A./N.: FINALLY! I'm done. This is the final chapter for this story. Unfortunately I won't write another smut scene since this is still a T story, but I hope I deliver on enough emotions for this final installment. Thank you all for sticking around for so long and supporting me in my Downton-Abbey-debut. Now I can focus on my other stories and hopefully allow a few of my plotbunnies to hatch. Love you all and hope you gve me a final review for this story.

CHAPTER 55

Tom Branson came home cold, dirty, and exhausted after a work on the many tenants' farms. He simply wanted to wrap his arms around his daughter and remember why he was trying to help Lord Grantham to save Downton instead of burning it to the ground in social righteousness. At the moment it felt as if he and Matthew, before his sudden death, had been talking nonstop until they were blue in their faces about the merits of new machinery and bigger acreage as opposed to many small tenancies. Now, though, with Mary still in mourning, he was alone in his crusade to save Downton. Ensuring the survival of Downton was first and foremost on his mind so his daughter would know her mother's childhood home and he could one day tour the estate to show her and tell her about the unique person her mother had been.

Climbing upstairs to bathe and change before joining the family for tea, Tom sighed deeply and recapitulated the day's work. Robert Crawley was welcoming of some small changes like the Carson's new marital status and their living in a small cottage on the estate instead of in the Servants' Quarters. When it came to increasing productivity and profit, though, something that had no immediate influence on his personal life like his butler's marriage, he was adamant that they stick to tradition. Some of the tenants had no heirs due to the war or the better chances in bigger cities like York. The earl would have to change his tune sooner rather than later before he would find himself in front of the ruins of his life's work.

Neither Robert nor Tom wanted to see that happening, and so Tom would have to convince Robert of his innovative ideas. For tonight, however, he had enough of work and false pride among aristocrats; all he wanted was the peace and quiet of the nursery.

oOoOoOo

After a hot bath Tom felt almost human again, enough so to go in search of his child. He slowly went to the nursery, being drawn like a moth to the soft light emanating from the quiet room. A soft female voice could be heard, calmly singing a Gaelic lullaby. Only two other people could speak the Gaelic in this household, and somehow he doubted that Ms O'Brien would so sweetly sing his daughter to sleep.

Rounding the corner and peeking through the door, Tom wasn't at all surprised to see Mrs Carson standing in the middle of the room with Sybbie wrapped in her loving embrace. He was, however, fairly surprised to see Mr Carson sitting serenely in the rocking chair with baby George in his arms against his chest, slowly and gently rocking to and fro.

"Gheibh thu bainne bhuam (I'll give you milk)

Gheibh thu bainne bhuam

Gheibh thu bainne bhuam

Chan ann fuar ach blàth (Not cold but warm)

Cha bhi mise bhuat (I won't be away from you)

Cha bhi mise bhuat

Cha bhi mise bhuat

Mach air uair no dhà (apart from once or twice)

Caidil thusa luaidh (you sleep my love

Caidil thusa luaidh

Caidil thusa luaidh

Is na gluais gu là (and don't stir until daybreak)"

Tom's eyes overflowed as he witnessed the obvious love and devotion between the older couple and the youngest members of the Crawley clan.

"You have a lovely voice, Elsie," Mr Carson flattered his wife, eyes soft as he regarded her over the heads of the two infants. With a smirk both men noticed a blush spreading across the housekeeper's neck and face. Bashfully she hid her flaming cheeks in Sybbie's brown curls, kissing the child's temple gently.

"You flatter me, Mr Carson," she replied primly, voice soft and slightly unsure. "I'm sure you're a far better singer than I." Her eyes were cast down and to the side, not meeting his gaze but instead focusing her attention on little Sybbie, tickling her foot hanging over her arm. "I heard you in your pantry after … after we received the good news from Dr Clarkson …" she admitted almost inaudibly, almost ashamed to let the cat out of the bag. She hadn't even told Beryl about this sweetest of gestures, keeping this fond memory locked in her heart for herself only, knowing, as she did, that Charles didn't view his 'years of foolishness' with any sense of … nostalgia or contentment, but rather with shame.

Her husband surprised her, though – and Mr Branson still peeking through the door –, by chuckling warmly, reaching out one of his large, warm hands and gently stroking her hip. "I did wonder if …" He stopped talking. "I was so very worried for you, but I couldn't risk losing your friendship by declaring myself. I didn't allow myself to think you could love me."

"Oh Charles," Elsie whispered hoarsely, rushing to his side and leaning down to kiss him sweetly on the lips. "Love is simply a deeper form of friendship – and you had both from me for a long time." Again she bent down to kiss his lips lovingly. A disgruntled huff suddenly interrupted their private moment as Sybbie leaned back far enough to wobble precariously in Elsie's arms. She crinkled her nose at the kiss while her small hands possessively clutched the lapels of Elsie's serviceable black dress.

"Oh I know, I know," Elsie laughed softly, eyes twinkling kindly and highly amused. She then proceeded to pepper the toddler's face with tiny, feathery kisses. "You felt left out."

Charles chuckled good-naturedly, getting up to stand in front of his wife. He playfully scowled down at Sybbie, cowing the youngster with his imposing stature, then swiftly leaned in and peppered her with his own fair share of kisses, making Sybbie squeal in delight and covertly stealing many kisses from Elsie as well. "I see that the little lady demands attention," he jested, but sobered immediately when he noticed Elsie's sad, downcast eyes.

"No, Charles, she wants love," Elsie corrected her husband sternly. "The lassie's mum can't give her a mother's love and so we all have to strife to show her all the love we can spare her."

Charles crowded his wife a little, forcing her to step up against George's cradle as she almost involuntarily took a step back, seeing him tower over her. "I love both these children, Elsie," he assured her fiercely. "They need us more than their mothers ever did, and I love them as if …" He trailed off, biting his cheek and suddenly looking away from his wife.

"As if what, Charles?" Elsie's voice brimmed with false bravado, trembling around the edges. She had an inkling about what he wanted to say … and she wasn't sure if she could bear to hear it. Briskly she stepped around Charles, sitting Miss Sybbie into her cot with her teddy bear and then turning back towards her husband to pluck Master George out of his grasp. Instead of complying with her wishes, though, Charles refused to let go of the small boy. He chucked his forefinger under her chin, silently beseeching her to look up at him, then he tenderly stroked her cheek with his fingertips, a feather-light caress of unadulterated love. His aim was to calm her again and reassure her of his love, but apparently he fell short on that score. Elsie's lip trembled and she feebly shook her head, trying to break free of his gentle grasp. She was clutching the sleepy infant to her chest, a shield between them, an almost unbearable separation from her for Charles.

"As if they were our own, Elsie," he whispered softly, catching her in his arms as she collapsed against his broad chest, a strangled sob breaking free from her throat.

George, startled out of his peaceful trance between wakefulness and sleep, started crying against Elsie's bosom, clutching her dress in his tiny fists. Without conscious thought Elsie shushed him, stroking his downy, blonde hair and bouncing him lightly in her arms. Charles was struck by the soft, maternal image she so casually painted with the child at her breast.

"Do you really?" Her quiet question startled Charles out of his contemplation. She sounded so weak it broke his heart; he hadn't heard that tone since she had asked him if he had ever wished to go another way. Today he would finally answer her question.

"Yes, my love," he replied as he grasped her elbows gently and drew her back to lean against his chest, the child cradled between their bodies. "I often dream of what our own children would have been like … oh Elsie, do you never wish we had had that chance together?"

Another broken sob was his immediate answer. Then Elsie's head jarringly shook back and forth while her voice drifted up to him, "I don't allow myself to imagine bairns of our own."

"Do you never wish you had children?" he wouldn't – couldn't let it go, couldn't accept her evasive answer.

"That ship has sailed, Charles," she retorted part tartly and part resignedly. "It's no use crying over spilt milk." The farm girl was in full evidence in her speech, something Charles found charming in itself, but it also spoke of an unresolved dream from her past. He meant to find out what this was all about.

"Elsie …"

"Please, Charles," she herself wasn't exactly sure what she was asking of him, to let it all rest and her to lick her wounds in solitude or for his comfort and consolation as salve for those scars on her soul.

Charles gently took George out of her arms and lay him down into his cradle, tugging the blanket securely around his small body. Elsie's arms felt bereft without the child's warmth and the cold reality of her choices in life nearly robbed her of breath. She slung her arms around her body, shivering from a sudden cold. Tears gathered in her eyes as she helplessly looked up into Charles' kind, understanding eyes. Wordlessly he gathered her up into his arms again, kissing her temple and stroking her back with his giant hands.

"I would have loved to see you pregnant with our own children and then cradling them to your bosom," he confessed softly, moving Elsie – and Tom – to tears with the sincerity and emotion behind his words.

A dam broke in Elsie at his tender words and she clasped him tightly, stammering out, "I didn't want to end up like my maither. She had more bairns, but they didn't live … I thought I could escape all that in service. For many years I didn't think of the children I could have had, but now …" Her voice trailed off weakly, breath gone and a lump forming in her throat. Looking up into Charles' face, she confessed, "It's Sybbie's fault." She hiccupped, trying to find her voice and continue with her little speech. "She is only calm in my arms … and when I held … she … oh God, she wanted to nurse, but … but I'm not able … I want to be what she needs me to be, but I can't!" Sobbing openly now, she hid her face against his chest, breathing in his familiar scent.

Sybbie, looking avidly over to the housekeeper, cried out in sympathy, reaching out her chubby arms to be picked up and be close to her favourite person. Her tiny face was all screwed up in sorrow while she pushed herself up onto her legs, clinging to the railing for support.

Charles, recognizing instantly that the small girl would be better at calming his distraught wife than he would be, stirred Elsie to the rocking chair he had occupied earlier and made her sit down. Then he turned around and picked Sybbie out of her cot, carrying her over to Elsie and gently setting her down in his wife's lap. Immediately she wrapped her arms around Elsie, snuggling her head into the housekeeper's chest and babbling to her in her own toddler language. Slowly Elsie's tears dried, cuddling Sybbie to her, and she even began to smile slightly at the nonsense the toddler still 'talked' to her about.

"I don't think she needs you to be anything than what you already are," Charles spoke calmly, dotingly looking down onto Elsie's bent head. "She loves you unconditionally for who you are. You're the closest thing this girl has to a mother. Nanny keeps her distance to her and the family were never very involved with child-rearing. Mr Branson is very grateful, I can assure you."

Outside the door, Tom nodded vigorously. His own eyes were misty.

"I'm closer to a grandmother …" Elsie admitted self-deprecatingly.

"Is there really a difference?" Charles asked with a raised eyebrow.

Elsie shook her head slowly, a timid smile on her lips. Her hand trembled only a little when she stroked Sybbie's brown curls and reached the other hand out to interlace her fingers with Charles'. Her voice was back to its normal strength. "I do love her, and little Master George. If they were our own, I couldn't love them more." She leaned down and kissed Sybbie's forehead softly, expressing her emotions more adequately in this gesture than she ever could in words.

Outside in the corridor, Tom leaned against the hall for support and closed his eyes tightly. He might have given up his blood family since he couldn't go back to Ireland, but he still had his Yorkshire family. Sybbie would never grow up without knowing what true love is. She would also still have two grandmothers; one upstairs to give her beautiful dresses and expensive gifts, and one downstairs to gift her with unadulterated love, support, and a lot of hugs.