Chapter Text
"...has made formal announcement of the engagement of her granddaughter, the Lady Mary Josephine Crawley of Downton Abbey, eldest daughter of the Earl of Grantham, to Mr Matthew Crawley, son of the late Mr Reginald Crawley and Mrs Crawley...during the war Mr Crawley served as a Captain in the Duke of Manchester's Own…well, it just keeps going on, really."
Thomas lays the spread flat out on the table and jabs at the relevant section of the Society column before returning to his breakfast.
Sybil finishes her toast before tugging the newspaper over and turning it round to find it's exactly as he said: quite a lot of words, and more details than she finds proper—though, she's come to understand that what she finds proper is hardly universal. Still, she has to wonder if her parents had a chance to review it before it was published.
At the very end...
"The bride and bridegroom will be married in a local ceremony in March," she reads.
"At least we found out before the papers," Thomas says lightly. He takes a sip of his tea that feels pointed. It reminds her of her coffee, which has already gone cold. "Would've been nice to be invited properly, though."
By her parents, he means.
She can't fathom why. "I thought you didn't want to go," she says, pointed in return. She straightens out her fork and knife over her empty plate, first English, then American, then continental, before rising to take her dishes to the kitchen.
"Not particularly," Thomas calls after her once her back is turned, "but I wouldn't've thought your mother'd stoop that low, leaving you off the guest list…"
Always a matter of principle, with him.
On full blast the tap water is still ice cold over her fingers; she dries off her hand on her skirt apron (she's got to mend that habit before they go home) and keeps it running on low pressure to warm up. They've been letting it drip for the past few days, so the pipes don't freeze. Ida from college had recommended that… just another of those things she'd never had to mind or worry about before she left Downton.
Standing here waiting for the water to warm simply for the luxury of doing the washing up she worries about the people in tenements who don't have boilers to begin with.
It dawns on her that her mother may have considered these things once. When she was very little. Or—no, probably not, but her mother might have, though it's almost impossible to imagine Grandmama fretting about anything, no matter how young she had been once. She simply isn't the fretting sort.
"It wasn't Mama's fault," Sybil murmurs, more to reassure herself than him. She knows because she'd written about it, and so had Edith, and Granny, and even Cousin Isobel, who in addition to having a good many things to say had seemed keen to try and wire them the money for the journey if she could only determine how. (Sybil didn't say yes to that, but she didn't exactly refuse, either.)
The invitation itself came from Mary and Matthew, in a regular old letter, informal in all respects.
But no matter if everyone else in all the county wanted her there, in all the country, it wouldn't matter to her, not truly, unless...
"Not only hers," says Thomas, from right beside her. She almost flinches; he reaches across her to stack their breakfast dishes in the sink. Judging by the scrunch of his face when he sticks his hand under the faucet, the water is still cold. He takes an apron off the nail on the wall and looks at her expectantly as he ties it round his waist.
"...She doesn't stand up to him."
"Do mothers ever stand up to fathers?"
"They do their best," she replies, even to her own ears sounding needlessly defensive. It's hardly an attack on her person.
"Well, their best could be better."
And she's not the only one between them who's been left out of family affairs. He's speaking from the heart; she can be sure of that.
Sybil sighs. "We knew all along this would happen," she tells him, perfectly collected. All she has to do is remember to breathe. "There's no use being surprised now."
It's all well and good to say that she knew, but in hindsight, she didn't understand… that's the true problem.
"I'm not surprised," says Thomas. His nonchalance seems much more fake than hers does. "Just I wondered if maybe he'd get over himself for your sake, and it doesn't speak well of him that he hasn't."
Whenever he speaks about her father he trips over his pronouns… It's a very sweet thing to say, and deep-down she agrees with him entirely, but she still feels as though she ought to protest for the sake of it.
She won't, but she feels like she should.
"Anyway," Thomas goes on, nudging her away from the sink and taking a dishrag in hand, "I'm very happy for them, Lady Mary and Matthew I mean, took them long enough, so once we work out how we're going to pay for it…"
He's said it more than once in the last few weeks but every time she still feels as if she could kiss him.
"—aren't you going in to lectures this morning? I thought you'd be out the door by now."
It's after seven now; the sky is slowly but surely brightening. She misses Christmas at Downton, and the New Year, the Servants' Ball, but not winter in Yorkshire. She'd never known what a difference a longer day could make until they came here.
"I'm on the wards tonight," she answers, gratefully accepting the change in subject. "Frances is poorly, so we swapped the other day—I thought I told you."
"You probably did and my mind's just going," Thomas replies. She rolls her eyes. "Night shift for me, too."
That makes her feel better, then, they can walk together...
"Just tonight?"
"Tonight and tomorrow... Think it'll've let up by the time we go?"
In unison they turn toward the window. The panes are fogged over. Once she manages to turn the latch and thrust it open, Thomas assisting with a push, there is a rush of icy air that burns her cheeks and makes her eyes water. A dislodged heap of snow falls to the floor; sleet strikes the glass with continuous clinks.
They shut it.
"Blimey," Thomas murmurs. He rubs at his eyes, takes a deep breath. They probably shouldn't have let the cold inside—and yet even as she shivers there is something incredible about it; something new and exciting (though, she is not looking forward to the walk to the station that evening). "You ever seen anything like this before?"
Sybil shakes her head, awed. "I don't think it does this in England."