1889

Cora moaned softly in her sleep, fidgeting slightly, and Robert held his breath, thinking that surely, she was about to wake.

"Cora?" he whispered, but she did not respond, and he sighed heavily. He dipped the cloth he was holding back into the bowl of water on the nightstand and dabbed it to her forehead, trying to keep her cool as she slept in Luxor's oppressive heat.

Hours earlier, he had rushed downstairs to the front desk, breathlessly explaining what had happened to his wife and begging for the city's best doctor. He'd been assured that one would be sent immediately and been told to have Cora lie down, and one of the Egyptian staff had offered to come upstairs with him for whatever first aid could be offered in the meantime.

She'd more than taken care of the lying down, they discovered when they entered her room—in Robert's absence, she had fainted and was crumpled in a heap on the floor. Terrified, he'd frantically searched for a pulse and found it, then lifted her and carefully laid her on her bed, where the other young man had tied a thick band around her upper arm, explaining that it would help to contain the venom. Robert had tried to ignore the fear in the Egyptian's eyes at his mention of the scorpion species.

And then the man had left, and Robert had sat there, waiting for what seemed like days for a doctor to arrive, clutching Cora's uninjured hand in his.

An English doctor had come eventually and explained that—much as Robert had thought—there was little that could be done,* but he had taken blood from Cora's arm, hoping to withdraw some of the poison with it. He did not believe it was likely to travel to her heart, or that her life was in danger—such cases, he said, usually evidenced themselves immediately, and Cora's heartrate was still normal. She would wake eventually, he told Robert, and likely be ill, and in great pain, but there was no reason to believe she would not recover. Her arm might be a different story—most of her forearm was now a violent shade of purple, and the entire limb had swelled grotesquely. The doctor would return, he promised, to determine "whether anything would have to be done with it," a phrase that had made Robert's heart skip a beat.

Am I going to lose my arm? He'd heard Cora's words repeat over and over in his mind all evening, her voice tight with fear.

"I'm so sorry, darling," he whispered now for the hundredth time, his fingers caressing her cheek as he felt tears clog his throat. "I'm so, so sorry."

For the whole incident was entirely Robert's fault: if his wife had died, he would have only had himself to blame, and if she did lose her arm, or if there were any permanent damage, that would be down to him as well. All of the pain she would suffer in the coming weeks would also be at his own hand. He, her husband, who was supposed to protect her.

Not that he could have known the scorpion was resting in her glove; not that he could have prevented the attack. But if he hadn't entered her room—and he wouldn't have had to enter her room had he not upset her earlier—Jameson would have been there to discover the creature before it harmed anyone. After all, he and Cora had laughed earlier about Jameson's deep mistrust of everything in Egypt, and Cora had rolled her eyes at the maid's paranoia and tendency to shake out every garment she withdrew from the trunk.

Nor would Cora, had she not been so angry with Robert, have failed to notice the bulge in her glove before she'd slipped it on. The scorpion was several inches long; she would not have missed it had she not been distracted, and she would not have been distracted had he not put his foot in it so many times on this trip and in the months since their wedding.

But now Cora had been hurt terribly, and all thanks to his failings as her husband.

It was also, he thought as he bent to brush a kiss to her forehead, not the first time he had hurt her.

Cora was quite wrong that he hated to spend time with her, that he found her company unbearable, that he did not care about her. In truth, Robert cared for Cora a great deal, a great, great deal. He admitted to himself that he did, at times, avoid her—but not because he did not want to be near her. Rather, he was almost frightened to spend time with her, frightened that she might decide he fell short of what she wanted in a husband, frightened that he would bore her or upset her or speak incorrectly. Frightened that he did not know what to say, the he did not and could not understand her. She was, in Robert's mind, a remote, exotic, untouchable being that he had no real right to, a work of art that he would do best to hold in awe from a distance. He did not feel equal to being a husband, certainly not her husband, and so it had been very easy to accept their frequent separation as natural.

Yet it was not what Cora wanted—that much was abundantly clear. She had not only been miserable in Egypt; she'd been miserable since she'd married him.

She did not want to be left to do feminine things and admired from afar; she wanted Robert's time and Robert's company and Robert's attention. She wanted to know that he was in awe of her, to hear this from him, not to have to surmise it on her own. She very clearly had not surmised it on her own.

At last she woke with a sharp cry, her eyes fluttering open only to be squeezed shut again as the pain carved itself into her face.

"Cora?" His hand went immediately to rest on her abdomen, trying to calm her. "You're all right, darling. You're all right."

"Robert?" she whispered hesitantly.

"I'm right here, darling. I'm right here." He raised her good hand to his lips for a kiss as she opened her eyes again, then held it against his jawline. Robert tried to smile, but he imagined that his own worry made it look more like a grimace, and Cora did not return it, biting her lip and moaning softly.

"How do you feel, darling?" he asked.

"Like my arm is being sawed off with red-hot knives," she said, and he squeezed her hand. "But it's still there, I guess." She glanced to her left and gasped sharply at her arm's appearance. "Oh…"

"I'll ring for some ice for you, darling," he said, wanting to distract her from any questions about the limb. "That should help a bit with the pain."

He tried to set her hand down to turn for the bell pull, but she grabbed hold of him.

"Wait," she said hoarsely. "Robert, I think I need to… Could you find a bucket of some kind?"

Oh—oh, this was what the doctor had warned him might happen when she woke: "It's not unusual for sting victims to be quite ill from the venom."

Frantically, Robert cast about, not sure what he would give her. "Cora, I…"

"There, that bowl," she said, catching sight of the water he'd been using for her head and pushing herself up on her right elbow. "Give me that, please."

No sooner had he moved to hold it under her chin than she was sick into it. He reached one hand behind her head, gathering the curls Jameson (muttering darkly about "this godforsaken country" the entire time) had taken down earlier while Cora had slept and holding them back and out of the way. Robert was dimly aware that perhaps he should have been disgusted—that he would have been disgusted under normal circumstances—but he was too busy feeling his guilt and his worry and his concern shred his insides to think about it.

"Are you finished?" he asked as she caught her breath, her shoulders still heaving, and she nodded. "Do you want to lie back down, or would you rather sit up?"

"Sit up, please, I think."

He stacked pillows behind her on the bed, eased her back against them, and then carefully wiped her face and her mouth with the damp cloth. "My poor darling," he murmured as their eyes met, hers dark with suffering as she stared miserably up at him. He bent and kissed her forehead, unsure how she'd take it—as much as he wanted to press kisses over every inch of her now, he knew she was likely still angry about the argument they'd been in the midst of when she'd been stung. But Cora appeared too miserable to fight, merely whimpering softly in response.

"Let me get you a glass of water." He left with the bowl she'd thrown up in, rinsed it out in the washroom, and returned with a glass he'd found on the sink. Cora took a few small sips, rinsing her mouth.

"Would you like me to ring for Jameson to bring you some ice, darling?" he asked, taking the glass from her when she was done.

She nodded. "Yes, please. My arm hurts terribly. Where is she?"

"Who, your maid?" She nodded again as he stood to pull the cord. "I imagine she's composing a telegram to send to The Lady back home so she can advertise for a new position. She was ranting as she changed your clothes about how she's not paid enough to be dragged off to a place with deadly, vicious animals."

The corners of Cora's lips turned up in what might have been the ghost of a smile. "But why isn't she here now?"

Robert shrugged. "I didn't think we were both necessary, so I told her she could go down. Did you want her? When she gets here, I can ask her to stay with us."

"I'm going to be sick again…no, not now," she said as he quickly reached for the bowl. He'd brought it back with him, suspecting it would be needed more than once. "I can just tell I will be, at some point. It wasn't a one-time thing."

"Yes, that was what I was afraid of." Why were they discussing this? Of course she was likely to be sick again before the night was over.

"And you haven't got to stay."

Did she hate him and want him to go? She would have every right—

"Your lordship?" Jameson opened the door. "Is her ladyship—oh, my lady! You're awake…how are you?"

"Not very well." The thinness in Cora's voice made Robert draw in his breath sharply as he imagined leaving her alone with her maid, dependent only on occasional reports of her condition.

"Jameson, would you go and get Lady Downton some ice for her arm?"

"Yes, milord." The maid sighed. "Although I don't imagine it will last very long in this accursed heat," she muttered.

"Then get her quite a lot of it!" he snapped, in no mood for borderline impertinence. Jameson must have sensed this, for she dropped a quick curtsy and darted out of the room.

"Do you want me to go?" he asked Cora when her maid had gone. "I don't want to leave you, but—"

"What?" she said sharply.

"Would you rather I left, and Jameson—"

"No, the last part. What did you say, after that?"

"You mean, 'I don't want to leave you'?"

"Don't you?" Cora's voice cracked, and tears began to spill from her eyes. "Don't you always want to leave me?"

"Oh, my darling." He sat down on the bed and carefully took her halfway into his arms, leaving her left arm untouched and laying a kiss on the top of her head. "My sweet darling." She didn't fight him, laying her head against his shoulder as she sobbed, although he was not sure whether to take that as a willingness to hear him and to be comforted by him or as simply physical weakness.

"I don't want to leave you," he said. "Certainly not now, when you're hurt and sick. Especially not now. But Cora, I don't ever want to leave you. I don't like to leave you; I just…I don't avoid your company because I don't like you—I–I do, very much, darling, but…"

"Then why do you do it?" she hiccupped. "You don't deny you do it!"

"Because—first you must understand that it's not unnatural in my world, and it hadn't occurred to me that it wasn't natural for you, and I'm desperately sorry for that, darling. I'm desperately sorry that I've hurt you this way. But I do it because…" He dropped his voice to a whisper, feeling his face grow hot with shame and glad she could not see it. "…because I don't know how to do this."

"How to do what?" she sniffed.

"Be a husband. Be your husband." She sniffed again. "I–I don't know what I'm doing. But I'm going to try, darling."

"All I w-want you to do is to–to spend time with me," she whispered, nestling closer to him. "And to c-care about me."

"I do care about you, darling," he said fervently, kissing the top of her head again. "I care about you very much. And I hate that that has been so unclear to you, and that I have made you so miserable for so many months. Oh, forgive me, Cora!"

He felt her nod her head. "Of course I will," she murmured, and he gave her another kiss in response.

"I'm sorry about this, too," he whispered in the silence that followed. "I hate that you were stung because of me."

"I'm not sure that's quite true."

"It is. If you hadn't been upset with me, Jameson would have been there and would have found the scorpion."

"But you couldn't have known," she said softly. "It's not your fault."

"I'm sorry all the same, darling. And I hate to see you hurting."

Cora snuggled closer at his words, and he kissed her again. She seemed unable to stem the flow of her tears, but he did not mind, for it gave him an excuse to keep holding her, rocking her gently and stroking her back as he hummed softly in her ear, trying to soothe her.

"Milord?"

"Jameson." He had not heard he door open and was now blushing furiously at having been found with his wife in his arms. As quickly as he could, he moved Cora back against the pillows and stood, turning to face the maid, who had a bucket in one hand and a stack of towels balanced in the other.

"My poor lady," she said softly, observing the tears that Cora was now wiping away. She gave Robert a look that implied he had not only been slightly culpable in the sting but had invented scorpions in the first place. "I've brought the ice, sir, and some towels to wrap it in," she went on, her voice much harsher now that she was addressing Robert directly.

"Yes, thank you, Jameson," he said firmly, taking it all from her. "That will be all for tonight." She exited, and he unfolded one of the towels so that it could be wrapped around a few chunks of ice. The maid had brought large pieces, he was pleased to see, that would melt slowly, especially in the mass she'd assembled in the bucket.

"Darling, how would you like this?" he asked.

"Just…set it next to my arm. I don't think I can stand to have anything resting on it."

He tucked it carefully alongside her forearm, afraid to hurt her, but she did not flinch as the towel touched her bruised skin.

"Thank you," Cora said softly, and he pressed another kiss to her forehead before he sat down again in the chair next to the bed, taking her uninjured hand back into his. After a moment, she gave a small sigh. "This does help, quite a lot."

"Good. I'm glad, darling."

"You keep calling me that," she said.

He gave her a small smile. "I'm sorry; I can't seem to help it."

"I don't mind. It's a lovely thing to hear." There was a light bit of pressure from her fingers that he took as a weak attempt to squeeze his hand, and he squeezed back.

"Would you get some ice for my head, too?" she asked after a few minutes of easy silence. "I've got a dreadful headache."

After everything she'd been through in the last several hours, he didn't doubt that. "Of course, darling." The word drew a tiny, fleeting smile from her, and he kissed her temple.

Robert rose and packed some more ice into a towel and then sat back down, pulling his chair closer so that he could easily lean forward and hold the ice gently against her forehead.

"Thank you," she murmured again, closing her eyes.

"Do you think you could sleep some more if you tried?" he asked quietly, watching her countenance slowly relax. "It's quite late."

"I think so. I'm exhausted."

"I'm sure you must be, darling. Here…" He raised her up so that he could flatten her pillows again and then helped her lie back, adjusting the ice by her arm and settling the other towel against her forehead again.

"Will you stay?" she whispered. Her right hand reached blindly for him, and he caught it in his. "Please stay."

"Of course I'll stay. Cora, I…" The word love died on his lips. "I…" he tried again. But it was no use; he was too fearful and nervous to say it.

"Yes?"

"I…want to stay," he amended. "Of course I want to stay."

He kissed the palm of her hand and gave it a soft squeeze, hoping she would hear what he could not say.

*In 1889, there was no such thing as the anti-venom that people bit or stung by poisonous animals are given today. (Anti-venom was first invented to deal with cobra bites in Vietnam in the 1890s, so we're almost there, but not quite.) So if you were stung by a deathstalker for much of the 19th century or earlier, there was very little that could be done for you. Of course, not everybody who was stung died—it was mostly a matter of luck, depending on whether the poison reached your heart or remained localized.