The crossing had been a quiet one this time, only four hours on unusually smooth December seas. His heart jumped as the city hove fully into view, for this was Ireland, his beloved homeland that he had missed so dearly since accepting the position as Downton Abbey's chauffeur. Early in 1913 he had crossed the Irish Sea as a lark almost, not truly expecting any English aristocrat to hire an Irishman. He'd spent a month chasing down leads and watching his savings dwindle by the day. He'd given himself one more week to find a position or make the return crossing; two days into that last week he had sat for an interview with Mr. Carson, a man for whom he knew immediately he could work happily. The following day he had been invited to sit down with Mr. Carson and Lord Grantham, who had offered him the job there and then. The terms were better than he would have hoped, neither Carson nor his Lordship seemed the least flummoxed by the lilt of his words or the place he called home, and so he accepted gratefully, trading an Irish bed for and English one and his first name for his last one. It had been so long since he'd heard his first name spoken that he did not notice at first his brother's repeated cries of, "Tom! Tom! Over here, Tom."

"Patrick, hello," he answered finally, his name, Tom, a balm upon his soul.

Their reunion was a merry scene and shortly they found themselves on the steps of their childhood home. He wanted to hold this in his mind, this tidy little row house with lace curtains in the window and soft light filling the panes of glass. It had been nearly five years since he had stood on these steps and his heart was too full at that moment even to turn the handle. When he did, it was just as he had remembered, the small comfortable room to the left, its walls delicately papered in cream, rose colored cushions upon the worn chairs, a sewing basket in the corner, and a pile of handmade afghans folded neatly in the opposite corner. A fire roared, flames licking high up the chimney, and the warmth hit him immediately, warming his bones. Ahead rose the stairs and to the right was the kitchen and small dining space. His mother's back was to him and she was bent over the stove, checking that her stew was just so. "Must have been late today," she said absentmindedly to his sister, Cathleen, who sat at the table darning socks. Neither woman had heard the door and so Tom was able to enter silently, a finger to his lips directed at Cathleen. He stood a moment behind his mother, then wrapped his arms around her in one fluid movement.

"Tom! Oh, Tommy, how I've missed you!"

"It's good to be home, Mam, I've missed you, too."

The next day he had reserved for shopping, although many goods were scarcer in the Dublin shops than anything he'd seen in Ripon. After a fruitless morning on the High Street where unwelcome thoughts ("You haven't seen them for five years. How did you expect to know what to buy?") and legions of British soldiers patrolling the streets gnawed at his mind ("He could be the one that killed my cousin. Or him. Or him."), he walked back, hoping to find his mother or Cathleen at home.

"Where were you off to this morning, Tom?" Cathleen asked warmly, pouring him a cup of tea.

"Sorry, we've not got any sugar – it's a precious commodity these days."

"Thanks, Cathleen. I tried to do my shopping on the High Street..." his voice trailed off.

"But you couldn't decide which was worse, the soldiers or the lack of supplies."

"Is it always like this?"

"Since the Rising, unfortunately. Dublin's not for the faint of heart these days. We try to keep to ourselves, our kind, but as you know it's not always enough."

"Do you ever think of leaving?"

"You mean like you?" She grinned. "No, never. This is my home."

"What about when the real fighting comes?"

"I reckon even not then. No, I think the only way I'll leave Dublin is if I'm carried out in a coffin."

There was an edge, a bitterness to Cathleen that he had not known before and he wondered how he would sound if he had not found his position at Downton but had instead returned to Ireland. Her words gave him a new idea, though, which he decided to explore.

"I suppose there will be a lot of coffins in the coming years."

"Well that's rather morbid of you, but yes, I suppose you're correct, Tom."

"Do you think the hospitals will need extra nurses then?"

He could see the wave of puzzlement wash over her face, beginning with her eyebrows, which slanted sharply downward and ending with her mouth which opened and closed quickly while she considered her response.

"What a strange question. Whatever made you ask that?"

"Nothing, really, only I've got a friend – a woman I know from service – who is becoming a nurse." It wasn't a lie, exactly, he did know Lady Sybil from service – his service.

"But this friend, she's in England, isn't she?"

"She is now. But if the Irish hospitals needed nurses, maybe she would move to Dublin."

"Move to Dublin! Are you mad? Did you hear anything I told you? Only a fool would move to Dublin!"

"You said yourself you wouldn't leave."

"But this is my home. I'm not some bloody war nurse looking to leave service."

"Lady Sybil isn't looking to leave service!"

Had Cathleen's eyebrows arched any higher they would have inched off her forehead and onto the top of her head. Tom bowed his head, feeling the blood rising in his face.

"Lady Sybil."

"It's not like that, Cathleen."

"I don't know what it's like, Tom, but I hope you have better sense than to get yourself mixed up with an English aristocrat. Friend, nurse, or otherwise." Her tone told him the conversation was over.

"Cathleen, I'm sorry. Look, before I forget, I meant to ask, do you still make your own lace?"

Her expression softened.

"Of course. Do you need something?"

"Do you think you could make a cloth? Or a shawl?"

"Have you lost your mind? Do you know how many hours either of those would take? … But to be honest, I haven't got a Christmas gift for you this year. So, tell me which you want and you can consider it your Christmas gift."

"Thank you, Cathleen. A shawl, please."

"And may I ask if you intend to wear my handiwork or if you've someone else in mind? Perhaps this Lady Sybil?"

Tom inhaled deeply. He had slipped, badly, but there was no undoing what he had done. Better to be honest, especially if he hoped to return one day with Lady Sybil by his side – and that he very much did.

"I'd like to offer it to Lady Sybil, yes, as a mark of my friendship."

"Nothing more?"

"Seeing as I am the chauffeur and she is a lady, no, nothing more."

"And to think you always said you wouldn't always be a chauffeur."

He let the comment go, not wanting to continue this conversation any longer than necessary.

"Thank you, Cathleen. Really, I mean it."

"Get me my basket, Tommy. If I'm to have this done before you leave I best start it this afternoon."

Cathleen was good to her word, for every time Tom came downstairs she was there by the fire, gracefully stitching, turning simple thread into a delicate pattern complete with roses and shamrocks. She preferred to work silently, which was okay with him for watching her work consumed him with a guilt he preferred to not confront. He passed the days before Christmas at home, reading and writing, as well as doing the odd jobs his brother had left undone – nailing down a loose floor plank here or tightening a doorknob there. More than once he wondered how Lord Grantham and the rest of his kind passed their days, for a day without work for Tom passed slowly indeed.

On Christmas Eve he attended Mass with his family, the first time he had done so in many years, for he certainly wasn't about to seek out a Catholic church in Yorkshire, nor to give voice to his prayers in any other. The old carols echoed off the stone walls and wooden pews and for the first time since he stepped from the boat Tom knew he must really come home. There was nothing at Downton – nothing in England – for him, but Ireland gave him sustenance in a way he could not articulate. "Dear God," he prayed that night, "have mercy on my soul." He could not bring himself to confess, even to God, his longing for Lady Sybil or the plan quietly forming in his mind to unite her, God willing, with his beloved homeland.

Christmas was a simple one that year; Tom had not been alone in finding the shops bare and the mood grim. As his mother laid a succulent roast on the table, Tom remembered the Christmases of years past – the train set his father had helped him to assemble as a boy or the books he'd received as he had grown older. His family had always been poor, but his parents had scrimped and saved to make sure each child received one memorable gift each year.

Finishing the meal, Patrick turned to Tom and asked, "So do you think you could move back here one day?"

It was a fraught question, especially in front of their mother. Cathleen's hands, which had already picked up her lacework, stilled as she waited for the response.

"I don't know, Patrick, but I hope so."

"Well you'd have to have a job, that's for one thing," his mother said, taking the situation in hand.

"Mam's right, of course, and I don't believe chauffeurs are in great demand in these parts."

"Oh, Tom, enough about being a chauffeur. Isn't it time you made something else of your life?" Cathleen's words were spoken with a force that seemed to take even her by surprise; quickly she returned to her work, ashamed at having thus ridiculed her brother.

"Cathleen's right, Tommy. You always wanted to be a writer. You could get a job at a paper, you know." His mother's voice was soft, as though she half expected her son to rebuke her and her daughter both.

Tom stood quietly from the table, moving deftly to clear away what was left of the meal. This he did in silence, as three pairs of eyes watched him, waiting and wondering.

"Alright, I'll see," he finally said quietly, then opened the old Bible to read the Christmas story as they had done every year since he could remember. He felt very, very tired when he finished, and retired to his bedroom. As he climbed the stairs he could hear three voices whispering in hushed tones that could only mean he was their subject of conversation.

That night he slept poorly, turning over what his mother and sister had said in his mind. Could he really find a position with the paper? Would Lady Sybil ever agree to marry him? If she ever married him, would she agree to living her life in Dublin? At last his mind was quiet, worn out from so much thought, and he slept.

The day before his return to Downton, Tom visited the newspaper in the late afternoon. He had expected nothing, but had been received warmly by the editor, who had been impressed by the depth and breadth of his knowledge of the war, the situation in Ireland, the Russian Revolution, and President Wilson's plans for peace. At the end of the conversation the gentleman had asked for a sample of his writing, which Tom had happily thought to bring. His eyes scanned the lines in front of him quickly.

"You write very well, Mr. Branson, and you'd be a valuable addition to any staff."

"Do you think you might have a place for me, then, if I return to Dublin."

"I should hope so. And with such trouble as there is coming, I expect we'll need to hire an additional man or two. You say you have to return to England tomorrow. Once you're there, you can write and I'll let you know when a position is available. Mind you now, once I have a position I shan't be able to hold it open indefinitely, but I should certainly like to have a man of your abilities and opinions on my staff."

"Thank you, sir, thank you very much. I appreciate it. And I will write."

"Safe travels, my lad, and may the road rise to meet you."

Tom returned home in a fine mood after that and attended to his traveling cases quickly. He had not brought much – just one suitcase and a small bag he kept on his person – so repacking took little time. Just as he was finishing, he heard a faint knock at his door. Opening it he found Cathleen, her arms outstretched to display the shawl she had feverishly crocheted. One look told Tom it was a fine piece of work, possibly the finest his sister had done.

"Happy Christmas, Tom. Please give my regards to Lady Sybil when you offer her my shawl." The animosity was gone from her voice now, replaced by something close to resignation.

"Thank you, Cathleen. Really. You won't say anything to Mam about this now will you?"

"No, I'll not say anything. But, Tom, don't think for a minute that I believe you've told me the whole story. You can be a real fool sometimes, Tom. But you always were a dreamer, weren't you?"

Her voice cracked as she tried to hide the emotion, the admiration, in her last question. In response Tom simply opened his arms and pulled her into a tight hug, as when they were younger. Listening to her these past two weeks it had been easy to forget that he was the older brother and she the younger sister. As he held her now some measure of the old order was restored.

"You leave early tomorrow, then?"

"At dawn."

"And you'll be back to Downton Abbey in the evening?"

"God willing, I'll be back in time for the evening meal."

"1918, Tommy. Can you believe it?"

"No, It doesn't seem possible, Cathleen."

"Tom? Don't wait so long until you come home again. Alright?"

"Yes. That's a promise."

They hugged again.

He awoke early, spiriting himself out of the house before he could disturb their slumber. As he crossed the threshold he sent up a silent prayer for a safe journey – and an eventual return. The sea he crossed that day was an angry one, rolling waves lashing at the ship, tossing it as a plaything in a small tub. A strong gale whipped the water into a great froth. Most of the passengers, Tom included, spent the voyage bent over the rails, and few had ever been so glad to see land as when they docked in Liverpool. On the docks Tom steadied himself before climbing aboard the train bound for Yorkshire and Downton Abbey. The third class benches were nothing more than hard slabs of wood, but Tom was lucky to find a bench to himself in the back of the car, where he slouched against the side of the car and slumbered lightly. He awoke just before the Downton Abbey stop, adjusting his jacket, trousers, and hat so that the rigors of the voyage would not be so immediately apparent.

Being the chauffeur there would be no one to meet him at the station, so he had planned to walk from there to the great house. He felt his mind must be playing tricks then when just shy of the platform he spotted Lady Edith, laughter playing across her face at seeing his surprise.

"Welcome home, Branson."

"Milady, this is a surprise."

She laughed.

"Papa was called to London on urgent business this afternoon. He is leaving on this train." She gestured toward the platform where Branson could make out the figure of his Lordship boarding the first class carriage.

"I offered to drive him and he agreed. He's the one who remembered you were arriving on this train, so he asked if I wouldn't mind waiting for you. He said with my driving, he'd rather have you return the car to Downton!"

Now it was his turn to laugh.

"Thank you, milady, I'll be happy to drive."

She handed him the keys and he offered his hand to assist her into the car. He had had a lovely time in Dublin but right now, this was where he belonged, for he had unfinished business and would stay until he could finish it.