Chapter Thirty Two

A Highly Explosive Declaration Of Intent

As Mary stormed off in high dudgeon and vanished out of sight through the doorway of the dining room and into the grand entrance hall of the Shelbourne Hotel, Tom sighed heavily and then sank slowly back down onto his chair. Gently, almost reverently, he took hold of Sybil's hand, and smiled hesitantly across at Edith.

Around them, normality gradually resumed. The sustained level of animated babble, chatter, and inconsequential conversation in the dining room returned quickly to its previous degree of intensity, while smartly uniformed waiters continued discretely with their appointed duties, moving effortlessly between the various tables, attending quietly to the needs and the requirements of those seated at them.

"I'm sorry, love" Tom said turning to Sybil. "That was unforgivable of me. I lost my temper. I shouldn't have done so. Not after I promised you I wouldn't do so. But I'm simply not prepared to let Mary carry on speaking to people, to you, to Edith, even to me, the way she thinks she can; all because of some misconceived, ridiculous idea of her own social status and importance. Not any more".

"It's … it's not her fault, Tom. Well, not entirely. Really it isn't" said Edith softly, clasping his wrist with her outstretched hand. "It's the way we were brought up; all of us, even Sybil. We were taught to accept things as they were; not to question whether they were right or wrong; told where everyone and everything fitted into the general scheme of things. It gave us a particular view on life, on people. An inherited view, maybe, but, whether for right or for wrong, a view just the same".

"I admire your loyalty, Edith" said Tom. "Truly, I do. But you're not like that. Not really. And neither is Sybil. Just because someone is born into a life of privilege and wealth doesn't mean they should think they can trample over the dreams of others, treat people with contempt … as if they're not even human; there to serve their every need".

"Well, if that amounts to a compliment and to a vote of confidence in me, then thank you, Tom!" Edith smiled. "After all, I'm not much accustomed to receiving either!" Tom grinned, reached over, and grasped her hand tightly.

"Have more confidence in yourself. But have you never felt Edith, that you wanted to do something more with your life than simply to conform, to have an allotted place in society, to continue to act out but one role throughout the entire length of your whole earthly existence? I know I do", said Tom. "And", he glanced hesitantly across at Sybil, "I know that's how Sybil feels too. That's part of what makes us both the way we are; why we're right for each other".

"But don't you regret that Papa ..." began Edith.

"Of course. After all, it's only natural to have regrets. We all do, don't we love?" Tom smiled shyly at Sybil.

"If you mean by that, do I wish that I'd admitted to you, owned it to myself too, how much I loved you somewhat sooner than I did?" Sybil grinned broadly at Tom. "Then yes, of course I do! But if, with all that's happened you had to choose again Tom ..." Her words died away.

"No contest Sybil", said Tom. "It would have to be you; always be you". He turned back to Edith.

"You see, Edith, we love each other, your sister and I, because apart from our own deep feelings for each other, everything else has made it inevitable that we do" said Tom. "Not forgetting of course, that she's the most beautiful girl in the world!"

"Oh Tom, don't be so ridiculous!" laughed Sybil, blushing furiously.

"Aphrodite personified!" chuckled Tom.

"Oh you idiot" laughed Sybil. "Me? A goddess from Antiquity?"

"Well. Why ever not? After all, what about your name?"
"My name?"

"Wasn't Sybil something or other to do with Ancient Greece?" Tom glanced at Edith.

"Don't look at me. Lord knows" laughed Edith. "But I can see now that the two of you are ideally matched! But although it's taken me somewhat longer than Sybil to realise it, Mary still hasn't come to terms with what's happened. That the war has changed everything … and forever".

"Well, if you can see it, Edith, then so should Mary. After all, she's not stupid; wilfully blind maybe, but not stupid" said Tom earnestly.

"No, she isn't" said Edith. "Normally, I'd be the last one to defend Mary. But seeing the two of you together, so in love, so blissfully happy, so easy in each others' company, probably made her realise, more than ever, what she's lost".

"How so?" asked Sybil.

"Sybil, darling, surely it can't have escaped your notice …"
"… that she's still in love with Mr. Matthew" finished Tom softly. "There my love, what did I tell you? Remember?" asked Tom.

Sybil nodded, and for one brief moment she found herself back at Downton, outside the well remembered garage, standing in the sunlight, talking to Tom, she in her nurse's uniform, he in his grease stained brown overalls …

Sitting there, listening to Tom and Edith talk so easily, so freely, Sybil sensed that following Mary's abrupt departure, a subtle change had taken place between all of them. If the other two hadn't noticed it, she most certainly had. They were no longer simply three people bound together by shared remembrances and past ties, both paradoxically based on class distinction and separation, arising from, for her at least, an all but vanished way of life, played out in the gilded elegance and surroundings of Downton Abbey. Instead, they were now simply three adults, seated at a table in a hotel dining room here in Dublin; two women and a man, of equal status, equally involved, engaged in conversation about something that mattered intensely to them all.

But, while Sybil agreed wholeheartedly with what both Edith and Tom were saying, no-one she thought, not her parents, not Mary, not Edith, not herself, not even Tom; especially dear, darling Tom, could ever entirely shake themselves free of what once was. For the past follows us all, like an ever present shadow thought Sybil. That premonition of what was to come would come back to haunt her, and far sooner than she could ever have expected.

"As to your parents?" continued Tom, looking intently at Edith, "in my opinion they're just as bad as Mary. Why, ever since Sybil and I announced to you all back in April, in the drawing room at Downton, that we were engaged, that we intended to marry, to come over here to Ireland to live and work, to raise a family, we've faced their implacable hostility. I just can't understand them. I don't care tuppence for what they may think of me.

But to treat their own daughter, the way they've treated my darling girl over these last few months - when she could have done most with their love and support ... Have they any idea what it's been like for her? I mean really? Leaving Downton properly for the very first time, coming over here with me to Ireland, to a new country, a country on the verge of civil war I might add, to a whole new life and so different to the one she's been used to since childhood, meeting my family, lodging with Ma, finding a job? Why, Sybil's got a damned sight more guts than her father - for all he's the earl of Grantham".

"I don't doubt that for a minute" said Edith with sincerity. "After all, and no offence to you Tom, but I know I could never have done what Sybil's chosen to do".

"And now, for them both to refuse to come over to Ireland for our wedding, don't they realise how much they've hurt her? Oh, I know, I'm well aware of the excuses your mother's given in her letters to Sybil, the ones that you've made on behalf of them both, but why they …"

"Tom, my darling, you know very well why" said Sybil softly interposing, taken aback with the depth of her admiration for him, for his fervid, open expression of his feelings towards both her and her parents before Edith.

Tom nodded his head in agreement.

"Of course I do, my love. I may be many things, Sybil, but stupid isn't one of them. The plain and simple truth is that you and I fell in love; your parents don't think I'm good enough for you, and in their eyes, I never will be. What should we have done? Never met? Impossible. Never fallen in love? Before we knew it had happened; it was too late. As for your parents, even now, I'm certain that they'd far rather that you married someone of your own class than were married to someone who loves you as much as I do, as I have done from that very first moment I ever …"

Catching sight of Edith's eyes upon him, for an instant, shyly, Tom broke off what he was saying, blushed furiously from the tip of his chin to the roots of his fair hair. Edith grinned cheerfully at Tom, amused in spite of herself to see him so disconcerted, so unsure of himself, yet subconsciously willing him to continue with his tale of how he first fell in love with her younger sister. Taking courage from the depth and warmth of Edith's smile, Tom smiled shyly back at her, and then resumed what he had been saying.

"Can't any of you understand? Can't they understand? Can't you understand? I love their youngest daughter; your younger sister. I always have. I absolutely adore her. I love her to distraction. I want to spend the rest of my life with her, want to have children with her. There never has been … there never, ever, could be, anybody for me, but Sybil".

Stunned into bemused silence by Tom's heartfelt open re-affirmation of the depth of his love for her before Edith, momentarily Sybil said nothing. After all, what could she say?

For her part, Edith was staring back at Tom in utter amazement. If she had ever once doubted the sincerity of the feelings the young Irishman had for her younger sister, then his earnest steadfast declaration, just made before her, of the intensity of his feelings for Sybil, had completely blown those doubts clean out of the nearest window. In fact, given the depth of the passion of Tom's avowal of his love for Sybil, it was a matter of infinite surprise to Edith that the windows of the dining room of the Shelbourne Hotel still remained intact.

"So" said Sybil, a mischievous smile playing around the corners of her mouth. "From that heartfelt declaration, which, if it escaped your notice has been witnessed by no lesser personage than Lady Edith Crawley daughter to the earl and countess of Grantham I might add, am I to take it Mr. Branson that you do still wish to marry me this coming Saturday?"

"What do you think?" asked Tom with a laugh. "Or is it that you just want to have me propose to you all over again? In fact I suppose I might as well do so".

Heedless of the disapproving comments and startled looks from many of the assembled throng in the dining room, Tom slipped off his chair and onto one knee beside her. Reaching forward, gently, almost reverently, he took Sybil's hand in his own, slipped off her glove, and gazed up at her with adoration, his blue eyes sparkling.

"Sybil Crawley, I have loved you for years. Will you do me the singular honour of becoming my wife?"

"Oh, yes. Yes!" said Sybil her eyes matching the sparkle in Tom's. "Now you silly idiot, get up from off the floor before I change my mind!" said Sybil laughing, reaching forward and ruffling his hair with her fingers. Chuckling, Tom did as he was told and resumed his seat on his chair, grinning from ear to ear like a Cheshire cat.

Watching the two of them, even if part of what she had just witnessed was Tom and Sybil acting the fool, Edith felt a sudden unbidden lump come into her throat, her eyes begin to sting with unwanted tears. No, she would not allow herself to give into her emotions, to let them have free rein before her sister and her fiancé. Nor did she. For once, the cultivated aristocratic discipline of a lifetime also stood Edith in good stead. She blinked back her tears and grinned broadly at them both.

After all, Tom was right.

Why couldn't Papa and Mama see it? Why did Mary persist in opposing their marriage? Why had she herself been such a fool? In fact, why hadn't they all realised it? As she had said, Tom and Sybil were made for each other; so utterly right together. But, Edith's realisation, and Tom and Sybil's blissful reverie, was to be short lived.

Having ordered a fresh pot of tea and more hot water, along with another slice of the hotel's "deliciously yummy" chocolate cake - for Tom - the three of them continued to chat and talk animatedly, while outside, opposite the front of the hotel, on the other side of the road, the military band carried on playing through a delightful repertoire of tunes. Passers-by on the pavement stopped to stand and listen or to politely applaud their approbation, while, thronged with passengers, the trams rattled merrily past and in a cacophony of blaring horns and a fug of petrol fumes, the motors ground and weaved their way along the north side of St. Stephen's Green.

It was Tom who first noticed the subtle change occurring. He stopped what he was saying, looked up, and then glanced out through the window.

"What the …?"

"Tom?" asked Sybil.

"No, listen, both of you …"

Edith and Sybil did as they were bidden, although, for a brief matter of moments, neither of them could comprehend what it was that had occurred. Nothing seemed to have changed, until it became all too obvious, that outside, something had indeed happened. Whatever it was had caused the motors to come to a sudden stand and directly opposite them, obscuring their view across to the park, a passing tram had also now stopped. Those on the upper deck of the tramcar seemed to be craning their necks, to be looking intently at something taking place on the far side of the tram.

At the same time, the melodious strains from the military band ceased in a jumbled wail of dissonant, discordant jarring of notes. Amid screams of rising panic, those on the pavement outside the hotel, as well as those on the top of the tramcar dived for cover as the unmistakable sound of heavy and sustained small arms' fire rent the air. And for the second time that afternoon, all conversation in the beautiful dining room of the Shelbourne Hotel drew suddenly to a close.

People stopped what they were saying, what they were doing, cutlery was poised in mid air, teacups half raised to expectant mouths, many held in elegantly gloved hands, while those present glanced about them, trying to pinpoint where the sounds were coming from. Then, realisation dawned on them, appreciating the noise for what it was, and that it was coming from nearby, across the road, in St. Stephen's Green. Several of the gentlemen in the room got up and made their way over to the windows, stood looking out, trying to see exactly what it was that was happening. That, in fact, was probably the very last thing any of them ever did on this earth.

The transient tableau elsewhere in the room shattered in an instant. People began to scream, to shout. Unnerved by what was suddenly happening round about them, by the unexpected panic displayed by most of the adults in the dining room, young children sat stunned, began to cry, to whimper, or simply burst into tears. Then everyone began rising hurriedly to their feet. In the resultant mêlée, chairs were shoved away,fell backwards, tables were overturned. China, glassware, and cutlery crashed to the floor, food was trampled underfoot. And there began a veritable stampede of frightened, terrified people, of all ages, running, streaming, stampeding towards the doors of the dining room leading into the lobby of the hotel.

Then it happened.

At one and the same time, drowning out the sound of the shooting completely, there came a terrific roar from outside. For a moment the very ground seemed to shake, there was a blast of searing heat, and a huge sheet of orange and yellow flames, followed instantaneously by an enormous plume of thick dirty black smoke pillared, towered upwards into the cloudless sky.

Inside the dining room, the two huge cut glass electroliers began to oscillate heavily back and forth, and large cracks suddenly appeared in the ornate plasterwork of both the ceiling and in the decorative cornice. The two electroliers continued to swing back and forth until their momentum became such that the fixings gave way. With an almighty crash both of them suddenly tore loose from the ceiling and fell to the floor. Those directly in their path never stood a chance.

The dining room's large windows overlooking the road crazed, shattered, imploded, showering those within and nearest to them with deadly, vicious splinters of smashed wood work and lethal flying shards of plate glass, the room itself filling with an impenetrable, dense cloud of acrid, billowing, thick black smoke.

Along with several others, the table and everything on it between the Tom, Sybil, and Edith disappeared from sight; in fact, it simply ceased to exist. And, from round about where they had been sitting but moments before, through the swirling miasma of thick, choking smoke there came heart rending cries for help, mixed with screams from both the injured and the dying.

"Oh my God! No! Tom! Edith!" screamed Sybil. "Tom …"