“You do remember that I’m Irish and you’re English–”
“Half English,” Sybil reminded him with a wink. “Besides, I thought you liked my ‘American spirit’ that I had inherited from my mother?”
Tom chuckled and gave her a wink in return as he chopped the union for the sage and union stuffing that would accompany the turkey. “I do think it’s funny though,” he added. “That your grandmother allowed your mother to bring something as ‘vulgar’ as an American holiday to Downton.”
Sybil laughed. “Actually, it wasn’t Mama, but me…” she sighed.
Tom paused in his chopping. “Really?”
Sybil nodded and gave him a sheepish smile. “When I was six we went to New York to visit my American grandmother–”
“I miss Martha,” Tom sighed. “We need to go visit her sometime in the near future.”
“After the baby,” Sybil reminded, though she did grin at Tom’s longing to see her grandmother; she knew both he and Martha Levinson would become thick as thieves upon meeting. “Anyway, we were visiting Grandmama, and she took me into the city to see the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade, and then we had a scrumptious feast back at the house–”
“Cooked by someone else,” Tom added.
“Trust me, that’s a good thing,” Sybil assured him.
Tom gave a mock gasp. “I’m going to tell her you said that.”
“ANYWAY!” Sybil groaned, trying to get back to the story. “I loved the Thanksgiving holiday so much that I begged Mama and Papa to please, please, please let us celebrate it at Downton, and…well, there are some perks to being the youngest,” Sybil giggled, not feeling guilty in the slightest. “Parents are a little more likely to give in to one’s requests.”
“Remember that when our youngest demands she wants a tattoo.”
Sybil rolled her eyes and Tom chuckled. “So it’s your fault then, is what you’re saying?”
“Guilty as charged,” Sybil sighed, before looking down at the table once again and checking the place settings.
“So then why are we hosting this meal?”
Sybil laughed. “Well, because this is our first Thanksgiving as a married couple,” she told him, before coming over and weaving her arms around his neck. “And by hosting it, that means ‘Branson house rules’; no forced-dressing up, no excess or unnecessary extravagance, and certainly no talk about ‘Tory politics’–”
Tom cut her off by kissing her deeply, to which Sybil happily returned.
“Have I told you how much I love you, Mrs. Branson?”
She smiled and brushed her lips against his once more. “One never tires of hearing it,” she whispered.
Musings of a Yankee Countess 