A/N: I think this is the longest chapter I've ever written.
The man wasn't at all what Sybil expected. Not that she had ever thought much, if at all, about private investigators but somehow the man in his well-cut three piece dark gray suit seemed more like a banker or a country solicitor but then again on second reflection she'd have to admit she didn't know any bankers and the only country solicitor she had ever known was Matthew. Maybe that was it thought Sybil, the man sitting behind the desk reminded her of Matthew, well of an older Matthew. His coloring was much like Matthew's although his eyes were not quite the piercing blue of Matthew's eyes and the blond hair was a bit darker but he looked as if he could have been Matthew's older brother or maybe a cousin.
On his part, Roland Quirk was intrigued by the young woman that his friend Charles had sent his way. When his secretary had ushered her into the office he was immediately struck by her beauty. The dark plum colored woolen coat and matching cloche hat complimented her striking blue eyes and dark hair. Her clothing and manner along with the deep husky voice with that polished English accent proclaimed wealth and breeding yet he knew she was working as an assistant for Charles.
That she wanted to locate a certain Irish man, a recent immigrant from Dublin, surprised him and deepened his curiosity about her. Her reasoning for wanting to find him, that he was an old friend, rang false to Roland but he couldn't detect any nefarious intentions from her. Taking an envelope out of her silk handbag and delicately removing the letter it contained as if it was as fragile as a raw egg she told him the date this Tom Branson supposedly shipped out to America. When he asked to see the letter for himself, she shook her head and quietly said no before putting the letter back into the envelope and putting it back into her purse as if afraid he would try to take it from her.
Sybil leaned against the high back of the leather chair that had once been part of Mr. Pettimont's office and now served as her desk chair. Swiveling around she looked at the progress she had made in cataloging the late Mr. Pettimont's library. It seemed impossible that after 40 cartons of books, properly catalogued on Sybil's notecards and arranged in properly labeled boxes, had already been removed and now sat in a warehouse Charles owned there still remained stacks of books to catalogue.
The work required both physical (moving, sorting, and boxing books) as well as mental (determining the proper category) acumen. Sybil loved that she was acquiring new knowledge such as what made a book valuable and what types of books were considered scholarly noteworthy while others were viewed as of lessor importance and the work stirred inklings of maybe one day opening her own book shop.
Yet it wasn't just books that Sybil was receiving an education in for Charles was quite happy to discuss the valuations of Mr. Pettimont's vast collections. Maybe, thought Sybil, instead of a book shop it would be a shop selling objets d'art or bric a brac that she bought at auctions or estate sales. Now that she had money, or would as soon as her own objets d'art were sold, she could open a shop.
She had been astounded when Charles had given her valuations for the items she had brought from Downton. When she had first sat in her bedroom at Downton and considered what she'd bring to America, Sybil only thought about some of her clothes and maybe a few pieces of jewelry. She didn't know how long or how much it would cost to find Tom and she couldn't depend on her grandmother financing everything. She had her trust fund from her grandfather Levinson but that only gave her a small monthly allowance.
As the realization of what she was doing, that she was leaving her home and family forever, she thought why shouldn't she take everything that was hers? Her jewelry would certainly sell for considerable sums. Even simple things like her hat pins or hair pins, some made of gold, some adorned with diamonds or emeralds or other stones, would probably fetch quite a bit. As she looked around her room she noted the small ivory box in which she stored her favorite hair pins, the jade elephant figurines that had been a present for her tenth birthday, the crystal jars in various shapes and sizes, and the jewelry box with the enameled lid. Nothing held any sentimentality for her anymore, not the small gold clock that Granny had given her when she moved into this bedroom, not the set of three carved ivory angels that had been a gift from her mother. Instead she looked at everything as to whether it was something she could sell.
As Sybil went through the curios that decorated her room, another nagging thought raged in her. When there had been all that consternation about the entail and Matthew inheriting Downton and her mother's money instead of Mary, there had been no consideration of her or Edith. Why should her mother or Granny or Mary think that Mary should have inherited everything while leaving only crumbs for her and Edith? She and Edith were just as much a Crawley as Mary. And didn't she and Edith have just as much right to her mother's money as Mary?
As a child, she had spent many rainy or cold winter days exploring the house. There were empty rooms where she'd throw or kick a ball around. There were rarely used rooms where, away from her constantly bickering sisters, she'd curl up in a blanket and read or play with her toys in peace and quiet. There were rooms crammed with unwanted or unneeded furniture and possessions accumulated by generations of Crawleys where she'd spend hours peeking underneath drop cloths looking for hidden treasures. Now sitting here she thought why shouldn't she have an inheritance? Why not take some of those unwanted or overlooked items that sat long forgotten in those rooms?
It seemed strange to be all alone in the apartment but it was what Sybil wanted this New Year's Eve especially after all the hustle and bustle of the past couple of weeks. She loved the intricate displays in so many of the city's shop windows and had even taken walks some evenings just to admire them. There had been dinners and parties and, if one didn't count those childhood tea parties with dolls and stuffed animals as guests, she had even hosted her first party. The twenty or so guests, a few new friends, a few acquaintances, and a few guests of those friends or acquaintances had dined on canapes and danced till midnight.
In the small sitting room, Sybil, sat in one of the two overstuffed arm chairs holding a stemmed crystal glass filled with a nice white wine. Sybil held the glass up and gave a small shake of her head thinking that in some ways Americans were a funny lot. To alleviate the prohibition on the sale of alcohol which would go into effect in the new year her Uncle Harold, probably like many Americans, had stockpiled in the cellar of their Newport mansion crates of their favorite bottles with hope that prohibition would be lifted before they had consumed all her bottles. When Uncle Harold had visited for Christmas he had bought two crates of wines, brandy, sherry, and four bottles of champagne.
In the dim room, lit only by the warm glow from the fire in the fireplace, Sybil moved the armchair so that she could look out the window with its view of Central Park. Dressed in the silk lounging pajamas that had been a Christmas present from Gran (she had decided it was too formal to keep calling her Grandmama and Granny would always conjure up an image of Violet) Sybil curled up in the chair. Running her had down one of the long sleeves of the silk tunic Sybil thought the pajamas seemed so modern and so typical of Martha Levinson. She chuckled thinking that the muted gold flickered with dark green colored tunic with its Oriental touches and the matching dark green trousers would cause as much consternation at Downton as her harem pants had done oh so long ago.
Although the wall clock had chimed ten, the night outside was not an inky black as the cast iron lamp posts evenly spaced on the other side of the pavement of Fifth Ave gave off soft arcs of light that illuminated sections of the pavement as well as the low stone wall that separated it from the park and the trees beyond. Over the barren tree tops and far across the park, the lights from the buildings on the street bordering the west side of the park were visible although the buildings themselves were lost in the unrelenting grayness. As she looked out onto the night, a few cars rambled up Fifth Avenue while a couple, his arm wrapped around her waist, strolled on the pavement next to the park.
Wrapping herself in the coat she had earlier hidden in the unused parlor, she quietly let herself out through the foyer. Strains of music could be heard as she scurried towards the garage.
It was unusual to see the garage doors pulled shut but the night air was too cold to have left them open. She quickly opened one of the doors and stepped into the garage pulling the door closed behind her. The room was softly lit by a small lantern Tom had placed on the work bench along the back wall.
"You came" his words conveying surprise.
"You doubted me?" She stood still, her arms behind her back.
He smiled at her. "Of course not. But I wasn't sure you'd be able to get away."
She sighed. "I think we have a few minutes before I'll be missed."
"Enough time to enjoy some of this" she smiled as she revealed a bottle of champagne. She had taken one of the half empty bottles that littered the long table that had been set up in the grand hall.
"Happy New Year Tom" She said as they tipped their mugs. "To 1919."
"Happy New Year Love."
It was an incongruous sight as the Lady, dressed in a fine silk gown, and the chauffeur, he in the dark green pants of his livery with a hand knitted sweater over his starched white shirt, standing in the middle of a garage sipped champagne from two chipped mugs.
"Where do you think we'll be next year Tom?"
"Maybe with my family and friends at a ceili. Or maybe in the quietness of our flat." Even in the darkness he could see her blush. "But whatever we'll be together."
He leaned in to kiss her and she responded with her arms tightening around his back.
She woke as someone shook her arm and blinked as it took her several moments to realize where she was. "Gran?" she whispered at the figure standing before her in the dimly lit room.
"And who else might it be?"
"I … I …" Sybil shifted in the chair to sit up straight. "I guess I fell asleep."
Martha picked up the wine bottle from the tray table. "Well you didn't fall asleep from too much drink" she laughed.
"Is it after midnight already?" Sybil wondered how long she had been asleep.
Martha shook her head as she poured some wine into Sybil's glass "Not quite" she said as she handed the glass to Sybil. She walked over to the sideboard and lifted another glass which she proceeded to fill with wine.
"But why then are you here?"
"I didn't want to get stuck at the Howleys especially not with Mr. Pickler following me around all evening."
"But why would you-"
"Haven't looked out the window lately have you my dear" Martha interrupted.
Sybil turned towards the window and gasped. "It's beautiful" she exclaimed as she saw the snow covered scene down below in the park. "It looks so romantic especially for New Year's Eve."
She looked back at her grandmother and grinned. "So your idea of a fine New Year's Eve isn't being snowbound with Mr. Pickle?"
"It's Pickler and no it isn't" Martha retorted causing Sybil to laugh.
"It almost makes me wish I had come with you just to see him chasing-"
"It was probably more enjoyable sitting here drinking this wine and eating" Martha stopped and looked around the room. "Mrs. Handley did leave … ah" she said as she took the tray off the dining table.
Silence returned to the room as both Sybil and Martha, now sitting in the armchair across from Sybil, nibbled on shrimp cocktail, crabmeat mouse, and a selection of crackers and cheeses. The silence was suddenly broken by the faint sounds of firecrackers.
"It's 1920!" exclaimed Sybil. She leaned over to tip her glass with Martha's.
"To 1920!" Martha heartily replied. "May the year bring us many blessings."
For Sybil it was a quiet New Year's Eve but one full of hope and optimism for the coming year. Whatever disappointment she had at finishing her work on the Pettimont estate had been countered by Charles' offer of a permanent job as his assistant. It was an offer she enthusiastically had accepted especially after he agreed to her continuing to volunteer at the health clinic two mornings a week.
She had come to New York on a mission and in some ways it might have been said her grandmother's apartment was just a convenience while she pursued that mission. But the reality was that in the two months Sybil had been in New York her grandmother's apartment had become her home. She had a new life now, a life on her terms and she had her grandmother to thank for that.
The printing shop seemed eerily quiet. The presses had been turned off and the workers had left leaving only Tom to lock up on this late afternoon of Christmas Eve. Tom had slowly taken over running the printing shop and he was surprised how much he actually enjoyed the work as he learned to operate a business. With a manager and a secretary handling so much of the mundane daily work, Tom found he still had time to write for Jonah Harwick's magazine. His first article, on how the motor car had changed society, was to be published in the late January edition.
Tom walked through the main floor ensuring that all supplies had been properly put away. Keeping to tradition Carrick had ordered the shop to close this afternoon and Christmas day yet giving his workers their full pay. I don't stiff my workers Carrick had told him. I might charge my customers, especially those silly geese with more money than sense that will pay double for stationary in a fancy box tied with a bow than buy it wrapped in a paper sleeve, but I would never make my wealth cheating my workers of fair pay for fair work. In Tom's eyes that made Carrick a rare man especially in this day of rampant poverty and so many were willing to exploit not only men but women and children with not only poor wages but sometimes dire working conditions. I've been poor Tom, I know what it feels like to go to bed hungry, it may have been a long time ago but it's something you don't forget.
Although the air was cold even with the sun shining brightly in the almost cloudless sky, there were plenty of people bustling about making last minute purchases of gifts or food for the holidays. As the streetcar made its way up Lexington Ave, the crowds made him glad he had finished his shopping a couple of days ago. The brooch that Bronagh had oohed and aahed over when they had walked past the shop window while out one evening admiring the Christmas lights and decorations was wrapped in shiny green paper with a pretty green and white bow and just waiting to be placed under the tree which they'd put up this afternoon. He had already bought her a dark blue blouse that he thought would go so well with her light brown hair and rosy complexion. It had a row of beading and embroidered flowers that ran down the left side and that the shop clerk had assured him was very smart. With the money that Jonah had paid him for his article plus an advance on the next two articles he had ordered Tom could well afford the beautiful brooch.
Although it had been the tall chest of drawers displayed in the window that had drawn him into the shop it was the chest sitting in a dusty corner that captured his attention. With its humpbacked top it looked like what the boyhood Tom would describe as a pirate treasure chest. It needed to be cleaned up but it would be just perfect as a toy chest for Cian. With his labor and Carrick's money Tom had worked for weeks turning a small unused room into a nursery for Cian. It would be a surprise for Bronagh Christmas morning when Tom and Carrick finally let her into the room that she thought Tom was making into an office.
When the streetcar stopped on the corner of 59th Street Tom once again admired the festive windows of Bloomingdale's. As he stared at the windows across the street she suddenly appeared in his mind. Sybil had loved the sights and smells of Christmas and he thought how much she would have loved this city decked out in such wondrous displays.
"Doesn't it look beautiful" she said as the motor car rambled down Ripon's High Street. "The shops Branson" she began to explain "their lovely wreaths and ribbons and the greenery on the lamp posts."
He had to admit it did look festive but instead of the excitement she displayed he was feeling a bit homesick for it would be his first Christmas in England.
"Christmas has always been my favorite time of the year. I love the lights, the decorations, the scent of pine everywhere. Wait till you see the tree we put up in the Grand Hall!"
He looked up at the rear view mirror and smiled as he saw the sheer delight etched on her face as she looked out the window. "Do you want me to park somewhere?"
She turned so she was looking at him in the mirror and smiled. "Anywhere would be fine. I think I'd just like to wander around a bit."
She stood on the pavement looking at him standing next to the car. "Surely you'd rather come admire the decorations with me than sit in the car?"
For probably a half hour, after all the street wasn't that long, they wandered admiring the decorations. While the greenery looked just like greenery to him she knew the type of tree or plant. "Really Branson you don't know your pine from your boxwood or your cedar?"
As they drove up the gravel path to the front of the abbey she said "I wish we could go to York but I think we'll have to settle on going tomorrow to Thirsk. Next year for sure we'll go to York. I bet their decorations are magnificent!"
Neither of them could imagine that the next year England would be at war.
Instead of turning left when he got off the streetcar Tom went east and walked to a small church he had discovered on his early morning rambles during his first weeks here. Carrick preferred going to the grand St. Patrick's Cathedral for mass and it's where they'd go tonight for midnight mass but Tom liked the simplicity of this small stone church which reminded him of the church of his youth. He took a moment to admire the simple boxwood wreath decorated with apples and bright red berries that adorned the wide oval topped black door.
The thee-tiered stand of candles was to the right of the altar. Tom lit a candle and silently said a prayer before walking to a pew about halfway back. There were only three older women scattered about the pews, their heads covered and bowed, silently praying. Tom bowed his head and closed his eyes. It's your favorite time of year Sybil and I wish you could see it here. But then again maybe you can see it. And you know what I've been doing. I promised you I'd make something of my life. I got sidetracked there for a while but … He paused as he wiped away a tear. Know that no matter what I'm doing or how happy I am ... He stopped again as he remember what the priest had said the first time he came here early on that October morning. Tom had refused to take confession but asked the priest if they could just talk. "She'd want you to be happy wouldn't she" the priest had said after listening to him. He closed his eyes again. Please be happy for me. This time he didn't wipe away the tear that fell. Oh Sybil you will always be in my heart and I will miss you for the rest of my days.
New Year's Eve was a small but lively affair at the townhouse on East 62nd Street. Just five close friends of Carrick's came for dinner and to ring in the new year. But it was a lively group and the conversation, punctuated with much laughter, flow easily among the group. So engrossed in their conversation they hadn't realized it was snowing until the guests readied to leave at almost one in the morning.
Tom bundled up and trudged outside to make sure their guests got safely to their cars. Maybe it was just the thrill of the first snowfall or maybe it was the gaiety of the holiday or maybe it was the alcohol that had been consumed but all along the street people were out. A fierce snowball battle seemed to be taking place at the far end of the block while another group were just putting the finishing touches on a snowman and still others were more sedately walking along down the street admiring the snow covered trees and bushes.
With his back to towards the house, Tom was watching as the car slowly started down the road when he was pelted with a snowball.
"What the …" he started to sputter as he heard laughter. Turning around he saw a bundled up Bronagh laughing.
"Why-" he started packing some snow as she tried to run but he was quicker and his snowball landed on her chest.
"If I remember correctly I think Aideen and I got the best of you and Cillian that time your family came for Christmas" Bronagh bragged although her latest snowball missed Tom and hit the neighbor's steps.
"If I remember correctly Cillian and I were vastly outnumbered with all the rest of you ganging-" WHOMP. This time Bronagh's snowball hit her target on the shoulders.
Ten minutes later with both of them covered with snow and laughing as if they were once again those eight year olds on the Curran family farm, she called out "Okay truce Tom."
He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her in as close as their heavy coats would allow. "Happy New Year Bronagh" he said before kissing her.
Days later the snow cleared from streets was pushed into mounds that appeared haphazardly in the most inconvenient places and contributed to a constant stream of slush much to the bane of pedestrians. The greenery and decorations that had emitted such a festive atmosphere had been removed taking with them much of the joy and good cheer that had flowed through much of the city's population. Yet the cold and grayness of January had not dampened Sybil's spirits, indeed her spirits soared as she began her new work as Charles's assistant.
Roland Quirk felt a pang of guilt for the news he was going to give her. She entered his office wearing the same plum colored coat and hat and looking as elegant and polished as before. Her eyes sparkled in anticipation and that pang of guilt that he didn't have the results she wanted only deepened. She declined his offer of a cup of tea giving him no choice but to get on with his business.
"I'm sorry to say that neither the immigration records nor the shipping lines show any Tom Branson entering New York. We checked the records from a week before the date on your letter through a month afterwards."
Roland noted the slight slumping of Sybil's shoulders and the luster dimming in her eyes. He went on to detail the work his company had done, the checks that had been made not only here in New York but at other US ports. The checks with newspapers since she had said he was a journalist but none reported having a Tom Branson on staff.
She was only half listening as he droned on. She had entered his office with such high hopes but the news that no Tom Branson was found through either the shipping lines or immigration authorities stunned her. Had she been wrong to come here instead of going directly to Ireland?
Ireland. The word caught her attention and Sybil raised her head to look directly at Roland.
"I can contact someone in Dublin to carry on checks there." She paid closer attention to his proposals.
"But you have to understand that with the troubles over there right now, it may be hard to get people to talk. They might misinterpret the reasons for wanting to find this man especially if he's a republican."
"I want you to do whatever you possibly can" replied a determined Sybil.
What neither Roland Quirk nor Sybil could imagine was that no Tom Branson was found for the simple reason that Tom had not entered New York as Tom Branson. Somehow there had been a mix-up when Carrick's secretary had made the reservation and payment for the first class cabin and therefore both the ocean liner and Immigration listed him as Carrick McGrann. As first class passengers Tom and Bronagh were waved through with the most cursory glance as the Immigration authorities concentrated their efforts on the steerage and third class passengers who would be transferred from the Chelsea pier to Ellis Island for medical and legal inspection.
Taking place three weeks after New Year's was a charity ball called the Winter Ball. It was the last prominent event of the winter season for the New York social set. Normally it wasn't something that Sybil would be interested in attending but at her urging one of Martha's friends, who just happened to be on the committee organizing the ball, had gotten the health clinic listed as one of the benefiting charities. Photographs of the ball made all the New York papers including one photograph that very prominently showed Lady Sybil Crawley, the daughter of the Earl of Grantham according to the photograph's caption.
One of life's mysteries or challenges, depending on one's point of view, is that sometimes something that seems so straight forward, like an Irish private detective's search for answers, or so insignificant as a photograph could have such unintended consequences. And as these events unfolded those consequences were devastating to both Sybil and Tom.