A/N: Apologies for the lack of updates. Work started up again in full force after the first of the year, my muse took a brief vacation, and this one required a bit of research. Throw in a case of eye strain for good measure, and it took much longer than I thought.
The problem with writing non-chronological chapters is that sometimes you write yourself into a corner. Chapters 2 and 4 took place in 1923 with Tom and Sybil still at Downton despite the fact that the Anglo-Irish treaty went into effect in December 1922. So, I intended this to be a short straightforward explanation as to why the Bransons remained at Downton. But, then plot happened. After I read portions of the Season 1 scripts (BTW, hat tip to repmetsyrrah for posting those) revealing that Tom had been apprenticed to the chauffer on an estate where his father was a tenant, I thought it would be interesting to tweak that and use use it as a backdrop. This story alternates between "real-time" of April 1922 and various prior events of Tom's life, up through his and Sybil's flight from Dublin. Long story short, this one ultimately became a two-parter of two equally long chapters (promise broken from previous A/N in regard to light, fluffy, and short ). I'm still cleaning up Part II and hope to post in a few days.
Finally, and most importantly, thanks to everyone for the reviews, follows, and favorites - it really makes the long hours of writing worthwhile. Comments are always appreciated and I hope you enjoy this one as well.
THE TENANT'S BOY, PART I
Downton, April 1922
Tom bubbled with excitement, his shoes clapping erratically as he paced along the stone railway platform. While the authorities kept him out of Ireland (a temporary exile, he prayed), nothing prevented his mother from visiting England. The regular correspondence between Mrs. Branson and her youngest son kept both informed of their respective lives and both desperately wanted Bobby to meet his grandmother. But, Cathleen Branson was nearing seventy and her children in Ireland advised against an extended trip. After staying the night in Liverpool with another of her boys, Kieran, she was scheduled to arrive that Monday morning on the eleven o'clock train. As their mother had traveled only sporadically in her life, and never out of Ireland, Kieran insisted on accompanying her the remainder of the way.
Sybil watched his nervous pacing, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets. She gently bounced their son on her lap and kissed the top of his head. Bobby sat, content, playing with a little iron tractor, rolling the wheels with his curious fingers and babbling occasional nonsensical words to his mother. "Darling, please sit down, you'll wear a hole in the floor."
"What?" Tom's mind was far away, somewhere down the tracks. He gauged her expression and smiled. "Sorry."
She laughed, understanding perfectly, remained composed in light of the almost two-year-old on her lap. She was just as eager to see her mother-in-law again. Cathleen had been fiercely protective of her youngest son when they arrived in Dublin set to marry three years before. The older woman boldly asked not ten minutes after setting foot in the door if they had to marry. Tom had bristled at the implication, ready to unleash his wrath when Sybil calmly assured Cathleen that, no, she loved Tom and that everything would be done properly. She also emphatically declared that they would marry, no matter what either family made of their decision. While the younger woman's statement did little to quell her fears about what the two of them would face, Mrs. Branson soon warmed to Sybil and did her best to improve her deficient domestic skills. Love doesn't put food on the table, she warned. And I didn't wait six years to see my son only to have him starve to death because his posh wife can't cook. And that was that. They were two strong-willed women who both loved him fiercely, and while they occasionally butted heads, they also grew to respect one another.
Tom edged next to his wife as soon as the train chuffed around the bend. Their son popped his hands over his ears, frowning as the whistle pierced the air. Although he sent his mother fare for first-class accommodations, he knew very well she wouldn't use it, so they watched anxiously as the third-class doors opened. Kieran emerged first, reaching back to offer their mother a hand. Still spry for her age, Cathleen nearly bolted through the throng of passengers. She held Tom's face at arm's length, tears streaming down her cheeks as she took in her youngest son.
Kieran ambled up behind his mother, a suitcase in both hands, and winked at his sister-in-law. "I'll have you know, she didn't shed a tear when she saw me."
Shaking her head, Cathleen wiped her face. "I cry for you all the time, Kieran Branson, only for different reasons." She glanced over, grasping her dress front as her breath hitched at the sight of her daughter-in-law and the blue-eyed boy in her arms. "Is this..."
Sybil's face broke into a brilliant smile. "Your grandson."
Cathleen wrapped her arms around them, alternating kisses on one and then the other. "My darling girl," she sobbed, "he's beautiful." She pulled the little boy into her arms, thanking God she lived to see the day. Bobby, never one to know a stranger, was fascinated by his grandmother's round babbling face. He reached up for her hat and plopped it on his own head with a cheeky grin. His grandmother planted a kiss on his plump cheeks, laughing through her tears.
Kieran smirked. "Jesus. You'd think she's never seen a baby before."
"Watch your mouth. And let your Mam have her moment." She hugged the little boy to her and kissed him again. "You look exactly like your Da when he was your age, yes you do," she cooed.
Bobby pointed to Tom with a chubby finger, his eyes alit. "Da!"
"That's right. That's your Da. And where's your Mam?"
The child stared back, blankly.
Tom smiled, tipping his chin. "Bobby, where's Mama?"
The boy grinned and pointed at Sybil.
"Aren't you a smart one?" Cathleen cried, hugging him again.
Kieran shook his head. "Sadly enough, the bar's not very high in the Branson clan."
"Kieran Branson," his mother snapped as Tom took his wife's hand and led them toward the car, "If you give me any more cheek, I'll put you back on that train myself."
Tom chatted good-naturedly with his brother on the drive from the rail station. The two bantered about the Renault and an odd grinding when he depressed the clutch, Tom joking that Lady Edith must have been taking it out again. In the back seat, the ladies sat with little Bobby wedged between them, laughing as he happily pointed to a passing herd of cows. "Cow!" he crowed, proud of the newest addition to his vocabulary. He peered at his grandmother, soaking up her indulgent smile and grinned. Wrapping an arm around him, Cathleen cuddled the little boy to her and kissed the top of his head.
"Oh, you're a sweet one," she said, almost breaking into tears again.
Sybil nearly cried herself. When they found out they were expecting, it was Mrs. Branson she anticipated to be with her when the baby came. It was Mrs. Branson who educated her on what to expect as her body steadily expanded with a child. And it was Mrs. Branson who had given her general insight on babies, how to nurse, how to tell when they were hungry, wet, or just wanted attention. After Bobby was born, while grateful for her own family's presence, she wished her mother-in-law could have shared the moment. But their time together would be now.
In the rearview mirror, Tom saw his mother's refreshed tears and frowned. "Is everything alright back there?"
Cathleen wiped the moisture away with a gloved hand and swatted playfully at the back of his neck. "Just mind your driving, Tommy, and leave me be with my grandson." As they turned onto Downton's long gravel drive, Cathleen gawked at the stately edifice in the distance. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," she breathed, crossing herself. She expected something grand, but still, the thought of stepping inside, a member of the family, seemed a little daunting.
Sybil clutched her mother-in-law's hand. "Please don't worry. It's only a house."
The older woman squeezed the younger's hand for reassurance. "It's just a house."
Anticipating Cathleen's discomfort (at least on a first visit), Tom and Sybil asked her parents to spare the classical reception committee at the front door. Lady Grantham reluctantly agreed and suggested instead they meet in the library; she thought it the least imposing of the formal rooms.
Cathleen stepped into the foyer, eyes wide and alert at the overpowering magnificence and nervously allowed the tall red-headed footman to take her coat. She grasped her pocketbook in front of her, looked at Tom, and chuckled. "If your father could see us now...he'd think we'd gone mad."
Sybil blushed, suddenly embarrassed by her childhood home, and quietly shrugged out of her overcoat with Alfred's assistance. Kieran leaned over to his mother and kissed her cheek. "You've nothing to worry about. They're pretty posh, but not as stodgy as most."
Pausing just outside the nursery door, Tom's heart swelled at the comfortable laughter of the two women. When he and Sybil arrived in Ireland, he knew his mother's initial reluctance would eventually transform into an unequivocal affection for his bright-eyed English bride. They were too much alike to stay in their respective corners indefinitely. He peeked in the door as Cathleen rocked her sleeping grandson in the dim lamplight of the room, her feet warmed by the fire grate as she prattled with her daughter-in-law.
Tom had wondered how his mother would react seeing his new habitat, the stone walls and spires of an ancient castle, not so unlike the ones she scorned verbally back home. While he sensed her discomfort under the lavish façade of pageantry, as only a son could, he knew the Crawleys saw nothing but a resolute Irish mother come to see her youngest child. The moment she stepped into the library to meet the Earl and Countess of Grantham, Cathleen stood shoulders square, confident and unafraid. She observed the rigid rules of class in addressing them both, along with the Ladies Mary and Edith whom she met before at the wedding, and Mr. Crawley. But, when it came to her own family, she referred to Bobby as our grandson, a subtle reminder that the boy belonged to neither family alone. Conceived on one side of the Irish Sea and born on the other, and a product of parents from different classes, he was a symbol that love recognized no arbitrary boundaries.
Tom nudged the door open and slipped in, finding them ensconced by the lingering flames, faces creased with affectionate smiles.
"He's been rather a challenge lately," he heard his wife admit.
Cathleen beamed at her grandson, sleeping peacefully in her lap. "I can't imagine that."
"Well...we've just started...toilet training."
Tom snorted as he strolled up behind her. "Sybil, Mam's just come all the way from Dublin, I'm sure that's the last thing she wants to hear..."
Cathleen silenced him with a warning glare. "I've had seven children. And not a one of you still goes in your pants, so hush," she snapped. "What seems to be the problem?"
"First, let me just say that Mama has been quite helpful, but..." she hesitated, then gestured awkwardly, "...she never had boys."
"Ah," the older woman sniffed, fighting a smile. "But, otherwise, are things going well?"
"For the most part," she replied, glancing up at her sighing husband whose gaze darted about the room uneasily. "In my opinion, he's still very young for this...it has to be utterly confusing for him, but everyone insists he should be trained by now."
Cathleen chuckled and reached for her hand. "Remind everyone that you're his mother and you know what's best for him. But, as the mother of five boys, I'll give you my advice." She reached down to press a quick kiss against Bobby's forehead. "First, boys just take longer to learn. Maybe its stubbornness, I don't know, but I didn't have a problem with my two girls. Secondly, as his mother, you can only do so much," she implied, her eyes slowly targeting her son. "He needs his father."
Tom tucked his chin, defensively. "Don't give me that look. I've changed my share of nappies. More than any of my brothers can claim, I promise you that."
"And you'll keep changing them," Sybil scowled, "until he can keep himself dry."
"You're a nurse. You know how everything works."
"I can't very well show him, can I? Oh for Heaven's sake, Tom, I don't understand why you're making such a fuss about this..."
Cathleen lofted a conciliatory hand. "If he's lets you know when he needs to go, you'll have managed the hardest part already."
Tom poked his wife's shoulder with an arrogant finger. "See. He can figure out the rest."
His mother glowered at him. "None of you did. Your father taught you boys what to do, and that's the way it's supposed to be," she declared, then smiled devilishly. "Well, except for you. Your brothers offered to help, and I agreed until I saw you aiming at the poor dog and had to put a stop to it."
Tom's neck reddened above the starched white collar of his tuxedo, clearly not amused.
Sybil stood, trembling with suppressed laughter, and pecked a kiss on her mother-in-law's cheeks. "I'm so glad you came." She turned, taking her husband's hand, and captured his pouting mouth with hers before he could object. "I'll be sure to warn Isis," she teased.
Rolling his eyes, he pinched her side playfully as she slipped toward the door. "I'll be along shortly," he called softly.
She nodded, blushing under the indulgent gaze of her mother-in-law, and closed the door quietly behind her.
Cathleen glanced up and returned his smile as he pulled a chair beside her. Bobby lay curled in her lap, a stuffed bear tucked in his arm as he slept, a scene Tom imagined enough back in Dublin, but never here.
"I hope today wasn't too much for you. Luncheon, tea, and dinner with the Earl of Grantham."
She huffed. "Oh, they're not so bad. If you can get past the posh clothes and food, they're people just like the rest of us."
"Well, wars have been fought over less. But I expected you wouldn't take any of their guff."
"Wasn't much guff to be had," she conceded. "Sybil's family may dine with kings, but they're God's creatures and no better or worse than the rest of us and deserve to be treated with respect in their own home. I'd expect no less from them if they came into mine." She continued rocking her grandson, his features a reminder of her own little boy more than thirty years ago. "I admit I'm rather fond of Lady Grantham. Your mother-in-law, that is. Sybil's grandmother is a piece of work."
He snickered, wondering if the Dowager would be fool enough to cross paths with Cathleen Branson over the next week.
"But Lady Grantham spoke very highly of you."
He leaned toward the fire, elbows resting on his knees. "Well, she knows what it's like, being an outsider to this kind of life, as does Matthew. And, she never had any sons, so I think the two of us fill a bit of a void."
"It does a mother good to know her son's being looked after." She reached out, stroking the starched collar of his tuxedo. "You were mighty handsome this evening. If I were forty years younger and not your mother, Sybil might have a fight on her hands."
He glanced down at his attire, immediately ashamed as he thought of his mother's modest wardrobe, no doubt highlighted by a single Sunday dress for dinner. "Jesus, Mam, I didn't think...I should have worn my work suit..."
"Oh, Tommy, of all the things I worry about, that's not one of them." Laughing, she shushed the stirring boy nestled against her chest.
"He should probably go down for the night." Lifting the child gently, Tom padded toward the crib, the warmth of his mother's body radiating from his son.
Cathleen pushed herself from the chair and tottered over beside him. "I can't get over how much he looks like you," she said, watching as Tom leaned down to kiss the little boy. She brushed a worn and wrinkled palm across his face, feeling the movement of his lips as he kissed the calloused skin. "My boy," she whispered, almost reverently, her eyes teeming with tears. "We've spent so little time together through the years, yet still you're my favorite and I'm not ashamed to admit it. How I wish your father could have lived to see you as a man."
Murlough Castle, King's County, Ireland, 1900
Dan Branson led his youngest son toward the stables, a reassuring hand on his shoulder. The fair-haired boy was small for his age, a little pudgy, but attentive and bright. Tom wore his best suit of clothes, meaning the second pair, a cobbled collection of hemmed garments that survived multiple older brothers. But, they were clean and so was he, more than could be said for many of the other tenant children on the estate.
Even at ten, his feet marched with purpose, his head held high and unashamed, habits he learned from his father. His blue eyes, brilliant and alert, curiously observed the battlements of Murlough Castle, ensconced in a copse of thick trees off in the distance. Young Tom had lived on the Delderfield estate his entire life and had heard his brothers talk of the castle, but had never seen it himself. It was a mystery, just like its owners. He was rather disappointed when his father directed him along a circumventing path behind the house to the work yard.
While the Delderfields failed to have a single heir, save a few disinterested daughters and their money-grubbing but noble husbands, Dan Branson produced sons in abundance. Too many, in fact, for a tenant farmer. The oldest three boys, Sean, Joe, and Andrew, had already left to find greener pastures, or urban ones, in Dublin. His eldest daughter, Betsy, had been married nearly ten years to a respectable machinist at a local brewery, and his youngest daughter Bridget recently secured a housemaid's position in Drogheda on the east coast. Only Kieran and Tom remained at home, and at fifteen, the older of the two boys already displayed signs of restlessness. It wouldn't be long before Dan and Cathleen were alone again.
But, he hardly blamed the children. The land they worked was not their own, and ownership offered through Ashbourne's proposed long-term mortgages sounded promising enough if a man had sons who planned to work the land. Dan Branson fought the tenants' battles in the Land Wars and welcomed the day each reform passed through Parliament. But at fifty, his time on earth was drawing to a close, he could feel it, and he refused to bind his youngest son to a life of poverty if he could help it. Young Tom was a bright one, he confessed to his wife, and had a purpose beyond the whitewashed cottage, barns, stock and plowed fields.
After six children, Dan and Cathleen decided bringing more into their lives would be an act of cruelty. But love and providence had one last gift for them. Their youngest was born on a cold March morning, so quickly that Dan didn't have time to fetch the midwife and delivered the babe himself, with five-year-old Kieran peering curiously through the doorway. Cathleen liked to tease her youngest he came out feet first, ready to hit the ground running. And he certainly proved the most curious of her children as he grew, eagerly opening lids, peering in drawers, and disassembling his few toys. To mollify her exasperated husband, she explained that Tom wanted to understand how the world worked, one piece at a time.
The estate's coachman, Mr. Foley, met father and son outside the estate's stables, a washrag and bucket in his hands. He swiped a fattened palm through what remained of his red hair. "Well, Branson, I see you've brought him."
"I have."
Foley bobbed his head at the youngster. "I hope you came prepared to work hard, lad. Mr. Clarke doesn't take kindly to shirkers and neither do I."
Dan gently nudged his son's shoulder.
Tom glanced nervously up at his father, then to Mr. Foley. "I'm ready to work. And I can learn anything you're willing to teach me."
Foley smiled. He had known Branson for nearly thirty years and respected him. Despite the older sons' refusal to stay on their farm, they were all solid young men. No doubt the youngest would be the same. "That's good, because you've a lot to learn. And we'll start with getting this carriage cleaned up for when Mr. Clarke goes to catch the train at Tullamore tomorrow. Fetch a fresh bucket of water from the well out back and the soap from the shelf just inside the door."
Dan took his son's hand and wrapped it around the handle of the small valise of his belongings. He planted an affectionate kiss on his cheek and cleared his throat. "You've got more than I did when I started out in life. I couldn't even read or write before I met your mother, and here you've got a bag full of books that you've already memorized." He knelt on one knee and winked. "It's a grand thing you're doing, Tommy. Being a coachman's apprentice is no small thing. You've got a real chance to make something of yourself and see different places. Now, you do as Mr. Foley says, because if you don't, I'll be the first one to hear of it. And we'll see you at Mass every Sunday."
Tom nodded, hugged his father, and quickly turned toward the stables before his stoic face threatened to betray him. Lugging the satchel over his shoulder, he didn't notice the finely dressed gentleman that passed him by.
Bernard Clarke watched the child disappear behind the coach with a curious expression. "Well, Branson, what do we have here?"
"My youngest, Mr. Clarke. His name's Tom."
"Ah, yes, I understand he's been apprenticed to Foley."
"That's right. He's a smart lad and a hard worker. I expect him to do well."
"Very good. That's what we want on this estate, hard workers. Like yourself," he said indifferently, pulling his pocket watch and checking the time. "Foley, have the groomsmen prepare one of the mounts for this afternoon at three. I'd like to go riding. See how some of the tenants are carrying on." He watched the coachman leave from the corner of his eye, then glanced back at the farmer. "I hate this time of year, Branson. Always someone behind on the bloody rent, though I've never had to worry about you."
Dan doubted Clarke truly despised the rent collection. In fact, he seemed to enjoy noting those that had fallen behind, and vocally cursed the laws that prevented him from outright eviction, though he somehow managed to find a way around it. The Branson farm survived purely because Clarke's deceased father-in-law, William Delderfield, fifth Earl of Murlough, had smartly negotiated a long-term agreement with Dan to tend an adjacent property, nearly doubling his acreage and giving him the land he needed to diversify his production. That, and Dan Branson knew the land better than most men in the county, including the earl or Clarke, who had already headed back to the castle fussing over the dust on his sleeves.
Dan turned to leave, observing his son standing in the stable door. Shrugging out of his jacket, Tom rolled up his sleeves in preparation of the day's work. Bucket in hand, he caught his father's gaze and tipped his cap before disappearing behind the building. He'll do just fine, Dan thought with a smile. Better a life in service than trudging all day through the mud and the muck.
Tom remembered a lot of things about growing up in the shadow of Murlough Castle. He remembered Mr. Foley's precisely timed schedule, his meticulousness when it came to the equipment in his charge, and his demand for cleanliness. He never said he enjoyed life as a coachman, but he took great pride in his work. Any job, even if you don't like it, is worth doing right, he told Tom, because someone else is depending on you and someone else is always ready to take it. If you're not willing to give your best effort, it's best you find something else to do.
The coachman wasn't there to serve as a surrogate father, but rather as a teacher. And when Tom's thoughts turned inward during the evenings, thinking about his parents still scraping by back at their little white cottage, Mr. Foley would have him pull out a book or the paper and read to him. To him, books were books, but saw that the lad enjoyed reading and encouraged it. He even found a few secondhand (more likely third or fourth) books at a shop in Ballykeegan and offered them to the boy on his twelfth birthday. They were cheap and full of words, so it was the perfect gift.
Tom cherished one in particular, a worn, brown-backed publication called On Liberty that seemed pretty advanced, but he patiently worked his way through. He challenged himself with every page and it took nearly six months to complete it the first time. One night, as they sat by the fire in the coachman's cottage, Mr. Foley peered over his newspaper, watching the young boy pencil certain passages.
"I'm supposin' you must like that one."
He nodded.
"Care to share any of it with an old man?"
Tom flipped to one of the pages in the back. "A state which dwarfs its men, in order that they may be more docile instruments in its hands even for beneficial purposes will find that with small men no great thing can really be accomplished."
The old man furrowed his brows. "I suppose there's some truth in that. Anything else?"
Again, Tom nodded, searching for an underlined passage. He pointed to each word as he slowly read through. "The almost despotic power of husbands over wives needs not be enlarged upon here, because nothing more is needed for the complete removal of the evil, than that wives should have the same rights, and should receive the protection of law in the same manner as all other persons."
"Hmph. Before my wife died, God rest her soul, I'd say the opposite was the case. I couldn't get a word in edgewise enough to be a...what was it he said? A despot?" He pulled his pipe from between his teeth and emptied it against his palm. "Does the man talk about anything interesting?"
Tom thumbed back a few pages. "He says something about gambling and fornication, but I can't quite figure it out..."
Mr. Foley snatched the book out of his hands. "What the hell did I buy?" Chomping on the pipe again, he flipped through the dog-eared pages and frowned. He glowered at the boy. "You don't gamble do you?"
Tom shook his head vigorously.
The older man cleared his throat. "And the other thing..."
"Forn..."
"That," he cut in. "Do you know what it means?"
He nodded. "Father Peter talked about it at mass. Da explained it to me."
Mr. Foley couldn't help but sigh in relief. "And...you don't do it, do you?"
Tom furrowed his brows and took back his book. "When would I have the time?"
The coachman howled with laughter, sharing a cheeky smile with the young boy as he dove into the pages.
Yes, he remembered lots of things, including the cold and wet October day that his mother arrived not long after the sun peeped through the trees. His father had died suddenly in the night, she told him, and held him as he cried, explaining it was God's blessing. His heart had been failing for some time, driven into frailty on the harsh landscape. And, with Kieran gone with his other sons to Dublin, Dan tended the land only because he had nowhere else to go and nothing else to do.
Tom looked up to his mother, not that she was a very tall woman, but he had yet to have his promised growth spurt. He realized that yes, she was sad, but as she brushed his cheeks with her calloused hands, she smiled. "My Tommy," she said. "Just yesterday he was telling me how proud he was of you and how far you'll go, and he wished he could live to see it. He knew he wasn't long for this world, but he died knowing his boy would do great things."
Two weeks later, he watched his mother board the train at Tullamore, the small patch of farmland to her back. Thirty years before she had come from Galway on Dan Branson's arm. He traveled there on a whim, looking for work, but found a beautiful blonde schoolteacher who fell for his mischievous blue eyes and promises for the future. She never regretted her marriage and worked beside her husband and supported him in the harsh life of tending a rich man's land. She loved him, bore and raised their seven children in a small white cottage set against the backdrop of deceptively lush green fields. But, she also never regretted the day she left it all behind her.
Downton, April 1922
Spring bloomed across Yorkshire with a sudden burst of warmth and color, inviting Cora to suggest luncheon by the lake. Even Lord Grantham seemed taken with the idea. Winter's chill had kept the family in the house long enough and only yesterday he jealously watched two of the tenants fishing as he rode back from a meeting in York. Besides, he suspected Mrs. Branson was eager to see something beyond Downton's interior walls and staff milling about.
Happily, everyone accepted the opportunity, like children released in the schoolyard to play. Just last summer Tom and Matthew had expanded their regular billiard competition into fishing, which the Irishman found infinitely more difficult. Standing in the shallow waters of the lake, even Kieran replaced his habitually sour expression, grateful to be outdoors, and proved more adept at catching trout than his little brother. Mary and Sybil patrolled the grassy shore, soaking up the sun's rays and laughing mercilessly as Tom first caught the back of his waders and then his surly father-in-law with an unfortunate succession of poorly cast lines. Only Edith missed the glorious day, having taken the early morning train to London for another meeting with her editor.
After the meal, Cora and Cathleen joined the Dowager Countess at a small table beneath a shade tree, watching the young people bask in the sweetened spring breeze. Cora smiled contentedly at her two small grandsons snoozing on nearby blanket under Nanny's attentive eye.
Cathleen observed her counterpart, a soft smile on her face. "I know this isn't what you wanted," she said quietly.
Cora was almost taken aback, not quite sure what provoked such a comment. "Mrs. Branson, as Tom's mother, please know that you are welcome at Downton anytime you wish. If anyone has suggested otherwise..."
The older lady smiled sweetly and nodded in the young people's direction. "No, Your Ladyship, I meant in regard to Tommy and Sybil."
She sighed, relieved. "Let's just say it wasn't what I expected. What I wanted? I suppose in the end, all a mother really wants is for her children to be happy. And only they can be the ones to make that decision."
All three women turned at the sound of laughter as Tom threatened to pull his wife into the water if she didn't stop teasing him. He flicked a worm in her direction, prompting a disgusted squeal.
"Oh, I don't know about that," Violet prattled, shaking her head. "If they were allowed unfettered independence, the world would have descended into chaos millennia ago."
"I'll not deny they need some guidance," Cathleen admitted. "But we can't see into their hearts."
Violet cocked her head, aghast such a notion, and ignored the warning frown from her daughter-in-law. "If I recall correctly, Brans...Tom said you were less than thrilled with their engagement."
Cathleen chuckled. "I admit that when Tommy wrote to me about having fallen in love, I wondered what could have possibly come over him, and who could have possibly stolen his heart. He was never one for foolish fancies like that. In fact, I wondered if he would ever fall in love at all with all his passion for books and papers. But, he said he had found a true friend in Sybil, someone who could look past his position, and not just look past him." She lofted a brow at the Dowager. "But, I was prepared to give both of them a piece of my mind once they arrived in Dublin. Then I met her, and saw them together, and understood. She's a sweet girl, and she loves my son very much."
An abrupt guilt flooded through Cora, ashamed that she refused to defy Robert's obstinate disinterest in their daughter's wedding and just go alone with Edith and Mary. Having observed Sybil over the past two years, so obviously in love with her husband and utterly devoted to her child, Cora could only imagine how beautiful she must have been. "Mrs. Branson, I've never thanked you properly for all you did for Sybil. I wish I could have been there for her, but it comforts me to know you were."
Violet rolled her eyes. "Oh, Cora, stop punching yourself. You had just barely survived that dreadful flu and poor Lavinia wasn't even cold in her grave. Traveling to Dublin was absolutely out of the question." Her daughter-in-law cut her an unfriendly look. The Dowager shook her head at Cora's American dramatics and then glanced back to their guest. "I understand….Tom...," Violet constantly struggled with calling him by his Christian name, "has several siblings?"
"I've seven. Five boys and two girls. Tommy's the youngest."
Violet hooted. "My heavens. That's quite a brood. I take it you have a proportional number of grandchildren, then?"
"Seventeen. Although half of them belong to my oldest daughter Betsy and her husband. Michael's a wonderful man," she proclaimed.
Cora placed her empty tea cup on the table. "It's difficult giving daughters away; trusting their happiness over to someone else. Particularly when they were raised worlds apart. My family had a difficult time accepting their marriage."
"Have you?"
"I accept that they love each other. I accept that he's truly a wonderful man and I've grown to respect him," she admitted. "But, I don't deny I still have doubts about theirs being a smooth road, here or in Ireland. Neither your class nor mine can look past where they came from."
"My oldest son, Joe, had a hard time with it and still does. He said that His Lordship may come burn us all out of house and home."
Violet flushed suddenly, her response escaping in a hiss. "Lord Grantham would never do such a thing!"
"Nor do I believe he would. But, don't for a second tell me you didn't expect your granddaughter to be living in squalor when they were back in Dublin. Both my family and yours each have their own prejudices. I suppose it's up to us to negotiate the truce."
The Dowager offered a disarming smile. "And, on that, we can certainly agree. Not that I would want to be bothered, you understand, but I do think the world would be far better off if women were in charge. But, as it stands, we are not, and must play the game with the rules we have. And, I dare say, it's more fun this way." She glanced back to the lakeshore, shaking her head as the Irishman leaned towards his wife, hat in hand, and shielded their kiss from prying eyes.
Breathlessly, Tom rolled away from his wife, their bodies trembling with laughter and exertion from a playful round of lovemaking. Sybil groaned, unwilling to surrender his warmth, and crawled on top of him, drawing the covers with her. Propping her chin on her hands, she watched her husband gaze at the ceiling with a pert smile. He's glowing, she mused. Chuckling to herself, she kissed the patch of hair in the middle of his chest, her lips lingering, savoring the soft reassuring cadence of his heart.
He peered down at her. "What?"
"Nothing. You just seem very happy."
"And why wouldn't I be? Lying under my very beautiful, very naked wife and after what we've just done."
"You're shameless."
"And insatiable. Come here," he murmured, pulling her to him, capturing her mouth in a long, slow kiss.
Reluctantly, she withdrew, trailing a finger across his lips. "No, I meant about seeing your mother."
"I know how much she wanted to see her grandson," he replied, his smile fading slightly. "I've been lucky to have her as long as I have, but she's not getting any younger. It's strange how we spent so little time together over the years, but somehow she was always there when I needed her the most."
"That's what mothers are for." She pushed forward, pressing her lips lightly against his before tucking her head beneath his chin. Her fingers wandered lazily across his chest, tracing patterns along the contours and smoothing beads of sweat from their prior activities.
Snaking his arms around her, he sighed contentedly. "Hopefully, we can see a lot more of her now that the treaty's been signed. Have you heard your father mention anything more from Mr. Shortt?"
"No, not yet."
"Well, they've no reason to refuse a pardon as far as I can tell."
"But...do you think it will be safe? We've both read the papers..."
"With the in-fighting over the treaty, I wouldn't think of taking you or our son in the middle of all that. But, if I can arrange it, maybe I can go back and..."
She stiffened in his arms. "No."
"Only for a while, just until things have settled down..."
She rolled off of his chest, propped on her elbow, and stared down at him. "No. You cannot go back alone."
"Sybil..."
She snatched her hand away as he reached for it. "Tom, that last night in Dublin, watching you leave, I wondered if I would ever see you again. The entire trip over here the next day, I worried you might have been taken before I left, that I was leaving you behind. I wasn't sure you actually made it until I saw you here. For however brief a time, I thought I lost you. I'm not going through that again."
He sat back against the headboard, sifting a hand through his tousled hair. "I don't belong here, Sybil, and if you think about it long enough, neither do you."
"I'll not be separated from you. Not again. Not ever."
He reached for her, relieved when she didn't pull away this time. "Alright," he conceded. "If we go, we go together. And not until it's safe for all three of us."
Settling back into his arms, she relaxed in the warmth of his bare skin, his fingers drifting down to lace their fingers. "I know how much you love Ireland and how much you want to go back, as do I. I'm sorry if I'm being selfish, but that's how I feel. I couldn't stay here without you."
"I do love Ireland," he murmured. "But I love you more."
She pressed a slow kiss against his cheek, her eyes wandering to his bedside table, a shiny gold pendant hanging from the leaves of a book. Reaching over him, she pulled it free, draping it across her palm to see its engraved image. "St. Christopher. Patron Saint of Travelers. Oh, don't look at me like that. I may have only been in Ireland for a year, but I picked up on a few things."
"My mother and brothers gave it to me, when I left to come here the first time. I had never really travelled before, except between Dublin and Murlough."
"You know, I don't believe you ever told my why you left in the first place."
He shrugged, dropping the chain back on the table. "Seemed like the thing to do at the time, I suppose. I had been working for the Delderfields all my life really and hadn't seen anything of the world beyond King's County or Dublin. And I could see what Lady Delderfield's son-in-law was doing to the estate. I knew it wouldn't be long before they were out of money and I'd have to find a new job anyway. Why do you ask?"
"I just wonder what would have happened if you hadn't left. Would we ever have met?"
"Not likely."
"It seems odd, really, all the moments in life that come into play for certain things to happen."
He smirked. "You're not turning philosophical on me, are you?"
"Hardly," she laughed. "But, I'm rather pleased with the results, aren't you?"
He tipped her chin to kiss her, gently at first, but as usual they managed to turn the even simplest effort into a more demanding request. Her smile transformed, wicked and inviting, as she nudged him back against the mattress, peppering his neck and chest with painfully chaste kisses. Her lips moved lower, following the dark trail that she so often enjoyed navigating with her fingers. Tucking his hands beneath his head, he closed his eyes with a contented smile and sighed. "Very pleased."
Dublin, March 1913
Tom leaned back against the hood of Lady Delderfield's new Rolls Royce town car, waiting for his charge to descend from the Munster, just arrived from Holyhead. He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. Earl and Countess of Grantham and daughters. Pursing his lips with an indifferent sigh, his eyes scanned the row of motors, parked and waiting as he was, all sent by a wealthy employer to fetch some wealthy somebody else. Most of the chauffeurs propped against their respective vehicles as well, smoking cigarettes, a habit he never acquired but was tempted to try just to keep warm. The Dublin cold leached through his wool uniform, stiffening his hands and bones. But, it was all part of the job. He supposed he could look for work elsewhere, but surveying the stevedores and dock hands, underpaid and overworked, he realized his wasn't the worst profession. In fact, a lot of the men he passed on the way here would seize it at the first opportunity.
He watched as one of the ship's porters descended in front of a group of four, quickly inflated to six as two servants quickly joined them. The porter called out to the group of chauffeurs, "Driver for the Earl and Countess of Grantham."
Tom waved in his direction and strode down, doffing his cap obediently as he approached Lady Delderfield's houseguest. "Your Lordship, Your Ladyship," he offered politely then nodded to the young daughters. Neither seemed to pay him any mind. "The car's just here."
The earl offered a slight, but genuine smile. "Thank you..."
"Apologies, Your Lordship. It's Branson."
"Thank you, Branson. My man Bates can help you with the luggage."
"Certainly, but might I recommend you and the ladies get in first. The winter evenings in Dublin don't get any warmer I'm afraid."
"Ah, that's very kind," he replied, ushering his wife and daughters inside the back seat, unobservant of the young man's preparation of their arrival, the fold-down seats already secured, with warm blankets and a fresh coal box at the ready.
Tom latched the door, assisted Mr. Bates with the luggage, and then climbed into the front seat, crushed up against the door to allow room for both the valet and Her Ladyship's maid, a sourpuss if ever he saw one. Releasing the clutch, the car chugged forward slowly. He now knew Dublin by heart, and ably maneuvered the car through the city's core, across the Liffey, down Brunswick Street by the college, turning south and east toward their destination on FitzWilliam Square.
The business of the nobility did little to rouse his imagination, but during service when he couldn't pass the time with a book or paper, he followed their ludicrous conversations. He laughed to himself during the dull exchanges on dress-fittings or Viscount something-or-other losing his fortune and being in search of an eligible heiress. It amazed him that those fortunate few, dominated by birthrights and centuries of inherited wealth and prestige, held captive the lives of hundreds of thousands beneath them.
"It frightens me to no end to think of him running the estate one day," he heard the dark-haired daughter declare as they turned onto Baggot Street. "He knows nothing of farming and certainly can't understand the responsibility you have to the tenants and the town. He spends all of his time at that stupid office of his."
"Try not to give Matthew such a hard time," Lord Grantham responded sharply. "He's in a terribly awkward position. He's trying his best. He just needs time."
Tom glanced in the rearview mirror, and caught the upturned nose of the older daughter. He made a mental note to ask the valet about the poor fellow whose future was the center of everyone's attention.
"Oh, Papa," the blonde daughter sniped, "you might as well save your breath. She carried on this way with Patrick as well. Mary won't be satisfied until she turns into a man overnight and can inherit and run the estate herself. That's just how her mind works."
"Edith," Lady Grantham hissed. "That's enough. We're here for Laura's wedding, and both of you will behave or we'll leave tonight."
And with that, the family ceased all conversation until they reached Lady Delderfield's brick-faced house on FitzWilliam Square. Tom received an obligatory word of gratitude from the Earl and transferred their care for the evening to the butler, Mr. Kelly. With his responsibilities concluded for the night, he drove the car round back to the converted stables and headed down to the kitchen where Mrs. Fallon was sure to have saved him a bite of supper.
Once Lady Delderfield and her guests retired for the evening, Mr. Kelly announced as much to the staff, leaving Tom alone in the servant's hall with his paper. With the Earl and his family safely tucked in, he was joined by Mr. Bates and Miss O'Brien, their duties only partially completed. The valet seemed an amiable man, but he found the woman an unpleasant but harmless sort. He was glad of the variety of company, though. Most of the Delderfield staff had grown surly of late, constantly fretting about Mr. Clarke's mismanagement of the estate.
"My mother was Irish," Mr. Bates noted, as he polished a pair of shoes. "County Antrim."
Tom glanced at the ladies' maid who busily stitched away on an escaped piece of lace from her mistress' dress. "With a name like O'Brien, is it safe to suppose you're Irish as well?"
"Well, I'm not bloody French am I?"
"Were you born here?"
She rolled her eyes, annoyed. "Watertown, and glad to have it behind me. No decent work in this Godforsaken country, that's for certain."
"Do you like working for Lord Grantham then?"
"You're a curious one, aren't you? Yes, he's better than most of them I suppose and Her Ladyship's easy enough to please..." she paused before picking up her sewing. "Speaking of which, I've got an early start in the morning thanks to this wedding and them not wanting to bring another maid over to help with the young ladies."
Bates snickered as she left the hall. "Don't let Mrs. O'Brien bully you, Mr. Branson. She's a peculiar one. She's not happy unless someone else is miserable."
"She looks like she spent most of her childhood sucking on lemons." Tom sipped on his tea, wishing he had something stronger. "Have you worked for His Lordship long?"
"Just under a year, but I've known him for a long time. I was his batman...in the Boer War."
"Is that where you got that?" he asked, pointing to his cane.
"It is. And not many employers would give men like me a second chance. I'm grateful for the job."
He lay the paper aside and refilled their tea cups. "I don't want to seem too nosy..."
"Come now, Mr. Branson, I think we both know you're an inquisitive one."
Admittedly, he was enjoying the valet's easy-going banter, certainly a change of pace from the regular house staff. "Who's this Matthew and why are they all in such a fuss about him?"
Bates smiled. "His Lordship never had a son, and his heir and future son-in-law died aboard the Titanic. And now, his cousin Mr. Matthew Crawley is next in line. The only problem, as they see it, is that he's a middle-class solicitor from Manchester. He's not the proper sort, I suppose."
Tom shook his head. He had heard some intriguing tales among the upper class, but this was a new one for him. "What do you think of him?"
"I find him quite agreeable, though somewhat resistant to the lifestyle."
"Can't blame him," Tom replied with a smirk. "Has the matchmaking already started with the daughters? They seem to be rather full of themselves."
"Lady Mary's in the untenable position of being the strong-willed oldest child of a title, estate, and fortune she can't inherit. And Lady Edith is the middle sister, with neither tremendous beauty nor ambition, which leaves her jealous of both sisters. I feel a bit sorry for her, really."
"Jesus, there's another one?"
He snickered, holding one shoe up to the lamplight to check his work. Finding a rough spot, he dabbed a cloth back in the shoe polish. "Lady Sybil, the youngest. She's the prettiest, the sweetest, and always ends up as the peacemaker between the other two, poor girl."
Tom wondered what it would have been like to grow up with his siblings so close. At times, he felt he was an only child, even though he was one of seven. He swirled his tea in silence, granting a Mr. Bates a reprieve from his inquisition, but the valet seemed just as interested in him.
"How long have you been Her Ladyship's chauffer?"
"About six years now. It'll do until something better comes along."
"I admit I don't know much about motors. How did you get your start?"
"My father was a tenant on the Delderfield estate in King's County. He apprenticed me to the coachman when I was ten. Mr. Foley didn't care much for cars and I was always the one stuck with having to learn how they operated and fix something when it broke. So, in the end, Lady Delderfield had me take over."
The valet laughed a bit as he pushed up on his cane, collecting His Lordship's shoes, skillfully polished for the next day. "Downton's chauffer used to be the coachman as well, and Mr. Taylor doesn't have the taste for it either. As a matter of fact, he's only staying long enough for His Lordship to find a suitable replacement."
Tom glanced up, catching the valet's cheeky grin. "I don't suppose..."
He winked. "Well, it never hurts to ask, does it Mr. Branson?"
Over the next few days, Tom drove the Earl's family to one celebration after another, and then finally to the wedding itself, a grand affair uniting the House of Dunsany and the House of Drumgoole, both part of Ireland's remaining Protestant Ascendancy. Typical of these posh events, he sat outside with the other chauffeurs and coachmen, freezing his backside in the cold March winds, questioning his life choices, as if he had any.
Lady Delderfield's dislike of country life afforded Tom ample time to bury himself in books and papers or visiting his family, now mostly living in the city. The only caveat was that he was frequently called upon to assist the surly butler, Mr. Kelly, as a second footman. Driving the rich Anglos was bad enough, but his pride took even more of a beating when it came to serving a table, bending from the waist proffering any variety of delectable feasts that made his mouth water.
He had been in service for almost thirteen years, and was now restless and annoyed with the situation in his homeland. Just two months ago, the British Parliament voted down another bill for Home Rule. Beyond the politics, though, he saw the helplessness of the Irish people crammed into in the tenements he passed on the way to visit his mother or one of his brothers up in Inn's Quay. He knew there was nothing he could do, certainly not without money in his pocket and the Delderfields paid next to nothing. Principles were all well and good, and he certainly had forged his through an insatiable political curiosity and keen observations of the squalor in Dublin, but they damn sure didn't put a roof over your head or food on the table.
The following morning, he returned the Grantham party to the ferry. Holding the door, he assisted the ladies as they filed out one by one, before finally nodding to the Earl. Lord Grantham discretely slipped him a small envelope containing the customary tip.
"Thank you, Branson..."
Tom took a hesitant step behind him. "Your Lordship?"
Plucking on his top hat, the earl turned. "Yes?"
His mouth opened, but nothing came out, certainly an unfamiliar sensation for him.
Lord Grantham smiled, almost in amusement. "I'm happy to answer any question, but I must hear it first."
"I...I understand you may be in need of a new chauffer."
The Earl observed him, curiously. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. Are you interested in the position?"
He nodded.
"Well, you've certainly proven yourself an excellent driver while we were here. If you forward me your credentials, I will be happy to entertain your application. My valet can give you the address."
Tom smiled appreciatively, and plopped his cap back onto his head. "Thank you. I will."
Mr. Bates pulled a small notebook and pencil stub from his pocket and scribbled the information. Handing it over with an affable smile, he whispered, "Good luck."
Three weeks later, he received an invitation for an interview, all expenses paid. He met the estate's agent, Mr. Jarvis, at a pub near the city center of Liverpool, and proudly answered every question. Within another week, a letter arrived from Downton Abbey offering the job, with the request he have his affairs settled and be ready to begin work soon, hopefully by the middle of May. Sitting down that same evening, he hastily scratched out his acceptance. The position seemed almost too good to be true; he would have his own cottage, fifty pounds a year, and his meals and livery provided for him. With the letter safely posted, he began the task of packing up his life in Ireland. In a single trunk, he secured several books, a photograph of his mother, a small amount of pocket change (he left most of his saved earnings with his mother), and two suits of clothes.
On his last night in Dublin, he stayed with his mother at her little cottage in Inn's Quay. She had invited each of his brothers, his eldest sister and her husband, along with at least a dozen children that belonged to one sibling or another. He admitted having a hard time keeping them straight. Cathleen didn't have a table large enough for everyone, barely even a room that could contain them all, but they gathered where they could. Even some of the adults had search for an available spot on the floor.
She saved her youngest a chair by her at the table, though, quietly swiping at the occasional tear as she watched him eat. She was grateful his position with Lady Delderfield had afforded him the opportunity to stay more frequently in Dublin, finally able to spend time with her youngest after all these years. But, now he was leaving, across the Irish Sea to some obscure place called Downton Abbey to serve another rich man's family. Cathleen wondered how often he could come back, or if she would see him again. As she stood to take his empty plate, she swiped a wayward lock of honey-colored hair from his forehead and planted a kiss where it had been.
"I still don't understand why you want to go all the way to Yorkshire to work for an English lord when you can still find plenty of them here," Joe said.
"Though hopefully not for long," Sean interjected. "I can feel it in my bones."
Andrew, the most jovial of the entire clan and a perpetual bachelor like their brother Kieran, shook his head and punched his youngest brother playfully as he walked by. "Once you've made your fortune, find some pert housemaid and bring her back. And, if she's got friends, bring them back, too."
"Jesus, is that all you think of?" Kieran asked, scowling as one of his nephews absconded with his bottle of beer.
Their brother-in-law snorted. "Pay no attention to this lot, Tommy," Michael said, catching one of his unruly children by the collar to cease his running. He swatted the boy on the backside and sent him to his mother. "Just do your job, earn your keep, and try to stay out of trouble."
Just then, one his nieces brought her uncle a small, neatly wrapped box. Little Sharon scrambled up on Tom's knee and kissed his cheek. Stunned, he couldn't remember the last time the family exchanged gifts of any sort.
"Go on, open it up," Andrew laughed. "We all pitched in for it."
Ably assisted by Sharon's little fingers, he lifted the gold St. Christopher medal, and smiled as it sparkled in the dim light of the room. He allowed her to drape it over his neck, laughing as she clapped excitedly.
"Patron Saint of Travelers," his mother reminded him. "To keep you safe on your journey."
"Never forget where your home is, Tommy," Joe said quietly. "Coming along last, we didn't get to spend much time together, but I want you to know, Ireland is where you belong. It won't always be like this and things are changing. I just hope you come back to see it."
Tom smiled, wondering when he would return, but he knew it wouldn't be forever. "It's just a job, Joe. Otherwise there's nothing for me there. My home is here...with my family."
Downton, April 1922
Kieran rarely came to Downton, but not for lack of invitations. Tom and Sybil made infinitely clear that he was welcome to visit his godson at any time. But, Kieran felt out of place in Downton's grand upstairs, an incompatible part, and resented Tom's insistence that he not bother the staff or roam the servant's hall on a whim. Nothing changed on this most recent visit either. Not three days after he arrived with their mother, Tom found him soliciting a game of cards with the hallboys and footmen, much to the consternation of Mr. Carson, whose blood all but boiled when he summoned Tom from his office.
"They have their jobs, same as us. You wouldn't want them lounging about in your garage," Tom said, practically dragging him up the back stairs.
"No," Kieran insisted, shrugging off his brother's arm. "But I wouldn't be ashamed of knowing them either." With that, he stormed off to what he referred to as his 'fecking posh hotel room,' and remained hidden until they gathered for dinner.
Though he was only five at the time, Kieran remembered the day his brother was born, a squalling red-faced infant that he simultaneously disliked and adored. Tom's arrival meant he was no longer the baby, and with their mother's immediate attachment to 'her little Tommy,' Kieran became just another Branson brother, oddly situated between the tightknit older threesome of Joe, Sean, and Andrew and the babbling happy baby Tom. He felt like a lost sock, and grew to be the solitary sort.
On one of the rare nights of the visit when Cathleen hadn't insisted on putting her grandson to bed, Kieran joined his brother in the nursery. While he was a self-proclaimed bachelor, he loved all of his nieces and nephews, and there certainly were a lot of them back in Ireland, each of whom he saw more than his own Godson here in England. He bounced his nephew on his knee, contorting his face in all manner of funny shapes, hoping to elicit a laugh. Bobby stared blankly at his mustached uncle for a long moment, popped a thumb in his mouth and furrowed his brows.
"Apparently, he's the serious type."
Tom laughed and squatted down beside them. "Bobby, where's your nose?"
The little boy reached out and grabbed his father's nose. Tom took his hand and placed it back on his son's face. "There's Bobby's nose," he instructed. "Now, where's Bobby's ears?" Bobby popped both hands on his own ears, reciprocating his father's proud smile. "That's right. Now, where's Bobby's tummy?" The toddler scrunched his arms protectively around his middle and giggled in anticipation, just before Tom reached out, tickling him mercilessly, and pulled him into a hug. He smacked a kiss on the boy's cheek and carried him over to the crib, tucking him in for the evening.
Kieran unfolded himself from the rocking chair. "I have to admit, Tommy, he's a handsome lad. Even if you are his father."
Tom ignored the comment as he bent down to whisper a goodnight blessing in the language of his ancestors. He turned to find his brother holding the photograph they kept on the mantle. It was one of he and Sybil, taken on the day of Mary and Matthew's wedding. He had groused endlessly about the morning coat and the bloody oppressive uniform as he called it. But, though his in-laws had won the fashion battle, he fought back with a playful resistance when it came time for the photographer to capture his refined elegance for perpetuity. He abdicated his pride long enough for the group shots, but then misbehaved so during his photograph with Sybil that the Dowager Countess finally intervened and loomed behind the exasperated photographer. Her disapproving scowl forced them into appropriate solemnity for at least one picture.
The photograph on the mantel was one of the Dowager's 'discards,' mailed to them with a sour note urging proper decorum at the next family occasion. It turned out to be Tom's favorite, the two of them smiling at one another, rejecting propriety and the world for a brief rebellious moment. It was the image he wanted watching over his son as he slept, a reminder of how much love transcended class barriers.
Holding the photograph, Kieran glanced at his brother. "She's lovely. In case you didn't know that."
Tom smiled indulgently. "I'm aware of it, thank you, and she has the most beautiful spirit I've ever known."
"What in God's name do the two of you have in common then?"
"Nothing. Everything. Shared dreams, I suppose," he responded with a shrug. "I would have been back in Dublin for the Rising had it not been for her."
"Didn't want you to leave, did she?"
"She wasn't so keen on me then," he remembered. "Actually, it was me. I wasn't going to leave Downton without her."
Kieran sat the photograph back on the mantle. "Mam always said you were too romantic for your own good." He strolled over to the window, parted the drapes with a calloused finger and stared out across the darkened lawn. "Still committed to managing the estate I suppose?"
"For now I am," he replied, then laughed. "I'm probably better at driving a car, but they're not likely to hire their son-in-law back as the chauffer."
"You should have come to Liverpool with me. It might not have been much, but you would have been free from all this."
"It's just until we can get back to Ireland. Hopefully, that's not too far off." He wasn't sure if the statement was meant to convince his brother or himself.
Kieran opened his mouth to speak, hesitant. "And what if you can't? Hmm? Are you prepared to stay here? You don't belong here, brother. These fancy clothes," he scoffed, flicking the cuff of his shirt. "I tell you, Tommy, if our brothers and cousins who have been shedding their blood and sweat at the hands of the British could see you now, they'd be ashamed."
Tom bristled. "Matthew and I think we can keep the estate going a little while longer, modernize it, so that these people can keep their jobs and support their families."
"You and Matthew. So you've become the lapdog of the next Earl now, have you?"
"Those people you keep company with downstairs were once my colleagues and I care a great deal for them. If this estate goes under, where will they go? Where will the farmers go? Will the next landlord put them out? Make what you will of Lord Grantham, and I've certainly plenty of unkind remarks myself about the man, but he was a good employer and from what I've seen of the books, sometimes he was too good."
Kieran sighed heavily and shook his head. "Those people downstairs, those are our people, Tommy. They don't have any respect for you now that you're up here. And Sybil's family – you know as well as I do, if it weren't for that little boy, they would've kicked you back to the garage. Where's your pride?"
"Perhaps there's some truth in that. But, if managing the estate, only for a little while, helps our people as you called them, then sacrificing a little pride is a small price to pay."
"I can't believe my ears. Listen to yourself! I've never been one for politics or writing or any of that rubbish. Our brothers and you have the brains and the skill for it, more than I do. But I see what's happening to you and I hope you don't regret it."
Tom thought of their own father, and the day Dan Branson left him with coachman. He remembered the disparate combination of sorrow and hope in the older man's eyes. "I'm a father now," he said quietly. "I still have my principles, I just have to be a little more practical in the way I go about them."
"No. You've traded them for a few pounds of silver, a posh roof over your head, and a silk bed for your little English prince."
He took an angry step towards his brother. "My son is Irish."
"Oh is he now? Well, his mother isn't. Her family isn't."
"Brother or not, I'll thank you not to speak of my wife when you haven't bothered to get to know her, or even come over for the wedding." His rising voice roused his son, who now peered up over the crib railing, eyes alert. Tom sighed heavily, strode over, and tucked Bobby back in.
Kieran's shoulders slumped as he ambled up behind him. He admitted having all of the Branson temper, but little of the common sense to dilute it. "I'm sorry, Tommy. I didn't mean it like that. You're a good man and a good father. It's just...I never would have thought of you in a place like this, considering where we grew up. Those people, these people, can never understand what it was like for people like us."
Tom leaned against the crib, reaching down to brush a finger against his son's cheeks. Bobby yawned widely, grinned up at his father, and rolled over, pulling the soft blanket with him. Tom smiled, watching as the little boy pulled the bear snugly in the crook of his arm and babbled a few unintelligible words. "No. They'll never understand. But Sybil does, and she's my life now, along with our son. And I'll do whatever it takes to keep them safe."
Once Tom received word that the treaty had been signed the previous December, he asked Lord Grantham to contact the Secretary of State for the Home Department and request a pardon. Reluctantly, the Earl agreed and drafted the correspondence to Mr. Shortt, but furtively wished the young couple would change their minds. Not only was he convinced the situation remained entirely unsafe for his daughter (and his son-in-law), but he had grown fiercely attached to his oldest grandson. Every time he thought of their taking Bobby from Downton, albeit back to his father's homeland, it pained his heart. He knew they wouldn't risk returning before the situation calmed. But he also understood how acutely the exile from Ireland affected them both, particularly the government's use of them as political pawns. Which was precisely why he vacillated on divulging the Home Secretary's response.
During dinner, a few days into the Bransons' visit, the Dowager Countess scowled at the mechanic seated next to her. Not that Violet held any harsh reservations about the Bransons in general, the mother seemed a perfectly charming working-class woman, but she still had a hard time tolerating Kieran as a dinner guest. His manners, for one, failed to improve despite her subtle suggestions over the course of any given meal.
"Perhaps your elbows could use a rest," she tittered. "They must be terribly uncomfortable on the table."
Cora narrowed her eyes at her mother-in-law, embarrassed that Tom's mother was forced to cast a reproving scowl at the older of her two boys.
Seated next to Cathleen, Isobel inquired after her family back Dublin, genuinely fascinated by stories of her children and grandchildren, and candidly admitting to Mary and Matthew that a large family would be quite alright by her.
Under the glare of his wife's perturbed face, Matthew cleared his throat awkwardly and glanced down the table to their guest. "I'm glad circumstances in Dublin didn't prevent you from your visit, Mrs. Branson. Tom and I were both concerned when we read Mr. O'Connor had seized the Four Courts. I understand you live not far from there."
"Things have certainly gotten worse," she acknowledged. "It seems a day doesn't go without something horrible happening. It's sad to say, but I'm grateful to pick up the morning paper and find a story where only one person has been killed. The IRA and the Constabulary both are turning the country into one massacre after another."
"I wouldn't expect things to improve anytime soon," Lord Grantham asserted. "The authorities won't respond kindly to O'Connor's move against the Courts, I'm afraid."
"They never do," Sybil replied, catching her husband's approving smile from across the table.
Tom scooped a spoonful of vegetables from Alfred's offered tray. "Collins knew very well the treaty would cause a schism in the population. Agreeing to the monarch as head of state? Allowing the British occupation of ports? Swearing an oath to the king? He's nobody to blame but himself."
"Of course I'm not as familiar with the facts as you, Tom, but I'm surprised they sent him to conduct the negotiations," Isobel pondered aloud. "He's hardly a politician from what I hear. To send a novice to reverse four hundred years of history seems a bit peculiar. Did you know him?"
"I was acquainted with him, peripherally. But my brother Joe has known him for a long time. Since before the Rising, in fact."
"Tommy," his mother admonished quietly. "You shouldn't monopolize the table with politics."
Lord Grantham smiled warmly. "Mrs. Branson, I assure you, this group has expended many hours on political conversation. While Tom and I rarely share opinions, he's free to give them as he pleases." He offered a bit of a laugh. "I've learned with my son-in-law that it's better to let him talk than wait for the inevitable explosion later on. It lessens the blow, so to speak."
Cathleen chuckled, admittedly surprised by his reaction.
Tom glanced to his mother. "Thanks to Mr. Collins' abysmal results, I'm still at the mercy of the British authorities. Lord Grantham has been in communication with the Home Secretary in London, to see if he will issue a pardon now that the treaty has been signed."
His mother paled, and turned to her host. "Do you think that would happen?"
Tom speared his brisket, confident. "Of course, why wouldn't they?"
Robert sipped his wine slowly, sharing a nervous expression with his wife over the rim.
Sybil and Tom both noticed the exchange between her parents. "Papa?"
"You've heard from Mr. Short, haven't you?" Tom asked.
The silence waiting on Lord Grantham's response cast an uncomfortable pall over the table. "I had wanted to delay this until we could have a private conversation, Tom, but I suppose your mother has a right to hear it. The Home Office won't be granting you a pardon."
"Why ever not?" Sybil implored. "What reason do they have to keep us here?"
"Politics, I'm afraid. With the outcome in Ireland still uncertain, even with the treaty in place, the government retains a strong interest in controlling the situation. When the administrative transition takes place later this year, it might be worth re-visiting the request with His Majesty's new representative in Dublin, but until then, we're treading water so to speak. I wouldn't get my hopes up, though."
"Then we need somebody in Ireland to fight our corner," Tom suggested. "Now's the time, before the treaty goes into effect. I can't wait around here forever being used as a political poker chip. I'll write Joe or Sean. Somebody."
Cathleen sighed softly. "I'm not sure your brother will be of much help, Tommy."
"And, why wouldn't he be? When I was working with the..." he quickly corrected his course, "...with the paper, Joe had Collins' ear, and from what I understand he's the only one with any real influence with the British government right now. It's worth a try."
"It won't do any good," Kieran advised.
"I'll write him myself..."
"You don't understand, brother," Kieran barked in exasperation. "They don't want you."
Tom sat dumbfounded as a hush descended on the room. "What?"
"Joe's not with Collins anymore. And neither is Sean," he said, ignoring his mother's warning glare. He wiped a stray crumb from his mustache. "He came back with that piece of rubbish treaty in December and Joe nearly marched down to the docks and dunked him in the water himself. The truth is, the pro-Treaty bastards aren't going to rock the boat with the British and the Republicans think you're a traitor."
"Kieran!" Cathleen censured, ashamed in front of her hosts. "We're guests in someone else's home. Mind your tongue."
"You ran over here while some of the others at Drumgoole were being tortured in Dublin prisons."
Frustration and anger boiled in Tom's neck and crept up to his face. "But I had no choice! I would never have been granted a fair hearing and everyone knows that."
"What was he supposed to do?" Matthew inquired derisively. "Leave his wife a widow? His unborn child an orphan?"
"Others did as much," Kieran said. "Remember Tommy, you spent seven years in another country working for a nobleman. And now you're working for them again, running this estate. The republicans...they think of you more English than Irish now. Remember where you came from, where we all did, and consider how that looks to them."
"But, that's unfair," Sybil retorted, acutely aware of the pain flooding her husband's downcast eyes. "Tom loves Ireland. He's championed a free state as long as I can remember. How can you sit there and defend our exile when you've been in this country almost as long as he has?"
Kieran exhaled a condescending laugh. "I've no passion for politics and most don't think I'm worth more than the grease I wear to bed. I just want earn a living and have a pint at the end of the day. But I was raised in the same house as Tommy and our brothers, and helped our father try and scrape by on a muddy patch of sod that barely paid the rent. I saw our mother go hungry a time or two to make sure we had something to eat. It's not an easy thing to forget. Our brothers hear of him living under this posh roof and believe he has forgotten, and a part of me thinks they're right."
"Kieran, please," his mother said.
Kieran looked directly to Sybil. "If he goes back to Ireland, you better worry less about your people and more about his," he warned. "He wouldn't be safe. He could very well go to work one day and wind up with a bullet in his head."
Sybil blanched, her sister's hand clutching hers protectively beneath the table.
Tom slowly replaced his cutlery on the table, blinking rapidly at his mother. "Did you know of this?"
She nodded.
"How could you not tell me?"
"How was I supposed to tell you Joe had turned so cold, that he wouldn't even speak his own brother's name?"
Tom perused the awkward expressions surrounding the table, and found himself suddenly flooded in a sea of embarrassment. "I wondered why he never answered my letters when we came back. I even asked you. You said that was just Joe being careful."
"A mother only wants to protect her children and you're my youngest, Tommy. I'm sorry."
"No one has to explain to me what it means to be a parent." Scraping his chair back, he pulled the serviette from his lap and dropped it in the middle of his plate before storming into the hall.
Sybil stood to follow him, but Matthew gently brushed her arm. "Let him go. I certainly can't imagine what he's going through, but I do know...sometimes a man just needs to be alone."
TBC...
A/N 2: Both this chapter and the next were difficult to write, but only because I wanted to strike the right tone with Tom's past and with his family. I hope I didn't stray too far afield with his character - everyone has their interpretation of his backstory and this is just one interpretation of it. Also, while a historian, admittedly I've not studied Irish history much beyond the basics so I did some crash learning and tried to keep a lot of the specifics pretty vague.
Also, the toilet training/dog episode actually happened to a friend of mine with three little boys...I couldn't resist including it.
Part II...Tom and Sybil travel to Murlough, and the bromance returns...