Chapter Seventy Eight
Candlelight
Sybil Branson yawned, stretched drowsily, and then sat up. Reaching down, she retrieved Tom's jacket from off the pile of bracken and draped it casually around her bare shoulders.
If a year ago, someone had told her that she would fall deeply and passionately in love with and then marry her family's chauffeur, she would most certainly have told that individual not to be so ridiculous. But now, looking at Tom, nestled beside her on their makeshift bed of bracken, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the soft flutter of his eyelids, she found herself wondering if she would ever tire of waking from sleep to find Tom lying beside her; knew she would not.
God forefend if somehow any of her family could see them now, her parents especially; even, thought Sybil, dearest Mary and Edith, despite their newfound love and respect for darling Tom, might well be somewhat taken aback; Mary no doubt raising an expressive eyebrow.
An hour or so ago, midst the meagre warmth of a hastily laid fire, by the soft glow of candlelight, they had made love atop a pile of bracken on the earthen floor of a ruined cottage here on the rain swept shore of Galway Bay over on the far west coast of Ireland.
Smiling to herself, Sybil glanced fondly down at Tom who was still asleep and now thankfully resting peacefully. Earlier he had been unusually restive; several times she had woken on account of Tom shifting beside her and more than once he had cried out in his sleep, although his words had been unintelligible. Sybil had silenced his nocturnal fears with gentle kisses bestowed upon his lips and softly murmured words of comfort and endearment, all of which had seemed to calm him.
Not that Sybil was unduly worried; after all, this had happened several times before, although more often in the immediate aftermath of his kidnapping by the IRA about which he had told her very little, only that he had learned that Peadar was dead, that it had been a very sobering experience, during the course of which Tom had chanced to meet with someone called Collins.
"How do you mean, sobering?" asked Sybil the morning after his wholly unexpected return. They were lying in bed, facing each other, their mouths but a whisper apart. When she received no answer, Sybil had persisted with her questioning as to what it was that had happened, said that she wanted to know, said that there must be things Tom had to tell her; thereby breaking a rule which they had both agreed upon early in their marriage, that sometimes in the course of his work as a journalist, Tom would learn things, see things, about which he must, perforce, stay silent.
"Why don't you come over here, and we'll discuss it?" Tom had asked. And when Sybil had failed to respond to his entreaty, before she realised what was happening, Tom had rolled swiftly over on top of her. Not of course that Sybil had been deceived; knew that Tom was seeking to avoid answering questions he did not wish to answer. She would have persisted but, with Tom's kisses claiming her very breath, instead she found herself tightening her arms around his neck, and responding not only to his own quickening desire but also to physical needs of her own. However, she did not forget her question; or that on this occasion, as indeed now several times before, Tom had been unwilling to answer her.
Outside the cottage the autumn storm had now passed; the rain had all but ceased. Within, the candles guttered and the fire had died down to little more than a smouldering heap of white ash; not, given what they had done that either of them had any particular need of its warmth, at least not for the present.
Above the gentle sound of Tom's breathing, all else that Sybil could hear was the ebb and flow of the tide on the beach down below the ruined cottage. Since their marriage, it was a sound which she had come both to know and to love well; it was the same comforting ebb and flow of the waves back and forth upon the sea strand that often lulled her gently to sleep when they lay safe and secure in their bed in the small house by the sea back in far distant Clontarf.
This evening, having taken the initiative in their lovemaking, Sybil had made up her mind that she would try and prolong the ecstasy of the moment for as long as possible, by attempting to exercise some degree of restraint. But her resolution, however well intentioned, was ultimately all to no avail. For, as always, no sooner did Tom but touch her, than her desire for him knew no bounds; became all consuming.
Naked, kneeling astride him, in the flickering, smoky light of the fire he had kindled for them but a short while earlier, Sybil gazed lovingly down at Tom who, reaching upwards, cupped her bare breasts in his hands, his fingers gently kneading the softness of her flesh. And then, as he circled his arms about her, midst muffled laughter and low moans of pleasure from them both, Tom drew Sybil gently but inexorably down towards him lying stretched out beneath her in the bed of bracken.
Feeling his kisses soft and warm upon her mouth, then growing deeper and more passionate, Tom's fingers feather light, tracing weaving patterns upon her skin, Sybil knew that at this very moment she had never wanted him more. Brushing aside his helping hand, she deftly settled herself back upon him; her tongue seeking his, her nails raking his shoulders.
Placing his hands upon her hips, before he thrust into her, Tom sought to mould her more closely to him. And here, on a pile of bracken, on the floor of a fisherman's cottage, beneath the starlit blackness of the westering night sky, on the very edge of Galway Bay, with Sybil leading the way, together they settled into a comfortable, familiar and easy rhythm, riding out an inexorable and rising tide of sexual pleasure, until at the last, together, each achieved the physical release they craved.
Thereafter, some while later, they lay languid, naked in each other's arms, sated, and utterly content.
"God, Sybil, darling, I love you so very, very much", murmured Tom softly.
Even now, several months after their marriage, he still had some difficulty in believing his incredible good fortune in having married this breath takingly beautiful young woman, who he loved to distraction, and who he had taken to his bed, a virgin, for that very first time on a never to be forgotten summer's evening in Clontarf. That Sybil had given herself to him so freely was ever a source of amazement to Tom. And when he had, somewhat shyly, mentioned this to her, and reiterated his promise to always to do everything to ensure her happiness, he had been touched by the honest nature of her reply.
"Tom, a gift, whatever it may be, is not a debt. Part of the joy of giving is in how the gift is received. And, my darling, when all is said and done, what is love, if not but a gift?"
Tom's lips nuzzled against the pale soft skin of Sybil's stomach, his head resting gently just below her breasts, his left arm flung round her; Tom lay spent, but happily so. "And I love you too, my dearest dear" responded Sybil, tenderly kissing Tom's forehead, running her fingers slowly through his damp fair hair.
Shortly after that, they had fallen asleep, Sybil to peaceful slumbers and Tom to a sequence of unquiet dreams.
"It may surprise you, but I agree with what you say" said Collins. "However, the fight must come; after all, if the Rising proved nothing else, it proved that. Sometimes desperate situations ..."
"If by that you mean the end justifies the means?" Tom shook his head. "I once thought that too. In fact, I once told someone ..."
He heard his voice falter - Collins had just told him about what had happened to Peadar - as, unexpectedly Tom found himself recalling to mind an evening spent standing with Sybil in the lamp lit garage at Downton. Tom's eyes misted with tears. Savagely he wiped them with the back of his hand; saw Collins was looking at him curiously. Well, let him. Regaining control of his voice, Tom continued with what he had been saying "... someone very dear to me that sometimes sacrifices have to be made for a life that's worth living".
"And you no longer believe that to be so?"
"Not anymore; at least, not at any price. I've never believed in violence to achieve a free and independent Ireland No-one should have the right to take someone else's life. And, even given what you've just told me about my brother-in-law, for the IRA to do so makes you no better than the British".
Collins whistled through his teeth.
"You've got guts. I'll say that for you. Of course, you could be playing a part". Collins looked up from perusing a much thumbed sheaf of papers which he held in his hands. "You see, we know all about you, it's all in here, the time you spent over in England, apparently working as a chauffeur, or was that also playing a part too? Because, despite your much vaunted protestations of loyalty, you failed to join the Rising back in 1916, only returning to Ireland when the war ended and then to work for the Independent, a paper not exactly known for its unflinching support of our cause. And from some of your articles, it seems you yourself aren't exactly enamoured of us either".
"As I told you before" said Tom, "all I do is report what I see, without fear or favour. A matter of days ago I told an army officer that truth isn't always on the side of the British. Well, it isn't always on our side either. Just like God wasn't on any particular side during the war - although everyone, the British, the Germans, the Russians, the Austro-Hungarians, the French, were praying to Him for victory. Oddly enough, I felt rather sorry for Him".
"Sorry for whom?"
"For God. During the war, He must have had rather a hard time of it, don't you think, I mean, entertaining all those different prayers for victory".
Collins smiled.
"Do you believe in God?"
"I did once, but now I'm not sure. Not with what I've experienced and certainly not with what I've seen over here in Dublin - the inequality, the poverty. Most of it, but not all, can be laid at the door of the British. So I'll be equally as glad as you to see them gone. And I also happen to believe that freedom is more than something scrawled on a wall".
Collins nodded.
"So do I",
He laid aside the sheaf of papers.
"Then of course, there's the question of your wife".
"My wife?"
"The former Lady Sybil Crawley, youngest daughter of the earl and countess of Grantham", said Collins as if quoting from memory.
"Leave her out of this. Whatever you've heard, been told, I'm not a British agent".
"No, I don't think you are" said Collins softly. He had now picked up the revolver from off of the table "You know of course that I could shoot you now and no-one would ever know what had become of you".
"You could, but you won't" said Tom.
"What makes you so sure?"
"Because, somehow, I don't think we'd be having this conversation if you intended to kill me".
At that, Collins smiled.
"Aren't you afraid?"
"Of course" said Tom, doing his best to keep his voice level. "I'd be a fool not to be".
"And yet, I don't think I've ever met anyone who was less a fool" said Collins softly.
Tom smiled wanly at the compliment he had just been paid.
"Well, then, so you're loyal to Ireland?"
"To Ireland and to other things".
"Is that possible?"
"I like to think so".
Later, after he had been told he was free to go, Collins had accompanied Tom to the door of the cabin.
"You won't be harmed. You have my word on that. My men have orders to drop you in Sackville Street. I'm sorry about what happened earlier and for the death of your brother-in-law".
Collins held out his hand. Tom grasped it. Not to have done so would have been churlish.
"I think we will meet again Mr. Branson.
"Maybe" said Tom. Collins nodded.
"Rest assured, we will".
Tom smiled and walked over to the waiting motor.
She had said they had time enough.
Time enough indeed.
In the flickering shadows cast by both the guttering candles on the mantle shelf and the dying flames of the fire on the hearth, with her legs apart, the girl lay naked on the improvised bed of bracken, sailcloth and sacking, seemingly indifferent to the advancing chill of the night air; the boy, with his thatch of fair hair fallen across his forehead lay sleeping peacefully, sprawled heavily across her nakedness, his head resting on her chest, his face nuzzling between her breasts, fleetingly lost to the world in the carefree afterglow of satiated, sexual pleasure.
While the young boy slept on, briefly blissfully untroubled, momentarily free from all his manifold cares, the girl gently cradled his head and with the tips of her fingers caressed his face and ruffled his fair hair. But there all show of tenderness on her part ceased; ended abruptly.
Should by the remotest mischance anyone have happened to unwittingly intrude upon the pair of young lovers now lying sated and entwined upon the sandy floor of the long-abandoned cottage down on the shore below the house, the more observant would have discerned that the expression visible on the girl's face belied the seeming tenderness of her gestures; for clearly etched upon her features was a look of both utter disdain and exultant triumph.
Later, after Tom had woken, Sybil and he had dressed unselfconsciously by candlelight. Then, having blown out the last of the guttering candles, they set off for Lettermullen still some two miles distant along the curving shore of the bay.
"I don't know about you, love, but I'm starving" said Tom as they walked along the sand in the darkness.
"Me too" said Sybil. "It must be all this sea air".
"And not just sea air" said Tom. Momentarily letting go of her hand, he gently smacked Sybil soundly across her amply proportioned rump. "What with attending to all your needs milady, and me but a poor ... lowly ... Irishman, I know I shall sleep like the proverbial log tonight".
Sybil said nothing, but, as they resumed walking hand in hand, a sensuous smile spread across her face. Knowing Tom as she did, she would gladly wager the entire fortune of the Granthams, and if not that then the sum of money so begrudgingly given them by Papa, with no fear of losing either, that by the time they reached Ma's sister's cottage, had eaten supper, and snuggled down in bed, that for all his protestations of tiredness, Tom would be more than ready to respond to any renewed physical need that Sybil had of him.
Sybil's smile broadened. For, just as she was sure that on the morrow, having risen in the east, run its course across the sky, the sun would set here in the west of Ireland over Galway Bay, that she would have such a need of Tom, Sybil was entirely certain.
Later, when they were in bed...
"Tom? Are you asleep?"
"Mm? No, not yet. And you're obviously not". He felt Sybil nuzzle his ear lobe.
"No ... I was just wondering ..."
"Wondering what?" asked Tom softly.
"Well, if you wanted to..." He felt Sybil's fingers caress his cheek.
"If I wanted to what?" asked Tom, playing along, knowing full well what her questions betokened.
"Do I really have to spell it out for you Branson?" said Sybil with feigned exasperation.
"Of course! After all, you know me. I'm just a poor, simple-minded former chauffeur".
"Well, come over here then" giggled Sybil.
"Why Mrs. Branson, I thought you'd never ask" laughed Tom. He snuffed out the bedside candle and rolled swiftly over on top of her.
"Now, milady, how can I be of particular assistance to you?"
In the overall scheme of things, given the spiralling vortex violence now beginning to engulf the whole country, the loss of a young boy's virginity on a long gone summer's evening nigh on twenty years ago might well appear to be of little consequence.
Yet, whether by commission, or by omission, in each and every lifetime are done things which sow the seeds of tragedy and which, given time, will ripen, until at last they bear the bitterest of fruit.