February 8th 1892
There was something majestic about a great house in the winter. The bright snow reflected the sunlight in such a way that the house seemed to glitter all throughout the day. Downton was no exception to this rule, and the house looked beautifully inviting to anyone lucky enough to see it blanketed with the winter snow.
The storm had changed Downton. Not in a perceptible way, but just enough so that the inhabitants felt it. The chill of February air lingered in the halls and in the rooms, leaving them uncomfortably empty. There was so little sunlight that dawn and dusk seemed irregularly close together. And the beauty of winter was replaced with the dark and cold reality that beneath all the lovely snow were the dead leaves of fall and the dried buds of spring long past.
Rosamund sat in the library and let Cora hold her hand. She rather hated forced gestures of affection. She was not one to linger on sentimental whims nor was she one to dwell in the grey corners of her mind. There was no use in that. Past was past, and it was unchangeable; her past was set in stones as solid as the yellowed bricks of Downton and nothing could alter that.
Cora was sweet and kind. Her face displayed a youthful mirth not found in many English women, and her spirit was far brighter than most that passed through the house. Cora was a dear and the one person she felt would never judge her; never pretend to be kind, only to sneak around a corner and whisper cruel secrets about her to party guests. Cora would kneel on the floor before you; hold your hand as you cried in a most unladylike manner, all the while whispering soft encouragements in her candied American intonation.
And so there they sat, Rosamund leaning forward gasping for breath as she calmed her sobs, and Cora kneeling before her, grasping her hands tightly and promising that everything would be perfectly alright.
"You don't have to tell me, if you don't want to," Cora offered, in a desperate attempt to say something useful. She was curious, certainly, but Rosamund looked the opposite of ready to talk, and she was not sure how long they could remain in the library without being happened upon by a curious hall boy. Rosamund was being rather loud.
Cora's soft, desperate words were enough to pull Rosamund from her self and look up from the floor. She studied Cora's expression for a moment, unsure of whether or not she wanted to upset her darling sister-in-law, the one person who saw the good in everyone and liked to wander around the house humming Robert's favorite songs.
She lived in a self-imposed exile now, a world that strangely paralleled her old one, yet felt remarkably different. Cora needn't be burdened with it.
"It's really nothing, Cora dear." She finally responded, her body still shaking slightly from the shock of emotions coursing through her. "It's a rather sad story, and I don't want to bother you with it all. I'm much better left to my own devices."
To her surprise, Cora seemed unfazed. She only held her hand tighter and smiled up at her. "I'm not a child you know. I've heard sad stories. I've lived sad stories. And it isn't a bother to sit with my sister and listen to hers," Cora replied. Her resolve was much stronger than her sweet expression and she remained motionless, waiting.
"I—I don't quite know where to…" Rosamund faltered under Cora's kindness, unsure of how to respond to such a foreign expression of emotion. The words, though, were unwilling to be pushed back down. No longer willing to be forgotten, or simply thought about, they wanted a listener.
In another surprising gesture, Cora stood and wrapped her hand around Rosamund's shoulder, nudging her up from her seat before grasping her hand again and leading her to the small window seat in the corner of the room. They sat, face to face this time, and Cora looked on intently.
"Cora, do you ever wonder if you made a mistake in marrying Robert?" Rosamund asked softly, curious what she might say.
"No." Cora replied. "I've never regretted marrying Robert. I may have wondered what he thought of our marriage at first, but it doesn't matter now. I love him and I know he loves me."
Rosamund nodded, pursing her lips slightly and inspecting her hands. "And if someone told you it was a mistake, that your marriage was a mistake, would you listen to them?"
Cora frowned at her oddly detached tone and shook her head. "No, I don't think that I would. Why?"
Rosamund smiled sadly at Cora's innocent question. The one question that held the answer to so many more: Why? She would likely never know. But she suspected that was for the best. There was only so much a person should be able to know, and certain things are simply not meant to be known.
"A mistake is a funny thing, I suppose. I never used to think it was a subjective concept, but perhaps I've simply been mislead; taught the wrong thing. Perhaps if someone tells you that you've made a mistake, you ought to listen?"
"Rosamund, I don't understand—" Cora began, but Rosamund continued in her own meandering yet determined way.
"You see, you never plan for mistakes…or accidents. They just seem to happen. And if you've made one, are you then forced to listen to the ones around you? Do you lose your ability to make a sound decision once you've made a bad one?" Rosamund frowned, perplexed by her own question, but then lifted her head from the fog once more and looked at Cora. "We all must live with our mistakes, I suppose. But what about accidents? How do we live with those?"
Cora shrugged, feeling rather trite sitting there in her nightdress. The pain she felt in Rosamund's grasp and the pain she saw in her eyes was unlike anything she had ever experienced. It looked to be clutching her from the inside out, holding her so tightly that she was unable to scream.
"I don't know," Cora finally managed. "I think you just try to forget…or hope that things look better come morning."
"I don't think this will ever look better come morning." Rosamund replied, looking past Cora and out the window.
The snow had started up again.
"Do you remember when I had the flu several months ago?" Rosamund continued, still looking over Cora's shoulder, staring intently at the falling snow outside.
"Yes," Cora nodded, happy to finally supply a useful answer. "You missed that little dinner party Robert and I had planned."
"Yes. Well, I am sorry I missed your party. I'm sure it was lovely. But, I didn't miss the party because of a flu."
Cora frowned too, now, both confused and suddenly unsure of herself. The resolve with which she had firmly stood only a few moments earlier seemed to melt away and leave her there without protection. It was only she and Rosamund, and she was suddenly not quite sure whether or not she truly wanted to hear this story anymore.
But she said nothing, and let Rosamund continue.
"You see, about six months ago, it was early August I think—or maybe late July, I can't seem to remember. It doesn't matter. Well, six months ago, or maybe seven months ago, I was pregnant." Rosamund's steely voice, the voice shored up by generations of emotional distance and practiced stoicism, cracked at her last word; caught at the back of her throat, it came out as a whisper, a lost prayer, a word so desperate to be forgotten.
Pregnant.
Cora felt herself smile, almost reflexively, at the word; the word she was so eager to ascribe to herself. But she quickly realized that it wasn't a smiling matter, as the absence of a baby spoke more than Rosamund ever could. There was no child, no swollen abdomen holding the promise of a child, and there was only Rosamund, sitting beside her looking pale and sad.
"Marmaduke and I had been married for long enough that I started to think perhaps we just were not meant to have any children," She explained, shrugging her shoulders weakly. "And when I began to feel ill, I never thought…never thought that is what it would be. But then it was. The doctor said I was about four months gone and that there was no reason the baby wouldn't be perfectly healthy." She paused again, as if wracking her brain for the details she worked so hard to forget.
"Oh, Rosamund," Cora breathed, squeezing her hand.
"—I'm fine. Really, I am." She paused once more, offering Cora a reassuring nod before continuing. "Mama was down in London for some event and so I had her over to tea to tell her the happy news. She wasn't very happy. She said 'Well I suppose that means the Painswicks will be tied to our family name forever, then.'"
"Rosamund, I'm sure she didn't mean it," Cora tried to look sure, biting her lip to keep herself from frowning again.
"Perhaps not. She always had it in her mind that I married Marmaduke simply because he had money, because our fortune was dwindling before you met Robert, and I married him as a way to maintain my lifestyle. But it isn't true; I love him very much."
"I know you do," Cora's voice was quiet and softer now, her eyes worried and dark with concern.
"About a week after I saw Mama, I was home for the evening by myself. It was just after diner; Marmaduke had been out all day. He had some business dinner and he didn't want to go but I insisted, told him that he needn't treat me like an invalid." Rosamund chuckled slightly, her face brightening at the memory of their playful banter. "I decided to go down to the library for a magazine I had left there. I never made it out of the bedroom, though. Marmaduke was always bothering me about the silly rug in the bedroom. He always tripped on it, getting out of bed; he said it was too large for the room and that we needed something smaller. I suppose I should have listened. I stumbled, maybe on the rug, or maybe on my nightdress, I don't remember, and I flew right across the floor."
Cora let out a deep sigh, and moved closer to Rosamund, wrapping her hands more securely around hers and drawing her lips together tightly, still willing herself not to get upset. She only nodded again.
"I thought I was fine. I even laughed, as I looked incredibly stupid just lying there on the floor. But then I tried sitting up and this pain, this horrible pain, came over me and it felt as though something was ripping through my insides. I don't remember much of anything else, except I looked down and saw blood seeping through my nightdress. I must have passed out, because it's all just…it's all just black after that. And the servants, they—no one heard me all the way upstairs. It wasn't until Marmaduke got home nearly an hour later that he—" She was crying again, now, her shoulders hunched with the sorrow of it all and the fresh pain of a long abandoned wound suddenly being torn open. It seemed a merciless pain, the sort that would be as strong and jagged even years later.
Cora only sat beside her, gently rubbing small circles into her back and wondering why the world was sometimes so cruel. It wasn't all supposed to be this way, was it?
"When I woke up, I was at the hospital with Marmaduke. Do you know I'd never seen him cry before? Well, he was crying and then I knew. I knew that the baby was gone."
Cora felt rather small, in the great room. It was one of the first times she was faced with such a stark reminder that living in a grand house and being wealthy did not protect them from the outside world. She could feel tears in her eyes, threatening to spill down her cheeks, and felt her face redden, embarrassed that she could not contain her emotions as Rosamund sat there nearly drowning in her own.
She was able to collect herself after a moment, and saw that Rosamund was once again looking out the window. "Rosamund, I'm so very sorry. So terribly sorry. Perhaps in a few months you could try again—"
"No—" Rosamund replied, not giving her a chance to finish. And then she laughed a sickening sort of laugh before looking back to Cora. "It seems I was not meant to be a mother. The doctors, whatever they did to stop all the bleeding, they explained that I would not be having any children."
"Oh, Rosamund, no," Cora breathed, her other hand coming up to cover her mouth.
"I suppose it is up to you and Robert to give Mama and Papa grandchildren, Darling." Rosamund replied softly, finally extracting her hand from Cora's to wipe her eyes. They felt sore from crying, unused to the action, and she knew they would be rather red in the morning.
"But it's alright, Cora. Really, I think it's for the best. Lord knows I would not be a very good mother. I'm far too critical, and far too much like Mama, as much as I loathe to admit it."
"I'm sure Mama doesn't mean to be," Cora began, searching for the gentlest turn of phrase.
"No, you see, she does. This is where the story gets interesting, actually. A few days after the accident, she arrived at the townhouse with this great bundle of papers. Marmaduke had gone out for a walk, and so it was just the two of us," Rosamund explained.
"What did she want?"
"What does she ever want? She wanted the satisfaction of being proved right. She stopped by Murray's office before coming to see me. It seems she decided that the whole fiasco was some sort of sign that she was right about my marriage; that now I had a chance to be rid of it all," Rosamund paused, taking a breath to steady herself. "She wanted me to sign theses papers, she said she knew she could get Marmaduke to sign them, especially now, and that I could come back to Downton so she could take care of me." She laughed softly again, rolling her eyes and shaking her head. "I told her to leave, and that I never wanted to see her again. She called me ungrateful and stormed out. Papa came over that night to apologize, he insisted he knew nothing about it all and asked me not to cause a rift in the family. And then Marmaduke forced me to agree, saying that I could not write off my own family."
"I know she loves you and Robert very much," Cora offered, frowning as the awful truth of it all turned over in her head. "But she had no right to do that to you."
"No, she did not. But Mama loves Downton. She loves this way of life, and she fails to understand when people move beyond the walls she has erected here. I don't blame her, not really. She thought it would be the sensible thing to do." Rosamund explained, standing from her seat and clutching the arm of the settee with a pale, shaky hand. "Please forgive me, but I think it is time for bed, now." She nodded and began to move toward the door.
"And Cora?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you," she murmured softly, before disappearing out into the dark hallway.
Cora sat, frozen in her seat for a long while. The room was pitch black, as all the lamps had burned down, and she was left alone to replay the story over and over in her mind. But it wasn't a story. It had happened. And it had happened to someone she knew, someone close to her and someone she loved. A horrible truth that would likely be buried from the world and never see light of day again. It would burn out with the lamps in the library, and blow away with the winter wind. She knew Rosamund would never speak of it again. Big displays of emotion were not the Crawley way, and it obviously hurt her to even think of it fleetingly.
Cora stood, finally, and made her way to the door. Knowing full well that as soon as she closed the door, she too would be forced to bury the tale as well.
Cora managed to make it all the way back upstairs to the safety of her bedroom before her shaking hands and legs got the best of her. Closing the door behind her, she leaned against it and sunk to the ground, hugging her knees close and taking a few deep breaths.
Looking up, she suddenly remembered why had she left the room at all, so late at night—Robert's brandy. Not wanting to be anywhere near the library again, Cora only shrugged at her oversight and stood, ready to crawl into bed and huddle beneath the blankets.
Robert wasn't in bed, though, as he had fallen asleep on the chaise in the corner where she left him. He looked so peaceful, clutching the blanket with a faint smile on his face, and she didn't want to disturb him. But, turning to the large empty bed once more, she knew that sleeping in it alone was not a plausible choice.
At least not tonight.
Creeping over to the chaise, Cora shook Robert's arm gently, murmuring his name in the hopes of waking her slumbering husband. It only took a few tries before his sleepy eyes blinked open and looked at her curiously.
"Darling are you alright?" He murmured, stretching his arm and leaning up on the other to face her.
"Yes, I just couldn't bear to sleep without you," she explained, reaching for his hand as he sat up from his reclined position. He looked at her curiously again, as she never usually minded his falling asleep on the chaise, the rare occasions it happened. Usually she would leave him be and he'd wake to find himself covered with a blanket—nearly always her doing.
But tonight she looked frightened, and her grip on his hand was alarmingly tight. So he stood, swept her up into his arms and carried her to bed, settling in beside her and pulling her to rest securely in his arms.
Pressing a kiss to her forehead, Robert felt her inhale sharply and her body tense. "Cora, what is it?" His concern grew as she remained silent. Cora was not one to keep things bottled up and she rather enjoyed talking endlessly about every feeling she felt in a given moment.
She shifted in his arms, until her body was pressed right against his and her arms wrapped around his waist. "It's nothing," she murmured, breathing in the comforting scent of his nightshirt. "I just need you to hold me like this for a while."
"Alright," Robert whispered, leaning down to kiss her forehead again. Even in the dark of the room he could feel her warm, flushed skin as he pressed his lips to the normally cool curve just below her hairline.
"Just until I fall asleep," Cora explained again, her whisper muddled against the fabric of his pajamas and the exhaustion in her voice.
"I won't move. I'm not going anywhere," Robert promised.
