A/N: This was originally intended to be the first chapter but star-gazing at the beach and Christmas had other plans, so this became the next chapter. That's not to say I love this any less, only that timing took over. Anyway, many reviews of Lux Facta Est noted that there aren't nearly enough Sybbie and George stories out there, and I agree, so this will be about them. This story is actually a reference to Chapter Four of Lux Facta Est when George recalled that Sybbie had not cried for her parents in that way since she was lost as a little girl. It will be a two-parter and be 100% shameless fluff (which is apt, won't you agree, after all the angst of Lux Facta Est?).
I came across The Seventh Princess by Eleanor Farjeon some time ago and I thought that the ending was something so S/T so I included it here as a bedtime story.
Don't forget to review!
Disclaimer: If DA was mine, Sybil and Matthew would still walk the Yorkshire earth. The Seventh Princess belongs to Eleanor Farjeon and La belle au bois dormant to Charles Perrault. I used Perrault's version because Disney's would obviously not yet exist at this point, but I abridged the story for time constraint and dragging reasons, and I changed the ending because I cannot for the life of me imagine how Perrault's version had become a children's fairy tale given the very, very adult themes of the plot.
contes de fée, part un
1925
"Not Nanna's book, Mamma! Something new! Something splendid!"
"Awf'lly splendid, Aunt Sybil!"
"Alright," Lady Sybil Branson née Crawley smiled, setting on a night table the book of Gaelic fairytales her mother-in-law had given her daughter during the family's visit to Dublin in the summer, the first since the beginning of their exile in Downton five years past.
Of course only her husband, with his uncanny ability to give such distinct voices to each leprechaun, mage and fae, was granted the exclusive privilege to read from the enchanted volume of tales, she reminded herself with much amusement. But Tom, along with Matthew were to be home late, meeting with a tenant on the far side of the estate, while Mary was deployed to London to accompany Cousin Rose on an errand of sorts. Sybil therefore enjoyed tonight the sole pleasure of tucking the children in and reading the bedtime story of their choice while the nanny was sent to enjoy her dinner in the Servants' Hall.
"What story shall it be?," she asked the two children, already snuggled beneath the sheets of their respective beds.
"Something with dragons and magic!," her nephew began.
"And fairies!," her daughter continued.
It was then that she had spotted a worn lilac tome among the shelves of children's books that occupied a corner of the nursery. The book was one Sybil knew well. It was a collection of Perrault, long untouched, from where she and her sisters were read to in early childhood. She was pleasantly surprised to find that it had survived the wrath of the years to serve for the children before her the same purpose it had served their mothers once upon a time. She took the book from the shelf and allowed herself a small amount of nostalgia as she looked at the illustrations that graced every other page. At last, she stopped, finding a story that fit well with the requests she had received even if she found it rather silly.
She sat at the end of her daughter's bed and read aloud, "La belle au bois dormant. The Sleeping Beauty."
How apt, she laughed to herself, to read such a tale to two children all set for bed!
"Once upon a time, in a land far, far away," she began, "lived a king and a queen who so longed for a child but for many, many years, despite many, many prayers, only continued to wait."
She felt a small twinge of sadness at that, recalling her small daughter's hopes for a baby sister, hopes that if she and Tom were honest, they shared. But it could not be, as she and Tom have agreed. The drama of Sybbie's birth had proved to them too much to dare risk another pregnancy that could finally succeed in taking her. She pushed aside her thoughts, returning to the story and not noticing her namesake's wide blue eyes that watched her intently.
"One day, at long last, a child was finally born to the king and queen – a beautiful little daughter. For the baptism of the little princess, the king and queen named as godmother all the fairies they could find in their great kingdom. Seven have been found and each gave the little princess a gift, as it was the custom in those times, and each gift had come together to accord the little princess all the perfection imaginable. She was given beauty and sweetness, as well as skill and intellect. The baptism of the little princess was concluded by a feast for her godmothers. In the feast, no one had remarked the coming of an old fairy that resided in a large tower. No one had thought to invite the old fairy because she never left her tower and so, all believed her dead or accursed. The old fairy was offended and gave as a gift to the little princess that one day she will prick her finger on a spindle and die. This horrible gift frightened every member of the feast and none could speak a single word."
Two frightened children then rose from their covers and like two balls, threw themselves into her. She put one arm around her daughter and another around her nephew. Two children cuddled against her, she resumed the story, knowing full well that the terror only served to augment its appeal.
"A young fairy, hidden behind a tapestry then appeared to give her gift and reverse the curse accorded by the old fairy. 'Fear not, my king and queen,' she said, 'it is true I am not strong enough to reverse entirely the old fairy's curse but the princess will not die. The princess will prick her finger on a spindle but she will not die. She will instead fall asleep for a hundred years at the end of which the kiss of a prince will awaken her.'"
"A hundred years seem rather long, Mamma! If I was a princess, I don't know if I can wait that long!," Sybbie called out from her right.
"It is rather long, isn't it, my darling?" Sybil said solemnly, pressing a kiss to her daughter's wild blonde curls, "I myself would likely give up the prince and wake myself a quarter of the way through if it means not spending all those years idle in a rosy bed!"
"It would be quite unpleasant for the prince to kiss someone who has slept for a hundred years, won't it, Aunt Sybil?," George added from her left.
"I'm sure it would, George. I cannot even begin to imagine how awful her breath must smell after all those years," she replied just as solemnly, ruffling her nephew's fine, blond locks, "Should we find another story then?"
"No! This story has magic!," The children cried in unison.
"This story has fairies!"
"This story has dragons!"
"Alright then," she smiled, continuing where she left off, "At the end of fifteen or sixteen years, the king and queen retired to their castle in the countryside and the princess was left to roam the vast castle. In one of the rooms, she saw a woman weaving with the only spindle left in the kingdom. The princess was entranced and she asked if she could try to weave instead. The old woman, who was really the fairy in disguise, acceded to the princess' request. The princess pricked her finger on the spindle and instantly fell asleep."
"Uh-oh," Sybbie cried from her right.
"Remembering the gift of the last fairy, the king had the princess moved to a bed of gold, in the most beautiful room of the palace. The fairy who had gifted her the hundred years of sleep instantly mounted her dragons and set off to keep watch over the sleeping princess. Fearing that the princess will be lonely at awaking alone, she touched the whole castle with her magic wand and all had fallen asleep, only to wake with their sleeping princess. A hundred years passed and many young princes have heard of the tale of the sleeping princess and sought to be her champion. The road to the castle was dangerous, however, and filled with ogres and witches who were said to eat the flesh of those who dared enter their domain.
"Just like Hansel and Gretl, Mamma!"
"The prince, however, was not to be deterred. The words of a kind villager, really the fairy in disguise, encouraged him, and with the help of the fairy, he rode his dragon to the castle of the princess, slaying witches and ogres. When at long last, he kissed the beautiful princess, she awoke to tell him that she has met him in her dreams. The whole castle awoke and the prince and the princess lived happily ever after."
"More, Aunt Sybil! More!," George cried just as she had decided to carry each child, decidedly growing heavier against her, to their respective beds.
His eyes were half-closed but his voice was insistent.
On her other side, Sybbie implored her with her father's Irish blue eyes, hands clutching Catherine, the costly Belgian doll Granny Cora had insisted "Father Christmas" give her eldest and only granddaughter.
Sybil and Tom have protested over the doll's purchase, reasoning that such an expensive gift for such a little girl was unreasonable and reminding the family that they wanted their daughter to be raised in a world where she would not be weighed down or spoiled by privilege. Cora reasoned that no ambition, drive or sense of justice could be taken away by privilege in any child of her youngest daughter, adding, her eyes avoiding those of her daughter and son-in-law, that if Sybbie could not have the sister she so wanted on Christmas day, perhaps such a beautiful doll would do. With much reluctance in their hearts mixed with a weighing sense of guilt, Sybbie's parents have allowed "Father Christmas" to give little Miss Branson the doll henceforth named Catherine, now inseparable from her mistress.
The child had failed to suppress her great yawn and fought to keep her wide eyes open. The sight was so incredibly funny and charming that Sybil had great difficulty in restraining her laughter. My own little sleepy beauty, she thought fondly.
She walked back to the shelf of books, finally relenting, and pulled a volume in light blue – "The Seventh Princess by Eleanor Farjeon". She smiled. This book better suited her tastes. She returned to her daughter's bed and opened the book, knowing well that neither child will go to sleep without their second story. Ordering each child to return to their covers, "Once upon a time," she began once more, now telling the story of seven princesses cherished only for their long, beautiful hair, the longest of which would one day become queen. Her heart instantly went out to the youngest princess, the only one with ebony locks that her gypsy mother faithfully cut. The youngest princess was allowed to play in the fields, to run, to laugh, to be free because she did not have the fine, long, golden hair of her sisters. The sisters with their beautiful golden locks never left their prison that was the palace."
"'I will marry the princess that is to be queen of the kingdom,' the Ragged Servant of the Prince-of-the-World spoke for the prince, for he was much too great to stoop down to speak," she read aloud, finding the Prince-of-the-World worthy of the same ridicule she saw in many men haughty men in the aristocracy, a certain Larry Grey among them, "The Seventh Princess was then dismissed and she left the great hall to play in the fields and run among the flowers…"
The story concluded with the Seventh Princess leaving to see the world with the rather intelligent Ragged Servant of the Prince-of-the-World, while the Prince, his eyes cast down, spent the rest of eternity for one of the six princesses to grow her hair longer than that of the others.
"Just like Mamma…" Sybbie yawned, her mouth becoming a wide O, "and Da!"
Her long lashes fell over her lids, eyes that won't open until the morning, closed shut.
Sybil laughed softly, feeling herself transported into Dublin so many years ago, reveling at the beauty of the freedom she had won, Tom by her side. How wonderful it was in their little flat, only he and her in the world – Mr. and Mrs. Branson, not Mr. Branson and Lady Sybil – and Sybbie! Soon that freedom will be theirs once more, in London, a fresh start for the Bransons, with no scheduled dinners away from their daughter, no nannies, no tails, no evening gowns!, even if they had not yet dared to tell anyone else, not even their precocious daughter who would no doubt feel the separation from George – and Isis – very keenly.
It did not take long before soft snores filled the nursery, George having entered the world of dreams before Sybbie had. The light of the lamp casted orange reflections against the children's sleeping forms. Sybil pressed a soft kiss to her daughter's curls and another to her nephew's locks. She watched them for a moment before returning to the sitting room, exhausted by her day at the hospital and envious of the rest granted the children free from the nonsense of duty and propriety.
Little did she know that behind the children's sleeping smiles, ideas of games and innocent mischief were already forming. Little did she know that it was she who had given them the ammunition.
Today was spoilt. Spoilt beyond belief!
The plan of the day was to spend it jaunting in the grass, Isis at their heels, running and laughing and making crowns of flowers much as they had imagined the Seventh Princess would have done. The sun would be high and welcoming above them and they would both be so dirty at the end of the day that Nanny's and no doubt Gran Violet's eyes would become wide as saucers and pop out in the extremely funny way they always did when a noisy and dirty Sybbie was compounded by a noisy and dirty George.
"Really, Granny, they're little children!," Mamma would say, "they should be allowed to play, get dirty and have fun"
"I was always covered in mud and sweat as a child," Da would add.
"I don't doubt it," Gran would reply, an edge to her voice that neither Mamma nor Da would seem to mind.
Mamma and Da would then join in the fun and be dirty and sweaty and would laugh and laugh with them until their stomachs ached from laughing so much, and so would Uncle Matthew! Aunt Mary would look disapproving but would later laugh at the sight of the two grubby children and the three grubby adults acting just like children. Grandpapa would disapprove but would never bring himself to chastise his beloved grandchildren – Mamma, Da, and Uncle Matthew, well that was a different affair. Granny would laugh, really laugh and say, "None of us should expect any less of any child of yours, Sybil!"
But it was not to be, at least not today.
Mamma had gone to the hospital in the morning for her shift, Da and Uncle Matthew had set off after luncheon to survey Aunt Mary's pigs (as far as Sybbie could remember, they were always "Aunt Mary's pigs") and none will be back until dinner. Aunt Mary was still in London and so was Cousin Rose, Granny had left for Rippon after tea with the children, and Grandpapa was in York. Worst of all, the sun has decided, today of all days, to be bashful! The nerve! Grey, grey clouds gathered round the estate and torrents of rain noisily cascaded into the windows of the children's beloved domain that was the Downton library.
Sybbie would have been perfectly content playing under the rain and George, in the height of his boredom would have conceded for the mere sake of doing something, but Nanny had other views on the matter and neither would any of their parents be pleased to know that they have played under a noisy, raging storm, they suspected. So instead, here they were confined, indoors, indoors! As the thunderstorm continued, it mocked them, them who today would have been the Seventh Princess and her Not-At-All-Ragged-Servant. "You will stay inside today! No sun, no romps, no daisy chains!," it seemed to say to them, no not say, mock.
"Stupid rain. Stupid, stupid rain," George said.
The rain only responded with a great growl and strong lightning.
The library was occupied by them and them alone. Nanny had allowed them to venture into the library on the condition that they behave perfectly, while she tidied the nursery and collected their laundry. His lordship was in York and could not complain, neither would he, she supposed, given the free reign Miss Sybbie and Master George were given in the room by his lordship himself. And what a free reign it was as within minutes Miss Sybbie and Master George had managed to cover a considerable area with papers carrying crayon sketches of the rain, of fairies, of horses, of knights and dragons and in the middle of it all sat the culprits themselves, already exhausted and frustrated by the boredom of the day.
Sybbie had been in the process of spelling her name on the corner of a drawing of a fairy – S-Y-B-B-I-E – and George in the process of adding an nth horn along the rear of a dragon when Isis came in, empathizing with the woes of her youngest master and mistress and unwittingly sitting down on the misshapen sketch of another dragon.
That was when magic happened.
The children's eyes met and Sybbie's wide blue ones became wider and bluer, George's own sparkled. In that quiet understanding, their eyes have said all that needed to be said and in a split second, pouts were replaced with grins marked especially by mischief. Papers were gathered up hastily ("We're perfectly capable of doing it as Mamma and Da always say," Sybbie would always say) and like two hurricanes, quite unknown in the lands of Yorkshire, they had wooshed through the length of the corridor, past more corridors and into the now tidy nursery, Isis at their heels.
"I will be the fairy that makes the princess and the castle sleep!," Sybbie cried excitedly, pulling from the wardrobe the bright pink-and-lilac fairy wings Cousin Rose had helped her make when she decided that she would be fae on her fifth birthday.
Five-year old Sybbie was no more eager to keep watch over a sleeping princess for a hundred long yeas any more than four-year old George was to kiss a princess who has slept for a hundred long years but as the old adage goes, beggars can't be choosers and at the very least, being a fairy was so much less idle than a damsel-in-distress sleeping in a bed of gold. That would have been the dullest cherry on top of an already unbearable boring day – and the sleeping princess did not wear such beautiful fairy wings!
"I shall be Prince George of Downton!," cried the other member of the newly-formed club of imaginations, unknowingly already taking early steps into the role he had been born to fill as he gathered the cloak he had worn at his cousin's party some months ago.
"What about Isis?," Sybbie questioned aloud.
George's eyes met Sybbies and both their gazes turned to poor Isis, already fearing the role Master George and Miss Sybbie would accord her which no doubt would involve carrying one or both to some corner of the big house unfrequented or prohibited to the children. But old Isis was nothing if not loyal and the children knew she would deny them nothing.
"Dragon!," the youngest residents of Downton cried in unison after several minutes of their faces crumpled in concentration. Sybbie's old hair ribbons were instantly procured and donned by Isis as soon as it had been decided that red ribbons were passable substitutes for the scales and horns of a ferocious dragon. Isis sighed in relief, thank heavens she was spared the second, much stuffier cloak hanging from George's open wardrobe!
Catherine was gently laid down on Sybbie's cot just as George's beloved bear, Theodore, was laid in his own. The quest was too dangerous, it had been decided, for Catherine and Teddy to come along!
And so, energized, laughing, and dressed more like children ready for All Hallow's Eve than heroes marching off to face unknown dangers, the trio of adventure seekers had set off to the Bachelors' Corridor to fulfill their first quest.
To be continued...