War was upon them, and its stakes went far beyond the individual fate of any one woman or family, be she a countess and they an influential line of aristocrats.
That was the truth Robert expected Cora to accept.
Her truth was that she had no strength left for selflessness.
She had been fighting for days, putting on a show of bravery for everyone to see, locking the dark thoughts away in a box to be dealt with later, someday when she was ready to face them with dignity, because she had known that she had already used up her allotted share of sympathy, and she had known that she couldn't afford to make a fuss.
The pain of a fruitless birth, the grief, even the guilt over allowing harm to come to their child... they had all fitted inside the box somehow, because no matter how tough the going, she had never been alone.
But the box was ruined now, and there was no fixing it. It had splintered when she had tried to cram one too many hurt inside. And now the insignificance of her needs and wishes, the revelation that she was nothing in the face of war, of honour and duty, was eating her alive.
Nigh on twenty years had passed, but she was Viscountess Downton all over again and an unhappy young bride... She thought of her husband seeking solace in the army from marriage to a woman he didn't love, dying, maybe, in his attempt to escape her. Even if Robert lived, Cora didn't want him to survive German shells and bullets only to know that she had lost him anyway, to his British comrades-in-arms. She needed him to stay and show her that he could still love her even though she had failed him once again in the foremost of her duties.
If her husband was so eager to leave her, of his own free will, then what did that say about the state of their marriage?
She had flung her flimsy arguments at him pell-mell – War is a young man's game... Don't you think it's time to pass on the torch? The estate needs you... None of them had so much as dented his shield of virtue. Of course, they had been hollow, every one of them an excuse that Cora had manufactured on the spot instead of telling the truth - I love you, I can't stand the thought of losing you – but Robert's reactions had only confirmed what she had always suspected, that love, her love, could never be enough.
She had stopped trying to reason with him at some point and grabbed his hand just as he stood up. With only the slightest tremble in her voice, she had asked him not to go. He had squeezed her hand back and said that he was sorry.
"How can you?" she had spat, sinking back down into her cushions, and he had only sighed.
The box was damaged beyond repair, and with Robert gone, Cora could see no point in pretending otherwise.
She was still crying when O'Brien arrived, predictably, with her dinner and couldn't have stopped if her life depended on it. She must be a pitiful sight, weeping into her palms, lying on the chaise longue just as her husband had left her, like some discarded thing with no will of its own. She was a lady, and O'Brien was her servant, and it was never right for servants to see their mistress in such an undignified state. Cora should have been proud and kept all the tears at bay, to be spilt alone behind drawn curtains and locked doors.
She didn't feel like she had any reason to be proud, however. Not after what had happened, all in the space of a fortnight.
Cora listened to O'Brien's barely audible footsteps as she crossed the room and found herself hoping that she would hurry up and disappear as quickly as she had arrived. While she couldn't have possibly missed the sound of Cora's sobs, then at least she wouldn't get to see her red, puffy eyes.
She heard the usual clunk of the silver tray being laid on the table by the fireplace, and her stomach lurched as the rich smell of watercress wafted up her nose. It had become part of their daily routine lately, since Cora had neither the energy nor the appetite for an interminable dinner; every night, O'Brien would bring a bowl of some broth or soup and proceed to coax Cora into swallowing a few spoons, even though she couldn't remember the last time she had been hungry.
Not tonight though. Surely O'Brien couldn't expect her to eat anything when in such a state. Maybe she would go now, without ever meeting her eyes, and never speak a word of what she had witnessed. That would certainly be the proper thing to do.
Once alone, Cora could keep on crying until she was too exhausted to feel anything anymore. Then she would go to sleep, and maybe tomorrow, things wouldn't look quite so dim...
Except that Cora didn't want her to leave.
This woman, she was the same person who had held her hand for hours while she journeyed through her own personal hell. O'Brien had cried for her son just like she had, just like Robert had when he had come to her bedside later; O'Brien had made sure she ate properly and lacked for nothing, showering her with attention until she couldn't help but feel slightly better, torn between amusement and affection at her maid's fussing.
It made no sense to hide from O'Brien, so why was it expected of her? Why should Cora hide from someone who had always treated her with nothing but kindness? Was there even anything left to hide when O'Brien had seen her struggle through the most vulnerable moments of her life?
O'Brien would most certainly leave, because it was the proper thing to do, but how Cora wished that she would stay.
Against all odds, she did.
Cora could hardly believe her maid's audacity when she felt a light, hesitant touch on her shoulder. She looked up from her hands. She had to pry them from her face, so strong was the compulsion to hide her shame at all costs, but she knew that she had to give O'Brien some kind of encouragement. Failing to do so would be construed as a silent dismissal, and she couldn't stand to have her hopes raised only to have them wrecked just as quickly.
She found her maid kneeling on the floor next to her chair, her eyes wide, brow slightly furrowed – a silent question.
"I'm tired", Cora said by way of explanation. "It's just... I'm so tired of being strong..."
She had meant to sound reassuring, but her voice caught in her throat even as she spoke, more tears spilling from her eyes. And of course, she had lied, without even meaning to.
Part of her wanted to tell O'Brien the truth - that she was afraid that his Lordship could never forgive her for losing the baby, that he didn't love her anymore, or maybe that he had never truly loved her; that she loved him and was afraid to lose him forever; that she felt so very lonely; that she still hurt over what might have been if only she had minded her step. Instead, Cora had followed her instinct, and her first instinct was always to play by the rules, to evade, to sugar-coat.
O'Brien looked away and said nothing, but a crisply folded handkerchief was pressed into Cora's hand, which she accepted without thinking. The blanket that O'Brien had put over her legs earlier had slipped off in the heat of the moment, when Cora had reached for her husband. O'Brien picked it up and spread it over her lap, for the third time that day already. Her hands brushed over it, the same way they did when she had spotted a wrinkle on Cora's dress that demanded smoothing out. Still, her gaze remained downcast.
Cora dabbed at her eyes with the small piece of cloth she had been given, wondering if this, along with the brief squeeze of her shoulder, was all the comfort she could hope to receive from the paragon of professionalism that was her maid.
White cotton with no embroideries, the handkerchief was much plainer than any of her own, but it smelled nice, like freshly washed laundry, with just a hint of a muskier scent underneath. There was something soothing about it, a sense of safety and familiarity that spread through her like the warmth from the blanket in her lap.
Still, it wasn't nearly enough. And never had Cora wished so hard that she could believe the lies she told. Had O'Brien really been her friend, she would have reached for the kneeling woman, had her sit next to her, and muffled her sobs in the crook of her shoulder.
The polite distance that O'Brien always maintained, whichCora herself used to regard as a pillar of their relationship, suddenly felt like a chasm, as painful as a fresh wound.
On the day of the accident, O'Brien had bridged it for the first time in the ten years she had spent in her service, and now Cora couldn't help but wish she would do it again, step out of Miss O'Brien's shoes if only for a moment, and just be Sarah. Not Sarah the housemaid, whose first name was used by anyone and only served to show her lack of status, but Sarah as her family and friends would know her, someone who wouldn't be walking on eggshells around her, someone who would have a right to care.
Then O'Brien reached out and, echoing Cora's earlier actions, stroked the back of her hand, her touch so light that Cora barely felt it. The poor woman must have been terrified of overstepping her boundaries, but Cora couldn't have cared less in that moment, and she caught her hand as it retreated, linking their fingers together.
Just like she had done to Robert as they sat together under the marquee... The thought was almost enough to make her recoil. It may have been hours ago, but it might as well have been years.
"Do you think," Cora asked, "that it is possible to love someone when they keep on disappointing you at every turn?
