Stepping down from the motorcar onto the crowded and bustling dock, Cora breathed in the cool dawn air and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She had risen nearly two hours earlier than her usual and couldn't help but doze in the back seat on their short journey from the hotel to the port. She craned her neck to gaze up at the massive ocean liner moored before her. For the next seven days the RMS Mauretania would be home to herself, Mary, little George, and Sybbie until they arrived in New York, where the children would meet their great grandmother for the first time. The ship boasted the highest in luxury and comfort. Cora very much doubted she would have a comfortable journey. Just as she was finally becoming acclimated to Baxter, Molesley went and stole the woman away. Of course, Mary's maid would assist her for their trip but with Anna in a family way, this new girl was simply another stranger to Cora. She sighed to herself and witnessed the hundreds of other passengers jostling one another with their luggage and herding themselves onto the gangway.
She watched Tom directing the crewmen who hoisted up her trunk and carried it to the cargo hold. He bent down, scooping Sybbie into his arms and planting kisses all over her pudgy little cheeks, instructing her to be a good girl and to mind her granny, and auntie, and Nanny Stevens, and telling her he'd miss her so so much. Cora had invited him to join them but Robert simply refused to give Tom a break from his duties as estate manager. Finally he handed the girl off to Mary, embraced his sister-in-law and watched the two of them make their way toward the ship. Cora stood with him by the car. Over the cacophony of the crowd they could here Sybbie beginning to squeal and cry for her papa. Tears welled up in Tom's eyes. He attempted to put on a brave face, smiling and waving good bye to his daughter. Suddenly Cora had an idea. Actually the idea was one she had been considering for weeks, but with sudden conviction she knew that she would carry it out. On the fender she rested her stuff bag containing another dress, and shoes, her toiletries, her pocketbook, and her most valuable jewelry.
"Tom," she said, rummaging through the bag, "you must take this." Cora pulled from an inside pocket, her boarding pass and handed it to her son-in-law.
"What? Oh no I couldn't!"
"Tom, I insist."
"I couldn't possibly- and Robert- and I've only got the bag I brought for the night in Liverpool - your trunk has already been loaded onto the ship."
"A few dresses and some books. I won't miss them for five weeks. You let me handle Robert, and here take this to buy the things you need in New York." She handed him fifty pounds.
"M'Lady- Cora, I really couldn't - it's too much."
"You are my son and the father of my granddaughter, you should accompany her on her first voyage to America. I will handle my husband. You must go with Sybbie."
Finally, Tom acquiesced, hugging his mother-in-law and thanking her profusely. With glistening eyes he snatched up his bag from the boot and ran for the crowded gangway. Watching him go, Cora breathed deeply. She was really doing this. She was really implementing the plan she had been toying with for the last several weeks, ever since Mary suggested they visit her mother. She walked around the car to the driver. "Please inform his Lordship, upon your return to Downton, that Mr. Branson will be accompanying myself and Lady Mary to America."
With her family safely out of the way and all of those loose ends tied up, it was time for the next step. Turning her back to the ship and scanning the signs overhead she searched for the one she needed. There. P&O Steam and Navigation Company. She carried her small but heavy bag herself over to the queue of travelers beneath the sign. After a short wait she had purchased her ticket and within an hour, an hour that seemed steeped in a haze of unreality, she found herself sitting on the bed in her private birth aboard the SS Empress of India. As the fog horns sounded and she felt the rumble of motion beneath her feet, Cora pinched herself to be sure she was not dreaming again. There was no going back now. Was she completely insane? She laid on her bed looking up at the ceiling, trying to calm her mind. She thought of O'Brien - tried to picture her in the blue dress she had described in that letter to Thomas. For some reason, which Cora could not explain, the image of O'Brien looking beautiful in blue made her heart beat just a little bit faster.
Sarah sat on her wooden chair facing the pockmarked and aging wall of her quarters at The Shai, a pencil and paper rested on the table in front of her. She still looked rather well in her blue cotton frock but there was certainly more room in it for her hips than their had been a month ago. She was not starving, only a bit leaner. She had been back in Bangalore for a fortnight and had begun limiting herself to two small meals a day. At this rate she could stretch her last remaining rupees for another three weeks or so, fewer if she decided to take the train up to Calcutta. She grimaced at the blank page and rubbed the back of her neck with her hand. She was too stubborn and too proud. She had picked up the pencil what seemed like a thousand times but she could not bring herself to write.
Sarah was confident Fitch would help her find work but the idea of admitting defeat in a pleading letter, of conceding to her own foolhardiness was too much to bare. She had not written a word for over a month, not even to Thomas, knowing now that a message to Thomas was tantamount to a message to her Ladyship. She could no longer speak freely to him, to anyone. She was feeling the same isolation she felt just before leaving Downton, only more pervasive now because she did not even have an excuse to be at least present at a dinner table full of fellow servants. Sarah stared down at the blank page. Maybe she could write to Lady Grantham directly, to allay the Countess' fears - and her own conscience. She could tell her everything is fine and not to worry over the likes of her. She could tell her she was a wonderful mistress, no one could ask for better. Sarah had never deserved her. She could apologize for leaving the way she did. She had been a coward but she never could bear Lady Grantham's disappointed face. She could apologize for other things… then her Ladyship might not be so eager to bring her back.
Sarah picked up her pencil and began writing, "Dear Mr. Fitch," Her stomach growled and she laid the pencil back down. She had long since stopped sitting by the window as the smells of the market only reminded her of her mild yet perpetual hunger. Nevertheless, the aroma of fried bread creeped in, permeating the room. Her mouth watered but she had to wait at least two more hours to eat or she would have trouble sleeping again tonight. She lit a fag instead. Leaning back in her chair, Sarah's thoughts did not drift to Lady Grantham's daily habits. She spent very little time considering what the Countess might be up to these days. All of the unoccupied space in her mind seemed dedicated to the samosas she would have for tea, or the spicy lamb curry and rice she prefered when she hadn't been so near, flaky pani puri, crispy greasy fish and chips, Mrs. Patmore's steak and kidney pie, peas and mash, sticky toffee pudding, apple tart - her Ladyship's favourite.
Cora gripped her seat as her stomach somersaulted along with the motion of the bumping, rumbling rickshaw. Still, this nausea was nothing compared to her last three weeks on the stormy seas and it did not distract from her utter vexation. How could she have been so careless? Her stuff bag was gone. On the train from Bombay to Bangalore she had fallen asleep with it resting on the floor by her feet. When she awoke, the bag had vanished. Stupid stupid. Her dresses, her other shoes, all of her toiletries, gone - probably perfuming and powdering the face of some thief's very lucky wife by now. In Cora's one stroke of good fortune since she left England, she had used her small purse containing her pocketbook and jewelry as a pillow on the train and still had it with her. She would simply have to buy new dresses and soaps.
When the rickshaw finally slowed to a stop, Cora guessed they had arrived at the Bangaluru Pete as she requested, based on the helpful conductor's directions before she exited the train. Now it was time to find the hotel. As the mob of people, and carts, and cows crowded the streets around her, Cora grew more and more intimidated by her next task. For a moment, she thought she might ask to be taken back to the trainstation. Instead she climbed down onto the dusty street. She paid her fare and began walking in any direction. She would have to ask someone to direct her to The Shai Vishram. She did not speak any Indian languages and hoped someone would know enough English or at least understand her when she said the hotel name. Of course, she saw the occasional English officer with whom she could certainly communicate her needs more easily. But she feared, maybe irrationally, that she would somehow be recognized and hauled off to the British embassy, scolded for her foolishness and sent scandalized and humiliated back to her husband. She meant to be watching for a kindly-looking Indian woman to help her but she was so overwhelmed by the colours, the fragrances, the sounds filling her senses that she completely forgot her mission.
Cora wandered aimlessly for nearly an hour, observing the bustling city around her. She stopped at a flower seller to admire his vibrant strands of marigolds. Opening the purse hanging at her side and reaching for her pocketbook, Cora's heart caught in her throat. Her hand passed right through the bottom of the bag. There was a slice clean across the seam. Turning, she saw a trail of jewels strewn on the street behind her and hordes of barefoot children snatching up the glimmering pieces then disappearing into the crowd. "Stop!" she shouted as she stumbled and bent to rescue what few possessions she had left from the dirt. People jostled her on either side, seeming not to even notice her distress. Securing four bracelets on her wrist, three necklaces around her neck and shoving a few earings into the pockets of her travel coat, Cora willed herself not to weep in public. Her pocketbook was nowhere, vapor. Swallowing the lump in her throat she reassured herself that she was not defeated yet. Her jewelry was worth something. Maybe Sarah would know how to barter. She needed to find that hotel.
Mercifully, Cora did not have to search very hard for assistance. A gentle-looking old woman, hunched over a walking stick, hobbled over to her. She asked in very broken English if Cora needed help. Cora gave the name of the hotel and the woman smiled brightly, motioning for her to follow. Heart bursting with relief, the Countess trailed along as the woman snaked through the crowd with surprising agility. They turned several corners and eventually left the hustle and bustle of the market behind them. At first, the quiet was a relief to Cora's senses but soon her instincts began sounding little alarms. The streets as they walked became narrower and darker, the people more ragged and leering. She considered going back to the market but she couldn't be sure she knew the way after so many twists and turns.
Finally the old woman stopped. A larger hulking woman, in a green and red sari, came out from a dilapidated shelter. Cora was tall but this woman was a giant. She spoke gruffly to the old woman in a language Cora did not understand and the old woman responded, pointing conspiratorially to Cora. Soon the large woman was looming over her. She growled a command and reached for Cora's wrist. The countess pulled away protecting her jewelry with her other hand. She backed away but the women pursued. Before she could even scream for help, her assailants were upon her. They pried the bracelets off of her wrists and tore the necklaces from her neck. Though Cora fought, the behemoth of a woman thrust her hard against the brick wall, knocking the wind out of her lungs. Then the two thugs wrenched her travel coat from her body. The giant made for her shoes but, when she saw the old woman putting on the coat, she turned away to argue. Slinking down beside the wall, trying to catch her breath, Cora realized her muggers were momentarily distracted. So she ran. She ran and ran, through the dark alley, not knowing where she was going, only that there was a bright and crowded street up ahead.
Tumbling out into the sunny thoroughfare and glancing over shoulder to be sure she wasn't pursued, Cora collided with a British officer and his bespectacled young wife.
"Are you quite alright, madame?" the mustachioed officer asked, eyes wide with surprise. His wife watched with a stunned expression, hiding her gaping mouth behind a dainty white-gloved hand. Cora's hair was tussled and loose, her dress was ripped, and her cheek was scraped and bleeding. The gentleman held Cora's arm to steady her while his wife asked if there was anything they could do. Taking the handkerchief offered to her, Cora pressed it to her cheek and stared blankly past the couple while they spoke. All at once, her brain registered what she was seeing. There, across the way, in bright red lettering above a white stone building, The Shai Vishram Hotel.
As the couple looked on in confusion, Cora began laughing bitterly to herself. She had no money, she barely even had clothes. She could not possibly book a room and O'Brien might not even be there anyway. The former maid could be traveling for weeks. She may not come back at all, having found work in some other city. Cora's laughter quickly turned to tears and the officer's wife comforted her with a gentle hand on her shoulder, saying, "Oh you poor poor dear." She would have to tell them what happened. She would have to beg them to take her to the embassy. She would be sent home disgraced and scandalized. Robert would be livid. How could she explain herself? What would this couple say when she told them she was the Countess of Grantham?
Through narrow eyelids, Sarah sensed the glaring sunlight streaming into her room. How could it be so bright at dawn? Was it summer? Couldn't be, she was shivering. She wanted to pull more blankets over herself but she was too exhausted, too tired to move. Beads of sweat speckled her forehead. Succumbing to another fit of violent coughs she decided that when Daisy came with her morning tea she would tell the girl to have Hughes ring Dr. Clarkson. Where was Daisy anyway? Opening her eyes fully, Sarah searched the room, disoriented. Finally, she realized she was not at Downton Abbey, she was in Bangalore. Her focus settled on the barely-touched piece of naan bread going stale on her table. She had no appetite. From the angle of the sun through her window it was not morning at all but mid afternoon. Sparkling dust motes floated in the shaft of light. The brightness of the sun made the place behind her eyes ache. All of her muscles and joints ached as well. She dragged her tongue across her dry lips, tasting something metallic on her teeth. With much effort, she lifted her hand to her face. She touched her fingers to her mouth and, pulling them away, found they were smeared with blood. If it were not so painful to move and if she were not so utterly drained of energy, the panic she felt at the sight of her red-streaked fingers might have had her crawling for the door, calling to the bellhop for assistance. Instead her eyes fluttered closed again. She was so tired. She would tell Daisy to get help when she came with tea.