The Wrong Room

AN: the characters do not belong to me. I thank my lovely beta, Granthamfan, for always doing such wonderful work on my edits, and Settees-Under-Siege for giving me the idea for this story through a comment in tumblr.

The Walk

I was taking a leisurely walk through the grounds of Downton Abbey one brisk afternoon when I first began to think my husband didn't love me anymore. It didn't even cross my mind that I was ruining my silk shoes by veering from the path and into the mud. They were the pair for which I had sent to London earlier in the year as the summer days began to shorten. No matter what I thought about, my thoughts always drifted back to Robert. I knew that he had been highly dissatisfied with his role as a figurehead and morale booster during the war. He seemed rather lost as the rest of us found ourselves in the work that sprang up amidst the conflict. But, as I continued to think of the changes in him, it was evident that it was something more personal. There was something off in his demeanor; something about the way he looked at me as if he didn't see me at all. Robert had fallen out of love with me. It had to be, for I could conceive of no other explanation.

The thoughts sunk into me and pierced me like a knife, so sharp and sudden that I nearly lost my breath as I was about to turn back. For a moment, I stood there, stunned, but quickly recovered and made my way home. Every step grew heavier, and I had the sensation of sinking into an abyss of quicksand as I neared the place where I would have to pretend all was well when it was so painfully obvious that it was nothing short of loveless chaos.

The Wrong Room

Robert was sitting in one of his favorite leather armchairs in the library, paging through a book when the door opened unexpectedly. A disheveled and frustrated maid unceremoniously stepped through the double doors. She was a slight brunette, cheeks reddened by the flustering situation as she barged into what she must have assumed was an empty room, cleaning paraphernalia in hand.

I stood behind the screen by which I'd stopped, as I was about to come into the library upon returning from my walk when something inside compelled me to stop for a moment. My blood began to boil as I heard the flirty exchange of conversation between the two. Part of me couldn't believe it. My husband, the Earl of Grantham, and a maid? Had Robert lost his mind?

"What's your name?" Robert asked in a casual voice. He never used casual voices with anyone new! It was different with those who had been with us some time, such as Mr. Carson, Mrs. Hughes or Robert's valet, Mr. Bates, with whom he had served in the army during the Boer Wars. After all, none of these people blushed unceremoniously when they caught a glimpse of Robert, either. Could this be the woman he spoke of hiring a few days ago? It had struck me as odd that Mrs. Hughes had wished to speak to my husband about the matter of hiring a war widow, instead of myself. However, I was too occupied with other matters at hand to notice. Now I wished with every fiber of my being that I had listened.

"Jane, milord." She fidgeted with the cleaning implements in her hands. They made a clumsy clinking sound that echoed in the large room.

"Jane," he repeated as if caressing the name in his hand. I felt tears threaten their way into my eyes. That was a tone he never took with the servants!

I peered around the edge of the screen and saw her face flush even deeper. It was impossible to tell if it was with embarrassment of being caught in the wrong room that just happened to be occupied by a handsome earl or the headiness of a private conversation with my husband. I scolded myself internally, for this was not the kind of woman I am. I'm not the jealous type, listening to conversations by lurking around screens or behind columns. Yet, the tone of their voices made me feel as if I were genuinely eavesdropping on something meant to be private, which further reinforced the idea that I was better off standing still.

"I'm terribly sorry for the mistake," Jane said as she turned to leave.

"Don't go so quickly," Robert invited. "You're the war widow with the son?"

"Yes, milord," Jane answered. "Freddy."

I turned in the other direction and looked into the hallway from where I had come, then moved slowly toward the open door. My mud encrusted silk shoes barely made a sound as I tiptoed out of the range of their voices. Normally I would have cared that they were ruined beyond repair and had likely tracked mud on the Persian rugs. But, I was too heartbroken to think of anything but the years of marriage which I thought had been happy for both of us. I felt as ruined as my shoes, the mud of disillusionment drying into my soul, forever to leave a mark. Robert had been so distant with me recently, now to be so inviting to a new maid. I didn't want to think about it, but I feared I was no longer the object of his interest. Simply put, I was becoming convinced that he didn't love me anymore, and maybe he never had. Maybe if he had married one of the English girls over whom his mother had been so keen, he'd not need to spark a dalliance with the maid. I practically ran to my room, threw myself on my bed and cried myself to sleep until the dressing gong interrupted my fitful slumber.