Chapter One Hundred And Fourteen
Mayhem at Midnight
Following Sybil's outburst, Robert had turned ashen-faced, and then had capitulated. Not that he apologised openly to Tom and Sybil of course. That would have been too much to expect, and after all, it was not in his nature to do so. What Robert actually promised was to try and make amends. He would, he said, join them all shortly in the Drawing Room; he had, some papers to attend to in the Library. Not that anyone was fooled of course; given what had just happened, everyone else present knew that Robert needed some time to compose himself. But, if that was what it took to begin healing this rift, then so be it.
After Lord Grantham had left the Dining Room, the Dowager Countess observed that for once Robert had well and truly had met his match. Having commended Tom for sticking to his guns, she did then add that in her view arguments were always best to be avoided, as in the words of that awful Oscar Wilde, "they are always vulgar and often convincing".
Cora apologised once again for Robert's behaviour in taking Tom to task about Ireland's present woes when he was not only now part of the family, but also a guest in the house. Mary and Edith said they thought Papa had behaved disgracefully and apologised profusely for not supporting Tom more openly, saying they did not wish to make matters worse by seeming to be ganging up on their father. Mary assured both Sybil and Tom that despite what Papa had said about making his amends both she and Edith would speak with him in the morning and see what else they could do to help pour oil on troubled waters.
Matthew said he would add his support to their endeavours if it was deemed necessary, but with the formidable fire power that Tom evidently already had assembled on his side in the guise of all the women folk of the Crawley family, any support he would be able to render would be paltry in comparison.
A short while later, after Robert had done as he promised and joined them all in the Drawing Room with Sybil sitting next to him, clasping his hand firmly in hers, Tom swallowed hard and began, haltingly at first, and gradually thereafter with a growing sense of both confidence and conviction to tell the assembled Crawley family of his own true antecedents.
He told of his parents, Captain Edward Branson late of the Irish Hussars, of his marriage to Tom's mother, Hélène from near St. Malo, of how Tom's late Uncle Jacob and his wife Clarissa never accepted the marriage, considering Tom's mother not to be of sufficient standing to marry his father as she had been in service as a governess: in fact never accepted her. That notwithstanding, the marriage had proved to be both happy and loving, Tom himself being the living proof of that. Had his birth not been so difficult, then perhaps, he might have had a brother, or perhaps sisters. Here Tom shot a glance at both Mary and Edith and was rewarded by the warmth of their smiles. Tom grinned.
"Ironic, really, isn't it? In the light of... recent events. That my late uncle and his wife didn't think my mother good enough to marry my father".
Tom paused, shot a meaningful look at Lord Grantham, eliciting a ghost of a smile from Robert.
Tom continued with his story, explaining how he grew up close to the Royal Barracks in the Arbour Hill district of Dublin. However, when it came to recounting how both his parents were both drowned in the wreck of the SS Hilda in November 1905, of how he came to live at Skerries, of the ill-treatment he received there at the hands of both his uncle and aunt and his cousins Christopher and William, for once, Tom's natural fluency with words failed him and it fell to Sybil took up the tale. With their hands clasped together now resting lightly on Sybil's knee, Sybil explained some, but not all, of what had then befallen Tom. Of course until a short while ago, she herself hadn't known that when she found Tom in the stable yard, it was in the aftermath of a savage beating he had endured at the hands of his two cousins and some other boy.
Thereafter, at length, having recovered himself somewhat, Tom now recounted how he ran away to Dublin, lived rough on the streets, making a living by whatever means he could; how, eventually he was befriended by Donal, who helped him obtain employment at the Guinness Brewery; of how some time later, he came to live at Clontarf as Ma's much loved, unofficially adopted son, and adopted younger brother to Ciaran, Donal and Emer. Of how Ma put him through night school and then, finding that he had a flair for understanding the workings of all manner of machinery, he eventually gained a position as a chauffeur to an English family living in Merrion Square. Tom went onto say that several other similar positions followed, before he ended up as one of the chauffeurs to the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, the earl of Aberdeen; that it was while working for the earl, that Tom had seen the advertisement of the post of chauffeur here, at Downton Abbey.
"As I expect you all know, Lord Grantham's agent interviewed me over there in Dublin. Then, having secured the position, I took passage to England, to my employment here, as your chauffeur" said Tom.
"And the rest, is history" observed the Dowager Countess quietly.
Tom nodded.
"Indeed. The rest you know" he said softly, then fell silent, looked down at the floor, bracing himself for the brunt of everyone's anger, and if not anger, then at least their indignation, for, Sybil apart, not having told them the truth much sooner.
Neither ever came.
Instead, much to Tom's intense relief and surprise, he found himself applauded politely by everyone, Robert included, here present in the Drawing Room, for his courage in telling them now and for fighting his corner, for, throughout his life, standing up for what he believed in.
Seated beside him, Edith slipped her arm around his hunched shoulders, and kissed him softly on his cheek. Mindful of what she had said earlier about Edith's feelings towards him, blushing, Tom glanced at Sybil; saw a knowing smile spread across her face as if so say: "there, now what did I tell you?"
"Dearest Tom. None of us can imagine the pain you endured as a boy. But, as darling Sybil says, it's over. All of us… we love you, so very, very much. Don't we Mary?"
Edith glanced up at her elder sister for confirmation. Mary nodded her head in agreement and then did something she would never have expected to do. She slipped to her knees before Tom, enfolded his hands in hers.
"Edith's right, Tom. None of us can even begin to comprehend what you went through when you were a child. But what Edith says is true. It's all in the past. And, know this; no-one will ever hurt you like that again. You're our brother now and part of this family, as much as you are of the Bransons in Clontarf. Never forget that as much as they love you, you are very, very much-loved and valued by everyone here in this room tonight. You're welcome here: very welcome".
"That's right, Tom. That's just what you are, very, very welcome" added Edith.
"Bravo! Well said!" exclaimed Isobel enthusiastically.
Smiling, Edith slipped her arm from around Tom's shoulders, as, likewise smiling and letting go of Tom's hands, Mary rose to her feet and resumed her seat opposite her two sisters and brother-in-law. Throughout this whole exchange, Matthew had been standing by the fireplace next to Robert. Now, he swiftly crossed the room to where Tom was seated between Sybil and Edith. At his approach, Tom glanced up and saw Matthew standing before him, holding out his hand. Immediately Tom stood up, whereupon Matthew reached forward and shook him warmly by the hand.
"Tom, my dear, dear chap. If you need any help completing the legal formalities relating to your inheritance of the Skerries estate over there in Ireland, then I'd be happy to oblige".
"For a suitable fee, no doubt" said Violet waspishly.
"Granny!" exclaimed Mary.
"I speak but in jest my dear". The Dowager Countess held up her veined hand smiled her usual thin smile.
"Once Skerries is legally yours, have you decided exactly what you intend to do with it, Tom?" asked Mary.
Matthew lofted an eyebrow, shot Mary an enquiring glance. After all, she had been just as inquisitive as to what he himself intended to do with monies which Lavinia's late father had left him in his will.
"Darling, perhaps Tom hasn't made a decision yet".
"Perhaps" opined Mary.
Tom shook his head.
"Actually, Sybil and I talked it over some time ago, and we're both agreed: I will make over the three or four remaining farms gratis to the sitting tenants and then put the house and what little remains of the estate up for sale. Any monies I receive from the sale, that's if I can find a buyer for it, I intend placing in a fund to help Irish tenant farmers buy the freehold of the land they farm from their landlords. With what's happening over there, some Anglo-Irish landowners are trying to sell up and get out while they still can".
"That's very commendable of you" said Isobel.
Robert shook his head in disbelief. He could not begin to comprehend how his son-in-law could just give away his inheritance; could never, ever contemplate doing the same with Downton. After all, Downton was his life. Despite having promised both Tom and Sybil that he would do his best to make amends, so far, here in the Drawing Room, while Tom had acquainted them all of his true antecedents, Robert had said scarcely a single word. Now that changed.
"But Bran... Tom... surely, Skerries House is your inheritance? Your birthright. How can you just give it away?
"I don't want anything that was my late uncle's and besides, to be a landowner goes against my Socialist principles".
"But what about your child? You're denying your son or daughter their birthright".
Tom shook his head.
"That maybe how it appears to you, Lord Grantham..."
"Robert... please".
Tom smiled.
"I'm sorry, but that takes some getting used to! Then... Robert, when the time comes, and he or she is old enough to understand what I did, and my reasons for doing so, I hope they will accept my decision and appreciate why I did what I did".
Lord Grantham shook his head, obviously still not convinced.
"As for your kind offer of help, Matthew, I may well take you up on that at a later date, although for the present my late uncle's solicitors down in Cork are dealing with all that side of things. It's taking a devil of an age to sort out, what with the transfer of the farms to the tenants, leases, rights-of-way and God knows what else. When we return to Ireland, I've got to travel down to Cork: there are papers which have to be signed and so forth. It's not a trip I'm looking forward to; I can assure you of that!"
"You won't be on your own this time. I 'm coming with you!" added Sybil.
"But you'll have..."
"... had the baby by then? Yes. Don't patronise me, Tom. Mothers travel all over the place with babies and children in tow".
"Darlin', this won't be like taking an afternoon run into Ripon in the Renault. Munster is almost in open revolt against the British. It could be dangerous!"
"Then all the more need for me to be there with you. Tom, what you and I have is a partnership. We face our troubles together!"
"We'll talk about this later" said Tom.
"No, we will not! I'm coming with you when you travel down to Cork and that's an end of it!" stormed Sybil.
"Well, that told you Mr. Branson". Mary smiled, lofted an eyebrow.
Matthew sought to change the subject, move it into what he hoped was calmer waters.
"All that apart, Tom, there's also a favour I would ask of you. I hope you feel able to oblige me".
"What's that?" asked Tom mystified.
"Will you be my Best Man?"
At Matthew's completely unexpected request, Sybil's head snapped up.
"Do you really mean it?"
"Really?" asked Tom incredulously.
Matthew nodded, while over by the fireplace, Robert shook his head in disbelief.
"Then I'd be honoured" said Tom with a grin.
"I can assure you, the honour's mine, old chap". Matthew grinned.
Thereafter, conversation turned to other things. For their part, having no experience of the world of newspapers beyond reading their copy of The Times at breakfast, all were intrigued to hear more, and Isobel and Matthew for the first time, about what being a journalist entailed and about the sort of stories that Tom found himself covering on behalf of the Independent.
Of course, neither Violet nor Robert shared the enthusiasm of the rest of them, the Dowager Countess remarking that she did not approve of very much of that which was reported in the newspapers, although conceding that it did help to keep polite society in touch with the seemingly universal ignorance of the wider community. Why was it necessary, she asked, to pander to the public's apparently insatiable desire to know everything about everything?
However, Tom had to be very careful to say nothing that might reveal his sources on certain matters. In addition, he was also mindful of the fact that to discuss in any detail some of the situations in which he had found himself over the last few months would be likely to upset Sybil. Nevertheless, he answered all the questions put to him both tactfully and politely but only in the broadest possible terms. After all, he said, journalists, like the government, had their own jealously guarded "diplomatic secrets".
Eventually, conversation moved on to less contentious matters, such as further news of mutual friends, social events in the county, and Sybil's own forthcoming "event", at which point Robert excused himself and left the room. Obviously, thought Tom, old habits die-hard.
"Ouch! Why, you little blighter!" Sybil winced, pulled a face. Tom was immediately down by her side, his solicitousness for Sybil's welfare drawing an approving smile from Cora.
"Baby restless again, darlin'?" he asked.
Sybil nodded. Grasping hold of Tom's hand, she placed it across her swollen belly.
"It's your fault you know. Tom, I've told you before; he's always this way when you're around. I'm certain he recognises your voice. There! Did you feel that?" Sybil smiled. For a moment she rested her head on Tom's shoulder.
"I think I'll feel better once I'm in bed. It's been a very long day".
Cora smiled again, nodded her head in agreement.
"Both of you must be exhausted, even if the baby isn't!"
"Darlin', do you want me to come up with you?"
Sybil smiled.
"I think that might be for the best".
"Then we'll say goodnight" said Tom.
The gathering in the Drawing Room broke up shortly after that, just after half past ten, and with everyone having made their farewells in the hall, with Violet's chauffeur having arrived to drive the Dowager Countess back to the Dower House, while Farrar was summoned to drive Isobel and Matthew down to Crawley House in the village.
After Tom and Sybil had gone upstairs, along with Mary and Edith, the earl and countess of Grantham also retired for the night. Meanwhile, downstairs, Carson did his usual rounds ensuring that all the ground floor windows were shuttered and barred and the doors locked and secured.
Upstairs in their bedroom, not surprisingly, with all that had happened several hours previously at dinner, let alone, the ensuing discussion in the Drawing Room, once both he and Sybil retired for the night, Tom found it difficult to sleep.
That apart, both Sybil and he had sat up in bed and for some time had discussed at length what he should say to try and help the process of reconciliation with her father, let alone do to resolve all the problem s presented by the forthcoming sale of Skerries House. Thereafter, it had been some considerable while before Sybil herself had finally drifted off to sleep.
So now, so as not to disturb her, Tom decided he might as well make use of the small bedroom along the corridor, which his mother-in-law had kindly placed at his disposal for him to use as a small study in which to write.
Tom gently manoeuvred himself slowly from beneath Sybil's out flung protecting arm, and climbed quietly out of their bed. Slipping on his dressing gown over his vest and pyjama bottoms, bare footed, Tom padded as quietly as he could down the rug-carpeted corridor. Reaching the bedroom set aside for him noiselessly he opened, then closed the door, switched on the light, and sat himself down at the desk, which Lady Grantham had thoughtfully seen fit to provide for him.
Opening one of the drawers, he took out his presently unfinished article on the escalating violence in Connaught, placed it in front of him and began to read slowly through it. As he did so, he made various minor alterations to what he had already written, but when it came to writing the concluding paragraph, to encapsulating in it the nub of what it was he was trying to say, Tom found that, for once, inspiration had left him. He could not recall ever having had this problem before.
Glancing up, Tom looked slowly round silent room, at the pictures, which hung on the walls. There were several landscapes and a small group of family portraits. Two of these were small pencil sketches, of the present earl of Grantham and his sister Rosamund as children. Between them, there hung a painting of Mary, Edith, and Sybil as they had been as young girls, and showed them playing in the rose garden, here at Downton.
Getting up from his desk, thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his dressing gown, Tom wandered over and stood in front of the picture of Sybil and her sisters. While Mary gazed imperiously back at him, Edith looked, he thought, somewhat disconsolate, almost forlorn. As for young Sybil, the artist had caught her in the act of teasing a tabby kitten by dangling a length of string above it, just out of reach of the kitten's paws.
Why, you were trouble even then, thought Tom. He smiled broadly. As he continued to gaze at the picture, another thought came into his mind. War and revolution could sweep across Europe, but Tom had no doubt, none whatsoever, although it went against all his Socialist principles to admit it, that, as they had done for centuries past, the Crawleys would continue to live at Downton Abbey for generations to come.
Whether it really was in search of inspiration or for some other reason, Tom never really knew, but instead of going back and sitting down at his desk, he drifted across the bedroom to the window and drew back the thick curtains. Kneeling down on the window seat, he unlatched the sash, pushed it up, set his elbows on the frame of the window, and gazed out across the silent park, while the icy chill of the frosty night air drifted in and eddied about the room.
Outside, beyond the silent, sleeping house, dotted with centuries old trees standing like tall, ghostly sentinels, the surrounding parkland stretched away, seemingly limitless in its extent, into the velvet-black darkness of the night. Tom glanced up. Here there was no fog, and high above him there soared a rack of sombre flying clouds.
The moon was up, along with a scattering of stars. Save for the quiet ticking of the clock on the mantle shelf, there was not a sound to disturb the tranquillity of the scene. And yet, Tom thought he could hear something else, a faint noise, which, as he listened, seemed to be steadily increasing in volume, but which for the time being was a sound that, try as he might, he could not quite identify.
Then, as if from nowhere, a thick, heavy bank of cloud suddenly swept across the stars; extinguishing their fiery brilliance. At the same time, from somewhere below him, Tom saw the first flickering snatches of pulsating orange light break through the all-enveloping darkness.
It was then that he smelled the acrid stench of smoke.
Realisation dawned on Tom, just as the uninterrupted quiet of but a few minutes before now exploded into a horrible hiss and roar of flames. The crash and rending of falling timbers and masonry was deafening, terrifying.
Downton Abbey was on fire.