War does not determine who is right — only who is left. - Aonymous
August 29, 1920
The Branson Home
Cora Crawley narrowed her eyes. There was something off about Edith. Her letters were always cheerful, full of descriptive language about the weather, Tom and Sybil, the escapades of the Branson siblings, Claire's cooking. But nothing about herself. Cora had no idea what her middle daughter was doing in Ireland, but she was going to find out. When she'd left "for a visit" nearly a year ago, no one could have guessed that she planned on staying. And truthfully, things had been less tense at Downton without the constant sniping between Edith and Mary. Almost a relief.
Edith had always gotten lost in the shuffle, she admitted to herself. In the midst of Mary's need for center stage and Sybil's constant drive to bend the rules of society, Edith had often disappeared, and they had been only too willing to let her. Frequently sullen and gloomy, she had made it easy for the others to move on with their lives without her. But now she seemed different. Something had changed; Cora couldn't put her finger on it, but she would be here for three weeks. She'd keep watch, and when she got Edith home she'd get it out of her. Because she was taking her home.
The baby chirped, and her attention shifted away from her daughter. Her first grandchild, and what a beauty. At three weeks, Abby was a placid baby, much like Sybil had been—her huge blue eyes took in the world around her almost as if she knew her place in it, and was content with her lot. And why not? Cora thought. She had the best of two worlds. Half English, half Irish, she would grow up with the blood of two nations, and hopefully help to shape a better future with her tiny hands.
She watched Tom coo to the baby as he rocked her. Cora had never seen a father so immersed in his child, but of course, she should have expected that much. Tom Branson approached anything he loved with unparalleled passion and exuberance, and nothing stood in his way. Cora wondered how she and Robert had ever thought they'd had a chance, once he had set his sights on Sybil. And watching her youngest daughter with her family, she was glad that they'd lost that particular battle.
Tom caught her watching him. He rose and brought Abby to her grandmama, smiling with pride. "She looks just like Sybil, doesn't she?" he said as he placed the infant carefully into Cora's arms. Cora hid a smile. Sybil had had a full head of dark hair when she was born, and Abigeál Branson was as bald as a doorknob. Those might be Sybil's eyebrows, but the sea-blue eyes were Tom's, and the adorable toothless grin was decidedly lop-sided.
"Oh, exactly like Sybil," she agreed. Tom beamed at his mother-in-law and left her with her grandaughter.
Claire Branson came over and took a seat next to Cora. Tonight was a celebration, and Claire had pulled out all the stops to welcome her friend and show off their mutual grandaughter. All the Bransons, plus Kathleen's young man Deaglan, were here…all except Maire. Claire had told Cora about Maire and her Englishman; there was no point in trying to leave out any of the sordid details, as Martha Levenson had probably filled her in anyway. Claire missed Maire terribly, but things were certainly a bit calmer with her tempestuous daughter safely across the ocean in America.
"In a hundred years I never would have imagined two of my children marrying you British!" Claire teased Cora. She looked sideways at her friend to gauge her expression, and was heartened to see that she was laughing. Lady Grantham might not be so cheerful if she knew that another of her own children had tangled herself up with an Irishman, Claire thought…but whatever Patrick and Edith had going on, it was not her secret to tell. Thank God, Claire thought. Cora might survive another shock, but her husband Robert was another story.
She remembered how pompous Lord Grantham had been, sitting in this very room two weeks before his daughter's wedding and hating everything about the environment in which he had been thrust against his will. He had changed radically in so many ways before he had departed again for England, she thought, but another of his daughters becoming involved romantically with a working class Irish family—the same working class Irish family— might just be the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back.
Claire sighed. She hadn't been much better than Lord Grantham when Tom had brought Lady Sybil Crawley home with him; it had taken time and hard work on all sides before she could call the British aristocrat daughter. Sybil had destroyed her predjudices and cemented herself into all their hearts.
But Sybil was special. Claire was not sure about Edith, and to be honest, she wasn't too sure about Patrick, either. Edith was not Sybil, and Patrick was not Tom. Before he had discovered his talent as an artist and found his calling, Patrick had been the grasshopper to Tom's ant, and a part of Claire was wondering if the old Patrick was truly gone. Maybe he had grown up, maybe not. How could he expect to support an aristocratic wife? Not to mention one who was older and undoubtedly more mature; it was just such a peculiar match!
And what did Edith want in Ireland, anyway? Until recently, Sybil's sister hadn't seemed terribly interested in doing anything productive. Now she was talking about becoming a teacher, of all things, but for the better part of a year she had seemed disinterested in the idea of real work. At least now they all knew how…and with whom…she had been spending much of her time!
Claire shook her head. She was getting ahead of herself. After the debacle with Maire, Michael's IRA activities, and Tom being shot and nearly killed, a fling between Patrick and Edith should have been a tiny ripple on the Branson pond. It had been a year for the record books, and with this war boiling out of control, things weren't likely to ease up anytime soon. She shook herself out of her thoughts and stood. It would all sort itself out somehow, but for now Claire Branson had a dinner to serve. This was a celebration and they were damn well going to celebrate.
September 14, 1920
Grand Canal Dock Station, Dublin
The three men waited in the shadows of the railway station, eyes darting to the left and right, heads shifting constantly to check behind them. Caution was the way of life in Dublin in these times, and anyone who didn't stay vigilant was a fool—or a dead man.
"It's the last straw!" one of the men muttered to his companions. "First they send over the damn Black and Tans, and now they've stolen our legal rights! This new act means they can put out an arrest warrant for no reason, and we don't even get a fair trial! They can even kill us without sufferin' much in the way of consequences! They're lookin' for me, so I'm going home to my sister in Cork for a while. What're you gonna do, Davy?"
"I'm going to keep fighting, Seamus," Davy O'Brien growled, his voice low. "I've had to quit my job and stay hidden during the day, but I can still fire a gun! He turned to the third man in their group. "And you're the best shot in the Volunteers, Alan! We can't quit now."
"Yeah," the man laughed bitterly. "My family will be taken care of by the brothers. It'll be hard for them for a while, but now I have more time for the cause. They didn't expect that, I reckon, those pompous fools over in London! I guess we're full-time soldiers now. We'll teach those bastards what it means to be Irish and free!
"Sshhh," warned Seamus. "Someone's coming!" The three crouched in the shadows, hearts racing. Then…"no, it's all right," he whispered. That's George Lynch and Mick Branson. The Big Fellow must have sent them over to watch our backs. Never hurts to—"
Shots rang out, and Seamus crumpled to the ground. Five shadowy figures had risen from behind strategically placed cargo boxes and were firing at the three IRA soldiers. An ambush!
"Damn it, Seamus, get up. Get up!" Davy hissed. But the hole in the man's forehead told his fellows that he would never be rising again. For Seamus Sullivan, the war was over. The others dropped to the ground and began to belly crawl toward the station building.
More shots, and now they could see the RIC, spreading out and firing at will. The shots kept coming, and Davy screamed as a bullet caught him in his stomach. Desperate, Alan Breen fired at the shadowy forms, and heard a grunt as his bullet found its mark. He squirmed along the ground near the station wall, making himself as small as possible, looking for a target.
Lynch and Branson were behind the RIC and hadn't yet been seen. Lynch sighted along the barrel of his rifle and fired, and a constable went down. Another turned, and return fire caught Lynch full on. He fell, a bloom of red spreading on his chest.
Alan Breen was indeed one of the best shots in the IRA. His revolver found two more RIC and took them down. How many left? He had lost count.
Two shots rang out simultaneously. Alan's body jerked, shuddered and went still, his gun dropping out of his hand and skittering along the station platform. The constable who had brought him down stood still for a moment, swaying slightly, and then his knees buckled. He dropped his weapon and clutched at his chest, and then he fell forward to lie face down in the dirt, unmoving. The night was enveloped in silence once more.
Aislinn Collins was reading in the sitting room. She was alone; Deaglan was at the Bransons' with Kathleen and her uncle was out somewhere…doing something dangerous that she'd rather not know about, no doubt. She tried to hide in her books and forget this horrible war for a few moments, forget that her uncle and his army were out there taking their lives in their hands, that innocent citizens could become victims of the violence as easily as the soldiers who fought in the streets.
Sometimes Aislinn hated the IRA almost as much as she hated the RIC and the Black and Tans who had invaded her country. Surely there was a better way to gain freedom from England than by all this killing! What about talking? Where had common sense and civility gone? This was 1920, for God's sake!
A pounding came on the front door, and Aislinn's heart leapt to her throat. Deaglan and her uncle had keys…who could it be at this time of the night? She was gripped by a paralyzing dread…had someone been injured? Worse? Fear had her rooted to her chair. She considered pretending that no one was at home, waiting for the person to go away, but her reading light gave her away. Sighing, she forced herself to stand up, knees shaking, and tiptoed to the door.
"Wh-who's there?" she called softly, her voice wavering.
"It's m-me. H-h-hurry, open the door. Please!"
Aislinn scrabbled for the latch and threw the door open. Michael Branson stood on the step, his body shaking like an aspen leaf. His eyes were wild and his hair stood on end. His chest heaved as if he had run the breadth of Dublin.
As Michael sagged against the doorframe, Aislinn grabbed him before he could fall and pulled him into the house, shutting the door behind them.
"What's happened?" she asked him, her voice low and urgent. 'Are you hurt?"
He blinked and focused on her as if he had just noticed she was there.
"No," he said, his words dull and flat, hanging in the silence of the hall. "They're all dead." He stared at her—through her. "I've just killed a man," he said simply. And then he fell into her arms. Aislinn held him like a baby, rocking him as he sobbed.
September 16, 1920
Murphy's Pub
Patrick stared across the table at Edith. "What do you mean…you're going home?" His blue eyes were round and confused. "What—what about us?"
Edith could not meet those eyes. She kept her head down, speaking rapidly, trying to get the words out before she choked on the self-loathing and the suffocating feeling of failure.
"I'm going back to Downton with Mama. I don't belong here. I'll never belong here! I'm not like Sybil…I'm not brave. I'll never get a job…what was I thinking, wanting to be a teacher? I don't have the qualifications to get into a teacher training course, and even if I did no one would take me because I'm English. It's no use, Patrick! I can't fit into life here! I never will!" Her voice trailed off, but still she could not look at him.
"You mean," his voice was low and the tone seared her heart, "you can't fit into a life with a plain, working class Irishman. That's what you mean, isn't it? I'm not good enough for you. I never thought I was, but I thought you didn't care. I thought what we had was worth fighting for. I should have known better." The words were soft, but every one pierced her heart like an arrow.
Edith could barely breathe. A voice somewhere inside her was shouting, Stop this! What are you doing? Tell him you don't mean it! But the part of her that had always risen up to sabotage her happiness was in charge, and she hadn't the strength to stop it. She had never had the strength. Finally she found her voice.
"That's not true. That's not it at all! You're better than me! I care about you, Patrick…more than I've ever cared about anyone. I'll never meet anyone like you! But it just won't work! Please…try to understand!" She stopped, trying to find the words. "I'll never forget you, Patrick. You will always be a part of me…" again her voice trailed off as her throat closed and tears filled her eyes.
Patrick stood, his face etched in stone. "I told you once that it wouldn't be easy, that we just had to care enough to try. You seem determined to do this, to throw us away, and I'll not try to change your mind. But know this, Edith Crawley…I love you, and I think I could have made you happy. Goodbye, my lady." And he turned and walked out of the pub without a backward glance.
A/N: As the war escalated in Ireland, the British realized that civil administration had broken down. In August 1920, Parliament passed the Restoration of Order in Ireland Act, suspending the courts system and giving the army and RIC powers to enforce the death penalty and imprison Irish republicans without trial. The result was that IRA soldiers were forced to go on the run, which meant that they had to quit their jobs and could therefore devote all their time to the war, ironically giving them an advantage in the long run.
A/N: On September 14, 1920, three IRA volunteers were killed in an ambush by Crown forces, sparking retaliation by the IRA. The deaths of the RIC soldiers were my own invention, and I'm not sorry I killed them.
Pronunciation Guide:
Aislinn - ash + ling
Deaglan - deck + lan
Maire - my + ra
Seamus - shay + muss
