Author's Note: "If you fell down yesterday, stand up today." ― H.G. Wells
Disclaimer: I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.
For the first time in his adult life, Tom Branson was without an occupation.
We'll make some plans, Lord Grantham had said.
Make some plans, Tom ruminated. How? He and Sybil were safe, and he was grateful for that, but make plans?
'Make no small plans.' Who had said that? He searched his memory diligently. He had read it, it seemed to him, not heard it. He could see the words printed on paper in his mind's eye. A long time ago. Before he had come to Downton to be the chauffeur. Not in a book... in a newspaper? Yes, a wide page: smudged, because it hadn't been properly ironed. Mrs. Delderfield had complained, and the butler had scolded the footman about it, said the man had deserved better at the end of his life and such an illustrious career than to be smudged by a careless bumbl—Tom snapped his fingers. An obituary! Of the architect that had designed some store in London. His mind reached for the name—caught it: Burnham! That was it! Why was he thinking about that? Oh, yes, he had to 'make no small plans'…
Branson didn't want to make any more plans, large or small. His last 'plan' had not only cost the Drumgooles' their home, it had cost himself and Sybil (and their yet-to-be-born child) theirs.
Sybil had told him she 'understood.' Understood. Tom sighed. He wished he could say the same, wished he understood it himself. It had seemed the right thing at the time. Intellectually, in logic, he still understood the necessity. No country could gain its freedom while still allowing its conquerors to… He heard the crackling of the fire in his head, saw the tears streaming down the faces of—he quashed the memory ruthlessly. Enough, Tom! It's done! Now make some plans like his lordship told you!
Lord Grantham's idea of what constituted 'making plans' was actually extremely sketchy. It appeared that his lordship's chief 'plan' was that Sybil and Tom should stay at Downton until the baby was born. (This was also Sybil's 'plan.' And Lady Grantham's. And old Lady Grantham's. And Mary's.)
After the birth, Tom gathered Lord Grantham 'planned' that he [Tom] would find a job somehow and set up household with his family again elsewhere. This 'plan' had all the earmarks of having been made by someone who had never actually had to find a job. Yet it was also his own plan. How could it be otherwise? He had to support his family.
It bothered him that he wasn't able to support them right now.
He needed to think, not worry about what bothered him. He should be grateful that Lord Grantham had been willing to help him, them, and was willing for them to stay until after the birth. He was grateful, he reminded himself grimly. And he could best show his gratitude by 'making plans' as his father-in-law had directed, so he and his family could be out of his in-laws' hair as soon as possible… after the baby was born.
The problem was not just that he no longer knew what he should do, but he no longer knew what he could do… except for one thing.
The one thing he could always do.
This thought made him feel better, less completely helpless, thought he suspected Sybil would not like it… but she had changed her mind in regard to their staying at Downton rather than trying to return to Dublin… said he must… perhaps she would change her mind about this, too.
So, how was he to find a job? He thought about asking Lord Grantham for a reference... The last time he had been in this situation was after the aborted elopement. What had he done then? He'd written to Mam… it was still a good idea, of course, though he feared her reaction to his latest escapade would make her reaction to their engagement announcement sound loving, restrained, and polite by comparison. He chuckled ruefully. At least he was out of reach of her stick.
He got out a piece of paper and a pen: 'Dear Mam, Sybil and I have both arrived safely at Downton…'
Mam's written response was so characteristic of her that it made Tom smile, though he knew he wouldn't have been smiling had he been standing before her.
"What does she say?" Sybil asked, taking off her dressing gown before getting into bed with her husband.
"She says I'm a fool, and she's sick to death of helping me, and that I should thank God I can't go back to Dublin, because if she had me there with her, she'd make me scratch where I don't itch."
He sounded amused, so Sybil smiled and said, "I miss her. She's a character."
"I miss her, too," Tom admitted.
Sybil watched him a moment as he continued to peruse his mother's letter. "Does your leg hurt, Tom?"
He looked at his wife in surprise, brows contracting. "No. Why do you ask?"
Sybil cocked an eyebrow, then inclined her head towards the hand delicately massaging his calf. He stopped the motion immediately, and laughed a little, embarrassed. "No, it doesn't hurt." But it would if Mam were here.
Sybil was grateful to be home, now that her time was near. Being with Mama was a comfort. She was so glad Tom was safe, so glad Papa had been able to talk to Mr. Shortt... and make everything all right.
Later, she could worry about what her little family was going to do. Once the baby came...
The library was quiet, and empty, just the way Tom liked it. The afternoon sun fell gently through the huge French windows, but the room was well designed: no direct sunlight fell on the books.
He shouldn't be doing this. It was quite wrong. It was… covetous. Tom thought he would probably have to go to confession before he was done. But he couldn't help himself. Taking a deep breath, he began his search.
"What are you doing there?" a querulous voice demanded.
Tom pulled his hand back from the shelf. "Who says I was doing anything?" he responded, semi-automatically, turning to his interlocutor.
"I've no need of your sauce!" the voice scolded.
Tom was surprised to find himself confronted by a frail old man. He was easily a hundred years old. He looked like a puff of wind would cause him to crumble into dust. Who was he?
The old man continued to glare at him, and Tom was suddenly as ashamed as the old man clearly meant him to be. "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to be imperti—"
"Well, you were. Who are you?"
"I'm Lady Sybil's husband," Tom said, without thinking.
The old man's face lost some of its irritation. "T. Branson, is it? I've missed you, boy. Where in God's name have you been?"
Tom stared. "Dublin," he said simply. He was quite sure he had never met this man before.
"How did you like all those Mill books?" the old man asked. "He was crazy, you know. Him and Ruskin both."
Tom didn't know quite how to respond to this.
"I know what you're doing here," the old man asserted slyly.
"I was just looking around," Tom told him mendaciously.
"Do you think I was born yesterday, young man?"
"No, sir."
"You don't call me 'sir.' Properly, I suppose, I should call you 'sir.' I am Mr. Pakenson, the librarian."
Tom regarded the old man searchingly. There's a libr—
"Have you learned your lesson?" Mr. Pakenson demanded suddenly.
"Yes, Mr. Pakenson."
The librarian looked skeptical as only a centenarian could. "Let me hear it then."
Tom was bewildered. "I don't underst—"
"You've had nearly a week, how long does it take?"
Tom stared. Lord Grantham had never mentioned the matter again, and Tom had concluded he had only meant it as an excuse to show him—
"Did you learn the verses or not?"
"How do you know about that, si—Mr. Pakenson?"
Suddenly, the aged librarian wore an expression Tom had seen often on the face of his mother.
"Just who did you imagine laid out that bible?"
Tom didn't answer.
"You touched it, didn't you?"
"I—"
"Didn't you?"
Tom nodded.
"And now you'd like to touch it again."
"I'm sorry," Tom apologized.
"You should be sorry," the centenarian scolded. "Naughty boys who don't learn their lessons don't get to see it. It's little enough his lordship asked of you."
"But I—"
"You what?"
"I did learn it."
"You did?"
"Yes, but he hasn't asked me to recite it."
"I'm asking you to."
Tom licked his lips and took a breath. "In disciplina perseverate…"
The old man listened to his recitation gravely, stopping him once or twice to correct his Latin pronounciation. When he had reached the end, the old man said nothing, waiting. Tom nodded, and repeated the passage, this time in English.
"When you touched it," Mr. Pakenson asked, "and you knew what it was, how did you feel?"
"Unworthy."
The old man regarded him in silence for a long moment, then nodded. "Let's get you a pair of cotton gloves, and you can feel unworthy again."
Old Lady Grantham summoned Tom to the Dower House.
"Has the baby arrived?" she asked when he appeared.
He was surprised. "No, Lady Grantham."
"I thought it must have been something important to make you keep me waiting here for you all afternoon."
He blushed, and glanced at his watch. Her note had said three o'clock. It was now quarter past.
"Why are you checking your watch now? I just told you you're late. Or perhaps you have another appointment after this, at which you feel it is important to arrive on time."
"I beg your pardon," he apologized. "Why did you want to see me?"
"Your mother sent that," she pointed across to a table, on which sat a box.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Your dinner jacket. So you've no excuse for appearing at dinner out of evening dress again."
"Long day?" Sybil asked.
Tom nodded. She made him lean forward so she could massage his neck. She could feel his tension under her fingers. "Don't worry, darling," she murmured. "You'll find your place in the family before too long."
He had found his place, he thought. About equal with Isis. Except that only he was allow to sit on the furniture… and only she was allowed discuss politics.
