I'm Beginning to Know What I Need

"I hope you know how glad I am that Brigid came to the wedding, after all," Tom said as they entered their flat, having consumed several of Mrs. Branson's oatmeal biscuits and a plate of corned beef and cabbage.

Sybil nodded, revealing that they were finally in their own flat. Mrs. Branson wouldn't walk in on them or hear any noises they made while they kissed. Nor would the other woman complain about Sybil or yell that she wasn't performing a task correctly. She smiled at Tom, staring into his deep hazel eyes. "I'm glad. She's your sister, and she was supposed to be there. And Sean and Catlin, too."

"Absolutely," Tom said as his eyes grew bigger and his face grew closer.

"And it certainly pleases me that you can admit I was right," Sybil added a bit smugly, just as he was about to kiss her.

Scowling for a moment, Tom paused. But then he chuckled, and her heart skipped a beat at the way his eyes crinkled and how his breath felt against her neck. "I guess you were."

With that, he kissed her. And it was wonderful. His lips were warm but demanding. Sybil pressed back, just as intensely and pushed her tongue while her hands clung to his shoulders.

They finally withdrew, breathing heavily and hearts racing. But then, Tom's lips immediately landed on her neck. It tingled, and her hands wound into his hair, holding him there. "Mmmmm," she couldn't help humming, as he kept kissing her.

Things grew warmer and warmer between them, both beginning to search for skin under their clothing. Then Tom suddenly withdrew all together, stepping a couple of feet away from her. "I'm sorry, Sybil. You deserve more than this. My family spent all that money so we would have a proper bed and I almost…" He shook his head and scowled. "I don't know what I was thinking."

Sybil chuckled. "I don't think either of us were thinking."

"Yes, but you're my bride and I need to treat you with respect," he said, practically spitting.

Sighing, Sybil remembered Tom often had trouble letting go of his anger. It seemed he was struggling with it again, only this time it was at himself. She held his face gently in her hands. "You are. I wanted it just as much as you did, and you stopped before we could go further. Now, show me the bed, husband."

His eyes grew larger again, and Tom finally smiled. "All right." He led her out of the kitchen, which appeared to be about the same size as Tom's Mam's, and into the empty sitting room. Next, he led her to a door in the corner.

In the center of the room, there was a small double bed with a black headboard and a simple white blanket. Sybil stared at it for several moments before turning to Tom. "I love it," she said, a wide smile spreading across her face.

"I love you," he said firmly, as he stepped closer to her again.

Once again, her heart raced in response, especially as he began to remove her wedding dress. Sybil enjoyed trying new things, and there was nothing more exciting than trying to make love for the first time.

Buttons were unfastened, as his hands grew almost fiery hot, while Tom's hazel eyes bore into hers.

Soon, Sybil reached for Tom's own clothing. First, she eliminated his suit coat. Next, she unfastened the buttons on his own shirt, feeling the firmness of his chest underneath. Her heartrate increases, especially as the shirt fell to the floor.

Tom finally pulls the wedding dress over her head, leaving Sybil standing in a corset. He studied her body for a moment before his smile widened even more, causing her to feel blush.

But when he tries to remove her corset, he finds impossible to pull it off, as he had the wedding dress. Sybil chuckles. "There are several ties in the back."

Tom studies her back for several moments before he chuckles in return. "I see that now. They're just so thin, it's difficult to notice them, especially with all the, ah distractions."

Tom spent many moments unlacing the corset, and Sybil felt his hands brush against her back each time, making her tingle and her heartrate increase again.

Finally, she stepped out of the corset, laying it carefully aside. Tom stared for another moment, before he kissed her again, this time all over her skin. His lips felt hot and wonderful, and she wished it could go on forever.

But then Sybil's eyes met his trousers, and she tugged at them. "We are unequal, husband," she said, meeting his eyes again. Tom nodded and removed them from his body.

Now it was her turn to stare, studying his form from head to toe, admiring his maleness. "Let's go to the bed," he said softly.

"Yes," Sybil said eagerly, with a nod. Without thinking, they both jumped onto it. They looked at each other, chuckling again, before attacking each other with kisses everywhere.

What happened next was difficult to describe. It was a combination of excitement, wonder, discomfort, and tenderness all at once. She was kissed in places she'd never considered. She was touched in places she didn't truly understand. And she'd never expected to feel any pain the first time his member pushed inside her.

She wasn't certain she wanted it for a moment. But then Tom gazed at her and kissed her slowly, and it wasn't so bad.

It was love. She looked into his deep hazel eyes after they finished, marveling how wonderful it was to be finally married. "I love you. Husband."

"I love you," Tom said in return, looking at her as if he knew the secrets of her soul. "Wife."

OOOOOOOOOOOO

Sybil and Tom attended church the next day as husband and wife, still revealing at their new status. Then Tom returned to the Irish Times office, and Sybil began her chores. She cooked. She cleaned the coal out of the stove. She washed their clothing and hung them up to dry.

It was a bit overwhelming, performing all of those chores by herself in her own flat. More than she'd expected, especially as she'd done them all in the other flat while Mrs. Branson was ill. But Sybil was satisfied when they were finished after luncheon.

She hoped to look for a nursing job again at this point, as it was obvious to her that she still had plenty of time. But first, Sybil must write a letter to Mama. Picking up a pen and a small piece of paper, she leaned against the kitchen counter. Tom hoped to buy a table soon, but until then, this would have to do.

She stared at the blank piece of paper for several moments, trying to collect her thoughts. Sybil remembered her disappointment when she realized her parents wouldn't attend her wedding, after all. She recalled her happiness that her sisters had attended. She thought of the fight with Tom about allowing Brigid to come by using Papa's money versus Mama's decision not to come because of Papa. But Sybil also recalled how many times Tom's relatives expressed their relief that Papa hadn't come.

Most of all, Sybil remembered the joy she felt when she opened Mama's simple, sentimental gift.

Dear Mama,

I thank you sincerely for your thoughtful gift. I love the way my married name appears on the handkerchief, and I will always treasure it. It means a lot that you believe in my marriage to Tom. I know it was difficult for you to accept that life in Downton was not for me.

I also appreciate the letter explaining some of the circumstances at Downton. I won't lie Mama; I had hoped you and Papa would come here for my wedding, and sometimes I think you should have fought harder for that. But I do know how much Papa doesn't like change.

Not to mention how narrow minded and stubborn he is, Sybil thought. She accidently threw her pen across the kitchen as her anger swelled. But then she sighed.

Picking up the pen again, Sybil continued writing.

So perhaps I was being unrealistic. I suppose you've always been more patient with Papa than the rest of us.

I've also heard many of Tom's relatives state that how relieved they were that Papa did not come for the wedding, which I hadn't expected. I suppose they dislike the English and Papa is as English as they come. So perhaps it was better that he didn't attend, if I am to be accepted by Tom's family.

I admit, I never expected you to consider attending the wedding without Papa, and I deeply appreciate the thought. In some ways, I wish you had, but I also understand that you believe you made the decision you needed.

When things calm down here, I'm certain you or maybe even you and Papa will be able to come visit. Perhaps during a smaller occasion.

But either way, I'm very happy here.

Love,

Sybil

P, S. Happy Birthday

Perhaps she should have sent a separate note for Mama's birthday, which would be in two weeks, or mailed a birthday gift. But what could she give her mother now that would be appropriate for a birthday gift? She certainly couldn't buy any jewelry, which is what Mama usually received for gifts. Nor could she buy the expensive perfume Mama preferred.

She nodded as she sealed the envelope. She loved her family and honestly wished Mama a happy birthday. She hoped to see everyone again.

But she needed Tom in her life.

OOOOOOOOO

Walking around Dublin was no longer a concern for Sybil. That afternoon, she visited the post office to mail her envelope and bought groceries without any trouble.

She also applied for two nursing jobs, one at a hospital and one at a private doctor's office. After all, she had all afternoon free today. Certainly, she would have time to be a nurse, take care of the flat, and be Tom's wife.

But of course, she was turned down once again. One because of her proper English accent and the other because she was married. Sybil had a scowl on her face the during the entire walk back to her flat. When would these people give her a chance? Would they even consider her several references?

Arriving later than she expected, Sybil was still cleaning the coal when Tom came home. In fact, she had her head stuck in the coal trey, as she desperately scrubbed her fury.

"Hello, Sybil!" said Tom's voice, sounding very excited.

"Tom!" she said, knocking her head on the stove. "I'm sorry," Sybil said with a sigh as she pulled her head out to see him. She knew she was covered in coal smudges and dinner hadn't even been started yet. "This is taking longer than I thought it would."

He shrugged and kissed her anyway, not caring about the coal that plastered her face. "I have great news! I've been asked to cover my first big story. Eamon de Valera, the president of the Dail, is going to America."

Even though she'd spent the last couple of hours fuming that she still couldn't get a job, Tom's excitement was infectious. Sybil loved how his hazel eyes lit up and his whole face looked animated. "That's great," she said, giving him a small kiss in return.

"I can't wait to get started," he said as Sybil filled the stove with fresh coal and lit the fire. "There will be background information and interviews. I might even be able to speak to some of the other members of the Dail."

She nodded, loving his passion, and carefully cut up several pieces of beef. " But why is the president leaving the country?" Sybil asked, curiously. She met his eyes again as she said, "Isn't he needed in Ireland?"

Tom shrugged. "Some people think that, so it's something that will be discussed in the article. But there are a lot of people from Irish decent living in America now, and they give a lot of money for our cause. Some of them are rather influential over there. So, imagine what support we can get with de Valera himself in America! He could even get Ireland official diplomatic recognition."

Sybil chuckled as she threw the pieces of beef in a pot. "The power of American capitalism. Grandmama would be so proud."

Tom's smile faded and he sighed at that. "I suppose it is a bit of capitalism, but it's necessary for the cause. But what do you mean about 'Grandmama?' I can't think of anything about Irish Independence that would please your grandmother." He looked so adorably confused that Sybil had to give him another quick kiss.

"Not Granny, Tom. I agree, she wouldn't want Ireland to be independent. I meant my other grandmother who lives in America. We call her 'Grandmama.'" She smiled at him, and then began peeling the carrots.

Tom nodded in understanding. "Of course. I've heard that your mother is from America, but I've never truly thought about it. She acts so…English, and so do all of you."

Sybil shrugged, careful to keep her eye on the knife as she peeled the carrots. "I suppose that's because Mama has lived in England for so long, and it's where we were all raised. Although according to Granny and Mary, Mama still acts too 'American' for their tastes. Mary and even Edith aren't really interested in Mama's life in America or stories about Grandmama. But I liked hearing them when I was younger. Mama and I used to be so close…I suppose it's because we were a lot alike."

She shrugged as she finished peeling the carrots and began chopping them into bite – sized pieces. "We grew apart during the war. Mama's life seemed more and more frivolous to me, and I leaned on Cousin Isobel. She was the only one who really understood nursing…or anything."

"I understood," Tom said softly, his face growing closer and closer.

Sybil dropped her knife as she gazed at him. "I know." Their lips met at the same time.

But after only a few moments, she withdrew, forcing herself to finish the dinner.

OOOOOOOOOO

As they ate dinner, leaning against the counter, Tom's eyes suddenly lit up again and he stared at Sybil. "Would you like to read my article when it's finished? I'd like you to do so. And it would give you an opportunity to hear about America again.

Sybil nodded eagerly. "Certainly. Actually, I hope you will show me all your articles." She loved to share in his passion. More importantly, she loved how Tom took her ideas seriously, rather than dismissing them just because she was "a woman."

Tom swallowed a bite of stew. "I will do that."

OOOOOOOOOOO

A week later, Sybil toward her new flat with fresh supplies for stew, bread, and oatmeal. She was trying to shop earlier in the day now, so she could finish all her chores and spend the evening with Tom.

As she approached her door, Sybil's heart almost stopped as she heard a terrible cough, similar to the ones Mama and Mrs. Branson had in the last few months. She turned to face her neighbor, who was carrying a heavy bucket of water. "Excuse me, but how long have you had that cough?"

Certainly, the woman didn't have Spanish Flu.

The other woman shrugged her shoulders, still clutching her bucket. "A day or so. It will go away soon enough. If you excuse me, I've got to get the laundry started." Then she tried to walk past Sybil, as if nothing were the matter.

Sybil's heartbeat faster as she watched her neighbor. She was taller than Sybil, with light brown hair, and probably a few years older than Sybil. But the woman suddenly seemed vulnerable. "I think your cough will disappear soon enough, but if you wish to make certain of it, I suggest you drink a lot of tea. If you have any, put a bit of honey in the bottom of the teacup."

The other woman shrugged but nodded.

OOOOOOOOOO

Two days later, Sybil saw another neighbor wobbling as she placed her clothing out to dry. This woman appeared around Sybil's age, and had bright red hair. The second time Sybil saw the redhead grasp the clothing line as she staggered backwards, she dropped her own clothes in pile on the dirty ground and ran to hold the other woman steady.

"Take it easy," Sybil said, gently but firmly, the same way she'd done to countless patients at the Downton Village Hospital. "You need to go inside your flat and lay down."

The other woman gave Sybil a look that indicated she was foolish. "And who will do the laundry if I do that? The fairies?" She laughed. "You're that fancy English lady that wanted to try living here for a while, aren't you? While when people get sick here, we have to keep working, not 'lay down and rest' like the fragile folks where you come from."

Sighing, Sybil felt as if she were speaking to Mrs. Branson again, as she'd had the same conversation with her a month ago. Except this woman was much younger. "I appreciate your need to work, but you were almost ready to pass out just now. You'll be able to work again soon if you lay down. I can finish your laundry; I'm already doing mine."

She paused and noticed Tom's trousers and several of her blouses laying in the dirt. "Actually, it looks as if I need to wash these again, too. But don't worry, I can take care of your laundry first. And don't worry; I do know how to hang clothing on the line without dropping them in the dirt."

"But please, do rest." She stared into the other woman's deep green eyes, pleading for understanding. "I've been trained as a nurse, so I know the signs of a serious illness." A sinking feeling was developing in her stomach. Was this a Spanish Flu outbreak in Dublin?

Finally, the other woman sighed. "If you insist."

"I do," Sybil said firmly. "In fact, let me help you get into your flat." If she remembered correctly, this neighbor's flat was on the second floor.

OOOOOOOOOO

Sybil instructed two other neighbors one a middle-aged woman, and one a man about Tom's age, to drink tea with honey after hearing their terrible coughs as well. In fact, the next time she went to the grocery, she purchased a bottle of honey to keep in their flat, just in case.

"Two of the reporters at the Irish Times are out with the flu," Tom said with a sigh as he ate his corned beef and cabbage against the counter one night. They still had yet to buy a table, but it seemed to be the least of their problems right now.

There was a full outbreak of Spanish Flu in Dublin.

Swallowing again, Sybil felt her chest tighten at the thought. "I don't know why I thought it wouldn't happen here. I guess it's because Dublin is so…otherworldly and different from everything I'm used to. But, of course, I was being foolish. Spanish Flu has incredibly long arms. Too long, and it reaches everyone eventually. I mean, your mother just had it a month ago." She shook her head. "At least I'm not to blame for everyone getting it now."

Tom picked up her hand that wasn't eating and gently squeezed. Then his hazel eyes stared straight into hers. "Sybil, you need to stop blaming yourself for Mam. Remember, she survived because of your care."

She nodded, trying to focus her heart on the memory of Mrs. Branson recovering. "I know, it's just difficult to see so many people ill, especially with such a serious disease. I'm trying to give our neighbors some advice on how to treat it but…" Her voice trailed off, and Sybil tried to eat instead of remembering Lavinia, who died suddenly of the disease, only two months ago.

"I know it's difficult, especially for someone who is as caring as you are, mo ghra." Sybil met his eyes again, leaning closer this time. She loved it when he called her that. Of course, according to Tom, it was a common endearment in Ireland these days, but hearing those words said to her made it feel almost as if it were a secret language between them.

"But try to focus on all the people who lived because of you.," he said, as his breathe tingled her cheek. And all the people you can help now, just by being yourself." Sybil felt his love fill their entire kitchen with his encouragements, and she kissed him automatically.

OOOOOOOOOO

Scrubbing the breakfast dishes the next morning, Sybil tried to focus on Tom's love and encouragement again. She could help the people in Dublin.

Someone shouted a name outside. Again. And again. It sounded almost familiar, but Sybil didn't know why. She didn't know the names of her neighbors yet. Finally, she left her bucket of soapy water and dishes in the sink and peeked her head out of the flat. Could she help in any way?

A man about Tom's age raced up the stairs of the next tenement complex. "Mrs. Branson!" he shouted, and Sybil wondered why this man would be searching for her mother – in – law so frantically.

Then her heart stopped.

This man wasn't searching for her mother – in – law; he was searching for Sybil. She was Mrs. Branson now. Heart beating faster and faster at what this man could want, Sybil marched directly to him. "I'm Mrs. Branson," she said clearly. "What can I do for you?"

The man grabbed her hand and tugged her in of the stairs. "It's my son," he said. "He has an incredibly high fever...my wife and I are so worried…but someone said they heard you had been a nurse…"

Sybil swallowed a lump as she heard that it was a child who was sick this time. Could this boy possibly have Spanish Flu? "Yes, I was a nurse," she told the man firmly, desperately hoping she could help.

He opened the door to a very small flat, about half the size of hers and Tom's, and there in the sitting room was a little boy, only about three, laying with his head on his mother's lap. He his eyes were glassy, and he looked miserable. He broke Sybil's heart.

His mother's brown eyes, however, lit up as soon as she entered the room. "Are you the nurse?" she said, pleading.

"I was, yes," Sybil said with a nod, studying the patient closely. He wore tiny red shirt and matching trousers. His hair was sweaty, and his forehead felt sweltering to the touch.

"Good," his mother said with relief, still clutching her son tightly. "We can't afford to take him to the doctor, you see, but we're so worried. Especially with everyone around here becoming sick."

"I understand," Sybil said, looking the other woman in the eyes, hoping she realized how serious Sybil truly was. Then she noticed a cup of water sitting several feet from the boy. "Has he been drinking this?" she asked, fearing the answer.

The mother nodded. "Yes, I thought if he had something cold to drink…maybe his fever would go down."

Sighing, Sybil shook her head. "That's understandable, but he could become sick to his stomach from too much water. Use it to bathe his skin like this." She reached into the cup and splashed a bit of water on the boy's face, causing him to smile a bit. "If he wants a drink, give him a bit of tea. Put some honey in the tea if he has a cough."

The mother nodded, her eyes wide. "Thank you."

"I wish I didn't, but I have to work," the father said, staring at his son longingly. Sybil's heart ached for him.

"Go, Liam," the mother said, meeting his eyes with a nod. "Conner is doing better already." She splashed more of the water on her son.

"He is," Sybil said, hoping that Conner would continue to improve. But just as Liam shut the door behind him, Conner vomited all over his clothing. Sybil's heart sank.

"Oh, you were right, Mrs. Branson," the mother said, sobbing a bit. "I shouldn't have let him drink that water."

"Let's just clean him up now," Sybil said, trying to stay calm. Carefully, she removed his dirty clothing. "I'll run to the pump so we can wash everything."

The woman nodded, still clutching her son.

OOOOOOOOOO

Sybil spent the next two days caring for Conner in between her own chores. She brought water from the pump. She made Conner a bit of tea. She helped his mother, who's name was Mrs. O'Sullivan, bathe him. She felt exhausted, but she could only hope that Spanish Flu wouldn't take this precious little boy.

His brown eyes reminded her so much of Tom's. Every time little Conner looked at Sybil her heart would break again. He called her "Mrs. nurse," and sometimes it made Sybil wish for a day where she'd be a real nurse in Ireland.

Still, it appeared that, perhaps, she didn't need a position to be a nurse. All she needed was to be herself; just like Tom had said.

OOOOOOOOOOO

Finally, it happened. Sybil brought a new bucket of water to their flat, and little Conner smiled. "I feel much cooler today, Mrs. nurse," he told her still snuggled against his mother.

Mrs. O'Sullivan's eyes were bright. "He does feel cooler, Mrs. Branson."

Sybil immediately touched the boy's forehead, and to her relief, the temperature felt normal. "Quite," she said, her heart lifting out of her chest. "Has he vomited recently?"

"No," the mother said with a sigh, her eyes panicking that the illness may not be over after all. She pulled her son closer to her, as if she could shield him from Spanish Flu just by her presence.

Sybil wished Mrs. O'Sullivan could truly do so. "I'll make him some more tea," she said, eager to still help in some way.

OOOOOOOOOOOOO

Sybil had barely finished cleaning the stove when Tom arrived, once again preoccupied with little Conner, and now she frantically lit the stove and prepared the leftover stew. "I'm sorry this keeps occurring, Tom. But with Conner…" Sybil shook her head as she put last night's stew on the stove.

"I understand, Sybil," Tom said with a nod. "Anyway, I have some good news! My article about de Valera has been published." His eyes lit up with excitement and passion, just as they always did when he discussed Irish independence and politics.

"That's great," Sybil said, her heart jumping in surprise. He must've finished writing it and handed it to his editor a couple of days ago. He'd probably spoken about that before. But with all her focus on Spanish Flu lately, she'd completely forgotten about Tom's first important article.

She wanted to be happy for Tom, and she knew this was quite significant to him, but it was difficult while she was still worried about Conner. And while there was still so much illness in their neighborhood. "I know you have a lot on your mind now," Tom said, his soft eyes meeting hers in understanding. "But I hope you'll still read it."

"Of course, I will," she promised, stirring the leftover stew. It didn't smell as fresh as yesterdays, but aroma of meet and vegetables still filled her nose. "Let me see it now, before it becomes too late."

Tom kissed her cheek and handed her the piece. There on the second page was Eamon de Valera's Journey to America. By Thomas Branson. "Your name looks nice in print like that. Very professional," she smiled proudly at him, trying to focus on such happy news rather than worrying about Conner.

Tom glowed at her praise. "Thank you, Sybil."

She skimmed the article as she still tried to keep an eye on warming up the stew. Tom discussed Valera's background, especially being born in America, and then how he'd become involved in Sein Fein and elected president of the Dail. Then he continued with Valera's plans for his trip to America, in gaining more support for the new Irish Republic. Finally, he added various perspectives from different people on whether Valera's plans would work or not.

"It looks great, Tom. You're a good writer," she said, handing the article back to him. Then she gave the stew one more sniff and smiled. "I guess the stew is done."

Tom leaned over the counter, his eyes glowing, and his face animated again as he began to eat. "And now since that article has been published, more people have taken notice of me. Someone came into the Irish Times today and asked if I might like to write for the Irish Bulletin as well. Just think of that. Me. And I've only been back in Ireland for a couple of months! "

Sybil stared at him for a moment, trying to understand. She loved his passion for these things, but it could be difficult to grasp what he meant sometimes. "Why is the Irish Bulletin so important?"

"It's the periodical run directly by the IRA, who are the army of our new republic," Tom said, his grin growing even wider.

"Does that mean you'll be joining the army?" Sybil said, not hiding the panic in her voice. Visions of all the injured soldiers she'd treated at Downton Hospital danced through her head. She was already worried about Conner and the Spanish Flu. She couldn't be worried about her husband, too. "Don't. Please don't."

"I can't actually join the army," Tom said bitterly, shaking his head. "I have a heart murmur, remember?"

Sybil nodded, remembering how upset he was that he couldn't "make his statement" against the British Army because of his heart murmur. She'd been so relieved he wasn't taken to prison. And she was even more relieved now that he wouldn't be a soldier. She relaxed enough to take a few bites of stew.

"But I can write for the IRA periodical," he said, his voice growing excited again. "This is exactly why I wanted to return to Ireland, Sybil. So, I could be involved in everything."

The leftover stew somehow tasted more flavorful as Tom continued to speak. She was so glad she'd agreed to move to Ireland with him, so he could be involved in everything.

OOOOOOOOOO

In the next few days, everything happened at once. Connor recovered completely, and he and Mrs. O'Sullivan gave Sybil a loaf of raisin bread. "It's nothing compared to what you did, Mrs. Branson," the other woman said, meeting her eyes with gratefulness and almost, awe. "But I hope you and your husband enjoy it."

Nodding, Sybil took the bread, although she had no idea if Tom even liked raisins. "Thank you, but I'm just happy to see Conner doing better now." She knelt to the boy's height, drinking in the healthy tone to his skin and the happy glow in his eyes.

""Tank you, for helping me, Mrs. nurse," Conner said.

"I was happy to do so," Sybil said.

OOOOOOOOOO

But the happiness all came crashing down when Sybil and Tom heard two of their other neighbors died of Spanish flu and Tom was unable to write for The Irish Bulletin, after all. "Oh, Tom I really hoped that this wouldn't happen… should I have encouraged them to drink more tea? Or given them more cool water to bring the fever down?"

"I don't know, mo ghra," Tom said, embracing her tightly with his love in their kitchen. "But here." He gently cut a small piece of raisin bread and handed it to Sybil. "This is from a family of a little boy who lived because of you. And there are so many other people who you helped, too."

Sybil chewed on the bread, trying to focus on what it meant. A little boy named Conner was alive today. "Thank you, Tom," she said, kissing him as she finished the bread. "But I've still got to cook dinner."

Sighing, she placed several pieces of lamb in a pot.

"By the way, it's not as bad as your news, but it seems I won't be writing for The Irish Bulletin, after all." His voice had that bitter tone he always had when his anger festered.

Gathering several turnips, she said gently, "I'm sorry, but I know you're a good writer. And you still have that position at The Irish Times." It was important to help Tom ease his anger a little when his bitterness grew.

"Yeah, I know, but to work directly for the IRA! I thought it would be so great." His voice grew louder. "And they didn't have a problem with my writing. It was with you," He scowled.

"Me?" Sybil almost dropped one of the turnips.

He nodded, still scowling. "They seemed to think I married you to spy on the British. The very idea that I'd use you like that…I called them some names, and they told me to leave."

"Oh, Tom," Sybil sighed. Perhaps it was wrong, but her heart swelled with love that he'd gotten so cross on her behalf. "But I'm sorry you lost your dream job because of me, mo ghra." She still hoped she pronounced that correctly.

He shrugged, his scowl disappearing slightly at the special endearment. "As you said, I still have the job at the Irish Times. But some of the names they called you. They're still ringing in my ears." He shook his head, as if trying to release those names from his mind.

Sybil nodded, trying to digest the fact that Tom couldn't have everything in Ireland. Some of his dreams wouldn't come true. It wasn't fair, just like it wasn't fair that two of their neighbors died, and Lavinia as well. But it was the way things had to be. "I love you," she told him, staring straight into his hazel eyes.

Without thinking, they kissed. When they withdrew, she picked up the turnips and threw them into the stew.

I'm still going to continue this story, but it won't be updated as often as it has been.