AN: Thank you all for the lovely reviews on the last chapter. I am sorry I have taken a while to update, I have been super busy! I hope you enjoy this chapter, and if you do, a review means an awful lot and might motivate me into trying to finish this story off properly! Cobert love.
Chapter 3
Robert shuts the door behind him and surreptitiously looks around before quickly stepping out into the dimly lit street. He doesn't know why he looks, yes, he is leaving the flat of a French actress but it wasn't as if it was something that other men of his class didn't do. Besides, he has made a point of being conspicuous, unlike his cousin, whose latest dalliance was no doubt being spread across the front pages of The Times as he walks.
The light drizzle is doing nothing to help his mood. Clarisse did not have a performance tonight, it was the change-over day between the company's two plays. That being so, she had been expecting, and he had anticipated, that he would be spending the night with her, but Mr Levinson had other ideas. Robert had begrudgingly agreed to attend dinner at the Levinson's just because of that complete disaster with the scheming Miss Levinson. But, he supposed it was one night, once it is over he can return to the alluring charms of Clarisse until he has to return to London, a deadline looming far too near.
He knows he should be feeling relaxed and content, after all Mr Levinson had been reasonable enough not to force him into marrying his daughter. However, that did not change the fact that Miss Levinson had probably gone home and spent the whole morning telling her mother how she had ensnarled some wealthy Englishman on her morning walk. He kicks a loose pebble into the road, what was his life coming to? Even in his 'free' time he was having to think about young women and their motives and actions, he had thought he was escaping all this until he returned to London.
He hadn't had a chance to really look at the house the Levinsons' were renting in Paris before, but as he approaches this time he notes the height of the building and although this was not always a reflection of grandeur (after all, a tall building could just be apartments) this house also has a width, and a portico over the front door, that screams expense. The windows prove it, any house with windows as large as this one had to be owned, or rented, by a man willing to pay for the house to be heated in some other way. If his father was beside him now he would be streaming off phrases of encouragement and rubbing his hands together, not to keep them warm but 'because of your expert catch son.' Robert finds solace in that thought, at least he is alone.
He climbs the steps quickly, desperate to get out of the rain and to abandon his coat to the waiting servant. The rain had picked up in strength, something he realises most when he goes to take his hat off, only to find the rim is filled with rainwater. He shakes his hand in disgust to dispel the filthy water.
The door opens and he angrily shoves the hat at the waiting pair of hands before turning to shrug off his coat, could this evening get any worse?
"Mr Crawley, you're here." Robert suppresses a growl towards the man who has separated him from Clarisse. "I don't suppose you would care for a drink while we await the ladies?" He nods his agreement and follows him into the room he had emerged from. He soon discovers it is the library, not that there are many books, but then this was only a second house, if that for whomever Mr Levinson was renting from. The desk is covered with neatly piled letters which doesn't surprise him, Mr Levinson had already struck him as very organised and he knows enough about rich Americans to know Mr Levinson is probably trying to manage a business while he is abroad.
What he really notices, perhaps because he can hear in his head exactly what his mother would say at the sight, is the absence of a footman by the decanter of drink. Instead Mr Levinson walks over to the table and pours it himself before asking how he would like his. Robert imagines he must sound unsteady and confused as he asks for it straight, but if he does, his companion makes no comment.
Glass in hand, the amber liquid swirls with his unguarded nerves, a sensation he couldn't understand. There was no point to being nervous, he is here to avoid any talk of an infamous meeting with an unmarried young lady (with whom he is not acquainted) reaching the ears of the press and yet, he felt like he was about to face some kind of trial.
"There is something I ought to make clear before my wife and daughter join us. Mrs Levinson is completely unaware of your meeting with my daughter this morning and I, and Miss Levinson, would like it to stay that way."
"Of course." He takes a long draught of the burning tonic. Nottell his wife, that does surprise him. He can understand why Mr Levinson might want to keep such a thing quiet since he has refused a potentially advantageous match for his daughter by not forcing Robert's hand, but to include Miss Levinson in that decision confused Robert. Had she not wanted to make him walk her home so that she could boast of her skills to her mother, who had no doubt planned it all with her? He wonders again if he had been wrong about her, she had admitted during their walk that her mother is rather a matchmaker when it came to titled young men, but she had not seemed overly pleased to admit her mother was strung that way.
"My health is, as I mentioned, unknown to both of them and – "
"I have already promised my discretion on that score Mr Levinson. Besides, I doubt it would be in my best interests to announce it to the world, you still have the ammunition to make me marry your daughter." The older man laughs, a strained sound that he cuts off with a half-hearted cough.
The room lapses into a quiet silence then, the crackling of the fire consuming all of Robert's attention. Robert doesn't mind that Mr Levinson is not an overly social man but instead quietly reserved, the quiet suits him. It also gives Robert a chance to drink his port and still his nerves before he is faced with looking into the intelligent eyes of a young woman whom he can't quite understand. He wasn't sure if his failure to read her earlier had been because her beauty had distracted him, not something he had ever encountered with women before, or because she was so artful that she was able to disguise her true being beneath layers of practiced flattery. In truth, he hoped neither was the case, the first would leave him in a potential predicament, and the latter would confirm his suspicion that his chance of ever meeting a sensible young woman free of the prejudices of their mothers was impossible.
"We ought to make our way to the drawing room. My wife will not be late, not tonight." Mr Levinson sounds rather resigned at the fact. His phrasing was subtle but the way Mr Levinson looked at him as he spoke, as if he is the reason for his wife's timeliness only confirmed what he already knew; he was about to meet a match-making Mama, and an American one at that.
The drawing room, positioned just behind the library, from the second door off the hall, is much brighter than he had expected, and much more peach than he had ever seen before. The walls are covered in a patterned silk that was a peach shade, the three settees are all upholstered in a slightly lighter shade, that is nearer beige. It would have all been far too much of the same colour, particularly with the heavy cream curtains, if it was not for the beautiful pieces of teak furniture that darker the whole room down, the result was actually rather relaxing. Robert is about to admire a particularly delicate looking cabinet when the door is opening by a footman.
Mrs Levinson has the most violent shade of red hair that Robert has ever seen, so violent in fact, that even amongst the shades of beige and pink that hugged the drawing room it can do nothing but be the point of his attention. Robert is now certain where Miss Levinson gets both her height and her beautiful dark hair, her father. Mr Levinson's greying streaks must one day have been a very rich dark brown. She also has her father's temperament, quiet in comparison to the outbursts of Mrs Levinson.
"You must be the young man my husband has kept from my knowledge until today. He said you were only marginally handsome, he was wrong about that." Robert is so completely stunned he just stands there as she carries on, her husband trying and failing to stop her. "And you are English I hear? Has he told you we are heading over the sea to London in just a few weeks. My daughter…" Robert raises his glass to his lips, here she goes, the matchmaking Mama.
"Martha?" Mr Levinson reprimands her again, this time slightly more forcefully.
"Oh, I am sorry, Isidore. You must forgive me Lord Downton, it has just been some time since we had company." Robert finds the smile he kept hidden away specifically for these occasions. It was the one he used when he cannot find the words he needs to describe the situation, because he is completely stunned. "Oh, and that smile is a winning smile, don't you think Isidore?" Robert keeps it plastered on his face, how quickly would he be able to get away tonight? Straight after the dessert?
"Thank you for allowing me to join you for dinner, please you call me Mr Crawley. I have also been without company for some time, Mrs Levinson. The same conversation gets rather tiring, does it not?" That is one thing he knows about tonight, with Mrs Levinson at the table it is never going to get tiring, he is going to have to have his wits about him. He chuckles silently into his glass at that, much like being at home then, with his own mother.
Mrs Levinson is launching into some story from her morning shopping about another woman stealing the dress from the rack that she had picked out for herself when another pair of, far more delicate steps, are heard in the hallway. Mrs Levinson breaks off midsentence as her daughter enters the room.
Robert had never a person who had been completely comfortable when it came to women. He had never flirted with that much ease, finding all the fan waving and revealing outfits to detract from what is really more important; good character and intelligence. He was certainly not someone who whispered suggestively behind plants and wine glasses with his male friends, as each woman was announced into a ballroom, appraising, or laughing at their attire and beauty. However, that did not mean that obvious beauty did not, and had not, attracted him, on different occasions to different women. He always danced with the woman whom had captured his attention across a ballroom, but despite his mother's belief that beauty and a nice frock was all that interested Robert all of these women had thus far been cast aside. The common factor being their inability to hold a conversation that showed any kind of intelligence.
With Miss Levinson's entrance into the room he is transported to those ballrooms, the pretty women, all of whom he had cast aside because they could not entertain his mind as well as they could his eyes. In Miss Levinson, he sees a beauty that is more complete. Matching the elaborate twists her hair is piled into was her wonder at the architecture in the cold morning air. Opposing the seductive bareness revealed by the gown perching on the very peak of her shoulder, before dropping into a puffy capped sleeve, is the way she had not missed him stumbling over his name, proving her observance. More revealing than the scoop of the neckline was her rebellion at leaving the house alone in a foreign country. Her eyes had been so much brighter in the breezy morning air as he had let her tease him, than the dark blue velvet that caresses her bodice.
With Miss Levinson, he had already seen hints of the intelligence. Tonight, her beauty was on full display. Judging by the beaming smile on Mrs Levinson's face his reaction had been noted by the person who had personally selected the outfit for her daughter to wear.
"Miss Levinson." He takes her offered hand and kisses it gently before he has a chance to assess his actions. He looks up to find her cheeks a warmer shade of pink than they had been. But in her eyes, he sees something different from the admiration that usually followed him making such a bold statement to a woman, he sees anger. Kissing a lady's hand is a statement he has only made on one other occasion, which he has bitterly regretted ever since, as the lady in question is now determined to make herself his wife. That was the usual response, but Miss Levinson, as he should have guessed, does not respond how convention might demand. She slides her hand rather forcefully from his and drops it to her side.
"I am not sure such gestures are allowed Sir, until a proper introduction has been made." She turns to her father, her head slightly tilted to one side, revealing a single ringlet of hair dancing on her shoulder. Mr Levinson clears his throat and introduces them as should be done. She had a way of beguiling him it was true, and yet Robert cannot help but find it intriguing. She is so outspoken she might appear to others as being over-confident and brash but Robert thinks it might have more to do with a defence, to protect herself from her own soft character. "And now, you may offer me a seat, or start the conversation with some comment about the weather, isn't that right mother?" Robert chuckles softly.
"Or, I could tell you how finely dressed you are tonight Miss Levinson, and lead you to the settee both at the same time." He moves himself out of the way so that she can properly enter the room (they had rather been crowding in the doorway). She advances towards the settee before stopping abruptly.
"You said you would lead me Mr Crawley, I cannot have you following me, that offers you too many advantages." He takes the four steps to the settee and sits himself down, she sits beside him, a coy smile on her face.
"How does it offer me an advantage?" He drops his voice as her parents stay loitering near the doorway at the appearance of a servant.
"Mother doesn't know." She whispers the words very quietly into the gap between them, she has angled herself so her mother has no view of either of their faces. The display of confidence is gone, replaced with the nervous circling of her thumbs on her fingers, and her gaze dropping to her lap.
"Your father told me." He lets the matter settle. His mind drifts back to that look in her eyes before. "Is that why you disliked me kissing your hand?"
"No, that was because you are far too full of yourself, Mr Crawley. You told me girls with matchmaking mamas were not your scene and yet here you are determined to flirt with me."
"I am only repaying your debt Miss Levinson, it was you that flirted this morning."
"I am unaware of my own abilities then. A minute ago, yes, I was flirting with you, but only because I wanted you out of Ma's ear-shot. This morning, no, that was simply an awkward conversation between two strangers who knew nothing about each other and were meeting in a strange circumstance. As a rule, I don't flirt. I would rather a man chose me based on my actual merits rather than those my mother thinks relevant. I am sorry if that disappoints you, but my life is mine to live and I will not have it ruled by what others think is best for me."
"Well then, you must enlighten me. What are your merits?" He knows the conversation is a strange one, he had never had a conversation with a woman before that involved her steering the conversation, it had always been him that has tried to diffuse flirting and move conversation to intellectual topics. He wonders again at the possibility that she is more skilled in the art of flirting than other women, whether this was her way of seducing him into being smitten. His mother would certainly think so, but then she would be prejudiced merely based on Miss Levinson's nationality. He was inclined to think she was not putting on a very good act, but that this was the woman she really was. Slightly nervous and naive, but fearlessly strong.
"Well, they are not for me to tell you Mr Crawley, but for you to find out. If I tell you, I only know that you like admiring my face and watching me talk, I do not know whether you have truly been observing me, which would be the mark of a better friendship. Would you not agree?"
"Indeed." He doesn't like to tell her that he would be more than happy to listen to her talk, there is a quality to her voice that he finds endearing, his mother would loath to learn it is her accent. As for admiring her face, he is quite happy to do that as well.
"It seems dinner is ready ahead of schedule." Mrs Levinson's call across the room breaks him from his thoughts. Ten minutes ago, he would have been pleased with the realisation that an earlier start would most likely mean he will be able to make an early get away, but now Miss Levinson has arrived he is not so sure he wants to. It is nice to be able to talk to a woman about common interests rather than his estate, his title, and how some young woman had 'always wanted to see Yorkshire.' It was pleasing to realise he isn't purely an object of marriageable age and status to every young woman in the world.
The orange and grapefruit cheesecake is slightly tart for her tastes and the sprinkling of sugar the cook had brushed over the top was not helping to combat the sharp squirts of juice that seemed to escape from the segments with each squeeze her teeth make. The awkward silence that hangs across the table doesn't help. Her mother was always a fan of using her mouth more than she should but it seemed that even she, after three courses, is at a blank for any more ways to embarrasses their guest. After all, there are only so many ways she can drop hints about how 'Cora so wishes to marry in England.' Her father had finally found his voice (something that was never used to combat Mama usually) to tell her she was clearly making Cora and Mr Crawley uncomfortable and she should stop. Since that outburst the four of them had sat in silence, nobody daring to make the next move.
Cora bites down on the final segment of fruit in her mouth as she busies herself piling the next piece of cheesecake onto her fork, maybe if they finished sooner this would become less awkward, she and Mr Crawley had been so much more relaxed in the drawing room.
"Miss Levinson," he clears his throat as he lowers his fork to his plate, wiping his finger on his napkin, "your father thought you might like some pointers as to the best things to see when you are in London next month."
"Yes, I would." She keeps her eyes firmly fixed on the cheesecake, not because she cannot look at him, but because she can feel her mother pausing to listen to her right, no doubt her eyebrows would raise in a clear expression of 'he is interested' if she were to risk meeting the gaze. "I have never been, and I would very much like to make the best of my time between social events."
"I know I like to make a tour of many of the museums and any special viewings that are running during the season. Personally, I am not a big fan of social events and much prefer the National Gallery and others. The British Museum is lovely for the history of England, if that interests you?"
"Very much. In fact, I am rather a fan of learning the history of artwork so no doubt the National Gallery is a must see. I think there is so much to learn in paintings that people miss because they forget to think about how the picture relates to the painter or sculptor. I could spend hours trying to decipher the feelings of an artist towards some topic or another based on their work."
"Well then, I will have to promise to accompany you to at least one of the wonderful museums the city has to offer. Is there a particular era of art history that interests you most?" She gently nudges a little of the cheesecake from her fork, if Mr Crawley is going to keep directing questions at her she will have to eat in smaller mouthfuls otherwise she will receive some lecture from her mother about 'being ladylike and eating attractively.'
"I'm not sure there is an era I like most. I enjoy comparing the same type of art, for example landscapes, done by different artists in different mediums. On the whole I like to learn about the artist from their work, it matters little what the work depicts." He finishes his mouthful and places his cutlery down, his plate clear (unlike her half full one – all these small mouthfuls really are slowing her down). She takes a larger bite while he contemplates his answer. She doesn't dare turn to look at her Mama, the unusual quiet from that end of the table tells her all she needs to know. She is either seething at the topic of conversation or delighted that Mr Crawley seems to be taking such an obvious interest, or maybe both.
"A little like Miss Elizabeth Bennet perhaps, an analyser of character but this time through the medium of art rather than first-hand knowledge. Let us hope you have a better skill than Miss Bennet otherwise these artists could end up being very misinterpreted." He smiles in challenge as he lifts his napkin to wipe his mouth. She is momentarily transfixed by his eyes, in this light they aren't just the plain blue she had thought they were earlier. They have speckles of so many shades of blue, a darker shade, almost navy, hugs the outer part of the iris. The part nearest his pupil is darker too, with light colours, that could almost be called white, in the space between.
"Firstly Sir, I would argue Elizabeth's shortcomings are the very essence of the book, are they not? And secondly, in the case of art, I think the artist had their own thoughts and feelings that seep into the painting but discovering other things, and what the painting says to you as a viewer of it, is often just as important as what the original artist wanted to represent. You can learn about both yourself and the artist when you study artwork. Just as Elizabeth eventually learns the truth about not only Darcy, but herself and her own feelings."
"Oh, Cora really, Mr Crawley does not want to hear about one of your silly art analogies." Cora feels her face flush red, she has said too much, what was she thinking contradicting a man at the dinner table, that was not lady-like behaviour. She spoons a much-needed mouthful of the crumbling cheesecake base into her mouth, letting the individual crumbs stick to her teeth.
"Mrs Levinson you're quite mistaken, your daughter has a standpoint on the subject of art which interests me very much. It is not often I come into contact with a young woman who is clearly so well educated on a wide range of subjects. Her conversation does you and your husband great credit." Cora swallows in astonishment as her mother gulps uncomfortably before spreading a wide smile across her face, aimed at Cora. The single raise of the eyebrow makes Cora drop her fork slightly untidily onto her plate, that was her mother's look of approval. Mr Crawley had praised her, both of them in fact, and now her mother was going to start weaving the web to ensnarl him before Cora even knew if he was half sensible, and all this wasn't some kind of persona he used for capturing young women. After all, complimenting the parents was usually the first step towards getting approval and cornering a young lady into an engagement.
"Mr Levinson and I made it our aim that Miss Levinson would be well educated. She has been instructed on mathematics, literature, the sciences, politics, geography, history and art. The latter two have always been her favourites, but her ability with figures is almost as good as any man's." Cora keeps her gaze fixed on her hands in her lap, what was her mother thinking? She was always told to be modest and try to keep conversation open, 'don't talk about yourself', and yet here was her mother boasting about all things she has done. It seemed the 'no man wants a wife more intelligent than him' was not a factor anymore. "In fact, Isidore, didn't you always say that you wished it was Cora, and not Harold, set to take over the business as she almost always got better mathematics marks?"
"I might have done once, but Harold improved greatly after a while. I think, perhaps, we can forgo the split tonight, if you agree Mr Crawley, and drink with the ladies?"
"Um, yes, yes. Very well." Cora wants to cry at the sound of confusion in his voice. Why did her mother always open her mouth without thinking? Now she has made their guest uncomfortable just when things were beginning to become easier. She ignores the prickling behind her eyes, the sting that has no place. After all, why should she be bothered how comfortable Mr Crawley is? She shouldn't, and yet the stinging tells her that she is, why? Her subconscious conjures up an image of those eyes, the peace the shades of blue seemed to bring her over the dinner table. She walks quickly towards the door, ignoring her mother's calls. You cannot fall for a pair of eyes, Cora! She has known him all of a day and she seems unable to push the kindly look in his eyes away, no other man had ever looked at her with such a soft expression before. Eyes are not a valid reason for marriage Cora! Marriage? Where on earth has that come from?
"Miss Levinson?" A soft call from behind her forces her to turn and evaluate the world around her. It finally has the advantage of also pushing the image of his eyes away. She avoids looking at him as she turns slowly. A footman stands by the door, both her parents looking at her expectantly.
"I will have a small glass of the white wine from dinner, please." The footman nods his head and exits. Her parents immediately move in the direction of the card table, as was their custom after dinner. Cora stands awkwardly beside Mr Crawley, looking at the floor. "You would be more than welcome to join my parents for cards, I am more than happy to sit quietly here."
"They have already asked, I declined the offer. I hoped that we might discuss your fascination with art a little more?" He gestures to the settee just behind them and she lowers herself gently onto the edge. Was he being nice, not wanting her to sit alone? Or was he genuinely interesting in what she has to say?
"I am not sure my company will be as interesting as you might hope Mr Crawley, I am not used to entertaining people after dinner, usually I sit with my drink and a book while my parents play cards."
"Is not extensive reading the way in which accomplished women improve their minds?" Cora cannot help but smile and let her eyes drift up to rest on his cravat.
"So, you have read the book, not just heard the outline of the plot?" She had to admit, it surprised her slightly that a young man had ventured to read Jane Austen's work. All the men she had met before knew the story but could not actually boast of having read the work.
"Of course. They portray a history of society that is very intriguing, because it is the representation of a society written by a woman. The characters are also remarkably sketched and unique, but it is the unjust situation of it all that speaks to me. Even in Miss Bingley, you see that she is confined by the expectations of society. And then, I look around myself and find a system that is unchanged, maybe even worse, and I grow annoyed."
"You grow annoyed?" Cora couldn't understand that. He is right that society has seen no improvements, a woman's name is made by her marriage and her husband, but why is he annoyed about that?
"Yes, because it is worse now. Now a marriage between two people is not just a battle for a woman to get herself a good name, but men also are greatly frowned upon if they choose to marry outside of the ton. I am not saying Elizabeth would have settled easily into being Mrs Darcy and all it entailed, but she would never have been cut off because Mr Darcy would have maintained his social status despite his choice of bride. That wouldn't happen now, a man choosing to disrespect his family and choose a bride like that would be seen as being rebellious, with an unstable character. Instead of the world moving forward, and giving women more say in their choices, we have managed to further restrict options for everyone." She lets her gaze meet his and is surprised to find the warmth that had coloured just above his neck as he spoke has risen into his cheeks as well.
"You're very animated about that Mr Crawley, almost as though you have some personal injury to relate regarding choices of bride?"
"No, not at all. But perhaps Miss Austen inspired me without my knowing. I always hoped that I would be lucky enough to meet a young woman, whom I at least liked, to marry. But the more I move through the world the more I come to realise that is never likely to happen, it makes me annoyed with society."
"I am not sure there is much I can say to that Sir." She lets her gaze fall back to the lap, where her gloved hands seem quite unable to exist without twisting about each other. Why does it relieve her so much that he doesn't have some past romance that has left him unhappy? And why does it make her feel slightly breathless that he has admitted to wanting to like the women whom he chooses to make his wife? She was being exceptionally childish about him, just because he speaks nicely, has read Jane Austen and has nice eyes. None of those are reasons to get hung up on him, she has months ahead of her enjoying the London season with hundreds of other men, she would not be blinded by the charm of Mr Crawley, who could, for all she knew, turn out to be her Mr Wickham rather than her Mr Darcy.
Thankfully, her drink arrives and her hands are at last occupied so they do not have to fidget in her lap. She takes a reassuring sip in the silence that follows its arrival. The conversation returns to much safer, and less revealing, topics as they discuss various points of art and some history. It surprises her how he takes the alternative views to her own just to prolong the discussion on a few points, even if he actually agrees with her point, which he admits shyly afterwards.
She is dying to ask what he is expecting from a woman he could like enough to consider marrying but her own brain reminds her she is getting far too carried away too quickly. She is not likely to be the kind of woman Mr Crawley is looking for. He himself had said that society expected so much of marriages these days, no doubt he has expectations to fill. Marrying an American was unlikely to fulfil those of a son of an Earl. Besides, she knows well enough it is far too forward, and flirtatious (two things she hates being) to ask him what he wants his future wife to be like. Besides, her mother had already dropped too many hints during the earlier part of dinner, it would not be good to resurrect all of that in Mr Crawley's memory.
When her father rises from his seat at the card table, Cora finds herself being startled from the little world of their conversation. She had forgotten that her parents were even in the room. A glance at the clock is necessary for her to ascertain the time. She is surprised that it reads almost half past eleven, dinner had finished at ten, which meant she and Mr Crawley had talked for almost an hour and a half.
"Oh goodness, I really ought to have excused myself some time ago Mr Levinson, I am sorry if I've kept you from your rest." Mr Crawley hurriedly places his glass on a nearby table, bids her mother a goodnight and his thanks, turns to her with a pleasant smile and his pleasure at their conversation before he follows her father to the door.
"Your father really is too restless sometimes. How are you going to manage to charm the young man if he gets driven away all the time?"
"Oh, mother really, we have only just met and spoken together for little over an hour, why must you hear wedding bells?"
"Because, Cora dear, I saw the looks on his face. Which is something I want to talk to you about, you cannot sit staring at your fingers all the time, it is rude and, more importantly, you have a pretty face and nice blue eyes that a young man like Mr Crawley should be allowed to see."
"And why is that mother, so he can fall in love with the lines of my cheeks or something?"
"I said nothing about falling in love Cora, you read too much of that Austen woman! But you do have a nice face and a sensible man wants a wife who will produce him good looking children. I know you shall say that a woman should be ranked on more than her beauty and I do not discredit you. But the world we live in does not allow for years and years of learning about someone, first impressions get you down the aisle, everything else happens after. Therefore, you must let young men see your attractiveness, my dear." It was strange how closely linked this conversation was to Mr Crawley's earlier. It had been these very confines of society that had he complained of, and yet here is her mother encouraging her to fulfil them. Would that work for a man like Mr Crawley? Despite his words, was beauty important to him as well?
"Yes mother, I will do better next time." There is no point in arguing with her, and she didn't doubt, knowing her brother and his friends back home, that her mother did probably have a point. "Now, I better go to bed, it is later than I thought." She leaves her mother alone with her second glass of whisky and heads out into the hall. She does want a good few hours of rest before her walk tomorrow morning. Now that her father has given his consent she was not going to let the opportunity pass her by. She passes him in the hall and kisses him goodnight. It is not until she is at the base of the stairs that he suddenly turns back.
"Oh, Cora, I forgot to say, Mr Crawley has asked if he may dine again next week. I said he could." Cora is pleased he hurries back into the drawing room, at least then he does not see the blossom that rises in her cheeks and the dazed look that settles over her eyes as her thoughts shift entirely to her memories of Mr Crawley's eyes and voice.