A/N: As noted in the previous A/N this Highland vignette was originally supposed to be one chapter, but after coming in at about 16,000 words (yeeks), I broke it in half. So, here's Part II.
Again, I'm grateful to foojules for taking the time to beta both of these very long chapters (and again for catching some of the author's writing hiccups). And, thanks much to all the readers for your reviews – keep them coming! It's been a lot of fun writing these two chapters (minus the writer's block) and I hope the muse doesn't crap out on me like it did before.
(BTW, had to do a quick chapter replace since stupid FF ate some of my formatting...)
HEARTS LIKE THEIRS ARE BEATING YET, PART II
Duneagle Near Inverness, Scotland
Late Summer, 1922
As the second week of their holiday drew to a close, Tom had to admit that the sojourn away with his wife had been a welcome respite. They so concentrated on preserving their 'working-class' life back at Downton that endless days on various parts of the estate for him and shifts at the hospital for her often left them with limited time for one another.
Having secured one of the estates' motors for the day, the Bransons plotted their outing straight after breakfast. Nestled on a plush velvet sofa in the drawing room with an area map stretched across their laps, their fingers traced roadways that meandered around mountains and lochs. Pencil in hand, Sybil scratched on the map as Tom remembered hearing of a distillery near one river. Glancing over their shoulders, Lord Flintshire enthusiastically offered his own recommendations, suggesting a pretty little knoll, isolated above Loch Ness, for their bagged luncheon. Discreetly, Sybil's hand squeezed her husband's thigh beneath the map.
Both so anticipated the day's prospects that they barely took notice of Rose storming into the drawing room, her blonde curls bouncing furiously.
"Dearest," Lord Flintshire said, startled, "I thought you were going into town to pick up your dress for the Ghillies ball."
"I was, until I discovered we no longer employ a chauffeur."
Lord Flintshire and his butler exchanged astonished looks.
"I know nothing about this, My Lord," McCree sputtered.
Rose crossed her arms. "I walked all the way down to the garage and Forbes said he couldn't be bothered. That he was a free man with potential beyond service and that he would no longer be enslaved to the aristocracy, or something like that. Honestly, it sounded as if he had been reading one of those radical newspapers."
"That certainly doesn't sound like Forbes," Lord Flintshire noted. "What could possibly have gotten into him?"
McCree only shrugged, red-faced and flustered.
Turning back round, he noticed Lord Grantham and the other members of his family glowering at Lady Sybil's husband.
"Can we not take you anywhere?" the Dowager asked, her irritation escaping in a scathing sigh.
"Don't look at me," Tom proclaimed, eyes twinkling. "You've got the wrong Branson this time."
Beside him, Sybil pinked guiltily.
Lord Grantham's brows knit together in a single judgmental wrinkle. "Sybil?"
"Mr. Forbes simply inquired after a bit of servant's hall gossip that Tom had once been a chauffeur," she responded, her shoulders set defiantly. "He was quite interested to hear about his transition out of service. I'm not ashamed to admit I encouraged him to not feel trapped in his current position and that the world has abundant opportunities for smart, hard-working men like himself." Her father reddened, but Sybil pressed on. "Surely you're not going to discourage a man from bettering his place in society?"
"Certainly not," the Dowager interjected. "But you seem to have made a habit of liberating chauffeurs."
"Yes," Susan added, her eyes narrowed in disdain. "And with a houseful of guests, it's rather inconvenient."
"Rose, I'm happy to drive you," Edith proposed, eager to draw fire from her sister.
"No," Lord Grantham barked. "The Bransons will take her."
"So I'm guilty by association then," Tom smirked, earning himself a cautionary glare from his father-in-law.
Outside the Inverness dressmaker's shop, Tom checked his watch, sighed, and flipped open his newspaper. Scanning the front page (again), he leaned back against the leather driver's seat of the Flintshires' Rolls-Royce, trying not to give in to his impatience. He was tempted to stretch out like his son, who lay sound asleep in the back seat. Since their plans for a romantic outing had been scuttled, they'd brought Bobby along to give him a break from being cooped up with Nanny. While Sybil gracefully accepted her punishment helping Rose with the dress-fitting, Tom and Bobby scoured the town for entertainment until the little boy collapsed on his father's shoulder inside a local bookstore.
Sybil finally emerged from the dress shop obviously frustrated, her shoes clapping across the cobblestone street.
Tom smirked. "How's it going?"
"She's not happy with anything they suggest, but I think we've worn her down some. I forgot how impossible Rose is when she doesn't get her way." She slid in beside him, smiling at their slumbering boy in the back seat. "I suppose I ruined our day."
"Didn't you read any of Marx? Revolution is all about timing, love. Best leave it to the professionals." Playfully, she swatted his shoulder as he turned to face her. "You could be having your way with me right now by some remote mountain loch."
"I suppose I owe you an apology for all this."
"I'm afraid it will take quite an apology to make it up to me."
"That sounds like a challenge," she whispered huskily, leaning in to kiss him.
Seated on a nearby stone wall, a white-haired man coughed noisily, grumbling aloud about public spectacles. Tom glared at the old grouch, and then turned back to his wife.
"So, what about your new frock?"
"I dreaded getting fitted for something fashionable again, but I admit I had a bit of fun with it. I think you'll like it."
Tom remembered her sassy harem pants and smiled. "Are you going to let me see it?"
"Not until the night of the Ghillies Ball," she teased in a low voice. "It's a surprise." She kissed him again, this time indifferent to the curmudgeon, who ultimately gave up his sanctimonious throat-clearing and found another spot further away. Tom groaned as her supple fingers sifted through his hair, their tongues searching, teasing.
"Shall I go back inside?" Rose stood near the passenger door, amused. Tom shifted uncomfortably in the seat and subtly draped the paper across his lap. "I hate having my dresses fitted here," she sighed, oblivious. "They never seem to get it right."
"I thought they were almost done?" Sybil asked, adjusting her hat and wincing as the pins yanked at her hair.
"They were, but he snapped a stitch or something. He's scrambling around trying to find the right color thread, but it may be another hour or so. We'll just have to come back."
Sybil glanced at the seat behind her. "Bobby's going to be hungry when he wakes up. We should take him back."
Her husband shook his head and pointed to a pub across the street. "I'm not going to let your ill-timed aid to the downtrodden rob me of my picnic, Mrs. Branson."
Full from their impromptu meal of sandwiches and ale, Sybil leaned back in her husband's arms, a soft mat of surprisingly dry grass beneath them. After ordering their lunch from the pub, they'd found a field just east of town where a stone cairn memorialized the fallen Scots in the battle of Culloden. Only her husband, she mused, would choose to picnic on a battlefield where the English had claimed final domination over another conquered people.
Sunlight streamed across the open landscape and for the first time in more than a week it seemed to Tom that he wasn't shivering down to his bones. He wrapped his arms, bare from where he had rolled up his blue shirtsleeves, snugly around Sybil's middle. With his chin propped on her shoulder, they watched Bobby scamper through the tall grass, chased by a laughing Rose.
"Until I spent time with your Cousin Susan and her husband, I thought Rose was just a spoiled child," he admitted. "Now I see she's living in a boiling pot of her parents' antipathy. It's a bit sad, really."
"With her brother and sister gone, it must be hard for her to watch her family and home fall apart."
"Have you given her the book?"
"No. I gave it to Edith instead. I hope I did the right thing," she sighed.
"She's your sister and you have her best interests at heart. And I certainly won't be the one to judge her. She'll get enough of that from Matthew and Mary."
"It's a terribly unfair situation for them both. I just want her to be… informed."
He nodded in silent admiration of Sybil's love and concern for her sister. Not content to have overcome social barriers herself, she wished, as Tom did, that others could discover equal success and be, simply, happy.
He couldn't help being curious about something, though. "Sybil… how..." He trailed off with an embarrassed sigh and reached up to hook an escaped lock of hair behind her ear. "How did you learn… what I mean to say is… I'm sure nursing school didn't teach you everything about what to expect on our wedding night."
"Oh," she replied, charmed by his bumbling question. "Well, it's true that our training kept us in the dark about certain things, but we were aware of the basics. Some of the other nurses had lovers in the army, so I heard quite a bit of gossip. And, don't forget, I tended wounded soldiers… at night." Tom, realizing what she referred to, cleared his throat. "It's nothing to be embarrassed about," she said. "It's perfectly normal. And I like to think when it happens, you're dreaming of me."
Kissing the back of her neck, he murmured, "I'm always dreaming of you."
"Good," she declared with an impish grin. "Because that way, I can make all of your dreams come true."
"You already have," he whispered. Turning her in his arms, he nipped her mouth, playfully at first, then demanding as she brushed her hand against his cheek. It never failed to amaze him how quickly their efforts transformed into a consuming desire, no doubt precipitated by years of forced abstinence. "Did you not have a conversation with your mother, though?" he continued after a moment. "We left England in such a rush..."
"Mama's discussion covered most of what I already knew. When I explained that to her, she just ended the conversation with 'Well, then, darling, go have a bit of fun!'" She laughed, blushing prettily, at the memory of the hastily issued maternal advice. "But she didn't tell me how! So, at the end of the day, I'm indebted to your mother."
His eyes widened. "What?"
"She offered a few helpful secrets to a happy marriage bed," she replied, planting a playful kiss against his flushed cheek. "Don't worry, darling, you've been my best instructor by far."
"It seems Mam has always been the practical one then." Tom told her about his first kiss, when he was seven and a neighboring tenant's wife dropped by with her daughter. As she readied to leave, little Molly O'Bannon, all of ten and notoriously precocious, smacked her lips on his before he could back away in disgust. "I was terrified," he admitted. "My brothers had told me kissing led to babies. I ran back to Mam, confessed my sins and said I didn't want to be a Da yet. She sat me down, explained everything right then and there and told me I had nothing to worry about, at least not yet. But, that if I ever did anything I wasn't supposed to, she would know about it before God did and would tan my backside."
Sybil coupled her laughter with his as they kissed again brazenly, a warm breeze wafting through the tall grasses surrounding them. He groaned as her hair, blown lose by the wind, brushed softly against his face, reminiscent of nights she spent hovering over him. Their breathing having grown heavy, she pulled away reluctantly, watching his eyes twinkle in the sunlight, the same eyes their son had inherited. "If only having children were that easy," she whispered.
"Sybil..."
"Mary's pregnant again."
He sighed, his thumb brushing an escaped tear on her cheek, the moisture stubbornly betraying her damned English stoicism. "Matthew mentioned it earlier this week. I didn't know if I should tell you or not."
"It's alright. I'm happy for her, I truly am, but..."
"I know," he said, pressing a soft kiss against her forehead. "Me too."
"I keep telling myself we will have another child, but I'm truly starting to wonder if something didn't happen last year...or when Bobby was born."
"Perhaps we should speak to Dr. Clarkson."
"I have. He doesn't believe there is anything wrong with me, but that it's not uncommon for women with children to have a difficult time conceiving another."
"Is this why you've been attacking me over the past few weeks?"
"Please don't make fun of me."
"You know I'm not," he said quickly, offering a regretful smile. "We'll just keep doing what we're doing... a lot... and whatever happens, happens. And if we can't, for whatever reason, then we'll find a child that needs a home. You've too much love in your heart not to share it with another baby." He pulled her to him, relieved when his promise elicited a smile.
Sheltered against his broad chest, Sybil let her eyes drift closed and she absorbed the sound of their son's delighted squeals as the child played, care-free and safe, in the distance. When the sounds of laughter drew nearer, she peered from the corner of her eye and found Rose hurrying towards them, struggling to keep up with the two-year-old who towed her by the hand. A brilliant smile carved on his flushed face, Bobby pulled free of his cousin's grasp and dashed towards his parents, arms open wide, tackling them both to the ground in a fit of boyish giggles.
Rose gasped for air, fanning herself, before sinking on the grass beside them. "I honestly didn't realize two-year-olds had so much energy," she declared. "And he's still going!"
"Which means he'll sleep hard tonight," Sybil laughed. She struggled to sit upright, encumbered by her husband's hands. Bobby clambered onto his mother's lap and described as best he could with his limited vocabulary how he and "Wose" chased each other round the field. "Well, my darling, I hope you didn't wear her out!"
Shaking his head, the child scrambled over and pulled at his father's hand. "Da!" he crowed, pointing toward the memorial cairn on the horizon. Tom made a show of accepting the tot's help, an exaggerated groan escaping as he stood and stretched. Taking note of Sybil's particularly low eye line, he dusted off the seat of his trousers with a wink.
The two ladies watched as father and son walked hand-in-hand across the field. Sybil pulled a little Brownie camera from her bag, an anniversary present from her parents, and snapped a few photographs of her two men on the horizon.
"What's it like?" Rose asked quietly, breaking the silence.
"What?"
"Being in love," she clarified with a coy smile. "I see the way the two of you watch one another."
"It's a wonderful feeling, Rose," Sybil said simply. "I hope one day you're able to find someone who completes you, as Tom does me."
"I thought I was in love with Mr. Margadale, but now I wonder if it was only a way for me to escape from my parents. They hate each other."
Sybil wished she could have told Rose otherwise, but from what she had witnessed, it seemed Lord and Lady Flintshire had reached an ultimate disdain for one another. "I think we tend to focus too much on love when a relationship begins," she said. "My parents didn't love one another when they married, but they were quite fond of each other and it turned into love. Yes, I love my husband, Rose, but more than that, he's my dearest friend in the world and I thank God every day that he's the father of my son." Her eyes flitted across the field just in time to see Tom hoist their son into the air, their harmonious laughter wafting towards her on the wind.
"Look, I appreciate your desire to modernize the whole of production," Matthew contended, "But we have to go about it judiciously."
Yanking at his collar, Tom followed his brother-in-law toward the makeshift nursery at Duneagle. He wasn't sure if it was their disagreement over prioritizing certain renovations at Downton making him belligerent, or the damned formal wear he had just been harnessed into by his valet. He despised the tails and white tie, not to mention the painfully starched shirt capable of deflecting bullets. "The dairy barns have been neglected far too long," he argued, hands waving about. "They need to be gutted entirely, new stalls built, and concrete floors poured so they'll be easier to clean and keep sanitary!"
Matthew stood by the nursery door, one hand on the knob, the other rubbing his temple. "We'll take a look at the numbers when we return to Downton, but I've seen them and so have you. I understand the science and reasoning behind your proposal, but we've already blown through the renovation budget this year. The dairy barns will simply have to wait."
"But..." Tom abruptly ceased his barrage as Matthew swung the door open. Both young men stopped, flabbergasted, at the sight of their father-in-law planted casually on the nursery floor, one arm propped on a knee in front of the two children. Bobby lay on his stomach, eagerly taking the offered blocks from his grandfather as he constructed a grand pyramid. The younger of the two boys crawled over his grandfather's lap, his greedy hands threatening to dismantle the stack.
"No, David," Lord Grantham admonished softly. He struggled to distract the determined little boy with a stuffed bear, which was promptly hurled aside with a dissatisfied grunt.
"I'm afraid he has his mother's temper," Matthew apologized, stepping inside.
Lord Grantham laughed with a nod. "So it would seem, but that's precisely the kind of spirit we'll need in the future if Downton is to survive."
Tongue between his teeth, Bobby concentrated as he delicately placed a final block at the apex of his masterpiece and smiled proudly. "Gran-pa-pa, look!"
The grandfather ruffled his namesake's hair affectionately. "I knew you could do it!" He leaned over, dropped a kiss on the boy's brown curls, and groaned as he struggled to his feet. He frowned at both sons-in-law. "What are you two arguing about now? I could hear you through the blasted door."
Tom shrugged and lifted a foot as David scuttled by him on hands and knees. "Nothing. Just work."
"Well, stop," Lord Grantham ordered. "We've plenty of time to hash out the next set of plans when we return. This is our last day of holiday and I demand both of you enjoy it." He glanced down at the small hand tugging on his tails and hoisted his oldest grandson into his arms, smacking a kiss on the child's cheek. "I know you and Sybil probably want him to become some sort of champion for the common man, but I believe he has the makings of a fine engineer. All of this..." he said, waving to the stack, "...despite the attempts of a one-man demolition crew."
The adults glanced down just in time to witness David's chubby hand slice through the middle of the pyramid. Bobby pursed his lips with a sigh as the blocks clattered across the floor. Matthew rushed towards his son, scolding him quietly.
"Well, back to the drawing board, eh?" Lord Grantham plopped Bobby down, his eyes scanning the faces surrounding him with a soft smile. "Don't misconstrue what I say here, because I love my wife and daughters immensely, but it's been far too long since men occupied the majority party in this family. I'm rather glad I lived to see the day."
Tom watched his father-in-law exit the room, swearing he caught a glimmer of moisture in his eyes. When it came to the business of running Downton, Lord Grantham challenged him upon every fresh idea and every suggestion for change, as if the younger man had predetermined a course for the estate's demise. Ultimately, though, after barking their way through most conversations, they negotiated a path forward. The two had little in common, but they would forever be bound by a shared love for Sybil and Bobby.
The sound of raucous laughter pulled his attention to his brother-in-law, who playfully tossed David into the air, the little boy snorting to catch his breath.
"You know, you really shouldn't do that after he's eaten."
Matthew feigned taking a bear-like bite from his son's tummy. Turning to plant him amongst his toys again, he stilled as his foot compressed something soft on the floor. Bobby retracted a hand, his face coiled in preparation of the inevitable wail. "Oh, bloody hell." Matthew thrust his son toward Tom in order to scoop up his screaming nephew.
Tom's eyes widened. "Is he alright?"
Matthew gently inspected the small fingers, now reddened. "I think so," he sighed, then sputtered a series of apologies to his nephew, who continued to hiccup through choking sobs. "I think he's more scared than hurt."
"You have to kiss it."
"What?"
"Don't you know anything? You have to kiss his fingers to make them better. Trust me."
Dubious at first, Matthew finally pressed a kiss on his nephew's hand and offered a reassuring smile. "Better?"
Sniffling, Bobby nodded as his uncle offered a few more kisses for good measure.
"Kisses are the best medicine, right, Bobby?" Tom asked.
The little boy nodded meekly and wiped his eyes. "Yup."
Crisis averted, Tom readjusted a fidgeting David on his hip. His smile suddenly faded when he recognized an unmistakable expression on the child's face. "Matthew, fetch a cloth, I think..."
"Sorry about your tails," Matthew said, standing at the base of Duneagle's grand staircase.
"Don't be." Tom brushed the lapels of his tuxedo with a dismissive shrug. "I'm certainly not."
Matthew flipped open his gold pocket watch, noting the time with an irritated sigh before snapping the lid shut and stuffing it back in his pocket. They had been waiting long enough to watch the rest of the family, including Rose and her mother, descend toward the ballroom. Tom and Matthew had stood back in awed discomfort as the Dowager Countess navigated hostilities between the two after Lady Flintshire fired 'slut' into the conversation. The young Irishman considered himself skilled at politics, but admitted his acumen paled in comparison to their grandmother-in-law's.
"Why is it that we're always left waiting on women?" Matthew asked. "Their fashions are far less complicated than they used to be."
"They're probably talking about us. We usually do something to deserve it." Sharing a laugh with his brother-in-law, Tom glanced up the stairwell in eager anticipation. Sybil's endless teasing over the past few days had only increased his curiosity about her new dress, and an attempted peek into her wardrobe earlier had earned him a playful whack on the rump.
"Sorry to keep you waiting," Mary finally called from the top of the stairs.
Matthew's face curved with an approving smile as his wife flowed down as graceful as a whisper, bedecked in one of his favorite red evening gowns. "You look marvelous, my darling."
Mary simpered at her brother-in-law, who stood uncharacteristically speechless, his eyes pinned greedily on the woman behind her. "You'd better say something, Tom. She's been rather fussy with her clothes this evening."
"Holy God," he finally breathed as his wife descended the last step. She was swathed in a midnight blue gown of a sheer exterior highlighted with an intricate velvet pattern set over a satin lining. The material swayed with her every move, seemingly only attached to her body by each luscious curve. The skirt hung high below her knees, revealing her beautifully slender legs, and tapered downward at the back. "Sybil... you look... love, you look magnificent."
She bit her lip, masking a coy smile, and made a slow turn. "You don't think the back is too... revealing... do you?"
Reluctantly, his eyes left her face, only to be rewarded when they drifted down, and further down, following the low cut back of the dress. The material hung low beneath her arms, cut perfectly to expose the sides of her breasts. With a slow smile, he leaned in for a kiss.
She pulled back. "Don't mess me up," she warned with a lofted brow. "At least not yet."
Rolling her eyes, Mary led her own husband from the hall.
Tom pecked a light kiss on her lips and then ran a finger beneath the thin shoulder strap. "I have to admit...seeing you in this? I can think of nothing but getting you out of it."
"Likewise." She shivered as his fingers moved to her back, lightly tracing the low hemline to places typically reserved for their bedroom. "Why aren't you wearing your tails?"
"Sorry," he replied, a tone of falseness to his apology. "Matthew and I went to check on the boys before coming down and... well... the future earl of Grantham thought I was overdressed and deposited his supper on me."
She narrowed her eyes, skeptical of his last-minute luck. "I suppose we'll both scandalize the party this evening then."
Violet gawked as her grandson-in-law brazenly pawed at his wife in Duneagle's ballroom. Apparently under some unfortunate infusion of drink and general mirth, the couple danced appallingly close to one another. Tom's fingers deftly traced the skin of Sybil's back, his head dipping to kiss her when the Scottish dances brushed their bodies together.
The Dowager gave a derisive sigh. "I had hoped to get some rest this evening before our return, but I see now that is not to be the case. Next time, I'll demand accommodations in another wing."
Cora smiled awkwardly at Lady Flintshire who sat beside her, mouth slightly ajar at the scene before her. Last year it was just the valet's drunken antics, she thought. Apparently, the whole lot of them have gone mad.
"Well, I think it's lovely to see a couple so devoted to one another," Lord Flintshire declared wistfully. The happier times of his own deadened marriage had long since passed, hardly even a memory now.
"I was devoted to my late husband as well," Violet replied, her head twitching as the Bransons made a brisk turn in front of them. "But there is a time and place for everything. I'd rather the whole of Scotland not witness my granddaughter and her husband in flagrante delicto."
Lord Flintshire coughed to obscure his laughter at Lord Grantham's suddenly flushed face. "That son-in-law of yours has quite a head on his shoulders, Robert."
"Yes, Matthew's a fine man," he said, distracted.
"Both of them are of course, but I was speaking of Mr. Branson."
He turned, brows woven. "Tom?"
"Yes. We've spoken quite a lot about ways to improve Duneagle," he replied, then glanced to the ladies to ensure their attentions had settled elsewhere. "In fact, and I hope you don't think me too much of a heel for doing this without speaking to you first, but I offered him the position of agent at Duneagle. I need someone like him to keep this place afloat."
Lord Grantham's shocked response hung in his throat.
"Has he mentioned it to you?"
The earl managed a shake of the head.
"I'm not surprised. I understand the two of you aren't particularly close."
Laughter from the dance floor diverted Robert's attention away from Shrimpie. His son-in-law was swinging his daughter through a reel, their faces glowing and buoyant. Robert watched, Sybil clapping with an exuberant smile as her husband took the hands of Lady Mary, swapping partners first with Matthew, then again with Mr. Gregson. A smile twitched on the earl's lips before he could help it. The younger generation was a heart-warming sight after so much loss through war, disease, and the cold waters of the North Atlantic. He caught Sybil's eyes, blue and vibrant as the reel momentarily directed her aside. They shared a laugh across the room before she was whisked away again into the arms of her husband: the Irishman, former chauffeur, journalist, and exiled rebel-turned-resident-agent.
As the musicians paused to stretch their limbs, Tom and Sybil lifted a pair of drinks from a traveling silver salver. Lady Grantham smiled indulgently at the couple, arm-in-arm and flushed from their vigorous dancing.
"You've done marvelously for your first Ghillies Ball, Tom," she declared. "It took several years for me to learn all the dances well enough to put myself on display."
"I had a very patient teacher," he replied, slipping an arm around his wife's waist.
They chatted with her mother until the pipes began warming for the next dance. Tom placed his glass on a nearby table and offered a hand to his mother-in-law. "May I have this waltz, Lady Grantham?"
"Of course," she answered, joining him on the floor.
Sybil winked at her husband as he glanced over his shoulder, then raised a brow to her father. "Papa?"
"I'm not sure if I should," he replied.
"You may be a grandfather, but you're not dead," she insisted, seizing his hands before he could protest. "I want to dance with my father. Now come along."
She pulled him into the quartet required for the Waltz Country Dance, joining her mother and husband. Once the music transitioned into the couples waltz, she smiled, remembering a time as a child when he had pretended to be her beau, guiding her through the steps with his shoes serving as a booster.
"It's been a while since we've danced," she noted.
"Quite so. At least you don't have to stand on my feet anymore. In fact, perhaps I should stand on yours. I'm afraid I'm a little rusty."
"You're better than you think, Papa. Who cares if you fudge a few bars now and again? We can't be perfect at everything."
Lord Grantham smiled softly, hesitant before speaking. "Shrimpie told me he offered Tom a job. Is he considering it?"
She sighed. "He is. Rather, we both are."
"But why?" he asked, brows furrowed. "I know Tom and I don't always see eye to eye, but I find it hard to believe he would take you away again after we made a place for him in this family."
"Have you really?" she responded with some frustration. "This transition has been terribly difficult for him and you certainly haven't made it easier. Tom doesn't expect you to agree with everything he proposes or believes. He simply wants respect for his opinions and to not be patronized for staying true to his values."
Robert pursed his lips, an apology threatening to escape. "And what is your opinion of Shrimpie's offer? Do you want to leave Downton?"
"I will go wherever my husband and I decide to make our home."
He sighed as they twirled around the floor, momentarily watching his wife and son-in-law laughing. "But he's done so well with everything," he offered quietly.
"Then you should tell him that. Yes, we all do the jobs we're expected to do, but a little gratitude goes a long way, Papa."
Lord Grantham sidled up to his son-in-law, who was hovering by a sideboard bearing an array of sweets. He watched in amusement as the Irishman perused the options, his face scrunched in curiosity as he selected a little brown square.
"It's called a tablet," the older man said. "And it's incredibly sweet."
Tom couldn't resist. He popped it into his mouth and almost moaned when it melted deliciously on his tongue. Pulling out his handkerchief, he wiped the sticky remnants from his fingers and smacked on the last morsel. "Those could be habit forming."
"Indeed. When I was a child, I snuck into the kitchen and ate an entire plate of them. I was quite miserable that night, as you can imagine, and haven't been able to eat once since." Laughing, both men turned their backs on the pastries in time to observe Sybil and Matthew spinning across the floor. Lord Grantham watched the younger man's eyes twinkle in delight, completely enraptured by his youngest daughter. He cleared his throat quietly. "Matthew said you finally convinced Mr. Parks to try his hand at Friesian cattle. I never thought he would agree to it, so I have to say, well done."
"It just took a little persuasion," he replied, reluctantly tearing his gaze from his wife.
"But still, convincing Ben Parks to do anything, much less change part of his production, was no small task. He also mentioned that Mrs. Green is running a fine establishment with the new hotel and that it's been full most of this summer. I only hope Shrimpie can find someone as able as you and Matthew to help Duneagle."
Tom eyed his father-in-law suspiciously. "Sybil told you about Lord Flintshire's offer, didn't she?"
Robert's shoulders slumped. "Actually, Shrimpie brought it up. Sybil merely confirmed it."
Tom humphed an absent response.
"Well," Lord Grantham pressed. "You're not actually considering it, are you?"
"Do you think I'm not good enough to find employment beyond my wife's immediate family?"
The older man began to bark a reply, but relented. "Of course not," he sighed. "Perhaps I haven't made the most conscientious effort to welcome you into the family. Too many years speaking to the back of your head, I suppose. But you're my son-in-law, and despite the disparity of our backgrounds and politics, I do recognize how much you love my daughter and how desperately she adores you. I know I don't often say it..."
Tom lofted a brow.
"Alright, I never say it. Regardless, I'm glad to have you as agent at Downton. We don't always agree, but that's the nature of any family."
"I suppose you're right," Tom conceded after a moment.
"Besides, you're the father of my oldest grandchild," he teased. "We're stuck with each other."
Tom laughed as Lord Grantham offered a refreshed drink from a nearby tray. "We won't stay at Downton forever, though," he hinted. "The estate will be David's one day. Bobby will need to realize that Downton isn't his life and that he'll have to earn his own way in this world. Its better he learn that when he's young."
Lord Grantham nodded slowly. "You won't leave right away, though? Cora's hopelessly attached to him, you know..."
"No." He suppressed a grin at the older man's emotional mask. "In the meantime, we've lots remaining before us to see that Downton survives. I know I'm up to it and I hope you are as well."
With a reassured sigh of relief, Lord Grantham smiled. "I certainly am."
Sybil had always enjoyed the family jaunts to Scotland, and though several years had passed since her last visit, she had never forgotten the exuberant highland dances, so unlike the pallid balls of her youth. Perhaps it was the cocktails or the liberating exercise of the final reel, or perhaps it was Tom's eyes undressing her as she danced, but when the fiddles and pipes finally stopped, they shared a conspiratorial glance and excused themselves. Once free from the crowd in the ballroom, they scampered towards the stairs like children escaping a long sermon at church.
As the door to their room slammed behind them, they stumbled toward the bed, stepping on toes and laughing at each botched effort to untangle an arm here or a leg there. They had heard stories of Molesley's escapades at the Ghillies Ball a year ago, and while Tom was certain neither of them had reached that level of insobriety, he felt as light and free as he could remember. Sybil swatted at his grasping hands and hastily divested him of his jacket, waistcoat, shoes, and braces, her fingers targeting only the necessary items. There would be no languid lovemaking this evening, just the satisfaction of a primal ache, a need. As her evening dress slipped down her shoulders, she wrenched him toward her by his lapels. They tumbled unceremoniously onto the bed.
"Oomph." His hands scraped up her legs, dragging the hem of her dress towards her hips until he noticed something. Rather, he noticed nothing. She answered his slow smile with a wanton flush, arching her back to grind against him. He snickered. "If Lady Flintshire had known her cousin's daughter was gallivanting about the dance floor without her knickers, she would have been completely scandalized."
Their hands bumped and tangled, grasping at his remaining clothes. Her supple fingers worked through his open shirt, brushing downward in haste, skillfully teasing his body awake through the material between them. Breathless, Tom groaned into her mouth at each unencumbering pop of a trouser button.
Suddenly he flinched. "Sybil, wait... ahh."
"What?" she gasped. "Oh, darling, your back. I'm sor..."
He shook his head. "No, no, I think something's caught..."
She moved her hand quickly, but it wouldn't budge. She tried again, harder.
"Ow!" He glanced down, awkwardly propped on his arms above her.
"Let me see... oh. Well, that's rather inconvenient," she said, trying to disengage the clasp of her bracelet from the frayed buttonhole of his trousers.
His mouth curled into a lopsided grin. "You're as bad as that damned fishing rod."
"If they weren't so tight..."
He hissed as her hands bumped his arousal, the friction sending a renewed jolt through his nervous system. "Careful, love," he croaked, "or this party will end a mite too soon."
"There." Bracelet free, she dropped it on the bedside table as he shoved at the waist of his trousers. "Don't bother," she ordered with a mischievous smile. Pulling him back down, her hand plunged below his waist, liberated her target, and stroked softly. "I've got what I want."
Her knees locked around his hips and pulled impatiently, giving him little choice but to push inside her. Warm, sheathed, pulsing, and painfully close to coming undone, he twisted his fingers in the duvet they had failed to turn down in their haste. He squeezed his eyes shut, mouth agape against her cheek. She urged him to move and, wrapped in her arms, he surrendered. He burrowed into her and began a frantic rhythm neither could sustain for very long. But oh, how sweet, he mused, propping up to glance down at their joined bodies, at once both amused and completely enchanted by their state of dishevelment.
With her dress bunched just above her hips, he watched her lustful expression, her eyes fluttering closed as he quickened his pace. Her teeth pinched her lip, buzzing with whimpers. He couldn't help but smile as she arched against him, pleading with him not to stop, her nails scraping weakly against his chest. He wanted to last longer, for her, always and only for her, but he could feel his orgasm building.
Her name escaped his lips in a breathless whisper as he reached down between them, his thumb pressing against that sensitive spot that would hasten her release. They cried out in unison, her body clutching him rhythmically. As the final tremors tapered, they opened their eyes, breath heavy and erratic, and burst into giggles, sated and relieved.
Tom collapsed, his limbs weak from exertion. "Most of the time we can at least get our clothes off," he chuckled.
She curled against him, her mouth pressed firmly against his chest in a lazy smile. She couldn't get enough of tasting him; his flushed skin was warm against her lips. "I didn't want to wait."
"I could tell," he replied, planting a kiss on top of her head. He exhaled heavily. "You know, I'm not sure a lengthy holiday does much to reinforce our socialist principles."
Her husky laughter reverberated between them. "Are you complaining?"
"Not at all, but we've been absolutely shameless," he admitted. His lips curled into a brash smile. "I wonder what your grandmother would say."
"We could go next door and ask." His head snapped towards her and she smiled wickedly. "You didn't know?"
"You did, and you didn't tell me?" She smacked a playful kiss against his mouth, but Tom was having none of it. "Well, I'm sure she's gotten quite an earful these past ten days with your howling and screaming. No wonder she's been giving me the evil eye." He yanked the rumpled tie from around his neck and flicked it at her nose.
"Me?" She snatched the tie, tossing it aside. "You're certainly one to talk. Besides, after she walked in on us last year, a little noise shouldn't offend her."
Tom laughed then, remembering his mortification when the Dowager barged unannounced into their Downton bedroom. "I suppose you're right."
Her hand snuck inside the collar of his shirt, pulling him into another kiss. "To be perfectly honest, darling," she whispered, "I wouldn't care if it did offend her. I'm utterly and completely in love with my husband, and I've no shame in anything we've done or will do, for that matter." Her fingers slipped down his chest, tugging and pulling at garments until he was blissfully free of the last confines of the bloody oppressive uniform as he so often called it. Seconds later, her dress shrouded it on the floor. Greedily, her eyes scanned his body, and lit with mischief upon seeing signs of life.
"Well, since it's our last night here," he teased, "we might as well give them something to talk about."
"I agree," she replied haughtily, sliding a leg over his to rest comfortably atop his hips. Hands propped on either side of his head, she leaned down with a naughty smile. "You'll just have to sleep on the train tomorrow because you're in for a long night, Mr. Branson."
Hand in hand, the Bransons skipped down the steps from Duneagle Castle toward the waiting motors. Shaking her head, the Dowager Countess merely gave an exasperated sigh as they passed. Tom planted a kiss on his wife's cheek, lingering behind and waiting for Lord Grantham to complete his extensive praise for the estate's hospitality over the past two weeks.
Tom reached for the Marquis' hand, offering a firm shake. "Thank you for the invitation, Lord Flintshire. My wife and son and I had a wonderful time." He fell into awkward silence, twisting his hat in his fingers.
Lord Flintshire watched the Irishman's expression fade into empathy. He smiled wanly. "I understand, Mr. Branson. And I don't blame you."
"It's not that I don't appreciate the offer," he stuttered quickly. "I do. But we've still a lot to do at Downton. We've only just started, really, with the changes that need to be made. More than that, though, my wife has a job that means a great deal to her and my son loves his grandfather..."
"Tom!" his father-in-law snapped from the motor. "Don't dawdle. We've a train to catch!"
"...though I'm not sure why," he muttered, glaring over his shoulder before presenting a slip of paper to Lord Flintshire. "I took the liberty of listing a few names I remembered from the Journal of the Land Agents' Society. They all have a similar philosophy for modernization. Perhaps one would be willing to take on the challenge here at Duneagle."
Lord Flintshire scanned the list and smiled. "I thank you, Mr. Branson. And if Duneagle survives long enough, I hope you visit with us again next year."
Nodding appreciatively first to the Marquis, and then toward his wife and daughter, Tom climbed into the waiting motor. Sybil threaded her arm through his as he settled beside her.
"You certainly took long enough," Lord Grantham grumbled. "We're running late."
"Robert," his wife scolded.
"What?" he asked innocently. "Tom's a member of this family, and as such, he is expected to fall in line with the rest of the Crawleys." He then looked to his son-in-law for confirmation. "Isn't that right?"
"Partly," he chuckled with an impish grin as the motor crunched away from Duneagle. "Except we're the Bransons. And we do things our own way."
Lord Grantham shared a conspiratorial smile with his son-in-law, and then burst into laughter when his grandson bounded up into his lap.
"Gran-pa-pa!"
Sybil's fingers laced through her husband's. And, together, they watched her father's animated expressions as Bobby prattled with boyish enthusiasm about the train ride back to Downton.
A/N 2: Several reviewers noted they were surprised at Lord Flintshire's job offer – I have to admit, I was as well. It was just one of those things that popped up during the writing process. Once I decided to go with it, I then had to figure a way through it. Several reviewers thought the move would be good for them, so I was a little nervous about posting Tom's decision here. I've always preferred complex characters and since this is (happily) AU, I've tried to make Robert a little more likeable than he was in Season 3. Yes, he still clings to the old ways, but he's very much a family man and wants Downton to survive. And Tom can be rather bull-headed in his opinions as well (pre 3x05 Tom at least). As he told Lord Grantham in 3x01, "we're both strong characters." I think that makes for an interesting dichotomy for their relationship. Personally, I hope they go at it in Season 4. That's sort of a long winded explanation of why I didn't want Tom to take Shrimpie's job offer – I wanted him to stay at Downton, fight his corner and stir things up, even with the little things (e.g. Chapter 4 when he botches Robert's plans for the perfect Christmas tree).
The title for Chapters 9 and 10 was taken from a poem about the Scots' defeat at Culloden Moor (as transcribed in the Celtic Monthly, 1893).
BTW, I saw TYC's call for baby fics in April and since I had one on the drawing board, I'll work prepping that one next. I make no promises for getting it posted, though, since that backfired on me the last time!