A/N: Back when I was working on a pre-season 3 fic that I was too lazy to finish, part of the story actually included a new housemaid flirting with Tom (hey, who wouldn't?), but it mainly involved scheming on the part of Thomas and O'Brien (ah, the good old days) to discredit their former colleague. Rather than go that route, this one taps into portions of the CS plot (AU of course, re: Sybil and Matthew). Edna's a little more manipulative here and the CS/highland holiday timing allowed me to work in Sybil's revelation from the previous chapter regarding another pregnancy. This chapter was really, really difficult to write, and I stopped half a dozen times just wanting to hit the delete button altogether. Warning: it's not nearly as light and fluffy as the others (sorry), and it runs a bit long (really sorry). But please, read completely through before hurling rotten tomatoes...
As always, thanks to all the reviewers and readers out there – hope you enjoy this one as well. I promise the next chapter will be lighter (and shorter).
Disclaimer: I own nothing, not even the title which was quoted from Allen Leech in a recent article...
5. Nothing is Really as it Seems
Downton, Summer, 1921
Edna Braithwaite threw open the drapes in the Bransons' Downton bedroom, casting in a stream of late summer morning sunlight. Employed as the new Downton housemaid for just over a month, she had already identified the couple as an object of fascination. While Lady Sybil hardly expected (or wanted) a ladies maid, and it was clear her husband had rebuffed the idea of a valet, Mrs. Hughes still required certain daily housekeeping activities be performed regardless. And that included Edna's sunrise trips into the Bransons' room.
The first time she met Mr. Branson, in the hall on her way to clean one of the umpteen vacant bedrooms upstairs, she was immediately struck by his disarming demeanor. He tipped his head and greeted hello, unlike the rest of the family who simply passed her by as if she were part of the decor. Guardedly, she inquired about him with the downstairs staff, noting he didn't seem like an aristocrat at all. He wasn't, they quickly informed her, and then proceeded to recount the scandalous backdrop to the Bransons' residence in the Abbey.
The long-time staff, such as Mr. and Mrs. Bates, offered none of the gossip but abundant respect for him, as they had once worked alongside the former chauffer. The younger staff, however, clung to romantic notions that the Bransons represented a new change in society. Edna herself admitted that the former chauffer, now the resident estate agent, was an exceptionally handsome and sufficiently educated man. And she doubted any aristocrat's daughter could truly appreciate his life's journey, even though everyone insisted Lady Sybil was as unbiased a spirit as God ever put on the earth.
As the sunlight beamed through the open curtains, she heard a discontented groan from the bed. She turned to see the agent roll over and drape an arm across his wife, burying his face in her hair to shed out the morning light. She couldn't help but wonder what it felt like, to wake up daily in another's arms, unencumbered by schedules, modesty or mores, and greet life on your own terms. She glanced around for piles of waiting laundry, and jealously watched from the corner of her eye as Mr. Branson pulled his wife closer, pressing a drowsy kiss to the back of her neck.
Edna had been a housemaid long enough to read the signs. As her mother always said: You'll see and hear things that warrant absolute discretion. The mark of a good housemaid is to remain unseen and unheard except when required, and then you're to be as attentive as possible.Her mother had been a housemaid for some fifteen years before marrying a tenant farmer. She loved her father, but to her that seemed a step down. The world was changing. She didn't want to be a housemaid, or a ladies maid, or even a housekeeper. She wanted more. Just like Mr. Branson. Except there weren't any younger sons in this family or miles around to tempt her ambitions. She quickly finished her laundry collection as the husband's intentions became quite clear, his ministrations a little more insistent. She noted with some curiosity, however, the affections seemed rather one-sided. Edna quietly slipped out of the room as the couple began to stir.
Tom barely registered the door closing behind him. Although it had taken him more than a year, he came to accept that privacy was a rare occurrence in their new environment. He had lived alone as a bachelor, for six years, tending his own cottage, his own meals and laundry, and then for a few brief months, he shared those chores with one other person. But, here, despite the size of the house, there was always someone cleaning, requesting permission for this and that, or discussing the daily schedule of activities. He once believed aristocratic families lived a life of ease. After more than a year living at Downton as a family member, he realized that while it certainly represented a life of luxury, it wasn't as simple as he once assumed.
He burrowed into his wife's back, a hand catching the edge of her gown to slide it up over her hip. Before the light came crashing through his eyelids, his dreams had been embedded with images of their wedding night. Or maybe it was any subsequent night of their marriage, when they couldn't seem to get enough of one another. He loved waking her like this, his body tingling with excitement and his mind exploring the possibilities in luring her from sleep. He propped on his elbow and pressed his hips against her, burying his mouth behind her ear, his tongue warmly caressing the sensitive skin of her neck. His hand snuck further beneath her gown, teasing the underside of her breasts. Her eyes opened as his palm began squeezing, his thumb brushing against a nipple.
Her gasp stopped him abruptly. He hooked a lock of hair behind her ear and startled at her uncomfortable expression. "Love, what's the matter?"
Sybil shook her head, pressing a hand to her brow. "Nothing, I'm...excuse me," she finished suddenly, and bolted for the bathroom.
The door failed to catch, however, and that's when he heard it. Vomiting. He sighed, flopped back against the pillows and draped an arm across his eyes, cursing the light, and suddenly wanting to curse himself. Moments later, he felt her slowly sink back into the mattress beside him, but he didn't face her. "Do you have something to tell me?"
She rolled away from him, on her side, swallowing hard against the foul taste in her mouth. "I think you know."
They had been through this before and, indeed, he suspected what she wouldn't admit. "How far along are you?"
"I'm not entirely sure. Five or six weeks, maybe a little more."
"When were you planning on telling me?"
"Not until I was positive and could confirm it with Dr. Clarkson first. I'll see him today at work."
He reached out a hand to gently stroke her back. "Sybil, I'm…."
She sat up quickly, briefly wishing she hadn't as another wave of nausea hit. Mercifully, it faded away. "I should get ready for work. We've got a lot of patients and the poor overnight shift has been short-handed all week. I'm sure they're ready to go home."
The bed squeaked quietly as she lifted herself from the mattress in search of her dressing gown. His hand dropped to the warm sheet beside him as he watched her disappear once again into the bathroom.
She closed the door behind her, and sat on the edge of the tub, running a frustrated hand through her cropped hair. She knew this could happen, particularly after she began limiting their son's breastfeeding, and they had tried various alternatives to prevent it. But, some options weren't always readily available in conservative society, even to a trained nurse. And others weren't conducive to what they acknowledged was a shared sexual appetite for one another. It seemed unfair to her, in a modern world, to have to choose one over the other.
She had returned to nursing earlier that year when their son was just over seven months old. Once she revealed her intentions to Tom, he supported her, even when Lord Grantham and the Dowager Countess begged reconsideration. It wasn't proper, they contended, for a mother of sufficient means to seek regular employment, particularly when her husband could provide for her care. Sybil virtually exploded with offense at the supposition that she should cast aside her life's ambition to stay in the home to knit booties and attend charity lunches all day. Tom remembered the afternoon well, when his wife educated her family through a rather lengthy discourse on the equality of women. By the end of it, Lord Grantham had nearly rubbed the skin of his temples raw and her grandmother had all but twisted her gloves into a permanent knot. Tom stood back, in hushed awe, and shared an amused grin with Matthew. His wife was a beautiful woman, and never more so than when she posited the advancement of her sex.
They eagerly anticipated the prospect of being a working couple again and found the one advantage of being at Downton as opposed to Dublin was that they could easily meet for lunch in the village. A light repast at the Grantham Arms offered a few daily moments of simplicity not available at the big house. She typically arrived at the establishment as a ray of sunshine, smiling cordially at the fellow villagers, and boldly greeted her waiting husband with a kiss. The other customers, mostly a motley collection of working class men like her husband, hooted and snickered at the display, a defiant acknowledgment of the freedom her family largely refused to accept.
Today, he took the liberty of ordering her meal as she ran slightly behind schedule. He waited for her, staring down at the crab bisque and hot tea, wondering what kept her. She arrived late, pensive, as if followed by a cloud. Slipping into the chair beside him, she sighed and nudged off her shoes under the table. She glanced at him, noticing that he held his breath, and then simply nodded.
"Right." He wished he could have thought of something witty, or charming to respond with, like the first time this happened. But, for whatever reason, neither of them quite knew what to say for the moment.
She picked at her napkin. "I'd rather not tell the family just yet."
"Any particular reason?"
"Not really. It's still early and, besides, Mary's baby is due in another two months. I'd rather not steal her thunder. We can wait until after."
"That's reasonable," he said and reached out for her hand. "Can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
He hesitated. "Do you not want this baby?"
She glanced up, worried. "Tom, please don't hold me to anything I've said or done over the past six hours." She squeezed his hand. "Yes, we knew it could happen, but it's still taken me a bit by surprise."
"Would you tell me if you didn't?"
She shook her head, indignant. "Would you?"
He silently stared at their uneaten lunch.
Her chair scraped back against the oak floor. "I'm sorry. I'm still a bit queasy and I'm not certain I can hold anything down. I'll see you tonight." Burrowing her feet back into her shoes, she pressed a quick kiss to the top of his head. He understood her reaction, but looking into her eyes, he also realized it was a veiled refusal to answer the question.
Two weeks passed, and neither of them discussed her condition. They sidestepped any mention about the obvious signs, even though one morning he nearly slit his throat shaving as she dashed by him for the toilet. Before, with their son, he remembered the early months of irritability and unpredictable behavior tempered with excitement, but this time around, she seemed more subdued, dejected, as if denial itself would reverse the clock.
The mid-August harvest preparations kept his mind preoccupied with examining new machinery and scheduling rented equipment with the tenants who couldn't afford their own. He never imagined his responsibilities as agent would afford the opportunity to crawl under a tractor and inspect its motor. While his father-in-law gasped at such attention to detail, his brother-in-law found it as endless entertainment when he returned to the house looking as if he just came out of a mechanic's shop. But Tom recognized it one of the few satisfying aspects of his new position. Nobody could accuse him of not taking his job seriously, especially after he heard one of the tenants declare that old Jarvis couldn't tell a hammer from a hack saw.
Sybil threw herself into working at the hospital, her hours longer. It reminded Tom of her service during the war when he picked her up, weary and bedraggled, at the end of the day. He was relieved when she finally agreed to a meager half-day's rest for Mary's birthday. Following a luncheon by the lake, the family regrouped for tea in the library later that afternoon, and began discussing the upcoming visit with the Flintshires.
"Right," Lord Grantham declared happily. "It's that time of year again to begin thinking about our trip to Scotland. Since we weren't able to go last year after Bobby was born, it will be a wonderful opportunity to catch up on a little hunting and fishing...and of course, some rest for the ladies."
"All of us?" Tom asked.
Robert nodded. "Of course, why not?"
Tom wanted to respond that the Flintshires might not be keen on having a former servant accompanying the party, but decided against it. "I've never been to Scotland," he admitted. "Sounds like fun, but do you think I should leave right before the harvest?"
Robert shrugged, and offered a confident nod. "You seem to have everything in hand. I expect the estate can spare you for a week or so. Carson will know how to reach you if anything pops up."
"You'll love it," Matthew said eagerly. "It will give us a chance to finally test those new fishing rods."
Tom smirked. "I'm happy to fish, but you'll not take me shooting..."
Sitting beside her oldest sister, Sybil glared a bit at her husband. "Tom, I'm not sure if I can go."
Mary furrowed her brows. "Why ever not? I'll be eight months pregnant by then and I'm still going."
"...which you probably shouldn't," Robert added.
"We've been down this road before, Papa..."
Sybil ignored them. "I have my work to consider. I can't just go gallivanting off to Scotland and leave the hospital a nurse short."
Tom noticed the flurry of curious glances around the room and cleared his throat. "Love, it's still several weeks away. With enough time, I'm sure Dr. Clarkson could..."
"You shouldn't make those assumptions."
Robert's eyes darted between the husband and wife. "What's going on here?"
"Nothing, Papa," she replied, "I...I just had a long morning."
"You seem to have had a lot of those lately. As a member of the board, perhaps I should speak to Clarkson about working you so hard. You're not a field hand."
Cora observed daughter suspiciously. "Robert, Sybil's a grown woman. We should trust her to know her limits."
Lord Grantham opened his mouth to object, but was preempted by the dressing gong. And, like a blind ritual, the family scattered to their respective rooms to change for dinner. Sybil pulled her husband aside on the landing, waiting for one of the housemaids to pass. Neither noticed when Edna stopped at the bottom of the stairs.
"Why did you agree that we would go?"
"I don't know," he shrugged. "Maybe I thought some time away from here, away from our jobs, from this house, might help matters. Things don't seem to be getting any better..."
"What things?"
He gently captured her forearms. "You're not going through this alone, you know. You have to talk to me, eventually."
"Stop badgering me..." She caught the wounded look on his face, immediately ashamed of her reaction. "I'm sorry...I didn't mean that. I...have to go dress for work."
"What? I thought you had taken the rest of the day off for Mary's birthday."
"Just for this afternoon. I need to go back for a few hours."
"Sybil, don't do this to yourself," he begged. "It's too much and you need to rest."
"I'll have plenty of time for rest later," she replied, and left him behind on the landing.
Tom sat at his desk, head buried in one hand while the other flipped aimlessly through an old ledger. He intended to average out the previous five yields of the various farms that morning, but barely made it through the first one. His mind kept wandering to his wife, their unborn child, and the distance that engulfed them over the previous weeks. The door squeaked open to reveal the newest housemaid armed with cleaning supplies.
"Oh, Mr. Branson, I didn't realize anyone was here. I just came in to dust, but I can come back later..."
"No bother, unless you plan to dust the desk," he replied tepidly. "I'll be leaving shortly anyway."
Edna smiled and pointed to the far wall. "I'll just start over there, then."
He huffed an absent reply and returned his attention to the ledger.
She worked her way along one wall, and then another, occasionally glancing over her shoulder at the agent. He was lost in thought, somewhere outside of this room, perhaps thinking about his wife, her increasing indifference to him. She had observed them over the previous weeks to confirm her suspicions. Lady Sybil was just like the rest of them, unaccepting of a devoted working-class man. She knew she shouldn't bother him, but didn't care. He was one of them (or used to be) and by running off with an earl's daughter, he obviously didn't care much for rules either.
"Is it true you used to be the chauffer here?"
He glanced up. "It is."
"And you became the resident agent."
"In a roundabout way. I was a journalist in Dublin until we came back to Downton. But I imagine you've heard the details of all that downstairs."
"I admit I have. I was fascinated by how you've gone from service into an entirely new profession," she said. "The thing is, I'd like to get out of service myself."
"There's no reason why you can't."
"That's easy for a man to say, not so much for a housemaid."
"Not at all," he declared, shaking his head. "I've seen it before. In fact, not long after I started working here, one of the maids found a job as a secretary. She cleaned by day and taught herself how to type at night. Sybil..." He stopped suddenly, remembering his wife's fierce determination to help Gwen find a life beyond the servant's hall. "Sybil encouraged her."
Mrs. Hughes strode by the door, noticed her charge and eased into the room with a disapproving scowl. "Edna? Mr. Branson's a busy man. You mustn't disturb him."
"It's alright, Mrs. Hughes. I'm not doing much good here today. Besides, it's time for me to meet Matthew." He nodded to them both as he gathered his hat and coat. "Good afternoon, ladies."
Edna watched him leave. "He's such a polite man."
"Yes, he is," Mrs. Hughes replied, her probing eyes following the maid out of the room. "Perhaps too polite."
Sybil sat next to Mrs. Walby, whom she recognized as one of Downton's tenants' wives, and counted her pulse. Her husband dropped her off that morning after a fainting spell at breakfast. He blamed it on the "weak constitution of women," which after a professional examination, turned out to be pregnancy. Mr. Walby hoped to avoid leaving her, since he had children waiting at home, six hungry mouths all under the age of twelve that needed someone's attention. But, Dr. Clarkson insisted the woman stay overnight. For rest, he quietly told Sybil, if nothing else.
"I saw women like this in Dublin," Sybil told Isobel later. "Having one child right after another, with husbands who could care less. It's outrageous that our sex has to bear the burden of all that."
They stood in Isobel's 'office,' a small room located on the ground floor where the she could keep a close eye on the institution's operation. It was a necessity she insisted on as President of the Board. "I agree, but it's just a matter of helping women stay informed of their options. Dr. Crawley was an early advocate of birth control, you know. Of course, in those days it was a difficult subject to discuss publicly."
"It is today as well."
"You're too young to have noticed the change, though," Isobel replied. "Mrs. Stopes has made remarkable progress in public education. I wish my husband could have lived to see it."
Sybil shuffled her feet a bit as Cousin Isobel rummaged through a stack of papers. "Can I ask you something?"
"Always."
"Was it your choice to have only one child?"
"After Matthew was born, my husband and I wished to wait for more children. We practiced what he preached, so to speak," she said, and hesitated. "And, when we wanted another child, we never could. For whatever reason, it didn't happen."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean..."
The older woman shook her head and smiled. "Never apologize for asking a question, my dear. How will you ever get an answer?"
Sybil glanced up, curious. "Looking back, do you wish you could have had more?"
"I did at first, but once opportunity faded away, I didn't dwell on it. I took it as a sign that my purpose was to raise one extraordinary young man," she said proudly. "Why do you ask? Are you thinking of having another child?"
The younger woman's head snapped up. "Perhaps...but I also love being a nurse and I don't want to give that up either."
"Who says you have to? Look at what you've done so far!" Isobel took her hand and squeezed it. "You became a nurse when no one thought you should. You married a man everyone thought was beneath you, but you did it anyway because you loved him. You worked in Dublin as a married woman as you have here. And with a child at home! You've done magnificently because you determined to do so. A determined woman will find a way to be successful in balancing her life choices."
She found herself smiling for the first time in weeks. "Thank you, Cousin Isobel."
Isobel squeezed her hand. "Now, I'm off to meet Matthew about a few board matters that your grandmother's giving me a hard time about," she said, then pointed to a box in the corner. "Some new surgical equipment arrived today. It's in a box, there. Could you put it away?"
As she made her way to the third floor supply room, she wondered if perhaps she had been too quick to dismiss her pregnancy as an inconvenience. It might mean a little while at home with the baby, certainly, but there was no reason why she couldn't come back to work once her body recovered. She might have to survive a few more disgruntled conversations with her family, but that was an ongoing battle anyway. And, Tom would support her decision as he always did. Perhaps the inevitable irritability and side effects of the first weeks had conspired against a thoughtful consideration of a new child. But, her morning sickness had finally abated, a surprisingly short bout actually compared to her previous pregnancy. Maybe now she could think more clearly and enjoy impending motherhood as she did before.
She reached to pull a drawer of surgical equipment and the medicine cabinet and felt sudden twinge below her waist. Instinctively, she placed a hand over her stomach. This had happened sporadically over the past few days, along with light spotting, but nothing struck her as radically different from when she carried her son. She took a few deep breaths, waited a moment, and began sorting the instruments in the drawer. But, it struck again, this time much stronger and persistent, along with an unusual fullness between her legs. It could be nothing, she told herself, but she found herself unable to control the fear that seized her heart.
Tom strode into the family dining room, red-faced and hot from the oppressive summer heat. Isis bounded over to greet him at the door, following him step by step to the table and flopping down affectionately at his feet. The dog thumped her tail happily when he rewarded her with a few quick scratches behind the ear.
"I'm sorry for being late," he said to his father-in-law, pulling up to the table and unfolding his serviette. "Mr. Parks was adamant we take a look at the fields and estimate the acreage for harvest. It's so hot out there I nearly melted into my shoes."
"Did you lose Matthew?"
"Not yet," he joked. "Mrs. Crawley wanted to discuss some legal business about the hospital board, so I dropped him off at Crawley House. Where is everyone else?"
Robert flicked open his paper. "Mary is having lunch in her room and Edith...honestly I don't know where she goes these days. She said something about researching her newest article."
Tom laughed. His father-in-law accepted change slower than a turtle crossing the road. "And Lady Grantham?"
"She's upstairs," Robert offered, thumbing through the pages. "Sybil came home from the hospital a few hours ago with some minor complaint. No doubt something she picked up from a patient. Cora went to check on her..."
Tom's chair scraped back on the rug. Dropping his fork, he left his father-in-law alone in the dining room with the butler and the dog, all three sets of eyes curiously watching him leave. He darted up the carpeted stairwell taking two at a time, his mind awash with anxiety. She had worked herself so hard at the hospital lately that he feared any number of possibilities.
"Sybil?" He slipped into to their room and found it empty and quiet, save for a few soft murmurs behind the cracked bathroom door. He found them there, Sybil by the toilet, her mother at one side clutching her hand, Mrs. Hughes standing on the other, and a mound of bloody towels at their feet.
"Sybil, love, what..." His speech caught painfully in his throat as his mother-in-law glanced up at him, her eyes narrowed, glistening, in unmistakable grief.
"Tom, you need to go ring for Dr. Clarkson," Cora requested calmly. "I'm almost certain...there's nothing to be done, other than wait, but we need to be sure."
His feet seemed like lead weights on the floor. "I should be with her."
"Tom, I think it would be best…"
"No," he said, shaking his head, "This is my child as well. I'll not leave her."
Sybil's hand grasped her middle as another pain coursed through her. Taking deep, cleansing breaths, she refused to look at him, and missed fear etched on his face. "Tom, please," she groaned quietly. "You'll have to make an excuse. I'd rather everyone not know."
Mrs. Hughes wedged herself between the two of them, doing her best to shield his eyes. "Come, Mr. Branson. You can use the telephone in Mr. Carson's office."
By day's end, he couldn't remember how he made that telephone call, or conjured up the excuse to bring Dr. Clarkson on an innocent visit to the big house. But for his soul he wished he could forget the remainder of the afternoon, the sight of her in their bed groaning in discomfort as her body went through what the doctor informed him was an unfortunate, but natural process. They had done nothing wrong, Dr. Clarkson assured him, and suggested sometimes this was nature's way of preempting an abnormality or difficult pregnancy. The words rang hollow in his ears as he glanced over the older man's shoulder to his wife, suddenly realizing neither of them had shed a tear.
Sybil remained adamant about not disclosing the pregnancy or its abrupt end. And they shared none of the circumstances of that afternoon even with each other. The house, upstairs and down, soldiered on, oblivious to the Bransons' loss and eagerly anticipated the arrival of the Crawley's first child. They made the excuse, with Cora's reluctant support, that she had suffered a touch of the flu and, therefore, needed to stay away from the family, especially Mary. Two weeks later, when the lingering effects of the miscarriage finally abated, she returned to work, much to Tom and Cora's dismay. It also came time for the family to travel to Scotland, but (again) with Cora's help, they fabricated an excuse to remain behind. Estate matters and her recent absence from work, they contended, necessitated their stay at Downton.
The morning of the family's departure north, Cora stood in the doorway with Mrs. Hughes, watching the footmen lug heavy trunks to the waiting vehicles. "You'll let me know immediately if…oh, I don't even know how to finish that sentence," Cora sighed. "I'm just so uncomfortable leaving her, both of them, like this."
"Your Ladyship knows better than anyone what they went through is not something from which one easily recovers. And as happy as they are for Lady Mary, it must be hard on them to see her condition. Perhaps they just need some time alone."
"I hope you're right." Cora strolled over to her son-in-law who had escaped to a far corner of the hall, away from the bustling staff. She pulled her grandson into a fierce hug. "We're going to miss you all so much. I wish you were going with us," she said wistfully. "The Flintshires can be the most dreadful company at times. Having a baby around would certainly liven things up."
Tom smiled meekly. "I think it's for the best. He's not much of a traveler yet. And I doubt he would appreciate the pipes and cold mist of the highlands."
Returning Bobby to his arms, she pressed a quick kiss to her son-in-law's cheek. "Try not to fret too much, Tom. She just needs a little more time."
"We'll be alright," he assured her. "I've lots to do and now that Sybil's back at the hospital, ten days will pass before we know it."
In actuality, he lied to his mother-in-law as well as to himself. The family's absence only made the distance between them more palpable. Sybil had taken to working nights, forcing them into opposite schedules. Sleeping alone was never his forte, even when her night shifts were, at most, sporadic. He stared absently in their darkened bedroom, entombed in silence as the overnight hours slowly passed. He knew her emotional recoil wasn't aimed at him in particular. Her aristocratic upbringing left her reluctant to share her feelings, and he respected that, but as their relationship blossomed before and after their marriage, he had seen her gradually break free with him.
With the family gone, somehow the young footmen persuaded Mr. Carson to let them attend the fair in Thirsk. Overhearing the butler's ill-tempered objections with Mrs. Hughes outside his office, Tom agreed that they should go. After all, he suggested, a day of rest might make them work harder when they returned. As estate agent, he tried not to interfere with Carson's household operation, but on occasion he extended his authority, much to the butler's consternation.
It was Edna's revelation, really, that propelled Tom on the trip as well, although Mrs. Hughes visibly bristled at the idea. The housemaid pointed out that with unless someone drove them, they would have to pay the bus fare. Tom remembered back to his own days downstairs and the seemingly insignificant necessities that gobbled up hard-earned wages. So, he agreed to drive them and brought round one of the groomsmen to hitch up the wagonnette. In the back of his mind, he wished Sybil could go, but with her current night shifts, he'd rather she rest. At the last minute, he decided to take his son and give poor Nanny her own deserved respite. When they piled in the car, Daisy happily holding tight to the one-year-old in her lap, Tom missed the housemaid's sudden dour expression at the little boy.
The afternoon's pleasant events came to an abrupt halt, though, when a couple of thieves assaulted Thomas, beating him bloody. When they brought the battered under-butler home, Tom gently shook his wife awake to assist Dr. Clarkson. He knew that's what she would have wanted. She had always liked Thomas. From the time they worked closely together during the war, she sympathized with his personal proclivities and cast no ill judgment on the man. Tom leaned against the doorway of the servant's room upstairs, watching his wife tenderly wash wounds and cuts, absorbed in her work. Nursing was one of her God-given talents, and he would never fault her for passion or dedication.
Glancing around at all the curious faces in the hall, he suddenly remembered he had given Nanny the day off, and asked Daisy to bring Bobby's supper to the dining room. He took a final glance at the under-butler, who had somehow managed to smile through the pain at something Sybil said. Their laughter echoed in Tom's ears as he went to collect his son.
The normally happy and babbling little boy, all too eager to demonstrate his new single-syllable vocabulary, had fallen into silence that evening as he patiently accepted small mouthfuls of smashed vegetables. Sitting in his father's lap, Bobby hummed approval of his repast and smacked his lips softly as the clock on the mantel ticked away in the otherwise hushed room. He opened his mouth, bird-like, waiting patiently for the next spoonful as Tom mechanically fed himself and then his child, repeating the motions, rhythmically, almost in time with the clock. At one point, his senses had dulled such that he inadvertently fed himself a portion of bland potatoes and prunes. He gagged and spit the remainder into his napkin.
"God knows how you can eat the stuff," he muttered, glancing down at his son, who grinned in amusement at his expression. Tom pressed a kiss on the child's crown, wincing in disgust as the baby eagerly accepted another mouthful.
Edna slipped into the room behind him and Tom startled a bit when she spoke. "I thought I'd give you a report on Mr. Barrow, sir."
"And?"
"A few stiches and bruises, but Dr. Clarkson says he'll be fine."
Tom nodded as he offered his son a final bite. "Thank you. That's good to hear."
"Lady Sybil also asked I tell you she was heading out with the doctor to start her shift at the hospital."
Tom sighed heavily and stared at his empty plate.
Edna shifted her weight slowly from one foot to the other. "Can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"How long has Lady Sybil been a nurse?"
He smiled softly, remembering the day he dropped her off in York at the training school. "Five or six years now. She was an auxiliary nurse during the war."
"She must love her work very much."
Tom observed her, curiously.
"Only, I saw her, with Dr. Clarkson treating Mr. Barrow," she clarified. "She seems very dedicated with..."
"With what?" He stood Bobby on his knees.
"With her hours and all. You would think that as Lord Grantham's daughter, she would insist on having a more regular schedule to be with her family..."
He furrowed his brows, at first uncertain of how to respond. "Sybil would never do that. She has a very important job and works when she's needed."
"It must be hard for a husband...to be married to a nurse. Seems like she wouldn't have time to be a wife."
Bobby stood on his father's knees, his little hands propped on his shoulders, and began babbling as he bounced. "Ma-ma-ma-ma."
"It's not that hard," he replied quietly. "No harder than it is for her to be an agent's husband. It just takes honesty and communication, nothing more."
She watched him, lost in thought, for several minutes before reaching for the baby. "Shall I take him up, sir?"
"No, thank you. The Branson boys will take care of themselves tonight."
Word reached Downton that Mary and Anna would return from Scotland a day ladies maid arrived in the servants' hall the following afternoon, quickly relaying the news to Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes that Mary asked to go directly to the hospital. Carson burst into Tom's office and sputtered the information before asking him pass the message to the family at Duneagle Castle. Tom stared at the closed door, dumbfounded and a bit concerned about the sudden turn of events. He strode out into the hall, picked up the receiver, and placed the call to Matthew. When they spoke again later that afternoon, Matthew nervously disclosed they were unable to book a train until the following morning. Tom struggled to get a word in edge-wise over the prattling father-to-be, but finally relayed (through various fits and starts) that Sybil would stay with Mary at the hospital until the baby arrived.
Tom slept fitfully that night. He briefly considered going to the hospital, but knew he would only be in the way. Although reassured by his wife that all was progressing normally, his mind harkened back to the night his son was born. Here in this very bed, he remembered her struggling to bring him into the world. One moment they were told the delivery was progressing normally, the next, the ashen faces of her attendants sent a streak of terror through his soul.
Shortly before daybreak, he abandoned sleep altogether and dressed, padding downstairs to phone the hospital for an update. A disgruntled nurse snapped that the delivery was going well, but it would be a few hours yet. Finally, after breakfast, the news erupted through the house, mostly from the booming voice of Mr. Carson, that a healthy baby had arrived. Tom broke into a relieved smile, checked his watch, and headed for the train station. While the chauffer led the caravan of vehicles to transport everyone and their two weeks of luggage back to the Abbey, Tom drove the Roadster to collect Matthew.
At the station, Robert, Cora, and the rest of the party begged him for information in one ear, while his brother-in-law urged haste in the other. The Irishman finally had to leave an anxious Violet mid-sentence to avoid being left behind. He quickly overran Matthew to hurtle behind the wheel, insisting the new father was in no state of mind to drive them safely to the hospital.
Matthew tapped nervously on the upholstery with one hand, and held their hats with the other. "This car does ninety kilometers, you know."
"And so would your wife if she found out," he smirked. "Relax, they're not going anywhere." Matthew's infectious excitement spilled over and he finally allowed himself to remember the joy of hearing the strong cries of his own child and the face of his delivered wife, fatigued, healthy, and glowing with their son in her arms.
Tom pulled to the curb, the motor almost at a complete halt before Matthew bolted out, leaving the door open in his wake. Leaning over the gear shift to close it, he laughed, released the clutch and drove around to the back to park. He ran a hand through his tousled hair and found Sybil sitting alone in the hallway, her feet stretched and crossed in front of her. She wore an exhausted, but satisfied smile. He eased into a chair beside her, the floorboards creaking in the otherwise silent hall.
"Is everyone alright?"
She nodded, her eyes drooping from the long night.
"I left the house before Mr. Carson found out if it was a boy or girl."
"It's a boy."
He smiled, a bit of a laugh. "Matthew didn't even ask on the way here. I don't think he cares, but I know your father will be ecstatic."
"More than two decades of anxiety put to rest in one night," she said softly.
For almost half an hour, they sat quietly as the new parents acquainted themselves with Downton's long-awaited heir in the adjoining room. A door opened and closed down the hall, breaking the silence.
He cleared his throat, pondering whether to say anything at all. "Are you alright?"
"Why wouldn't I be?" Her tone was more harsh than she intended, but then she amended softly, "I'm fine, Tom."
"You keep saying that, but I'm not sure I believe you."
"Then you should stop asking."
"I only meant that last night must have been very difficult…."
"I should go back in. She's quite worn out as you can imagine. And I expect Matthew will be ready to go tell everyone the good news."
"Love, please," he begged, taking her hand. "Talk to me."
She stopped, her other hand on the door. "I can't," she whispered and left him alone in the renewed quiet of the hall.
He drove Matthew back to the Abbey, his brother-in-law jabbering constantly about the new baby, his features, how much he looked like Mary, and how tiny his hands and feet were. Finally cognizant of his one-sided conversation, Matthew glanced over to Tom. "Is everything alright with you? You haven't said a bloody word."
"I'm fine," he answered, Sybil's words the only ones that came to mind. He forced a smile. "I'm just imagining the look on our father-in-law's face when you make the announcement. Not to mention Old Lady Grantham's."
Matthew laughed as the wind whipped through their hair, the fields of his son's future whizzing by. "The pressure is finally at bay," he proclaimed. "Now the rest is just gravy."
The family and staff waited eagerly for the new father's return. And, when his brother-in-law proudly announced the safe arrival of the newest heir, David Branson Crawley, Tom wondered briefly if Lord Grantham would faint.
Mary lay propped on a mound of pillows in the narrow iron bed at the hospital. Soft sunlight streamed through the sheer drapes and cast an almost angelic glow around her. Her youngest sister sat at her bedside, watching mother and son acquaint themselves in those first few magnetic hours of life.
"For all your worrying," Sybil declared, "you haven't dropped him yet. That's a good sign."
Mary laughed, running her finger across the delicate pale skin of her son's hand. "I guess it does seem a bit more natural than I anticipated."
"Speaking of natural," Sybil hedged. "You should try feeding him."
Mary's brows shot skyward.
"It's better if you try right away, before he's hungry. Otherwise you'll just get frustrated when he starts screaming."
"Blimey, he arrived so early, we didn't have time to find a wet nurse."
"Well you obviously can't wait now," Sybil replied, reaching to unbutton her sister's gown. "You'll just have to nurse him for a few weeks."
Her sister scrunched back, avoiding her hand. "Surely, the hospital can locate..."
Sybil cocked her head with an amused smile. "Mary Josephine Crawley, you're going to feed this child whether you like it or not. Now either you pull your breast out of that gown or I will."
Mary sat, wide-eyed, for an awkward moment until her face broke into a smile and they both began laughing. Mary braced her stomach with a hand. "Oh, that hurts," she groaned, wincing a bit as her body shook.
"Sorry," Sybil said, biting her lip. "I promise it will be alright. I'll talk you through it."
Mary patiently followed her instructions and, as Sybil expected, she nearly cried with frustration after an hour of trying (Mary always did have a hard time accepting failure). But, finally her nephew latched onto his mother and greedily sucked away. After a moment, she declared softly, "Well, this isn't so bad."
Sybil crossed her arms in triumph. "Well, just wait until he has teeth," she snickered. "But expect a little trial and error for a few weeks. You'll both have to practice and be patient with one another. Bobby and I certainly had a time of it for a while." She reached out and brushed her nephew's downy hair, remembering those first days with her own son. "He was the world's worst about falling asleep."
"I never thought my baby sister would teach me about breastfeeding," she mumbled. "You were the vanguard for us all. The first marriage, the first child, working mother and wife..."
"You always said I could never sit still. I suppose those habits never go away."
Mary glanced up, an earnest expression on her face. "Darling, I know you've been working yourself into a tizzy lately, but don't forget to remember what's important. I think of all the times Matthew and I danced around our feelings for one another, and now I look at our son and realize how close we came to not being here." The future Countess of Grantham rocked her son, the little boy blissfully unaware that the family's expectations came down to him. "We have a whole new life, complete with little hands and feet, my nose and mouth, and Matthew's ears unfortunately, but I suppose there's nothing we can do about that," she said.
Sybil smiled softly, her thoughts turning slowly back to the events of recent weeks and the life she lost before it had a chance to become real. She never stopped to consider it all happened because two people fell in love.
Later that night, Tom peered over his book as Sybil changed for bed. He remembered watching her, a nightly ritual, when she was pregnant with their son. Each time he wondered if she looked a little more pregnant, a little larger, but occurred in such small increments that he hardly noticed the changes. But they were there and it fascinated him, her nightgown a little more snug, her face a slightly rounder, and a glow, a definite glow. But this time, there had been none of that, for however brief a period. Only the idea of a new life, an abstract concept never fully embraced when it existed or properly mourned when it vanished. It doesn't seem right, he thought, not for us.
She slipped under the covers, and leaned over to kiss him, virtually a perfunctory act in recent weeks. But he noticed that she also snuggled a little closer to him, narrowing the cold gap between them. Setting his book aside, he lay back against the pillows. "How's Mary?"
"She's well. They'll be able to come home in a few days."
"So everything went easily for her then?"
She nodded against her pillow. "Yes."
"I'm glad." And he was. He wouldn't want any one, man or woman, to experience what they did.
"I know you'd like for me to talk about...what happened," she murmured, both of them staring absently at the canopy fabric above. "But I'm not ready. Not just yet." Reaching down, she covered his hand with her own.
His eyes closed, grateful for her touch. "Can I say something then?" he asked after a long moment. Taking her silence as approval, he turned to face her. "When you told me you were pregnant, I was scared out of my boots."
She studied his face, his brows furrowed in uncertainty. "Why?"
"I never told you this, but when you were in labor with Bobby and...things weren't going so well, Dr. Clarkson pulled me outside. He said I might have to make a decision. That I might have to choose between you or the baby." His voice was barely above a whisper, as if worried someone would hear beyond the two of them. "And there was no doubt in my mind then or now which I would choose because I couldn't bear to live without you."
She watched as he turned to face the ceiling again, gravity drawing tears from the corner of his eyes. Squeezing his hand, she pressed a kiss against his shoulder. "But it didn't come to that."
"No. And every time I look at our son, I thank God that it didn't. I'm ashamed to say it, love, but there was a part of me that didn't want this baby because I didn't want to risk having to go through that again." He rolled away from her and switched off the lamp.
In the quiet of the room, she heard him exhale a deep breath, as if the weight of the world had just been lifted from him. She pressed her body against him and softly kissed the back of his neck. Winding an arm around him, she drew him close, her hand reaching for his. But, she couldn't sleep. Her mind fixated on his confession, the fear and the guilt he harbored over the previous weeks. She wondered how she would ever tell him it wasn't his to bear, at least not his alone.
One would have thought King George himself was set to arrive as the family finally prepared to receive the new baby at Downton. Lord Grantham counted the days each morning at breakfast, ensuring all the appropriate preparations had been made. He was slightly taken aback that Mary insisted the wet nurse could wait a few more weeks, but that was of little consequence. No doubt, his youngest daughter must have interjected with some radical maternal advice.
Tom noticed that Sybil seemed to improve as well. She had returned to working days, she smiled a little more, her steps lighter and her laughter more prevalent. She wasn't back to her old self, certainly, but he caught fleeting moments of it. On the day of Mary's return, she even announced that she would take a few weeks off to help her sister transition into motherhood.
As Sybil helped Mary settle in for her first night back home, Tom relieved Nanny in the nursery. He found his son seated on the floor, a pile of wooden blocks at his feet. He plopped down on the floor and laid back, feet flat and knees bent. The hard floor was almost a godsend to his aching bones. He glanced over at an empty bottle. "Did you eat all of your supper?"
Bobby presented his father one of the square objects. "Bah!"
Tom smiled, took it from him, and handed it back. "That's right. Block."
"Bah!" he crowed, presenting it to him once more.
He laughed and they repeated the game until Bobby grew bored and crawled over to clamber up on his father's stomach. Tom hoisted him up with an exaggerated groan and straddled the boys' legs on either side of his waist, bouncing him until they both shook with laughter. The merriment stopped abruptly, however, when the child's supper boiled out of his mouth, thoroughly dousing them both with regurgitated milk.
"Shit," he muttered, sitting up quickly. "Your Mama's going to kill me."
"Ma-ma-ma-ma."
Tom laughed as his son babbled happily. "That's right. Your Da's a dead man when she finds out we were roughhousing again after you ate." He sat the boy on the changing table, pinning him in place with his thighs against the child's knees (a trick he learned after a few near misses). Tom peeled off his jacket, waistcoat, tie and shirt, only to discover some of the liquid had penetrated through his undershirt as well. "Jesus, how much did you eat?" he groaned, and then chuckled. "It's a shame you couldn't have done it on the tuxedo. This is one of my best suits." Bobby tugged playfully on the leather hooks of his father's braces, and giggled as Tom reached over his shoulders to yank off his undershirt, dropping it into the soiled pile with the others.
"You think that's funny, do you? We'll you're next, my boy." He unbuttoned the blue romper and carefully peeled it over his son's head, but the child fidgeted so much, he managed to smear a gracious amount of residue on little face and chest. Hoisting Bobby on his hip, he scavenged a wet washcloth from the bathroom and strode back into the nursery. He frowned and fought the cold water, crying as his father washed him. "Shh...all done," Tom whispered, bouncing him gently with gentle kisses on his head. "Now let's find something dry to put you in…"
Both father and son turned as the door suddenly swung open.
Edna stopped in her tracks, then offered a disarming smile. "It's not often a girl walks in on a couple of shirtless men. And two handsome ones at that."
Lacking anything else to cover himself, Tom pulled the half-naked baby against his chest. "You shouldn't just walk in then," he cautioned.
"I heard him crying and thought I would come check."
"Thank you, but as you can see, he's just fine."
She reached down to pull up the discarded clothes of father and son. "If you don't mind my saying so, Mr. Branson, it doesn't appear things are all that well with you and your wife."
He visibly stiffened. "Nothing is really as it seems," he offered, "particularly in matters that don't concern you."
"I'm not sure she appreciates how far you've come, Mr. Branson. I see you working hard every day to keep this estate going and she takes it all for granted, just like they all do."
His face reddened. "You've no idea what you're talking about."
"You deserve more than that." She leaned up and kissed him, hard, on the mouth, but for all her efforts to encourage him, she might as well have been kissing one of the garden's Roman sculptures. "I can do better," she offered as he pulled back abruptly.
He pulled his son tighter against him, wondering if the woman had gone mad. "I'm sure you could, but you won't. Not with me. Now, I'll ask you to leave us be."
"Mr. Branson, I'm just suggesting..."
"My husband asked you to leave."
Tom paled at the sight of his wife at the door, but relief washed through him.
Bobby turned to his mother's voice, grasping his chubby hand in the air as he began to babble. "Ma-ma-ma-ma."
Sybil smiled, lifting him from her husband's warm, and curiously naked, arms. "Hello, my darling," she whispered, kissing his cheek. The baby kicked his legs, happy in his mother's embrace.
Edna seemed frozen to the rug. "Lady Sybil, I can explain..."
Tom recognized the flush of anger in his wife's cheeks. He had been on the receiving end of it enough in their marriage to largely learn how to avoid it. Except this time, he wasn't sure whose head she was after.
"It's Mrs. Branson," she snapped. "And I'd rather not hear why you were trying to seduce a married man taking care of his child. Now, I'll not ask you again. Either leave this room on your own accord or I'll help you."
Tom had no doubt that she would. She suddenly reminded him of a cat, back arched and on its toes, ready to hiss and scratch out a pair of eyes.
Edna tossed the pile of clothes at Sybil's feet, and backed out of the room, the door slamming behind her.
Tom watched warily as his wife pursed her lips at the closed door. "How long were you there?" he asked.
"Long enough to realize you needed to be rescued from that vile woman," she replied. "I didn't realize Mrs. Hughes had taken to employing sirens."
He snorted. "She's been quite attentive over the past few weeks, that's for certain."
"Weeks?"
He nodded timidly.
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"And just what would I have said? That the housemaid was stalking me?"
"Do you think she's beautiful?" Sybil asked, innocently enough.
It wasn't the response he expected. "Yes," he finally admitted. "In a femme fatale sort of way."
She burst into laughter, which also elicited a round of giggles from their son. She rocked him gently, pressing soft kisses on his face. Yawning, Bobby rested his head against his mother's shoulder and toyed with the buttons of her uniform. "She's right. You two do make quite the attractive pair of shirtless men."
Tom finally relaxed, observing the mother and child fawning over each other, his whole world there in that small space before him. "He spit up and got both of us I'm afraid."
"And that wouldn't be because someone was playing with him right after his supper would it?"
"It might be." He rummaged for a fresh set of footed pajamas as she stood the little boy in his bed.
Bobby grasped the rail, intently watching both parents, as they worked together to put on his clean outfit. One little hand snuck through the rail and began tugging on his father's loose braces. "Da-da-da-da."
Sybil stared at her son and remembered the first time their eyes met, a little over a year before. He had been so tiny and fragile, nearly lost in the delivery, and now he stood before them on his own accord, growing and developing his own personality. In the early days, her family insisted the baby looked just like her, perhaps wishful thinking on their part. But soon, as his features matured and the newborn wrinkles faded away, everyone reluctantly admitted how much he favored his father. Although, he seemed to have inherited her hair, his face framed with dark, downy tufts that turned up at the ends in subtle curls.
She suddenly wondered who their lost child would have favored. Would it have been another boy to join the growing Crawley and Branson brotherhood? Or would this one have been a girl to even out the balance, the first granddaughter, perhaps rebellious like her? They would never know; he or she would remain a mystery. She watched as Tom laid their son down, tucking him in with his favorite stuffed bear. Her lips caught the back of his bare shoulder, warm and soft. He glanced back and caught her smile, the light finally returning to her eyes.
Sybil slowly sipped a cup of tea in Mrs. Hughes' sitting room, waiting for the housekeeper's inevitable reaction as she relayed the events of the previous evening. She had lived around housemaids all her life, and knew it could be a laborious and disagreeable experience if its rigid rules were not fully embraced.
"She'll have to go," said Mrs. Hughes, unwavering.
"Of course. You'll give her a good reference, though. Women have a hard enough time finding work without a scandal nipping at their heels."
The older woman pursed her lips. "I ought not to after what she's done. It's obvious this isn't the profession she was meant for." She sipped at her tea. "I've been keeping an eye on Edna for a while now. I assure you this wasn't of Mr. Branson's making. She took advantage of a situation that didn't exist."
The younger woman sat in silence for a long moment. "I'm not naïve enough to believe this old house hasn't seen its fair share of illicit affairs, but I also know this wasn't one of them."
The housekeeper exhaled in relief. "You're a kind soul, milady. Not many in your position would be as clear-headed."
"Kind or not, it was all I could do not to snatch her hair out." Sybil finally laughed. "Poor Tom. I can only imagine what went through his mind when I walked in on him, shirtless, with the housemaid."
Mrs. Hughes eyes widened in horror. "What?"
"Bobby had just thrown up all over him. He wasn't having the best of nights, I'm afraid."
Mrs. Hughes exhaled, and joined her in laughing. "May I tell you something milady? But please don't think me impertinent."
"Go on."
"When you and Mr. Branson left for Ireland, there were a lot of harsh words spoken in this house. Not about either of you personally, well not you at least, but the situation in general. I blamed myself for some of the family's discontent, because for some time I knew of his affection for you. And I never breathed a word of it to anyone. But, when you came back, and I saw how happy you were, I knew I had made the right decision."
Sybil smiled coyly. "You see, upstairs and downstairs can coexist outside the normal boundaries."
"I suppose, as long as one of them isn't married," she supplied, prompting them to laughter again. "I know neither of you expected to settle here, but I have to say you've done marvelously balancing both worlds. I'm sure it hasn't been easy."
"No, it hasn't," she admitted.
Mrs. Hughes took her hand, not something she wouldn't have braved with other family members. "You know, my grandmother was Irish, and she was a wise, wise woman. When we were children, she would shower us with a blessing on every occasion. And there's one in particular that I think you should remember. 'When times are hard, may hardness never turn your heart to stone. May you always remember when the shadows fall, that you do not walk alone'." She squeezed the younger woman's hand. "I'm not a mother and I'm not a wife, so I can't imagine how you must be suffering. But, you'll not find much peace, milady, until you find it with him."
Sybil hopped out of the car as soon as Hodges pulled to a stop. The 'new' old chauffer was such a slow driver, she should have had him collect her from the hospital fifteen minutes sooner. She wasn't precisely sure when the train was supposed to leave, but judging by the passengers on the platform, she knew it had to be soon. Her shoes clacked swiftly against the stone floor as she scanned the crowd near the third-class cabin doors.
Edna saw her coming and turned quickly into the mass of bodies.
"Edna, wait!"
Sybil caught her breath and held up a placating hand. "May I speak with you...for just a moment? Please."
Reluctantly, the former housemaid followed her to relatively quiet corner of the platform. "I'm off to Newcastle," she explained, her voice tart but clear over the whooshing of the steam engine. "To look for a new job. I expect you understand why."
Sybil nodded, but not regretfully. "I do, and it's for the best," she contended. "I'm not in the habit of sharing my troubles with people outside of the family, but I'll make an exception just this once. It's only fair so that you don't misconstrue what happened." She waited for Edna to meet her eyes. "A little over a month ago, I miscarried a child. I've been very selfish lately thinking this loss was mine to bear and mine alone. But it wasn't. Tom's a wonderful man, and he didn't deserve to be shut out. That's my fault and I'll have to account for it."
Edna's shoulders visibly sank. "Lady Syb...Mrs. Branson, I didn't know…."
"But you took advantage of a situation assuming because I was raised in a privileged lifestyle that I couldn't maintain my love for a working class man from Ireland. I admit, I spent a long time denying my feelings for Tom, but once I realized how much I loved him, I couldn't imagine our lives otherwise. We've certainly had plenty of quarrels. Not because we come from different classes, but because that's just part of marriage, any marriage. Love isn't all bunnies and rainbows, you know. But we work through the tough times because we respect and trust one another."
"Mr. Branson's a fine man. You're lucky to have him."
"He is and I am," she replied proudly, as the conductor called for boarding. "Very lucky, indeed."
As she readied for bed, Sybil glanced up and caught her husband's reflection in the mirror. He was staring at her, certainly not a new practice, but for the first time in weeks, she caught herself staring back. She smiled, eliciting that lopsided cheeky grin of his that made her heart melt.
"I dropped by the hospital today to see if you wanted lunch," he said. "But they said Hodges came by to pick you up for an errand."
Unbuttoning her dressing gown, her fingers paused briefly.
"Why didn't you call me? I would have been happy to take you."
She released the final button and draped the garment over a nearby chair. "I'm not sure you would have approved."
"Now I'm intrigued."
She sank back into the mound of pillows beside him, wrapping one of his warm arms around her shoulders. "I wanted to see Edna before she left."
A long moment passed, before the corner of his mouth tipped up in a mischievous smile. "We're not going to receive a visit from the authorities anytime soon are we? This family has already been through enough prison scandals."
She couldn't help but laugh a little. "No," she said, toying with his fingers. "She wants a better life and isn't afraid to admit it. I can't find fault in that and neither can you, although she needs to learn how to go about it a little more productively. I don't think she's a horrible person, really, just misguided."
He shook his head in wonder. "Only you would empathize with the woman who tried to seduce your husband."
"Well, I can't blame her. You're terribly handsome and smart, and…"
"…charming…"
"Incorrigible, but I wouldn't have it any other way," she admitted, leaning in to accept a warm kiss. She pulled back, reluctantly, absorbing the soft brush of his fingers against her cheek. "She was wrong about one thing, though. I am very proud of you for all that you've done here. You promised a long time ago that you would make something of yourself. And you have. I know it isn't what you expected…"
His fingers traced her lips. "What I expect and want more than anything is to be a good husband. I'm afraid I haven't been much of one lately..."
"Because I haven't let you," she corrected. "Tom, when I found out I was pregnant, my first thought wasn't about you, a new life, or all the joy another child could bring. All I could think about was being set back. I was a nurse again and had found a way to make the best of our situation here at Downton. The last thing I wanted was to be plugged up here for months on end. I was so caught up in my own selfishness that I didn't think about you, how you felt about it all, or how much joy a new baby might bring. And then, when I lost it, I was ashamed that I spent weeks wondering if I wanted this child...our child. I know that sounds unlikely, guilt over something I didn't even want at first."
He tipped her chin up. "At first?"
She nodded slowly, her hand catching a sob, and then another as he pulled her to him. She clutched his back, muffling the cries into his chest, and shook with the guilt, grief, and fear she had refused to share with him for the past few weeks. He felt her tears penetrating his shirt as he cried with her, rocking her gently, whispering not that all would be well, but that he loved her very soul. And, together, they finally mourned the child they would never know.
Mrs. Hughes padded quietly into the dim room, strolling over the open the drapes. A heavy sigh from somewhere in the room lured her eyes toward the far wall. The earl's youngest daughter lay contented and relaxed against her husband, his arm draped over hers, their fingers laced together near her heart. She smiled, deciding to leave the curtains as they were, offering them a few more precious uninterrupted moments. Shuffling quietly to the door, she collected a gown, a pair of pajama bottoms, and other discarded items along the way. She turned the knob quietly, glancing over her shoulder as the young mother rolled in her husband's arms, and snaking a bare arm around him as she kissed him good morning.
Next up: Mrs. Branson and Kieran visit Downton….
I think I may actually try a Highlands trip where the Bransons do go – Tom and Matthew hunting in the heather? Tom at the Gillie Ball? That might be fun. And, at this point, after having watched the CS and seeing half of my other favorite pairing [T/M bromance] bite the dust, I'm writing purely out of spite now.