Lush trees round with foliage; sprawling fields speckled with white fluffs of sheep; bricked houses and cobblestoned fences drawing gray lines along the green hills. This was Yorkshire.
Cora gazed out at her surroundings and drank it in. She gulped it. She drew in a deep breath of Yorkshire air in the open carriage and found it exactly to her taste. She closed her eyes in the ray of sun that washed over her and smiled. Even the breeze seemed sweeter today as it tickled the curls of her hair.
The trap slunk through another dip in the unpaved road and Martha huffed next to her, fidgeting in the seat.
"Oh, these roads," she touched the hat she wore. "There's more pit than gravel."
Cora heard but didn't give her mother even the acknowledgement of a glance. She'd been fussing the entire ride here, complaining and commenting on every little thing. The hours on the train had been spent working to appease her, but now that they were drawing closer to the house, Cora found the task completely and utterly futile.
"What exactly do these people do for fun?" she continued on. "There's nothing here, as far as I can tell. Nothing but hills, farms, and nothingness. Miles and miles of nothingness."
Cora rolled her eyes, closing them again, endeavoring to block out any more negativity. There was more rustling beside her. More fidgeting.
"And we'll be here for a week," Martha mumbled under her breath. "An entire week when we could've dined with the Marquess of Luxshire. A Marquess, Cora! You acted very foolish not to accept."
With a deep breath, Cora silently reminded herself that it had been an invitation extended to Lord and Lady Falton's guests. Not to her specifically. So it had not been foolish. She was not foolish.
"And of course Lord Raynham. You've been very cold to him lately. Very cold."
Cora gripped at her skirts and pressed her lips, remaining as calm as she could.
"He called after you while you and Annette were out yesterday morning, Cora. I don't understand why you put him off."
"Mother…" she said quietly as a sort of plea.
"He's the best offer you'll get, Cora. The best offer. Though the Marquess would have been a fine one, too. But, no. No, now we're off to, well, I don't even know where, just because Mr. Viscount Downton fellow seems sweet. Where are we going anyhow? Where are we?"
"Mother!" Cora spat, now looking at her intently. She took another breath to cool the heat of her irritation. "I'm…I'm sorry. Please. Let's just enjoy ourselves."
The ejaculation hadn't seemed to faze Martha. "Enjoy?"
Now much calmer, Cora continued breathing easily, "And I'll thank you," she spoke over her mother, anticipating what she was wanting to say, "to please behave yourself." She tucked her chin. "Be polite. Please."
Looking across the fields surrounding them, Martha grumbled, "I'll be polite," but then added as an afterthought, "if they are."
Cora tilted her head to her, letting out a soft sigh.
"And I'm sure that they will be," she continued with an air of sardonic reassurance. "You wouldn't want to bite the hand that feeds you."
"Mother!" Cora warned quietly, her eyes wide and shifting to the driver before them. He'd been sent for them from the estate, and she was suddenly aware that he could probably hear every word they'd said.
Her mother was too quiet beside her then. For several awkward moments she didn't come back with a grouse or grievance and Cora felt the space between them grow uncomfortably.
Swallowing, as a sort of fortification for what was sure to be the biggest gripe yet, she forced her eyes back to her mother. But there wasn't to be a gripe. In fact, Cora wasn't sure what the meaning behind Martha's steady stare was at all. But it was unwavering, and perhaps…perhaps a little sad.
Cora grew increasingly uneasy under her gaze and found herself shaking her head in question of it. "I didn't mean any offense, Mother."
Nothing.
"I…" Cora blinked away and then back again. "I'm…I am sorry."
There was a long quiet, her mother breathing evenly, but remaining very still. At last, she spoke.
"I love you, you know."
She looked into her lap, and then out to the field, anywhere but at her mother. "Of course you do. And I love you."
"And I want what's best for you. What's right for you."
Cora could feel herself nodding, though she didn't quite feel it was always true. Well, perhaps it was. She frowned slightly. It was true.
She looked back to her mother and waited through another small silence. Martha pulled in a breath.
"I expect a proposal."
Her heart stilled for a beat in her breast. Although it was obvious, although she knew she should expect the same, she hadn't expected it to be said aloud. "Wh-what?"
"A proposal," Martha repeated, her eyes soft but unblinking, her mouth a tight line.
"Mother…"
The heat of her mother's hand covered her own, and she looked down at it as her mother began to speak.
"This boy, this…this fortune hunter…" Cora's chest felt colder at her mother's words, "…since it appears you've chosen him," the grip on Cora's hand tightened slightly, and Cora watched the creamy glove her mother wore crease at her knuckles, "be sure he chooses you."
She looked up at her mother, her face so unlike the image of her mother that Cora always held in her mind's eye. It wasn't the perpetually animated visage. It wasn't the light-filled countenance that was too often so bright it eclipsed the light of others. No. There was an odd shadow in it. There was a desperation so hard and cold that Cora suddenly felt chilled. She turned her hand underneath the weight of her mother's and grasped Martha's fingers.
"Mother-"
"Here we are, madam."
Martha and Cora looked up when the driver called behind him.
"We've arrived. Downton Abbey."
The grasp Cora held on her mother's fingers loosened slightly at the sight before her.
Large and imposing, the very squared, gothic structure was constructed of warmed stone, all a soft golden, which seemed to glow in the sun's rays in the middle of the green field. Rows and columns of long, paired, rectangular windows gleamed all around the building, and at the very top were towers. All of this boasted cylindrical peaks. It was as if had the home been a painting, it had been turned over and the colors had run. And while the trees and grass around it blew in the breeze, fluid and shifty, the building seemed completely frozen in time, keeping so perfectly and completely still. It almost acted as an anchor for the land around it - an immense three storied anchor - its towers and pinnacles rising above even that. The staff that stood outside it seemed so very small in comparison.
Cora had had no idea. This was Downton Abbey? This? She'd imagined it in her head before, but why had she seen a brick house with green precisely groomed hedges in her mind? Perhaps maybe a marble structure, with a lake before it? She'd certainly not seen this. This…this seemed more a castle than a house.
She realized her mouth had fallen agape and closed it at her mother's tiny squeeze of her fingers.
"If Miriam Astor could see this…".
Cora laughed once, in spite of herself, still looking up and up at the house, at Downton Abbey. She couldn't cool her smile.
Movement from the heavy wooden door drew her eye and she watched as Robert's mother, the woman he'd pointed out at the ball, walked out with a tall, but stocky man with slightly graying curly brown hair. And as their carriage drew ever closer, Lord Downton appeared behind them.
Robert realized he bounced on his heels as he waited in the gravel beside his mother and father, and he stilled his nervous habit. He watched footmen, all dressed in their black liveries, seemingly swarm the carriage, unstrapping luggage from the back and a couple of them opening the door and helping the women out. He saw as Mrs. Levinson stood and was helped out onto the ground, her purple dress flicking around her legs in the perpetual breeze that whipped around his home. Her red hair was not quite as understated as his sister's.
And then his eye caught her, Miss Levinson, in her cornflower blue dress, looking down at the step from the carriage, and her face shaded from him by the wide brim of her feathery hat.
His mind immediately thought it. It immediately called her by the name she would hopefully – very hopefully – take: Lady Downton.
Lady Downton descending her carriage. Lady Downton arriving home.
" – I'll give you that."
Robert looked quickly to his right, at his mother who had spoken. "Mama?"
Violet lifted her chin, her eyes trained on their guests, and whispered again. "She's fairly pretty. But let us hope there is more than meets the eye."
He nodded, clearing his throat quietly, and realizing that this, too, was a nervous habit he needed to quit. He drew in a heavy breath and smiled as his mother walked to greet the Levinsons. He followed suit.
"Hello," he nodded at Mrs. Levinson and then to Miss Levinson. He grinned at the way her blue eyes couldn't seem to be torn away from the building before her. She studied it happily. "I do hope you've had a pleasant journey, that the train ride wasn't too grueling."
It surprised him the way his heart did a little flip when she smiled at him, her expression almost sparkling from excitement.
Violet also grinned, but primly, as she and his father drew closer behind him. Robert waited for his parents.
"Miss Levinson, Mrs. Levinson, may I introduce my parents, Lord and Lady Grantham."
"Welcome to Downton," Violet said evenly, glancing from Cora to Martha and back again. Her eyes held there, then, and Robert knew she was silently scrutinizing Miss Levinson's appearance, though what about he couldn't guess. "I am certain you'll want to freshen and then rest after your journey." Her eyes moved down to Cora's feet and up again. "Have you brought a maid?"
Cora shook her head.
"No, then, Isla will look after you."
The maid nodded slightly when they looked to her in the line. Cora smiled again.
"We're so pleased to have you," his father finally spoke, extending his hand out to suggest the ladies begin to move inside.
Cora, picking up her skirt very slightly and looking down at her feet as she began to walk, spoke softly. "Thank you." Her mother grinned with a reluctant enthusiasm and followed.
Robert guided them in, promised tea in half an hour's time, and showed them to the stairs, standing with his parents as they watched them disappear, following footmen, into their rooms.
At last, they were alone and Robert turned to his parents expectantly.
"She is quite pretty, Robert," his father began, speaking lowly but obviously pleased. "And the mother doesn't seem as crass as you let on."
Robert chuckled. "I'm afraid she must be on her best behavior."
"She's come, so of course that's a good sign, Robert. A very good sign, indeed." Patrick gripped his son's shoulder and shook it tenderly, the hope of the Levinsons' acceptance curling his lips.
Robert, too, stood smiling. Miss Levinson was here. He'd show her the estate - the house, the gardens, the grounds around it – and she'd fall in love with it. She'd happily accept the proposal by the week's end. She'd be delighted to. His smile broadened as the feeling of success crept across his face. His eyes moved from his father's face to his mother's and his smile stalled.
Violet stood wide-eyed and unbelieving.
Robert pushed out a breath. "Mama?" he asked tiredly. "What is it?"
Jerking her head from her son to her husband, Violet was incredulous. "You cannot be serious."
"Mama-"
Her eyes were back on Robert. "She's American."
"Yes, but-"
"You cannot be serious." Violet interrupted, her eyes even wider than before. "You cannot marry her. You cannot!"
"Violet-"
She turned on her husband. "Surely you aren't encouraging this!"
He opened his mouth to speak again, but could not find the moment.
"An American? American!"
Robert stretched his neck, feeling more like James at the moment than himself. "I'm not sure I see the problem, Mama. She's a well-spoken, well-mannered girl who has the means to save the estate!"
"Save the estate and ruin this family by humiliation."
Robert and Patrick both groaned. "Oh, Mama. Please don't be so melodramatic."
He endeavored to move away, but the insistence of Violet's voice caused him to pause.
"She knows nothing of our way of life - "
"Violet…" his father was stopped by the stiffness of his mother's hand.
"- through no fault of her own, of course, but do you believe she knows how to seat guests at dinner? Hmm? Do you believe she is practiced in addressing various peers by correspondence? How to make proper introductions? Hold a suitable conversation?"
His father managed to break in, "Dear, I think we may be getting a bit ahead of ourselves. We aren't certain the girl will accept Robert's proposal at all."
"Aren't you. Why do you think she's accepted the invitation to stay?"
"Violet…"
"Think, both of you. Surely there are more suitable candidates. Winifred Glynn, for one. Lord Patton's daughter…what's her name…the one with the odd little nose. And of course there's Margaret. You know how I approve of Margaret. But an American?"
Patrick began to try to shush her as she continued, and Robert brought his fingers to his forehead, pressing them firmly against it as she spoke.
"You never mentioned she was American, Patrick. Not once. If I had known, I would have never allowed it to get this far."
His father began to walk away, saying as he moved, "That is precisely why I never mentioned it."
Violet stood blinking at her son for another moment, before she too, obviously flustered, moved away toward the drawing room, nearly barking for a cup a tea as a footmen entered the hall.
After waiting for what seemed an appropriate amount of time, Robert yielded to his father's pressing suggestion that he should see about how Miss Levinson was getting on upstairs. He exhaled a small breath as he knocked softly and pushed open the door to the Princess Amelia room, the deep red damask patterned walls brightened by the opened curtains, the maid unpacking quietly in the corner.
"Miss Levinson?"
She turned partially to him as she stood before the window in the room, the light filtering from behind and all around her.
"Lord Downton," she beamed. "I was just admiring your lawn."
He walked beside her, looking down on the grounds she had been peering down upon. A man was pushing a wheelbarrow in the distance.
"Yes, it is lovely, isn't it? One never really grows tired of it."
"No," she agreed softly her gaze remaining on the grounds below, "I'd imagine you wouldn't."
Robert looked over at her, at how her mouth remained soft and pleased at the sight before her. He smiled at the thought. He let his gaze shift down her form, stopping at the book she held in her left hand.
"What is it that you're reading?"
She seemed a little confused at his question and looked at the book. "Oh. Oh, this." She brought the book closer and he thought he saw a blush spread over the fairness of her cheeks. "It's a Henry James novel that I've brought from home. I've almost finished it now."
Intrigued, Robert raised his brow. "What's it called?" He peeked at the cover, at the leathery image of ivy and flowers growing across it.
She opened her mouth and closed it again before she endeavored to answer. "The Portrait of a Lady."
He frowned thoughtfully, having not heard of it before. "Is it any good? Have you enjoyed it?"
Her eyes were on the book when she answered. "Yes." She looked up at him. "It's a bit sad, though."
"I see," he grinned for a moment and fell quiet, staring at the cover; then, breaking his stare, he looked up to her face. "When you've finished, you're welcome to any book in our library."
Her features lit up at the offer.
"Yes, there's a ledger that Lord Grantham has everyone sign, but you're certainly welcome."
He watched her hug the book closer to her chest. "That would be very nice. Thank you, Lord Downton."
"Please," he shook his head. "Not at all. It would be our pleasure." He looked at the cover of her book again, and then at a slip of paper peeping from the top, he assumed her bookmark. Cora was written there, in smooth, loopy script, tiny flowers – perhaps Forget-Me-Nots - doodled beside her name. He grinned for a moment at the sight.
"I found this in my case."
They turned to her mother who now walked into the room. She held a soft white gown, and with sudden discomfort, Robert realized he had been standing very close to Cora while in her bedroom, without a chaperone. He looked at the maid, Isla, who had turned to attention as well. Then, with a deep flush, he further realized the gown Martha held was in all likelihood Cora's, Miss Levinson's, nightdress. He cleared his throat.
"Oh," Mrs. Levinson smirked. "I hope nothing improper was going on here."
Robert began to protest as she continued speaking, walking ever closer to them. He was hyper-aware of the silky gown she had draped over her arm.
"My, my we've not been here for two hours and already there's the buddings of a scandal."
"Mother," Cora sighed next to Robert, eyeing him and then her. "I'm so sorry, she's teasing."
Robert stood straighter and tried to smile, but his face burned much too hotly. "Certainly…"
"I'm going to have to lock my daughter away from you, I see." Martha patted Lord Downton congenially, but it was all too much for him. He cleared his throat once more.
"I'll leave you." He turned as he reached the door. "I'll be glad to show you the house later."
Mrs. Levinson raised a brow.
"Both of you, of course," Robert clarified, and then he ducked out, hurrying down the hall.
Cora rolled her eyes at her mother. "Was that necessary, Mother? Gracious."
Martha only laughed, even shoving Isla playfully as she handed her the nightgown.
She traced her finger along the silver pattern as she returned her fork to her place. The floral scheme with small pearly spheres along the sides was shining and clean, and she spied where her fingerprints were evident on the engraved 'G' at the center of the design. She put her hands into her lap and looked around the dining room, at the many paintings of many individuals that hung upon the wall, all their eyes on her as she stared back at them. She saw the prodigious portrait of, whom she assumed to be, King Charles the I, the work hanging from the ceiling to the ornately carved buffet behind where Robert and her mother sat. A massive fireplace was left cold behind her and to the left.
She'd been placed on a rounded end of the table, with Robert on the other far end, all the others in between. Cora hadn't known that there'd be other guests for dinner, but there were. She'd been rushed to meet them all while in the drawing room earlier, but found them all to be pleasant enough.
There was another Lord and Lady, whose name – nay title - she couldn't remember at the moment. Their son and his wife The Honorable Mr. and Mrs. John Foyle were also there, a dark and handsome couple who seemed to have impeccable manners. And lastly, a very square-jawed Lord Branksome was in attendance, as well. He was on his way up to the Highlands, he had muttered, and Downton Abbey seemed a nice stopping place. He knew they'd have him, he confessed, for he was a friend of Lord Downton's. They'd known one another at Eton College, apparently. Or at least, he mentioned something to the effect of that as he sat to the left of Cora.
"We were in the same house: Hawtrey," he stated, flaring his narrow nose as he looked into his glass. "Five years of boarding," he drank his wine down and Cora frowned when she could hear him swallow, "until we were eighteen. Memories and the like."
Cora pressed her lips as she thought of a young Lord Downton at a boarding school, surrounded by boys like this Viscount. Actually, surrounded by this Viscount himself. She laughed quietly at the thought.
"We played cricket together, too, of course," he continued. "He's rather a champion at cricket, Downton." He sniffed when he replaced his glass. "I much prefer the races."
Cora nodded politely and for the thousandth time that night, looked to where Robert sat, eyeing him silently. And as had often happened this evening, she found he was peering back at her. Totally and completely pleased, she smiled and returned her focus to her plate.
"What does your husband do?" Cora could hear Mrs. Foyle asking Martha. "In New York City."
Cora looked down the table and watched as her mother stilled the utensils she held in her hand. "He works in dry goods."
In the quiet that followed, Robert, who sat between Mrs. Foyle and her mother, had grown especially attentive. In fact, the entire table had.
"I apologize. Dry goods?"
Martha eyed the Lord to her left. "Yes." She blinked. "As in fabrics and textiles." She looked around and found that now everyone listened to her response. She blinked more, as if the answer was not all that exciting. "He distributes them," she finished and punctuated her finality by pulling a vegetable off of her fork. She chewed it as the table looked on.
"Oh, I see." Robert's father dipped his chin at his question. "He must have many stores in New York, then?"
Martha shook her head. "He does, but there's more where we started out…in Cincinnati." She took a sip of her wine, and wet her lips afterward. "And really, he's more of a trader and distributer now. The stores buy from him." She grinned up at Robert and wiggled her wine glass. "Retail's a hairy business. Better to be a trader and distributer. Less risk."
Lord Grantham' brows were knitted together. "Cincinnati? Not New York?"
"Well, now, yes. And Newport. But not originally, no." Martha forced a tight grin and Cora watched as she leaned to Robert and spoke quietly to him, slowly inciting new private conversations to blossom around the table.
Cora kept her eyes trained on Lord Downton and her mother, however, observing with a little apprehension how nervously Robert chuckled at what her mother whispered. And, as he had been throughout the dinner, he brought his eyes to hers and they shared another smile.
She suddenly felt very bashful at the eye contact, and she looked back into her lap before over to Mr. Foyle at her right.
Graciously Mr. Foyle was a bit neater in his appearance and conversation than her companion at her left. Dark haired and dark eyed, he was a very put-together looking gentleman. He'd informed her that he knew the Granthams since he was but a boy, their parents having always been such great friends.
"My mother and father, Lord and Lady Gillingham," he expressed gesturing with his head toward the pair sitting to the rights of Lord and Lady Grantham. "Have been friends of the family for years."
"And did you attend Eton as well?"
Mr. Foyle snuck a glance over at Lord Branksome and shook his head with a soft laugh. "Unfortunately, no."
Cora smiled.
"I went to Winchester in Hampshire."
With a nod, she feigned recognition and continued to cut her chicken.
"I'm afraid you may find me rude," Mr. Foyle simpered nicely over his plate, "but I've quite forgotten your name."
Cora, aware that most of the table had grown quieter again, answered more quietly herself. "I don't think you rude at all. It's Levinson. Cora Levinson."
"Cora," Branksome repeated into his cup. The pair looked over at him. "Rather different, isn't it?" He brought the glass closer to his lips. "Cora," he intoned into the liquid, drawing out the vowels in a way that seemed an accidental mocking of her accent.
She felt her face grow warm. "A little different, perhaps," she readjusted herself in her chair.
"Very." Everyone looked at Lady Grantham. She held her fork and knife primly and precisely as she looked into her plate. "I've not heard of any Coras that were not on the stage." She laughed a high bouncing sort of laugh as she looked up and around at her guests, some of whom joined in.
But Cora did not. Swallowing her embarrassment, she searched out for her mother at the end to the left of Lord Downton, hoping that she wouldn't say anything nasty or impolite at the table. She said a quick, silent prayer as her eyes landed on her. Martha looked as if she were seething. Robert, meanwhile, looked as if he were unsure what to feel.
It would be left to Cora to remedy it.
"Of course," she spoke over Lady Grantham's little chortles. Everyone all turned to her once more. "It's a fairly common name in America. I know at least two other Coras my own age."
The table, perhaps sensing a bit of a tension, remained quiet. Violet hummed and stared.
"I think it's a lovely name," Mr. Foyle's mother piped up after what seemed an awkward amount of silence. She was smiling at everyone around her. "A very pretty name for a very pretty girl!" She winked at Cora then and lifted her glass in a tiny toast toward her.
Cora resisted every urge to cry out "thank you!" across the table or to jump up and hug her. Instead, she smiled as politely as she knew how and lifted her glass in return.
Robert's mother, however, did not smile. She shifted her gaze from Lady Gillingham and then far over to Cora, keeping it there. "Yes," she said as if she meant the very opposite. "Very pretty."
He followed her out of the drawing room after she excused herself for bed, watching the swaying of her magenta satin gown in the candlelit hall. The gentle swift-swift echoed quietly around them.
"Miss Levinson?"
She turned at the sound of his voice, and when she had, he noticed a small slump of her shoulders. It was a kind of relaxation, as if she had been hoping he'd come after her. But he silenced his assumption, trying not to let his thoughts interfere any further with his nerves.
"Before you go up, I was hoping to ask you..." he hurried over to her, mindful not to look too eager. But the way Cora smiled when he finally reached where she stood made him feel all too eager - all too eager indeed. He repeated his mantra in his mind: Downton, Downton, Downton.
"I'd rather like…" Robert continued, now ever more motivated to continue with his ultimate plan. "…I'd rather like to take you out tomorrow. To see the estate, the grounds. Would you enjoy that?"
And although his mantra was loud in his inner ear, he couldn't ignore the way his chest felt a little heavier when she nodded in the affirmative, tilting her head ever so slightly.
"Yes, Lord Downton," she said softly. "I'd like that very much."
Robert was standing mere inches from her now, closer than he'd been to her all day and evening, and he smiled in spite of himself when he detected the faint aroma of jasmine. She smelled of jasmine, and his fingers tingled at the discovery. Why did it make him want to touch her?
"I'm glad."
Though he said it as an end to the conversation, they remained standing there, too closely, Robert breathing in the scent of the jasmine on her skin.
They stood, and stood, until at last, his tingling fingers found her hand.
Her expression changed very slightly at his touch, her eyes growing a bit wider and her mouth falling a bit softer. The change in her induced a sort of yearning in Robert's belly, and he felt his own lips part at the feeling.
But, just as he endeavored to hold her hand more tightly, she looked away abruptly, laughter bleeding into the shadowy silence they stood in. She extracted her silken fingers from his tender grasp, and with a pull of a breath, she looked down between them and up again, the corners of her lips warming alluringly.
"Good night," she said softly and turned, leaving him to watch as she climbed the stairs.
He calmed his too-fast heart, mouthing Downton, Downton, Downton as her dress rustled further and further away from him.
"I'm not sure about the mother," Martha declared as she watched Isla brush Cora's loosened curls. "At least not yet. Sorry, Isla," she offered to the freckled maid who merely shrugged in return.
"Lady Grantham's a wonderful employer, to be sure," Isla paused as she reached for the ribbon off of the vanity. "And she is strong in traditions and steadfast in proprieties," she divulged quietly.
"Oh, yes, you see!" Martha, already having ensconced the maid in her circle of trust, pointed at her delightedly. "For even an English girl to say it, it must be true."
"I am Scottish," the maid corrected with a small smile.
Martha merely flicked her hand, "Scottish, then. The point is, Cora, that you've got your work cut out for you, with this Lady Grantham holding the reins."
Cora, however, did not respond. She sat silently holding the pearl-encrusted comb that had been in her hair at dinner, smiling down at it in her lap.
A great dark cloud gathered over, and Martha eyed her daughter knowingly.
She'd fallen for him. She'd allowed herself to fall for him; it was plainly obvious now.
"Well," she touched her daughter's shoulder, letting the back of her finger feel the dark tresses that rested there. "Good night, my girl."
Cora didn't even mutter a good night as Martha left her room.
The library was quiet save for the clock on the mantle ticking away, even though Robert, Violet, and Patrick remained reclined on the red velvet sofas.
Patrick sipped brandy easily from a crystal cup, letting himself be distracted by the way the candlelight flickered in the cuts in the glass. He sighed contentedly and took another sip.
Robert shifted in his seat. "I thought I'd take Miss Levinson riding tomorrow."
Patrick tried to ignore the way his wife huffed across from them.
"Alright," he consented. "Be sure to tell Gilles in the morning."
"Are we sure she knows how to ride?"
Father and son both looked at Violet and shook their heads.
"Mama, please," Robert exhaled. "I'm sure she does."
"I don't like this." She lifted her chin and eyed them both, a quick anger manifesting in her throat. "I do not think that girl, however well-mannered and pretty she may be, is right to be your wife, Robert."
Patrick watched his son sigh. He looked so much older than he was. "But Mama, you know as well as I do that her money will save us entirely…"
"Yes," Violet widened her eyes, standing with her words. "I do. I'm fully aware of our financial predicament, and I don't wish for you to remind me…"
"Mama…" Robert stood now, as well, to send his mother off to bed. "It does not please me to remind you."
Violet touched his arm when he leaned down to kiss her cheek. "You will tell her, won't you?"
The room fell quiet again.
"Violet…" Patrick tried to intervene, not wanting his son to fall into a guilty trap. But his wife was there sooner, peering up into his face.
"If you plan to go through with this, against my wishes, I insist that you at least be honest with the girl. I refuse," she paused, emphasizing the word with a quick cut of her hand through the air, "to allow you to base any lifelong commitment on something other than honesty. Do you understand?"
He watched as his son hesitated, but nodded to his mother.
Violet looked down at Patrick as she moved out of the library, and he knew what it meant. She would not relent. She would endeavor to make this a challenge, and if they were indeed to win, Robert would have to come clean to the girl.
But of course, she didn't say when.
