The auction was oddly reminiscent of her first Season in London, except this time there was no need to hand over a fortune, but the principle remained the same. O'Brien had been terribly kind this morning as she had all but sewn her into her most dazzling of dresses, and had squeezed her hand when the time had finally come to leave the house, but she had long since ceased to see the point. The same thing happened every year—the same man won, and would no matter how fine her dress or how neat her hair.
It had been tradition at Downton Abbey since the hospital had first conceived by the fifth Earl of Grantham, but this was their most important year yet. Soldiers flooded into the hospital, marred with all manner of injuries—physical and psychological—and if they wanted to offer the best care possible then they would need money, wouldn't they?
And that was where the auction came in! Of course, Lord Grantham had enough money to fund twenty hospitals, but that was better left unsaid. It was hardly keeping with the spirit of things to point out there was no need for an auction when their Earl was hardly struggling to keep it all afloat, and there wasn't a soul in the village who could claim to object to the annual and much-loved tradition.
This year there were all manner of prizes on offer. Lady Sybil had very graciously offered her hand for the first dance at the upcoming Servant's Ball, and Lady Edith, a driving lesson, supervised by Branson (at his insistence), for the highest bidder. There was a cake too, baked by a rather proud Daisy, from the Big House itself, and even Lady Grantham had deigned to put herself forward, though whether anyone was brave enough to bid for tea with the Dowager Countess was anybody's guess. But only one of these prizes had been an established part of the auction since its conception in 1875.
A kiss, from the Countess of Grantham.
Of course, nobody ever bid successfully. It was a sadly acknowledged reality that Lord Grantham always won, ever since old Reggie Skelton had been a tad too demonstrative with his success in '91 and the now Dowager Countess had threatened to call the police.
Violet had long since passed the torch to her daughter-in-law but she was no less popular than her predecessor had been. Indeed, she seemed even more popular. Perhaps because she was somewhat more exotic than her mother-in-law? She was American after all, and when she had first come to England nearly two thirds of the village had never even seen an American.
Cora hoped she would be just as popular this year, but what was the point when—
"Ten pounds ought to do it."
When the same man won every year?
The way Robert said it was unsettling. Was that really what she was worth to him? Just enough to win but as little as he could get away with?
"Don't you think, Mama?"
"Your father used to bid twenty," Violet sniffed. "But I suppose ten is more appropriate for an American."
Really, it was as if they forgot she was in the room sometimes, but she supposed Violet never said anything behind a person's back that she wouldn't say to their face. Robert on the other hand…
She wished somebody would outbid him, but the English were terribly entrenched in their traditions and even if anybody could afford to top ten pounds the likelihood was slim. Robert always won and he always would win.
For all intents and purposes the auction was going very well indeed. Sybil's hand had been won by Branson, who still looked remarkably pleased with himself, and Edith's driving lesson had been snagged by a rather nervous-looking Daisy who was being pushed forward now by Mrs Patmore. Cora didn't blame her: Edith was hardly the most careful of drivers, she had learnt, when she had finally given in and allowed her daughter to drive her into Ripon last week. And as for the pleasure of Violet's company…well, there had been deathly silence, until a terribly chivalric Carson had held his hand up and bid a grand sum of two pounds. Suffice to say, his bid had remained uncontested.
And now it was her turn.
Her lot, as usual, had generated something of a flurry of activity, and Cora watched, amused, as Old Mr. Molesley's hand went up for at least the fourth time. One of these days she would just have to kiss the old man and have done with it.
"One pound from Mr William Molesley! Do I have an advance on one pound?"
A slightly reluctant hand was raised near the back: Cora was surprised, and somewhat amused, to recognise it as belonging to Thomas. She ducked her head to hide a smirk: she had no doubt that O'Brien had put the poor man up to it.
"Two from Mr. Barrow? Do I—Ah yes." The auctioneer sounded as disappointed as she felt. "Ten pounds bid from Lord Grantham."
Cora tried not to sigh. He could have at least waited a few more minutes: she was sure Richard Carlisle had been about to bid, and he was anything but frugal.
"Do I hear eleven?" the auctioneer asked lamely, routinely, as he did every year, though there really was no point. Nobody ever bid now: it was all over—
"Fifteen pounds."
"Excuse me?" Cora coughed.
"William?" Lord Grantham blustered.
The young man in question flushed scarlet, standing so stiffly it was a wonder he hadn't strained anything, and clutching a piece of paper in his hands as if his life depended on it.
"Fifteen pounds," William repeated, though his voice was lacking considerably in conviction. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "From an anonymous bidder."
Somewhere amidst the ensuing flurry of activity, the auctioneer brought down his gavel.
"I have no idea who it could be," Cora declared later that night, when she was alone with her maid and still none the wiser. "Who on Earth would bid fifteen pounds on me?"
Sarah smoothed the sleeves of Cora's nightgown down carefully. "You're being too modest, m'lady." She met her eye. "There's many a man in this village that would bid more than that if they 'ad the means to."
Cora smiled gratefully, but she was still confused, and though poor William had been persuaded into making the bid on her mystery man's behalf he apparently had no idea who had delivered the instructions. Apparently he had found a letter tucked into his livery pocket!
"Yes, but who did, O'Brien? I don't understand why they had to be so secretive!"
"Perhaps…whoever it was couldn't bid for you in public?"
Cora's brow furrowed. "But why? It's an auction O'Brien, you're supposed to bid on things!"
Her maid seemed to hesitate.
"Be that as it may, perhaps it's not appropriate for some people to bid on you?"
"You mean a servant? Because even old Mr. Molesley bid on me—"
Sarah sighed, clamped rough fingers around her upper arm and pulled her in for a long, hard kiss that left Cora in absolutely no doubt of her intentions. And of the identity of her mystery bidder.
She pulled back, astounded.
"You?"
Sarah flushed. "I did say it wasn't appropriate for me to bid in public, m'lady."
"You bid fifteen pounds on me?"
"I saved up," the other woman offered lamely.
She suddenly felt rather dizzy. Her maid – her dear, dependable, wonderful O'Brien – had saved up fifteen whole pounds just to save her from the same old fate! Because that had to be the reason. They'd discussed it only this morning, laughed at the image of Robert's face should the impossible ever happen, and Sarah had made it happen! But oh, the kiss…
She cleared her throat nervously.
"I'll reimburse you of course—"
Sarah laughed, and Cora nearly flinched with the sharpness of it.
"I don't need to be reimbursed, m'lady. I didn't do it to flatter your ego, I did it because…" She smiled sadly. "Surely you know, m'lady?"
She did. If she hadn't known before, the kiss had made it painfully clear. It made so many things clear.
She offered her a tentative smile. "You didn't need to pay for a kiss, O'Brien. You could have just asked."
Was this how she had looked? Wide-eyed and utterly stunned?
"M'lady, what—"
Cora smiled indulgently, her mind quite made up. Anybody who was willing to pay that much money just for one chaste kiss deserved their kiss, and technically Sarah had kissed her before: it didn't count.
"Dear O'Brien."
She cupped her cheek, delighting in the look of hopeful surprise that flittered over Sarah's face before she leaned in and pressed their lips together. It was barely a kiss at all, nothing like the one Sarah had bestowed on her: this was a feather light brush of lips, tentative and clumsy and terribly nervous, barely worth the fifteen pounds that Sarah had paid. But then her lips began to move under hers, soft and encouraging, and deepening the kiss ever so slightly. Fingers brushed against her hip and a warm hand cupped her cheek, and Cora gasped slightly as Sarah's thigh nudged against hers.
This was a kiss, and the first of many. Free of charge, of course.