A/N: The idea for this one dropped in my head a long, long time ago and, knowing it would be a complete oddball within the overall story, it lingered in the "eh, maybe later" pile until I could figure out how to work it in. For timeline reference, it takes place not long before Tom's dinner explosion in Part II of "When Irish Eyes are Smiling." Given my abominable ability to update on a regular basis, I hope you remaining readers enjoy it, and thank you in advance for indulging me on this one. :)

"Golf is twenty percent mechanics and technique. The other eighty percent is
philosophy, humor, tragedy, romance, melodrama, companionship,
camaraderie, cussedness, and conversation." ~ Grantland Rice

THE OPEN CHAMPIONSHIP, PART I
St. Annes-On-The-Sea, June 23, 1926

Tom Branson had never been so glad to hear train brakes screech to a halt as he was on that brilliant June morning of 1926. His traveling party had been babbling on about their damned itinerary since they switched lines at Preston, and when the conductor announced St. Annes-On-The-Sea! he practically bolted for the door. But just as he stepped out of the first class carriage, he had to jerk his foot back to avoid a beefy man squashing his toe.

"The course is this way, Bill!" the fellow shouted to his mate.

Tom was nearly knocked sideways as the pair shoved by and then he was engulfed in a flood of other disembarking passengers. He swam upstream for a safe spot near the ticket booth, his ears ringing from laughter and shouting. He coughed in a billowing cloud of dust, slumped against a post, and sighed.

I can't believe Matthew talked me into this.

Actually, once he'd had a chance to think on it, yes he could.

Sybil's midwifery training in York had left him bereft of company. Not that he faulted her decision by any means, but her absence did far more than leave his heart and their bed a lonely place. The abstinence had apparently muddled his brain, given that Matthew wheedled him into this golf tournament madness not two weeks ago.

With Lord and Lady Grantham up in London for a few days, Tom had been summoned to an impromptu luncheon at the Abbey to discuss general estate business. He soon discovered it was a ploy for Matthew to plug his own plans – decidedly unpopular with their father-in-law – for Pip's Corner. They'd hardly dug into the meal before Mary was rolling her eyes.

"Matthew, really. If you're so convinced of the quality of Wavell's offer, Papa will come to it on his own, as will Tom, for that matter. No need to bully him."

"I'm doing no such thing!"

When he went to speak again, she narrowed a threatening eye, and then tossed Tom a brilliant smile. "I dare say Sybil will make a popular midwife in the district. She rang yesterday to check up on me, offering all bits of post-pregnancy advice."

In late April, the family had welcomed the arrival of Miss Violet Louise Crawley. Peeking in on little Lucy before lunch, as she was passed between her indulgent parents, only served to remind Tom how desperately he missed his wife, not to mention having his own family under one roof. He tried masquerading his mulligrubs during the meal, but given Mary and Matthew's effusively sunny conversations, he must have made a lousy actor.

"Well," he told Mary. "She certainly regrets not being here for you." Forcing a smile, he went on, "I once told Sybil that sometimes hard sacrifices are needed for a future worth having. The next six weeks may feel like a lifetime, but it will be worth it in the end."

"What you need, old chap," Matthew piped up, eyes suspiciously bright, "is a quick holiday to help pass the time. And I know of just the thing..."

"Prepare yourself, Tom darling," Mary warned.

"...I've an extra ticket for the Open Championship next week. Mary can't go because of Lucy of course, and she was so looking forward to it again this year. Weren't you, darling?"

"I'm utterly devastated," she sighed, before giving Tom a quick shake of the head. Mary loved her husband unequivocally, but she could only endure so much of his middle-classness. She'd been miserable at Prestwick last year traipsing around in the heather, every step of which she later recounted to the Bransons over tea. In detail.

"I've no interest in golf," Tom flatly replied.

"It's certainly an acquired passion," his brother-in-law conceded, "but it's at St. Annes this year. Just think of a few days by the sea."

Mary's fork clinked on her plate. "Honestly, Matthew, this hobby has foundered your good senses."

"But it's not a hobby. It's a sport."

"And now you've commandeered the south field for your bowling green..."

"Putting green," he corrected around fillet of beef.

"Well, whatever it is its monopolizing prime pasturage that Tom wanted for the new Galloways!"

Matthew ignored her. "Just consider it, Tom, even just for a day or two. Edith and Gregson are going, so the four of us can make a grand time of it!"

At that, Mary groaned aloud. In this latest obsession, her husband had found allies in Edith and her lover. Both had taken to playing the sport with a troop of their bohemian cohorts in London. Our sister, Mary had once moaned to Sybil and Tom, swatting at a ball with a club. In trousers no less. No wonder Papa comes unhinged whenever he hears Gregson's name.

"And," Matthew blathered on, "I have it on good authority that Bobby Jones will try to qualify for the competition. He's this phenomenal young American chap who just won..."

Mary shot up from her chair, both men rising with her. "If you let him talk you into this," she threw at Tom, "you've only yourself to blame."

Guilty, mused Tom as he watched the masses scurrying on the St. Annes platform. Although, he supposed, a change of scenery would do him good. His moping at the cottage was driving Kitty batty, and Saoirse had entered a phase of petulant toddlerhood that would make an excellent case study for some intrepid psychologist. He didn't mind a three-day reprieve from it all, but still, it was a damned way for a working-class Irishman to clear his head.

Just then Edith was spit out of the jostling cloud and nearly landed in his arms. "Oh, sorry Tom."

This time he muttered aloud. "I can't believe Matthew talked me into this."

"Think of it as a holiday," she said, straightening her tweed jacket.

"Why is it that all holidays with your family take me to castles and posh resorts?"

"You married my sister in sickness and in health, remember? That included the family, I'm afraid."

Matthew wandered up and flopped on his fedora. He took a great sniff. "Ahh, delightful smell, the sea. Wouldn't you say, Tom?"

"Yes, lovely. If only you had planned on us actually going there as opposed to this bloody tournament."

"But this year's event should prove historical! All the greats are here: Walter Hagen, Al Watrous, Fred McCleod. Old Harry Vardon will make a go of it again this year and Bobby Jones just cleared the qualifying field at Sunningdale by seven shots!" His face curled with an avaricious grin. "I've already got twenty pounds on him."

Tom's eyes slithered sideways.

"I'd rather see one of our own players win," Edith objected. "The Americans have one four out of the last five."

"Gregson should have the cab by now. We better get on if we want to catch the start of the first round," Matthew said, digging in his jacket. "Here are the tickets."

"Tickets? We didn't need them last year."

"A new thing, apparently, so I arranged these in advance."

"Pay?" Tom quipped. "To watch golf?"

"I understand they had trouble with riffraff last..." Matthew stopped short in immediate regret.

Tom's face flushed and he waved at the mass of humanity rolling away from the station. "Riffraff? The working man, you mean?"

The Lytham and St. Annes Golf Course had been carved some thirty years before in the seaside resort village of St. Annes. The course was some half-mile inland, though Tom could, when the blustery winds picked up, catch a whiff of the surf and the sounds of tourists parading the shoreline attractions. Tom longed to be down there, not by himself of course, but would have dearly loved to brought Sybil and the children, and leave Matthew alone to this bloody golf madness. With his family scattered about, though, he was left to bear the next few days alone. Try to enjoy it, he kept telling himself, but even by midday on that first day, Tom realized he'd have to reach into an untapped well of patience to bear Matthew's enthusiasm.

His brother-in-law wanted to be anywhere and everywhere at once and, with Tom following, he'd check his timetable of the pairings and dart back and forth between holes. Matthew seemed to know which was which, but it left Tom feeling like a rat in a maze. Good shot, old chap! the future earl would shout when a ball sliced crisply through the air, or murmur That's bloody bad luck, when one spiraled off into some nefarious spot.

At the end of the day, the pair reconnoitered with Edith and Gregson who were waiting with a cab. Tom felt the odd ball out, with the three enthusiasts prattling on about Walter Hagen's unexpected "four under par", the American-leaning leaderboard and old Harry Vardon's poor showing. Matthew thought it a brilliant start to the competition, but Tom was more interested in a sound night's rest. Between their departure from Downton at an ungodly hour and fighting the shoving crowds all day over half of Lancashire, he was dead on his feet. He'd nodded off against the window by the time they reached the hotel.

And the Hotel Majestic certainly earned its title. Its ruddy brick exterior towered a full five stories, with its arched windows and corner turrets glittering with an old world opulence. The landward side featured a vast lawn with tennis courts and the seaside grounds were a broad expanse of gardens leading to a promenade and the famed St. Annes pier jutting into the Irish Sea. Given the crowds and the event's popularity, Tom half-expected to be quartered in some cobwebbed cranny in the attics, so he was rather shocked when the elevator dinged open to gilded corridor swathed in plush crimson carpet. No sputtering gas lamps either – full electric all the way with the chandeliers bursting alive with shimmering crystals. Tom cringed at what Matthew must have spent.

"We could have shared a room, you know," he muttered.

"Why on earth would we do that?" Matthew distributed a trio of room keys and motioned left. "I think we're down there at the end. Luggage should be waiting," he said, leading the way. "We've plenty of time to freshen up before dinner. What say we meet for cocktails beforehand and..."

"Actually," Tom cut in, "I wouldn't mind one already." He flayed a hand through his hair and sighed. "I think I'll order something at the bar and go to bed."

Edith turned on her heel and bumped into him, nearly knocking him backwards. "No, you can't do that!"

Tom and Matthew exchanged baffled expressions.

"It's just..." She smiled sunnily and sputtered. "It's just that Michael and I were so looking forward to speaking to you this evening about..."

"...uh...radio broadcasting..." Gregson finished when she elbowed him.

"Right. And we've not had a good visit with you in ages."

"What about me?" Matthew peevishly asked.

"Perhaps over breakfast," Tom sighed. "I'm rather done in and..." But she wouldn't take no for an answer, and after a second blistering appeal, he caved.

"Besides," Edith went on, brushing a bit of dust from his lapel, "A warm bath might work wonders, eh?"

He supposed she had a point, wincing as the day's hike knotted in his lower back. Edith pecked a kiss to his cheek and, as she and Michael sauntered down the hall, turned with a wave of the fingers.

"She's a queer one tonight," muttered Matthew. "What the devil was that about?"

"Search me," shrugged Tom, scrubbing a tired eye. He flapped his dusty cap, promised to see his brother-in-law for cocktails, and ambled towards his room.

The day of slogging through the dunes had sapped him – his feet and ankles were barking in agony – and as he fumbled with the key, he cursed himself for being such a pushover with Edith. He nudged open the door, grunted at the burst of sunset flooding in from the far side of the room.

Tom was halfway out of his jacket when his eyes adjusted and caught a silhouette against the gloaming.

"Edith wanted it to be a surprise," it explained with a husky voice.

His jacket flopped on the floor behind him.

"Surprise!"

"I can't believe it," he found himself whispering.

Truth be told, he could use a good pinch to prove his tired eyes weren't playing some evil trick. Sybil must have read his thoughts – she always claimed his face was an open book – and wandered over, shadow surrendering to light, and took his hands. The blood rushed through her fingers, sent a fire through his, and she perched on tiptoes to kiss him. No, he thought as her tongue eagerly probed his mouth, she's quite real, and when he kissed her back, he nearly wept with relief.

As the afternoon sun receded beyond the horizon, Sybil remembered locking the door and Tom scrambling out of his clothes and her hastening him to the bed. But what followed blurred into one frantic moment after another. In fact, she'd stopped counting the number of times they both cried out, her legs drawing him further, deeper, until she was sure they'd both be banished from the hotel.

Indeed, someone had eventually knocked on the door, and once Tom had rolled out of bed and hopped into his trousers, he creaked it open to find a waiter bearing a fragrant cart.

"Your dinner, sir!"

"Tom, who is it, darling?"

The room was infused with a mouth-watering aroma to which Sybil's stomach responded with a happy flip.

"Sustenance!"

He smiled, passed her the accompanying note, tied neatly to a single rose.

Bon appétit! ~ E & M.

She'd draped her legs over the bed, never minding her nakedness or the unladylike slurp at her forefinger after she dipped it in the hollandaise sauce. Tom offered another and then seized the droplets from the corner of her mouth.

"Dinner can wait," he murmured, carrying her back on the bed.

Sybil decided she wasn't so hungry after all.

Tom dreamed he was lying on the beach, with gulls squawking in the distance and the breeze stirring the hairs on his stomach. Sybil was there, too, her form a shadow against a starlight indigo sky, rocking above him, her warmth encasing him, urging him to the brink, closer and closer until…

He groaned himself awake, cursing the way his mind and body tormented him these days. Sometimes when it happened, he resolved the matter himself, disregarding both his Catholic and marital guilt for the sake of his own sanity. Other times, his body simply betrayed him while he slept, the evidence spilling in his pajamas and mocking his loneliness. On this occasion, though, the sensuous dream had been too real and raw, leaving him too aroused to settle back to sleep. Instinctively, he reached down.

A curtain of hair brushed the back of his hand. And as her mouth released him, Sybil murmured into his palm, "He's mine this morning."

Oh God.

He was instantly mortified. Or further aroused. He wasn't sure which.

His eyes darted everywhere and nowhere in the murky morning light as her mouth plied a trail up his chest, and her lips teased the humiliation burning in his ears, cheeks, lips. Her tongue dove in, as passionate now as it was earlier.

"Sorry," he muttered, when she pulled way.

"How do you know I don't do the same?" Even in the grayness of dawn, he saw her eyes dancing, her teeth nibbling on a cautious grin. When he huffed out a laugh, she brushed his mouth again, gently, whispering, "Oh Tom, I've missed you so much."

"Show me."

With a slow smile, Sybil reached down, guided them together, somehow knowing just where she'd left off in his dream. They were both more than ready, jointly aroused by their separation and untapped desires, and Tom could have easily given in right then. But he closed his eyes and waited, returned to that somnolent sensation where his nerve endings prickled at every touch, the tension building into an oddly pleasant sort of pain until she begged him to let go. He glanced up then, wanting to see her, thrust his hips in time to catch her deep. She gasped out a cry, the waves of her orgasm pushing him over with her.

He was still shaking when she collapsed against him, gasping, and he couldn't help the chuckle that escaped in a giddy haze. It had become one of his favorite parts of their marriage, this early morning love, when yesterday's fatigue was forgotten and pattering little feet had yet to leap out of bed. It was just them, as now, stealing a little bit of each other before the world crept in.

At breakfast, Tom missed Edith's slithering glance to Michael, but Sybil didn't, and tried to hide her guilty grin. Beside her, Tom was polishing his plate of kippers and sausage with a ravenous verve, his appetite as insatiable now as it was last night, as well as this morning. He popped up for a refill, smacked a kiss to her cheek.

"Be right back, love."

"Isn't he the spry one today?" Edith chuckled.

"I'll say," Gregson muttered, watching the Irishman reload his plate.

"Edith, thank you so much for arranging this," Sybil told her. "Tom's been so supportive through my training, but I know how lonely he feels."

Edith reached for her hand. "You can thank me by having a lovely time while you're here. Besides, I think it's a splendid thing you doing – we all support you."

"Not all of you," she replied with an arched brow. "Papa's certainly made his objections known."

A lady simply doesn't become a midwife, he'd told her when she first announced her intentions, and then he dropped the hammer that left them unspeaking for the next month. You've no business abandoning your husband and children – they need you at home! He'd infuriated her, partly because even after her marriage, he'd been trying to corral what little convention he could - the docile wife and mother. But Papa had also touched the raw nerve - the unavoidable separation from her husband and daughter that kept a smidgen of doubt festering in her heart. On his visits to York, Tom always managed to buff it out with a smile and a kiss, but when they parted, it always came back.

"Chin up, darling," Edith said. "He survived the Great Chauffeur Caper of 1919." Then she scowled. "And don't lump me in with him. I supported your training from the start. By the way, could you help arrange an interview with Dr. Fraser?"

"Potentially, why?"

"I've outlined an article on women's health and would really like to get the opinion of a female physician."

"What's your topic specifically?"

"It was on gynecological care..."

"…and that's my cue for another go at the eggs," Gregson said, scraping his chair back.

Edith lofted a brow and, once he was safely out of earshot, leaned over to say, "Michael thinks that may be too indelicate for our readership. We negotiated down to the prevailing trends in pre- and postnatal care."

"I can speak to her if you like. Dr. Fraser's a rather intriguing personality, actually," Sybil mused after a sip of tea. "She's quite keen on modernizing methods, of course, but on some things she's still rather uncompromising."

Edith's hand was one twitch shy of reaching into her bag for a notepad. "Such as?"

"That men have no place in the birthing room"

"That's not an uncommon opinion. Do you plan to recommend the opposite to your own patients?"

"I wouldn't say all husbands would be of benefit." Indeed, she'd met certain men who were perfectly satisfied to accept baby arrived clean and quiet to an unmussed and glowing mama. "Many of them have no wish to know what goes on down there. But, if he's willing, and it makes the mother's time easier to have him supporting her, why not?" She smiled as Tom wandered back toward their table, and threw Edith a mischievous wink. "It's not as if they haven't been on the business end of things before!"

"Sybil!"

"What's that, then?" Tom asked, snapping his napkin back in place.

"Edith was just inquiring about men in the birthing room."

Reaching for his newspaper, he bumped over an empty teacup.

"Did you enjoy it, darling? Being with me when the children were born?"

He wound his eyes toward the sideboard where Gregson seemed unnaturally obsessed with two rashers of bacon. "I'm not sure enjoy is the proper term," he managed awkwardly as he rearranged his cutlery. During Sybil's throes of labor, he vividly remembered her damning certain parts of his anatomy to the guillotine. "But, yes, being with you when our children came in to the world was one of the greatest gifts I could imagine."

Sybil leaned over, kissed his reddened cheek, and glanced back to her sister. "Where's Matthew?"

"I honestly don't know," replied Edith, brows pinching. "I told him last night Michael and I had arranged for your visit. He said he couldn't wait to see you...oh, there he is!"

As their brother-in-law plopped down in a chair, he stifled a massive yawn.

"Where have you been?"

Matthew's brows shot up eagerly when he spied the coffee. "Speaking with the clerk about changing rooms."

"What's wrong with yours?"

"I have rather inconsiderate neighbors."

Edith passed him the cream. "But aren't you next to Tom and Sybil?"

Across the table, Tom's newspaper slipped above his eyes.

"Precisely."

On the second day, with Matthew satisfied to watch to a few key matches and, most especially, with Sybil on his arm, Tom could at least feign mild interest in the competition. Still, he could only consume his brother-in-law's fanaticism in small quantities. So, whenever Matthew began prattling off about hooks and slices or niblicks and mashies, Tom would seize the opportunity to say Let's go find Edith! or I think we'll catch up with the next match – see you on the tee!

It was the latter excuse that landed the Bransons atop a heathered dune overlooking the twelfth hole where they exchanged kisses and news of home and the children. Behind them, the crowd surrounding the previous green applauded the match's final putts and began traveling en masse towards them. Tom was telling her about Saoirse's latest run-in with the cat as the patrons gathered near.

"Apparently Barnaby doesn't care for dresses," he told her.

"I should think not," she giggled. "I hope he didn't do too much damage."

"Swipe across the leg is all, though I suspect he granted leniency due to age. Bloody animal draws blood whenever I repossess my chair!"

He didn't notice the player approaching his shot and was suddenly blitzed by the crowd's collective hiss.

"Sssshhhhhhhh!"

One of the officials snapped a flag at him. "Quiet over there!"

Tom scowled, started to smart back when Sybil tugged his arm. He waited as the pair of golfers teed up and swiped their balls down the fairway. Then, between shots again and following the herd, his mind wandered to something else. He released her hand, snaked an arm around her waist. "Sybil..."

She leaned into him. "Hmm?"

"A few weeks ago, when I visited Bobby at school..." He sighed, hesitated a moment before going on. "Mrs. Glennon said something about Bobby, and it didn't sit well with me."

Sybil spoke with their son's headmistress all the time, twice this week in fact, and couldn't imagine what seemed to be troubling Tom so. Both of them had grown quite fond of her.

"She said he was chubby."

"Oh that."

"You knew?"

"Darling, you have to admit he's put on rather a lot of weight over the past few months..."

An unwelcome image of his emaciated little boy from the previous autumn flashed through his mind. "He's just regained what he lost when he was sick last year!"

"No, darling."

Tom growled his disagreement.

"When Mrs. Glennon mentioned it to me a few weeks ago, like you, I was rather upset, but when I collected him for mass one day, he couldn't even button his shorts! After a bit of snooping, I found a hidden cache of sweets in his sock drawer."

"How did he manage that?"

"I find that a remarkable question coming from the man responsible for the gumdrops and fudge."

"I only brought him a few things, it was hardly a cache!"

"You and everyone else! Edith, Matthew...Papa!" She laughed. "Even Carson!"

On a recent trip to York to collect samples of a new silver polish, dear old Carson paid homage to His Lordship's oldest grandson at Wilberforce. Little Bobby had seized on his potential supplier with gusto.

"He told Carson the deserts at Wilberforce were utterly wretched and that he would do anything for a tin of Mrs. Patmore's cinnamon biscuits."

"Why that little..."

"So, anytime one of the staff was in York, they dropped off any manner of goodies and took his requests for the next time!"

On one level, Tom had to admire the moxie to pull off such a scam, but Sybil – having maternal omnipotence – had sniffed out the details and put an end to it.

"So," she went on. "He's under constant surveillance and all sweets are rationed. That reminds me, I need to adjust a few of his shorts sometime while I'm here. They're in my luggage – don't let me forget, will you?"

It wasn't the first time she'd gently dropped the gauntlet when he'd spoiled one of their children, but he missed his boy, just as he knew she missed their daughter. And God knew how desperately he and Sybil missed one another.

They fell in beside Matthew who'd stopped midway down the twelfth fairway in order to await the next match. He scrambled up a knoll near a bunker, squinted through a pair of Mary's gilded opera glasses back toward the tee.

Tom snorted. "You look ridiculous!"

Sybil nudged him in the ribs.

"Timing's just about right," Matthew mused, glancing at his program and then back through the glasses. "Yes, I think this is Walter Hagen's match."

Then from out of the distance, came an echoed shout. "FORE LEFT!"

The crowed ducked. Tom hunched protectively over Sybil as something whooshed overhead. Behind them, a little white ball flopped into the gorse.

"That's a nasty spot," muttered Matthew as the crowd rushed toward the ball.

One of the tournament officials came running, huffing and puffing his way toward the ball and snapping a white flag above his head. "Don't touch it!" he roared and shooed the masses back as if wielding a torch.

"I'll bet that's Hagen," Matthew said. "He's known to be a bit wild with his aim."

"Does he have to play out of that?" asked Sybil.

He nodded solemnly. "Play as it lies. Although this should test his mettle."

Moments later, the crowd parted for a dapper fellow bedecked in sweater, tie, knickerbockers and two-tone saddle shoes fitted with shiny cleats. His hair was plastered to his scalp and, as he passed the Bransons, a roguish smile wormed across his moon-like face. He tipped an absent cap at Sybil and winked.

"Madam."

Tom's brows bolted together. The cheek of the fellow! And with her right on my arm! He surrendered to a primal urge, and tightened a possessive arm around her waist.

Circling his ball, Hagen whistled merrily, threw on a brilliant smile for the crowd. "Didn't aim far enough right, did I kids?" The spectators chuckled. "Six iron, Jimmy."

The caddy unsheathed the instrument to its master, who twirled it around as if ready to untangle the Gordian Knot. He took a mighty swipe and his body was engulfed in an explosion of grass and sand.

"My God," Matthew burst out as the cheering crowd raced forward. "Did you see that? Why, that can't be twenty feet from the pin!"

The detritus from Hagen's shot had blown back into Tom's face. He spat and sputtered and scrubbed his eyes. "Splendid."

Tom Branson could spend all day mired to his knees in manure or greased to the elbows wrenching away at some cantankerous engine and be perfectly content, but he would on rare occasion admit that warm baths coupled with a glass of whiskey could work wonders for one's soul. It could also work wonders for one's back, and Tom's was particularly sore after trudging through the dunes, not to mention the previous hour in which Sybil'd had her way with him.

Twice.

Lazed back in the paw-footed tub of their Hotel Majestic bathroom, Tom sighed contentedly as the fresh memories buzzed in his veins. His feet were wedged most comfortably on either side of his wife's hips and her own were resting atop his thighs. Occasionally, Sybil snuck her toes down for a bit mischief, but mostly, like him, she simply basked in the endless supply of hot water as they soaked off their separation.

Before they'd dipped into this blissful pool of serenity, she'd snatched up the hotel brochure, which she now sat perusing. "Oh, darling, they have Turkish baths!"

Tom reached for his whiskey. "So tomorrow we stay here?"

"We can't do that." When he glared woozily through a slitted eye, she reminded him, "It's the final day of the competition. Matthew paid for the tickets and it would be rude not to go out with him."

Tom grumbled, began rubbing circles into one of her feet as she thumbed through pages.

"Apparently they have therapeutic treatments for everything under the sun..."

He tweaked her little toe, brought it to his lips for a nibble. "Of course they do."

"No, really. Listen. Lumbago, sciatica, rheumatism, nervous prostration, arthritis, goiter, obesity, cardiac and circulatory derangements, constipation..."

"…which shouldn't be an issue. That mutton was floating in grease."

"...tumors, insomnia, warts, piles, ulcers, goiter, and removal of superfluous hair." She flipped to the next page. "That just about covers it, doesn't it?"

He snorted. "Superfluous hair?"

She grinned over the pamphlet, inched her toes down his stomach and curled them with a gentle twist.

"Yowch!" Seizing her foot, he grinned. "Nothing superfluous there, milady."

She clambered towards him, ready for a little fun, but found the logistics rather difficult. Somehow she managed to straddle his lap, although her knees were pinched against the side of the tub. Her eyes danced, as did her fingers which settled between his legs. "Oh, Tom..." Glancing down, she hissed as a cramp threatened her calf. "It's not big enough, darling."

"It's just tired," he muttered, "give it a minute."

"I mean the tub, silly."

"Oh, right."

"I've got an idea…" She twisted and wiggled and sloshed up to her feet, leaving her husband with an enviable view.

Tom kissed the inside of her thigh, glanced up, and said, "You're right, this is much better."

But before he could dive into his target, she laughed, tugged him toward the bed. "Perhaps later," she said, and they tumbled, all wet limbs and dripping hair, back into the tousled linens. "But I think I'd rather hoist the sails first, give it a go up here on dry land."

"If the sails are limp," he laughed as she landed on him. "You've only…yourself…to blame…"

Bap-bap-bap.

Tom might have heard a knock at the door. He might have even grumbled Go away around one of Sybil's probing kisses, but couldn't swear to it.

Bam-bam-bam!

"Tom, are you in there?"

Both Bransons groaned as Matthew continued pummeling the door.

Tom growled and wriggled from beneath her. He'd just managed to knot up his robe before snatching open the door. "What?!"

Matthew's brows, screwed together at the snappish tone, shot up as he took in the Irishman's dripping déshabillé. "Oh."

"Right."

"I suppose this explains your absence at dinner."

"We ordered in."

"That's rather posh, wouldn't you say?"

Tom narrowed an eye.

"I'm not completely heartless, you know," Matthew whispered with a placating smile. "But, the thing is I'm in rather a spot. Gregson and I are getting pasted at billiards by this American pair. We've lost fifty pounds already and it's all your fault."

"Mine!?"

"Yes, yours! You've turned down all of my recent invitations, and playing our father-in-law doesn't exactly refine one's skills." With his brother-in-law unmoved, but – Matthew suspected – teetering on the edge, he said, "Look, two games and you and Gregson can easily win it back. One chap's wearing down, I can feel it, and he's rather a smug bloke and easily goaded."

Tom sensed blood in the water, even from five floors up.

"Banker from Boston," Matthew threw in for good measure. "Been talking about the Irish all evening."

Apparently, Sybil had already forfeited her husband's attentions, at least temporarily, and her voice echoed from the bathroom. "Oh for Heaven's sake, darling, just go!"

Tom shooed Matthew off, promising to meet him in the game room straightaway. As he rustled into his trousers and shirt, Sybil padded in fully robed and toweling her hair. He tossed her a mildly apologetic glance. "Are you sure, love?"

"I'll survive. Come here," she laughed as he struggled with his tie. It came out a trifle crooked, no surprise given that he was nipping at her fingers. By the time she'd finished, he'd almost changed his mind, kissed her hungrily.

"Will you…wait…for me?"

"I wait for no man, Branson," she laughed. "But I will let you make it up to me."

He kissed her palm, trailed his tongue to her thumb, where he sucked gently on the pad, palm, and fingers. "How about an advance payment…now?"

Her breath quickening, she roughly unlaced his tie. "Billiards?"

They collapsed on the bed in a gasping heap, and Tom swore as she unbuttoned and shoved a hand into his trousers. He groaned softly, his mouth closing on that spot behind her ear as he sank into her, and began to move. "Think on it this way…the more he loses…the more I can win back. And that, my love…" He pulled back, laughed at her wanton smile as she urged him on. "…is called bargaining power."

Sated and, at least for the moment, gloriously drained, Sybil lounged in a wing back chair by the French doors that overlooked the ocean. The breeze cascaded in, unfurled the folds of her robe, and she breathed in the mingled scent of sea air and them where it lingered like honey on her skin. Closing her eyes, she felt his solidity pressing her into the bed, remembered his thrusts, that murky hue of his eyes as they came together. She was burning it to memory: little fires she could kindle when loneliness consumed her back in York.

During her wartime training, she'd often scoffed at her fellow nurses who swooned over their beaus and giggled about physical love, the same kind of love that required them to nick contraceptives from the cupboard. Perhaps it was because she lacked a lover of her own – Would her choices have been different if she had? – but the reality then was that her work came first. She was carving her own path apart from her upbringing. She finally had a purpose.

Ten years had changed her perspective. Though Tom had given his blessing, her training now in York and the constant separation from her husband and daughter came with a nagging emotional dissonance. When Sybil was busy she was determined, free even, but once her daily duties were done and she was back in her quarters, the solitude sometimes overwhelmed her to quiet tears.

As desperately as she missed their lovemaking – one of the constants in their marriage – she missed him even more, his lullabies to their children, his whisperings as they fell asleep, the soft curve of his palm on her hip, the hair falling across his brow in the morning sun. Though they'd managed to see each other most weeks during the past two-and-a-half months, their visits were focused foremost on Saoirse and Bobby. After sharing cuddles and kisses, and listening to the sweet childish babblings, they'd glance wistfully over the pair of small, dark heads, and silently promise next time. But next times were infrequent and prized when they came.

Like now.

Thank God for Edith's invitation, Sybil thought, though she expected Dr. Fraser to assign her a gauntlet of extra duties next week. Quite worth it though, she mused, standing to stretch the soreness from her limbs. She checked the bedside clock. They'd promised to meet in the lobby in an hour sharp, humor Matthew for cocktails, perhaps indulge in a dance or two, and then polish the evening in orgasmic bliss. As the robe slipped from her shoulders, the sunset swathed her in a warmth that reminded her of him again.

Now you truly are being silly, she chided herself with a grin. You can make it a few hours.

Maybe.

Edith's invitation had been accompanied with a box and note: Since you don't "soiree" anymore, here's something for the occasion. When Sybil had opened it in her quarters at the York Maternity Hospital, her roommates, two hopelessly young and bright-eyed girls, squealed at the Coco Chanel label. It was a dazzling little black and gold number woven with metallic lace. And tonight, the woman in her – not the mother, and certainly not the midwife – harbored the vain desire to make jaws drop, especially Tom's. She pulled it from the box, shivered as it slid smooth as a satin glove over her skin. She did what she could with her bob, which seemed on a mission to tattle about their afternoon tryst, and dabbed on enough rouge and lipstick to feign caring about such things.

With the hotel bursting at the seams and the grand tournament reception underway downstairs, the elevators were doing their best to keep up, so she had to wait. A man joined her, offered a "Good Evening" along with an affable smile. He was, in Sybil's opinion, a rather fetching young man, perhaps in his early twenties, with bronzed skin and hair parted neatly down the middle. He looked vaguely familiar, but then again, she'd wandered amongst several thousand spectators earlier that day.

"Are you here for the competition?" he asked.

She detected an American accent hidden beneath within his shy, almost melodic, voice. "I am," she smiled. "As is everyone else, I suppose. And you?"

"Yes."

She proffered a hand. "I'm Sybil."

He gave it a polite squeeze. "Bob...or Bobby depending on who you ask."

"My son is called Bobby."

Sybil watched the circled numbers blink on and off for various floors.

Hands clasped behind his back, Bob rocked on his heels. "Do you enjoy golf?"

"Actually, I don't know the first thing about it. This trip was my brother-in-law's idea. He's all gung-ho about the sport."

"What made you come then?"

"Time away with my husband. We've had a difficult few months...blimey, that sounds rather dodgy doesn't it?"

The elevator dinged open then and he ushered her in with a smile. "If you'll excuse the brazen presumption of an American, but you don't strike me as the dodgy sort."

"It's nothing like that," she admitted, laughing. "We've just not had much time to ourselves recently. I've been away at a midwifery course since April, and before that, last autumn, well, our son fell terribly ill. He recovered, but he was left blind."

"I'm so sorry."

"We're quite fortunate, really, but coping with it has been quite a challenge."

"But otherwise, he's healthy?"

"And active. Bobby's terribly energetic. He's adapted far better than we have."

"Well, we Bobbys tend to rise above our afflictions." He smiled again. "I was a very sickly boy myself, but found sport to be a tremendous remedy." The elevator eased to a halt at the lobby and he sagged with a fatalistic sigh. "Well, here we are...the lion's den."

"Whatever do you..."

The doors swooshed open to a deafening buzz of conversation, clinking glasses, and laughter invigorated by cocktails. Tom and Matthew were both waiting. As she'd hoped, her husband seemed positively drunk with lust. Her brother-in-law, on the other hand, looked as if he'd been slapped with a wet fish. A swarm of men armed with notepads besieged the elevator door and bulbs flashed from every direction.

From out of the mass came a rumpled and bespeckled man armed with a rolled newspaper, which he promptly used to swat away the reporters. "One at a time you jackals!"

"A pleasure meeting you, Sybil," Bob called as he was tugged away by his handler. "I hope you enjoy the rest of the week!"

"And you!"

"All right, Pop, who's first?" she heard him say as a gaggle of reporters followed him.

Oblivious to the chaos, Tom took her hands, held her at arm's length as a covetous smile wormed over his face. "Absolutely stunning," he approved, when she gave a little turn. He kissed her cheek and nodded toward the disappearing crowd. "Who was that?"

"Who was that?" Matthew spat. "That was Bobby Jones!"

"Is he the one you want to win?" Sybil asked.

"Well, what did he say? Anything about tomorrow's match?"

She shook her head. "Nothing important. Elevator chit-chat, you know."

Matthew began to sulk, muttered about his bloody bad timing and just going off to bed.

"Oh no you don't, Mr. Crawley," Sybil laughed. She took Tom on one arm and hooked her despondent brother-in-law with the other. "The evening's still young, and we three shall make the most of it!"

A/N2: The Hotel Majestic (originally constructed in 1909 as the Imperial Hydropathic Hotel) was demolished in 1972 and the details on its baths and superfluous hair removal are direct from a contemporary pamphlet. By the time Bobby Jones arrived at the 1926 Open (at the age of twenty four), he was already a celebrity. He was considered a "boy wonder" in his youth and gained much notoriety on the amateur circuit. He was also challenging the professional players, such as Walter Hagen, who is considered the father of professional golf. Many of those early professionals rose through the caddy ranks and were considered 'working class', but they had a tremendous impact on the game by the 1910s and 1920s, when golf rose in popularity as a public recreational sport. The 1926 Open was the first year tickets were required for the general public (indeed, intended to eliminate the hooligans) and you can view a few clips of the competition by you-tubing "61st Open - Royal Lytham & St Annes (1926)." If you squint real hard, you might see the Bransons. ;)

Up Next: Tom goes mano-a-mano with an unlikely target, and the conclusion of the tournament.