A few things before we begin:
1, there is a new story from yours truly because i fancy myself prolific and really absolutely deranged as though i got no life. I don't. It's Cobert, it's called Crimson, and no matter how crazy you think I am, do give it a shot.
2, This is long and will probably look like it's written by both Jekyll and Hyde, it's kind of off, not my fave but i never do like anything i write, so please just be gentle when you're reaming my ass for writing so horribly.
3, I'd like to thank everyone for your patience and support and understanding and your willingness to go with me through this ride, because honestly, I'm a bit surprised people read my stuff.
4, I hope it is not too forward of me to ask, but if anyone could make me a cover image for this story or collide or crimson I will love you forever.
as usual, mistakes are mine, always have been.
Anyway, that's it, mostly so enjoy beauties!
Chapter Eight
They say time's supposed to heal you, I haven't done much healing
"Who are you?" she asks him with a quivering voice, the fear in them palpable even to her. Even her hands were shaking, and she couldn't seem to stop. She finds a pair of eyes staring at her, the pain in them flowing through.
She has woken finding herself in a strange room, and she'd been panicked, not minding anything from her surrounding and just rushing downstairs whilst trying to make sense of what is happening to her. She doesn't know where she is, a fact that had become even more apparent when she'd found herself in the den and had still been unable to pinpoint exactly where she is. She had been on the verge of tears when she heard someone behind her and she'd found a man staring at her blankly…still staring blankly, to be quite honest.
She repeats her question more firmly, "Who are you?"
She watches him swallow, averting his eyes and drawing in breath as though it is his strength, "I'm Robert," he says, but the name means nothing to her currently. "Have you not read your journal today, darling?"
She looks up at him in confusion. "What journal?" she asks with a little bit of apprehension. She is conversing with a virtual stranger who appears to be sharing her shelter.
"The journal where you put your memories, you keep it on your side table," he explains calmly. But she isn't easily persuaded or calmed, and she stares at him with a modicum of fear and confusion.
Fortunately for him, she notices her mother walk in the room and she exhales in relief, running past the man—Robert—to throw herself at her Mother's arms. Her mother stands stiff with confusion at first, before Cora feels Martha's arms wrap around her. Martha whispers soothing words onto Cora's ears, and it does help a bit.
"Maybe you should come up with me and we will find that journal of yours, hmm?" Martha suggests, turning to Cora slightly whilst keeping her arms around her daughter's shoulders.
Cora lets her mother steer her up the stairs, not really entirely certain of where she is headed to. All of it now seems like a horrible nightmare, only she doesn't know how and when she'll wake up. What is worse is that she understands, fully, that this is her reality.
"…And you've been doing so well," Cora hears Martha mutter and she turns her head to look at her mother.
"Who?" Cora asks, confused now. How long has she been like this?
"You and Robert," Martha says without missing a beat, and she looks at her daughter with pity that Cora really doesn't want or need right now.
Right at this moment what she needs and wants are answers.
…
Robert watches his mother-in-law steer his wife up the stairs to her bedroom, where hopefully they could locate the journal that had been missing. He feels despondent, dejected, defeated, with the recent events. He feels like he has fallen and he is entirely unsure how to get up from it.
Things have been going so well, with Cora remembering for longer periods of time now, and with her allowing him to kiss her like she had the night before, with their date, and mostly, everything that has unfolded the past few months. Now, it feels like he is back to square one.
Technically, he does understand that he isn't back to square one, he knows that. It is a momentary set back, a page in their book where it's been left blank, but he is sure that they could start writing their story again. But though logically he knows this, his heart aches as the image of her looking at him with fear and confusion pops in his mind. It reminds him of that very first night in the hospital where she had been so confused and afraid, her memories of the past six years wiped from her mind. She had looked at him blankly, the recognition so very absent from her eyes, and the fondness in which she used to regard him—all that gone.
He sighs, now, as he makes his way to the couch and sits down. He lets his elbow rest against his thighs, his head falling onto his open palms. He is frustrated, sad, tired, heartbroken yet again, not only for himself, but also for Cora, his wife—mostly, for her. It is hard for him, no doubt, but it must be so much harder for her because it is her life, once again, that has been wiped from her mind.
He consoles himself with the fact that tomorrow, she might not forget. And that maybe one day, she never will.
He tries to distract himself, and it doesn't work, he still keeps on thinking of his wife, upstairs, probably trying to find her journal, and when she does, she'll probably be crying again because of what she might find out about herself and her condition. He wants to be the one to console her, wants to be the one who wraps his arms around her and catch her, comfort her, but he knows very well he cannot be, not yet and not now, so he pretends that distraction works.
He makes himself some tea, and picks at the breakfast that Mrs. Patmore had gone through the trouble to prepare. He doesn't taste the food, and only mechanically is he even able to eat. His mind wanders, and he cannot quite help himself from wondering what is next now.
He is so deep in thoughts that he is surprised when the chair beside him makes a scraping sound against the floor and he looks up to find his mother in law, looking so tired and so defeated.
Panic rises, but he tamps it down.
"Is she okay?" he asks, getting the immense feeling of de ja vu working its way through his mind. He awaits the answer with baited breath, almost too sure that Cora is not at all okay.
"She's fine," Martha says with a sigh, but of course they both know that Cora is everything but fine at the moment. "She's confused, but she's asked not to be disturbed as she goes through every page of her journals. We found it lodges between the mattress and the headboard, no wonder she hadn't seen it." Martha purses her lips. "I just hope she doesn't fly off the handle again when she finds out about her father and the baby."
Of course. How could he forget?
He nods at his mother in law and then sighs, head dropping and tears prickling his eyes. He doesn't cry, of course not, not in front of anyone anyway—the nights he spends crying himself to sleep are not to be known by anyone but himself.
"I hope so," he agrees, not really knowing what to say anymore. They've been through this, quite a lot, but it doesn't make it hurt less.
"We all know there would be setbacks," Martha reminds him, and he knows this, of course he does. "But don't worry, it's not like we're back to square one."
He's had the same thought, but it doesn't feel like that right now.
"I just wish it would end," he says solemnly, looking up from his cup to stare at a wall. "Not for me, but for her. I just wish she doesn't have to hurt so much, anymore."
"I know," Martha mutters, just as she reaches for the breakfast that he knows she won't be able to taste, as well, given the events of this morning. "In due time, I know it would all be okay."
He nods. He certainly hopes so.
…
Cora scans the pages of her journal, the current one, as she's been told that she has two—one for the past and one for the more recent events. She has explained her condition in the very first entry elaborately, going through so much detail about what it is and what she might feel upon waking.
"I feel sad and lost, confused and afraid. That is perfectly normal. It is, after all, six years of my life stolen from me by this amnesia, what's even worse is that I might not remember this tomorrow, when I wake once more. But I know I shouldn't be afraid. I just need to trust mother. And trust Robert. I might not remember it, but he is my husband, and he understands what I am going through, he won't do anything that might hurt or harm me. There are so many things I might not understand, but I don't want to fret. I believe that one day, it will come clear. I only need to take one step at a time," she reads through her entry aloud, letting the words sink into her.
She knows all of these to be true, knows that the Cora who had written that had been afraid too, but had been able to trust the man she couldn't remember. Cora thinks that it might not be so bad, then, after all, only a bit difficult, but she'll learn. She doesn't know him, doesn't remember him, but from the events from this morning, she had been able to read his face and she had seen the utter heart break in his eyes when she'd asked him who he was.
She turns another page, and reads.
"Today, I found out that my father is dead. I've cried, cursed at my husband and my mother. I cried my heart out because they hadn't told me right away, but now I understand and I must learn to accept that they thought they were doing what is best for me. After all, I won't even remember tomorrow. I should know, as well, that it isn't so much as not knowing, but more the fact that he is gone and I cannot remember if I even had a chance to say goodbye."
Cora wipes away the tears that have coursed down her cheeks, though she is unsuccessful in her attempt to dry them. Her words are true, and she feels empty. She has always been her father's child, and now, she cannot even remember the last time they had spoken.
"Today, I've also learned of a child I do not remember. It feels awful that I cannot remember, feels like I'm the worst person because this is my child, and I'm supposed to know, but I don't. And Robert says that I cannot keep blaming myself for that because that is not my fault. I know. I'm sick. I have amnesia. I won't even remember tomorrow when I wake up. But it hurts. And I cannot help but feel guilty. The look on Robert's face had been enough to break my heart, the fact that the baby I don't remember conceiving and bearing is now gone had broken me beyond belief. I don't remember having it, and I don't remember losing it…there is so much heartache. Even worse, I'm going to have to go through it over and over again until I regain my memories and I finally am able to store new ones…"
Cora sobs uncontrollably as she reads through this specific entry, the heartbreak radiating from the way she's written it, right through her heart and she is no longer capable of holding it in. She feels inconsolable at this point as she slides down through the mattress from her reclining position. She feels as though her heart has shattered, because of a child she has not even known.
She wonders how much pain she can take anymore when she thinks of the life she's ceased to remember.
…
Robert lounges in the den, Martha having gone up to check on Cora once again. He stares mindlessly at the distance, not really knowing what else to do at this point. He supposes he could just leave it up in the air, let nature run its course, but the pain is heavy in his chest and the unknown weighs so much in his mind. He wishes he could change it for her, for his darling wife, but he cannot, and he knows this to be a fact.
He hears the doorbell ring, but he is not in the proper state of mind, so he lets it be, certain that whoever it is, can go to hell for all he cares. Right now, he cannot even face himself in the mirror, much less talk to anyone.
He isn't sure how to deal with people, not yet. In the first few weeks of Cora's accident, his colleagues have expressed their concern, had offered their sincerest apologies and even lent ears to him so he could talk to anyone. But he had been to embedded in his pain that he hadn't taken anyone on it, had actually preferred to be left alone to cry over his inability to protect his wife. He'd blamed himself, so much so, that every time he even sees his wife, he had the biggest urge to go run himself with a car. Of course, that wouldn't help, and he knows it too (he'd known it then, too, and it had been one of the reasons why he hadn't attempted to do so).
His parents had offered to travel to the city, be his support beam through all of this, but he had declined, wanting nothing but to be alone for a moment, and knowing as well that Cora won't have been comfortable. He had been so worried about her, that he'd declined the support he'd been offered, but he'd known as well that Mama would have been reluctant to go anyway, so that had been fine.
Rosamund, his sister, had wanted so much to visit, to help him deal with the pain, to comfort him, but he'd shut her out. She had been patient, understanding even and it had been a surprise at first, that she hadn't tried to push her way into his troubles and pain, but it had been welcomed. He hadn't known how to deal with her then.
To be honest, he wouldn't know how to deal with her now either, and so he hopes that it isn't her and her husband that have come to visit.
Only, he should know by now that nothing ever goes his way as he looks up and finds his sister entering the threshold, a sympathetic look crossing her face once she's taken him in. He must look so pathetic, in his pyjamas, hair in disarray having been uncombed (and also from the many time he'd run his fingers through the strands, out of frustration, anger, defeat), and his eyes glassy from the unshed tears.
"Oh Robert," Ros utters as she runs to his side and takes him in the comfort of her warm embrace. It was only a matter of time before Rosamund would come and visit him, he should have known that—she'd already spent so much time away from him. "What happened?"
Robert now feels unstable, feels the floodgates open and the dam break, and his tears run down his cheeks like a storm. He sobs, body shaking and heart breaking. He loves Cora, loves her so much that it physically hurts him to see her this way.
"Is she okay?" Ros asks. He fees the concern radiating off of her, and he tries to stabilize himself long enough to answer.
"Yes," he tries to let out. He nods once as he pulls away. He stays silent for a few minutes as he tries to compose himself. "She's fine, well, physically anyway. She's been getting better, you know, she's been remembering longer now. But today, today she doesn't remember."
The absolute pity and heartbreak in his sister's eyes makes him look away.
"She has these journals, where she records her daily activities so she knows…she reads them when she forgets…but today it got stuck between the mattress and the headboard and she came down here. I found her, and she looked at me, Ros, with fear and confusion, and she asked me who I was. she doesn't know. Doesn't remember me. I'd always known this could happen, she has woken up without memories before, since the therapy, but…" he pauses as he takes a breath. He feels like shit, feels like a child as he sobs, but is unable to stop the tears from coming. Rosamund is silent, waiting for him to continue. "But she usually stays up in her bedroom for a while, all through breakfast sometimes, sifting through her journals and when she comes down, she's tentative, timid even, but this is the first time she's looked at me with trepidation. And this is the first time she's asked me, again, who I was."
He breaks down once more after his last word and his head falls to his palms, as he feels Rosamund take him into her arms, her hand soothing up and down his back.
But he cannot be consoled. Not yet, no he cannot be.
…
Cora must have been a masochist. Or at least that is what she's deduced of herself as she remains in her bedroom, way past lunch (her food had been delivered to her by one of their employed help), as she'd refused to deal with her mother and her said husband. She'd combed through the journals again, feeling exhausted and reborn, confused and dead. It's a rollercoaster of emotions it seems, as she reads every entry, from the new and the old, giving herself a few minutes in between to digest. It doesn't work, her mind is in a jumble and it is a rather large mess, but she likes to pretend that she can deal with it and she is fine. The thing, though, is that she is not.
She's had a good life, from what she could read from her entries, she'd had a pretty good life. There had been bumps and adversaries on the way, but she'd managed to be happy, with her husband on her side, and the rest of her family. There had been a mention of Rosamund too, who is apparently her husband's sister, of an estate in Yorkshire owned by Robert's family that she has fallen in love with. There too had been a mention of a distant relative named Isobel, who she had met in passing, from a party in the estate. Pity that she cannot remember it now.
But what her heart aches most to remember had been her love with her husband. She had written so fondly of him, had clearly loved him dearly, and she had in turn been able to feel the way he loved, loves, her. There have been moments when she'd find herself tearing up at some of the events she's read, aching so much to have it all back.
"He had finally admitted his feelings. After a year of knowing and dating each other, he's finally said it, the three words I've been longing to hear. I had been afraid at first that it had been nothing but a game to him, a momentary stop on his way, but this is real now, he's admitted to being in love with me, too, and I cannot help but feel like my heart is going to explode from the happiness I feel. He loves me, even better: he is in love with me. The way his blue eyes had sparkled when he'd said it, though he'd been nervous and shy to admit it at first, I will never forget it…his smile, the way he smelled, his clothes, his lips as he said the words, and then on mine…it will forever be engraved in my memory."
Ironic how she remembers none of that, she feels like she's spoken too soon.
This one had been from the older journal, the one she's kept through the years and had documented her relationship with her husband. It had been beautiful, most of the entries being happy ones. But she cannot remember any of it. With a frustrated sigh, she chucks the journal and crawls out of the bed to take a shower, hoping she'd get some clarity if she does.
Probably not.
She decides to stay inside her bedroom for the rest of the day.
…
The day is downhill after that as Cora refuses to have to do anything with him or her mother for that matter. Rosamund had stayed, until she had to leave for dinner with her husband. She'd offered to stay and just have Duke come over at Robert's, but Robert had vetoed that quickly, saying that at least one of them had a chance at ending the night in a better note. Rosamund had left with great reluctance, but had left nonetheless, after a lengthy goodbye from him and Martha.
Martha had opted to rest in her bedroom too after lunch and a bit of chat with his sister, unable to deal with the emotional stress the day had given them. He knows she had checked on Cora before she's sequestered herself in the guest bedroom, and though he longs to do that himself, he refrains. It's probably for the best that he doesn't bother his wife right now, not while her memories aren't at its best.
He spends dinner alone (Martha had opted to follow her daughter's footsteps and take it in her bedroom), the empty silence being his only companion. It is deafening how loud the silence had been, and he had quickly lost his appetite after the second bite.
He roams around the silent and dark house, ghosting through every room as he is assaulted by the memories he's built with his wife. This is their home, every single nook and cranny, every space and crevice holding a piece of their marriage and love, but none that she remembers now. None that she will remember for a long while.
He feels incomplete, like a part of him is gone and torn away from him, stolen by grief and unfortunate events that have transpired since his wife's accident. He'd like to blame someone, but he cannot, there is no one to blame.
He drifts to the pantry mindlessly, going to the liquor cabinet almost automatically. He takes the strongest alcoholic beverage and pours himself a glass, and then another, the fiery feeling soothing down his throat all too welcomed by him. He pours himself another one, and before he knows it, he's almost downed half a dozen.
The alcohol numbs the pain down, he reasons to himself, trying to justify his behavior, knowing that he couldn't—drinking is no solution.
But nothing ever is, and so drinking it is, until he finds away to reconcile himself with the pain of possibly waking up to a day like this one.
He is pouring another glass when he hears the door squeak, and he stiffens, replacing the bottle where he's found it, before he holds the glass tightly in his arms, knuckles turning white almost with his grip. Not that it matters, for his heart is pounding and his mind is racing. Slowly, he turns, eyes widening, and his throat growing dry.
"Cora," he barely manages.
…
"He loves me," Cora reads aloud. She holds her journal up over head as she lies sprawled on the bed. She's had her shower long ago, has refused to have any dinner because she knows she isn't able to keep it down anyway. She has taken into reading through the journals once more, now choosing the more recent one, the one which documents her daily activities. Most of those entries had been painful to read, but she'd sensed a kind of security, even contentment, through the pages, as though she had been willing to accept it. "He loves me, he's said so, and I feel it. And I can feel his heart breaking every single day that I don't and cannot remember. He doesn't blame me, in fact, and sadly, he blames himself. There isn't anything he could have done though. It just happened. He loves me, I can feel it…but I wonder if it is really me he loves…or the woman I am supposed to be."
Cora sighs and flips the page once more, the weight now too heavy in her chest.
"I can feel his longing. He longs for the wife he knows, the wife he remembers, but I cannot. I know even without him saying, that he expects or at least he hopes that I'll remember and we will find our way to each other again. But what if I don't? What if I cannot? Will he stay by my side? And can I in good conscience let him, even if I know that I might never be the woman he wants me to be, ever again?"
She shakes her head this time and flips again. This time, she reads the most recent one, the one from yesterday.
"I had the most spectacular day. Robert has taken me to the places that he and the old me used to go to. He is wonderful, and I had seen in his eyes the merriment when he'd told me the stories of his love, our love. I felt him, felt it, but I cannot remember. And I had been so caught up in all of it that I let him kiss me goodnight. Not that I regret it, the kiss had been too spectacular…but I'm afraid. I'm afraid because I am not even sure what that would mean for us now. Does this mean I have feelings for him, even if I cannot remember him? Yes, maybe I do. But do I love him, as much as he loves me? I don't know that. And how long can he wait for me? Is forever long enough for him to keep loving me?"
The words shoot bullets into her heart and she feels physical pain from all of it. Everything is unclear.
Closing the journal and scribbling quickly the events of the day, she then stows it away where she can see it clearly in the morning. She places it right on her bedside, not wanting to take the chance that she loses it again tomorrow. After that, she crawls out of the bed and pads out of the bedroom in search of her husband.
It is late, he might be asleep, but she needs to tell him some things, needs to get things off her chest. She is worried that she might not remember it tomorrow, and she really wants to tell him now. If she is honest, she isn't certain how to say it, or what the exact words should be in all of this, but she needs to talk to him, to make him understand. She finds him in the library, drinking, and her heart goes to him, she understands now how he feels, she might not know exactly, but she can imagine.
"Cora?" he stammers once he turns and finds her standing by the entryway. He looks a bit dazed, confused, but he offers her a smile—one that turns to be more of a grimace.
She smiles at him too, before she enters, taking a seat on one of the couches. He looks at her questioningly, and she pats the space beside her, willing him to take the seat even if she does feel kind of nervous.
"Cora?" he repeats, asking his question without all the words.
"I wanted to talk to you," she tells him, watching as he puts his glass down and takes the steps towards her, sinking down on the couch next to her. He looks at her, his heart in his eyes. "I wanted to apologize." She sees him ready to protest and she holds her hands up and shakes her head. "Let me finish please." At his nod, she does. "I want to apologize for what I'm putting you through. I know it isn't easy for you, to watch me, day by day forget the memories we shared. I know it cannot be easy to live with me knowing that there is a large chance that tomorrow, I might not remember this conversation, much less who you are."
He nods, but doesn't speak.
"I just…she loved you," she whispers, looking away because she is embarrassed and unsure of what she is saying. He is silent, probably wondering what the hell she's talking about. "Your Cora, she loved you, very much. I could see it in the way she, or rather, I've written those entries long ago. I don't know how your last conversation with her went, but she did love you, if she's ever neglected to tell you."
It doesn't escape her notice that she's talking about her past self as if she's a separate entity, and she is pretty sure that Robert notices it too.
"If she has forgotten or had been too busy, then I could assure you she did," she says then pauses, breathing in deeply. Here comes the hard part. "But I, me…the woman in front of you, speaking to you about how much her old self loved you…I am unsure. I know I am her, your Cora, but, I don't feel like I am her. I don't think I could reconcile myself with the woman I used to be, the one you remember, The one you want me to remember. And lord knows how badly I want to be, to spare you of the pain when you have obviously loved her so much, but I cannot. I cannot find her in the depths of my soul, or in my brain. And I don't think I could ever live up to her."
Tears have now escaped her eyes and they course down her cheeks. Robert reaches up to wipe them away, and she lets him. He offers her small smile, pained though as it may be. "I know you might not recall this, but I've told you before, I only want you. You, as in every part of you, those that remembers, and those that might not. I have made a vow to love you, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, for better or for worse. And I know you cannot remember now, and you might never, I accept that, but it doesn't matter because I love you. Completely. Madly. Irrevocably." He caresses her cheek and she cannot help but close her eyes and relish in his touch. "I can never give up on you. I never will."
She looks up at him. "We'll be alright, won't we, Robert?" she asks, though she isn't entirely sure that they will be.
He nods and takes her hand, before leaning in to kiss her forehead.
God, she surely hopes so.
…
The months roll by, and before they know it, it is Christmas. Robert has assumed it would be a quiet affair, just him, Cora and Martha, maybe Rosamund and Duke. Despite the fact that Cora remembers more now, her mind finally functioning correctly and its faculties partially restored—as she'd often say—it isn't the same with her memories of the past six years gone. Sure, she knows of it, on days she remembers and isn't overwhelmed by her condition, but it's mostly second hand. It's come from a little book, a journal, sometimes from his own mouth when he regales her stories of their past, but it isn't the same. It isn't the same as experiencing it, or remembering that she's indeed experienced it.
He doesn't want to overwhelm her. He wants to make this journey as smooth as is possible for her. Mother, though, had quite different plans and had insisted that they come over to Yorkshire, saying that it would do Cora a lot of good to have some fresh air in her lungs and a new perspective. Maybe, she would even find the peace of mind in able to jumpstart her recovery. Of course, these are all just a bunch of cock and bull, as far as he is concerned, and when he'd opened the topic to Martha, although reluctantly, he had been surprised to find that she agreed with Mama. Robert couldn't help but feel like he had been just ganged up on. Furthermore there is nothing that he hated more than taking the choice away from Cora.
With the circumstances as it is, however, the choice really isn't upon her, and though she is getting better, she is far from the best that she could be, or that he hoped she is, and so rather than press the issue at hand, he acquiesces to Mama's request and schleps his wife and mother-in-law over to Grantham.
Cora is wide-eyed and surprised, wondering over the large castle of a house the Crawley's call home, that much he can tell by the gasp that had escaped her mouth once they had arrived. Martha is, of course, unfazed, having come to visit a thousand times over. Their head housekeeper, Mrs. Hughes, greet them along with the rest of the staff, and of course his parents. He shoots his wife a look, and her anxiety is written clearly across her face for everyone to see. Martha throws a glance his way, even as his own parents seem oblivious to this mere fact.
"Come winter, come spring, come fall," Martha says in lieu of a greeting as she makes her way to his parents and offers Mama a kiss on the cheek and Papa a hug, "and Downton and the people in it still stands."
Cora, who has been faring better lately with her memory, and has in fact woken up with her memory from the previous week still intact, leans over to him and whispers, "Downton?"
They have hung back a little as his parents and her mother chat. The chauffeur takes their luggage from the boot of the car, and then tips his hat at them, prompting Robert to nod, before he excuses himself and drives away. Some of the staff inch forward to take their things, greeting him with enthusiasm, and slight trepidation for Cora. Mother must have warned them of Cora's current condition.
Robert nods, placing a hand at the small of his wife's back to nudge her forward gently. She seems to have been stuck to the ground—out of fright, out of awe—probably both. "Yes, the Downton Estate," he whispers back, suddenly hit once more of the fact that his wife no longer remembers (the journal is a big help, but he supposes that there is a lot of information in there that gets lost in translation), "That's the name of the estate."
He watches as a frown steals across her face. The gravel scrunches under the sole of her shoe, but she doesn't seem to take notice of anything, and is more immerse in her confusion and fascination. "You're not some kind of a Lord, are you?" she asks with apprehension.
There is so much she needs to re-learn about her husband, it seems, not that Robert minds teaching her again.
"No," he says as they move forward to his parents. "Descendants of Lords, however. It's in our family line, but we lost our title and all our other properties save this one after the Second World War."
She doesn't say anything, but nods imperceptibly, just as they reach his parents. Mama is first to greet them, his father and Martha having been engaged in a conversation. She takes one look at Cora and nods.
"Cora," she says, not soft but not gruff either, which is light years ahead of how she usually greets anyone, including father. "I hope the journey has been good for you."
Cora nods and extends her hand. "Yes, it was," she answers politely. "Thank you, Mrs. Crawley."
It doesn't escape Robert's notice the way Mama's eyebrow rises or the way Cora seems to be trembling just on the spot. He sighs, ready to cut in and intercept, when Mama clears her throat and give Cora an awkward pat on her shoulder.
"That's Violet to you, my dear," she intones, surprising Robert, and clearly surprising his wife.
Robert is unable to speak, and lets his mother place a kiss upon his cheek, before watching her retreating form with wonder. He throws a look at Papa who only nods his head at him and follows Mama inside.
Robert doesn't miss the look of surprise etched on Martha's face, either.
…
The house (more like a caste, really, in her opinion) is decked in Christmas fineries, ever corner and every room decorated tastefully and craftily. The wreaths that hang by the door are of every design and different colors, the sprigs of holly and mistletoe peppering the ceiling, and the lights hang beautifully at the windows and wrap around the posts.
The most beautiful part is the gigantic Christmas tree that stood right in the middle of their receiving room, just right by the staircase. It is decorated in little ornaments, most of them made of glass crystals. It is wrapped with white Christmas lights and instead of tinsel, Cora could see a gold and white ribbon snaking up to the star on the top.
Currently, she is standing right in front of it, staring at it with awe and just admiring its beauty. She could tell that despite whatever misgivings she might have of Violet Crawley, the woman has great tastes. A part of her wishes she could remember.
She supposes she cannot complain, granted how it's been a week and a day and she still has her memories in her head, not the ones from the past six years, but the last week. It's good news, it's progress, just as Baxter had told her. And though she had been apprehensive about this trip, she thinks it to be good for her now, now that she's here and she's taken in the full glory of what her husband used to call home. Despite her initial unease, she finds that this, Downton, Robert's home, gives her peace in a way that she cannot explain.
It must be the quiet, she muses as she stares up at the Christmas tree.
She turns her head when she hears a door creak open and then shut close, and finds her husband walking towards her with a smile. She's been told this morning that he's been out on a ride, on a horse—one of the helpers supplied when she's asked—and at first she'd been anxious, convincing herself that it isn't nothing more than the fact that this is his home and it feels like an intrusion if she went around without him, not to mention that she fears she might actually get lost. It has nothing to do with the fact that she seems to want to be by his side all the time these days.
"You have an ornament there," Robert says, sidling up next to her with a soft smile. He looks at her, eyes twinkling.
She looks about him, confounded. She waits him out, waits patiently for him to clarify.
"It's tradition that every member of the family gets to pick one ornament to hang on the tree. It could be anything you like. Papa's a horse, mama's a dove which personally befuddles me, Rosamund picked a sparrow I think, Marmaduke picked a glass train, I picked a lion, I always loved lions when I was a child, it seemed appropriate. And you said once before that it is fitting." He laughs, but she hears the crack in his voice, the break in his resolve as the memories that she doesn't remember come flooding back to him.
"And what did I pick, Robert?" she asks, looking at him now with eyes. She thinks that the really suits him well. It speaks of him, of who he is, of the man that she's known him to be. But she doesn't want him to feel bad, not now, not when Christmas is upon them.
"Could you venture a wild guess?" he teases, and she bites her lip in wonder, trying to think of what she might have picked. She shakes her head and looks at him. He smiles. "Yours is a rose. I picked it, actually, as you have requested. I told you that behind the beauty and its vulnerability, it can still hurt as much because of its thorn. It has spikes, it's not just beautiful. Just like you." He laughs. "I'm sure I totally bombed that explanation for you, but I do hope you understand what I mean and take no offence."
She shakes her head, her eyes watering as she averts them. She understands very well what he means to say and it's touched her to her very core and she doesn't know what to say. The pain in her chest resounds, hurting terribly…her heart aches, guiltily, wishing she could return his affections for her, tenfold.
…
Robert watches his wife as she zones out of the present and drowns in remorse. She is so guilty, so dejected and so defeated from her condition that he could physically see the effect in has in her. Her shoulders drop and her eyes cloud not only with tears but with blame…blame that she puts upon herself over something that she cannot control.
His heart goes to her, for no matter how hard it is for him now, how unimaginable it seems to him that his wife should not remember him and their life together, it must be more unbearable for her.
Something that he has told himself time and time again.
"If you'll excuse me," she says, turning her back from him before he can say a single word and then she's leaving, half running away from her and carrying with her the pieces of his heart.
The saddest part is that he cannot do anything about it…about his heart or hers.
It is with that thought that he takes himself once more to the grounds, far away from the house, outside where the air is fresh and bitter and cold, hitting his skin, refreshing him and his mind out of his silent and quite depressing soliloquy. He walks toward the hill, right where he used to take her out for a walk on their vacations here in the years past, and this doesn't seem like a good idea after all.
But he forges on, walks and walks through the expansive grounds of the place he once called home. He thinks now, with a little bit of bitterness and a lot of pain in his chest, that not even this could wash him with peace, not even the sight of the trees so lush and so green or the fields extending to and fro for miles and miles could be considered home.
She, Cora, is home to him now, and where she goes his heart went, away with her.
He walks with this in mind, missing her falling into step beside him, arm looped around his, keeping him amply warm. He misses her smile, one that she gives to him freely. Now it is guarded, hard to elicit from her. He walks so much, so long, and so far that he doesn't notice how late it has gotten until the skies are dark and the moon has taken the place of the sun.
He makes his way back to the house with haste, knowing with a degree of certainty that Mama is ready to blow her tops now. And though he is used to Mama's wrath, there is always Cora to worry about (Martha can certainly handle herself, and Mama, come to that—always knows how to find their underbelly and strike when she needs to).
Dinner is served when he bursts into the dining room; he takes his seat sheepishly, seeing his sister and her husband have finally arrived, and ignores the disapproving look Mama shoots him. He merely apologizes, which his father waves off with a flick of his wrist, before their maids are serving them the first course.
He can barely eat and he spends most of dinner playing with his food and sending his furtive glances. The only consolation is that his wife is looking at him too, at times when he isn't looking, and when he turns his head she would avert her eyes and blush like a school girl with a crush.
His heart never ceases to hope, it seems.
After dinner, while Papa, Martha, Rosamund and Duke walks to the library to have some drinks and Mama excuses herself, he swallows up all inhibitions and takes a leap of courage and faith.
"Will you walk to the grounds with me, my love?" he asks Cora, whose eyes widen at the endearment, and though he is surprised himself, he doesn't let it show. He has avoided professing his undying love to her too much these past months, it hardly seems fair to beat himself up over a slip of the tongue. He is a creature of habit after all.
Cora nods at him, surprising him after that ruckus (even if it is just in his mind, who's to tell she hasn't seen the turmoil in his eyes?), and they set out for the gardens. It has been Cora's favorite spot in the house after all.
And if he has ulterior motives, like perhaps trying to jog her memory, then who could blame him?
…
The moon casts its milky glow and the few stars spread sporadically across the skies are alight, twinkling, glowing as though the night has been truly blessed by whatever deities there are up there. Robert does not usually believe in them, and neither does Cora, or of what little she remembers of herself, but they both thank them anyway, for this night is beautiful, truly breathtaking.
"Are you alright Cora?" Robert asks as he casts her a side glance. He worries about her, always and still, but he's always known her to be fiercely independent. Quickly, he is learning that her losing five years worth of memories does nothing to tamper that down. But she is uncharacteristically quiet, has been since they've started the walk around the estate, and he's getting worried.
Cora nods slowly, unable to express or even understand what exactly she is feeling. She feels so many different things (is this what love feels like? Does she love him—even when she can't remember?)—she feels an odd stirring in her stomach whenever he is close, that's for sure. She feels Robert's eyes on her and she ducks her head further, not wanting him to see the red tinge that she thinks colors her cheeks right now.
"I'm alright, Robert," she assures him without looking at him—she might melt into a puddle if she does. Instead, she lifts her head up and stares at the sky—the stars are far and few in between, but she knows they're there, knows that billions of miles away, stars glitter in the galaxy, burning, living long enough to make nights more romantic. She smiles as her eyes land on the moon—so regal, so beautiful with its silver glow. "It's a beautiful night," she adds, the smile still in place. Nights like this would be so hard to come by in the city.
"Certainly," he says in a husky whisper, and it's surprising, really, which is why she turns to look at him, only to find him staring at her. It feels like the movies, feels like a romance novel, and they are reliving every cheesy scene that has ever been created and written—but it feels right, feels like they belong—here, together.
Her eyes widen in surprise, and her cheeks flush, and he's certain that she's never looked more adorable than she does right now, and he would gladly take her into his arms and kiss her, without hesitation, with all that he has if he's only sure that she won't run away. But she would, he's sure for he knows her better than she does herself (especially at his moment, when literally he knows more about her than she does, knows about the past five years she doesn't remember). And so he refrains, assures himself that there is time for that yet, but then, when? And for how long does he have to wait? She is worth waiting for forever, until the ends of his days, but then, how long is forever exactly?
He looks away from her, feeling his heart clench at the thought that maybe forever is not enough, that forever might not be enough. He doesn't know the answers to his own queries—chooses, really, not to ponder it for now, because he might go mad, might lose his head and he needs himself sharp now more than ever.
"Robert?" he hears her whisper in that soft, soothing voice of hers and he's sure that he's falling in love with her all over again, sure that his heart will always be hers for the taking, but does she feel the same? Will she ever feel the same?
Snapping out of his thoughts as she lays her hand upon his arm, his head turns to her and his eyes lock into hers. She is mere inches away, and God, he could kiss her, wants to kiss her, needs to kiss her…but no, no that is a bad idea.
"Yes?" he asks just as softly as a breeze passes by, making them both shiver in surprise. His blue eyes are steady on her equally blue ones, the silver glow of the moon shining and caressing her skin making her even more beautiful and lord help him, he might be the one to actually forget himself this time.
She gives him a shy smile, but lets her hand rest upon his arm. She feels that stirring in her stomach again, feels her blood rush to every part of her body, like adrenaline, only sweeter, and she doesn't know how to explain it, but it feels good, feels nice to be with him here, like this.
"Will you tell me our story?" she asks shyly. She doesn't know why, but she feels as though she's invading some sort of privacy, then again, it isn't like that isn't t? it is their story, his and hers—a part of her that's temporarily lost to her now but still her. She's still the same person, she just needs to find that person within her.
"Our story?" he asks.
"Yeah," she answers with a nod. "The story of how we fell in love."
She holds her breath as the expression on Robert's face changes into something she can't describe. Granted, she doesn't know him that well, but his face does morph from one expression to another, a plethora of emotions flashing in his eyes too fast, too quickly for her to decipher.
She ponders if she should take back her question, but she decides that she can't—she doesn't want to. She wants to know their story, needs to hear it be told to her—again and again, as much and as often as it is necessary. She needs to know Robert and the Cora he's fallen in love with, and hope that someday she might find that part of her again.
…
"The story of how we fell in love," she requests in her quiet voice, blissfully unaware of the sudden pain the shot through his heart.
He should be happy, she's finally coming to him to know of their past, and even as he had taken her in a tour of the city, pointing out places, important places that marked their relationship, it stirs something deep inside him that she should come to him not and request for their story.
He doesn't know where to begin.
"Well, I uh," he begins awkwardly, stammering because he doesn't know how to tell her without wanting to rip his heart out from his chest and tear it from the seams. "We met at a party. A common friend—a friend of yours in America married a mate of mine from University and they had this party. I was already there when you arrived, but you…you walked into the room, in your perfect little black dress and your gorgeous hair and beautiful smile…and it seems as though the world stopped."
"Was it love at first sight?" she asks with a dreamy sigh, looking up at the moon again, and he can see the shadows dancing across her face, and his heart bleeds even more with her beauty.
It had, at that time, felt like he had been struck by something and everything around them had ceased to move. He had later denied falling for her that instant but—
"Yes, it was," he admits, and then looks down, blush rising up to his cheeks as he adds, "Only, I didn't realize it then. I had been stubborn you see. I was adamant that no one really ever fell in love at first sight. I ate my words then." He sighs. "It took me awhile before I admitted to myself, much less to you that I had fallen in love with you from the very first time ever I saw your face."
Suddenly, Roberta Flack's voice resounds in his head and he offers his hand to her, making her look up in confusion.
"May I have this dance?" he asks earnestly, knowing that she must think him foolish, but frankly not giving a damn, as long as she dances with him.
"We don't have music," she protests, though her eyes twinkle in delight, and he can see the eagerness in which she takes up his offer.
He smiles and takes her hand, permissions be damned, and pulls her close. He lays his head at the top of her head gently, she is still a few good inches shorter than him, and then starts humming…humming to the very first song they danced to...which was, strangely, The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face.
"We danced to this song, once," he tells her, pausing from his humming long enough, pleased when she hums in his stead. "The first time we danced, it was to this song." He paused and then frowned. "It wasn't, however, at the party that I was telling you about. I was a right idiot, and I couldn't even get anywhere near you then. The throng of men who had come to try and steal your attention was of no help."
He remembers it clearly, that first night, how the men had come flocking at her and tried to get her to talk and spend time with them. She had declined some, and had opted to drink with her friends, but by the time, she probably had a vacant or a break from all that attention, he had been long gone. The next time they had met, at a benefit this time, a ball of some sort, and that had been a perfect opportunity for him to ask her.
"You were surprised when I asked you at the charity ball, but you accepted," he says, twirling her and then pulling her back into his embrace. He places a soft kiss against her temple, against his better judgment. Luckily, she doesn't flinch. "And, well…that is how we started. I asked you out to drink, then, after that a few dinners, opera, the museum as I told you was our first date."
She sighs, resting her head against his chest, but he feels her tears dampening the fabric. "I wish I could remember," she says, her voice muffled.
He sighs, his heart breaking just the same. "I wish that too," he whispers into the night.
A/N: Next stop, we get a little turn, hold on sailors, all shall end well. Let me know what you think!
