The monsoon. It was the monsoon. That rain that seemed as it would never end, sweeping everything on its way, everything, except memories, guilt, and desire. The maid closed the window, clasping it a little too harshly. That weather unnerved her. Every move left her covered with a thin layer of sticky sweat. The atmosphere was heavy, and she hadn't seen the sun even once in the past two weeks. Who could complain about the English weather when India suffered from this climatic shock every single year?
Sarah let herself fall on her mattress and groaned. Her back was hurting like hell. The springs of the mattress tortured her, and she spent the nights tossing and turning, looking for a position that wouldn't make her feel as if she had been trampled by horses in a steeple-chase in the morning.
The monsoon, and the mattress. That was how Sarah O'Brien justified her bad mood. Of course, no one could testify to seeing her smile, be it in India or in England, let alone in Ireland.
But this time, it was the monsoon... And the mattress.
She let her tears roll freely on her face. She had learnt that keeping the tears inside caused a headache, and no one was there to ask silly questions. No, only the monsoon would witness her tears, mixed with the rain, with the wet atmosphere, with guilt.
Because Sarah was able to have feelings. She didn't dare to admit that to herself, but the truth was that her heart, hard as a rock, was covered with scars. The deepest one was still open, and she was bleeding. She had got away, to forget, no, to punish herself by leaving the house in which she had learnt to love a simple, cosy life.
She missed her life in Downton. Lady Grantham had always been kind to her, she had been the closest thing to a friend. In twenty years, they had got to know each other. Sarah had seen Cora gain confidence. At the beginning, she had seen her cry, worried about not being able to fit in her new country. She had missed America, and her mother-in-law was tyranising her. Sarah had helped her, teaching her whatever she knew about the etiquette.
This weakness of the first months had created a bond between the two women. O'Brien didn't like anyone, that was a general rule about her... But she had come to like Cora, to know every detail about her. And Lady Grantham had accepted her as she was- manipulative, cold, calculated, often mischievous, but never towards her...
She had never tried to learn more about Sarah's past, other than what little she had told her willingly-very few-but somehow, she had understood that many scars had shaped her. Her work was flawless, that was all she cared about.
Sarah couldn't help but cry. She had dared doubt her mistress' intentions, and she had betrayed her, twice. She didn't deserve to go on living by her side after what she had done. She didn't deserve such a sweet life. She didn't deserve to wake up in the morning to bring the tray to Cora's room. She didn't deserve to draw the curtains to see the sun play hide and seek on the pale skin of her sleepy face. She didn't deserve to slightly brush the tip of her fingers on her shoulders when she was helping her dress and undress... The slight thankful smile she gave her when she combed her smooth curls... It had been too much to swallow.
'You're always so good to me O'Brien, so good.'
No, she hadn't been. She had killed her heir. A petty move she bitterly regretted every single day.
But India didn't help. It was like hell. The other servants still called her 'Miss Grantham', to remind her that she had stolen another's job by abandoning Lady Grantham. They didn't like her, and they had noticed the hurt showing on her face whenever they would call her 'Miss Grantham'. They liked to torture her that way.
It was all true. She was Cora's. She didn't feel happy in India, so far from home, so far from Cora's warm smile and pure heart. But she couldn't return. She had crossed a line.
Her whole body was shaking now, she could swear she had a bad fever, and her eyes darted to the glass on her bedside table. Empty. As empty as her, only a shell, and nothing left of her. She had left her soul in Yorkshire, if she had ever had one.
Sarah O'Brien closed her eyes and listened to the pouring rain, to the drops slashing against the window pane, to her tears dying on her pillow.
For a split second, shaking violently, her back arching, she was holding her hand, feeling her slender fingers intertwined with hers. Her name, she wanted to here her dearest, sweetest name, but she had no strength left to pronounce this magical word, she was exhausted, and a mere 'O' died on her lips, lost in the monsoon.