A/N: As you can imagine, this storyline has been a particular challenge to muddle through, so I'm truly grateful for all the feedback. When I got down to actually writing it in earnest, I'd originally envisioned three or four chapters at the most, but sometimes they take lives of their own and this is the one that got away from me. I keep telling myself "shorter chapters!" but nope...just can't do it.

Totally unbeta'd, so all faux pas (grammatical and otherwise) are mine.

"We have no blind people at St. Dunstan's. We do not believe in them."
~ Sir Arthur Pearson, "Victory Over Blindness" in the American Journal for Cripples (1919)

OUT OF THE DARK, PART IV
Downton, December 1925

Two years previous, Tom had taken pity on an undeserving Virginia Pine that foiled Lord Grantham's traditional and majestic festooning of the Abbey. And while the earl and his Irish son-in-law had agreed to let bygones be bygones, the Christmas debacle of 1923 still stuck in Robert's craw. So, the next year, the earl executed a covert operation when Tom and Matthew traveled to Northallerton on business. Robert puffed with pride as his sons-in-law returned and were greeted with, in his expert opinion, the most magnificent Christmas tree in house history.

But this year Robert re-opened the invitation, specifically requesting his oldest grandson's presence, and set out with the hunting party on a cool, damp morning during the first week of December. He led Bobby to the finalists, describing them each in biased detail. Such a selection required deliberate consideration and as they made one last loop through the stand of trees, the little boy reached out to grasp the branch of an oddly placed Virginia Pine. The earl held his breath for a terrifying moment and then sighed in relief when Bobby dropped the limb, saying he was ready to move on.

Once again in front of the last Norwegian Spruce – a perfect specimen of grandeur with a hardy frame – Robert watched his namesake finger the branches and bring the needles to his nose for a sniff. His question swelled with confidence. "What do you think of this one?"

"I like the other one," the little boy replied.

The earl's brows knitted and he wavered, careful not to upset his recently blinded grandson. "Which one? The one before, or the one before that?"

Bobby's hand drifted up, his fingers twitching in the air as he counted. "Three back – the one with the long needles."

Robert scanned the line of trees and glowered at the Virginia Pine, remembering how the last one had befouled his saloon. "Are you certain? Don't you think one of these others would look nicer..." He glimpsed at the boy, who stared absently toward the forest, and hastily amended, "I mean, you don't think the branches are a little weak for all the trimmings?" Bobby shook his head with a confident no. "You are just like your father," the earl muttered, and smiled as he squeezed the boy's hand. "But I suppose we can't all be perfect...even you." He waved the groundskeeper toward the offending tree. "Alright, cut that poor thing down so we can get back to Mrs. Patmore's hot chocolate."

Tom was sporting a particularly smug grin when he trotted over. "Bobby, would you like to select one for the cottage?"

The child's head bobbed once. "This one."

Tom knelt down, guided his son's hand to a branch of the Norwegian Spruce. "Do you mean the last one here?"

"Yes, Da."

"You planned that, didn't you?" Lord Grantham grumbled.

Tom smacked a kiss on the child's cheek and stood. "I can honestly say that I did not."

"Hmph." Robert called Matthew and David over to collect Bobby so they could select the children's party tree. When they'd left, he turned to Tom. "Matthew and I had quite a row about where to put the children's tree. He wanted it in the hall and I rather preferred the small library."

"Out of sight, out of mind?" When his father-in-law earl coughed another humph, Tom nudged his boot toe in the wet leaves. "You know, if I were a tenant coming to visit my landlord and saw a children's tree in the hall, I would have a great deal of respect for him. I would say it suggests he values the people in his community."

"Always the politician," he grumbled. "Oh good God! Another one?" Robert's face puckered as the groundskeeper placed the saw blade against the trunk of a second Virginia Pine.

Strapping three trees onto two lorries proved a comical affair. Matthew and Tom stood aside with the boys while their father-in-law sputtered through a series of unheeded instructions. Bursting with impatience, Tom finally pressed into the fray and took command. By the time he emerged from the midst of the branches, every patch of exposed skin was scratched, his clothes were blotched with sap, and his cap had gone missing. With a playful grunt, Tom hoisted Bobby into his arms and plastered a noisy kiss on his cheek.

Bobby giggled at the sap on his father's face, felt the snips of greenery stuck on his clothes. "Da, you're a mess!"

"That I am, lad – a right Irish mess and so are you!" His son beamed with such a smile that Tom felt a forgotten warmth rush through his veins.

Downton Abbey swelled with a deafening cacophony of laughter and chattering when the menfolk trudged in proffering boughs and greenery. An under-gardener nodded to the Countess with a toothy smile. "Children's tree Your Ladyship?" he chirped. Cora directed him toward the library, only to be overruled by her husband, who breezed by pointing to the saloon.

Carson barreled in at that point, aghast at the stampede of muddied boots, and ordered everyone to stop-stop-stop! until they could roll up the rugs. Robert took a guilty step back by his wife, clasped his hands behind him and observed the bustle from afar.

"What changed your mind?" Cora asked. She caught sight of Tom plucking Bobby from the lorry just outside. "Or should I ask, who?"

"Just the politic thing to do. Besides," he shrugged innocently, "imagine a herd of children running roughshod through our library."

Cora's eyes rolled just as Carson arrived with an armload of newspapers, instructing everyone to drop their boots straightaway.

It wasn't long before the village children began arriving in wide-eyed droves and flooded the hall with deafening chirps. On the far side of the room, Tom, Matthew and Robert debated which side of the haggard pine – they were all equally offensive in Robert's opinion – should be banished toward the wall. Anna and Mrs. Hughes herded the children toward a sunlit table arrayed with colorful ingredients for the decorations. Laughter cascaded the full height of the room; the aroma of cedar and cider wafted through the air.

Thomas sat next to Bobby at a relatively quiet end of the table, piles of thin colored strips and a saucer of glue in front of them. "Now, I've put the red strips here," Thomas said, placing the child's right hand on one pile and his left on the other. "And the green strips here." He patted them in sequence. "Red, green, red, green. Right, left, right, left. Got it?" Bobby nodded, repeating the motions. "Brilliant. Now–" Thomas dipped one little finger into the glue. "–the glue is here, but don't tell Mr. Carson I'm letting you do this with your fingers. We'll try it later with the brush if you want."

The child reached for the right-hand pile and said, "Let's start with the red."

Thomas smiled as he picked the correct color. "An excellent suggestion," he said, and then instructed the child on how to mold the paper, align the ends and link one after another.

Bobby was near the end of his first chain when a glop of glue dripped from his finger onto the table. Carson had been pacing the saloon, alternating from the tree to the table like a school teacher looming over students taking a test. He stopped and glowered at the under-butler. "Don't you have a brush there, Thomas?"

"I thought it would be easier to start this way, Mr. Carson."

Carson narrowed his eyes indignantly, before his attention was seized by Lady Mary's two boys across the table. Anna leaned back in her chair, surrendering her charges to chaos. David and Teddy swatted festive strips on each other's clothes. Seated in Anna's lap, Saoirse hugged her doll and peered warily at her older cousins.

Bobby held up his chain. "How did I do?"

Thomas smiled. "Not bad. You've got two reds there in the middle, but other than that it's a smashing tree chain."

Bobby reached for green pile. "Let's do another!"

"I'm afraid it's all up to you, Master Bobby," Carson said, laughter rumbling in his chest. "David and Teddy have lost interest in theirs." He patted the child's shoulder and ambled over to negotiate peace among the tree committee squabbling at the far end of the room.

"You're a good teacher," Bobby told the under-butler, carefully folding a strip of green paper.

"Well, I used to work with your mother at the hospital. A long time ago, during the war," he said, and then spoke softly. "I helped treat a lot of soldiers. Some couldn't walk; others couldn't hear; and some of them had lost their sight, like you." The child responded with a little sigh as he picked up another strip. "It wasn't easy for them either, learning to do all these things and not being able to see." He watched patiently as the child twisted and folded, glued and counted his strips.

After a while, Bobby gently laid out his newest chain in front of him. "What about this one?"

Thomas hummed, tipped his head side to side. "Nice form, good alignment. Missed a green one here on the end, though."

Bobby's little shoulders slumped, but Thomas would have none of it. "And it's okay to make a mistake as long as you try again. Now, look," he said, taking the child's hand. "If you're not sure where you left off, you just count, see?" Brushing his hand along each link, he whispered, "Greed, red, green, red, green, red...and when you stop, you'll want..."

"A green one!"

"That's right! Now let's put a green one on the end and give it to your grandfather. I think he's ready to start with the decorations."

Lord Grantham had hoped that a strategic balance of ornament color and size would offset the poor quality of the wretched pine. At first the children tolerated his judicial arrangement, but they soon grew impatient and crowded his legs, each demanding the best spot for their ornament. Robert finally threw up his hands, surrendered to his sons-in-law, and edged his way out of the pint-sized mob. He settled with Cora by the stairs, muttering that the tree looked as if it had been vandalized by a clown's cosmetic kit. A fitting fate for that dreadful thing.

Decorations were followed by Daisy's elaborate tree-shaped cake, its liberal layer of green frosting staining the smiling faces seated along the table. Matthew presented a box of brightly wrapped crackers and soon the room was alive with snaps and pops and squeals from the sugar-infused children.

Tom stood back with his in-laws, laughing as sticky hands scrambled for the unleashed toys and hats. Cora took his arm. "Bobby seems to be having a good day."

"Some days are better than others," he admitted, his features softening with a relieved smile. "And this is one of the better ones."

Bobby had always been a gregarious little soul, openhearted and gracious even amongst strangers, but other than his cousin David most of the boys and girls shied away from his abnormal gaze. As the afternoon waned on, Tom's heart sank as solitude shrouded the smiling, laughing little boy that had dared to reappear earlier that day. Bobby's mood shifted, he fidgeted in his seat, and petulance wormed its way in when the other children gathered for games at the other side of the room. One little girl came to lead him over, but Bobby snatched his hand away with an emphatic No! And then when he overheard another child innocently suggest a game of blind man's bluff, he clapped his hands over his ears, shaking with fury.

From across the room, Sybil recognized the pain flashing through her husband's eyes and had started shaking her head even before he reached her. "He'll have to socialize with them eventually," she whispered, "and isn't it better to start with his family near?"

"He's done as well as we could expect for such a long day," Tom told her and insisted they take him home.

Bobby's readjustment was a balancing act and in these moments when Tom's fierce protectiveness pleaded for mercy, Sybil battled a whirlwind of logic and maternal instinct. She'd no more than given a quick nod when Tom rushed over to pick up their son. But as he headed for the door, something happened that surprised everyone. Little David darted past his uncle, blocked his exit and, with dancing blue eyes, begged Can Bobby please come back tomorrow?

Born just a year apart, David and Bobby had become quite good friends and a rather mischievous duo. Just like their fathers, Mary once dryly remarked. When presented with his newly blinded cousin the morning of the tree hunt, David had been taken aback; Bobby's eyes didn't follow his movements nor did he respond with his customary reciprocal smile. But once Teddy wedged between them and his puppy-like attention unsettled Bobby, David shooed off his pesky little brother with a threatening finger.

While Tom and Sybil were reluctant to put him between the two little powder kegs, Mary sensed a peculiar attentiveness with her oldest son and promised to keep Teddy at bay. It had taken all of Sybil's courage to leave Bobby the following afternoon, but the prospect of a few hours with his cousin and dear old Nanny Bradford seemed to lift his spirits. When Sybil returned, Mary whisked her straight upstairs to the nursery. The sisters paused just outside the door and shared a smile. Childish gibbering bubbled out as the boys designed a miniature version of the village. David described toy after toy – cast iron cars and trains and carved wooden buildings – and Bobby turned each over in his hands before instructing his cousin where to place it. They had regularly scheduled playdates after that.

At home, Bobby had memorized the distances and placement of furniture in most of the cottage rooms. He journeyed around unaided, albeit at his own deliberate pace, yet he steadfastly refused his cane and clung to his parents anywhere beyond the front door. It reminded Tom of when they first taught him to swim; he was satisfied to paddle with a guiding hand, but once they let go, he was overwhelmed by the vastness of the unknown.

But Sybil wouldn't allow her son to remain bottled up indoors and, weather permitting, she took Bobby for a walk every day. With Kitty on holiday in Dublin and Tom out on the estate, that meant taking Saoirse in the pram and Sybil found it a marvelous way to encourage his mobility. With her holding one end of the handle and Bobby the other, mother and son would push the babbling little girl through the village.

It was nearing mid-December and a blanket of disjointed gray clouds hung low over the village. The air was unmoving, thick with cold and damp, and they'd just posted a letter to Mr. Woolstone. As they wandered down the sidewalk, the townsfolk nodded to her and spoke to Bobby, and more than a few greeted the child with loud, clipped voices. Why, she thought, must they do that?

Bobby wondered the same and before they even got out of earshot of one, he piped out "Grownups are strange!"

Sybil gave his shoulder a playful tweak, both of them giggling as they carefully crossed the street toward the school. On these walks, she'd made a habit of describing their surroundings, painting a moving picture as they trekked from one building to the next. When she told him about the schoolyard to his left, he asked "Mama?"

"Yes, darling?"

"I miss school."

"Would you like to go back?"

His "Yes, Mama" was accompanied by a bob of the head. She'd begun to notice a marriage of his words and gestures – Has he always done that? – and rarely was one not partnered with the other.

"Then we shall see what we can do about that."

"Mama?"

"Hmm?" She smiled – she'd missed his quizzical chirping.

"Why didn't Emily come to the party?"

Oh God. They'd not chanced to tell him – or even thought of it, really – of the little girl who now slept over in the churchyard. Sybil pulled the pram to a slow stop, glanced down at Saoirse who'd drifted off with a thumb in her mouth. She knelt down, kissed Bobby's hands as they drifted up to her face. It was a habit he'd acquired to see her and most books she'd read advocated against it, but once she'd seen him respond to her smiles with his own, she allowed him to do it with her and Tom. It also made her more self-conscious of her expressions, just like now as her face fought against the tears.

"She was sick like you but only more so and Dr. Clarkson couldn't make her better." Sybil didn't want to say the words unless she had to, but knew he understood when his mouth quivered.

"Did Emily die because of me?"

"Oh, no darling, no," she choked out, pulling him to her.

Before she became a mother, Sybil hadn't known what to expect of children. Being the youngest, she'd only been exposed to gurgling babies and smiling youngsters at village events or the occasional visit with younger cousins. Through her own children, she'd learned they were incredibly demanding little creatures, quick to shower their parents with both scorn and unconditional love. She'd also learned that being a parent was a constant journey of self-doubt, but as she hugged Bobby to her, his heart grieving not for his sight but for a little friend he'd hardly known, she thought Thank God we've done something right.

"Her Mama and Da must be sad," Bobby mumbled into her shoulder.

"They are. Very much, darling." Sybil thumbed away his tears, pressed a kiss to his brow. "She's in the churchyard. Would you like to bring her flowers next time? I'm sure Grandmama wouldn't mind us taking some from the hothouse."

He snuffled, swiped a sleeve across his cheeks. "She liked pink."

"I'm sure we can find some that would please her."

On their return to the cottage, they stopped by Mr. Marsden's store. Sybil had never liked the place – it was always a gloomy, dank little shop – but it was the only one in the village that stocked a decent assortment of merchandise. There was barely room to walk among the shelves, much less maneuver the pram, so she set Bobby in a chair by the door with Saoirse in his lap.

"Oh, Mrs. Branson, it's good to see you about," Mrs. Marsden called from behind the counter. The Marsden's youngest boy, Nigel, had died of meningitis and Sybil shushed her apologies for missing the Christmas party. The storekeeper's wife cast a sad smile and asked if Sybil would care to see something in notions since your children are sprouting right out of their clothes!

"Actually, what I really need is paper."

Mr. Marsden had been reading the day's news and grumbled as he pushed up from his stool. He grabbed a short stack of white sheets behind him and quirked his head toward the front window. "Tell your husband I still haven't sold that bloody thing."

Sybil's eyes bulged at the electric train placed prominently in front of an array of toys. "But you ordered it for him..."

Marsden's bushy brows framed a peevish glare. "Don't I know it? But he said he changed his mind." The storekeeper nodded at Bobby. "Said you-know-who couldn't play with it now and sold it back to me. Fool move on my part – I can't get rid of it!"

Oh Tom. She plopped her bag on the counter and fished out money for the paper. "I'd like to buy it back."

"What?"

"I believe my husband paid five pounds and ten. I don't have that much with me, so please hold it and I'll come back first thing tomorrow morning..."

"Its five pounds sixteen."

Sybil scowled as her hand dropped on the counter. "Tom wouldn't have sold it for profit."

"But I am. I think I'm owed something for it taking up space in my window." Bloody woman – no business sense. Just she began to object, Marsden's eyes lifted over her shoulder to the sound of his son, home from school, bounding his way through the door.

Little Harry Marsden stopped at the sight of Bobby seated in the chair. His mother had told him of his classmate's blindness, but he'd never seen a blind person before. He took a few hesitant steps forward, flabbergasted when Bobby's head followed, and then waved a curious hand in front of his face.

"Harry! Did the cat get your tongue?" Mrs. Marsden's voice startled both boys. "Can't you say hello?"

Harry's amber eyes narrowed at his mother and when he looked to his father for support, was met with an indifferent shrug. He puffed an annoyed sigh and muttered hello.

"Hello." Bobby's legs swung beneath the chair and he offered a hand.

But Harry was too intrigued by the oddity of his unwavering gaze and shifted from one foot to the next, smiling wickedly as Bobby's head twitched at the alternating shuffle.

"Harry! Suffering Jesus..." Mrs. Marsden stormed over with two pieces of licorice. She handed both to her son and gestured for him to share.

Mrs. Marsden was Mr. Marsden's second wife, and the first – God rest her soul – had left her husband with four now nearly grown daughters. Sybil had overheard other parents gossip about five-year-old Harry – that Marsden brat – but hadn't witnessed his insolent behavior until now. While Tom may have doted on their own son, he certainly didn't tolerate bad manners, unlike Mr. Marsden who seemed rather amused by it.

"Here." Harry stuck out the candy, gave it a sideways jerk, and snorted a laugh when Bobby reached and missed. Sybil trembled with rage, started to give the boy the tongue-lashing he deserved, but two things happened before she took her first step: Mrs. Marsden clapped her son on the side of the head and Bobby's shoe rammed into Harry's shin. "Ow!" Harry hopped on one foot, sputtering when Bobby snatched the licorice from his hand. "He kicked me!"

"I didn't see you!" came Bobby's innocent quip, but Sybil didn't miss that mischievous little grin right before he popped the licorice in his mouth.

Sarah Bunting first arrived in Downton more than two years previous, but it was several months before she met a member of the local lord's family. Early on she'd seen them from afar, at local events that they were obligated to patronize. Curiously, she'd even spied one of the daughters – the youngest she'd been told – at a political rally in Northallerton. Through queries with the local town folk she'd learned that Lady Sybil was married to the estate agent. It was quite the scandal, the local baker had told her before ducking beneath the counter for another loaf.

She'd also been informed the Earl of Grantham had several grandchildren, but Sarah expected they'd be tutored at the Abbey. So it surprised her when, before the term started, Lady Sybil queued with other parents to register her son. From Bobby's first day in class, Miss Bunting knew he would be a bright one, and the little boy didn't disappoint. He was one of her most eager pupils and was already ahead on his numbers and letters.

The bustle inherent with the start of the term precluded Sarah from visiting the Bransons, and then once the meningitis epidemic struck, she'd stayed away, unwilling to inflict the disease on any more children. She'd gone to all the funerals. She'd mourned for each of the children in the privacy of her rented flat. And she'd cried for Bobby when she heard about his sight. Such potential, she thought, set adrift in the dark.

She'd considered popping by to check on him, but courage evaded her until a note arrived from his mother: Please drop by at your convenience. Bobby's on the mend and I would very much like to discuss his education with you. The note had stirred her curiosity: How could I possibly help a blind child?

Sarah rapped on the wooden door and gazed up the stone façade of Downton Cottage. It was unassuming enough, with flower boxes at the windows and what would certainly be a cheery little front garden come spring. She was still glancing around when the door squeaked open and Lady Sybil welcomed her in with a pleasant smile. Nothing inside the little house screamed Earl's daughter, especially not modest furniture, the picture frames of smiling children, and the sewing basket in a chair by the window. But there was one photograph of Bobby's parents that caught her attention. In it, the Bransons were lavishly dressed – a wedding party or some other formal affair, she assumed – but they only had eyes for each other. They were smiling with such besotted adoration that Sarah had to shake off an unexpected pang of jealousy. Turning round, her eyes drifted across a little train set on the window seat and she was ashamed by the fleeting envy.

"How's Bobby?"

Lady Sybil's expression brightened with mingled pride and relief. "Much better, thank you," she said, motioning to a chair. "He's out with Tom at the moment. Mr. Parks has a new calf and suggested Bobby come over for a look."

An odd expression, Sarah thought as she sat.

"I have tea."

"Thank you, Lady Sybil. That would be very kind."

With an amused smile, she poured from a plain white pot. "I'm Mrs. Branson here."

"I'm sorry, but I thought you were the earl's daughter."

Sybil didn't seem put off by the sarcasm. "I'm willing to be Lady Sybil inside the walls of Downton Abbey only because it's too exhausting to correct everyone all the time," she explained, offering the cup to her guest. "I'm Nurse Branson at the hospital and Mrs. Branson everywhere else."

"It must have been quite a shock for your family when you married the agent."

"It was, particularly since he wasn't the agent then, but rather the chauffeur."

A mouthful of tea slipped down the wrong passage and she coughed. "You married the chauffeur?"

Sybil sipped, eyed her sideways. "I'm sure you've heard the stories."

"I've heard gossip and assumed that's what it was when I was told the bit about the chauffeur."

"I can assure you, it's very much the truth."

Sarah's eyes circled the parlor. "Is that why you live here, then, in the village rather than at your parents' house?"

"No, my husband and I want to live simply, or as simple as it can be given that he's the estate agent and I'm Lord Grantham's daughter. This cottage suits us just fine." Sybil set her teacup aside. "Miss Bunting, I asked you here because I would very much like for Bobby to return to school as soon as he's able."

Surely she couldn't mean... "Here? At the Downton school?"

"Tom and I haven't made a final decision, but that's my preference, yes."

Sarah said nothing for a long moment until blurting the obvious. "But he's blind."

"I'm quite aware of that."

"Mrs. Branson," she wavered, "Have you considered the Wilberforce School in York?"

"I have. I even went there to see their instruction and they do marvelous work. But, I've also done some research and have spoken with professionals. There is no reason why my son cannot learn with sighted children."

"But there are things I'm unable teach him."

"I think you underestimate both your ability to teach and his ability to learn," Sybil replied, "but you're right. He will require a tutor for part of the day." She pulled a small stack of papers from a nearby drawer and offered them to Miss Bunting. "It's called a day-school, and it's been done both here and in America. Bobby would have specialized instruction at the start of the day, but would generally be able to follow along with the remainder of classes."

"I can't hold the rest of the class behind for one student."

Sybil stiffened. "I'm not asking you to. He's certainly capable of listening and learning like any other child."

Flipping through the sheets, Sarah exhaled a little huff. "Mrs. Branson, I understand your desire for him to go back to school – he's a very bright boy – but it's rather presumptuous of you to assume we could accommodate his disability."

"Miss Bunting, he's an inquisitive little boy and he deserves a chance. He's also entitled to an education by law."

"I'm aware of that, but I'm sure you are aware that the school would need to be certified before he could attend, meaning an instructor would have to be in place. And I think it unlikely that the local education authority would go to that expense when there is a residential school just down the road."

By now Sybil's frustration boiled over into disbelief. "It seems I've been mistaken. I admit we've not had the chance to speak beyond my son's few weeks in school, but from everything I've heard from my Cousin Isobel and other members of the education authority, I assumed you were quite progressive in your teaching philosophy."

"I am, but I've not surrendered my pragmatism..." When Sybil's eyes snapped sideways, she put in, "Mrs. Branson, given his condition, wouldn't he be better served at an institution that would, in addition to the basics of reading and arithmetic, instruct him on practical life skills?"

Sybil's blood rose up her neck. "Such as what? Making trinkets to sell on the street?" Sarah reared back at the snap. "Miss Bunting, if one day in the future, my son decides to make a life of tuning pianos or cobbling shoes, then so be it. But I'll not have him forced into any profession simply because you or anyone says well, that's what blind people do. My husband and I have raised him to believe he is capable of whatever his mind can imagine."

The teacher was rather grateful when the front door cracked open, letting in a burst of damp air. She twisted in her seat, her breath quickening at the sight of Bobby wandering into the room with his hand on Mr. Branson's arm. He's so thin, she observed, and watched as the little boy picked his way across the carpet.

Sybil stood, her voice clipped. "Tom, you remember Bobby's teacher, Miss Bunting."

"Miss Bunting!" Bobby nearly bounced in place.

"Hello Bobby." Sarah knelt in front of him, surprised when he stretched out a hand. She took it, chuckling as he gave hers a vigorous shake. "I'm glad to see you're doing so well."

"When may I come back to school?"

"Bobby, darling," Sybil cut in, her tone brightening for her son. "I left a surprise for you in the kitchen – chocolate biscuits." The little boy let out a gasp. "They're on the counter and you'll find a glass of milk in the icebox."

"Save some for me," Tom said, giving his shoulder a playful nudge.

"Yes, Da," Bobby chirped and wheeled around. Miss Bunting reached out a steadying hand, but he'd already taken two steps, easily locating the back of the nearest chair. He paused for a moment, twisting his head this way and that, and then took unassisted steps toward the door. His hand came up just as he reached the threshold.

Miss Bunting stood, lost in wonder as the footsteps dissipated down the hall. "How did he know..."

"Which direction to go?" Sybil pointed to a clock on the mantel. "He listens for the ticking."

"It happened for the first time just a few days ago," Tom added. "And we were just as shocked as you." He pecked a kiss on Sybil's cheek, felt the tension beneath her skin. Worry clouded his eyes when he pulled back.

Her head twitched, dismissing the question on his lips. "How did it go at Mr. Parks'?"

"Very well, I think," he sighed. "Bobby was afraid at first, but once he got his hands on the calf, I couldn't get him away." She seemed to relax then, her hands finding his for a light squeeze. "I didn't know you were planning company."

"Miss Bunting and I were just discussing Bobby's education."

Tom glanced from one woman to the other, sensing something amiss. "Oh?"

Sarah pulled her bag from the chair. "Yes and I'm curious, Mr. Branson, do you share your wife's opinion? About putting him in a regular school?"

Two sets of eyes bore down on him and he suddenly felt like a fish between two cats. "My wife and I want what is best for our son," Tom said, "and if that means sending him back to the Downton school, then that's what we'll do." It was a rather oblique response, and he knew it, but the whole discussion seemed rather premature at the moment. Bobby was nowhere near full strength yet, and he didn't want to push. "Excuse me. I should check on Bobby."

After dinner, Tom sat out on their little terrace. He'd made it for their last anniversary and even added an arbor with a bench swing beneath. The back of the cottage faced west, its rear hedgerow marking the beginning of one of Downton's fields with a clear view towards the horizon. When the weather was warm, they would often sneak out here, enjoying the sunset and quiet contentment of each other's company. But this evening, with the winter solstice only weeks away, the night had gone black and a moist chill hung in the air. He swung to and fro sipping on a tumbler of whiskey, and stared up at the smattering of stars ducking in and out behind the clouds.

"Drinking alone?" Sybil's fingers combed through his hair. She leaned down from behind, pecked a kiss on his brow.

He patted the seat. "If you join me, I won't be." She'd brought a blanket with her, wrapped it around their shoulders and they huddled together. Taking a sip of his whiskey, she cleared her throat against the burn and handed it back. "As fate would have it, love, you married an Irishman who can't hold his liquor. I didn't half fill that glass to begin with." They swung quietly, their heads drifting together. This was one of the few nights of genuine peace they'd had in months and, despite the chill, he would have been quite satisfied to doze off, their fingers interlaced and warm.

After a time, she reached behind her and presented a little book. He held it up to catch the diffused light of the kitchen window behind them. "What is it?"

"It's a speller. For the blind."

Tom rubbed his fingers over the first page, saw printed letters beneath a hodgepodge of dots. "Isn't this a little advanced for him?"

"He was learning his letters before," she reminded him.

"But this is an entirely different language."

"Tom, we don't read with our eyes or even our fingers." When he furrowed his brows, she said, "We read with our minds. The eyes and fingers are merely a translation tool. When one fails, we rely on the other."

He closed the book and wedged it between them. "Bobby's come much farther than I ever thought he would in such a short time. But he's only a boy, Sybil. He has his limits and he's still so easily frustrated..." When she began to protest, he brushed a finger over her cheek. "I'm afraid if we push him too hard, we'll set him back."

"And I'm afraid if we don't push him enough, he'll be satisfied marking time."

"Sybil, love, shouldn't we at least consider sending him to..." She pulled the blanket snug against her shoulder, her gaze drifting in the opposite direction. "I understand how you feel, God knows I do, but whatever decision is made, it needs to be what is best for our son, not for us."

"What our son needs is for us to believe in him, to teach him to persevere in a society that expects him to fail. We know how to overcome that better than anyone."

"By the time he's fully recovered, he'll be behind half a term. Half a term in which he would have been learning the most basic lessons. Love, look at me, please." He reached for her hand, offered a wan smile as her eyes shifted back to his. "You can't do it all."

"I don't want to do it all. All I want, is to do just enough." She pulled him to her for a kiss. "And I can't do it without you, Tom."

"You won't have to," he whispered. "I promise."

Tom and Sybil learned early on that Bobby's adjustment wouldn't operate on a predicated schedule. While he struggled with seemingly simple tasks – eating meals or taking care of himself in the toilet – he surprised them by recognizing what they could not. On their way back from the Marsden's store, Sybil had asked how he'd been able to so easily find the licorice in Harry's hand. I could smell it, he'd said. And then, one morning at breakfast, he slid from his chair, made over to the corner to gather Barnaby's saucer, filled it with milk from the table, and promptly sat back down.

When Sybil questioned him on it, he replied simply, It was empty. She and Tom stared first at Bobby and then at each other, before she probed further. Bobby spooned up his porridge, let out a sigh and answered His tongue was scraping the bottom, as if they should have known that.

For each little milestone reached there were still setbacks, made even more acute as Christmas drew near. Decorating the tree had induced such a flood of tears that Tom and Sybil delayed finishing until Bobby went to bed. But days later they caught him gingerly inspecting various bobbles before moving on to the nativity set his Great-Grandmama Martha had just sent from America. After brushing his fingers over the intricately carved wooden figurines – shepherds and magi, angels and animals – and confirming the status of each with his parents, he assigned it a proper spot around the manger. His favorite was the wooly lamb, which he placed at the feet of the baby Jesus.

This would be the Branson's second Christmas at Downton Cottage, and Tom and Sybil had started their own festive traditions – there was no pageantry, no grand tree or balls or The Game, which Tom had come to despise. Here in their home, Christmas was for the children. This year it also required a clandestine operation to wrap presents. Bobby seemed to sense just the right moment to squirm into his parents' bedroom and even though he couldn't see, Sybil didn't think it proper to wrap gifts right under his nose. With only a week left, she cornered her husband when he came home for lunch and begged him to stand guard. Fortunately, Saoirse had dropped for a nap and Tom gave his son strict instructions to stay put in the parlor with his train set.

"Saoirse's old enough now to start enjoying Christmas," she said, hastily tying a sparkly bow.

"Or at least the wrappings," Tom laughed. "Remember how Bobby would play with the boxes and paper?" He grew quiet, took the present from her and placed it on the top shelf of the cupboard. "I hope it won't be too hard on him, Sybil."

She squeezed his hand when he returned. "It will be hard on everyone, Tom, but we have to be strong for him."

They'd managed to finish all but a few when a knock resonated through the house. Sybil went down to find Bobby opening the door – one of the duties Mr. Woolstone had suggested for him – and strangely enough, that's who appeared. The instructor greeted the child with a delighted Hallo! and gave Sybil an nod of approval in Bobby's direction.

She and Tom sat for an early tea with their guest, itemizing what Bobby had accomplished over the previous month and Woolstone brimmed with effusive praise. Once they finished, Sybil gave him a tour of the household adjustments they'd made.

"I didn't realize how disorganized we were before," she admitted. "It's been an education for us all. We've had to teach Saoirse to let herself be known around her brother, but she's quite stealthy at the most inconvenient times. Bobby's stepped on her more than the cat."

"I paid a visit to one of our former blinded soldiers not so long ago. He had two little ones." Woolstone flicked a finger at his collar and chuckled. "He pinned bells on their shirts to keep up with them."

"I'll keep working with her before we resort to that," she smirked as they moved on to Bobby's room. Sybil could only imagine Saoirse's horror if she did such a thing, not to mention Tom's or the cat's.

Woolstone's inspection of the little boy's room left nothing untouched. He made an account of each item on the table tops and furniture, the neat arrangement of toys on a series of corner shelves, a small robe draped across the back of a chair by the bed. As he peeked in a drawer, Sybil hastened over with a proud smile. "We came up with a system for his clothes," she explained, pointing to an arrangement of socks in the top drawer. "I stitched knots on the cuffs. One for the brown pair, two for blue, three for black." Opening another drawer, she went on, "And the same for shirts, shorts and so on." Then she pointed to a row of shoes by the baseboard. "The brown shoes have a little notch on the right side of the heels, and the black on the left. Bobby's responsible for folding and stashing them away so he'll remember where they are."

"Well done, Mrs. Branson! I say, you've done marvelously."

"And he makes his own bed in the morning. I can't even get my husband to do that every day."

Taking another turn around the room, he found other small items to compliment and few to correct. They were just heading out when his eye caught a poorly hidden object behind the door. As he retrieved the cane, Sybil sighed, "That seems to be our biggest hurdle at the moment. He can make his way around the house, but elsewhere we either have to hold his hand or carry him. He's been particularly stubborn about it."

Woolstone twirled it bottom end up and his eyes twinkled. Around the tip was a doubled patch of flannel held in place by a piece of knotted yarn.

"What on earth?"

"Mrs. Branson," he grinned, "I'd like to try something if I may." When returned to the parlor, Tom was on the floor with Bobby, helping engineer a tunnel for his train. "Mr. Branson, would you mind terribly if I took your wife and son for a walk?"

Tom glanced over at Sybil, who gave a befuddled shrug. "Not at all."

Bobby popped up when his mother called him. When he poked out his hand for her, Mr. Woolstone slipped the cane in his way. "I think you should use this."

Retracting his hand, Bobby shook his head. "Mama, I want to stay with Da."

"Darling, I thought we could take those flowers to Emily today," she said. "We shouldn't delay putting them out any longer."

"That's a lovely idea," Woolstone agreed. "And if we make it all the way to the bakers, there may be a piece of fudge in it for you. There was a fresh plate in the window when I walked by earlier."

Bobby mulled the prospect of delicious sweets as the man knelt in front of him.

"Might I see your right hand?" The child offered it hesitantly and Woolstone turned it palm up, tapping his finger across a crimson welt between the thumb and forefinger. His mouth twitched with a grin. He leaned close, whispering "Shall I tell her or will you show her?"

Bobby balled his hand in a fist and shook his head, his voice barely above a breath. "I can't."

"I think you can. Even grown men stumble every now and again. It's nothing to be ashamed of." When the child finally nodded, Woolstone's voice resumed its deep inflection and he untied the patch of flannel. "Brilliant. Now, let's get this off."

Bobby grasped the cane and before he turned round said "Two pieces of fudge," and navigated his way toward the hall. His technique wasn't perfect, but he made it safely.

"Darling, don't forget your cap and coat," Sybil called, disbelief washing out her voice.

Tom glanced from Woolstone, who stood with his hands thrust in his pockets watching the child with a critical instructor's eye, and back to Sybil, who managed to flap a hand towards the kitchen. "Tom – the flowers..."

She'd begged her son for more than a month to use the cane, yet as soon as they were out the front door, she panicked. Oh dear God, there's curbs and gutters and broken bits of stone and... But Woolstone's instruction came with a calming tenor and he told her to walk in front so that Bobby could follow the sound. The instructor strode alongside, offering advice as needed: Remember, it's an extension of your arm, concentrate on the sensation as the tip glides over the ground. Don't tap, glide – that's it! Shoulder-to-shoulder and head held high! They stopped by the door at the Grantham Arms. Listen – what do you hear? Bobby had replied Glasses and talking and to their amusement repeated a word he shouldn't have. And so they went, stopping at buildings and concentrating and listening and associating sounds. Woolstone made such a game of it that Bobby's face kept curling with the impish little grin that Sybil had longed to see returned to its rightful place.

The five minute walk to the churchyard took more than half an hour and Sybil was glad of the rest because Bobby had tired near the end. She led him over to Emily's grave, handed him a little garden spade for the flowers and left him be. Woolstone waited for her on a nearby bench and gestured toward the grave.

"A school friend," Sybil sighed as she sat. "Emily died of meningitis." She'd pushed their own nightmare – those moments when they'd wondered if their son would survive – so far in the back of her mind that the memories had taken on a dream-like quality. But those memories made her grateful for days like this and she gave Woolstone a sideways glance. "You know I have to ask."

His mouth simmered with a satisfied smile. "He's been practicing in his room. He has a blister here," he said, pinching the soft skin between his thumb and forefinger. "And a callus is starting to form crosswise over the heel."

"And the cloth?"

"That's so you wouldn't hear him scratching along the floor. Based on how well he's doing, I wager he's been sneaking around the house at night."

She watched as Bobby finished at Emily's grave, gave it a little pat, tucked the spade in his back pocket and pushed to his feet. He took a few steps, brushed his cane across the grass, found one stone, navigated around it and then the next, turning, listening to something in the distance. Finally, he found the cobbled path and started his own lesson in front of the church. Her face stretched with a disbelieving smile; she wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry.

"We tend to make children more complicated than they really are. More so with the sightless," Woolstone said. "Bobby knows how hard you've been trying. He simply doesn't want to disappoint his Mama."

"Perhaps Tom's right – that I've been pushing him to hard."

"Oh, he would have showed you eventually once – in his estimation – he'd perfected his mobility. I just gave him a little nudge."

"Still, I do often wonder whether I'm doing the right thing. I would never forgive myself if I held him back in any way." She reached to pull her gloves from her bag and a blue back book flopped out.

Woolstone's eyes flitted down, smiled at the embossed title: Out of the Dark: Essays, Letters and Addresses on Physical and Social Vision. "Ah...I see you've acquired Ms. Keller's book."

"Not exactly," she replied, her brows pinching in thought. "It came in a rather mysterious parcel a few weeks back." The penned inscription was just as anonymous and she showed him the inside cover: Hope is not lost where life remains.

"An appropriate sentiment, I should say."

Sybil nodded, wedged the book back into her bag. "Ms. Keller's accomplishments have certainly given me a great deal of hope."

"You mention them as her accomplishments rather than what she's overcome. That shows a great clarity of purpose and Bobby's a lucky little boy to have you as an ally." He crooked his elbow on the bench behind them, shifted on the bench. "To quell your earlier misgivings, I would have certainly made other recommendations on our first visit if I didn't think you capable. Given all that he's been through, he's advancing splendidly. Please don't doubt yourself."

Sybil watched her son navigate the pathway. "I know there will be a point that he needs more than I can give. I've spoken to his schoolteacher but she's disinclined to have a day-school. Miss Bunting thinks he ought to go to York."

"And you think otherwise."

"It's not just teaching him raised print or feeling his way around a room or using a cane. I want him to be able to thrive in a sighted world that is ill-designed for him," she said. "I think day-schooling gives him that opportunity."

"You've touched on something that I'm arguing now, Mrs. Branson. Thirty years ago, day-school advocates made great strides in equalizing education between the blind and sighted, but in recent years the theoretical winds have shifted. Not so long ago, I served on a parliamentary committee that recommended residential schools to be a better fit. Obviously I was overruled."

"It's terribly frustrating," she sighed. "Miss Bunting enjoys a great deal of support on the local education authority and I've a suspicion we're in for an uphill battle defending his right to be educated here. But after more than a month I finally feel as if Bobby is turning a corner – he's resisting his condition less now and I see a bit of his old spark back. He wants to learn and I don't want to delay once he's ready. But God knows how it will take to have Downton's school certified by the Ministry of Education and after that they'll have to hire an acceptable teacher. And, if he or she is teaching my son, I'd like to have some influence with the interviews."

"Well, I may have one in mind," Woolstone offered after a moment. "But he wouldn't be ready until the start of the next term."

"That's not awful. Could you send me his credentials?"

"How about a personal interview– " His eyes squinted guiltily. " –right here?" When she sat silent, he quipped, "Do you not think me qualified?"

"It's certainly not that," she laughed. "One might even say you're overqualified. Your work for the Ministry, though, your advocacy on behalf of the blind – that's a profound calling to abandon for a teaching position."

Woolstone chuckled, his face softening with a disarming smile. "Mrs. Branson, my calling as you so nobly describe it, was quite thrust upon me during the war, as I'm sure you can relate." Shifting awkwardly, he cleared his throat. "My brother and I served together in Gallipoli," he explained after a moment. "Samuel was blinded by an explosion at Cape Helles and wound up at St. Dunstan's. A month or so later I was removed from the front. Shell shock." His cheeks flinched at the memory.

She'd seen plenty of it and shook her head. "It's nothing to be ashamed of."

"I'm not, not now at least," he replied. "But my father was and he thought a job at St. Dunstan's would remind me about courage. It did, just not in the way he expected. Sir Arthur Pearson was a guiding light for us all, blind and sighted," he explained. "He said if you tell a man often enough that he's afflicted, he will inevitably become so." Woolstone's gaze drifted over the churchyard where Bobby had padded his way toward the church door. "Sir Arthur put me to work, taught me how to teach the blind, and the ability to focus on that helped immensely." From the corner of his eye, he caught her staring and he smiled. "Oh I wasn't cured that easily. I still had my episodes, but none of the residents judged. In fact, two of them carted me back to my room once. Someone had dropped a flower pot and the noise..." He twiddled a finger in the air. "...set me off."

"Are you still challenged by it?"

He nodded. "On occasion. And for that reason, London's never really suited me. I've been yearning for a return to the country for some time now. I was in York earlier today inquiring after a position at the school, but perhaps a smaller setting might be more suitable."

"Well, London's loss would be Downton's gain. I'll give it some thought," she said, "and of course I'll have to discuss it with..." Her eyes scanned the churchyard, and finding it unoccupied, she panicked. "Bobby!?"

"Here he is!" declared a sour looking Mr. Travis. The reverend was leading the little boy – quite awkwardly, she noticed – from the narthex of the church. Bobby held onto the minister's finger, like an object caught in a lobster's pincers.

Sybil dropped the hand clutching her dress front, took Bobby's in hers when they approached the bench. "Darling, you mustn't wander off like that."

"I'm sorry, Mama."

Her shoulders sagged in relief. "Thank you, Mr. Travis."

"I don't pretend to understand what the Ripon church allows," he scowled, glaring at the little boy. "But in this house, we don't play patty fingers in the holy water."

Sybil hadn't noticed the smattering on water on Bobby's face and shirt until then. The child's cheeks blazed with indignation. "I was just crossing myself like I'm supposed to."

"We don't do that here."

"But you're a church!"

Before the minister could sputter a response, Sybil cut in, "Thank you again, Mr. Travis."

Woolstone waited for the older man to huff back up the walk before saying, "Well, he's no fun."

Bobby erupted with a giggle and Sybil knelt down. She tipped his chin and his gaze settled away from hers, but she'd come to accept it. "I'm so proud of you," she whispered, showering his cheeks with kisses. "Shall we go home and tell your father about how well you've done today?"

"What about the fudge?" he chirped. "Can I have three pieces?"

"We mustn't take advantage of Mr. Woolstone's kindness."

"This boy drives a hard bargain," Woolstone said, ruffling his hair. "But I think he's earned it."

"It's for my Da," Bobby told him. "He likes fudge."

Sybil smacked another kiss to his cheek, her heart fluttering with unfettered hope as his face radiated with that impish Branson grin. "Then lead the way, my darling."

A/N 2: Regarding the electric train – I actually stumbled across a 1925 advertisement from a London paper which provided the exact cost (today's currency would amount to roughly 160 pounds, so Tom really splurged!). Also, the books mentioned/referenced here, Victory Over Blindness by Sir Arthur Pearson (as well as the journal adaptation) and Out of the Dark by Helen Keller are available on Google Books. Each is an inspiring read.

Up next: Christmas 1925.