chapter four

We maintain evening dinners with the family, and they don't really understand my growing waistline, or know that Sybil brings baskets of food up from the kitchens at night. This is an impossible habit to hide. Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore know every morsel that was ordered and comes into this house. So Sybil has taken to buying groceries at the market herself, but it would be noticed, and wondered at quickly. There is no privacy here. Everything a person or couple does becomes obvious immediately.

I hate it. I hate everything about it. I hate wearing white tie at dinner, but I'd rather dress than talk about my clothes every time I come down the stairs. And now I've heard the Dowager question Sybil about why I'm gaining weight and what can be done to stop it. Sybil is a strong woman and has made it clear that her grandmother is overstepping her bounds. But it's still intolerable. Every word I say, everything I do is judged, and it's judged as wanting. And all the while, Sybil ignores my pleas that I'm gaining too much weight, and keeps stuffing me nearly every day.

"I have to go." I'm bouncing my one year old daughter on my knee when it just comes out, like clouds that can't hold any more rain. We're sitting on the bed in our room, a bit of privacy at last.


"Nanny, will you take Corrie to play with George." Little George. Mary's only consolation since the loss of Matthew. He was my only friend and supporter here, and all our lives are emptier without him.

Sybil dismisses our child, and looks straight at me. "What do you mean?" I can hear the fear in her voice, she was expecting this.

"I can't stay here, luxuriating in the lap of luxury and doing nothing while my precious Ireland suffers", I say.

"You can't return to Ireland, Tom, neither of us can, you'll be arrested."

"I WILL return to Ireland one day. I must. I will not be kept from my homeland. But for now, we don't need to go back there. There are branches of Sinn Fein all over Europe. I could do some good in France, or even Germany", I say.

Her mouth falls open. "I don't want to go to France or Germany, Tom, this is my home, and it's yours too. And most of all, it's Corrie's, the only home she's ever known, it's best for her to be in the nursery with her cousin", she says.

It's my turn to be shocked. "We never said we'd live here, Sybil, in fact we very specifically said we would not. You know my political beliefs, you share them, you promised to HELP me fight for Ireland's freedom. I know being unable to return there changes things a bit..."

"A bit?!", she shouts, "It changes everything! If we CAN'T be in your home, it makes no sense to be anywhere but mine. You never said a word about moving to France or Germany, and I don't think you really want to. Besides, you're a husband and a father now. People put their passions aside to be good parents. I think Downton is wearing on you. I understand what it can be like..."

"No, you don't, not as outsider does", I correct.

"Perhaps not", she swallows, "But I understand your frustration about my family pushing into our personal life. But there's plenty you can do here, not for Ireland, but for this family."

"You're a Branson, Sybil, you're not a Crawley anymore! I'M your family," I shout. I hadn't meant to take our argument this far.

She's shocked. "I assure you, I will always be a Crawley", she hisses.

Oh yeah? Maybe that explains a lot.

"You keep me here - fattening me up like a prize hog, and ***ing me like an old stud horse put to pasture! I'm not a doll, Sybil, for you to move and change and play with as you like. All of your kind treats people like they're nothing but dolls for your amusement! I'm already a laughingstock to your entire family, do you even remember what your former beau did to me, drugging me?" I shout. "And that's not the worst of it. You don't even want my babies. Don't say you do...you don't. You have that THING so you can't get pregnant. What kind of a wife doesn't want her husband's children? I think you still believe I'm too far below you."

She covers her mouth her hand.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, love", I say immediately.

"No, you're not. You finally told the truth about how you feel. If you're not interested in Downton, and not interested in me, perhaps you had best go", she says.

She doesn't want me. She's said it, and somehow I knew it, I knew one day the earl's daughter would break my heart.

"You knew who I was when you married me, Sybil! You're my wife, the Church says the husband is the head of the family, I could make you go..." I threaten stupidly. As if I would or could.

"They say all kinds of stupid things you happily believe, Thomas Francis Branson, and you will not force me to go anywhere! I'd like to see you force a Crawley to do anything. I should have left you driving the motor where you belonged", she hisses.

"Spoiled bitch." It just comes out.

Finally she erupts into a flood of tears.

"Oh God." It's all I say. There's nothing else to say at this point.

The next morning, she keeps careful watch as I tearfully hug and say good-bye to my daughter.

"I'm sorry for every word, Sybil", I plead, but she turns from me.

"You'll miss your train", she pronounces.

I can't live without her. I can't. I don't want to.

"I wish I could say I didn't know this would happen", Robert says, "You've prevailed upon our hospitality for long enough. And if I have any say in it, divorce papers will be quickly forthcoming. I certainly hope my youngest child has learned her lesson, even if it was the hard way. Mixing classes never works."

"Indeed it does not", I say, "I never should have sullied myself with the likes of the Crawleys."

His mouth falls open and I climb into the motor, the new chauffeur behind the wheel.

The car rattles away, and I allow my tears to spill.

Years pass. France, Germany, Austria, and finally Russia where I can have real influence on actual socialist policies. But it's too much. As they happily execute anyone with royal blood, I find I can't stand the violence. I wanted fair policies for the majority, I wanted the poor to be treated like humans, but I never wanted people to die.

They execute men and women and children, and every time I see a well born woman go to her death, I can't think of anyone but Sybil. What if it was her? My stay in Russia is short.

Professionally, I try to find ways to help the cause, personally, I do nothing but eat from boredom and sadness. I may have blamed my wife completely for my gain, but she isn't the one putting the food in my mouth now, but I just keep growing. My days as a trim goofy little chauffeur chap named Branson are over.

So I write a letter. Then another. Begging her to take me back. And I'm never around to see if a response comes, or if my letter comes back "return to sender" because I can't bear to find out.

Sybil POV

I keep his letters tied with a ribbon under my bed where they'll be hard to find. Inevitably it will get back to Papa anyway.

I still can't believe how any of this happened. I was so angry the day Tom left. Not because I didn't love him anymore, I couldn't hate someone this badly that I didn't love, but because he was and still is my world.

He's been the only man for me from the first moment I saw him. Part of me wants to scream "Yes, yes, I forgive you, come home please, just come home." But I can't. I have too much pride. And I don't know that Papa would even let him in the house.

So time keeps passing, and the sad part is not that Corrie cries herself to sleep asking for him, but that she doesn't ask about him anymore at all.

1924

"I said get off this doorstep!"

I hear Papa boom and I come running down the stairs. We have a visitor just as everyone was going up to bed. Tom is on the other side, hat in hand.

"I've come to speak to my wife, not to you", he says.

"I speak for this family, and Sybil is a part of this family, you are not welcome here", Papa adds.

"Wait", I say, coming forward.

Tom sucks in a breath. "Sybil!"

"Tom. Papa, let him in", I command.

"I'm so sorry Sybil, I don't even remember what happened that day...how the argument kept escalating, and I kept saying worse and worse things. I didn't mean any of them. You're the most unique and beautiful and open minded woman in the world, you're perfect Sybil, that's the problem, you're perfect, and I'm just me", he spits out.

"She's not going to listen to this", Papa says.

"Oh stop!" I wave him off. "I also said plenty I didn't mean. But we're very different people, Tom. We need to discuss this though. For God sake, Papa open the door." He does, rolling his eyes.

"Anna!" I call out, "Can you have one of the housemaids prepare a room for Mr. Branson?"

"Of course, my lady."

I walk away up to my own room. I'm not telling Corrie her father is back yet. Please let him be back.

As I head to the bathroom to unwind, I see Edith clutching a book to her chest and crying. The poor dear. I hope she gets her love back as well.