Chapter Text

July, 1911

Sybil Crawley knew her father to be a sentimental man. So it was with great curiosity that Sybil watched him on this day. For this was the day the Crawley family was leaving its ancestral seat, leaving the only place Sybil had called home, leaving a life of exceeding excess and opulence, leaving Downton Abbey.

Perhaps, she thought, shame overrules sentimentality. Papa cries when he's sad and surely he is sad today, but more than sad he is ashamed.

Sybil knew Robert Crawley saw Downton as his duty, his life's work. And yet there were no tears in his eyes this morning, no emotion in his expression. Nothing.

But, indeed, if Sybil could have looked into her father's heart now, she would have witnessed his deep, deep shame. He had let down his family, his forbears, his employees, everyone. Those were the words that kept running over in his mind, the same words he had used back in April, when he and his wife, Cora, had informed their daughters that Downton Place, a smaller house further north in Yorkshire, was to be their new home. Robert, Cora, Mary and Edith would go to London for the season, as usual—Sybil, not yet out, would stay behind with her governess for one more summer to enjoy the abbey's glorious library on her own—but upon her family's return to the country, they would all have to say goodbye to the grand house and to the majority of the staff, Sybil's governess included, who would not be moving on with them.

The move was the result of a series of bad investments that had shriveled Cora's fortune. (Sybil knew enough about her family's history to know that though her father had brought his aristocratic blood and title to the match, Cora had brought her American money.) The large parcel of land that made up the estate had to be broken up for sale. The house itself and its immediate surroundings would not be sold—Robert's pride could not take so great a hit—but would be left vacant or rented if a suitable tenant could be found. The price of its upkeep and staff was now too much for the family to bare if it expected to maintain a London house and its position in society. Everyone would talk about it, of course, but Robert had hardly been the first lord to mismanage and then lose his estate.

How could he be expected to run it efficiently, be in charge of it, Sybil had always wondered, when his upbringing requires everything else to be done for him. It was a contradiction that made Sybil uncomfortable with the position and comfort that she understood was hers only by accident of birth.

She thought of this again as she watched her father standing, stoic, outside the abbey's doors just as the family was set to depart for Downton Place. Then she thought of the day she'd first seen him cry.

She was 8 years old, and one of Robert's beloved dogs had died. Sybil herself had been fond of the creature and didn't know life without it. So when her mother had told Sybil that the dog's old age had finally caught up to it, Sybil felt the sting of tears in the back of her eyes. On the verge of crying, she sought out her father, his comfort, only to find him as emotional as she was. More emotional, in fact.

It was jarring to realize at such a young age that the pillar you expect to lean on is suddenly not as sturdy as you had imagined or hoped. She supposed now, nearly 16, that that might have been the moment she realized her parents would not always have the answers she was looking for. She supposed too that holding back her tears and not throwing a tantrum, as other children might have, and instead offering her father the comfort she had sought from him was the first time she did something other than what might have been expected of her. It was, in effect, her first rebellion.

Robert was not crying now. Nevertheless, Sybil stepped out of the motor, where she'd been sitting and waiting along with her sisters, walked to her father and took his hand. Then, she said what she'd said to him when she was 8 years old.

"We will be all right."

Chapter Text

March 1912

"Where were you all day yesterday?"

It was the rare morning that Cora had come down for breakfast. Robert, Mary and Edith had already eaten and gone. Sybil had been a bit late, having stayed up reading the night before. Cora, used to taking breakfast in bed, had also come down late, and now was taking advantage of their being alone for the purpose of keeping tabs on her youngest daughter. She'd been doing that more and more lately, Sybil couldn't help but notice.

"In the library," Sybil answered.

"No you weren't," Cora replied. "I looked there, and I called out for you."

Sybil didn't really want to give up her special spot, but there was no real point in concealing her whereabouts. She doubted anyone else would use it, and if it was hiding from Cora that she was after, there were other, better ways to do that.

"There's a small alcove in the far corner that's hard to see from the door. It's perfect for reading because it's so quiet." The alcove was one of Sybil's favorite features of Downton Place. The library was smaller, the collection less extensive than the one she had grown up with, but the alcove was a sanctuary unlike any she had found in her previous home.

"So you didn't see me, but you ignored me when I called?"

"Of course, not mama! It's quiet because it keeps all the noises out. I couldn't hear you."

"Well, you missed our trip to Ripon. I wanted to get you new ribbons for your hair for dinner tonight, but I didn't know what colors you would want."

Sybil smiled at this. Even at her age, now 16, her mother rarely let her choose her own clothes or colors. Rare was the trip to the dressmaker during which Sybil was allowed any input at all.

"I'm certainly sad to have missed an opportunity to make my own choice."

Cora smiled back, accepting Sybil's needling as a mother would. "You can choose one you like from the ones I bought for you."

"See, so I wasn't needed after all."

"But I don't want you to miss the next trip, and I want to make sure you give Anna enough time to help you get ready tonight."

"Mama, you know I don't need Anna's help. I've been dressing myself for months."

"I really wish you wouldn't do that Sybil."

"Why not? I'm perfectly capable of tying a few knots."

"It is below your station, my dear. I realize that as you grow up, you may have missed out on some of the luxuries that Mary and Edith enjoyed at the big house, but that's no reason to pretend we are less than we are."

"I don't feel it is beneath me to dress myself. I rather like it, in fact. It gives me purpose at the start of the day—even if my life has no purpose at all. At least not yet." This last, even Sybil could admit, came out a bit petulant, but she couldn't help it.

The life of sitting in parlors and chatting about idle things, waiting for the day she would be presented to society and then married was a bit boring to Sybil. She was curious as to what life would be once she was out in society—if for no other reason than it would perhaps be different from the life she led now. When she still had her governess, at least she had someone to talk to regularly who would listen without judgment, taught her about the world and literature and gave her the means to escape, in her own imagination, her current confines. But as good as her governess had been, Sybil still wished she'd been given the chance to go to school, to learn things that would be useful if she ever dared venture out into the world without the safety net of her family and position. That idea had been on her mind recently, as she had been re-reading Jane Eyre and wondering whether she'd have the capacity to survive on her own the way Jane did.

"My darling, you are still so young. You'll find something that captures your interest and that you love, eventually, but you mustn't forget who you are. Please be ready for Anna this evening. It's very important that we all look our best for James and Patrick. They are planning on traveling to America in a few weeks, and it may be months before we see them again."

"Well, we shouldn't ask so much of Anna. She has plenty to do as it is—Lord knows, she has her hands full with Mary and Edith. I can ask Gwen to help. She's done so before."

"Gwen doesn't have as much practice doing the work of a lady's maid. She's a housemaid and should focus on doing that job well."

"Anna is a housemaid, too."

"Yes, but she's been taking care of you girls for a long time now."

"Perhaps it's Gwen's ambition to be a lady's maid. She can't desire to be a housemaid forever, and how is she to gain experience if she's not allowed to practice?"

Cora took a deep breath and let out a quiet laugh at her youngest daughter's headstrong nature. "Oh, all right, but please let me see you before you go down."

Sybil smiled, rather meekly, as if to offer thanks for being given her way. "Thank you, mama."

They continued eating in a companionable silence. As she was leaving, Sybil told her mother that she'd be taking advantage of the early spring warmth and go for a walk before luncheon.

Cora smiled warmly. "Thank you for letting me know."

As she watched Sybil go Cora realized just how much her youngest daughter had grown up in the last year. At age sixteen, she was already a beautiful young woman. The move to Downton Place—where there were fewer servants around to keep tabs on her and where they held fewer dinners and parties for guests—had given Sybil a greater measure of freedom than she had enjoyed before. That freedom stoked an independent streak in her that would have made Cora proud if it wasn't always giving her fits. It pained Cora to think that Sybil would come to her season, just two years away, and be seen as diminished in comparison with the grandeur that her sisters had come out in. But deep down, she was also grateful it was Sybil who would be faced with this. Her character—kind, forgiving and never inclined to ostentation—would make the very best of it. Grace was not a quality one would expect in one so stubborn as Sybil could be, but Cora knew her daughter had it in spades.

"Gwen, what do you wish to do in life?" Sybil asked as the young housemaid, not so many years older than Sybil herself, was working to fasten Sybil's corset as she dressed for dinner.

"I beg your pardon, milady?"

"You're young and you have a job already, but I was wondering if there was something greater that you aspired to?"

Gwen was taken a bit by surprise. Lady Sybil had always been kind to her, to be sure, and always spoke with candor and sincerity, soliciting Gwen's opinions even about things that, given her status as a housemaid, Gwen had very little experience with. Sybil treated Gwen, essentially, as a friend. But despite how close in age they were, Gwen's position gave her a knowledge of the harshness of the world that Sybil did not yet know fully, and it was Gwen who often had to remind Sybil of the line that separated them.

All that aside, Gwen liked having a friend in Lady Sybil and answered her question as honestly as she could. "Well, milady, without meaning to sound ungrateful for this position or for having work at all—"

"Gwen, you certainly don't have to worry about me thinking you impertinent for wanting to do better than having to dress me," Sybil said with a smile.

Gwen smiled widely. "I'm sorry, milady."

"And don't apologize! Just speak freely. While it's just us here, please consider me a friend, one who will not betray your confidences."

"All right." Gwen stopped for a moment her fidgeting with the strings on the corset to contemplate what she would say. "I've often thought of trying for a job outside of service, like secretarial work."

"Really? That sounds rather exciting!"

"It is but, I'm afraid I don't have the skill for it. There are correspondence courses I can take, but I need a typewriter."

"Are they expensive?"

"I could buy a used model, and I have been saving my wages, but there is the question of how to get it in the house undetected. They are large, you see, and neither Mr. Carson nor Mrs. Hughes would ever allow staff such a thing, even if we promised only to use it on our own time. They'd accuse us of neglecting our other work."

"You're probably right about that." Sybil sat down the on the edge of her bed, trying to think of a way to help. "I know! Order the typewriter, and when it arrives at the post office let me know. I will write to my Aunt Rosamund and ask her to send me a few books from her library. When they arrive, I'll have both parcels delivered to me. If papa asks I'll just say both boxes are full of books—he won't question it, I'm sure. And Aunt Rosamund won't be bothered with confirming whether she sent two parcels or one because she'll likely have ordered her lady's maid to perform the task anyway. Then, once the typewriter is in the house, we'll find a way to sneak it into your room."

"Would you really go to all that trouble, milady?"

"Of course! Only if you promise that we'll remain friends when you leave us to work as a secretary."

Gwen blushed. "Of course, milady."

The prospect of helping Gwen excited Sybil. The two resumed getting Sybil dressed—and quickly because they had lost some time in their conversation—and chatted about what kind of job Gwen might have someday.

Gwen, in the back of her mind, knew it wasn't prudent to allow herself to dream like this, but she couldn't help it. Sybil's excitement was infectious.

Sybil was too embarrassed to admit that a small part of her was encouraging Gwen for purely selfish reasons. She wanted to see what it was like to train for a job and feel the excitement of possibility. She wanted, in essence, to live vicariously through Gwen. Sybil knew, of course, that it made little sense for an earl's daughter to think this way. Her life, or so her family and others would say, was "better" than Gwen's so why would she covet the experience that Gwen was about to go through in training to be a secretary? Sybil herself did not know the answer to that question. She knew what she felt but could not explain it.

The only thing she could explain—and it was true—was that Gwen was her true friend, and if she could help her in someway she would.

Once she was dressed and her hair was done, Sybil looked in the mirror. "I think it'll do nicely, but who knows what mama will say. I suppose I best get her inspection over with. Thank you for your help, Gwen."

"I don't do as well with this as Anna."

"It's all right." Sybil grabbed Gwen's hands. "Don't forget about the typewriter. I really do want to help."

"I won't."

Sybil moved to leave, then turned back to Gwen. "You know, I thought you might have wanted to be a lady's maid, so I apologize for thinking your dreams were smaller in scope than they truly are."

"No need to apologize, milady," Gwen said. "Your assumption regarding someone of my station is not wrong. I'm the one who may be wrong for believing that being a secretary is possible."

"Please don't think that. I'm glad that you have big dreams, Gwen. I hope someday I can have them, too. I just need to figure out what I want first."

Chapter Text

With her mother's approval, Sybil joined her sisters in Mary's room, where Anna was putting the finishing touches on Mary's hair. She sat down on Mary's bed and began to read the book she had carried in with her as she waited for them, taking an occasional look up to watch their interaction.

Both Mary and Edith seemed to be in a good mood, which was to say that they were not bickering—a rare thing. Sybil attributed that to Anna's calming presence and to their guests that evening. James and Patrick were always a welcome addition to family dinners, enlivening conversations and spirits, especially since the move to Downton Place, where fewer guests came to visit. Robert particularly enjoyed their presence, being otherwise the only gentleman in the house.

James, Robert's first cousin, was technically the next in line to the Grantham title by virtue of the fact that Robert had no sons. But given that James was only a handful of years younger than Robert, everyone considered James' son, Patrick, the true heir. And everyone loved Patrick. Everyone, Sybil thought with a roll of her eyes.

Patrick was handsome, well educated and charming, but charming in a way that Sybil—the only Crawley sister not burdened by interest in him beyond a familial fondness—sometimes found a bit ridiculous. He was always kind to her, to be sure, and Sybil loved him as she loved all her family. But she acknowledged to herself that he treated her differently, by virtue of her younger age, from how he treated Mary and Edith, between whom something of a silent war had developed regarding his affections, a war that Sybil believed Patrick was all too eager to stoke.

For Mary, Patrick was a means to have everything that should have been rightfully hers, even in its diminished state, as the eldest Crawley child. Everything that wasn't hers because she was a woman. It was likely that her heart could have truly loved Patrick, if her mind could stop resenting him for his superior position in the family. For Edith, Patrick was simply the man she loved. The two sisters might have been kinder to one another if their interests—pragmatic for the first, romantic for the second—did not intersect in Patrick, but such was the situation. Sybil believed that to keep the peace, an announcement of his preference was all that was needed, but Patrick seemed neither eager to express which of her sisters had his heart, nor interested in turning his attention to another, an heiress perhaps, with whose money Downton Abbey could be saved from its current shuttered state.

He seemed destined to choose between Mary and Edith and yet unwilling to hasten his choice to spare the feelings of the one who would be turned away. Sybil's forgiving heart did not blame him for the situation that was made such by laws that promoted the interests of men above those of women, but she still wished he would do right by his sisters and simply choose, and not allow the acrimony between them to continue to fester.

Finishing the chapter that she was reading, Sybil closed her book and looked to the rest of the room.  "Mama said this morning that James and Patrick are going to America," she said. "I wonder what they will be doing."

"They will be looking for business ventures to invest in," Mary said, turning in front of the mirror to see her hair from all angles.

"Investing? What in heavens for? You'd think they might have learned their lesson after papa." Edith said.

"Patrick wants to make a play to reopen Downton Abbey when he's earl, but he needs the money to run it," Mary answered.

"How do you know that?" Edith asked, somewhat miffed at finding herself out of the loop.

"Because we've discussed it, "Mary responded airily. "And he's right. Downton Abbey is our family's historic seat, not Downton Place. That's where the earl and countess belong. It should be preserved. Just because papa wasn't up to the task doesn't mean that Patrick can't step up."

Sybil frowned, "That's rather unkind to say about papa."

"Well, it's true. He mismanaged the estate, and now here we are. Patrick is right to fight for it."

"I still can't believe it's been less than a year since we left," Edith said. "Seems like a lifetime ago."

"I feel the same way," Sybil added, "Though I don't miss it as much as I thought I might. I love the grounds here, and the library, of course. I hardly remember anything to miss, to be honest."

"I remember," Mary said, quietly, almost to herself. Sybil watched her as she stared contemplatively into her mirror until they caught each other's eyes in it and smiled.

"And you, Anna," Sybil said turning to the housemaid, "do you miss it?"

"It was a lovely place, but I miss the staff that could not join us here more than anything."

"Were they all able to find new positions?"

"I believe so by now, Lady Sybil, although I have heard that it was difficult for some of the younger ones. His lordship wrote letters on their behalf, which helped, as it's not something that's usually done."

"I didn't know papa did that," Edith said.

"Nor I," Sybil added. "I'm glad."

"It was very kind of him," Anna said with a warm smile. Finishing up with, she added, "Is that all right, milady?"

"A wonderful effort as always, thank you, Anna," Mary said. She stood from her vanity and turned to her sisters. "We should go down."

The rest of the family, including Robert's mother, Violet Crawley, and their guests were already in the drawing room when the girls arrived. Everyone greeted one another cheerfully. Before any of the girls had sat down, Sybil noticed that Patrick pulled Mary aside to talk privately, in the corner of the room opposite the door. They'd been talking for a few minutes—with a measure of intimacy visible between them that Sybil did not remember ever seeing before—when Robert and James joined them. Shortly thereafter both James and Robert shook Patrick's hand as if to congratulate him about something.

Sybil turned to Edith to ask her if she knew what was being discussed, only to see that Edith was red faced and breathing heavily as if trying to keep her composure.

"Edith, is everything all right?" Sybil asked quietly, but Carson, the butler, came in just at that moment to announce that dinner was served, giving Edith an out to stand and leave without so much as looking at Sybil.

As the family proceeded to the dining room, Sybil saw her mother stop Patrick and kiss him on the cheek. Sybil suddenly felt as if something was about to happen and everyone had been given fair warning about it except for her. It was not an uncommon feeling. In fact, Sybil was rather used to being the last to know. But this time, Sybil sensed, from Edith's distress, that this was something that was going to be bigger than usual, something that would change their lives as dramatically as the move had done.

Sure enough, once everyone else was seated, Robert remained standing to speak.

"Well, tonight is not just a family dinner but a celebration."

"Of what, papa?" Sybil couldn't help but interject.

"I'm getting to that," he retorted with a smile. "Tonight we mark the engagement of Patrick and Mary, future earl and countess of Grantham."

Everyone raised their glasses. Sybil did so keeping her eyes on Edith, who had calmed in the last few minutes. The look on her face was no longer alarm, only resignation. Sybil felt a pang for her sister, for it seemed that Edith was accepting the turn of events as the outcome she had expected all along. Sybil knew that Edith had an inferiority complex when it came to Mary, but it wasn't until this moment that Sybil realized how deeply interwoven into her character it was.

Looking at Mary, Sybil did not see the elation one might expect from a future bride. Mary was always collected and composed, so any outward display of emotion was rare for her regardless of the circumstances. Nevertheless, Sybil still wondered why Mary did not allow herself some sort of reaction. There was none that Sybil could discern. Like Edith, it seemed, Mary had already prepared for this event as the only possible result. And Sybil realized immediately and sadly that whatever peace she had expected to emerge between her sisters from a resolution to the question of Patrick's preference was not to be. The damage was done, perhaps irreparably.

Some time later, after the family had eaten dinner and the women had moved on to the drawing room, Sybil stepped out to retrieve her book from Mary's room where she had left it. On her way back, standing at the top of the main staircase, Sybil overheard an anxious voice in the alcove below her.

It was Edith.

Sybil moved against the wall, where she would not be seen, knowing immediately who it was she was talking to. She remained there as still and silent as possible, knowing she shouldn't listen, but unable to tear herself away.

"But you know you won't be happy with her!"

"This isn't about being happy, Edith. I need to do my duty and bring the family back to Downton. Mary understands that, and she will fight for it alongside me."

"Do you think I wouldn't have?"

"You don't understand. You're not the eldest. Downton doesn't mean to you what it does to me and Mary."

"How can you say that?"

"I know the kind of life you deserve, and I wouldn't have been able to give you that, not when I am making this my mission."

"You're being ridiculous. Both of you are. More you for believing her capable of caring about anything more than she cares about herself. She'll throw you aside at the first opportunity."

"Edith, darling, I'm sorry, but this is what must be done. Cousin Robert has agreed to it. I wish I were not causing you pain, but I cannot stop things now."

Sybil heard the sound of footsteps, followed by the sound of Edith crying, followed by, after Edith seemed to have composed herself, her footsteps in the other direction.

When Sybil returned to the drawing room, Edith was still not back, but there Patrick was standing with Robert at the hearth, laughing at something Robert had said as if the scene Sybil had just inadvertently been privy to had never happened.

Later that evening, Sybil rang for Gwen to help her undress and couldn't help but seek her opinion on everything that was roiling her thoughts that night.

"Gwen, do you plan on getting married?"

Gwen stopped untying the lacing in the back of Sybil's dress to think about her answer. "Honestly, milady, I have not given it much thought."

Sybil sighed. "I'm afraid I haven't either. I'll be expected to marry, but I'm not sure that's what I want, especially after seeing how it has played out for my sisters."

"Are you not happy for Lady Mary and Mr. Patrick?"

"No, I am. Well, I would be if I knew they were going to be happy, at least as mama and papa are now even though they did not marry for love—at least not at first. Anyway, it just makes me wonder whether all the fuss is worth it."

Realizing the intimate secrets she just revealed and concerned for having betrayed her sisters' confidence, Sybil turned quickly to Gwen. But before she could say anything, Gwen answered her worries with a smile. "Don't worry, milady, anything you say I will keep in confidence. I promise."

Sybil smiled. "Thank you. I know I shouldn't be talking about my sisters in this way, but I'm worried about them given everything that's happened between them because of Patrick. He has affected their relationship to such a degree, it's a bit alarming. Things were never entirely serene between them, but their relationship should not be less important, less civil just because of a potential marriage, should it?"

"As an only child, I don't have any wisdom to impart in this area," Gwen said with a rueful smile.

"I'm just being sentimental and silly," Sybil said, finally stepping out of her frock.

As she watched Gwen move to hang it up, she asked again, "Still, aside from all that, do you think that you want to get married someday?"

"I suppose I might like to, but people in service generally don't."

"What about Mrs. Hughes or Mrs. Patmore?"

"The 'Mrs.' is just part of their title—most housekeepers and cooks adopt it. It doesn't mean they are married."

"Oh, I never knew that. But you're going to be a secretary. What then of marriage?"

"It may be different, but to be honest, I have not allowed myself to think too far ahead about that beyond my course."

"Do you want to be married?"

Gwen laughed. "If the question is, do I want to meet a nice man someday, then I think the answer is yes, but marriage is often a separate question from love, even for someone like me who doesn't have to worry about the money involved."

"It would be wonderful if it could always be about love, but it seems the more you have or the more you want, the less likely that is to be true. I don't know where that leaves me. I wonder if it will always be this way."

"I don't know. A change in that regard is something to hope for, I suppose."

"Well, until love conquers all, I don't think I'll ever get married."

"Not to sound impertinent, milady, but I've no doubt you'll have plenty of offers."

Sybil laughed. "No, I don't mean that nobody will want to marry me, but rather until I can be sure I can choose for myself, I won't want to get married."

Gwen smirked. "Odds are, now that you've said as much, the good Lord will put someone in your path who will change your mind."

A few doors down from Sybil's, Mary was alone in her room getting ready for bed when she heard a knock on the door. It was Cora.

Mary arched an eyebrow. "Aren't I a little old for you to be checking in on me at this hour?"

"You'll never be too old. Besides, this is a special night."

"Don't be silly, mama," Mary responded, but smiled nonetheless.

The two sat down next to one another on Mary's bed, and Cora took one of Mary's hands into hers.

"Of course, it's special. You're getting married."

"I was always getting married."

"But we didn't know the who until tonight." Cora looked at Mary for a long moment. "Are you going to be happy, my dear?"

"Oh, mama, what a question!"

"I know how you and Patrick feel about Downton Abbey, and if what both of you want is to find a way back, then I hope for the best, but I also want you to be happy."

"Were you happy when you married papa, knowing he didn't love you?"

"I was happy because I believed he would come around," Cora said with a serene smile. "I was naïve perhaps, but things ended up in my favor."

"Well, I do not consider myself naïve, but I do believe things will end up in our favor, and being back at Downton would make me happy." Mary sighed, then went on, "If you're concerned that I don't care for Patrick then, don't be. I do, very much. And I know he loves me. This is what we both want."

Mary stood up and walked over to her vanity. "And if I have a change of mind, he can marry Edith."

"Mary, you shouldn't toy with Patrick like that or your sister."

Mary turned back to Cora with a sharp look on her face. "Those were his words, not mine." She looked back toward her mirror. "But I appreciated them, and if I don't marry him, I would expect any man who asks for my hand to offer me the same courtesy. My mind is the only thing that belongs to me, and I intend to remain the master of it."

Cora stood and walked over to Mary. "I'm sorry, darling, that was unfair of me."

Mary smiled. "It's all right, mama. Thank you for coming in."

Cora moved to leave, but then turned back at the door. "Do you want to say goodnight to your father? He's very happy about it all. You must know that."

"Just tell him I'll see him in the morning."

April 1912

Robert didn't need to read the telegram twice. He knew it was true. Murray would never have sent it unless he was sure. He stood from breakfast abruptly, leaving three bewildered daughters behind.

Distressing news regarding James and Patrick Crawley.

STOP

They were aboard RMS Titanic.

STOP

I have confirmed their names on passenger list.

STOP

No evidence of survival.

STOP

Chapter Text

May 1912

Matthew Crawley was in a daze.

When he woke up this morning, he was a middle class solicitor, the son of the late Dr. Reginald Crawley and his wife, Isobel, homemaker and part-time nurse. He'd gotten out of bed, washed up and changed, gone down to breakfast with his mother and opened his mail.

Now, he was the future Earl of Grantham—an aristocrat, by title and association if not by pure blood—and heir to a modest fortune, a London house and a series of properties in the north of England.

He wondered whether someone was playing a trick on him. Maybe fate was. Fate had certainly had her way with him in adulthood. After an uneventful childhood, followed by a deeply uninteresting adolescence, since finishing his studies, Matthew's life had taken more life up-ending turns than a Dickens novel. Except that unlike Dickens he hadn't been poor to start and each turn had made him an even wealthier man. He already possessed more inherited riches than he knew what to do with, and now here was his third cousin once removed, Robert Crawley, a man he had met only once as a child, writing to inform him that his money, his land, everything, would be Matthew's, by law. Surprise!

As he made his way through the streets of Manchester from the house he had grown up in to the small law practice he shared with his best friend in the business district, Matthew couldn't help but laugh at himself and his inclination to rue good fortune. But he couldn't help but think, why me? The world was full of good, but unfortunate souls who lived in squalor. Why not them? What angel in heaven—or was it hell?—had deemed him worthy of a second fortune he had not earned and, in Matthew's own mind, did not deserve?

Were these gifts from the universe supposed to give him direction? Because at the moment, he had none.

When he finally made it to the red brick walk-up, Matthew felt as if he'd been walking around in circles for hours. It was going to be a long day.

Matthew walked through the entryway into the three room office and was greeted by the sight of his best friend and partner Tom Branson sitting in the reception area at their secretary's desk reading a newspaper with his feet up.

"Hard at work as usual, Tom," Matthew said with a smirk as he walked through to his office in the back. He hung up his hat on the back of the door and set down his briefcase on his desk before heading back out to the reception area.

Tom looked up from his paper, "Did you say something?"

"What are you doing out here? Where's Mrs. Landry?"

"Mrs. Landry is home tending to her sick husband. And Finch has taken over my office in order to assemble the latest in office technology, guaranteed to increase my productivity by fifteen percent—so said the salesman anyway. Productivity or not, it's really quite marvelous."

"What could you possibly be talking about?"

Tom smiled. "You're going to want one of your own."

Isaac Finch, the building's caretaker and Tom and Matthew's go-to handyman, stepped out of Tom's office, to the right of the reception area, wiping his hands on his large handkerchief. "All done, Mr. Branson. Gave it a go myself. I think you'll be pleased."

Tom put his paper down and smiled at Matthew while rubbing his hands together. "Wait until you see it."

The three men walked into the office. Tom practically ran to his desk and sat down. Matthew looked around and tried to find what "invention" Tom might have been referring to, but couldn't see anything different. He'd done a full 360-degree turn but did not discover what his good friend was talking about until he'd come all the way around and his eyes landed back on Tom. Somehow, in a manner Matthew could not determine, Tom was spinning in circles behind his desk.

Tom stopped himself putting his hands on his desk. He was wearing the grin of an 8-year-old with a new model train. "Do you want to try it? It's called a swivel chair."

"I don't see how it's going to do anything except reduce your productivity down to zero."

"Don't be silly!" Tom pulled his chair back up to his desk. "First, I can have a set of papers on the left corner of my desk,"Tom said turning to face that corner. "Then I can turn 45 degrees to work on papers on the middle of my desk." Tom did as he said. "Then I can turn an additional 45 degrees to work on papers on the right side of my desk." Tom turned slightly again, then lifted his hands up is if in victory. "The entire panorama of my desk, now all of it useful and without the bother of having to lift my chair."

"I've oiled the spindle to stop it squeaking, Mr. Branson. And polished the wood up a bit." Turning to Matthew, he added, "I can have the furniture shop reserve you one, if you'd like Mr. Crawley."

Matthew smiled, "I think I'll see how much work he actually gets done sitting in it first, but thank you."

"Fine work as always, Finch," Tom said, leaning back in his fancy new toy.

Mr. Finch picked up his tools and bid the young men good day on his way out of the office to his rooms on the second floor.

Matthew moved to leave. "I'll be in the office where chairs are actually conducive to work."

Tom smiled and started to sort through the piles of papers in front of him. "By the way, I'll have to skip luncheon at the house. The Hollingers will be by later to update their will. It seems Mr. Hollinger has come into a sum of money from his late uncle."

Matthew hesitated at the door, which did not escape Tom's notice.

"Is something wrong?"

Matthew turned his head back, ready to say no and go on to his office, but after moment's silent consideration, he walked back toward Tom's desk and sat down across from him.

"Do you remember how father used to joke that he came from aristocratic stock?"

Tom smiled. "Remember? How could I forget? Or don't you remember how he used to tell me it was his noble blood that compelled him to rescue a poor little chap like me?"

Matthew laughed. It had been some time since he'd thought of his father. "Well, it was more or less true."

"How do you mean?"

"Father's grandfather was the son of the third Earl of Grantham, not the eldest son—second or third, I'm not sure. The seat is in Yorkshire. It's a grand old house. We stopped by to see it when I was young. It was quite beautiful."

Matthew stopped, letting the memory wash over him. He continued slowly, as if the details were coming back to him only one by one. "I was maybe twelve years old. We had luncheon with the current earl's family. There were three girls."

Tom looked at his friend curiously, wondering what he was getting at.

"Three daughters," Matthew repeated, quietly. "No sons."

"Are you all right?" Tom asked.

Matthew shook his head as if to clear his mind. He looked directly at Tom again. "When there is no son, by law, the heir is the next cousin in the male line. Until a month ago that was the earl's first cousin."

"What do you mean until a month ago? And what does this all have to do with anything?"

"A month ago, the cousin perished on the Titanic, along with his only son."

Tom narrowed his eyes, starting to see where Matthew was leading him.

"The next cousin in the male line is now . . . well, me."

"Matthew . . . "

"I'm going to be the next earl of Grantham." Matthew took a deep breath and sank into the chair he was sitting in.

"Crikey," Tom said quietly.

The two sat in silence for a few minutes, letting the weight of the revelation sink in.

"When did you find out?" Tom asked.

"This morning." Matthew pulled the letter from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to Tom, who spent a few minutes reading it over.

"Properties? You're getting this man's land?"

"It would seem so."

"And his daughters, they get nothing?"

"I'm sure he'll set aside a dowry for them before he dies, but there are legal complications when it comes to women inheriting titles or property."

Tom rubbed his forehead. "God, the ridiculous laws in this country."

"You've lived here half your life," Matthew said with a smirk.

"I'm born Irish, and I'll die Irish."

"You're lucky the old man wasn't picky and willing to send you back there when he offered to pay for your studies."

"I'll have you know Trinity College, Dublin is one of the oldest and finest universities in his majesty's kingdom. Why else would Uncle Reg have approved me going there?"

"Are we back to calling the king 'his majesty'?"

"Just making my point," Tom said playfully. "So what of this? Am I to call you 'your lordship' from here forward?"

Matthew rolled his eyes. "Oh, God, I hadn't thought of the actual title."

"Maybe you don't have to accept."

"Perhaps. I don't know."

Tom handed him back the letter. "Do you want company, for the trip to London to meet the earl?"

"Maybe. Mother will be coming as well. I'm sure she'd like you along."

Matthew stood to leave. "Will you be coming for dinner?"

"Yes. Mam says there's a broken bookcase in the kitchen that needs mending," Tom said, then he added in a high-pitched woman's voice. "A housekeeper's work is never done!"

"You ought to give her a break. She runs the house quite efficiently."

"I give her lots of breaks. She's the one who doesn't like to give them to me."

"Can't you send Finch to fix it?"

"I could, but the old girl's afraid her son doesn't know how to work with his hands. Half the things she asks me to fix, I genuinely believe she broke herself just to test me."

Matthew laughed, then turned to leave. "I'll let you know about London when it's all planned."

Matthew had reached the door back into the reception, when Tom called out to him, "You know maybe there is a silver lining to all this."

"Oh, what's that?"

"Well, aside from inheriting yet another fortune, you did mention there were three daughters. Maybe one of them will fall in love with you."

"Leaving the remaining pair for you?"

"Me? HA! As if a true socialist would ever fall in love with an earl's daughter."

Matthew laughed and made his way back to his office, yelling back for his friend to hear, "Famous last words."

Chapter Text

June 1912

Isobel Crawley watched the English countryside pass by out her window as the events of the last day—indeed, the last month—played over and over in her mind. She had always enjoyed train travel. It made her feel she was going somewhere with a purpose, regardless of her destination.

Purpose was of utmost importance to Isobel. And as she considered her son's future while sitting alone in her train car, she wondered whether he believed he had a purpose, whether he needed her help in finding one, whether he was past the point of needing or wanting a mother's help in that regard.

The letter from Robert Crawley with the news that the tragedy of the Titanic had left him with no heir but Matthew had been an utter shock, leveling any ideas Isobel might have had about Matthew living a long, uneventful and comfortably upper middle class life in Manchester, just as she and her husband had done. Though, if she was honest with herself, she could admit that that imagined future had started to unravel even before the earl's letter had come.

First, there had been his announcement that he would marry Lavinia Swire, the sweet, unassuming daughter of her husband's longtime friend. The announcement itself had not unsettled Isobel. It was the timing. An attachment had existed between Matthew and Lavinia for some time, but there had been no talk of marriage until Lavinia's father, on his deathbed, expressed a delirium-induced request to Matthew that he marry his daughter. Matthew, being who he was, found himself honor-bound to do just that. It was a promise that Isobel—and Lavinia herself—had told him he did not have to keep, but there was no talking him out of it.

Until, of course, fate interceded.

When Lavinia fell ill, she asked Tom—knowing Matthew would object—to make sure that everything that her father had left her would go to Matthew. Tom did as she asked and took the abuse from Matthew when he, in his grief after her death, attacked his best friend for having gone behind his back and secured a fortune for Matthew that Matthew did not believe was his. Eventually, Matthew came around, realizing that in a role reversal, he would have done the same, and mended a fence that Tom assured him wouldn't ever need mending.

Tom Branson was, in fact, the one part of her son's life—and, indeed, her own—that Isobel would never doubt. He was, in his own way, like a son to her.

Isobel still remembered clear as day, the day Claire Branson stepped into her life. Isobel was still a young wife and mother, and though she'd been married for close to four years, still getting used to running her own house. She'd never interviewed someone for the position of housekeeper, having taken her mother's recommendation—an older woman who subsequently chose an early retirement—when she and her husband first made a home together after their wedding.

Claire's Irish brogue was so strong back then, Isobel kept having to ask her to repeat herself, which she did with an increasing measure of embarrassment. Sensing that the interview was not going well, Claire told Isobel about her young son, not yet two years old, whom she'd left behind in Ireland with a cousin and whom she needed to provide for.

"He's why I've come to England, mum, and why I desperately need the work. His father, my husband, passed last year and left us very little on which to live."

"Do you plan on bringing him along eventually?"

"Oh, no, mum! I wouldn't dream of that."

"Well, why not? Surely the place for any young boy is with his mother."

"With respect, there are few families out there that would allow a housekeeper to keep a child with them. I couldn't afford to rent a room and not live in the servants' quarters on the premises, and that's what I'd have to do if I brought Tommy along. No, he'll be fine so long as I can get a job and send home some money."

Isobel was nothing if not a progressive-minded woman. Moreover, her own motherhood called on her at that moment to consider what it would be like for her if life forced her to leave Matthew behind. Suddenly, Claire Branson's qualifications didn't matter.

"Mrs. Branson, what if I told you that you could bring your son here?"

"What?"

"I'm new at this—motherhood, life, everything. You seem to be as well. What if we do it together?"

That was all it took. And while Isobel and Claire got used to one another and to running the house together through a long, not entirely painful process of trial and error, Tom and Matthew, only a year apart in age, loved one another immediately.

Claire had misgivings about allowing her son to play in the nursery with Matthew, and expressed them to Isobel, but both she and her husband, Reginald, insisted that Matthew's nanny was perfectly capable of looking after both boys. Isobel confided to Claire that complications arising from Matthew's birth had rendered her unable to bare more children. The presence of little Tommy in the lives of Matthew and Reginald offered a comfort that her own body was no longer capable of giving them. Claire was glad to be able to provide the family with something beyond her faithful service after the chance they had taken on her, but it wasn't until a few years later that she would know the true depth of their generosity.

Tom was four and Matthew was five, and the nanny had started teaching them their numbers and letters in anticipation of Matthew starting school the following year. One evening, she stepped into the parlor, where Reginald and Isobel were reading before dinner.

"Dr. and Mrs. Crawley, may I have a word?"

"Certainly," Isobel said putting down her book.

"As you know, I've been starting to teach the boys a bit to get young Matthew ready for school."

"Is everything going all right with him?" Reginald asked.

"Oh, yes, he's doing quite well for his age."

"Is Tommy having trouble?" Isobel asked, with concern.

"Not at all! Actually, it's quite the opposite." She paused, as if looking for the best way to explain herself. Finally, she said, "I think it would be best if I showed you."

The three walked into the nursery. Matthew was sitting in the middle of the room playing with his toy train. Four-year old Tommy was sitting nearby with a book of Aesop's Fables on his lap reading it aloud. His words were at times unsteady, but they were the words on the page. And he wasn't just reciting them. He was telling Matthew a story.

"I went through the letters and sounds with them," the nanny whispered, "and before I knew it, he'd picked it up, well . . . quite like magic. I've never had a child learn reading so naturally."

Realizing that he was being watched, Tommy stopped. Matthew turned to him from his train, and quickly ordered, "Keep going!"

Reginald sat down next to the little boy. "Do you like reading, Tommy?"

He nodded.

"Do you think you would like to go to school next year, like Matthew?"

He nodded again.

"And do you think that someday you'd like to go to university?"

"What's that?"

"Someplace where people go so they can be very clever. Would you like that?"

He smiled and nodded vigorously.

"Well, keep reading for yourself and Matthew now, and I'll help you with that when the time comes, all right?"

"All right."

Reginald stood up and placed a kiss of each of the boy's heads. Then with a smile on his face, he turned to his wife and said, "Let's go tell his mother."

They interrupted Claire as she and her kitchen maid were putting the finishing touches on dinner, and she momentarily wondered whether her son had broken some valuable trinket upstairs. After she'd directed them to the small office she kept next to the kitchen, Reginald declared his intention to see to Tom's education. Such was Claire's joy and gratitude that it took them a full quarter of an hour to get her to stop crying.

Isobel smiled at the memory. Reginald's profound generosity was but one of the many virtues of her husband's that she loved so much. She wondered now what he would think about the young men Matthew and Tom had become, what advice he'd give them at this juncture in their lives. He'd be tickled, no doubt, about Matthew someday being an earl, given how often he liked to jokingly boast about his noble blood. He'd enjoy debating with Tom about his populist politics. He'd be proud of their young but thriving practice. He'd be proud of the father he'd been to them both.

Further along on the train, in the dining car, Matthew and Tom were catching up on how Tom had spent the day in London while Matthew was discussing his future with Robert Crawley.

"So you didn't make it to the British Museum, after all?" Matthew asked, setting his teacup down.

"That had been my intention, but when I went to deliver the parcel Finch gave me for his sister, her husband mentioned his garage business and asked if I wanted to come have a look. He's been telling Finch about it in his letters so Finch can open his own garage in Manchester as a side business. Anyway, he sees to cars for several well-to-do families in town, and he was working on a 1910 Renault when I arrived. It was beauty. He let me stay and tinker with it alongside him the rest of the day."

"Weren't you bored after a while?"

"Not at all. It was quite fun." Tom paused for a moment. "I don't know if I've ever said this to you but I often wonder what I might have done with my life if your father hadn't paid for my studies. I think being a mechanic or a chauffer would have suited me quite well."

"The most well-read chauffer in town, no doubt," Matthew said with a smile.

"Indeed." Tom took a sip of his tea, then changed the subject to the meeting that had been the purpose of the trip. "So how did it go with Lord Grantham?"

"Well, I think. He's a nice man and said he remembered meeting me when I was a child. Apparently, he and the old man corresponded years back, when the hospital in the village had expanded and they'd considered bringing on another doctor. He offered father the position, but nothing ever came of it."

"Really? Did you know?"

"No, but mother did say that they had discussed it. She said they had often talked about moving to the country eventually, but at the time of the offer, they decided to wait until we were out of university and settled. But then father died and since then she hasn't given it much thought. I think she would enjoy the move now, though I doubt she would say it, lest she feel like she's pressuring me."

"So you are considering it, then?"

"I'm not sure. I'm not earl yet, so my life, in actuality doesn't have to change until Robert dies, except . . ."

"Except what?"

"Well, I could get involved in the running of the estate and the big house, seeing as it's in need of financial rescuing and I have the resources to do it."

"How did Lord Grantham know about your money from the Swires?"

"I'm sure he made some inquiries about me before contacting me. It wouldn't be difficult to find out."

"And he doesn't have his own fortune?" Tom asked.

"It's a bit complicated. He made some bad investments and lost a not insignificant sum, it seems, and the running of the house and the farms takes a great deal of resources, according to him. He and his wife opted to downsize and reserve what they had for their daughters' marriages."

"The thinking being that if he can't leave them anything, he might as well see that they're married well?"

"That's about right. It seems silly, I suppose, but it's understandable."

"I wouldn't say there's anything silly in trying to provide for your children," Tom said, "but if you're asking about the absurd expense of the rituals by which the aristocracy pair off their children, that's a separate question entirely."

"No coming out balls for you, then?" Matthew joked.

"God, no. Can you imagine me at such an event?"

"I can, as it happens, and having been to one myself, I dare say you would rather enjoy yourself."

Tom rolled his eyes. "Back to the point. The earl wants you to rescue the estate?"

"He didn't say he expected me too, only that the opportunity is there. He chose not sell Downton Abbey with the hope that a future earl might have the money to reopen it."

"How long has it been shuttered?"

"A year. The family has been living in a smaller house further north, Downton Place, but they don't have as much contact with the village, which has suffered as a result."

"How so?"

"Well, having lost its primary patrons, the hospital is on the verge of closing. That's probably the worst of it. Some of the shops have shuttered and many of the tenants who worked the farms have gone to London for factory work."

Tom thought quietly for a moment. "It's a sad state of affairs, but indicative of what happens when the masses are forced to subsist on the whims of the few—a select few who have no profession, only a pool of wealth and an appetite for the frivolities that deplete it most quickly. Perhaps if the land had been theirs to begin with they would have felt more personally invested in it and sought out the means to work it for themselves."

Matthew sighed. "You're not wrong, but such is the world we live in, and what's happened at Downton. Mother is keen on visiting to see if anything can be done for the hospital."

"Do you really think you could save it?"

"Robert believes it's worth doing. Men like him—and I know you don't approve of their lifestyle, but nevertheless—at least some of his station take the responsibility of providing employment and patronage for the county they preside over seriously. He feels he's fallen down on his duty."

Tom asked the next question carefully, knowing that Matthew was still processing everything and had not yet come up with an answer. "Do you think you could make it your duty?"

"I'm not sure. If I did, I think things would have to change, like taking advantage of modernity to make the estate self-sustaining, and do more to really help those who depend on it, not just get them from one season to the next."

"Sounds like you're closer to the decision than I thought," Tom said with a smile.

"I'm not there yet." He added with a smirk, "Besides, someday you're going to be off running a revolution. I need something interesting to do—even if it puts me at odds with your principles."

Tom laughed. "My principles really all boil down to one thing—whether you are a man or a woman, the circumstances into which you are born shouldn't determine how the rest of your life unfolds. Do you disagree with that?"

Matthew smiled. "No."

"Neither did your father. I am proof of that. Matthew, you were conceived and raised by two of the kindest, most fair-minded people God has made. If you follow your own judgment, then you'll have done right by anyone who depends on Downton thriving. As for my thoughts on the aristocracy, if the likes of you and Aunt Isobel are going to join its ranks, then it can't be all bad."

With that Tom stood and said, "I'll go check on her while you think things over."

"Tom," Matthew called out. "Would you come with us, if we made the move to Yorkshire?"

"Well, I'd have to," he said with a smile. "Mrs. Landry would kill me inside of a week without you to fend her off."

Matthew smiled widely, glad to know that whatever decision he came to, his hodgepodge family would remain in tact.

Two weeks later

Cora and Violet were having tea on the grounds of Downton Place, discussing how the past season had gone for Mary and Edith when they saw Robert coming toward them from the house. He seemed agitated, but as he approached, they saw that he was smiling.

"Whatever is the matter, Robert?" Cora asked.

"I've just heard from Matthew. He's agreed to save Downton."

Chapter Text

August 1912

"It was kind of Lord Grantham to send the motor, even if it didn't arrive on time," Isobel said as she and Matthew stood on the train platform waiting. The journey to Downton from Manchester had been a long one, and she was eager to start on the last leg.

"I had told him it wouldn't be necessary, but he insisted," said Matthew.

"Have you two discussed your plans for the estate yet?" She asked.

"Not in detail, I'm afraid. It's likely he'll have some objections to what I'd like to do."

"I know men like him tend to cling to traditions beyond their usefulness, but remember that he sees all of this as his heritage and he may have experiences that you could learn from. Don't dismiss his methods or manners outright."

"If the point you're making is that their niceties have to be observed, then I'll tell you that in that respect, as surprising as it may be to you, I land on Tom's side of the argument." Matthew paused, then added a firm tone. "I have made an investment here, and I will see to it as I see fit. But I won't let them change me."

"Why would they want to?"

"I've come into a vast sum of money, but I remain a middle class lawyer, son of a middle class doctor."

"Upper middle class," Isobel retorted.

Matthew rolled his eyes. "Nevertheless, they want us to come into their world, and so we shall, but even in so doing I have to be myself. I'll be of no use to anyone if I can't be myself."

Isobel sighed. "And yourself you will be. And so shall Tom—don't doubt he will get this same speech from me."

"And what speech is that?" Matthew asked with a smirk.

"That these people will have the expectation that we will not know how to behave, an expectation that I intend to confound. If they are to dislike us, I prefer it be over important things, like our opinions or our interests, not merely because they see our position in the social order so obviously written into our behavior. It is most certainly not."

Matthew smiled. "You make a good point."

"Matthew, Lord Grantham is pleased that Downton Abbey will be reopened in due course, and that the estate will survive his mismanagement of it thanks to you. You said so yourself. Why must you put up your guard like this? We've arrived at a new life, a new experience—don't close yourself off to the opportunities it presents, regardless of how they may come."

"I won't, and thank you."

After a few more minutes of waiting, Mr. Pratt arrived with the car. "Begging your pardon mum, I've been having some trouble with the motor today. Stopped on me on the way."

"No bother at all. What is your name?" Isobel asked.

"Stewart Pratt, mum. I've been with the Crawleys for many years. It's an honor to meet his lordship's heir."

"Thank you," Matthew said. The deferential treatment was definitely something that would require getting used to. "This is my mother, Mrs. Isobel Crawley."

Isobel smiled at him. "We appreciate this so very much."

"It's no bother at all. I was bringing Lady Mary, Lady Edith and Lady Sybil into the village anyway. They plan on stopping at Crawley House to say hello. I shall meet them there for the journey home."

"That's wonderful," Isobel said, already looking forward to it.

"I'll just see to the luggage then, and we'll be off."

Pratt loaded the bags and they were quickly on their way. The two looked intently out the windows as they made their way through the small village to their new home, Crawley House.

"Has Tom shared any news of your new job?"

"Not much more than to say he doesn't like having to work for someone else after being his own boss," Matthew said.

"Oh, you'll have your practice back up in due time. I do think it was wise to start with an established partnership first."

"He said Mrs. Branson is quite happy with a larger kitchen."

Isobel laughed. "I will not miss her complaints on that score. I am glad he decided to accompany her when she came to get the house ready. She can be quite skittish when it comes to new things."

Just as Isobel finished speaking, Mrs. Branson and her son, along with Ivy, their maid, were visible just outside their new home. Standing with them was a tall, dour looking man in what Isobel guessed was a butler's livery.

As soon as they had stepped out, Tom came forward to greet them, giving Isobel a kiss on the cheek.

"I trust your journey was pleasant?" he said.

"Oh, yes," Isobel replied. "Though we are happy to have finally arrived." Turning to Claire, she said, "I'm told the kitchens are to your liking."

"Very much. More space than we need, I dare say, but we've already found use for most of it." Claire then looked at Tom and jerked her head toward the man next to her.

"Right." Tom turned back to the unknown man, who stepped forward to greet them as well. "This is Moseley, our butler and valet."

Matthew couldn't help but smile at Tom's eye roll when he got to the man's title.

"Well, how do you do, Moseley? May I introduce ourselves, I am Mrs. Crawley, and this is my son, Mr. Matthew Crawley."

He gave a slight bow and said, "I'll just give Mr. Pratt a hand with the cases."

"Thank you," Isobel said, then turning to Pratt, asked "Pratt, when did you say the young ladies would be coming by?"

"At about 4 o'clock, mum."

Matthew looked at his pocket watch and said, "That's less than a quarter of an hour."

"Heavens! Mrs. Branson, Ivy, we'll have to wait for the grand tour, but I trust you've done well setting the house up. Ivy, we'll have the earl's daughters here to say hello shortly, so please prepare some tea while I freshen up. You should as well, Matthew."

And with that she scurried into the house to prepare for their visitors. Ivy was about to follow her, when Claire caught her by the arm.

"Silly girl, I've been telling you for a week, here, we've got our own entrance," she said, pulling her toward the service entrance in the back, where Mosely and Pratt were currently taking the luggage. Then she added in a whisper, "Or do you want him to take your head off again?"

"I don't know why we need him. We did fine at the old house on our own."

"We're in a whole new world here, my dear. Best get used to it."

Still standing at the front of the house with Tom, Matthew looked over his new home.

"It's certainly bigger than the old place."

"Indeed," Tom agreed.

"So about Moseley."

"Ugh, don't get me started. He positively doesn't know what to do with me."

"Has he given you trouble, you know, for sleeping upstairs?"

"Oh, no. He's nothing if not perfectly cordial, and once he read the letter from Aunt Isobel explaining the arrangement, he's managed to control his bewilderment whenever he sees me in the kitchens with mam."

"Is he really going to be our valet?

"Not ours, yours," Tom said with a laugh. "Or did you honestly expect I was going to let another man dress me? It's bad enough Aunt Isobel forced me to buy a set of tails."

"Well, he's not going to dress me either."

"He seems a bit of a stubborn old bloke. He's bound to beat one of us into submission before long."

Matthew rolled his eyes. "We'll see about that."

"You should get inside. The earl's daughters will be here soon."

"Can we please not start with that again?"

Tom grinned. "You might as well put your best foot forward. One of them is bound to fall in love at first sight."

Matthew moved toward the door but called over his shoulder, "You seem to be forgetting, I'm not the only bachelor who lives in this house."

"You're the only one worth marrying."

As Matthew opened the front door, he saw Pratt coming back from the back of the house.

"Pratt, Mr. Branson here has a bit of knowledge about cars. He might help you with the trouble you were having earlier." Then, turning to Tom, added, "Instead of trying to play matchmaker why don't you make yourself useful."

As Matthew and his mother were arriving at Crawley House, the three Crawley sisters were making their way there from the dressmaker in the village, where Pratt had left them before going to pick up Matthew and his mother.

Months had passed since James and Patrick perished, but given everything that had happened since, it felt as if it had all gone by very quickly. Sybil remembered clearly the morning the news came, the image of her father's crestfallen face as he read a telegram the girls would not know the contents of until later that day still ingrained in her mind. Then how quickly he ran out of the dining room after reading it. She was, it seemed, doomed to most easily recall her father's lowest moments among her memories of him.

The family took the news hard, not just for the loss of their loved ones, of course, but because their lives were, once again, being upended. Mary and Edith were their usual selves regarding the loss of Patrick. The former putting on a more stoic front than what was beneath, the latter a more emotional one than was necessary. Sybil did not begrudge Edith her grief. On the contrary, she was glad that Edith allowed herself to mourn properly and did not like Mary's insinuations that Edith was making a show of things and was not sincere in her loss. But Sybil also knew that in the interplay that had developed between her sisters, Edith wanted to prove to the rest of her family which of them truly loved Patrick and which was only using him. Sybil did not like this because she did not believe Mary to be as unfeeling as Edith tried to portray her. Being pulled between them was becoming an increasingly difficult proposition. Without Gwen to confide in, Sybil believed she might have gone mad.

But even before the grief had subsided, the news of the new heir became the talk of the family. Cora and Violet entreated Robert to break the entail that tied the title to the estate and to what remained of Cora's money, so Mary would at least be left with something as well as having the option to sell or do with the estate as she would when the time came. But Robert wouldn't act until he knew more about Matthew.

If her father's lack of action on her behalf affected her in any way, Mary hadn't let it show. Edith wondered aloud why her mother and grandmother would bother going such trouble for something that affected only one of the three. Both she and Sybil would be expected to find their position through a favorable marriage, she routinely asked, why was that fate not good enough for Mary? Sybil, as was her usual way, said little. More and more as she got older, she felt the inclination to speak and add her opinions to whatever conversations were taking place, but more often than not she refrained, preferring instead to observe those around her.

And when the season came, she remained peacefully alone at the house. She re-read her favorite books, took long walks and helped Gwen practice her typing now that they'd successfully sneaked the typewriter into her room and Gwen had started her secretarial correspondence course. July brought the family back along with news of Matthew's fortune and the possibility that he could save the big house. The question of what that would mean, and how it would affect the family remained open.

"So when Downton Abbey is all fixed up and cleaned and open again, who is going to live in it?" Sybil asked.

"I don't know," Mary said. "Apparently, they haven't discussed it."

"Surely, they would let us back, wouldn't they?" Edith said. "After all, papa is still the earl."

"Who knows what his intentions are," Mary said.

"Papa or Matthew Crawley?" Sybil asked.

Mary sighed. "Either."

As they approached the house, they saw the back of the family motor, with Mr. Pratt standing beside it and the bonnet up. A pair of legs were sticking out from underneath the front of the car.

"Pratt, is there something wrong?" Mary asked, as Sybil and Edith walked toward the door.

"It was giving me trouble earlier, milady, on the way to the train station, but Mr. Branson here is taking care of it. We'll have it done presently."

Mary nodded and joined her sisters at the door, just as Moseley opened it.

Sybil was about to step through when she realized she was still holding her parcel from the dressmaker. "On second thought," she said to Mary and Edith, "I'll give this to Pratt to put in the motor so I don't leave it here. Go ahead inside, I'll be there in a minute."

"We'll wait," Mary said.

Sybil walked back toward the motor. She had come around to the front of it when the person who had been underneath popped up in one smooth motion.

Blue eyes.

"Oh!" Apparently, he had not heard her approach and was startled at finding her mere inches in front of him.

Shirtsleeves.

Sybil was startled too. She dropped her parcel. He bent down to pick it up and handed it back to her.

Smile.

Pratt was an older gentleman and rather heavy set. Such was Sybil's assumption regarding what a person looked like who understood cars.

"Didn't see you there. Are you all right?"

Accent.

"Sybil!"

Mary's impatient call brought her back down to earth. Sybil took a step back, then turned to Pratt. "Pratt, would you mind holding this until we're ready to depart?" Her voice, quieter than she intended, sounded somewhat foreign to her.

"Certainly, milady," Pratt responded and took the parcel from her.

With that Sybil quickly went back up the walk to the house. Halfway to the door, unable to stop herself, she took one quick glance back. He was still looking at her. The corners of her lips turned up into a smile. As she faced Mary and Edith again and walked into the house with them, Sybil felt her blood rushing to her chest and head. She wondered how deep the blush on her cheeks was and whether her sisters would notice.

Chapter Text

Mary, Edith and Sybil followed Moseley into the parlor.

"I'm afraid Mrs. Crawley and Mr. Crawley arrived from the station only minutes ago," he said. "They are upstairs changing from their traveling clothes and will be down shortly. Shall I have Ivy bring in some tea?"

"Thank you, that won't be necessary," Mary said. "We won't be staying long."

"Very good, milady." With that Moseley bowed slightly and stepped out of the room.

Sybil, as discreetly as she could, brought her hands up to her cheeks to try to stave off the color she knew would give away how quickly her heart was beating.

She was a bit annoyed at herself. She'd seen nice looking men before. Some of the boys she'd grown up with had turned out rather handsome. But none had ever materialized as if out of thin air right in front of her. The effect was disconcerting, especially to Sybil, who had always prided herself on not stooping to the silly fawning some of her friends were guilty of when around members of the opposite sex.

"Who was that with Pratt outside?" Edith asked.

"Their chauffer, I imagine," Mary responded.

"Why would they have a chauffer if they don't have a motor?" Edith retorted.

"He wasn't a chauffer," Sybil said quietly. Mary and Edith both turned to her. "Well, he wasn't wearing livery, anyway. His waistcoat appeared to be from an everyday suit." she added, looking down, hoping her blush had finally dissipated.

She wanted to scold herself. He wasn't that handsome.

"I hope we don't have car trouble on the way back," Edith said.

"Me too. This will be trying enough."

"Why do you say that?" Sybil asked. "We're only inviting them to dinner."

Mary sighed. "God only knows what Mr. Crawley"—she dragged out the name and rolled her eyes as if it pained her to say it—"intends for Downton or us." Mary hated sounding so petulant, but she couldn't help it. She was about to meet the stranger whose presence would be the final nail in Patrick's coffin and the end of the dream she had shared with him to revive Downton together. Mary had acknowledged not feeling as sad as she should have in the immediate aftermath of Patrick's death, but standing in that room, about to meet the man who would replace Patrick as heir, she felt the first real pang of regret.

Frustrated, she said, "For all we know, he believes the estate entitles him to marry one of us and he plans to make his choice at first glance."

No sooner had those last words come out of Mary's mouth that Moseley had stepped back into the parlor. "Mr. Matthew Crawley."

Sybil and Edith's eyes widened and they looked at one another momentarily before casting a glance at Mary, who was, despite what she'd just said, the picture of composure. Edith's expression quickly turned into a smirk.

Matthew had heard Mary, of course, but chose to ignore her comment. It had been obviously made out of frustration—She has to be the eldest, he thought, the one who lost her fiancé—and knowing what was ahead of him with regard to the changes he had planned for the estate, he didn't want to start off on an argumentative note. Instead, he stepped forward to introduce himself.

"Lady Mary, I presume."

"Cousin Mary," she said, in a soft, even tone that betrayed neither embarrassment nor apology.

Sensing, if not outright seeing, defiance in her posture, Matthew smiled in spite of himself. He turned to the younger sisters.

"And Cousins Edith and Sybil, then?"

Both girls smiled. "It's wonderful to finally meet you," Edith said eagerly. "Papa has told us so much about you. Are you happy with the house?"

"Very much. Please sit down."

All of them did so, and Edith continued. "Did you have a pleasant trip?"

"Yes, it was comfortable and without incident."

"We're sorry to hear there was some car trouble," Edith said.

Sybil looked at her sister curiously. Edith was never one to be so effusive with strangers. Usually, Sybil and Edith would defer to Mary when it came to talking with new people. Sybil wondered whether Edith was trying to take advantage of Mary's faux pas and hoped this did not mean that their antagonism would continue in a new tug-of-war over this cousin.

"It's all right. It caused Pratt to be a few minutes late, but it really was no trouble."

"What—"

Edith stopped short upon seeing Moseley come in with Isobel behind him.

"I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting," Isobel said, with a bright smile.

All of them stood again. And this time it was Mary who spoke for the sisters.

"Not at all, Mrs. Crawley," she said.

"Isobel, please."

"We apologize for the intrusion when you've only just arrived," Mary went on, "but mama was wondering if you'd like to join us for dinner tonight, if you're not too tired."

"We'd be delighted!" Isobel said.

"Wonderful. We dine at 8 o'clock. We can send Pratt to pick you up, unless you have your own method of travel."

"If you’re referring to an automobile, we do not have one," Isobel said. "If you could send him, we'd appreciate it. Do sit down. Would you like some tea?"

Edith and Sybil were about to sit again when Mary responded, "Oh, we couldn't impose when you are getting settled. We'll be on our way."

And with that Mary made her way to the hall, with Edith and Sybil quickly catching up behind her. The three followed Moseley who'd stepped in front of Mary to get to the door. When he opened it, Tom, back in his suit jacket, was on the other side, about to open it himself to come back in.

"Excuse me, Mr. Branson," Moseley said, "The ladies were just leaving."

Tom stepped aside to let them pass, and Isobel came forward from behind them.

"Lady Mary, before you depart, please let me introduce Mr. Tom Branson, an old friend, quite like family. He's staying here with us."

"How do you do?" Mary said primly. "These are my sisters Lady Edith and Lady Sybil."

Tom smiled at Sybil. "I apologize if I startled you before."

Sybil smiled back, bashfully, feeling the warmness coming back to her cheeks. "It's all right. I wasn't looking where I was going."

"Will you be joining us for dinner?" Mary asked him, breaking a gaze between Tom and Sybil that both thought inappropriately long, even if no one else had noticed it.

Tom looked to Isobel. "Yes, unless a third would be too much trouble," she answered for him.

"We'll see all three of you tonight," Mary said, smiling, then turning to walk down the front path to the car. "Pratt is everything all right now?"

Pratt was already in the driver's seat with the motor running. "Yes, milady."

Tom, Isobel and Matthew followed the sisters down the path, and Tom stepped forward to open the door for them. After Mary and Edith had stepped in, Sybil took another peek at him on her way in, causing him to smile and causing her to slip on the step. He caught her by the hand and waist and helped her the rest of the way in.

"Thank you," she said quietly without daring to look at him again. After she sat down, she held the hand he had just grabbed with the other, as if trying to hold the sensation there. Yes, she thought to herself, he is that handsome.

Tom stepped back as the motor pulled away.

"So it begins," Matthew said jokingly. Then he and Isobel started back inside. They were almost to the door, when Isobel turned around to see Tom still standing watching the car drive away.

"Tom, are you coming in?"

His neck whipped over to where she was. "What? Oh, no—I mean, yes." He scratched his head and laughed at himself, then followed Isobel and Matthew inside.

"I'm going up to finish unpacking," Matthew said.

Tom was about to follow him up the stairs when Isobel called him.

"Actually, Tom, if you have a moment, I'd like a word,"

"Certainly, Aunt Isobel." He followed her back into the parlor.

Moseley, who had followed them in, asked, "Shall I have Ivy serve some tea, mum?"

"Yes, please, Moseley, that would be lovely," Isobel answered, then turning to Tom said, "Let's sit down. I'm afraid what I'm about to say won't be to your liking?"

"Don't be silly. I don't think anything you could say to me could be unpleasant."

Isobel smiled. She loved him so very much.

"Did you get a set of tails, as I asked?"

He laughed. "Well, I take it back. That is an unpleasant subject. But yes, I did."

"Good. You'll need them tonight, and do ask Moseley for help if you—"

"I certainly don't need—"

"If you have trouble because I want you and Matthew to both look your best."

Tom sighed. "I don't need help."

"I don't much care about what you think you need," she said sternly, but kindly. "As I told Matthew earlier, I don't intend on giving the Robert Crawley family any reason to judge us. I do not feel beneath them in any way, and I do not want them to feel as if we are. Have I been understood?"

"Yes," he said smiling. "I do not plan being an embarrassment, if that's what you're worried about."

"Oh, Tom, you could never be that."

At that moment, Ivy came in with the tea and served them both. They took a few minutes to drink in silence.

"Will there be anything else, mum?" Ivy asked.

"No, thank you, Ivy."

"Was that all?" Tom finally asked, when the young maid had left.

"No. There's something else, something that I've discussed with your mother and that she and I agree on."

Now he was curious. "What's that?"

"I know that I introduced you to the girls as a friend, but I'd like to tell the family you are the son of a cousin."

"What?"

"Tom, you are every bit the gentleman you look. In that finery tonight, you could walk into their home, call yourself a duke and none would be the wiser because you're so well spoken, intelligent and thoughtful."

Tom laughed. "I don't think there are any dukes from Ireland."

Isobel persisted. "Please listen. You have a future ahead of you that is beyond the dreams of your father and his father, and you are every bit worthy of whatever comes to you, but there are people in this world who will say that you are not because—"

"Because of my birth," he said with a sigh, looking down at his hands.

"Yes."

Looking back up at her, he said, "But Aunt Isobel, I'm not ashamed of who I am or of mam, or where I come from. If anything, I want people to know so they understand that opportunity when given freely and without judgment can change lives."

"Tom, I know you're not ashamed and neither am I ashamed of you. But I want to impress upon you how quickly some of the people who will cross your path will dismiss you—even people who work in service, as your mother—if they know something that in truth they don't have to know."

Tom sighed. "What about mam?"

"She agrees with me on this. She's been careful to only send Ivy out to the village and will be going by her maiden name. I'll have a talk with Mr. Moseley, but since he's not spoken up about our arrangement since I wrote ahead to him to explain it, I trust he will remain true to our intentions."

"Won't it be worse if I'm caught in a lie?"

"I don't expect anyone to catch you because I don't expect anyone to suspect you. Have you said anything to anyone at your job about your background?"

"No."

"Well, if anyone asks, just say you don't remember anything before you came to us, and you retained your Irish accent because we sent you there every year starting at age fifteen to complete your studies and later to go to university as it was your father's wish. "

Tom smiled. "All of that happens to be true."

"There you have it, then."

"Aunt Isobel, I'm not sure about this. May I think about it first?"

Isobel sighed. "You may. If you prefer, we can simply not say anything. Robert and his family may not even ask questions, and just assume what we want them to."

"It's not that I don't appreciate your concern—"

"I understand. I'm asking you to hide a part of yourself that makes you who you are, and it's not fair of me to do so, but we live in the world such as it is. Your mother and I want to protect you from it."

"And I appreciate that, truly."

They smiled at each other.

"Well," Isobel said, "I should have a good look at the house, finally. Why don't you rest up for tonight."

They both stood, and he watched as she left the room.

Once alone, Tom sat back down and set to wonder whether hiding a part of himself meant he was leaving it behind for good—whether it meant he would become something other than who he was.

Claire Branson hadn't been sure she had wanted to make the move north. She liked Manchester, had lived there now half her life. And Ireland was also still there to return to, if she wanted. But Isobel had told her the job would get easier in Yorkshire. There would be a butler—the other family would expect it—and she, Matthew and Tom were likely to dine with them with some frequency, giving her more nights off.

Tonight was the first such night, and here in her brand new sitting room, having ample time to write letters home to her relatives in Dublin for the first time in months, Claire decided she was glad to have come.

She had just started one to her late mother's sister, when her son's voice startled her.

"I hear you want to disown me."

She turned and saw him looking as fine as he'd ever looked, wearing clothes befitting a true gentleman—one who had been made, not born. She smiled proudly, but couldn't help but be his mother by saying, "Don't lean against that dirty door."

He stood up straight and swung his arms out. "How do I look?

She went over to him, brushed his shoulders with her hands and straightened his white bowtie. "A handsome devil, just like your father. Too handsome for your own good, as a matter of fact."

This made him smile. He liked making her proud—the thought reminded him of why he'd come down.

"So about this silly plan to hide my identity—"

"It's not hiding, just not letting people judge you by things that aren't their business. As soon as you tell anyone you're a housekeeper's son, they'll stop thinking of you as Mr. Tom Branson and they'll starting thinking of you as Tom, the housekeeper's son. It's not fair."

"But I want to change that—won't submitting to that ridiculous prejudice render me unable to criticize it?"

"Tommy, you have to live in this world before you can change it. If your father had known that, he might still be with us."

Tom frowned. "If he were still with us, you and I wouldn't be standing here right now. He gave us more in death than he might have in life. Will you not give him the benefit of the doubt by believing that might have been his intent all along?"

She sighed. "I wouldn't be standing here, but you might still be." She cupped his face with her hands. "Oh, my dear boy, you are so much better than the world that made you."

He pulled her into a hug. "I'm only as good as you made me."

They continued to hold each other for a long moment, not separating until they heard a soft knock on the door. It was Moseley.

"Beg your pardon, Mr. Branson, but Mr. Pratt is here."

"Thank you, Mr. Moseley, I'll be right there." He kissed Claire on the forehead and said, "I'll come down to say goodnight."

Claire followed him out of the room and stood next to Moseley as Tom headed up to leave with the family. She was about to get back to her letters when she saw a smile on Moseley's face, where there was usually a dour or blank expression.

He turned to her upon catching her watching him. "Your son, he . . . well, it's curious. When he's down here with you he calls me Mr. Moseley. Today, since they've arrived, when he's been upstairs with Mrs. Crawley or Mr. Matthew, he's called me Moseley as they do. He's not misspoken once that I've noticed."

Claire smiled. "He's lived on that line his whole life."

"Dr. Crawley, Mrs. Crawley's husband, he saw to all his needs without prejudice?"

"Treated him like his own son his entire life. I never wept for an employer like I did the day of his death."

"Did you ever worry it was all too inappropriate? That people would judge him as a social climber?"

Claire sighed. "Every day. But when someone as kind as Dr. Crawley offers you the chance to change your only son's life for the better, to give him a life outside of service, do you refuse him?"

Moseley smiled again. "I suppose not."

As Downton Place readied for their dinner guests, Cora was worrying about Mary.

Upon the girls' return from the village that afternoon, Edith had described the family as nice. The young men—there were two, Cora learned—were both courteous, but the visit had been too short for more of an opinion to be formed beyond superficialities.

Mary, never one to withhold her opinions when speaking to her mother, had said little. Cora knew that her daughter, despite outward appearances, felt pulled in all directions when it came to talk of the family estate. Cora was concerned about how Mary was responding to yet another stake on it.

Having seen to Sybil, as had now become their routine before dinner, and having complimented her on her choice of a pale blue frock Cora had bought for her recently but that Sybil hadn't yet worn ("It felt like the right hue for the occasion."), Cora headed to Mary's room to reassure her and gauge her mood as she finished getting ready for dinner.

"Are you almost ready, dear?" Cora asked as she walked in.

"I don't see why they have to come here at all if you're going to undo it," was Mary's response. Cora was glad to have come in, if this is how her night was going to start.

"Your father is not convinced it can be undone," Cora said.

"You'll still try."

"Your grandmother and I are going to try."

"And papa is not?"

Cora proceeded gently. "He wants Downton to be reopened, the hospital to be saved and the estate to thrive again. He believes that future is assured with Matthew's fortune. You know how your father feels about all of that."

"It's the same as I feel. We agree and somehow still don't see eye to eye."

Cora stepped forward and put her hand on her daughter's shoulder. "Mary—"

"How does a middle class solicitor come into so much money?" She asked, interrupting, not eager to discuss her father.

"Apparently, it was his fiancé's fortune. She willed it to him before she died."

Mary let out a humorless laugh. "It's funny how a woman can leave her money to a man, but not the other way around."

"Are you going to join the suffragettes to change the laws?" Cora said smiling.

"Mama, don't be ridiculous."

"Well, it's not over yet. We're trying to find a lawyer who will take it on."

Mary sighed. "Thank you. I know it will be an uphill battle, but it means something that you're trying."

"He's fighting for you in his own way."

"Let's not talk of papa."

"So you haven't told me what you thought of them."

"She's nice enough. He's . . ."

Mary didn't know what to say. She knew he'd heard her remark regarding his intentions, and she saw him smile at her when she introduced herself. It felt a little bit like behind his eyes he was laughing at her. That might have been her imagination, but she didn't like feeling not in control, and in her snide comment, in his non-reaction to it, the already unsteady ground under her feet fell further. All she had to cling to now was her position—even if it was obvious that Matthew didn't care that she was above him.

Finally, Mary turned to leave, "Let's just go down and you can see for yourself."

Isobel, Matthew and Tom were welcomed into the house by the entire family and staff. The family, joined by Robert's mother, the Dowager Countess of Grantham, Violet Crawley, numbered six. The service staff, without Pratt whom they'd already met, numbered nine.

Tom knew that at large country estates, like the one Matthew was intent on saving, the staff could count up to thirty. This display, despite the smaller numbers, was no less intimidating, as far as he was concerned. In the dark of the late evening, it had been hard to get a good look at the house as they approached in the car, but the inside was as luxurious as it felt imposing. Having not yet seen it, but having heard it described as much grander than Downton Place, Downton Abbey suddenly loomed very large in Tom's mind. What could that house possibly look like in comparison with this one, when this was already, in Tom's estimation, a veritable palace.

As he looked over the employees, Tom tried to picture his mother there. He supposed that for some who worked in service, a job in such a house, with such a family, was the ultimate aspiration. His mother was too loyal to the Reginald Crawleys to have ever wanted more, and even discounting what they had done for him, Tom knew that she considered her position with them as good a job as any. Tom also watched the footman, who was staring forward, expressionless, for a brief moment. He looked to be about Tom's age, so as was his habit, Tom thought about the doors in life that open or close as a result of a single action. But for one man's interest in his ability to read at a young age, he might still be standing in this very room, but in a different position altogether.

The greetings between the families were as cordial as anyone could expect given the circumstances, which was to say not overly warm but not entirely cold either. The only moment worth remembering, which Tom would relay in detail to his mother later that night, was when Isobel was introduced to the Dowager Countess.

"What should we call each other?" Isobel asked, approaching her in her usual friendly manner and raising her hand for a handshake.

"Well, we could always start with Mrs. Crawley and Lady Grantham," Violet responded, taken aback, as if Isobel's question had been an insult. Isobel's hand was ignored, but she remained smiling, as if nothing had happened.

Tom, trying very hard not to be entirely cynical about the whole exercise, couldn't help but roll his eyes at the Dowager's snobbery. Immediately after doing so, he looked around to see if anyone had noticed.

She had, of course. Just his luck.

Sybil's eyes had, in fact, been on Tom since he'd walked in—looking more handsome than any man has any business looking, she thought—and her brow furrowed slightly when he rolled his eyes at her grandmother. Seeing her reaction, he could only respond with a grin. Seeing his grin, she looked away, pulling her lips into her mouth as if trying to stop herself from smiling.

On the way to Downton Place, discussing details about the family and what to expect, Isobel had mentioned that she was not out in society yet, which meant she was likely seventeen—sixteen at the very youngest, Tom thought. As far as he knew, of course, it was possible she was younger, but when they'd walked in, Tom, against his better judgment, had allowed himself a moment to appreciate how beautiful she looked in the pale blue dress she was wearing. That figure did not belong to a girl of fifteen.

Once seated for dinner, after the footman Thomas instructed Matthew on how to serve himself, Matthew was almost ready to give up on the prospect of cordiality with the family and simply deal with Robert as needed in his management of the estate. He was in the middle of silently acknowledging how right his mother had been regarding the family's prejudices as to their middle class status when Mary spoke up.

"You'll soon get used to the way things are done here," she said.

No one at the table, save perhaps Tom, would appreciate the Herculean effort it took for Matthew not to roll his eyes. "If you mean that we're accustomed to a very different life from this, then that is true."

Matthew understood and empathized with the fact that Mary was in an odd position. He was a stranger to her, and he was taking what—if the laws were rational—would be hers, but her uppity attitude was making his patience run short. He'd ignored her condescension this afternoon, but he wouldn't make a habit of it. Mary was beautiful. He couldn't deny that. Hers was the kind of beauty that she could wield as a weapon if she needed to. But he didn't like her, something about which he did not feel guilty as it was obvious she didn't like him.

Looking back and forth between them during that exchange, Sybil noticed a tension between her sister and Matthew, and told herself to say something to her about it later. In an effort to shift the tone to more neutral territory, she asked quietly, "What will you do with your time?"

But there would be no neutral territory to be found this evening.

"I found a job in Ripon," Matthew answered. "I've said I'll start next month, once we have a plan in place for the estate."

"A job?" Robert asked, incredulous.

"Tom and I have joined a partnership, you might have heard of it, Havel and Carter. They wanted to expand into industrial law though I'm afraid most of it will be wills and convenyancing."

"You're a solicitor as well?" Sybil asked Tom.

He nodded. "I am."

"Tom and Matthew had opened their own practice in Manchester. It was doing quite well," Isobel put in.

"Why not do that here?" Cora asked.

"Given Matthew's new role with your family," Tom said, "we thought it best to wait. It takes a significant effort to start on your own, especially somewhere new."

"It was a lucky break that the partnership was able to take us both on," Matthew added.

"But what about the estate?" Robert asked.

"I believe I've set aside enough time to get things moving and have my plan in place. Once it is, I am confident I'll have the time. There are plenty of hours in the day, and, of course, I'll have the weekend."

"We'll discuss it later. We shouldn't involve the ladies," Robert said.

Tom looked at Robert skeptically and sighed, in a manner he hoped was not obvious to everyone else. He knew such attitudes among men like Robert existed, and he was keen for an argument—wasn't he always—but he had made a promise to himself that he would not bring up his politics tonight, in order not to make Isobel worry over their acceptance of him. Now, though, given the turn of the conversation, he was coming dangerously close to breaking that promise.

Then, the Dowager pushed him over the edge.

"What is a weekend?"

His sigh, Tom was sure, was audible the second time. These people.

Ignoring the Dowager, he asked Robert, "Why not involve the ladies?"

If Violet's question had silenced half the dinner party. His silenced the other half. So he went on.

"I would think that as the father of daughters you would want to take special care to prepare them for a world that is generally unforgiving toward women—even ones in your daughters' privileged position. The less we involve women in questions of business, the more we leave them vulnerable to situations like the one your daughters find themselves in now."

"And what situation is that?" Robert asked. Tom could easily tell he was trying to contain his indignation.

"They are at the mercy of whatever men choose to court them for marriage. And at Matthew's. You're lucky that Matthew, at least, is a good man."

Tom didn't bother to look around the table, guessing what the reaction to his "radical" ideas would likely be. Still, curiosity got the best of him and he ventured a glance in Sybil's direction. She was staring at him wide eyed, but even without knowing her well he could tell it was in a good way.

He eventually broke the stare, needing to take a long drink of his wine.

What he didn't notice was Cora smiling to herself. She had found her lawyer.

After Tom's outburst, dinner concluded more or less without incident, the conversation turning and staying on the hospital, which Isobel was keen to visit and which, everyone agreed, needed to be looked to.

At dinner's conclusion, the women moved on to the drawing room, leaving Tom and Matthew alone with Robert. It hadn't occurred to either of the young men until this moment, how isolated Robert was from other men. They were now, for whatever it was worth, his closest relatives and, if he was to accept Matthew's plan for the estate, his closest advisors.

"I apologize if I spoke out of turn at dinner, Lord Grantham," Tom said, trying, for Matthew's sake, to sound a conciliatory note. He knew how much making changes to how things were done meant to Matthew. He didn't want to undermine him in any way.

Robert took a long pull from his scotch. He set down the empty tumbler and took a deep breath. "It's not the way things are done, involving women in such matters." Then he looked at Tom and smiled, "But my track record speaks for itself, so what do I know."

Matthew lit a cigar. "Tom has some interesting political theories, but however you may feel about that, he's also the most intelligent person I know."

Tom smirked. "He means next to himself."

Robert looked back and forth the between the two. "So if you're business partners at such a young age, how long have you two known one another?"

"Tom came to live with us when he was two. I was three. I don't know life without him."

"How did you come to retain your Irish accent?" Robert asked Tom.

Tom hesitated. They were veering toward the path he had hoped to avoid. He didn't yet know how he would answer the question Isobel and his mother so feared on his behalf.

"I finished my studies, including university, in Ireland," he said finally.

"Which university?"

"Trinity College, sir."

"Dr. Crawley allowed you to go to Dublin when Cambridge and Oxford exist on English soil?" Robert asked, then added with a teasing tone. "Or were you not up to snuff?"

Tom smiled. "I was."

Matthew and Tom glanced at one another momentarily. "It was his father's wish that he study in Ireland," Matthew said. Tom wondered whether Isobel had had that talk with him too.

"Hard to argue with that," Robert said, smiling warmly.

The trio drank quietly for a few minutes before Robert broke the silence. "Matthew, I know we have a lot to discuss, but I have to ask, specifically, what do you plan to do with Downton Abbey?"

"That's a complicated question."

Tom smiled at Matthew. "I think what Lord Grantham means is who will live there once it's open again?"

Matthew sighed. "Honestly, Robert, I haven't thought much beyond the fact that we do need to open it again."

"Did you own this house before you moved here?" Tom asked Robert.

"Yes," Robert answered

"Was it in use?" Tom asked.

"We rented it out."

"Did the rental income equal what it cost to employ a full staff at the abbey?" Tom asked.

Robert thought for a moment. "I'd have to check with Murray, my lawyer, but now that you mention it, I think it did."

Tom looked at Matthew. "There you are."

Matthew scratched his forehead and smiled at how easily the hardest question had been answered. "Do you think you'd like to go back to Downton Abbey, Robert?"

Robert sighed. "Very much. But I won't take advantage of you, Matthew."

"You won't be taking advantage, if it makes more economic sense for you to be there than here."

"How does it make more economic sense?" Robert asked.

Tom answered. "If the family's presence in the village—and more importantly, the presence of those you employ and the estate's tenants—can help reawaken its economic vitality, and renting this house offsets the cost, it's a better proposition for you to live there and not here. Shuttered, Downton Abbey is of no use to anyone."

"But what about you?" Robert asked.

"We are more than comfortable at Crawley House," Matthew said. "I will help keep the books regarding the house's expenses, but I must say I agree with Tom. I don't see a reason for you not to be there. You are the earl still."

"Can we confirm it, the cost issue, I mean, before I tell the family?" Robert asked.

"Certainly," Matthew said.

Robert put his cigar out and stood up. "Most clever chap in the room, indeed."

Tom smiled, embarrassed.

It was so late when Matthew, Tom and Isobel returned to Crawley House, that Tom expected his mother had gone to sleep without waiting up for him, but walking into the kitchen, he could see the light of her candle emanating from her sitting room.

He detailed the evening for her, including sharing the news that the Robert Crawleys would soon be living much closer to the village again. Claire was happy to hear about the good impression he'd made and laughed at hearing of Isobel's relentless pleasantness in the face of the Dowager Countess's disapproving expressions.

Tom was about to stand and leave for bed when she asked, "What about the young ladies?"

Tom smirked, knowing where she was going with this. "Is this why you want me to pretend I'm not your son, so I can marry well?"

Claire rolled her eyes. "Can't I ask a simple question?"

Tom laughed. "They were nice. I didn't speak individually to any of them, to be honest."

"Are they pretty?"

"What do you think?"

Now it was Claire's turn to laugh. "Which did you think the prettiest—and don't pretend you don't have an opinion on that score, because your face is telling me that you do."

"I think it's time for you to go to bed," he said standing. He walked to the door before turning around and adding with a smile, "the youngest."

Chapter Text

Even though the excitement of dining with Cousins Mathew and Isobel Crawley and their friend Tom Branson kept them up past their usual bedtimes, Robert and the family were up early the next day, each battling a cascade of thoughts regarding their guests from the previous evening and what their presence would mean for their lives and for the future.

Robert awoke mulling the prospect of returning to the beloved house he had lost but doing so under the auspices of Matthew's largesse, not by his own doing or merit. Going back would be an occasion of great joy, but also a reminder of his failure. And what would his role be? Robert had enjoyed talking with both Matthew and Tom, and felt confidence in their joint abilities to secure Downton's future, but would it ever mean anything to them? Robert wanted Matthew to see Downton Abbey and the whole estate as something more than merely a monetary investment. Robert and every earl before him saw Downton and its protection as their birthright, but how could Matthew be expected to treat it as such, when it had only been his for a few months, and not for the whole of his lifetime as had been true of all who had come before?

Cora was considering Mary's prospects, as well as the need first to convince Violet to agree to ask Tom Branson to take on the entail and then to convince Mr. Branson himself to oppose his dear friend. His words last night regarding the fate of their daughters had moved her. She knew Robert and Violet, staked onto tradition as they were, tended to accept the course of things without question. In this particular case, Violet was eager to act on Mary's behalf, because of Matthew's class, not because she necessarily opposed the laws that had elevated him. She certainly hadn't opposed them when they favored Patrick—whom Violet considered her equal in rank—over Mary. Neither Violet nor Robert ever talked about money with Cora or their daughters because neither had ever expected them not to have enough. Given its complications, Cora knew that whoever took on the case would have to believe the laws had done Mary a disservice in order to see it through. Maybe Tom would not want to oppose the fortunes of someone he considered a brother, but Cora had to ask. It was obvious he empathized with the underlying cause, and finding someone else who did half as passionately as he seemed to would be hard.

Lying awake in the early hours, Mary wondered whether her mother and grandmother's efforts on her behalf would yield what she hoped or merely another disappointment—either way, she didn't want to have to tolerate Matthew Crawley's presence for more time than was absolutely necessary. Losing Downton Abbey had been a crushing blow, more so for her than anyone else, because she alone believed she had not yet lived her best years there. She knew it was selfish to think the damage her father had done was done specifically to her, but wasn't that more or less true, she questioned. Edith and Sybil would never have presumed, as she did, that Downton was their future. She blamed her father for allowing her to think in such a way, for treating her as he might have treated an eldest son. Even after the move to Downton Place, Patrick had given her hope that the future she dreamed of might yet be, but now he was gone, and here was Matthew to clean up the mess and take Downton from her once again. She was not sure whether or not she wanted him to succeed.

Edith had thought, since Patrick's death, that she would resent the new heir upon meeting him, but she'd thought Matthew kind and handsome, with a personality made more interesting to her by his obvious disdain of Mary. Edith would have taken any opportunity to put her anger at her sister over Patrick behind her. It was exhausting to hate Mary, someone so outwardly perfect, so highly regarded by so many for no reason but her very haughtiness. But disdain was but a defense mechanism for Edith, an emotion necessary to tolerate having to exist in her world. Because it was Mary's world and hers alone. Their parents, their relations, their friends, even their servants saw to that. Sybil was perhaps the only person Edith knew who was immune to it, or, at the least, who could ignore its pressures. Sybil was young, though. She had not yet been taught to be jealous. Edith wondered if, when Sybil's turn came to be presented to society, Sybil might understand what it felt like when others insinuated she did not measure up to the eldest Crawley sister. Or what it felt like when Mary herself told her outright—though Edith doubted Mary would to Sybil, if for no other reason than to antagonize Edith further. How could Edith do anything but begrudge the gifts her older sister was always throwing back in her face. Maybe Mary did not deserve Edith's ill will, but she is always asking for it, Edith thought. And so Edith decided that if Matthew Crawley wanted a friend in the family who would help him keep Mary in her place, Edith would be that friend.

And then there was Sybil, who did not spend a single thought that morning on Matthew Crawley. How would that have been possible when Mr. Branson had ensconced himself atop her mind and would not give his position there away no matter how hard Sybil tried. It might have been easier to dismiss him if he were merely a handsome face, but what he'd said to her father about protecting his daughters by teaching them the ways of the world had stirred something in her that she hadn't quite felt before.

Mr. Branson had reminded her of her wish to go to school to learn something with some meaning beyond what was necessary for making polite conversation, and of how often when she was younger, she'd asked her father about his time at school and university and in the military forces or merely what he was reading in the newspaper only to be dismissed out of hand. Sybil wanted to know things beyond what others believed was appropriate for her to know, but beyond the wanting, she believed it necessary for her to know more than she did. And clearly, Mr. Branson was of like mind. He was, in fact, the first such person she had ever met. It was nice enough to watch him talk animatedly with her father from across the drawing room, but despite the pleasantness of the view, more so she longed to hear what he was saying. From her vantage point, the most she had been able to discern was her father's occasional firm but amiable disagreement. Robert might not have agreed with Mr. Branson on certain things, but he seemed to like him very much—at least that had been Sybil's impression.

Sybil herself was in the process of discovering that as she grew up she did not much agree with her father's opinions and increasingly felt a desire to question what his position offered and expected of her. But whatever Sybil might disagree with her parents and family on, rare was the occasion in which she or anyone who might also disagree would profess such disagreements openly. It was a curious thing to observe someone actually do it—and eloquently, too. Sybil wondered if she would have the opportunity to ask Mr. Branson about the things he believed, to have a substantive conversation with him. But if she did, what would she, with so little real schooling, have to say that would be of any interest to him?

Hearing the clock chime, Sybil finally got up from her bed and rang her bell, hoping against hope that it was Gwen who would come up.

For the last week, as the date of the arrival of the new heir neared, Carson and the housekeeper, Mrs. Hughes, had been working the staff twice as hard as usual and offering no flexibility as to their specific duties, which meant that Anna had to see to all the girls. Sybil and Gwen hadn't had a moment to talk in several days.

It was a big change from earlier in the summer, when the family was away for the season and Sybil and Gwen had been much spoiled. Anna had been asked for the first time to travel to London with the family to help Mary and Edith, which meant Gwen was tasked with seeing after Sybil, who'd stayed behind once again. Sybil was left with no supervision other than Violet, who only summoned her to tea and dinner a few times a week. On a couple of occasions, on Gwen's days off, Sybil would take the governess cart with Gwen to the neighboring village—taking care, of course, not to let Carson or Mrs. Hughes see them together, lest Gwen be reprimanded. It was during these times that their friendship—when it could exist outside of the confines of the lady-servant relationship—truly flourished. Now, Sybil knew it was important for her to be wary of her demands on Gwen's time, given Gwen's responsibilities, but Sybil missed her nonetheless.

Sybil had just sat down to her vanity when she saw Gwen coming in on her mirror's reflection. She practically leapt out of her chair with a shout.

"Oh, Gwen, I'm so glad you're here! It feels like it's been ages since we've been able to talk."

Gwen came into the room with a big smile and the two sat down on Sybil's bed. "Anna's been so busy this week, I suggested this morning that if she wanted to spend extra time with Lady Mary, I could come in for you if you rang while she was still up with her."

"I'm so glad you did," Sybil said excitedly. "There' so much I want to tell you."

"Me as well, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to be more careful with Anna. I think she's starting to suspect something regarding my course."

"What makes you say that?" Sybil asked with concern.

"I got another parcel yesterday. Mr. Carson brought it in with the mail, and everyone saw. Then she caught me opening it in our room." After a pause, Gwen added, "I intimated that it was letters from a beau," sending both girls into a fit of giggles.

"Do you think you'll be found out?" Sybil asked after their laughter had subsided.

"I don't know whether that was enough to throw her off the scent, but either way, I do trust Anna. If I were to tell her my secret, I believe she would keep it. But enough about that! What do you think of the new heir's family?"

"I met them yesterday afternoon, actually. Mary, Edith and I went to see them at Crawley House, but we got there just as they'd arrived from the train from Manchester, so we weren't able to talk."

"Manchester, is that where they're from?"

"Yes. Both Cousin Isobel and Cousin Matthew seemed very nice, and we all had a pleasant time with them at dinner, despite—well, you saw the greetings, yourself."

Gwen laughed. "I dare say her ladyship, the Dowager Countess, didn't take too kindly to Mrs. Crawley."

"Granny doesn't take too kindly to anyone—she says it's part of her charm," Sybil said with a grin.

"But everyone got on at dinner?"

"More or less. Mary was a bit her uppity self with Cousin Matthew with regard to their position. And Thomas actually tried to give Matthew instruction on how to serve himself."

Gwen rolled her eyes. "He would. He's such a sour, self-satisfied fellow. Though I'm afraid he's not alone in his judgment. There's been a lot of talk downstairs about Mr. Crawley as to his class."

"Oh?"

"Given his status as middle-class, Mr. Carson and others think him unworthy of his lordship's title or—and please, don't repeat what I've said—"

Sybil took her friend's hands. "Gwen, you know I would never, but if you're uncomfortable—"

Gwen smiled. "No it's all right. It just . . . it doesn't speak well of us, and, well, we are allowed to speak freely downstairs."

"I'll not hold anything against anyone, I promise. Certainly not you."

"Well, some on the staff don't think him worthy our service."

"Oh my," Sybil said with a tone of surprise.

"To be fair, some spoke out of loyalty to the family, and to Lady Mary. Mr. Carson does hold her very dear to his heart."

Sybil smiled. "I don't begrudge his instinct to be protective of her prospects, but I must say I had no idea that people in the service of the upper classes could be as snobbish as the upper classes themselves."

"Oh, milady, you'll find that often they're much, much worse."

Sybil smiled. "Well, I've stolen enough of your time. I best get ready. Go on with the room, and I'll dress myself."

As Sybil picked out clothes for the day, Gwen opened the curtains and set about making the bed.

As she was pulling the sheets back, Gwen asked casually. "What did you think of the other gentleman?"

Sybil, who at that moment was stepping into her corset and skirt, took a deep breath. Of all the people in her life, Gwen was likely the only one who could see her blush and be able to understand exactly why she was regardless of the circumstance. "He was nice," she responded as nonchalantly as she could.

"And nice looking, if you don't mind my saying."

Sybil turned to look back at Gwen, who came up behind her to help with the lacings in the back, before going back to the bed. "Yes, he was definitely that, but . . ."

"But what?" Gwen asked.

Sybil slipped her blouse on. "I wish you could have heard him at dinner. He spoke quite movingly. I believe he supports women's rights. Papa was a bit scandalized." Sybil couldn't help but snicker.

"I remember Mr. Carson mentioning something about Mr. Branson speaking out of turn and having wild ideas about discussing business in front of women. He might have used the word 'insolent.' "

"It wasn't as bad as all that. In fact, I think papa rather liked Mr. Branson by the end of the evening. Him and Cousin Matthew, both."

"Well, Mr. Carson can be very traditional about that sort of thing."

"And here I thought papa was the worst."

Sybil sat down to her vanity, and Gwen came up, having finished the bed, to help her with her hair. Once it was up in a neat bun at the nape of her neck, Sybil stood to head to breakfast.

"I hope I didn't take too much of your time," she said to Gwen, who'd gone to the fireplace to clean up the ashes from last evening's fire.

"It's no bother, milady. I always enjoy our chats."

Sybil smiled. "Me too."

Sybil was about to open the door when Gwen asked her one more question.

"Would you say Mr. Branson is the most handsome man you've met?"

Sybil thought for a moment. "I'm not sure. But he's the cleverest, by far. I rather like that about him."

At the sound of the door closing behind Sybil, Gwen laughed to herself. It might not be noticeable to everyone else yet, but as her best friend, Gwen could see it easily. Lady Sybil was keen on Mr. Branson.

Sybil could hear Mary and Edith talking with their father when she walked into breakfast.

"Good morning, everyone," Sybil said cheerfully, going over to give Robert a kiss on the cheek before walking over to Carson for a plate.

"You're in good spirits this morning," Robert said.

"I enjoyed myself last night," Sybil said as she served herself. "It's been some time since we've met new friends."

"I'd be happy never to have met them," Mary said sourly.

Her sister's response gave Sybil a start. She turned from the buffet table toward Mary. "I'm sorry, that was insensitive," she said quietly. "I didn't mean I preferred their company to . . . I just . . ."

Mary smiled apologetically. "Darling, I know you didn't. I didn't mean to be short with you."

Sybil smiled back and went back to finish serving herself, before sitting down.

"Mary is a bit put out seeing as papa will be showing Cousin Matthew and Mr. Branson the estate this morning," Edith said.

"I just don't see why the rush," Mary said. "The question of the entail still hasn't been settled."

"It's been settled, just not to you or your mother's liking," Robert said without looking up from his newspaper.

Sybil could see Mary bristle at her father's words. Sybil was about to say something when Thomas walked in.

"Mr. Crawley and Mr. Branson are in the entrance hall for you, milord. As are Mr. Murray and Mr. Jarvis."

"Good," Robert said folding up his newspaper and standing up. "Has Pratt brought the car around?"

"I believe he is on his way."

"Thank you, Thomas. Carson, please let her ladyship know they'll be joining us for luncheon."

"Very good, milord."

The girls watched as their father left without another word.

"Why are you so against him?" Sybil asked Mary.

"He is against me, or didn't you just witness," Mary replied.

"Papa is not against you, the laws are, but I meant Cousin Matthew. Why don't you like him? "

"Aside from the fact that he's planning to steal our inheritance."

"Your inheritance," Edith said pointedly. "It makes no difference to Sybil and me. We won't inherit whatever happens."

Mary put her napkin down as if to stand. "He isn't one of us."

Sybil rolled her eyes. "Cousin Freddy is studying for the bar, and so is Vivien MacDonald!"

"At Lincoln's Inn, not sitting at a dirty little desk in Ripon," Mary replied. "Besides his father was a doctor."

"There's nothing wrong with doctors," Sybil insisted. "We all need doctors."

Mary sighed with exasperation. "We all need sweepers and stable hands, it doesn't mean we have to dine with them."

At Mary's words, Sybil stood abruptly, having barely started her breakfast. "I've left something upstairs excuse me."

A bewildered Mary watched Sybil hurry out of the room, and when her eyes landed on Edith, sitting across from her, she saw a knowing expression on her younger sister's face. "What?"

"Does it ever occur to you that the palace you live in inside your head is too fancy to welcome anyone but you?" With that Edith stood and left Mary there alone.

Mary didn't know how long she'd been sitting there when Carson came up behind her and asked quietly, "Are you finished, milady?"

"What—oh, yes." She stood up to give Carson room to clear her plate. She moved to leave the breakfast table, when she heard him softly clear his throat. "Was there something else, Carson?"

"If I may, milady, Lady Sybil has a tender heart."

Mary smiled. "She does."

"Too tender perhaps to understand the realities of the world, as you and I do, and what propriety requires of us to live in it. "

"Thank you, Carson."

Mary took her leave and made her way up to Sybil's room, where she found her sister at one of her windows staring out onto the grounds.

Without turning around, but having heard Mary walk in, Sybil said, "What if I were to marry a middle class lawyer, would you ever deign to dine with us?"

Mary came up behind Sybil and put her hand on her shoulder. "Oh, darling, don't worry about such things. Once you're out, you'll marry best of all of us."

"Don't be ridiculous," Sybil said, shrugging off her sister's hand.

"Look, I know that you don't believe you'll have the same chances as Edith and I did during our seasons, giving our lesser state currently, but—"

Sybil turned to face her sister. "Is that what you think this is about—that I'm worried about my prospects?! Mary, look around! Can you explain to me what about our life now is so different from what it was at Downton Abbey? Or what makes someone less worthy of us because they have a profession—a good and honorable one?"

Mary sighed. "Sybil, you don't understand—"

"No, I don't understand. I don't understand why you are putting on all these silly airs when you know perfectly well who our mother's father was."

"Sybil—"

"And I don't understand why you insist on pretending your attitude toward Cousin Matthew is anything but an expression of grief." Sybil took her sister's hands into her on and her voice softened. "Your chance to be mistress of Downton is gone, and you have chosen to blame Matthew but it is not his fault. He was born into this situation, just as the men who work at our stables have no better prospects because they were born into theirs. Stop grieving the life that is no longer yours and grieve the man. Allow yourself to miss Patrick, please."

Mary pulled her hands away from Sybil and turned away. And it wasn't until her shoulders started to shake that Sybil could tell she was crying, finally, for the cousin, the love she had lost. Sybil leaned against her sisters back and put her arms around her to offer comfort.

Some time later, Mary having calmed and left to go lie down with a sort of peace having been made between at least these two sisters, Sybil made her way to the library. She walked straight to the bookcase in the corner nearest to the door and stopped directly in front of it. After staring at it for a few minutes, Sybil sighed, underwhelmed by the selection.

"Would you like me to make a recommendation?"

A surprised Sybil gasped loudly and brought her hand to her heart, turning to see one Tom Branson smiling widely beside her, seeming quite pleased with himself.

Tom had been reviewing expenses at Downton Abbey from old ledgers Robert had left for him for the purpose of ensuring they could be covered when the family returned and Downton Place was rented out, but having more or less completed the task, he found himself a bit bored. He didn't want to intrude on the family by exploring the house. He'd looked around the library itself and was surprised by the wide range of titles on the subjects of history and politics, especially considering Robert's traditionalist leanings. A short time ago, he'd sat back down to check his work when he heard someone walk in. He practically lit up when he saw that it was Sybil.

"Do you enjoy startling me?" Sybil asked, brow furrowed, hoping she did not look as flushed as she felt.

"The first time was quite by accident. I admit this was deliberate, and since you ask, I did enjoy it, yes," he said with an impish smile, moving to stand next to her, also facing the bookcase.

Sybil's brow remained furrowed, but the corners of her lips curved upward. "I thought you were touring the estate with papa?"

"With his lordship, Matthew, Murray and Jarvis all present, there was no room in the motor for all of us, seeing as they were going to pick up a tenant on the way. As the least essential member of the party, I volunteered to stay behind."

"Have you been here alone the whole time?"

"The footman came in with some tea, but other than that, yes. I was looking over some of your father's old papers at his request, so the solitude was helpful."

"Does papa need legal help?"

"Accounting help," Tom said with a smile.

"So you're a jack of all trades."

"And a master of none."

The pair was content to look at one another for a long silent moment. This being the first opportunity each had to study the other up close.

Eventually, Tom turned back to the bookcase and asked, "So do you want one?"

"One what?"

"A suggestion about what to read. I assume that's why you're here."

"I've read them all already. I was just looking them over to see if any here merited re-reading."

"You've read all these books?" Tom asked turning to the rest of the library behind them.

Sybil's eyes widened. "Goodness, no! Just the ones on this shelf, here, where the fiction and poetry are kept."

"Do you not have a taste for nonfiction?"

"More like I don't have a mind for it."

"What do you mean?"

"My governess left me a year ago, and I haven't had any proper schooling. The reading of them is likely more than I am capable of."

Tom looked at her in a way that Sybil thought she could feel down to her toes. "I doubt that," he whispered.

He let another moment pass before he added in his normal tone of voice, "I had a very good education, and I can tell you that there's little more to university than reading books and talking about them with like minded people. The books are obviously at your disposal. This library is an education onto itself. You just need someone to make conversation with."

Sybil wondered if he would offer himself for the task. She had just about gathered the courage to ask, when he turned back to the bookcase they were still standing in front of.

"Reading all of these is no small feat. May I venture a guess as to your favorite?"

Sybil gestured for him to go ahead. He made a bit of a spectacle of perusing the titles, turning toward her to see if her reactions offered any hint. As she watched him, Sybil tried to contain her laughter. Finally, he settled on one, pulled it out of its spot and handed it to her. It was Wuthering Heights.

Sybil took it with a smile and flipped through the pages. "You must think me something of a silly romantic girl if you think I favor the heady melodrama of Catherine and Heathcliff." Handing it back to him, she said with a smile, "Of the Brontë sisters, I prefer Charlotte."

Tom put it back on its spot on the shelf. "Well, in my defense, I've known you for less a day."

"It's not a terribly bad guess given the circumstances."

"So what is your favorite?"

"Give it some time, and see if you can spot it accurately when you get to know me better."

Tom smiled at the prospect of many more conversations with her. "So what will it be, then?"

Sybil sighed, looking over the shelves. "I'm not sure. The choices have seemed a bit lacking of late."

"Lacking? There are hundreds of books in this room."

Sybil rolled her eyes at his teasing. "As to quality not quantity—well, not quality so much as variety."

"Variety?"

"Nothing here veers away from what you'd expect. There's nothing . . . unconventional."

"So that's what you're after?"

"I'd settle for something I've not read before."

"Well, in that case . . ." Tom put his hands on Sybil's shoulders and turned her to face away from the bookcase that held everything she knew and toward the rest of the library and everything she didn't. Standing behind her, he said, "The world awaits, Lady Sybil. Best get started."

She looked over her shoulder at him in wonder. Tom tapped her shoulders with his hands one more time and went back to the desk. "And when you're ready to discuss what you've picked, let me know."

Not a moment later, Edith walked by the entrance to the library.

"Sybil! There you are."

Sybil turned her head to see her sister at the door. "Here I am."

Edith walked in. "Oh, Mr. Branson, you're here."

"Yes, I stayed behind to do some work for his lordship," Tom said standing again with Edith's entrance.

"Do you need anything?" Edith asked.

"No, I'm fine, thank you."

Edith turned to Sybil. "Do you fancy a walk? I wanted to go out of doors for a bit and thought some company might be nice."

Sybil smiled. "Sure."

With Sybil and Edith gone, Tom sank back into the chair with a sigh. He scratched his head wondering what kind of spell it was he was cast under in her presence. He wondered also why exactly it was that he had offered to stay behind, not daring to admit that the reason might have just left the room.

"He's an odd fellow, don't you think?" Edith asked, once she and Sybil were on the path around the grounds.

"Who, Mr. Branson?"

"Yes, with all that talk last night of teaching women about business."

"I found that quite interesting. I've always wished for an education of any kind."

Edith smiled, grabbing her sister's arm and linking it with her own. "Oh, dear Sybil, I'm afraid it's too late for us. We'll have to throw ourselves at the mercy of the next two dukes who come for a visit."

"Dukes? Why stop there? His majesty has two sons, does he not?"

Edith looked at her sister and the two clutched each other in a fit of laughter.

The truth was, though, the king himself couldn't have convinced Sybil to think of anyone else but the person currently sitting in the library.

Chapter Text

Moseley was hovering.

Tonight was his second night with his two young masters in the house, and still they showed no signs of making use of his services as valet. So he resorted to pacing the hallway space between their bedrooms, waiting for them to finish undressing themselves so he could take their dirty clothes downstairs to be laundered.

In the week that Tom had been upstairs by himself, with Isobel and Matthew yet to arrive at Downton village, Tom had insisted on taking his laundry down himself—and saying no to every one of Moseley's offers of help. But with the mistress of the house now present, Moseley felt it necessary to assert himself and his position. He'd been asked, in the letter Isobel had sent to him ahead of her arrival, to give Mr. Branson a wide berth as he settled in, given his unique situation, but Moseley would only allow so much room. If Tom was a member of the family, Moseley would treat him as such—whether Tom liked it or not.

And he did not like it. Neither one of the young men did. It was a predicament unlike any Moseley, a butler for ten years now, had ever experienced. He was at his wits' end.

Isobel had seen him pacing a few minutes ago, when she'd come up from the kitchen after tea and a long chat with Claire in the housekeeper's sitting room.

"Is there something the matter, Moseley?"

"Not at all, mum. Just waiting for Mr. Crawley and Mr. Branson to change so I may take their day clothes to Ivy for laundering."

"They won't accept your help with anything?" she asked knowing the answer.

"I'm afraid not," he said with a patient smile.

"I wish I could tell you that this will be an easy fight, but two more stubborn young men cannot be found in the whole of England. You may use the time in some other useful way until they relent. I will not think you are shirking your duties."

"Thank you, mum."

She proceeded to her room at the end of the hall, and Moseley continued with his pacing.

Moseley found Isobel a kind employer who ran her home with a steady hand. He'd worked for a widow before and knew that the absence of a husband caused some women to come to depend on others, especially when advanced in age, but Isobel showed no sign of softness in that regard. He was glad for it, and it served her well considering the untraditional nature of the family of which she was matriarch. Only a woman of strong conviction could lead such a clan with both discretion and disregard to what others might say. He was glad, too, that he and not some other, more judgmental person had been hired to serve them.

Others of his profession would have resigned upon learning that they'd be working for the child of a servant. It had been a shocking revelation to Moseley, but he would not walk away. He was the son of a butler and had once longed to step away from the family business. He eventually submitted to it, having found no other recourse but the army—and what he believed would be certain death as a member of the infantry, where the working class recruits were invariably assigned.

He had not and would never meet Dr. Reginald Crawley, the man who had generously offered Tom the alternative Moseley had not been given, but having heard his story, Moseley concluded that Dr. Crawley's memory merited respect. Moseley resolved to serve with dignity Reginald's two sons, the first natural, the second adopted. Even if those sons would not submit to his help without a fight.

The "fight" had started in earnest that afternoon.

Cora and Violet had stopped by to visit Isobel. While Tom had gone to his office in Ripon after luncheon at Downton Place, Matthew returned home and, when the guests arrived later that day, joined them for tea.

Moseley felt like a useless fop, walking a pace behind Matthew, trying to anticipate his needs as a butler should, but merely getting in the way of a man who seemed pleased to do everything himself and irritated that anyone should try to help him.

Recalling the experience, and the faces of Lady Grantham and the Dowager Countess as they watched, understanding that in their minds the servant would always be at fault, Moseley felt a wave of irritation hit him again. Suddenly needing to do something more than just stand idly in the hallway, he knocked on Matthew's door.

"Come in."

Matthew was sitting at a small desk in the corner of the room writing and didn't bother to look up to see who it was. He'd removed his jacket, which now lay in a heap on his bed.

Moseley cleared his throat, causing Matthew to turn for a moment before going back to his writing.

"Can I help, Moseley?"

Moseley took a deep breath. "I was wondering if you needed help, sir, getting out of your suit."

Matthew finished what he was writing, put away his pen and turned to face him. "I can certainly manage getting into my bedclothes on my own."

Moseley did not move from his spot.

Matthew smiled at the man's relentlessness, then stood to walk to his wardrobe and opened it. "I know I'm a disappointment to you Moseley, but it's no good. I'll never get used to getting dressed and undressed like a doll."

"I'm only trying to help, sir."

"Of course. And if I've offended you, I apologize, but surely you have better things to do."

"This is my job, sir."

"Well, it seems a very silly occupation for a grown man."

Having realized what he'd just said and the offense he might have given, Matthew slumped and turned back to Moseley, whose expression had not changed. "I'm sorry."

"May I take your laundry, then?"

Matthew sighed. He took his pajamas into the bathroom adjacent to his room and in a few minutes returned dressed for bed and with his suit in his hands.

Moseley took the clothes from him. "Thank you, sir."

"I really am sorry."

Moseley gave a slight bow and left the room.

He'd just closed the door behind him, when across the hall, Tom's door opened. He was wearing his pajamas and a robe, his clear intention to take his own laundry downstairs.

"Mr. Branson, I'm already taking Mr. Crawley's clothes downstairs. There is certainly no use in both of us making the trip."

Tom was about to object, but upon closer inspection of Moseley's face, which carried the expression of a man who'd had a long, trying day, he relented and handed Moseley his clothes.

With a smile, Tom asked, "Are we trying your patience a bit too much?"

"Not at all, sir," Moseley replied with a tone that suggested a sliver sarcasm—as much as any dignified butler would allow himself—causing Tom to laugh.

"Good night, Moseley."

"Good night, sir."

They are stubborn, Moseley thought as he made his way downstairs. But so am I.

The following morning, Cora was up and about early. Seeing Violet before luncheon was not her idea of starting the day off on the right foot, but Robert and Matthew were moving full steam ahead with their plans for the estate. If they were going to do something on Mary's behalf it had to be soon. There was also the fact that Mary wasn't having an easy time with the uncertainty of her position. After so many years married to Robert, Cora would never have expected that the little that was left of her money would be the point at which she and Violet would form an alliance, considering how distasteful Violet found the topic of money in general and how even more distasteful Violet had found Cora upon learning that her son had agreed to marry her for her fortune. Still, Violet had her moments, wherein grace and intuition would rule over the aristocratic upbringing. Cora was hoping one such moment would take place this morning because the further along Matthew got into his plans, the harder it would be to task Tom with working against them.

They'd been discussing the entail almost since Cora arrived. She'd been waiting for just the right moment to suggest his help.

"We're running out of options," Violet said a bit irked at not having found a solution to her liking. "Lawyers I write to only huff and puff. They echo Murray, 'Nothing can be done.' "

"Well, they don't want the bother of opposing him," Cora responded.

"Precisely," Violet said with a sigh.

"I wish Mary wasn't so confident it could be put right."

"What has she said about him?"

"About Matthew? Nothing particularly forgiving, I'm afraid."

"Who can blame her? He seems an odd young man with all that talk of weekends and jobs. And the company he keeps!"

"You mean Mr. Branson?" Cora asked, wishing he'd entered into the conversation in a more positive way. Violet was going to take convincing about Cora's plan as it was.

"Women discussing business—who ever heard of such a thing! Next, he'll be saying we should take seats in Parliament."

Cora smiled, knowingly. "Perhaps if we did, the laws would have prevented this situation."

Violet rolled her eyes. "Of course, you would agree with him. But that aside, there is another way out of this."

"What would that be?" Cora had a suspicion where Violet was going but was surprised she would suggest it.

"Let them be married."

"Mary and Matthew?"

"Certainly, I don't mean Mary and Mr. Branson!"

Cora laughed. "I thought you didn't like Matthew."

"So what!? I have plenty of friends I don't like."

"But would you want Mary to marry one of them?"

Violet, looking at Cora out of the corner of her eye as she lifted her tea cup, replied, "You and Robert have a noxious habit of pretending to be nicer than the rest of us. Well, Robert does, anyway. I suppose being American, you feel you must be nice to everyone, tedious as that may be."

Cora could only laugh at Violet's condescension.

"If Mary were to marry him, then all would be resolved," Violet concluded.

Cora paused. This was the moment. "I haven't entirely given up on finding a lawyer."

"Did you have someone in mind? Because as I said, we're running out of options."

"Well, we now know two more lawyers than we did a week ago," Cora said with a serene smile.

"Surely, you're not suggesting asking Matthew! Do you really think he'd argue against his own interests?"

"I was actually thinking of Mr. Branson."

"What?"

"He's a solicitor as well. Robert spoke highly of him after they came to dinner, and we've already heard him argue for the notion that women should have some rights."

"A radical notion."

"Are there any alternatives?"

Violet sighed. "Has it really come to this?"

"I'm presenting it as a last resort, but to be honest, I think he'd do more justice to the task than whoever might have been our first choice. I'll talk to him."

"No, let me. He'll still need some convincing. We are asking him to oppose his friend, and forgive me, Cora, but I am better at getting people to do what I want."

"I won't argue with that."

The matter settled, the two sat in silence as they finished their tea and biscuits.

After a while, Violet spoke up. "Is anything being done for Sybil's birthday?"

"Oh, yes. We'll have her favorite dinner as usual. I was thinking of inviting the Grey family—they're very fond of Sybil—and perhaps Rosamund and the MacClares if they are back in London."

"I believe they're still in the Highlands, but Rosamund would make the trip, I'm sure."

"Robert has missed his time at Duneagle the last two years."

"I don't know why. Shrimpie extended the invitation."

"I think he still feels rather humbled about the loss of Downton and has exiled himself from there as penance."

"I really wish he would just get on with it. Humility is such a trying emotion."

Cora smiled. "I wouldn't have thought you familiar with it."

"Oh, not me. I just mean it's trying when I have put up with it in someone else."

"You do not love the place yet."

Robert's words startled Matthew.

"Well, obviously, it's—"

"No you don't love it, but perhaps you will."

The two had taken another trip to Downton Abbey, alone this time, to explore the grounds on foot. Their visit with Murray and Jarvis the day before had been productive. Murray was as eager to modernize as Matthew was, having been privy to how perilously close the family had been to losing Downton for decades before it actually happened and having warned Robert about that prospect to no avail until it became reality. Jarvis was not so open to new ideas. He'd more or less lost his job when the family had been forced to abandon the estate and sell roughly a third of the land off, as well as several houses and cottages in the village. Robert had thought Jarvis would like the opportunity to return when what remained of the farms, most of which had lain fallow for the last year, would be made active again. But unless it involved returning to the old ways, Jarvis had not seemed much interested, which meant that Matthew's plan now included finding a new land agent.

On this visit, Robert and Matthew's discussion focused on the big house itself. It was alarming to Robert the extent to which it had fallen into disrepair in only 15 months, but he was hopeful that it could shine again. After studying the finances, Tom had given him a promising report regarding the family's possible return. The rent sought for Downton Place would have to increase from previous years in order to fully cover the costs of upkeep and staff at Downton Abbey. Tom had taken the liberty of figuring a generous raise for the servants in the process, which Robert accepted, albeit somewhat reluctantly at first, for fear it would make a renter more difficult to find. Murray, however, assured Robert that the task would be easy. Ironically, it turned out, the fact that men like Robert were losing their estates and needing to downsize created a greater demand for smaller country homes like the one the Crawleys had escaped to when crisis first hit.

Now, seeing his rightful seat in the distance, as he and Matthew walked, Robert pledged not to lose it again—which meant ensuring that Matthew would grow to love it as his own.

Matthew smiled at his entreaties. "I understand your attachment to it, Robert, and I remember it as a marvelous place, but it is just a house."

Robert sighed. "To you, perhaps. You see a million bricks that may crumble, a thousand gutters and pipes that can leak and stone that will crack at the frost."

"But you don't?"

"I see my life's work—such as it is. I failed those who came before. I failed you as heir, but you've offered your own form of rescue. I want you to come to see the worth, the importance of what you've done. I would like that to be my role going forward, if I can offer nothing else."

Matthew smiled again. "Murray mentioned yesterday that the estate had been in danger before."

Robert laughed. "Many times. My dear papa thought the balloon would go up in the 1880s."

"What saved it?"

"Cora."

The two continued walking in silence. Matthew knew that people of Robert's position often married for reasons having to do more with family politics than love. Robert had more or less had married for the sake of saving his family home, believing it part of his duty. Duty. Matthew thought back to the question Tom had asked him when he was still pondering whether to come to Yorkshire to rescue the estate.

"Do you think you could make it your duty?"

Matthew wasn't sure he could answer that question. At least, he wasn't sure whether he'd ever be prepared to make a marital decision such as Robert had made. Downton would be his, but the extent to which he would accept such emotional ownership of it remained uncertain in his mind.

Robert pulled him out of his reverie.

"About your scheme for buying back and restoring the estate cottages."

"You like the idea?" Matthew asked.

"Very much. I believe it will do the village much good, and might offer just compensation to the tenants who chose not to move forward with us."

"That's the hope. As we've seen with Jarvis, not everyone will like the idea of forward change."

"Why don't you come for dinner, and we'll talk about it. I know it's getting late, but we can let Isobel and Tom know, and have them bring Moseley with your clothes."

"I've been meaning to speak to you about Moseley," Matthew said, happy not to have to broach the topic himself.

"Oh?"

"Would you find me very undignified if I dispensed with his services."

"Why? Has he displeased you in some way?"

"Not at all. It's simply that he's superfluous to our style of living. Neither Tom nor I have ever used the services of a valet."

"Is that quite fair? To deprive a man of his livelihood when he's done nothing wrong?"

"I know you see it differently, but—"

"You must derive satisfaction from your work, I think, a sense of self worth."

"Certainly," Matthew said, not sure where Robert was taking his point.

"Would you really deny the same to poor old Moseley? And when you are master here is the butler to be dismissed or the footman? How many maids or kitchen staff will be allowed to stay, or must everyone be driven out?"

Matthew sighed. This hadn't been the conversation he wanted to have.

"We all have different parts to play, Matthew, and we must all be allowed to play them."

Robert continued walking, leaving Matthew to contemplate what he'd just said.

Matthew knew Tom well enough to know he would never accept the services of a valet. But Matthew was starting to realize he himself might be left with no choice in the matter.

And indeed, that evening, when Matthew sent word to the house about dinner at Downton Place, he requested that Moseley come along and with a rueful smile, submitted to his ministrations. Meeting Tom again on the landing as they headed to the drawing room before dinner, Tom greeted Matthew with a teasing grin, which, oddly, comforted Matthew. Because if he had to become an aristocrat, he figured, better that it happen without his best friend's judgment or discomfort.

"I see you've given in," Tom said.

"Yesterday, in talking to Robert about change at Downton, I offered that it was inadvisable to fight the inevitable. I decided to follow my own advice." Matthew smiled, then added, "But you should be careful."

"Why is that?"

"Because this means Moseley will be gunning for you next."

Tom rolled his eyes and laughed.

"We'll see about that."

Cora had been thinking about her conversation with Violet all day. Mary and Matthew. Matthew and Mary. It wasn't a terrible idea. It was a sensible solution, but would they accept it? Cora didn't presume to know Matthew well enough to know how he would react to the suggestion, but she had a feeling she knew what Mary would say. Their first interactions had not been warm, to say the least.

When time came to get ready for dinner, Cora dressed quickly, and after dismissing O'Brien, her lady's maid, headed straight for Mary's room. Cora came into the room just as Anna was leaving.

"You look very nice, my dear," Cora began.

"Thank you."

"Are you feeling better?"

"Better?"

"Anna said you were laying down most of yesterday. I assumed you weren't feeling well."

"Oh, it was just a headache."

Cora stood behind Mary, who was sitting at her vanity, and smiled at her daughter's reflection in the mirror. "I'm glad to get you alone."

Mary smirked. "That sounds ominous."

"Violet and I talked again about finding a lawyer. I think we settled on one."

"Will he take the case?"

"We haven't asked yet, but I think so."

"Good."

"But I do want you to be prepared for all possible outcomes."

Mary looked up at her mother. "Don't tell me you've lost hope."

"No. But I don't want you to feel you have to dislike Matthew."

Mary rolled her eyes and stood, while Cora took her place on the seat of the vanity, facing her daughter, who was now in front of her full length mirror.

"You disliked the idea of him," Mary said.

"That was before he came. Now he's here, I don't see any future in it. Not the way things are."

Mary was losing her patience. Her father had never been in her corner. She didn't want to lose her mother too. "I don't believe a woman can be forced to give away all her money to a distant cousin of her husband's. Not in the 20th century. It's too ludicrous for words."

"It's not as simple as that. The money isn't mine any more. It forms a part of the estate."

"Even so when a—"

"For once in your life will you please just listen!" Both Mary and Cora were surprised at the force of Cora's words. Perhaps Cora couldn't convince her daughter to like Matthew, but she at least had to convince her to consider the possibility. Cora loved her eldest daughter, but, stubbornly, Mary had been the last to accept the ramifications of the loss of the family fortune. She had to be made to see reason.

Cora took a deep breath and began again. "I believe there is an answer, which would secure your future and give you a position."

Mary knew immediately what her mother was talking about, but no. She would accept Matthew as heir if she was given no alternative, but she would not be forced to marry him. "You can't be serious."

"Just think about it."

"I don't have to think about it. Marry a man who can barely hold his knife like a gentleman?"

"Oh you exaggerate," Cora said, rolling her eyes.

Mary shook her head dismissively. "You're American. You don't understand these things. Have you mentioned this to granny? Did she laugh?"

"Why would she? It was her idea."

Mary's head whipped around to her mother, but before she could retort, there was a knock on the door. It was Sybil.

"There you are, mama."

"Oh, I'm sorry I missed you, my darling. Let's see how Gwen has done."

Sybil turned around to show off the back of her hair, which was up in a series of ornate loops, a more ambitious an effort from Gwen than usual.

"She's getting better," Mary said.

"I think so," Sybil said, pleased with her and her mother's seeming approval.

"You do look very nice my dear. I'm glad you're putting in a bit more effort."

Sybil blushed. Is it that obvious?

Mary turned to her mother. "You have two more daughters, mama, maybe they will consider your and granny's proposal."

"What proposal?" Sybil asked.

Cora gave Mary a sharp look before turning back to Sybil. "Never you mind. Now are we all ready to go down?"

"Actually, mama, I came in to see you but also for my gloves. I must have left them here last night."

"Well, hurry along. Matthew, Isobel and Mr. Branson are already downstairs."

As Cora left, Mary went to her night table where Sybil's gloves were still resting.

"What was all that about?" Sybil asked.

Mary came back over and handed her the gloves. "Mama, thinks Matthew and I should marry."

Sybil, who had started to put her gloves on, stopped short, thinking of the previous morning and her long-overdue outpouring of grief for the man Mary would have married. "What do you think of that?"

Mary sighed and sat on the bed. "I don't know. I don't want to."

"Well, you do have a choice," Sybil said coming to sit next to her.

"Do I?" Mary said with a rueful smile.

"You had a choice with Patrick."

"Patrick was different."

"Patrick wasn't middle class, you mean," Sybil said frowning.

"To start."

"Well, I do think you're unfair in putting so much interest in Matthew's position now seeing as he'll be an earl. But you really don't have to if you don't want to."

"Would you like to marry him?" Mary asked pointedly.

"Me? No!" Sybil laughed.

Mary stood and held out her hand for her sister. "He'll have to settle for Edith, then. Lord knows she'll settle for anyone."

They shared a giggle then headed downstairs. As they walked down the staircase, though, Sybil frowned slightly. It occurred to her as they headed down that in the moment that had just passed, Mary believed Sybil had objected for the same reason Mary had—an assumption that Sybil expected to marry a man of her own station. And in that regard, Mary was wrong. Sybil held no such expectation.

Sybil liked Tom. Very much. Yet she was mature enough not to have yet entertained the idea of marrying any specific person, let alone someone she'd just met, regardless of social status.

Even so, the question she'd asked Mary yesterday suddenly crept back into her mind.

"What if I were to marry a middle class lawyer, would you ever deign to dine with us?"

Sybil had only asked to make a point, but now she wanted to know.

And the answer was anything but clear.

Chapter Text

Sybil entered the drawing room just behind Mary and saw that they were the last of the family to arrive. Matthew, Isobel and Edith were sitting on the sofa, and Violet and Cora were across from them in armchairs. Her father was at his usual spot by the hearth. Next to him was Tom.

Sybil was about to walk over to them when her mother gestured to her. Sybil went over to Cora, who extended her hand and took Sybil's into hers.

Turning to the sofa, Cora said, "Isobel, I do hope you will all join us for Sybil's birthday celebration next week."

Isobel perked up at the invitation. "We'd love to come."

"We'll be inviting some family friends as well as Robert's sister, Rosamund," Cora went on. "Not a big to do, but enjoyable, we hope."

"How old will you be?" Matthew asked.

"Seventeen," Sybil answered quietly.

There's that mystery solved, Tom thought to himself, smiling. She was slightly younger than he'd thought, but no less interesting for it, if their first conversation—and her apparently voracious appetite for books—had been an accurate indication.

"What a delightful age," Isobel said, "though I suppose a bit frustrating, too."

"Oh? How so?" Violet asked with a skeptical expression.

"Old enough to be aware of the adult world but still too young to have it within reach yet," Isobel responded.

"An accurate description, to be sure," Sybil said with a smile.

Mary sat down in the spot vacated by Matthew, who had moved to join the other men at the hearth, both steering well clear of each other in the process. Notice of their interaction did not escape Sybil.

Isobel, who had been discussing the possibility of helping at the hospital to Cora and Violet before Sybil and Mary had walked in, continued the conversation, giving Sybil the opportunity to walk over to the other side of the room, to the chaiselong by the window to sit down. She'd not been there but a few minutes when Tom sauntered over to her.

"You will notice that I let you see me as I approached," he said jokingly, leaning against the window sill next to the chaise.

Sybil smiled. "Thank you for that."

"So have you chosen a book? I noticed that you left the library yesterday morning without having done so."

"I am still thinking about what topic to start with." She paused for a moment, then asked, "What interests you?"

"History and politics, but that shouldn't enter into your decision."

"Why not?"

"This is about you. You should learn about things that you like."

Sybil felt herself blushing ever so slightly at the pointed way he'd said 'you,' punctuated by a nod of his head.

"That's an advantage you'll have in an informal education," he continued. "You are not at the mercy of your professor's scholarly inclinations. So what does interest you?"

She thought for a moment. "I will risk sounding flighty in saying so, but I'm not sure. I think I would know what would interest me if I saw a topic in front of me, but I don't know that I've ever been prompted to vocalize it just generally."

"Nobody has ever asked you what your interests are before?"

She furrowed her brow and looked down, realizing the truth for the first time. "I don't think anybody has." She looked back up at him. "I suppose I should thank you."

He smiled. "You're welcome."

She thought for a few minutes more. "This is harder than I thought. I feel as if I am thinking of everything and nothing at the same time."

"OK, what do you like to do?"

"I like riding, and walking through our gardens here. When I was a child, I enjoyed pretending my dolls were sick so I could cure them. All of that said aloud and at once makes me seem very silly—I'm afraid there is no serious subject in any of it."

"Nonsense. You have sport, botany and medicine—three terribly interesting subjects. I'm sure your father has stocked plenty of volumes on each. And I know Aunt Isobel would be happy to recommend a starter in the subject of medicine."

"That's quite a parlor trick."

Tom looked out the window, smiling, as if embarrassed. Watching his profile, Sybil considered how boyish he looked. He was several years older than her, obviously, but younger than his intellect made him seem.

"I also liked what you said yesterday about women being better informed as to how the world affects us," she added, bringing his attention back to her.

He smiled widely. "Women's rights—a topic also available in your library, though it's one your father would probably prefer you steer clear of."

"If you think that disqualifies my interest, you're wrong."

His eyes widened in delighted surprise.

"How does a young man like you engender such an interest?" She asked, surprising him again.

She didn't know it, of course, but it was a loaded question given that his answer was the plight of widowed and working women like his mother, the housekeeper.

Feeling a bit hypnotized by her sweet and sincere charm, he opened his mouth slowly to speak, not sure what would come out. Before he had a chance to say anything, though, Carson called them to dinner.

"A topic for another day," he said, extending his hand to help her up. She stood, and side-by-side they followed the rest of the party to the dining room.

No one had heard Sybil and Tom's conversation, but as she stood up, Cora briefly wondered about the reason for Sybil suddenly making an effort to look her best. Then, Cora's eyes went to Mary, who was looking at Matthew warily. And just like that whatever thought had been forming in the back of the mother's mind about the youngest daughter evaporated into worry about the eldest and was forgotten.

Once everyone else had filed into the dining room and sat down, Robert, still standing behind his chair, cleared his throat to get everyone's attention.

"I have an announcement to make, a celebratory one that even now I can scarcely believe I am making."

Mary looked over to her mother, a question in her expression, but Cora shrugged her shoulders slightly, making it clear she didn't know what was coming.

Robert continued. "Thanks to Matthew's generosity and Tom's sharp mind, in a month's time we will be leaving this house to return to our home at Downton Abbey."

The collective gasp that went around the room was a mix of joy and disbelief.

Cora, tears in her eyes and not able to contain herself, stood and walked around the table to hug her husband, whose eyes were red with emotion. After, she did the same with Matthew and Tom. Violet tsk'ed at this outward show of effusive emotion, but happiness was visible behind her eyes. Sybil and Edith laughed with joy, happy for their family's turn in fortune, and as they both turned to a stunned Mary, they saw her stoic countenance trying to fight a wave of warring emotions. Mary, in truth, did not know what to think. This is what she had wished for, to go back to the house that she'd always intended to be her home forever, so why was she now unsure as to her place there?

Cora noticed Mary's reaction and grabbed her shoulder in a show of support on her way back to her chair. "This is wonderful news, don't you think, Mary?"

This pulled Mary back into the room, and she smiled. "Yes, very much." She looked down to collect herself, then looking at Matthew with a look that conveyed sincere gratitude if short of sincere affection, said quietly, "Thank you."

Matthew returned her smile and, seeing a quality akin to vulnerability in her for the first time, resolved to let down his own guard as well.

Carson, who'd been standing with Thomas in the back of the room, ready to begin serving, stepped up to Robert, "Your lordship—"

Robert turned to him immediately, "Gracious! Carson, I should have asked you to bring the staff up for the announcement."

"So I may share the excellent news downstairs, milord?"

"You may," Robert said. "We will discuss the move as well as hiring back additional staff for the house tomorrow with Mr. Crawley, here, yourself and Mrs. Hughes."

"Certainly, milord."

Robert added, "And you can also announce a raise in wages to the staff."

Tom grinned, happy to have won that battle.

"Thank you, milord, that is very generous."

"Thank Mr. Branson," Robert said smiling over at Tom. "He made it happen."

"Is this what you were working on in the library yesterday, Mr. Branson?" Sybil asked.

"It was."

Sybil grinned in response, inwardly looking forward to sharing the tale with Gwen.

"So we're indulging in socialism now, are we?" Violet asked.

"Certainly not, mama," Robert said, rolling his eyes. "Don't be silly."

"A fair wage is hardly socialism, your ladyship," Tom spoke up. "Or do you disagree with the notion that we should share in the good times with those who have shared in the bad with us?"

Violet narrowed her eyes at him, as if sizing him up. Finally she said, "An eloquently stated question to which there is no good answer except no," reluctantly conceding the point to Tom but doing so with a smile. She looked over at Cora and nodded slightly, as if relenting to her the earlier point that Tom was the man for the job on the entail.

Cora lifted her glass. "Indeed, very well said, Mr. Branson. Cheers to you both."

The rest of the family joined in her toast and dinner proceeded in the celebratory tone in which Robert had started it. Tom and Matthew felt welcomed and appreciated by people they had, only days before, believed completely alien to themselves. Isobel was beaming proudly and feeling a lump in her throat brought on by the wish that Reginald—and Claire, who at that moment was chatting quietly with Ivy in her small sitting room—could see them now.

After dinner, when the ladies moved to the drawing room, Tom excused himself to Robert and Matthew, who were continuing their ongoing discussion about the restoration of Downton Abbey, and stole away to the library.

He made it back to the drawing room after about ten minutes, just as Robert and Matthew entered, but he didn't bother to sit or start conversation. Isobel, feeling tired, had asked if they could head home early, and so the whole group made their way to the entrance hall to say their goodbyes.

Sybil was disappointed not to have more time to talk with Tom, but as she walked to the entrance hall, she felt him slip, discretely and unnoticed by anyone else, a small scrap of paper into her hand. She looked over at him as he did so, but he winked at her at said nothing, making her blush and grateful for the low lighting. Not wanting to draw attention to what he had given her, she slipped the paper into her glove to look at when she was alone in her room.

The visiting parties said their goodbyes and headed out to the waiting motors.

Violet, finding herself next to Matthew, ventured a word to him. "Will you be happy remaining at Crawley House when your investment is at Downton."

Matthew smiled. "We will. Downton may be my home eventually, but I see no reason to keep the family away until then."

Violet sighed. "We are all grateful, even Mary. She was quiet tonight, but I know she's been rather sharp with you."

"I doubt cousin Mary and I are destined to be close friends, but she'll be happier home at Downton, perhaps. As for her attitude regarding the situation, I don't blame her. Her father's home and her mother's fortune are to be passed to me. It's very harsh."

Violet, watching Tom as he helped Isobel aboard, asked, "What would you say if the entail was set aside in Mary's favor?"

"I should try to accept it with as good a grace as I could muster."

The answer satisfied Violet. Now, it was just a matter of putting the issue to the test.

Later that night, after Anna—sadly for Sybil, not Gwen—had come up to help her out of her clothes and into bed, Sybil took a deep breath and finally opened the note Tom had given her.

Wherever I am told I cannot go, that is where I want most to be. Back wall, third bookcase column from the left, second shelf from the bottom, seventh book from the right.

Sybil stoop up from her bed and opened her door quietly. Confident that the rest of her family was in for the night, she tiptoed her way to the library. Once there, she followed his instructions. The book was "A Vindication of the Rights of Women: with Strictures on Political and Moral Subjects by Mary Wollstonecraft." Sybil hugged it to her chest, giddy and grateful to him for having unearthed such a treasure for her.

As she stood from where she'd crouched to reach the book, she noticed her father's ledger and her shoulders drooped. Did she dare sign it out and risk his discovering this new area of interest and meet with his disapproval? She walked over to it and opened it slowly, trying to make a decision. Upon seeing the most recent entry, she let out a laugh. It was this very book, checked out by T. Branson. He'd thought of everything.

Sybil ran back to her room and set herself down on her bed for a long night of reading.

In another bed, not so very far away, Tom was lying awake, thinking about the new course his life was on and wondering whether it would ever have to veer very far away from hers.

Chapter Text

In the days that followed the announcement that the family would return to Downton Abbey, the house was a flurry of activity.

In seeming contrast, however, Sybil developed a habit of sleeping so late that Anna or Gwen had to wake her to ensure she did not miss breakfast. Both of her parents knew of and indulged Sybil's penchant for reading and smiled at her bleary eyed state on the occasional morning when she walked into the small dining room long after her sisters, but if either noticed the increased frequency with which she'd overslept this particular week, they did not say. They remained ignorant as to her current subject of interest.

It was attributable, of course, to her staying up hours into the night reading and, more to the point, thinking about what Tom had given her to read—Miss Wollstonecraft's treatise on women's rights. Normally, the act of reading lulled Sybil to sleep an hour or two after she'd settled into bed with the book she happened to be reading, but in this case, reading kept her awake, roiling her thoughts in such a way as to make sleep nigh impossible. Long after she'd put Miss Wollestonecraft's book down, Sybil would contemplate what it all meant and how it explained her own life and the life of her sisters.

When Miss Wollstonecraft's discussed the treatment of women at the hands of men who saw them merely as adornments and not as wholly formed humans of intellect and strength, and went on to discuss the weakening of the character of women as a result of being taught not to support one another but to compete for the affections of these men, Sybil thought of her sisters, the manner in which Patrick played them against one another seeming to Sybil more obvious than ever. Had he ever loved either one of them? There was affection, sure, but only the type of affection that spoke to, as Miss Wollstonecraft would say, the superficiality of the pleasantries of courtship that focus on beauty that will fade, not moral fiber and mind and spirit. No, Sybil thought, Patrick could not have loved them, for true love would have persuaded him to honor the sisterly bond between them and to treat them with the honesty and respect they were due.

When Miss Wollstonecraft's discussed the schooling, or lack thereof, of women, lambasting the men who considered her sex too weak for an appropriate education and who without irony pointed to the lack of knowledge of the world among women as the very reason to keep them in ignorance, Sybil considered again why she was not sent to school. Why was it considered improper for a young girl of her class to be sent to school? If propriety, in this case, was an instrument in the suppression of knowledge, how else was it applied to ill purpose in other facets of her life?

The book, the reading and re-reading of it—for she'd gone over it more than once—all of it challenged Sybil in a way that made her approaching birthday loom larger on her horizon. One year closer to adulthood, Sybil was now more eager than ever to live a full life, one that went well beyond what might be expected of her.

So it was that on the actual morning of her birthday, Sybil awoke early and with purpose. She dressed herself and sat down to copy her favorite passages of the book into her diary.

I have turned over various books written on the subject of education, and patiently observed the conduct of parents and the management of schools; but what has been the result?-a profound conviction that the neglected education of my fellow-creatures is the grand source of the misery I deplore, and that women, in particular, are rendered weak and wretched by a variety of concurring causes, originating from one hasty conclusion. The conduct and manners of women, in fact, evidently prove that their minds are not in a healthy state; for, like the flowers which are planted in too rich a soil, strength and usefulness are sacrificed to beauty; and the flaunting leaves, after having pleased a fastidious eye, fade, disregarded on the stalk, long before the season when they ought to have arrived at maturity. One cause of this barren blooming I attribute to a false system of education, gathered from the books written on this subject by men who, considering females rather as women than human creatures, have been more anxious to make them alluring mistresses than affectionate wives and rational mothers; and the understanding of the sex has been so hobbled by this specious homage, that the civilised women of the present century, with a few exceptions, are only anxious to inspire love, when they ought to cherish a nobler ambition, and by their abilities and virtues exact respect.

…

My own sex, I hope, will excuse me, if I treat them like rational creatures, instead of flattering their fascinating graces, and viewing them as if they were in a state of perpetual childhood, unable to stand alone. I earnestly wish to point out in what true dignity and human happiness consists. I wish to persuade women to endeavour to acquire strength, both of mind and body, and to convince them that the soft phrases, susceptibility of heart, delicacy of sentiment, and refinement of taste, are almost synonymous with epithets of weakness, and that those beings who are only the objects of pity, and that kind of love which has been termed its sister, will soon become objects of contempt.

…

Dismissing, then, those pretty feminine phrases, which the men condescendingly use to soften our slavish dependence, and despising that weak elegancy of mind, exquisite sensibility, and sweet docility of manners, supposed to be the sexual characteristics of the weaker vessel, I wish to show that elegance is inferior to virtue, that the first object of laudable ambition is to obtain a character as a human being, regardless of the distinction of sex. . . .

She was on the last sentence when Gwen came in.

"Milady, you're up!"

Sybil smiled. "I can hardly believe it myself given how I've been this week, but I was feeling inspired." Sybil finished writing and stood to see that Gwen was holding a small package.

With a bright smile, Gwen stepped forward to hand it to Sybil. "Happy birthday."

"Gwen, please don't tell me you spent your hard-earned money on me!"

"I didn't. I, um . . . well, I made it myself," Gwen said, wringing her hands, now nervous as to how her humble gift would be received.

Sybil opened the paper carefully and found a small piece of fabric embroidered with blue harebells and Sybil's initials.

"It's a bookmark," Gwen offered quietly, "since you like to read so much."

Sybil turned it over gently in her hands then looked up to her friend and, closing the gap between them in three quick steps, puller her into a hug. The gesture took the young housemaid quite by surprise. Gwen knew that Lady Sybil would call herself her friend, but earlier in the week, Gwen had been forced to wonder as to the nature of what that meant to each of them.

The servants had been once again ruing the day a middle class man had been made heir. Her ladyship walked in to hear choice words from her maid, Miss O'Brien ("If anyone thinks I'm going to pull my fur lock and curtsey to this nobody from nowhere—"), and quickly reprimanded her, the lot of them, really, regarding their talk about the Reginald Crawleys. In addressing O'Brien, she had used the word "friend," and upon her departure, a chastened O'Brien had bristled at the term.

"Friends? Who does she think she's fooling. We're not friends."

"No?" Anna responded.

"No, and you're not friends with the girls neither. We're servants you and me, and they pay us to do as we're told, that's all."

Gwen, sitting across from them at the table, stood with everyone when Mrs. Hughes ordered the end of tea and the return to work. But O'Brien's words had stayed with Gwen.

She didn't question Lady Sybil the way someone as mean spirited as O'Brien questioned everyone, but Gwen knew that there was a line separating them. Lady Sybil's generosity of spirit chose not to acknowledge that line, but that did not mean it did not exist—and occasionally, Gwen ran into a reminder of it.

Still, all of that was forgotten, at least for the moment, as the two shared a hug.

"I love it! Thank you, Gwen," Sybil said pulling away.

"I'm glad." Gwen blushed. "I best get to tidying up."

Sybil walked back to her desk and slid the bookmark into her diary.

"Are you looking forward to the festivities this evening?" Gwen asked her pulled the sheets on the bed.

Sybil turned back to Gwen. "I am rather, though I wish mama had kept it just to family."

"Has she invited many others?"

"Just Lord Merton and his family, the Greys. They have always been very kind, don't get me wrong, but Lady Merton is a bit too eager to make a match."

Gwen smiled. "With you and her son, you mean?"

"Yes. Larry's nice enough, but you well know marriage is hardly the top issue on my mind."

"Now that you're in your last year before you come out, milady, I imagine mothers of sons acquainted with the family will only get more anxious," Gwen said with a knowing smile.

Sybil sighed. "I wish they'd all just let things run their course naturally. The sorry state of Mary and Edith's relationship should be proof that nothing good comes of all this scheming."

Gwen watched Sybil as she walked over to her window and looked out. Gwen had not been at the house when Lady Mary had been presented to society and had little memory of the same for Lady Edith, but Gwen imagined them both welcoming the prospect with much more eagerness than Lady Sybil was likely to.

"Have you spoken with Mr. Branson since you read the book he recommended?"

Gwen smiled at how Sybil brightened at the mention of Mr. Branson's name and guessed that if his mother were plotting their marriage, she'd be less likely to meet with Sybil's disapproval.

"I haven't. The two times they've come to dinner this week papa has monopolized him, so we haven't had the opportunity for much beyond pleasantries. On the other hand, the delay has given me a chance to organize my thoughts on the book."

"You said it was about women's rights?"

"It is, and, oh Gwen, it's so marvelously argued. To have a brain like Miss Wollstonecraft and the fortitude to use it for such a purpose!"

Gwen smiled. "So you enjoyed reading the book, I gather?"

"Very much. It was quite eye-opening, but in a good way. Miss Wollstonecraft would very much approve of your efforts to improve yourself."

"Glad to hear it. I've just about finished the course. Now comes the hardest part."

Sybil walked over to Gwen and took her hands. "Don't fret. You'll find a secretarial job—I know you will."

Gwen wasn't so sure, and the closer she got to actually having to look for one, the more nervous she became. "What I'm most worried about at the moment is the move, if I'm honest."

"Why is that?" Sybil asked.

"The typewriter box is so heavy, it'll be hard to transport back to the big house without someone suspecting."

"I hadn't thought of that. Perhaps we should transfer it back to my room for the move."

"I'll need to finish my last lesson, but once it's sent, I think that may be the best course—if it's not too much to ask, milady."

"Of course not. I reckon it will be easier to bring it down the attic stairs than up."

The two giggled at the memory of their efforts to take the heavy device, under cover of night, from Sybil's room, past the sleeping quarters of Mrs. Hughes, Mrs. Patmore, Daisy and O'Brien and into the room Gwen shared with Anna.

"It'll all be worth it when you're working as a secretary!" Sybil exclaimed.

Not wanting to dwell on what the future might bring, Gwen brought the subject back to Mr. Branson.

"Will Mr. Branson be coming this evening with Mrs. Crawley and Mr. Matthew for your birthday? Perhaps you'll have your chance to talk with him then."

Sybil smiled. "I hope so."

Walking down to the kitchen after breakfast to say goodbye to his mother before heading to the train for work, Tom couldn't help but snicker at Moseley's "harrumph" in his direction as they passed each other in the hall.

Matthew had been right. "The heir" having been cajoled into submission with help from Robert, Moseley had set his sights on Tom to accept him as his valet. And while Moseley's efforts to get Tom to follow suit had been amusing to start, he was starting to become a nuisance.

Tom passed Ivy as she tidied up the kitchen from breakfast and heard her whisper, "She's in a right mood this morning, sir."

"Thanks for the warning," Tom said with a smile.

Sure enough, Claire was rummaging through her cupboard with annoyance and frustration dripping from her every move. She turned her head, hearing him come up behind her, and continued with her task with a sigh. "Four years and that girl still doesn't know how to store flour properly. I come looking for the sugar and tip it over because the lid's off, making a mess. We've lost one week's worth!"

Tom smiled. "Aunt Isobel has said you could hire a proper kitchen maid. Ivy is a housemaid, and she's got plenty to do as it is."

"We don't need a kitchen maid. She just needs to do as she's told."

"It is a bigger house she's minding now. There's more for her to do."

Claire turned and crossed her arms. "Quite rich coming from someone who refuses the help he's already got."

Tom rolled his eyes, getting increasingly irritated. "Please, not you too."

"What exactly do you gain from keeping Mr. Moseley from doing his job—other than making him cross, which Ivy and I then have to deal with, I mean."

With that, the dam holding back Tom's temper broke.

"He's got no business taking his sour mood out on you. I've told him repeatedly, I have no use for him. If he has such a problem with me, maybe he should look for another job—or better yet another line of work! Something that's actually useful to the world and not simply meant to keep fecking aristocrats ensconced on their high and mighty perch!"

Now, it was Claire's turn to roll her eyes. "Are you quite finished?" She asked pointedly.

Tom took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. He knew it was wrong to curse in front of his mother and to force her to bear the brunt of his ire, but if Moseley was making her life difficult just because Tom was standing his ground as a proud member of the middle class, Tom wouldn't stand for it. "I don't need a valet, and he doesn't need to burden you with his absurd insistence otherwise."

"Believe it or not I don't care whether you let Mr. Moseley so much as open a door for you every morning. You're a grown man, and I trust you to make appropriate decisions as to your comportment."

"Thank you, I—"

"However," Claire interrupted, "I will not have you judge a man's line of work."

"What work? Dressing and undressing men as if they were children?"

"All right, then, I'll suggest he give his notice!" Claire exclaimed. Her voice was dripping with sarcasm. "Never mind the loyalty he's paid Mrs. Crawley by abiding by her wishes to treat you like her son, even though you belong to me, and not going and blabbing gossip about it all at the local pub! Because you best believe that the great majority of people in service are so unbearably proud, they would have done just that! Never mind that this is the work his father did! Never mind he took it because he had no choice! Or have you forgotten that not everyone gets the luxury of deciding whether they're a doctor or a solicitor or even a bloody shop keeper!"

Tom sighed contritely, pushed his hands into his pockets and looked down to the floor.

Claire walked up to him and pulled his chin with her hands so he was looking at her. "Tommy, you have three gifts, your heart, your smarts and the ticket to a life in which you could use both to their full potential—two you were born with and the third was given to you. You say you don't want a valet because you don't want the trappings of a better life to change you, but will you consider that the close-minded rejection of what comes with that life can change you too? Because no son of mine would ever judge a man for simply trying to do his job."

"Are you quite finished?" Tom, duly humbled, said with a mirthless laugh.

Claired sighed. "Mr. Moseley is supposed to help you. If dressing you is not the way, then think of something else. Something useful. But something. He deserves that—and so do you. You've earned it."

Tom's smirk turned into a full smile. "What would I do without you?"

Claire smiled back. "Get a bit lost every now and again, but you'd find your way eventually."

"I doubt that."

"Oh, you'd be just fine. So long as you find a girl who's not afraid to put you in your place when you need it."

Tom spent the train ride to Ripon and the walk to the office thinking about his mother's reprimand.

Back in Manchester, in the two years since he'd returned after finishing his degree, his had been an easy and uneventful existence. He was earning a good income running his own practice alongside his oldest and closest friend. He'd moved out of the family house and into his own flat. He still shared his meals with the Crawleys on most days. And there was his mother's not so subtle campaign to ensure his were not the hands of a gentleman, with her asking him over almost ever weekend to fix this or move that. The time he had that was his, he'd spend at the mechanic shop down the street from his flat. He'd made friends with the owner, who, in return for some free legal advice, had agreed to teach Tom how to care for a motor—the one indulgence that Tom could not resist and indeed had been saving up for since his return from university in Dublin. Yes, life in Manchester had been simple, good, and with no valet and his antiquated proprieties to bother him.

But Manchester was no longer his home, and Tom couldn't deny now that the change in Matthew's fortunes had had a major effect on his as well. He hadn't foreseen the extent to which that would be true the day Matthew walked into their office with that fated letter. Tom did not regret having agreed to join him in Yorkshire. Tom would always be willing to do anything for Isobel and Matthew, just as they had done everything for him. They were his family, and with his mother agreeing to move with them, there had been little left in Manchester to stay behind for. There was also a very small part of him that, back then, had been dissatisfied with the very simplicity he was now nostalgic for. But despite that desire for more, he hadn't realized until this morning, how unprepared he had been for the torrent of change that the move brought and to face it unyielding and obstinately was not the way of the modern man he wanted to be. His mother had been right.

Isn't she always, he thought with a smile.

If he wanted to see the world change and grow in a positive direction, he'd have to learn to do so himself.

Besides, the move to Yorkshire hadn't been all bad. As loath as he was to admit it, given Moseley's constant hovering, he enjoyed living with the family again. His new job—tedious as it was to be someone's employee—paid him more than he'd made on his own. He enjoyed the challenge of helping Matthew turn the fiefdom that had been the foundering Grantham estate into a profitable venture that played a positive, more equitable role in the fortunes of the county. In spite of himself, he enjoyed his burgeoning friendship with Lord Grantham.

And, of course, there was the young lady.

Sybil.

Lady Sybil.

She likely did not yet, given her youth, but eventually she would be expected to make use of a lady's maid. If he was so adamant in his rejection of a valet's services, would he accept a future wife who employed the equivalent? Could he allow himself to develop feelings for a woman whose position represented everything he believed himself to be against? Was he ready to give up on the idea that the woman best suited to him would be a working woman?

Tom laughed at himself, realizing that the answer to each question was no longer a clear cut "No," not if Sybil was the woman in question. He had indulged what he initially thought would be a passing fancy, but she was too beautiful, and had proven too curious, too engaging, too interesting, too every adjective under the sun for any of the feelings in him—inspired by merely two private conversations, the promise of more and a long series of glances across the dinner table at Downton Place—to be fleeting.

Tom hadn't been at work more than two hours when one of the stewards came into his office to announce a visitor.

"Someone to see you, Mr. Branson."

Without looking up, Tom responded, "There's nothing in my diary."

"It's Lady Grantham."

Tom's head jerked up with a start. What could she want with me?

He'd shed his jacket upon entering, as was his custom, so he quickly stood to put it back on.

Hearing his visitor step in, Tom began, "Lady Grantham, to what do I owe—" but, having expected to see Cora, he stopped short seeing instead that it was Violet. If the pope himself had stepped in, Tom would have been less surprised.

"Well, I hope I'm not a disappointment," she said in her usual pert manner.

Tom, not knowing what to say, merely pointed her to the chair in front of his desk, then sat down himself.

"I suppose you're wondering why I'm here."

"I am, your ladyship."

"Oh, let's dispense with that, shall we, Tom?"

"Excuse me?"

"You are like family to Matthew and Isobel, and they are family to us. Robert is fond of you, despite your unusual political persuasions. I see no reason to keep up with formalities, especially once you've done what I'm about to ask."

"So what should I call you?"

"Cousin Violet will do."

Tom scratched his head, still in a bit of shock he was having this conversation.

"What? Do you believe me so inflexible that I cannot welcome a middle class solicitor into the circle of my family?"

"I'm just surprised, that's all."

"It's good to have friends of all persuasions, if the revolution ever does come."

Tom laughed. "I'll be sure to spare you from the guillotine."

Violet smiled in spite of herself. "Now, as to why I'm here. I'd like you to review my husband's will."

"You mean you want me to try to break the entail?"

"I want you to look into whether there is some recourse for Mary to have an inheritance. I know Matthew is like a brother to you, and he seems a good man. I'll pay him the compliment that he does not wish to inherit just because nobody's investigated properly."

Tom sighed. "No, but—"

"Nor can Mary accuse you of making trouble when your close friend will suffer most from a discovery."

"But won't that be the very reason she will doubt my efficacy?"

"I trust you. That will be enough for her."

"If I may play devil's advocate, may I ask why?"

"Cora believes that your conviction on behalf of women will call you to act on our behalf. I agree. I know you will remain true to Matthew. That assures me you will adhere to the law. It is the only manner in which you may be faithful to all parties."

"I have to tell him I'm doing this."

"And you should."

Tom thought for a moment. "You're right that Matthew doesn't wish to benefit at Mary's expense from an ignorance of the law—"

"Putting it bluntly," Violet interjected again, "do you think Robert has thrown in the towel prematurely?"

As she was speaking Violet shifted, and the chair she was sitting on gave way.

"Good heavens! What am I sitting on!?"

Tom smiled. "A swivel chair."

"Another modern brainwave?"

"Not very modern. They were invented by Thomas Jefferson."

"Why does every day involve a fight with an American," Violet said with a sigh. "A hero of yours, no doubt."

Tom shrugged. "Yes and no."

"Oh?"

"He wrote eloquently on the cause of freedom and helped lead a revolution that created the model for all modern democracies, but the man himself was a slave owner."

"The human experience is nothing if not a never-ending exercise in contradiction."

"I suppose that's true. Shall I fetch a different chair?"

"No, no. I'm a good sailor."

"As to what you're asking me. It will depend on the exact terms of the entail and of the deed of gift when Lady Grantham—that is, your daughter in law—allowed for her money to be transferred to the estate."

"That is all I ask, to understand the exact terms."

"I shall do my best."

"Thank you, Tom." Violet stood to leave, and Tom walked with her back outside. She was just about to step in the motor when Tom called out.

"Cousin Violet?"

Violet turned back to face him. "Yes?"

Tom smiled. "Just trying it out."

Violet rolled her eyes and climbed into the back seat. Tom stepped up to the motor and added, "Thank you for your trust in me."

"You're part of the family now," Violet responded. "You'll find that we Crawleys stick together."

Chapter Text

From the moment each of them was born, Mary, Edith and Sybil Crawley manifested such distinct personalities, Cora sometimes joked to Robert that they weren't the parents of three sisters, but rather of three only children. That the girls had two parents in common seemed sometimes only something of a coincidence. Their mother said this not because Mary, Edith and Sybil were all spoiled, but because each required a different approach when it came to parenting.

Mary was practically a fully formed adult from birth and refused to be babied, coddled or condescended to in anyway. Edith had been a shy child and less inclined to speak up for herself than her more precocious older sister, so it took more hands-on contact to bring her out of her shell. Sybil was something of a mix of the two. She was independent like Mary, but where Mary prided herself on strict adherence to the rules—indeed, casting herself as the guardian of them among the sisters—Sybil questioned them at every turn. Like Edith, Sybil was disinclined to be the center of attention, but her forgiving, deferential nature didn't stem from a lack of self-esteem as it did with Edith, but rather an open-minded willingness to believe the best of everyone around her. Cora might have feared this as naiveté in her youngest daughter if she hadn't, over the years, proven herself to be something of an old soul.

And just as each sister was of a distinct temperament, each pair—Mary and Edith, Mary and Sybil and Edith and Sybil—shared a unique dynamic. There was, in fact, but one tradition that brought them together in an affectionate sisterly bond that all of them enjoyed in equal measure. It happened three times a year, on each of their birthdays.

How they spent the day was always much the same. After luncheon, they'd take a walk together, sometimes in silence, sometimes in a flurry of chatter, depending always on the mood and inclination of the one being celebrated. After tea, the two whose birthday it wasn't would come to the bedroom of the third so she could open their gifts. They'd spend the rest of the early evening there, where they'd get dressed and ready together for whatever festivities, big or small, had been planned. Disagreements didn't matter on this day. And for that reason alone, since Edith's debut two years prior, when the rivalry between her and Mary began to reach a fever pitch, their birthdays were Sybil's three favorite days of the year.

In the year of 1912, for Edith's birthday in February and Mary's in March—when any topic that could veer back to Cousin Patrick was best avoided—the sisters had talked about what their first spring at Downton Place would be like, the new fashions coming from Paris, whether New York was as interesting as the novels of Edith Wharton made it out to be (according to Mary, whose memories of their mother's home were freshest, the answer was an emphatic "no"), whether their father would agree to return to Duneagle this year after declining the invitation the previous summer and whether they would ever have the chance to step into Downton Abbey again.

On the late August afternoon of Sybil's seventeenth birthday, now all of them knowing that in short order Downton Abbey would be their home again, Mary, Edith and Sybil contemplated how very acutely everything had changed in a matter of a few months. Everything they had talked about when Edith had turned 20 and later, when Mary turned 22, seemed like trivia from a different life altogether. Patrick and James were dead, replaced by a cousin and heir who, however benign his intentions, had set the girls' world spinning, none of them knowing how or when the dizzying pace of change would slow. The sisters were facing an unknown future that, by virtue of their return to Downton, was going to take a jaunt through the past.

"Do you suppose it will feel the same as before?" Sybil asked her sisters.

She was standing by the window of her bedroom looking out, while Edith, sitting on Sybil's bed, paged through a magazine and Mary sat at the chair in front of the vanity, idly rummaging through Sybil's jewelry box.

"I haven't thought about it much," Edith confessed. "It doesn't seem real. I think subconsciously I'm not accepting it's happening until we're actually there again."

"It won't be the same," Mary said with a sigh. "It's not really ours anymore, is it? It's just on loan from you know who."

"I don't know why you insist on being so cross with Cousin Matthew," Sybil said. "Besides, I thought you of all people would happy to be going back."

"I am. I just don't want to feel beholden to him."

Edith snorted. "And why in the world would you feel that. It's papa's debt he's settled, not yours."

Mary thought carefully about what to say that would explain her deeply mixed emotions. "I want to enjoy the days we have left there, but how can I know how long that will be? We'll all be married soon enough. It just seems like we'll be on borrowed time at Downton, and I don't happen to like the lender—whatever mama or papa say about what a supposedly nice person he is. Matthew hasn't proven himself to be anything to us."

Sybil turned to look at Mary with a knowing smile. "Maybe he's waiting for you to make an ovation of friendship."

Mary rolled her eyes. "He'll be waiting a long time."

Sybil and Edith looked at one another, holding back their amusement. Mary's snobbery could be grating, but it was a trait so ingrained into her character that even they couldn't help but be amused, even endeared, by it sometimes.

"Who exactly is going to be in charge of running the house, Matthew or papa?" Edith asked.

"It shall be a dual monarchy," Mary answered.

"That sounds ominous," Sybil said.

"If it's trouble, papa has only brought it on himself," Mary said. "To think that months ago these people were virtually strangers, and now he must share power with them, and I must marry the son."

"You won't marry him though, will you?" Edith asked.

"What, marry a sea monster?" Mary retorted.

Sybil moved from the window to the bed and sat on the corner opposite Edith. "A sea monster? What on earth are you talking about?"

"Don't you know the story of Andromeda and Perseus?"

Edith rolled her eyes. "What could Greek mythology possibly have to do with you and poor Cousin Matthew?"

"Andromeda is the daughter of King Cepheus, and she's kidnapped by a sea monster sent by Poseidon and chained to a rock as a sacrifice until Perseus comes to her rescue."

Sybil smirked at Mary. "So you've cast yourself as the wronged princess who will be held against her will at Cousin Matthew's mercy until your Perseus comes to ask papa permission to marry you?"

"When you put it in such prosaic terms, it's not nearly so romantic as I imagine it," Mary responded.

Sybil and Edith exchanged glances and fell into a fit of laughter on the bed. Mary rolled her eyes at her sisters' lack of decorum, but couldn't keep a smile from forming on her face.

After a few minutes, Sybil collected herself and said with a sigh. "We shouldn't laugh at Cousin Matthew's expense. That's so unkind."

"Well, even if Mary won't have him, he must marry someone," Edith said looking at no one in particular.

Mary arched her eyebrows. "Edith, what are you thinking?"

"You know, I don't dislike him as much as you do."

"Perhaps you don't dislike him at all," Mary said airily.

"Perhaps I don't."

Wide-eyed at the sudden admission, Sybil looked to Mary. Would this match, at least, proceed in peace between them?

Mary's gaze shifted from Sybil to Edith, whose eyes were still on the magazine on her lap, then turned back to the jewelry box. "Well, it's nothing to me. I've bigger fish to fry."

"What fish?" Sybil asked.

"Are we talking about 'E.N.'?" Edith asked, before Mary had a chance to respond to Sybil.

"How do you know that?" Mary asked, turning back to Edith. "Have you been poking around in my things?"

"Of course not!"

Sybil, as always, was frustrated at being the last to know. "Come on, who is he? It's not fair if you both know."

Mary took a deep breath and finally answered. "You won't be any the wiser, but his name is Evelyn Napier."

"The honorable Evelyn Napier, son and heir to Viscount Branksome," Edith said, saluting playfully with her hand.

"Who wants an old sea monster when they can have Perseus?" Mary posed, sending her sisters into giggles again.

About an hour after she'd left Tom's office, Violet had sent her chauffeur back with her husband's papers, and he'd spent the rest of the day immersed in the minutiae of the late Lord Grantham's last will and testament. He emerged from his office in the late afternoon not having found anything that would secure what Violet and her daughter in law were after on Mary's behalf—at least not easily. In fact, his only true accomplishment with regard to the matter was managing to keep his temper as he learned how a man who'd not worked a day in his life could so easily dispense with money that wasn't his.

He knew little of Cora's background beyond the fact that she was American, but he couldn't imagine any parents who would have allowed a daughter to sign away so much without thought as to the implications. Well, he could imagine them. But that was something else that set him apart from the upper classes. He would not be so cavalier as to take the security of those he loved for granted. Tom knew that a son would have rendered moot the question to which he was now seeking an answer, but the randomness of nature seemed to be playing a joke on the Crawley family. And now it was up to him to explain the punch line to "Cousin Violet," who, he thought with a snicker, was unlikely to appreciate his sense of humor.

Having arrived back home in time for tea with Isobel and Matthew, Tom explained to them both what she had asked him to do. Isobel was as surprised and amused as Tom had been at the uppity old woman's sudden wish to be on more familiar terms with Tom, but Isobel was glad to see that the family was taking steps to embrace him as one of theirs. Matthew, for his part, did not begrudge Tom his willingness to cooperate and actually thought it a useful exercise. His plans for the estate were underway but still in their infancy. It wouldn't hurt to be assured that all legal matters had been settled—and the expectations of a certain eldest daughter either brought to bear or dismissed once and for all—before anything was done that couldn't be undone.

Matthew had thought, on the evening of the announcement of the family's return to Downton Abbey, that even if they never became very close, the tension between him and Mary might dissipate once she knew she'd return to the place she so longed to be. But while the haughty barbs had stopped, they'd been replaced by no words at all. He sometimes wondered if not speaking to him was her way of sending the message that she absolutely did not want to marry him—as she'd presupposed he'd want to do on the day they met.

She certainly doesn't have to worry on that score, Matthew thought.

If it was a lingering lack of certainty as to her situation that kept Mary so closed off from her newly discovered cousin, then Tom would settle the question to a point that would allow everyone to move on. At least, that's what Matthew hoped. He knew she'd cast him as villain in her story, even if it was a not a role he'd ever intended to play.

With the hour to leave for Downton Place for Sybil's birthday dinner approaching, Isobel, Matthew and Tom had headed upstairs to change.

Tom was about to put on his bowtie when he heard the door of Matthew's room open. And indeed, when he looked out into the hall, there was Moseley, who, upon seeing Tom, turned to him with a hopeful air.

"Can I help with something, sir?"

Tom couldn't keep himself from smiling. "No—well, yes—actually I wanted to speak to you about something, but as it takes the whole of my concentration to get this blasted thing on straight and we are short on time, I will need your help"—Tom lifted up his tie and extended his hand to give it to Moseley, before quickly pulling it back—"but only just this once."

Moseley took it with a smile and followed Tom into his room, closing the door behind him.

"What did you want to discuss, sir?" Moseley asked as he waited for Tom to lift up his collar.

Tom moved in front of Moseley and lifted his chin so the valet could get to work on the tie. "I know you want me to make use of your services, and while I think I've made my stance on being dressed by someone else quite clear, I don't want you to feel like I'm keeping you from doing your job, such as it is. I want to find a suitable solution, but may I ask something first?"

"Certainly, sir."

"What do you like about being a valet? I recognize it's rather a condescending question, but I don't mean for it to be. I'm genuinely curious to know if your job is enjoyable to you."

Moseley stepped back, having finished with the tie. "Well, sir, my father was butler to a gentleman who was an assistant to the foreign secretary, and he used to say that people in service do the little things so that those they serve can do the big things."

Tom considered Moseley's words. "I'm not sure how that answers my question."

"Have you heard of Simon Bolivar, sir?" Moseley asked.

"The Spaniard who liberated South America?"

"Yes." Moseley smiled, a bit bashfully. "I enjoy studying history when I have some time to spare. Mr. Bolivar wore elaborate coats with dozens of buttons that ran on either side of his chest, up to his neck. He employed several people to button them for him, and he would admonish them to do so slowly when he was in a hurry. It sounds contradictory, but taking care to dress him carefully, his men ensured that they wouldn't waste his time, precious as it was, by making a mistake and forcing him to wait if they made an error and had to do it all over again."

"Seeing as I'm not liberating colonies from their monarchical oppressors, I wouldn't say my time is as precious as his was."

"But that doesn't mean it's not valuable to you, sir. The truth is very few men accomplish truly great things—at least on the level of the likes of Simon Bolivar, but many more accomplish good things. I'm not suggesting they couldn't have done so without servants, only that their servants may derive a sense of purpose from serving them. Mrs. Branson would agree, I think, that people in our line of work don't often have much to feel exceptionally proud of, so we find it where we can."

Tom looked at Moseley seriously for a long moment. "Since you mention my mother, do you really have no problem working for the son of a housekeeper?"

"I know that there are men in service who take great pride in the titles and lineage of the dukes and earls and what have you who employ them. I prefer to focus on a man's character. I find it helps me sleep at night."

"So as to my original question?"

"There is tedium to every profession, including yours I imagine, so speaking to a butler's daily tasks, some are more pleasant than others. But if I have respect for the people who employ me and if I feel useful to them, then all tasks done on their behalf are worth doing. By which I mean, I do enjoy serving you and Mr. Crawley, and hope to do so for a long time."

Tom smiled. "I appreciate that. I maintain that I can dress myself, but there is something I'd like you to do for me."

"Is there, now?" Moseley asked, his expression brightening.

"I'd like you to iron the newspapers. Lord Grantham suggested it needed doing after he saw one of my handkerchiefs."

"I wondered how they came to be so filthy."

"It's the ink. I read several of them at breakfast, as you know. With the ink still wet, it comes off on my hands. I've spent more on new handkerchiefs in the last two years than on anything else, if you can believe it."

"So this is not a luxury, then."

"No, it's a cost-saving measure—a much needed one."

Moseley smiled. "Anything else?"

"I impose on my dear mam to mend my shirts even when she's got so much to do herself because I'm rubbish with a needle and thread."

"I can do that for her."

"I think that is all."

"Very good, sir." Moseley bowed and moved to leave the room. He was at the door when Tom called out to him.

"Is there something I can do for you, Moseley?"

Moseley thought for a few seconds. "I imagine his lordship has a fine library."

"He does. Would you like me to borrow something on your behalf?"

Moseley nodded. "I would, sir, if it's not an unreasonable request."

"Not at all. Perhaps something on the Spanish conquistadors, if you like the tales of the New World."

"I would enjoy that very much."

Lord and Lady Merton, their son Mr. Larry Grey, Lady Rosamund Painswick and the rest of the Crawley family were gathered in the drawing room when Isobel, Matthew and Tom arrived at Downton Place. Carson led them there and announced their arrival, prompting Robert, who'd been standing in his usual spot by the hearth, to walk over to welcome them. Cora did likewise. After exchanging pleasantries, she took Isobel by the arm to the far end of the room to meet Rosamund, who was chatting with her nieces, Mary and Edith. Robert motioned to Matthew and Tom to follow him so he could introduce his old friend to the two young men to whom he owed his return to Downton and in whose hands the future of the estate rested.

Sybil, meanwhile, was sitting on the sofa flanked by Larry and Violet, with Lady Merton across from them in an armchair. Sybil had been anticipating Tom's arrival since she'd walked into the drawing room, hoping they'd have a chance to talk before dinner, but the Greys had descended on her from the moment they'd walked in, not leaving her side and not really letting her get a word in edgewise. As she watched Tom greet her parents, she knew there was no delicate way she could extricate herself from the current conversation without making it plainly obvious to whom she wished to give her attention. She'd not yet had to endure teasing from her family regarding interest in a young man, and realizing that her nearing debut would make that a more frequent topic, she didn't want to give them any ammunition that would make things awkward with Tom, whose friendship she hoped could rise above all that silliness.

Tom did manage to glance in her direction on his way across the room behind Robert, and catching his eye, Sybil smiled brightly—so brightly, in fact, that the young man sitting next to her couldn't help but notice.

"So who are your new friends, Sybil?" Larry asked her quietly.

"Cousin Matthew is papa's heir as you know. Cousin Isobel is his mother, and Mr. Branson is their distant relation, I believe. Cousin Isobel raised him as her son."

"What's his parentage?"

"Papa said his father was from Ireland, which is why he returned there for his studies and speaks with an Irish accent, but other than that I don't know."

Larry looked over to the group of men talking at the hearth. "So there's a mick in our midst. I must say I never thought I'd see the day the Earl of Grantham would—"

Larry stopped short seeing Sybil's face, which had hardened in anger at the slur.

Larry smirked. "It's just an expression, Sybil."

"I know how it's intended."

"Ireland is a messy business. No lady like you should concern herself with it."

"I'm perfectly capable of deciding what I concern myself with," Sybil responded, turning away from Larry to Violet and Lady Merton, who had been discussing a mutual friend. Sybil heard Larry snort behind her and then felt him stand, presumably to join the men's conversation.

"And are they enjoying New York?" Sybil heard her grandmother ask Lady Merton.

"I believe so, though dear Elinor did say that their son has been entertaining some unsettling ideas."

Violet sighed. "It's to be expected. It's an unsettling place, after all."

"Oh, granny, New York really can't be so unpleasant," Sybil piped in. "Grandmama makes her home there."

"That woman's endorsement of it is proof enough of my point."

Sybil couldn't help but laugh. Violet's disapproval of her other grandmother, Martha, was always amusing to watch in action.

"Well, it seems William has decided to send his young daughter to a school newly opened by a Miss Maria Chapin," Lady Merton said. "Elinor has met her and says she's bit of a radical. It seems she supports women having the vote. But William won't hear of hiring a proper governess."

"A school run by a suffragette, that sounds rather wonderful!" Sybil said.

"Wonderful? Wonderfully ghastly!" Violet exclaimed.

"How can you say that granny? I would have enjoyed going to a real school."

"Sybil, darling, why would you want to go to a real school?" Violet asked. "You're not a doctor's daughter."

"But nobody learns anything from a governess, apart from French and how to curtsey."

Violet was indignant. "What else do you need?!"

"Well, there's—"

"Were you thinking of a career in banking?" Violet said shaking her head.

"No, but it is a noble profession," Sybil said not backing down.

"Things are different in America," Cora said, having just walked over from where she'd left Isobel chatting with Rosamund. She took a seat in the spot on the sofa Larry had vacated.

"I know," Violet responded. "They live in wigwams."

"And when they come out of them they go to school," Cora said, causing Sybil to snicker.

"Oh, Violet, don't fret," Lady Merton said. "Sybil's just anxious for her life to start. Her season will be here before you know it, and all silly thoughts will give way to what really matters in due course. Won't they, dear?" This last she said turning to Sybil with a patronizing smile.

Sybil didn't want to stir an argument so early in the evening, but also didn't want her position misunderstood. "I'm sure William doesn't consider the education of his daughter a silly subject."

But Lady Merton continued, turning back to Violet and not bothering to acknowledge what Sybil had said. "I wonder that girls now wait until they're eighteen," she said. "It makes these last years difficult, particularly so for someone like Sybil who has seen her sisters go before her and who already has such a friend as Larry with whom to look forward to sharing her time."

It took some effort for Sybil not to groan aloud. It would have been one thing if she enjoyed Larry's company, as she had when they were very young children and the novelty of having a boy to play with amused her to no end. But he'd grown into such an unpleasant person, Sybil couldn't imagine herself choosing but to avoid him at all costs.

"I'm never anxious for my girls to grow up too fast," Sybil heard her mother say, giving Sybil a warm smile. Sybil wondered if her thoughts about Larry had been evident in her expression.

"And I think it's especially important at this age," Cora added, "to spend time with as many different friends as possible. Making new ones is so much harder the older we get."

Lady Merton's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "I don't mean to suggest Sybil shouldn't make new friends, Cora, only that—"

Whatever Lady Merton intended to say was left a mystery as Carson announced that dinner had been served. Without another word, the party began moving toward the large dining room, and having allowed those who were older and of higher rank to proceed ahead of her, Sybil happily found herself walking next to Tom.

"Do you suppose that dinner has been served for a while now and that Carson was merely waiting until an especially awkward moment in the conversation, when someone might need rescuing, to announce it?" He asked cheekily.

Sybil laughed. "Now that you mention it, he does seem to appear at the most opportune moments. But if that is his approach, I must say he waits a bit too long sometimes. I can think of several of conversations he shouldn't have allowed to occur at all."

"Well, there's only so much he can do. I'm afraid the upper classes cannot always be saved from themselves."

"Do you ever need rescuing?"

"From an unpleasant conversation? No, but that's only because I prefer it when conversations become unpleasant."

"Why?"

"I find that politeness keeps people from saying what they really mean."

"But what if what they say is not to your liking?"

"Then I'll know their true character and be able to decide whether or not we can be friends."

Sybil smiled. "Does that mean you'd prefer me to be impolite with you?"

"I'd like your honesty, in whatever disposition you wish to package it."

"That's what I'd like as well."

The two looked at each other and smiled. When they got to the table, he stopped to allow her to walk in front of him to her seat. Just as she walked past him, he whispered just loud enough for her to hear, "Happy birthday."

The shivers his voice sent down her spine could be felt all through dinner.

Tom sat down between Cora and Rosamund, across the table, lengthwise, from where Sybil was between Larry and her father.

After everyone was seated, Robert offered a toast to his youngest daughter, which was followed by several anecdotes shared with affection by him, with one from Lord Merton, about Sybil as a young child. Sybil accepted the attention and gentle teasing with aplomb.

It was clear to Tom, even before Robert had mentioned that Lord Merton was Mary's godfather when they'd been introduced, that the Greys were very close friends of the Crawleys. And on overhearing Lady Merton's words to Sybil about her debut it was clear that at least some among the two families harbored hopes of a union between the Grey son and the youngest Crawley daughter.

Tom hadn't taken the time to consider whether Sybil had many male acquaintances. But seeing Larry on the sofa next to her upon arrival and seeing in Larry's eyes what felt like a possessive look after Tom and Sybil had exchanged smiles, it occurred to Tom that the line of young men who would jump at the opportunity to be near her was a long one—of course, it was—and that her romantic future was one on which too many people would feel entitled to have an opinion. He felt a fool for not arriving at those conclusions until now.

When Matthew had told Tom about the comment Mary had made, believing him out of earshot, about his possible intention to choose one of the Crawley daughters as his wife, Matthew said he found her words ridiculous. Tom disagreed. Sure, Lady Mary had her airs about her, but what she'd said regarding men's expectations of women like her, Edith and Sybil—women who were brought up for no purpose but to marry well—was painfully on point. Just because Matthew would not presume to impose himself on one of them didn't mean that the world, their world, wasn't full of men who would and did. It took very little time for Tom to realize that Larry Grey was one of these men.

When Larry had walked over to the hearth, he introduced himself to Matthew and made something of a show of ignoring Tom, launching into a long discourse to Matthew about life in Yorkshire and acting as if there wasn't another person standing right next to him. Robert and Lord Merton were standing a bit apart from the young men at that point and took no notice. Matthew threw Tom several puzzled looks in reference to Larry's behavior, wondering what disparaging assumption Larry had made about Tom that he hadn't also made about Matthew. Tom was too amused by Larry's act to try to break it by speaking to him directly.

Looking across the table at Larry now, as Larry tried to engage Sybil in conversation while Carson and Thomas took the serving plates around, she seemed disengaged, bored even.

Tom thought back to when she'd told him no one had ever asked her what her interests were. Thinking about it again, Tom felt a bit heartbroken on her behalf. In what Tom had seen of her, Sybil didn't seem unhappy, but it was clear that she wanted more than what her current life was giving her. Certainly, she deserved more.

Nothing against the institution of marriage, Tom thought, but Sybil Crawley is not meant to be merely someone's wife.

Tom glanced at Sybil's mother, sitting next to him on his right, and wondered the extent to which Cora, an American, had submitted to aristocratic ritual and the extent to which she would be willing to dismiss it on her daughters' behalf. He could only guess as to Cora's state of mind when she had married Robert and had been asked to sign over a fortune to people who, given the finances of the Grantham estate at the time, desperately needed it but still thought themselves her superiors in every way.

Cora caught Tom looking at her as she began to tuck into the first course and smiled at him. "Violet tells me you've taken up our cause."

"I have. In fact, I spent most of the day on it."

"Any promising leads?"

"I haven't spoken with Cousin Violet—"

Tom noticed Cora's eyes widening upon hearing him mention Violet in such familiar terms. He smiled and said, "She asked me to call her that."

"You should count yourself lucky. It usually takes years for Violet to warm up to people."

"I think it was part of her plan to convince me to help you."

"Well, if you are family to Isobel and Matthew, then you are to us," Cora said smiling warmly. "I'll be very insulted if you call Violet 'cousin' but not me."

"All right," Tom said with a smile.

"Now, about the case itself, let's take a moment after dinner to discuss it."

When the time came for the women to take their leave after dinner, Tom excused himself also and met Cora in the library.

Once they were both seated, Tom began.

"As I mentioned earlier, I haven't spoken with Cousin Violet since her visit this morning, but I have looked through every source. I'm afraid I haven't found much on which to base a challenge—at least not one that would be clear cut and simple to execute."

"What have you found?"

"There are three elements to the matter: the title, the estate, and the money. Nothing can be done about the title. On that matter, the law is clear. Matthew will be the next earl regardless of his financial status at the time of succession. In a way, that is probably the reason your father-in-law did what he did."

"I don't understand."

"I believe he wanted to assure the position of whoever bore the title. The estate, the second piece of the puzzle, does that to an extent, as the primary employer in the county, if you include both the full service staff and the tenant farms. But it's also a financial drain—at least it was, the way it was run in the past. The estate tied to the title by itself, without financial backing would put the family seat at risk. That's where the third piece, your fortune, comes in. If someone with no money were to inherit the title and estate, including Downton Abbey, he couldn't afford to do anything with it. The only recourse would be to sell. The late Lord Grantham likely knew this, which is why he took your money—"

"Tom, I gave it—"

"With due respect, Cousin Cora, he took your money to save Downton at the time of your marriage. The deed of gift you signed legally turned everything over to him and meant the money was no longer yours. It was his to do with it as he pleased. So he tied it to the estate and the title to guarantee—at least as far as he could foresee—that whoever inherited the title after his son would also be a rich, landowner. I'm sorry to speak ill of the dead, but it was a very close-minded and selfish thing to do."

Cora smiled, sadly. "He thought he was doing it for his future grandson."

Tom let out a humorless laugh. "Do you really think there is anyone in this world who wouldn't trust a mother to leave what's hers to her own children?"

Cora furrowed her brow, so Tom went on, "Don't you see? If what is left of that money were still yours, you would leave it to your daughters. He wanted it to go to the heir, regardless of whether the heir was your son. That's why he asked you to turn it over to him. The funny thing is that if he were here now I believe even he would admit that it was done to preserve the dignity of the earldom. And he likely wouldn't apologize for it, not to an American and an Irishman."

"I suppose you think me foolish for signing it all over to him in the first place."

"I believe the saying is, 'We are all fools in love.' "

"And I was," Cora said with a smile.

"Was?"

"Am."

"I ask because the messy way to fight the entail would be to challenge the deed of gift, say you were not in your right mind when you signed it, and ask for what's left of your money to be returned to you."

"But Robert is the steward of the trust now. Wouldn't I be challenging him directly if we did that?"

"You would. That's why I call it a messy option."

Cora sighed. "Well, you were good to look into it for us."

"So that's where we're leaving it, then?"

"I can't challenge Robert, not like this. It's time to move forward, though I am frustrated that what I did then means I can't help my daughters now." Cora paused for a moment, then added. "I suppose your daughters will be better cared for."

Tom smiled. "Better taught to care for themselves."

Cora looked down at her hands and took a deep breath. When she looked back at Tom, there were tears welling in her eyes.

Tom put his hand over hers. "It wasn't your fault. Your father-in-law took advantage of your ignorance of the law and your assumption that he was acting in the best interest of your children, and not his own mercenary ends."

Cora swiped her cheek with her hand. "You don't like us very much, do you?"

"I like you very much, indeed," Tom said, warmly. "I dislike the social class system in this country. It teaches women and the poor not to question laws and etiquette that classify one group of people above all others with the intent to keep everyone else down."

"How do you reconcile that with helping Matthew with the estate?"

"I owe everything to Matthew and Aunt Isobel—and Uncle Reginald. They have exceedingly good hearts, otherwise they would never have . . ."

Tom stopped realizing what he was about to say.

"Never would have what, Tom?"

He took a deep breath. "They would never have made me part of their family."

Tom waited for Cora to ask the question. Who is your real family? Where are you from? Who are your parents? He was prepared to answer truthfully.

But she didn't ask.

Instead she took the hand he'd offered her into both of hers and squeezed it. "I'm glad that they did, and that they brought you to us."

Tom smiled. "Matthew will be a good steward of the estate, and he will run in it a way that benefits more than just those who live upstairs in the big house. That's our hope anyway."

Cora smiled. "And mine."

After a moment, she let go of his hand and stood. "We should head back to the party."

"Go ahead. I promised our butler Moseley I would borrow a book for him, if that's all right with you."

"Of course, but don't take too long."

"I won't."

"And don't worry about Violet. I'll tell her it's over."

After she'd gone, Tom sat back down for a moment. He'd come close to telling Cora and now that he was alone again, he wished he had. Who his mother was had never been a secret, but it was starting to feel like one. If he didn't tell someone, and soon, he wouldn't be able to deny that he was concealing it.

Pushing that thought out of his mind for the moment, he stood and walked over to the bookcase in which history books were shelved. He was about to take one when he heard a voice behind him.

"There you are!"

It was Sybil.

"What are you doing here?" She asked, walking over to where he was standing.

"I was talking to your mother. She'd asked me to review the entail one more time to ensure it really couldn't be undone."

"And the verdict?"

Tom shook his head.

"And why are you still here? You're not hiding from me are you?" Sybil asked, a playful expression on her face. "I'd like to discuss the book, and I've been waiting all day to do so."

"What did—"

Sybil grabbed Tom's arm suddenly. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

Both of them stood quietly for a moment, and sure enough, down the hall, the sound of someone calling Sybil could be heard moving closer.

"It's Larry. Let's hide!"

Sybil took Tom by the hand and ran toward her reading alcove at the far corner of the library.

Once inside, she stood by the entryway and listened as Larry walked in to the library called out her name once and walked back out.

Sybil let out a sigh of relief. She looked up at Tom and started laughing. "You must think me very rude to have done that."

"I trust he earned it," he said, clearly amused. "What is he to you, if you don't mind the question?"

Sybil thought for a minute. "We played together as children, all the games Mary and Edith wouldn't play with me. He was quite fun, then, but he's grown positively insufferable. I suppose he's a friend, though not much of one. His mother certainly wishes we were more." At that last point, Sybil rolled her eyes.

Tom looked around the small cozy sitting area. "This is a handy getaway spot."

"I like to come in here to read. It's how I get away from the world."

Tom smiled at her. Sybil looked into his eyes for a long moment before the intensity of his stare became a bit overwhelming. When she looked down, she realized she was still holding his hand. Seeing her notice, he looked down and saw it too, and sensing a bit of nervousness in her, he let go. Sybil smiled and sat down on the window seat.

"So what did you think of it?" He asked.

"The book? Oh, it was terrific. So well written and intelligent and stirring and—I have so many thoughts in my head and no way to organize them, which is terrible seeing as her arguments came together so easily."

"I doubt she would say the writing of it was easy, but I agree that it is a very well thought out treatise."

"I could only dream of ever having so many interesting things to say." She stopped on seeing his wide grin. "What?"

"I told you you'd have no trouble understanding it."

"Well, I think that's because it felt like she was speaking directly to me."

"That's the mark of a good author, but don't sell yourself short. It's not an easy read by any means. Did any of it surprise you?"

"I was surprised by how often habits and customs that are well meaning aren't really. What I mean to say is, so much of what men do for women is done so things are easier for us, so as not to burden our more feeble compositions, but Miss Wollstonecraft argued that we are weaker precisely because these very rules do not allow us to experience the world as we should, as equal human beings."

"And what did you think about that?"

Sybil thought for a moment, with a serious and challenging expression on her face. "It made me want to break every rule there is."

And just like that the concern Tom had had just an hour or so before about Sybil being forced to be merely someone's wife evaporated. Because the woman before him now was ready to make of herself whatever she wanted.

"There was something else," she added quietly.

"What's that?"

"Before dinner, when you said you wanted my honesty, and I told you I wanted the same from you . . . "

"Yes."

"Miss Wollstonecraft wrote about how the rituals of courtship diminish women because they turn us into objects of desire rather than real people."

Tom's heart rate started to speed up. Sybil looked down at her hands and continued, "Well, I was thinking . . . I would like for you to see me as . . . um, not as someone you'd like to court, but as a true and equal friend." She paused, then asked, her voice barely above a whisper, "Would that be all right?"

His response matched hers in volume. "You deserve nothing less."

Tom looked at her for a long moment then took a deep breath. "You asked me how it was that I came to support women's rights," he said. "It's because of the plight of women who have very little and, if they are unmarried or widowed, have little recourse for help. When my father died, I was a year old, and my mother had almost nothing with which to support me."

"So she sought help from Cousin Matthew's parents?"

"Yes."

Sybil furrowed her brow. "Where is she now?"

Tom smiled. "Having a cup of tea in her sitting room, I imagine."

"Do you wish you could see her?"

"I see her everyday."

Sybil looked puzzled. "How?"

"She's Matthew and Aunt Isobel's housekeeper."

Sybil's eyes widened in shock.

"The Crawleys raised me as their middle class son, but the truth is that I am the child of a servant. I'm telling you because I do want to be your friend, and a true and honest and equal friendship, as I, too, hope ours can be, shouldn't begin under false pretenses."

Sybil's expression of shock turned into a soft smile, one for which Tom was deeply grateful. "Thank you for trusting me with your secret."

"It's not a secret," he said. "I don't mean for it to be, anyway. If you wanted to tell your family, you could."

"It's your truth to share not mine, but I won't think less of you if you don't. I promise."

As they looked at one another, Tom grew in Sybil's estimation for the gentleman he clearly was and the gentleman he and those who loved him had made him into.

Finally, she stood and said, "I suppose we should go back."

"Go ahead."

"Aren't you coming?"

Tom smiled. "I'll follow in a minute. I believe that if your wish is to avoid Mr. Grey's attentions, it's best that we not enter the parlor together."

Sybil looked confused for a moment, but then his implication—that Larry would be jealous—became clear and a hint of blush appeared on her cheeks. She turned to go, but then at the alcove entryway she stopped and faced Tom again.

"What I said before about us being friends. I didn't mean that I don't want something else in future."

Before he had a chance to respond, she was gone.

Chapter Text

The day after Sybil's birthday, preparations for the move back to Downton Abbey began in earnest. The next day, the family would be leaving for London, where they would stay for a week while the belongings they would be taking back to the big house could be moved, and while Carson and Mrs. Hughes completed the hiring of additional help.

For just about everyone in the house, thoughts were on a mix of the future and the past—what life at Downton would be like after a year away, whether its former glory would ever be recaptured, and whether the friends who had been left behind would be there upon the return to a full staff.

The exception was Sybil, who was at her desk writing in her diary early that morning, mind firmly on the present and on Downton Place.

Sybil was sure she would be the only member of the family—and the only person among the staff, as well—who would miss living there. And she would miss it dearly. How could she not? The last year of her life had been a formative one, and everything she'd learned, every thought, every feeling had emerged from how much less restricted and how much more herself she had felt there.

Sybil was not sad, exactly, to be returning to a place she knew made her parents and sisters so happy to call home, but she couldn't help but acknowledge to herself that as a child, she sometimes found the sheer size of Downton Abbey oppressive and unwelcoming. To the young, imaginative girl she'd been once, it was like an endless maze of rooms—with one of an army of servants, most of them perfect strangers to her, lurking around every corner—at the end of which a monster was waiting to swallow her whole. The house, along with all the things in it, belonged to her family. But no part of it felt hers. Had the family never left, Sybil's attitude would have changed as she matured. Indeed, like her sisters, she would have grown to love the house, accepting in some measure—with adjustments to her more progressive frame of mind, of course—the lifestyle and the attitude the grand house demanded of its inhabitants.

But the family had left. And they'd come to this house, which was smaller, but not lesser, not to Sybil. She considered cozy and inviting what her family saw only as cramped. She found new freedoms and opportunities to be her own person in the reduction of servants, where her family saw only inconveniences. She treasured the solitude that stemmed from the absence of visitors and guests, where her family saw the judgment and subsequent loneliness that comes from misfortune. The rift in perspective was attributed by her parents and sisters to Sybil's youth, a rebellious spirit that would be tamed by age and time. But she knew it to be more than that. Because thus far, her rebellions—if one could even call them that—were rebellions of thought, not action. They were not bouts of petty misbehavior in service to a restless spirit or a desire to upset the balance for the sake of raising the ire of those around her. She was a rebel anxious for a cause. Life at Downton Place had taught her that, and it was a lesson for which she, now at the end of her time there, was grateful. So while Downton Place would always have a special place in her heart, she did not dread her return to Downton Abbey because she knew herself now in a way she did not before.

Having finished putting her thoughts to paper, which she'd done while still in her nightdress, Sybil stood to change. As she was going through her wardrobe, Anna came into the room.

"Oh, good morning, milady. I just came in to open the curtains. I expected you'd be sleeping in after your birthday dinner last night."

Sybil smiled. "I want to make the most of our last full day here."

With the curtains open, Anna took a tentative step toward Sybil, who was stepping into her corset with the lacings in front. "May I help, milady?

"No," Sybil said. "I've grown quite adept at this. Watch." Sybil pulled the corset up and began tightening the lacings carefully, with it still on backwards. Once she was satisfied it was tight enough to wear but still sufficiently loose to shift into place, she carefully pulled on one side of it to bring the front forward. Then, she tugged her slip downward to straighten it and gave the corset's lacings, now behind her, one more pull before tying them off.

Finished, she turned to Anna. "Ta da!"

Anna smiled. "Very nicely done, though I'm afraid if her ladyship had walked in I might have been sacked for not stepping in to do it for you."

"I would have happily explained that you have greater tasks with which to concern yourself," Sybil said laughing.

"Well, since you're up, I'll start with the fireplace now. That is if you don't mind, milady."

"Not at all," Sybil said, now buttoning the blouse she'd chosen for the day. "Gwen usually does the curtains in my room. Is she not feeling well today?"

"She's fine. Took the morning to go into the village. I believe she was going to the post office."

Sybil, of course, knew Gwen was not sick but wanted to ask as to her whereabouts without drawing suspicion. Gwen had wanted to finish the final lesson of her correspondence course before she and Sybil snuck the typewriter back to Sybil's room ahead of the move. But with only one night left to do it, Sybil wanted to ensure Gwen had found the time for the task. If Gwen was at the post office, as Anna reported, then she had completed the lesson, and tonight would be the night.

"I trust your birthday was enjoyable," Anna said as Sybil walked over to her vanity to brush her hair.

"It was, thank you."

"Did you receive any especially exciting gifts?"

"They were all very nice, though none I'd call exciting."

"I would expect at this age, you're receiving mostly jewels, right? I seem to remember that in the year before Lady Mary and Lady Edith had their coming out."

Sybil turned to Anna, who was finishing up with the fire. "You guessed exactly right! There was only one gift that was not a new necklace or earrings."

"And what was that?"

"A book about plant life in Yorkshire called Flora Eboracensis from Cousins Isobel and Matthew and Mr. Branson. I'd expressed an interest in botany in conversation."

"A thoughtful gift, then, and appropriate given your love of reading."

Sybil smiled. "It was very thoughtful. The jewels were nice too, and I'm sure I'll make use of them when my season comes around." Sybil turned back to the mirror and sighed. "Anna?"

"Yes, milady."

"I'm afraid I'm still a bit rubbish at this part." With a grimace, she pointed to the messy bun she'd pulled her hair into.

Anna smiled widely and walked behind her. "Are you looking forward to it, your season, I mean?" Anna asked as she began working Sybil's hair into a neater presentation.

"I am. It's still more than a year away, though, so at this point the anticipation is more out of curiosity about the whole thing than a desire to find a husband. I suppose that makes me odd."

"I would say it makes you who you are, and somewhere out there is a man who will want to marry you just for that."

Sybil laughed. "Thank you."

Once Anna had finished with her hair, Sybil left her to finish in her room, taking the book Isobel, Matthew and Tom had given her with her. Seeing nobody else down for breakfast yet, she proceeded to the library to drop the book off in her alcove for reading later in the morning.

As she stepped inside, the memories of her encounter with Tom there the evening before came back to her and she sat down in the window seat with a happy sigh. Sybil laughed at herself, recollecting how brazenly she had pulled Tom into the alcove and thrown off all convention when it came to what others might consider appropriately feminine behavior, first asking him to treat her as his equal and then, boldest of all, declaring friendship only the beginning of what she hoped was to come between them.

No doubt granny would have blanched at those last words, Sybil thought. But what other words were there to say?

To Sybil, since she'd first laid eyes on him outside Crawley House, Tom had proven himself a delightfully and determinedly radical thinker, sincere in his convictions. But even so, when she had asked that he give her the honesty of a friend instead of the flattery of an admirer, she hadn't been sure how he'd respond. So when he answered her by offering the single biggest truth he had to give, though his intent had not been to elevate himself significantly in her esteem, in allowing her to see him and know him as he really was, that had been the outcome. Nobody had ever leveled with Sybil, trusted her, so completely before. She knew immediately, of course, and with some shame, that the revelation would be disconcerting to some in her family. But that knowledge did not change things for her—and as she stood to walk out of the alcove she realized that she needed him to know that. And so she'd said the words.

"What I said before about us being friends. I didn't mean that I don't want something else in future."

Bold. Too bold, perhaps. But it had felt good to say. Better than any feeling she'd felt in the whole of her seventeen years.

The thrill of it coursed through her again as she relived the moment in her mind. Sybil hugged the book she was holding to her chest, not doubting that he had chosen it for her even though it had been presented as being from the whole family. It was not likely to be as enthralling as the last he'd suggested, but she figured that he'd selected it under the assumption that she'd be opening presents in front of everyone—as indeed had been the case.

Sybil opened the book on her lap now and had just begun to leaf through it when she noticed an envelope stuck to one of the pages. She carefully pried it off and opened it. Inside there was a slip of paper with what was now familiar handwriting.

Where your last hunt ended, a new treasure awaits.

Leaving the botany book on the window seat, Sybil quickly made her way over to the shelf where she'd found A Vindication of the Rights of Women. She stuck her hand behind the row of books and let out a happy yelp when she felt something there. She pulled out another book and immediately opened the front cover, where she found another note waiting for her.

Lady Sybil,

Nonfiction takes us through the known, and fiction through the unknown. I suggested you venture through nonfiction for your education, but in truth both journeys matter if life is to be lived fully. This work was written by the daughter of Mary Wollstonecraft. I hope it proves sufficiently unconventional. Happy birthday.

Your friend, T. Branson

Sybil turned to the title page and read the title aloud, "Frankenstein or the Modern Prometheus." She smiled and looking at the note again, ran her fingers over his writing.

After a moment, she walked back over to the alcove and set this book down where she'd left the other and folded both notes into the pocket of her skirt. Looking around the tiny space, she suddenly felt tears prick the back of her eyes. She would miss this room, but now she had another treasured memory of it to cherish, and two books to lose herself in on this last day she'd be able to enjoy it.

Later that morning, as Gwen was making her way back to her room, having successfully sent off her final lesson, she couldn't help but feel a bit nervous. Running into Mr. Bates at the post office had set her a bit on edge. There was no real reason for it, of course. There was nothing wrong with her wishing to post something.

What nefarious thing would Mr. Bates have to suspect?

Deep down, though, she knew that with the last lesson now out of her hands, the idea of being a secretary was no longer a pipe dream but a real possibility that was within her grasp, so long as she had the courage to reach out for it. For it was one thing to take lessons in secret. It would be quite another to put herself out there, to ask someone to take a chance on her, and—her biggest fear of all—to reveal her aspirations to her colleagues and current employers, people who bristled at that word, aspiration. Nefarious, indeed.

Gwen was so lost in thought as she walked into her room that she was startled to find Anna there, standing on a chair by their cupboard and trying to move a box. That box. Suddenly, the fear that had been pooling in her stomach since she'd seen Mr. Bates started coursing wildly through the whole of her.

"What are you doing?" She asked Anna anxiously.

Anna sighed, clearly exasperated. "If you must know, I'm trying to bring my things down from the top of the cupboard to make life easier for packing this week." She climbed down from the chair and looked at Gwen squarely in the eyes with a challenging expression. "So what's in it then?"

"What?" Gwen was wracking her brain for a way to deflect attention.

"That bleeding packing case that weighs a ton, that's what!"

"Can't you just leave it?"

"No, I can't, and you'll tell me right now!"

As she quietly climbed onto the chair, Gwen felt tears welling in her eyes, unable to hold back the feeling that her dreams were bursting before her eyes. Carefully, she lifted the case, brought it over to the table by her bed and opened it. She turned to Anna, whose face softened into a smile. Gwen let out a grateful sigh of relief, remembering that she did not have to fear judgment in Anna.

Anna stepped up to the typewriter and put her fingers over the keys. "It's a typewriter, yes?"

Gwen nodded.

"How much did it cost?"

"Every penny I'd saved. Al—almost."

"And is this the mystery lover?"

Gwen smiled. "Well, I've been taking a correspondence course in typing and shorthand. That's what was in the envelopes."

"Are you any good?"

"Yes. I am, actually."

Anna was about to say something else when the door opened. Both women instinctively moved to hide the typewriter behind them. It was Miss O'Brien. Gwen felt her fear begin to pulse through her all over again.

The lady's maid, wearing her usual stern expression, looked between Anna and Gwen for several moments before speaking.

"Her ladyship wants the full skirt Lady Mary never wears. A seamstress is going to fit it to Lady Sybil, but I can't find it."

"I'll come in a minute," Anna responded, hoping it would be enough to send the nosy O'Brien off, but knowing it wouldn't be.

"They're waiting now," was O'Brien's impatient response.

"One minute," Anna insisted. "I'm just changing my cap and apron."

O'Brien looked at them both again, and tilted her head as if to try to spy what they were guarding, but eventually gave up and left. Anna moved to close the door.

Turning back to Gwen, she asked, "Have you told anyone?"

"Only Lady Sybil. She's been very supportive. She helped me get it in here."

"How exactly did you manage it?"

"The parcel was first sent to Lady Sybil. She made an excuse to his lordship as to its contents. Then, she helped me bring it up to the attic one night several months ago."

"And I slept through it all?" Anna asked with an incredulous smile on her face.

Gwen nodded and laughed. "I'd been prepared to tell you, but since you didn't wake I figured I wouldn't burden you with such a secret."

"What do your parents say?"

"Well, I can't tell them till I've got a job. Dad will think I'm a fool to leave a good place, and mum will say I'm getting above myself, but . . . but I don't believe that."

Anna smiled. "Nor do I. And it will mean something to them that you have Lady Sybil's support."

Gwen sighed. "We shall see."

 Late in the afternoon, walking through the house on her last day as its mistress, Cora smiled to herself as she thought of the varying ways her daughters were responding to this change in their lives. Edith was in her room preoccupied with what clothes she'd take to London and what she would leave in the trunks to be transported to Downton Abbey. Sybil, naturally, had holed herself up with a book in her favorite corner of the library, declaring to her mother when Cora had discovered her there that she'd not leave the spot until it was time to change for dinner. Mary, Anna had told Cora, had gone for a walk on the grounds. This was no surprise either. Mary had always been fond of walking about the grounds when her mind felt especially full.

Now knowing, thanks to Tom's diligent work, that the question of the entail had to be put behind them, and eager to ease her eldest daughter's mind regarding what would come next, Cora put on her coat and hat and headed out to look for her.

It didn't take her long to find Mary, seated at a bench on the path leading away from the gardens at the back of the house. As she approached, Cora saw that Mary was reading a letter.

"Anything interesting?"

Mary turned to see her mother, whom she'd heard approach. Mary supposed she could be coy about the letter, hold the possibilities it presented close to her chest, but at this stage, what would be the point? Her mother and grandmother were going to meddle regardless.

"Not particularly," Mary answered. "It's from Evelyn Napier. You met him at the Delta Fields last November at Doncaster Races."

Cora perked up at the mention of the young man she remembered as sweet and handsome. "Is that Lord Branksome's boy?"

"It is."

"Do you like him?" Cora asked quietly, sitting down, not wanting to put Mary off by seeming too eager.

"I don't dislike him."

Cora smiled at her daughter's commitment to stoicism and inscrutability. "And what's he writing about?"

"Oh, nothing much. He's out with the York and Ainsty in November. The meet is at Downton. He knows we will be back by then and wants some tea when he's up there."

"Where's he staying? With friends?"

Mary knew where her answer would lead. "He says he's found a pub that caters for hunting."

"Oh, we can improve on that—he must stay with us at Downton! He can send the horses up early, if he wants. We can ensure the stables are ready."

"He'll know why you're asking him."

Cora widened her eyes every so slightly, hopeful the lie would land softly. "I can't think what you mean. His mother is a friend of mine. She'll be pleased at the idea." It was a silly ruse, but sorely needed. This was the most Mary had ever done on her own behalf, and Cora wanted to prod her forward gently.

Of course, her daughter saw right through it. "Not very pleased," Mary said. "She's dead."

Cora smiled. "All the more reason, then. You can write a note, too, and put it in with mine."

Mary sighed. She'd wanted to tread carefully with Evelyn, know his mind a bit more before making her interest so plain, but she could see now that the battle for subtlety was lost. Her mother would not back down.

"Should I tell him about your friendship with his late mother?"

Cora stood to leave. "I'm sure you of all people can compose a letter to a young man without any help from me."

Cora walked back toward the house hopeful for the first time in a while with regard to Mary's prospects. Mary was a beautiful woman—Cora often thought too beautiful. Patrick had known her all of her life and had grown accustomed to Mary's beauty. He was not intimidated by it. But it was not so with other men. Her first season had been a success, the ones that followed too, but they'd also quietly revealed a chilling truth: the prettiest girl in the room was also at times the loneliest. She did not suspect that had been the reason Mary and Matthew did not get along, but Violet's notion of their union seemed a farfetched one at this point. Neither showed any inclination toward the other, and Cora knew better than to force it—even if Violet and Robert might continue to insist on it.

Cora looked back, and the image of Mary alone on that bench made Cora think of how lonely Mary might have been these past months without the man she'd intended to marry and without the fortune that would have secured another favorable match. Cora wondered briefly what her own life might have been like if the money that Robert had married her for had been taken away from her, as ruthlessly as British law had taken it from Mary. It would have been a different life entirely. The thought scared Cora to her core.

And it was that very emotion—fear—that hid behind the stoic wall Mary had built around her heart. Nobody sensed it in her. But that, Mary thought, was for the best.

Cora returned to the house to find Violet in the parlor with Robert. Violet had come, no doubt, to discuss Tom's findings regarding the entail, but that topic would have to wait with Robert present. So Cora proceeded to fill them in about Mary's correspondence with Mr. Napier and her own intention to invite him to Downton Abbey.

"Explain, again, how you managed it." Violet said after a while, still skeptical that Mary herself would be so forward.

"As I said, it's not of my doing," Cora replied. "It's all Mary's own work, but I think we should encourage it."

"Branksome's a dull dog, but I don't suppose that matters," Robert put in.

"Did you know his wife had died?" Cora asked.

"He only ever talks about racing," Robert said with a roll of his eyes.

Violet sighed. "Cora is right. Mary won't take Matthew Crawley, so we'd better get her settled before the bloom is quite gone off the rose."

"Is the family an old one?" Cora asked, not particularly interested in the answer, but knowing that if there was an objection in her mother-in-law's mind it would be on this matter.

Violet, seeing through Cora's question, replied with her usual cheek. "Older than yours I imagine."

"Old enough," Robert confirmed.

"And there's plenty of money," Cora said, knowing this much to be true.

"Oh, really?" Violet asked.

Cora nodded and looked at Robert who said with a hint of impatience in his tone, "Mama, you've already looked him up in the stud books and made inquiries about the fortune, don't pretend otherwise. Are you afraid someone will think you're American if you speak openly?"

"I doubt it'll come to that."

Satisfied that they were all in agreement, Cora asked, "Shall I ring for tea?"

"No, not for me," Robert said. "I'm meeting Cripps at five. I'll see you at dinner."

With that Robert left the two women alone.

Turning back to Violet, Cora noticed a skeptical expression on her face. "You don't seem very pleased."

"I'm pleased. It's not brilliant, but I'm pleased."

"So you don't have a problem with Evelyn Napier?"

"I don't want Robert to use a marriage as an excuse to stop fighting for Mary's inheritance," Violet said finally.

Cora sighed. "It won't make any difference. You know he doesn't have the slightest intention of fighting as it is. The price of saving Downton is to accept Matthew Crawley as his heir."

"What about you?"

"I don't dislike Matthew. In fact, I rather admire him. Him and Tom both."

"Is that sufficient reason to give them your money?"

"First of all, Matthew is getting it, not Tom. And no it isn't sufficient reason, but what recourse do I have?"

"Did Tom not offer an alternative? You spoke on the matter last night, didn't you?"

"Yes, he explained everything, and quite thoroughly. There is a path, but it is one we cannot take."

"Oh?"

"It would create a rift among us, Violet, or specifically between Robert and I. Robert has made his position clear on wanting to move forward with Matthew, and anyway the sum that would go to Mary, diminished as it is, isn't worth the pain it would cause."

"Are you so certain?"

"I am."

Violet rolled her eyes. "And so Downton Abbey will be a middle class man's domain."

Cora was used to Violet's attitude and opinions, but this could not go unremarked upon, not after the way Tom had opened her eyes last night as to the true author of the family's current circumstances and his true motivations.

"Do not blame him, please," she said. "It wasn't Matthew who created this situation it was your husband."

Violet whipped around to Cora, a rebuke was on the tip of her tongue, but she thought better of it. "Then there's nothing more to be said," she said sternly. "Are we going to have tea or not?"

Cora stood to ring the bell, a knowing smile on her face. It wasn't often that Violet held herself back. Cora knew that Violet would never admit her husband had acted wrongly, but having backed away from the argument just now was as much an admission of his guilt as anything Violet would ever do or say. As Cora pulled on the bell, she allowed herself a moment to cherish the victory.

A short while later, Mrs. Hughes brought up the tea. Once both ladies had been served, she stepped up to Cora.

"Is there something wrong, Mrs. Hughes?" Cora asked.

"Well, I hate to trouble you, your ladyship, but there's a bit of a situation downstairs."

"Oh, goodness! What could it be?"

"It's to do with Gwen."

 On the rare nights she went to bed feeling buoyantly hopeful, usually after a long talk with Lady Sybil, Gwen allowed herself to lie in bed and picture the day she would hand in her notice to Mrs. Hughes. The day she'd tell her that she was leaving for a job as a secretary.

There is nothing wrong with service, Gwen would say. Simply, it's not for me. I want something else. Not something more, per se, just something else.

Mrs. Hughes would smile kindly and wish her well. There might be some skepticism in her eyes, but Gwen would know it was not ill-intended. Mrs. Hughes had seen her fair share of housemaids come and go, but at the end of the day she would be supportive of Gwen.

That's how Gwen had always pictured it. But that was not what had happened this afternoon.

After she and Anna had sent O'Brien off, Gwen thought that perhaps that would be the end of it. Anna would keep her secret and everything would be as it had been before. But it was not to be. O'Brien had shamelessly broken Gwen's privacy and laid out Gwen's dreams for the rest of the staff to poke at.

As she went about her duties, after that terrible confrontation with everyone, Gwen couldn't shake the image of the typewriter sitting on the dining table in the servants' hall, all of them crowded around it. The memory of it, so fresh in her mind still, made her stomach ache with shame. Her knickers could have been laid out there in the same fashion and she'd not feel worse. What was worse, after all, than your most closely guarded dream, known only to your best friend, being laid bare in that way to be judged by those who would, in turn, feel judged by you for having such a dream, despite you entreaties to the contrary? The way they had all looked at her, some whom she would even call her friends, had made her feel small. And now, even hours later, though she'd gone on with her work as best she could, she felt unable to recover from it.

Knowing it was close to the dinner hour, Gwen made her way to Sybil's room, having asked Anna earlier if she could dress her tonight, needing a friendly shoulder to lean on. Finding the room was empty upon her arrival, Gwen sat on the bed for a moment to collect herself. But alas, being in the room where so many of her dreams had been nurtured had the opposite effect.

Gwen hadn't been there for more than a few minutes, when Anna came in with a basket of Sybil's laundered clothes. Anna was so preoccupied with putting the clothes away, it took her several minutes to realize that Gwen was crying. Anna quickly walked over to her friend and put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"Gwen? Whatever's the matter?"

The tears Gwen had been trying to hold back became sobs.

"Hey, come on. It's all right." Anna sat down next to Gwen, and began to gently stroke her back in an effort to calm her down.

"What's happened?" It was Mr. Bates, peaking in from the hall. Robert's dinner clothes were draped across his arm. He'd been on his way to Robert's dressing room when he'd heard Gwen's crying.

Both Gwen and Anna turned to the door, where he remained, with a look of concern on his face. "Oh . . . oh, I'm just being silly," Gwen said, now calmer, but still clearly agitated. "You should get that brushed," she said referring to the clothes on Bates' arm.

Bates came into the room and closed the door behind him to give Gwen a bit of privacy. "He won't be up for another half an hour. Now, what is it?"

Gwen sighed, sadly. "Well, I suppose I've just realized that it's not going to happen."

"What isn't?" Bates asked.

"None of it. I'm not going to be a secretary. I'm not going to leave service. I doubt I'll leave here before I'm sixty."

"Hey, what's all this?" Anna exclaimed. "You said you were good at that stuff. What's changed since this morning?"

"Oh, you saw their faces," Gwen said, unable to hold back the torrent of self-pity that had been welling since that dreadful scene in the kitchen. "And they're right. Oh, look at me! I'm the daughter of a farmhand. I'm lucky to be a maid. I was born with nothing, and I'll die with nothing."

"Don't talk like that," Bates said encouragingly. "You can change your life if you want to. Sometimes you have to be hard on yourself, but you can change it completely, I know."

But Gwen could not reply.

Turning to Anna, Bates said. "Take her upstairs. Dry her off."

Anna gently guided Gwen up to their room. Once there, Gwen was calm, but there was a look of utter dejection on her face. "How pathetic am I?" She asked looking at her feet.

Anna grabbed her hands. "Not at all. Forget Miss O'Brien. She just wants everyone to be as sour as she is. Don't let go of this dream, not if it's what you really want."

Gwen sighed, but said nothing.

"All right, now buck up! Go down and wait for Lady Sybil. She'll need changing soon anyway, and she'll offer some encouragement."

"That's because nothing's impossible for their lot. It's different for us."

"That may be true, but if she is your friend, you owe her the truth at least. Mrs. Hughes has told her ladyship, so they'll be talking about it at dinner. Better that she know that."

"I suppose you're right."

But when Sybil finally made it back to her room to change and Gwen filled her in on what had happened, Sybil offered Gwen no encouragement. She was much too angry at O'Brien and much too busy cursing the odious maid for sticking her nose where it didn't belong to take time to offer Gwen comfort. But the truth was, Sybil's ridiculous display of ire, capped by a long rant against women who keep other women down, had been so amusing for Gwen to watch, that it actually did the trick. Gwen still felt a little disheartened, but no longer completely defeated. She was even ready to find her tragic discovery's silver lining.

She said as much to Sybil.

"I'm glad you're feeling better, Gwen," Sybil said, still in a huff, "but it will be some time before I can look at her without wanting to—"

Gwen laughed, heartily, before interrupting what was sure to be another diatribe. "Truly, milady, it's fine."

Sybil sighed, and smiled. "Are you sure? I have half a mind to tell mama to give her the sack."

"There's no need for that. To be honest, it feels a bit like a weight's been lifted. I wish it hadn't happened like that, but now that everyone knows, I don't have to hide it, and, well, hiding does suggest there is some shame in what one is doing, and I don't feel that. Not anymore."

"Good, because you shouldn't." Sybil looked at her friend, and she did look happier than she had only a few moments ago. "I suppose this means we won't need to transport it back to my room tonight."

"I'm glad for that. The first time was nerve-wracking enough."

Sybil laughed. "Whereas I was looking forward to one last adventure here."

 Isobel, Matthew and Tom had been invited over for the second time in as many nights, to help the family mark their last day at Downton Place. Once they'd entered the drawing room to wait for dinner with the family, they were quickly appraised as to the events below stairs. The topic carried over to the dinner table.

"I don't understand," Violet said. "Why—why would she want to be a secretary?"

"She wants a different life," Matthew offered.

"But why?" Violet insisted. "I should far prefer to be a maid in a large and pleasant house than work from dawn till dusk in a cramped and gloomy office. Don't you agree, Carson?"

Carson, who'd been standing by his spot near the head of the table answered, "I do, milady."

Mary rolled her eyes, now growing increasingly tired of the conversation. "Why are we talking about this? What does it matter?"

"It matters that the people that live and work here are content," Cora said.

"I find it curious that you take her initiative as a personal affront," Tom put in.

Robert sighed, but with a smile. "What could you possibly mean, Tom?"

"Well, the young lady seems to want to take her life in a new direction. Cousin Cora and Cousin Violet believe her actions reflect poorly on the family. And I am forced to wonder why you think her wishes have anything to do with you."

"We're her employers," Robert said. "If she is dissatisfied with her job, it does reflect badly on us."

"But why should it? If that dissatisfaction stems not from the job itself but from having been given no alternatives to it. She is perfectly within her rights to wish to do something different with her life, and she has no reason to be ashamed of such a wish. You force shame on her by harping only on how it's all going to affect you, when there's likely dozens available to take up the job once she leaves." Tom cheekily turned to Carson. "Or is a seamless transition impossible in this situation, Carson?"

"Not at all, Mr. Branson," Carson said in the huffy delivery he reserved for the young firebrand.

"Your point is well taken, Tom," Cora said with teasing a smile, then turning to her daughter, added, "but I'd appreciate it if you didn't rile up any more of the staff, Sybil. The transition back to Downton is going to be hard enough."

"But we have full confidence in you, Carson," Robert added for the benefit of the butler.

"Thank you, milord."

"I agree with Tom, and I plan to continue to help Gwen if that's what she wants," Sybil said, in response to her mother. "There's nothing wrong with it."

"Nothing wrong at all," Isobel said, wanting to support the young lady, knowing she was alone among her immediate family in her opinions. "Surely we must all encourage those less fortunate to improve their lot where they can."

"Not if it isn't in their best interests!" Violet exclaimed, not ready to concede defeat on the topic.

"Isn't the maid a better judge of that than we are?" Isobel retorted.

"What do you say, Cousin Matthew?" Edith spoke up. "Should our housemaid be kept enslaved or forced out into the world?"

"It seems to me, her crime is but to have ambition."

"Ambition can be a dangerous thing," Mary said, surprising Matthew. They were the first words she'd directed to him in some time.

"True, but I see no danger in it here," Matthew responded. "When she's ready to leave, she should be allowed. The law permits it."

"But perhaps the law should not permit it, for the common good," Violet said.

Isobel laughed. "So, you hanker for the days of serfdom."

"I hanker for a simpler world. Is that a crime?"

"Nothing in this world is ever simple," Tom said. "Not if it involves human emotion—and surely you can agree that everything does."

"I suppose you like things to be complicated, don't you, Tom? After all what is the definition of revolution if not messy and needless complication."

"Indeed, Cousin Violet. For me, the messier the better."

The rest of the family laughed as Tom and Violet's banter continued throughout the evening. It was a dinner that Sybil would remember as worthy of the house that hosted it.

 In the drawing room after dinner, Mary, Sybil and Tom chatted about the family's upcoming trip to London, when Cora called Mary over (Bless her, Sybil thought) to ask her something about Mr. Napier's upcoming visit to Downton Abbey.

Sybil took the chance to thank Tom for his secret gift.

He grinned, happy that she had discovered it. "I half feared when I hid it that you might not bother opening the first book and not see the note until after you'd left here."

"I didn't discover it until this morning, I admit, but I'd committed to spend my last day here reading in my alcove, and I never leave new books unopened for too long, so I was always going to find it."

"Have you started it?"

"No, I stuck to the botany book today. I'm saving the novel for our train ride to London."

"I have no sense of your tolerance for the macabre, so I hope it doesn't put you off."

"Macabre? I'm now more intrigued than ever!" She said, excitedly.

He laughed at her enthusiasm.

"Thank you, also, for your help at dinner, speaking up for Gwen," she said.

"I'd have spoken up regardless, but I'm more glad to have done it now that I know it was in support of your scheme."

Sybil blushed. "I haven't really done anything except help Gwen sneak the typewriter into the servants quarters. She's done all the work—for her course, I mean."

"It's good of you to encourage her. Given the odds she faces, I doubt Gwen would call that nothing."

"Mama and granny probably wish I'd stay out of it."

"Well, you have me on your side, whatever that's worth to you."

"Very much," Sybil said quietly. Then, her smile growing, she added, "This is terribly wicked of me to say, but I do enjoy seeing how riled up granny gets when she spars with you at the dinner table."

Tom laughed. "I must admit I enjoy it a little too much myself. At Crawley House, Aunt Isobel and I agree too heartily on most things to ever have an entertaining argument. Conversations in which the parties are all of the same mind are not nearly so interesting as ones in which they aren't."

Sybil smiled. "Neither granny nor papa will ever come around to our way of thinking, so there will never be a dull moment when we're back at Downton."

Tom smiled inwardly. Our.

Chapter Text

September 1912

Robert, Cora, Mary, Edith and Sybil had been gone only five days, but their absence was felt keenly by the inhabitants of Crawley House. Neither Isobel, nor Matthew could have guessed how accustomed they had become to seeing their cousins on a regular basis. Tom, gifted with a measure of self-awareness, knew that he would miss seeing Sybil, even in just a week's time, but just how acutely he did surprised him.

Whenever he thought of her, he would picture her hidden away in some corner of her family's London house eagerly turning the pages of the novel he'd given her, and the image would bring a smile to his face. He supposed there were any number of other things she could be doing, but in truth, his assumption was not far off the mark. If he allowed the thought of her to linger for more than a moment, he would go back in his mind to the night of her birthday. The way she so sweetly and innocently asked that he treat her like a real person and an equal, not the voiceless adornment that the likes of Larry Grey no doubt would have her believe was all she was—it completely disarmed and endeared him. She hadn't had to ask, of course. Who in the world could meet Sybil and not want to know her? In Tom's mind, to be captivated by her looks but not be interested in what lay beneath was wasted effort. Beautiful as she was, her brains and moxie made her all the more alluring, and damned if he was going to be the one who would put her on a pedestal to wilt for lack of true life experience.

Sybil's request in some ways felt like a kind of admission as to the treatment she expected from the men she'd known up to this point in her life and the ones who would begin circling her as her debut neared. Perhaps that was why Tom answered her with his own admission. She had asked him to see the whole of her, so how could he not reveal the same of himself? Whatever doubts Isobel and his own mother had put in his mind regarding letting the Robert Crawleys know his background, telling her had been easy. What she'd said next, he supposed, was the reason he was so anxious to see her again. Because if they had something beyond friendship to look forward to in the future, he wanted them to start forging the path toward whatever that future was as soon as possible, regardless of how long it would take to get there.

Tom hadn't told Isobel, Matthew or Claire that Sybil now knew his background, and he wondered whether telling them mattered any more than telling the rest of the Crawleys that he was a servant's son mattered. He was proud of who his parents were, but he also wanted to be his own man, one not tied down by old prejudices, and the more the issue of who knew and who didn't hung out there, the more he felt confined by it—and not in a way he liked.

So when he, Matthew and Isobel had sat down for breakfast on the Saturday morning after Robert and his family headed to London, Tom posed the question.

"Do you suppose I should have said something about myself to the family last week?"

"Said what?" Isobel asked as she buttered her toast.

"About the fact that my mam is the housekeeper here. When we were discussing the housemaid who wants to leave them. That might have been a good time to say something, don't you think?"

Matthew and Isobel looked at each other with surprise.

"I'd assumed you'd chosen not to say anything at all," Matthew said.

"I hadn't really chosen one way or the other," Tom said. "I knew I didn't want to lie, but now that we've gotten to know them and like them, I feel like the sin of omission is just as bad."

Isobel sighed. "Well, you know where I stand on this. It's not their business, and they've been so welcoming to you, why bother bringing it all up now?"

"Because I want to be honest about who I am."

"And who says you haven't been?" Isobel asked. "They haven't asked, which means on some level they don't care. Oh, I suppose Violet might, seeing how old fashioned she is, but honestly, Tom, don't trouble yourself with it. They obviously aren't."

"You don't owe them anything," Matthew said. "If they do ask, you can answer honestly, and if they wonder why you didn't say before say it's because you didn't think it mattered, because it doesn't. And if it does to them, then they'll just have to get over it. You're our family—that's never going to change, regardless of what Cousin Robert and his say."

Tom smiled, humbled by Matthew's unbridled support.

"What brought this on, anyway?" Isobel asked.

Tom looked back and forth between the two and figured there was no point in hiding it. "I've told Lady Sybil."

Isobel almost dropped her fork. "What?! Why?"

"She asked me if I ever wanted the chance to see my mother again, and it seemed wrong not to tell her." It wasn't exactly a lie.

"Do you think she'll mention it to the rest of her family?" Matthew asked.

"No," Tom answered. "She said she wouldn't and I believe her."

Isobel smiled. "Such a sweet girl. To think of her helping a young maid to become a secretary only to be chastised by her parents."

Matthew laughed. "They're hiring four new housemaids, a new footman, a new scullery maid and hall boys for the move back to the big house. With the search for a new estate agent as fruitless as it's been for me, I can't help but empathize with the desire not to have to fill yet another vacant position."

"They'll have six housemaids and two footmen?" Tom asked, incredulous. "Just how big is this place?"

"It could house a small country," Isobel said. "Rather excessive, I know, but the architecture is quite beautiful. It really is a marvel to behold."

"Why don't you come with me today?" Matthew asked Tom. "I've been meeting the candidates for the agent position there to make use of the map of the estate stored in the library. It's about time you had a look at it."

"Oh, why not?" Tom said with a shrug of his shoulders. "If I stick around, mam is just going to find something for me to fix."

"Has she shown you her new lamp?" Isobel asked with a smile.

"Yes! She's finally decided to join the twentieth century!" Tom exclaimed with a laugh.

"Not everyone took to electricity right away," Matthew said.

"Cora said Violet was a hold out as well," Isobel said. "Do you wonder if they have anything else in common?"

"Mam and Cousin Violet?" Tom thought for a minute. Then, with a cheeky smile, he said, "They both wish I'd hold my tongue more often."

Matthew and Isobel laughed. Tom heard a snicker behind him, and he turned to see Moseley standing in his usual place holding back a smile.

"Something to add on the matter, Moseley."

"Not at all, sir."

"Well, we should get going," Matthew said, standing. "Mother, what is your day like?"

"I'll be going to the hospital. Violet is determined to keep modernity out of there too, so I must stand as its only defender."

After the two young men said their goodbyes to Isobel and after Tom went to the kitchen to say a quick goodbye to his mother, Tom and Matthew stood outside waiting for Pratt to come pick them up.

"Isn't the big house close enough to walk?" Tom asked.

"Yes, but I need to go visit one of the farms first before the interviews—you don't mind do you?"

Tom shook his head.

A few minutes later, Pratt pulled up to the house. Matthew opened the door, leaving it open for Tom to follow, but Tom had other ideas.

"Pratt, would you like the day off?"

The confused chauffer looked to Matthew. "Sir?"

"Tom, what are you up to?"

"If I drive us, Mr. Pratt here can take the afternoon. Would you deny a working man a day's rest?"

Matthew rolled his eyes then sighed. "Pratt, would you like a ride back to the house?"

"Uh, I suppose."

A grinning Tom rubbed his hands together and walked around the motor to the driver's seat, as Pratt slid over. Tom put his hands on the wheel, then turned to the chauffer. "Has anyone ever driven you anywhere?"

Pratt smiled. "Can't say as they have."

"So why did you tell Sybil, really?"

Tom's head whipped over to look at Matthew. "What?"

"Keep your eyes on the road!"

Tom rolled his eyes. "We're not going to crash, for God's sake. This isn't the first time I've done this."

Matthew smiled. "So answer my question."

"I told you. She asked me if I wanted the chance to see my mother again. I said, 'I see her everyday,' and went on to explain why."

"What was the context?" Matthew asked with a smirk.

"What do you want me to say?"

"I'd like for you to admit that you like her, for starters."

Tom laughed. "I do like her."

"So what happened to the guy who wasn't going to fall in love with an earl's daughter."

"Who said anything about love?"

"Your face."

"I am not that transparent, neither am I in love with Sybil Crawley."

"No, you're certainly not transparent, but this is me you're talking to, and I happen to know you better than anyone. You're in something with her."

Tom thought for a moment "I'm . . ."

"What?"

"Intrigued."

"Intrigued? So, it's worse than I thought," Matthew said with a laugh.

"What!? I like her. We're friends. Is that wrong?"

Matthew smiled. "No." He looked at Tom out of the corner of his eye. "Is she why you think you need to tell them about where you come from?"

Tom sighed, but didn't say anything, so Matthew spoke again.

"You're wrong to assume out of hand that they wouldn't allow you to court her properly if they knew."

"Am I?"

"Cousin Robert likes you very much, Tom, so does Cousin Cora. Much more than they like me, I'm not embarrassed to admit."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"It's true. All our lives, when we're around other people you defer to me, play second fiddle, in deference to my father and the fact that I'm his natural son. I don't think you realize you're doing it, but you are, which is absurd since most of the time the chap everyone finds most interesting is you."

Tom rolled his eyes.

"Look, I don't think you have to say anything, but I also don't think you'd have as much to fear as you think you do if you did tell them."

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You have an heir to produce, don't you?"

"Oh, look! We're here!" Matthew said over-enthusiastically, which made Tom laugh.

Tom pulled over next to a barn where two men, one who looked to be in his fifties and one much younger stood waiting.

"Hello, Mr. Mason," Matthew said.

The older man came over to shake Matthew's hand. "Mr. Crawley, good to see you again. This is my son, William."

When all introductions were done, the foursome began their walk around the Mason's farm as Matthew discussed his plans for the estate and modernizing production.

"As you can see, we've done a bit of modernizing ourselves," William said pointing to some of their equipment.

"It's to your credit," Matthew said. "Too many fields lay fallow because the yield is so low the work is not worth it for some of the older tenants."

"Well, I've had the benefit of having William home with me the last year. We've done much better than in years past."

"Where were you before?" Tom asked William.

"I was a footman at the big house for several years before the move forced them to let me go."

"Do you want the position again?" Matthew asked. "Because I know the family is in need of one, now that they'll be back at Downton Abbey."

William and his father looked at one another and smiled, before Mr. Mason answered for his son. "We're negotiating that right now. William would like to stay and work the farm, but it's my wife's preference that he work in service."

"Well, let us know. If you want the post again, I'll speak with Carson and it shall be yours."

"Thank you, sir," William said.

"So what of the changes for the tenants?" Asked Mr. Mason.

"I'm sure you've heard of some resistance among some of the tenants, but it's really quite simple," Matthew began. "We want the estate to be self-sustaining. The upkeep of the house and grounds are too much of a drain for anyone to hope to maintain them without some influx of revenues."

"What does that mean for the tenants?" William asked.

Matthew continued, "We need all the lands to be in production, and we need at least some of the output to be sold in trade with the proceeds going back into the estate. We're asking the tenants who do not wish to work the land to take some compensation and turn the farms back over to us. We are rebuilding the cottages in the village, and once they are ready, those tenants will be able to take their retirements there. The tenants who wish to work with us will have their agreements honored. What we would be asking is your help in working the fallow fields. You could keep the yields from your own lands and for your additional work on what would become the estate's farms, you would receive a small payment or an equal reduction in rent—"

"Or . . ." Tom cut in.

Matthew smiled. "Or we could deposit the payment in a savings account with which you could eventually purchase your plot."

Mr. Mason's face went white. "You mean . . . own this land myself."

Tom and Matthew both smiled and nodded, and Tom filled in the details.

"Based on what we've calculated, once full production has begun and the initial investment of equipment and labor has been paid off, production from only about a third of the land currently held by the Grantham estate will be needed to keep it running self-sufficiently. We could simply sell the rest off, but it's in our interest that it remain farmland, so we'll keep it in tenancy or reserve sale to those who are already here."

"I can't quite believe it—it sounds a bit too good to be true," said a still bewildered Mr. Mason.

Tom laughed. "I believe that's our main problem in convincing some of the other tenants."

"Landlords have a long, colorful history of misconduct," Matthew said. "Those were men of the upper classes, who believed themselves entitled to what they were taking from you. We were raised by a doctor who taught us to understand the value of work. We know how much you've put in here, and we want to honor that."

"And Lord Grantham has agreed to all this?" Mr. Mason asked.

Tom nodded. "It wasn't easy to convince him, but he's lived the consequences of sticking to the old ways. This way Downton Abbey is protected, which is his greatest wish, and the tenants are given a choice as to their fate, not left with nothing, which is what would have happened if the whole estate had been sold after the move. This is a good idea, but it's new, which is why it's scary."

"I could help," William said, excitedly. Turning to his father, he said, "Surely, the goal of owning the farm ourselves will convince mother I should stay here with you and not go back to service. And I could talk to the other tenants to get them to sign on. I could help with the transition once things get going."

"He could," Mr. Mason said to Tom and Matthew. "He knows the new equipment, having worked it with me this past year, and he knows the other tenants well—he grew up on this land, as I did."

Tom and Matthew looked at one another, then back to the Masons. "Any help you could give us would be most welcome," Matthew said.

Hands shook and agreements eagerly made, Tom and Matthew were on their way a quarter of an hour later.

"How old do you suppose William is?" Matthew asked as they made their way back to Downton Abbey.

Tom shrugged. "Twenty, twenty-one, perhaps. Why?"

"He'd make a great agent if he had a bit more experience."

Tom stopped the car. "What experience does he need, exactly?"

Matthew thought for a minute. "He knows the land."

"He knows the tenants," Tom added.

"He'd not be tied to the old ideas."

"Anything he doesn't know of management or accounting, we could teach him."

Matthew rubbed his forehead, then looked at Tom. "Are we mad?"

Tom laughed. "Yes, we are." Then, he turned the car around to drive back to Mason farm so they could offer William the job.

The following Monday, the day that the family was to return to Downton, Matthew and Tom traveled to Ripon to work together for the first time. Once they had arrived, Matthew followed one of the stewards into the office of the partners, who were there to welcome him on his first day, while Tom proceeded to his office.

After hanging his hat and suit jacket, Tom sat down at his desk only to find a small envelope addressed to him. He turned it over, but there was no return address. The handwriting was unknown to him. He walked to the room where the secretaries sat to ask as to its provenance.

"It came in this morning's post, Mr. Branson," one of them said without looking up from her typewriter.

Tom walked back to his office, looking at the envelope and running his thumb over the handwriting. He had a guess, but it couldn't be.

Could it?

He closed the door to his office and sat down. He stared at the envelope for several minutes before finally opening it. He grinned upon seeing her name at the bottom of it. He'd been right.

Mr. Branson,

Sitting here thinking about the haunting novel you gave me to read, it occurred to me that you've sent me two notes now, and I have not had the decency to send you a response in kind. I hope you do not think me impertinent for sending it to your office and without a return address, but I didn't want you to be the subject of gossip at your place of work or the subject of teasing at Crawley House.

Having made up my mind to send it, I couldn't be sure whether this letter would reach you before our return to Downton, but I simply couldn't wait to discuss Frankenstein. Macabre, indeed! I've never read anything like it, and I mean that in the best way possible. You mentioned that the author was the daughter of Mary Wollstonecraft. I do love my mama dearly, but I must admit I've thought this week how thrilling it would have been to be raised by a woman of such ideas. The work in this novel, from a woman's hand, is an obvious testament as to what we can be capable of when our minds and imaginations are given license to run free, rather than stifled by the silly constraints of propriety.

As to the book itself, what a marvelously dark exploration of the human mind and what can happen when we succumb to our basest instincts. For surely base is the only word for Dr. Frankenstein's choice to use his intelligence for such a dark purpose, isn't it? Perhaps I am being unfairly judgmental. The creature, after all, was made evil by the treatment it was subject to at the hands of other humans who might have given their compassion. It's all too interesting! I am eager for your next recommendation. I am also bringing back a few books from my Aunt Rosamund's collection. Her late husband, dear Uncle Marmaduke, was himself an avid reader and a lover of mysteries. I hope you have not read the work of Arthur Conan Doyle. His Sherlock Holmes stories are quite thrilling, and I'd love nothing more than to introduce you to something that you might consider half as exciting as what you have given me.

Alas, the dressing gong has just sounded. So I must be off. Thank you, again. I look forward to more chats with you, although there are no places at Downton quite like the alcove to hide away in. Perhaps I shall build one myself someday.

Your friend, Sybil Crawley

Tom might have kept reading the letter over and over late into the morning had not one of the stewards knocked on his door about ten minutes after he first opened it.

"Sir, a Stewart Pratt here to see you. Lord Grantham's chauffer, he said."

"Yes, send him in."

Tom stood as Pratt stepped in, hat in hand. "Hello, Pratt. What brings you by?"

"Well, sir, I hate to inconvenience you at your place of work, but, the family returns today and both motors are needed to fetch them at the train station. Mr. Taylor, who works for her ladyship, the Dowager Countess, had agreed last week to come along with me, but it seems he's out of sorts this morning. Knowing now that you can drive, and having no other option, I was wondering if you'd help."

Tom smiled. "I'd be happy to. What time do they arrive?"

"On the 3:45 train, sir."

"All right, I'll be by the house to meet you at the appropriate time."

"Much obliged, sir."

Tom smiled as Pratt stepped out of the room. He folded up the letter and put it in his waistcoat pocket, holding his hand against it for a long moment before getting back to work.

That afternoon, the family was delighted to see Tom at the train station to pick them up. After Pratt explained the situation and Tom helped him mount their luggage on the two automobiles, they set off. Pratt drove Robert and Cora, while Tom drove the girls, with Mary and Edith siting in the very back and Sybil facing them in the seat directly behind the driver. She'd taken care to sit on the opposite side of the driver's seat so she could see Tom if she turned her head only slightly to her left.

He'd been silent most of the way as the sisters chatted idly about the train ride, but Sybil so wanted to hear his voice that about three-quarters of the way through the journey, she finally turned to him and spoke.

"I didn't know you could drive. You really are a jack of all trades."

Tom took a peak at her and smiled.

"How did you learn?" Edith asked, leaning forward a bit.

"A mechanic in Manchester taught me. I gave him some legal help, and he wasn't able to pay the full fee, so I asked if he'd teach me about cars instead."

"That was neighborly of you," Sybil said.

"I'd like to buy my own eventually, so it seemed a practical deal to make."

"Well, if you do, don't make it one of these," Mary said. "They're frightfully uncomfortable. I much prefer whatever it is Aunt Rosamund keeps in London."

"I don't suppose you remember the make?" Tom asked her.

"Why in the world would I bother myself with that knowledge," Mary answered, her tone making Sybil and Edith laugh.

"I'd like to drive someday," Edith said.

Mary turned to her with a look as if she'd grown a second head. "Whatever for?"

"Why not? Gentlemen like driving, why shouldn't women."

Mary rolled her eyes.

"I'd settle for learning how to ride a bicycle," Sybil said. "Oh look, there it is!"

Sybil turned and got to her knees to see the old house as it appeared in the distance and rose to its full majesty as they approached. None of the sisters had seen it since the day they'd left. Edith felt a squeeze on her hand, and turned to see a teary-eyed Mary holding it tightly. Sybil sat back down and seeing this rare display of emotional solidarity between her sisters, leaned toward them to cover their joined hands with hers. They remained that way until Tom brought the car to a stop at the front door.

Tom hopped out of the car and went around the side to help the girls out. Edith stepped out first, then Mary, who stopped in front of Tom and said, "I know we owe this to you and Matthew, so thank you. It means so much to be here again."

Tom smiled at Mary. Then he turned to Sybil who followed Mary out of the car. She took the hand he held out for her.

"Welcome home," he said quietly.

Sybil looked into the depths of his blue eyes, then, still holding his hand, turned to look at the house that until this moment had never felt like home before.

"Thank you for the letter," he added.

"Thank you," she said, turning back to him with a smile and squeezing his hand before letting go.

"For what, exactly?"

"'Everything. This."

"This is just the beginning."

Sybil smiled. "I know. That's the best part."

Chapter Text

November 1912

Sybil's morning routine had been the same for the last month.

She'd come down to breakfast early, wait until her father was finished with the newspapers, take them to the library and spend the morning scouring them for job notices for secretaries. Taking care to focus on entry-level and eliminate the ones that sought proof of extensive secretarial experience, Sybil realized that opportunities for Gwen were few and far between. But this morning, finally, she hit on something. Sybil knew it would be wrong to interrupt her friend while she was working, especially now that they were back at Downton, where there was more to do. But by midday, she couldn't hold it in any longer.

After luncheon had been cleared, she went up to her room to fetch the paper where she'd left it on her desk and then back down to the servants hall to find Gwen. The staff had just finished eating and had started to disperse and return to their duties when Sybil came down. Seeing her at the foot of the stairs, Gwen quickly pulled her aside.

"Milady, what are you doing here—you could have rung!"

"Someone else might have come up, and this is important!"

Gwen smiled. "Well, then?"

"I saw this," Sybil said holding up the newspaper.

Gwen took it and looked at the notice Sybil had circled.

"It's for a secretary at a new firm in Thirsk. See?"

"But . . ."

"No buts! You've long been finished with the course. Now it's time you find a job. I know how little time you have with all your work, so I've taken the liberty of looking for you. This is perfect!"

"I don't know, milady."

"Don't lose heart now! Write to them today and name me as your reference. I can give it without ever specifying precisely what your work here has been."

Gwen took a deep breath, and Sybil smiled, not wanting to push her further.

"Will you check with Anna about coming up tonight before diner, so we can talk more?"

Gwen smiled and nodded.

Sybil went back upstairs, intending to head to the library, when she ran into Edith, who had her hat and coat on.

"Where are you going?"

"Out."

"To do what?" Sybil asked, curious as to the determined look on Edith's face.

"Find a life."

For Edith, Downton Place had felt like a trap. Literally and figuratively. It had been hard enough to grow up along side Mary's sense of entitlement and self-importance when everything was fine. To have to live with her after so much of what Mary believed solely hers was lost was a special kind of torture. Edith understood that as the eldest Mary felt ownership over Downton Abbey, but to Edith, Mary behaved as if nobody felt its loss as acutely as she did, as if the great tragedy of their father's failure had happened only to Mary and to no one else. It was a stifling way to live.

And there was the fact that the nearest village was an hour's walk away. Not one for riding like her sisters, all Edith could do to get away was walk in circles around the house. Like a prize pig sent out to wander the pasture aimlessly.

Making the short walk to Downton village, Edith laughed at herself and tried to shoo away her self-pity. It was such a relief to be back home, where it was easy to lose oneself in the endless maze of hallways and where a distraction in the village was only twenty minutes away—a quarter of an hour if one walked with purpose. And on this afternoon Edith had one.

Months had passed since she'd admitted to her sisters her interest in Matthew, and it had taken as much time to decide exactly how to act on that interest. She had not been taken by Matthew upon first meeting him, nor in the first weeks of their acquaintance. It was to be expected. Having been in love with someone whom she'd known all her life distorted Edith's view of how it was supposed to feel at the start with someone who was more or less a stranger. If she was honest with herself she could admit that her curiosity about him stemmed from how aloof he was with Mary. Mary, of course, would say that if she and Matthew weren't close it was because she had made it so, but Edith could see that Matthew wasn't interested. Not in Mary, not in any of them.

Mary's declaration on the day they'd met him that he'd be choosing a bride from among the sisters had turned out to be quite wrong, in fact. It was possible that he was still mourning the fiancée who had left him the money that ultimately had allowed for their return to Downton. It was possible he was simply a bit shy. Tom seemed the more self-assured of the two and had endeared himself to her parents and grandmother quite easily, which was amusing to Edith given his opinions and his penchant for voicing them at every turn. But it was also possible that Matthew was simply biding his time—not asserting himself too much to give the family time to get used to him as the heir. Tom liked pushing people's buttons, but then he had nothing to lose. Matthew had everything, including Edith's attention.

She didn't know whether she could love Matthew. She didn't know whether she wanted to. But as she'd intimated to Sybil on her way out, she needed a life outside of the walls of Downton. Matthew was as good a path toward that goal as any.

Edith was so lost in her thoughts as she walked toward Crawley House that she didn't hear Matthew calling out to her or the ringing of his bicycle bell until he was upon her.

"Oh," she said, a bit alarmed. She hadn't quite worked out yet what she was going to say and seeing him discombobulated her a bit.

Matthew tipped his hat to her and stepped off his bicycle. "Hello," he said with a smile. "I'd offer you a lift if I could."

"It was you I was coming to see," Edith replied, trying to calm her nerves.

"Oh, then your timing is matchless. I just got off the train."

"From your office? How are you liking the work?"

"Very well. It's been nice to get back to it after focusing solely on getting the farms up and running again the first month I was here."

"I can't say I know much about the running of the estate or the changes you've made. All we get from Papa about the matter has to do with his continued concern regarding a former footman serving as agent."

"I'm happy to report William Mason has stepped up to the rigors of the position most admirably and is doing an excellent job. You're welcome to pass that along to Cousin Robert."

Edith smiled, then looked around. "Shouldn't Tom be with you? Don't you work together?"

"We do. He stayed behind to get a few things finished."

Edith swallowed. No more stalling.

"Well, the reason I was coming by was . . . the other day at dinner, Cousin Isobel was saying you wanted to see some of the local churches."

"She's right, I do. I want to know more about the county generally if I'm to spend the rest of my days here."

"Well, I thought I might . . . show you a few of the nearer ones. We could take a picnic and make an outing of it."

"That's very kind."

"Nonsense. I'll enjoy it. It's too long since I played the tourist."

"It would have to be a Saturday. Churches work on Sunday and I work all the week days."

"Then Saturday it is. I'll get Lynch to sort out the governess cart, and I'll pick you up at about eleven."

The words were barely out when Edith started walking away, not wanting to linger or seem too desperate. She held her breath until she'd rounded the nearest corner.

If she'd turned around as she was leaving, she would have seen Matthew blinking several times in bewilderment, then smiling as he realized what had just happened.

"Which churches will you show him?"

Edith considered her answer before replying to Anna's question. They were in Mary's room later that day. Anna was tying Mary into her corset while Edith, already dressed for dinner, watched from Mary's bed.

"I can't decide," Edith said finally. "Kirby, possibly, or perhaps Easingwold."

"You don't think you're being a bit obvious?" Mary asked archly.

"Coming from you, that's rich," was Edith's response.

Before Mary could offer her own retort, Cora came in holding a letter.

"There was a letter from Mr. Napier in the evening post," she said, looking brightly at Mary.

"Did he accept the invitation?" Mary asked.

"Not yet."

"Perhaps he thought it was too obvious," Edith said, feeling as if she'd won this round.

"Obvious? What are you talking about?" Cora asked looking back and forth between her daughters.

"Edith has devised a scheme to trap Matthew by taking him to visit churches in the area."

"It's a perfectly fine idea!" Edith protested. "He expressed an interest. Why should he see anything in it except my being helpful?"

"Oh . . . Matthew, is it?" Cora said with a sigh. She thought for a minute, tapping the letter against her hand. "You know my dear, perhaps Mary is right."

"What?!" Edith exclaimed as Mary smiled, lifting her nose in the air. "Why would you say so?"

"You have to remember that he's been engaged before. I know he's only been here a few months, but if marrying were on his mind, he'd have made as much clear by now. Perhaps a more subtle approach is best for him."

"Well, the invitation has been made and accepted. I'll look a fool if I take it back now."

"How would that be different from every other day?" Mary said.

Cora gave her eldest daughter a stern look. "Oh, Mary!"

"I'm going," Edith insisted. "I don't care what either of you say."

Just after she'd spoken, Sybil walked in, having gotten dressed in her own room with Gwen's help—after a long talk about Gwen's inquiry letter regarding the secretarial post in Thirsk.

Mary, now being buttoned into her dress, looked over to her and smiled.

Cora narrowed her eyes at her youngest, then turned to Edith. "You shall take Sybil with you."

"No!"

"Take me where?" Sybil asked, sitting on the chair next to the window.

"To visit local churches with Mr. Matthew on Saturday," Anna answered, holding back a snicker at the back and forth she was witnessing.

"Must I?" Sybil asked, turning to her mother. "I find those places rather dull, myself. Having to go once a week is more than enough."

Cora rolled her eyes. "Oh, don't be silly. You'll go and enjoy yourself."

"But won't Sybil's presence make things worse?" Mary asked her mother.

"How so?" Cora asked.

"It'll be obvious she's there as a chaperone if Edith made the invitation on her own."

Cora sighed. "You're absolutely right. Edith, write to Matthew and invite him to bring Tom along. That way it's just a group outing, nothing anyone should be intimidated by." Turning to Sybil, she added, "It'll be your job to keep Tom entertained. Find a way to pull yourselves away now and again to give Matthew and Edith some time alone."

Sybil could barely contain her laughter at what she'd just walked into. "Um . . . all right."

"And just how are we supposed to get around?" Edith asked, now thoroughly miffed that her perfectly planned outing had been taken over. "We can't all fit in the governess cart."

"Tom can drive," Sybil put in. "We could take the motor."

"There you have it," Cora said, her tone suggesting that part of the conversation was over.

Edith stood to leave. "Fine. I'm going down before you decide to plan out any more of my life."

Cora smiled after she'd gone, looking between Sybil and Mary. "It'll be better this way. I just don't want Matthew to feel pressured by us."

"Was there anything else in Mr. Napier's letter?" Mary asked.

"Oh, yes!" Cora said, looking back to the paper in her hands. "Apparently he's bringing a friend with him, an attaché at the Turkish embassy—a Mr. . . . Kemal Pamuk. He's a son of one of the sultan's ministers and he's here for the Albanian talks."

"What's that?" Mary asked.

"To create an independent Albania," Sybil answered. "Don't you read the papers?"

"I'm too busy living a life," Mary replied. "Since when do you?"

"I like to keep myself informed," Sybil said.

"Since Turkey's signature is vital," Cora went on, "Mr. Napier's been given the job of keeping him happy until the conference begins, and he's eager to try an English hunt." Cora stopped for a moment, her expression brightening with an idea. "I shall invite this Mr. Pamuk to stay here as well. Who knows? A little hospitality in an English house may make all the difference to the outcome. And Mary, you will ride out with him."

Mary rolled her eyes, "Oh, Mama, must I? My boots are at the menders and I haven't ridden for weeks."

Choosing to ignore Mary's pleas, Cora turned to the young maid. "Anna, please see that Lady Mary is fully equipped to go hunting."

"Yes, your ladyship," she answered dutifully, giving Mary an apologetic look once Cora had left the room.

Sybil stood and walked over to the vanity as Mary put the last of her jewely on and Anna picked up Mary's day clothes to take to the laundry.

"It will give you more time to spend with Mr. Napier, won't it?" Sybil asked.

"I suppose. Just as I suppose I'll eventually be excited that he's visiting at all."

"Don't you like him?"

"I do. At least, I want to."

"Well, that's something," Sybil said, encouragingly.

"And something is better than nothing," Mary said, as stood and turned toward Sybil to head down to dinner.

Sybil smiled. "One look at you, and Mr. Napier will feel quite swept of his feet."

"You're very sweet," Mary said, "but you're forgetting that the one who needs to be swept of her feet is me. No word yet on whether Evelyn Napier is much good at that."

Sybil tucked her arm into Mary's and the two went for the stairs. "If he were an actual sweeper, though, we'd know he'd not stand much of a chance with you."

"Quite right."

Two days later

"Tom," Matthew called to his friend, whose nose was deep in a book, from across the parlor at Crawley House.

He received no answer.

"Tom."

Nothing.

"TOM!"

Finally, Tom's head jerked up with a start. "What?!"

Matthew laughed. "So it's another Sherlock Holmes book, then?"

"Sorry," he said with a bit of a bashful smile. "It's quite gripping. I've never before read a mystery novel in which I couldn't figure out who's done what."

"What's this one called?"

"The Hound of the Baskervilles."

"Is it from Downton's library?"

"No, they're all from Lady Rosamund's late husband's collection. Sybil brought them from London."

"She did, did she? Just for you?" Matthew asked with a smirk.

Tom rolled his eyes. "Did you have a question or where you interrupting just to bother me?"

Matthew laughed. "I was going to ask Moseley to bring in tea. Would you like some?"

"Sure."

Matthew stood to call for their butler, when his mother stepped in.

"I've had a note from Cousin Cora. She asks if we can dine on Saturday. There are two young men staying for a hunt, so the numbers will be even for once."

"What men?" Matthew asked.

"A Turkish diplomat called something I can't read," Isobel said, "And quote, 'Lord Branksome's charming son.' " She snickered. "He's to be flung at Mary, presumably."

"When it comes to Cousin Mary," Matthew said. "She is quite capable of doing her own flinging, I assure you."

"So is Cousin Edith," Tom said with a grin, not looking up from his book.

Matthew gave Tom a stern look. "Hush up, you."

"What's he talking about?" Isobel asked.

Matthew sighed. "The outing Edith has planned for us on Saturday."

"To the churches?" Isobel asked. "You mean you're both going?"

"Yes, we are," Matthew said, pointedly looking at Tom. "Edith wrote yesterday to invite Tom to go along."

"What does a Catholic want to do with visiting Anglican churches!?" Tom exclaimed.

"You're not getting out of it," Mathew said. "Besides, I've told you Cousin Sybil is coming."

"I've half a mind to believe she's a reluctant participant as well," Tom said.

"Well, bully for you, then, you're a perfectly matched pair, but you'll not leave me to go alone."

"Oh, stop fretting, both of you. I'm sure you'll have a lovely time," Isobel said. "It's good for those girls to get out of that big house once in a while. You should be patient with Edith, Matthew. Think of all the pressure on her to be married well—on all three, really—as the only tangible goal their parents have set for them in life. I must say, I sometimes feel very lucky to have only sons. Now, shall we have some tea?"

"Yes!" both young men said emphatically.

Isobel smiled and stepped out to find Moseley. She was back a few minutes later, and sat down on the sofa in the middle of the room. Tom stood from the chair he'd been sitting in and joined her on the sofa.

"Aunt Isobel, do you ever imagine what it would be like to have girls?" he asked.

"There are moments I wish I'd been blessed by a daughter. And then I remember that I'll have two of them sooner or later."

Tom laughed. "When we marry, you mean?"

Isobel nodded, smiling.

"Well, plan on later rather than sooner for me," Matthew said. "Much later."

Chapter Text

Sunday, 1 a.m.

He could admit it was a pleasing view, the way the footman's jacket hugged his back tightly and tapered down over his hips in a perfectly tailored fit.

The hips were slim, almost like a woman's.

He knew men of that persuasion, and he'd wondered, after the warning he'd given the footman this afternoon, if it mightn't all be easier if he were too. But their beauty was like an inoculation against it. And she was too beautiful. They were too beautiful. He'd laughed at the phrase "English Rose" before this day, but no more. And now, they would be his. There would be resistance, of course. There was always resistance. But he could always talk them into it—well, almost always. It really didn't matter. If they weren't willing tonight, who would be there to stop him?

When the footman stopped in front of her door, he walked around him and asked, "And Lady Mary?"

The footman pointed to a door down the hall, then turned and left.

He looked around. The hallway was deserted. He smiled to himself, then opened the door and walked in.

Saturday, 10 a.m., fifteen hours earlier

Sybil stepped out of the house and was immediately surrounded by dogs.

"Apologies, milady," Lynch called out from his mount. "They're a wild bunch this morning."

Sybil laughed as she stepped around them. "They'll enjoy the hunt, then."

"Indeed," the groom said with a smile. "I've noticed you haven't come 'round to the stables since we've been back."

Sybil looked up to the sky. It was a crisp, overcast day, perfect for a ride. She looked back to Lynch and said, "No, we'll have to remedy that soon."

She had come out to admire the horses, having seen the hunting party gathering from her bedroom window upstairs. Aside from Mary, Sybil didn't know any of the participants, so she simply smiled as they tipped their hats to her while she wandered about the group, occasionally stopping to admire a particularly fine looking animal.

Sybil noticed Mary at the edge of the driveway looking very smart, as always, in her riding clothes. Mary was looking down at their mother who, no doubt, was giving her eldest last minute instructions as to the gentleman who had been invited on her behalf. Sybil laughed to herself and thought about how many years she might have before she became the target of her mother's constant tutorials in the ways of attracting men. Cora meant well and saw getting her daughters settled as her primary responsibility, but Sybil, as she was wont to do, wondered whether leaving well enough alone was not a better approach to helping her and her sisters achieve happiness and security.

Mary had protested when Cora had pushed her to join the hunt, but sitting on her horse now, she felt good. Riding made Mary feel powerful. She could not always control the turns of her life, but for a few hours, she could control the hulking beast beneath her and could allow herself to believe that if she chose, she could ride out into the great unknown and make her own destiny. The emotion was a fleeting one, but Mary held on to it, however naïve she knew it was to do so.

Watching her mother walk back toward the front of the house, Mary caught Sybil's eye and waved. Mary would have enjoyed riding out with Sybil today, but she knew her sister preferred solitary rides to hunting. And she also knew Sybil would have her hands full trying to wrangle Matthew, Tom and Edith. Mary sighed, thinking theirs might be the more fun outing of the day and wondering, very briefly, whether she might not have preferred to join them.

Mary knew Edith considered herself in constant competition with Mary, and Mary acknowledged that she played a rather large part in the dreadful state of affairs between them, but things were different with Matthew. Whereas Patrick had been deeply interested in both sisters, which had sowed the seeds of their rivalry, Matthew seemed to prefer only his solitude. Perhaps his desire not to be entangled with either might finally broker a peace between them—a peace that poor Sybil had spent too long trying to arbitrate. And then there was Tom, the dreadfully annoying know-it-all brother Mary had secretly always hoped for, but would never admit she'd ever wanted.

But being a sister was not her task today, so Mary pushed all thought of the church visitors out of her mind.

Spotting Lynch in the crowd, Mary made her way over to him to wait for the rest of the party. Mr. Napier and Mr. Pamuk, she noticed, had yet to arrive.

"Everyone's ready to set off, pending the arrival of Misters Napier and Pamuk," Lynch said. "Can you see them, milady?"

Mary looked around. "Not yet—oh, wait a minute, here is Mr. Napier." She turned her horse to face the new arrival and said, "I was beginning to give up on you. We're moving off."

"We were fools not to accept your mother's invitation and send the horses down early," Evelyn responded, lifting his hat to her. "As it is, my groom only got here an hour or two ago and my mount's as jump as a deb at her first ball."

Mary smiled. She had forgotten just how nice looking he was. "What about Mr. Pamuk? I gather if he takes a tumble, you will be endangering world peace."

"Don't worry about Kemal. He knows what he's doing on a horse."

"Well, where is he?" Mary asked looking around.

"Fussing," Evelyn said, practically spitting the word out. "He's rather a dandy."

Mary rolled her eyes, not particularly interested in spending more time with this third party than absolutely necessary. He would not be the focus of Evelyn's attention by the end of the day, if Mary could help it. "Well, I can see him now," she said. "A funny little foreigner with a wide, toothy grin and hair reeking with pomade."

"I wouldn't quite say that," Evelyn answered. "Here he is now."

Mary turned to get a look at the man approaching on her left.

No, Evelyn Napier had not swept Mary off her feet at first look.

He'd left that job for one Mr. Kemal Pamuk of Istanbul, Turkey.

Mary momentarily felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her. She did not yet know what love felt like, but she knew this was not it. Whatever welled in her stomach as she'd laid eyes on this man was something else all together. If she'd been forced to spit out an adjective at that very moment, she'd have settled on "sinful." For surely, beauty like this, in a man, could only be wielded for wicked purposes.

"Lady Mary Crawley, I presume?" Mr. Pamuk lifted his hat in greeting and Mary did what she could to collect herself.

"You presume right."

"Sorry to be so disheveled," he said. "We've been on a train since dawn and we had to change in a shed."

"You don't look disheveled to me," she replied with a coy smile.

At that moment, the huntsman blew his horn, gathering the hounds around him and starting into a trot to lead them off.

Mary, suddenly eager to shed her chaperone, quickly turned to the groom to dismiss him. "Lynch, you don't have to stay with me," she said.

"But His Lordship asked me to," Lynch protested.

"It's a waste of your day," Mary replied airily. "Help Mr. Napier's man get their things back to the house."

"His Lordship said—"

"Don't worry," Evelyn cut in, "I'll look after her."

"We'll make it our business to keep her from harm, I promise," added Mr. Pamuk.

The trio rode off, pushing their horses into a quick gallop in pursuit of the rest of the party.

Lynch dismounted and walked over to Robert, who was standing with Cora, Sybil and Carson by the door, but before he could say anything Cora spoke up.

"I'm sure Lady Mary is in fine hands, Lynch, no need for concern."

"Very well, your ladyship," he said with a slight bow. "I'll help see to Mr. Napier's things."

"Thank you, Lynch," Robert said. Turning to Sybil and Cora, as he moved to go back inside, he added, "Let's hope she's not too ambitious with the fences."

Cora smiled. "I have a feeling she's feeling more than ambitious today."

Sybil laughed and followed her parents inside.

"When do Matthew and Tom arrive to fetch you and Edith?" Cora asked, turning back to Sybil as they stepped into the entrance hall.

"Soon, I imagine," Sybil answered, "Edith said she and Matthew settled on their arriving at a quarter past ten, to give time for the hunters to clear off."

"Here they are now, milady," Carson called out from the door.

"Well, I'll be in the library if anyone needs me," Robert said, heading off in that direction, while Cora and Sybil walked back to the door.

Mother and daughter stepped outside again and, sure enough, the two young men could be seen riding up the driveway on their bicycles.

"Good morning," Matthew said, tipping his hat as they rode up.

"Good morning," Cora said, smiling.

"We saw the hunting party taking off," Tom said, hopping off his bicycle.

"You've just missed them," Sybil said.

Cora turned to the butler, who was still standing at the door. "Carson, please have Thomas come and take these to the garage," she said pointing to the bicycles. "And call Pratt to bring up the Renault."

"There's no need for that, Cousin Cora," Tom said. "I'm happy to walk to the garage myself and drive it up here."

"I'll come with you," Sybil said, walking over to him.

"All right then," Cora said, "I'll go tell Edith you've arrived, and I'll bring your hat and coat, darling, so you can leave as soon as she's here."

"Thank you," Sybil said. "Where is Edith, anyway? I thought she'd come to see the hunters off."

"I believe she's gone down to the kitchen. Mrs. Patmore has made a nice picnic for you."

"That's very kind," Matthew said.

"You can wait inside for her, if you like," Cora said signaling to Matthew to come in with her. He did, after leaning his bicycle against the wall adjacent to the door. Carson followed and closed the doors behind them.

Tom set his own bicycle next to Matthew's and turned back to Sybil. "Shall we?"

She smiled brightly and the two set off to bring the motor around.

"I should warn you," Tom said, "in the spirit of the honesty upon which our friendship is built, that I've been tasked with running interference between Matthew and Cousin Edith today."

Sybil stopped. Tom turned to see a horrified look on her face. "Interference?! What could you possibly have to interfere with? My sister's not on some military operation."

Tom smiled and tilted his head, a knowing look on his face.

Sybil's shoulders sank, but she smiled in spite of herself. After a moment, she narrowed her eyes at him and said, "Well, I'll have you know that I've been tasked with giving Edith and Cousin Matthew plenty of time to themselves, and if you think you'll be getting your way over me, then you don't know me at all."

Tom burst out laughing, realizing how much more enjoyable today was going to be than he'd originally thought.

Ignoring his reaction, Sybil walked past him, nose in the air and playful smile on her face. She was about ten paces ahead of him when she turned to him again. "Are you coming or not?"

Tom ran to catch up, and they walked the rest of way to the garage. When they'd made it to the motor, he moved to open the door so she could climb in the back, but not seeing her, he turned and saw that she had sat herself up front instead.

"So it's going to be like that is it?" he teased, climbing in next to her.

She turned and raised her eyebrows at him. "Would you prefer Matthew or Edith ride next to you?"

Tom smiled as he eased the automobile out of the garage. "No, I most certainly would not."

So far, the ride had been invigorating. Little had been said between Mary, Evelyn or the foreign friend, but Mary could see that the two men were enjoying themselves. She didn't know just how well Evelyn and Mr. Pamuk knew one another, but it was obvious there was an easy rapport between them.

The party was nearing the narrow bridge that passed over the creek at the southern edge of Downton's grounds, so Mary pulled her horse up a bit. Looking around, she saw Mr. Pamuk pull up also, a bit away from the crowd. She guided her horse toward him.

"I hope the day is living up to your expectations," she said, a bit breathless from the ride.

"It is exceeding them in every way," he responded.

Mary blinked, accepting what he clearly meant as a compliment to her, a bit at a loss as to how a man could be both so subtle and so obvious at the same time. She looked around again. "And where's Mr. Napier?"

"He's gone over the bridge, look." Mr. Pamuk nodded toward where the party had amassed waiting to cross two by two.

"Ah." Mary looked back over to Mr. Pamuk who was the picture of boyish charm.

"And what about you?" he asked. "Will you follow him? Or will you come over the jump with me?"

"Oh, I was never much one for going 'round by the road."

Mr. Pamuk smiled widely. "Stay by me and we'll take it together."

There had been more behind his question than where to lead her mount, Mary could see. She felt a bit like Eve in the garden, tempted by the wily creature while her intended remained true to the path laid out by God. Perhaps if the setting had been different, Mary would have taken the proper, wiser course. But she was on her horse, and here of all places, she felt like the master of her fate, the rules her own to dictate.

Her answer suggested that she did not think she was the victim, but the temptress herself.

Still, it was Pamuk who took the lead over the fence and through the mud. She followed, not wanting to be left behind.

"Do you suppose we could go up into the belfry?" Sybil asked, as she, Edith, Matthew and Tom stood in the middle of the nave of St. Mary's Church in Thirsk, the third on their tour.

"Oh, I'd rather not," Edith said.

"Why not?" asked Matthew, turning to Edith. He had stepped forward into one of the pews to admire the gothic arches at closer proximity.

Sybil snickered. "Edith is not one for heights."

"I'd just rather keep my feet on solid ground, that's all."

Matthew smiled. "That's my preference also."

"Well, we're going to try," Sybil said pulling Tom by the arm to the narrow staircase to their right, at the end of the west arcade. Tom looked back at Matthew and shrugged, a helpless expression on his face and as he let Sybil pull him along.

Edith looked at Matthew with a nervous smile, wondering whether her sister had been too obvious—a word that had been haunting her since Mary had uttered it a few days before.

Matthew came back into the aisle and nodded his head toward the chancel. "I reckon these windows will be nicer to look at than the bird droppings they are likely to find up there."

Edith smiled, a bit more at ease, and followed him toward the front of the church.

Meanwhile, having made it to the top of the stairs, Sybil opened the church brochure she'd picked up on the way in.

"It says here that the tenor bell was the handiwork of a well known York bellfounder named John Potter. It was cast in the year 1410 and predates the battle of Agincourt, the War of the Roses and the Reformation."

Tom smiled. "So it's been converted."

"Converted?"

"It was a Catholic bell before it was Anglican."

"Do you feel more welcome here, then?" Sybil asked with a teasing smile.

"I do."

She looked at him for a long moment. "I feel silly admitting this, but it didn't occur to me until today that you'd be Catholic."

"Did you not notice that I am not at church on Sundays with Aunt Isobel and Matthew?" Tom asked, walking around the small floor space around the bells.

Sybil snickered. "I don't pay much attention while I'm at church, I'm afraid."

"Neither do I," Tom said with a laugh. "I suppose there is some comfort to be found in the ritual of it all and I do enjoy the opportunity to reflect on things, but I've never been one for the doctrine."

"But you do go to church?"

"I do." He smiled bashfully. "It's one of the few things mam and I do together on our own. That's part of the appeal, as well. My father was a very proud Catholic."

"Do you remember much about him?"

"Not really. Mam still has the suit he wore on their wedding day—that's about all he left us."

Sybil thought for a long moment about whether she really wanted to ask her next question. "Do you suppose . . . um . . . do you think that I could meet her someday, your mama? Would that be OK?"

Tom looked at her, surprised at the request. "I don't see why not."

They looked at one another for a long while, until Sybil finally broke the stare and looked back at the bells.

"How many more church schisms do you think they will survive?" she asked.

"Many more than we will."

Sybil looked back at Tom and said, "Perhaps, we should head back down."

"Lead the way," he said with a soft smile.

But when they were back down on the main floor of the church, Edith and Matthew were nowhere to be found.

"Have they left us?" Sybil asked.

"Well, Matthew doesn't know how to drive, so they can't have gone far."

"Let's wait for them outside. I much prefer the churchyard to the church itself."

"You don't like going to church, then?" Tom asked as they stepped out onto the front steps. They sat down at a bench shaded by a large willow tree, just south of the entrance.

"It's not that I don't like it, exactly," Sybil responded. "I do believe in God, but all the rest of it—vicars, feast days, and deadly sins. I don't care about all of that. I don't know if a vicar knows any more about God than I do."

Tom smiled as Sybil sighed and looked off into the distance. She was wearing her hair in a thick braid down her back, which made her look especially youthful. But her words proved to Tom, once again, how much wiser than her years she was, and how much deeper her understanding of the world than her level of experience in it.

Feeling his eyes on her, Sybil turned back to him. "What about you? What do you make of religion?"

Tom thought for a few moments about how to answer. Finally, he said, "Karl Marx called religion the opium of the people."

"And what did he mean by that?"

"He meant that religious belief and doctrine are used as tools by the upper classes and those in power to convince working people not to question their lot in life."

"How so?"

"Well, there's the divine right of kings to start. King George is king not because he happened to be lucky enough born to Edward VII, but because God willed it so."

"So, God wanted the king to be king so he arranged for him to be born at the right place at the right time?"

"More or less. If the king is a tyrant, but the people believe in God, they are less likely to revolt if they fear eternal damnation for questioning the decision by God to put him on the throne in the first place. But it's not just about who governs us, but how we govern ourselves as well. We're told that there is a greater reward waiting for us in God's kingdom, so we mind less the fact that there is no reward to be had here on earth. The meek are told that they shall inherit the earth so that they stay meek and don't fight for the land and rights that are rightfully theirs in this life."

"Is that what you believe, then? That God exists only to be a sort of manipulator of the masses?"

"I see some truth in it, but I also think it's human to want to find meaning in the things we do, to want to believe that there is a force greater than ourselves that brings all things together. I suppose I believe that there is such a force, but beyond that I don't know much."

"That's love, isn't it?"

"What's love?"

"The force that ties us all together."

Tom smiled at her. "Perhaps you should offer the homily tomorrow."

Sybil smiled. "I don't think the Reverend Mr. Travis would appreciate that."

"Well, there's another thing that's wrong with religion—no room for women at the top."

"You really are committed to the women's cause, aren't you?"

"In every way," he said, with a sly wink that made her blush slightly. "And Catholics are worse in that regard. Anglican clergy can at least count on the counsel of their wives. I've often wondered whether it's advisable to put one's spiritual needs in the hands of a man who's taken a vow of celibacy."

As soon as the word was out of his mouth, Tom turned a deep shade of red. He ventured a look over at Sybil, who was trying to hold back a smile, her own cheeks blushing slightly.

"I apologize," he said, "that was egregiously inappropriate."

"Perhaps, but it was honest and true. Remember that when talking to me that's more important than propriety."

Tom grinned. "You may turn out to be the best friend I ever have."

Sybil grinned back at him. "Good. Because you're already mine."

Tom raised his eyebrows at her. There were several meanings in her words—all of them true. "That's lovely of you to say," he finally remarked.

Sybil bit her lip, wondering whether she should have made that admission in such candid terms. "You're giving Gwen a good contest, anyway," she added quietly.

"Do you really consider your housemaid a friend?"

"Of course!"

"I know you're helping her find a job, but most would be doing that simply out of charity, not friendship."

"Being charitable is all very well and good, and I think it's terrific that people make their own lives, especially women. But more than anything, I'd like Gwen to be happy. Even if her departure will make me rather sad. I'm honestly not quite sure what I'll do without her when she's gone."

"You'll have me," he offered.

Sybil smiled. They remained there enjoying one another's company in companionable silence for a while before hearing Matthew call out to them from the front steps of the church.

"There you are!"

Sybil and Tom got up from the bench and came over to meet Matthew and Edith.

"Where did you escape to?" Sybil asked.

"It was an unfortunate series of events," Edith said, blushing a bit.

"The vicar saw us and invited us into the sacristy," Matthew said. "He thought we were a young couple looking to secure a location for our wedding. It was a bit awkward trying to extricate ourselves from the conversation with our dignity intact, but we managed. On the plus side, he suggested a spot for lunch."

"Oh? Where's that?" Tom asked.

"Apparently, beyond the cemetery and across the bridge there's a hill from the top of which you can see most of the county."

"Let's get to it!" Sybil said enthusiastically.

After Tom went over to the car to get the picnic basked, the foursome set off.

Their lunch eaten, Tom and Sybil walked back down the hill to the creek to give what was left of their bread to a flock of geese wandering about near the water.

Edith was sitting on the blanket Mrs. Patmore had packed them in the picnic basket, while Matthew walked around it, perusing the brochure from the first church they'd visited, reading random tidbits he found interesting aloud.

Sybil had managed to hold Tom's attention throughout their outing, but Edith hadn't made much progress with Matthew despite various attempts to make conversation with him. He'd been nice, but he seemed rather determined to stay focused on the topic of the churches.

"I wish we could talk a little more about you," she ventured again. "What was it like growing up in Manchester?"

"There's an interesting note here about the side aisles at Kirby. They were added in the 14th century by a Bishop Richard De Warren. That's something—six hundred years of worship."

Edith smiled. "It's wonderful to think of all those men and women worshipping together through the centuries, isn't it? Dreaming and hoping much as we do, I suppose."

"The screen was a Cromwell casualty, apparently."

Edith sighed, giving up. "Was it?"

Matthew folded up the brochure and sat back down on the blanket. He looked over to Tom and Sybil and saw that they'd gone from throwing the bread scraps at the geese to throwing them at each other.

"They're quite a pair, aren't they?"

Edith looked down to where Tom and Sybil were and suddenly felt as if this whole day had been arranged for Sybil's benefit and Edith was the chaperone sent to make sure no one had too much fun.

"I wonder how Mary's getting on," Matthew said lightly after a few minutes. He hadn't meant anything by it, but if he'd been looking at Edith when he'd spoken he'd have seen her shoulders visibly droop.

"All right, I should think. Why?"

"I just wonder. Will she stay with the hunt the whole day?"

"You know Mary. She likes to be in at the kill," Edith said with an eye roll.

Matthew looked to Edith and noticed that her demeanor had changed. He frowned, knowing that his lack of attention was the cause. He didn't dislike Edith, and he was probably being too harsh with her but he was a bit at a loss as to how to keep her attentions—persistent as they were today—at bay.

"Where shall we go next?" he asked, hoping to pick her mood back up.

"Not home?"

"Oh, not yet," he said standing up. "We've time for one more at least before we lose the light."

"I underestimated your enthusiasm."

"I hope we haven't worn you out today."

"Not at all," she said, taking the hand he was offering to stand up. "I'm enjoying it. We must do it again."

"Next time, let's bring my mother. She was so jealous she made me promise she could come with us."

"Of course," Edith said, not able to contain what was clearly recognizable as a regretful sigh. "How nice that would be."

As she bent down to pick up the blanket and picnic basket, Matthew watched her, wondering if there was something he could say to fix the wreck of a day he'd obviously made for her.

"Cousin Edith?"

She, still crouching, turned her head toward him. "Yes?"

"I should probably apologize for not being better company than I've been today."

"It's all right," she said. "I know I'm not considered the best company myself." She stood holding the basket and shrugged. "I'm used to it."

She turned to start walking back down the hill, when Matthew stopped her, putting his hand on her shoulder.

"I don't mean to trouble you with this knowledge," he said, "but you remind me of someone."

"Who?" Edith asked, with a puzzled expression on her face.

"You know, no doubt, that my fiancé passed?"

Edith nodded.

"You bare a slight resemblance to her. Lavinia, she, uh . . . she had similar hair color, the same fair skin."

Edith wasn't sure what to say.

Matthew went on, "More than that, Lavinia used to believe herself unworthy of the good things that happened to her. When I proposed, she was convinced it was because her father had asked me to do it and not because I really loved her. Her childhood was a difficult one, you see. Mr. Swire came into a great deal of money as a businessman as she was growing up. It gave the family a place in society, but most of the girls and later the young women she came to know didn't let her forget her family's humble beginnings. She was a rational person, and she knew she shouldn't listen to their hateful talk, but even so, over the years, she began to absorb, um . . . internalize some of their criticism."

Edith looked down at her hands. "What does that have to do with me?"

"You shouldn't let anyone make you believe you won't ever be happy, even those who are family."

Edith looked back up to Matthew's kind eyes, her lips curving into a shy smile. "Thank you."

Matthew smiled. "I know I'll get married someday. I suppose I have no choice on that matter now that I'm required to have an heir."

Edith snickered.

"I'll sound self-serving saying this but it'll not be worth your trouble to wait for me to stop looking merely for a replacement for the one I lost and start looking for someone new in earnest."

"I appreciate your candor," she said. "And since you've been honest and kind with me, I won't hold it against you when you fall in love with Mary."

"I doubt that's likely," he said with a smirk.

"Oh, you will. Sooner or later, everybody does." She took his arm and pulled him along. "Now, let's go rescue the geese from these two."

Watching Tom and Sybil as she and Matthew approached, Edith thought the youngest Crawley sister might just be the first at the altar. She smiled at the possibility. Looking back to Matthew and holding his strong arm, she felt a rush of warmth and love, but not the kind that she had expected.

"Oh, Cousin Matthew, how different life would be if I'd had brothers."

Matthew laughed, and put his hand over the one holding his arm. "Well, now you have two."

"I'm glad."

"You know, Cousin Edith, even if nothing is to happen between us, I could be of help to you."

"How so?"

"Men love nothing more than the thrill of the chase, and that chase is made even more thrilling when there's competition."

Edith gave him a questioning look.

"Next time there's someone around you like, I'll show you what I mean."

"Is that one mine?"

Carson raised his hefty eyebrows and turned to see Thomas, the footman, behind him watching as Mary, Evelyn and Pamuk came in from the hunt.

"Home is the hunter, home from the hill," Robert said jovially, as he and Cora approached the group now entering the house. He looked them up and down and noticed just how muddy they were. "Heavens, you have been in the wars."

It had been an invigorating day. Despite her initial protests and internal misgivings, Mary had enjoyed herself and couldn't help but relish in the striking foreigner's continued attentions.

"Papa, this is Mr. Pamuk," she said. "My father, Lord Grantham."

"How do you do, my lord?" Pamuk said, as the two shook hands.

"Did you have a good day?" Robert asked.

"Couldn't have been better," the Turk responded with a smile, his eyes landing on Mary.

Introductions concluded, Carson approached, Thomas on his heels. "This is Thomas, sir," he said to Pamuk. "He'll be looking after you."

At that same moment, Evelyn came up to the group.

Seeing him, Mary spoke up. "Mama, you remember Mr. Napier."

"Of course. How are you?" She said with a smile.

"So kind of you to have us, Lady Grantham," Evelyn said.

"And this is Mr. Pamuk," Mary added.

Cora turned to the foreign guest "How do you do?"

"My lady," Pamuk said, taking her hand with a deep bow and kissing it gently.

Robert raised his brow slightly in amusement at Pamuk's gesture. "Well, what would you like?" he asked the group.

"Just baths," Mary said with a sigh. "We're worn out."

Thomas took this moment to step forward toward his charge. "Your cases are upstairs, sir, if you'd like to follow me."

"Yes," Pamuk said with a nod and followed the footman away from the entrance hall and up the stairs.

"Well, I hope Mary hasn't left you too exhausted," Robert said turning back to Evelyn.

"No, not a bit of it."

"I believe Carson will be showing you to your room," Cora said.

"Indeed, milady," Carson said, stepping forward. "If you'd like to follow me, sir."

Evelyn gave a slight bow to Cora and Mary and proceeded upstairs behind Carson, his own valet following closely behind.

Turning back to her daughter, Cora asked, "So how was it, really?"

"It was fine . . . enjoyable. I'm glad I went," Mary said pointedly, knowing she owed her participation in the hunt to her mother. Cora smiled knowingly.

Mary was about to head upstairs herself when the sound of the motor could be heard outside.

"Oh, that must be the girls back with Tom and Matthew," Cora said walking to the door, Mary behind her.

"That's funny," Mary said, watching as the motor kept veering on and off the driveway. "I remember Tom a much more able driver than this."

"So do I," Cora said, quietly, her brow furrowing.

But Tom wasn't driving.

As the motor got closer, Cora and Mary could see that someone else was.

"WHAT IN HEAVEN'S NAME IS EDITH DOING!?" Robert, who'd come out behind his wife and daughter, screamed out as he walked past them well into the driveway.

The motor continued its wobbly path toward the front of the house until Edith, grinning from ear to ear, brought it to a stop. Tom, next to her, saw Robert's livid expression and prepared himself for the tongue-lashing that he knew would come, even as he could barely hide his mirth. Behind them, Sybil was holding onto Matthew's arm, head buried into his shoulder and eyes shut tightly.

Sensing that the car had stopped, she opened her eyes slowly. "Is it over, then?"

Matthew stepped out quickly and let out a long sigh, as if he, too, had been holding his breath with Edith behind the wheel.

"So . . . how was the hunt?"

Chapter Text

Sunday, 1:05 a.m.

He stepped into the dark room gingerly and called out to her, but there was no response. He called out again, but again heard nothing. He held his breath and stood in silence for several minutes.

The room was empty.

He walked to the adjacent bathroom, lifted the bed sheets, opened the wardrobe, looked behind the curtains.

Nothing.

He walked over to the bed again and stood over it. He leaned over and caressed the sheets slowly, imagining what he might have done here. He picked up one of the pillows from the head of the bed, brought it to his face and took a deep breath in. The air came out in a frustrated sigh. He looked around and felt anger welling in his gut.

Not wanting to waste any more time, he dropped the pillow on the floor and proceeded to the room down the hall.

This one will be sorry, and she'll have her sister to blame.

Saturday, 6 p.m., seven hours earlier

"He doesn't look Turkish at all," Gwen said.

"Well, he doesn't look like any Englishman I've ever met," Anna said with a conspiratorial smile. "Worse luck. I think he's beautiful."

"What did Lady Mary say when she went up?"

"Not much, which is rare for her. I think she's a bit taken with him."

"Or she could have still been in shock over Lady Edith's driving."

This set the maids to giggling. They were out of doors, sitting at the table by the service entrance, shortly after having taken their afternoon tea and just before preparations, upstairs and down, would have to begin for dinner.

"What are you two going on about?"

Anna and Gwen turned to see O'Brien, who'd just stepped outside and was now in the process of lighting a cigarette.

"Mr. Branson teaching Lady Edith how to drive," Anna said, still smiling at the idea.

"Driving isn't what I'd call it based on her ladyship's description," O'Brien said crossly, "veering from one side of the yard to the other like common pub drunk. God knows what that fool young man was thinking."

"Don't you like Mr. Branson, Miss O'Brien?" Gwen asked.

"No, I don't," she replied. She took a long drag off her cigarette, and then continued, "Mr. Crawley at least has started to learn to behave with some dignity, seeing as he'll be earl. Mr. Branson does and says as he pleases. Don't know how the family stands his company."

"I dare say his lordship likes him very much, as does her ladyship," Anna spoke up.

"He's a charmer, all right," O'Brien spit out. "But he got his just desserts this afternoon."

"Was his lordship very hard on him about Lady Edith?" Gwen asked, genuinely concerned, knowing that a true rift between the two men would worry Sybil.

O'Brien smirked. "Couldn't you hear him? I swear if it were night he'd have woken half the county."

"I doubt his lordship will stay angry long—he was more worried than anything."

The voice of Mr. Bates, Robert's valet, startled O'Brien, causing her to drop her cigarette as he stepped out the door.

O'Brien threw an angry glare at Bates. "Know his mind, do you?"

"Better than you," Anna said firmly.

O'Brien dug the cigarette she'd dropped into the ground with her shoe and headed back into the kitchen without another word.

Gwen watched O'Brien as she walked back inside, then turned back to Anna, who was smiling warmly at Bates. Looking back and forth between them, Gwen noticed a spark in Anna's eyes she hadn't seen before.

"So did Mr. Branson and Mr. Crawley go home?" Anna asked.

"No. They intended to, I think, but his lordship asked me to send for Mr. Moseley, so they'll be changing here for dinner."

"Was that why Mrs. Hughes had us make up extra rooms? Will they be staying?" Gwen asked.

"I don't know," Bates answered.

"Well, Mr. Carson will be ringing the gong soon enough," Gwen said standing, "I'm going up to our room for a moment before Lady Sybil is back upstairs and rings to get dressed."

"We'll see you later, then," Anna said.

When Gwen got to the door, she saw that Bates had occupied the spot she'd just vacated and Anna leaned in ever so slightly. Gwen smiled to herself and, as she went inside, she wondered exactly how Anna would have described the Turk if Mr. Bates had been present.

"Is it safe?"

A grinning Sybil walked into the library, where Tom had been sitting reading for the last half-hour, since Robert had laid into him about teaching Edith how to drive.

Tom stood up with a bashful smile. "I had it coming."

"Why?" She asked coming in and sitting down on the sofa next to him. "Surely, you don't agree with him that women shouldn't drive."

"You know I don't," Tom said sitting back down, "but the Renault is a delicate machine, not to mention expensive. Considering how much I preach about curbing frivolous spending, it was thoughtless of me to have played loose and fast with it like that. Better plan would have been to teach her here, where the driveway is clear and free of obstacles and other drivers." He leaned into her and added, "And free of distractions in the form of panicking passengers."

Sybil laughed. "She could barely manage to stay on the road! I genuinely feared for my life!"

"I would never let anything happen to you," Tom replied quietly and smiled as he saw her cheeks blush slightly at his words.

Sybil looked down. After a moment her soft smile broadened into a cheeky grin. "You better be careful what you say," she said, looking up at him again. "I'll be inclined to take greater risks if I know I have a rescuer at my beck and call."

"You certainly don't need me to be bold. I'm sure you are more than capable of being your own rescuer."

"You have more confidence in me than I have in myself."

"You don't lack confidence, Sybil, only the opportunity to demonstrate that you're a brave, confident woman."

They smiled at each other.

"So will Edith's lessons to continue?" She asked after a moment.

"They will, I'm happy to report."

"How did you convince him?"

"I just said that if there's an emergency and Pratt is unavailable, it would be useful for there to be another driver in the house."

"Very sensible of you."

Sybil looked down at his hands and noticed for the first time the book he was reading.

"What have you got there?" She asked.

Tom lifted it up to show her the title page.

"A Study in Scarlet. I see I've created a monster."

"I'm afraid you have. I can't put them down."

"When I gave them to you, you said you weren't much for mysteries."

"Only because they're usually so easy to solve."

"For you, perhaps."

"Mr. Conan Doyle takes some frustrating turns sometimes, but he has a knack for writing character as well as plot. I'm enjoying them very much. Thank you for the recommendation."

"You're quite welcome."

"What about you? Did you finish The Time Machine?"

Before Sybil could answer, Mary walked in with an olive-skinned gentleman quite unlike any man Sybil had ever seen.

"Sybil, Tom," Mary said, walking toward the pair who stood as Mary and the guest approached, "This is Mr. Kemal Pamuk. He's Mr. Napier's guest from Turkey. Mr. Pamuk, this is my youngest sister, Lady Sybil, and a close family friend, Mr. Tom Branson."

"How do you do?" Pamuk asked taking Sybil's hand and bowing down to kiss it.

Sybil, surprised at the gesture, looked to Mary, who was smiling widely.

"Did you enjoy the hunt?" Sybil asked.

"Very much. It was an exciting tradition to be introduced to."

"I've been showing him around the house," Mary said.

"Which is revealing its own appealing treasures at every turn."

Tom furrowed his brow slightly at the suggestive tone of Pamuk's words, but looking at Sybil, Tom couldn't tell whether she had recognized what Tom clearly saw as an advance.

"Lady Grantham said you were here for the Albanian talks," Tom said, wishing to take Pamuk's attention away from Sybil. "Must be quite thrilling to be a part of history and play a hand in the formation of an emerging republic—that is if a republic is allowed to form. I'm not confident Sir Edward Grey and the so-called great powers will take the necessary step beyond monarchical rule. Are you of their mind, or do you see a future for countries led by the people?"

"At the moment I'm entirely unconcerned with the matter," Pamuk responded dismissively, not bothering to look at Tom with his eyes firmly fixed on Sybil. "Business has been left behind in London. There is only pleasure to be had at Downton."

After he spoke, Pamuk turned back to Mary, and Tom could see that unlike Sybil, Mary was aware of and receptive to the foreigner's subtext.

"We should continue, Mr. Pamuk," Mary said, "otherwise we won't finish before the dressing gong sounds."

"After you," he said blithely, signaling to Mary to lead the way and giving Sybil a once over as he stepped away. Neither Sybil, nor Mary noticed, but Tom did, and the plain audacity of it shocked and angered him. Tom took a step forward so as to block the foreigners view as he was leaving, and Pamuk smirked as his eyes met Tom's before finally facing forward.

"I thought Mr. Napier was the one brought here for Mary," Tom said, as he and Sybil, alone again, sat back down.

"Me too," Sybil said, "though I don't suppose I blame her for making the switch."

"What are you talking about?" He asked, a bit alarmed.

"He was terribly handsome. I don't know any other Turks, but I'd like to know more if they're all so pleasing to the eye."

Tom let out a disagreeing "Humph!" and opened his book again and set to reading.

Sybil couldn't help but grin at the abrupt turn his mood had taken. "I'm only making an objective observation."

"Good for you."

"Are you angry with me?" Sybil asked, smiling.

"I'm not angry. Why should I be angry? I'm just trying to read my book."

"Well, you seem cross all of a sudden."

"You're imagining things."

"Would it brighten your mood if I said I don't find him nearly so handsome as you?"

Tom glanced at her and then quickly went back to his book, his lips turning up into a bashful smile. "A little."

She snickered at him and stood to go. He stood also. "I'm going to see if Gwen can chat for a bit before it's time to get changed," she said.

"You never said what you thought of H.G. Wells," Tom said. "The Time Machine?"

"Oh, it's interesting, but I'm having trouble focusing."

"Why is that?"

"Any time I pick it up I feel preoccupied by the question of what I would do with such a machine—go forward or back. What would you do?"

"I'm enjoying present company too much to be interested in going anywhere else."

Sybil smiled. "I had a nice time today."

"So did I."

"I'll let you get back to your reading," Sybil said, turning to go and walking to the door. After she'd stepped out of the library, she peaked back in and watched Tom for a moment.

She smiled to herself and thought, Who wants a Turk when there's an Irishman near?

Sybil had only been gone from the library for a few minutes when Matthew came in.

"So you've survived Robert's tirade," Matthew said with a smile. He walked to the desk and sat down to look over some papers he'd brought in with him. He'd been talking with Carson regarding the state of the house's expenses before coming into the library.

"His bark is worse than his bite," Tom said. "But he did say I could keep teaching her if that's what she wanted."

"Well, I can't speak for Cousin Sybil, but I'll wait until Cousin Edith is a bit more expert before getting into the car with her again."

Tom laughed. "She wasn't that bad."

Matthew gave Tom a skeptical look.

"It's true! Remember that it was her first time behind the wheel," Tom said. "It took me much longer to even move forward. I would go as far as to say she's something of a natural."

Matthew smiled and went back to his papers. Tom watched him for a moment, before standing up and walking over to the desk. "So how did things go with you two?"

"Funny question coming from you."

"Me? Why?"

"I remember asking you not to leave us alone for long spells, lest things get awkward, but you didn't put up much of a fight on that front. In fact, I'd say you barely put up a fight at all. On the other hand, I am glad to know that if I ever need anything from you and you refuse to give it, all I need to do is get Cousin Sybil to ask and you'll offer it to her on a silver platter."

Tom rolled his eyes, laughing. "And what exactly did you have to fear at the hands of Cousin Edith?"

Matthew laughed lightly. "Nothing as it happens. We had a bit of a heart-to-heart and decided to be friends."

"That's good. But you should beware that this is just the start."

"Start of what?"

"You're going to be an earl. Do you honestly think fending off potential wives is going to get easier?"

Matthew sighed. "I'd rather just not think about it."

Tom waited for a moment before asking his next question. "I'm not trying to pressure you or anything, but do you think, um . . do you think you'll ever be ready to see any woman as more than a friend?"

"I'm not sure." Matthew scratched his head and leaned back in his chair. His eyes wandered around the library before landing back on Tom, who'd moved to stand directly in front of him on the other side of the desk. "I look around this house sometimes and wonder whether she would have liked living here, liked being a countess."

Tom smiled. "She'd likely have felt a bit overwhelmed by it all, but would have taken it in stride."

"She would have, except . . ."

"Except what?"

"Do you really think we would be here if she were alive?"

Tom shrugged. "I don't know, but wherever she is now I have no doubt she would want you to be happy."

Matthew looked away, avoiding Tom's eyes.

"Look, you know how I feel about country living and estates like this, but I do feel like you—"

"We, Tom."

Tom smiled. "Fine, we are doing something good, helping the tenants and the village, as well as the family. Don't let the good feeling that comes with accomplishment cloud the fact that you'll need someone to share it all with in the long run. You think that while you remember Lavinia there's no room for anyone else, but you loved her Matthew. Do you honestly expect to ever forget her?"

"I don't know what to expect."

"Memories of Lavinia are never going away. Hard as it may be to believe now, they'll coexist with the love you'll feel for your future wife, whoever she turns out to be."

Matthew looked back at Tom with something of a weariness in his expression. "I miss her, and I also miss just being with someone. That's where I am right now."

Tom looked at Matthew for a long time. "You know you're not the only one in this house who's lost the person they were going to marry."

"I know."

"So if you ever wanted to talk to someone. . . "

"What are you trying to do, Tom?"

"I'm merely pointing out that you have more in common with her than you think you do."

Tom let his words sink in, then turned and went back to the sofa with his book.

In the months since they'd moved to Yorkshire, Isobel, Matthew and Tom had grown accustomed to dining with Robert and his family. It wasn't like dinner at home at Crawley House, but there was a familiar rhythm to it now. The formality of it seemed less foreign, less imposing.

Part of what Tom didn't like about dining among the upper classes was that it felt as if everyone was playing a part instead of behaving as their true selves. From the ritual of sitting down to wait for Carson to announce dinner, to the hushed talk around the table, to the departure of the ladies—all of it was stifling to genuine, honest interaction. That was what their first dinner at Downton Place had felt like. But now, months later, the families having fully integrated and come to truly depend on one another, the artificiality of it all had faded away. It had started to resemble a family simply sitting down to break bread together.

But that progress was not in view tonight. Tonight everything felt different.

The presence of the two gentlemen guests altered the tenor of things, and once again everyone was playing a role to the end of seeing Mary matched. Further upsetting the balance, though, was the fact that Mary herself seemed to have forgotten this, having more or less forgotten the suitor invited on her behalf and lavishing attention only on his guest. Seated across the length of the table from Mary, who was between Evelyn and Mr. Pamuk, Tom could easily see the imbalance of their interaction. It wasn't especially obvious, but having seeing Mary and Mr. Pamuk together in the library earlier, he couldn't help but notice the continuing familiarity between them.

If dinner was pleasant in any way for Tom, it was only because on this night, he'd been given the rare pleasure of a seat next to Sybil. With Edith on his other side and Matthew on the other side of Sybil, the topic of their outing had dominated talk on their end of the table. Violet, sitting next to Edith, was quick to express her opinion on Edith's new interest.

"What exactly does a lady need to do with driving?"

"I just want to try something new, granny," Edith responded. "Haven't you ever discovered a new interest?"

"My faculties are sufficient for me to entertain myself without having to look the fool behind the wheel," Violet said.

Tom smiled and spoke up for Edith, "I can assure you, Cousin Violet, she did not look foolish—"

"I beg to differ," Sybil said with a snicker.

Edith let out an annoyed huff in response.

"Oh, I don't mean I don't support you Edith," Sybil said. "But you must admit that you were not very good."

"She'll improve with practice," Tom said.

"So this is to continue?" Violet asked a bit in shock.

"Papa said it was all right," Edith said, "as long as I remain in the driveway until both Tom and Pratt consider me ready to go beyond."

"Robert, is this really wise?" Violet said, turning to her son on her other side.

"Oh, Violet, there's nothing wrong with Edith having a little fun," Cora said, smiling.

"Mama, it's not a bad idea to have another driver in the house," Robert said. "Even if it is Edith."

"Thank you for the enthusiastic support, papa," Edith said with an eye-roll.

"What do you think, Mr. Napier, about the prospect of women driving?" Cora asked Evelyn, who was sitting next to her, wanting to draw him into the conversation.

"I can't say I've thought about it at all," he replied. "Before today, I don't know that such an idea would have ever occurred to me."

"Yes, well, you don't have a resident revolutionary," Violet said. "You'll find there's no idea that hasn't occurred to Tom."

Tom blushed a bit, having been surprised by the warmth—pride, even—in Violet's tone. "I wouldn't call myself a revolutionary, not much of one anyway, only a friend to the unconventional."

"All of that and political opinions to match," Pamuk spoke up, a spark of challenge in his words. "So much contrary thought must be exhausting to you, Mr. Branson."

"It's invigorating actually," Tom said, staring him down the length of the table.

Mary watched Pamuk's jaw tighten ever so slightly, and spoke up in an effort to diffuse him. "Well, I'll stick with Pratt for the time being."

"I'm sure it's all the talk downstairs as well," Matthew said, "someone should let him know Edith's driving will not put his job in jeopardy."

"Yes, best put a lid on that, Carson," Robert said, looking up to the butler.

"Of course, sir," he responded.

"I thought electricity was the worst of it, but if women are to be on the roads, who knows what else modernity has in store for us," Violet said.

"Must you always see modern innovation as the enemy?" Isobel asked.

"Must my desire for a simpler world always meet with attacks by you?" Violet retorted.

"Oh, granny, don't get upset, I think we all appreciate the idea of a simpler world," Mary said. "Do you, Mr. Pamuk?"

"I do dream of a simpler world, as long as we can keep our trains and our dentistry."

Mary and Isobel, who was on Pamuk's other side, laughed politely in response.

After a moment, as the table moved on to other topics, Mary leaned into Pamuk and more quietly, said, "I wish I shared your enthusiasm. Our dentist is horrid."

"Why go to him, then?" He asked.

"He treated all of us when we were children. You know how the English are about these things."

"Well, the next time you feel a twinge, you must come to Istanbul."

"Wouldn't the journey be painful?"

"Sometimes we must endure a little pain in order to achieve satisfaction."

Mary shifted back toward the table, taken aback a bit by his words and the intensity of his eyes. She found him so alluring, but in his exchange with Tom she saw a momentary hardness that surprised her, and in that last comment she saw a glimpse of it again. Taking a sip of her wine, she shook her head slightly as if to chastise herself. Tom was expert at getting a rise out of people. Pamuk obviously had not liked Tom's question about the Albanian talks in the library. But he'd been charming and gracious all day. There was nothing in his last comment that she should be put off by, she told herself. Nothing.

Turning back toward the rest of the table, she heard Evelyn say, "Lady Mary rode very well today."

"Why did you send Lynch back?" Robert asked her.

"I had my champions to left and right. It was enough."

"Did you enjoy the hunt today, Mr. Napier?" Robert asked. "Mary said you had a tremendous run."

"It was like something out of a Trollope novel."

"What about you, Mr. Pamuk?" Cora spoke up. "Was your day successful?"

"Oh, yes, Lady Grantham. I can hardly remember a better one."

Tom couldn't help but roll his eyes at Pamuk's words and was caught in the act by Matthew who threw him a questioning look. Tom tilted his head slightly as if to say, "Later."

Matthew was making his way to the parlor behind Robert, Evelyn and Pamuk when he spotted Tom coming from the other direction.

As the three men ahead of them filed in, Tom and Matthew stopped just outside.

"Where've you been?" Matthew asked.

"The library," Tom said.

"All this time?"

"You know how I hate the whole 'the gentlemen can talk openly now that the ladies have gone' nonsense. I just didn't want to deal with it tonight. I was finishing my book."

"And what was that at dinner with Mr. Pamuk?" Matthew asked.

"I don't like him."

"Why?"

"I don't know, just an impression."

"Well, Mary seems taken with him. Do you suppose it means we're to see more of him?"

"Would Robert approve of someone who wasn't English?"

"I wouldn't have thought Mary herself one to foster an interest in a foreigner, so I suppose anything is possible."

Tom laughed, and the two of the walked in to join the rest of the party.

Mary noticed them coming in and saw that they immediately went to Sybil and Edith. The familiarity and affection among them was obvious. She watched as Matthew said something that set Edith to laughing. Mary raised her eyebrows, supposing her younger sister to have had a successful day with their cousin. For reasons Mary could not pin down, in that moment, she felt a pang in her heart, not jealousy exactly, nor regret either, just an unspoken question as to what might have happened if she'd kept her frustrations to herself that first afternoon at Crawley House, if he'd not overheard her insolence. Would things have progressed on a different course? Would she have wanted them to?

Before she could contemplate the question, she felt a tap on her shoulder. It was Mr. Pamuk calling for her attention again. She smiled widely as she reengaged in her conversation with him and Evelyn as they revisited the hunt, eager to express their delight in her participation in it with them.

Across the room, standing at the hearth, Robert leaned over to Violet, who was sitting close to him.

"Mary has one more suitor tonight than we expected," he said.

"Will she judge them sensibly?" Violet asked, looking back at Robert with a skeptical smirk.

"Oh, no one's sensible at her age. Nor should they be. That's our role."

"You don't know your daughters if you think you can easily talk them out of anything," Violet responded. "You've already given into the whims of one today."

"Driving is hardly a whim, mama. I told you it will be useful."

"I can only assume Tom talked you into it."

"As a matter of fact he did, but that doesn't mean his argument was wrong."

"Well, I protested at dinner, but on second thought perhaps it'll be good for Edith. Get her out of her shell a bit. She'll need it when it's her turn in the spotlight."

"One at a time, mama, please. One at a time."

At that moment, Matthew approached them. "Cousin Robert, I meant to tell you that I spoke with Carson this afternoon, and he made the request again for the second footman. I went over the figures, and we should have enough. I would have mentioned it after dinner, but I didn't want to bother the guests with it."

"Quite right. I'm sure Carson will be happy with the news."

"I assume it'll not be too difficult to find one since a search was started before the move."

"You were the one who put a stop to it by hiring Mason as agent instead," Robert said.

Matthew smiled. "I did offer him the footman's post first."

"I can only assume he's doing fine," Robert said.

"Very well, indeed."

"His parents must be proud," Violet said. "He was a nice young man. Not so dour as the other one."

Robert laughed lightly. "Thomas does like to have his grumble."

"Since the house was still standing after a month without another footman, I didn't see the need," Matthew added. "But now that the work on the cottages has been completed with some reserve left, and Carson insists, I suppose I don't see why not. Anyway, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to pull Carson into the library to let him know. I just wanted to tell you first."

"Very good," Robert said.

"So you've handed the reins over completely," Violet said.

"He knows what he's doing," Robert said, watching Matthew and Carson step out of the room.

A few minutes later, Pamuk also walked out of the parlor, stealing away into a corner in hall, an unbridled eagerness in his eyes. Shortly there after, Mary followed.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Is this picture really a Della Francesca?"

"I think so. The second earl brought back several paintings from—"

He interrupted her words with a furious, uninvited kiss. Mary, initially too bewildered to protest, pushed him off as she felt herself backed against the wall.

"Mr. Pamuk!" She exclaimed, as quietly as she could but still trying to convey her surprise.

"Let me come to you tonight, please," he said excitedly, his hands still holding her arms.

"I can't think what I have said that has led you to believe—"

"Please. I don't know when we'll meet again. So let it be tonight."

Pamuk leaned in to kiss her again. Mary tried pushing him back, but had little room to move, budged against the wall as she was. Instead, she turned away and felt his lips on her neck, just below her ear. He'd brought her hand to her face and forcibly turned it toward him, when a noise in the hall caused him to let go of her all together. He turned and Mary peaked over his shoulder. The little that was left of her dignity—decimated at the hands of Pamuk—drained from her completely when she saw who it was.

Matthew.

"I wonder, Mr. Pamuk, if you might go back to the parlor. I'd like to have a word with my cousin," he said flatly, betraying little emotion.

"As you can see, Mr. Crawley, Lady Mary and I are having a tête-a-tête ourselves. I'm sure she'll be happy to talk to you some other time."

Matthew looked past Pamuk to Mary. Her eyes were cast downward, but Matthew noticed her shake her head ever so slightly.

"I'm afraid I have to insist. The matter is rather urgent."

"Surely, you won't mind waiting."

"Perhaps I'll fetch Cousin Robert in the interim, as the matter pertains to him as well."

Pamuk let out a forceful breath. "No need for that. I'll leave you alone."

Brow furrowed and jaw set to contain his frustration, Pamuk entered the parlor again.

Matthew stepped forward toward Mary. "Are you all right?" He asked in a whisper.

Mary looked up for the first time since Matthew had walked into the hall. His concerned expression was too much for her. "Please make my excuses," she said and ran toward the staircase.

He chased after. "Mary!"

But she waved him off and he stopped at the bottom of the staircase and watched her make her way up alone.

Matthew walked back to the parlor, still unsure as to what had just happened. He didn't want to mention what he'd just seen to Cora or Robert, knowing that Mary would see it as a betrayed confidence, but he was worried about her. He needed a way to make sure she was all right.

Once in the parlor, Matthew noticed that Pamuk had made his way to Sybil, who apparently had been left alone. Before Matthew had gone to speak with Robert, Tom had been pulled away by Cora and Isobel from where he, Matthew, Edith and Sybil had been talking together, and with them he remained, his back turned to where Sybil stood. Edith was now at the hearth with her father, Evelyn and Violet.

Quickly, Matthew went over to Sybil and took her gently by the elbow, saying, "Cousin Sybil, may I speak to you for a moment?"

"It seems you have a need to speak with all the young ladies this evening," Pamuk said.

"It seems you do as well," Matthew replied, leading Sybil away.

"Is everything all right?" Sybil asked quietly.

"No, I'm afraid Mary has gone to bed. She wasn't feeling well. Would you let your parents know."

"Of course," she said. Sybil was about to turn to go, when Matthew caught her arm again.

"Will you go to her tonight, once we've all turned in, and make sure that everything's all right?"

"Sure, but did something happen?" Sybil asked with a concerned expression.

"It's not for me to say. I mean . . . it may have been nothing. But will you do it?"

"I will."

Again Sybil turned to go and again Matthew stopped her.

"What did Mr. Pamuk say to you just now?"

"Nothing particularly. He asked why I hadn't come on the hunt today? I didn't answer honestly, I must admit. I said I didn't like to ride."

"What would your honest answer have been?"

"There was better company to be had elsewhere."

Matthew smiled as she made her way to her parents. He looked around and saw that Pamuk had left the room. Seeing Tom come up beside him, he turned.

"You were right about Mr. Pamuk," Matthew said.

"Oh?"

"Unpleasant fellow, to be sure. But I don't think Mary will want to see him again after all."

"Thank God for that," Tom said, taking a sip of his drink.

"Thank the Turk himself."

Tom looked at Matthew curiously, but that was the last Matthew said on the matter.

Later that night, as she lay in bed, Mary was so deep in thought over the events after dinner that she didn't hear the knock at the door. She almost rolled off onto the floor in fright when she realized someone had come into her room.

"Mary?"

"Oh, God, Sybil! You scared me out of my wits."

Sybil smiled and climbed into bed and laid down next to her sister. "Is everything all right?"

Mary nodded halfheartedly.

"You don't seem very convinced."

"It's all right. The evening took a turn I was not prepared for. I feel fine, just a bit humbled is all."

Sybil bit her lip, wondering if Mary knew who had sent her. "Cousin Matthew was worried about you," she said quietly.

Mary looked over at Sybil, then at her hands. "What did he say happened?"

"Nothing. Just that you weren't feeling well. He thought I should check on you once everyone had gone to bed."

Mary took a deep breath, feeling a lump rise in her throat. A small tear trickled out of the corner of her eye and did not escape Sybil's notice.

"Oh, darling, what's wrong?"

"Have you ever felt as if everything you thought you knew was right had been turned upside down and it turns out you don't know anything at all?"

Sybil sat up. "Mary, what's happened that has you talking like this? Please tell me."

Mary sat up as well, and wiped another tear from her cheek. "It's nothing really. I don't want to burden with it. I just . . . I've realized tonight that I was wrong . . . I've been wrong about a lot of things. The way I've behaved with men . . . it invites a certain type of ridicule—"

Sybil took her sister's hand, interrupting her and speaking rapidly. "Mary, no man has a right to make you feel ridiculous, no matter your behavior. A true gentleman should be so from the first to the last."

Mary smiled, but Sybil could see it did not reach her eyes. "Even so," Mary continued, "I've realized that the only good possibility that's been presented to me I dismissed out of hand before I could even realize how good it was. I'm just a little bit sad at how stupid I've been."

"You haven't been stupid. You've been clouded by grief and mama and granny's constant meddling."

"Well, thank you for your patience with me, but please don't let me prattle on." Mary hesitated for a moment, not sure whether she wanted to know the answer to her next question. "So how did Edith make out with Cousin Matthew today?"

"Very well, I think."

Mary felt her chest tighten. "Is that so?"

"They'll not be married, I don't believe."

A quiet sigh escaped Mary's lips. "Oh, no?"

"No, but they will be friends, and I'm of the firm conviction that a clear-eyed friendship with a man is better than anything else."

"Even if it leads to nothing?"

"Why should friendship not be a sufficient end in itself? Having a friend is not nothing. You should try it."

Mary laughed. "I don't think Cousin Matthew wants to be friends with me."

Sybil smiled. "You say that so often I have to wonder if the lady—"

"Doth protest too much?"

"Doth she?"

"I doth too much of everything," Mary said, and eager to avoid the question, she continued. "What about you? Surely you don't think you will continue to escape this kind of scrutiny with your debut nearing."

Sybil looked at Mary for a long moment. "Well, since we're speaking openly of friendships."

"Yes?"

"Tom and I are friends," she said slowly and quietly, curious as to her sister's reaction, which was immediate.

"You like him!? Oh, Sybil!"

"What's wrong with Tom?" Sybil asked indignantly.

"Well, I don't suppose there's anything wrong with him, but he is rather full of himself, don't you think?"

Sybil laughed. "Terribly so! But would you believe, I find that rather attractive."

Mary rolled her eyes. "You would."

"He holds his convictions so firmly—even in the face of two so stuburn about tradition as papa and granny. And he knows and is interested in so many things—things that I want to learn about and experience. And he's the only person who doesn't mock my interest in wanting to know more than I do or to be something more than I am. He treats me like a real person, not just—"

"Not just a pretty doll he'd have his way with," Mary finished.

"Well . . . right," Sybil said, tilting her head slightly to watch Mary, who'd gotten quiet again.

Mary turned back to her sister. "I'm glad you have a good friend in Tom, Sybil, but don't rush into things. You're young. You don't know what's going to happen."

"I'm perfectly aware of my lack of knowledge about the future and everything else." Sybil hesitated for a moment, before continuing. "Will you not tell mama what I've just told you? I don't want her or anyone to make more of things between Tom and me than they are now and risk upsetting the balance, as it were."

"Your secret is safe with me," Mary said, smiling sadly.

"And I wish you wouldn't dislike Tom."

"I don't. I don't know him so well as you, but if he's captured your interest he must be a good person."

Sybil smiled brightly at her sister.

Mary returned her smile and wished she could put this moment in a box and keep it forever. But she was now too aware of the uncertainty of the future that lay ahead—uncertainty about which she'd just warned Sybil and that suddenly loomed all too menacingly over Mary herself. Sybil would be happy. That much Mary knew. But would such happiness be available to Mary after so much time wasted. Was it too late?

Sybil sensed a change in Mary's mood and asked, "Are you sure you're all right?"

"I am, but would you fetch me a handkerchief from my wardrobe."

Sybil smiled and nodded. She hopped out of the bed and crossed the room. She'd just opened the wardrobe when someone barged into the room.

It was Pamuk.

He went to Mary's bedside so quickly, he did not see Sybil on the other side of the room.

"You must be mad!" Mary exclaimed, trying to pull herself away.

"I am. I am in the grip of madness."

"Please leave at once or—"

"Or what?" He asked threateningly.

"Or I'll beat you to a pulp!"

Pamuk was so startled by Sybil's voice behind him, he stood and, tangled on the duvet Mary had pulled over to cover herself, fell to the floor. Sybil stepped over him holding the fireplace poker over her head. Pamuk scrambled back then stood up.

"So here you are," he said, gathering himself.

"What are you talking about?" Sybil asked.

"I came to your room first," he said with a smirk.

Mary gasped and brought her hands to cover her mouth, but Sybil didn't budge. "Well, you would have met the same end because I have one of these in there too."

She swung the poker so the sharp end was sticking forward.

Pamuk stepped up to it, so it was just an inch from his chest. "You wouldn't dare use it."

"No? Test me, if you like."

He took a step forward, but all it got him was a sharp poke in the chest.

Mary saw him ball up his fists in anger and stood up behind her sister, putting her own hands over Sybil's on the poker. "Go now, Mr. Pamuk, before we use this against you."

He stepped forward again, and again was met with the sharp end of the object. The sisters would not yield their ground. He took a deep breath, then turned and walked out. Sybil ran to the door, slammed it behind him and quickly locked it. She turned and saw that Mary had put down the poker and was now kneeling on the floor crying.

"Mary, it's all right, he's gone."

"He would have ruined us! Oh, I was so stupid!"

Her words concerned Sybil. "Mary, wait, did something happen with him before."

"He tried. . . but nothing . . . Matthew stopped him," Mary said between sobs. "It was just in the hall outside the parlor."

"Oh, my dear!" Sybil pulled her sister into her as Mary continued to sob, ruing the future they would have met as outcasts now plain before Mary's eyes.

Mary pulled back. "Oh, Sybil if he'd hurt you—"

"I wouldn't have let him. And I wasn't going to let him hurt you. Everything's all right. He'll be gone tomorrow and we never have to see him again."

The sisters hugged again, and remained holding one another on the floor until Mary's sobs had calmed into soft sighs. Sybil gently pulled her sister up and sat her down on the bed. "Do you think you can sleep? Would you like me to ring for some tea?"

Mary took a deep breath. "I'm fine. But will you stay?"

"Of course. I'm just going to go check on Edith."

"I'll come with you."

Quietly, the sisters stepped out of the room. They walked down the hall to Edith's room, with Sybil holding the poker tightly. When they reached Edith's room, Sybil opened the door gently. Finding her soundly asleep, they both breathed a sigh of relief.

With no sign of Pamuk anywhere close, the sisters went back to Mary's room, where they crawled into bed and after calming themselves from the commotion fell asleep, with the door locked and the fireplace poker between them.

They were woken up early the next morning by a light knocking on the door. Mary went over to the door.

"Who is it?"

"It's Anna, milady."

Mary opened the door to let her in. "Sybil's spent the night here, in case anyone missed her and was worried."

"No, I don't think anybody has. It's very early yet. I just came up to tell you the news."

"News?"

"About Mr. Pamuk."

Mary and Sybil looked at one another in alarm.

"What happened?" Sybil asked. "Has he done something?"

"No, it's . . . well, there's no good way of saying this . . . apparently, he had some sort of heart attack or something over night."

"What is it, Anna?" Mary asked.

"He's dead."

Chapter Text

Tom and Matthew hadn't needed to spend the night at Downton Abbey, but it was fortunate that they did.

The evening party had threatened to disperse immediately after Mary had gone upstairs, but Cora, wanting to keep Evelyn entertained even in her absence, asked Tom and Matthew to converse with him for a while. Eventually, when Isobel was ready to return home, Pratt drove her alone while the two young men stayed behind. Violet took her leave shortly thereafter.

Tom, Matthew and Evelyn ended up in the billiard room late into the night. By the time they were finally ready to turn in, Tom and Matthew learned that Pratt had gone to his cottage for the night and didn't see a need to wake him for a ride back to Crawley House. The maids having gone to the trouble of making up rooms for them, the two decided they'd not let the work go to waste. There was also the nagging feeling in the back of Matthew's mind regarding Pamuk's behavior toward Mary and his continued presence in the house. Matthew resolved in his own mind to stay until the man was gone for good.

He'd only just woken when he heard a loud clatter.

Matthew and Tom had stayed in the bachelor's corridor, along with Evelyn and Pamuk. So when Thomas, on stepping into the Turkish guest's room and seeing his dead body on the floor, dropped the tray of breakfast silver he'd been carrying, the other three young gentlemen also sleeping in that wing of the house came quickly to investigate.

Tom was the first in the room. "Mother of God! What's wrong with him?"

Thomas, still somewhat in shock, could barely stammer out a response. "I . . . I don't . . .I just came in with the tray—he was like this."

Tom slowly walked over to the corpse and bent down to grab his wrist to try to find a pulse. He looked up to see Matthew and Evelyn at the door. All of them waited in silence, but there was no pulse to be found. Tom slowly lowered the dead man's hand down to the floor again and shook his head.

Evelyn stepped in and kneeled down by Pamuk's head. He looked up to the rest of the room and, not addressing anyone in particular, said, "What am I going to tell them?"

"We should get him back on the bed," Tom said quietly.

Matthew walked the rest of the way in and put his hand on Thomas's shoulder, startling the footman with the gesture. "Go down and tell Carson to send someone for Dr. Clarkson, then have a hall boy come stand guard by the door until the rest of the house is alerted. No one should see him like this."

Thomas left quickly without another word.

Evelyn moved to lift Pamuk up and Tom came over to help him. They deposited him on the bed and Tom carefully pulled the duvet over his head.

"What do you suppose happened?" Evelyn asked.

Tom shrugged. "Cardiac arrest, stroke, vertigo caused him to fall and hit his head on the floor—any number of things."

"We'll speak on your behalf as to his treatment here," Matthew said quietly to Evelyn, "if it comes to that."

Evelyn nodded. "I appreciate it, thank you." He let out a sigh. "It's going to be a long day. I best get dressed."

Tom and Matthew watched him as he left the room.

"How do you think the family is going to react?" Tom asked.

"I honestly don't know," Matthew responded.

Downstairs, Thomas tried to explain the turn of events to a shocked staff gathered around the dining table in the servants' hall. He'd barely finished talking when Carson quickly called Joseph and Peter, the house's hall boys. Joseph was dispatched to fetch the doctor and Peter was to go upstairs.

Once Joseph had run out the door, Carson turned back to face a bewildered audience. "Well, don't just stand there! Plenty of work still in need of doing!"

The crowd quickly went about their duties, exchanging looks of shock and sadness at the sudden death of the foreigner they'd all been so intrigued by the day before. Carson was about to head back to his office when he was stopped by Peter.

"Mr. Carson, sir. I don't know which room the gentleman was staying in to go guard it. Don't want to go in where someone may still be sleeping."

Before Carson could answer, Anna stepped up behind Peter. "I'll take him, Mr. Carson. Gwen and I made up the room."

"Very well, thank you, Anna," Carson replied.

The two headed up the stairs and found Tom and Matthew waiting for them. Anna picked up the tray Thomas had dropped and the young men went back to their rooms to change, leaving Peter standing guard at the door. Anna headed back to the servants hall, but when she got to the top of the back stairs, she changed course.

Mary had not yet rung, but Anna, suddenly worried about her charge's reaction, decided she needed to deliver the news herself—even if it meant waking Lady Mary to do it. Once at Mary's door, Anna set the tray down on the floor and knocked lightly.

Sybil quietly opened the door to her room and looked around.

He was here.

The doors to the wardrobe were open, the curtains were askew and the bed sheets had been pulled back from the bed. A pillow was lying in the middle of the floor. Sybil took a step inside and closed the door behind her. She walked over to the pillow, picked it up and hugged it to herself. Then, she sat down on the edge of her bed and closed her eyes.

Sybil tried to picture the moment Pamuk entered Mary's room, to remember what went through her mind as she watched him launch himself at her sister, and to recapture the feeling that coursed through her and compelled her to run to the fireplace for the poker. But she couldn't. Trying to think of last night's events now, they only felt like a dream, or a vivid story someone had told her but that she hadn't actually lived herself. In fact, only a single detail remained as vivid to her as when she'd lived it—her assurance to Mary that they would never see Mr. Pamuk again. But as she thought of them now, those words were fraught with new meaning.

Sybil had encountered death before.

There was her grandfather Levinson whose death had affected her mother deeply, but who was, to Sybil, only a person who existed in the abstract. His death had barely caused a ripple in her life. After all, how could she miss someone who had been absent most of her life, whom she had met only once and who remained even now just a collection of secondhand memories.

Then there was her grandfather Crawley, someone with whom she shared a closer bond, but whose death still only affected her in so far as it affected those around her.

And then, of course, there were her cousins James and Patrick. No deaths had had a more significant effect on her life than theirs, not merely because they were loved ones she had known and been in close contact with her whole life, but also because of the consequences of their deaths that her family had had to live with. Consequences that were playing out even now.

And yet, in this moment, it did not seem to Sybil as if those deaths had affected her so viscerally as Pamuk's was affecting her now. James and Patrick had perished somewhere far away. There was no distance in this case. What's more, in his final hours of life, Ladies Sybil and Mary Crawley saw first hand an apparently deceptive youthful vigor in one Mr. Kemal Pamuk of Istanbul, Turkey. Sybil was old enough to understand exactly what he had been after in coming to her room and Mary's. And what greater expression of life—for good or ill—is there than that?

He was arrogant, aggressive, alive. And now he wasn't. The seeming paradox in it shook Sybil. Pamuk had sought to assert himself, to act in a way that would have likely changed her life, but his sudden death suggested he was not even the master of his own.

Sybil supposed she should infer from his dying that her own fate was out of her control, but as of this morning that was something she was no longer willing to accept. Not after last night. Because the truth was, she had changed her fate. She had defended herself and her sister. She had not allowed him to dictate the outcome. Tom had told Sybil that very afternoon that he thought her brave and confident, and only lacking in an chance to demonstrate that she was. Pamuk, for better or for worse, had given her one. She was not grateful for Pamuk's invasion of her sanctuary, nor of his assault, literal and figurative, on her sister's confidence, neither did she believe she owed him anything, but Sybil hoped that wherever Pamuk was, he knew that though he'd intended to subdue her, he'd actually done the opposite.

Because whether or not future events in her life turned out in her favor, Sybil would know, from now on, that she wasn't powerless.

Mary's reaction to Pamuk's death was markedly different from her youngest sister's.

In a few hours, he would be gone from the house and in a few days, perhaps, forgotten altogether. Or so Mary kept telling herself in an effort to be convinced that eventually she could pretend that none of it—not the hunt, not the flirting, not the horrifying intrusion, not his death—had ever happened.

After learning about Pamuk's death, Mary and Sybil had decided there was no point in telling anyone what he had done. It seemed senseless to besmirch the reputation of a man who could no longer hurt them when the consequences of so doing would be needless worry for their parents and diplomatic complications for Evelyn. It had been Mary's stated preference, and Sybil accepted her sister's request. After all, in the assessment of the previous evening's events, Sybil had the advantage of not having exchanged but a few words with Pamuk. Her impression of him, based largely on their confrontation in Mary's room, was negative, and so she had nothing to fear in the memory of what had happened. This was not possible for Mary.

Mary had been taken by his good looks, had been won over by his charm, and had felt emboldened, falsely as it turned out, by his attentions. He had stolen a kiss from her, and if it had been left at that, Mary would have eventually convinced herself that she had invited it. Mary might have even come to see it, in time, as a happy memory. So despite his now obvious ill intentions, she could not divorce her enjoyment of his company from what he later revealed to be his true expectations. She was faultless—for who could blame a young woman instructed to be enticing to gentlemen for being just that. But she did not see herself as faultless. So while she wished she could simply erase the last two days from her mind, she also couldn't stop thinking about them. And not just because of Pamuk.

There was Evelyn, a sweet, unassuming man to whom she'd barely given a chance. And who now was surely ready to dismiss her, given her swift dismissal of him.

And there was her cousin, to whom she'd given no chance at all. She had once considered Matthew not good enough for her, and now, in wake of the blow her confidence had taken, she wondered whether the opposite was in fact true.

Looking at herself in her vanity mirror, already dressed for the day, Mary considered how Matthew and Evelyn would react if they knew of what Pamuk had tried to do—and how they would react if he had been successful?

She stood from her seat and resolved to go downstairs and face whatever there was for her to face. She was angry at Pamuk and at herself and she was sad at the same time. But she didn't want to be alone with her thoughts, not when her thoughts continually caused her to question everything she knew of herself, of what she wanted and of who she wanted.

As she walked down the main staircase, Mary saw Evelyn walking across the hall in the direction of the library.

"I imagine you've heard what's happened," he said gravely.

"Yes."

He looked down and started fidgeting with his hands. "Terrible thing. Awful. Ghastly for your parents. I don't suppose I shall ever make it up to them."

"It wasn't your fault."

He took a tentative step toward where Mary stood on the landing. "Well, I brought him here. If it isn't my fault, whose is it?"

Mary avoided his eyes for a moment, then took a deep breath to collect herself. "I suppose if it hadn't happened here, it would . . . um, it would have happened elsewhere. Better to deal with an uncomfortable situation among friends."

Evelyn blinked in surprise at her words. He took another step forward, wondering if perhaps all was not lost. "I was wondering if you might show me the gardens before I go. We could get some fresh air."

The request took Mary aback. He was giving her a fresh start, when she'd assumed they'd both wash their hands of the failed match and move on. But for Mary this morning was too soon to start again.

"I won't, if you'll forgive me" she responded quickly, "I ought to s—stay and help Mama."

"Of course," Evelyn said quietly. He bowed slightly and turned to leave. But he'd only taken a single step before he turned again. "I am so sorry about all this. I've told your father I'll deal with the embassy. There won't be any more annoyance for you."

"Thank you."

"Actually, he was a terribly nice fellow. I wish I could have known him better. I took him on as a duty, but I liked him more and more the longer I knew him."

Mary felt a lump rising in her throat and tears burning in her eyes. She wanted to relieve herself of the anger she felt at Pamuk and relieve Evelyn of the guilt he felt over Pamuk's death, but there was nothing she could say short of the revelation she'd resolved not to make, a revelation that might alter Evelyn's opinion of her. She felt paralyzed.

Mistaking her emotion for grief over the one she'd obviously preferred, Evelyn added quietly, "Perhaps you saw his qualities for yourself."

Mary wiped an errant tear from her cheek and walked down the rest of the way to be at eye level with Evelyn, not wanting his last impression of her to be her interest in Pamuk. "Mr. Napier, please don't mistake me. I would walk out with you if I believed myself capable of matching your grace on a day like today, but I am a foolish girl who does not know her mind or heart. Mr. Pamuk's attentions . . . well . . ." She took a deep breath, then continued. "My vanity was flattered, and that's bad enough on its own. I won't have you believe me a fickle person and make myself a further disappointment to you by pretending I did not ignore you yesterday. You are a good man, and I hope we may be friends."

The words were spoken from the heart. It was as honest as Mary had ever been with any man.

Evelyn's lips turned up into a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. He was disappointed, but not in her. By having preferred Pamuk over him, Mary had undercut his own vanity and, worse, dashed his hopes. He believed now that she was only trying to soften the blow. Perhaps if he knew what had happened, if he'd been privy to the conversation she'd shared with her sister last night, he'd see in her sincerity an invitation not to give up, not yet. As it was, he couldn't comprehend anything beyond what he believed she meant by the word "friend."

"Thank you, Lady Mary. You are too hard on yourself," he said finally.

"So are you."

He bowed again, and then turned and was gone.

Maybe if Pamuk hadn't come, Mary thought, watching him walk away, things might have turned out differently.

But having said her piece, Mary would not second-guess herself. Pamuk's appearance, his actions, revealed to Mary an improbable truth. She was not ready for marriage—whatever her mother and grandmother might say to the contrary. She needed time and patience, and if Evelyn Napier could not hear that in her words just now, then he was not the man she was meant for.

After leaving Lady Mary at the stairs, Evelyn walked to the library, where he found Robert, Tom and Matthew.

Hearing him enter, Robert stood. "Matthew and Tom have told me you've squared things away with Dr. Clarkson."

"Yes, he said the hospital workers will be by for the body in short order. They'll make the arrangements for the train ride back to London. I'll have arrived before and be there to receive it."

"Were you able to collect all his things?" Robert asked.

"Yes, my man took care of everything. Lord Grantham, I'm terribly sorry about all this."

"Who could have foreseen it?" Robert said quietly.

Evelyn turned to Matthew and Tom. "Gentlemen, I wish we had met under kinder circumstances."

Tom stepped forward to shake Evelyn's hand and Matthew followed suit.

"Best of luck on the continuing talks," Tom said. "I hope this doesn't derail things for you."

"No, I shouldn't think so. And, please, don't hesitate to let me know when you're next in London." He paused for a moment. "Is Lady Grantham down? I'd like to say my goodbyes."

"I think she went to get some fresh air, but she shouldn't be far," Robert said.

"I'll see her on my way out then."

"Pratt is on his way, my lord."

The men turned to see Carson at the door.

"I suppose that's my cue," Evelyn said with a small smile, turning to go.

Out of the library, Evelyn went into the entrance hall, where he met his valet, who, upon seeing the expression on his employer's face immediately held up his coat. Evelyn half-smiled at the fact that the man knew him so well. He turned to slip the coat on, then took his hat and gloves from him and stepped outside.

Seeing Cora in the distance, he walked toward her.

"Lady Grantham!" Evelyn called out. "I've come to say goodbye. They're bringing the car around to take me to the station."

"Have you said goodbye to Mary?"

"I have."

"Will we be seeing you here again?" She asked, hopeful.

"Nothing would give me more pleasure, but I'm afraid I'm a little busy at the moment," he began, but seeing Cora's eyes, he faltered. He could continue the charade, or he could be honest. Mary had been honest. It had not been in his favor, but in a sense, she had freed herself from the artifice that had brought him here in the first place. Suddenly he felt the need to do the same.

"I wonder if I might risk embarrassing you," he began again, "because I should like to make myself clear. The truth is, Lady Grantham, I'm not a vain man. I do not consider myself a very interesting person, but I feel it's important that my future wife should think me so. A woman who finds me boring could never love me, and I believe marriage should be based on love." He laughed at himself, at the idea. "At least at the start," he finished quietly.

Cora smiled, realizing what he was telling her, the words and the sudden familiarity they conveyed making her wish that he had been enough for her daughter.

"Thank you for your faith in me, Mr. Napier. Your instincts do you credit. Good luck to you."

As she watched him walk away, Cora furrowed her brow, wondering what exactly had been said between Evelyn and Mary this morning.

Even having been the one who'd initiated the possibility between them, Mary had lost interest rather quickly, which made Cora wonder whether her daughter had merely been going through the motions. Cora supposed that the foreigner's looks and charms had done a number on Mary, but Cora had also believed Mary more sure of herself than to be swept off her feet quite so easily—especially when there was a goal in mind. In that moment, Cora blamed what she mistakenly perceived as her daughter's lingering immaturity for what had happened, or failed to happen, with Evelyn. Frustrated, but resolved to let things be for the time being, Cora walked back to the house.

Once inside, Cora found her daughters sitting quietly in the parlor. She walked in and sat down, smiling quietly, not wanting to stir their thoughts. She hadn't been there five minutes when Carson stepped in to announce Violet.

"The Dowager Countess," he said solemnly.

"Oh, my dears, is it really true?" She exclaimed, walking in. "I—I can't believe it. Last night he looked so well." She walked over to the armchair and to sit down, adding, "Of course, it would happen to a foreigner. It's typical."

"Don't be ridiculous," Mary snapped.

"I'm not being ridiculous," Violet said indignantly. "No Englishman would dream of dying in someone else's house. Especially someone they didn't even know."

"Oh, Granny," Sybil spoke up, looking up from her embroidery. "Even the English aren't in control of everything."

"Well, I hope we're in control of something, if only ourselves."

"But we're not!" Mary insisted. "Don't you see that? We're not in control of anything at all!"

Mary walked out of the room angrily before anyone had a chance to react to her outburst. Her anger had largely dissipated since her talk with Evelyn, but what lingered had been stoked by Violet's characteristic superiority. It was all Mary could stand.

Cora sighed. "Edith, go and tell Mary to come back at once and apologize to her grandmother."

Edith stood, but Violet stopped her.

"No, leave her alone," Violet said. "She's had a shock. We all have. Just let her rest."

Sybil stood and moved to follow her sister. "I'll go talk to her."

Cora grabbed Sybil's hand. "Sybil, I think it's best if—"

"It's all right, mama," Sybil said. "I know what's wrong."

Cora looked at Sybil curiously but let her go.

"Excuse me," Sybil said, stepping out of the room after Mary.

Knowing that a restless mind always took her oldest sister out of doors, Sybil walked through the entrance hall to the main doors. But stepping outside, Sybil saw no sign of Mary. She walked out into the driveway, and the start of the path to the village, but still couldn't see her. She sighed.

Sybil considered walking around to the gardens, where it was perhaps more likely Mary might have gone, but then wondered whether solitude might not be what Mary needed after all. Sybil understood what Mary was thinking and feeling more than her mother and grandmother would, but that fact wouldn't necessarily make her own hovering any less bothersome to her sister. Mary was nothing if not the selfish guardian of her own mind. Sybil respected that and acknowledged that she would come around on her own time.

As Sybil turned to go back to the house, she saw Tom stepping out of the doors.

She smiled, happy and hopeful for the first time that day.

"I thought you'd gone," she said as he walked in her direction. "At least, I assumed as much when I didn't see you at breakfast."

Tom lifted his hat in greeting. "Matthew and I stayed with Mr. Napier while Dr. Clarkson was here. Didn't want him to shoulder the burden of seeing to, um . . . well, to the remains alone."

"That was kind of you."

Tom shrugged. "Ugly business." He paused and his expression softened. "Are you all right?" he asked quietly. "I'm sure it was a shock."

"It was . . . he was so young."

"As Aunt Isobel would say, in the midst of life, we are in death."

"He was about Patrick's age if I were to guess," Sybil said. "But he and Cousin James died in a great tragedy that took many others . That fact offered a measure of . . . comfort? That's not the right word."

"It is, actually. I understand your meaning, anyway. Patrick and James weren't alone at the time of their deaths, and you and your family weren't alone in your grief for them. There is comfort to be found in that. Suffering is easier to cope with when it may be shared. The specificity of a death like this, especially when the affected party is essentially a stranger to us . . . well, it feels rather cruel, doesn't it?"

"Do you suppose he suffered much?"

"Dr. Clarkson said it was likely a stroke, a blood clot or a blood vessel rupturing in his brain. It would have been instantaneous."

Sybil smiled. "Thank you for not sparing me the details."

Tom smiled in return. "I should be off or mam will head to church without me. She likes to go to the early service."

"I'll walk to the gate with you," Sybil said, and the two fell into step together.

"What have you got there?" Tom asked pointing to the swatch of fabric in her hands.

"Oh, it's silly," Sybil said hiding it behind her. "I'm afraid the pastimes allowed for women are not very interesting. I do it when I want to keep my mind from wandering but I'm feeling too restless for a book."

"May I see it?"

Reluctantly, Sybil handed over her work. It was an embroidery of a bouquet of bluebells. "They're my favorite flower. Though I've not really done them justice, I'm afraid."

Tom smiled at the work, clearly that of an unsteady hand. "Your faculties are probably just waiting to be given a greater office to unleash their full potential."

They stopped when they reached the gate and stood silently for a moment, each waiting for the other to speak. Tom handed her embroidery back to her.

Finally, Sybil said, "I'd like to thank you for what you said yesterday, in the library."

"Which part?"

"About me being brave and confident."

"It didn't need me saying it to be true, but nevertheless, you are most welcome."

He smiled at her and Sybil felt a rush of affection that begged her to show him how much his friendship meant to her. Before Sybil realized what she was doing, she took two steps forward and wrapped her arms around his midsection. Tom was momentarily startled at the gesture, but after a moment returned the embrace. Sybil closed her eyes as she turned her head and leaned into his strong shoulder, feeling his arms wrap around her tightly and his fingers tangle in the tips of her hair, which hung in a long pony tail down to the middle of her back.

If a fear of death in youth had bothered either of them that morning, now it was gone.

Sybil stepped away, her cheeks blushing slightly. His too.

"You also said you wouldn't ever let anything happen to me," she said.

He nodded, still a bit too stunned to speak.

"Well, I won't ever let anything happen to you. So we'll both be safe from everything that may happen."

They laughed at the absurdity of what she'd said, but found comfort in it just the same.

Without any more words they parted.

On the other side of the house, Matthew stepped out to walk around the gardens. He hadn't explored this area of the grounds all that much and wanted to get away from the house for a bit after the unpleasantness of the morning. Tom had asked Matthew if he'd wanted to walk home together, but Matthew remained resolute in his decision to remain there until Mr. Pamuk was out of the house.

"There's not really much to see this time of year."

Matthew turned to see Mary coming up behind him.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," she said.

"It's all right."

"It's really quite beautiful in the spring."

"I can imagine."

Mary and Matthew looked at one another for a long moment.

"Cousin Mary—"

"I should—"

They laughed softly. He nodded his head, gesturing for her to speak.

"I must apologize for leaving so hastily last night. It was terribly rude. Especially considering what you'd just saved me from."

"Please don't concern yourself with that." Matthew looked down for a moment. "I won't make assumptions as to his intentions—"

"Then you are too kind," Mary cut in.

Matthew narrowed his eyes at her, then continued, "but I hope he did not hurt you, physically or otherwise."

"He didn't, not terribly. None of that matters now, anyway. Though if your opinion of me was hurt by it, I am sorry for that."

"I could never hold one man's unsavory behavior against you."

"And my behavior? You can't deny that I have been less than welcoming to you. If you do deny it you'll only be insulting my intelligence."

Matthew couldn't help but smile. "In that case, I will accept an apology if one is offered, but will not demand one. Your resentment regarding our . . . situation is not unfounded."

Mary sighed. "I am sorry. If it makes you feel better, it was never about you. I resented Patrick for being heir just the same."

"Do you miss him?"

The question surprised Mary, but sensing nothing behind it but a sincere curiosity, she answered as honestly as she could. "I do," she said, adding with a smile, "insufferable though he could be."

Matthew smiled, warmly.

"And you?" She asked. "Do you miss her?"

Matthew nodded. "Some days more than others. It used to be painful—thinking of her. Now not so much."

"Do you think she would have liked it here?"

"I'm not sure. She lived in a part of my life that was so unlike how things are now that I sometimes have difficulty reconciling the two."

"But you don't regret coming here, doing your part to save the estate?" Mary asked tentatively.

He smiled. "No, I don't."

"Well, as disingenuous as it may sound now, given everything I've said before, I am glad you are here. You'll find I'm not the easiest person to convince about anything, but when I see good I come around."

Matthew said nothing in response, but merely looked at her with an expression Mary couldn't decipher. Feeling exhausted from the roller coaster of emotions she'd been through in the last twenty-four hours, she took a deep breath, and spoke again to excuse herself.

"I think I'll go back inside" she said. "I'm afraid I've used up my good graces for the day, such as they are this morning and I wouldn't want you to bore you with my continued company."

Matthew laughed. "Cousin Mary, even when you are unpleasant, you are never boring."

A sparkle came into Mary's eyes. "You flatter me Cousin Matthew," she said, turning to walk back inside.

"I was beginning to wonder if you'd decided to stay there for good!"

"Didn't Aunt Isobel tell you what happened? I thought Lord Grantham sent a message," Tom said coming into the kitchen at Crawley House, where his mother had been waiting in her Sunday best for the walk to church.

"She did," Claire said, standing. "I didn't realize it would take so long to get it all sorted out."

"Well, we're on our way now aren't we?" He said, smiling playfully.

Claire narrowed her eyes at him. "You're in a surprisingly good mood, given the day's events."

"I mean no disrespect to the dead, but yes, I am."

"Any particular reason?"

"Would you believe me if I said that proximity to death has inspired me to live life to the fullest?"

"No, I wouldn't" Claire said with a smile. "But I suppose you'll tell me the real reason when you're ready."

Tom laughed. "You know me too well, mam."

Chapter Text

December 1912

In the few weeks after Mr. Evelyn Napier and Mr. Kemal Pamuk's visit, as November gave way to December and Christmastide, spirits around Downton Abbey brightened. If the absence of James and Patrick on the first Christmas since they'd perished on the Titanic saddened anyone in the family, the presence of the new cousins helped soothe any lingering grief. The Reginald Crawley family, in turn, enjoyed their first holidays in Yorkshire thoroughly, never thinking of or missing, not even for a minute, the city they had left behind. Christmas Eve at Crawley House, in fact, was a more lively affair than normal on this year with the initiation of Moseley into the family's unorthodox celebration.

As Isobel explained to Moseley, Tom began to sleep in his own room next to Matthew's in the Manchester house the year they started school, primarily in an effort to help the nanny save time as she helped two unruly youngsters get ready every morning. But the move also cemented Tom's place in Reginald's heart as his second son, and on the first Christmas that followed, the man simply would not hear of sitting down to dinner without both of the boys he loved so dear. Isobel, not wanting to supplant Claire Branson completely in Tom's life, argued to her husband that the holidays were a time the boy should spend with her.

"Well, if Tommy must dine with his mother, then she shall have to dine with us," was Reginald's curt reply.

Isobel had been pleased by the compromise, but it posed a new problem. She didn't want to leave the maid alone in the servants' quarters on such an occasion or be seen as an ungenerous employer. And so the maid was invited as well. Thus, the tradition began. Over the years, the event became less of a formal dinner and more of an open house, with Reginald occasionally inviting associates and employees from his medical practice. It was always done on Christmas Eve to give guests and staff the opportunity for time off on Christmas Day if they so desired. Even as a young boy, Tom always understood the line that separated his mother from Isobel and Reginald, but those merry nights spent with everyone he knew and loved in one room were the happiest of his childhood and taught him early on how very artificial the separation of the classes truly was.

Many years later, at Crawley House, the prospect of sharing a holiday meal with his employer might have shocked a butler more intent on adhering to the proper rules of high society, but in the months he'd been in their employ, Moseley had come to embrace the Reginald Crawley family's progressive view of country life. Once his duties on behalf of the young gentlemen settled into a routine, he came to enjoy them highly, and despite Mrs. Branson and Ivy's own initial resistance to his presence, he had made himself essential to them as well, as they did their work around the house.

Moseley sometimes saw or met members of the staff from the big house around the village, but he spoke with them only rarely. Moseley knew that the earl and countess were not yet aware of Tom's parentage and that Isobel and Mrs. Branson didn't want to draw attention to that particular detail of Tom's life, lest it affect his prospects. But Moseley also had come to understand that the housekeeper and his mistress were not guarding a secret so much as they were protecting their own happy home from the intrusion of others. And now that he had been welcomed into their fold, he did not want to let any disturbance into their peaceful existence either.

Isobel considered carefully whether to mention Christmas Eve to Robert and Cora and offer an invitation, but ultimately she decided against it, wanting to keep things in the family at least this, their first year of what she'd come to call their adventure up north. Still, she could not refuse Robert and Cora's invitation to dine at Downton Abbey on Christmas Day, happily accepting on behalf of herself and her sons. And it was on that day that Isobel learned of the Robert Crawley family's own version of social "mixing," as Violet referred to it.

The annual servants ball would be held on New Year's Eve, and not only were Tom, Matthew and Isobel expected to attend, so too were the servant residents of Crawley House. When it was mentioned during dinner, Tom and Isobel quickly exchanged glances that promised a later conversation about what that would entail. But the conversation—when it happened the next day and during which Tom insisted he would not go and pretend Claire was anyone except his mother—was rendered moot when Claire fell ill with a cold a few days before the night of the ball. Tom might have thought it was her way of avoiding the whole question were it not for how well he knew his mother hated being laid up in bed sick.

So on the day before the ball, Tom and Matthew, off from work until after the new year, headed over to the big house to discuss several things with Robert, including an update on who'd be coming to the ball from Crawley House. William would also be meeting them there to give Robert an end of the year update on the estate.

It was the first time William would be returning to the house as something other than a footman.

As Tom and Matthew were making their way to the house, Sybil was sitting in her room tying a ribbon around the box in which she'd placed her Christmas gift for Tom. They had agreed to exchange gifts after Christmas and away from the scrutiny of their relatives, a measure that was probably unnecessary since they had also agreed to only buy one another books in order to, in Sybil's words, "keep things simple." Sybil had felt silly making that suggestion, but Tom understood her desire for their attachment to blossom naturally and not be hurried along by the definitions and trappings of conventional romance, at least as defined by Sybil's family. He also pointed out the very real possibility that they'd have given one another books as gifts anyway.

Their friendship had become something they both treasured and protected closely. And though that word—romance—hadn't entered into conversation or even been especially prominent in either one's thoughts, in their later years, both of them would see that this had been how it started.

Sybil had finished and was holding the box up to admire her handy work when there was a light knock on her door. She quickly stood to put the box in her wardrobe before saying, "Come in!"

It was Gwen, wearing a smile as big as Sybil had ever seen on her. She came into the room holding a letter in her hands. "This came today," she said handing the letter over to Sybil.

Sybil opened the letter and read it. She brightened as she came to understand its purpose: Gwen had been invited to interview for the secretarial position she'd inquired about in the fall.

"I knew they would want to see you!" Sybil said excitedly.

"Well, it's your reference what's done it," Gwen said, but her smiled turned to concern as she continued. "But how am I going to get to Thirsk? They won't let me take a day off."

It didn't take Sybil long to find a solution. "You're going to be ill," she said. "They can't stop you being ill."

"What?"

"What happens when someone downstairs catches cold?" Sybil asked rhetorically, holding her hands behind her.

"Mrs. Hughes sends them up to their room to sleep," Gwen said with a sheepish smile.

"So you'll fake sick, and we'll find a way to get there!"

"There is something else."

"What's that?" Sybil asked.

Gwen moved to sit on the bed. "I don't know if you're aware, but the new footman started today."

"Oh, I didn't know. What's his name?"

"Alfred Nugent. He's Miss O'Brien's nephew. He was in last week for an interview with Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes. Anna and I were outside his office waiting for Mrs. Hughes as they were interviewing him, and, well, it occurred to me . . . I've never really done that before, had an interview, that is."

"How did you get this job?"

"I started as a scullery maid when I was fifteen at a house run by a housekeeper who knew my mother as a child. She gave me the job to help my parents, and after a year, she recommended me for this one. There was no interview."

"Oh my," Sybil said, sitting next to Gwen.

"You see, milady, even if I make it to the location, I won't know what I'm doing."

"Oh, Gwen, don't lose heart when you're so close. You did very well on your course, which means you have the skills. You just have to learn how to present yourself well."

"Are you sure?"

"I am. Respond, and let them know you'll take the interview. Once it's scheduled, we'll figure out the best way to prepare."

Gwen smiled, reassured. "Thank you, milady. I couldn't have gotten this far without your help."

"We're not there yet, but I know you can do it."

Gwen stood up. "I best get back to work."

"Here," Sybil said, standing and handing back the letter. "Return it and we'll go from there."

Gwen smiled and turned to leave. She'd made it to the door when she turned back. "Everyone downstairs is quite looking forward to tomorrow."

"I'm looking forward to is as well," Sybil said with a smile.

"Do you think Mr. Branson and Mr. Crawley are good dancers?"

"I suppose we'll find out," Sybil responded.

Gwen stepped out without another word and smiled to herself about the slight blush she noticed on Sybil's cheeks when dancing and Mr. Branson had been mentioned in the same breath.

Downstairs in the parlor Violet and Cora were discussing, once again, Mary's prospects for marriage. After the failure with Napier, both had noticed that Mary's enthusiasm for accepting social invitations had waned. Cora couldn't also help but observe that Mary was no longer as tense nor as dissatisfied with life as she had been in the months immediately following first Patrick's death and later the announcement that Matthew would be coming to Yorkshire to take his place as heir.

This softening in her daughter's demeanor eased Cora's concerns about Mary's well being and made her wonder whether she'd been wrong to push Mary so hard when it came to making a match. Still, she wanted her daughter to be taken care of, so Cora submitted to Violet's insistence to get Mary settled as soon as possible.

"How about some house parties?" Violet asked, after the two had been quietly thinking about how to encourage Mary to be more social.

"She's been asked to one next month by Lady Ann McNair," Cora responded.

Violet's face wrinkled into a look of disapproval. "That's a terrible idea. She doesn't know anyone under a hundred."

"I might send her over to visit my aunt. She could get to know New York."

"Oh, I don't think things are quite that desperate. What do you think accounts for this sudden desire to be such a recluse?"

Cora laughed. "Oh, it's not quite so bad as you describe it. She was so often out and about after the loss of James and Patrick, when was it probably still too fresh. It obviously took a toll on her. I'm afraid we underestimated how much their deaths affected her. She seems more comfortable now than before. Maybe next season will be more fruitful."

"I hope you're right. Poor Mary. I do hope she's not given up."

"I wouldn't say she has, not yet."

"And what of Edith?" Violet asked with a sigh. "Her time looms of the horizon."

"She tried with Matthew, but there was no match to be made between him and her, either. He seems very much the determined bachelor, at least for the time being."

"Pity he came to us as a near-widower."

"He's a good man. He'll make a good choice when the time comes."

"At least Sybil still has a season here at home. To think of worrying of three at once!"

Cora laughed softly. "Perhaps we shouldn't worry about any of them at all. Let us wave our white flag of surrender and let nature and fate take their course."

Violet looked at Cora sternly. "Don't be defeatist, dear. It's very middle class."

As footman, William had opened the front door for the former estate agent, Jarvis, many times. And yet, as he approached Downton Abbey, he couldn't help but veer toward the service entrance that he had used so many times. He did so partly out of habit, partly out of a desire to see the friends he had not seen in quite some time and partly out of a need to prove to them that despite his new position, he did not see himself above their station—something he was afraid at least some among the staff might believe.

The yard outside the servants' hall was empty as he neared the door. He could only assume everyone was working on preparations for luncheon in a few hours. William took a deep breath as he put his hand on the door and opened it.

Indeed, there was a flurry of activity as the hall boys swept the area just outside the kitchen while the scullery maid was cleaning the serving dishes on the table. Mrs. Patmore came out of the kitchen to bark out an instruction at her, but it stayed lodged in her throat as she caught sight of William, who was standing just inside the door, now unsure as to whether he should have come in this way after all.

"Oh my God!" She exclaimed, bringing her hands to her mouth. "Look at the proper gent that's just walked in!"

She walked toward him with a proud smile. Mrs. Hughes came into the room and on seeing William also beamed at how well he looked.

"How nice that you've come to see us, William," Mrs. Hughes said. "Are you here to meet with his lordship and Mr. Crawley and Mr. Branson?"

"I am," he said sheepishly. "Just thought I'd pop by and see how you all were first."

"You're looking very fine," Mrs. Hughes said. "Your new position suits you."

"I'm not sure how suited I am for it, but I'm learning."

"Oh, nonsense," Mrs. Patmore cut in. "The young gentlemen would not have hired you if they'd not found you up to the job."

Just then, Daisy walked in and for the first time since he'd come in William allowed himself a full smile.

"William!" She said, eyes wide at the changes in him. "I can't believe it's you."

"Now, Daisy, he's estate agent now, so he's Mr. Mason," Mrs. Hughes said.

"Don't fret about that, Mrs. Hughes," William said. "I reckon I'll always be William to my friends."

"Well, get going you," Mrs. Patmore said, pushing William along. "Don't go and keep them waiting or you'll find yourself down here again with us."

William smiled. "That wouldn't be so bad, Mrs. Patmore."

"Don't tempt fate, boy," Mrs. Patmore responded with alarm. "You've made something of yourself and made us proud. Does no good to look back."

"Well, then," William said quietly, giving the women a hesitant, nervous bow and headed toward the stairs.

"Will you be coming to the servants ball tomorrow?" Daisy called out quickly.

William brightened again. "Yes, I will be."

"I must admit, he does have a good handle on things," Robert said to Matthew and Tom after their meeting with William had concluded and he had gone.

"I know you can't help but think of him as a footman," Matthew said, "but remember that in the year you were away from Downton, he was here, working the land."

"And we couldn't have found someone better acquainted with the rest of the tenants," Tom added.

"Well, he's young and will be in place for some time, so we'll have some continuity. I hate the bother of finding new employees."

"What other post do you have to look to?" Matthew asked. "I thought the second footman had been hired."

"Oh yes, he began this week as I understand," Robert replied. "No, this has to do with mama. Her chauffer Taylor is taking his retirement."

"What are his plans?" Matthew asked.

"Apparently, he wants to run a tea shop," Robert answered. "I cannot feel it will make for a very restful retirement, can you, Carson? You're about Taylor's age."

The three men looked to the butler, who was standing at attention at the door. "I would rather be put to death, my lord."

"Quite so," Robert said, raising his eyebrows at Carson's candid response.

Tom laughed. "Your willingness not to mince words is to be admired, Carson." Turning back to Robert, he added, "I imagine Cousin Violet doesn't take easily to such changes."

Robert rolled his eyes. "I can't say as she does, and it's up to me to bother with finding a new man."

"If you'd like, I'd be happy to take on the search, Robert."

"Would you mind terribly? You'd be ridding me of quite a burden. I doubt mama will second-guess your choice so much as she would mine. I'll tell Carson to send you the replies to our inquiry."

Tom nodded, and just as he did Sybil came into the library.

Matthew and Tom, who'd been sitting on the sofa, stood as she said brightly, "Good morning, everyone."

"Sybil, I thought you'd gone into Ripon with Mary and Edith," Robert said.

"They were going to the dressmaker for fittings, and that always takes such a dreadfully long time," she said. Looking around to all of them she added drily, "Not that any of you would know anything about that."

Tom snickered in response.

"Did you need something?" Robert asked.

"I was just coming to fetch a book, but I can come back if you're busy," Sybil said.

"Actually, I think we've wrapped everything up, haven't we?" Matthew asked. "I need to be going in any case, I told mother I'd go with her to the hospital this afternoon and I'd like to see to some things at home before luncheon."

"I take it she is enjoying her role as board president?" Robert asked.

Matthew smiled, "Very much, perhaps more than Dr. Clarkson is enjoying it."

Robert smiled. "Well, we'll see you tomorrow, then?"

"Yes," Matthew said and with a quick bow turned and was gone.

Sitting back down at his desk, Robert said, "Sybil, mama is in the parlor, if you see her will you let her know Tom will be taking care of the interviews for her new chauffer?"

"You are?" Sybil said turning to Tom, an idea quickly churning in her mind.

Tom smiled and nodded.

"Would you do me a great favor?" Sybil asked excitedly. "Well, not me, but Gwen?"

"You're not riling her up again to leave us are you?" Robert asked.

"Papa! You're so unforgiving! She has an interview for a secretarial post, but she needs to prepare. If Tom could help, I'm certain she would be offered the job."

"I don't mind doing it, Robert, if that's your concern," Tom said.

Robert smiled indulgently at the pair of rabble-rousers and stood. "Fine, then, but do see that she doesn't neglect her current work."

"Thank you, papa."

Robert headed to the door, and stopped at the door to address Carson. "I'm going to rest for a bit before luncheon. Please have Bates come up before it's served."

With that Robert left, Carson leaving behind him to deliver the message.

Sybil and Tom smiled at one another. She came over to the sofa and they both sat.

"Thank you for agreeing," Sybil said. "She's not done a proper interview before."

"I'm happy to help. Ask when she's next off and we'll spend an afternoon on it."

"I do hope she can find a job. Will it be possible, do you think?"

Tom smiled. "With you as her champion, I don't see how she can fail."

"I'm afraid you give me too much credit, but I'll accept the compliment just the same."

"Well, I should head back as well," he said, standing. "Before I left, mam was preparing a list of tasks she wanted me to do for her."

"Do you have to go so soon?" Sybil asked, also getting to her feet. "I ask because I wonder if I could give you your Christmas present now?"

"Certainly," Tom said. "Actually, I have yours as well."

Sybil looked around where he'd been sitting. "Where?" She asked confused.

Tom laughed and walked over to one of the shelves, stuck his hand behind a row of books and pulled out a parcel—larger than her present to him, Sybil noticed immediately.

"That looks suspiciously like more than one. I thought we agreed to—"

"It's one book, I assure you."

Sybil narrowed her eyes at him playfully. "All right. I'll go fetch yours."

"I'll wait here."

Sybil turned to go, then immediately turned around again.

"Was it very cold outside when you walked here?"

"Not particularly. Why?"

"If you walk on the path to the village, just before the gate, there's another that breaks off toward the creek. We could meet there, by the banks."

"OK. I'll set off then," he said and moved to leave.

After he'd gone, Sybil ran up to her room for her coat and hat and the box she'd wrapped that morning. Seeing her mother in the hall as she headed out, Sybil called out to her, "It's terribly nice out, mama, I'm going for a walk," without stopping, in an effort to head off any questions.

Cora watched her go out and furrowed her brow for a moment but then shrugged and continued on her way without another thought.

Sybil made the walk as quickly as her feet would take her, slowing down only at the sight of him taking off his coat and hat and setting them on a rock just off the bank of the creek.

"Hi," she said quietly as she approached, now a bit nervous about having suggested what now seemed a rather intimate rendezvous.

He smiled and pointed to the rock, where he'd draped his coat, meaning for her to sit.

"Won't you be cold?"

"It's actually rather mild out for a December morning."

Sybil sat down and took her hat off, setting it next to his.

Once she was settled, he offered her the parcel. Sybil set his present down by her feet and set to opening hers, quickly tearing through the wrapping. Lifting the top of the box, she saw a stack of eight thin books.

She glanced at him through the sides of her eyes, smiling, as she placed the box on her lap and picked up the first. "You said it was just one."

"It is, technically" he responded, a serene smile on his face.

Sybil opened the small volume to the first page of text.

Miss Brooke had that kind of beauty which seems to be thrown into relief by poor dress.

She recognized it immediately.

"Tom! This is—"

"Middlemarch," he said, his expression now turning into a grin. "In its original serialized form. Eight volumes in all."

"But this is my . . . "

"Favorite book. I know."

Sybil looked at him in awe, trying to contain the feeling of butterflies flying around in her chest. "How did you figure it out?"

"The copy in the library at Downton Place had a very worn spine, so I recognized it easily when I saw it in the library here. I assumed it must mean a lot to a member of the family if he or she bothered to bring such an old copy back. Given the story, that could only have been you."

Sybil smiled, still feeling slightly overwhelmed. "Deductive reasoning, just like Sherlock Holmes."

Tom cheeks reddened a bit in embarrassment. "It was just a guess."

Sybil hugged the eight small volumes to her chest and took a deep breath. Upon exhaling she looked back up at him and a small tear escaped the side of her eye. He stepped forward and wiped it from her cheek gently with his index finger.

"They are meant to make you happy," he said quietly.

"They do."

Sybil put the books back in their box, picked up his gift and handed it over to him. "I admit here and now that this will not measure up."

He smiled as he unwrapped it. "I'll be the judge of that."

Tom opened the box and pulled out a small, leather bound book with no writing on the cover. Sybil watched him closely as he opened it and leafed through the pages. Stopping in the middle to read, he smiled.

"This is Katherine Tynan's poetry."

Sybil nodded. "It's a collection curated by Yeats. They are translated into Irish in the back."

Tom flipped forward and his smile grew wider. He looked up at her and the spark in his eye made her feel proud of herself.

"Will you read one?" She asked.

"Now?"

"When else?"

He laughed and paged through the book to pick one at random.

The Only Child
Lest he miss other children, lo!
His angel is his playfellow.
A riotous angel two years old,
With wings of rose and curls of gold.

There on the nursery floor together
They play when it is rainy weather,
Building brick castles with much pain,
Only to knock them down again.

Two golden heads together look
An hour long o'er a picture-book,
Or, tired of being good and still,
They play at horses with good will.

And when the boy laughs you shall hear
Another laughter silver-clear,
Sweeter than music of the skies,
Or harps, or birds of Paradise.

Two golden heads one pillow press,
Two rosebuds shut for heaviness.
The wings of one are round the other
Lest chill befall his tender brother.

All day, with forethought mild and grave,
The little angel's quick to save.
And still outruns with tender haste
The adventurous feet that go too fast.

From draughts, from fire, from cold and stings
Wraps him within his gauzy wings;
And knows his father's pride, and shares
His happy mother's tears and prayers.

After he finished, Sybil said quietly, "That was lovely."

Without looking up he flipped through the book again. Then, he handed it to Sybil. "Now you."

She smiled taking it from him. She was about to start when she stopped herself and bit her lip.

"Is there something wrong?" He asked.

"Do you suppose this is all a bit too romantic? You know, for two friends?"

Tom laughed, then straightened his face into an overly serious expression. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about. Matthew and I recite poetry to one another all the time."

Sybil let out a hearty laugh, releasing all the pressure and nervousness she was feeling. She cleared her throat loudly, making him laugh, and began to read.

And so they sat until they'd gone through almost the entire book.

Yes, it was romantic, but what did that matter when it was so much fun.

Chapter Text

"Are you sure you don't want someone to stay with you?" Tom asked his bedridden mother for what seemed to her like the tenth time in the last five minutes.

"For the last time," Claire said, stopping for a moment to blow her nose before continuing, "Ivy's made me some tea. I'm going to drink it and go to sleep. I won't have you stay and miss the fun, and I won't have you make Ivy stay when she's been counting the minutes to this blessed affair for days."

Tom smiled. "Fine, but if you think you're getting out of it next year—"

"I know, I know," Claire said. "You'll make me go even if it means tying me to the top of the motor. Now be off with you!"

Tom stood from where he was sitting on the bed and kissed the top of his mother's head. "Happy New Year, mam."

"Happy New Year, my Tommy," she said holding on to his hand. "May it bring you all the happiness in the world."

Tom squeezed her hand and took his leave. He turned to her once more when he got to the door and laughed as she waved him off with an exasperated look.

After leaving his mother's room, Tom made his way through the house and out to the front yard, where everyone—Matthew, Isobel, Moseley and Ivy—was waiting for Pratt.

"Now, Ivy, Moseley tells me that this will be your first ball?" Isobel asked the young maid, as Tom approached.

"Oh, yes, mum," Ivy responded, the excitement visible in her eyes. "My parents wouldn't let me go to dances back home in Manchester. The closest I've come was dancing at my brother's wedding when I was sixteen, three years ago now."

"It's certainly nice of the Crawleys to hold such an event," Isobel said. "I don't suppose the young people working at Downton have much chance to get out and enjoy themselves."

"I shouldn't think so, mum" Moseley said in response.

"Here comes Pratt now," Matthew said as the motor could be seen in the distance. Turning back to the group gathered, he asked, "Are we all going to fit?"

"Someone will have to ride with Pratt up front," Tom said, "but it should be just enough space."

As soon as the chauffer pulled up to Crawley House, the party boarded the automobile, with Moseley taking the space next to Pratt, Tom and Matthew the rear-facing seat directly behind them and Isobel and Ivy the seat in the back. Once everyone was settled in, Pratt set off back toward the big house. Moseley having been sent on the occasional errand to Downton Abbey, Ivy was the only one among the group who had never seen the house before. It was not nearly so impressive when approached at a time of night that allowed darkness to obscure its size, but nevertheless, she let out an audible gasp when she caught sight of it.

"Don't be intimidated, my dear," Isobel said, leaning into her with a smile. "You're just as good as the young women who work here—better, even, seeing as you have to manage you know who's moods on your own."

Ivy laughed for a moment, but then her brow furrowed. "What if someone asks about her?" She asked quietly, nodding her head toward Tom, who was talking with Matthew.

"Mrs. Connelly is ill," Isobel whispered, not wanting to get Tom stirred up about the subject. "But I doubt anyone will—certainly not after they see you in your lovely holiday frock."

Ivy smiled, grateful for the encouragement.

The motor made its way up the driveway, and Pratt, ever mindful of protocol, stopped first at the front door to drop off Isobel, Matthew and Tom. He asked the servants to remain with him so they could make the much shorter walk from the garage to the service entrance, rather than have to go all the way around the house on foot. Once the car was parked appropriately, Pratt excused himself and headed to his cottage to change out of his livery and into a suit for the ball, and Ivy and Moseley headed up to the entrance.

When they had made it to the door, Moseley turned to Ivy with a smile. "Ready?"

"As ever," she answered quietly

He opened the door and peaked his head in. He motioned for her to follow him into the servants' hall where about two dozen of the staff had gathered and were milling about and chatting eagerly. The loud din in the room immediately ceased as everyone turned to see the new arrivals.

"Good evening to you all. I've met some of you, but I'll introduce myself formally. I'm Joseph Moseley, Crawley House butler and valet to Misters Crawley and Branson. This is our housemaid Ivy Smith."

Mrs. Hughes stepped forward. "Thank you, Mr. Moseley. It's nice to see you again. We'll be going up shortly. You may leave your coats by the door there."

Moseley took Ivy's coat and hat, then removed his own and hung it on the hook Mrs. Hughes had pointed to. Just as he'd done that, Carson came down the staircase and announced, "The ballroom is ready."

The crowd shifted to start moving forward but was stopped by Carson's voice again.

"And may I remind everyone to behave with the dignity and honor that the house deserves. His lordship has been kind enough to invite us to enjoy ourselves with the family tonight. Let us not repay his generosity with drunken buffoonery."

There was a murmur of giggles among the crowd. Ivy looked around to see if she could spot anyone that might not meet Mr. Carson's unyieldingly high expectations. Doing so, she noticed the estate agent, Mr. Mason, who had come to dinner at Crawley House several times in the last few months. He was speaking to a small, brown-haired girl, who didn't look much older than Ivy was. As they were all out of livery, Ivy could not guess as to anyone's position on the staff. The crowd slowly began filing up the stairs, and Ivy caught the eye of a tall, red haired young man, who smiled at her. She looked away immediately to hide the slight blush rising in her cheeks. After a moment, Moseley signaled for her to step ahead of him, and as she did so, she felt someone at her elbow.

It was Anna, who offered kindly, "Welcome to Downton Abbey."

Upstairs, Matthew, Isobel and Tom, upon entering the house, had proceeded to the parlor, where they found Cora, Edith, Violet and Sybil. The four had been chatting after dinner, which had been a simple affair served in the small dining room so the family could help themselves, as they would with breakfast, while the staff prepared for the festivities. Robert, who always liked the family to enter the ball together, had gone off in search of Mary.

It was a reality that, for months, Robert had not wanted to address, but things had been cool between him and his eldest daughter since the loss of Downton more than a year prior. The death of his heir and the arrival of Matthew had not helped matters. Violet and Cora had wanted him to fight the expressed wishes of his father in an effort—a futile one really, given how little money there was left—to make Mary an heiress and improve her chances of a good marriage. But Robert could not turn his back on his legacy, not when he'd been such a poor steward of it to begin with. Given all of that, Robert understood Mary's attitude at first. But now that they were back at Downton, he was confident in Matthew and Tom's work to reinvigorate the estate and village and felt good about the future. And for the first time in more than a year, he believed that whatever 1913 would bring, there would be happiness in which he could share with the daughter he knew he'd become a disappointment to.

Mary had been standing at the windows of the library since shortly after dinner. With the Pamuk affair behind her and any thought of marriage pushed aside for the time being, she'd been in a bright mood through most of the holidays. But this day was different. For the first time since she could remember, Mary couldn't anticipate what a new year would hold for her. So rather than face down the unknown, Mary allowed herself to indulge in a bit of nostalgia, even while chastising herself for the rank sentimentality of it all. Thinking back to when she was a child, Mary remembered how much she had loved New Year's Eve and the servants' ball. Starting at eight years of age, her parents had allowed her to stay up and share one dance with Carson, during which the butler indulged his favorite girl as she would tell him all her plans for the new year. It was a tradition that continued until age fourteen, when Mary received her first invitation to a country ball. The ball was at the home of friends of the family, and though she was still not out, she barely sat down all night.

The experience awoke Mary to the attention of her peers, of the people in society who crowned beautiful girls like her with their praise, of those who wore titles grander than hers, and of those who whispered in her ear about the marvelous summer four years hence when she would bow before their majesties and be feted by London society for the first time. Suddenly, her chatty dances with the butler seemed inconsequential and meaningless, and though Mary continued to attend the servants' ball, she no longer danced with anyone but her father. Carson, always the consummate professional, never let on if his feelings were hurt, and the truth was that they weren't. He understood that Mary was learning her place in society. If anything, he took pride in her ascendance in the opinion of those whose opinions mattered.

In time, though, Mary came to miss dancing with him. She had now spent four seasons among London society, and she'd learned in that time that opinions are fickle, especially among those who have little better to do than gossip about the marriageability of certain young ladies. She remained as popular as ever, but only superficially so. Her circumstances had changed and so, it seemed, had the proverbial tide of good favor. It had taken losing a fortune that had never been truly hers for Mary to understand that despite her beauty, despite whatever attributes others might consider of the highest importance, nothing mattered like money in the search for a husband. And money was the one thing that she couldn't talk about. That knowledge coupled with her acknowledgement as to her heart's trepidation about being married made Mary more at peace about the current state of things and about her decision to stop worrying about finding a husband, but it didn't offer any insight as to what would happen the following season. She would never show it, but it scared Mary that she could no longer be sure life would turn out exactly as she expected.

These were the thoughts her mind had landed on when Robert found her.

"Here you are," he said quietly as he approached and leaned at the edge of the window next to where she was looking out into the dark.

"Here I am."

"The servants should be up by now. We should go in and start the festivities."

"Have Matthew, Isobel and Tom arrived?"

"Only just. They were coming into the parlor as I came to look for you."

"I wonder if they ever thought this is where they would be at the end of the year when it started."

"Is this where you thought you would be?" Robert asked carefully.

Mary looked over at her father from the sides of her eyes.

"I suppose that was a silly question," he conceded with a smile.

"I wouldn't have thought two months ago this is where I would be, let alone twelve."

"Are you happy, my dear? I know I've put you through so much, but I do want nothing more than for you to be happy—you and Edith and Sybil."

"The definition of what happy is keeps changing," Mary said. "For now, I would be glad if things would simply settle into a routine once again."

"I believe they will."

Mary turned to face her father. "You're very happy with Matthew here, aren't you?"

"I am," Robert said. "Him and Tom both."

Mary thought of Sybil at the mention of Tom and couldn't keep her lips from turning into a slight smile thinking about what her father would think of the young man if Robert knew of the feelings Tom inspired in his youngest daughter.

"No sense in keeping everyone waiting," Mary said turning to go.

"Mary?"

She turned to see an anxious look on her father's face.

"Do you believe my affection for Matthew and Tom is an unfavorable reflection on you?" He asked.

She looked down at her hands. "They are the sons you always wanted."

"But you are my daughter," he said taking a step toward her. "You are my darling daughter, and I love you, hard as it is for an Englishman to say the words."

"And yet as the entail was being sorted out, while mama and granny looked to my interests, the only one who never stuck up for me in all of it was you. Why?"

Robert closed the rest of the distance between them and took one of her hands in his. "If I had made my own fortune and bought Downton for myself, it should be yours without question. But I did not. My fortune was the work of others who labored to build a great dynasty. I was a custodian, my dear, never an owner. I did not have the right to destroy their work or impoverish that dynasty, and in my carelessness that is precisely what I did. I was not worthy of nor up to the task I was set. Taking Matthew's inherited fortune to save Downton and giving him the reins was all I could do to ensure the seat would live on. Having failed the past so miserably, I could not abandon the future."

Mary pulled her hand away and turned back to the window. "So I'm just to find a husband and get out of the way?"

"I know you believe that I chose to give Downton to Matthew instead of you, and that if I'd not done so, by marrying someone of means you might have saved it on your own, but my hands were tied. And even if the impossible had been made possible and the entail broken, well . . . you don't understand the state things were in. Your mother's fortune was all but gone. The resolution of the entail in your favor would have only put more pressure on you regarding a match and ultimately might have placed in your hands the very difficult decision to sell this house I know you treasure as I do. I sought to protect you from that disappointment. It was my prerogative as a father. Perhaps in time you will understand it."

Mary looked at her father again, tears welling in her eyes. "I understand now, I just . . . I love this house so much, and happy as I am to be back here, I sometimes wish I hadn't had to return knowing that I must leave again."

"You could stay here if you married Matthew."

"You know my character, father. I'd never marry any man that I was told to. I'm stubborn. I wish I wasn't, but I am." She let our a mirthless laugh, adding, "Besides, you don't know whether Matthew would have me, and I won't have him suffer the indignity of you pushing him into it."

"Then I shall try to make these years here happy for you, for all of us, but you must try as well."

Mary sighed and smiled, a bit sadly. "I will."

Robert offered his arm to his daughter, and she took it. Together they walked to join the rest of the family so the ball could finally begin.

In keeping with tradition, which reserved the first dance, always a waltz, for the earl to dance with the housekeeper of the house and the countess with the butler, Robert and Mrs. Hughes along with Cora and Carson officially launched the evening into motion. When their dance finished, the floor was open. Upon arrival, Tom and Matthew had been warned by Cora that, given the numbers by which the women of the house outnumbered the men, they would be expected to take few rests throughout the night. So the two wasted no time in getting into the spirit of things.

Matthew, on Cora's request, invited Miss O'Brien to the dance floor. Tom intended to ask Ivy to dance, but as he approached her, he saw that she had been spoken for. Alfred, the new footman, guided her to the dance floor by the hand, and Ivy could only shrug her shoulders at Tom in delighted bewilderment. He smiled, happy to see her enjoying herself. Tom walked to where Sybil was, but where he'd expected an eager partner, Sybil took his arm only in order to escort him back around the room.

"We can't dance with the night still so young! Don't you understand, Tom, that the very best part of dancing is the anticipation?" She asked him playfully.

Tom looked at her with a furrowed brow. "You've not had very good partners, if that's what you think," was his wry reply.

Sybil rolled her eyes at him, grinning all the while as she led him to Gwen. After officially introducing her two best friends to one another, Sybil watched with a smile as Tom led Gwen around the floor. He did look terribly handsome this evening. If she'd turned down his invitation to dance, it was only because she knew she'd not want to let him go once they started. The sight of him and Gwen interacting in such an informal manner made Sybil long for the time when Gwen would no longer be in her parents' employ and when Gwen might finally be convinced to do away with the formalities between them so they could be friends and nothing else.

Gwen had grown more nervous about her job prospects upon hearing from Sybil first that Tom would be helping her prepare and second that because Sybil had spoken with Tom about it in Carson's presence, Gwen could not fake sick to attend the interview. Carson would see to it that she be given the appropriate time off, but that knowledge only served to worry Gwen regarding what the other maids—and Mr. Carson himself and Mrs. Hughes—might think of her desire to leave.

She explained as much to Tom as they danced, after he mentioned how much he was looking forward to supporting her in her effort to rise above her station.

"Has anyone said or done something to make life more difficult for you?" He asked.

"No, not specifically," Gwen said. "I just worry that's all."

"Well, don't," he said with a smile. "I understand you don't want to find yourself with no job at all, but don't bother too much with what others think. You've already done the hard part, and that's learning something new."

"But what if I try and I don't get the job?" she asked anxiously.

"Well, then you'll still have your job here, which is exactly where you'll be if you don't try at all. So you've lost nothing."

"Except a bit of pride," she said ruefully.

Tom grinned. "You'll find as you get older, Miss Dawson, that pride gets stronger the more knocks it takes. The most painful one's the first."

Gwen laughed and thought about how often Sybil had told her of his irrepressible confidence. Indeed, it was quite contagious.

Gwen didn't ever give herself much room to dream, but that night—the dancing, the punch, the joy of being with those she'd come to see as her family away from home—conspired against her and later, when she went to bed, she did so thinking about what her life might be like many years hence, when she was an established middle class woman with a good job and when she would be proud to have her friends Sybil and Tom to tea as often as she wanted.

For his second visit to Downton Abbey in as many days, William, once again, had come into the house through the service entrance. He'd wondered whether he was disrespecting the family by doing so, but ultimately, he settled on the fact that he was an employee still. And anyway, he wanted to break the ice with his former colleagues before the ball began. He was happily welcomed by them all, with the exception of Thomas and Miss O'Brien, of course, but they did not ever happily welcome anyone or anything.

Daisy, the one whom William was only too willing to admit was the most dear to his heart, seemed happy to see him, just as she'd done the day before. She and everyone else who'd known him before surrounded him upon arrival and asked all sorts of questions about his work as agent for the estate. The attention was a bit startling for someone who'd once been trained to fade into the background, and as they moved up the stairs into the ballroom, frustratingly, it kept William from stepping away from the conversation and casually asking Daisy to dance.

After the fourth or fifth number, there was finally a lull in the conversation, and the group that had surrounded him, began to dwindle. In fact, only Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Bates remained.

Feeling a bit nervous, William turned to Mr. Bates, who had always been a supportive caring friend. "Is Daisy going to dance tonight, do you think?"

Bates smiled. "Why don't you ask her? She should enjoy herself with how hard Mrs. Patmore is on her all the time."

Thomas walked by at that moment, and exchanged looks with Mr. Bates. There had never been much love lost between the two, and William could see that even a year later that remained the case.

"What's it to you?" Bates asked Thomas, whose face was pulled into its usual grim expression.

"Nothing," he said with a half-hearted shrug.

Daisy had gone over with Anna to talk with Ivy. Seeing her come back toward the group, William summoned his courage. "Daisy, I was hoping that—"

"Would you like to dance with me, Daisy?" Thomas asked, cutting in and smiling as pleasantly as he could manage.

"Do you mean it?" Daisy asked wide-eyed.

Thomas held out his arm, and the young kitchen maid took it and followed him onto the dance floor.

Bates rolled his eyes. "Bastard."

"Don't fret, Mr. Bates," William said. "I'm not much of a dancer anyway."

Trying to retain his dignity, William excused himself and walked over to the table where the punch and biscuits were. He served himself a cup and was about to take a drink, when he saw Mrs. Hughes behind him. He offered her the cup and she took it with a small smile. William poured another and seeing her raise her glass to him, clinked hers with his and took a sip.

"You mustn't let Thomas get you down," she said quietly. "He's just jealous. Just look at how far you've come."

"It isn't very far, really, and what good is it when I can't help but keep looking back."

Mrs. Hughes followed his line of sight to where Thomas was dancing with a grinning Daisy.

"She's a foolish girl, and she doesn't deserve you," Mrs. Hughes said, taking another sip of punch. "Though, why am I encouraging you? Forget all that for ten years at least."

"Ten years?"

"How old are you, William?"

"I'll be twenty-two this coming year."

"Do you know that some men wait until they're twice that to even consider marriage? You're young and you have many good years left in you—more, now that you've got a good job and benefactors like Mr. Crawley and Mr. Branson, who will look out for your interests and value your hard work. Do yourself a favor and focus on the opportunity they've given you. Make the most of it, and one day when you're standing in front of her or whatever girl is on your mind just then, you'll have something to offer beyond an invitation to dance. If she's smart she'll see that what's in your heart is worth more than Thomas's nice looks."

William couldn't help but smile. "You're a kind woman, Mrs. Hughes. I don't know how this house would run without you. I don't, truly."

She lifted up her glass to him again, but instead of clinking it, he took it from her and put it down on the table along with his. Then, he offered his hand and nodded toward the dancers.

"What do you say?" William asked, his expression brightening.

"Rascal," Mrs. Hughes said shaking her head, but taking his hand and letting him lead her out anyway.

After Miss O'Brien, Matthew had taken a turn with Anna, then Cora, then Mrs. Patmore, then Ivy, then his mother. He very much needed a break, but as he walked over to the punch with his mother, he saw Edith holding a cup and looking at him eagerly.

His shoulders drooped a bit and he laughed softly. "Surely, you've seen how hard I've been working and are willing to give me a rest before I have to start again."

Edith crinkled her brow. "It figures that I'm the first you will say no to," she said, but he could hear in her tone that she was teasing him. "Here," she said, handing him the cup.

"Thank you," he said, smiling. "You could always ask one of the hall boys to dance with you."

Edith rolled her eyes. "I'm awkward enough without having to dance with boys who are shorter than me."

"So it's all about you, then?"

"Isn't dancing always about the woman?"

"I suppose you're right, though I'd be happy to let you take the lead if you'd like and make it all about me."

Edith considered his words. "Perhaps that's my problem with gentlemen."

"What's that?"

"I would very much like to lead, but how many would allow for that. As many as would allow their wives to drive, and that, I dare say, is not a large number."

"We all need our ways of narrowing down our options, as it were. The man who truly enjoys being driven around by a woman is the man for you."

"I'm afraid men do the narrowing themselves by looking at me."

Matthew scoffed. "What did I say about listening to other people?"

Edith shrugged sheepishly. "You said not to."

"Well, then."

"I've always found the prospect of a new year frightening, so I'm reverting to my old self. It's a self-preservational instinct. No getting my hopes up about what's to come."

Matthew took one last pull of the punch Edith had poured for him and set the cup down. He extended his hand to her, and smiling, she placed hers in his. "You yourself said life would be different with brothers," he said as they walked to the dance floor. "Here I am. There is Tom, God help us,"—Matthew pointed to where Tom was pulling Violet, exasperated, but clearly enjoying herself, in circles—"and here is a new year to test the theory."

"Do you really think it will be?" Edith asked, shyly. "Different, I mean? And better?"

"I'm sure of it," Matthew said, twirling Edith playfully and making her laugh in the process.

1913 was not quite here and already Edith was having more fun than she'd imagined.

Mary watched a bit wistfully as Matthew and Edith danced. She and Matthew had come to something of a truce, but she had not yet achieved the level of comfort with him that Edith obviously had. It was intriguing to Mary how Matthew could be so good at putting people at ease around him, how she could pride herself at being in control in every situation, and yet between them things remained stilted and unresolved. They were kind to one another, but Mary couldn't help but think that there was something missing. She was about to turn away, unable to keep watching them, when Sybil came up behind her.

"You've not done much dancing," Sybil said.

"Neither have you," Mary said, smiling. "Not with the one I'd have expected you to stick with all night."

Sybil blushed. "Why would I want to dance with Tom when I can watch him leaping about with granny?"

Both sisters turned to watch them. "Poor granny," Mary said trying to hold back her laughter.

"How do you suppose he lured her out there? Normally, she only likes to waltz."

"The redowa is very like the waltz," Mary answered. "I'm sure he downplayed the ways in which it isn't."

Sybil giggled as they continued to watch. At one point, Tom looked up past Violet and locked eyes with Sybil for a moment, causing him to trip slightly. He caught himself, but Violet pursed her lips at him. "Tom, it won't do if neither dancer knows what they are doing."

"Pardon me, Cousin Violet," he said. "I know I'm supposed to lead, but months of deferring to you has inoculated me against it. I dare say your husband was quite a man to keep up with you."

"He'd have a mouthful to say to you, no doubt."

"Any of it positive?"

"Very little, but I imagine you'd have won him over eventually."

"You think so?" He asked, genuinely curious.

"You've convinced me there's some good in you behind the revolutionary nonsense, and I'm more discriminating than he was."

Tom's expression softened. Violet lifted her eyes to him and her focused gaze made Tom think she was looking through him, past the wit and charm, and into the heart of who he really was.

"I do believe where a person comes from matters, Tom," she said finally, "But not in the way that you think I do."

The music stopped. Tom turned to offer his arm to Violet to walk her back to the chair from whence he'd taken her. Her words had thrown him for a bit of a loop, and he wondered whether in some word or action he'd revealed the part of himself that Isobel had been so anxious for him to keep hidden. He had always assumed that when that truth finally made itself known, Violet would be the first to reject him. As he walked with her on his arm, he realized that despite his familial and patriotic pride, acceptance from her, of all people, had come to mean a great deal to him. He wasn't sure what she'd meant by what she'd said exactly. He could only hope.

Mary and Sybil walked over to where they were as Violet sat down next to Cora.

"I think that's my best for the evening," Violet said, taking a sip of the cordial she'd left on the small table next to her chair.

"You're still putting all of us to shame, granny," Sybil said, holding back a grin.

"I dare say if you came to London this season, none of us would stand a chance," Mary added.

Violet gave Mary a skeptical look. "These modern dances are really far too jumpy."

"You did just fine," Tom said, smiling. He looked over at Sybil and raised his eyebrows in question, wondering just how long she would insist on putting him off.

"What do you think, mama?" Sybil asked, addressing her mother, but looking straight at Tom as if the question itself was her answer to him. He couldn't help but smile as he rolled his eyes at her.

"I think they look rather fun," Cora replied.

"Your American constitution makes you better suited for them, I suppose," Violet added.

Taking that as his cue, Tom put his hand out to Cora, "What do you say, Cousin Cora, shall we show these English ladies how it's done."

Cora smiled and took his hand. "I shouldn't steal you from the younger girls, but just one won't hurt."

Sybil and Mary laughed, watching them go.

Sybil having gone over to Gwen to chat, Mary meandered around the room, watching everyone enjoy themselves. Eventually, her eyes landed on Carson who was standing on the far edge of the dance floor, as if presiding over the festivities, proud of his staff and his family. Mary smiled and walked over to him.

"I know it's been some time Carson, but I wonder if you might do me the honor," she said, coming up behind him.

Her words startled him, but he didn't miss a beat. "The honor is entirely mine, milady."

He offered his arm and walked her to the center of the floor.

"I've missed these dances with you, you know," she said as they fell into step.

"Nonsense, milady, you've much better partners at your disposal, and much better born."

"I'm afraid I've come to find that birth is but an imperfect measure of a man's character," Mary said. "Action defines character, and true gentlemen, as we call them, do nothing at all while we ladies must stand aside and hope for them to find in our favor."

Carson was taken with Mary's reflective tone and sought to pick up her spirits.

"Milady, I know you were disappointed by the loss of Mr. Patrick and the disarray the estate was left in, but you mustn't give up. If I may say so, you are still very young, and you remain the first daughter of one the grandest houses in England. Only the most worthy man may win you."

Mary smiled, touched by his words, a salve on her wounded pride.

"We're all behind you, milady," he continued. "The staff. We're all on your side."

"Thank you, Carson. You've always been so kind to me. Always. From when I was quite a little girl. Why is that?"

"Even a butler has his favorites, my lady."

"Does he? I'm glad."

They danced in contented silence for a few measures before Mary spoke again.

"Are you glad to be back here, Carson, after the time away? Is the staff?"

"We are, milady. Leaving was a shock and the rescue of the estate by Mr. Crawley a greater one still, but it has been a happy return."

Mary thought for a moment before asking her next question. "What do you think of Mr. Crawley, Carson?"

"I might not have thought so before of the son of a doctor, but he has proven himself an able master and one worthy of his forebears."

Mary smiled, picturing the ever-so-proud butler having to face the "indignity" of reporting to a middle class man.

"He couldn't do it without your help," she said, sincerely believing it to be true.

Carson smiled kindly. Turning, he saw Matthew standing a few feet away and talking with Robert. He led them in that direction, and before Mary realized what he was doing, Carson stepped away and motioned for Matthew to take over.

Matthew, surprised by Carson's approach, looked to Mary. She smiled as if to accept the turn of events, and then walked into his arms and let him lead her away from the two men who had brought her up, who loved her dearly and who still harbored the hope that she would someday be mistress of Downton Abbey.

"So, are you enjoying your new life?" Mary asked Matthew as they danced.

"I am. Business with the estate is going well, as is my work with the partnership." He paused for a moment. "I know all that seems very trivial to you."

"Not necessarily. Sometimes I rather envy you, having somewhere to go every morning."

"I thought that made me very middle class," he said pointedly, though his tone was light.

Mary smiled. "You should learn to forget what I say. I know I do."

"How about you?" He asked. "Is your life proving satisfactory?"

"Women like me don't have a life. We choose clothes and pay calls and work for charity and do the season, but really, we're stuck in a waiting room until we marry."

"I've made you angry," he said, apologetically.

"My life makes me angry, not you," Mary looked up as she spoke and their eyes locked. Matthew held his breath, able for the first time since they'd met to inspect her features up close. There was no denying how beautiful she was.

Unable to hold her unwavering gaze, he looked away and took a deep breath. "I'm sorry that you don't feel happier on a night like this."

"It's as much my fault as anyone else's. I like to put on a stoic front, but I've a bad habit of dwelling on my own misery—selfish as I know it is to call my very comfortable life miserable."

"We are all entitled to our feelings, regardless of our situation."

"I'm at least resolving not to make others miserable with me. So, if I've taken you out of your humor, I apologize. I'd hate to think I'm the only one of your dance partners this evening who didn't make you laugh."

Matthew smiled. "Don't worry on that account. Miss O'Brien barely cracked a smile. I fear she finds me most unsuitable for my current position."

"Well, then that makes two of us."

Matthew's brow furrowed.

"Oh, goodness!" Mary said with a hint of a blush rising to her cheeks. "I mean she finds us both—me unsuitable as well, not that I think you . . . certainly not—I mean, I know you think I did, but . . . well . . . I would never . . . not anymore."

Matthew laughed heartily at her embarrassed ramblings. "See, there, you've done it. You've made me laugh."

Mary rolled her eyes and smiled. "At my own expense."

"Whatever gets the job done."

Mary wasn't sure, but she might have felt his hand tighten on her waist. For the rest of their dance, she still thought things between them were unresolved. But now it was in a good way.

After many cups of punch and dances with just about every female present except for the only one he was interested in dancing with, Tom left the ball to find the bathroom. On his way back, he saw none other than Sybil coming in his direction. She smiled as he approached.

"I was looking for mama," she said. "I think she escaped to the library."

"I've no sense of when the festivities will end tonight," Tom said playfully, "but I'm not leaving until we've had a dance so you best resolve that we've built enough anticipation for it right now."

Sybil laughed. "Thank you for being patient with me. I suppose it's silly . . . "

"What?" He asked quietly.

"I don't want others remarking on our friendship," she said quietly. "All the talk of Patrick with Mary and Patrick with Edith . . . it wasn't good for either of them. I know granny and mama had plenty to say about Mary and Mr. Napier, all of it for naught. And, well, I'm afraid what I think of you would be quite obvious if so many prying eyes were to see us dancing."

She looked up and found a soft, understanding on his face. "What makes you so sure anyone would notice?" He asked.

"I'm not sure," she said with a shrug. "Like I said it's silly, but I want what's between us to be just—"

"Between us," he finished.

She sighed and rolled her eyes at herself. "Oh, I suppose we should just go on," she said as she took his hand with the intention of leading him back to the ballroom, but when she pulled he didn't budge. Sybil turned back to him, a questioning expression on her face. Smiling, Tom pulled her into a nearby sitting room and into his arms into a dancing position.

"Ready?" he asked.

Sybil nodded. "But I can barely hear the music."

"We'll make our own then. How about a waltz?"

"A waltz?"

Tom nodded and started to hum the melody of Tchaikovzky's Waltz of the Flowers and slowly moving in the appropriate step.

Sybil giggled but followed his lead.

"Hush! I'll lose the tune."

Sybil pulled her lips into her mouth to keep herself from laughing, and he continued humming, sometimes adding a whistle for effect.

Eventually, as they continued moving around the small room, eyes intent on one another, Sybil's desire to laugh went away and was replaced by a desire of another sort entirely.

Neither knew exactly how it happened, but at some point . . .

Tom stopped humming . . .

And they stopped moving . . .

And her right hand moved from his left hand onto his shoulder . . .

And both of his hands were at her waist . . .

And she might have stopped breathing as she watched his eyes look down from her own eyes to her lips . . .

That was the moment at which the grandfather clock in the room very loudly struck midnight.

The chime was so loud they jolted apart. Both of them, a bit breathless from what had almost happened, laughed through each of the twelve times the chime sounded.

When it was quiet again, having slowed his breath, though not his quickly beating heart, Tom approached Sybil again and taking her face into his hands gave her a small, chaste kiss on the forehead.

"Happy New Year, my dearest Sybil," he said in a whisper

Sybil took his left hand from where it held her face and placed an equally small, equally chaste kiss on the back of it. Then, she threaded her fingers with his.

Tom, moved by her gesture, took a deep breath to collect himself and looked down at his feet. "We should go back, lest everyone notice we're gone and we really get them talking."

Sybil snickered and hand-in-hand they walked back to the ballroom together, but taking care to let go before they stepped through the doors.

It didn't matter. The crowd was too happy in celebration of the newly arrived year to notice.

Tom and Sybil walked over to where Matthew, Mary and Edith were standing next to Violet, who remained in her chair.

"Happy New Year, my dears," she said, smiling at they approached, then turning to the full group, she added, "Dare we hope the coming year will not be nearly so eventful as the last?"

The five young people looked at one another smiling in silent agreement about how very unlikely that was.

Chapter Text

March 1913

As her son got older and he grew into his father's handsome features, Claire Branson wondered what kind of girl Tom would attract. Although in the past he'd spoken adamantly about eventually wanting to marry a woman who would share his political interests, work ethic and intellectual curiosity, Tom had never been particularly effusive when it came to talking about girls who interested him in general, something his mother had attributed to the English influence in his upbringing. But in the early spring of 1913, Tom's more passionate Irish nature began to emerge, proving Claire's assumptions wrong. If Tom had seemed stoic before, his mother guessed now, it had been because he hadn't met the right girl. Apparently, now, he had.

Tom didn't realize it was happening, of course, which was a source of amusement for his mother. But there was a spark in his eye when he talked to Claire about certain books someone had recommended or about women's politics or about visits to Downton Abbey during which he'd had a particularly interesting conversation with the youngest of the Crawley daughters, the only resident of the big house whose words he ever seemed to remember verbatim. It was a subtle change that only the keen eye of a mother could notice, and while endearing to watch, the prospect also worried Claire a bit.

No English lady that she had ever heard of would be satisfied with a middle class life. And Claire knew that when the time came, the lengths that she and Isobel had gone to in order to protect Tom might well go out the window, because when it came to marrying into the upper classes, all bets were off. Claire never pressed Tom about his feelings, knowing that he always revealed anything that was important to him when he was ready. But she couldn't help her curiosity. And on the second Saturday in March of 1913, the fates conspired in her favor to satisfy her.

Some might call it the luck of the Irish. Claire Branson settled on divine intervention. What else would have compelled her to walk up to the front hall of the house at the precise moment Lady Sybil Crawley knocked on the door?

It had become Isobel's routine to visit the hospital on Saturday mornings, and on this particular day, she'd invited Tom and Matthew to see the progress that had been made in the rebuilding of one of the wings that had been shuttered in the time the Crawleys had been gone from the village. Ivy had gone to take a turn in one of the village parks with the footman from the big house who'd been coming around more and more often the last few months. Claire, having been entrusted with Ivy's well being by her parents when they'd left Manchester, insisted that Moseley serve as their chaperone, a role Moseley accepted with more enthusiasm than Ivy liked.

That was how Claire came to be left alone in the house. She chose to take advantage of the rare solitude by cleaning out and reorganizing her pantry, a task only a lifelong cook and housekeeper could enjoy. Tom liked to tease her that she guarded the cupboard so strictly—regularly chastising Ivy for not putting things back in the exact right place—that it was a bit like her second child. But having grown up in a family in which everyone was expected to work from the time they could walk, she had learned to take pride in a job well done. Pride, after all, was the only thing her parents had been able to afford to give to their children.

Once finished with the pantry, Claire reread the two letters from her aunt and cousins in Ireland that had arrived with yesterday's post. She wrote her responses in short order and then, in search of reading material, headed up to the parlor, where Moseley would leave the crisply ironed newspapers her son didn't finish reading at breakfast, so Tom could take them up again with his afternoon tea.

She'd only just crossed the hall when she heard the light knock. So soft was the sound that if Claire had been anywhere in the house except that very spot she might have missed it.

Divine intervention, indeed.

Surprised that anyone would be calling now, Claire smoothed out her skirt and moved to open the door. The young lady on the other side of it smiled brightly, though her expression made it clear she'd expected someone else.

"Oh, hello," she said softly.

"Good morning, miss," Claire replied in a friendly tone. "I'm afraid Mrs. Crawley is out at the moment. Would you like to leave a note or card? I'll be sure to give it to her when she returns."

"Is Mr. Branson in?" The girl asked tentatively.

Claire hesitated, turning her head slightly. "No, both he and Mr. Crawley have gone with Mrs. Crawley to the hospital."

"I see," she said, shoulders dropping ever so slightly. "Would you let them know Sybil Crawley came by?"

Claire recognized the name immediately. Given her training as a servant, her demeanor revealed nothing, but her mind was reeling.

My goodness, Tommy, the girl is beautiful.

"Certainly, I will."

"Thank you." Sybil smiled at Claire once more and turned to go.

Claire was about to shut the door, when she heard Sybil's voice again.

"Pardon me," she said coming back to the door. "I apologize sincerely for the impertinence, but . . . are you . . . Mrs. Branson?"

Claire was unsure as to how to respond. Tom had intimated to her that he'd revealed his parentage to Sybil, but in this moment, Claire wasn't sure what to do with that knowledge. "I am the housekeeper here, milady," was all she could come up with.

"I know!" Sybil exclaimed. Then, checking her excitement at having the chance to meet Tom's mother, she continued more quietly. "That is, Tom's told me about you. He speaks very highly of you. I've always wanted to say hello when I've come for tea with Cousin Isobel but . . ."

"A bit odd to ask the mistress permission to chat with the help?" Claire filled in for her, smiling at Sybil's exuberance.

Sybil nodded, smiling. Unsure of what to do next, she stood at the door and fidgeted with her small bag. "I'll be off then," she said finally, "Thank you for relaying the message. It was very nice to meet you." With her last words, Sybil stepped forward and offered Claire her hand to shake. Claire was a bit taken aback, but shook Sybil's hand, touched by the sincerity she could see in the young woman's eyes.

Sybil turned to go again, but this time it was Claire who stopped her.

"Lady Sybil?"

Sybil turned. "Yes?"

"I reckon they'll be back by and by, if you'd like to come inside and wait."

Sybil's face brightened and she followed Claire into the house.

Claire took Sybil's coat and hat, placing them on the hooks by the door. Then, she led Sybil to the parlor and gestured for her to sit. "May I get you some tea, milady?"

"That would be nice, thank you."

Claire smiled and headed to the kitchen. She was at the sink filling the kettle when she heard the steps of someone coming into the kitchen.

"Ivy, are you back already?" Claire asked without turning around.

"It's Sybil."

Claire turned, eyebrows raised in surprise.

"I'm sorry for the intrusion," Sybil said quietly, stepping into the room. "I thought we could chat while you prepared our tea."

Our.

Claire looked at Sybil for a long moment. The incongruity of such a delicate, well dressed, innocently eager girl in her clean but sparse kitchen made Claire smile in spite of herself.

"It's really coming along quite nicely, mother. You should be proud."

Isobel smiled at Matthew's praise as she, Matthew and Tom walked back to the house.

"It will soon be at full capacity again," she said. "I've come to the point I don't think adding beds will be too ambitious a plan."

"I am surprised at how welcoming Dr. Clarkson was of our help with the accounting," Matthew said.

Isobel laughed. "Your father was a stubborn man who needed to keep his hand in every part of the practice. Mercifully, Dr. Clarkson is not so."

"Finding efficiencies that allow for the purchase of more medicines was a convincing argument," Tom said with a smile, walking up to the door and holding it open for Isobel.

Isobel nodded as she passed him into the house. Walking through the hall, she stopped at the sound of laughter coming from the kitchen.

"Ivy and Mrs. Branson are in a bright way today, by the sound of it," she said, turning back to Tom and Matthew, who were walking in behind her.

"Happy spirits don't usually overlap with those two," Tom said.

"Alfred coming 'round may have something to do with it on Ivy's part," Matthew said with a smirk.

Tom laughed. "You may be right about that. I'll go tell them we're back."

But when Tom made it into the kitchen, it wasn't Ivy sitting and laughing at the table with his mother.

It was Sybil.

"Speak of the devil," his mother said brightly, as they turned to him.

Oh, dear.

Sybil stood. "Your mum's been telling me about your youth in Manchester."

"Which bits?" Tom asked, a bit nervously.

"The good ones," Claire responded innocently, also standing and starting to collect the empty tea cups.

"Like when you were eight and got stuck climbing up the tree in the yard and Dr. Crawley had to summon the constable to get you down," Sybil said, grinning.

"Overconfidence is not a trait that's developed recently," Claire said to Sybil, with a wink.

"Was there a, um, reason for your visit, Sybil?" Tom asked, nervously.

"There is, as a matter of fact," she said walking up to him. "Gwen's been given the afternoon off, and I thought if you were not busy, you might come by and talk about her interview."

"Of course. What time?"

"I was thinking three o'clock at our—" Sybil stopped short, remembering they were not alone. She glanced at Claire, then back to Tom. "Why don't we meet you at the gate?"

Tom smiled. "I'll be there."

Sybil smiled back, then turned back to Claire. "Thank you ever so much for the tea, Mrs. Branson, and the conversation. It was a delight."

"You're most welcome, my dear. Don't forget about us, now. Do come back and visit again."

"Certainly."

"Would you like me to walk you out?" Tom asked.

"That's all right. I'll go say hello to Cousin Isobel before I'm off. I know my way."

Once she was gone from the kitchen Tom turned back to his mother, who was smiling with a knowing look on her face. "She's quite a nice girl."

Tom looked down at the floor and scratched his head. "I think I'll go up to my room for a bit. Do some reading before luncheon."

"We're going to have this conversation," Claire said with a laugh. "Or do you think you can avoid me forever?"

Tom turned to go, unable to keep himself from smiling. "I can try."

Tom did manage to escape Crawley House that afternoon without further inquiry from his mother regarding Sybil's visit. He did not, however, escape the teasing of Matthew, who saw him in the hall on his way out of the house and asked what Claire had thought of the young woman.

"Or are you afraid to face her?"

"I'm not afraid of my mother, Matthew," Tom responded.

"Is that why you've been so bravely hidden away in your room since midday?"

"For your information, I happened to be finishing a harrowing read."

Matthew crossed his arms. "And what was that?"

"The Servile State."

Matthew laughed. "Not even you can get that excited about post-Industrial economic theory."

"How would you know? According to Belloc, the ultimate result of capitalism will be a devolution of the work force into de facto slavery."

"Well, you're not going to change the world this afternoon," Matthew said with a smile. "Aren't you spending it with Sybil?"

"As a matter of fact, we're helping a housemaid make a new life for herself outside the bounds of service."

"And that's going to change the world?" Matthew asked wryly.

"You don't know, Gwen," Tom said opening the door to leave. "It might."

Tom could hear Matthew laugh as he stepped out the door, and he smiled.

Since they'd met there at Christmas, Tom and Sybil had been returning to the place by the creek just inside the Downton Abbey gates on the occasional afternoon. Most of the time, they would discuss books or the news of the day. Twice, Sybil had brought poetry for them to read. From time to time, each of them still thought back to the moment they had shared dancing alone at the servants' ball and what had almost happened, but they never discussed it, somehow silently agreeing to retreat back into the comfort of their ever deepening friendship and leaving physical attraction and the complications that came with it aside for the time being.

Tom sometimes wondered whether Matthew ever suspected how much time they spent together outside the notice of their families, but if Matthew actually did know, he never let on. This morning, in the kitchen in front of his mother, Sybil had almost given the game away. Still, Tom couldn't help but be endeared when she called it "our spot," which she'd clearly just been about to do again. Gwen would be the first third party to be invited there. As Tom approached the gates, though, he only saw Sybil, who waved as he approached.

"Does Gwen have to work after all?" He asked, lifting his hat in greeting.

"She was delayed a bit, helping Anna make up a room for Aunt Rosamund. She's apparently decided to arrive early for Mary's birthday next week. Anyway, Gwen will be here soon. She knows where to go, so we can start walking there, if you like."

They fell into step together toward the creek, and Sybil held out a book she'd been holding behind her.

"I brought this for you."

"Excellent timing," he said with a smile. "I just finished one earlier today."

"Anything I would like?"

"Depends on your interest in theoretical economics."

Sybil scrunched up her nose in distaste. "Maybe if I'm having trouble sleeping."

Tom laughed.

"I understand that the two are intertwined," Sybil said, "but I must say politics is far more interesting and feels much more immediately relevant to our lives than economics."

"And what's this?" Tom asked, holding up the book she'd just handed him.

"A collection of stories by Joseph Conrad," Sybil responded. "It came in a box that papa ordered from London. I've not read it, but I know how much you liked Heart of Darkness, so . . ."

"Thank you," he said. "I have something for you as well."

"Oh?"

Tom pulled out a thick volume from the inside of his jacket. "It's called A Thousand and One Nights. I bought it from a colleague who read it after visiting the orient last year. It's mostly just a collection of tales and fables from the Arabian traditions, but the framework is rather interesting."

Sybil took the book from him. "How is that?"

"This Persian sultan's wife is unfaithful to him, and when he finds out, he has her killed. Then, he vows to marry a new woman at the start of each day and have her executed at the end of it to prevent from being cuckolded ever again."

"How gruesome!"

"Eventually, he marries a woman who uses her intellect to outsmart him and manages to keep herself alive the number of days on the title, at the end of which he lets her live."

"How?"

"You'll have to read and find out won't you," he said with a wink.

Sybil smiled and flipped through the book, stopping at an annotated illustration. "Scheherazade?"

"That's her name."

"She looks like she's wearing clothes by Paul Poiret."

"Who?"

"He's a French fashion designer whose work has Asian influences. He appears in London magazines all the time. His clothes are very beautiful, though I doubt we're likely to see anything like them here in the country."

"Why is that?"

"I don't know anyone brave enough to break convention in quite that way."

"Are you sure about that?"

She smiled. "It pains me to say it, but despite my almost 18 years of age, my mother still doesn't trust me to go to the dressmaker alone." Sybil laughed. "I can't say I blame her."

"What do you think she's afraid of?"

"Me choosing for myself, I suppose. I would try for something too unconventional."

"And we can't have that at Downton Abbey."

They both laughed. As they approached the rock by the creek where Sybil usually sat, she looked at Tom from the side of her eyes. "Speaking of mothers. . ."

Tom looked down to his feet and smiled. "We didn't talk much after you left, but I do think she enjoyed meeting you."

"I liked her very much," Sybil said. After a moment, she added more quietly, "I hope you didn't think it an intrusion. I just went over to tell you about Gwen and when she answered the door, well, I should have just left, but couldn't help myself."

Tom smiled. "I'm sorry it wasn't me who introduced you properly, although you now have ample evidence as to why I might have wanted to delay, given the exuberance with which she enjoys discussing the caprices of my childhood."

Sybil tilted her head slightly. "You're lucky to have her close. My parents have known families who have taken in children to improve their circumstances, but this is usually done with the condition that they cut ties with their past. Dr. Crawley was doubly generous in affording you an education and a life close to your mother. I can see her influence in you and you're a better man for it."

A slight blush came over Tom cheeks, not out of embarrassment, but pride. The frankness of Sybil's words affected him deeply. They revealed just how well she'd gotten to know him. She recognized and was attracted not just to the polish of education and gentlemanly manners that the Crawleys had provided, but also to the rougher, more ardent-hearted character that his mother had kept alive in him.

They looked at one another for a moment before both turning upon hearing footsteps.

"Begging your pardon," Gwen said tentatively, fearing she'd arrived during a private moment. "I don't mean to interrupt."

Sybil smiled warmly. "Don't be silly, Gwen." She stepped forward to take Gwen's arm and brought her to the rock, motioning Gwen to sit down. "We have it all planned out. Tom is going to make as if he's interviewing you for a job, and he'll be giving you advice on how to answer as you go. I'll be just over there."

Sybil pointed to a spot on the grass a short distance away where Tom had laid down his suit jacket as Sybil had been talking. He walked backed toward them and as he did so, he rolled up his shirtsleeves.

Gwen was too sensible a girl to get caught up in thoughts of men's looks, as Daisy was sometimes prone to do, but in that moment, watching him approach her with an easy smile, Gwen couldn't help but think to herself how handsome a man Mr. Branson was and how lucky Sybil was to have his attention.

Having left Tom and Gwen to their task, Sybil sat down where Tom had laid his coat with the intent of starting the book he had brought for her. After opening it to the first page, however, she couldn't stop herself from looking over and watching them interact.

Remembering her talk with Mrs. Branson earlier that day, it occurred to Sybil that both Tom and Gwen were children of people in service and that given their mental acuity and aspirations, they actually had more in common with one another than Sybil had with either of them. Sybil's aristocratic birth and upbringing, her lack of a formal education and her never having worked a day in her life—all of it embarrassed her deeply in the face of two people who had done so much for themselves and had worked to find their happiness. Sybil couldn't understand how it was that her father, her grandmother even Mary could feel any sort of pride in a lifestyle they had not earned, where she only felt a longing to do more.

Sybil looked away and realized she was crying when the first tear fell on the open book on her lap. Of course, she immediately felt foolish for wanting more when life had already given her so much. But how could it be helped? None of the things her life afforded were things she wanted. What she treasured most—her friendships with Tom and Gwen—had come to her quite by accident. Sybil wondered now, in fact, if a marginally different stroke of fate might have resulted in Tom falling in love with Gwen and never giving Sybil a moment's notice. At this thought, she took a deep breath and looked down at the book again, determined to put any thoughts of Tom with anyone else but her out of her mind.

She cleaned off the tear that had fallen on the book and flipped through to the illustration that she had happened upon earlier. She ran her fingers over the image of Scheherazade, who was wearing a revealing top quite like a brazier and a skirt that looked suspiciously like trousers. Sybil closed her eyes and tried to remember the magazine photograph of the fashion model dressed by Poiret that this illustration called to her mind.

She opened her eyes and smiled to herself. Her mother had promised her a trip to the dressmaker next month.

All revolutions start somewhere.

Sitting on the rock, knowing there was nothing in particular at stake, Gwen still felt nervous as Tom paced back and forth in front of her.

"What's your name?" He asked in a serious tone.

"Gwen Dawson."

"And your age?"

"Twenty."

Tom stopped his pacing. "Answer in a full sentence. You'll sound more properly professional."

"I'm twenty-years-old, sir."

"Good. Now, what's your experience as a secretary?"

"I haven't got any."

Tom chuckled. "You can't very well say that."

"Well, it's the truth, ain't it?" Gwen sighed. "Oh, it's no use. How do I think this is possible? They haven't even written back with a date. It's likely they've forgotten all about me."

Tom walked over and kneeled in front of her. "Gwen, you don't know that. And if even if they don't write, there will be other jobs and other interviews, for which you will need to be prepared."

"But I don't have experience as a secretary! Am I supposed to lie?"

Tom looked down and smiled. "If jobs were only given to people with experience, nobody would get hired for the first time. There are thousands of secretaries working around England, and all of them had to begin somewhere."

"How did they do it?"

"How long have you been in service?"

"Since I was fifteen."

"OK, when someone asks you as to your experience, you say, 'I've been working for five years, and I've completed a secretarial course with top marks. I have good typing speeds, and I'm proficient in short-hand."

"But if I say that I haven't really answered the question."

"The question is beside the point. An interviewer just wants to know if you can do the job, and you have to convince them that you can. Tell them you can with every answer regardless of what they actually ask."

Gwen smiled and let out a long sigh. "I just wish I could believe it's possible."

Tom smiled. "Gwen, you do believe it. Everything about your life—your parents, your upbringing, your job as a maid, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes—all of it is built to convince you that you deserve only as much as you have and nothing more. Society beats the spirit of working class people down so they learn from early on that doing the bidding of those who are supposedly above them is all they are meant to do and so they fail in any attempts to rise above those circumstances. The fact that you've come this far, that this aspiration has not been beaten out of you is proof you believe it."

Gwen shrugged. "I might have already given up if it weren't for Lady Sybil."

"Well, we all need our champions, and you could not do better than her."

Gwen smiled at the catch in his voice when he said her. She looked at him for a moment with narrowed eyes. "Why do you have such confidence in me that I can do this? You barely know me."

"Because she knows you and because I know it can be done. How we live, not how we are born determines our fate—if that weren't true mankind would have died out long ago."

"I wish I knew someone who'd taken the leap, as it were."

"You know me."

Gwen looked at him curiously.

"My journey started at an earlier age and with more help than you've been given, but that doesn't mean you aren't capable of completing it just the same. By helping you I am repaying the generosity of my benefactor forward, and someday you'll give some other person this same help. And that person will do the same to someone else and so on and so forth. That's how we'll change the world."

Gwen smiled. "Thank you."

"Shall we start again?" He asked, standing.

Gwen took a deep breath, then nodded.

"What's your name?"

It was close to two hours later when Tom, Sybil and Gwen emerged from the wood and said their goodbyes before Tom set off back to Crawley House. He, Matthew and Isobel would be returning that evening for dinner.

Gwen still wasn't sure a job would ever materialize, but she at least felt more upbeat with regard to her ability to take an interview—if one ever came her way. The progress in her attitude pleased Sybil.

"Oh, Gwen, I'll miss you so when you are gone from us."

"You speak as if you know it'll happen."

"I do!"

Gwen smiled indulgently. "I wish I shared your confidence."

"Whereas I wish I had such an exciting challenge to look forward to."

The young women giggled at their own pining and linked arms to walk back to the house together. Their worlds growing larger before them through the power of friendship.

Chapter Text

May 1913

As the early warmth of March gave way to the rains of April and the first sunny days of May, Downton Abbey came into full bloom, a sight its inhabitants welcomed dearly having missed it the year before. It had been a sleepy spring in the house. Robert had more or less settled into a sort of retirement. It was not so different from his previous life, save for the fact that he was no longer drowning in concerns over whether or not the estate would make it through another year.

After negotiations with those who chose retirement, about sixty percent of the land remained in tenancy. The families who stayed, reinvigorated by the energy and hard work of the young men now at the helm, were eager to start planting this year's crops and see their stock start to fatten up again on the land's greening grasses. Although the idea that their work would be compensated by more than a mere subsistence had been met with some skepticism at first, spring brought many of the village lads out of the woodwork, and William had little trouble staffing the estate farms that eventually would provide for the upkeep of the house and grounds.

On a recent tour of the farms with Matthew and Tom, many of them had gone out of their way to thank Robert for his generosity, saying they counted themselves lucky to have a landlord who was affording them a path toward true financial independence. Matthew and Tom encouraged Robert to accept the compliments, though the vision for modernization and a more equitable distribution of the spoils had not been his. They did so to assuage the effort it had taken Robert to swallow his pride and accept their plan in the first place. Initially, Robert questioned whether the very tenants who had been so despondent before, when the family left Downton, could be so much more willing to work now.

"Having never had to work at all," Tom had answered, "you find it difficult to empathize with the desire to do so for your own cause rather than someone else's, and how true ownership, in turn, makes the work more rewarding."

Robert remained unsurprisingly obstinate in his view that Tom's socialism was naïve at best and dangerous at worst. And yet Tom was, by and large, the one who could bring Robert around to his and Matthew's way of thinking when that needed doing. The irony of this was not lost on Robert. And the truth was that while he enjoyed fighting his corner when it came to casual political talk after dinner, Robert could admit to himself now that he had never been fit for the task of running Downton. Neither his education nor upbringing had prepared him for it. The loss of the estate, though temporary, had opened his eyes to this truth. The ease with which the young men set about correcting his folly only confirmed it. However bluntly that truth had come, Robert accepted it with a measure of calm. Something his wife appreciated.

For Cora, calm had been a much welcome change after the upheaval the family had faced for the last two years. The quiet of the first few months of the year had allowed her to think about how to ease the family back into the busy social schedule they had been used to keeping. The season was coming upon them quickly, but Cora also wanted to begin hosting parties again as well as inviting more friends to stay—something that hadn't happened since the death of Kemal Pamuk. She consulted Matthew about the topic, and he acquiesced more easily than she had expected. He understood, of course, that what was his was his because it couldn't be Mary's, and he did not want to stand in the way of successful marriages for any of the girls. So while he cautioned Cora against indiscriminate spending, he acknowledged that for this particular cause the purse strings could be loosened.

Downton Abbey was as powerful a tool as any in Cora's efforts to get her daughters settled. If Mary was going to be thrown to the wolves with no fortune to take with her, Cora believed she had no choice but to wield it. There was an unmistakable aura to the house that reminded any visitor of the family's lineage and influence through the ages. Cora herself had bought her way in. Surely, she thought, others would seek out the association. And in April, Cora received a letter that presented an opportunity to re-establish Downton as a place to be, especially among those in society who might have written off the family when they had been forced to leave.

The letter was from Lady Priscilla Wilkes, wife of Sir John Wilkes and mother to Miss Imogen Wilkes. They were former neighbors who had resided in nearby Hartfield Park until three years ago, when his shipping business took Sir John and his family to New York. Imogen was the same age as Sybil. In their early childhood, the two girls had been close friends, and in a year, they would be debuting together. Lady Priscilla detailed in her letter that the family was returning to England now to have the year to prepare for Imogen's season, because despite their time in America, the Wilkes were English through and through and could not imagine bringing their daughter out anywhere but London. After landing in Liverpool, Lady Priscilla wanted to bring the family back to Yorkshire for a visit before heading to their house in London. Cora proffered the invitation knowing that there were few women in society she could invite to Downton who would make every detail of the visit known in the right circles more reliably than Lady Priscilla.

The Wilkes docked in Liverpool the first week of May, and Lady Priscilla quickly sent a letter off to Downton ahead of their arrival.

The first week of May also happened to be the week of the village fair, and the day the letter was making its way to the house, Cora, Sybil and Edith took a late afternoon walk through the village green, where the fair was being set up.

Sybil and Edith both had been in bright spirits recently, which pleased Cora. Edith, in particular, seemed finally to be coming out of her shell and willing to step out of Mary's shadow. She had even expressed excitement about the upcoming season. Unfortunately for Cora, the excitement had brought with it a not insignificant amount of complaining regarding her wardrobe. This was an area where Cora often came into disagreement with her daughters, who were constantly surprised as to how a New Yorker could have such conservative taste.

On their walk, a recent edition of Vogue—which Cora's mother, Martha, sent to the girls regularly along with her letters—was the topic of conversation.

"I really wish mother would stop sending that magazine," Cora said, addressing Edith. "It's not as if you and Mary don't complain enough about what we've bought you to wear."

"Did you and grandmamma quarrel about such things?" Sybil asked her mother.

"Constantly," Cora answered with a sigh.

"Well, perhaps she sends it as a form of retribution," Sybil said, making Cora smile.

"Grandmamma always dresses in the latest fashions," Edith said. "I don't see why we can't."

"Honestly, Edith," Cora said, "you only wore about half the dresses you brought to London last year."

"Sybil is getting to go to the dressmaker this week," Edith said.

"She is," Cora said.

"Why is Sybil having a new dress and not me?"

"Because it's Sybil's turn," Cora replied, plainly.

"Can it be my choice this time?" Sybil asked carefully. Her plans for her new frock had been churning in her mind since March, when Tom had given her the book about Scheherazade.

"Of course, darling, as long as you choose what I choose."

Sybil bit her tongue, knowing that insisting at this early stage would only ensure that her mother would accompany her to Madam Swann's and order the dress herself.

Having circled the green, the three came back upon Pratt, who had been waiting for them at the village's main crossing. Seeing them approach, he walked to the side of the car and opened the door.

"Pratt, you'll be taking Lady Sybil to Ripon tomorrow. She'll be leaving after luncheon," Cora said as she stepped in.

"Certainly, your ladyship," Pratt answered.

Once in, he went back around to the front of the car to start it for the journey home.

"Poor old Madame Swann," Sybil said, sitting beside her mother. "I don't know why we bother with fittings. She always makes the same frock."

"What do you want her to make?" Edith asked.

"Something new and exciting," Sybil answered, her eyes open wide with possibility.

"Heavens, look at the time," Cora said with a sigh. "Not a minute to change. And Granny's invited herself for dinner."

"Then she can jolly well wait," Sybil said, nodding her head with finality. Edith snickered in response.

"So, women's rights begin at home, I see," Cora said. "Well, I'm all for that."

The letter from Lady Priscilla was waiting for Cora when she, Edith and Sybil arrived back at the house. The Wilkes would be arriving in Downton the following day and would be staying for two nights. So after changing and then dispatching O'Brien to alert Carson, Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Hughes so they could begin making preparations, Cora walked over to Sybil's room. She knocked lightly and without waiting for a response, let herself in.

Sybil was still only half-dressed. She and Gwen had been sitting on the edge of Sybil's bed talking, and both stood quickly upon hearing Cora enter.

Cora sighed in exasperation at the sight of her daughter.

"Gwen, please get on with it," Cora said.

Sybil turned with a roll of her eyes, so Gwen, who was blushing at having been "caught" not doing her work, could button the back of her dress. "Please don't chastise Gwen, mama, I asked her to sit down. We were talking about what I shall have Madame Swann design for me tomorrow."

"And what concern is that of Gwen's?" Cora asked.

"She helps me dress, doesn't she? I should say what kind of buttons or lacings Madame Swann may choose are of Gwen's utmost concern."

"I thought you didn't like help when you dressed," Cora said pointedly.

"I don't," Sybil responded, a cheeky smile forming on her lips. "Imagine your horror if you'd walked in here and I was doing just that."

"Horror, indeed," Cora said, unable to keep herself from breaking into a smile. Sybil can be such a trial sometimes.

"So what did you need, mama? Or were you merely looking to approve of what I'd chosen to wear?"

"I came to tell you that the Wilkes family will be arriving tomorrow, so your visit to the dressmaker will have to wait until Wednesday. I thought maybe you could take Imogen to the fair in the afternoon."

Sybil snickered. "You don't remember her very well if you think such an outing will satisfy her discriminating sensibilities."

"Then think of something else, but remember that she'll be tired from travel."

"I'm sure she'll remind me."

"Well, anyway, it will give you a chance to get reacquainted. Perhaps you can ask her for her thoughts on your new frock."

"I shall," Sybil said. "Now do leave us, mama, your hovering does not help Gwen's fingers move any faster."

Cora narrowed her eyes, thinking that she should stay and wait if she wanted her daughter down in a timely manner, but chose instead to cut her losses and take her leave. "All right, but don't be too long."

"I won't."

"Make sure she doesn't dally, Gwen."

"Certainly, milady," Gwen said quietly and curtseyed as she spoke.

"And don't worry," Cora said, "I know you are not the cause of Lady Sybil's being late for dinner."

As soon as Cora closed the door, Gwen let out a big sigh of relief. "Oh, milady, imagine if she had heard the actual topic of conversation!"