This idea just sort of popped into my head. It has no plan nor any end in sight; it just is a feathery idea. I'm going to add to this every so often, as the mood strikes. It might involve any or all of the characters; I simply don't know where it is going yet. But each chapter will be about something small and simply, a part of everyday life at Downton Abbey that normally gets taken for granted. But ocassionally, those moments take on a special meaning. I do hope you enjoy.
"We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures. " Thornton Wilder
He walked into her room… their room, just as O'Brien left through the other door. There was nothing special about the evening; it was a night like so many others. Yet as he stepped further into the room, something came over Robert Crawley, whether it was a mood or a thought…or perhaps an epiphany, he was not certain. But he stilled and watched as Cora did what she had done so many other nights in his presence, she was massaging a lotion into her hands.
Why should that thrill him so, he wondered, amused. But even as silly as it felt momentarily, he was mesmerized. His eyes followed every movement, every caress. There was such beauty in that simple act; not beauty in the usual sense, although she did have beautiful hands, but beauty in what those hands meant…to him.
Those hands, her hands….they had held his in difficult moments and in joyous ones. They soothed him in times of grief and despair and they caressed him in times of happiness. And at night, when they were left to their own devices behind the doors to her room, oh…what those hands did to him then. It made Robert quicken and grow warm to simply let his mind brush over those nights….and on occasion, afternoons too.
He knew the gentle strength of those hands, of her. He also knew of her passion, in part through her hands. And suddenly the book in his own hands seemed a ridiculous notion. What sane man would bring a book to bed when the bed would contained a wife as beautiful and passionate as his wife? What fool would prefer the feel of the musty pages of the suddenly cumbersome article to the feel of her…of her hands on him? He tossed the book aside, into a nearby chair, as if it had suddenly caught fire. But it wasn't the book that was burning; it was the man.
Cora saw his action in her mirror and turned to look fully at him, a question in her eyes. He smiled at her warmly, lovingly and shrugged. "I don't feel like reading tonight," he said simply.
Her expression grew coy and she blushed slightly. He marveled at the idea that he could still make her blush after all these years. Standing there, a ridiculous grin on his face, he felt his chest becoming far too tight to hold his heart. He opened his mouth to speak but faltered, "I…"
Rising from her bench, Cora moved toward him. "What, my darling?" she asked as she stood before him, her hands, those beautiful hands, reaching for him.
"I…" he tried again. Then lifting an eyebrow, he surrendered. "Sometimes you leave me breathless,' he finally admitted.
Her hand settled on his chest and began to rub the space over his heart. "How can I help you…get your breath?" she teased.
Covering her hand with his and holding it still over his heart, he looked into her sparkling blue eyes. "Take me to bed and let your hands work their wonders," he whispered.
"Anytime, my darling…all the time," she said as she took his hand and led him to the bed.
Later, as she lay curled in his arms, those magnificent hands of hers against his chest, her fingers gently stroking through his hair and tracing lazy lines, he thought about how close they had come…how close he had come to loosing this. Swearing a silent oath to himself and to her, he resolved never to let go of the small things, the simplest moments between them, for they were the most precious.