adifferentlife | Home Plot

Home Plot - Part 3

There had been little sleep for Sybil that night, unable to stop her mind from racing. Each word that was spoken at dinner played over in her head, followed quickly by her stilted conversation with Henri and then the one with her sister. When the maid comes to wake her she's already up and dressed, sitting at her dressing table and counting the minutes until she can go down for breakfast and then to the hospital.

Breakfast was a rushed affair as well, nodding and answering when asked a question and grateful that Mary was still abed. When she excuses herself she declines the offer of a ride into the village, wanting the walk to clear her head. This is her home, and yet she feels out of place. Has she changed so much? Will they be here forever, and will she have to find a way to make this her life again? These are the things that she wonders on the way to the hospital, thoughts that deserve more time than she has to dedicate to them. There's a transport there which means a morning of blood and sweat as they take in patients and get them clean and settled.

Sybil rushes toward Henri, barely making eye contact as she hurries to help him settle a patient. "Good morning."

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“Syb- Alors, I mean Lady S-“ Combeferre realized abruptly that Doctor Clarkson was staring hard at him from across the room, and finally settled upon a murmured, “Miss Crawley,” before returning to the matter at hand.

Good God, had he ever been so-tongue tied? Combeferre had only a few too-brief hours of sleep behind him as well, having stayed up half the night, staring at the low ceiling of the inn where he had found lodgings, as though there, amongst the stains and grit, he might find the answers he sought. Who was he in this strange place? Not Henri Combeferre, medical student and radical, nor even Henri Combeferre, French teacher, scientist, and lover of Miss Sybil Crawley. Instead, he was an amalgamation of things, none of them quite him: military doctor, stranded Frenchman, poor dinner guest, friendless foreigner. The Irishman, Branson, who had driven him home, had called him bold for what he had said at dinner the night before, but he only felt foolish now. Foolish, and a little afraid. What would he do if he lost Sybil in this strange place? If he found himself truly alone?

Thankfully, there was enough work around the hospital to keep both of them busy late into the morning, and Henri and Sybil exchanged only polite words and professional questions as the hours passed. It was midday when, suddenly, the found themselves alone. Henri was washing his hands in a basin and turned, only to find her standing there.

“Sybil.”

Only a handful of hours had passed, but he felt like he hadn’t called her by her Christian name in ages.

It has been a hard morning for Sybil, and she thinks it has for Henri as well. Working so close to the man that she loves so very much hasn’t brought her the comfort that she has imagined it to be, but rather a stress that is not needed on a day such as this. The hospital, once seeming well-equipped to handle whatever might be thrown at them, seems woefully archaic to her now. More than once she thinks to ask why antibiotics weren’t proscribed, or some other such thing that Sybil realises she takes for granted. The eyes of Doctor Clarkson always seem to be on them as well and the situation is only made worse when Edith stops by to try and talk to Henri, though luckily they were far too busy to entertain visitors.

“Henri,” she says softly, letting her hand brush his before she pulls away to dry them. Her eyes flit about and she looks to the door, nodding. “Follow me.”

It’s a small path, another less-used way to the courtyard and a place that some of the nurses and doctors choose to smoke. For now it is empty, and for that Sybil is grateful, unable to stop herself from reaching out to Henri to wrap her arms about him.

Combeferre held Sybil tightly, and for a few moments, he worries fell away. If they had each other, then surely nothing else could matter. But dread settled in his stomach too quickly for him to grasp firmly onto that hope, and when he pulled away, his expression was grave.

He swallowed. “Sybil, last night…” But what could he say? He wasn’t sorry for what he said, though he wished he hadn’t upset Sybil so. He was worried about her, but a bit hurt as well, though perhaps he had no right to be. “If God were truly just, the earth would have swallowed me whole,” he finally said with a touch of a smile. That, at least, was true.

"No, if it were just, I would have spoken up," she says softly, her eyes searching his to know that he does not bear her any ill will. For her to have expected him to simply adjust to her family and her life, when she treasures his opinions so very much has done them both a disservice. "It was a hard night. Unexpected for us both."

“They are your family. I would not expect…” But he trailed off, shaking his head. The truth was, he was a little disappointed in Sybil, though he dared not admit as such. He had no right to demand, somehow, that she choose him over her own blood.

He nodded a little. “I hope there was no more trouble for you after I left?"

Sybil wishes to press the matter, but at the same point, doesn’t wish to worsen an already complicated situation. Aware they are in public, though secluded, she squeezes his hand once more before letting it go. “Mary came to see me. She suspects that we know one another. I told her that we met whilst I was undergoing my training.”

Combeferre nodded, chewing on his lip. "I suppose that's reasonable enough. And no one has questioned my story here." Who would believe the truth, anyway? Whatever tale they concocted to explain their presence here, it would sound more likely than the reality.

He hesitated. "Sybil, some of the men who arrived today... Their burns come from gas, I understand?" Though he did not blame a single family, no matter how privileged, for this war that he only vaguely understood, what he had seen today, the pain and suffering, had brought last night's opulence into stark relief. The hospital was well-equipped, but still morphine ran low, and beds were increasingly few.

Henri took a breath. He did not want to bring his disagreement with Sybil's family into their discussion again, and if he continued with these thoughts, they would surely lead in that direction.

If he had mentioned opulence she would have protested, noting how much less they all had at Downton then before the war. But it would be a protestation that she only felt half-heartedly, especially since her time in Darrow where she has become accustomed to having so much less.

“They are. They’re horrible, though we do not get the worst patients here.” Yet, even still she has seen blindness caused by the gas, seen it force a young man’s hand into taking his own life. She’s seen the scars and blisters and it makes her wonder how it is men can do these things to one another. “I’ve heard stories from the men, from other hospitals. About how they scream and cannot bear to be touched, even with sheets.”

Combeferre looked away, for a moment unable to hide his own pain and regret at all he had seen here. “I have read, of course,” he said softly. “I have heard about the suffering of this war. But seeing it is another matter.” He looked at Sybil hesitantly. “Have you seen other hospitals?”

"Only the one that I trained at. It was- It was harder there. They had better facilities and we had many of the more difficult cases." As a trainee she hadn't been allowed to help on those wards until the very end, but there is a darkness in her eyes that she cannot hide from him in that moment. "I cannot understand how any could be so cruel."

“Evil men exist in the world. And worse yet, many good men will do evil things, if the circumstances are right. But I would not have guessed-“ Though he knew they should keep their distance on the off-chance that someone came upon them, Henri reached for her then, wrapping her in a fierce embrace, hating to see that pain in her eyes. “I didn’t know,” he had to admit. “But there were a lot of things I didn’t know.”

“Our lives are not so simple as we wish them to be, are they?” She is grateful for the embrace, leaning against him and breathing in his warmth. In some small way, her words are an admission of the thing she is sure is bothering them both. “We come from very different places, and in Darrow that does not seem to matter. But here…”

“Here there are barriers that I let myself forget.” Combeferre exhaled softly. There were things of which he would rather not speak, but if they were to be blessed with so few opportunities to see each other in private, when else could he do it? “Sybil, if we are to find ourselves here permanently, I fear our situation becomes… precarious. I do not wish to lose you.” The last he added swiftly, almost stumbling over his words.

“Nor I you,” she says sincerely, her hand gripping his tightly. Almost as if she worries that should she let go she will lose him entirely. Sybil clears her throat, unsure of how exactly she can explain what she has to tell him next. “Thomas told me once, in Darrow, that I eloped with Branson in my future. He was- is, our chauffeur. I would gladly marry you tonight if I thought it might end our worries.”

“Branson.” Combeferre had met a number of people in the last wild twenty-four hours, and had forgotten many of their names as swiftly as he had been told them. But Tom Branson had stuck, if only because he had seen in the man a kindred spirit of sorts. He had even wondered if he might seek the man out, cultivate at least one friendship in this strange world that seemed right and familiar. “I- I think I met him,” he said after an uncomfortable silence.

It worries her immensely that he doesn't respond to her offer of marrying him, but rather to her mention of the chauffeur who is a friend but nothing more. Sybil takes his hand, clutching it. "That's not important Henri. You and I, we are what's important."

“Of course. Of course we are.” Henri clasped Sybil’s hands fiercely and brought them to his lips. What a fool he was, riddled with petty jealousies, when he might lose the woman he loved entirely. But it was easy to be jealous, even for a sensible mind, when his fear of losing her had never felt so fierce.

He had thought before of marrying Sybil - had thought about it quite a bit, in fact. But in Darrow, the idea had been as idyllic and easy to contemplate as their nights spent together. Here, it overwhelmed him. “I would marry you in an instant, you must know that. But such would only compound our troubles, pull us apart more swiftly. I have nothing-“ Henri took a breath, straightening. “I will not always have nothing. I will find a way for us, I promise you that."

"I do not care what we have, if you are there," she says, and she knows now that she means it. All of the wealth means nothing to her without him. "We could work, and make our way. Unless-"

There is a thought that has wormed into her head, and it is one that is hard to dislodge. "Do you not wish to?"

“More than anything,” Henri assured her quickly. “I love you so. I am-“ Damn it all, he was doing this all wrong. He did not want to hurt her, and God only knew how desperately he wanted her by his side, but they had to think sensibly. “We can work, yes, but Sybil- I must have something besides a room at an inn and a patron who is already halfway to regretting his kindness to me. I fear Doctor Clarkson will turn me out eventually, and then what?” He took a breath. “I only need some time to get my affairs in order. Please understand, Sybil."

“We can do this together,” she insists, though she’s no time to say much else. Two other nurses come out of the door, already fumbling with cigarettes. Sybil takes a discreet step back from Henri, and bows her head slightly to seem deferential.

“I love you,” she whispers as she walks past him and back in the door. Hopefully that is enough to see them through..

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Home Plot - Part 3

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