A/N: As I neared the end of "Out of the Dark," I was in desperate need of bunnies and rainbows, so this chapter may qualify as overkill. While it jumps ahead several years from any of the previous chapters, it doesn't give away too much for the interim period. A few "little" characters are introduced and, by this time, Bobby's condition is simply part of the family landscape.
Many thanks to all who keep reading and the feedback has been most appreciated. Fair warning, it's really long (did it again), nothin' but fluff, and completely unbeta'd. Hope you enjoy – I had a lot of fun writing it.
SKIPPER'S BRIDGE
Downton, Thursday June 6, 1929
"Bleedin' Jesus, love!" Tom came into the parlor at Downton Cottage and dropped Sybil's luggage at his feet. The bags thudded on the rug. "I remember when we used to share a suitcase!"
His wife was too busy herding their brood to offer much sympathy. "If I knew where we were going, I could pack accordingly."
"I told you – we have unfinished business to attend." He dodged five-year-old Saoirse, who swirled a lap around his legs before darting out the front door.
"That's what, not where, darling...," she muttered, and then flapped hand at the wide-open door. "Saoirse – come back here this instant!"
"You're an intelligent woman," Tom quipped, off to fetch his own bag. "I trust you to figure it out."
A political answer if there ever was one. Saoirse burst back in, her pale green frock smudged with...well, Sybil wouldn't even hazard a guess. "What happened to your dress?" When the little girl responded with an indifferent shrug, Sybil scowled. "Young lady, you are not going to Grandmama's and Grandpapa's looking like you just crawled out of the flower bed."
"But Mama..."
"No buts. Go put on the pink one...now. Uncle Matthew and Auntie Mary will be here any minute to..."
Just as Saoirse huffed off to her room, a wail curled up from the corner of the parlor. Fat tears streamed down the cheeks of two-year-old Róisín, who huddled miserably with her doll. Her parents had been bustling about all morning and had just last night relayed the incomprehensible news (in suspiciously cheery voices) that they were going away for their anniversary weekend. Hiccupping with sobs, she stretched a pair of chubby arms to her mother.
"There, there, darling," Sybil cooed.
But the little girl rebuffed her mother's empathy and greeted her father's return with another ear-splitting squeal. That got the attention of nine-month-old Brendan, who up till then had been a happy observer to the morning's fray. The stocky boy crawled out of sight behind the toy box.
Tom plucked the girl from Sybil's arms. "My wild Irish Rosie! None of that today, darlin'! Why, how are we going to bring you a present if we never leave?" He lifted her up and down for a smattering of his famous Sloppy Da kisses until giggles betrayed her distress.
"What about me, Da?" Saoirse thumped barefoot down the stairs, waving her clean dress in the air.
"I suspect there's something for each of you but only if I get reports of your best behavior!"
Sybil didn't condone bribing their children, but her husband was of a maddeningly different opinion and she shot him a nasty look.
Winking at Saoirse, Tom handed Rosie back to Sybil. "I think the best present for you, little Miss Branson, is a fine pair of shoes."
"But, Da! I have shoes!"
"Then why can I see your toes? Maybe I'll just have them as a snack." He flipped her end over end, growling at her feet.
"Da! Put me down!"
"Don't blame me if you get porridge all over your suit," Sybil said when a knock resonated through the parlor.
"Auntie Mary's here!" Saoirse crowed. She scrambled down from her Da's embrace and skipped over to answer the door.
Matthew and Mary eased into the Bransons' morning madness. The old chauffeur Hodges lurked behind, waited nervously at the threshold. "Is everyone ready?" Mary asked. Saoirse bounced excitedly at her aunt's feet, her dress flapping wildly in one hand. "Grandpapa would prefer it if you arrived fully clothed, darling."
Sybil passed a thumb-sucking Rosie over to Mary and helped Saoirse slide into her dress. Beside them, Matthew counted heads. "We're missing two."
"Bobby's probably listening to the wireless," Sybil said, scurrying towards her husband's office. They generally limited him to the afternoon children's hour, with allowances to sit for news broadcasts, but he was known to sneak away and plug in the headphones when his younger siblings crowded his nerves.
Matthew spied a pair of blue orbs peeking over the toy box. "Ah – hello there!" He bounced Brendan in his arms until the boy giggled and flashed four teeth. Patting the baby's rump, he winced. "Crikey...Tom, I'd rather this not get on my seats."
His brother-in-law was pointing Hodges to the children's luggage and came over for an inspecting sniff. "I'll take care of that," Tom muttered and darted upstairs holding his boy like a ticking bomb.
Sybil passed him going the other direction. Bobby followed, cane in one hand, suitcase in the other. She straightened her son's tie, kissed his cheek and he reddened. "I'm relying on you to make everyone behave."
"I'm not a miracle-maker, Mama."
Bobby may have lost his sight, but not the Branson sass, and Sybil kissed him again just to see him blush. "Be sweet. Now go help Uncle Matthew and Mr. Hodges with the luggage."
"So," Mary said as the chaos entered a momentary lull. "Do you have any more reliable intelligence since the last time we spoke?"
"I was rather hoping Matthew would let the cat out of the bag and you could tell me."
"You know I'd get it out of him if I could, but your darling Tom's been uncharacteristically tight-lipped. I'm sure he's planned a wonderful anniversary for you."
"Do you think you can manage everyone?"
"With a houseful of staff, I certainly hope so."
"Here's the rest of the lot," Tom called with a clean and babbling Brendan in his arms. "Best get him to the car before they change their minds."
"Oh, my darling, I'm going to miss you," Sybil cooed, peppering her baby's fat cheeks with kisses. Brendan spit wet bubbles with his tongue.
Saoirse gave her a parting squeeze and "Bye Mama!" before darting to take her Da's hand.
"You're more than welcome to keep mine when Matthew and I go on holiday for our tenth next year," Mary told her sister. "You'll be stuck with them for more than a few days, though. I'd prefer the French Riviera, but he's already talking about America – visiting with Grandmama at Newport." She gave a little shudder.
"How provincial." Sybil gave Rosie another reassuring kiss, but the little girl had tired from her morning melodrama. Eyes drooping, her head dipped onto Mary's shoulder.
"Promise you'll call and let us know where he's absconded you to."
"Alright," Tom panted from the door. "Bags and babies loaded, except for that one –" He pointed at Rosie. "– and it's almost ten, so we best lock up and head out. We've a few miles to go today."
"Aha!" Sybil grinned as her husband blew by to switch off lights. She gave Mary a wink. "A few miles...I've all but figured it out now!"
Not two miles outside of town, Tom remembered leaving Brendan's soiled nappy on the dresser. "I'm not coming home to that," Sybil groaned and ordered him to turn around. Leaving the car idling in the yard, he darted upstairs and down and out the rear door where he dropped the nappy in a mop bucket. By the time he returned to the car he'd worked up a sweat and flung his jacket into the backseat. And off they went again, his foot rolling on the accelerator a little heavier than he would have normally preferred.
Tom rarely splurged on anything. Those few luxuries he afforded himself were more an indulgence for his children – sweets, books, new bonnets and trains – a habit Sybil often had to nip in the bud. But his other weakness, at least in spirit, was cars and she often teased he had motor oil in his veins. Every year he would say they needed to replace the Model T Touring and every year he'd scratch out estimates and decide it could wait. But when Brendan was born last September, Tom determined a family of six needed something roomier. We look like a can of sardines going to mass, he'd told her. And the new ones are better sealed – we don't want the baby getting cold. He finally had his excuse to write the manufacturer over in Manchester and eventually settled on a Ford A55 Tudor. A hell of a name, he'd quipped, for an Irishman's car.
He'd gone to Liverpool in early January to sell the old Model T to Kieran, who'd smart it up and sell it for a profit, and then traveled by train back to Manchester. He pulled in the yard at Downton Cottage with such a proud smile on his face that Sybil insisted they go for a drive right then. It wasn't the largest of Ford's new models. They'd have to make do with only two doors – the children climb over the seats as they bloody well please anyway, he said – but it was a rich Niagara blue with white-walled tires and chrome so shiny that Saoirse had squealed at her reflection on the headlamps.
The Tudor puttered north onto the old Roman Road, which less than ten years before the Ministry of Transport had re-designated the A1. A road sign whizzed by: Catterick - 17 miles. "I suppose we're not going to London, then," Sybil said.
"Are you disappointed?"
"Of course not! As you said, I'm an intelligent woman. Surely I can unlock this mystery before we arrive!"
Beyond Catterick, they turned west by the old Three Tuns Inn at Scotch Corner, where another blandly named motorway, the A66, pointed straight across the North Riding landscape. To their left, the Yorkshire Dales came into view as the morning sun burned away the fog. Tom shifted gears up one hill, grinning as the engine purred like a sated cat, and briefly considered just getting on to their destination, but he was a knowledge-seeker at heart. So, in preparation for their trip, he'd borrowed Matthew's Blue Guides of England and nicked the leather-bound ordnance map from his father-in-law's library. They'd hardly made it the thirty odd miles to Rokeby when he suggested a short jaunt up to the ruins of old Barnard Castle in the village of the same name.
They wandered amongst the ruins for nearly an hour until their stomachs beckoned lunch. A little pub with a view of the old octagonal Butter Mart provided a reasonable repast and while waiting for the bill, Sybil skimmed the Blue Guides for other attractions.
"I didn't realize the Bowes Museum was here," she said. "Oh, Tom, we have to go! I've heard they have a splendid art collection..."
Tom coughed on his apple crumble. "Art?" He didn't see the point of perusing paintings, posh ones at that, when they could get their fill at her parents' house. "They probably charge a fortune."
"Your book says it's free," she smirked, pointing at the page. "That's six pence cheaper than the gratuity for those bloody rocks."
"Ruins of oppression," he mumbled back and checked his watch. "Alright. We can spare a little time." But he almost changed his mind when they pulled into the car park. "This isn't a museum," he spat. "It's a feckin' French Chateau!"
She tried to unruffle his feathers with "It's not the outside that counts, darling," but his expression as they stood at the massive front door told her he'd be just as satisfied spending an afternoon in the dentist's chair.
He grumbled (behind her back of course) but followed dutifully through the luxuriously decorated corridors as a succession of unmoving and dour faces glared down on them from every wall. His darling Sybil – who so willingly cast off her aristocratic cloak – seemed absolutely fascinated by the collection.
"Everything in here tells a story, Tom," she said, meandering through the china gallery. "Yes, one can make the argument that the money was ill-spent, but at the same time, each item was crafted or painted or sculpted by an individual, many of whom didn't have two bob in their pocket. Rather than think on it as a rich man's hobby, think of it as the preservation of the common man's talent."
Tom slipped his arm around her waist as they headed for one final room – they were running short on time – and pressed a kiss to her temple. "Perhaps the wrong one of us went into politics. I think I'll have you write my next speech."
They saved the museum's most celebrated attraction for last: a life-size mechanical silver swan, crafted in 1773. Even Tom couldn't hide his fascination as the attendant cranked up the clockwork mechanisms. The bird came to life, craning its neck to a staccato of cheery notes, the glass rods beneath its breast moving in simulation of bubbling stream. They both laughed as the majestic bird dipped his head for a fish and swallowed its meal before going still.
"That was quite amazing," he admitted back in the car.
"You see, always try a thing before you dislike it!"
The afternoon sun had already reached its summit and guided them westward through the untamed peaks of the Pennines. Sybil leaned into her husband's side, the car's engine reverberating between the stone walls framing the road. She decided then that she was perfectly satisfied to enjoy the ride, wherever they might go. But I do wonder what's got into him.
They rarely made a fuss of their anniversary. Other than their move into Downton Cottage, a surprise Tom had arranged for their fifth, they struggled to even schedule a quiet meal when that first week of June arrived each year. Besides, she thought as they rattled over the LNER railway tracks at Appleby, it seems silly to celebrate just one day. After all, their marriage had been a collection of milestones: their first meeting, the first time they linked hands on Downton's lawn, his declaration of love at the nursing school in York, each political debate that emboldened their passion, Bring me the matches!, that burning first kiss, and that truncated trip to...
"Tom!" Sybil gasped. "Are we going to Gretna Green?"
"Go on and say it, love," he blushed. "I'm a romantic fool."
She erupted with laughter. "But you're my romantic fool," she said, kissing his reddened cheek. Slipping her arms in his, she snuggled closer and sighed with utter contentment as the road led on, retracing their failed sprint to the altar so many years ago.
It was one hundred and ten miles from Downton to Gretna Green and they'd no reason to hasten their journey. Between their roadside stops and Tom's deliberate pace – he refused to push more than forty-five miles per hour – the trip had taken the better part of the day. Beyond Carlisle, they headed north at Kingstown and the landscape flattened into lush green fields as they motored through the northernmost reaches of Cumbria. Tom was starting to feel the miles in his back not to mention his backside. The bridge arching over the River Sark and the prominent sign Scotland on the far side was a welcome relief.
As they puttered over the river, Sybil pulled another of Matthew's travel books, one Tom had kept tucked away until she'd guessed their destination. This one was on the lowlands of Scotland. "Gretna Green, now little more than a prosaic railway station, is a mile or so beyond Gretna Junction. The old blacksmith's shop and two small inns call for no further comment." She giggled. "That doesn't sound too promising."
"As long as the sheets are clean, I'll not complain."
A few days before, he'd called the Swan Inn to arrange their accommodations and was surprised to discover that the same old couple still owned it. The innkeeper's wife, a short rotund woman who could barely prop her elbows on the counter, greeted them with a flippant "Aren't you too old for a runaway marriage?"
"I like to think I'm not too old for anything," Sybil laughed as Tom signed the registry. "Age is just a number."
"My bones would disagree." Tom stretched his back, groaned in relief when something cracked.
"We're already married," Sybil told the woman, "Tomorrow's our anniversary."
"Returning to the scene of the crime then?"
"In a way," Tom replied, offering no further comment as he took the key and led Sybil to their room.
At dinner that evening, as the little stone fireplace spluttered behind them, Sybil nearly choked on her tea as Tom announced his plans. "Marry you? Tomorrow?"
"And why not?" When she flashed her wedding ring, he pulled it to his lips.
"You've gone utterly mad!"
"I never asked you properly the first time," he reminded her, twiddling her fingers. "Sybil Branson, will you marry me...again?"
Good Lord, would he ever stop surprising her? But when his grin went crooked, melting her heart as it inevitably did, she hoped he never would.
"I can see you're not convinced." He slipped from the chair to the floor. "Perhaps I should get on one…"
"Oh, get up you romantic fool and kiss me."
Tom didn't need to be told twice.
After dinner, Sybil insisted on calling Downton Abbey to inquire about the children. "I'm sure they're having a grand time, love," Tom said, giving her hand a playful tug towards the stairs. "By the way, we're sharing the bed this time."
But when she wavered with a wistful smile, he kissed her brow. "I miss them too. Go on. Make sure the old house is still standing."
In the parlor, Sybil scooted aside as the innkeeper's wife buzzed around with a feather duster. "Auntie Mary bought me a new dress," Saoirse babbled excitedly into the telephone, "Oh, but I'm not supposed to tell you that. And we had a tea party with the nursery animals and we made biscuits with Daisy and Teddy got in trouble for bringing a garden snake into the house and…"
"Slow down, darling, or you'll faint from lack of air," Sybil laughed.
"Where's Da?"
"He's changing for bedtime, which is what you should be doing."
"But I want to hear about your trip!"
"When we get back, I'll tell you about everything," Sybil promised, "including a silver swan that caught a fish!" Saoirse's gasp hissed through the line. "Now, may I speak to your Auntie Mary?"
A moment later, Mary sighed into the receiver. "Oh, I don't know where they get the energy…" She tsked at something sticky on her hand. "Saoirse! Darling, wash your hands! You've got chocolate all over them!"
"Chocolate? This late?"
"Matthew is such a pushover. Now, I'm dying to know where Tom took you..." When Sybil revealed her husband's plans, Mary shrieked, "You're getting married?"
In the background, Sybil heard her oldest daughter crow with delight. Bobby, Bobby! Did you hear? Mama and Da are getting married!
"Sybil, darling, I hate to state the obvious, but you're already married."
"…with four children. Don't I know it? But if you recall, our last trip here was quite rudely interrupted. And Tom always likes to see a thing through, you know."
"Oh, good Lord," Mary sighed. "Honestly, I'll never understand that husband of yours."
"So, how is everyone?" Her children had stayed at Downton before, but not all at once, and never for this long.
"They're all perfectly fine," Mary reassured her. "Saoirse's been shadowing me and Mama all day and Bobby can't wait to go fishing tomorrow. Rosie was a little dramatic at first, but Nanny drafted her into helping pair up the animals for the ark. She's quite keen on a flood coming."
"And Brendan?"
"...has Nanny completely wrapped around his finger. I dare say you might not get him back."
Quiet cloaked the parlor as the innkeeper's wife switched off lights in a succession of rooms. Sybil picked at the table cloth beneath the telephone. This time of evening she and Tom were typically awash in barely controlled chaos: the storm before the calm when everything went silent and they collapsed into bed. "Well, remember, Bobby's allowed half a cup of tea with lemon an hour before bedtime, but Saoirse isn't, no matter how much she begs. And if Rosie doesn't go to sleep straightaway, read her a story in the book I sent. And sometimes Brendan likes to be rocked..."
"Sybil!"
"What?"
"You're not going to call and do this every night are you?" Silence reverberated a resounding yes through the line and Mary knew she'd hit a maternal nerve. "Darling, we're not going to convert them into little Tories by Sunday," she teased. "I need at least a week for that."
"Thank you, Mary."
That wasn't the response she expected. "For telling you to enjoy a holiday with your husband?"
"No, for coming to get me that day."
That left Mary was utterly perplexed. "Well, it certainly didn't stop you from getting married in the end."
"No, but it gave me the courage to face everyone and it meant Tom and I could start our lives honestly – with no doubts hanging over us."
"I admit my intentions were less than honorable. I'd hoped you would change your mind."
"I know you did, but I love you anyway."
Sybil always had a knack for chipping away at her stoicism and Mary had swipe a threatening tear. "Oh, darling, get off the phone and go to bed! No one likes a haggard bride. As Granny would say, it means you've been up to no good."
"I certainly hope so," she giggled, thinking of the sweet revenge they would have on that ill-fated room.
"And with that I'll say goodnight."
Sybil stifled a nagging yawn on the way back to their room, which greeted her with Tom's distinctive snore. Apparently revenge requires rejuvenation, she mused and set about preparing for bed. When she pulled back the covers, Tom shivered in his sleep. Of course it was no wonder since he was wearing nothing but what God gave him. And what a gift it was. She sighed, stripped off her gown and curled into him. Skin warming skin, her arms folded over his middle in a familiar mold. He stirred a bit under her touch and she shushed his mumbles with a kiss. Burrowing deep into his chest, she drifted off to the peaceful cadence of his heart beneath her cheek.
Friday
Wayward seagulls from Solway Firth squawked Sybil awake on the morning of their tenth anniversary. Her eyes flapped open in time to catch the shadow of one coasting by the window. She stirred, grinned as something familiar nudged her backside. Even after ten years of marriage, certain things were hard to ignore. Rolling in her husband's arms she brushed insistent lips across his brow, eyelids, nose and cheeks. Her hand went below his waist, lightly drumming the skin of his erection until Tom groaned out of his slumber.
"Pleasant dreams?"
"Y'knowIcan'thelpit."
"We oughtn't let it go to waste." She scrunched his face in her palms, showering it with playful nips.
One eyeball peeked open but, after catching the light, it squinted shut again. "Whattimeisit?"
"After eight."
Both eyes popped open then, his mind stumbling through the calculation. "I slept almost eleven hours?" He couldn't remember the last time he'd done such a thing, much less been in the bed this late without a child bouncing on the mattress.
"Happy anniversary, darling."
Sybil's whisper threw a lifeline to his fogged brain and everything started drip-drip-dripping into place. Grinning woozily, Tom puckered his lips enough to find hers for a light peck. "Happy anniversary, love." But his wife seemed disinclined to swap sentiments. His skin buzzed awake when she rolled over him, her mouth greedy against his jaw, neck, throat and...it's going to be a lovely day, he chuckled. Her laughter vibrated against the skin below his navel, nuzzling and nipping a pleasant trail and he settled back into the mattress with a contented grin. "Shouldn't...oh love...if we're getting married, shouldn't we wait?" As her mouth closed around him, he wondered how in the bloody hell they ever waited the first time.
Tom had a spring in his step later that morning when they sauntered hand-in-hand to the dining room. The innkeeper's wife was just clearing the tables and Sybil cast an apologetic smile, insisting they could scavenge the village for breakfast.
"'Tis not the first time lovers kept me in the kitchen all day," the old woman sighed, snapping the tablecloth high in the air. It fluttered down on a table near a street-side window and she gestured for them to sit. "You'll need a hearty breakfast, I expect."
"Thank you," came Sybil's nonchalant reply. "We've four children at home. We don't often get time to ourselves." Tom shrunk into his chair, scalp reddening as Sybil sat opposite with trembling lips.
The old woman huffed – clearly she'd not chastened the couple, at least not the wife – and wound through the furniture towards the kitchen.
It was an unhurried and gloriously dull meal – no scolding, no wiping sticky hands and faces or retrieving cutlery from the floor. Tom fought a peculiar urge to drop a fork, just to check that his reflexes still worked. By the end of it, they were laughing at their unpracticed adult conversation. After the innkeeper's wife came round to collect their plates, Sybil's toe wiggled up his trouser leg.
"Turnabout's fair play," she said, and dropped her serviette on his shoulder on her way back to the room.
He'd planned a morning of sightseeing down on Solway Firth, but was easily detoured on a more intimate journey. When they cuddled together after another round – or maybe it was two? – of lovemaking, he declared "By the end of our trip, the squirrels will have nothing on us!"
"Squirrels?" Good Lord, nothing like a morning frolic to make him giddy.
"That's right. Squirrels," he nodded, clambering over her again. "Storing up our nuts for the winter."
Much later, after they'd harvested ample enjoyment, they trundled into the village in search of the famed smithy. They were told the man to see was Richard Rennison, a stocky and well-humored minister with round spectacles and, as they soon found out, the gift for gab. After ushering the couple into his parlor, Rennison blathered on about his arrival in Gretna Green three years before and the hundreds of couples he'd married since.
"Just a bit of paperwork here," he grunted, thudding the thick register book on the desk. "You both need to attest that you're of legal age…"
"We are," said Tom, picking up a pen. "I'm thirty-nine and she's…"
Sybil quickly cut in, "Darling, you just have to write yes or no."
Rennison smiled and gestured to the next signature line. "…and here to attest that you've met the residency requirement."
Tom's head snapped up. "Residency requirement?"
"Yes. Twenty-one days in Scotland." When the groom's face fell, the preacher sighed, "The law's been in place since 1856."
"We just arrived yesterday," Sybil admitted, amused eyes settling on her husband.
"A common mistake," Rennison groaned. "I'm sorry, no exceptions..."
"Mr. Rennison," hastened Tom. "I'm not sure that applies to us. We're already married."
"Ha!" the preacher puffed with laughter. "Young man, eloping is far more complicated than the novels would have you believe. You're not the first lover to arrive with visions of romance only to be foiled by the long arm of government. Believe me, I've heard every excuse under the sun." He slammed the book shut.
Sybil had been shaking with barely suppressed laughter as Tom sputtered in protest, but once he glanced over – clearly crestfallen at a second failed trip to Gretna Green – she wasn't about to let some trifling regulation stand in their way. "Mr. Rennison..." She dug in her bag for a photograph of her children. "We really are married. See?"
Rennison studied first the ring she brandished and then the picture. The oldest boy, possessing a curiously distant gaze, was the spitting image of the groom, and the oldest girl, with defiantly set shoulders, was a respectable likeness of the bride. The younger two were harder to tell – a mixture, perhaps – but only at first glance did they seem the cherubs. Upon further inspection, the girl's hand was reaching toward the baby boy's stuffed bear, the ear of which was shoved in his mouth. Miscreants, those two.
"But why?" he asked, returning the photograph.
"Is it wrong for a couple to re-commit themselves?"
"No," he conceded. He'd seen his share of fated and ill-fated lovers, but never this. He glanced down at the registry: Bride-Sybil Branson. Groom-Tom Branson. Downton, North Riding, Yorkshire.
"My husband thought it would be a lovely way to celebrate our tenth anniversary."
By Jove! declared the salesman in his head and his mind sped away on a business-like tangent. The market had got abominably boring with parliament constantly tweaking the law on a whim. What was it she said? Re-commit? No, no, that'll never do. Renew! That's it! A renewal of vows!
"Mr. Rennison?"
"I'll do it for half price!" Yes, an infallible pitch – a "discount for devoted couples," and no bloody residency requirement to gum up the works.
With the happy couple in tow and the registry wedged under his arm, Rennison lumbered across the street, where a little whitewashed building greeted them with an ill-proportioned sign: This is the Famous Old Blacksmith's Shop and Marriage Room: Gretna Green. Near the gaudily designed gothic window was another advertisement – Post Cards, Relics of the Old Priests and Other Antiquities. A proud grin picked at the minister's lips as he ushered them into his domain. Tom and Sybil shared a smile at the touristy atmosphere inside, with stacks of leaflets and post cards and trinkets emblazoned with the village name.
In a back room, there were just enough items to suggest the building's original intent: a wagon wheel, a pair of hames hanging from the rafters, a few plows, and bellows pointed at a pile of dead coals. And in the center of the room was an anvil with bold white lettering – Gretna Green Old Smithy Marriage Anvil – behind which the minister took his place. He fished out a pocket Bible, cleared his throat to induce a proper amount of decorum, and gestured the Bransons to stand to either side.
"Aren't we supposed to have witnesses?" Sybil asked, pointing to a pair of nearby wooden chairs.
"Oh, I think under the circumstances we can dispense with all that," he said, nudging his glasses up his nose.
As Rennison rattled into an obligatory introduction on the sacrament of marriage, Tom reached for Sybil's hand, slipped off her ring with a wink, and shuffled close. Their first wedding had been sparsely attended affair and his damned nerves had erased all but a few of the images: his mother's swipe at a tear, his smirking brothers on the front row, the wistful smiles of her sisters. But the image of Sybil when she presented herself – in the dress his mother had fashioned from her jupes cullotes and the sprigs of flowers tucked in her hair – was still there, as bright and clear as ever.
This time, his nerves were nowhere to be found and when the minister concluded asking groom's vow, Tom answered firmly, "I have and I will," and he bent to kiss her.
"I'm not through!" Rennison growled.
Tom pulled back, his eyes twinkling with suppressed glee as the minister read for the bride, Sybil cutting him short when he reached the words "Wilt thou obey him..."
"I didn't promise it then," she said, "and I've no intention of doing so now. But otherwise, yes, I promise to be forever true to my husband, love him through sickness and in heath, just as I have done."
Clearly, these two have their own idea of marriage, thought Rennison, so it came as no surprise when Tom requested his own vow in returning Sybil's ring. "Sybil, you once said I was your ticket, but you were mine as well. For the last ten years, you've been my constant friend, my faithful partner..." His mouth trembled. "...the mother of my children and a woman of whom I am tremendously proud. It's been an honor to be your husband." Slipping the ring back to its rightful place, he said, "This is our ticket for another ten years and more."
And when the minister, after nursing a pesky sniffle, announced that he may kiss his wife, Tom replied, "I intend to. Always."
Oh, how he did. It was far different from the one they shared at their wedding, when the sobriety of the small audience and the atmosphere occasioned it with an awe of conquering societal bounds. This time, it was full of devotion and promise, of time-tested companionship, not to mention a mischievous flick of his tongue meant to elicit a little moan. Sybil's brain stumbled through any number of sentiments to express the love she had for this man, but even I love you seemed too trite. So, she did the only reasonable thing that came to mind. She kissed him back.
"Oh, blast," grumbled Rennison as the moment wore on. When Tom and Sybil parted, a little piqued at the interruption, the old minister clarified "I forgot something!" He hoisted the iron hammer waiting by his feet and let it fall to the anvil with a deafening CLANG! "Now, its official!"
Rennison was nearly drunk with excitement thinking on his new marketing scheme – a renewal of vows – and his mind was already sketching advertisements and counting the quid. The Bransons would have been horrified if they'd known Tom's whimsical gift had ignited a capitalistic spark in a man of God, but neither he nor Sybil assumed the man's incessant chuckling was anything more than a natural gaiety. After snapping a picture of them with the brownie camera Sybil retrieved from her bag, Rennison insisted they join him for tea. "Unless you've more important things to do," he needled.
"No, we've time," Sybil laughed. "There's no one on our heels today."
So they sat in an alcove that served as his office and gave in to the man's pleas to relay the tale of their failed elopement ten years before. He guffawed with delight and regaled them with the storied history of the town – of Lord Hardwicke's Act to curtail unconventional marriages that started the rush to Gretna Green, of Lord Brougham's bill to force twenty-one days' residence, of how the smithy's anvil was no longer a means to an end, but a quixotic symbol of forbidden love.
"But love always triumphs in the end," he winked. Checking his watch, he pushed from his chair with a dramatic sigh. "Duty calls. There are other lovers to attend today, and no doubt, they've a story of their own."
Before they left, Tom scoured the treasure rack in the vestibule and selected a trio of post cards, one each for Mary, Edith and Anna. On the front was a sketch of a young couple in a speeding barouche behind which a cane-waving old man gave chase. On the back, Tom scribbled: You didn't stop us today! With love from Gretna Green, The Bransons.
The afternoon was half-gone when Rennison gave them a parting wave from the smithy door. They strolled around the village, marveling at the shop windows stuffed with garish souvenirs. There was really very little to see beyond that and Sybil suggested they return to the inn for a lazy few hours before dinner.
As the door to the room closed behind them, she said, "The minister was wrong about one thing."
"What's that, love?" Tom dropped his coat and cap and squirmed a finger under his tie. He turned round in time to see her dress pool at her feet.
"It's not official...not yet." With that, her chemise unfurled from her body and she stepped into his waiting arms. Her hands released his half-done tie, made quick work of his waistcoat, braces and trousers. His palms splayed on her bare back, ghosted below her waist where he gave her backside a playful squeeze.
He grinned stupidly. "Are you going to make an honest man out of me?"
Her laughter melted into his, their throaty moans drowning out the sounds of the last of his clothes dropping free. "On our wedding night...and all the next day...you taught me about loving." As they plummeted into bed, her voice coiled against his ear. "It's my turn to show you everything I've learned." She rose to straddle his hips.
"Be gentle," he teased. But as his arousal quickly took shape beneath her hands, he hoped to God she wasn't.
Saturday
Saturday broke early through their room's east-facing window and the sunlight crept unbidden over Tom's shoulder. Sleep had come in fits and starts the night before, intermittent respites as their bodies recharged. He gave a heavy sigh, felt the thin sheet slide from his hip as he rolled to burrow into his wife. When his hands came up empty, he dared to peel his eyes open against the day.
Sybil sat perched on the window sill, its open sash welcoming the faded sea breeze wafting northward from Solway Firth. With her knees folded into her chest, she seemed hypnotized by the orange orb creeping over the horizon beyond the River Sark. Through the translucent folds of her dressing gown, sunlight and shadow rippled across her hip and breasts. Her curves were softer now, enriched by motherhood, and more tantalizing than ever.
When he'd first seen her wholly exposed in Dublin's dawn, he'd thought her the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen, and in the early days of their marriage whenever he thought on them, he thought of two young lovers carving out a new life as one. But as the years passed and two became six, the memory of them in that cramped little flat over Mr. Murphy's bookstore represented little more than the thrill of a first shot igniting a hunt. Their love – an alchemy transcending the social divide – had been battle tested through exile, evolving priorities, a new home and careers.
Children.
Tom smiled as he thought on the varied personalities of their brood. Bobby, being an only child for so long, seemed destined for his role as peacemaker. His blindness – rather his lack of physical sight as Sybil always reminded him – had made him wise beyond his years: perceptive, empathetic, gentle and kind like his mother. Saoirse, Tom mused, was much more like himself: impatient, impulsive, and prone to espousing unripened opinions before thinking them through. She was also fiercely loyal and protective, just as she'd proved last week when she slugged a village boy who'd teased Bobby at Downton's annual bazaar.
The youngest two, Rosie and Brendan, were a discordant little pair. Rosie made a pleasantly ordinary arrival in the early summer months of 1927 and Tom thought her the handsomest of their babies yet. She was a delicate little bloom with green eyes and a dusting of amber fuzz on her crown. An easy baby by Branson standards, she cooed and smiled and gnawed her fist and plugged into the family regimen with little fuss. Then, fifteen months later, her little brother usurped her authority as babe of the household.
Early in their marriage, conceiving new life seemed such an easy prospect, with Bobby coming a year in and a subsequent pregnancy a year later. Initially, Tom and Sybil had faced the latter moment like a luckless slap of reality – the fruit of their affections outstripping modern practices of birth control. But Sybil's miscarriage startled them into the belated realization that beneath the perceived inconvenience lay the desire for more children. Bobby was almost four when Saoirse was born and it was three and a half more years before Rosie arrived.
Rosie was nine months old when Sybil announced they were expecting again and Tom panicked that such a quick pregnancy would end as it had before. But Brendan Branson surprised them all. He arrived on a stifling September evening and had the damnable impertinence of greeting the world rear-first, forcing Sybil to deliver the eight-pound boy on all fours. Brendan was a frisky, honey-haired sprout who, much to Rosie's dismay, was an immediate miser at their mother's breast and seemed quite conceited about it. Even now at nine months, he possessed a cannonball of a personality.
Yes, he and Sybil had been blessed with a menagerie. Tucking an arm beneath his head, he was simply content to watch her gaze out over the rooftops, but she heard him stir and turned. His eyes, soft and inviting, beckoned her from the window sill and as her dressing gown slipped from her shoulders, Tom felt a frisson of desire rousing his groin.
She slipped beneath the lifted sheet, sighed as they wound together. "Shall we go down to breakfast?"
"Maybe later," he whispered. "I think I'd much rather spend the morning ravishing my wife."
Her laughter whooshed out as he rolled her over. "Ravished? Is this some tawdry novel to you?" She squeaked when he pinched her nipple.
After ten years, their bodies easily engaged the other's desires, and their hips bolted together like magnets. "What else would you call a lowly Irishman seducing a lady of the manor?" He rocked gently, warming them up for a morning fray and sheathed them together on an upbeat. His mouth dropped his mouth to her breast; her fist twisted in his hair.
Her breath quickened under his laving tongue, but soon curled out in a heavy sigh as he buried deep within her. "My husband, that's what."
"Oh, Tom, darling yesssss..."
Tom gave a haughty smirk, continued his ministrations as she writhed on the bed. Her skin was so supple beneath his fingers he felt as if they were digging straight into her bones. "That's it love, tell me what you want..."
"A little harder," she breathed, whimpering a bit as he complied.
"Do you like that?"
She bit her lip and nodded, hips coming off the mattress. "Down some...just there...oh God, that feels divine."
Tom snickered. "Please don't waste an orgasm on a foot massage." Indeed, he hoped she hadn't already met her quota for the day.
"I just might." His thumbs were rubbing heavenly little circles on her soles. It was one of his many talents, and a timely discovery not two weeks into their marriage when she'd had a particularly grueling shift at work. She'd come home, wincing as her feet bulged against the constricting leather of her shoes. He'd taken her into the bath that night, spent the next half hour working magic on her calves and feet until she was limp as a dishrag. After listening to her sign and moan, he was most definitely not and so, as often happened in those early days, night later fell on their naked bodies, sated and wound together amongst the dampened sheets.
Behind her knee, his dusting fingers ignited a tickle and snatched her back to the present. "Tom, don't you dare!" Her eyes narrowed down to where he sat opposite her on the bed.
"What about me?" He wiggled his toes near her head, but she nudged them away with a wrinkled nose. "I washed them last night – you were there!"
"That reminds me. I should probably go check on the innkeeper. I imagine we gave him a shock."
Tom reddened at the memory of the old man barging in on their joint bath. "You were the last one in the washroom. You should have locked the door!" He ducked under the sheet then, his mouth growling a deliciously moist path up her body until settling on her lips. He gave her two quick smacks and a devilish grin. "So, what shall we do the rest of the day? More of the same?" He feigned an apathetic sigh. "A man needs rest, love, to keep up with you."
"I'm afraid resting isn't in the plans, Mr. Branson," she said. Her arm went wide, found the guide book on the bedside table and thumped his brow. "You bribed our children with presents, remember? And we can't go home empty handed."
Damn.
After determining Gretna Green had little to offer as did Gretna village itself, Tom and Sybil decided on Langholm, some fifteen miles northeast. The trip took them briefly back into England where they turned north at Longtown and passed through the pastoral flanks of the River Esk. The sun was far too inviting to remain confined in the car and so they stepped out, strolling at sights along the way: Kirkandrew's Tower, the Scots' Dike where they could stand with their feet on either side of the border, and the medieval stronghold of Hollows near Canonbie.
As the road snaked further into the Scottish lowlands, it hugged the River Esk, the hills enclosing on either side to form a natural tunnel of grandeur. Just south of Langholm, they puttered over Skipper's Bridge, its single lane taking them to the eastern bank where the abandoned Langholm Distillery stood. From its rutted yard with untamed grass, they had a splendid view of the bridge. It was a sturdy old structure that spanned the river with three segmented arches: two larger on the east and a smaller overflow arch on the west. But the region was suffering under the same pitiful spring rains they'd had in Yorkshire, and the river's shallow rapids were confined to the central archway.
Just a mile to the north, the village of Langholm stretched out along the Esk, where it was enriched by a confluence of the Ewes and Wachopes Waters. Known for its manufacturing of tweed, the village was also home to the Esk and Liddle Fisheries Association and popular among traveling anglers in search of sea trout and salmon. Tom and Sybil wound in and out of shops on High Street, finally deciding on a rag doll for Rosie and a stuffed tiger for Brendan.
With his nose in the guidebook, Tom followed carrying their loot, his various suggestions for Saoirse's gift met with dissenting hums. "I'd rather select something special," she said. Spotting a millinery shop at the end of the street, an idea struck, and she hastened her steps. "I have it!" Inside the store, she perused a selection of embroidered handkerchiefs and selected one with the letter S. "She loves flowers – we can press a thistle for her."
"Thistles aren't flowers, love," Tom told her at the counter. "They're plants. And a damned nuisance to our fields."
Behind the register, the portly clerk sneered. Sybil rummaged through her bag for payment and threw the man an apologetic smile. "They're the symbol of Scotland and Saoirse will appreciate it."
Tom gave an indifferent shrug and returned to his book. "Why that's just robbery!" he declared.
"What?"
"That angling association charges one shilling six pence to fish for a day!"
Sybil slid a few coins across the counter. "I don't mean sound dismissive, darling, but I thought you didn't care for fishing?"
Tom snapped the book shut, gave it an arrogant twirl. "Since when should a man pay a fortune to enjoy sport in public waters?"
The peeved clerk jabbed a finger on the register key. Ding! "Since it's our lads wha' knows where th' fish are!"
Tom furrowed his brows. "But what if a man..."
Sybil shot him a glare.
"...or woman," he quickly amended, "were to find the fish with their own skill and talent?"
"Bah!" puffed the clerk, handing over the package. "Good luck wi' tha', laddie. No self respectin' Scottish fish would show its gills to an Irishman."
"I didn't know fish ascribed to a particular nationality! Besides, if they're in that river outside, they're well on their way to the Irish Sea and glad of it!"
Just as the man's cheeks flushed, Sybil tugged at Tom's hand. "Darling, we still have to find something for Bobby," she reminded him, and turned back to the clerk. "Could you recommend a shop with a decent variety of angling gear?"
Whipping off his apron, the clerk spun on his heel toward a back room, and spat with an indignant brogue. "Perhaps your husband could find it wi' his skill and talent!"
"That was very adult of you," Sybil muttered to Tom after the door slammed.
"He started it!"
Fortunately, they passed a cadre of men on the street, each wearing a canvas vest with dangling hooks and corks. They directed the Bransons to The Fishwife, a stinky corner shop off a back alley overlooking the river. It had every conceivable item an angler might need, not just for the local catch but for saltwater enthusiasts as well. Tom detested fishing – even cricket had more appeal to him – but Bobby had taken a shine to it, much to the delight of Robert and Matthew. Tom perused the shelves and decided on three flys of varying sizes and a little American treble hook called the Osprey Dardevle to help fill out his son's tackle-box.
The sun was growing long by then, and as much as they both wanted to return to the inn, chuck off their clothes and fall into each other's arms, neither could resist the rare opportunity to sightsee. From the road into town, they'd spied a great object on a distant rise, so curiosity turned their explorations east toward Whita Hill. They drove partway up the slope where the roadway roughened into a makeshift car park, and then trudged hand-in-hand to the crest. Atop was a sandstone obelisk, dedicated to General Sir John Malcolm, an early Governor of Bombay and later a Member of Parliament. Tom had read some of his works – Sketches of Persia, A Political History of India, and Sketch of the Sikhs.
"Strange how politics makes for such discordant opinions in one man. Even though India was conquered to benefit the East India Company, he advocated a variant of home rule," Tom explained. "It was a rather forward opinion of the time, and of course no one heeded it."
"Perhaps if they had, The Mutiny would never have happened," Sybil said, as they perched against the stone wall that rode the crest of the hill.
"It would have happened sooner or later. You can't veil the encumbrances of empire beneath the artifice of compassion forever." He glanced up, squinted against the westward sinking sun as its rays broke on either side of the obelisk. Malcolm was a tenant's son, like him, ambition releasing them both from a life of poverty, but from there the men's ideologies diverged. Malcolm's return to England in the 1830s put him in political bed with the anti-reform Duke of Wellington. A century later, Tom stood firm on the other side, chipping away at the inequality from his seat on the county council. It wasn't Parliament, but still, it was the people's work.
Tom felt Sybil shifting away, her arm slipping from his as she knelt in the unkempt grass by a cluster of thistle. Snapping a large bloom for Saoirse's gift, she asked "What do you think of this one?"
Her smile reminded him it wasn't a weekend for politics and so he took a knee beside her. Gently plucking the thorny plant from her fingers, he leaned in for a wink and a kiss. "Thistle do nicely."
Having eaten a hearty breakfast that morning, they'd forgone lunch. But during their descent from Whita Hill, as the sun clung stubbornly above the horizon, Sybil's stomach rumbled its discontent. Tom laughed, reminded her she'd require proper strength for their last night of adult solitude, and once back in town they drove round in search of their evening fare. Sybil suggested they not squander the remaining daylight and so they bagged their supper of fish and chips and returned to Skipper's Bridge where the low water exposed outcroppings destined for a picnic.
As they descended the bank downstream from the bridge, Tom perused the river bottom and scowled. Sybil nearly landed on his feet with the last step and glanced up, his disappointment obvious. She followed his gaze where a man in a dark overcoat and checkered cap had set up an easel and canvas facing towards them, with the bridge and distillery beyond. The artist tipped his cap with a flat smile. Apparently he'd expected solitude as well.
"Shall we sit aside out of view?" Sybil called.
"He can simply not paint us," Tom muttered in her ear.
But the man waved them off, grumbled noisily, "I've not had a decent light all day anyway. Sit wherever you wish."
Tom squinted skyward, unable to remember even a wisp of cloud since noon. No decent light? No matter, he thought, and followed his wife to a large sunlit rock where she flapped out their blanket. It offered poor padding, but after an hour of supping and laughing and – since the artist was keen to ignore them – stealing kisses, they hardly noticed.
Sated from his meal, Tom propped against a boulder, pulling Sybil into his chest. His arms enfolded beneath her breasts and both gazed over the waters wondering aloud about each child's reaction to their gift. "We'll have to bring them here someday," she finally said, turning to lean against his knee.
"I think not." As he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, she cast a puzzled smirk. "There are some places, like some things, that I only want to share with you."
"That's a peculiar response for a man who places such little value on possessions."
"Is it wrong to be selfish with a memory, then?"
"We've only eaten supper, darling." But her teasing faded when his eyes grew dark and his thumb brushed upon the back of her neck.
He pulled her close, this time indifferent to the singular audience downstream, his kiss more insistent than before. She broke away to replenish her breath, the air ragged between them. They returned to contented silence, snug and cool with the breeze floating above the river. The afternoon had not yet surrendered to twilight, but the sunbeams had begun inching a retreat from the valley. Behind them came a growling sigh as the artist packed up his easel and canvas, slung a bag over his shoulder and made toward the little path leading to the road above.
Passing them by, he gestured toward the bridge. "A marvelous old thing, isn't she?"
"Quite so," Tom replied.
"And an inspiring subject I would imagine," Sybil added, nodding towards his canvas. "May I see it?"
"Och," came his gravely response. "I've a good mind to throw it over the bridge on my way home."
"No, don't do that!"
"I'm rooted in the old ways – I can't paint as these modernists do," he sighed. "Nowadays it's all about color over form. But what bloody good is it, I say, if you can't tell what it is?"
Tom was nodding in agreement when Sybil offered, "I'll buy it, sight unseen."
"'Tisn't worth the canvas it's on, miss."
"Then I shall pay for the canvas," she said and nudged Tom to scrounge in his pocket. He scowled.
The artist mulled a long moment, mumbled through a calculation, and finally answered, "Two shillings and five."
"Two shillings five!?" Tom hissed in Sybil's ear. But she'd already swiped the coins from his palm and pushed to her feet. He couldn't decipher their brief exchange, but saw the puckish curl of the man's mustache as she took the painting. Snugging his kit on his shoulder, he gave them a parting farewell and scrambled back up the bank. Sybil was grinning like a cat when she returned.
"I hope our money was well spent."
Handing him the canvas, she softly said, "You tell me."
Tom couldn't deny it was a splendid rendering of the river, with the gray walls of the distillery peeking beneath the central segmented archway of the bridge. He'd expected much worse, given the artist's earlier contempt, but after a moment, the earthly colors, the rapids and stonework lifted from the texture of the paints. He'd never thought of himself as an art connoisseur, certainly not those pompous portraits of peers and foxhunts back at the Bowes Museum, but perhaps he could acquire a taste for landscapes. Then as he perused the painting further, he recognized them, right down to Tom's shirtsleeves and Sybil resting in the crook of his knee, her eyes set upon his in an affectionate gaze.
"Did my instincts prove me right?"
She'd a rather smug expression when he glanced back up. "I should know better than to question them after all these years." He set aside the canvas, deciding then it would find a home above their bed at the cottage, and stood to kiss her. "Now I wonder if you'll trust mine?" he whispered after pulling away. He dropped another kiss to the tip of her nose and set about removing his socks and shoes, which were quickly followed by his waistcoat and tie.
"What are you doing?" she laughed.
"There's still daylight to rob, Mrs. Branson!" He rolled up his trousers, his grin turning devilish as he reached for her hand.
She slipped off her shoes and stockings. "Should I bring the blanket?"
"No." His voice was deep, infused with desire, and his smile receded into to something akin to reverence. "We've no need of that."
Navigating across the submerged rocks, they gasped as the cold water broke in rivulets around their calves. Tom paused beneath the central archway of the bridge, holding him to her to him as they took in the incomparable view upstream – it was no wonder the artist had chosen this spot – with the abandoned distillery on the far eastern bank and the river cascading toward them. The archway captured the sound of rushing water, swirling it against the stonework in an almost deafening centrifuge.
Taking her hand again, he led her onward to the western bank and a tricky ladder of moss-covered rocks. The smaller overflow arch was framed from even the most curious eyes with the leafy limbs of a low-hanging tree. Here, any floodwaters had come and gone, leaving the ground and rocks moist under their bare feet. It was a cozy space and beneath it their voices muffled against the patchwork of moss married to the mortar.
She explored but little, her fingers ghosting over a few of the carved names – anglers perhaps, or artists. Lovers. "Thank you," she said, returning to him. "For this trip. For everything you've given me over the years."
"I've not given you anything you didn't earn honestly or deserve for that matter."
Sybil stepped into his arms. "Have you any other surprises up your sleeve?"
"I've no surprises," Tom said, that infernally smug spark in his eyes. "You know what I want."
From the start, he'd proved himself a passionate lover and solicitous of their mutual pleasure, but she'd always been charmed by his relative modesty in front of others. Whereas she, subjugated for so long by propriety, had long since buried her reticence and harbored no shame for a public kiss or suggestive remark in front of her family, Tom was still prone to the abrupt blush or diffident chuckle. She rather enjoyed it, the flipside of that cocksure bravado he often unleashed from his seat on the county council. And as he took her hands, brought the palms to his lips, she thought on how this was so utterly Tom. Brazen enough to have her here, yet reluctant to chance someone's unbidden glimpse.
He slipped one brace from his shoulders, and then the other, before moving onto the buttons on her dress. It was rather intoxicating, watching Tom pop them free with his rascally smirk and trailing each patch of exposed skin with his fingers. And she was quite willing to defer most of the undressing to him, but after he'd taken his damnable time teasing off her knickers, she'd grown impatient.
"Patience is a virtue," he snickered when her hands went to his trousers.
"Not now it isn't." Pulling him free, her hand stroked gently.
Sybil laughed as his mouth plunged with a playful growl, nipping its way along her neck and jaw in a predatory circle until landing on her lips. "You go to all the trouble...oh Tom..." His tongue had that vexing ability to muddy her thoughts. "...the trouble to bring me over here and by the feel of things..." He whimpered when she stroked him again. "...this isn't going to last long."
Tom snuck his hands beneath her dress, teased the juncture of her thighs. His eyes twinkled as she slithered one leg to his hip. "After ten years, Mrs. Branson..." He grabbed the other, hoisted her up with a little grunt, and pinned her against the pier. "...you should know better than to underestimate your husband." He asked if she was alright – she was a little squished after all – and assumed by her laughter that all was well. His foot slipped a bit, landed hard on a lower rock – that'll leave a bruise tomorrow, he thought – and she laughed even harder. "What's so funny?"
"You."
"I'm glad I amuse you, woman, but..." His eyes flicked southward. "I'm getting a mite cold down there."
"Well, I'm waiting," she giggled. "This was all your plan – get on with it."
"I'm going to need a little help," he sheepishly admitted, pinching her rear. "If I move my hand, I'll drop you on your backside, and that would just ruin the moment." She wormed her hand down, sealed them together as his mouth found hers.
If someone had told her ten years ago, when she sat behind her sisters on that dispirited return to Downton, that she'd be here melting into Tom's arms as he made love to her against Skipper's Bridge, she'd have called them a fool. But life had a way of raking the ashes – their failed elopement, their exile from Ireland, their desperate struggle for children, their son's blindness, all the little daily trials and trivial quarrels – and reminding them that they'd built a marriage, a partnership, as sturdy as the pier at her back.
It was a rather awkward position, made even more so with the uneven ground beneath his feet. She tried to ignore the pestering cramp snaking through one calf and that loose bit of stone jabbing her hip each time he renewed a thrust. But God help her, she didn't care. Tomorrow they would return to Downton, and as much as she longed to see their children, greet them with cuddles and kisses and watch their faces sparkle when presented with gifts, the selfish part of her wanted to stay. And though children and responsibilities had tempered opportunity, this was a part of their lives they refused to surrender. It had become something to savor, like an aged wine or the sweet music of an old violin. We've got rather good at it, she mused when a jolt shot through her. She gasped, felt Tom's hands trembling beneath her, knew he was close.
Their voices had reached a fevered pitch, a surprisingly erotic echo against the stonework, and Sybil had the fleeting curiosity if she would ever again inhale the scent of must or mildew without going weak in the knees. Her mind had wandered into procrastination, which she realized when Tom's ragged whisper of Let go, love...please whooshed in her ear. She felt him grow erratic within her and the sensation spiraled her back to the moment. Pulling his face into her palms, she concentrated on him, the intensity darkening his eyes and the flush spreading beneath his skin. She ground against him as best she could and whether it was her movements or his that triggered it, she didn't know, but she was grateful for the dam-like burst when it came. And that's all he needed, feeling the vise of her body surrounding him, clenching him over with her. Time had blessed them with mastery to ride each little wave, shuddering together as their orgasms peaked and ebbed down into ripples until the only thing left was ragged breath.
Sybil sagged against his shoulder. That post-orgasmic haze was something that never grew old. She'd always thought it the oddest little sensation, something akin to a whiff of laughing gas that set the world on its axis and let everything drop into place. That was when they returned to the giggles and nuzzles and teasing that filled the spaces, mortar-like, until the next time. His mouth went to the bare skin of her neck, lips grazing sluggishly in some semblance of a kiss. She felt his forearms quiver; his legs shifted unsteadily beneath them. It wouldn't do for him to pull a muscle here of all places, she mused, I'd never drag him back to the car.
Reluctantly, she loosened her limbs, slid her heels down the backs of his legs before settling onto the ground. It was a moment before she trusted her footing. Her husband had an adorably disoriented look about him, his breath coming out in erratic puffs of laughter.
"Are you alright to drive?" she quipped, helping him right his clothes.
"I will be," he panted. "Once the blood goes back where it's supposed to."
After snapping his braces in place, she tucked him in with a playful squeeze – he shuddered with a hiss – and buttoned his trousers. Tom's hands fumbled up her dress front until she swatted at his hand and finished herself.
"Do something useful and find my knickers."
He flapped off the dirt, shoved them in his pocket. She threw him a tepid scowl. They'll just get in the way later, that naughty voice reminded her.
They looked marginally respectable, but Sybil suspected even Tom wouldn't mind if then curmudgeonly innkeeper greeted them tonight with a Tsk-tsk – Have you no shame? She leant back against the pier, her fingers tugging at his brace loops. Later at the inn they'd pick up where they left off and would steal another hour again tomorrow morning – she knew that – but here under Skipper's Bridge, with the crickets and frogs beginning a nighttime serenade with the cascading water, she wondered how many moments of perfection two people were allowed to have.
He tugged her hand. "Love, it's getting dark."
"Tom?"
"Hmm?"
"That night, when I left with Mary and Edith, I knew I'd go home and fight for you until my last breath, but my greatest fear was that you would never forgive me."
"I would never have admitted it at the time, but it was the right thing to do," he said. "Sneaking off like that–" He grinned a bit. "–even though we'd danced around society for years, that wasn't us. Not once we'd decided the world could go to hell if it couldn't accept us." He winked. "Not once we'd burned our bridges."
She patted the pier behind her. "Some bridges can't be burned."
"No, some will last forever."
Squeezing his hand, she followed him out from beneath the arch, pausing for one last glance upstream as twilight descended on the water. "Ten years ago, when we married, I had no idea what to expect. I knew I loved you, was desperate to be your wife, and perhaps if I was lucky enough, would have your children, but..."
"What?" Tom tipped her chin, watched as a tear cascaded to his finger.
She pressed his hand against her heart. "I never imagined this."
"Nor did I. And I dare say neither of us imagined the journey."
"It's not over yet," she reminded him. "Full of surprises, I'm sure, since there are no absolutes in life."
He leaned down for a kiss, his mouth hovering warm over hers as he whispered, "Except one – that I'll love you long after the angels call us home."
A/N 2: I had a lot of fun researching their road trip. Both the period ordnance maps and Blue Guides of England, including the bits about admission, are available online and offered plenty of potential roadside stops. The clockwork Silver Swan at the Bowes Museum still works after 241 years (youtube it – it's amazing!) and the description of the old smithy at Gretna Green (as well as the Reverend Mr. Rennison) came from the few historic photographs I could find. And after googling images of Skipper's Bridge near Langholm, well, sometimes it's best to let the characters tell their own story. ;)