five.
Give me these moments back, give them back to me
Her mother-in-law passes away during the summer, and Sybil finds herself wrapped in black, mourning a woman she has barely known, consoling the man she shares a bed, a house, a life with, but knows so very little about.
Sunny days pass in a blur, her thoughts wandering along as roaming the pavements becomes the only way to pass the endless hours of the days.
It all feels like an exaggeration of her adolescence, back before a certain person opened doors and before the war swept over the world like a monsoon of horror and change. It is all frocks and tea and dinner, and nothing else in between, nothing that could mute the thoughts in her mind.
When Mary and Sir Richard get married in autumn, Sybil is almost grateful. No matter how statuesque her sister appears, how cold and frozen her apparel has become, it all offers a few days of distraction.
Sybil loathes herself for it. For the faint flicker of relief she feels in the wake of her sister's final doom. Yet, there is not much else left. Nothing but books she has to read in secret, and streets she roams by herself.
They spend the holidays with Vincent's family, and no matter how welcoming everyone is, no matter how hard Sybil tries to smile and be happy, she knows she does not belong among them.
Loneliness is eating her up from the inside, and on Christmas day, she can not stop herself from excusing herself for a few minutes and rushing into Vincent's study.
Harris, the new butler after Carson left to follow Mary to Haxby and her new life as Sir Richard's wife, picks up the phone with a monotone words. It only takes a few minutes until Sybil, leaning against the heavy wooden desk to support herself, hears her mother's voice from the other end of the line, creaking and hoarse.
"Sybil, darling?"
"Mama."
"Is everything quite alright?"
"I just wanted to wish you a merry Christmas."
"But you called already this morning, my darling."
Both women are quiet for a few seconds. Sybil can feel herself starting to tremble, a single tear escaping her eyes, which are shut so tightly her head begins to ache.
All struggle against it is in vain, and eventually she can not hold back the desperate sob that sounds so breathless and full of despair.
"Oh, my darling," her mother whispers softly, and for a moment, the sound is enough to calm Sybil. "I still remember my first Christmas away from home after I married your father. It will all be get better, darling, I promise."
Sybil nods to herself, feeling her tears run over her slightly parted lips. The salty taste repulses her, the essence of her sadness bitter poison.
.
.
When Sybil and Vincent – more or less Vincent himself, holding Sybil's hand carefully in his own - announce on New Year's Eve that they are buying a new house for themselves, Sybil can see the meticulously concealed disappointment in every pair of eyes that they have no different news to announce.
Her hand absent-mindedly wanders across the deep blue silk across her stomach, and she feels much more like a disappointment than she does every single morning that she wakes up next to Vincent.
Every day he presses a chaste kiss on her lips, whispers good morning, voice always hoarse from sleep, and squeezes her hand for a brief second.
They never speak of it, not now that 1920 is only a few ticks of the clock away, not ever. Sybil is sure Vincent is just as disappointed as every member of his family, but he is patient. He loves her so much that it hurts her to look him in the eye.
"Happy new year, sweetheart," he whispers as the clock strikes twelve, marking the beginning of another year so terribly uncertain. A soft kiss on her forehead, and Sybil holds on to his hand, telling herself to smile.
.
.
The new house, as much of a cage as it may be, becomes Sybil's only escape from the boredom that accompanies her life.
She drowns herself in colours and fabrics, in lamps and curtains, rugs and coffee tables.
As Springs announces itself with soft breezes of warm air and the first splotches of colour all over the city like a paintbrush splashed over a blank canvas, Sybil persuades Vincent in a week-long slow debate, to hire Anna as housemaid.
She can not bring herself to fire Muriel, who has been her lady's maid for the past months. The young woman, not much older than Sybil herself, is dull and quiet, a little clumsy, but loyal and sweet.
But when Mary calls and informs Sybil that Mr Bates has been hanged – an innocent man, she is sure of it – she feels compelled to help Anna. The thought of her, the widow of a man sentences to death for murder, wandering around looking for employment, seems too cruel to Sybil.
Vincent worries about the hushed words it might bring upon them, but eventually gives in. Sybil knows she is taking advantage of his desire to make her happy, but only this once, she knows it is for a good cause.
With Anna living under the same roof, she feels more comfortable, safer knowing that someone else shares knowledge of her secret.
She thinks one night, laying awake with her hair damp against her temple, that maybe sad souls find their way to each other.
Only not always. Sometimes there are no ways, when all the bridges have burned down to the ground.
.
.
With trembling fingers, Sybil puts down the newspaper, trying hard to swallow the lump that is forming in her dry throat.
It is one of the rare crisp and bright days of this summer, and the window of their dining room is wide open, giving entrance to a soft breeze and the sound of cars rattling down the street in the early hours of morning.
Every morning she spends in the relatively small, cosy, blue dining room, enjoying Vincent's company much more than the solitude of a tray in her bedroom. Today, however, she wishes for a moment by herself.
There is no denying the fact that her eyes always scan for news about the troubles in Ireland before anything else. So often she longs for a different source of information, for something that shows the second side of the conflict.
It never leaves her untouched, the news of fires and deaths and uprisings. Every single time her chest contracts in pain underneath her corset, and her mind replaces the faceless names in the small print of the newspaper with the one name she now wishes so desperately to be her own.
"Is everything alright, sweetheart? You look very pale this morning."
Vincent sounds concerned and hesitant, and Sybil wonders how long he has watched her before the ability to keep words unspoken has left him. It is always this way. He watches and observes, but chooses to remain silent, to let her figure out her mind on her own.
Why the assassination of a British Colonel would drain the colour out of her cheeks is beyond her capacity of embellishments, so Sybil reaches for her cup of tea instead.
"I was having trouble falling asleep last night again, that is all."
It is not a complete lie, and it comforts Sybil. There are too many truths she can not speak out, too many small bits of information she has to make up every day of her life, that a simple word of truth becomes a rarity.
"Maybe you should talk to the doctor about it," Vincent suggests, folding his own newspaper and reaching for the handkerchief on his lap, "You seem to have quite a bit of trouble sleeping lately."
"I suppose. I will ask him over on Friday."
"I will be late tonight, so I'm afraid you will have to eat dinner by yourself. I'm terribly sorry," he continues as he rises from his chair, gently kissing Sybil's lips as she nods.
It is a rare occasion that she eats by herself or falls asleep on her own, and she has not quite made up her mind if she finds it liberating or yet another drop of sadness.
.
.
The world outside is very slowly starting to tint in red and orange, more like the colour of a setting sun. As the train rushes through the countryside at a steady pace, Sybil leans her head against the window, head pulsating with the effort of grasping the abundance of colour outside.
Autumn has always seemed cruel to her. It is as if the whole worlds explodes in a flash of life and colour before everything dies and disappears, leafs fall and snow covers the ground.
Her restless fingers fumble with the blue flower attached to her hat, and her right foot taps against the floor in a mindless rhythm.
Vincent is her complete opposite, reading his newspaper. He has not moved an inch since they left King's Cross, and Sybil eyes him with envy.
If only her mind would let her rest.
.
.
A strong breeze pushes Sybil's rather unwilling feet across the platform, Vincent's hand on the small of her back gently steering her towards the gates.
From afar and amongst the crowd, she can make out the dark green of a chauffeur's uniform next to the heavy gates, crouched over some sort of paper, and for a moment, Sybil fights to stop herself from chuckling at the thought that only Branson would have the impropriety to read a pamphlet during his working hours.
However, as they come to a stop in front of the man and he looks up, every bone in Sybil's body is stunned in place.
"Br- Mr Branson?" she stutters, only a thin thread of self-control reminding her of formalities and the sound of her voice.
"Milady," he says politely, and with a curt nod, quickly stuffing the pamphlet into his pocket, "Mr Hargrave."
He is about to step past them to collect their luggage, when the words burst out of her mouth. Only a fragment of what she wants to say – it was all a lie, forgive me, take me with you, I love you – but she can not stop herself.
"I thought you went back to Ireland, Mr Branson."
He stops to look at her, and when their eyes meet, Sybil can see what she broke, out in the open, so obvious to see.
"Only for a while, Milady."
.
.
"Darling, are you alright? You don't look very well," Vincent asks softly taking Sybil's hand that has been resting against the cool leather of the back-seat.
She turns to face him, a reassuring smile on her lips.
"I'm fine."
"You were awake again last night, weren't you? I heard you in the Sitting Room."
"Doctor Brooks told me to take walks around the house and sit at the window to get some fresh air."
"You should sit in the guest bedroom instead, it gets so draughty in the Sitting Room. I don't want you to catch a cold."
A bump in the road causes Sybil to involuntarily clutch Vincent's hand a bit more firmly, and he looks at her, eyes widened slightly in surprise, before she can see herself slipping out of his focus as he stares out of the window.
"You always seem to get even less sleep after these charity meetings on Thursdays. That woman is no good for you, darling," Vincent says quietly, but Sybil recognizes the tone in his voice. He is annoyed and worried, in his very own way concerned.
"You should give her a chance," Sybil answers, trying hard to form words and focus on her husband when her eyes keep flickering towards the front seat, and her mind screams question that will find no answer now, "She might be a little... exhausting, but she is terribly nice."
"Very well," Vincent says plainly, and Sybil notices his own eyes flickering towards the front, clearly not willing to take the topic any further at the moment, "I just wish you would find something else do on that day, and not surround yourself with people who tire you out so much."
"Don't worry," she reassures him, relief flooding through her as she realizes they are slowly approaching the big house.
.
.
While everyone is rushing about to unpack, Sybil sees her only chance and tugs Mary between two pillars in the hall, eyes cautious of everyone who might be passing by.
"What on Earth is the matter, Sybil?" Mary asks sternly, shaking her sister's hand off her arm.
"You knew, didn't you?" Sybil asks in a hushed voice, her fingers enclosing her own wrist only to hold on to something, feeling her own pulse race underneath her skin.
"Know what?"
She wonders for a moment if Mary is really this oblivious, but the look of despair in her eyes seems to be enough for her oldest sister to understand. Mary's face softens, and she sighs.
"Why did you not tell me he was back?"
"I did not see the point, Sybil" Mary whispers, leaning in a bit closer, "What difference does it make now?"
Sybil's gaze drops to the ground, ancient stone against her blue shoes.
"I thought about writing you when he showed up again, I honestly did," Mary continues quietly, resting her hand tentatively on Sybil's shoulder, "But... Oh, Sybil, what does it matter now?"
"It doesn't, of course," Sybil says sharply, stepping out of her sister's reach and walking swiftly towards her room.
.
.
"Won't Edmund be joining us for dinner, Mama?" Sybil asks as she follows her mother into the dimly-lit drawing room.
Everyone is scattered around the room, and Vincent makes his way over to her as she enters along wit her mother and sisters.
"You look beautiful, darling," he whispers and chastely kisses her cheek, and Sybil knows it is his apology for his comments earlier on in the car. She does not dare thinking that thought any further, trying hard to keep her mind in the here and now rather than letting it wander.
So, instead, she smiles dutifully and brushes her gloved hands over her olive-coloured dress, before sinking down onto the sofa next to her grandmother.
"No, his Grace will not honour us with his presence tonight," Mary answers in their mother's stead, her body tall and strong next to Richard by the fireplace.
"Mary, there is no need to be quite so spiteful," Cora says harshly, fidgeting with her glove.
"Are things really this bad?" Sybil asks, looking into many pairs of uncomfortable looking eyes.
"Things aren't going too well," her father answers curtly, impatiently eyeing the door.
"That, Robert, is is a charade you play so well I wonder why you never went on stage."
"I see no reason to talk well of someone who parades around the village, waiting for Papa to fall ill or be trampled to death by the horses," Mary continues, the same sort of venom spiking her voice that Sybil knows is born out of despair.
"Surely he doesn't-," Sybil begins, watching desperately how her family tears apart at the seams, before Mary interrupts her.
"He wants to move back to London, because, and I am quoting him now, he does not think it is necessary for him to be around here for now."
"He did not say that?"
"Oh, let me tell you, he did."
Sybil sees the sadness in her mother's eyes, the resistance in her grandmother's, the defencelessness in her father's, and for a moment, the Titanic echoes in her mind, the hundreds of people freezing to death in the merciless grasp of the icy water. She does not want to believe that her entire family has gone down with the ship - unsinkable, strong.
Still, it feels like it in this moment, when the routine takes over to cover the crumbling from within. She wonders how her family's story would have been told had Matthew survived the war. In the heat of the fire, she likes to believe she would have been strong enough to let her heart make the decision for her. Somehow, now, it seems to be disabled from her body, resting restlessly outside the stone walls, in a cottage she has never set foot in.