So here is another story! And one where at the end of the day, I have no one but myself to blame for its inception. A joke was made on tumblr about Sybil having an identical twin sister. I then took it to a whole other level, about why stopping there? Why not have twin Branson brothers as well! It escalated quickly ;o) Soon, a good portion of the fandom began twisting my arms, saying they wanted to see this come to life...and I can't deny, I did too! Soon a plot began to form, and so here I am, indulging my kooky imagination, as well as perhaps all of yours by giving you not one, but TWO Branson brothers, for TWO Sybil look-a-likes. BUT WAIT, it gets better! Like any good soap opera plot, there will be mistaken identity, people switching places, baby-stealing housemaids, and much, much more! This first chapter is much more of a "prologue/introduction" to how certain events came to be. More will be explained as the story progresses, but for right now, I do hope you enjoy this little journey into what I hope will be a fun, crack-tastically glorious romp through Sybil/Tom romantic-comedy fanfic.

I'm dedicating this story to ALL OF YOU (you know who you are) that helped twist my arm to do this! Whether you begged me once or multiple times, YOU are the reason this story is happening and just remaining a crazy crackfic idea. I hope you're proud of yourselves ;o) Please share your thoughts, I'd love to hear them! Thank you again for reading!

A Tale of Two Twins
by The Yankee Countess

Chapter One

Ireland, 1890

Droplets fell atop the screaming child's face. She wasn't sure if they were caused by the rain that leaked through the crumbling roof overhead…or her own tears as she leaned over the tiny cot, trying her best to shield her babies from the storm that raged outside and threatened to take the roof off the very cottage which she and her seven children resided.

This wasn't the life she wanted for her sons, for any of her children. But it was the life she was left with. A life full of drudgery and pain, made even harsher now with the loss of her dear Aedan.

The telegram still remained in the cottage, crumpled and stained with tears, but she hadn't the heart yet to get rid of it; it felt as if it were all she had left of her husband.

We regret to inform you [stop] the death of Aedan Branson [stop] having died of typhoid fever [stop] his remaining wages shall be sent directly [stop] in deepest sympathy.

That was a joke, both the wishes of sympathy and the promise of his remaining wages. Her husband had gone to Dublin with hopes to find better work. The farm was suffering and the Dunn-Sainny's were not the most understanding of masters. So to Dublin he went, hoping to perhaps find something in shipping or dock work, as a younger brother of his had found success in such work. She was eight months pregnant at the time he left; she hated seeing him go, but knew they had no choice. They needed the money.

It all made sense now, when he wrote to her, telling her not to visit him, not to send any of the children to him. He hadn't gone into details, simply told her he was ill and didn't want to any of them to get sick, especially with a newborn coming into the world.

Her poor, poor Aedan. He never saw his sons. He never even knew she had had twins. He died before her letter reached him.

Her eldest, Kieran, wasn't even thirteen. He had left school so he could start work as a hall boy of all things for the Dunn-Sainny's, and her second child, a daughter named Kathleen who was a year younger than Kieran, was also looking into training to become a kitchen maid for the same family. Was this the life her children were going to be cursed with? Forced out of school the second they had reached twelve, to begin service? It wasn't that service was a horrible profession, in truth she herself had worked for many years as a housemaid for the Dunn-Sainny family. It was the prospect of forever being trapped to that family, and that place. Both she and her husband never wanted this sort of life for their children. They thought they would learn to work the land, to take pride in the land and perhaps one day, when Ireland won her freedom, they could call the land their own.

But that was not to be.

"Mam?"

Margaret Branson took a deep breath and tried in vain to wipe her cheeks clean from any signs of tears before turning to face her youngest daughter. "What is it, Moira?"

Her youngest girl made a face, while rubbing her stomach. "My tummy hurts."

It took everything she had not to burst out sobbing. Of course her tummy hurt; she was hungry. They all were. Her poor little brown-haired beauty was pale and gaunt, her cheeks hollow and large, dark circles around her eyes. They had a meager feast of stale bread and potatoes, with a bit of an old, chopped carrot. Despite the younger children's complaints and longing for something more (and tastier) both Kathleen and Kieran shushed them and told them to eat, to be thankful for what they had, and proceeded to give them looks of warning if they so much as whimpered. Her poor, poor children; they hadn't had meat in over a week. They were starving…

"Hush, leave Mam be!" Kathleen hissed, coming to retrieve the youngest Branson girl and guide her back to bed where the other children lay snuggled for warmth while the storm continued to rage outside. They couldn't live like this; this wasn't living, this wasn't even surviving. They would die here, if she didn't do something soon.

Margaret Branson had only one surviving family member; a brother who was away at sea and who she hadn't heard from in over a year. Her husband's relatives were not the sort to provide help. Indeed, the younger brother to whom Aedan had gone in hopes of finding work was a greedy bastard, always "borrowing" money and never paying his debts. He drank and gambled and often got into trouble. It was him who sent the telegram, and she had no doubt that he would keep her husband's final wages. Other than this brother, Aedan had an older sister, but she and her family kept to themselves. Aedan never told her, but Margaret knew that sometime in the past, the two had had a falling out. They didn't even exchange letters. No, her in-laws would be of no help. She was completely on her own.

She looked down at her newborn sons, both of whom were a mirror copy of the other in looks, and temperament, it seemed. She was trying in vain to keep them calm, to quiet them so her other children could sleep, but it seemed to be of no use. I can't do anything right, she found herself thinking in a moment of despair. I can't provide for my family, I can't give them a decent meal, a decent place to sleep, I'm all alone in this world and the only prospect for survival it seems is to…is to…

She hated the thought, but it was one that she knew many widows in her place had been forced to make.

Send the children away…

She would soon be losing Kieran and Kathleen to the Drumgoole Castle and the Dunn-Sainny's; the others were too young to go into service, but…but perhaps she could write to Aedan's brother, find out if he knew the whereabouts of their sister, write to her, plead with her, beg her to take the younger ones until things were better…but would they ever be?

And what would she do if she couldn't find Aedan's sister? Who would take her children then? Who would be able to provide them with a good home and a well-cooked meal? All of their neighbors were in similar situations to her, and all of them had mouths to feed; they wouldn't appreciate her adding to their burdens with her own brood.

…Unless…

No, no, I can't do that, she quickly chastised herself for even thinking the idea. Yet as she looked down at the screaming faces of her two boys…her two dear little boys…who had committed no wrongs and had done no evil, and yet who were suffering in this cold, damp cottage, starving and shivering alongside their older siblings…

Isn't it better to give them the life I never could?

She had heard stories where women in her situation had more or less "given their children away", to wealthier childless couples, telling themselves over and over that it was for the best, that their son or daughter would never want for anything, that all the golden opportunities that had been denied them, because of class they were born into, would not hold back their children.

She supposed it helped ease the loss, a little. But these couples were complete strangers! Who was to say that they would truly raise and take care of a child that wasn't naturally their own? What was to keep those couples from turning that child into a…into some sort of slave? She shuddered at the thought, and felt the urge to pick up her two sons and hold them tight.

Even if she considered doing that—giving her sons away so that they would never suffer…she would need to know; somehow she would need to be reassured that not only would they be looked after and provided for…but that they may also be loved.

Although how can anyone love them the way I do? They may doubt my love if they ever learn the truth, but I would hope and pray that it would be explained one day that I did this because of love; sacrificing my own happiness for the sake of theirs…

She shook her head. Was she truly contemplating this? Giving up her sons? Her newborn sons!? The last connection she had to her dear Aedan?

…Even if she were, WHO would she give them to? She certainly would not trust some stranger, some—

Lady Nora.

Nora Dunn-Sainny was the only daughter to Lord and Lady Dunn-Sainny. She was also the only kind member of the entire family. Margaret had memories of Lady Nora, back when she was a housemaid at Drumgoole. Lady Nora was sweet, and kind-hearted. She always acknowledged the presence of others, even the "invisible" servant (for unless summoned, servants were always meant to be deaf and invisible to their employers), always said "please" and "thank you". She was a good person, truly. Sometimes Margaret wondered if Lady Nora had been adopted. What other explanation could there be?

Four years ago, Lady Nora had married Lord Bellasis, who had come from England. The wedding had been quite the event in the county, Margaret remembered. Moira had just been born, and while she didn't go to the country church to attend the ceremony, she did watch the beautiful golden carriage carry Lady Nora from Drumgoole, like a princess in a fairy story.

The match was declared to be a very happy one, and the marriage was believed to be very happy. The couple resided in England most of the year, but was often seen visiting the county and driving around in their own carriage practically every summer. The only tragedy that seemed to have fallen upon Lady Nora and her handsome husband was that after four years of marriage…they still had no children.

Margaret Branson had heard all sorts of stories; stories about miscarriages and phantom pregnancies. There was even a tragic story about a still-birth, and a little girl who had died two days after entering the world. She didn't know what stories were true (or if any of them were) but she knew that the couple still had not had any children, and she could only imagine how desperate Lord Bellasis was to have an heir, like all men of his class.

…Perhaps...what if…what if she were to provide them with one?

STOP IT! Listen to yourself; how can you even contemplate—

A wail from one of her sons brought her attention back to the cot.

And she realized why such a thought had entered her mind in the first place.

Dublin, 1918

She was always melancholy on the birthday of her youngest. Everyone else knew why of course…or so they thought. Actually, they knew a shadow of the truth—only three people in the entire world knew the whole of it, and as far as Margaret Branson was concerned, those three would take the truth to their graves. At least that was what they had promised.

"Be sure to write, Tommy!" one of her daughters declared. "And tell Kieran to write as well! It wouldn't hurt him to pick up a pen now and then," Kathleen muttered, before enveloping her youngest brother in a tight hug.

"I promise, or at least I can make that promise for myself; I can't say the same about Kieran," he chuckled, returning the hug, easily engulfing his sister in his muscular arms. Margaret Branson looked at her boy, and not for the first time, in utter amazement. Once upon a time this broad-shouldered man was a tiny baby, screaming and crying in hunger, shivering in the cold, and twice he had nearly died from illness. And yet he proved all of them wrong: the doctors, the nurses, her relatives, even herself; her Tommy was much stronger. Her son was a survivor.

"Mam?"

She chocked back the sob that threatened to spill forth as she looked at him. Of all days, why today? Why on the day of their—his birth, was he leaving?

He must have recognized her distress, because he was quick to move to her side and enfold her just has he had enfolded his older sister, in a giant hug. Margaret clung to him, her hands gripping the fabric of his coat. Her little boy…her youngest, baby boy, who looked nothing like a baby, not with his size and strength, was leaving. Leaving to find work in England.

Kieran, who had left over a year ago and started an auto mechanic's business in Liverpool, had written to them, telling them all about the need for young men to come and work, now that the War was over. The problem of course was finding so many jobs for ex-soldiers, especially ones who suffered from gruesome injuries. Her Tommy was lucky, in that sense; a unique medical condition had kept him out of the War, even when the British government demanded that Ireland send her sons into battle. She could not deny, she thanked God every night for not taking her son from her and sending him off to fight in another man's war. But by that same token, and despite the fact that she would miss him dreadfully, a part of her was grateful he was going away from Dublin and its brewing troubles.

"I will be back soon," he reassured, although he had agreed with her not to set any definite. She knew her son didn't want to stay away from Ireland forever; he loved Ireland as if it were one of his siblings. But it was "his turn" to do his part for the family…and if that meant finding work in England, at least for the time being, then so be it.

"I know, I know," she sniffled, putting on a smile and patting his back while reluctantly stepping out of his arms. "I'll simply blink," she demonstrated, "and find myself on this dock once again, waving to you as your ship arrives."

Tom chuckled and nodded his head, and Margaret's heart swelled as she saw tears shining in his beautiful blue eyes. Aedan's eyes. And not for the first time did she find herself wondering about another pair of eyes, a mirror copy to those of her youngest. What were they looking at on this day? A cake? Party decorations? A sea of guests coming to wish him well? Was the woman that he called "mother" also hugging him as she hugged Tom?

"Mam?" Tom's voice brought her out of her thoughts. He looked so concerned, and he opened his mouth to ask the question he always asked on this day, ever since he was a small boy and noticed how sad she looked, but she stopped him. She put on that smile again and reached forward to pat his cheek.

"I will miss you, mo fuaime," she told him, smiling bravely for her son, for all her children who were there to wish her youngest well. "Now you best get on that boat before it leaves without you."

He smiled down at her, although it was a sad smile. She could see the questions in his eyes, as well as understanding as to why she was sad. Only the problem was he didn't understand, not completely. None of them did. None of them understood that this wasn't the first time she had to part with a child who left for England. They didn't understand that her other little boy, the one who shared her Tommy's eyes, was also celebrating his birthday today, but completely ignorant to the sadness she felt. They didn't understand that so often she sometimes found herself, when she looked at her son, seeing how much he had grown over the years, if that other boy who truly was a stranger to her now…if he still looked like her Tommy? And then other questions would come to her mind, questions she didn't know the answers to and she feared to ever learn, despite her curiosity.

Did he have a family of his own now? A wife and children? Was she a grandmother to faceless grandchildren who never knew about their father's past or where he had come from?

Did he sound English? Lady Nora was Irish, but he would have grown up in England, surrounded by English children. Did he know any of the languages of his homeland?

Had he gone to war? Did he fight for the British Army? Was he a decorated officer?

Then there were the questions she always dreaded, ones that began to fill her head when news of the War broke out. Questions that she knew she shouldn't ask, knew there was no point in asking since she would be completely helpless against them, and yet…they haunted her.

…Had he managed to escape the war unharmed? Or…or had he suffered terrible injuries, like so many of the young men she had seen return; men missing legs or arms, men who were blind or whose faces had been hideously scarred? Men who looked well on the outside, but whose pale faces and hollow eyes hid a deeper horror within?

…Had he survived at all?

"Is breá liom tú," he spoke, breaking through her thoughts once again. She looked up at her son and he was smiling down at her, a warm, tender, but sad smile. "I love you, mam," he repeated again in English. "I'll miss you too."

"Oh Tommy," she gasped, holding back the sob that threatened to erupt from her throat. She hugged him again, grabbing him up in her arms and squeezing him tight. He was much too big for her to lift off the ground, and yet despite his size and age, he would always be her baby. Her little baby boy…

She felt the arms of her other children move around her then, hugging the both of them and murmuring goodbyes, before finally, with a deep breath and a great deal of strength, Margaret placed her hands on her son's broad shoulders and gave them a gentle push, urging him to turn and board the boat while she still had the will to let him go.

"Happy Birthday, Tommy!" his siblings called out to him as he waved and boarded. Margaret smiled, despite the tears that filled her eyes and were now beginning to drip down her face. While thoughts and questions about that other child, that son she once had, that had once shared her husband's name still continued to haunt her, now twenty-eight years later…she couldn't help but gaze up at the son she did know, the son who bore the name of Branson, and who, despite the distance that would now be placed between them, was still hers.

Yes, despite the sin she had committed all those years ago, and the lies she had spun to protect her children…or at least that was the excuse she had given herself…despite all those things and all the hardships she and her family had endured, she really truly couldn't be prouder of her son. And even though she had begged them at the time to take both boys, not wanting one to grow up in such finery while the other struggled to stay alive…she would be forever grateful to the Bellasis' in their insistence that she not lose them both.

Margaret Branson sighed and smiled through her tears, waving at her son and watching as the boat began to sail away from the harbor, her eyes never leaving it, even when it was just a speck on the horizon. Only then did she finally turn, her youngest daughter, Moira, her only companion, while the others had gone back to their homes to care and tend to their own families.

"Home, mam?" her daughter asked her.

Margaret shook her head. "Not yet."

Recognition filled her daughter's eyes. "Of course," she whispered. Without another word, she linked her arm through her mother's and the two walked from the docks to the church the Branson family had attended ever since moving to Dublin twenty-seven years ago. In the excitement of seeing her youngest brother off, Moira had forgotten about the other ritual that was always honored on her brother's birthday. Upon entering the church, Moira moved to light a candle in memory of her brother who had gone to sit with the angels and watch over them, but Margaret paused, glancing over that the cloaked confessional.

While her daughter prepared the candle, Margaret did what she did every year on this day. She shut the door and pulled the curtain, knelt and clasped her hands together, before asking the priest on the other side to bless and absolve her of the horrendous sin she had committed all those years ago…and lie she had created so that no one would know of her shame and weakness. And like every year, the priest would give her the prayers to say to seek God's forgiveness, and Margaret would proceed to pray each and every one in the man's hearing, before receiving a final blessing and being assured that God had heard her confession and prayers, and would forgive her of her sins.

But that was just the problem. God may very well forgive her for what she had done all those years ago. But everyone else? Tommy and her other children? Her beautiful boy, whom she had given to the Bellasis' with hope that he would be spared the hardships of this life? No…that was a forgiveness she knew she would never receive.

from Google Translate:

mo fuaime = my son

Is breá liom tú = I love you