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Sybil had been lying down in Tom's childhood room for nearly an hour, unable to sleep. The bed was hard and uncomfortable, even more than the bed in the cottage or the lumpy one in the hotel, and the wooden slats supporting the thin mattress pierced her hipbones when she turned. No wonder he can sleep anywhere. The sofa in the parlor was probably softer and she was glad of it; he needed to rest up before starting his new job on Monday.

We will not scrimp on the bed, she decided. They could economize on other purchases, but not the bed. Their bed would top-of-the-line with a featherbed on top, four pillows (at least), and pressed sheets- made up with hospital corners, of course. Of course. This would be their house- her house to run-and she wouldn't have it any other way.

I wonder if he is sleeping now...?

She could not sleep in this bed a year. She could not stay in this house a year.That was not the plan. The plan was a month, just while the banns were read. Now the priest is threatening to muck it up. They had not considered, they had just assumed- if they had considered it, they wouldn't have- and what if...?

What an idea, that she could see an entire new life into the world and it would still- still!- not be a year. She could not fathom it, as she stared at the ceiling, twisting the end of her braid with her fingers. It was stupid, she thought, not to wait or take any precaution at all. But I'm not sorry.

"To live with him- unmarried?" Her mother's voice, stringing up a notch on the last word, echoed in her mind. That was the worst of all possibilities to Mama. But would it really be so impossible? Sybil wondered. If we had no other choice, if we couldn't be married? To Mama, yes. But do people here hold such prejudices? She wasn't sure why anyone should care. They were living in the same house now, after all. Yesterday, they had told the hotel manager they were married: they had their meal, brushed their teeth and went to sleep; when they awoke, they yawned and dressed and went on with their lives. And yes, sometime in between, they had found each other- noses and lashes and sweet little laughs, and shed the last secret between them with no one the wiser. She could have stayed in his stare forever as he spoke softly to her- "so much, for so long"- touching his face with her own whispered wish, "I should like you to always be so happy with me."

And they were happy and it was beautiful and even more than, it was right- right for them, right that it should be there, halfway between the old and the new, right that it should be then, a proverbial crossing an accompaniment to an actual one- and what business was it of anyone's? They didn't know, not at all.

Did they?

She could still feel it, the place where he had etched their love in her- not quite painful, just present; all day, every time she stood up or shifted in her seat, it was there shouting her difference to the world and she wondered if anyone else could hear it. She observed the women on the ferry and even Mrs. Branson, realizing they all must have experienced it once too- every woman in the world, at some point- wondering when and where and with whom, how they had felt and what they had thought. Mama too- she didn't want to talk to her, God no, but if she could just peek inside the mind of her younger self... also in a strange bed in a strange land, the accent speaking softly to her different from her own. But she remembered that her father had not loved her mother, not then- then it was not the same at all- and quickly put it out of her mind.

I need a friend, she laughed. She used to have lots of friends; she and Imogen used to command their little gang, the new class of debutantes taking London by storm with endless conversations about crushes and clothes. She had invoked these friends as a reason to stay, but the last time she had visited with them (reluctantly, Mama had forced her), a soiree at Imogen's with her brother and Larry and the usual crew, she had found the whole lot of them insufferable. Tom Bellasis wasn't there, but they prattled on as if nothing had changed. Tom Bellasis was dead- along with Cary and James and Paul Morley- and still, they carried on as if nothing had changed. She had stopped speaking after an hour, spent the rest of the evening watching the clock and the window, waiting for the car to come. When it did, she bolted for the door and Larry followed, to corner her, but the butler was too quick with her coat. And then there was Tom, his hand lifting hers, taking her far and fast away...

"How was your evening?"

"Awful." Tom glanced back, concern rising. The man in the doorway had watched her leave, blurred by the shadows except for the incandescent white of his dress shirt and a sneer of rejection; it was a look that made Tom glad to get her into the motor. "What was so bad about it?"

She vented a bit about the vacuous conversation, the unconscionable excess, their ignorance. "Did I used to be like that?" she suddenly needed to know.

He slid his eyes to hers, his smile a mild indictment. "It's nice out," he demured, "now that the rain's stopped."

"It is a nice night," she agreed, leaning up over his shoulder. "Let's salvage it. Pull over."

His face went stoic. "I don't think so, milady."

"I didn't ask what you think. I didn't ask anything at all." It came out meaner than she intended, like all their words these days. 1918 had not brought peace between them; more was still an open question. His jaw twitched, but he pulled the brake. He worked for her, after all. "There's an overlook just ahead." The car eased to the side.

He jumped out and she started to follow, but he halted her. "Wait. It's too muddy. You'll ruin your shoes."

"I'll have to risk it. Unless you want to carry me," she breezed as her eyes danced. "Again."

But he did not look up. "There are some stones- you can step on them," he said, sweeping the mud away with the toe of his boot. He helped her down and walking backwards, with both hands, guided her across the cleared stones. "There's one to your left." He was not wearing gloves. "Your other left."

"Right," she joked. He did not smile.

The last rock by the edge was longer than a step. "Jump," he instructed and she did, teetering, until his hands moved to brace her arms, dropping them just as quickly. She looked out at the vista before them- sunken hills rising over patchwork farms, the land of her childhood. "Mama thinks I should get out more," she relayed quietly, a hint of shame in her voice, for they both knew what she meant.

Get out more. He digested the directive, taking a few steps in the other direction. Your mother doesn't mean out, she means in- inside, where you belong. "We should go back. They'll worry something's happened."

Like what? she wanted to ask, but she didn't dare. She regarded him, hands stuffed in his pockets, stare fixed on the distance. She could have kissed him- here, now- if only he hadn't put that ultimatum between them. If a kiss could be a just a kiss. We could have dared. She sighed. "Alright."

He led her back to the car, the last step depositing them too close together on a too-snug rock, both her hands in his. For one breathless moment, there in the dark, he did not let go and neither did she. When he reached for the door handle, the moonlight cast over his face and she saw it- the pale pain of too much love, something queasy and swollen, too tender to touch. She did not consider what her own face might have revealed.

But then last night... It had been so different, with their skin flush and warm and victorious under each other's fingers, stoking a shared and slightly delirious joy. "I've done this before," he exhaled. "That was new."

"...the most beautiful and the most loved." She sighed. She had. Oh, how she had!

Two quick raps on the door interrupted her recollection and she scooted up on her elbows as Tom entered the room. "What's wrong?" she whispered.

"Nothing." He shut the door soundlessly and came over to the bed. She was wearing a frilly white nightdress, a thick braid tied with a white ribbon over her shoulder. She looked... well, a lot different than last night.

"You can't be in here, Tom." She warned him with a look. "Your mother-"

"- sleeps like the dead. Trust me." He took her face in his hands. "I just wanted to kiss you goodnight properly."

"I'm very glad of it, but still..." She finally broke, leaning back against the low headboard. "We can't. I won't."

"No, I know. I wouldn't ask."

"Your mother already hates me."

"She doesn't hate you." He offered a compromise, taking a seat on the floor. "Besides, I can't come to you like this," he chuckled, indicating a ruffle on her nightdress. "I feel like I should give you a lolly and a pat on the head."

She rolled her eyes. "That's Mama. I've had them since before the war. I suppose I never had any reason to buy to new ones- no one but my parents and sisters ever saw them." She paused. "Though Mary always had very grown-up sleepwear and even Edith... I'll have to buy new ones now. I hope sooner rather than later," she finished with an imploring look.

He rested his chin on the bed. "Right. You handled it well- better than me- and I think you're right, we'll just wait and see what the priest-"

"I could live with you," she blurted out. "If he says no, if we can't-"

"We're a long way from that, love. And there are other options."

"I don't think I could have said that- before- but I can now. I would live with you, unmarried, if we couldn't be."

He shook his head. "We can't do that."

"Why?"

"For starters, you'd never be hired. Most hospitals are Catholic, they wouldn't even consider it. And people here- Jesus."

"It seems to me there's a more liberal attitude here- Liam and his girlfriend. You."

He shifted uneasily. "There's a... toleration, I suppose, because it happens, as long as you treat it as a failing of the flesh. You drank too much, she was too pretty, you're young and stupid or just stupid... But you can't decide to do it. You can't decide to do it," he repeated with changed emphasis. "A woman who decides to live outside the law with a man? No. That would not go over well here. And social ostracism is not the avenue to your happiness or mine."

"But I've already done it."

"I'm not defending it. And if it were only our world..." He smiled at that, what a lovely idea. "But it's not. So we'll wait and see what the priest says."

"And if he says no, we'll have it done at City Hall," she resolved. "As soon as possible."

"You don't like the idea of the Unitarian church?"

"We'd probably have to wait there as well. City Hall would be easier."

"We can do that," he nodded slowly, "though it's not the wedding I want." She looked expectantly at him. "I want to see you come down the aisle in a white dress and a veil with flowers and all of that," he told her without embarrassment. "And I want to be ordered to kiss you in front of everyone. What's funny?"

She lolled her head on the pillow, unable to suppress her amusement. "That's just very sentimental, is all."

"You're the unsentimental one, not me."

She scoffed. "And how do you figure that?"

"You've never said you love me," he stated, certain this truth would win him the argument.

"Of course I have!"

"Not to me."

"Well, that's- it's not- I wouldn't say that to anyone!"

"Posh people speaking plain their feelings," he teased. "Oh, the horror."

She knew he wasn't serious, but still, it upset her to think he might doubt her. "How can you call me unsentimental when I'm threatening to defy God and the law to be with you?" she challenged, toying with his hand. "Action speaks more than words, I think."

"That's why your people have Empires and my people have poetry," he rued. "But I guess we need both, don't we?"

"Then we are well-matched."

"I think so," he agreed.

"It's just- when we tried to elope, we expected to just show up in Gretna Green, a place we didn't live and had never been to, where no one knew us- and some townsperson would declare us married because under their law, anyone can marry anyone. But what would be different, really? Would we be any more moral because a smithy declared us so?" As she spoke, she became more confident and convinced of her view. "Before last night, I thought it such a great thing-"

"Do you think it not so great now?" came his jocular interjection. "I did you wrong then. You should demand a do-over."

"A grave thing. A thing of great consequence. But it's not, not really," she concluded. "And so easily done." She did not mean for it to sound like an invitation, but she would not have been disappointed if he took it as such; looking at him, she saw he was very much considering it. Did Liverpool throb in him as much as in her? Could he feel it now too? Not pale, but blood-red like muscle and mouths and- "I know that we can't, and I'm probably not supposed to say it out loud, but all I want is for you to love me like you did before."

"You have to know how much I want that too..." They kissed until, this time, it was he who broke away. "I'd better go. Sweet dreams." He meant to leave, but he couldn't help brushing the tendrils that had come loose, she's really here... after the talk with his mother about his father and about the past, realizing that he had spent far more than a few years of his life uncertain that someone he loved loved him back. And in the end, only one of them was true. She is really here. He reached his arms around her. "I love you. I'll say it every day forever, I swear it."

Words spoken softly in a strange bed, in a strange land, in an accent different from her own. Words her mother had never heard, not now, when it was all so new and hopeful. I should be thanking you, for I will never know otherwise. For me, it is perfect. She leaned closer and recalled so clearly being in the motor back in England- like an inverse deja vu, aware that she was now living an unlived moment. She would not miss the chance again. Lips to his ear, she whispered, "I love you," punctuated with a kiss on his cheek.

He turned his face to hers, clearly pleased and moved- emotions reflected in her own face; it needed no confirmation. "Were you horrified to say it?"

"A little," she laughed. "But as with all things, I'm sure it will get easier with practice."


Mrs. Branson was back from morning Mass and had just sat down with her cup when she heard the front door. In the next minute, her bleary-eyed and disheveled youngest son was in the kitchen scrounging for tea and a bit of breakfast. "Well, look who it is. Good morning!" Then, with a smidgen more sympathy, she added that the kettle was still hot.

"Great." His head throbbed, he had barely slept and he was starving. "Wild night." He grabbed a roll from the breadbox while waiting for his tea to steep. "And I'm going to be late to work."

"Again? Do you ever think Ireland's future might be better served with a night's rest?"

He shrugged, then grinned. "Clare and her friends aren't much for sleep." She shot him a look. "Oh, lay off, Mam! You have four good-for-nothing sons and who's the only one who's faithfully beside you at church every Sunday?"

"Only to get a look at Margaret McLean!"

"You can't blame me for that! She practically beat a path to get a seat in the pew right in front of us."

"In front of you," she couldn't help but smile.

"I'm glad you've come to see it my way," he nodded emphatically.

"You're twenty-two years old. You should be looking for a wife, not for a glance down Margaret McLean's dress." He feigned offense, which she ignored. "You think you're fooling me? I did raise four good-for-nothing sons, as you pointed out." Liam didn't even try to argue, just offered a rakish grin from underneath slightly shaggy hair. The lot of them- what's the matter with these boys? "You need a haircut as well," Mrs. Branson noticed. "You and Tom both." At the mention of his brother, Liam's posture immediately changed; it did not go unnoticed by his mother. "You missed your brother last night. He was sorry about that."

Liam was not sorry he had not been home to welcome Tom and her, a fact of which his mother was well aware. "Is he home now?"

"No. They left early to go into the city center."

"You've met the princess then." He slid into the chair next to hers and stole the sugar spoon from her saucer. "So. What's she like?"

"Pretty. Rich." Mrs. Branson was circumspect in her description. "No mistaking that. She showed up wearing a coat that cost more money than Tom's ever made, I'm sure."

"And English," he prompted.

Mrs. Branson nodded. "She is very English."

"And what'd she think of this?" He indicated the humble environs.

"Oh, it's lovely." They both snickered.

"Not bad, Mam," Liam complimented. "I'd almost take you for a toff." He was quiet for a minute before inquiring, "And Tom? How's he?"

"Tom is the same," his mother relayed. "The same, except that he is in love. And before you ask, so is she." She sipped her tea absently. "Doesn't make it any less foolish, but that's the truth." She set the cup down with a sigh. "Tom said they'd be back by dinner- will you be joining us?"

"I don't think so. Clare's nephew is being christened in Lucan tomorrow. I'm taking the train up after work today. I'll probably stay there for the weekend."

"Tom will want to hear about your job working for Mr. de Valera."

"I don't work for de Valera, Mam," Liam corrected her with a sort of pleased exasperation. He was important and he knew it- just not that important. "I work for people who work for people who work for him."

"Still, Tommy will want to hear about it and to tell you about his new position as well."

"He didn't schedule his trip with me!" Liam protested. "And I have plans." He glanced up at the clock and gulped down the rest of his tea. "I already told Clare I'd come. I think she wants to show me off."

His mother collected his cup with consternation. "I'm sure that was a hard ask of you."

"No. It wasn't. Because there isn't anything I'd rather do less than chum around with Tom's English princess."

"You hold your tongue about her," she directed sharply. "Tom's the right to choose his wife. He says it's not for me to have an opinion, a point on which he's probably right, and it's definitely not for you to have one." He appeared piqued by that. She shook her head and padded to the sink. "You do what you want about Clare's nephew's cousin or whoever it is. But your brother hasn't been home for six years. It'd be nice if you showed yourself."

"Well then," Liam began with finality, "he should have come alone."