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The line of stitches mending a clumsy tear in her nightdress is, theoretically, an unobtrusive presence, but like deft fingers plaiting her hair and unlacing her corset she is aware of the brush of them, and in the darkness she burns with wanting - for every movement of the delicate fabric against her is Sarah ghosting kisses over her thighs.
In the morning she is hyperaware, sure O'Brien will know - in the daylight it is too dangerous to think of her as Sarah, her own much-regretted words about perilous closeness resounding. Will the bed divulge her secrets, empty of the indent of any second occupant yet with the sheets thoroughly rumpled, or will she betray herself, her cheeks pinker than usual, the sharp smell of desire still clinging? Soon, she expects, the strange enigmatic smile will curve her maid's mouth and the game will be up. Perhaps she has long realised how Cora spent the night, her fingers pushing slick between her own legs until the world had buckled, contracted into a single dark point, and burst free in an explosion of sensation.
Twice, rubbing herself to frenzy, imagining her beautiful maid undressed and kissing her.
And yet the aftermath had been strangely cold, the pleasurable haze she'd expected replaced by a sore ache in her bones for Sarah. She hadn't wanted a cheap tumble alone, she'd wanted her there, warm and soft with Cora's head resting on her shoulder, dropping kisses in her hair and mumbling sleepy nonsense, as vital as breathing. And the lack of her had hurt so badly that Cora hugged her knees and almost cried for it, loneliness and confused longing pitching over her in dark waves.
Sarah, not Robert or any other man (or indeed woman) but her Sarah, whom she wanted but couldn't tell.
In the fanciful, desperate hours of the early morning she'd imagined taking herself to the servant's quarters, finding herself in her maid's room. In Cora's dream Sarah would look at her perhaps first with surprise, but then with an expression of knowing, and move over to make room in her small but serviceable bed. And instead of the cold, suffocatingly empty space in which she found herself currently she'd fall asleep there, Sarah's breasts pressing against her back and sending soft frissons of pleasure through her, her lovely arms curving around Cora's waist and their fingers entwined in front of her. But the dawn had sharply reminded her that trying would more likely result in her maid quitting in disgust than impossibly soft lips against her neck like she'd hoped for.
More likely. Even in daylight the question that had plagued her remained. Was it worth the chance, risking everything on the tiny sliver of hope O'Brien regarded her with a little romantic affection, if not the wild adoration and, dare she say it, beginnings of love Cora felt for her? She'd be throwing away so much if the gamble backfired, but for the opportunity to tell her maid how wonderfully brilliant and beautiful she was, how the sight of her made Cora's heart swell in her chest, her longing to know her everything and to love her for it, good, bad, fascinating, mundane.
And now O'Brien was dressing her, detached and distant, when all Cora wanted was to hold her.
With her darling's lovely face inches from her own and her hands smoothing invisible creases in Cora's dress conviction found her. Contrary to her better logic this sentiment was not to be banished into the darkness like some shameful, sordid thing, but offered like a spring flower, a quiet declaration to be accepted or rejected, of wanting more.
Since her almost-death with the flu she'd catalogued her words unspoken, things unsaid. This wouldn't be joining them.
'May I ask you something, my dearest O'Brien?...'