A successful marriage requires falling in love many times, always with the same person. - Mignon McLaughlin

October 9, 1920

The Branson Flat

Tom ran his hands through his hair again. If he didn't get some sleep soon, he wouldn't be able to hold his head up at work. But the baby was inconsolable; her fretful cries had kept all three of them up for the past three nights. He paced the length of the sitting room, patting his daughter on her back and murmuring to her in Irish. It wasn't working. Abby wasn't interested in anything he had to say, no matter what language it was in. Her little face was scrunched up and little hiccuping sobs filled the room.

Tom was on the edge of panic. How did other people do it? Some of his colleagues had two or three children, and none of them had died from parenting, to his knowledge. What were he and Sybil doing wrong? He had changed her nappy twice, sung to her until he was hoarse, walked a groove in the floor of the flat. Nothing he tried worked. He was a horrible father, and she would probably run away from home as soon as she could walk.

Sybil came into the sitting room. "Nothing doing, darling?" she asked, her voice crackling with fatigue. "I'll take a turn."

"No," Tom said stubbornly. "You need to sleep, and it's my turn. Just because our daugher hates her father doesn't mean I'm going to give up. I'm going to win this battle if its the last thing I do!"

Sybil laughed softly. "She doesn't hate you, Tom. All babies go through these phases. Mam said so. Here…I'll try to feed her again." She took Abby from him and sat down on the couch. Tom watched through bleary eyes as the baby fussed, tossed her small head, and finally latched on and began to suck noisily. Tom sat down gingerly next to his women and put his arm around Sybil.

"Do you remember when we were first married?" he asked softly. "We were tired all the time then, too, but somehow it didn't matter." He grinned down at his wife. "If we'd known then what we know now, maybe we could have tried to get more sleep; stored it up or something."

"Oh, I seriously doubt it, darling," Sybil giggled. "Neither one of us is very good at pacing ourselves, and our daughter seems to be taking after us all the way." She looked up into Tom's blue eyes, so like those of their daughter. Eyes you could drown in.

"Do you remember our wedding night?" she asked. "We were so tired after all the excitement of the wedding party that we could barely stand up, and yet somethow we stayed awake until the wee hours of the morning. You have a lot of stamina, darling!"

Tom laughed, a low rumble in his throat. "Me! I tried to let you sleep; I was a true gentleman, if I recall. But you were such a lecherous woman, you wouldn't leave me alone! I was truly shocked to find I had married such a licentious hussy!" He shook his head in mock disapproval. "It took me a full five seconds to get over it!"

Sybil was shaking with laughter. "Well, I don't remember being given an out; I thought it was my duty to perform for my husband, no matter how cruel and demanding he might be." She put on her most posh tone. "I was taught that if my husband behaved too much like a barbarian, I was just to lie back, close my eyes, and think of England. It was quite a chore, but I was raised to know my place."

Tom snorted. "You—know your place? My lady, there isn't a woman on God's green earth who knows less about 'her place' than you, and I for one am very glad that's so!" They were quiet for a moment, remembering the magic of that night, and then Tom spoke again.

"Your place is with me," he said quietly. "I knew it when you were sixteen and bubbling over about women's rights, and then again when you were brave enough to go against your family to become a nurse. I thought I couldn't love you more than I did when you stood up in that drawing room and faced your father, but I was wrong. I fell in love with you all over again when you forced my family to love you. I've fallen in love over and over again, always with you, and I'll keep falling in love with you until the day I die."

Sybil, tears shining in her eyes, raised her face and touched her lips to his. Everything he said sounded like poetry. Then…"Shhh!" she whispered. "Listen!"

"What?" Tom said, confused. "I don't hear anything."

"Exactly." They looked down at their daughter, sound asleep in her mother's arms. Tom stood and helped Sybil to her feet, and together they walked to the bedroom and placed Abby back into her cot.

Sybil stretched a kink out of her neck. "Finally," she breathed. "We can get some sleep."

"Mmmm," Tom murmured, nuzzling her hair. "We can." They looked at each other, swaying with fatigue.

"Are you very tired?" asked Sybil, a hopeful glint in her eye.

"Not really," said her husband. "Let's find out if you know your place."

October 12, 1920

Offices of the British Army, Dublin

Major John Cooper sat at his desk, staring at the pile of documents in front of him. He had to get this report sent to London, but his mind kept wandering and he did not relish the task. He had nothing good to report, and the failure ate at him.

How had it all gone so wrong? The British army was the greatest fighting force in the world; they should have been able to put down this insurrection in days. It should have been over with the Easter Rising back in '16, but instead here they were, fighting a heavily outnumbered force of poorly trained civilian soldiers, four years later.

And they were losing; he could feel it. His men simply didn't have the passion to match that of the Irish republicans whose very existence depended on ridding their country of their British overlords. The RIC was not up to the task—hell, most of them were Irishmen themselves—their hearts weren't in it. The Black and Tans had been a desperate experiment gone wrong; their cruelty had served to whip up the fervor and hatred in the citizens and spur on the IRA.

The IRA. What had started out as a group of rabble-rousers who had to steal their weapons from the enemy had turned into a fighting force to be reckoned with. Their leaders—that damn Collins, and Eamon de Valera, were ruthless, intelligent, and beloved by the people. Major Cooper knew that what they had, what his own army lacked in this war, was heart. And he admired them for it; he couldn't help himself.

His adjutant rapped on the office door, and entered. "Sir, there's a young person insisting on seeing you." His lip curled with derision. "Irish, of course. Rather shabby. Should I send her away?"

Cooper was curious. It was obvious that this report wasn't getting finished; might as well see what the young woman wanted. His day couldn't get much worse. And, to be honest, he hated the look on his subordinate's face when he talked about the Irish, and wanted to wipe it off. It was all too common in his experience, and it helped nothing.

"Send her in, Samuels."

The adjutant ushered the woman in and left. For a few minutes, the major and his guest stared at each other. She was thin to the point of emaciation, her skeletal wrists protruding from a frayed brown coat, worn cotton stockings slipping down her legs toward boots that should have gone to the dustbin months ago. But her eyes were burning coals in her pale face, and her expression was determined. Very young, not more than eighteen or so. She twisted her hands restlessly in front of her, bunching her skirts as she stood trembling before him.

"Is there something I can do for you, miss—?" asked John Cooper politely.

"S-sullivan, sir. Bridget Sullivan. I have come to—I-I have done something…" she stopped, began again. What little color remained in her pale face had drained away. She lifted her head and glared at Cooper. "Seamus is dead; you can't hurt him anymore." Her chin came up. "I have come to make a confession."

October 17, 1920

Dublin Docks

Aislinn Collins and Michael Branson sat on a bench in the shadow of a warehouse, eating the lunch she had brought.

"You didn't have to do this," Michael told her, his voice sounding irritated. "You don't need to baby me, just because I…" he stopped. That night a month ago…the night he had cried in her arms…it all seemed a bad dream now. He had tried to forget his weakness, his shame at having fallen apart…but did a man ever forget the first time he killed another human being?

In a way, this had been a long time coming. He'd been a member of the Volunteers, and then the Irish Republican Army, for almost a year and a half. He'd taken the oath, trained in warfare, and had gone on missions with his fellow soldiers. Of course he had known that killing was a part of war. But he had made a promise to his brother Tom after Patrick had been attacked and almost killed. He had promised not to take part in violence for its own sake, not to mindlessly hate everything British just because of the RIC and the Black and Tans.

He had not promised to avoid fighting; had not said he wouldn't kill. That would have been an impossible promise to keep. But he had tried to weigh his decisions; he had told his superiors that he would not shame himself or his family by taking part in assassinations or the murder of innocent citizens. And for the most part, he had been able to keep his word. Not this time.

The ambush of his fellow soldiers at the train station had been so unexpected, so violent, that he had reacted as a soldier; had tried to save his comrades and himself, and had killed a constable who killed his fellow and wanted to kill him. It was justified, he knew. This was war. But he had not been expecting the way his mind and body reacted to what he had done. His fear and grief had sent him into Aislinn's arms, a sobbing wreck.

To give her credit, she had not spoken of that night since. He barely knew her, really—had spent no time at all with her when he visited the Collins residence, and had thought that she was cold and superior, all wrapped up in her books and no time for anyone except Kathleen and Deaglan.

But she had held him that night and let him cry out his sorrow, and she had never mentioned it again. He had been grateful. Really. Had taken the time to smile at her and say hello when he came to visit her uncle. They had begun a tentative friendship, and he had found that she was not stuck up at all; she was shy. Her bossiness was a cover for her timidity.

But then she had started to bring him his lunch at the docks, and he had begun to wonder if she felt sorry for him. Did she pity him? Was she waiting for him to pour out more troubles to her? His suspicions had grown, until finally he had growled at her.

Aislinn jumped up, her eyes hurt. "I'm not babying you!" she cried. I just wanted to be nice, and you don't seem to take care of yourself. I thought you wanted to be friends, but I see I was wrong!"

Michael felt his cheeks redden. "I just didn't want…"

"Oh, never mind, Michael Branson! Just leave me alone!" And Aislinn turned and walked away as quickly as she could without running.

Michael sighed and picked up the sandwich. Why were women so volatile? He took a bite and found that the sandwich tasted like sawdust in his mouth. He threw it into the dustbin and went back to work, but he kept turning the incident over in his mind. He'd been right, hadn't he? He'd just wanted to make it clear that he didn't want her pity. It wasn't his fault she jumped to conclusions, was it? Was it?

October 25, 1920

Letter from Claire Branson to Maire Langdon

Darling Maire,

I have the most wonderful news! Evan has been exonerated. We all knew that he didn't kill that horrible officer, but now the truth has come out, after all this time. A Major Cooper from the British army came to see me yesterday. Yes! A high-up British officer, knocking on my door! You can imagine my fright…no one was at home and I thought that he must be looking for Michael, because what would a British officer want with me? I almost slammed the door in his face, but thank goodness I came to my senses.

It turns out that a young woman came to the barracks and turned herself in. Major Cooper told me that Lieutenant Martin and his thugs—the very same ones that hurt you—had been watching her home in Cork. The poor girl—her name is Bridget Sullivan—had a brother in the IRA, and they were hoping to catch him at home, but he was too smart. So they burst into the house and roughed her up, threatening her and…well, you know what they were like! They left, but later that night the lieutenant came back alone. He broke down the door and dragged her to the bedroom and…he raped her. He told her he'd come back and have his way with her as many times as it took for her to tell him where her brother was, but when he got up to go she pulled her brother's hunting rifle from under the bed and she shot him dead! When her brother came home they buried his body in the woods.

Major Cooper told me that the girl's brother was killed recently, so she decided that it was time to stop hiding. She had nothing left, poor thing, and the guilt was eating her up. She told them to lock her up; she deserved it. But the major seems to be a nice man (like one or two other English people, I'm told), and he refused to do it. He said she'd suffered enough in this war, and that would be the end of it. And then he came straight by, and told me to tell Evan he was free. I guess it wasn't much of a secret where Evan had been spending all his spare time…and he thought he was so sneaky!

So, isn't that wonderful news? I know that you two think you're American these days, but at least now you can come home to visit! In fact, I want you both here for Christmas. I'm sending a bit of money to help with your passage; it's not much, but I've been saving to come visit, so it's my Christmas present to you both. There will be no discussion. I miss you terribly, my darling girl, and so do your sisters and brothers. And you'll get to meet Miss Abigeál Branson, who is the most adorable baby in Ireland.

Give Evan my love, and tell Martha thank you again for all she's done for my family.

All my love,

Mam

PS. Oh, I nearly forgot to tell you—Sybil's sister Edith has gone home to Downton! Patrick is that cut up about it, and I don't have the heart to tell him I knew it wouldn't last. Of course, she's Sybil's sister so she's family, and we don't talk about it, but that girl had better stay over there if she knows what's good for her—hurting my boy like that!


A/N: During the Irish War of Independence, republican women took active roles in the conflict. They carried dispatches, arranged for the recovery of bodies, hid weapons and provided safe houses for the IRA. Women found guilty were imprisoned along with the men, and although none were executed during the war, at least twenty took part in hunger strikes while in prison. Merely knowing an IRA soldier could result in interrogation and abuse—sometimes rape—of a woman during these harsh times.

Pronunciation Guide:

Aislinn - ash + ling

Deaglan - deck + lan

Maire - my + ra

Seamus - shay + muss