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She watches him carefully; longing to reach out to him, to soothe him, but she fears he will find no solace in any kind word or gesture she may come up with. So she watches. He is not pacing this time, instead he's sitting to her left and taking great interest in the fireplace. His right leg bounces rhythmically next to her, causing her dress to rustle continually –she'd berate him for it, if he didn't look like he was awaiting the grim reaper. She watches him chew incessantly on his thumbnail, he hasn't done it since he was a child and oh! how she longs to soothe him.
It's Carson who hands him the brandy, and then promptly takes it back when his trembling almost upends it over the new carpet. She doesn't think he'd be able to keep it down anyway. Her own nerves are frayed, although she'd be loathe to admit it to anyone, particularly with Martha hovering about like some great-winged bat- really that shawl she insists on wearing is quite ridiculous!
Cora's agonised screams seem to go on for an age, much longer than the last time –her heart aches when she thinks of that dear boy- and Violet begins worrying her own fingernails just to give her something to do. She glances at Robert again and is dismayed to see his face has turned an ashen grey; she hopes he's not going to faint-it's Cora, at the end of the day, who has the hard task- although she must admit that the waiting is quite agonising.
Finally she stops screaming and Violet finds she can't quite catch her own breath, until...yes! The unmistakeable sound of a crying baby- it has a healthy pair of lungs on it, if nothing else. A few moments later Dr Clarkson appears at the door, he looks tired but there's a smile on his lips that was not there last time. He comes closer to shake Robert's hand, Robert has yet to stand up and Violet's none too sure his legs will carry him up the stairs to meet his child.
"Congratulations Lord Grantham, you have a healthy baby girl". Typical, she thinks, but then she scolds herself, at least the child's healthy, and they can always try again for a boy. "And how is Cora?" she ventures to ask, as her son appears to be struck dumb. "Mother and baby are both doing well, mi'lady, plenty of rest is all that's needed now". She thanks the good doctor and then attempts to lead her son up to his wife. He seems to find his own footing once they've reached the landing, once she's done all the hard work, but he hesitates outside the door, the baby is no longer crying and the fear is etched onto his face. She gives him a gentle shove and he's through the door. She'll admit, grudgingly, that Cora is looking well, considering.
She edges along behind Robert and, finally, once he's clambered, none too gracefully, onto the bed beside his wife, she sees her grand-daughter. Most inconveniently she feels the hot prick of tears fighting to leave her eyes. She tries to hold them in but, really, the child is quite beautiful. Such a dark head of hair and a white little face, with tiny rosebud lips (that actually do bring to mind some roses that are growing in her garden). Robert's positively glowing now, she's sure that's supposed to be left to his wife, and he's rambling on about how much the child looks like her mother. Violet thinks she's more of an English rose than an American...well, an American anything would be strong criticism indeed, and she will not have that levelled at this precious child.
She gets to hold her, eventually, after that ghastly woman has poked and prodded her for far longer than is her due. She's almost forgotten how wonderful it is to hold such a little life in one's hands; that slight, warm weight that just whispers of love and hope and dreams. Now, she's not one to descend into the dark abyss of sentiment, but she really cannot deny how much her cold heart soars when the babe finally opens her eyes to her and my, what big eyes she has! They're brown, a very deep brown that Violet almost mistakes for black, although that could be due to the dim light. She's almost sure there's no one on either side of this child's family with brown eyes, but they're certainly captivating and somewhat...shrewd, for a babe a mere few hours old. She takes a strong liking to the way the child already seems to be judging the world and its occupants, she's particularly gleeful that Martha elicited such a frightening scream from her, and when the child wraps one tiny little hand round the tip of her finger she thinks, yes, Lady Mary Josephine and I will get along just fine.
