Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"I think he might be the most beautiful person I ever beheld."

Sybil rolled her eyes at her exuberant friend. "Imogen, you've said that about every boy you've ever liked."

"Well, this time I mean it! Jim Branson is gorgeous, and also may be my soulmate."

"Soulmate? You've had three conversations with him."

"Five! And they were all excellent conversations, all far too short, and all leaving me wanting so much more. Didn't you think him charming?"

Sybil took a sip of her wine and looked around the packed opening reception at Imogen's art gallery. Just about everyone they knew was there, including the Irish art handler Imogen had hired a few weeks back to help her unpack and install several of the larger pieces on display tonight. Imogen was smitten immediately and kept making excuses to call him back to the gallery for help just for the chance to talk to him. He'd accepted the invitation to the opening tonight just as eagerly as Imogen had proffered it, only asking if he could bring his younger brother, Tom, along. Imogen had introduced them both to Sybil when they'd arrived, but soon after, the brothers wandered off as Imogen continued to play hostess.

Now that the place was full and the event could be considered a success, she wanted to find him again. For Imogen, there was no crush she didn't jump into with both feet, but even her best friend could admit that this one felt a little different.

"He was very nice," Sybil said. "I can't deny it. Neither I can I deny that he is quite nice looking."

"His brother was rather handsome too," Imogen said.

"Not really."

Imogen looked at Sybil wide-eyed. "What!?"

Sybil shrugged. "I don't know. Just not my type, I suppose, so if you had match-making on the brain, you can dispense with the idea straight-away."

Imogen laughed. "Darling, I'm too focused on my love life to have any time for yours. Besides, haven't I known you since we were twelve? There aren't many I know who are more anti-social than you."

"I'm not anti-social, I'm …"

"What?"

"Reserved."

"A regular Mr. Darcy."

This finally got Sybil to laugh. Looking at her friend with a smile, she said, "I just want you to be careful."

"Which I appreciate," Imogen said, taking Sybil's arm. "Come on, now, let's go look for them and make plans for drinks after."

As the girls moved off, Tom came around from behind the pillar they had just been standing in front of. He hadn't meant to listen in on their conversation, but when he heard his brother's name, he couldn't help himself. Tom, like Sybil, was worried that Jim was falling too hard, too fast for a woman he barely knew—and one much wealthier than he.

In the end though, he was glad to have heard everything. Sybil was beautiful, but a rank snob, clearly. Tom was happy not to have to waste any time on her.

At least Jim's feelings were obviously returned. If he had to, Tom would endure Sybil for the sake of his brother's happiness.

Tom looked over to the buzzing mobile just to the right of the keyboard he was currently pounding. Usually, when his phone rang while he was writing on deadline, as he was now, Tom didn't answer unless it was a source for the story. But when he saw that it was Jim calling, his brow furrowed. Jim had made plans to spend the day with Imogen—Tom knew this much. He also knew that Jim knew that Tom was going to be working all day. Considerate to a fault, Jim would never think of interrupting Tom unless there was something really wrong.

(Their brother Liam—who'd already texted Tom four times asking if he could borrow money to go out tonight—was another story.)

Tom paused mid-sentenced, and with a sigh, picked up his mobile.

"This is Tom."

"Hi, Tom. It's Jim. I'm so sorry to bother you." His voice was hoarse and unsteady.

"What's wrong?" Tom replied. " You sound like someone's killed you cat."

Tom listened as Jim took a long, deep breath. "No," Jim replied, finally. "Selkie's fine. It's only my dignity that's about to take a killing."

Tom chuckled. "So the posh girl's finally come to her senses about you."

"Honestly, brother, at this point I might welcome that."

"All right, then, what is it?"

"I'm at her house," Jim said, taking another deep breath. "And I've just puked in her toilet."

"What?!"

"Mrs. Stanley brought me a fruitcake this morning. She wouldn't leave until I tried it."

Tom rubbed his forehead, knowing what was coming. "And there were strawberries in it, were there?"

"Apparently."

"Did it occur to you to tell her that you're allergic?"

"She was so nice about it. It seemed very rude not to try it."

"Jim, you are too nice for your own good. In this case, quite literally."

"Can you pick me up?"

"Now?"

"I couldn't possibly make it to the Tube station in this state."

"Just call a taxi, then."

"I was hoping not to empty my bank account tonight."

"Don't be ridiculous. It's one bloody taxi."

"Can you really not come pick me up?"

Tom sighed. "I can't right this minute, but in two hours, maybe."

"Ugh."

"Thanks would cover it."

"No, it's just … I think I'm going to throw up again."

"Where is Imogen anyway?"

At just that moment, Jim heard a knock at the door. He quickly whispered into his phone, "I'll call you back," and hung up.

"Jim, is everything all right?"

Jim opened his mouth to respond but immediately felt another wave of nausea hit him and emptied what was little was left in his stomach into the toilet.

Hearing the unmistakable sound, Imogen gasped. "Jim, what's wrong? Are you sick?"

Jim quickly flushed the toilet and went over to the sink to rinse out his mouth. Leaning on the sink, he took several deep breaths to try to compose himself. Then, he looked under the sink and found an air freshner. He sprayed the room liberally, but the strong smell of the spray made him feel suddenly faint and before he could get his bearings, he slipped and fell unceremoniously onto the floor.

Hearing the crash, Imogen yelled, "OH MY GOD! I'M COMING IN!" before opening the door and rushing to his aid. After helping Jim sit up so he was leaning against the wall, with Imogen kneeling in front of him, she asked, "Darling, what's wrong?"

Jim took a deep breath and laughed to himself. "Oh, nothing, just having the most humiliating moment of my life in front of a girl I was rather hoping to impress. How are things with you?"

Imogen smiled. "Please don't concern yourself with that. I really want to help. Are you feeling all right? I can ask Sybil to come look in—she's a doctor."

"No, that's all right. I'm just having an allergic reaction."

"Well, you're clearly in no state to go anywhere, so you're staying here until further notice."

"Imogen, I couldn't possibly impose on you."

"What imposition? I insist. I'll make up one of the guest rooms myself and you can't leave until you're feeling better."

Not really in a position to argue, Jim nodded and allowed Imogen to help him up. She led him upstairs and into an empty bedroom, where she proceeded to pull off his shoes, tie and jacket before pushing him onto the bed and practically smothering him with the comforter.

Once he was comfortable, she sat at the edge of the bed next to him. "If I may be so bold as to admit I've fantasized about getting you in bed, this isn't exactly what I pictured."

Jim blushed. "I'm so grateful and more embarrassed than you could possibly imagine and also unlikely to ever be able to repay you."

"I'll think of something good," she said with a wink, causing Jim's already considerable blush to deepen.

"Well, I tried to call Tom when I was in the loo. I should call him back and see if he can come fetch me after all," he said.

"Very well. I'll leave you to it," Imogen said standing. "I'll go get you some water and crackers, but just know that while he's certainly welcome to come, I'm serious when I say I won't let you leave until you're perfectly well."

Jim smiled. As terrible as he felt, he couldn't seem to stop smiling just then. "Duly noted."

Slightly less than three hours later, Tom finally arrived. It was Sybil who answered the door.

Noting the surprise in his eyes when he saw her, she said, "Imogen set Jim up in one of the guest rooms. She's there with him now."

Tom stepped into the large foyer tentatively.

"May I take your jacket?"

Tom turned toward Sybil again. "Oh … is he not ready to go?"

"I can go check, but Imogen took up a bowl of broth for him not too long ago."

Tom scratched his head—in what Sybil could easily see was annoyance—before removing his jacket. Sybil stepped forward to take it, not looking at Tom in the eyes as she did so, which read as her annoyance at him. After hanging it up, she walked further into the house, making no obvious indication that he should follow. Tom did so, nevertheless, and the two ended up in a small sitting room just off the foyer.

"May I go see him?" Tom asked. "I should at least let him know I'm here."

"Yes, of course," she said quickly. Tom noticed that Sybil was holding her hands in a way that suggested she was nervous, though he couldn't imagine why that was. Sybil led him again toward the main hall and the staircase.

"So you live here with Imogen?" she heard Tom say behind her.

"No, I'm just staying with her while I finish my residency."

"You're a doctor?"

"I am."

The fact surprised Tom, who couldn't stop himself from saying, "Wow."

Sybil stopped mid-step and turned to face Tom again. He stopped a step below her on the stairs, and looking down on him the blueness of his eyes took her aback.

"Yes?" he said.

Sybil turned back around and when she knew he couldn't see her rolled her eyes at herself. It was true she was the opposite of a social butterfly, but she was also not one to easily lose her composure. This was only the second time she'd been around Tom Branson, but something about him made her feel … off kilter. Her quick dismissal of his looks the other night belied the fact that he'd made an immediate impression on her. Sybil found her train of thought again. "That surprises you?"

"I wouldn't have guessed, no," Tom admitted quietly. The annoyance he felt upon arrival at Imogen's starting to dissipate.

At the top of the stairs, Sybil turned to him again, expressionless. If his assumptions as to her profession (or lack there of—for he had assumed that her life was one of charity galas and martini lunches) had insulted her in any way, she didn't show it. Even from a single meeting Tom could see that Imogen, much like Jim, wore her heart on her sleeve. Her friend appeared to be quite the opposite.

"Imogen mentioned you work at the Guardian," Sybil said after a moment.

"Indeed."

Tom and Sybil looked at each other silently for a moment. Neither was ever the type to be at a loss for words, and that wasn't exactly what was happening in this moment—a bizarre combination of awkwardness and curiosity that neither felt like addressing directly or walking away from. Eventually, it was Sybil who stepped away first, walking down the hall to the room from which Tom could hear laughter as he approached.

Sybil knocked gently before opening the door. Jim remained on the bed, and Imogen at his side, but whatever ugliness he'd felt earlier was obviously gone.

"It looks like you're feeling better," Tom said.

"I am," Jim said with a smile. "Thank you for coming. I'm so embarrassed."

"Do you really have to go?" Imogen asked.

"I think I should probably cut my losses, yes," Jim replied.

"All right," she said rolling her eyes good-naturedly.

"Just give me a second, Tom," Jim said. "I'll be right down."

Tom nodded and he and Sybil headed back down without a word. Imogen and Jim followed only minutes later, still laughing and talking and generally acting as if they were the only two people in the world. As they moved toward the door, Sybil got Tom's coat and handed it to him.

"It was nice to see you again," she said, in a voice so quiet it suggested intimacy, which startled and puzzled Tom all at once.

"You too," he replied.

Sybil stuck out her hand, and Tom looked at it for a second before shaking it with his.

Outside, as the two brothers walked toward Tom's car, Jim said, "I owe you so big, little brother."

But Tom did not respond.

"Tom?"

His brother's voice seemed to pull him out of a reverie. "What?"

"I said I owe you."

Tom smirked. "Yes, you do."

Chapter Text

It wasn't often that Tom got sent to cover something at the Houses of Parliament, but he always jumped at the chance when he did. The story he was following today had kept him there almost all day, and he was exhausted by the end of the afternoon, which was why, when he saw Sybil Crawley out of the corner of his eye, he momentarily thought he was hallucinating.

But after a double take, he realized that not only was she there, she was speaking to the secretary of state for health in one of the hallways on the way out. Assuming that she'd not notice him, or simply ignore him if she did, Tom kept walking with the intention of getting past them without a word.

To his surprise, however, Sybil did notice and called out to him right away.

"Mr. Branson?"

Tom turned and tried to look for all his life, as if he hadn't seen them. "Oh, hello."

"It's Sybil Crawley," she said walking up to him with her hand out for him to shake. "Imogen's friend."

"Of course," he said, taking her hand.

"It's nice to see you again," she said, with a small sincere smile. "Um, may I introduce you?" she asked signaling to the man behind her, who had something of an impatient air about him. "Uncle," she said turning to him, "This is Tom Branson. He's a friend. He works for the Guardian."

The man raised a skeptical eyebrow. "A friend? Darling Sybil, if he works for that rag sheet, we call him the enemy." He laughed after he spoke and winked at Tom as they shook hands, which suggested to Sybil at least that he was joking. But Tom knew Philip Crawley to be quite the hardliner, even if he was making light of things, Tom didn't doubt he believed what he'd just said.

"Nonsense, uncle," Sybil said. "Tom's an excellent journalist. He may not cover health issues, but he writes very well and is quite fair."

Tom could hardly believe his ears. All that had come to pass between him and Sybil Crawley was her dismissal of him as a person of interest at Imogen's gallery (which she didn't know he'd overheard) and an awkward conversation at Imogen's home. She spoke of him now as if she'd been a friend and fan of his writing for some time. He didn't try particularly hard to hide his skepticism, but Philip Crawley wasn't paying him much mind in any case and quickly said his goodbyes, leaving him and Sybil alone.

If Tom thought that the awkwardness that had hung between them at their last meeting, when his brother had fallen ill at Imogen's home, would be gone—given how well Sybil spoke of Tom just now—he was mistaken. For as soon as Sybil's uncle was out of earshot, and Sybil turned to face Tom directly, she found herself tongue-tied again.

"I'm, um, sorry," she said. "I mean to say, well, if um … if you thought him rude I apologize. No, that's not right. I apologize. You don't have to have thought him rude. He was. That's just how he is with press. You can imagine."

"Politicians tend not to like us. Or the very rich."

Sybil looked down. "Well, I meant what I said."

"I wouldn't have thought you've read enough of my work to say such a thing. Unless you were just lying to be nice."

"I never lie."

Tom paused, unsure of how to respond. "Well … thank you," he said finally. "I wouldn't have thought—"

"I read newspapers?"

"That you've read me."

Sybil looked down. "I've always read the Guardian and several other publications to keep up with the news. I looked you up to see if I had read anything you'd written and it turns out I had."

Again, Tom wasn't sure what to say. Had she been checking up on his bother on her friend's behalf and checked up on him by extension? Or was she curious about Tom himself? He was dying to know but had no clue as to which was more likely or true.

"Anyway, I should let you get on," Sybil said. "I didn't mean to take up so much of your time."

"No, it's all right … I'll see you around, yeah?"

"Tonight," Sybil said.

"Tonight?"

"Jim invited us to for drinks at what he said was your favorite place."

"Jim invited you to Charlie's?"

Sybil nodded.

Tom wondered whether a tiny Irish pub would really be Sybil's kind of place. "I guess I'll see you tonight then."

"Well, if it isn't the Branson boys!"

"Hey, Charlie," Jim said as he and Tom pulled up a bar stool at their favorite Irish pub, owned and run by their childhood friend Charlie Lucas.

"What'll it be, the usual?" Charlie asked.

"Please," Tom said.

"Long day?" Charlie asked.

"Aren't they all?" Tom replied.

"For you, I suppose," Charlie said.

"It's true," Jim said. "You work too hard, brother."

"Harder than you two, that's certain," Tom replied. "We can't all hand out beers and frame paintings for a living. Some of us have to keep the public informed about their government."

Charlie laughed. "If only running this place were as easy as handing out beers. I've actually just hired extra help I'm so busy now." Turning away to the other end of the bar, he called out, "Hey, Edna, come over here and meet our favorite customers."

"Who's this?" Tom asked, his attention perked by the petite blonde with a pretty smile now making her way walked over, wiping her hands on her apron as she did so.

"Hello," she said.

"Get my boys here each a Guinness, won't you?" Charlie said.

"Certainly," she said, grabbing a glass from the counter and turning to fill them from the tap.

When she was done, she brought the glasses over and set them down. "It's nice to meet you both. I don't imagine Charlie has other friends, given how much he talks about you two."

Jim smiled warmly. "Jim Branson. This is my brother Tom."

"Delighted," Edna said, shaking Tom's hand. "Edna Wickham."

Chapter Text

"So, are you new to London or just to the job?" Tom asked Edna, as Charlie and Jim started in on their own conversation next to them.

"Both," she replied. "I've been here for about two months looking for work. It wasn't going particularly well until Charlie here finally took pity on me."

"Where are you from?" Tom asked

"York—well actually a little town just outside of it. Far too little to mention by name."

"So the true English countryside," Tom said, with a laugh.

"I'm afraid so. Inhabited only by the very posh, and the poor souls who must serve them. Guess which lot I was born into? The assholes my parents worked for were especially patronizing, too, and would absolutely not let me live my own life. Sometimes, you just have to do your own thing, you know?"

"Well, you made it out," Tom said, raising his Guinness. "Here's to that."

"That's a lovely toast, thank you. And I would join you if it weren't my first day on the job. I've learned to wait at least a day before I start bending the rules." She winked at him as she spoke, and Tom smiled at her easy flirtatious manner.

He returned her flirting in kind. Leaning in, he said, "Well, I have some pull with the owner so maybe we can work something out."

Edna laughed. "I like you, Tom Branson."

Tom smiled at her again and took another long pull of his Guinness. For reasons that he could not decipher, Sybil Crawley came into his mind just then. She and Edna were entirely different people. Edna had an easygoing, friendly manner about her whereas Sybil was always so stiff and formal and seemed to have trouble finding the exact words she wanted to say. Not to mention, the fact that Sybil was at the start of what was likely to be a great career, one made easy by her wealth and connections.

Edna seemed so much more like Tom, born into the working class and having had to fight for everything. Tom empathized with her immediately, to the point that it annoyed him that even after a promising first conversation with a girl he liked right away, he didn't seem able to get Sybil out of his mind.

"So when are we going to meet the new posh girlfriend?" Tom heard Charlie ask Jim enthusiastically.

"In about an hour or so, I hope," Jim answered, looking up at the clock. "I invited her to join us here tonight, so she could come see how the other half lives."

Charlie laughed. "Well you certainly couldn't get further away than Mayfair, figuratively speaking, than my pub."

"If she doesn't like it here, brother," Tom said, "then she doesn't like you."

Jim eyed Tom skeptically, "Well I wouldn't put it in quite such harsh terms, but I'm not worried. If she were any kind of snob, she'd not have given me the time of day to begin with. I think she'll be up for anything, including hanging out here."

A handful of people came into the pub, and Charlie and Edna moved off to help them.

Once they were out of earshot, Tom said, "Did you know Imogen intends to bring Sybil tonight?"

Jim shrugged. "She mentioned that she'd invite her—Sybil's something of an introvert, and if it weren't for Imogen she'd not get out much. But Imogen wasn't sure whether Sybil would decide to come or not."

"She's coming," Tom said.

Jim looked at Tom and raised his eyebrow in question.

"I ran into her today. I had to go to Parliament for a story, and I saw her with Philip Crawley. He's her uncle, apparently."

"Imogen had said her family was well-connected," Jim replied. "It didn't realize it was that well-connected."

"Anyway, point is, she said she was coming."

"Well, the more the merrier," Jim said with a smile.

"I doubt she'll like this place. Imogen is nice enough, but Sybil is a bit snobbish, don't you think?"

"You know, Tom, you really shouldn't be so judgmental."

Tom laughed. "I have to make up ground for you because you're too nice."

Jim laughed, too.

After another Guinness, the place started to fill up, so the brothers moved over to a booth away from the bar. Although she wasn't the server assigned to handle their table, Edna came over several times to chat with Tom, which he welcomed.

Finally, at about 9 o'clock, Imogen and Sybil walked in. Jim stood when he saw them and waved them over. Imogen grinned and bounded over to him, giving him a small kiss on the cheek and leaning over to do the same with Tom. Sybil was slower coming in, getting carried this way and that by the crowd. By the time she finally made it to the table, someone had spilled beer on her shoes and she looked, by Tom's estimation, to be entirely out of her element. Still, she smiled warmly at Jim, who had slid in next to Imogen on one side of the booth, leaving the only space for Sybil across from them and next to Tom.

Tom nodded toward the spot, urging her to sit, but just before she moved, she heard a voice behind her.

"Ah, I see your lady friends, have finally arrived. Shall it be another round, then?"

Sybil visibly stiffened at the sound, both unmistakable and grating to her ears.

Tom noticed that all the color had drained from Sybil's face and leaned toward her. "Is everything all right?"

But before Sybil could answer, Edna stepped all the way forward and noticed for the first time the face of the woman Tom was addressing.

"Oh, my God!" Edna exclaimed loudly.

Imogen gasped loudly.

"What's going on?!" Jim asked her quickly and quietly.

Sybil and Edna stared at each other for a long moment, until Sybil looked away, and toward her friend. "I'm sorry, Imogen, I can't stay."

Without another word, she was out of sight.

Imogen hopped up from her spot and followed her immediately, with Jim moving quickly to let her through, then following close behind.

"What just happened?" Tom said aloud.

Edna sat down next to Tom with a sigh. "You know the assholes I said my parents worked for?"

"Yeah?"

"She's one of them."

"You know Sybil Crawley?"

Edna laughed. "Know her? I grew up with her. Downton Abbey's her family's estate, the seat of the earl of Grantham—that would be her father. Dad was butler, and mum was housekeeper for them my entire life."

Edna rubbed her face with her hands, and Tom watched her. Sybil's reaction just then was not one of someone who was merely annoyed with having to interact with someone of a lower social class. There was clearly a story here. "Why would she run away like that, just from seeing you?" he asked.

Edna looked at Tom, as if sizing him up, but he met her gaze. Looking away, she smiled. "Guilt."

"Guilt?" Tom repeated.

Edna nodded. "The Crawleys were good to me when I was young. I have nothing but fond memories from my time at Downton as a child. It's only the last five years that it all went to shit." She took a deep breath, as if bracing herself for the retelling of it. "Before my parents retired, they promised that they'd pay for me to go to uni, as a way to honor mum and dad's long length of service. Sybil and I both wanted to study medicine, and I was all set to start the same year she did, after her gap year, when my father died."

"I'm sorry," Tom cut in.

"My mother began to suffer dementia and caring for her took his toll on him. It was rather sudden, and I was worried about what would happen to my mum when I was off at uni and how I would cope with the stress. I confided in Sybil, but she was always jealous of me—I was better in school than she was—so she convinced her parents to institutionalize my mum and use the money they'd promised me to pay for her care. In a rare moment of lucidity, mum granted them power of attorney, so I wasn't allowed to make any decisions as her next of kin. That was heartbreaking enough on its own, but I still had our house. I thought I could sell it and use that to pay for my studies, but when I tried, the family pointed out that they'd sold the house—which was on the estate—to my parents on the condition that the family have right of first refusal if it was ever sold. They offered next to nothing for it, but when I threatened to sue them, they pointed out that it was mum's name on the title, not mine. And having power of attorney, all they had to do was deed over the property back to themselves. I got nothing. A lifetime of my parents work, and nothing! I finally left after all that mess was done and now I'm here, and here she is to torment me again. I'd be in medical school right now, if it weren't for Sybil."

Tom was floored, his emotions hovering somewhere between outrage and disbelief. Before he could get a word out, Jim came back, obviously crestfallen.

"They've gone home," he said as he plopped back down into his seat.

"Are you all right?" Tom asked.

"I don't know why but I sort of got the impression that this is the end for Imogen and me."

Tom sighed, still angry on Edna's behalf. "Forgive me, brother, for saying it, but I'm getting the impression you dodged a major bullet."

Chapter Text

A week later.

"Branson!"

Tom looked up from his desk to see the political editor motioning for Tom to follow him into his office. Tom was a general assignment reporter and had been for about three years since he'd joined the staff. He enjoyed getting to cover a variety of stories, but he also knew that he needed to find a niche. He loved politics, but it was a tough beat and there was plenty of competition in terms of who got the plumb assignments. Ed Gardener, whose office Tom was stepping into, had a reputation for spitting up and chewing out novice writers. Tom had survived his gauntlet so far.

"I know you're working on the follow up to the hospital fire story from yesterday, but Sally's pulling you off that," Ed said, motioning for Tom to sit down. "I've got something better. I've got you booked on a train up to York. When you get there, a shuttle will be waiting to go to Downton Abbey—"

Tom recognized the name immediately. "Downton Abbey?"

"It's Robert Crawley's place. He's a power broker in the conservative party. Not a household name as he's mostly behind the scenes. His brother is—"

"Philip, secretary of state for health."

Ed smiled. "The very same. They're hosting a soiree of sorts for some of the movers and shakers in the party. Not usually the thing press get invited to, but they're trying to give a few newbies some publicity so they've planned a few public events and gave us two credentials."

"And you're sending me?" Tom asked, surprised.

"And a photographer. I saw Philip at a lunch yesterday and he mentioned meeting you."

"I'm friends with his niece—well, not friends, acquaintances. Not even that really. A friend of hers dated my brother for about five minutes recently, that's all."

"Well, whatever the connection, he remembered you, and we always seem to strike out in getting him to do a sit down. I was thinking you could play up whatever connection you had to see if we can finally make it happen."

Tom's mind was reeling. Philip Crawley had talked about him? He couldn't turn down the opportunity—it was too big—but taking it on meant he had something to thank Sybil for, which … well, he didn't like it.

"Train leaves this afternoon. Go home and pack, and I'll email you the rest of the details."

Tom nodded and stood. "Business dress, I assume?"

"Yes, and black tie for tomorrow night," Ed replied. "You have a tux, don't you?"

"I'm afraid I don't."

Ed took his glasses off and squeezed the bridge of his nose with his fingers, then said, "Just put it on your expense account."

Tom laughed nervously. "I don't have one of those either."

Ed put his glasses back on. "You do now. This will likely be the only thing you can expense this year, mind. I'll get the paperwork done and email that too. You'll be booked at an inn called the Grantham Arms, which I'm told is walking distance from the abbey. Print it, sign it and find a way to email it back before you get the suit."

"OK, anything else?"

Ed smiled. "Welcome to the political team."

A few hours later, Tom was sitting on the train going north wondering exactly how it was he got there. He was thrilled to finally be told that he'd get to cover politics full time, but he wasn't sure how to feel about the fact that his connection to Sybil Crawley seemed to be at least part of the reason he'd been tapped to take this trip.

He wondered briefly if he would see her there, but shook that thought out of his head quickly. He wasn't particularly interested in seeing her again. He knew that Jim had only heard once from Imogen since she and Sybil had all but fled Charlie's pub, and that was merely to cancel plans they'd made for the following week. Jim, being who he was, saw nothing in it and made every excuse in the book for why they'd left Charlie's so quickly. He was always giving people the benefit of the doubt. His unrelenting kindness was one of the reasons Tom loved his brother so much, but Tom couldn't agree in this case. Sybil had not only ruined Edna's life, but she'd also ruined his brother's chances with a girl Tom had started to believe Jim was genuinely in love with. Why Sybil kept trying to pop up in Tom's own life was another question entirely.

Checked into the Grantham Arms and knowing that the opening reception of the event at Downton Abbey wasn't until later that afternoon, Tom set out for the least expensive men's outfitter he could find. The village of Downton didn't offer much, but Tom eventually settled on a small locally owned shop.

The man who greeted him seemed about 100 years old, and when Tom mentioned that he was in town for the gathering at Downton Abbey, the man, who had identified himself as the longtime owner, gushed to no end about the Crawley family, their generosity and everything they'd done for just about everyone in the village. It was a different picture entirely than Edna had drawn. Apparently, there were three daughters, all of them beautiful, all of them successful, and one son, George, who had done a bit of mischief a few years ago but had since set himself straight and was now en route to a life of respectability worthy of the title he would inherit.

Tom didn't want to be rude, of course, so he let the old man prattle on while he took Tom's measurements—something he insisted on doing in order to find the right fit "the first time." Despite the annoyance to him however, once it was time to try on what the old man had brought to him, Tom couldn't help but be impressed. The tuxedo he had brought for Tom to try fit like it had been made for him.

He was so impressed (and so focused on the task of putting it on) that when he stepped out of the dressing room, he was surprised to find there was someone else in the shop. Tom first saw a young man who didn't look much older than his brother Liam, who was 22, standing behind a rack of clothes only a few feet away.

"I don't know why you let them get to you," Tom heard the young man say. Tom couldn't see who he wasn't talking to, but as Tom turned back toward the three panel mirror outside the dressing room, he heard her.

"I can't help it. I hear bullshit policy ideas, I have to respond. Bloody Tory wankers. I wish—"

Sybil stopped short when she stood up, having bent down to find something in her purse, and saw Tom.

"You wish what?"

Sybil blinked a few times, seeing Tom.

"Sybil, what is it?"

Turning back to her brother, who was looking at her confused, Sybil said, "Oh, um, this is Tom Branson."

The young man turned to Tom with a wide smile of recognition. Clearly, Sybil had also spoken to him about Tom. He walked around the rack of clothing he'd been standing behind and walked toward Tom with his hand out.

"George Crawley, nice to meet you."

"He's my younger brother," Sybil put in quietly, looking a bit embarrassed at having run into Tom like this—again.

"Tom Branson," Tom said as the two shook hands. He looked back and forth between George and Sybil. "I'm here to cover the summit, and I was told there was a dress code so … " He raised his arms so as to make obvious why he was at the shop.

"I wish I could tell you that you're in for a treat," George said, "but I'm afraid papa and uncle Philip aren't really ones for excitement. I usually clear out of town for the weekend every year, but Sybil—"

George stopped short, looked at his sister, who Tom saw was starting to blush, and then continued. "Well, point is I decided to brave it this year. I'm not usually one for politics. Sybil is the only one who is, really, other than papa. They're on opposite sides of the divide, though, so mother forbid them talking on the topic years ago."

Tom looked over at Sybil in surprise. "You don't share your father or uncle's politics?" he asked.

Sybil shook her head, while George threw his head back laughing. "That's nicely understated," he said.

Tom's brow furrowed slightly in a way Sybil could tell was surprise. It seemed there was nothing she could reveal about herself to him that didn't surprise him. Sybil couldn't decide if that was a good or bad thing.

Just then, George's mobile rang. He pulled it out of his pocket quickly, and seeing who it was, he motioned to Sybil that he was going outside.

Turning back to Tom, Sybil looked him up and down with a small smile and said, "I think this is the one."

"Pardon me?"

"The suit … I just mean, um, you look very nice."

"Oh!"

He'd somehow completely forgotten he wasn't wearing his own clothes. "This is a bit out of my element, but apparently, it's the house rules?"

"Yes, there isn't an arcane rule of 'propriety' that my father isn't keen on enforcing to the letter." Sybil had raised her hands to "quote" the word propriety, which made Tom chuckle in spite of himself. "I think he just likes showing off."

"This is probably old hat to you," Tom said.

"Sort of. I was forced to attend endless cotillions as a child, but not so much anymore. Work hardly leaves time for it anyway, which totally delights my parents, as you can imagine."

Tom chuckled again at her sarcasm, surprised that, now that she didn't seem a bundle of nerves around him, she was actually rather warm and funny.

"Your family doesn't like the fact that you're a doctor?"

"It's not so much that they don't like it as they don't think I'll go through with it. Like it's a phase I must get out of my system."

Tom didn't reply, but just looked at her, once again confounded by what he saw and what he'd assumed. Feeling a bit pinned down by his stare, Sybil blushed slightly.

Finally, she said, "I'm sorry. You probably just want to be left to your shopping. Anyway, this is a good choice."

"I think you ought to take the lady's opinion!" The shopkeeper called out from the other side of the store. It wasn't a particularly large space, but hearing him made both Tom and Sybil laugh. Sybil turned to go, but immediately turned back around.

"Listen, um, Tom," she began tentatively. "I was wondering, um, well, tonight …" trailing off, she scratched her forehead, laughing slightly at herself. "Would you believe that I can string a full sentence together normally."

"I would. It'd be hard to get through medical school otherwise."

Sybil smiled. "Right. I just can't seem to do it with you around."

Tom wasn't sure what to make of that.

"You'll probably think this is mad. I know I do. Um. I don't usually … anyway, I'm not really sure why, but … I like you. I have since we met. I don't know why we keep running into each other, but it's all I can think about every time I see you, and, well, I thought I'd just put it out there and, um, since you're here, ask if you wanted to have dinner tonight."

Tom blinked several times, wholly unprepared for what had just come out of her mouth. She's asking me out?

When he was so long in answering, Sybil looked down. "I'm probably being presumptuous in assuming you don't already have plans tonight, but if you do, maybe some other time or when we're back in London. I just—"

"You're asking me out?"

His expression was one of surprise and … annoyance? Sybil couldn't decipher it, but she could tell right away his answer would not be yes and wished immediately that she'd just left when she'd had the chance.

Sighing, she finally answered. "Um, yes … it's all right if you're not interested, I just thought … well, I don't know what I thought."

"You thought I would say yes?" he said incredulously and sounding rather irritated.

His words and tone took her aback. "Have I insulted you?"

"No, I just can't quite believe my ears."

"Just pretend you didn't hear any of it, then," she said curtly, turning on her heel.

But Sybil didn't make it two steps before she felt him take her arm. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm really rather curious as to why you would think I'd go out with you."

Sybil crossed her arms in a huff. "And I'm really curious as to why you think it such a horrible proposition that you have to question me about it!"

Tom let out a sarcastic laugh. "This is not about me. This is about you getting in the way of Imogen and Jim."

"What?!"

"Last week, you came to our friend Charlie's pub and were barely there five minutes before you turned your nose up and hightailed it out like the place was on fire. Imogen—who was clearly delighted to be there—also suddenly had to leave, and the next day canceled plans with my now heartbroken brother."

"What? You think I made her break up with him!?"

"I don't have to think! I saw them together with my own eyes. They were in love—or genuinely close to it—but once you see the kind of place we, and the rest of the normal world frequent, she follows your lead and now they're done. That was your doing and don't deny it unless you want to insult my intelligence!"

During his tirade, Tom had gotten closer to Sybil, but in her own anger, she didn't back down. "That was not me! If Imogen ended things with Jim, I didn't know and I didn't encourage her to do it. If she left that night, it was out of solidarity with me, yes, but that's because she's a loyal friend and there were extenuating circumstances that you couldn't possibly understand."

"I understand them perfectly," he said with a sarcastic smile that infuriated Sybil further.

"How could you possibly!"

"Because I know Edna. She told me what you and your family did to her."

Now it was Sybil's turn to laugh. "Ha! Of course, Edna told you."

"Yes," Tom said. "She told me that you ruined her chances to go to school, and that you took her mother away from her. You have no sympathy for people who aren't just like you and whether you admit it or not, that will always separate you and me."

"Yes, that sounds precisely like the Edna I know," Sybil said with a glare unlike any Tom had seen on her face before. "A heartless liar who lures people in with a nice little sob story until she's gotten what she wants, and then she runs away again. Everything that comes out of her mouth is a self-serving lie, but she seems to have worked her magic on you, so you won't believe me until you see for yourself. And you will because I know her, and I know what she does."

Sybil looked down and took a deep breath, when she looked up there were tears in her eyes. "Or maybe you are the man I think you are, and you'll figure it out before she hurts you the way she has hurt everyone else in her life. I'm sorry I wasted your time."

With that, she turned and left.

Tom walked back into the dressing room, sat down on the bench and buried his head in his hands. He was angry and frustrated.

Angry because he couldn't believe she'd had the gall to ask him out.

Frustrated because a tiny part of him had wanted to say yes.

Chapter Text

Despite the fact that his argument with Sybil Crawley kept playing over and over in his head, Tom managed to get back into his own clothes, pay for his tuxedo, go back to his hotel to change into his business suit, and make it on time to the reception he was meant to attend at Downton Abbey that afternoon.

After taking copious notes on the keynote speakers and talking to as many people as he could, he filed two stories. Ed was pleased with Tom's reporting the first day, but he continued to push him on scoring an interview with either Philip or Robert Crawley, and so far Tom had struck out on that score. After their opening remarks welcoming everyone, both men had all but disappeared, so finally, when the evening was over, Tom headed back to the hotel, stopping for a bite on the way.

He nodded cursorily to the person at the front desk on his way to the stairs, but stopped at the bottom step when he heard someone calling him.

"Mr. Branson!"

It was the concierge.

"Yes?"

"Sorry to bother you, sir. You have a visitor waiting in parlor."

"A visitor?"

"She's been waiting about an hour, sir."

Tom followed the concierge to small room across the lobby from the main staircase. There was a fireplace, a love seat and an armchair, on which Sybil Crawley was sitting, staring at the fire. Her head turned when the men came into the room, and she stood when she locked eyes with Tom. The concierge snuck back out quickly, leaving them alone, but Tom remained rooted to his spot.

Sybil stepped forward and held out an envelope. Tom looked at it in her hands but didn't take it.

"You're a journalist, which means you look for both sides of every story, right? This is mine."

Tom finally took the envelope from her, and just like that, she was gone and he was alone. He sat down in the armchair Sybil had just vacated, and opened the letter.

Dear Tom,

After I left the shop this afternoon, I considered leaving well enough alone. Perhaps that's the wise course, but I know that if I don't tell you my side of things I will regret it. Whether you believe me or not is your choice. Having no sense of what Edna may have told you, I'll simply start at the beginning.

The Wickhams have been with my family for as long as I can remember, so I have known Edna all my life. Very rare is the memory in mind of Downton that does not have her in it. In most of those memories, I dare say, I remember us as happy children and friends. She and I began drifting apart from the moment we started going away to school when we were 13. My parents paid for her education from the start, so she attended the same schools as my siblings and I did. I've always been something of an introvert and found solace in my studies, whereas Edna made friends easily wherever she went and began to pride herself on the social connections she was making. Unfortunately, those connections brought out in Edna the worst traits of the upper class set: a sense of entitlement and impunity, overbearing snobbery and a total lack of empathy for others. Edna grew embarrassed of who her parents were and became more and more rebellious and aloof, refusing to return home on breaks unless my parents paid for her to do so. When she got into trouble, she rarely faced consequences once people learned of her connection to my family.

Around this time, Mrs. Patricia Wickham, Edna's mother, began showing signs of dementia and Alzheimer's disease. Mr. James Wickham, Edna's father, wouldn't hear of anyone else taking care of Mrs. Wickham, so he moved off the estate and into a house in the village they'd bought years earlier for the purpose of spending their well-earned retirement. With my father's help, he also established a trust to ensure Mrs. Wickham would always be cared for and Edna would be able to pay for university in the event of his death, an eventuality none of us expected until it happened a few years later.

Mr. Wickham passed away during our gap year. Edna and I were meant to do a volunteer program in South America together, but Edna took the money she'd been given to pay for it and used it to party across Europe with her friends without bothering to keep in touch with her parents or with us. When Mr. Wickham died, it took us a full month to find her, and when she returned she immediately asked to be given the full value of her trust. When she was told the money was earmarked to pay for her university, she got angry at my parents, accused them of stealing her money, and threatened to sue them. Always averse to scandal, my parents backed down, went against Mr. Wickham's will and dissolved the trust in order to give Edna the money. While they were mired in the legal issues around that, Edna also fired the home-care nurse Mr. Wickham himself had hired to care for Mrs. Wickham, sold their house and put her in a low-end facility in York. Her parents' life savings in hand, she ran away.

I found out where Mrs. Wickham was and convinced my parents to move her back to Downton and sue for power of attorney, so Edna at least would no longer be tempted to use her as leverage. I was thinking only of Mrs. Wickham's welfare, but my parents were hesitant because they knew it meant we would be financially responsible for her for the rest of her days. Eventually, though, they came around. Mrs. Wickham now lives on the grounds of the estate, the only place she still recognizes as home.

A couple of years ago, Edna turned up again. Given that she'd squandered every penny she'd had, she came back with a story intended to draw sympathy. She began romancing my brother, who is set to inherit my father's title and fortune. She told him she'd changed and was finally ready to make a fresh start. With the sincere intention to help her, George gave her a large sum of money money to buy an apartment in Cambridge for them to live in together. Once again, she took the money and ran. Such was his heartbreak that he began drinking was arrested for drunken driving and dropped out of university. He finally put himself back together and started university again this year.

As you can imagine, when I saw Edna again at your friend Charlie's pub everything came back to me, and it was all I could do to keep what little composure I showed that night. Imogen knows this history and left with me in solidarity. Like Jim, she is unrelentingly loyal and kind. I would never have asked her to end a relationship that I know brings her great joy, but being who she is it also doesn't surprise me that she would merely to spare me, her best friend, a single moment's agony. I hope you may forgive her for this, and in so far as I have any influence over her willful spirit, I will tell her again that she not need sacrifice on this level on my behalf.

I told you once that I never lie, and all of the above is the truth as well as I can remember it. I hope, if nothing else that, whatever your connection with Edna turns out to be, she does not hurt you the way she has everyone in my family. You deserve better.

Sincerely, S.P.C.

Years of working as a journalist and hearing people tell stories had honed Tom's instinct about how and why people lied or embellished their own sad tales. That instinct told Tom now that that everything in the letter was true. He chastised himself for not seeing through Edna's now obvious lies.

He didn't know how long he'd been sitting there when the concierge came back in. "May I bring you some wine, sir?"

"Anything stronger on the premises?" Tom asked.

The concierge smiled. "Of course. May I be so bold as to suggest a glass of Jameson."

"God bless ya," Tom said, and slumped down in the chair with a sigh.

The following day went for Tom just about as well as the previous afternoon had, which is to say that he managed to do what he was there to do fairly well despite Sybil Crawley popping into his thoughts every few seconds. This time, however, the nature of what he was thinking about Sybil was entirely different.

It was now very clear to him that he liked her. A lot. He had since he'd set eyes on her at the opening at Imogen's gallery that Jim had taken him to. But overhearing her dismiss Imogen's praise of his looks had obviously stung him more than he'd been willing to admit to himself until now, and he'd taken every opportunity to talk himself out of not liking her to no effect. Even Edna, despite her charms and well-told story hadn't been able to extricate her from Tom's mind entirely. In his fight with her, he'd obviously tried to hurt her pride as much as she'd hurt his even though what prompted it—her asking him out—was now a prospect that he'd welcome.

In meeting after meeting, he listened to conservatives debate a litany of issues, introduced himself to anyone willing to give himself five minutes. And at every break in the action, he wondered around the areas of the house that were open to the public wondering if he might see her there. After the final afternoon session, he went back to his hotel and changed into his new tuxedo for the final event, looking forward to heading home the following morning and hoping that one of the Crawley brothers would manage to drink enough whiskey to agree to do the interview his boss so wanted.

From the Grantham Arms, he walked to Downton Abbey, which had been lit up for the occasion. It was an overwhelming sight, and for a moment Tom wondered what it would have been like to grow up in the shadow of such a place, both as a child of the family and as a child of those serving them. Edna had obviously squandered the opportunities given her, but Tom also couldn't help but wonder about the pressure she might have felt. Walking in, he took his press credential out and pinned it to his jacket, then proceeded directly to the bar. He couldn't get drunk, but one glass of whiskey would help take the edge off and get him through the rest of the evening.

After getting his drink, he lingered at the table where drinks were being served for a few minutes until he felt a tap on his shoulder.

It was George Crawley. The young man offered a smile and his hand. "Tom, right?"

"Yes, and you're George Crawley."

"Unfortunately, I'm afraid," George said with a laugh. "How have you liked Downton?"

"The village is quite nice," Tom replied. "I've not ventured much outside London. The house is … well, I was just thinking I couldn't imagine growing up here."

George looked around the large parlor they were in. "It had its good and its bad. Lots of nooks for an 8-year-old to hide critters to scare his unsuspecting sisters, but not quite as diverting once you hit adolescence. It's also a bloody freezer in the winter."

"You have three sisters, is that right?"

George nodded as he sipped what Tom could easily tell was just a soft drink. "Mary and Edith are two years apart, and Edith is six years older than Sybil, who is two years older than me, so Sybil and I always liked to joke that mum and dad's first set turned out so high maintenance, they went for another one who'd be easier to manage. We got that bit right about Sybil, but I'm afraid I turned out to be more trouble than the three of them put together."

Tom smiled ad his self deprecation. "You don't seem to be causing much trouble now."

"Thank Sybil. She pulled me by the ears—literally and figuratively—enough times that I finally got a clue." George paused for a moment, then looked at Tom with a serious expression. "She's the best kind of person, but not always her own best advocate. It takes time to get through the reserved exterior, but I think you'll find it's worth it in the end."

Tom wasn't sure what to say to that, but before he could formulate a response, George's face lit up. "And speak of the devil!"

Tom turned to see Sybil walking in their direction. She was wearing a modest black evening dress, and had the side of her hair pinned up on one side. Later, Tom would realize this was when he began falling in love with her.

"Hello," she said quietly.

"Hi," Tom replied.

Just then a jazz combo began playing a slow tune, and without missing a beat, George clapped Tom on the back and said, "That's your cue, Mr. Branson," and walked away grinning.

Sybil blushed slightly and said, "Don't listen to him."

But Tom, having already squandered every opportunity, wasn't going to miss this one. He held out his hand and gestured to the dance floor where several couples were already dancing.

Sybil took his hand and, once on the dance floor, walked into the circle of his arms wondering if her heart was going to burst out of her chest. They danced quietly for several minutes, merely looking into each other's eyes.

Sybil finally looked down and said, "Listen, Tom—" but was cut off by the buzzing of his phone in his pocket.

"Sorry," Tom said. "I should see who it is, in case it's work."

"Of course," she said, stepping aside.

But it wasn't work. It was a text from his brother Jim.

Sorry to interrupt work, but bit of an SOS situation. Call when you can.

Alarmed, Tom walked over to the side of the room, with Sybil following closely, and rang his brother, assuming all number of family emergencies. What he heard, when Jim finally answered on the other end was, perhaps, the only such scenario he hadn't imagined.

"Not sure how to say this," Jim said, "but Liam and Edna stole a month's worth of cash from Charlie's safe last night. According to the message Liam left me this morning, well, … apparently, they've eloped."

Chapter Text

"You've got to be fecking kidding me!"

"I wish I were, Tom. I'm not sure what to do. I called mam and da to see if he called them, but nothing. They're beside themselves, of course, and have no idea how we're going to make Charlie whole again."

"Does he have insurance that covers theft?" Tom asked hopefully, knowing from what Sybil had said of Edna and knowing his own brother, that whatever money they'd taken was as good as spent.

"That's where it gets tricky," Liam said. "He can only file a claim if he submits a police report."

"He should," Tom said without hesitation.

"Tommy—"

"Jim, how long have we known Charlie? Are you really asking him to look the other way. They robbed him!"

"I know, I know. I don't like anything about this situation. Liam was always wild, but never like this. I don't want to put this entirely on Edna, but I still can't believe she's a thief. She seemed so nice."

Tom stole a glance at Sybil who had stepped a few feet away to give him some privacy. "People aren't always what they seem."

"No doubt. Anyway, mam has asked Charlie to give her and da the time to put the money together. She knows Liam did wrong and deserves punishment. She just doesn't want his life ruined, you know?"

"But she wants you and me to give up our life's savings, does she?"

"Would you rather him go to jail?"

"Do you want me to answer that question honestly right now?."

"Maybe it doesn't have to come to that. Just get home, and we'll talk it out."

Tom rubbed his forehead. "Well, I still have some work to do here, but I'll try to get on a late train tonight."

Tom moved the mobile from his ear and, after a long sigh, tapped the screen to end the call.

His eyes met Sybil's when he looked up again. Seeing that he was off the phone, she walked over tentatively.

"I hope everything is all right."

Tom laughed mirthlessly. "The timing of your letter was nothing short of cosmic."

Sybil's brow furrowed. "How do you mean?"

"Our friend Edna and my younger brother have disappeared, taking a massive chunk of Charlie's money with them."

Sybil gasped and raised her hands to cover her mouth. "Oh, Tom, I'm so sorry."

"My family's trying to deal with it. I'll have to go home tonight."

"I can drive you back to the village if you'd like or—"

"No, no. I can't leave quite yet. I still have people I need to talk to."

"I wish I could help somehow."

Tom thought about asking her to introduce him to her father, but he didn't want to muddy the waters between them any further, and anyway, he needed to do that on his own. "Please don't worry. It's not your doing."

Sybil smiled sadly. "I'm rather wishing I'd said something sooner."

"How much sooner could you have said something?" Tom asked. "Really, Sybil, you've no need to feel responsible."

Sybil opened her mouth to respond, but then noticed something behind Tom and immediately grimaced.

"What?" he asked.

"It's my father. He's coming over."

Tom turned around and saw that indeed the man himself was walking in their direction with a look in his eye that was anything but welcoming. Tom sighed.

"Hello, Sybil," Robert said as he approached them.

"Hi, dad."

"Who's your friend?"

"This is Tom Branson. He's actually here to cover your meetings for the Guardian."

"Ah, yes. You've certainly been making the rounds."

This was as good an opening as he was likely to get, so he reached for his digital recorder in his pocket. "I left your assistant a card about an interview, but she never responded. Since you're here now, I was wondering whether you anticipate changing course with your proposed economic plan considering the fact that jobs numbers have stagnated the past quarter?"

Robert's brow furrowed slightly, not at the question, but the mere fact that it had been asked. Meanwhile, Sybil bit her lip as Tom asked his question, knowing that his father hated nothing more than an interview with the media—and an ambush interview at that. Impressed with Tom and eager not to get in his way, she smiled at him and stepped away, leaving her father no escape from the question lest he wanted to walk away with a reporter from a major publication while his recorder was on.

"Do you really expect me to give you any information about our rollout strategy?"

"You invited the press, which means you wanted the attention. I'm here ready to give it to you, but you can't expect me not ask questions. I'm a journalist, not a stenographer."

Robert smirked, rather impressed by the young man's moxie. "If you answer one of my questions, I'll answer yours. "

Tom shrugged. "Fair enough."

"How well do you know my daughter?"

Tom thought for a moment, wondering what he was after. "I wouldn't say I know her at all, really," he said finally. "We've met only a handful of times. Imogen Wilkes knows my brother, and she invited us to an opening at her gallery once. That's where I met Sybil."

"Lady Sybil."

Tom wasn't sure what to say to that clarification. "Well … that's the long and the short of it."

"No," Robert said. "We don't expect to change course."

"But aren't you leaving an opening for Labour to—"

"I've answered your one question, Mr. Branson, which is more than I've given any other reporter here. Have a good evening."

With that Robert turned and left. Tom's shoulders sank as he sighed.

Why did I have to ask a yes or no question? he thought to himself.

Still, it was a kernel. He made another round to try to get a few more substantive quotes on the issue he'd raised with Robert, and then called his editor to tell him what he had. It wasn't as much as Ed wanted, but, just as Robert had said, it was something. Ed gave clearance for Tom to leave the party, and type up his story on the train. Tom wanted to look around for Sybil to talk to her one more time, but at this point time was of the essence. Whether or not they'd see each other again was an open question.

After his late checkout and his train back to London, it was getting to be the wee hours of the morning before Tom finally made it home. Plopping down onto his bed, Tom reached for his mobile. He'd been texting with Jim on the train back, but the last two hours had been quiet. They'd agreed to meet at Charlie's at eleven to talk things out with him, and after that, they were going to meet with a private investigator who had done work for Tom's newspaper in the past, in the hope that he might help them track down their wayward younger brother and his supposed bride.

Tom tapped out one final message before closing his eyes and falling asleep in minutes.

Finally home. Please call if you have any news. Otherwise, see you at Charlie's.

"There they are!"

Tom and Jim looked at each other surprised to see their friend in such good spirits.

"What's come over you?" Jim asked as they approached.

Tom looked around and noticed all the activity—Charlie's two servers were setting up the place to open. "And what's going on? I thought you weren't going to open this week."

"Can't make money if I don't open," Charlie said, wiping down a table with a laugh. "Anyway, I, um, found out the insurance is going to cover me after all, so things are looking up."

"What! That's brilliant!" Jim walked over to Charlie and wrapped him in a bear hug.

Tom approached more cautiously, wondering if there was something Charlie wasn't telling them.

"Well, I'm so glad it's worked out," Jim said.

"Now, all that's left to do is find the little bastard," Tom added, also hugging Charlie after Jim had pulled away.

"Are you really going to hire a private investigator?" Charlie said. "I imagine if you wait long enough they'll turn up."

"I agree," Jim said. "I don't know Edna, but I know Liam. He'll be calling because he's out of money in less than two weeks."

"We have to find him because if we don't, I won't have the satisfaction of killing him myself," Tom deadpanned.

Jim and Charlie both laughed.

"Well, I appreciate the loyalty, mate," Charlie said, "but in all honesty, the theft was on her. She's the one who knew the combination to the safe—more the fool me for sharing it with her after so little time."

"I've thought since this happened that she took the money on her own, and he doesn't know where she got it," Jim said.

Tom sighed. "Both of you have more faith in him than I do. Let's just wait until he turns up."

Just then, Jim looked down and saw that his mobile was ringing. He started at it for a moment without answering.

Tom narrowed his eyes, curious as to who it was. "Aren't you going to answer?"

"Excuse me a moment," Jim said, almost absentmindedly as he turned and headed out the door of the pub.

Tom watched his brother walk out the door and turned back to Charlie. "Now that he's gone, you can tell me what really happened."

"What do you mean?" Charlie said, turning away and walking toward the back of the pub.

"The money—you don't really think I buy that an insurance company let you off the hook about the police."

Charlie stopped and sighed. "Can't you just leave it alone, mate?"

"Now, I'm really curious," Tom replied.

Charlie turned to Tom. "She asked me not to say anything."

Tom thought for a moment, and then it hit him like a punch in the gut. "Sybil Crawley paid you back?"

Charlie nodded. "Every penny."

"But … why?"

"I couldn't tell ya. She wouldn't take no for an answer, and I tried to say no, believe me. She insisted that she had her reasons for doing it. Honestly, mate, I think you probably know why better than I do."

"I don't know anything about anything, I'm afraid," Tom said laughing at himself. "But I'm glad you're going to be OK."

"Me, too."

Tom looked around. "Well, if you really are going to open today, we should get out of your way."

"Come 'round tonight, if you want," Charlie said.

Tom smiled. "Of course."

A week later Liam came back with his tail between his legs, having been ditched by Edna, who had not actually married him, but merely strung him along long enough to ensure that he would get into trouble too, if he chose to report her when he got back home.

By that point, all the Bransons—and Charlie—merely wanted to put the incident behind them and agreed not to bother with the police. She was obviously gone from their lives, and good riddance.

"Branson. BRANSON!"

Tom looked up from his computer on his desk and saw Ed Gardner running toward him.

"Why didn't you tell me about the interview!?" Ed asked excitedly.

"What interview?" Tom replied, confused and alarmed.

"Robert Crawley just walked in and demanded to see you. He's in conference room B waiting right now!"

Tom stood up. "He's what? He's waiting for me? He never agreed to give me a proper interview, and he certainly didn't tell me he was coming here."

"Well, never mind all that. He's here now, so let's take advantage."

Tom put his recorder in his pocket, then grabbed his pen and reporter's pad and followed Ed back to the glass-walled conference room where, indeed, Robert was sitting alone with an inscrutable expression on his face.

Ed opened the door and motioned for Tom to walk through.

"Aren't you coming in?" Tom asked Ed.

"I asked to speak to you privately," Robert said, standing up.

Tom stepped in and heard the door close behind him. "Lord Grantham," he said.

"Do you know why I'm here?" Robert asked.

"To be honest, sir, I haven't the foggiest idea."

"When we met at my home you told me you weren't well acquainted with my daughter."

"Yes, that's more or less true."

"More or less?"

"I'm not sure what you're asking me."

"My accountant alerted me to the fact that she withdrew a not insignificant sum from one of her accounts earlier this week. When I looked into what she used it for, I wondered if you were telling the truth. Do you know what I'm talking about?"

"I do, but I was not lying when we spoke last."

"So you didn't ask her to pay off Charlie Lucas so he didn't press charges against you brother."

Tom's back stiffened. "No."

"And you're not … involved."

It was all Tom could do not to roll his eyes. "I haven't seen Syb—excuse me, Lady Sybil since I saw you last. We haven't spoken either. I know she felt responsible about Miss Wickham and the role she played in all this, but I didn't ask her to intervene."

Robert sighed. "I believe you. Sybil's been bailing out that ungrateful parasite her whole life. Still, I want you to promise me something."

Tom grew nervous as to where this could be going. "What's that?"

"I want you to promise that you'll never see her again."

"Excuse me?"

"I don't want you seeing my daughter, and I can't control her decisions, I'm afraid, so—"

Tom balled his fists in anger. "What in bloody hell makes you think you can control mine?"

"Lady Sybil has a plan for her life, and she's determined to stick by it. She doesn't need further distraction from the likes of you or your brother."

"If she's so determined, then surely you have nothing to worry about." Robert was fuming, but Tom continued. "Now, my editor thinks you're here for an interview. If you don't plan on giving him one, then I suggest you leave immediately."

Tom turned around and left. Ed, who'd been leaning against a nearby desk perked up when he saw Tom come out of the room.

"So?"

"I'm afraid we're at a bit of an impasse. I seemed to have walked into a conflict of interest here. I'm happy to explain, but the point is he's not going to talk to me."

"Well, you somehow got him in the building, which is amazing in itself," Ed said with a laugh. "I've got photogs here now and our videographer. He either answers questions or we get some good footage of him fleeing the scene. I'd be happy with either."

Tom smiled, looking back at Robert through the glass walls. He was putting his coat on, clearly still incensed. "Have at him. I'll be at my desk."

As he walked away, Tom heard Robert and Ed talking at each other. Once back at his desk, he sat down with a sigh.

Sybil Crawley.

He was going to have to find a way to get her out of his mind if he had any hope of concentrating on anything today—or the next or the next. He looked over to the clock on his computer. He had a phone interview for a story in three hours and still hadn't done the research he'd needed to do. He put his earphones in and hoped for the best.

By the end of the day, Tom felt exhausted. He'd gotten all his work in and learned that Ed managed to get enough out of Robert for several stories that someone else from the team could follow up on with other party members more willing to talk. But now all he wanted was to go home.

He was packing up to do just that when he saw the news desk clerk approaching.

"You're the popular one today."

"What?" Tom replied.

"There's someone here to see you. This one looks nicer at least."

"Tell them I'll be right there."

"Her."

"What?"

"It's a she."

Tom was a bit puzzled as to who it could be. He finished putting his things into his messenger bag and headed out.

When he arrived at the lobby of the building, he looked around and stopped short when he saw who it was: Sybil Crawley.

She'd been sitting on a sofa in the middle of the reception area and stood when she saw Tom.

"I'm so, so, so sorry," she said approaching him. "My father is an unmitigated ass. I can't believe he came here."

"Oh," Tom said, chuckling. "Please don't trouble yourself over that."

"Whatever he said—"

"Is not your fault, Sybil, please don't worry."

"He's awful."

"I don't know him well, but I don't entirely disagree. But, in any case, it's not on you to apologize. If anyone is sorry here it's me."

"Tom—"

"No, I've been so stupid. I wasn't particularly nice, then I was outright rude, and then the things I said at the shop. And even after all that, you … well … I'm still rather in disbelief about it."

Sybil smiled a bit bashfully. "He wasn't supposed to tell you."

"I'll admit he left a trail of crumbs, but I figured it out. There's also the fact that I haven't seen Jim since Imogen called him to get back together last week."

"I think that one was inevitable," Sybil said with a laugh.

"My point is, I should be the one making amends."

"You've not been as bad as you think, but I'll accept."

They looked at each other for a moment, and Sybil broke the silence, saying, "Anyway, none of that is the reason I'm here, actually."

"Oh?"

"When dad told me he came over here and said you, um, you wouldn't promise to leave me alone, well … I kind of wondered if that meant you'd changed your mind … about, you know, going out some time. I know it's probably a lost cause at this point but—"

Sybil looked down as she heard herself rambling, so she didn't see Tom step forward and didn't realize what he was about to do until his lips on hers cut her off. She sighed into the kiss as his arms came around her. When they finally pulled apart, Tom shifted so his lips were on her cheek and whispered, "Yes."

Stepping away again, he said. "I've got some time now."

Sybil grinned, taking his arm. "Me too."