Her labor began in the morning. Cora had finished breakfast and then drug herself and her belly out of bed for Hawkins to dress her, sighing with impatience as her maid arranged her hair. She was not sure why she was impatient—it was not as though she were going anywhere, or could go anywhere. The stairs had been forbidden to her for weeks now, and she had no desire to go down them anyway only to have to haul herself back up again. She was impatient with everything these days, she supposed—impatient with how poorly she slept and how difficult it was to get comfortable, impatient with how terribly sore her back was, impatient with how long it was taking for this baby to come out.
"Any day now, milady," Hawkins murmured soothingly. Cora sighed again. She was two weeks overdue, and she'd lost track of how many times she'd moaned to her maid or her husband about how tired she was of being pregnant and how many times they'd replied with variations of, "not much longer." Easy for them to say.
"Yes, that's what I keep hearing," Cora said testily. Wisely, the maid did not respond.
"Finished, my lady," Hawkins said a moment later, offering her a hand to help her off the chair.
Cora stretched her back as best she could—oh, how she ached this morning—before reaching out for Hawkins's hand. At the stretch, she felt…a slight trickle between her legs. Had her constant need for the washroom turned into simply wetting herself? How humiliating.
"Hawkins, I…" she began as she let her maid help her haul herself up. But as she stood, there was a sudden gush of fluid, and she realized what this was. "I–I'm having the baby," she said. Hearing the words made it real, and she seized her maid's arm, suddenly frightened. "Hawkins, he's coming! Right now!"
Hawkins shook her head calmly—as she was fond of reminding her young employer, she'd seen several previous ladies through a total of ten pregnancies, and this was all familiar territory to her. "You've got hours, ma'am. Hours. But let's get you undressed…"
All of the clothing Cora had just put on was removed, and her hair was taken down, and the doctor was sent for as her maid and her mother helped her back into bed. She was not quite sure when Martha had been called for, but her sudden appearance did not surprise Cora—her mother had been hovering for weeks now.
As the morning drug on, it became increasingly clear that Hawkins had been quite right. She did have hours. She labored past luncheon and all afternoon and through the rest of the family's dinner.
And the longer it lasted, the more frightened Cora became. It surprised her, how scared she was of actually having the baby—she was suddenly willing to sign on for another month of waddling around the upstairs to delay the birth. Suppose it was a girl, instead the "he" she had stubbornly called it for months? What would her in-laws say? What would Robert say?
Or suppose there was something wrong with it? Or wrong with her? Why was it taking so long? Why, when she had suffered all day, was the doctor telling her she was only halfway dilated? He did not seem alarmed, nor did Hawkins or Martha, but Cora could not help but fear that something had gone wrong—or would go wrong before she was finished.
She was determined not to scream—she was determined that she would be a viscountess, even in this—but she could not stifle a whimper as another pain ripped through her. She reached for her mother's hand and squeezed it tightly.
"You're doing well," Martha said, wiping her forehead again with damp cloth. "Just breathe. It'll be over soon, baby." But she'd been hearing that for hours, and it didn't square with what the doctor had said. "Not much longer, and then we'll call Robert up here to see the little one and tell him how brave you've been."
Robert. Yes, where was Robert? She knew he couldn't be here, knew he shouldn't be here, but where was he? She tried to envision him, pacing in the library, waiting for the doctor's periodic updates; tried to focus on him instead of her pain; tried to comfort herself by imagining him at her side. For it had been Robert to whom she'd learned to turn when she was frightened before a ball or a dinner or anything else where her cultural ignorance would be on display. Nothing soothed her fears like his hand slipping around hers.
But then her muscles contracted again, and she couldn't think of anything other than how it felt as though she were being torn in half. She bit her lip hard to hold back a scream, turning it instead into a quiet moan.
"For God's sake, Cora, scream if you need to!"
She shook her head violently. That would be her mother's suggestion, wouldn't it? But she wasn't an American anymore. She was Lady Downton.
She was Lady Downton. Or so she told herself. But the night wore on, and the pains grew more intense, and she was more and more exhausted…and finally, a shriek tore from her throat.
She had barely fallen silent when the door was flung open.
"Robert!" Martha cried. Cora's mother might have little use for propriety, but a father's presence in the birthing room shocked even her.
Yet he ignored her, his wide eyes fixed on Cora. "I–I heard you," he said.
Of course he had heard her. The speed of his arrival made it clear that he had not been downstairs in the library, as she had imagined, but standing right outside her room.
"I'm all right," she gasped. "It was only—ohhh." It hit her again, and she bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut against the pain.
"Darling," he said, his voice desperate, "why don't I—let me…can I hold your hand?"
She reached out for him, and he hurried to her, wrapping her hand in his. And suddenly…there was still pain, but there was also peace.
