A/N: First, apologies for the delay. I struggled with these next three chapters. They kept evolving, getting longer, scenes shifted, etc. and eventually it got to the point where they're almost a story within a story – the "out of the dark" part so to speak. Secondly, be prepared for an extra-long A/N (and chapter).

I'd planned to draft a storyline explanation later, but since a few reviewers expressed concerns over the most recent chapter (and understandably so), I've decided to get that out of the way. Early on, I knew I wanted to do a vignette with Tom and Sybil struggling through a child's sickness, not for the sake of drama or to put people off, but to explore the Bransons' matured relationship (something we were denied on the show). I began outlining this about a year ago and pulled in the bit with my own family's history of meningitis. I planned to leave it at a recovery, but there was still something missing and I kept throwing it on the backburner. I love Repmet's blind!Tom universe and once I read Piper Holmes' "Without a Compass," I got a little bolder in exploring the prospect permanent disability. As I researched (yeah, twist the historian's arm) education for the blind in the early twentieth century and how perceptions of the sightless were changing, I was intrigued by the idea of the Bransons fighting the social expectations while healing through the emotional turmoil. I came across several inspiring individual stories from the period: Helen Keller of course; Sir Arthur Pearson, founder of St. Dunstan's Hostel for Blind Soldiers in WWI; poet, author, and advocate Robert Smithdas, who went deaf-blind by meningitis at the age of 5 in 1930 (Barbara Walters called him her most memorable interview); and US Senator Thomas Gore of Oklahoma (grandfather of Gore Vidal) to name just a few. In short, there were dozens of bits of inspiration that informed the storyline and ultimately made me think of it as one of hope. The decision wasn't taken lightly. In fact, I've never been so stressed outlining before - I knew it had to be done right or it would splat all over the sidewalk.

Doubt certainly wormed its way in (I knew I'd likely lose readership), but there was no doubt in my mind that Tom and Sybil were strong enough to prevail, both as parents and in guiding their child to independence. As a writer, it's hard to make your favorite characters struggle (and good grief, I love writing their son), but it's gratifying to have them triumph in the end. Not to worry – and I don't feel guilty about giving away my head-canon for this – Bobby will be just fine. As he matures he will develop a wicked sense of humor and will surprise a lot of people (if I ever get that far in the writing process!).

Thanks so much to foojules for the beta, and to those PM'ers who knew this storyline was lurking and reassured me I wasn't shooting my story in the foot. And, as always, reviewers are greatly appreciated. This chapter is still a bit dark (sorry), but I promise things will lift in the ones to follow (the title here is really the key).

"Small, tottering, bewildered, he must begin life again."
~ Helen Keller on the training of a blind child, Out of the Dark (1913)

OUT OF THE DARK, PART III
Downton, November 1925

"...for all practical purposes, he's totally blind."

Dr. Parker's diagnosis rattled in Tom's mind on the return trip from London. Bobby pleaded to sit by the window and as the first class carriage rocked its way back to Yorkshire he pressed his hands against the glass as if to draw in the last of the sun. He flinched at the sudden snuffing out of the light when they barreled through the Peascliffe Tunnel south of Grantham. When they emerged he asked, "Da – when will my eyes get better?" Tom's mouth stalled halfway. The words simply wouldn't come.

It was Sybil who pulled their son into her lap, gently repeating what they'd told him the night before and again that morning. She brushed and kissed his hair until he squirmed. "No!" Bobby cried and scrambled across his father's lap.

"Let him look," Tom whispered when she reached for their son. "It gives him comfort and God knows how long he'll be able to."

Their arrival at Downton Cottage proved no less chaotic. In their absence, Kitty and Saoirse had returned from Downton Place and the little girl rushed straight for her Mama. But Bobby clung to Sybil's neck. When Tom went to relieve her, the suitcase slipped from his grasp and thudded onto the floor. Bobby wailed at the noise; Saoirse, who'd rarely seen her brother so unstrung, burst into accompanying sobs. Kitty stood aside, crestfallen at the sight of her young cousin: frail, timid, and lost, with an unseeing gaze.

Moving forward.

Tom and Sybil had made the promise before, when politics prevented a return to Ireland. Their exile at Downton had become less burdensome over the years with the arrival of two rambunctious children, careers, and peace in the family and life that they made. But what it truly meant for the parents of a blind child, Tom didn't know.

This new normal reminded Tom of a time he'd once lost control of the motor on a muddy strip of road. He'd been alone, thank God, and the Renault had fishtailed through the muck, sideways and backward until finally skidding over a lone culvert and into an open field. For what seemed an eternity, he'd wondered which tree or ditch would be the end of him. It was the same frenzied terror that consumed Tom as he watched his son reject a blackened reality.

Sybil buried her disquiet and forged on with what she'd picked up from the war, coaching Bobby through the fear of life carrying on around him. She encouraged him to try little things: using a fork, finding his way from the sofa to a chair, pulling on his socks. But in those first few days, the little boy became withdrawn, his bitterness frequently yielding to tears. His distress was even more pronounced at night when silence engulfed the cottage. Sybil had coaxed him into one night alone, and then another, but on the third, he'd cried in his room for more than half an hour until Tom surrendered to the knife twisting through his heart.

"No," Sybil insisted, rubbing away the tears, "he has to learn to sleep by himself."

"I can't," Tom choked out, slipping from their bed. "Not tonight."

Her hand reached for his. "Then bring him in here."

They'd spent five years raising him to be independent, confident, stouthearted, unafraid of charting new waters, and all of it, Tom thought as he pulled his son to his chest, washed out in a single tide. Bobby snuffled and gripped his father's neck, but finally quieted into a heavy slumber between his parents.

The first week of November brought Mr. Robert Woolstone and with him, Tom hoped, a pathway out of the dark. Woolstone greeted the Bransons with a doffed hat and a kindly smile, his sturdy frame filling most of the threshold. He spent the better part of a day humming his way around Downton Cottage, pointing out this obstacle and that – Tom truly didn't realize how much there was to trip over – and issuing reminders to keep doors either fully open or closed. He recommended an efficient way to arrange Bobby's bedroom; the blind work by memory, he explained. Once they learn a path or a room arrangement, don't change it without good reason or renewed instruction.

Woolstone struck Tom as a pensive sort of fellow. He proffered his instructions with a deliberate and almost melodic enunciation, giving him the air of a thespian rather than a teacher. But once his professional services had been rendered and they'd made the short walk to Downton Abbey for tea, he settled comfortably by the blazing hearth in the library, smiling and making chitchat with practiced ease.

Lord Grantham was not so relaxed. "My contacts tell me you worked at St. Dunstan's," he said, and his hand fell across a short stack of letters on his desk.

"The hostel for blind soldiers," Mr. Woolstone added for everyone's benefit. "Yes, I was one of the instructors during the war."

"And you served with Sir Arthur Pearson there and on the National Institute for the Blind."

"I see you've done your homework, Lord Grantham." Woolstone set his teacup aside with a slow smile that erased years off his features.

"You certainly have an extensive resume," the earl admitted. "But you seem rather young to have accomplished all of it."

Sybil frowned at her father. "Papa, there's no need to interrogate him."

"I'd do the same were I in his position, Mrs. Branson," Woolstone said, hooking his eyes back to the earl. "I was old enough to fight for King and Country, young enough to be ignorant of what that entailed, and blessed enough to survive and find a position at St. Dunstan's." He seemed disinclined to linger on the topic and turned to his hostess. "I had the pleasure of meeting with your grandson earlier, Lady Grantham. He's quite a remarkable little fellow."

Cora's expression softened with an indulgent smile. "We like to think so."

"He had such promise." Robert's dispirited tone earned him another glare from his daughter, and he winced. "I didn't mean it that way, darling. I only meant before, Bobby..." Trailing off, he rubbed a hand across his forehead and sighed. "I honestly don't know what I meant."

Unease clouded the room until Matthew broke the silence. "I apologize, Mr. Woolstone, this has come as a bit of a shock. We all feel rather blind with the situation."

"I certainly understand," Woolstone replied, "but it's best if everyone can come to terms with Bobby's condition sooner rather than later, or else you'll not be able to help him live a normal and full life. And he can live a normal and full life."

Robert had settled near the broad windows overlooking the lawn. "Well, no expense will be spared, obviously."

Sybil felt Tom tense beside her. Her hand landed on his knee, giving it a light squeeze.

"And we're also fortunate to have one of the country's best institutions for the blind in the area..."

"No, Papa." Sybil's voice landed like a gavel in an empty courtroom. "I'm perfectly capable of caring for my child."

Tom leaned close, whispering, "Love, we shouldn't dismiss..." His mouth clamped shut when her eyes flashed over him and back to the instructor.

"Mr. Woolstone," she said, "Wilberforce is one of Yorkshire's finest achievements, if not the country's."

"I can attest to that," he responded with an accepting smile.

"But I want to do what is best for my son."

"And you believe that includes a personal responsibility for his instruction?"

"I do," she insisted. "But, I also respect your experience and so I ask you – your honest opinion – is there any reason why I shouldn't?"

"There's no reason you can't learn to be the instructor Bobby needs you to be. For now," he was sure to add, propping his elbows on his knees. "I've no doubt Bobby will learn to read and write, and work complicated arithmetic formulas in due time. But what he needs most from you – from all his family – is encouragement and support in these first distressing hours. He needs to re-learn all the everyday things: dressing, eating, getting himself to the toilet..."

Robert's feet shifted awkwardly. "Well, my daughter is a nurse, she can certainly assist him with that."

"That's not quite the point." Woolstone stood, held his hands aloft and turned them for effect. "These are his eyes and he must be made to use them. You've spent more than five years telling him not to touch things, but now he must learn to see without his sight." Brandishing a handful of coins from his pocket, he strode over to the earl and dropped them in his hand. "Lord Grantham, from that collection, return to me one pound five and three."

Robert quirked his head and quickly thumbed the coins into Woolstone's hand.

"Brilliant," he chirped. "Now, close your eyes and give me two pounds three and four."

Glancing sideways at Cora, Robert closed his eyes and picked slowly through the remaining coins. With furrowed brows, he handed his selection back to the instructor, and peeked.

Woolstone pursed his lips. "Hmmm. It seems I've been overpaid."

Robert's shoulders sagged. "Of course it's difficult when you can't see them."

The instructor smiled. "Close your eyes again and hold out your hand." Dropping a coin, he said, "That's the pound. I want you to rub your fingers over it and see how it feels. In a moment we'll do the same with the shilling and the pence." He then dropped each in succession with little clinks. "Now, I want you to hand me the pound, the shilling, and the pence in that order." Robert rubbed his fingers against the coins and handed each in sequence back to the instructor.

"Ah!" came Woolstone's sunny response. "Even an old dog can be taught new tricks."

From his post by the door, Carson grumbled in disapproval. The earl scowled, but gave a grudging nod. "I suppose so."

"My apologies. I'm accustomed to being frank - I didn't mean it as an insult." Still, his eyes twinkled.

Matthew trembled with an effervescent laugh. "I think you'll find my father-in-law quite progressive despite his station."

Mary slipped by her father for another cup of tea. "Meaning he won't petition to have you banished to the tower," she said, ignoring the way Lord Grantham's eyes rolled.

"Being blind simply means doing old things a new way." Woolstone wandered amongst his audience, gesturing as if giving a lecture. "Bobby's education starts with rudimentary tasks which, once perfected, will boost his confidence. Allow him to fail and try again..."

"Just like any child," Mary piped up with an encouraging smile to her sister, and then cast a sideways grin to the instructor. "Nanny is still trying to teach my four-year-old to dress himself. I dare say Bobby will have learned it twice before David does it once."

"Indeed," Woolstone chuckled and looked to Sybil. "Mrs. Branson, do you cook?"

Tom squeezed her hand with a grin. "She tries." The library rumbled with laughter and even Robert smiled.

"Allow Bobby to help. Let him shell peas, break eggs – those things refine his dexterity. He'll be doing it better than his Mama if you give him half a chance." He ambled back to the hearth, clasping his hands behind him. "Another point. Mr. Branson, I noticed you carried him about earlier." Tom nodded. "You mustn't do that," he pressed. "Bobby needs make his own way round the house."

"I'm familiar with the blind using canes," Sybil said. "I helped some of the soldiers who convalesced here during the war."

"I'm sure we can fashion one in his size," Matthew offered, earning a smile from his sister-in-law.

"He should certainly learn to use a cane," Woolstone said, "And it will be advantageous for his independent mobility in the future. But to start, hold his hand, allow him to run his other along the wall and the furniture as you go so that he will learn where everything is. Count steps with him and he'll remember how far it is from one point to the next. Ideally, he should navigate his own home without any assistance, man or stick."

"Mr. Woolstone..." Tom's voice wavered, and he glanced to Sybil. "Since we've brought him home...unable to see...his behavior has been a bit erratic."

Sybil's hand drifted to her husband's. "Tom..."

Cora shifted to the other sofa and sank next to her daughter. "Bobby was always the happiest little boy, Mr. Woolstone, but now..."

"He's frustrated, Lady Grantham, and his behavior may continue to fluctuate as he settles into his new world." The instructor wandered across the room, poured half a cup of tea. "Bobby learned and grew by imitation: watching you pick up your fork, fold clothes, dress, start a motor, decorate a Christmas tree. His primary manner of absorbing information has been taken away. He may alternate between frustration and joy as he tries, fails, and then succeeds. And, remember, he didn't lose his speech," Woolstone chuckled. "He still knows how to say 'no' like every other child and will likely say it a lot." The instructor had a quick peek at his watch and downed the last of his tea.

"You'll stay for dinner, of course," Lady Grantham said. She rose, and the rest of the room with her.

"I'm afraid not." Woolstone collected his bag from the table. "I've business in York, at Wilberforce in fact, so I must be off."

Sybil escorted him to the door and waited on the stone threshold for Hodges to bring the car round. "I appreciate everything you've done today, Mr. Woolstone. You've given us a lot to think about."

"I'm glad to be of service. And you may telephone or write at any time."

"I'm sure you gathered that my family is rather divided on how my son should be cared for. Even my husband..." She gave a dejected smile. "We're all still wrapping our heads around it."

"I realize it's been quite a blow."

"I'll not deny that it has been, but Tom and I will adjust as we always have and will do what is best for Bobby."

Woolstone plopped his hat on, squinted into the late-day sun twisting through the trees. "Mrs. Branson, I recall a story of a man, a Dr. Joseph Campbell, who was blinded in a tragic accident around your son's age. His father told the rest of the family that Joseph was helpless, that he had to be waited on hand and foot. The mother rejected the notion, and one day while her husband was gone, she took her son into the yard and taught him how to chop wood. The father could hardly believe it when he came home of course, but from then on Joseph was given a variety of chores around the farm. Dr. Campbell went on to manage the Royal Academy of Music for the Blind in London. He even went on holiday and climbed Mount Blanc."

Sybil brightened with a smile. "I'm not sure if I'm quite ready to put an axe in my son's hands, Mr. Woolstone."

The instructor supplied his bag to approaching chauffeur. "And I wouldn't recommend it," he laughed, pulling on his gloves. "Nor would I shy away from letting Bobby chop a little wood, so to speak." Woolstone gripped her offered hand and smiled. "He may yet surprise us all."

Woolstone left them with a stack of instructional leaflets, along with a list of recommended reading material. He had no sooner been whisked away to the railway station when Sybil began collecting the building blocks for Bobby's future. She left early the next morning to observe classes at the Wilberforce School in York and ordered an entire crate of books that found a home in the corner of Tom's study. Rarely a night passed when she wasn't curled up in her chair by the fire, scouring through the pages: A Blind Man's World by Dr. Émile Javal and Victory Over Blindness by the patriarch of St. Dunstan's, Sir Arthur Pearson.

Not a week later, Tom had gone to bed with Sybil's promise that she'd be soon be up, but the church's midnight chimes woke him to an empty space between his arms and clack-clack-clack echoing through the house. He staggered into the hall, heard Kitty mumble from her doorway, "Och, she's at it again," and went downstairs to investigate.

Sybil was in his study, hunched over the typewriter. "Love, what are you doing? Come to bed."

"I will when I finish," she grumbled. "The bloody ribbon keeps coming off the spool."

She pulled a strip arm length. "Wait - no!" he hissed, darting over and prying it from her hand. The ribbon tangled around his sluggish fingers.

"Maybe we should just get a new one."

"Maybe you should call a mechanic the next time it happens," he muttered, then cursed when the spool popped loose and dinged onto the floor. He retrieved it from beneath her chair and pulled another beside her. "Scooch over." His hands were black by the time he rewound and replaced it.

Sybil smacked a kiss on his cheek with a "thank you, darling" and zipped her damaged text from the reel.

He picked up the discarded paper as she scrolled in a fresh sheet. "What's this?"

"For us – for the family rather." Punching one key at a time, she nodded toward a messy stack of open books. "No one seems to know how to act around Bobby, so I thought I would make a list of suggestions."

Tom skimmed what she'd drafted: 1) Treat the blind, as far as possible, as if they could see. 2) Don't remind them that they are blind. 3) Speak in a normal tone. The loss of sight does not necessarily mean the loss of hearing...

She pushed on the carriage. "Mary dropped by yesterday and, bless her, she practically shouted. When she left Bobby asked why Auntie Mary was mad at him."

His laughter was muted by her renewed typing and he read on: 4) Encourage them to go to the front door to receive callers. 5) Don't kill the blind with kindness. 6) Be frank with the blind. They have to depend for certain things upon the sight of those with whom they live. 7) Don't ignore the presence of a blind person. 8) When walking with a blind person, as a general rule, let the blind person take your arm. Don't push him ahead of you. 9) If the blind person does not do a thing correctly, take the time to correct the mistake.

Tom glanced down at the open books on the desk. Sybil had circled and underlined several passages and the margins were littered with notes. "Come to bed, love," he whispered, rubbing her back when she stretched. "You can do this in the morning."

Sybil shook her head, clacked out another couple of words. "In a bit."

He'd seen his wife like this before, when the world conspired against her or him or both, and she matched the challenge with relentless determination. Tom admired her more than he could say, but he worried that the disappointment would devastate her should her efforts fail. This time, the stakes were so much higher than they'd ever been before. This time, it was their son.

Sybil scheduled daily chores for Bobby: folding clothes, drying dishes, sweeping the floor, feeding Barnaby the cat (Tom thought it criminal the bloody animal wasn't forced to feast on mice). As Woolstone had suggested, she and Kitty worked to teach him a room every day, helping him memorize the layout by counting steps. Under his mother's guidance, Bobby was given little chance to grieve. Early on, he took his mother's teaching in stride, but mechanically, as if resigned to his new situation. Then came the days when he dug in his heels, refusing lessons and chores and reverting to his toddler days of tantrums and petulance. Woolstone had been right: No became his default response to any suggestion.

It was all terribly confusing to Saoirse. Ever since she'd learned to walk, she had been her big brother's chirping shadow. Bobby had been annoyed at first, but his gentle nature eventually accepted her trailing him through the house. He'd matured enough to demand privacy for certain things: if she followed him to the bathroom, he'd run ahead and lock the door, leaving her wailing in the hall. But now her older brother required more attention than she did. Meals turned into a tug-of-war for their Mama's attention.

Tom felt like a spare part. When he left in the morning, Sybil and Kitty would be ready to start checking off the day's tasks. Between the two of them, he'd little to do except for dispensing hugs and kisses and the occasional bedtime story, but those too had become infrequent. Bobby had still not returned to full strength; he tired easily, and often went to bed straight after supper. Sybil spent her evenings reviewing her increasing collection of materials or, at least once a week, speaking with Mr. Woolstone on the telephone.

So Tom kept busy on the estate. Their time at the hospital had left a stack of obligations – decisions on new brands of seed for next year's planting, culling the cattle herd for an upcoming sale – items which neither Matthew or Lord Grantham seemed confident enough to attend in his absence. He always tried to make it home for lunch, if nothing else to help referee the meal so Sybil could have a few minutes to herself, but on one day toward mid-November, he'd been tied up at Todhill Farm. The previous night's storm had snatched off a corner of Mr. Hunter's roof and Tom had volunteered to help repair it. And it felt good putting in a laborious effort, hammering out his frustrations one shingle at a time. They'd finished in time for an approaching raincloud to test out their work, and finding it properly dry, Tom waved from the window of his Model T and headed home.

Downton Cottage welcomed him with the clang of pots and pans and his little girl's jabbering. He caught himself smiling as he doffed his cap and coat by the door and followed the cacophony to the kitchen. Sitting at the table with her brother, Saoirse grinned a greeting and hoisted a block. "Da!"

"Hello, my darling." Tom took the block, handed it back, and kissed her cheek and then her brother's. "Hello, little man. How were your lessons today?" Bobby sat silent, his hands balled in stubborn fists on the table. Tom glanced up at Sybil, who stood by the sink, her arms submerged in soapy water.

"Can you dry for me? I've got to get these cleared before dinner." She gestured with her chin towards their son. "My help has gone on strike for the afternoon." She'd had Bobby feeling out measuring cups and spoons: something she'd found was not only good for his dexterity but also his maths. He'd done well for a while, but then he misidentified one cup and then another, mistakenly said two thirds equaled one. The afternoon had been waning on; he was tired and it was a simple mistake, but it flustered him. Before Sybil could even finish an It's alright, darling, the collection of aluminum cups went clattering to the floor.

Tom rummaged for a towel. "Where's Kitty?"

She swiped at a loose lock of hair with a wet arm. "I asked her to go to Ripon for a few things. Saoirse's outgrowing her clothes so quickly I need to make more. God knows when I'll have the time though."

"She's there by herself?"

"Peter's with her," she said, referring to Downton's newest second footman. "Apparently he had a half day today."

Tom snatched a biscuit from a nearby jar, earning him a sloppy smack on the hand. "Do you think that's wise?"

"Darling, he's more afraid of you than he is of Carson." She smirked at his expression. "You're not nearly as predictable."

"She may be almost eighteen, but I'm still her uncle."

"They just went to Ripon..."

"Bob-ba. Bock up!" Saoirse crowed. She picked the object up and let it clatter to the table. "Bock up!"

Tom glanced over his shoulder, sighing as Saoirse frowned and dropped it again, only to be ignored. "Bobby, reach over and pick it up." Bobby slowly unfurled his hands and reached out.

"Bobby – darling, it's by your right hand." Sybil passed a dripping pan to Tom, quietly reminding him, "You have to give him specific instructions."

"I'm sorry." And he genuinely was – they'd spent so much time raising Bobby to be independent, it was unnatural to treat him otherwise. Tom watched his son find the block and present it to his sister. Stashing away a few of the dishes, he said "I saw Mary up at the house today. She wanted me to remind you about the party..."

"I don't care if it's my birthday," she groaned. "I'm not going."

Tom took a glass from her hands and squeaked it dry. "It's just dinner with your family."

"Since when have you ever wanted to attend parties with my family?"

"You need to get out of the house, love."

"You mean I need to get away from..." The day's frustration trembled in her voice as she caught her near mistake. Oh God.

Tom bristled at her tone and he snatched the next glass from her hands. "You know that's not what I meant."

"Bob-ba, bock up!" Saoirse's persistent voice rang through the kitchen.

They both turned as the little girl once more dropped the toy. "Would you mind washing them up for dinner?" Sybil asked. "It's been a rather trying afternoon."

Tom bent to kiss her, but as she turned to drain the sink he missed and his mouth landed awkwardly on the side of her head. Dropping the towel with a sigh, he turned and reached for his son's shoulder.

But the unexpected touch sent the little boy reeling in his chair, which tipped him sideways and into the floor. Bobby's face went scarlet, gearing up for a wail, which set off his sister as well.

"Oh God – Bobby, I'm sorry..." Tom stooped to pick him up but Bobby pushed him away, sobbing for his mother. "Saoirse, it's alright, don't cry..."

"What happened?" Sybil whirled around, laid a gentle hand on her son's head. Bobby scrambled to his feet and burrowed into her skirt. Her eyes flashed at Tom. "What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything!"

She shushed her son, rubbed his back. "Tom, you have to be careful when you approach him."

This wasn't the first time it had happened. Bobby had always been a sponge for hugs and kisses, and now Tom couldn't even touch him without scaring the life out of him. "I'm sorry, I didn't think..."

"Just remember next time." Sybil kissed away the boy's tears. "Da didn't mean to scare you." Bobby snuffled with a nod. "Alright, it will be time for dinner shortly. Go on and wash your hands."

Tom had already scooped up his daughter and was making for the hall. "I'll see to Saoirse. At least you don't have to worry about me scaring her."

Matthew had hardly seen his brother-in-law since the Nidderdale Show. With Bobby in hospital, he and Mary had been advised to stay away for the sake of their unborn child. But guilt swayed him to make a handful of visits – Tom would certainly do the same for me, he thought – though he kept a safe distance in the hall. He'd listen to how the disease ravaged his nephew's body, doubting he'd have Tom's strength if their situations were reversed. The day Robert and Cora returned bearing the news of Bobby's blindness, he'd gone upstairs, told Mary, and as soon as he was alone he'd dropped his face into his hands and wept. Haven't they been through enough? It reminded him of the war: senseless, irrevocable misery visited upon the innocent. When his own boys came home from their temporary refuge at Downton Place, he hugged and kissed them until they squirmed in protest.

Before Bobby's illness, Tom was a regular presence at the Abbey – it was the estate's office after all – but lately, he'd taken to telephoning with news of the tenants and farms. Matthew had dropped by the cottage several times only to find out his brother-in-law had set out for his work early and alone. But one day toward the end of November he finally caught him outside the Bransons' wooden garage.

Tom was wedged up under the Model T Touring, clanging and cursing and muttering when Matthew strolled up. "Fecking hell."

"What?"

Tom rolled out on the dolly and squinted up into the sunlight.

Matthew waved at the scattered tools. "I thought this was why you built the garage?"

Tom motioned towards a nearby metal box. "Ratchet handle and three-eighths socket please." Matthew poked around the shiny kit – Tom was meticulous at keeping his tools clean – and held one out. Rolling back under the motor, he explained "I haven't got the electric installed in there yet and it's darker than four feet down a cow's throat."

Matthew peered into the open bonnet, though his inspection was more for show. "What seems to be the problem?"

"The clutch plate is bent. Again. Apparently not depressing the clutch is a common trait among the Crawley women." He whipped out the metal wheel as evidence. "There should be a replacement in a box on the bench there."

"Well, you were the one who taught Sybil to drive."

"Not well enough it seems." A metallic groan reverberated from somewhere in the belly of the machine. "This is the third time I've had to replace the bloody thing."

Matthew handed him the part and sat on the running board. "You might be interested to hear that Mary and I have taken your advice – about having a children's Christmas party for the village and tenants."

Tom's mind swept back to his oldest nephew's private birthday celebration in mid-September, just before Bobby's illness. Times are changing, he'd told his brother-in-law, and David can't play the distant lord like his forebears did."Does Lord Grantham know or is it still in the clandestine planning phase?"

"The former actually, although he's putting up a fuss. When we suggested the children make decorations for the tree, the old man nearly fainted dead away."

"Baby steps, Matthew." After securing the clutch plate, Tom wrenched on the nuts and bolts. "Don't threaten his precious tree."

"God forbid the saloon not look like Christmas card," Matthew muttered. "Speaking of which, Moseley said he saw you at Mr. Marsden's store a few days ago doing a bit of holiday shopping. It's a little early don't you think?"

They'd been in their own home for over a year now, yet Tom still felt as if they swam in a fish bowl. "Actually, I was returning a few things. What I got for Bobby isn't...well, it just won't work now." When he pushed out from under the motor, he was splotched with oil and grease.

"What do you mean?"

"Bobby told me this summer he wanted the Hornby Book of Trains." Tom reached for a cloth to dab his face. "He'd just started to learn his letters."

"Well, you can certainly read it to him. There's no harm in that."

"I'd also ordered him one of the new electric trains. I spent more than I should have, but he was so excited when he saw the advertisement." Bobby's eyes had twinkled at the gleaming model of London's Metropolitan Railway: The Latest Hornby Thrill! "Mr. Marsden's going to see if anyone around here wants it."

Matthew frowned. "Why aren't you giving it to him?"

"I don't want to electrocute my son, now, do I? I can only imagine one day he's playing with it and pokes his finger in the wrong spot."

"Now you're just being ridiculous."

Tom scooped up the sockets, gave them a good polish and dropped them back in the kit. "He had a chance at a real life."

"And he still does. Look, when I couldn't walk, I thought my life was over," he said. "Things turned round eventually. I learned to look after myself as much as possible, and I still had my mind..."

"But you regained the use of your legs, Matthew. My boy's blind for the rest of his life."

"This moping about won't do a damn thing for it."

"You can't imagine what it's like watching him struggle every day with the simplest things," Tom snapped, closing the kit. "When he eats, half the time he stabs himself with the fork and starts to cry. And he has to eat so slowly he loses interest altogether and he can't gain any weight." Frustration and anger wormed through his veins and he kicked the wooden wedges from beneath the wheels. He shoved at the dolly so hard it clattered across the gravel and into the grass. "He can make his way about the house for the most part," Tom said, and then huffed out a sardonic laugh, "But at night he's scared to death of the quiet. And he's so stubborn he won't call us when he needs to... so he's soaked in the morning."

Matthew's eyes drifted shut. "I'm sorry, Tom."

"It's like he's two again." Clambering up in the Model T, he gave the clutch a few good thrusts with his foot and shifted the gear stick. "And Saoirse – she can't understand why Bobby won't look at her like he used to. The other day, she threw a doll to get his attention and hit him in the head."

Matthew considered himself a frightfully poor priest in these situations, unlike his brother-in-law who always seemed to have an endless supply of wisdom. So rather than issue trite advice – it's only been a few weeks or give it some time – he said nothing.

Tom sat crossways on the car seat, his gaze drifting up as Sybil rounded the corner of the house with their children. Bobby held tight to his mother's hand, his feet carefully picking through the grass. Still no cane. Sybil's pleadings were still under negotiation after the little boy toppled into the floor on his first few attempts. Tom had rushed forward to snatch him up, but Sybil stood aside, shaking her head. Once assured her son was unhurt, she'd swipe at her face, encouraging him to try again. But he'd sat back, shaking through a outburst of tears. So far, the child's frustration outstripped his patience.

"Sybil's done so well with him," Tom murmured, climbing out of the motor. "And the more I watch him, the more I realize how little I have to give." His tone was uncharacteristically resigned; Matthew had never heard him sound so beaten.

Sybil called out a chipper hello as she and the children approached, announcing for Bobby's benefit that Uncle Matthew had come for a visit.

Matthew brightened, stood, and kissed the girls. "Hello there, everyone!" He knelt in front of his nephew, ruffled his hair. "Have a go at the wheel, Bobby?"

The little boy let out a delighted "Whee!" as his uncle hoisted him up and into the car.

"Hands on the wheel, lad, and nothing else," Tom said. "Where's Kitty?"

Sybil plopped Saoirse on the ground. "She's reading through some material Cousin Isobel solicited for her." She arched a brow at Matthew. "I'm afraid we've given your mother another cause. She won't rest until Dr. Kitty Boyle is returned to Downton as Dr. Clarkson's heir apparent."

"And the distraction is most appreciated," he replied.

Sybil gestured at the car. "Did you find the problem?" Saoirse squealed and clapped as Barnaby sauntered out from the garage. The cat flicked its tail and scuttled a safe distance away, but not enough to keep the little girl from giving chase.

"The clutch plate. Again," Tom said, sidestepping his daughter as she scampered toward the fleeing cat. Behind him, Bobby buzzed his mouth with motor noises.

Sybil bit her lip. "Sorry."

"All you have to do, love, is put your foot down." Tom breezed by with his toolbox, threw her a smirk. "And you certainly know how to do that." Snorting with giggles, Saoirse dodged her father's pinching fingers and continued her pursuit of the cat.

"It seems so silly to have to do such a thing. Why can't it just change gears automatically?"

"When you figure that out, we'll have our own house on Eaton Square."

"Well, at least they finally made a motor that starts with that little gadget instead of a crank."

"It's called an electric starter," Tom called from inside the garage. "And I only bought it because of you."

"You just want to take all the fun out of driving," Matthew told her.

"I don't need it to be fun," she huffed. "I just need to get from here to there."

Tom reappeared, waving the mangled clutch plate before tossing it in a rubbish box. "Next thing I'm going to do is teach you how to change these out."

Ignoring her husband's sass, she whirled haughtily toward Matthew. "So. Now that I've managed to learn how to drive..."

"That's debatable," muttered Tom.

"...when do you plan to teach Mary?"

"The roads of the North Riding would never be the same," Matthew mused. "She doesn't even like riding with me."

"Can't blame her," Tom quipped.

"Mary rather prefers Hodges' controlled environment..." Behind him, the motor roared to life and pitched forward.

"Jesus Christ..." Tom pushed Sybil aside and bolted towards the car. He leapt in, slamming his foot on the brake and yanking on the gear shift.

"Saoirse!?"

Sybil's shriek made Tom's heart lurch into his throat.

"She's fine, she's fine!" Matthew motioned toward the grass where the little girl crawled after the cat.

Tom switched off the engine, wheezing for breath. Sybil reached over him and plucked Bobby from the seat. "Darling, are you alright?"

"Is he hurt?" Matthew dropped a hand on his nephew's hair.

"No," she sighed, glancing her son over. "Just a bit of a daredevil. Like his Aunt Edith." She took Bobby's face in her hands, staring into the vacant blue orbs as if willing him to see the terror in her own.

Tom, his ears thrumming in cadence with his pounding heart, heard Sybil gently telling the child, Darling, you mustn't scare us like that. He hopped out of the car and knelt in front of his son. "I told you not to touch anything!" Tom's hands trembled as he grasped the child's forearms. "Don't ever scare us like that again, do you understand?"

Sybil's hand brushed his shoulder. "Tom..."

He shrugged her off. "You could have been killed, do you know that?"

Bobby winced at the volume of his father's voice. "I'm sorry, Da."

"Take him inside."

"Tom..."

"I said, take him inside!" Whacking his cap against his trousers, Tom wheeled around toward the garage.

"Da, I'm sorry!"

His son's plea resonated against the interior wooden walls of the garage and ripped through his heart. A beam of sunlight angled in from a single window at the back, making the dust sparkle as it clouded up from Tom's feet. He flopped on a bench, listening as indistinct voices from outside faded away. Feet shuffled on the concrete beside him. He recognized the clop-clop of her heels but he didn't look up.

"Is he alright?"

"He will be. Matthew's taking him inside."

"I'll go apologize..."

But Sybil would have none of his remorse. "He's not deaf, Tom! He can sense when you're frustrated or reluctant to care for him."

"I am frustrated, Sybil! I don't know how to help him!"

"You would if you would listen, and try!" His head thudded back against the garage wall. "Tom, even if he'll never drive a car or fix a motor, you can still teach him so many things – things that will help him make his way in the world..."

He sighed and pushed up from the bench. "The world's not designed for people like him."

"Well it wasn't designed for people like you either, but you managed to rise above the poverty and prejudice..."

"Sybil, if I walk down the street, the worst thing that happens is that some snotty toff turns his nose up at me. Our son does that, and he gets hit by a bus!"

She understood his resentment of whatever godforsaken force had thrust this misery on their family – the undefined future for their son – but she'd resolved not to be consumed by it because she'd seen hope. Bobby's loss of one sense was steadily enlightening others. In those rare moments when his despair made a momentary retreat, his actions and movements became more thoughtful and deliberate, as if navigating a minefield with the promise of a peace on the other side. It made her more conscious of her own conversation and tone when speaking to him, but Tom had yet to make the connection.

"He thinks you're ashamed of him," she told him.

His shoes scratched on the floor as he whirled around. "I could never be ashamed of that boy." Tom plopped down hard on the bench, defeated tears stinging his eyes. "I should have known something was wrong the morning I left. I feel like I failed him, Sybil."

"Do you not think I've wondered the same thing? I'm his mother and a nurse. If I had only taken him to the hospital the night before when he wasn't feeling well, or watched him more closely, we could have taken him to Manchester or London or..."

"Love..." He reached for her hand, but she snatched it away.

"I thought nothing could be harder than wondering if he would live. But seeing him struggle against the world every day, watching him look at me and not even know I'm there..." Her voice wobbled around a sob. "I'm his mother and he'll never see me again, Tom. But I can help him survive in this world – that's all I'm trying to do. And if you weren't so bloody terrified you would do the same!"

Sybil thundered out of the garage, leaving Tom in a frenzied cloud of dust. He didn't deny her indictment – he had largely deferred Bobby's instruction to her and Kitty – but the truth of the matter was that he was scared to death. His grandfather had barely survived the blight, and his father had scraped his way across half a dozen patches of rented land before making it on a few acres in King's County. Tom had been apprenticed out of the muck and, through a combination of sheer determination and old Irish luck, he'd risen to a station in life where his own son might thrive. It was every father's dream to provide a better life for his children, but what could Bobby's life amount to now?

Tom and Sybil apologized to each other in their room that night after the children were in bed, the requisite postscript to their opinionated marital exchanges. "I grew up in a world where no one expected much of me," he quietly confessed. He caught her eyes in the vanity, his cheeks wrinkling with a dispirited smile. "That's what it will be like for him. I only want to spare him from that."

He had always doted on their son and she knew he was hurting. They both were. She wandered over to where he sat on the edge of the bed, took his face in her hands, kissed his brow. When she had carried their son, she'd often dreamed of a blue-eyed little boy: mischievous, pert and stubborn just like the Irishman she married. Bobby had indeed inherited those traits and for that reason, Sybil believed in her heart that their son would prevail in a sightless world.

"Tom, we couldn't do that even if he could see," she said. "He needs to learn how to cope with all the challenges he'll face in life, not just living without sight, but how people will react to his condition."

"I know."

"He needs us on his side to do that. Both of us."

He smiled again, more hopeful this time, and accepted her kiss: a promise sealed to keep pressing on.

"He may be blind, but he's still a boy and he worships you," she whispered. "As do I."

Sybil's birthday came at the end of November and it was the first time the Bransons had dined at Downton Abbey since Bobby's illness. Tom had almost forgotten how the clink of silver and crystal reverberated in the room. The stilted conversations had a hypnotizing effect compared to those at the cottage, which mostly consisted of things like Please eat; Sit up straight; Use your fork; and Don't you dare flick that pea.

Dinner at Downton also meant eating late and so Kitty had stayed behind with the children, telling Sybil – Go! Relax! Have a little fun! If circumstances had allowed, Tom would have made a to-do of her thirtieth birthday, taken her to the seaside perhaps, or up to the highlands, the wilds of which they both had come to enjoy. He glanced across the table, met her soft smile with one of his own. Like him, her mind was back at home, but they had little chance to dwell on it.

"How is the cottage working out for you?" the Dowager piped in as the fish course was served. "My sister-in-law had a penchant for economy of space. I do hope you're not too cramped."

"Granny, we've been there for a year and a half," Sybil replied. "You don't need an invitation."

"I recall she had the most peculiar taste in the decorative arts..."

Sybil chuckled at her grandmother's curiosity. "We found your statue. Apparently, the previous occupant let the vines take it over, so we discovered it quite by accident." An awkward cough pulled her attention down the table. Tom and Matthew simultaneously reached for their wine. Matthew was snickering. "Actually, Tom found it."

Violet's eyes narrowed at the Irishman. "I hope you buried that dreadful thing."

"It's crated in the cellar if you ever want it back for the Dower House." Sybil laughed at her grandmother's obvious disgust, her eyes sliding furtively towards her husband. "Tom won't have anything to do with it. He can be so like Papa on certain matters."

From across the table, Robert shared an eyeroll with his Irish son-in-law just as Isobel joined in the conversation with a sunny smile. "Sybil, I know it's early yet, but when you're ready to begin thinking of Bobby's return to school, I'm happy to help."

The Dowager's gaze slithered around Robert. "I see your appointment to the local education authority won't go unemployed."

"There are so many more options today and Sybil and Tom will have a lot to consider: tutors, a day-school..."

"Day-school?" Sybil asked. As occupied as she'd been the previous weeks with Bobby's re-orientation to daily life, she'd done very little research on anything beyond that.

"It's a marvelous method that's been practiced here and abroad. It's been quite successful in America. The blind child has a home room first thing in the morning for classes tailored to him – raised print and the like – and then he joins sighted children for the remainder of the day."

"That sounds like an intriguing option," Matthew said. "Do you think the local school would allow it?"

Isobel gave Sybil an encouraging smile. "By law the local authority must provide for it. We could either fund his education at a residential school or have a local school certified for blind classes."

Robert leaned back as Carson refilled his glass. "That seems a lot of bother given that one of the country's finest institutions is just over in York."

"I'm not sending him away," Sybil cut in. "Not if what Isobel suggests is a possibility."

"My dear, you must at least consider..."

"I said no."

Sybil's clipped response quieted further discussion on the subject, though Tom noticed she'd glanced up to gauge his reaction. He answered with a neutral smile. He'd always been the brash one in their marriage, but with all that had been thrown at them with Bobby's condition, he wavered on the edge of every decision.

Cora peered sideways at both sons-in-law and then over to her husband. "I suppose you three will hibernate in the billiard room after dinner."

"Matthew's been a rather dull partner lately," Robert said, eliciting a scowl from his heir, "so a round-robin would be a pleasant change."

They spent the last minutes of the meal deciding on the order of play, but just as the men and women began to part ways after dinner, Nanny Bradford hastened into the room. A fray in the nursery required parental intervention and Mary's eyes shot heavenward. Brushing a hand over her enlarging middle, she declared It's Mr. Crawley's turn, and filed out with the women.

Robert opted for brandy and cigars over a one-on-one pasting at the hands of his Irish son-in-law. Beyond a few mentions of estate affairs, Tom had little to say. Downton dinners were heavily imbued with alcohol, something he wasn't accustomed to at the cottage, so he was unusually relaxed. The cigar smoke snaked up in the stagnant air. It had a mesmerizing effect and his eyes started to droop.

Robert puffed out a cloud and spoke. "I understand Kitty is leaving for Dublin."

"That's right, for Christmas with her family." Tom inhaled a sharp breath, scrubbed his eyes. "She was going to cancel, but Sybil wouldn't hear of it."

"Can you manage? Perhaps one of the housemaids..."

"That's very kind, but no. We'll be fine."

Robert raised a brow. "Sybil tells me Bobby is making excellent progress."

Tom nodded. "The frustrating part is that there seems to be no rhyme or reason for what he can do or when he can do it." He unfolded his arms to pour a glass of brandy. "Considering where we were a month ago, though, he's done extremely well. I don't know if I would have had his strength to do all he's done. I can't take much of the credit. Sybil's been stalwart through it all."

They returned to affable silence, the clock snicking through the smoky haze in the room. Robert thought on his son-in-law, now entranced by the flickering flames in the hearth, and of his dramatic entrance into the family. The Irishman had (as Robert had seen it then) seduced his daughter into an imprudent marriage and then endangered her and their unborn child with his hotheaded politics. It was only for Sybil's sake that the earl had made the effort to tolerate her husband, but the two eventually learned to operate under a mutual peace. Somewhere along the way, he'd grown fond of his son-in-law, recognizing the unyielding love Tom had for Sybil and their children.

"I'm not one to admit my mistakes very often, and I've certainly made quite a few in my lifetime," he said, refilling his glass. "But knowing what I do now, I can't think of another man I would want raising my grandson." Tom's head snapped sideways. Robert's face, framed with graying hair and sprinkled with lines, curled into a soft smile.

"Thank you, Lord Grantham."

"Lord Grantham," he scoffed. "Don't you think it's time to start calling me Robert?"

As the earl poured Tom another glass, a frazzled Matthew trudged into the room. His handkerchief dangled messily from his coat pocket and his hair looked like a rat had been rooting a nest.

"Good heavens," Robert declared, sitting upright in his chair.

"Whatever we're paying Nanny Bradford, it's not nearly enough," Matthew muttered.

Tom smirked, raised the brandy to his lips. "So, who won this time?"

"Teddy." Matthew snatched his glass and gulped. "David's going to look like a black-eyed susan in the morning."

Bobby's screams bolted his parents out of bed. Over the past month, he'd learned to accept the silence of the night, but there were still moments when terror outstripped rationality. Tom and Sybil found him in the middle of the hall, crouched on his hands and knees just beyond his bedroom door. Bobby scuttled towards the sound of his parents' footsteps, wailing for his mother. Sybil swept by Tom and snatched him up. "Shhh...darling, Mama's here."

Saoirse's cries bubbled from of the room she shared with her cousin. Kitty stumbled out, gaping at the little boy.

Tom laid a hand on Bobby's head, kissed his hair. "Kitty, go take care of Saoirse." But his niece didn't move, and he barked the order again.

Sybil's voice strained as she rocked her son. "Darling, what were you doing in the hall?" His legs wrapped snug around her waist as he hiccupped through his sobs. She felt a dampness seeping into her gown and she whispered, "Did you need the toilet?"

Nodding, he snuffled noisily.

She squeezed him, kissed his neck. "You were such a brave boy to try it on your own..."

Bobby pushed back, his fingers drifting up and splaying across her face. "I don't want to be brave, Mama. I want to see."

Sybil felt the wall inside herself, one she'd forged brick by painful brick with mortar mixed with more than a month of tears, begin to crack. "I wish I could give you that more than anything." She couldn't hold back any longer. "Oh God..." She unlocked her son's limbs from around her, pushed him into Tom's arms. Bobby dropped his head on his father's shoulder and Tom turned in time to see her thrust a hand over her mouth.

Their bedroom door slammed behind her, but still it couldn't muffle her screams or the fists thudding against the wall. Tom had never claimed to be as strong as his wife, and he didn't even try to keep his own tears from falling. They dripped onto Bobby's neck, but the little boy didn't seem to notice as his body shuddered the fear away. "Let's get you cleaned up, little man," Tom whispered when he was able to speak, and he trudged towards the bathroom with his son in his arms.

Between the hour and the midnight fright, Bobby fell into an exhausted sleep as soon as his father tucked him into bed. He hadn't even asked to sleep in his parents' bed and Tom was grateful for it. One night, one step forward, he thought, shuffling back to his room. Sybil's face was a blustered crimson in the lamplight, but she'd stopped crying.

"Is he asleep?"

Tom nodded, peeled off his soiled shirt and pulled another from a drawer. "He wanted you to know he was sorry...for wetting his clothes." He heard a choked sob, glanced back to find her face crumpling behind her hands. Nestling under the covers, he pulled her to him, allowed her the release of agony that had been boiling under the surface for weeks. Strength had its purpose, but so did sorrow, and they were entitled to it.

"I'm going to hell," she whispered into his chest once her tears had receded. "I've cursed God too many times to go anywhere else."

"Then we can keep each other company, because I've given Him my opinion often enough." He kissed her brow, his lips lingering to murmur that he loved her. Sybil's arms tightened around him, and she finally yielded to sleep as the moonlight shifted beyond the window's reach, encasing the room in darkness.

A/N 2: In doing my research I came across an American educator of the blind, Mr. Robert W. Woolston, who wrote an article entitled "The Social Education of Blind Children." So, I gave him a little tip of the cap with an English counterpart. The story of Dr. Joseph Campbell (he did exist) was pulled from Keller's "Out of the Dark." The list Sybil types up came from a 1914 Canadian legislative compilation. The law referred to in the dinner scene was the 1893 Elementary Education (Blind and Deaf Children) Act, which made education for the blind and deaf compulsory to the age of sixteen. Finally, fun fact for the day: the 1923 Ford Model T Touring was the first to offer the option of an electric starter (for $65 American). I figure Tom probably thought Sybil was worth the expense. ;)

Next up: December arrives, and Bobby starts to surprise his parents...