Chapter Ninety Eight

For Erin

While the peat turves flared and burned, and the Christmas log crackled and spat, here beneath the smoke blackened beams of Aislin's simple kitchen, they all continued to sit by the fire.

In answer to Ronan's latest question, Sybil sat and began to tell of past Christmases spent at Downton Abbey. So, with Tom sitting beside her on the high backed settle, with Mairead and Rosaleen now sitting cross legged on the floor before the hearth, their eyes and ears agog, with Ruari leaning casually against the settle, his arms folded across his chest, and with Ma, Ciaran and Aislin with little Riordan on her lap seated on the settle opposite, she told her tale.

Of the enormous tree felled and brought in each year from off the estate and which was then raised to stand in its customary place of honour in the imposing entrance hall of the house, its myriad glass decorations sparkling in a dazzling blaze of white light radiating from each and every one of the tiny bulbs of countless minute electric lanterns festooning its branches, of the ..."

At this point, Ronan interrupted hopefully.

"Are there any wolves in England?" he asked eagerly.

"I'm not quite sure", said Sybil. "I don't think so. At least, I haven't heard tell of any".

So, no wolves here in Ireland, nor it seemed, even over there in England either. Ronan sighed; his young shoulders sagged. Seeing the obvious disappointment etched across the boy's face, Sybil turned to look hopefully at Tom.

"Well don't look at me..." he began.

"And I thought you were the expert on wolves!" laughed Sybil.

"Are you sure, Aunt Sybil?" Ronan persisted.

"No, I'm not sure, Ronan, truly" she said. "But when next I write to my parents ..." She paused, and then began anew. "When next I write to my Mama, I'll be sure to ask her for you".

"Really? You promise?"

"I promise", said Sybil solemnly.

Ronan's eyes sparkled in boyish epiphany.

"There's a dragon", said Tom trying to be helpful.

Sybil shot him a withering look.

"Don't be silly, Uncle Tom. Dragons only exist in fairy tales" said Mairead dismissively. "Da said so". She looked to her father for reassurance.

Ciaran nodded his head in tacit agreement.

"Thanks, Ciaran" said Tom. "Thanks a lot!" Tom looked as crestfallen as had young Ronan a few minutes earlier on learning of the apparent singular lack of wolves across the sea, over in England.

"Never mind darling. You can't always be right", said Sybil. She giggled.

"Oh I don't know about that", said Tom. "After all, apart from you and me..." At this point, Tom lowered his voice, and then continued with what he had been saying. "No-one else here has ever met the Dowager Countess", he whispered softly for Sybil's ears alone; saw her grin broadly at his quietly spoken words.

With Ruari now having seated himself unobtrusively on the settle next to Sybil, the children and the adults too, or so it seemed to Tom, sat spellbound as Sybil now went on with her tale; while the soft, pendulous tick of the grandfather clock by the door, the glass of its dial cracked and splintered in the trail of mindless, wanton destruction wrought by the depredations of Stathum's men, marked the slow passage of the time. She told of guests arriving to stay for the festive season, of Christmas dinner served to the family in the magnificently appointed dining room of the abbey, of the servants lining up in the hall, each to receive, in procession, and one by one, their annual present from the family.

"A bit like us then" said Ruari perceptively. "I mean ... receiving presents today. From you and Uncle Tom" he added doubtfully.

Sybil half turned; studied the boy thoughtfully for a moment.

"If you like; but with one important difference, Ruari. You see, the giving of Christmas presents between members of my family, between my grandmother, my parents, my sisters, and me, well that came later, after dinner. Just like we've done; here today". Seeing the confusion apparent in his face as he tried to make sense of what she had just said, Sybil squeezed the boy's thigh comfortingly.

"We're family, you and I. And Uncle Tom too, along with everyone else here in this room. Never forget that, Ruari", she said softly. At that, Sybil saw, thankfully, at last, Ruari truly comprehending the meaning of what she had just told him, realisation at last dawning in her eldest nephew's dark, expressive eyes.

"And speaking of presents, Sybil" said Aislin, "this is for you. We... all of us... Ma, Ciaran, Donal, Niamh, Emer, and... Peadar too, we meant for you to have this at the céilí, but with all that then happened... well, it got overlooked". In her outstretched hand, Aislin held forward a small package, wrapped in pale green muslin and tied with a small matching green bow.

"Céad mile Fáilte", she said softly. "Welcome to Ireland, Sybil. And welcome to this family too".

"That's just what she is," said Tom, his eyes shining in the firelight. "Very, very welcome".

Without further ado, Sybil took the little package from Aislin. Slowly she untied the bow, parted the muslin, to disclose within a small cardboard box, likewise of green. She lifted the lid to reveal with in a tiny green china brooch fashioned in the trefoil shape of a shamrock.

"Oh! Why, it's absolutely beautiful. Thank you, thank you, all of you" she said, her voice hushed; felt her eyes mist with unbidden tears. Well, let them come she thought. She lifted the small brooch out of its box, gazed silently at it, recognising it for what it also was, like Tom's present to her of the battered copy of The Wind in the Willows, now lying beside her on this very settle ; a gift from the heart. For one brief moment, Tom enfolded her hands gently within his own and a look of such tenderness passed between the young couple that Aislin also felt her own eyes begin to water.

"What's wrong?" asked Ciaran quietly

Not trusting to her voice, Aislin simply shook her head, squeezed her husband's arm in silent reassurance.

Then, taking the shamrock brooch from Sybil's hand, Tom pinned it carefully to her white blouse.

"For Erin" he said tenderly.

Sybil gazed at him for a long moment; then gently captured his hands, held them within her own.

"No, Tom", she said simply, and just as tenderly. "For us".

At that, Ma smiled; both at their words and at the simple gesture which had followed them.

"You two ..." She sighed, knowing how much young Tommy loved his aristocratic, high born English wife; knew too how much Sybil loved her adopted son; smiled indulgently at them both. "You two make pretty play," she said.

Then Ma became practical once again and clapped her hands. "Now, what about another cup of tea, Aislin?" she asked of her eldest daughter-in-law, and in the most commonplace of tones.

Author's Note:

The very first electric lights for Christmas trees began being manufactured in the 1880s, but they were very expensive, and for many years to come were the preserve only of the wealthy.

Erin is the poetic name for Ireland.