They say a person needs just three things to be truly happy in this world: someone to love, something to do, and something to hope for. - Tom Bodett

December 12, 1919

Johnson Mooney and O'Brien Bakery

Deaglan Collins was supposed to be waiting for Kathleen Branson outside the bakery, as they had planned. Their exchanges so far consisted of written notes on napkins passed over the counter with money or tucked into a bag of scones, and they thought that they were becoming quite adept at espionage. But today they were finally going to meet. And talk.

Kathleen had pleaded a headache and asked Bernadette if she could step outside for a few minutes for some fresh air. It wasn't much, but she was new at this plotting thing and it would have to do for a first meeting. After what had happened to Maire, Kathleen was surprised that Bernadette had let her go, even in broad daylight, but Bern had been busy with the accounts and merely mumbled an order to be careful and not go far.

The horror of what had happened to her sister had receded somewhat in the past weeks; Maire was back at work and seemed to have regained much of her old spirit. Kathleen wasn't sure what had caused the change, but she was certain Sybil had something to do with it. Sybil was often behind anything good that happened to the Bransons. At any rate, Bern had relaxed her vigilance a bit, and for a few moments Kathleen was free.

She stepped outside into the brisk winter afternoon and looked around. Christmas decorations were hanging from lamp posts, greens festooned storefronts, and Christmas hymns sounded from the cathedral on the next street, but Kathleen was unaware of any of it. He was not there. A group of older lads ambled past, and one or two looked her up and down in appreciation before continuing on their way, but Deaglan was nowhere in sight.

What had happened? He had told her exactly where he would be waiting…and suddenly she knew— he was not coming. He had been toying with her, making a fool of her. Her eyes filled with tears and she turned to go back inside the bakery. That's what she got for lying; now she really was getting a headache! She'd been so stupid!

"Wait!" an urgent voice whispered. "I'm here!" and there he was. He had come out of the alleyway next to the bakery and was looking up the street, marking the passage of the group of lads who had passed by. He seemed evasive, as if he did not want to be seen by them. As the group rounded the next corner and disappeared from sight, Deaglan relaxed and his smile returned. And just like that, the sun came out and the day brightened.

"Shall we walk a little way?" His voice was tentative. Was he nervous? Surely not! Kathleen was the neophyte at this sort of thing; she was sure that his experience with girls was vastly superior to hers with men, as she had none. Nevertheless, as he fell into step beside her, she could feel a tension radiating from him. It made her feel better about herself, stronger.

"So," he said as they reached the end of the street and turned back again. "Tell me about Kathleen Branson. "I mean, besides the fact that she's beautiful and sweet…". He blushed, and Kathleen felt her heart flip. So she told him that she came from a family of six. And then she asked him about his, and just like that they were talking. This was not difficult at all! Kathleen felt quite worldly. When they passed a small park with benches, it just seemed natural for them to take a moment to sit down and rest.

He was twenty-one, and had one sister, who was two years older and thought she was his second mother. His father was dead, like hers, and his mother was an invalid and was bedridden much of the time, but he had an uncle who had helped to raise him and his sister.

"Aislinn bosses me around something fierce," he said, but there was affection in his voice. "She thinks she can tell me what to do, whom to see and how late to be out. Thinks she's a detective. She's been wondering why I'm bringin' home all these cakes and pastries, and the not knowing is pure killing her!" He looked sideways at Kathleen and grinned. "We both work at the brewery, so it's really hard to get away from her, but I've shaken her off for now!"

"Ha!" laughed Kathleen. "You should try being the youngest of three brothers and a brother-in-law, and two sisters and a sister-in-law, all kept in line by a mother who doesn't miss a thing!"

He looked impressed. "Well, you win that one, I guess. What do they all do?"

"My Mam's a seamstress; the best in Dublin," Kathleen said proudly. "My sister runs the bakery, her husband Daniel has his own construction crew and my brother Patrick works for him. My brother Tom is a journalist—he's the smart one of the family—and my sister-in-law Sybil is a nurse. My brother Michael works on the docks, and my sister Maire is a waitress at Murphy's Pub. And that's the lot!" She smiled as she thought of something. "My sister probably serves up the beer you make!"

Deaglan laughed. "So that's another connection we have."

"Another one?" She was confused.

"Yes, I buy the pastries that you make!"

They laughed at the idea, and then Kathleen asked, "And what does your uncle do? Is he a brewer too?"

Deaglan was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "No, he's an accountant. He works for the government."

"Well, said Kathleen. "That's another connection, then! My sister-in-law is British."

"Not that government," said Deaglan quietly. "He works for the Dáil." He hesitated, then said, "He's the minister of finance."

Kathleen turned to look at him. She didn't follow politics, but she'd certainly heard Tom, Maire and Michael talk enough about the Dáil Éireann to know a few things about the new Irish Parliament.

"Collins?" she asked, wide-eyed.

"Yes," he sighed, a wary look in his eyes. "My uncle is Michael Collins."

Here it was, he thought. The moment when people either backed off or became aggressive because of his relationship to the leader of the republican cause in Ireland. Sometimes he was targeted by other lads who disagreed with his uncle's politics, and girls usually wanted to avoid the danger that came with his proximity to such a man. He tensed, and waited.

Kathleen stared at him, and slowly a wide smile spread over her face. The Michael Collins? Oh, and wouldn't her brother Michael be over the moon about that, she thought. Another connection, indeed. That made three, and wasn't three a charm?

December 23, 1919

The Branson Flat

Patrick was late. Edith had been waiting for almost an hour, and her irritation was building. There were three things that drove Lady Edith mad: her sister Mary, her own timidity…and tardiness. This was supposed to be their special time— he knew that. But he had been late several times in the last few weeks, and Edith had to admit that she found this particular habit more than a trifle annoying. Happy-go-lucky, laid back, devil-may-care…all of those expressions made it sound charming and lovable, when the reality was that it was just damn inconsiderate.

It was not fashionable to be tardy, Edith thought belligerently; it was rude and thoughtless. She had thought she was coming to a place where time meant something. People in Ireland worked for a living, at least those she knew. Claire Branson was always busy. Maire, Michael, Kathleen—all of them seemed to adhere to a schedule with no difficulty. All of them except Patrick.

Patrick had always been easygoing. The infamous Branson temper had bypassed him entirely; Claire Branson liked to say that Michael and Maire had each gotten a double dose, leaving nothing for the two youngest Bransons.

And Patrick wasn't late on purpose, he just often had his head somewhere else. Sybil had told her it was worse since he had begun working for Daniel. He was never late to work; he just forgot to stop, to come up for air sometimes. Edith was beginning to feel that she was playing second fiddle to a block of wood, and it was getting on her nerves.

She had been looking forward to this evening. Tom and Sybil were out doing some Christmas shopping and then spending the evening with Tom's mother, so she and Patrick had the flat to themselves. Correction: she had the flat to herself. She had stopped pacing and was sitting on the couch next to the fireplace, tapping her foot like one of those nuns in the church the Branson family attended. She'd bet her face looked like one of them, too…tight-lipped and disapproving. She didn't care.

When he knocked, she took her sweet time getting to the door. His lack of consideration was not going to make her rush, Edith told herself. And she was going to give him an earful this time, too!

Patrick stood in the doorway with a happy grin on his face. Edith glared at him, but he didn't seem to notice. He reached to hug her, but she stepped back and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Where have you been?" Her voice dripped ice. "You're over an hour late. I was getting worried."

The happy look wavered. "I had to finish something up…sorry, it took a bit longer than I thought, but I wanted it to be perfect."

"You always want your projects to be perfect!" Edith could hear her voice rising, but she was in full swing now and there was no one quite as good at righteous indignation as Edith Crawley when she felt hard done by. "You seem to care more about your projects than you do about me! I feel left out of your life." She took a breath. "I thought we had something, but I'm not so sure!"

There. It was out. She had let it build and fester, and now, fueled by her insecurity, it had risen up and exploded. Patrick looked puzzled. He studied the floor, shuffled his feet, and then reached into his knapsack.

"Well," he said in his soft, velvet lilt. "I was going to wait till tomorrow, but I might as well give it to you now. I've been spending all my spare time on it, and I think it's as ready as it's going to be."

"W-what?"

He handed her a long box. "Happy Christmas," he said.

Edith took the box and sat down—hard—on the couch. She had a horrible feeling that she had just made a complete ass of herself. She opened the package to find an exquisite set of wooden beads, graduated in size, each bead carved into an intricate pattern of vines and flowers, polished to a soft glow and perfect in shape. A tiny silver shamrock dangled from the clasp. Edith Crawley had many lovely necklaces, some worth more than Patrick would make in a year…but she had never seen anything so beautiful as this set of beads that he had made for her with his own hands. Her eyes filled with tears.

"I—I'm s-so s-sorry!" She dropped the box into her lap and put her head in her hands. "This is the m-most wonderful gift anyone has ever g-given me, and you m-made it for me yourself! You made it for me! I'm the m-most horrible person in the world, and I d-don't deserve it! I don't deserve you!" Tears of shame and remorse were overflowing now. She kept her hands over her face, afraid to look at him…afraid to see the condemnation in his eyes.

Patrick sat down next to her and put his arms around her, pulling her to him. "Well, darlin'," he said, "I won't say it's always easy dealin' with you posh types, but I think you just might be worth the trouble." He held her face in his rough workman's hands and kissed her gently. "It was never going to be easy for us…we just have to care enough to try. Do you care enough, my lady?"

She couldn't answer him through her sobs, so she buried her face in his shoulder and blubbered. It was enough.

December 24, 1919

The Branson Home

It had been a long day, and Sybil was dead on her feet. She was tired a lot these days, and today she hadn't felt well. Dr. Walsh had let her go early this afternoon, his Christmas gift to her, and tomorrow she was off for the holiday. She could rest then. After all, this was her first Christmas as a Branson, and she didn't want to miss a thing. She had gone early to Mam's to help with the preparations, but Claire and Bernadette worked so efficiently as a team that she felt superfluous. They had finished the cleaning and set out the candles and the holly, and made certain that every doorway had a sprig of mistletoe and the candle was set in the front window. Sybil was just in their way.

"When is Daidí na Nollag coming?" screeched Connor, dashing into the room and nearly bowling Sybil over. Connor was three and a half now, the veteran of three whole Christmases, and he remembered well the joy of finding his sack filled last Christmas morning.

"Gack!" His sister Fiona, who had just reached the ripe old age of one, toddled in on fat little legs and echoed her brother. This is where I can help, thought Sybil in relief, and swept her niece and nephew away into the sitting room to entertain them with stories. And that was where Tom found her.

He stood in the doorway and watched his wife with the children. She would be such a perfect mother, he thought, and felt that familiar rush of emotion as he looked at this expatriate aristocrat who had turned his life and his world upside down. It was this way every time he looked at her; when he woke in the morning and looked into her sleep-clouded eyes, and when he came home from work to find her trying another recipe that his mother had tried to teach her, face flushed from the oven's heat and hair escaping its careless bun. God, he loved this woman!

Sybil turned and saw him, and her eyes lit. She sauntered over and pointed wordlessly at the innocent sprig of greenery that hung above his head, before wrapping her arms around him and finding his lips with her own.

"Ahem!" said Bernadette. "Don't you two ever get enough? Everyone's here; it's time for dinner. Come!" She scooped up her children. Tom held his hand out to his wife, and they went to join the others.

As the fish was served, Sybil looked with affection at the faces around the Branson table. Michael, Kathleen, Daniel. Bernadette, Claire. Maire, looking happier than she had in a long time; it had been a rough go, but she was strong and stubborn. Patrick, laughing and joking with her sister Edith, who had never looked more beautiful than she did tonight. Sybil felt a surge of love for her sister; how perfect that she was here to share her first Christmas in Dublin!

Throughout the evening, neighbors came and were offered tea and cake, which by tradition was refused once, sometimes twice, and then accepted with gratitude. Things began to blur.

"Sybil, I think Tom should take you home." Claire was looking at her with concern. "You've been working too hard, and it won't do for you to get sick. God will understand if you two miss one Midnight Mass, I think."

So now here they were, sitting before the fire in their flat, wrapped in a blanket and in each other as they stared into the fire. Sybil's eyelids were drooping.

"Darling, you should get some sleep," Tom told her. "Tomorrow's a big day."

"I'll go, but first I have to give you your Christmas present."

"I thought we agreed not to buy each other anything," he protested.

"I didn't buy anything," Sybil answered him, a mysterious look on her face. "Your mother is teaching me to make lace, and she helped me make something for you."

"You made me something out of lace? Um…Sybil, have you ever seen me wear lace?"

She laughed, and handed him a tissue wrapped package. Perplexed, Tom opened the paper, and stared. Nestled inside the folds of tissue was a tiny white dress with Irish lace adorning the hem and sleeves.

"What—?" he whispered. Two pairs of blue eyes met and held each other, and then the smile she adored spread over Tom Branson's face.

"It's a Christening gown," Sybil said softly. "Happy Christmas, darling. You're going to be a father."


A/N: Michael Collins was one of the most important figures in the Irish War of Independence. Son of a farmer, he became a leader in Sinn Féin and the Irish Republican Brotherhood, taking a major role in the Easter Rising of 1916. As a key member of the Dáil Éireann, he was appointed minister of finance, and organised the hugely successful Dail loan which was responsible for financing the new republican government. He is most famous for his leadership of the Irish Republican Army (IRA), and his establishment of "the Squad", a group of gunmen tasked with the assassination of British agents during the War.

A/N: Irish tradition has it that when offered a gift of hospitality at Christmas, it should be refused once or twice. The third time it is offered, you should accept. The custom may have come from the days of the Potato Famine. Although people had nothing to give, they could offer the hospitality of a cup of tea without embarrassment. By offering a third time, the recipient was assured that accepting the gift would not cause the giver hardship.

Pronunciation Guide:

Aislinn - ash + ling

Dáil Éireann - doyl + air + uhn

Deaglan - deck + lan

Maire - my + ra

Sinn Féin - shin + fane