A Hard Sacrifice
By: piperholmes
A/N: You people just have no idea what you mean to me. Thank you so much for taking the time to read and review. I've never had a story that I've updated weekly before, with good reason, it can prove very difficult to find the time to write when adequate free-time to write is such a hot (and rare) commodity for me. I can do almost anything with the kids around, except write. I just can't concentrate well enough, so finding time when they aren't needing me usually means after they've gone to bed, which usually means I'm falling asleep with my laptop still in my lap ^_^ But you people push me to make the time, which feels so good! It feels so good to create and accomplish goals. So a million thank yous!
And a million and one to Repmet for her phenomenal beta'ing skills and support.
Oh, and as some of you know, this story started with a few drabble on Tumblr, so if you recognize parts of this chapter it's because I am integrating some of those drabbles into the story.
May 1918
She could feel her hold on her frustration beginning to slip.
It had been a trying morning. What was supposed to be a quick trip to Ripon with her mother began to feel like and unending exercise of deflection and appeasement. It didn't help that Sybil had felt off the last few days, waking with a queasy feeling and a mild throbbing in her head.
And to make matters worse she'd barely been able to see Tom. Following the twisted ankle debacle Sybil had been forced to spend the day in bed, followed by two days of limping around feeling useless until finally, on the third day, she declared herself completely healed, only able to maintain the ruse for so long.
She'd begun to worry that perhaps she'd grown too accustomed to pretending.
She'd worked extra long hours to make up for the time she missed, and perhaps in a small way, in a moment when she was willing to really examine her feelings, even to punish herself for her deceit. Either way it meant she'd not had much time for sneaking off, nor the energy.
The close brush with her secret being revealed had reminded her that there would come a time when perhaps her family would not know her, so she'd been trying to make an effort to spend more time with her family as well.
She vacillated between being sad and heartbroken over the idea to angry and rebellious.
"Sybil dear," Cora whined. "You really must make an effort to be at dinner tonight."
The youngest Crawley suppressed a sighed, she knew that tone of voice, she knew what her mother was going to say because it was the same thing every time. Instead she focused on returning Tom's tight squeeze of her hand as he helped her into the car.
She'd seen him fully naked, felt him move within her, was intimately familiar with the sensation of his mouth on her breast, but still she got a thrill at the touch of his hand on hers; especially when it was contact made in full daylight in front of the whole world. It was a moment of connection that no one judged or despised, in fact it was expected, and she delighted in those small moments.
Tom carefully kept his head down, but she knew, she could see the corners of his lips go up slightly. He was thinking the same things she was.
But they had to pretend…at least for a little while longer.
"Really Mama," Sybil answered once they had settled into their seat, watching as Tom moved around the car to turn the crank. "I was at dinner last night and the night before. I don't think Dr. Clarkson would appreciate having to rearrange the schedule tonight just so I can eat dinner with the family again."
"But it's not just the family," Cora clarified with a smile. "Young Larry's been called up. He'll be reporting in the next two weeks and Lord Merton mentioned how much Larry would appreciate seeing you again before he leaves."
A loud bang followed by a muffled swear came from the front of the car. The chauffeur's head popped up sheepishly. "Sorry, m'lady…my hand slipped," Tom explained, awkwardly raising his hand as proof.
Sybil fought to keep her face neutral, but couldn't stop her eyes from immediately connecting with his.
Cora gave him a vague sort of nod and a small, understanding smile before completely forgetting about him and turning her attention back to her youngest.
"Mama," Sybil warned, feeling rather uncomfortable at the topic being discussed, particularly as
her husband climbed into the driver's seat and could hear every word.
"Don't take that tone with me," Cora began. "I haven't stopped you from your work, despite my misgivings and fears. I allowed you to go to York, to become a nurse and work in the hospital. I'm proud of what you've achieved."
Sybil saw Tom straighten in his seat, as her own heart swelled.
"Truly?" she asked her mother, wincing at how eager she sounded. She so longed for her family's approval of her choices, for their acceptance and love, knowing a day would come soon when those desires would be far out of reach.
"Of course dear," Cora answered softly. "But no one knows how long this war is going to carry on for. We must start thinking about your future. There's no reason why we should continue to delay in finding you girls husbands."
Sybil's eyes moved more slowly this time, more surreptitiously, watching her husband fiddle uselessly with a nob, pretending to not be listening as he stalled to hear her answer.
"Oh, Mama, you can't just drive about like some kind of chauffeur, picking up husbands off the side of the road," she laughed. "It doesn't work like that way any more. Women can let love be the driving force behind their choice for a husband."
This time she couldn't help the smile spread across her lips as she saw Tom hesitate slightly before reaching down and slipping the car into gear, imagining the smirk she knew he now bore.
"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.
Sybil 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. She had been feeling unwell.
Surely she wasn't…
She hoped she wasn't about to have a much bigger problem on her hands than Larry Grey.
May 1916
"It's not your problem, Sybil," Mary insisted, growing impatient with her sister's sudden obsession over the topic. "The whole thing is over; England's won. The rebels should be punished."
"Damned disgraceful if you ask me," Lord Grantham interjected, folding his paper and reaching for his coffee. "Trying to take advantage of the fact that we're at war. We've now had to divert men to deal with these rebels; men who could be fighting Germans."
Sybil pressed her lips together. She knew her father's frustration at not being called up. She shared in his sense of uselessness. "But surely prison is a heavy enough punishment. Isn't there enough killing going on?"
Lord Grantham offered his youngest a tender smile. "Dear sweet Sybil, don't ever change."
Sybil smiled back, though the platitude made it no further than her lips. He was treating her like child; patting her on the head for being adorable. Perhaps it was naive to believe death wasn't the only option for a traitor to the crown, but it seemed to Sybil that martyrs were the hardest to defeat, and if such an argument could save the lives of the Irishmen and appease the crown, why shouldn't she speak? Yet this observation would go unspoken, her opinions of little matter as it was clear her father had already moved on.
"Carson, please tell Branson that my meeting has been moved to 11:00 so I won't be needing the car until after luncheon."
"Very good my lord." The butler nodded.
"Oh, I can tell him," Sybil interjected.
Her father raised an eyebrow in question.
"The weather is very fine today; I was planning a long walk. It would be no bother to stop by the garage," she supplied happily, careful to keep her tone light, playful, acting the role her father preferred her in.
Her father nodded, turning his attention back to the newspaper.
Sybil sipped her tea, avoiding Mary's gaze.
"I thought you said you were going to spend the morning writing letters," her eldest sister whispered.
Sybil shrugged. "That's when I thought it was going to rain."
Mary's brow furrowed as she glanced outside, taking in the blue, cloudless sky...the same blue, cloudless sky that had been bright all morning.
"Excuse me," Sybil mumbled, pushing from the table, nodding at Carson as he opened the door for her.
She moved lazily out into the sunshine, ensuring she didn't look to eager, meandering towards the garage. She wanted to talk to him; had come to crave that interaction. She'd never been able to speak to another person the way she could with him. The way he listened with his whole body, so eager to hear what she had to say, ready to challenge rather than appease, she'd never felt so alive.
The gravel crunched under her feet, causing Tom's head to pop up from where it had bent over the front of the motor.
Sybil smiled at him, a reaction she couldn't control these days, but faltered as his customary grin didn't appear.
He nodded. "M'lady."
"Branson?" Sybil glanced around, concerned perhaps they weren't alone. Finding no one within ear or eyesight she tried again a bit softer, "Tom?"
He shook his head, his jaw tight.
"What's wrong?" she pressed, moving around towards him.
The chauffeur stepped back. "What can I do for you, Lady Sybil?"
A frown marred her smooth skin. "Papa...his meeting was rescheduled and he won't be needing the motor until after luncheon."
Again he nodded, grabbing his rag, wiping his hands clean, just before turning and walking back into the garage.
Sybil stood speechless, watching him go, feeling a sickness deep within, feeling his rejection. She didn't know how to respond. It wasn't often people were walking away from her, the dismissal clear.
She didn't know what had happened, what she had done.
Slowly she began to move away, unsure exactly what to do. She'd taken several steps before she realized, before it made sense, and when it did she chastised herself for her short-sightedness.
Quickly she turned, her dress flapping about her legs like a flag in the wind as she made her way back to the garage, pushing through the door, unsurprised to find him standing, staring, heartbroken.
"Tom, I'm so sorry. I-"
"Leave it," he snapped, the first sign of emotion.
Sybil looked away, unused to such confrontation. But it wasn't in her nature to turn away from a friend, especially a friend in need.
The silence stretched between them as she tried to find the words, until she settled on one.
Carefully she stepped towards him, trying to close some of the distance between them.
"Please."
Tom stiffened, his breathing growing heavy. She watched his fist clench and unclench and clench again.
"It's of little consequence," he finally said, throwing the rag on the workbench.
"That's not true."
"Isn't it?" he pressed, the anger on his face chilling her. "Six days, Sybil. Six bloody days. That's all it took to crush dreams of freedom. And now what? These men are being executed by a firing squad. Labeled traitors, sentenced to die because they wanted to be Irish, to be rid of England."
"I understand you're upset," Sybil began, wanting to help him.
"You don't get it! You can't get it!" he cried, furious. "Your lot has kept my country oppressed for generations. You've starved us, abused us, tried to destroy our culture, even our language. What can you understand about that? Your world is tea parties, fine clothes, servants to dress you, pamper you, bow and curtsey to you. I'm not meant to even call you by your name. I'm sick of it. If I had been in Ireland I would have been lined up with them; shot with them."
Sybil winced. "Please don't say that."
Tom scoffed. "The English way: don't discuss something that is painful or difficult."
Sybil's lips pressed together, her cheeks pink under his assault. "That's not fair."
His sardonic laugh assaulted her ears. "Fair? How can you use that word with me? I hate to break it to you Lady Sybil, but very little in the world is fair."
"Don't talk to me as if I were a child," she shot back. "I can make no apologies for my birth, just as you can't for yours. I don't pretend to know what life is like for you, but I'm trying. If change is going to happen it has to be on both sides and I'm trying."
His shoulders fell, his fair hair falling forward as his head hung.
"They've shot them all," he whispered hopelessly. "The bastards lined them up and shot them. And now...now they've killed my cousin, just shot him as he was walking along, because they said he was 'probably' a rebel. Shot him like a dog in the street. "
She heard his voice catch, could sense his devastation, his torment. Without thought she reached out, her fingers gripping the material of his jumpsuit.
His red eyes met hers, her own heart breaking at the pain she saw there. She hesitated for a moment, then stepped closer. She could smell petrol, feel the warmth of skin under her fingers, kept her gaze locked with his as she brought her other hand to cup his cheek.
It had meant to be a friendly gesture, a simple sign of comfort, but things had never been simple between them. She found herself moving into his arms, arms that began to wrap around her, loosely holding her to him. Her own breathing changed, her heart racing. She'd never been held this intimately before, never felt this desire before.
"Sybil," he said simply, his eyes wide, taking her in as his own hand mirrored hers, coming to rest against her face.
Her eyes closed briefly, overwhelmed by the sensations coursing through her as his thumb gently stroked her rounded cheek.
When again her blue eyes met his she finally saw him raw, saw the depth of his sorrow. She'd never comforted a man physically but instinct had her rising on her toes, her arms wrapping about his neck, pressing her body tightly against his.
She could tell she'd surprised him, his body going rigid, but soon she felt his answer as his own arms wound about her, just as tight, just as desperate. He buried his face in her neck, sending shivers through her body at the heat of his breath against her skin.
She jumped, startled by the first sob that escaped him, then immediately tightened her hold, refusing to let him fall. She didn't know what she was saying, just using the cadence of her voice to try and soothe him as he dealt with his loss and grief.
Her heart ached, a desire to protect him, to take away his pain, even if it meant taking it upon herself, washed through her. Sybil realized in that moment, her giddy excitement to see him, her longing to speak with him, to learn everything about him, was merely attraction. She'd felt that way before, a few young men in her acquaintance having elicited similar feelings.
But this?
Holding him at his weakest, most vulnerable, an impulse to consume him, pull him into her to give him her strength, her comfort, was unlike anything she'd ever experienced.
Was this love?
Her eyes filled with tears, allowing herself to be as exposed as he was, because she knew. She knew it was. She loved the man she cradled against her body. She loved him fiercely, tenderly, completely; a realization that left her a new woman. She would not give him up-no matter the cost.
With renewed vigor her hold on him tightened, hoping her arms were strong enough to see him through this darkness, and any darkness they may one day have to face.
Thanks for reading!
Coming up next week:
Pregnant. She was pregnant.
Sybil bit her lip, her heart dropping at the revelation.
Ethel, the former housemaid, was pregnant.
How different they're lives were, yet how similar. She rubbed her forehead, her frustration building. It all seemed so stupid, all the nonsense of class and station, when it all came down to certain, inalienable truths; women have babies. Whether a farmer makes love to a duchess, or a lord makes love to a maid, babies are made the same. Yet women are punished for it.
Her stomach rolled violently. She was going to be sick again.