Who is the happier man, he who has braved the storm of life and lived or he who has stayed securely on shore and merely existed? - Hunter S. Thompson

March 19, 1921

Letter from Cora Crawley, Countess Of Grantham, to Claire Branson

Dearest Claire,

Of course we are still friends, don't be silly! I know how you feel, as I lost all control over my own children years ago. Perhaps it was the governesses, and the fact that we aristocratic types rarely see our offspring for more than an hour or so a day. I confess that both times I visited you in Ireland, I was a bit envious of the close bond you have with all your children, even the boys. I know that your Maire gave you a few gray hairs…well, maybe more than a few…but she tells you things. You share your worries, and your joys. I certainly never had that with my girls!

Do you think for one moment that we would even know each other if Sybil had felt she could confide in me? Ha! If I had had the slightest inkling of her regard for our chauffeur (I believe you have met him), I would have told Robert and that would have been that. Which just goes to show how shallow and tied to the trappings of society I was. I say was, because I hope I have changed. You as much as told me so, after our visit for Sybil's and-yes, I'll say it, darling Tom's—wedding, and I don't think you realize how much that meant to me.

As shocked as Robert—as we both were—about Sybil, I was completely knocked over with Edith! She was always so timid, so unsure of herself. Again, that was my fault. It was just so easy to overlook her, what with Sybil and Mary taking the limelight so often. I should have known she had been unhappy when she wrote to tell me that she was staying in Ireland after a few weeks into her visit with Sybil, but I never dreamed she'd stay for a year! And if I'm honest, which is always so easy with you, my dear friend, I was glad that the moping and whining around the house was gone.

When she came back, she refused to talk to me about it. I thought that someone had hurt her over there, and I was so worried, but I couldn't bring myself to tell Robert about my fears. You know how he is. I figured, if he was going to be oblivious to what was right under his nose, then so be it. I love my husband, Claire, but sometimes he just wears me out.

Anyway, right before Christmas she finally came to me, and told me everything. How she had fallen in love with your Patrick, and how she had made a terrible mistake and left him but she was going back to see if he still cared at all about her. I was in shock—please do not think ill of me for that—and I begged her to give him up and stay where she was wanted. And do you know what she said to me? She said she had been wanted by Patrick, and she had never felt that way here, at Downton.

It hurt, Claire. It tore at my heart, but I came to see that she was right. Remembering my own reception by your family, I knew what she must have found in Ireland. Your children are real, and honest. You have done so well by them.

The part of me that Edith inherited, the cowardly part, would not let me tell Robert. He asked where Edith had gone, about two days after she left, and I told him that she was helping Sybil with Abby and she missed her niece too much to stay away. Of course he accepted my story, although he mumbled something about the war in Ireland, and stupidity, and the usual. But I think he was glad to see the moping stop, too.

So yes, I can accept Patrick. If he is anything like Tom it shouldn't be too difficult. I'm American, after all, and I don't worry about all that class fol-de-rol as much as some in my position. If you ever doubt my words, remember—you've met my mother. Enough said, I think. Just one thing. Please don't ask me to tell Robert about this. Not yet. Let's see how it all pans out first. That's the coward in me again.

So, now that we have both bared our hearts and agreed to support our wild children, I have something special to tell you. Mary is pregnant! Yes, Claire, she's due in early July, and assuming everything goes well I want you all to come to Downton for the christening. After all, it's my turn to host my friend and her family, and it would be a perfect time to ease Robert into the knowledge that he might have another Branson son-in-law. I am giggling as I write this, because I can just see his face. I'll make sure he wears something that goes with purple!

I'll write with details of the birth, and we'll set a date then for the christening and your visit. Remember…I want all of you, or as many as can come.

Your loving friend,

Cora

April 16, 1921

London Bridge, Dublin

James Townsend staggered a bit as he worked his way down the bank of the Dodder River. Maureen McLaughlin laughed as she tried to hold him up, but the evening that had started out at Geary's Tavern was taking its toll. The young British soldier didn't seem to mind her help, in fact, his hands were doing a fine job of landing on her breasts rather frequently, she noted.

His friends weren't helping much, either. The blonde one—Sam, she thought it was, had fallen and rolled halfway down the bank, to jeers and catcalls from the other soldiers and their girls. He got to his feet with difficulty, brushing off his uniform, and lunged for Mary Sullivan, who evaded his groping hands easily.

Maureen shook her head. These British soldiers couldn't hold their liquor like the Irish boys, she thought, but they were gentlemen—mostly—and they had money. Her mother would tan her hide if she knew her daughter was keeping company with a Brit, but what her mother didn't know wouldn't hurt her. Besides, this damn war would end someday, and they'd all go back to England. Might as well have some fun while she could.

Stumbling and laughing, the group of five soldiers and their girlfriends made their way toward the bridge further up the river.

"London Bridge!" said the soldier named Tommy. "A proper name for a bridge, boys, but I bet the Fenians hate it!" They all enjoyed a laugh, not noticing the grimaces on the faces of some of the girls. Maureen and her friends didn't mind having a bit of a lark with the British boys, but they were Irish, after all, and they didn't much like the insulting names that flowed freely when the soldiers talked about the Dublin men.

"Hey, Saoirse," mumbled Ross Baker. He pronounced it Say-orse, and she winced. "What'd'ya say we head over there under the bridge and find some privacy." He winked at his comrades, and they cheered.

"Go for it, Ross!" said James. "You read my mind! What say, Maureen? Want to go—"

"Put your hands up!" shouted an Irish voice. "All of you. Now!" They all raised their hands in the air, including the women, and stood as still as they could manage, facing a group of six IRA soldiers with rifles pointed at their chests.

"Not the women!" the voice continued in disgust, "though you 'ladies' should be ashamed to be hangin' around with this lot! Just you girls go over there and sit on the bank, and shut up!" The girls, heads lowered in embarrassment, did as they were told.

"Now, lads," the voice continued, "if you wanna be comin' over here, pushin' yourselves into our city where you're not wanted, consortin' with our women, you should learn how to hold your liquor like an Irishman." The voice had taken on a sneering tone. "Otherwise, you might find yourselves in a sticky situation—like this one!" His companions laughed.

"But we're feeling generous tonight, and we don't shoot drunks. So, what I want you to do is to put your weapons on the ground, easy like. Good lads. Now take off those pretty jackets, nice and careful now."

The British soldiers glanced at each other, and then removed their uniform jackets and let them fall to the ground on top of their revolvers.

"Now, how about those nice military pants, too, and them boots. Off they go!" At the look of outrage from the Englishmen, the rifles were raised to point at their heads. "Don't you understand English? Pants. Off!" The men bent to remove their trousers and boots. Tommy tripped over the hem of his pants and fell, to mocking laughter from a few of the IRA soldiers. No one dared to help him as he clambered back to his feet and stood shivering in the spring breeze with his fellows.

"Whad'ya think, boys?" The voice said to his comrades. "Are they pretty enough?"

"They'd look better without those shirts, Sean," offered another of the IRA soldiers.

"You know, Liam, you're right. You heard the man—off with the shirts, now!" The starched white shirts joined the growing pile of clothing on the ground. The British soldiers now stood in just their knickers, vests, and socks, shaking from more than fear.

"All right, boys. I think you look right fine. What about it, girls? Do you like them now?" The girls stared at the ridiculous picture before them, and one or two snickered.

"Well, ladies, I think it's time you got along home. Don't think these boyos'll be escortin' you. So get!" The girls scrambled up and ran back the way they had come, without a backward look.

The British soldiers were marched shivering up the river to the nearest cross street and sent on their way toward their barracks, at least a mile away. Their weapons were collected and the uniforms thrown into the river, to float downstream until they sank from sight.

It had been an altogether satisfying evening for the local IRA, who repaired to the nearest pub to quench their thirst and regale their neighbors with the tale of the Battle of London Bridge. As he raised his pint in a toast, Michael Branson reflected that he couldn't remember when he'd had a better time as a Volunteer.

May 5, 1921

Bray, County Wicklow

Sybil looked into the mirror. Their room at the Strand Hotel in Bray, only a few miles south of Dublin, was small, but the caretakers had made an effort to give it those old world touches that held a faint reminder of her childhood bedroom in Downton Abbey. If she closed one eye and squinted, she could almost imagine Anna standing behind her, ready to tame her unruly curls into a socially acceptable do for dinner. For just a second, a wave of nostalgia for those times swept through her body, leaving her weak. And then, like the spring wind, it was gone.

Tom had been given a three day holiday by his paper, and had come home with orders for Sybil to pack her bags. It wasn't quite the season, he said, but he was taking her to the seaside, and he had already cleared it with Dr. Walsh. Before Sybil could think of a reason why not, Abby was bundled off to stay with Mam and her cousins, and they were on the train and headed to Bray. Their first vacation! No children, no family, no work. They had never had a honeymoon, and to Sybil this little jaunt had been paradise.

Her thoughts fragmented as a hand brushed against her neck, and she remembered where she was. Tom bent and kissed her lightly on the top of her head, making her shiver. She grabbed for his hand and brought it to her lips, gazing at him in the mirror. He looked so handsome tonight, dressed in his best suit. Her eyes misted as she caught that lopsided grin, and without thinking she stood and pulled him into a tight embrace.

"My lady!" he said, feigning a look of shock. "Remember who you are! It is not appropriate for a high-born lady to throw herself at just any man who comes calling!"

But you're not just any man, are you?" said Sybil, pushing him backwards until he ran into the bed and was forced to sit down. She stood before him, her eyes shining. "You are the love of my life and the father of my child!"

"Well, I suppose I am rather special, now that you mention it," Tom said, his blue eyes dancing as they looked into her own. "I mean, you could have had your pick of that lot over there in England, but you knew quality when you found it, and of course you were smart enough to know it had to be an Irishman!"

Sybil pushed him back onto the bed and pinned his arms. "You're quite full of yourself, sir!" she told him. "If you don't mind your manners, I might not let you have your way with me!"

"Oh, really?" He pulled her down and rolled her over onto her back, bracing himself over her. "I have it on very good authority that you posh types melt when a real man comes around. Shall we find out if I'm right?"

A few minutes later Tom's suit and Sybil's dress lay in a heap on the floor, and the activity in the bed had become quite heated. Many more minutes later Sybil sighed.

"Tom, we've been here for two nights and we haven't made it to the dining room yet! Is there something wrong with us that this keeps happening?"

"Oh, yes, m'lady," he murmured into her hair. "There's something very wrong with us. I say we explore the problem, and try again tomorrow."

The next morning they awoke late, dressed hurriedly and found their way to the dining room for breakfast. Tom stirred his tea and waved the spoon at Sybil.

"It's our last day, darling. What do you want to do?"

"I want to walk along the beach and then have a picnic."

"That's what we've done for the last two days," Tom said, laughing. "Don't you want to try something new? Take a carriage ride? Go to the shops?"

Sybil frowned and wrinkled her nose. "There are people in the shops, and I've had lots of carriage rides. In fact, back home in England, we had a lovely motor car—yes, a Renault!" She gave him an earnest look, and went on. "We had a darling driver, too—an Irishman if I recall, and he took us around wherever we wanted to go! It was lovely while it lasted."

"You don't say! And why didn't it last, if I may ask?"

"Oh, he was a bit too cheeky. He insisted on trying to talk to me whenever we were alone. Politics, of all things!" She looked at him, keeping her face straight. "Now why would anyone think that politics was a fit subject for a lady?"

"Why, indeed. And what happened to this cheeky driver?"

"Oh, we had to get rid of him. He went back to Ireland—and took the daughter of the house with him. Come to find out, she did like politics!" They had told this story to each other over and over, and still found it hilarious. Laughing, they got up from the table and found their way to the beach. This early in the season it was nearly deserted, which was just the way they liked it, and after a while they spread a blanket and watched the water coming closer and closer as the tide rolled in, silver waves oblivious to the couple wrapped in each other's arms.

As the sun began to lower behind them, Sybil dozed with her head in Tom's lap while he stared out at the Irish Sea, thinking about the words they had exchanged earlier in the restaurant. Cheeky. He supposed it might have seemed that way, but in reality he had been scared out of his boots. Frightened of losing his place, of losing her if his deepest desires had become known. And then when he had won, when she had come to love him as he loved her, he had been afraid of the future. Of being unable to provide for her, of the time that she would come to regret her decision.

He looked at her now, as his fingers played with a strand of her soft hair. He'd never told her, but there had been a time in those days when he had nearly given up and gone back to Ireland. He was petrified of loving someone like her, of taking that step, because he knew there would be no going back. It would be safer to just go home and live the life that had been laid out for him.

He wondered what that life would have been worth had he cut and run. Who was happier, after all—the man who braved the storm and took the chance on a life that meant something, or the one who took the easy path, stayed out of harm's way and merely existed? Looking into the slumbering face of the one who had made the decision for him, he knew the answer. It had never really been a contest.


A/N: April, 1921 was a particularly violent period in the War of Independence, the Dublin IRA alone carrying out sixty-seven attacks on British forces during the course of the month. Most were bloody and deadly, but one occasion is known more for humor than sadness—at least for the Irish republicans. A group of British soldiers who were enjoying the company of their girlfriends along the banks of the Dodder River were discovered and held up by a local IRA company, and rather than being shot, were ordered to return to their barracks minus all clothing except trousers and shirts. A fate perhaps worse than death for young men trying to impress their girls!

Pronunciation Guide:

Dodder - dah + der

Maire - my + ra

Saoirse - seer + sha