Juxtaposition*

It had stormed the day Mary was born. A true storm. The rain had come down in sheets and there were rumbles of thunder in the distance. Cora remembered it now as if it had been a strange dream, the way Robert had paced around her bed, swearing that the doctor would never make it. But he had soon been ushered out, the doctor had come in, and she had given birth.

She remembered how she held Mary in her arms afterward, how, as she stared down at her new daughter's long perfect fingers and soft dark hair, a nurse had leaned down close to her ear, and said it lowly.

"Of all the days for a child to be born, lucky are those who see a storm."

Cora had barely noticed at the time. She had barely even looked toward the voice, hadn't paid it much mind. Cora only refocused her gaze upon her baby, marveling at the tiny miracle that she and Robert had created.

But now, on her way to the hospital, those whispered words resounded again and again in her head. Around her the air was bright, warm, and sparkling. The shafts of rays of the afternoon sun had begun to pour golden patches over the ground around her, and birds were chirping in the distance. White curtains from hospital windows fluttered softly in the gentle breeze. And Cora suddenly found she couldn't breathe.

Of all the days for a child to be born, lucky are those who see a storm.

Her baby. Her daughter. Mary. She'd had a baby. Mary had had a baby, and the sun was shining.

The birth had gone perfectly; she'd had no complications whatsoever. The baby – Mary's son – was a little early, but Isobel had assured them he was healthy. He was strong. He was the future Earl. Isobel had been positively glowing there in the library. Robert had taken Cora's hand, and Mama had smiled, looking up at them all from her seat.

"We don't always get our just desserts."

No. No, Cora knew. We don't always get our just desserts.

A half an hour later, Cora's footfalls echoed throughout and around the white hallway. The white of it gleamed from the sunshine of the windows and the glare from it bounced around with the tap of her shoes. The noises typically heard in the hospital – the soft murmur of people speaking, the muffled laughter of nurses or of sweet baby cries – were strangely absent, and Cora's ears could only detect the noise of her footsteps and then, coming through stronger, the sound of Mary's voice from the door that remained open at the end of the hall.

Cora peered inside, and she grew cold. Nothing in Cora's life had been more difficult to behold. Not the time that Harold had broken his arm while ice-skating, the bone hitting at a grotesque angle, instantly bruised and swollen; not the impossibly small son she had caught a glimpse of before a nurse wrapped him in a blanket covered in her own bright blood; not even watching her youngest daughter die, strangling within her own body, Cora helpless to stop it, to protect her. None had been so bad. Nothing. Nothing had been so terrible as this, because nothing had been more beautiful.

With the afternoon sunlight pooling all around her in a heavenly glow, Mary sat up in her narrow bed, the tiny baby swaddled in her arms. Mary spoke evenly to him, and Anna near her, and she smiled – a warm, gentle smile. A mother's smile. The baby's tiny, perfect, hand held tightly to Mary's long finger.

After another moment of gazing at her daughter and grandson, Anna and Mary both looked up and toward her.

Cora realized that she must have made a noise, a sound, and then with a small start, realized that she had been quietly crying. She blinked her tears away and forced a grin.

"Mama," Mary invited. "Mama, come and see him. George."

Cora felt her feet carry her to her daughter's side, and she peered down at the infant she held.

"Where's Papa?" Mary asked, her voice warm with affection as she too gazed at her child. "I thought he'd be rather eager to be the first up to see his heir."

Cora pressed her lips, though her eyes remained on the child, on the way his eyelids moved the tiniest bit in his sleep.

Mary continued, not noting the silence. "Or has Matthew detained him?" Mary's eyes shifted up to her mother's at this, and Cora blinked back, again, the tears that burned anew. "Don't tell me they've already gone to celebrate the good news."

Cora swallowed. Hard. She shook her head.

She watched Mary's features fall, gradually, almost one by one, as if the realization of what was wrong began to drown her. Her mouth fading, cooling, drooping into a slack line; the blooms of her cheeks paling, her eyes losing a sparkle that shimmered there moments before.

"No." Cora's voice sounded so far away. "Mary…"

The next expression was fear. "What's happened? Where's Papa?"

Cora took one step closer to her, and she sat on the bed, reaching a trembling hand for her daughter's arm. The baby's blanket was soft on her fingers. "Perhaps it best if Anna takes George for now."

"What?" Then panic. "No. Why? Mama you're scaring me. Where's Papa?"

"Mary…"

Anna moved to take him, but Mary shook her head. "No, Mama. Tell me. What's happened? Where's Papa?"

Cora swallowed again, unable to smooth the crack in her voice. "There's been an accident-"

Mary sat straighter, held her child tighter, her mouth moved to ask once more the question she had repeated. But then could not.

Her eyes flew to the door, and Robert walked into the room.

The next moments moved languidly, and densely.

Cora looked away from her child. She looked away from Mary and toward the open window as Robert came further into the room. She kept her eyes out at the bluest sky, as Robert told Anna to take the baby. She kept her eyes on the soft, white wisps of clouds as Robert took their daughter's hand in his, as she silently shook her head. Cora kept her eyes on the glittering sunlight that danced across the ground as Robert whispered, "It's Matthew, my darling."

And then, it was as if time did not move at all.

She held Mary in her arms. She stared down at her daughter's long fingers as they clutched Cora's sleeve and at her dark hair, the simple chignon that Anna must have done for her not too long ago, but now seemed like another lifetime. Across the room, a nurse leaned down close to where Anna sat with George, and spoke lowly, but Cora could only hear the voice from thirty years gone by.

Of all the days for a child to be born, lucky are those who see a storm.

Her eyes drifted back to the window, to the golden-lit world, the white curtain fluttering gently in the warm breeze, and she held her daughter tighter, letting her cry.

Thanks to MercedesCarello for the lovely prompt :)