Listen to the mustn'ts, child. Listen to the don'ts. Listen to the shouldn'ts, the impossibles, the won'ts. Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me... Anything can happen, child. Anything can be. - Shel Silverstein

August 8, 1920

The Branson Home

"Sit down, Sybil!" Claire Branson's tone brooked no argument, and Sybil lowered herself into a kitchen chair, looking militant.

"I might as well work," she pouted. "I'm never having this baby, so I'll just have to get used to being the size of a house forever!"

"You know, for a nurse, you're not very clear on how the human body works," Claire told her. "You will have this baby, and if I'm any judge, it'll be very soon. But you aren't going to make it happen any faster by taking up room in the kitchen, so sit. I'll make you a cup of tea."

"I hate Tom," Sybil announced. "Your son did this to me. He told me he loved me, and I fell for it, and now look at me! I'm ugly, and fat, and useless."

Claire ignored her. Ordinarily the sweetest person she knew, Sybil in the last stages of pregnancy was another story altogether. Since she had been forced to quit working two months ago, she had been restless and irritable much of the time, breaking into tears without warning and snapping at Tom and Edith over the most minor things. Edith, used to her baby sister being the peacemaker, did not know how to handle this strange new being, and she found herself finding excuses to be away from the flat as much as possible.

Tom was torn between the desire to work late in order to avoid going home, and the need to make sure his wife was all right; he had decided that they were never having another child. Finally he went to his mother for advice, and Claire decided that Sybil should move into Maire's old bedroom for the remainder of her pregnancy. Claire had given birth to six children, and she knew how to handle the anxieties of a new mother. So it was done.

Now Sybil put her swollen feet up on another chair and sipped her tea. "Thanks, Mam," she sighed. "I'm such a monster these days, I don't know how any of you put up with me. Poor Tom…he flinches every time I open my mouth, because he knows he's going to be guilty of something! I hate it when he hovers, but I know he means well. I love him to death and I want to be nice, but I can't help myself. Today's Sunday, but where is he? 'Helping Colum with something', he says. Humph! Helping him finish a keg of ale, I'll bet! He's avoiding me! I'm a horrible person, and I deserve to be alone and unloved forever!"

"Sure and you're the first woman ever to have a baby, you know," Claire said, turning from the sink. "No one has ever gone through what's happening to you. Your husband is certain to leave you, and if you think I'm taking you in when that happens, think again!"

Sybil's eyes grew huge and her mouth rounded into an O, and then her lips twitched and her body began to shake. A giggle escaped, and then a laugh, and soon tears of mirth were running down her face.

"I-I'm s-sorry," she gasped. "I really am the most ridiculous person, aren't I? I know it's hormones and discomfort, and that it will pass…I'm a nurse, for heaven's sake! But I'm acting like a spoiled child who has had her treat taken away. I vow, starting right now, to behave myself and act like a grown woman."

"Well, dear, that would be very nice," said Claire. She came over and placed a kiss on Sybil's forehead. "It will all be over soon, and then the real fun will start. I guarantee that there will be times you'll wish you could put that baby back inside you." She arched one eyebrow and turned back to her dishes.

Sybil laughed. "I love you, Mam." She struggled to her feet. "And now I'm going to the toilet…again. Oh!" Claire turned to find her daughter-in-law staring at the floor, where a puddle was forming under her dress.

"So, it starts," Claire said, her voice calm. "Your waters have broken. Looks as though you'll be having that baby after all. Daniel! Get your truck!"

Sybil soon found herself at the Mater, tucked into a hospital bed. Tom arrived and alternately held her hand and paced. Three hours later, she wondered what she was doing there; nothing more had happened. After five hours, she began to experience contractions, and by midnight they were five minutes apart. At two o'clock in the morning the contractions stopped. The doctor came in regularly, took her vitals and assured her that things were progressing.

At four o'clock the contractions began again, with a vengeance. Kathleen, Bernadette, and Claire took turns rubbing Sybil's back and feet. They tried to throw Tom out, but he refused to budge. His eyes were bleary and his hair stuck up all over his head from running his hands nervously through it, but he remained glued to his wife's side, holding her hand.

"You're doing great, darling! You're a natural at this!" he murmured. Between contractions, Sybil kept her eyes fixed on her husband, grateful beyond measure for his presence. How could she ever have yelled at him?

"I couldn't do this without you," she whispered. "I do love you so much, Tom!" Another contraction seized her, causing her to gasp. She went back to breathing.

By six o'clock in the morning, the contractions were still five minutes apart. Tom went out into the hall and called for the doctor. "Why is it taking so long?" he demanded, his voice raw with worry. "Shouldn't the baby be here by now? What's wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong," the doctor assured him. "First-time mothers often take longer to deliver. First time fathers always worry. Everything is normal."

But when another hour had passed, it was obvious to Tom that everything was not normal. The contractions were no closer than before, and Sybil was becoming exhausted. The doctor came in, ordered everyone out of the room, and took his place at the foot of the bed. Two nurses accompanied him. Tom studied their faces, but could read nothing in them. One of the nurses put her hand on his arm and gently pushed him out, closing the door in his face.

"I want you to rest between contractions, sweetheart," the doctor said to Sybil, his voice calm. "You're going to need all your strength to push in a very short while. "Shallow breaths, now…that's the way. Good girl."

Tom paced the hallway outside, fear clutching his heart. What was happening? Why wasn't he allowed to be with his wife? His mind began to envision all sorts of terrible things that could be happening inside that room. Women died in childbirth! What if she was in danger? He should be there!

Claire took her son's arm. "It's going to be all right, Tom. Sybil is strong, and she's right where she needs to be. The doctor is with her; he knows what to do." Soothing words that fell on deaf ears.

"I can't live without her, Mam," he choked. "She's my life! What am I going to do if…" He stopped, unable to go on, his blue eyes wide with terror. "She's my life!"

The door opened and the doctor came out. Tom stared at him, paralyzed with fear, every nerve in his body tingling with apprehension.

"Mr. Branson?" said the doctor. "Your wife is asking for you. Would you like to meet your daughter?"

August 13, 1920

Letter from Maire Langdon to Claire Branson

August 4, 1920

Dear Mam,

I received your letter, yesterday, and sat right down to write back. Evan and I are well, although I do admit to being quite homesick for Dublin, and especially for you and Kathleen. I know I made the right decision, though…how you all must be laughing at me that I have married an Englishman! Well, laugh all you like. The two of us have quite a few laughs when we think about our odd courtship. Nothing normal for the crazy Irish, Evan says! But I do love him so much, and although you will say it took me forever to realize it because of my stubbornness, I found my knight in shining armor, and he did carry me off on his horse—or on an ocean liner, as it turned out. We couldn't be happier.

Sybil's grandmother—she insists that we call her Martha—has been so kind; she's insisted that we stay with her until we find our feet, and I think I've met my match with her; she doesn't take no for an answer. Evan has begun taking classes at the New York Medical College, and he works as a paramedic full time, so he is exhausted but happy. I'm doing my part, Mam—I found a lovely Irish Pub called O'Malley's, and when they heard my accent they took me on straight away! It's not Murphy's but the proprietor reminds me of Colum, and Martha's chauffeur drives me to and from work every day, so I'm quite la-de-da.

I do so wish you could have been here for the wedding. Martha insisted that it be held at her home, which is a mansion the like of which you've never seen, and I wore Sybil's dress—please thank her for lending it to me. I didn't know anyone except Martha and Evan, of course, but Martha's friends acted as if they'd known us for years, and made us feel like royalty! Everyone said that I was the most beautiful bride they'd ever set eyes upon, but the only one whose opinion counts is Evan, and I could tell he was fairly bowled over so I guess I was a success. The veil was lovely, Mam. My hair has grown down to my chin now, so I could wear it pinned up, and Martha lent me a beautiful comb—but nothing compares to your lace—you would have been so pleased by all the oohs and ahhs.

How is Sybil? She must be big as a whale by now, and pretty eager to have that baby. I can just imagine Tom; he's probably hovering like an old biddy hen. I do wish I could be there to see the baby, but of course that isn't possible, even if we could afford the trip. Some day we'll be back; Evan has said so, and he's the most truthful man I've ever known so I know it'll happen.

Give my love to Bern, and Katie, and Daniel and Tom and Sybil and Connor and Fiona—she'll be such a big girl when I see her again, and Michael, and Patrick—did I forget anyone? Oh, yes, and Sybil's sister Edith, if she's still around. I even miss her! In fact, I'd better close this letter before I start crying and get all the writing smeared.

I love you, Mam…so much.

Your American daughter,

Maire

August 17, 1920

The Branson Flat

The sound of soft singing woke Sybil from the first sound sleep she'd had in ten days. She sat up, disoriented, and looked for the source of the sound, and then lay back, smiling. Across the room Tom sat, rocking their daughter and singing softly in Irish.

Seoithín, seo hó, mo stór é, mo leanbh

Mo sheoid gan cealg, mo chuid gan tsaoil mhór

Seothín seo ho, nach mór é an taitneamh

Mo stóirín na leaba, na chodladh gan brón.

Within minutes, the infant relaxed in her father's arms and fell asleep. Tom carried her to the bed and placed her carefully in Sybil's arms.

"What do the words mean?" Sybil asked. "The lullaby."

"It's a song to ward off the fairies," he answered smiling down at the baby. "The words in English say:

Hush-a-bye, baby, my darling, my child

My flawless jewel, my piece of the world

Hush-a-bye, baby, isn't it a great joy

My little one in bed without any sorrows."

"Oh, it's so much prettier in Irish!" Sybil breathed. "And look at her; she loves it when you sing to her."

Together they sat on the bed for a long while, staring down at the miracle their love had created. Both were exhausted and in need of sleep, but this magical time of the night was special for all three of them. The time would pass quickly enough, and Abby would not be a baby forever.

They had named her Abigeál. Sybil liked it because the name was both English and Irish, and because it meant "father's joy". "It's only fair," she had conceded, "since you were right about the baby being a girl and all. We'll spell it the Irish way, but we're calling her Abby."

Tom hadn't much cared what they called the baby; he was just happy that the stress of the birth was over and they were all home where they belonged. The doctor, his mother, and even Sybil had insisted that his wife had never been in danger and that Abby's birth was perfectly normal, but he didn't believe it for a minute. It would be a long time before he recovered from the fear of losing her. At times he would awaken during the night just to watch her breathe, sending a prayer of thanks to God for keeping her safe.

Sybil was planning to stay at home with the baby as long as they could afford it, which was a good thing because women were not encouraged to return to work after giving birth. Dr. Walsh would welcome her back when she was ready, and she was grateful for his open mind, but the truth was, she couldn't envision being apart from Abby. In her wildest dreams she had never imagined that something so small could wrap its little arms around her heart like this. She had the most beautiful baby and the most wonderful husband in the world, and not for a moment did she ever want to take her life for granted.

Abby was a lucky little girl. She had been blessed with a doting grandmother and all her Branson aunts and uncles, but the relative who lavished the most attention on her was, somewhat surprisingly, her aunt Edith. Sybil had been amazed at the connection her sister had formed with the baby; she had never seemed particularly interested in children before, although to be fair there hadn't been any at Downton. No one in their circle talked about babies; children were seen infrequently and whisked off by nannies, out of sight and mind.

But there were a lot of things about her sister that had come as a surprise. Last August Sybil would never have believed that Edith would be here a year later, still talking about getting a job. Her sister had softened, opened up and become more generous during her time in Ireland, and a large part of the change had to do with Patrick. They were the oddest couple she had ever seen, but somehow they worked. Edith had never been so happy, and after the first shock, everyone had accepted that might be something real there.

The sun was peeking over the trees in the east when Abigeál stirred again. Sybil tiptoed to the crib and picked up her tiny daughter, wanting to let Tom get in another hour or two before he had to leave for work. To her surprise, she and Abby weren't alone in the sitting room. Edith, wrapped in a blanket, sat in the armchair, staring into the empty fireplace with a faraway look on her face. She held a piece of paper loosely in her hand.

"I know why I'm up so early, but why are you?" Sybil asked her sister, as she prepared to nurse her daughter.

Edith blinked and focused her gaze. "I have a letter…from Mama." Her face was expressionless.

"She's still coming, isn't she?" Sybil asked anxiously. Cora was due to visit Dublin in two weeks, and the entire Branson family was getting ready for her arrival. The two mothers had bonded when the family had come for Tom and Sybil's wedding, and Claire was determined to pull out all the stops for her friend's visit.

"Yes." Edith picked at a thread on her robe.

"What is it, Edith? Is something wrong?" Sybil stared at her sister with concern.

"No," Edith said, her expression flat. "Well…yes. I haven't said anything, because you've been occupied…" She gestured to the baby. "But Mama's been writing quite a lot. She thinks I shouldn't, no—mustn't, stay here any longer. She says it's right for you, but not for me. And…she's right, Sybil." Edith looked at her sister, and Sybil saw tears in her eyes.

"I'll never get into a teaching school here; I'll never get a job. Of course Mama doesn't know about Patrick, and she would never understand." She was crying now, a quiet sound of despair and hopelessness. "I don't think I can do this. I'm not you. I'm very fond of Patrick, but it's impossible. We're impossible."

Sybil crossed and knelt in front of her sister, holding the baby in the crook of her arm. "Edith, that's not true! You've been so happy here! You're just frustrated about the job; believe me, I know what that's like. Please, think about this. Talk to Patrick. Give it time…anything can happen!"

Edith looked up, eyes bleak. "Mama wants me to go home with her. And I think maybe I should."


A/N:The New York Medical College was the brainchild of William Cullen Bryant, the noted poet, abolitionist and editor of the Evening Post. In 1860, the school opened its doors on the corner of 20th street and Third Avenue as the New York Homeopathic Medical College. Bryant served as the medical school's first president and held the office of president of the Board of Trustees for 10 years.

Pronunciation Guide:

Maire - my + ra