A Hard Sacrifice

By: piperholmes

A/N: Holy freak you guys. Thank you so much for the comments and reviews. I am still in shock over how well this story has been received. Your comments are so appreciated. My life gets pretty bogged down in other people's issues-my kids mostly ^_^ although recently it was helping an older lady move which turned out to be an all consuming nightmare...bless her heart-and it is just so wonderful to get a little message in my email that reminds me I'm more than other people's issues! So your comments mean a great deal to me. Thank you!

Also, while we all know Tom and Sybil are a couple of BAMF, it's important to remember they are both still rather young here, and are in a particularly sticky situation that I can't imagine either having much experience navigating so while I think it would be awesome for them to handle every situation with their awesomeness, I'm afraid that wouldn't be too realistic. Sybil especially is torn as she would lose the most. Just something to keep in mind.

Finally, the biggest Shirtless Tom Branson Holding a Teddy Bear for Repmet; an amazing (and patient) beta whose comments and help I have come to absolutely rely on.

November 1919

Lord Grantham paced the floor of the library, his breathing harsh as anger surged through him.

The reality of what he'd just witnessed choked at him, clawing at the heart of him, filling him with indignation, disbelief, and rage.

He'd been made a fool...by the chauffeur.

His muscles tensed with the need to expel his emotions, and he found himself gripping the back of his chair as he stood glaring, unseeing, at his writing desk. His fingers clenched and kneaded the wood before he shoved it away from him and resumed his pacing.

The chauffeur.

The Irish chauffeur.

No. It couldn't be true. It was mad to even consider, for it meant his daughter had...

with the chauffeur...

right under his nose!

A fury unlike any Lord Grantham had ever experienced washed over him, causing a throbbing in his head. It was folly! A ridiculous juvenile madness. For months he'd worked to reconcile himself to the idea that the father was some middle class soldier who would be of some embarrassment to the family, but one they could work to overcome; maybe a solicitor like Matthew, or a doctor, or perhaps someone along the lines of Richard Carlisle, a self made man, wealthy but not of their class. Hell, he'd even come to terms with him being a well-to-do farmer or a politician.

But not a servant. Never a servant.

The very idea disgusted him. It was repugnant.

He'd been driven about by the man who'd seduced his daughter; he'd put his life in his hands.

He felt bile burn up his throat, and reached for a tumbler on the desk.

Before he could pour himself a drink however, the door to the library opened, the sound a variable blow to his tenuous control. He had no desire to speak with anyone.

He whirled about, prepared to demand he be left alone, only to stop short, finding himself facing the very cause of his distress.

"Get out, before I have you thrown out."

The words were cold, his jaw tight, his anger blinding him to the younger man's distress. He could only see red.

"Papa."

For the first time he realized his eldest daughter had followed the chauffeur in. The carefully restrained guilt on her face was enough for him to realize he'd been made a fool by more than one daughter.

Lord Grantham rubbed at his forehead, the pounding grew stronger.

April 1918

Tom Branson's eyes flew open at the sound.

The pounding grew stronger, jerking him fully awake.

"Sybil," Tom whispered harshly. "Sybil, love, wake up."

The heavy knocking on his door sounded again.

They'd slept late, much too late as he noted the bright light of the morning sun painting the room.

Sybil stirred beside him before flying up into a sitting position, her face panicked, pure instinct had her clutching the blanket to her naked chest.

"Hell," Tom mumbled, throwing the covers back and searching the floor for something to put on.

"Mr. Branson!" a voice called, the sound muffled by the walls, making it impossible for him to determine who it was.

He threw Sybil's nightgown at her as he hopped about trying to pull his pants on. He tripped, hitting the ground with a hard thump, causing Sybil to whip around, her arms getting tangled in the frothy material she was trying to pull over her head.

"Tom!" she cried, her voice a harsh whisper.

He bounced to his feet, shushing her, ignoring the painful throbbing in his knee.

"Get under the bed," he said.

Sybil's eyes narrowed. "I'm not hiding under the bed."

Tom had the decency to blush when he realized the ridiculousness of his command.

"Right...uh...stand here, against the wall."

There was no door to separate the small bedroom from the equally small area that served as both a kitchen and sitting room, affording visitors an almost full view of the tiny cottage. The best she could do was hide behind the wall that divided the little home.

With a nod Sybil moved to press her body against the faded wood.

Tom stepped out of the room, preparing to open the door when Sybil saw her shoes still on the floor for anyone to see. As quickly as she could she kicked out, sending them sliding under the bed.

Tom's glance back caught the movement, his heart feeling as if if skipped a beat when he realized he'd nearly opened the door that very moment and would have given whomever stood on the other side of the door a perfect view of Sybil's leg.

With a shake of his head, and one final glance about the cottage, finding nothing amiss, realizing only too late he still wore no shirt, as he pulled open the door.

Tom felt a flash of relief as he took in the slightly surprised face of one of the hall boys whose name escaped him, Joe maybe?

"Yes?" he asked, hoping his voice hid the previous moments of panic.

The young man stuttered a bit, unsure of finding the chauffeur in such a state of undress. "Uh...I'm...I'm sorry to disturb you sir, only Mr. Carson sent me down to fetch you. Her Ladyship will be ready to go soon as he was worried you'd not brought the car around yet-"

"Of course," Tom interjected smoothly. "Please assure Mr. Carson I will be up momentarily."

"Yes sir," the boy answered, accepting his dismissal and turning to run back to the big house to deliver the message.

Tom calmly shut the door.

"Shite."

Sybil did her best to stay as still as possible, her heels and backside pushing against the wall in an effort to stay invisible. Her breathing had never sounded louder in her ears.

She cursed mentally, one of the more colorful words she'd heard among the soldiers repeating itself as she thought of how careless they'd been. In all the time they'd been married she'd never overslept. It wasn't a luxury they were allowed. Nights together were always cut short by the approaching dawn. Other than the morning after their marriage, they'd never known the laziness of a slowly waking in bed together, lounging and cuddling, languidly making love as the sun grew higher and higher.

The sound of the door opening prompted her to freeze, even to hold her breath, to still her heart if she could. Her whole life depended on the wall; the imperfect grain of a tree that had long ago been brought down.

She could hear the conversation, grateful when it was clear no one was going to be entering the cottage.

Her mind thought back to what they'd experienced last night. The care he took in healing her pain. The commitment she felt in every movement, showing him the depth of her love for him. To be so naked with each other as they struggled with the reality of war and the world around them.

The idea that their devotion to each other, so complete, would never be accepted or deemed valuable, drove them further and further into each other. An intense pleasure had flowed between them, one not wholly derived from their physical contact. Rather it pulled for the emotional, the spiritual, a moment between a couple, between two hearts completely connected, that many sought but few achieved.

Neither had been willing to let go of that feeling; bringing each other to the brink of ultimate release only to ease back, to find new ways to worship each other, until it became too much, until the weakness of the human body could no longer keep up with the strength of the human will, and they'd been unable, unwilling, to contain their cries. The completion of their dance so powerful as to change the very understanding of existence; bodies arching, clinging, panting, invincible, a glimpse of the eternal nature of love, as one.

Collapsing into each other, exhaustion staking claim, they'd fallen asleep.

The alarm clock forgotten.

Sybil's eyes closed for a moment as she thought of their recklessness, her mind battling with the strength of what they'd experienced in the dark of night, hidden from the world, with the harsh light of day that sought to invalidate all that they were.

She hated it.

The sound of the door closing brought her out of her musings, the mumbled swear she heard from her husband echoing her own sentiments.

Tom came back into the bedroom, Sybil taking in the slouch of his wide shoulders, her own eyes wide with concern.

"What are we going to do?"

Tom shook his head, even as he moved to pull his uniform from the hook on which it hung. "I don't know. I'd forgotten I'm to take your mother to see the Dowager this morning. I have to get dressed and get the car up to the house. My absence has already been noted by Mr. Carson."

"Your absence?" Sybil scoffed. "What are we going to do when they realize I'm not in my bedroom? If the maids haven't noticed already."

"I don't know Sybil," Tom snapped. "I…" he paused, taking a breath. "I don't know."

Sybil could shake him. "I can't get back into the house now. Perhaps we've some time if the maids simply think I'm at the hospital for an early shift, but I can't get to my uniform."

They both grew quiet as scenario after scenario played out, all ending with their secret being revealed in the worst way possible.

"Dammit," Tom swore again, his hand going through his hair. "I can't think."

A frustrated sigh escaped her lips. "Just get dressed, I'll...I'll think of something."

"Sybil-"

"Don't," she interrupted. "You're right. If you delay then they might send someone to look for you again. Get dressed."

Tom did as instructed, though she could tell by his quick, sharp movements he was angry.

"Oh don't sulk," she said, her hands firmly on her hips.

Tom paused, his eyes on the floor. His voice low. "I'm sorry." His eyes moved to hers. "I'm sorry I forgot to set the alarm."

Sybil felt some of her frustration dissipate at his words. "Oh Tom, it's not your fault."

"I should have-"

"We're in this together. Neither of us thought," Sybil interjected. "You blame yourself far too often when things get a little difficult or uncertain."

She knew why.

She knew there was still a part of him that feared she would one day regret the decision to marry him.

After the incident with General Strutt she understood why, but it wasn't fair for him to still hold that against her, or to still cling to that fear, after all this time.

"Stop acting like the servant who's displeased his Lady," she added, her tone soft but her words harsh. She ignored the way his eyebrow went up. "Now let me think."

Tom said nothing as he reached for his boots.

"Why of all days does Mama need to leave early today?" Sybil mumbled aloud, her hand rubbing at her forehead. "Although if she hadn't who knows how long we would have slept?"

She paced about the small room, her mind turning over every ridiculous idea, but always coming to the same conclusion. "There is no way for me to get back in the house without being seen."

She flopped down onto the bed, the same bed that had just the previous night been so freeing, but now reminded her just how caged they were.

She looked up to her husband, suddenly feeling too young and too unprepared.

Tom's lips were pressed tightly together, a sense of accepted failure behind his eyes. He reached out to her, the back of one long finger stroking her cheek.

"Perhaps it's time to let them see-"

He stopped suddenly, his his eyes widening some, his finger going still.

"They are going to see," he said.

"Yes," Sybil said slowly, a niggling inside her worrying over her husband's impetuous nature.

"But that's just it," he pressed. "We can't stop them from seeing, we can only manipulate how they see it."

"I don't understa-"

Before she could finish her thought Tom had grabbed her hand, pulling her to her feet.

"Grab your robe, I'll get your shoes."

Sybil frowned but did as he said. He waited while she wrapped the thick material about her before handing her the shoes.

He watched her slip them on. "Wait, your hair."

Sybil glared at him, still unclear of the plan. "What about it."

"You've got to braid it or something."

Sybil grabbed her long tresses, grateful her training as a nurse had forced her to learn some practical skills, quickly folding piece over piece while Tom retrieved the bit of ribbon he'd tugged free the night before.

"Have you ever seen a magician?" he asked as she braided.

"Of course," she answered.

"It's all a trick," Tom explained. "The magician makes sure you see what he wants you to see, what you hope to see. People tend to see only what they expect to see."

"Yes, so?"

Tom sighed. "It's a lie, a trick. I know you don't like deceit, and if you prefer, I'll walk you back to the Abbey right now, and we can tell your family, otherwise we're going to have to lie, to trick them."

Sybil stared at him, war waging within her. She loved her family. She loved Tom. She wasn't ready to give up either. Besides, where would they go?

Tom saw her small nod of acquiesce. "Right, follow me."

The pair moved out of his cottage, mindful it was visible from the big house, doing their best to check before sneaking out and around to the backside.

"Now what?"

"You said it yourself, Lady Grantham's not normally down this early, so she doesn't know about your morning routine."

Sybil shook her head. "What morning routine?"

Tom gave her a sympathetic look.

"Sorry love."

And he pushed her to the ground.

Lady Grantham stepped out into the cool spring morning, working her fingers into the lace glove O'Brien had just handed her, and sighed heavily. The day was shaping up to be rather off putting; to begin the day with an insisted upon early morning meeting with her mother-in-law was never a good start. And now she finds no car waiting for her. Her temper grew short as she imagined Violet's ill-concealed criticism of Cora's late arrival.

"Carson, I thought the motor was coming."

The butler's face remained impassive, a consummate professional, even as his mind reeled with displeasure and embarrassment. "My deepest apologies my lady, I was told Mr. Branson was on his way up with the car."

"Well please find him quickly. I have no desire to be late," she snapped, her own ire barely contained.

"Of course my lady," Carson's deep voice soothed. "If you'd like to step into the drawing room to wait I will immed-my word!"

Cora, who had already begun heading into the house, turned at his exclamation.

"Carson?" Her eyes followed his line of sight until she herself gasped aloud.

"Sybil?" she cried, moving quickly towards the pair making their way up the drive, the elderly servant hot on her heels.

Sybil held tightly to Tom, her heart beating fast. She felt ridiculous; she felt terrified. Her mind went through what they had quickly discussed, but seeing her mother's panicked face struck at the heart of her.

Tom shifted her weight, holding her a little higher, cradling her to his chest. She could feel his own heart racing, hear his heavy breathing, feel a bit of sweat at his neck as he labored to carry her.

"Sybil, what's happened?" Lady Grantham demanded as the foursome finally met up.

"I'm alright Mama," she assured her. "Only a twisted ankle."

"A twisted ankle?" Cora parrotted. "Sybil you're in your night clothes and you're covered in dirt."

"Yes, Mama," Sybil soothed, trying to remember the story Tom had quickly given her. "I know. I'm afraid I went for my early morning walk, as I do most mornings-"

"You do?" Her mother pressed.

"Of course Mama," Sybil answered, her tone light. "I try to walk most days that I have a shift. The early morning, just as the sunrises, before the house gets too busy and hectic, gives me the strength to face the atrocities of this war."

Her heart sank at the sympathetic look on her mother's face. Shame began twisting a knife deep into her. Tom was right: her mother was seeing only what she wanted to see.

She didn't like deceit

"Of course my darling," Cora nodded, refusing to be seen as unknowledgeable in regards to her daughter's activities in front of the servants.

"Only this morning I hit a rather damp spot and slipped and seemed to have badly twisted my ankle."

"I was on my way to the garage when I found her trying to hobble her way back to the house your ladyship," Tom interjected, always surprising Sybil with how easily he fell back into the role of servant. "I do apologize for the delay in bringing the car around."

Cora waved him off. "Of course Branson, thank you."

"I'm afraid I was left sitting in the dirt for a few hours before Branson came along and found me," Sybil offered.

"Poor dear," Cora cooed. "Which ankle?"

"My left."

"The right."

Cora's eyebrows went up at the conflicting answers spoken together.

Tom was the first to recover, offering a small chuckle. "I'm sorry your ladyship, my right is her left, of course."

Cora nodded, easily accepting the explanation.

"And please forgive my familiarity m'lady, but I did check the ankle, and seems to be a bit swollen but not broken."

Carson glared at him, while Cora's eyes moved to where her daughter's feet poked out from under the nightdress. "Oh, it is rather swollen," Cora decided, surprising Sybil who knew for a fact her ankle was fine. "Carson, you must send for Dr. Clarkson at once."

"No Mama," Sybil insisted. "Dr. Clarkson is much too busy with men who really need medical attention. My ankle is not an emergency. I can manage without bothering the doctor; I am a nurse after all."

Cora looked as if she was going to argue, but seeming to decide against it merely nodded. "Very well. Do you believe you can lean against me to get you upstairs?"

Sybil nodded, wiggling away from Tom.

She let out a dramatic hiss as he set her down, causing everyone to freeze.

"Perhaps not," she concluded, feeling Tom's eyes on her, his eyebrow going up.

"Don't try my dear," Cora insisted. "Branson will carry you up."

"Of course your ladyship," he nodded, carefully ignoring the smug smile his wife threw him.

He again took her weight fully into his arms, knowing he was now being punished for having shoved her down, despite having done it gently.

He followed the older pair towards the house, trying to maintain even breaths as he worked to keep from dropping Sybil.

He felt her fingers dig into him, felt her breath warm on his neck as she subtly whispered, "I don't like this at all."

Tom understood.

He didn't like it either. They'd outgrown this.

Now two things were very clear to him: they really needed to start planning and preparing for the day their marriage was revealed, and they would have to do all that they could to control that revelation.

He didn't think he could live through another moment like this.

Thank you for reading!

Coming up next week:

"Sybil, you are being naive," Cora accused. "What would your Granny say if she heard you talk like that?"

'Probably a great deal less than when she hears I've already married the chauffeur,' Sybil thought feeling suddenly weepy.

"Of course you can marry for love as long as it's a gentleman of mine and your father's choosing," Cora continued, blind to her daughter's growing discomfort.

The youngest Crawley felt her blood boil, her emotions flying from sadness to anger. Her life was forever to be controlled. "Well, please make my apologies to the Grey family. I have to be at the hospital tonight, and I refuse to ask another nurse to cover for me again. I do have responsibilities. I've been tired lately and I would like an early night…" she trailed off, the rest of her angry retort dying on her lips.

"Sybil?" Cora pressed, concerned.

Sybil shook her head slightly. "I would like an early night following my shift so please don't expect me to make an appearance in the drawing room for cards."

She ignored her mother's frustrated huff, her busy mind drowning out the pleading and petitioning. Sybil couldn't focus as her breath came in fast bursts.

She had been tired recently. She had been emotionally volatile recently.

Surely she wasn't…