Well, it has been fun, writing and posting these last few chapters in quick succession, but I'm sad to say that things will start to slow down now...but you never know! Your thoughts and reviews really push me, so I may be able to churn the next chapter out much faster than I anticipated! We shall see!

A little thing to mention about this chapter; originally, due to the subject matter, I was going to have it be another diary entry from Sybil's perspective. But then I began thinking and wondering "what was going through Branson's head, when this happened? Did he care? What was his reaction?" So I chose to wipe the slate clean and brainstorm a new idea on how to write the chapter, and ta da! In truth, I actually like this much more than my original idea...please let me know what you think!

Also, once again, so little is known about Branson's family and background-hopefully season 3 of "Downton" will be able to finally answer some of those questions, but in the meantime, here's my take on his family history.

I apologize for the sadness of the subject matter of this chapter, but as fans of the show, we all knew this would be brought up and discussed at some point. So I warn you right now...you might want to have a tissue nearby, just in case.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Dear Mother,

First, I would like to apologize for the shortness of my last few letters. While I can claim diligence in writing to you on a regular basis, and sending you what money I can…I know that's not the reason you open my letters. I know that the money helps, but I know what helps even more is hearing how I am, and knowing that I'm alright. So for being brief and saying very little in those last few letters, I apologize. And I will be making up for it, with this one.

But indulge me if you will, by asking after you? How are you? How are the girls? How is Frank? Has he had any luck in finding work? How are Kathleen and that fiancée of hers? Have they set a date yet? I have some holiday time coming up, and plan to spend a few days in Devon visiting Martin, but I'm sure his Lordship, the Earl of Grantham, will grant me a little more if I explain that my sister needs me to walk her down the aisle. How are the rest of the family? Alright, alright, I suppose that's enough questions for right now, but I do hope that all of you are well, and please know that not a day goes by when I don't think and pray for you all.

Perhaps you're surprised by my sudden emotion? I hope you can feel it radiating through the ink on this paper. I'm sure you can guess part of the reason. I write this to you on the 29th of July, 1914…one day after the Austrian invasion of Serbia…

War. Oh God, Mother, it's actually happened.

In some ways, I'm shocked that it took this long since the Archduke's death; one month exactly. I know that the Austrians have been angling for a fight with the Serbs ever since, but where will this end? There are some here who think (or perhaps hope) that it will stay there, on that side of the Continent, but I don't believe that for a second. I wish it were true, but with the tensions that have been building up between both countries and their allies over the last few weeks, I fear it's only a matter of time before Germany throws its hat in the ring and declares war on either France or Russia…and England will only stay silent for so long. And if England goes to war…we both know what that will do to Ireland.

God, I hate this. More than anything, I hate this…this feeling of…helplessness. Because that is what I feel; helpless to whatever fate that a bunch of hot-headed politicians and war hawks declare. Promise me you'll do whatever you can to keep Frank out of it. I know he's only seventeen and hasn't quite yet reached his majority, but you know how he can be—always jumping into a fight without thinking, always sticking a foot in his mouth; I know you won't let him do anything stupid, but…just write back and reassure me, please…I need the peace of mind.

Well, as I said, that's part of the reason for my letter. The other part…well, I didn't know who else to speak to, and I know you will understand.

The Countess of Grantham, my employer's wife, she…she suffered a miscarriage yesterday. It's strange in a sense; two completely different events that happened on the same date, yet both equally dark and utterly wretched.

Her Ladyship hasn't had a child in eighteen years, so the pregnancy itself was a shock. But it filled the house with such happiness and excitement. I've never seen so many people, people who rarely interact with her Ladyship, people to whom she probably can't even name…look so thrilled at the thought of welcoming a little one…and who now look so dejected at the loss. In some ways, I'm amazed at my own emotion. I remember how we nearly lost little Moira, how when she was born she wasn't breathing and the doctor looked utterly bewildered and helpless. I remember Frank and the girls looking so confused, and Kathleen leaning against my shoulder, crying as I stared in horror at the tiny, blue-faced baby. And then I remember Da, reaching out with trembling hands, taking the child from the doctor's arms and slapping Moira several times on the back. I remember flinching at the sickening sound, staring at him with disgust and hating him so much, wanting to wrench her away and give her some dignity…and then I remember staring in shock as a cry erupted from her purple lips. You remember that December night better than anyone. That's the closest we've ever come to losing someone. I felt so blessed that we never had to go through that, unlike the mothers of many of my friends. A miscarriage is not that uncommon, sadly, but I've never had to live through the pain of one…until yesterday.

There's someone here, who…well, who's a very good friend. And she's very close to her Ladyship. She was the one who came and told me about her Ladyship's fall; God, I'll never forget that sight, her bursting into the garage, her hair tumbling down her back in panicked disarray, her eyes wide with fear as tears rolled down her cheeks. I drove as fast as I could to fetch the doctor, nearly crashing the car in the process. He assured me several times last night that it wouldn't have mattered if I had gotten to him any sooner, but I can't help but keep thinking over and over that if I had driven faster, if I had gotten him back to the house sooner…her Ladyship's baby would have been saved. Oh Mother…I know what you're thinking, and I thank you for those thoughts. As for my friend…I haven't seen her at all today—I'm sure she's been busy, tending to her Ladyship. But seeing the fear and the pain on her face and in her eyes when she came to me…God almighty, it broke my heart, Mother. I suppose…if I'm honest with myself, that's why this tragedy has affected me so. Because I feel as if…as if I failed her. Does that sound awful? I don't mean to sound selfish; I truly am sad and sorry for her Ladyship and his Lordship, but…I just wish I could have spared my friend this pain. As I said before, I hate feeling helpless.

But I know what you would say, and if I close my eyes, I can hear your voice reminding me that "time is the great healer of all wounds". I only pray that it moves faster and comes sooner for my friend and the Crawley family.

Oh write to me soon, Mother, please. I need to hear some good news right now, some good news from home. I think that will heal far better than time, if I'm honest. I will be sure to give your love to Martin when I see him, and please give mine to the rest of the family, although I don't know if Uncle Michael will accept it, but he might if someone other than myself, is delivering the message. Please take care of yourself, don't work too hard, and know how much I love and miss you all.

Your loving son,

Tom