Chapter Forty Seven
Chameleon
A moment later and Sybil's hand suddenly flew in earnest consternation to her throat.
"Why Sybil darling, whatever is it?" asked Mary genuinely concerned. She and Edith half turned and in the fading evening light followed the direction of their sister's gaze to see walking towards them, in the unexpected company of an army captain and two soldiers, a fair haired young man wearing a somewhat creased and ill fitting blue suit. On catching sight of Tom, Sybil let out a cry that must have been audible, if not in Kingstown, then certainly down the entire length of Sackville Street as far as the O'Connell Bridge.
"Tom! Oh, thank God!" As the men reached them, ignoring the presence of the British officer and the two soldiers, Sybil's arms went up around Tom's neck enfolding him to her in a fierce and tight embrace, cupping his face in her hands, smothering it with kisses, which Tom returned with an equal passion.
"Where... on... earth... have... you... been?" Sybil continued to kiss him, searching his well-loved face.
"Sorry love. I was ... unavoidably detained". Tom smiled, gave her his endearing lop-sided grin
"Detained? Why, whatever do you mean?" asked Sybil. She drew back from him, continuing to search his face.
"I..." Tom got no further with his explanation.
"Please accept my heartfelt apologies Lady Sybil. Mr. Branson's delay in returning here to you all is entirely my own fault. You see, it ..." began the British officer. He stood to one side of the couple, his face lost in the deep shadows cast by the light of the street lamp just beyond them; his very presence, there on the pavement next to them, seeming to go entirely unnoticed by both Sybil and Tom.
Nor did Sybil express any surprise as to how it was that the captain came to know her name, assuming, presumably, that Tom must have told him who it was who would be anxiously awaiting his return from wherever it was he had been. The officer coloured, evidently now extremely uncomfortable and much embarrassed to be witness to such a public display of heartfelt and deeply loving affection, here on a crowded street in the very heart of Dublin. Seeing that his attempt to explain Tom's disappearance went unheeded, unheard, he paused; stopped what he was trying to say.
He tried again.
"Unfortunately Lady Sybil, you see, your husband, he was witness to ..."
"Why, Captain Stathum!" broke in Mary now recognising the officer. Hearing his name, he moved into the light of the street lamp to stand before her.
"Lady Mary Crawley! We meet again" exclaimed Miles. He smiled and saluted smartly, his manner towards her both warm and friendly; the pleasure in his voice unmistakable. "And Lady Sybil too". He nodded faintly in the direction of both Sybil and Tom. Miles's smile receded. The inflection in his voice took on an entirely different, unflattering tone; became clipped and faintly sardonic. Now, seemingly for the first time hearing him utter her name, Sybil turned her head and glanced briefly at the officer. Recognising him, she smiled wanly, inclined her head the merest degree. Equally curtly, Miles nodded, but forbore to salute her; something which, if unobserved by Sybil herself, preoccupied as she was with Tom, did not go unnoticed by Mary.
"Well, so we all meet again". Now ignoring Sybil completely, Miles turned back to Mary. "Lady Mary, I trust you have now recovered ... from what ... happened earlier today over at the Shelbourne Hotel?" he enquired politely.
Mary nodded.
"Yes, indeed, Captain Stathum. Thank you. I explained to both my sisters earlier, just how gallant and how helpful you had been".
Miles smiled.
And, I suppose, he thought, the mousey, unobtrusive little creature keeping herself to herself in the middle there must be the other of Lord Grantham's three daughters. What on earth was her name again? Fortunately for Miles, without further ado, it was Mary herself who unbidden, and completely unwittingly remedied the deficiency in his memory.
"Captain Stathum, may I introduce my younger sister, Lady Edith Crawley".
"Ah, Lady Edith. I am so pleased to make your acquaintance once again". Miles saluted; played his part to perfection. "Perhaps you may remember that we met first, several years ago, at your aunt, Lady Rosamund Painswick's home up in London?"
Edith nodded. She smiled softly at him with downcast eyes.
"Yes Captain Stathum, so my sister Lady Mary told me" said Edith airily, her thoughts drifting back surprisingly not her aunt's house in London, but to the scene played out in the sitting room of her and Mary's suite back at the Shelbourne Hotel earlier that same evening.
"It was an absolute stroke of good luck ..." Mary had been commenting upon running across Captain Miles Stathum, explaining how he had helped her and a young boy called Tommy whom she'd befriended pass through the army cordon outside the hotel. Mary added that Stathum had said he had met up with both Sybil and Tom here in Dublin but a few days ago.
"Indeed he did". Tom had slowly nodded his assent.
"Just exactly what did he tell you ... I mean exactly, what did he say, about how we all came to meet up with each other?" hadasked Sybil chewing her lip nervously.
"Darling, he didn't really say. Why, whatever is the matter?"
"Here, let me" said Tom seeing Sybil's obvious distress. "A couple of days ago, I borrowed a motor off someone at the paper. That evening, we went out for a spin over to Howth; it's over on the coast. On our return journey, we became caught up in... an ugly incident. A British army convoy was ambushed on the road by members of the Irish Republican Army". Haltingly, slowly, Sybil then had then set about explaining what had happened to the young boy out at the farm, how he had been killed, how thereafter she had done her very best to help with the injured on both sides.
"And both of you were caught up in all of that? How utterly dreadful" said Edith, obviously much moved by what both Sybil and Tom had just related. She had sounded utterly appalled by what they both had to tell.
"Naturally, I'm very sorry to hear about the young boy. After all, who wouldn't be, but as for helping those who ambushed you, how very ecumenical of you, Sybil. Somehow, I doubt Papa would understand" Mary had said with an expressive raise of her eyebrows.
"There was nothing ecumenical about it at all", had snapped Sybil. "It's my duty. After all, I'm a nurse," Her voice had cracked with emotion, and tears had begun to spill unchecked and unheeded down her cheeks.In an instant, Tom had been there by her side, kneeling on the floor, cradling her tightly in his arms.
"Hush now a chailín mo chroí"hadsoothed Tom gently.
"Darling, I didn't mean..." had begun Mary softly.
"It's all right, Mary, I know you didn't". "But what with that, and now all this, and especially with what happened to darling Tom today, I suppose, I'm just tired and over wrought" had sobbed Sybil.
"So what about the young boy you helped today?" Tom had asked, desperately trying to change the subject to something rather more cheerful. "You said he found his Ma?"
"Oh yes indeed!"
"And not from Dublin I think you said?"
"No. I rather gathered he was staying with some cousins. Then, when I met his mother, she said they came from down near Cork. There was mention of an estate called Sk ..." Mary had shaken her head. "No, it's gone". A moment later she had said emphatically: "Skerries. I think that was the name".
"What ... What did you just say?" Tom had asked, obviously somewhat more forcefully than he intended. The change in his tone did not go unnoticed, at least not by Edith.
"Skerries. That's what she called it" had continued Mary, seemingly oblivious to the sudden tension which had arisen in Tom's hitherto lilting, placid voice.
"Skerries? Are you sure that's what the woman said?"
"Yes. At least I think so ... where her husband had a farm tenancy, although to be honest, Tom, darling, at the time, I wasn't paying that much attention to what the mother was saying. After all, what mattered most was that she'd found her son again. You'll forgive me, when I tell you that I was, understandably, rather more concerned with what had become of all of you. Why, does the name mean something to you?"
"I've heard of it" Tom had said equivocally. His eyes had met Sybil's over the rim of the bowl of warm water which she was using to clean the cuts to his face. Almost imperceptibly, Tom had shaken his head. Gently, Sybil had nodded her acquiescence; she had understood his unspoken warning. Now was not the time to tell either Mary or Edith about Skerries House; in fact, the least said about it the better, for all of them; most of all, Tom.
But Tom and Sybil's unspoken understanding had not gone unobserved.
To the casual observer, it might not be thought that Lady Edith Crawley shared anything in common with perhaps that most enigmatic of all lizards; the chameleon. Nor that she and the late Julius Caesar shared very much in common either. But, it was no less a personage than William Shakespeare who had considered the latter to be a great observer.
Surprisingly, and perhaps curious to relate, an existence revolving round a lifetime of unobtrusive self denial can have its own especial advantages, particularly when arising from playing continual second fiddle to the unpredictable moods, whims, and wiles of a beautiful, imperious elder sister and then thereafter, and somewhat later, taking second place yet again, this time to the equally unpredictable capricious needs and wants of a prettier, more romantically inclined younger sibling.
As a result of a life spent, metaphorically at least, living in the shadows of both Mary and Sybil, Edith had perfected the art of acutely observing the gestures and mannerisms of those about her, family, friends, and relations, and without herself being observed; of blending chameleon like into her immediate surroundings, to the extent whereby her very presence at a social gathering, a ball, a dinner, a garden party, let alone at breakfast back at Downton, was often singularly ignored, overlooked; as fortuitously was now the case, in the peace and quiet of a hotel sitting room in Dublin across the road from the tranquility of St. Stephen's Green. As indeed it had been too on another long gone June evening here in Ireland.
For, if Sybil had forgotten her childhood visit to Skerries House down near Cork, Edith had not. On that occasion unlike Mary, who had considered it beneath her dignity to do so, Edith had joined the others in their frantic search for Sybil. And Edith herself had been present there in the stable yard at Skerries when, by the flickering light of lanterns Sybil was found nursing - there was no other word for it - the injured boy.
And now, all these years later, in the soft glow of lamplight, here in their sitting room at the Shelbourne Hotel, as Edith watched Sybil caring so solicitously for Tom, for some unfathomable reason, she found herself slipping back in time to that self same evening; unfathomable that was until her eyes lighted on Tom's face. Edith felt her heart lurch. She herself had said that some things never change. For her part, Mary had asked of Edith but a short while ago in her hotel bedroom, what had become of the young boy in the stable yard.
The answer, if Mary cared to look for it, was there staring her in the face.