AN: Hope you all enjoyed the first chapter and please if you did view, but didn't review you would make my festive season if you did drop me a line. Hope you enjoy this chapter.
Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England. December 1907.
The paper was the prettiest he could find, a pale dusty pink with stripes of golds and yellows. Thankfully, because the nightdress was boxed he didn't have to fold it himself otherwise he'd quite frankly never get it sealed in the paper. Unfortunately though, it didn't keep his mind so occupied, all he could hear were his mother's words.
Tell her.
The paper falls from the corners again a harsh thump echoing in the room as the scissors hit the door. The pink crinkles, his fingers curling over it too quickly. The number of creases representing the tears in his mind, the curves and sharp edges that wouldn't go away.
He sees the elderly man jeering at him from the card. The words he'd thought so funny to engrave on the back not so amusing anymore. He realised that maybe subconsciously he'd chosen that card in Berlin because this problem he'd kept to himself had been eating away at him. The worry of telling her and being turned away, labelled old and useless was too much to comprehend. That's what had put him off when he'd come back. That wound may have been physical, but the hurt and images that raced in his mind after war had been just as heavy. He'd thought at that time that Cora would denounce him crazy so the idea of taking away the chance of a baby from her too; he thought he'd be out her life. He realised now those thoughts were ill founded, he and Cora had a great deal more together than just a mutual need for children but at the time the war had changed him, made him doubt existence.
But to tell her now, six years later. She'd accuse him of being a liar, not trusting her. She'd be twice as likely to cry and turn him away, spend the rest of Christmas giving him cold stares until some time came when they were both too drunk to control themselves.
The golden stripes blur and twist around each other and tears seem to sting at his lashes as she tries to force his eyelids apart so he can fight the tears back. The irony was, when the doctor had told him there would be an extremely small chance of any future children it hadn't bothered him. Just a relieve from the pain, an end to the war was all that bothered him. To be able to see Cora's face again; he'd hardly shed a tear. But now, remembering how Cora had cried in his arms that first night in Berlin he couldn't shake the thought that she blamed herself entirely for the lack of children. And yet it wasn't her. It was him. She'd cried and he'd stayed silent. He'd held her knowing that it was his own failed fertility that was making her worry.
But what made his blood run colder was that his own mother had been harassing Cora for years over the issue of no heir, goodness she'd set up the holiday in Berlin in the hope that it would solve the problem. And what had he done? He'd sat around, protecting Cora as best he could, confirming to his mother that they were trying and yet, for his own self interest, his own nerves at losing her, he'd kept the truth to himself.
He knew how his mother had found out, she'd snooped, she'd called some people, discovered the surgery and the resulting implications. And indeed her annoyance had been presented to him not in the way he would have expected. You would have thought the lack of a grandson would be the main problem but her issue was with his morals, his refusal to tell Cora. She'd yelled, and despite her forceful nature he couldn't honestly remember the last time he had been at the firing end of her anger.
What do you mean Cora doesn't know?
He hadn't explained his concerns to her, his dearest Mama would have laughed in his face, indeed he would laugh at his own stupid self if it wasn't eating away at him so badly. He knew he was being childish, it was time he just got it over with and told her, she would react in whatever manner and then they could work passed the situation.
A gentle knock sounds at the door, the soft echo reverberating in the room bringing him away from the past and into the present.
"Who is it?" He manages to croak the words through his aching throat, the harsh tears he'd been crying finally catching up on him.
"It's me darling." Cora's soft reply makes him close his eyes once slowly, his foot tapping the paper and pale apricot box beneath the bed, as he wipes the tears slowly from his face with his handkerchief. "Can I come in now?" He knows he didn't ask her to wait, but he supposed his worried ask of whom it was had deterred her.
"Yes. Yes." The linen he fumbles less successfully into his top pocket, her eyes immediately fall on his hand resting there. A little frown crumbles her brow.
"The girls want to decorate the tree." He finally looks properly at her. He lets his eyes wander over her slender frame, pausing at the twisted bundle her fingers have made at her waist. He admires the heavy fabric of her skirt, at least she was staying warm in the winter. Her blouse is wool, with an enclosed collar which stretches high over her neck. It clings to the curves he knows so well, and the indents of her collar are clearly visible. He watches her harsh breathes, the rise and fall of her chest that seemed so exaggerated. He glances again at the waist he could wrap his arm around in one motion. Her waist was very tiny, despite the three children she'd borne, but he couldn't help thinking her corset was too tight. When her fingers trail up her neck to her collar, easing it gently from her skin, her eyes still assessing him waiting for him to move, he steps forwards.
"The girls can wait five minutes while you get O'Brien to loosen your corset, or perhaps you should put on a summer blouse?"
"Robert, I'm fine. You on the other hand have bloodshot eyes."
"I managed to rub some paste in them while I've been wrapping." He's annoyed at how easily he manages to lie, he could tell her now. But no. "Decorating the tree is always strenuous. All that up and down ladders and keeping the girls from fighting. We can't have you uncomfortable too." She doesn't reply but she lets him take her hand and trail her to her bedroom. He had to feel like he was looking after her, if he was going to keep lying like this he had to at least be a good husband in some respect. Her fingers confirm his suspicion. They are sticky, her fingers were rarely warm, even in summer, let alone perspiring. He opens her drawers, still clutching her sweaty palm in his. He hears her gentle chuckle beside her as he stares bemused at the items before him. He feels his cheeks blush red as he realises he's staring at a small collection of her undergarments, and left over prices of cloth that O'Brien kept for her monthlies.
"Try the next drawer." He does and immediately spies a blouse Cora had been wearing for some years but which was a favourite of his. It's turquoise, but closer very slightly in colour to green. It was a colour that emphasised her eyes perfectly, particularly when coupled with the indigo skirt she'd chosen.
He doesn't think about what's he's doing, his hands immediately releasing the buttons running down the back of her woollen ensemble. He feels the slick salts that run over her skin above her corset as his fingers prize the buttons covering that region. When he reaches the bottom he gasps at how much her corset pushes out beneath her skirt, her thick blouse had been disguising how tight O'Brien had pulled.
"Cora, this is far too tight, tell O'Brien to do it looser next time." She doesn't say anything but a gasp he'd felt frequently in Berlin race against his skin as they had laid together, erupts from between her mouth as his fingers push the two halves of her corset apart, before loosening every single cross of the ribbons.
"Actually I asked her to do it a little tighter, don't blame her."
"What possessed you to ask that?" He's pushes the new silk onto her shoulders and she turns so he can button down the front. But she stills his hands, catching his wrists as he reaches to flick the uppermost button into its place.
He pushes his own fingers into her wrist a little, finding her pulse, stroking his thumb gently over it. Her cerulean eyes seem a little misty and he realises she's crying. He drops his hold on her hands letting his thumb gently trace her cheek instead.
"It was a stupid idea that occurred to me this morning. I thought maybe, if you could find me tempting during the day, and we...that perhaps we might conceive." She chuckles to herself at her own stupidity but she chokes on her own laughs; tears clogging in her throat.
He swallows hard. Very hard, and tucks her beneath his chin, inhaling the lavender he'd always found comfort in. She'd been this way at the beginning of the trip to Berlin, but it had passed. The strain she was giving herself about the situation was clearly getting quickly too much and it was of his doing. It was one thing to keep it from her when she'd been content that having another child was going to take them some time but to keep it from her now, when time had passed was inconsiderate.
"Cora, my dear, I think it's high time I-" But the piercing call from the landing stops him mid flow. The door swinging open to a flying Sybil.
"Mama, Papa quickly. Isis has escaped the kitchens and is in the decoration boxes." He presses a soft kiss to her head, the moment having passed.
As the carpet races away beneath his feet he knows one thing though, he will tell her before the new year. They would find a moment and he would tell her.
The crunching of paper and the dangerous calls between his daughters about moving the glass baubles filter through his more serious thoughts. As he catapults far too quickly down the stairs, the polished wood of the rail slipping effortlessly beneath the pads of his fingers, not feeling the slight indentations that had been made over the years from little boys and their toys, Isis' tail flaps quite literally towards him. Robert leans over to fluff her ears as she likes as she stands staring up at him, asking with her eyes if he thinks her clever.
"You've been naughty, as you knew full well. And for being naughty punishments are needed." He holds a small treat in his hand and leads her gently to the servants staircase. The smooth carpet is replaced by the firm concrete and his shoes make an echo as he descends, careful to keep his head from hitting the low ceiling. A footman calls for her and she's gone leaving Robert free to go and assess the damage she'd caused.
It's with another wave of anxiety therefore that his fingers press to the bottle green baize and he re-emerges amongst the scent and vastness of his domain. Downton had a unique smell, particularly at Christmas. The almost violent pungency of the tree was off set by the familiar background smell of the wood that covered the walls and panels. The heavier smell of musk often filled air; the height of the hall often trapping cold air and dust which fell from the picture frames when a wind blew in the front doors. The library always gave off the familiar, timeless aroma of leather. You could picture the first Earl sitting in the library, filling it with the scent that would fill it forever more. One always knew when new books had sneaked in between the shelves, the smell was more vibrant, more ready to burn at your heart, trying to tempt your fingers into reaching the new book from the shelve and prying open the fist page, letting the thin, unmarked, pristine page slip between nails. By the time it returned to the shelve it was likely dog-eared and yellowing; particles of grease having wound their way onto the corner and sides.
What strikes him more than the warm smell of the hall, from the sticky atmosphere of Mrs Patmore's cooking below stairs, is Cora. She's bent over the boxes distributing decorations to a line of children from the school who are then taken hold of by one of his three daughters who helps them put it on the tree. Mary and Edith help some of them onto the steps while Sybil takes the smaller children around the lower half of the tree. It was amazing how scared all the children looked; most of them had a poker face expression and none of them were talking, the school master stood off to one side watching over them all.
"Cora," he presses his hand over the small of her back. "When did we decide to have the school children come?"
"We discussed it in Berlin and again last night." She looks at him with an exasperated expression. He tries to find that conversation in his maze filled mind. But he can't, obviously he hadn't been paying attention. But Cora doesn't seem to notice the detour his mind takes. "Mrs Patmore made some biscuits. They're over on the table. You should give them out and ask them about what they're looking forward to about Christmas." She stands, ready to move along the line distributing more baubles but she turns once more to him and smiles with a small tease in her eyes. "Oh, and try to smile." He hadn't realised he hadn't been, but he supposed the worry he was having over his secret was weighing him down far more than he thought. He grabs her slender waist, feeling the silk of his favourite blouse slip between his fingers. He forgets the collection of young eyes peering over the man they had obviously been told was terrifying and that they'd been in excessive trouble if they talked in his presence, and he kisses her on the cheek. "I will, if only to prove to Mr Jenkins that there's no reason to scare the children before they come." He whispers against her cheek and she nods gently.
Mrs Patmore had cut the cinnamon cookies into different Christmas shapes. Some are stars, others boughs of holly and Christmas trees. So not only did they smell like perfection but they also looked it. Robert helps himself to one when all the children have one safely in hand. And the cinnamon was gorgeous, coming in short waves as each little crumb dissolved beneath his tongue. The children eventually build into a hum of chatter and one little boy dressed all in different shades of brown and a mini red tie asks him what his real name is, 'because it can't be Lord Grantham.' He'd replied with a chuckle, giving the young boy the answer.
His regards Cora from across the room, trying to determine if the words he'd been stopped from saying earlier were weighing on her mind. But they didn't appear to be. Even to him, who knew her so well, the silent, unique hints that told him and nobody else that she was worrying or nervous weren't apparent.
He watches her for other reasons as well. He admires the shape of her face, the angular cheek bones and her small chin. Her eyes set a little below the curls of her hair that hang onto her forehead. The cerulean blue that flashed across his mind in the worst and best moments of his day. The specs of a darker shade that cling at the edges of her iris; the still darker shade that echoed outwards from the centre spreading its blackness through the iris into a thin line that encircles the blues. He admires the smile she keeps arched with her lips; the little gurgles of laughter that escape her as she talks to the children please him. But, they remind him, once more that she will never kneel like this before another child of their own. She'll never have to adjust her skirt so she can crouch down without falling over. She'll never again take a little hand that has a mix of their qualities and lead that little body over to the tree, holding the child's waist and gently helping them untangle the ribbon to place it over the greenery. It aches, somewhere deep, very deep down to know he's taken that away from her. But in comparison to the graze that left, it was the thought of telling her that left a sizeable gash, the realisation that he would remove even her hope of those things. Those children; sons and daughters.
Berlin, Germany. Late November 1907.
She pushes, and she truly never barges, her way through the throng of people that seemed to cling to the entrance as though it were a bar. She almost regrets her decision to dive from the bed and scramble down to a waiting taxi the moment she saw Robert was safely over the street. He was in the KaDeWe she was sure where else would he be buying her Christmas present? What was more important, paramount in fact was making sure he didn't see her. Her task therefore was to make her purchase and return to the apartment before Robert returned and found her gone.
The purchase was done, but getting back to the taxi was proving impossible. There was all the flighty young girls trousseau shopping with their mother's which seemed to be taking them far more arguments than even she and her mother had had. Boxes were being thrust in Cora's path every so often as a nearby Aunt appeared with some new item she thought would be 'perfect for the honeymoon.'
And then there was the chance of bumping into Robert, she'd already had to dive behind a mannequin as she'd almost walked straight into Robert outside the nightwear department. Since then, every top hat makes her jerk awkwardly behind a nearby mannequin or arrangement of clothes. But the worry passes quickly enough as long noses or pointed ears catch her notice and she can safely assume that it's not Robert she is spying the back of. It was likely Robert had already left, it was a fair walk back to the hotel that would take at least ten minutes. That was assuming he meant to be back at about twenty-five to ten.
Cora was therefore very time conscious as she swirls and zigzags her way to the exit, letting her eyes fall upon the ceiling at regular occasion. It had a large central painting of a ballroom, obviously from the Regency. Women lined the room, all in various shades of pink, cream and blue muslim. Men partnered some in the middle of the wooden flooring, holding loosely the fingers of the women they partnered. There was no affection, no looks of love. None of those bright sparkles she saw on Robert's face daily. No kisses. It was odd even one hundred years from the date of the scene watching over her that nothing had changed. Women were still led gently by men, assumed to be fragile. It still hadn't been realised that women did have a voice and perhaps it was time to embrace that inner voice, let it free. Proper love, and a fair marriage for a woman was still not on the cards. The women with the finest jewels and the best dress still received the best offers of marriage. The woman at the centre of society were always the one with the richest husband. Just as the woman watching over her had the finest gloves stretched over her pale frame she had the finest hat pinned to her head. She was a symbol of her husband. Except, she wasn't. She was meant to be, that's what society thought at first glance. But if they knew her and Robert they knew she wasn't his little dress up doll. They knew he hadn't made her change and that beyond that, he let her help him with the estate, her opinions were somewhat valued by him, particularly her ideas for the girls.
It was true that she had missed the girls in the last month they'd been in Berlin. But the time she and Robert had been able to have together was well worth it. Knowing that when she woke in the morning she didn't have to get up immediately, that she didn't have a series of jobs that needed to be done. But by far the best part was waking up to a warm bed, Robert still lazing beside her. He was still waking before her, but he didn't go anywhere, he stayed so when she opened her eyes the first thing she heard was his murmured greeting. Followed smoothly by his bare arm snaking over her waist, his lips whispering something else as they press somewhere on her neck or shoulder. Anyone would have thought they were on their honeymoon. In truth it was a little like they were on a second one, the girls had grown up and it was time to reestablish the strong relationship it was often difficult to maintain with three young children.
But, oh, there was a problem, when wasn't there? There was still a shadow, a cloud that hung above them; ready to burst at any moment releasing it's dark, oozing fumes and the rain that only meant a sure soaking and a chill that lasted weeks. Months. Years. Because it would, the looks she'd get, the whispering even of her own mother-in-law would follow her for that long if she failed. Which seemed destined to be the case. Six years he'd been home, six years they'd been trying for the little baby boy that was to seal all their futures.
She finally spies the waiting taxi, the horses fidgeting restlessly at the movements of the whip in the wind. They visibly shake no doubt due to the cold and a loud reluctance tinges the air as they feel her weight settle in the carriage.
The springs of the leather complain as she lowers her delicate frame, the tears and cuts that run along every seam bulging with large amounts of foam. The brown is worn to faded yellow in a great many places and the leather that does remain the right colour is sadly chapped like her poor lips in the cold. Little specks of the broken fabric cling to the underside of her skirt making the pristine cream appear as though it had been splattered with mud.
The gentle chiming of the half hour by the clock startles her, they weren't even halfway back. She taps twice on the window, a gesture she'd been told earlier in her trip was code for going faster.
Sure enough, her back thunders against the hard back- the taxi wasn't plush enough to have a back rest as well- as she hears her own distant 'Yelp' of annoyance as the fire spreads steadily from her lower back to her neck and into her head. She could picture the mottled blue that would appear and Robert would question her about, no doubt with his lips pressed to it, which only seized to increase the ache, as the pressure on the lump changed with his mouth.
She's finally finding some comfort in her ride when her body gets tossed straight into one corner, her shopping tumbling onto the floor, the bows falling loose. The vibrations of the wheel up and over the curb seem to be the cause of the horrendous jerk and she peers out the small back window to see the cause of the driver's cursing.
What she sees makes her briefly chuckle, and then become severely anxious, her limbs going stiff and hard, her breathing jagged as she waits for movement, any kind of sign that shows he's still alive. For it is Robert who stands pressed against the corner of the street. Cora watches with bated breath, ready to stop the carriage if he doesn't move. But he does, a face of pure hatred radiating from his eyes.
She admires him as he gallantly tips his hat to a poor lady begging in a secluded doorway and drops three coins into her hand. Her hair was dank and unwashed, Cora could see the tangled matting at the back. Her nose and eyes are circled in black, some was dirt but the rest could well be the signs of lack of sleep. Her lips are chapped and flaking, much like the seat beneath Cora, her nails long and dark as she encloses them firmly over the coins with a quivering smile up at the gentleman. She could see the thanks that radiated from her, the honest believe that Robert had done her the most amazing turn. She might have some food for Christmas now, or a meal for a child she might have. It was those good-natured things that should stir people up and out at Christmas.
Cora thinks of the young school children in the village at home. Some of them probably never had a tree at home, many others no chance of any special gifts. Yet here she was buying expensive luxuries for herself and her family. The colourful bows the sales lady, Margarethe she had been called, had wrapped her boxes in no longer seemed necessary- that money could go to the less fortunate.
She is once more filled with images of the children that tottered out school in the afternoon at Downton, she wonders over how many siblings many of them had, maybe young babies that would even prevent the cooking of a special luncheon at Christmas, or those without the means to heat the house sufficiently in winter. Children shivering in shawls fill her mind. It was true she and the girls always distributed blankets and food from the gardens in December but only to the worst off, and even then it didn't mean those children saw any particular joy, any stand out moment that they kept with them for the whole of the season, not like her girls, they often experienced so many enjoyable moments they couldn't remember half of them.
The carriage stutters to a stop and Cora takes the hand of the porter who helps her to the ground, taking the luggage from her. A quick glance down the street confirms that Robert is not yet approaching. The glass doors swing open from the inside, the doorman effectively going unnoticed by those that didn't look for him. The velvet plum settees in the foyer are usually her safe haven as she dives through the door after a day out. But this morning despite the sharp complaints of her stiff and hard limbs as well as the ballooning bruise on her spine she heads straight for the stairs.
She tugs her hat swiftly from her head, removing the pins that had been holding her simplified bun in place not that she really needed to take them out, her weighted hair falls of its own accord and she flexes her fingers through the knots. She places her gloves neatly in her hat and their burgundy shade stands out against the piercing black that complemented the stark white of the outside.
The panelled door to their suite finally appears before her at the end of a plush red carpeted corridor on the third floor. The key slips easily inside and she hears the latch fall. She tips the porter quickly, reminding him to say nothing before scampering across the living space, the boxes teetering more than a little awkwardly in her arms. She crams then under the bed, her nails jostling with the smaller one on the top that just didn't seem to want to do as she wanted. She would have to sort them into her case later.
The coal buttons on her jacket at first refuse to give, her finger and thumb twisting this way and that to no effect. When they fall free the shoulder pads slip and it cascades to the floor. The long cream skirt easily follows and she's stood in only her corset and underwear. The latter she could keep on but the corset she needed off. See got it on easily enough, wiggling it over her hips and then pulling sharply at the ties dangling above her bottom. To release it she knew she only had to pull the hurried bow she'd made free. Sure enough, after thankfully, finding the end to the ribbon quickly the knot falls free. She tugs the two panels of wired padding apart and her stomach aches at the exertion, but it comes, her head tilting backwards with a smile.
She pulls her nightdress over her head as she stumbles for the chaise longue with the pile of discarded clothes, she can only thank god that after yesterday afternoon's laze in bed her clothes had ended up in a heap on that particularly piece of furniture, otherwise Robert might notice the sudden mess of the room.
The resounding echo of Robert's steel key clamping into place in the lock makes her jump at the bed. The sheets give way, the linen falling open at her touch and allowing her to slip gently beneath. The cold white fabric protecting the brand new mattress makes her shudder, and she dimly notes nobody had been in to rekindle the fire. The pillow stings the back of her neck with its ice cold demeanour. Her back shimmers at the touch of the cotton on her spine where her nightgown has risen up. Each of the knuckles of her spine tries to pull away from the arctic conditions only for another one to harbour a complaint.
Robert appears about then and she calmly voices her pleasure at him being back. Her mind on the other hand is entirely occupied with a number of other things. She's trying desperately to stay focused on pretending to be sleepy, after all, Robert thought she hadn't moved, which included not reacting so obviously to the chill of the bedding. The other thing, which was definitely helping with the trying not to notice the cold problem, was watching Robert slowly undress himself.
"Come back to bed and keep me warm." She did truly feel cold, but she knew the sight of him so plainly before her was having an effect. When he climbs in beside her, arms instinctively finding their places around her waist all she can notice is the warmth. The nakedness that had been filling her mind is replaced by the fizzling of his skin on hers. It wasn't just the delights of his upper body, the expanse between his shoulders where she lays her head. It was the smallest things, the soft bending of his knee so that she could hook her toes over his hip and into the warmth that settled behind that joint.
"What did you buy?" Her mind has drifted so quickly back to the chance of the purchase she'd seen him making in the nightwear department being for her. What on earth did that mean? That he wasn't satisfied, she highly doubted it, but then she couldn't be sure, not with the deep grey cloud of a son hanging over them.
"That would be telling." She rolls her eyes at his sarcasm, easily picturing the wide, toothy grin that plastered his features. He seems to sense she's likely be annoyed at his comment; his fingers massaging more insistently at the grove of her hip bone; his nose drifting over her hair and forehead, trying to tilt their eyes to a point of meeting.
"Can't I persuade you?" She feels the gentle vibrations of his laugh on her mouth, the cooler air blowing onto her lips. His nose runs effortlessly along her own and he touches his lips so very briefly to hers.
"You can try, but it shan't make any difference." She ignores him, rubbing her nails roughly down his chest, trying to find the places that would make him shiver delightfully beneath her fingers. His tongue slides tenderly over her top lip, teasing her, his fingers pushing her hips off of him and back onto the cold, crumbled sheets. She knows she murmurs appreciatively, entirely forgetting the plan of trying to confirm her Christmas present, when his teeth nibble at her mouth, his tongue slipping decidedly between her lips. Everything was forgotten, passed over, except him. Robert was everything.
