Chapter 7
...
Colindale
London
1886
...
Sighing distractedly, Tom tugged at his hair.
Feeling increasingly frustrated, he half heartedly tried to put some order back into the countless sheets of parchment that had ended up scattered haphazardly across his desk
It really didn't matter whether it was a drafts of the new Home Rule Bill or even a letter from his younger cousin Martin about how the land agitation protests were getting on at home...Tom couldn't concentrate on any of it.
It didn't matter what the subject was or how important it usually was to him, the young Irishman found himself completely unable to focus on any of it for more than a few sentences at a time...at least, not without his mind wandering, forever returning to her and their last conversation.
Lady Sybil Crawley.
The song 'My Girl is a Yorkshire Girl', had been stuck in his head on a loop ever since Tom had watched her disappear into the crowd, frustration alight in her electric blue eyes.
No matter how hard he tried, Tom couldn't get the bloody song (or the girl he associated with it) out of his head...even if he had wanted to.
His thoughts were raging a furious battle against him, inextricably drawn back to Sybil and their final conversation with one another on a constant basis.
Tom had felt upset, confused and betrayed by the unexpected way in which she had revealed her secret. Meanwhile, Sybil had looked very much like she wanted nothing more than to slap him for his less than flattering comments about the land owning classes...men who, he now knew, were like her father apparently.
Tom hadn't known what to say, or where to even begin to reply-to talk about this newfound revelation like adults.
He had been too dumbfounded to say much of anything.
Following several charged moments where neither of them had said anything further, Sybil had turned on her heel and left him standing alone in the alley...standing there as he watched her go.
They hadn't spoken since.
Tom sighed deeply, shoving his paperwork aside as he finally gave up on getting anything even halfway productive done.
He tried to assure himself that their parting company was for the best.
After all, how could their attachment possibly have last beyond a few stolen weeks together during the London season. She was a lady: her family was a symbol of everything that he -Tom Branson- had been advocating against for the past seven years.
'Surely...', Tom thought adamantly, desperately trying to convince himself of the logic of his and Sybil's bizarre, surreal, impossible situation. '..I could never love a woman like that, a woman so different from myself in so many ways'.
He tried to convince himself that it could only ever end in heartbreak between them, that the social barriers that divided people like him from people like Sybil were too great to overcome. He told himself that neither of their families would ever approve.
Above all else, he tried (in vain) to convince himself that any of it truly mattered to him.
However, when Tom knew that if he took a step back and was honest with himself, he would see, as clear as day, that such arguments were completely moot.
In earnest, he knew deep down that there was no point in talking himself out of loving Sybil Crawley, because he already did...Tom was already a total goner and there wasn't a single thing he could do to stop himself.
Her kindness, her strength, her determination, her intelligence, her beauty...her general intoxicating Sybil-ness. She had been all he had able to think about for days, for weeks...right from the moment he had met her.
'Are we really that different?', Tom thought, his mind returning to easier days when they had happily spent hours wandering London together, deep in debate and conversation.
Sybil had felt like his equal then. He had connected with her in ways he had never felt connected to anyone else before. In her he had found a friend, a confidant, a sparring partner and a kindred spirit...or at least there was a time when Tom believed he had.
Was that the true Sybil Crawley?
And if it was, would her background really make a difference to him?
Despite the stern reasoning that his brain tried desperately to cling to, his heart told him it wouldn't...Tom was sure that he would still just as completely, utterly and hopelessly in love with Sybil if she was the bloody Queen of England.
Tom loved her...he loved Sybil.
And furthermore, he didn't even have the slightest idea of where he would begin looking for her to tell her of his feelings...to apologise for his bluntness.
If her feelings were the same as his, surely they could try to fight the obstacles so fervently keeping them apart.
Just then an obnoxiously loud knock came upon the front door of his flat, startling Tom from his thoughts.
"For feck's sake, Tommy! Will you stop your bloody brooding and moping around. You're only acting the amadhaún. We've got a job to do, get your arse out here!"
Tom sighed deeply at his friend Seamus's slightly bowsy but otherwise well meaning and enthusiastic voice. He slipped out of the chair by his desk, heading over to open the door.
Unbolting the lock, Tom was suddenly struck with an overwhelming desire to laugh aloud for the first time in days.
"Seamus, what in God's name are you wearing?"
With what appeared to be a new bowler hat and a set of freshly pressed tails, Tom's childhood best friend looked like a bloody toff! He couldn't believe his eyes!
"You'll have to wear one too, Branson", Seamus replied gruffly, reaching behind him to pull out another morning coat. "The Chief said we could borrow them from Captain O Shea for the evening. He's got quite the collection."
Tom frowned, raising his eyebrows in surprise.
Generally, as long as they all showed up in parliament everyday, Parnell was fairly lenient upon how members of his party spent their free time.
They had never had to attend some posh government event before...and it was a good thing too.
But perhaps since Parnell was going out of his way these days to be on better terms with the Conservative Party in light of the upcoming vote on the Home Rule Bill, these things were slowly changing.
That didn't mean Tom had to like it!
"Seamus, I'll have you know that I'll not be going anywhere dressed like...that. It's the uniform of the oppressor!"
Seamus smirked, well used to his pig-headed friend's comments. He tipped his hat dramatically.
"Ahh, but you see that's the beauty of it. You and I, Tommy...we're wolves in sheep's clothing."
...
Grantham House
London
Summer of 1886
...
"You know Sybil, Mama seems rather adamant for you to get to know Lord Merton's eldest son", Mary said offhandedly as she adjusted the diamond earrings that she had received from their American grandmother during her own first season out in society.
"So can you promise me that I won't end up having to eat Christmas dinner with Larry Grey every year? I don't think I could put up with someone so insufferable as a brother in law."
Sybil rolled her eyes playfully, smiling at her eldest sister over her shoulder as she pushed herself up out of the chair by her dressing table, making her way over to the edge of the four poster to sit beside Mary.
"I can assure you that you will have no worries there."
At this Sybil glanced absentmindedly to the hiding place beneath her mattress, the place where she had carefully stowed away a few of the novels that she had discussed with Tom, not all of them political but shocking enough in other respects that it was best they were kept out of sight and out of mind from the rest of the house.
Despite the bad terms they had last parted on, Sybil couldn't help but miss him...miss their conversation, their banter and the way he was always made her blush without even trying.
Sybil missed how Tom's gaze would oftentimes darken and settle on her lips, making her feel lightheaded and dizzy. She missed the sound of his voice, that warm and comforting Irish brogue, and often found herself longing for the illicit sensation of his hand in her's.
Above all else, she missed his companionship.
Tom had become her anchor and sanity amidst the over-the-top madness that had been the London Season. He had quickly become the one person with whom she could share her opinions with without the feat of being thought silly or childish or too much of an idealist.
However, her pleasant thoughts about the young Irishman had turned more than a little sour as of last, especially when she found herself recalling their final meeting in that darkened alleyway.
(Even when it was the last thing in the world she wanted to think about)
Since that day, Sybil had relucantly accepted that perhaps she had acted a little harshly when she stalked off on Tom mid conversation after his accidental insulting comment towards her father (or rather men like him).
True, she had left out a few vital details when discussing her family with Tom when he had asked her about her parents and sisters, but that didn't mean she was entirely the one at fault.
Both of them had been in the wrong, and in equal measures...Tom shouldn't have said the things he did and she shouldn't have put him in a position where the truth of her background had proved such a surprise.
Sybil knew that Tom couldn't be entirely blamed for the impact of his rather hurtful words. After all, how could he have known her father was an Earl before she had entrusted that particular secret with him.
She and Tom had come from very different backgrounds, backgrounds where their mind-sets on certain aspects of society were very different...surely having a disagrement would eventually become inevitable.
On one hand, Sybil could understand where Tom was coming from.
After all, she knew that the conditions in Ireland were terrible for so many working class people, the mere fact that there was an uprising over there every few decades was proof enough of that.
The young aristocrat wasn't foolish or naive enough to ignore the fact that much of the problems across the pond were the fault of the British landlords...but, and there was a but, she also didn't see the matter in the same black and white manner that Tom did.
Sybil believed that it was more than possible to be born of the land owning classes and still strive to be a good and decent person, her own father-a man that despite their political differences she had always looked up to and loved-was a prime example of that.
Couldn't Tom not see that it was equally as unjust to paint the entirety of the land owning classes as heartless tyrants as it was to view the whole of the Irish working class population as alcoholics and hooligans.
More than anything, Sybil wanted for Tom to see that aspect of the class system through her eyes, if only for a moment. The world wasn't split into good and evil, humanity had dozens of shades in between.
Just then a comment from Mary sharply pulled Sybil from the depths of her thoughts.
"It seemed to me as though you looked very taken with that Tom fellow?"
At her sister's unexpected words, Sybil's head shot up-immediately wondering what had given her away. Her cheeks turned a deep shade of scarlet as her mind scanned through all the possible way in which Mary could have found out about her and Tom Branson's wonderful but complicated friendship.
Would Mary tell on them?...surely she wouldn't.
"Excuse me?"
"That gentleman you were talking with at Imogen's Ball...Tom Bellasis, wasn't?"
At this Sybil relaxed, immediately realising who her sister was talking about. Silently, she counted her lucky stars that she had been as discreet as she was when sneaking out to spend time with Tom...her Tom.
"Tom Bellasis and I only spoke that one night at Imogen's coming out. He found her uncle's speech rather amusing."
"And so did you, if I remember correctly?"
Sybil shrugged, smiling politely as she began to try and recover her wits after her initial shock at Mary's perfectly innocent question.
"Mr Bellasis is a perfectly agreeable man and I'm sure he would make a wonderful friend but..."
Mary laughed lightly at her younger sister's ever present kindness and tactfulness. "Darling, you can tell me outrightly if you aren't interested in someone. I won't think ill of you for it."
Humming to herself, Sybil rolled her eyes once more.
"I'm sure you wouldn't", she replied with a teasing smile, more than ready to steer the conversation back to safer waters least Mary ask her if she had met someone in London whom she actually had a real interest in.
Sybil wasn't sure if she could lie convincingly about Tom Branson if asked on the spot about him...and she knew for a fact that she wasn't ready to talk about him yet, not when she was so unsure about where they stood.
Goodness, how she wanted to talk to Tom, longed to talk to him.
But Mary most certainly didn't need to know any of that...
"I recall you had some choice words to say about Evelyn Napier after you took luncheon with him and his mother", Sybil said, deciding on a safer topic. "Will you be seeing more of him?"
"I'm afraid that I already promised to met with a friend of his this evening so I don't think I will be able to completely avoid him. Evelyn's a darling in his own way, but he is a dreadful bore. I think I could do rather better."
At this Sybil smirked good-naturedly, a teasing smile widening on her face.
"I hear that cousin Matthew is coming up to London for the ball this evening. Didn't you find him a good deal less boring than Evelyn?"
At this Mary scowled, her pale complexion garnering a barely noticeable pink tinge, an involuntary response that betrayed her otherwise cool exterior.
Sybil fought the urge to giggle at the flustered sight of her ridiculously stubborn older sister, her sister who still claimed to be oblivious to her true feelings for Matthew Crawley despite the undeniable truth of the matter that was clearly written on her face for the world to see.
Mary sighed, seemingly trying to decide whether or not she could talk openly with her little sister on the complicated and confusing topic of her love life.
"Sybil darling, a long time ago I made peace with the idea that one day I may have to marry a man like Evelyn Napier...but I don't believe that means I can't have a little fun with my youth first."
Sybil frowned, desperately trying to gauge what was going on in Mary's head...for the sake of her eldest sister's wellbeing more so than anything else.
Despite her efforts, she found nothing to go upon in her eldest sibling's eyes: not a single tell tale sign of what Mary had planned for the night ahead.
Sybil knew that the serious and frosty facade that Mary hid so well behind...was only just that: a facade.
In truth, her sister was no ice queen.
More so than almost anything, the youngest Crawley had an unwavering faith in her sister's goodness...goodness that was unfortunately buried far below the surface.
Mary wouldn't toy with Matthew's feeling for a night of fun, would she?
Sybil believed that her sister, despite all pretences, loved their cousin far too much for such cruel behaviour.
Irish Slang:
Amadhaún: a fool...similar to eejit
The Chief: a nickname for Charles Stewart Parnell.
A little bit of history...
The November general elections brought about a hung Parliament in which the Liberals with 335 seats won 86 more than the Conservatives, with a Parnellite bloc of 86 Irish Home Rule MPs holding the balance of power in the Commons. Parnell's task was now to win acceptance of the principle of a Dublin parliament.
Parnell at first supported a Conservative government, and courted their support for the upcoming Home Rule Bill – they were still the smaller party (compared with the Liberals) after the elections – but after renewed agrarian distress arose when agricultural prices fell and unrest developed during 1885, Lord Salisbury's Conservative government announced coercion measures in January 1886. Parnell switched his support to the Liberals.
Captain William Henry O'Shea was an Irish soldier and Member of Parliament. He is best known for being the ex-husband of Katharine O'Shea, the long-time mistress of the Irish nationalist leader Charles Stewart Parnell.
My Girl is a Yorkshire Girl is an old Irish ballad mentioned in James Joyce's Ulysses
