Anyway, here is my fanfic which I do hope you enjoy!
Title: My Beauty, My Baby
Time Frame: Summer 1922
Synopsis: It’s a beautiful day at Downton Abbey and although a joyous occasion for Sybil’s daughter as she celebrates her second birthday, it’s also a solemn one as it’s the anniversary of her death.
“Where’s my little birthday girl? Where is she?”
Tom Branson wandered down the vast corridors of Downton Abbey, looking for his daughter. Today was a very special day for her and instead, she wanted to celebrate by playing her favourite game of hide-and-seek.
“Come on Sybil, don’t hide from Daddy now!”
He entered the drawing room and slowly tiptoed across the wooden floor.
“Where is my little birthday girl? Where has she gone?”
He heard a mischievous giggle coming from the other side of the room. He looked across to find a pair of feet sticking out from under the curtains.
“Has she just disappeared? Vanished into thin air?”
Branson smiled as he sneakily walked down the room.
“Oh dear, where has my little iníon* gone?” Branson smiled.
He pulled back the curtain to reveal a brown haired, bright-eyed two-year-old grinning from ear to ear. Her mouth and cheeks were covered in jam.
“Oh no, whose been eating Mrs Patmore’s strawberry jam?” Branson grinned. “You’re a naughty girl, come here I’m going to gobble you up!”
Sybil screamed in delight and tried to run from her father, but he was too quick for her. He scooped her up and from his pocket, took out a hanker chief and wiped her face.
As Branson was taking his daughter outside, Mrs Patmore ran up to him.
“There’s the little devil!” She scolded. “Eating some of my delightful strawberry jam! I’ve a right mind to smack her!”
“I’m terribly sorry Mrs Patmore,” Branson empathised. “It won’t happen again, but if you don’t mind I’ll be the one doing the smacking.”
Mrs Patmore sighed. “Oh all right. Since it’s her birthday, I’ll let her off the hook. But only for today.”
“Thank you, Mrs Patmore,” Branson smiled.
He walked into the grounds with his daughter while Mrs Patmore returned to the kitchen. Branson put his daughter down and she ran over to her family sitting at an outdoor table.
“Grandma! Grandpa!” Sybil cried.
“Hello, my little darling!” Cora beamed, as she picked her up and planted a kiss on her forehead.
“Happy birthday sweetheart,” Robert smiled.
He handed little Sybil a neatly wrapped silver package. She ripped off the paper as best she could, but in the end her father had to help her. Once the package was opened before her eyes was a beautiful brown Steiff teddy bear.
“Thank you! He’s beautiful!”
Although a little rascal at times, Sybil was intelligent and her vocabulary was impeccable for a two-year-old.
“It’s lovely,” Branson smiled. “Thank you.”
“I shall call him Teddy,” Sybil said, hugging him close to her. “And I will love him very much.”
“Well we all love you Sybil darling,” Cora enthused, hugging her granddaughter. “Happy birthday, my sweet.”
Carson, the butler smiled as he saw the family laughing, celebrating and having a fantastic time. Mrs Hughes taking time out of her duties stood beside him and looked on.
“She’s such a sweet girl,” Mrs Hughes mused.
“Looks more like her mother each passing day,” Carson noted.
“Aye. It’s such a shame she isn’t here to see her grow up. Two years, Mr. Carson. Two years to the day.”
“Time passes so quickly, Mrs. Hughes. When I look at that little girl, I remember her mother that way. The way she was always smiling, giggling, running around the house playing games with her family and the staff.”
“It’s like she’s still here,” Mrs Hughes said. “Sybil is still with us and she lives in her daughter.”
They looked on as little Sybil hugged her teddy bear and went to sit between her two Aunts Mary and Edith and her Uncle Matthew.
Edith gave Sybil a book of fairytales, beautifully decorated in white and gold. Mary, whom Sybil was particularly fond of, gave her a porcelain doll.
“Lucy was my doll when I was a little girl,” Mary smiled. “Will you take good care of her for me?”
“I will Aunt Mary.”
Sybil hugged her aunt and Mary gave her niece a kiss on the cheek. The festivities continued well into the afternoon and Branson took some time out to say hello to his wife.
“Well there you are, our Sybil, two years old today,” Branson smiled, as he stood before his wife’s gravestone.
The gravestone had marked on it: SYBIL PATRICIA BRANSON. BORN 9TH JUNE 1896. DIED 18TH AUGUST 1920. LOVING DAUGHTER OF ROBERT AND CORA. WIFE OF TOM. MOTHER OF SYBIL.
“She’s just like you our Sybil. She’s mischievous, but smart. She’s kind to everyone. It’s hard to believe she’s only two. Two years ago, she was born. But two years ago, we lost you. I lost you.”
Branson thought back to that night, holding his wife’s hand as she struggled to breathe. Thought back to that moment where she slipped away and she was lost forever. How lifeless she looked as she lay in that bed, how cold her forehead felt when he leant in to kiss her.
Branson heard footsteps coming from behind him. He turned round and saw his mother-in-law walking towards him, holding little Sybil in her arms. Cora looked at her daughter’s grave.
“She was so young. Only 24 years old. I still wonder, why, why did she go?” Branson frowned.
“These things are hard to understand,” Cora replied. “But Sybil did teach us, especially Mary and Edith – to love one another.”
Sybil asked to be put down as she stood in front of her mother’s grave.
“I love you, mummy,” Sybil smiled, as she ran her hand across her mother’s name.
Cora and Branson struggled to hold back the tears, which were by now running down their cheeks. Branson lifted his daughter into his arms and held her close as he sobbed. Cora stroked her son-in-law’s arm.
“Don’t cry, Daddy – please don’t cry,” Sybil said, as she wrapped her arms around her father’s neck.
That only made Branson cry even more and he squeezed his daughter tightly. He was never going to let her go. She was what was left of his beloved Sybil. His beautiful, kind, caring, compassionate Sybil.
“Your mother was the most beautiful woman I have ever known. She still is.”
“She was our beauty,” Cora said. “And she was mine. She will always be. My beauty, my baby.”
Cora stroked her granddaughter’s hair, and then put her arm round her son-in-law as they
remembered their treasured Sybil.
THE END
*Iníon = The Irish Gaelic word for ‘daughter’
