A/N: Yeah, as if the last chapter was a real cliff-hanger. It's AU, so everyone knows how this turns out. Also, early on in this series a couple of reviewers/PM-ers asked why Sybil wanted to name her child after Robert - it's finally explained here...along with a surprising source for his nickname. And just for reference, the last scene jumps forward a bit – it takes place a few months after Chapter 4.

Thanks very much to those who have continued to encourage the story (and review) despite the erratic updates! Just when I think the well has run dry, another chapter idea will pop in my head.

And a gracious thanks to foojules for the beta!

"For the hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world."

~ William Ross Wallace, 1865

WHAT RULES THE WORLD, PART II

Downton, July 1920

Dr. Clarkson had dispatched Nurse Corley to remain with Sybil until the time for concern was past. Round and unapologetically authoritarian, she reminded Tom of Mrs. Patmore, only taller and more menacing. She and Tom wasted no time in butting heads. As soon as she arrived, she ordered him to vacate the bedroom for the duration. Tom trembled with fury; fighting for his family had become an almost hourly affair at Downton, and his nerves were frazzled. He pulled the nurse into the hall, out of Sybil's earshot.

"I'll not be kept from my wife," he barked.

"It isn't proper," she snapped back, hands on her hips. "And I can't tend a patient with you in the bed."

"Well, if you're a good enough nurse, you'll learn how to work around me." Tom reached for the doorknob. "And you'd better get used to me, because I'll be with her when the baby is born as well." And with that, he'd slammed the door in her face.

Despite Nurse Corley's hostility towards him – and the rest of the household males, for that matter - she was gentle as a lamb with Sybil. Even Tom admitted she had a soothing bedside manner. As Sybil's symptoms steadily improved, he found he could tolerate having the crotchety old woman snoring in the corner of his bedroom.

Downton operated under a tenuous calm in the weeks that followed Sybil's diagnosis and Tom typically wandered no further than the library. He found solace there in his old leather-bound friends and would hibernate in a little corner in the adjacent small library, away from Lord Grantham's favored spot by the hearth. Both anxious of Sybil's condition, the two men maintained an unspoken truce.

On one particularly hot morning, Tom strode into the family dining room for breakfast and was greeted first by Carson's tepid nod and then by Isis. The Labrador had become one of his few allies on the estate and sniffed happily at his heels as he filled his plate at the sideboard. Lord Grantham stared into his newspaper, but his voice had a renewed fatherly inflection. "How is Sybil this morning?"

Tom dropped a few pieces of bacon on his plate and turned round toward the table. "She was quite restless last night." She had started having irregular pains a few days before; Dr. Clarkson called them false pains, but said they wouldn't have much longer to wait.

"No more headaches?" his father-in-law asked anxiously, lowering the paper.

Draping a napkin across his lap, Tom shook his head.

"And... everything else seems... in order?"

Tom confirmed this with a nod. He refrained from detailing the latest albumen tests, or the purgatives, or the various other treatments he had become all too familiar with. His knowledge of medicine had reached a point where he knew what each number meant and what Sybil's target pressure was, and he had her scheduled dosages memorized. The most important thing was that the treatments seemed to work and Sybil had become much more comfortable.

Smiling in relief, Lord Grantham returned his attention to the news and the two men ate in companionable silence until Carson came around to refill their coffee. The older man cleared his throat. "Brans..." Lord Grantham closed his eyes with a sigh. "Sorry - Tom. I want you to know that despite what transpired recently, I love my daughter terribly – as hard as it is for an Englishman to say such things. I only wanted her to have the best care."

Tom glanced down at Isis. The dog's snout rested on his thigh, her furry brows twitching to and fro as if pleading for peace. He gave her ears a scratch and then turned back to his father-in-law. "I understand, but Sybil is my wife and this is our child. They are my responsibility," he said. "Even if you can't accept our marriage..."

"I do," Lord Grantham cut in softly, but then felt compelled to add, "It's not what I would have chosen for Sybil, but then again she has always been the independent sort." He dropped his paper to sip from his coffee. "To be honest Tom, I may have given my blessing last year, but I still had doubts. And your...troubles in Ireland merely justified them. However, Sybil cares for you very much and I care very much for Sybil. So, we must come to an understanding that while we may not agree on much of anything, she does share our love. And that's just the way things are." It was a poor excuse for an apology, but then again, he intended it more as a father's prerogative. He trusted the young Irishman would understand that one day.

Tom jerked his chin in acknowledgement and stabbed a piece of sausage. "As long as you understand that Sybil's happiness and safety mean everything to me. I would have taken her anywhere else but here if I'd had another option," he replied. "And we'll only stay until I can find a suitable job and a place to live."

The earl forced a smile before clearing his throat. "Have you given any thought to what you will do?"

"I've thought of going to Liverpool. My brother has a garage there and might have a spot for me." Tom chuckled when Lord Grantham winced. "Don't worry. Sybil's already put her foot down. She doesn't want me going back to that. But, since your bloody English press isn't keen on employing an exiled Irish republican journalist, I don't know what I'm to do. It's the first time I've been without a job since I was ten years old."

Lord Grantham handed over a section of the paper: a peace offering of sorts. "Well, I'm sure something will turn up."

Tom pursed his lips, remembering Lady Grantham's identical response. They must all think that jobs materialize out of thin air. "Where's Matthew?"

"He's meeting with Jarvis." His father-in-law flipped noisily to a new page.

"I understand they've been discussing plans for the old Burns farm..."

Lord Grantham peered over the edge of the paper, his eyes narrowing. "Has Matthew been discussing estate business with you?"

"No," Tom replied innocently, ignoring Carson's disapproving scowl from across the room. "But I can tell he has concerns."

"Concerns? What about?"

Wishing he had just kept his mouth shut, Tom shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Where's Edith?"

"Out riding with Anthony Strallan, and don't ignore my question. What exactly is Matthew concerned about?"

Tom almost laughed in relief when Anna poked her head in the door. "I apologize, Your Lordship, but Nurse Corley asks that Mr. Carson ring for Dr. Clarkson," she said, excitement just under the surface of her voice. She smiled at Tom. "Lady Sybil is asking for you."

Tom upturned his coffee cup in his rush for the door. In his wake Lord Grantham smiled, remembering a similar moment the day of Mary's birth. Except that time, Carson had been obliged to clean pudding out of the tablecloth. Such a long time ago. He laughed to himself before noticing the butler still standing frozen by the door. "Well, Carson, what are you waiting for? Get on that infernal telephone and call Clarkson - we're going to have a grandchild today!"

Carson managed a dignified chuckle. "I'm sorry, My Lord, but I was just thinking about the last baby to be born here at Downton. I guess I'm getting reflective in my old age."

Robert smiled. "Aren't we all?"

When he had agreed to stay with Sybil through the delivery, Tom only had a vague notion of what childbirth entailed, so the day became quite an education. She spent much of the morning walking up and down the corridors, which very much disconcerted Mr. Carson when they ran into him rounding a corner. Once the halls proved too much, she paced about their room, clutching at the footboard when the pains struck. The nausea came as a shock to him; the anger, not so much. At one point, when he bent to kiss her, she snapped that it was all his fault. He waited patiently for the pain to pass, and she quickly apologized. Lady Grantham could only offer a series of sympathetic smiles to her son-in-law and help him encourage Sybil through the contractions.

Sybil's reception of Mary had been just as cold. She told her sister to change her mind about the whole process, to which Mary honestly replied, "Believe me, darling, I'm considering it."

Fortunately, Dr. Clarkson declared that her outbursts were normal, along with her output, blood pressure, and the various other tests he ran as the blue of the afternoon sky deepened into oranges and reds outside. To Tom's relief – and certainly to Sybil's – Dr. Clarkson declared her final stage close as the sun began to set.

Sybil wasn't sure how much longer she could stand being ripped apart from the inside. Her legs were hitched up, exposing her to everyone in the room, though she had reached the point where she didn't care anymore. She shook uncontrollably as she tried to bear down through the pain. She had lasted out the day as bravely as she could but finally began to cry, feeling mingled horror and indifference at the thought of what her screams must have sounded like spilling from the open windows.

Tom kissed her forehead, squeezed her hand, and promised her that it would soon be over. She didn't believe him, nor any of them. She was sure she'd never be delivered.

"Not long now," Dr. Clarkson said. Another pain struck and Sybil pushed – it seemed to go on forever, unaided by her cries. Cora and Tom, each holding one of her hands, looked to the doctor as Sybil collapsed back against the pillows.

Dr. Clarkson shook his head, glancing first at Cora, then Tom. "Lady Sybil, you must bear down harder this time..."

Nurse Corley had been patiently assisting the doctor, but now to everyone's shock she snatched Sybil's hand out of Tom's and yanked it between the young mother's legs. Sybil felt her palm slide over something slippery.

"That's your baby's head," the nurse explained, her unwavering gaze holding Sybil's. "As soon as the pain starts, you push this bed through the floor, do you understand?"

Sybil managed a weak nod. She was so tired. The pain soon built again, sharper than before. Holding tight to the hands of her mother and husband – she wondered if she had broken any fingers yet – she powered through, feeling as if she was splitting in half. Through the blood pounding in her ears, she heard the doctor's relieved laugh and encouragement for one more when she was ready.

Tom's lilting voice whispered close, "I know you're tired, love. But, you can do this, for our baby, for us…"

His words were drowned by Sybil's cry as her body coiled with another pain and she pushed again. She felt a brief burning sensation and then a great wave of relief, the agony receding to a dull ache that coursed through her. She collapsed back onto the bed and heard Tom's choked laughter, followed momentarily by gurgling wail.

"He sounds just like an Irishman," Dr. Clarkson teased.

Tom peered over his wife's knees, his mind blocking everything but the squirming blue-gray boy in the doctor's hands. He felt Sybil clutching his fingers and turned back, his face splitting with an awestruck smile. "We have a son," he wept. "He's not so handsome right now, but he'll clean up nicely."

Tom's relieved tears spilled into her hair as he pressed his lips against hers, both laughing and crying through their kiss. Cora's hand brushed her daughter's face. "You did wonderfully, darling," her mother said, and then glanced up at Tom. "Both of you."

Tom's eyes trailed the nurse as she took the squalling infant to a table in the corner. He felt a squeeze on his hand and he looked down. "Go," Sybil whispered.

The new father stood mesmerized as Nurse Corley washed away the blood and some other substance that made the baby look as if he'd been dipped in Mrs. Patmore's flour bowl. She poked and prodded the tiny feet and hands, and then dropped some sort of liquid in the child's eyes. They were a deep blue, he noticed, and found himself grinning wildly at the vibrant little life he and Sybil had created. Several times Tom reached for his wailing child, only to be put down with a brusque, "In a minute, Mr. Branson." Finally he stuffed his hands in his pockets and waited with as much patience as he could muster. He fidgeted and heard a soft grunt of exertion over his shoulder, and turned just in time to witness the last stage of birth. Dr. Clarkson inspected the contents of a white pan and declared everything satisfactory.

Sybil's hand spread across her now-empty stomach and she looked to Tom with a weary smile. Suddenly, he felt they'd waited quite long enough to meet their son, and when Nurse Corley turned to set the wash basin aside, Tom wrapped the boy in a white flannel blanket and was halfway to the bed before the nurse hissed, "Mr. Branson!"

Tom ignored her. "It's time to meet your Mama," he whispered, brushing a kiss on his son's brow.

Sybil pulled their son to her, laughing as the ear-splitting cries dissolved into delightful little mewls. Tom didn't blame her for the tears that dripped onto the baby's face or for pulling back the blanket and accounting for all the fingers and toes. Wriggling in her arms, the child squinted against the lamplight, his little chest rising and falling with each grunt and cry. She brushed her hand across his skin, now flushing pink as he acclimated to the outside world.

"He's perfect," she whispered to Tom.

"You both are," he whispered back, pressing a soft kiss to her lips. A starfish hand stretched into the space between them and five little fingers grasped his larger one. He smiled, caressing his son's hand with his thumb. "He's so tiny."

"I'd say about six pounds or so." Dr. Clarkson smiled as he peered over Lady Grantham's shoulder. "We'll keep a close eye on him, but in my estimation, he seems a healthy lad."

"A lot of work for such a little thing," Mary quipped from beside her brother-in-law. "Darling, you were very brave."

"He didn't feel so little a few minutes ago," Sybil laughed through her tears. And she certainly didn't feel brave, only grateful to have her son alive and squirming against her from the outside. "No woman will ever be good enough for him, you know."

Cora, Tom, and Mary all laughed. "He's not even fifteen minutes old," Sybil's mother teased. "Let's wait a few days before you have him at the altar."

Plugging the stethoscope in his ears, Dr. Clarkson eased down on the bed next to his patient and wrapped the pressure cuff on her arm. After a moment, he called a number over his shoulder to the nurse. "You've done marvelously, Mr. Branson, supporting her. But I think you should leave them both in our care for now. I need to suture a small tear… it's not uncommon in first time mothers," he hastened to add when Tom's head popped up in alarm.

Cora laid a supportive hand on her son-in-law's shoulder. "They'll both need your strength in the coming days, Tom. Infants are incredibly high maintenance creatures. You should try to rest while you can. I've already asked Anna to prepare a room for you."

Sybil lay heavy in his arms, enraptured and cooing to their son. Tom would have protested, but didn't want to risk upsetting her. "I'll not be far," he whispered, bending to kiss her and their son. "You watch over your Mama, little man." He eased off the bed and then turned back from the door when he heard Cora and Nurse Corley discussing the nursery. "No. You'll not take him from his mother. Not after all they've been through."

"Tom..." Sybil's voice was soft and weak, but her smile was anything but. "I love you."

It was rare for her to say those words in the company of others. For her to say them while holding their son to her breast in the presence of her mother and sister meant more to Tom than she could have imagined. His response hung stubbornly in his throat; all he could do was nod.

He made it halfway down the corridor before his emotions broke free. The weeks of exhaustion, fear, anxiety, and now joy and relief all poured out of him in a cacophony of heaving sobs. He was leaning against the wall, tears streaming down his face, when Mary's soft hand brushed his sleeve.

Her brown eyes glowed with compassion. "She'll be alright, Tom."

He swiped at his face with an unbuttoned shirt sleeve. "She's my life," he gasped. "I don't know what I would have done if..."

"Don't," Mary demanded quietly. "She's alive and well, and you have a beautiful little boy."

He nodded, his breathing slower. "You've been very kind. You and Matthew. I thank you for that."

"I know this isn't what you expected and I know it hasn't been easy for you. But know this," she said. "While we may argue and hiss at one another on occasion, you're family now and that will never change."

"Is everything alright?" Robert came up behind them, his eyes widening as he took in Tom's tear-streaked cheeks. Matthew, Edith, and Isobel peered nervously around his shoulder. "I thought I heard the door and voices...how is Sybil?"

"She's quite tired, as you can imagine," Tom replied. "But already completely in love with our little boy."

Robert's mouth twitched into an incredulous smile. He cleared his throat. "A boy?" Edith let out a delighted squeak as Isobel pulled her into a hug.

"You have a handsome grandson, Papa," Mary said, smiling as Matthew reached for her hand.

"And Sybil...she'll be alright?"

Mary nodded. "I think we've made it through the worst of it."

"I'm sure Dr. Clarkson will keep them under close watch for a while," Isobel offered. "If the treatments have worked through her labor, that's an excellent sign."

"May I go in?" Edith asked, and then eagerly followed Mary into the room.

"A grandson." The new grandfather's words escaped in disbelief.

"Congratulations," Matthew said, extending his hand to Tom. "Quite an accomplishment to have a boy in this household. There are too damned few of us around."

When Lord Grantham's own children were born, his father had whisked him away to hunt on the far corners of the estate, insisting it would help pass the time. Robert wondered how he had managed to shoot anything at all on those days, much less avoid blowing off his own foot or wounding one of the staff. When Sybil had gone into labor, however, the earl had stayed home.

During those long nervous hours he'd paced his way through every room on the ground floor, frequently stepping into the saloon to strain for sounds from upstairs. Once he'd received the happy news of his grandson's arrival and Sybil's safe delivery, he dispatched a courier to the Dower House and headed to bed, bone-weary.

Cora came in sometime after midnight, proudly declaring their grandson the handsomest baby in the world. She curled into her husband's side and quickly fell into an exhausted sleep, but Robert could not seem to settle. Once he heard her soft snores, he got up, put on his dressing gown, and tiptoed downstairs in search of a drink.

The decanter clinked loudly in the silence of the library. Glass in hand, Robert shuffled around aimlessly until his eyes settled on a dusty old photograph book tucked away on a high shelf. He pulled it down and sank onto the sofa, sipping contentedly as he sorted through the collection of cartes de visite and cabinet cards. He chuckled at one of him as a baby. So fat, he mused, before flipping to one of him and Rosamond, and then another of the two siblings with their long departed younger brother, Edward. Another card featured a chubby baby Sybil perched naked on some poor bear that had been skinned for a rug. He laughed, remembering how she had been more fascinated with the animal's snout than the man behind the camera.

Just then Carson's deep voice rumbled from the door. "I'm sorry, Your Lordship. I heard someone up here and came to investigate."

"I couldn't sleep." Robert flipped to another page in the album, nodding his thanks as Carson re-filled his glass. "Did you tell the staff of our news?"

Carson chuckled and took his place by the mantel. "The arrival of Your Lordship's first grandchild was warmly received by everyone."

"I can't believe I'm a grandfather," the earl replied. "I hardly feel like it."

"I remember the day Lady Sybil was born. It's been quite a while since a baby's cries were heard in this house." Carson watched his employer smile as he paged through the album, lost in the images of his daughters. "Well, since the house is in order, I shall call it a night..."

"Carson, has someone seen to Mr. Branson?"

The butler raised a brow in astonishment that the earl should think he had neglected his duty. "We prepared a room for him down the hall from Lady Sybil. Alfred will tend to him."

"Hmm. Poor chap. I remember being petrified when my children were born, and they came without drama." Setting the book aside, he glanced up with a wry smile. "I know it must be terribly difficult for the staff to have him upstairs."

Carson shifted uncomfortably. "They will treat him like any other member of the family," he said, then dryly added, "though it will take some adjustment."

Lord Grantham laughed at that. "For everyone, I assure you, not just the staff." They shared a smile before the butler started for the door. "Carson, may I ask you something?"

"Certainly, Your Lordship," he replied, turning back, arms clasped behind him.

"You worked with Branson more closely than anyone after he was hired on here. What is your opinion of him?"

Carson stiffened. "It isn't for me to have an opinion of Your Lordship's son-in-law."

Robert exhaled a sarcastic laugh. "Come now, Carson. We both know you have one. Out with it."

The butler's face puckered uneasily as he remembered Branson's disgraceful attempt on General Strutt. He should have fired him on the spot, but able-bodied young men had been hard to come by. The war had forced him to use maids in the dining room; he wasn't about to have one as chauffeur. And once Branson had so shamelessly announced his engagement to Lady Sybil, in the servant's hall of all places, Carson had had little use for him. But the butler had never been one to fudge the truth. "Other than one or two unfortunate episodes," he finally grumbled, "he served this house well. He was always on time, kept the motor running smoothly, and I never heard any complaints about his driving."

"That's high praise coming from you, Carson."

"He may have his faults, but I believe him to be a hard worker."

Robert hummed absently as he stood. "Well, that's a fine quality for him to have, because he'll need a job eventually."

Horrified, Carson sputtered, "Surely you don't want him hired back as the chauffeur..."

"Good God, man, no," Lord Grantham laughed. Patting the old butler on the shoulder, he chuckled his way toward the door, stopping only to say, "After all that has transpired, can you imagine him working for this estate again?"

Alfred brought Tom a tray, but he wasn't hungry. When the footman returned a few moments later with an armload of clothes, his shaving kit perched on top, the new father could only sigh. So this is it, Tom thought. Already exiled from his homeland and forced under the protection of an English Lord, now he was to be banished to an antechamber of propriety away from his wife and child. Lying alone in his small room, he felt every ounce the outcast. The walls, swathed in gilded paper, seemed to close in on him. After a few hours of restless sleep, he rolled out of bed and snatched on his dressing gown. They can't keep us apart.

In the hall he saw the wet-nurse slip out of his and Sybil's bedroom. Dr. Clarkson planned to continue the treatments to prevent postpartum convulsions and had insisted the wet-nurse was a temporary precaution until Sybil's body was free from medication. Though it seemed an awkward question to a woman he had only met earlier that day, Tom asked it anyway. "Has he been feeding well?"

Mrs. Hill nodded with a smile. "Twice now. He's a hungry little lad."

Tom smiled at that and stepped quietly into the room, dimly lit with a cream-colored glow from a few small lamps. Sybil lay peacefully on her side, and he sighed in relief. Watching her breathe steadily, he finally felt safe in offering a silent prayer of gratitude. A rustle in the corner turned his attention toward his son, whose little bare feet stuck stubbornly in the air as Nurse Corley folded a thick white cloth around his bottom. The nurse exhaled a disapproving groan when the father strolled over with his arms out, but she relented with minimal fuss. She had grown accustomed to his unconventional ways.

Gently, Tom rocked the baby against his chest and brushed a kiss against the crown of his head. With drooping eyelids, the child wriggled and yawned, his tongue lolling in his mouth. Fascinated by the tiny movements, for so long hidden inside his wife, Tom smiled at the novelty of each little action and wondered if his heart could burst from love. Without warning, the infant sneezed; Tom stiffened and turned immediately to the nurse.

"They do that. It's nothing to worry about." She reached for the baby and scowled when the father stepped back. "He needs his rest, Mr. Branson."

But Tom's arms already felt the void. "I know," he replied, and then whispered against his son's cheek, "I love you," before handing him over. As he watched Nurse Corley tuck him in the cot, he heard a sniffle behind him. Turning around, he frowned at seeing tears spill from Sybil's eyes. In an instant he was by her side. "Love, what's wrong?"

Her fingers slid across the sheet towards him. "I know I should be grateful after everything, but..." She swiped at her face as he sat next to her, took her hand, and waited. "It was hard watching someone else feed him. I know it's silly..."

"No, it's not. You're his mother," he said. "But remember it won't be for long." Nodding, she squeezed his hand. "Go to sleep, love."

Without the baby curled in her womb, she felt strangely hollow. Her insides shifted and moved like pudding and everything ached from her jaw to her toes. Exhausted, her body floated as if in a dream, but still it fought sleep.

"Do you want me to stay?"

She smiled. "I don't think Nurse Corley will approve."

"Let her try and stop me," he teased, kissing the tip of her nose. His dressing gown fell to the floor and he slipped beneath the sheets.

Stretched on her narrow cot in the corner, the nurse popped up with a glare. "Mr. Branson!"

But Tom ignored it. Settling down in that comfortable space next to his wife, he brushed his lips against hers. He didn't care about propriety, rules, or convention; he wouldn't leave her. With a contented sigh, Sybil nestled closer and draped an arm across his chest. It had been a long night, and the last thing Tom remembered before the tentacles of sleep pulled him under was the pink light of dawn peeking through the curtains.

The following afternoon, Lord Grantham finished his tea and strolled out of the library, wandering toward the sound of voices descending the stairs. Amused, he watched as Tom shook Dr. Clarkson's hand at least three times before they reached the bottom.

"Nurse Corley knows what to do," he heard the doctor say. Dr. Clarkson smiled as Robert approached. "Congratulations, Lord Grantham. You've a fine-looking young grandson."

"So I keep hearing," he said. "I thought I would give Cora and the girls the first opportunity to fawn over him before having my turn."

Tom exchanged an indulgent smile with his father-in-law. "If you'll excuse me, Lord Grantham. My mother would be upset with me if I didn't write to her straightaway."

"Of course," Robert replied as the Irishman headed for the library. "And Tom? Please let your mother know that Cora and I are delighted to share our first grandchild with her."

Lord Grantham and Dr. Clarkson both chuckled as the young father smiled proudly and nearly floated out of the saloon. "We've been through our share of battles, you and I," Robert said after a moment.

"That we have." Dr. Clarkson yawned widely. "I'm sorry, Lord Grantham, but it's been quite a day...or two days by now I suppose."

Robert waved him off. "It's been quite a few weeks, and more. I'm just relieved things turned out as they did." He followed the doctor toward the door. "I apologize for doubting your abilities. Despite what transpired with Matthew and Lavinia, you've served this family remarkably well over the years. I shudder to think what might have happened to Sybil if..."

Dr. Clarkson stepped into the sunlight and took in a breath of the warm summer breeze. "The truth is, Lord Grantham, we were very lucky. Eclampsia is still a disease of theories and its treatment remains a mystery to us. I've given it a great deal of study over the years, although I certainly don't see as many cases as would a doctor in York or London. Sir Philip Tapsell certainly should have recognized her symptoms." The last sentence came out with palpable disgust.

"Eclampsia… that seems an odd choice of study for a country doctor."

Dr. Clarkson hesitated, his eyes squinting across the brightened landscape before he spoke. "It was a personal choice. My own wife succumbed to it."

"I didn't realize you were married."

His shoulders hitched with a shrug. "That was a long time ago, before I came to Downton. When I left Edinburgh with my medical degree, I returned to St. Andrews to start my practice and married my childhood sweetheart. Maggie died in childbirth about a year later. The seizures were too much for her... and the baby."

"I'm so sorry."

"When I saw the fear and helplessness in Mr. Branson's eyes, I suppose I saw myself all those years ago."

"We men often feel helpless when it comes to our wives and children, even when things go well. I certainly did when my daughters were born."

Dr. Clarkson put on his hat as the motor crunched up the drive. "Coming out of medical school, I thought I knew so much. But, there is truly very little that we know about the human body," he said, and then gave a wistful laugh. "I used to tease my wife that it wasn't the aristocracy that ruled the world, but the doctors. She said, no my dear, it's the mothers and the wives. The hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world." He smiled slowly. "I've come to realize she was right."

Sybil lay back against a mountain of pillows, wondering how many hours of her childhood she'd spent pretending to rock her dolls to sleep. Those expressionless, changeless babies had never responded to her motherly coos, but her sleeping son shifted with each move and sound she made and his color and features altered subtly with each hour of life. Glancing down at him, she realized nothing could have prepared her for the radiating swell in her heart.

The baby slept peacefully, oblivious to the weeks of frantic treatments that had saved them both. Pulling him close, she brushed her lips across his face, listening for the reassurance of his hushed breaths. The baby's hands peeked above the edge of the blanket, the skin soft and translucent. "Oh, my darling," she whispered against his brow. "Your mama and da love you so very, very, much."

Her father's soft voice from the door interrupted her doting. "I'll have you know, your husband hasn't stopped smiling all day."

She glanced up with an indulgent smile. "Neither have I."

Lord Grantham closed the door and came tentatively toward the bed. "That's perfectly understandable. The birth of one's child is a glorious thing." He eased onto the edge of the mattress beside her. "How are you feeling, my dear?"

"Better."

"Well, don't push things."

"You sound like my husband."

"Hmph. Well, even though I rarely agree with my son-in-law, he's right to worry. You've had quite a time of it." His eyes targeted the bundle wriggling against her. "But with a good outcome, it seems."

"Would you like to meet your grandson?" She winced when she sat up to deposit the baby into his arms. Nothing could have quite prepared her for the love or the pain. Between the exertion of labor and the stitches – she cried every trip to the bathroom – she hurt in places she hadn't realized she had until now.

"Darling, please don't try to move..." His face scrunched up in sympathy as she shifted on the bed. "Shall I call the nurse…?"

"No, I'm glad to have a few moments alone. Nurse Corley's wonderful, but a bit overbearing." Settling back into the pillows, she took a moment to catch her breath. "Mama said I would forget the pain as soon as I held my child." She laughed softly and ran a finger over her son's wrinkled brow. "I doubt I'll ever forget it, but he is certainly worth every minute of it."

Glancing down at the baby in his arms, Robert felt hot tears threaten to overspill. The child yawned with a little squeak, his eyes fluttering open. The newborn wrinkles couldn't obscure the wisps of dark hair and the complexion inherited from Sybil. But the child's blue eyes immediately reminded Lord Grantham of Branson. Tom, he corrected himself. "He's quite handsome," the grandfather remarked, then frowned. "And tiny. It seems to me you girls were bigger than this."

"According to Dr. Clarkson, babies born under these circumstances tend to be a little small, but there's no reason why he won't develop normally." Her father and son inspected one another, blinking in tandem.

"Does my grandson have a name?" His voice cracked on the question and he cleared his throat.

"I'd like to call him Robert... unless you have an objection to that."

Reluctantly, he shifted his gaze from his grandson to Sybil. There it was: an infant olive branch hanging between them. Of course he couldn't tell her no. He had never been able to do that: not with her political rallies, not with her nursing, and certainly not with her marriage. Of his three daughters, Sybil reminded him most of Cora - that headstrong American heiress with whom he'd fallen in love before he'd known it. Both women could talk him into anything, and today was no exception. "No objection," he said.

Sybil's mouth curled into a proud smile. "He's to be Robert Daniel, then, after his grandfathers. With one being a tenant farmer and the other an earl, I thought it would serve as a reminder of how insignificant class is when two people truly love one another."

Lord Grantham couldn't help but laugh. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that my first grandchild has already become a political statement." He turned his attention back to the baby, studying him for a long moment before smiling slowly. "But Robert's too old-fashioned for a child of yours. Call him Bobby."

"Bobby Branson," she repeated with a chuckle. "That has a nice Irish ring to it."

For three weeks, Sybil had tolerated Tom's postpartum mother-henning with patience and grace. But when Dr. Clarkson finally released her from Nurse Corley's care, she declared her husband underfoot and expelled him from their bedroom with a kiss, telling him she wanted a few uninterrupted hours to dote on their son. Tom understood better than she knew. She needed time to herself: a little bit of freedom amid the majesty of Downton. He had sought solace then in the only other place on the estate that was comfortable to him.

Serenity coursed through him once he'd taken his familiar place under the Renault, staring up into its belly. His fingers expertly skimmed over the bolts and pipes like a pianist's playing a practiced tune, and he smiled when he felt the broken piston pin. First thing I've accomplished since I've been back at Downton, he thought with a laugh. He'd begun dismantling the mechanism for replacement when a patterned crunching of feet in the gravel broke his concentration. Turning his head, Tom recognized his brother-in-law's shoes approaching the motor.

"Carson suggested I might find you here," he heard Matthew say before flopping down on a nearby wooden bench in the shade. "Apparently, Hodges claims you came at him with wrenches and such. You know, it's bad practice to threaten the staff."

Tom grunted as he twisted a bolt. "If this engine can survive Lady Edith, it shouldn't be begging for mercy with Mr. Hodges behind the wheel. I'm not sure he even knows what a clutch is."

"He came highly recommended from Lord Cavendish."

"I don't think the car shares that opinion," Tom quipped, cursing when a fat drop of oil splattered by his ear.

"We could hire a mechanic. You're not obligated to fix this old rattletrap." Seeing Tom's arm poke out to reach for an oily pan, Matthew nudged it forward with the toe of his shoe.

Tom scraped the pan across the gravel and placed it near his head. "Perhaps I'm just attached to the old girl. She was my first friend on this estate and she's got a few years in her yet. Besides, I don't need to let my skills lapse any more than they already have. I might need them if I want to find a job."

"You're not serious? You would actually go back to that?"

Tom rolled out on the dolly, leaned back against the fender, and propped his arms on his knees with a sigh. "No... and don't tell Sybil I mentioned it as a possibility." He swiped the rag across his face, leaving a comical pattern of dark smudges. "I just need to keep myself busy and out of the house. I'm going a bit mad in there. And apparently I'm driving Sybil mad as well."

Fanning his face with his hat, Matthew laughed. "Well, I don't blame you, but at least the tide has turned in your favor. Cora said Dr. Clarkson gave a good report earlier today."

Tom smiled indulgently. "As soon as he left, Sybil wanted to feed the baby, whether he was hungry or not." He and Sybil had both laughed in relief when Bobby latched on, his eyes observant as his parents shared a triumphant kiss above him.

Matthew seemed to mull on a thought. "Sorry to abandon you at breakfast this morning," he finally uttered aloud, "but I had urgent estate matters to discuss with Mary... about the future of Downton."

Tom shrugged. "No need to apologize to me."

Matthew scraped a trench in the gravel with his heel. "I don't know if you've heard, but old Jarvis resigned yesterday."

"No, I hadn't."

"Apparently I upset him by questioning his methods." A guilty smile played around Matthew's lips.

Tom lofted a brow. "Well, I can't speak to his methods, but I can say that in all my years working here and driving about, I rarely saw him out on the estate or with any of the tenants." In fact, Tom seemed to remember the man's cottage being somewhere on the far western edge of the estate, away from most of the farms.

"Exactly. And Robert refuses to discuss it. He claims I've meddled beyond what's appropriate in my position, even though I was the one paying the man's salary," Matthew explained in a rush. "Anyway, I need to find a new resident agent, one who understands farming and the inner workings of the estate. Someone who knows the people and can help modernize Downton."

"It's been my experience that these so-called resident agents don't have a clue as to how the properties really operate and certainly don't give much thought to what the workers need or want in order to run their farms profitably," Tom said.

"Precisely..." Matthew began, but Tom cut him off.

"...and further, these estates aren't just a business. They're a collection of people. Every man, woman, and child has a contribution to its operation. If you can pool all those talents..."

"Are you running for political office?"

Tom squinted against the late-day sun and laughed. "Sorry. My opinions tend to overflow at the first chance. I suppose I've had to keep them bottled up more than usual lately, being around Sybil's father." He pitched the oily rag against a nearby toolbox and sighed.

"Which will make what I'm about to say a rather extraordinary proposition," Matthew replied, his face lightening in a rueful smile. "I thought you might consider the position of resident agent."

"Me?" Tom laughed at first, but it dwindled awkwardly as he realized Matthew was serious." Why me?"

Matthew stood, waving his hat into the distance. "After our visit to the old Burns farm a few weeks ago, I realized the answer was staring me in the face. I discussed it with Mary and she agrees."

Shaking his head in disbelief, Tom chuckled. "Good luck getting our father-in-law to approve."

"Cousin Robert may be master of the estate, but I control the accounts. And I'm not going to let my money fall through the cracks of mismanagement any longer. He must agree, or else watch Downton go the way that so many other estates have recently. Say what you will about Lord Grantham and his ways, he dearly loves this place. We'll have to speak with Cora, of course, but we won't start drawing up battle lines unless you're on board with the plan."

"It's a big job, running Downton."

"I understand that, and I don't intend you to go at it alone either. It will take both of us as well as Robert."

Tom stood and stretched his back. "Don't you think it's a bit of a risk, given my history?"

"Perhaps. But I think I can trust you not to burn the house down," Matthew laughed. "Like it or not, you're part of this family now. You're stuck with us." He clapped a hand on his brother-in-law's shoulder and asked, "Have you any plans for the day?"

"No. I'd prefer to stay close to the house in case Sybil needs me."

"Good, because I've been dying for a decent game of billiards lately," Matthew replied, turning them towards the house. "Our father-in-law is rather dreadful at it."

Bobby's cries snatched them from their sleep-deprived slumber again. If Tom and Sybil had learned anything about parenthood so far, it was that rest was both precious and scarce. Sybil's family kept insisting they hire a nanny, but she would have none of it. If they were back in Dublin, they would care for the baby themselves, and they would do so here. Besides, she had found herself utterly in love with her little boy, who looked more and more like his father as the newborn wrinkles faded away.

She began to roll over, but Tom gently stayed her hand. "I'll fetch him," he slurred, and then trudged automatically toward the cot. He pulled the red-faced, wailing child into his arms with a sigh. Welcome to fatherhood.

"It's been a few hours. He should be hungry."

Tom nodded, and then winced at the dampness he felt on his arm. "And wet." Bobby's wails persisted as his father laid him down for a change. Tom had grown accustomed to these duties; they kept his mind busy, particularly with the lack of a regular occupation. Besides, changing nappies was infinitely less offensive than conversing with his father-in-law. He cooed to his freshly-changed little boy, a sing-song lightness in his tone as he padded toward the bed.

Though she hadn't been allowed to feed her son until today, she had stayed in the room with the wet-nurse and would hold him immediately after. She was his mother, and didn't want him to have any doubts when it came time to feed him herself. "I'll try him like this," she told Tom, lying on her side. As Sybil pulled the baby to her, Tom tucked a stray pillow behind her back. The child suckled greedily, his throaty gulps noisy in the midnight silence.

Tom slid in beside them. "He's not going to choke, is he?"

"No, he just does that," she said with a laugh. "You haven't noticed?"

"Not really. I didn't think it appropriate to stare at another woman's breasts."

She burst into laughter, startling the baby. Her fingers drifted down to brush the thin strands of hair to calm him. Bobby's hand splayed and grasped against his mother's skin, his blue eyes alert.

"I don't mind staring at yours, though," he teased. "Especially now."

"Why, because they've gotten so big?"

"No, because you're feeding our son." He bent down and pressed his lips against the warm swell of her breast, and then brushed them over his son's cheek, delighting in the melodic snuffles as he fed. Tom found his son's favorite pastime rather fascinating. "Does it hurt?"

"No. It's actually a relief." Three weeks of trying to express her milk by hand had been a rare form of torture.

Tom thought of where they'd been a year before, carefree in their newly wedded bliss back in Dublin. It seemed so long ago, and yet only yesterday. Watching Sybil nourish their son, though, he wouldn't trade what they had now for anything.

"Matthew offered me a job," he said casually. "As Downton's resident agent." She glanced up, speechless. "It's not official, of course, unless your father approves. Which he probably won't."

"I... I don't know what to say."

Tom rolled to his back and dropped a forearm across his eyes. "You're right. I must be mad to even consider it."

"No, that's not what I meant," she said quickly. "But I know it's not what you want."

"None of this is," he confessed. "Except for you and Bobby. And that's what's most important to me right now. Everything else is just detail."

She exhaled a laugh, remembering his promise to her not so long ago, that tribulations were minor inconveniences compared to their love.

"It doesn't have to be forever," he said. "Just until we can go back to Ireland or until something better pops up. I can't wait around here day after day with nothing to do. It's the first time in my life that I've felt utterly useless." He faced her again, marveling at the small twitches as Bobby suckled for nourishment. "I admit, it would be nice to put money away so that he doesn't have to work through his childhood like I did, and have a real chance at an education one day. As much as I loathe the aristocracy and this life, I admit I'm willing to take advantage of it for him if I have to. Makes me a bit of a hypocrite, I suppose."

"No," she whispered, pulling him towards her for a kiss. "It makes you a father. And I love you for it."

Downton, March 1924

"Matthew showed me some of the renovations to Downton Cottage the other day," Edith said. "He said they were a little more extensive than he originally thought."

"I'm afraid so," Sybil replied with a sigh. "But we can't let those get in the way of other work on the estate." She scanned the patterned walls of her childhood bedroom. It seemed like forever that the Bransons had been trying to move into Downton Cottage, and she truly wondered if they would ever leave the house in which she'd grown up. But the tug on her breast pushed the thought from her mind, and she smiled down at her daughter. Mercifully, Saoirse's birth had been uncomplicated. She and Tom had waited so long for another child that they had both found themselves crying in relief when the little girl wailed herself into the world. Now, not even through her first day, Saoirse's rosebud mouth suckled greedily, her eyes alert for her aunt and grandmother.

"I'm sure they'll finish them as quickly as possible," Cora said. "And you'll be so busy with this little darling over the next few months that you'll hardly notice the time."

"I suppose that will give me time to remember how to cook. I'd hate to poison my husband and children on the first day."

Cora laughed. "I understand Tom has a list of demands for the house?"

"Lots and lots of bookshelves. He may wage war against extravagance, but don't let him fool you. He's always been in love with Papa's library." Sybil laughed. "He's terribly disappointed there's no room for a billiard table, but I had to put my foot down at some point."

"That's fine by me," her mother replied. "That way he'll insist on bringing you here as often as possible."

Just then, the doorknob squeaked, and two identical pairs of blue eyes peered around the corner. "Someone wants to meet his little sister," Tom said.

Upon seeing his mother's permissive smile, Bobby grinned excitedly and clambered up on the high mattress before his grandmother and aunt could stop him.

"It's alright, Mama." Sybil reached to help her son. The little boy crawled over the covers, and snuggled into the crook of his mother's free arm. She squeezed him into a hug. "Oh, my darling, I've missed you."

Bobby stared down at the baby, his eyes wide. "What's she doing?"

Aghast, Cora exhaled an embarrassed laugh. "Sybil, do you think it's really proper for..."

"We've already talked about babies." Once the little boy had begun questioning his mother's enlarging tummy, Sybil decided the best explanation was the truth, although Tom proved useless in the conversation. But the knowledge seemed to fascinate Bobby, especially after Sybil allowed him to feel the baby kick. Kissing the top of her son's head, she explained, "She's feeding, darling."

His eyes lit in boyish epiphany. "Like the kittens in the dairy barn?"

The adults laughed. "Close enough," Tom said.

Bobby leaned over to kiss the tiny foot peeking from the blanket and laughed when the baby's toes curled against his nose.

Tom eased down beside his wife and watched his children become acquainted. Wrapping an arm around her shoulder, he realized they had reached another long-awaited milestone. Before Bobby was born, he'd taken the idea of children for granted. But after surviving the nightmare of their son's birth, Sybil's miscarriage the next year, and the endless months of disappointment that followed, he realized those trials only heightened the elation of this moment.

Bobby soon grew restless with his sister's inactivity and slipped off the bed to divert his attention elsewhere. Edith reached for his hand and the little boy skipped toward her with a knowing smile; time with his Aunt Edith meant a secret trip to the kitchen and Mrs. Patmore's sweets.

Cora kissed her daughter's cheek and gave Tom's hand a squeeze. "She's a wonderful baby," she said, and then smiled, her eyes twinkling. "And I'll work with your father-in-law on pronouncing her name."

Tom and Sybil shared a laugh as the door closed, both remembering the blank look on Lord Grantham's face when they introduced him to his first granddaughter. He'd mangled Saoirse's name on the first few attempts; he finally gave up and announced he would refer to her as 'My Little Darling' until the parents decided on an appropriate nickname. Tom brushed a finger down his daughter's outstretched arm and Saoirse clutched it tightly in her hand. "She's beautiful," Tom whispered, and then sighed in relief. "And strong. I saw Dr. Clarkson as he was leaving. He said you're both model patients."

Nodding, Sybil kissed him. "You'll stay with me tonight?"

"Of course," he replied, settling more comfortably on the bed. He slipped an arm beneath hers, and they cradled their daughter together.

Sybil relaxed against his chest, sleep threatening to pull her under as the evening sun streamed through the window. Later, Tom glanced down, noticed the baby's lashes lay against her cheeks; tired from feeding, Saoirse's little mouth hung wide. Chuckling softly, he pulled the gown over Sybil's breast. Her eyes fluttered open. "Thank you."

Kissing her brow, Tom whispered, "Go to sleep, love," and held both his girls as they slept.

A/N 2: Given that Clarkson's the country doctor and wouldn't have seen as many cases of eclampsia, I had to give him a little backstory to inform his knowledge of the disease. Hence, the revelation about his wife. Also, I'm not necessarily advocating that this treatment for preeclampsia would have worked in the canon storyline (I actually found a whole range of period case studies going both ways), but since JF can have his way with Sybil's life, I figured I could have mine. Lastly, I hadn't planned on naming baby 2 "Saoirse," until I saw a video a while back of Allen Leech pronouncing the name (thanks repmet!) – I was sorta sold on it at that point.

The past couple of chapters have been devoid of sexytimes, so I plan to make up for it in the next two, and then I'm whipping out the angst card again...