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We're going back to the beginning- the first night in Ireland.


Dublin, May 1919

"Not what you're used to, I'm sure," Mrs. Branson speculated as she came into the dining room with a plate of boiled ham and cabbage. "But it's Tom's favorite."

"Is it?" Sybil smiled across the table at him. "I must learn to make it then."

"What's to learn?" Mrs. Branson retorted, setting down the hot plate between the bread and mashed potatoes. "It's boiled ham- it's exactly as it sounds."

"I can teach you," Tom offered, smiling back at Sybil and noting with satisfaction that her mouth still had a suspiciously red tint after he had spent the better part of the last half-hour kissing at it.

"You'll teach her?"

"Sure, why not? I've been cooking for myself for years. It's no chore. I'd even say I enjoy it." He surveyed the spread on the table and frowned. "This is grand, Ma, but it's Sybil's first night- we should have wine. Do we have any here?"

"If we do, it's just what didn't get drunk at Easter," Mrs. Branson replied over her shoulder as Tom got up to search the kitchen. "You know I don't keep it in the house." Sybil noticed the remark was pointed, but the older woman's comportment betrayed no details. And now she and Mrs. Branson were alone- just the two of them and the incredibly uncomfortable, conspicuous silence. Sybil was a well-practiced conversationalist, but it was quite clear that Tom's mother had no interest in small chat with her. Just be respectful, she coached herself as she listened to Tom rummaging around in the next room, fingering the fold of her napkin idly and waiting for Mrs. Branson to acknowledge her.

Of course, Mrs. Branson knew what they'd been up to while she'd been making dinner, after she had barked at Tom to "take her suitcases upstairs! For God's sake, you leave her here like a gypsy- she'll think you you don't have any manners!"

"I wouldn't think that," Lady Sybil refuted. But Tom was already on his feet getting the luggage, grateful to escape to an unseen place, that girl following him like a puppy up the stairs- that girl who's not going back, according to Tom. Can't go back- he's seen to that. "And come straight back down afterward."

Of course, he hadn't- and when they did, it was with fattened lips and sheepish glances. She raised four boys, she knows- but this must be anarchy for Lady Sybil, stealing kisses upstairs with a boyfriend or whatever her kind call it.

She remembered the first time Tom had Kathleen over for dinner- God, it must be ten or twelve years ago by now. He'd walked down the street to fetch her and they'd come in from the cold with the same lips, the same sheepishness and Katy looked completely enamored, as a girl of sixteen should, to be an object of his affection. Katy was good stock- strong and loyal, a hard worker- and Mrs. Branson had thought they were well-matched and maybe in a year or two, when they'd grown up, they might make a good marriage. Fat chance of that.

She raised her eyes to Lady Sybil, suddenly wondering how old she was. Not that the years mattered; she was certain Lady Sybil was, and would remain, far more unprepared for the world and its challenges than Katy had ever been, even at sixteen. Katy had been born knowing more than Lady Sybil would ever likely learn in her life. And now we're stuck with her. "Did he show you to your room?"

"Oh yes," Sybil responded, pleased for the question. "It's lovely, thank you."

"It's not much, but it'll have to do."

"It'll do perfectly." Mrs. Branson nodded curtly- her period on the conversation- but Sybil was determined to capitalize on the opening. "Will Liam be home tonight? I'm so excited to meet him."

"Liam has a new girl," Mrs. Branson informed her, "so he's not around much and certainly not much at night."

"What's this? Liam's got a new girl?" Tom inquired, reappearing with a bottle of red and three glasses in hand. "Found it under the sink." A strange place to keep wine, Sybil thought as he uncorked it and poured a glass. "Sybil, love, can I serve you?"

Sybil glanced at Mrs. Branson, unsure if she should accept. "I suppose just one. For ceremony's sake."

"Mam?"

"No."

"Well, raise your water then," Tom said cheerfully as he reclaimed his seat. He spent the last hour helping Sybil unpack in his childhood bedroom, regaling her with stories of how he and his brothers had made the dents in the walls and all their harebrained boyhood schemes that started with slipping out the lone narrow window. She had laughed heartily at it all, seemed genuinely happy and at ease here, despite mother's reception. And she was definitely pleased when he pulled her onto his lap and kissed her, a reunion they'd both been desperate for since leaving the hotel that morning. "I can't believe you're here..."

"A toast." Tom stood up and raised his glass. "There's a proverb- Mam knows it- which says: 'Time is a wonderful storyteller.' She said it to me before I left for England and I couldn't have ever imagined how wonderful it would be. That's thanks to you. So welcome home, love. I can't wait to see how your story unfolds and I hope this night and every night after are all you wish them to be."

Mrs. Branson tipped her drink impassively, averting her gaze as Tom walked around and kissed Sybil's cheek. Why did he have to bring up the night he left for England? Sad as it was, she had been full of hope for him. England was supposed to be a story of new and better opportunities, not becoming yoked to this Lady and certain disaster.

It's hopeless though, she realized, watching them make eyes at each other across the table, oblivious to her presence, let alone her trepidation. "Come on, Tom." She nudged the plate in his direction. "Look alive and serve us before it gets cold!"

Tom heeded the instruction and set to doling out portions. "What was that about Liam and a girl?"

"Her name is Clare and she lives over in Temple Bar," his mother relayed. Then, quirking an eyebrow at her son, added, "Her father's a watchman."

Tom chuckled. "So I see." To Sybil, he explained, "Her father works nights."

"Oh," she understood.

"And how long has Clare been around?"

"Three weeks? Maybe four? He slinks in at dawn and thinks I don't notice."

"Want me to have a talk with him?"

"And what would you say?" his mother joshed him, as she passed him her plate. "He's not doing anything you didn't do."

Tom halted, mid-ladle. "Mam."

"Oh, forgive me." Tom made an apologetic nod in Sybil's direction and resumed serving, but Mrs. Branson couldn't help herself. "You said she was family now..." To avoid her son's glare, she shifted her gaze to Sybil. "You'll find we speak very honestly here. Don't think it does much good to do otherwise."

"I couldn't agree more!" Sybil agreed with great enthusiasm; and she very much looked forward to acting on that principle if Mrs. Branson kept it up.

With food on every plate, Tom resumed his seat. Sybil reached to take a sip of water, but was arrested by Mrs. Branson's, "We give thanks before we break bread in this house." Sybil did not think a sip of water constituted breaking bread, but she just smiled thinly and lowered her hand. "Perhaps you'd like to do it."

"I'm afraid I don't know it," Sybil said without apology. "It's not our custom to say it."

"Of course it isn't." What would your lot have to be grateful for? Mrs. Branson was contemplating speaking that thought aloud, until Tom jumped in to say he would do it. "If you remember," she muttered under her breath.

"Bless us for these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive and make us ever mindful of the needs of others. In the name of Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen." Tom grinned victoriously at his mother. "Twenty-two years of meals with you won't be erased that easily."

"Thank the Lord for that." Sybil smiled at their good-natured dynamic. She was finding it fascinating to watch Tom at home; it was here that he was at his most comfortable, most confident. This is the place that made him who he was- that daring young man in the driver's seat who dared speak to her, passionately and as an equal, who dared propose marriage and promise her happiness when he was only supposed to carry her bags- before the place she was from started closing in on him.

"So what are your plans?" Mrs. Branson inquired as the meal began.

"I think tomorrow we plan to get out early, buy some tram tickets, and give Sybil the lay of the land." Tom recounted the plan they made on the ferry. "I'd like to go take a look at the newspaper office. And I think we'll try and scope out some hospitals."

"Yes, in the cab today we drove through a neighborhood- Phibsboro, I think," Sybil added. "I'd like to see if there might be some work there."

Mrs. Branson almost choked on her water. "You want to work in Phibsboro, do you?" she repeated, as if it were the most preposterous idea she'd ever heard, which it very well might have been.

"Well, it does seem they use the help," Sybil replied defensively.

"The Lord's mercy couldn't help those people, let alone the likes of you!" Mrs. Branson laughed. "I don't mean to be harsh, but you've obviously not thought this out."

"Obviously not," Sybil huffed. "I've only been here a few hours."

"You, working in Phibsboro! You'd probably wind up knifed in an alley!"

Tom's utensils clanked on the plate. "Ma!"

It was as sharply as he had ever addressed her and Mrs. Branson was aware she had pushed too far. "It's not a joke," she attempted to explain. " A girl got killed up there just the other week. It was in the newspaper. She was just nineteen. Horrible story."

"Why'd you bring it up then?" Tom challenged angrily. "Jesus Christ."

That was his provocation. "Watch yourself, Tom."

"Don't tell me-"

But Sybil blunted his words. "Abide your mother, Tom. It's her house." She calmly took a bite of cabbage. Mrs. Branson watched her son weigh escalation, fury still on his face, then yield to his fiancee's order and pick up his fork again. Mrs. Branson observed that Sybil did not look over at him, as she apparently had no doubt as to how he would respond. After allowing a minute for the temperature to drop, she said, as if nothing had happened, "We also have a wedding to plan."

"I have news for you on that front," Mrs. Branson told them. "Father Fahey can see you on Sunday at three." Sybil and Tom looked hopefully at one another; Mrs. Branson was pleased, in this moment at least, to pacify them. "Though you'd best let him see you at Mass that morning."

Tom took Sybil's hand. "He's agreed to marry us?"

"Even though I'm not Catholic?"

"He's considering it," Mrs. Branson clarified. "I've been pleading your case nearly every morning after Mass, but he has reservations. He hasn't seen Tom in six years and now you're back, wanting to marry and make the mother of your children a Protestant."

"Yes, I do and I won't apologize for it to him," Tom affirmed defiantly and then, with an even stare at his mother, added, "nor to anyone else either."

Sybil once again moved to diffuse the tension; this was important and Tom was losing the plot. We won't have to worry about his mother if we can marry and move out and be done with it. A month here was already seeming like an eternity. "Does he not like Protestants?"

"I don't think he likes to marry them, no," Mrs. Branson replied. "He's a Catholic priest- he serves Catholic faithful."

"Does he expect me to convert?"

"I don't-"

"That's not an option," Tom interrupted his mother. He turned to Sybil. "If you wanted to convert because you wanted to change your faith, then fine. But you won't be converting because it suits Father Fahey. You've more than proven your commitment. If Father Fahey won't marry us, we'll find someone else who will. I'm sure we'd have no trouble at the Unitarian church on St. Stephen's or at city hall."

"A civil marriage! What would your parents say to that?"

"I think they understand they are past having a say," Sybil answered her in a steely voice.

"Well, I better warn you then- Father Fahey wants you to wait a year."

"A year!" they exclaimed in unison.

"He wants to become acquainted with Sybil and to better understand your intentions."

"We want to be married and we want him to do it. Which part does he not understand?"

"No use getting upset about it now," Sybil counseled. "He's agreed to meet with us. Let's just wait and see what he says and talk about something else in the meantime."

The meal went on, mostly in silence.


Tom had just finished making the sofa into a makeshift bed when his mother came down the stairs. "Need another blanket?"

"Nah, the sheet'll do." He tossed a spare pillow at one end and sat down. She hovered.

"That pillow's terrible," she frowned. "But I gave the better one to her."

Tom read it for what it was- an apology. "As you should have."

"I figured you'd suffer it better than she would."

"Thank you." He had ceased to be mad about what happened at dinner; his mother helped Sybil settle in and even brought her a cup of warm milk "to ease the anxieties of the first night in a new place." Tom knew his mother's accommodation was directed at him, not Sybil, but he didn't care as long as she was the beneficiary. He threw an amused glance over his shoulder to where she was standing behind the sofa. "Have a seat and stay awhile?"

"I just came to say goodnight."

"We did that already," he reminded her, "before you went upstairs to bed."

"Well, I was going to bed, but I wanted to have a look at you," she confessed, a soft wistfulness seeping into her voice. She put her palm on his face. "It's been six years. I was starting to forget what you looked like. But, you haven't changed." She smiled and Tom realized it was the first real serenity he'd had seen in her since they'd arrived; only then did he understand how deeply the situation with Sybil was troubling her. She smoothed back his hair, a reflexive motion for which she was immediately embarrassed. "You're too old for me to be doing that."

"I won't tell," he promised as she came around and sat down beside him.

"You do need a haircut though."

"I know. A few weeks not working and I'm a mess." He chuckled, remembering how he once overheard Mr. Carson cluck that the chauffeur had a neater presentation than the house staff. "I'll do it on Saturday. I've got to buy some suits and shoes as well."

"Got to look sharp for your new job."

"Got to show you respect yourself. Isn't that what you taught us?"

"So you were listening," she teased him. "Who would have guessed?"

He shifted towards her, propping an elbow on the back of the sofa. "Sybil offered to order me a proper suit, London tailored and everything, as a gift, but I told her no. I want to make an impression but it won't do much good if the impression I'm making is of someone else- someone who gets his clothes tailored on Savile Row. But it was a fine suit."

"She shouldn't be-" He stopped her with a look. "Nevermind."

"You'd like her if you got to know her. I think maybe that's what you're afraid of."

"Afraid of your little Lady?"she mocked in disbelief. "Not hardly!"

"You want to hate them, but maybe you won't."

"I don't hate anyone," she objected, "but that doesn't mean I want one of them marrying my son. Don't look at me like that- her people feel exactly the same." But because they were getting on so well and actually talking, she opted to take a conciliatory route. "For what it's worth, I don't think she's insincere. I think she just doesn't know." She sighed, heavily and honestly. "And I just don't think people can change that much. They might want to, they might try to and they might even succeed for awhile, but life is relentless."

She regarded her son, who seemed puzzled by that comment, as if it were riddle and not a truth that had circumscribed his life, considering how much of her mind she should speak before deciding on all of it. "I'm not one to talk much about your father, but he said something to me right before he left that has stayed with me. He'd been doing well for a few weeks- working, coming home, going to church. He even took you boys to see the Sunday puppet show in the park, do you remember?"

"I do." Tom was surprised, but he did- a vague memory of too-bright sun, a marionette ghost haunting a feeble-minded farmer, and his father's laugh. "I do remember that."

"I thought maybe it really would be better... but then Monday came and Tuesday and on Wednesday, he stumbled home and I knew I'd been wrong. I said to him, 'But you were doing so good.' And he said to me, 'Ah, love- I'd be the best man in the world if only I didn't have to be it everyday!'"

Tom had never been privy to details of his parents' marriage- his mother had never spoken of it- and he heard it now through the prism of his own experience as a soon-to-be husband of a woman he loved more than his own life; a woman to whom he could never imagine saying those words- so cavalierly- and then walking out and leaving her to raise his children, alone, with no more than a good luck to ya. "God, Ma- I'm sorry."

She dismissed his sympathy. "It was over and done long ago. But I tell you it now only because the day may come when Lady Sybil decides she wants fine things again, or she wants her children to have them, and you won't be able to deliver them. And you don't deserve that. You will be a good husband and a good provider- I don't want to see it wasted on someone who won't ever be able to appreciate that because it will always be insufficient for her."

"I hear you, Mam," Tom started, treading carefully after her confession. "I know you're saying it because you want to protect me and because of your own experience. And I don't know the future, so I won't say you're wrong. But I know I won't be happy without her, so I've got to the take the chance," he impressed. "No matter how it's fated to end. Do you understand?"

"Understand, yes. Agree?" She left it unfinished and saw, as ever, unbridled optimism in her boy's eyes. Wind at his back always no matter what. "I don't know how you turned out so well, but I'm glad you did. You're the best of all of them, Tommy," she told him. "The brightest and the best."

Tom's mother was a person of copious pride and few compliments and that was a paramount one; he was almost abashed. "Your youngest will give me a run for my money."

"Liam's sharp as a whip, but he's selfish. He might have the right ideals, but he lacks values."

"Give him time," Tom countered. "As you said, there's a lot of my younger self in him."

"No, you were always righteous, through and through."

"Frank's a good man, giving you all those grand-babies."

"Yes," she concurred, "though that's the most he'll ever do in life. He's a good man. Nothing exceptional, but there's nothing wrong with that. Good is certainly better than the alternative."

"You mean like Da?"

"Your father yes, but I was thinking of your other brother," his mother responded. "Did you ever see him in England?"

Tom shook his head. "I traded a letter or two with him when I first arrived, but that's it. I didn't even bother to tell him Sybil and I were passing through Liverpool- we just stayed at a hotel." He shrugged. "We've never been close."

"He's not close with anyone, I don't think. Never married, no children. He doesn't write me and if he ever comes back to Ireland, he doesn't tell me about it." Her unemotional tone was belied by her hands twisting in her lap. "He is my great regret. He got the brunt of it, by accident of birth- Frank was already out of the house and you two were just boys. Keiran was fifteen, he could manage on his own, and the lifeboat was too small. So I let go." She sat back. "I was no kind of mother to him. He's right to have nothing to do with me now."

"You did what you had to do. And Keiran did manage, just as you thought. Got his own garage in Liverpool last I heard. Funny, isn't it? How we both wound up working with cars. Must run in the blood."

The mention of bloodlines brought back the question his mother had been meaning to ask him. "Is it true your Lady lives in a castle?"

"What? Why do you ask?"

"Is it true? Liam said it has towers just like Parliament."

"Yes, it's true," Tom admitted. "But she lives here now." His mother could only shake her head, which made him indignant. "I was born in a tenement next door to a slaughterhouse."

"I know," his mother interjected wryly. "I was there."

"I didn't tell her that when we drove through there today," he confessed. "But I'd like not to be judged on where I've lived and I'd hope she'd be accorded the same."

"None of it makes you doubt?" she asked, incredulous. "Not even a little?"

"No. Why should it?"

She really had nothing to say to that. After a long, quiet moment, she conceded, "She is a beautiful girl. You always did like the prettiest ones."

"Well, you know what they say. Men like women who are like their mothers."

"Oh, spare me!" his mother chided him. She rose and squeezed his shoulder; she wasn't one for kisses or cuddles. "Save the charm for your Lady and go to sleep."

"Goodnight, Mam."

Tom waited until she had climbed the stairs to lie down, but sleep was not on his mind. It was Sybil, always Sybil, asleep in his old room just overhead. And if she were not asleep, he wondered what she was awake and thinking of... was she thinking, as he was, of Liverpool, a lavender sky, and love, always love.