1922
Sometimes Sarah wondered if all of this was a bad dream she might still wake up from.
She had run away in the grey predawn light, when the house was cold and quiet and the women around her were sleeping the sleep of the just. The parquet had creaked under her feet as she gathered up the last of her meagre possessions; every little noise – the soft rustle of fabric, the drawer she had forgotten to check sliding open and shut – was deafening in her ears. But no one came. As Sarah hurried down the stairs, the only sound apart from the clacking of her heels was of the baby's distant crying.
She had sneaked out the back door into the courtyard, shivering as an icy blanket of fog swallowed her, and walked down the gravel path that ran around the Abbey, to the front lawn and then away. Before leaving, however, she had taken a moment's pause to look back at the house's darkened façade. Her eyes had swept along the shutters of the first floor as she moved down the gallery in her head, counting doors and windows until she had found the right one. She had mouthed a silent goodbye.
Then Sarah had turned around and walked on, down the path to the first gate, through the second gate, and on to the road leading to Downton. She had pulled her coat tighter around herself as she walked down a road bordered by woods and meadows and fields all belonging to Lord Grantham's tenants. Never before had the single mile from Downton Abbey to the village seemed so long to her as it had that night.
She had seen the break of day out the grimy window of her third-class carriage and, later, countless sunrises over the roofs of Bombay, but somehow it still felt like the world around her was plunged in darkness.
When she had worked at Downton Abbey, Sarah found it difficult to live in the present, focused as she was on whatever threat or opportunity was hidden around the next bend, or the next... But that had been before Lady Flintshire, and before Anna, before she was forced to give up on everyone she had ever cared about. What was there to anticipate now? What was the point of planning if all the future held was a lifetime without her family, without Cora?
The past was the only way out of the present. And so she sank headfirst into memories. She retreated deep into her mind, sleepwalking through life rather than being wide awake to feel the pain. During that time Sarah often thought about the war.
When she did, it was always the same memories – the same visions and noises and smells, the same faces – that surged to the front of her mind. She would remember the jagged hole in Thomas's hand, surrounded by its mess of bruised flesh and wrinkled skin; William's painful wheezing, his face the colour of the roses adorning his bedposts; Mr Lang, gripping her hand so hard that her fingers went white and numb...
She would think of the dreaded telegrams that never stopped coming, bringing the horror right to their doorstep. Death and grief had seeped through Downton Abbey's walls, merely surrounding her at first, until one day a telegram had been addressed to Miss Sarah O'Brien. Then another. Seven years later she still tried her best not to think of her brothers, of lives ruined and heartbreaking scrawls on harmless-looking scraps of paper. They had been good sons, naming her as their next of kin instead of their poor old dad, and so it had fallen to Sarah to break the news to him.
When she thought of them, of all those lads that got sucked into the war's muddy maw and crushed by its great steel jaws, Sarah didn't understand. There had been the telegrams, and the bleak letters from home, the visits to Peter before they had sent him back to France to die in a trench, the parade of wounded officers that filled the Abbey's halls with their moans of pain and their crude laughs, the vague feeling of hunger that had become a constant companion over time... No, when Sarah thought back on the war, she didn't understand how it was that she could have been happy. And yet the Great War had drawn Sarah O'Brien and Cora Crawley closer than they could ever have imagined.
1914
Robert never raised his voice. He just looked at Cora the way one might look at a toddler throwing a tantrum. Of course, they are being a nuisance, but you know that they are too young – or in Cora's case, too much of a woman, irrational, emotional – to control themselves. So you just send them back to their nanny and away from you.
"You're exhausted," he said. "You should rest. O'Brien will be up soon."
Cora stared back at him, swallowing hard against the lump in her throat. She had already discredited herself enough in his eyes by shamelessly begging him not to volunteer – to hell with serving king and country. Bursting into tears right now would only make things worse. She couldn't bear the idea of him believing she was trying to get her way by making him feel guilty.
"I'll say goodnight", Robert said, although it would be hours before either of them went to bed. Cora, they had determined beforehand, wouldn't come back down tonight – not after the strain of the garden party – but Robert was only going to the room next door to change. Then he would have dinner with their daughters and enjoy a few quiet moments by his own in the library.
He obviously had no intent of dropping by to see his wife on the way back to his dressing room.
It was her fault. She should never have brought up the war in the first place. Then again, how could they have talked about anything else but the war? About anything else but Matthew. Matthew Crawley would join the army, as befitted a man of his rank, and Cora couldn't help but feel glad for once in her life that she didn't have a son.
She had also wondered what would become of the men serving them… Robert had told her about Thomas signing up to the Medical Corps, but what of everyone else? What of William, and Branson? What of their grooms and gardeners?
The question of her husband's future, however, hadn't crossed Cora's mind. It went without saying that he belonged at Downton, by her side, and she hadn't imagined that he would be ready to throw away this life – their life together – without a second thought.
Of course, Cora had never understood his passion for the army, which still manifested itself today through his absurd devotion to his crippled former batman. She hadn't minded too much when Robert's regiment had been stationed in Gibraltar. She and the girls would come to stay, and she would always find time for a trip to Malaga or Seville, to Cadiz or Cordoba.
She certainly hadn't enjoyed the South African war, when Sybil was still so small, and Mary would always ask her about her father, and Cora lived in fear of the day when she would have to tell them that their Papa would never come home. As far as she was concerned, it had been a relief when Robert finally retired from the army, alive and in one piece.
They hadn't fought, and yet Cora's heart was heavy with the weight of his judgement, at a time when she needed him more than ever. She thought back on the afternoon and her tears brimmed over. With their hands linked and Robert's fingers warming hers through her glove, Cora had been sure that they could tackle anything life would throw their way.
Now the war had come, and suddenly she found herself alone.
They hadn't shared a bed since the accident, Dr Clarkson having said that she would heal better and faster if her husband kept his distance for a few weeks. Cora hadn't argued; the pain was still gnawing at her like a dull knife, and she didn't know how much longer the bleeding would last. But she had been lonely when the door closed and Robert – he had come to say goodnight every night after her maid had gone – disappeared from her sight.
Not tonight though. There would be no comforting whisper in her ear, no linger of his lips on her cheek or mouth.
She had driven him away.
A.N. Watching parts of season two again had me wonder why the army doesn't want Robert back although he was a professional soldier. So I did a bit of research. And then I discovered that, according to Julian Fellowes, Robert offered his services the day after war broke out. It got me thinking about how Cora would have taken it, and then about their relationship to the army and their life when he was still on active duty. So I did some more research.
If you're not bothered by angry historians getting angry about historical inaccuracies in period dramas, just google the titles below for a very instructive read:
Lord Grantham too old to fight? - Enough of this Tomfoolery!
The Bold Grenadier - Enough of this Tomfoolery! (part 1 and 2)