OK, so anyone who knows me or knows my writing will not be surprised when I say that though this chapter was supposed to be the second of two, it will now be the second of three. I know, I know. I write way too long. I just realized that to get to the end of the story it made sense to break up this part where it currently ends and leave the rest of the action for a new final chapter. I hope that you all are enjoying this enough that you won't mind it going a little longer :P
Anyway, before I start, a couple of things to point out. First, the series 2 Christmas special takes place over the course of several weeks (and possibly a month), which is way too long for Sybil and Tom to spend at the house, so for the purposes of having them there at Christmas and the servants ball (which YC specifically requested), I had to move up the servants ball so that it took place on New Year's Eve, so that they are only at Downton a week. That meant moving Bates' trial to between Christmas and New Years (the 29th of December) and also moving the shooting party earlier (to the 30th of December). You'll see what happens with that particular event in this chapter. There are several elements of the CS that I am ignoring entirely, including the whole nonsense downstairs with the Ouija board (sorry, no messages from dead Lavinia in this one) as well as the subplot with Rosamund and Lord Hepworth (who, if you remember wanted to marry Rosamund but was boning her maid) and Thomas "losing" Isis (I tried to fit that one in, but this was getting way too long).
Lastly, this particular chapter takes place almost entirely on the day of the Bates trial. It deals with something that I've never really touched on in fic, which is Sybil finding out about Mary and Pamuk and the letter Edith sent to the Turkish embassy. I know that this is a touchy subject for some who feel strongly, either on Mary's side or Edith's, but my perspective regarding Sybil and what I tried to show here is that she loves both of her sisters and doesn't judge either of them. She doesn't want to be caught in the middle of their rivalry and she wants them to see the good that she sees in each of them.
Despite the discomfort brought on by his new fancy clothes (not even his strict mother had ever succeeded in getting him to sit up so straight as his starched dress shirt did), even Tom could admit that he enjoyed celebrating Christmas at Downton. He could see that Sybil was happy to be among family she thought she might be estranged from forever—so much so that she seemed to be glowing from the inside. That would have been enough for him, but thanks to Matthew and Isobel, Tom felt more and more welcome as the visit went on.
In the late afternoon on Christmas, Tom and Sybil had snuck off to Ripon for mass at the Catholic church there, returning just in time to change for dinner. The meal itself was another seemingly endless array of overly rich and indulgent foods, but delicious and not marked by any of the tension or thinly veiled barbs that Tom and Sybil had had to contend with their first night at the house. In fact, just as Matthew had said, Tom's words to Richard earlier that day had served to break the ice between him and the family. They all knew Tom would never truly consider himself one of them or put himself on their side so far as politics were concerned (neither would Sybil, on that score, if they had to be honest). Nevertheless, Tom had shown in his willingness to return so soon that he would not put himself between Sybil and her family and in his rebuke to Richard Carlisle that he was not unwilling stand up for the Crawleys when the occasion called for it—a brand of family loyalty that moved even Robert and that the likes of Cora and Violet always repaid in kind.
When dinner was over and the party had all gone to the parlor, playing "the game" turned them all into silly fools in a way that Tom had never anticipated was possible for their ilk. Sybil had told him about it on the way to Downton, but if he'd tried, he could never have imagined the spectacle of people usually so stoic and reserved acting so willingly unselfconscious for the sake of friendly family competition—and at times, not so friendly. At one point, Robert, in a fit of over-competitiveness, practically threatened to disinherit Matthew when he was unable to make a correct guess based on gestures from Robert that no one in their right mind could decipher. Everyone (except for the still entirely humorless Sir Richard) had a hearty laugh at Robert's expense. It made Tom wonder if the scene would be all that different, other than the clothes and setting, if his own siblings were there playing with him. His enjoyment of the game was helped, of course, by the fact that he and Sybil together turned out to be quite good at it, each able to easily guess the other's intent with barely a gesture. The two got so good, in fact, that after three rounds, everyone else insisted on putting them on separate teams.
The days that followed were quiet and uneventful by comparison, which Sybil and Tom welcomed, as it gave them time to go on walks to the village, explore the estate and reminisce about the time they had spent there as their friendship and love grew. They loved the bustling city they now called home, but they both could also admit that they missed the quiet of the country and welcomed this chance to enjoy it again at least for the time they'd remain at Downton before they returned to Dublin just after the new year came. The holiday would have been quite perfect, in fact, had it not been for the dark shadow that Bates' looming trial cast over the house as the date, the 29th of December, grew nearer.
Robert, Mrs. Hughes and Miss O'Brien had been called to testify—the latter two by the prosecution, which Murray, Robert's lawyer, didn't know what to make of and which made tensions and nerves downstairs all the more thick and frayed. On the fated day, it took two cars to accommodate the entire group that was meant to go, which also included Mary, who'd be there to support Anna, as well as Isobel and Matthew, who'd volunteered to help explain the process as it went along. Sybil and Tom had wanted to go as well. Tom had considered Bates a friend and wanted to show his support in some way, but he and Sybil ultimately agreed that it was best to stay out of the way and not complicate the journey to York, where the trial would take place, by increasing the number of travelers.
Once they were gone, the morning crept by slowly. In the library, Tom took his time reading through all of the day's newspapers as Edith and Sybil talked about Sybil's life in Ireland and Edith's here at Downton in an effort to keep their minds off the trial. Cora joined them briefly, but eventually went back to her room to lie down, informing them that she'd likely just take a tray in her room for luncheon. Edith would be eating at the Dower House, having been invited by Violet. Sybil and Tom chose to make the walk to the Grantham Arms to get some air and so the staff would not have to worry about cooking only for them.
Once there at the pub, as they tucked into their meal, Sybil let out a deep sigh.
"What is it, love?" Tom asked, concerned.
"I was just thinking . . . Lavinia died just before we left Downton. When papa gave us his blessing, I was happy—not because I felt like we needed it, but because it gave me some hope that our family wouldn't always be divided. I was so happy at the time, in fact, I didn't think about how such a joyful event came in the wake of such a sad one. And now, Bates is battling for his life while we . . ."
"While we what?"
Sybil blushed and shook her head. "Nothing. I just mean. We're here and are enjoying ourselves on our own terms . . . life's joys and sorrows are always intermingled, it seems."
Tom smiled softly and took her hand across the table. "If it weren't for the joys, we couldn't make it through the sorrows. How much harder would bearing the cost of the war had been, the loss of William and others we knew, if our friendship hadn't been there to bear us up?"
Sybil smiled back, her eyes seeming to glisten with tears.
"Besides," Tom continued. "We can still hope that the trial won't bring sorrow, but rather clear Mr. Bates' name once and for all."
"I certainly hope that's the case."
After they'd finished, they took their time walking back to the house, hoping that the longer they delayed, the more likely it would be that news of the trial's resolution would be awaiting them upon their return. There was no such luck, however, so they retreated to the library again to wait for any news. Not too long after, they'd each settled in with a book, Carson came in to tell them that Edith was back from Violet's, but when she didn't come down right away, Sybil sought her out in her room.
"Is everything all right?" Sybil asked after coming in.
"Yes, I was just thinking," Edith responded from her spot at her desk.
"Oh, do you want me to leave you alone?"
Edith smiled. "No, it's all right."
"How was granny's?" Sybil asked, sitting down on Edith's bed.
"Fine . . . good, actually. She invited Anthony Strallan. Turns out the reason he's been declining papa's invitations is that he was injured during the war and doesn't have use of one of his arms, so he can't shoot."
"Is he all right?"
"It seems so, other than that. He seemed his usual cordial self, anyway."
Sybil noticed a hint of a blush forming on Edith's cheeks. "Do you still like him?"
The question seemed to catch Edith off guard. "Oh . . . well, he's a nice man. I suppose I do."
"You know, before the war started, he seemed rather keen on you—I remember you telling mama that he might propose. Do you ever wonder why he didn't?"
If Sybil's first question took Edith off guard, the second one seemed to upset her deeply. She jumped to her feet and walked to the window. "I think I would like to be alone now if you don't mind."
Startled at her reaction, Sybil said gently, "I'm sorry. That was an impertinent question. I shouldn't have asked. Obviously, it's a sensitive subject, but . . . if you want to talk about it, I'd be happy to listen."
"There's nothing to talk about," Edith said, in a closed off voice. "That chance came and went, and as with everything truly horrible in life, which is most of it, the reason was of my own making."
"But maybe there's still hope! If—"
"Never mind, Sybil, please."
Sybil sighed. "All right, then. I'll be in the library if you need anything." Sybil had her hand on the doorknob when she turned again toward Edith and added, "You and Mary both seem burdened by something you won't speak of. I wish I could be here for both of you, but short of that, I wish you'd be there for each other."
"I'm afraid Mary and I are past help, and I do wish you'd go before I say more and you end up hating me as much as she does."
"I could never hate you."
Edith turned to Sybil, redeyed. "If I told you this, you would."
"Is whatever this is also the reason that Anthony didn't propose?"
Edith nodded.
"What could it possibly have to do with Mary's unhappiness?"
Edith sighed. "Do you remember the Turk who stayed here years ago?"
"The one who died in his sleep?"
"Some time after that happened, Daisy told me that she saw Mary, Anna and mama dragging his body out of Mary's room."
Sybil gasped. "You mean he . . ."
"Died in her bed."
Sybil brought her hand to her mouth in shock. "Oh poor, Mary. I can only imagine it was a terrifying experience. And mama and Anna! I wouldn't blanch at a dead body now, but as a war nurse, death is all around you. They must have been horribly traumatized."
Edith rubbed her eyes with her hands. "You've missed the part where the Turk was in Mary's room, Sybil. He spent the night there."
Sybil sighed. "I haven't. I'm assuming Mary had her reasons for that and leaving it alone." She laughed lightly, then added. "That's another thing that war taught me. Women who hold on to their virtue are no better than the ones who don't—except they have a lot less fun."
Edith stiffened as Sybil spoke, as if hearing a rebuke for her own judgment and behavior in Sybil's more progressive view. Sybil noticed and said, "If you think differently, I can hardly blame you. The manner in which we were brought up requires women to fit in these very confining boxes, and we're taught that deviation from a certain path is the worst that may happen. If you thought the worst of Mary, you'd only be doing what would be expected of you, given that education. I made a deviation of a different kind, so it'd be silly for me to find fault in Mary for such a thing, but I also say that with the benefit of hindsight. We were all younger back then. Who knows how I would have responded to the knowledge at the time?"
"Would you have written a letter to the Turkish embassy with all the details?"
Sybil laughed uneasily. "Write to the Turkish embassy? What an absurd suggestion! Who would—"
Sybil stopped short, meeting Edith's eyes again and realizing that her sister had not offered up a hypothetical, but in fact had made a confession.
"Edith!" Sybil exclaimed in shock, standing from the bed when she'd finally gotten her bearings. "How could you do such a thing!? Why would you do it?"
Edith brought her hand to her forehead to cover her eyes, and her shoulders began to shake.
Sybil stepped toward her and placed her hand on Edith's back, but Edith immediately recoiled.
"I told you, you would hate me," Edith said.
"Can you at least explain?" Sybil asked quietly.
Edith rubbed the tears from her eyes and sighed. "There's no real point. I had my reasons, but if I state them aloud they sound ridiculous and petty, which I suppose they are."
"What could Mary have done to deserve your enmity on that level? I understand that she's been cold to you, but—"
"You couldn't possibly understand, Sybil. Every taunt about how I looked, or the way my hair was or the clothing I wore or the fact that no young man wanted my company—they pecked away at me because they were all proven true."
"Edith, that's not—"
"Please don't insult my intelligence by denying it, Sybil. You two are beautiful and I am plain. It's been confirmed by every person in my life, intentionally or not." Edith took a deep breath. "How many times do you remember skipping a dance at your debut?"
Sybil looked down without answering. She did not remember sitting down that night.
"I danced only four dances at mine, two were with Patrick, and one with papa. That wasn't Mary's fault. Neither was it her fault that I spent the rest of my first season and every season after in the corner of every ballroom watching every young man in London walk past me as if I were a potted plant on their way to fawn over her, but when it happened, she would always be there to twist the knife. She'd look over at me with one cutting expression and laugh. So it became her fault in my mind. Not just the fact that there was no hope for me—everything that was wrong with my life became her fault. Happiness and mirth were a zero-sum game. If she was happy, that meant there could be no happiness for me. The only hope I had of winning was to make her as miserable as I always felt. It was petty jealousy, but I let it grow inside me until there was nothing else."
Edith paused again and wiped a tear that had come down her cheek. "Do you remember when Matthew first came, how snobbish Mary was? She insulted and belittled him so plainly even granny had to apologize for her. I tried to be his friend, and . . . he couldn't be rid of me fast enough. I invited him out to see some churches and when I did I could see that there was actual fear behind his eyes, as if my liking him was the worst possible thing that could happen. Then he told Mary, of all people, that he had no interest in me because no amount of cruelty from her could stop him from falling in love with her, of course, and she threw it back in my face like she always did, and . . . I snapped. A hundred tiny bullets—all of them insignificant in everyone's mind but mine, I'm sure—shot by her over a lifetime repaid by one firing of the canon from me. I'm not proud, but I couldn't stop myself. And now he we are, as if I'd never written that wretched letter. She's about to marry and move into Hacksby Park, and me the spinster I was always meant to be."
Sybil watched Edith for a long time. The whole of Edith's being seemed burdened by the things she was taught to want but that she'd convinced herself she'd never have. Sybil thought about Anthony Strallan again. "I don't understand what this has to do with Sir Anthony."
Edith laughed humorlessly. "Don't you see? She drove Anthony away. She found out about the letter and made up some silly fiction that kept him from proposing."
"But why didn't you correct it? Tell him the truth?"
Edith sighed. "I suppose deep down I knew I deserved it. It was a just punishment, wouldn't you say? Why fight the inevitable."
Sybil bit her lip and wrung her hands for a moment before speaking. "I won't pretend that you didn't do a terrible thing, Edith. You could have done great harm to Mary's reputation and her future, but you are right in that there's no greater punishment or lesson for you than you suffering the consequences of what you did along with her. Because, you see, Mary doesn't love Richard Carlisle. I don't know why she agreed to marry him or whether it has anything to do with this, but she's not happy. I can tell."
Edith looked down. "Well, I can't undo it now."
"I'm not blaming you, darling. I'm only asking that you see the very many things that you and Mary share in common and not always focus on what makes you different. There is more of the former than the latter."
There was a knock on the door.
"Yes?" Edith replied.
Tom opened the door. "Pardon me, I'm sorry to interrupt, but there's a telegram from Matthew downstairs. Your mother wants everyone together when it's opened."
"We'll be down shortly," Sybil said.
Tom nodded and closed the door again.
Edith took a deep breath. "Go ahead. I just need another moment."
Sybil moved to the door. Before opening it, she said, "I don't hate you, Edith, and I know that you'll think this is easy for me to say, but you aren't an ugly person. You're quite lovely, actually. The ugliness you feel comes from inside, and you'll continue to feel it until you let go of your anger and bitterness. Your happiness is in your hands and yours alone, but you have to make room for it in your heart, and right now it feels like there's too much of the bad things in it. I can't say whether you and Mary will ever be friends, but you shouldn't assume that life has spared her hardship because it hasn't, but neither should she be the stick by which you measure your happiness. What others think doesn't matter—even your own family."
Edith smiled sadly. "I'm not as strong as you are, but thank you for your words, in any case. Let's go down and hope the news will lift us all."
When Sybil and Edith had made it into the library, Carson and Thomas were standing solemnly next to Cora, who held the telegram in her hands, which were shaking. She looked at it for a moment before handing it to Tom. "I can't bear to do it."
Tom took the small piece of paper and opened it carefully. His eyes closed immediately in despair, and it was enough to let everyone know the words the message contained.
"He was found guilty," Tom said quietly, "and sentenced to death."
Cora closed her eyes and took a long breath, as Sybil and Edith held hands. Cora put her hand on Tom's shoulder. "Thank you. I suspect they're on their way now. Carson, please inform everyone downstairs, and let Mrs. Patmore know that we'll have a modest dinner tonight."
"Of course, milady."
"I'll write notes to the guests for the shooting party tomorrow to let them know it will be canceled. I can't imagine his lordship wanting to go forward with that—I don't want to, in any case."
"And the servants' ball, milady?" Carson asked.
Cora sighed. "We'll wait on that decision until they're all back, but I can't imagine anyone will be feeling very festive."
Turning to Sybil, Cora said, "I wish your homecoming hadn't coincided with this, but I am grateful that we'll be all together, in any case."
Sybil stepped forward and embraced her mother. "Me too."
Sybil wondered now whether there would be a time to share her secret. It was a happy one that would lift spirits, but she also didn't want to step on anyone's grief, certainly not Anna's. She'd held the secret this long and realized now she might have to keep it until the return to Dublin.
xxx
When those who'd attended the trial returned a few hours later, those who had stayed behind greeted them in the entrance hall. Robert informed everyone that not all hope was lost. He'd be writing to the Home secretary to ask for a reprieve based on the circumstantial nature of the case and other factors that Murray and Matthew had identified. Murray would be taking the letter back to London that very night. Life in prison would be the only other option for Bates, but even so, that would at least offer time to make a stronger case on his behalf and secure more evidence on the case.
"What a horrible outcome," Cora said. "I'm sorry that you had to play a part in it," she added looking to Robert.
"I'm sorry that my role did not succeed in sparing him," Robert replied.
"How is Anna?" Edith asked.
"How do you think she is?" Mary snapped impatiently.
"Mary," Sybil said quietly, suddenly more keenly aware of her sisters' tense rapport. "She's just concerned. We all are."
"Of course, you are, I'm sorry," Mary said, looking only at Sybil. "It's been a long day. She's beside herself, of course. I don't know what we'll do without her if . . . the worst happens and she decides to leave us."
"Well, we should hope for the best," Cora said, as Robert nodded.
"I'll write the letter now. With luck, we'll have an answer in a day or so. Let's cling to this last chance."
It was only a remote one, though, so Robert agreed with Cora's decision to put off the shooting party. Given Anna's state, the servants ball was likewise cancelled.
Dinner that night was a somber affair, so Tom and Sybil retired early, not bothering with the drawing room afterward and heading straight to bed. Sybil was tired and anxious, so she drew herself a bath and Tom joined her. They only held each other and took comfort in the warmth of the water, their minds too full for anything else.
Later, as they readied for bed, Sybil asked, "Can it really be possible that an innocent man will hang?"
"I wish it didn't surprise me," Tom replied, "but injustice is not an uncommon phenomenon. Its prevalence may be more evident to those of lower classes, which is why this has hit your family particularly hard, but even those like Mr. Bates, who count on the support of friends in high places, are not immune from it."
Tom climbed into bed and Sybil followed snuggling into him. "I hope papa's letter meets a forgiving recipient. I can't imagine what poor Anna must be feeling."
"She's strong," Tom said. "I hope the worst can be avoided, but she'll make it through regardless."
"Mary said Anna will leave if it happens. I can't imagine the house without her. Mary was counting on her to be her lady's maid. She'll need a friend if she really does marry that hateful man. I'm sorry that it won't be Anna."
"So you don't like him, Sir Richard?" Tom asked.
"I don't think anyone does," Sybil answered.
"Mary must."
For whatever reason, Tom's words stirred Sybil, who sat up and moved to leave the bed.
"Is everything all right, love?"
"Yes, I just . . . I want to check on Mary."
Tom smiled, and Sybil blew him a kiss from the door before heading down the hallway to Mary's room. Once there, she hesitated before she knocked, but seeing light from beneath the door, she quietly rapped her knuckles against the wood, then peeked in without waiting for a response. Mary was in bed, reading by lamplight, her face worn with the travails of the day. She smiled seeing Sybil come in and pulled at the covers of her bed, inviting Sybil to climb in on the other side.
"What a day," Sybil said lying down on the pillow next to Mary's.
"I can't quite believe it," Mary responded. "I feel a bit detached from it all, like I'm in the middle of a waking dream."
"You were very good to have gone with Anna. It can't have been an easy thing to watch."
Mary smiled sadly. "It was only the outcome that was difficult to take in."
"Will Anna really leave the house if papa can't secure a pardon for Bates?"
Mary took a long moment before answering. "Well, yes and no."
Sybil sat up, shooting Mary a look of curiosity. "What do you mean?"
"She doesn't want to stay at Downton, and I certainly can't blame her for that, but if I go, she said she'd like to come with me."
"You mean to Hacksby?"
"No, not there . . . New York. I may stay with grandmamma, just for a while."
"Would Richard go with you?"
Mary shook her head. "I'd go there if I do decide to end things with him, which . . . well, I'm not sure, but I may."
Sybil took Mary's hand. "Darling, if there is any doubt in your mind, and there seems to be quite a lot, then you should be rid of him, but why would that require you going to New York?"
Mary sighed. "It's rather complicated—he knows something about me that will likely end up in print, and I'd just as soon avoid the mess it'll make when it comes out. "
"What is it?" Sybil asked concerned and wondering if it could possibly be what she now suspected it was.
"I can't say it, not to you. It would affect your opinion of me if I told you. You may yet find out, but I'd rather not have to see the fresh disappointment in your eyes, if it can be helped."
"I am not disappointed, Mary—well, not about this, if it's what I think it is. If anything about you disappoints me is the thought that you'd think I'd judge you harshly over it."
Mary narrowed her eyes. "What do you think it is?"
Sybil bit her lip, before finally saying, "You and Mr. Pamuk?"
Mary rolled her eyes to the ceiling. "Heavens, is there no secret that remains so in this house?!"
"What do you mean?"
"I spoke with papa tonight—it turns out he knew as well. Mama told him very recently. How did you find out? And when? And why didn't you tell me!?"
"I only found out today. And . . . well, first, please don't get angry because I pried it out of her, but . . . Edith told me, and before you say anything, she also told me the role she played, and she believed, like you do, apparently, that I would judge her for her actions."
"So far as attempts to ruin my life go, it was a fair effort, even for her."
"I won't make excuses or apologize for her," Sybil said. "It was a terrible thing to do, and I told her as much. But I'll also repeat to you what I said to her, which was that I don't understand why you dislike each other so much. The enmity between you two is absurd and does harm to you both! Whether you forgive her is up to you, but she's hasn't gone unpunished."
Mary rolled her eyes. "If you're referring to what I said to Sir Anthony Strallan, that barely took any effort on my part and could have been undone by her in one conversation. That she didn't bother to fix things is surely a sign she wasn't so interested as she let on. If it was punishment, it hardly fit the crime."
Not wanting to betray any more confidences or continue to be pulled into the middle of a quarrel that her sisters would likely take to the grave, Sybil simply said, "I don't know why she didn't speak to him on her own behalf back then. Her motives are her own, I suppose. I just don't want to think of either of you as full of hate for the other and unable to get along now that I've gone from the house, not when I love you both so much."
"Well, you should have thought of that when you left," Mary said airily, but a small smile on her lips told Sybil she was only teasing.
"I do miss you," Mary said, "more than I could say. I hope this doesn't make you wish you'd not come back."
Sybil smiled. "I miss you too, and I would never wish that."
"And you aren't disappointed in me?"
"How could the daughter who ran away with the chauffeur be disappointed in the one who allowed a foreigner into her bed."
Mary laughed in spite of herself. "A fine pair we are. Mama and papa are surely very proud of us."
"I'm proud of us," Sybil said.
"I'm proud of you, in an case," Mary said. "Tom is a fine person. If we could go back—"
"You'd accept him straight away?" Sybil asked incredulously.
"Well, no. I'd still try to talk you out of it, but I'd least I'd know not to fear losing you forever, and I'd know that you'd be happy."
"I'm am happy, Mary, and you deserve to be as well," Sybil said. "Don't marry him. Whatever may come to light shouldn't matter."
Mary sighed. "I know it shouldn't, darling, but it does . . . to me. Very much. I don't know if I could stand it."
"Could you stand a loveless marriage?"
"Any marriage for me would be loveless."
"Any save one," Sybil said.
Mary looked at her and smiled, understanding that she was referring to Matthew. "That chance has come and gone."
"I think you're wrong. Either that or you don't see how he looks at you."
Ignoring Sybil's words, Mary said, "With Richard, I'll have the life I always wanted, comfortable and dignified and my reputation won't be damaged. It's a strong argument. I don't know that I could handle the alternative."
"But, Mary, if Edith sent that letter years ago now, people know of it, which means you are already handling it. You've been handling it. The damage has been so minimal that even members of your own family didn't realize such things were being said about you until tonight."
Mary smiled at Sybil. "I should send you away before you convince me."
Sybil stood to go and said, "I'll leave you, but only so you may think about how strong you are. You don't need Richard Carlise, and you can take whatever he doles out."
"Thank you. I don't know that I believe that, but it makes me happy to know that you do."
Sybil smiled. "Good night, then."
And with that, she closed the door and was gone.
