Chapter 4
The activity in the house is claustrophobic. The dinners, the ball, the endless hum of too many people in the same space. Rosamund appoints herself buffer between Cora and Violet, intervening when she senses her mother is about to voice a displeasure or point out a shortcoming. Cora is thankful for the armor and although she welcomes the distraction of the festivities, they leave her exhausted and her defenses falter. Baxter finds her in her dressing room in between activities, sitting and staring and letting tears fall noiselessly. The woman is discreet, as always and aside from a kind look goes about her business. She wonders how pitiful she must seem, that in a great big house full of people she cries alone. Baxter doesn't know, but O'Brien would, that it is sometimes better this way. Cora is around for encouraging words and advice and to listen. Her deeper feelings are too American and foreign and therefore best left to the shadows.
Robert enters her room before dinner. Baxter is no longer in attendance, but still she sits at her vanity, shoulders bowed and head bent, the delicate bones of her vertebrae straining against the skin between her hair and the back of her dress. He hasn't been this perplexed by her since their first months of marriage, and it loosens his moorings a little. She seems so lost and the island she has placed herself on seems out of his reach. He knows there are things she is keeping from him, he can see it all wearing on her, slowly, but he is clueless as to how to help her.
"I wish you would speak to me, Cora." He takes cautious steps towards her, watches her reflection in the mirror as her eyes close.
"I speak to you Robert." Her lips barely move with the words, they are carried out on her breath.
He is inches away, close enough to see the muscles in her throat tremble. He traces a feather light touch down the curve of her neck, cupping her thin shoulders with his hands. It is an inner struggle not to fold her close to his chest and keep her there, protected, suddenly feeling that she is temporary.
"We should be going down." She pats his hand and signals that they are done.
Cora loves to dance and usually jumps at any excuse to do so, but it feels wrong to twirl around the floor so soon after losing her mother and brother. She doesn't begrudge the rest of them but she sits out the waltzes and watches, getting lost in the dizzying motion of bodies. She is glad to see Mary dancing with Charles Blake and Edith dances with some gentleman Charles brought from London. Even Tom is paired with his new friend Sarah. She wants them all to find happiness again, after so much pain, but she cannot muster the strength to allow herself the same.
"You've done a marvelous job the last few days, my dear. Thank you."
Cora is startled from her thoughts as Violet settles down near her. She gives the woman a brief nod and a weak smile before turning her attention back to the dancing figures. She can feel her mother in law's eyes still upon her, appraising as they always do. Through the years she has become successful at resisting the urge to shudder under that inquisitive stare.
Cora turns to her again. "You are welcome. Happy birthday."
Violet's eyes display an inner struggle as she searches for what she wants to say and Cora prays that she is not suddenly going to become sentimental with her. She knows the woman is capable of kindness and love, she shows it in her own way to the girls and Robert. Their own relationship has been complicated. In Violet's own words they have been more ally than friend, and so any warmth shown is usually a means to an end. Cora really has no desire to hear what Violet wishes to say to her, especially if it concerns Martha. Violet is always scathingly clear on that subject.
"Cora-"
There must be something in Cora's eyes that silences the words her mother in law is about to say. She can feel something like wild terror bubbling in her chest. Violet tentatively covers Cora's hand with her own.
"We were all so worried for you. You should allow yourself some rest. You've been through an ordeal."
"I must be seeing to your cake! It's getting late." Cora gets up quickly, her need to get away as strong as her need to breath. The older woman looks briefly hurt and Cora fleetingly feels bad but she pushes that aside and looks to find Mrs Hughes.
The switch from the celebration of Violet's continued good health and the achievement of another year of life is so quickly replaced by the somber tone of the Levisons funerals that it makes everyone dizzy. Most of the attendants barely knew the Levinsons, if at all. Cora seems to be holding up, from afar, seamlessly transitioning from birthday fete to memorial luncheon but Robert knows it is a facade. He can see the crumbling happening quicker now. She clings to him at night with a desperation she has never displayed before; her sleep erratic and plagued. He needs to remind her of things, from the silly to the substantial: the name of the Levinson's lawyer for the third time; that it is tea time and she must eat something. He finds her wandering the house, a puzzled and far away expression on her face, as though seeing it for the first time.
They sit down to meet with Martha's lawyer after everyone has left the house and Robert wishes again that they had been able to delay this. Cora sits in the large leather chair, letting her head fall back for a moment and closes her eyes briefly, pinching the bridge of her nose while Robert closes the door to the library. She thinks he doesn't see her, but he does of course and although he can empathize with Mr Jones for wanting to get back to New York immediately, he still holds him responsible for causing Cora more distress.
"Lady Grantham, Lord Grantham. I'll be as brief as possible. Mr Murray and I have already had a chance to jointly look over the paperwork and everything looks in order. Let's start with the tangible assets…."
Robert is glad that Murray is in attendance and on top of matters. He is too preoccupied with Cora to effectively take in what the man is saying. He talks of plans to send over jewels and personal effects. Robert makes a mental note to arrange sending it all to Murray's office first, to be collected and held for when she is ready. Next is the matter of property of which she now owns. Cora nods mutely next to him, looking through the man and Robert wonders how much she is really taking in. If he is feeling slightly overwhelmed he can't imagine what is going through her head.
"Now we come to finances. There are several accounts, as well as investments and holdings, in both your mother and brother's names. As I believe you are aware, at your mother's death, Harold was to get the remainder of her fortune. Harold in turn named you his sole inheritor in the event of his passing."
"So I'm to be an heiress once more." Cora states it flatly, her tired words breaking the silence. "How lovely."
"To the tune of three million US dollars. Not including the real estate, art, and anything else of value in the houses." The lawyer sits back and closes his portfolio.
"Good grief." Robert cannot help the words coming out of his mouth. The figure boggles the mind. He knew the Levinsons were wealthy, even back when they were courting, but he had been very young then and it all was handled by their fathers. He hadn't paid attention to the particulars. Perhaps a common faulty thread running through the tapestry of his life.
"Lord and Lady Grantham, we can discuss at a later date what accounts the money should be wired to and then I will be in touch with Mr Jones. Nothing needs to be decided or handled at this moment." Murray says gently.
"The only remaining business is this." Mr Jones reaches into his pocket and produces a sealed letter, yellowed and aged. "This is for you Lady Grantham, from Mrs Levinson, to be delivered to you at the time of her death."
Cora looks up finally, her eyes wide and staring. She reaches for the letter and Robert stands, wishing to dismiss the gentlemen quickly. A part of her would like to throw it in the fireplace before reading. Her mother is...was….a practical, unsentimental woman and she doubts there will be an outpouring of maternal last words. There will be no reflections on the past, no what ifs, no sorry fors. All of the things she herself would tell her daughters, all of the shortcomings she would apologize for, all of the love she would try to convey with her last breath will not be found in her own mother's last communication. So what can remain to be said? She leaves it sealed, something to be tackled in privacy.
"Cora…"
"Robert, I'm very tired. I think I will lie down." She touches his arm briefly in passing and then vanishes out the door. It seems these days he is forever watching her retreating from him.
Cora climbs the stairs slowly, feeling her heavy, beaded dress pulling her down. The upstairs gallery is quiet, save for the muffled sounds of play coming from the nursery. Turning from her own door, Cora starts further down the hall and into the brightly lit room. Her entrance triggers a squeal from Sybbie, who runs to her and wraps her little arms around her legs. Feeling suddenly warm and light Cora sweeps the child into her arms and grips her tightly, eliciting more giggles from her granddaughter as she twirls her around. George sits at her feet, looking up at her with a gummy grin and big blue eyes. He bounces, waving his arms and Cora lowers herself and Sybbie onto the floor beside him.
Sybbie runs across the room and brings back two cups and saucers, ready to play tea time and Cora loses herself in the game and her granddaughter's endless chatter as she carries on a commentary of their actions. Sipping her pretend tea, her mind wanders, fatigue settling on her once more, and she doesn't notice Sybbie toss aside her own tea cup, suddenly interested in George's toy.
"Look Grandmama!" Sybbie shouts excitedly.
Cora stares at the box in Sybbie's hands. Her granddaughter presses a red button and sets the train set at her feet into motion. Cora watches, transfixed as the passenger cars rattle around and around the elaborate maze of tracks. Her heart beats in her throat but she cannot tear her eyes away until Sybbie presses another button and the train's whistle shrieks, echoing around the room. Cora stumbles to her feet and presses herself against the door, her hand clutching her chest and breathes deeply, trying to calm herself when the two children look at her with startled gazes.