Robert and Rosamund had just begun to wonder if their father might be ill when Patrick strolled into the room, whistling happily. Rosamund turned in her chair to watch him enter, and Robert put his tea cup down on the breakfast table.
"Good morning, Rosamund," he said, dropping a kiss on her head. "Good morning, Robert." He clapped his son on the back before going over to the buffet to fill his plate, resuming his cheerful whistling.
Rosamund – who looked a bit worse for wear, her eyes puffy and red – and Robert – who had reason to be whistling himself – exchanged a baffled glance. Their father generally beat the pair of them down to breakfast, and here they were almost done. Patrick sat down with his plate and picked up his newspaper as usual, sublimely unaware that his children were staring.
"Papa?" Rosamund put her fork down. "Are you alright? You're very late this morning."
Without moving his paper, he shrugged behind it and grunted out, "Overslept, my dear."
She raised her eyebrows at Robert who shrugged his shoulders in kind.
Lowering the paper enough to look at his daughter over the top, Patrick smiled. "Rosamund, I think you will like what your mother has to say to you today."
Blinking in disbelief, she inquired, "Didn't you hear our quarrel, Papa?"
He nodded. "I did. Nevertheless…." He disappeared behind the paper once more.
Clearly perplexed by her papa's enigmatic tone, Rosamund lay her serviette by her plate and waited for the footman to pull her chair out for her. "Cora and I have plans to go into Ripon today, so I'll see the two of you later."
Robert furrowed his brow as he watched Rosamund go through an elaborate series of gesticulations. Apparently he would have to go after her to find out what she was trying to convey. "Excuse me, Papa. I'll be back presently."
A grunt came from behind the newspaper, and Robert got up and followed Rosamund into the hallway.
"What was that all about?" he whispered gruffly once they'd gotten a little way down the hall.
"That's what I was going to ask you!" she exclaimed, missing his meaning. "What did Papa mean about Mama saying something I'll like? She was completely adamant last night; dead set against Marmaduke. How can I like anything she would say to me?"
Robert sighed and shook his head. "I don't know, Rosamund. I know as much as you do. The only thing I can think is after you went downstairs, Papa spoke to Mama."
"I wish I knew what she was going to say." She looked at him very seriously. "Not that I was at all jesting in my threat to elope. I'll do it, Robert, and you know I will."
"Yes, I know, Rosamund. But I hope that you won't have to. Now, go on. Cora might be waiting for you." He grinned at her and touched her arm before going back into the breakfast room.
"Papa?" Robert queried as he sat again in front of his nearly empty plate. He waved the footman over to fill his tea cup.
"Mmmm?" Patrick continued to peruse the newspaper.
Robert took a fortifying sip of his tea. "Did something happen last night? I mean…" he lowered his voice before going on "…I found Rosamund in the library, crying and drinking a glass of Scotch."
Patrick finally put his newspaper aside and took a large bite of his breakfast, chewing methodically while he thought. "I presume she told you about her row with your mother?" At Robert's nod, he said, "Well, your mother and I talked for a long time after Rosamund left, and I think perhaps she's willing to bend on a few things." He chuckled, having another piece of bacon, then grew more serious. "We have to be more understanding of her, Robert. I know she's difficult, but she does want what's best for you – even if sometimes she doesn't really realize what that is." He fixed his eyes on his son's. "But I don't think you'll need to punch her." He winked.
Chuckling at this reference to their conversation the night before, Robert said, "Papa, I genuinely don't enjoy disagreeing with Mama. Generally, the two of us agree on most things. But she's been so stubborn lately…." He trailed off. His father knew all of this already.
"Robert, give her another chance. All of this is more difficult for her than we acknowledge. And how she's behaved is the outward manifestation of her struggle. I don't think she wants to hate Cora. She simply doesn't know how else to act." Patrick looked down at his now cold eggs.
"I know, Papa." Robert smiled when his father lifted his head again. "Now, I should go visit the Mason farm, and we'll reconvene to discuss what I've missed whilst in London."
At his father's nod, Robert left the room. Patrick stared at his cold food and sighed. He hoped that their conversation of the night before had left an impression upon Violet. He didn't like having his children against either one of them.
Violet woke with a smile upon her lips and an aching between her legs. But this made her chuckle. It had been a long time. She knew a steaming bath and a brisk walk would put her to rights again.
She ate her breakfast with great appetite and then luxuriated in the hot water. While her maid helped her dress, Violet noticed Kendrick pausing at intervals to stare at her.
"Is something wrong, Kendrick?" She drew her brows together, perplexed.
Her maid shook herself slightly. "No, my lady. It's just –" she glanced up from the fastenings on the back of the walking dress to meet her mistress' eyes in the mirror – "you're humming, Lady Grantham." Kendrick turned her focus onto the tiny buttons again.
A trace of color touched Violet's cheeks. "Yes, well, I'm in a pleasant mood."
Kendrick made no comment while she waited for Violet to sit at her dressing table so she could fix her hair.
As Kendrick worked, Violet closed her eyes, going over again the events of the previous night. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, until she recalled her promise to her husband: that she would try to understand about Rosamund's acceptance of that Painswick man's proposal, and that she would also endeavor to be nicer to Cora. Sighing, she looked at herself in the mirror. She wasn't sure if she could do either – at least not to the extent her husband thought her capable.
Violet recognized that her husband always put more faith in her than she deserved. She hardly ever measured up to his ideal of her. However, her gratitude stemmed from the fact that even when she fell short, as she almost always did, his disappointment in her was usually brief. Well, apart from her behavior concerning Robert and Cora, that is. Despite this rough spot, she knew he loved her for who she was – irascibility and all.
Therefore, she took another deep breath and steeled herself to do her best in regards to Cora and Rosamund. It wouldn't be easy. She knew herself well enough to know that she would most likely fail most of the time. But she would make the effort anyway.
She took her solitary walk in the garden, planning what she would do to attempt to make peace between herself and her daughter, between herself and Cora. At luncheon, she put her plan into action.
Violet held Patrick's eyes for a moment, his smile steadying her resolve.
Of course, she didn't realize that Cora and Robert had exchanged similar smiles in the moment before. Cora cleared her throat, "Lady Grantham, I –"
Patrick's nod to Violet would have been imperceptible to anyone else. Interrupting her daughter-in-law, she said, "Cora, it's ridiculous to call me that any longer. You should call me 'Violet.'" She smiled a little.
But Cora's eyes went wide, and she moved her gaze from Violet's face to Robert's startled one and back again, fighting the impulse to blurt out a disbelieving "what?" Instead, she took a moment to regain her composure and, tentatively, ventured, "Violet," and when her mother-in-law merely kept smiling at her, she flicked her eyes to Robert before continuing, "Robert and I thought that we might plan a fancy dress ball for the end of the month here at Downton. That is, if you and Papa wouldn't mind that."
Patrick answered first. "I think that's a fine idea. Violet?"
Thinking a moment, Violet furrowed her brow. "Well, I think it would be nice; it would give you a chance to gain experience in organizing such an event – with my help, of course. But is two weeks long enough to put together a fancy dress ball?"
Cora's cheeks flushed as she smiled widely. She'd expected to be categorically denied the chance to throw a party, and this acceptance of her proposal tickled her. Robert's face shone to see the excitement in hers. "Perhaps you're right…" she paused, then went on "…Violet." Once convinced that this wasn't a trick and Violet wasn't going to turn around and snap at her, Cora relaxed even more. "We will need to give the guests plenty of time to procure costumes."
"Yes, a month will be a decent amount of time, Cora." Violet spooned soup into her mouth before turning to Rosamund. "You'll have to invite this Mr. Painswick, Rosamund. So he can get to know us better."
Rosamund had been nearly as stunned as Robert and Cora at the preceding conversation. But she rallied. "You mean so you can frighten him off, don't you? It won't work, Mama. Marmaduke is devoted to me."
Violet swallowed the tart response that leapt onto the tip of her tongue. She glanced at Patrick instead, getting another nod from him. "Well, then we'll get to see it firsthand among so many guests. But I do hope you'll invite him to dinner sooner than that. If you're going to marry him, we should meet him properly – not at a fancy dress ball."
Now Rosamund's mouth hung open in a most unladylike manner. She stared at her mother, then turned and stared at her father, who was grinning at her and nodding.
Cora and Robert now gaped at Violet as well, following along with the conversation and glancing at one another incredulously, knowing that Rosamund and Violet had fought over this the night before.
"Close your mouth, Rosamund," Violet snapped as she wiped her lips delicately with her serviette.
"Mama, you can't be serious," Rosamund replied.
Violet frowned. "Of course I am. It's very undignified."
Rosamund waved a hand in frustration. "No, not that, Mama. What you said about Marmaduke and my marrying him. You were so against it last night!"
Shrugging slightly, Violet then smiled at the footman who took her soup bowl. "Can't a woman change her mind?"
"A woman can; you cannot. Or at least, you do not."
Violet harrumphed. "I most certainly do, if the occasion calls for it. Now, please stop being so contrary, or I will change it again." Her eyes flashed at her daughter.
Rosamund clamped her mouth shut. She opened it again during luncheon only to feed herself.
"Now, Cora, whom did you have in mind to invite to this ball…?"
As Robert, Cora, and Violet discussed details and Rosamund sat staring at her food, Patrick beamed at his wife. His chest swelled with pride at how she'd fulfilled her promise. This was his beloved Violet at her best.
Patrick slipped quietly into his wife's room, immediately meeting her eyes with a wide grin. Violet sat up in bed, grinning back at him; she'd been waiting.
In fact, she'd been watching the clock and wishing the evening away since dinner. And Patrick couldn't get away from the children quickly enough once she'd announced her fatigue and departed the drawing room, throwing a look with the barest hint of the coquette over her shoulder at him.
All evening Violet had sent subtle, wordless messages his way, slowly undoing him all through dinner and family conversation, causing his children and daughter-in-law to think him more absentminded than usual. He let them think that. It covered for the fact that he couldn't stop imagining the night before – or glancing at his gorgeous wife. She'd taken particular pains over her dress, selecting a gown in a rich shade of plum, Patrick's favorite color on her. She'd even worn the necklace that he'd given her for their first anniversary.
Violet had mastered the art of saying everything she needed to him with her eyes, conveying remarkably improper thoughts with a raise of her eyebrow or the tilt of her head. It was a language only Patrick understood, and to anyone else in the room would be seen as nothing momentous. Even apart from this, however, she smiled far more than usual. Patrick could only attempt to contain his mirth and anticipation. He did so poorly, but Rosamund and Robert appeared not to notice; the change in their mother's ordinarily bland countenance caused them much more fascination. However, they said nothing. They probably didn't want to rock the boat, which seemed to have found calm waters at last.
For them, at least. For Patrick, the minute that they would meet again in her bedroom could not arrive swiftly enough.
And now it had arrived; he stood next to her bed, gazing down at her in the light of the one candle she left burning at night. Patrick whispered, "You looked beautiful tonight, darling. And you look even more beautiful right now."
Her cheeks took on a bright pink, and she extended a hand to him, her eyes locked onto his. "I could hardly wait for this moment, Patrick," she said softly as he took her hand and sat on the edge of the bed, facing her.
"I could tell," he chuckled. "Don't worry," he reassured her, leaning close to her and breathing his words into her ear. "I don't think the children knew. I'll wager they were more curious about your smiles than your other surreptitious signals." Patrick nipped her behind the ear before pulling back just enough to brush his lips over hers. At her gentle sigh, he kissed her more intensely, their tongues engaging in an elaborate dance after only a moment or two.
Patrick pressed Violet back upon the bed, his hands grazing over her body through the delicate fabric of her night dress. Without warning, his mind flickered to a conversation he'd had with Isidore the evening before their children's marriage. They'd been toasting their families, the bride and groom, and each other liberally, and at some point their talk had gotten far more personal than Patrick was – normally – comfortable with. They'd begun discussing wedding nights, and, one thing leading to another, Patrick found himself the baffled, and yet intrigued, recipient of a number of tips on how to further please his wife in the bedroom. As he listened to the American whose daughter was to marry his son the next day, Patrick nearly blushed. When asked where he'd acquired this knowledge, Isidore shrugged dismissively.
"I've done a lot of traveling for my business, and I've picked up certain books – texts – on the subject. They're extremely useful." Isidore chuckled and took another long swig of whiskey before puffing again on his cigar, his mustache twitching with mirth. "At least, Martha rarely has anything negative to say on the subject." The man winked at this, whereupon Patrick almost choked on his Scotch.
"Goodness," he'd strangled out, unsure what else to say at this point.
But now, as he drew the hem of Violet's night dress up her legs and over her hips, he wondered if he might be so bold as to implement some of Isidore's suggestions. In fact, it rather excited him to think of it.
However, he wondered how Violet would react. So, endeavoring not to alarm her, he began as he often did, running his hands gently over her legs as he kissed her. Night shirt fell atop night dress upon the floor, and Patrick oh-so-deliberately trailed his lips down her neck and over her breasts, concentrating his attentions there for a while as he slid her drawers along her limbs and off, flicking this onto the pile of garments.
Instead removing his own drawers, however, he continued to venerate the creamy skin of her abdomen with his mouth, his hands caressing first the outsides then moving to the insides of her thighs. Patrick relished every sigh and gasp and incoherent whisper Violet uttered as he neared his goal.
But as his lips, tongue, and hands had almost met at her center, Violet began to squirm – and not in bliss. She struggled to sit up, bleating out, "Patrick, what –!"
Looking up into her eyes, and the shock in them, Patrick kept stroking his fingers lightly along her inner thighs. "Violet darling," he intoned softly. "Just lie back and relax. Trust me."
"But, Patrick, you can't – you shouldn't –"
"Shhhh…" He reached up one hand to her cheek. "It's alright, darling. I promise."
Seeing the glint – and comfort – in his eyes, Violet took a deep breath and lay back on the pillows. But she couldn't be entirely comfortable. She closed her eyes as she felt Patrick's kisses upon her inner thighs, and his hands travel closer to their juncture. Violet couldn't deny the delicious chills his touch elicited from her.
Patrick's mouth and tongue and hands converged upon her, and his touch drew a prolonged moan from her throat. The screams of her rational mind that what they were doing was so very beyond improper soon became buried beneath wave after wave of tactile bliss he created. Violet tilted her head back, shutting her eyes and clutching at the bedclothes. She gasped and squeaked and couldn't quite believe how incredible something so… so wrong could feel.
Fortunately, just as Patrick thought his fingers might cramp – and he felt dizzy with his own growing need – he heard and felt the tell-tale signs of her release and stroked her ever more gently while she stretched and made a sound as near to a purr that he could remember as she panted heavily. He grinned and allowed her time to catch her breath, kissing all along her legs and then farther up her body as he twitched off his drawers and tossed them onto the floor.
Grazing his fingers along her sides, reveling in the low laughter that hit his ears, presumably because this particular touch tickled her, Patrick lingered over her breasts, taking one of the peaks between his lips. Violet rewarded him with a trilling noise and placed her hands on either side of his head, gently pulling him up to kiss him earnestly.
In no time, she breathed between kisses, "Patrick… please…."
He'd thought he would have to be the one to beg, so he willingly obliged as she wriggled beneath him. Lifting up her hips while he maintained their heated kisses, Patrick began thrusting into her, moving his hands down to knead her behind. Violet's arms wound around him, and her hands ran up and down his back. She dug her fingertips into the still well-formed muscles, moving her hips to the rhythm he set.
Patrick kept casting his mind back to before, to the way Violet reacted to his attentions and imagined several other scenarios he would like to bring to pass that Isidore had described in – quite explicit – detail. This, combined with how Violet completely filled his senses now, contrived to incite him to lose control completely, but he endeavored to keep himself in check. He still wished to make up for those lost months.
Once they'd both achieved their climaxes, they lay there for a while before Patrick scooted over and turned upon his side beside Violet, coaxing her onto her side as well, her back to his front. For a long time, Patrick simply held her against him, smiling and brushing his fingers lightly over her arm. The calming tempo of her breathing and the soft tangle of her hair against his face brought him to a state of utter tranquility.
That is, before Violet eventually grew rigid in his arms before extracting herself and removing herself to the other side of the bed, pulling the sheet up over chest.
"Violet?" Patrick sat up, studying her face in the dim light. Her expression was unreadable.
"You've never done that before," she said, her tones measured. She stared at him, waiting.
"No, I haven't. But you seemed to enjoy it." He thought he might chuckle, but the way her face flushed stopped him.
Violet struggled to keep her voice quiet, although she wanted to shout. "Who is she?"
Patrick blinked several times, trying desperately to understand what she meant. "I – what?"
"You had to have learned it from somewhere." Her eyes narrowed dangerously.
He gaped at her, disbelieving what he heard. Violet struck him speechless, and he could only open and close his mouth in wordless incredulity.
"No, I don't want to know who she is." She put a hand out in a curt wave. "I never told you that you shouldn't have dalliances, and I might have known that during all these months…." Violet shook her head, fixing him with a look that was both angry and hurt. "But I thought I knew you, Patrick."
As angry and hurt as Violet might be, Patrick felt it a hundred fold. Climbing out of bed, he gathered up his things before facing her, his face stony. "I thought you knew me too, Violet. I'll be in my bedroom. If you remember who I am – and how I am – you can come knock on my door. But until then, I would rather you stay away."
Patrick stomped to his door, clothes in hand, and shut it behind him soundly.
Violet got up and exhaled hard, her nostrils flaring with irritation. She went over to where her drawers and night dress lay upon the floor and put them on. Then she sat on the bed, going over their activities and conversation in her head. What else was she supposed to think? In all their years of marriage – over two decades – he'd never even indicated that he knew any sort of technique as that. And then, all of a sudden, he did?
She paced back and forth along the length of the room, as was her wont when she was angry or frustrated and needed to think. Patrick had his Scotch and his pipe – Violet paced. But after a while, she sat on her chaise and put her head in her hands. Patrick loved her, she was sure. However, she knew that sometimes even people who loved you could hurt you – and probably worse than anyone else. Patrick, though….
Drawing a deep breath, Violet recalled the last six months, going over them with a fine-toothed comb. She blushed to remember how at various times she'd heard – although she knew she wasn't supposed to have – her husband through the dividing door, breathing heavily and, although his voice was muffled, unmistakably crying out her name. He'd said many times that he only ever wanted her, and she had no reason to doubt him.
No reason apart from this latest development. But what other explanation could there be?
Perhaps his imagination had led him there. Again, though, why not sooner? Violet's mind spun. She couldn't think properly, and the memory of how his tongue and lips felt against her perpetually interrupted her contemplations.
There was only one thing for it. She would have to swallow her pride and ask him – as difficult as that was to do. And accept his explanation. Patrick would never lie to her. Of that, she was certain.
Taking another deep breath, she walked over and knocked upon his door.
For a moment she heard nothing. "Patrick?" she called softly.
He appeared at the door in his drawers, a defeated expression upon his countenance. "Yes?"
Violet cast her eyes on the floor. "I – I'm sorry. I shouldn't have jumped to a conclusion. We've always been honest with one another, even…" she stumbled over her words, apologies never coming easy for her, "…even when we can't seem to speak of what we need to most." She lowered her voice, wringing her hands. "I do know you, Patrick, but I'm still confused."
Patrick's eyes softened as he beheld the contrition and fear on her face. She rarely admitted to being wrong, and he knew better than to treat it as a small thing. "Darling, come here." He held his hands out to her.
She took them, meeting his eyes. Patrick guided her over to a pair of chairs and sat down beside her.
"Violet, let me tell you something that you might not want to know." He waited until her eyes fastened upon him. "Isidore Levinson told me about that. And, well, a few other things – the night before Robert and Cora wed. We'd had a few too many drinks, I think, and it made him chattier than usual." He looked at her sheepishly, but she said nothing. So he continued, "I wanted to try one of them, because it had been so long, and I wanted to make you feel nice."
Patrick watched Violet's face transfigure into one of shock. She pulled her hands away. "I'm not sure that's not worse! You spoke to – to that man about us?"
"It wasn't like that, Violet. He did most of the talking, and in very general terms." Patrick sighed, digging his elbows into his knees and resting his head in his hands. "I honestly didn't expect it to land me into trouble. We were drunk, and you were so cross with me, and I missed you so much," he muttered.
Violet observed him for a few moments when he didn't speak again. She knew he hadn't done anything wrong, and she felt ridiculous for letting something like this come between them when they'd been apart too many months already. Lifting her hand, she put it on his wrist. "Patrick?"
The note of tenderness in her voice encouraged him to uncover his face and look at her.
She smiled and trailed her fingers up from his wrist to his hand, taking it in hers and pressing it tightly. "May we start the evening over?" Her eyes gleamed with mischief. "Well, if you're not too tired, that is."
A slow grin spread over Patrick's face. He hadn't expected another apology or admission of fault; that was not his Violet. Once tonight surprised him enough. But this suggestion of hers was tantamount to her forgiveness for what she saw as a highly scandalous conversation between Isidore and him. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it, then stood and pulled her up with him, wrapping his arms around her waist. "How can I resist such an invitation?"
The twinkle in her blue eyes intrigued him. She chuckled. "I'm certain you would find a way if you couldn't manage a repeat performance."
"Well, that's true enough." He leaned over to whisper in her ear, "I wouldn't want to disappoint."
Violet placed her hands on either side of his face, fixing a coy look upon him. "You said he told you some other things as well?"
Patrick nodded, grinning from ear to ear.
"Might we give another one of them a go? To start?" Violet slid one hand down his neck and over his shoulder, taking another step closer to him.
The grin melted, his eyes closing and a low groan escaping his lips as she pressed herself against him. "I – I think we could do that, darling."
"Good," she said briskly, backing away and clasping his hand.
As Violet led him into her bedroom once more, Patrick watched the sway of her hips through her night dress and grinned, sending silent thanks to Isidore Levinson across the ocean.