December 27, 1914

Isobel Crawley sipped her tea with a smile. "It was terribly sweet of you to come for tea," she said, putting her cup down.

"How are you getting on without Molesley?" Matthew asked.

"Just fine, thank you. I never had a butler before we came here two years ago, so I hardly acclimated too much to him. But I am pleased he's gone with you as a valet. I think he takes a lot of pride in it."

Matthew nodded with a small smile. "He does. He's an odd sort of man, but I quite like him."

Isobel laughed, "What's not to like? I've always enjoyed a gentle man of the people, as it were."

"If you don't mind, I may send him back here while I'm away," Matthew commented.

His mother frowned. "I know we all must be prepared for what's coming, but couldn't you wait a bit longer?" she implored.

Matthew had been talking about enlisting for months. First, he had promised to wait until Cora had her baby, so that the succession would be settled at that point. And then, of course, he and Mary had been wed a few weeks before baby John was born. His new bride—who Isobel had spent these last two years not particularly warming to—had been a good reason to keep him away from the war.

But if Matthew was going to be enlisting, which was of course his duty to do, Isobel hoped that she and Mary might become better friends. Isobel had never really liked her own mother-in-law. Georgina Crawley had always found Isobel's interest in remaining a working nurse after she and Reginald had married to be a source of embarrassment. Reginald was a doctor and enjoyed having a wife who worked with him. What was the trouble with that? Well, Isobel had never wanted to be the cause of discomfort for her daughter-in-law. Hopefully she and Mary could get to know each other better soon.

"Mother, the reports from the battles in France are getting worse and worse. And we've already had a raid on British soil," Matthew reminded her.

"Yes, I know. I imagine Edith is still heartbroken?" Sir Anthony Strallen had been killed in that raid.

"She is," Matthew confirmed. "He died ten days ago, but she's only known about it for three. She's spending all her time locked up in her room, distraught. Sybil and Cora both have tried to comfort her to little success."

Now wasn't that curious, mother and younger sister looking to take care of Edith, but not elder sister? "And Mary?" Isobel inquired.

"Mary and Edith have never really gotten on. Mary doesn't indulge sentiment, and she thinks Edith has far too much of it. And Edith probably wouldn't appreciate anything Mary tried to do for her anyway."

"Oh dear, that's too bad." But Isobel understood. She was very close in age with her elder sister, too. Isobel had done her nurse training and Bridget had gone to work in a dress shop. Isobel had focused on her mind and on her skill, hardly paying any attention to unimportant things that Bridget seemed solely focused on: hairstyles and dress patterns and the changes of fashion trends. They'd clashed most of their lives, and Bridget had gotten married and moved to Norfolk while Isobel stayed in Manchester to marry Reginald, and the sisters had not seen each other or spoken in nearly twenty years. So let Mary and Edith have their feuds now. They'd each grow up and grow out of it or else just grow apart.

Matthew finished his tea. "I ought to head back to the house before the dressing gong. But I'm glad I got to see you, just you and me. I've missed you, Mother," he told her sincerely.

"I've missed you, too. But I know it's best for you and Mary to stay at Downton Abbey for now, since you'll be leaving so soon."

"Yes," he agreed. "This way, when I do go, Mary will be at home with her family. We can find our own place when things settle. When I'm home from the war."

"When will you leave?" Isobel asked him. Her heart was pained at the knowledge of sending her only child off to war but knowing that he certainly must go.

"I promised Mary I'd spend New Year's with her. I'll enlist after the weekend, and I'll go where and when they tell me."

Isobel sighed sadly. "This may very well be the last time you and I are alone in this house together for a very long time. I shall ask you to indulge your mother with an embrace."

They both stood and hugged. Isobel swallowed back the lump in her throat.

December 28, 1914

William Mason walked down the corridor on his way to assist Mr. Molesley with some of Mr. Crawley's things. His mind was fixed on that, on knowing that he was helping out because Mr. Crawley's things would need to be put into storage while he was away at the war, and he planned on leaving soon. And William found himself jealous of Mr. Crawley.

He did not envy the man's position, his wife, his job, his education…well, perhaps he did envy those things slightly, the way any boy from a farm envies the middle-class. But what he really envied was the way Mr. Crawley could go enlist. His mother supported him fighting for his country. William was even younger than Mr. Crawley, and he was used to hard work growing up on the farm. He might not be smart and schooled like Mr. Crawley, but surely he was made of tougher stuff than a solicitor from the city. Surely he'd make a better soldier.

But William was still grieving his mother, and Dad was, too. Dad didn't want him to enlist. Dad wanted him to stay safe, to keep his position as a footman. And William had promised that he would not enlist. Not yet. Nearly five months into the war and the battles were raging in France, and Britain would need soldiers. After a little while, William would have to ask Dad again. Beg, if it came to it.

Lost in his thoughts, William almost didn't even notice the slight movement behind a nearly-closed door. But he stopped and looked. And when he realized what he'd seen, he gasped.

"Daisy!" he hissed, barely opening the door to the nursery and seeing the kitchen maid inside. "What are you doing!?"

She turned and beckoned William to come in. "I'm just helping Nanny. She didn't want to leave the baby alone, and she's got an upset stomach. I was walking by to do the fires and she asked me to stay with him while she goes to get something for herself," Daisy explained.

"I don't think you're supposed to be with the baby…" William warned nervously. What did he know about babies? What did Daisy? What if either of them did anything to the future Earl of Grantham!?

"He's alright, William, really," Daisy insisted. "I'm not doing anything. He's just lying there. But look, isn't he cute?"

Cautiously, William made his way over to the cot and looked inside. There, wrapped up in a blanket, was the little viscount. "Funny to think he's a viscount," William noted.

"I guess so," Daisy agreed. "I think it's weirder that he's a baby."

"How do you mean?" William asked curiously.

"I guess I just mean that babies are all a bit weird. All those months Lady Grantham got bigger and bigger, and I saw her the day before the baby came when I went in there to do the fires and she was enormous! And now, there's this little thing here."

"That's how babies work, Daisy," he laughed.

"I know. I've just never really been around one before."

That was hard for William to fathom. "You've never been around a baby before?"

"Not really. The children were kept away from everyone at the workhouse. The babies didn't usually survive past the first winter," she told him.

William didn't like to think about where Daisy had come from. She'd told her story to him once, and only once. How her father had died or run off and no one knew. How her mother tried to do what she could but had too many mouths to feed. Daisy thought she was the second youngest of five or six, but she wasn't sure. Her older siblings were working and making their way in the world. And when it was all too much and her mother couldn't manage, the family was sent to the workhouse where Daisy was taught to do as she was told and keep quiet and work hard. She had been lucky to get out when her older sister, who had once been friends with one of the housemaids at Downton Abbey, suggested Daisy to fill the position of kitchen maid.

"Anyway, I think he's a nice baby," Daisy said. "Don't you think he looks like His Lordship?"

Everyone had already said that the baby looked like Lady Grantham, but now that Daisy said it, he could sort of see the same face shape with father and son, and the baby already had developed a particular curl to his hair that matched Lord Grantham. "I suppose he does," William agreed.

The door opened as Nanny returned. "Oh, William," she said, "Mr. Molesley was looking for you."

"I'd better go, thank you, Nanny," he said. He spared a smile for Daisy, who smiled back at him. William felt a bloom of warmth in his chest when she smiled.

December 29, 1914

Violet Crawley sat in the library of Downton Abbey and thought, as she had countless times, that this place was still so very much her home and yet felt so foreign to her. She had presided over the Abbey as Countess of Grantham for more than thirty years. She knew every aspect of the house better than any person alive. Or at one time she did.

Things were quite different now. Violet was a guest in the house. And Downton Abbey was not the same as it once was. The rooms were lit by electricity rather than gas lamps. The constant brightness amidst the dimness of the winter day was somewhat jarring. Gone were the days of flickering flames illuminating the space.

Gone, too, was the strict order that Violet had always maintained when she was countess. For all that she had tried, those ten years when Cora had been viscountess, she never fully succeeded in training the next Countess of Grantham. Cora was her own person, much to Violet's chagrin, and she did things in very much her own way. It was utterly infuriating.

Even now, Cora was a different sort of mother than Violet had ever been. She was even different than she'd been with the girls. Violet had been living here when Mary, Edith, and Sybil were babies. Violet had been in control of the staff and the way the children were brought up. Violet wasn't in any sort of control now.

She watched as Cora lovingly held her new baby. That much had not changed. Cora had always been an extremely affectionate mother, which Violet never understood. Babies always felt like such a chore. Violet had much preferred Robert and Rosamund when they became old enough to carry on some semblance of conversation and could understand the instructions they were given. Babies had far less charm.

But oh, this baby was different. Everyone could see. John Robert Crawley was a very special little boy. Only a few weeks old and already commanding a room and swaying hearts.

"You've done well," Violet said, watching mother and son.

Cora lifted her head sharply. The dark circles under her eyes were evident. Her entire countenance was exhausted. That might be something to address later on.

Violet added, "I know Robert is quite happy with how it's all turned out."

"He is," Cora confirmed. Her voice was even tired.

"I remember when Robert was born, the way Patrick doted on him. It's quite a thing for a man to have a son."

Cora nodded. "I'm pleased I could give him one."

"We all are," Violet said.

A flicker of something passed over Cora's tired face. Not quite anger and not quite hurt but something akin to both.

Cora put her head down, looking back at the baby in her arms. He was fast asleep, which was a welcome relief for Violet. Babies could be a nightmare with all the crying. This baby, however, was a dream come true in every possible way.

"Are you pleased?" Cora asked in a small voice, looking back up at her.

Perhaps in another circumstance, that meek, worried tone in Cora's soft tone and American accent might have caused Violet to become quite cross indeed. Cora had always possessed an annoying sense of insecurity that she'd masked better and better over the years. Every so often it came out.

But Violet was not annoyed by Cora in this particular case. In fact, her stomach tied in knots with empathy. Though Violet did often get cross with Cora over the years for failing to live up to expectations, she did actually quite like the girl. Every so often, an inner strength would come out of her. And, as Violet had always known, Cora was herself with an almost rebellious attitude at times. That rebellion and determination and insecurity that Cora possessed all contributed to another aspect of Cora that Violet had always known: she only wanted to please those around her.

"I am more than pleased, Cora," Violet said. "I am glad for Robert to have a son and I am glad that we've solved all that business of the entail. Mary is out of luck, so to speak, but everything will come to John, and he'll be well-equipped to take care of his elder sisters when the time comes."

"He'll take care of us all one day. Though that does feel like quite a lot of pressure to put on a baby boy."

"That is the role he has been born into, just as Robert was before him. You and I, Cora, made the choice to enter this life. John will grow up knowing what he must do and who he must be. You and Robert will guide him well, I know," Violet told her.

Cora's lips twitched into a small smile. "We feel very lucky to have the opportunity to be his parents."

"You are both quite lucky, but you especially, Cora."

"Why me especially?" she asked warily.

Violet explained, "My son married you against my wishes because he was dazzled by your good looks and the size of your dowry. Your money saved this estate when you signed it over upon your marriage. And now, of course, you've saved the estate again in having a son the way you were always meant to. You have succeeded, and I cannot imagine a better outcome than this."

Tears welled up in Cora's eyes, but she blinked them back. She looked away from Violet to the baby in her arms. Violet did not say anything further. She didn't need to.

December 30, 1914

Tom Branson pulled the car over to the side of the road less than half a mile away from Downton Abbey. "This alright, My Lady?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you, Branson," Lady Sybil replied. "I just needed a bit more time before returning to the house."

"Of course." Tom wondered what else he might be permitted to say. It rankled, having to think like this, having to watch what he said and to who. That was the system in which they lived for the time being. He accepted that. But he didn't have to like it. And he didn't have to compromise his ideals just because of his job.

After a moment's silence, Lady Sybil spoke again. "May I ask you something, Branson?"

"Of course," Tom answered.

"What made you become a chauffeur in Yorkshire, of all things?"

Tom smiled, glancing in the rearview mirror and seeing the lovely lady in the backseat looking right back at him. Her gaze was steady and unapologetic. And she was asking about him. "I left Ireland for Liverpool at first. My uncle was working as a mechanic building some of the early cars. I got a position with him and learned about how automobiles work. And from there, it made sense to learn how to drive one. And I found that I like it.

"But then why Yorkshire?"

"I went where I could find a position, My Lady. Drivers are hired by companies to deliver goods or else by families like yours to drive them places. I was able to pay my way as a deliveryman for a milk distributor, and I came out to Yorkshire because that's where the cows were. I worked for a baron up near Bradford before I saw the position offered here."

"Why did you decide to take the position here? Were you unhappy in Bradford?" Lady Sybil pressed.

Tom smirked. "Even someone with my ideals who thinks the peerage should be abolished knows an earl is better than a baron."

Lady Sybil frowned. "I suppose I see what you mean. I've been thinking about it a lot lately."

That sentiment surprised Tom a great deal. Lady Sybil was far more liberal than anyone else of her class Tom had ever come across, but even with her, this was the first time he'd seen any hint of understanding from her. "Have you?" he encouraged.

"Yes. With John being born, now he's the heir instead of Matthew. I suppose it was always silly when Cousin James and Patrick were around. We all grew up with Patrick, and we all knew Mary was going to marry him so she could be the next Countess of Grantham. It just seemed to make sense. But then Matthew came along, and he's wonderful, of course. I'm terribly pleased he and Mary fell in love properly and got married. She was going to be in the same position, you see. She was going to be Countess of Grantham, and as the eldest of us, it made sense that she and her children should be the ones to benefit. Only now John is the heir. My baby brother who is barely three weeks old is now going to inherit everything. Mary and Matthew get nothing. Unless John grows up and decides to care for them like Papa does for Aunt Rosamund. It all just seems terribly unfair," Lady Sybil lamented.

"I agree," Tom answered quickly, feeling himself get excited by the turn of the conversation. "It isn't fair that your brother was born and turned everyone else's prospects upside down. It isn't fair that a male has to be the heir and there was nothing to be done for Mary when your cousins died in the Titanic crossing. And it certainly isn't fair that this entire estate is owned by one family and the accident of birth has guaranteed that your baby brother will never have a worry in this world while those children attending the Downton school will have to cower to his whims their whole lives to ensure their own survival."

Lady Sybil furrowed her brow in the mirror. "Well, I certainly wouldn't go that far. You say that as though John will be some sort of tyrant. I hope you'd agree that Papa isn't like that as the Earl of Grantham, and he and Mama certainly won't raise their son to be."

Tom softened. "Your parents are good people. But it does not change the fact that the system exists to lift up those who are already privileged and to push down those who try to rise up."

She hummed thoughtfully. And wasn't that an interesting turn, that she was considering his words and not dismissing them outright as so many like her would do? Lady Sybil was a special sort. Intelligent and open-minded and strong and unfailingly kind and utterly beautiful. Tom knew better than to even hope for anything, but he could not help his heart. And his heart had been utterly lost to her for some time.

"Shall we head back now, My Lady?" Tom asked, feeling that their conversation had run its course for today.

"I suppose we must. Mama didn't come down this morning before I left, and I am a bit worried about the toll the baby is taking on her. I'd like to check in and see how she's doing."

With a nod, Tom started the engine once more.