A/N: I've had the basic premise of this outlined for a while, but I kept getting stuck and then got sucked into a trio of future chapters (which I'm really nervous about posting). Then I go and watch 4x03 and 4x04 (ugh) – but one can either capitulate or write, so like what happened after 3x05, I turned to forging on with the AU. Oddly, this chapter and 4x03 merged with a similar storyline. I was struggling with how to firm it up and that wretched episode helped me figure it all out.

Time-wise this chapter takes place a month or so before Chapter 4, in which Sybil mentioned an innocent question Bobby asked of his Uncle Kieran – so this grew out of that. Again, thanks to all the readers, reviewers, PM-ers out there! I really appreciate folks taking the time to read all these long chapters (and A/Ns).

As always thanks to foojules for the beta!

WHAT'S BECOME OF US

Liverpool/Downton, Mid-October 1923

The October winds gusted across the beach at Hoylake, teasing the seagulls' routes as they twirled overhead. Standing back by the dunes, Tom watched Bobby hoist a piece of bread in his hand. Sybil knelt beside their son, both of them squealing as the birds swooped down to snag an afternoon snack. Tom couldn't help but smile at his boy. Bundled against the cold with his cap pulled tightly over his ears, Bobby babbled excitedly to his Mama as his cheeks flamed crimson.

It was Bobby's first trip to the sea, which Sybil had deemed a necessity when they'd decided to visit Kieran in Liverpool. Tom and his brother were not particularly close, and a group outing was a welcome distraction after three days together.

Bobby's eyes had widened in wonderment at his first view of the vast gray sea peeking over the yellow sands. Tom explained that Ireland was not that far, but to a three-year-old the wheeling birds and the waves crashing on the shore were too thrilling for him to comprehend much more.

They would return to Downton tomorrow, but for now, Tom thought of nothing but his family. Their laughter wafted toward him on the cool, damp winds. Sybil glanced back to her husband, her face alight, the fabric of her dress billowing in the breeze. Tom's entire world stood on that small patch of sand, and in that moment even he forgot his homeland beyond the sea.

Standing next to him, Kieran clasped his hands behind his back. "The boy's grown," he observed dryly. "Looks just like a Branson, too."

As much as he wanted to see more of Sybil in Bobby, Tom couldn't disagree. "I always thought his first time to the sea would be in Ireland. Maybe up at Portmarnock or down by Blackrock or Killiney."

"Water's water," was his brother's glib reply. "Still no word from those damned politicians then, I take it?"

"No. It seems they'd rather not upset the apple cart for the sake of someone like me."

"I'm sorry, Tommy." Though they had their disagreements, and plenty of them, Kieran genuinely empathized with his brother. His own settlement in England was by choice – he had a steady job, a girlfriend or two, but nothing to tie him down. If he ever had the inclination to return to Ireland, he was free to do so.

"I'm used to it, I suppose." Tom motioned towards his wife and son. "They're my life now, so I don't think on it too much."

"And you've another on the way." Kieran smirked when Tom turned to him in surprise, and then offered, "I suppose she's just getting fat then. Don't tell her I said that," he added quickly, then quirked his head toward Sybil. "She's been rubbing her middle all day."

Tom glanced back out to the beach, and felt the corners of his mouth curl up in a smile. It had been so long since she carried their son, all of her pregnancy habits seemed new again. "Have you heard from Joe?"

"Not a peep. 'Course he was never one to confide in me anyway. Andrew wrote that he was tossed in jail a time or two, accused of rousing the opposition."

"I heard a rumor he may have been involved in the Collins assassination last year." Tom's oldest brother Joe had been a close associate of Michael Collins until he'd negotiated the Anglo-Irish treaty, abdicating the northern counties to an uncertain fate. On the other side were Eamon de Valera and his supporters, who fiercely opposed any agreement that would divide Ireland. The country had plunged into civil war, and once battle lines were drawn Joe had fallen in with the anti-treaty crowd. Tom wondered which side he would have chosen if he were still there. His principles screamed for absolute freedom, but as he grew older, he realized compromise often paved the path for victory as well.

"Don't believe everything you hear over here about Ireland, Tommy. Joe broke with Collins because of his role in the treaty, but in the end they still had a lot of respect for one another." Kieran stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets and changed the subject. "Have you looked for any other work?"

Tom shook his head. "I've thought about it from time to time, and Sybil certainly wouldn't be opposed to it if that's what I wanted, but now..."

"Don't tell me you actually enjoy it."

Rolling his eyes, Tom said, "It's not that I enjoy it, Kieran. But I do find some satisfaction in helping out the tenants and the workers on the estate. We've made a lot of progress. Even Lord Grantham wasn't sure how his mine property was getting on when I first started, and we've managed to improve the conditions, make them more efficient..."

Kieran's face crumpled in a derisive smirk. "Jesus wept."

"Feck off."

"Easy now," Kieran snickered. He squinted into the setting sun, watching his nephew dart to the edge of the water. Bobby squealed when the rippling waves threatened his shoes, and then ran back into his mother's waiting arms. "Can't say as I blame you. I might throw everything behind if I had a chance at that."

Tom caught his brother's wistful tone and smiled. Just then the wind whipped his son's voice toward him, calling excitedly for Da to come look. Tom paced across the sand and scooped Bobby up, the child chattering and pointing to something by his feet. "Are you having a grand time?" Out of breath, Bobby nodded, and Tom planted a warm kiss on his wind-roughened cheek.

Sybil slipped her arm around Tom's waist, brandishing a shell for their son to inspect. "And what about me?" she asked.

Tom brushed his mouth against hers and smiled. "Do you remember the last time we went to the beach?"

"Portmarnock," they whispered together. She'd been about seven months gone at the time and they had decided to break for a Spring afternoon by the Irish Sea. They'd brought a blanket to snuggle in as they watched the sun escape over the water; before long she was above him, rocking in a rhythmic motion until they both cried out beneath the stars.

"I don't think Kieran would appreciate us abandoning him for the dunes," he teased.

"Da!" Bobby crowed for his attention and then jabbered about the shell his mother had presented him.

"Neither would this one," Sybil said.

"Are you two going to stop fawning over each other?" came her brother-in-law's annoyed question. "I'm starving!"

Though Kieran and Tom were closest in age among the Branson brothers, they'd never had an easy relationship. What contact they had was obligatory and infrequent, usually instigated by terse letters from their mother reminding them that they were each other's only family in England. Kieran rarely came to Downton, and when he did, he groused about being put up in the posh bachelor's quarters; on his last trip, he'd insisted he'd be more comfortable at the Grantham Arms.

But in Liverpool, he was a gracious host and the brothers fell into a relaxed banter on that last night. The two had downed several pints, their conversation growing more good-humored with each glass. Sybil sat back and watched, feeling at ease in the small parlor with its makeshift dining table, comfortable in her casual dress with her husband clad in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves. The brothers swapped stories of King's County where they grew up: beer slipped down the men's throats, their accents deepened, their stories grew wilder. She hardly believed most of them – blarney the Irish would have called it, but she laughed anyway because her husband did.

Tom leaned over to his son, teasing the tip of Bobby's nose with a light finger, and told him of how his older brothers had chopped down a dead tree in the yard, but forgot to consider where it would land.

"It fell on the privy," he remembered. "We found pieces of it on the next farm."

"Da, what's a privy?"

Tom raised an amused brow at his wife. "It's a bathroom...outdoors."

"Oh." Bobby reached out to his plate and fished around for a piece of bread.

Sybil watched her son eat, perched on a little stack of books in the wooden chair. Suddenly she realized how little she normally saw of him during meals. She forced away the dreary thought and reached under the table to hold her husband's hand: another rare occurrence,as formality typically cast them at opposite ends of the table at Downton.

"You cook quite well for a bachelor," she told her brother-in-law.

Kieran turned in his chair to pull another dish from a nearby table. "It's a lot cheaper than finding a wife."

"Tom used to cook for us quite a bit in Dublin."

"Out of necessity," Tom told Kieran with a wink. "It's a good thing my wife's better at nursing than cooking, or her patients would be done for."

Sybil nudged at his shins under the table. "I wasn't that bad."

Bobby, his cheeks painted with sauce, pulled a piece of brisket from his plate and chewed thoughtfully. "Uncle Kieran, why don't you have a cook?"

Tom's face went still, which Kieran did not fail to notice. "Well, it's just me here," he replied evenly. "I cook all my own meals."

"Mrs. Patmore is our cook. She lets me help." Bobby gripped his fork to spear a cube of potato. "Do you have a butler?"

Sybil watched as Tom's wooden expression transformed into disbelief. Before he could say anything, she patted her son's chubby leg. "Bobby, finish your dinner. It's almost bedtime and we should get back to the hotel."

Bobby nodded, chasing peas with his spoon. A few fell into his lap; he plucked them from his trousers one by one and dropped them on his plate. "But who opens the door for everyone?"

Tom watched his brother bite back the I told you so lurking at the end of his tongue. "Uncle Kieran does, of course," he muttered, mortified. "Don't you remember? He did when we arrived."

Sybil's eyes darted between the two men. "Kieran, Tom tells me you're contemplating another job."

"It's not another job exactly," Kieran answered. "I want to open my own garage. Be my own boss for a change."

"That's wonderful! When?"

Kieran held up a hand. "Not tomorrow," he laughed. "A few months maybe. I've got to get a few things in order first. Set up financing. Find a good spot for the garage – something with a good-sized flat."

"Da, can Uncle Kieran move to Downton?" the little boy asked excitedly. "There's plenty of room!"

"Bobby, don't ask so many silly questions during dinner," Tom snapped, making the child flinch and hang his head. Immediately Tom was flooded with shame. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Sybil shot him a glare.

"Bobby, darling," she said sweetly, kissing his hair. "Would you like to help me wash the dishes?"

The little boy bobbed his head, the reprimand forgotten, and grinned at the prospect of playing in more water. Taking his mother's hand, he hopped down from his stack of books.

"Sybil, love, I..."

She stood abruptly, taking Tom's plate. "You two don't get to see one another very often, so we'll let you to it."

Sybil had plopped Bobby on the counter next to the sink and handed him a towel for drying. Two dishes in and his eyes began to droop along with the plate in his softening grip. He fell asleep on her shoulder before she could even get him to Kieran's bed. She returned to the kitchen to finish the few remaining pieces of dinnerware, taking her time, enjoying the water lapping her forearms. She couldn't remember the last time she'd tackled such a domestic chore. She decided the counter needed a good scrubbing, and then saw that the small iron stove could use one as well. By the time she fished into the sink for the chain and rubber plug to drain it, it hardly looked like a bachelor's kitchen.

The gurgling water drowned out the men's voices in the other room. "Her name's Dame Melba Nellie, or maybe it's Nellie Melba," Tom was saying when she could hear them again. "Hell, I don't know. I'd never heard of her until Lord and Lady Grantham scheduled the concert."

Sybil sighed, remembering what awaited them back at Downton. Her parents were in the midst of hosting a house party, the bulk of which she and Tom had managed to escape with this visit, but her mother had extracted their promise that they'd return in time for the party's "special moment." Her father had pulled out all the stops for this one, and he expected the entire family to be present for the Australian soprano's performance.

She shuffled into Kieran's room to collect her son, and then into the parlor for Tom. Hearing Sybil's footsteps behind him, Tom craned his head back and smiled at the little boy draped over her shoulder; Bobby was a hard sleeper, like him. "Shall I take him?" His voice came out a bit slurred, which was no surprise to Sybil; the row of bottles on the table had lengthened considerably while she was in the kitchen.

She sank onto the sofa beside him. "No," she laughed softly. "I want to enjoy this while I can. He's getting so big...and heavy."

"He's just solid," Tom said.

"Like all the Bransons." Sybil turned to give Kieran a smile. "I'll be sure to write Cathleen what a wonderful host you were."

His teeth flashed beneath his mustache in a rare grin. "Save the ink. Mam wouldn't believe it." Kieran finished off a bottle and stuffed it between his thigh and the upholstered chair arm. "Perhaps Tommy could sing a duet with this Melba lady."

"Shut it." Tom cast his brother a warning glare before draining the last of his own beer.

"Our mam used go on and on," he said, circling a finger in the air, "about how her darling Tommy could make the angels weep when he sang. Put the rest of us to shame."

Tom snorted. "Wasn't a high bar anyway. Most of you lot couldn't carry a tune in a bucket."

"Darling, you have a wonderful voice," Sybil insisted. When he shrugged, she said, "You used to sing all the time. In Dublin, remember?" She laughed, recalling how she would follow the sound around their small flat.

Tom frowned. "All the songs I know are about Ireland. Downton just doesn't seem the place for them."

"But you sang to Bobby when he was a baby," she pointed out. "And it seems to me that songs about home help to keep it alive in your heart." She rubbed her son's back and planted a kiss on his shoulder. "Will you sing one for him, like you used to?"

Tom couldn't resist that appeal. His voice cracked on the first note – like a piano with a stuck key – but he closed his eyes and it soon warmed up, the rich baritone infused with fatigue and beer. Sybil's skin hummed, rising into goosebumps with the lyrical roll of each line: Some died by the glenside, some died near a stranger; And wise men have told us their cause was a failure.

Down By the Glenside had become one of Sybil's favorites. At their wedding breakfast, some of the men - his brothers, his brothers-in-law, and a few of his cousins - had spontaneously begun to warble the old ballad. Mary and Edith had been taken aback at such a melancholy choice, but to Sybil it seemed appropriate. After all, even at such a happy occasion, they were still in the thick of a war. While her adopted countrymen were largely a cheerful lot, they never failed to remember the sacrifices of those who had gone before them. Sybil closed her eyes and leaned into Tom's shoulder as he swung into the finale: But they loved old Ireland and they never feared danger; Glory O, Glory O, to the bold Fenian men.

Kieran pulled out a handkerchief and swiped at his nose. "Jesus, did you have to sing that one?"

"I miss hearing that," Sybil whispered. She and Tom exchanged a slow smile and he leaned over to kiss her, lingering for just a moment before finishing with a light peck. Bobby shifted his head on his mother's shoulder, his breath hitching and then evening again in slumber. "We should go. He's out cold and we've got an early train."

Kieran wobbled to his feet. "Oof. I'm sorry, Tommy, but I'm a bit too scuttered to drive you back." He swallowed a burp before shuffling toward the door. "I'll flag down a cab."

They followed, both laughing when Kieran thudded against the threshold and let out a muttered curse. Tom twisted around to exchange grins with Sybil, but then his eyes dropped to Bobby, still asleep on her shoulder, and his smile faded. "I didn't mean to bark at him earlier." His brow furrowed with remorse.

"I know." She pressed a kiss to her son's head. "But I do think it's time we made some decisions about our future."

Downton, The Next Day

Tom hardly believed the difference twenty-four hours made. He'd gone from swallowing pints, rumpled and relaxed at his brother's table, to standing starched and pressed like a window display in the Downton drawing room. This was his third such formal party in the past three years and they didn't get any easier. During his first, he'd been so saturated with etiquette, protocol, and warning from his in-laws that he didn't have time to be miserable. The second had been at neighboring Orland Park, and the company so dreadful that he hardly left Sybil's side. Tonight, now that he understood the ritualistic pacing of the affairs, he milled around counting the seconds with his feet.

He had finally settled into a passable conversation with the Dowager Countess when a dark shadow fell upon them in the form of the Lady Shackleton. Even Sybil's unflappable grandmother seemed startled as the woman horned in, the bright blue peacock feather that adorned her coif swaying and dipping whenever she moved.

The old goose feigned interest in Tom long enough to peer down her beak and inquire about his peculiarly timed trip to Liverpool. "Visiting your brother, you say?"

"That's right." He raised his glass to his lips but found it empty, it's clear bottom a mocking reminder that the evening had only just started. He supposed he only had himself to blame. After auditing the house books a few years back, he and Matthew had determined that the wine and liquor budget bordered on criminal and prescribed less generous pours as an antidote. With his whiskey ration having vanished ten minutes into the party, though, Tom was wishing heartily that he'd found another way to cut costs.

"And what does one do in Liverpool?" Lady Shackleton's voice and eyebrows rose in a pretense of enthusiasm.

Tom opened his mouth - to say what, he didn't know, as he couldn't very well regale the lady with tales of drinking pints, feeding seabirds, and singing songs of revolution - but the Dowager swooped in, her face puckering in strained gaiety as she waved a gloved hand. "Have you heard the latest of Lady Truro?" She gave a significant tsk.

Lady Shackleton took the bait and the Dowager turned toward her childhood friend, the two women lowering their voices in a private conclave. Dismissed, Tom suppressed a roll of his eyes - trust Old Lady Grantham to parry shame with the lure of Belgravia gossip - and ambled across the room in search of anyone carrying a silver tray.

He caught the eye of Sybil, who was locked in conversation with the Duchess of Yeovil. Casting a sympathetic glance to his bored wife, he heard the Duchess inquire about Sybil's condition. "You should visit my daughter's seamstress," she said, patting Sybil's knee. "Her dresses revealed nothing until the very end. And by then, of course, she remained at home for the confinement."

Sybil's brows furrowed in annoyance. "There's no need to hide anything."

"Well." The Duchess stumbled a bit. "You've done this before. You'll find that the second is easier than the first in so many ways."

Tom saw Sybil's face cloud over and glided quickly to her side, dropping a hand to her shoulder as she tried to cobble an appropriate response. "Thank you," he offered politely. For the two of them, the struggle to have a second child had left their emotions raw.

The Duchess smiled pleasantly at Lady Grantham, who had settled in beside Sybil on the sofa. "That will make four grandchildren, will it not? Will your nursery be big enough?"

Cora smiled indulgently. "Well, the boys are getting so big now. Bobby and David are certainly old enough to share a room of their own." She turned to her daughter. "I've been thinking we can put the new baby in with Teddy."

Sybil shared an exasperated glance with her husband. "Mama, I'd planned to keep the baby in our room until it's..." She started to say weaned, but caught herself. "You know, just like we did with Bobby."

"But you didn't have a nanny then," her mother replied. Sybil's sigh came out in a quiet huff. Lady Grantham turned to her right, where Mary stood by the mantel in conversation with her husband and Lord Gillingham. "Mary, didn't you find it more convenient for David and Teddy to be in the nursery when they were babies?"

Mary's eyes darted between her mother and sister. "Well..."

Edith, breezing up with a cocktail, chimed in. "I think it comes down to pragmatism, Mama." Her eyes sparkled with mischief and she downed the rest of her drink before adding, "I'm not sure Sybil requires a wet nurse. She's perfectly content feeding her own child."

There was a spluttering sound from behind and then Robert's scandalized "Oh my dear fellow, I'm so sorry." Tom whirled to find his father-in-law brushing droplets of whiskey from Sir John Bullock's lapels, and then heard him quietly instruct Carson to ration Edith for the remainder of the evening.

Sybil wasn't sure whether to hug her sister or kick her shins. Edith just toyed with her glass, oblivious to the nasty looks her mother and older sister lobbed at her, and then sauntered toward one of the other guests with Mr. Gregson on her heels.

Shaking with suppressed laughter, Tom wondered what the visiting toffs would say if they knew he was in the room with Sybil when their son was born, or that he'd held the jar of olive oil while she smeared it on her cracked nipples during those first weeks of nursing.

As the earl's son-in-law, Tom was expected to engage the younger men in conversation, but as usual he found most of them perfectly genteel and deadly boring under their cloaks of civility. Three minutes with a fellow called Sampson – Tom didn't bother to remember his full name – sent him in desperate search of anyone else, only to find Sir John Bullock, who spoke of nothing but his club in London. Evelyn Napier, Lord Branksome, was one of the few men here that Tom could really talk to. An increasingly good friend of Matthew and regular visitor to Downton, the young Viscount perked up with genuine fascination when Tom mentioned the latest tractor models he'd tested at a recent agricultural fair. Between Branksome and Edith's Michael Gregson, Tom had two reliable fallbacks. Just a few more hours, he reminded himself.

Dinner proved no less painful, and Tom thanked God they'd managed to miss the first few days of the party. The guests whom he'd just met tonight were no more intriguing than those he already knew. Lord Gillingham, a childhood friend of Mary's, seemed amiable enough, but his fiancée Miss Mabel Lane Fox was as bland as porridge. Sybil, soldiering through small talk with her, certainly looked bored.

Tom had been seated next to Lady Shackleton (being the earl's son-in-law came with certain 'privileges'), who fortunately took no more interest in him. This was in marked contrast to the Duchess of Yeovil across the table, who was curious to a fault. "The Dowager Countess tells me you're from Ireland, Mr. Branson," she said.

He glanced at Sybil's grandmother, wondering how much beyond Ireland she had revealed. Not that he cared. In fact, as the night wore on – or perhaps it was the alcohol – he cared less and less. "That's right," he answered. "King's County. Near Ballykeegan."

"Then you must be acquainted with Delderfield family of Murlough."

Tom's lips hung on the rim of his glass for a moment. "I am."

"Lady Delderfield and my aunt, the Marchioness of Tysoe, were very dear friends," she said.

Tom lofted a brow and offered a quick nod before setting down his glass. He'd hoped she'd leave it at that, but such wasn't his luck.

"Such a shame what happened to that estate. I understand the end came as quite a blow to the tenants and staff."

The older woman didn't seem unkind, just blissfully ignorant of her class's collective heel gouging the necks of the masses below. Still, he seemed to have found his own personal hell. He glanced down the table at Sybil, who offered an encouraging nod. "I wouldn't call it a shame really," he said, a sigh hissing through his nose. "The Delderfield sons-in-law knew nothing of estate management and drove it into a ditch. They deserved to lose their shirts, the way they treated those tenants." Tom's end of the table had fallen silent. The Duchess sipped her wine – or maybe it was claret – Lord Grantham would have expected him to know the difference by now.

Sitting a few seats down, Sir John Bullock broke the lull. "That's a rather incriminating accusation, Mr. Branson."

Tom pulled on his wine, the heat rising in his cheeks. Tonight, he decided, he wasn't satisfied with pinning his family history on the clothes line. He wanted it flapping in the breeze. "My father was one of the few tenants that managed to navigate around the owner's deceit and feed his family. And I was the coachman's apprentice for a time before I chauffeured for them. Once I realized how badly they'd handled Lady Delderfield's fortune, I knew it was a matter of time before we'd all be let go. So I came here to England, to work as Lord Grantham's chauffeur."

Lady Shackleton, somehow managing to edge away from Tom without moving, forced a smile. "How remarkable." And with that, she steered the conversation toward the upcoming concert as if he had never said a word.

After dinner, the guests filed out into the saloon, the cacophony of voices resonating dully between the arcaded walls. The staff were already milling by the corner doors, barely concealed from the guests. Tom hung back, caught in the swoosh of satin and velvet skirts as the ladies breezed by. He turned at the gentle hand on his arm.

"Darling?" The exchanged glance hung heavy between them. Sybil's lips curved in an apologetic smile before she went on tiptoe to brush them quickly against his; Lord Grantham strolled past with a loud and obviously feigned cough.

When the mass of bodies had filtered out of earshot toward the rows of chairs at the far end of the room, she said, "I'm sorry. I never should have agreed to come back from Liverpool a day early for this."

"Well, we are back, so we may as well make the best of things," Tom replied, but made sure to add, "for now." He sighed, casting his eyes toward the stairs. "I'm a bit tired this evening. Opera might very well put me to sleep. The last thing we need is for me to start drooling in my lap."

Sybil's shoulders relaxed as she laughed. "Go on up." Her hand pushed against the starched front of his shirt. "I'll represent us this evening: play the part. I only hope Dame Nellie's singing will take everyone's mind off my breasts." They both snickered before he bent to kiss her.

Piano notes began mingling with the prattle from the other side of the room. "Not mine," he whispered against her mouth. Hooking a finger along his collar, he unlaced his tie. "I'll be dreaming of them when I go to sleep." He dropped the tie in her hands with a wink.

Tom slipped unnoticed up the stairs. The evening's pleasantries had sapped the life out of him, but he had one important visit to make before he collapsed into bed. He cracked the nursery door open with a little squeak, and peered around the edge into the soft glow. His eyes caught those of Nanny Bradford, who stood by the small marble hearth folding a stack of boy-sized clothes.

"Good evening, Mr. Branson." She greeted him warmly, unsurprised to see him: Bobby's parents were a fixture in here. Rarely a night passed when they didn't tuck him in or take him to their own room for a bedtime story. "I assumed the party would go well into the night."

He stepped in, closing the door behind him, and spoke softly. "I'm sure it will, but not for me. Not this evening." She gave him a knowing smile as he padded over to his son's bed, which Bobby shared with Mary and Matthew's oldest son, David. Bobby slept on his stomach – Sybil teased that he'd picked up that trait from his father – his round cheeks slack against the pillow, his breathing coming out in measured puffs. Tom brushed back a loose curl of dark hair and smiled. "Has he been asleep long?"

"A while, yes. I think the trip tuckered him out." She chuckled quietly. "He wouldn't stop talking about it. Prattling on about the sea and the train ride." There was levity in her tone. She refused to play favorites with the boys (a good nanny would never do such, she said), but she had a special fondness for the former chauffeur's son. After Downton's first Nanny landed in their bad graces not two months in, Tom had thought of Mrs. Bradford, one of the tenant's wives and recently widowed. As it turned out, she had nannied the Crawley girls before marrying Mr. Bradford, and her aunt had done the same for Robert and Rosamond. Tom and Nanny Bradford had become allies at Downton; she took no affront to the Bransons' instructions and allowed them the freedom of parenthood. "Thank you for my postcard, by the way," she said, pointing to where it lay propped on the mantle.

"No need to thank me. Bobby insisted on it."

Her eyes brightened with an indulgent smile. "He's a good lad. He'll make His Lordship proud one day."

Tom bent to kiss Bobby's cheek and secured the blanket across his shoulders. "I'm sure he will." But he'll do it without being entitled to any of this, he thought. And that's as it should be.

Sybil hadn't really wanted to sit through the concert, could have easily pleaded pregnancy fatigue, but she recognized Tom's gray mood as an unspoken request for solitude. So she sat listening to the world famous soprano in a rare private performance and wishing she was anywhere else.

During a lull when Dame Nellie paused to rest her vocal chords, the Dowager turned in her seat to give Sybil her opinion of the Bransons' conduct. First she denounced Tom's "boorish behavior" at dinner, asking if someone had slipped him another pill, and then she moved on to Sybil's, admonishing that young ladies should be more self-conscious of their condition.

"Really, Granny," Sybil finally snapped as the soprano again appeared before the audience. "I'm carrying a child, not the plague." With that she stood up. The movement caught her father's eye and Lord Grantham turned with a scowl, but the pianist began to play before he could speak. Sybil narrowed her eyes, daring him to challenge her, as she slipped to the end of her row.

She was certain that the singing floating up from the ground floor would stir Tom when she opened their bedroom door, but he snored on, one arm dangling off the side of the bed, the other flat on the empty space beside him. She hurried into her nightgown and settled in, inching her icy toes next to his. Tom jerked in his sleep and nudged them away. She laughed, scrubbed her feet against the sheet to warm them, and tried again. That seemed to do the trick, so she nestled closer, brushing a loose lock of hair from his brow before leaning in to kiss him.

Sybil's mind flipped through the images of the night, accompanied by the operatic vocals from downstairs. As a girl she had loved lying in bed, listening to the clink of glassware and the rumble of laughter and conversation from parties that lasted well into the night. But tonight she was remembering quite a different scene: Tom's melodious rendition of the fenian ballad, the feel of their son warm against her chest. She concentrated on Tom's soft snores to lull her into sleep.

She woke sometime later, feeling a chill void at her side: Tom was gone. Propping up, she shivered, her eyes scanning the room until they locked on his silhouetted form by the windows. "Tom?"

"I don't dream about Dublin as often as I used to."

Sybil pushed back the warm covers, wrapped up in her dressing gown, and shuffled across the carpet to join him. His gaze was fixed, trance-like, on the moonlit landscape outside, but he sighed and leaned back into her when she snaked her arms around his waist. She gave an answering sigh and reached further around to take his hands in hers. "I try thinking about it: the stained walls, the cramped washroom, our squeaky bed..." He smiled slowly, remembering those early weeks when he battled the iron frame with his tools until finally giving up. "But it all seems so long ago now. Somewhere along the way, my happiest memories became those we made here." He turned to face her, leaning down for a kiss. "I held our son for the first time here in this room. He spoke his first words downstairs, in front of your parents, and took his first steps there in the hall..." Pulling her into his arms, he admitted, "It hurt too much to think it all could have happened back in Ireland if I hadn't been at Drumgoole that day..."

Shaking her head, she pressed her fingers against his lips. "Darling, don't blame yourself."

"I'm sorry I broke my promise." When she cocked her head, he clarified: "I promised to take you away from all this, and here we are."

"You promised to love me...and you've not disappointed me yet. We have a beautiful little boy and another child on the way." She brought his hand to her middle. "I couldn't be happier."

He still wavered. "I'm ashamed to admit it, but after we settled in with our jobs here at Downton...sometimes I worried you'd put Dublin behind you once and for all."

"Darling, our year in Dublin meant the world to me. It's where I became a wife, began to earn a real living, learned how to cook for my husband..."

He couldn't help but grin. "Sort of."

She laughed, and then put her face up to kiss him. "It's where I learned about loving—"

"Skillfully, too, I might add."

"—and being loved, as a woman..." She kissed him again. "But I don't regret the time we've spent here. My son's been able to know his grandparents and my family. He'll be stronger for that."

"I know."

"I have fond memories of growing up at Downton," Sybil murmured, "as well as some I'd rather forget. It's part of who I am, just as you and Bobby are. Just as Bobby is a part of you, and the lives of your parents and family back in Ireland."

"I can't have my son growing up believing he's entitled to any of this, though."

"Nor can I," she said. "He'll always be the oldest grandchild of the Earl of Grantham. We can't change that, but how he grows up with that association must be left up to us." When Tom nodded, she added firmly, "I think you know that as long as we stay here, it won't be. We have to define our own lives again. In our own home."

His eyes seemed to twinkle in the moonlight peeking through the curtains. "We'll need a bigger place than we had in Dublin," he said, pulling her to him. He rubbed his stomach against hers playfully. "Our family's growing."

"Quite so," she laughed. "But I don't want to move into Jarvis' old place. I'd rather have something close to town, near the hospital."

"And enough room for a library," he added, excitement bubbling in his voice.

"Of course." She smiled, and then glanced up again. "But be honest with me. If you're not happy here – as agent – I need you to tell me at once."

Tom sighed. "It's not what I expected to be doing."

"That's not what I asked."

"I want to do more," he admitted with a shrug. "Helping people here is a fine thing, and I've a great deal of pride in that, but there's only so much I'm allowed to do." He smiled slowly. "I'd like to write again."

Her hands gripped his. "Then do it."

"We both know the odds of my finding a job at an English paper."

Sybil wouldn't let him give up that easily. "Perhaps Mr. Gregson can help."

"I considered that, but Edith's just starting to come into her own and I'd hate to step on her toes. Besides, I can't go back to earning a pittance. I've got a family to think of." He didn't sound disappointed, really, just resigned to the reality. Reaching down to the desk, he picked up the latest issue of the Journal of the Land Agent's Society. "But I've thought of this. I've been reading it for a few years now and they could use a new voice. Someone who's proven the value of modern estate management practices: fair treatment of farmers, rent negotiation, developing sustainable services in the local towns." He gave a wry grin. "I know it's not very political."

"But it is! You're speaking to those who have the power to make change."

"I'll shake off a bit of the rust, anyway. And perhaps this'll lead to other things." He dropped the journal back to the table. "It's worth a try."

She smacked her mouth to his. "Tom Branson, we'll make a politician out of you yet." They were laughing through another kiss when an idea struck her. "Speaking of rust... I'd like to take you somewhere."

His brows furrowed, but he couldn't keep a quizzical smile from spreading across his face. It widened when Sybil issued her final instruction: "Put on your shoes, Branson. We're going for a little walk."

Sybil led him through the servants' hall and out the back door into the yard, where the waxing moon cast an incandescent glow on the stone buildings. A blanket of stars twinkled against the black October sky. Walking backwards, she pulled him along, a mischievous glint in her eyes. She stopped for a slow kiss before leading him onward again.

Tom certainly didn't mind the late-night stroll – it wasn't their first - but the chill had started seeping through his dressing gown and pajamas. "Sybil, where are we..."

"You'll see."

His slippered feet skidded on the gravel as they started down a well-traveled slope. He quirked a brow. "Really? The garage?"

She turned, going up on tiptoe. "Although we had some wonderful... wonderful... moments... in Dublin," she said, accentuating each word with a kiss, "I sometimes dream of this. This is where I fell in love with you. Over books and politics." She tugged his hand impatiently.

"Took you long enough, too." His smirk dissolved into a frown when they reached the doors. "What are they doing open in the middle of the night? I never used to leave them like that!"

With a shush, she pulled him into the dark interior. Moonlight trickled through the open doors, blanketing the estate's newest motor, a spacious crimson Rolls Royce purchased only a few months before. They navigated around the benches and boxes: no starched gowns or livery, just their slippers whispering over sandy concrete. There in the corner, where the cobwebs hung low and heavy with grease, was the old Renault, barely used now except to transport staff on errands. Sybil laced hands with Tom and backed towards it. "Don't tell me you didn't dream of this..."

He suppressed a smile. "I might have." He jerked her into his arms for a lingering kiss. "But in my dreams, there wasn't a crotchety old chauffeur in the cottage out back."

She nipped at his lips. "Then you'll just have to tone it down tonight, Mr. Branson." She twisted the brass handle and stepped inside the car.

Tom leaned on the threshold while Sybil perched awkwardly on the narrow seat. His mouth jerked in suppressed laughter when she smacked her elbow on the window trying to shrug out of her dressing gown. "If Hodges catches us, he'll go straight to Mr. Carson. And after that, it's only a matter of time before your father finds out."

"What's the worst he can do? Kick us out of the house?"

He climbed in beside her, the door closing with a resonating clack. "He'll have me castrated."

"Now that would truly be a shame." Scooting next to him, she pulled at the tie on his dressing gown. As the flannel draped open, her hand crept southward, into the waistband of his pajamas.

"Sybil..." The reprimand turned into a conquered whimper when she leaned to kiss him, her hand finding its target. Their tongues fought a velvety battle and his head swam; she seemed to be coaxing all the blood down from his brain. Her fingers were at first light and playful – she giggled each time his body responded, and then eager and impatient – she knew exactly what she was doing, and her mouth curled into a satisfied smile against his as he stiffened.

He twisted sideways on the seat, crooking a knee, and her hand cupped him at the invitation. Her fingers traced him from the tip to the base, circling and lower along a little ridge of skin in a way that she knew would bring him that much closer to frenzy. Gasping, he pulled back from her kiss and exhaled a shuddering laugh. "You better finish what you started."

Fisting the lapels of his robe, she pulled him across the seat and on top of her with a coy smile. "Oh, I intend to." She leaned backward and her head bumped the door of the car. "Ow."

Tom repositioned himself and gave a grunt of annoyance as he found his backside pressed against the window on the other side. He lifted up his knees. "Here, scoot down a bit."

The seat was just long enough to accommodate her from head to rear, and no more generous in width: Tom had to squeeze his knees together on either side of her ribcage to keep from sliding to the floor. "This isn't as easy as I thought it would be," Sybil groaned. "It seems much bigger when you're riding."

He gave her a mischievous grin. "I hope you're just talking about the car...shit." His hand slipped and he sprawled forward over her.

Straightening up, he braced himself against the window in front of him with one hand and clutched the back of the front seat with the other. He couldn't help but laugh at their precarious position. "Shall we go to the other car...or, here's a novel idea. How about we go back inside?"

"We can do this."

"My legs are starting to cramp."

"We'll just have to be creative..." She tugged at the back of his thighs and scrunched down. Tom's eyes widened as she reached up to unbutton his pajamas.

"Like this?"

She shrugged, her eyes innocent, and began teasing him again. He wondered if she could finish him off before his leg gave way – the cramp was coiling its way up into his hip now.

"Who's in here?" a voice bellowed.

"Shit!" Tom startled and lost his balance, tumbling onto the floorboard and pulling Sybil down on top of him. She collapsed in a fit of giggles, muffled in his chest but still audible, and he scowled and hissed, "Sybil."

The chauffeur's boots tramped around the cement floor, banging on doors and kicking oil cans for good measure. Tom squeezed Sybil so tightly he feared he would hurt her. That wouldn't be a problem, he realized a moment later, as her hand crept downward to grasp him through his pajamas. With a hiss, he snatched her wrist away, mouthing a warning as she buried her face in his chest again, shaking with laughter. Tom's breath came in slow waves as he mused that the most humiliating moment of his life might very well be in the back of the damned car he'd fought six years to escape.

He held his breath listening to Hodges' feet scuff the floor just outside the Renault; they paused and shifted a few times before clomping away. "Bloody village kids," he heard the chauffeur growl, followed by a slam and the clank of a bolt. He should keep those doors shut anyway, the resident agent in him said.

By then, Sybil's laughter was bubbling out. Tom glared at her. "You enjoyed that didn't you?" He scrambled up and peered cautiously out the side window. "He's gone. We can go out the back..." There was a soft tug on his waistband and his eyes shifted downward in time to see Sybil kneeling before him on the floorboard. "Oh Jesus," he breathed, collapsing down on the seat as her mouth closed around him. His erection had disappeared sometime around when his legs started to cramp, but she ran her tongue over the head, her hands cupping him, and it wasn't long before he was hard again.

Tom's words escaped in a breathless stutter. "Sybil...love...we're not..."

Sybil raked a hand across his stomach, rising and falling quickly with his breath, her fingertips tracing the patch of hair below his navel. They'd had the most terrific row the first time she'd tried this. Married only a few weeks, he didn't think she was quite ready to be so adventurous (though he had been with her) and she'd banished him to the parlor for assuming he knew her mind better than she did. Their separation hadn't lasted long; Sybil laughed softly at the memory.

Tom groaned as the vibrations in her throat sent a pleasant jolt through him. His hand dropped to hers and gave a weak squeeze. He let his head fall back, thwacking the leather seat. A helpless little squeak escaped as she increased the pressure; he focused on his breathing, fighting the urge to just let go. But he didn't want that, not tonight. "Come here," he gasped, pulling her up into his lap.

Straddling him on the beige bench, where she'd sat so many years looking at the back of his head, she sank down, sliding easily and taking in his length. Laughing into his mouth, she ground against him, lifting her arms as he scraped her gown over her head. She arched back, letting him tease one nipple and then the next, his warm tongue and nipping teeth leaving each in turn exposed to the cold air.

Somewhere in the frantic grasping and pulling, his bottoms had twisted around his ankles, leaving him helpless to do anything but sit there. He leaned back with a smug grin on his face. His palms brushed up her thighs, squeezing gently, encouraging the little rolls she made with her hips. He felt her flutter around him, teasing them both. "That's it, love," he whispered. His thumb came round, found its target slick and swollen. She nearly shattered on his touch.

Her mouth, open, wet and warm, trailed across his cheek to his ear. "Tom, let go. Please," she gasped, "I want you with me." And he did, crying out at the succession of waves that rippled through them as they came together.

They laughed, breathlessly, as their orgasms waned; his hands palmed her back and she shivered, the flush of sex yielding to the autumn air. Their tongues lolled lazily together, warm and smooth, their voices humming with soft moans. Tom leaned back, reached to hook her hair behind her ear, and smiled slowly. His eyes and then his hand drifted down to her middle, and he stroked the small swell of her belly.

"What?"

"You're starting to show. Kieran said you were just getting fat."

She laughed. "And your mother wonders why he's still a bachelor."

"It finally feels real."

"I know," she said, and then settled into his waiting arms. "I had lost hope for so long."

Brushing away her hair with his nose, Tom kissed her forehead and whispered. "I love you so much...the mother of my children." His eyes twinkled as he pulled back. "Even though I'm more convinced than ever that you want to become a widow."

Laughing, they retrieved nightclothes, bumping elbows and heads as they re-dressed in the motor's cramped interior. They snuggled into the corner of the seat, his dressing gown blanketing them.

"You know, I just realized... I don't think we can move until after the New Year. Not with the harvest and new rent negotiations..."

Sybil's groan turned into a chuckle. Well, it couldn't be that easy, she thought. But the decision had been made: that was the most important thing. "After Christmas then. Besides, Mama and Papa would be heartbroken if we took Bobby away before the holiday."

"But next year."

"I'll find the right moment to bring it up before then, but yes, next year."

"A new baby and a new home." His palm crept down to splay across her stomach.

"Finally." She relaxed into his arms, her hand dropping to cover his. "Just as it should be."

A/N2: Yeah, I know the Renault is a little trite, but whatever. As a side note, after looking at/researching some high quality pictures of the Renault for that scene, it occurred to me how small the car actually was – there's no way that seat was big enough! So, I figured I'd have a little fun with that. Also, I'm not usually creative enough to work songs into text, so I tried it this once because "Down By the Glenside" (composed by Peadar Kearney) is one of my favorite traditional Irish ballads. The first version I remember (and probably my favorite) was sung by Ken Curtis in an old John Ford Western, "Rio Grande." Curtis was best known as the warbling Festus in Gunsmoke, but he had a beautiful voice (he stood in for Sinatra in the Tommy Dorsey band and followed Roy Rogers as lead in Sons of the Pioneers). A more traditional version worth YouTubing is by the Holohan Sisters.

Next up: June, 1924, and Tom has a surprise for their fifth anniversary.