Unintentional Discretion (3764 words) by MyDearestDarling
Chapters: 2/18
Fandom: Indiscreet (1958)
Summary:
Indiscreet (1958) ends with the future of Anna and Philip seemingly set. This story explores the highs and lows of that future with plenty of surprises. Set post-film.
WOW, it's been ages! I'm back at it with a new ship obsession: Indiscreet (1958). Ingrid Bergman and Cary Grant play Anna Kalman and Philip Adams and they are my new personality.
So, as one does, I started a story about their life immediately following the film's conclusion. Even if you haven't seen the movie (which I HIGHLY recommend because it's charming and lovely and delightful), it should be simple to follow. And I would appreciate and welcome any feedback!
It feels great to be writing again. Keeps my mind off other things.
Another Kitbell video from yours truly because they currently have my full attention. Will be back to regular Cobert programming shortly. Video made with @kitxvossâs scene packs. Thank you thank you thank you for making those.
Kitbell || âIn Case You Donât Live Foreverâ â Ben Platt
Thanks to Bellâs vows, I instantly thought of this song and knew I had to make an edit. After bingeing The Resident, I have found myself swooning over these two. Hope you all enjoy this edit filled with fluffy flashbacks and wedding content.
Remember post-fight when Coraâs trying to talk to Robert and sheâs admiring one of the guestsâ pearls and attempting conversation? And Robertâs supposedly ignoring her?
WELL, wouldnât you know, Cora has some lovely new pearl jewelry in the last episode.Â
I just get really darn excited when costumes are used as a storytelling device. Itâs like YES put her in the same dress, this time with loose, white pearls. Previously, the white pearls interspersed with black made it seem like a fracturing of the peace and unity in their marriage was occurring. And part of the strand is tight around her throat: constricting, preventing her from saying everything she wants to say. Then we see the pure white strands, two of them I might add (one for each of them), and they are reconciling. The fracture mended.
Imagine Cora's birthday in 1929. The entire family is at the villa - Martha and Harold have been invited as well. It has been a great day, and a picnic-style informal dinner party has been thrown on the landing overlooking the beach. At some point, Robert and Cora find themselves alone in the same spot where, the previous year, she told him she thought she was dying. And yet here they are now, celebrating a birthday that, for a brief time, neither really expected would come.
And Robert places his hand on her should. It gravitates to that space at the base of her head, just below the tickling strands of her coiffed hair. This time, his grip isnât a grip at all, but a caress, loving and gentle. When he whispers âeverythingâ into her temple before lowering to her lips, it is a benediction.
"Perhaps her [Cora's] greatest strength is in the fact that she loves her husband and so long as she has him at her side, she can face anything" - excerpt from Downton Abbey: A Celebration by Jessica Fellowes
You know, I used to read this quote with a little disappointment regarding Coraâs character. After all, shouldnât someoneâs greatest strength come from within oneself? Especially as a woman, shouldnât her greatest strength not be drawn from a man? But the more I thought about it, and the more we see Coraâs character, this quote really seems less like a brush-off and more spot-on.
In a time when marriage was very much a play of power and money, Cora, arguably, chose her husband when many more women accepted the best offer regardless of emotion (e.g. Maryâs dilemma S1-2). Pepper in the fact that she loved him regardless of his lack of love for her, and it feels a bit like she had the upper hand there. And then through that lens, look at every season and you begin to see that she really does call the shots in so many more ways than are immediately obvious. I mean, simply the fact that Robert is in her bedroom at night, setting up shop in what would really be her dressing room as @modernamericangirl pointed out (in reality, Robert would technically have his own suite of rooms as Earl), and suddenly you see that itâs really Cora who is the wearer of pants in their relationship. (Aptly mirrored by Coraâs line in DA1 when Edith asks how she managed to change Bertieâs posting: âSimple. Bertie asked the King. I asked the Queen.â)
So maybe Coraâs greatest strength is love, and she just so happens to love Robert most of all.
Sorry to interrupt your excellent critical insight. I just have to register that the idea of young Robert pulling up to her dressing room with boxes of assorted snuffboxes and other stuff all ready to move into this tiny room is so hilarious to me.
Ok, so the prompts were "games" and "protecting." It took me a bit to settle on something to suit them both, but I think I got there in the end! Thanks so much for the request!! đ
The drawing room at Duneagle with its pale blue walls and masses of gilded frames glittered on the late November evening. Unseasonably cool winds nipped at the windows hidden behind the heavy brocade curtains, and dark clouds blocked out any moonlight. But the room still glowedâthe candles and oil lamps flickering conspiratorially as if making merry along with the guests crowded around the pale marble fireplace.
Robert, having returned from the corner of the room with another whiskey, took in the scene before him. Rosamund and Marmaduke were acting out some incomprehensible riddle in the midst of a rather competitive game of charades. Uncharacteristically, it had been Susanâs idea to play. She did seem more subdued as of late. Welcoming little James in late July had seemed to take a weight off his cousin and her husband. And the baby was a pleasant enough little chap. Robert had said so himself to Cora when sheâd insisted on dragging him over to coo at the lad when he was presented in the library just after tea.
He took another sip of his whiskey and grinned as Rosamund pantomimed some sort of invisible club hitting her husband over the head. Even his parents laughed and clapped and cheered when his Aunt Roberta shouted out the correct answer. Don Quixote. But it wasnât his parents or his sister or his aunt that his gaze sought out in the small crowd. No, no. He was looking for Cora. Sheâd excused herself just as heâd stood to freshen his drink and had waved off his concern with a promise to return in just a moment. And return she didâfor there she was, seated in a small wooden chair against the wall, furthest from the fire, watching the game unfold with a look of vague amusement. Or perhaps concern.
Cora had avoided playing all night. Of course, her turn would soon inevitably come. It was a ritual, he supposed. For a family so concerned with appearance and restraint, Robert had always found it odd, the enthusiasm and vigor with which they played the silly game. But none of that mattered just then. She looked so beautiful in the candlelit room that ever other minute detail seemed to fade into the periphery.
Heâd not seen her all day. Theyâd come up for the grouse, later in the season than usual, and heâd been out on the grounds all day with the other men. He had endured the japes and innuendos as the men congratulated Shrimpie on the birth of his son and teased Robert in equal measure. But he did not care. Noâlooking at her, he did not care a jot what any of them said. Heâd promised her, after all. Promised not to say a word to anyone. But since theyâd been at Duneagle nearly nine months earlier, at the start of their honeymoon, everything had changed. He loved her desperately, and so, yes, everything now was altered.
Robert would have been content to sip his whiskey and watch Cora from afar all night. But after a pause, he grew more aware of the laughter and chatter only a few paces away. Though his back was turned to them, Robert listened intently now as he heard Agathaâs husband George release another guffaw and clap his friend, some local heâd invited shooting, on the back. Heâd hardly spoken to the men all day. But now, as he tuned out the sound of his father shouting out clues and his motherâs sharp voice chiming in, he heard the men laugh again andâ
ââŠno, noâŠthe Americanâs nextâŠhere, give it hereâŠwrite it down like thisâŠâ
He turned and watched them scribbling something onto a scrap of paper, laughing all the while, before returning it to the top of the small gold plate that held the riddles for the next participant to draw.
Surely, they werenât serious. Surely not. But thenâ
Robert watched in some disbelief as his parentâs concluded and won their round and the two snickering men waved a hand at his wifeâat his wife!
âSurelyâŠâ George paused, and Robert knew the inebriated man had likely forgotten Coraâs name.
But he did recover.
âSurely Cora wants to take a turn?â
And he watched, momentarily fixed in place, as his wife, wide-eyed, drew her lips together and scanned the room before settling her gaze on him. She smiled, nodding her assent only at him, and stood carefully from her chair.
âI suppose it is my turn,â she agreed.
But when she took a step in their direction, to the proffered plate topped with their doctored riddle, he moved into her path before she could manage to cross the room.
âNo, itâs my turn,â he heard himself say.
âYouâve already had your turn,â Rosamund complained from afar.
She was sat on the settee nearest the fire, her hand resting on her husbandâs knee. The lateness of the hour, and the alcohol in all their bellies, had perhaps made everyone looser, less aware of propriety. But, oh, when he turned from his sister back to those smirking men, Robert felt his own stomach burn with hot, prickling anger.
He snatched up the hastily folded paper on the top of the pile before they could protest and unfurled the little thing to see what precisely they thought might be amusing for his wife to act out. They had enough sense to look decently ashamed as he balled up the paper and pressed it into his pocket.
He could not look back at her, could not let her see the rage plain across his face. She had spent weeks planning for this visit. She had asked him question after question after question about the appropriate clothes and activities and schedules. Each morning when he would return to her after breakfast, she would have some new scenario or concern. He answered everything, as best he could, as she struggled to keep down her toast and tea. All sheâd wanted was for the trip to be a triumph. For his family to approve of her. To not put a foot out of step. I want your Highland idyll to be a success, sheâd teased, her voice soft and warm against his ear in their bed the night before theyâd left Downton. But these men, these idiot men with their dull, unkind wives, wanted to make a fool of her. And the knowledge of that made him furious.
ââRobert, youâre holding up the game!â
His sisterâs voice interrupted his violent imaginings and drew the attention of the room.
âDarling, is everything alright?â
Coraâs voice, much gentler than Rosamundâs, sounded out behind him.
âIâthat is.â
âSon?â
Even his father, who had been laughing about something with Marmaduke, questioned his odd countenance.
His hand still in his pocket, Robert felt the tiny wad of paper and wished he could hurl it into the fire. Followed quickly by George and his imbecile friend. But he knew as he looked down at his shoes and traced the pattern of the intricate carpet beneath them that to expose what theyâd done would be to humiliate his wife. And so, he swallowed, sucked in a sharp breath of air, and wrenched a half-smile onto his face.
âIâm not feeling my best,â he answered slowly, nodding down at his half-full whiskey. âI may go up.â
âSpoilsport,â he heard his sister say. Agatha, Louisa, and Susan laughed too.
âCan we get you anything?â Susan asked.
Robert shook his head. Finally, he turned to Cora who was looking at him with such concern that it made his throat catch.
âNo, I think Iâd just like to go to bed.â
âAlright. But Cora must stay and play,â his aunt called out.
He smiled at his Aunt Roberta, who was kinder than his mother by leaps and bounds, for he knew she meant it genuinely. She had made conversation with his wife all weekend. Heâd caught her smiling at him a few times, across the table at dinner, and in other quiet moments, and he wondered if Cora had told her.
Aunt Roberta had been kind to Cora, but theyâd all teased her. It was their nature: his mother and Susan and even Rosamund teasing her for being cold on a walk through the frost-covered glen in the morning; smiling and teasing over the way she clapped with delight at baby Jamesâs gurgles; and teasing her, too, for the way she needed to rest in the afternoons. American blood, theyâd laughed. And Cora had laughed politely along with them.
But by some miracle, Cora spoke up then and promised to return downstairs to the game only after seeing him safely to bed. Sheâd pretended not to hear them all snicker and see them smirk as she followed behind him out of the drawing room, down the long hallway, and up the stairs to their bedrooms.
Neither spoke again until they stood at the door to her room. It was, amusingly enough, the same room theyâd honeymooned in last winterâthe imposing red walls and solid wood furniture more than enough to call to memory their fumbled first attempts at making a marriage work.
âDo you want me to call for Carson? I have a pitcher of water in my room. But I suppose I should go back down in a moment.â
It was generous of her, he thought, to still show such concern when heâd only pretended to have overindulged in drink. But of course, she was generous. Most of all when it came to him.
âNo. Could we go inside?â He nodded toward her door.
âRobert.â Cora blushed. âIs that why youâŠâ
âNo! No, of course not. Wellânot that I wouldnât. If you wanted to. Butââ
He paused, reached around her, and turned the small knob so that they could both enter the dimly lit bedroom. Coraâs lace-trimmed nightclothes were already laid out on the bed, and a fire cracked and popped to welcome them in. He closed the door behind them before continuing.
âI didnât want to play any longer,â he explained. His voice was soft, and it made Cora frown.
âDo you really feel unwell?â She pressed a soft palm against his cheek and then to his forehead.
âNo, Iâm perfectly well.â Still, his voice was quiet.
Cora exhaled, her hand still searching for signs of illness. âYouâre not warm.â
âJust a bit tired. The shoot took it out of me.â
âWell.â Cora hesitated. âI know I should go back down.â
Robert shook his head, the gesture casting off her hand. His gaze returned to the floor.
âPlease stay.â
âYour family wonât like it,â Cora answered lightly. âTheyâll tease me tomorrow.â
âOh, let them,â Robert grumbled, nudging a toe against the wooden floor. âThe whole miserable lot of them.â
He watched her posture straighten then.
âHas something happened?â There was an undercurrent of alarm in her voice. âHas someone upset you? Have Iââ
âNo, of course not,â he interrupted, pressing his lips to her forehead in an uncharacteristically chaste gesture of affection.
âAre you certain?â
âQuite certain. Itâs justâI pulled my shoulder out there today,â he found himself saying, âand itâs been nagging me ever since. And I couldnât bear to have Rosamund lord another win over me.â
Cora looked up at him, her brow still heavy with concern. âIf youâre sure.â
âI am.â
He pulled away from her and moved to shrug off his dinner jacket. He dropped it onto the stool at the foot of the bed and started working on his cufflinks. He rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows and pocketed the metal fixtures.
âIâll go call for Carson now. I know you need your rest, but will you wait up for me? Iâll be back in just a moment.â
Cora grinned, the blush from earlier returning in high color across her cheeks.
âI wish youâd stop fussing,â she murmured.
Closing the space between them in two quick steps, he reached for her hands and squeezed them in what he hoped was a gesture of affection. In some ways, it all seemed so new between them still, so unsteady. Yet at other times he felt heâd known her and loved her for all of his life.
âYouâre carrying our child,â he said quietly. âPlease, let me fuss a bit.â
Before she could protest, he took her face in his hands and kissed her soundly.
âHeavens.â Cora blinked up at him in some surprise.
And looking at her, her eyes bright, he could feel nothing other than joy: pure, unfettered joy.
He could not find it in him to care any longer what his distant relations thought of him and of his wife and marriage. For years, heâd listened to them all drone on about their wives, their estates, and about the many awful burdens in their lives. But marriage was nothing like theyâd described and nothing like heâd imagined it would be. To love herâto be loved by herâthey would never understand. So, with a slight shake of his head, he tossed it all from his conscious thought.
Leaning down, he kissed his wife once more. He pressed his lips against her cheek, against her ear. âDo wait up for me,â he implored, and he felt his stomach twist and flip when she hummed his name in reply.
No, they would never understand, he thought as he strode down the bachelorâs corridor to dress for bed. But perhaps that was alright. For he understood. And, as he had begun to realize, that was more than enough.
Kiss Fic Ask | 38âŠbecause theyâre running out of time | @idoloveouradventures
Speaking her fears to Robert released them, gave them shape. They were corporeal, now, packed and loaded on the blue train to return with them to Downton.
And though she might appear placid and calm in daylight, Coraâs fears inevitably crept out with the lengthening shadows.
The clatter of the train felt like the fast ticking of the clock, a countdown to nothingness. Silver moonlight cast the room in monochrome and Cora rose from her bed. Her skin burned but her blood was ice. It wasnât until Robertâs fingers brushed her shoulders that she heard herself sobbing.
âOh, my darling.â
â
He held her as she gulped for air. Frantic, she turned and he had only the briefest glance at her face before she kissed him.
Would their kisses taste of tears from now on? He wondered.
Her mouth opened, releasing another sob, and Robert caught the sound between his own lips. He gathered her against his chest protectively, his two hands spanning her back easily. She pressed closer to him.
Whatever happened with Coraâs illness, the number of kisses to be had between them was finite. The days. The hours. The seconds.
And he would not miss a single one.
(I didnât particularly want to mine this well, but it was just begging for it. So a little angst to cap this off? Thanks for a fun day off.)
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