six.
All the things that you needed from me, all the things that you wanted for me
The taste of the wine is bitter on Sybil's tongue, and she feels it burning down her throat like a fire she can not control.
When Richard pushes back his chair to stand, towering over the table in the supercilious, intimidating way that Sybil always connected with him, she can feel everything inside her tingling with anxiety. Somehow, she knows what is coming, and when he does announce that he and Mary are expecting their first child, and reaches out to hold Mary's hand, everything blurs.
There is her mother's excited gasp, her father's reluctant handshake, Edith's forces smile, Granny's surprisingly moved comment, and by the time Sybil leaves her chair to hug her eldest sister, she can see Vincent congratulating Richard from the corner of her eye.
"I'm so happy for you," she says quietly, and when her eyes meet Mary's, both women understand whose wishes have come true, and whose have been shattered.
.
.
"Wonderful news, isn't it?" Vincent asks as he slips into bed beside her, propping his pillow up against the headboard.
"Wonderful," Sybil replies quietly as she fidgets with the ribbon holding together her braid. She does not find the strength to look at her husband, even in the dim light of the lamp on his bedside table.
The thick silence between them seems to stretch on forever, like a never ending road along the coast.
"I'm sorry," she finally whispers, looking down at the ring that circles her finger so tightly, and bounds her to this hour like a vice.
"Don't apologise, darling."
Some ruffling of the heavy duvet, and his lips press gently against her cheek, his forehead resting against her temple.
"Don't apologise."
.
.
She hears the ruffling of the sheets, yet she continues to sit completely still, arms wrapped around herself.
The world outside is tinted in black, the wide expands of the estate almost unrecognisable. Earlier on, she has seen a few scattered stars across the night sky, but now the clouds have taken even those away.
Slow steps in the dark, no words spoken, and Sybil feels a blanket being wrapped around her shoulders.
"One of these days you really are going to catch a cold," Vincent says ever so quietly, his voice thick with sleep as he kneels down beside her.
"Did I wake you?"
"I don't think so, no."
His hands reaches out towards hers, and Sybil hopes the faint moonlight does not reflect the tear tracks on her cheeks.
"You seemed rather surprised to see the chauffeur today," Vincent says calmly, and Sybil knows immediately that he is trying to keep up a light conversation after the choked apologies in the dim light earlier.
Her eyes, burning from the salty tears and cool breeze, fall shut for a moment. If only he knew.
"Well, he worked here for six years, and returned to Ireland around the time of our engagement," she replies quickly, eager to fall back into silence. It is something that she notices more and more. The wish for silence, the longing to speak leaving her piece by piece. "You don't really expect servants to return once they have handed in their notice, do you?"
"I suppose not. It's no wonder, though, with all that trouble in Ireland."
She nods, suddenly feeling terribly cold and utterly relieved at the same time. This thought has not crossed her mind yet, too occupied with the confusion of seeing Tom again so suddenly, her family's slow decay and Mary's announcement.
He is alive. He is here. He is safe.
When they slip back under the covers, Vincent kisses her lips softly, but Sybil turns away from him quickly, keeping a strong hold on his hand to minimize the rejection that constantly seems to linger between them.
"Do you think it has something to do with the sleep problems?" Vincent whispers, squeezing her hand.
She knows what he is talking about. Never do they really call it by a name, never say out loud or question with words why they are still only two, but the unspoken words linger between every line and syllable that is spoken.
"I don't know. Maybe."
.
.
"Why are you back?"
He looks up from the newspaper in his hand. Of course he has heard the clicking of heels announcing her arrival. Heard it minutes before. But only now that he hears her voice, looks up to see her standing in the garage door once more does he fully understand she is really here.
That she has not been a dream.
"Why do you ask?"
There is no need for pretences in the confines of this old place of comfort and honesty between them. She steps inside and there are no class divides. They talk as equals.
"Because I want to know," she states simply, defiantly, coming to a halt in front of him, "Because you once told me you would not always be a chauffeur. Because you also told me you only stayed at Downton to wait for my answer. And when I gave it you left the same minute. So, why did you come back?"
Something in her voice, controlled and steady, is at unease and reminds him sadly of the shadow of a young woman who could go on and on about women and the vote.
For a few moments, he contemplates if he should lie. Come up with the same shallow excuses he has made up when he applied for his old job a few months ago. Stories that Mr Carson believes, O'Brien likes to comment on and Mrs Hughes sees for exactly what they are.
Sybil appears upset by his silence, anger transforming her face into a mere mask of the collected and tired woman he has seen in the car. Somehow, his presence seem to upset and enrage her, but the wonderment in her eyes is what finally makes him decide to tell her the truth. He always has, and he knows he always will.
"Because," he begins, but suddenly her face softens just a little, so lightly he can barely see the change, and his chest swells with all the familiar pain, "I went back to Ireland and I enjoyed the job at the paper. It was everything I thought it would be. Only... it wasn't."
Taking a small step forward, they are standing closer than anywhere appropriate. Still, he needs her to see, to understand, that nothing has changed for him.
"Because nothing there – back home – even indicated that you even existed," he confesses, voice bitter with the memories of those days when he looked out of the window into the rain clouds, wondering if the woman with the dark hair and the bright smile really existed, "And I couldn't bear living a life in which you only exist in my imagination. So, I came back here. Because here, everywhere I go and every little thing I see holds memories of you. And for at least a little while, I want to remember you. I'm not quite ready to let go."
Her expression changes into a flicker of guilt. That is the last thing he wants her to feel, and for a single moment he regrets being honest. Much rather will he live with her memories fading, than knowing she believes she ruined his life.
"Don't worry," he quickly adds, voice more quiet, less determined, "I won't stay forever. But for now, I need to hold on to all that I have of you. And that is memories."
They stand there, facing each other, for all the time in the world it seems. Her eyes look clouded, the impact of his words releasing a flood of emotions on her face.
Her lips seem to quiver for a moment, and she drops her gaze towards the floor.
"I should be going back. Could you take Mary and me into Ripon tomorrow after breakfast?"
"Of course."
Their eyes only meet briefly as she turns to leave, kneading her hands nervously.
"Are you happy?"
His words are blunt, and he is aware of that, especially when he sees her back straighten as she stops in her tracks.
"I don't believe that is any of your concern," she answers with a cool voice, not bothering to turn around to look at him. It seems formal now, the way she would politely tell him to not take the topic any further, or there would be consequences.
He knows there will never be any. This distinct amount of power he has, the secret they share, the secret that never really had the chance to fully blossom into one, makes him feel oddly vulnerable. Yes, she will never give him away, because that means exposing all the truths she has so successfully covered up. He should be thankful for that. But it also emphasizes that it is all lost.
"How was my reasoning to be here any of your concern, Milady?" he asks, slipping into the overly polite tone of his voice usually reserved for Lady Mary, with whom not a day goes by without a suspicious glance.
"Of course I am happy. Very. Good day."
With these words, she disappears. Once more.
.
.
She feels like she is leaving a trail of lies behind her as she walks back towards the house she spent her childhood in.
For only a few breathless moments, she wonders if she could erase her steps by walking back, by telling the truth.
She never tries.