Thanks so much as always for the reviews!


May 1919

Yorkshire

Robert entered the bedroom and found his wife at her dressing table, O'Brien finishing her hair. He was barely through the door before the question, so hopefully asked, was out of her mouth. "Has the post come yet?"

"It has." Once again, he was tasked with disappointing her. "There was nothing."

"Oh." Her face fell as she retreated back into glumness, taking the room with her. "She promised she'd write," she sniffled.

Robert almost snorted. And are you surprised, he wanted to say, that she said what she needed to say to have her way, and didn't mean it? Now, she's off doing what she likes- that's all she cares about. The house had been miserable all week. Edith and Mary barely spoke to each other at meals, Cora only wanted to talk about the mail as did the servants, who were practically salivating for details about what Branson and his daughter were up to Ireland. Every day she was away, Robert became more hardened to her and her decision- the selfishness of it, the repudiation of her home, the place to which he had devoted his whole life. The news had started to spread through the village and now every baker and candlestick maker was fabricating fantastic, tawdry tales about what might have transpired between Lord Grantham's youngest daughter and his driver that had led them to depart so abruptly.

"She'll write soon, milady," O'Brien soothed her, "if she hasn't already. Who knows? It could be lost in the post. It does happen."

"I doubt it," Robert refuted curtly. "You'll hear from her at some point. When she gets around to it."

Cora threw her husband a look in the mirror. "I know you're worried too, even if you won't admit it."

"It was Sybil's wish to no longer be part of this household or the life we are living here. I think we should honor that wish and say no more about it."

"Oh Robert," Cora sighed, reaching for her hand cream. "You always take things so personally. She didn't leave to spite you."

She shouldn't have said that, not with O'Brien present; and he became even more irritated if that were possible. He left, nearly slamming the door, which Cora ignored. "Must be hard for a father to lose his daughter," O'Brien said.

"The talk has started. That's why he's upset," Cora told her. "In the village. It'll be in London too, I imagine, by the time we get there next month. And I suppose there's chatter downstairs."

"Not at all, milady," O'Brien fibbed. "Mr. Carson wouldn't allow it."

"I imagine Carson is almost as affronted as Lord Grantham." Cora was quiet for a moment and then decided to pose the question she had wanted to ask since the shock reveal in the drawing room. "What do you think of Branson?"

"Mr. Branson? I can't say I know him."

"He worked here for six years, O'Brien- surely you've formed some opinion of him. And he's Irish as well."

"Don't really consider myself Irish anymore, milady. I've lived many more years here than there." O'Brien paused. She didn't like most of the staff, Mr. Branson included, but her desire to comfort her Ladyship far outweighed her reticence to compliment. "I don't think he's a bad sort." That was true. He wasn't a drunk, wasn't violent, didn't run around, as far as she'd seen. He was stupid, but so was the girl he took off with. What sort of girl aspires to a lower station? She belongs in an asylum.

"But-?" Cora prodded. "Go on, speak your mind."

"Oil and water can't be mixed. That's all I think."

"Well, I hope you're wrong, O'Brien." Cora accepted her gloves with a rueful look. "And I do hope it's not too hard for her."

"Lady Sybil's never shied from hard," O'Brien reminded her.

"No." Cora smiled for the first time that night. "No, she certainly hasn't." That's what she wanted to say whenever Robert started fulminating about "the talk." Why don't people ever talk about how our daughter fought to learn a profession? How she lobbied for the convalescent home that helped so many officers? How unafraid she was to sail off to a strange and hostile place to pursue her ambitions? And love. She says she loves him, this... journalist. Why don't they talk about what she was willing to brave for love? "Who am I kidding? She's probably having the time of her life."


Dublin

In truth, it was hard. Sybil had never assumed otherwise, but as she sat at the little table in Tom's room at the end of her first week in Ireland, blank stationery before her, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being beaten. She had lost her temper with Mrs. Branson. Liam wanted nothing to do with her or his brother, so long as he was with her. The priest had been completely unmoved by their appeal to marry them. And now, she and Tom were fighting.

Dearest Mama...

She began with an apology for not writing sooner this last week has been such a whirlwind but don't worry, everything is going wonderfully here, just wonderfully.

She paused for a moment and then changed the period to an exclamation point: just wonderfully! I am still getting my bearings, but I've been studying the transportation map and I've figured out the basics like how to pay and how to transfer and the difference between local and express. After all, the key to a city is its transit system- if you can master that, you can go anywhere...

That's what she and Tom had been discussing last Friday, her first full day in Ireland, as they walked to tram stop nearest to his mother's house to wait for morning express, which would shuttle them to the center of the city- her city now- so she could take her first good look around. That had been a wonderful day, a day where all the expectations she had waiting in the gathering throng of tram passengers had been not just met, but exceeded.

She felt slightly self-conscious, as her clothes were far more extravagant than everyone else's, including those on the man she was with; these were housemaids and kitchen hands and laborers on their way to work, but everyone mostly kept their eyes and their thoughts to themselves. As the tram approached, a thin, older man with a jovial face called out to them. "Tommy Branson, is that you? What are you doing back here?"

"I'm back," Tom laughed as they boarded.

"For good?" The man sounded surprised.

"For now," Tom deflected with a glance in Sybil's direction, "and the foreseeable future."

"Ah, that's a tricksy phrase, Tommy!" the man replied, shooting a finger in the air. "Can't nobody see the future, not even for a day!" He leaned over to Sybil and tapped his temple. "He was always a clever lad, quick with his words- you got to keep an ear on him. Not half bad on a Gaelic pitch neither." The man sat back and sized up Tom. "Do you still box any?"

Now it was Sybil's turn to be surprised. "You box?" The man's eyebrows piqued at her accent, but he held his tongue.

"I did. Just once in awhile, for sport-"

"Last time I saw it, it was your brother and you knocked him out cold!"

"You knocked out Liam?" Sybil exclaimed. "But why?"

"Not Liam- Keiran. He was running his mouth..." Tom shook his head, embarrassed. "It was stupid. The whole thing was stupid."

"He was looking for a fight with you and you gave it to him! Laid him out flat!" He nodded at Sybil. "You needn't worry, Miss- no one will give you any trouble if you're with him."

"I'm not worried about any trouble," Sybil responded. "Should I be?"

"Of course not," Tom interjected, eager to change the subject. "So what are you going into town for?"

The man said he was going to buy fish straight off the dock because the neighborhood fishmonger's a crook and food prices are too high, the price of everything is too high. "And it's only going to get worse because of the taxes." The journalist prompted him to explain that he supports a free Ireland of course, but Sinn Fein has no money and where's it going to come from? "Taxes," the man spit. "Don't mistake, I'd rather pay Irish than the English- no offense, Miss- but you can't draw blood from a stone! I don't know what the new government will do if we win. No offense again, Miss."

"None taken. I support Irish independence."

The man appeared impressed. "Good for you."

"What you mention is exactly the problem my brother Liam works on. He graduated university last year with a degree in economics and now he has a job in the PrĂ­omh Aire's administration, focused on the financing of the new government and the Free State."

"Grand, that's grand. And what about you, Tommy? Did you go into politics as well?"

"I'm a reporter for the Irish Daily. I start on Monday."

"We're just on our way to see the offices now," Sybil added proudly.

"Lookie that," the man marveled. "The Branson boys- one working for the Dail, another for the Daily. Your mam must be proud!" The bell above dinged- their stop. The man wished them good luck with an order to "Tell your brother not to raise taxes!"

"That was informative," Tom remarked as they stepped off the tram into the rush of Sackville Street. "If he's worried about taxes, I bet he's not alone- and Ma's neighborhood is a Sinn Fein stronghold. I wonder if they know. I'll have to ask Liam."

"I knew your brother worked for Sinn Fein, but I didn't know exactly what he did. What an interesting job. I do hope I get to meet him soon."

"We'll arrange it. Soon," Tom promised.

"And if not, you'll lay him out?" Sybil teased, taking his arm.

Tom groaned. "I can't believe he brought that up. Keiran was- it was a special circumstance. I don't want you to think I'm that kind of man- an arsehole who has to posture with his fists."

"You think I've never thrown a punch? Just ask Edith!"

"Oh, don't worry- she warned me once that you wouldn't hesitate to give me a bruising if you thought I deserved it."

"I don't know about that," she laughed. "I just think asking for a fight is different than answering for one. And if you fight, you want to be the one left standing." She glanced up at him and grinned. "At least I do."

"I consider myself duly warned," he grinned back. "Speaking of, look over there. It's the Post Office."

She knew the Post Office- or what was left of it- had been the launch site for the Rising. "Wow..." Tom had showed her a photo his relatives had sent him of the aftermath and the rubble, but seeing it immediately changed her perception of the siege. In the photo, it seemed smaller- more like a schoolboy-led skirmish, as the British newspapers said- but no, this had been an imposing, official government building. "It's so big."

"When the nationalists took the building, they flew a tricolor flag like in the French Revolution," he told her. "So if you see the tricolor here, in orange and green, that's where it comes from." Sybil noted the change in his language- they had had many conversations about the situation in Ireland back in England, but when Tom told the story back there it was, "when the rebels seized the building"- and there were no boasts about common cause with the guillotine revolution. Granny would be aghast, but all Sybil could think was, "How exciting that must have been- to look out and see the nationalist flag flying for the first time, to know the fight for freedom had begun."

"I can't even imagine..." She heard both awe and wistfulness in his words and as after her Ripon scheme, she was struck by the sudden realization of her own selfishness and the enormous blind spot she had to it.

"I'm sorry you missed it," she said shamefaced. "And to waste time in the garage, worrying after me."

"I'm not." His response was automatic and she knew it was true. "Not at all." He raised her hand and kissed it. "Come on, let's show you the river."

They dawdled along the quays, stopping for some tea and popcorn, tossing the occasional kernel down to the ducks in the slate-colored water. "You know I mean it, right? I have no regrets."

"It was unfolding-"

"I have no regrets," he said again, shushing her with a kiss. "I have you."

"Thank you for what you gave up." She turned out from him, listing over the edge of the low wall, her gaze fixed on the opposite shore. "I'm sorry it's taken me so long to say it."

"Hush. None of that. You're here, I'm here. And let's just agree that whatever it took to get to here, it was worth it. Alright?"

She opened her palm, sending a shower of white spheres onto the water. "Deal."

They made their way leisurely over to the newspaper office, with Tom pointing out which direction was north and what each neighborhood was called. "This will be my tram stop- Connolly Station. It's just around the corner."

"Connolly," she repeated, making a notation on her map. "Tom's work."

His new workplace was a ten-story brick building topped with a massive ironwork of the newspaper's masthead. "Very impressive," Sybil said, craning up. Tom nodded- and for the first time, experienced a tremor of intimidation. This was a serious building where serious, hard-boiled, battle-worn career journalists worked; he was a recently-unemployed chauffeur. He had never even been in an office building. What could he possibly bring to an operation like this?

He felt Sybil's hand on his arm. "You'll be great," she said close to his ear. "They're lucky to have you and if you forget that, just ask me- I'll be there to remind you every night when you come home."

They crossed the river and went south to St. Stephen's Green, where they admired the stained-glass windows at the Unitarian church and the wares in the store windows. There were British people here; she heard her own voice in the street din and her clothes no longer stood out. But Tom's did and she felt him clench at every double-take in their direction. She caught a glimpse of them in a reflection and was shocked and dismayed by how mismatched they appeared. She determined to buy some new clothes next week, but for now she could improve the situation with a change of venue. "Let's go to Dublin St. Patrick's," she suggested. "I'm feeling rather oppressed here!"

When they reached the boundary street, Tom halted her arm. "We can't just cross over, like it's any old street in any old place. This is a big moment. I feel like I should carry you across the threshold or something!"

"More fitting that I should carry you!"

"At the very least, we agree we should mark it. Tis a momentous occasion." He took her hands and announced with fanfare, "On this day, Sybil Crawley- infernal enemy of corsets, intrepid ally of pants, and longtime crusader for women rights- is entering the first and only place in the land represented by a democratically-elected woman!" Some people were staring, but they didn't care. He returned to his normal voice. "This is what you fought for, what you knocked on doors for-" Skepticism crept into her smile. "Alright, so it's not exactly and you still can't vote, but who cares about voting rights when you can just run the whole damn thing?"

"A very astute and ever to-the-point political analysis from the Irish Daily's Tom Branson," she complimented. "Well- shall we?"

He extended his hand. "After you- lead the way." And she did, to the sound of applause behind her. To her surprise, it was not just coming Tom but from a handful of strangers who had surmised... what exactly? Reaching the opposite sidewalk, she lifted her arms around his neck and whispered, "I have no idea why they're clapping."

He stole a peek behind him. "Those are very soft looks we're getting. Perhaps they think we've just gotten engaged in some bizarre, street-crossing ritual?"

"I better kiss you then," she determined in a low wicked voice as her lips dropped softly on his, in concert with some well-intentioned whistles.

"This could turn out to be another momentous occasion- our first kiss in our new neighborhood."

"It could. The Countess would approve."

They had a late lunch at a noisy cafe patronized by women in bright printed dresses, men hunched over notebooks, people with paint and pencil smudged on their fingers. A boisterous group of young women with leather schoolbags slung over their shoulders came in and convened at a table across the room. "Students at the university most likely," Tom ventured to Sybil's wide-eyed stare.

She nodded, absorbing it all. "I think this is a good place for us. Yes, this is definitely where we belong."

They finished the day walking through Phoenix Park, where Sybil pried stories out of him- he noticed there was an inverse relationship between his reluctance and her delight- about his reckless days before he came to England, before he'd fallen in love until at some point, he decided to show rather than tell in the shadow of a half-lit park bench. They were drunk on their day, a showroom tour of what their life could- would- be like: pictures to go with place names, tram schedules, "To Let" signs on the buildings in their neighborhood. It was real, tactile, after all this time. They didn't have to hide their relationship or care what anyone thought of it. And he was Tom Branson, a journalist, and she was Miss Sybil Crawley, a nurse from Yorkshire. That is how they wanted to be seen, that is how they saw each other, and now they were so. It was liberating, exhilarating! That and the absence of his mother had probably led them to kiss too hotly and heavily in public-or so they were scolded by a crotchety old man full of envy for their amour and youth and future.

"It must be strange," Tom remarked thoughtfully but without particular emotion as they exited the park, "to be on the other side of life, looking back." Sybil slipped her hand into his and they returned to his mother's house and, after a tolerable dinner, feigned sleep until Tom climbed the stairs and they resumed their activity with ardor.

"I do love you," she sighed happily hours later, as they left each other with mussed hair and rumpled nightwear. "And today was simply the best."


Part I of II - I didn't intend for this to be its own chapter, but I had too much fun touring the city with them!