Cora set her needlework down onto the sofa beside her and then pushed back against the cushion with a quiet sigh. The clock, ticking methodically atop the mantle, informed her that it was just after three o'clock. She'd been fiddling with the threads for hours now, and had the pinpricks on her fingers to show for it. But it would be hours yet until the gong and, staring down at the pastel flowers and leaves woven into soft fabric, Cora knew that she needed a diversion.

The house was quiet as she stood and stretched her legs. Robert had been gone since the early morning hours, off to York for a check-in with the doctors and then a meeting with the banks over some tenant issue. Mary and Tom, too, had been gone all day; their days were most often filled now with the work that Robert once did. The change was odd, certainly, but made it easier for Cora to breathe, knowing that Robert's daily tasks had been dramatically reduced. And Edith was in London once again, this time for some editorial meeting, or something.

Wandering toward the bookshelves, Cora thought briefly of trekking up to the nursery. That idea was quickly tamped down, though, when she remembered that Nanny had taken the children for a ride into Ripon.

Face to face with the leather-bound tomes, Cora's eyes trailed over the myriad books, looking for something, anything that looked of remote interest. Pride and Prejudice. A Study in Scarlet. The Count of Monte Cristo. Villette. The Antiquary.

Her and Robert's books had long ago been intermingled, though it was clear—even now—which works belonged to whom. They'd had long arguments over the years of how best to organize it all. When Cora had first arrived at Downton, a sparkling diamond and golden band on her finger and trunks full of dresses and books and life all laid behind her, Violet had kindly allotted her a shelf in the far corner of the library. It had of course been too small, and for the first several months of her new habitation Cora had slowly but systematically shuttled books from beneath her bed to places on other shelves in the library that had space available. Like a thief in the night she would slide the novels, all new editions embossed in beautiful golds with tight leather covers, gifts from her parents, between the ancient books, silently ingratiating herself into this foreign world one novel at a time.

Eventually, Robert had caught her out. The memory of him stumbling upon her in the library one late night, moonlight dancing across the floor, gliding over his features; it still warmed her, the memory of how he had grinned, amused to find her kneeling on the floor, shifting large travel guides to Egypt around as she sought a place for her Shakespeare. They'd sat on the floor together that night, Robert explaining how the books were generally organized, and showing her some of his favorites. He'd diplomatically pulled a few older, long-sitting books from a prime location and had helped her to reach the new place, carefully arranging the books she'd brought down. And even now, even still, her chest tingled at the thought of his smile when he'd suggested she help him hide the now displaced books that belonged to his mother. They'd carried them to a far-off linen cupboard, whispering conspiratorially about a more efficient system of book organization that they'd already dreamed up together.

Cora closed her eyes briefly, holding onto the memory for just a moment longer, and then let it go. She looked up at the books before her once more and pursed her lips. For all the organizing, buying, and arguing that remained in their past, there was rather a lack of new reading material, and none of the usual favorites seemed to call out to her. Turning her attention to a small stack of books that rested on the table nearest to the shelves, Cora took a few steps closer to investigate.

It had been months—possibly even a year—since Pattenson had been to Downton. He'd come to sort out some things for the Russian visit, but the library had been rather neglected of his attentions. The pile, Cora realized, was full of books that needed to be shelved. The first that she picked up and thumbed through was a newer copy of Grimm's Fairy Tales—somethingCora rather hoped no one was reading to the children. The second was some sort of farming manual that made her nose wrinkle in displeasure, careful illustrations of various machinery jumping up at her from the pages.

The third book in the pile had a plain brown cover, soft, with some sort of bird etched into the middle. Turning it onto its side, Cora found no authorial inscription. She flipped open the cover with her thumb and reached for a slip of paper that, having been pressed between the pages, threatened to slip out.

To Whom It May Concern:

I am writing on behalf of Inky Stephensen and Mandrake Press. It is our hope that you will re-consider your decision to refrain from reviewing this new novel by the most esteemed D. H. Lawrence. Although we stand by our assertion that the novel must remain unchanged, we do appreciate that the material may be considered delicate to the common reader. Nevertheless, we shall move forward with a privately circulated publication of the novel and hope that The Sketch, a long supporter of our press, will remain steadfast in their affection. Enclosed, please find one of the first copies signed by Mr. Lawrence himself, as a gesture of good will.

With many thanks,

Mr. Edward Goldston

Cora re-folded the note and tucked it into the back of the book, wondering why Edith had seemingly rejected the poor man's heartfelt plea. She flipped back to the first pages and read over the darkly printed lettering—

Lady Chatterley's Lover

by

D. H. Lawrence

The novel seemed plain enough, and so Cora, eschewing vague notions of returning to her needlework, toted the find to the more comfortable chair—the one near Robert's desk—and settled down, turning a few more errant blank pages until she reached the title page and began to read:

Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically. The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. It is rather hard work: there is now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles. We've got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.