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elizabeth mcgovern with laura carmichael, harry hadden-paton, hugh bonneville, & michelle dockery, production still for “downton abbey: the grand finale” (shared june 2025) | 📸: rory mulvey

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Cory Booker has been talking in the senate for over 20 hours now

He’s not filibustering. He’s protesting the current administration.

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Knowledge Wins - Public Library Books are Free, American Library Association (1918)

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DAEMON & RHAENYRA TARGARYEN HOUSE OF THE DRAGON: 2x04

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A thought I have at least once a day is what would cora have done if she found out about Jane OR did she already know? I need my super duper smart mutuals to gimme some opinions on this please.

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Wait, so you’re telling me today’s the 4th? What’s next, the 5th? The minor fall? The major lift?

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Every Outfit in The Gilded Age - Outfit 127 - Bertha Russell's outfit 15 - Season 1, Episodes 4 & 6

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This was so sweet!!

For the one word prompts, could I get breeze please ☺️

Well! I had about sixty different ways I wanted to end this one, but this drabble has a mind of its own. The prompt word is in there, but just barely. Short and sweet baby!cobert for ya, my sweet friend!

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Breeze

Her heart raced.

Slightly alarmed, and altogether surprised, Cora pulled in a silent breath and held it as he turned his soft smiles elsewhere, to the woman at his right.

Oh, what was wrong with her? True, he’d been the kindest to her in an achingly gentle and humble way, in a way that suggested she’d somehow known him for far longer than she really had. And true again, he did seem to share her humor and as he laughed, or rather chuckled, at her joke—-“I’ve never heard so many adjectives to describe a hit.”—-she felt a little frightened of the way her chest felt tighter, but lighter all at once.

Lord Woodroth, who had asked her to the Lord’s Test Cricket match and on whose arm her hand rested, hadn’t laughed.

Cora removed her hand.

“Is this your first cricket match, Miss Levinson?”

She nodded at the woman. “Yes.”

“And you aren’t enjoying it, then?”

Before Cora could answer him, though, the woman beside him interjected. “Not everyone enjoys The Cricket as much as you, Robert.” And Cora grinned at the way he—-Robert, oh his name was Robert—-rolled his eyes.

“Not even I enjoy it as much as our Lord Downton,” Lord Woodroth added quietly, annoyed she could tell, but Cora couldn’t care.

“I don’t doubt that, Lord Woodroth,” the woman said, her voice sounding far away. “I practically had to restrain him from jumping from his seat and running to the field.”

“Oh, you exaggerate.” The apples of his cheeks looked rosier when he argued.

“Not by much…” the woman added, and then Cora heard her ask something regarding lemonade and Lord Woodroth, too, and Cora found herself having to nod at him, quickly, to disguise the way her thoughts had drifted away from him and to the way Lord Downton—-Robert—-was grinning back at her. He was grinning at her the way he had when they’d danced together three nights ago. Twice. And the way they’d danced at the ball before that. A waltz. And Cora felt breathless.

“Thank you,” she managed before Woodroth walked away with the other woman. But then Lord Downton stepped closer to her, and Cora lost all sense again.

“You’ll have to excuse my sister,” he chuckled. “She thinks she’s much cleverer than she is.”

Cora smiled. “No, no. I’m grateful to her. Truth be told, I’m not sure I enjoyed the match as much as Lord Woodroth would’ve liked. It was nice to have someone make a little fun.”

“Not enjoyed it?”

Cora snorted a laugh at the incredulity he wore. “Oh. Sorry!” She tipped her head. “I don’t mean to offend you.”

“You really didn’t like it? Not at all?”

“But I didn’t say I didn’t enjoy it at all. I only said I hadn’t enjoyed it much. There is a difference.”

“I suppose you enjoy the derbies more. Or God forbid the tennis.”

She shook her head, laughing again. “No. At least I don’t think.”

“Well what is it that you do like, Miss Levinson?” His voice was lower. Softer. So soft she could hardly hear it over the breeze that moved the waves of his chestnut hair. “Please tell me.”

She hoped she smiled up at him, even if she wasn’t sure, for her face went much too warm at his attempt at forwardness. She laughed, awkwardly, and looked into the crowd to try and find Lord Woodroth.

Lord Downton, however, shifted beside her. “I apologize.”

But she shook her head and, taking a step much too close to him, she looked into his eyes. “No. Don’t apologize. It’s only …” she took in another deep breath, and with it filling her lungs, she let herself flirt back. “I think what I like should be rather obvious.”

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Thank you @ohtobealady for tagging me!

I’ve settled on the headcanon that Harold is older and that there is a significant difference in age between he and Cora. 4-6 years. Age difference and temperament impeded a closer relationship. Harold was protective of his baby sister to a point, but also subconsciously resented the easy relationship she had with their father. Being the male “heir” slated to inherit the whole business and fortune, Harold felt Isadore was so much tougher on him, whereas he treated Cora like gold.

I’m of the mind that Harold went to Yale or Princeton for college and would come home for breaks with various university chums, and as Cora grew, Martha was very cognizant of how Harold’s friends started to see her as a potential mate.

I didn’t always think this, but have moved to the headcanon that Isadore actually died suddenly near Cora’s 17th birthday. The family went into mourning for a year, which brought them to Cora’s 18th birthday. Martha, at a loss of how to protect her beautiful, now very wealthy and still naive daughter of marriage age, brought her to England as a diversion and to buy her some time to come up with a plan.

I think Cora surprised them all, falling for Robert. Martha knew her prospects would never be upper echelon in America due to the newness of their money, and she feared Cora’s sensitivity would lead her to falling for a gold digger or an equally undesirable match so she saw Robert as the best case scenario.

Hi! Hope you're well. I was wondering, in honor of the news, do you have headcanons regarding Cora and Harold relationship? Or general Levinson family headcanons?

Thank you, Anonny! How fun!!! I love speculating and headcanon sharing!!! Thank you DA3!

Cora + Harold

Actually I’ve been working on a Drabble for about two months (cries) that plays with my headcanons about them.

I don’t think they’ve ever been particularly close.

I used to really, truly feel that Cora was the elder sibling, but I also thought Rosamund was as well. Since the latter isn’t true, I could be persuaded that either Harold or Cora is older—but not by much. I think they’re very close in age. If I had to nail one down for this anon, I’d say Cora is older by like 18 months, if that.

I think Harold’s eternal bachelorhood is a direct result of watching his sister being paraded around to bolster her family’s reputation (from his perspective). He came over to England before her wedding, saw that Robert did not reciprocate her feelings, and Harold felt bitterness at that. He was never close to his sister, but damn it all, even he could see she deserved better than to be pursued for her fortune. Especially when he wasn’t particularly fond of England circa 1890—he likes his creature comforts.

General Levinson Family Headcanons

Morgan Spector is exactly how I picture Isidore Levinson.

There he be.

(Especially the way George treats Gladys = that’s Isidore and Cora to me.)

I think he loved his children and was not pleased at ALL about Cora tangling her fortune (inheritance) up in Downton’s estate. He was a successful businessman, after all, and that was just bad business.

I think he and Martha married out of affection for one another. Cora was the apple of his eye: intelligent, charming, and obedient. Harold gave him gray hair: unserious, indifferent, and maybe a little impish.

Who else! Come! Join in! @randomabiling you’ve got some great headcanons :)

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Please ma’am, can we have some more???

Love your cobert drabbles and fanfics!! Please write more!! Hope you are doing well 😘🥰😉

So I had a very, very old request for a long-lost prompt list. They requested #18 which was an angsty “All you had to do was stay.” I do not know where that request went, so I am answering this more open-ended one from 2020 instead. Thank you Anon of Bygone Times. I am doing well! And I hope you are, too.

Just felt like doing a little something! Hurt/Comfort really. Post ANE. Please forgive the clunkiness xoxox

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Angst #18 - All You Had to Do Was Stay

Her mouth felt as if it was stuffed with cotton and her tongue felt dry and thick. It was over, but the taste remained: mineraly and sharp, a bitter tang. It filled up her entire mouth and nose, the taste and smell indistinguishable from each other. She needed water.

Cora opened her eyes and immediately blinked. She worked for a moment to adjust her vision, pressing her eyelids softly and then peering into the afternoon rays of sun coming in at an odd angle to the room. Oh, her head pounded and throbbed. Water; where was the water?

She closed her eyes again and rested her head back against the thin pillow. She’d prayed it wouldn’t be like this. The first few times she’d done the treatment, as Doctor Clarkson had called it, she’d gagged, of course. But she managed the small measured portions of raw liver she’d been prescribed to eat over the course of the day. She could have the injections just as soon as they were shipped from London; this would get easier—less frequent. But after a week, and with the shipment still missing, she found she could no longer stomach it. She managed her portion at luncheon, just barely finding the strength to swallow the gelatinous mush in her mouth that had once been neat cubes upon her plate. But then the vomiting began at tea. And it didn’t stop. The smell of it, the vomit a dark red in the basin, set her mouth to watering and nose burning as a precursor to even more retching.

So Robert had taken her here the next morning—this morning—, in spite of her protesting, to the hospital.

Cora groaned. Whatever strength and newfound energy she’d enjoyed before was completely depleted now and what remained were aches and fatigue. She wouldn’t think of what it may mean—that the incessant vomiting of the last day and night had undone all of her progress—but instead tried her best to look at the bright side. The injections would be in soon, and there’d be less liver. Not no liver, she knew. But less. She could stomach less.

With this, she opened her eyes again. Late afternoon, she could tell. The hospital bed beneath her felt stiff and narrow. The quilt was rough. She attempted to ease herself up slowly, the blood in her head thumping and her stomach sore from its terrible labor.

But then the small creak of a wooden chair to her right, and the warm weight of his hand upon her blanketed shin stilled her.

“Lie back.”

“Robert,” her voice croaked softly, her protest pitiful and weak. “I’m alright.”

“You aren’t. You need rest.”

Despite her scoff, Cora did lie back. She hadn’t even the energy to roll her eyes. “I’m alright. Really.”

“So you said.” His voice was gentler in his contradiction than before, and even though her eyes were closed, Cora could feel the way he shifted in the wooden chair. She could feel the way he leaned closer to her, and she felt his hand move from her leg and to her arm. His fingers encircled it, and she felt him draw a soft line along the thin and fragile bone of the inside of her wrist. She sighed; her head hurt a little less. “We were pleased to see you’ve kept down the last portion.”

She hummed a reply. “Best not to speak too soon.”

“Doctor Clarkson says if you can keep down the next, he’ll send us home to bed.”

She swallowed down what she wanted to respond: She didn’t want another portion. The very thought of it prickled up beads of cold sweat upon her hairline. She did groan, but took in a long breath to steady herself. “I’ve been resting all day.”

“Yes. And he has given you direction to rest as much as possible tomorrow. That is, if you’re well enough to leave.”

“Oh, Robert,” she opened her eyes. “I don’t wish to take up a bed for anyone who may really need it.”

She felt the way his fingers moved upon her wrist. “I suppose you think you don’t?”

“I don’t need it. I’ve been ill, yes, but not ill enough for constant monitoring.” She shook her head, closed her eyes, and swallowed down the dry burn of her throat. Her voice was hoarse from the vomiting. “Besides, I’d like to see you try keeping all that liver down.”

His fingers tightened. The chair creaked. And in the absence of what she thought would be a low chuckle, Cora slowly opened her eyes to find him looking down at her.

“I wish I could do this for you.”

She sighed. “Do what?” she asked, even though she knew.

“All of it.”

She knew. Her chest ached when he looked away from her, his chin trembling. Yes, she knew. For she felt the same when he was lying in this bed a few short years ago and she was the one on the creaking chair praying that somehow they could exchange places. She’d suffer it for him, she knew. And he would suffer this for her. “Oh, darling.“

“I hate seeing you so ill. Last night. I’m so terribly sorry you must endure this.”

It took more energy than she thought she had to slip her wrist from his grasp and for her fingers to find his hand instead. She squeezed, quickly and firmly, and smiled when he at last met her eye.

“No. I don’t want that. No apologies or pity. Hmm?” She smiled wider for his sake, and she tried her best to level her voice, to not sound quite so weak. “All I want is this. For you to stay beside me. Holding my hand.”

He chuckled, softly and sadly. “You’ll have some of my pity. It can’t be helped.” At this, he brought her fingers to his lips and pressed them. They felt warm against her skin. “But I will hold your hand.”

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Love this!!!

Hello! I loved your latest drabble, drunken Robert is hilarious! I've been enjoying going back through your lovely collection of drabbles, and I was wondering if you intended on continuing 'Women's Stuff'? No pressure of course, but I was quite intrigued with where that was going. Anyway, I love everything you do and I hope you're having a wonderful day/night/timezone 😊

This request is years old. But I did something! It plays way more in the headcanon arena rather than a good Drabble arena. But it makes tons of room for more! Follow up to this one.

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Women’s Stuff 2

March 1913

Cora noticed she’d wadded the cotton blanket in her fist and, taking a deep breath, she forced herself to relax. Now that she was here, there was nothing to do but go through with it. And besides, the worst outcome, she knew, would be that there was nothing to be done, or that she was now much too old to hope for anything to come of her appointment today. Indeed, the worst outcome—she reminded herself—was that nothing would change, which in many ways was a comfort to her.

Nevertheless, the gravity of the moment—the reality of the moment—had only just manifested itself for her. It was as if up until this point she’d been in a dream; but now, with half her body bare beneath a cotton blanket, she realized what she’d decided.

“Now then, Mrs. Levinson. I see that your appointment is for a physical examination. Is that correct? You have inquiries as to your ability to still conceive?”

“Yes,” Cora swallowed away the tightness in her throat. She straightened her shoulders.

“And may I have your date of birth, please?”

“20 July 1870.”

“Thank you. Which puts your age at 43 years–”

“--42,” she corrected, and when the doctor, a young and rather handsome fellow, glanced at her, she added a small smile. “As it’s only March.”

“Oh, so it is.” She was relieved when he chuckled. “I apologize for adding unnecessary months, madam.” The doctor stood and went to a large cupboard from where the sounds of glass bottles tinkled about the room. “Have you brought a maid to help you dress again?”

Cora shook her head; though she trusted O’Brien implicitly, there was no one at home she trusted with this secret. Only Rosamund, of all people, knew. And Cora had not asked to borrow a maid. She’d dressed simply, and purposefully.

“I see. I can send someone in to assist you when we’ve completed the exam, if you so require.”

It was now that the nurse who’d shown Cora in entered again, quickly and quietly. Cora looked down into her blanketed lap, avoiding the other woman’s gaze. She wasn’t sure why, but her presence made it seem all too much. A witness to her crimes. Was this a crime? Oh, she didn’t know.

The doctor, Cora noticed, was peering at her as he closed the cabinet, and as if he could hear her thoughts, he glanced over at the nurse and then back again. “Nurse Wilson will remain with us, by your permission.”

She smiled, her good manners a practiced second-nature, and she found herself nodding. “Yes, of course,” she lied. And her stomach turned.

“Very good.”

It was at this that Cora felt the examination table jostle beneath her. The sound of wood scraping and metal locking into place sounded strangely out of place in such a well-appointed room, and she had to remind herself of the purpose of this visit. She peered up and saw stirrups she supposed had always been there, and between the two imposing things, shone the young doctor’s face. “Please lie back, Mrs Levinson. I will inform you of everything I mean to do before I’ve done it.”

She nodded. Cora leaned back into the thin pillow that had been provided for her at the head of the table. A pin that O’Brien had stuck hastily into her hair that morning at Rosamund’s scraped against her scalp, mockingly, and she winced slightly. The doctor, meanwhile, spoke on, his voice coming from between her knees. And though she didn’t dare look, and though she had no clue what he was saying, she sensed the nurse turn on the lamp near her left ankle and adjust it as the doctor sat on a wooden stool.

“It is noted that you and Mr Levinson have had children. How many? You’ll feel my touch here.”

Cora swallowed, his touch and his question simultaneously working against her mental faculties.

“I—“

“—or the number of conceptions since you’ve married.”

“Oh.” She could see the light reflecting from his head mirror dance quickly across the room as he moved. “Yes.” She swallowed. “We’ve been married 23 years. Last month.”

“And the number of conceptions and children? You’ll feel pressure as I palpate the abdomen here. Feeling for the womb, madam.”

“Four conceptions.” She paused and waited until he was finished. “Three children.”

“Oh,” the doctor’s voice was quieter. “Indeed?”

She had tried to avoid this, but she heard the question the doctor was perhaps too polite to ask. Three children. Three. So then why was she here?

“Three daughters,” she amended, and even from where she laid upon the table, she could sense the way the doctor hesitated in his movements. It sounded ungrateful. It sounded odd. She had three daughters.

“All…living?”

Three beautiful, living daughters. “Yes.”

“I see.” He paused, and in the pause, Cora’s fingers felt again for the edge of the cotton blanket, and she wadded it into her palm.

“Now, Mrs. Levinson, I am going to insert the speculum to help me see the neck of the womb, if that’s agreeable. I understand that you may not be familiar with such a tool, or feel they’re outdated, but I feel strongly that examinations require sight and cannot be relied upon touch alone. Do I have your permission?”

She wished he’d just get on with it. “Yes, of course,” she answered, prompting the nurse to come and stand closer to the doctor. Cora tilted her chin up, letting herself examine the ceiling as he did what he’d said he would do. But to Cora’s surprise, instead of feeling any sort of discomfort, she found she wanted to suppress a small laugh.

Oh. Oh how stupid this was. How stupid and silly she was. Why hide it? Why hide any of the truth from this man who was at that very moment seeing parts of Cora’s own anatomy that she’d not ever seen herself. And at that thought, the thought that this man between her legs didn’t even know her name, she did laugh, once, before pressing her lips together.

“Mrs. Levinson? Are you in pain?”

“No. Not at all. It isn’t that.”

“Please, if you feel any—“

“—Doctor Ryder, I’m afraid I haven’t been completely honest with you.” She exhaled, and feeling less guilty already, she spoke. “I’ve used my maiden name.”

She could feel the doctor gently complete his exam, and she didn’t feel embarrassed any longer as he stood to look over her blanketed knees at her, his head mirror still before his right eye.

“Might I sit up?”

“Yes, apologies, yes,” he nodded, and the nurse was at her elbow as the doctor wiped his hands.

“The thing is,” Cora explained, “I’ve been afraid word would get around about my coming here. My mother-in-law detests a scandal,” she admitted, feeling lighter and lighter as she spoke. “You see, my husband is the Earl of Grantham.”

“Oh. Yes. That is—“

“—and therefore you can appreciate my discretion.”

She waited until the doctor’s smooth, unlined features fell into what she finally considered was the countenance of comprehension before she went on.

“As for my history, I had a difficult birth with our youngest. She was malpositioned and overdue. Labor was prolonged. There was likely…well, I don’t know precisely. But there was a great deal of bleeding and healing was very slow. I wasn’t well for weeks. And, since 1895, there hasn’t been another conception.” It was at this moment that she realized her feet were still fitted awkwardly in the stirrups, though she’d closed her knees, and flushing a little now, she let her feet come free to dangle off the edge of the table as she spoke. It allowed her to break her gaze from his wide and unblinking one, and she was grateful. “My first pregnancy was a loss—a miscarriage at three months—but I conceived my elder two daughters in quick succession with very little difficulty. My youngest did come later than expected, but this—.” Again, Cora exhaled. “There seems to be no reason. I still have my courses fairly regularly, at least for my age. Marital intercourse is likewise quite regular. And I would very much like to…” And, pushing down the sharp edge that had suddenly risen in her throat, she let herself speak freely, in spite of her returned embarrassment. “I would like to….I—“

“A son.”

She looked at Doctor Ryder, and she had to blink away a sudden threat of tears. Now it was real. And overwhelming. “Yes.” She nodded. “I used my maiden name because Lord Grantham doesn’t know I’m here. He hasn’t asked me to do this. If it’s even possible.”

“It can be.”

She felt her mouth fall open, slightly, and she closed it again.

“There’s one small matter. You say your youngest was malpositioned? Might I ask, was it shoulder dystocia?”

“Shoulder…”

“Were the shoulders, for lack of a better word, stuck? During your labor?”

She furrowed her brows. “You can tell that? From my exam?”

Doctor Ryder nodded. “You have heavy scarring at the opening of your cervix—the neck of the womb. It’s evidence of a large tear which can take place when the shoulder becomes stuck during birth. I’m sure that your daughter was positioned poorly, as you say, and was also too large. Indeed, you yourself were likely positioned poorly during labor. The proper way to proceed with such a complication is to turn the laboring mother on her hands and knees.”

Cora looked around her, feeling a little like she was being shown a magic trick.

“Furthermore, while you’ve noted that your courses have continued, the scarring is significant enough that I’m sure it prohibits any emission full access to the womb.”

She felt color rise in her cheeks, but dipped her chin, proceeding. “But it’s…able to be mended?”

“It will mean a small operation—well, more of a procedure. Quick, and while not altogether painless, healing time is minimal. Your age may play against you, but then,” at this, the doctor’s young face brightened, and the embarrassment, guilt, and jagged emotion that choked her moments ago were replaced by the warmth of love she felt for her husband, and the overwhelming desire she felt to make him happy. As happy as he’d made her. “I don’t see any real reason you can’t conceive another child.”

And Cora nodded, smiling.

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$50,000 immediately dropped into my bank account wouldn't improve EVERYTHING but boy it sure would be a grand, sexy little start to a good, happy life path, don't you think

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Is think we need this!

DA fic idea that's been bouncing around my head for a while:

The Abbey has some money troubles, so they decide to sell their beloved Reynold's painting that hangs over the grand staircase. However, the few offers they receive are disappointingly low.

There’s a new chauffeur, someone Bates met in prison and vouches for. He broaches the subject with Cora while driving her alone somewhere.

“Do you know why the Mona Lisa is famous, your Ladyship?” he asks

"Because it's a masterpiece." replies Cora.

"True," he says, "but that's not why it's famous."

He and Cora come up with a plan to boost the painting’s fame and thus its price.

She arranges for the painting to be taken to some special studio in London to be photographed, but on the way back, the truck transporting it is held up! And the painting is stolen!

Cora notifies the police and the newspapers. Because the painting was just professionally photographed, it’s on the front page of every newspaper in Britain, along with profiles on the other artworks kept at Downton Abbey. Cora is photographed standing on the landing of the grand staircase, staring longingly at where her beloved painting should be.

The search for the stolen painting becomes a media circus, with rich art collectors offering up their own money as a reward. Some people try to pass off poorly-made copies as the real thing. Just when it starts to be too much– it’s found! Someone stumbles upon it in a Paris warehouse and immediately calls the police.

While there are many suspects, the thief is never confirmed.

Lord and Lady Grantham go to Paris themselves to retrieve the painting, and when they return, they’re showered with ludacris offers for it, and they humbly take the second-highest.

After everything dies down, Cora gives the clever chauffeur his cut. It was all his idea, after all. He used his criminal connections to arrange the hold-up and stash the painting in Paris where it would be found before too long.

Bates has his suspicions, but doesn't say anything. He’s the one who vouched for this criminal, but he won’t take the fall for him.

The mastermind chauffeur uses his money to run away with his new beau, Thomas, who watched everything go down with immense pleasure.

Robert remains oblivious for the rest of his life.

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Fanfic.net is being a jerk and not letting me comment right there at the moment; so I will comment here. I wondered how you were going to end this story that has often read like an award-worthy novel, and @ohtobealady , you outdid yourself!

This chapter wrapped up the magical, ethereal world your words created, one in which you took the reader forward in time, yet back, in such a skillful, soulful way. Adult Sybbie was as familiar to me as your young Cora and I want to know so much more about her!

The last part, (spoiler alert!) , when Coco says “Welcome to Downton”, evoking the grandmother she’s named after’s first words to Isobel and Matthew, *chef’s kiss. I so wanted this world to go on forever; but I also love this ending for them. It’s beautiful, and poignant, and not sad but also painful. You are so fucking good at this!!

Thank you for the work of this, for the time you’ve put into this and the care. Thank you!

We did it, gang! We finished it! The last chapter is posted :)

Preview under the cut

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He chuckled and it was a weak, dry bounce in his throat. “Not Mary.”

“Not Mary, indeed,” she smiled at him, and the image of Aunt Mary pushing Donk’s chair through the gravel came to her mind. “She really does have the family’s best interest at heart, doesn’t she?”

He chuckled, again, in a way. A dry choke of what should have been a laugh. “She’s the champion of us all.”  The air in his thin chest vibrated with his long exhale. “The heroine of the story.” 

“Yes.” Sybbie grinned; again she stroked his fingers. “The heroine of Downton.” 

But Donk shook his head against his pillows. “No, not that.”

“Oh yes,” Sybbie passed her thumb against his hand. “That was Granny.”

“I was wrong.” She watched him close his eyes and move his lips, quietly, before looking back at her again. His mouth sounded dry as he spoke, dry but very solemn. “The times I’ve thought Downton needed saving. My life’s work: saving Downton. Protecting Downton. Only now that I’m at the end of it all can I see what it’s really been.” 

She didn’t like this. But she’d listen. She swallowed down the feeling that had risen up high in her throat at Barrow’s cottage. She swallowed down the feeling that had lodged itself tightly at reading through Granny’s letters. She swallowed it all down, and she breathed around it. “And what’s that?”

“Downton saved me.” He nodded, slowly, and his lips trembled into a smile. “Only I was far too self-important to understand that. Hubris.” 

“But—” Sybbie adjusted herself in her chair. “You did save it, too. By marrying. And Uncle Matthew. And now with Georgie—

“—yes, the house.”

“What?”

“We worked to keep the house. The Abbey. Oh, but Cora always knew, I think. And… in her gentle way, she tried to tell me so many times.”

Sybbie blinked. “Knew what?”

Donk exhaled a long, but shallow breath. And then Sybbie watched him smile. “Downton is more than just this house.” He turned his hand beneath Sybbie’s, and his soft fingers squeezed her own. “It’s given me far more than I have ever done for it.”