April 1898
Mary Josephine Crawley was born in the small hours of a bitterly cold spring night. She was early, not so early that it should be a worry, but early enough to inconvenience and panic everyone from her grandparents who awaited for news on the child from the comfort of the small library to the young doctor who had rushed over from his comparably modest home in the village to the large manor that stood as the crown of the Grantham estate. The staff waited anxiously below stairs for the news, shivering in the callous night air, mostly giddy with anticipation of what a child would mean in their day to day lives. They would grumble about the noise and the extra staff and food later, of course, but in those moments their emotions were mostly a complicated mix of unease and excitement. Robert Crawley was at his wits end. Oblivious to the time or the frigidity of the night, he religiously gulped his whiskey, practically pacing holes in the floor. He was too consumed by the itching concerns of every man who endured those nerve-wracking hours of unanimous helplessness to pay mind to such extraneous details as the weather.
The young viscount had every faith in the doctor they had employed to bring their first child into the world, not least because he had made monumental moves in children's medical practice over the course of a mere few years, but the man had been his friend since his school days – not to mention he also happened to be a cousin. Albeit, an extremely distant cousin. Robert could comfortably put his child's life in the man's hands and, even after a few hours when Reggie had told him on no uncertain terms that the difficult circumstances of the birth might mean the child's health, or indeed life, was in danger, the viscount, though now incredibly distressed and terrified, was still set somewhat more at ease in knowing that they were in the best possible hands.
Cora was safe - he had been assured that much, but when the dead of night shifted to dawn and then the break of day, Robert was almost at melting point. His father's presence had been less than helpful, due to his preference for unearthly silence, and his nerves certainly hadn't been helped by his mother's sharp tongue, but it was only when Reggie appeared in the doorway, shirt sleeves rolled above his elbows, sweat pouring from his forehead, that he was allowed to abandon his drink and rush upstairs to see his wife again and meet his first child for the first time.
The two men clapped each other on the back as they crossed paths, a mutual pass of goodwill between them. Robert's one of unbelievable gratitude and Reggie's one of congratulation. The doctor made his way into the library, polishing off his friend's whiskey before grasping his work bag from the hall and slipping away into the early morning dew.
He whistled joyfully, following the winding path through the woods with a spring in his step after the peaceful satisfaction of a job well done. The baby had survived, health impeccable beyond his wildest hopes given how morbid and frantic the night had begun. He'd have to monitor the child- through infancy and early childhood to ease his beliefs to a certainty, but, for now, his oldest friend and his wife were the proud parents of the most beautiful baby girl he'd ever seen. All of which, made Reggie long to get back to his home and his own wife and young son as soon as he could.
Robert's glossy eyes met those of his wife the second he stepped foot into the tranquil quiet of her bedroom. Cora sat, long hair loose against the headboard with a bundle held under her adoring gaze. She smiled at him, lifting her eyes from the child for long enough to tell him that they had a daughter. When the young viscount took the baby, he cradled her against the cotton of his nightshirt as though she were the most fragile thing he'd ever seen.
"She's perfect," came the new father's enraptured whisper. The pad of a gentle thumb stroked over the smooth skin of his daughter's delicate cheek. Her small eyes were still shut, the serenity of her sleep being the loveliest thing he'd ever have the fortune to witness, but her tiny mouth opened in a soft yawn and she smacked her lips slowly. "She's so beautiful," he murmured to his wife, "oh my darling, she's absolutely perfect."
Reginald Crawley arrived home just in time to hear the silence in his home broken when his son began to howl. He sighed, but contentedly, knowing his wife was a heavy enough sleeper to not be woken, it allowed him time enough to settle Matthew before sneaking back to bed to allow his weary limbs to catch maybe an hour or two of sleep before duty called to rouse him for the duration of the day. He lay his medical bag down on the hall table and took the flights of stairs two at a time before reaching the nursery. He'd discreetly given the nanny, a sweet local girl who aspired to become a nurse, a few days off to allow her time to journey to London for an interview, so he opened the heavy wooden door to find his three-month-old son, yowling and crying in his crib.
"There's my beautiful boy!" Reggie, ever the optimist, smiled through his sympathetic pout as he bent to pick up his red-faced child and held him to his shoulder, bouncing slightly as he walked around the nursery to calm his son's tears. Matthew was never usually so distressed, and the source of his disapproval was most likely the absence of his father throughout the night, but, in fact, he was what made Isobel and Reggie the envy of everyone in the village; for Matthew had big blue eyes and steadily thickening tufts of soft blonde hair that endeared him to all adults- especially when coupled with the simple fact that he was always willing to smile at any adult that did so first. He liked to giggle and smack his pudgy hands together- although he did frequently miss- and he had even managed to coax a smile out of Lady Grantham on one occasion. Robert and Cora had been besotted by him on their first meeting when he'd peskily managed to grasp a couple of Robert's fingers in a tiny fist.
He was easy to calm, sinking happily into his father's skin while Reggie rubbed his little back and told him, in a hushed tone, as his eyes drooped, that the Viscount Crawley the Viscountess had a new baby daughter.
Charles could hear the baby bawling long before he opening the double doors adjoining to enclose the big library. For all the worries and concerns about her health during the birth, she had a strong pair of lungs on her and could almost certainly bring great houses to their knees. She was an anxious baby, which was the reason for her screaming as much as it was natural for infants to cry to suit their needs and purposes. Doctor Crawley had diagnosed her with anxiety after a month and, while His Lordship and Her Ladyship ensconced themselves behind the newspaper or before embroidery during the hour of every evening when the child was brought in, pressed and polished, to spend time with her parents, Cora and Robert seemed overly more concerned over the girl's welfare when she cried.
The butler had been taken ill, so Charles Carson- the vaguely recently appointed first footman- supervised tea in the library that evening. He observed the viscount trying, in vain, to calm his daughter, who sounded wretchedly unhappy as well as being wholeheartedly determined to make certain the world was informed of her discomfort. She squirmed in the arms of her father and his awkward grip faltered for a second, showing how little experience he had in this particular genre of task and before Charles really knew what he was doing, he had lurched forward to catch the girl when she looked for a horrible moment like she would drop to the ground.
Thankfully, he managed to successfully get a grip on her just in time, raising her into his arms without a word of protest from the exhausted father and rocking her gently. The tiny bundled girl, roared her fury, possibly at the close call of being dropped or possibly out of indignation of her Papa allowing her to be handed away so freely.
Charles walked with her, her tiny balled fists smaller than a single one of his thumbs as she waved them furiously in the air. His instincts drew her close to him and after a short while of his unconceded efforts, her small mouth closed and the large eyes that had been screwed up with aggrieved wrath opened unexpectedly and fixed a big brown doe eyed gaze upon him. Enraptured, the beauty of this little girl stole the breath from his lungs. She smacked her lips slightly, and Charles was sure he saw a slight smile grace her delicate countenance.
"She's beautiful, isn't she?" Robert said, awed just as much as the footman in the simple enchanting rapture of his young daughter. Transfixed with love for this tiny little human, the two men stood together while the baby shifted, finally content, and batted her heavy eyelids until they closed in sleep.