A/N: I got sidetracked with some future (but fun) chapters while stressing over the last bits of this fifth (and final) installment, so whoops! on the tardy posting. My delay in finishing and an imminent vacation means this has to go out unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine. As always, thanks for the reads and thoughtful reviews, and for everyone who stuck with the storyline. It's been an emotional-roller coaster to write.
"A happy life consists not in the absence, but in the mastery of hardships."
~ Helen Keller, The Simplest Way to be Happy (1933)
OUT OF THE DARK, PART V
Downton, Christmas 1925
This would be the second year the Branson family celebrated Christmas Eve at Downton Cottage, which meant once again snubbing Lord Grantham's traditionally lavish dinner and much beloved game of charades. Sybil knew the absence distressed her parents, but her husband and children came first. I want a simple holiday, she'd told Mary, where I'm not wondering if the goose could feed the entire village. And she then reminded her sister they'd be coming Christmas Day anyway for luncheon and a family gift exchange.
Mary didn't bother to understand why her sister would forgo a fully prepared meal on such an important holiday, but knew she had to do something to smooth their parents' ruffled feathers. Come to tea, she suggested, and at least make an appearance on Christmas Eve. She should have known better, though, than to take her sister's hand down memory lane: Do you remember how we used to make biscuits for Father Christmas when we were girls? That was when Sybil seized on the idea to do the same with their own children. She bubbled with such excitement – a welcome change after the past few months – that Mary could hardly say no. Besides, she thought, Mrs. Patmore can well keep things under control.
Sybil arrived mid-afternoon on Christmas Eve with both her children in tow, a box festively shaped tin objects, and – of all things – an apron. Disbelieving, Mary followed her into the kitchen.
"Sybil, surely you don't intend to actually make the biscuits!"
"That's the whole point, isn't it?"
"But we only watched as children, with the occasional allowance to help stack if Mrs. Kennedy was feeling generous."
Sybil knotted her apron, dropped hands on her hips. "And it was dead boring, Mary. Look…" She presented one of the tin objects. "…aren't these just darling?"
"What on earth are they?"
"We're all out of magic dough, milady," muttered Mrs. Patmore as she rambled by with a rolling pin.
When Sybil whispered they were cutters, Mary eyed the shapes dubiously. She could only imagine finding the impression of one on Teddy's neck tomorrow morning.
"I got these for Bobby, really," Sybil said, presenting the angel. "He's learned so much by helping me in the kitchen. He can already tell these apart and he's aces now with measuring flour and..."
Her youngest sister always had an uncanny knack for guilt. "Oh, alright," she conceded. "But I'm not responsible if Mrs. Patmore has a stroke."
At the far side of the room, the cook thundered orders for Daisy and the kitchen maids to organize the ingredients. "Alright, you lot...and m'ladies...we'll start with His Lordship's favorite – cinnamon biscuits."
Sybil helped Bobby into a high-seated chair, where he sat dangling his legs and twirling two of the cutters on his fingers. "When do we eat them, Mrs. Patmore?" he chirped.
"They're for tomorrow, love, when all you children get together and open your presents."
"Won't Father Christmas get any?"
"I didn't think about him. But I suppose we can spare a few for you to take home."
David leaned forward on the table, grinning at the cook. "He'll need some here too, Mrs. Patmore!"
"Good Lord," she huffed. "It's a wonder he isn't bursting out of his suit!"
After returning from the cupboard with an extra pound of flour, the cook organized two assembly lines: herself, Mary, David and Teddy on one side of the table with Daisy, Sybil, Bobby and Saoirse on the other. Mrs. Patmore and Daisy took command of their respective lines and measured and mixed, while Sybil and Mary helped the little ones roll and cut the dough.
The Crawley line had an early breakdown when David and Teddy nearly came to blows over the tin soldier. Then, once the dough was rolled, they hacked out a little army with as much enthusiasm as they could muster. Mary tried to play war nurse, but most of the severed limbs had to be folded back in for the next round.
Mrs. Patmore tsked at their baking sheet. "It's like Verdun all over again!"
The Branson line was a mite more controlled, with Saoirse preferring to help her mother roll and offering her input as to which cutter Bobby should use next. For the first cut, Sybil laid Bobby's palm at the top of the uncut dough, and he wedged the cutter against this thumb and forefinger as a guide. Then, after he'd cut and removed the biscuit, he'd place his hand over the hole to direct him to the next available spot. None of his stars went lopsided; his reindeer retained their antlers and all of the angels were laid on the baking sheet with wings intact.
After an hour and a half, they'd certainly made enough biscuits for Father Christmas' stopovers at the cottage and the Abbey along with small bag for the jolly old man to take back to the hard-working elves. But Sybil saw that the children were having such a grand time of it that she suggested a final few batches as a present for the staff.
"Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes have always been fond of your spice biscuits," she wheedled.
"Since when did we become a biscuit factory?" But Mrs. Patmore grudgingly agreed, "so long as m'ladies can see to the dishes," and left to rummage in her cupboard for the spices.
Sybil ushered an unenthusiastic Mary to the sink, shoved a towel in her direction. "I'll wash, you dry."
Mary stood aside as Sybil soaped up the measuring bowls, cups and cutters. "Isobel says you've decided to try and have the school certified?"
"We're talking to the local authority, yes, and most of them seem quite reasonable to at least consider it. But Miss Bunting...she'll take some convincing."
"I'm sure you can persuade her," Mary said, meticulously drying one cup and then another. She'd barely made it through two before Sybil had swept through all of the scrubbing and rinsing.
"I just want my son to be happy."
"Well, he seems quite content at the moment." Mary glimpsed back at her nephew. Daisy had been multi-tasking between biscuits and cake and slipped Bobby a spoon of frosting, which he cleaned in one great lick before grinning ear-to-ear.
Sybil reached for another towel, snatched up three of the cutters and dried them all at once. Mary almost seemed affronted – she was still dabbing at the moisture between the reindeer's antlers. "His good days are starting to outnumber the bad, so at least we're finally moving in the right direction..."
"Master Bobby, hands out of the batter!"
Bobby shoved the chocolate-covered finger in his mouth as the cook rumbled by. Daisy giggled and passed him another spoon when the older woman wasn't looking.
"Honestly, I don't know where you've found the strength to survive all of this," Mary sighed.
"Never underestimate the power of a mother, Mary." She nodded towards the pair of Crawley boys. "I mean, you've certainly found it to control those two."
"I have staff…Teddy Crawley don't you dare!"
Teddy's batter-covered palm had been suspiciously close to Saoirse's curls, but he innocently brought it to his mouth for a taste. One of the kitchen maids sped over and wiped his hand. He shrieked at the lost treat.
The kitchen swelled with warmth from the stove and the fragrance of nutmeg and clove. For the last batch, Daisy promoted Bobby to 'assistant head chef,' allowing him to help her sift and measure the ingredients. She arranged them in order of how they were to be mixed, told him how much of each and then presented the measuring cups. Bobby clamped a tongue between his teeth, concentrating as he dipped a cup into the bag of flour. He leveled off the top with his finger and carefully dumped it in the bowl.
Daisy grinned at Sybil. "He's learning faster than you did!"
"In my defense, he's been helping me at home, so he isn't exactly starting with a clean slate." But still, Sybil never would have thought he'd come this far so quickly since his illness.
Once he'd added the sugar and eggs (unaware that Daisy hastily fished out a few crumbles of shell), Bobby declared it ready. "Mama, can you mix it?"
"Of course." Sybil swept over, noticed something on the floor and bent to retrieve it. "Darling, you've lost a shoe." When she stood up, the back of her head clipped the edge of the bowl. Bobby juggled and managed to regain control but not before the contents upended on his mother's head. Consumed in a cloud of white, Sybil sputtered, her hair a frosty gray with clumps of egg glopping down her cheeks.
The beehive of baking fizzled to a gasping halt, no one knowing quite what to say, until Teddy pointed. "Oh no, Mama, he made a mess!" For once, the youngest Crawley wasn't to blame.
Bobby's shoulders sagged. His mouth began to quiver. Mary rushed in with a towel, although she wasn't sure where to start. She made one pass at her sister's collar, but only made it worse. "It was an accident, Teddy," she said, and then couldn't stifle an undignified laugh. "Oh, Sybil...you look like the ghost of Christmas past."
From out of the dismal silence Bobby erupted with one giggle and then another, and soon he was giggling hysterically like, as Tom often referred to it, a chipmunk being tickled. His mother's face broke with a relieved smile and just as Mrs. Patmore returned from the storeroom with an extra pack of nutmeg, Sybil picked up the last of the flour and held it over her son's head. "You think that's funny do you, young master Branson?"
Downton's kitchen exploded in a white fog.
Both David and Teddy, to say nothing of Mrs. Patmore, Daisy and the kitchen staff, gaped at mother and son, who were now sneezing and wheezing and smearing the mess on one another.
Bobby spat and sputtered. "Mama!"
That's when Saoirse seized he chance to put pestering Teddy in his place. She snuck a hand over into Daisy's cake bowl and flung a handful of batter at his head.
"Saoirse, no!"
Bobby's ears perked up. "What happened, Mama?"
"Your sister's throwing food at Teddy."
Bobby's infectious giggles soon had the entire staff (except for Mrs. Patmore) rolling with laughter and, despite the impending hours they'd spend cleaning the kitchen on this most holy of nights, reaching for flour and batter and anything else. Saoirse pasted another handful of batter on her cousin's shirt and David, seeing that his brother was under control, reached for an egg and splatted it right on his mother's breast.
Well, isn't this a kettle of fish? Then again, as Mary gaped at the unfolding catastrophe she supposed she only had herself to blame.
Things were more tranquil up in the library. But after more than an hour listening to the Dowager traverse her customary tightrope with Cousin Isobel, it wouldn't have hurt Robert's feelings if Carson rung the dressing gong early. With his sons-in-law huddled together in deep conversation across the room, Robert finally settled on the sofa across from his wife and sister. He was quite content to be an indifferent observer to their discussion, but Cora eventually grew bored with the latest Eaton Square gossip and turned sentimental on him.
"It's wonderful, isn't it?" she sighed. "Having everyone here?"
Rosamund's eyes bore down on her brother. "Not everyone."
"Edith made her own decision not to come," Robert flatly replied. His middle daughter's relationship with Michael Gregson – the whole sordid, humiliating mess – had become society news sometime during the early months of 1924. He'd decided he'd yielded to modern society enough, and so condemned it outright. That was the end of it, in his mind at least.
"After what you did last year, I can't blame her."
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."
"Robert, the whole of London knows they share a bed..." Her brother bolted off the sofa, nearly spilling his tea in the process. "There was no reason for you to order him to the bachelors' quarters!"
Robert's saucer clinked on a side table. "He's a married man! This is still my house, and in it I will be the one to decide who sleeps with whom!"
From his enclave with Tom on the other side of the room, Matthew massaged the beginnings of a headache. Tom seemed to rather enjoy their father-in-law's misery. He chewed on a smile and waited for...
"Oh my dear child," Violet sighed. "No one's ever wielded that amount of power in this house."
Like an old trusty clock. Tom may have disagreed with everything his wife's grandmother stood for politically, but in many ways the Dowager was a pragmatic old soul and he'd grown rather fond of her sass. He turned and snickered. Matthew pressed a fist to his own trembling lips. Robert shot malevolent glares at them both and strolled over to the tittering pair.
"I wouldn't bemoan a little support from the two of you."
"If you're looking for a co-conspirator you'll have to ask Matthew," said Tom. Indeed, Matthew had been rather wishy-washy on his acceptance their sister-in-law's suitor. "I for one am glad Edith's finally happy, even if most of her family isn't."
"We'll see how agreeable you are when your own daughter comes of age," Robert muttered, flipping open his watch. "Carson," he called across the room. "They must have made enough biscuits for the village by now. We won't have much time for the game if dinner is late."
"Tom and I will go," Matthew offered. "Mary's probably reached her limit with the boys anyway."
The brothers-in-law scuttled down the back stairs, following the wild laughter that spiraled out of the servants' hall. Nearing the kitchen, Tom coughed on an overwhelming white cloud and waved a tunnel of breathable air with his handkerchief. He bumped into a few apologetic hall boys as they scurried past like ghosts fleeing a graveyard.
At first, Tom couldn't see much of anything through the pasty haze, and no one seemed to notice they'd arrived until Mr. Carson's voice boomed like a foghorn. "What in God's name is going on?!"
Except for a few coughs and sputters, the room fell silent. Mrs. Patmore was by the sink, holding her dress front and looking a trifle pale, when Mrs. Hughes slipped in and breathed, "Oh my."
Matthew glared at his children. "Which one of you started this?" Both Crawley boys shot fingers at their Aunt Sybil.
"Da, do I look like a ghost?" Bobby chirped. The little boy's clothes, his dark curls, his face, were frosted with flour. He wore a cheeky grin, which Tom didn't seem to notice. But he did notice the smashed egg beneath Sybil's hand, which splayed on Bobby's shirt.
It was there in the sniggering and smiles tucked behind discrete hands after Bobby's declaration that Tom's fears had played out. He knew the staff meant no harm, but the future wouldn't be so kind. There would be others who mocked and teased and tittered about Blind Bobby Branson. Everyone constantly remarked how Bobby was so like his father, but Tom disagreed. He was just like Sybil; he believed the best in everyone, didn't believe anyone would do him harm. How is he supposed to see when someone has less than good in their hearts?
Tom's expression swung from shock to disappointment and a wave of heat rushed beneath his collar. Sybil took a faltering step. "Tom..."
He pushed into the room, whipped a towel from the counter and brushed futilely over Bobby's clothes. "This isn't a damn bit funny!"
The staff quietly scattered. Even David and Teddy sensed a shift in the air and the pair sat frozen on the edge of the table.
Tom shot Sybil a final glare – how could you? – before snatching Bobby into his arms.
"Da, where are we going?"
"Home."
"But I want to stay!" Bobby squirmed and pushed against his father's shoulders. "Put me down. I can walk!"
"We've only to go to the car," Tom said, carrying him into the servant's hall.
"No, I want my cane!"
Sybil hurried after them. "Tom, stop this! You don't understand..."
His eyes, hurt and furious, fell hard on hers when he whipped around. "Are you coming?"
She knew there was little she could say, not now at least. She retrieved Bobby's cane from the corner, curled his fingers around it, and promised to see him at home. "I should help clean up here. I'll walk."
"It's dark out. I'll have Hodges bring the car."
"Darkness doesn't make one helpless, Tom."
"I know that."
"No, I don't think you do."
Her mind raged as she stormed back down the hall. Why can't he bloody see? For the first time since that fucking disease robbed their son of his sight, Bobby was truly laughing. Not once this evening did he get frustrated. Not once did he cry when he made a mistake. No one treated him as if he were a cripple. By the time she reached the kitchen, mad tears were pricking their way to the surface.
Mary reached for her hand as she came in. "Sybil..."
But her sister merely shook her head. "I apologize about the kitchen, Mrs. Patmore..."
The cook's plump face curled with a resigned smile. "It was good to see him enjoying himself, m'lady. Although next year," she snorted on a chuckle, "we'll move the biscuit factory to your kitchen."
Sybil insisted on tidying up as much as she could, but once the dressing gong sounded, Mrs. Patmore shooed her off with a tin of biscuits. Saoirse was as much a mess as her mother, and Sybil sagged at the thought of trying to weed all of the sticky from her daughter's delicate curls. The little girl was quite the little princess when it came to someone brushing her hair.
Lurking in the hall, the Dowager wisely refrained from sniping her disapproval. Rather, she simply sighed at the pasty footprints on the rug and said, "I've something that might interest you."
"Granny, it's late and I've dinner to prepare and…"
"Indulge an old woman on Christmas Eve."
With the gong having been sounded, no one was left in the library but Isobel. "I dare say Mrs. Patmore might benefit from your smelling salts," the Dowager told her, settling in by the hearth.
Once the door had closed, she directed her granddaughter towards one of the older family photograph albums. As a child, Sybil had often flipped through the collection of cabinet cards and the book was just heavy as she remembered. Saoirse twirled behind her mother, the ends of her dress flouncing in rhythm with her matted curls. She stopped in front of her Granny Violet with an embellished curtsy before flopping down with her dolly at Sybil's feet.
"I believe Robert must have been fourteen or so," Violet said, pointing to one photograph. "He was enrolled at Eton then and Rosamund was about twelve." In front of them, in a little chair and sailor's outfit, their tow-headed and smiling younger brother. "Edward would have been six."
Sybil had seen the photograph of her long-departed uncle before, but not the one Granny pulled from behind it. In it, the same little boy appeared a few years older and sat in a caned wheelchair, covered in a blanket and wearing a pair of opaque glasses. He was surrounded by an unfamiliar set of adults – staff perhaps? – and someone that appeared to be wearing a nurse's uniform.
"They said it was Scarlet Fever," her grandmother said, "but I'm not sure they really knew back then. It left my poor Edward blind, deaf, and epileptic."
When Ms. Keller's book mysteriously arrived in the post, Sybil hadn't known what to make of it or the sentiment inscribed inside. "You sent the book."
The older woman's face softened with a distant smile. "I wish I'd had such hope with my own son."
"Papa told us Uncle Edward died young, but he never said how."
"It was a painful time and none of us wanted to re-live it," she admitted. "Robert and Rosamund thought of him as a sort of pet, and Rosamond took it particularly hard." Violet's wrinkled fingers skimmed over the image. "Your grandfather set up a house for him at Downton Place with people who could care for him. I'm not sure if he was embarrassed by Edward's condition or if he simply couldn't bear the pain of seeing his child like that," she said. "For two years, poor Edward knew nothing but a dark and silent horror until one day the seizures became too much for him. He was the reason your grandfather left an endowment to the hospital."
Sybil's mind went back to those weeks sitting at Bobby's bedside, how she'd struggled against the vile thoughts of losing her child. "Oh Granny, I can't imagine."
"But you do," she replied. "To some degree at least. My dear, a child's illness can be very difficult on a marriage." She slipped the forgotten photograph behind the others, snapped the album closed, and then drifted into a rare momentary silence. "Bobby is fortunate, not only to have survived his illness with his mind and other faculties intact, but he has the two of you." She smiled then, took her granddaughter's hand. "Oddities and all, it's important for you to be who you are. Both of you. That will help him to conquer this. And he'll be a better man for it."
Tom surrendered to Bobby's protests about being carried and had put him down in the main hall. The little boy followed his father's footsteps, collected his cap and coat from Thomas and caned his way toward the motor. Much to Carson's chagrin, Tom had left it out front, but the old chauffeur wasn't about to let the new chauffeur behind the wheel of his car.
When their feet hit the gravel, Bobby asked, "Can I drive?" He'd always enjoyed time alone in the car with his Da, who'd hold his hands on the wheel and declare Just us Branson boys!
"No," came Tom's hesitant reply as he guided his son onto the seat.
"But you always let me drive when Mama's not with us!" Once his father climbed in, Bobby scooted close. "Why Da?"
Because it's dark almost escaped his tongue until he caught his son's expression – sightless, yet somehow brimming with hope. But what is darkness to a blind child? "Alright then," he gave in, pulling the boy into his lap. "You're the chauffeur tonight. You know what to do."
Bobby wriggled on his father's thighs and with his help, found for the starter switch and grasped the wheel. "Let's go, Da!"
Tom enveloped the little hands beneath his, sheltering them against the cold air shooting in around the poorly sealed windows. The drive home was a short distance, but Bobby was enjoying himself so that Tom detoured through the village and out to the far edge of the estate. Tom kissed his chafed cheek when they hit a straight patch of road by the Todhill farm. I wonder…
"Think you can manage on your own?"
And then he gradually lifted his hands just inches away, eyes flitting between his son and the open road. It had been two months since his child was plunged into permanent darkness, and more than that since Tom had heard such wondrous music as his son's delighted squeals and pleas for him to Go faster Da - faster! Fields zipped by, dimly lit by a sliver of moon, and no one who heard their laughter peeling into the night sky would have guessed a blind boy was behind the wheel.
Yet again, Tom had failed to see Sybil's truth that their son's future must be built on a foundation of unfettered equality. She'd given Bobby the freedom to fall, to find his footing and, by forcing himself back up, discover on his own those building blocks of fortitude and confidence he needed to survive in a sighted world. Like any child, really, Tom realized, as they reached a curve and once more he guided the wheel for his son.
The windows were already glowing with candles when they returned to the cottage. Sybil met them at the door, relief washing through her. "We're fine," Tom whispered when he bent to kiss her. "I'm fine. I promise."
"Da let me drive! He said I drive better than you, Mama."
Tom gave her a cheeky grin, not unlike the one their son was wearing. "Shall I help with dinner?"
"Not unless you think I'll drive the haddock into a wall." She tried fluffing out some of the flour in Bobby's hair. "Why don't you take care of this little mess while I finish?"
Though he needed his father's help getting in and out of the tub, Bobby largely took care of himself that evening – something the child hadn't even done before he'd gone blind. Tom sat back, hands at the ready as Bobby washed away the flour and batter and eggs and what Tom suspected may have been glops of frosting in his ears. He was just as independent returning to his room, whispering the step count and gliding his hand along the wainscoting.
Tom leaned on the doorframe, a smile teasing the corner of his mouth as the little boy navigated to his chest of drawers, fished out a pair of pajamas, and skimmed his fingers over the material to ensure he'd found the correct set. When he started to put his shirt on backwards, Tom stepped forward to help, but Bobby swatted him away. "I can do it, Da!" And sure enough, though it took him a few minutes, he did.
After his own bath, Tom wandered back down to the kitchen and into the billowing aroma of creamed haddock and roasting potatoes. That was another tradition they'd revived for their children – an Irish meal for an Irish family on Christmas Eve. Standing at his mother's side, Bobby nearly bounced in place at the mouth-watering smell. Tom nudged Sybil away from the stove, suggesting she and Saorise needn't be the only messes left in the house, and minded the simmering meal while his girls cleaned up. Barnaby the Cat slinked in, mewing circles around Tom's ankles and buttering him up for a sample of fish. Tom succumbed to the Christmas spirit - all creatures great and small, I suppose - and offered the animal a small serving of haddock.
Dinner in their pajamas was a rare treat for the Branson children, even more so for their parents. And judging by her family's hums and demands for seconds, Sybil assumed the meal had been a rousing success. The pudding – something she had always loved as a child but didn't master until the third year of her marriage – was the toast of the evening. She'd even added a little flair with sprigs of holly and berries. It almost looks like the picture in your book! Tom declared as he flamed the brandy. Both children gasped and clapped when it lit with a little foop!
Dishes were washed and put away, a family effort that evening with even Saoirse given the chore of drying the cutlery. Mostly she just gave them a few thwacks on the table and offered Barnaby a generous sniff when he sauntered by. With the kitchen dark and the embers of the fire breathing their last, Bobby helped his Da set out the biscuits and Irish whisky for Father Christmas.
"Ready for bed?" Tom asked, hoisting him up for a kiss.
"Can you read me the story?"
They'd been working through A Christmas Carol, but since Bobby still tired easily, they'd only made it through the first spirit. "Just a little bit," he said and settled with his son on the sofa. "We wouldn't want Father Christmas to change his plans because you're still awake!"
Sybil eased Saoirse into his lap. "This one's fighting sleep. She could use a good story, as could I."
With a child tucked in each arm, Tom couldn't turn the pages, so he instructed Bobby when to do so. Tonight they read about the second spirit and his gargantuan frame wandering unnoticed through London's streets and spying on Scrooge's acquaintances.
Sybil curled up next to her husband and children, legs tucked beneath her, and chuckled at the animated timbre of Tom's voice. She thought on her family back at the Abbey, who by now were seated around the bountiful table engaged in stilted conversation about nothing of consequence. She tried to picture herself there, or at least her younger self, before Tom, before her children, and somehow the image refused to come. Her mind was here, feverishly etching the memories of the warm tenor of her husband's lilting story and their children's banter. She'd never basked in such happiness as this.
Bob Cratchit had made it home with Tiny Tim on his shoulders, and Bobby giggled when his father's tone sparkled with glee when all the little Cratchits were everywhere at once! Tom was so engaged in the story, he'd not thought of what came next until his eyes flitted across the middle of the page. His voice trailed off.
"Do I turn it now, Da?"
A burn edged its way into Tom's throat. Sybil's fingers brushed his scalp. "Go on," she whispered.
"Just needed to catch my breath," he said, kissing one child's brow and then the other. "Now, where were we? Right – Mrs. Cratchit was just asking her husband how Tiny Tim had behaved at church."
"As good as gold," said Bob, "and better. Somehow he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant for them to remember upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk and blind men see."
Tom's voice trembled along with Bob Cratchit's, but Bobby didn't utter a word. He lay his head on his father's shoulder and listened on as the goose was unveiled and the little Cratchits hoorayed their mother's pudding. Sometime later, when Scrooge was spying on his nephew Fred, Tom glanced down and found both children fast asleep.
With Kitty back in Dublin until after the first of the year, Saoirse once again took up residence in her parents' room. She wasn't as sound a sleeper as her brother, but this evening she'd wilted under the day's excitement and didn't make a peep when Tom tucked her in. He and Sybil dimmed the lights, shuffled quietly in preparation of a temporary respite. After all, Father Christmas would visit before the night was through.
Sitting at her vanity, Sybil combed out the damp snarls from her earlier bath, rubbed cream on her hands in a nightly ritual brought from her previous life. Tom snuggled under the covers and waited, crossed his arms behind him.
"Don't you go to sleep on me," she whispered when his eyes drifted shut.
"I was just trying to imagine what his world is like."
He heard her sigh. "Tom..."
"I could hear everything," he cut in, a bit of awe in his voice. "You brushing your hair. That bloody cat scratching my chair downstairs..." A loose board creaked beneath her bare feet as they padded across the floor; the bed squeaked as she settled into his arms. For a while they simply fought fatigue, stifled yawns, and stared at the lamp's creamy hue on the ceiling until she suggested they shove the alarm clock under a pillow.
"No, I've a better idea." He reached into his nightstand drawer and brandished her copy of Out of the Dark.
"I was wondering where that went."
"I've been reading it." He flipped through a few pages. "She's a socialist."
She smiled. "I know."
Tom pressed a kiss against her brow before quietly reading: "Any mother may have the anguish of seeing her child's beautiful eyes closed to the light forever. Let us imagine what happens when a child loses his sight. He is suddenly shut out from all familiar things, from his games, his studies and the society of other children. The toys that charmed him with bright colors fall meaningless from his little hands. The picture of a tree or a bird that he drew in the flush of delight in a newly acquired art is blank to him. Small, tottering, bewildered, he must begin life again."
Flipping the page, she continued, "A new sense must be developed that shall bring back the stimuli and set aglow again the joy of his heart. Encourage him to examine the properties of everything that he can safely touch. The wider the range of his explorations the stouter and braver the young navigator will grow. He can go sailing on the wide, wide ocean if he piles up chairs for a ship and hoists a cloth for a sail. Child and mother can turn the commonest things, indoors and out, into the materials of play."
Tom read on: "Do not let your blind child lie on the bed in the daytime or rest in the corner 'out of harm's way.' Pull the mattress into the middle of the room, and teach him to turn somersaults on it. Encourage him to run, skip, jump, fly in the swing, and give his playmates a push when they take their turn at swinging. Children are sympathetic and quick to learn. They will lead their blind comrades into their games. When the blind child wrestles and plays rough-and-tumble with the other children the unwise mother will run to rescue the afflicted contestant; the wise mother will applaud the struggle so long as it is sportsmanlike and good-natured."
Setting the book aside, his chest sank with a heavy sigh. "I shouldn't have taken him away tonight. I'm sorry."
Her husband was a man who sought to retouch the imperfections of his own childhood: the hunger and fear that consumed his cot in a dank corner of a stone cottage in a mistreated land. She propped on her elbow, leaned down for a quick kiss. "Tom, we'll never move forward if we keep looking back. We mustn't stand in Bobby's way by constantly reminding ourselves what he can't do."
"I know." His face softened with that lop-sided grin. "He drove a car and dressed himself this evening. I'll wager not many five-year-olds can claim that."
Their laughter fused into another kiss, a little stronger this time, urgency seeping in. By the end of it, when their breath needed pause, she dropped her forehead to his, brushed her thumbs over the stubble on his cheeks. He felt the tension in her brow, recognized the gentle hitch in her chest as she tried to speak once and then again. His hands went to her back, caressed her skin through the gossamer of her gown.
"Tell me."
"I think we should send him to York. At least until the end of summer. He'd be caught up with his studies by then and ready to learn with the other children." She explained Mr. Woolstone's offer to come tutor Bobby at the beginning of next term and waited.
She'd been so adamant against sending him away, that it was a moment before he could ask "Are you sure that's what you want to do?"
"No." She drifted back onto his chest before he could see the damned tears that bullied her courage. "But I think its right.
His arms went around her, his mouth pressed into her hair. "I think you're very brave."
She didn't want to let her son go, but she also realized that their time together these past few months was only a bridge. To him, she was Mama, but also as he recently reminded her, a nurse. Just last week he'd asked When are you going back to work? Perhaps in his simple way, he'd told her he was ready, that the new normal required a return to normalcy. Bravery. She wondered how quickly it would fizzle when the time came to drop her child at Wilberforce's door. But she'd not think on it anymore tonight - after the New Year, she told herself - and instead she changed the subject.
They snuggled beneath the covers and whispered about mundane topics: the leaky faucet in the kitchen, new curtains for the parlor, a recent batch of sheep arrived from Glasgow, his latest article in the Land Agent's Journal.
She pulled back, excitement leaching in. "I completely forgot to ask how your speech went at the show."
"I didn't get to make it," he replied with a rueful smile. "It was supposed to be that afternoon. I'd forgotten all about it until now."
"Oh Tom," she sighed. "This was a real chance for you."
"For us. And there will be other speeches," he whispered, brushing a finger along her nose. "Besides, I think you've helped me find a bit of my fighting spirit again. Both of you."
He told her of his plans for the council election, Sybil interjecting occasional political wisdom about which parishes he should visit, which ones were most likely to support his views (admittedly, there weren't many). They rambled on as they hadn't in months until the church bell chimed out the midnight hour. Father Christmas is waiting, she reminded him, pushing out of bed.
As Tom arranged the packages under the tree, Sybil stuffed stockings with sweets. Once Father Christmas had scattered his loot, Tom sank into his chair, threadbare on one corner courtesy of Barnaby the cat, and pulled Sybil into his lap. They had to leave evidence after all, and so in the dim light of the room they shared the biscuits and Irish whisky in relative silence.
They were enjoying the last spice biscuit when the patter of little feet echoed from the stairs. Both sat wide-eyed and still as Bobby guided himself into the parlor. The little boy's hands skirted over chairs and along tables until his fingers brushed the green tendrils of the Christmas tree. Kneeling on all fours, he reached for packages, squeezing each with inquisitive fingers. Tom stifled a laugh into Sybil's hair when he heard his son mutter "clothes." But Bobby squished the present a little too hard, and his finger jabbed through the paper. Without missing a beat, he flipped it over and shoved it far under the tree.
Tom smiled. That cheeky little bugger...
His clandestine inspection complete, the little boy pushed up and oriented himself in the room. Just as he started out, his foot caught the corner of a stool and he tripped, plunging forward into the carpet. Sybil felt Tom stiffen around her and put a hand to his chest.
Bobby drew back a fist and slammed it to the floor. "Shit!"
Sybil felt rather guilty about spying on their unsuspecting child, but not Tom, whose mouth curled into a proud grin at the reignited spark in his boy. Bobby pushed upright again, found the chair and then the table, before making his way into the hall and up the stairs. Sybil turned scathing eyes on her husband.
"I'm not the only one who uses that word," Tom reminded her.
Sybil's hands flew to her mouth. He shushed her, but couldn't contain his own laugher until pulling her into a kiss. "Maybe we need to start saying it in Irish," she giggled.
"Maybe. But I think for the first time I realized he's going to be just fine. He is a Branson after all."
Tom woke her sometime before dawn, his roving fingers sending a frisson down her hip before burrowing between her thighs. Rain veiled the cottage in a rhythmic drumming and the wind threw it against the window like bursts of hail. Tom's mouth drifted behind her ear, landed soft as a butterfly's feet. God, it's been ages since we've done this.
Over the past few months they'd not denied themselves the sex – it was the one constant left in their lives – but comfort was no substitute for the contentment unfettered passion could bring. As Tom rolled above her, Sybil finally felt the moorings within her grasp, sealed as each kiss landed lower. A languid hiss escaped when his mouth found her core and her limbs flooded with dreamlike warmth. She'd grown to revel in it, the way he'd bring her to a crest, ready to plummet over the edge before joining them in one swift and easy motion. They were louder than they intended, their fogged brains forgetting the little girl across the room and the boy down the hall, and when they let go, their poorly muted passion came in waves like the rain thrumming on the rooftop.
After, they lay in a loose knot of limbs, Sybil half sprawled against him. "I've missed you," she whispered. "I've missed us."
"I'm sorry I've been so distant."
"We both have."
She determined she was quite content to drowse away their remaining solitude listening to the cadence of his heart. Everything was far from perfect, but like a ship emerging from a raging tempest, life seemed to be settling back on an even keel. By this evening, the first Christmas would be behind them. By next year, the first birthday: each milestone pushing the anguish into the past. When she'd drawn enough strength to move gain, she clambered onto his chest, wormed her arms beneath his shoulders. They whispered and cuddled, skin sizzling with renewed anticipation, lips lingering with a chaste reverence on cheeks, brows, noses.
"Can we open presents now?"
Bobby's chirp shattered their reverie and Tom snatched the covers up to their necks. His eyes swept over the clock. Half past five – Bleedin' Jesus!
"Not just yet," Tom gasped. "Your sister's not awake yet. Let's give her a bit longer."
Bobby groaned and turned back for the hall.
Tom tweaked Sybil's hip as she burst into laughter. His shushing did little good, though, until he silenced her mouth with his own. They were soon nipping and tickling and...snapping their heads up when their daughter's wail boiled up from the other side of the room. Bobby's feet thumped toward their bed, a hasty and confident little pattern long absent in the house.
"She's awake!"
Sybil rolled off with a groan and Tom propped up on his elbow. "Did you pinch your sister?"
"No."
"Bobby..."
"I didn't!"
Sybil propped up beside her husband. "Did you wake her up?"
Silence shrouded the little boy in a cloud of guilt. He dug a toe behind him. "Maybe," came his meek reply. "But she's wet anyway."
Sybil hurried into her dressing gown, glanced back at Tom. "Are you coming?"
"Not anymore." From beneath the pillow that had landed on his face, Tom heard them trundling towards Saoirse's cot, followed by his son's obvious disgust: Mama, why can't she go in the toilet like everyone else?
Much to Bobby's chagrin, Father Christmas' trove would have to wait a little longer. Breakfast came first, followed by mass in Ripon, where Sybil sat in the back of the church, watching Tom lead their children to the altar for communion. Her two men had become such a perfected duo over the years that Bobby needed little instruction. He remembered the points of the liturgy that meant for him to receive the wafer and again when he was to cross himself. Why haven't we brought him sooner? she wondered. The priest smiled, bent to kiss the boy's head and made the sign of the cross on his brow. With cane in one hand and the other counting the pews, Bobby led himself back down the aisle. He met his mother with a smile. "Is it time for presents now?"
Indeed it was, and once the gifts had been distributed and their contents revealed and deemed satisfactory, Sybil leaned back in Tom's arms by the fire. The obligatory afternoon at Downton loomed, but for the moment they were perfectly content to watch their children babble and play amongst themselves.
They'd agreed early on in their marriage not to exchange gifts. The first year, it had been a necessity, but even now with their small but respectable income, they'd rather focus attention elsewhere. Besides, they exchanged in other ways.
Tom's mouth dropped to the crook of her neck. "So-" He brushed another kiss beneath her ear. "- I was rather generous with your gift this morning." It was a good thing she was on the floor. Her bones melted when he moved to the other ear. "When do I get mine?"
"This afternoon." She pulled his arms around her and chuckled. "At my parents' house."
His lips smacked away from her neck. "What?"
"When I saw it, I couldn't resist."
"Sybil, we promised…"
But his protests stalled as she brushed her mouth on his, and he couldn't help but notice there was nothing naughty about it.
Over the previous five years, grandchildren had gradually reordered Lord Grantham's elegant – but in his mind, simple – holiday traditions. When Bobby was just a tot it meant little more than having a babbling baby coo and stare wide-eyed at the tree, with a few trivial toys to keep him content before resuming a nap. But then came David, and eventually Teddy and Saoirse joined the menagerie.
Yes, grandchildren changed a great number of things. The tree hunt had become a growing source of contention and the decorations were a bit gaudier. And Christmas Eve, with its stylish dinner and The Game, was no longer the anticipated event it once had been. Now everyone tittered about Christmas Day and its informal lunch, which was typically spent herding children back into their seats – the mound of stylishly wrapped presents was far too tantalizing for them to be bothered with food.
Ah well, Lord Grantham happily mused as the family rambled into the library afterward the meal. He sank on the sofa next to Cora, reached for her hand, a more frequent habit these days when their grandchildren were near. Both laughed as their progeny bounced impatiently by the tree.
Sybil's insistence that the youngest abled family members distribute the presents – to remind them it was better to give than to receive – had become one of Downton's newest Christmas traditions. She settled by the tree, instructing Bobby to retrieve the items for her to read the card, and then David was drafted for deliveries. But Teddy, who at two-and-a-half had enough of an understanding of playthings hidden beneath the wrappings, insisted on expediting the process. He darted back and forth, with nothing breakable of course, nearly putting himself out of breath before they'd finished.
Still though they had to wait on the oldest family member to unwrap the first gift, another of Sybil's suggestions, which meant the Dowager Countess became the reluctant center of attention. Honestly Sybil, she'd sighed as her great-grandchildren brimmed with excitement by their unopened presents, it's like waiting for the hounds to be released. Once she'd unwrapped the Conway Stewart pen set from the Bransons – Tom selected it, Sybil was sure to tell her – and declared it acceptable, the room exploded with brightly colored ribbons and paper.
Lord Grantham's beloved Labrador Basil, now bigger, bolder, and even more prone to mayhem, trolled among the adults. The animal used to torment everyone at ankle level only, but he'd recently acquired the indecent habit of crotch-sniffing. Tom checked to ensure Lord Grantham's attention was turned elsewhere and then thwacked the animal on the snout with his teaspoon. Basil retreated towards the children, nosed his way into the wadded paper and snatched up Saoirse's Raggedy Ann doll, a gift from her great-grandmother Martha. The little girl didn't even have the chance to squeal before Cora was swatting him out of the room.
For Bobby, Martha had sent an embossed copy of John Gay's Stories and Fables for Children with a note: "I expect to you write and tell me what's in it."
Bobby flipped it open, turned round to his father who was seated on the sofa behind him. "Can you read it to me Da?"
Sybil sank next to them, found a simple chapter title and brushed his fingers over the smattering of dots. "You've been learning your letters, do you remember how?"
He gave a little nod. "M-a-n!" he spelled, grinning from ear-to-ear, and easily mastered cat and dog. His struggle with fly didn't deter his curiosity and he soon scrambled into his father's lap, spending the next few minutes identifying letters. Fortunately for Tom, the dots were translated with print beneath, so he was able to help.
But further reading would have to wait because there was one more box at their feet, which David had been eyeballing like a savory dessert. When he moved to pull the ribbon, Mary scolded, "That belongs to Bobby, darling."
Sybil set the book of fables aside and directed her son to the unopened present. "This is from your father."
Tom was just as curious as everyone else as Bobby unfurled the ribbon. I don't remember wrapping that one.
The little boy squeaked with a great yawn, which his grandmother noticed. "Someone's sleepy," she said.
"Someone was up before the crack of dawn," Tom replied, reaching for his tea.
"Bobby, dear, were you too excited to sleep?"
"No," he yawned again, pushing at the paper. "Mama and Da were making too much noise."
Tom's teacup rattled onto the carpet. His cheeks flamed to match the red velvet beneath his backside.
Robert's brow furrowed. "Noise? What poss..." Beside him, Matthew snorted and even the Dowager swallowed an undignified laugh. Oh, for God's sake. He huffed across the room for another cup of tea.
Bobby's hand ran over the box. "What is it Mama?"
Tom's eyes went wide. He'd forgotten about the electric train he'd stupidly returned to the store. Sybil palmed his face. "Happy Christmas to you both," she whispered. When tears threatened, she shook her head and leaned in for a kiss. "None of that today."
"Mama, what is it?" Bobby repeated.
Tom pulled her to him, indifferent to the awkward coughs and oh my's muttered around them. Sybil laughed and pulled back with a little smack when Bobby's growing impatience demanded attention.
"Da – ech! Are you kissing Mama? What about my present?"
"Let's open it and find out, shall we?" Reaching over his son's shoulders, Tom guided little fingers to the box top.
Once Bobby's hand found the locomotive, he gasped. "A new train!"
Tom directed his hands to the control box. "Not just any train..."
He gasped again, scrambled for more pieces. "Is it the electric one?"
"That's what you wanted, wasn't it?"
Bobby made quick work of digging out all the parts, inspecting them one by one. He hoisted one of the cars. "What color is it Da?"
"It's red – red like Grandpapa's cheeks when he loses an argument with your Da!"
Lord Grantham's face soured but soon brightened at the sound of his grandson's giggles. Bobby's fingers skimmed along the sides of the car, telling everyone it was the passenger carriage, and counted ten windows. He lifted another, took a moment to study its parts, and declared it the observation car.
"That one's blue," Tom said.
"Like Mama's eyes?"
"Yes, but not nearly as beautiful."
With the last gift finally opened, the other children went about inspecting the day's loot. David and Teddy had already begun squabbling over which stocking of sweets was whose, and Saoirse had tottered over to her Aunt Isobel for help in dressing her dolly. The adults broke for a second helping of tea and biscuits, which even the Dowager noted were of a particularly superb quality.
Bobby slowly lay out rail track in a circle and needed a bit of help to fit each piece together. The carriages he linked himself, although it took him some time, and he placed them along the track, rolling them back and forth to ensure they were set. He grasped the control box, chirped an All Aboard! and called for his Uncle Matthew to plug it in. When Bobby flipped the switch, the train whirred to life, gained speed and was soon clacking around him. Tom's hand found Sybil's and together they watched their son – the little conductor – erupt with laughter as his head twisted to follow the noise.
"Look Da!"
Tom bent down, pressed a kiss to Bobby's head, and whispered, "I see."
A/N: John Gay's Stories and Fables for Children (1866) was the first embossed book published by the American Printing House for the Blind (chartered in Kentucky). In 1925, Hornby's first electric train operated at 110 volts (yikes!), but for the purposes of this story, I'm going to assume Bobby safely managed his set! Also, even though it's obvious, I should note that the long passages Tom and Sybil read are from Keller's book, Out of the Dark.
The muse requires rejuvenation after all this angst, so the next few chapters will feature much lighter fare, starting with the Bransons' tenth anniversary and a little "unfinished business."