A/N: Hello everyone! Welcome back! This is a sequel to my fic Come Alive, so if you haven't read that yet, I recommend you do so before starting this so it all makes sense! This story takes place a couple months after the last chapter but about a month before the epilogue. This will be a relatively short story (I only have six chapters planned overall) but I promise they'll be lengthy chapters! I hope you enjoy!
Let You Live
Chapter One
When Mary Crawley had first been married, she hadn't needed to change her surname. That was one of the benefits, she supposed, of marrying a distant relation who also happened to be your father's heir. But for the first time in her life, it was looking more and more likely that it would be changing.
Mary Branson. Lady Mary Branson. Mary Josephine Branson. She found her brain going on nonsensical tangents, iterating every possible version of what her name would be like if she were to marry Tom as she walked down the stairs that morning. It had become her mantra these days. They all sounded right— as if it was meant to happen.
Of course, this was all very presumptuous. Tom hadn't asked her to marry him yet— nor was he exactly hinting at it, either. She supposed that after months of sneaking around and trying to keep their relationship a secret, he was trying to adjust the newest element of their relationship— actually being open about it. Their relationship raised plenty of eyebrows wherever they went, which was an adjustment that Mary was slowly being accustomed to.
Not everyone had taken kindly to it. During one of their walks through the village, Mary had seen a group of women whispering amongst themselves, looking over their shoulders with simultaneous fascination and disgust. Even when Mary fixed one woman with a severe look of her own, it didn't seem to deter them from staring.
"Ignore them, love," Tom told her with a sigh.
Mary tried, she really did, but she couldn't help but be bothered by it all. Their relationship wasn't exactly a conventional one by any means, but she didn't understand the need to gawp at them like fish. They had no way of understanding what her and Tom had gone through together nor how much they truly cared for one another— at least the people who mattered to them were supportive.
In spite of all the hurdles, Mary was happier than she had been in a long time. She was seeing the world through rose-tinted glasses. Tom made life a more pleasurable experience— whether it was spending time with the children or taking lengthy strolls across the estate, Mary felt her heart pounding rapidly in her chest.
She loved him; it had taken her so long to realize it, but she did. And he loved her. It was a new sort of love, one she had never felt before in her life. Maybe it should have scared her, but instead, she found herself excited for every moment she spent with him.
It was why, that fateful day, that she was so taken aback. It was a perfectly ordinary start to the day. Papa and Tom were already in the dining room when she arrived, both greeting her cheerfully. While Tom knew how to cook for himself after years of fending for himself in the chauffeur's cottage, he preferred to dine with them at the house. It was a small hassle for him, as he now had to rise earlier to make the walk each morning from the agent's house, but she adored him all the more for his sacrifice of sleep.
"Good morning, my darling," she greeted him, bending to kiss his cheek, unable to see the expression of bemusement written on her father's face, though she felt her cheeks grow warm. She wasn't exactly one for public displays of affection— Tom, however, was. It was for his sake and to reassure him of her feelings that she partook in this daily ritual... and because she loved seeing the way he lit up each time she did it.
"Good morning," Tom replied, smiling as she walked to take her seat. By the look on his face, one would have thought Mary had moved the mountains for him. It was the same look that obliterated her minute discomfort and reminded her that it was worth it. There were worst things to endure than the world knowing she loved Tom.
Papa merely shook his head before declaring, "I'll never get used to this," before picking up his newspaper as if to shield himself from their affections.
Mary and Tom exchanged a look of amusement before turning to their breakfast. This was a mild reaction from Papa— less than a month ago, he would let out loud sighs and demand that they "stop doing that, I haven't even eaten my breakfast yet." As much as he insisted he would never adjust, he'd come a long way— they all had.
Breakfast commenced as usual. They talked business and the estate, Tom updating them on how Kieran was faring at the shop. However, the mood altered the moment Thomas said, "There's been a letter for you, Mr. Branson," before depositing the letter into Tom's outstretched hand. Tom thanked him, eyes flickering over the address before hastily opening it. Mary, who had been engrossed in her breakfast, watched him with keen interest when she heard the sound of ripping paper. She hoped it wasn't another one of those hateful letters... they had received some rather nasty ones from people who felt the need to tell them they were dishonoring their dead spouses by being together. Mary relished in ripping them into tiny shreds whereas Tom cast them into the fire as soon as he had a chance.
Tom stared at the letter, eyes darting back and forth. His face had grown pale and he looked as if he were about to be ill. Before either Mary or her father could enquire after it, Tom dropped the letter and stood up, the chair legs loudly announcing his sudden movement as they scraped across the floor. "Excuse me," he muttered, tossing his napkin on the table and all but fleeing the dining room. Mary felt helpless, glued to her seat as he left the room.
"What was that about?" Papa asked, craning his head to the now closed door that Tom had just exited.
"It was a letter from Ireland, my Lord," Thomas offered, sounding as mystified as Mary felt.
Mary felt three pairs of eyes on her, as Papa, Thomas, and Andy all stared at her. She couldn't help but feel slightly irritated; just because they were involved romantically didn't mean she was able to communicate telepathically with him.
Still, she couldn't help but be curious. Mary dabbed at her mouth with her napkin before rising to her feet and walking to the other side of the table. Tom's letter was laying on the floor. As Mary knelt to pick it up, she said, "He won't mind if I read it." Tom was, if nothing else, honest with her.
Dear Tommy, the letter read, written in blue ink,
I'm so sorry to disturb you when I'm sure you're busy, but I'm afraid I have some very sad news. Your dear mother has gone to be with God and your father. She wasn't ill; the doctor said she must have passed in her sleep, so it was a peaceful ending and she didn't suffer. It's cold comfort, but a relief all the same.
She was very proud of you, Tommy, and loved you very much. She was wary of you marrying Lady Sybil, but she was glad to know that her family welcomed you as their own when you could no longer return home. She would be glad to know you have them to lean on right about now. Your mother always longed to see you again one day, and I know she is looking down on you now.
Love,
Aunt Nora
Mary lowered the letter, only to find all three men watching her, eager and curious to know just what had provoked that sort of reaction from Tom. "His mother's died," she managed to say, the words sounding hollow.
Papa sucked in a deep breath. "How awful," he murmured.
"I should go to him," Mary said immediately, breakfast forgotten.
"Are you sure?" Papa asked, his usual snark gone and replaced by concern. "He might want to be alone right now. He's had a terrible shock."
"I don't care what he wants right now," Mary said, folding the letter back up so that it could fit into her pocket. She wasn't sure if Tom would want to save such a ghastly reminder, but it shouldn't be left in the dining room for just anyone to pick up and read. "Nobody should be alone when they're grieving." Without saying another word, Mary exited the dining room, heart heavy, and building up her armor. She would need to be strong now, for him.
Mary remembered Mrs. Branson— admittedly not very well, but she had learned plenty about the woman from Sybil's letters from her time in Dublin and from their introductions prior to the wedding. She had been a small, stern woman, but it was clear to anyone that she loved Tom a great deal. "He's a good boy," she had informed Mary and Edith shortly after they met her in her tiny flat in Dublin, jaw firm. "He might not be a Duke, but he's got a good heart, and that's worth more than all the money in the world. You girls would be lucky if you found yourselves a man as decent as he is."
She'd been right; Tom was everything she had said and more. Mrs. Branson had raised her son well. Her loss wouldn't be one Tom would overcome easily— which was why Mary felt she must help him in any way she possibly could.
When Mary found him, he was on her favorite bench, hunched over and shoulders shaking. "Oh, my darling," Mary murmured, taking a seat beside him. She rested one of her hands on top of his own as he sobbed. It hurt to see him like this...
Several minutes passed before Tom's tears subsided. "Did you read it, then?" He asked, voice shaky.
Mary nodded. "I hope you don't mind."
He shook his head. "Easier this way. I don't think I can bring myself to say it." He moved the hand she was holding so that their fingers intertwined. Mary's gaze fell down to it as he leaned his head against her shoulder. My poor darling, she thought.
Another several, silent minutes passed before Tom broke it. "You know what I just realized?"
"What's that?"
"I can't go to the funeral."
The realization hit Mary like a ton of bricks. Of course... she had nearly forgotten the terms of the agreement negotiated on his behalf. Uncertain of what to say (or if there was anything she could say), Mary squeezed his hand a little tighter.
Tom didn't remember staggering across the grounds to reach his house, but he must have because there he was. Mary's hand was in the middle of his back, guiding him over to the sofa where he crashed down.
He was glad she had read the letter instead of coming to ask him what was wrong. He didn't know if he could bring himself to say My Mam is dead— if he did, it would make it real.
He hadn't seen Mam in years— not since he and Sybil lived in Ireland. She lived two blocks away from them, in a small flat, the same one the two of them had lived in when they moved away from Bray. At least twice a week (and always on Sundays), he and Sybil would walk over to Mam's for dinner, one of their most treasured traditions in Ireland. If he closed his eyes, he could still picture it: Mam bringing the food out to the table, Sybil regaling them with her stories from the hospital, while Tom marveled at the fact he was there with the two most important people in the world to him.
Things had changed.
"Are you sure you don't want to go upstairs? You can lay out on your bed," Mary offered.
Tom shook his head. "This is fine." Truthfully, he didn't know if he had the strength to climb up the stairs. All his energy seemed to have been sapped away.
Mary sat by him on the couch. Mam would never see him with Mary, he realized. The same day Mary had told him how she really felt, he penned a letter to his mother, explaining everything to her. Her reply was on a sheet of paper, tucked away in a drawer somewhere. "What do you want me to do?" Mary asked quietly.
Tom has no idea how to answer that. All he had was questions— Why Mam, why now, why, why, why? "Nothing," he told her. He stared ahead at the empty fireplace. "You being here is enough."
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mary nod. Then, her hand slipped into his. Tom closed his eyes, breathing deep through his eyes and relieved he wasn't alone.
"Mary," Papa began, clearly uncomfortable. "I really don't think there is anything that can be done. Shrimpie and Murray made it quite clear to me that if Tom were to return to Ireland, he would be arrested immediately."
"But that was so long ago!" insisted Mary, rising from her chair. "Surely something could be done now! It isn't fair!"
"No, my dear girl, it's not," Papa agreed. "But I am afraid that is the way it is."
She let out a sigh. "Couldn't you at least try? For Tom's sake?" Before he could reply, she challenged, "Put yourself in his shoes for one moment! Can you imagine if you had to live in America with Grandmama and Uncle Harold and you couldn't come home for Granny's funeral? Wouldn't you want someone to fight for you?"
Papa was rendered speechless. He blinked slowly before finally saying, "I cannot promise anything, but I will certainly try."
"Thank you," Mary said, able to let out a sigh of relief.
"How is he holding up, then?" Papa asked, evidently concerned. His hands were folded behind his back, the lines in his face emphasized as he furrowed his brow.
Mary hesitated. How could she begin to explain it? "As well as can be expected," she explained. "I walked him back to his house and promised I'd return with the children." She hesitated before adding, "I thought I might ask Mrs. Patmore for a basket of food to take to him. He didn't eat much of his breakfast at all—"
"Of course. Take him whatever he needs." Mary was somewhat surprised by his insistence. Papa was concerned about propriety and spending hours at Tom's was normally something he might disapprove of. "Please send him our condolences as well."
Mary nodded. "I shall." Her eyes flickered for the clock. "I had better go. I don't want to leave him alone for long."
Papa nodded thoughtfully. "I hope Tom knows how very lucky he is to have you," he told her.
Mary shook her head. She was his daughter; of course he would say that. It was the other way around— being around Tom made her strive to be a better person. "I will see you later," she told him, kissing his cheek before heading to the door.
"Will you stay there for dinner, then?" Papa asked just before she stepped out of the library.
Mary paused. She hadn't even let herself ponder it. "I don't know," she finally said. "But I'll stay there as long as I need to."
Papa nodded. "Ring up to the house if it gets dark. We'll send Pratt over with a car so you and George aren't forced to stumble around in the night."
Mary smiled slightly. "Thank you, Papa."
Tom,
I'm surprised and I'm not. You always talked about that Mary of yours far more than a man ought to talk about his sister-in-law. I suppose the thing that surprises me is to learn your feelings aren't one-sided. You know I'm not slighting you when I say that— merely that I'm surprised that she might have actually listened to me all those years ago when I told her how lucky a woman would be to call you hers.
I must confess, I don't know your Lady Mary— the woman you talk about in your letters seems so different from the one I met and yours and Sybil's wedding. Very pretty, but very grand. Not the sort of woman I'd imagine you to be interested in. Still, I imagine there is more to her than I observed, if she's the one who has finally caused your head to turn.
You said she lost her husband some years ago so I suppose she understands your loss. That's an important thing to look for in a partner. I never remarried after your father passed, partially because I never was able to find someone to compare and because too many single men at my age didn't know about love or loss the same way I did— and if they did, they weren't the sort of man who would help me look after my boy. At any rate, I am pleased that you've found someone who has and can love your little girl like her own.
I know you're a smart boy (if not an impulsive, headstrong one) and if you believe she is being sincere when she says she loves you as well, then I suppose she must be. You know her heart better than I do. In the end, all I want is for you to be happy— and if Lady Mary can do that, than she has earned my blessing.
All my love,
Mam
Tom wiped his tears away with the back of his hand before tucking the letter back where he found it. He was glad to have told her; he'd held back on telling Kieran initially, knowing it would only be a matter of time before he could speak to him face to face. But with Mam, there was no chance of that, unless she planned to travel to England— which was never likely.
The telephone loomed ominously on the opposite side of the room. It had been installed only two weeks ago or so, which made life here much easier. Tom stood still for a moment or so before crossing the room, picking up the receiver. When the operator asked him who he wished to speak to, he said, "Kieran Branson, at Branson Motors."
A few seconds passed before Kieran picked up. "Branson Motors, how may I help you?"
"It's me, Kieran." Tom pressed his lips before asking, "Did you get a letter from Aunt Nora?"
A sigh. "I did."
Tom nodded. "When is the funeral?" His voice trembled on the last word. His eyes clenched shut. He thought he had the strength to do this, to talk about it without falling apart.
"This Saturday," Kieran said gruffly. "Are you planning on coming?"
"I can't," Tom answered, voice clipped.
Kieran cursed. "Sorry. I forgot."
Tom shook his head before realizing such a thing was useless. Kieran couldn't bloody see him... "Not your fault," he replied, a lump steadily growing in his throat. If only he hadn't been so foolish, so stupid... He banished away the thoughts as best as he could by saying, "You can close the shop this afternoon. You don't need to work, not now."
"I don't mind the work. It helps take my mind off it," Kieran responded. "But I'll close it before I leave— unless you plan on coming in."
"I don't think I will," Tom told him, tilting his head up to the ceiling. "To be honest... I don't know what I'm going to do."
"Are we having a picnic, Mummy?" George asked, eying the basket that Mary had as they walked down the dirt path. George and Sybbie had been ecstatic when she had come to collect them but until now, neither of them had bothered to question why.
Truthfully, Mary didn't know how to begin. She didn't want to overstep and inform Sybbie when Tom would likely wish to speak to her himself, but at the same time, she wanted to spare him from the pain. Still, it didn't seem right, not giving them a warning. "Not exactly," she said, glancing over to Sybbie. "Your— Your father is quite sad right now, darling, but he wants to see both of you very much. You'll cheer him up a great deal."
Sybbie frowned, her eyebrows furrowing. "Is it about my Mummy?" She asked innocently. "Because sometimes he's sad about her."
Mary shook her head, her heart going out for the poor little girl walking beside her. Even though she had never known her other grandmother, it didn't seem fair for such a sweet girl to know so much loss already. "No," she said, "not this time."
Sybbie didn't seem to know what to make of that. She kicked at a small stone in front of her, sending it skidding ahead of them to the opposite side of the path where George was walking. He stopped to kick at it, missing entirely, before Mary urged him to keep walking.
Mary was surprised to find Tom by his telephone when they entered his house. He was speaking lowly and looking unspeakably distraught, but he allowed himself a small smile as Sybbie ran over to hug his legs. "I'll call you back later," he said to the person on the other end of the phone before hanging up. He bent down to pick Sybbie up. "Hello, darling."
"We brought you food," Sybbie informed him, pointing to the basket Mary was still holding, "so you wouldn't be as sad."
Tom's brows furrowed as he glanced at Mary. Worried that he might think she had told them already, "The children know that something very unfortunate has happened, but I didn't tell them what."
Tom nodded, seeming less concerned. "Sybbie," he said, facing his daughter, "do you mind if we go have a chat upstairs? Just us two?"
Sybbie shook her head, though she glanced over at George. Tom beamed up at her, though it didn't quite make its way to his eyes. "We'll be back in a while or so," he told Mary.
"Of course. However long you need." She glanced down at her son, who was now holding her hand. "We will be waiting down here."
Tom nodded before he and Sybbie headed upstairs. Mary waited until after they left the room before walking over to the table, placing the basket down on it. "What's going on, Mummy?" George asked, toddling after her.
Mary ceased her task. "Tom has received some bad news, Georgie." She knelt down to be at his level. "You see, his mother has passed away."
Mary wondered if maybe the euphemism was something George would be unfamiliar with— after all, he was only four. However, he seemed to grasp it. "Oh."
"Yes," Mary said, reaching out to touch up his hair. She didn't quite know what else to say...
George seemed to think about it. "What happened to her?"
Mary shook her head. "She went to sleep one night and never woke up," she said, hoping that wouldn't frighten her son. "She was an older woman," she said, thinking of the woman. She wasn't as old as Granny, obviously, but at least ten years older than Mama and Papa. "But sometimes it happens without any warning."
"Will Sybbie be sad, then?" George asked when Mary sat in one of the chairs, her knees growing tired of crouching.
"I imagine so," said Mary, scooping him up onto her lap. "She never had a chance to meet her, so I suppose she will be quite upset that she never will."
George was quiet for a moment or so. "Did you bring them oranges?" He pointed at the basket.
Mary blinked. "I'm not quite sure what's all in here to be honest," she said, flipping open the wicker tabs to peer inside. "Mrs. Patmore packed it for me." Mary used one hand to support George and another to peek through the basket. "It looks mostly like bread, cheese, and some apples. No oranges, I'm afraid. Why do you ask?"
"Oranges are my favorite," he told her. "I wanted to give some to them. To cheer them up."
Mary felt as though her heart was melting. She knew that naturally she would be biased, but she couldn't help but think he was the sweetest boy in the world. "Perhaps we can bring them some tomorrow. I'm sure they would like that very much. But I think, for right now, be as nice to them as I know you can be."
Speaking with Kieran has helped shake Tom out of his blue mood, if only for a little while. Seeming to sense his brother needed to take his mind of things, Kieran diverted the conversation to business and cars and troublesome customers. He'd even managed to get a laugh out of Tom when relayed a tale about a "tetchy toff" (as Kieran described him while impersonating the man's accent) who was convinced he understood automobiles better than Kieran.
Seeing Sybbie, George, and Mary also managed to lift him from his sorrows for a split second. While Mam and Sybil had at one point been the most important figures in his life, these three were the ones currently occupying that space.
Tom was grateful that Mary hadn't told Sybbie quite yet. As her father, he ought to be the one to impart this news, but at the same time, he half wished she had put him out of his misery by telling her.
Tom knew it would be hard when his daughter stared up at him from the edge of her bed, her blue eyes wide. "Daddy, what's wrong?"
God, how could he tell her about this? He was used to her questions about death and Sybil, but he'd never needed to broach the topic himself. Growing up without a mother had meant that Sybbie had always been aware her mother was dead without needing to really be told. But this— this was different.
"You remember how I've always told you about your Nana in Ireland?"
Sybbie nodded.
This was the hard part. Tom braces himself. "She's passed away, darling," he told her.
"Oh," said Sybbie, blinking. Tom watched her as she stared down at her skirt. "Will you miss her?"
"I will. Very much." There were no tears in his eyes— now, he felt strangely composed. He was relieved, though— while he wasn't like Crawleys, who always seemed ashamed of their feelings, he didn't want to break down in front of Sybbie... not when he was meant to stay strong for her. "I'm sad that I will never see her again... and I'm sad you'll never meet her, especially when I know the two of you would have loved each other."
Sybbie looked up. "It's okay, Daddy," she told him. "I'll meet her someday. When we're in Heaven."
Hearing those words helped, really. Hoping his daughter would indulge her poor father, Tom smiled down at her before scooping her onto his lap. She was getting so big... it was hard to believe she would be turning six soon. "That's right. You will." He kissed the top of her head.
The first thing George did upon seeing Tom and his cousin was envelope them in hugs— well, in the case of Tom, hugging his legs until Tom lifted him in the air. "I'm sorry about your Mummy, Tom," George told him genuinely.
"Thank you, George," Tom said. "But I'm happy the three of you are here now." Hs eyes flitted towards Mary, causing her heart to skip a beat in spite of everything.
Mary directed them all to the table, where all the food Mrs. Patmore sent had been sliced. Sybbie managed to their mind off the gloom by emphatically telling them about The Tale Peter Rabbit, the latest story Nanny had read to them while George chimed in every once in a while with additional details. Mary was pleased to see Tom laugh and smile, especially when it seemed it was genuine. Still, he barely touched his food, only taking small bites at a time. When George and Sybbie had declared they were full, half of Tom's food was on his plate.
"Can we play now, Daddy?" Sybbie asked.
Tom glanced at her, silently seeking permission for George, which Mary granted with a small nod. "Go ahead," he told them, and the children ran excitedly towards the stairs, their small feet creating an alarming amount of noise as they stomped up the steps.
Mary took care of the plates— well, she sat them in the sink, anyway— before turning to Tom, eying his plate questioningly. He glanced down at it before handing it to her. "Thank you," he told her. "It was a lovely idea... I'm just afraid I've lost my appetite."
"There's no need to apologize," Mary murmured. "All I did was chop it up. It was hardly taxing to prepare." She slid his food into the bin before placing the plate with the rest and walking over to Tom. She let her fingers slide through his hair, stiff with pomade, before saying, "I only worry about you. I wouldn't want you getting sick."
Tom met her eyes before reaching for the hand in his hair. He studied it carefully before placing a kiss on the inside of her wrist, the action sending sparks of electricity throughout her entire body. "I'll be all right, love," he promised, before dropping her hand.
Mary imagined sitting on his lap, just so she could be close to him, but knew that wasn't possible. If it was only the two of them in this house, then possibly, but what with George and Sybbie... well, Mary would be mortified. Still, she smiled before tugging him to his feet. Tom followed after her as she lead him over to the couch (a more comfortable place, in her opinion, to converse), asking, "How did it go, then? With Sybbie?"
"Well enough," Tom said, his shoulders lowering. Mary regretted bringing it up instantly, seeing how quickly he had deflated. She sat next to him, sinking into the plush cushions. "If anything, she was the one comforting me."
That didn't surprise Mary in the slightest; Sybbie, though headstrong and able to dominate many a conversation, was incredibly sensitive. She hated to see people upset. "That sounds like our Sybbie," she said with a smile.
Tom was silent for a moment or two, far away from her. Mary wanted patiently, trying to prepare about each possible outcome. However, she never anticipated him asking, "Do you ever think about it? Having more children?"
Mary was taken aback. Truthfully, she had actively avoided those sorts of thoughts— not because she didn't want more children but because she felt it was presumptuous when there still hadn't been serious talk of marriage. Her thoughts again strayed to all her new names— being introduced as Lady Mary Branson when she entered a room, correcting old friends with, It's Mary Branson now, actually, signing Mary J. Branson in place of Mary J. Crawley on documents. "Sometimes," she answered, careful. She watched for his reaction. "But I think it is a little soon. We aren't even engaged yet."
Tom nodded. "You're right," he acquiesced. "I just suppose I was realizing that if we were— if we ever..." He trailed off before meeting her eyes. She understood his meaning perfectly and nodded to let him know that. Speaking without words had come naturally to them. "I realized they would never live in a world with her in it. There's never be a chance of someday meeting her. She'd be forgotten."
Mary shook her head. "Not forgotten," she said. "Not when you will have so many stories to tell them." It was such a strange, marvelous idea, abstract as it was, that they might have children. Mary tried envision Sybbie and George with a tiny baby with a blend of hers and Tom's features. But, realizing this idea would be no help, she asked, "Do you have any photographs of her?"
"No," Tom admitted. "I used to, in my flat with Sybil, but we didn't have enough time to grab it before we had to leave."
My poor darling, thought Mary. "I'm sure she would have saved it," she told him, briefly recalling some talk about Mrs. Branson salvaging their belongings in their flat. She had sent back some of the essentials for them, but Mary knew there was no way she could have possibly been able to mail them everything. "And I've asked Papa to look into things. About you being able to return to Ireland." She waited with bated breath.
Tom lifted his head up from his hands. "What?"
"You were so— so upset, about not being able to attend the funeral," Mary said. She studied his face carefully, hoping to find the glimmer of gratitude or astonishment, but instead finding confusion. "Papa is contacting Shrimpie and he'll check with the Home Secretary."
Mary wasn't prepared for Tom shaking his head. "They aren't going to let me back, Mary," he said wearily. "There's no way."
Mary blinked. She hadn't expected him to accept defeat so easily. It was so unlike her Tom... "A lot of time has passed," Mary pointed out, not willing to let him give up on the idea before thinking about it. "Plenty of things have changed. And this is a special circumstance—"
"Not in the eyes of the government!" Tom interrupted. He wasn't angry, per say, but looking extremely frustrated. Nevertheless, it wasn't the reaction she had anticipated. He swallowed. He raked his fingers through his hair, clearly distressed. "I'm sure many men's mothers have died and they weren't granted the opportunity to see her buried." Mary flinched at his harsh words but Tom didn't notice. "Why should an exception be made for me?"
"Not every man has the same connections you do," she pointed out as diplomatically as possible.
Tom shook his head. "I don't have any connections. Your father has connections, but not me."
"Well, he's using those connections to help you," said Mary firmly. "It isn't fair that you should be denied an opportunity to say goodbye."
"No," Tom agreed, "it's not, but unfortunately we don't live in a world that's fair." He let out a loud sigh before asking, "Can we change the topic, please?"
Mary was perplexed. Obviously, Tom needn't be obliged to shower her with praises, but she hadn't expected him to be so despondent. It was so unlike him... she couldn't help but be worried. "Very well," she said cautiously. "What do you want to talk about?"
Tom leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling. "Anything."
Mary hesitated, racking her mind for anything of interest. "It's funny that you mentioned about having more children earlier," she began, which prompted Tom's eyes to widen and his gaze to drop to her stomach. She realized her mistake at once. "Oh, don't worry! Nothing like that!" Mary assured him. "I would have told you if it— we were—" She cleared her throat before explaining, "George told me the other day that he wants a baby brother."
Laughter seemed to bubble out of Tom. He tilted his head back and Mary felt a spark of pride. I've made him happy, she thought, smiling. "What did you tell him?"
"I don't remember," said Mary, thinking back to it. "I was taken by surprise. I think I said something to the effect that he would have to wait a while."
"Probably best," Tom agreed, nodding his head. "Where on Earth did he get an idea like that?"
"Johnny." Tom understood immediately. "He's been spending more time with George and Sybbie in the nursery lately, and George absolutely adores him. Nanny says he's quite the mother hen."
Tom's lips twitched. "You know, when we were in America, Sybbie asked me where babies came from."
"And what did you tell her?"
"I said she'd have to wait until she was older," Tom said. "She hasn't asked since, thank God."
"So there were no stories about a stork?" asked Mary, amused.
Tom shook his head. "I didn't want to be dishonest."
Mary couldn't help smile. Of course he wouldn't... Tom was always honest. It was one of the many things she loved about him. "Of course you wouldn't," she said, leaning back on the couch. "I should have known better."
He let out a soft chuckle before asking, "And what you tell George, when he finally asks?"
"I'll tell him the story about the stork. Obviously," Mary said seriously before they both burst into laughter. "No... I haven't thought about it, to be honest. No matter how much I try to prepare for it, I'm sure I'll never be ready for that question."
"Of course you will," Tom told her. "I've complete faith in you."
Mary felt as if her heart grew in her chest. "What's been going on at the shop? Anything exciting?" She asked, reaching out to hold his hand, and smiling when his eyes lit up with excitement as he told her about the latest plans.
Mary's neck ached as she lifted up her head from the back of the couch, face to face with Tom. His eyes were closed, just as deep in slumber as she had been before waking. The living room was dark, save for the moonlight spilling in from the windows to illuminate Tom's face. We must have fallen asleep, she realized. They had been on the couch for hours, talking about everything under sun— business, the children, the estate, Edith, even Evelyn Napier and his new fiancée, Flora Kelley— before George and Sybbie had come downstairs. "I'm tired, Mummy," George had whined. "Are we going home yet?"
Mary's gaze had flickered for Tom, who seemed to be bracing himself for something unpleasant. Mary realized that his thoughts would likely take a darker turn the moment she left, leaving him to dwell on his gloom. "Not quite yet, darling," she told her son. "But it is quite late—" she glanced over to Tom, "Do you mind if he lies down with Sybbie until we head back to house?"
Some of the light returned to his eyes. "You'll have to ask her."
Sybbie, who had moments ago been looking as exhausted as George, perked up. "Yes!" She said, jumping up and down. Mary had no idea how one little girl could be so full of energy. "It will be like the old times!"
So Mary and Tom has readied the children for bed, George dressing in a pair of pajamas Sybbie had outgrown. Mary had buttoned up the shirt and tightened the drawstring of the trousers, pleased that he didn't mind the floral pattern. They tucked the children into Sybbie's bed, and Mary had sat on the edge of it as Tom read them a short bedtime story from the rocking chair. George drifted off first, though Sybbie managed to stay awake until it ended. Mary and Tom kissed them both goodnight before sitting down on the couch again to resume talking.
Tom looked so peaceful— it was so hard to believe, looking at him now, that he had been dealt a tremendous blow. Struck by a wave of affection, Mary longed to kiss him. It was only the risk of waking him that prevented her from doing so. She rose, carefully as possible, before stepping into the kitchenette to get a glass of water. She craned her head back to the couch as she twisted the faucet, hoping she wouldn't disturb him.
Sipping her water, Mary wondered over to Tom's desk. A framed photograph of Sybil sat there in a silver frame, along with a picture of himself and Sybbie at her christening. Mary supposed he didn't have a photograph of her to set there... perhaps she could rectify that, someday soon. Her eyes glanced over to the clock, which told her it was 1:27 in the morning.
Her stomach dropped. Oh, God... her and George should have been home hours ago! Without thinking, Mary hurried across the room, water splashing out of her glass as she went to the telephone. She cursed under her breath, hand shaking as she picked up the receiver.
Papa, surprisingly, was the one to pick up. "I wondered when I would be getting a call," he said, voice tired and weary.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "Tom and I— we were talking on the couch and we fell asleep—" It sounded so flimsy, she realized halfway through the sentence, but it was the truth. "I've only just woke up."
"I supposed it was something like that," Papa said with a sigh. "What about George?"
"He's with Sybbie. I put him to bed hours ago and I promised to wake him up when we were getting ready to leave."
Papa let out another sigh. "I sent Pratt to bed probably around the same time. Is there any need for me to wake him?"
Mary hesitated. "No," she said, feeling her cheeks grow warm. "I can sleep in the guest bedroom tonight."
"Very well," said Papa wearily. "Now that that's all sorted, I think I'll go to bed myself. Goodnight."
"Goodnight," Mary echoed before hanging up the phone. She was about to let out a sigh when an arm wrapped around her from behind. She let out a yelp before smelling the familiar cologne and recognizing the feel of the body behind her. "Goodness," she said, relieved, "You startled me."
"Sorry, love," Tom murmured, voice thick with sleep. He pressed a kiss to her temple.
"Did I wake you?"
"I think so," Tom said. "I heard you talking."
"I'm sorry," she breathed, placing her hand on top of the one Tom had set on her hip. "I only just realized how late it was."
Tom rested his forehead on her shoulder. "So you're staying here, then?"
"It seems so."
"In the guest bedroom?" Mary couldn't help but smile as Tom kissed the side of her neck. As intimate as it was, Mary sensed no amorous intentions— merely a desire to be close to her. "I don't want to worry you, love, but that mattress is as stiff as a board. Horribly uncomfortable."
"Oh," she said, leaning back into him. The scent of him was driving her mad... "Well, is there somewhere more comfortable I could sleep?"
Tom kissed a spot near her ear. Mary closed her eyes, grateful he was still holding onto her. Her legs felt as if they were about to give way. "I do have one place," he whispered, "but it's small and you'll have to share. Is that alright?"
"More than alright," Mary breathed, spinning around to kiss him. They embraced for a minute or so, lazily enjoying one another. When they parted, breathless, Tom reached for Mary's hand before leading her up the stairs.
The bedroom was dark until Tom turned on a single lamp. Mary closed the door behind them, hands reaching behind her to tug the zipper of her dress down. When the movement proved fruitless, she asked, "Darling, do you mind?"
Tom, who had been pulling back the covers for them, turned around to see what she meant. "Not at all," he said, walking across the room to slide the zipper down. The blue dress pooled at her feet and she stepped out of it, now in her underclothes.
"Thank you," she said, turning around to face him. There was a strange look in his eye as he looked down at her, prompting her to ask, "Is something the matter?"
Tom shook his head. "No. Not at all." He bent down, kissing her deeply. When it ended, their foreheads were pressed together and Mary watched him through her eyelashes. "It's just— you're so beautiful."
Mary wasn't unaccustomed to being told she was attractive, but it didn't mean much unless it came from someone she cared about... like Tom. She couldn't stop herself from smiling. "You're rather handsome yourself," she told him.
Tom kissed her again, this time his hands bunching up the fabric of her chemise. Mary pulled him close to her, luxuriating in the sensation. "Sometimes I can't believe it," he confessed in between kisses, causing Mary to falter slightly. Was he referring to his mother? "It doesn't seem real— it's like something out of the things I used to dream up." Any tension in her body relaxed. He kissed her, long and gentle, before pulling away. "Having you here with me now— I can't believe how lucky I am."
"I'm the lucky one, my darling," Mary told him. She could feel his adoration, just as intense as her own. She pressed another kiss to his lips. "Let's try and get some rest now."
Tom nodded as she slipped away. Mary climbed into the bed as Tom began undressing until he stood in his pants. The clothes were tossed to the floor, with no care to hang them up. Mary curled up on her side as Tom joined her in the bed. Already her eyelids had grown heavy and when he turned the lamp off, she was one step closer to sleep. She felt Tom kiss her forehead one last time before murmuring something that she didn't quite understand. His arms wrapped around her and she fell asleep, contented.