A/N: Greetings to all who have stuck with this story despite the irregular updates. I do have some more chapters in the hopper, so I'm not done with this series quite yet (I hope). Anyhoo, Chapter 24 let the proverbial cat out of the bag about Tom's bid for the county council and I hadn't really intended on writing an election chapter. But while getting stuck on another, I kept getting bits of (somewhat frivolous) inspiration so this one happened instead.
Thanks to everyone for their comments on thoughts on the previous chapters, and many thanks to Foojules who helped strangle the writing demons out of this one.
"I hope you do go into politics; it's a fine ambition."
~ The Lady Sybil Crawley to Mr. Tom Branson (May 1914)
QUID PRO QUO
Downton, March 1928
I hope you do go into politics, she'd once told him. It's a fine ambition.
Ambition or dream?
With Sybil at his side, and a trio of darling children beneath his roof, Tom Branson's life often seemed more dream than reality. As to his political ambitions, well, he wasn't the same man who'd flipped that caustic reply over his shoulder, who'd been impetuous enough to believe a prison term wasn't too high a price to pay for delivering his opinion. With age and experience came a more diplomatic outlook. Pouring slop over a man's head was a fine way to bring attention to oneself, but at the end of the day, would it really do any good?
His younger self would have also been horrified at the notion of working as his father-in-law's estate agent, but the job had made a decent whetstone for his political skills. He'd refined his ability to negotiate, to persuade, to identify common ground in that no-man's-land between the landed and the laborer. He'd learned that politics was more art than science, and that compromise didn't necessarily mean compromising one's principles.
Ambition, definitely! They can't afford to lose a man like you!
Right, but could a socialist convince the people of that?
They would soon find out.
As the winter of 1928 released its grip, the North Riding prepared for warmer weather, planting, and the next council election. The district that lay between Ripon and Thirsk had been represented for more than twenty years by Mr. Archie Ellis, who had an agricultural supply business that served the entire area. As a businessman, Mr. Ellis dealt with many of his constituents on a regular basis and knew most of them by name; as a lifelong resident of the county, he was their neighbor, advocate, and friend. His views were not as liberal as those of Downton Abbey's young land agent, but Ellis recognized a man with vision and a good head on his shoulders. So when he decided to retire from the council, he encouraged Tom to throw his hat into the ring. Political opportunity had finally knocked.
Still, the endorsement didn't mean an easy campaign for Tom. Ellis had held his seat since the days of Queen Victoria and had run unopposed in the last few elections, but now with the district facing the dual pressures of a postwar population boom and an economic shift away from agrarianism, the local merchant class was keen to put forth their own candidate. Roger Marsden was Downton's notoriously tight-fisted storekeeper who, according to most of his patrons, put dear old Scrooge to shame. With middle age in his rearview mirror, he looked like a fat tycoon in a newspaper comic, only without the villainous top hat. Despite his miserly ways, he could always be found in the finest of suits, cleaned and pressed with razor sharp creases. He could also gloss over his shortcomings (not that he qualified them as such) with self-deprecating humor and – much to the Bransons' frustration – a bit of quid pro quo.
All through the previous winter, whenever the sun dared cast a ray of warmth over the Yorkshire fields, Marsden could be found holding court in front of his shop, plying his opinions to a throng of men who considered themselves pillars of the community. "What's that?" he'd say. "Your wife's needing a bolt for new curtains? Just so happens I'm clearing out my stock for the latest from Manchester...have her come by later and have a look see!" And he'd grin knowingly.
Tom, on the other hand, trusted people to see past the blarney. In this district, votes would be won by twos and threes. So he knocked at innumerable doors and drank gallons of tea in a myriad of parlors, stopped to chew the fat every time he caught sight of a man tilling a field, and lent a hand with so many agricultural mishaps that he wondered if the farmers would think he brought bad luck. But it was worth it. His earnest conversations and willingness to roll up his sleeves soon won him a solid reputation.
But despite his hard work over the previous eight years, Tom knew that his politics, both past and present, followed him in whispers. He certainly wasn't ashamed of his socialist views, or time spent championing the republicans across the Irish Sea. But Marsden seemed determined to make an issue of it – especially when he ran out of ideas on how to address the issues facing the district. "That bolshie's not one of us!" he would toss to a lunch-time pub crowd. "Everyone knows he was thrown out of Ireland for arson!"
Lord Grantham and the rest of the Abbey Crawleys stayed apart from the campaign, largely at the urging of the Bransons, who were unwilling to give the Marsden camp any reason to suggest that Tom was riding aristocratic coattails. Distance, though, didn't mean dormancy. With his network of contacts, Matthew worked covertly as a quasi-manager, taking unofficial polls on everything ranging from Tom's likability to their father-in-law's reputation in some of the more remote hamlets. He the cobbled bits of information into campaign advice: how long to stay in someone's kitchen, the most convenient place to gather for a farmer's lunch, how often to pop by the schools to greet the teachers or headmaster.
"It's a shame your seat in the House of Lords is guaranteed," Tom told him one evening after a fresh barrage of campaign advice. "I've a feeling you'd win it outright, were it actually elected office."
"Well," Matthew coughed with a little blush. "I may not agree with some of your politics..."
Tom cut him a sideways glance.
"Most of your politics," he corrected with a grin. "But I've seen how you make decisions for the estate. Even if you don't agree with the grand scheme of things, when it comes to an issue or particular decision, you look at it from all sides. Most people don't want an ideologue anyway. They simply want someone to make the best decision on their behalf."
An even more potent dose of support came from Edith, who was keen to profile Tom in her column in The Sketch (and was still keeping house, scandalously, with its editor). She arrived at the cottage one bitter February afternoon armed with a pencil, notepad, and a scrawny assistant named Geordie, who huffed through the door with an ominous looking box. Sybil ordered Tom to his cozy chair by the hearth, where he'd spend the next few hours "on the other side of the ink."
He sat through the interview with increasing ease – Edith had certainly done her homework on the issues du jour – and as the afternoon wore on, he found his voice on every topic. Then came time for the photograph.
"Photograph?" squeaked Tom as if he'd been pinched through the trousers.
"Of course," his sister-in-law replied, tucking her notepad away. "The printer has done wonders with transfer recently and it's given us a leg up on the competition." She motioned for Geordie to open up his heavily varnished box.
Tom eyed it like a casket.
Sybil brushed off his lapels. "Where do you want him, Edith?"
"Let's start here in the parlor, shall we? And then we can go out on the estate. I'd like several options."
A week later, Edith arrived with the proofs – just in time for tea at the Abbey – so she and Sybil could select the best image. Spreading them out on the table by the hearth, she swiftly brushed two aside. "Those are too dark."
Cora gestured to one of him sitting in his chair at the cottage. "This one is quite fetching of you, Tom."
Across the room, the subject's cheeks darkened like a pair of bruised turnips.
Edith eyed them thoughtfully, shook her head. "No, he looks too stiff..."
"I can't imagine why," Tom muttered.
By then, Robert's curiosity had gotten the better of him and he drifted over to join the group of bobbing heads. "What about that one?"
Sybil removed it along with a few other 'rejects' she was keeping for a scrapbook of his campaign. "No, he's not doing anything there..."
Robert smirked at his son-in-law. "One could argue leaning against a wall holding a roll of maps is doing something."
Tom rolled his eyes and wandered over to safe harbor by Mary. She smiled thinly over her cup. "Matthew claims he's negotiated a series of debates."
"That's right – three. One per week leading up the election."
"Well, I hope you put that little miser in his place after last week."
Until recently, his sister-in-law had been neutral as far as the council election was concerned, and reliable in balancing out her husband's enthusiasm. But then had come the day when bare-knuckle campaigning and Lady Mary Crawley had knocked heads.
She, her father, and Matthew had been touring the nearly completed cottages at Pip's Corner when they overheard a rumbling crowd. Stepping outside, they watched from behind a stone fence as Roger Marsden shouted and gesticulated with such enthusiasm that even the carpenters working on the cottages stopped their hammering to listen.
"It all comes down to who you trust with your vote!" he called, accentuating each word with a fist. He paused dramatically, lifted his cap to wipe sweat from his balding scalp. "I'm an honest storekeeper who was born here! As was my father before me – like yours!" He pointed to one local farmer, who nodded in agreement. "And my opponent is a Paddy interloper who, for the past eight years, has been sucking the hind tit of our local milord!"
Lord Grantham had gone stiff as a board, Mary and Matthew even more so as they waited for the bulging vein to detonate in his forehead.
She'd never liked Marsden. When he was a tenant of the estate, he'd habitually arrive at the beginning of the month, ticking off the leaks and cracking paint, the chips in the walls, sagging beams and the like – all of which he claimed to have repaired with his own measly income. Once Tom made the recommendation to sell off some of the village buildings, Marsden's shop had been first on her list. Everyone knew he wanted it for himself and, through an artful campaign of poormouthing the building to other prospective buyers and itemizing endless defects to negotiate a lower price, he'd nearly walked away with it for free. Just as well as far as Mary was concerned, at least they were rid of him. But here he was again, the little skinflint, worming his way up under her saddle.
Beyond the clucking of the crowd that day at Pip's Corner, Mary had observed something else of which she now made mention to Tom. "They were all men," she told him. "Come to think of it, every time I've seen Marsden bumbling around the village, he's always had a decidedly male entourage." She glanced across her cup to her brother-in-law, whose brows had woven together. "Its simple arithmetic," she said flatly, as if speaking to a dolt. "A husband's vote against you can be easily canceled out by a wife's vote in your favor."
Tom's mouth curled with a puckish grin. "Why Mary, you're a suffragette!"
Her eyes narrowed. "I'm a pragmatist, which is hardly the same thing."
A clamor over by the hearth interrupted them, as the campaign photograph selection committee erupted with animated agreement over a particular image. "Oh, it's perfect!" Sybil declared, taking it to her husband.
Tom glanced down at himself, sleeves rolled up, with an arm thrust deep into a tractor engine and muttered, "It was bleedin' freezing that day."
"It speaks to your ability to fix things!"
"Like my ability to repair a perfectly good tractor?" Tom leaned over to Mary and winked. "That's the new Fordson we bought last month!"
Edith's article in The Sketch was smartly crafted and as unbiased as it could be, for having been written by the candidate's sister-in-law. Out of fairness, though, she'd offered Tom's opponent the opportunity to be interviewed as well, but Marsden harbored an inherent distrust of the press, and especially a female representative of it. He should have trusted his own friends even less. One of them had passed along his unvarnished response to Edith's invitation, once she'd been out of earshot, and Edith had not shrunk from publicizing it:
Mr. Branson's opponent in the upcoming election is Mr. Roger Marsden, life-long resident of the district and proprietor of Marsden's Mercantile in Downton Village. It should be noted that The Sketch extended an invitation to Mr. Marsden for equal space in this titillating campaign profile, but he declined, noting "None of my constituents read that rag."
Just days before the election, Sybil sat at her dressing table with the paper, Tom beside her reading along. He snickered. "Someone should remind him he doesn't have any constituents yet."
"And won't, if he keeps shoving his foot in his mouth." She grinned smugly and flipped the page to read aloud:
We at The Sketch, while humble here in the small metropolis of London, can proudly boast that we have made great progress in national distribution. The subscriptions are coming in every day! And, if we may be so bold, because of our unique perspective on real society, our articles are being reprinted by some of Britain's most respected newspapers. We trust that our friends at the Yorkshire Post will find space for this campaign profile in an upcoming edition, since the North Riding can claim its most loyal subscribers!
Tom went to scrounge for a tie in the wardrobe. "Your sister's flair for politics puts mine to shame."
"She's certainly found her niche."
He laughed, flipped the tie round his neck and stood in the mirror behind her. "Marsden may have another name for it once he reads the article."
"He's no one to blame but himself!" She popped up, shared a smile as she made up his tie.
"Who does Edith know at The Post?" he asked, careful not to squirm under her noose-like twists and turns.
"I believe she and Michael play golf with the editor."
"Hmm."
"Collar pin?"
"Behind you."
She swiped the gold-plated pin from her dresser and had him ready in short order. "There. Perfect for the luncheon today." Glancing him up and down, she lofted a brow at the bulging buttons of his waistcoat. Tom casually sucked in his gut, but once she'd reached round him to loosen the back strap, he sighed in relief. "Too many sweets on the campaign trail, darling," she said, patting his rump.
"Well, I wouldn't want to insult all the kind ladies who opened their parlors for a chat by saying no to a slice of pie, now would I? Besides," he teased, hoisting her on her toes and playfully tweaking her own backside, "some sweets lead to the best exercise of all, wouldn't you say?" She hummed in agreement, mouths and tongues roving lazily until he whispered, out of breath, "Wish me luck today."
"You don't need it, darling. Just be yourself. And I'm sorry I can't be there, but Mrs. Waite is near her term, and Mrs. Myers was spotting a few days ago..."
He winced and set her down.
She bit her lip. "Sorry."
"It's quite all right, love," he said, pecking a kiss to her brow. "It's the lot of a midwife's husband to bear the clinical details." He collected his jacket from the bed, swatted at a clump of cat hair clinging to the sleeve. "You won't miss much anyway, even if it is the last face-off with Marsden. If anyone is left undecided after today, there's not much I can do about it."
The luncheon, hosted by a local branch of the Yorkshire Rotarians, was meant as a dénouement to the raucous debates agreed to by both parties. The first, with the district farmers, had been a rousing success for Tom. The second, with the merchants, had swung in Marsden's favor, as expected. And just last Saturday, when they parried questions from the district school teachers, the audience had seemed to appreciate Tom's thoughtful responses much more than those of his sputtering opponent. Having run out of useful ideas for bolstering local educational funding and improving the school buildings, Marsden had tried to paint Tom as a communist pickpocket. That had been the last straw for Sybil who, utterly fed up after months of slurs against her husband, stood at attention and snapped, At least he's honest about everyone needing to pitch in for the good of the district's children and not fleecing customers under the counter! Only a hard tug of Isobel's hand had landed her back in her chair.
Tom reached for her wringing hands, brought them to his lips. "I'm not sure the good people of the district can take much more of both of us!" he chuckled. "Besides, I'm relying on you to butter up the ladies this afternoon."
She straightened his tie one last time, gave him a solid kiss for the day head. "Well, I've ensnared the last of the holdouts, so don't be late!"
Not long after becoming a midwife, Sybil had worked with Doctor Clarkson to establish the Downton Cottage Hospital Mother and Baby Clinic. It was an ambitious effort that met with both enthusiasm and reservation by the district women. Still, change had to start somewhere and, over time, its one day of operation per week became two, until now, a year and a half later, it was open a full three days a week. Sybil even had to hire staff – an eager young nurse named Claire from Derbyshire who was keen to learn midwifery herself – so that she could manage all of her calls and deliveries.
The challenge was not so much helping mothers and babies medically, but ensuring that the mothers and wives, indeed all women, were empowered with knowledge. Sybil's "Wednesday is for Women" teas at the cottage allowed the women to share their experiences and enquire about indelicate or taboo information. Over the previous eighteen months Tom had walked in on discussions ranging from monthly cycles to rebellious children to the change of life and once, to his consternation, a particular quirk of the male body. Oh, that often happens to a man in the morning, Sybil'd been explaining to a batch of young wives just as he arrived home one day. After a while, you won't even notice, unless you do and then, she'd laughed, you might as well have a little fun! Poor Tom had nearly tripped on his own feet retreating to the front door.
The teas had also proved beneficial during the campaign. Once she and Tom had discussed Mary's observation regarding Marsden's devotees, both decided the informal setting was a perfect way to gauge the district's female vote. In the final weeks of the election, Sybil had made especial effort to invite the wives of Marsden supporters and today she'd promised them a question and answer session with her husband.
But Tom was running late. Her eyes swept anxiously over the clock: school had already rung out and her guests would need to rush home for dinner preparations. The delay had forced her to step up and speak on his behalf, which she preferred not to do, but she was getting desperate. Nine-month-old Rosie scrambled over her feet and gnawed on her skirt as she summarized Tom's plans for bolstered medical care in the county.
"Well, you've certainly made his case, Mrs. Branson," said the wife of the local haberdasher. "But when can we hear it from the man himself?"
"Very soon," she replied, forcing a smile. "He must have taken time to speak with the headmaster when he collected Bobby. He takes a great interest in the school, you know, and when he's elected, he plans to ask council to appoint him to the Education Committee...oh, I think I hear them now."
It was her son that walked in the room, though, and the little boy, who at nearly eight was the spitting image of his father, was blitzed by female flattery.
"Hello, Bobby..."
"Oh, aren't you a handsome lad..."
"Sybil, he's simply darling..."
"Looks just like his father, he does..."
"That one will be a heartbreaker one day..."
"And I hear he's top of his class..."
Bobby blushed a fetching shade of purple. He was accustomed to the attention, though didn't pretend to understand why women made such a fuss over him. He offered a polite "Hello everyone" which only made them coo that much more.
Sybil smiled indulgently. "Darling, where's your father?"
"Outside."
"Well, please tell him to come in."
"He can't."
"Nonsense," she replied, brows knitting together. "Everyone has been waiting, so fetch him now if you please."
Bobby muttered under his breath. When he returned a moment later, it was to a flurry of feminine gasps and rustlings as the ladies groped for their handkerchiefs to hastily shield their noses.
In his wake was a befouled and odorous creature that vaguely resembled Tom Branson. It doffed its hat convivially. "Good afternoon, ladies."
Sybil's mouth sagged wide. Her husband was muddied quite literally from head to toe. His jacket, hair, waistcoat and trousers, and even his face, were caked with a thick layer of oozing, dark brown grime. Only the whites of his eyes had avoided whatever disaster had befallen the rest of him. There wasn't a clean stitch on him – anywhere. Her eyes finally settled on his boots, which were presently soiling her parlor floor; a dollop of what she feared wasn't purely mud slipped from his chaps and splatted on the rug.
She darted up from her chair just as a breeze wafted from behind him and she thrust a hand to her mouth. "Oh!" She tried to speak – to vainly ask what in God's name happened – but she was interrupted by her oldest daughter who, hearing her beloved father's arrival, ran downstairs to greet him.
Saoirse stopped short, her face screwing up in disgust. "Eew! Da!" She waved a dainty hand across her face. "You smell like poo!"
"Well, Mr. Branson," declared one of the ladies, "They say politics is a dirty business, but isn't this taking it to the extreme?"
Tom's lip twitched and he managed the faintest of smiles. "Ladies, I apologize for foregoing our meeting this afternoon," he said, "but as you can see I'm a bit indisposed at the moment, so I'll only say this: who would you rather trust with your vote? A man who favors a pig or one that would wrestle with them if his neighbor was in need?"
Sybil's eyes bulged.
"Love, if you wouldn't mind drawing me a bath, I've had a rather long day."
The ladies swooshed up their bags in hasty retreat, each offering their kindest farewells to Sybil and best wishes to Tom on Friday's polling results. All sentiments were issued behind hands clamped to noses as they bolted for fresh air.
With Sybil struck dumb with shock – or perhaps she simply didn't want to breathe – silence engulfed the Branson's humble cottage. Tom sighed, winced at the noxious cloud in which he stood, and started toward the stairs.
Sybil snapped back to reality then and barred his path. "Oh, no you don't."
"What? Sybil, I have to get out of these clothes!"
"You most certainly do!" She flapped her hands toward the hall.
"I'm not stripping at the feckin' front door!"
"Then you'll do it at the feckin' back door, but you're not coming any further like that!"
Saoirse gasped. "Mama you said–"
"I bloody well know what I said, young lady. You and your brother stay here and mind your sister," she snapped, shooing her husband outside.
Sybil met Tom at the back door, foisting a large metal tub into his arms with instructions to leave everything but his skin outside. "I'm sorry, darling, but you've already tracked...whatever it is in the front hall, and the family is coming Friday after the election. I'm not cleaning these floors again."
Somehow the muck had wormed its way under every stitch of clothing – even his skin sported a bronze residue. Once he'd put his socks into the tub, she motioned at his drawers.
"Sybil! My privates have already gone into hibernation!"
"Well, that's certainly more pleasant to repair than muddied floors." She smiled, shoved a towel at him, and waved him through the kitchen. "Now wipe your feet, darling, and have a bath." She cupped a hand over her nose and mouth as his toweled torso passed. "Or two."
It took three baths before Sybil allowed her husband to share the dinner table. Tom clearly wasn't in the mood to explain the fetid state he'd arrived in that afternoon, and Sybil spent much of the meal deflecting the children's curiosity. She translated his sullen grunts into the most elemental facts: a broken fence, a scattered herd, and a missed luncheon. Underneath that, she sensed a deeper gloom and a worrisome element of self-doubt.
After dinner, he went straight to his office. That's where she found him later, staring blankly at an oversized map on the wall. It was one Matthew had made for him at the start of his campaign, an enlarged portion of the most recent ordnance map, which illustrated the district in detail. Tom had memorized each farm and building, scribbled names and notes next to each one. He'd taken his campaign to heart: he knew the stories, the hardships, the opinions of the populace, and through that understood more than anyone – certainly more than Marsden – what kind of schemes to both propose and oppose on the council.
On Sybil's hip, little Rosie gurgled at the sight of her Da and thrust a chubby hand forward. "Ta-ta-ta!"
Tom turned, always ready with a smile for one of his offspring, and pulled the baby into his arms. Bouncing her, he kissed her head. "That's not what we've been working on – now say it for me – Da!"
Little Rosie grinned. "Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta!"
Sybil laughed. Her husband was determined that, unlike the older two, Da would be this one's first word. So far, Rosie had shown wise neutrality in the matter.
"I'm sorry to have left you with the dishes."
She brushed off his apology with a kiss. "Bobby and Saoirse were able recruits this evening, but I do miss Kitty. Sometimes I forget how much I relied on her."
Their niece's departure for medical school in Edinburgh had come not long after Rosie's birth the previous summer, so had been timely in the sense that Sybil was home with the baby. But since she'd gone back to work, the Bransons were in desperate want of a housekeeper. They'd gotten as far as a stack of applications, which was collecting dust on Tom's desk.
"After the election we'll sit down and make a decision. After all," he cooed with a smacking kiss to Rosie's plump cheek, "we have to find the right person to mind these little darlings. Right, Rosie?"
Having spied a stuffed rabbit on the floor, Rosie had lost all interest in her Da. She squirmed until he set her down, free at last to scuttle up under his desk with the toy.
Tom was momentarily entranced with the baby's babbling, until feeling Sybil's hand slip into his. A smile ghosted across his face as she melted into his arms.
Teasing a stray lock on his brow, she whispered, "Penny for them."
"Mr. Drewe's pigs escaped."
"And I assume by your state of arrival this afternoon that you played a part in the rescue?"
She learned there was quite a lot more to it than that.
Not only had the pigs escaped, he explained, but they'd been scattered, during what amounted to some fantastical tale of creatures run amok. The recently melted snow and late winter rains had conspired to make the pigs' retrieval a grueling odyssey that ended with Tom, Mr. Drewe, and two other tenants quite literally wrestling with sows, piglets, and one particularly ill-tempered boar which had an apparent vendetta against Tom. Once they'd herded the squealing masses back into the pen, Mr. Parks and Mr. Higgins began patching the fence while Tom and Mr. Drewe counted heads. That's when Mr. Higgins, fumbling with the mud slicked handle, lost his hammer through the boards.
Tom had resigned himself to having lost his suit anyway and, being in the best position to afford another, he offered to climb over to retrieve it. But as his foot hit the muck, he slipped, splatted flat on his back and down toward the base of the pen where the disgruntled herd gathered, seemingly ready to make a meal of him. Dear God, he'd thought at the time. This is a hell of a way to go. He was saved only when his right boot, splaying upward during the slippery tumble, planted into the back end of the boar. The animal had whipped round to face Tom, snorting and scattering the sows, murder in his beady little eyes.
"I don't blame him, really," Tom said to Sybil. "I'd be a mite upset myself if someone booted me in the balls."
In the end, Mr. Drewe, the master pig-handler, had managed to entice the herd toward the feed trough with a bucket of slops. With one last snort from its muddied snout, the boar flicked back his ears, wheeled around, and left Tom with an unimpeded view of its squiggly tail. He'd scrambled on hands and knees back up to the fence, where Parks and Higgins snatched him under the last of the broken slats.
"God, love, the shit got everywhere." Tom instinctively scratched a finger in his ear. "And of course I missed the luncheon. According to Matthew, it could still go either way. Today was my last real chance to talk to some of the undecided voters and to rebut most of Marsden's recent allegations. Not to mention I missed speaking to the ladies this afternoon."
"Darling, they'll understand once you explain, and I suggest you do everything you can to reschedule. You still have tomorrow…"
"I think Marsden had something to do with it."
"Surely not."
He huffed out a laugh and repeated Marsden's parting shot before he'd left the meeting hall: I suppose pigs – His Lordship's pigs – take precedence over your opinions, my friends! Now – where were we – ah, that's right Mr. Whitley...No rate increases on property while I'm on council, unlike Mr. Branson's plan, I can promise you that…
"That was a perfectly solid fence, Sybil. I helped build it myself and we've never had any trouble with the herd before."
"That wretched, odious, bas…" Sybil caught herself, her eyes spying little Rosie's green orbs blinking back at her from beneath Tom's desk. "You'll never prove it, not before Friday."
"I know. But then again, I'm starting to wonder if it's all worth it."
"Of course it is!"
"I once asked you if my going into politics was more dream than ambition..."
"I told you then...ambition. And I believe that still." She watched Tom's eyes drift back to the map, his chest sinking with a dispirited sigh. "Darling, look at me. You've put your heart into this election when most people said you couldn't get this far. If anyone is destined to represent the interests of the hard working people of this district – it's you! You listen to people, even if you don't share certain opinions, and they listen to you." He offered a tired smile when she took his hands. "Tomorrow you'll simply visit with some of the attendees from today and play up the fact that you were helping a man with his stock – there's nothing wrong with emphasizing the truth – and I'll do what I can with the women. I'll knock on each of their doors if I have to and explain, and if their husbands are there, they'll get an earful as well. We can't give up now, darling, not when we're so close."
"Thank you," he smiled, bending for a kiss, "for saying we."
"I learned the value of family politics from Granny," she replied. "All for one and one for all and all that." She leaned into his chest, inhaling the pleasant scent of soap and couldn't help but smile at how far he'd come. But win or lose, they'd still have this, which made her remember something else and she drew back, her lips quivering anxiously. "I have something that may cheer you up...I was going to tell you after Friday, but I want those mulligrubs gone for good." She leaned up, her heart hammering as she teased his mouth with hers.
"Mmm...what is it? You not planning to stuff the ballot box, are you?"
"No, you already did." She bit her lip. "I'm pregnant. Again."
"Pregnant?"
She nodded.
He blinked. "As in a baby?"
"Well, not a piglet, I should hope."
From the other side of the door came a shrieked, "You're having a baby?"
Sybil snatched open the door, and Saoirse and Bobby nearly fell on their Mama's feet. "Were you two eavesdropping on us?"
Saoirse dusted off her knees, muttering a meek "no."
"I told you to be quiet," Bobby hissed to his sister.
Sybil glowered. "We'll have a conversation about this later. Go change for bed, if you please. Both of you."
"Can I have another sister?" Saoirse eagerly asked.
Bobby grunted indifferently – his mind was on more immediate matters. "Da – did Mr. Marsden really scatter the pigs?"
"Your father was just thinking out loud," Sybil said, shooing both toward the hall. "And you're certainly not to repeat that to anyone, do you understand?"
"Yes, Mama."
Saoirse bounced on her heels. "But you are having a baby?"
"Yes, and you're not to repeat that to anyone either – that's for your father and I to announce. Now out!"
Saoirse giggled, gave her mother a quick squeeze and then darted over to Tom. She hopped in front of him for a kiss, which he readily supplied, along with an end-over-end alley oop! "You smell lots better, Da!" she giggled, and then scurried after her brother.
Silence fell again once Sybil had secured the door, she turned to find Tom's face furrowing with concern. "Darling, what is it?"
"It's just...you haven't gotten pregnant so soon, not since..."
Watching the fear ripple in his eyes, she reached for him again, shook her head. "I'm more than three months gone," she whispered. "There's no reason to think that will happen again."
"Three?" He made a mental calculation. Late November, early December, perhaps? Rosie would have been just over five months old, when Sybil was still nursing her. "But..." His eyes flicked toward Rosie, who sat babbling on the floor, and then to Sybil's chest.
"You remember I tried to wean her early." To which their sweet Rosie hadn't adjusted well at all; mother and daughter had only negotiated a successful separation in February. "And of course there's no guarantee that nursing completely suppresses ovulation…"
Tom grimaced.
Sybil went on, oblivious. "I hadn't given much thought to my cycle, until last month when it didn't come."
Tom's mind flipped back over the previous months, wondering how he'd missed the obvious signs. "But you haven't been ill."
"A little nausea now and again, but no vomiting. Certainly not like with Saoirse, or Rosie for that matter." She smiled a little, recalling a time when she wasn't sure if she'd ever see anything beyond the bottom of a toilet bowl.
"You're not disappointed, are you? I know how important it was for you to go back to work after Rosie..."
"Darling, it is a shock, to be sure, but no." She smiled, the back of her fingers dusting his cheek, "I'm not disappointed. After all of our troubles and dashed hopes, I can't imagine being anything but grateful for this baby."
His hand slipped to her middle, his features softening with slow smile. Ambition or dream? As his mind flitted back over the past dozen years and more, the life they'd made, and the lives they'd made – including the newest one budding quietly beneath his fingertips – he decided that it was a little bit of both.
According to Matthew's internal polling, by Thursday – the day before the election – the results could go either way. Tensions ran high in the village as well as the Downton School where the respective candidates' sons shared the same class. Mr. Robert Woolstone, now settled as headmaster and history teacher, tried using the local campaign for a practical civics lesson, only to find himself refereeing a shouting match between two equally headstrong boys. Both were devoted to their respective fathers, and both had inherited proportional amounts of their fathers' temper, intellect and personality. Free speech was quashed until after the election, but the campaign simply went underground.
Like his father, Harry Marsden was a braggart who didn't know when to shut his mouth, and rumors soon began to circulate. At lunch Bobby heard from Timmy Bradley, who'd heard from his sister Pauline, who'd heard from her best friend Fiona Hawes, who'd heard from Sam Butler, who'd heard it from Harry himself that the mysterious stomach ailment that had kept him and Grover Hogg and Ned Winchester home from school on Wednesday had been a ruse. In fact, they'd been at the Drewe farm, scattering the Tamworth pigs.
Bobby was furious! Not only on behalf of his Da, but for the nice farmer Mr. Drewe and his beloved Grandpapa who had taken the pig operation quite to heart.
Harry's boasting could be heard over the dissonant chattering of the dining hall. "My dad said that Paddy would get elected when pigs fly! They might not fly," he laughed, "but they sure can run!"
Harry's cackling made Bobby tremble with fury. He stabbed at his plate with a fork and two halves of potato went spiraling off the table.
"What are you going to do?" Timmy hissed in his ear.
"He should tell Charlie Drewe, that's what," Donald Callum said. "He'll flatten Harry like a pancake."
I'd almost rather do it myself, thought Bobby. This was too much! He'd smelled his Da the day before and overheard his dispirited confession that maybe he wasn't quite up to politics. But as satisfying as it would be, punching Harry in the nose hardly seemed severe enough retribution, not to mention it would land him on probation until his next birthday.
That's when Beth Parks strode up with purpose and a sunny "Hello!"
Beth was a year younger than Bobby, and her sister, Emily, had died of the meningitis that had taken his sight. Beth had a rather annoying habit of showing up at the worst moments, usually when he and his chums were discussing "boy business that she simply wouldn't understand." Like now. Bobby scowled.
"I heard what Harry did," she chirped, her skirt brushing against his shins as she swung it.
Bobby blushed. "So has everyone else," he mumbled, spearing up a stray bean on his plate.
"You have to tell someone!"
"And who would believe me?"
"I would."
Timmy came to his rescue. "But girls can't vote so it doesn't matter!"
"Yes they can!"
"Not for Parliament!"
"Well, Mr. Branson isn't running for Parliament," she shot back. "At least not yet."
"Please, Beth," Bobby said, as politely as he could, "We're trying to think."
She sniffed. "I have an idea that's guaranteed to work." Bobby's friends groaned, but Beth sidled up so close her shoulder pressed against his. "And I'll tell you, but only if you promise to do something for me first."
Bobby started to say no, but she sounded so smug that Donald Callum, on her other side, asked "What is it?"
Beth whispered her plan and Donald gasped. "That's brilliant! Bobby, you have to...mrmph!"
Beth had popped her hand over his mouth. "No! He has to promise me something first."
"Whatever she wants, mate," Donald told Bobby, "Just do it! It will work!"
"What do I have to do?"
Beth leaned over and whispered in his ear, giggling, and Bobby nearly swallowed his tongue when he heard her terms. Under normal circumstances he would never, ever give in to outright blackmail from a pesky little girl. But these weren't normal circumstances. His parents had set their hearts on the council election. And if that nasty Mr. Marsden won...Harry would be insufferable!
"Alright," he finally sighed. "I'll do it...but only if your idea works."
Honestly, what could she possibly think of anyway? She's a girl!
Later that afternoon, standing in the telephone office with his friends, Bobby had to admit there was a certain amount of genius to Beth's plan. He still considered it blackmail – she should have told him for the good of the district, for crying out loud. She had no love lost for Harry – he'd pulled her hair at recess more than once, though the last time he'd gotten a shoe in the kneecap for his trouble. But still, there was no time to negotiate a better deal. The election was tomorrow.
Miss Hazel Spratt was the village's best-known busybody, a family trait she shared with her younger brother, butler to the Dowager Countess of Grantham. Miss Hazel had served as Downton's exchange operator for more than a dozen years, a position that put her in the unique position of connecting calls and – as everyone knew but no one could prove – listening on the party line to any conversation she "jolly well pleased," according to Bobby's Aunt Mary. It was why, again in Aunt Mary's opinion, Miss Hazel "knew everyone's business" and made her "drunk with power."
Whatever that means, Bobby thought as the older lady pinched his cheeks and said what a darling boy he was. "His great-granny's favorite, he is," she babbled. At least her bias worked in his favor. Once she'd heard what mean old Mr. Marsden had done, she'd never keep it to herself.
Bobby pursed his lips and when she'd commandeered a breath, he relayed the pig tale with such a cherubic voice that he hardly recognized himself. His cloak of piteousness earned him shoulder pats and artful commiseration from his mates – a group effort, to be sure, and unwasted on Miss Hazel, who gasped and tut-tut-tutted at such dastardly political tactics.
"My," she tsked, once he'd finished. She reached down and patted Bobby's cheek again. "I'm not one to bother with voting, but if I can break away tomorrow, your father will have mine. You can tell him if you like." Behind her, the switchboard beckoned with an angry buzz and she plopped on her headphones. "Right...oh yes, Mr. Hobart, I'll plug you in straightaway." With that, she yanked a wire, shoved it in a hole, and glanced back down at the collection of blinking children. "Is there anything else?"
"Please, Miss Hazel," Bobby said, "Can you let everyone know what Mr. Marsden did to my Da? It wasn't right – he missed his last meetings where he was going to ask people to vote for him. But he couldn't, and now they must think that he doesn't care. Please," he begged again, "you have to tell everyone or they won't vote for him!"
Miss Hazel's mouth hung wide at the supposition that she – the soul of discretion – would violate her trusted position with gossip over His Majesty's telephone lines? And just before an election? She sucked in a breath, flung a hand to her chest. "This isn't a toy! I'm not a rumor-monger, young sirs...and madam."
"But it's not a rumor!" cried little Beth. "It's true! Harry said so himself."
"Believe us, Miss Hazel," Donald chimed in.
"And it was Mr. Marsden who lied to keep Harry out of school Wednesday," insisted another boy.
"Help us, please!"
"Enough!" She'd forgotten the headphones dangling from her neck and bolted forward. She choked and toppled clumsily back into her seat. One little boy snorted on a laugh. Seething, she stood slowly, her waist line eclipsing the sunbeam through the window behind her. Glaring down at them, her eyes narrowed on each.
"Out!" she growled. "All of you!" The children scattered toward the door, little Beth leading Bobby quickly by the hand. "And you'll be lucky if your parents don't hear of this!"
Friday, Election Day
Once she'd given the matter some thought, of course, Miss Hazel was not about to sit on critical information without mentioning it to someone! It festered with her like a boil until teatime when, near bursting, she temporarily abandoned her post to trot down the street and confer with her younger brother.
The sibling Spratts tsked and tutted in the front hall of the Dower House, twitching their heads with murmuring agreement that such political antics, if they were true, were the result of the downward spiral of modern society. "Politics will be the ruination of us all," Mr. Spratt droned. "This is what happens when the masses are allowed to vote..." He shook his head dolefully and tsked again. "...politicians fighting over scraps."
"I quite agree," nodded his sister, "but do you think there's anything to this? Perhaps I should tell Lord..."
He lofted a stiff hand. "I wouldn't bother. Sounds like the wild imaginations of untamed children if you ask me."
"Then it is fortunate indeed that I am not asking you," snapped Old Lady Grantham from behind, making both him and his sister jump. Heavens, the woman was lighter on her feet than a footman!
After demanding a repetition of the afternoon's commotion at the telephone office, and the precise words of her darling great-grandson Bobby, Violet promptly dispatched the grousing Spratt to collect Mr. Crawley. "I'm getting too old to pull everyone's bacon out of the fire," she sighed to Matthew when he arrived, and then ordered an immediate investigation.
Matthew swiftly retrieved one of Harry Marsden's accomplices for cross-examination, the aptly named Grover Hogg. Between the glowering presence of Old Lady Grantham, Mr. Crawley's sorrowful severity, and his father's knuckles cracking behind his ear, poor Grover nearly made a puddle on the witness stand. He soon confessed his role in scattering the herd, along with several previous offences (up to and including the tart he'd swiped from Mrs. Heaver's windowsill when he was just five years old).
The pastry theft could be overlooked, Mr. Crawley said, but threatening a man's livestock was a crime.
Grover trembled. "Please, sir, I didn't mean nothin' by it! I just wanted to go to the cinema!"
"Young man," sighed the Dowager, "I'm generally not in a forgiving mood after tea. Out with it!"
"Mr. Marsden promised to take me and Harry and Ned to the cinema in York on Saturday if we kept Mr. Branson out of his meetings. I ain't never been to the cinema."
Mr. Hogg flushed beneath the dust and grime earned after a long day re-paving the road to Ripon. He'd been a saddler in Topcliffe until motors ate into his business. Now he was living with his in-laws, taking work where it could get it. He twisted his cap, began to apologize when Matthew cut in.
"Well, Grover, Mr. Marsden's rather generous with his favors, and the cinema is certainly a temptation to any boy. But," he shared a nod with Mr. Hogg, "he was wrong to offer such a bribe that could influence an election..."
"...and you were wrong to take it," Mr. Hogg sternly told his son. "First thing tomorrow, you're going to apologize to Mr. Drewe."
After a sidebar with Grover's parents, Matthew suggested – with the Dowager's stiff nod of approval – a confession to Miss Hazel Spratt might assuage some of the damage. Accordingly, Grover was marched down to the telephone office, where Miss Hazel was all too willing to absorb the muddied tale and couldn't snap on her headphones fast enough to broadcast the details.
But were we too late? Matthew wondered the next evening as he paced a path in the Bransons' cottage. He'd have preferred to await the election returns with Tom and Sybil down at the school, where the votes were being tabulated, but it wouldn't seem fair for the future earl to lord over the count. So here he was, along with his wife and in-laws, at what Sybil insisted would be a victory party. He checked his watch for the tenth time.
"Honestly, darling," groaned Mary, "you're driving me mad. Do sit down."
He wandered to a seat beside his father-in-law and popped straight back up. "A drink, Robert?" When Lord Grantham lifted his teacup, he amended, "I had something stronger in mind."
"Now you're driving me mad," the old man said. "This nervous energy won't solve anything. Besides, your mother and Dr. Clarkson are watching for any tomfoolery at the count."
"Tomfoolery indeed." Mary's pallor reddened. "I can't believe that vile man would do such a thing."
Cora, who had witnessed an explosive rant from Robert and Mary on the matter that morning, was keen to avoid another and shifted subjects. Bobby had not joined his young Crawley cousins on the floor – perhaps he didn't want to disturb the rare peaceful play between David and Teddy – and had settled next to his grandfather. The little boy sat with his chin in his hands, looking quite despondent. "Bobby, darling, is something the matter?"
"May I please go to bed?"
Matthew retrieved a biscuit from an offering on a nearby table. "Don't you want to wait on the results?"
"Not if that mean old Mr. Marsden wins."
Robert nudged his grandson's shoulder with his own. "Someone needs to keep me company." He shifted in his seat and winced. "At least I know what to get your parents next Christmas. This is an utterly wretched sofa. It's all lumpy!"
"It's the quilt," Bobby muttered.
"Sorry?"
Bobby slid down and reached under the cushions, yanking out the aforementioned quilt and dropping it in his grandfather's lap.
"That's a rather odd spot to store a blanket. Don't you have a cupboard?"
Saoirse scurried round and leapt up beside them. Her dress flounced high in the air, giving her Grandpapa a generous view of her knickers. "They keep it there for when they cuddle."
Robert eyed the quilt as if it were a viper, coiled and ready to strike.
"Well," Mary hurried over for her niece's hand. "Saoirse, darling, perhaps you can show me where your Mama keeps the tea. I think we could all do with more."
Just then, the front door banged open to admit Tom, Sybil, and a throng of Branson supporters – the Parks, the Drewes, and several of the estate's finest – along with a burst of boisterous laughter and Dr. Clarkson's distinctive brogue. "Ladies and Gentlemen, may I be the first to present Councilman-Elect Branson!"
Tom was assaulted with a string of hearty handshakes, congratulations, and a bouncing pair of little Bransons who crowded their Da's knees. Matthew pumped his brother-in-law's hand and clapped him on the arm so hard the Irishman nearly lost his footing. "Well done, old chap! I knew you could do it! Northallerton today, Westminster tomorrow, eh?"
Robert was aghast at the thought, but still conjured a proud smile for his son-in-law. "Let's not run the horse over with the cart, shall we?" He took a firm grip of Tom's hand. "An honest victory, my boy, although I'm surprised Marsden didn't demand a recount."
"It would be rather foolish," Isobel chimed in, "with Tom earning a full sixty-five percent of the vote."
"Well done, indeed," laughed Matthew, wedging his father-in-law aside to pump Tom's hand once more. "By my last estimation things were tight as a drum – that was quite a last minute shift!"
"Thanks to you," Tom smiled. "For exposing Marsden as you did."
"And we mustn't forget Miss Hazel," Sybil reminded him. "Although I still don't understand how she found him out."
Matthew and Tom cut a quick glance at Bobby, who withered into the background. "Something she picked up on the wires I suppose," Matthew shrugged. "The important thing is that the truth came out."
She knotted her arms. "He's lucky the estate, more importantly Mr. Drewe, isn't pressing charges," she snapped, and then fairly shook with angry sputters. "It was outrageous what he did – bribing those children to...OH! More than that, someone could have been killed!"
Tom slipped an arm around her waist, pressed a mollifying kiss to her cheek. "He owned up to it in the end, though, and offered an apology."
"A reluctant apology..."
"And he agreed to pay for the damages, including a new gate."
"The old goat's worried about losing customers."
But further details of the end of the pig affair would have to wait. Saoirse was hopping at her Da's feet, demanding a congratulatory hug and kiss. Tom hoisted her up for both, much to her delight, and she happily declared, "Hooray! Da's king of the county!"
"Not quite, love," Tom laughed. "I'm a simple councilman now, and one of sixty at that! But I already know which committee assignments I'll request!"
She pouted at her beloved Da's demotion, but grinned when he nuzzled their noses. "But I am going to be a big sister again!"
A collective gasp went up in the room.
"Well," said Tom, glancing at his wife, the pair of them encircled with grins, "I see Miss Hazel has some competition!"
As the room crowded both Sybil and Tom, issuing congratulations on a day full of pleasant surprises, little Beth Parks sidled up to a smiling Bobby and reached for his hand. "We had a deal."
His skin went clammy. "Not here!" he hissed.
"Then where?"
"Is anyone looking?"
"No, they're all with your Mama and Da."
"Follow me."
Da's office offered privacy, at least until his cousins came looking for him and God forbid they should ever know about this! When Beth came over to switch on the light – he didn't even have a chance to shut the door – Bobby skittered sideways. She stepped towards him again, but by then, his survival instincts had kicked in and in a panic he backed up all the way to Da's desk.
She huffed angrily. "You promised!"
"I know. But, Miss Hazel only told everyone because of my Granny Violet and Uncle Matthew – she didn't do it for us!"
"Bobby Branson! It was my idea to begin with – a promise is a promise!"
"All right, all right! Just give me a minute." Might as well get it over with, he thought, heaving in a breath. He tugged his collar; his arms, back, legs, and face stiffened with morbid anticipation. "Alright, I'm ready." Beth giggled and a moment later his cheek warmed with a light peck. "Go on then," he sighed, "No need to torture me first!"
"I'm done!"
"You are?"
"Yes!"
"I don't think you did it right." Not that he was complaining, but he didn't want to be blindsided by a second round of this nonsense.
"What do you mean?"
He blushed at the indignity of having to detail such a thing. "You're supposed to do it on the mouth."
"Ew!"
"That's how my Mama and Da always do it."
"That's...ew!"
"I know!"
Behind them, Tom cleared his throat in the open doorway. "Sorry to interrupt," he said, his voice shaking with suppressed glee, "but Mrs. Patmore sent trifle. Everyone's gathering in the parlor."
Beth escaped, leaving Bobby in a puddle of humiliation as his Da burst into merciless chuckles. Tom pulled over his desk chair, invited his son for a man-to-man chat. "Now," he said as Bobby tentatively claimed a knee, "aren't you a little young to be kissing girls in back rooms?"
"Och, Da, she kissed me!"
"What was this about a promise?"
"Da..."
Tom rather enjoyed watching his son squirm. "Uncle Matthew told me about what happened at the telephone office. Does it have anything to do with that?"
Bobby reddened guiltily. His mama would be furious if she found out he'd been meddling with Da's election. "Maybe."
"Well..." prodded Tom.
Bobby sighed and confessed. The whole plan had been Beth's, he said, though he should've thought of it himself. It couldn't have been that clever, coming from a girl after all. And anyway, she should have told him for nothing! She didn't like Harry any more than he did. "She blackmailed me!" Bobby finished indignantly.
"Hmmm..." Tom mused. "I wouldn't call it blackmail, really. Sounds more like quid pro quo."
"What's that?"
"Something in exchange for something else," he explained. "A bargain."
"But I only did it for you Da! You won't tell Mama, will you?"
Tom smiled, put himself in a seven year old's shoes, and rather marveled at the sacrifice. "I suggest we tell her the truth up front." Bobby's shoulders sagged. "Sometimes, it's best to ask forgiveness later, especially if you're certain you did the right thing."
Bobby nodded hopefully. "I know I did, Da!"
"Well, I trust your mother will see it that way." If not, he thought, his mind wandering to a long-ago rally, I'll remind her of her own transgressions. He gave the boy a fatherly squeeze and said, "Let's go have some trifle."
"Da?" Bobby asked, taking his father's hand. "You won't tell Mama about the kiss, though, will you?"
Clutching his boy's hand he promised and, brimming with curiosity, couldn't help but ask, "How was it, by the way? Your first kiss."
Bobby's cheeks dimpled roguishly. "How do you know it was my first?"
"Because, m'lad, a boy who's been kissed before will either run for his life or kiss her back! Now, tell me!"
Bobby nibbled his lip, much as Sybil often did when contemplating a serious matter. "Well, Da," he shrugged, "it could have been worse!"
Tom laughed, ruffled his hair. "For the love of God, son, never tell the woman that!"
A/N 2: In case anyone was wondering about some of the campaign photos, I've swapped out my profile pic to show the one that Robert teases Tom about (hat tip to allenleechonline). I'm sure Sybil found a splendid spot for it in her scrapbook. :) Also, as a side note, I recently had the opportunity to see the "Dressing Downton" travelling exhibit at the Biltmore Estate – it was fabulous! If it's coming to a city near you, I highly recommend it.
Up Next: And I know I promised this the last time, but I'm fairly certain their return to Ireland will happen in the next chapter...