Chapter Three

Every Waking Minute

"Well, if you're really sure it's what you want," said Cora, unconsciously making use of the very same words that Sybil's father had spoken to her, most recently but a matter of weeks ago, regarding the then thorny question of what form Tom's memorial should take. Cora and her youngest daughter were in the countess of Grantham's lamp lit bedroom, with the former having been dressed for dinner and ready to go down and, following an urgent telephone call from Dr. Clarkson, with her youngest daughter in her nurse's uniform about to go out to help with an impending birth at the Cottage Hospital.

"I am Mama, quite sure".

"So, have you gone so far as to ask Tom about it?" While watching her daughter's reflection and thereby her reaction to her question in the polished glass of the mirror of her dressing table, Cora fiddled with a particularly recalcitrant ear ring. "There now!" she exclaimed.

Sybil chewed her lower lip.

"Not exactly, Mama, no".
"Sybil?" Cora half turned on her chair and regarded her thoughtfully.
"Well, to be absolutely truthful, no. To be honest, Mama, knowing how much he desperately loves the children I'm not at all sure how he'd take to the idea. I wondered if I would talk to Mary; ask her to have a word with Matthew when he returns from London. He could sound Tom out during one of their games of billiards".

Cora smiled, stood up, came to stand before Sybil and rested her hands lightly the younger woman's shoulders.

"Darling, while Tom was missing, from what you told me then, about the two of you, I think he would be delighted. And, I agree, it's what you need; both of you".

"Do you really think so?"
"I'm sure of it". Cora nodded her head. "But then who am I, a middle aged woman, to be giving either of you advice in this kind of thing?"
Sybil still looked mystified.

"I don't see…"

"Yes you do. Darling, given what you said to me, don't think me prurient, but since Tom came back, I've watched the two of you together. I've seen how you both look at each other. You told me in all honesty how you feel about him and it's obvious that Tom absolutely adores you. Why, you need only sit him down in the Drawing Room and then watch his reaction as you walk into the room to see the truth in that. It's there, ever time, in his eyes. As for Danny and Saiorse, yes of course he loves them. Who wouldn't? They're delightful children and he's a wonderful father to them as well. He always will be but I think, in some ways, they are just evidence of his affection for you and that will never change. So this… this is about you and Tom and no-one else. Understood?"

Sybil nodded her head.

"So… so you'll help me then?"
"Yes," said Cora promptly. "Of course I will. Now, when do you want to make a start?"

"Why, the sooner the better! Oh, Mama! Thank you!" Sybil happily flung her arms about her mother's neck.

As might be expected, the business which had taken Robert and Matthew up to London and at short notice had been to do with the estate and for the time they were up in the capital, they stayed with Rosamund at her town house in Belgrave Square in Westminster.

On the afternoon of their second day in London, after luncheon, Robert had proposed that he take Matthew along to his club. Founded in 1793, in the aftermath of the execution of Louis XVI, by Robert's great grand father, the Bourbon Club lay just off St. James's Park. Like the slightly older Boodle's over on Pall Mall, among its members, Bourbon's counted members of the aristocracy, including four successive earls of Grantham, as well as Conservative politicians past and present such as Benjamin Disraeli, Robert Gascoyne-Cecil Third Marquess of Salisbury and Arthur Balfour now Lord President of the Council. However, most of Bourbon's membership eschewed the discussion of politics at all, choosing instead to avoid all matters controversial, preferring to simply avail themselves of the club's excellent amenities, in particular, its luxurious accommodation, its conviviality, its reputation for excellent cuisine and fine wines and above all its convenient location for gentlemen when up in town for matters of business or pleasure.

Seated in the club's smoking room, sitting before the fireplace in which a good fire always burned whatever the weather or the time of year, having run into the likes of Viscount Tremayne and Lord Hillmorton both of whom, like Archie Strathfearn, had also been with Robert up at Christchurch, the earl of Grantham was at this precise moment in an especially convivial mood.

Snug within the confines of their high backed winged leather armchairs Robert and Matthew were reflecting on the good fortune which had brought Tom back to them. Of course such chairs are exceedingly comfortable but they also do somewhat preclude one from seeing who else is seated close by. Shortly after Robert and Matthew's departure, while they were still in a cab on their way back to Rosamund's house in Belgrave Square, an urgent telephone call was put through from the Bourbon Club to the office of the Secretary of State for the Colonies: Winston Churchill.

Not that Sybil need have worried about Tom's reaction to what she had in mind, for when it came, it was very much as Mama had predicted.

That same week, late one afternoon, unwittingly Tom gave Sybil the opening she needed to broach the subject when he came down to meet her at the Cottage Hospital after Sybil's shift had ended. Having learned about the memorial ward which was to be built to honour his memory during dinner on that first night back at Downton, this afternoon was the very first time Tom had the opportunity to see how the work was progressing and with which, having now viewed it, he pronounced himself well satisfied observing that it was probably the first time anyone had been able to view something being built in their own memory. As for the name the new extension to the Cottage Hospital was now to bear that was to be hurriedly reconsidered at a meeting of the Memorial Ward Committee, convened for later this same afternoon.

Quite unexpectedly, on their way out of the hospital, Sybil and Tom ran into a clearly out of breath and somewhat flustered Cousin Isobel with whom they now happily exchanged both greetings and a few, brief words. Despite her best efforts, the meeting of the Friends of St. Mary's had dreadfully over run, owing to the garrulousness of the Honourable Mrs. Veronica Westwood, a particular friend of the Dowager Countess, who this morning had proved especially contrary not to say downright argumentative.

"This morning, whatever I proposed, she objected to, so much so that I began to wonder if your grandmother had put her up to it!" laughed Isobel and not, thought Sybil, entirely in jest. Isobel was, she now explained, on her way to chair the meeting of the Memorial Ward Committee and which in turn drew a chuckle of laughter from Tom. Then, having said their goodbyes and watched the retreating form of Cousin Isobel as she bustled self-importantly off into the building behind them, mindful of what granny had said a couple of evenings earlier, exchanging amused glances, arm in arm, Sybil and Tom set off back up through the village.

Here, since the departure of the fair a day or so ago, things had returned to more or less their usual level of soporific somnambulism, so much so that they wandered along the narrow streets of Downton all but unobserved, with no-one to see them pass except a couple of grizzled locals sitting on a bench in the warm sunshine outside the Grantham Arms.

From the far end of Station Road a whistle sounded and, late for the afternoon train, a pony and trap laden with full milk churns, rattled past them in a cloud of dust. Passing by the village school the playground was deserted but from within the red brick building they could hear the voices of the children repeating aloud their times tables. A solitary motor puttered by and for a moment drew Tom's gaze until at the crossroads it turned left, took the road for Ripon and disappeared out of sight. He grinned at Sybil.

"Old habits die hard!" he laughed and gave her one of his endearing lop-sided grins.

A little further on along the High Street, they passed the Post Office from where, the morning of the day after Tom's homecoming, an urgent telegram had been despatched to Ma in distant Clontarf giving her the joyful news of his return. For her part, although for the time being she had kept her thoughts on the subject to herself, said nothing to Tom, Sybil thought the telegram was probably unnecessary. After all, given what Ma had told her in the past, for Ma, Tom's telegram would merely prove to be written confirmation of something she herself already knew to be the case.

Tom had also written a letter to Mr. Harrington, his editor at the Irish Independent in Dublin, in which Tom had explained at some length what had befallen him in the aftermath of the burning of Cork. He now anxiously awaited a reply as to whether or not he would be able to resume his old job with the newspaper. Ma's response had been prompt and while clearly delighted she had written and told Tom to remind Sybil of what she had told her: as yet, perhaps ominously, there had been, so far, no reply from Mr. Harrington.

On their way, they stopped at the local bakery to beg some stale bread with which to feed the ducks on the pond; Sybil having explained to Tom that she had taken to bringing Danny down here to do the same; something which, as a child, she had always wanted to do but never been allowed. Much like a horde of ravening locusts had devoured crops in far distant Mesopotamia and of which Edith had spoken of last night at dinner, now, in a flurry of flapping wings, splashing noisily, quacking loudly, the ducks descended on the scattered pieces of bread consuming all in an instant,

With the ducks duly fed, stillness descended once more upon the village pond and, hand in hand, in the heat of the summer's afternoon, beneath a cloudless sky, the air sweet with the scent of new mown grass, like a pair of village lovers, Tom and Sybil wandered slowly home, wending their way across the rich fields of the estate and towards the distant house.

On the footpath, close to a stile, they paused for a moment and looked about them. In every direction, as far as the eye could see, the hedges were a mass of may and elder fringed with billowing cow parsley; the crops were already ripening and if this spell of warm weather held, there was every likelihood that this year, the harvest here at Downton would begin early.

Hereabouts, the stillness of the summer's afternoon was broken only by the occasional clatter of stone, the gentle swish of scythes and, from time to time too, the shouts of men. Over in the next field, taking an obvious pride in their work, selecting the stones they were using with great and infinite care, a couple of men were busily engaged in repairing one of the many drystone walls that criss crossed the estate hereabouts; just below Blackberry Copse, with long regular strides and with practised skill, cutting the long grass with consummate ease, others were scything a hay meadow. The men could be seen moving slowly downwards in a broad arc towards the river; a scene which, said Tom, had in all probability had changed very little in the four centuries since the Crawleys had become lords of Downton manor.

Of a much lesser time span, it was, he reflected, not yet three years since the guns on the Western Front had at last fallen silent but over in Ireland, despite rumours of a peace deal being brokered between the British Government and the IRA, the killing and the violence continued unabated.

As Sybil knew well enough, he had always opposed violence of any kind and from any quarter. Now, with what he had been through and with a young son of his own to nurture and protect, Tom was even more determined that there should never be another war.

From a lengthy discussion Matthew and he had enjoyed a couple of nights ago, given what Matthew himself had experienced and seen on the Western Front, Tom knew that his friend and brother-in-law felt the same as he did; that, despite the increasing calls on his time made by the estate, Matthew was seeking a way in which he could become involved in the work of the League of Nations; although, as yet he had said nothing to Mary on the subject.

Maybe it was with this in mind or else perhaps it was the corn field they were now crossing, a blaze of gold flecked with scarlet poppies where high above them a lark soared on the wing, that put Tom in mind of the words of Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae:

"In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly"

Tom now quoted the verse to Sybil from memory, although, since its publication in Punch and with the end of the war, it was becoming very widely known. Then, taking her hands in his own he gazed at Sybil thoughtfully for a moment, drew her forward into his arms where she rested her head against his chest while he nuzzled her hair breathing in its scent fragrant with meadowsweet.

"Darlin', despite all we've been through recently, you and I, we've been incredibly lucky, for sure".
"You mean that we met when we did; when lads like poor William and so many others never made it through the war".

"I suppose when you look at it that way, then yes. But that wasn't quite what I meant". He paused. Sybil looked up at him and smiled.

"What did you mean then?"

"That we met, yes. But also for having been given the chance to live our lives the way we want to live them".

A short while later, found them sitting happily together on a mossy, grassy, fern fringed bank close to the ford where the Downton brook dawdled across the lane. Often a raging torrent in winter but at this time of the year little more than a trickle of water, the stream now babbled and lazed its way across the dusty byroad that led down from the village towards the corn mill in the valley below. From somewhere near at hand, hidden in the reeds, there came the warble of a moor hen.

Here, beneath the leafy coolness of a grove of dwarf oaks, where the deep purple flowers of a dark mass of rhododendrons blazed bright against their glossy green foliage, the air was made drowsy with honeysuckle and sweet briar. Slipping his arms about her waist, Tom drew Sybil into a fond embrace and for an instant, time seemed to stand still. Cupping her face gently with his hands, he began to kiss her and as his kiss lengthened, so their shared physical need of each other deepened and it was all but as if the heartbreak of the last six months had never been; almost that is, but not quite.

True, their desire for each other remained undiminished and they were, perhaps, closer than they had ever been; their feelings towards each other heightened by their enforced and unlooked for separation. Even so, despite having resumed their love making on that very first afternoon following Tom's return, something was changed, perhaps understandably so.

For, notwithstanding all that he had told Sybil, both then and in the days and nights which followed, about his arrest, his imprisonment, the brutality he had endured, of the horror of what had befallen him and the others at Allihies, of his painfully slow recovery from his injuries, of the touching kindness of Mrs. O'Sullivan, of his loss of memory and its sudden return on seeing the photograph of her and the children in the newspaper in the Ship and Anchor public house, in her heart, Sybil knew that there was still something Tom had not vouchsafed to her. He would go so far in all of this and then no further.

Of course it was by no means a one-sided conversation. In turn, Sybil had told Tom about what had befallen her and Danny after he disappeared, of her increasingly desperate attempts to find out what had become of him, of Ma's insistence that despite everything pointing to the contrary, that he would indeed come back to her.

"So, you see, when you asked me, if I ever doubted you and I said no, I was being entirely truthful!" They had just made love and she was lying contentedly enfolded in his arms. He smiled.

"You know, Ma always did believe in all that chiall séú, second sight, sixth sense nonsense; not that I ever had much time for it. In fact, I rather used to make fun of it! Now it seems she was right after all and it looks like I'll have to be apologising to her for sure!"

Sybil told Tom too of what had transpired at the Imperial Hotel in Cork, of the deaths of both Stathum and Maeve; of the burning of Skerries House. He expressed no regret whatsoever in the matter of Stathum and, on the face of it, he seemed entirely unmoved by what had happened either to his cousin or to his family's ancestral home other than to repeat what he had once said long ago; he wanted nothing which had belonged to his uncle. After Sybil had told him too what she had made the Volunteers save and carry from the house before it was set on fire, his response, when it came,had been succinct and to the point.

"So then, nothing at all left to sell! Well then, Messrs. Beamish and Crosbie have lost their percentage!"

"Beamish and Crosbie?"

"The land agents which Fitzmaurice appointed, to oversee the sale of Skerries? You remember him, surely?"

"Ah, now you mention it, yes, yes I do". Sybil nodded her head. For a moment there formed in her mind the image of Mr. Fitzmaurice, an unprepossessing, unpleasant, balding, portly little man with piercing eyes dressed in an old-fashioned suit with a gold watch and chain; who had been particularly unpleasant about little Danny.

Then again, sometimes it was as if nothing was altered. Sybil thought back to that first afternoon after Tom's return here to Downton. With Cora having said that the two of them must want some time to be alone together, with the two children having been given into the charge of Nanny Bridges when the two of them were on their own at last in Sybil's old bedroom, their immediate all-consuming desire for each other had known no bounds.

Very early on in their marriage, each had found they could sense when the other had need of them by perhaps a simple touch or even just a glance. And so it had been now, when, with Sybil occupied in taking some of his clothes from out of the trunk at the end of the bed, Tom had been about to take a bath and have a much needed shave.

Then, through the open doorway, seeing her picking up one of his shirts and holding it to her face, breathing in his scent, mouthing an obvious, silent, heartfelt prayer, instead, barefoot and stripped to the waist, suddenly, Tom had come from the bathroom. With a laugh, he had lifted in his strong arms and without further ado, smothering her face in kisses, had carried her towards the waiting bed. Outside the storm had broken with a vengeance. It was raining heavily; cracks of thunder and forks of lightning lit up the sky with flashes of intense white light causing Sybil to bury herself against Tom while he held her close and calmed her fears with the lilting, soothing timbre of his voice. On that occasion, the noise of the storm had at least helped in part to mask the passion of their lovemaking.

That first night, after dinner, when they had retired, upstairs, in Sybil's old bedroom, with, at Mama's insistence, Danny and Saiorse sleeping in the night nursery once again under the watchful eye of Nanny Bridges, they found themselves alone again, having readied themselves for bed, during which time Sybil had chafed Tom mercilessly about being an exiled Russian prince, she had intended to try and exercise some degree of restraint but as soon as Tom had begun to touch her in places and in ways that he knew gave her the greatest pleasure, her desire for him became overwhelming.

Of course, part of that was Sybil's own fault, insofar as she had shown Tom the diary she herself had been keeping since his disappearance. The entries in it were many and manifold and covered all manner of things; her innermost thoughts and feelings, about their children, about her family, about Downton, about Ireland but it was those about himself, about her feelings for him that took Tom's breath away; that he could inspire such a depth of passion was awe-inspiring.

"My very own darling, lying here on my own at night in this bed, I feel so utterly bereft without you. I know I should be so grateful for the time we have enjoyed together and which I know we will enjoy again, even if the rest of the family think me completely insane for imagining that to be the case! Darling Tom, how much I love being married to you, being your wife. I think we have enjoyed a far deeper relationship than most married couples but when you take me in your arms again, I will hold nothing back..."

Nor did she.

"Your shot, old chap," said Matthew. Tom nodded, leant over the table and squinted along the length of his cue before hitting the cue ball squarely. They were in the billiards room after dinner on the second night after Tom's return.

"I'll never forget… what you did, Matthew; in coming over to Ireland, in trying to help find me, all those letters, even to that bloody bastard Churchill, to Lloyd George, all those enquiries you made but most importantly of all in taking care of Sybil and Danny while I was… away. Thank you, Matthew, thank you, from the bottom of my heart".

Tom's voice cracked with emotion. His feelings for Matthew were both heartfelt and sincere; as he had told Sybil, Tom looked on Matthew as the brother he had so much wanted as a child but had never had. Knew from what Mary had told Sybil and she in turn had told him, that the feeling was very much reciprocated. Even so, with his middle class and public school upbringing, Matthew was clearly embarrassed

"Oh, that!" He shrugged his shoulders dismissively; looked down at the floor. "It was nothing… I mean anyone would have done what I…" he began, watching despondently, as the red ball Tom had selected now dawdled its way slowly across the baize and dropped neatly into the corner pocket.

"My point I think!" He straightened up.

"Well, your game is as good as ever!"

Tom chuckled and then he became serious.

"And as for what you did, Matthew, it was a great deal more than that for sure. So let's be having none of your English reserve".

He walked round purposefully around the table to stand directly in front of the other man. Tom held out his right hand and placed his left firmly on Matthew's shoulder. Matthew found himself doing likewise; placing his left hand on Tom's shoulder and grasping his brother-in-law's outstretched hand. As their eyes met, for a long moment they stood facing one another; the Irish republican journalist and the middle class solicitor from Manchester; firmly, they shook hands.

"You're a very fine man, Matthew and while I'm very proud to have you as my brother-in-law, most of all I'm proud to call you my best friend. A friendship which he knew would endure both through life's vicissitudes and for all time. "Matthew, if ever there's anything I can do for you…" Tom's voice trailed off.

This was the opening Matthew had needed.

He had wondered how he might best broach the subject of what was troubling him that, God willing, with Mary soon to become a mother, just how inadequate he felt about becoming a father. Earlier that evening before dinner, while awaiting Mary to finish dressing, unobserved by his brother-in-law, Matthew had stood in the doorway to the night nursery watching spellbound as Tom, with little Saiorse held fast in his arms, quite unselfconsciously, sat cross-legged on the floor and softly crooned to her the lilting words an Irish lullaby.

From where he was standing, Matthew could see that the little girl was mesmerised, her eyes fixed intently on her father's face, the fingers of one tiny hand tightly grasping Tom's thumb, while in front of him young Danny played happily and contentedly with a set of wooden bricks. To Matthew, Tom seemed to be remarkably good at this business of being a father; appeared have everything well in hand. Would he ever be the same he wondered? Matthew thought it unlikely; considered that he would, in all probability, end up making a complete mess of the whole business. And yet, despite his own intense misgivings, a part of him could not wait to become a father.

"Oh, there you are! Sybil said you might be up here!" exclaimed Mary, none too pleased in having to have come upstairs in search of her errant husband. Matthew smiled and made his way along the passage towards where she was standing at the head of the main staircase.

"Darling, you look absolutely divine!"

"And I thought you and that unspeakable wretch Tom thought I resembled… what was it you both said? Oh, yes; a penguin".

Matthew smiled ruefully.

"Mea culpa! Anyway, that was when you were in black and white!"

"And now?" Mary shot Matthew a sideways glance. With a little help from Anna, this evening and probably for the last time before the occurrence of what she insisted on calling "The Event", Mary had managed to struggle into one of her elegant evening gowns; a beautiful scarlet creation that Matthew had bought for her in Paris while they were on honeymoon.

"A Bird of Paradise," laughed Matthew.

"Flatterer! You've been talking to Tom!" Mary prodded her handsome husband affectionately in the ribs.

"It's not flattery. Darling, you do look beautiful".

"Less of the Irish... blarney, if you please, Mr. Crawley! I'll have you know that even Sybil doesn't fall for darling Tom's nonsense; at least, not all of the time!"

Nonetheless delighted by the compliment her husband had paid to her, Mary now turned her head towards Matthew and broke into a radiant smile.

"Anyway, tell me, what on earth were you doing, standing there, outside the night nursery?" she asked as now, arm in arm, they walked slowly down the main staircase of the abbey.

"Learning," offered Matthew laconically.

"Learning? Learning what?" asked Mary mystified.

"Never you mind!" laughed Matthew.

"Well, there just might be…" began Matthew. Then he stopped; attended instead to concentrating on chalking the tip of his cue.

Tom cocked an eye at his friend.

"Oh? And?"

"This… er… whole thing, Tom". Matthew now took another sip of his brandy and swallowed hard.
"What whole thing?" Tom smiled, looked enquiringly at his best friend.
"You know".

"Er, no, I don't; not if you don't tell me".

"… of… of being a father".

So, that was it. Tom smiled.

"What is it you want to know for sure?" he drawled affably.

Things on that grassy bank might have progressed still further had not just at that moment a horse drawn wagon, heavily laden with sacks of freshly ground flour from the mill, rumbled passed and drawing amused glances from the driver and the young lad seated beside him, reluctantly, almost coyly, both blushing, Tom and Sybil broke apart.

"Jaysus! Why is it that on a twenty thousand acre estate that stretches as far as the eye can see, let alone in a house with God knows how many rooms, we can never find somewhere to be truly alone!" Tom ran his fingers through his hair.

Sybil giggled, remembering how the other morning Tom had been mortified when, with the two of them still in bed, with him gently nudging Sybil's legs apart, his fingers gently probing, blissfully unaware of what she had interrupted, Anna had more or less breezed into their bedroom and had begun to draw back the curtains.

"Darlin', I know that your mother and sisters, and Matthew too, all mean well for sure; that they're only trying to be kind. And, while I never thought I'd say it, I'm very grateful to your father too for giving us a roof over our heads here at Downton at least while I wait to find out if there's still a position for me at the Indy, before we return to Dublin with the children, what we really need is somewhere away from everyone; where we can be alone, really alone, just the two of us. Even if it's only for a few days. I suppose, now that we have the children, that makes me sound very selfish, for wanting you all to myself. What I mean is..." Tom stopped what he was saying, fell silent; sat with his eyes down cast, glumly awaiting her response. It was not often that he could make Sybil blush but she did so now.

"Do you really mean it?"

"Would I say so, if I didn't?" he asked softly. Tom turned his head towards her again and smiled one of his endearing lop-sided grins.

"Knowing you as I do? No; of course not. And I think I can understand why. So, just suppose… if there was such a place? What then?" she asked archly.

"Why I'd take you there this very instant!" He grinned at her again.

"Would you now?"
"Darlin', to be sure!"

"Well, then…"

"Oh well, it was just a thought," Tom said with a grin and a playful but heartfelt sigh as they watched the wagon rumble off up the lane.

"Only a thought? Really? Then come with me, Mr. Branson". Taking a firm hold of Tom's left hand, Sybil now led him forward slowly along a path that led towards a distant stile.

"Sybil, darlin', where on earth are we going?" Tom's brows knit in puzzlement as she led him off in a completely different direction from the one they had been taking. ""Love, in case you've forgotten, the house is that way, over there". Tom pointed through the trees towards to where, in the distance, the massive bulk of the abbey shimmered in the heat haze of the summer's afternoon.

"Yes, I know," she said softly. "But that's not where we're going".

"So just where are we going?"

"Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies," laughed Sybil kissing him lightly on the cheek. "You'll find out soon enough!"

And with that, Tom found he had to be content.

"Does anyone else know about this? Any of it? You did all of this? For me?" Tom asked of her in astonishment. His voice cracked, betraying the emotion he felt, that Sybil would have done this for him; for the both of them. And now, as Tom turned to face her, she saw the tears starting in his eyes.

"Only Mama. In fact, it was all quite a clandestine operation but with Papa and Matthew presently away up in London, it seemed too good an opportunity to miss. So, on the pretext that this place was soon to be let, Mama had old Ted Daniels send a couple of men over from off the estate to carry out any repairs that were found to be necessary. Mrs. Hughes was asked to have two of the girls come in and clean and Mama also had her look out some old things from the house which might suit; pots and pans, crockery, bedding and so forth. If Mrs. Hughes ever suspected what Mama was up to, so far she hasn't said, at least not to me. I'm not quite sure what excuse Mama made to Mrs. Patmore about the provision of the hamper. I think she said something about telling her it was for one of Cousin Isobel's charities, one of her good causes". Sybil laughed and nodded towards the heavy wicker basket which stood on top of the kitchen table.

"Well, darlin', I don't mind us being thought of as a good cause! Do you?" Tom gave a delighted chuckle.

"No, not at all!" Sybil smiled and watched Tom closely as he continued to look about him.

The low ceilinged kitchen of the old chauffeur's cottage been scrubbed clean; beneath their feet the quarries gleamed in the late afternoon sunlight and beside the small range, which had been newly black leaded, there stood a large earthenware jar full of pale coloured lupins and pink and white margeurites. The walls had been freshly whitewashed and the crockery of which Sybil had spoken was all in place and now lined the shelves of the small pitch pine dresser.

"Don't tell me you never dreamed of this?"

"I might have," said Tom softly. His thatch of hair had fallen forward over his forehead. Shyly, he glanced sideways at her. "Well, all right. Yes, I did, many times; the thought of us being together, here in this cottage, alone, with you in my arms. Oh, God, Sybil, darlin', you have no idea how much I..."

"Well then, Mr. Branson, don't you think that it's…"

She got no further with what she was saying as a moment later and Tom had closed the short distance that remained between them.

"Come, see, there's more," Sybil said softly and drew him forward again, this time up the narrow staircase to where yet another surprise awaited Tom. Here, up under the eaves, in what, when he was in service here at Downton had once had been his very own bedroom there now stood an old cast iron double bed. On either side was a night stand and on top of each there was a brass candlestick. When he had lived here as chauffeur to the Crawleys, Tom had to make do with bare boards on the floor of his bedroom; now, however, these were all but hidden, beneath a pair of bright rag rugs, while the bed itself, which took up most of the small room, was fully made up and covered with a blue counterpane. Atop the pillows and neatly folded lay one of Sybil's white cambric nightgowns and beside it his vest and a pair of striped pyjama bottoms.

"So then, what about the children?" Tom asked of her moments later sitting on the edge of the bed, his arm about Sybil's shoulders as she sat beside him. Because it was so warm, the bedroom window stood open and through it from outside there drifted the sounds of children at play, the clang of a hammer in the smithy across the yard and a traction engine clattered noisily along the lane behind the cottage. He stood up and closed the window.

"I thought you said…"
"Yes, I did but…"
"Darling, Nanny Bridges will look after the both of them. She's more than perfectly capable and, after all, it's only for a few days. Anyway Danny's been used to me not being there when I've been working down at the Cottage Hospital".

"But what if you're needed there? And then what about Saiorse?"

"Only if there is an emergency. This afternoon, shortly before you arrived, barring the outbreak of an epidemic, Dr. Clarkson told me he could manage perfectly well with just Sister Benson. And as for Saiorse, apart from feeding her, if she needs me then Nanny Bridges will send a message down to us here at the cottage".

"And if we miss them too much, then we can always go back up to the house…" offered Tom hesitantly.
"Not bring them down here?" asked Sybil.

"No. Don't ask me to explain why but somehow, at least for the time we're here, I think we should keep this place for ourselves". He grinned. At that Sybil smiled broadly; perceptive as always, Mama had been right after all.

"If that's what you want, but would you do something for me in return?" she asked huskily. Out of the corner of one eye, Tom saw her blush and it melted his heart.

"Darlin', to be sure. What?"

"Make love to me, Tom".

He didn't need to be asked twice but then, just as Tom moved towards her across the room, from downstairs there came a thunderous knocking on the front door of the cottage. They both sighed with resignation and with Tom leading the way, descended the stairs and opened the door; to be confronted by a group of police officers standing in the yard. At the sight of their uniforms, Tom stiffened warily.

"Are you Tom Branson?" asked the sergeant.
"Yes". Tom nodded his head in affirmation.

"I have a warrant for your arrest; on charges of treason and espionage".

Author's Note:

Boodle's Club on Pall Mall still exists.

Written by Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae (1872-1918) "In Flanders Fields" was the poem which inspired the adoption of the poppy as the Flower of Remembrance for those who had been killed in the Great War. At this time, June 1921, it had not yet been adopted by the Royal British Legion but would be later in this same year.