Chapter 8.

...

St James Square

London

1886

...

Mary Crawley smiled teasingly from her place across from Sybil in the carriage.

The sound of the hourses hooves against the cobblestones was constant and soothing as they moved swiftly in the direction of yet another ball. The repetititon of the sounds and motion helped Mary quell her own nervous energy at the prospect the night ahead.

She smoothed down the non existent creases on her deep scarlet gown, dropping her voice to a whisper so she wouldn't be heard by the rest of the family-all of whom were dressed to the nines for the ocassion.

The eldest Crawley sister, despite her own better judgement, had been assalted by thoughts of Matthew all evening...or more particurarly what it would be like to see him again affer so many weeks apart.

She tried to convince herself that she didn't care about him in that way, that she didn't care how her heart would involutarily leap into her throat at the mere sight of him.

...or how his shining lopsided grin made her feel lightheaded.

...or how a small part of her didn't care that he may never inherit Downton.

Goodness, it was enough to drive her mad!

What Mary needed a distraction from her whirling thoughts but for now, without anyone else around to oblige, joking with her beloved baby sister was the best option open to her.

"I hear that most of parliment will be at the ball tonight, darling", she said, attempting to affectionatly poke fun at her sister's interest in current affairs.

"You'll have a chance to put your political prowess to good use."

At this revelation, Sybil flushed beet red, glancing up in surprise. "Do you know what parties will be there?"

Her younger sister's reaction was certainly rather more extreme than Mary had been expecting. She frowned suspiciously in return. "The Conservatives anyway as well as that smaller party they're forming a coalition with...the one that's always causing such a fuss. What was it called again?"

"That's the Irish Parlimentary Party!"


...

Branksom House

London Residence of The Napier Family.

London

1886.

...

Jaysus, if he heard one more cricket metaphor being used to describe a political situation, Tom Branson may just shoot himself.

'What in the name of God was a sticky-wicket anyway', Tom mused frustratedly. 'Because it feckin' well hasn't got a thing to do with Home Rule, I'm sure of that.'

So far, it had been an evening of inconsequential polite conversation, canapés and wine, just as he had expected and dreaded from the moment he had set foot in the room.

Apparently it was all for the sake of Irish freedom, or so Parnell had tried to assure them when a few of the lads in the party with more radical Fenian leanings expressed their concern and outrage at having to play nice with members of The Conservative Party and The House of Lords, even if their efforts were to maintain the balance of power in Westminster should they be sucessful.

Playing nice may just give them the bargaining chip to negotiate Irish independence but despite the logic behind their plan, playing friends with those whose peers had enslaved his ancestors and stolen their lands felt wrong to Tom...in ways that he couldn't bring himself to ignore.

The prospect of spending his evening smiling and making merry in an aristocrat's ballroom while his cousins were at home in Ireland organising protests and monster meetings, made Tom feel like a bigger fraud than he had in his while life.

Here he was at some upper class Hooley, drinking copious amounts of alcohol with aristocrats who wanted to discuss nothing but cricket, hunting and how best to appease the Irish sufficiently enough to stifle an outright revolution, Tom could barely recognise himself.

He wanted nothing more than to retreat into the shadows until the evening was over, despite how Tom knew that voicing such a desire out loud would do nothing if not make him sound as though he were some idealistic and petulant child, especially to the older members of The IPP who already still saw him as such from time to time.

The young Irishman sighed deeply into his glass of scotch, feeling more and more like a bull in a china shop...but at least the booze wasn't half bad.

The tables were laden with expensive foods and wines, something that seemed particularly extravagant and wasteful to Tom, especially considering how there were so many people in other parts of the commonwealth struggling to put even the meagerest of foods on their tables.

It surely was a far cry from the parties he was used to back in Ireland-the nosy ceilís and free flowing Guinness, memories that made him almost homesick for Dublin and the pub his father and eldest brother owned there.

More as a distraction than anything else, Tom glanced around.

He took in the sight of the finely garbed men and women, chatting cordially or dancing at the centre of the room as though they did such things every day of the week—which Tom supposed that they probably did. He watched as they laughed and smiled and conversed with one another, some swaying tipsily with their drinks in hand.

For a moment he found himself seeing the people around him, not as the oppressors who had stolen his homeland or even the silly toffs that he couldn't fathom the logic behind, but as people, just people...or more accurately, Sybil's people.

The notion set off a myriad of feelings within him, most of them akin to confusion and confliction.

On one hand there was nothing that Tom wanted more for his country than the liberation of it's people after over seven hundred years under British rule, the people standing in front of him were -on a whole- an obstacle to that dream and thinking otherwise felt as though he were betraying the land of his birth.

On the other, a small part of him wanted to see Sybil's family as she so clearly did. For how, Tom asked himself, could people who were as cruel and brutal as he had always assumed the British aristocracy to be have raised some as wonderful as Sybil if there wasn't some good to be found in them somewhere.

It was a thought that had been niggling at him for days now, one that he couldn't quite silence, for it was in his mind almost as often as Sybil was...and she was always always there in some shape or form.

All evening Tom had unconsciously kept an eye out for her among the crowd, his heart leaping in his chest whenever he heard laughter from across the room that sounded even vaguely like hers.

Each time he had been disappointed.

Despite the very different circumstances that he and Sybil had met under, Tom could easily imagine her here amongst her kind of people; with flowing skirts and her curls all pinned back. Sybil would be laughing and smiling good naturedly amongst her family and friends and dancing at the centre of the room, graceful and stunning as she always was—like a bird about to take flight.

Even though the image was a product of his own imagination, Tom felt a fleeting stab of envy ripple through him at the thought of another man being free to hold her close on the dance floor, in a way that he may never be.

'For feck's sake', Tom thought to himself. How Sybil had managed to infiltrate his every waking and sleeping thought he would never know.

All he knew was that he wanted to tell her how he felt about her, needed to tell her, even if she rebuffed his affections.

"Thank heavens someone looks as out of place as I feel here tonight", a voice said somewhere to Tom's right, startling him from his thoughts of Lady Sybil Crawley.

He glanced up, coming face to face with a very gentlemanly looking fella about his own age with light blonde hair and an easy genuine smile...quite a good deal more genuine than most of the people Tom had already met that night.

The man's fairly posh accent and demeanour told Tom that even though he may not believe himself to be someone who fitted in, he was definitely a lot more at home amongst the English aristocracy than Tom was.

"Forgive me, but you certainly don't look it."

The man smirked, taking a languid sip of his own drink—a whiskey.

"Mmmhh, perhaps I do these days. But a year ago it was another story".

The man shuffled his shoulders awkwardly in his morning coat-an action that reminded Tom of how he had probably looked all evening himself.

"My fortunes may have changed recently but I'm still a working class Manchester man deep down...despite what my mother would tell you", he said firmly as though he was trying to prove a point, to whom he was proving it to Tom didn't know-perhaps it was to himself.

The Englishman glanced across the room to a tall, pale dark haired woman that looked oddly familiar to Tom, especially around the nose and chin...why she did, he wasn't sure. He definitely hadn't seen her before anyway for Tom wasn't usually one to forget a face.

The woman seemed to be deep in conversation with two other men, one dark haired and British and the other European, if his olive skin was anything to go by.

She appeared to be a great deal more interest in the attention of the latter, fluttering her eyelashes at whatever joke he was currently telling.

The nameless blonde man who was still standing beside Tom took another healthy gulp from his glass, deeper this time, and sighed in frustration.

Raggedly, he ran an agitated hand through his heavily pomaded hair.

In that moment, without ever really knowing him: Tom recognised the other man's feelings as clear as day. He knew what love sickness looked like, it had stared back at him in the mirror every morning for weeks now...and if looks were not decieving, his new friend had it bad for the pale dark haired woman who was currently enjoying the attentions of another man.

Regaining his composure after a few moments, the friendly Englishman turned back to Tom, veiling the fleeting emotions that had been written on his face only seconds before.

He offered Tom his hand in the most authentic show of friendship and welcome that the Irishman had seen all night, pointedly looking away from the dark haired lady.

"I'm afraid I haven't introduced myself. My name is Matthew Crawley. And if I'm going by your accent, I assume you're here with Mr Parnell's lot."

Tom shook Matthew's offered hand, letting out a short bark of laughter for the first time since he had entered the ballroom. "An Irish mick and proud", he agreed with a half smile before returning the gesture and introducing himself. "I'm Tom Branson."


Some Irish Slang: (from Urban dictionary because the description was too funny)

An Irish Mick: Any person of Irish Catholic Descent. Can usually drink anyone under the table, and refers to that drink as a pint. Realises that Guinness is the only real beer, and could have a pint of Guinness and a potato for every meal.


Some History:

Parnell's new Irish Parliamentary Party emerged swiftly as a tightly disciplined, and on the whole, energetic body of parliamentarians with strict rules. The inauguration of the 'party pledge' in 1884 decisively reinforced that each member was required to sit, act and vote with the party, one of the first instances of a whip in western politics. The members were also paid stipends, or expense allowances from party funds, which helped both to increase parliamentary turnout and enabled middle-class members such as William O'Brien or later D. D. Sheehan attend parliament, long before other MPs first received state pay in 1911.

Now at his height Parnell pressed Gladstone to resolve the Irish Question with Home Rule, but the Liberals were divided. Parnell then sided with the Conservatives.

Gladstone's second government fell, and Lord Salisbury's Conservatives formed an administration. Both parties (The Liberals and The Conservatives) now courted Parnell.


Hello Everyone. I really hope that you guys enjoyed that. Next up a collision between all of our beloved couples, what will happen? Any predictions?

Let me know what you guys think? Are you happy about Downton's best bromance making an appearance. What do you want to see from all of the characters and pairings as the story unfolds. Let me know!

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I hope you all are having a great Thursday!

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