Cora stood motionless, staring out her bedroom window. The blazing sun made her eyes squint. With the curtains drawn back, the Countess could feel heat radiating through the glass. This must be what Sarah feels every day. She ruminated once more over the letter she had sent to her former maid. Nearly two months passed with no response. Cora sighed. There was a knock at her bedroom door. Baxter would never knock. The caller must be Robert. He'd been sheepish and ridiculously formal with her lately. He was most certainly having an affair. She had heard a rumor that it was Lady Langley. Well, if he could be charmed by that dimwit in heels then maybe he really was as thick as Cora had always feared. Another knock at the door. "Come in," Cora called without turning from the window. She heard the knob rattle, the deadlatch clicking, open then closed but Robert said nothing.

"M'Lady."

Cora's breath caught in her throat. Her eyes widened. She turned. There, standing in the middle of her bedroom was a woman draped in exotic red and gold silk. But the woman was not exotic. She was familiar. She was Sarah.

"I read your letter. I knew I had to come home."

Cora rushed forward to embrace her prodigal maid. She hugged the her tightly, laying her head on O'Brien's shoulder. Her heart swelled with such relief. Then she pulled back to look at Sarah's face again. She gazed into those knowing blue eyes. Suddenly, without a single thought, Cora kissed the woman standing in front of her. Sarah pulled her close.

On the bed they were naked beneath sheets. Cora felt Sarah's hot bare skin pressing her into the mattress. An aching grew between her hips and her heart raced as their bodies writhed together, kissing, caressing. Hands gripped her breast, her thigh, tongue and lips traced along her collarbone. "Oh, Sarah," the Countess moaned. "M'Lady."

"M'Lady," Baxter soothed, "m'Lady, it's morning."

Cora woke with a start.

"Did you have a nightmare, m'Lady?"

Looking around herself, disoriented and still breathing heavily, Cora blushed, "Yes. I must have."

Once dressed and reacquainted with reality, Cora stood staring again out her bedroom window. Soft rain drizzled down the windowpanes. Cora shivered.

"Will you want a sweater today?"

"No thank you, Baxter, that will be all."

Finally alone, Cora grappled with her unwarranted but nevertheless intense disappointment. What exactly transpired in her dream was fading from her memory. The colors were dimming, the sensations were dulling but the aching for her maid had still been coursing through her even as Baxter was arranging her breakfast. She attempted rather unsuccessfully to convince herself that she had forgotten her dream, that nothing unseemly could be causing the redness in her cheeks - or the niggling sense of embarrassment. She could not, however, convince herself that she was not disappointed. It was only a dream. It was only a dream. O'Brien had not come home, would not be coming. Two months and no response. Maybe the letter never reached it's destination. Thomas had received another letter a few weeks ago and graciously allowed Cora to read it, but the message gave no indication that O'Brien had had any unexpected communications. The letter did, however, make Cora regret her familial association with anyone as beastly to her serving staff as Susan Flintshire. Although, maybe Sarah felt the same way about her. Maybe Cora was not the kind mistress she had always imagined herself to be. She'd never kicked a maid, no, but could she have offended in some other way without realizing. What if O'Brien really had gotten her letter and wanted nothing to do with her? The Countess bit her lip, forehead creasing.

Over breakfast with Rosamund, Cora quietly picked at her eggs.

"-and of course you know Mama pretends to detest any acknowledgement of her birthday but if Robert and I don't, at the very least, plan a small fête in her honour she'll be terribly put out."

"Is everything alright, dear?," Rosamund finally asked.

Cora's distress was apparently rather poorly hidden. In that moment, the Countess decided, however rashly, to disclose to her sister-in-law all of her recent efforts and concerns. Rosamund, to Cora's great relief, listened patiently and without judgement.

"Do you think it was a very silly idea to send that letter?"

Shrugging her shoulders, "Well," Rosamund consoled, "good help is so hard to find these days." Cora smiled faintly. Her breakfast companion took another bite of tomato and dabbed the corners of her mouth with her serviette. "I had no idea Baxter was so dreadful."

"Oh no, Baxter is perfectly adequate but Sarah was really - something," Cora smiled a faint dreamy smile. Her eyes flited back to her sister-in-law and noticed Rosamund's smirking lips and raised eyebrow. "What?"

"You called her Sarah."

"Oh- I- did I?," Cora stumbled, still smiling sheepishly. Her cheeks felt hot, she knew she must be bright red again, "I- we were close." Rosamund's smirk widened to an almost obscene grin. "Well, I thought we were close. Maybe she didn't," Cora conceded, smile faltering.

Rosamund laid her hand over Cora's and gave it a squeeze, "She simply hasn't received the letter yet. From the sound of it, she travels endlessly. You will have word from her soon enough, I'm quite certain."

Cora nodded, sighing.

Sarah's shoes rested unbuckled and discarded next to her adirondack chair. She dug her toes into the sand. She would be shaking the grit out of her stockings for weeks but she didn't care. A salty breeze tussled her curls and she brushed them out of her eyes. She had managed to quit Bangalore for the Goa coast before the malaria outbreak caught her and now here she sat watching gulls dive at the dark blue and white crested waves, a palm tree shading her from the noonday sun. Physically, Sarah was the picture of health, but emotionally she was tied in knots. The money was running out. In a week or two, when the plague cleared, she would return to Bangalore. She could stretch her funds there for another month. Then what? A forty-seven year old woman without reference had few options in England. Here she didn't even speak the language. Maybe Mr. Fitch could get her work as a scullery maid, but bloody hell, the idea of returning to Calcutta turned her stomach. What's more, could she even be sure she could manage the grueling and toilsome work of a scullery maid at her age?

The back of Sarah's mind gnawed at her, perpetually reminding that there was a solution if she chose to take it. She reached into the collar of her dress and pulled out a tattered letter. Slouching forward in her chair, forearms on her knees, cigarette resting between her lips, ankles deep in sand, Sarah opened the the yellowing paper along well-worn fold lines. For the hundredth time, she reread Lady Grantham's tiny woehrling script, pondering the impossible and confounding message. The letter commended her boldness and sense of adventure, assured her all was forgiven and forgotten, invited her to return home at the Countess's expense. Unbelievable. She had paced her room for an hour the first time she read it, completely unwilling to accept it could be real. Surely there had been some mistake. But there was no mistaking, the envelope was directed to Miss Sarah O'Brien, care of The Sai Vishram Hotel, Bangalore. It was signed "Yours," her Ladyship's typical valediction, Sarah had seen it before on countless correspondences, and invitations, and thank you cards. Although, to anyone aside from the little Ladyships, her letters were always signed "C. Grantham" after the valediction. Even the Dowager got "C. Grantham," his Lordship only got "C.," but Sarah gazed down at the signature on this letter directed to Miss Sarah O'Brien.

"Cora Grantham" - written out like that. "Cora." What did it mean? Sarah's brow crinkled then she shook the question from her mind for a more pressing one. Would she accept her Ladyship's invitation. Could she?

Such a simple solution to all her problems - and she would see her Lady again. But all was not forgiven and forgotten to Sarah. She would see Bates again as well, and ever-suspicious Mr. Carson, and even Mrs. Hughes had inexplicably taken Thomas's side in their falling out. Thomas. Then there was Thomas. Sarah had no reason to believe he would be so forgiving. She'd had no letters from him. She feared what he would have to say to her. He likely wouldn't be wrong. She never realized how bleak Downton had become for her, until she'd gone, or how she lashed out against it and everyone there. But she was changed - or something like that. She liked who she had become in India, even when she worked for the Flintshires. Mr. Kahn had been inclined toward her, he found her asides very droll and was never so constantly suspicious of her actions and motives as Mr. Carson. The rest of the staff seemed to admire her work-ethic - for an English - or at least empathize with her for having to work so closely with Lady Flintshire. Sarah did not want to look back. She did not want to go back. She had all but renounced completely that miserable part of her life, even leaving off return addresses from her letters to avoid it coming to find her.

Honestly, she would be more bothered if she were not so impressed with Lady Grantham's ingenuity in ferreting her out. Sarah smiled briefly at the idea of the Countess working out a scheme. Taking the cigarette from her mouth, she flicked it's ashes into the sand. "I look forward to hearing from you," she read to herself. She was going to disappoint her Lady again. But what response could she possibly write? "Dear Lady Grantham, I would love to accept your gracious offer to come home but I can't because nobody likes me?" Pathetic. And if she did go back, surely they've all heard the story by now. She would arrive disgraced and shamefaced, rescued by the woman everyone knows she doesn't deserve. Sarah's grip on the letter tightened, crumpling the corner. She imagined herself tearing it to shreds and letting the pieces blow away into the ocean. She would never be tempted to read it again. Her grip relaxed. Gazing down again at the looping signature, she thumbed the fading name - Cora. Then she refolded the paper and replaced it to it's home over her heart.

Rolling her eyes at herself - Christ, she was maudlin - and blowing a whisp of smoke out the corner of her mouth, Sarah faced the ocean again. And what would Lady Grantham be doing at this moment on a day like today? Sleeping most likely, in two hours her new maid would bring her breakfast in bed. Sarah would skip breakfast to save money. She leaned on her elbow, resting her head in her hand as the breeze tussled her curls back into her eyes.