A/N: This has been in the works for a while and is long overdue. I really didn't intend for this to be as long as it is either. Not much plot, mostly a bit of fun and domesticity. I've also found in writing these stories what a useful tool children are (!), since you can make them say/do just about anything to move a scene forward. As a cross-reference, Aunt Vicky and her 'lifestyle' were briefly mentioned in Chapter 4.

Thanks again for the reads, reviews, followers, and favorites, and as always to foojules for the beta. Today also marks roughly one year since I started this story. It was originally designed to be a one-shot in response to a tumblr prompt and it took on a life of its own (oh, the power of AU), and everyone's thoughts have been greatly appreciated along the way.

"There is nothing more admirable than when two people who see eye to eye keep house as man and wife, confounding their enemies and delighting their friends." ~ Homer, The Odyssey

DOWNTON COTTAGE

Downton, June 1924

Four-year-old Bobby Branson stood in a chair next to his father in the lavatory, staring at their reflection in the mirror. He looked almost comically like a small version of Tom: both were clad in their pajama bottoms, faces covered with shaving foam. The little boy watched as Tom deftly worked a razor down one cheek, sloshed it in the sink, and went over another unshaven patch. Bobby mimicked his father's motions with the blunt end of a comb, stretching his neck to scrape a spot just beneath his jaw.

"Da," he said, dipping the comb in the foamy water, "Saoirse isn't fun."

"She's only three months old," Tom replied.

"Girls are boring."

Tom couldn't help but laugh at his son's earnest expression. "You won't think so when you get older."

"Can't you and Mama make me a brother?"

"Shit!" Tom dropped his razor, smacking a hand against his neck. Bobby's eyes widened.

"Tom!" came Sybil's reprimand from the bedroom.

"Hand me a towel, Bobby." Tom motioned and the little boy dutifully pulled the cloth from the rack. Tom dampened it under the spigot and sighed as the cold water tempered the burn. Giving his son a wink, he said, "Don't repeat that word." Bobby shook his head solemnly, his brown curls flopping. Tom fished in the sink for his drowned razor. "Finish up, or we'll be late for breakfast and Mr. Carson will make us wash the dishes."

The little boy quickly scraped the remaining foam from his face. He giggled when his father smattered him with aftershave and then trailed Tom into the bedroom, running and jumping as if splashing in imaginary puddles. "Mama, when are you coming back?"

Sybil was just finishing Saoirse's morning feed. "At the end of the week, darling," she answered for the fifth time that morning, and cooed as she raised her daughter to her shoulder.

Tom reached for the baby. "Here, I can do that." Draping Saoirse over his shoulder, he rubbed her back. A few pats later the child issued an unladylike burp, sending her big brother into a fit of giggles.

Sybil smirked as Tom passed the baby back into her arms. "You're surprisingly good at that."

Leaning over to kiss her, he murmured, "I'm surprisingly good at a lot of things, Mrs. Branson."

She swatted his bare chest, tsking when her other man bounced up onto the bed and began crawling beneath the sheets. "Bobby..."

"Why do you have to go to London?" came the muffled question.

"I'm going to hear a lady speak."

He peeped out from the improvised tunnel, his hair spiking in every direction. "What lady?"

"Her name is Margaret Sanger. She's from America."

"Why is she here?"

"Well..." She and, to a lesser extent, Tom had explained babies to the little boy, yet Sybil wasn't quite sure how to explain Mrs. Sanger's upcoming speech on how every woman should be 'mistress of her own body.'

Tom came to her rescue. "You're just like your Mama," he told his son. "Always asking questions."

"Mama says I'm just like you…I won't take no for an answer."

Both parents laughed in agreement. As he rummaged for a suit in the wardrobe, Tom's eyes wandered over his shoulder. "You'll be back on Friday?"

"Yes, I think we have an early train."

"The sixth," he said, more as a confirmation for himself than a question. "That's the day before our anniversary."

Sybil deposited Saoirse in her cot and snugged a bonnet over her head. "You know I'll be back for our anniversary, darling."

"But you'll send a message if you plan to come back early, right?"

She lofted an inquisitive brow. "What are you up to?"

Buttoning his shirt, he turned away with a shrug. "Nothin'."

"Tom..."

Their son, twisted up in the covers, chose that moment to roll off the bed. He hit the floor with a great thump and Sybil darted to snatch him up, reassuring him before he could cry.

"We're lucky he inherited your hard head," Tom quipped, and then ruffled his son's hair. "Alright there?"

Stunned, Bobby nodded and accepted his mother's kiss. "Now, run along to Nanny and get dressed," she said. "You get to eat with us this morning." His cherubic face brightened, excited for a rare breakfast with the adults, before he scampered back to the nursery. Sharing an indulgent smile with her husband, Sybil strolled over to help fasten his cufflinks. "So, two weeks?"

"That's right."

Cufflinks secured, she twiddled absently with his tie pin. "There's just so much to do between now and then. Are you sure you can manage while I'm in London?"

Tom's hands dropped to her waist, drawing her close. "Do you not trust me?"

"Moving into the cottage has been one delay after another," she sighed. "I'm rather impatient to have my own home again." Her eyes flickered across the patterned walls of her childhood bedroom, which had come to feel more like a deceptively pretty little prison cell.

"Two weeks, love, and no more."

"But the upstairs rooms still need to be painted, most of the furniture has yet to arrive – including our bed - and I'm not spending my first night on the floor."

"I don't think a night on the floor would hurt us." Tom pecked his lips lightly on hers. "It's not as if it would be the first time..."

"Tom..."

"I promised you two weeks...and I promise we'll have a bed. And a stocked kitchen. And a furnished parlor..." He turned, arching his arm in a wide flourish. "And everything else milady requires..."

"Alright, alright," she relented, stuffing the last of her clothes in the suitcase. "I believe you."

Breakfast passed in a flurry of discordant conversations about various plans for the upcoming week. Sybil's simple trip to London for Mrs. Sanger's speech had mushroomed into a grand getaway for all the women in the family, though only she, Edith and Isobel planned to attend the event. Mary and Cora drummed up an itinerary of shopping and social calls with old friends, and Violet's curiosity wouldn't allow her to be left behind. At the opposite end of the table, Robert and Matthew prattled about a new batch of Tamworth pigs. Tom interjected an occasional opinion – They're partially bred from an old Irish stock, he was keen to add - but was largely preoccupied with his son who seemed determined to make a complete mess. Carson rounded the table refilling coffee cups and grimaced at the small, jam-covered hands tarnishing his tablecloth.

The menfolk barely had time to finish their meal before Hodges arrived with the motor, ready to whisk the ladies away to the railway station. Robert and Matthew said their goodbyes from the table, but Tom and Bobby went to the front door to see them off. Nanny Bradford hung back – she'd been assigned travel duty to tend Saoirse while the ladies were out – and gave Bobby a quick hug before climbing in the front seat of the lead car.

Tom hoisted his son and both waved as the entourage rolled down the drive. Five days, he thought, the longest Sybil and I have been apart since we married. Still, he wondered if it was enough time. "Well," he said when the cars disappeared from view. "We've lots to do before they get back."

"What, Da?"

"I thought it would be a nice surprise for your Mama to come home to find her new house ready and waiting for her. But I'll need help." Tom smacked a kiss on Bobby's cheek and set him down.

The little boy thrust his hand into the air. "I'll help!"

"Alright, then," he said, leading him inside. "Best we get started!"

Bobby's enthusiasm vanished as soon as the maids started collecting his clothes and toys on the day before the move. The child burst into sobs when his clockwork train was wrapped and packed in the bottom of one trunk, and it only got worse until finally Mrs. Hughes had to be summoned to the nursery. Finding an impending disaster on hand – one that even she couldn't avert - the housekeeper was forced to interrupt the men's dinner. Tom arrived upstairs to see one of the maids tucking items into a trunk with Bobby snatching them out at an even pace. "Now Master Bobby," the poor girl was saying with harried patience, "I have to pack your things..."

"No!" he cried, leaning over so far that he toppled in. Two toys popped out behind him, followed by a miniature shoe.

Tom waded in to put a stop to it. "Bobby!"

The child sat back on his knees and turned tear-streaked cheeks towards his father. "I don't want to leave Downton!"

Tom gave the flustered maid a sympathetic smile. "Thank you, Lola. Perhaps you can do this later." Nodding, she brushed back an unruly lock of hair and made a grateful exit. Tom glanced down at Mary and Matthew's two boys. David and Teddy typically generated much of Downton's nursery drama, but tonight they sat quiet, staring at their distraught cousin. "Now, what was that all about?" he asked, pulling Bobby into his lap.

The little boy's bottom lip trembled as he spoke. "I want to stay here with Grandmama and Grandpapa."

"Well... your Mama and Da will be at the cottage," he said, pressing a kiss to his son's cheek. "Won't you miss us?"

With a meek nod, Bobby swiped at his eyes. "Why must we leave?"

"Well, it isn't our house," Tom answered, feeling the child settle a bit in his arms.

"But we live here."

"I know, but tomorrow we will move into our own home. You and me, and Mama and Saoirse."

Bobby's fingers ran over his father's shiny cufflinks. "Will David and Teddy still live here?"

"Yes, they'll stay."

"But it's not their house either!"

"Well, one day it will be their papa's house. And one day a long time from now, it will be David's."

"Why?"

"Because he's Uncle Matthew's son."

"And Uncle Matthew is Grandpapa's son?"

"No...no, Grandpapa didn't have any sons, just daughters. Your Mama, Aunt Mary and Aunt Edith. Uncle Matthew became Grandpapa's son-in-law when he married Aunt Mary..." Tom watched the confusion play out on his son's face.

"But you married Mama and she's his daughter too! Why don't you get Downton? Does Grandpapa love them more than us?"

Tom had no clue as to how to abridge inheritance law and primogeniture, not to mention that disastrous entail, but the question pulled at his heart. Fortunately, Lord Grantham appeared in the doorway before Tom could even begin to form an answer.

"Certainly not," the earl answered stiffly. "I love all of my grandchildren equally." He pulled a chair next to them, smiling and patting his leg for Bobby to scramble into his lap and smack a kiss on his Grandpapa's cheek. "But as for you," Robert said, tweaking the little boy's nose, "You were the first of my grandchildren, and you'll always have a special place in my heart."

"But why does Uncle Matthew get Downton and not my Da?" The little boy sported an uncharacteristic frown.

"Because Matthew is my heir," Robert explained gently. "Great estates like Downton usually pass from fathers to sons, but I didn't have a son. So, it will pass to my closest male relative, Matthew, who is a distant cousin. It just happened that Matthew married my daughter." Robert studied the child's face – Bobby obviously remained unconvinced – and his shoulders sank in resignation. "I know it's terribly confusing to you, and must seem unfair. But, that's the way it is, and we all have to live by the law."

"I don't want to go!"

Tom raised an amused brow at his father-in-law. Whatever differences they had, both understood the challenges of fatherhood. Tom pushed himself up and reached for his son, who snuffled and clung stubbornly to his neck. "Bobby, tomorrow's a special day for your Mama," he said. He pressed their brows together and grinned. "And she'll be so proud of you for helping to make her dream come true."

Five years before, Cathleen Branson had warned her youngest son that marriage required compromise. But before he and Sybil moved into their little flat together, Tom hadn't realized that would mean surrendering most of the bed. Though sleep was an afterthought in those early days, several weeks passed before they adjusted as sleeping partners. Neither of them was accustomed to sharing space and Tom quickly discovered Sybil to be a bed-hog, and quite a mobile one.

He thought of that on his last night at Downton, wincing as a small foot jabbed into his lower back. "Jesus, you're just like your mother," he muttered. Tom reached behind him to swat his son's leg away only to be rewarded with another sharp kick. Bobby had employed an artful combination of piteousness and charm to negotiate a spot in his father's bed, effectively scuttling any chance of Tom getting to sleep that night. For the last hour, the child had been trundling under the covers, rooting up against Tom's back, and chasing him to the edge of the mattress until finally he decided to get up. He couldn't sleep anyway, with his mind buzzing through a list of last minute preparations.

Exhausted from the previous days' efforts to ready the cottage, Tom slogged down the carpeted stairs. Since the events of Drumgoole four years before, he was no stranger to the midnight silence at Downton. He enjoyed it really, this time when the house slumbered and he could saunter about in his robe and slippers. It suited him much more than the formality demanded by day. To a certain degree he and Sybil had managed to carve out their own sort of life within these walls, but their new home would be far different: children at the dinner table, Sybil's passable cooking, walls that held their own photographs rather than long-dead relatives glowering down in lavish regalia.

The library door creaked when he pushed it open. He switched on a lamp, poured himself a drink from the half-full decanter, and sank into the sofa, his feet slipping wide on the floor in front of him. The glass drained, his body floated with a warm buzz. The library had always been his haven: when tensions rose with Sybil's family, he could hibernate here among the millions of words buried on the shelves.

An elaborate brass frame on his father-in-law's desk caught his eye and he went over for a closer look, smiling slowly: the still, stoic faces of Lord and Lady Grantham's four grandchildren in the photograph belied the behind-the-scenes effort that had gone into capturing the image a month before. Bobby had groused when given the task of holding his sister and David pinched his little brother Teddy into tears every time the adults turned their heads. With perfect timing, Saoirse soiled her nappy in a rather noisy fashion and the sitting turned into a circus, with squealing toddlers bolting in every direction. Tom's patience had worn thin by the time Sybil returned from changing the baby and, in an uncharacteristic display of discipline, he re-positioned the boys with a stern finger and ordered them to "sit and be quiet." Even the earl's Labrador listened and trotted over to park her haunches beside the children. So in the end, Lord Grantham got what he wanted: a photograph of his grandchildren and his beloved dog.

"They're quite a brood, aren't they?" Robert's voice startled him, but then Tom turned with a soft laugh. The decanter clinked noisily as the earl poured his own drink. "I'm missing the children already."

"You act as if we're moving out of the county – we'll be less than a mile away."

"Oh, I know," Robert mused, and then shuffled toward the sofa across from Tom. "I suppose Cora's dramatics are rubbing off. Shouldn't you be in bed? You'll have quite a day tomorrow."

"Sleeping with your grandson is a bit like having a gymnast in the bed. I learned the hard way to sleep facing the opposite direction."

Robert laughed. "He gets that from his mother, I'm afraid. I remember when the girls were small, Cora had gone up to Duneagle to visit with Susan. I think it was after Rose was born so Sybil would have been about five or six," he said, sipping on his drink. "The girls wanted to have a grand sleepover with their Papa." Shaking his head, he chuckled into his glass. "Mary wanted one particular side of the bed and Edith, of course, wanted the same side. Sybil tried to wedge her way into the middle of it and force them to get along. Finally, finally, Mary and Edith negotiated a boundary agreement and I thought all was well until Sybil started kicking away in her sleep. I'm not sure I slept much at all that night."

"She still does that, by the way," Tom quipped. "I would have appreciated a little warning."

Robert's mouth twisted into a grin. "Marriage is full of surprises." He turned thoughtful. "I remember another thing from that night. Looking back on it now, it should have told me what kind of person she would be. My valet was away, so Carson was there in his stead, and when he went to leave, Sybil ran over and hugged him."

"I can only imagine Mr. Carson's face."

"He was flabbergasted, as were Mary and Edith. They corrected her, of course: You're not supposed to do that - he's the butler! And Sybil just stood there, indignant as could be, and said, I can hug him if I want. He's a person, too!"

Tom laughed at the thought of his wife, the pint-sized rebel.

"I hope Bobby wasn't too upset earlier," Robert said. "I know it's terribly difficult for a boy of his age to understand such things."

"I'm sure it was with daughters as well."

"It was a surprisingly benign conversation with Mary and Edith," he remembered, leaning back into the cushions. "Sybil, of course, always thought it preposterous that daughters couldn't inherit titles. As the youngest of three girls, I suppose she expected to find herself at a constant disadvantage and so, from the start, she set her mind on carving an independent path."

"Do you think if you had been firmer with her, she wouldn't have?"

Lord Grantham considered this for a long moment. "No. She's much like her Grandmama Levinson that way."

"Then you don't regret allowing her to go her own way?"

The earl glanced from his son-in-law, the former chauffeur and man who had seduced his daughter to a foreign land and back, to the image of Sybil holding her newborn son – his namesake - in a nearby frame. "Perhaps I once did," he confessed. "But sometimes the greatest gifts are those we didn't expect." Robert pushed up off the sofa, groaning a bit, and retrieved a pack of folded papers from his desk. "I had planned to give you this tomorrow, to the both of you, but given Bobby's question earlier, perhaps now is the best time."

Tom set down his glass to take them and flipped through, his eyes popping open. "This wasn't what we agreed to..."

Robert waved him off. "Five years ago, when you left for Ireland with my daughter, I gave her money," he said. "I suppose over the past few years, my children and grandchildren have taught me that money cannot represent the true value of a gift." He picked up the photograph of his grandchildren and smiled. "I know the cottage may not be worth much as far as the bank goes, but you and Sybil have put your hearts into it, and I see how much having such a home means to both of you. So, it's yours now. Full title to do with as you wish. Perhaps pass it on to your own son one day."

"But we wanted to pay for it..."

"If you'll read the language Matthew drew up, it says for love and affection. So, that's that," he cut in, "and we'll say no more of it." Stuffing his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown, he wandered toward the door, stopping momentarily to turn with a mischievous grin. "Oh, and when I say full title, that's what I mean. The entire property and all its appurtenances."

"What?"

"Goodnight, Tom."

Left alone in the library again, Tom swore he heard his father-in-law laugh.

Thursday June 6, 1924

Sleep hadn't come to Tom until well after midnight and if it hadn't been for his son pouncing on his back at daylight, he would have missed breakfast. Grabbing Bobby, several slices of toast, and the last of their suitcases, Tom left the ancient castle behind for good early that morning. By the time he arrived at the cottage, several of Downton's tenants were already there, teams of men hauling in furniture and crates. Mrs. Patmore soon popped in with baskets of food – Just to get you started, she said - along with Alfred, who'd come with Carson's blessing and an offer to tidy up. Matthew ambled into the fray late-morning and was promptly drafted to help make the beds. His hands fumbled with the sheets as he attempted to follow Tom's hasty turns and folds.

Tom grew impatient with his brother-in-law's incompetence and nudged him out of the way. "When was the last time you made a bed?" he asked, tucking the last corner under.

Matthew ignored the teasing and instead pointed out the poor quality of the furniture. "Why didn't you bring the bed from Downton?"

"Because I'm sure Lady Grantham wouldn't have appreciated us chopping off the posters," he explained, eyes pointing up to the low ceiling.

"But, surely we had something in the attics that would have been more suitable. Where did this poor thing come from?" The frame dispensed a mocking squeak when he shook it.

"Dublin. When we left - after Drumgoole - my mother sent my brothers to collect a few things from our flat." He gave the frame an affectionate pat, as if welcoming an old friend. "It was second-hand, of course, but it was ours and Sybil was quite proud of it. I didn't realize Mam kept it until I wrote her a few months ago about moving into the cottage." He smiled. "Sybil doesn't know about it."

Tom turned at a knock on the threshold; Mr. Parks waved his cap toward the hall. "I believe that's the last of the trunks, Mr. Branson."

"And the furniture…"

The farmer's mouth curled in a smile – Tom had been nervous as a cat over the past week. "Brought it all from Mr. Drew's barn," he said, then laughed. "I hope Mrs. Branson's not too upset that you hid it from her."

Tom ignored Matthew's raised brows and cleared his throat. "Thank you, Mr. Parks. I appreciate everyone's help this week."

Matthew planted himself in a rocking chair while Tom frantically stuffed clothes into the wardrobe. The sounds of departing trucks and lorries cascaded through the open window, along with a warm summer breeze. "You mean you could have moved in weeks ago?"

"Possibly, but Sybil might not have made her trip to London if she'd been busy trying to get us set up here. She's had her hands full with the baby these past three months…" He cursed when his poorly folded pile of shirts plummeted from a shelf. Glaring over at his rocking brother-in-law, he shoved them into a drawer. "I wanted her to go and do something for herself." He closed the wardrobe door, hiding the garments sticking from the overstuffed drawers. "Thanks for all of your help, by the way," he said, but Matthew failed to notice the sarcasm.

The groundskeeper's voice wafted up through the open window. "Mr. Branson, I think you need to take a look at this!"

What now? Tom wondered. They were running short on time - any minute they'd have to leave for the station. He tromped down the stairs and out the back door, where he stopped short. "Jesus." There in the back garden – his back garden – was an oversized sculpture from which the groundskeeper had just trimmed back the hedges.

Poor Mr. Crawford was flushed a dark crimson. "Didn't know it was here, sir," he sputtered. The other gardeners stood around with clippers and rakes gripped in their hands, wearing uncomfortable smirks and looking anywhere but at the statue.

Bobby had scampered outside at his father's heels. Peering around Tom's legs, he giggled. "Da, it's naked!" Tom tried to cover his son's eyes.

"Quite so," Matthew remarked, ambling out the door behind them. "And larger than life, I'd say. I believe it's called the Barberini Faun. It's quite famous, actually. Mary and I saw a replica when we were in Paris on our honeymoon."

"I don't care what it's called," Tom snapped. "I'm not having that thing out here, not with a daughter." Matthew shook with laughter, but Tom wasn't amused. At all. He might have expected the garden to be peppered with sculpture, the cottage having once belonged to his wife's art-loving great-aunt (though he'd never understood the upper class's fascination with nudes). But this thing hardly qualified as art, with the subject's relaxed pose and splayed legs drawing the eye to one spot only.

Mr. Crawford's eyes flitted around to no one in particular. "What do you want us to do with it, sir?"

"Just throw the trimmings back over it. We'll crate it up later," he muttered and then checked his watch. "The train's set to arrive in a quarter hour. Bobby, it's time to collect Mama. And remember, not a word," he whispered dramatically, a finger to his lips. "Do you have it?" Bobby reached into his pocket, and brandished one of his father's ties. "Good. Then we're all set."

Holding onto his father's hand as the train hissed to a stop, Bobby jumped happily, hurtling forward when he saw his Mama disembark. Tom struggled to hold onto his son, feeling as if his shoulder would dislocate at any moment. Still, he could barely contain his own excitement as Sybil and a sleepy Saoirse met them. Tom lifted his son so he could kiss his mother, and then leaned in for one of his own.

"We've missed you," he whispered against her mouth and then turned his head to peck a kiss on his daughter's cheek.

"It's been quite a week," she laughed. "I think I'd just like to go home, have a hot bath, and put up my feet. And I think this one's ready for her nap."

Bobby bounced up and down. "Oh, oh! She can have her nap in the new - "

Tom clapped a hand over his son's mouth just in time. "Now, Bobby, don't spoil it."

Sybil's eyes narrowed. "What's going on?"

"It's a surprise," he said, leading her toward the car. "Now come along."

Once his parents were settled in, Bobby scrambled up in the backseat and flipped the tie over Sybil's eyes, startling her a bit.

"Bobby, what..."

"No peeking, Mama," he warned, his fingers fumbling with the knot.

"Am I being kidnapped?"

Leaning over, Tom helped his son with the blindfold, tugging it downward. "Wouldn't you like that?" he whispered. "Unfortunately, love, I didn't make arrangements for the children this evening. Now, like Bobby said: no peeking."

Sybil heard him pull the break, but of course, missed his devilish grin and the trembling excitement of her son on the seat behind her. Holding tight to their daughter, she settled into Tom's side and felt them make a right out of the car park and then a left toward the village. She lost all sense of direction after a few more twists and turns, but once the church bell chimed on their left she could tell they weren't headed back to Downton. Two more turns and she felt the car slow down, its tires scraping across a patch of gravel, and then pull to a stop.

Tom's hands brushed up her back and lifted the blindfold, smiling and nodding to indicate something behind her. She had to blink a few times to clear her vision, but the street before her was familiar: she'd been here plenty of times, helping to make the cottage ready for—

Sybil gasped. "Tom, are we..." She whirled around in her seat to see the house—their house.

His face broke into proud smile. "I'd been thinking the past few weeks about a gift for our fifth anniversary. What better than waking up in our new home...just the four of us." Squished between them, Saoirse began to whimper. Sybil laughed between his kisses, fighting the inconvenient sting of tears. He wiped one away with his thumb, kissed the tip of her nose. "Welcome home, love."

By then, Bobby had escaped from the back seat and was impatiently tugging at his mother's skirt. Sybil handed the baby to Tom, kissing him again, and accepted her pint-sized escort's help up the walk. Bobby opened the door, giving a dramatic little bow that even Carson would approve. She'd left the cottage just a week before, dispirited at all the remaining tasks, but she was amazed as she wandered inside and through to the parlor. The curtains, the furniture and books, all arranged in their places, completely transformed the space.

"However did you to manage all this?" she asked.

"We had lots of help." Bobby bounced into his father's new leather chair. "Uncle Matthew, Mr. Burns, Mr. Parks, Mr. Drew..."

Sybil laughed as he continued to rattle off most of Downton's tenants. She had no doubt the farmers had come to her husband's aid; the four years he'd spent standing in muck, re-working engines and patching roofs, had earned him their respect. She barely had time to look around the room before Bobby darted off to the library, calling for her to follow. And so they went through the downstairs, into the dining room and finally the kitchen, with its sparkling black and white tiled floor. Peeking into the enamel cupboard, she found the flour and sugar and spice canisters full and waiting. The icebox, too, was full, with a few of Mrs. Patmore's sandwiches and fruit.

Bobby peeked around her, grinning as he pointed to the top shelf. "Mrs. Patmore made apple tarts.

"And we shall have them for dinner tonight," she replied, shaking her head a bit. "Your father certainly thought of everything..."

But he didn't hear; he'd already scampered upstairs for the rest of the tour. Sybil ascended the back stairs, which were hidden behind a corner door in the kitchen (Tom called them his escape route). At the top the deep hum of her husband's voice lured her into their room. Situated at the gabled end of the house and stretching its width, their bedroom soaked in the midday sun from front and back. It lacked the ornate décor of their room at Downton: instead of rich hangings and wallpaper she'd chosen a faint blue for the walls. Seeing it now for the first time, Sybil realized how perfect it truly was. Tom was pushing the baby's cot out of the light, a soft melody in his voice as Saoirse drifted into a nap. They exchanged a smile when she sauntered toward the front window, nudging aside the thin curtains. She recognized the spire of the church, the second story of the hospital, and one of the chimneys of Crawley House; hearing the distant oooo-ga of a car horn, she laughed aloud. It wasn't quite the city they'd settled in five years ago, but neither was it the solemn landscape at Downton. Rather it was something in between: a bridge only they could define.

Sybil turned, perusing their room, and caught Tom's eye. He seemed to be anxiously awaiting a response, so she pulled a pensive expression for the remainder of her inspection. It was then that she gasped at a familiar piece of furniture placed against the far wall. Her hand brushed across the painted bed frame, the simple iron rail smooth under her fingers. "It can't be," she whispered, glancing over her shoulder.

Tom nodded, hands stuffed in his pockets until she leapt into his arms. Their mouths landed awkwardly among the playful giggles, which quickly receded into soft sighs, lips tugging eagerly.

"Mama!" a tiny voice crowed from the hall, following the sound of thumping feet. "There's a naked man in the back garden!"

Tom's head dropped to her shoulder with a groan.

Sybil pulled back. "What?"

"It's a statue," Tom amended. "Mr. Crawford unveiled it earlier when I asked him to clean up the lawn."

Her eyes lit up. "You found the Barberini Faun?" She nearly ran to the rear-facing window.

"You know about it?"

"Of course! Though I imagine that was quite a shock, seeing it for the first time." She laughed as her eyes settled on the familiar sculpture.

"Just what the hell is that thing doing there?"

Leaning on the windowsill, she reached for his hands. "Do you remember what I told you…that my great-aunt had an Italian…." Sybil caught herself, glanced over at her son who stood on tiptoes peeking in on his sleeping sister, and spoke softly. "….companion who was an artist? Granny never cared much for Aunt Vicky or her lifestyle. But Aunt Vicky had told her friend about Granny's fascination with Roman art. So she sculpted a replica of the Barberini as a peace offering."

Tom lofted a brow. "Then why isn't it at the Dower House?"

"Granny was mortified, of course, when it arrived. So she sent it back over when Aunt Vicky traveled to Greece one summer and had old Mr. Moseley plant climbing roses around it."

"We're planting those roses back."

Sybil moved into his waiting arms, crinkling her nose. "Edith and I were rather fascinated by it and used to sneak over," she confessed. "We had the most marvelous time making loincloths from Aunt Vicky's scarves and furs."

"I suppose it puts the rest of us to shame," he said, exhaling a playful sigh.

She leaned up, whispering against his lips. "Not by much..."

"Mama! I made my bed." Their son had snuck between them, where he tugged at her hand. "Da taught me – come see!"

Tom gave her a secretive wink. "He can stuff pillowcases."

Sybil's palm brushed down the front of his waistcoat. "Tonight," she promised. "No good deed will ever go unrewarded in our home."

"Da, look!"

Tom felt the toy tractor run over his sock-clad foot before he saw it. Bobby crawled around making motor noises with his mouth, plowing through a set of wooden farm animals and into a makeshift barn made of books. Tom shared an indulgent smile with his wife before turning his attention back to their game. Both sat hunched over a small table, elbows propped on knees, as they formulated their next moves. "Backgammon," he grumbled. "You thought this would take my mind off billiards?"

"Matthew's not there anyway," she said, rolling the dice. "Mary said something about a last minute invitation to a dinner party at Orland Park tonight, so you'd have to play with Papa. And you'd have to wear your dinner jacket."

Tom glanced down at his rolled up work sleeves, brown trousers, and unbuttoned waistcoat with a smile. Leaning over for a kiss, he saw her hand slide across the board. "You cheated!"

"How?"

He opened his mouth to speak, but accepted defeat and dropped his chin into his hand. With his other, he rubbed the tummy of the whimpering baby beside him.

"I won fairly," she said. "You know what that means..."

Tom winced at his daughter's reddening face. Saoirse was undoubtedly going through a growth spurt, feeding greedily with a proportional output.

"Bobby, darling, it's nearly bedtime," Sybil said.

The child's dejected groan trailed off when his father cast him a disapproving scowl. "Will you read me a story?"

"Of course, now go change."

The boy's demeanor bubbled into excitement as he darted down the hall. Tom chuckled. "He takes after you, you know?"

"What do you mean?"

"That stubborn str..." He was cut off by a muffled explosion beside him. If he didn't know better, his two beautiful girls had conspired against him.

"Eeewww..." he heard Bobby declare from the stairwell, the pitter-patter of feet coupled with giggles.

Hoisting the squalling baby to his shoulder, Tom's face puckered at the dampness on her rump. "Jesus, how much did she feed today?"

Sybil responded with a series of wicked cackles as he left the room, and then examined the mess around her. How on earth could we destroy the room in a matter of hours? Shuffling about her parlor, she collected the games, toys, books, and newspapers that seemed to be anywhere and everywhere, stopping only when she heard a dainty tap at the door.

Her mouth almost fell open when she saw who their first guests were. "Mama? Papa? Is something wrong?"

"No," Lady Grantham laughed, stepping inside. "Your father and I thought we would see how you and Tom are getting along in the new house."

"Your mother isn't accustomed to a quiet dinner table just yet," Robert said, clearing his throat when his wife gave him a reproving look, and then added, "Nor am I, I suppose." The earl plucked his hat, extending his arm out of habit toward a non-existent butler, and smiled sheepishly as he pulled it back in.

"There's a hook by the door, Papa," Sybil said, turning toward the parlor.

Cora took her daughter's arm. "Where's Tom?"

"He was just cleaning up his little girl for her Grandmama." Tom descended the last step, patting the baby's backside. Cora pulled Saoirse into her arms and whisked her away to a nearby chair.

Lord Grantham noted his son-in-law's attire, from his rumpled and untucked shirt down to his stocking feet. "I see you've readapted."

"Robert," his wife admonished.

"Grandpapa!" Bobby charged into the room, sporting only his pajama bottoms, and barreled into the earl's legs with a monstrous hug.

"Bobby!" Sybil scolded. "I told you to get dressed for bed."

"I am dressed!"

"No, you're half dressed. Please go find your shirt."

"But Da doesn't wear one..."

"Bobby!" Sybil's cheeks flamed crimson.

With a groan, the child turned and stomped back upstairs. Lord Grantham glared at his son-in-law through narrowed slits. Tom, suppressing a smirk, muttered something about getting them some tea and escaped to the kitchen.

Cora scanned the cluttered room with an apprehensive smile which her daughter did not fail to notice. "It will take some getting used to," Sybil chuckled. She scooped up a few remaining toys and dropped them in the lidded window seat – one of Tom's space-saving designs for the house. "Having Nanny Bradford spoiled us a bit."

"The poor woman was in tears when I visited the nursery this afternoon," Cora said. "She misses them already."

"If I had to watch after David and Teddy I would be in tears as well."

"What will you do when you go back to work?" She hesitated as if hopeful. "That is...are you planning to return to the hospital?"

Sybil gave her a knowing smile. "Of course, Mama. I'll go back in a few months, just as I did after Bobby was born."

"You're welcome to leave the children at Downton."

"We appreciate the offer, but Tom and I have already discussed hiring someone to stay here."

Tom arrived bearing a tray, which he set on the coffee table. "I have a niece in Dublin," he explained while Sybil poured. "Kitty's interested in becoming a nurse. She can earn her tuition money here and Sybil can help with her studies."

Lord Grantham sipped from his plain white teacup, his eyes roving about. "The room seems rather small now that you have it furnished. Are you certain this will work for you and the children?" He smiled then as his grandson reappeared, fully clothed and dashing towards him with a book in hand. The little boy crawled into his grandfather's lap, eagerly opening to the first page.

Sybil nodded. "Everything's perfect."

"I know you wish it was Dublin," her mother said.

"We've promised each other we won't look back," Tom replied. "Our family is here, and that's all that matters."

"It hardly seems like it's been five years," Sybil added. Cora glanced up, curious. "Five years ago tomorrow in fact."

Her mother's face furrowed. "I wish your father and I had been there."

"On our wedding day I thought Sybil was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen," Tom told Cora, his eyes softening as they set back on his wife. "But I was wrong."

Sybil cocked a brow. "Oh?"

"You get more beautiful every day." He reached over to find Sybil's hand waiting for his.

"When we are old and gray, such flattery will not be unwelcome." She smiled teasingly.

"And even then you'll hardly have changed a bit in my eyes."

"Unlike everything else."

"Things have certainly changed for us these past five years," Tom said, and then quickly added, "But for the better, though."

"I agree."

A soft look passed between the younger couple; their hands clasped lightly on Sybil's knee as they spoke. Cora had often witnessed those stolen glances and touches back at Downton, but here, where they came natural instead of forbidden; the gestures seemed to draw a curtain around the pair of them. How could I have ever thought she was meant for less than this? Her youngest – her beauty – had chosen a life removed from stilted propriety and expectation, settling freely into a marriage of equals. She suddenly felt in the way. "Robert. We should go."

Lord Grantham looked up from the book he'd been reading with his grandson. "Already?"

"But, Mama, you're welcome to..."

Sybil smiled as her mother eased the sleeping little girl into her arms. "You've only just moved in," Cora said, kissing her cheek. "We don't want to intrude."

Following the ladies, Tom escorted his father-in-law to the door and collected the earl's hat and coat. "I've found something that belongs to the estate that I'll have returned at the first opportunity."

Lord Grantham lofted innocent brows. "In the garden?" When Tom nodded, Robert chuckled with a wave of his finger. "Ah-ah-ah, remember what I said? Full title. And I mean that." He gave his son-in-law an affectionate pat on the shoulder. "I was wondering what had happened to that vulgar thing, but it's all yours now."

Sybil lounged in the small bathtub, drowsy and content as the sounds of her family echoed outside the door. She had missed those peripheral domestic sounds behind Downton's thick and ancient walls: footsteps pattering down the hall, the pealing of a child's laughter, the deep vibration of her husband's voice as he argued with their son. A warmth curled in her chest; she felt buoyant, unchained, finally in control of her life again. Her breath rippled the water beneath her chin, and she had nearly dozed off when part of her new life threw open the door. On the far wall, the curtains danced from the force of the breeze as Bobby blew in. The little boy used the toilet, washed his hands, and darted out with scarcely a parting "Goodnight, Mama!" over his shoulder.

Somewhere down the hall, she heard her husband bark out a lecture about privacy. Tom poked his head through the door a moment later. "Sorry," he apologized. His hair was disheveled and his cheeks were pink. "I suppose I didn't think this first night through."

"Think of it as baptism under fire, darling."

A door slammed down the hall, startling them both. Little feet puttered to the bathroom and Bobby squirmed in by his father. "Da, I can't find my bear!"

Gently, Tom planted his hand on the boy's head and rotated him back toward the hall. "Out!" he ordered with a swat to the behind.

She moved slowly that evening, enjoying the last tentacles of the warm water before tending to her children. She'd been worried about how Bobby would adapt to his new environment – a room of his own and no nanny – but she found him sound asleep, his favorite bear secured in his arms.

"I left a lamp on," she told Tom in their bedroom. "Just in case he wakes up frightened on his first night here. I doubt he will, though. He's out cold." She joined him by the window where he stood rocking the baby. Saoirse chewed her hands, gurgling at her father. Wrapping an arm around his waist, Sybil leaned into his shoulder. They swayed together, chuckling as the baby gave them a gummy smile.

"She's had quite the journey this week," Tom quietly said. "Her first trip to London, her first lesson in women's rights…I haven't had the chance today to ask you how the speech was."

Her hand brushed over the dark fuzz on her daughter's head. "Mrs. Sanger's discussion of the reproductive rights of women was excellent, but I was rather disappointed to hear her other views."

"Oh?"

"I purchased a copy of her most recent book while I was there," she said, leaning to retrieve it from a nearby table. Thumbing to a page, she read aloud. "The lack of balance between the birth-rate of the 'unfit' and the 'fit,' admittedly the greatest present menace to the civilization, can never be rectified by the inauguration of a cradle competition between these two classes. The example of the inferior classes, the fertility of the feeble-minded, the mentally defective, the poverty-stricken, should not be held up for emulation to the mentally and physically fit, and therefore less fertile, parents of the educated and well-to-do classes. On the contrary, the most urgent problem today is how to limit and discourage the over-fertility of the mentally and physically defective. Possibly drastic and Spartan methods may be forced upon American society if it continues complacently to encourage the chance and chaotic breeding that has resulted from our stupid, cruel sentimentalism."

"Alleviating social inequality through science is not an uncommon proposal in socialist circles," Tom said after a moment. "Doesn't mean we have to agree with it."

Tossing the book aside, Sybil sank into a chair and gestured for her daughter. She dropped the shoulder of her gown and pulled the baby to her. "I believe it is a woman's fundamental right to decide if and when she wants to have a child, and how many. But to turn the argument around and suggest the government, or anyone else, has the right to limit your choices because they decide you're unfit – for whatever reason - that smacks of hypocrisy to me."

Tom rummaged for his pajamas; he'd been in such a hurry to have the rest of the house ready that the arrangement of his own things had been haphazard at best. "I agree." He finally found a pair of bottoms shoved in with his socks and slipped them on, kicking the remains of his day wear into a corner. The bed swayed a bit as he dropped down; he'd forgotten how flimsy the old frame was. He crooked an arm under his head, facing her. "If Mrs. Sanger had been around when my parents were struggling - poverty-stricken as she called them - with six children, she probably would have suggested they not have any more. As it was, my parents thought the same thing for a time, but then I came along much later."

"And I'm rather glad you did." She brushed a finger across her daughter's cheek. "I also had the opportunity to visit Mrs. Stopes' clinic with Cousin Isobel. She's very keen on opening one here."

"In Downton?"

"That would be her preference - somehow associated with the hospital - but you know how Papa would react to that. I suggested York instead, where she could reach more people and take family politics out of it." Glancing up, she added, "I told her I would be willing to help."

"If you feel that strongly about it, I think you should." Teaching women about modern methods for birth control wouldn't be a popular cause in either of their families.

"I think it's right," she sighed. "One night I had dinner with a few other women who attended Mrs. Sanger's speech and we had such a wonderful discussion, we met for lunch twice more. I truly didn't realize how fortunate I was until listening to their stories..."

"How do you mean?"

"One poor woman had such trouble bearing her children. She had toxemia with her first two - her second child died from it - and then she hemorrhaged with her third." Shaking her head, she continued, "Honestly, it's a miracle she survived at all. But when she and her husband asked the doctor what could be done, he told them they'd just have to abstain from sex altogether. Nothing about preventatives or other options! I don't know if I would have that much willpower."

He'd never say it, but Tom had once considered the possibility – when Sybil's life hung in a precarious balance before Bobby's birth. "It would be hard, but I like to think I could manage, if it meant saving your life."

"But you shouldn't have to! Nor should anyone sacrifice one of the greatest joys of marriage when there are ways to have both."

His mouth curled into a roguish smile. "I'm glad I qualify as a great joy, milady."

"We truly are very lucky in that regard, you know." She rocked their daughter, tickling Saoirse's cheek as her lashes began to wilt. "One woman told me she didn't have her first orgasm until after she had two children, and it terrified her when it happened - she thought something was wrong with her." Looking down at their daughter, Sybil missed Tom's eyes going wide. "So, she refused to have any more relations with her husband and eventually he ran off with another woman. After a few years of…self-examination…she realized what her body was capable of and…." She trailed off, looking up. "Darling, what's the matter?"

Tom had been feeling more and more unsettled as she talked. He'd known her for over a decade now, seen her blossom into a free-spirited and independent woman: certainly one who wouldn't sit on her opinion during such a conversation. A prickle of dread buzzed up his neck. "What did you tell them about us?"

"Nothing in particular…"

"Sybil…"

Her breath came out in a huff. "I only said that my husband has always been a generous lover…and that he always tries to make sure I'm satisfied in that way."

Rolling to his stomach, Tom buried his head under a pillow. "Please tell me your family wasn't there for that conversation."

"Oh, Heavens no," she laughed. "Except for Cousin Isobel." She heard what sounded like a whimper. "Tom, there's nothing to be ashamed of."

"I'm not ashamed," was his muffled reply. "Not in the slightest, but I'll never be able to look Matthew's mother in the eye again."

"Honestly, you can be as dramatic as Papa sometimes." Her breast suddenly went cold as Saoirse pulled away; the little girl's eyes had fluttered closed. Sybil tucked her daughter in the cot and dimmed the room to lamplight. Easing onto the mattress, she bounced gently on the edge. The old frame gave a few harmless squeaks. "No one sabotaged the bed tonight, did they?"

"No, your generous lover of a husband was in charge of the assembly this time," he said, head still under the pillow.

She rolled on top of him and straddled his rump. Pulling the pillow away – he wasn't giving it up easily – she leaned down to whisper behind his ear. "Five years ago it was just the two of us." He felt a kiss on the back of his neck.

Tom turned his head, his mortification forgotten when he saw her gown float to the floor. "I remember everything about you that night. About us."

"What exactly?" Her palms slipped down the backs of his arms until she found his hands, locking their fingers together.

"I remember how you couldn't get enough of me that night or the next day." Tom laughed as she tickled the sensitive spot behind his ear with playful nips. "I remember how fearless you were." His eyes closed when her mouth brushed slowly across his bare shoulders. "I remember how you said my name that first time." Her breasts pressed into his back as she bent closer. He sighed, the memories of that night flooding his brain. "It was like you were talking to my soul."

Her mouth traveled from the crook of his neck to his shoulder. "You know, it wouldn't be right if we didn't christen the bed on our first night here."

"You're not too tired?" Boyish optimism crept into his voice. It had been more than three months since the last time, before the baby was born; they'd both had to be patient.

"No. I want to thank my husband properly for everything he's given me…and not just today," she whispered, her lips lingering on his temple. "Make love to me, Tom."

"I'll do my best," he teased, "But I should be turned the other way." He wiggled his backside to prove his point.

"I don't know, I'm rather enjoying this," Sybil teased, shifting up on her knees to let him roll over. She giggled as he lifted his hips, an invitation for her to remove his bottoms. They settled comfortably, enjoying the feel of skin on skin: warm, smooth, familiar. He kissed her slowly, wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her closer, kneading her backside as her hands twisted in his hair. He groaned as her tongue lapped against his. She pushed him back and the bed offered up a protracted creak.

"I suppose I should have fixed that."

"Don't you dare, Mr. Branson. I've missed that sound."

"I've missed it too." Instinctively his hands brushed upward, but stopped just beneath her breasts, suddenly reminded of one of those first times after Bobby was born when he'd been a bit overenthusiastic – he'd always loved her breasts – and was rewarded with a literal expression of their God-given purpose. Tonight he only stared at them, looking so forlorn that Sybil laughed, bending to pepper his face with playful kisses. "What?"

"You!" She waved a hand across her chest. "You remind me of Bobby staring at the biscuit jar."

"I can't help it. You're beautiful." Then he cast a mock frown. "Please don't talk about our son when I'm trying to seduce you."

"Just don't get carried away or we'll both be covered in milk."

"Now you're talking about milk," he tsked. "Our foreplay sure has changed from five years ago."

Sybil leaned down, her hair brushing his cheeks. "And I wouldn't change a thing about it."

"Nor would I," he whispered against one breast. His nose teased the skin as his lips molded to the curves. "Seems unfair your body gets bigger and mine doesn't..."

"I can take care of that." Her hand slipped between them, wrapping it around his length.

Through muffled laughter, they tumbled playfully, remembering those early days of marriage when children were still a dream and their future flush with unfettered hope and ambition. His hand drifted behind her knee, his fingers deftly teasing the skin and eliciting a stifled squeal. In those early days, he would have encouraged her, indifferent to their sounds escaping through the thin walls. But now, their children slept on, oblivious to the passion that had brought them into the world. Mouths captured laughter, groans were uttered into soft patches of skin, and blankets were pulled hastily in a cocoon of solitude. Tom rolled her beneath him, his hand sliding down, a finger dipping into her, and then another. Her legs hooked around his hips, slowly drawing him in as their breath shuddered together.

Tom felt his body relax and grow heavy as he sank further in. He let out a soft moan and his mouth dropped to her shoulder; he felt her nails scrape his scalp. For a moment she seemed content just to become one, but then her hips urged him to move. He hesitated, gave her an awkward smile. "Is this...are you alright? It's been a while."

Her response came as a smile and the feathery brush of fingers across his lips. Settling breathlessly into an easy rhythm – he let her lead the way - laughter gave way to months of deferred desire. She felt his mouth, hot against her neck, graze moist kisses across her skin. "Oh, my darling, I do love you," he whispered. His thrusts came deliberate, languorous and slow, and as if in conspiracy, the frame creaked a little louder. They kissed, tongues and mouths and lips vibrating as they cried out together. It was quick – they were a bit unpracticed after all – but as the years passed, she had learned to appreciate the 'after.' The denouement of sensitive skin. A touch to his brow as his body trembled in her arms. Hot breath mingling with exertion and dissipating into slovenly kisses.

They rolled over together, leaden-limbed, and Sybil nestled into Tom's chest. Their bodies twisted in the damp sheet. Tom's exhaustion pulled him under quickly; his chest rose and fell beneath her cheek. She heard their daughter across the room; Saoirse's breath hitched with a sharp breath before settling again. She thought of the healthy and happy little boy down the hall. Tom was right; this, their own home, was better. As she fell asleep, secured in his arms, she wondered how much better it could possibly be.

A/N 2: The women's stories related by Sybil are paraphrased/adapted from "Analysis of the Sexual Impulse" (by Havelock Ellis, 1920). Margaret Sanger's quote comes from her book "The Pivot of Civilization" (1922). Adding those pieces was a bit of a last minute decision – I couldn't have Sybil coming back from a women's event and not have an opinion about it!

Next up: I'm undecided whether to have a quick chapter of fun or delve back into a bit of angst and drama. Will probably be the former since I can get it finished quicker, but we shall see...