Author's Note: I'm sorry about Lady Sybil, but I can't write the story I want to write about Branson and old Lady Grantham if I go AU.
He that is a friend loveth at all times: and a brother is proved in distress. –Proverbs 17:17 (Douay-Rheims translation)
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.
Cora still did not want him, even after the funeral was over. For reasons which passed his understanding, Robert chose to go next to the nursery, instead of back to his dressing room.
Tom was there before him, pacing slowly with the baby in his arms and singing. "An londubh is an fiach dubh, Téigí a chodhladh, téigí a chodhladh—" he broke off the lullaby at sight of his father-in-law in the doorway, and walked up to the older man to offer him the child.
Robert, with no desire to hold her, and every intention of refusing, nonetheless found his arms full of his granddaughter, and his son-in-law's eyes on him. Waiting.
Robert said the first thing that came into his head. "I suppose you'll be leaving now?"
The intent blue eyes looked away. "Yes," the boy agreed softly. "We'll be leaving." He sighed gustily. "Quite soon."
Robert put up a gentle finger to stroke the infant's cheek. "Good," he said.
"The best fertilizer is the farmer's footsteps."
Tom was puzzled. "How can that be, Grandda?" The boy, looking over the little potato ground, felt his grandfather's hand ruffling through his hair.
"You tell me. You're the one who's supposed to be learning. What's a fertilizer?"
"It's a substance added to the soil to increase one or more nutrients essential to the growth of plants."
"A fine, technical explanation. Got that out of a book, did you?"
Tom nodded.
"A fertilizer is something that makes the land more productive." The old man's smile was in his voice as well as on his face. "Your footsteps can't be a fertilizer the way manure is, obviously."
"But you said—"
"It's a metaphorical fertilizer, not a chemical one."
"I don't understand."
"Well, let's see. Is a planted bed more productive than waste ground?"
"Of course."
"What about if no fertilizer is applied?"
Tom thought. "I suppose it would still be more productive than waste ground."
"Could it be planted without the farmer leaving his footprints in it?"
"Probably not."
"So then the farmer's 'footsteps' are what made the ground productive."
"I see," Tom said, still looking at the potato mounds thoughtfully.
"But it's more than that, even." Brian waited for his grandson to look up at him before he continued. "You need to pay attention to the land you're husbanding, if you want it to thrive."
Was he even paying attention? Violet wondered. Surely Robert didn't want Sybil's child to be a stranger to her own family?
But he himself had admitted that he couldn't properly consider anything while he was fighting with Cora. Something would have to be done about that. Meanwhile, she would have to see what she could do about Branson. Would anyone believe she needed a secretary?
Who was it who had said one's waning years were full of ease? Alone in her drawing room, Violet let her musical chuckle ring out. Some youngster, obviously.
Tom obeyed the Dowager's summons, but his arrival heralded its own surprise. He had brought the baby.
"She's a bit young for tea, B—Tom." Despite the disapproving tone, she held out her arms for the child, and her grandson-in-law obligingly handed the baby over.
"Don't worry, Lady Grantham, she's just eaten. I brought her because you haven't seen her in days, and she's growing so much… I thought you might not recognize her if we went any longer." He smiled at her.
Violet wondered how he could look so heartbroken while smiling, but turned her attention to the babe. "She's getting so big!"
"Eats like a champion," he agreed. "Dr. Clarkson was afraid… she might not."
Their eyes met for a moment in tacit communication about the reason the physician had worried, then Violet turned her attention to cuddling the child for a few moments. When the baby's eyelids began to droop over the blue-gray eyes, old Lady Grantham surrendered her to her father, who lay her back in the pram.
Violet rang for Jamison to bring in their tea. "Will our talk bother her?" she asked Tom.
He shook his head. "She's a champion sleeper as well. Could sleep through a riot."
"Let us hope your theory on that won't be tested."
Tom's chuckle seemed to emanate from his chest. "From your lips to God's ears, Lady Grantham."
"So you won't take her back to Ireland then?"
His brows contracted. "How can I?"
Oops.
"No, of course not. How silly of me," the Dowager tried to cover.
Tom was giving her a strange look.
"Have you thought of… staying here?" she suggested nervously.
Their tea arrived. Violet busied herself with the pouring and serving, while Tom was saying, "Lord Grantham wants me to leave… and what sort of job could I get here?" One corner of his mouth turned up, and he blew through his nostrils in an amused, but very muted snort. "Would Larry Grey like to take me on as a chauffeur, do you think?"
Violet frowned as she served herself. Tom saw it and misinterpreted its cause. He looked down at the scone she'd given him, and his voice was so soft as to be nearly inaudible as he suggested, "I could find a position more quickly if you gave me a reference."
"No!"
He breathed out slowly, still looking down at his plate. He lifted the scone and took a bite. When he'd swallowed, he continued quietly, "No, of course not. What with Sybil being dead, their daughters wouldn't be saf—"
"Hush, Branson!"
It was the first time she'd told him to hush since he and Lady Sybil had announced their engagement. Violet had supposed the command would no longer work once he ceased to be their servant, but she saw he had in fact closed his lips.
"That was unworthy of you."
"I'm sorry, Lady Grantham. I just—"
"I know," she told him.
"What's growing the field now?"
Tom looked at the plants. "Turnips."
"So what will we plant next season?"
"Barley?"
"Are you asking me or telling me?"
"Barley," Tom repeated, this time without the rising inflection.
"Good. Then what?"
"Clover."
"And then?"
"Wheat. And then back to turnips again."
They both reached for the cucumber sandwich simultaneously. Tom laughed and drew his hand back. "You take it. I've had two already."
"Aren't they feeding you at the house?"
He actually blushed.
Violet picked up the little hand bell and rang it. When Jamison appeared she said, "You'd better bring us another plate of sandwiches. Mr. Branson has a larger appetite than I thought."
Jamison gave the former chauffeur a cold glare worthy of Mr. Carson, but said only, "Very good, my lady."
When he had gone, the Dowager picked up the thread of their conversation. "Do you have any idea where you might go?"
"I've a brother in Liverpool. I'm pretty sure we can go to him. I should know in a day or two."
"Is this your brother William?"
When she saw the boy's stricken face, she was sorry she'd brought it up. "What is it, Tom?"
"Will… Will never came back from Turkey." Tom looked up at the corner of the room for a moment. It was years now, but the loss always seemed fresh, even now. "It's Kiaran who's in Liverpool."
"Do you get on with Kiaran?"
He shrugged. "He's my brother. Your family has to help you, don't they? And you have to help them?"
"We're your family now."
"I don't think Lord Grantham agrees with you."