A/N: One of the benefits of writing non-chronologically is that when I get stuck on a certain chapter or idea, I can put it aside and go back to it. And that's what I did with this - many, many times. In fact, the first jolt of inspiration came about a year ago and it has gone through multiple evolutions. I hope everyone sticks through these next few chapters – fair warning: it will be a bit of a roller-coaster. Please keep in mind I'm not as evil as Julian Fellowes, but as Sybil said in Chapter 5, life's not always bunnies and rainbows.

Continued thanks to foojules for beta'ing these long chapters, and thanks also to The Irish Chauffeur who helped me nail down some historical tidbits for this first part.

OUT OF THE DARK, PART I
Downton Cottage, Monday September 21, 1925

Tom scrambled through his and Sybil's bedroom at Downton Cottage with a piece of toast clamped between his teeth. Squatting on all fours, he peered beneath the bed, in the wardrobe, and – in a last-ditch effort – under the bedcovers. Where is that bloody thing? It was a forty-five minute drive to Pateley Bridge, and the famed crowds of the Nidderdale Agricultural Show obliged an early arrival. He finally abandoned his search and stormed downstairs, his eyes sweeping over the clock: eight o'clock. And I've still got to pick up Matthew.

He hurried into the kitchen, snatching up his hat and overcoat on the way. "Sybil, I can't find my bag."

Sybil was in the midst of her own morning bustle. Having shooed Bobby to his room to dress for school, she stood scarfing down her breakfast while pleading with one-and-a-half year old Saoirse to do the same. Sybil whipped around, gulping a mouthful of tea. "What bag, darling?"

"My leather bag." He gestured anxiously. "With all my paperwork?"

Strapped in a wooden chair by the table, Saoirse hoisted a spoon of porridge. "Da! Da!"

Tom sampled it with an animated frown and feigned a few nibbles on her neck. "Ah, my darling, it needs more sugar. You're not nearly sweet enough yet." The little girl snorted with giggles and thrust a chubby hand into her bowl.

"You're not helping," Sybil groaned, reaching for a wet dishcloth. "Have you tried the study?"

"Of course! That's the first place I looked."

"In the cupboard?"

Right. His face furrowed as he made a mad dash back down the hall. The cupboard had been Sybil's solution to Barnaby the cat's – her cat's – recently developed habit of pouncing on Tom's bag with his claws out. Tom had never gotten on with the animal and would have dearly loved to get rid of it, but between his wife and children he had found himself outnumbered.

Satchel securely in hand, he returned to his family for farewells. On the way, he fell in line behind his son, shuffling back from his bedroom. Sybil frowned at the boy, who was still in his pajamas. "Darling, I asked you to get dressed. I've got to get you to school and Saoirse to Grandmama's before I go to work. Hodges will be here any minute to..."

The little boy scrubbed sleep from his eyes. "I don't wanna go."

Bobby's first school term had started a few weeks before, and up until now, he'd been an eager scholar. Dumping the morning's dishes in the sink, she threw a piteous glance over her shoulder. "Well, all your new friends will miss you if you're not there..." Bobby remained unmoved. "Please? I'm having a hard enough time with your sister this morning."

Tom knelt down, his face stern. "Bobby I'm relying on you to be a good boy for Mama. Now give your Da a hug and a kiss. I'm off to fetch Uncle Matthew." The child leaned weakly into his father, giving him a peck on the cheek. Tom ruffled his hair and kissed the top of his head. "I'll see you tomorrow night." As Bobby trundled from the kitchen, Tom's eyes followed. "Is he alright?"

Sybil sponged the mess of porridge from her daughter's face. "The cold he had last week really took the starch out of him," she said. "And I think he's missing you already."

"Hmm." Tom's eyes lingered a moment on the hallway.

She hoisted Saoirse on her hip. "I know how he feels," she added, pasting a kiss on his mouth.

"I know it's bad timing for both Kitty and me to be away." His niece, the youngest of his sister Betsey's brood, had been the latest addition to their household and a godsend in helping with the children.

"She couldn't very well miss her sister's wedding, could she? Besides, her train comes in tonight." Sybil laughed. "I've not grown so dependent on her that I can't manage our children for a few hours." Saoirse squirmed in her mother's arms, letting out a high-pitched squeal. "Do you have your speech?"

Tom patted the side of his bag. "Almost didn't, thanks to your bloody cat."

"I wish I could go with you to hear it."

"You watched me give the last one and I've practiced this one on you enough that you know it by heart." When he'd spoken out at an open forum at the Otley Show that spring, decrying the government's failure to address plummeting agricultural prices, local farmers had encouraged him to do the same at the larger Yorkshire Agricultural Show in Bradford a few months later. Another opportunity awaited at this week's exhibition in Pateley Bridge.

"It will be the start of something big, I'm sure of it. Just remember..." She shifted her daughter to her other hip. "Don't focus on only one person. Talk just as you do when you meet with the tenants. Be confident, but not..."

He cut off her instructions with a kiss. "I think you're more nervous than I am."

"You'll do fine," she assured him. "Just remember your children."

"...and you."

She chuckled when he grinned, then whispered against his lips, "Us."

Wedged between them in a cozy embrace, Saoirse giggled and clapped, unlike her brother who'd begun reacting to such displays of affection with a scrunched nose and "blech!"

"Ahem." A cough echoed from the doorway, and Tom and Sybil turned their heads to see a decidedly impatient Matthew.

Tom sighed. "I was just on my way."

"That's not what it looked like to me," Matthew quipped. "When you didn't show up, I caught a lift with Hodges."

Tom gave his wife a sly grin. "Your brother-in-law summons the help." His lips lingered on hers before smacking a playful kiss against Saoirse's cheek. "Goodbye, my beautiful girls," he whispered, then ushered Matthew towards the Bransons' waiting Model T Ford. He flung a brisk hello at Hodges, who was peevishly tapping his foot as he waited outside the front door.

"We'll just make it by nine with the way you drive." Matthew wedged his suitcase behind the seat.

Tom cranked the engine, letting it idle a moment before releasing the brake. "Us little people have to make do on our own, you know." The car crunched away from the cottage. "It can be a bit of a zoo in the morning, even with Kitty's help." But he wouldn't have it any other way. He and Sybil had finally forged their own independence in the shadow of her family's estate. His days began and ended in a warm bed next to his beautiful wife, in a house of their own with a pair of chittering and rambunctious children. They'd made their peace with Downton, and for now, that was enough.

Matthew tipped his hat to one of the tenants as they chugged toward the outskirts of the village. Mr. Hill grinned broadly and waved back. "When is your speech?"

"Tomorrow, at the farmers' luncheon. But we've got a lot to do today at the showground." He dug a magazine advertisement from his coat pocket. "There's a tractor demonstration this afternoon with a number of American models on display."

Matthew's eyes narrowed as they skimmed over the prices. "What's wrong with the one we have?"

"Well, we've had it for a while, and it just can't keep up with all we need it to do. And I'm tired of fixing the bloody thing," he grumbled as the road opened up. Downton's south fields whipped by on either side, infusing the air with a crisp scent of hay ready for harvest. "We'll need three."

"Three!?" When he was hired on as estate agent, Tom's meticulous inspection of the books had led to an overhaul of the house expenses – much to their father-in-law's annoyance, not to mention Carson's – but Matthew often had to intercede when it came to reinventing the agricultural operation.

"I'd like two for the Downton fields, and one for Mr. Drewe's operation."

"But he's our pig-man," Matthew sputtered. "What on earth does he need a tractor for?"

Tom brandished another slip of paper. "I've devised a way to mechanize his hammer mill. If we want to increase the herd, he can't keep grinding the feed by hand." His finger skimmed proudly over the crude sketch. "I just have to replace the shaft, install a belt, and then we can attach it to the engine. I also plan on using it with Mr. Parks' silage cutter. His old steam engine won't keep up with the tonnage we need for the dairy operation."

Shoving the advertisement back into Tom's hands, Matthew checked his watch. "We'll see," he muttered.

Tom opened his mouth to rebut before reminding himself of their enforced proximity over the coming two days. He settled back into the seat, mumbling "You seem a little out of sorts."

"Mary was sick earlier." Matthew cut his eyes over with a smirk. "As in morning sickness."

"Congratulations." Tom laughed, turning on the road towards Ripon. "Although after Teddy, I'm surprised Mary didn't banish you from the house." Two-and-a-half years before, he'd stood over his youngest nephew, joking that the nine pound Teddy had come out ready to walk. His sister-in-law hadn't been amused.

"She's still...adjusting to her pregnancy," Matthew smiled. "Our trip was timed perfectly."

After her shift, Sybil trudged the half-mile to Downton Abbey just to walk the aches from her feet. She'd made this trip plenty of times during the war, whenever her mother hadn't insisted on sending Tom – Branson as she'd known him then – to pick her up. But unlike then, today she wasn't going home; she was collecting her brood after an honest day's work and looking forward to a simple supper (uncharred, she hoped) and snuggling in Tom's chair with her babies and a bedtime story.

But when her mother greeted her in the hall, protesting her plan for a quick exit, Sybil surrendered and agreed to stay for tea. "But only tea," she insisted, and spent the next forty-five minutes listening to the neighborhood gossip with her parents and sister.

"I hate staying at home without Tom," Sybil admitted later as she and Mary ascended the carpeted stairs.

"Worried about all the crime in the village?" Mary wheedled with a thin smile.

"Hardly," she laughed. "But once the children are asleep, it's just so quiet. I confess I get rather lonely without his company. We're used to each other now, like a pair of shoes."

"I feel the same about Matthew. Of course, we have a lot more activity here with people milling about," Mary replied. "Darling, why don't you have Hodges take you to fetch some things and just stay here? Join us for dinner and the children could have a grand sleepover."

"Thank you, but I should take them home. It's been a long day for us all. And Kitty should be back by now."

Mary smiled, slipped her arm in Sybil's as they turned at the landing. "Speaking of children… I have some news."

Sybil's mouth trembled with a smirk. "Have you told Matthew?"

"Yesterday. But don't say anything to Mama or Papa yet. You know how they get after these grand proclamations," she said, rolling her eyes. "I'd like to enjoy it with Matthew a while first, though I'm sure he's told Tom by now. Those two gossip more than Granny." She squeezed her sister's arm and spoke in a low voice. "I may need to speak with you about a few things after all this is over. As delighted as I am, I'd prefer this to be the finale..."

"And you think I can help you?"

"I know you can," Mary teased, and then sighed dramatically. "Honestly, I'm quite ready to be done with pregnancy. I'm exhausted just thinking about the next seven months."

As they reached the top of the stairs, Sybil turned to take her sister's hands. "Don't be ashamed of your decision, Mary. It should be your choice not to sacrifice the fun parts of marriage."

Mary's pale features pinked. "Yes, well, fun landed me with two outrageously uncontrollable boys. For Matthew's sake, this one better be a girl or he'll be banished to his dressing room permanently," she said. "And what about you? Do you and Tom plan to have more?"

With a soft smile, Sybil replied, "I'd like to have more, yes. We both would and if it happens, so be it. But after almost losing Bobby and waiting so long for Saoirse, we're grateful for what we have. I'd have half a dozen if I could..." She laughed abruptly. "Once I became a nurse and got out of this house, tasted freedom, I never thought I would enjoy being a mother so much. But I do."

"Life certainly takes us down un-navigated paths. I mean, who knew Edith would be living...openly, with that editor..."

"Mary..." Sybil scolded. Edith's outré lifestyle was the talk of London, and everywhere else it seemed. "She's happy. Leave her alone."

"Oh, alright," she muttered, turning towards the nursery. "But perhaps you should have a talk with her as well about..."

Sybil smiled. "I took care of Edith years ago, Mary." Her heart ached for Edith, though. Her sister had made a conscious decision that while her relationship with the man she loved was worth the scandal, they wouldn't subject a child to the ostracism.

"Well, I'll leave our parents in the dark on that one," she muttered, opening the nursery door. David and Teddy sprang to their feet and rushed forward to crowd her legs like two unleashed puppies. "Hello boys...no, Teddy, don't pull Mama's dress like that."

Sybil hoisted Saoirse and glanced down at her son, quietly piloting a set of train cars across the carpet. "Bobby, are you ready to go home?" A listless shrug was his only response.

"He hardly ate anything," Nanny Bradford called from across the room. She stuffed a set of pint-sized shirts in a drawer. "Not like Master Bobby at all."

Sybil squatted front of him, palmed his cheek. "How do you feel?"

Another shrug. "My shoulders hurt a little. And my throat."

Sybil's lips lingered on his brow. "You don't seem to have a temperature." She pulled back, offering a reassuring smile. "We'll try a hot bath, honey and tea before bed. And maybe a biscuit if you're feeling up to it," she added with a wink. Taking his hand, she pecked a kiss on Mary's cheek on her way to the door. David and Teddy waved to their cousin and then promptly began shoving one another, tumbling into a lump on the floor.

"Oh for heaven's sake...boys..." Mary shot her sister an exasperated glance. "Honestly, between you and Tom, I'll never know how yours wound up so sweet..." she began, only to be cut off by a duet of high pitched squeals.

Sybil slept fitfully that night. At first she fretted about her son – though on her last check before midnight he seemed peaceful and unaffected by whatever had bothered him earlier that evening – and then her mind flitted from one bothersome detail to another. The room was too quiet, the clock ticked loud as a hammer, the tree limb Tom kept promising to trim scraped her window with each puff of wind. She'd finally gotten up, went to the cupboard for another pillow and burrowed beneath the covers again. She shoved it against her back and then pulled her husband's pillow into her chest, breathing in his scent. Sybil had never thought of herself as a creature of habit, but laughed when she thought on it. I miss him.

They'd spent nights apart before, but on those nights it was usually him alone in the bed while she worked a late shift at the hospital. Tucking his pillow to her chin, she wondered if he'd ever done the same, finally decided probably not. What was it she'd told Mary? We're like a pair of shoes. As fatigue pulled at the corners of her brain, she chuckled dreamily. Six years of marriage and two children later, she'd come to this: hugging his blasted pillow so I can sleep.

They'd purchased the alarm clock more for Tom, who required that bomb-like burst of noise to rattle his brain. But the next morning Sybil was grateful for the sadistic buzz by her ear. She extracted herself from the warm covers – autumn was making its presence known – and wrapped up in Tom's flannel robe. Kitty, bless her, had already started breakfast and offered Sybil a fresh cup of tea as she trundled into the kitchen.

Sybil stood by the stove, hands savoring over the warmth as she hummed into the steam. "You spoil us, you know?" Kitty had been only eleven when Sybil arrived with Tom in Ireland, but even at that age Sybil had recognized her restless spirit. Tom's youngest niece had her mind set on charting her own path to freedom and Sybil had been happy to encourage her, feeding her inspiring stories – including her own – of women who'd chased their dreams. Kitty was not only a rebel, but a hard worker as well, setting goals and ticking them off with what Sybil dubbed the "Branson tenacity." Once she'd finished school in Dublin, Kitty arrived in Downton prepared to spend a year with her aunt and uncle until she'd squirreled away enough wages to afford training at the nursing institution in Manchester.

Kitty nodded toward a stack of thick books. "I thought I'd come down early this morning to get a head start on those."

Sybil's eyes widened. "I hope they don't expect you to know all that ahead of time. I'd barely mastered a pot of tea before I started."

"It's never too early to learn the basics."

"I suspect you've mastered the basics already, using all of your free time to volunteer at the hospital."

Kitty dropped into a nearby chair with her own cup, fidgeted a moment or two. "Sybil, I've been thinking of changing my mind...about becoming a nurse..."

"Oh?"

"Yes, that is...well...I'm considering a medical degree instead." Her voice quickened. "Though Matron Aubrey, who I've been corresponding with, doesn't think much of the idea. I could almost hear her laughing in her last letter."

Sybil's cup clinked indignantly in the saucer. "It's preposterous that members of our own sex would try and temper our ambitions." She sighed. "But unfortunately, those of us who look beyond traditional barriers often have to fight against the expectations of both sexes." She smiled then, declaring, "I think you should do it!"

Kitty beamed. "It would mean my being underfoot a bit more until I could earn the money..."

"I certainly won't mind, and neither will Tom. In fact, he'll be quite proud of you," she said. "Back during the war, many of England's medical schools opened their doors to women because of the desperate need for doctors, but now they refuse co-education. I'm afraid your choices may be limited to London or Edinburgh."

"I don't care about that," Kitty shrugged. "As long as I can be admitted, get a degree, that's one small step for us all, right?"

"Right," Sybil laughed. She glanced at the clock above the stove and groaned. "Golly, I'll be late if I don't get a move on." She yawned into her cup. "And I'm exhausted. Could you pour me another while I get ready?" Pushing up from the table, she added, "And I better check on Bobby – he was a bit droopy yesterday."

Sybil shuffled up the stairs, stifling two more yawns before reaching the top; Bobby's room stood at the far end, and the floorboards seemed to protest the early hour beneath her feet. A little tri-colored flag of orange, white and green adorned his door. She'd made that for his last birthday. The stitching was a bit circuitous, but Tom had declared it an "Irish banner worthy of the name" while helping his son tack it up.

Her nose caught an acrid whiff of sick as she pushed on the knob. Bobby lay quiet and still in the morning sunbeams, his hair damp at the ends, his face scrunched and blotted with vomit. His wide blue eyes, so like his father's, rolled toward her.

She'd nursed her family plenty: through sniffles and coughs, the upset stomachs and ear infections that left no household with children untouched. But something in his features – the listlessness tinged with fear, the sense that he'd given up – sent her heart to the pit of her stomach. Her hands went to his face – his skin burned beneath her touch. "Bobby, talk to Mama..." When he didn't answer, she peeled back the sheets; his pajamas were soiled through.

Sybil dashed to the bathroom and back, the wet towel dripping a trail behind her. She mopped his face and hands, wiping away the sick. "Do you hurt anywhere?" Tears seeped from the corners of his eyes as his mother unbuttoned his pajamas, her fingers seizing up when she saw the speckling on his skin. "Oh, dear God, no…" came her whispered prayer.

Kitty peered through the threshold, cup and saucer in hand. "Sybil, what's…"

"Don't come in!" Scooping up Bobby, sheets and all, she burst down the hall, throwing one last edict over her shoulder: "And for God's sake keep the baby out of there!"

The Nidderdale Agricultural Show at Pateley Bridge was the third such event they'd attended this year, and yet again Tom's enthusiasm outstripped Matthew's patience. Immediate to their arrival the day before, Tom had launched himself into the buzzing crowds to inspect the harrows and cultivators, hay loaders and rakes, combines and seed drilling machines. He met Mr. Drewe, who'd come to display the Tamsworth pigs, and then Mr. Parks, who won Best in Show for one of his dairy cows. All three men joined up for lunch and afterwards ogled the latest Massey-Harris ensilage grinders like children in front of a toy shop. Matthew trailed behind acting as guardian of the advertisements and instruction manuals that Tom collected from the demonstrations. After a late dinner, both men had stumbled to their respective rooms at the Kings Arms Hotel, bathed off the dust, and dropped into bed.

After such a full day, Matthew had assumed they'd have an idle morning on Tuesday before the farmers' luncheon. When they met for breakfast, however, Tom's suitcase sat packed at his feet. The future earl eyed this sign of impending activity with a scowl, tenuously reminding him, "Lunch isn't until one."

"Right," Tom replied around his ham, "But I understand a few of the manufacturers stayed overnight. I'd like to check them out without the crowds," he explained.

So they checked out of the hotel, loaded the car, and ambled down High Street toward the showground. Yet again Matthew stood to one side waving the bugs away from his face while his brother-in-law clambered onto the machines, shirtsleeves shoved to his elbows, and drove round the field. Matthew caught his attention on the last lap and gave an impatient tap to his watch.

His nose wrinkled when Tom hopped down. "Perhaps you'd like a bath before lunch?" The Irishman's clothes were a hodgepodge of grease and oil, and he sported liberal splotches of both on his cheeks. Tom swiped at his face with a dusty handkerchief, which only rearranged the pattern.

"I take my job seriously," he sniped back, and then smiled. "Besides, what better way to persuade the audience that I'm one of them than by having a hard day's work on my clothes?"

"Ah, so this is political theater, then?" Matthew mused as they began making their way across the River Nidd into the village. The chug of engines and laughter boiled up from the fields behind them.

Tom wetted the handkerchief on his tongue and began scrubbing globs of grease from beneath his fingernails. "It's not theater at all."

But Matthew didn't miss the excitement brimming in his eyes – it was the same gleam that blazed when he argued with Lord Grantham. His mind wandered back to a comment he'd overheard the previous day from one of the cadre of farmers that had surrounded Tom: I'm a Yorkshireman, Mr. Branson, and I'd not be ashamed to vote for you. "Tom..." Matthew glanced over as his brother-in-law shrugged out of his coat and tossed it over his shoulder. "...this luncheon, and the others...is there something you're not telling me?"

Tom stilled at the crest of the bridge and squinted into the mid-day sun. He gave an easy smile. "I've been asked to run for county council in two years."

Matthew's brows whooshed up. "Does Sybil know?"

"Of course she knows," he snorted, starting towards the village again. "But I hadn't really made up my mind until recently, so we've kept it to ourselves." He looked askance, shoved a hand in his pocket. "So, do you think I have a chance?"

"Well, let's see." Matthew ticked points off on his fingers. "You're the Earl of Grantham's chauffeur turned son-in-law turned estate agent; a former Irish republican exiled for treason against the Crown; and a socialist to boot." He grinned. "I think the campaign slogan writes itself!"

"Feck off." Tom's pace quickened, and Matthew snickered as he trotted to catch up.

"You know, if you're going into politics, you shouldn't be so thin-skinned." He clapped a hand on Tom's shoulder. "And, since I'm doling out political counsel today, might I suggest that you support our domestic suppliers? I saw you eyeballing all those American models."

"When the British start producing equipment that doesn't play up in the middle of the harvest, I'll think about it," Tom said. "The Fordsons are designed for the working man. They're affordable with mass-produced parts, so they're easier and cheaper to repair."

Matthew flapped his hat at a nagging fly. "Well, I've got an old friend who represents Austin, down in Birmingham. I understand their machines are rather reliable – I'm sure he could negotiate a good deal on..."

But Tom didn't seem to hear him. "...besides, I've been reading up on Mr. Ford." His breathing labored as they ascended the long slope of High Street. "Back before the war, he doubled his workers' wages – right out of the blue."

"Why on earth would he do that?"

"Made all the other companies' workers think twice about their own employers, didn't it? Not a bad situation to be in, having every skilled laborer around suddenly wanting to work for you. So the man's got his pick of employees, which continues to improve quality and productivity." Tom made a flourish with his hand. "And the workers get higher wages. Even the ones who don't work at Ford, since the other companies have had to raise pay or risk losing them. He's reduced their work week as well, and..."

"You're wading in dangerous waters there, my friend," Matthew warned. "Relying on the industrialists to provide for the workers?" His voice oozed with sarcasm before he tsk-tsk-tsked.

"Don't you worry," Tom chuckled, nudging his arm. "I'll take down your lot soon enough." His legs wearied as they reached the arched doorway of the meeting hall on the west side of the street. "I'm not so ideological that I can't find favor in a good decision by the opposition, you know. I supported Prime Minister Baldwin – conservative though he is – on the government's passage of the pension bill."

Matthew's response hung in his throat – the climb had left him out of breath – but gasped out when Tom started further up the hill. "Where are you going?"

Tom pointed to a little shop on the corner. "I heard there was a sweet shop in the village." He checked his watch and gave a guilty grin. "We've got a few minutes yet. I thought I'd take some back for the children."

Matthew's mouth curled in amusement when he caught up. "For you or for them?"

"For them, of course," Tom bristled. "Never was one for sweets myself, seeing as how my family couldn't afford them." He laughed. "Sybil's got a bit of a sweet tooth, though, and she hid it pretty well until she was pregnant with Bobby."

"Ah, the cravings," Matthew mused. A tinkling bell greeted them in the sweetly infused interior.

"Lady Grantham warned me it might happen," Tom bantered on as they approached a counter littered with clear cylindrical vessels, each more colorful than the next. "Said Sybil was the naughty one of the bunch, always sneaking down to the kitchen."

"Well, I suppose I could do with some treats for the boys, although Nanny Bradford might take me to task for it..."

After a quarter hour of sampling, both men declared the store's quality too fine to make a single selection, so they gathered an assortment. When they finally reached the cashier, they each had two small bags of brandy balls and lemon drops, toffee sticks and butterscotch. The sun had dipped behind a wisp of cloud as they stepped onto the sidewalk and Tom popped a piece of fudge into his mouth. He hummed as it melted on his tongue. "You might need to hide these from me," he mumbled.

"I thought you didn't care for sweets?"

Licking a crumb from his finger, Tom gave an innocent shrug. "Right, well, we better be off..."

Matthew jerked his foot back from the curb as a familiar crimson car pulled up short. "What the devil?"

Carson emerged from the passenger side just as the clouds parted again, blanketing the cobbled street in a warm wave of sunlight. His eyes, slitted and ominous in the shadow of his bowler, fell on the Irishman. "Lady Sybil sent me."

Sybil had never been one to overreact to her children's bruises and sniffles – that was Tom's role. It wasn't unusual for him to rush into the kitchen to present the family's resident medical professional with what amounted to no more than a scraped knee. He'd bounce the little patient on his lap until Sybil could dab, wash and bandage the injuries. While the children eyed their mother crossways with her stinging iodine and rancid ointments, Tom swept in with kisses and hugs and whispered promises of biscuits when their mama wasn't looking. Yes, he played his part well.

Sybil's medical experience had always salved her fears, enabled her to dissect injury and prescribe treatment with clinical precision. Until now. She twisted in her chair, dwelling morbidly on the day before and her casual dismissal of Bobby's malaise. A good nurse wouldn't have done, she admonished herself, and then shifted again to replace the cold cloth draped over her son's brow. His fever had pitched and waned since she'd arrived that morning, gasping for air after running the two blocks to the village hospital.

They'd been given one of the few private rooms, a small dormered space overlooking the churchyard. It had a pair of narrow arched windows, one of which Nurse Shames forced open around noon – Bobby'd been sick again, fouling the linens and the cut-off gown they'd fitted him with – and the faint breeze blew in with freshening warmth from the afternoon sun. The rose-colored curtains diffused most of the light, though, and it billowed in waves across her son's sleeping form. At least he's resting, Sybil thought. After suffering a morning of restive thrashing and wailing of a headache, he'd finally collapsed on his side, hands clutched in stubborn little fists to his face, half-hidden beneath the sheet.

The door's hinges cracked the silence and Tom peeked in. Squeezing between the foot-rail and the wall, Sybil collapsed into his waiting arms, the tension sagging from her shoulders. "How is he?" Tom's voice arched with unease. "Mr. Carson said it was some sort of fever?"

She nodded, pulling back, pressed a finger against one reddened eye. "He woke with it this morning, and a rash. He's been violently ill all day, vomiting and the like, and he's had a terrific headache."

Tom looked over her shoulder. Bobby lay still, yet seemingly agitated with his hands pressed to his face, his neck bowing slightly back.

She followed his eyes and swallowed. "His back and neck have stiffened during the day and just after noon he was showing signs of photophobia..." Before Tom could ask, she clarified: "Sensitivity to light. The poor darling, we couldn't get him comfortable until a half-hour ago. He's finally been able to rest a little."

Speeding over the rutted roads on the way back from Pateley Bridge – Matthew had insisted on driving – Tom's mind had buzzed through a succession of grim scenarios. "What is it?"

She shook her head, took his hands with a gentle squeeze. "Dr. Clarkson won't say, or can't rather. He's been running tests..."

"Sybil, love..." He tipped her chin, his heart quickening as her eyes tried to avert from his. "Tell me."

But just then Matthew appeared, stiffening with apprehension at the doorframe. He took a step, but Sybil barred his path.

"Matthew, you should probably go, just in case. Whatever he has, we don't know if it's contagious..." She glanced up. "He was around the boys for a few hours yesterday afternoon. You should keep an eye on them."

Tom swallowed. "Saoirse?"

"She's fine, but I told Kitty to let me know the minute something seems out of the ordinary..." Sybil shivered when a draft whistled through the window and ruffled the folds of the flannel robe. She gave a tight smile as Tom rubbed her arms to warm them. She scarcely remembered her dash to the hospital that morning, but at least had had the sense to step into a pair of shoes on the way.

Dr. Clarkson slipped into view, motioning them into the hallway. He presented a chart to Sybil. "It doesn't appear to be scarlet fever...or the measles or typhoid for that matter," he said, catching her gaze as it drifted up. After a heavy sigh, he nodded. "The lumbar puncture indicates meningitis."

Tom had heard of the disease, remembered reading about an epidemic that raged through mobilized troops during the war, and when Sybil's hand shot behind her, gripping his in a vise, knew she remembered it too.

"I've not had the time to make a complete analysis of his spinal fluid yet," Clarkson went on, "but from what I saw, and the way he's presenting – the rigidity of his neck, the headache, and the acute onset – it seems the most likely diagnosis." Retrieving the chart, his eyes flitted over it, but not really reading. "There's something else," he said. "I've spoken with Dr. Burwell in Thirsk. He's also admitted cases over the last few days. The same for Dr. Mabry in Ripon. It's not typically a disease that manifests this time of year, particularly multiple cases, so if this isn't an isolated situation, we may be looking at a virulent form. I'll have to centrifugalize the fluid, see exactly what we're dealing with."

Tom's eyes darted back and forth, lost in the medical jargon. "Can it be treated?"

"There's a serum therapy that's shown to be relatively effective if administered early in the disease." He glanced knowingly at Sybil. "We haven't kept any in years – we just haven't had any cases, but the Leeds Fever Hospital has a supply."

"Leeds?" Matthew hissed. "Is there nothing closer?"

"I'm afraid not. There's little available, being out of the season, and York's given their batch to Dr. Burwell and Dr. Mabry has none he can spare."

He plopped on his fedora. "I'll drive there myself..."

"Thank you, Mr. Crawley, but I should think it's on the train by now," he said, turning back to Tom and Sybil. "I explained the urgency of the situation and when it arrives, we'll treat him straightaway. It will be a bit of a process over the next few days, but we'll do our best."

A process. Tom hadn't been sure what Clarkson had meant, but he soon found out. He'd insisted on staying while the initial dose was administered, sometime before midnight on that first night. He'd soon regretted it. Sybil and a second nurse held Bobby on his side, arms and legs secured as the doctor injected a long needle between the vertebrae – with no anesthetic – to draw the fluid from the child's spine into the tubing and vials held by yet another nurse. Bobby whined, but didn't flinch. The serum was injected in a reverse process, each procedure relying on gravity to transfer the fluids. After, they'd raised his back and hips to allow the serum to channel into his brain, where the disease would manifest. When it was finally over, Tom felt the breath rush from his body. But twelve hours later they had to do it all again.

After the first twenty-four hours the punctures continued on that schedule, with the serum injected only at night. They'd keep at it, Clarkson said, until the spinal fluid cleared. But four days passed – the minimum required for the treatment – and then five. After a week, Tom had grown numb to the repetition. He knew every step of the regimen, standing back but ready to relieve Sybil when her arms grew wobbly from holding Bobby still through the procedure. That was the easy part.

What Tom found unbearable were the hours in between, waiting for the results and watching the disease ravage his child's body. Bobby's neck bowed more – though not so severely as to indicate one of the more lethal strains, Dr. Clarkson noted to their relief – and his back and legs stiffened, particularly through the first few days. His nourishment dwindled to the liquids Sybil could cajole him into swallowing, and his expression alternated between a detached gaze and an intense, suspicious glare.

As a nurse, Sybil had learned to persevere through disease, and she stood guard by her son's bed despite the supplications of her family to rest. On that first day, she sent Tom home for a bag. "I'm not going home without him," she'd said. And she hadn't yet.

Tom, though, had never been one to sit still. If something broke, he fixed it, so the hours of holding vigil left him blindsided. Balanced on that tenuous edge, sitting still was a recipe for panic and the only way to quell it was to move about. So he did: in the hall, on the sidewalk, up and down the stairs, and back and forth to the cottage.

Sybil had sent word for Kitty to disinfect the house, which she did twice over and then burned the linens of Bobby's bed. After the first week, Dr. Clarkson determined if neither Saoirse nor Mary and Matthew's boys had fallen ill, they'd likely dodged it altogether. Once Lord and Lady Grantham learned that, they'd packed the three little ones off to Downton Place. "It's really not necessary," Clarkson had said when the earl telephoned the hospital. Sybil had also scoffed at the old notion of the wealthy fleeing contagion. Her objection came without fire, though, and after five minutes of superficial resistance she suggested Kitty go along to help Nanny Bradford.

They were lucky, or so it would seem. During that first week several other children, including Helen Drewe, were brought in exhibiting various stages of the disease. An elderly woman from a tenant farm at neighboring Orland Park was also admitted. On one of his pacing sessions, Tom overheard Dr. Clarkson and Matthew's mother comparing patients' notes. "The fair at Thirsk – a few weeks ago," Isobel concluded. "It would make perfect sense if there have been no outbreaks beyond Downton, Thirsk and Ripon." We'd all be at home right now, Tom thought, if I hadn't insisted on taking them.

He wouldn't tell Sybil that, though. His wife had spent enough time berating herself for not recognizing Bobby's symptoms earlier. She stayed with their son, leaving Tom as the intermediary (a job he gratefully accepted) when family dropped by or telephoned. As the second week stretched on, he spent an hour on a hard double chair with Lord Grantham, who seemed content to sit in silence. "But, he's getting better?" the older man finally asked. The question came almost as a plea.

Tom shrugged. "He's not getting any worse," he replied. "Dr. Clarkson insists it takes time for the serum to take effect and for the symptoms to improve, but when we started all this it was supposed to be for four or five days."

"Are they still giving it to him?"

"Not at the moment. They're draining spinal fluid every day, but it's still not clear of the bacteria. He'll administer the serum again this evening if there's been no change."

Lord Grantham had yet to take off his overcoat and sat perched on the edge of the seat, hands on his cane. The posture reminded Tom of the Dowager Countess. "I don't know what to say." He bowed his head, shaking it a bit. "Or do," he added. "I asked Clarkson if we should send him to London or some other hospital. He said no, the treatment would be the same anywhere."

"If I thought it would help, I'd take him away now," Tom said, his head thudding on the wall behind him. "But it won't."

After a time, his father-in-law stood slowly and dropped a pat on his shoulder. Tom watched him pause at the end of the hall, pulling a handkerchief from his overcoat. The clock on the facing wall ticked on for an hour or more, and Tom finally drifted in and out of a restive doze. He couldn't sleep, but it was better than nothing.

The door by his head opened and his head snapped forward and up. Tim Drewe glanced down, his eyes blotched and detached. He was a quiet, unassuming sort of man, whose few words spoke more than most hour-long conversations. Drewe forced a smile, his voice quavering with disbelief. "Helen died this morning."

Tom felt the first moorings of hope snap away. "I'm sorry, Tim."

"Just like that, you see." The farmer swiped at his face. "Just a few weeks ago, she was running out with the other children at the fair, full of life." His feet shuffled into the hall, listless and lost. "I had to take Madge home. She couldn't take it."

Tom wanted to offer comfort – something, anything – but his own feet refused to budge.

"Have you seen the men from Grasby's, by chance?"

The undertaker. Tom shook his head, swallowing the bile down back down his throat.

"I'm supposed to meet them here at one." For a man of few words, Drewe seemed awfully determined to talk through his grief. "I've been sitting with her."

"Is there anything I can do?" Please don't ask me to go sit with your dead child.

"Thank you, but no." The farmer shoved his hands deep into his pockets, his eyes closed. "How's your boy?"

"He's fighting."

"I'll keep praying for him, Mr. Branson. And for you and Mrs. Branson."

Tom stood, placed a comforting hand on his shoulder when a pair of dark-suited men materialized around the corner. Tim Drewe went to greet them, pointed numbly towards the door. Tom stilled and swallowed hard as they marched by, stiff-backed and solemn, turning into the room next to him.

He'd stay to see them out, he resolved: it was the decent thing to do. Minutes ticked by. In a moment of morbid curiosity he wondered if they'd reemerge with a box or a small sheet-covered stretcher. Murmured directives filtered through the wall; he felt the vibrations through his back, heard Drewe's voice purl in grief. Footsteps shuffled closer. Decency be damned, he thought. He had a finger in the dam and it was about to burst.

The hospital stairs rattled like loose boards in a runaway wagon under Tom's feet. He shot out the back door of the hospital, drinking in the autumn air, which came in a welcome wave across his skin, muculent from the bile brimming in his gut. His feet skidded by a little bench in the far corner of the yard. He collapsed onto his knees, emptying his stomach in the grass, the contents forced out in a string of sobs. He opened his eyes, clouded with fatigue and tears, and winced at the pile of mess. Groaning, he turned away and leaned his head back on the bench. The mid-day sun illuminated the insides of his eyelids. Gravel crunched next to him; someone nudged his shoulder and cast him in shadow. He glanced back up.

Thomas Barrow stood with a cane hamper smelling of food on one arm, offering his free hand. "Give you a hand there, Mr. Branson?" With a nod, Tom felt himself being hoisted and plopped on the bench. "Master Bobby, he isn't..."

Pulling out a handkerchief, Tom wiped at the cold sweat on his face, the detritus on his mouth, and shook his head.

Thomas sighed a bit. The wood creaked when he sat down and he brandished a silver flask from his black overcoat. He was in his livery; his starched waistcoat gleamed in the sunlight.

Tom took a grateful swig and spit, scouring the vomit from his mouth. He took another for himself, wincing as the whiskey singed the acid in his throat. A match struck beside him, and a ring of smoke billowed out. "I've a lot of respect for Lady Sybil," Thomas said. "Always have, since we worked together during the war. I know you and I haven't always gotten on, but she sees something in you, so..." He shrugged, blowing another cloud.

Tom took his meaning and snorted. "That's high praise coming from you."

"I see a lot of her in Master Bobby," Thomas went on. "He's kind, never says a harsh word about anybody. Everyone else in that house..." he hesitated, squinted up into the sky, and pulled another long drag. "...but children don't judge, see?" He exhaled a long wispy trail and smiled. "If only we didn't have to grow up, life would be less...complicated."

Tom's stomach burned after another generous swig. "I remember you and O'Brien sitting in the kitchen yard like this. Did you get that poetic with her?"

"Not so much. Then again you're prettier than she was."

They burst into laughter, Tom's trailing off under a wave of guilt. He took another mouthful to dull it. "Never in my dreams could I have imagined this," he said after a minute. "I'm a coward." He wasn't sure why the confession leaked out, particularly with Thomas, but then again his whole world had been knocked off kilter. "I can't even sit with him for more than five minutes without feeling as if I'll fall apart."

"You're not a coward, Mr. Branson," Thomas returned quickly, half-facing him. "You're a father. I wish I could tell you that your son will be alright. But if I learned one thing from the war, it's that death is a judge without a jury, sparing no one and everyone, without any rhyme or reason."

A/N 2: According to the Nidderdale Agricultural Show's website, the event has been held for centuries and is always on the Monday after the Feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary, which is held on the first Sunday after the 17th of September. So, that's how I came up with the starting point for this chapter. The High Street sweet shop that Matthew and Tom visit in Pateley Bridge was established in 1827 and, to this day, is considered the world's oldest. Thanks to The Irish Chauffeur for helping with the regional shows and suggest the boys make a visit to the shop! Also of historical interest, the Austin company mentioned by Matthew was the famed British Austin Motor Company, which for a brief time in the interwar years, manufactured tractors before focusing entirely on cars. A final note on the Fordson tractor – the British Government needed tractors during the war and Henry Ford sent over about 6,000 Fordson F kits, which were assembled at the Trafford Park factory in Manchester. He'd originally wanted to open a plant in Cork, Ireland, but wasn't able to realize that dream until 1928.

In regard to the storyline, just hang in there...