When he had finished with her he stood and took his time redressing. He had no need to hold her down now. She knew he knew she'd do anything to keep the scandal quiet. Not that it would do her any good to scream, even if she wanted to. She had nearly torn her throat in two earlier, and there had been no one to hear.
"And a good night to you, Countess," he said as he finished fastening his coat. He tipped his hat, smiled coldly, and walked off, back in the direction of the Abbey.
She would have expected that hysterical weeping would dull her awareness of what was around her, but on the contrary, her senses were so heightened and so raw that she knew she would remember every bit of the image of him standing over her, down to the exact shape of his buttons. She stared after him for a moment, then closed her eyes and laid her head back down on the ground, aching for it to open and swallow her whole, burying her alive in an early grave.
Somehow—this would be the only part of the evening that would blur in her memory—she stilled her tears, walked slowly back to the Abbey, let herself in the front door, and made her way to her room, where she perched on the edge of the chaise longue, feeling far too dirty to go near the bed she shared with Robert. She had to get these clothes off, this dress that he had pawed at and ripped apart before he… No, she couldn't think about that now. She tried to undo the buttons, but her hands shook and slipped off them again and again until another hysterical sob rose in her throat. This dress, this dress…she wanted it off, she wanted it burned, and she thought for a moment she could hear him laughing as she struggled with it. She could not breathe as she panicked, whirling around to search the room for him, but no, she was alone, and his laughter was all in her imagination.
But she would have to ring for Baxter; there was nothing else for it. She was too shaky to change herself, and she knew the maid would see her torn clothes anyway.
Baxter took her time in arriving, but Cora was dimly aware that of course this would be the case: the servants were all asleep, and someone would have to hear the sound of the bell and then wake Baxter, who would have to dress and then make her way upstairs. But she eventually heard the door creak open—another short wave of panic—accompanied by a slightly confused, "Your ladyship called?" It was followed by a gasped, "Good heavens, ma'am! What on earth…?"
What a sight she must make for her maid, some distant part of her thought. Torn dress, hair pulled loose of its braid, and positively wailing on the chaise…and all long after Baxter had thought she'd gone to bed.
Her maid hurried to her, only to stare with a mix of horror and uncertainty. "Your ladyship…dear God, not that…"
Cora reached for her, suddenly so glad at the presence of another human being that she lost all sense of who they both were. She was surprised at how immediately Baxter's arms went around her, grasping her tightly, and she clung to her in turn, letting her head fall to her maid's shoulder.
"Shh, milady," Baxter murmured, "you'll be all right, you'll be all right. You're safe now. Deep breaths, deep breaths…"
Cora found herself breathing slowly in and out, in and out, led by her maid, until her sobs slowed to quiet weeping, and she released the other woman.
"There now. We'll get you out of these clothes, and then shall I get…Mr. Branson?"
Tom? Cora looked up in horror. "Of course not!"
"Won't you want Mr. Bricker removed, ma'am, and the house secured, and the police called, and—"
"No!" She could imagine nothing more nightmarish than that. Dimly she wondered how Baxter had known what had happened and who her attacker had been, but she supposed his intentions had been obvious to everyone but her. What an idiot she was…
"My lady—"
"No, Baxter! No one must know!" She could hear the whispers that would follow her for the rest of her life, follow her daughters, follow her family…it would be her word against his, and there were too many who could testify to the liberties she'd willingly let Bricker take. She'd forever be the countess seduced by the art dealer, and she had worked too hard to be Lady Grantham, instead of the American or the Jew or any of the names pinned on her at her arrival in England.
"But ma'am, surely his lordship would—"
"Oh no! Certainly not him! Most of all, not him!" That was the crux of it, wasn't it? She'd struggled too long for Robert's love in the early days of her marriage, and she would not let it be lost by her own stupidity. He'd meant to protect her, she realized with shame, and she would not let him know that her disregard for his wishes had led her, however unwillingly, into the arms of another man.
"I rather think Lord Grantham—"
"No!" She seized Baxter's arm. "He mustn't, he mustn't! I'd rather die than have him told!" And she would. She'd die if she lost his love. "Baxter, you must swear to me that you will tell no one!"
"I—"
"Give me your word!"
Baxter sighed. "I promise you, my lady. No one will know."
"Thank you." She felt her eyes filling with tears again and kissed Baxter's hand. "Thank you."
"Are you hurt, my lady?" Baxter asked quietly.
Was she hurt? She knew that she was, but she felt the pain distantly, almost as though it belonged to someone else. "My ribs, I think he…" She shuddered, remembering the force with which he'd held her down and the sudden snapping sound, followed by the searing pain in her side.
Baxter stroked her arm. "Shh, let's not think of how right now, my lady. What else?"
She tried to concentrate on taking stock of her body. She knew she was generally bruised, but… "My wrist." Was the soreness from catching herself as he pushed her to the ground? Or from his rough hold on it? "And he…my hair…" She squeezed her eyes shut, the memory of him yanking her back down by her hair perfectly clear.
Baxter laid a careful hand to her head, feeling for an injury. "Your head, ma'am?"
"No, my neck, I think." She was conscious of a growing stiffness and a wariness of movement.
"Anything else?"
Only my soul. "I…don't think so."
"You won't see the doctor, will you?"
"Of course not!" She could not bear the thought of Dr. Clarkson examining her body.
Baxter nodded. "I'll deal with it all myself, then. Would you like another bath, my lady? Or would you prefer to just get into bed?"
She wanted the smell and the feel of him off of her, she wanted to scrub and scrub until she'd taken off her outer layer of skin. "A bath, please."
Baxter nodded again, bending to remove her shoes and stockings. "Can you stand, my lady?"
She nodded, wincing at the protest of her neck muscles.
"All right, let's get over to the dressing table." She moved to her usual seat at her vanity, and Baxter's practiced hands began to undo her braid. "Tell me if I hurt you." But she could feel that Baxter was being as gentle as she could as she brushed her hair and pinned it back up, and she bit her lip to hold back her whimpers as the brush tugged the hair he had grasped. It gave her something to focus on.
Yet she could not hold back the tears that continued to start and stop and start again as Baxter removed her dress and helped her into the bath, as she let the warm water soothe her sore body, and as she dried off and Baxter lowered her soft nightgown over her head. It was the same piece of clothing that Cora had tossed on the bed hours earlier. A lifetime ago, she thought.
She did not feel any cleaner—she almost felt dirtier at the realization that the soap and water had made no difference. She dreaded Robert's return the next afternoon. How could she ever face him?
"My lady, will you be all right if I go down to the kitchen for some ice and some bandages?"
She agreed—she did not truly expect Bricker to return tonight, at least not while she was awake, and the house was full of family and guests who would hear a scream. There was a reason, she knew, that he had not taken her in her bedroom earlier. What frightened her more was the thought of sleeping alone and awakening to find him in bed with her…
"I will call Mrs. Crawley in the morning, and she will come to examine you," Baxter said as she bound Cora's ribs on her return.
"No! Do you not understand? I want no one told—"
"I will call Mrs. Crawley in the morning, and she will come to examine you," Baxter repeated, her tone inviting no disagreement. "We'll swear her to secrecy, and we won't tell her you knew your attacker, so she can't insist on pressing charges. But you need to see someone with medical training. I insist, ma'am."
She did not have the energy to argue. There could be no harm in Isobel's knowing. She knew she trusted her, and for a woman to look over her body would be an entirely different matter than the doctor.
"Now, is that any better?" Baxter asked as she finished her task.
"Yes, thank you." The numbness and distraction of her shock and fear had begun to wear off, and Baxter's tight bandage did take some of the sharpness from the pain in her side.
Baxter silently wrapped her wrist as well before helping her to lie flat. She then took towels she had filled with ice, laying one atop her ribs and tucking another beneath her neck, and Cora sighed at the sensation.
"Can you sleep now, my lady?"
"Yes." She doubted it, with the way his face appeared every time she closed her eyes, and she wasn't sure she wanted to, only to replay the evening in her dreams.
Baxter turned the lights out, but instead of slipping out of the room, she turned and took a seat at Cora's dressing table.
"Baxter…"
"You don't want to sleep here alone, do you, my lady?" she asked quietly.
No. No, she didn't. She feared that she would drift off, only to awaken with him on top of her, her mouth covered tightly to prevent her scream. But what she said was, "You shouldn't have to stay awake all night."
"I'll rest tomorrow." There was a note of finality in Baxter's voice, and Cora did not argue.
An exhausted, dreamless sleep slipped over her.