Home Plot - Part 2

[adifferentlife]

Sybil's day has been nerve-wracking. Her fainting went over well, in that it had distracted her family and the staff, which was precisely what she's wanted. Unfortunately, her mother had insisted that she not go to work at the hospital and instead spend it in bed. There was nothing to be done about it and no argument on the Earth could have dissuaded her Mama from telling her she must rest. Even if Sybil wanted nothing more than to go to work and see if Henri had made it. She'd fretted most of the day, and when it was finally time to get dressed for dinner Sybil felt sicker than if she actually had fainted.

When Anna mentions that Doctor Clarkson and a new, young, French Doctor are coming for dinner she holds her breath. It seems too much to hope for that it might be Henri, but who else might it be? She has to stop herself from running down the stairs, restraining herself and going down with Mary and Edith, barely paying attention to what they say. When she sees Henri seated between Edith and herself she cannot help but smile. Edith asks him about his work, and she forces herself to turn away, and tell their mother than indeed she does feel much better.

Comments

[adifferentlife]

"Invite the wounded into our home?" Lord Grantham splutters, both the forwardness of the young doctor and the gall of the suggestion affecting him. It is his mother, the Dowager Countess who interjects to stop what could have turned into an outburst, though when she speaks Sybil winces.

"What will the French think of next? Should we install a guillotine in the village square too?" She laughs, dismissing the suggestion as ridiculous. "My word. An Irishman as a chauffeur and now a Frenchman as a Doctor in the village. How very cosmopolitan."

[jaimemieux]

Silence would be most prudent, this Henri knew, and he nearly had an apology on his lips - for Sybil’s sake, and to a lesser degree Doctor Clarkson’s, if not for anyone else at the table. But the joke about the guillotine, predictable and bland though it might have been, hit too close to home. Though he spoke with his own usual calm, the weight of Enjolras’ fury and Courfeyrac’s conviction, Feuilly’s honor and Bahorel’s rashness rested behind his words. “With all due respect, a great chasm exists between executions and providing life-saving care to those who fight, so I understand, to protect you. I am very sorry if you cannot see the difference."

[adifferentlife]

Sybil feels as if she might choke again, both for the poor choice of jest by her Grandmother and Henri's reaction. Violet mutters something about having never been spoken to such, just as her mother points out that the joke was perhaps in poor taste. After all, the young Doctor is their guest, is he not?

It doesn't pass easily, and it is Mary and Lord Grantham who rescue the conversation, steering it toward talk of London and a trip that Mary wishes to take down to see Sir Richard. The gaffes are put aside, but Sybil can see they are not forgotten, and she wonders how it is she might steal a moment with Henri to see if he is well.

[jaimemieux]

It was with guilty relief that Combeferre allowed the conversation to progress, leaving behind his gaffes - even his very presence. Lady Edith, earlier so attentive, now only caught glimpses of him out of the corner of her eye, and Doctor Clarkson looked grim. Combeferre knew that he had betrayed some unspoken contract with the good Doctor, one that would not be easily repaired. And yet, he could not have sat sipping wine, and pretended away the war being waged in his homeland. He would have barely recognized France, if he were to visit it, and yet he still felt an affinity for his country, now suffering and war-torn.

But Sybil- He caught her eye nervously a few times throughout the meal, but never dared linger on it for long. She would understand, wouldn’t she?

The dinner that followed was sumptuous, but Henri found he could barely eat, and he was glad when the plates for the last course were finally taken away.

[adifferentlife]

As dinner winds down and Lord Grantham invites the men to retire for conversation, Doctor Clarkson does his best to make his excuses. They're excuses that aren't accepted, and with a look at Henri that nearly makes Sybil flinch from across the table, the Doctor acquiesces.

She wonders if she should faint again and insist on medical attention? But it's not a very good plan, she knows, watching them all go off together as the women gather to have a conversation of their own.

Sybil can't bear it, and after not hearing her Grandmama twice insist that she's never been so insulted and that she isn't sure how her granddaughter can be expected to work at the hospital with someone of such obviously ill-breeding she makes her excuses. Sybil pleads tiredness, asking their forgiveness and ignoring Mary's eyes on her as she retreats.

She doesn't go upstairs, though, lurking instead near the door of the library, wondering if it would be too much for her to go in and ask for a book or perhaps a word with the new Doctor? She hears steps and stiffens, frozen in spot. She really should have just gone to bed and left trying to speak to Henri for the morning.

[jaimemieux]

Respite, it seemed, did not await Combeferre, even after dinner’s last dishes were cleared away. Trapped by Doctor Clarkson’s kindness - however much of it was left - and by Lord Grantham’s so-called hospitality, he could do nothing but follow the other men into the library, where he found a world stranger still than the one he had left in the dining room. He refused cigars and liquor alike, not out of unfamiliarity, but because too many social cues and pitfalls seemed to spring up, even when completing the simplest task. Moreover, he suspected that after the dinner conversation, Lord Grantham would prefer it. He would have to sit quietly and say nothing at all, he realized, if he intended to depart with any dignity whatsoever.

But he could only sit there for so long - silent, fidgeting, foolish - surrounded by conversation in which he dare not partake, and with servants lurking strangely in the background. Making apologies, he confessed his tiredness, and the others appeared relieved, frankly. Have someone fetch the chauffeur, Lord Grantham suggested. Yes, you have had a long day, of course, Doctor Clarkson agreed, and then both men returned to their conversation as though he were no longer there.

Whatever the excuse, Henri was glad to finally leave. Head down, he hurried out of the room, not quite sure where he was meant to go now, but terribly relieved to have gotten away. In his haste and carelessness, he nearly ran directly into Sybil as she lurked in the hallway. He swallowed a sharp breath of surprise, but then half-laughed when he saw who it was. “Sybil-“

Henri meant to say more, he was sure of it, but suddenly he could not find the words, so glad he was to see her without other prying eyes around.

[adifferentlife]

“My-“ She stops herself from whispering the word darling to him, just in time. A footman has come to tell them that Branson will be up in just a moment, and Sybil wishes they’d been allowed more than a few brief seconds in which to stare at one another in a dim hall. They are unable to touch or speak and she is aching to do both. “You should go,” she says softly, when the footman departs. Sybil wants to do more, to apologise for her family and for everything that has transpired so far, but can do none of it. “I will see you at the hospital in the morning?”

[jaimemieux]

“Of course. Yes.” Henri was a hair’s breadth away from reaching for Sybil’s hand, but he stopped himself, straightening slightly and managing what he hoped was an encouraging smile. He did not wish to leave Sybil to fret through the night, on top of everything else. He swallowed. “I am sorry for tonight. Perhaps- perhaps everything will make more sense in the morning."

[adifferentlife]

As much as she wants to tell him he did nothing wrong, the words won't come. Surely he could have not risen to her father, her grandmother? Sybil looks away and nods. "I hope that it will."

[jaimemieux]

“Sybil-“ The uncertainty in her face struck Henri’s heart, and for a second he forgot himself, taking a step closer - a small one, but it was enough to render the space between them less than correct - and catching her fingertips, however briefly, with his own.

Ever sensible, he recovered quickly. Taking a step back, he clasped his hands behind him and managed something like a bow. “Please forgive me,” he whispered. “I look forward to tomorrow.” Swallowing hard, Henri turned round and hurried for the door.