Again, apologies, my updates won't always be this frequent! All the Brontë's (and brother Branwell) own themselves, West Ridings own Bradford, Halifax and Dewsbury, Co. Down and Co. Dublin own themselves also, Cambridgeshire owns Cambridge, Trinity Mirror owns the Daily Mirror (which, yes, is apparently available in Ireland), Google is owned by just about everyone nowadays – excluding me, 'Oui' is primarily owned by the French, the Costa Concordia is owned by Carnival Corporation (not that they have much use for it now), Rugby League is British, the Six Nations is owned by those six countries that I won't bother listing, Jeremy Irvine owns himself, Mr Fantastic is owned by Marvel, and FINALLY Tadhg and Ciarán are traditional Irish names. All the chapter titles are song titles – this one refers to Kate Bush's song, not Emily Brontë's novel. Almost called Discovering the Cobbles.

It picks up a bit more, even longer chapter (and not just because of the excessive credits that I've decided I will no longer include.)

-pureclass

"Here."

"What?"

"It's a chippy!" The old lanes of Haworth you could have mistaken for having not changed since Charlotte, Anne and Emily had walked the streets. "So you like literature?"

"Yeh, but Edith likes it more. I kinda prefer the history."

"Same, and Politics."

"Really? Me too!" the pair just smiled at each other, mouths stuffed with thick, crispy homemade chips. "Hmm," Sybil swallowed her mouthful, "Wanna go on the steam train?"

Tom swallowed his own mouthful, almost dribbling some of the thick homemade meat gravy he had splattered all over his chips, and nodded a yes.

Haworth to Keighley with tickets that also looked like they'd just hopped out of the Georgian period. Had aeroplanes been invented when these had? The journey wasn't all too long but they found it necessary to discuss shared opinions on the sisters' family.

"You know, Patrick Brontë was from County Down. Named after the Saint. Born on St. Patrick's day as well."

"Yeh, his only son Branwell born near Bradford got addicted to heroin and died in Haworth. Strange, besides the eldest two they were all born in Thornton but resided in Haworth."

"Hey, his name's like mine."

"Patrick Branwell?"

"Tom Branson. Irishman – but from County Dublin." Laughing at the coincidence, he then added, "Hey, weren't the first daughters born further South than Bradford, near Halifax and Dewsbury."

"Yeh, why?"

"Why'd'cha think they moved North?"

"Because they wanted to? You could ask why'd my family move South – we have a perfectly ginormous house up here but live near Cambridge."

"Hmm, 'spose so. What's it called, anyway? 'Enter surname here House' like the rest of them?"

"No, but there is a Crawley House nearby that we own, too."

"Crawley? Sybil Crawley?" he couldn't believe his ears. Was this charming, intelligent, beautiful girl curled up next to him in her massive hoodie drinking Starbucks out of a paper cup really the Sybil Crawley?

"Yeh." She blushed, "You seemed nice; and not like someone who read tabloids or gossip magazines or whatever."

He knew what she meant by 'whatever', and no, he wasn't like that. "No, but my sister reads all those magazines – and occasionally the Mirror. I think she has a shrine dedicated to you in her wardrobe."

"Which one?"

"Rose. She thinks you're – and I quote – 'Far too nice to be famous'. Or, I think she means, that you're a little less superficial than most, well, celebrities." This made her grin.

"Do you think that?"

"Depends."

"On what?"

"Whether you enjoyed today."

"Enjoyed?" she repeated, "I'm still enjoying it – I've never felt so free."

"This coming from Family Rebel Number One."

"Hey, at least it's not Public Enemy Number One!"

"You know, last I heard from Rose she screamed down the phone lines to give my eardrums a personal kick-in about how she'd just searched you – yet again – on Google and apparently you're three months pregnant."

"Really? I should really start copying Mary and search myself on the internet a bit more then get Murray to stop anything bad circulating."

"You have someone who can do that?"

"Oui, since the injunction."

"Oh yeh, your sister was being stalked by paparazzi after her fall, right."

"No, that just got Mary and her stupid horse super injunctions – Edith and I got one not too long back when Patrick went missing on that ship that overturned."

"Patrick Brontë, or Branwell?" he joked

"Crawley! One of my distant cousins, geez. Presumed dead on the Costa Concordia."

"Oh yeh, now I remember. Isn't he like heir or something?"

"Now it goes to some lawyer who's an even further related cousin."

"That why you're going to this big house of yours?"

"Of my dad's." She corrected, "And yes. He died young, without a will and stuff. This solicitor who will inherit the estate is conveniently going to oversee everything legal. I don't know why I have to go, I won't get anything. Papa wanted Mary to marry Patrick but Edith really fancied him – I hadn't seen him since I was, like, 12."

"Doing anything interesting tomorrow?"

"Edith will probably insist on watching the rugby, so I have brutes chasing around after an awkwardly-shape ball to look forward to."

"Hey, I played rugby in high school – and Uni!"

"Well, feel free to come along and explain the game to me while we watch."

"Really? You're asking me to go to yours to explain the Ireland/Wales match tomorrow?" So very forward. Clearly, once she found someone she could trust, she wouldn't let them go.

"Sure. Heck, it'd save me from mama throwing a load of boring-cum-eligible boyfriends my way. She tried to set me up with Jeremy Irvine last month."

"Ouch, being practically forced to meet some handsome movie star must be torture." He commented sarcastically.

"Oh, it is, Mr Fantastic." Irony. She used it well, he thought.

"Is that my new nickname? Because, honestly, 'Paddy's little brother' or even just 'Tom' will do fine."

"You have a brother called Patrick?"

"And Liam and Tadhg and Ciarán."

"Wait, Rose, Sinead, Jess, Patrick, Liam, Tiger, Kieran."

"Yep – but mind how you spell the last two."

"How do you spell them?" she asked exasperatedly, knowledgeable that he wanted her to ask.

"Glad you asked," he began, a little too enthusiastically, "Tadhg is spelt T, A, D, H, G and Ciarán is spelt C, I, A, R, accented A, N."

"And I thought my name confused people."