There were no measures that truly protected against disaster; you simply held on to what mattered and hoped that you found your way to the other side. - Kevin Wilson

November 18, 1919

The Branson Flat

"There's no change?" Tom asked. His face was drawn; since the attack on his sister, he and Michael had spent all their time outside of work scouring the city, looking for information on the soldiers responsible. No one with the army would admit to knowing anything, and the frustration was beginning to take its toll. Twice Tom had fallen asleep at the table, once Sybil had found him splayed across the bed, sound asleep fully clothed. Now, both lay in their big bed staring at the ceiling, exhausted but unable to sleep.

"No, none," Sybil answered. She had been spending her days at the Bransons' home the past week to be near in case her sister-in-law needed her. Dr. Walsh had been an angel, telling her that she was owed some time off at the hospital and she ought to spend it where she was needed most…with her family. Sybil would be eternally grateful to the kind man who had seen beyond her Englishness and given her a job when her hope had been at its lowest point. She didn't think she would ever be able to repay him for his kindness.

"She hasn't come out of her room, and won't let anyone except Mam in. Kathleen's been sleeping on the couch in the sitting room. Maire doesn't talk, except to thank Mam for the tray of food she takes up, most of which she doesn't eat. I'm worried about her. She's fallen into a deep depression, and she needs something to jolt her out of it…but I don't know what that is."

"What're we going to do?" Tom asked, his voice desolate. "She's not badly hurt, is she? You said the cuts weren't deep, and they didn't do…anything else, right?"

"No, darling, physically she's fine. It's her mental state that worries me now; I know it's hard for you to understand, Tom, but to shave a woman's head is to rob her of her feminity, to violate the very essense of her being. And to be held against her will while it was done, to be unable to do a thing to stop it…well, you know what Maire's like. She needs to be in control, to be strong. They took that away from her. She's lost."

"I wish I could get a few minutes alone with that soldier who brought her home," Tom said, his voice grim. "You say he's been by the house every day since it happened, asking how she is? I'm sure he knows who attacked Maire, but I can't take off work to wait for him to show up again. He told Mam that he doesn't know who the men were, but I'm sure he's lying, just like he was lying when he said he hated what they did!"

Sybil turned on her side and faced her husband. "I'm not so sure about that," she said thoughtfully. "You were out looking, so you didn't see his face when he brought her home. He was devastated—almost as shocked as she was. Think of how it must have felt for him to find her like that, and to know that his own people did that to her. There's something deeper going on with that man, I'm sure of it. There's a reason he keeps stopping by, but Mam won't let him in, and he never argues; just goes away without a word. And then the next day he's back again."

"I still think I could get it out of him, or Michael could," Tom insisted, with that stubborn look she knew so well. "Mam won't talk to him, but somebody should."

"Well," said Sybil thoughtfully. "Maybe I could talk to him. I might be the best one to deal with him; after all, I'm English, too. And I think I've proven that not everyone who is British is evil. No…" she held up a hand. "Hear me out. I think there's more to this man than that uniform. He said he's had medical training, and that means he has a code of ethics. We have that in common, too. It certainly can't hurt to try!"

Tom had to admit that she made sense. All he wanted to do was punch the man in his face, but he knew that would not help. He had seen Sybil charm the most reluctant patients into doing what she wanted, and she only had to look at him and he turned into a pudding, so maybe she could get this British soldier to give up the information he was hiding. Because he was sure that the man was hiding something.

He wrapped his arms around his wife and gazed into her eyes. "All right, love, but be careful." He sighed. "You know I can't resist you when you're being all earnest and logical, don't you? It's just so adorable!" Sybil punched his arm and tried to glare, but his smile undid her, as it always had. She grinned at him from under her lashes…and suddenly he wasn't so tired anymore.

November 19, 1919

The Branson Flat

Edith roamed the empty flat, listening to her footsteps echo and wondering what was going on over at the Bransons'. Tom and Sybil had come back that horrible night a week ago and told her what had happened, and Sybil had been keeping her up on Maire's progress, or rather lack of it. It was so sad. She wondered why she cared so much about a girl she didn't even like. No, it wasn't that. She didn't know the Branson girl well enough to dislike her. She just felt uncomfortable around her, as if she were being judged and found wanting. And suddenly Edith knew what it was. Maire reminded her of Mary.

That day had started out so well. Something had happened between Patrick and her—something important, and she had been looking forward to finding out where it could lead. And then Michael had shown up to tell them that Maire was missing. And that reminded her of Mary, too. Always showing up at the last minute to throw dirt on the fire.

She sat down and put her face in her hands. Whoa, Edith! she scolded herself. That was just plain mean. Never in a million years would Maire have chosen this fate. It was just that hateful part of her own nature trying to wiggle into her mind again; the jealous, spiteful side of her that she had run from as surely as she'd run from Downton. And she determined, right then and there, that if given the opportunity she would do anything she could to help Patrick's sister.

She giggled to herself. Patrick's sister…not Tom's. There had been a shift in her mind, and now their former chauffeur was not the center of all things Branson anymore. Not even close.

She hadn't seen Patrick since that lunch at Murphy's, but for the first time in her life she wasn't worried about what that meant. The old Edith would have gnawed on it, worried it like a dog with a bone. But she knew that whatever had transpired between them in Murphy's Pub, it had affected both of them, and it hadn't been the alcohol. Well, not entirely. The Guinness had been an ally, giving her the courage to make the first move. But he had made the second. She savored the memory of the way she had felt when he touched her, of the way his eyes had turned liquid when he looked at her. That had been real.

Edith had a lot of patience. She had patiently waited all her life…to be noticed, to be heard, sometimes to pick up the scraps of Mary's old suitors. So she was willing to wait, to give this spark time to become something more, if it would. If it really meant something, it was worth nurturing.

A knock came at the door, startling her out of her reverie. Tom and Sybil had keys; they wouldn't knock. They had been at the Branson house after work for most of the week, so it couldn't be Michael again; he would know where they were. And she didn't know anyone else in Dublin.

She realized that her steps were increasing in speed as she approached the door. Take it slow, girl! she cautioned herself. Remember, you're a Crawley!

Patrick stood in the hallway, his hat in his hands. For a long moment, they simply stared at each other. Then Edith pulled him into the flat, slammed the door shut behind him, and went into his arms. He tasted of whiskey and hope. And for a long time she lost track of everything.

November 21, 1919

The Branson Home

Sybil looked at Maire, propped up in her bed. They sat not a foot apart, but for all intents and purposes Sybil was alone. Maire answered questions put to her…flat, monosyllabic responses that meant nothing. There was nothing physically wrong with her, yet she refused to leave the bed. She had been this way for almost a week. At least she had allowed Sybil into her room; that was progress, she supposed.

"Maire, darling, you have to come downstairs. No one cares what you look like—we're your family! Everyone in this house loves you and is worried about you."

"I know. I'm sorry. I just want to be by myself for awhile. Thank you, Sybil." The same answers over and over, a monotone. The passion was gone; she was like a lifeless doll.

Sybil sighed and got up. "I'll check back in a little while."

Without looking at her, Maire said, "That would be nice."

Sybil went downstairs and shook her head at Mam. "Nothing. I can't get through. It's as if she's given up."

Claire Branson sat down heavily in a chair. "What will happen to her, Sybil? She can't go on like this! We're losing her!" The despair in her voice cloaked the room, filling the space with a dreary sorrow.

A knock on the door had Claire's head snapping up in fury. "It's that soldier again! Tell him to go away, Sybil…why won't he stay away?"

Sybil put her hand on Claire's shoulder and squeezed it. "I'm going to talk to him, Mam. Tom and I spoke about this, and he needs to find out what this man knows. There's a reason he keeps coming back, and I'm not sure it's all about guilt. If he had been a part of this, he wouldn't have brought her home…would he? We won't let him near Maire, but I need to talk to him. What do we have to lose?"

Claire stared at Sybil through glassy eyes. "Go ahead, then. But I'm going into the kitchen. I can't be here for this." She stood up and walked out of the room, moving like an old woman. Maire wasn't the only one who had lost her way, Sybil thought. The psychological impact of this crime had affected them all.

She opened the door. A man stood on the step, head lowered as if expecting a blow.

"Yes?" Sybil said quietly. "Can I help you?"

Evan Langdon looked up in surprise at the English voice. "Umm…how is she?"

"The same. Maybe you'd better come in."

The hope in his eyes was startling and a little unnerving, but Sybil tamped down her anxiety and led him into the sitting room, directing him to a chair and taking a seat across from him. For a long moment, neither said anything. Then Sybil asked, in an even tone, "Why do you keep coming here?"

Evan said nothing for a long minute, then looked up, his soft hazel eyes filled with pain. "I don't know."

"It was very nice of you to bring Maire home to her family, but you've done that. You took care of her and cleaned her up, and you may have kept her from going further into shock. We're grateful. But she's home now, and she's receiving care—so why are you here?" Sybil persisted.

Haltingly, Evan began to speak. "I used to see her in the pub, and I admired her spirit. She was funny and nice…oh, not to me, of course, but I could see how she was with people not…like me…and…I thought she was beautiful and kind. Then…when they followed her, I knew they were going to do something bad, and I wanted to help her…protect her. I don't know why!" His last words were almost a cry, a plea for understanding, his eyes desolate.

"I followed them. When that boy came back alone, I knew she was in trouble. I looked for her, but I couldn't find her…and then those bastards…his voice twisted with bitterness…when they came out of that alley laughing and congratulating themselves…I …was afraid they'd killed her. I searched the alley, and then I heard her whimpering, and…and…I found her. I cleaned her up, and got her to tell me where she lived, and…you know the rest." He looked at Sybil, the first direct eye contact he had made, and said in a tight voice, "You needn't worry, I know who they are…I will take care of it." As if he had expended all his energy with that promise, his voice wound down like a clockwork toy, and he lowered his head again.

"I understand. But why," Sybil said softly, "are you here…a week later?"

"I'm a doctor, or at least I hope to be one someday. I know what despair can do to a patient. And I saw how she was when I brought her home. I saw it happen to soldiers in the war." He was speaking rapidly now, warming to his subject. "Men who had lost a limb and couldn't climb back out of the pit in their minds. We could heal their injuries, get them back on their feet…but we couldn't fix the horror inside them. Sometimes they just wasted away and died, and we couldn't stop it! And I was afraid that might happen to her. She was broken. They had destroyed her deep inside, where she lives. I had to help!"

Sybil remembered Lieutenant Courtenay back at Downton, and knew that the soldier spoke the truth. She leaned over and took one of his hands. "But you are the symbol of everything she hates," she said gently, "you know that, don't you? How did you think you could help?"

"I went back. To the room where they took her." He reached into the bag he had carried over his shoulder and pulled something out. Sybil gasped when she saw what he held in his hand, and an echoing gasp came from the doorway, where Claire had crept up quietly. For an interminable length of time, the three were frozen in place, and then Claire nodded to her daughter-in-law.

Sybil stood up. "Come with me." She led him up the stairs to Maire's room, and knocked softly. "Maire? I have a visitor to see you. We're coming in."

When they entered the room, Maire looked at the soldier and then at Sybil. She put her hands over her bare scalp and cowered back against the headboard like a cornered animal, her eyes round and feral.

"How could you, Sybil?" she hissed. "Get him out of here!"

"This is the man who saved you and brought you home. He has something to show you, and you are going to be polite and look at it," Sybil said in the voice she used with recalcitrant patients. "Go ahead," she nodded to Evan. "Show her."

"I collected your hair," he said, his voice trembling. "I took it to a wigmaker, and had a wig made for you." He paused, collected himself, and went on in a stronger voice, "I used to watch you at the pub. The girl I saw there was fierce and proud. She would never let them get away with what they had done to her. The girl I saw would put her hair right back on and show them what she's made of!" He stopped, shocked at the words that had come out of his mouth, but he kept his gaze fixed on the girl in the bed as he held the wig out to her.

Maire stared at him, her eyes like saucers. Her hands came down from her head and clutched at the covers on the bed, and her body began to shake. Tears welled in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. Sybil went to her and gathered her up in her arms, allowing Maire's head to fall onto her shoulder.

I-I'll leave, then," Evan said, as he turned away to let them have their privacy. "I just wanted to make sure you were all right, and give you the wig. I won't bother you again."

He placed the hairpiece on an end table. He had reached the door and was leaving the room when a small voice stopped him.

"No. Please…stay. I didn't get a chance to thank you properly…for the rescue…and for my hair."


A/N: As the war heated up in Ireland, the British army made little attempt to bond with the civilian population, who were often soft targets for retaliation. When attempts to receive justice from the constabulary or the army were made, they were often met with indifference and inaction, which might explain Tom's frustration.

Pronunciation Guide:

Maire - my + ra