*shakes off dust and moth balls* WOW! So um...it's been a while! But if you've been following my other stories, you may know that I made a New Year's resolution for 2019 to update at least one story a month, and so after a very long, overdue period, I've finally come back to update what all is happening in the Branson's marriage! And to sum up, Tom and Sybil have returned from their honeymoon in Galway and have now gone back to their respective working lives. We heard from Sybil's POV in the previous chapter, but now we'll hear from Tom's, whose take on the return home isn't quite the same, but does set up for some big, future events. So...if you're still sticking with me, I hope you enjoy this little taste of the Branson's married lives in Dublin. And I do apologize for my absence, but also thank you for your patience! So without further ado, happy belated St. Paddy's Day!

Chapter Fifty-Eight

July 27, 1919

Eleven days.

It's been Eleven days since I last wrote in this thing, which also means that eleven glorious days ago, I was in Galway with Sybil on our honeymoon.

Honestly, it's true what they say, how time can simply seem to…stop. Because eleven days ago any thought I had about the past or the future seemed to evaporate like the mist off the ocean's surf. All that I was aware of was the two of us, in our own little corner of the world. No cares, no concerns, no expectations…unless you count Mam's expectation that we visit my uncles. But other than that, no obligation of any kind, other than seeing the desire and pleasure of each other.

…I knew this would happen, finding myself longing for that "simpler time". I just hadn't expected to come so quickly.

…

As I wrote above, it's been eleven days since I last recorded an entry, and it's been four days since Sybil and I returned to Dublin. I am glad to be back, truly. Despite all my moaning about missing our "Galway bubble", it truly is good to be back in our place, where we have more freedom to…well…to "carry on" as we like, without the accusatory glare of other guests or being forced to put on clothes just to walk a few paces down the corridor to use the loo. But it's also good to see Mam and the family again; I did miss them and…in some ways, it struck me, how much I missed them. I think…I honestly think I may have missed them more while we were away in Galway than perhaps when I was at Downton. Does that make sense? I'm reluctant to mention this to Sybil, not wanting to drudge up any ill thoughts towards her own family (despite what she says, I can still tell that bringing them up is a delicate subject) but…perhaps I feel I missed them more because I remember again what it's like to leave them behind? Not that I didn't think I would never see them again, of course, I mean I knew I would, in just a few days even! But…God, I don't know what I'm trying to say, I'm honestly rambling at this point, if that's possible to do in a journal…

…

Anyway…what I'm trying to say is that it is good to be back, for many, many reasons.

I think I'm just finding it a little harder to…slip back into the routine of it all.

Sybil hasn't, found it difficult, I mean. The day after we returned, she woke before I did and seemed to greet the day with a smile. I remember groaning and pulling the sheet up over my head as she pulled back the curtains, but she wouldn't have any of it. She seemed to be glowing, this aura of…"purpose"…radiating off of her. In truth, she's had that glow these past three days, and even though I can see the tired circles under her eyes after a long day filled with classes, shifts at the hospital, and rounds with Sister Claire, there's still this enthusiasm shining in the depths of her eyes.

God…thinking about her right now, remembering her bustling around our flat this morning, tucking her hair under her scarf, tying her apron around her waist, reciting unpronounceable medical terms under her breath as she packed her satchel before leaving for a class…honestly, if I weren't already head over feet in love with her, I'd fall all over again. In fact, I know that I already have, that's her gift, as I remember Lady Mary saying. And she's not wrong.

But also…I find that I envy her. Envy that "enthusiastic glow", that sense of purpose that she possesses. I pity Lord Grantham and all the rest of them for failing to see her as she truly is. She's more in her element here than she ever was or could have been in a place like Downton Abbey. And despite the envy I feel, I am so deeply proud of her…

…But yes, I do envy her. I wish I had a quarter of the joy and enthusiasm she seems to radiate when it comes to her work. Not that I'm saying I don't love what I do…

...

…

Alright, that may be putting a bit too strongly. Love may not be the right word, though God knows I'm grateful for the opportunity Mr. Quinn has given me, but…

…

God, I sound like an ungrateful bastard.

Before we left for Galway, Samuel Quinn "elevated me" from a proof-reader to Harry Roarke's assistant. Which is a promotion, I cannot deny that. Just…of all the people in that office, did it have to be fecking Harry Roarke?

…

I know, I know, I shouldn't complain, I should be grateful for the opportunity, and I am, truly, I just…

…

Well, I think I wrote it right the first time. Harry fecking Roarke.

Honestly, HOW does a git like him get to be one of Quinn's top journalists? Because the more I've worked with him over these past few days, the more I'm convinced the man does whatever he can to avoid lifting a finger if he can help it. The day I went back to the paper, while others greeted me warmly and teased about the holiday as I expected them too, Harry wasted little time dumping a huge pile of unkempt notes on my desk, and all but ordering me to file them for his lazy arse.

It's clear that in the eyes of a man like Harry Roarke, an "assistant" is just another word for "slave". And honestly, after just a few days back at The Irish Republic, that's what I feel like.

Thank God for Corin. Corin Gleason's desk is adjacent to mine and I swear the man is the reason I haven't taken something off my own desk and shoved it right up Harry's…

…

Well, let's just say that Harry's lucky that Corin is around, in more ways than I'm sure he realizes.

In all seriousness, Corin has been a Godsend. He not only keeps me sane, but has helped me "translate" Harry's chaotic scribblings. Clearly in Harry's mind, these notes somehow make sense, but left to another? It truly is a foreign language. I can only conclude because Corin has been here as long as Harry that that's how he's able to make sense of the other man's work. And here I thought Harry was shite when it came to spelling and grammar…

Honestly, why couldn't Corin have been the man that Quinn assigned me to work with? But…as annoying as Harry Roarke can be (to put it mildly) I'll admit (though it pains me to do so) that he is a decent…alright, alright, I'll say it, he is a…good…journalist. One of the best, as Mr. Quinn would say—has said, actually. Hence why he believes I would do well working with the man, though I confess I'm struggling to see how? But maybe Quinn knows something I don't; maybe he has a "broader vision" than I can comprehend?

Honestly, I shouldn't overthink it. But it's difficult, being patient and waiting to see what will come out of this so-called "partnership". And isn't that what it's supposed to be, a partnership? Because today, Harry threw on my desk another set of notes about following up on some interviews he promised to make while I was away, but that now he can't be bothered to do himself. I swear, if anything comes of these interviews, I don't care what Harry says or threatens, I'm putting my name down on the article.

Bless her; Sybil is aware of my frustrations. I know I'm groaning a great deal here, but honestly, I'm trying to keep my frustrations at the office (or contained to the pages of my journal). But she knows me so well, my lovely wife. I think she could tell just by looking at me last night. I came home just a few minutes after she arrived, apparently, and was happy to see her there, thinking she wouldn't be back for a few hours. The sight of her immediately erased any "murderous" thoughts I was having for Harry Roarke, but not quickly enough, because with just one look, her brow creased into a deep frown and she asked me what was wrong. And…I don't know, I think the past I may have tried to shake my frustrations off and deny that anything was bothering me, or at the very least come to terms that I was making something bigger than it really was…but…I can't deny, it felt good to just unburden myself in that moment, to toss my coat and hat onto the couch before inelegantly flopping down upon it like a stroppy child.

And bless her, she listened. She came to my side and sat next to me, her eyes focused and intent, waiting until I was done before saying anything. And she didn't offer me pity (because despite my groaning, I honestly don't deserve any) nor did she try to coddle me or play "devil's advocate" as a means to get me to look at what was bothering me from another angle…although I think perhaps I should try to do that; honestly, after sitting here and writing these words, I feel like a spoiled brat who's having a tantrum because the world isn't going the way he wants, when in reality there are far, far worse things happening. Whatever feelings of "unfairness" I claim is nothing compared to the real injustices out there…

…

Yes, Sybil knows me well, no doubt knew I would eventually get there on my own. But she did listen, and she did sympathize while not pitying me. And then…then she said the most extraordinary thing…

…

She said, "Prove him wrong."

That's it. That's what she said. She didn't go into detail to who she was talking about, although I think it's safe to assume she meant Harry Roarke but…she looked me in the eyes, her beautiful hand on my cheek and she spoke those words…before closing that distance between us and brushing her sweet lips against mine…and then she rose, smiled at me, before taking my hands and urging me to follow her to the kitchen for some supper.

…

…And just like that…the world was made right again.

"Prove him wrong…"

Those words have been with me today. Even when Harry dropped those notes for follow-up interviews on my desk, I found myself saying those words over and over in my head. "Prove him wrong…"

…

I had an epiphany earlier, struck by something I remember Mr. Quinn once saying to me, about "waiting to hear my voice again". At the time, he was trying to explain why that article I had written about the English soldiers at Sean and Kathleen's pub hadn't been published. He assured me it was good, but that it wasn't…right…in the sense that he didn't think it was right to publish as my first article. I remember at the time feeling myself torn in two at his words…but…perhaps for the first time since…since before we left for Galway, I feel…I feel I may understand what he meant.

He liked what I wrote when I was still at Downton, he liked hearing my voice in those articles…and it struck me that what I wrote at Downton was…well, it was my story. My story as an Irish Republican, working in the shadow of a great English manor. It's not an unfamiliar story, I suppose; Lord knows there are hundreds if not thousands who could say the same, but…again, it was my story. My story that struck a chord with him…and what I wrote about the English soldiers, while that was a story, but it wasn't MY story.

…

…I can see how that might sound confusing to anyone who happens upon this journal, but it makes sense in my head! Which is good, because…because I think I may finally have the answer to what Samuel Quinn is looking for. And what, God willing, may finally be at last, my first published article.

…

…

Actually writing those words has me trembling, I can't deny.

…I'm tempted to get started! Sybil won't be back until late, she and Sister Claire are seeing to a young mother scheduled to have her baby—I pray it goes well, I never want Sybil to have to go through what she witnessed with that poor woman nearly a month ago. Perhaps that sounds selfish, and I do pray for that family and their child, but…Sybil is my family, so if it's selfish to think of my wife and her emotions before others, well…then I'm a selfish bastard. And I make no apology for it.

But with this time alone, perhaps this is an opportunity to start to get my thoughts in order? I don't want to say anything to Sybil just yet, not until I feel positive about what I'm thinking of writing…but it won't be long before the need to share something with her overtakes me.

…Prove him wrong.

I will Love; I will prove myself to all those who ever doubted me…including myself.