybil sighs. "But I like the watch."
"Thank you," he offers, nodding at Lady Grantham, who returns his nod a bit conspiratorially.
He really should have been paying more attention to the gifts as they were distributed, because he doesn't notice that Sybil is tearing into the paper of his present until she's almost completely unwrapped it. "No!" he exclaims as she lifts the lid of the box, drawing all eyes in the room to him. "I mean – that wasn't meant for now."
"Oh, goodness, I hope it's appropriate," Aunt Rosamund quips.
"No, no, it's just—"
Sybil is quietly peering into the box. "Tom, what on earth?" She pulls a slip of paper from the contents and scans it, then pulls out a series of heavy hardback books. "What is this?"
"It's..." he swallows a little, suddenly keenly aware of the eyes of the room upon them. "It's for next fall. It's the textbooks for—"
"For one of the LSE classes," she nearly whispers. "For the health policy degree." She looks over at him. "You got the syllabus?"
"Oh," he hears Cora murmur as he rubs at the back of his neck sheepishly. "I have a friend who knows someone in the department," he admits.
"But – I just – I'm not sure..."
"I just thought that..." He lowers his voice and leans closer to her. "I thought that you'd have time to read soon. And I know you're disappointed that you're not going to Africa, and I just thought – I don't think that you – I wanted you to know that you could still..." He shakes his head and sighs, completely out of words. That's why he wanted to give her the books – he thought this, surely, was a gift that could say things to her that he felt he could not.
She stands suddenly and, grabbing his hand, pulls him away from the rest of the family and into the library, shutting the door behind them. He starts to say something, but then realises she's crying. "Jesus," he says. "Oh, Jesus, I didn't mean to make you cry. I just wanted you to know that – that I don't want you to have to give up the things you want just because I – just because of the baby. I'm so sorry, Sybil—"
"No," she replies, shaking her head. "Don't be sorry." And she launches herself into his arms, hugging him to her tightly. With a heavy sigh, he wraps his arms about her, tucking her head under his chin and letting her cry.
When she pulls back, he looks at her with wide eyes. "I don't understand."
She swipes at her eyes with the backs of her hands. "I'm really happy that the baby is yours."
That throws him off guard – his forehead wrinkles as he murmurs, "What?"
"I just – I don't know if I've said that before. But I am. I was so stupid that night, so stupid, going home with a man I didn't know, and it could have ended so, so badly for me." She looks up at him with wet eyes. "And it didn't. And that's so lucky. Because it's you, and it's just—"
She reaches up and kisses him, somehow soft and firm at the same time. When she pulls back, he's breathing hard. She presses her cheek to his chest.
And suddenly, in that moment, he knows that she loves him, too, and he feels his heart jump up into his throat and catch. He exhales shakily, reaching up with one hand to stroke at her hair. They stand there for a long while – he's not really sure how long – until there's a soft tap at the door. Sybil's mother is there, peeking through the opening. "Sweetheart, is everything all right?"
"Yes," Sybil says, her voice sounding steadier than his feels. "Yes, everything's just fine." She pulls back and wipes at her cheeks once more, fairly dragging him back to the family.
He sits dumbly beside her for the rest of the evening, his fingers twined through hers, his heart racing. Eventually she makes excuses for them – she's so exhausted, and the baby's moving about like mad, and she just wants to sleep. Cora reaches for his hand and squeezes it with a sad smile as they make their way to the staircase. He feels like he's on another planet. She loves him. She must, that's the only explanation. She loves him.
They mount the stairs to their room slowly, Sybil's breathing growing audibly laboured as they reach their door. "Okay?" he asks quietly as they step inside.
She nods, closing the door behind them. "Too many steps, that's all." He hears the lock click into place, and then her lips are soft against his again, her fingers slipping into the collar of his shirt, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.
"Oh, Tom," she murmurs, their mouths meeting again and again until he feels like he might combust if he can't touch her. Before he knows it, they're on the bed, her legs tangling with his as she unbuttons his shirt as quickly as her fumbling fingers allow her to do. The room is quiet save for the crackling of the fire in the grate – he wonders fleetingly who lit it, but her lips against his neck silence his brain.
Her hands and her mouth are insistent, and it seems like she's trying to say things she's not ready to say with words with her body instead. And soon they're naked together, clinging tightly, and her skin is so soft and warm against his. She makes a quiet noise of frustration when the swell of the baby keeps her from drawing even closer to him. He moves behind her, wrapping his arms about her, and as they join together and begin to move, he presses his face to her throat, feeling her satisfied sighs. She laces her fingers through his, arches her back, cries out as his hands slide across her body. Her touch is overwhelming, the feeling of her all around him, and it's almost too much.
He feels like he's floating as he rests beside her after, stroking his fingers across her cool white arms. It's like a dream – she turns to him and runs her fingers through his damp hair, pressing soft kisses to his cheeks, his nose, his throat. He captures her mouth, lips moving lazily, and feels a quiet groan of satisfaction rumble in his chest.
"I don't really know if I'll be able to take those classes and take care of the baby at the same time," she says quietly, looking up at him nervously. "It might be too much."
He pulls her closer, kissing the top of her head. "I'm going to be there, too. Between the two of us, we can handle it. I promise."
"I just – Tom, I only got you a new jumper," she groans, and he can't help but laugh.
They fall asleep tangled together, and he's not sure he's ever felt happier.
He wakes early the next morning and showers, rubbing a towel across his damp hair as he pads back into the bedroom. Sybil's still curled in the blankets, her dark hair wild and tangled. He smiles to himself, shaking his head, and heads over to his suitcase to retrieve a fresh shirt.
But when he opens the lid, there's something else staring up at him – a thick folder of papers. Frowning, he flips back the cover, and it doesn't take him long to realise that he's staring at the Conservative Party's plans for the upcoming election.