seven.
All the things I should've said that I never said
Luncheon stretches on like a grey Sunday afternoon in winter with nothing to do and nothing to distract. Endless, repetitive discussions and chats about the baby, about a nursery, about names and money and her mother's anecdotes of how small but strong Mary has been when she was born.
It does not matter that every person around the table, including Mary, despises Richard Carlisle, that everybody knows Mary is now permanently and for the rest of her days binding herself to this fate. No. Instead, everyone seems to hold on to the small string of light that a son or daughter, a grandchild, a niece or nephew will bring into this crumbling world.
Sybil recalls how her eyes have flickered from the front seat of the car to Mary sitting next to her in the back yesterday on their way into Ripon.
Her lies, all the mess she has caused and left behind impersonated in Tom. Tom, who does not turn to look her in the eyes once. Who seems to hold on to the steering while much too tightly, who brushes her hand off his almost harshly as he helps her out of the car.
And Mary. The symbol of her family's ruin, the last chapter in a line of tragedy and duty, indifference and resignation. Almost constantly, her hands hover over her stomach, and Sybil cannot tell if the movement is born out of protectiveness or insecurity.
It is all threatening to burst out of her, contained in a tense coil inside of her. The wish to stand and shout the truth out into the world for everyone to hear. To tell Mary to run, run, run far away and leave this all behind, to raise this child in a better world, for herself to say goodbye and take the next ferry to Ireland, into the unknown.
Instead, she lets Vincent pull back her chair and rises, smoothing her skirt as she follows her family outside into the hallway, her mother and Mary ahead.
"Sybil, dear," her grandmother's voice suddenly interrupts the storm inside Sybil's mind, "Might I have a word?"
Waving a hand at Vincent to send him off with the others, Sybil turns towards her grandmother, who is watching her calmly, but with the strong determination she has seen many times before.
"Is everything quite alright, my dear? You looked as if your head was lost somewhere in an Italian alleyway rather than here."
Trying to answer with a smile, Sybil can feel her fingers begin to play with the belt around her waist.
"I am just a little tired, Granny."
"Listen, my dear. I know this is difficult and unpleasant for you. But don't let it all take over."
Violet's voice is more quiet than usual, her hand shortly reaching out for Sybil before falling back to her stick. Sybil can see the hint of a reassuring smile, but mostly, her grandmother looks stern and serious.
"I'm sure it will all turn out eventually," she answers, trying to find an answer for herself why she keeps telling every one and herself this, why Vincent wants to believe it so badly and she herself can not find the courage to do so.
"Let me tell you this," Violet continues, "There is nothing more cruel on the mind than undone deeds, my dear. Remember that."
Her eyes fixed on her grandmother's back as she determinedly walks towards the drawing room, Sybil, standing all alone on the big hall, realizes their conversation has never been about children. Once again, she wonders how much of her lies are so obvious for everyone else to read, like a sign by the side of the road or the big black headline of a newspaper.
.
.
She stands in the door of the garage that night, wearing a light blue dress. For a few seconds, Tom can barely see her standing there right now in this very moment, but delves in memories of another time he has seen her in radiant light blue.
The thought alone, the memories of her proud smirk, of her family's shocked faces, hurts too much to cling onto.
"It's very late. Won't they wonder where you are?" he asks to distract himself, the same professional edge to his voice as the other day.
"I can't help that. I had to come."
Her voice is heavy with bitterness, and it is something he is so accustomed to hearing from Lady Mary, that he once again finds himself surprised at the reminder that they are, despite all differences, indeed sisters. However, it is not only the bitterness in which they are so alike in this moment. The spite in her voice is so much harsher than anything he is used to hearing from her.
"What for? Do you need the car tomorrow?"
Suddenly she is standing right in front of him, and her bare hand – why was she not wearing gloves and why is her palm so terribly soft and warm? - rests against his cheek.
The bitter-sweet memory of the last time this happened, of the time cool silk has brushed his skin, echoes through Tom's memory like the last, fading sounds of a painful shriek.
"I need to tell you something," she whispers hoarsely, looking him straight into the eyes, not a fleeting hint of hesitation or doubt detectable.
"Yes?"
"You always only told me the truth, and I have told you so many lies," she says quietly, and he can see the tears glistering in her eyes, "And I am so, so sorry, Tom. So sorry."
A few moments of silence fall between them, and Tom feels her words sink in, the apology he never needed but has always hoped for.
"I know," he murmurs, daring to lean a little closer into her touch.
Sybil smiles faintly. He has always known, somehow.
"When I told you I didn't love you... that was a lie," she finally says, lips quivering as her strength seems to falter. He remembers that night so terribly clearly. It has not been much different from this. Just as wrong, just as close, just as agonizing. "I only told you all those things because I hoped that it would set you free. That you would want to leave and live your life. But it was never the truth. I never meant to break your heart, but you handed it to me and I had to, no matter how much I hurt myself by doing so."
With each word that rushes past her lips, she edges a bit closer towards him, finally breaking every last barrier, overcoming the last bit of distance until the tips of her shoes bump into his.
"Because I love you," she whispers with such a quiet and broken voice that he can barely understand her, "So much. I love you so very much, Tom. And this is the truth, right here. If only just this once, I needed you to know."
He can feel her breath dampening his skin, and she is so much closer than she has ever been, than anyone has been to him in such a long time. His heart threatens to burst as he takes it all in, the smoothness of her skin, the glistening in her eyes, the curve of her lashes, the sound of her breath, the fine strands of hair that have come loose.
Somewhere along the line, he feels anger boiling amongst the passion and adrenaline inside of him. Anger at both of their selfishness. Is there really any point in these confessions now? Do they change anything at all?
"I knew," he finally answers, resting his own hand on her cheek, marvelling that he gets to do this, if only this once. Her eyes flutter close, and it all feels like such a burden to carry, like such a light weight that overcomes him, as if the wind rushes across sunny fields, only to be numbed by a storm, "I told you I knew. I never believed otherwise, whatever you told me."
She nods, remembering the day when he had been the one to confess her feelings for him. When he had offered her a ticket away from all the chains and cages and restraints that she now cringes within each and every moment of her life.
"And I lied when I said I was happy," she whispers sadly, brushing her cheek against his calloused palm.
"I can see."
Her eyes open, and it is all the proof he needs.
"How?"
Taking a shuddering breath, he leans forward, feels her tremble as she anticipates him to close the last remaining distance. Instead, he rests his forehead against hers, lifting his free hand to rest against her other cheek, fingertips brushing gently across her skin.
"There was always so much fire in your eyes," he begins to explain, shivers running down his spine as he feels her every motion beneath his touch, "You were always on the verge of bursting into flames. Out into the world. And now it's gone. I can't see any of it any more. You look so... tired."
No more words are said, and before he sees the first tear spilling over and running down her pale cheek, her lips press softly against his. It is such a gentle, hesitant and chaste moment, that he forgets all the urgency, all the suppressed passion he feels for her, that usually threaten to burst out of him like a bullet out of a pistol.
She slowly moves her hand from his cheek around his neck, fingertips sinking into the smoothness of his hair, her free hand clutching his arm, holding herself against him as closely as possible.
It is all too much. The shiver that runs down his spine as her fingers shyly massage the nape of his neck, her breath against his lips, her body in his arms.
Sybil sighs as they part for a brief second, their eyes meeting. Tears shimmer in both of them, but all pain is forgotten when their lips meet again, finally with the fire and passion and eagerness they have been denied for so long.
A/N: I was quite excited about posting this part, because the garage scene was actually the first I wrote for this story, and this is my personal favorite part. Only two more left.