Thank you as always for the reviews! This is just a silly chapter- up next, it's Christmas!
A/N: There were a lot of shenanigans in the Irish election that brought Sinn Fein to power.
"Oh Edith!" Sybil cried, throwing her arms around her and almost knocking her onto the grass. "I love you!"
No one in the family (or anyone outside, for that matter) ever said that to Edith; in fact the warmest compliment she had received in a very long time was being told she was nicer than before the war (and that had actually been delivered as more of a constructive criticism than a compliment). So for the sake of her own pride, she tried to appear annoyed, gently pushing off her sister. "Don't say that."
"Why not?"
"Because you don't mean it," Edith laughed. "You're only saying it because I'm giving you what you want."
"That's only partially true," Sybil admitted, releasing her as they continued down the path.
"Do you know why I'm doing it?"
"Because you're my sister?" Sybil guessed. Edith shook her head. "Then it must be because you're a terrible romantic. Which you are you know," she added. "Much more than Mary or me."
"What would make you think that?" Edith responded, flustered. Sybil pointed out that she wasn't denying it. "I'll remind you," Edith countered, lowering her voice, "that I am the only Crawley sister who is not engaged."
Sybil waved her hand. "Oh, that's just happenstance."
"Happenstance?"
"Yes," Sybil insisted. "We all have to find our own unique talent and our place in the world, but they do exist, to be sure, and so does love."
Maybe for you, dear sister. Edith liked her younger sister- she had a good heart, a good sense of humor, was easy to get along with. But there were times when she found Sybil to be insufferable, like now with that self-assured statement- why, of course, love and talent and belonging for all of us! It was, no doubt, admirably optimistic, but it would perhaps be more admirable if Sybil hadn't been born into the prized role of the family baby, attention-demanding and adorable, a role for which she had been perfectly cast. She had never spent agonizing nights standing in a ballroom hoping someone would talk to her or ask her to dance (knowing that everyone around was whispering that no one would), she had never felt the humiliation of being passed over for someone else or worse, for no one else. Sybil never had to look for love; why, there was a man eager to be a lifetime audience for her act right here at home. And as luck would have it- as Sybil's luck would have it- he was (a chauffeur yes, but) one of the last remaining strong, young, and able-bodied men Britain. Sybil is optimistic, but that's because she wouldn't know rejection if she tripped over it.
"Will he carry a glass slipper so I'll know I'm just the one for him?" Edith knew she must have sounded bitter, but she didn't care. "Honestly, sometimes you talk like you're still in the nursery, that old picture book of fairy stories on your lap."
"You mock me, but everyone around here thinks I'm daft with my pants and my politics and actually liking to work," Sybil said with uncharacteristic sharpness in her voice. "They love me in spite of it. But do you know, there is someone who loves me because of it."
"And you accuse me of being a romantic!" Edith retorted lightly, although Sybil's assessment had upset her equilibrium; she had never considered that her sister could ever feel like she didn't belong.
"You'd quite like to be taken out on the water and read poetry to on a summer afternoon, wouldn't you?"
"Well, who wouldn't want that?" Edith answered because, well, who wouldn't want that?
"Can you imagine Sir Richard in a rowboat reciting poetry?"
The sisters exchanged a wicked look. "And summer's lease hath all too short a date... Mary," Edith aped in baritone, as they both collapsed into giggles.
"I can imagine it," Sybil started, catching her breath. "About as much as I can imagine Mary batting her eyelashes at him from underneath a parasol."
Edith glanced over at her still-laughing sister. "What about Branson?" she inquired as if she did not really want to know, although she did. "Is he the sort to read poetry on the water to you?"
"Tom read poetry on the water? Oh, no, no, I don't think so." Sybil thought that image was quite comical; Edith thought it was remarkably odd to hear Branson's Christian name roll off her sister's tongue with such familiarity and ease. "He might take me to a strike rally on the docks," she considered thoughtfully. To Edith's horrified expression, Sybil only shrugged and smiled. "It's romantic in its own way."
"You are daft," Edith concluded.
They walked for a minute in companionable silence through the milky December afternoon, which made Edith realize how rarely she ever took walks with anyone. She loved to roam the grounds, take a book to the old ruins in the back of the estate, but it was almost always alone. She never spent time with Mary and although she occasionally happened to collide with Sybil's swirl of activity in the house, they didn't usually set out to spend time together. Of course, that made sense, now that Edith knew with whom Sybil had been spending her free time.
"So why are you doing this?" Sybil wanted to know. "Not that I'm not incredibly grateful," she added quickly, "but I am curious."
There were two truths: the one Edith planned to tell Sybil and the other one. "You're a nurse," Edith began, "think of it as an inoculation. Sometimes a little bit of disease proves to be cure." That was true. But the other reason- the main reason- was for herself. She had been fascinated by the glimpse into their secret world at the inn- it had been a total shock to her, unlike Mary. Was Sybil really in love with their driver? She wanted to know. She frankly wanted to see.
"An inoculation?" Sybil frowned, her defenses flaring. "Well, I'll not argue with it, but if you think spending an afternoon with Tom will cure me of him, you will be disappointed."
"Frankly, we're just glad to be rid of you for a few hours," Edith parried with attitude of her own. "You've been absolutely horrid you know, since we brought you back."
"I know," Sybil acknowledged sheepishly. "Sorry about that."
"And I don't want to find myself chasing you around England again any time soon."
"Yes, Miss." Sybil assumed her fake contrition tone, the one that had allowed her to wiggle out of countless wrongdoings when they were children: "Yes, Miss, trying to dye Edith's hair brown with mud was very naughty and unladylike."
"Oh, you are such a brat," Edith marveled to which Sybil just grinned.
They were just about a hundred yards from the garage and it did not escape Edith's notice that Sybil's steps were quickening. It must be nice to have someone to sneak off to. Her sister gave a little discreet wave when Branson walked out from the back and he started upon seeing them.
Don't look at her, don't look at her. "Milady!" He turned an uneasy glance at Edith, willing himself not to look at Sybil, although it appeared it was just the two of them. "I thought we were to leave in a half-hour. I apologize. I'll bring the car around for Her Ladyship immediately."
"She's not coming," Sybil informed him, thrilled. "It's just us this afternoon!"
"Hello, Branson," Edith greeted him lukewarmly. It was the first time Tom had been alone with the sisters since the night they had all been together at the inn and to call it awkward would have been a massive understatement.
But Sybil seemed impervious to the tension, bestowing him with a besotted smile, hands clasped behind her as if she were actually holding them back. "Hello." Before he could answer, Edith opened the car door and with a pointed look, ordered Sybil to get in. They climbed in the back and he hopped in the front and then she was leaning next to him, close enough that her hair brushed against his cheek. "Hello again."
"Hello yourself." If your sister weren't sitting an arm's length away...
"Oh, just kiss him and get it over with!" Edith said with an exasperated sigh, then added in a warning tone, "Don't make me reget this, Sybil."
"I won't, I promise," she murmured and Tom could feel her smiling as she whispered into his ear, "I think it would work better if you looked at me." The desire to kiss her had been losing out to the mortification of having to do it in front of her sister, but that changed the equation; he turned, allowing Sybil to place a fluttering kiss on his lips, as Edith pretended not to look.
"That's quite enough of that for the afternoon," Edith ordered, tugging Sybil back by the coat. "Now sit." Edith guided her sister to the seat opposite her, directly behind Branson. "I'm giving you an hour by yourselves. I don't want to have to watch the two of you make eyes at each other for the entire drive as well."
Sybil obeyed and explained to Tom how Edith had finagled the afternoon alone, selling Mama on the importance of a sisters-only day out, and how Edith would go to the art store and pick up the things Sybil claimed she wanted and they could do what they pleased. "Wasn't that just wonderful of Edith?" Sybil gushed with a happy sigh.
Tom wasn't sure how to respond, given that Lady Edith was mostly glaring at him and she certainly was not doing this to be wonderful to him. But the older Crawley took command of the silence. "So Branson, have you seen the new 1919 Renaults?" And once that topic of conversation was opened up, there was neither silence nor another word from Sybil the entire way to Ripon.
Branson turned the motor down a winding side street, out of view of the prying eyes of the townsfolk on the main thoroughfare, and pulled to a stop adjacent to a small park. All three disembarked and formed a triangular confab on the sidewalk with Edith at the head and Sybil pressed next to Branson, who Edith conceded had the decency to look appropriately embarrassed about the whole affair.
"I am going to the art store and then to the library to see the traveling exhibit so at least one of us will know what we're talking about when Mama asks about it at dinner. I will be back in one hour," she dictated sternly. "Do not be late. And for God's sake, don't let anyone see you."
Branson (now gloveless and hatless) tipped his head to her, clearly having no idea what else to do. God, what is the proper response when a driver is dismissed by a lady to woo her little sister? Edith wondered. This whole situation is mad.
"We won't!" Sybil called merrily as they turned in the opposite direction. "Thank you, Edith!"
Edith watched her sister reach for the chauffeur's hand as they headed through the black gates of the park. Branson's uniform made them look ridiculously mismatched- although, it occurred to Edith, if Sybil were in her nurse's uniform, they would have made a striking couple. But, the sartorial aside, Sybil could not have looked prouder or more pleased if she were being escorted by the King himself. Edith sighed and turned towards town.
They had barely stepped through the gates of the park, nearly empty on this dreary December day, when Sybil turned to Tom, exclaiming, "I have so much I want to talk about-"
"Me too, " he interjected.
"-but I might break with you if you don't kiss me properly right now."
"Well, we can't have that," he chuckled, stealing her over to a bench partially hidden by a cluster of trees. There was still snow on the branches from a storm a few days ago, but it had been clear today and the wood on the bench was dry and then- at last!- they were kissing and he was apologizing for his hands, which kept wanting to move to her hair. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to muss it up. I'm just remembering how it was at the cottage- God, I loved that."
"Yes, it was better at the cottage," she agreed, eyeing a top-hatted stroller as he passed and waiting to finish until he did so, "where we didn't have to worry about anyone seeing us."
"We should be more mindful, much as I hate to say it," he rued. "We don't want any of your family's friends seeing us in this park."
She shook her head with a guilty laugh. "Tom, our family friends have their own acreages- they don't frequent town parks. At least not the unlocked ones."
"Huh." He sat back. "In all the years we've known each other, I've never thought about how rich you are. I mean, I know, but I never think of you as being that. It's unbelievable really."
"Thank you, I suppose," she said, embarrassed. "You'll like to know that much of my family's wealth comes from my mother's family. My grandfather started with nothing in the middle of America, opened a store and grew it into an empire."
Tom was surprised. "Is that so? I wouldn't have thought- I just assumed your mother was from Boston or New York."
"She's from Ohio!" Sybil told him laughing. "I didn't know my grandfather- he died before my parents were married. I remember packages coming in the post for my sisters and I with peppermint sticks and soaps and little trinkets, wrapped in brown paper with the outline of the store stenciled on it and Mama would put me on her lap and tell me about going there after school and how the shopkeeper would slip her candy. It was that old shopkeeper who sent us those packages. My American grandmother feels no attachment to the store. The money, yes. The store, no." She paused for a moment. "I do wonder what my mother thinks of her old life, if she misses it ever. She grew up so differently than we did."
"It does help explain you though," Tom posited, engendering a look of curiosity from Sybil. "Change is in your blood." He took her hand, looking uncharacteristically unsure. "Perhaps a man who took a self-made American as his wife might be willing to accept an Irishman who means to make something of himself for his daughter."
"You will make something of yourself."
"I'm trying," he sighed. "I sent the deputy editor the samples he asked for. Now, it's just a matter of waiting for his answer."
"I want this so much for you. You'd be so good as a journalist and I think you would love it."
He nodded. "I think so too. But I also sent out some inquiries about mechanical work. It's good to have a back-up."
"But you mustn't get discouraged if this lead doesn't come through. There are other papers."
He squeezed her hand in gratitude and she knew she had to broach the subject that had been the source of most of her anxiety as they entered December. "I think you should go to Ireland," she blurted out. She pressed on, ignoring his entirely puzzled expression. "I think you should hand in your notice and go and vote. There I've said it."
"Sybil-"
"I mean it. At least, I think I do- well, I'm trying to-"
"Sybil-"
"- because it's something that we believe in and it matters, and so even though I'll miss you terribly-"
"Sybil!" He caught her hands, which had been gesticulating wildly in concert with her monologue. "I'm not going to Ireland."
"But what about the vote?" she demanded, fairly indicting him with her tone. Good Lord, Sybil- j'accuse.
"The vote will go on and the good people of Ireland will elect someone without my input, just as they have in every election in the last five years." She seemed wholly unsatisfied by that answer. "Besides, I have a suspicion I'll be voting whether I go back to Ireland or not."
Her face clouded with confusion. "I don't understand."
"I wrote to my brother, who's been working on the election since graduated from university last spring, to ask what the residency requirement is. And he wrote back, 'Don't worry, your precinct knows you.'"
"What does that mean?"
"It means I'm pretty sure Tom Branson is already registered to vote, though he didn't register and he's not a resident and he hasn't been for some years now."
"Oh." The acidity in his voice told her to proceed with caution. "What do you think about that?"
"I don't like it," Tom responded, trying to shrug it off, although it was clear he was bothered by it. "After the war, after all that's happened, with the new voting laws- I don't see why they would do it. But I can't be too upset by it. There's nothing legitimate about English rule of Ireland, so illegitimate Irish rule of Ireland is still preferable to that."
"I'm sorry," Sybil told him. "I know how important this election is."
"I'm not sorry at all not to have to leave you," he assured her. "When I go back to Ireland, it will be for us. And there will other elections."
His words quickened the most vivid scene in her mind- she actually could see it; it heartened her and she thought it might hearten him. "The next election, we'll wake up in our bedroom and we'll get dressed in very smart clothes, and we'll have a little breakfast in our kitchen, drinking tea and reading the morning edition for any last-minute news," she imagined. "And we'll walk to the polling place together and we'll be made terribly indignant by all the people who don't know who's on the ballot, who don't know it's election day, who can't be bothered to vote."
He broke into a grin. "I can't bear people like that."
"Me either."
"I'll turn to you," he picked up, playing along, "and say it's a travesty that so many fools are allowed to vote, but an intelligent, well-informed woman like yourself is not."
"And I'll say nothing to that, because that was quite perfectly said." He loved the expression of wonder on her face as she spoke and even though she had never set foot in Dublin, he was sure she was actually looking at it now. "But we'll be full of anticipation and excitement, walking past all the people who shake their heads, saying nothing will ever change because nothing ever does and the future will be more of the same. And I'll turn to you-" she now did as she said- "and I'll say, they can't see what's right in front of them. Look at us. We are the proof that the world can change and it will do."
"And I," he replied, "will say nothing to that, because I will be doing this." He took her face in his hands and kissed her for a long while.
"I want it now," she breathed as they broke apart, placing her hands over his on her cheeks. "Do you think we'll have to wait very long to go?"
"Not so much. A month or two perhaps, to get it all arranged."
"My sisters will be glad to hear it. Edith told me I've been 'absolutely horrid' since Scotland."
"Why would she say that?"
"Because it's true," Sybil admitted. "It turns out that being kept away from you doesn't much agree with me."
"It's just for a little while." He lifted her hand and kissed it.
"You're handling it rather well," she said, making a face. "Should I be worried?"
"Well, this is a marked improvement from the last two years."
She couldn't argue with that; sometimes his brutal honesty was brutal. "I'm sorry."
"I didn't say it to make you feel bad," he told her, lifting her downcast eyes. "Look at me. We figured out the hard part. The hard part is finding someone in the world to love, someone you want to wake up to every morning, someone to challenge you and make you better. Love is the hard part. What we're dealing with is just the detail. And if you don't believe me, ask your sisters because I bet, if they were honest, they'd trade their positions for yours in a heartbeat."
She thought about Mary, the one she loves pledged to marry someone else, she herself pledged to marry someone she doesn't love; and Edith, with all her unrequited romantic feelings. "It's true," Sybil mused. "I know my heart, I know your heart. I know I want to spend my life with you. I'm just impatient to get started."
"We'll get there," he promised. "And we'll have the life that we want. I've no doubt about that." He chucked her chin. "Come on, when it comes to having our way, I think you and I are a pretty good bet."
"I'd take it." She kissed him and then amended, "I did take it."
The hour passed too quickly, of course, and too soon they were all climbing back into the car. But it was a whole new Sybil on the ride back- she seemed calm and centered and satisfied. Edith filled up the car ride chattering about the exhibit at the library and, surprisingly, Sybil actually listened and asked relevant questions and seemed to be able to focus on something other than her discontentment. Edith saw that, for Sybil, an hour with Branson had proved to be a panacea for everything that wrong in the world.
It was dark by the time they arrived back, so Branson drove them to the front of the house and he and Sybil let on nothing as he offered his hand to help her out of the motor. She walked through the door without ever looking back and by the time they reached her room, she was even humming.
"So what's it like," Edith asked, "to be in love?"
"You'll see," Sybil smiled at her. "Just wait and see."
