Chapter 28 – A Little Force

Cora sighed and sighed again.

"Oh," said her mother. "So it's to be the sighing act?"

Cora squeezed her eyes closed for a moment then they flew open as she felt hot blood rush to her face and her head seemed to explode. "Mother!" she shouted.

"Cora! I will not have you acting like this! At least not in public," hissed Martha. A gloved hand reached across the table and took her daughter's ungloved one. "Now… will you talk to me?"

The 19-year-old sighed and looked away then abruptly turned to face her mother. "I know what… THIS is all about!"

"Not so loud, for criminy's sake!"

Cora was startled as she had never heard her mother use such language. "Well… I…"

"You're wondering why I dragged you all the way across the ocean? That it?"

"Uhm… I had wondered," Cora muttered, not about to believe a word her mother told her.

Martha sighed. "It's all your aunt's fault."

"What? Aunt Mattie? What's she done?"

"It's not what she's done, dear Cora, it's what she didn't do!"

"And what would that be?"

Martha took both her daughter's hands firmly. "Now Cora…" she started and her voice fell into a whisper, "this is not for public consumption – by anyone! Not to a soul – not ever!"

Cora rolled her eyes at her mother, prepared to hear a bald faced lie.

Martha's voice continued, and fortunately the train rumbled over an especially bad section of track just then, for if anyone else in the dining car had heard the tale, and spoke English, they would have been quite shocked.

000

Robert stumbled out of the dining carriage and found himself in the bar cum lounge once more. Kevin Boyle, the rude Irishman capitalist, sat exactly where Robert had left the man. But now he was berating the other passengers in a drunken rage. Boyle looked up at him while lifting a glass of whiskey. "So, Lordy Downton! Back for more, I see!" He slammed the glass down spilling amber liquid across the polished mahogany table.

It was obvious to all in the car that Boyle was drunk – more than drunk – and they all could tell he was a very mean drunk.

"Does your lawdship want me to fall on me face and lick your dirty boots, like the rest of my downtrodden countrymen?" Boyle asked belligerently and quaffed more whiskey.

Robert started to turn away from the offensive man.

"Oh no! Don't you go rushing off!" Boyle shouted and tried to stand. "I ought to…"

Downton turned back to Boyle and pushed him back into his seat with a gentle shove. "Sit down Boyle."

"You… bastard…" spluttered Boyle and followed up with more words of meanness and dreadful spite.

Robert bent his neck and put his mouth inches from Boyle's. "Now…" he spoke very softly but with an increasing edge to his tone, "I want you to listen and listen very carefully. I notice that after drinking the whiskey I paid for, you have proceeded to drink even more, hopefully paid from your own capitalist pocketbook." He turned his head and saw the barman heft a short club and hold it out meaningfully.

Boyle tried to rise but Robert pushed him back once more while the man's face grew red with spittle frothing his lips.

"Boyle. Listen to me. I have no quarrel with you, per se, but I suspect that man over there behind the bar," he nodded to the bar keep, "would like nothing better than to bash your face in and throw you off the train. I have been insulted by you and am willing it pass." He sighed. "Or should I stand aside and let the Frenchman bash your ugly and lower-class head in?"

Boyle threw his whiskey into Robert's face.

The future Lord wiped the stinging liquid away. "Look old boy, you may think that I am an old crocodile that is only suited to be boxed and buried." He took a handful of Boyle's shirt in his hands and dragged him upright. "Now, Mr. Boyle," he spat to the side. "I should punch your lights out. I might be an aristocrat, but you should not presume that I do NOT know how to brawl."

"I'd like to see you try," Boyle spat fully into Robert's face.

Robert sighed sadly. "I was afraid you'd do that." Then he threw a right cross at Boyle's chin which connected beautifully and the sneering face fell senseless to the floor.

The door at the end of carriage flew open just then and the Conductor and a beefy steward entered to scattered applause.

Robert dabbed at the broken skin of his knuckle. "Right." He shot his cuffs and walked from the carriage. "Sorry about the mess," he said to the barman and dropped a few francs on the counter.

The man smiled and put down his cudgel. "Oui, messier. Merci beaucoup. Magnifique!"