A/N: Apologies that the chapters don't stand in chronological order; my mind just won't always operate in a linear fashion. This one was in the works when I saw the issuance of the latest Tumblr challenge ('caught in the act') and I thought, sure, why not (it was getting a little too angsty anyway). This chapter wound up being way, waaaay longer than originally intended. It rambles around a bit with lots of fluff, minimal plot, a bit of humor, and sexytimes. I've got others in the hopper (including one for Christmas), and will work on them if there's any interest – will also welcome prompts (sometimes the muse needs a swift kick). Just for reference, this takes place about four months after "In the Library." I'm also playing with the timeline a little bit – here, Edith hasn't yet had her disaster at the altar; in fact, I left it intentionally vague since I haven't decided who she winds up marrying (if she does at all) in my happily alternative version of Season 3. Reviews are always appreciated.

Chapter 3: Bobby's Bisque

(Downton, Winter, 1921)

Her husband was late. Tom had promised to return before luncheon to watch Bobby for the afternoon, but apparently his meeting with Matthew and one of the tenants on the far side of the estate hadn't gone as quickly as anticipated. The Dowager Countess was scheduled to arrive shortly to gather the Crawley (and Branson) women for an ill-timed dress fitting. If it wasn't required for Edith's pending nuptials, Sybil would have begged an excuse. But, Edith remained so anxious about the whole affair, she wasn't about to give her sister another reason to panic.

So, her husband's tardiness left her precious little time to change and bathe the baby and Bobby's near refusal to nurse that morning had already put her on edge. Her little boy snug against her shoulder, Sybil scurried down into the servants' hall, the kitchen maids and hall boys nodding amiably in her direction. She wasn't a stranger to this part of the house even before she married the former chauffer. And, though she was familiar with the layout of the rooms, she was oblivious as to their contents and searched for someone's assistance.

"Oh, Daisy, could you help me?" she asked in breathless relief, entering the kitchen.

Now the assistant cook, Daisy smiled warmly, her arms bleached with flour up to the elbows. "Of course…I think. What on earth do you need down here?"

"Something to bathe him in. The basin Mama gave me is too small. He squirms so much I can't keep him in it, but he's still too little for the bathtub….."

Daisy pointed to a large copper pot hanging on the wall. "How about that?"

Sybil quirked a brow. "Are you sure?"

She bobbed her head, excitedly. "Only if I can help – I've never taken care of a baby before."

Sybil gratefully accepted her offer and began peeling clothes off the little boy as Daisy followed her instructions for tempering the bathwater. Plopping her son down in the soup pot, she planted an indulgent kiss against his plump cheeks. Bobby grasped his mother's fingers and grinned up at her, wriggling in the warm water. At seven months he had already developed his own adorably impish personality and had become the delight of the household, upstairs and down. Sybil glanced over to catch Daisy staring at the baby. "What?"

"He looks exactly like Mr. Branson," she said, soaping up the washcloth.

Sybil reached down into the water, her hand gently stroking the soft skin of her baby's back. "I know. It's remarkable isn't it?" While his downy hair already revealed signs of wavy tufts, the rest of his features, his eyes, chin, mischievous grin, even his ears, were his father in miniature. Bobby released his mother's hands and splashed the bath water with delighted squeals. Sybil averted her head to avoid getting wet. "I'm afraid he's going to act like him too." She stood him on his chubby legs so that Daisy could scrub suds in all the hard-to-reach places. Her motherly sounds elicited contented snorts and giggles as he gnawed on his tiny fists. She eased him back down, his arms again at liberty to play in the water.

"You're not going to boil that baby are you?"

Everyone glanced at Mrs. Patmore, looming like a dark cloud in the doorway. Even Bobby suddenly stopped his antics, his fingers grasping the edge of the pot as he observed the round woman inquisitively.

Daisy shook her head. "Of course not."

"Then what in heaven's name are you doing with my best soup pot?"

Sybil interjected nervously. "Well, you see, he keeps…."

"And just what am I going to use to prepare Lord Berkley's favorite bisque?"

Daisy timidly pointed to the remaining containers on the wall.

"Girl, we've got extra guests tonight, I don't have time to cook it five times over – I need that big one!" she thundered, pointing to the counter, the naked baby staring back at her with brilliant blue orbs.

"We'll be finished in a minute," Sybil promised. "I'll make sure it's been washed properly."

"Well, milady," Mrs. Patmore huffed, "I hope when they serve the soup course tonight you remember what was sitting at the bottom of that pot."

Mrs. Hughes strode into the room, relieved to find her charge. "Oh, Lady Sybil, there you are. Her Ladyship was looking for you. They're all waiting upstairs."

"Blimey, I knew they'd be in a rush," she said, exasperated. "I've not finished him. Is Tom back yet?"

"I'm afraid not."

Daisy smiled, the answer clear, at least for her. "Go on, I'll finish and watch him until Mr. Branson returns."

"Are you sure? I know you must be frightfully busy preparing tonight's dinner and he can be quite a handful." As if on cue, Bobby began splashing his bathwater again, thoroughly drenching both his mother and Daisy, sending the latter into a string of giggles. Mrs. Patmore rolled her eyes.

"We've a house full of staff," Mrs. Hughes assured her, artfully dodging most of the water as she took the towel and baby clothes. "Now, go before the Dowager Countess comes looking for you and finds her great-grandson in a soup pot."

Sybil squeezed her arm affectionately, planted quick kisses on her son's wet head, and hurried toward the stairs.

Mrs. Patmore tsk-tsked. "A house bursting at the seams tonight, and we've got to babysit." She threw her hands in the air. "I understand they're trying to do everything for themselves, but someone needs to shake some sense into that girl. They need a nanny."

Mrs. Hughes draped the towels and baby clothes over her shoulder, motioning for Daisy to finish washing the baby. "They won't hear of it for now," she sighed.

Leaning against the counter by the makeshift bathtub, Mrs. Patmore shook her head, her eyes widening in revelation as she observed the baby's face. "Good Lord, he looks just like Mr. Branson doesn't he?"

Their meeting at the Parks farm lasted much longer than expected. The tenant was a shrewd man and demanded a written account and comparative numbers if he were to be persuaded to try any sort of modern equipment. Tom and Matthew returned well past luncheon and were promptly met at the front door by a sullen Mr. Carson. With narrowed eyes, the butler pointedly informed them of the kitchen staff's unexpected babysitting duties. Tom issued an apologetic thank you and dashed downstairs to find his son perched on Daisy's lap, chewing on a wooden spoon as she mixed batter with her free hand. Scowling, Mrs. Patmore handed him a plate, complete with a ham sandwich for himself (she remembered it being his favorite), and a colorful lump of mashed peas and carrots for Bobby. She shook her head in disbelief as the father took his leave back upstairs, baby in one arm and lunch in the other.

By design, the parenting responsibilities were his that afternoon, and he prayed Sybil would forgive him for being late on the baby exchange. Despite the happy occasion for the errands, he knew she would be at her wits end when she returned. His wife still struggled to balance her commitment to her Downton family and her disinterest in playing an active role in the pomp and ceremony. They both recognized the safety and security the estate offered in their exile from Ireland, but neither consciously embraced the lifestyle.

As for him, his father-in-law's timid approval of him as estate agent had carved a temporary path and Matthew came to rely heavily on his advice. Even Robert ruefully agreed with some of his 'revolutionary' ideas to transform the estate. It's just a matter of persuasion, Tom informed his brother-in-law one evening over their customary billiard match. You just have to make him think the ideas are his to begin with. It wasn't his chosen profession, it wasn't fighting for freedom, and it certainly wasn't Ireland, but at least he made useful contributions to the estate. In recent months, however, as the baby's birth slipped further behind them, he worried Sybil would begin to grow restless - cooped up again, suffocating under the elaborate architecture, ancient walls, and restrictive daily routine. Edith's upcoming wedding and the planning surrounding it momentarily kept the topic at bay, but they couldn't avoid it forever. Uselessness was his wife's worst enemy.

Both refreshed from an afternoon nap, Tom dressed himself and his son before heading downstairs to meet the others for tea. He slipped into the library, the baby secured on his hip.

"I see the ladies haven't returned."

"No," Robert said. "And I shudder to think what atrocities they'll relay about the dressmaker this time. I told them they should have gone to London. Mary had no trouble with Fortesque's." He stood by the fire, warming his back, and couldn't help but smile fondly at his grandson. "I do wish you would agree to a nanny. He gets carted around more than a pocket watch."

"I told you before, that's up to Sybil. I've asked her myself and she said no, so that's that."

"At the risk of being called old-fashioned, you are her husband. Put your foot down."

"So she can step on it? Not a chance." Tom briefly wondered if his father-in-law had gone mad. He hoisted the child against his chest and patted his rump. "I admit, though, he's becoming more of a handful. I sat him down on the floor the other night so I could tie my shoes and he crawled two feet before I finished."

"Already?" Matthew asked, motioning for his nephew. "I can't believe how fast he's growing." He situated Bobby on his lap, chuckling as his little fists eagerly grasped the space in front of him. He reached one hand out to grab his uncle's finger and seemed hypnotized by it for a long moment before shoving it towards his mouth.

Tom's eyes widened in horror. "Watch…"

Matthew winced and quickly disengaged his finger from the child's clamping gums. "Blimey."

Tom bit back a laugh, handing his brother-in-law a cold cloth. "Sorry. Should have warned you. Let him gum that for a while. It'll save your fingers."

"Still no tooth, eh?" asked Robert.

Tom shook his head. "All things considered, he's been a sport about it. I remember some of my nieces and nephews screaming bloody murder for days at a time. Bobby seems to be more of a drooler than a screamer, thank God."

As if on cue, the little boy pulled the cloth from his mouth and began to blow bubbles. A large and slimy trail of slobber dribbled from his bottom lip.

Matthew peered down as the dampness hit his knees. He cleared his throat. "He's sprung a bit of a leak."

Tom pulled a larger cloth from his shoulder. "Here, I've got one for that as well."

Robert laughed as Matthew tried, but miserably failed, to catch all of the moisture. Oblivious of the mess, Bobby continued blowing wet raspberries with his tongue, and then launched into round of delighted giggles as his uncle tickled his sides. He squealed happily and kicked his chubby legs. Tom finally relented and gave his son a silver tea spoon to occupy himself, earning a frown from his father-in-law, but it enabled him to discuss a minimal amount of business in relative quiet. The ladies returned, somewhat bedraggled, just as Alfred appeared with tea.

Sybil sidled up next to her husband and planted a kiss on his lips, much to her father's annoyance. "I'm so sorry, darling, but the dressmaker was dreadfully difficult today."

"I told you to go to London," Robert said, glancing at his wife. "Where's Mama?"

Cora sank down on the sofa, a tired smile on her face as she watched her grandson. "We were running so late, we dropped her off so she could change. Hodges will pick her up later."

"I thought it would be easier to just have everything done here," Edith said, her face flushed from an exasperating afternoon. "I didn't want the wedding to such a bother."

Cora patted her daughter's knee, and sighed. "Everything will be just fine. We finished the main fitting. At least that's behind us. It was poor planning on my part to schedule it for today with Lord Berkley staying the night."

Sybil laced her fingers with her husband's and leaned against his shoulder. Her feet practically begged to be freed from her imprisoning shoes. Had she been in their Dublin flat she would have kicked them off in the door, but she could only imagine what Carson would say if he tripped over them here. "I hope my boys behaved."

"Our son was just teaching his Uncle Matthew about teething."

She scowled at her husband. "You didn't let Bobby bite him, did you?"

"Nothing a little trip to Dr. Clarkson won't cure," Matthew teased.

Cora reached for her grandson and hugged him to her. "My goodness. I would think with three adult men watching out for you, you wouldn't feel like you've just been dipped headfirst in the Nile."

"It's hard enough to keep the bottom half dry," Sybil laughed, "and now we have to change the top half almost as much."

"I just wish he would coordinate both halves so we could change everything at once," Tom added.

"The little chap has quite the set of jaws," Matthew noted.

"I'll say. Feeding him hasn't exactly been a walk in the park lately." Sybil sighed with a wince, reaching for the baby. She ignored her father's convenient coughing, and rolled her eyes. "Speaking of which…"

"I'll go with you," Mary offered, then glanced at the clock. "I hardly noticed the time. When do we expect Lord Berkley, Papa?

"Just before dinner. Archie had some last minute business to attend to so they took a later train from Edinburgh. I dare say they'll hardly have time to change."

Matthew raised a brow at Tom. "That should give us time for a re-match, then, don't you think?"

"Honestly? I'm up five games to two!"

"Best out of fifteen?"

Fat and happy from his afternoon feeding, Bobby stretched his legs and babbled unintelligible noises as his mother tickled him. Sybil cooed as she undressed him for another dry set of clothes, and elicited a fit of giggles with playful kisses on his bare tummy.

"Have you given any more thought to hiring a nanny, or are you still waging war against extravagance?" Mary asked.

Bobby seized one of his chubby feet and plugged the toes in his mouth. Sybil smiled as she struggled to fold and pin the fresh nappy around his contorted limbs. "Actually, I was thinking about it."

Her sister was taken aback. "Really?"

She nodded. "I'd like to go back to nursing."

"Have you told Tom?"

"No, not yet. I wanted to think it through before coming to a decision," she said, fastening the last pin. "If we were in Dublin, it would have been past time for me to go back to the hospital. And we'd have to find someone to take care of him anyway. It wouldn't be fair to the staff if we didn't hire someone, at least during the day. They've been too generous as it is."

"You know you don't have to. Go back to nursing, that is."

"Yes, I do. If we have to stay here at Downton, we'll carry on with our lives in our own way," she said, slipping a pale green gown over her son's head. "Though I imagine Papa will hit the roof when I tell him. Not to mention Granny."

"They'll be completely scandalized, I'm afraid," she said with a wry smile. "But, I'll stand by you if you wish."

Sybil smiled gratefully and handed her the freshly changed baby. "I knew you would."

"How is it that you've always known me better than I know myself?" Mary rocked the little boy against her shoulder for a few moments as Sybil tidied the table and discarded the soiled nappy into a small bin for cleaning. Bobby gave his aunt a gummy smile, his inquisitive hands grasping for her pearl necklace. Mary smiled back, besotted by his expressions and basking in the fresh baby smell. Before Bobby's arrival, she saw children as a fundamental duty, but now she desperately wanted to start a family.

"How far along are you?" Sybil asked quietly behind her.

Her sister's intuition was almost other-worldly. Mary stammered for a moment. "How…about two months…I think."

"Matthew must be so excited."

"I haven't told him yet," she admitted, gently prying her necklace out of her nephew's mouth.

"Why ever not?"

"I just want to confirm it with Dr. Clarkson first. We've had such a time of it, and he's been so….cautious…since the surgery, that I didn't want to get his hopes up only to crush them again. He's terribly sensitive about the whole thing. He's leaving for business in London on Wednesday, so I've made my appointment for then."

"Well then, at least the nanny will be a practical investment for us both."

"Yes," she said, helping Sybil tuck him in the bassinet. "So it would seem."

Tom popped the stick against the cue ball. "So, what's this business in London about?"

Matthew grinned as the shot careened off target, a rare miss for his brother-in-law, and contemplated his own play. "Oh, part of Reggie Swire's estate included some outparcels of land here and there, and a few small properties in London. I've no need of them, and my agent has finally found a buyer. I'm going down to sign the paperwork."

"You could always have him come here for such a trivial thing. Sounds like an excuse to get out of the house if you ask me," Tom said over his glass.

Matthew scowled as his ball bounced harmlessly off the side of the table. This evening's game wasn't going nearly as well as he had hoped. He sipped the whisky and grimaced. Irish whisky. It was one of Tom's few demands for the house if he was stuck at Downton. "I'm also going to see a doctor," he admitted quickly, then clarified. "A specialist."

"What for?"

"What do you think?"

"They have specialists for that?" he asked, astonished.

"Nowadays they have specialists for everything," he ruefully replied. "Mary had her surgery what, four-five months ago? I just want to make sure I'm not the problem after all."

"Give it time, Matthew."

"It didn't take you very long," he said, a wry smile.

"Four months was a long time according to most of my family. Ma started wondering if Sybil had kicked me to the sofa."

"But you didn't do anything….in particular?" he stuttered, and then gestured awkwardly. "Other than the usual."

"No." Tom eyed him, uncomfortably lining up his next shot.

"Do you think we could do anything differently?" Matthew asked, his nervous question materializing a second too soon.

Tom's cue stick squeaked off the top of the ball. He glared at his brother-in-law.

Matthew appeared genuinely apologetic. "Sorry."

Tom tugged at his tie, which had suddenly drawn up like a noose. "I'm sure you're doing everything right," he said, uneasily glancing around for his glass. "It's your shot."

Matthew mulled the response momentarily and half-heartedly strode around the table to consider his next play. He leaned over, paused for a long moment, and then stood again lost in thought. "But, maybe there is something to a lot of those old wives tales…."

Tom pressed his palm against his temple, certain he felt the beginnings of a terrible headache.

Matthew sighed heavily, realizing he was on the verge of driving the poor man back into the library with Lord Grantham. "Sorry. This probably isn't the conversation you wanted to have."

"It's alright," he said, shaking his head. "It's just not the conversation I expected to have." Realizing Matthew was far too anxious to let the issue drop, he poured them both another drink. "I can't pretend to understand the pressure you're under to do what you're supposed to do, when in reality you don't have much control over it. So, I'm not sure how much or what kind of advice I can offer. But, I know one thing - you're thinking too much about it." He offered his brother-in-law the refreshed drink.

"I know Robert's thinking too much about it."

Tom looked horrified. "He hasn't asked you…."

"Of course not," Matthew quickly cut in. "But I can feel his eyes boring into me every morning at breakfast."

"To be honest I never noticed."

"I'm starting to sympathize with all of these pedigreed dogs now," he said sardonically. "Cordoned off to breed in captivity."

"I suppose that makes me the flea-bitten stray mutt."

"I think you did fairly well for a stray. Bobby has all the makings of charm and respectability. He's already captivated all the women of the household. You'll have to keep a close eye on him."

Tom smiled proudly as he thought about his chubby-legged little scamp upstairs, and lined up a shot at the corner. The ball clattered into the net with several others as the dinner gong sounded, effectively ending the game. "So, which pompous peer are we entertaining tonight?" he asked, throwing back the remaining contents of his glass.

"Archibald Pierce, the Eighth Earl of Berkley. I'm afraid I haven't met this one," Matthew replied, strolling into the hall. "I understand he's on the way back to London from his estate in Scotland. They'll just be here overnight, but you know the rules. God forbid you have Lord so-and-so drop by without putting on a show."

"So, do you intend on changing that when the time comes?" Tom smirked.

Matthew shook his head, clapping his brother-in-law on the back. "I can change the way the estate is managed, but society is beyond my control. I just have to play the part as best I can, and leave the revolution to those better suited for it."

Robert groaned and practically gulped the remainder of his drink as his guest's shrill voice echoed throughout the room. By the fish course, Lord Berkley had managed to opine on nearly every controversial topic confronted by the British government over the past two decades. Spurred by copious amounts of wine (much to Carson's vexation as he dug into the last of the 1891 collection), the guest then began volunteering his personal disgust with the Irish situation and Catholics in general. Robert glanced at his son-in-law, silently pleading with him to ignore the drunken histrionics.

"Remind me again why you invited him here?" the Dowager questioned her son above the rim of her goblet.

He sighed heavily, and forced a smile at Lady Berkley, whose face was masked in humiliation. Their daughter, on the other hand, appeared somewhat amused as she turned to her neighbor at the table.

"Mr. Branson, I understand you're from Ireland. Is that true?"

Tom glimpsed at her from the corner of his eye, and then focused on his wife's beautiful, but increasingly exasperated face to keep his temper in check. "It is. Dublin, in fact."

"On my last visit with the Flintshires, Rose told me you were a tradesman," she remarked.

"Tom was a journalist, Becky," Edith offered quickly. "I've read some of his work. He's a rather talented writer."

"I mean before. It seems she said you did something even more original…"

"I worked here," he returned flatly, giving her the answer she wanted. "As the chauffer."

She smiled, spooning a few vegetables from the tray Alfred presented her. "And now you are the resident agent."

"That's right."

"And we couldn't have found a better one, could we Robert?" Matthew asserted. "Tom's an incredibly hard worker and understands the particulars of modern farming."

"How kind of my niece to keep you so well-informed," the Dowager tittered. "And as you can see, we've grown quite fond of Brans….Tom. Couldn't bear to let him go."

"You've made a noble trajectory for yourself, Mr. Branson," Lord Berkley noted. "Not many of your birth can offer such a comparison. You're far better off here than begging for work in Dublin."

Carson cleared his throat behind James and Alfred, both of whom had decelerated their rounds to a near crawl, their eyes and ears seemingly awaiting a bomb to explode under Mr. Branson's chair.

"Quite right," the daughter concluded. "You made a fortunate match with Lady Sybil."

Tom swore he felt Miss Pierce's hand squeeze his thigh beneath the table. He stiffened and speared his fish, a little rougher than he intended, then glanced apologetically at his wife, praying she didn't realize what just happened. Carson would never wash the blood out of the table cloth.

"There was no match, as you call it, Becky," Sybil interjected, cutting a glare across the table. "Not that it's any of your concern, but Tom and I fell in love. It was as simple as that. And we were perfectly content in Dublin and would be there still if circumstances allowed it."

"Branson…" Lord Berkley mused momentarily as he sipped on his re-filled goblet. "Ah, I remember. You were the chap at Drumgoul Castle. I remember the Home Secretary's account of it now…"

"Tom played no part in that, Lord Berkley," Matthew cut in.

Miss Pierce shrugged haughtily. "That's not what I heard, Mr. Crawley."

"Archie," Robert hedged. "The situation in Ireland will not be resolved at this table. At least not tonight. I suggest we change the subject."

"I didn't realize you had converted, my old friend. But I should have known since you allowed your daughter to run off and breed with one of them."

Chairs scuffed against the carpet as Matthew, Tom, and Robert stood simultaneously. Mary gently squeezed her brother-in-law's arm next to her. His anger was palpable, his body fairly shaking with restraint. He watched in admiration as Sybil stood defiantly across the table and aimed steely eyes at her father's guest.

"Lord Berkley, my husband is an Irish Catholic, as is our son, and I'm not ashamed of it. In fact, I'm quite proud of them. I've seen with my own eyes the atrocities of the British in Ireland. I've seen what happens when the Black and Tans open fire on an innocent crowd. I've also witnessed what the Irish natives have done, and while I don't condone it, I understand their anger. Centuries of oppression will do that to a people. And, if they are ignorant and poor, as you claim, it's not of their choosing I assure you. We've no one to blame but ourselves for allowing it to happen."

She glanced around at each of the party, her eyes finally settling on her husband and drawing strength from his soft smile of approval. "And just so you know, Lord Berkley, this morning I bathed my son in the pot that cooked your bloody bisque. I hope you enjoyed it." She slapped her serviette down on the table, sending a fork spiraling into the air. The remaining guests were engulfed in an uncomfortable silence as she stormed out of the dining room.

"Well, that's a relief," the Dowager finally pronounced. "I thought Mrs. Patmore's skills were slipping."

Robert scowled across the table. "Lord Berkley, we'll see to it that your luggage is delivered to the Grantham Arms in the village. Carson?"

"Certainly, my Lord."

"What!?"

"I wouldn't want you to feel uncomfortable staying here with our Irish rabble, as you called them. Of course, Lady Berkley and your daughter are welcome to remain here for the night and meet you at the station in the morning."

"I hardly think…." Berkley stammered, flustered as the butler suddenly shifted the chair beneath him.

"I believe you've done enough thinking aloud this evening. Unless you intend to offer an apology, I suggest you take your leave." His voice flat, Robert stood solitary and emotionless, a stark contrast to the infuriated glares cast by his sons-in-law.

"We'll all go," he finally muttered, stumbling slightly as he motioned for his wife and daughter. He glanced in Tom's direction. "I wouldn't want to risk having the place burned down around our ears."

Robert took a threatening step, his arm stayed by his mother's grasp as the guests departed. Only after hearing the heavy doors close safely behind them did he dare look at his family. His eyes, ashen with regret, finally settled on Sybil's husband. "His behavior was inexcusable."

Tom nodded at his father-in-law, in gratitude, before shifting toward the door.

"No, Tom," Robert said, quietly. "I should go."

Lord Grantham slipped quietly into the dim light of his daughter's room and found her seated by the fire, Bobby cradled to her chest. He noticed, too late to excuse himself, that she was busy nursing his grandson. He averted his eyes, uncertain where to point them, until she pulled a small blanket over her breast as she rocked the baby. Her movements suggested no hint of embarrassment, but he immediately recognized she had been crying from the discoloration of her eyes and smudged makeup. He felt his own tears, a blend of rage and shame, prickling his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his shoulders slumping with the only words that came to mind. He sat across from her, in a plush chair strewn with baby clothes. He took one of the small gowns, stared at it for a long moment, and toyed with the soft fabric. "I thought after the incident with the Greys that this business would be behind us. Berkley and I grew up together. I'm aware of his opinions. I should have known something like this was bound to happen. I'm very sorry indeed."

His daughter shook her head. "Don't apologize to me, Papa. When he spoke about the Irish Catholics, about how they don't deserve rights, equality, or even the decency of Christian charity, he was talking about my husband and son. Your grandson," she emphasized. "That's precisely the kind of prejudice Tom has encountered all his life. I understand it now, and more than ever I understand his passion for changing the way things are, not just in Ireland, but here as well."

Robert watched her for a long time, her fingers gently brushing the bottom of the baby's bare feet, his noisy snuffles the only sounds breaking the silence. As the child pulled away from her, finished with his supper, the grandfather's eyes darted safely to the crackling fire. He dared to look again only when she stood next to him, offering the baby. Holding the stout little boy, he saw certainly saw his daughter, but he suddenly recognized how much of Branson…Tom, he mentally corrected himself, was evident in his tiny features. Their exile here at Downton, fated for an unknown time, the sight of them together every day, and his first grandchild in his arms, slowly forced the reality on him. Even with all of his doubts, those past and certainly yet to come, he finally accepted it, the truth there in his arms, peering back at him through unbearably blue eyes.

"I just came to check that you were alright," a soft lilting voice called from the door.

Sybil took her husband's hand, squeezing gently as he pressed a soft kiss against her fingers.

For once, Robert smiled at their loving gesture. He eased the baby into his son-in-law's arms. "Parenthood shifts our priorities into uncharted waters, does it not?"

"It does," Tom confessed, shushing the baby as he fought his slumber. Sybil leaned her head against his shoulder, her arm resting against Tom's as they cradled him together.

Robert suddenly felt in the way and moved toward the door. "And I assure you that will never change," he admitted, "No matter how old they are." Sybil shared a knowing smile with her father as he slipped out of the room.

Tom gently deposited his son, finally surrendering to sleep, in the bassinet and tucked the thick blankets around him. He turned to find his wife swiping fat tears from her cheeks. "Here now. You're the strongest person I know," he whispered, pulling her to him. "You've faced all the prejudice on both sides of the Irish Sea without as much as a turn of the head. Don't let the Berkleys of the world start bothering you now."

She laid her forehead against his. "I'm not. I'm sorry," she said.

"You've nothing to be sorry about. Nothing at all." Tom brushed her cheeks with his thumbs, and pressed a tender kiss against her lips. "Ma always said when you have a hundred reasons to cry, you should think of the thousands of reasons you have to smile. There's one right there," he said, turning them towards their son.

She couldn't help but smile, watching the gentle rise and fall of the blankets as the baby slumbered soundly. Tom's arms enveloping her, his hands softly brushing her back, she finally relaxed against him. They had faced more than Berkley's contempt before; they knew there was no escaping it no matter where they settled, but they were determined to fight it. The world was changing; the racism against his homeland was unsustainable in a modern world. But, their efforts were wasted if they descended into endless debates with drunken, albeit aristocratic, louts. They chose the smaller battles they could win, whether it involved helping the tenants at Downton or secretly submitting opinion pieces through the post (she could only imagine her father's reaction if he ever discovered her clandestine correspondence).

He kissed the top of her head. "Shall we join everyone back downstairs? They're bound to be worried about you."

She closed her eyes when he spoke, the vibrations of his chest sending a soft shiver through her limbs. Shaking her head, her hands slowly tugged at the back of his shirt. "No," she whispered, reaching up to brush a kiss against his stubbled cheek. "Not tonight."

He nodded, accepting her unspoken request, and tugged her toward the bed.

They prided themselves as partners in marriage, and more so as equals in bed. After their first clumsy but undeniably eager encounter on their wedding night, she needed little encouragement to solicit his attentions. And Tom was more than willing to be at her mercy. They had discovered countless places, countless ways, and countless reasons to shut the world out for however long it took to focus solely on one another. Sybil had never been one to consent to the traditional role of a submissive wife, but days like today had taught her that when reality crashed down, when the world conspired against them, the only thing she wanted was to be a woman, his woman, and to selfishly accept everything his body offered.

Wordlessly, they undressed one another. Buttons slipped free and garments idled to the floor, unhurried but natural. She rested her hands on his hips, allowing him unfettered access, his mouth hungrily grazing her neck as they fell back against the bed, a gentle but unceremonious flop. He smiled down at her, a mischievous grin. "Just lie back," he said. And, oh, how she did.

She merely closed her eyes and focused on each patch of skin brushed by his lips, anticipating where they would go next. The gentle nibbles behind her ear were followed sequentially by his mouth tracing her neck, downward to her breasts, capturing one and then the other, his tongue slowly teasing each nipple into a taut bud. Her hands rested lazily against his shoulders as he moved lower, her breath quickening as he kissed her stomach and further still until she felt the familiar beginnings of a tightening coil. She remembered the first time he did that, in those early weeks of marriage after awkward modesty had transformed into playful experimentation. Her initial surprise was immediately supplanted by a renewed sense of empowerment, that the two of them could conquer anything together.

She opened her eyes again only when she felt his breath against her lips, inviting, his soft smile melting to capture her mouth. Her arms wrapped around him, weakly, as he settled against her. She allowed herself to smile then, feeling him nudge her, hard and ready. He thrust in slowly, his eyes bearing down on hers, watching them drift back as she took him in. Raising up on his arms, he felt her feet drift up the backs of his legs. Tom groaned loudly as she pulled him deeper. "Shhh," she whispered, her fingers brushing his lips. She waited patiently, stilling her movements, and waited for their son's soft whimpers to subside. She smiled when she heard Bobby take a deep relaxing breath, falling back to sleep.

He began to move against her again, gentle thrusts that quickened in harmony to their breathing. Feeling her orgasm build, she pulled him to her quickly, burying her mouth against his shoulder to stifle her cries as she came. Watching her come down, her body finally relaxed into the pillows, he kissed her as he let himself go. Tom loved these final sated moments, the acute sensitivity of every touch coupled with a shared vulnerability. Her fingers brushed the hair behind his ears as their limbs quivered in final exertion. The muscles in his arms gave way and he dropped to his elbows, a sheen of sweat covering them both despite the chill descending the room.

Gently shifting his weight, he slipped out of her softly, pulling her with him as his drained body collapsed against the mattress. He tucked an arm securely around her, her torso and hips molded to him. She snaked an arm across his abdomen, reveling in the soft rise and fall of this chest, as she reached for his hand. He laced their fingers together, his thumb tracing a lazy pattern across her palm as their breathing slowed.

"Tom?"

"Hmm?" Her voice fairly caught him off guard. She habitually fell asleep after they made love, something he teased her about endlessly.

"I'm going to ask Dr. Clarkson for a position at the hospital."

He hesitated before responding. "Alright. If that would please you."

She propped up on an elbow, facing him, her fingers splayed across his heart. "It would. Truly, it would. And I think it's time."

He brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. "Then I think you should go see him first thing tomorrow." He kissed the tip of her nose. "I admit, though, I'm surprised it took you so long to make that decision."

"I suppose I thought setting my mind on it meant we wouldn't be going home anytime soon. We won't, will we?" she asked, quietly.

"No," he replied after a long moment, more of a confirmation than an answer. "I won't go anywhere that puts you or our son in danger. I once promised I would stay at Downton forever until you decided to run away with me. And I will stay here forever if that keeps you safe."

"Even if it means staying away from home."

"Even then. But my home is where you are," he said, tracing his finger down the bridge of her nose. "I know we'll go back, though. Someday. It may not be soon, but it won't be forever. I promise."

She leaned into his kiss, accepting the vow eagerly. He pulled away, the romantic inside him completely captivated by every fiber, every fault, every kindness, and every determined and rebellious bone in her body. He spent nearly six years believing they would never be together. Now he couldn't imagine life without her. A slow smile lit his eyes.

"What?"

"I was just thinking."

She was curious. "About?"

"I need to ask you something and I want you to answer me honestly," he said, a sudden earnest expression.

"You know I will."

"Did you really bathe our son in a soup pot?"

Her face broke into a guilty smile. "I'm afraid so," she said, biting her lip.

His fingers sifted through her wavy curls as she buried her head against him, both of them laughing, hers muffled against his chest. "Well, I have to say, Bobby's Bisque was quite popular this evening," he teased, nudging her back playfully against the mound of pillows. "Lord Berkley won't soon forget it." He captured her mouth, their muted laughter drowning out the squeak of the bedroom door, but not the regal voice that followed.

"Nor will I."

"Shit." The expletive escaped before he could help it as he reached feebly for the tangled sheet at their feet. Sybil stifled contagious giggles into her hand, much to the consternation of her husband who frantically tried to cover them both. Casually tucking the sheet beneath her arms, she seemed unconcerned that her grandmother had just borne witness to their naked bodies. Tom's heart thumped painfully in his chest as he lay propped against the headboard, finally covered, albeit with the thin sheet. He glared over at his wife, who appeared genuinely amused by the situation.

"Lady Grantham, we were just…."

With a quick shake of her head, she held a knobby hand aloft. "Please. I may be ancient, but I'm not oblivious to what goes on up here."

"I thought you would have left by now Granny."

"Robert said you had recovered from Berkley's vitriol, but I wanted offer my own apologies."

Sybil reached for her husband's hand atop the sheet. It felt like a limp fish against her palm. "Thank you. I'm quite alright," she said, smiling at her husband's flushed features. "We both are."

"I can see that," the older lady smirked, then glanced at her grandson-in-law, who looked everywhere around the room, except at her. "Archie's never quite mastered moderation when it came to claret or port. Or his opinions. It's unfortunate you had to be on the receiving end of it this evening."

"Thank you, Granny."

Tom finally dared to glimpse up at the old woman, his face aflame in mortification, but he nodded appreciatively nonetheless.

The Dowager peeked in on her great-grandson, sound asleep and snoring softly. She sighed, reassured with the prospect of a new generation, before hobbling to the door. Her hand on the doorknob, she glanced back at them. "You know, my mother-in-law once walked in on your grandfather and I. Fainted, dead away," she said. "Then again, she always was one for drama."

Tom's head fell with a soft thump against the padded headboard as the door clicked behind her. "How is it that in a house with a hundred rooms, we're never alone?"

She pulled him to her for another sound kiss, her mouth eagerly seeking his, finding it difficult to capture his tongue against their shared laughter. Finally, for the first time since their arrival, she wasn't worried about tomorrow's tribulations. They would wake up, end all backward glances, and plough forward. They were here, but they were together, and she vowed to draw her strength from that. Her two men were all that mattered. She smiled contentedly when he flipped her over, the playful banter continuing quietly in deference to their sleeping son across the room.