Chapter One Hundred And Thirty Three

House Of Secrets

Despite both the brilliance and warmth of the late afternoon sunshine, inside, the house itself was chill, damp and gloomy, the entrance hall fireplace cold and empty, the furniture heavy and dark, while the high-ceilinged, stone-flagged room echoed noisily to the sound of their footsteps.

With Maeve as de facto châtelaine in residence taking charge and leading the way, with Tom leaning heavily on Sybil for both physical support and for continuing moral reassurance, as they all processed across the hall, looking about her, Sybil caught sight of the pictures on the walls and grimaced.

Although not one of them bore the slightest resemblance to darling Tom and thankfully so, Sybil assumed the portraits must all be of past members of the Branson family. From within their heavy gilt frames, thin-lipped and sour, the silent figures gazed down disapprovingly upon the living. Had any one of the sitters been in the position of being able to clamber down from out of their frames, speak and voice their own opinions, quite what they would have had to say about the new master of Skerries, was anyone's guess, but from the embittered expressions on their faces, it was extremely unlikely that it would have been anything remotely complimentary.

Tea awaited them all in the library, this from Pugh, at which Sybil demurred. Like the inevitable and unavoidable meeting with Tom's aunt, Clarissa, who since a massive stroke had been left bed-ridden and helpless, bereft of both all movement and speech, tea too would have to wait, at least for the present. For, while Sybil herself would have welcomed some refreshment, given what had happened to them all down at the station, especially to darling Tom, her only concern was to get him upstairs, undressed and into bed so that he could rest. She said as much to Maeve and, given all the circumstances, in the most matter-of-fact tone she could muster. As far as Sybil was concerned, the least she had to do with this condescending, patronising woman, the better, not only for the two of them, but also, for Tom. Apart from all of which, young Danny needed feeding and, here Sybil wrinkled her nose expressively, from the smell of him, also changing.

Upstairs on the landing, saying she had some correspondence to attend to and promising to look in upon them all later, although not asking if it would be convenient for her to do so, Maeve had then left Tom and Sybil in the capable hands of Mrs. Treves who now showed them to their quarters.

Ever watchful, Danny's plight had not gone unnoticed by the housekeeper who immediately ordered one of the housemaids to see to it that cans of hot water were brought upstairs at once to the first floor bedroom which had been assigned to the Bransons. Of course, in most country houses, this particular way of delivering hot water to the bedrooms had long since been superseded. But when Sybil raised a surprised eyebrow, as the housekeeper led them along a darkened corridor to their bedroom, Mrs. Treves went on to explain that here at Skerries, with most of the house now long since shut up, the hot water system had fallen into disrepair and in most of the upstairs rooms it now no longer functioned, there being no money to effect the necessary repairs, even assuming that someone could be found to undertake the work.

So, while the Bransons were here, at least for the present, any hot water they required would have to be drawn from off the range in the kitchen and brought up to them in old-fashioned cans. The housekeeper added that she had also seen to it that a hip bath had been placed in their bedroom to enable them to bathe.

Behind them, Mona, the other of the two housemaids now appeared in the doorway of their bedroom with their luggage; the small amount of which, along with the battered nature of their cases, both now yet further scarred by bullet holes, had on their arrival at the house drawn yet another unfavourable glance from Pugh. Indeed, the sourness which the old butler had displayed to both Tom and Sybil and which, from her amused expression ay the time, had not gone unnoticed by Maeve herself, was matched only by that of the sitters in their portraits lining the damp stained walls of the hall below.

The first floor bedroom assigned to both Tom and Sybil faced east and overlooked not only the sea, but also the small cove down below the house. Once inside their bedroom, with Mona having deposited their luggage and having left, with the ordered cans of hot water duly delivered, despite voluble protestations on the part of the other housemaid who had brought up the water, saying that she was also to see to their unpacking, Sybil had chivvied the girl out of the room, firmly closed the door and set about attending to the needs of both her men folk herself.

Even though it was late July and therefore the height of summer, somewhat surprisingly, given the lack of welcome they had experienced in the hall, they had found a fire burning in the fireplace of their bedroom on account of the fact, or so had said Mona, that even in summer Skerries was a damp, draughty old place. The girl had gone on to explain that the lighting of the fire in the bedroom grate had been on the express orders of Miss Maeve herself, so as to ensure, so said the ever informative Mona, that the blankets and sheets on the Bransons' bed were properly aired. And so they would have been, if acting on Maeve's instructions, whoever it was had set the fire in the first place, had taken proper care to ensure that it had been properly laid. As it was, as Sybil duly noted, all the apology for a fire was presently producing was a very great deal of smoke and very little by way of any warmth.

In her usual brisk no-nonsense fashion, with a babe in arms and now with an injured husband to care for, Sybil was having none of it and set about summoning someone to attend to the fire and praying that it still worked, she tugged hard on the faded, worn bell pull.

A short while later and Mona re-appeared in their bedroom back from downstairs. When Sybil explained what needed doing, Mona had protested, said that it was all the fault of that chit Agnes who had come in from the village and set the fire, not she. Enquiring as to the whereabouts of the absent Agnes, all Sybil managed to glean was that she was not at Skerries, at least not up at the house. It seemed she had an admirer, one of the British soldiers billeted down at the old stable block. Nothing further needed to be said. However, that still left the problem of what to do about the fire at which point, Sybil looked pointedly at Mona. In no time at all, under Sybil's direction and ever-watchful eye, with several heartfelt sighs on the part of Mona which an amused Sybil tacitly ignored, having re-laid the fire, the housemaid left the room in high dudgeon,

With a cheerful fire soon burning, the Bransons' bedroom soon took on a decidedly and entirely more pleasing appearance. Thereafter, with his shoes and socks removed, seated on their bed and propped up against a mound of pillows, Sybil made Tom as comfortable as she possibly could.

A cot which had clearly seen better days stood in the corner next to their bed. Judging by the state of it, it looked as though the cot had been brought down from the attics. This indeed turned out to be the case, as Mona had explained while attending to the fire, saying that it was a long time since there had been a baby in this house, not since young Master F... She suddenly paused in what she was saying.

"Oh, ma'am, how I do run on, to be sure!"

Apparently, the cot had belonged to Miss Maeve when she were a girl. Nevertheless, it was a kind thought, on the part of Tom's cousin, especially when, as Sybil found out later, the old nursery was on the fourth floor of the house and disused long since. The bedding in the cot seemed dry enough to the touch and so, for the time being at least, Sybil had no compunction about making use of it for Danny in due course.

The faded coat of arms, surmounted by an earl's coronet, painted on the headboard, a reminder, presumably, of the earldom once held by Tom's family and unto which Tom himself was now undoubtedly legitimately the successor should he wish to claim it, made Sybil smile. Looking across the room at Tom in his present woebegone state, half naked, bandaged, propped up on his mound of pillows and dozing quietly, the thought of him duly attired in a coronet and ermine robes, similar to those worn by her own father on State occasions, was too funny for words.

As always, when things needed doing, Sybil became practical. Having stripped Danny of all his clothes, along with his soiled nappy, Sybil poured hot water into the old hip bath she had dragged in front of the fire from the corner where it had been standing. Adding cold water from the porcelain ewer on the washstand and when, having tested it with her elbow, satisfied with the temperature, she sat Danny in the bath and then proceeded to wash and dry him thoroughly.

Bath time was something little Danny always enjoyed, kicking and splashing, blowing bubbles, usually gurgling with happiness and this occasion duly proved no different to any of those that had gone before. The ensuing noise only served to waken Tom from his fitful slumbers. As the happy sight of Sybil, now kneeling beside the fire, bathing their chubby, naked little son seated in the old hip bath, now drifted into focus before his eyes, despite the dull, throbbing pain in both his left arm and shoulder, Tom grinned with obvious pleasure.

"Will you… will you be doing the same… for me?" he asked haltingly and softly of her.

"With pleasure, but only after I've fed Danny and only if this time you promise to behave yourself" replied Sybil tartly and without even bothering to turn round; well aware that their own bath times, often jointly shared, nearly always led to other, even more enjoyable activities.

"I'll be patient then… and wait my turn" said Tom affably. He yawned, then forgetting his arm tried to stretch and, unseen by Sybil, stifling a groan, winced silently in pain.

A short while later, with Danny now fed and cleanly dressed in a fresh nappy, Sybil laid him down to sleep in the cot and then, at her urgent request, having caused further consternation in the kitchen, with yet more hot water in another pair of cans having been delivered from downstairs, she turned her attention to Tom.

Thereafter, having stripped him naked and helped Tom carefully sit himself down in the hip bath before the fire, telling him to take care not to get his bandages wet, Sybil now helped him to wash. As she continued to lather soap and warm water onto his bare skin, the effect which the gentle caresses of Sybil's fingers had upon Tom was electrifying, likewise the result; which was all too predictable.

"Sorry" Tom mumbled, blushing furiously, as before two regarding pairs of eyes, one blue gray, the other blue, his erection first grew, lengthened, fully hardened into a prime specimen of manhood and broke the surface of the water.

"Don't be! Somehow it's very re-assuring, I mean… knowing that I have this effect upon you!" laughed Sybil gazing with unabashed interest at Tom's firm erection.

"Why, you little minx! It's not… not all… all down to you alone, you know" he said drowsily. "I do... I do have some part... however small, to play in the proceedings!" He yawned contentedly.

"Small?" Sybil lofted an amused and disbelieving eyebrow.

Of course, she had seen many men, soldiers of all ranks, stark naked during her time spent both at the Ripon Military Camp Hospital and thereafter at the convalescent home established at Downton during the war, something which she ribbed Tom about mercilessly as and when the opportunity to do so ever arose, but Sybil had to admit that physically, Tom was extremely well-endowed.

"Well, perhaps not that small" chuckled Tom. He grinned happily at his wife and then yawned widely once again.

"Time, I think, to get you into bed, Mr. Branson" said Sybil. She caught his eye, smiled happily at him, as first she helped him get up from out of the bath and then briskly towelled him dry.

"Oh, I do hope so", grinned Tom lazily, resting against her for support which this time he did not really need and looking down sleepily, albeit with evident, glowing pride, at his still engorged and swollen penis.

Honestly, thought Sybil, he'll even be having an erection on his deathbed, to be sure!

A short while later, with Tom now clad in his pyjama bottoms, sitting up comfortably in bed, much to his sleepy delight, he watched contentedly as Sybil now stripped naked herself and took her own bath before the fire.

"You'll be the death of me, woman" he said huskily, unable either to avert his eyes from her naked body, especially from the sight of her beautiful and magnificently swollen breasts, nor to prevent his erection from quickening afresh.

"I do rather hope not" replied Sybil languidly, soaping water over her breasts and listening quietly to the waves as they broke upon the strand down below the house. Somehow, she found the sound strangely comforting, for it reminded her instantly of Ma's homely little house beside the sea, far away in distant Clontarf, on the north side of Dublin Bay.

"Is… Is this house much as you remember it?" she asked of him warily, mindful that Tom was very sensitive about anything to do with Skerries House. When he failed to answer her, Sybil looked round at him, saw Tom was staring fixedly into space, seemingly at some point just beyond the window. Catching sight of the pale oval of her face, he nodded his head assuredly.

"Yes, pretty much. In fact, too much as I remember. After… after… I ran away, I never… never thought to see this feckin' place again. Never to set foot across its threshold, least of all to own it" said Tom bleakly.

"And… is … is… Maeve as you remember her?

This time Tom's answer came swiftly enough.

"Given what she's been through, remarkably the same".

"That cottage…" began Sybil.

"What cottage?" he asked. She heard a note of caution creeping into his voice.

"The ruined one down there on the beach?"

"Oh, that… It belonged to..." He yawned expansively. Then, when Tom said nothing further by way of explanation, Sybil turned her head again, only to find that this time he had fallen fast asleep.

With, if only for the present, her two men folk made as comfortable as was possible, having dressed, placed the fire guard in front of the hearth, leaving them both sleeping soundly, Sybil let herself quietly out of the bedroom, at the same time doing something she had never done before, locking the door behind her and pocketing the key. Why she felt the need to do so, she could not say, but for some strange reason she felt better for doing so, felt that somehow, in some small way, she was helping to keep her loved ones safe from any harm.

She walked down the passage, but then instead of finding herself, as she had expected, at the head of the main staircase, having, she assumed taken a wrong turning, she found herself in another corridor. Ahead of her a door opened and a nurse carrying a tray came out of a room on the left. Seeing Sybil, she stopped and waited. On seeing Sybil, the nurse nodded her acknowledgement, stood to one side of the passage. Then, as Sybil drew level with her, seemingly of the opinion that somehow the nurse needed to justify herself for being there, entirely unsolicited by Sybil, she spoke to account for her presence.

"Ma'am. I look after the old lady". The nurse indicated the room behind her. "She's bed-ridden you know".

"Yes, I know" ventured Sybil.

"It won't be long before she…"

Sybil nodded.

"A blessed release when it comes, to be sure".
"So I believe".

"Forgive me asking, ma'am, but are you the wife of Miss Branson's cousin? I saw you both arrive here from off the afternoon train".

Again Sybil nodded.

"And… your husband…I couldn't help but notice that he was…"

"Our train was ambushed, at Skerries Road. My husband was injured in the shooting".

"Heavens! Where will it all end? He's not seriously hurt, I hope?"

"No thank God".

"He'll make a full recovery then?"

"Given time, yes".

"I understand you are also a nurse?"

"Yes, I trained in England during the war. I work… rather that is to say I worked at the Coombe, in Dublin. When my son was born I had to give that up. At least for the time being".

"Do you want to go in?" The nurse indicated the door of the room she had just quitted.

Sybil was about to refuse, when for some reason which she could not explain, she then changed her mind.

"Yes, thank you".

"You know, of course, that she can't move or speak? But she can both still hear and see you".

Sybil nodded her head, reached for the door knob, turned it and let herself into the silent room.

Even though it was only early evening, with the curtains already drawn and the lamps turned down low, the room was in semi-darkness. Along with the rest of the furnishings in the house which she had seen so far, those in this bedroom were also dark and heavy. Once her eyes had adjusted to the dimness within, Sybil made her way slowly to the foot of the bed where she stood in silence looking down at the recumbent form before her.

Without sound or movement, the flesh of her face wasted, her skin dull, her grey hair pulled back from off her forehead, the old lady lay prostrate, the covers drawn right up to her chin. This was the woman who, from what Tom had told her, Sybil knew, when he had been orphaned as a child, should have cared for him, made him welcome, but who instead, along with her husband and two sons had made Tom's young life a living hell here at Skerries House.

Somehow, the old woman must have sensed Sybil's quiet presence, standing there in the shadows at the foot of the bed, for momentarily her eyes glittered, feverish with hate. Sybil was a gentle soul, greatly caring and, as Tom would readily attest, deeply loving too. But, for once in her life, completely unmoved by the suffering she now saw before her, Sybil continued to stand there looking silently down without a shred of pity, not a scintilla of compassion, for the plight of the old woman.

Exactly how long she stood there, Sybil never knew, but, after a while she turned away, and, as she did so, now saw the clutch of photographs standing on top of the mahogany chest of drawers. Presumably so that she could seem them, the photographs had been grouped together directly in the line of the old woman's vision.

Evidently taken at various dates and stages of their lives, predictably enough, some of the pictures were of both Tom's aunt and her late husband,; others were of their three children, William, Christopher and Maeve. Two, each trimmed heavily across the corners with black crepe, were of young men in uniform, of William and Christopher, Maeve's brothers when grown up; Tom's two cousins who had bullied him so mercilessly, and both of whom had later been killed in the war. There was also a copy of the very same photograph which Sybil had found in Tom's belongings, taken of his uncle, aunt and their children, along with Tom as a young boy, all standing on the front steps of Skerries House.

But it was another, smaller photograph, set in an ebony frame, that now arrested Sybil's attention. Picking it up, she took it across to the window and having pulled aside one of the curtains, studied it intently. The picture was of Maeve as a young woman, standing at some unknown location, her hands resting lightly on the shoulders of a young, fair haired boy, presumably a family friend. The boy had evidently moved just as the photograph had been taken, for his face was blurred, indistinct, but for all that Sybil thought, somehow, he looked strangely familiar.

A short while later, back within the privacy of their own bedroom, with Tom awake, Sybil now rang down for some tea. Not long after that, there came a light tap at the door. Opening it, Sybil found Maeve standing outside in the corridor.

"How is darling Tommy now?" she asked solicitously, at the same time doing her very best to see into the room.

Sybil stood her ground, blocked the other woman's line of sight.

"Tom's resting. Naturally, given what happened, he's very tired. We all are" said Sybil crisply.

"No doubt. I hear you've met Mama?"

Sybil saw no reason to deny her meeting with Tom's aunt.

"Yes. As it happens. But only purely by chance. I didn't intend to pry".

"No, of course you didn't" replied Maeve, the calm expression on her face strangely at variance with the unmistakable note of sarcasm which had now tinged her voice. In the darkness of the corridor, her green eyes glittered, like those of a snake scenting its prey.

"Apparently it won't be long now, or so I've been told".

"So I understand. I'm sorry for you".

Maeve nodded.

"Thank you. Has... has Tommy said anything to you about her?"

"Some".

Sybil was not in the habit of volunteering information if she judged it was unnecessary nor when she did not wish to do so and now promptly changed the subject.

"I should thank you".

"For what?" Maeve sounded mystified.

"For the fire; for the loan of the cot also. It was kind of you".

"Oh, that! Think nothing of it".

"Was there something else you wanted?" asked Sybil, when Maeve remained standing exactly where she was.

"I was just wondering… I assume both of you will be joining me downstairs… for dinner? These days, apart from... well, to be truthful I've become so used to my own company that I've forgotten what it's like to have real guests. So I do hope you..."

Sybil shook her head emphatically. With Tom injured and Danny to attend to there was no question whatsoever of them joining Maeve downstairs for dinner.

"You're very kind. But no. If it's not too much trouble, at least for this evening, I would much prefer it if we had something sent up to us on a tray".

"Well, if you're really sure". Maeve's disappointment was all too obvious, but this time, Sybil had the whip hand and stuck to her guns.

"I am. Perfectly sure, thank you".

"Then I'll let the kitchen know. Even so, perhaps you yourself might like to join me later, in the Drawing Room, after dinner. Perhaps we could try to get to know each other a little better". Maeve smiled.

Again Sybil shook her head.

"Thank you, but no. My place is where I'm needed most. Here, along with my husband and our child. Of course, I don't expect you to understand. After all, how could you. But when you marry, have a child…"

Maeve smiled, nodded her head.

"As you wish. Well, I'll leave you then. And, give my love to Tommy".

At that, Sybil flushed.

"I'll tell him you were asking after him" she said coldly; there was nothing more to be said. Then, when Maeve still gave no sign of leaving, Sybil had the satisfaction of firmly closing the door in her face.

Outside in the corridor, at the head of the main stairs, after her anger prompted by her summary dismissal had cooled Maeve paused, stood stock still.

"When I have a child…" she began contemptuously. At that her green eyes flashed again and Maeve smiled a thin smile, before setting off downstairs to ring for Pugh and have him tell Mrs. White in the kitchen that, as usual, she herself would be dining alone; to prepare in addition two supper trays for her cousin and his wife.

In due course, complaining loudly and vociferously about her knees and all the stairs as she made her way along the passage to the Bransons' bedroom, Mona duly reappeared once again, this time with Tom and Sybil's supper; not that in the end Tom ate a great deal of it, saying that he felt sick, which Sybil put down to the effects of the morphine, while she herself ate all of her own meal and some of what Tom had left. And why not? After all, thought Sybil, I'm more than likely now eating for two.

Much later, shortly before she clambered into bed, having rubbed the misted glass clean with the palm of her hand, standing by the window of their bedroom in her nightgown, her hands clasped protectively across her belly, Sybil watched spellbound while outside in the gathering darkness all manner of sea birds dived into the sea, in a seemingly never-ending, wheeling, swooping, screeching search for food.

Below her, topped with its cresting of short turf, she saw, albeit this time but dimly, the edge of the cliffs and at their base the wide bank of shingle beyond which lay a broad expanse of damp sand and, once again, with the turning of the tide, white-tipped waves breaking on the shore. Just above the shingle bank and so therefore presumably beyond the reach of the highest tide, clearly visible from her vantage point, stood the ruins of the small cottage which she had glimpsed earlier upon their arrival and about which she had asked Tom; while far out to sea, on the now rapidly vanishing horizon she made out the dim shape and smoke of a twin stacked steamer.

As the night drew down and the sky continued to darken, but a few moments later, right outside the window there came a sudden commotion as, in a flurry of beating grey wings, a pair of large sea gulls landed screeching on the broad stone cill. With their yellowish beaks they pecked uncomprehending and savagely at the glass for several minutes before, squawking loudly, evidently disgruntled, the two birds flew off into the night sky, but not before their wholly unexpected presence there on the window ledge had left Sybil thoroughly disconcerted.

At last, regaining her customary composure, she turned away from the window and back to their room. In the soft glow of lamp light, now bathed, fed, wearing nothing but his pyjama bottoms, his left shoulder bandaged, with his injured arm still in its sling, propped up in bed on a mound of pillows, with a slight sheen of sweat upon his forehead, Tom lay dozing peacefully. Thankfully, the injection of morphine Sybil had administered to him just over an hour ago had at last done its work. She hoped that with it, Tom might manage to sleep through most of the night; while in his cot beside their bed, she heard Danny stir fitfully in his own innocent slumbers before settling himself just as quickly whereupon his gentle breathing resumed once more its rhythmic nature.

Although the softness of the lamp light helped somewhat to mask the gloomy nature of their immediate surroundings, even with the fire burning merrily in the grate, the bedroom smelt musty and it was all too obvious that the dark, heavy furniture had received but the most perfunctory of dustings.

With its drab, mildewed wallpaper and sombre paintings of shipwrecks set against stormy skies and mountainous seas, including a copy of Turner's Wreck of the Minotaur, Sybil thought the room to be thoroughly depressing, but now, as she looked about her, as the similarity dawned upon her, she permitted herself the luxury of a grim smile. Here, within the narrow confines of this dreary room, situated on an upper floor of this benighted, lonely house overlooking the sea, while presumably they were safe enough, the three Bransons were themselves much like the survivors of a shipwreck, washed ashore and marooned on some strange, infinitely remote desert island.

Later that night, long after everyone at Skerries had gone to bed, the wind and the rain returned. Woken, she thought at first by the rattling of the ill fitting casement, pulling her shawl about her shoulders, Sybil sat up in bed and lightly turned up the lamp; saw in an instant that thankfully both Tom and Danny were still fast asleep.

But then, just as she was about to turn down the lamp, above the roar of the waves, the incessant screeching of the gulls, between the savage gusts of wind, as the rain drove hard against their bedroom window, there came faintly to Sybil's ears another sound; that of a child sobbing. At that very same moment, Tom stirred, turned uneasily in his sleep and said something unintelligible. Reaching forward with the tips of her fingers Sybil caressed his well loved face, kissed him lightly on his forehead. At the soothing gentleness of her touch, clasping hold of her hand, Tom settled almost immediately and drifted off back to sleep.

Sybil listened intently; now heard again the breaking of the waves upon the sea-strand, the crying of the sea-birds, the moaning of the wind and the incessant rain driving upon the glass. But the sobbing, if that indeed was what she had heard, had ceased.

Author's Note:

Depicting the loss of a sailing ship in a gale, "The Wreck of the Minotaur" is a famous painting by the English artist J. M. W. Turner (1775-1851).