Bethnal Green

by Lady Grantham

Bethnal Green is hardly Belgravia, and Sarah's new lodgings are hardly her suite at Downton Abbey. In fact, the entire apartment might be smaller than her old room, but Cora supposes there's a certain…rustic charm to the place.

The money is gone.

Of all the stupid, idiotic, selfish things Robert could have done, this, Cora thinks, undoubtedly takes the biscuit. An affair is one thing, and Cora is not stupid – of course she knows – but at least her husband had had the good sense to send the maid away before things had escalated. It's the love that hurts the most though, the reluctance Robert has in sending her away when she has always done her best to be a perfectly loving wife.

But this is worse. An affair might hurt her but it has no real effect on the family: he isn't the first man to have his head turned by a pretty woman after all, and even if the story does make it to the papers it will blow over in days, but the loss of their fortune on the other hand, the loss of her fortune…she dreads to think what misery it will bring to the girls, to Edith, who is still unmarried and now lacking a dowry!

And all for some stupid railway scheme in Canada of all places!

She will have to write a letter to Mama. She feels sick at the very notion but it will have to be done: what choice does she have? They'll need all the help they can get now, and she has gone thirty years without asking anything of her mother – she will simply have to swallow her pride and beg if she has to, but why should she be put in this miserable position?! She had saved the Crawley family thirty years ago – why should she be forced to again now?

The door clicks open, and Cora hurriedly wipes away her tears, but it won't be Robert now – her husband has run back to his dressing room with his tail firmly between his legs. Nor will it be the girls: they've long since retired to bed themselves and it has been years now since the girls have deemed it necessary to consult their mother's advice in the late hours of the evening. Good. She has no intention of telling them the truth now, nor is it her place to tell them what has become of the family fortune.

She'll leave that for Robert.

Of course, that leaves only one person, and Cora supposes she should have expected her all along.

"Did you hear, O'Brien?"

Sarah nods curtly, and lets the door close quietly behind her. There's sympathy flickering quite clearly in her eyes, but her maid has better sense than to show it: she can read her moods like the back of her hand, and the last thing she needs now is useless words of pity. What good will they do?

"I gave Robert everything," she says sullenly. She feels the bed sink slightly as Sarah sits down next to her: it's presumptuous of her to do so without asking, but given the circumstances she welcomes the well-intentioned insolence. The hand resting on her arm is especially comforting.

"You've been nothing but a model wife, m'lady."

"I've been more than that, O'Brien!" she scoffs. "I changed for him. I was never like this before I married him."

"What were you like?"

It is an unexpected question, but welcome nonetheless. She thinks of her youth often these days, but never more so now, with her fortune squandered by the man she'd loved and her poor father probably spinning in his grave.

"Happier," she says finally, thoughtfully. That girl seems so far away now it takes more than a minute to even recall her face. "Hopeful. I was encouraged to use my mind – my father was never happy with my using one word when I could have used twenty." She smiles wistfully. "He was a supporter of Mill, you know, of woman's rights: Daddy advocated the vote for women in America long before it was even considered by your government." It's still your government, even after all of these years. "He wanted that for me."

"He sounds like a wonderful man, m'lady."

Cora's eyes narrow, but there's nothing but genuine admiration on Sarah's face. Papa would have liked O'Brien, Cora decides. She flatters her, of course – she'd be a terrible lady's maid if she didn't – but the majority of the time she thinks Sarah means the things she utters. She certainly means this.

"He was. And he raised me to be so much more than I have been. To do something with my life."

"You're running the house m'lady—"

Now O'Brien really was indulging her, but a sharp look in the maid's direction soon silences her admittedly well-meaning words. She has the good grace to look properly chastised, though Sarah knows better than anyone she couldn't summon up the physical strength to tackle a kitten, and her irritation dissipates as quickly as it has come.

"That's not what I mean, O'Brien."

Sarah is silent for a moment. The answer seems glaringly obvious to her, but then it's not her place to make suggestions about her ladyship's future. But Cora deserves better.

"Then do somethin' about it."

Cora's eyes widen. "I beg your pardon?"

"You can be more m'lady."

"How?"

"Leave Downton."

The words leave Sarah's lips before she's really thought about them, but it's too late to take them back now. But her ladyship looks more amused than anything else, as if she can't quite believe that a maid is suggesting such a thing, and it pains her more than she cares to admit.

"And what exactly would I do, O'Brien?"

"Anythin'. Somethin'."

Cora is quiet for a long moment, pursing her lips and paying particular attention to her fingernails. Sarah considers packing her bags there and then before her lady speaks, quietly, "I think I'd like to go to bed."

Sarah silently, sadly, obliges.

###

Their conversation goes unmentioned for a fortnight before Sarah summons the courage to broach the subject, but the words ring in her mind regardless. She's haunted by thoughts of Miss Cora Levinson, of happier days and simpler times, of the woman that girl could have been before she had married his lordship and tossed her life away. That's not quite fair, though her opinion of Lord Grantham is as poor as ever: Cora's life in England has given her her children, and no matter how miserable the Countess might have been at times here Sarah doubts she'll ever have cause to regret them, even if she thinks Lady Mary is a miserable cow and Lady Sybil is much too good for her own good.

She's held her tongue for two weeks now, but tonight she finds Cora crying, and it proves too difficult to keep her thoughts to herself faced with a red-eyed and miserable Cora sobbing hopelessly into her pillow, and staring pitifully into the mirror when she finally manages to coax her up and in front of the vanity table.

"We could leave together, m'lady," she blurts finally, when the silence becomes too much to bear.

Cora glances up in astonishment, and Sarah perseveres before she can say another word. She's going to lose her job regardless once she's made her case and torn his lordship's so called good name apart, so she might as well convince Cora to join her.

"You deserve better than this, better than him—" Cora's mouth opens in outrage, but Sarah doesn't give her the chance to intercede: she can't afford to. "You do m'lady."

She comes closer, and takes the other woman's hand. "You're the kindest, most generous, loveliest," she's pulling adverbs out of a bloody hat now, but she means each and every one of them, "best woman I've ever known, and you deserve better than I can give you too, but I have some money and—"

Sarah breaks off, frowning as she hears a soft tinkling of laughter from the other woman.

"Have I said somethin' funny, m'lady?"

Cora bites back a smile: at least she's not sent her packing yet. "Are you asking me to run away with you, O'Brien?"

Sarah flushes scarlet, but Cora very kindly puts her out of her misery.

"Do you really think those things of me?"

Sarah manages a soft smile. "That, and so much more."

Cora purses her lips, doing her best to hide just how affected she is by the words and looks at her hands instead. She's considering it, Sarah thinks, but doesn't allow herself to hope for anything more than being sent from this house with a decent reference. She hasn't done anything wrong per say, and perhaps Cora will recognise that and—

"What exactly are you proposing for this new life of ours?"

Sarah releases a breath she hadn't realised she's been holding. She's more than considering it, and the fledgling hope she has been trying to suppress swells like the crest of a wave.

"I have some money, m'lady: not as much as you're used to but it's enough to see us through a month or so," she's babbling, but looking up to Cora's face she sees nothing but patience and curiosity. "Long enough for me to set up some kind of shop. I could carry on as I have been, doin' seamstress work for anyone who needs it."

She breaks off. She's made her pitch: there's nothing more she can say to convince the Countess now, though perhaps there is one more thing that could sway Cora's decision in her favour.

"I would take such good care of you, I swear."

The decision is made then and there to go to London, though she doesn't imagine it's especially easy for Cora. The indecision in her lady's eyes is impossible to ignore, and she'll be riddled with doubt for weeks yet, but Sarah will do everything she can to take that look of uncertainty from her face and replace it with contentment instead. She meant what she said after all: she'll take better care of Cora than his lordship ever has, better care of her than even she has managed in the past. They'll go to London, find an apartment and set up shop, and she'll never hurt Cora again.

Sarah would rather die herself.

###

Exhaustion overwhelms Cora when they finally do make it to London. The journey has not been especially taxing, no more so than usual, but it is the emotional toll that leaves her mistress leaning heavily against her side as Lady Rosamund's butler, a Mr. Mead, she is told, shows them into 35 Eaton Square. Lady Rosamund is waiting, eager, then concerned when her eyes finally fall on her sister-in-law, and Sarah grudgingly acknowledges that perhaps Lady Rosamund is good for something. She makes an exceedingly capable human prop. Between them they have Cora tucked up in bed and resting against a mountain of pillows in minutes.

Thankfully, she keeps the questions to a minimum. Sarah doubts there is nothing the other woman hasn't already heard from her mother, who had undoubtedly called her daughter the second that Cora had left the house. Sarah is surprised she hadn't been here waiting for them when they had arrived, crafty old cow, but she supposes the elder Lady Grantham has never been especially fond of her daughter-in-law. Still, rather a barbarian for a daughter-in-law than a broken marriage in the family.

Sarah quickly gets Cora alone. Rosamund is exhausting at the best of times and her mistress is utterly spent, and with the utmost pleasure she shoos the older woman from the room and closes the door behind them. Cora is dreadfully pale against the deep red fabric draped over Lady Rosamund's bed, but she manages a smile as her maid draws closer.

"Poor Rosamund," Cora says weakly, reaching for Sarah's hand, and Sarah clasps it tightly. "I expect she hadn't anticipated such an invasion."

"She'll adapt, m'lady." Sarah strokes Cora's hair fondly. "She's very fond of you."

And it won't be forever. They made their plans back at Downton Abbey, and their stay at Eaton Square is only temporary. In the meantime, once Cora is well of course, they'll search for lodgings, and Sarah will enquire about setting up shop in some suitable part of London. Perhaps if it was just her she wouldn't care quite so much about the borough in which she finally sets up her home, but Cora is a lady, estate or none, and she has no intention of forcing her mistress into a bedsit in Whitechapel of all places: even if it wasn't particularly seedy she's positive her ladyship will see the bloody Ripper everywhere and that's no good for her blood pressure (she's mildly assuaged when she reminds her she is not a prostitute, nor is she likely to be out alone in dark alley ways at midnight).

Farringdon, perhaps? If nothing else, Lady Rosamund will be able to make a suggestion or two. She knows London better than Sarah does.

"Lie back, m'lady. You've had a hard few days."

Cora quickly obeys, still clutching Sarah's hand and smiling up at her with utter trust. She's seen that look on her face before, after that day, and knows that she doesn't deserves it, but she refuses to deprive Cora of her one crutch now, even if she is a worthless, miserable cow. "Harder, I suspect, if I'd stayed."

But her voice wavers noticeably with self-doubt. Sarah will have to work harder to make her mistress see the truth: Lord Grantham stopped deserving her a long time ago.

She nods reassuringly: better to 'rough' it in London with a lady's maid than live under the same room, sleep in the same bed, as a liar, though is she any better than his lordship? At least he doesn't pretend to be good.

"You did the right thing, m'lady."

She ignores the personal pleasure Cora's acquiescence has brought her. It doesn't matter that her heart skips a beat each time she thinks of their home, their business, their future. They're here for Cora, not the curious peace that overwhelms her when she thinks of their life together.

Cora sighs fondly. "I believe you. And when we've recovered," we, though she knows perfectly well Sarah is as strong as an ox, "we'll look for lodgings and start our new life."

The promise warms Sarah's heart. She had half-believed they'd get here and she'd find all of their plans abandoned as quickly as they had been made, but Cora was just as eager as ever. She squeezed her hand delicately.

"I can think of nothin' better, m'lady."

###

Three months later, and they're still at Eaton Square. The first few weeks had been necessary: her lady had been miserable and exhausted and riddled with doubt, and it had taken Sarah at least a fortnight to persuade her mistress that she had done the right thing and his lordship had long since ceased to deserve her. But three months is bordering on ridiculous and even her wealth of affection for her mistress is beginning to run thin. But nonetheless she pushes open Cora's bedroom door with a warm smile and a plate full of cucumber sandwiches: it's impossible to maintain any sense of antagonism toward Cora when she's smiling like sunshine and framed by a halo of morning light.

"Good morning, O'Brien."

"Good morning." She lays the tray down beside Cora: she's still pale, but then she always has been, and at least she's gained a little weight since they left Downton. "Are you comfortable?"

"Quite, thank you." She glances up from her magazine and smiles. It's the sort of smile Sarah likes best – light and indulgent, as if they're sharing some sort of private joke. "How are you getting along with Mead?"

Sarah rolls her eyes. She and Mead may not see eye to eye but she suspects he feels the same way she does: they've outstayed their welcome by so much more than a month and if he wasn't so fantastically loyal to Lady Rosamund, and Lady Rosamund has made her feelings about her brother's treatment of Cora quite clear, she doesn't doubt they would have been shoved head first out of the front door already.

"We'll never be great friends, m'lady."

"Cora," she corrects, smiling indulgently up at her maid from The Lady. She's insisted on Cora for weeks now. The first time she had stuttered and blushed through the name but it rolls off her tongue easily now. It's a beautiful name, even on her clumsy tongue, but then everything about her lady is beautiful. "I told you O'Brien—it's Cora."

Sarah thinks it's particularly difficult to call anybody by their Christian name when they're propped up behind pillows you've fluffed, and when the tea that you lovingly brewed for her has long since gone cold on the little table beside her. For all her talk of new beginnings and finding herself, remarkably little has changed. She swallows the irritation: Cora has been through a great deal, and she doesn't imagine for a second it's been easy for her. But it hasn't been easy for her either and she's not sure how much longer she can stomach this life. She's barely a maid anymore, though she dresses and undresses her mistress just as she always did but she isn't paid. It's been weeks since Cora's seen a penny from Robert Crawley and that isn't expected to change: she's reduced, instead, to living on Lady Rosamund's good grace, and that's something she's never wanted. Not least because Lady Rosamund is hardly the most predictable of women, but then Sarah has always provided for herself.

"How much longer are we goin' to be here, m'lady?"

And Cora hasn't answered her question.

"How long?" she repeats, and this time Cora has seemingly got the message.

"What do you mean 'how long'?" Cora frowns. "Until I am back on my feet, we discussed this."

Sarah swallows thickly. That is not at all what they discussed and Cora knows it, but she supposes it's easier for a woman accustomed to wealth and comfort to wallow in it rather than venture out into the big wide world. But she had expected more of Cora.

"With all due respect m'lady, that's not what we agreed."

Cora's eyes flash dangerously. "What we agreed, O'Brien?" She's pulling that card again, the 'perilously close' card and this time Sarah refuses to let it wash. She has done far too much for this woman - this woman, not her mistress - to deserve this.

"Yes, what we agreed." She deliberately softens her voice; after the misery of her separation the last thing Cora needs is for her to raise her voice, but she's being so bloody thick headed the irritation is difficult to stem. "We made a decision m'lady, remember? Together, at Downton Abbey." There's a flicker of recognition on Cora's face and Sarah presses on. "You said you wanted to be yourself again."

"I was upset." She laughs. The sound is grating. "I didn't really mean I wanted to dive head first into poverty and make a go of that."

"I'm not askin' you to—"

"Why can't we just stay here?" Cora sighs.

Sarah's temper snaps. "I won't stay here and accept charity from your bloody sister-in-law!"

She's stunned Cora, and she presses the advantage, cutting through any further objections swiftly with a hard voice, and somewhat petulantly slamming the china down on her tray as she collects the cold cup of tea. It feels good, she thinks, after all of these years to have the upper hand, but she knows that's not entirely fair: Cora has always been good to her, and more so than she's deserved, and how had she repaid her? She still shudders now when she thinks of that boy.

The memory of that day, and the look on the daft woman's face, forces Sarah to temper her words with a sigh. "How long did you realistically expect this would last?"

"Rosamund has promised she'll look after me."

And what about her? Cora doesn't seem to realise that not all women of Cora's position are quite so generous as she is, and Lady Rosamund is of a similar breed to her brother, though perhaps that's a little unfair of her. But that isn't her chief concern – she doesn't care whether the daft tart wants her here or not – and Sarah clamps down on the urge to cry. Wasn't that what she'd offered her, before they'd left Downton Abbey for good? She had promised to take care of Cora, had placed her life and future in Cora's hands, and she's just as capable of looking after the Countess as Lady Rosamund bloody Painswick is! Perhaps that's what the hurts the most. She wants her lady to be happy, of course, but, more than that, she wants her to be happy with her.

"You talked about independence, and bein' yourself again, but, if you'll forgive me m'lady, you're just the same as before. It's just Lady Rosamund is your bank-roller this time."

She's hurt her. Sarah can see as much in Cora's face, and she has to fight the urge to immediately make amends. The last thing she wants to do is hurt her lady, particularly when she's already hurt her in the worst way imaginable, but Cora's already made her choice: she can see as much on her ladyship's face. The only thing left to do now is make hers, and she isn't prepared to spend the rest of her life at the mercy of Lady Rosamund's good will, even if Lord Grantham's sister is prepared to keep her fed and clothed, and she somehow doubts it.

She leaves the next day, decision made, but with a heavy heart.

###

The substantial savings Sarah has managed to cobble together are not quite substantial enough to secure the apartment she has wanted. She had dreamed of a reasonably sized shop, pretty but not so pretty that the practicality of the property has suffered as a result, and a similarly sized and conveniently positioned apartment above. She finds the latter, though it's hardly as spacious as she had desired, but the shop below is not at all the commercial property she's dreamed of opening since her teenage years. She's imagined large windows, and light pouring into the room and brightening even the darkest of corners, but the light in this shop is minimal.

And it's in Bethnal Green. Of all the areas in London, this was the one she had been desperate to avoid, but she supposes the main reason for that decision no longer matters. Cora has made her choice and it was not her, and as painful as that is Sarah doesn't see the point of dwelling in the past. She can't go back after all: there's no mistress of Downton to take care of now, even if she could bring herself to serve another lady as she had served Cora Grantham, and Lord Grantham has never been able to keep his loathing of her to himself. She has nothing to go back to, and there's no point pining for the life she had imagined for herself and the Countess. Her lips curl up in half-hearted derision as she drops her meagre possessions onto the floor of her new apartment. The single bed – it's nothing more than a cot, really – in the corner seems almost mocking.

There's precious little she can do in the way of decorating but she does her best, and soon enough the walls that were once bare and cold are somewhat more inviting. The room seems bigger too, though the effect is merely illusionary. The proportions of the room will remain the same no matter what she does to it, but the pale cream lighting the walls at least goes some way to helping her forget the woman who is not here with her.

But not far enough. Those brief weeks of companionship have made Cora impossible to forget, no matter how hard she tries: she thinks of her when she's painting the walls, when she's moving the couch and cooking her first meal in her new home. She has imagined doing all of these things with Cora, and it is with foolish hope she writes to the Countess on her third day in Bethnal Green, enclosing her address and best wishes, her apologies for her harsh words and hope that her ladyship will do her the honour of paying her a visit one day. She doubts that she will, and it is with some bitterness that she pours the hot water into her mug.

She's about to take her first sip of tea when there's a rap at the door, a soft little sound that sounds nothing like a bailiff – she can't be in trouble already after all, but who else could have her address? The only person she'd sent it to was Lady Grantham—

Sarah opens the door to the Countess of Grantham, looking as elegant and glorious as ever and utterly out of place in the bloody East End of London.

Cora smiles, and if she's not mistaken the Countess is just as uncertain as she is. "Good afternoon, O'Brien."

###

Bethnal Green is hardly Belgravia, and Sarah's new lodgings are hardly her suite at Downton Abbey. In fact, the entire apartment might be smaller than her old room, but Cora supposes there's a certain…rustic charm to the place. Or perhaps it's the woman standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, dressed in looser, brighter clothes than Cora knew she possessed. Her hair is looser too, and she looks so terribly and adorably awkward that Cora hardly recognises the woman she has known for the last fifteen years in this lovely figure.

"How did you find me?" Sarah asks.

Cora smiles in bemusement.

"Lady Rosamund has her ways." She suspects it wasn't the best thing to say though when Sarah rolls her eyes in irritation and her expression softens instead. "It's lovely, O'Brien."

Sarah arches her eyebrow disbelievingly. "That's very kind of you, Cora, but it's barely an apartment."

Cora. It's a start.

"Oh, I don't know." She smiles as freely as she can manage. "It has a certain something about it."

Sarah laughs, and it occurs to her she can count on one hand the number of times she has heard such a sound from the other woman's lips. It's musical, somehow – a magical sound. She's yet to apologise, but she has managed to make Sarah laugh, and surely that counts for something?

"It's enough. It's got everythin' I need."

And Cora supposes it does. Looking around the lodgings she sees a washbasin, a little kitchenette she assumes offers adequate space for Sarah to cook her meals, and, of course, a bed. It's big enough for Sarah – bigger than she would have expected of a place like this, but surely isn't big enough for two? Though perhaps she's being presumptuous: she's made such a mess of things after all.

But oh, there's even a bathtub!

"Yes it does. I'm not sure what I expected."

"S'not a dive head first into poverty, then?"

Cora flinches: she hadn't expected an especially warm welcoming but it's something else entirely to have those words thrown back in her face. But she really has nobody but herself to blame.

"I'm sorry," she offers gently.

The regret shows immediately on Sarah's face, and Cora nearly breathes out in relief. So she doesn't hate her: she supposes that would be a little too melodramatic for her dear O'Brien, but she's relieved nonetheless.

"Are you still staying with Lady Rosamund?" She sounds hopeful, but Cora doesn't allow herself to feel the same: she has been disappointed before by all manner of people, but Sarah hasn't once disappointed her yet.

"Only if you want me to." Sarah looks surprised and Cora smilingly, gratefully and happily, elaborates. "We made a decision O'Brien, remember?"

Understanding dawns fully on Sarah's face, and the tentative hope on her face is unmistakable. Sarah wants her here, regardless of her previous stupidity.

"There's not much room, m'lady," Sarah says warily, and Cora is more than happy to counter her argument with one of her own. If this is the way Sarah wants to play it, she's more than happy to play along.

"I don't take up much space."

Sarah glances in the direction of what Cora assumes serves as the bedroom. "There's only the one bed."

"I don't mind sharing."

"But—"

Cora arches a teasing eyebrow. "O'Brien, if you'd rather I didn't live here I'd prefer you told me directly."

"Of course I want you here." Sarah blurts so quickly that Cora has no doubt she means the words. Their little game seems rather silly now when it's perfectly clear to both of them that there was nowhere else they'd rather be. It's the last place Cora might have imagined spending the rest of her life, and perhaps it won't be the rest of her life, but even as a temporary pit stop she has never once contemplated a rickety apartment in Bethnal Green. That somehow makes it perfect. It's a fresh start, in every sense of the word.

"Then I'll stay, it's as simple as that."

"On one condition."

She hadn't expected a condition but she'll agree to anything now if it means she can stay here. "Anything, O'Brien."

A small and decidedly triumphant smile spreads across Sarah's lips, but there's a hint of nervousness too. They're on unfamiliar territory after all, no longer maid and mistress, simply two women possibly living together in a flat in Bethnal Green.

"Call me Sarah."

###

The transition to life in Bethnal Green is a slow one. Sarah's business is not an immediate success of course: nobody in London knows who she is, or that her shop even exists, and what little business comes her way seems to have been sent in her direction by the same woman: Lady Rosamund Painswick. Its kind, she supposes, though she knows that its Cora she is doing it for, but it's frustrating nonetheless. When she imagined a life in London she imagined one carved out by her, through her own talents and ingenuity and not the connections she's managed to forge through the woman sharing her bed on a nightly basis.

It's not as thrilling as it sounds. Cora shares her bed but they do nothing more than sleep, though each evening her thoughts turn more and more to the things they might do if her lady was so inclined. She's always cared for Cora more than she's believed she should, but it's harder to ignore it now, when she spends each evening with her lady wrapped safely in her arms and her nose buried in the softness of her hair. Cora's body practically moulds around hers, and it's as unbearable as it is wonderful.

"Sarah, did you ask for the lace?"

She calls her Sarah now. She's never heard it spoken so beautifully before: it's common as muck really – she knew at least three Sarah's growing up in Scouthead – but in Cora's soft, purring voice it sounds quite exotic.

She smiles indulgently. "Thank you. I'm workin' on the blouse for Her Majesty."

The vitriol in her voice makes Cora giggle as she passes over the delicate bit of fabric she has been looking for. It's soft against her fingers, but softer still is Cora's skin as their hands brush tantalisingly together. Cora doesn't notice: her hand is back by her side in less than a second, but Sarah's flesh tingles for minutes after.

"You should be kinder," Cora teases affectionately. "Her Majesty is paying our rent for the month."

They share a smile, one of many private jokes that have flourished between them, before Sarah goes back to work. It is routine now: Sarah, working, as Cora cooks them dinner, and the Countess had proved a surprisingly adept cook for a woman who only a month ago had no idea how to crack an egg, let alone boil one. She scrambles them now – it's her speciality – and makes a better pot of tea than even her father had been able to manage, and she had once proclaimed him the official best tea maker in existence. Cora pays special attention to her sugar. She likes her tea sweet, but not too sweet, and finds two lumps often lean toward the latter. One, on the other hand, is nowhere near enough, but Cora adds one and half, delicately carving one lump in two and sprinkling a segment carefully into steaming liquid.

And she learns other skills too. The first thing she learns, she insists upon learning, is how to loosen her own corset. Sarah is perfectly happy to undress Cora herself – it's been her job for near on twenty years, after all, and a habit she has difficultly breaking – but her lady smiles softly and reasons she has two hands and a mind of her own. She's proud of her for that, even as she watches her struggle with laces she's been undoing without trouble for the majority of her life, because Cora really does want this, scrubbing, cleaning, poverty and all. There's an easier life for her in Yorkshire, but she's here instead, with her.

"If Her Majesty doesn't like my tone, she can find a new seamstress," Sarah sniffs, and Cora giggles fondly as she returns to the kitchen.

"And we'll be on the streets."

As long as they're together, Sarah thinks she can manage that.

###

The first time they venture out into the market, Cora clutches at Sarah's hand. It takes some persuading in the first place, and eventually she is able to convince Cora of the necessity of the excursion, but she is bloody proud of the Countess when one does capitulate, grim-faced and nervous, yet so wonderfully eager to help.

"We're in this together, after all," Cora tells her calmly, though Sarah can practically hear her poor heart pounding nervously in her chest. "And I have no intention of being a kept woman."

It's the reassurance Sarah has been sorely needing that Cora won't go back to Lady Rosamund. It would be so easy after all, and perhaps even she would do just that if she had been accustomed to a lifetime of wealth which has been snatched so suddenly from underneath her. But she knows Cora better than that now: she knows Cora wasn't always heiress to a great fortune. Her lady had grown up comfortably of course, and their bank balance undoubtedly eclipsed that of the O'Brien household, but instead the family fortune was amassed by Cora's father when she was seven years old. It shows, Sarah thinks, as she bundles Cora up in gloves and scarf – she has no intention of allowing her to fall ill again, she couldn't bear it. Cora has always been grateful, where her husband has shown nothing but entitlement – she has said please and thank you, and smiles without reserve, and has yet to complain once about her life in Bethnal Green, though there's plenty for a Countess to complain about. She is a model of graciousness and, as they set out tentatively from their apartment and Cora's fingers clutch at hers, it's becoming harder and harder to pretend she doesn't love her.

"Do you have the list?" Cora asks quietly.

Sarah gives her hand a reassuring squeeze. Cora's voice trembles unmistakably as they push their way through the crowds of Spitalfields, and she doesn't blame her: the people here are the very opposite of what her ladyship is used to, but Cora ventures out all the same and Sarah marvels at her quiet courage.

"I've got it, love." They exchange a soft smile at the endearment. "We'll be ten minutes, in and out."

"Oh no," Cora shakes her head emphatically, and Sarah arches a brow. "We're not made of money, my dear, I intend to haggle."

Haggle? Sarah stifles a snigger at the thought. It's bloody brave of Cora, of course, and once again Sarah can't quite believe that this courageous, beautiful woman wants anything to do with her, but the thought of the Countess of Grantham haggling with a greasy market trader in her soft and aristocratic American accent is almost too amusing for words. She brushes her thumb fondly over Cora's knuckles.

"You'll wear 'em down in seconds, sweetheart."

And if not, she'll bloody 'haggle' with them herself.

###

"I saw Rosamund today," Cora says as she luxuriates in the bathtub. It's a small tub – Cora's legs barely fit the length of it – but she squeezes in all the same, languishing beneath a layer of bubbles that still cover precious little of her modesty. The bubbles are plentiful but they're hardly strategically placed, and Sarah can't help but let her eyes wander over the glistening flesh that is poorly, yet tantalisingly concealed.

"Oh?" She fights down the small spark of jealousy Rosamund still seems to ignite, and concentrates instead on the fine needlework in her hands. "What did she have to say?"

"Her Majesty is terribly pleased with your work."

The jealousy is swallowed by a flush of pride: if there is one thing she is proud of, and there is so little to be proud of in her miserable life, it is her work. She's a consummate professional, and the blouse she pieced together for Madame du Pompadour (as Cora so affectionately refers to her sometimes) was exquisite. But the woman in the bathtub is more so. The water glistens against her skin, and her dark hair rests darker still against slim, pale shoulders that shift gracefully as Cora squeezes the sponge against her flesh.

Cora has always been beautiful, but never more so sitting in their bathtub and using their sponge to cleanse her skin.

"She should be. I stayed up all night workin' on that blouse."

Cora's brow creases. "You ought to take better care of yourself, darling."

The endearment warms her heart, but there's nothing that stirs her emotions more than my love. That one is rare, and, though she doesn't expect for a second her ladyship actually means the words, precious.

"You take good enough care of me as it is." She smirks. "I dread to think what you'd do if I was actually ill."

"I would confine you to bed and wrap you in cotton wool, and I wouldn't let you lift a finger."

"The way you cared for your children when they were sick?"

Cora's smile falters, and Sarah immediately regrets ever mentioning the girls, but they can't shy away from the topic forever. They're here after all, not on a different planet, and once things have settled perhaps they'll want to visit? Mary, perhaps not. She can't imagine the same girl who had once turned up her nose at a ruby brooch stepping foot in her mother's Bethnal Green apartment. But Edith and Sybil, perhaps. Sybil's married Branson after all, and she's always been fonder of Edith than the others.

"Just as well," Cora replies, and Sarah can hear the strain in her voice despite her attempt to appear unaffected. "I'd starve without you, after all."

Sarah fixes her with a reproachful stare, and for a moment forgets her lovely flesh entirely. Cora has come much too far, has done and learnt much too much to still talk so self-deprecatingly of herself.

"I couldn't do any of this without you, love."

Cora flushes, and Sarah can well imagine that it's been a long time since anybody has said anything like that to her, if anybody ever has. She doubts it: her mother-in-law has been anything but encouraging, and his lordship couldn't have been because he'd driven her away in the end. But she is determined to make Cora believe the words she says.

Because she loves her.

###

Money is tight in their second month together. With Her Majesty on the continent, indulging in Worth and Schiaparelli no doubt, they find their resources stretched considerably, and Lady Rosamund's recommendation is all well and good but it is nothing without interested parties. Besides, Sarah suspects the Dowager Countess has been sticking her oar in, because her suddenly booming business is not so booming anymore.

"How much do diamonds sell for these days, Sarah?"

It's an odd question, but Sarah is amused by it nonetheless. The Countess would have no conception of the monetary value of diamonds, and it's particularly amusing given their present dire lack of funds, but then neither does she. Her instinctive answer is a teasing 'a lot', but Cora's face suddenly looks so bloody earnest that the words stall in her mouth. She can practically see her mind whirring behind her eyes and she covers Cora's hand comfortingly with her own.

"I'm not sure, love. Why?"

There's something different about Cora today, something off with the weight of her hand, and it's only when she feels something being pressed into her palm, something hard and cold and heavy, that she realises Cora's finger lacks the weight of the ring that had once bound her to Lord Grantham. They're still married of course – neither, though his lordship is the slightly more reluctant party, has any intention of formally renouncing their marriage, not least for the damage it might do to the family reputation, and poor Edith is still without a husband – but it's in name only now, and Sarah has never quite understood why Cora still wears his ring. But it's gone now, and though Cora's finger looks curiously bare without it, it's a decidedly welcome improvement. Cora's fingers clasp her own around the trinket, and understanding finally dawns.

"Oh darlin', no."

But Cora is emphatic. She tightens her grip on her fingers and raises the other to rest against Sarah's cheek. Her heart skips a beat at the touch, and she does her best not to show her lady just how much it means to her, but one of these days Cora will see right through her.

"Let me put the food on the table, just this once."

"It's your weddin' ring, Cora."

"I'm separated from my husband, Sarah, and don't you think I've learnt something in all these months with you?" Her eyes dance with mirth. "What is a ring compared with all we have?"

She's right of course, but Sarah has never heard words to that effect from Cora's lips before. She's never been entirely sure the other woman is happy until now, when she's pushing her wedding ring into her hand and demanding they pawn it off just to support the little life they've made, together. She's never been more humbled by an offer in her life, and it feels like she's lived three bloody lifetimes some days.

"If you're sure, Cora, we can have it valued tomorrow."

Cora nods eagerly, and presses her lips to Sarah's knuckles. Her heart damn near explodes in her chest at the touch. "The sooner the better."

###

Cora has always been terrified of thunderstorms, but she supposes she should be used to them by now. They'd had magnificent thunderstorms in Ohio, the kind that had shook the ground and splintered trees with the ferocity of their thundering: English thunderstorms are rather pitiful in comparison but they terrify Cora all the same. This time she has a protector, and she buries her face in Sarah's neck accordingly.

"Bloody hell, that was a loud one," Sarah mutters into the darkness as thunder rumbles in the sky, and automatically pulls Cora close. Cora smiles into her neck.

"Is there anything that scares you?"

Sarah smirks into her hair.

"Course there is, love."

Cora looks up expectantly. Finally, something to distract her attention from the storm, but Sarah is not forthcoming. If she really is scared of something – and she still refuses to believe there is anything in this world that frightens Sarah O'Brien – then she is not going to tell her, and her feelings are oddly hurt by that knowledge.

"Alright." She does her best to affect amusement, but the hurt seeps into her voice regardless. "Keep your secrets, Miss O'Brien."

"Gnomes."

Sarah breathes the word so quietly into the darkness Cora is almost sure she has imagined it, but she feels Sarah's arm tighten around her waist and her body tremble against hers, and knows that she has inadvertently struck a nerve. There's only one thing for it.

"Gnomes?" she teases, meeting Sarah's eye and seeing the glimmer of mischief return to her expression. "You mean, garden gnomes?"

"Try not to sound so incredulous, darlin'. You're scared of bees."

Cora stifles a giggle, and buries her face in Sarah's neck. Her skin is soft and she is sure she can smell lavender, and the intimacy of the moment becomes impossible to ignore. The last time anybody had held her like this it had been her husband, and even then she can't remember it feeling so effortlessly right. And when Sarah calls her darling…

"Actually, I find them rather adorable."

And at least that was a common phobia!

"Oh, that's right," Sarah smirked. "You like 'em in theory."

She likes that: she likes bees in theory. It's another example of the clever little jokes Sarah tells her that warm her heart and make her smile. She smiles now, shuffling closer and revelling in the warmth of Sarah's arms.

"As long as they don't get too close to me, I like them very well, thank you very much!"

###

Three months into their life together, a crisp and chilling December, they're busier than ever, and Cora grudgingly admits that Madame du Pompadour – she is ashamed this is the kind of woman she used to regularly associate with – is good for something. She recommends Sarah to all and sundry, true to her word, and soon enough they're flooded with enquiries and her poor roommate is quite overwhelmed with the quantity of orders. In the early days Sarah would do her work in the warmth and privacy of their living space upstairs, but those days are becoming a thing of the past: she works downstairs now, pinning fabric together as sullen young women bark out instructions, and when Sarah returns to her in the evenings the poor thing looks thoroughly exhausted.

She does her best to help, but there is little more she can do besides scrambled eggs and pots of tea, and the occasional scrub and sweep to make sure their home doesn't get too dirty. She doesn't much enjoy cleaning, but Sarah has been working for her for twenty-odd years: the least she can do is clean their house now and give the poor woman a break, but it's hard work all the same.

And she teaches herself how to sew. She knows how to sew of course, has embroidered veritable masterpieces during the hours of boredom she often spent between lunch and dinner at Downton Abbey, but sewing garments, for work, rather than for pleasure, is a different art altogether. She observes Sarah surreptitiously over the rim of her tea-cup, watching every loop and stitch as she slowly and artfully pieces together a chemise from scratch. Cora can't imagine ever having enough talent to create something quite so beautiful, but she doesn't need to teach herself to be a seamstress. Basic knowledge will be enough – enough skill to ease Sarah's workload somewhat, even if all she is good for is darning drawers and stockings. At least it will give Sarah something of a reprieve, and she will feel slightly more useful. She practices in the afternoons, when Sarah is consumed by work and otherwise occupied in the shop below.

Her first commission is a skirt. Sarah is busy when the woman comes in, and she watches with amusement as her roommate rolls her eyes as she fastens another pin, suffering through another monologue about the tortures of love from Her Majesty's eldest girl. There's something of Mary in the child – the same stubborn arrogance she's inherited from her grandmother, although at the very least she hopes Mary is somewhat less monstrous. She dreads to think what kind of a mother it makes her if Mary is too like The Right Honourable Georgiana Boynton. It's strange, she thinks, seeing what she supposes is – was – her kind from the other side, and it makes her feel curiously sick to think she was ever like these people. Sarah reassures her otherwise, but she's not sure, and does her best to atone for her possible former arrogance by being especially helpful around their apartment and making so many pots of tea for Sarah she can't quite keep up with them.

But this woman is different: it takes no more than one glance to ascertain that. The hem of her skirt is dirty, and her when she reaches to grasp Cora's hand in greeting her flesh is noticeably rough, her fingers calloused, like Sarah's, but she's older than the woman still huffing in irritation in the background. She can't be any younger than sixty, but she seems older still, hunching as she walks and grasping at her hand as if she needs the support. There's still beauty in her face though, more genuine beauty than the girl snapping at Sarah possesses, and Cora smiles softly in greeting and squeezes her hand in return.

"Is there something we can help you with, Miss?"

This isn't the kind of client she and Sarah are used to, but the woman smiles so gratefully when she helps her into a seat that Cora is determined they won't turn her away. She glances at the skirt in the woman's hands, noticing the tear immediately and feeling a spark of usefulness she's rarely felt before. This is something she can do, something Sarah doesn't need to do, and she closes her hand around the woman's again – Mrs Nora Gamble, she later discovers over tea, which sounds rather like a Dickens name, she thinks in amusement – smiling as she squeezes calloused fingers.

"I'm sure we can do something with this." She winks, much to Mrs Gamble's delight. "No charge, of course."

Behind her, Sarah smiles.

###

It is Christmas Eve and Sarah has been waiting months for this moment. Cora, on the hand, has been dreading it. It is her first Christmas away from the girls, and as hard as Sarah tries to comfort her there is little she can do to banish the melancholy in her eyes, although sometimes it is lessened when she's working, when she's fiddling with blouses and skirts and sipping tea in companionable silence with Mrs Gamble – her friend now, her first in this new and uncertain, but hopefully happy life. Sarah has never cared much about Christmas before, and why would she, spending it with the likes of Bates and the hapless Mr Molesley? But this one is special, because it's her first Christmas with Cora, and she has done her best to mark the occasion accordingly.

She reaches into her pocket, feeling for the little box she's been hiding for months now with all of the confidence and excitement she had felt when she had first spotted the pretty little thing in a nondescript jewellery shop on her way to fetch some milk. It's silver, and the pendant is barely bigger then her fingernail, but there's a sort of understated elegance about it that reminds her wholly of Cora, and she had dug deep into her pockets after only a second of hesitation.

It's only when she hears the gentle hum of Cora's voice from inside the kitchen that she begins to doubt herself, and she feels such a bloody fool because it's nothing. Cora has been given presents a hundred times bigger and more glorious than the pathetic thing in her hand that'll barely shine when compared with the others, never mind the thing hanging round Cora's neck. Cora deserves diamonds and gold and all manner of gemstones, and not just because she's a Countess, because she still is, whether she and her husband are separated or not, and she really is an idiot for thinking a lady would ever wear silver, but because she's Cora, and Cora is the most brilliant creature she's ever laid eyes on, especially now, with the light of the Christmas season in her eyes and the remnants of tinsel in her hair. Sarah's breath catches in her throat and she looks to the gift in her hands pathetically, but it's too late now because Cora has seen her and her eyes have lit up like its Christmas morning all over again. She's like a child sometimes, she's insufferably excitable and it only adds to her charm.

"Is that a gift, Sarah? For me?"

She can't very well say no and she feels even more stupid than before handing over the miniscule box that she's probably laughing her head off at inside.

"It's nothin', m'lady. Silly really, compared to Lady Rosamund's gift."

That particular gift is hanging between Cora's breasts now. Sarah nearly rolls her eyes: they're surviving on a frankly pathetic diet, and Lady Rosamund still seems to think it's appropriate to send her sister-in-law a bloody sapphire.

But Cora certainly doesn't seem to think it's nothing, and removes the wrapping paper with careful hands that turn reverent when they finally reach the box inside. When her fingers finally ghost over the silver Sarah had thought so exquisite before Cora had unveiled her sister-in-law's gift with a shriek of satisfaction she doesn't think her heart can take the anticipation. But instead of laughter there's an audible gasp, and when Sarah finally dares to look up there are tears in Cora's eyes.

"Cora?"

"Oh Sarah."

She reaches out and takes her hand, and maybe Countesses wear silver after all, because Sarah wakes up on Christmas morning to find silver, rather than sapphire, hanging between her lady's breasts.

###

It really is an accident, Cora insists to herself later, when the colour of her skin has returned to normal and her heart rate is the same as it always was, but secretly she's not entirely sure it was. But she can hardly anticipate her roommate's every movement, and the truth is it was bound to happen eventually!

She's dressing of course, and utterly oblivious to the eyes that are increasingly transfixed on the progress of rough, purposeful hands over fabric and against her skin. Somewhere in the back of her mind Cora registers that Sarah is dressing, and she has no right to spy on her like this, but it's proving impossible to look away.

Sarah is even more beautiful than Cora has imagined she might be, when she allows her mind to wander in the wee hours of the morning with the other woman pressed against her. She can feel the outline of her body then, is tempted to follow the smooth curves hidden from her view by the hand-me-down chemise she herself passed on to the woman who was once her maid with her fingers. But she can see it now, every supple curve and glorious inch of flesh is exposed utterly to her view, and it stirs her in a way she has never once imagined the sight of anybody could.

That night, it is decidedly difficult to sleep, with that same body pressed against hers and her soft, warm mouth pressing into the crook of her neck. When they first began sharing this bed they slept apart, on separate sides of the mattress with their arms resting firmly by their sides, but they've gravitated naturally together over time. Now there's no distance between them as they sleep, and she's never been more aware of it than now, with the memory of Sarah's flesh and the reality of it so painfully within her grasp.

She would reach for it, if she had the courage, or even the vaguest inkling that Sarah might just love her back. Because she does love her: of that much she is certain now. How could she not love the woman she has shared more of herself with than anyone else she has ever known? Sarah knows her, heart and soul, but she has more of herself to give, so much more, and if she could only reach out and…

Her fingers retreat back to her side. She's shouldered all of the challenges this new life has presented, has made a friend, has been put to work, but she does not yet possess the confidence for that, and she's not entirely sure she ever will. She's taken a leap of faith coming here, leaving her old life behind and starting a new but at least then she'd been sure of Sarah's presence by her side. And supposing she's wrong, supposing Sarah doesn't want her as she hopes that she might, it is entirely possible she will lose her forever.

And it's that that terrifies her the most, rather than the prospect of poverty.

###

The first night they come together is like something out of a dream. They're sewing in silence, propped up in bed against a mountain of pillows – a night no different to any other in their house, but then Sarah asks for the button box that's resting in Cora's lap – it's theirs now, no longer hers – and their fingers brush together as Cora passes it to her. Something in the apartment changes, something in the air, and if Sarah wasn't positive Cora could never look at her in that way then she would be convinced that her fingers had lingered against hers longer than strictly necessary. But there can't be more to it, can there? Surely she'd be dreaming if there was. But Cora's face is flushed, and her eyes, black, and when Sarah trails her eyes over the body she knows so well now, after nearly twenty years, she can see other tell-tale signs of desire.

And then Cora shuffles closer on their tiny bed, and Sarah knows.

"You've made me so very happy, darling. You're such an incredible woman."

"What's so special about me, love?" Sarah murmurs, far more breathless than she'd anticipated as her lips hover closer and closer to the other woman's.

"You?" Cora breathes in as Sarah's body moves closer, and her tongue flicks out over her lips. It's the best indication she's so far had that Sarah really does want her, and Cora feels a stab of lust deep in her belly that spreads through every inch of her.

This really is going to happen, isn't it?

She lets her eyes linger on those lips before darting them to the neckline of Sarah's chemise. There's a tell tale flush there that more than confirms that Sarah wants her too. Their eyes meet once again. "You're the most amazing woman I've ever met Sarah: you're worth so much more than every penny of my inheritance."

She moves again, shuffling until there is no distance between them, and until their lips are only a few millimetres apart, and it is Sarah that finally closes that distance, pushing forwards and almost believing Cora's sweet words herself as she finally, finally, presses their lips together as she's been wanting to for more than ten years now – twenty, if she's entirely honest with herself, and that thought is enough to catapult her into deepening the kiss and cupping her lady's soft cheek almost possessively. She is marvellously responsive beneath her, sighing softly and meeting each kiss with one of her own: Sarah can't imagine his lordship has ever kissed her like this, and she tries not to feel too smug as she guides Cora's body underneath hers and feels soft, searching hands grasping for the material of her chemise.

There are practical concerns of course: her own experience is limited to the man she was going to marry, and it is curious how she has forgotten all about Mickey – she has barely thought of him in fifteen years – basking instead in the warmth of Cora's good favour, in her soft smiles and softer voice. There have been others of course, uncertain fumbles on cold nights, and some of those with women, but nobody she has loved quite like she loves Cora now, and the prospect of proving a disappointment to Cora is nearly enough to scare her back to her own side of the bed. But she stays precisely where she is: what else can she do with Cora Crawley's soft body underneath hers and her soft hand trembling against the flesh of her thigh. Cora's touch is far more tentative than her own, and that's hardly surprising given the only man she has ever loved like this is Robert Crawley and lord knows he's not the most exciting of men. But even that thought feels uncharitable now given just how happy she is, and Lord Grantham is the last person she wants to think about in this moment of all moments.

Cora, on the other hand…

She pulls back, much to Cora's chagrin. A little moan of frustration escapes the other woman's lips, and Sarah strokes a hand over her hair reassuringly. She might as well have answered her question already given the clear disappointment on Cora's face at their parting, but she's going to ask it all the same. She has to ask it.

"Darlin'…are you sure?"

Cora smiles beatifically, letting her hand linger on Sarah's thigh and the other one ghost along Sarah's cheek. There's nothing else she can say but yes, but answers with a kiss instead, drawing Sarah's lips back to hers and resuming the exploration of her hands. What she lacks in experience, she makes up for with eagerness, and Sarah is soon drowning in the softness of her kiss and the feel of her fingers drifting tentatively but purposefully between her thighs.

There is no need for words. They both know precisely how the other feels and have done for some time perhaps, but they're both more than willing to make up for lost time. There are whispers of love of course, whispered breathlessly into the darkness and against soft, warm skin, but touch alone is sufficient enough to convince them both of the truth of those words, and afterwards they lay in silence, Sarah's head against Cora's breast and her heartbeat soothing her to sleep.

Cora is the strongest she has been in years – her heartbeat, soft and steady, is enough to convince Sarah of that, but there's colour in her cheeks that hadn't been there before, and even her breathing is back to normal. There's no more wheezing, no more terrifying cough when she's pushed herself too hard. She could run a mile now without trouble if she wanted to, though Sarah would tie her to the bloody bed if she tried. Cora might be strong enough to run a marathon now, but she'll be damned if she lets her: Sarah's not quite managed to rid herself of the crippling worry for Cora's health she's felt since that one afternoon in August 1914. That day seems a hundred years ago now, but it haunts her all the same, except perhaps it's time to lay those old ghosts to rest? Perhaps she can finally forgive herself? Stranger things have happened after all – the woman cradling Sarah in her arms now, the woman that loves her, has made love to her, is proof enough of that.

Life in Bethnal Green has never been easy – life at Downton Abbey is easy, for her as much as Cora – but it's happy, and full of love, and that's more than Sarah's ever had.