AN: This one is focused on Cora and Roberts relationship as it pertains to season 2, episode 8. I've attempted to fill is the blanks within that episode (Cora out with the Spanish flu and Robert…well….anyways), and created some of my own pre-cannon fair. I'm Just taking these characters out to play, everything and everyone belongs to the keepers and creators of the show. Rated T. As always, thank you so much for the feedback! Enjoy.
Cora rolled towards the door, and the sound of Robert's muffled conversation with Dr. Clarkson. She blinked heavily. Her body was beginning to ache with fever, and she wanted nothing more than to be comforted by her husband. She strained to hear his voice as it dissipated down the hallway, growing more distant with each step he took. From somewhere deep within her subconscious arose the knowledge that he would not be returning.
Years of silently observing her father pay attention to those who were paid to be attentive had gifted Cora with a powerful intuition. Usually she noticed subtle changes in character, seeing through false pretense and feigned disinterest. Except earlier, in the dinning room, she was far too preoccupied with minimizing her own distress that she missed the subtleties of indiscretion. Now, within her clouded sensorium, she was gaining perspective and things were slowly sliding in to focus. Her eyes burned as she looked to the door. Surrendering to his absence, she let out a heavy sob.
Jane.
Things between them had been disappointing for some time. Cora was sympathetic to his idleness for she understood it, perhaps better than anyone, but she could easily recognize his ongoing identity crisis for what it was. Now, nothing she said or did was right; if she agreed with him she was wrong, if she countered him she was insulting, if she stayed silent he only pushed harder for a reaction. It was an exhausting battle that she continued to lose, and although they never argued to the point of regret, lately Robert's derision had become wounding and perilously close to unforgivable. His disposition had become severe after Sybil announced her intentions the previous evening. Cora had purposefully disengaged from him throughout the day, not only to give him space and a chance to take in the situation, but also to bolster her immunity to his brooding disdain. It did little good. As he paced around her bedroom before dinner it was apparent, his irritability was boiling just below the surface and her attempt at conversation ended with insult as he walked away from her for "turning American". Frustration flooded her. Using her heritage against her, to highlight their differences had become Cora's Achilles' heel, and when brought up it always made her feel less than. Their perceived disparity was something she had worked very hard to overcome their entire life together, and now it was being fired at her like a weapon. It was disheartening.
"Here you are, M'Lady". O'Brien stood at the bedside offering Cora a glass of milk.
Cora slowly rolled on to her back and opened her wet eyes to look up at O'Brien.
"There, there M'Lady," she set the glass down on the bedside table. Mistaking Cora's tears for physical discomfort. She reached forward to help her Ladyship sit up. With Cora propped on her elbow O'Brien retrieved the glass and handed it to her, "this should help."
Cora smelled the cinnamon and grimaced. She inhaled deeply, clearing her sinuses and snuffing out her remaining tears. She lifted the glass and drained its contents as quickly as possible. Cora handed the glass back to O'Brien before collapsing back on to her pillow.
O'Brien fussed with the covers and then wiped at Cora's face with a damp cloth. "Are you comfortable M'Lady?"
"Yes," her eyes too heavy to focus on her maid. "Thank you, O'Brien."
Cora's thoughts were slowing as her malaise pushed her towards sleep. Her tired mind attempted to sift through all the things she had missed: the times when his mood had lifted, the times when he was unjustly hostile. Cora sighed as O'Brien's damp cloth touched down on her cheek, smothering her climbing temperature. Had she been so focused on nourishing her own autonomy, that she unknowingly made allowances to pacify his? As O'Brien lifted the cloth from her skin heat flooded to the surface, and Cora turned her head in protest. Protesting the truth. Protesting her fever. Protesting sleep as it overtook her. Cora's final thoughts before succumbing were of her mother, and the countless signs that she had missed.
Martha Levinson lived a life of lavish and wealth, and little else. Her husband, a smart and handsome businessman, full of charm and magnetism, was more a live-in companion than a partner in marriage. Rumors of his adulterous ways had been socially limiting for her, and other than a small circle of friends uncorrupted by her husband's advances, she had her children. Martha vowed to advance Cora to a level of social notoriety she felt her daughter deserved, and when she caught wind of American heiresses moving abroad for marriage, securing position and title to match their wealth she jumped, the idea was far too opportunistic to pass.
After a month-long power struggle Cora finally submitted to her mother's request. She agreed to travel to England for one year, sacrificing her home, her life, and her comfort for a world her mother knew very little of, and would never come to understand. Martha's overbearing attempt at steering Cora's life filled her daughter with resentment, and cast a dark shadow over Cora's willingness to find a husband. However, in the end they booked their crossing and made all the necessary arrangements to arrive in London for the 1888 season.
Their trip to England took nearly 7-weeks, of which Cora did not know a moments peace. The subtle motion of the ship was unrelenting and she was overcome with nausea and a sense of disorientation that never left. The horizon refused to stay fixed in front of her, even when she was still she wasn't. Her inability to take control of her sickness was humiliating and despite Mrs. Hudson's best efforts Cora arrived in England weak and dehydrated. Day and night, Cora spent most of the journey lying on her bed, overcome by motion sickness; a never-ending sensation of floating while the room spun beneath her. Cold sweat erupted over her body and her jaw became heavy. Cora listened to her Maid's voice, prompting her to focus on her breathing. She squeezed her eyes closed, but nothing could stop the wave of nausea. She retched. "Sybil, I can't stop it."
She vomited.
O'Brien was there with a basin and Sybil had towels. Both waited as more came. Cora leaned over the side of the bed, her muscles aching with tension as she heaved. Her equilibrium swayed.
"Well…" O'Brien stated flatly, "I'd say she didn't tolerate the milk."
"No." Sybil changed places with O'Brien, "definitely not."
Sybil moved in closer and gently wiped at her mother's face. "We'll hold the Beecham's for now," she stated calmly over her shoulder to O'Brien. "Be sure and tell Dr. Clarkson."
Cora rolled her head back on to her pillow, breathless from the exertion. "I'm sorry," she murmured as she was swept away by sleep.
"Don't apologize Mama," Sybil whispered before gently placing a fresh cloth on her forehead.
Cora had been in England nearly 6-months the night she met the future Earl of Grantham, the man who would become her husband. The cold, dull, and drizzly climate forced the days to bleed together dispelling any fondness and creating little optimism for the country that she would eventually call home. At night the bright, beautiful ballrooms were a stark contrast to Cora's grey and gloomy days, and shockingly warm given their grand vastness. By the end of the night she often found herself fevered from the heat of the room. Her discomfort only made worse by the tightness of her corset, which was unnecessarily snug at the direction of her mother, to enhance her limited assets.
Cora had made friends since arriving in England, many with stories that were similar to her own, most viewing their time abroad as a break from their 'New World' reality. That particular evening the party was well under way with the usual people in attendance, and the usual divide in the room. American women on the left, English on the right. Cora was talking with some friends, listening to an animated story when she began to sense an invisible weight bearing down on her. The hair on her arms stood. Casually she turned her head, moving her eyes to scan her periphery.
Laughter pulled her back to the conversation. She smiled and tried to focus on the chatter in front of her, but her instinct was persistent and tickled the back of her neck, demanding her attention. Abruptly she turned her head, as though responding to someone calling her name. She perused the crowd of people, searching for the source of her discomposure. Finally she found him, amongst a group of boisterous young men, smiling. Gazing upon her with wonderment.
Cora's eyes widened and she responded with an uncertain smile. Nervous she quickly looked away, embarrassed by his attention. She lifted her hand and pulled on her ear, hiding herself as a crimson blush intensified over her exposed skin. As subtly as she could manage, she glanced at him from the corner of her eye only to catch him awkwardly turning away, being caught a second time staring at her.
Her heart fluttered. He truly was one of the most handsome men she'd laid eyes on since arriving in England.
"Cora!" Her friend sounded concerned. "What ever's the matter?"
She cleared her throat and looked back in his direction. "Nothing." She muttered as she spotted him, his head turned away from her. With her cheeks ablaze it was her turn to smile.
Cora felt his eyes on her the rest of the night. Nagging for her attention, begging her to search him out. She was intrigued; stunned by the laws of attraction and the way desire burned within her, without a single word being spoken. She found it difficult to dance with other men, knowing he was watching and she desperately hoped he would swoop in and steal her away for the next song. They watched each other move around the ballroom, stuck in conversations and mingling within their own social circles, but by the end of the night their game of cat and mouse had evolved in to nothing more. Frustrated by her impotence, she made the decision to leave with hopes of encountering him at the next party. After bidding her friends a goodnight she turned to leave and suddenly there he was, standing in front of her.
"Good evening," he smiled. "I'm sorry to intrude, but had to come over and introduce myself."
"Hello," she smiled in return. The room began to feel exceedingly warm.
"You're American!?" His expression turned quizzical, and Cora thought she sensed a flash of disappointment.
"Yes," she noticed the heat behind her eyes as she studied his face. "And you are?"
He laughed. She grinned. Her skin was on fire.
"I'm Robert Crawley, and you are…. lovely."
O'Brien was by Cora's side throughout the night. Steadfast. She worked diligently to keep her Ladyship comfortable and settled, despite her writhing agitation and fevered distress. Cora slept fitfully, and by morning her breathing was becoming ragged.
Cora continued in a dreamlike state. As a way to cope with her illness her brain kept her surrounded in memories that held traces of her current reality. She dreamt of their fevered courtship, the intensity and the uncertainty, her desire and his motives, the confliction and the eagerness. The times she questioned his fidelity.