chapter two

"I want Father Callahagn to marry us. He baptized me", Tom says, holding me close as our carriage takes us into Ireland, a new land for me.

"Father?" Oh God. That's right. He's Irish, of course he's Catholic. Forget that there hasn't been a Catholic Crawley since the Reformation, there hasn't been a Crawley who took religion of any type seriously in generations. This is another difference between us caused mostly by socioeconomic background. As much as I want to make fun of the entire institution, I have to put my husband's feelings before my desire to be right.

"We'll be married in a Catholic Church. I means so much to me, Sybil, and it will to my mother. She's going to love you."

"Of course", I say, and kiss him. It's just a church.

When the carriage stops in front of his mother's cottage, she comes out to meet us. Tiny and plump as a hen beneath her dark dress and white apron, she walks down her stone steps, jumps past a mud puddle, and kicks a chicken out of the way. I hide my laugh behind a gloved hand.

"Mama!" he shouts, and I see him sweep her up in his arms.

"Put me down, you hellion!" she cries happily.

"Mother, this is...Sybil Crawley..." he says.

"My lady", she answers...and curtsies.

"No, no, no, Mother Branson, you mustn't. You must consider me any other girl, well any other girl about to marry your son", I smile.

"You'll be my daughter then", she says in a brogue much stronger than Tom's.

"You have some fine taste, laddie of mine", she adds, and he laughs. "No one will tell me any of Queen Victoria's princesses were any finer than your bride to be."

Like my Tom, she just keeps talking when she's nervous.

I'll stay with her while the banns are read, and we'll be married in about three weeks.

The cottage is small, but warm because of it with a fire blazing in every hearth. She's eager to tell me all his likes and dislikes, and is alarmed to learn I can't cook.

The next day she dedicates to teaching me Shepherd's Pie, which she insists is his favorite. While we're supposed to be living apart, Tom (whom she adorably calls "Tommy") is around every waking moment.

"He's too thin these days", she insists.

"Yes, he is", I agree.

"I knew I would like you", she smiles, and shows me how to roll out the dough.

She spends 3 weeks teaching me how to cook Irish food, and it's exhausting, but so much fun. And he's usually come by around 9 am to refill her firewood, and stays for meals and desserts, and he eats up most of the things I made that didn't come out right too.

When he puts on his brown suit for the church, the waistline is a little tight. His mother shows me how to let out the waist and insists I'll be doing it regularly if he relaxes enough to eat like he did when he was young.

A seamstress has been working on a dress for me for the last 3 weeks also. A gift from Granny, bless her heart, all Alencon lace.

I don't think this little village has seen the likes of my dress before, and I do admit I make a becoming package coming down the aisle, with my dark hair piled on my head.

In the pews, I see my sisters and wave. They made it!

"Well she's the beautiful girl ever been in these parts", Tom's mother says to him.

We have to sit through mass after the wedding, and it's a painful process. Tom and I are on our knees at the altar, the entire process more complicated than it needs to be, but I can't complain. The man of my dreams is now my husband.

We greet my sisters, and Tom's mother happily offers for them to stay with her. I didn't know what I was expecting for us. I knew there would be no money for a honeymoon, not yet.

But when he brings me to a big, beautiful cottage, I can hardly believe it.

"You..."

"Bought it. I knew it was yours when I saw it", he says, "It will take a while to pay off, but that's what homes are for."

The inside is beautiful, with wide fireplaces, antique tables and chairs, and two beautiful rose stained glass windows. "They reminded me of you", he says, "So beautiful."

He lifts me up and I whoop as he carries to the bedroom.

"Would you like a moment?" he asks, reaching for a crystal decanter of whiskey close by the bed. He's obviously been living here since we got to Ireland, and he's obviously extremely nervous.

"If you'd like time, we don't have to do anything tonight", he starts.

"Oh yes, we do", I answer, "I've been waiting for this for a long time."

He grins wide. He pours himself a drink, and gulps it down, then offers me one. I take it and sip slowly.

"You're so beautiful and so fine...I, I don't want to hurt you...", he whispers, "I'm not good enough to touch you."

"Oh my God, Tom, stop." I wrap him up in my arms. "Kiss me, kiss me please."

He does and in moments it's beyond our control. We pull each other's clothes off. He lifts me up and deposits me on the bed. Shivering I slip beneath the linen covers, and he comes down on top of me.

"I love you. My wife", he says, shaking.

"I love you."

"Help me, you have to help me", he says, a bundle of nerves, and I wrap my legs around him, and help him push inside me.

"You must stop me immediately if I hurt you..."

"You know I can't, or it will be this bad every time", I tell him, practically. "It will take some time to get used to each other. But then it will be...as my mother says, "the most marvelous fun."

He laughs. "Leave it to Lady Grantham to help in such a case."

He pushes again and I try not to reveal how uncomfortable it is.

"Do you want me to gain weight?" he asks then, "Do you want me to get fatter? It's obvious that you...liked the effect of your cakes."

I instantly become wetter and he easily slides in deeper. "Ah, I see I have my answer", he laughs.

"I know you worked hard to lose a lot of weight, your mother told me, I wouldn't want to pressure you to do anything you don't want to do", I tell him.

"I want to make you happy. That's all I want to do", he answers, and I vow then at that moment I will feed this man until I can't get my legs around him anymore. I will feed him until we're both completely satisfied.

For months, I do nothing but cook and make love to my husband, and for months he does nothing but eat and make love to me when he's not at the newspaper. It's no wonder I find myself emptying the contents of my stomach in the bedpan every morning in record time.

"Are you ill, my love?" he asks, worriedly, kissing my hand.

I squeeze him. He was probably around 11 stone when we met, I know he's closer to 13 now, around 180 pounds.

"I think we're going to have a baby." His face lights up, and he smiles go wide. I brush the blond hair off his forehead.

"Really?! You and me?"

"No, me and Uncle Tom Cobley."

"You always tease me", he groans, then carries me to bed. "Can we? I didn't think to ask."

"Of course we can. We better, because I can't wait", I say and kiss him. We make love and sleep on and off the entire day.

Dinners are spent in bed.

I take up a forkful of Shepherd's Pie, beef, onions, peas, and mashed potatoes, all mixed in a rich gravy, and bring it to his lips, feeding him with one hand, and rubbing his belly with the other.

"You seem to enjoy this", he laughs, opening obediently.

"I do", I say, and kiss him, then feed him another forkful.

"I'm going to get tooo fat if we keep this up", he says, but doesn't stop eating.

"Your mother informs me that happy men become fat men. The average man gains 50 pounds within the first two years of marriage she says", I comment.

He laughs and rolls his eyes. "My mother's tastes are like yours. I agreed to gain a bit, but I'm too short to gain 50 pounds. I'd look like a medicine ball", he laughs.

"Okay, not 50", I say. No, not 50. Perhaps 100. My Tom is stocky, and he fattens up so easily. His body longs to be fat given its own devices. Staying trim is, or rather was, a constant struggle for him. He'll gain easily with or without his consent.

I feed him the rest of the pie, and over the weeks he puts away homemade soup, baskets of freshly baked bread, heavy with butter, and rich desserts, cakes with thick frosting, and I learn to make my favorite sticky toffee pudding, which he also loves.

I don't think he notices he's about 40 pounds heavier than when we met. I quietly let out the seams in his pants without mentioning it.

We've made love for hours, and he looks like angel when he's sleeping. I get up smiling, and wander to the kitchen to see what's for dinner.

Then I see two words written on a piece of paper that send fear through my veins. "Sinn Fein."

These "meetings" start taking up more and more of his time. He's not home for supper, sometimes he doesn't come home at all.

I promised to help him fight for Ireland's independence. But we agreed no violence. While his friends accept me, as an English woman, and an aristocrat at that, I am completely unwelcome at most of his meetings.

"We need a plan in case the police show up", he says, "We need a way out of here."

6 Months later

Tom Branson POV

I slam my fist into the door of the Abbey in the dark and pounding rain. Please don't be dining out tonight.

Alfred answers the door.

"Do you have any luggage, sir?"

"I barely have the clothes I stand in", I gasp, trying to get my breath.

"I'll tell them you're here", he says.

"No", I scream, and he looks alarmed as I grab his arm.

Mary comes out then.

"Tom! Where's Sybil?"