Sybil's joy after receiving her father's blessing to marry Tom was short-lived; by the time she returned home, Mr. Bates had been arrested and removed from the estate and yet one more scandal launched upon Downton Abbey. The sight of Mary sitting with Anna in the library, speaking quietly while Sir Richard paced the perimeter of the room gave Sybil a start. When she entered the room Mary looked toward Sir Richard, commanding him, it appeared, to intercept Sybil before she approached any nearer.
"Lady Sybil, I'm afraid I have terrible news," he began, "John Bates had just been arrested for murder."
Sybil was torn between tearing to Anna's side in an attempt to provide some measure of the support and comfort Anna had provided her over the years and retreating someplace quiet to digest this most recent piece of awful news. She saw Mary motion her away and determined to let them be; after all, she was leaving for Ireland imminently and would be of no use to Anna from then anyway.
When she packed for her failed elopement, Sybil took almost nothing. In their haste to leave Downton, she simply hadn't had time to consider what from her old life she wanted to carry into her new life. This time, however, as she nursed her mother back to health and then in those bleak days after Lavinia's death but before her funeral, Sybil had had nothing but time to consider her packing. In the end she settled on two trunks and a small overnight bag. The trunks she packed full of clothing, mostly, especially her nurses uniforms, which she hoped to put to use again in Dublin. Naturally she added the well-worn shawl Cathleen had stitched two Christmases ago and she included the vanity set she'd been given as a girl, with its silver-framed mirror and the brush and comb Anna or one of her sisters had so often fought through her masses of hair, as well as what photographs she had of her family and her collection of scrapbooks from girlhood through the beginning of the war, when she had given them up.
Several of her favorite books were carefully packed and bound for Ireland, but most would remain at Downton. The stuffed bear she had carried back from America made the cut; the collection of dolls that seemed to grow with every holiday did not. She included a few more practical items as well: the alarm clock she had begun using in York, for example, as well as the Kodak Brownie camera her father had presented to her as a young girl. Into her trunk went a small book of recipes – simple fare that Daisy had quietly helped her to master beginning with the cake she baked on the eve of her departure for York. The last item she packed, this so precious that it merited space in the overnight bag that would never leave her side, was an envelope of letters she had received over the years, some from Tom, but many more from her mother and father, and even a few from her sisters, anytime she had been away from them. Under the letters, still inside the envelope, was the fabric covered book he had given her over four years ago.
Beyond the consideration Sybil had given to what she would take with her to Ireland, she had also given consideration as to how she would make that first leg of the journey: with no chauffeur and without her father's blessing, she would need some way simply to get from Downton to the station. She had finally persuaded a reluctant Edith to drive her to the station; although her father had now given his blessing, she saw no reason to change her plans.
As dawn broke following Lavinia's funeral, Thomas carried her trunks to the car and Edith started the engine. Sybil had said good-bye to the rest of the family and the staff the night before, on an evening more morose than even when Lavinia had died. Despite offering his blessing and his hand, defeat hung about Robert as the morning mists on the moors; in one week's time he had suffered the scandal of a daughter eloping with a servant, the near death of his wife, and actual death of his heir's fiancée, and the arrest of his valet and friend on murder charges. He could not envision at that moment that his world could ever forsake him more than it had done these past days.
"Just because I'm driving you to the station doesn't mean I agree with what you're doing. You know that, right?" Sybil didn't blame her sister for these terse words, but had hoped to allow her last glimpses of home to be unmarred by disagreement.
Sybil nodded, slowly, "Yes, Edith, I'm aware of how you – and everyone else – feels. And I know it's early. So I thank you, truly, for doing me this favor."
Edith softened. "You'll still let us know when the wedding is, right? So that Mary and I might attend if Papa will allow?"
At least it had been a short fight, one last sputter of disagreement, as though uttered from a sense of duty and not feeling.
"Of course, Edith, and I do hope you will be able to come. Papa said yesterday we'll see about him and mama, but I don't expect he'd ever agree to come. You and Mary I think he might allow, though."
The pulled into the station and when Edith turned to face her, Sybil was surprised to see the tears beginning to brim forth from Edith's eyes.
"You're sure then?" Edith asked gently.
"I am, Edith. I only hope one day that you find this same happiness."
"I don't believe Mary wants to marry Richard at all," Edith said then, changing the angle of their conversation.
"Nor do I. Which is all the more why I must marry the man I love."
Sybil had no sooner uttered these words than he appeared, greeting them quickly before moving to the rear of the car to manage the trunks. Sybil had the fleeting thought to instruct him to leave it to a porter, before she remembered that, traveling third class as they were, there was no porter.
"Good bye, Edith, and thank you. For everything." Sybil hugged Edith close to her, realizing it had been many years since any of the Crawley sisters had embraced in this way, and willing Edith to understand that her last words were her truest: she was most grateful that Edith had never revealed her plans to their parents or anyone else, especially as she knew all too well the depths to which Edith might sink in a moment of anger.
"Good bye, Sybil. Good bye, Branson," Edith said, turning now to the former chauffeur, this man who had taught her to drive, had given her a measure of the freedom he now gave her sister, and who was now breaking up her family. She thought of her father just then, how he had not wished to part angrily, and she added quickly, "Thank you for teaching me to drive. I may even need to now!"
"You're very welcome, milady, just treat her well."
With that, Edith took her leave and Tom gently guided Sybil toward the waiting train, his fingers laced through hers for all the world to see. They climbed aboard and settled into their seats.
"Are you ready, milady?" Tom asked quietly as the whistle blew and the wheels began to turn.
"Of course, I'm ready. And you know I'm not a Lady anymore!"
"You'll always be milady, Sybil."
"Perhaps I should call you Branson, then."
He laughed. "I think I prefer Tom."
So did she. She had woken up early that morning; in truth 'woken up' was generous, as she had barely slept the night before. This was partly due to her anticipation at leaving Downton and partly owing to her utter, utter sadness at Anna's situation. In many ways, her good bye to Anna had been the most difficult she'd had to make.
"I shan't say good-bye Anna, for I know in my heart I will see you again."
"Milady, we can none of us know what our futures hold. I wish you and Mr. Branson much love and happiness and if we meet again I will consider it my own good fortune."
"Thank you, Anna. Honestly, if it hadn't been for you, I don't believe I would be marrying Tom. I owe so much to you. I hope one day you and Mr. Bates can be happy together, too."
"That I do, as well. Now you must take good care of yourself."
"Anna, I shall miss you so!"
"And I, you, Lady Sybil. The best of luck to you."
Anna had left her room then, the first time Sybil could remember her leaving before she was properly dismissed. Had she left that Sybil might not see her tears? For while Anna had witnessed the tears of each Crawley sister more times than she could count, Sybil couldn't remember once that she had seen Anna cry.
The rhythmic sounds and motions of the train were quickly lulling her to sleep, and as she drifted toward her rest she remembered the thrill she got the first time she had spoken his proper name aloud to him. Even now it still gave her a bit of a thrill to call him Tom instead of Branson. This was her final thought before blackness overtook her mind.
Two hours later, as the train bearing their daughter away from one life and into a new one pulled slowly into the Liverpool station, Cora and Robert were just beginning their day. In many ways, this morning marked the beginning of a new life for them, as well. Not only had Sybil left that morning, but Matthew, too, had departed early, driving by car to Manchester where he intended to seek employment in his old firm. Robert was ashamed that he could not honestly say which departure cut him more deeply.
"Good morning, Robert," Cora blinked open her eyes. "What time is it?"
"Almost 9 o'clock, my dear. We've slept a bit late this morning."
She sat up, her new reality quickly settling heavily over her. "How do you think Sybil is?"
Robert harrumphed loudly.
"Oh, come now, Robert. These things can't be helped."
"In your world, your very American world, perhaps not. In my world they can be and should have been."
Listening outside the door, O'Brien backed carefully away. For once she agreed very much with his lordship, although she'd held her tongue as her ladyship had wept bitter tears after bidding her youngest good night and good bye some 12 hours earlier. Coming to check that her Lady had made it through the night and into the morning, O'Brien was reassured to hear their voices and decided it best to let them be.
"Oh, Robert, really. You can be so impossible sometimes."
"What I don't understand is how none of us saw this coming."
Here O'Brien paused, wanting very much to burst in with the news that downstairs they had seen it coming, had seen it for years now, the way Lady Sybil would slink out the back door on her way to the garage, the way she and Branson had looked at each when they thought no one was watching, the thick letters that came for Anna anytime Lady Sybil was away – and how Anna always needed a quiet chat with Branson after receiving one. No single incident had ever amounted to anything, but over time the pattern was such that every servant, from Mrs. Hughes to Daisy had their suspicions. I should have said something, O'Brien thought. For once I kept quiet and I shouldn't have done. She approached the door again.
"Maybe we did see, but pretended we didn't."
"Now you're being ridiculous," Robert nearly spat this last word, but Cora was undeterred.
"Years ago, Robert, after she was hurt in that dreadful fight, when she threatened to run away if Branson wasn't here in the morning. Or how often she suddenly remembered she needed something from Ripon and asked for the car. How often did Sybil need the car as compared to Mary or Edith? And how many times did you see her saying a few quiet words to him in your library? How many times does her name appear above his – or his above her – in the book register? How many other clues did we need?"
Cora let out an anguished cry and Robert, pacing the floor, felt the blood drain from his face at the truth in her words.
"O'Brien should be in soon. Shall I join you for breakfast?" she asked finally, virtually dismissing him from her presence.
He nodded numbly, then opened the door and nearly fell into O'Brien's arms, raised as one was to knock at the door. She bowed and he acknowledged her curtly with a slight nod of the head.
"Good morning, O'Brien."
"Good morning, milady. Only I couldn't help but overhear that last bit. I wish that it were a good morning for you. My mother always said, 'this too shall pass,' and I hope this shall. May I help you dress? I've prepared your mourning clothes."
"I've always told my girls that things would look better in the morning. Not everything does, though. But, yes, please, the black silk. Between poor Lavinia and then Matthew leaving for Manchester and Sybil…" Cora's voice trailed off. "I'll need plenty of mourning clothes, O'Brien, and see to it that Anna prepares Mary and Edith's mourning clothes as well."
It struck O'Brien as strange to think of Mary mourning the loss of her rival and the man who had spurned her; though she said nothing to her ladyship about this oddity, she did mention as much to Thomas later that day.
"It seems plenty strange, if you ask me, mourning for that poor dead girl like she was family and not here to carry off Matthew once and forever."
Thomas took a long drag on his cigarette and let a smoke cloud form and billow around him.
"I keep telling you there's plenty strange about aristocrats. I suspect Mr. Branson will be learning that for himself soon enough, if he hasn't already." Thomas snorted, flicked the butt of his cigarette to the dirt and ground his heal over its remains.
"It's not an especially pretty city, is it?" Sybil asked as they made their way from the train station to the docks and the boat that would carry them across the Irish Sea. "Not like London or York or even New York."
"Or Dublin," Tom added.
Sybil had slept for most of the train ride. A part of him had been disappointed but he had also been relieved to see how soundly she slept on the uncomfortable bench seat. He knew she had been tired, for the few times she had visited him at the Grantham Arms, she had looked on the brink of collapse, but he had still not expected her to nod off so quickly on the train. Perhaps she would sleep on the sea crossing as well, he hoped, for the trip between Liverpool and Dublin could try even an old salt and as he looked toward the sea conditions today seemed primed for large swells and heavy surf.
"Is this our boat?" Sybil asked, excitement growing in her voice. "It's so big."
"Aye, it is," thinking of home and hearing the voices of the newly disembarked passengers, Tom slipped unconsciously into the cadence of the Irish.
Tom handed their tickets to the man at the gangway, who confirmed their trunks had been brought aboard and would be waiting for them dockside in Dublin.
They clambered up the steps of the Greenore and took seats in the lounge when Tom thought to ask, "Sybil, do you remember if you were seasick on the boat to America?"
The color drained from her face. "Why didn't we think of that earlier? Of course, of course I was. But this won't be so bad, right?"
"I did think of it, but I didn't want to worry you. Let's take seats on the open deck, near the rail. It's usually a bit better out there." Tom squeezed her hand and hoped it would be a smooth crossing.
It was quickly apparent that the crossing would not be smooth, and Tom was thankful for the fine weather than allowed them to remain out of doors where Sybil, although slightly green in the face, was bearing up well. He remembered his last crossing, when he and the rest of his fellow passengers had been sick almost from dock to dock. Thank God this crossing wasn't so rough, for he thought he'd like to at least be married before he had to face the "in sickness" part.
Facing into a stiff headwind, the crossing took almost five hours instead of the customary three. The sun was low in the sky when the gangway clanged onto the dock and its last rays painted the city with a deep bronze tint as they began the last leg of their journey to Mrs. Branson's home. There could have been no worse time for an English woman, a Lady no less, to move to Ireland and as she saw the soldiers standing, locked and loaded, at every corner Sybil could not help but shudder – and hope that this was not a very grave mistake.