A Hard Sacrifice
By: piperholmes
A/N: Thank you ever so much for the continued support! As a heads up, I ran out of time this week so I wasn't able to get this to Repmet so it's unbeta'd. I didn't want to miss posting today, but I did try to catch as much as I could though. Sorry about that! But still a huge thanks to Rep for her patience with me!
Two points:
1) This is where the timeline on the show gets wonky. Episode four starts out in 1918, presumably early 1918, I used March as suggested by scarletcourt. Then episode five starts out at the beginning with the battle of Amiens which began in August 1918. Episode four ends with Ethel telling Mrs. Hughes she's pregnant, then in episode five (approximately 5-6 months later) she's holding what appears to be a four month old; even for a "TV" baby that's a bit much. I also don't think Ethel was "hiding" her pregnancy, since she came back to Downton to tell Mrs. Hughes, and I think if she knew before that she would have spoken out. The months just don't add up. (Seriously, Fellowes, dude you could try a little harder to make your timeline make sense!) SO, this will be where the timeline in the story will diverge from the show. I am putting Ethel at three months in March of 1918.
2) In the show Isobel leaves for France and would be gone for a good portion of Sybil's pregnancy—which falls between episodes four and five—and that makes me sad because I love writing for Isobel's character. So in this AU she never leaves for France.
May 1918
"Nurse Crawley?"
Sybil's head came up, a bright smile so expertly painted on her face no one would believe it to be forced. She had been well instructed in the art of careful control. Her granny had scolded her for laughing too loudly the first time Sybil had been allowed to join the family at dinner. Her mother had gently reminded her to maintain an air of mystery her first season, pointing out that Sybil's face gave too much away.
"My dear, an actress on the stage can employ such pantomime to express herself, but a lady would never resort to such theatrics."
The Dowager's words had confused a younger Sybil, but the tone left little to the imagination.
"Yes?" Sybil answered her coworker, her voice crisp and light, giving no indication of the pounding behind her eyes, the headache plaguing her since she'd awoken that morning.
It had been three days since she'd first suspected.
Three days of her stomach feeling knotted, her sleep erratic, her body exhausted and now her head aching, the implications of a baby growing stronger with each dawn.
"Mrs. Crawley was asking for you."
Sybil once again smiled. "Thank you. Would you mind-"
"Of course not," her fellow nurse interjected, taking the bandages from Sybil so she could step in and finish wrapping the soldier's arm.
The transition was made easily, and soon Sybil was walking towards the office her cousin used. For a moment, a breath of time, she felt the desire to tell someone. The impulse sending a wave of heat through her as she pictured the chance to relieve some of the pressure, some of the isolation.
She was a nurse, but what did she know about pregnancy? Tom would know even less.
Cousin Isobel would know.
It would be so easy, to just say the words, to get them out. She wasn't even sure if her symptoms were due to a baby or to the fact that the fear and uncertainty of the possibility of a baby were poisoning her.
If only she'd been able to see Tom; something more significant than the drive to the hospital, more than the back of his head and squeeze to her hand when he helped her in and out.
She'd done nothing wrong. She'd fallen in love with a wonderful man. She'd married him. If she were pregnant, then she'd done nothing millions of women before her had done: created new life.
A new life in an old world.
Sybil stood outside the door, her heart pounding, her stomach sinking as some of the hope of being able to speak slipped away. She knew her cousin would help her, but she couldn't guarantee, nor expect, Isobel to keep their secret.
How could she be a mother, when in that moment she wanted nothing more than to be held by hers?
Swallowing hard and smoothing the apron of her uniform, Sybil wrestled her chaos down, raising a steady hand, wrapping her knuckles firmly against the hard wood of the door.
"You wanted to see me?" she asked, having received the affirmation to enter.
"Sybil, yes, please shut the door and have a seat."
Isobel smiled easily, her open face free of the restraints so often associated with the upper class.
Sybil envied her.
"Now, I have a matter of some…delicacy to discuss with you," Isobel began once Sybil had sat down. "I hesitate to broach the topic with you, keeping in mind your mother's proclivity to keep you from being exposed to too much of the world, but I feel a young woman in your position, who's showed a great deal of courage and fortitude, and seen some of the worse men can do to each other, can handle such realities."
Sybil frowned slightly, unsure of what her cousin was saying, but grateful for her words.
Isobel took in her confusion with a nod. "You see Nurse Crawley the world doesn't stop for the war. Dr. Clarkson has his hands full of wounded soldiers both here at the hospital and at Downton, yet the locals still suffer every day maladies that need addressing; a broken arm, a sick child, a pregnant mother."
Sybil couldn't help her eyes coming up, her breathing stilled.
"Dr. Clarkson does what he can, but for cases that do not perhaps require all of his expertise I've assumed responsibility, and it's the later aliment I wish to discuss with you."
Forcing air into her lungs, Sybil slowly asked, "Whatever do you mean?"
She gave a small wince as her voice cracked, certain such a sound reverberated.
"Are you familiar with a former maid at Downton, Ethel Parks?"
Sybil blinked at the unexpected question. "I…I, yes, I suppose I am."
"Very good, I was hoping you would remember her. This matter requires a level of discretion that quite honestly I'm not sure any of the other nurses could maintain. Ethel is pregnant and will be coming to the hospital at 3:00."
The words buzzed about Sybil, making it difficult to distinguish her thoughts. "To have the baby?"
Isobel frowned. "Oh no my dear, she's not that far gone yet. No, this is just an examination to ensure things are going well."
"I…I didn't know she was married."
It was the raised eyebrow and the quick glance out the window that told Sybil all she was meant to pick up on earlier.
"Forgive me, that was…that is none of my concern," she scrambled, trying to regain her firm hold. "Of course, how can I help?"
The older woman smiled proudly. "That's the spirit. I knew I could depend on you."
Isobel stood. "Now, she should be arriving in the next 10 minutes. Please wait outside for her and bring her to my office. We'll perform the exam here to allow for as much privacy as possible. As you can imagine the fewer who know what is going on, the better for Ethel."
Sybil also stood, a flood of questions trying to drown out rational thought and propriety. But she held her tongue, followed instructions and headed outside to wait for Ethel.
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.
Thoughtlessly her hand came to rest against her abdomen, a ridiculous notion that somehow it would calm the nausea. Yet her mind raged; was there a baby just under where her hand rested.
Discretion, secrecy, the shame of it all; she'd been naive. She understood that now. Even if she wasn't pregnant, she knew she wouldn't be able to go back to careless ease of the last year.
Her mind continued to worry her, unable to allow her a moment to enjoy the warmth of the day, the fresh aroma of flowers free of the sterile smells of the hospital, until, squinting in the sunlight, she saw a lone figure walking up the lane.
As the figure grew closer Sybil noted how impossible it was to distinguish her condition. Realizing she knew nothing beyond the fact that Ethel was pregnant, Sybil was left to assume she was fairly early on.
She watched the former maid slow, knowing she'd been seen, her steps growing wary.
Sybil wasn't ignorant. She knew the intimidation her title could emit, especially to someone who used to light her morning fires and change her linens.
It was the reminder she needed, to forget about her own situation and focus on the patient. She was a nurse after all.
"Ethel?"
The redhead nodded, her eyes big. "Yes, m'lady."
"Nurse Crawley, please," she offered, a bright smiling mask firmly in place. She had proudly accepted the praise from the head nurse at the school in York, that her bedside manner was excellent, and knew she would do all that she could to help Ethel feel at ease. "Would you follow me please?"
"M'lady…I…"
Sybil saw the panic behind her eyes, the cold hand of desperation and guilt, the strangling of loneliness and burden of responsibility.
Gently she reached out a hand, bringing it to rest against the arm of the shabby coat Ethel wore. "It's alright. We're going to take care of you."
"With respect m'lady, I'm afraid very little will be alright ever again," Ethel mumbled, clearly uncomfortable with the contact. "But I thank you for your kindness."
Sybil didn't know how to respond to that, so she simply said, "This way please." Then led Ethel to Isobel's office.
The exam went well, though Sybil had been surprised to learn Ethel was nearly 6 months gone.
She must have been unable to contain her reaction because Ethel had explained, "I've got to hide it. I've only washer work as it is. When people learn of the baby they'll fire me for sure."
Isobel had cautioned over binding her stomach too tightly, of the dangers it posed to the baby. Sybil had known many women still wore corsets throughout the course of their pregnancy and she wondered at the safety of that.
Once Isobel had finished her questions and the physical examination, she had declared Ethel in good health, and feeling no need to involve Dr. Clarkson, advised the pregnant woman to come back in two months time as long as she continued to feel well.
As Ethel pulled her coat back on she said, "I've no money for the bus home."
The blatant request hit Sybil, an uncomfortable silence stretched.
Isobel recovered first. "Wait here a moment, I'll return shortly."
As the door closed Sybil felt the tension in the room.
"I don't like begging," Ethel said suddenly, her voice tight. "It makes me feel…" her voice trailed off. "I suppose it doesn't matter how it makes me feel. I broke the rules didn't I? This is my punishment; my utter humiliation."
There was nothing Sybil could say that wouldn't sound stupid or privileged.
It was in that moment Lady Sybil Branson decided she wasn't going to be beaten.
Isobel soon returned with some coins and a sandwich, gratefully accepted by the mother-to-be before she left.
"Such a shame," Isobel had said quietly, before turning to Sybil. "Now, I believe your shift is over at 6 correct?"
Sybil nodded.
"Good, I'll ride back up with you to the big house."
She left the office, resumed her work, acted as if the world wasn't shifting drastically beneath her.
She wasn't going to wind up like Ethel. They weren't going to be begging for help. She and Tom were a family. She wasn't alone, she wasn't abandoned.
She would find a way to get word to him. She couldn't let another day go by without seeing him, talking with him, touching him.
For one more night she would allow them to pretend; one more night of playfulness and ease.
Then she would tell him.
Tom could kick himself. His fingers had graced over the paper's edge as he'd fiddled with his pocket, surprising him, bewildering him as he pulled it out in front of everyone. Once he'd realized it wasn't something he had stuck in there he'd known immediately who was responsible.
His wife.
Tom didn't think the finest actor in all of Covent Gardens would have been able to hide the smile such a realization prompted. He, a man known for wearing his heart on his sleeve and his emotions on his face, had no chance. His fingers felt the smooth glide of the small scrap of paper as he unfolded it. Her quick writing messy:
Meet tonight. Not the usual place. Meet me where you first told me about your dreams. I have a rather naughty idea.
"What's that?" the round clipped tones of the Countess' maid demanded, startling him. She'd caught the perplexed look on his face, the confusion, followed by the silly, delighted grin and sniffed a bit of gossip. O'Brien wasn't one to let things go easily.
He'd been so stupid, so careless.
He stuffed the paper back into his pocket, trying to keep his movement slow and deliberate, fighting the urge to shove it away quickly in a flash of guilt while doing his best to disrupt the images playing through his mind that had been prompted by her use of the word 'naughty'. Their wedding night had opened her world to the pleasures of sensual contact, and his to the power of love and lust combined. It had been too difficult recently to find that time together, and he missed her.
He smiled easily at the intrusive maid. "Nothin'." he answered lazily. "Just a list of chores to get done."
"Well I wished a bit of darning and washing brought a smile like that to my lips," O'Brien scoffed, making it clear she didn't believe him. "Looks more like the cat that got into the cream."
"Thank you for your mumblings O'Brien," Carson boomed from the end of the table, signaling an end to her interrogation. "Mr. Branson owes you no explanation."
"Excuse me," the older woman answered, her words dripping with indignation and Tom, despite his surroundings, again allowed a small smile to escape.
"And you can get back to work Mr. Branson," Carson declared firmly, one bushy eyebrow raised critically. It was clear he too hadn't fallen for the chauffeur's feeble answer.
"Yes Mr. Carson," Tom intoned, pushing back from the table. "I'll head down and pick up her ladyship for dinner."
The butler nodded absently, before turning back to his tea.
Tom scurried from the room, missing the frown and weary eye that followed him.
O'Brien was a meddler. Her own life had taken her to places she'd never wished to be, imprisoning her, her choices her warden, and so she'd found ways to distract herself and take her focus off her own miserable life.
"I was just concerned Mr. Carson," she explained once the Irishman had left.
The old Butler looked up at her skeptically. "And pray, Miss O'Brien, what has you so afflicted with compassion?"
Ignoring Carson's snide implications, O'Brien continued. "Not very much puts a smile like that on a man's face, and definitely no laundry list."
"How would you know what puts a smile like that on man's face?" Thomas accused from the other side of the table.
"Thank you Corporal Barrow," Carson snapped, feeling decidedly uncomfortable with the line of conversation.
O'Brien threw Thomas a cold look before turning back to the butler. "I'm just hoping Mr. Branson isn't getting up to no good with one of the house maids is all. It would be inappropriate and I know his Lordship wouldn't be pleased."
"Yes, thank you O'Brien. Your concern is noted," Carson said, making it clear the matter was at an end.
Charles Carson was a man of control. He liked order and boundaries. He expected those who had earned the privilege of employ at Downton Abbey to maintain a certain sense of decorum. O'Brien's words had planted a seed of doubt in his mind concerning the young, attractive chauffeur. He had no desire to lose the man, when able bodied men were so hard to come by these days, but he would not stand for an inappropriate relationship. He made a mental note to pay close attention to Branson, and to ask Mrs. Hughes to keep an eye on her maids.
Tom, unaware of the discourse carrying on regarding his love life, grinned excitedly as he made his way to the garage, to the Renault.
Meet me where you first told me about your dreams.
He'd been driving her home from Ripon, her precious smile greeting him as he'd glanced over his shoulder at her.
"I won't always be a chauffeur," he said.
"I think you should go into politics," she declared. "It's a fine ambition."
"Ambition or dream?" he scoffed
The memory washed over him, reinforcing his love for the woman who believed in him long before he believed in himself. His thoughts grew wicked as he imagined what ideas his darling wife had in mind for them and the motor. The wait that evening was going to be interminable.
And it was.
Long after he'd driven old Lady Grantham back home, long after the house had grown dark and quiet, Tom sat tinkering away in the garage, still waiting. He'd not bothered changing, and tugged the buttons out of their holes at the top of his shirt, having long ago lost the neck tie.
He was just about ready to call it a night, believing she wasn't coming, held up by those in the house, unable to sneak away. It was always a possibility, which had led to a few frustrating nights for him and her. But a sound at the door caught his attention and a blur of white slipped through the darkness towards him.
Light from the single lamp he still had burning finally reached her face, illuminating her blue eyes and pink cheeks. Tom was struck again by how it felt, to be with her, the way it made breathing a little easier, his shoulders feel a little stronger, as if she had the power to turn him into something more than just a man.
Sybil smiled up at him before rushing to him.
He caught her easily, wrapping her tightly against him, the fabric of her nightdress dancing about them.
"I didn't think you were going to be able to come," he confessed into her hair suddenly noting how cold she felt.
"My love you're shivering," he cried, pulling back to look at her.
"As I was coming outside one of the soldiers stepped out to smoke," she began as Tom wrapped her up in his chauffeur's jacket, running his hands ups and down her body, trying to warm her. "He very nearly saw me. I had to hide behind the crates outside the kitchen. Another soldier soon joined him and I just had to wait while they talked and smoked."
Tom winced; thinking of her against the cold ground as the night's chill seeped through her thin clothing and into her skin.
"I did contemplate just returning to my room and burying myself under the covers, but then I thought you would have a much more…enjoyable way of warming me up," her voice had grown quiet, for his ears only, seducing him. "And I've missed you quite dreadfully."
Tom's breathing became harsh as she pressed herself suggestively against him.
"My bed is quite warm," he suggested, curious to know why they weren't in their usual place.
Sybil groaned. "I can't stay. I have an early shift tomorrow and I know if I get into your bed I'll not want to leave in the morning."
Tom felt disappointment grip him. She was his wife, he her husband. They should be able to sleep in the same bed and not worry about her having to sneak off before the sun arose. But he was careful to keep his frustration hidden. This was the way it had to be for now.
"So what did you have in mind m'lady?"
Sybil's face brightened, her eyes half-closing as her lips pouted. She was playful tonight, sultry, and Tom felt his body harden as she silently tugged him to the automobile, still wearing his uniform coat.
She flung open the door, her eyes glancing to the back seat suggestively, before she offered her hand to him.
He placed his hand in hers and with a surprised laugh felt himself dragged into the back as she eagerly scrambled in. They landed rather unceremoniously onto the floor of the powerful machine. Her own laughter joined his as she shifted and rolled, pinning him to floor, straddling his body, her nightdress bunched high around her hips giving him a good look at her knees which glowed white in the darkness. He couldn't keep his hands from reaching out and touching the soft skin, playfully squeezing her knees, then her thighs, then her hips.
Suddenly he felt his arms ripped from her then pressed firmly to the floor above his head. Sybil bowed over him, her long hair falling against his face, the rounded tops of her breasts peeking out as her nightgown fell open towards him.
Tom grinned wolfishly. This was the most aggressive she'd been with him. He was unsure what had prompted this, but was hardly interested in questioning it.
She leaned forward further, her lips finding his, devouring and demanding even as she ground against him. Tom's hips thrust up to her, seeking her, and she pulled back quickly.
"I'm driving tonight Branson," she commanded, sitting back again, pressing tightly against him, forcing his hips still. "But I'm not a very accomplished driver so you mustn't do anything to break my concentration."
Tom had to fight the moan that came from deep inside when she circled her own hips against him.
"Shall I give you a few pointers m'lady?" he ground out, playing along as well as his befuddled mind could.
"Of course Branson," she smiled sweetly, as if she wasn't riding him desperately close to completion. "Any advice is greatly welcomed."
Tom's eyes closed as pleasure raced through him. "It's all…in the handling…of the stick m'lady."
Sybil's laughter rang out and she proved to Tom that she was a quick study and soon the car was moaning and rocking along with them.
Thank you for reading! And I promise to get this chapter done in time so it can be beta'd. Hopefully the mistakes weren't too glaring.
Coming up next week:
He didn't care what it would cost him. He could see her leaving, leaving him. Desperation was a powerful motivator. He remember the feeling on her in his arms, the way her lips caressed his. It couldn't be so meaningless to her; not when it moved his entire world.
He was going to do it.
He was going to ask her to marry him.