French Marigold: Jealousy

Cora smiled briefly at Baxter's reflection as she left the room, even though her maid could not see her. She watched absently as her maid's image grew smaller and smaller as she drew nearer to the door. And then, when Baxter finally withdrew, Cora exhaled. She relaxed upon her chair. She lifted her chin. She let her head fall back as far as it would go, and she breathed. Dinner had exhausted her, and now she was beginning to worry about Edith. What had set her off to snap and leave the table, Cora wasn't sure, but she did wonder if Rosamund knew more than she let on.

"Are you alright?"

She hadn't even been aware that she'd closed her eyes, hadn't even noticed the sweep of the dividing door upon her carpet, and Cora startled a bit at her husband's voice.

"Oh, yes." She sat straighter. "Only tired."

He hadn't really waited for her reply, she realized, as she glanced towards his back. He flung his navy dressing gown to the chair near her and shuffled to her bed. He was going through his nightly routine, her mind narrating what he'd do next: slip onto the mattress, swing his legs up and under the blankets, flutter through the pages of his book he toted back and forth between this room and his dressing room. Why he still did that after all these years she wasn't sure. He could just leave his books in here.

"Before I forget to say," he didn't look up at her, but Cora watched him in her mirror regardless. "I'll depart around teatime tomorrow."

Cora watched the lamplight brush against his jaw; and then, when she felt her heart squeeze a little too tightly, his appearance soft and altogether himself, she let her eyes look away and to her dressing table. She collected her hand cream and tapped the lotion onto her dry palm. "Will you take tea on the train? If so, be careful not to spoil the dinner. It is for you."

"Oh, it won't be possible to spoil it. I remember the last dinner being exceptionally good." She heard him turn another page of his book. "Even if they do last an age. Besides, Stark is driving me."

"Probably for the best that he does."

"Perhaps I'll bring a biscuit or two for the drive."

She chortled in her throat, and suddenly again, warmth. Her heart skipped a little; his easiness with her felt right. His laugh at her joke at dinner, about deaf major generals she'd frequently endured, echoed in her chest, and she pulled in a breath.

Gathering a sense of strange courage, she looked at him again, at his pajamas, at his slightly mussed hair—the hair cream all washed away—at his forefinger lifting a page of his green-covered novel, and Cora felt herself soften along with him. It was a strange courage because why should she feel anything but ease at watching him? Why should she feel that hard jagged emotion instead of the comfort she usually felt in these moments? He was here in her room, sleepy and soft, making small talk with her.

Cora let out her breath, and she relented. "What did they serve last time?"

"Duck." His eyes didn't leave the page, but his brows jumped. "But even you would've liked it. Not as gamey, as you say. And the accompanying sauce was delicious."

She stood and unbuttoned her dressing gown. "Not canard à l'orange?"

"No." Robert let his book fall to his lap, and Cora saw the way he looked out into her room, thinking. "It was a Bordeaux wine sauce."

"Well then!" She chuckled, softly. "They must know their Lord Loot quite well."

He laughed, too. "Indeed."

And then, just as before, they were quiet. It was their quiet, though—the quiet they'd built these last thirty-four years. It was not the silence that had been between them too often these last few months.

Months.

Had it been months since their anniversary? Months since the fire? Months since Robert had looked at her with such cynicism in Rosamund's lamplit drawing room? Cora closed her eyes as she sat upon the bed, and she forced herself to push out the irritation the memory of his face had created. She needed to stop; he'd stopped. Hadn't he?

I'm not forbidding you from inviting him.

Good, she'd scoffed. Because I already have.

"Are you certain everything's alright?"

Cora exhaled and twisted to look at him, the glow of the lamp making his skin golden and warm. His brows were heavy in concern.

"Yes," she lied, shaking her head. "Just thinking of tomorrow."

"Hmm," Robert replied shortly. "Of course you are."

Cora dipped her brow at his response but ignored it otherwise. What good would it do to argue over it all again? And again. So, instead she switched off her lamp and nestled further into her bedding. She fixed her pillows, and her blanket, and at last her nightdress as she settled onto her left side, towards him. She closed her eyes and tried desperately to think of anything else but the way his face had looked those weeks ago in London. Or the way his face had looked before dinner, when she'd said Mr Bricker had phoned. She wanted to think, instead, of how his face looked across the table two hours before, his quick smile up at her. She wanted to think of how his face looked just now, beautiful with concern for her.

So she opened her eyes and peered up at him.

He read his book, silently, his face at peace…and she suddenly realized she didn't know the book he was reading. Had they been so distant that she didn't know what book he was reading now?

She almost opened her mouth to ask, but Robert must've felt her gaze. He glanced down at her, and with a small inhale, lifted his chin. No, he didn't speak. He only looked back at her, but Cora could hear his thoughts as easily as she could hear her own: He'd not be home tomorrow night. And they'd not lain together in months.

How had it been months? His hand, his thick fingers, had only just slipped beneath her gown and met her center when they'd heard Barrow's voice calling out that night, shouting fire! Fire! Robert had broken from her and nearly jumped from her bed.

And now it'd been months since he'd really touched her.

And besides the argument before dinner, today had been a good day. She'd sat beside him in the library as he worked at his desk, Rosamund chatting a little with them. What had they spoken of? And dinner had been nice, too. Besides Edith being upset. Oh. Perhaps it hadn't been a good day. She didn't know. But it hadn't been a bad one?

"You look done-in." His voice hardly made any sound at all, but it pulled Cora from her thoughts all the same. "I'll turn out the light."

She frowned. "You needn't if you're reading."

"No." The bed shook when he leant to his side. "Truthfully I could do with some rest myself." When the light was out, the room flickered with firelight. And in it, Robert's face grew younger.

Cora exhaled the air from her lungs, her chest now aching, and turned from her side and to her back. She watched the shadows move along the canopy of her bed until eventually she decided to close her eyes and to seek sleep. Everything would look better in the morning, wouldn't it? This distance between them that had stretched on and on since that night in London—-before then? When had it begun?—-it had been him. Robert had kept himself from her. Robert had hardly spoken to her besides empty little pleasantries.

She didn't even know what book now rested at his bedside.

Yes, the thoughts did their work, and the exhaustion of her body fell victim to her heart which beat inside her chest. So she lay still in the silence, the fire crackling the only noise for some time. Until, after some length, he spoke.

"Are you asleep?"

She moved her head against her pillow. "No."

"Still thinking of tomorrow?"

"A little."

"When's Mr Bricker due in?"

A small sound escaped her throat before she could respond. "I—Four, I believe."

"But that's when I leave."

She closed her eyes; he didn't sound angry. He sounded … oh, he sounded like Robert, but the damage had been done.

"Well, like I already said, I'm not sure I see the problem."

He didn't respond to that. Instead she felt the bed shake a little as he adjusted himself in the covers. And she felt his elbow touch hers when he moved his arm.

Though it surprised her, Cora didn't pull her arm away. In fact, the small brush of his soft pajamas against the skin of her arm felt almost natural, even if she hadn't realized they'd been lying so near one another. She turned to look at the space between them, and she found that there was less space there than before. And again, she felt the strange courage thrumming inside of her.

Oh, Robert. He'd not tried to argue with her. He'd stayed quiet. He'd let it lie.

"I can tell you aren't sleepy." She said, her body deflating as her defenses fell little-by-little. "Please read if you'd like. I'm miles away from sleep myself, so I don't mind. The lamp won't bother me."

"No. I really ought to rest."

"But I feel badly that you've stopped because of me."

"Don't. We both have busy days tomorrow." Again the bed shook beneath her, slightly, as he adjusted his pillows beneath his head. And again, they fell into silence.

Silence, until Robert spoke again.

"So he's certain it's a study, then."

"Yes."

"And Bricker will be taking the photographs himself?"

"No. He's asked the photographer he's used for his book." Then she added quietly, "It's rather exciting, it being in his book. It's much more important than we realized."

And he hummed. "If that is what that man Bricker says."

Cora fought away the urge to roll her eyes. "It is. Why would he want to include it otherwise?" She shrugged against the pillow. "I should think you'd be pleased."

She felt the covers pull away from her when he adjusted himself once more. "I'll be pleased when all of this is done."

"So you keep saying. But when its value has doubled, or tripled, because of Mr Bricker's research and recognition, you'll be the first to cheer."

"I've always known its value, Cora. Your art expert saying so doesn't make it any more exciting for me."

"He isn't my art expert—"

"Isn't he? He certainly doesn't come to see me."

"He comes to see the picture, Robert," she sighed irritably, and then clenched her jaw shut, for the truth was, Robert was right. It wasn't just the picture Mr Bricker was excited to see. He could've just as easily come Friday with the photographers. He could've just as easily sent the photographers on their own. But his voice on the other end of the line had easily persuaded her.

I suppose it would be rather forward of me to ask if I might stay. To see it in person once more, on our own.

And Cora had smiled down the line. Of course you may stay. I'd be delighted.

Robert didn't respond, not immediately, and Cora laid silently until she heard his long exhale.

"You're right about the book, I suppose," his voice was lower. "Papa would've been pleased."

Quiet, then, and Cora watched the shadows on the canopy again, until after some length, she rolled away from Robert, onto her right side.

And again the bed shook. Robert had rolled towards her, and though she could not see him as she stared into the fire, she could feel his warmth. She could feel the breadth of his body behind her. And, stupidly, she felt her body respond to it.

His last words, his voice deep and still, had been a peace-offering, and she knew it. She felt it.

Oh, and it'd been more than two months. And he'd be away tomorrow.

"Yes," her voice answered at last, trying to settle her thoughts that had gone all askew. "I think your papa would've been very pleased."

He hummed—the sound deep and low—-and behind her, she felt one of his fingertips touch her back before moving away again…and she felt a flutter of life within her. It wound itself inside of her like his hum had: deep and low.

It was no use. It had been months. It had been a good day. And she missed him. Oh, she missed him. Strange courage pulsing through her, she shifted closer to him, only slightly, holding her breath as she gauged his silent response.

The bed shook as he moved, again, closer to her.

And her nerves prickled in anticipation.

Touch me, she willed him, but silently. Touch me. Though why should he? Why should he want to when they'd been bickering and terse with one another for weeks? Why would he, even if she wanted it?

Cora swallowed down the embarrassment she felt at her own desire, and she closed her eyes. If he didn't touch her, she knew why. Of course she knew why. She wouldn't do more; she wouldn't encourage it because she knew the frustration she'd stoked in him, and he in her. Oh, her face warmed over—-why did she long for him?

Never mind, she told herself. Don't be ridiculous. She shuffled further down into the bed. She'd go to sleep. She'd listen to the crackle of the slowly dying fire and the tick-tick of her little clock on her bedside table, and she'd sleep.

But then it happened.

His fingers found her hip beneath the bedding. They were warm against her, even through her nightgown. And Cora opened her eyes, a thrill of gooseflesh erupting through her at his touch, and then at her thoughts, her feelings, the lust that now consumed her.

Oh, but his hand traveled to her waist, and then her ribs, and then back again, and her body responded by pushing herself against him.

And to her surprise, she felt his arousal.

She pulled in a breath—-the nerves at her center now pulsing, sweetly aching for him—-and he moved against her, slowly, his fingers gripping her waist and then hip, and then they began to inch her nightgown up and up against her. He was gauging her response, too, wasn't he? With his desire firm against her backside, caught between the press of their bodies, she could feel the push of his hips against her, moving as if in question, and she let her hips roll into his.

Her eyes closed of their own accord when his mouth made quick contact at her bare shoulder. And then her neck, and another part of her mind—a part aware of how nonsensical this all was—pulled her chin up and over to him, breaking him away from her, stopping him.

"Robert," she managed, but in the next moment his palm was beneath her dress moving across her skin until he cupped her breast and squeezed softly, and she involuntarily moaned along with him.

She wanted it to happen. Her body yearned for his, and she found herself reaching behind her, her left hand now frantically attempting to help him free himself from his bottoms and pants, his left hand pulling her gown up and her silk step-ins down, his mouth against her shoulder and the nape of her neck.

He wasn't speaking, only breathing heavily against her skin and maneuvering himself against her from behind. When she felt him push against her, his bottom half now bare and eager, and she found he was unable to enter in one thrust at their angling, she tried to shimmy herself upward, leaning her body forward, moving her hips for better access. But she felt his grip on her arm instead and the firm pull toward him.

He was asking her to lie down, flat, but Cora didn't need to respond. In the next moment, panting, he somehow managed to tug her over, her body rolling quickly from her right side and to her back, before he wordlessly climbed upon her, using his legs to open hers.

Still he didn't speak; she didn't either. She only lifted her chin, shook her step-ins from an ankle, and took in breaths as he pushed her nightgown up and up again.

She thought he'd bring his mouth to hers, or to her breasts, but he only entered her, quickly and without prelude, emitting a low grunt near her ear as she gasped. Oh, instead of saying anything to her—-his normal my darling or her name—-he only worked against her, thrusting into her, and rather roughly, Cora's breath hitching when he touched places inside her with what felt like desperation.

She still didn't speak, though. Neither did. It wasn't possible; her body submitted willingly, pulling her knees farther back, wanting him to work rougher still. She only bit at her lip to keep the involuntary noises she made tucked inside her throat. But at feeling him harden more inside of her, she allowed her fingers to go to the tufts of curls at the back of his head and pulled at them, needing to match his fervidness, her own head swimming with pleasure.

What was this? What was this? It wasn't love or affection. It wasn't connection, his shirt still buttoned, her gown only lifted above her breasts where he'd lift himself and dip every so often to taste her or look at her body. He hadn't looked at her face, though, nor she his. He only drove himself into her, his weight on his elbows and on her, sometimes crushing her chest in a way that made her pull at his hair harder still. It felt needed, whatever they were doing. It felt like a purging, an exorcism, a burning of a field to start afresh.

The last thing he'd said was what had done it, had made her want him this way, the move for peace … but before that had been about Mr Bricker … he'd called him her art expert. But before she could think more on that, her thoughts scattered and disjointed as he moved inside of her, she felt one of his hands touch her jaw, firmly grasping her chin, moving her face to his. Forcing her to look at him. And then his voice rumbled against her.

"Cora."

And when she met his eyes, heavy-lidded with lust, the coil of her pleasure tightened further, and she couldn't contain her moan of pleasure. And then she watched his mouth open wider and he moaned as well, and then swore. It escaped at a deeper thrust, a harder one, and she saw his features stiffen as he quickened above her, looking down into her face, his forehead dropping to hers as he finished, her own eyes now prickling and watering with an emotion she wasn't sure the name of.

And then his body relaxed.

Quiet.

His heart pounded against her. Hers pounded, too, stunned, and … and oh, she didn't know. Her body felt separate from her mind, the former wanting her own release—life rushing at her most sensitive parts, where they were still one—, the latter trying desperately to find logic in what had just happened. His forehead, sticky with perspiration, moved slightly against her as he caught his breath, and Cora closed her eyes, her heart thick and aching. Grounding herself to present, beneath his heavier weight, she realized the tight pull she still had of his hair, and she let her fingers slacken. Then feeling braver, she let her fingertips touch tenderly against the nape of his neck; and she nearly let her lips press against his cheek.

But she couldn't, for he pulled up and away at her touch, jerking really, slipping from her and falling to her left, the bed shaking again.

Silence.

Cora looked up at the shadows of her canopy, and not knowing what else to do, she let her legs lower, and she drew them together. She then felt she should cover herself, the embrace and laughter that often followed their joining strangely absent, somehow hollowing out the quiet panting between them. She let a hand search for the sheets, but found they were twisted and kicked to the end of the mattress. She did her best to push down her nightgown instead.

Beside her, Robert's breath slowly settled, and she noticed, in her fire-lit periphery, the way one of his hands went to his face, his eyes. And then she heard a soft mutter under his breath.

"Damn."

Colder, so much colder, Cora hardly had time to reply, only a rumble of confusion at his apparent anger, or disappointment, before he spoke over her.

"I apologize. Forgive me."

"Why? I—" Cora didn't know why, but his apology felt insulting. She couldn't finish her response, not aloud, the words sticking in her throat. So she shook her head, forcing anything out. "Robert, don't."

Again they lay in quiet side-by-side, the fireplace gently crackling, Cora's body now feeling uncomfortable, it too slick between her legs. It was over, and it was time for sleep.

She moved her foot to find her underthings, and next to her, Robert did the same. They dressed silently. They pulled the bedding straight, and Cora reached down to collect a pillow that had fallen to the floor.

When she sat back upon the bed, Robert was turned away from her, the firelight's shadows flickering against his broad form.

Slowly, Cora laid back, her body buzzing, her mind whirling, and her heart hurting as it finally found its natural rhythm.