5I Blinked...And She Grew Up.
1937
"Would you look at that, I think Sybbie's found herself a beau", Matthew joked, gesturing vaguely with his recently filled whiskey glass across the room, his gaze landing on Tom and Sybil's only daughter.
Sybbie, completely oblivious to her father and uncle's attention, was laughing and smiling animatedly with a red headed boy scarcely more than a year or so her senior—Charlie Bryant.
They were standing rather close together, faces less than a foot apart.
Tom frowned slightly, completely thrown by such a foreign idea. His little girl! Hardly! "What?"
Matthew only chuckled good-naturedly in response, shaking his head with a light-hearted sort of amusement. "Well, I suppose we all knew it was going to happen someday."
"Easy for you to say when your eldest daughter's still in the nursery."
Rolling his eyes at Tom's grumbling, Matthew patted his friend and brother in law comfortingly on the back. "Come on, why don't we get you another drink."
"For Goodness Sake, Tom", Sybil sighed, shaking her head in disbelief as she slid underneath the covers. "You sound just like Papa!"
She regarded her husband with an affectionate smirk, knowing perfectly well that despite the ridiculous nature of his concerns, he meant well.
Tom Branson was sitting up in their bed—grumpy and tense.
Immediately, his eyebrows pulled together in a quizzical manner, baffled by his wife's nonchalance.
"I do not!", he retorted, thinking of how it had taken well over a year for Robert to do little more than glare at him in disapproval. "I'm only worried about her, that's all. It's not like I'm about to go corner the lad or something."
"Well, I'm very glad to hear that", Sybil deadpanned sarcastically, adjusting herself so she and Tom were looking at one another properly. She sat in front of him, cross legged—a frown playing about her features.
"Because you and I both know that if Sybbie does like this Charlie Bryant boy, neither of us stand a chance at stopping her."
Tom hummed noncommittally. He knew their daughter well enough to know that Sybil was probably right on the matter. With the pair of them as parents, Tom and Sybil Branson would never have been able to avoid rebellious offspring anyway.
"Fair enough", he replied—his voice somewhat sullen.
Rather smugly, Sybil began settling herself down for the night, hopeful that their discussion was over.
"Now Darling, will you please lie down and stop this nonsense", she asked, squeezing his hand comfortingly as she pulled the blankets up over both of them. "It's far too late for this now."
Sybil closed her eyes, waiting to hear the mattress springs creak and experience the familiar sensations of Tom's body settling against her own.
Nothing.
Opening a single eye, she observed him, half affectionately and half exasperated—but not in the slightest bit surprised.
He hadn't moved an inch!
"But Sybbie's so young!", Tom declared, evidently having found yet another bone to pick at.
Sybil groaned rather dramatically in response, burying her face in her pillows...envying herself a few moments earlier when she had thought her stubborn husband had dropped the subject of their sixteen year old daughter's love life for the night.
"Tom stop! You and I have raised Sybbie to know her own mind! We must trust her to make her own judgments, no matter the outcome. As much as we may want to, we cannot protect her from everything."
He shook his head adamantly, "It's not Sybbie that I don't trust, Sybil. It's him! We know nothing about this fella!"
Sybil rolled her eyes, thinking of the tall and gangly auburn haired boy whom George had introduced to them all as a friend of his from Eaton. The seventeen year old had been ever so polite all evening, speaking fondly—when asked—of his grandparents who had raised him after his father died in The Great War.
"I don't know, Tom. I thought he seemed rather sweet."
The Irishman blinked, clearly disagreeing with such a surmising. "Sybil, I remember what it's like to be a young lad, to think like a young lad...it wasn't all that long ago."
Smirking, Sybil pinched Tom lightly on the bicep—her eyes lit up mischievously.
"Does it bring you back to your days as the radical chauffeur?", she asked offhandedly, just about managing to keep her laughter at bay.
Turning a little pink, Tom shook his head. That wasn't the point! That most definitely wasn't the point!
"I...I...I never thought improperly of you."
"Oh really", she replied disbelievingly—continuing in an almost sing-song voice. "All those cold nights alone in the garage, and you never once thought of your employer's youngest daughter...I do know I thought of you anyway. "
While such a confession would usually have led to smug smiles, sweet and senseless kissing and possibly more...this time it only made him feel ill.
Tom paled slightly at her words. He was immediately sick to the stomach at the mere thought that some boy, under Downton's roof (some boy they did not know!), possibly thought of Sybbie (their Sybbie!) in...that way.
And Sybbie might even feel the same way about this...this...this...Charlie!
"Oh God, no!"
No one had ever warned him that children grow up this fast. No one had ever told him that you are changing their nappies and teaching them to ride a bicycle one minute...and then the next they are all grown up; courting and mingling and flirting and God knows what else!
Tom Branson was in quite a spin.
What happened?!
Now laughing outrightly, Sybil sat up—tiredness completely forgotten—in light of her newfound giddiness. She kissed her husband full on the mouth, this time tugging him gently down on top of her.
In that one single action, she somehow managed to silence any more of Tom's silly protestations and unfounded concerns.
"Hypocrite!", she mumbled jokingly against his lips, as he allowed her to lead him down. She giggled into Tom's mouth, their bodies sinking together into the mattress.
Hers was an comment that earned Sybil an affectionate scowl just as soon as they had come up for air.
"I am not!"
