Dublin

Sybil had learned quite quickly to lie about her religion when she was looking for a nursing position. The first two hospitals she had applied at where more interested in her religion than her nursing qualifications. There was a nursing shortage but it made no difference in the prejudice against the English she was encountering. At her third interview she casually mentioned her husband was originally from Dublin and that they attended mass regularly. It wasn't an outright lie as she did attend mass with her husband at least once a week but didn't take communion. It was enough of an evasion of the truth to land her a position at a small hospital.

They had no problem finding a small, furnished flat in the vicinity of Tom's work with a common garden in back. It was a bit further to the hospital but it was a nice walk and Sybil didn't mind the time to wind down after her shift. The flat was in a nice section of town with a large park at the end of the street. Sybil had faced some anti-English sentiment when she attempted to do the grocery shopping, but had quickly learned which stores would serve her and which wouldn't. As well she had learned to watch the prices and be sure the shopkeepers were totaling the bill accurately. After the first few times of inflated prices she had caught on quickly.

Tom continued to be a man of surprises. He would loose himself for hours in his work or forget to eat when he was engrossed in a book, then to make it up to Sybil he would cook dinner for a week. He had no issue heating water and doing the laundry on his day off. About a week after they had moved into their new flat, Sybil was surprised one morning to find Tom heating water with a large pile of their laundry on the counter in their kitchen.

"What are you doing with all that?" Sybil asked him.

"Washing it. Does this blouse go in hot or cold water?" he asked.

"Warm, I think," Sybil replied.

She had tied up and dusted while Tom did their laundry. Between the two of them the housework was completed by lunchtime.

"There isn't much for me to do here," Sybil laughed one day when she had returned from work to find Tom scrubbing their small bathroom.

"I didn't marry you for your house cleaning skills," Tom said. "If I wanted a girl who cooked and cleaned all day and never argued with me I could have found that long ago."

"So I should pick an argument everyday and then you'd be happy?" Sybil teased him.

"Only if we get to do what we usually do when we make up," he teased her back.

"We do that without an argument," Sybil laughed. They still couldn't get enough of each other and unless they were exhausted at the end of their workday making love was part of their daily routine.

Sybil had written first to her mother then in turn to Edith, Mary and her Grandmother. The first to reply had been Edith and after her second letter to her mother a short reply had arrived. At first the lack of response had upset her, but Tom encouraged her to keep trying.

"They love you," he said. "It will take them time to adjust. Just keep trying."

At Christmas Sybil received a letter from her Grandmother, mother and each of her sisters. The tone in each of them was much friendlier than the previous letters. Her father's continued resistance still stung, but she tried not to let it deter her.

Tom's mother was still cool to Sybil but had accepted the situation. She supported her son's bride in public although in private he regularly got an earful. She had stopped by one evening when Sybil was tired from the hospital and had managed to burn a roast and undercook the vegetables.

"She's not suited to this life. Why can't you see that?" his mother griped at him.

"She's trying her best and I'd thank you to stay out of it," Tom replied.

"I'm your mother and I want what's best for you."

"I'm an adult capable of making my own decisions and deciding what's best for me," Tom replied.

It had shut his mother down for one day but she was still ready to find fault with almost everything Sybil did. Sybil's introduction into Tom's extended family had been dizzying with so many cousins, aunts and uncles Sybil couldn't keep them all straight. She had evaded the topic of her religion and had kept her title to herself. When asked how she and Tom had met, she replied that he had worked on the estate where her family lived. Most assumed her father worked on the estate in a higher position and didn't question her background.

Without the restrictive environment Sybil had been raised in she was free to follow her own interests and made enquiries about upgrading her nursing training. Tom was supportive of the idea and Sybil found out she could apply her work experience towards her upgrade. As well the local nursing school was offering courses two days a week in response to the nursing shortage to allow nurses to attend school and keep working while taking advanced training. In January, Sybil began her upgrading. Her hours were long and she was tired when she returned home, but she was the happiest she had ever been.

Tom was hiding a great deal from her about his work. Some of the reporters at the paper had received death threats and men wearing nondescript clothing had beaten two of them. Everyone suspected it was the work of the local police, but nothing could be proven. Tom had received a number of threats and had a few narrow escapes when he had gone to cover meetings that turned into a brawl when opposing forces had shown up.

Tensions in the city were heating up yet again by the spring and Tom could no longer conceal his fears from Sybil. He insisted that she wait until he arrived to walk her home from work each day and wouldn't let her go shopping on her own. When he had been sent overnight to cover a meeting Tom had arranged for one of his younger cousins to come and stay with Sybil so she wouldn't be alone. Their neighborhood was relatively quiet, but there had been gunshots on the street twice and Sybil had seen the results of the violence first hand at the hospital.

In the summer of 1918 the troubles in Ireland came knocking on the door. It was a warm Saturday afternoon. The skies were clear and Tom had gone to cover a rally in a neighboring town. Sybil had taken the opportunity to visit her mother-in-law, as she wanted to learn how to make a local dish she had never seen in England. The women had put the meal in the oven and were sitting in the back garden enjoying the day. A young man around seventeen or eighteen years old Sybil thought possibly was one of the cousins staggered into the garden. He was holding his side and was obviously injured. Sybil was up and at his side in a flash. Her mother-in-law was almost as fast.

"Rory. What's happened?" Mrs. Branson inquired.

"God damn soldiers," Rory rasped out.

"And what did you get up to?" Mrs. Branson demanded. "You were out with those thugs that call themselves part of the Volunteers again weren't you? You're going to get yourself killed."

"Let's get him inside," Sybil said.

The two women got him into the kitchen. Mrs. Branson removed his coat while Sybil got a scissors to cut his shirt.

"I don't want her touching me," he said tossing his head towards Sybil.

"You mind your tongue. You just be glad she's here and can mend what that stupid head of yours has gotten you into. She's a nurse and knows what she's doing."

Sybil stepped forward to cut Rory's shirt away from the wound. He flinched and pulled away from her. He was looking at her as if he expected her to stab him with the scissors. He took a staggering step, groaned and pitched forward almost hitting his head on the table. The two women helped him into a chair. Sybil cut his shirt off to reveal a gunshot wound in his side.

"He needs to go to the hospital," Sybil said.

"He can't. He'll be arrested for sure. Possibly beaten. He's the neighbor's boy from down the street."

"Oh," Sybil said. "I know how to treat this but it won't be pleasant without anesthetic. It is going to hurt."

"It already god damn hurts," Rory slurred.

"You watch your tongue," Mrs. Branson said. "I'll go get his mother."

"First get me your first aid supplies," Sybil said. "Do you have rubbing alcohol? If not whiskey will do."

Sybil had retrieved a clean kitchen cloth and was wiping the blood from around the wound. Rory was trying to pull away from her, but was in too much pain to move very far.

Mrs. Branson hurriedly retrieved the supplies before she headed out the door to retrieve Rory's mother.

Sybil cleared off the kitchen table and washed it down before she instructed Rory to lie on the table. She pushed a chair up to one end for his feet to rest on.

"Why should I do anything you say?" he demanded."What are you going to do to me?"

"Right now you have two choices. Allow me to treat the wound or go to the hospital and be arrested. Which is it?" Sybil retorted.

Rory was looking at her warily and wanted to protest but thought better. Sybil was all business and looked like she would box his ears if he talked back.

"All right, you can do it," he said. He moved to lie on the table.

Mrs. Branson rushed in with Rory's mother.

"Rory. What have you done?" his mother cried.

"He'll be fine," Mrs. Branson said. "My daughter-in-law knows what to do."

"We'll need needle and thread to stitch the wound shut," Sybil said. "Linen thread if you have it."

Rory's mother gasped at Sybil's words and broke out in a tirade of Irish. The two older women were having a rapid exchange in Irish when Rory groaned loudly.

"I must insist you get the needle and thread now," Sybil said taking charge of the situation. "If you want to help your son, stand by his head and hold his hands. I'm going to remove the bullet and close the wound. I'm sorry to say but this is going to hurt a great deal."

Mrs. Branson returned with the thread and some needles. Sybil prepared the needle and thread and placed it in a small pot to be boiled. She finished cleaning the wound and then placed a rolled up tea towel in Rory's mouth. She cleaned her hands with rubbing alcohol. She picked up a tweezers she had soaking in rubbing alcohol and allowed them to dry for a minute in the air.

"It's going to hurt now, but it will be over soon," she crooned to the young man. He looked back at her with fear in his eyes. He looked to his mother and then back to Sybil.

"Hold his legs," Sybil said to her mother-in-law.

Sybil inserted the tweezers into the wound until she felt the bullet. Rory was fighting and trying to scream against the towel in his mouth. Sybil carefully maneuvered the tweezers until she had the bullet and slowly pulled it from the wound. The blood flowed from the wound and Sybil pressed on it with a clean dry cloth to apply pressure.

"He's lucky it missed his liver," she said. "It's a flesh wound. I've done this before when I was working with the war wounded but never without an anesthetic and proper instruments."

Rory had passed out from the pain.

"What's happened? You've made things worse," Rory's mother accused Sybil.

"He's fainted. He will come round in a few minutes," Sybil said. "Please remove the towel from his mouth and allow me to continue undisturbed."

Mrs. Branson brought the pan with the boiled needle and thread. She had poured off the boiling water. Sybil picked up the needle with the tweezers and allowed it to cool before she began to stitch. She closed the wound neatly and then used items from the first aid kit to bandage Rory's side. Sybil asked for a clean pillowslip, which she cut into strips for wide bandages. When she was completely finished bandaging the young man, she cleared away the bloody towels. She took a moment and pushed the hair off her forehead with her wrist.

Both of the older women were staring at her with a look of wonder on their faces.

"He'll be fine," Sybil said. "He'll probably sleep for the next two days. The bandages will need to be changed daily for the next four days or so and the stitches removed in ten days. He didn't loose enough blood to be in danger. Rest and decent meals for a few days will help him build his strength back up. We can get him up in half an hour or so."

Rory's mother began to cry. "My poor boy" she sobbed. Mrs. Branson moved to comfort the boy's mother.

"Your son will recover," Sybil said. She had understood every word Rory's mother had said earlier in Irish. Most of it had not been complimentary towards Sybil or her nationality.

Rory groaned and rolled his head to the side. Sybil got another damp towel and wiped Rory's face. His eyelids fluttered open.

"You're going to be fine," she said with a reassuring smile.

"Hurts like hell," he mumbled.

"Getting shot usually does," Sybil replied.

She helped him sit upright and supported him while he regained his equilibrium.

"He shouldn't really walk down the street in this condition," Sybil said. "He should stay here for a few days."

Mrs. Branson nodded and between them the women got him up the stairs and into the spare room. Rory's mother wasn't much help. Sybil could smell the alcohol on her and suspected she had been drinking. Once they were in the bedroom, Sybil removed Rory's cloths and got him into bed. He promptly fell asleep as soon as the covers were pulled up.

The women returned downstairs and began the process of cleaning the kitchen.

"We'll burn the towels," Mrs. Branson said to Rory's mother. "The police won't find him here. We won't be telling my son about this or he'll never let his wife set foot in my house again."

"No Tom, would have a fit, I'm afraid," Sybil agreed. "Oh my pie!" She rushed to the oven and rescued her fruit pie with it's lumpy, misshapen crust. The edges were scorched. Luckily the meat dish she had made with her mother-in-law was still intact and had fared better than the pie.

"We'll just cut off the burned bit," Mrs. Branson said seriously.

After the stress of the afternoon Sybil and Mrs. Branson began to giggle and then laugh hysterically. Rory's mother looked at them like they had lost their senses and beat a retreat out the back door.

That evening Sybil took a tray up to Rory and pushed the food into him by the forkful. He was still weak from the afternoon and his hands were shaking too much to feed himself. He never took his eyes off her.

"The shock should wear off by tomorrow," Sybil said as she pushed another forkful of meat and potato into his mouth.

"Are you really married to an Irishman?" he asked between bites.

"Yes, I am," Sybil replied. She had heard similar questions at the hospital before.

"Why?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"I've never met anyone like you before. You're English but your kind and nice at the same time."

"And how many English people have you met that weren't soldiers? Sybil asked.

"None."

"Not everyone from England is a soldier," Sybil chided him. "Just like not everyone from Ireland is a rebel." She put a glass of milk to his mouth for him to drink. Rory managed to hold it himself as he drank it. He handed the glass back to Sybil.

"My Da was killed by the English."

"Was he a rebel?"

Rory nodded.

"Is that why you're one?"

"Pretty much."

"My father thinks everyone from Ireland is a rebel. He is convinced my husband is one."

"How will you change his mind if your husband isn't a rebel?"

"We will keep trying and one day he'll see what a decent man I've married. My father is kind and generous most of the time. He wants his daughters protected. Once he understands that my husband takes care of me. He will come around."

"I'm going to have to leave Ireland after this."

"I can ask my father to help you get a job, if you like. Only if you promise no more armed demonstrations and to give English people a chance. We're not so bad you know. Some of us even believe in freedom for Ireland."

"Maybe. I'll have to think about it."

Sybil took the tray back down and switched off the light so Rory would go back to sleep. Rome wasn't built in day, she reminded herself.

When Tom arrived to collect Sybil the following day, the police were on the stoop four doors down questioning Rory's mother. Tom frowned as he passed by and hurried to check that Sybil was alright. Sybil was not in sight when he entered the house.

"What's going on down the street and where's Sybil?" Tom asked the moment he entered the house. He could tell from the worried look on his mother's face that something was up.

"Rory Lester got shot. The police are looking for him."

"Young fool," Tom said.

"I remember a time when you weren't much better."

"I never got into an armed conflict, Ma."

"By the grace of God."

"Where's Sybil?"

"Upstairs."

Tom raced up the stairs to make sure his wife was alright and came to an abrupt halt in the door when he spotted Rory Lester sitting up in bed with his wife sitting on a chair talking to him.

"You little prick," Tom said clearly annoyed. "What are you doing here?"

"Recovering from a wound. Your wife saved my life."

"Hardly that," Sybil replied. "I did save you from the police."

"It's the same thing," Rory replied.

"You god damn stupid little bastard. Do you have any idea the danger you've put my wife in?" Tom said. He was angry but didn't raise his voice incase the police were still on the street.

"Settle down, Tom," Sybil said. "He staggered into the garden yesterday. There wasn't much choice. I patched him up. It will be a few days before he can go anywhere. Two weeks at least before he can make the trip to England."

"It's dangerous keeping him here," Tom wasn't ready to give up.

"And where would you have us keep him?" Sybil arched an eyebrow at her husband.

Tom knew when he was beaten. He let out a sigh and went to sit on the foot of the bed.

"Did anyone see you arrive?" Tom asked Rory.

"No, only my Ma knows I'm here and she's had enough years of lying to the police she won't have any trouble."

"You've got to stop this," Tom said looking at Rory. "Rocks and bricks against bullets aren't going to get you anywhere except dead."

"I think I got the message," Rory replied. "I'm going to have to try my luck in England for a while. Sybil's been telling me about it."

"It's not a bad place," Tom said. "The wages are good if you're willing to work. Not a catholic church close to the place I worked though."

"How did you go to mass while you were there?"

"I didn't. No regular Sunday sermon of you will burn in hell if you have impure thoughts," Tom said with a laugh. "It wasn't so bad."

"If there were no catholic churches around there that makes you…" he looked at Sybil with large eyes.

"A Protestant," she supplied.

"Holy Mother Mary," Rory choked out.

"A lightening bolt hasn't descended from the sky and struck me yet when I go to mass with my husband," Sybil said sweetly. "I really don't understand what all the fuss is about. Church is church. I'll just take these dishes down."

"You better not tell the Reverend Travis that if we ever visit Downton. The old codger will drop dead of the shock," Tom said.

"I think my choice of husband my have already done him in," Sybil said as she headed out the door.

"How can you joke about it?" Rory said.

"How can we not?"

"Your wife is not what I expected an English woman to be like," Rory said thoughtfully.

"What did you expect?"

"I didn't expect her to be so… nice."

Tom smiled as he moved to the chair Sybil had been sitting in.

"The English aren't what you expect. They aren't all bad. Most of them are all right. Some are bastards. I had to change my mind in a hurry when I got there. I thought my employers would be a bunch of elitists with no thought for anyone else, but they weren't."

Rory thought about what Tom had said for a moment.

"Sybil said she would write to her father about finding me a job over there."

Tom gave him a stern look.

"That's a compliment coming from her. She wouldn't do that unless there was something about you she liked. She would never let anyone she thought was a threat anywhere near her family."

"I remember you were pretty militant before you left."

"I realized I wouldn't be doing anyone any good sitting in prison. There are other ways that get a lot more attention, but that was my choice. You don't have to be what your father was."

"My father fought for Ireland," Rory said sticking his chin out.

"Do you really remember what he was like?" Tom asked.

"No, not really," Rory said. "I was three when he died."

"I remember him staggering down the lane more often than not drunk as a lord and shouting obscenities about the English. He got thrown out of church for showing up drunk and snoring so loud he drowned out the priest. You were a little kid, I don't know what really happened in the end," Tom paused a moment. "My father was a philandering bastard that couldn't keep his dick in his pants. It doesn't mean I have to be like him. Whatever you do, just do it better and smarter than your Da."

"I'll give it some thought," Rory said.

Tom got up to leave. He turned back when he got to the door.

"By the way, if you ever do anything that endangers my wife or any member of my family ever again I'll hunt you down and kill you with my bare hands. You won't have to worry about the police."

Rory swallowed and shrunk down a little in the bed. He didn't doubt that Tom Branson wasn't joking.