Dublin 1920
A storm was blowing in from the east, bringing with it an icy chill in the wind. Cora found back a shiver as she pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders. The pavement was still damp from the last rain. Her tin cup only had a few coins from generous passerby. Had someone told her a year ago that she'd be where she was now, begging for alms on the streets of Dublin, she'd have said they were mad.
But then again, that was before everything had changed. Before she had fallen in love. The young man huddled beside her sniffled. Though his back was to her, she could tell that he was cold. She'd offer to share her shawl with him and snuggle in close for the heat, but didn't want to appear disrespectful in public. Yes, she may have left Downton to beg on the streets of Ireland with her chauffeur who was half her age, but Cora still had her pride. Besides, she'd always had a thing for younger men in uniforms.
She hadn't been able to make a move while he was working for her, for propositioning a servant in one's employ was below her standards. Once he resigned and announced his intention to wed her daughter Sybil, he was all hers. Of course, there was he small matter of getting Sybil out of the picture. Cora had only threatened to kill Sybil with rat poison if he didn't run away with her. Threatened. That was different than doing. And to think, people thought she learned nothing from The Daily Sketch. Her former-husband's valet had taught her plenty. And what was one angry daughter in the face of true love?
It was love. Not lust or corruption or taking advantage of a young man with lower social standing whose nationality prevented him from advancing in life. It was love. And Cora had once said that she'd marry a Martian if it was love.
Plunk! A passerby dropped a coin into her cup. Cora smiled. "Thank you," she said, her voice quivering.
Turning her attention to Branson, she slowly reached out to rest her hand over his.
"We got one more," she said.
Her hand never reached his. The moment her cold fingertips brushed his, he jerked his hand away. No matter. Once he got cold enough, he wouldn't pull away.
She may be begging on the streets but she was with her true love and there she'd stay.
"Branson?" she began, facing his shoulder.
His back stiffened. "Focking hell."
She smiled.