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We're back to the show timeline- 2x08.

April 1919

It's too bloody tight.

Tom reached to loosen the knot of his necktie, but then thought the better of it- he didn't want to look unkempt in front of her family. But it was too tight and once he'd noticed it, he couldn't unnotice it and now it was not only the offending clothing but the restraint he had to show toward it that was bugging him.

So he shoved his hands in his pockets and resumed pacing about in the shadows between two darkened windows of the big grand house, waiting for dinner to be over and trying to ignore the pinching around his neck. She said to watch for the dining room light to go out, it would mean her father had come to join them in the parlor. The light was still on. It seems I'm forever to be watching in windows for Sybil Crawley, he thought with a smile.

No, not forever. Not anymore, in fact.

He heard a loud crack and nearly jumped in spite of himself (he couldn't very well explain being caught lurking under the house windows). But it was just a fox running over a breaking branch. It stared at him with red eyes before darting off. He ran a hand under his collar.

He could not understand why the tie was bothering him, a grown man who wore one every day as part of his livery, as much as it had when he was still in short pants, fidgeting in the pews with his mother slapping his arm to sit still during those interminable Sunday masses. And God, Good Friday, which was three times as long and which, he and his brother proclaimed while making the gangplank walk to church, was sure to kill them both with boredom. "Have some respect!" his mother had berated them. "Jesus Christ died on the cross for you!" As ever, he didn't miss a beat before quipping back, "Wish I'd been with him."

He laughed now at the memory- his mother's shock, Liam cracking up, both hands covering his mouth. Thank the Lord they were in public or his mother would have strung him up with that tie. Or worse, he rued as the priest droned on in Latin and his mind conjured gruesome punishments he was sure to face once they filed out. He had started reciting Hail Marys on the walk home in defiance of his mother's order that he not speak a word- "I'm asking the Blessed Mother for mercy!" he had protested. "You'd better be," his mother had replied.

It occurred to him only now, remembering his mother as she was that afternoon, how young and vibrant she was- never beautiful, but strong and bursting with life, a classic Irish girl- that she would have been just a few years older than him that day, thirty or thirty-one, with a houseful of children, an absentee husband, working various odd jobs (at that time as as a laundress, for whom a good day meant not coming home burned or blind), scraping to fulfill a never-ending list of needs, always an illness or accident away from destitution. His life as a chauffeur at Downton was luxurious compared to the one she had lived. That's why she had pushed him- through school for as long as she could and then when she couldn't, to find not work, but a profession. "You make something of yourself," she had so often commanded, as if the words themselves were a talisman.

Then again, maybe they had been. Look where he was. Look what he was about to do.

You did all right Mam, even if you don't believe it right now.

He wasn't the sort to wax nostalgic and he wondered why he was now. Ah, well. It had been a crazed day- the conversation with Sybil and the hastily-made plan for tonight, then racing to clean the garage and pack up the cottage, then dressing and coming up here to the house. And after all that activity, there was nothing to do but wait. Wait and allow his mind to drift, as it seemed to want to do right now, between Downton and Dublin.

There was one time- and one time only- that Mary found herself grateful for Lavinia. She was even almost grateful that, in just a few days, Lavinia and Matthew were getting married. God knows how we would have survived this dinner without them. The known bride-to-be kept the attention away from the unknown bride-to-be, fielding questions from Papa, Mama, and Granny about the flower scheme and the final fitting and a guest list that included relatives so distant she would not be able to identify them on sight. Papa was clearly overjoyed at the upcoming wedding of the son he always wanted and finally had, while Mama was trying- and failing miserably- to make her feel better by asking stupid questions about her impending nuptials, which she was doing her damnedest to ignore.

Now, Lavinia is going on about her father and how she fears she'll cry when he walks her down the aisle. Good grief. Mama's eyes are welling up. Predictable. And now Papa is casting misty looks around the table at the three of them. Oh, for God's sake!

Is Sybil listening to any of this? she wondered, stealing a glance down the table. No. As usual, she was not paying the least bit of attention. Mary was taken aback to catch Matthew, next to Sybil, probing her with his eyes. He knows something is wrong. She returned her attention to her untouched plate and sighed. He always does.

God, if Mam heard Sybil say she wanted to find a flat in the old neighborhood, she'd drown herself in the Liffey. His mother would never believe it, but they were alike- the same irrepressible, indefatigable spirit, sharpness and humor; but where his mother's life had made her skeptical and hard, Sybil's had made her sweet and hopeful. He loved that, he needed that. The world was demoralizing enough on its own; it needed all the antidote it could get.

He realized then he had forgotten about the tie. When he thought about her, the vexation faded.

Of course, now that he'd thought about it again, it was back.

He had re-tied it three times at the cottage to no avail, while the metronomic march of the clock kept time with his thoughts, wondering what mood Lord Grantham was in, what course were they on, what if dinner ended early, what is she thinking right now? He wasn't sure she was ready for this, for the possible consequences. She had only decided this morning that she wanted it to be tonight, after he told her about the letter from the deputy editor- handwritten, not typed by a secretary- a personal appeal to take the reporter job, you'll move quickly up the ranks and have a chance to make a career for yourself, trust me.

"I have to hand in my notice, they want me to start in two weeks. But if you're not quite ready-"

She stopped him abruptly. "I'm going with you."

But Mr. Matthew's wedding... Matthew has been through so much... and Isobel's done so much for me... you can't ruin her only son's wedding... I can't ruin their wedding... But they might not let me stay...

"But if they do..." Sybil was more thinking than talking now. "Someday, Matthew will run Downton." And despite the unfinished sentences, Tom understood perfectly the wistful calculation she was making. Perhaps when he does, he will accept us.

So she resigned herself to the plan. He would pack, they would tell her parents, and he would take a room in town tonight; tomorrow, he'd take the train to the coast to catch the boat to Dublin and she would follow him in a week.

She started to venture the great unspoken what-if, but he interrupted her. "Then you'll come with me tonight. End of story." He touched her cheek softly. "Please don't worry about that. Your parents love you."

"I know, but-" She decided to take his advice and not dwell on it, at least not until she was forced to anyway. "I never imagined I'd see Ireland for the first time without you."

"You won't have to. I'll come to Liverpool and ride over with you," he offered.

"That's silly," she said, playing abashedly with his buttons, but quite clearly pleased with the idea. "It's a waste of money."

"I'll come to Liverpool," he resolved, embracing her, "and we'll see it together."

"I will miss you," she sighed against his chest, "even if it's only for a week."

"My darling girl," he sighed back, using an endearment that her people would use, hoping it would be a comfort to her now. "We'll get there soon enough."

Edith felt sick to her stomach. She poked at the mass of unconsumed salmon on her plate. How could she eat when Sybil was about to end their family? She sneaked a look at her sisters. Mary was staring vacantly into her wine glass. She's as terrified as I am. Mama and Granny were watching Mary too, fretting about her demeanor. They must assume it's something to do with Matthew. For once, they're wrong. Papa was oblivious, as usual, while Sybil was chewing thoughtfully, impervious to the conversations- internal and external, spoken and not-swirling around her.

Does nothing bother her?

The thing about her and Sybil was, for all of Mary's obnoxious, outward professions of adoration and kinship to their little sister, she and Sybil had spent far more time together as children. She had been stuck in the nursery with the family baby while Mary, the favored firstborn, was always invited to join the adults. Adults loved Mary- "So clever! So precocious! So beautiful!"- and nothing made her parents prouder than seeing their perfectly-mannered daughter preen in front of their friends and acquaintances. So Mary became Papa's right-hand girl, Mary needed to know how to run the estate, Mary was brought along while Edith was left behind to play with Sybil.

Sybil had neither need nor want of Edith as a playmate. She was a strange child. She only had two settings: entirely quiet and untroublesome, one who could play alone for hours without interruption (she hated being interrupted) with only her own imagination for company; or, she was a hellion. She really had no in-between. Edith was nothing but in-between. And Edith resented Sybil's disinterest in her- she was her older sister after all. Did birth order not demand some deference? But Sybil was far braver, far more daring, far more audacious that Edith would ever be- she was just born that way.

Sybil was camped in the corner, her back towards Edith, with a tea set, which she insisted was not for tea but for a magic potion, although she had refused to tell Edith what the potion was for. In retribution, Edith had taken to launching tiddlywinks over her, trying to hit her cups, but this was starting to bore her as it was so far, failing to get a rise out of her seven-year-old sister. "Want to play a game?"

"No."

"You're no fun."

"I'm busy. Stop bothering me."

"Want to go outside?"

"No."

"Explore the house?"

"No!"

"Did you know there's a secret room?"

Sybil head shot up. "A secret room?"

When the clock chimed noontime, the old nurse hobbled to the bathroom to take her pills ("It's the same every day," Sybil informed her and Edith wondered what else she knew about the goings-on in the house) and the sisters made a break for it. Edith started to run towards the east wing of the house, but Sybil went the opposite way, tugged out one of her hair ribbons and dropped it on the floor. "It'll be a week before she finds us," Sybil said with a roll of her eyes. "You have quite the criminal mind," Edith observed. Sybil beamed at the compliment.

At the end of the hall- further than either of them had ever traversed- they found it. Of course, the door was locked and of course, Sybil was undeterred. "There's more than one way in." And before she knew it, Edith found herself in an empty bedroom in the bachelor's corridor one floor below, stomach churning as she watched Sybil, kneeling on a chair, peer up the dumbwaiter shaft.

"I'm going in," she announced.

"You can't!" Edith cried. "You'll fall!"

She put one precarious shoe into the blackness. "No, I won't."

"Sybil, no. NO! I'm telling."

Sybil shrugged. "Go ahead." Both legs were in now, as she tried to find her footing on the shaft's skeleton that she insisted could be ascended like a ladder. Sybil was an ace climber- she had the ruined tights and dresses to prove it- but that was outside, in broad daylight, with Mary or some adult within shouting distance. This was dangerous and if something bad happened, Edith would be blamed for it.

"You'll break your neck! And if you don't, Papa will do it for you!"

"No, he won't. He'll yell at me and what of it? What else can he do? Nothing."

She had a point, as Edith couldn't think of what else Papa would actually do. "You'll- you'll never get dessert again!" she countered weakly.

"Of course I will. Anyway, Papa's not going to find out. Don't be so afraid all the time!"

And that's how Edith came to find herself scaling the woodwork inside the dumbwaiter shaft (which was fairly like a ladder and not too scary as long as she didn't look down) and stumbling into the secret room, nearly falling onto her sister. They hid there all afternoon, laughing as they heard the staff searching the halls, and later sitting stone-faced and contrite as Papa read them the riot act for disappearing and nearly giving the old nurse a heart attack and sent them to both to bed with no dinner.

That night, Sybil came to her room, pulled two cookies out of her bathrobe pocket- how in the world?- and handed one to Edith. "See?" Sybil said, as they sat munching contentedly on the floor, wondering what else there was to discover. "It wasn't so bad."

Edith wanted to believe that experience would prove instructive, but she had a sinking suspicion that no one would be saying that tonight.

This was the next step. Or the first step- the first official step- depending on how one was keeping count. They would tell the world about their engagement, their plan, his employment would surely be terminated, effective immediately, he would collect his belongings and head for the hotel.

He checked again; the light was still on.

And yes, this tie still felt like a bloody noose.

He concentrated on the little speech he had prepared (not that he thought for a second her father would let him make it, but nevertheless, it was right to have one) and steeled himself for what awaited behind the imposing front doors.

What's with this door anyway?

He had seen it thousands of times, but only now did he really notice the two black dragons flanking the stoop, the two wolves with barred teeth guarding the door. Not that one could reach them to knock. That was merely an architectural trick of grand houses- put things a little too high- out of reach- to make people feel smaller.

Wolf heads with barred teeth. Nice thing to put on the door. Welcoming.

It's a message alright, but welcome isn't it.

He had not fathomed that, in the context of all that was about to happen, the minute in which his courage would falter would be this one: entering the house. But he had never walked through the front door, not ever, not even when he helped moved beds and boxes into the convalescent ward. He was not allowed to walk through the front door. No one had ever told him that explicitly, but that's because no one ever had to; of course he wasn't. The chauffeur wasn't welcome in the house. And when, for some reason, his services were needed inside or if he came to borrow a book, he entered by the back stairs and was escorted to and from his errand by one of the house staff.

What if someone is on the other side? What if Mr. Carson is there?

He couldn't very well say he had been invited by Lady Sybil, for the occasion of announcing their engagement to her family in the parlor after dinner. He couldn't explain that's what she wanted- for him into come to the parlor tonight- or express how touched he had been by her ask this morning. She wanted to tell them together. She wanted him to stand beside her and to take her hand. We have no reason to be ashamed, she had said; he had a reporter job lined up in Dublin and they had a plan. This was happy news. We should be happy- proud and happy - to tell it, as any couple would.

He had no delusions that Lord and Lady Grantham would be neither proud nor pleased by the development, but Sybil seemed to truly care about announcing it to her family together and it was the least he could do when she had forfeited any ideas of a grand wedding day in deciding to walk down the aisle with him.

He didn't fear the inevitable confrontation. He could handle Lord Grantham's wrath and recriminations. They were in love and he had no doubt they were in the right. He worried a bit for Sybil, but not too much. She loved her parents but derived strength and even a perverse satisfaction from standing up to them. It suited her to upset the order of things. He smiled at that. What am I in for?

But nevermind their marriage. What are we in for tonight?

The wolves stared back at him.

She had asked Tom to come in after dinner. She took a final bite and surveyed her empty plate. I've done my part to move this meal along. Her sisters had barely touched their food. I do wish they would stop staring at me.

After what seemed an eternity, the women rose and went to the parlor.

"You girls certainly are quiet tonight," Mama remarked.

His trunk was packed.

The cottage was swept, the dishes were put away, the bed was stripped. He would have had the sheets washed, but ran out of time. Oh, well. You can only do what you can do.

He had to report to work in two weeks. It was unbelievable. Two weeks from tonight, he would be likely be leaving the newspaper office after his first day. He might be relieved or terrified or exhilarated or all of that. And he would be going home to tell Sybil all about it. She'll be inside, waiting for him.

Like she was inside, waiting for him right now.

In two weeks' time, all this will be behind us and none of it will matter.

He strode boldly to the doors of the big, grand house and walked inside.

The cognac is exceptional tonight, Robert thought. It was the perfect end to what had been an all-round delightful evening. He was so pleased, so pleased, for Matthew. His future had been restored. And Robert could now breathe a sigh of relief, for the war had mostly spared his family.

All was well in the world.

Tom felt the tie again, oppressive and hot and through his shirt. It doesn't fit, he thought, staring back at the hostile room.

There was one time- one moment only- in this whole terrible mess Sybil had set in motion that Edith found herself in the chauffeur's corner.

"You've asked me to come, and I've come." Something about his voice, the entreaty within, the bare-laid fear that she was about to desert him again as she had at the inn, the chin-upness he was putting on, courage (false or not) in the face of certain ridicule from the room. She recognized that feeling, damn it, and in that moment and that moment only, Edith found herself silently willing her sister to do that which she did not want her to do:

Sybil, no. You're better than that. You're braver than that.

And in the next minute, Sybil remembered it too.