Only two chapters left after this one, and I have to admit I'm sorry it's ending. But maybe the Bransons will be back for some one-shots…I hope so.

Give us the future… We've had enough of your past. Give us back our country… to live in, to grow in, to love. - Michael Collins

July 1, 1921

Daniel and Patrick's Workshop

"I'm not going!" Patrick stood in the workroom facing Edith, hands on his hips. "I have orders coming out of my arse, and I don't know when I'm going to find the time to work on them as it is. You go."

Edith smirked at him. "You always have orders coming out of your…well, you have a lot of orders, and you always find the time. Besides, now that you have Michael working for you, you can afford to take a little time off."

"Nope, no time." With a stubborn shake of his head, Patrick turned back to his design.

"You're afraid." Now she was laughing out loud at him. "You don't want to go to the christening because you're afraid of my father!"

"I'm afraid of his guns," Patrick admitted, turning around to face her again. "Those aristocrats spend a lot of time shooting at birds. I don't want him to get any practice in on me!"

"Well," Edith moved to stand before him, grinning into his blue eyes. "You are a bird of exceptional plumage, darling. But my father's not really the best shot. There's a very good chance he'd miss…at least the first time."

"Ha, very funny," Patrick said. "I feel much better. And I'm still not going. Tom told me how wonderfully he was treated when he and Sybil announced their intentions, and I'm pretty sure that two Bransons on the family tree would be just Lord Grantham's cup of tea! I'm not Tom—I'm not a fighter, I'm a lover."

"So, who's the coward now?" she asked. "If I could drag myself over here and prostrate myself at your feet to beg forgiveness, and put up with your mother's less than loving reception, the least you can do is go with me to Downton for a simple christening party. We don't have to make any announcements or anything while we're there." She didn't tell him that she hadn't even told her father why she was returning to Ireland. True to her cowardly nature, she'd left that up to her mother. And knowing Mama, she probably hadn't told him yet either.

"And there's another thing," she said, running her hands up his arms to his shoulders. "While you're working so hard on all these very lovely designs, just remember that when you do go home you'll be awfully lonely. I mean, you can't work through the night, can you? The long, cold night?"

"It's not cold. It's summer, and you don't play fair," he complained, grabbing her hands and then putting his own arms around her waist. He ran his lips over her neck, fisted his hand in her hair, and kissed her soundly. Edith wondered, as the familiar chills ran up her spine, how it was always like the first time with him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and for a moment there was a very different sound in the workroom.

"Oh, for God's sake!" said Michael, coming in from the shop. He backed out again, muttering "don't you two ever stop? People are trying to work around here!"

Patrick laughed into Edith's hair. "Let's go home. I can finish this stuff later."

"Oh, really? What about all those orders?"

"He made an airy gesture at the designs on the table. "Plenty of time to finish them while you're over there in England…because I'm still not going!"

Edith grinned as she followed him out the door. We'll just see about that! she thought.

July 6, 1921

The Branson Home

Daniel Ryan stood in the doorway watching his wife. A welling of love for this brave, dauntless woman rose up and left him weak. She had been through the worst experience a woman can suffer, and yet here she was, chasing little Abby as she crawled after her two older cousins, laughing and tickling her niece when she caught her. He knew that she cried herself to sleep some nights, as he knew that there was nothing he could do to ease her pain, beyond being there. He hoped it was enough.

Bernadette hadn't gone back to the bakery. She filled her days with children now, acting as nanny to Sybil's Abby as well as chasing her own small whirlwinds around. She seemed happy enough, but Daniel thought that her attention to the children was almost frenzied, as if she didn't want to miss a single minute of their lives. The children were her solace and her healing, but also her obsession.

With his wife staying at home and no need for Mam to be the children's nanny, Daniel thought that it was time to move out and find a place of their own. He was a builder, one of the better ones if he believed the praise and the sales, and his dream had always been to build a home for his wife and family. He'd had the plans for a long time, stored in the bottom drawer of his desk at the shop, and he thought it was time. It would give Bern something else to occupy her mind.

They could certainly afford it. The business was doing well…more than well, if he counted in his share of Patrick's furniture business. Daniel shook his head in wonder, thinking about how far his young brother-in-law had come in just two years. He was a genius with wood and tools. It was almost as if his hand held a wand when he touched it, creating fantastic swirled motifs, gracefully arched legs and cabrioles.

And the quality! Everything that came out of the shop was built with love and meant to last a lifetime. The prices were high and going higher, as the outside world discovered this treasure on the tiny island of Ireland. There were orders from London, Melbourne, New York, and the prices had soared because Patrick designed and supervised everything himself. The buyer had to wait, and pay for the privilege, and they were happy to do so. Recently he had hired his brother to help, and Michael was proving to have some of the gift himself, although not the genius that Patrick had. Deaglan had made overtures as well, and Patrick was considering putting him in charge of the books.

Daniel's eyes went back to his wife, now half-hidden under a pile of children. Soon, but not now. In another month or so he'd mention his idea to her, give her the chance to mull it over. Right now she needed her mother, and the chaos of the Branson home helped to cover her grief. And then it came to him. When the rest of the family went to England for the christening, he would take his family to the seaside, just the four of them, and they'd talk about it then. There was no way he was putting her through a celebration for the christening of a baby. She just wasn't ready for that…and neither was he.

July 9, 1921

Tipperary, Ireland

Paddy O'Connor stopped and listened to the night sounds, his heart beating a tattoo in his chest as he tried to blend in with the trees next to the uneven country road. For a boy born and raised on the streets of Dublin, this lack of all man-made noise was nerve-wracking. Chirps and loud hoots that must be birds of some kind, buzzing and chittering that was probably insects. Something large flashed by, invisible wings beating the air into a frenzy, and a shrill squeak was cut off. Nothing else. No human noises whatsoever. And yet as he stood wondering where to go next, the hums and squeaks and rustlings seemed to grow and spread and fill the night, leaving the young boy sweating and wishing for home.

This was a different kind of danger than he was used to. At twelve years old, Paddy had spent a third of his life in a city at war. He was used to the tanks of the British army, the motorcars filled with Black and Tans and RIC, the checkpoints. And the constant gunfire. Three of his schoolmates had lost fathers or brothers to the fighting, and all of them had sworn that they would join the IRA as soon as they were old enough. For now, they volunteered as messengers, carrying information from the chief officers of the Dáil to IRA commanders in other parts of the city. Paddy had distinguished himself as a lad who followed orders, one who would see the job through.

He supposed it was why they had sent him all the way out here to Donohill in County Tipperary, with a message for the commander of the second southern division of the IRA. He was proud to be chosen, of course—who wouldn't be? But Paddy wished his message was going to anyone other than Ernie O'Malley. O'Malley had the reputation of being ruthless and cruel. The British forces seldom ventured into his territory, and when they did they took care never to leave the roads. Just a few weeks ago three British officers had had the misfortune to be captured by O'Malley, and had been summarily executed.

Paddy was looking for Mrs. Quirke's, a safe house and the known headquarters for the IRA in Tipperary. Keeping to the sides of the road, he made his way onward, following the directions he had been given, until the lone farmhouse reared up against the horizon, and he could leave the darkness of the country behind.

"He's not here, lad, you can give me the message," a captain insisted when Paddy had stated his business. "Might not be back for a while."

But Paddy was steadfast in his refusal to hand over his message to anyone else but the commander. He sat with his cap in his hands, fingering the brim with nervous fingers, and refrained from saying another word.

A truck was heard in the yard, and the commander came into the kitchen where Paddy waited. Not a big man, O'Malley took off his hat and threw himself into a chair, accepting the cup of tea that Mrs. Quirke pressed into his hands. Studying him, Paddy was surprised to see that he did not look brutal or mean. He looked tired, and there was a melancholy expression about his lined face, the face of a man much older than his twenty four years. He turned and noticed Paddy staring at him.

"What is it, lad?" he asked.

"I have a message for you, sir…from Dublin."

O'Malley looked interested. "Dublin, is it? And what would the powers that be in Dublin be wanting with me?" He took the message, broke the seal, and began to read.

O'Malley's head snapped up, his eyes wide. The gaze he fixed on Paddy O'Connor held none of the weariness that had been there moments before.

"Can this be?" he said softly. His voice held a note of bewilderment and suppressed excitement that his subordinates had never heard before. Paddy stared, wondering what it was in his message that could cause such a reaction.

July 11, 1921

The Branson Flat and Murphy's Pub

Tom was late. Sybil sat on the couch in the sitting room, Abby in her lap, and worried. You'd think that after all this time she would have it under control…this constant squeezing in the pit of her stomach every time he went out the door to work, to the job that had nearly killed him once and could still do so at any moment. When she was at work she lived in fear that history might repeat itself, that the next broken patient through that emergency room door would be her husband, that this time it would be too late. She knew it was like this for women all over Dublin. Would they ever fully recover from what this war had done to them?

The door crashed open and Sybil looked up in alarm as Tom flew into the flat, a look of intense excitement on his face. He crossed to his wife, who had just put Abby down on a blanket to play with her toys, and swept her up in his arms, whirling her around until she was dizzy.

"Tom! What's happened? I've never seen you like this!"

"They've done it! They've signed the truce! It's over, Sybil! They've given us back our country! It went into effect at noon today, I've been working to get a special issue out. Come on, we're going to Murphy's. Abby too, of course—she's an Irishwoman, she should be celebrating with the rest of the city!"

A short time later the Bransons were squeezed into a table at Murphy's with Patrick, Edith, Deaglan, and Kathleen. The pub was overflowing, the noise deafening. Beer was flowing, a couple was dancing in the corner, and toasts were being made all over the bar as Colum and his barmaids tried their best to be everywhere at once. Sybil heard more than one excited conversation in Irish, as the locals reclaimed the language that had been stolen from them over the years since the Easter Rising. It sounded beautiful to her ears.

Michael and Aislinn forced their way through the crowded doorway and over to the table, Michael's eyes shining. Tom stood up and embraced his brother, and the two stood for a moment clutching each other as the emotions of this day swirled through them. Tears ran down Michael's face, unheeded.

"I can hardly believe it!" he whispered. "I never thought it would happen. I wanted it so badly, but I never thought the British would give in! In the streets on the way over here, I wondered what was so different, and then I got it—no guns! Not a single sound of firing. It's real, Tom! We've done it!" He hugged his brother once more, and then turned to Aislinn.

"Marry me, Aislinn! As soon as the banns are read. I want to be the first man to be married in the new Free State of Ireland!"

She laughed and kissed him. "Is that your idea of a proposal, Michael Branson? If it is, it's the worst, the craziest…the most wonderful thing I've ever heard! And yes, I'll marry you. I was only waiting for you to put your gun down, and then I was going to ask you!


A/N: The story of Paddy O'Malley and his message is true. Following talks between Éamon de Valera and Britain's Lord Middleton, a truce was formally signed between the Dáil cabinet and and the British commander in Ireland. Under its terms, British forces were to immediately cease "pursuit of Irish officers and men, while the IRA were to cease "attacks on Crown Forces and civilians. Messengers were sent from Dublin to the IRA commanders in key areas of Ireland.

A/N: The truce marked the end of the war, turning the work over to the politicians. On December 6, 1921, the Anglo-Irish Treaty was signed in London, partitioning Northern Ireland and what would be called the Irish Free State. It was not enough for IRA hard-line nationalists, who refused to accept the treaty, and June 1922 began another year of vicious fighting, this time Irish against Irish. One of the saddest events in the Irish Civil War took place when Michael Collins, who had fought so hard for his country's freedom, was ambushed and killed by men who had once fought alongside him. But that is a story for another day.

Pronunciation Guide:

Aislinn - ash + ling

Dáil - doyl

Deaglan - deck + lan

Éamon - aim + an