AN: I would like to thank you all for the continued support for this story. The love for it overwhelms me sometimes. I am heading into a very busy month so updates might drop down to fortnightly. This is just for July as writing is going to be unable to be my priority. But don't fear, I have the last chapters planned now - I think there are going to be 44 or 45 - and I am determined to finish. The reviews make it possible so please keep them coming. I am sorry I am unable to make individual replies at the moment.
On a small note, I am no medical expert, nor have I ever been to America. So please forgive any little mistakes and call them artistic license! Cobert love to you all x
Chapter 33 – September 1889
She had missed America.
The sensation of homesickness when she had been at Downton, was just that, a sensation. It was born out of loneliness and the constant berating that made some of her days at Downton so trying. It had never really been tied to missing specific things about her home country. Now she was here though, she realised she had missed it.
There was the smell of the sea for a start, that was definitely not present in Yorkshire. The accents too, she hadn't realised how much she missed hearing people speaking with the same tones as her until she was surrounded by it again. English accents were beautiful, and far less grating, but they did make her always feel the odd one out and self-conscious about how she spoke.
On the whole though, there had not been much time for thinking about anything other than her father since she and Robert had discussed the Evelyn incident and pushed that under the carpet. She had even neglected to point things out to Robert as they had journeyed from New York to Newport. They had travelled largely in silence. She couldn't think of anything to say that was not about her father and her worries. She had seen his trepidation on occasion as he had become accustomed to his surroundings. She had even hidden a smirk few times as he had seemingly gazed about him looking confused and slightly perplexed. She hadn't mentioned it though and she hadn't played tour guide, there would be time on another trip, or after the part with her father, to show him some of New York and to talk to him about her home country.
Harold had met them at the door of the Newport mansion. She had left Robert staring around him at the grandeur and the bright green lawn whilst she had climbed the steps outside, kissed her brother hastily on the cheeks. She had waited only for his confirmation that her father was still alive before ascending the stairs in a half sprint to her father's bedroom.
She hadn't moved from his bedside for the entire two hours that had since elapsed.
She holds her father's hand in both of hers, her thumbs rubbing back and forth across his knuckles. She had cried, but she had also smiled, because he was still here. His chest still rose and fell and she could feel his pulse at his wrist. She had not missed her chance to say goodbye and that meant something; everything.
He was thin, about half the size he had been when she last saw him at Downton. His hands were not the hands she remembered – warm, large and bear like – they were thin, bony and pale. The contrast was stark. She knew when she saw him now, why he had wanted to spare her this, but she also knew that she would not have been happy if she had not made it to see him still alive.
Nurses and a doctor had been in and out whilst she had sat with her unwavering vigil at his bed. If they thought it strange they didn't ask questions, and she didn't pay attention as they updated her mother and brother on the prognosis. She didn't hear a word they said, and knew she would have to take some time later to understand what the situation truly was, but for the moment it didn't matter. She was here and he was alive.
He had not yet woken, so she wasn't entirely sure he knew she was here. She had been talking to him, telling him how much she loved him and speaking of her last few months at Downton. She had just kept talking, most of it had probably been nonsense, she didn't rightly know.
Her brother had brought her a cup of something to drink at some point, she had drunk it, but she was now not sure what it had even been.
The room is so quiet aside from his breathing – she had run out of things to say for the moment – that the change in his breathing pattern is obvious. For a moment she thinks she needs to call out for her mother and brother – that this might be it – but then he just starts coughing and his hand falls from hers as his arms move towards his chest on reflex. His eyes fly open as he continues to choke. A nurse appears and is helping him to sit and offering him a bowl in a flash of movement. She watches as he throws up. A thick choking sound and more coughing cause him to repeat the process two or three times. The room is now filled with the pungent smell of blood. She realises with shock that it was not the contents of his stomach that he was throwing up, he was coughing up the contents of his lungs.
The nurse helps him to adjust his position and clean his mouth before offering him the glass of water. He takes small sips. As the nurse steps away with the covered bowl he settles back against the pillows and his eyes fall on her.
"Cora?" She reaches forward for his hand again, the tears filling her eyes. "My darling girl." His hand grips hers with as much strength as he can manage, she is reminded immediately of how weak he is – the clasp is half-hearted at best.
"Daddy." She doesn't know what else to say. She blinks frantically at her tears, and they get caught as little droplets on her eyelashes that she manages to flick off.
"Come closer so I can kiss you." She stands, and leans over him, still clutching his hand. She kisses his forehead as his lips graze her cheek. His skin feels thin and almost papery beneath her lips, it felt like the skin of a much older man. His voice comes more easily than she thought it would, she had thought he would be breathless and unable to speak. She settles back into the chair. "How was the journey?"
"Oh, you know, we were lucky with the weather." He smiles, a chortle of amusement quivering between his lips. He reaches for his chest as he coughs again.
"A very English remark I daresay." Even with how hollow and fragile he looks; his eyes still sparkle with something resembling the laughter that she loved so much about her father. His voice is shakier now though, and she realises that he probably won't be able to talk for long. "Robert came with you then?" She nods, and he seems to nod with her. She thinks he is thinking something very specific but he doesn't say it. "I'm afraid this room works like a theatre at the moment. One-way conversation. You have to do most of the talking, because I can't." His words start to go croaky mid-way through the sentence, falling to a whistling whisper as he struggles to find the air required to speak, before almost vanishing entirely at the end. The coughing fit resumes and the nurse appears again – she must be stationed outside the door Cora thinks. There is more blood, more sipping of water. The nurse offers him some pain relief, but he turns it down.
"I suppose I should tell you about Downton." He nods, and she begins. She starts with what he knows, the walks she likes to take and what the gardens look like. She tells him of her walks around the lake and the way she liked to sit on the folly looking back at the Abbey.
"How's Violet?" Cora shrugs, a smile sneaking across her face at the ease at which they had fallen back into their normal conversational habits. Their world and their relationship might be shattering around them, but he was determined to make this as normal as possible.
"Oh, you know, as good as to be expected. Nothing new, she never did hide the fact that she wold have liked Robert to marry an English girl. But I'm managing her." He chortles, the sound catching in his throat, he coughs again. He doesn't start choking this time though. "I'll have to be more careful about saying things that make you laugh."
"I'm days from death. I want to laugh." Hearing the words come from him, confirming his acceptance that death was closing in, still her, but she pushes away the terror and smiles back at him. If time was running short, he was right, these were their final moments to laugh. She could lose herself in the grief afterwards. She had survived the worry about not making it here in time, she had started her grieving on the ship over, but he was alive. There was time now. The grief could wait.
"I've learnt to manage Lady Grantham, she's much like mother really."
"Robert?" The intonation of his voice makes it clear he is asking how Robert is, how her marriage is. She tells him about their walks, about the things she and Robert discuss. She tells him about the times he makes her laugh and the times when he upsets her. She doesn't stop talking, the thoughts keep coming and she keeps speaking them. She tries to keep away from the sad things, so she talks about Rosamund's wedding and her new house in London. She thinks of as many insignificant details as she can think of about her new life and she shares them. She makes him chortle softly again when she talks him through the pattern of her 'Countess lessons with the Countess.' She finds she even manages to laugh with him.
He begins to drift off, she can see his eyes fluttering shut, but she keeps talking. As his eyes close, her voice begins to waver, her thoughts gathering around the idea that he might go to sleep and not wake up again, that this might be the last conversation they have. It seems unlikely, he really wasn't as bad as she had expected. Nevertheless, time was no longer his friend. His lack of any signs of being able to hear her, and the steady deep breaths that assure her of his sleep allow her to admit her deeper thoughts into the space.
As she clutches at his hand she tells him of her dreams to have Robert's children and the fears she has that she cannot. She expresses her confusion about the intimate aspects of her marriage, she asks him if he thinks there is a way to bring that fulfilment to her that she knows must surely follow the coiling springs of desire that flex in her abdomen. She gets a little embarrassed at that pronouncement, but he shows no signs of hearing her, and she relaxes again.
Eventually she runs out of things to say. The room is awash with only the sound of their breathing. Her father's rattles slightly. She swallows, she ought to go and say a proper greeting to her mother and Harold, and find Robert, she had abandoned him. Three hours had drifted away and she hadn't even taken her coat or hat off from the travelling.
She stands, pressing a soft kiss to her father's forehead. As she turns to walk towards the door, a shadow falls into the room and Robert steps around the door. He glances around the door, assessing her father and his state of consciousness before his gaze meets hers. He speaks softly.
"How is he?" She shrugs, stepping towards him. He still has one hand on the door. She reaches forward and grasps the other one. He squeezes her hand. "Your mother wondered if you were ready for some refreshments now? She thought you might be tired?"
"I am, and I would like some tea." She glances once more back at her sleeping father before slipping from the room, Robert is right behind her. He follows her down the stairs and she heads in the direction of the parlour she thinks her mother would have chosen to lay tea. She removes her coat on the way, leaving it on a chair in the hallway. "I'm sorry I ran off, I rather abandoned you."
"Don't apologise. I was fine, Harold and your mother have shown me my room and everything."
"Yes, but – "
"No buts Cora, we came so you could be with your father. Everything else comes after him." The tears prick at her corners of her eyes again. What with Robert's sincerity and care, and the rattling of her father's breaths resonating in her head, she feared she was going to spend the majority of the next few days fighting back tears.
She steps into the parlour and Robert drifts into the background. Her mother's arms embrace her. She can't remember the last time her mother had hugged her and certainly not this hard, not like this. But then, nothing was going to be like this. She finds herself reflexively clawing her arms around her mother and taking a deep breath to inhale the perfume that although still as pungent as ever, was oddly calming. They cling to each other for some time and she knows that her mother must be struggling, there would be no other reason for her to overdo physical affection. When she does relinquish her and Harold step forward to kiss her cheeks, she sees that her mother is crying.
"It's all happened so quickly." She lowers herself into her usual chair in the parlour; she realises dimly that Robert is sat in her father's chair – she would have to ask him not to do that. Her mother is still wiping away tears, she sees Robert helping her with her handkerchief and offering her drink. She turns her attention to Harold.
"What has happened exactly?"
"The doctor believes the cancer has spread. He had a sort of seizure, the day we sent that telegram, and he has had others since."
"I see." Her hand shakes and she has to look away from her brother. She feels the shaking as it quivers up her arm, making her elbow unsteady before seeping up to her shoulder and neck then finally coming to a vicious point that she can't return from as her jaw starts to tremble and her lips quiver. "How long?"
"Not long. Less than a month." She grips the arm of her chair, exhaling a puff of air in a long drawn out action. Harold reaches towards her and takes one of her hands, but she finds her gaze drifting around the room to the only person she truly believes can bring her any comfort. His blue eyes are there, waiting for hers. They are shrouded by anguish and sadness, but they are here. She had been so wrong when she had told him in her anger after the bazaar that she could have come alone; there was no way she was going to be able to shoulder this without him to hold her up. "Robert was very good to bring you."
"He is good, he's…" She isn't sure what the word is she is looking for. She still has her eyes locked with his across the room as she talks to Harold, taking as much of her strength as she can from his reassuring presence. "He's so kind, Harold."
"In the next few days make sure he spends some time with father. It would be good for father to know him just a little more before the end." She just nods. She hadn't thought much about Robert in relation to her father, or any of her family really. She had always been more focussed on her relationships with his family, since England was their home. Her mother's voice cuts into her thoughts.
"Cora dear, I've had your old room prepared for you, Robert is next door, I hope that's convenient?" She actually feared the idea of sleeping in her old room, there were so many memories of her father in that room; hugs, kisses, laughs and him reading to her. She didn't think she would be able to sleep in there, even if sleep hadn't been eluding her for days. Then there was Robert, she did not like the idea of him visiting her in the bedroom of her adolescence – it didn't seen fitting. She doesn't say that, it was too trivial a concern to be discussing, none of them had time for arguing over sleeping arrangements. If it became unbearable she would ask the staff to make up a different room.
"Yes, of course."
"How was he?"
"Mainly asleep. I think he was only awake for about half an hour." Her mother nods, but even that is sunken and shallow. Her mother had always been so strong, so unequivocally invincible. It was more than strange to see her weak and uncertain. It was naïve to realise that she had not taken time to consider how her mother might cope, she had just brazenly assumed that she would cope and that was that. Looking at her now, Cora wasn't so sure.
"I should go and sit with him." She stands, taking her cup from the table with her. As she gets to the doorway she seems to straighten up more decidedly and Cora hears her mutter something to herself under her breath, but she can't catch the words. The gesture reminded her of what she does when tackling Lady Grantham – straightens her back and keep her chin up, it was all in the mentality of the situation and remaining in control even when you felt like crumbling.
"How is mother coping?"
"Oh, you know, there are momentary breakdowns, but she just about holds it together. She is feeling more than she lets on of course, but then, this is mother. Oh, and she refuses to cry in front of father, she hardly acknowledges that he's dying when she's with him. She berates him and laughs at him just as she always has."
"Good." Harold furrows his brow and tilts his face towards her, his gaze is questioning. "We should do the same. What would be the point in grieving him before he is gone when we can have these last days with him sharing as much as joy as possible?" She hears Harold's heavy swallow beside her and then his hand grasping hers firmly and without any inclination of letting go.
He knew his parents-in-law had money; he wouldn't have been their son-in-law if they hadn't. What he had not considered was what that was going to look like in the flesh. He wasn't jealous of the mansion on the coast of Rhode Island, Newport but he was seriously impressed. More impressed than he had expected to be.
He had heard about these sorts of stories this side of the Atlantic. He knew that the last decade had been filled with the novelle-rich building or buying mansions in Newport and he had known Cora's family had a house here, but seeing it was quite something else.
Where Downton was a castle, the mansion looked and felt like a house. It was three stories, with a fourth for the servants' rooms. The building was made from a sort of salmon shade of stone, with a neat red roof. The house had two clear wings with a central section that joined the two; he supposed it looked like the letter 'H' from above. On the second floor, this inset section allowed for a covered balcony to be present on both sides; additional non-covered balconies resting above them from the third floor. The view from one looked straight over the green grass and out to the sea. An integral part of the external structure was the use of pillars. The covered open sections on the second floor were lined with pillars, and the ground floor had extravagant arches leading to the front door.
Inside, the opulence was beyond what he had imagined. In many ways it was grander than Downton. The chandeliers were certainly larger. He knew that many American families from the circles the Levinsons came from purchased a great quantity of their furniture from Europe in an attempt to copy the style and gain the appearance of the inherited life. Cora's parents had done the same, but they also hadn't. There was something modern in some of the choices they had made. They had stayed away from dark textiles and wood for the walls, and instead chosen lighter shades. It made the house feel incredibly light and open. They had followed this soft used of colours into the furnishings they had chosen – everything was light – there was nothing dark or heavy anywhere except in the tones of some of the wooden furniture.
He had realised that the rooms used for entertaining were more opulent, he'd accidently stumbled into the ballroom on his way to breakfast, and found that was a room that could have easily been mistaken for being in London. The dining room had a similar opulence – made for entertaining. His mother would have been very disappointed to see that Cora had in fact lived in possibly greater opulence than she ever would at Downton. Her father had multiple houses, no doubt most of them as extravagant as this one. It might not have the history of Downton, but it wasn't missing much else. The bedrooms were larger, every room was larger. The whole house was designed for entertaining, but the family had just about managed to leave their mark on those parts less exposed to others scrutiny to make a family home too.
He follows Cora up the stairs and into her father's bedroom. Harold and Martha are already in the room, the latter sat on the bed beside her husband and clutching his hand. Robert had studied the room briefly yesterday when he had come to find Cora after her three hours solitude with her father. He had seen straightaway why Mr Levinson has insisted on coming here to spend his final days. He had a view from his bed straight out through three massive windows to his vast green lawn and then the sea. Even as autumn began to chill the air, when the sun shone, as it did this morning, the sparkle of the sea was beautiful. The walls are a light turquoise, much like the sea beyond. The bed was the central focus with its dark wood, the rest of the furniture in the room matched it.
That this was in fact Martha's bedroom had not escaped his notice. There was a mirror and dressing table between the windows that was clearly laid with women's cosmetics. One wall had a bookcase set into the wall which contained books and photographs that suggested they shared this room, not just the bed. He imagined there was a dressing room nearby that held Mr Levinson's clothes, but that was irrelevant, to all intents and purposes this was their bedroom.
Harold moves to the chair nearest the door and Robert finds himself stepping further into the room. Isidore's gaze settles on him, he gestures to the seats to his left, furthest from the door and on the side of the bed he dominated, Martha being sat on the side nearest the door. Cora takes a seat nearest to her father, and takes his hand.
"Don't be shy Robert, take a seat." Isidore gestures once more to the vacant chair beside Cora. It seemed the seats had been purposely arranged this way – clearly there were plans afoot. He supposed that wasn't surprising. The reality of the matter was they hardly knew each other. There hadn't been many private moments for Robert to spend undivided time with just Cora's family when they had all been at Downton. Now, time was running out. It was only reasonable the man wanted to gain a little more insight into the man who had stolen his daughter away.
"I don't want to intrude Mr Levinson." He laughs, or at least Robert assumes that was the intention of the sound. It comes out a sort of hacking sound and a sudden inhalation of a deep sharp sounding breath at the end as he struggles for air. When he has recovered he shakes his head, his voice quieter when he speaks again.
"You're family and it's Isidore, please. We don't have time for ceremony." The sentence takes a while for him to utter between deep struggles for breath.
"Isidore has written down some questions he wants to ask you." Martha gestures to Cora for her to pass the folded piece of paper on the table beside Isidore. Martha flicks it open. "He struggles to talk for too long, so he thought this might be easier." Robert wasn't sure he was keen on the idea of questions, and he hated talking about himself, but now was not the time for fussing. Life was hanging in the balance.
The questions begin simply, very basic things – books he likes, family history, foods, a traditional year at Downton, countries he had visited, extended family he liked and disliked, childhood memories of Downton. He found some of the questions a little strange, unsure why Isidore would want to know such things, none of them seemed relevant to anything really. But it did expose how little they had spoken when the Levinsons had been guests at Downton. Martha and Harold add their questions as they go, laughing about things they thought must be exaggerated about life in England, but they were quickly finding possibly weren't. Robert was conscious on a number of occasions of doing a great deal too much talking – did they not want to have time together to remember and laugh without him? He was an intruder in their mist. But, each time he asks, Isidore shakes his head and murmurs about him not getting away that easily.
The questions get harder as they progress. He is asked about things that had changed his life; people he admires and why; books that had meant something to him; subjects he wants to learn more about. He finds with these that he gets some respite as Cora, Martha and Harold add their own answers to the conversation, but it doesn't stop his thoughts from tumbling as he struggles to think of answers, or articulate them properly.
He realises as their comments follow seamlessly after each other and they raise eyebrows at each other and challenge each other that this was a group of four people that went somewhat beyond family. They were friends, and they talked openly, they debated. Not like his home where his mother spoke and there was no debate about her decisions. There was an inclusivity here and minimal judgement. He didn't doubt there were rules too, and it wasn't always perfect. He knew Cora had a rocky relationship with her mother and a somewhat distant one with her brother but that was as individuals. As a group of four they went together seamlessly, like jigsaw pieces. Isidore's passing was going to have a deeper effect than Robert had first realised, possibly Cora's marriage had already loosened some of the ties that bound them, a death would undoubtedly sever quite a few.
"I'd like to speak to Robert alone for a minute, and then rest." Isidore's quiet, but authorative request breaks up the chatter that Martha and Harold were engaged in and brings Robert back to the present and away from his wandering thoughts. It was clear that his father-in-law wanted to take the opportunity to say something serious. The feeling of discomfort was already beginning to sweep rapidly through him. The conversation was obviously going to be about Cora and his thoughts were in a complete swirl every time he thought about Cora and their marriage. How was he supposed to discuss something he was struggling to understand? "Cora seems very happy with you Robert."
"Yes. I think so, she says so." He smiles half-heartedly. The only thing worse than living with Cora's unwavering love for him was when other people pointed it out and sort of tripped him into feeling even more guilty. Coming from her dying father, it almost burned.
"And you?" His voice is raspy and he coughs but shakes his head when Robert stands on reflex to help him as he had been watching Martha do. The question itself makes Robert swallow, and consider. The sips of water Isidore has to take are a thankful reprieve for Robert as he tries to gather his thoughts. Nobody had asked him how he was feeling about his marriage. He and Cora spoke about elements of their marriage and were doing generally well at discussing their concerns and worries, but nobody had ever asked him overall how he was feeling about it all.
"Cora is…she is more than I could have imagined in so many ways. She is more than I deserve. I am happy, yes. But I worry a lot too, about making her happy and living up to her expectations and working out how exactly I go about trying to deserve her."
"Stop trying. Focus on the marriage and what you can make it. Get the foundations right and I'd say you have more than a good chance of keeping her happy forever."
"There are just so many thoughts and emotions that I hadn't anticipated and I just can't seem to figure them all out yet." This was an understatement. His thoughts ranged from guilt, an insatiable desire for her, to wanting to protect her and the heart she had given him. Then there were the wonderings about what love really was and whether he could develop that strength of feeling for Cora.
"As I said, stop trying. You're a good man Robert. Just behave as you think is right and you won't go far wrong." They lapse into a silence, Isidore taking the time to gently sip at some water. Robert thinks he sees him wincing in pain before he adjusts his position against the pillows. His eyes begin to drift shut more frequently, tiredness was clearly close to overcoming him. His eyes remain closed when he speaks again, his consciousness slipping. "Look after her for me."
"Of course."
"After I met Martha I never thought I could love another person as much as I loved her." Isidore's eyes remain closed and he speaks slowly, between shaking emotional breaths. "But Cora captured me instantly. You will understand when you have a child." Robert swallows. He finds that he stops blinking, as he just stares at the closed eyes of his father-in-law as his own eyes cloud with water. He was meant to be being strong, for Cora, but he was quickly concluding that watching a man dying before your eyes, and watching him interact with his loved ones in the last days of his life, was not going to be as easy as he had thought. He had thought his emotional distance from Isidore would help – it did not. The realities of life were stark and naked when you were watching a man struggle to cling to life. They were even more real when he was talking about grandchildren he would never see. "I think Cora might feel isolated from her mother and brother once I pass Robert. She has always found them a little difficult, Martha especially. Will you try and make sure they all see each other?"
"Of course. I don't doubt there will be many occasions for visits on both sides."
"Thank you." Robert studies him as his eyes strain against closing. The lids quiver and flex as Isidore seemingly tries to open them again. The lids are wrinkled and fragile. He had aged ten years or more since Robert had met him eighteen months ago in Paris. Even since he had departed in April there was a marked change. Robert had been expecting him to look ill, of course he had, the man was dying, but the reality of it was harder than he had imagined. Isidore's eyes are sunken and despite all the time he spent sleeping, there are rings beneath them, dark rings that seem to seep death from them. The breathing was the most marked thing that had changed though. The man could no longer speak in full sentences or louder than a whisper. A moment of attempted laughter sent him into a coughing fit. He had only known this man eighteen months, he hardly knew him at all. Whereas Cora was about to lose her father. He had no idea at all how he was going to support his wife as she grieved her father. He was no good at understanding emotion. He struggled with his own, let alone anyone else's.
He blinks away the accumulating tears and stands. His mother had told him to look out for her health – to make sure she slept and ate. His grandmother had advocated hugs and giving Cora what she wanted. He would have to stick with that for the moment. It had worked on the voyage – the afternoon reading to her over afternoon tea had seemed to relax her. But maybe that had been because the issue of Evelyn had finally been lifted from the space it occupied in her mind.
He's about to disappear out the door, his head swimming with the memory of Cora lying against him as he had read to her when Isidore startles back into consciousness.
"Will you bring your children here Robert, to America? To this house? They should learn of the place where their mother grew up."
"Of course." Isidore's eyes flutter closed and Robert leaves the room. He doesn't get far, having to come to a stop to lean against the wall. The words were easy to say. It was so simple to just agree to the wishes of a dying man; the thoughts it churns up are less easy to deal with. Robert felt an acute sense of hurt that Isidore was having to ask him to do these things, was having to make the pleas of a dying man because that was all the power he had. Life was so excruciatingly unfair. He hardly knew the man his daughter had married, he would never see his grandchildren and he was having to resort to dying pleas to ensure that his grandchildren even saw the home that had been their mother's. This was a man who had built an empire, had achieved more in his fifty or so years of life than Robert expected to achieve in a lifetime. What if his life was cut this short? What if he died and had achieved absolutely nothing? Worse than that, what if he ruined what he did have? What if he let his family down? Or Cora?
He turns away from the stairs and pads softly to this room down the corridor. It would not be wise to go downstairs feeling so emotional. It was for them to be emotional, not him. He needed to hold it together.