...after all, some girls are the unfortunate few that beauty does little for...
She read the words again, their meaning - Miriam Astor's meaning - clear and precise. Under the façade of encouragement, under the pretense of reassurance that if their little excursion should turn out to be a disappointment, Cora would still be considered a dear, sweet girl.
...after all, some girls are the unfortunate few that beauty does little for...
She had known better than to open it, really. Miriam Astor only ever had nastiness on her tongue, or in this case on the tips of her fingers, but out of dark curiosity, Martha had wanted to know what was written there. She wanted to know what people were saying. She wanted to know what people thought, and she bitterly regretted it now. The words burned in her stomach, but not by the anger she felt. There was something else, another feeling that created the fierce furnace low in her gut.
At the light knock on her door, Martha blinked up, swallowing to relax the tightness in her jaw. Her fingers deftly folded the letter quickly back along its creases, and she stuffed it again inside the envelope in which it had arrived, scowling at Miriam's script on the front.
"Mother?"
It was Cora. Mildly surprised at this, she lifted her brow and watched as the door opened slowly on its hinges. She tucked the letter under a fold of her skirt.
"Mother," Cora peeked around the door to where her mother sat at the vanity, all clad in a creamy colored tea gown. The color of it set off quite the contrast to the fire in her hair. Closing the door behind her, Cora pressed her lips. She hadn't spoken to her mother since last night and the guilt of it weighed heavily on her heart. "I've come to apologize."
"Oh?" Martha frowned thoughtfully and then turned and looked into the mirror, touching a curl that fell by her ear.
She could sense her daughter stiffen.
"I think I was disrespectful," Cora clasped her hands before her, "and if I was, I am sorry."
Martha peered at Cora's reflection and cocked her brow again. "Are you?"
The response came unexpectedly, and Cora's jaw fell slack. Though she anticipated a little gloating from her mother, she didn't expect rudeness. She searched for the correct thing to say.
But Martha was quicker as she fiddled with her brush. "So, you will admit that I know best? Hmm? That I'm to be trusted."
There was a small silence. "What?"
She turned on her seat and looked at Cora standing there, young and naive. Though Cora would deny it, though she would sigh and say she knew what these man were after, the girl was after the fairy tale that Martha knew did not exist. The girl was after love, after the happily-ever-after that Martha knew would not be. How could it be? It was not Cora's place to marry for love. It would not be for Cora - for her daughter, her beautiful daughter - because a girl of her position could not afford love. Not if she wanted to find her place in society. Not if she wanted to belong. And though Cora wouldn't perhaps admit it aloud, it was plainly obvious that she did want to, very much. Martha felt the hard bulge of the letter beneath her skirt like the princess felt the pea. Miriam Astor, though said with an ugly heart, had spoken the truth. Cora, if she did not meet a match here, would be a beautiful loss. A lovely pariah that would have wealth, but no power, every desired tangibility, but no privilege.
Martha could not allow that. She would not allow that. And where Martha had been impatient with these men, and where she had wanted so much to flee home to New York, taking her daughter with her, there had been a change. There was to be a new course for her daughter, and Martha would be the conductor.
She took in a breath, releasing it slowly. "Never mind."
"Never…never mind?" Cora couldn't hide her shock at her mother's dismissal. Martha lived to argue, she loved the thrill and heat of it, but this, to concede so quickly, was a bit unsettling. "You mean, you don't wish to discuss it?"
She watched as her mother turned back, touching the curl again and inspected herself in the glass. "Yes."
"So," Cora took one step closer, feeling the wall she'd built before she resolved to apologize come crumbling slowly down, "you approve of my fondness of Lord Downton?"
Of the fortune hunter? Martha took a breath. No. No, she did not approve of the fondness Cora found, but if this was the way to a position, so be it.
"I approve," she lied. Miriam's words resounded heatedly in her ears. Cora would not be one of the unfortunate few. She'd make a match. She'd make a good match. Her eyes fluttered to her daughter's reflection. She was smiling, and the sight of it clawed at Martha's heart. So long as he means to make a Lady of you. So long as any of them mean to.
"Is that the dress you've chosen?" she said appraisingly, lifting a brow.
Cora opened her mouth, but then closed it again. "Um." She looked down at herself, touching the soft fabric of the lilac dress. She felt suddenly self-concious. "I thought I might."
"Oh." Martha assessed Cora's expression as she fingered the gown unsurely. No. No, she needed to tread gently. She turned on her chair and gave her a small grin.
But Cora shook her head. "Oh?" She looked down again at her skirts, adjusting them slightly. "Is it alright? Is something wrong?"
"It's fine," Martha exaggerated. "Whatever you like, Cora. I just thought you may have chosen the teal."
"Teal?" Cora saw the dress in her mind's eye. The cut, slightly different, the color bold and unique.
Martha grinned. "Yes, but it's fine. Really. You look nice."
Cora peeked at her reflection in the cheval mirror in the corner, and she turned a bit to the side. She did like the lilac dress, the small flowers around her sleeve was done so delicately. It was rather sweet. But then, the teal dress was pretty, too. Very pretty, even if it did make her appearance a bit curvaceous. She shrugged. "I can still change before tea. We have time."
Martha held her breath. This hurt. "And the teal is so pretty on you," Martha said shaking her head emphatically. "And," she took another breath in. Now to sell it. "I daresay your Lord Downton may think so, too." She raised a brow, smirking, and turned toward her mirror. The deed was done, the sin committed.
Cora blinked her eyes at her mother's turning back and then brought them to the mirror once again. The teal dress was nice, even if it clung a little more tightly. And still, the color was pretty. Cora pressed her lips and turned again to the side. She inspected the profile of her body, twisting herself to see her back. She thought of the way Lord Downton had looked at her yesterday. She thought of the way his gaze had tickled her flesh into goosebumps.
"Do you really think he'd like it, Mother?"
Cora's voice, soft and hopeful, sent another sharp pang to Martha's heart. She liked that boy. She liked that boy more than what was good for her. But there was Miriam's words again, mocking, teasing, judging her girl and condemning her to a life of exclusion. No. Cora would belong. No, not just belong. Cora would outrank them all.
"Yes," she heard herself say encouragingly. "He'd be a fool not to."
She watched as Cora's features glowed with her smile and as she rushed from the room to change.
Martha swallowed down the guilt into the competition of her belly.
The clinking of the teacups against their porcelain saucers was high-pitched and sharp in Robert's head. After his father had yelled, after he had endeavored to think of nothing but Downton, and then promptly failing to do so, he had taken to four stiff whiskies. And then two scotches. His head seemed to pulsate when he woke, but now his headache felt even more pronounced as he sat near his mother as she took her tea.
"Robert," Violet lifted her brow with her cup. When her son's eyes met her own, she nodded to the unclaimed teacup left on the tray. A silent command.
"I've told you, Mama," Robert shook his head slightly, "I'm out for tea later. With the girl I've mentioned before."
"And?" Violet's brow remained peaked, "What does that have to do with tea now?"
"Mama, I don't want to seem-"
"Robert. Robert," Violet spoke over him, silencing him with her evenness.
Robert blinked at his mother.
"Take your cup."
He gave a sigh and picked up the cup before him. It wouldn't do to argue with her. It was better to do as she asked. After all, his mother was terribly assured in everything, and never, ever wrong.
Violet finished her sip, pressing her lips slightly at the warm moisture. "So, who is her father?" She asked it off-handedly, but rather determinedly to identify the girl he had yet to call by name.
After a moment of no response, Violet looked up from her cup. He was staring off into the space between them. She sighed his name. "Robert?"
He hummed.
Back into its saucer went her cup, and she peered at him. "I said," she repeated slowly, "who is the girl's father?" She gazed at him further, inspecting his silence. "The one with whom you are having tea."
When he didn't respond immediately, when he only readjusted himself in his seat, Violet lowered her chin. "You have met her father, haven't you?"
How does one meet a man transatlantically? But of course, he knew he mustn't disclose too much too soon. Better a light dusting of information than an inundation. "No." He brought the cup to his mouth to distract it from saying anything more.
"No?" She took in a breath, and she placed her cup and saucer on the tray. Violet lifted her brow even further. "You'll at least know the girl's name."
"Of course, Mama."
Sometimes the way her children spoke to her made her want to send them off to the nursery. "And what is it?" she wagged her head.
Robert peered up at his mother, steadying his gaze. "Levinson."
Violet's eyes grew wide. "Levinson?" She did not know the name, but she was sure she knew the origin. "You must be mistaken."
Robert continued over his mother's voice, "Cora Levinson."
He watched her take in yet another deep breath and widen her eyes something even more considerably. "Cora Levinson?" She shook her head, "Is that her name? Cora?" Violet pushed out a breath, "Sounds as if she is rather brusque."
"You have yet to even meet her, Mama."
"Yet to meet her?" Violet looked at her son more fully. "So you intend on this to be something quite formal?"
"Eventually, I hope-"
"Then who is she? And am I to suppose she is of a family with whom I am acquainted? I don't know many - nay, any - Jewish aristocrats, Robert."
Robert followed his mother's lead and returned his cup to the tray.
"So, who is she? Does she live here in London? I assume her father is some ghastly tradesman. A doctor? Banker, perhaps? We already have one too many of those in Painswick."
He pinched the bridge of his nose. The blood of his head pounded inside his skull. His mother was saying something more, but he so wanted to ignore it. Applying even more pressure between his fingertips, Robert drew in a heavy breath.
"Surely you cannot be serious about pursuing this."
Robert swallowed, eyes still shut, fingers still pinching. "Mama..."
"I don't approve, Robert."
He sat up straighter then, releasing his nose and opening his eyes. "You don't approve?"
"No," Violet's voice was more shrill than she intended. "A girl who knows nothing of our way of life-"
"Mama-"
"-who will inevitably realize that you are solely interested in her for her dowry. No. I don't like this."
"But you understand-"
"I don't approve!" Violet pushed out the words in a heavy breath, her eyes wide and serious. She stared at Robert.
"And will you approve of forfeiting Downton?"
Silence.
"Will you approve of living here in London with Papa, a Yorkshire Earl without a Yorkshire home?"
The two continued to stare at one another.
"Then," Robert swallowed, "this is the solution, Mama. This is what must be done to rescue Downton." He sat taller. "Whether or not you approve."
Then, as Patrick entered the sitting room, the thick silence was broken.
"When is your Lady's tea, Robert?" He said brightly, checking on his pocket watch.
Violet bristled as Robert looked into his lap. "She's not his Lady, Patrick. Or a Lady at all, for that matter." She picked up her cup and straightened in her chair. "But apparently," she brought her cup to her lips, "that doesn't seem to matter anymore."
"Oh!"
Cora turned at the sound of Annette's exclamation, smiling at the approval splashed over her features.
"Cora, darling!" She took her hands in her own and held her arms to the side to admire her friend. "Your dress is so very lovely! Oh, that color!"
Cora blushed deeply under her gaze. "Annette," she whispered, pulling her hands from her. "Please, don't," she giggled. "I'm so nervous as it is."
"Don't be." Annette dropped Cora's hands and brought her own to her small belly. She touched it gingerly, yet thoughtlessly, as Cora looked on. "It's plainly obvious his affection for you."
Cora felt another blush creep up her neck. "Is it?" She tried to suppress the grin she felt, "but I'm not sure how you know-"
Annette waved her hand playfully dismissively. "I've told you before. I just know." She nodded for emphasis as the butler brought in the tray.
Decidedly removing herself from Annette's assurances before she became too nervous, Cora settled herself down, smoothing the wrinkles from her silken dress. She brought her eyes, for what seemed like the thousandth time that day, to the clock. He was two minutes late. She swallowed her nerves. When she felt the weight of a stare, she looked up at her mother expectantly. But when she met her gaze, she found that Martha did not move. She only continued to stare, her mouth in a hard, grim line and the weight of her thoughts pulling heavily on her expression.
Cora furrowed her brows and leaned forward the smallest bit. "Mother?" she whispered. Martha seemed to perk up. "Is everything alright? You seem very preoccupied."
"Fine, fine," Martha lied with a smile. "I'm fine."
She watched as Cora smiled at her, leaning back. She looked so happy. She looked so happy and so pleased.
"My lady," Howard entered, and Cora held her breath. He was here. Lord Downton was here. "You have a guest."
"Yes, of course. Show him in, please."
Martha saw as Cora grinned excitedly, and as she straightened the teal dress again. She stole another quick glance of her mother, and Martha heard the question Cora raised in the subtle blush of her skin. Did she look alright? Would he think so? Would she do well? Would she impress him? The very core of Martha's motherhood, the very spot where she held the sacred sensations of her baby daughter's fingers dancing across her chest as she held her and the tender thought of her toothless grin at being given one more candy than was permitted, ached. It hurt. It grew and throbbed inside her chest, and there was pain. Cora wanted him, yet he did not want her. Not like that. Neither man did. None of the Lords did. Those Lords, whose names had been so blurred together, Martha now listed over and over in her head, their names, families, and estates clear as crystal in her memory bank. Martha nodded, smiling with every bit of her pain. She would encourage this. She had to encourage it, and there would be pain. But of course, there would be. After all, where there is tremendous love, isn't there also tremendous pain?
"Well..." Lady Falton stood and turned her head to see Cora and Martha. Cora's cheeks were pink from anticipation. "Here he comes."
Cora could do nothing but smile. What was wrong with her? Don't be too eager, she thought to herself.
"My lady," Howard entered, the man coming in from behind him. "Lord Raynham."
Robert took the knocker in his hand and held the cool metal in his fingers. He was late. His earlier plan to take the carriage had been forgotten, the idea that a nice walk, alone, may help him clear his mind and calm his nerves. It had done anything but. The image of her face kept appearing in his mind. The tiny peaks of her lip, so pink and full, seemed to be inexplicably detailed in his memory, though he hadn't given them much mind the day before. He immovably shook the lovely picture from his thoughts and knocked. The door, after a moment, gave a dense sighing as it opened.
"Good afternoon."
"Lord Downton to see Lady Falton and Miss Levinson."
The butler, a very tall and broad fellow, with very little hair, looked at him scrutinizingly.
"Yes, my lord. Please, do come in." He made a face that seemed to Robert a strained welcome, but stepped aside all the same as Robert entered. His ears were hit with the immediate murmur of voices, Miss Levinson's soft laughter suddenly fluttering over the hum. Robert found himself smiling at the sound, to his own surprise.
"Right through here, my lord," Howard beckoned, and Robert followed.
"My lady," he announced before the room. "Lord Downton."
Robert walked around the butler and smiled genially at Lady Falton, but then, he saw. His gaze, or more like the periphery of his gaze, caught shimmering teal poised on the settee. Miss Levinson, in all her loveliness sat there - an unreadable emotion in the alertness of her eyes - next to Lord Raynham. His hand was on the cushion between them, resting daringly close to the silk of Miss Levinson's lap.
Robert wasn't smiling anymore.
"Lord Downton!"
He brought his eyes back to Lady Falton.
"We had almost given up on you!"
And although the tone of it was cheerfully jolly, and although her hand waved him toward a teacup of his very own, his stomach seemed to hollow out at her words. He was too late. Was he too late? Miss Levinson sat too closely to Raynham. She sat too closely. She seemed too familiar. Downton. Downton. Downton.
He took in a breath, remembering himself. "Thank you," but it didn't come out as gracious as he would've liked.
In the world beyond his head, Lady Falton struck up the conversation again, Mrs. Levinson encouraged it, Lord Raynham spoke in his proud tones over the ladies, and Miss Levinson nodded at all of this politely, the teal of her dress hugging the curve of her waist in such a way that one's eye went directly to the swell of her hip. In Robert's mind, however, there ran the same thought over-and-over again: She was not his. The money could still be lost. Downton could still be lost.
"...and certainly this time of year." Raynham was saying, though Robert had missed what had been said before. He looked to Miss Levinson and found she was also looking to him curiously. Oh no. Had she said something? She looked as if she had said something.
"Indeed, Miss Levinson, every blossom, every bloom of every color seems to be waking with the new warmth."
Robert brought his eyes quietly to Raynham, his poetic words leaving a sticky residue in the air of the room. He continued.
"What, for instance, is your favorite flower, my dear? And I'd almost promise we grow it in the gardens at the Park."
Robert let his eyes drift to her, sitting beside this tall, dark featured man who leaned toward her now. She parted her lips, as if she'd answer, but Lord Raynham spoke instead.
"Tulips of every shade. It's marvelous really."
"I'm sure it is." Everyone looked at Martha who spoke now. She brought her cup to her lips and took a sip as she smiled. Raynham nodded.
"I'm delighted to have you see them. I think you'll find Granger Park much to your liking."
Oh no. No. No. No. Robert's heart beat harder as he searched Miss Levinson's expression. Again, unreadable. Was she to go to Raynham's home? That could only mean that Raynham intended to ask her. Robert studied her for any sort of clue. She smiled, but then her eyes didn't sparkle quite like they did yesterday when she had invited him to dinner. She'd seemed to want him to stay, and now, now she hadn't said anything to him. It'd been Raynham. Raynham! The man she had confessed to be overbearing had dominated over the conversation. Surely Robert hadn't misinterpreted that, that she had seemed tired of him. Hadn't she? Why would he be here today? Why would Robert have been invited when she expected Raynham? And he had been invited today. Robert swallowed. Oh no, no, he had not. With a hot wave of embarrassment, Robert remembered that he had indeed invited himself. She had not invited him, she had merely agreed that he should come. And now it was obvious that he had barged into a previous engagement.
"In fact, I think it's quite far, isn't it, Downton?"
Robert, realizing he swam again in his own thoughts, widened his eyes attentively. He noticed now that everyone waited for him expectantly. Trouble was, he wasn't sure what it was that was expected of him.
Miss Levinson moved the tiniest bit on the settee, her cup and saucer resting in her palm. Her movement attracted Robert's attention, and his eye couldn't help but to be drawn to the swell of her hip. Her dress clung there, almost mockingly. He caressed the slope of her hip to her waist with his gaze. His father's words from the night before, the vulgar insinuation of her animation, stirred something primal in him. He cleared his throat silently, embarrassed again, and his eyes flew back up to her face.
"Downton is in Yorkshire," she said quietly and softened her expression. "Isn't that correct, my lord?"
Robert meant to respond, but as was the trend, there was Raynham. And his laughter. "Oh! Dear Cora. Yorkshire is not a city." He leaned closer to her. "It's a vast region."
Cora? Were they so familiar that he used her given name? Robert watched the features she had softened only a moment ago tense ever so slightly. She released a breath.
"No, no." Raynham still laughed, the other ladies remaining quiet. "Granger Park is in East of England. Near Cambridge."
"Oh, I do love Cambridge," and now everyone turned to Lady Falton. "The River Cam is so very picturesque."
Lord Raynham leaned again to Miss Levinson. "I'll be sure to take you there, to The Backs." Robert heard him whisper, even as Mrs. Levinson and Lady Falton chatted near him. "It's quite romantic on the water."
Robert stood abruptly. "I must be going."
Everyone looked at him at once.
"What?" Cora turned away from Raynham.
"I must go," Robert nodded to Howard as the butler moved into the room. His stomach felt sick.
Lady Falton seemed concerned as she held out her hand. "Are you sure? You only just arrived, after all."
"Quite sure."
"But," Cora scrambled to think of something to say, anything to say, to keep him there. "Your tea is still warm."
Robert looked down into his cup, the amber color light and clear. He hadn't taken a sip. When he looked again at her, he felt discouraged. Lord Raynham's arm draped over the back of the settee, his hand now close to her shoulder. His eyes remained fixed on Robert's, daring him, seemingly staking claim to the Levinson girl. And even though he felt an immediate wash of sadness, an immediate wash of what almost felt like mourning of what could have been with this lovely American, Robert's head pounded too loudly to engage in a spar with Raynham. Downton would remain precariously on the edge, it would seem. "Goodbye," was all he could manage.
Cora stood as he left, her uninvited guest beside her, leaning forward to grab his cup. She had the strongest urge to kick it from his hand.
Robert walked along the sidewalk, his feet mindlessly carrying him as quickly as they could. Now what? If not her, then who? Downton, Downton, Downton. His home. His duty. His head pounded and pounded. And then, when he felt as if nothing could make this day any worse, it began to rain.
Cora brought the duvet closer to her chin and pushed out a breath. She'd feigned a headache after tea in order to be alone, in order to let her emotions come tumbling through the thin veil she wore downstairs. Now nestled into the bed, she sniffed back the after effects of her tears. The rain tapped on the windows and a soft rumble of thunder rolled around her room. Cora closed her eyes.
"Are you asleep?" The door opened, squeaking the smallest bit, and her mother's slender form slipped through the crack.
Cora was not asleep, but she did not answer. She was angry, so very angry, with her mother.
"I wanted to see how you were feeling. Though I thought I'd let you rest a while longer after the maid helped you change." Martha sat on the bed and watched Cora's back carefully. "How is your headache?"
Cora did not answer still.
Eventually, when the silence became too lengthy, Martha sighed. "You're angry."
It was that statement that encouraged Cora to roll to her back. She looked at her mother perched on the bed, still dressed in her creamy gown.
"Why did you invite Lord Raynham?"
Another silence.
"Annette told me. She thought I knew all along."
"I see..." Martha sighed, "Is that why you're upset?"
Cora propped herself on her elbow. "You knew Lord Downton was coming. Why did you think it all appropriate to call on Raynham?"
"Well, that should be obvious–"
"It isn't."
Martha raised a brow, bending down closer to where her daughter lay. "Competition."
Cora groaned, but Martha spoke over her, "It doesn't hurt to have several options, Cora."
"You might have told me," Cora pulled herself up to sitting, embracing herself against her mother. "Instead I felt as if I were a girl on display."
Martha conceded that much. "You're right. I should have." She saw as Cora peered down into her lap, the covers bunched over it.
"But don't fret over that too much. You weren't on display." Martha's mind bounced to a connection, a thread in the conversation. She hadn't been on display today. "You may see him again soon, you know. And perhaps Lord Downton, too."
She looked up at her mother. "What? What do you mean?"
"We've been invited to the Simsburys' ball." Martha smiled proudly. "I've arranged it."
Cora blinked up at her mother. "But how? Who are they? Won't that be rather awkward?"
"Don't worry how, Cora. Just be excited, hmm?" She patted her daughter's hand. "You'll have lots of new boys to dance with. Won't that be fun?"
No, Cora thought. She looked at her mother's hand on her own.
Martha patted her hand again. "It'll be great fun."
Martha wasn't sure who she was trying to convince more.
