And now, three years after beginning writing this story, having in the process written nearly half a million words, with most of them duly published, we reach the final chapter of this long tale. To set the record straight, for those of you who believe me to be Irish, sorry to disappoint you but I am English.

Some of you have asked what prompted me to write this story; the reason is quite simple - to give those of us who craved it a glimpse into Tom and Sybil's world over there in Ireland as it might have been, something which, for what ever reason, Julian Fellowes never did; set at the correct time in history and during one of the bloodiest periods of Ireland's troubled past.

From the PMs and e-mails I have received, I know that this take on Tom and Sybil has struck a chord with very many of you all over the world. Along the way, I have made some very good friends and my thanks go, not only to you who have read this story but also and especially to those of you who have taken the time to review it as it has progressed; some of you many times over. So, without further ado, here it is, the very last chapter of "Home Is Where The Heart Is". Given the angst of the recent chapters, I expect this is the one for which you have all been waiting.

With my sincere thanks,

The Irish Chauffeur

Chapter One Hundred And Fifty One

Homecoming

"I would swim over the deepest ocean, the deepest ocean for my love to find"

Not even bothering to return to collect his few, paltry belongings from his cheap lodgings near St. Anthony's Church, Tom caught the very next tram for Liverpool Central High Level railway station. On Ranelagh Street, while the tram was still slowing down, even before it had come to a stand outside the station, Tom jumped off, causing the conductor to shout at him in alarm. Paying no heed, splashing through puddles, dodging around other pedestrians, Tom fairly pounded onto the station concourse and ran straight across to the Booking Office. Having purchased his ticket, with the whistle for the train already having been blown, with his heart feeling it was about to leap out of his chest, Tom tore out onto the platform, wrenched open the nearest door of the last carriage and by the skin of his teeth thus managed to catch the very last service of the day, all stations to Manchester, by way of Widnes and Warrington.

As the train rumbled out from beneath the cavernous train shed, at this late hour, with the rain drumming heavily in staccato bursts against the dirty windows, with his thoughts in a whirl, Tom found he had the shabby third class compartment to himself and was very thankful that he did. Once having passed through a succession of smoky sulphurous tunnels, the train soon picked up speed as it steamed eastwards towards the cotton metropolis of Manchester. The darkness hid the drabness of the high retaining walls bordering the line, the ever-present pall of smoke from the numerous factory chimneys, the chemical works producing borax, soda ash, salt cake and bleaching powder, the foundries making copper, iron and steel, the cotton and textile mills, the mean, brick-built terraced houses, the polluted, sluggish canals and the flat featurelessness of the countryside.

God, Sybil, darlin'! What on earth must she be feeling, thinking? From what Tom had read in the newspaper in the Ship and Anchor it was only all too obvious that he was believed dead and with that realisation the full horror of everything that had befallen him in the immediate aftermath of the burning of Cork now hit him with the force of an express train. In the photograph, Sybil had been holding a baby! Their second child! The caption to the photograph had not said whether it was boy or a girl; had said too that Sybil was shortly leaving England, to take up a post as a nurse at a mission somewhere in East Africa. The article had not said exactly when she was departing these shores but had inferred it was soon and with that in mind, Tom now prayed fervently to whatever deity might be listening that she and the children were still here in England, at Downton. By this time tomorrow he would know if this was so and then, as Tom fell into a dream-filled, fitful, unquiet sleep, he would have been the first to admit that sometimes, gaps in memory can indeed be merciful...

Allihies, County Cork, Ireland, January 1921.

When, many hours later, he swam once more up through the mists of pain, exhaustion and weariness, thence to break through the shifting haze of delirium and into drowsy consciousness, he had no memory whatsoever of who he was or how he came to be where he was now; lying in bed, stark naked, heavily bandaged, washed clean and wrapped snugly in a cocoon of warm soft blankets.

He had awoken to find it was still dark, not the chill blackness of the night sky, but this time a hazy darkness, one of half-light, shot through with both shadows and flashes of warm apricot which might have been candle flame or else firelight, the air heavy with the reek of peat smoke. Even so, despite the softness and the snug warmth of the bed, weak as he was, he found this drift backwards into dull consciousness to have tired him beyond measure. Closing his eyes, he let himself drift back, hovering somewhere in the misty darkness that exists on the border between death and life, a cloying darkness broken by harsh shouts and punctuated with explosions, the roar of flames and rifle shots. However, a sudden, searing, sharp stab of pain told him that he, along with the man's voice he now heard and then that of a woman, were very much still of this world.

"With any luck, the feckin' Tans won't be bothering yous, not out here. To be sure, it's a miracle he managed to survive that fall at all. None of the others did. Thankfully for him the thickness of the bracken on that ledge, twenty or so feet down the shaft, helped break his fall. And then the explosions brought down the earth on top of him; cushioned him from the worst of it all, so to speak. Unlike his left arm, his ribs are cracked not broken, although from the look of him, from all the other cuts and bruises on his body, I'd say he'd been half starved and very badly beaten before any of this".

"Mary, Mother of God!" said the woman's voice.

"To be sure; I've set his arm and the bones in his hand and I've given him something for now for the pain. I'll be back in the morning. That said, he must not be moved. Not just yet; his recovery, if it comes, will be both slow and painful. All yous can do is watch and wait and say a heartfelt prayer to Our Blessed Mother that somehow he makes it through the night. And yous say there is not a thing by which to identify him?"

"No, doctor, not a thing; apart from this", came the woman's voice again.

For an instant, something flashed and glittered in the firelight and then he knew no more.

When next he awoke, it was once again to darkness and to the quiet of both lamp and firelight. He was still in bed, naked, heavily bandaged and warmly wrapped as before; his body felt stiff and sore, his mouth swollen, his left arm was in plaster and his right hand neatly bandaged. Glancing slowly about him, he saw that the room in which he was lying was but simply furnished, with rough stone walls, above him a roof of reed thatch, while beyond the foot of the bed a peat fire burned brightly in the small grate.

A moment later and a man and a woman came into the room; stood looking down at him, smiling.

"Ah, that's better; a lot better to be sure," said the man.

"How… what I mean… how… how did I get here?" he asked fretfully, plucking nervously at the blankets with his one good hand.

"Easy, lad. Yous had an accident; a bad fall. Rest now, eh? Ask questions later". The older man placed a comforting hand gently on his bare, bruised shoulder.

The woman and the doctor drew apart from him.

"Say nothing to him for now… about how and where he was found. In his present state, I think that would be… unwise. Keep him warm and quiet. If he wants food, then give it him, perhaps a little broth, some bread, a dish of tea; more if he can manage it. I'll be back tomorrow. And stay close to here. The Tans were back at the shaft this morning".

For now, he had no stomach at all for food and in but a short while sleep enfolded him in its soft embrace, mercifully veiling his pain.

As the doctor had presaged, Tom's recovery was both slow and painful, yet while in time with both care and loving tenderness his physical injuries healed themselves, he recalled nothing of his life before he awoke bandaged and warmly wrapped in this isolated cottage on what he learned later was the Beara Peninsula in the far south west of Ireland. Remembered nothing, thankfully, either of what had happened on that terrible night at the mineshaft, how by sheer chance he had fallen onto a bracken covered ledge which had checked his fall into oblivion, albeit breaking his arm and fracturing several ribs in the process, adding to the injuries he had already suffered at the hands of the brutal Black and Tans during his incarceration in an abandoned police barracks deep in the countryside of County Cork. Remembered nothing either of how, on the morning after what had occurred at the mine, three boys and their dog out rabbiting had chanced upon the old workings; had heard Tom's pitiful moans.

Immediately summoning help from the nearby village, two men, both former miners, had descended into the shaft and having contrived a rudimentary stretcher, along with ropes and pulleys, with infinite care, had gently and slowly brought Tom's battered body to safety at the top of the shaft. As things turned out, this had been done with but little time to spare, for but an hour or so later, so as to satisfy themselves that what had been done had left neither trace nor survivors, the Tans had returned in daylight to the shaft and thrown in yet further hand grenades. Fortunately by then, Tom had been moved at a snail's pace in a horse drawn cart to an isolated cottage belonging to the widow of another former miner; not that he remembered much, if anything of the journey; a brief glimpse of starlight and the moon diffused by cloud as very shortly he lapsed into unconsciousness.

A local doctor had been summoned, who had set Tom's arm and attended to all his other injuries, including his broken hand. Tom had then been stripped of his soiled clothes, gently washed and then bandaged The fact that he had been unconscious had helped the doctor considerably, although, given the extent of Tom's injuries, to begin with it was touch and go as to whether he would pull through at all.

When next he awoke, it was to grey daylight and the sharp pain he had felt had dwindled to a constant, dull ache. His mouth was still swollen and tasted of blood mixed with the bitterness of the sedative he had been given. The bandages that now wrapped him like a shroud had been well applied and a comforting, sleep inducing warmth flowed over him in drowsy waves.

Tom turned his head to see sitting beside him the woman he had seen earlier. Seeing him awaken, she had spoken soothingly to him, had wiped his forehead and then whether he wished it or not had brought him food; a nourishing broth which she had spoon fed to him as though he were a child, Tom yet being far too weak to feed himself. Gradually over the days and weeks that followed, with tender care and good nourishment, his physical injuries healed and he made a full recovery, although his broken hand took a long time to mend. For some time there was stiffness in his fingers but eventually this passed and all he had to show was the faintest of scars. Slowly he regained the use of all his limbs although to begin with, as far as walking was concerned, so weak was he that Tom could only manage but a few steps; as for his bodily functions, to his embarrassment and mortification, he had to rely on a chamber pot brought to him and then emptied by old Mrs. O'Sullivan who took all of this easily in her stride; told him that, having given birth to three sons, he was possessed of nothing which she hadn't seen before.

When he grew stronger, in borrowed clothes which had, he learned belonged to the woman's youngest boy who had served with the Royal Irish Fusiliers and who had been killed at Cambrai, Tom sat quietly in the warm spring sunshine on a chair placed for him just outside the door of the cottage and either dozed or else helped with mundane, rudimentary chores such as peeling potatoes for their evening meal. As he grew stronger he progressed to undertake a whole host of tasks by way of repaying something to Mrs. O'Sullivan for all the care she had taken of him: re-thatching the roof of the cottage, rebuilding the stone wall of the yard, clearing the vegetable patch and digging peat turves for the fire.

Apart from the doctor, visitors to the cottage were exceedingly rare, so Tom knew little of what was taking place either in Ireland or in the outside world. However, while his physical injuries healed, he still had no recollection whatsoever of anything before he was brought here to this isolated place. His oft repeated questions as to the nature of his accident were met with polite evasion or that was how it seemed; though Tom was assured that he was in no way to blame for what had happened.

Eventually, after some three months the doctor pronounced that he could do no more for him; said that eventually Tom's memory would return but could give him no indication as to when that might be. That being so, Tom decided the time had come for him to leave; he had no ties and nothing to keep him here. He would see where Fortune led him. Naturally, Mrs. O'Sullivan was very sad to see him go and on the morning Tom left, promising that one day he would return, she gave him the traditional Irish blessing:

"May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind always be at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
and rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand".

As Tom shouldered his rucksack, she followed him to the door where she kissed him lightly on the cheek and then pressed something gently into the palm of his hand. When he opened it, Tom saw that it was a brass button and which he assumed was from off a military tunic.

"It was in your pocket when you were brought here; the only thing there was".

"Then I'll keep it; maybe it will bring me some luck".

He stooped and kissed the old woman lightly; then shouldering his rucksack he set off. At the bend in the lane he turned and waved farewell.

"Wait for me. I shall come back" he called.

He saw Mrs. O'Sullivan nod her head.

"Of course, to be sure and I shall be here when you return".

Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, June 1921.

The Statute Fair at Downton, known to one and all as the "Stati" was of long-standing. It was held in celebration of a charter which had been granted to the village centuries ago, during the reign of Edward IV, in grateful thanks for the help given by men from Downton to the king at the battle of Towton, fought, in a blinding snowstorm, just south of York on 29th March 1461, during what later became known as the Wars of the Roses. The charter had conferred a variety of privileges upon the village, most of which, with the passage of almost five hundred years had now lapsed, but the holding of a fair during the second week in June continued.

The morning of the fair dawned both hot and sunny. Down in the village, as was customarily the way with events of this kind, the fair and weekly market both got under way early and were soon crowded not only with locals but also with visitors who had streamed in from far and wide to enjoy all the fun on offer. Downton was truly en fête and every where one looked, there was a carnival atmosphere: a riotous kaleidoscope of colour, the narrow streets made colourful and gay with bunting and flags and lined with all manner of stalls selling a wide variety of local produce; while on the village green with all its plethora of side shows and its brightly lit and painted rides, the Razzle Dazzle, Golden Gallopers, the Chair-o-planes, the swing boats and a Big Wheel some fifty feet high, the steam powered fairground was soon doing a roaring trade.

The noise was deafening, a veritable cacophony of sound with the steam whistles of the several Showman's Engines, three fairground organs and the Ripon Brass Band all apparently competing in an unannounced competition to see which of them could make the most noise. The air was thick with a pungent assortment of smells: the mouth watering savoury aromas of a wide variety of both food and drink: of freshly baked bread, of meat pasties and fruit pies, of toffee apples and candy floss, of ale and cider, to name but a few, all mixed with the sweetness of straw, the scent of freshly cut hay and the decidedly less pleasant fug of stale sweat, tobacco and the stench of livestock, poultry and people. Yet, with the mercury in the thermometer in the yard down at the Grantham Arms continuing to rise, there seemed no doubt whatsoever that everyone would have a beautiful day during which to enjoy the entertainments and festivities on offer; one which they would all remember for a very long time to come.

At Crawley House, even before the fair and the market had opened for business, never one to lie in bed when there was, at least in her view, so much that needed attending to in the world, after a very early breakfast, Cousin Isobel had sat down in her drawing room to read through the agenda for this afternoon's meeting of the hospital committee; set up to oversee and bring to fruition the ambitious plans for the Tom Branson Memorial Ward and of which, after what Violet acerbically described as a show of feigned reluctance, Isobel had duly been appointed Chairman.

Over at the Dower House, having breakfasted in bed and then risen at her customary and indeed a far more civilised hour than had Isobel, the Dowager Countess was also now seated in her drawing room and writing a letter. Usually, it must be said, she paid no attention whatsoever to the many and varied pamphlets which Cousin Isobel, always so attentive and kind in this regard, often left for her perusal at the Dower House. However, on this occasion, on account of Reverend Travis's continued disagreeable behaviour, Violet had made an exception and had read the one entitled "Mission to the Heathen" with considerable interest; this only after Cousin Isobel had happened to mention that in it a church mission, in deepest, darkest Borneo, where it was reported that there were, even in these enlightened times, both cannibals and head hunters, was desperately seeking a new minister.

Admittedly, lauding the praises of Reverend Travis to the skies had caused Violet some initial difficulties but in the end she was very well satisfied with her letter to the Right Reverend Thomas Strong, Bishop of Ripon recommending the Reverend Travis for the post in far distant Borneo. It was, the Dowager Countess reflected, only to be regretted that the same mission was not presently also seeking to appoint a housekeeper for the new minister; Violet had someone in mind that, in her opinion, would fill the role admirably. After all, on more than one occasion, Cousin Isobel had said how much she envied Edith as she herself did so like to travel. Of course, if the expense of Cousin's Isobel's passage out to Borneo then proved to be a problem, Violet herself would only too happily have defrayed all the costs of the one-way voyage.

Up at the abbey, having also breakfasted in bed and then been helped to dress by Daston her new maid, Cora had approved the minor alteration to this evening's dinner menu with Mrs. Hughes. She had learned there had been some problem with the intended sweet and in its place Mrs. Patmore had proposed, subject of course to Her Ladyship's approval, substituting one of her famous trifles. The countess of Grantham had readily assented. It was only after Daston's departure downstairs that, sat in front of her dressing table, Cora had reflected on just how much darling Tom had always so much enjoyed Mrs. Patmore's celebrated trifle. At the recollection of times past, Cora's eyes had misted with tears. However, she immediately did her very best to compose herself as, in Robert's absence, as countess of Grantham, later this morning, at eleven o'clock precisely, the pleasant duty of presiding over the formal opening of this year's fête had fallen upon her shoulders.

With Mary's pregnancy now well advanced she had to give up riding. Just along the corridor from her mother's bedroom, sitting up in bed and positively devouring her breakfast, in an apparent and unexpected display of sisterly concern, when, with the promise of it being such a beautiful day, Edith had said that later that morning she intended going riding over towards Bluebell Wood and down towards the railway line, Mary had suggested that Edith might like Matthew to accompany her.

"After all darling, I know just how Matthew likes to ride but with me out of the race so to speak, at least for the time being, well… And, in any case, you'd be really doing him a favour as he tends to amble along at much the same speed as you do!"

"How kind of you!" Edith exclaimed, not bothering to make any attempt to sheath her sarcasm and reflecting, briefly, that some things never changed.

At that, Mary had flashed her younger sister a brilliant smile and immediately resumed consuming her breakfast with indecent relish; the smell of kippers permeating the bedroom and threatening to turn Edith's stomach for, as Mary's pregnancy had steadily advanced, she had developed a positive craving for them, so much so that Matthew had suggested it might be easier if they moved over to Whitby where kippers were produced in abundance; at least for the duration of her pregnancy. Mary had not been amused and promptly banished Matthew to the bed in his dressing room. Now, with the smell of kippers threatening to overwhelm her, Edith had smiled wanly, hurriedly left her sister's bedroom and made her way down the stairs to the dining room.

Almost at the very top of the house, in the day nursery, Sybil had already been up and about for several hours first feeding and then bathing Saiorse, thereafter sitting with little Danny while he ate his breakfast before playing with him and then helping him to both wash and dress. Thereafter having had breakfast herself, having smothered both the children with kisses, promising the both of them that she would be back just as soon as she could, Sybil had reluctantly left the two children in the capable hands of Mrs. Bridges, and had set off on foot down through the woods, past the old garage and the now derelict chauffeur's cottage; to the Cottage Hospital where that morning she was to assist Dr. Clarkson in a tonsillectomy on young Jimmy Earnshaw.

As she passed by the old garage and the empty cottage, instinctively Sybil's fingers had reached inside her blouse for the delicate gold pendant she now always wore; engraved with the same words as on the reverse of Tom's broken watch and which she kept beside her bed at all times. A short while later, wending her way slowly and with some difficulty through the bustling, narrow streets of the village, Sybil reflected that later on, after her shift at the hospital was over, while by tradition the family never attended the fair, Sybil might just take Danny and Saiorse down to see what was going on. Of course Saiorse was far too young to understand what it was happening, but that little Danny would love it all, of that Sybil was certain and, it would be the very last chance she herself would have to attend the Statute Fair here in Downton for some considerable time to come.

Meanwhile, back at the abbey, in the dining room, having said good morning to both Papa and Matthew, studiously avoiding the kippers on offer on the sideboard, Edith had enjoyed a light breakfast of scrambled eggs. While drinking her tea, she had reflected that once Sybil had left for East Africa, in but a week or so now, she too must get away from Downton as soon as possible; away from the painful memories this place, her childhood home, now evoked and which she could share with no-one. When she had come to know him, she had grown to love Tom deeply as a brother; knew that he only had eyes for Sybil, knew that there could be nothing between them but all the same that did not stop her imagining in her mind what could never have been and, now that he was gone forever…

Nonetheless, Edith had acted on Mary's impromptu suggestion and had gone on to ask Matthew if he would like to accompany her when she went out for a ride and to which and to her surprise he had readily assented once, that was, he said, both he and Robert had attended to certain matters relating to Deepdene Farm and requiring their joint attention down at the Estate Office, after which Papa had announced that he was going out for a long walk with Isis, over towards High Beck Falls.

Below stairs, even though it was the day of Statute Fair, just as they always did, the domestic staff applied themselves to their manifold and varied duties, with the proviso that today Mr. Carson had graciously agreed that, so long as a sufficient number of staff was on hand at all times to attend to both the needs of the family and the smooth running of the house, then everyone would, at some time during the day, have the opportunity to go down to the village and enjoy the delights of the fair but at the same time reminding one and all to be on their very best behaviour.

Partly with this in mind, so as to keep an eye on what went on, the old butler asked Mrs. Hughes if she would care to accompany him to view the festivities and to which the housekeeper had readily assented. As far as John and Anna Bates were concerned, it was the first opportunity that they had to attend the Statute Fair since their marriage and the subsequent release of Mr. Bates from prison; the two of them were looking forward enormously not only to seeing what was happening down there in the village but also to being seen in public in Downton as a married couple. Out in the yard at the back of the Servants' Hall, Thomas heard the church clock down in the village strike midday; hoped fervently both that Mr. Carson kept his promise and let him go down to the fair at the time he had requested and that, just as importantly, the early afternoon train from Ripon was on time, as Thomas had an appointment to keep.

In the kitchen now that, through Mrs. Hughes, Mrs. Patmore had received Her Ladyship's approval to change the sweet for this evening's dinner being given for Lord and Lady Strathfearn, she and Daisy set to work preparing a summer trifle, creating a luxurious concoction combining layers of strawberry compote, scented with orange zest, crumbed amoretti biscuits, cream, raspberry jam, all mixed with sherry and topped with custard; although, it must be said that Daisy wondered why it was that Mrs. Patmore should have decided to make a trifle when there several other more luxurious alternatives. Taking advantage of her new status as Mrs. Patmore's assistant, Daisy said as much in passing to the cook.

Mrs. Patmore shrugged her shoulders.

"Heavens! I don't know, Daisy; somehow it just seems right".

Later that same morning, having had old Hartley saddle up the grey and the sorrel in the stable yard, beneath a cloudless sky, with the sun warm on their faces, with slack reins, backed by a bank of tall nodding foxgloves and low spreading periwinkle, Edith and Matthew drew rein up on Rylestone Ridge. The woods behind them were awash with bluebells while, beyond where Matthew and Edith now sat their horses, sturdy red shorthorn cattle and woolly backed sheep grazed contentedly, the land sloping gently towards the river, the greensward of the fields flecked with a vivid crimson splash of campion and speckled with the bright yellow of dandelions and buttercups. Down in the valley, the abbey and the village shimmered in the blue veil of heat haze and in the stillness of the summer's morning there drifted up towards them the murmur of noise from the distant fair.

"I didn't realise old Firefly had such a turn of speed!" laughed Matthew patting his horse's neck affectionately.

"A real dark horse!" laughed Edith.

"You can talk! What about Damson?"

"Mary said you liked just to amble along".

"Did she now? Well, as it happens, that's just where she's wrong!"

"Obviously; a bit of a dark horse yourself!"

"What, with my colouring?" At that they had both laughed out loud. Given Matthew's impossibly blond hair, to refer to him in any sense as being dark seemed utterly ridiculous.

"So when do you intend going back out to…"
"To Mesopotamia?"

Matthew nodded.

"In a month or so, I suppose, after Sybil's departure anyway. I must, don't you see…" she began. If Matthew guessed or even half suspected the reason why, his innate good manners meant that he forbore to make any mention of it.

"The house will seem very quiet then; what with Sybil and the children all gone and you as well. We'll both miss you".

"I'm not sure Mary will!" observed Edith ruefully. She bit her lip. "I'm sorry Matthew. I shouldn't have said that. What I mean is that I…"

"Don't apologise, please. It was something Tom taught me; never to be afraid of speaking your own mind; one of the many things at which he excelled". At that Matthew fell silent. "God, Edith! How I miss him!" Matthew's eyes misted.

Seeing his distress, Edith reached forward and grasped her brother-in-law firmly by the hand. Her own eyes shimmered with tears.

"I'm sorry. I don't know where that came from. I thought that now, I was over the worst of it. Mary tells me that there isn't a day goes by that she doesn't think of him. And as for Sybil, how she ever manages to… But then she has their children to help keep her from…" Matthew sniffed audibly. "God, what must you think of me? The future earl of Grantham blubbing in public!"

"It's all right, Matthew, really, it is. I miss darling Tom so very much too. I know we all miss him dreadfully, even Papa. Of course, he thinks we don't know why he does it but that's why Papa goes out walking with Isis every day, all the way over to High Beck Falls; so he can be alone and no-one can see or hear him cry".

Matthew nodded.

"I know," he said softly.

Below them the curve of the railway line glistened in the late morning sunlight and in the distance a whistle sounded as a plume of white steam marked the passage of an approaching train.

"Hallo. What's happening down there?" Matthew pointed with his crop towards, where in the woods close to Downton Halt, the passenger train had come to a sudden and unexpected stop. As they both watched, a man jumped from the stationary train, slithered down the grassy embankment and at the bottom vaulted lithely over the wooden fence which marked the boundary of the railway from the Downton estate. Behind him in an open doorway of one of the carriages a uniformed railway official was angrily shaking his fist.

"No ticket, I'll be bound!" observed Matthew. He chuckled. "Tom told me he once did something like that, over in Ireland, when he was younger. He didn't have the money for his fare, so close to where he wanted to get off, he pulled the communication cord and when the train slowed down, opened the carriage door and jumped off!"

"That sounds so like him!" laughed Edith. "Mind you, he…" She stopped what she was saying, gazed intently towards where, in the middle distance, the man who had just jumped off the train, in the act of now shouldering his rucksack, brushed back his fair hair from where it had fallen forward over his forehead.

"What is it?" Matthew asked.

"Oh, nothing! For the moment, I just thought…" Edith shook her head. By now the fair-haired man had disappeared from her line of vision and into the beech woods bordering the railway line.

"I suppose we'd better be making a turn for home," said Matthew but then oddly enough made no move to do so.

Edith nodded her head.

"Yes, I suppose we should. Matthew?" Surprised by her brother-in-law's inactivity, Edith followed his gaze to where below them the fair-haired man had now come out from the trees and having clambered over a wooden stile was setting off along the dusty lane which led towards Downton.

"Yes, sorry. I…"

A moment later, having gathered their reins, each lost in sad thoughts, the two of them now turned their horses for home.

Meanwhile, down below them, on the un-metalled lane leading to Downton and which he knew would bring him out close to both Crawley House and the parish church, Tom walked briskly on.

With the money that he had on him when he left the Ship and Anchor in Liverpool last night, Tom had paid his tram fare from the docks and purchased his Third Class ticket to Manchester. Then, because there were no trains onwards to Leeds until early the following morning, he had tried to sleep in one of the Waiting Rooms at Victoria station, only to find himself moved on by a porter.

He remembered that one evening, over a game of billiards at Downton, Matthew had once told him that it nearly always rained in Manchester and when Tom had been forced to leave the railway station, unfortunately he found this to be the case; there was indeed a chill rain falling. Not knowing the city and being unwilling to move too far from the station, he had huddled in the doorway of a derelict house for shelter from the rain. However, mindful of what was going on in Ireland, on seeing a pair of policemen slowly approaching his temporary refuge and thinking that as an all but penniless Irishman he might well find himself being arrested, Tom had hastily quitted the doorway and scrambled over the railings of a nearby park, where he had then spent the night curled up on the floor of a bandstand; narrowly escaping being arrested for vagrancy by the park attendants when they unlocked the gates early next morning.

Breakfast he had eaten in a cheap café close to Victoria station and then with insufficient monies to get him home to Downton, he had bought another Third Class ticket which took him onwards over the bleak grandeur of the Pennines to Leeds, making the exact same journey which he had made the year before along with Sybil, when she had been expecting little Danny; thence only as far as Ripon. Save for a few coppers, Tom's meagre funds were now all but exhausted. This being the case, as the train from Leeds steamed into the station at Ripon, there and then he decided to take a chance on it and without a ticket or indeed the means to pay for one, had nonetheless clambered aboard the branch train to Downton already waiting in the bay platform.

Had it not been for the over-zealousness of the guard, Tom would probably have made it all the way back to Downton but with it being market day and with a large number of passengers, the North Eastern Railway guard was taking no chances. A couple of miles south of the station which served the village, Downton Halt provided a more convenient place to board or get off the train for those living near the corn mill by the river and it was here, with the guard just about to reach his compartment that, having pulled the communication cord, Tom had decided to jump off the train. He had done, as Matthew had recalled, the same thing in Ireland and, if the truth be told, on more than one occasion, although quite what the earl of Grantham would make of it was anyone's guess; as Tom knew well, his august father-in-law was a Director of the North Eastern Railway Company.

By the time Tom reached Downton, the Statute Fair and the weekly market were both in full swing. Quite how he was going to present himself at the abbey in the guise of Lazarus returned from the dead, he had not yet decided. And then, quite by chance, while he was standing on the corner of Church Street, a hitherto unexpected opportunity duly presented itself. He grinned and beckoned the young girl over.

"No, I just thought…" began Anna doubtfully.

"What did you just think?" John asked curiously. They had been standing watching the Punch and Judy Show at the end of the High Street when suddenly Anna had turned her head to watch a man making his way along the street behind the stalls. Wondering just who it could be that had so attracted his young wife's attention, John had laughing asked Anna if her fancy man who was in town.

"Well, if you must know, I thought I saw Mr. Branson". Anna stood her ground and waited.

"Mr. Branson? As in Lady Sybil's husband?" John's eyebrows shot up.

Anna nodded.

"Obviously I know it couldn't have been but…"
"A doppelgänger then" John said with a smile.

"A what?"
"A doppelganger; a double, someone who looks like someone else".

"Yes, I suppose that must be it," said Anna, still unconvinced.

"Let's find somewhere to have something to drink," suggested John.

"Yes, let's," agreed Anna. At that, John offered his wife his arm and a moment later and they were strolling away from the thronging crowds towards the quiet of the tea shop kept by old Mrs. Willis on Back Lane.

In an alleyway, not far from the Grantham Arms but equally well away from the crowds and all the hustle and bustle of the fair, two men were deep in conversation.

"…but not here though, mate".

"Where then?"

"I know a place. There's an old shepherd's hut, not far from here; in the woods. No-one ever goes there".

"Well, if you're sure it's safe".

"Course it is. Trust me. The dark haired man of the two placed his hands on the shoulders of the other. A moment later and one of his hands had slipped lower, was fumbling with the fly of the younger man's trousers.

"Jaysus! Still up to your old tricks then, eh, Thomas?"

"Fucking hell!"

Instantly the two men broke apart; looked cautiously about them, but the alley was deserted and there was no-one to be seen. Obviously the fair and the market drew in all comers, including gypsies and bloody diddycoys. But, if he didn't know better, Thomas Barrow would have sworn that the voice he had just heard had been that of the late, lamented Mr. Branson.

In the very centre of the bustling, lively, noisy fairground, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes were standing next to the Eli Wheel, which towered some fifty feet above them and indeed above everything else here on the village green both permanent and transitory, the latter in the shape of the numerous booths, stalls and rides and which had been erected here on this spot over the last couple of days.

"… and because I think it highly improper for you to be on your own, without an escort, way up there" Having almost had to shout so as to make himself heard above all the noise, the old butler now jabbed his forefinger expressively towards the sky.

"Mr. Carson! What possible harm could I come to, way up there?"
"It is precisely so as to ensure that you do not come to any harm that in the strongest terms possible I have suggested that I should act as your escort".

"Very well. If you insist, Mr. Carson?"

"I most certainly do, Mrs. Hughes. I most certainly do".

With Mr. Carson having paid for both their tickets, Mrs. Hughes and he clambered cautiously aboard one of the twelve colourful cars and having been fastened in, but a matter of moments later, slowly, the huge spoked wheel began to move, climbing higher and higher, carrying them and its other excited passengers upwards into the cloudless blue of the summer sky.

A short while later, from the comparative safety of their temporary lofty perch at the top of the wheel, high above the madding crowds thronging the fair below, above the tops of the trees and the slate and tiled roofs of the brick and stone cottages and houses of the village, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes were, albeit briefly, able to survey Downton and its immediate surrounding from an entirely different and novel perspective.

"Master of all I survey," chuckled the butler; now quite enjoying himself at the extensive view spread out beneath them.

"Well, I don't know quite what His Lordship would have to say about that," observed Mrs. Hughes, patting the butler's arm and pointing to the abbey in the distance.

"Quite so, Mrs. Hughes; quite so. I wonder, do you think, before we return to the abbey, if we might partake of…"

But Mrs. Hughes seemed not to have heard him; was instead glancing intently down in the direction of where, half in shadow, a fair haired man was standing at the corner of Church Street, seemingly surveying the animated scene before him. He smiled broadly; an endearing lop-sided grin and beckoned to someone on the other side of the street. A young girl approached him, who to her surprise Mrs. Hughes saw was none other than young Emily. That settled it. After all, Emily had not started in service until well after Mr.…

"I'm sorry, Mr. Carson. I do beg your pardon. For a moment there, I thought that I saw … What was it you just said?"

"Are you sure you are all right, Mrs. Hughes?"
"Yes, perfectly…" began the housekeeper as the wheel now began its inexorable and slow descent towards terra firma.

But when she looked again in the direction of the corner, Emily was weaving her way back through the crowds towards the abbey, the fair haired man had disappeared and Mrs. Hughes found herself given to wondering if he had ever been there at all.

Later that afternoon, after a leisurely cold luncheon eaten outside on the terrace, with the exception of the Dowager Countess and Cousin Isobel who were squabbling, about Borneo of all places, Robert, Cora, Matthew, Mary and Edith sat contentedly together beneath the shade of the branches of the large, spreading cedar tree which stood on the front lawn of the abbey; all impatiently awaiting Sybil's return her from her duties down at the Cottage Hospital. It was but a week or so now until she left for East Africa which made the time they had left to spend together all the more precious.

Sometime later, when Sybil had returned, the tonsillectomomy performed on young Jimmy Earnshaw by Dr. Clarkson having been completed successfully, having had Mrs. Bridges bring Danny and Saiorse down from the day nursery, the family sat quietly together to enjoy the rest of the summer's afternoon. A short while later, Sybil saw Mrs. Hughes making her way towards them across the wide lawn.

"I'm very sorry Lady Sybil, I do beg your pardon, but what with the arrival of Lord and Lady Strathfearn later today, I almost completely forgot. Earlier this afternoon, while she was down at the fair in the village, a man stopped Emily - she's one of the new house maids, milady - although I'm not certain if you have met her. He asked her if you had left for Kenya yet, or if you were yet up at the house. The man said if you were still here, would she please to see that you were given this. The girl didn't know him, but I understand he was most particular about the matter. Apparently, he said you'd understand".

Mrs Hughes held out a small package, covered in brown paper, and tied up with string. "Then, if you'll forgive me saying so, the silly chit of a girl thought no more about it until but a few minutes ago. When she remembered, she gave it to me to bring out to you".

Mary and Edith smiled broadly at one another, exchanged knowing glances. When would their youngest sister ever learn to harden her heart? No doubt, another "thank you" in the form of some worthless trinket, from a grateful patient down at the Cottage Hospital in the village.

"Thank you Mrs Hughes" said Sybil somewhat absent mindedly, instead keeping an ever watchful eye on young Danny as he tottered, none too steadily, across the short grass over towards where Matthew was sitting next to Mary. Glancing in the direction of the little boy, Mrs. Hughes smiled and then set off back across the lawn towards the abbey. Behind her, now having reached Matthew, the little boy stopped, looked up at him questioningly, and, to save himself from falling, firmly grasped hold of Matthew's right knee.

"Da da" said the little boy looking steadfastly at Matthew.

"I don't think so" said Mary with a laugh. She took a sip of cool lemonade. "No, Danny, this is your Uncle Matthew". Looking down at the little boy, Mary gasped out loud. How on earth could Sybil ever look at him without thinking of darling Tom? Why Danny's the splitting image of him, thought Mary. Fair hair, blue eyes, and just as sure of himself as his father had always been.

"Da da" said the little boy again. And this time, everyone laughed, even Papa.

Then, from somewhere far off, away on the distant horizon, came the first faint rumble of thunder and the odd flash of lightning.

"I think we'll all do better indoors" said Cora. "There's a storm coming. It's such a shame, what with the fair".

"A while yet, perhaps an hour so before it reaches us all here; it would be a shame not to continue to enjoy this patch of good weather, but agreed," said Robert folding his copy of the Times newspaper.

"Well," said Matthew, making to get up, "Robert, I really ought to go through the lease of Deepdene Farm we were looking at earlier this morning and before we change for dinner. You don't mind, do you Mary?"

"No, of course not. As it happens, I've a couple of letters I really ought to write too".

"May I make use of your study, Robert?" asked Matthew.
"Of course, my boy; it's kind of you to do so, but there's really no need to ask," said Robert.

"Aren't you going to open the present from your unknown admirer, Sybil?" asked Edith grinning mischievously.

Sybil smiled and then laughed.

It was good to hear her do so thought Mary. She would miss her dreadfully when she had gone. Of course, there would be periods of annual leave when, if she wanted, Sybil could return home here to England and to Downton but it wouldn't ever be the same and she knew too that both Papa and Mama would miss Danny and Saiorse terribly.

"All right, if you insist! Mind you, these days, I've only got one admirer, Edith and presently, it looks as though he's deserted me for his Uncle Matthew!" exclaimed Sybil.

By now, Matthew had picked up young Danny, cradling him tightly in his arms, and was swinging him back and forth to Danny's obvious enjoyment, the little boy gurgling with delight. The scene played out before her tore at Sybil's heart. She felt her eyes began to water with unbidden tears. If only my darling Tom …

Meanwhile, watching Matthew playing with Danny playing, suddenly mindful of the child she was carrying, in an entirely unconscious gesture, Mary rested her right hand tenderly across her gently swelling stomach. God willing, in a few months, Matthew would make a wonderful father.

Something, she never knew what, now compelled Sybil to look up above her, to where the thick over arching branches of the huge cedar tree hung motionless in the heavy air of the hot June afternoon. By now, the sky had darkened ominously and there was not a breath of wind; the calm before the breaking storm. As a child, even when she was older, thunderstorms had always frightened Sybil. The only time they had never done so was when Tom had been there to calm her fears, to protect her, to enfold her in his comforting strong arms. So, why, with the storm now fast approaching, did she feel so safe, so utterly unafraid?

Then, if only for a moment, it seemed to Sybil that a slight breath of wind, little more than the whisper of a sigh, passed gently through the still, dark greenery high above her head. And, in its wake there came, she thought, a soft murmur; like someone gently plucking at the strings of a harp.

To try and distract her thoughts from what might once have been and now seemingly never could be, ever so slowly, Sybil began to untie the string and un-wrap the brown paper from round the little package, to disclose within a small cardboard box. Lifting the lid, everyone heard her rapid intake of breath, heard her gasp in amazement at the contents. But of them all, only Edith saw that suddenly Sybil had turned very pale.

"Why Sybil, darling, what is it? Whatever is the matter?" asked her mother leaning forward from her wicker chair.

"Sybil, darling..." began Edith

But, Sybil didn't answer either of them.

Instead, completely oblivious to their presence, her face chalk white, Sybil rose slowly to her feet. About her, all manner of sounds, birdsong, the voices of her parents, of her sisters, of Matthew, of granny and Cousin Isobel still arguing about Borneo, even Danny's childish babblings, seemed suddenly to have faded into silence.

In an entirely spontaneous gesture, unconsciously recalling one she had once made with her lace shawl so very long ago in a lamp lit bedroom on the far western shore of the Irish Sea, Sybil let fall the little box. Encumbered as she was with Saiorse held fast in her arms, Edith reached forward into the grass, picked up what had fallen there and likewise let out a gasp of amazement when she saw what it was the box had contained. Having retrieved it, she handed the small object across to Mary, who also stared at it, completely dumbstruck.

It was a single solitary brass button.

From off a chauffeur's jacket.

Lying in the grass beside where the box had fallen was a small scrap of white paper. Instinctively, Mary now reached down and picked it up. Upon it there was no date, no salutation, no signature. Instead, slashed across the page and written in a bold firm hand, were five simple words:

Meet me at the garage

The writing looked familiar and then as memory stirred, as she recognised the hand, Mary's own senses rebelled. No, it wasn't possible, it couldn't... For, however much she wished it to be so, she knew that she must somehow be mistaken.

"Mary? What on earth's wrong?" asked Matthew sensing both his wife's distress and puzzlement. Mary said nothing; instead she simply handed him the scrap of paper and the button. A moment later she saw Matthew's own brows knit in confusion, trying to make sense of the inexplicable. She could see him thinking the same as she had done. No, it can't possibly be...

However, before Matthew could say anything to her, beside him, Robert had risen unexpectedly to his feet, was staring incredulously across the lawn, disbelieving the evidence of his own eyes. Cora too was now standing. Her hand had flown to her throat and her eyes were glistening with tears. Seeing what her parents had seen, with Saiorse in her arms, her eyes brimming, Edith made to start forward, then felt her mother's gently restraining hand upon her arm. She paused, looked sideways at her mother and nodded her head. She had understood and for the moment remained standing exactly where she was. Beside her Mary turned in spellbound wonderment to Matthew and then pointed excitedly across the lawn. There was no need; Matthew had seen too, was beaming broadly, seemingly unable to speak, nodding his head enthusiastically. Beside them, even though they were still seated, both the Dowager Countess and Cousin Isobel were now smiling, exchanged knowing, meaningful glances and were also privy to what then happened.

As he stepped out from beneath the cover of the ancient, over arching trees and onto the wide expanse of lawn in front of the great house, he saw her.

His Sybil.

At that very moment, some sixth sense compelled her to turn, and as she did so, she saw him, standing at the edge of the trees by the overgrown path which led down to the old garage. As it often did, his fair hair had fallen forward over his forehead; something which made him look so young and vulnerable. He swept it back with his hand and then did something which always melted her heart; he smiled his endearing lop-sided grin.

Her Tom.

He spoke her name.

Sybil then let out a cry that must have been heard by Mrs. Hughes and all those of the domestic staff here at the abbey, by others now down in the village enjoying the delights of the fair, by John and Anna Bates in old Mrs. Willis's tea room in Back Lane, by the gaggle of old regulars propping up the public bar in the Grantham Arms, by Reverend Travis as he stepped out of his rectory on Church Street lost in thought over what a gypsy he had encountered in the street had told him, that shortly he would be embarking on a very long journey; doubtless even too by Dr. Clarkson as he went about his afternoon rounds at the Cottage Hospital.

And then, then Sybil was running, running like the wind towards him, straight across the lawn, her feet scarcely seeming even to touch the grass, her arms outstretched, open wide. As she reached him, at the very last minute, she tripped, but Tom was quicker, catching her, enfolding her slim body in his strong arms, laughing, holding her close as in her dreams, caressing her, covering her face with kisses. Sybil seemed to have no need of words; content just to be caressed, to be kissed and to be held. Her slender arms went up tightly around Tom's neck, swiftly pulling his face down to meet hers in a deep and lingering kiss.

Moments later, as all the family now reached them, it was Sybil who broke free first placing her hand over Tom's heart as if to hold him there.

"Wait," she said and smiled and as she turned, Edith was already beside her, happily holding out Saiorse. Sybil reached for the little girl and turning back to Tom now placed his daughter in his arms. Held fast by Matthew, young Danny now stretched out his hands towards his father.

"Dada".

Tom grinned at his little son while continuing to study his daughter.

"Did you ever doubt me?" he asked.

"No, never!" said Sybil.

His hand sought hers. Their fingers touched, interlaced. He grinned broadly.

"I don't suppose..."

The End

Author's Note:

The quotation at the beginning of the chapter is a line from the well-know Irish folk song "Carrickfergus". While its origins remain unclear, it has been traced to an eighteenth century song "There was a Noblewoman" which, given Sybil's antecedents somehow makes it rather appropriate. A fine instrumental version of this haunting tune played by Felicity Strings (I have no connection to the group) can be found on the Internet.

Bishop Thomas Strong (1861-1944) was bishop of Ripon 1920-25.