AN: Hello, everyone! I'm back a month sooner than I promised. :-) I have had some writing time here and there around my summer courses, but not enough to keep up with regular updates, so I haven't been posting. Now, however, I've written enough chapters ahead in this story that I'm confident I can keep up with weekly posting, even if I don't write for a week here and there. And I have missed you all and your reviews! :-)

This is a modern AU based on a one-shot I posted several months ago in my "The Ways They Said It" collection. Chapter 1 is basically that one-shot with a few slight changes. Since many of you have already read a version of Chapter 1, I'll be posting twice this weekend, with Chapter 2 going up on Sunday. I'm planning to post every Sunday (American Sunday, so that may be early Monday morning for those of you in Europe and points farther east).

And now, let's get rolling!

September 2016

Robert forced himself to focus on the screen in front of him. He'd been skeptical when his sister had presented a Kindle as his going-away present last week, thinking it far too modern for his taste—although he was a young man, Robert had never fancied himself much a fan of technology—but he'd been surprised to discover how much he liked it. It was certainly convenient for travel, allowing him to relocate temporarily to New York for an extended work assignment without having to haul boxes of books with him. And it was also convenient to slip into his pocket each day, a light piece of plastic weighing far less than even most paperbacks, allowing him to occupy himself anywhere.

Although perhaps not on the subway, not while he was gripping the pole over his head and endeavoring not to tumble into the lap of a seated passenger. He'd read the same sentence five times, too distracted by the motion of the train and the pulsing mass of humanity around him to make sense of the words. Frustrated, Robert shoved his Kindle into the pocket of his suit coat. He was beginning to hate New York.

Yes, London's Tube was crowded at 5:15 on a Friday, too, but somehow it had never seemed quite this bad. Perhaps it was the volume of these Americans—the woman next to him was positively shouting into his ear as she tried to converse with her friend—or the awful way they mangled the English language. Or perhaps it was the pushing and the shoving and the elbows that kept catching him in the ribs, the bags that kept slamming into him. Did no one say excuse me in this country?

His assignment was meant to last for six months, with the possibility of an extension in the spring. At the moment, he couldn't imagine staying here another six days.

The car slowed, preparing for its next stop, and Robert braced himself, dreading the influx of new passengers. Yes, people got off at each stop, but even more seemed to get on, to the point that surely, the train would grind to a halt, unable to drag their collective weight any further. That was very much how the lower half of his body was beginning to feel. He'd walked miles today, he suspected, dragged on and off the wretched subway by his new co-workers to meetings that of course were never in his own building.

Oh, but who was gathering his things, putting his newspaper away, getting ready to stand? The man seated just to his right! He could have a seat!

"This is 8th Street, NYU," said a disembodied voice. When the other man stood, Robert lunged for his vacated spot, beating the passengers on both sides of him to it. He'd seen this happen on the subway plenty of times in the two weeks he'd been here, and at first he'd been appalled—this every-man-for-himself, vulture-like behavior was not how it was done in London.

I'm one of them now, he thought, rather disgusted with himself. But the feeling didn't last more than a second, so glad was he to be off his feet.

Twice as many New Yorkers as had just gotten off poured through the doors, jamming themselves into the tiniest cracks between other commuters, but Robert smiled to himself. Let them all force their way on. He had a seat.

"Please watch the closing doors," the voice said again. "This is an N line train, toward Astoria Ditmars. The next stop is 14th Street, Union Square. Transfers available to the L, 4, 5, and 6 lines."

The train lurched forward again, but not all of the commuters had settled into position, and thus there was an intensified grumbling as everyone tried to work their way toward a pole without falling over. No matter. He had a seat.

"Watch where you're pointing that thing!" he heard someone snarl, and Robert looked around for the source of the words. He would not deny that there could be something very entertaining in watching these New Yorkers snap at each other.

The complaint had issued from a portly, middle-aged man in a business suit toward a pretty, dark-haired young woman in a casual, stylish-a-few-years-ago dress. She was carrying…well, everything. A bulging messenger bag was strapped over her shoulder, and she was hunched slightly, as though afraid it would slip off. Her right arm was struggling to hug two long, plastic tubes to her chest, and in her left hand she was grasping the edge of what appeared to be a large oil painting. Carrying the latter was clearly meant to be a two-handed job, and Robert guessed that it was the offending object which had poked the man next to her. Why on earth would someone who could afford to buy artwork attempt to carry it home on the crowded Metro, rather than hailing a cab?

"Oh, I am sorry, sir," the young woman said, her voice strained. It was a lovely voice, Robert could not help but notice—an American accent, yes, but still soft, almost velvety, in spite of the stress it seemed to hold.

The man grunted in reply, and the girl attempted to edge away from him, trying to reposition the painting so as not to jab anyone else with its sharp corners. She was, Robert noticed, limping, and he realized that when she'd been still, she'd had all her weight on her left leg.

Someone ought to let her sit down. Not him, of course—she was not directly in front of him, and there were other occupied seats closer to her. Surely someone would get up, wouldn't they? He watched the seated passengers expectantly, but no one so much as twitched.

Not your problem, mate, he told himself, trying to ignore the squirming guilt in this stomach. There are multiple seats between you and her. You shouldn't have to give her yours.

The car was slowing again and lurched to a stop—"This is 14th Street, Union Square"—and he saw the girl with the painting wince as the motion forced her to shift weight onto her right leg. Maybe someone near her would get off, and she could take one of their seats…but no one was moving.

"Excuse me," he said as the door opened. "Excuse me." But she either did not hear him or did not recognize that he was speaking to her, and she did not glance his way.

He stretched his arm across several other passengers—none of whom looked up from their phones—to touch her arm. "Excuse me, ma'am?"

Her head jerked up in his direction. "Ma'am?" she snapped. "How old do I look?"

Robert cringed. "Not old! Not old, sorry. I only…"

She sighed, regret coloring her face. "I'm sorry; it's been a long day. What is it?"

"Would you like to take my seat?"

"Oh!" She blushed deeply. "How kind of you—yes, yes, I would, if you don't mind."

He did mind, but he minded worse sitting while she stood. She managed to squeeze past the passengers between them, dragging her painting and her tubes and her bag with her, and she slid into his seat as he vacated it, closing her eyes for a second in relief.

"Thank you," she said, opening them and smiling up at him. She had a sweet, round face, and her smile made pretty dimples around her nose, raising her high cheekbones. He felt slightly weak at having this smile directed at him. "I turned my ankle this morning trying to step over my cat," she explained.

"And did you manage to step over her?" he asked. He smiled back down at her hesitantly, suddenly irrationally afraid he could have lettuce, or some other leftover of lunch, in his teeth.

"I did," she said, laughing softly. "And I got a hiss and a dark glare for my trouble."

Of course she had. Robert had never much liked cats.

"I thought I might take a cab today to cut my walking," she went on, "but budgets, y'know?" He nodded, but he didn't, quite. The heir to an earldom who had stepped right out of Oxford into a lucrative finance job, he could not imagine not springing for a cab if it hurt him to walk.

He glanced down at the painting, which was now resting on the floor in front of her, learning against her legs. It depicted a cathedral surrounded by a forest of autumn leaves, in an almost impressionistic style. "That's very pretty," he remarked after a moment, wanting to kick himself for the dullness of his conversation. Why could he not think of anything intelligent to say?

The girl blushed again, giving him a shy smile, and it occurred to him that perhaps she was the artist and not the purchaser. "Do you like it?" she asked. "My professor told me it was terrible."

"It's not," he said, feeling suddenly protective. "Are you a student?" He'd thought her near his own age—several years past university.

"Yes, I'm in grad school. I'm doing an MFA in studio art at NYU."

Of course. No wonder she had no money. The lightbulb clicked on in his head as he recalled that she'd gotten on at the New York University stop. The tubes must hold paintings, too, he realized—watercolors, perhaps.

"Somewhere you've traveled in Europe?" he asked after a pause, nodding at the canvas.

"No, that's here in New York, actually—the Cloisters."

"Here?" A medieval cathedral in this modern urban jungle?

She smiled again. "Surprising, isn't it? It's quite far uptown—almost to the tip of Manhattan. And it doesn't feel like New York at all, because it's in the most beautiful park overlooking the Hudson. It's an art museum—medieval art, mostly, and the building's a mix of bits of old cathedrals and castles that were all shipped over from Europe and reassembled here. It's quite magical, really—I love it up there."

It sounded magical, and he was suddenly hungry to be there with her.

"But you're from Europe, too," she went on, her eyes twinkling. "Where in England are you from?"

"London, recently. But I grew up in Yorkshire."

"I've been to London," she told him, with another pretty smile. "One of those American tourists constantly overrunning your city."

She could overrun whatever she wanted to, as far as he was concerned.

"Where are you from?" he asked, suspecting the answer was not New York.

"Cincinnati…Ohio," she amended, when she saw his blank expression. "The Midwest. I only moved here a year ago for my program."

"Approaching Times Square, 42nd Street," the announcing voice said as the train began to slow again. Times Square already? He hadn't noticed the last few stops, clearly. "Transfers available to the S, 1, 2, 3, and 7 lines."

The girl was gathering up her things, and he realized with a sinking feeling that she was preparing to go. "Is this your stop?" he asked, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

"Not entirely." She smiled ruefully. "I transfer to the 1 here, and then I've got another thirteen stops, although I doubt I'll find anyone as kind as you who lets me sit down."

And then, of course, she would have to hike to her apartment, wherever it was she lived. This isn't your problem, he told himself again. She can walk and stand; it's a sore ankle, not a broken leg.

But then she stood, and Robert watched her grimace as her ankle took her weight again, and he felt an odd tightening in his chest. He reached for his wallet and pulled out one of the American bills labelled 20, the one with the guy with the wild hair on it. But was twenty dollars enough? Thirteen stops implied some distance. He took out a second twenty.

"Here," he said, offering her the money. "Take a cab, please."

She stared at it. "Oh, I couldn't! I—you shouldn't, really—"

"Please," he said. On impulse, he took her hand and closed her fingers around the bills. "I'll worry, otherwise."

"It's—it's too much, too much for a single cab ride—"

"Then keep the change, and take a cab tomorrow, too. Or use it to have your dinner delivered."

She tried to pass the money back, but he pushed her hand away. "I…thank you," she said softly, stunned and flustered. "Thank you very much. This…this is so very kind. I won't forget it."

"Times Square, 42nd Street," the voice announced as the doors swung open.

"Thank you," she murmured again, touching his arm lightly as she turned to go.

"Wait! What's your name?" he blurted out, suddenly realizing he had not gotten this crucial piece of information and that he had no way to see her again. And oh, how desperately he wanted to see her again.

She froze, something like fear in her eyes, and he realized he'd scared her, handing her a wad of cash and then demanding her name, as though he wanted something from her. He cursed himself for not asking earlier—he certainly could not get her number now. He would still see her again, he told himself, trying to quell his panic at her departure. It didn't matter how many days he had to spend strolling the streets around NYU, hoping to happen upon her.

"Cora," she said hesitantly, after an eternal second. "My name's Cora."

"I'm Robert," he replied. "Robert Crawley."

She nodded, giving him another of those perfect smiles when he didn't press her for more. "Thank you, Robert. Have a good weekend."

"You too," he said as she stepped awkwardly off the train and the doors closed behind her, "Cora."

He turned the name over and over again in his mind as he took his seat back, the syllables swishing together like light gold necklaces. Cora, Cora, Cora.