A/N: If you remember, in Lux Facta Est, when Robert confesses to Sybbie that what happened the night she was born was entirely his fault, he told her that Edith was the one who occupied herself with Baby Sybbie while the rest of the family fretted over Sybil. Well, I know I usually write from the PoV of the members of the Branson family but I felt that this was an aspect of Lux Facta Est that I did not explore enough. Also, when I was watching the Season 3 special features on DVD, the segment on Edith's wedding made me sad and it really sunk in how hard it must be for her to watch her sisters lead such fulfilled lives while she remains tied to her parents, feeling underappreciated and unloved. Taking that from the context of Lux Facta Est, it's just so tragic in a way. As always, the Bransons will feature here largely and will play very important roles but the PoV will be Edith's.
A/N 2: We all know Mary's middle name is Josephine. Apparently, according to Edith and Anthony's wedding program which were very visible in the feature, Josephine is also Edith's middle name!
Warning: ANGST!
Don't forget the reviews!
Disclaimer: If Downton Abbey were mine, Matthew and Sybil will still walk the Yorkshire earth.
1920
The room was demonstrative of all the sweetness of childhood – the soft floral of the wallpaper, the dolls that once again lined the shelves, the white crib that was adorned by a solitary plush mouse; the mouse was her sister's darling in childhood, Sybil's mouse, just as there was Mary's dog (there had never been an Edith's special toy for one reason or another and she found herself wondering why that was); it continued to amaze her to no end how her mother had managed to extract the toy from some unknown corner in the attic and bestow on her eldest granddaughter her youngest daughter's last loved toy.
It was symbolic, she thought, that the plush mouse be shared between mother and daughter. After all, the last baby the nursery had held was her baby sister, and now here was her baby niece, the child of that very baby sister, succeeding her mother twenty-odd years later (another baby would have filled the interim, the baby brother of six years ago, her's and Mary's and Sybil's, Sybbie's uncle – none of them have forgotten but for Mamma's sake, only twice have they dared to speak of him).
She was sitting on the rocking chair, reading a book by the soft glow of the lamp, when her niece's coos, demanding attention, drove her to lift the child out of her crib and cuddle the wee thing to her chest.
"Awake again? I hope you didn't find sleep too boring?" she laughed, as she watched the great, blue eyes and impossibly long lashes roam the room's tiny space.
The baby's answer was a coo.
"I suppose I'll take that as a yes, Miss Sybbie."
She was a little beauty, no doubt of that, this tiny Miss Sybbie Branson. After all, how could she be but? Her hair was blonde like Edith's Irish brother-in-law and her eyes were the same shade of blue as his, but everything else spoke of Edith's youngest sister – the thick curling hair, the rosebud mouth, the alabaster skin, even the stubbornness, already apparent at some weeks old, was entirely that of the older Sybil.
She found herself admitting sometimes that if she concentrated hard enough, she would find herself as she was more than twenty-four years ago, three-years old, a ribbon in her hair, sneaking a peek at her new baby sister before Mary awoke and indignantly screeched at her to stop bothering the poor baby.
"Mamma says we are to be gentle with her," four-year old Mary would say, while her glare told little Edith that whatever she was doing did not constitute being gentle in her older sister's world.
"I'm only watching her!" Edith would indignantly retort.
"Well, if she wakes up and cries, it would be your fault! Then Fraulein Kelder can give you a spanking for bothering Sybil!" Mary would huff.
The truth was, the three-year old Edith of years past was very much jealous of Baby Sybil. Even as Edith toddled and struggled to form words and sentences that made sense, she was old enough to recognize that her sister was beautiful and would grow up to be even more so; "My beauty and my baby," Mamma would often remark; Granny, critical and severe Granny, would smile over the fact that the baby will have her pick among the best of the land, will be the most celebrated debutante of the season. They closed their ears to the remarks in London and in the county of what a pity it was that Lord Grantham's second daughter was so plain, so unremarkable, "She'd have a hard time of it, that second one, what with such lovely sisters."
But Sybil was more than a beauty, much more than that. She was also a free spirit. She was sweet and so affected by the tribulations of others but she was also stubborn and determined. By the time their baby sister was seven both she and Mary knew that she would not be like the other girls in their world. And yet, Mary adored her – she adored, praised, and doted on Sybil to the same extent she belittled and patronized over Edith. Sybil was independent, which of course triggered in Edith a fear that had rendered her senseless and in Mary a protectiveness that was to all of them unknown. That was another thing Edith envied her sister – the way she could so easily sprout wings and fly away from the safety of all they had been raised on: fighting for the vote, marrying the chauffeur, moving to the chaos of Dublin – while good, reliable Edith, who fearfully clung to every single thing was forever punished for it.
But today was 1920, not 1895. Lady Edith Crawley was twenty-eight, not three-years old. The baby in her arms was Sybil, that much was true, but she was a different Sybil – so similar and yet different – and even as she knew that the little girl would grow up to be so much like her mother, just as beautiful, just as independent, somehow she could not bring herself to feel anything but love and pride for this wee niece.
She pressed a kiss to her niece's brow and the door opened, flooding the room with the greater amount of light that filled the hall.
"Is she sleeping?" her brother-in-law, her niece's father, asked as he stepped inside.
"She had just woken," she answered as he took the baby from her arms and responded to her mewling sounds with his own coos.
"Sybil had also just woken and already she's complaining that she hasn't seen her miniature all day," he laughed, pressing a kiss to his daughter's hair, already curling as Sybil's own had at that age.
"There hasn't been any – " the word seizures hang in the air, chilling them both to the bone. She knew that he understood what she had meant.
"No. Not today, thank God," he shook his head, but fear still lingered in his voice, lingered as it had since that night five weeks ago, the night they had feared her sister, his wife, Sybbie's mother, their Sybil, was forever lost to them.
"Well, we best be off," he said, before anxiety had the chance to settle again between them, "I'll be damned if I kept Sybil waiting. Thank you, Edith."
She watched her niece disappear round the corridor that led to her mother's room, echoes of her brother-in-law's, "Come darling, let's go see Mamma," reaching the nursery's confines. She reached for her book before she herself headed out for her own room. With one last glance at the nursery, she put out the lamp's light – it felt empty, just as empty as her arms now felt.
Never in her life had she prayed harder than she had that night – and many nights that had followed.
That scream pierced through her heart and chilled her to the bone. Her parents were still fighting – screaming, pleading, imploring. Her brother-in-law was still kept in the dark. Her sister – oh, God – her baby sister. Her baby sister, the beautiful, beautiful, wee thing whose eyes of azure already searched for adventures, for stances and opinions – surely, surely it could not be, she who was so strong, so brave, so sure of what she wanted, it could not be this pitiful woman crying out in pain, screaming and delirious.
Dear, God, she implored, Please, God. I'm begging you, please. Not Sybil, please, not Sybil. She's only twenty-four. She's a wife. She's going to be a mother. She's going to change the world.
They said that one's life flashes before one's eyes before death and just like that she saw she and her sister play before her – a shared childhood, early adolescence, more recent memories spanning the last ten years – "She's just showing off, she'll be on about the vote in a minute," "What could have possibly possessed you to wear trousers, Sybil?!" rolling her eyes at her sister's politics, her nursing, the man she loved, and the worst of it all, the greatest crime – "Look at them. Both with their husbands. Sybil pregnant. Mary probably pregnant…Oh just go. I mean it, go!"
She was bitter. She was angry. Mary, perfect Mary who had always done everything correctly, who had married the heir, who would soon bear an heir, who would become a countess, and Sybil, free-spirited Sybil who had thrown away her life and her title, who had married the chauffeur and had run off to Dublin, who was to be rewarded for it with her own happy family. Her sisters were entering a new world together, hand-in-hand, leaving her, the spinster, alone in the old. She was envious and she wanted to be cruel – but none of it was the fault of her sisters, not one bit – it was the world's cruel way of playing with her and neither of her sisters deserved to be punished for it.
God, I'm begging you. Please, God, please. Don't take her. Don't take my baby sister. Not before I can set things right. Not before she knows I did not mean a word of it.
They feared they had lost her that night, and when she had returned to them, it was precariously. Weeks after, they still feared she would be lost. Tom never left her bedside, fearing what he would find when he returned. Mamma also kept vigil, almost to the same extent as Tom, only leaving to discuss at length her baby's condition with Doctor Clarkson (Once, Mamma cared for her that way too. She was seven-years old and she had Scarlet Fever. Mary and Sybil were sent to Aunt Rosamund's in London and it was the only time she could recall that she did not have to share her mother). Never had Sybil's bedroom been so occupied, so busy, since that night – Mary employed herself at Mamma's service and Matthew at Tom's – it was so much easier to keep busy than to dwell on what might happen.
And her niece, the poor, wee thing who did not see her mother since that night. Her father had named her Sybil after her mother, the mother that she may very well lose – Sybil, because he, no, all of them, really, needed this tiny Sybil to hold on to should the older Sybil –. It was to her sister's daughter that she devoted herself to whole-heartedly.
Mamma refused to speak to Papa, blamed him for what had happened to Sybil ("I won't lose another child, Robert," she had heard Mamma tell him in their room one night, acidly, in a tone that was meant to hurt, to pierce, "I will not have my baby in the cold, dark ground so please let me be before you do any more damage!"). Granny and Mary fretted – well, never mind, she thought, let Granny deal with a crisis without her help for once. Papa and Matthew argued over the running of the estate, well that's their affair. Her niece in her arms, those wide blue eyes and impossibly tiny limbs, it was easy to forget the world, to let bitterness and fear slip away – Anthony Strallan, her father's criticism of her writing, her baby sister even.
The family held its breath for few weeks more – then, they did not know when exactly, but things bettered. Sybil continued to seize but less severely, less frequently; Matthew had finally convinced Tom to step outside for brief moments, to breathe the fresh air, during which the brothers-in-law would discuss the estate's affairs while Mamma would adore her youngest daughter as if she was a baby once more before proceeding to the nursery to cuddle her very first grandchild; Sybbie had sometimes even left the nursery's confines for brief visits to her adoring, if still frail, Mamma; Edith's own Mamma remained cold to her Papa, who removed himself like the plague from his youngest daughter's room and from the nursery but loitered everywhere else – things were not perfect but they were improving. Soon enough, the family breathed more easily.
In the mornings before she opened her eyes, Edith said a quiet prayer, thanking God for her sister before rushing to the nursery to tell her little niece that her Mamma will be well soon. She rejoiced with the family, wore a smile on good days and felt more and more confident that her baby sister will make it through. In the dead of night however, when the sun brought with it reason and activity, how easy it was, so easy, for that old sentiment called jealousy to sink in again.
"Would you like to spend tonight with Mamma and Da, my darling? My big, big girl!"
Her brother-in-law stood by the rocking chair gazing lovingly, adoringly at something below his line of sight – the two Sybils – her sister, her frail baby sister who cuddled and kissed her daughter's curls, murmuring words of sweet nonsense, and her niece who cooed and smiled (her first smiles!) at her Mamma endlessly, adoringly.
Her footsteps startled them just as much as their presence startled her.
Earlier that day, at two months old, her niece was baptized at long last, the wee Miss Branson. She was baptized Catholic amidst her grandfather's protests and her parents' defenses, which were compounded by her Granny's and her Aunt Mary's who true to their word had fought the older Sybil's corner. Baptized in the presence of her grandfather who had relented in the fear of one day telling the sweet child why her grandfather had not been there, of her Uncle Kieran who had come in from Liverpool to be her Catholic godparent, and of her Mamma, her Mamma who had insisted, pleaded, that too much of her small daughter's life had already been deprived from her, that her baptism will not be another. It was a beautiful summer day.
Her niece was christened Sybil Josephine Branson – Sybil for her mother and Josephine for her aunts – Mary Josephine "Our greatest ally in all this," her sister praised, and Edith Josephine, "For mothering Sybbie when I could not," her sister cried. How sweet Sybil was, how sweet her baby sister always was but that constricted her heart in pain, in fear, that that time was soon to be over, was coming to end.
"I just cannot get enough of her," her sister smiled, kissing the baby's apple cheek.
"Should you be out of bed, especially after such a day?" she replied.
"Try telling her that," her brother-in-law laughed, "I've reminded her that Doctor Clarkson told her to 'take it easy' but this one has a mind of her own."
"But I do feel perfectly fine!" her sister protested.
And she believed her. Weeks have passed since her sister's last seizure; for some time now, she could sit upright in bed; recently she had made the short journey from the bedroom she shared with her husband to the nursery; even Doctor Clarkson had conceded that being present at her daughter's baptism shouldn't cause much harm as long as she did not over-exert herself. Their Sybil had returned to them, truly and very much so, it was a simple as that – Sybbie's mother was alright, she would have her now, completely and absolutely and Aunt Edith would not matter so much – it was time for her to return to her place, to her métier, the reliable but easily disposable spinster. Amidst her joy, she felt her throat tighten.
"Well, we best be off," her brother-in-law began, "My Sybils should be tucked-in by now. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Edith," her sister murmured as she pressed a kiss to her cheek, the baby still cradled in her arms.
She watched their retreating figures, her baby sister and her husband and their daughter, her baby sister and her family, the family of that wee infant whose blue eyes danced and searched the world for purpose and adventure more than twenty-four years ago. She watched until they turned the corner, her sister and her brother-in-law's soft coos resonating against the halls and echoing into the nursery where she stood alone, insignificant, and unloved.
Husband, wife, mother, father, and baby – try as she might to dispel it, to remind herself that her pain was not her sister's fault, feeling the guilt rise like bile in her stomach, the image of the happy family nevertheless succeeded in leaving in her mouth a very bitter flavor. She named the taste jealousy, and it is a sensation she will remember sharply, piercingly, when she returns to her childhood home, French perfected and baby given-up, three years later – Sybbie, her beautiful, beautiful niece, dirty and giggling on the grass, curls a-mess, as her screams of "Da! Mamma!" filled the air, imploring her laughing father at her mother's side to rescue her from her mother's tickles – and George, the heir, Mary's heir, exclaiming expressions of delight as he rode his father's shoulders and his mother smiled adoringly at the sight.
"Look at them. Both with their husbands. Sybil's perfect daughter. Mary's perfect heir…Oh just go. I mean it, go!"
It was to herself that she spoke those words, and off she went – to London and Eaton Square and Aunt Rosamund - away from Downton, away from Mamma and Papa, away from her perfect sisters and their perfect families.