Cora began to reach for Robert's hand, and he took hers before she had moved barely an inch. At times she felt almost smothered by this constant attention, yet she dreaded any time they spent apart, and there was such peace in simply knowing that he knew. She still felt as though Bricker followed her everywhere and was crouching perpetually just at the corner of her vision, but she also knew that Robert was at her side, ready to take her in his arms at any hint of fear or sadness, and she took great comfort in his steady presence.
He squeezed her hand gently. Next he will ask if I am all right, she thought.
"Are you all right?" he asked, and she smiled to herself.
"I am. Or well enough." She did not want to tell him that talking about the case made her almost nauseous.
Another squeeze as he read her feelings. "This will be easier than it was to talk to the police the first time. You won't have to go over it all again."
They were driving through London on their way to Scotland Yard, where they would be speaking with the attorneys appointed to the case. The trial was to be held here rather than in Ripon, where the Crawleys' position would supposedly prejudice any jury.
"I wish we were at home," Cora said softly. She loved London—her muscles tensed at the thought that she had said as much to Mr. Bricker, not so long ago—but it was a cold, impersonal city that she loved for its architecture and its history and its culture, not for its comfort, and she longed for the quiet peace of Yorkshire.
"I wish it for you," Robert said bitterly. "But God forbid we have a jury that takes offense at your assault. No, we must give this monster a fair trial." He said it as though Bricker had been offered a luxury suite at Buckingham Palace.
"It's all right," she said, wanting to calm him. He gave a disbelieving grunt.
In truth London was the worst of places for her at the moment. Bricker had been arrested last week but had been released on bail shortly thereafter, despite Robert's red-faced shouting to Murray and to the police to "get this bastard locked away immediately!" Whether Bricker awaited trial in a gaol cell or in his own drawing room had made very little difference to Cora at the time, but on arriving yesterday in the city where she knew he lived, she had been unable to subdue her fear that he would be returning for her. It had given them both a sleepless night, as the slightest creak in the old walls and floors of Rosamund's home had brought her nearly to hyperventilation, and she had clung so tightly to Robert that she had guiltily discovered bruises on his arm, an imprint of her fingers, in the morning. Her few hours' sleep had ended just after 4:00 when she'd awakened screaming from a nightmare that left her unwilling to shut her eyes again.
Robert—dearest Robert, she thought—had kept her vigil with her, a quiet source of strength who would do anything in his power to make her feel safe and who had hushed her apologies with kisses and caresses.
They soon arrived at Scotland Yard and were shown inside to an office with a detective and two prosecutors. There was a review of Cora's own statement, and those of Baxter, others on the staff, and members of the family, and then there was discussion of plans for the trial and the testimonies. It was indeed a good deal easier than the endless recounting of the attack that she had been put through previously, and she stood to go much more calmly than she had first sat down.
"We thank you for making the journey, Lady Grantham," the chief prosecutor said as they were finishing. "And Lord Grantham." He nodded to Robert, who shook his hand. "You both have our utmost sympathies, and please do not hesitate to be in touch."
"This trial is going to cause a great scandal," Cora said softly to Robert as they made their way back to the front of the building.
"That doesn't matter."
"You say that, but it does." She sighed, thinking of the stares that would follow her at every social occasion in the next season, and likely for the rest of her life.
"My God!" Robert suddenly exclaimed, coming to a halt in the hallway. She looked at him, thinking his response very odd, until she followed his gaze and realized he wasn't addressing her at all.
For Simon Bricker, escorted by a policeman,had just rounded the corner in front of them.
Distantly, Cora was aware that Robert shouted something, and that a stern order was delivered by the detective escorting them, but all she could hear were the words Bricker had hissed in her ear the night of the attack. Bitch. American slut. You flirt so shamelessly I'm surprised at your resistance! Don't act as though you've never done this before. We both know the Earl of Grantham is aware of what a whore he's married.
She could feel his breath on her cheek, his hands on her arms, his body pressed against hers, and a white hot pain shot through her as she felt him shove inside of her again.
She gasped, and she was dimly aware of Robert's grip on her arm as he tried to pull her closer, but she stumbled, still half-dazed.
"Cora," he said firmly, but she did not respond.
The officer with Bricker had him by the arm and was pulling him away, but all she could see was the smile on his face. The smile he had given her as he'd stood over her and redressed, the smile on his lips as he'd tipped his hat and wished her a good night as she lay sobbing on the ground, the smile that would live in her memory forever.
"Lady Grantham, I'm so sorry for what you've done to explain away our affair," he said.
"Don't you dare speak to her!" Robert spat, and she grabbed hold of him, sensing his desire to run after Bricker.
"Your lordship, we are—" the detective began, but she did not hear the rest of it over Bricker's next words.
"You're a lovely woman, Cora," he went on, and she shuddered at the awful way his voice seemed to caress the word woman. "And your family—you've got lovely daughters."
She was not conscious of letting go of Robert's arm, or of dashing towards Bricker. All she could feel was the rage that filled her body, taking over her limbs until she had grabbed him by the throat, slamming him into the wall.
She was not stronger than him, but her action had been so sudden and so unexpected that he had not fought back, and she struck him hard across the face with her fist. "How dare you," she sobbed, "how dare you! If you ever touch either of them—"
And then she felt Robert's arms firm around her waist, pulling her away. "No, Cora, no."
She felt her knees begin to give way as she dissolved into tears, but Robert's grip on her waist kept her upright. Bricker was led away gasping, his hand at his throat, while the detective fell about apologizing. "I can't express how sorry we are, Lord Grantham—I certainly didn't realize—they must have needed further questioning—terrible scheduling mistake, I expect—"
"This is inexcusable," Robert snapped, his voice shaking with anger. "Absolutely inexcusable for her ladyship to be put through that."
"Of course, sir, of course. If you'd like to have a seat in my office, we—"
But Cora knew she didn't want tea, or whiskey, or whatever else they would offer her to steady her nerves, and she shook her head. "Take me home, Robert," she whispered. "Take me home."
"We'll get you back to Rosamund's," he said as he helped her into the car a few minutes later. "And then I'll come back here and file a complaint. How utterly careless…"
"No, Robert." She stopped him. "No, I don't want to go to Rosamund's. Take me home. Home to Downton."
"Now?" All of their cases, as well as Bates and Baxter, were at Rosamund's, but she did not care. It could all be sent for later.
"Yes," she said, still weeping. "I want to go home."
He nodded. "We'll go home, then, darling…Are you all right? Let me see your hand."
Cora offered him the hand she had struck Bricker with. She was conscious of a dull throbbing in her still-healing wrist, but she could not regret it.
"Your wrist is swelling again," he said quietly, cradling it and rubbing gently. "Those bastards."
It was not language she was used to hearing, and she started, but he did not apologize.
"It was what he said about the girls that made me do it," she said, her tears flowing more quickly. "I just couldn't stand it."
"Oh my dearest." Robert pulled her to him with a sigh. "I should've just wrung his neck myself."
She almost wished now that she'd let him do so in the beginning, rather than undergo all of this. "I can't do the trial," she said, her face pressed into his chest. "I can't. He'll be there, and I just can't!"
"Shh," he said, stroking her hair. "We'll tell them you won't testify, if it's what you want."
Cora knew how likely an acquittal would be without a victim's testimony, but she could not summon the strength to care. She dozed off on the long ride back to Yorkshire, awakening as they drove onto the estate.
"We should be in time for dinner," Robert said quietly when she sat up. "But would you rather have a tray in your room?"
"No." She wanted to see the girls, to know that they were safe and whole.
"I hope our arrival at dinner won't cause too much of a commotion," Robert said to Carson as he ushered them inside. "We're a day sooner than we expected, and there wasn't a chance to call."
"Not at all, my lord, not at all." Cora took great comfort—the comfort of home—in the familiar nod of Carson's head. "Will you want to change?"
Robert shook his head. "I don't think there's time, and there aren't guests."
"Mama? Papa?" She heard Mary's voice and looked up to see her eldest step into the front hall in a long blue evening dress. "We weren't expecting you tonight! Why—" She stopped suddenly, and Cora followed her gaze to see Robert giving their daughter a hard, meaningful look. "Well, I'm glad you're home, at any rate," Mary said with a cheerfulness and a smile that did not quite reach her eyes.
She kissed Cora, embracing her mother as though she might break, but Cora squeezed her so tightly in return that Mary murmured with surprise. Cora felt tears prick at the back of her eyes and wiped them on her glove when they stepped apart, giving her daughter a watery smile. She felt Robert lay his hand on her back, but she slipped her arm through Mary's instead, eager to hold onto her, and to kiss Edith and Rose as well.
Dinner began quietly, with the family aware that the time in London had most assuredly not gone well and unsure of the exact cause of the tears that continued to swim in Cora's eyes. But she was thankful merely to be surrounded by the girls, to bask in their warmth, and to savor the gentle way they spoke to her. She asked after their days, drawing them into light conversation, her soft smile assuring them that she wanted to hear their chatter and their news.
"I beg your pardon, my lord," Carson said, entering the dining room before the second course had finished. "There is a telephone call—"
"A telephone call?" Robert regarded the butler with a mix of confusion and irritation. It had never been the custom to interrupt a meal with a phone call.
"It's Mrs. Levinson, sir, calling from New York for her ladyship. I'm afraid she was quite insistent."
"Good heavens!" Robert exclaimed. "Calling from New York?"
Cora leapt up from her seat. "I'll speak with her right away. Please excuse me."
AN: Transatlantic telephone calls became available to the public in 1928, but since this is set in 1924, I decided it wasn't unreasonable artistic license to move the technology up 4 years. However, while calling from the U.S. to Europe was possible, it was extremely rare because of the cost. A 3-minute call from New York to London cost £9, which Google says is roughly £500 in 2015 money. (That's approximately $750 USD, 700 euros, $950 CAD, or $950 AUD.) I don't think the expense is out of reach for Martha Levinson, but I also doubt she'd be willing to pay it under normal circumstances. I do think, though, that most mothers would spend £500 to speak to their daughters in this situation.