Epilogue

March 1919 had been a warm, wet month and the cherry trees on the estate were out in early bloom. The Tom's half day off was the last Wednesday of the month and it had turned out to be sunny and warm. He changed out of his uniform into a suit, picked up a closed file folder from the table and headed to the orchard. At this time of year the gardeners were busy with spring planting and the orchard was always deserted. Tucked away in the back corner, well out of site from the gate and shielded by the blossoming trees was a stone bench. Lady Sybil Crawley sat on a thick wool blanket leaning back against a stonewall. She was reading a book and awaiting the arrival of her fiancé.

When Tom approached, she stood up, wrapped her arms around his waist and lifted her face for his kiss. They sat on the bench, leaned against the wall and reveled in the sensation of holding each other in the warm afternoon light away from prying eyes. Sybil's head rested on his shoulder while Tom's hand traced small circles on her back.

"Sybil," Tom said after awhile. "After our elopement attempt I sent an application for a journalist position to a paper in Ireland. With the political upheaval from the recent election there, I expect the mail is a little slower than normal. If I haven't heard back from them within the next two weeks, I would like to take one of the journalism offers I have received here in England. I have until the middle of April to respond if I haven't heard anything from Ireland."

"A journalist position?" Sybil lifted her head and looked at him with a frown. "I think you would do well at whatever you set your mind to, but what made you apply for a job at a paper? What job offers? I don't understand."

"There is something I have been meaning to tell you."

With that Sybil sat up straight and laid a hand on his arm. Her expression became even more serious.

Tom's face broke out in a huge grin.

"Don't fret. It's nothing horrible," he said with a laugh. "Do you remember a news paper article about a year and a half ago about the lack of recognition given to merchant sailors for their efforts and sacrifices to the war effort? It caused quite a stir in political circles both here and in Canada."

"Yes, I think so," Sybil still had a puzzled look on her face.

Tom kissed the top of her head before he continued.

"Well, I have to say it is a good thing your father was born an aristocrat as he would never make a living as an investigative journalist. When it was published he asked me if the T. Branson who wrote the story was a relative of mine."

He retrieved the folder from the bench beside him and handed it to Sybil. She slowly opened the file and looked inside. It contained copies of over fifty articles he had written in the last four years for newspapers and periodicals.

"The correct question was if the T. Branson who wrote the story was me."

With that Sybil raised her eyes from the file folder and looked into Tom's face. There she saw the realization of the promise he had made back in that archway in York when he first proposed just over two years ago. "Bet on me, I will make something of myself, I promise."

"Well my love, you are always full of surprises, and you certainly keep your word," she said as a smile began to spread across her face.

the end