A/N: "The Tenant's Boy" was originally supposed to be presented in two chapters, but the second chapter ran so obscenely long that I decided to have mercy on everyone's eyeballs and make it three instead. So, this one's a short(er) bridge into Part III, and is probably my favorite. When I decided to incorporate flashbacks into this vignette, the flashback in this chapter was the first one that came to mind, and I really enjoyed writing it. It gave Sybil a chance to 'see' Tom's past and not just hear him talk about it (may be a little sappy, but I just couldn't bear to cut it). The bromance returns and there's a small part with Edith that I had some fun with.
Many, many thanks to everyone for taking the time to read and review. It's very much appreciated and helps keep the creative juices flowing. Hope you enjoy this one as well and Part III will post in a few days.
THE TENANT'S BOY, PART II
King's County, Ireland, October 1919
Since their marriage that June, Tom and Sybil had seen little of Ireland beyond Dublin. Newly wedded bliss and their respective occupations left travel time at a minimum. In fact, his poorly paid position at the Irish Times kept him disproportionally absent from their flat altogether. But, neither complained, and Tom relished seeing Sybil in her new-found freedom. Her nursing skills, sharpened during wartime, won her a quick interview and offer by the Royal City of Dublin hospital on Baggot Street.
Despite her enthusiasm for their new urban life, though, he could tell she had grown restless with the abundance of concrete, brick, and bodies. After all, she had grown up in the open countryside, where silence dominated the night sky outside her bedroom window. And, if he were honest with himself, he sometimes missed the quiet of the old chauffeur's cottage at Downton.
Rarely did they have more than a day off together, but in October their schedules pleasantly collided and offered an uninterrupted weekend. So, on a crisp autumn morning, they boarded the Great Southern and Western Railway and headed west toward King's County. It was her idea, after hearing both he and his mother mention his boyhood over their Sunday dinners together. Tom initially balked at the suggestion, but finally relented upon her declaration that it was only fair she see where he grew up after he spent six years at her childhood home.
The train chugged southwest through a patchwork of rock-walled fields and small crossroad towns, and then turned back to the north towards the largest town in King's County at Tullamore. He arranged for a motor, cutting a cautionary glare at the mechanic who inquired after Sybil's accent.
A warm blanket across their laps, they huddled together in the mid-October chill and drove southwest toward Ballykeegan and beyond to Murlough Castle. Along the way, he identified this landmark and that, the road through the wood that led to a mill, the remains of an old monastery and a few ancient Celtic ruins. But as they passed through Ballykeegan, little more than a pub and a few stores, he turned uncharacteristically quiet. He pulled down a spartan lane that meandered along the edge of a small forest, the road humping over an old bridge toward a pair of stone piers, each carved with the Delderfield coat of arms. Idling the car at the broken gate, he glanced to his wife, who offered an encouraging smile.
They puttered right up to the house, welcome guests on the unkempt grounds. She watched him, his thoughts undoubtedly scouring the past as he stared at the vine-covered walls and shuttered windows. She thought it a contrast to her own childhood home, still warm and inviting, full of love and hope. But, too, they were the same ancient palaces that imprisoned generations both inside and out. Tom pressed a hand against the gothic door, flanked by the open mouths of silent stone lions that once guarded the luxury within and kept the tenant's boy at bay. He reached out and twisted the iron handle, the door squawking loudly against the rusted hinges. A ghostly echo resonated from the dark cavernous interior and he couldn't help but laugh a bit at the once proud castle, now greeting its guests with wisps of cold musty air.
Arm in arm, he led her down by the garage, much smaller than the one at Downton, and the coachman's cottage beyond. She watched him peer and prod through the empty buildings, his smile slowly returning, his step a little lighter, almost as if he drew strength from the abandoned estate, his family and ideals vindicated at last.
They stopped briefly by a small pond situated in a hollow away from the service buildings, and rested on a blanket, their backs against a fallen tree. She had packed sandwiches for their journey, passable ham and cheese much to his delight. They munched contentedly, simply enjoying the other's company in the solitude surrounding them as he recounted stories of his youth. How he used to follow his older brothers into the fields, wanting to help with the men's work rather than stay behind with his mother. How he shared a room with his parents until Joe and Sean left for Dublin because his brothers' room spared no space for one more body, even a small one. And he told her how lost he felt the day his mother left for Dublin, not knowing when he would see her again. Nestled in the crook of his arm, she sat silently and listened, simply letting him reflect on a childhood that never was.
As the afternoon sun arched across the sky, they drove out to the little stone cottage where he was born. She stood back, waiting as he stepped across the rubble in the yard and slowly meandered the perimeter. He disappeared behind the cottage, reemerging mere seconds later. She thought of how she and her sisters raced around the foundation of Downton as young girls, how it seemed to take them hours to traverse the circumference.
"It's not much, is it?" He squinted into late-day sun peeking over the chimney. "It always seemed so big when I was a boy."
Taking his hand, she leaned against his shoulder, her fingers warm entwined with his.
He pointed to a caved-in wall on the southwest corner. "That was my parents' room. I suppose I was born in there," he said quietly. "Mam said I came out feet first, ready to hit the ground running."
Sybil laughed then, thinking of her witty, sharp-tongued mother-in-law. But, Mrs. Branson had a tender side and remained fiercely protective of her youngest son, even though they had spent so little time under the same roof. She wondered what it must have been like for her, bringing forth a new life in this isolated corner of the world.
"I would expect no less from a Branson," she replied. "But I do hope ours come out the right way."
As the afternoon sky turned a brilliant orange, they drove to the churchyard where his father lay buried in an unmarked grave among a sea of Celtic crosses. All etched with an unfamiliar language, at least to her, she wondered which were tenants, shopkeepers, or any variety of occupations. All were equal here, cast below a blanket of green in the shadow of the church. They stayed there, propped on a marker until the night sky fell, a cool blanket of air wafting across the treeless fields. Taking her hand, he stood to leave.
"Ní dhéanfar dearmad ar m'athair choíche, mar is mise mac m'athar-sa."
She glanced up, curiously. He rarely spoke in the language of his ancestors, though he was wont on occasion to use it in uttering profanity or two. "I don't know what that means, but it sounds very appropriate."
"My father will never be forgotten, for I am my father's son."
"Perhaps one day we could have a marker made with that inscription."
He shook his head and offered a wistful smile. "Why should he be any different than thousands like him? I think he'd like it better this way, being with his own kind. Besides, a stone would never tell anyone what kind of man he was. He was a hard worker and loved his family."
"Must be a hereditary trait," she said, linking her arm with his.
On the drive back to Ballykeegan, the cold air crept in through the motor's poorly sealed windows. Sybil pressed closer to her husband, leaned up, and brushed a soft kiss against his cheek. Neither spoke as the moon, nearly full, glimmered off the rock walls and whitewashed cottages by the road. The day had been long and tomorrow they would head back to Dublin, along with its crowds and responsibilities. But, they wouldn't think on that, not tonight. He pulled the motor beside O'Malley's Pub in Ballykeegan and stared heavenward as he stepped out into the darkness, no lights to impede the view of the stars and only the quiet murmurs and laughter of the pub breaking the silence.
The inside of O'Malley's welcomed them with soft lyrical conversation and the lighting flickered from waves of pipe smoke blown about by several patrons. Tom plucked his cap, a little flustered by the room's abrupt silence. He cleared his throat. "May I speak to the owner?" Besieged by the curious glares of the rustic clientele, he suddenly felt the need to add, "My wife and I would like a room for the night."
A small, portly white-haired man slipped out from behind the bar, smiling brightly as he wiped his hands and offered one to the stranger. "That's me, lad. Name's Padraig O'Malley."
"The ticket master in Tullamore said you might have rooms to let."
"I have. None here tonight but you, so you'll have your choice. Nothing fancy, but I guarantee a clean bed and a hearty breakfast." The old man tipped his head at Sybil and smiled. "Where'd you travel from?"
"Dublin," she answered. "We came out early this morning to visit the area."
"Well, you'd be wantin' supper then." He pointed to a table by the fire and reached for the suitcase, offering to take it upstairs.
Relaxed by the roaring fire, they chatted about mundane subjects such as fixing a troublesome pipe in their kitchen and finding a new table for the bedroom. It was somewhere during her one-sided dialogue of the Dowager's latest letter, full of petty, but entertaining gossip, that she noticed silence reverberating from his side of the table.
"Darling, what is it?"
The confession had been on the edge of his tongue for weeks. "I've heard rumors the Dáil Éireann may start up its own paper."
"You're thinking of leaving the Times?"
He nodded. "It's just so hard to get anything published that isn't watered down by The Castle, certainly nothing significant to the political situation. Right now, they've got me so buried in public works that I'm beginning to think they refuse to acknowledge the Republic altogether. I suppose they think I'm harmless there."
She sat down her fork. "You'd be working for an illegal organization."
"In whose mind? The British?" he asked harshly, recoiling at her remark.
She began shaking her head. "Darling, I didn't mean it like that, but you could be charged with treason. Arrested...or worse."
"You don't think I know that? Sybil, The Castle raided and shut down three republican papers a few weeks ago. If we're to have a chance at establishing a Free State, we can't do it alone. The outside world has to understand what is going on here."
"I know," she relented, squeezing his hand. "And I know you'll think the decision through. I just want you to be careful."
He leaned over, pressing a kiss on her cheek. "Whatever decision is made, we'll make it together. Alright?"
She nodded and they continued their meal in relative silence, tired from their long day begun in Dublin. Later, as both sat back, full from their supper, and relaxing with a cup of tea, Tom couldn't help but feel the old man's eyes boring through him, and kept glancing over his shoulder uncomfortably. Finally, Mr. O'Malley's curiosity got the better of him and he tottered to their table.
"You look familiar, lad, but I can't rightly put my finger on it."
"I was born at Murlough and worked as the Delderfield's chauffeur until about six years ago."
He squinted, inquisitively. "What's your name?"
"Tom Branson."
His haggard old eyes, framed by impossibly bushy brows, lit in epiphany. "Branson...would you be related to Dan Branson?"
"My father. You knew him?"
Excitedly, O'Malley pulled up a chair for himself. "I did. Him and me was thick as thieves during the Land League days."
"Land League?" asked Sybil.
O'Malley smiled. "Back then, Lord bless me, nearly fifty years ago now, some of the lads over in County Mayo fought eviction by the landlords and tried to get fairer rents. Farming was hard then, prices were low and most souls hardly had enough to eat, much less pay out on the land. It didn't matter if the whole country suffered drought, plague or a bad harvest, the landlords didn't care. They'd throw you out with all the rest and find someone else to move in. But, we found that the best way to get what we wanted was to hit them lords in the pocket. We organized rent strikes – no one on the entire estate would pay the rent, and there they'd be."
"Da was one of the local organizers," Tom explained. "Boycotting, he called it."
"And it worked, too!" O'Malley proclaimed. "It wasn't easy, mind you, and it took a while, but eventually the rents got reduced and that blasted Parliament passed a few reforms that gave the tenants the right to buy their land."
"But, most importantly," Tom added, "it brought the people of Ireland together."
"We even had a ladies league that stepped in when the men folk were thrown in prison," he said, winking at Sybil, and then glanced back to Tom. "You look like your father. He was a good man, always helping out the other farmers when he was done for the day."
Tom smiled, wistfully. "What happened to Murlough?"
"After old Mistress Delderfield died, I say, 'bout five years ago now, those sons-in-law started fighting over the money, or what was left of it. They don't care about the land or the tenants, just collecting the rent when it's due and selling the farms when the leases run out. That estate's been chopped up more than a potato in a stew pot. Good land, gone to waste and no one decent to manage it."
"But what about the tenants and the staff?" Sybil asked.
"Scattered with the wind mostly. Some to Dublin, others to Galway and Cork to find work where they can." He leaned forward, offering an inquisitive smile. "By your accent, darlin', you must be from the other side of the Irish Sea. London?"
She blushed. "No, Yorkshire."
Tom sipped his ale and smirked. "Earl's daughter."
O'Malley sat straight in his chair, child-like and gleeful. "Get on with ya! Dan Branson's boy marrying a lady of the manor?" He laughed merrily, and clapped a hand on the table. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I don't believe it. Well, I suppose we can't talk much treason tonight then!"
Sybil attempted to frown at her husband, but found it hard to not share in the humor. "Tom. You're incorrigible."
He leaned over and smacked a playful kiss on her cheek, which earned him a swat under the table. "Always for you, love."
O'Malley's laughter drove him into a momentary coughing spell. He waved off Sybil's offered drink and cleared his throat with one final hack. Noting they were finished with their tea, he offered to show them upstairs. He pointed to a door at the far end, toward the front of the building, and bragged that it had a pleasant view. He then winked at Tom. "And the last to get the morning sun."
Sybil swallowed a laugh at her husband's reddened features, thanked the proprietor for his thoughtfulness, and slipped into the room.
"Breakfast is ready at eight o'clock," O'Malley whispered, then nudged Tom with his elbow. "But judging by the way she was looking at you, I better make it nine."
In four months of marriage, their lovemaking had transformed from those awkward yet eager first encounters to something akin to playful experimentation, and finally to a comfortable familiarity with both themselves and each other. Admittedly, they were still learning, still finding new ways to ignite their passion. A new place, a new touch, a new pace to their efforts, all exciting discoveries, buried under six years of chaste glances and smiles.
He was hesitant, almost shy at first, as if a boy again in the shadow of his childhood home. But, in her arms, it didn't take him long to surrender to their customary routine, impatiently shedding clothes and modesty in the dim firelight of the small, sparsely decorated room. They dropped onto the narrow bed, pulling at each other, the previous weeks of work and stress culminating in a desperate need for release.
He pushed into her, a loud squeak emanating from somewhere in the bedframe. Each stilling their movements, they grinned at one another.
"Well," he teased, "I'm sure Mr. O'Malley heard that all the way downstairs."
"I'm afraid he would be rather disappointed if he didn't."
He captured their laughter in a warm, inviting kiss, tasting the inside of her mouth, drawing out her release with each reverberating moan as he rocked gently at first, and then with urgency. She pulled him to her, wanting him close, as if trying to reassure him with her body that, yes, she had chosen him, the tenant's son, the chauffeur, the journalist, and would chose him still.
She recognized the deep, heavy breaths, hot against her shoulder, and took his face in her hands, wanting to see him, brushing her thumbs across the late-day stubble as he came. With a shudder, he cried out against her palm, his eyes dark as melted midnight. A bit of laugher, tinged with relief, creased his face as he bent down and whispered in her ear, an unfamiliar phrase in an unfamiliar language. She arched her back against his quickened thrusts, biting her lip through a series of whimpers and groans as his hands slipped beneath her hips to mold her body further into his, helping her ride out every wave. Breathlessly, they came down together, trembling, sated and drained.
As the sun peeked through the windows, true to Mr. O'Malley's word that the room's position protected it from the harsh morning light, Sybil watched her husband sleep. She brushed the back of her fingers against his face, as if reassuring herself the last four months hadn't been an unfair dream. Their busy schedules left them precious little time to reflect on their miraculous journey across the Irish Sea and how unlikely they were as lovers, much less as husband and wife. If she harbored any uncertainty about her decision, it faded away that first morning she woke in his arms, watching him doze peacefully in their bed. Now, as then, his lashes soft against his cheeks, she wondered if she would ever grow tired of waking to this or feeling his body pulsing through hers as it did the night before.
Leaning over, she grazed her lips softly against his closed eyes, waiting. She smiled at the predictable stretch, yawn, and groan as he squinted against the light. He wasn't a morning person. "Ungh...whattimeisit?" He squirmed under the covers, pulling her snugly against him.
She kissed him again, playful, as his eyes opened slowly in their adjustment to the day. If we have children, I hope they have his eyes. "It's probably nearing breakfast. I can hear someone moving downstairs."
He exhaled, disappointed. "Humph."
Warm in his embrace, she trailed a finger along the pattern formed by his chest hair, soft under her skin. She traced a path crosswise and then down, beginning at the base of his neck and navigating expertly along a familiar path below his waist. Her finger stopped when he grinned lazily, his body reacting instinctively to her touch.
"I've never noticed this before...until last night."
"What?"
"I was thinking it reminded me of a cross."
He snorted. "If that was nature's intent, then God certainly has a sense of humor. You're not going to start seeing the Virgin Mary in a stack of wheat are you?"
"No," she laughed. "But it made me realize how much we still have to learn about one another, even after being married four months and being acquainted six years now. Just like yesterday. I knew you grew up on this estate and heard you talk about it, but seeing it for the first time...it was much more real. And, for you to be where you are today...I'm so very proud you."
He smiled, leaning over to press a quick kiss to the tip of her nose. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For suggesting we come here. I honestly didn't know how I would feel about it."
She slipped her arms around his waist, pulling him over. She sighed under his weight, the soft hair of his chest tickling her breasts. "Don't ever doubt how I much I love you, Tom. I would never have settled my mind on our marriage, if I didn't absolutely adore you."
"That's good to hear, especially after you spent six years ignoring me," he teased.
She pinched his sides, tickling him into helpless yelps. He finally stayed her hands, pinning them above her head as he nipped a playful trail across her shoulders. "I think we probably have time for another go, don't you?"
She sighed in relief as his mouth worked lower, capturing one breast and then the other with a warm, imprisoning kiss, his hands slipping downward, aligning their hips. "If we don't, we can just catch another train..." Her voice slurred into an unintelligible moan as he slowly sank into her, once again beginning their familiar rhythm.
Downton, April 1922
In an effort to push Ireland from his mind and a future now indefinitely postponed, Tom buried himself in the affairs of the estate. To the family and staff he was civil and polite, but he had abandoned hope somewhere in the middle of that dinner when he learned he was now a pariah on both sides of the Irish Sea. Trapped, like a pendulum on a clock, he functioned mechanically in the house's daily routine, numb and nihilistic. Downton Abbey had finally won.
Cathleen watched her son, catching glimpses of that defeated spirit her husband bore in his later years. Perhaps she should have told Tom about Joe and Sean, how the civil discord of their homeland had divided families and previously forged friendships. The politics of freedom came with the cost of hatred and division among her children, a price even a mother's plea couldn't reverse. She spent the final days of her trip to Downton with her grandson, spending so much time with him that Nanny became an irrelevant nuisance, at least to Cathleen. She laughed and talked with him, read stories and took him for long strolls on the lawn. It was time that she never had when her own children were small, when she and Dan squeezed every ounce of light from day to work the farm. And Bobby reminded her so much of Tom, his mannerisms, his curiosity and determination, not to mention his features. She would paint every image of this trip into her memory, in case she never came back, the sight of this happy blue eyed boy, safe, secure, and loved.
Two days before Kieran and his mother were scheduled to leave for Liverpool, the family gathered for tea, Cathleen and Cora sitting comfortably on the red settee by the fire, laughing over their afternoon in town. The two had spent the majority of their time sorting through bolts of cloth, Cathleen determined to return to Dublin with the right fabric to stich a few new rompers for her grandson.
Robert stood by the window, absorbing the late afternoon sunlight while trying to ignore most of the rustic commentary from Tom's brother. Matthew, for his part, steered the conversation toward a small variety of neutral subjects that Robert could at least understand. The earl scanned the room, noting the most obvious absence. "Where is Tom? He's been a veritable ghost these past few days."
Sybil sighed. "I apologize, Papa. He's just terribly disappointed about our situation right now, not being able to go back as soon as he wanted."
"That's no excuse to ignore guests...his guests."
Seated next to her sister, Mary asked, "Sybil, have you spoken to him?"
"I've tried. He says we're stuck here and he doesn't want to discuss it. I just feel so helpless. Usually we're able to talk things through, but this time he's really dug his heels in."
"How about I give it a go?" Matthew offered. "He's certainly lured me off the ledge a time or two."
Sybil smiled wanly. "Thank you, Matthew. Just don't be surprised if he'd rather not talk. I love my husband dearly, but he can be terribly petulant when he's upset."
Talking to his brother-in-law seemed it might end up being the easy part. Finding him was another matter. Matthew drove from one end of the estate to the other until his backside wore a permanent dent in the Roadster's leather seat. He checked through a mental list of tenants they planned to visit, drove by cottages and barns they sketched plans to renovate, passed fields of sheep and cattle they intended to survey, all in hope of running into either the man himself or at least someone who had seen him earlier in the day. But, nothing. By dark, the car was low on petrol and he had worked up quite a thirst himself. He pulled in front of the Frog and Duck, switched off the engine, and slapped his cap against the steering wheel, sending a plume of Yorkshire dust up into the twilight. Tossing it in the passenger seat, he decided to abandon his expedition in favor of a drink and unfolded his aching body from the car.
The pub's interior greeted him with dim light and a smoky haze. He rarely visited the establishment, and only then when the ladies were absent from the big house or otherwise occupied. He ordered an ale from the bartender and manager, Mr. Fox, grateful to wash the dirt from his throat. Leaning on the counter, he took a few generous swallows until he noticed Mr. Fox nod his attention toward a table in the back corner. Matthew turned and sighed, breaking into a relieved smile.
He ordered another pint and plopped next to his brother-in-law at the small table. Glancing at the neat little row of empty glasses, he said, "I take it you've been here a while."
"I have."
"They were a bit concerned back at the house."
"Hmph."
Matthew lofted a brow as Tom drained his current glass and motioned for another one. "Haven't you had enough?"
"I'm Irish."
"Look, I understand your frustration..."
He narrowed his eyes, incredulous. "Do you?"
"Of course I do...well, not precisely, but to a certain extent. I didn't expect to be here either, you know. I desperately wanted to live apart from this madness when Mary and I first married. But, then Cousin Robert squandered the finances and then, of all things, poor dead Mr. Swire came to the rescue. I couldn't very well drop the money in Lord Grantham's lap and leave. We can't always control the circumstances, Tom."
"But I don't belong here," he replied flatly, digesting a copious amount of his drink. He waved his arm, slightly unsteady, in dramatic fashion. "I'm a socialist for God's sake, living in a grand English castle, staff at my beck and call, warm baths, tuxedos for dinner, and all under the protection of my father-in-law, His Lordship, the high and mighty Earl of Grantham. No wonder my brothers think me a bleedin' traitor."
"They're not your staff, and it's not your house."
"They might as well be according to them."
Matthew rolled his eyes. Sybil was right – her husband had, indeed, perfected the art of petulance. He drained his second ale, and ordered a third, waiting in silence as Tom swirled his glass, the contents forming a little dark eddy of foam. As the liquid pooled in his stomach, Matthew remembered his own departure from a promising life of contract law, boring to the average man perhaps, but something he quite enjoyed. Then one day a little note came, informing him in elegant script that fate had taken an indirect journey from Yorkshire to the North Atlantic and back again to Manchester. His middle-class existence drowned in a watery grave.
"No matter what they say or you think, you're not a traitor," he stated, a muted burp bubbling in his chest. He raised his hand again to the barkeep, this time with two fingers aloft. "What is it Mr. Wilde said? Every saint has a past, every sinner has a future. Maybe every socialist has a posh relative."
Tom laughed aloud, the alcohol finally beginning to numb his limbs and his senses. His hands felt heavy, lifeless, much as he had over the past few days. "Maybe."
Matthew sat, eyes glazed over in the hazy air of the room, and mused, watching as his brother-in-law lined up the empty glasses. After a full hour of rumination and frequent visits to the little building beyond the back door, they had assembled a full dozen little soldiers, ready to launch a counteroffensive on the morrow. He imagined the family sitting down for dinner, no doubt worried, but feasting on Mrs. Patmore's meal du jour.
"Face it, Matthew. We're both trapped here," Tom spat.
"But we're not trapped," Matthew retorted after a moment, nudging his arm with an inebriated grin. "Maybe the lords of Grantham of the past were, but things are changing. Look at what we've done. We've re-commissioned the rents, renovated some of the most dilapidated buildings I've ever seen, and flushed new capital into the farms. Think of the jobs we've saved and the longevity this estate will have because of us," he proudly declared. "Branson and Crawley, the vanguard of the new aristocracy!"
Tom's brows furrowed in horror, and dropped his head on his arms. "Oh God..."
Matthew immediately flinched at his blunder. "Shit, I didn't mean that...Tom...Tom," he apologized, shaking his shoulder.
"...always coming over here, taking our jobs," a voice called from the doorway, amplified as it approached the bar. "Had a cousin in the Tans –the IRA tracked him down and murdered him – said he were at Croke Park when all them people was killed. But he wasn't – he was over in Galway somewhere."
Tom craned his neck at the shrill voice by the bar.
"...fucking Paddy potato planters...wish they'd all go back to the bogs and stay there."
Matthew twisted in his seat and scanned the diverse clientele uneasily. "Looks like the mine is changing shifts...Tom, I think we should go," he urged, turning to find an empty chair. "Tom?" He leapt up, wobbling. The abundance of ale suddenly tested his balance as he pushed himself in front of his brother-in-law.
"I can take care of myself, you know. I always have."
He pressed an unsteady hand against his chest. "Look...they don't understand what they're talking about."
"Well, it's time someone educated them, then," Tom growled, shoving him out of the way.
"It wouldn't do for us to get into a brawl..."
"If you're too squeamish for a working man's debate," Tom called over his shoulder, "then go wait outside, or better yet go back to the house and leave me be."
"Tom..." Matthew's hand whiffed as he reached for his brother-in-law's jacket. Stumbling into a table, he watched helplessly as the Irishman tapped the burly miner on the shoulder.
When Matthew failed to return by the dressing gong, Kieran had been promptly dispatched by his mother and sister-in-law to find the both of them. Missing his dinner, he grumbled on the way to the garage to collect one of the cars, nearly exploding when the chauffeur climbed in the front seat.
"I can bloody well drive myself!" Hungry and in need of a drink, he turned the starter and hopped in, determined to bless out both missing men as soon as he laid eyes on them.
Certain they wouldn't be out on the estate this time of night, he decided to scour the town first, but made it no far than the first cross-street when a crowd caused him to slam a foot on the brake. "Oh, for fuck's sake." He climbed out and expertly pushed his way through the mass of bodies, instinct taking him to the pub door. Shoving a scrawny, inebriated farmer aside, he poked his head in the door just in time to see a fist connecting with his brother's left eye.
He didn't know how he managed to stop the fight, other than threatening to call the Earl of Grantham into town. And he certainly didn't remember how he got the brothers-in-law in the Roadster, which given the mindless state of the two fallen warriors, was the more convenient of the two vehicles. Kieran jerked the car to a halt so close to the front door that Alfred nearly fell in the seat when he stepped outside.
He gawked at the pair of limp and battered passengers. "Mr. Crawley? Mr. Branson?"
"Out of the way," Kieran muttered, storming around to the back of the car where he had shoved his brother in the rumble seat.
"What happened, sir?"
"Stop calling me sir, blast you. Just help me get these two hooligans in the house." He hooked his elbows under his brother's arms, grunting as he tugged with all his strength. "Push up with your feet, you little bastard."
Tom tried shoving his limp legs against everything with no success until Alfred leaned in and pulled them out entirely, helping him on terra firma. Kieran panted, swiping a hand across his face and nodding toward the passenger seat. "Can you manage the other one? Watch..." He tried reaching for Matthew, but had to keep a firm grip on his brother instead, and watched powerlessly as the future Earl of Grantham toppled into the gravel.
Alfred scrambled to pick him up, grateful that Jimmy had heard the commotion and ran out to assist.
"What the bloody hell happened to these two?" he asked, as he and Alfred hoisted Matthew off the ground.
Kieran wrapped an arm around his brother's waist. "Oh for Christ's sake, Tommy, move your feet."
Tom shuffled his legs, feeling absolutely numb from the waist down. "Sorry," he mumbled.
"Don't fecking apologize to me. You've hauled my arse out of the gutter a time or two. I'm just repaying the favor." They made it as far as the small settee in the foyer before Kieran finally gave out of breath. He dropped his brother onto the plush seat, just as the rest of the family emerged from the dining room, beckoned by all the noise.
"What on earth?!" Lord Grantham's booming voice loomed over the hall like a threatening thundercloud. Carson stood at his side, mouth agape.
Cathleen glared at Kieran. "I send you off to find your brother and this is how you bring him home?"
Her son stood, aghast. "Don't look at me! I'm the only one here who hasn't had a drink!"
"Good God, what happened?" Mary asked, although she could smell the reason before she reached her husband.
"You're beautiful," Matthew told his wife. "Both of you."
"Seems these two were trying to take on the entire town tonight," Kieran replied, a proud smile peeking beneath his mustache.
Sybil shoved him out of the way and sank beside Tom on the settee, lifting his chin to inspect the red patch around his eye and the other small cuts on his face.
He offered an apologetic kiss, his hands reaching for her waist like two uncoordinated paws. "Don't be angry with me, love."
"Tom," she muttered, half infuriated, half amused. "Everyone's watching."
Peering around his wife, he nearly lost his balance and tilted sideways onto the settee. Sybil steadied him but not before he saw his mother, her head twitching in shame.
Edith slipped quietly into her sister's bedroom, treading over to offer a helping hand as Sybil tenderly washed the cuts on her husband's face. Tom lay prone on the bed, jacket and shoes discarded, but otherwise still dressed, his shirt smattered with dirt and small red flecks. He drifted in and out of sleep, muttering an occasional apology followed by some inconsequential directive that needed to be done on the estate. Without instruction, Edith emptied the basin of pink water in the bathroom and returned with a fresh pan, watching as her sister brushed back a wayward lock of hair from his forehead.
"How's Matthew?" Sybil asked.
"He survived. Mama insisted on calling Dr. Clarkson, but it may be a while. Apparently, there were other casualties in the village. Is there anything I can do to help?"
Sybil stood, Tom's droopy eyes following her, an unspoken plea buried in their blue depths. She strode over the wardrobe and pulled out a few items. "You can help me get him ready for bed. He's going to have a rough time of it tonight. I just want to make him comfortable. Here," she said tiredly, handing her sister a shirt.
Edith paled. "What?"
"You get the top," she groaned, pulling her husband into a sitting position. His body heavy and limp, she wrapped a steady arm around him to slide the braces from his shoulders.
"Sybil..."
"I promise you he won't remember any of this tomorrow."
"No, but I will."
"Edith, you're twenty-eight years old. You worked in a convalescent home with invalid soldiers. If you haven't been educated on these matters, it's high time you were."
"But he's my brother-in-law..."
Sybil scowled, her patience wearing thin. "All the more reason for you to stop standing there like a sanctimonious floor lamp and help me."
"Oh, alright," she sighed, finding the task more frustrating than embarrassing as Tom's feeble hands, trying to be of use, kept getting in the way of his shirt buttons.
Despite Edith's chagrin, she proved an able assistant, although her eyes conveniently found various items of interest around the room when it came to dressing him from the waist down. Red-faced and relieved once he was comfortably tucked into bed, she left the two of them alone, the lamps turned low, a ready basin and towels by his bedside.
"I don't deserve you," he mumbled, his lips heavy and dry. "Or you don't deserve this. I'm not sure which."
She sat on the edge of the bed, a hand resting on either side of his arms, bracing herself above him. "Do you really hate it here that much?"
He shook his head, and then frowned when the room began to spin anew. "I could never hate any place where we're together. I'm sorry if I've made you think otherwise."
"Oh, Tom," she whispered. "You've been so patient these past two years, hoping to go back...I know how disappointed you are, as am I." One hand came to rest on his cheek, her thumb brushing the darkening bruise just beneath the eye.
"It's alright. We'll survive, you and me. It's not like we haven't been through this before." He stared at the pale fabric of the spinning canopy above. Closing his eyes, he groaned, remembering the trip for Mary and Matthew's wedding when he was covertly drugged by one of Sybil's former suitors. "I'm going to feel like shit tomorrow, aren't I?"
She couldn't help but smile. "I'm afraid so, and there's not much I can do about that. But, I'll be here for you all night, I promise." Leaning down, she kissed his brow as his eyes fluttered closed. She dressed and readied for bed as he dozed restlessly, and then slipped in beside him.
"Sybil?"
She curled next to him. "What is it, darling?"
His eyes opened in narrow slits, brightened by an inebriated, but unmistakably mischievous grin. "I caught Edith looking."
She broke into laughter and leaned over to kiss him, but he had already drifted off again, bathing the room with his soft rhythmic snores.
TBC...
Part III - The morning after, and the Bransons' flight from Ireland.