Chapter Seven

September 1890

Even with his fingers in his pockets, the wind bit at them. It was only the beginning of autumn, but still the high grounds of Downton proved chillier than he had anticipated. The season's change had been sudden, the lush green foliage that surrounded the house had begun to dip into warm reds, yellows, and browns and even high on the hills near his favorite folly, the treetops began to glow like dying fire embers, the shifting winds rustling the leaves and blowing them away. Perhaps it would be a cold autumn, and he hoped, an even colder winter as images of the estate covered in snow flurried around his mind.

It would be Cora's first winter here, her first English Christmas, and he immediately began to make a list of the things he wanted to do with her. There'd be the annual caroling, the tenant farmers' ball, the charitable events Mama would bring her to, obviously. But then he wanted to take her into Ripon to see the great tree they always put in the center of the small park, and he'd be sure to ask Mrs Davenport to make her his favorite Christmas pudding — flambé of course — and The Game, Cora had never played The Game - she'd be terribly good at it. And then they'd go sleighing. His mind conjured up scenes of Cora, her face all alight in excitement, snowflakes all around her.

He felt himself smile, back in the present, and he moved the chilly fingers of his left hand around in their little cocoon of a pocket, trying his best to warm them. He and Papa were now crunching through the gravel toward the stables, leading their horses in from their morning ride.

They weren't speaking now and hadn't spoken much at all as they rode, Papa only gesturing now and again at the wildlife he spotted across the fields. None of this was really out of the ordinary; Robert and his father usually spent their time together in comfortable silence, and why not? There wasn't much to discuss when Mama was absent. Not if they knew what was best.

But underneath all that content quiet now, Robert could feel his father moving around questions in his head, manipulating words together to gently broach the subject. Oh, Robert knew what it would probably be about, but he also knew that for some reason he wasn't as miffed by the topic as he had been. He still felt a small tight feeling up high in his chest when he thought of the entail now, but it was different than it had been. It was less panic now and more just … just warmth. His fingers felt less cold at the thought.

It wasn't until they could see the stables and the men all walking about them that Papa felt brave enough to ask.

"Did Cora not want to ride out with us?"

Robert glanced over at his father who had hidden himself behind the crest of his horse. Only his hat and forehead were visible, and Robert suppressed the immediate want to chuckle.

"No, Papa," he answered evenly. "You know that Cora does not ride."

"Doesn't? Or… ?"

Robert rolled his eyes. "If you're implying what I know you are," he said, "the answer is no."

Patrick was quick. "But soon, I hope."

"Papa." Robert sighed, leaning down and then straightening up again as if filling his lungs with the cool autumn air would quell his desire to fuss. It was fairly successful. "Cora and I have an understanding, a very reasonable understanding. And while I can see you are worried, please rest assured, everything has been thought of and considered."

But he did not respond immediately. Robert watched as he nodded instead at the stable boy who took Orion by the reins, leading the horse toward the saddle racks.

Robert wasn't sure what to make of the silence now, as it wasn't comfortable nor thoughtful; but, for whatever reason, Robert did not care.

He and Cora did have an understanding, and he was finding their understanding much more pleasant than he originally thought he would. There was a certain freedom to what they did now. How they did it. True, after the first night, he wasn't sure how to proceed. Without the strength of whiskey behind his motivation, he felt a bit embarrassed to approach her; it felt rather like a proposition.

"Robert," she had laughed when he'd said this later, "you can't proposition your own wife!"

He begged to differ. He hadn't been sure how to suggest it. At least when they were trying to conceive, she could expect him fairly regularly. But now, there was no honorable and duty-bound reason to slowly enter her room at night, hoping she'd greet him with her crooked little grin. It was not honorable in the least; it was solely to be with her. And he found it … a revelation.

He snuck a glance at Papa. He would not understand.

This feeling he felt for Cora, this love for her, it made him feel different. He didn't miss how their nights were spent before. Not the way he supposed he would. In fact, the more Robert thought about it, the more he realized he very rarely missed much of how it used to be at all. He … he realized that he'd slowly begun to focus more on her. Wanting her to feel him. And when she bit at her lip, or when she smiled, or when she'd whisper his name, when she'd lace her fingers with his own - somehow it felt better to him than any physical touch she could offer.

Robert cleared his throat. Thinking of it, thinking of his wife, made him feel dizzy. Aroused, yes, but also … he ached to simply be near her.

" — invade your privacy. Only, I feel anxious to have the entail settled."

His father had been speaking, and Robert took in a cold breath.

"You do understand, Robert? It must be secured."

Robert nodded, his thoughts a million miles away from anything Papa was trying to impress upon him. "Yes, of course."

"Then, I must ask -" Papa abruptly stopped walking and Robert peered around them. They were a mere fifteen paces from the front door.

"Yes?"

"Do, please, go about this discreetly."

He stared at his father, blinking.

"Of course, I would have preferred for this to have waited until after you've produced an heir, but I assume you're both being careful in how you proceed."

"I'm not sure -"

"And, while my dear late brother's son has many admirable qualities, his taste in women is wanting. I hope he hasn't procured for you one of his own."

Robert bristled, suddenly realizing with distaste at what his father said. "His own? Woman, Papa?"

His father simply looked at him. Robert shook his head.

"James has not procured anyone for me."

"Thank Heavens for that." Patrick began to walk away, but Robert stopped him.

"No, Papa, you misunderstand me. I have no mistress. At all. Neither of us are . . ." he didn't know how else to continue, and he saw that his father was nearly as bewildered.

"Neither of you are what?"

Robert took in yet another breath and looked away.

"- I'm failing to understand what you mean. Robert, are you . . ." Patrick took two steps closer to him and hoarsely whispered now. "Are you at ease with her?"

"What?"

"When you lie with her." Papa whispered again. "Is she at ease with you? I won't pretend that I have been a valuable teacher in that department. But I hope you realize you may ask me … or tell me … anything you may need in order to help you …"

Robert looked at his father, really looked at him. He'd never said that before. Not ever.

"Thank you, Papa." He felt somewhat embarrassed, but perhaps Patrick did as well, for he looked away from Robert and at the Abbey, the tallest tower casting a shadow on both of their faces. "And yes," Robert paused. "I think we are both finding an ease about us."

"Good." His father began to walk away, but suddenly it wasn't enough.

"There is something —" He was like a man dying of thirst, stumbling upon an oasis in a vast desert. Papa wanted to speak of Cora. Of intimacy. Papa had offered to answer his questions, and at Robert's voice had turned around to him once again and lifted his chin.

"Yes?"

He felt his mouth move, but there was no sound. He pulled in air and forced it to finally escape.

"I'm happy. She makes me happy." No, it was more than that. Robert shook his head. "I may love her, Papa."

It was quiet: his words, his father's reaction, the breeze that rustled the embers of leaves on the hills. It was quiet.

"I love her," he heard himself repeat aloud. Nearly silently, but loud enough to keep his father silent, all but for a small nod.

"I see." Patrick turned around and looked up at the Abbey again, and then looked down at his side. Robert could see his expression — blinking, mouth agape, his jaw moving slightly as if it were trying various words to test how they felt. And then, a curious thing: Patrick looked back toward Robert, nodded again, and then offered the smallest suggestion of a smile. "I see."

...

"Ah! Here you are."

His announcement seemed to reverberate around her sitting room, startling Cora, and he immediately felt embarrassed. Of course he knew exactly where she would be, but to say so still felt a bit forward. So, in an effort to act as if he hadn't paid much mind to her routines, he'd come in like a tempest, feigning surprise to find her. But her surprise at his burst of an entrance was genuine, eliciting even a small, muffled gasp in her throat, and Robert felt like a fool. But then, he often felt like a fool around her.

Cora shook her head good naturedly and offered a small laugh. She spied the envelopes he held out to her, and with a smile, outstretched her hand. "This must be urgent."

He grinned, too. "No. Afternoon post. Seems you have a few. I imagine one is from your aunt." Cora had written at least a fortnight ago, and he knew she was anxious for a response.

He grinned again when, after reading a few lines, she nodded to him.

"Very well. Then, I'll leave you -"

"Why?" Her eyes were bright as she blinked up at him. "Are you busy?"

"No," Robert motioned toward the letter she held. "But I don't wish to bother you."

Her face was suddenly awash in a glow. "You couldn't bother me."

"If you're sure -"

"Don't be silly! Of course I'm sure." She spun back toward her desk, but smiled over her shoulder at him.

Satisfied, he dropped into a chair near her desk, taking her letter opener from her in order to use it himself. He chose the thickest envelope first, pulled through the lip of the paper, and let the envelope fall into his lap. Leaning back, he shook open the letter and immediately recognized his sister's script.

Dearest Brother,

He felt his lips curl as he chortled once. "Rosamund." Her sarcasm practically dripped off the page.

Out of his periphery he could see as Cora wriggled a little in her desk chair and then flitted her eyes back down to her own letter. "Oh?"

He hummed in the affirmative, and read on, his sister's short stabs of letters so much like her own speaking inflections that he could nearly hear her voice in his ear:

I hope this letter finds you well. I'm sure it shall. Are you coming down to London with Papa? Mama assumes so, but of course not before the shooting party. What a mess. Mama and I have been in correspondence, of course, with the planning and organisation of it all, and it seems Lord + Lady Fitzalan are arriving later, and as usual Sir Howard is arriving early. It has Mama in fits over the room arrangements, not to mention the menus. Sir Howard may only have fish and fowl and his earlier arrival is putting a damper on Mrs D's mood — not that she's ever in a jolly mood ...

Robert chuckled aloud and glanced upward to his wife who was now engrossed in her own letter. He read on.

… Mama has suggested I come home soon to finish all of the details, seems I've also been put in charge of flowers, so please send word straightaway on whether or not you're leaving Downton for here. I'd like to ensure that we won't be ships in the night, so to speak. All my best to C ~ Ros.

Creasing the letter back into its smoothed folds his sister had made, Robert bounced a quick "Rosamund says hello" toward Cora, who, he realized upon looking at her, was leaning into her desk, composing a response to her aunt's letter.

"What does she have to say?" she asked, but she didn't look back to him. The afternoon light kissed all of the smoothest parts of her, warming her milky skin. He looked at the way a small whisper of a dark curl touched the slope of her long neck, and he sighed.

He'd told Papa. He'd told Papa that he loved her. He wasn't even sure he'd ever told his father that he loved him, and yet he'd confessed to him that he loved Cora.

He loved her.

"Robert?" She was peering at him now. "What does Rosamund say?"

He cleared his throat. "Seems she's having a time with Mama. The shooting party has Mama's teeth on edge."

She laughed. "There are a great many teeth on edge, thanks to your mother."

"That sounds like Mama."

"And when is she coming?"

Robert furrowed his brow and looked back at the letter. "Oh. She doesn't quite say. But, how did you know? Has Mama told you?"

Cora laughed once again, though perhaps laughter wasn't quite the expression, for it was nothing like the laughter from before.

"No, your mother has not told me." Cora again wiggled in her seat and tapped her pen twice upon her desk. "It's just with the shooting party soon, I thought she may. After all, she's written to invite herself before every social event we've hosted since we married."

"Oh, you exaggerate." Robert looked back to his sister's letter, as if she could speak to him from it, and frowned. "She and Mama don't get along well enough for that."

Cora gave him a little grin. "Well," she tipped her head. "It's not all bad that she comes. We get to split the blame when things go wrong."

He liked that. "Yes," he chuckled. "I can imagine."

"But I would like to learn. After all, I will be the Countess of Grantham one day."

He looked up to her and found her back at her desk, writing. "Yes," he smiled. "Yes, you will."

She grinned broadly over her shoulder and turned back to her desk. "However, I've learned how to choose my battles with your mother. For now I'd simply like to be able to choose my own maid."

"Are those the majority of the letters, then?"

Cora lifted a few and peered at them. "Yes, I think so. Though your mother will not permit me to throw any out without her permission."

Robert peered at his feet. "I'm not often one to agree with Mama -"

Cora looked at him, and he gave her a conciliatory sigh. He was sorry for even suggesting that Mama would be right, but he could see her point.

"- But I'm sure her experience matters in this."

"But I'd like one my own age, Robert. And while one of the older maids your mother likes is trained in hair, your mother's maid is excellent at hair, and we shared her during the Season. Why couldn't we now?"

Robert frowned thoughtfully.

Cora had turned back to her desk and to the response to her aunt's letter. "Just because she's worked with newly married ladies before, your mother thinks she's the best candidate. I tried to remind her that we have been married for seven months, that I feel we've maneuvered through the most difficult phase, to which she only laughed. I don't understand why I can't just carry on with Isla." She peered over her shoulder. "Your mother wants a spy."

Robert chuckled, "That I can believe." He watched as she shuffled a bit in her chair and then as she took the ink blotter and rolled it upon her paper. "Though, perhaps she does have a point concerning an older maid. Seems practical enough."

He waited for Cora to look at him.

"And would you really want to continue to share a maid with Mama? Even if it's just for hair. Seems far more likely to work in her favor."

Cora was silent and still for a moment, but then to Robert's relief, she shook her head. "No. I suppose not."

He smiled, settled more deeply into the chair. "You deserve a proper lady's maid. You are a proper lady, after all."

He could see Cora's little grin, but she only looked at him and rolled her eyes, mirthfully. "I'm not sure your mother would agree."

He laughed, and he watched her fold the letter before her. "How is your aunt?"

Cora paused, and he motioned to the letter.

"Is she well?"

"She is, thank you."

"Ruth, yes?"

It was as if Cora came to life. She smiled, lifted her chin, and looked at him. "Yes." She tilted her head. "I'm surprised you remembered."

He laughed. "You must think I listen to nothing you say."

She only shook her head, and smiled. "I'm not sure what I think."

"And she's married to Frank?"

"Yes. Uncle Frank," she answered. Her smile was bigger. "He's the one who works on Wall Street."

"Ah," he hadn't known that part. "Wall Street."

Her eyes animated, bright with humor, he warmed as he watched her, as she shook her head and furrowed her brows. "He's very serious. Very respectable. I don't think I've ever seen him smile."

"Sounds a bit like Uncle Edward."

Cora held her folded aunt's letter still. Her face lost all the animation and looked a little surprised. "James's father?"

He nodded.

"I don't think you've ever told me about him."

"Have I not?"

Cora shook her head. Her eyes were dancing.

"Perhaps because he was a frightening figure of my childhood."

She laughed, "I can't imagine young Robert being afraid of much."

"Well then you'd be wrong. He was never an unkind man, but he was at least three inches taller than Papa and I felt he was always rather bitter that he was not the elder brother. Whenever he'd come to visit, I'd run downstairs to avoid him. Our cook, Mrs. Yardley, would give me all manner of biscuits and treats to calm my nerves. Of course, James found out and called me a baby. Followed shortly by Rosamund."

He expected laughter at that, but when there was none, he looked up at her and found her smiling softly at him, her eyes bright and warm instead. At eye contact, he watched her draw in a breath and then sigh.

"I can imagine you were very sweet."

He chuckled bemusedly. "Sweet is perhaps not the word."

But she only smiled more warmly. "Oh, Robert."

It was that - when she looked at him like that - that stilled his heart in his chest in the most wonderful way. But it also made him unsure of himself. He stood. He blindly dropped the letters into the chair. He had to go. He wasn't sure how to navigate this feeling, these feelings for her.

"Murray is coming today. And Jarvis. Barnes." None of them were. He didn't know what to say. His head spun. He took the two steps toward her, leaned down to her, and pressed his lips to the corner of her mouth. She was soft. And she was warm. She smelled of jasmine. He felt himself respond to her touch, and he felt himself blush.

"I should be getting on," he whispered, and when he pulled away, his heart skipped at how she caught his gaze. And then his hand.

"Stay."

It was such a small whisper, the smallest, but it pulled him closer to her again, his lips finding hers softly. And then, not as softly. And then not softly at all.

"Cora -"

He felt her shake her head against his mouth. She stood, pressing herself against him. Her eyes were closed, her face so bright. So lovely.

"Please." Her breath was on his lips. Her nose was soft against his. He heard her earring jingle, and, inexplicably, he smiled. "Have me."

...

He was still in a daze at dinner.

As his mother prattled on about God knows what, and as Papa inserted benign little comments, Robert snuck glances across the table at his wife.

She sat there as if nothing had happened earlier. As if he had not angled her against her desk, and then the chair. As if they'd not struggled to catch their breath against one another. As if she'd not knelt between his legs, an entirely new experience that left him wobbly-kneed and speechless.

She cut into her beef politely.

When he'd finally meet her eyes, she'd blush deeply and smile, looking down into her plate or sipping her glass of wine.

He couldn't believe they'd done that. Outside of her bed. Outside of her room. What had come over him? Over her? How they had done it was another mystery. And how he'd managed to keep to his word when everything in him wanted to pour inside of her.

He watched her for a moment, the way she brought her fork to her mouth. The way her fingers touched her knife. She was lovely.

"What is it, Robert?"

He looked at Mama.

"Hmm?"

"Is something funny?"

Robert looked at his parents' faces, both of them staring at him.

"No -"

"You're grinning like a Cheshire cat."

He looked across the table at Cora who smirked. Stupidly, his grin grew. "No, it - it was something Rosamund wrote. In her letter." He stabbed at his beef.

"Oh?" Mama seemed satisfied enough and he was glad. "I expect we'll be seeing her soon."

"So she says." Robert chewed a potato, and glanced up at his wife. "Though, perhaps Cora should do the flowers? Instead of Rosamund."

Violet chuckled slightly, "Oh, do be serious."

"I am, Mama." He was aware that the dining room was silent now, but he didn't hesitate. He cut again into his beef. "After all, Cora is Lady Downton, one day to be Lady Grantham." He shrugged. "Rosamund is not."

"Robert, Rosamund is allowed some privileges —"

"— Of course. This is her old home, and she's welcome." He lifted his glass of wine to his lips. "But Cora is my wife. She outranks my sister."

He looked across the table at Cora, and smiled. She did outrank her. As far as Robert was concerned, Cora outranked everyone.