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“We’re alright… aren’t we, Robert?”
Her question whirls round and round in his head, even hours after she’s asked it. Long after she’d fallen asleep in Robert’s arms that night.
She’s still weak. That much is clear. Suffering from Spanish flu would weaken anyone.
Even Cora, who often pretends to be stronger than she is.
She’s as stubborn as they come, that’s for certain.
Perhaps she is stronger than Robert gives her credit for.
She would be groggy for a few days; that’s what Doctor Clarkson said. He’s quite right in that assumption; while Cora is looking much better, it will be a few more days until she’s back to her old self.
Her old, lively, energetic self. With her gorgeous smile and bright blue eyes that Robert loves so much. She lights up a room just by being in it.
She lights up his heart, even when his temper is at its worst. She will take his hand in her soft one, and give him a comforting smile. It’s hard for him to be angry for long when she’s around.
She’s the light of his life, and he’d forgotten that until he almost lost her.
He just wants her to get better. Seeing her sweating, dangerously weak and vomiting blood is a sight that he never wants to see again.
He wants her back, smiling, laughing and putting him in his place in a way that only she can.
It will take a while for her to return to that, but she will live. She will live and she will recover, which is not what everyone had been thinking mere hours ago.
She’s one of the lucky ones, unlike so many others. The Spanish flu is killing many.
Robert’s stomach twists uncomfortably when he thinks of poor Lavinia; twenty four years old, not much older than his darling Sybil. He feels the ache in his heart as he thinks about how things are between him and Sybil currently.
Something else for him to feel guilt over.
Lavinia had her whole life ahead of her, a life that she’ll never get to enjoy now. A happy life with Matthew, who she loved probably a little too much.
Her entire life was lost to the Spanish flu. As was dear Matthew’s future. He thinks of that poor boy, who he’s grown to love like a son, and how much he’s already suffered in the war.
He was supposed to be marrying Lavinia, but come Monday, he will bury her instead.
Things had happened so quickly; for a few hours, Lavinia had seemed to be fine, and then she deteriorated rapidly. So rapidly that no one could catch up or comprehend the possibility of her death until it had already happened.
Life is so bloody cruel, and his blood boils just to think of it.
The thought of how Cora could have died, and how it could be her funeral being arranged, not Lavinia’s, makes Robert’s blood run cold.
He adores his beautiful wife, and he knows now that he can’t be without her.
Although his behaviour lately has proven otherwise.
He’s taken her for granted. He’s taken her love for granted, and thrown a childish tantrum over not getting enough attention.
As he looks down at his sleeping wife, he gently strokes some hair away from her face. She looks so peaceful, snoring softly beside him, her dark hair fanned out on her pillow and her laughter and worry lines much less pronounced in sleep.
He gazes at her, unable to take his eyes off her. She’s too perfect for words.
He could have thrown this all away, and for what?
And while Robert knows he should try to sleep too, he can’t. His heart is so heavy with guilt, and Cora’s words echo through his mind.
“We’re alright… aren’t we, Robert?”
When she’d asked him that, he’d not known how to answer her.
Things with them hadn’t been quite alright of late. Robert had felt neglected, unwanted. His wife was too busy for him, the army didn’t want him back, and his youngest daughter could hardly stand to be in the same room as him.
He’s been feeling God knows what for God knows how long. Does he even remember the precise moment his eye started to wander?
Jane Moorsum wasn’t Cora. Not by a mile. But she’d been there, and selfishly, he’d latched onto any attention that he could get. If not her, would it have been someone else?
He doesn’t know, and it terrifies him.
He’d like to think not, but perhaps he doesn’t know his own mind anymore.
None of that matters now. He doesn’t matter. There’s no excuse for what he’s done, and kissing another woman while the love of his life was battling Spanish flu is an unforgivable offence.
He’s selfish and he’s a cheat. He’d acted like a petulant child, looking elsewhere for attention because he expected the world to revolve around him. There’s no other way of putting it. He wanted to tell Cora what he’d done, and he doesn’t know why he didn’t.
Cowardice, he supposes.
And now the opportunity has passed, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to tell her.
Or perhaps a part of her already knows.
She’s not dense, despite what his mama used to say about Americans. She’s as sharp as can be, and in many ways, she’s more intelligent than he is. While his temper often gets the best of him, Cora is the rational one. She can get angry, but she does so with grace, rarely raising her voice.
This quality in her allows her to see the things he overlooks in anger.
If she does have some inking into what he’s done, she’s clearly forgiven him, even though it’s the last thing he deserves.
Worse still, she even blamed herself.
“I know I got so caught up in everything, I think I neglected you, and if I did, I’m sorry.”
Her apology only intensified his guilt; she has nothing to apologise for.
He’s not always been the best husband, and his motives for marrying Cora in the first place had been less than honourable. He remembers that first year of marriage, how much Cora had loved him. For that first year, her love had been unrequited.
She had tried her best, he knew that. He felt sorry for her above all else; ripped from her home and living in a foreign country, learning to cope with the culture shock and married to a man she loved wholeheartedly, but he didn’t love her back.
He’d married her for her money. It shames him to know that part of himself, but it was true.
He can’t pinpoint exactly when he fell for her, but now he can’t be without her.
As Cora shuffles closer to him in her sleep, practically clinging onto his arm, he can’t help but chuckle a little.
She’s warm, but not feverish. Although she’s been washed before falling asleep, he knows that she’ll want a proper bath once she’s feeling better.
For now, she’s exhausted and needs her rest.
She’s always hated to sleep alone, relishing every chance she got to sleep beside him. She’s always been affectionate and craving physical touch. Admittedly, her over-affectionate nature had overwhelmed him in the beginning. Her touch made him uncomfortable. He doesn’t know if it’s because he didn’t love her at first, or if that’s just the way he was, but he grew used to it. More than that, he became very fond of it.
Holding one another after a busy day is always something he anticipates with great pleasure.
He loves her. That may not have always been the case, but he loves her now.
He doesn’t love Jane. He loves his wife.
And for that reason, he vows to do better, to try harder, and be the man that Cora deserves.
He presses a soft kiss to Cora’s forehead.
“I love you.” He whispers. “And I’m sorry. I will do better.”