A Hard Sacrifice
Part 8
A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Repmet (and it's still her birthday in my neck of the woods!). I can't tell you what this girl means to me and what a true blessing she is in my life. My only hope is that this chapter lives up to the standard she has set as a writer herself. This is unbeta'd and things are going to really start to get difficult for our favorite duo. I can't thank you all enough for continuing to support this story and me, even as the weeks go by between updates. Writing is a very personal experience and sharing it is a very scary prospect, but the reader's response makes it all worth it. Thank you all so much!
November 1918
Cora Crawley held the hand of her youngest daughter as Dr. Clarkson poked and pushed Sybil's body. The occasional tightening of fingers was the only outward indication of her child's discomfort throughout the exam.
Sybil was always so brave.
Brave children so rarely need a mother's comfort.
This great house hid many a secret and now Cora sat, war raging inside her mind. Her immediate concern was for her daughter's health and that of the baby. But what then? She was an American and believed a man could make of himself what he wanted, but she'd lived too long in England and understood the prejudices that pervade this country demanded blood of anyone who disrespected the order of things.
This isn't what she wanted for her child; her baby, having a baby.
She'd always felt a particular closeness wit Sybil. Out of all her children, Sybil seemed the most like her mother, the most "American" the Dowager would accuse with a snide look. Cora had always been proud to see herself in Sybil, but as the years went on it became more and more difficult to recognize the little girl. She was envious of the relationship that had developed between her daughter and Cousin Isobel.
She remembered the proud smile Isobel had given Sybil when she'd seen the harem pants.
She remembered the excitement the two women shared when Isobel announced an opening at the nurses' college.
She remembered the way Sybil had looked to Isobel for support, as a champion.
She remembered the way Sybil would go to Isobel with questions and concerns as her pregnancy had progressed.
It had hurt.
But Cora had been unable to find a way to break the cycle because she felt unable to understand her child.
She was her mother.
She was a woman who had come to a new country, had taken the position of countess in a system that was foreign to her. She had married a man who did not love her, but had worked hard at her marriage and had gained his love and built a family with him. She had given birth to three girls, faced three coming-outs in the London season, had seen her husband off to war, had withstood years of the Dowager's criticisms and cutting comments, and had done so with grace and poise.
Yes, this great house hid many a secret, but a faint noise could be heard coming through the walls, and soon the soft mumble of raised voices penetrated the walls of Sybil's room pulling the countess from her thoughts.
"Mama?" Sybil spoke, her voice quiet, and tinged with an emotion Cora couldn't quite place.
"Yes my darling?"
Her eyes wide, blue, uncertain, Sybil gazed up at her, and Cora understood what she had heard; fear.
"Will you help me do battle for Tom and the baby when the time comes?"
Her daughter, her brave, stalwart daughter was afraid, and looking to her mother.
A thought came to her mind, sending a warmth of realization throughout her body, and Cora knew it wasn't her daughter she no longer recognized, it was herself.
She had forgotten who she was.
She had forgotten who she was and had driven a wedge between herself and her child.
She was strong.
She was brave.
She was a fighter.
And she would fight for her child.
"Of course."
May 1918
"What do you mean 'Of course'?"
Sybil frowned at her sister. "I'm sorry?"
Mary sighed with frustration. "I asked you which dress would look best for the gala and you answered "Of course."
Sybil gave a small laugh, but Mary could see the effort it took. "Sorry, the red one with the matching chiffon."
Mary turned from the hanging finery to face her sister fully. "Are you alright my dear? You look at bit piqued."
Still wearing her gray nurses uniform, the short curly hairs around her brow escaping the simple knot at the nape of her neck, faint purplish smudges beneath her eyes, Sybil looked decisively more than merely piqued, she looked completely done in.
"Just a difficult shift," Sybil offered, pushing back the hair from her forehead.
Mary gazed at her. She'd heard that excuse more often than she could recall. It was an answer that Sybil seemed to know would guarantee no further inquest into her life. The realities of war were not meant for the Downton dinner table, and horrific stories of dying and maimed youth were too uncomfortable to discuss to any great length.
Mary had no doubt that Sybil had seen many terrible and heartbreaking ramifications of the war to end all wars, but Sybil also thrived on being in the middle of it, being of help, being useful, and there seemed to be something deeper behind her normal tired, maturing eyes.
"Are you sure that's all that it is?" Mary pressed, taking in her younger sister's suddenly stiff shoulders.
"Of course," came a quick reply as Sybil stood, a smile plastered on her face. "You should definitely where the red one, but if you'll excuse me I feel quite tired but have to much energy to rest just yet and think I'll take a walk then have an early night. Would you mind terribly having Mrs. Hughes send a tray to my room for dinner and making my excuses to the family? I don't think I have it in me to make conversation tonight."
Mary nodded, not even bothering to hide her concern as she watched Sybil leave.
Sybil's head ached, a steady pain behind her eyes that had started just after her shift began. She normally preferred days at the cottage hospital, but was glad she'd been assigned to the convalescing today. It had been a difficult shift, watching one of the young men slip further and further into a dark place as he struggled to accept the loss of his left eye, arm and foot, but it was the fatigue that clung to her body like a wet chemise and the nausea that plagued her that had made the day seem intolerable. All she wanted was her bed.
But her feet carried her passed her bedroom and down the stairs, out into the sunshine of an ebbing away day. She had promised Tom she would see him tonight since they hadn't been able to get much discussing done the previous night.
And they had a lot to discuss.
Keeping her eyes on the ground, watching as she put one foot in front of the other, the hypnotic rhythm enough of a distraction to push her tired body to the garage. She'd been quiet, enough so that he seemed to not hear, allowing her a moment to lean against the doorway and watch him.
He'd not yet replaced is jacket, as he leaned casually against the motor reading the paper. His face was serious; his brow low, lips tight.
She felt the familiar happiness blossom insider her. It was the kind of excitement that had started early on, that sent her grinning with anticipation, that left her a bit breathless and silly. It had changed, matured, as their relationship progressed, no longer the giggly, lip-biting joy of a young girl with a crush, but a deeper, more lasting sense of connection. He had taken over her mind, then her heart, and now her soul.
She dreaded hurting him.
"That's a rather stern face," she offered light heartedly, stepping easily into the garage.
The paper immediately fell away, being tossed forgotten onto the worktable, as Tom smiled at her, his arms opening.
She returned his smile, stepping easily into his embrace, her face pressing against the smooth, cool material of his black waistcoat.
She couldn't resist, he felt too good, too safe, too comfortable, and with a deep sigh she allowed her eyes to close leaning heavily against him.
Tom said nothing, never stumbling under her weight, merely holding her close.
"I think I could sleep for a week straight," she mumbled against chest.
She heard and felt his chuckle. "A rather aristocratic thought I'd say," he teased her.
"You mean servants never dream of a week in bed?" she asked, feigning ignorance.
"A week?" he barked with laughter. "I think most would be content with an additional hour every now and again."
She snuggled into him a bit more, allowing herself a moment to wish things were easier.
"You'll soon be able to rest my darling. I can't imaging Dr. Clarkson letting you work after we tell them about the baby, that is assuming your father would even allow us to remain in the village," he offered rather sardonically. "Or doesn't have me arrested."
Sybil felt the air leave her body as the weight of what she was about to say pressed harder against her. Carefully she stepped from his embrace, slowly moving out of his arms, unable to hide the misery in her eyes.
Tom was immediately contrite, the bitterness leaving his face as he watched her. "I'm sorry love; I shouldn't have said that, it was in poor taste."
She only shook her head. "No, it's not that."
Her fingers moved to his face, her fingertips tracing the curve of his cheek, the slight stubble on his chin, the smooth skin of his lips, memorizing each feature for fear that what she was about to say would forever alter their relationship.
He stood silent, almost resolved, as if he knew, as if he expected, and it hurt all the more. The unspoken tension had them wound tight and twisted, a fear that if either stretched too far they'd both shatter.
"Actually I wanted to talk about when we would tell everyone," she ventured, letter her hands fall away from him, rubbing at her own temple a moment, trying to ease some of the throbbing.
"Certainly," Tom answered, noting her headache and indicating for them to sit. "I've been thinking about what we should do." He took her hand into his, bringing it to rest in his lap as they settled on the work bench. "I've a brother in Liverpool, he's trying to get a job there as a mechanic. With a lot of the young men off to war business seem a bit more willing to hire Irishmen and he thinks if he gets the position and proves himself a good worker then he could probably get me hired on. He said the rooms above the garage are quite livable…of course he's thinking in terms of a home for a bachelor since he doesn't know about you or the baby, but I'm sure accommodations can be made, or that us living there would only be temporary—"
"Live above a car garage with your brother in Liverpool?" Sybil asked, her headache causing her eyes to squint some. "You would still be working on cars?"
She felt him stiffen. "It'd be only temporary."
"How would it be temporary?" She tried to keep her voice calm, open, but she knew her mind was against it. "How much would you earn at the garage? Assuming of course your brother gets the job and can then get you the job. Would it be enough for us to get a home?"
Tom hesitated. "I'm not exactly sure yet, but I won't let us starve Sybil."
She heard the wounded pride in his voice. "Of course not darling, but we have to think beyond that. You are the last person I need to remind the trap poverty poses. Are we to wind up as one of the Rowntree's statistics?"
He stood abruptly, her hand falling, as he pushed his own through his hair, his back to her. "That wouldn't be us."
"How could it not be?" she pressed, each word leaving her bleeding. "If my father disowns me then I have nothing. If you're fired then all we have is what you've managed to save, which isn't enough to keep us going for longer than a few weeks at best."
"We can live with my mother until I find steady work," he insisted.
"Living off her charity?" Sybil scoffed. "When you send a portion of your pay to her to keep her comfortable?"
Tom whirled on her, his defenses up. "We'd manage. My family knows how to support each other. At least she wouldn't turn her back on us like—"
He caught his words, snapping his mouth shut.
"Like my parents?" Sybil finished for him, her expression growing hard. "That's not fair. I love my parents, my family. You don't know them."
Tom said nothing.
"And even if that's true, even you family did accept me, what then? We are working hand to mouth with a baby to feed. What of your dreams? Ambitions? What of my work?"
Tom's own face grew dark. "What work? Bringing hot drinks to a lot of randy officers? Look, it comes down to whether or not we love each other, that's all, that's it, the rest is detail."
His words cut her to the core, the one person who understood how much her nursing meant to her, her one love who had encouraged her and been proud of her. Her own hurt and angry swelled.
"No Tom," she bit back, shooting to her feet. "It's all about the details. I do love you; totally and completely, but love doesn't put food on the table or ensure a place to live or clothes to wear. I shouldn't have to prove my love to you. I did that the day I married you, eyes wide open, knowing what I would lose. Our love has made us a family, but you and I have a responsibility beyond ourselves now. We owe our child the best possible future, and I cannot believe that means running off without having a real chance."
"We can make it work Sybil," Tom tried again, his eyes bright. "We knew this was a possibility."
"Yes, we did," she agreed, her voice soft. "And I wish now we had more than acknowledged it, and treated it more as an eventuality."
Her tone brought him up short. "You regret it."
"I regret neither marrying you, nor having your child," she stated. "I do regret our naïveté, I regret the position it's put us in."
"Being a poor man's wife?" he accused.
Any sympathy she'd held to fled under the wounding lashed of his tongue. "You believe me so weak as to doubt my convictions to you and our family?"
Tom gave no reply, his stony expression unforgiving.
"Go to hell Tom Branson," she threw at him, turning suddenly, unwilling to subject herself a moment longer to his tantrum.
She was nearly to the door when she felt his fingers grip her arm loosely. "Sybil, wait."
She stopped, but refused to look at him.
His hand fell away from her but she could feel the heat of his body near her, could smell him, could hear his rapid breathing.
"I'm sorry," he offered quietly. "I spoke harshly. To speak slightly of your work, to doubt you; I'd no right to do that."
"No, you didn't."
"It's just that when I look at you, knowing you're mine and I'm yours yet being unable to acknowledge it, to be acknowledged…" His voice died out, and she knew the same tears she battled burned in his eyes. She pressed her lips together, swallowing the lump in her throat as she waited.
"And now, to be a father and yet not be, the thought of it, I feel I may explode," he said.
The confession draped around them, a heavy thickness pervading the air.
"Sybil…"
His voice broke.
Slowly she turned, reaching for him, forgiveness in each kiss she placed against his cheek, the salty taste of his tears on her lips.
"My darling," she murmured, her own petition for redemption. "I know. I'm so very sorry, but please, please understand I want nothing more than to tell the world, to have a life with you, away from this place, but we have to live Tom, not just survive. We will not fall victim to our circumstances. We cannot sacrifice one prison to wind up in another. You are a good man Tom Branson and I will not be the downfall of you. I will be the making of you, as you have been for me. Does our child deserve anything less?"
"How long?"
His question his surrender, bringing no one peace, his head still down.
"How long must I keep silent?"
Sybil took a deep breath, letting him go as he stepped from her. "I'm not sure exactly, long enough for us to have a real plan, to have real means to succeed. We always said that when the war was over you'd start looking for a job with a paper or an entry level position within Irish politics. We'll just start looking now."
His gaze met hers. "That could take months," he pointed out, escaping behind practicality. "What exactly do you expect to happen when your condition becomes obvious?"
"I believe I'll be able to hide my pregnancy for a few weeks yet," she said, mimicking his mask of sensibility. "It's unlikely he'll agree, but it won't hurt to ask Dr. Clarkson if he'd be willing to hire me on as a paid nurse rather than a volunteer and we can save our income together. Beyond that I'm not sure, but I would like to discuss it with you, if you are able."
Tom didn't touch her, his hands on his hips. There was no gentle clinging-feelings still too raw, too deep-but strength in marriage was never proved in the easy moments, rather devotion came when pride was put aside, and amid the hurt and heartache love inspired humility.
"Yes," he promised simply. "But not tonight. You look done in and I…I need some time alone."
It was an olive branch, an offered reprieve and Sybil loved him all the more. Her hand cupped his cheek in a moment of silence before she left him to his thoughts.
They were not alright; both right, both wrong.
But always a part of each other.