Series 2, episode 4
AN: I can only apologise for how long this has taken me. My life has taken some time consuming turns this year and writing took a very very back seat. But I'm back! The last week and a half has brought on a great deal of writing. My pre-canon story (which had sat dormant since this time last year and that I hope you're all still looking forward to) found a new lease of life and I'm hoping to have that finished by the end of the summer and posting in September. This time I am determined! And with that has come another one-shot for you to enjoy.
This one is set in series 2, episode four. I always wondered how those lovely red roses that we see on Cora's desk when she has THAT fight with Isobel came from. So, this is my take which (because I can't get enough) involves a romantically challenged Robert ending up in another of his messes that we just want to hug him for! I hope you enjoy and if you do (or don't) a review is greatly appreciated!
He takes them gently from the gardeners hand, amazed at how crimson red they are—perhaps a reminder of all the poor men who were losing their lives in France.
The petals are so delicate making it so easy to see why the Rose had become a symbol of love. It's delicacy seemed to perfectly amplify the delicacy of love, how it always seems to exist on some kind of precarious life event but never ever permanently falls through the crevice.
He had never liked red roses until he had met Cora. Red always seemed to be a colour that suggested death, or something uncomfortable and to be avoided. But then Cora had entered his life and there was no other colour rose he would ever dream of giving her. It was because she looked so beautiful in red—it was his favourite colour on her. That association, rather than love, made him always pick her red roses.
He bypasses the front door on his return from the gardens. Instead he keeps walking and enters the house by the servants door. He'd ran in and out of that door many a time as a child but it was seldom that he used it now. That wasn't a choice based on his position as Earl it was merely that he hated the way the servants all had to move out of his way if he entered this way. Pots and pans would be dropped as they all straightened themselves to attention. It felt like an abuse of his position - invading their space too readily.
He opens the back door as quietly as he can and slips it shut behind him. Mrs Hughes immediately exits her office room at the sound of the door.
"M'lord, is there anything–"
"I'm quite alright thank you Mrs Hughes, just endeavouring to take these flowers to Lady Grantham."
"Very well. Might I fetch you a vase for them? It will save her having to ring for one?"
"Yes, yes. That might be a good idea." Mrs Hughes smiles sweetly and steps into the kitchen to locate one. She finds a suitable sized one and filling it with water she hands it to him. He thanks her and makes his way towards the stairs. He's thankful Carson doesn't seem to be in his office and except a couple of the maids the servants hall is empty - no surprise when everyone was having to work twice as hard due to the shortage of staff.
He makes his way up the stairs as fast as he dares when he's carrying a vase of water.
He steps onto the upstairs landing and heads straight to Cora's sitting room. Usually when he brought flowers he would just take them to their bedroom but not today. Not at the moment. Cora had taken to spending hours in the little boudoir room that she uses to write her letters and plan house events. Since the house had become a convalescent home she seemed to spend the entirety of her time there (aside from sleeping). He was pleased she was occupied and happy but he couldn't help feeling that work had seemed to take his place in her agenda - he hoped the giving of flowers would help her to see that he felt a little isolated and unhappy.
He knocks gently on the door but when no sound comes from within he gently opens it. The room has dust sheets covering many of the pieces of furniture - Cora has interrupted the servants annual cleaning of this room when she had demanded that she needed to use it.
She sits on the chair, her back to him. She doesn't turn at his entrance.
"Just wait one second." She might be speaking to a servant, the thought of which makes Robert's stomach twist uncomfortably.
When had their marriage come to this? When had they become so opaque to each other, rather than transparent. Had he done something wrong? He realises that he probably hadn't done anything directly wrong. There were a multitude of reasons they had reached here. The war and his feeling of inadequacy and Cora, well Cora had not only found something to do but she has spent the first two years of the war grieving herself. She would never admit it, but Robert knew the loss of their son had weighed deeply upon her. It weighed deeply upon him in the darker moments and in those initial feelings of inadequacy, but he had moved past it when Cora had not. Could not. He could only imagine the pain she must have felt. He had only endured the emotional stresses of knowing he had lost a child. He did not have he memories of the physical pain, or the dynamic changes Dr Clarkson explained his wife would feel due to the change of chemical balance in the body - not just after but while she had been pregnant, all culminating in a far greater emotional response. She had experienced more than Robert could ever fathom long before she'd slipped in the bathroom and long after it. Looking back on it he realises they've never spoken about it, never grieved together, and that could well have been a mistake that had left them drift so easily when the war began. They didn't have a chance to grieve because they felt as though they might be about to experience much worse. They had thought the death of an unknown child not important enough in the face of millions of men dying on a war field. That Robert now knows, was wrong.
"Oh Robert. I didn't realise it was you." She stands rather hurriedly. Smoothing down the front of her dress. It reminds him of when she was still Miss Levinson - always seemingly conscious she needed to make herself look better. She didn't then, and she doesn't now. He appraises her dress, the simple dark colour with the stripes of white down it, and pulled in closely at the waist with a large belt. Very practical.
"I didn't mean to interrupt." He wants to take the words back the moment he has said them. He sounds like a servant, rather than her loving husband bringing her flowers. "I, err, well I had these picked for you. It's been a while since I gave you flowers and well, you better take them." She takes the vase from him, gently turning it in her hands so she can see all the roses, she even inhales deeply over them to breathe in the scent before placing them on her desk.
"I think, maybe, what you were trying to say was that you wanted to give me flowers?" Her eyes are bright as they turn back to him, dancing with a hint of the mirth she reserves for looks across the dining room table to him when something amusing is going on.
"Yes. Yes, I did. You deserve them, you've been working so hard." He groans internally again, angered with himself. That is not what they were for at all. They were a symbol of his love for her, his devotion, of him trying to find his way back to her, not her work.
"Yes. Well, there is lots to be done."
"I best leave you to it then."