Chapter Thirteen

November 1890

He watched the dark curl move to and fro, away from her nose and then toward it, away and then toward, away and then toward. He watched as she breathed peacefully in her sleep, her face still, her body motionless. He breathed in as well, and then peered around him. He realized it was early: a thin line of light periwinkle blue through a gap in her curtains, the warbling sing-song of a Robin, the pops of a young fire relit in her hearth. He realized, too, that the scullery maid must have woken him, a very small clatter of her pail as she left Cora's bedroom. The moment his eyes had opened, they had immediately searched for her— Cora. His heart only found its easy rhythm again when he found her sleeping soundly, on her side toward him, her chin angled up to him, as if she had watched him as they fell asleep together.

The corner of his mouth trembled up in a soft smile. She was beautiful. The light from the low fire illuminated her silhouette and the suggestion of her curves beneath their covers, and the smooth skin of her shoulder and cheek caught the glow of the flames as if she were a painting…as if she were a poem. And like art or poetry, it was more the feeling in his chest that she stirred which told him how beautiful she was. For she'd always been beautiful, even last year, across a ballroom, barely knowing her name. But now watching her sleep with her hair in its mussed braid and the small whistle of her breath, and his child growing inside of her, Robert was sure he had never seen anyone so lovely.

His soft smile deepened. His child. He didn't deserve this, and he sent up a quick prayer of thanks. He let his hand travel over the pillow he'd placed in between himself and Cora during the night, to guard against the irrational fear he'd knee her belly as they slept, and pulled at the cover that had drifted from her shoulder and down her arm. He pulled it over her again and felt his heart blossom.

His work was in vain, however, for just as he tucked his hand beneath the bedding again, he watched her features scrunch and her fingers rub furiously at her nose. She sniffed and cleared her throat, and Robert grinned.

"Hmm," she grumbled toward him, but kept her eyes closed. "You're awake?" she croaked.

"Not really," he whispered. "Go back to sleep."

"I can't." She moved her head along the pillow, and then Robert watched her press her lips together. "A bit of upset stomach."

"Can I get you something?"

Her eyes remained closed, but Robert watched as her face lit up with her smile. "No. But thank you."

Robert's chest felt as if the sparks and pops and crackles of the fire were suddenly inside of it, and he rolled to his back to give his heart more room to beat.

"Getting a bit of practice, I suppose."

He blinked. "How's that?"

"I mean, with the lack of sleep. For when the baby arrives." She still hadn't opened her eyes to speak to him, but her smile remained, and Robert elected to allow her to keep that way: happily naive. He knew they would have next to nothing to do with the late nights and early mornings, much less the infant stage as a whole. But he would let her discover that in time. For now he only wanted her to be happy; and her daydreaming about being a common mother, a mother like one of the tenant farmers, nursing her child or shushing the infant back to sleep was painfully endearing to him.

"Oh." Her groan pulled his eyes back to her, and he watched as she pushed the covers away and then slid from the bed and into the washroom. His face burned with embarrassment as he heard a tiny clank of a porcelain bowl and then her retching.

"Cora?" He sat up, stupidly calling out her name, to which she replied with another retch. "Are you all right?" He looked around him, and then twisted behind him to pull her bellcord, not at all sure if her maid was downstairs yet or not. "I've rung for Perkins," he offered helplessly, and Robert looked around the room. Her dressing gown? She could use that, for it was cold.

He moved from the bed, and then walked to her bedside table and opened the drawer. He pushed aside their book she kept there and found the silver matchbox. He took it out, struck one on the rough striker, and lit a candle. Holding it, he fetched her dressing gown and then bravely entered her washroom where he found her hunched over the basin, her fingers gripping the floral design on the sides. His mind spun a little at the contrast. His face burned hotter.

"Darling?"

"I'm perfectly alright." The loose curl he'd watched earlier swung in front of her when she shook her head, its shadow from the lone candle dancing over her face. She did not move yet from the washbowl. "Doctor Warren says —" she paused and took in a few breaths. "Doctor Warren says it's a sign of health. In a few weeks more, it'll pass."

"Weeks?"

Cora nodded, and then cautiously straightened, pushing out through pursed lips long, calming exhales. At last, as Robert stood there still holding the dressing gown he realized was incredibly superfluous, she peered over at him and smiled.

"Look," she whispered, and she cautiously pulled her thin, white nightgown taut against her middle, and chuckled. He followed her eyes as she peered down at herself, her cheeks still flushed from being sick. "It's starting to grow, I think."

He lifted the candle to see better, but could not detect any such swell. Not really. In fact, he thought he could match her belly there with just two slices of cake. But he smiled anyway, and genuinely, for she looked so incredibly happy that it warmed him thoroughly.

"I see," he lied, and he offered her her housecoat.

She shook her head. "No. A little warm, actually." She'd begun to breathe erratically again, and moved again to the basin, gripping it. Her wedding rings clanged again against the lip of the bowl.

"Do you need some water?" he tried, but she did not respond. "Or a … a cool rag?"

He watched her shake her head, and then in the next moment quickly tiptoe and hunch deeper to vomit again into the bowl. Her arms were trembling.

Startled, embarrassed, and inexplicably uncomfortable, Robert stumbled backwards and then again through into her bedroom just as Perkins entered with a lamp and large thick towel.

"She's ill." Even to Robert he sounded dim, and he closed his eyes.

The small woman only smiled congenially at him — or was it rather patronizingly? — and went through to his wife. He could hear her soothing voice for a moment and then Cora's feebler one before she re-emerged.

"I'll bring her some toast. May I bring you anything, m'lord?"

"Toast? She's been ill."

In the lamplight her plain features warmed like a nanny teaching a child something new. "It helps to have something to nibble on in her condition, my lord. Empty tummies are unsettled ones." She smiled at him when he nodded, not really understanding. "I'll bring you both some tea."

"Thank you," he automatically replied. He looked back at the washroom door and tried his best to name the feeling left lodged in his chest. There were so many. Anxiety for her. Confusion at the mysteries of life and womanhood. And then, guilt? Strangely guilt, for he'd done this to her. His child inside of her. And then the next thought was overwhelmingly love; yes — Lord in Heaven, he did love her, would do anything for her, wanted to gather her up in his arms and embrace her to thank her. In the washroom, he heard her retch again, and he shuddered. He'd hug her later.

. . .

The sound of the ink blotter rolled heavily against Papa's writing desk as Robert entered the library. He watched from behind the sofa as his father replaced it and then closed the inkwell with a pitchy tap.

"Are you ready, Papa?"

Patrick looked over his right shoulder and smiled. "Yes, yes." He gathered the sealed envelopes into his hand and came toward Robert, the library's floorboards groaning against his tall stature. "Do you have anything to post?"

Robert shook his head as they walked together into the Great Hall, but at a glance to his father, he saw that his expression was expectant. "Should I have?"

"Well, with Cora's condition, I should think you have. I've written to Barnes," he flourished the letters he held, "You might think about writing to —"

"Murray?"

"Yes." Papa lifted a chin at Walters who entered from the drawing room. The butler approached and Papa handed him the letters.

"But why? There is still some time until June. I'm not sure what things there are to be settled."

"If the child is a girl, then there will be less. A will with a sum set aside. A dowry." Walters walked away, but Robert could hear the familiar tapping of his mother's heels as she entered from the servants door. The kitchen. "But if the child is a boy, there will be the matter of his courtesy title and, of course, settling the entailing documents. But I'm sure I need not remind you. And you must start considering the godparents of the child."

Robert blinked, suddenly overwhelmed. "Papa, nothing is happening for months."

"What's this?" Mama held a small stack of papers, her spectacles, and a pen.

Robert ignored her question. "And I'm not sure there's much to settle on the courtesy title. He'll be Baron Sheffield as I was until Grandfather died."

"Yes, but the submission of it through the House can take some time. Violet, I've given Carson some letters. Do you have anything?"

"No, but Robert, I'm glad I found you. I was looking for Cora to go over the menus."

He actually felt his jaw drop. "Cora?"

His mother barely registered his shock and continued. "I don't wish for any of the dinners to make her feel unwell. With Rosamund, even the word fish had me green about the gills." She tittered at her own joke and then peered up at him, "By the way, Rosamund sends her congratulations." Mama's smile was sincere, and Robert furrowed his brow.

"When?"

"She sent it in a letter," at this point she looked at Papa. "I told her we'd send her some more of the autumn vegetables."

"Ah, good."

Robert frowned. "But why didn't she write to Cora or me directly?"

Mama sighed. "Robert, I am not your sister's keeper. Now, where is Cora?"

Robert left her upstairs asleep only a half hour ago, wrapped in her pink housecoat near the fire, a book open on her chest. "Resting," his heart felt tighter behind his ribs. "She had rather a tiring morning."

"Oh, then I won't disturb her. Poor dear."

Robert blinked. Another shock.

"Oh, I almost forgot. I will be going to London in three weeks. House of Lords business."

"Shall we open the house?"

"No need. I can stay at the club," here Papa looked at Robert. "Unless you'd like to come with me?"

The image of Cora sick over a washbowl came to his mind. "Is it necessary?"

Both Mama and Papa smiled condescendingly. They'd read his mind. "As you said, she has some months left," Papa remarked.

"You should go," Mama added. "Trust me. Cora won't want you to go anywhere for the first weeks once the baby is born, and you'll be sorry you didn't stretch your legs while you still could." Robert watched his parents share a look, and he realized for perhaps the first time in his life that they'd done this all before. It was quite a queer feeling, too, to picture his mother in Cora's shoes: nauseous, but happy.

No. His mind immediately corrected itself. Mama was certainly not Cora. He wasn't sure Mama would even have had children had it not been expected.

"Robert, we should get on. Jarvis is meeting us at Two Brooks Cottage."

He followed after his father obediently, taking his coat, hat, and gloves from Watson at the door.

"We may go to Ripon afterward." Robert glanced over. Carson was helping his father into his coat. "There's the sweets shop. Your mother enjoyed sweets when she was expecting. Perhaps buy your wife some fudge?"

Robert's head spun. Vexation. Why did he feel vexed?

Papa climbed into the open carriage first, but Robert heard him as he continued. "I suspect my grandson will like fudge," he chortled.

Robert settled in the seat and opened his mouth to say something to him, something about how this was his child, his and Cora's. He closed his mouth, opened, closed it again like a goldfish. Did it even make sense? It certainly wasn't kind. And besides, Robert was glad his father was so pleased.

Finally he nodded. "Cora likes fudge."

Papa said something else, something else as he smiled towards Robert, but Robert wasn't really paying attention. He shoved one of his gloved hands in his pocket, away from the cold November air and his thoughts drifted back to Cora, asleep on her chaise, and the feeling he'd felt early this morning unfurled from between his lungs. It caught in Papa's happy words, and Robert peered over at him as he spoke.

"Arthur Merton is your godfather; it may be a good idea to ask Dickie to be your child's. Keep it neat. Though, I'm not sure I particularly care for Ada. Perhaps Cora can think of someone for the godmother; she's rather clever."

Robert smiled, "Yes, but she only knows the same people we do."

They both were jostled by a dip in the road, and Patrick wrapped his coat more tightly around himself. "Hmm. True enough. She's had quite the year, hasn't she? Her life is markedly different from this time last year. A different country, different way of life. Different family." Robert could see his father's dark eyes peer over at him beneath the brim of his hat. "I hope we've treated her like one of our own."

Robert turned his face to his father more fully, realizing that his father felt that feeling too, the strange guilt as if he had done this to her as well.

Papa continued, "After all, she is a Crawley."

. . .

He didn't even knock as he entered her room before dinner, and as he came through she looked up from her chair, Perkins placing a final pin in her dark hair.

"Hello, darling," she batted her lashes from his face back down to the mirror. "Only a moment more."

"Oh," Robert waved off her concern. "Take your time. We're still early."

She blushed a pretty little blush and looked into the mirror at her maid.

"How are you feeling?"

"Quite well. Hungry," she lowered her chin as Perkins clasped her necklace, and then she looked up, her long fingers touching the emeralds there. She glanced over at him and smiled.

"Ready," she affirmed, and she stood from her stool, a head over her maid, and quietly thanked her as she took her gloves.

They both watched as Perkins left the room, and Robert could feel their outer shells fall away. He leaned his hip against her chest of drawers and straightened the lace on the top of them. A picture of her aunt had gone askew.

"I'm sorry."

Her voice was so sincere it scared him. He looked at her quickly and shook his head.

"Oh, what's this?"

She pulled on her cream-colored silk gloves; the candlelight danced around the vanilla bean color of her silky dress. "For this morning," her eyes were cast down, watching her work. "I didn't want to make you uncomfortable. My being sick."

"I wasn't." He thought it would be a lie when he said it, but upon leaving his lips he realized he meant it.

"You've stayed away all day. I was expecting to see you at least at tea."

"Rounds took longer than we anticipated. And," here he stood straighter and walked to her, her second glove now nearly on. "Papa has a small surprise for you."

Her eyes were made bluer by the earthy warmth of what she wore, and Robert smiled. He wondered if the baby would have her eyes.

"A surprise for me?" She shook her head; her cheeks were pink. "Why?"

Robert shrugged. "Does he need a reason? You are carrying his grandchild."

Cora laughed a guffaw of a laugh. She walked past him. "That sounds like a fairly big reason."

Robert caught up to her and opened her door, letting her through and then walking beside her as they walked downstairs.

He kept stealing glances at her as they came down in comfortable silence, as they walked the seventeen paces to the stairs and then as they began to descend the first set. Her brows knitted for a moment and Robert felt a little panic spark inside him.

"Are you feeling alright?"

She drew in a sharp breath in her nose and smiled at him, a forced smile he knew, but a smile nonetheless. "I'm laced a bit tight. A little crampy."

"But is that alright?"

Cora laughed lowly as she paused at the landing and waited for him. "Yes. I'm all right. Doctor Warren says it's normal." She put a hand to his arm. "He says it's your child, stretching everything. Preparing to settle in."

He shuddered. "Oh." He didn't like that, but in looking at her, at the way she stood there before him with bright eyes and skin aglow, his heart trembled. "Thank you," he whispered, and he took her gloved hand. "Really."

"I should thank you," she tipped her head and a large ringlet moved on her shoulder. "You're making me a mother."

His chest felt airless, and the only way to fill it again, the only way to breathe was to say it. "I love you."

Her lips parted, and her eyes blinked and then looked down, and then up again. She grinned, the corner of her reddened lips dipping into the sweet swell of her cheek. "Oh, darling." He felt her gloved hand grasp his and she squeezed it. "How sweet you are."

And then she turned and pulled him with her toward the drawing room. It felt odd. He felt, oh he clearly felt how much she loved him. It was inescapable, the warm intensity of her love, her care. But the moment he'd said it, the moment he'd told her he loved her, he felt the brief chill of a distance he couldn't name. It wasn't an absence of her love, not a bit. But it was a quick and momentary shift of something about her. But her hand was still tightly intertwined with his own, so he ignored it.

"Ah! Here they are."

Papa was standing in front of the fireplace, as usual, and Mama sat on the sofa. Robert noticed her smile and the dip of her head at Cora who perched beside her.

"As I was saying, it won't make a bit of difference to me what James does about it. My dear late brother's son is never at a loss for ideas."

Robert's interest was piqued. "What's he done?"

Papa unlaced his fingers from behind his back and took up the tumbler of whiskey he had on the mantel. "It's Aeryie Home. He'd like to stay."

"Aeryie Home? Great-grandmother's?"

"Oh, I see no complication there, if you don't," Mama folded her hands in her lap. "It is where you keep the shooting, though I suppose Falworth would suffice."

"Oh, I don't mind," Patrick lowered his glass from his lips and smiled. "In fact, I had thought about letting it before, but we don't need the income now." His eyes bounced to Cora and then back to his glass. "He's free to stay. I'm sure Young Patrick, the little tot, will enjoy the grounds."

"What's this?" Cora's small voice gathered Robert nearer, and he leaned slightly down to her.

"It's a little house north of here, outside Durham."

"Yes, rather pretty for a country escape," Violet added. "We sometimes had the shooting luncheon inside. Cheerful little dining room."

Cora smiled, "I thought Downton was the country house."

"In a way, yes," Violet tucked her chin. "But it's the country seat. Aeryie Home is just a house."

Robert watched Cora blink thoughtfully, "Oh."

"We can discuss it with him in London, Robert, when we go. He's going down to settle a few things when we're there."

Cora moved on the sofa. "Are you going? That's nice."

"I don't have to," Robert quickly amended. "Papa has a session to attend and thought I could use a jaunt. It would give me an opportunity to meet with Barnes and my man, Murray. But I can do that at any time."

"Meet with Murray? What about?"

"Nothing to trouble you with," Papa interrupted, and Cora turned her head to him and then looked down.

"I don't have to, dearest," Robert said softer. "Or we could go down together."

"No, don't be silly, Robert. Of course you must go." She was smiling. "It'll give me some time to go over what furniture is needed for the nursery." Her face brightened. "You could bring home some wallpaper books? Or lace samples for the cradle?"

His heart swelled. "Of course I can."

"That's right! I almost forgot." The other three watched as Patrick turned and walked to the little table on the other end of the sofa, behind Mama. "The Gillinghams send congratulations, too. And Sir John."

"Yes, yes and Rosamund," Mama added as Papa stretched his arm across her to hand Cora the tiny pink box.

She took it and placed it in her lap.

But Robert furrowed his brow. "You've told them all? " Cora seemed to be ignoring this and was untying the twine. He continued. "We've only just told you last week. You couldn't find a little more patience?"

"Why should we? Rosamund is family."

"No, not Rosamund," Robert corrected, glancing at his mother. He looked back up at Patrick. "I mean the others. It seems a little inappropriate."

His parents chuckled, looking at him; he felt Cora, too, looking back over her shoulder to him. The twine was loose in her lap.

"How on earth is it inappropriate?" Violet's voice bounced with her levity.

"No, I mean," Robert felt embarrassed. He glanced down at Cora who was watching him closely. "A bit vulgar, it being so recent."

"Vulgar?" Cora's voice was quiet, but he heard her.

"Not us. Not you —" Robert was trying to explain himself to her, but Mama spoke over him.

"Robert, you are married, are you not? It seems the natural progression of things."

"There is nothing inappropriate or vulgar about it, Robert." Papa was back at the fireplace, shaking his head. "It's your duty."

The door opened and Walters stepped inside, nodding at Mama, and the small group stood and filed out, as they typically did, by rank. Mama, Cora, Papa and Robert.

"I hope you enjoy the fudge," Papa was saying to Cora when Robert looked up again, following after Cora's heels. "You must let me know how it tastes."

. . .

Watson undressed and dressed him quickly and silently. Robert observed him as he worked — as he put his shoes together and helped Robert into his housecoat — and Robert sighed. He preferred Carson.

"Will that be all, m'lord?"

"Yes, good night," he answered and then went through to Cora's room, not waiting for Watson to leave.

She was already in her bed when he entered, reading, the candle jumping beside her.

"Vulgar?" She hadn't even looked up from her book.

Robert exhaled, deflating a little.

"Any other choice words you'd like to use to describe the pregnancy?"

"It wasn't —"

"You also mentioned 'inappropriate'."

"It wasn't about you. It was everything else."

"The next time you want to discuss the qualities of my delicate condition, you might talk to me privately and not in front of your mother."

"You're right," he sat on her bed and turned to her. "That wasn't fair."

"No," she exhaled too, "but … I agree."

He met her gaze. "What?"

Her head fell slightly toward him. "I agree that they've told too many people too soon. I'd like to have time to enjoy it on our own first."

That made Robert smile and he lifted her hand to kiss it. "So would I."

He stood and untied his dressing gown. "And what do you make of Papa buying you fudge?"

Cora chuckled, and Robert draped his housecoat at the end of the bed. "I'm not sure. The very smell of it put me off. I was disappointed. I do like fudge."

He folded himself into her bed and rolled toward her, then punching his pillow into shape. "And his saying it was duty."

She was quiet.

"It made it feel all so impersonal. Like it wasn't our child he was discussing." He adjusted his cheek against the feathers and looked up at her. When he did, he found that she was gazing at him, her eyes swimming.

"Our child?"

His throat constricted, the bridge of his nose burned. How, how did her tender voice, the way she held the word 'child' like she'd soon hold their little baby, how did it make him want to cry? He nodded at her.

"Our child," he echoed, and stretched over to her, kissing the warm corner of her mouth.