1st January, 1915
Downton Abbey
My darling Tom,
It's the first day of the new year. The first day of a year in which I will not see you. I can hardly believe that this time last year, you were here and so vibrant and full of life, loving me every second of every day. And this year… well, I don't know if you love me anymore, but I do know that I still love you.
I think of you all the time, my love. I wonder where you are and what you're doing. I hope and pray that you are safe and well. I can't bear to think of you being dragged into this horrible war. I hope you are learning the trade of journalists or politicians somewhere, and not wearing a military uniform.
It is the Servants' Ball tomorrow night. Do you remember last year when we contrived to dance together twice? That is what I will be thinking of tomorrow when I am obliged to dance with Carson or William or any of the other men who work on the estate.
Last year, I was all aquiver at the thought of you holding me in your arms and waltzing me around the Great Hall. The simple act of being able to dance with the man I love filled me with joy. This year, I will be brimming with sadness because you are not here, and I cannot dance with you.
I will never dance with you again. That simple truth breaks my heart, but I hold the memory of those two dances close to my heart, as desolate and withered as it is. The best I can do this year is imagine you there and dance with you in my mind and in my heart.
It is a physical ache, Tom, missing you. It's like a bruise that never heals. Occasionally, I think maybe it is healing slightly, but then I bump against it in some way and the pain floods back, and it takes my breath away with how sharp it is.
Every night, I take out the photograph of you that Anna gave me, and I gaze at it while I lie there instead of sleeping. It is fortunate that it is behind glass because I touch and kiss your dear face so often, I'm sure I would have rubbed it away by now.
I wish you would write to me, darling. I wish you could find it in your heart to forgive me. I know I will never forgive myself, but I selfishly long for you to forgive me enough to contact me. Perhaps if I could at least write to you, my heart would feel less bleak and cold.
I am still, my love, as I will always be,
Your Mary
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February 1915
'Don't forget your grandmother has invited herself to luncheon,' Robert said, slathering marmalade on his toast. 'I hope you will all be ther-'
'No! No!' Mary cried suddenly, her hands crumpling the sides of the newspaper.
'Mary?' Sybil said in concern, laying a hand on her sister's arm. 'Is everything all right?'
Mary looked up at her, her eyes brimming with tears.
'No, it's not! Nothing will ever be all right again!' she cried, thrusting the paper at Sybil, and pushing back her chair, running from the table, shoving past Carson as he took a couple of concerned steps towards her.
'What the devil?' Robert asked, staring after his daughter in astonishment. 'What on earth's the matter with her?'
'I don't know, Papa. It must be something she saw in the paper,' Sybil said, flattening the newspaper as best she could.
'What was she reading?' Edith asked, as perplexed as everyone else around the table.
'The casualty lists,' Sybil said, looking up with a grim expression on her face.
'Oh, no. Who is it this time?' Edith asked, trepidation in her voice, mentally scrolling through the names and faces of those young men of her acquaintance she knew to be at the Front and still alive.
Sybil scanned the lists, looking for a familiar name, coming up blank until suddenly she saw it. 'Oh, my God,' she murmured.
'What? Who is it?' Robert asked, thankful once again that he did not have a son to risk in this dreadful war.
'It's Branson,' Sybil said, looking up at her father and sister. 'There's a listing here for a Private Thomas Branson. Killed in action.'
Robert stared at his youngest daughter, his jaw set, torn between an instinctive horror of hearing that name in connection with Mary again and a genuine sorrow that such a vibrant, young man could have been cut down in the prime of his life. Whatever had happened, he would not have wished that fate on his former employee.
Sybil put the paper down. 'I'd better go after her.'
Robert nodded, mutely, and Sybil stood, desperate now to go and comfort her sister.
'Mary?' Sybil said, pushing open the door to Mary's bedroom.
She walked in to see her sister perched on the edge of her bed, her head bowed, her knuckles white where she grasped the bedspread, tears streaming down her face.
'Oh, Mary,' Sybil whispered, rushing over to sit beside her, tears pricking at her own eyes.
'T-Tom,' Mary choked out, her shoulders hunching, one hand flying to her mouth as if trying to stop herself from saying his name. 'It… the… the… the list. It said… it said…'
'I know, darling, I know. I saw. But it might not be him, it might not be him,' Sybil said, trying to soothe her sister.
'But… it… might… it… might… be,' Mary stammered, the panic in her chest disrupting her breathing. 'My… Tom.'
Sybil snatched up Mary's hand, shaking her head. 'No. No, you mustn't think like that. You mustn't. Not until we know for sure that it's him.'
Mary turned her head, anguish all over her face, still snatching irregular gulps of breath as she tried to speak. 'But… but…'
'Breathe, Mary,' Sybil said, desperately. 'Breathe with me. In… out… in… out.'
Mary stared wildly at her, trying to breathe normally instead of the panicked, panting gasps she was dragging in now.
'Look at me! Look at me! In… out… in… out… in… out… that's it, that's it!'
Sybil kept on repeating the same thing, breathing steadily, watching her sister gradually calm and get her breathing under control.
'That's it, darling, that's it. You're doing it,' she said, relief coursing through her. 'We have to believe it's not him. Not until we know for sure.'
Mary shook her head, closing her eyes briefly, before focusing back on Sybil. 'But how will I ever know?' she said, hoarsely. 'How will I ever know, Sybil? Who is going to tell me if it is him? Or if it's not?'
Sybil stared back at her, at a loss as to how to answer that. Mary was right. If it was Tom, none of the Bransons would have any reason to write to his former place of employment to let them know of his death. Neither would his regiment.
With growing horror and sympathy for the plight of her sister, Sybil realised that if it was Tom Branson formerly of Downton Abbey who had fallen in Flanders in the service of the King, it was entirely possible that they would never know that. Likewise, they may never know that it wasn't him.
She leaned in and wrapped her arm around Mary, feeling her sobs wrack her body, feeling entirely wretched that there was nothing she could do to ease her mind one way or the other.
11th February, 1915
Downton Abbey
Tom, my darling boy,
Are you dead? Are you gone from this world?
I saw your name in the casualty lists this morning. At least, I think I did. I don't know if it was you or some other Tom Branson. I never thought to ask you whether Branson was a common name in Ireland.
I may go to hell for this, but I hope with all my heart that it is a common name and the poor man lying dead on the battlefield is some other woman's Tom, and not mine. Not you.
It can't be you. Can it?
I can't believe I don't want to believe it. Surely, I would know, wouldn't I? I'd feel your absence from this world, wouldn't I? But then maybe I wouldn't after so long apart.
I know I'm never going to see you again, but I can't - I simply can't - imagine living in a world where you do not exist somewhere. Where you're not living and breathing and talking and walking and laughing and arguing somewhere.
You're too alive, my love. Too alive, too vital and too beautiful not to be here anymore. But then I suppose there are hundreds and thousands of women all over Europe who think the same about their love, and yet men are dying every day in this awful war.
All I know is that my own heart stopped beating when I saw your name on that terrible list.
Please, my darling. Please don't be dead. Please.
Tá grá agam duit.
In desperate hope, I am forever
Your Mary
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'Is there something wrong, my love?' Matthew asked as he drew back from kissing Sybil hello.
'Mary's had a bit of a setback,' Sybil said, heavily. 'She saw a Thomas Branson in today's casualty lists, and it's knocked her back terribly.'
Matthew pulled her to him, slipping his arms around her, resting his chin on the top of her head as she slid her arms around his waist, holding onto him.
'She was so upset, Matthew. I feel so awful for her. She loved him so very much. As much as I love you. But I get to have this, to have you in my life, while Mary, she doesn't have anything. And now poor Tom might be dead,' Sybil said, sadness welling up inside her.
'Do we know for sure it's him?'
Sybil shook her head. 'No, not for sure. Nobody knows where he went when he left Downton. And that's one of the things that's so awful for her. We may never know if it's him or not.'
'Hmm, maybe I can find out,' Matthew said, thoughtfully. 'Then at least she'd know for sure before she mourns him.'
Sybil looked up at him, hope filling her. 'Can you do that?'
'Well, maybe. I can't promise it, but I know someone who's working at the War Office now. Philip Warburton.'
'Who's he?'
'A chap I went to university with. Failed his army medical because of his eyesight, but he's highly organised and a trained lawyer to boot. Last I heard, he managed to get a post working in the records department at the War Office. It's a long shot, but I might be able to find out through him if this Thomas Branson is our Tom Branson.'
Sybil smiled up at him and then stretched up on her toes to kiss him. 'You, my darling, are a genius.'
Matthew smiled back at her. 'It might not work.'
'But I love that you care enough to try,' Sybil said, leaning up for another kiss.
'Of course, I do. It's Mary. But don't say anything to her about this, will you? Like I say, it's a bit of a long shot. I don't want to get her hopes up.'
'My lips are sealed, but I truly do hope this Philip Warburton can find out.'
Matthew pursed his lips, looking at his fiancée thoughtfully. 'What if it is Branson? Will you tell her?'
Sybil sighed, looking pensive. 'I think we'd have to. I think she'd be better off knowing if it is him. At least then she can mourn him properly. That's got to be better than never knowing, hasn't it?'
Matthew tightened his arms around her, hugging her closer. 'Let's hope it's not him, shall we?'
'Oh, God, I hope it's not,' Sybil breathed, hating the thought of having to break it to her sister if Branson was dead. 'I don't want to be the one to tell her such an awful thing.'
'You won't have to, darling. If it comes to that, I'll do it,' Matthew said firmly, determined not to let Sybil shoulder this burden alone.
Sybil snuggled in closer. 'Oh, goodness, have I told you lately how much I love you?'
Matthew chuckled. 'Yes, but feel entirely free to tell me again.'
18th February, 1915
Downton Abbey
My love, my dearest, darling love,
I am a wreck.
I can't shake the fear that you are no longer alive. When I close my eyes to sleep, I see you broken and bloodied on a battlefield. It's a terrible sight, one that I know is conjured entirely from imagination, but I cannot shake it. I fear it may drive me mad.
I have longed for a letter from you for so long now, but now I need one. I need you to write to me to tell me you still draw breath. I believe I could live with the thought of never hearing from you again if only I could have a sign that you have not passed from this life. But this, this not knowing, it is torture, Tom.
Please, my darling. If you will not come back to me, write to me. Let me know if you're alive.
I am sending you all my love, every single ounce of it. Tell me you can feel it.
Your Mary
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March 1915
'Mary, Matthew's here to see you,' Sybil said, coming up behind her sister and laying a gentle hand on her shoulder, trying not to startle her as she sat by the window gazing silently out over the lawn, a book lying forgotten in her lap.
'Me? Why does he want to see me?' Mary said, looking up at Sybil, wondering if she had the energy to make conversation right now.
'He has some news. Will you speak to him?'
Mary clenched her hands tightly on the arms of the chair, fear nipping at her. News these days was never good. 'News? About what?'
'I'll let him tell you,' Sybil said, stepping aside to let her fiancé come to sit on the chair opposite Mary.
'Hello, Mary,' Matthew said, gently. 'Sybil told me about you seeing Branson's name in the casualty lists and how upset you were. I have a friend, an old university chum, who works at the War Office. I wrote to him to see if I could find out more.'
Mary stared at him, her heart in her mouth, her pulse racing. 'Is it… is it…'
'It's not him,' Matthew said gently but firmly, taking Mary's trembling hand as it shot out towards him. 'It's not him.'
'Are you sure?' she choked out, tears brimming in her eyes.
'Yes, I'm sure. This Thomas Branson was 38 when he died. He's too old to be your Tom.'
Mary let out a sob, her face crumpling. 'Really?'
'Yes.'
'Thank you. Thank you,' she whispered, squeezing Matthew's hand tightly, tears sliding down her face as a weight lifted from her for the first time since she'd seen his name in the casualty lists.
8th March, 1915
Downton Abbey
Oh, thank heavens, Tom! You're alive! At the very least you're not the Thomas Branson I saw in the casualty lists, so I have hope again that you are alive and well, that you are living and breathing.
Matthew brought me the news today and I have never thought more fondly of him.
You're alive. You're alive. I have to believe that now. The alternative is too horrific to contemplate.
I hope and pray that you are holding true to your intention not to fight for the British Empire. I have never been gladder that you are Irish and against all things Empire, my darling.
I feel like I can breathe again now I know for sure that that poor Thomas Branson was not you.
He was not you.
That is all I care about.
He was not you.
Live, my darling. Live. If you live, I have hope.
Tá grá agam duit.
Ever your Mary
Xxxxxxxxx
April 1915
'How do I look?' Sybil asked, inspecting herself critically in the mirror.
'Radiant,' Mary replied, smiling at her sister.
'You look beautiful,' Edith said, in agreement with Mary for once.
'Will he like it, do you think?'
'Sybil, you could turn up to the church clad in a sackcloth and Matthew would still think you the most beautiful woman in the world,' Mary said, fondly.
Sybil turned and beamed at her sisters. 'I can't believe I'm getting married! Today! To Matthew!'
Mary rolled her eyes a little, prompting a little extra burst of joy to explode in Sybil's chest at this small glimpse of the old Mary.
'Well, it's been in the diary for quite some time now, so it's hardly a surprise,' Mary said, dryly.
'Mary, Edith, we must depart for the church if we're to keep to the schedule. Only the bride is permitted to be late,' Cora said, entering the room, fiddling with her gloves. She looked up and stopped, a smile blooming on her face. 'Oh, Sybil. Oh, my darling girl, you look divine.'
'Thank you, Mama,' Sybil replied, beaming at her mother, unable to contain her happiness.
'Is that tiara fixed properly in place, Anna?' Cora asked, walking across the room to inspect Anna's handiwork. 'We don't want it coming loose and her veil slipping.'
'Yes, milady,' Anna said, quite proud of the hairstyle she'd created for Lady Sybil's special day.
'Yes, it is, Mama. I swear if it was any tighter, my eyes would pop out of my head,' Sybil said, ducking away from her mother's hand as she reached to touch the tiara anchoring her veil.
'Better to be safe than sorry, especially on your wedding day,' Cora replied, her sympathy in short supply having worn a tiara on multiple occasions since her own marriage.
Sybil beamed at the mention of her wedding day. 'Yes, it is my wedding day, so you need to go. Is Papa waiting for me?'
'Yes, he is,' Cora replied, pressing her hand to Sybil's arm. 'You look wonderful, darling. Simply wonderful.'
'Thank you, Mama.'
Cora turned, signalling to her elder daughters. 'Come on, girls.'
Dutifully, Edith followed her mother out of the door. As Mary fell in behind them, Sybil called her name.
'Mary, you know I can't help thinking I have you to thank for today?'
'Me?' Mary asked in surprise. 'Why on earth do you think that?'
'Because you were the first person I told about my feelings for Matthew, and you didn't laugh at me for having those feelings.'
Mary gave a small, slightly bemused smile. 'Why on earth would I laugh at you for falling in love?'
'Well, I was young and a little bit silly, so I wouldn't have blamed you.'
'It wasn't that long ago, Sybil. Although it feels like it.'
Sybil walked across the room, reaching for her sister's hand. 'It seems like a lifetime ago. So much has happened since then.'
Mary's face fell a little, her smile faltering slightly. 'Yes, well, here we are now, and you're on the brink of marrying the man you love.'
'I wish you still had the man you love in your life,' Sybil whispered, seeing past the brave face Mary was putting on everything.
Mary was silent for a moment, doing her best to keep her emotions under control.
'Well, we can't all have the things we want, can we? But today is a happy day because your dream is coming true, and I couldn't be happier for you.' Mary leaned forward and bussed a kiss on Sybil's cheek. 'Such good luck, darling. Not that I think you'll need it.'
'Thank you,' Sybil murmured, seeing the sheen in her sister's eyes.
Mary smiled brightly, a brittle, fragile smile, and then turned to catch up with her mother and Edith. Sybil watched her go, not for the first time wishing her sister could have even a small share of the joy she felt today.
24th April, 1915
Downton Abbey
Darling Tom,
Today was Sybil's wedding day. You should have seen her. She looked so beautiful and so happy. She beamed all the way up the aisle on Papa's arm, but she simply shone with joy when she walked back down it as Matthew's wife.
I was happy for her, for both of them. I must say that Matthew looked as delighted as Sybil did to finally be man and wife. But just between us, I will confess to feeling a sense of sadness and to being a little jealous of their happiness. No, that is not true. I was not a little jealous; I was almost rent apart with sadness and jealousy, although I am sure I kept that hidden from those around me. At least, I hope I did. I certainly did my best to hide it.
I wish that was us, my love. I wish it with all my heart. I wish we could have had the same happy ending – or perhaps I should say beginning as they are starting their life together. I wish my family could have felt the same joy in our love as they do in Sybil and Matthew's.
I know that I will never have a wedding day like Sybil's. How can I when you will not be my groom? I don't know why it upsets me as much as it does when I never expected to have a wedding day like that anyway. I think maybe the difference is that when I thought about my wedding day before you came into my life, I did not know what it was to love and to be loved. Now, I do.
If I close my eyes, I can imagine what our wedding day would have been like. It may, perhaps, have been a small affair, but I don't mind that. It would still have been beautiful.
In my mind's eye, I see us in the registry office at York with Sybil and Anna, there. Perhaps with Matthew either walking me down the aisle to you or serving as your best man if you did not have another in mind.
I don't care that it would likely have been a simple wedding. All I see when I think about it is you looking handsome in that blue suit of yours – you know I always liked you in blue, it suits you so very well. And you would turn when you hear me coming. You would gaze at me, watching me come towards you in my wedding dress, looking at me with so much love in your eyes, just like you have so many times before.
I can see us standing in front of the registrar, reciting our vows, and as we do so, you hook your little finger around mine. A small hidden gesture, just for us.
I have never managed to get to the end of this imagined wedding day, Tom. My heart breaks before we are pronounced man and wife. We could have had this if not for my foolishness. Oh, I still believe that I would have been simply rubbish at being a working-class wife, that conviction has not changed. But I would have been your wife. And in the end, I find that that is all that matters to me.
Today has been the first day I have felt happiness since you left. I am happy that my darling sister has married her true love, I really am. But I am so, so sad that I will never marry you – my true love.
Truth be told, I don't think I will ever marry now, Tom. What would be the point? The loveless union I always thought my marriage would be no longer holds any appeal. Matthew is adamant that I do not need to marry to have a home. He says that I will always have a home here at Downton, and I am grateful to him for that. Perhaps I shall become the Miss Haversham of Downton Abbey.
As it stands, I cannot imagine pledging myself in marriage to any man but you, and we both know that is never going to happen. Not now. Not since I sent you away.
But maybe one day, I will find the courage and the strength to imagine our wedding day to its conclusion without breaking down.
Maybe in the end, though, that does not matter because I will always be your wife in my heart if not in fact.
I love you, my darling. I love you as much today as I have ever done. I am yours. Always and forever.
Your Mary
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May 1915
'It's the village fair in a few weeks. Do you fancy going to it again?' Sybil asked as she sat beside Mary in the folly by the lake, taking a short break from their walk around the estate.
'The fair,' Mary said, a soft smile playing on her face. 'That reminds me of Tom.'
'Oh, goodness. I haven't put my foot in it, have I?' Sybil asked, looking anxiously at her sister.
'No, no, you haven't. It makes me think of how desperate I was to see him there, and the shooting competition I had with him.'
'Oh, yes, I remember that. I remember thinking how charming you two were with each other,' Sybil said, thinking back. A thought suddenly struck her. 'Were you… were you already seeing each other at that point?'
'No. Well, I was sleeping at his cottage, but nothing had happened between us. Oh, but I wanted it to, Sybil,' Mary said, casting a conspiratorial look at her sister. 'He was already consuming all my waking thoughts. I was wildly attracted to him by then. You know that I engineered the whole trip to the fair just to see him, don't you?'
Sybil laughed, glad to see Mary smiling as she reminisced about Tom. 'You didn't?'
'I did. He'd asked me to go to the fair with him, and I was so downcast at having to say no. And then it occurred to me that I could go anyway and just happen to bump into him. That's when I enlisted your help.'
'Well, you wily thing! I never suspected a single thing.'
'No, well, you weren't supposed to.'
'You gave him the honey you won,' Sybil said, suddenly remembering that detail.
Mary smiled. 'Yes, I did. I used to have it in my tea when I visited his cottage. I got it all over my face once and he kissed me clean.'
Sybil reached out, squeezing Mary's hand. 'Oh, darling, I'm so glad you have happy memories of him.'
'Nearly all my memories of him are happy. It's just the end that wasn't happy. The rest of the time, well, it was wonderful. We went for walks in the woods when I was supposedly running errands in Ripon, we spent time together at his cottage. Sometimes, I'd sneak off to the garage to get a kiss,' Mary confessed, smiling at the memory.
'I know! That's how I caught you, remember?' Sybil chuckled. She cast a curious look at her sister. 'Does it upset you to talk about him?'
Mary shook her head. 'No. I like talking about him, but I can only really do that with you and Anna. Nobody else is willing to hear about how much I loved him. But it reminds me that it actually happened, that he was here, and he was mine. I'm grateful for the keepsakes I have for the same reason.'
'What keepsakes do you have?' Sybil asked, curiously.
'Tom picked me flowers when we went for walks. He's the only person who has ever given me flowers. I pressed some of them, ones from the first walk, and some from other walks. I look at them sometimes to reassure myself that it really happened. And then I have my little wooden cat, and this,' Mary said, reaching into her pocket and pulling out the small wooden heart Tom had made her.
Sybil ran her finger over the heart, marvelling at how smooth it was. 'Tom gave you this?'
'Yes. He made it for me for our first Christmas. Well, our only Christmas as it turns out.'
'He made it?' Sybil asked, impressed that the heart was so perfectly shaped and smooth.
'Yes.'
'Why have you got it with you today?'
'I always carry it,' Mary said, simply. 'I always have Tom's heart with me.'
Sybil swallowed around the lump that appeared in her throat as she looked at her sister gazing down at the little wooden heart, her thumb rubbing over it.
'I wish Mama and Papa had known how deeply you loved him,' she said, quietly. 'Maybe they wouldn't have sent him away.'
Mary sighed, shaking her head. 'Oh, Sybil. I always knew they would send him away as soon as they found out about us. They were never going to let me be with him. The earl's daughter and the chauffeur were never going to have a happy ending. I knew that and Tom knew that. He knew it better than I did. He said that right from the start.'
'But you still started your love affair.'
'Yes. Because we loved each other.'
Sybil bit her lip, hesitant to ask, but curious about the answer. 'Do you regret it? If you'd known at the start how awful the end would be, would you still have done it?'
'In a heartbeat,' Mary said, her thumb rubbing over the little wooden heart again. 'The only thing I regret about me and Tom is that I didn't go with him when he asked me to.'
'Do you still love him? Even after he's been gone for so long?'
'I'll always love him. Until the day I die,' Mary replied, not an ounce of doubt in her voice.
23rd June, 1915
Downton Abbey
Happy birthday, my darling boy!
I hope you are having a wonderful day wherever you are.
I keep thinking back to two years ago, the only time we spent your birthday together. It was not long after I kissed you that very first time, do you remember? You managed to take your half day on your birthday, and we spent the afternoon lying on your bed kissing each other silly because we were so silly for each other.
I miss those long, lazy afternoons spent lying in your arms, kissing you. I miss those afternoons we spent making love, too, but there's something about those early days before we became more intimate that I yearn for.
I miss the feel of your lips on mine, your finger curling under my chin to tip my face up, the softness of your hair when I ran my fingers through it. I miss the feelings you stirred up in me, that uncontainable feeling of burgeoning love. That feeling that I could not possibly get close enough to you. I still had that feeling even when we made love. Even with you deep inside me, even when we were more connected than I ever dreamed possible, I wanted to be closer to you. I still want that.
Oh, my love, I wish you were here. I wish I could give you the happiest birthday you would ever want. I wish I could lie in your arms and kiss your dear face over and over and over.
Happy birthday, Tom. I wish you the very best, wherever you are.
Your Mary
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July 1915
Sybil hurried along to Mary's room, bursting to tell her her secret. Now Matthew knew, Mary was the first person she wanted to tell.
She knocked on the door, opening it up before she heard Mary's response.
'Are you busy, darling?' she asked, seeing Mary at her dressing table, writing a letter.
'No, did you want to do something?' Mary asked, covering up her letter.
'Come and sit with me. I have something to tell you,' Sybil said, perching on the chaise longue at the end of Mary's bed and patting the seat next to her.
Mary tensed a little, always wary of news given that the war was still dragging on, decimating the young men of their generation. 'It's not bad news, is it?'
'No, it's not bad news,' Sybil said, her eyes sparkling. 'It's good news. It's very good news.'
'What is it?' Mary asked, settling next to Sybil, seeing now how she was almost vibrating with excitement.
'I'm expecting a baby!' Sybil blurted out, unable to hold it in any longer.
'Oh! Oh, darling! That is good news! It's wonderful news,' Mary said, pulling her sister into an embrace.
'Isn't it? I'm so excited, Mary! And Matthew, Matthew is delighted!'
'Well, of course, he is!'
'I went to see Dr Clarkson to make sure. He says he thinks the baby will be born in February.'
'February? Well, that will brighten up the gloomy winter months, won't it?' Mary said, smiling at Sybil's palpable excitement.
'Oh, Mary, there were things I needed to ask the doctor, embarrassing things, but I had to ask because nobody tells you about them, and I needed to know.'
'What things?' Mary asked, curiously.
'Well, like having relations, for one. I didn't know whether we'd have to give up… you know, doing it until the baby's born. I had to screw up my courage and ask,' Sybil confided, her cheeks pinking up.
Mary smiled, imagining precisely the embarrassed but stubborn look that would have been on Sybil's face when she was interrogating the good doctor. 'And what did he say?'
'He said we could still do it, although it might get a little uncomfortable towards my due date. But, goodness, I was glad that we don't have to stop doing it. I do rather enjoy it so,' Sybil confessed, her cheeks decidedly flushed now, but her eyes sparkling.
Mary chuckled. 'Yes, it is rather lovely, isn't it? I told you it was, didn't I?'
'Yes, you did. Even better than kissing, you said, and you were right,' Sybil said, exchanging a cheeky look with Mary, making both of them giggle.
'You must miss it,' Sybil said suddenly and then wanted to kick herself.
Mary shrugged. 'Yes, I do, but not enough to want to do it with someone else if that's what you're asking.'
'No, I wasn't. I'm not Mama, expecting you to find a suitor,' Sybil replied, a little indignantly. 'But if you did find someone else you wanted to do it with, I wouldn't condemn you for it.'
'Oh, no, I think I'm a long way off that,' Mary said, firmly. 'I miss it because I miss him. Not just in the bedroom. I just miss him.'
Sybil took her hand, clasping it gently. 'I know you do. You know, perhaps if this child is a boy, I could call it Tom.'
Mary wrinkled her nose, shaking her head. 'Oh, no, please don't. I think Mama and Papa would disapprove of that anyway, but I would rather not have to call my nephew the same name I used to moan with passion when I was in bed with my lover. That would be most disconcerting.'
Sybil stared at Mary and then erupted into giggles, unable to stop, making Mary laugh too. When Edith opened the door to see what was going on, the two of them were laughing uncontrollably, unable to tell their sister what was so funny.
13th August, 1915
Downton Abbey
My darling Tom,
Today marks one year since I last saw you.
One year without you.
You are all I can think of today. Not that that makes today much different to any other day, but today I have been particularly pensive.
Are you thinking of me, I wonder? Have you noted this date, too? I can't help but hope that you have thought of me at least fleetingly today. I fear if you have, though, it was not in a complimentary way. Not when I killed our romance stone dead one year ago today.
I will confess that it took all my strength to get out of bed today. I feel so very sad.
I can tell you with complete honesty that I am still in love with you. I love you as much today as I did a year ago. I can't imagine ever not loving you, even if I never lay eyes on you again.
On this day above all others, I wish you well. Be well, my love. Be safe and be well.
I remain as I always will,
Your Mary
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February 1916
'Ugh, I wish I knew when this baby was going to make an appearance,' Sybil said, irritably.
'You do know,' Edith said calmly. 'Late February Dr Clarkson said.'
Sybil frowned at her. 'No, I mean like an actual date. A time would be nice, too. I'm fed up sitting here like a beached whale waiting and waiting and waiting.'
'You don't look anything like a beached whale, darling,' Matthew said, dropping a kiss on her forehead as he walked back from the tea station. 'You're more beautiful than you've ever been.'
'Pfft, I don't think so,' Sybil muttered.
'Well, you are to me, my love,' he said, sitting beside her and squeezing her hand.
'I wonder what it's going to be: a boy or a girl,' Edith mused.
'A boy would be easier,' Mary remarked.
'Would it? What makes you say that?' Sybil asked with interest.
'Well, for the succession. Now we've got our line established again, we don't want to have to go tracking down cousins five times removed because you and Matthew only produced girls like Mama and Papa,' Mary said, all practicality. She glanced at her brother-in-law, belatedly realising she may have just inadvertently insulted him. 'No offence, Matthew.'
'None taken. You're quite right, Mary, it would be easier for the succession. Especially if I have to join up, which looks increasingly likely,' Matthew replied, matching Mary for pragmatism.
Sybil clutched his hand, looking distressed. 'Don't say that, Matthew. I can't bear the thought of you having to go and fight.'
'I know, darling, I know,' he said soothingly, lifting her hand to his lips to kiss it. 'But we must face facts. They're talking about bringing in conscription for married men soon. If they do, I won't be able to ignore it.'
'But you'll have a newborn child!'
'I don't think the government think about that kind of thing when they're making policies.'
'Well, they should!' Sybil cried, indignantly. 'They would have to if they let women vote and go into government!'
'Oh, here we go,' Edith muttered under her breath. 'Sybil the suffragette is making a return appearance.'
Sybil glared at her. 'Yes, she is because she never went away! It's all right for you, Edith. I'm about to give birth to my first child and I'm facing the prospect of my husband being sent to Flanders to fight in this dreadful war! It's not fair!'
'At least you've got a husband!' Edith retorted. 'If this war goes on much longer, there will be no men left for me and Mary to marry!'
'Edith! That's an awful thing to say!' Sybil exclaimed as all three of them gaped at her, shocked by her outburst.
'But true! Have you not read the newspaper lately? We'll be lucky if there's even just one man left standing!' Edith said, sullenly.
There was silence for a moment and then Mary spoke.
'Well, if there is only one man left standing, I will graciously step aside and let you have him,' she said, dryly.
'Let me?! Let me have him?' Edith squawked, outraged. 'Has it not occurred to you that he might prefer me to you anyway?'
Mary bit back a laugh that would surely have sent Edith over the edge. 'Um, no, it hadn't occurred to me that this hypothetical last remaining warrior might prefer you to me, but either way, I will step aside because I do not intend to marry anyone.'
'What? Ever?' Edith said, full of scepticism.
'Yes.'
'I don't believe that for a minute,' Edith sniffed as Sybil exchanged a look with Matthew.
'Well, you may believe what you choose, but it's true. The only man I wish to marry is beyond my reach now, so I don't expect to marry at all,' Mary replied, calmly.
Edith shot a look of disbelief at Sybil and Matthew before focusing back on Mary. 'Who? You're not… are you talking about Branson?'
'Who else would I be talking about?'
'But surely you're not still thinking about him?'
Mary looked steadily at Edith. 'Of course, I am. He's the love of my life.'
'Branson is? Surely not,' Edith said, absolutely astonished. 'But he's… he was…'
'He was what?' Mary enquired, her voice dropping several degrees in temperature.
'Edith, don't,' Sybil murmured, sending a warning look towards her sister.
'He was just a chauffeur,' Edith said, unable to understand how Mary could have a preference for a servant.
'That was his job, not who he is,' Mary responded, fighting to keep her temper in check. 'For your information, Tom is the best man I have ever had the privilege of knowing.'
Edith frowned, still looking doubtful. 'Branson?'
'You know, Edith, this may be news to you but a person's worth is not defined by what they do for a living,' Mary said, coolly.
'But you can't honestly think you'll never meet another man who is much more…'
'Much more what?'
'Suitable.'
Mary gazed coldly at Edith and then stood, smoothing down her skirt. 'You know, Edith, I don't think you need to worry about the last man standing offering for your hand in marriage. I'm quite sure that he will give you a wide berth in favour of someone less shallow and judgemental.'
With that she walked out of the room, leaving Edith open-mouthed with anger in her wake.
'Well, of all the… how dare she!' Edith spluttered, looking at her sister and brother-in-law for support. 'Did you hear that?'
Sybil sighed, sharing another resigned look with Matthew. 'Oh, Edith. Will you never learn?'
'What? What?'
'Don't talk to Mary about Branson. You simply don't understand how much she loved him. How much she still loves him.'
'But he was the chauffeur! How could she possibly think he was The One?'
Sybil glanced at Matthew, who simply shrugged his shoulders. 'You'll understand when you fall in love with someone.'
Edith made an irritated huffing sound and got to her feet. 'Don't patronise me, Sybil. Just because you're married and I'm not.'
'I wasn't!' Sybil protested.
'Yes, you were,' Edith snapped and then swung around and marched out of the library.
Sybil sighed. 'Well, it looks like I'm two sisters down this afternoon.'
Matthew picked up her hand, tucking it into his. 'Yes, but you're still one husband up, which I hope might make up for it,' he said with a grin.
Sybil chuckled, tipping her head onto his shoulder. 'Darling, you make everything better. No matter what other dramas are going on.'
15th February, 1916
Downton Abbey
Oh, my goodness, Tom! What a few days it has been!
First, I am now an aunt! Sybil gave birth yesterday to a healthy baby boy – on Valentine's Day, which seems apt given how in love she and Matthew are. However, I have to say that it was a day fraught with worry and anxiety.
Sybil began to act very strangely while she was labouring with the child. She was suffering from terrible headaches and her hands and feet ballooned in size. Plus, she was talking about nonsensical things, like watching the stars while picnicking even though she was staring up at the ceiling. She was even talking about working a shift as a nurse at the hospital. I can only assume that has something to do with Isobel, who has been volunteering at Downton Hospital recently. Anyway, it was all very peculiar.
When Doctor Clarkson learned of it, he was more concerned than any of us thought he would be. Papa had brought a Harley Street man up to help Sybil deliver her baby, a man by the name of Sir Charles Tapsell. He and Dr Clarkson got into a heated argument about Sybil's delirium and what was causing it. Clarkson insisted she was suffering from pre-eclampsia, and she needed to go to the hospital immediately to be delivered of the child before it was too late for either her or the baby. Tapsell said he was over-reacting. Honestly, Tom, it was terrifying.
The thought of losing Sybil, well, I shudder even writing the words.
Papa was keen to do what Tapsell said simply because he is a Harley Street physician, but Mama and Matthew fought against it. Dr Clarkson has known Sybil and been her physician all her life, so they reasoned he knows her better. In the end, Matthew ordered Phillips to bring the motor around and carried her down to it with Dr Clarkson's aid. They virtually kidnapped her while she was in the midst of labour.
According to Dr Clarkson, they got her there in the nick of time and he cut the child out of her before the full symptoms of eclampsia could take hold. Had they not, she would surely have died. At least that is what I gather from what Dr Clarkson said. I am so thankful that did not come to pass. I simply cannot imagine a world without Sybil in it.
She is to remain in the hospital for several more days until she has healed more from the operation, plus the baby was a little underweight, which is apparently consistent with eclampsia. However, I have been to see her today. She is tired but so, so happy. And Matthew is the same. They are both besotted with their son.
He is a dear little thing, my brand new nephew. Blond like Matthew, with big blue eyes. He is to be called James Reginald Robert Crawley. I lobbied for George as his first name, but Sybil said I should keep that for my own firstborn son. I can't deny that those words felt like a dagger in my heart. I doubt I shall have children of my own as that would require finding myself a husband, and I am still very much pledged to you and you alone.
But as I am unlikely to become a mother, I have decided I shall dedicate myself to being the best aunt young James could ever wish for. Given my competition is Edith, I rather fancy my chances of being his favourite aunt.
I wish you were here, my darling. I could have done with your steadying presence when I was terrified out of my wits that my most beloved little sister was going to die. I was almost beside myself at one point at the thought of it. You would have known what to say to me to calm me, I know you would have.
As always, my love, you dominate my thoughts. I suspect it will ever be so.
Tá grá agam duit, mo chuisle.
Your Mary
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Sybil watched as Mary cradled her newborn son, pulling faces at him and bouncing him lightly in her arms.
'Matthew and I were talking this morning,' she said, smoothing the bedsheets over her still-swollen abdomen.
'Oh, yes?' Mary said, barely looking up from the infant in her arms.
'We'd like you to be Jamie's godmother.'
Mary's head shot up as she stared at her sister in surprise. 'Really?'
'Yes. We couldn't think of anyone better.' Sybil smiled as Mary continued to stare at her. 'Why do you look so surprised? Surely you considered that we would ask you?'
'I… I hadn't really thought about it,' Mary replied, honestly.
'Well, if anything happens to me and Matthew, he'll need a steady hand to help guide him through life,' Sybil said, a fond smile on her face.
Mary shook her head. 'Don't say that, Sybil. Not after everything that happened when you were giving birth. Nothing's going to happen to either of you.'
'Well, we can't say that for sure. Especially if Matthew is sent to fight,' Sybil said, fighting back the tide of emotion that threatened to overwhelm her at the thought of her beloved husband having to go to war. 'So, will you do it?'
Mary looked down at the child in her arms, a rush of love flooding through her. 'Of course, I will. I'd be honoured.'
'Good. That's settled then,' Sybil said, feeling better already.
21st February, 1916
Downton Abbey
My darling Tom,
I dreamed about you last night. I have not dreamed about you for a while, but last night I did. It was so real, so vivid, if I didn't know better, I would say you crept back to Downton for a night. But I know you did not.
I think I conjured you while I was asleep because before I dropped off, I was imagining what our child might be like. You might find that odd given we did everything we could to prevent a child, but it was prompted by Sybil returning home with baby James. As I held him, I couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to hold my own child in my arms – our child.
At first, I imagined a son, perhaps because I was holding a little boy. I could imagine you playing with him, teaching him to carve when he grew older. And then I imagined a daughter. I could see you with a daughter. I suspect you would be putty in her hands, easily wrapped around her little finger. You would probably end up playing all manner of games with her, no matter how feminine they were.
I think you would have been the indulgent parent and I the disciplinarian. The way you talked about your childhood, it was much freer than mine and you certainly spent more time with your parents than I did.
That is a new little daydream to sit alongside the one I sometimes indulge in of our wedding day. I have another daydream, too. It's one I don't often give myself permission to think of, mainly because it's too bittersweet, but occasionally I let myself dream. Of what, do I hear you ask? Of being reunited with you someday, somehow.
How and when varies. Sometimes, you come driving up to Downton Abbey and stride in as bold as brass to sweep me off my feet and claim me once again as yours. Sometimes, I read in the paper that you have been elected as a Member of Parliament and I come to the Strangers' Gallery at the House of Commons and our eyes meet again. Sometimes, I am in York and I bump into you in the street. There are myriad ways it happens. If only one of them would come true.
In my heart, I know that none of them ever will, but it comforts me sometimes to think they could. After all, only one of them needs to come true, not all of them. Still, it is unlikely. I am enough of a realist to know that. But a girl can dream, can't she?
I still practise saying the words ' Tá grá agam duit, mo chuisle' just in case. I'd hate to let my pronunciation fail me at the crucial moment. Although I suppose I could always revert to English. That's if words don't fail me completely if I ever see you again.
Know that I love you now as I loved you then, my darling.
Your Mary
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Author's note: There was a Thomas Branson who was killed in early 1915 in the First World War. I salute his memory as I borrow his story to make it part of mine.