Chapter 10
December 1962
Good morning.
Robert opened his eyes. Immediately. He held his shallow breath.
Quiet.
His vision ached and would not focus. He closed his lids for a moment more before trying again. The room was dark. Very dark. He looked out into the darkness beside him, and as his logic had told him, he was alone. But how was that possible?
Shirley had not been in; the fireplace was still cold. There was no tasteless coffee beside him. But it woke him.
Robert moved his chin, and then his shoulders —the word brittle whispered sharply in his mind — and he turned over from the center of his bed, towards his snuff boxes.
His burning eyes had adjusted enough to see the outlines of objects, a suggestion of color. There, on his glass case, he could make out a blur of yellow, and with a trembling hand he fumbled for it: glass, glass, and then at last the thick paper of a ticket.
He managed to bring it to his palm, and he pressed it with his thumb.
She was not here. She was not here. He knew that she was not here.
But then, how had he heard her?
They'd gathered in the library after Aunt Edith's arrival.
The fire crackled softly amongst them all. The young children were gathered at the far end, where the puppet stage and Punch and Judy had been relocated. Donk sat nestled in a corner of one of the red sofas, Aunt Edith beside him with Marigold to her right. Sybbie watched them from her place beside her father in a chair near the table. The silver tea service had been brought in nearly ten minutes ago, but everyone had been too enthralled with Cousin Eddie's story - the eldest of the Brancaster Boys - to actually stand and pour themselves a cup. What he was talking about now, Sybbie wasn't sure anymore, though everyone laughed from Donk to Aunt Mary and Caroline sitting on the adjacent sofa. Sybbie was too distracted by the far end of the library where Coco and was showing others some more photographs that she'd found; Uncle Henry played with the puppets with the smaller children. George, who sat on the opposite side of the table, caught Sybbie's eye and shook his head. He must've been distracted, too.
"Of course I feared I'd be stranded in what appeared to be the middle of the desert, my Egyptian guides leaving me. I could picture myself wandering around under the burning sun, chasing mirages."
He laughed along with the others.
"Were you outside Cairo?" Donk asked above the laughter.
"Luxor, Donk."
"Ah," Donk began to rise from the sofa, his thinning arm trembling as he used it to lift himself from the seat. "Valley of the Kings."
Eddie stepped quickly to his grandfather, to offer his help, but was waved off by him. Donk straightened as best he could and stepped carefully to the tea service.
"Oh, Eddie! How can you laugh?" Marigold looked at her brother as he took his place again beside the fire. "What if you'd really been stranded?"
"Then I wouldn't have come to Downton, I suspect."
More laughter, and Marigold huffed and rolled her eyes. Sybbie watched as Aunt Edith wrapped her slender fingers lovingly around Marigold's wrist and pressed it. The familiarity ached there, and Sybbie looked away and up at Donk.
"Is it still warm?" she asked him as he slowly poured his tea into a cup.
Conversation rumbled behind them.
"Yes," he replied without looking at her, and Sybbie smiled.
He pointed to a plate of small sandwiches, his knobby pointer finger shaking slightly. Sybbie's father nearly jumped to offer him the plate, from which Donk selected one sandwich and placed it on his saucer.
"You've been to Luxor, yes, Donk?" Sybbie grinned up at him and then George, who smirked. "Georgie showed me a photograph of yours. Of you and Granny in Egypt."
"Yes," George laughed, "Astride a noble steed."
Donk paused for a half a moment before shaking his head. Some of his soft white hair shook from where he'd combed it back. "You're speaking in riddles."
"Coco?" George called across the way. "Come and bring me the photographs?"
The conversation behind them all dipped into a softer hum as George's daughter obeyed and brought over the box. George had stood to give Donk his own chair, and Sybbie watched at first as George fingered through the old, small photographs in search, and then she looked at Donk who chewed his sandwich.
"What is it?" Aunt Mary called from her sofa, and George picked up his head.
"Ah. Here. A photo of Donk in Egypt. Giza. 18-" he turned the photo and read the date again. "-92."
George held the photo for Donk to see, and they all waited patiently for him to set his cup and saucer to the side and fish his spectacles from his cardigan pocket.
"Hmm," he hummed in recognition. He took the photo from George. "Yes. The Sphinx. This was our first visit there." He angled the photo. "Cora looks rather pleased."
They all chuckled.
"But is it 1892, Papa?" Aunt Edith stood from where she sat and walked over. "Is that right?"
"Why?" George asked.
"I was born that year," she replied, standing next to George, behind Donk.
"Yes," he said, studying the photo closely. "We went several months before you were born. As I can recall, your mother is smiling because she'd proven me wrong." He adjusted his glasses on his nose. "I'd asked her not to get on that thing, for fear of her falling. But she did."
"That's funny to think of." Aunt Edith smiled, taking the photo from him. "Mama was always so careful."
"Not always," Donk chuckled.
"Well Eddie, it seems your mother's been to Egypt as well," Sybbie's father teased, and Aunt Edith's son laughed.
Edith and George, though, had replaced the one of Egypt and were looking through the others Coco had chosen for the spread.
"Oh!" Edith picked one out of the box, read the date on the back, and Sybbie watched her hand the photograph to Donk. "A shooting party, Papa. Late 1890."
"1890, 1892. I was born in 1891. Can't we find a photo of Mama expecting me?" The others laughed as Aunt Mary teased, but Donk did not look up from the photo.
"You're very nearly in this one, Mary." Donk replied flatly. "If I remember rightly."
Sybbie laughed at Aunt Mary's quick blush. "I won't ask you to elaborate," she stood and walked to the tea. The others laughed again.
"This is quite a group. I don't recognize some. Why did you choose it, Coco?"
George's daughter held tightly to the box. "It's such a nice photo of the abbey, though, Aunt Edith. From so long ago."
"Is that Dickie Merton?" Edith asked, and Aunt Mary tipped her head toward the photo too, before she poured her cup.
Donk nodded, "Dickie Grey, then. And his first wife, though her name escapes me."
"Is it him? Dickie?" George leaned over. "Oh, yes. And wasn't his first wife called Ava? Or something similar?"
"I don't recall. I don't remember her. She died when Timothy Grey was young," Aunt Edith stood straight. "Do you remember her, Papa?"
"Only that she was rather a difficult woman."
"More difficult than Isobel?" Mary smirked at Donk, and there was a low chuckle.
"Grandmama wasn't difficult, Mummy. She was principled."
"No, of course not. But she and Granny did have their battles."
George pointed at the photo again. "And speaking of—"
"Oh, Mary. Come and see. Sybbie!"
Sybbie laughed at Marigold's insistence, but stood and strode over anyway. She joined her aunts crowded together behind Donk, and peered down at the photo. "It is Granny Violet. She was quite pretty."
"They're all an attractive group," Marigold added. "Look at Aunt Rosamund. Quite glamorous. Who is that? Is that her husband?"
"Uncle Marmaduke," Edith whispered. "Oh. I haven't seen his face in so long. And Cousin James, he was —"
"— your Cousin Patrick's father?" Marigold lifted her chin.
Donk chuckled below them, and trumpeted the picture out and in again. "It was Cora's first shoot. James standing beside her there. He teased me later. How proud I was of her."
Sybbie's chest tightened, and she looked down at his thinning head, the white hair whisping this way and that. And then again at the photo of ages and ages ago, the tweed, and long skirts, and puff sleeves, but the same man smiling up at her - her grandfather a time traveler, living in this world and yet somehow in the world he held in his trembling fingers.
"How happy we all are."
"Mama does look happy, Papa," Edith said quietly and took the photo from him. "Happy and very beautiful. You both do."
Mary chose another photo. "Ah! This one is more recent. Your wedding, George and Grace. Oh, this one is quite nice, too. We should buy a frame."
Sybbie rolled her eyes at her aunt, her change of subject abrupt and fooling no one. Sybbie glanced at her father, and saw he thought the same. She returned to her place.
"Dad? Don't you want to jump and see?" She said under her breath.
"No, I'll let them reminisce. Then I'll see," Tom smiled with a nod.
Sybbie adjusted herself in her chair and leaned closer to her father. "We had a visit with Barrow yesterday."
"Oh? And how is he?"
"He's well, I think. Missing Richard. But that's to be expected."
Her father nodded slightly, but didn't comment.
Sybbie heard the conversation again in her mind, she felt the strange little shock she'd felt, and her eyes drifted to Donk again. "May I ask you something, Dad? And prepare yourself, for it may seem left field."
"And what is that?"
Sybbie drew in a steadying breath. "Is their son buried nearby?"
This time her father's brows jumped. "Who, love?"
Sybbie lowered her voice. "Granny and Donk's. The stillborn."
Tom lifted his chin, and then nodded. "You mean, the early one. I'd almost forgotten that. Yes. Yes, but, how do you know? Why?"
A shared, happy gasp rippled across the room and both Sybbie and her father watched the small group gathered around the pictures shake their heads with laughter.
"Barrow. But it isn't what it seems. I asked him about the letters," Sybbie confessed. "Uncle Henry shared them."
"And you read them?"
She nodded, and glanced once at Donk. "Yes. Have you?"
But her father shook his head. "No. I don't feel it's my place."
The tightness in her chest grew heavier. "Dad," she lowered her voice. "They make Granny seem unhappy. Like she didn't want children. And they've got me wondering now how little I may have known of her. How her existence was always so wrapped up in being Donk's wife, my mother's mother. My grandmother." She paused and shook her head. "Uncle Henry … he said Granny was afraid of her feelings. He even compared her to Aunt Mary, and I … I didn't understand him at first, but now … well she never spoke of that stillborn baby, did she. Not ever. And she only spoke of my mother when I asked her to. And I knew she loved me, but I … it's odd, but I'm not sure she ever said so. Not aloud. Dad, did you ever hear her tell anyone that she loved them?"
Her father took back up his cup, and then whispered, "I did. And I won't criticize your late grandmother. She was a kind and gentle person. And she loved with all her heart —"
But Sybbie shook her head. "It's not a criticism, Dad. It's a new understanding." Again, Sybbie looked at her grandfather who angled his glasses now to see another photo. "She seems more human now. They both do." She sighed. "As much as that pains me."
Her father laughed. "Have they proved mortal after all?"
She shook her head, and stood. She picked up a teacup and began to pour. "So will you take me to the grave?" She glanced over as she picked up the milk. "I don't know why, but I'd like to see it."
Her father nodded, "Yes. If I can remember the spot she'd asked for." He sighed. "But, love, I think you have some of your details wrong."
…
Aunt Edith, much like Caroline, had not requested to see Granny's room the moment she had arrived. When she'd come in, she instead wanted to have tea. She wanted to sit and speak with her daughter, Marigold. Her sons who had come in hours before her. Her sister, Mary and her brother, Tom. But as tea drug on-and-on, Sybbie realized that Aunt Edith may have had other reasons for not wanting to see Granny's room. After all, she'd not been there when Granny died. She and Uncle Bertie were on a train. En route. And when she finally did arrive, Sybbie remembered that Grasby's had already taken Granny away, and Donk sat alone in a chair, Aunt Edith and Aunt Mary, sitting silently with him.
Aunt Edith had helped Sybbie and Aunt Mary pack everything away, neatly, as Donk had requested. Sybbie remembered how they'd carefully arranged things in boxes: her hats, her jewelry, her books and notes and little pressed flowers that none of them knew she had, and stacked them all in her room. She remembered how Donk had snapped at her when Aunt Edith asked if they should donate any of Granny's clothes or coats, and Sybbie now remembered — with striking clarity — at how Aunt Mary had touched Edith's arm, sympathetically.
None of them had been in the room together since.
But as Aunt Mary often did, she somehow had them all up the stairs — Coco, Tom, Grace and George, Edith, and Sybbie — doing just as she pleased.
"The journalists and photographers will be here in two days - on Thursday. Tell me what you think."
"What are they taking photographs of?" Aunt Edith wrinkled an already wrinkled brow. "Mama's room? I thought you'd chosen photographs to give them. The ones we all just poured over in Coco's box."
"No, not just her room," George interjected as they made it to the landing. "They apparently want a few shots of all the rooms on display. And then some of Donk. And us."
"Not you, Edith," Mary clarified. "Just Papa, myself, and George. And perhaps little Matthew. The succession."
Edith narrowed her gaze.
"And the photos Co has sorted will be used through the spread as well," George continued.
"Quite a large spread."
Mary opened the door. "Yes. So it seems it will be."
Sybbie stood next to her father as Aunt Edith stepped inside. They watched her walk around slowly. Touching things here and there. She touched the sheets of the bed, and looked at George.
"Actually," Mary took a step towards her. "Anna and Heather are recreating the bed clothes. The duvet. She suggested it after she came and saw the room, and I found the correct material. Caroline will bring it back from her visit with Jack."
"Heather?" Edith blinked.
"Anna's daughter-in-law. Honestly, Edith, you're as bad as Papa."
Sybbie sensed her father glancing at Mary. The comment did not go unnoticed.
"Recreating it?" Grace angled her head at her own mother-in-law. "Is she, really?"
Mary rolled her head away. "Oh, she's pleased to do it."
"Couldn't you have just, bought something else?"
"Oh, don't be ridiculous, Tom. Nothing else goes as well as Mama's duvet."
Sybbie watched as Aunt Edith made eye contact with Tom.
"And we've organized her things," Coco now, stepped in further next to Aunt Edith. She pointed at a few trunks, one still open and half full. "We still have quite a few things to take down."
Edith walked to the trunks and peered inside. She moved a few things around. And then, she paused, and from the trunk, she lifted out a small plaque. "Mama got this from the hospital, when she resigned for her health."
"Oh," Grace walked to her, and held her hand out to take it. "Should we have left it?"
"No, of course not. It doesn't suit."
"But Mama was so proud of it." Edith said to Mary; she didn't hand it to Grace who stood next to her. Grace met Sybbie's gaze, and lowered her hand.
"Oh, for heaven's sake. We aren't tossing it out."
Sybbie's mind immediately thought of the small stack of papers Coco had asked her to take down; she thought of the tiny ticket Donk had seen and how she'd almost thrown it away. And she felt a keen sense of loss. "Perhaps we could put it in Donk's old dressing room?" But she was ignored by her aunts.
"What are you doing with it all?"
"Storing it in an attic. What should we be doing? No one has touched any of it for years."
Sybbie saw her aunt Edith shake her head. "Because Papa wouldn't let us. Why are we just shoving it all away again? Couldn't we have at least taken some of it for ourselves?"
Even Sybbie saw the logic in that, but Aunt Mary's eyes grew wider.
"Because it isn't ours. It's Mama's."
"Then I don't understand why you're taking her most beloved things and putting them in the dark."
"As usual, Edith, you're failing to see the point. We're opening the Mercia because it's lovely. Mama's things make it personable and as it should be, but not her private things."
"So you're putting her private things in the attic. So no one can see them? None of us?"
Sybbie felt her father shuffle beside her. "Edith, I think Mary means —"
"And this?" Now Edith held a small leather case. "Grandmama sent it to her after Rose's coming out. Italian leather. The last gift her mother gave her before Grandmama died."
Mary huffed. Dad tried to intervene again.
Edith now held a green book, golden ivy growing up the cover.
"The Portrait of a Lady?" Edith shook her head at Mary. "Mama kept this in her drawer, Mary. Do you know why? Or did you never listen to anything Mama said?"
"Of course I did. Which is why I don't want it here."
Edith sighed. "What does that mean?"
Again, Mary lifted her chin. "They aren't coming to see Mama's room. But an estate's room. In general."
"But the article is allowed to see her private pictures? Have photos of Papa? Or your son and your grandchild?"
"Edith, you of all people should know there needs to be a personal angle in an article. And it isn't anything too private. Only photos of the abbey, really."
"She's pregnant with me in one of them, Mary."
"Edi—" Sybbie's father tried, but Mary was quicker.
"You are not understanding— "
"Am I not? Because it seems to me that I understand precisely what's going on —"
"Wh —"
"— She's going to hate that."
All of them, Grace, Tom, Edith, Coco, Mary, and Sybbie, looked at the door … and at Donk.
"Papa?" Mary spoke for all of them.
Donk stepped inside Granny's room. His movements were slow, one of his hands balled into a fist. His white head nodded at the sketched portrait of Granny that Mary had hung. The portrait that looked out over all of them who were struck silent. "That."
"Who, Robert?" Aunt Edith tipped her graying curls towards Sybbie's father at his question. "Who's going to hate it?"
"Cora."
Sybbie felt the air in the room thin, and she tried to draw in more of it into her lungs. She was not successful.
"It's best to take it down," Donk added. "Before she sees."
There was a moment, then, that no one could move. And another. But at last, Sybbie's father moved from her and to Donk. "Come on," Tom said softly to him. "Let's see if Shirley has a bite to eat for us, hmm?"
And just as quickly as he'd come in, Donk had left. No one said goodbye as he went.
The room was quiet when they'd gone, but only so that the others could form their questions. Sybbie could practically feel Edith's roll over in her mind as she turned to Mary. "What was that?"
Sybbie watched as Aunt Mary opened her mouth, trying for words.
"Mary?" Edith stepped once toward her sister. Sybbie looked at where Donk had left. "Who did he mean? Did he mean Mama?"
"No," Mary huffed.
"You said he wasn't that bad off, Mary. When I told you what he'd said on the telephone that time, you excused it. How do you excuse this?"
"Oh, don't be such an alarmist, Edith. Of course he didn't mean Mama. How could he have?"
Coco had begun to cry. "Yes he did, Gran. You know he did."
They turned to Coco.
"He talks about her like she's here." Mary's granddaughter wiped her eyes. "It's so odd and so sad! I don't know how to respond so I just stare at him!"
Mary sighed. "No, he doesn't."
"Yes! He does! You know he does. Just last night. He said 'Cora likes this sort of thing.' —"
"— Oh, for goodness sake. He was talking about you. Your name is Cora."
Coco's lip trembled. "He's never once called me Cora. Not once. Not in my whole life."
"This is not alright, Mary." Sybbie watched Aunt Edith move past Mary, the green book in her hand. "Papa is not alright." With her other hand, she wrapped her arm around Coco and led her from the room. Grace and George followed after their daughter.
And Aunt Mary turned to the window as they left.
Sybbie pushed out a breath and closed her eyes. "Aunt Mary?"
"For Heaven's sake. He's ninety-five years old. We've just been looking through photographs of when she was alive. What do they expect?" Here she turned, and even in the dim light, Sybbie could see the glisten of her eyes. "And Edith badgering me over Mama's things." She gesticulated around her. "She was my mother, too." She put her hands on her narrow hips, and turned back to the window. "And if she thinks going through her belongings has been difficult for Papa, with the way Papa reacts to everything, what does she think it's been like for me? A cake walk?"
"I doubt she thinks that." Sybbie let her aunt turn toward her before she continued. "Though I feel sorry for Aunt Edith. She didn't get to say goodbye. I'm sure she feels quite put out by it all."
"She knew she was dying. She should've been here."
Sybbie, not expecting that, lowered her head and let silence fill between them for a moment.
"Uncle Henry's given me the letters you've discovered, in Granny's old sitting room," she said at last. Her aunt did not turn. "I asked Barrow about them yesterday, when we were there. He said he hadn't read them —"
"— Nor should he have."
Sybbie looked at her shoes, and then took a breath. "But he did tell me that Granny and Donk lost a pregnancy, before the first war."
Mary turned her head over her shoulder. The wrinkles around her eyes crinkled tightly. "What? Why?"
Sybbie shrugged. "I asked. The letters made me feel as if I hardly know Granny —"
"You read them?"
"And I can't explain it, but I've asked Dad to take me out to … well, to the grave."
Her aunt's visible reaction was frustration. Even anger, and Sybbie steeled herself. "To what grave? The miscarriage?"
"It doesn't make sense. I know. But being here this year is different and —" Sybbie swallowed. "And it may be Donk's last."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"— Or perhaps the last one he remembers any of us. And, this sounds rather stupid but I want to know as much about him now to prepare myself for when he doesn't know me." Sybbie pressed her lips. "Would you please come with us? Dad's agreed to take me if he can remember where it is."
But Mary furrowed her brow, "Of course he remembers." She shook her head. "Your father is looking for an excuse not to take you because Papa won't like it."
"But you'll come?"
Sybbie's aunt sighed heavily. "I'm not sure why, but yes."
…
It was hours later, and the snow which had fallen overnight had melted and refrozen into a hard, crunchy ice. Sybbie sat in the back, her gloved hands between her knees to keep them warm, as her father and aunt sat in front, none of them speaking. She'd been warned she would have to walk, and she'd borrowed Grace's galoshes, having not bought any in years for there was little to no use for them in Atlanta. She was rocked by a dip in the road, and Sybbie glanced upward, away from her feet, and back between the older adults in the front. Even as a grown woman, sitting behind them she felt quite like a child.
"Here. It'll be too icy to drive any further."
Sybbie waited until her father killed the engine and then opened the door. The cold, winter air hit her instantly, chilling her. Her aunt, though, did not seem the least bit fazed.
"Are you going to explain your thinking, love?" Her father said under his breath beside her as they crunched beside Aunt Mary. "Why this matters so to you?"
Sybbie brought a finger to her nose, the cold air already making it run. She sniffed. "Because Dad, I'm determined to learn their story. The letters, Donk's ticket. How do I know so little?"
"What ticket?"
Sybbie glanced over at Aunt Mary, and then down again at her own feet. "Donk's found a ticket that he wouldn't let me throw away. From December 1890."
"What sort of ticket?"
"A train ticket, Dad. I don't know the significance. It was Granny's."
"Yes, I assumed that," her aunt added, and when Sybbie looked up at her again, she was gathering her coat tighter around her thin frame. "God, this has turned out to be such a mess."
They crunched silently along for a few more steps until Tom spoke up. "What has?"
"Opening the house," Mary quickly followed her own words, "And I'll thank you not to comment."
Sybbie sniffled again. "George has told us why. I …" she copied her aunt and hugged her middle tightly. "I think it's the right thing to do. Not to sell. Or to turn it over."
"I wonder if we'd feel the same if Papa was gone."
The air hit Sybbie again, shocked her lungs, and she stared down at her feet, and then her aunt's. They stepped in time with one another, and irrationally it made Sybbie want to cry. "We would," she whispered weakly. "He can't ever really be gone. Not from Downton."
In her periphery, she could sense as her aunt swiped at her face and then as she shook her graying bob out of her eyes. "No. Well," she stopped abruptly, and both Sybbie and Tom stopped too, turning back and looking at her. "We cross the bridge."
"The lake?" Stupidly, Sybbie looked between her father and aunt. "But we've picnicked here a thousand times. There are no graves."
"Mama would take us here all the time as children," her aunt answered back. "Or have Nanny take us. I'd not noticed either." She began over the bridge, and Sybbie slowly followed, walking heel-toe, as not to slip on any ice.
"Just there."
Sybbie followed the direction of Mary's pointed finger, and saw, on the edge of the wood, a stone marker angled out of the ground. She looked at her father and aunt, again, and then together they walked towards it, Sybbie two steps ahead.
It wasn't a tombstone. Not in the slightest. But the spot was marked with what could be described as a plaque, really. Small, and about the length of Sybbie's foot. Similar to the ones Donk had often commissioned for his beloved dogs, but in this case there weren't any words. Etched on it, instead, was their heir apparent emblem, their official Lord and Lady Downton monogram. Sybbie had seen it on the top of old, official letters and on the wedding invitation that was framed and kept in Granny's sitting room, on a side table. It was not the shield that was hanging in the Great Hall, but rather an imposing R, broad and flourished and an elegant, flowery over-hooked C, curving around and through the loops of the R. It was almost a trick to the eye, the embellishment of the letters for the effect of the design and not so much legibility, but Sybbie read instantly what it meant: Robert and Cora. Beneath the monogram and its flourishes was a year - 1914 - and that was all. No other mark on the stone. And Sybbie exhaled before it, her breath coming out in a fog before her.
"Oh," she heard herself say. And then she looked at her aunt. "Did he have a name?"
Sybbie heard her inhale. "I don't know." She shifted her weight and the icy grass crunched beneath her. "He was born so early, and . . . anyway. Papa may remember, though I wouldn't dare ask."
A strange, small little anger flared up at that, and Sybbie looked around the edge of the woods to cool her tongue. She heard her father say something in response, but what it was she didn't really absorb for there, another few steps inside of the iced over snowy earth floor was another small plaque, covered in snow that hadn't melted inside of the shelter of the woods.
Sybbie ignored whatever it was Aunt Mary said and walked toward it, stepping over a small branch and crunching through dead, icy leaves. She squatted down, and quickly swiped away at the little stone marker, thoroughly wetting her knitted glove, but revealing another R+C emblem and another year: 1890.
"And you have everything you need? You remember I leave early this evening, Lord Grantham?"
Robert nodded again at his housekeeper, but this time added a smile. "Of course, Shirley. I remember as you've told me half a dozen times since you poured this cup of tea."
His housekeeper chuckled, "Oh, I feel awfully guilty is all. You know I like to help you into your dressing gown."
"You're a flirt, Shirley," Robert laughed at her joke, "But please don't change." He placed the empty tea cup into her waiting hands. "Besides, Miss Sybbie is here. She'll help her ancient Donk. Won't you, Sybbie?"
He glanced up toward his granddaughter who stood across the sitting room and waited for his eyes to adjust. When they did, he saw her nodding.
"There you have it," Robert grinned and then vaguely noticed as Shirley walked over to his granddaughter and spoke. He rubbed his face, smoothing out his tired wrinkles, and waited for the two women to finish whatever they were discussing. He hardly noticed when Shirley left the room and when Sybbie sat beside him.
"Do you mind if I have tea, Donk? I fear I'm still thawing."
Robert waved his welcome at Sybbie as she sipped at a teacup she'd just poured.
"Might I ask you something?"
Robert lifted his brows, and again, found his granddaughter and waited for his eyes to see her more clearly. Her hair had shimmers of gray now, he noticed, and his chest ached.
"Certainly," he whispered, and leaned back against his chair.
He watched as she sipped her tea once more and then looked around the room, and then finally, she took a deep breath.
"Do you recall last week, when I took down the rubbish from Granny's room? There was a small ticket you asked to keep."
"Yes," Robert nodded. Immediately, images danced across his mind: snow, the night sky, her dark hair against his coat.
"Why -" his granddaughter cleared her throat. "That is, what is its significance?"
Donk let the images drift away from him and drew in the sight of Sybbie next to him. How to put this feeling in his breast into words? How to adequately describe the sweet ache just there? He moved his trembling fingers to his cardigan pocket. There, the soft, worn little ticket slept, and Robert brushed his likewise soft, worn pad of his thumb against it.
"I rushed from London one night. Against my late father's wishes," He let go of the ticket and sighed. "It was the night your grandmother realized I loved her."