Sybil attributed the exhaustion she felt in late October and into November to the constant tension around her and the months she had spent working as a nurse, 12- or 14-hour days on her feet, bending, reaching, lifting, and twisting. She felt the strain of looking over her shoulder, watching for those who might come for her, by virtue of being British, or for her husband – or possible even for her – by virtue of their connections with leaders in the Dail, the IRA, and Sinn Fein. Even at home where her vigilance, if not her worry, slackened, Sybil worked constantly, washing up after dinner, preparing lunch pails for the next day, laying out the breakfast things, attending to their wardrobes. It helped to have a girl, but Tom had insisted and Sybil had agreed, that the girl would help with only those tasks that were absolutely necessary. He might be forced to pay someone to make his evening meal, but he would not have a maid launder his undergarments or change his sheets. These tasks fell to his increasingly weary wife.
When the exhaustion was unabating, however, and lifting her head from the pillow left her queasy, Sybil began to think she might not merely be tired, but pregnant. She was torn whether to tell Dr. Lynn of her suspicions, and risk being asked to resign, or keep quiet. Ultimately, she said nothing until she was on the brink of collapse and could barely hold herself upright without waves of nausea surging through her body.
"Dr. Lynn, may I speak to you a moment?" Sybil asked early one morning.
"Certainly, Nurse Branson. What do you need?"
"I'm terribly sorry to trouble you, but I fear I may be pregnant."
"Fear?"
"Well, no, not fear exactly. I'd be truly happy, really. I've hoped for this since we've been married."
"You do quite well with the infants at the hospital. I imagine you'll make a splendid mother. So I must ask, what is the trouble?"
"It's just, I'm wondering, is there a way, well how might I know for certain?"
"Do you menstruate regularly?"
Sybil blushed. "Yes."
"And the last time this happened?"
"I don't remember exactly."
"But it's been longer than usual?"
"I believe so, yes."
"And you feel ill and are particularly tired?"
"Yes."
"You can't know for certain for several weeks, but you most definitely sound pregnant to me."
"Then must I resign my position?"
Dr. Lynn's face wrinkled into a quizzical expression.
"I should hope not! I expect you'll need to in several months' time, once it's become too uncomfortable for you to work, but not before then. Unless you prefer to hand in your notice, of course. We'd certainly miss you, but there's nothing to stop you doing so."
"No, no, I love my work here."
"Very good. But, Nurse Branson, please do not allow me to over tire you. You must take care of yourself and get proper rest."
"Thank you, Dr. Lynn. I have one more question: is this the time I should tell my husband?"
"I believe it might be best if you wait a couple of weeks for that. You want to be more certain before you excite – or worry – him. Mind you, there's no telling how men will react to this type of news."
Thank God she had Dr. Lynn to speak to. She would much rather have had this conversation with her mother or even Cousin Isobel, but Dr. Lynn had been so kind to her and it was a relief to know she wasn't expected to resign immediately. She was embarrassed to ask when she should tell her husband, but Dr. Lynn didn't seem at all surprised by the questions. Then again, these were the conversations she had regularly with patients, the vast majority of whom were even more uncertain, or certainly less well equipped to deal a pregnancy, than Sybil.
The next weeks were the hardest as Sybil counted down the days to telling Tom her news. She was often irritably, which was not lost on him. He feared it the strain of life in a city at war was becoming more than she had bargained for and found himself thinking more frequently that a visit to Downton, if her family would allow it, might be in order. He delayed mentioning this, as he, too, was exhausted by the circumstances of their existence and needed to steel himself for what he believed would be a proper row.
More than the irritability, though, Tom noticed Sybil was often tired and unwell. He know the hours she kept and the illnesses she encountered in the hospital, though; in fact, it was amazing that she hadn't contracted anything serious, he thought more than once. Still, he hated to see her so tired that she nearly fell asleep in her soup. He determined he must say something and girded himself for the coming fight as he walked from the newspaper to the hospital as the first snowflakes of the winter fell and the darkness of December ensconced the city. As they walked through the falling snow on the now familiar route from hospital to home, she squeezed his hand; he could not know she, too, had much on her mind. He would have spoken up, but she decided it was time to reveal her secret just before he could eke out his opening argument.
"I have news, Tom."
"And what news is that, milady?"
"I'm pregnant. I've thought it was probably so for several weeks, but I'm quite certain now that we're to have a baby."
He drew her to him then, as he had that first time a year ago in a Yorkshire garage, and kissed her, there in the street, not caring who might witness this most improper display of affection. When he drew away she asked, "So you're happy then?"
"Happy? Happy? Milady, I couldn't be happier!"
"I'll have to leave my job, of course."
Yes, that. It did seem unfair that a woman should be forced to leave her position because of a child at home, but one never knew what was possible – the world was changing. Perhaps in a year or two his mother could watch the child and she could return to work. Of course, there would probably be more children by then, to say nothing of that fact that such an arrangement would certainly raise eyebrows among even the most liberal of their acquaintances.
"Will you mind terribly, Sybil?"
"I don't think so, Tom, not once the baby is here at least. I've found I rather enjoy babies, at least the ones who aren't too sickly."
He laughed.
"I think, too, that perhaps a grandchild might finally bring my family around. Papa may be unhappy with our union, but he'll not deny my mother the pleasures of a grandchild. I don't believe he'd deny them to himself, either."
"Then you must write and tell them. You've only just said last week that you were unable to find any gifts in the shops again this year. Perhaps you can offer our child as a gift for the future."
They reached home then and, as they entered, she pulled him to her in a tight embrace.
"We'll need to find a new flat, now, won't we?"
He hadn't thought of that, hadn't thought much of anything since she'd told him that they were to have a baby, only how very, very happy the idea made him, and how relieved he was to have a cause for irritability and exhaustion. When she'd mentioned her parents he thought fleetingly of his mother and how happy she would be, before refocusing on his own happiness.
"Shhh, we'll worry about the details later."
They would worry about the details, they decided, in the New Year; first they would enjoy the Christmas holiday. This was perhaps easier said than done, as December brought a further escalation in the violence around them. Unlike previous months when many of the incidents Tom and his colleagues covered occurred outside of Dublin, in December 1919, Dublin was the seat of much of the news. The IRA had intended to hold their National Convention in Dublin, but decided to call it off when they learned the convention itself, and the location, had become known to the British. The first public meetings of Commission of Inquiry into the Industry and Resources of Ireland set up by the Dáil were held in City Hall; perhaps because many in attendance were expected to – and did – give evidence opposed to Sinn Fein, Irish newspapers were not permitted to publish reports on the meeting.
"I can't believe I've got to read news of the meeting from foreign papers," Tom spat bitterly as he scanned an American paper a colleague managed to procure. "Bloody hell." Sybil looked up from her embroidery, surprised.
"I'm sorry, milady, I shouldn't speak that way. It's only that it doesn't seem to matter who's in power. Give the oppressed a bit of control and they behave the same as the oppressor."
"I believe that's always the way," Sybil said absentmindedly, counting her stitches. She did not mean to dismiss him so easily, but she needed now, more than ever, to insulate herself from the troubles at hand. Over dinner the night before Tom had suggested casually, too casually really, that Dublin might not be the place for a small baby.
"But look at all the infants at St. Ultan's, Tom. There are plenty of babies here in Dublin and the war is the least of their worries."
"Don't be so dense, Sybil. The mothers who take their children to a charity hospital don't have options. And they don't have English mothers, either."
She had fled from the table in tears at that, tightly latching the bedroom door behind her. As she sat, sobbing, in the middle of their bed she wished fervently for her mother, or even Mary or Anna. Tom knew better than to run to her side, but by the time he had washed their dishes and swept the floor as he knew she did each night, Sybil was fast asleep. Slightly damp streaks running from her eyes were the only evidence that the sleep might not be an entirely peaceful one. He retrieved a couple of quilts from the parlor and piled them onto her so that she would not be cold when she awoke.
The month would not improve. In the week before Christmas the IRA ambushed the Lord Lieutenant, Lord French. He managed to escape, although one IRA man was killed; Sybil was grateful Mrs. Branson had the foresight that spring to suppress that her future daughter-in-law was the daughter of an Earl.
Two days after their failed ambush, and angered by the coverage it had received, some two dozen IRA men stormed the Irish Independent newspaper building and smashed all of the machinery in the plant. Tom agreed with the IRA that the Independent was too unionist for its own good. After all, this was the same newspaper that actually printed the words "no terms of denunciation that pen could indict would be too strong to apply to those responsible for the insane and criminal rising of last week" in the days following the Easter Rising. As a journalist, however, the destruction of the printing presses served to remind him of the terrifying reality that journalists were often in the crosshairs of one or another side.
Only a day later, the British House of Commons began debating the "Better Government of Ireland Bill." The bill was drawn up by the British cabinet in close collaboration with the Unionists and proposed two separate Irish Parliaments, one for the six counties of Ulster and one for the remaining counties. There was no shortage of work for newspapermen that week, even if they went about it with one eye over their shoulder toward whatever danger might lurk.
Sybil, too, was distracted in the days before Christmas, not only by the growing dangers around her, but by thoughts of home. She knew from the letters she received that a proud tree would again adorn the hall and that Bates's trial date had been set for the days just after the holiday. Anna's husband on trial for his life; just the thought gave her goose bumps, for she knew how easily it might be her own husband, albeit in different circumstances. She banished the thought. Increasingly she fought bouts of homesickness as well, longing for her mother's voice or advice, particularly as her pregnancy progressed. She would not admit this to Tom, did not want to give him any further cause to think that she, either pregnant or with a new baby in tow, should quit his side for the safety of Downton. She hoped her longing had not come through in the letter she wrote announcing her pregnancy, for she did not wish them to think she regretted her decision. She did not. She did wonder, more and more frequently, though, how her mother had managed so far from home for so long.
Thoughts of home, of Yorkshire Christmases and proud trees adorning the hall, were near to mind as Sybil readied for Christmas Eve mass. As she and Tom took their place in the pew beside his mother she marveled at the beauty of the greens and sounds of the carols. It was all so similar to home that if she closed her eyes, just for a moment, she could imagine she was back at Downton in the church and with the people she had known all her life. Dear God, she prayed, as the service began, watch over us. Be with Anna and Mama and Papa, be with Bates, but do not forget about us. Guard my husband and keep him from harm, and this child within me. We have all lived through one war already; that should be enough for this lifetime. Please, God, grant us that there should be no more violence, no more death. She did not pray for herself.
The Bransons did not exchange gifts that year, but Tom was good to his word and produced a delectable pudding that left Sybil clapping with joy when she saw it. Mrs. Branson had produced a veritable feast earlier and neither husband nor wife were hungry, but it would have been such a shame not to eat it that they did. Sybil remembered feeling the same way the year before, when Tom had gone to the trouble of procuring some of Mrs. Patmore's pudding, which they shared in the garage.
"I think next year we should eat our pudding before our dinner, Tom."
He laughed.
"Not enough room in your belly for your dinner and your pudding, milady?"
"At least not as much of the pudding as I'd like!"
The last days of the year passed quickly until they were seated in their cozy kitchen for the last meal of the year.
"1920. Can you believe it, Tom?"
"I can't, not really."
"Do you remember the last time the decade turned? It seems impossible that it was 10 years ago, and yet so much has happened that it could have been ten decades."
He thought for a moment, then asked her a question that had been churning through his mind for the past week.
"In 1910, if you could have known what the next decade would bring, would you have? The deaths and destruction, the wars…" he voice trailed off, lost in thought.
"And the love," Sybil added, gently.
"Yes, and the love. But would have you have wanted to know?"
Sybil sat quietly, considering this. Death and destruction, from the Titanic to Dublin to the Spanish Flu and the Western Front, were the order of the day – and the decade – but she was married to the man she loved and would soon become the mother of his child. She had survived. But would she have wanted to know in 1910 the years of grief and hardship that lay ahead and that she would have to survive to get to this place, this New Year's Day?
Slowly, slowly she shook her head from side to side. No, she did not want the future revealed to her, did not what to know what the universe ordained and what crosses she would bear. She wanted only to savor this moment, fully sated from dinner, a mug of steaming tea before her, fat snowflakes swirling outside the window, and her hand held tightly within his.
"I love you, Tom. No matter what happens, I love you."
He motioned for her to rise and swept her toward him. As church bells began to ring, Tom and Sybil Branson waltzed their way into the century's third decade.
Author's note:
The end.
Thanks to those of you who have read along and offered your comments, thoughts, and suggestions, as I've gone. This story became much longer than I ever expected when I began writing and I don't believe I would have continued it as long as I have were it not for the enthusiastic comments and words of encouragement I received.
After Season 3 (and I'm in the US, so that will be sometime in late winter/early spring of 2013), I will most likely revisit Sybil and Branson, filling in whatever gaps season three does not fill. I may write a story or two revolving around other characters before then, but I have no definite plans to do so.
Finally, for those interested in a deeper look at the times and events described in the last chapters of this fiction, you may wish to read (or at least skim) Politics and Irish Life, 1913-1921: Provincial Experience of War and Revolution by David Fitzpatrick. The BBC is also a rich source of information and I was especially pleased with their collection of articles on the Easter Rising, http:/ www. bbc. co. uk/history/british/easterrising/newspapers/index. shtml. I used many other sources that I did not mention along the way to check facts and verify information. One useful timeline that I did reference quite a bit can be found at http:/ www. dcu. ie /~foxs/irhist/index. htm.