Major spoilers for Series 6. Jumping on this bandwagon and bringing you some extended Cobert scenes from 6x05. This piece (most likely done in 2ish parts) is dedicated to everyshipunsinkable who secretly loves it when we exchange headcanons. And also, huge thanks to her for talking me through this! She's a gem & everyone go be friends with her because she'll make your life a better place. I've amended certain details for the purpose of this story, try not to nitpick too greatly on certain things (i.e. shut up about the ambulance piece, Emma) as I've placed more emphasis on creative license than historical accuracy. I tried to make the medical shit as accurate as possible, so try and be forgiving with that as well. Anyway, enjoy! And as always, if you have any feedback to share it is greatly appreciated!
First, she focused on breathing. Normally an instinctual response that was necessary for survival, but at some point the pathway in her brain that sent messages to her lungs stopped working automatically. She actively forced herself to breathe evenly.
In, two, three, and out, two, three.
Her mental counting was soon punctuated between every other syllable by the horrid gurgling noise that came from her husband.
In, two…three, out…two, three.
He coughed again, his back facing them, as Dr. Clarkson sat opposite, insisting that Lord Grantham remain on as much of his left side as the unsteady bed and cramped space of the ambulance would allow. The doctor rolled his upper body close, and she witnessed another clean piece of cloth being replaced by another stained with crimson.
There was so much blood, she decided as she inhaled the metallic scent that clung to the air around them. Too much, she dared herself to think, her bottom lip trembling something fierce. She bit down on it. No, stop it, she silently reprimanded. Don't start now. That's what Robert would say. That's what Robert had said.
She shuddered at the thought. How long had he suffered before she even realized? And then after she realized the truth, how much time had passed between him urging her to keep quiet about it all and this moment right here?
No doctors, he had said. I'll stop with the port, and mind the heavy sauces.
Her insides curdled at the memory. That was when the sharp pangs of guilt worked their way in between the hard beating inside her chest.
If only she had stirred. If only she had argued that his self-prescribed treatment had been tried once before without prolonged success. If only she had insisted upon more than a change of diet. If only…
His rasping cough brought her back to the present. And she instinctively—or so it felt instinctive, or maybe it was just a learned habit—leaned forward, her hand covering the top of his thigh and squeezing with every ounce of reassuring strength she could muster.
The lump in her throat tightened when the garbled sound of her name filled the space surrounding them. And her hand clamped down on his leg, the only part of him that was currently accessible to her from her seat.
"Hush now darling…" She shushed sharply. The words got caught in her mouth, stuck to her tongue, and sounded altogether foreign when they reached her ears, "…let Clarkson take care of you and…and all will be well."
Another promise she hoped would deliver. He deserved more than just empty words of reassurance.
Even if he had heard her, there was no verbal response save for the spurting sound of more blood passing through his lips.
Surely that has to be the end of it now, she told herself. What was it Clarkson said? Until there wasn't any more left in his stomach? Yes, she reminded herself, mentally tallying up the table cloth, her clothes, the napkins, the front of his shirt, and then the cloths Clarkson was currently using for him. Yes, certainly the worst of it was over. Now he could recover.
The car screeched suddenly to a halt, the sirens blaring more obviously now as the engine slowly died.
She felt pressure on both sides then. Mary clutching her left shoulder, sitting as far back in her seat as she possible could; physically, and quite possibly mentally, bracing herself for the uncertainty that was to come. And then there was Edith's gloved hand tugging on the crook of Cora's arm, gently urging her forward to the open doors at the back of the vehicle.
They bent their heads low and carefully hopped down from the back of the car one after the other. When Cora's feet came into contact with the gravel path, she took a tottering step into Edith, who took her more fully under the arm.
"Mama?" The concern rang out through her voice, and Cora glanced to find Edith's widened eyes studying her closely.
"Quite a step down," She managed weakly, her lips twitching up at the corners for effect.
It wasn't entirely true. But as she cast a glance over her shoulder at her eldest and wondered softly, "Mary. You all right?" Her eyes flickering to the back bumper of the car and then to Mary's feet firmly planted on the ground, her hand extending towards hers.
"Yes Mama," She nodded, threading her fingers through her mother's and squeezing for a moment. She looked around at the hospital personnel bustling about, muttering faintly, "I believe we should…"
Step out of the way, Cora wordlessly finished, pacing back a few steps and pulling her girls, one on each arm with her.
They hoisted the bed out of the car with relative ease. And before she could rush to meet him, a swarm of doctors and nurses swooped in from every angle, carrying him away from her.
"Robert!" She cried out, hurrying after them.
But her evening shoes were no match for their practical ones as they expertly wheeled him out of the darkness and into the blinding light that illuminated the inside the hospital.
Her arm flew up to shield her eyes from the overhead light, and she faltered for a few moments, trying to blindly follow the whir and click of the wheels of the hospital bed he was stretched out on.
"Robert!" She called again, reaching with her other hand for him.
She longed to touch him, any bit of him. She yearned for one last brush of her knuckles across his cheek, tangling her fingers through his hair for a fleeting moment, or even the generous liberty of pressing her lips to his as a parting gift from this world.
And then, just as she grew accustomed to the light, the door leading to a centralized hallway swung open with a squeal and she caught it with her extended hand before it could whine shut in front of her face.
She was bewildered by the change of surroundings. There were rooms full of people—of patients, she quickly amended—on either side of the corridor. She heard wailing emerging from her left, and next was the incessant gasps for breath sounding from the right. And then there were the people in pristine, white coats and stiff grey uniforms weaving in and out of the rooms and up and down the hallway.
They all had a purpose. Knew where they were headed, what they needed to do. Their presence had meaning. They were relevant. And she, well she felt them jerk around her uncertainly; amending their original paths they intended to take while she cantered after Robert's retreating form.
Cora tried to breeze effortlessly down the corridor unnoticed, but it was hard when she was dressed entirely in finely embroidered cloth—in bronze, her hair glimmering with diamonds. She was out of place, with her heels clicking loudly, echoing off both sides of the hall. And she wasn't the only one who sensed this.
"Lady Grantham!"
Her eyes found his, and she reached for him, perhaps he could pull her through all of this; pull her closer to Robert. "Dr. Clarkson!" She cried out, maybe from shock, she wasn't entirely sure.
"Wait outside, please," He stood in front of her determined path, one hand coming into contact with the middle of her back, the other hand gesturing towards the door.
The pressure of his hand steered her in the direction he wanted her to go, but she dragged her feet in protest.
She tried to push back this time. She tried arguing with him because she couldn't very well argue with Robert now. Her head still craned over her shoulder as she watched in horror as the stretcher turned Robert abruptly to the right and out of view.
"But…" She protested weakly.
However, she was no match for him. Clearly, the doctor knew what he was doing. He had done this many times before, and so he assured her as calmly as he could, "You'll be more of a help to us out here than in there. Please."
Her gaze met his. It wasn't meant to be unkind. She could tell from his creased brow to the pity that flooded his eyes that he meant the words he spoke. He believed in them, and he was silently telling her that she should too.
And in that moment, she found she didn't have any other choice.
"Very well," Cora conceded with a deflated sigh.
She nodded at him abruptly as he opened the door for her. Catching it with her hand again, she tried her hardest to impress upon him the importance of keeping her husband alive without sounding terribly desperate.
"Please, Dr. Clarkson, do whatever you must. This cannot be it."
He inclined his head, patting her shoulder a beat, both of them forgetting who she was in this carefully crafted world where such things still mattered. And he promised, "I will come for you once we stabilize him, Lady Grantham."
And what if you don't stabilize him? The question flashed at the forefront of her mind, but she didn't dare utter the words; speaking them out loud made the wretched possibility a reality.
"Thank you, Dr. Clarkson," She nodded, releasing her hold on the door. It swung shut, and she watched as he hurried off in the direction Robert had gone.
She continued staring, long after the corridor lay vacant. Her mind whirred endlessly. Memories played on a loop. Some from decades ago, others from only a few years past, those that were only several months, weeks, and days old. Just like the one from yesterday when the girls were away, and they talked endlessly about the old days with the grand babies.
A smile danced across her lips as she remembered those days with a fondness. A time before children and responsibility rooted them in place at Downton. A time when she had been wide eyed and easily excited, and him thrilled to indulge her curiosity. A time when they everything was new, even their love.
Just thinking of it made her feel young again. It made her remember a time when they felt untouchable from injury or ailment. A time when all they ever needed was the healing power of a warm embrace or tender words to restore whatever plagued them. When forty years later was more of a faraway concept than a reminder of their own mortality they were currently experiencing.
The future that was once endless now had a limit to it. And because of that everything felt more precious now.
"Mama?"
Her eyes squeezed shut at Edith's utterance. She had forgotten the girls in all of this.
Slowly pivoting to face her, Cora noticed a dubious glint behind her daughter's eyes. Edith now looked to her mother as though she had more knowledge on what was happening. As if her last minute dash after their Papa had somehow been more successful in procuring more answers to their numerous questions than did their loitering in the hospital atrium, watching the scene unfolded utterly helpless.
She reached for Edith's hands and nodded, inhaling an uncertain breath and blinking several times. "Dr. Clarkson's going to come for us once they stabilize him," Cora murmured.
Opening her eyes again, she glanced over Edith's shoulder to find Mary, who was watching them at a distance. Her eldest nodded in agreement before tentatively stepping forward.
"Would you like to freshen up?" Mary suggested softly, her eyes sweeping cautiously over her mother's appearance.
Knitting her brow, she shook her head, "No, I don't think I need…"
"Perhaps you should," Edith agreed, bringing Cora's gaze up once more. "For when Papa wakes. He'll want to see you looking your best," She smiled softly, proffering her a handkerchief.
"There's a washroom just over there," Mary declared, gesturing to a door to her left. "Edith and I can wait out here in case Clarkson comes with news," She jerked her head towards some empty chairs lined up against the wall.
"Very well," She complied, taking Edith's handkerchief and closing herself in the nearby washroom.
It was a small, dimly lit room with a mirror hanging above a square sink. The mirror was speckled with black spots, signaling its age. She brought a hand up to her face, noticing a few stray droplets of red just across her jaw.
Isobel had taken the charge in wiping most of the blood from her face once the doctors were gathering up Robert. At the time, she had found it irritating, but now felt a slight pang of guilt for being so harsh with the woman who was only trying to help. She supposed too, her irritation had something to do with the bickering over the hospital at dinner that served as the catalyst to Robert's burst ulcer. Making a mental note to send her gratitude to Isobel when all of this was finished, she began peeling the gloves from her hands.
The left glove in particular gave her some difficulty, and it wasn't until she freed her hand that she remembered why.
Stained a deep shade of crimson, the familiar metallic scent soon filled her nostrils, and she was confronted with the fresh memory of cradling his head in her hands.
She stared at her blood caked palm, flexing her fingers until deep cracks appeared; she hadn't realized just how much of his blood spilled onto her porcelain skin. Her throat went dry, and she fused her lips tightly together.
I have loved you very, very much.
She felt the heaviness behind the bridge of her nose following by the imminent prickling behind her eyelids. She should have said it. She should have returned the sentiment. It might have been the last…
Blinking several times, Cora reached for the tap with her other hand, the sound of gushing water filling the tiny room. She tested the water, wet the edge of the handkerchief, and then moved her bloodied hand beneath the facet.
No. No that wasn't the last time. Another voice in her head argued sharply, he will say it to you again. Yes, he will say it again, and you will tell him then.
She scrubbed hard, trying to erase the painful edges to the memory. Trying to forget the way his face paled, his eyes bulging outward, blood spilling from his lips.
No, that wasn't it. She wouldn't let it be it. Her last memory of her husband wasn't going to be of that.
She scrubbed harder now, the water bleeding into a pale pink and swirling around the white sink before cascading down the drain.
Once she had cleaned herself up, Cora sat in silence on the hard chair in between her girl's. At first she just stared at the door that Robert disappeared behind, tensing in her seat each time it flung open, and expecting it to be Dr. Clarkson with news for them. Her heart sank every time it wasn't.
Edith's hands were pressed firmly against hers again, resting in her lap. It hadn't been surprising that her youngest clung to her through this ordeal. She had always been the most sensitive of the three.
Her eyes flittered over to Mary, who was seated with her body angled towards hers, but she kept her hands folded across her reticule and her face was blank as she stared ahead, consumed by her own thoughts.
Cora knew what she was thinking. She had similar thoughts many years ago herself. Except it was different then. She had less warning and preparation than Mary did now.
Robert's Papa went more suddenly. Quietly and in his sleep, but far sooner than anyone expected him too. It was the way Robert once explained to her that was how he wanted to go. Quietly and in a dignified manner. She only hoped he would still have that piece of it, and that this, this wouldn't be the end.
Edith must have been able to read something in her expression, for she started, her voice straining with pseudo confidence that didn't quite rise in her tone, "Perhaps it's a good thing no one's come back yet. Perhaps it means they can fix him."
Cora found her eyes, clouded with anxiety. She managed a brief flicker of a smile and her fingers brushed across the back of Edith's hands. Clearing her throat, she commented quietly, "Your Papa was always stronger than most."
It was easy to say because it was true. Robert had barely been ill throughout the course of their lives together. And when weighed against the amount of times she nearly slipped forth from this world in comparison, he was the healthiest of the pair.
"I always thought that. Of course I haven't since I was a girl but…" Edith remarked with another flash of a halfhearted smile, and Cora loved her for trying to set her at ease.
"We haven't had to," Mary interjected in a hollow tone, keeping her gaze fixed ahead. "Papa's always been relatively healthy. It seems unfair for it all to change on us so suddenly."
"Life's unfair in many ways," Edith found herself commenting in an automatic tone.
Yes, and sometimes more unfair than fair, Cora couldn't help but think as she looked at both her girl's sitting on either side of her. She knew they had the misfortune of coming to learn this more deeply than she would have liked them to.
Mary with losing Matthew. Edith losing both Antony Strallen and Michael Gregson. Both of them losing Sybil. But in all the heartache they both experienced, there were things to be gained as well. Mary having George, restoring the future of Downton. Edith having Marigold. Both of them cherishing Tom as their brother, and finding joy in darling Sybbie.
She supposed children had the power to do that to a person. Give them the strength they needed, the desire to move forward in life. And the more she allowed herself to think on it, the more she recognized as a reoccurring balm in her life, and by proxy, in Robert's as well.
"Goodness what's taking so long?" Mary groaned after what felt like an eternity. She shifted impatiently in her hardened chair, "Surely it can't be good we've been made to wait this long, can it?"
"Really Mary!" Edith exclaimed in horror, her hands tightening protectively around Cora's, "What a thing to say in front of Mama! Especially after everything she's been through!"
Mary's head turned sharply, and she leaned forward, discovering her sister's gaze as she retorted sharply, "And Mama's the only one who has been through an ordeal? Honestly Edith, I don't know why you're so worried. It's not like you'll have to take charge of anything if things don't…"
"Girls, will you please?!" Cora hissed, shooting daggers in both of their directions.
Honestly, sometimes they were worse now than they were whenever they were children. And she had hoped they might spare her from such a verbal sparring match under the circumstances. But they were who they were, and everyone reacted to extreme trauma differently, she reminded herself, trying to keep her nerves tempered.
After letting out another exasperated sigh, Cora looked over at Mary. She sat back in her seat, face turned in the opposite direction, dealing with the mild scolding as she often did, feigning indifference to hide her shame.
"You may think I'm being idealistic, thinking your Papa will pull through this," She remarked tersely. "And perhaps, I am. But…if sheer strength of will were enough to keep a person alive, your father would live forever."
Mary's head snapped around once more and she arched a brow, her voice trembling in spite of her desire to keep her resolve that Cora saw burning through her dark eyes. "And if that were enough I'm sure Matthew would still be alive. Or Gregson, even. But they aren't, are they?"
Cora blinked back at her, perplexed by her eldest daughter's choice words. She closed her gaping mouth, ready to lash out again, but halted whenever she saw the familiar pinched expression Mary wore before bowing her head to rifle around in her reticule for a handkerchief to hold back the impending tears that were either a result of what had happened to her Papa, or the barbed words she fired at her Mama, or perhaps something else entirely.
Mary looked away, wiping her nose with the square cloth and sniffling, "Forgive me. This whole thing has me tired."
Tearing her focus away from Mary to give her a moment to collect herself, Cora's hand fell on top of her daughter's knee, patting it soothingly. She felt Edith, who had shockingly remained silent through Mary's outburst; lace their fingers together, arm hooking through hers, her head falling onto Cora's shoulder.
Once the sniffling from Cora's left seemed to be mostly abolished, a jolt of deja vu pulsed through her middle whenever Mary's hand covered hers.
They had been here before. There was an element in the way they were arranged that felt familiar. Cora and Mary's hands purposefully intertwined while both of them sat upright. Mary always aiming to be just as proper, if not more as Mama. Edith curled up into her side, of course then she was much smaller, and Cora could drape her arm across her middle while the little girl leaned her entire body against her Mama.
Then of course the weight on her lap that unfortunate circumstance had lifted and taken away from her since then. That was different, as was the setting. But the situation, as far as she knew, had remained the same.
After several moments of reflection, she finally sorted it out, and couldn't stop herself from bringing this up.
"Gracious," She exhaled slowly, her hand gripping Mary's harder, more of her weight pressing against Edith's form. "I feel like this all happened many years ago already."
"Mama?" Mary questioned.
Edith stirred beneath her, and they peeled away from one another, save for their fingers still intertwined against Cora's lap. She stared up at her mother, arching a questioning brow, silently wondering the same thing Mary was.
"You girls probably don't remember," She looked down, conjuring up the mental images from decades ago. "You were probably too young," She decided, but pressed on anyway. "When your Papa returned from the war, he wasn't well."
There was a pause, and then Mary replied lightly, "I remember."
"What?" Edith challenged, resounding her disbelief.
Cora's eyes shot up to find Mary's staring back at her. She raised her brow, ready to tell her that she was mistaken. That what she had told them as children hadn't been the whole truth, but only half of what she believed they could understand and make sense of.
But Mary remained convinced as she repeated, "I remember what you told us."
"What I told you and what was actually happening weren't one in the same," Cora admitted.
This shook Mary, her confident expression crumbling as her brow furrowed and her mouth drooped.
"Of course, I couldn't tell you what was really happening," Cora went on sadly, shooting a glance at Edith, who was still trying to remember the precise details. "You were all very young. And I wanted…we…your Papa and I…wanted to protect you."
"I-I don't understand," Mary shook her head slowly. "What was there to protect us from? He just took a bit of shrapnel, so he was ordered to rest for the week. We weren't to bother him unless he called for us."
"Yes," Cora inclined her head, trying to exude patience as she spoke. "That was what we agreed upon telling you. But…there was more."
And so she went on explaining to them how the single piece of shrapnel had actually split in two amidst a rushed operation abroad.
How after, the doctors had brought him back to Downton for a weeks' worth of recovery, there was fever from the piece that carelessly remained lodged in his back. And following the arrival of the fever there was talk of possible infection, and the possibility that the infection could transform into something far worse called septicemia. Blood poisoning, Cora remembered the look on young Dr. Clarkson's face as explained the severity of it to her.
Fortunately, they had seen the blotchy red skin that covered half of Robert's back in time. The long scar the battle wound left behind leaking some fluid that indicated a worsening condition.
They had carefully removed him from Downton while the girls were out on the grounds with Nanny. And Cora stayed with them, convinced them that Papa was called away urgently and was so very sorry he had missed them.
And, oh how he was indeed sorry. How in the weeks following his recovery at the cottage hospital, he hated himself for lying to them.
But he couldn't bear the thought of them remembering him in such a way. He wouldn't frighten them with the severe turn of his health after they had seen him so alive and well. If things took an even more dramatic turn, he'd let them think he died in battle, fighting off the enemy. Then he could die a hero in their eyes as opposed to a mere mortal succumbing to something as insignificant as a flesh wound. They could be proud of him, and think of him fondly. Not think of him sadly or remorsefully as they undoubtedly would if they knew.
Of course she thought he was foolish. And selfish and so full of pride that if he weren't in such a bad way she might actually despise him for coercing her into this tightly wound lie. But it was a lie that appeared to bolster the girl's spirits. They had seen their Papa come home once, mostly unscathed from battle minus the scratch on his back.
They believed he was alright, and that he would eventually return just as right as he'd done this time. And not having to assuage their constant worrying, made things a great deal easier for Cora, who already had more than enough weighing her down in Robert's absence.
"We wanted to protect you," Cora reasoned, casting looks at both of her girls who looked at her in with incredulous expressions. "You were already so frightened about losing your Papa. We didn't want you to think he'd gone through it all only for him to..." She trailed off, noticing their expressions were unchanging and looked down at her lap. Shrugging she muttered, "Whether it was right or not, I don't know. But at the time we thought…"
"Mama," Mary interrupted, and Cora looked up as she was rising to her feet.
Following her daughter's gaze, Cora saw Dr. Clarkson slowly striding towards them. His face was solemn, and Cora instantly felt a drop in the pit of her stomach. Swallowing back her fear, she rose to her feet with the help of the girl's, who anchored her on both sides. Their hands pulsed around hers reassuringly; she took in a steadying breath.
This isn't it. We…we won't let it be it. The words rang loud and true inside her mind. She only hoped Dr. Clarkson would echo them out loud for her.