america, twelfth of february, 1891
cora levinson
i come back from marie kleeman's house to a house of chaos. servants are rushing up the stairs, there is a maid crying over the fire as she stokes it. my maid, lucy, comes down the stairs as i go up them. she grabs my wrist, pulling me up the stairs. "miss cora!" she says, "come quick!" i follow her into my parents room where my father is lying in bed, white faced, with a sheen of sweat on his face. my mother is sitting beside him, holding his hand. harold is pacing up and down at the foot of the bed. my heart starts to beat, really fast. i don't even notice lucy slipping out of the room.
"is it his heart?" i ask quietly, not really wanting an answer. my father was diagnosed with a heart disease sometime last year, and he's been rapidly deteriorating ever since. harold looks up and catches my eye, and nods once. i sink into a chair behind me. father turns his head to look in my direction. he gestures for me to come and sit beside him, beside mother. i sit in the empty chair beside him. "cora," he begins. his speech is broken up by coughs, mother jumps up in some attempt to help, but he recovers himself after a few seconds, and mother returns to her seat. "cora," he says again. "i'm dying,"
"no, you're not," i interject.
"i'm dying," he insists. "and -" he begins to cough again. "look cora, darling, i'm dying, and i've left a great deal of my fortune to you, more to you than to your mother and harold,"
"why?" i ask, quietly.
"they don't need it, darling," he replies. "i've left you half of my fortune, harold three tenths, and your mother one fifth. thats enough for your mother to live on, and when she dies, any leftover will go to harold or your kids if you have them before your mother's death," he says.
"wow," i say. "but what am i supposed to do with so much money?" i know father is rich, the girls tease me about having a billionaire father. i don't know how much money that is, but my governess told me there was one thousand millions in a billion, so that's a lot of money.
"your mother and i have agreed it would be best for you to go to england," he replies, his breathing getting rougher.
"what am i supposed to do there?" i ask squeakily. i've never left america before. father begins to cough, and cough. i don't know what to do, i feel tears prick my eyes. harold stops his pacing as father stops coughing and lies back into the bed. "i want you to experience the london season, meet some suitors, preferably who will inherit of a title. most of all, i want you to be happy, so don't marry someone because you feel you have to for my sake, marry who ever you wish," he coughs again, but quickly continues. "marry whoever you wish, but please give every suitor a chance, you'll be the greatest heiress of your season, because of your good looks and your fortune, but don't marry the first man that proposes. don't get carried away. be responsible, and remember your loving father." he finishes. tears slip down my cheeks without me noticing and i kiss his forehead. i move back against the wall as he says his goodbyes to my mother and harold. the doctor enters, and father is pronounced dead shortly after, at 6:51pm. i slip out the door and into my bedroom, and cry.
england, fourteenth of march, 1891
robert crawley
we're sitting in the dining room, only family tonight. mama and papa, rosamund and i and my cousin susan, uncle andrew, aunt esther and aunt edna. this year is susan's second season. she wasn't very successful last year, she's rather plain and uninteresting. rosamund's first season will be next year, and she is extremely jealous of me and susan that we're allowed to go to london as mama is forbidding her to come, and leaving her at downton in the charge of aunt edna, perhaps one of the most boring and strict people i know.
"so robert, what do you think of the heiresses this year?" aunt esther asks. aunt esther and aunt edna are father's two sisters, both as plain and boring as they come. aunt esther is susan's mother, unlucky for her. i'm glad my parents are both rather handsome and interesting.
"i'm not sure, i've only met a handful so far," i reply, sipping my glass of wine. uncle andrew nods.
"what was it that lord elliott was saying about the young american heiress this seasons?" he asks.
"ugh, how i detest americans," mama comments.
"she's supposedly beautiful though," rosamund chirps. i raise my eyebrow.
"she's supposed to have the largest fortune the season has seen since 1780," i reply.
"how much are we talking here?" papa asks.
"supposedly about 300,000," aunt edna says.
"well, there is some virtues to the americans then, dear," papa says jokingly. mama rolls her eyes.