Downton Abbey 1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Marfa, Texas: Summer 1921

The sun had always had a warming effect, but neither of them had known the terrible heat that it could produce before now. It hung in the sky, pure white and unmoving. There were no clouds, only a stagnant blue that stretched on from earth to eternity. A high wind rose from the mountains and flattened the plains—the desert was dry, deathly hot in the day and freezing at night. The sky was so huge and clear one felt as though they could make a misstep and fall off the face of the earth, drift into the cosmos. Sybil sat on the porch of their small clapboard house and starred out into the distance. She could see, far and away, the silhouette of the mountains—a sign of life, the county seat in Alpine. She held Saoirse in her arms, the child dressed in a light linen dress. She was asleep, caught up in a dream. Sybil felt as though she were asleep too—that she would wake up and be far from here.

The persistent heat, the night's freezing, the strange ghost lights on the horizon—the land, the oil lease, the oddness of all of it. Their voices didn't match the land, their blood was too thick for the temperatures. She longed for Tom to come home, longed for him all day, until the night fell—she longed for him, as she longed to work again, longed for people and the rush and bustle of life, rosy cheeks in the winter, rain, the seashore.

They would only have to wait until the end of the summer to decide what they were going to do—by that time this whole excursion would be over, and they would be free to do as they wished. And yet being in the middle of nowhere, this strange and haunted desert, proved a wonder to them both. They'd promised one another that they would see the world, travel together—and oddly enough their plans were coming to fruition, but in unexpected ways.

"My beautiful darling, you've been far already." She whispered to her daughter, smoothing the mess of dark curls that framed her face. The child was a perfect mixture of she and Tom—so much so that the features were blended with imperceptible brilliance. It was impossible to tell where she ended and he began. If looks were like spirit they were in for life with a wild thing. In her first year she was as unbroken as a mustang—time would only tell what else would progress.

Tom drove the old car over the flat desert, Tio Juan and Mr. Garrett sitting in the motor. Dust flew up around them as they drove. Out here, on the open plain, Tom could drive the car as hard as he wanted to. They had only made it out of the swath of mountains, were returning from their excursion in Alpine. The county board of directors held their meetings in the only hotel within two hundred miles on a weekly basis—brutally boring things that reminded him more of Downton than the Wild West. Brandy was taken and cigars were smoked as they droned on about this detail and that detail, staying cool underneath a low moaning ceiling fan.

Tio Juan looked out to the North, his eyes treading over the broken ridge of mountains that made Marfa feel as though it were sunk into a bowl. Low shrubs bristled in the constant wind, surrounded by Opuntia cactus and the occasional Octillo. This was an alien world, to be sure.

He had the strangest feeling about what he had been told earlier in the day, and was longing to relay the information to his wife. Tom cut across the plain, driving the clutch into the floorboards. No one out in Texas was proper about his driving. He liked that about these people—there was a madness about them.

"Look, it's Daddy." Sybil whispered to Saoirse, coaxing her to wake up. They'd sat on the porch for the last hour, waiting for him to come home. The sun was tilting again in the sky and clouds were beginning to gather, signaling the end of the day and the beginning of the night. Out in the distance she could see the car winding its way back to the house, kicking up dust as it approached.

Sybil lifted one hand in an ecstatic wave, which Tom returned. They were tied together with a golden string—the closer they were, the more magnificent life felt. Lately, when Tom came home at the end of the day, it was as though they were both returning to their real lives. Everything else felt imaginary.


	2. Chapter 2

Note: All canon items come directly from D.A. and ARCurren's "Lost Time". I have done a lot of research with this story (which will come out later!). It is starting out slow but will be building up—mostly dealing with Tom and whose paper he is working for—and the politics that go along with it. At this point things are still in the beginning, but I can promise scandal in the futur. The time period is non-linear and will take us back in forth between places in America and abroad as well. This is my attempt to preserve the Sybil and Tom that wanted to fight for human rights and their principles. Enjoy and please comment! It gives me steam to write, and God knows we need fanfic right now.

San Antonio- January, 1921

"I never imagined that Texas got cold." Tom said to Sybil, smiling at her over his whiskey. They'd arrived only days ago by train and still had a longer journey ahead of them to the West. He sat by his wife's side, as intimate at two people could possibly be. Their chairs were touching only slightly, a hidden dare in a public place. Marriage, in their case, hadn't meant stagnation.

"Neither did I, to be quite honest. I don't really know what I expected. I certainly didn't expect hotels like this." She replied, taking a mirroring sip, looking about Tom. Her cheeks were flushed with the whiskey and her lips were unfolded into a radiant smile. Tom placed his hand over hers, picking up and kissing her palm. She turned her hand over in his, interlocking their fingers in a careful mesh.

The Menger Hotel had put in floor heaters, making the ground hot and the air dry—keeping out the wet cold of the January evening. The hotel was situated around the corner from the Alamo, newly restored. The streets were paved in cobblestones, and the cattle market came through in the mornings. The trains ran just east of town, a major hub in route to everywhere, it seemed.

The hotel's bar was dark wood with a balcony and a low ceiling. Big game animals were tacked to the wall with marble eyes that starred listlessly out into the void. A cow that Sybil had never seen before—a longhorn—was mounted ceremoniously above the bar. Its horns were like elephant's tusks.

Tom and Sybil sat at a small table on the balcony, overlooking the bar. Cigar and cigarette smoke rose up in blue and gray ribbons, swirling in the air. Sybil had begun to like tobacco more than she let on. She'd acquired a taste for it while nursing, sneaking a cigarette or two with Thomas, and then later on chain smoking with Tom's younger brother Liam. She removed her cigarette case from her purse and took out one which she'd hand rolled. She lit it, and traced a delicate smoke ring in the air.

"How are your articles coming along? Are there any break-throughs?"

"I don't know. I suppose I'll now more after we get farther West. I know for certain one thing—oppression isn't an English invention. The Mexican Independence war might have been won, but the struggle isn't over yet. I suspect that there is so much here to learn and understand. I wish I could figure out the Spanish language—I could read more of the papers coming out of Monterrey."

"I do too. All of my parlour French is useless. I feel like our educations and upbringings were constructed for the destiny of being myopic."

"Aye. We're raised with an ideological and nationalistic language that is expected to be transcendent but it isn't. But, then again, I suppose my Gaelic isn't too helpful either. I feel like everywhere we go there is the screaming gap—wealth and poverty, the chosen people and the scourge. One universal element in the midst of babble."

Sybil nodded. A quiet, comfortable silence fell over them—long enough for both of them to consider what they'd seen so far and what they might see in the future. It seemed longer than a week ago that they had been sitting in Sybil's Grandmama's parlor, drinking late night brandy and talking until the floor become uncertain territory. Now they were farther away from home than either had been— going out into the wild blue yonder.

"Love, can I get you a beer?" Tom asked her, breaking the quiet. He held an empty whiskey tumbler rattling the ice cube in it.

"Please." She said, smiling at him. "After the beer could we go up and get Saoirse and take a walk? I'd like to stretch my legs out."

"I would too." Tom said, smiling, getting up to fetch the beers. He planted a kiss on her forehead and made his way down the steps to the bartender.

Tom was feeling happy again, finally out of England and rambling. He liked America more than he expected that he would have. It was no revolutionary world, but it was freer than any other place that he'd been. There wasn't the same snobbery about money, nor the same polarity about aristocracy. The offer that Sybil's Gran had helped secure was too good of one to turn down—and too good to be believed at first. He was now not just Mr. Branson, exile on the run from Ireland at the mercy of Lord Grantham (what a joke that was) but Mr. Branson, journalist with the soon to be launched Detroit Times. He wasn't being paid by the article, either. He was put on as a real staff writer, sent down to Texas to begin covering the aftermath of the Mexican Revolution, the oil boom in West Texas, and check on some land in Chihuahua. He'd signed a contract that would keep him in Texas until the end of the summer—and then the option for international writing would be on the table. With any luck Ireland would be independent in the next few years, and he and his family could return home.

Sybil finished up her cigarette and stamped it out in her ashtray when Tom returned with two beers. They were both grateful that they'd found this bar in this hotel. It could give liquor to its guests at a "guest fee"—its imaginative way to circumvent prohibition. Everything they served was pretty bad—Mexican beer that neither of them could ever imagine acclimating to, home brewed whiskey that was nightmarishly acrid—yet something about the forbidden quality made it all seem that much more improved.

0

Neither Tom nor Sybil could see the reason for having a stroller—everyone in society kept one, along with a nurse maid and a governess. Instead they carried their child, alternating who held her. It was inevitable that she would soon be able to walk on her own, so the moments of carrying their infant were precious and numbered—to be treasured, not thrown away.

They walked the gas lit park in front of the Alamo Mission—an old Catholic church turned battleground. In the darkening night a quite a handful of people were out for evening strolls, walking beneath Pecan and Oak trees. Mexican women in brightly colored dresses were setting up booths, selling a fragrant spiced stew—it was called Chili. Sybil thought that was funny, because she'd never tasted anything hotter in her life. A band of Mariachi's played beneath a shop awning. In a few years all of this would be gone—swept away by the heavy hand of government bureaucracy.

Tom held Saoirse as they walked. She was wrapped in the blanket his Mam had made her and she was wearing a bonnet that the Dowager had given her as a going away present. What that said about their material culture of her existence could be contained in volumes.

0

Tom and Sybil were very quiet in bed—they shared a room with their daughter and dared not make a noise that would wake her. Tom hovered over Sybil, one hand running through her hair, the other supporting his frame. Their kisses had changed, had become finally familiar.

"Tá mé ag iarraidh craiceann a bhualadh leat." Tom whispered in Sybil's ear, nipping at her earlobes, running his free hand over her breast.

She could hardly keep from giggling when she heard the words. He'd said them enough that she knew what that meant. At least those words were transcendent.


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you to all of my readers: if you read this story, please please do leave me a comment. Nothing brightens my day more than reading a comment or two.

: I think that your stories are so fantastic and I am so excited that you have read mine. Thank you for the reviews!

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If anyone has any requests I would love to fill them—I have a core story, but would be happy to add more if anyone has any ideas, especially anything about the Bransons in the "Wild West"!

Dublin Harbor- November 1920

Tom drew the curtain over the window, killing the daylight. He wanted the room to go black; he wanted silence, stillness—he wanted to empty out his head and go comatose. His throat was heavy, a lump gathering in it that he couldn't smooth out. He swallowed against it to no avail; heavy salt water tears instead gathered in his eyes. Needles of light fell out the window—he couldn't make the room fully go dark. His eyes were stinging—and with a gasp, he was doubled over, his head in his hands. He didn't care who heard him now. He cried like a child who had been beaten, and sorely bruised.

0

Tom stood on the gangway, gripping Sybil's hand so hard he was afraid he'd crush her fingers.

"You have the picture we had made, right? The one that I wrote 'We love you ma' on, right? The one with Saorise in her little bonnet?"

"Yes Tom." Sybil replied, shifting Saorise in her arms. The baby gurgled and smiled, her eyes bright and dewey.

"And you'll have a picture made that she can send to us, you promise me?"

"Yes, darling."

"You'll tell her that I love her, and that I'm sorry, won't you? Please tell her—"

"Tom, I'll tell her everything. I promise."

"Are you sure I can't go down and at least say hello? Or she can't come up here? Is there no way? Is there really-"

"We talked about it before, darling. There is too much risk. You remember what my papa told us."

Tom sighed, his eyes going hazy as he starred at dry land. He gazed away from Sybil for a moment, Dublin within 100 feet of where he stood, and yet he was forbidden to go. He was an enemy of his country,

"Tom? Darling?"

He shook his head and kissed her, pulling his wife and child into his arms. He placed his hand on the baby's cheek, stroking it gently.

"Saorise, me little Irish rose. This is your home—this Ireland. Your ma is going to take you to meet your granny and your uncles and your aunts. Everyone is going to love you. Remember your da loves you very much and he can't wait to see you this evening." He tried to keep his composure as people walked by him, knocking him out of the way in their hurry to disembark. "You'll both be back by six, love? Promise me. They're shutting the doors at eight, promise me you'll be back. Bring newspapers, bring anything, please."

Sybil looked at Tom, and felt her heart break for him. His eyes were pleading—they had become pools of gray blue sadness.

"Darling, we'll be back by six. We'll bring Ireland here to you. Please promise me you'll stay on the ship—I know it's hard. I love you so terribly much."

Tom nodded his head and kissed Sybil and Saorise one more time for good measure. He had to let go of her hand and let her walk free in his home. Their home—he had to keep reminding himself. It will always be their home, and he would return again—it was the only thing that kept him feeling strong as he looked out at everything that he knew so very well. He held his breathe until his girls disappeared into the crowd.

0

Sybil held onto Saorise, who'd begun to scream and writhe in her arms as soon as they'd turned and walked away from Tom. She truly was her father's child—she'd taken to crying any time she was parted from him. Sybil didn't want to turn around and see the look in his eyes, so she charged forward, once again alone in Ireland.

She wondered if they hadn't made a mistake in taking a ship out of Liverpool. They could have sailed from Islay instead and avoided going by Ireland at all. In the end it was perhaps best—his mother and brothers could finally meet their granddaughter and niece, but the sacrifice of Tom's ability to relax seemed like a grand price to pay. She knew that he was going through hell, and it made her feel sick to her stomach. Still, someone had to be strong—so she dashed forward, struggling through the crowds.

0

Tom wiped his eyes, feeling suddenly very tired of crying and almost ashamed. He was a grown man, a husband and father—he was going to America, there was still hope. He wished that he couldn't feel, like the pull of the tides, the power of his home radiating on the other side of the ship. He wished that their cabin wasn't on the starboard side, he wished that on the other side of the window Ireland wouldn't be waiting, laid out like an invitation.

He put his coat back on and walked out the door, meandering through the endless labyrinth of hallways. It was his highest hope that he wouldn't run into anyone, that he could just wander alone. He and Sybil had written fervent letters to her grandmamma, begging her not to book at first class ticket. She couldn't be swayed, though she claimed that she understood their request. She insisted that the journey would be too gruesome with a small baby in tow, and held firm. Their part of the ship was like Downton upon the seas. Their neighbors were of Sybil's set, somehow connected to her through some social connection or other. He could feel their eyes on him when he passed—to them he was nothing but the grubby little chauffer chap that made the lunge for money, and had succeeded in seducing the rebellious younger daughter of Lord Grantham. To them, all men of his class were the same. They were small and insignificant.

Tonight, after Sybil returned, they'd be forced to take dinner in the grand dining room, where the seats were assigned. A staff maid would sit with Saorise while they were forced, like cows, to feed from the same luxurious trough. Sybil's granny, Lady Violet, had coerced him into taking a set of white's for dinner. He didn't have to change last night—after all, it was the first night of the journey. Tonight was different, though. They would be hitting open water, and with it the open social season.

Tom came to the stairwell that led up to the decks and sighed, shaking his head. He knew that he couldn't possibly go up there. It would be too easy to throw caution to the wind of disembark onto dry land—find his family, his wife and daughter, his old life.

Instead, he looked down the stairs at the sign that read "To Third Class".

He smiled. If he couldn't go to Ireland, perhaps he'd find some of it down below.


	4. Chapter 4

So far the story has been going back in time (sort of) and will now be taking up a new sense of order. These scenes are to set up what is going to happen later. This is short, but it is just a tease of what is going to be posted tomorrow. Enjoy, and thank you for all of the loving support!

Moa Osen

* * *

December, 1920

New York, New York

The man's face was like a polished stone, oval and smooth. His hair lay flat on his head, only a slight curl or two mussing his waves. An American Gentleman in the flesh, all tails and ties- but with the same kind of bite that a shark has after blood has been spilled on open water. He was every bit as sharp as Sir Richard had been, perhaps even more so. His American breeding hadn't given way to the guilt that the self made have about their wealth in England. He stood before Martha's fireplace, his shadow growing and shifting as the flames popped and cracked in behind him. Outside the streets were paved in snow, sticking to metal railings and clinging to the trees. He was like a Titan, scanning all of creation as though it were his.

"Tom, have I introduced you to the Senator yet?" Martha had a hold of Tom's arm and was pulling him through the crowd that had amassed in her house. Her yearly Christmas party had become a fixture of the season. Martha held onto Tom as though he would wander off, get lost in the labyrinth of figures that gathered like so many moths around a single flame.

"Former Senator, I assure you. William." He held out his hand and shook Tom's, with a grip like Eugene Sandow's.

"Tom. Branson." He replied, broken syllables, trying to hide the fact that perhaps he'd tied one on and was dangerously close to losing his ability to properly speak.

"He's my grand-daughter Sybil's husband. And a journalist." She added the last word as though it were made of glittering syllables. "Tom, have you read any of William's newspapers?"

William smiled from the corners of his mouth.

"Martha, come, leave your poor grandson-in-law alone." He teased.

"Nonsense, William. Tell me, Tom, have you read any of William's newspapers?"

"I can't say for certain, ma'am, but there is a chance."

"A chance?" Martha laughed loudly, making it clear that her state was rivaling Tom's. "I am almost certain that you've read at least ten of Mr. Hearst's newspapers!"


	5. Chapter 5

**I imagine that this story will become regular at some point. I really, really want it to. Every time I don't write it bites at me. A small chapter, again, but that will one day conclude itself, too.**

**Love,**

**Moa**

* * *

**August, 1921**

The bullet skids across the dirt, kicking up dust as it ricochets up from the ground.

"Shit!" Tom yells out, his brogue heavy.

Saorise let's out a wail, trying to bury herself into Sybil.

"Damn it, Sybil, go back inside!" Tom yells, not looking back at her. He can feel her behind him, like a shadow. It makes the gun in his hand feel like a losing bet. She doesn't move. Stubborn, always stubborn.

"Sybil, now!"

"Tom, no." She says sternly. A staunch character, this one is.

Tom sighs heavily. No use arguing. Just shoot straight.

He cocks the gun again, taking aim. His target is pissed off, and looks as though it will strike. He is terrified but doesn't want to show it; he just wishes it would go away.

"Saint Patrick, you'd better help me, you bastard." Tom mumbles under his breathe, and pulls the trigger again. The kickback on the gun is awful, and his target is once again obscured by dust and dirt.

It settles quickly, and he's pleased to see the that the serpent is dead. A diamondback rattlesnake. They don't have those in Ireland, England, anywhere he's every dreamed off. It's tail is shaking, even in death- a horrid, weird empty sound like locusts in a tin can. Biblical, almost.

Saorise is howling now. The gun blast seems like it is still in the air, too. A hot, dry swell of air rises like a sea of heat, and her screams seem to carry on it, stretching far into the distance. Tom hasn't lowered the pistol, his arm still locked, like a geometry equation.

"Dear God." Sybil whispers, talking into the the dark curls that rest on her cheek.

Tom finally lowers the gun and flips open the chamber, emptying the remaining bullets into his palm. He puts them in his pocket and turns solemnly to his family, his heart beating so loudly he suspects they hear it. He wordlessly extends his arm and approaches his girls, leading them back into the cool shade of the house.

* * *

The candle flickers on the table. There is no running water or electricity in the house. Sybil has read and re-read the letter, turning it over in her hands.

"How much money are we talking about, Tom?" She asks slowly, the words like molasses.

"I don't even know how to imagine it." He replies, scratching his face with his hands. Since arriving in Texas he has let his facial hair grow, and now his beard has grown long enough to make him look like a cowboy. Sybil's look has changed, too. The sun has made her skin darker, like a golden glow settling on a piece of shined copper.

"And it's all ours?"

"Every penny, it sounds like."

Sybil sighs, biting at her lips.

"Do you suppose that is more than what Papa has?"

"If your Grandmama is right, I suppose so."

"Dear God."

"That's the second time I've heard you say that today." He laughs lowly, shaking his head.

"And Grandmama doesn't want any of it?"

"Not a silver coin of it."

"I don't even know what this means, Tom."

"You grew up with money."

"Family money, yes, but not this. Not, this, my God- how much is $5 million dollars, really?"

"Enough to buy the moon, most likely."

Sybil now laughs wryly at that.

"Who knew that we were sitting on top of the Black Sea itself? I thought that we'd inherited a chunk of dust and cactus grass." Sybil shakes her head. She could imagine her Grandmama had already written to her parents about their good fortune. The letters were probably sent out together. By this time Papa must have found out, too. She can only imagine the look on her Grandmama's face, and the perverse pleasure she must have gotten from informing The Lord Grantham that his chauffeur was now rich enough to buy Downton ten times over.


End file.

Downton Abbey, Adventure, Romance