Chapter Thirty
Betrayal
By ten thirty that night, while the dining car of the Rome Express was still brightly lit, with most passengers having dined and returned to their sleeping compartments, its tables were all but deserted; the ever attentive stewards now having little else to do, other than continue clearing the detritus from the vacated tables and then begin the task of laying them up again, this time for breakfast which would not be served until after the train had crossed over the border into Italy, at Modane, and following the usual on board inspection by Italian customs officials, assisted by officers of the frontier police.
For both the Bransons and the Crawleys, as indeed for all the other passengers travelling on board the Rome Express, the customs' inspection at the Italian border, while something of a minor inconvenience, would be a mere formality, or so Matthew assured them. Their passports along with any other documents they might be requested to produce were in perfect order, and none of them was intending to smuggle anything across the border. However, Edith had taken considerable interest in the minutiae of the whole business which, she explained, arose out of having had the misfortune recently to endure several lengthy customs' inspections in the Balkans, the Near East, and on board the Orient Express. Mary was decidedly unsympathetic.
"Then you ought to travel less, darling".
Edith said nothing, merely shook her head in exasperation, turned instead to their table steward, and now asked him to explain precisely what happened at the Italian border; to which, and to her obvious dismay, by way of reply the young man gave but vague answers. Whereupon, clearly none the wiser and thoroughly dis-satisfied, Edith had called Michel to the their table and had questioned him all over again, this time in French, about the very same matter, whereupon, Matthew had taken it upon himself to provide a rapid translation of some of the questions to which Edith was demanding answers and assurances. These included the length of time the inspection took, the documents which had to be produced, how rigorous were the searches of baggage and luggage and so forth, all on the seeming pretext of having with her a sick child who must in no way be incommoded; that in her luggage were various medicines for her young son which must, on no account, be disturbed.
Michel had spread his hands expansively, had assured "Madame" that her fears and worries were entirely groundless; the examination of documents of those in her own party would be swiftly accomplished, while the medicines of which she had spoken so passionately would be of no interest whatsoever either to the Italian customs or the frontier police. They were concerned only with ensuring that those entering the Kingdom of Italy were doing so legitimately and were not criminals, hooligans or other undesirables, which, said Matthew, meant anyone opposed to the Fascist policies of Il Duce and his black shirted thugs who had been running the country for the past ten years.
On the whole, Edith seemed satisfied with what Michel had to tell her about the extent and nature of the customs' inspection. However, it was at this point that she said she must go back to her compartment and look in on young Max, this despite the fact that Nanny Bridges had been conspicuous by her absence during dinner and was known to be very attentive in caring for all her young charges. So, as the evening wore on, it had seemed only reasonable to assume that nothing was amiss with any of the children. Even so, Edith was adamant; she needs must go and look in on young Max, at the same time declining Tom's kind offer to escort her back to her compartment, and kissing him lightly on the cheek
"Tom darling, that's really very, very sweet of you. Truly it is, and your concern for me does you credit, but just who on earth do you think I might run into along the corridor? Haroun al Rashid? After all, this is the Rome Express, not Arabia Deserta, But thank you all the same".
"But darling, won't you be frightfully bored, cooped up in your compartment all on your own with just your sleeping little boy for company?"
"I'll be perfectly all right, Mary. Besides, I've my book and I want to send a telegram to Friedrich and then write a letter to Mama. It's high time she knew all about Friedrich and Max".
"All?" asked Mary sharply.
"Well, perhaps not quite all, at least not yet. But if I write to Mama tonight, then my letter can be waiting for her when the Majestic docks in New York".
"And you think now is the right time?" asked Sybil gently.
"Darling, there's never really a good time for this sort of thing. Anyway, the steward said that he would send my telegram and post my letter when the train reaches Aix-les-Bains some time early tomorrow morning; while we're all still asleep. Strike while the iron is still hot! That's my motto".
Nonetheless, Sybil was not deceived; saw that her sister was nervously twisting and untwisting her handkerchief in the palm of her right hand, a sure sign that, for all her brave words, Edith was not entirely at ease with what she proposed doing, at least as far as letting Mama know how things stood. Even so, Edith was right: there never was a good time for this kind of announcement, be it that one intended marrying the family chauffeur, or admitting to the existence of a lover and child born out of wedlock, let alone the fact that the child was suffering from an incurable illness. Well, she had had her say. It was up to Edith to do as she saw fit. Thereafter, having kissed each of them in turn, Edith bade them all a fond good night.
"A bientot mes enfants!"
And with that, with a swish of silk, and an airy wave of her hand, Edith hurried away back down the corridor in the direction of their sleeping car.
Despite what Mary had said about the comparative earliness of the hour, it was shortly after Edith had left them that given all that had happened since their arrival in Calais, not surprisingly Sybil and Mary announced that it had indeed been a very long day and that as tomorrow was likely to prove even longer, they too would turn in. Telling both Matthew and Tom not to stay up too late, having kissed their husbands goodnight, it was as Mary and Sybil made to leave the dining car, that Sybil turned back to Tom.
"So aren't you going to offer to escort me back to our compartment, darling?" she asked with a laugh, when having stood up and kissed her soundly, Tom had made no further attempt to move from where he had been seated. Tom grinned broadly, pulled to him, kissed her heartily once again, then shook his head.
"Darlin', you're no more in need of my paltry protection than Mary is of Matthew's. In case you've forgotten, between us, darlin' you and I have seen off the British Army and the IRA, and Lady Mary Crawley here, as she then was, the Dublin polees! That being so, God help any man who dares to try and tangle with either of you!" chuckled Tom.
"I'll take that as a compliment!" laughed Mary.
"My pleasure!" chuckled Tom.
"Don't be too long my darling. I'll look in on the children before I get ready for bed". Sybil smiled at Tom, then lowered her voice. "And, if you're very good Mr. Branson, and don't keep me waiting, why I might just let you share my bed". Sybil smiled archly; gave Tom a languid, lingering look. Tom grinned broadly, looking for all the world like the cat which had swallowed the cream.
"I won't! Whether you'll find Danny and Robert asleep I somehow doubt. After Matthew read them that story about Fu Manchu, those two rascals convinced themselves, and did their best to convince me, that one of the empty sleeping compartments in our carriage is harbouring a spy, so I wouldn't be at all surprised if you find both of them awake, sitting up in bed and planning their campaign to flush him out!"
Sybil laughed.
"But I thought all of the compartments were taken?"
"Apparently not. The steward told me that a couple are vacant; apparently some last-minute cancellation, or so he said. Anyway it doesn't really matter. One last brandy for Matthew and one last whisky for me and then I'll be along to share your bed Mrs. Branson!" Impulsively Tom hugged Sybil tightly to him in another fond embrace, earning amused looks from both Matthew and Mary. A moment or two later, and Matthew and Tom were left watching the retreating, elegant forms of their two wives as Mary and Sybil exited the dining car.
A short while later, seated contentedly at their ease in two deep, leather upholstered armchairs, Matthew and Tom continued to reflect on the day's startling events.
"... and of course, knowing what we all now know to be the case, I'm sure these past few years can't have been at all easy for dear Edith. And to think not one of us ever suspected a thing for sure!" Tom shook his head in disbelief.
"Well don't feel too bad about it, old chap. After all, Edith let us all believe what it was she wanted us to believe, especially while Robert was still alive".
"And we're going to meet this von Schonborn chap in Florence?"
"Apparently so, yes. I think Edith said he's attending an archaeological conference there. Mary's still trying to persuade her to come and stay with us all at the villa. It makes eminently good sense and it'll be a damned sight cooler for the three of them up in the hills than than being cooped up down there in the town".
"Do you know Florence well?"
"The woman or the city?" quipped Matthew.
Tom chuckled.
Matthew smiled warmly at his friend.
"Not as well as I would like to, Tom. I spent a couple of summers there, when I was up at Oxford, but that was years ago, before time began, and long, long before I'd ever heard of Downton".
Tom grinned, gazed intently at the amber liquid in the bottom of his glass.
"It's strange to be sure, to think that but for Downton, none of us would ever even have met. That place has a lot to answer for! Talking of persuasion, Matthew, do you think Edith could be persuaded to send her little boy over to England? It might be for the best, if things... "
Matthew nodded his head in agreement.
"Edith's made Mary promise that if the situation in Austria worsens, then she can send young Max to safety in England, to live with us all at Downton".
"She must love her little boy desperately, to be prepared to consider doing something as unselfish as that".
Matthew nodded.
"I agree".
Tom's brows furrowed.
"What is it, old chap?"
"Just now you said "send". Surely Edith would come back to live at Downton as well as her boy?"
Matthew shook his head.
"Not without Max's father. He won't leave Austria and Edith won't leave without him. So something of an impasse. Even so, I admire her loyalty. That apart, in so many different ways, she's proved herself to be quite a remarkable woman. Had he lived to know what we all know, I think Robert would have been incredibly proud of her. Mind you, I'm not at all sure how I'd have coped, if one of our three had been born suffering from an incurable disease".
"Me neither".
Matthew swirled the remaining brandy in his glass, then swallowed it down, at the same time signalling to the steward.
"Another?"
"Why not".
Sometime later, back in their compartment, Tom stirred uneasily in his sleep, and then, with a sudden start, awoke both to darkness and the bitter harshness of reality.
Through the window, which he and Sybil had left slightly ajar when they went to bed, from somewhere outside, there came the shrill blast of a whistle and also the rhythmic, laboured beat of the engine. It was still dark, but by the pale light of the full moon shining in through the window - they had not bothered either to draw the curtains when they retired - picking up his wrist watch, Tom saw that it was not long after midnight. Although it had not been there when they went to bed, there was now a distinct chill in the air which, thought Tom, could only mean one thing: the train must, already, be approaching the Alps.
With Sybil at last sleeping soundly, so as not to wake her, with infinite care, Tom gently extricated himself from her encircling arms. What, between muffled sobs, Sybil had told him earlier, snuggled together, face to face in the lower single berth in their compartment, about what she suspected might be the matter with little Bobby, when at last he had understood what it was Sybil was trying to tell him, had come like a bolt out of the blue; had hit Tom with the full force of a left punch thrown by Nipper Pat Daly.
Of course he had done his very best to calm Sybil's understandable fears, had said too, perfectly reasonably, that there was no earthly reason why Bobby's oft and repeated nose bleeds should not prove to be anything other than what they were, caused in all likelihood by what their local doctor, Dr. Lynch, in Blackrock, had told them was most probably the reason: a simple weakness in one or more of the web of minute arteries inside Bobby's nose and that, with the passage of time, as Bobby grew older, outgrew the variety of childhood ailments from which he and most other children suffered, hopefully stopped suffering from heavy colds each winter as he did now, the problem would doubtless solve itself.
But then, of course, Dr. Lynch was a General Practitioner, not a specialist, and, despite having meant every one of the comforting words he had uttered to Sybil by way of reassurance, that did not mean that Tom was reassured by what he himself had said; indeed far from it, for but a short while ago, here in this very compartment, wrapped together in each other's arms, he had shed just as many tears as had Sybil over what very well might be. For if this awful disease, from which poor young Max suffered, and for which there was no known cure, and no real treatment either, could be passed as capriciously as Sybil had explained it could, from mother to child, with female offspring suffering no noticeable ill effects, that misfortune being reserved exclusively for the male of the species, striking some boys and not others, then Tom could well understand why Sybil now feared that little Bobby might also have inherited the same hereditary illness as had struck his young cousin, Max.
It was rumoured, too or so Edith had told them all at dinner that this self-same disease ran in several of the royal families of Europe; that the late Tsar's young son had suffered from the same complaint. While Tom had precious little time, if any at all, for the institution of monarchy itself, in the last thirteen years, he had, on three occasions now, experienced the unparalleled joy of seeing a child of his own brought forth into this world. He loved all of his children, Danny, Saiorse and Bobby desperately and unconditionally; would do anything to spare them pain and suffering, knew too just how devastated both Sybil and he had been when, early in the spring of 1930, at barely two months, Sybil had miscarried with their fourth child. So, as a father he could well understand too how heart-rending it must be to find that a child of one's own, whose birth had brought so much joy to both its parents, had been born suffering from an incurable disease. It all seemed so incredibly, so terribly unfair. That evening, Edith had gone on to relate that if the stories she had heard were true, then just one of the four sons of Queen Victoria had also suffered from haemophilia. It was then that Edith had paused, set down her glass.
"And just one of mine" she then had added softly. There was no rancour, no bitterness in her tone. What she had said was a plain simple statement of fact. Seated directly opposite her, in the soft glow of lamp light, Tom had seen her eyes glisten with tears. Mercifully they did not fall but only, thought Tom at the time, because as Edith had already told them, in the last nine years she had shed a lifetime of tears over the suffering of her young son.
Whilst the sleeping compartments of the Rome Express might well be luxuriously appointed, with electric lighting and wash basins with both hot and cold running water, equipped, when made up for the night, with comfortable, albeit single, beds, the occupants of each sleeping car still had to share the bathroom and toilet at the end of the carriage. Tom smiled. Of course, none of them was getting any younger, but the pressing call of nature which had awoken him in the small hours was, he decided, all down to Matthew, who had insisted upon the two of them each having one more glass of spirits after dinner than they did normally.
Tom glanced fondly back at Sybil as she stirred in her sleep. Barefoot, clad in just his vest and pyjama bottoms, so as not to make a noise, Tom very carefully slid back the latch and silently let himself out into the dimly lit corridor, closing the door quietly behind him. Cocking an ear as he passed by the compartments occupied by the children, he was relieved to find all seemed hushed and peaceful. Satisfied that nothing was amiss he padded away down along the swaying corridor of the sleeping car, and towards the bathroom situated at the far end of the carriage.
As he reached his intended destination, Tom became suddenly aware of a strong draught of sulphurous air blowing into the vestibule from outside; saw the window had been lowered, and now, with all thought of what had brought him here, saw too that someone was standing close to the door of the carriage. Tom's quiet approach had been muffled, swallowed up by the thunderous roar of the speeding train, so it was not until the very last instant, that the person turned. He heard a sudden gasp, a rapid intake of breath, and in the same instant recognised who it was.
"Edith, what on earth are you doing out here? Why, you'll catch your very death of cold!" exclaimed Tom. She was clad in a thin intricately embroidered nightgown, the neckline of which plunged deeply, revealing her from the base of her throat down to her swelling breasts, and over it wearing nothing more than a loose-fitting silk kimono, patterned with swirling arabesques, caught loosely at the waist by its sash. Moving closer, once again, just as he had earlier, when he had been standing in the doorway of her compartment listening to her entrancing the boys with her tales of Arabia, he caught the beguiling scent of her perfume; remembered she had told him its name over dinner, something foreign, something of the East, but now as other emotions came crowding in upon him, Tom couldn't, for the very life of him, even recall its name, could see, though, that she had been crying.
"Edith, what is it?" he asked of her softly.
For her part, seeing that her unexpected visitor was Tom, Edith wished herself anywhere but here, wanted desperately to slip away past him, back down the corridor to the safety of her compartment, but she made no attempt to move; sought instead to account to him for her unexpected presence here in the darkness at the far end of the sleeping car. Realising he had seen her tears, she simply nodded her head, smiled a wan smile.
"I didn't want to wake him you see" she explained quietly.
"Wake… Wake who?" Edith wasn't making any sense and for the moment, Tom was completely nonplussed.
"Max".
"Of course. Forgive me".
"There's nothing to forgive. Nothing at all. When he's in pain, he doesn't sleep well, so when he does... Well, tonight it was me who couldn't sleep. I tried to read, but in the end I found I just couldn't concentrate. Sometimes…" she bit her lip. "You know Tom, sometimes I feel… I feel I just can't cope with this burden anymore. It's too much to ask of anyone. You must think me very selfish, when, after all, it's darling little Max who suffers so. But, it was me that gave it to him you see! I did that! Every time I see him bleed, knowing that I…" Her voice faltered; he saw that she was crying again.
"Edith! Don't torture yourself like this. It's no-one's fault. Certainly not yours, and from what Sybil told me earlier tonight, this disease is so unpredictable that Max could just as easily have been born free of it".
"Only he wasn't, was he?" sobbed Edith. "And much as I love my darling little boy so very, very much, you know, sometimes Tom, I wonder if it wouldn't have been better… if he hadn't been born! There now, I've said it. You must think me very wicked".
Edith turned her head away from him, looked out into the cloying darkness, through which could be glimpsed the dim outlines of what looked like mountains.
"Those must be the Alps" she said dispassionately, trying to steady her voice, regain at least some control, however tenuous, over her emotions.
"I suppose so".
Tom paused, and for a moment or two neither of them spoke, gazing instead through the open window at the shadowy countryside slipping away beyond them into the darkness, which, with the coming of the dawn, would reveal itself as a truly wonderful panorama of snow-capped, soaring peaks, a patchwork of steeply graded, verdant green fields, and scattered Alpine villages which, somehow defying gravity, managed to cling to the precipitous sides of the mountains.
"No, Edith, I don't think you're wicked. I could never… I would never… think that of you" said Tom softly. Reaching forward he stretched out his hand, touched her shoulder at which, Edith turned back to face him, gasped at what she saw. Ducking his head, something that was so much part of Tom, he had looked away in an instant, lowered his face, but not before she saw the tears welling in his eyes.
"Sybil told me earlier tonight, that in all likelihood our little Bobby might very well have…" said Tom brokenly. His voice cracked with emotion and at that he too began to cry, stopping his mouth with his fist, stifling his sobbing, very conscious of how far such a sorrowful sound, let alone their two hushed voices, might carry in the stillness of the night.
Seeing his distress, Edith reached forward, caressed his cheek with the tips of her fingers. Her touch was light, soft as silk.
"Oh, Tom, darling!"
At the sound of her voice, he raised his tear-stained face. He ghosted a half-smile; sniffed heavily, scrubbed angrily at his tears.
"Aren't we a fine pair to be sure?"
Edith smiled.
"You know, you said those same words to me once before".
"Did I? And when was that?"
Edith shook her head.
"It doesn't matter".
Tom looked quizzically at her.
"I think it must" he said softly.
Edith smiled, shook her head again.
Only of course, it did matter.
Very much.
As she had reminded him, Tom had indeed spoken exactly those same words to her, albeit under very different circumstances, a lifetime ago, when they had waltzed together in the barn at the ceilidh held out at Ciaran's farm but a matter of hours after Tom and Sybil had been married in the little grey stone church at Clontarf, and shortly before the arrival of the British soldiers. Why, all these years later, Edith had but to close her eyes and she heard again the whispering strains of the waltz, caught the light and laughter in his eyes, felt the comforting strength and warmth of his arms; saw that now, he too was trying to remember, trying to catch and hold a fleeting, gossamer thread of memory, as elusive as the wind.
"Yes" he said quietly at length, nodding his head. "I do remember".
"Do you?" she asked gently.
"It was at the ceilidh".
Softly he began to hum the opening notes of the tune to which they had danced, a beautiful Irish air called The South Wind, but then, seeing the tears glimmering in Edith's eyes, with realisation slowly dawning, he fell silent; instead, smiled his endearing lop-sided grin, while unmoving, they regarded each other in complete silence.
A moment later and it happened.
Tom reached forward and with the tips of his fingers began to stroke her face, murmuring something to her softly in a language she did not understand, but the words themselves Edith had heard Tom use many times before, to Sybil, ever since that very first occasion, again a lifetime ago, or so it seemed, in Dublin, in the aftermath of the explosion, in the wrecked dining room of the Shelbourne Hotel.
"A mhuirnín" he murmured again. "It means…"
"There's no need to tell me, Tom. I can guess what it means" she said, placing a finger gently to his lips.
They were now but a whisper apart, and, at the gentleness of his touch, soft as the passing wind, soft as a shadow, Edith felt herself begin to tremble and, as he cupped her face with his hands, kissed her tenderly on her forehead, Edith clasped his wrists.
"Tom, darling. No more. Don't, please. Not unless you really mean it", she pleaded softly.
But, even as she spoke, Edith moved, closed the distance that remained between them; found herself enfolded in Tom's arms. Resting her head comfortingly against his broad shoulder, Edith shut her eyes, felt his lips brushing light kisses against her lashes, while at that very moment, from somewhere up ahead, echoing the wail of a banshee, a whistle screamed an urgent warning.
"I love you, Tom", she whispered. "God forgive me, but I do".
Author's Note:
Il Duce - the title by which Benito Mussolini, the Fascist dictator of Italy was known.
Haroun Al Rashid is, of course, the semi-legendary Caliph of Baghdad, to whom Scheherazade told her tales for a thousand and one nights.
Nipper Pat Daly (1913-1988) was a professional British boxer, who started his boxing career in 1923 when aged only ten, retiring from the sport at the ripe old age of seventeen, in 1931. He was renowned for his hard, fast, accurate straight left jab.
Known by several different names, "The South Wind" is a beautiful, lilting Irish air. If you want to hear it, Google Felicity Strings Harp, Flute, Bass Southwind on the Internet. I should stress that I have no connection to any of those performing this piece.
Some of the incidents referred to in this chapter, such as the explosion at the Shelbourne Hotel in Dublin, the marriage of Tom and Sybil in the parish church at Clontarf, and the ceilidh out at Ciaran's farm all form part of my other story, "Home Is Where The Heart Is".