Chapter One Hundred And Six

The Means To Travel

At that, Tom laughed out loud.

There was no better way on God's earth of restoring his customary bonhomie, habitual equilibrium, or his usual good humour than by Sybil letting him know, either directly or obliquely, that she wanted him.

Tom knew that.

And Sybil knew that he knew.

And Tom knew that she knew that.

And Sybil knew that Tom knew that she knew.

In fact, between them they made up a highly knowledgeable pair.

"You know Tom, I'll bet that you're not nearly as bruised and tired as you think you are" said Sybil impishly.

Placing her trust totally in her intimate knowledge of her husband and in her own basic instinct in matters sexual, gently, but nonetheless firmly, Sybil pulled Tom towards her, and, firmly grasping him through the cloth of the front of his trousers was delighted to find that her innate belief in her proven ability to easily kindle his desire for her was neither misplaced nor mistaken. For, this time, as she drew Tom forward into a loving embrace, Sybil found she met with no resistance: none whatsoever.

Thereafter, with much caressing and kissing, they made a disorderly and unhurried ascent of the stairs, stumbled across the landing, and into their bedroom.

After …

Along with their clothes, the sheets and blankets from their bed lay scattered across the floor.

"Well Tom", said Sybil. Suddenly, she giggled like a schoolgirl. "See, I told you".

"Told me what?" he asked. Tom sounded genuinely mystified.

Sybil gazed down adoringly at her husband, both of them naked, flushed and breathless, their eyes shining. "I said that you weren't as battered and bruised as you thought you were. I think my love, that I have well and truly won my bet!"

"Do you really think so?" asked Tom, as with a delighted chuckle, he reached for her again and, mindful of the baby within her swollen belly, gently pulled Sybil down on top of him.

Perhaps not surprisingly, the following morning, Tom was not only in an exceptionally good mood, but he was also, as was to be expected, as good as his word to Sybil about seeing his editor. When he arrived at his office on Talbot Street, he asked if he might speak with Mr. Timothy Harrington, editor of the Independent. An hour or so later Tom found himself in Harrington's office, seated in front of his editor's desk. For his part, when he heard what it was that Tom had to propose, Harrington was immediately receptive to the idea, and after some short deliberation, agreed to Tom's proposal.

At home that evening Tom told Sybil the good news. Naturally, she was delighted, but, over supper, she observed ruefully to both Ma and Tom, that there still yet remained the very real problem as to just how they were going to afford the cost of the steamer tickets for the voyage. Tom grinned, and said that particular difficulty had been solved, at least in part, by the generosity of Mr. Harrington. He had authorised that the cost of Tom's own fare on the steam packet be paid for by the Independent. The cost of Sybil's ticket still had to be found.

There was, then suggested Sybil, Papa's money, deposited and earning interest in their joint account with the Bank of Ireland on St. Stephen's Green. However, Tom said no. That was absolutely out of the question. He had, albeit reluctantly agreed to using some of the money to fund their stay in the Royal Hotel in Galway. In this, Sybil thought he was being unreasonable; said that it would be poetic justice if some of Papa's money, so grudgingly given to them, was then used to pay for the price of her fare over to England. Tom remained adamant: Papa's money was not to be touched. Between them, they would find some other way to cover the cost of Sybil's return ticket. If need be, said Tom, he would consider doing some freelance work which, on numerous occasions, he had been asked to undertake, writing for various journals and publications both here in Dublin and elsewhere in Ireland, even under a nom de plume if that proved necessary, so as not to jeopardise his employment with the Independent. After all, given the reputation Tom was now busy earning for himself here in Dublin, finding such freelance work should present no problem whatsoever.

In the meantime, that very same evening, after supper was over, Sybil sat down and wrote to her mother to inform her that both of them would be delighted to accept her invitation to come and stay at Downton. Mama had not placed any length on the duration of their stay. That could be discussed after they arrived. Sybil happened to mention in passing that Tom's newspaper was paying for the cost of his ticket, but said nothing about her own.

Then, not long afterwards, just before her birthday, in quick succession, Sybil received several letters from England, from her grandmother, from her mother, and from her two sisters. All sent good wishes for her birthday and were full of breezy, chatty news from home. The letter from Mama expressed her clear delight that they would both be coming over to England in the very near future and then promptly went on to ask how her pregnancy was progressing.

A day or so later, another letter arrived at the small house in Clontarf. This too was for Sybil. It had been posted here in Ireland, was addressed in a hand that she did not recognise, and bore a Dublin postmark. The letter arrived after Sybil had left for her shift at the Coombe and was sitting waiting for her on the kitchen table when she got home from work. Mystified, Sybil sat down and opened it. The letter was from the offices of the City of Dublin Steam Packet Company down on Eden Quay.

"This isn't any of your doing, is it?" she asked, when, still as mystified as ever, Sybil handed it across to Tom.

Taking the letter from her, Tom read what it said and then looked at what it enclosed; a return steamer ticket from Kingstown to Holyhead.

Tom shook his head. He was as puzzled as was Sybil.

"No, love. Search me. It would seem that we have an anonymous benefactor. I have absolutely no idea. Tell you what though, I know a couple of the clerks down at the shipping company. I'll ask them, see if they know anything".

And ask them Tom did.

However, all completely to no avail whatsoever.

There was, Tom was duly informed, no-one working at the City of Dublin Steam Packet Company by the name of Mr. Buchan. However, while costing him the price of a couple of pints of plain, Tom's contacts did assure him that the return ticket was perfectly in order; was valid for the next six months on whatever date it was that both he and Mrs. Branson chose to embark.

Violet's confidence in Cousin Montagu had not been misplaced and had been well rewarded. Monty had done his work exceedingly well, as Sybil's grandmother duly informed him when he came to visit her a few days later at the Dower House on the far side of the estate.

With a warm fire burning merrily before them in the grate, they were sitting contentedly together in the Dowager Countess's Drawing room taking afternoon tea.

"Do you know Monty", said Violet pouring him another cup of tea, "I do so enjoy Mr. Buchan's novels. Why, it is just like "Greenmantle". Whoever would have thought that the clandestine provision of a humble steamer ticket would prove so much fun?"

Author's Note:

First published in 1916, "Greenmantle" is the second of the five novels written by John Buchan (1875-1940) about his intrepid adventurer, Richard Hannay whose exploits begin in "The Thirty Nine Steps".