He doesn't mean to stare at her, yet he cannot tear his eyes away as she descends the staircase. His research has provided the plain, dry facts of her life, but no amount of research can explain his fascination with her.
He is more than disconcerted when she walks past him without acknowledgement, yet the irritation is swiftly replaced by curiosity and a inexplicable yearning for recognition. He follows her automatically.
She is talking to her butler when he comes into the Library. Both turn round to him, but he ignores Carson's grimace. She seems to look straight through him before resuming the conversation:
"I'm looking for His Lordship."
"I believe he's gone into the village, milady."
Even from this distance, he can see the way she swallows hard. There is an awkward, strained lull while she regains her composure:
"Lady Sybil?"
"The hospital, milady," Carson replies impassively.
The butler is dismissed with a curt nod, yet still Richard is not acknowledged. She looks down at her husband's writing desk, tapping her fingernails against it in a slow rhythm. Her cheeks are flushed and her breathing is slow and deliberate. She looks more uncertain and nervous than he has ever seen her. Every shred of common sense and good manners tell Richard he should leave. He stays, riveted by a need to console and comfort her. His minds quickly works through possibilities - Sybil's possible elopement? Financial worries? A hidden family secret - the Pamuk affair?
"Is there anything I can help with..." The words come naturally and unrehearsed.
She notices him as if for the first time, gracing him a faint smile. "Would you like a drink?" She walks to the tray holding her husband's whiskey decanter and glasses.
"Let me." He rushes to her side. She lets him take the decanter and pour the drinks, grazing her fingers as he hands her a glass. Their eyes meet briefly - enough time to see the marks left by her tears.
"I remember how this room used to look." He talks quickly, attempting to break the heavy tension between them. "The divide between the room-" he indicates with a sweeping gesture -"was there. Your desk-" he points towards the window "-chairs moved here and-" he turns round "-the games table was behind us."
He looks back, pleased to see the bemused smile on her lips. "You're very observant, Richard." She takes a gulp from the whiskey glass, shudders at the bitter taste and sets the glass down on the bureau. He has to sip from his own glass to hide his amusement.
Their eyes meet again, but this time she holds his gaze, her expression revealing a tenderness that extends much further than hostess and guest. He feels that familiar rush of pleasure, yet resists the urge to embrace her. This unexpected rapport is worth much more than an awkward kiss.
"I'm going up to Haxby this afternoon. I would appreciate your support."
She has straightened up, regaining some of the composure of the Countess of Grantham. "Mary ought to be supporting you," she states firmly.
"Mary is coming with me to the auctions but I don't know what to bid for. Just take a look at the auction catalogues and tell me what you think."
He sees the uncertainty in her expression, and berates himself for appearing too forceful. He drops his voice to a seductive whisper.
"I value your opinions, Cora. If we work together, we can convince Mary that I have some idea of style and refinement."
Instinct tells him she will consent to the plan. He is nevertheless surprised by the anticipation and excitement that courses through his body when she agrees.
Cora looked up at the extravagant jumble of spires, gables and arches that made up Haxby Park. She had always found Haxby comfortingly familiar - the grand, continental style recalled the Newport mansions of her youth. She was happy to come back to a place which held such fond memories of care-free pre-war dinner engagements. It was just unfortunate that her return visit was in company of its new owner - Richard Carlisle.
He stood next to her now, muttering something about 'restoring the house to its prime.' She could not hide her surprise when he produced a brass key from his pocket:
"No staff?"
He frowned as he unlocked the heavy front door. "The house isn't finished yet. I had meant to start with the butler, but you heard about Carson..."
She nodded, recognising his desire not to talk about that incident. Yet she had naively expected to be met by a butler or footman, and the thought of an afternoon alone with Richard Carlisle made her uncomfortable.
The front door opened with a heavy jolt. It was too late to change her mind now. She stepped inside and walked slowly round the vast entrance hall, recalling her memories and inspecting the recent changes.
"It's quite the Grand Salon, isn't it?" she gushed, momentarily forgetting her misgivings. "And I'm so glad you've kept the chandelier and the panelled walls. It makes the house much lighter."
"So you approve?" He was standing in the middle of the room; only his eyes followed her. She saw the smirk on his lips and replied in the same teasing manner:
"So far."
He nodded in satisfaction. "The auction catalogues are in the drawing room."
She followed him into another empty room, noticing the catalogues on the marble fireplace, alongside an old-fashioned cognac bottle.
"Ah." He picked up the decorative glass bottle, full of dark caramel liquor. "This bottle of brandy dates back to the Battle of Waterloo." She rolled her eyes when he held it up to the light. "Over 100 years old. I plan to open it when Haxby is completed and opened."
"I will never understand the British fascination for old things," she commented, shaking her head in mock despair. "As if older automatically means better."
"I agree." He set the bottle back down with a smile. "I don't understand the British fondness for old money and old methods." His tone was still light and mocking, but there was a vulnerability in his expression which she hadn't been aware of before.
"I know what it's like to be an outsider, Richard," she said quietly.
His piercing grey eyes stared back at her with a frightening intensity. She took a few steps back while he picked up the auction catalogues. The spell was broken.
She was grateful for the practical, business-like tone of the rest of the visit. She meandered round the ground floor rooms while Richard trailed behind. She discussed writing desks, settees and display cases; he flicked through the auction catalogues and ticked off her selections. It is only when they returned to the entrance hall that she was reminded of her obligations:
"We will have to get back to Downton soon, Richard."
"Of course. But I have one more thing to show you."
She followed his eager footsteps up the staircase towards one of the bathrooms, where he proudly demonstrated the shower - a bewildering combination of cylinders and spiral tubing over the bathtub. She looked at it dubiously while vaguely listening to his description:
"...and the gas burner heats the water as it passes through, which comes out-"
"Robert thinks showers are dangerous."
"Only if they are not used properly," he snapped. She stared at him in surprise, speculating on the reason for his sudden burst of anger - her criticisms of his cherished project? Or the mention of her husband?
"I just think," he continued quietly, " there's something stimulating about standing under a shower in the morning. It's much faster than wallowing in a bath." She smirked, reflecting on the many afternoons she had spent 'wallowing' in the bath...
"You don't agree...?" She smiled back at him, noticing the playful, teasing curl of his lips and the way his eyes travelled down her face. She only had to lean in...
"We have to get back, Richard." She walked resolutely down the stairs, through the entrance hall and outside. Taking deep gulps of fresh air, she let the alarming rush of emotion and warmth subside.
Once back at Downton, she could forget that she had been tempted by Richard Carlisle.
Convention dictates they sit next to each other at dinner but the conversation is one-sided. She refuses to look at him and responds to his questions with one-word answers. Meanwhile Mary is deep in conversation with Matthew Crawley. He doesn't care. The afternoon with Cora has surpassed all his expectations. He is now certain that she is interested in him. He doesn't expect her to act on those feelings - she is too loyal to her husband and too concerned about proprietary - but it doesn't matter. There will be many more opportunities to build on the promising rapport.
He made the suggestion while driving them back from Haxby: "We will need to go back. You've only seen a few of the rooms so far-"
"I don't think that's a good idea, Richard."
The response was sharp and resolute, yet she was sat in the back of the car, preventing him from properly assessing her expression. He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel while considering what to say.
"I will be going to the auctions with Mary tomorrow. Do you want to inspect the furniture when it arrives? I will also need your help with the rest of the house - the other ground floor rooms and the first floor."
He paused, waiting for a response that didn't come. He tried again: "There is nothing improper in helping to create a home. It can be our project - a wedding present for Mary."
Still no answer. He risked a glance at the back seat. She was concentrating on the view from the window, hands clasped tightly in her lap. She needed, he realised, time to reconcile her feelings and make a decision.
He would wait for her.
The conversation across the dinner table is tediously predictable - Mary and Matthew, the Earl and Sybil sniping, the Dowager's interjections. Richard stops talking and studies her. She is staring across the table at her husband, her expression bordering on contempt. Just as he begins to wonder she is thinking, she turns round and drops her voice to a low whisper:
"I think you made an excellent suggestion this afternoon, Richard."
A/N: It's getting exciting! Thank you to MissPixieWay for beta'ing these last few chapters. I have a deadline for 27th April, but I aim to get the next chapter (Christmas Celebrations, methinks) up for next week.
From my limited research, Robert isn't entirely wrong about the shower. Until the 1940's, they had no pressure valves or temperature gauges, so they could theoretically "blow up"!