Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

But this can't be. She's 24 years old. This cannot be.

They had been ushered out, all of them. He didn't even know by whom. It was all such a flurry, everything had happened so fast. The shouting, the pleading, the begging, the crying. His own negotiating. It had all happened at once. And it had all amounted to nothing. It had all been for nought.

The words he had just put down in ink on the black-rimmed paper were like a slap in the face, a strong punch thrown at the pits of his stomach, stronger than any of the punches he had experienced scuffling with his classmates in his youth. Everything inside him was fighting back, recoiling, screaming at him, revolting, wanting him to tear up the note because the words he had written there were lies. Nothing but pure, vile lies.

But they weren't. It was all true and his Mama should know. She needed to know, and she needed to know from him. This could not wait until morning, she couldn't find out from anyone else but her own son. He owed at least that to her — to her and everyone else.

Setting his pen down with trembling hands he stared at the piece of paper in front of him; it was no doubt the hardest, most painful note he ever had to write.

It was as if all the pain and all the anguish coursing through him at that realisation demanded to be felt, even through all the numbness within him as he wrote to his mother of his youngest daughter's premature passing just mere hours after giving birth to his first granddaughter. The pain, it was almost unbearable. Almost.

But this can't be. She's 24 years old. This cannot be.

His own words kept ringing out in his head, over and over again. Carson would come in soon and take the wretched note away to give to some poor chap downstairs, most likely one of their hallboys. Robert felt bad for the poor devil who would have to go out in the dark of night to deliver the envelope with the news. These horrible, horrible news.

A few minutes later, the dreaded envelope handed over to their butler with utmost reluctance, he found himself still in the library, sitting in front of the fireplace, all on his own. The girls had gone to bed again, although he doubted that sleep would come easy that night for any of them. For all he knew, Matthew was trying to help Tom as best as he could; and he was undoubtedly much better suited for that task than Robert was himself at this moment. And any other, too.

She was only 24 years old. His youngest daughter. She had so much more life to live ahead of her. He simply could not wrap his head around the fact that she would never get to hold her newborn daughter, never see her grow up. He couldn't fathom that he would never see her endearing smile again. It was just beyond him. She was only 24 years old, barely more than a child herself. These thoughts kept ringing out, spinning inside his head and it was making him dizzy, anxious and so very angry at everything, the world, and most importantly himself. The unfairness of it all was just too much.

"She was only 24 years old, for God's sake!" he shouted into the darkness of the room. It was a good thing he hadn't had a glass of liquor in his hands or else that would have likely been smashed to smithereens in the hearth now.

The door to his left opened and closed delicately, and someone walked in on feathery light steps barely audible in the library that was so eerily silent otherwise after his outburst.

Robert did not turn around to look at who it was. It did not matter. His daughter had just died. Nothing mattered, not any more.

"Papa?" His eldest daughter's voice was gentle, an almost unknown softness there he had rarely ever heard from her before. She was trying her best not to startle him when she came to a halt next to him, taking a seat on the red settee to his right. "You should go to bed. Tomorrow will be a gruelling day, you need your rest."

"I can't," he breathed tonelessly after a while. Robert didn't know if she had heard his outburst just before she had entered. He hoped she had not, but he could not be sure. He was aware they all rightfully thought he had a quick temper and was quick to lash out in anger, frustration, or resentment; a character trait of his he had never liked and yet never managed to rid himself of. Still, he simply was not keen on the fact that anyone would witness him losing his temper like this on this night or any other that was to follow.

Delicately, Mary put her hand on his shoulder and watched him as he kept on staring into the dying flames with a fixed gaze, entirely unmoving. His hair was dishevelled from running his hands through it time and time again that evening, his robe was only loosely slung over his shoulders and he looked as if he had aged at least a decade in the last three hours alone. The wrinkles on his forehead seemed so much deeper than ever before, and his eyes were only dull and grey instead of bright blue and twinkly like they usually were. There was no spark in them, no life, Mary thought.

"You have to, we all do," she replied, her heart breaking even further than it already had following the events of the day as she saw her father sitting there in front of her. So lost. So alone.

Breaking away from the flames that were holding him enthralled at last, he shook his head ever so slightly to rid himself of the thoughts ricocheting in his mind before standing up from the settee. He had hoped the flames would calm him, had foolishly hoped their fiery dance in the hearth would help him make sense of the events that had transpired on this fateful night. This should have been one of the most joyous nights of his life, the day he became a grandfather for the first time. And there had been joy at her birth, joy he had not anticipated given his troubled history with the newborn girl's father. This joyous, joyous day had turned into this wretched night. The cursed night he lost his youngest daughter forever.

Without so much as looking at Mary, he wrapped his dressing gown tighter around himself once more to retain at least a bit of dignity and walked upstairs, with her following closely in silence. There was nothing anyone could say, absolutely nothing, that could take away even just some of the shock and pain they all felt. Robert knew that, and so did Mary.

Right as Mary was about to pass by him to go to her own bedroom, his hand already resting on the doorknob leading to his and Cora's room, she stopped him with a gentle hand placed on his upper arm.

"Don't, Papa," she whispered remorsefully. When she saw her father standing there, she remembered her mother's request that sent her searching for him in the first place. She wasn't sure whether her mother was even inside her bedroom or not, but she did not want to take any chances. "Mama told me to ask you to sleep in your dressing room tonight."

He stared at her bewildered, pure disbelief written all over his face.

Was she serious?

The regretful and almost guilty expression on Mary's face told him that she was. Her eyes were so commiserating, barely hiding her sorrow at everything that had happened since her niece was born a few hours ago. The way this night had unfolded was more than a shock and it was something they would all have to overcome.

"I think she just needs to be alone tonight, Papa."

"But surel-"

"Please, Papa."

She was pleading with him. But Mary did not plead, never. He wondered what Cora had said to her that had her so adamant he should stay away that night. Yet, he did not have the heart to question her, or even go against his wife's wishes. If this was her decision, then he would honour it tonight.

With much more than only a heavy heart, his hand dropped from the knob and fell to his side. He turned again and walked over to the next door down the hall, the one that led to his dressing room. It was a good thing he always asked for this to be kept prepared, even if that was only to keep up false pretences more than anything else. On rare occasions, this came in quite handy, although he never could have imagined to in this particular situation.

Morning came sooner than he would have wanted and he felt as if he had not slept a wink. Which might just as well have been the case. The first rays of sunshine falling onto his face through the barely drawn curtains tickled his nose and woke him from the uneasy slumber he had finally fallen into in the wee hours. For a while he just lay there. He simply lay there on his back, wondering why he had slept so badly, and, most importantly, why he had not woken up in bed next to his wife. It was rather peculiar that he slept in this narrow and quite uncomfortable bed in his dressing room instead of the warm and comfortable bed he had shared with Cora for the better part of 30 years.

And then it dawned on him. Suddenly, with unexpected force, all the events of the past night caught up with his consciousness and he remembered. He remembered it all. All the fighting, the shouting, all the horrors. Although he wished he did not. Or, better yet, he wished it had never happened, that there was nothing to remember other than the birth of his granddaughter.

Reluctantly, he pulled the cord next to the bed that would ring for Thomas, and then he sank back down on the edge of his bed. Sitting there with his back turned to the door, he buried his face in his hands, desperately trying to find enough strength in him to face whatever this day would bring.

Getting dressed that morning was a silent affair. That fact alone was not unusual. Trust was not something that was coming easy to him when it came to Barrow, he certainly was no Bates by any measure, and so Robert simply resorted to mostly unimportant chitchat most of the time. But that day, he could not even muster up enough strength to do that. And as things were, neither of the two men knew what to say anyway. Maybe not saying anything was for the better. It was easier to maintain some dignity if one was not crying in front of his employees while getting dressed. Or that's a thought that occurred to Robert while the footman-turned-valet was fastening his cufflinks for him.

However, that cloud of silence, shock, and disbelief seemed to follow him wherever he went. Breakfast went by with not a single word spoken beyond a "Good Morning" directed at Carson when he entered to find himself alone in the dining room with the butler. Even steadfast Carson looked more than visibly shaken by what had unfolded the night before.

The Earl joined Matthew in the library later on, a long while after Grassby's had taken Sybil away. But first, he had retreated to his dressing room, just to catch his breath and try to clear his mind enough to make arrangements for the burial with his other son-in-law. Someone had to, after all. And that someone would not be Tom, because the man was a wreck as far as he knew, according to what Matthew told him. Robert truly couldn't hold it against him, he had just lost his wife. No matter what he thought of the Irish chauffeur who had swept his daughter away to distant shores; his heart went out to him nonetheless.

Robert had been there when they came to take her, he had walked behind them as they carried her down from her room. The room where it had happened. He had stood next to Tom, Matthew, and his daughters as the car drove off and took her away. Forever. They were all there, except for her. Cora had stayed away the entire day, locked inside her bedroom, apart from a small moment in the afternoon she had spent with them in the drawing room. He had hoped she would give him something — a look, anything. But no, she would not so much as meet his eye, not even when she spoke of his wrongdoings in front of their family, leaving him to fight for his composure in her wake. She did not even come down to dinner, and at the end of the night, Mary repeated her mother's request from the night before.

So, Cora wanted him to stay away again, but he found he simply couldn't. Even before getting undressed and ready for the night with Thomas' help, he went against his daughter's clear instructions and entered their bedroom through the door from his dressing room.

She wasn't in bed. That was the first place he looked. She also wasn't reclining on her chaise longue, the second place his eyes darted to. He could not see even a trace of his wife as he looked around.

This was odd. Where could she be if not in her room at this time of night?

"What do you want?" came her small voice from somewhere to his left, and he abruptly turned to find her sitting on her cushioned windowsill. She looked frightful, as if she had not slept at all and instead spent every waking hour crying her heart out, which she had likely done.

"I was only coming to see how you were. I haven't seen you since this afternoon," he replied, his usually strong voice so small in the room that felt unnaturally cold all of a sudden.

"I am doing quite how one would expect after the loss of a child. I did not feel like going out today," she replied, her tone clipped, returning her gaze to the creased handkerchief she held in her lap. He could see her fingertips carefully tracing the monogram stitched onto one of the corners with light blue thread.

It was obvious she wanted him to go, that she was uncomfortable, but he couldn't. He couldn't leave her like that. Not when she was in such a state.

"Mama asked after you today after you left," he then said rather incidentally, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

"I was not feeling well."

"I told her, she understood only too well," he replied softly. Robert began to walk towards her, but the quick look she threw at him made him stop dead in his tracks. Awkwardly standing there in the middle of the room once more, he added: "Matthew and I arranged most of the funeral today, it will be held next Friday. We will send the notifications out tomorrow. Do you want to look over what we're writing?"

"No," she said. Her voice was unusually sharp as she declined, and Robert only barely stopped himself from visibly flinching at the foreign sound. He was not at all used to hearing her speak so coldly to him. "You do not care about what I think either way, you made that quite clear."

"Cora, that is no-"

"Don't you dare tell me that I am wrong!" Cora hissed, her voice now dangerously quiet in the room, effectively cutting him off and shutting him up. "If you had listened to me, if you had cared even just a bit about my opinion, then we would not have to send out those invitations. Had you not been so dismissive of everything Doctor Clarkson said — of everything I said — Sybil would have been sent to the hospital hours before it all happened. She would still be alive." She was still decidedly looking away from him as she spoke, first quietly with only a slight quiver in her voice that then turned into almost shouting at him. "If only you had cared about my opinion, or anyone else's. But you did not. You never do. You only ever care about what you think. And now our daughter is gone!" Finally, as she said those words, her voice broke, it simply gave out at the end. And with it, all the fight she had left in her seemed to disappear as well. Now, she just looked so completely and utterly exhausted to her core.

"My dear, it is not your opinion I did not trust, it was Doctor Clarkson's. His diagnoses were not at all reliable in the past, and Philipp Tapsell is a known expert in this field," Robert tried to explain calmly. He would not show how badly her words hurt him. He would not show how much he wished things were different. He would not show how much he needed to hold his wife close for some comfort in these trying times.

As he said this and looked at her reduced form huddled up on the windowsill, he could see the fight in her return, all the anger and the resentment. "And I told you to listen to Clarkson! Which you did not. So clearly you do not value my opinion at all. You have never been pregnant, you do not know what it is like. You do not know about the symptoms, and nor do you want to. Anything medical is not of any interest to you. Doctor Clarkson knew her all her life, he knew her history. He saw the symptoms and he told us to act quickly. And all you did was dismiss him and block her last chance at survival. You doomed her."

Tears were freely running down her cheeks, she had stopped wiping angrily at them when she turned to face him fully at last.

Everything in him screamed at him to take the few steps and hold her, to dry those tears, and so against his better judgment he did. His arms already beginning to stretch out towards her sitting figure, he took the first step. "But Cora-"

"No, Robert," she said sternly, looking at the ground beneath her feet once more. Refusing to meet his eye, she added, sounding utterly exhausted: "Go. Please, just go."

He stopped again. His arms fell limply to his sides and he closed his eyes. Her words were like knives, stabbing him over and over again. She sounded so defeated, so tired, and worst of all, she did not want him there to help. Robert understood that this was hard on her, losing her youngest daughter in such a way.

But he lost her, too. Sybil was his daughter, too. Only people seemed to forget about that.

"Go, Robert. I am not asking you, I am telling you. Go," she repeated as he closed his eyes, trying not to show how much her words hurt him.

Swallowing down the lump in his throat, he replied: "I'll say goodnight then," and left the bedroom through the door behind him without ever getting a reply from her.

Cora sat there on the padded windowsill for another minute, trying to control the tears that were still coming ceaselessly. She cried for her daughter, who died so many years before her time. She cried for her granddaughter, who would never get to meet her mother. And she also cried for her marriage, because she had no idea how she could ever forgive him. Maybe all her forgiveness had died with their daughter.

Chapter Text

It was a risky move. Robert was painfully aware of that, but he found he could not stay away. Not a minute longer. Even after pondering this at length over the second full glass of whiskey he ended up leaving untouched on his desk, he found he simply had to go upstairs and see her.

He had tried to keep his distance for a week already. He had to endure Mary asking him night after night to please sleep in his dressing room, putting him off only for another night, over and over again. Not that he was getting much sleep either way, but he wouldn't burden his eldest with all that. It would not benefit any of them. It was just all too much and he felt like he didn't know anything, as if he couldn't tell his left from his right. At times, it felt like he did not know who he was and what it was all for, but he wouldn't burden her with all that.

All he knew was that he needed to be near Cora. Today of all days. They didn't have to talk, she wouldn't even have to look at him. He just needed her close, needed to feel her presence and her warmth. They had just buried their daughter barely 12 hours earlier, she couldn't send him away again. She couldn't.

Robert did not knock, he never did, but that night when he entered he almost felt as if he should have. It did not take a genius to deduce that she had been crying again; not even her quick shuffling of the book in her lap could cover that. Nothing could have detracted him from the fresh trail of tears that was running down her cheek, even if she tried to hide it from him by turning her head the other way.

He was an intruder. He had rarely felt this way, least of all in recent years, but that night he did. He was an intruder in his wife's bedroom — their bedroom — and that realisation was like a stab in the heart. He should be used to experiencing pain like this by now, and yet he wasn't. Far from it.

They needed to talk, someone needed to take that first step. They could not keep on going like this. And this time, he would have to be the one to reach out. Not least because he needed her. And boy, he truly needed her. By the looks of it, they needed each other.

For a second, he was trying to find the right words to say — he could not just march in and declare he would come back, could he? But then he saw the state she was in, and he knew that he was in no position to demand being allowed back in the room that once was only hers, many years ago. Taking a deep breath and with his hand still holding onto the doorknob of the open door, he turned to face her fully. He spoke with determination and gentleness, both things he did not know he still had in him. "I thought I might move back in here tonight, if you'll have me."

He had interrupted her. The book she had chosen to read before any of this happened was open in her lap, he recognised the cracked spine almost instantly, and yet he instinctively knew she had not been reading a single word when he entered. He had interrupted something else, something going on inside her head, and that was so much worse than had she been merely reading. Seeing the tear stains on her cheeks and her feeble attempts to cover it up felt like someone was stabbing him from behind once more, and that certain someone was him.

He was the reason she was in that bed. Alone. Crying over the loss of their youngest daughter.

Cora knew that he was standing there, looking her up and down, expecting her to agree to his request. Yet, she found she simply could not. She could not even look at him, her hurt still too deep, too raw, too fresh. Allowing him back would equal forgiving him, and that was something Cora simply could not bear to do at that moment. Even just hearing his voice was like torture to her. Trying to keep from shedding more tears in front of him, she nervously toyed with the upper corner of the page open in her lap and replied with a choked voice: "Not yet. I think I'd rather sleep alone for a while yet."

Robert did not know what he had expected, but it for sure was nothing like this. To see her so low on her own, refusing him, refusing his help; it stung terribly. This was unlike anything that had ever happened before and once again he could not help but think that maybe this time around, there was no way for them to ever see eye to eye again. Maybe this time, she could not let him in again. As that thought occurred to him, he couldn't help but think that he deserved it.

The resignation coursing through him in waves caused his upright posture to slacken, like the courage and the fight he had built up ahead of going upstairs was leaving his body again. "Well, if you're sure," he replied, a little more than just crestfallen at her rejection. Nervously, he glanced around the room, only to find his gaze always gravitating back to her like it always had. Just this once, though, he wished it didn't. The pain on her face when she so subtly nodded her head made her hushed answer all the more painful and harder to bear.

"I'm sure."

This was as clear as it could get, she truly did not want him there in the room. She could not even stand to look at him standing there at the door as she answered. Knowing that he was at least part of the reason she felt this way caused the already quite substantial guilt he had carried around with him for the past week to triple. Cora, his own wife, could not stand to even so much as glance at him. Downcast, he turned towards the door once more, about to make his way to the room adjacent when he turned around again.

"Cora-" he began.

But she interrupted him right then and there, shaking her head vehemently. They had been over this particular argument on multiple occasions during the past week and it had never got them anywhere. Right then, Cora was just tired of it. So tired of this argument. So tired of feeling like this, of missing her darling daughter. So tired of it all. "Let's not go through it all again."

"But I'm not arguing. You listened to Clarkson and so should I have done, but Tapsell has a reputation as an expert-"

"And you believed him. When Doctor Clarkson knew Sybil's history and he did not," she got out, trying to reign in her emotions as she once again thought back to the events that brought them there to this point. As she went on, though, holding back her innermost feelings proved to be something she simply could not do. Sometimes, she simply could not keep it all inside, and this time around it was her voice that betrayed her. The more she spoke, the more desperate she sounded and the more her voice quivered and ultimately broke. "You believed Tapsell because he's knighted and fashionable and has a practice in Harley Street. You let all that nonsense weigh against saving our daughter's life. Which is what I find so very hard to forgive."

He knew what he had done. He was painfully aware of the wrong calls he had made that led them to this moment, this ultimate test that was about to drive a wedge between them. For all he knew then, their chances of bridging this divide were going against zero, and getting even slimmer with every minute, every second. As he listened to her talk like this, reiterating his mistakes while placing so much blame on his broad shoulders, he could not help but feel anger starting to bubble up inside him. Maybe it was that first glass of whiskey he had had before coming upstairs that night, maybe it was just his natural temper shining through. Robert knew that an angry outburst would not get him anywhere with her. If anything, it would make matters far worse, which he did not need at all, and so he tried desperately to keep his calm. Nevertheless, there was a question burning, begging to be asked after all she had said before, and he needed to ask it now.

"Do you think I miss her any less than you?"

"I should think you miss her more," she said.

Which confused him. She was in bed, suffering greatly, barely leaving her bedroom throughout the day. And yet she thought this?

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw how his eyebrows knit together. "Since you blocked the last chance we had to prevent her death."

Robert was almost glad she didn't look at him. He didn't want her to see how much that single sentence hurt him. But then, she turned and looked at him. And he almost wished she did not. At least, when she was refusing to look his way before he had not had a chance to look in her eyes and see all the anguish there. Seeing her bloodshot, teary eyes made hearing her say this worse yet. When she forcefully turned her head away again to focus on the book open in her lap once more, tears running down her cheeks, Robert knew then that there was truly nothing he could do that night, nothing that would benefit any of them. That thought alone scared him more than he'd like to admit.

Feeling utterly defeated, he gravely said: "I'll say goodnight then."

"Goodnight."

The door clicked shut behind him, separating him from his wife once more. But it should not. He should not be standing out here, out in the long, dimly lit hallway with his back facing the door, while she was in there. Behind that white door. Crying. All alone.

This was wrong, so very wrong.

And her words, they stung. They cut deeper than a knife. Because there was truth in them. He was the one who spoke against Doctor Clarkson. He was the one who had invited the knighted Harley Street doctor instead of trusting the physician who had known her all her life. He was the one going against her opinion, her intuition that possibly could have spared their daughter's life. Of course, he had had his wherefores and he deemed them plausible enough to at least expect to be given the benefit of a doubt, but bringing them up would not have done any good tonight. That much had been apparent even when he had only entered the room to find her crying in bed.

His wife had every right to resent him, for he sure did, too. He blamed himself. He loathed himself. He had killed her. Not with his own hands, and certainly not with any intent. It was painful to admit, but he had killed his youngest daughter. Acknowledging his role and admitting this, though, did not mean that he did not need Cora to forgive him. He needed her forgiveness and he needed her warmth to get him through these coldest of nights.

With a lump in his throat and a hot trail of tears on his cheeks, he quickly walked the short distance to his dressing room. However, before going in, he turned around and hurried back down the stairs and into the library again.

Once more, he was alone in the library. Alone at last with his unfinished drink from earlier and the decanter of whiskey nearby, and the dying flames in the hearth in front of him were the only company he had.

Maybe this was for the better. Maybe he was meant to be alone. At least this way, he did not cause anyone any more pain than he already had.

Why had she said that? Why had she said all these horrible things to him? She did not even mean to say all that, it just came out. It was as if she had no control over it. Then again, that had seemed to be the theme recently. Nothing was within her control. If it were, then her husband would be there beside her, peacefully snoring away. If it were, she wouldn't be reduced to a tearful mess as soon as her mind was not otherwise occupied. If it were, her darling daughter would still be alive and well, basking in the bliss of motherhood. Yet, none of that was happening, even though Robert had wanted to be there that night.

Her mind had been screaming at her to accept the offer, to allow him to come back. His strong arms would be able to offer her at least the tiniest bit of comfort after watching Sybil's coffin be lowered. But no, she just could not bring herself to say the words. The part of herself so deeply hurt by his dismissal and the consequences of his horrid stubbornness weighed far too heavy on her. She could not forgive him for not listening to her and their doctor, couldn't forgive his snobbishness. He had always been this way and it had always bothered her, but so far nothing so unforgivable had happened. Until a week ago. Until this cost them more than money or their name. Until it cost their daughter's life.

She wanted to forgive him, to let go of this resentment constantly holding onto her for dear life. She did not want to feel like this, not at all. Every time she was about to go and seek him out, to go and talk to him, images of that night flashed across her mind. Images of how he argued against taking her to hospital when there was still time to operate, images of him asking Tapsell instead of Doctor Clarkson for help when things were already clearly going awry, images of her pleading for her daughter to breathe while he stood there and argued. Every time she wanted to tell him that she just needed him to hold her close for a second, she remembered the hours she had spent at her daughter's bedside, watching over the body that lay so still in that bed, the hours she spent holding her baby's hand for one last time. Sybil had almost seemed peaceful then, after everything she had been through before on that fateful night. The terrors that room had seen just hours before had seemed a world away.

Cora wanted to forgive him but found she just could not. And yet, she hated and resented herself for saying these awful things to him just as much. This was not like her. This was not who she was.

He must have rung for Thomas at some point because his temporary valet knocked on the door a while later and subsequently entered, but Robert did not recall ever pulling on the cord. And he did not ask, either. He might have trusted the footman enough to temporarily fill in for Bates while he was otherwise occupied, but there were things he simply could not share with him. Big parts of him even doubted he could have shared this with his old comrade in arms, in fact.

Robert was a hot mess, as was the room. His dinner jacket lay discarded somewhere in the room, his bow tie had been flung somewhere behind him in the frenzy of trying to get it off before it choked him, and his hair must have looked wild from all the times his hands had frantically run through it within the last 20 minutes alone since he had come upstairs again. He didn't even dare to think about the smell of whiskey that must have been wafting through the quaint dressing room. Maybe he should have opened a window.

If Barrow was surprised by his employer's appearance and the state of the room when he entered, he did not let it show. Instead, he quietly got to work, holding out the clothes for Robert as the Earl undressed and slipped into the black pyjamas dug out of the closet upon Carson's prompt request.

It was a silent affair, neither of them spoke. Barrow saw quite clearly that the Earl was struggling, that he was grieving, and he did not want to get in the way of that. Thomas had known Sybil best out of possibly everyone downstairs, having worked with her at the hospital and then the house during the war, and he had been more than a bit upset when they were told what had happened. Being found and comforted in the hall by Anna and later Mrs Hughes was certainly not a moment he'd count as one of his best.

The thing was that he had known her, had actually liked her. She was the most decent out of all of them and he would be outright lying if he said he did not miss her friendly face around. And the man about to slip into the robe he was holding out for him had lost her, his daughter. Thomas simply could not imagine what that felt like. All he knew was that his employer was hurting, that much was painfully apparent.

What he did not know was that Robert was not only grieving for Sybil. That particular part had still not fully registered with the Earl. No, he was grieving for his marriage to Cora, the love of his life. There was no way they would be able to find a way back together when the blame hung so heavily above him like the sword of Damocles. She blamed him. He blamed himself. They shared that opinion. And yet they did not see eye to eye for the first time in probably forever. They had always managed to talk about things, to find a way to overcome whatever hurdles they were facing. But maybe this one was a size too big. It would need lots of forgiveness, and apart from needing all that from Cora, he also needed to forgive himself. And that was something he was not sure he would ever be able to do.

Maybe love could not conquer everything. Maybe love, no matter how pure and true and strong, was sometimes still not enough.

Chapter Text

No matter what he tried, he could not seem to calm down after Tom's announcement at breakfast. The audacity of that man was simply beyond him. Did he truly think he could decide things like the girl's religion just like that, without ever talking to any of them? And the insolent tone he took, knowing full well it would goad him and lead to someone losing their temper, most likely him — and Robert would have lost it had it not been for Matthew and Edith present. It was a good thing he had decided to leave then and there and instead start going about his day, or else his anger would certainly not have stayed buried inside him. He wouldn't have managed to get another bite down, anyway. Only then, hours later, the anger was still there and it clouded his judgment of matters so much that he had not managed to get any correspondence done that day until lunch, and even now as it was nearing teatime, he was still seething inside.

It had been apparent that both, Edith and Matthew, had been on Tom's side that morning, presumably trying to appease the Irishman, but Robert still held out hope that at least Mary would see how wrong all of this was. She was most like his mother, who had insisted she be raised with the proper values to one day be Countess, not that Edith or Sybil had been brought up without manners. Surely Mary would see everything that was inappropriate about Tom's plans. She had to.

Briefly, as he made his way outside to the bench she had been sitting on underneath the giant tree, his mind went onto something else — or rather someone else.

Cora.

Cora, who was still hiding away upstairs in her bedroom, refusing to come out for most of the day. Usually, he would have had his Cora to talk this over with, but she was making it abundantly clear she did not want anything to do with him still. Even after more than two weeks. No matter what he did, she would not let him in or even allow him near.

However, his hopes of finding an ally in his eldest daughter were soon crushed as well when even Mary quite nonchalantly told him that she supported Tom's decision regarding the little girl's name and religion, both things that would either make or break her start in life in this society. At least that was what he thought about the religious aspect. On top of all that, naming that poor little girl after her dead mother was simply in bad taste to him. And frankly, he did not think he would ever be able to call her by her given name if things went ahead like this. It would, as Tom had rightfully agreed, be very painful at first. Robert doubted that this pain would ever lessen for him. And a catholic Crawley? That was simply unheard of. No matter what they all said — that little girl was a Crawley just as much as she was a Branson. Their family was all she would ever know of her mother.

Seething once more after having to admit defeat yet again out there by the bench, he had all but stormed back inside. Rather unkindly he had asked Carson to fetch his cane and hat, and he was sorry for that. He'd have to apologise later.

On the way back to the house he had decided to walk down to the village and call upon his mother for tea. Nobody else would be joining him here at the abbey either way, so he might as well go out in search of some company. He simply could not bear being alone with his thoughts yet again. That had been happening far too much recently.

Spratt had just come to take the remnants of their tea away and gone back outside immediately to grant his mistress and her son the privacy Violet always demanded. Robert almost felt bad for leaving the scone he had taken from the platter and prepared with cream and jam untouched on his plate. It did look delicious, but when it came to actually eating it, something inside him violently resisted the notion and so he had set it back down again, earning him a concerned look from his Mama.

At first, their conversation was strained. Robert had not managed to find a suitable way to break Tom's news to his mother on the way down to the village and so they started with polite conversation, both of them avoiding the elephant in the room. Eventually, however, he just outright told her. Although the energetic response in protest he had expected never came. All she did was purse her lips upon hearing the news he brought, seeming deep in thought. Not even a single snide remark about the Irishman's audacity left her lips.

His mother's complete silence prompted him to leave his armchair opposite her and walk over to the window at the far back of the room. His mind was reeling. Was he seriously the only one minding? That couldn't be, could it? It could not be that even his mother seemed to be against him on this. He could not be that far off in assessing every single member of his family, there was simply no way. If there was anything in this world that he could count on, then it was his mother and her traditional views. Views so deeply rooted in an upbringing in days long gone, sometimes too much so.

Robert had his back to her, looking out over the garden that was always kept up to snuff by her gardener. He let his gaze wander over the many blossoming flowers that were always meticulously groomed. They were all in full bloom, looking like colourful explosions dotted around the greenery. It was strange to look upon such dainty, colourful things when the rest of his life seemed to play out in rough shades of black and white.

"What is your plan for the child?", Violet inquired a little while later from her position next to the fireplace.

She caught him fully off-guard, that much was apparent. His mind had been miles and miles away from the sitting room at the dower house, she recognised that when he briefly turned around with raised eyebrows before turning back again.

"What d'you mean?"

"Well, if Branson takes her away, to live with him in Liverpool or wherever he comes to rest. Presumably it will be his influence that governs her upbringing."

"I haven't thought about that."

It was true, he hadn't. All day, he had been so on edge about all these decisions Tom was making on his own, decisions that completely disregarded everything in Sybil's upbringing. All day, Robert could not help but want his son-in-law to go away as soon as possible in hopes that it would keep him from losing his temper and subsequently likely his family, even if that already seemed to be happening. He had been so preoccupied with this that he never once thought about that aspect. At breakfast that morning, he had all but politely kicked the chauffeur out of the house without ever being clear himself about the consequences that would have not only for him, but for all of them.

"Then I suggest you do. And soon," Violet said pointedly. As realisation finally dawned on him, his mother watched him closely. With everything he had just complained about to her, she had expected that he would have thought of this well, but she had been wrong. His baffled and quite thoughtful expression was more than enough proof of that. Had Cora not thought of this? She usually was the one to think a bit further ahead than her son, after all. "What does Cora say?"

That simple question uttered by his mother hit a sore spot and he inadvertently had to look away that same instant when the words registered with him. Talking to his mother about the troubles their marriage was facing was certainly not something he had wanted to do when he decided to walk down to the village on a whim.

It would not do to prove her right after all these years, she would only go after Cora. And that was the absolute last thing he wanted. After all, his mother could be ruthless occasionally if she wanted to be. However, she would also instinctively know if he lied to her. So he decided to play it as safe as possible.

"Not much. Not much to me anyway," Robert said, looking everywhere in the room but at his mother, avoiding her inquiring eyes as best he could. She should not see the hurt in his eyes as he said this, he knew he was not hiding it well.

What Robert had not taken into consideration, though, was that his mother knew him even better than he thought she did, and she saw that the admission cost him greatly. And it surprised her. She never would have expected this. She never would have expected the rift between her son and his wife to be this immense.

Sitting upright as ever, she sounded as flummoxed as she looked when she asked: "She still holds you responsible?"

There was no use trying to hide by looking elsewhere, she would see straight through him either way. Even though his reluctant silence was more than enough to answer her simple question, he turned at last to face her again and retorted almost defensively: "She's wretchedly unhappy, if that's what you mean."

"I will not criticise a mother who grieves for her daughter."

Normally, this would have surprised Robert, and normally he might have commented on it. The fact that his Mama chose not to criticise Cora, which had been all she had been doing for 30 years now, was remarkable. The circumstances, however, were such that he would rather forget about all of this. After all, his wife — his darling wife who had not even so much as batted an eyelid at any other of his misgivings in the past — wanted nothing to do with him. Even just being in the same room filled her with so much pain and anger as resentment seemed to radiate off her; so much so that even he noticed. He simply could not see a way this could change in the near future. "I think she's grieving for her marriage as well as for Sybil."

It was a thought that had occurred to him countless times by now, and how could it not when this hardship coming between them exceeded any of the ones before? How could he not when it seemed so much more insurmountable than anything they had to face in the past? At night, when he lay awake in his narrow bed, entirely unable to fall asleep with the weight of the world pressing down on his chest as if to suffocate him, he tried to think of how he could possibly turn things around, how he could win her back. But nothing he thought of would ever be enough with the way things currently were between them, he knew that much.

If his nonchalant tone surprised her as he talked about his marriage, then she did not let it show. Her appalled expression at his words and what he was insinuating, though, was quite enough already. "Robert, people like us are never unhappily married."

At that, Robert could not help but scoff. He knew only too well about everything that was expected of a marriage for people in the aristocracy, and he knew the lengths some of his peers went to in order to keep up pretences and stay afloat through a crumbling, loveless marriage that had ultimately run its course a long time ago.

He should not talk like this, not to his mother, but he could not help it any longer. Keeping up this facade he had put up for more than two weeks already was draining, and right now he was past caring about it. "What do we do if we are," he all but sighed as he walked back to the empty seat opposite her and unceremoniously sat back down. He had not meant for it to come out like this, and he certainly did not expect his mother to respond to it, and so quickly as well.

"Well, in those moments, a couple is unable to see as much of each other as they would like."

The words Violet carefully uttered needed a little while to sink in as his eyes were fixed on the embers in the hearth to his left, and he did not particularly care for the meaning barely veiled by her concerned tone. "You think I should go away?"

"Or Cora could go to New York to see that woman."

At that, Robert could only barely contain yet another scoff. His mother's disdain for anything American and especially his wife's mother was quite something. So much so that even in moments like these, she could not keep from letting it show.

Upon seeing her son lounging quite forlornly in the armchair, she added truthfully: "It can help to gain a little distance."

He heard what she said, and he'd like to think he understood what she meant. And yet, none of the possibilities presenting itself after this proposition seemed right to him. Things could not go on as they were, that much was crystal clear, even to him. But he could not send her across the pond; away from here, from her little girl. Away from her grave that he knew she visited regularly. Away from her and her daughter. He couldn't even in good conscience pose the possibility.

His mother was waiting for a reply — a decision, most likely. One stating he would talk to Cora about going to New York, he assumed. And yet, Robert found he simply didn't have one, no matter how hard he thought about it all.

It frustrated him. Everything about this wretched situation did, including this conversation.

"Ah, I can't seem to think straight about any of this," he then admitted after trying to give it some more thought. And it was true. No matter how hard he tried, his head just would not stop spinning. If admitting this to his mama meant defeat, then so be it. He could not fight his mother as well, there was enough on his plate already.

Robert did not look at her, he did not see the way she eyed him. Her face was so defeated, so unbearably sad, filled with so much commiseration and grief. He took no notice of any of it, his eyes entirely too focused on a loose thread clinging to the edge of his mother's carpet.

When she saw how he tried to avoid her gaze, she leaned forward slightly. "My dearest boy, there is no test on earth greater than the one you have been put to." Her voice was now frail and vulnerable; both qualities he rarely associated with her.

At this, his head turned up to her again, Robert finally facing her at last when he heard the not-so-subtle change in her tone.

Looking into his red-rimmed eyes, she saw the storm raging inside. She saw how dark the clouds over his mind were and how impermeable they lay, darkening his every waking thought. She saw through his carefully constructed facade and how he barely kept it all together inside. She saw the waves of the storm crashing against the prow of the ship alone at sea with only him at the helm of it, saw how the waves came rolling in, one after the other. Relentlessly. Threatening to pull him under, over and over and over again.

"I do not speak much of the heart," she went on, unintentionally toying with the ring on her finger, turning it this way and that in trepidation. "Since it's seldom helpful to do so, but I know well enough the pain when it is broken."

It took everything in him not to break down again. Everything. When he had walked down to the village that afternoon, his anger still very much present at the forefront of his thoughts, he had not thought about the possibility that this afternoon, his mother would have the most honest and heartfelt conversation with him he thought they had ever had. It was true, she never spoke of any matter involving these deep emotions, let alone love. Sometimes in the past, he had questioned whether she was even familiar with the notion of love and everything it entailed. As it turned out, she was. His mama was just very, very adept at burying it so very deep inside her that it never came to the surface.

Never, apart from today. She always hid behind her quick wit and stubborn, seemingly cold nature. As he looked at her, though, and let her words sink in, he realised that her facade had not slipped; she had not lost control when she said these words. She had simply lowered the walls surrounding her to allow him in just the tiniest bit, to let him see that she knew what he was feeling. He appreciated that more than he could ever say.

And yet, he could not look at her and say as much. Swallowing down the lump that had been forming and steadily growing in his throat, he avoided her eyes once more and only said: "Thank you, Mama."

Right before she entered the library, Violet paused just for a second. Was she right in doing this? Was she right in trying to interfere with their marriage, their lives?

Her daughter-in-law would certainly be in there, Carson had just informed her that she was down already — alone. The butler had also told her that she had chosen to wait in the library instead of the drawing room. That alone told the ageing matriarch that everything her son had told her the day before was true, although she wished he had been wildly exaggerating.

Oh, how she hated this sort of thing. Taking a deep breath, she then stood up straight again and gripped her cane firmly as she set foot inside the familiar room.

She saw her sitting there on one of the red settees, her back turned to the door. It almost looked like a doll had been put up there and not a real person, with how little movement she showed, even when Violet entered and almost reached her.

"I do hope you do not mind me coming here early, my dear," she said carefully. It would not do to startle her and she was obviously very deep in thought.

Only when her mother-in-law was right next to her and had spoken softly did Cora move to even just acknowledge her. Surprised, she turned her face to where the voice was coming from. Her red-rimmed eyes found those of Violet, who was looking at her with both compassion and sadness in equal measures.

A forced smile appeared on Cora's face, one that barely reached her lips, let alone her eyes. "Oh no, not at all, Mama," she breathed.

In truth, she did mind. She had hoped to be alone in here for a bit before she would have to socialise with all of them again. Even if it was just her family, it still cost her greatly. Though the greatest test for her was having to sit opposite him for the duration of dinner, having to look at him when her feelings were still so conflicted and confusing. Violet was also clearly not there for no reason, she never came earlier than socially acceptable, and that moment was still more than half an hour away.

When Cora made to stand, her mother-in-law only hastily waved her cane, denoting that she should just stay seated while the elderly woman took a seat opposite her on the plush couch.

The two women just sat there in silence for a little while. That was until Cora decided she could not bear this any longer. Forcing another smile, she faced Violet and asked, her voice nothing more than a hoarse whisper: "Now, what brings you here so early today?"

Her mother-in-law looked at her, taking in her pale complexion and her lifeless eyes. It almost seemed as if Cora was not looking at her, but straight through her. As if she was not really there, at least not mentally. The younger woman was so clearly suffering through these unimaginably trying times, Violet couldn't even imagine how she was feeling. "I only wanted to see you," she said softly. "To ask how you were faring?"

"Quite how one would expect, I imagine, after the loss of their youngest child."

"That is precisely what I thought. Only Robert said-"

Abruptly, Cora looked away and all but bolted up out of her seat. It looked almost as if she had burned herself as soon as Violet had so much as mentioned her husband's name.

A part of her wanted to hear all about it, wanted to hear how he was doing. What he was saying to his mother. That was the part of her still madly in love with her husband, the part she was trying so hard to suppress at the moment. The other part wanted to bolt out of the room and run back up into the sanctuary of her own bedroom. It recoiled at only hearing his name spoken. It made her think back to that night and his behaviour, something that fuelled the fire of resentment deep within her.

"You spoke to him, then?" She knew it was not ladylike, but she crossed her arms across her chest as she stood there towering over Violet, who did not react to this quite disrespectful move at all.

"I did. He came to me for tea yesterday. And when he left, I was quite concerned. You see, he said that you were not doing well," Violet started, glancing up at her daughter-in-law as if she was testing the waters.

"What did he expect? That I just keep on pretending that nothing happened and everything is fine like he does every single day?" Cora bit out. Her eyes were stinging again, and she felt her cheeks heat up, partly in embarrassment, partly in anger.

Calmly, Violet tried to assuage her by saying: "Cora, that is not what he is doing."

"Isn't it? How curious."

Her face seemed made of stone at that, her jaw was clenched and Violet knew she would have to admit defeat on her quest to help her son and his wife for that day. It would take a lot more than she thought it would, even after her son's honest words the day before.

Silence settled over the two of them once more, and slowly her stony expression mellowed and gave way to one of such intense melancholy that it startled Violet.

It did not take long for the first tears to roll down Cora's pallid cheeks. She did not even bother with trying to wipe at them, she was past caring about who saw her cry and who did not.

Violet opened her mouth, trying to think of something to say that would help her, ease her pain at least a little, but she could not seem to think of something appropriate when they heard footsteps approach from the other end of the room.

"Forgive me for barging in but I have a little plan."

Cora was still standing tall when they heard Isobel begin to talk, and slowly she turned to face the new arrival.

"Oh, goodness. You've changed. It's much later than I realised."

Maybe she should have wiped away these salty, treacherous tears by now, given that there was another guest, but she seemed in a stupor concerning that. All she managed was to swallow the lump in her throat and reply tersely: "We're rather prompt. Robert's invited Mr Travis to dine with us. So what was your plan?"

Violet had to hand it to her, she made a good show of pretending she was not at odds with her husband when others were around, or so it seemed at least when she replied with a benign smile, forced as it might have been.

"Well, I was wondering if you and the girls might come to me for luncheon on Thursday."

"Do I count as one of the girls?"

Slowly, Violet half-craned her head around to look at Isobel, who was visibly shaken by the revelation that Cora had not been alone in the library.

"Of course," Isobel stammered, visibly flustered by her presence.

It earned her a benevolent nod from Violet before she turned back around to look at Cora.

That smile was back on her face, Violet noticed. That forced smile that did not reach her eyes. "You're very kind, but I'm not really going out at the moment."

Violet herself would have dropped the topic by then, it was most apparent that Cora did not want to go out. She looked more than just uncomfortable standing there. The elderly woman couldn't help but smile sadly at her. Cora truly was suffering, just like Robert had said. And then being ambushed like this? Although she had to admit, it was awfully kind of Isobel to think of her now and invite them. Maybe going out and just seeing different surroundings might actually help her, even if just for an hour.

It seemed that Isobel shared those thoughts, for she replied: "There'll be no one else there. Only me. And a walk to the village might blow some cobwebs away."

It was awfully, awfully kind of Cousin Isobel to offer, but Cora found she simply could not agree to go. It cost her more than greatly to even just hold back the tears at that moment. What was she supposed to do out and about? It couldn't end well, it simply could not.

"I'm afraid I would only bring my troubles with me."

It seemed that Isobel had now accepted her refusal, judging by the look of slight disappointment on her face. But then, the door to the library opened again, and people entered, only Cora did not turn around to see who it was. Maybe Carson had told them all where she had chosen to wait that evening. She should have told him not to tell a soul, this was not the kind of peace and quiet ahead of dinner she had had in mind when she came down early.

"Hello Mother, what brings you here?"

"She's just invited Cora and Edith and Mary to come to luncheon on Thursday," Violet replied before Isobel could, a smile on her face that neither Matthew nor Mary could quite place.

That did not matter though, the invitation previously declined quite vehemently by Cora was an awfully nice gesture, and Mary was desperate to find a reason to leave the house. It all felt quite suffocating at the moment, like the walls were constantly closing in on them. "Oh, how kind. Thank you," she then breathed.

It put a smile on Isobel's face to know that her efforts were not fully in vain, she would host a luncheon after all. She only hoped that Cora would come along, the Countess truly needed a change of scenery by the looks of it.

More footsteps approached, and Cora did not even have to turn around to see who had joined them now. She could never mistake these heavy footsteps on the wooden floors for someone else's. Steeling herself to keep the tears at bay, she took a deep, steadying breath.

"Isobel," Robert greeted as he passed his eldest and her husband and walked on. He chanced a quick glance over at them. He had expected his wife to look away, and so he was not too terribly disappointed to find she was. It still hurt him, but he was not as disappointed as he used to be. Not wanting to let his hurt show, though, he said to Isobel: "Have you come for dinner?"

"Oh no, I'm dressed quite wrongly, and I know you have a guest."

A mischievous twinkle in her eye, Violet interfered: "I doubt Mr Travis has much of an eye for fashion."

Maybe it would help to have someone who is not a direct member of this family at the table. Violet had the funny feeling it could end up quite the night to remember given how emotionally charged their lives were at the moment.

"Oh do stay, we need cheering up," Mary sighed. It was true, only a glance over at her parents reassured the young woman. She did not have to ask her father to sleep in his dressing room any longer, but she knew he still stayed away. Whenever her parents were around each other, the entire atmosphere seemed so charged, so burdened by everything they were not saying to the other.

Chapter Text

Well, this dinner had turned out to be close to a full-blown disaster, which was no surprise to the matriarch after her failed attempt to salvage her son's marriage prior to the vicar's arrival. After that, it only seemed to get worse and worse by the minute. Violet didn't want to know what Mister Travis thought of them now that this evening was finally over.

Tonight, none of them had shown their best manners in her opinion, the vicar included, and the discussions she witnessed mostly from the sidelines had left her feeling quite appalled. It had taken a lot of strength and restraint for her to keep her thoughts mostly to herself and not join in like the rest of them did. This situation they were in seemed to bring out the worst in them. Some of them, at least. For others, it was the opposite.

As unusual as it might have been, she took a weird sense of pride and joy at seeing Mary and Edith both butting in to aid Tom's side of the argument. Even Cousin Isobel's interference was not entirely unwelcome this time around; something Violet never thought she'd think when the former nurse and her son first arrived at Downton all those years ago now. It pained her to admit, but even she felt that Robert was wrong in trying to reach his agenda of getting young Sybil baptised Anglican instead of Catholic like her father.

It surprised her to think this, but the reality of her only great-granddaughter likely becoming a Catholic against tradition and what society dictated had not been the biggest shock for her that night. She had considered herself warned about this emotionally charged subject when Robert came to visit her, still fuming even half a day after he had been informed of the plans Tom had been making. Not only that, but she also had to give Branson credit for his behaviour. It would have been only far too understandable had he lashed out more at the vicar's admittedly quite insensitive comments all throughout the evening, but the Irishman remained calm and collected for the most part and kept his anger inside. He seemed to have far better manners than she had wanted to give him credit for before.

No, the most surprising thing for her was Cora's truly unusual behaviour that lasted the entire night, or at least as long as Robert was somewhere nearby. Violet had never heard her daughter-in-law disagree so openly, vehemently and vocally with anything Robert had said, especially when guests were present. This didn't even come close to Cora standing up for herself whenever she had been unreasonable in the past herself. This behaviour was simply unprecedented. Her heart ached to see them like this; her so up-in-arms while struggling to keep her grief at bay and him so heartbroken at every single rebuttal of hers.

This rift between her son and his wife ever since their beloved Sybil had died so prematurely turned out to be bigger than she ever could have fathomed. There had to be something she could do to help. But what?

Contemplating this she crossed the entrance hall and headed towards the grand wooden doors. "Goodnight, Carson," she said quietly and almost defeatedly when she passed the butler on her way as she headed towards the car parked outside, waiting to take her home.

"Granny!" she heard Mary call out from behind her. "Granny, wait just a second, please!"

Surprised by this, Violet stopped and turned around to look at her granddaughter walking quickly towards her, looking rather unladylike as she almost broke into a run at some point trying to catch up.

"Yes, dear?" Violet asked, sounding quite tired, and, most of all, defeated. She was not sure how much more talking she could endure for the night. All she wanted was to go home and go to bed. And maybe have another glass of something to help her forget this evening ever happened.

"You've seen the way they have behaved tonight, haven't you? How they don't agree with each other at all, evading each other's looks?" Mary asked quietly when she stood next to her at last. There was no use in overly explaining everything, her Granny would know well enough what — or rather who — she was referring to. "This is not good, this is not them. They're both suffering alone and they shouldnt. Do you have any idea what to do, Granny?"

She had seen that. Of course, she had. Everyone had seen it, and she was only glad that Mister Travis would be far too polite to ever mention what happened at tonight's dinner to anyone. Otherwise, they would be the talk of the town, and not in a positive way at all. They did not need that, not now. Not with everything else going on.

"Yes, I have. To be honest, my dear, I did not think it was this bad when Robert came to visit. I can see now that my assumption was wrong, and I agree. This is very much not like them," the elderly woman mused, looking off into the distance. There had to be something they could do. Something to bridge this fundamental misunderstanding; for that was all this was to Violet. She wished she knew more about everything that happened that night. After all, she only knew Roberts side of the story and she was not quite ready to accept that as the whole truth. Talking to Cora had not been any help at all, either. Shed have to talk to the only person who could tell her exactly what had happened.

While Mary still stood there expectantly, Violet finally looked at her again, still heavily leaning on her cane for support, and said: „I think I might know what to do."

Seeing her granddaughter's relieved face, she started to turn back towards the door, but not before muttering disheartened: "Even though I wish I did not have to."

The clock on her desk nearby chimed quietly, announcing the time while she patiently sat there, listening to the number of chimes as if she had not been watching the clock handles move agonisingly slowly for almost an hour now.

Quarter to 4. He'd be here soon, he was always on time as long as he could help it.

It was wrong of her, but what was she supposed to do? She couldn't let things go on as they were, or else they could easily spiral far more out of control than they were already anyway. It was her duty to the whole family to see that the rough seas they were sailing would smoothen again. Cora and Robert needed a little push to find their way back together. That's what Violet kept telling herself, at least. Right now, this interference on her part was probably the best way to help them; the only way she knew.

With another fifteen minutes to spare until he would arrive, she sighed and returned her focus to the correspondence on the desk in front of her. Unscrewing the pen's cap with slightly shaky hands, she decided to politely decline another invitation to visit Rosamund in London. Her daughter kept asking her to visit her in London — to get away from it all, she said — but Violet found she couldn't leave things as they were and just go to London on a whim. Even though she thought a change of scenery would do her good and she might actually enjoy all the hustle and bustle of the big city for once.

Before she knew it, time had flown by as she finished writing the letter and Spratt let him in after knocking curtly and announcing the guest she had been expecting.

"You wanted to speak to me, Lady Grantham," he said, sounding far more surprised than he had intended.

Indeed, he had been very surprised when the note had reached him at the hospital that morning, cryptic as it was. When he walked up to the Dower house that afternoon, he had almost expected to be led up to her bedroom to examine an ailing elderly woman but a shadow of her usual self, bedridden by a mysterious illness he would have to find the cure to. But no, Violet Crawley seemed to be in quite good health sitting there at her desk as far as he could tell from afar. That only confused the doctor even more, and it made him feel like a student waiting for a scolding from the schoolmaster that was long overdue. The only other thing he could think of that would require him to talk to her privately had to do with the death of young Sybil Branson, and he'd rather not be reminded of that horrible night and everything that went wrong.

Slowly, Violet turned around to face the guest. The clock had just tolled again, indicating that he was prompt, as she had expected. "Yes. On a melancholy matter, I am afraid," she said, putting the cap back onto her fountain pen. Then, she motioned towards the chair already turned to face her desk near the fireplace. "Please."

Rather awkwardly, Richard Clarkson walked over and sat down as instructed. Not knowing what this peculiar visit of his would bring unnerved the usually steadfast man more than he'd care to admit and so he caught himself shifting in the chair almost as soon as he had sat down.

"I want to talk a little more about the death of my granddaughter."

Ah. So his second instinct had been right, this was indeed about the elderly woman's youngest granddaughter. He still wished there had been something he could have done to save her life that night, truly, but by the time they had finally listened to him it had simply been too late. He had rarely felt so helpless as he had done that night, trying to do whatever he could to get them to listen, to persuade them to trust him on this and not that knighted quack of a doctor. Just the mere thought of the entitled, stuck-up man with his Harley Streets practice made his blood boil again, but it wouldn't do to voice that anger now. So instead, he said the only thing he knew for certain described the events of that night. "A terrible, terrible tragedy."

Gesturing around with her pen held in hand, she replied: "But now I am concerned beyond that."

"Oh? Are you worried for the child?"

Violet seemed slightly caught off-guard by this question. Her eyebrows raised in surprise, she looked at the doctor and said truthfully: "No. Not especially. No, she seems quite a tough little thing."

To say he was relieved to hear that would be an understatement. He did not know what he would have done had the poor little girl suffered health problems now, he was not sure he would have been the right doctor for that given everything that had transpired. It slightly calmed his nerves to hear that she was indeed quite a fighter. She would have to be one in this world. Trying to come up with a suitable reply, he smiled softly. However, such a reply was not needed, for Violet turned to face him more almost instantly. She seemed almost restless as she did so, unsure of how to word things properly and diplomatically. The last thing she wanted was to step on anyone's toes when she was asking for their help.

It took a lot not to let herself be overcome by her emotions as she thought back to the dinner the night before and how hopeless it all seemed sitting there next to her son and having to watch the icy stares fired across the table. And she was still rather unsure about how to say what was on her mind, but nevertheless, she stated: "Dr Clarkson, my daughter-in-law is quite convinced you could have saved Sybil, had you been allowed to."

It was a big if, she knew that. She had asked herself countless times already if there truly had not been anything they could have done to spare Sybil's life. There were all these what-ifs, but ultimately they could not change anything about it all now. All they could do was to be there for Tom and the baby and try to ease at least some of the pain that came from this loss; they were all hurting so badly, each in their own way. Cora and Robert even in more ways than one. Violet needed to know the answer to the possibility Cora was avidly insisting had been there since it all happened, over and over again according to Robert, it was a vital piece in her plan to help them along.

"Well," Clarkson started, trying to buy himself some time as he shifted uncomfortably in the chair one more. How much did she know, what had they told her about that night? Was she aware of the arguments that had been made, and the role her son and that quack had played in the dismissal of his professional opinions? He should not disclose too much, he did not want to bring more discomfort to any of the Crawleys, least of all in these trying times. Trying to stay as diplomatic as possible, he simply stated: "One can never speak of these things with any certainty."

"Well, this is the point. What was the likelihood of Sybil's survival?"

Violet was sure she was not at all prepared to hear the honest reply to this, for hearing it from a doctor's mouth would likely give the words even more gravitas. That would make it all more real. Just hearing the words wouldn't help her or anyone, words couldn't bring her granddaughter back to life. Nothing could. But maybe it could help bring all of them some closure at some point in the future. With that possibility and goal in mind, she knew she could bear it. For them all. Or at least she hoped so.

"Had we operated?" he asked then. Tentatively, Clarkson seemed to weigh his options as he swung his head left and right. The doctor thought of the articles he'd read not too long ago about the successes his colleagues in Sweden, Germany, France, and the Netherlands had recently had. He couldn't recall seeing news of great successes in England yet, but why should that be any different here? These were all women giving birth, no matter where they came from and who their doctors were.

"She might have lived. There are cases where an early Caesarian saved the mother after pre-eclampsia."

"How many cases?"

"Not many, I admit. I'd need to do some research."

Violet knew doctors and she knew how they preferred to deliver news to soften the blow. Something told her he was only sugar-coating the truth here. Chance was one thing, and clearly the odds had not been in their favour. Who was to say that the trauma from a Caesarean would have spared Sybil's life? He couldn't promise that, and she knew he wouldn't when it came to it. Decidedly, she replied: "I want you to tell Lord and Lady Grantham what you have almost admitted to me."

"But." It sounded almost petulant when he objected, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. The experienced doctor was aware that he was too uneducated on the subject matter to make decisive promises, but he should stick to his guns, shouldn't he? There truly had been a chance, why would they report positive results if there were none? He had some knowledge on the matter, certainly more than that disgrace of a doctor he had been up against. "But there was a chance."

"Dr Clarkson," Violet warned, her voice low and intimidating in the small sitting room they were in. She saw how torn he was inside, she noticed the lack of confidence in his replies. In a last attempt to get him to conceit, she decided to appeal to his emotional conscience. If she couldn't persuade the professional side of him, then maybe an appeal aimed at the private person he was after hours could do the trick. "You have created a division between my son and his wife," she said, her voice laced with all the emotions she kept bottled up for the most part. There was the heaviness of grief and profound heartbreak there, but also the warmth of deep love. "When the only way they can conceivably bear their grief is if they face it together."

To say he was appalled by what she insinuated he do would be quite an understatement and he couldn't help but let his hurt honour shine through when he exclaimed: "So you want me to lie to them and say there was no chance at all?"

A look of desperation and disappointment spread across her face at this response. She truly hoped and expected this to do the trick. "Lie… is so unmusical a word." Perhaps she did not even notice, but subconsciously she had been toying with the pen she still held firmly in her hands. It steadied her for some odd reason and kept her hands occupied, as well as her mind. "I want you to review the evidence honestly and without bias."

What did she mean by that — honestly and without bias? He just told her that there had been a chance. Did she think that was a biased opinion? He couldn't pretend not to be hurt by that, and that showed clearly in his voice. "Even to ease suffering, I could never justify telling an outright lie."

"Have we nothing in common?", she sighed frustratedly as she finally admitted defeat.

Following an uncomfortable silence stretching between the two headstrong people, Richard Clarkson stood up from his chair. Sounding equally as defeated, he sighed and said: "Fine, I will review the studies I have come across and try to break down the facts to weigh whether Lady Sybil ever stood a fighting chance that night or not."

At that, Violet's head spun up again to look at him in surprise. "That is all I want, Doctor Clarkson. Thank you."

He nodded curtly and it cost him greatly to even manage that after his admission.

"When do you think you will have some answers?"

"Give me two days, I will have done enough research by then and I shall return in the afternoon to report my findings to you."

Benevolently, Violet nodded and smiled. Then, she stretched out her hand for the small silver bell sitting next to the clock and rang for Spratt. "Thank you, Doctor Clarkson."

The doctor nodded curtly again, this time in greeting before turning to the door that opened behind him to reveal the butler waiting with his hat and overcoat.

After he had left, Violet couldn't help but smile almost triumphantly. She had succeeded after all, he would review the data and she was most certain that he would not find enough evidence to back his claim of Sybil ever having stood a fighting chance. It hurt to think like that, but it would certainly help Cora and Robert to find their way to the other again. It would help them get over their joint grief in time, she was sure. It was the only way for them.

Without much haste, she wrote a note to Cora that she'd have delivered up to the house the day Clarkson would return with his findings. They should hear it from him personally.

Chapter Text

How dare she. How dare she? How could she invite them all for luncheon with everything going on and wrong in their lives, when all along she knew of her maid's more than questionable history? She invited his family into her house under the guise of offering a change of scenery when she knew fully well it would expose all of them to a scandal of such degree. She couldn't want that for them, could she? Not when her son was his heir. And she instigated them against him. There was no other way, that had to be the reason why they all stayed. Not even his mother got up and left with him. His mother! She could not want this type of scandal to besmirch their good name, not in good conscience. His mother had worked far too long and hard to keep up to let it all go to waste now over a goddamn Charlotte Russe!

They had welcomed Isobel into their family so graciously when Matthew became the heir through this utterly tragic turn of events so many years ago. They did not need to, least of all him. He could have tried to break rules and traditions and fought more just so that Mary could have inherited like they had all wanted him to, and yet he didn't. He accepted them in, showed Matthew the way things were done here and by now they were all family. So how could she possibly want any of this for them?

He had given them a house in the village, and even with Matthew living at the abbey now they let her stay there. She was living so comfortably, arguably much more comfortably than she had before in Manchester. They were inviting her to their house regularly to dine with them and socialise, and how did she repay them? By employing a former prostitute who had born a bastard child, a woman notorious in the whole village and even beyond? He could not believe it, not that he even wanted to.

And Matthew's recent revelation that he had talked to Murray about the running of this estate, that he thought it was being mismanaged — oh, he had quite a few thoughts on that as well. He did not make his son-in-law co-owner of the estate only to have everything he ever did for the survival of all this to be called null and void, or even worse, as Matthew had tried to that morning.

He had only ever tried to do his best. For them. For Downton. The audacity of both mother and son-

Her steps were light on the carpet, she was trying her best not to startle him as she stepped closer. Even though she only saw the back of his head, she instinctively knew that he was deep in thought. He always had this peculiar stance when he was pondering whatever was going through his head and she had become quite adept at recognising that even from afar.

"I wish you'd come back to the drawing room."

He was not surprised to hear her voice, he had faintly heard the footsteps and the creaking door hinge. Even so, he had hoped to hear someone else speak softly to him and not his eldest daughter.

Though it came as no surprise to him that it was Mary who sought him out; she was among the very few who still chose to talk to him almost normally. Everyone else just seemed so agitated by his mere presence in any room. They avoided him at all costs, and he understood their reasoning. Be that as it may, it still hurt to feel this constant rejection wherever he went.

Something about her unflustered voice coming from behind calmed him, it put a stopper on the anger simmering and bubbling deep inside he felt at everything that was going on at the moment and especially at the happenings of this, he turned around, his empty tumbler still in hand. "I'd only set your mother's teeth on edge."

"She'll come through it. She will," she retorted.

It was nice of her, but Robert somehow knew that it would not be as easy as she thought. The chances of Cora actually coming through it, as Mary put it, were abysmal at best with everything that had happened and been said already. The disappointment of that realisation surely registered on his face, but his daughter chose not to comment on that.

"Which brings me to your… performance today. How did that help?"

So this was what she had come to talk about, he should have known. Her cautious entrance was not to spare him a shock but to test the waters she was about to enter. If he was being honest, they might have been quite murky and unpleasant to walk through had he not been so deprived of human connection. With things being the way they were, however, he was thankful for every little word not laced with blame or anger directed at him that he could not help but appreciate it all.

Without even knowing she had hit the sore spot he had been agonising over for the past half hour since dinner had ended, she stood there and looked at him as he went to the liquor decanters all lined up on the silver tray to pour himself another whiskey.

"I was angry with Isobel for exposing you all to gossip," Robert all but sighed with his back turned to her.

It took a lot of self-restraint for Mary not to huff at that. Saying her father had been angry when he burst into the room at luncheon was quite an understatement; she had rarely seen him this enraged in public, or what could count as such given that there were servants present in the house.

"You were angry, alright," she gave back instead. There was no use in downplaying anything about his abrupt entrance at noon. He was aware of the disruption he had caused, she only hoped he would see why it did not help his case at all. "But not with Isobel or Ethel. I think it is because the world isn't going your way. Not anymore."

This hit the sore spot again, or at least it got very close. Things truly were not going his way at all at the moment but Ethel being employed by Isobel was at the very least a part of all his problems, which reminded him of his musings before she had entered, reigniting something in him. The problem with their disgraced former housemaid was pushed to the back of his mind when he asked: "Has Matthew told you about his latest plans for Downton?"

"I know he wants to change things."

A dangerous glint in his eyes and with a snide quality to his voice he only very rarely used, he belligerently retorted: "Doesn't he just."

"You mustn't let him upset you," she sighed weakly.

Matthew only wanted the best for Downton. He was the heir, one day upon her father's death he would be at the helm of all this her father insisted he was protecting and so it was not just in Matthew's own best interest to get the estate up to snuff but for all of them. Mary knew how much her father had taken to Matthew and vice versa — he had become the son he never had, and so she could understand why he would feel so betrayed by Matthew wanting to modernise things. She also had to concede that getting started with that by talking to their lawyer the day after her sister had passed was in quite bad taste, adding to the fact that he only told Robert weeks later. She thought Matthew would have known better than to do this, but apparently she had been mistaken.

"He's more or less told me I've let the estate fall to pieces."

"I'm sure he didn't mean that."

"Didn't he?" The daring glint from before had gone, and in its stead was now a look of defeat when he turned back to focus on the glass of whiskey he had just refilled. Lowly, he replied: "A fool and his money are soon parted. I have been parted from my money, so I suppose I am a fool."

Mary realised that she had run into a dead end, she would not get anywhere with him on the matter tonight, and that fact elicited a deep sigh from her. But there were still other problems waiting to be resolved, some more pressing than others.

"You won't win over the christening."

Robert, who had been stoically looking anywhere but at her for most of this conversation, now finally let his eyes meet hers. Maybe he thought that this would help win her over to his side of the argument, or maybe he was merely assessing her — Mary was not sure as to why he suddenly decided to stop evading her, but she would not budge. He was determined to get his way, but so was she. And she had inherited her stubbornness not only from him but from her mother as well, which made for a lethal combination when it came to persistence and sometimes even pigheadedness. She was quite likely to win this battle of exchanged looks, just as she knew she would and so she did not try to look away.

His blue eyes searched her brown ones, what for he was not sure. He was met with quiet determination and it told him that he had indeed lost this battle. He could only hope to win the war. Or at least make it out alive; and with the way things were currently he was not likely to do either. Certainly not on his own.

"Not if you're against me," he gave back quietly, his gaze not wavering.

Upon this, Mary simply stated what he had already seen in her eyes: "I'm never against you. But you've lost on this one."

A pause. He contemplated her words once again, trying to make peace with the fact that his only granddaughter would be raised Catholic against his wishes.

"Did Sybil truly not mind?" he asked doubtfully a little while later.

"She wanted Tom to be happy. She loved him very much, you know," Mary said, trying to keep her emotions at bay even though it hurt having to talk about her darling sister like this. She should not have to do this, she should not have to fight in her and Tom's corner in her stead. Sybil should be the one to talk their father into agreeing, and she would have had a far easier job than Mary herself. Sybil had always had both their parents wrapped around her little finger. Only she could dare to elope with the chauffeur and still manage to wrestle a blessing from their Papa. "We all need to remember that."

He knew he needed to remember that, and so did she. At times, it was easy to still view Tom as the chauffeur, to view him as someone who did not belong to their family. He did now, though, and he had the right to decide what he thought best for his little daughter. Whether they liked it or not, he was a part of their family now and Mary had vowed to Sybil that she would do her utmost to help him adjust as she had sat vigil at her bedside in the dead of night until Edith had come in with Tom.

Mary was still looking at her father as he let her words sink in. After a few seconds, she saw something change in his expression. Just ever so slightly.

"I keep forgetting she's gone," he then said lowly. His eyes glazing over, he added: "I see things in the paper that would make her laugh. I come inside to tell her that her favourite rose is in bloom. And then, suddenly…"

He never finished that sentence. He didn't have to. Mary knew well enough what he meant. She herself couldn't help but think about Sybil over the smallest, most insignificant, and ordinary everyday things. It was rare, though, for her to hear her father talk about things like this. He had been taking care of everything as best he could the entire time. He had taken it in stride when her mama had banned him from her bedroom in favour of being alone when it was clear that he had needed nothing but to be close to her. One could have almost forgotten he had gone through the same unimaginable loss as the rest of them, the way he kept going about his business after only taking two days off when it all had happened. And yet, he was no better off. In fact, he seemed worse, and he had no one.

Her father's brutally honest words brought tears to her eyes, and she couldn't hide the quiver in her voice when she said: "Say that to Mama. Please."

For a brief moment, his eyes once again met those of his daughter and she caught a glimpse of all the pain he was feeling, of how much he was still suffering deep down. She saw the heartbreak he felt even before she heard it so clearly in his voice.

"She doesn't want to hear it from me."

With that, Robert set his unfinished glass of whiskey down on the small side table in front of him and then left the library without uttering anything else that night.

Not even a single word to Barrow was said as he got ready for bed. Luckily for him, they had somehow found a type of routine that seemed to work alright enough for now, so there were no pesky and unnecessary questions about wake-up calls and breakfast times that evening.

Not too much later, he was lying on his back in the single bed in his dressing room, staring at the white ceiling above him. A part of him wanted it to cave in, to end all this misery he was in and bury him in the rubble. A small and quite cynical voice inside was even trying to convince him that they would all be better off then, that they would be better off without him. Matthew could take over and modernise to his heart's content, Isobel could keep Ethel without setting anyone's teeth on edge, and Cora would be rid of him at last.

No. That was wrong. Even with things between them being as they were currently, there surely would be no elation there for his wife.

Or would there?

She could not even stand to look at him, and if she did she was glaring daggers. Maybe there would-

No. He could not think like this, he should not. And yet he could not seem to turn off that small voice inside his head that kept whispering these godawful things to him, the one that kept getting louder and louder as the time passed.

As he lay there in the dark with nothing but the stark white ceiling bathed in the sallow moonlight passing through the half-drawn curtains in his field of vision, he could not help but notice not only the absence of warmth in his life but also the complete absence of sound.

Robert assumed that she was upstairs by now, sitting in bed in the room next door with a book in her hands, the warming glow of a fire illuminating the room, even in the warmest of summer nights. He tried to listen for some sort of sound; her light footsteps on the carpet, the rustling of the bedsheets or the clicking sound of her bedside lamp being turned on or off.

And yet. Nothing. There was absolutely nothing. Not even the crackling sound of a dying fire in the hearth was audible through the connecting doors.

The silence enveloping him was deafening and stifling. It weighed on him like an elephant sitting on his chest, making every single breath he took a struggle in itself. Concentrating on supplying his lungs with a sufficient flow of oxygen, he closed his eyes, only to open them wide again almost that same instant.

Suddenly, he thought he heard something crumble. His eyes still wide in surprise, he frantically looked around, scanning the walls and the wardrobe standing pushed to one of them. But it was not something in the room, it was not the walls surrounding him coming down all of a sudden. Looking back straight up at the ceiling he realised that he was imagining it. He realised that it was the waning of his hopes for a reconciliation with Cora that made him imagine this crumbling noise; an accurate depiction, come to think of it.

Every single day that passed without his wife so much as acknowledging his existence unless she absolutely had to with other people present distanced him further from her. As if the ground separating them was stretching further and further, pulling her off into the distance and out of focus.

It had already been far too long since he had gazed upon her sparkling blue eyes from nearby, too long since he had seen her flawless complexion and had been allowed to run his hands through her formerly intricately done hair at the end of a long day. It had been far too long since his name had left her lips, enunciated so lovingly it could only ever be by her sweet voice, and too long it had been since he had got to kiss her good morning and good night. All he got nowadays was silence and stolen looks at her from afar. Worst of all, he knew that he deserved her silence and her anger. He deserved her avoidance and her silent scorn. It was all justified for he was the one who spoke against the only thing that could have saved their daughter.

In frustration he yanked the pillow out from underneath his head and pressed it to his face. This would be the perfect opportunity to let out a scream — it would be muffled enough, and he for sure felt like screaming his heart out. Maybe that would help to rid himself of these treacherous thoughts.

Yet, he found he simply had no scream left in him. He simply couldn't get any sound out. Instead, tears only all too quickly emerged and soon began to soak the pillow until he, at last, fell asleep a good while later, still in quite a desperate state and still enveloped in this all-encompassing silence he had begun to grow accustomed to.

They were the only two left downstairs. Isobel had said it would be for the best if she avoided the house at least for a little while following luncheon when they had asked her to please join them at the Abbey that evening, and her grandmother had left hours ago. Even Edith had gone to bed a while ago with Matthew quickly wanting the two of them to follow her upstairs but she had told him to go ahead for now. She had only been waiting for the chance to finally speak to her mother alone.

"Mama?"

She turned to her in surprise, letting her book sink into her lap in order to grant her daughter the attention she sought. Cora had let her guard down, she thought everyone else had left a while ago and so there had been no need to keep putting on a brave face for anyone. She thought she could distinctly recall Matthew bidding her goodnight. Or was she remembering the night before? Or the one before that? She was not sure, the days all mushed together in her mind, as did her memories. She was not even sure what day it was, whether it was still August or if they had already made it to September. To her, that did not matter any longer.

"Yes, dear?"

The view in front of her startled Mary. Her Mama had not looked well the past few weeks, but this was something else entirely. Her face was so sunken all of a sudden and her eyes looked almost lifeless. So dull, no longer bright blue but rather a muddy shade of grey with a blue tint here and there.

"I was wondering…"

Cora sat up straighter in the armchair she was in and silently motioned to the one next to her for Mary to take a seat when she noticed how uncomfortable her daughter seemed standing there clinging to her glass of port near the fireplace.

When Mary sat down next to her, her shock was even bigger. She had never seen her mother look so old, so worn, so weary of the world and something told her that this was only the tip of the iceberg, as had been her papa's words an hour or so before.

"Have you talked to Papa?" she asked sheepishly.

"Don't be ridiculous, Mary. You sat next to him at dinner. Surely you heard that we spoke," Cora gave back defensively. She knew that this was not at all what her daughter meant, but it was all she was willing to say on that matter at the moment.

"That is not what I meant and you know that. I only ask because he seemed particularly low today and I assume he still sleeps in his dressing room…" she trailed off.

Her mother's slender fingers were running over the clothbound cover of her first edition of Uncle Vanya by Chekhov, tracing the golden letters one by one — a book she knew for certain had once upon a time been gifted to her mother by her father after she had casually expressed an interest in the play one afternoon.

First, she heaved a deep sigh, then she replied: "I know that is what you meant. And no, I have not and I do not intend to today, either."

The way she said this signalled to Mary that for her mother, this topic was closed and no longer subject for then she remembered the look on her father's face and the words he had said and how hard that had hit her and caught her off-guard. She could not let things go this easily. She had to do something. She had to.

"But why, Mama? He really is not well, he is drowning himself in his work. Papa clearly still blames himself for what happened. I-"

"Enough of this, Mary!" Cora suddenly interrupted. She slammed the book in her lap shut and then quickly made to stand, dropping it onto the seat she had just left. "If he blames himself then he has every reason, and I have troubles enough of my own. I don't see why I should try and talk to him when he seems quite content managing the estate as if nothing had happened, as if our daughter was still alive. And now I bid you a good night."

With a dark look on her face, Cora strode out of the room and left Mary stunned in her awake.

What was she to do? This was even more grim a situation than she had thought after her father had left her behind in the library, feeling equally as stunned. This was not like them, they were not themselves. Neither of them.

Chapter Text

She felt awful. Absolutely abysmal.

She was still quite sleepy, even though by now she had been up for hours. Especially when sleepy, she had always tended to be quite the broody character and she knew it. Her need for a solid night's rest was increasing with age along with her need to have someone, him specifically, beside her to feel safe out of habit. As such, she hadn't been granted that good slumber and it showed. Sleep had seemed to evade her for the majority of the night, the conversation with her daughter just before she went upstairs keeping her wide awake. And as a result, she had been so harsh to poor O'Brien for the entirety of this morning. Her maid had only just left her to her own devices after taking her lunch tray away and touching up her coiffure, which had started to come loose. That had been her fault as well; she could not manage to sit still enough for O'Brien to fully fasten these tiny pins that always kept her hair in place. Instead, she had snapped at that poor woman for taking so long, even though it was no fault of hers.

Cora had requested a certain black day dress to wear that day, one she wore quite frequently. It was her favourite out of all the black mourning dresses she owned. Not that she particularly enjoyed wearing any of them, but that one just so happened to be the most comfortable. Visibly remorseful, her maid had come in with the dress she was wearing now already draped over her arm to tell her that the dress of her choice was still not fully dried and ready to be worn again just yet and that she had taken it upon herself to choose this in its stead. It was really only a minor inconvenience, she did not plan on going out after all, but it was enough to ruin her already unpleasant morning further and add to her sour mood.

The entire time her maid had helped her get dressed, Cora had been thinking about that conversation in the library the night before. She had been so harsh to her daughter, maybe unnecessarily much so. Cora had felt sorry for it the instant she had stridden out of the room and it had kept her awake for the majority of the night. Not sorry enough to go back and apologise, though. It was not Mary's place to meddle in their affairs and speak to her like that, she was still her Mama. What Robert and her were doing or not was none of her business.

She would go and talk to him eventually, as soon as she could bear to look him square in the face without immediately seeing Sybil writhing in agony on her bed in front of her mind's eye. How long that would take would have to remain to be seen, and until then she would stay away for everyone's sake.

It was not that she did not want to. She wanted to talk to him, very much so! She missed talking to him and having him close. She missed waking up to him in the morning and falling asleep with him next to her each night. She missed everything about his presence in her bedroom and everywhere else and she knew that it would make her feel less alone and help her to suffer less from this unbearable sadness day in and day out if only he was next to her. And yet, even just thinking about his mere presence in the dining or drawing room every evening filled her with so much dread that it made her angry. This was his doing, his and that Harley Street doctor's. If they had listened, if they had not been so pigheaded, their Sybil would still be here.

Cora did not want things to be this way, she wanted him close and yet she could not bring herself to allow him in. Not even the fact that he must be struggling just as much as she was, according to Mary, could tip her over and ask him back. She was not really angry at him specifically any longer, but his actions had left her feeling so disappointed and hurt that she simply could not allow herself to forgive him. Only looking at him transported her back to that awful night, showing her images of poor Sybil lying in that bed so still after everything that had happened before. And that's what made her angry and resentful. And she was angry at life, at how curiously unjust it could be sometimes.

Wrapping the shawl O'Brien had just draped over her shoulders tighter around herself, she stepped up to the window in her room and looked out. It was a sunny day and undoubtedly quite warm by the mere looks of it.

Cora, however, felt cold. Icy cold. And this chill did not come from the room temperature; the embers of the fire from the past night were still gleaming slightly in the hearth. This cold came from deep within, from the very depths of her soul.

She let her eyes wander across the lush green lawn down below. There in the distance, their black hats shielding them from the warm summer sun beaming down on them, she saw Mary and Edith walk across the lawn next to each other, engrossed in chitchat by the looks of it.

A mournful smile tugged at the corners of her mouth — even in death, Sybil had that way of connecting people and bringing them all closer together. If only she was there to see it with her own eyes. She had spent years of their childhoods trying to get her sisters to get along and now it seemed she had succeeded.

It had brought all of them closer together, this tragedy.

Everyone. Bar her and Robert. Cora knew for certain Sybil would absolutely loathe to see it.

Maybe Mary did, after all, have a point the night before. Maybe she should go and talk to him and end this misery for all of them. Just when she was about to decide to go seek him out right then, her maid's voice rang out from the doorway once more.

"I am so very sorry to interrupt you again, milady, but Mr Carson just handed this to me."

O'Brien had quietly entered the room again, holding the butler's silver tray in her left hand with a single black-rimmed envelope on it.

"Oh do, please do. He's very low just now and it will be wonderful for him to hear something good," Mary smiled, nervously twisting her hands in front of her. She could feel her sister's eyes almost burn a hole into the side of her face with, undoubtedly, a questioning look on her features but right now Mary simply could not explain. Not in front of Anna, no matter how much she trusted her maid. Some things just were not meant for the servants. As much as Mary thought of the slightly older blonde as a friend and confidante, this was none of her business. She was not even sure if she should share this with her sister.

As Anna set off again in quite a brisk walk back across the lawn, the two sisters followed her at a slightly slower pace. When she was confident that Anna was out of earshot, Edith asked curiously: "Is Papa really not doing well? I always thought he was taking it so remarkably well. In fact, I do admire him for how he manages the estate at the moment. I know that I certainly could not, my judgment would be far too clouded by all these memories and all the sadness."

"I'd say his spirits are probably even lower than Mama's at this very moment, and they have been very low ever since it happened. He is just trying to keep it all going for the rest of us. To make it easier for all of us, and especially for Mama. I assume it is a distraction from it all."

"I would never have guessed," Edith breathed cluelessly. A nervous flicker in her eyes, she looked ahead towards the library in the distance where their Papa would undoubtedly be, pouring over numbers she had not even the slightest clue of what they meant. And he'd also be alone, she assumed, and immediately felt bad for him.

For once, Mary did not have a snide remark ready to pass her lips. Instead, she simply walked on with a sad smile on her face.

They were following Anna back to the house in silence after that. Just when they had almost reached the door, Edith stopped Mary with a hand holding onto her forearm. Appearing almost scared with her brown eyes wide, she looked at Mary and pleaded: "You would tell me if there was something we could do to help them, right?"

"I would. Certainly, I would. But I don't know if there is anything, anything at all, that could help bring them closer once again. That was always Sybil's forte."

Clarkson had arrived a few short minutes ago, Spratt had let him into her sitting room immediately after taking his coat and hat off him as previously instructed. Now, there he was standing in the middle of her sitting room, looking entirely uncomfortable in these surroundings.

Taking the opportunity as it presented itself, he heaved a deep breath and then said into the uncomfortably stretching silence: "Now, let me preface this by saying that I am very sorry my persistence on the matter that night has caused this kind of trouble for Lord and Lady Grantham."

He was holding onto a folded and scribbled-on sheet of paper almost as if his life depended on it, a sign for her that he had come to a conclusion he was not fully comfortable with. That could only mean he had changed his mind and reevaluated his stance on the chances of the likelihood of poor Sybil's survival had they operated when he had posed the possibility; or at least he had changed his view on lying to ease suffering. And she was sure an apology was to follow swiftly coming from the Scottish man's lips.

At that, she could barely suppress her lips from twitching into a smile. Instead, Violet nodded benevolently as she stood next to the window in her study. To her, this was the least he could do, apologise and try to right the wrongs he had done. She only wished she did not have to all but force him into this. But if the outcome was as desired then it would have all been worth it.

With a pained expression on his face, the doctor then went on: "I have done quite a bit of research as you asked and I have come to the conclusion that my initial stance on the matter has not changed."

It took everything in her not to gasp in shock when she heard him say this. After all, she had been so sure he had understood her reasoning and then drawn the right conclusions from there.

But apparently not. Her eyes widened and she tried to find the words to ascertain she had heard him right. Sluggishly, she walked over to her armchair in front of the fireplace, depending very heavily on the cane in her hand to offer some much-needed stability.

The motor came to a halt on the gravel outside in front of her house. Robert didn't wait for Spratt to hurry out of the front door and along the path towards them. Instead he opened the door as soon as they were no longer moving and got out, followed at a distance by her.

Had Violet turned her head even just the slightest bit and not looked at Richard Clarkson standing there a few metres away from her, she would have seen this. And maybe she could have taken the appropriate steps to salvage the situation that was about to present itself to her. The simple turn of her head might have saved them all a substantial amount of heartbreak that would once again befall them, adding to their already heavy hearts. But alas, she did not turn her head and as such had no chance to prevent any of it — a fact she would repent for quite a while to come.

"I know it will come as yet another inconvenience to you, milady, and I am yet again most sorry about that. But I cannot in good conscience lie about this. Not with the knowledge I possess now through the research you asked me to do. I cannot lie, even to heal the bonds this tragedy has put asunder," he said strictly but not without a woeful undertone. To the doctor it was a matter of his medical integrity, which he would not jeopardise in this way. "I cannot and I will not."

She was still quite flabbergasted when the door behind her opened again suddenly. By the time she realised that Robert and Cora had arrived, it was all too late to change the plans and keep this tragedy from unfolding. She could not just throw any of them out, could she? No, it was too late for that. Far too late.

"Dr. Clarkson!" Cora exclaimed surprised right as Violet stood up from her chair in some sort of panicked trance. Her hands were starting to get quite clammy, and her heart was pounding when she began to realise what her well-meaning meddling would cause. She had rarely felt this way, but somehow this had thrown her more than anything she could recall. Her mind was spinning with possible scenarios that could follow the doctor's revelation to her and none of them were remotely close to what she had envisioned.

"Lady Grantham, how are you?" the older Scotsman greeted, placing the sheet of paper onto the Dowager's desk and turning to the new arrivals.

"Much as you'd expect me to be," she gave back instantly, keeping up a pained but not disagreeable smile.

Shamefacedly, the doctor looked down at the ground and nodded. The woman was already suffering, it was painfully obvious by just looking into her pale and hollowed-out and her red-rimmed eyes, and now he would be adding onto that just because his professional integrity meant more to him than keeping or rather restoring the peace for the aristocrats.

"Since you're here I have a few words of my own to say," Robert then interjected as he walked towards the physician. His mind had been made up as soon as his wife had left the room just an hour earlier when she had told him about this visit to the village. The expression in her eyes — all that hurt and disappointment and sorrow — had made him see that he needed to take certain steps towards a reconciliation soon or else he would lose her forever. And an apology to Doctor Clarkson was one of the very few things he could think of that would not cause even more heartache to befall her.

Defensively, the doctor tried to shy away from the Earl at first, but Robert was determined and continued: "I feel I owe you an apology, Doctor Clarkson. I can now see things a little clearer than I did that night and I realise that what you were trying to do would have been the right thing. I am beyond sorry for not trusting your professional opinion as our primary physician. This impossible situation we all find ourselves in as a consequence is-"

Richard Clarkson then held up his hands to stop him from going on. Which was just as well, for Robert had no idea how to finish that sentence, or really this speech. He had not thought of what he would say to the doctor since he had not anticipated seeing him quite this soon. And only thinking about it all then and there cost him immensely.

Violet looked at her son with concern not veiled at all. The fact alone that he chose to apologise astonished and worried her in equal measure. But she was also concerned about the outcome of this entire conversation if the doctor really went through with what he had just told her. She did not even dare to glance at Cora to see her reaction to Robert's apology.

While Robert and Doctor Clarkson were rather awkwardly looking at each other in silence, Cora just stood there behind them all, watching the scene in front of her unfold.

"Please, Lord Grantham, if you'll just allow me to say what I am here to say. Upon Lady Grantham's request I have done more research on the matter," Clarkson said, nodding towards Violet, and Robert took a single step back.

He would have gone further and stood next to her, but he just was not confident enough to walk back to the bookcase in front of which Cora stood. She would not want him there, he was sure of it.

"While I have not found substantial evidence to the benefits of choosing to perform a Caesarean on a mother with eclampsia published in England and the rest of the United Kingdom, I have found case studies from mainland Europe that suggest more positive outcomes with this treatment than with the traditional approach that my colleague urged you to follow. Most notably, physicians in Germany and the Netherlands have been advocating for this arguably quite aggressive form of treatment as of late as opposed to only treating the symptoms as they appear laswe do here. However, I will say that this still is not enough evidence to support a definitive answer to the problem we were faced with that night and the tragedy it led to."

They let the words sink in for a little while. It was a lot to take in, after all.

Robert was the first to breach the silence that had fallen over them following the doctor's explanations. "There really was a chance then," he breathed tonelessly. He was white as a ghost — a look most peculiar for someone as tan as he usually was, especially compared to his wife. At that moment, however, they looked equally pale, all colour drained from their faces.

"The horrors we would have subjected her to would have been certain and the trauma would have run deep. The path to recovery would have been a very hard one, and there is no use in trying to calculate the odds of her survival in the first place. A hurried operation is not ideal at all under any circumstances, pregnancy or not. It would not only have jeopardised her life but that of her daughter as well. But yes, had we operated when the symptoms first became evident, Lady Sybil could have stood a chance according to the studies I have found. A small one. Tiny, really, with all the possible complications."

"I do not quite understand what you mean to say, Doctor. Was Sybil going to die?" the Earl said, a lump already firmly lodged in his throat. This was all so confusing to him.

"I am not saying that. We will never find out whether Lady Sybil would have lived had we operated. A Caesarian is a risky operation, even more so when hurried along like this would have been. But, in my humble professional opinion, there was a chance nonetheless."

He avoided both Cora and Robert's eyes and only briefly glanced at Violet with barely hidden remorse and distress. Then, he straightened his back again and started walking towards the door with everyone's eyes following his every movement. At the door, he turned back around, nodded curtly without meeting anyone's eye, and said: "I wish you a good day."

The irony was not lost on him, he felt awful as he closed the door behind him. Nothing about this day would be good for any of them. This meeting's sole purpose had been to help Lord and Lady Grantham find together again in their grief, but all he had achieved was quite possibly causing an even wider rift between them.

For a while after he had left they all stood still, glued to their places. Cora still stood close to the door and Robert in the middle of the room, while Violet clung to the mantelpiece until her knuckles turned white after what Doctor Clarkson had just said before leaving. How could her plan have backfired like this? She had been so sure that this would bring the much-needed turning point. So sure.

Then, without another word, Cora turned around and quickly left the room showing no emotion at all. Her steps looked almost robotic with such little movement in her body, it certainly looked odd.

The look on her face reminded Robert of the one she gave him when she had come to talk to him that afternoon. And just like that afternoon, he stood there crestfallen once more and was left feeling unsure about what to do.

He had thought that with her seeking him out earlier, that maybe there was a chance she was allowing him back in again. Only he got ahead of himself and then ruined it all by saying something so stupid.

You look nice this morning.

He couldn't help but huff at his own stupidity. Of all the things he could have said to engage her in even the smallest of conversations, this had for sure been among the worst options. He should not have spoken his mind, no matter the truth in what he had said. She had looked very nice, indeed. But he had realised immediately how that had not been the time and place to remark on that. The disappointment and sheer sorrow in her eyes as she had left the library had pierced his heart and soul earlier and it had done the same just now before she left wordlessly.

He stared at where she had stood when they heard Spratt close the front door behind her. Then, he suddenly jumped into action and quickly made a dash for the door as well to go after her.

It was too late, though. When he rushed out the front door, her car door had already closed and the chauffeur had begun to drive off.

Robert stretched out his hand weakly, wanting to shout after her to wait for him but that would be to no avail, so he did not even attempt that. He walked to the opened gate and stood there. For a while he remained still, glued to his spot, looking to where the car had driven off to in the distance. Still reaching for it, still reaching for her.

Violet saw it all when her sharp eyes followed him first out into the hallway and then to her front garden. And she saw how he stood there, reaching for his wife as she drove off into the distance. She saw how his hand eventually fell limply to his side and how he even left his hat and cane behind, starting to trudge down the road leading up to the abbey with his head hung low a while later.

She watched it all unfold in utter horror and despair, unable to do something. This was the exact opposite of what was supposed to happen. This was the opposite of what her plan had been for. Instead of helping them find their way back to the other, it seemed she had driven them further apart than they had ever been.

Don't flirt with me, Robert.

Don't flirt with me, she had said.

But he had not flirted, that had not been his intention. He merely wanted to remark that she looked nice to maybe lift her downcast spirits, or open up the conversation in hopes she would stay even for just another minute. But she had left, just like she had left him behind wordlessly in his mother's sitting room. And now he was slowly walking along the road up to the abbey where she had arrived a while ago and would likely be in her room again, hiding away.

Did he want to go inside now? Join them all for tea? Or should he just stay away and extend his walk for god knows how long?

Before he could make a decision on that matter as he was nearing the entrance door, he heard the butler's voice ring out.

"Ah, milord. I was wondering when you would arrive," echoed Carson's deep voice ahead of him. "Tea has just been brought to the library."

As he passed the butler and went inside, he weakly replied: "Thank you, Carson."

He ignored the questioningly furrowed eyebrows of his butler and walked straight ahead into the hall, making a beeline for the stairs and only quickly glancing at the opened door leading into the library as he began his ascent.

But there she was, standing tall with her teacup in hand. She was not hiding away as he had expected. Then he saw her break out into the smallest of smiles — maybe one of the girls had said something funny. It mesmerised him, this view held him enthralled, and so he kept standing there, simply observing.

"Aren't you going to join us, Papa?"

It was Edith standing near the doorway, about to enter the library and looking at him with a curious expression on her features.

It caught him off guard, and out of instinct he shook his head no. Lowly, he replied, barely audible to her: "No, not today."

Then, he turned and walked further upstairs to his dressing room, leaving Edith to go inside in confusion. He had seemed in higher spirits before when Anna had told them of the feat Murray had achieved in getting Bates out of the prison. But the effect that had had seemed all gone now.

Chapter Text

It was not like him to abandon his post in the room to serve the family, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Lady Edith would be alright on her own for a bit, and Mister Crawley rarely ever asked for anything when he came down for breakfast — not even for some more coffee beyond that one cup he had when he joined them downstairs. The butler figured he would be forgiven for making an exception this once.

His impressive eyebrows knit together in discontentment, Charles Carson rushed down the steep staircase and barged into the servants' hall in a huff. Slightly out of breath, partly from his brisk walk and partly from agitation, his eyes scanned the scarcely lit room. Apart from Mrs Hughes and Anna, no one was sitting at the long table as expected, but neither of the women was whom he was looking for.

Carson's already irate mood only darkened when he let his gaze wander further down the long room and caught sight of his target. He saw the way he was lounging there in the armchair in front of the fireplace, one leg crossed over the other, the newspaper opened wide in front of him; the audacity of him! He was finally given a chance to do what he had sought after for years, and this is how he planned on thanking his Lordship for his generosity? The butler could not believe it.

"Thomas, what on earth are you still doing down here? His Lordship should have been dressed and in the dining room for breakfast by now!" he exclaimed.

Quite nonchalantly, Barrow craned his neck around the backrest to look at the grim butler standing in the entryway with his eyebrows knit together in contempt. Sounding almost bored, the younger man replied with feigned ingénue: "The bell hasn't rung yet and he did not give me a time he wanted to be woken at today, Mr Carson. I'm assuming he's having a lie-in; didn't seem too well to me last night. So for now, I'm waiting here until that bell rings out."

Right then, the tinny sound of one of the bells on the board ringing filled the otherwise quiet room. Lazily, Thomas turned around even more to check and see if it was the bell from his Lordship's dressing room that requested someone to come up. However, it seemed as though he was in luck, so he rustled the newspaper in his hands and returned his attention to what was printed there in black ink.

Carson turned to look as well, only waiting to jump at the opportunity to berate Thomas for his insolence; but much to his dismay it was Lady Mary's bell that chimed. Anna, who had been quite intrigued by the entire exchange, swiftly laid her needle and thread down on the tabletop, got up and scurried out of the room to fetch the breakfast tray Mrs Patmore had already prepared to take upstairs with her.

In a gruff huff, the older man turned back around and hurried back up the steep and worn-in stairs to serve breakfast to Lady Edith, who would be down in the breakfast room by now. He had seen her walking along the gallery above about to come down, just before he passed the green baize doors to come downstairs. It struck him as beyond odd that Lady Edith should be down to breakfast before his Lordship; that never happened. But if he had not been too well the evening before, then maybe he was just having a lie in today, as Thomas had said. Begrudgingly, he decided to give Thomas the benefit of the doubt for once.

"Ah, Carson! Just the man I have been looking for," Matthew exclaimed, crossing the hall with a few long, confident strides, an envelope clutched in his left hand. Mary was walking right behind her husband, about to follow him into the library when he spied the butler and suddenly stopped dead in his tracks. "I'm wondering, has His Lordship gone out for the day? I've been meaning to talk to him but can't seem to find him anywhere. He was not at luncheon, either."

The butler raised his bushy eyebrows in surprise. "Not that I am aware of, Mr Crawley. But I only just returned from my walk to the village. I will ask Thomas or Mrs Hughes if they know anything."

"Thank you, Carson," Matthew smiled. Directed at Mary behind him, he added, "That seems quite odd, doesn't it? Robert never goes out without telling someone."

Mary nodded slowly. Just when the butler had turned to go, she turned to Matthew with a concerned look. Her mind was spinning as she tried to think of all the places he could be that they hadn't checked yet — it was a very short list in the end. "Edith told me he was not at breakfast today, either. You go ahead, I will join you in a bit."

And with that, she skeltered up the grand staircase, following along the dimly lit, narrow corridor leading to her father's dressing room. Once there, her hand reluctantly rapped on the white lacquered wooden door.

No response.

She knocked again, this time trying more force in case her father had simply not heard the first attempt. But again, she heard nothing from the inside, not even a tiny blip. More reluctant again, she twisted the doorknob and opened first the outer and then the inner door just slightly. It wouldn't do to simply barge in when he had not replied to her knocks before.

"Hello? Papa?" she asked quietly through the small opening, poking her head in ever so slightly when she still heard nothing in reply.

Again, there was no response, so she opened the door fully and stepped in, only to find the room to be empty. The bed was made, albeit rather crookedly, and she knew instantly that this had not been done by a maid. There was a book on the nightstand next to the lamp and his slippers stood underneath the armchair, ready for him to put them on in the evening after getting changed into his nightclothes. It looked all so perfectly ordinary, apart from the bedding. As if it were just any normal day and he had gone out to go about his daily business on the estate.

Matthew and she had looked everywhere around the abbey all morning long when Murray's letter arrived. Everywhere apart from the dressing room, that was. To Mary, checking here had been her last resort. Feeling disheartened by the revelation of yet another empty room, she looked around once more, acknowledging that this idea had turned out to be just another dead end.

Where could he be? And what could she do?

Looking around, she realised the only thing left for her to do to find him was something she had hoped she would not have to do. Not after the last time she asked her something concerning him.

Quietly and more than a little scared of the reaction awaiting her, she closed the two doors behind her again and walked the few steps back down the corridor she had come from. Only after breathing deeply to steel herself did she knock on her mother's bedroom door.

"Come in," she heard faintly in reply and did as asked.

The young brunette's eyes scanned the room, almost expecting her father to sit in one of the armchairs or standing close to one of the windows, looking out across the lawn. It would have been a familiar sight, and she would have been beyond happy to see it. But he wasn't there. There was not even a single trace of him anywhere. It was as if he had never set foot into this room.

"Mary, what is it?"

She hummed and hawed while walking in, reluctant to just straight out ask her Mama what was weighing so heavily on her mind.

"I'm just wondering…"

"Yes?" her mother pressed on, unimpressed by it all. At least she was intrigued enough to put her needlework down into her lap and look at her daughter, that was a start.

"Do you know where Papa is? Matthew and I have been looking everywhere for him all morning but can't find him anywhere."

Refusing to meet her eye, Cora replied clipped: "No, I do not. How would I? Have you asked Carson?"

"Yes, but he does not know, either."

"Then maybe try your grandmother. There is a good chance he went out to see her and forgot to tell anyone," said Cora. She tried her best to keep all the bitterness from seeping through. It would be the only logical thing for him to do — go to his mother and ask for her advice yet again. No matter how much damage following that would do. Cora herself could have very well lived without Violet's interference; it had only caused her more heartbreak. She had been right to doubt going there would do them any good the day before. What was Violet even trying to accomplish by asking them to come, sneaking in Doctor Clarkson as well?

Mary knew from her mother's tone that this conversation was over then, so she went back downstairs to meet Matthew in the library as discussed.

She entered the library again to find her husband sitting at the desk in front of the window, although he did, out of habit, stand up when he heard the door open to greet whoever entered. When he saw it was Mary who joined him, he relaxed slightly and waited for her to reach him, his arm stretched out for her, beckoning her in.

"Carson just came to report that nobody downstairs knows anything about Robert's whereabouts. Mrs Hughes hadn't seen him all day and Thomas assumed he was still in bed. Must have not been feeling well last night or something," he said sounding distracted, a worried expression creasing his brow.

"Well, if Papa had a lie-in today and did not ring for Thomas, then he must have dressed himself and gone out without telling anyone. I was just upstairs to check his dressing room, but it was deserted. Mama said we should ask Granny, maybe he went to visit her."

"Alright, I will ask for the car to be brought around. We will go this instant. Something feels off," he remarked in a hurry, already halfway across the library.

She did not like to admit it, but her husband was right. Something felt very off about this all. It was not like her father to disappear like that, even if he just went on a walk down into the village to clear his head. If that were the case, he would have returned by now, either way.

The short drive with Matthew down to her grandmother's house was spent in silence. She looked out the window, straining to maybe catch a glimpse of him on the way with no success, as was he.

She had tried her best not to give into this queasy feeling she had had in the pits of her stomach ever since he had missed luncheon, at least not until they had talked to her Granny. There had been no well-founded reason to worry before. Not yet. But now?

There definitely was something off, very off.

Upon first setting foot into the Dower House, Mary had been beyond relieved to see her father's hat on the hall stand down the hallway, his cane leaning on the wall right next to it. However, that feeling was very short-lived when her grandmother told them she had not seen him since the day before when he left his things there. She told them he had followed Cora on foot and forgot to take his hat and cane. Beyond that, her grandmother had not disclosed much, not even why he had chosen to do that, or rather been forced to. Instead, she had asked after Cora and how she was faring. Which was odd, yet again — to Mary that seemed to be the only thing all of this had in common.

Ever since then, Mary had felt uneasy. She couldn't shake the feeling Violet was keeping vital information from them, she only could not figure out why. It was all so confusing.

And where could he be? They had tried everywhere. Matthew had even driven around the tiny lanes of the village in hopes they would spy him wandering about or maybe sitting down on a bench somewhere.

Since their empty-handed return to Downton, hours had passed, and it was time to have dinner. They were all gathered downstairs, waiting in the drawing room for him to walk in so they could go through to the dining room. Minutes passed, then minutes turned into half an hour and still, he just would not come. Eventually — it was long after Carson had announced dinner was ready — Cora had declared they should go through. Right when she had passed by them, Mary thought she heard her mutter something bitterly about it not being fair to Mrs Patmore if they waited any longer.

When everyone was sitting around the table having dinner, nobody said a word about his absence. Instead, they each tried to diffuse this weird tension by engaging in meaningless chit-chat. It was so obvious they were all thinking it was peculiar. The topic of his absence hung heavily above the table, yet remained unspoken of; like a dark cloud looming overhead announcing a storm only waiting to break loose in the near future with nobody looking at the sky to notice.

The servants' hall at lunch the next day was eerily quiet, just like the rest of the house. By now, word had travelled and everyone knew that his Lordship had been absent the day before without saying anything and that he had not joined the family for breakfast that morning, either. Lady Mary had been down to talk to Carson a few minutes earlier, causing a slight ruckus when the hallboys simply stared at her before running off to tell the butler she'd wait for him in his office.

In the end, she had merely asked the trusty butler to send someone down to the village and ask the pub owners if they knew anything. Seeing as Carson felt a huge deal of pride in his longstanding position here at Downton Abbey and for having gained the family's trust like this he would take it upon himself to do as asked he had said sententiously. Thomas had managed luncheon for the family the day before, he would undoubtedly do the same that day, and gladly at that. This would give him enough time to go down to the village.

Startling most of the servants assembled around the long table, the butler put his cutlery away, stood up and instructed in his deep, booming voice: "If anyone sees or hears anything about his Lordship's whereabouts today, come see me immediately. If I am not yet back from the village, then kindly turn to Mrs Hughes."

Quickly and without waiting for a reply from the rest of the staff, he went to fetch his bowler hat and briskly walked down into the village. Strategically, he walked around and canvassed the pubs he knew his Lordship sometimes frequented to meet tenants, secretly asking the barmen if they had seen or maybe even served his Lordship that day or the day before. Much to his chagrin, they all declined. Tea time had passed already, but there was only one pub left of the few he knew his employer occasionally chose to go to.

When even Mister Wilson of Rose and Crown, one of Downtons oldest pubs, denied having seen anything, Carson could not help himself but feel quite crestfallen this trip had been for nought. Almost reluctantly putting his hat back on, he turned around to leave the rustic pub when the burly barman suddenly called him back, his wife now standing next to him.

"I am sorry, I did not mean to eavesdrop, Mr Carson, but I could not help but overhear that you were asking after Lord Grantham. I assume he is missing in some way?" the woman inquired quite sheepishly.

She was short, barely able to look over the counter, and standing next to the bear of a man she called her husband made her look even tinier. She was a kindly woman, though, Carson knew that much from Mrs Hughes and her reddened, round face gave much of the same impression. How the two women knew each other was beyond him, but it did not matter. His sole objective was to help Lady Mary in finding His Lordship.

His deep voice booming almost unpleasantly loudly in the still empty room, he replied: "Yes, indeed, Mrs Wilson. He hasn't been seen since the night before."

"I will say that I haven't seen much and at first I did not think anything of it. But yesterday morning, at the crack of dawn when I sent our boy out to deliver the newspapers, I saw a tall figure quickly walking down the road in the rain. Whoever it was, that was not a farmer and not someone from the village, either. He was walking far too upright for that and seemed too bothered by the drizzle, turned up the collar of his overcoat and all that. Had a hat on and carried a suitcase, that man. Looked important and as if he was in a hurry to get somewhere. Broad shoulders, long and dark overcoat. And then, when our lad came home dripping wet from delivering all the newspapers, he said to me that on his usual route, he saw someone who looked a bit like his Lordship walk around the village towards the station. We did not think anything of it, Lord Grantham wouldn't walk down to the village on his own at that time of day in the rain and carry a suitcase around, we figured, now would he?"

Curiously, Carson was listening to Mrs Wilson's account. The description of the man she had seen was not much to go by in itself, but at least it fit his employer enough to pique his interest. Nodding grimly, he asked: "And at what time was that yesterday?"

"It was very early, dawn was just breaking. As I said, I was sending out our lad to go around."

"You did not, by any chance, look at a clock when you sent him out?"

"No, I did not," she admitted woefully. "But wait, I think it must have been around 5. The train whistle for the first train in the morning went off not too much later, and that one usually leaves at around 5:30."

"Thank you very much, Mrs Wilson. That was most helpful," Carson said, bowing his head.

After saying his goodbyes, he quickly left the pub and walked back up to the abbey to impart his newfound knowledge.

"But what do we do now? That description the lady gave Carson is not much to go off. It might have been Papa, but it could also fit plenty of other men."

Mary was restlessly pacing the library, walking up and down on the carpet with her arms crossed in front of her chest as she seemed deep in thought, more talking to herself than Matthew.

He looked on in considerable concern, swirling around the whiskey in the tumbler he was holding in his left hand. He had tried to get Mary to sit down next to him on the settee for a while now, to no avail. She was too preoccupied by this whole business and he could not blame her for it. He, too, was more than mildly concerned for his missing father-in-law.

Softly, he replied: "Tell me again what Carson said. What did Mrs Wilson see exactly?"

"Oh," she sighed distractedly before recounting the key points of what Carson had relayed to her upon his return for a fourth time. "Just that she saw a tall man walk down the road in the rain, a suitcase in hand. It was not a lot to go by, Matthew."

"Yes, so I've gathered. She mentioned the train whistles going off for the early train, didn't she?"

Finally stopping her incessant, anxious laps around the library and releasing her arms to fall at her side, she nodded. "She did not look at a clock, but it must have been just after 5 in the morning, before the first train left the station."

"Well, let us quickly assume the man she saw was Robert. Where does that train go? Does it run north or does it go up to London? I can never quite remember."

Slowly, Mary walked over to the settees and sat down next to her husband at long last.

"That must be the train going to London, the one running north carries the mail and that does not get here until later in the morning when we breakfast. But where are you…"

"We should telephone your aunt. If it was him and he took that train, then he went to London and I bet he would go to her first." Nervously, he looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. "Is it too late to telephone her now?"

Mary shook her head no, saying: "Oh no, she'll still be awake, especially if he's there. I hope to god you are onto something here, Matthew. I've got such an odd feeling about this. What if something happened to him?"

Matthew saw nothing but fear in her wide brown eyes when he looked at her. Granted, he did not know everything about what had happened before Robert had disappeared, she could not get herself to tell him the whole story before, but he knew enough to recognise the genuine fear on her features and the sorrow at the events that had led them to this moment.

Quickly he reached for her hand resting in her lap and squeezed it gently.

"I just don't understand why Cora is not asking after him, Mary. I know things have not exactly been smooth sailing between them, but this is so unlike your parents," he whispered gently.

Sighing, Mary got up without letting go of his hand in hers. "Come, let us telephone Aunt Rosamund and then I will tell you everything I know. Just… not here, darling."

Puzzled, he got up and followed her out into the hall to try to shed some light onto this discombobulated mess that had become their daily life.

Chapter Text

The slender yet golden and warm stream of sunlight peeking through the tiny space between the drawn curtains shone brightly directly on her face, tickling her nose until she woke up. Slowly and only very reluctantly she opened her eyes and sat up in bed. It was so quiet all around, it was almost like a dream and so she kept sitting there for a minute, taking it all in. Much more energetically than before, she swung her legs out from underneath the blanket and felt the carpet underneath her feet luring her back into reality. It was a rarity that she should wake up on her own accord before her maid came in to wake her and help get her ready. Slightly suspicious about that, she turned to look at the clock sitting on her bedside table. To her surprise it was far earlier than she had initially thought — O'Brien would not come to wake her for another two hours at the very least.

With a slight groan, she let herself fall back into the cushions, most of the energy that had seemed to surge through her only seconds before vanished after she realised she still had hours to rest. Then her arm stretched out, entirely unintentionally, searching for him in the other half of the bed. As she stretched her hand out and let it brush over the bedding she found it crisp and cold to her touch. Confused, she turned her head still resting on the pillow to find his side of the bed empty, all made up the way it had been the night before. He had not slept there. Her hand began to glide over the sheets once more, drawing feather-light circles with her delicate fingers on the stark white fabric under the heavy comforter. And then they stopped their movements and she suddenly remembered why his side had remained empty the whole night.

As if pricked by an invisible needle or burned on a lambent candle, she bolted out of bed. Cora crossed her arms across her chest and walked up to the big window hidden for the most part behind the curtains she had drawn the night before. She came to a halt only about an arm's length away from it, her eyes curiously fixed on the photograph on her dressing table she had turned to the side weeks ago when, sitting at her dressing table and getting ready to face another strenuous dinner, she hadn't been able to bear his eyes staring at her from inside the simple silver frame for even just a second longer. Just that old photograph of him taken before he had gone to fight in the Boer War had filled her with so much anger and resentment that she had not seen another solution, and it had worked. Her maid had surely noticed this, that the back of the frame had been facing her, but she had yet to say a word about it. Cora knew her trusty lady's maid would never mention it, not to her and not to another living soul. That was simply who O'Brien was; her attentive, ever supportive and trustworthy lady's maid.

And now, standing next to her dresser, she saw it again. That old, faded photograph of him in his new uniform, his hair cut much shorter than she had been used to. But he looked proud, Cora vividly remembered why. It wasn't just because he would be going to war to fight for his Queen and the country, but also because of what they had all said when they had seen him in this uniform for the first time. She could still see their daughters standing behind the man operating the camera, talking about how much they liked that uniform on him. Or rather Mary and Edith had been talking about it, likely bickering about what they liked most. Sybil had been too young, having been barely 5 years of age at the time, to know anything about uniforms and their use. She had had no idea her father would be sent to very distant shores just a few weeks later without any of them knowing if he would ever return to them in one piece. But she had been the one to tell him that the uniform and new haircut did suit him, just moments before the photographer announced he should try not to move for this picture to turn out good. His reaction to that bittersweet moment had been captured then, the genuine smile immortalised in the photography there.

And now, their sweet daughter was no longer there. Sybil was gone. Dead. When she died, it seemed she had unknowingly and unwillingly taken their decades of mutual understanding based on trust and companionship and love for one another away with her. She would hate to see the two of them being this way, so far estranged from one another.

If Cora had not cried so much the past few weeks, she would have broken down right then and there, reduced to a bundle of sobs on top of their bed, as that realisation dawned on her. But alas, it seemed Cora had cried so many tears since that awful night as she mourned her daughter that she had no tears left to cry for the husband she was so desperately missing.

Robert had not slept in that bed for over a month now, all that was left of his omnipresent love and companionship was now only a gaping hole in the centre of her life, almost as if he had gone, died, along with their daughter.

Only that circumstance was on her. She had pushed him away. Vehemently. Continuously. Every advance he had made to set things right between them over the past weeks she had blocked. She had had good reason to rebuff him again and again, but deep down she knew it had been the wrong thing to do. As had been leaving him behind at the Dower House after the doctor had left. She should not have left without a word and she would for sure be getting an earful about this from her mother-in-law, she could already hear the hefty reprimand she was in for. Maybe it was best to go seek her out and apologise on her own accord to calm the waves before they turned into a full-blown storm. She made a mental note to tell Carson to ask Haynes to drive her down to the village later in the afternoon as she had an important call to pay.

All she wanted to do as she stood there was to hold her daughter close and watch her cradle that little bundle of joy who was blissfully asleep in the nursery down the hall. She'd never get to do that, she'd never get to see little Sybil be held by her mother. She'd never see that blissful smile on her darling daughter's features again, the one Cora got to witness just hours before all hell broke loose that night. It was horrible to remember what followed young Sybil's birth, but Cora would forever cherish that relieved, joyous smile on her daughter's face when her newborn daughter was handed to her. It was an image she cherished and held on to on mornings like this. On those hard mornings when she remembered, when she desperately needed cheering up.

Just as desperately as she needed cheering up, however, she felt that she needed to see him. As she thought of their daughter, all she wanted to do was hug him tight. All she wanted was to feel his strong arms around her. She wanted to feel safe, she longed for his embrace and his soothing voice as he spoke so tenderly to her like he had done in the past whenever she needed it. Cora was sure she would break down the instant she felt his arms around her, but it wouldn't matter. He was her husband, such a thing had never put him off before.

Only Robert could piece together again her broken heart that had been shattered into a thousand pieces with merely his presence and loving words. Only he could fix her broken, tired soul. Only her husband would be able to guide her out of this dreary bog that had become her daily life filled with so much sadness and misery.

But after weeks, Robert had finally listened to her demands and stopped approaching. He had stopped his advances just when she desperately needed him close. Now, she realised, it was solely on her to go find him, to seek him out and ask him back. It was on her to fix the bond she had slowly and gradually worn thin with her refusal, until at last it had disintegrated right in front of her eyes.

Not even bothering to put on her dressing gown, she crossed her room and knocked on the door to his dressing room. For a good minute she waited, straining to hear his voice through the wood asking her to step in, but she heard no such thing. Then she waited with bated breath, trying to hear his light, even snores through the door in case he was still asleep. She did not hear those, either, so eventually she opened the door and hesitantly stepped inside.

Looking around she noticed that the bed was made and that the fire in the small fireplace had never been lit the night before; the small logs were still neatly assembled in the hearth waiting to be lit. Even apart from that, this room felt cold. Uninhabited. It was still early and not at all a time at which even he would be up on any given day, even if he had business errands to run around the estate, so where was he if not in here?

Suddenly doubting her brash decision to go into her husband's room uninvited, she stepped towards the window where the display case containing his snuffboxes stood. Her eyes wandered over them, one by one. Most of the small boxes neatly assembled in the display had been given to him by her throughout the years. She distinctly remembered the one she gifted him on their tenth anniversary — it was quite prominent with its intricate carvings, lying next to the inconspicuous one she had found in London while searching for a gift for his 40th birthday all those years ago. The tiny silver one she had given him to take to war, battered and dented as it now was, sat right there in the centre of the display. They were all here, every last one she had given him throughout the years he had kept. A collection assembled over the course of a lifetime and she remembered every last one.

Wistfully and moved by this realisation, she looked out ahead onto the gravel. She realised that this morning had been the first in a long time when just the mere thought of him had not filled her with rage, resentment or unbearable sadness and emptiness. This morning — just minutes earlier — she had been able to look at his photograph without having to think of her daughter writhing in bed, struggling to breathe. Instead, she had recalled that sweet moment over twenty years ago, when her daughter had been but a young, innocent girl and her husband a soldier about to go to war. That single memory had filled her with a warmth deep inside she hadn't felt in weeks. It had filled her with a warmth she had thought she would never be able to feel again.

Down below, in the early morning light, Haynes had just parked Matthew's car in front of the door, greeting her son-in-law who stepped out the front door at that moment. Quickly, the two men examined the car as if to make sure it was ready for a longer drive. Maybe Matthew had a long day of errands for the estate to run ahead of him. It would not be out of the ordinary, she thought. Robert had done the same years earlier. What was abnormal was her husband's absence from this room and it seemed he was not going to join Matthew, either. Just as she was standing there, Cora saw Mary climb into the passenger seat of the car. She watched their chauffeur retreat then as her son-in-law sat down behind the steering wheel and started to drive the car down the winding way down to the gates.

A while later, Cora was still lying in bed, unmoving, staring at the ceiling as her thoughts ran rampant. Even though Sybil, as the doctor had said, could have been saved by the operation Robert had spoken against, he should be there next to her at that very moment. Earlier, her hands had searched the bed for him without ever wasting a single waking thought on it, it had been an instinct in her sleep-drunken state; one she had had for decades of waking up next to him now. He should be there, they should be talking to each other. Her hand right now should be stretched out to touch him gently. He should be there, whispering a raspy good morning to her like he'd always done. Despite everything, he was still her husband and today, she felt she needed him.

For the first time in weeks, she felt she needed to feel him close to be able to face the day ahead. How was she supposed to go down to the village to apologise to her mother-in-law for her abrupt, wordless departure if he was not there next to her to appease his mother? How was she supposed to survive those horrid looks her mother-in-law would be shooting her way when he was not there to give her strength by simply squeezing her hand reassuringly as had always been his custom? How was she supposed to go to her daughter's grave in the village graveyard without breaking down when he was not there to hold her hand? How was she supposed to be doing any of it when he was not there making sure she was feeling alright, reassuring her that he was there for her? Robert, her Robert, would do that, all of that, in a heartbeat. She had not a single doubt about that.

He should be here, and yet he wasn't.

But if he wasn't here with her or in his dressing room and also not with Matthew and Mary, then where was he? Where was her husband?

And then she recalled this truly odd conversation she had had with Mary when her daughter had come to her bedroom to ask after him not too long ago. Cora had told her daughter to ask her grandmother about Robert's whereabouts but she had never followed up.

Suddenly, she realised that maybe this had to do with his recurrent absence from dinner that had darkened her mood the night before. What if he still had not come home since then?

This got Cora jumping back into motion. She should get dressed, she could not very well go down to the village dressed in nothing but her nightgown and it was a matter of utmost urgency to her. It simply could not wait until afternoon when it would be socially acceptable to pay Mama a call. She hastened to pull on the bell rope and then quickly went to the bathroom to freshen up before O'Brien would arrive.

Suddenly, she felt like there was no time to lose.

"Cora!" she exclaimed when she saw her daughter-in-law entering her sitting room at 9 o'clock in the morning — a time most unusual to be paying calls of any nature. Having somewhat recovered from the shock of seeing her daughter-in-law stand in the door only minutes after she had come down and settled into the room herself, she added by way of courtesy: "Do come in. What brings you here so early?"

Cora deliberately ignored Violet's hands motioning for her to take a seat on one of the pale blue settees and instead opted to keep standing, rather awkwardly, in the middle of the room. It not only earned her a disapproving look but also an arched eyebrow, a slight shake of the head and a low tut.

"Taking a seat would have no merit, I will not be here long enough," she gave back quickly.

"Quite alright. What brings you here this early then?"

"I'm only here to ask if you have any idea where Robert is at the moment?"

"How curious, Mary and Matthew came to see me only yesterday to ask the exact same question. I thought he had come home by now." Violet said quietly, seeming lost in thought for a second. "I can only tell you what I told them. I have not seen my son since he left here, following after you a few days ago. He even left his hat behind as well as his cane when he walked back up to the abbey. Do tell me that he is simply keeping busy, buried in work of some sort," she went on, almost pleading with Cora by the end.

"I am afraid that is not the case. Mary has been looking for him for days now, Edith was the last person to see him when he came home from the visit here. He never came down to dinner that night and he hasn't ever since. His dressing room is empty and nobody has seen him." Similar to earlier, the mere thought that something might have happened to her husband made her oddly emotional considering her quite torn feelings regarding him in the past few weeks. These feelings went so deep that ultimately, she choked on the words she wanted to say. "I am just worri-"

There was no need to finish that sentence, though. Violet could well enough see all the worry and the regret mirrored on Cora's face. It shouldn't put her at ease quite like this, but oddly enough it did. She took it as a good sign to see her daughter-in-law care so openly again, it was so different from the emotionally distant Cora she had witnessed following Sybil's death. It might not have been what she or anyone had wanted to hear coming from Doctor Clarkson's mouth that afternoon a few days ago, but maybe the finality of what the doctor had said had been enough to bring them at least a little closer together again. Or at least it seemed to have prompted her to drop some of her heavy grief to allow him in again. But if nobody had seen him since the afternoon a few days ago, then maybe the desired effect had only reached Cora, contrary to Violet's expectations. And suddenly, she felt a pang of guilt in her chest. There was no possibility of the talk with Doctor Clarkson not having influenced his sudden disappearance, she knew her son well enough to know that for a fact.

What if…

Her voice laced with suspicion once she had composed herself again, Cora asked: "You know something, don't you?"

Appearing caught, Violet mustered the handle of her cane leaning against the desk to her left while nervously spinning around the wedding and engagement rings on her finger.

"I don't know anything."

No. He wouldn't. Or if he would, he would have done it far earlier.

"There is something you are not telling me. What is it, Mama?" Cora insisted, her blue-eyed, piercing stare not relenting as she looked at her mother-in-law.

"I know nothing with any certainty. But," Violet started slowly, now playing with a pen that had been lying on her right on the desk she was sitting in front of.

"But?"

"I may have told him it would be good to gain some distance."

"You did what?"

"Just after the funeral. You were both so wretchedly unhappy and he came to me for tea one afternoon, seeming so completely and utterly hopeless. I told him that maybe going away could help, though I rather meant that you should go visit your mother and be with her as I thought that might help you come to terms with it all. And he understood what I meant, but I could see in his eyes that he would never even pose the possibility to you, even if you had been talking to one another at the time. And yet I am afraid he might have taken that advice following your last visit here."

Cora heaved a deep breath trying to stay calm. It should not come as this big of a surprise to her that Violet had mentioned something like this to her husband, but it did. How on earth could she even so much as entertain the thought of her travelling to America just days after her youngest daughter had died? It boggled her mind and she had quite a few words to say to her about her meddling and everything else as well, but that simply would not do.

Not dignifying her mother-in-law with a response, she turned around and made to leave.

That same instant, Violet called her back. "Cora, wait." She picked up a folded sheet of paper that had been resting on the desk, previously untouched. Holding it out for her daughter-in-law to take, she said: "Doctor Clarkson left this here, I assume by accident. Have a look at it, please."

It was only the soft tone of her voice and her pleading eyes that prompted Cora to take the folded paper and put it into the purse dangling from her arm. It was only all too easy to forget that not only had they lost a daughter, but she a granddaughter as well. Moments like these, when she appeared more vulnerable than possibly ever before, reminded Cora of it.

Her complexion mellowed and she even managed a small smile, saying: "Thank you, Mama."

Then she turned around to leave once again. Her long strides had already carried her across most of the room when Violet's voice rang out once again in a quiet plea behind her. "Please find him, dear."

She stopped. Cora had reached the threshold by now and didn't turn around to face her again, she only turned her head to the side to signal that she was indeed listening.

"Bring him home, bring my son back to where he belongs."

At this, Cora looked over her shoulder, her back still facing the room she was about to leave behind. Refusing to meet Violet's eye, she nodded her head lightly and merely breathed: "I will try."

She stood there in the doorframe unable to move for another few seconds, as if her feet were frozen to the ground. She was trying to breathe and reign in her almost overflowing emotions until finally, she walked down the hallway in quick, long strides towards the car parked up front.

"Where is this goddamned bottle?" he shouted angrily into the smoke-heavy darkness of the room, not expecting a reply for there was nobody there with him.

He was alone. All alone with his thoughts, his cigars, and the whiskey. Or he was alone with the cigars and his thoughts — he had just downed the last drop of the amber liquid from the decanter that had been standing atop the silver tray on the wooden cabinet that was holding port and other spirits he was no great fan of, and now there was none left. Apart maybe from another odd bottle of Whiskey inside he was now looking for.

That decanter had not lasted him nearly long enough. Still, he wanted more. He needed more. He needed to feel the alcohol burn inside him as he swallowed it, he needed to feel its effects take over. He needed to feel the subsequent numbness to finally take over his mind. Even the blatant numbness, that complete and utter lack of any type of feeling, was better than feeling all these things and thinking all these thoughts he so desperately wanted to shut off.

Feverishly he rummaged around inside the cabinet while down on his knees, the bottles and decanters inside clanking against one another, with his hands unsteadily shaking as he tried to find more. He could barely make out the labels on the bottles, not that reading those would have been possible for him in his current state. It was all more blurry and obscure than he was used to, and the darkness that filled the room was of no great help, either.

Maybe he should not have sent the footman away when he had arrived here. Now it was just him, the cook and their new hallboy in the grand house. This grand house that was so empty, so silent. It truly was deafening, this silence, and he had rarely ever thought that was a word that could describe a silence of any kind.

He had immediately tried to fill the void it created with the same tools he always resorted to. Only now he had apparently run out of his favourite one and he had not come down here from his room much more than three hours ago. This was the third decanter of whiskey he had emptied within the past 24 hours since he arrived here in London — it must have been a new personal record, not that he was in any state of mind to think about that. Slowly it dawned on him that he could ring the bell — maybe that hallboy would come and he could send him to find some more whiskey in the depths of the cellars here.

Even before Robert could decide to walk over to where the rope was dangling from the wall, he heard the young lad's voice coming from somewhere behind him.

"I'm ever so sorry to interrupt, sir, but there is a woman at the door asking after you."

The boy had not been around any people of their station much so far in his young life, he knew that immediately from the false way of address, but the news he brought was more important than etiquette. If there even was such a thing as important news anymore. He highly doubted it, nothing was of any importance any longer, not to him. He had lost his daughter and his wife, likely his entire family, so why shouldn't he lose his title as well? He had lost everything already, what was a name compared to all that?

Lackadaisically, he turned to look at the boy standing in the doorway, light flooding into the room from the hallway behind him. Robert had to blink a few times to grow accustomed to it once again, still only able to see the boy's silhouette, quite blurry and swaying at that.

"Who's it?" he then asked, trying his best not to slur his words too much while also getting up off the ground with as much dignity as he could muster.

"She said her name was Painswick if I understood her correctly."

"Tell her to go away. I'm not here."

The boy, he was barely older than twelve per Robert's earlier estimation upon first meeting him, turned on his heel and left without another word.

A second later, Robert added loudly: "Better yet, tell that to anyone who knocks. I'm not here!"

He did not know if the boy had heard him or not, but it wouldn't matter. Once his sister had left again, nobody would come looking for him either way. Nobody else cared much for him, not after what he had done.

Without wasting a single thought on it, he reached out to the decanters and glasses on the tray and took hold of the next best thing he could reach. In one swift motion, he hoisted it up and hurled it at the fireplace. The sound of the glass hitting the wall did not register with him, and neither did the shattering of the crystal into a thousand tiny pieces. Even the angry hissing noise the embers in the hearth emitted and the sparks sent flying around when the alcohol ran down the wall, trickling onto them, barely coaxed a reaction from him.

He had killed his daughter. Or at least he had prevented their doctor from saving her, and that amounted to the same thing. His wife could not even stand to so much as look at him. And neither could he whenever he stood in front of any mirror.

In the far distance, he heard them talking. It was undoubtedly Rosamund at the door downstairs, he could tell that much from just the distant, muffled sound of her voice reaching him. And as much as he'd have liked to talk to his sister, he knew it would not be a good idea. Just like everyone else she'd despise him when she found out the truth and he would inevitably tell her if she came up here, he knew that much for sure.

Swaying to and fro, he slowly and cautiously tried walking over to the window hidden behind the thick fabric that kept most of the light outside, trapping him in this semi-darkness. Peeking through the heavy, drawn curtains, he watched as his red-headed sister crossed the street down below, her head held high.

She turned around once she'd reached the other side and looked up at the house almost as if she were inspecting it, her eyes wandering from window to window as disappointment was written all over her features. At first, it seemed as if she hadn't seen him, but then he thought he saw her expression change. The disappointment waned and was replaced by confusion and worry.

Nonetheless, she turned around again after looking at what little she saw of him swaying behind the window up above, and then started to make her way back home to Belgrave Square once more.

Chapter Text

"What do you mean, he might be at Grantham House?"

"Precisely that," Rosamund retorted as she reclined in one of the armchairs in her sitting room. The cup of tea on the side table beside her was still steaming hot. That fact she had to learn the hard way a minute ago when she burned her tongue trying to prolong having to talk about what she had seen out and about earlier. Something told her that Robert had his reasons for having the hallboy send her away like that despite being home. It would all be perfectly easy to understand once someone bothered to fill her in on what happened; she was sure of that. But for now, it was all just very odd.

"Well, is he or is he not there? Because if he is, then I do not see a reason to dawdle around here," Mary gave back in exasperation. She had just sat down opposite her aunt but was leaning forward now, ready to bolt up and leave in a heartbeat.

"I'm telling you, I am not sure."

Matthew stood behind Mary and placed a hand on her shoulder, trying to mollify her with this simple, calming gesture. "That's still not a reason for you to bite your aunt's head off, dear."

Rosamund only nodded her head in benign sympathy at Matthew. It was nice of him that he tried to mediate, but at least on Rosamund's account, there was no need to. She knew that Mary was stressed out and worried given Robert's seemingly sudden disappearance, and she was not unaffected by this extraordinary situation, either. She had been worrying away since her niece had called the night before. This was all so out of the ordinary, unlike anything that had ever happened before, and her visit to Grantham House earlier in the day had only added more puzzling questions to her already quite extensive list. With a sigh, she began to relate all that had transpired.

"I was there at around noon and a hallboy came to answer the door. He must be new, seemed quite a young chap and I have never seen him there before. When I asked after Robert, he reacted so weirdly. At first, he did not reply at all, and then he told me to wait because he had to go and check, refusing even to let me inside to wait in the hall. It all made no sense; he should know if the owner of the house was there or not, should he not? Even if he is just a hallboy. Anyway, he returned a few minutes later, telling me nobody was home. He seemed nervous, as if he was hiding something, but I couldn't very well push past him inside. So I left again. Only when I stood on the pavement across the street did I think I might have seen someone standing behind one of the library windows up above. It might have been Robert, but I am not entirely sure," she explained evasively, even though she was sure it had been her brother whom she had seen up above. There was no point in getting Mary's hopes up. If he hadn't wanted to talk to his sister that morning, then he surely would not welcome his daughter with open arms, either.

"That's it. I'll go there now and see for myself." Even before she had said that, Mary tried to get up, but Matthew's hand on her shoulder kept holding her back and seated firmly in the blue armchair.

"No, Mary. You are not going anywhere," he said quietly but with determination.

It earned him an unnerved look over her shoulder. Couldn't he accept that she was worried about her father and wanted to find him as soon as possible? Sitting around here and listening to her aunt's vague answers would not be overly helpful in finding him. And he had already brought her here to London anyway, so what was with the hesitation now?

Rosamund then looked at the pair, concern and curiosity creasing her brow in equal measure. "Would someone please fill me in as to why my brother is missing in the first place? I cannot imagine, even for a second, that he simply decided to go away without telling anyone for no reason. I know my brother. And this is not the type of behaviour he is prone to showing."

Mary almost winced at the sound of her aunt's tone. It was pretty reminiscent of Violet's signature snark, only Mary had not been prepared to find herself subject to it all the way up in London.

"Here's what we will do," Matthew stated, rounding Mary's chair and coming to a halt again next to his wife, his back facing the door. Both women were looking at him expectantly until he finally elaborated. "Mary, you will tell your aunt all that you told me last night. It is unfair that we sent her out today when she is still in the dark about everything that has happened and led us here. While you do that, and I imagine it will take you a while, I will go to Grantham House and check myself. I am the heir, and the hallboy will have to let me in. He might not have known that Rosamund is Robert's sister, after all. But he cannot argue with this."

Begrudgingly, Mary agreed and watched her husband scurry out of the room while her aunt looked at her, not-so-patiently waiting for her to begin the proposed explanation.

To say Matthew was getting impatient would be an understatement. He had been standing outside in the dense and smog-filled air for over ten minutes now, and it was not a great feeling to know others were clearly eyeing him suspiciously as he waited at the top of the stone stairs. Finally, the new hallboy Rosamund had mentioned came back to the door and let him in. Hurriedly, Matthew followed him inside and immediately looked around the entryway and up the staircase while he handed over his hat and smoothed down his hair. He waited for the boy to send him to any of the rooms, but he never did, and so Matthew impatiently asked a few seconds later: "Now, where is he?"

"Who do you mean, sir?"

"Come on, lad. You know fully well that I am talking about His Lordship. Don't play coy with me, and tell me where I can find him so I can get him home on time for dinner." Matthew's impatience was growing stronger and stronger by the second. He quickly realised that even his mild temper had its limits.

The hallboy looked at the ground ashamed, mumbling: "But His Lordship ordered me to tell everyone who asks after him that he is not here. He does not wish to be disturbed. I am sure he won't like me making an exception for you, sir."

"And I am telling you to take me to him, or I will search the entire house until I find him on my own. It is your decision, but be aware that you will have to find new employment elsewhere if you don't tell me where he is right this instant." Matthew was not a man of ultimatums and threats, but he found this had already gone on for far too long. But he was not looking forward to possibly having to search the entire house only to find his father-in-law, wherever he was hiding, either.

"He retired to his dressing room a little less than an hour ago," the boy said. Far less sure of himself and much quieter, he added: "But please don't tell him I told you, sir. He is very irritable right now."

Usually, he would have lectured the boy on what was proper and what was not; him saying that his employer was in a bad way certainly was anything but appropriate, even to this middle-class lawyer from Manchester. However, a look into the boy's face told Matthew that he was terrified even though he did not seem to be of the naturally timid sort. He could only wonder about the mood his father-in-law was in. He would never do anything unbecoming, least of all to a child — and the boy was indeed just a child in his eyes — but his tongue could be quite sharp and his temper capricious.

Matthew's hardened expression mellowed and he placed a hand on the boy's slumped shoulder. "I will not tell him, I promise. You've done well, boy. Now go down to the kitchens and have some supper. I don't think you will be needed now."

With a grateful and relieved smile on his face, the boy scurried to the baise door and vanished behind it as quickly as he could.

When Matthew reached the top of the stairs and stood before the dressing room door, he paused briefly, contemplating again whether he should do this. Then he remembered what Mary had told him about the past few weeks. The thought alone that Robert had seen the need to go away at all was enough to reignite his determination, and with new vigour, he pushed open the door without knocking first.

The room was dark, not a single light aglow inside. And it smelled of old, cold smoke and alcohol and sweat. It was an unpleasant mixture of scents, quite unfortunately so, especially in a room as quaint as this. It took a while for his eyes to grow accustomed to the low light, and still, he could not make out enough of the interior to see Robert.

"Go away, I have not rung the bell," his voice sounded from somewhere inside. It was hard for Matthew to understand what he said, so slurred was his voice and so aggravated the tone. But it was undeniably Robert's voice. That realisation elicited a tiny, relieved sigh in Matthew. Their frantic search had come to an end at last. But something told him that finding Robert had been the easier part of this journey. Convincing him to go back home to where it all had happened would be a much greater feat to accomplish.

"I know you have not rung the bell, but I will not go away either."

"I said, go away!" Robert repeated, this time sounding even more enraged and outright brutish.

Even though it surprised him that Robert had this in him when he mainly had known him as such a benign man, this still left Matthew quite unimpressed. He was there on a mission and had not been so harsh to the poor boy downstairs for no reason. In the dark, he fumbled for the light switch on the wall beside him. When he found it and light finally flooded the room, he was horrified to see the state it was in.

Clothes were strewn across the room, and an open leather suitcase was discarded on top of the bedding, along with another black tie and some handkerchiefs still nestled inside. The lamp that originally belonged on the nightstand lay next to the bed, the glass lampshade broken into a thousand pieces, burying a small stack of books in a dangerous pile on the floor.

"Robert," he started as his eyes darted around the room, trying to see where his father-in-law was.

From somewhere behind the bed, Robert then slowly stood up. Or rather, he tried to while holding tightly onto the bed frame. It took him a while, but eventually, he was in an upright position facing him. Still, even though he was holding on to the wooden frame as fast as he could, he was swaying precariously from left to right. His expression was dark; Matthew had never seen this sort of look on him, just like he had never heard him speak in such a manner before. Seeing this, he suddenly understood why that poor boy downstairs had seemed so intimidated.

"Who let you in?" He slurred as he tried to round the bed without letting go of it for even just a second. Which was just as well, he might not have stayed upright had he let go. "Was it that kid? Oh, he can go and find new work in the morning," he growled, the words barely graspable as he got closer.

"No, he won't do any of that because you will not fire him for doing what we are paying him for," Matthew said decisively. "But you will come with me now, back to Belgrave Square. We have been worried sick and looking for you for far too long already. And you need to be among people, clearly."

At this, Robert only scoffed and almost tripped on his feet at the same time.

Matthew fought the urge to go to him and help him to sit on the bed. More mellowed, though, he said: "Please, Robert. Mary has been looking for you for days, and Rosamund is worried. Plus, I'm sure that Cora will want to know you're saf-"

"Don't!" he boomed, his already concerningly dark, hostile expression darkening even further.

If Matthew didn't know better, he'd have said he saw Robert's eyes briefly glaze over in a look of violent rage he had never seen before.

"Don't you dare say that! You know nothing," Robert spat. "She has made it perfectly clear she wants nothing from me, so I am giving her what she wants. And now leave, before I throw you out!"

Something told Matthew he had better listen and leave, even though Robert was physically not in any state to do anything substantial, as soon as he had to let go of bed.

This was not the benign father-in-law he knew and had come to admire ever since his life turned upside down many years ago. This was a drunk, an angry man who had been disappointed and sent away maybe one too many times.

As Robert slowly swayed even closer while holding onto the bed, Matthew raised his hands in defeat and backed out of the room.

For a minute, he stood there looking at the white door, aghast. What was he to do now? He couldn't leave him here alone in such a state. He also couldn't stay, not with the way Robert was behaving. Dilatorily, he walked down the stairs and into the small library to think. What was he to say to Mary? She would want to come and try talking to him herself, which was obviously not a good idea at the moment. Or at least until he had slept most of it off.

He should have been more surprised to find the decanters empty and a few crystal glasses missing when he entered the library and passed by the liquor tray, but he had seen Robert. The only thing that could ever turn his father-in-law into the person upstairs in the stuffy dressing room were copious amounts of alcohol consumed in a very short period of time.

Silence once again reigned over the room with an iron fist when the door closed behind Matthew. But the light was still on, and Robert saw the state the room was in. His eyes followed the trail of clothes strewn about when he realised just how wobbly and unstable his legs were. The adrenalin that had rushed through his body when Matthew had announced himself was waning, and so were his vigours and concentration. He tried to sit down on the edge of the bed, but much to his annoyance, his suitcase was still there. In an angry huff, he yanked it off and threw it on the ground, the tie and handkerchiefs inside joining the rest of his clothes on the wooden planks to his feet.

He sat there, his shoulders slumped, looking ahead while the room spun around him. When the spinning had subsided at least somewhat, he looked around himself.

There were the once neatly folded clothes he had tardily thrown inside the suitcase before dawn had broken the day he had left. There were the handkerchiefs he had packed in case he had to cover up his emotions on the train by feigning a runny nose should someone else share his first class carriage. And there were his travel boots, still caked in mud from his rainy walk down to the station as the sun was set to rise over Yorkshire, hiding away behind dark rain clouds.

Out of nowhere, he felt incredibly hot, and his shirt seemed to be sticking to his skin underneath his jacket. Getting up and staying upright had been more challenging than he had realised; the beads of sweat that had broken out on his brow had gone unnoticed.

It had been a wonder in and of itself that he had managed to dress himself well enough that morning, but now it was time for him to undo all that hard work. Shakily, he shrugged out of the jacket and tried to place it on the suit butler standing in the corner, just within his reach from the bed. Much to his annoyance, though, it quickly slipped off and ended up in a heap on the floor. His cufflinks had never been adequately secured, partly due to a lack of skill and also — mainly — due to the last effects of the whiskey he had consumed the night before.

All of which made it all the easier for him to roll the shirtsleeves up. Still, he felt unnecessarily and uncomfortably hot in the small room. Maybe an open window might help, and so he tried to get up. And failed. Inelegantly, he dropped back down onto the edge of the narrow bed.

But now there was the mirror in front of him, his pitiable reflection staring straight back at him from a few feet away. This feeble excuse of a man, he almost didn't recognise himself.

Unshaven. Dark circles under his eyes. Just a shadow of himself, a shell of a man.

Only he wasn't alone. She was there, too, standing behind him next to the bed and looking over his shoulder. Almost as if she was staring into his soul. And she looked so beautiful.

He smiled. That was all he did for a few seconds. The swaying ceased, and the room stopped spinning around him. All because she was there with him.

"Oh, my darling," he whispered, tear-stricken. Then he tried to stand again and stumbled forward towards the looking glass. He stretched out his hand, expecting to be able to touch her, to feel the fabric of her dress underneath his fingertips. She looked so real, as if he could simply reach for her cheek to caress it gently the way he had done when she was younger.

But he was in for a disappointment. Instead of touching fabric or her soft skin, all he felt was the sensation of the cold sheet of glass beneath his fingers when he reached in. As quickly as the smile had appeared on his face, it vanished. His vision was still blurry, but now that he had come this close to his reflection — their reflection — he saw clearly that she was not smiling back at him as he had previously thought and hoped. No. She was staring at him, her eyes hard. Unrelenting. Cold.

"I should be with my daughter and husband, you know it. I shouldn't be here."

"No, no," he whimpered. His fingers, despite only feeling the chill from the glass, tried once more to graze over her cheek so lovingly. He wanted her to look at him like she always had, with such adoration and affection. He had never seen her look so cold, so heartless, not even when they had fought after he had refused to let her marry Branson. Even then, there had still been love left for him in her eyes, but not now. Not anymore. A tear rolling down his reddened cheek, he pleaded, "If only I could change it. Come back to me, please."

"It's your fault. It's all your fault, Papa. And you know it."

"Please, darling. I never meant for this to happen. I never meant for you to die. I only ever wanted what was best for you."

He tried to focus. If only he could concentrate enough, then maybe she could be there with him for real. Maybe -

"It's your fault."

"No, enough of that!" he retorted, panic beginning to take over. This was not his daughter.

She would never speak to him like this. She was headstrong but never cruel.

"You killed me, Papa, and you damned my daughter to a cursed life without me. She will never know what a mother's love feels like."

"Enough, I said!" he shouted. In a sudden surge of rage, the hand that had previously tried to reach out for her hauled away from the glass, only to forcefully reconnect with it a split second later.

He heard it happen before he felt it. That cracking noise upon impact, followed by more, much more quiet cracks. The clatter as the single sheet of glass burst into hundreds of little shards littering the floor. And then he was suddenly not staring at himself any longer but rather at an old board of wood where the mirror used to be.

Trapped in a daze, he took a step back, the fragments that once made up his reflection now crunching underneath his shoes like snow after night frost.

And then the ache set in. First merely dull and throbbing, it quickly grew and he felt this sharp, shooting pain radiate through his right arm and from there through his body. And it felt warm, warm and wet. Involuntarily, he slowly looked down and saw bright red blood trickling from his knuckles and fingers, dripping onto one of his starched, white shirts that was already dotted with deep red spots amid the tiny glass fragments as he stood there. In shock at the sight, he tumbled back another step and fell onto the mattress when his heel hit the wooden bedframe; his sense of direction and coordination diminished once and for all. Now, as he looked up at the ceiling, his hand aching unlike anything he ever bore witness to before, the room around seemed to be spinning again. Even faster than before, or so it felt, at least.

The door to his left inching open was the last thing he saw before the lights turned off again

at last.

But despite the darkness, he still heard it. As quiet as it was, he still heard it.

"Robert."

"Where is he? Where is my husband?" she asked frantically. She all but stormed into the entrance hall of their London home, followed closely by her eldest daughter and her sister-in-law.

A boy had let them in; he seemed more than mildly confused by everything that happened that day as he watched them walk in, the door handle still in his hand. It was all so highly unusual. This was not what he had expected when he had applied here for this position earlier in the summer, even though it paid pretty well.

The ruckus in the hall coaxed Matthew out of the library to see who had gained entry. It more than surprised him to see his mother-in-law standing there, dressed in black from head to toe, her skin even paler than possibly ever before. Her wide blue eyes darted around as if she could see him if she only looked for him hard enough.

"Matthew!" Mary exclaimed when she passed her mother and briskly walked towards him while he only stood there, simply too stunned to speak at the sight before his eyes. "You had barely gone and left Belgrave Square when a cable reached us that she would arrive on the 6 oclock train, asking to be picked up from the station. We came here immediately. She has been in such a frightful, desperate state the entire time," she whispered in explanation when she stood next to him.

All he managed to do in response was nod slightly, too surprised by the turn this late afternoon had taken since he had left Belgrave Square.

"Cora, why don't we all go ahead into the library at first? That's where Matthew was up until now. It'll all be alright in the end, dear," Rosamund tried to mollify her, putting a gloved hand on her sister-in-law's upper arm.

Cora shied away from Rosamund's touch. "No, I want to find my husband now. I need to see him."

"Come to the library first, please. Neither you nor he are in any state to talk to anyone, let alone each other," Matthew replied.

"No, you don't understand. I need to see him. I am the reason he left and came here in the first place," Cora almost shrieked, her entire body shaking from all the pent-up inner turmoil.

"Cora, believe me. Now is not a good time-"

They heard the clang, faintly. Their heads whipped around to look up the stairs, waiting for more sounds to reach them. But it remained silent.

Cora was the first to jump into motion and hurry up the stairs, far too fast for anyone to stop her.

"Robert."

He heard a whisper. It was a voice he was most familiar with. And yet he doubted she was there. It was surely just his mind playing tricks on him. There was no other way.

"Wake up, darling. Please."

There it was again. Her voice, quiet and pleading. It was like a mirage, only he was not

imagining an oasis in the desert or a ship on the horizon at sea. No, this was her voice his subconscious was conjuring up for him.

"Is everything alright?"

Another female voice, this one younger, speaking in very hushed tones. He knew it well, too.

And then he heard a rustling sound followed by light footsteps on the creaky wooden floor.

"Yes, everything is in order. He's asleep; I'll wait here with him until he wakes up. You can all go back."

"Mama, I don't think that is a good idea. You've heard what Matthew said. That hallboy was scared of him, and he seems to have had a lot to drink."

"I'll be fine."

"Then at least let me in and wait with you. I don't want you to be alone now."

"No, Mary, you will go. I will wait for him to wake up, and we'll talk. There's no need for you to worry."

"But Mama…"

"No, and now go."

The door closed with a soft thud, followed by a chair being hauled across the floor, and then there was silence.

"Oh, Robert," she sighed quietly.

But he heard. He needed to wake up. Her voice soothed him, it was like a balm for the soul, but he didn't deserve that. Not even in dreams should he feel so at peace, not after what he'd done. Not after what he had taken from their family, what he had taken from their daughter.

Some reality would do him wonders; he needed to return there, his subconscious convinced him. He needed to face reality, the one in which he had smashed that mirror. That was the kind of life he had made for himself; that was what he should be getting used to. That was where he belonged instead of here, seeking comfort in his dreams.

He tried to move, but there was this sudden pain coursing through him that caused him to stop stirring immediately. It wasn't just his hand any longer, although that was for sure where part of it stemmed from. It was this sharp, stinging pain in his right hand he had felt before he fell onto the bed. But now, he also felt like his skull was being drilled into, the sensation not at all unknown to him. He had felt this dull and throbbing pain before after the odd night spent playing poker with a few other noblemen in his youth, but perhaps never quite this bad.

Nevertheless, he had caused this pain himself as well, so he tried to keep moving. However, all he managed before he heard the voice again was a deep and pained groan.

"Robert!"

He groaned again, this time at the sudden noise.

This time, quieter, softer, she repeated: "Robert."

Even just the low flicker of light emanating from a candle on the nightstand was enough to send another surge of utter discomfort through him when he finally forced his eyes to open.

He saw her. She had not been a figment of his imagination unless he was still dreaming. She was truly sitting there at his bedside in a chair she had pulled up.

Joy. Relief.

And then disappointment. Anger. Regret. Resentment.

He felt it all when he realised she was there. Despite what her presence meant, these destructive emotions gained the upper hand, and for a second, all the misery his body was in seemed pushed to the side, discarded like a newspaper from last week.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice low, resembling more of a growl.

"I came to look for you. You've been missing for days already."

"You wanted me gone. Made that perfectly clear. So I went away, and now you're following me? Go away. Go back home."

"Not without you."

She stretched out her hand to touch his arm, but he jerked it away just before her fingers could touch him. It was painful, the now deep red shirt wrapped around his hand a stark reminder of what happened earlier. But he rather wanted to feel that immense physical pain than the emotional that would follow feeling her hands on him.

The rejection stung and Cora could barely keep that from registering on her face, but she swallowed her disappointment. It was true, she had sent him away.

"Please, Robert, let me at least look at that," she pleaded, gesturing towards the arm he now held close to his chest. "I just quickly wrapped it around, but I'm sure there's a shard still in there."

"I don't care, and neither should you. Now go, I need some peace and quiet."

Just looking around and seeing the dancing shadows on the wall was enough to make him feel utterly nauseous.

"You can riot and fuss all you want; I won't go. I will stay right here until you have slept it off. We need to talk, Robert, you know that just as well as I do."

"I wanted to talk. For weeks, I tried and tried again. You made your point clear, and I agree. This, this right here, this is what I deserve." Suddenly, all the anger he felt inside dropped from his tone and was replaced by sheer melancholy. "We don't need to talk. You go home and let me stay here, that's what's best for everyone."

Her caring gaze scrutinised his face as he lay there, half-shrouded in shadows while the flame cast a warm, flickering glow on his cheek and brow. Then she bent over and blew out the candle, causing the room to fall into darkness again, just as he had before Matthew came in.

Determined, she whispered into the dark surrounding them. "No. We do need to talk, but you need to sleep first. I will be here when you wake up, I promise. And then we can go home."

It was a good thing the lights were off. That way, he couldn't see her trembling hands wiping away these treacherous tears rolling down her cheeks. His insistence over the past weeks had given her hope that it was not yet too late for a reconciliation, and she had clung to that the entire day. But now that she was with him again, all that was left for her to do was hope that she had not taken too long to get there. Physically and, more importantly, emotionally.

Hope, though, was a fragile thing; she knew that. Just one wrong word or one wrong turn and it was gone like the flicker of the candle she had blown out. And she hoped she had not extinguished this delicate flame just yet, even though it certainly felt like that.

Given the darkness, Cora couldn't see how torn he felt about her being there, either. In a way, this situation was all he had wanted. For weeks he had prayed for her to allow him near, to talk to him. But now that he had the opportunity, he wasn't sure if he could handle it. He wasn't sure if he even wanted to handle it.

Before Robert got to contemplate the situation any further, he fell back into blissful darkness, escaping the pain that had become overpowering and all-encompassing.

Chapter Text

He woke up with his head pounding mercilessly. Flurries of light dancing around the room like stars at night were all he could see when he finally managed to open his eyes. The scattered specks of light alone were enough for him to feel nauseous beyond measure, and so he shut his eyes tightly again to calm his insides. He couldn't recall ever having felt this way. The light was incredibly unnerving, and all the noise surrounding him was aggravating to a hellish extent. He heard people shouting and hooves clanking on cobblestones and motors rattling along an uneven street. Robert couldn't remember hearing any of this upon waking up the day before or even in the evening when he went to bed. Where was all the noise suddenly coming from?

Reluctantly, he opened his eyes again a little later. It took a while for these infuriating flashes of light to stop their incessant dance, but once they did and the initial nausea had subsided slightly, he saw that the entire room was bathed in warm, soft light. Narrowing his eyes to see something — anything — more than that, he noticed that someone had drawn open the curtains and also opened the window. That explained all the sudden noise, but who would do that? Who would simply walk in here to do all that unprompted, unannounced and most definitely unwarranted? Surely, the hallboy had not come up, or so Robert hoped at least. More so for the boy than for himself.

With his eyes finally growing accustomed to the light, Robert contemplated going to the bathroom to splash some water onto his face; perhaps that could help at least slightly with how wretched he was feeling. But before he could even move one leg out from underneath the thin sheet draped over him, he heard the door to his left open and close again.

"Good, you're awake."

Slightly too quickly, he whipped his head around to look at her - a decision he immediately regretted. He winced at the intensifying pain that followed, mainly throbbing near his temples and behind his eyes. He quietly groaned at the suddenness of it all and shut his eyes once more, hoping that would not only rid himself of the pain but also of these cursed hallucinations. For that was all this could be to him, just like the night before.

Still, nothing changed. When he opened his eyes again, Cora was still standing there, dressed in a black day dress, a glass of something securely held in her left hand.

"Stay there, don't get up. I'm sure you're feeling awful right now," she said softly as she approached him. "Here, I brought you some powder for the pain and a fresh bandage for your hand."

This couldn't be. How could she be here? She hadn't properly talked to him in weeks unless she absolutely had to; there was no way she was here in London now. This had to be a powerful kind of hallucination, an exceedingly stubborn one if he still couldn't seem to shake it. Surely, another hour or two of sleep could help to rid himself of it once and for all. He let himself fall back into the pillows, trying to go back to sleep.

"No, Robert. Not yet. Drink this first; it will help you. Then I will let you sleep again".

He could only watch with wide eyes as she came closer and closer, extending the glass to him when she stood next to the bed. His perplexed expression did not put her off in the slightest, quite the opposite, actually. A small, soft smile began to play on her lips. Then, when he did not take the glass she held out for him, she set it down on the wooden side table and rounded the bed to partly draw the heavy curtains closed again.

Really quite persistent, this hallucination. Much more obstinate than the one of Sybil had been the night before. At least that had gone away after the mirror had met its unfortunate end. He figured that if he did not react now, he would never get to go back to sleep and rid himself of it all, so he reluctantly stretched out his hand to grasp the glass standing on the nightstand. He tried his best to ignore the bitter, chalky taste and drank all the liquid before pulling a disgusted face and carefully setting the glass back down.

Robert did not know when she had left, but he saw her enter again from the adjoining room to his right with a small basin not too long after, right before he was about to nod off.

"Good, you drank it. You'll feel better soon; now settle down and let the powder work its magic. And let me have a look at that hand again."

Still feeling quite hazy, he decided to stop fighting what he could not make sense of anyway and did as he was told. Staring at the ceiling with a fixed gaze, he let whoever this person his mind was trying to turn into Cora do whatever they wanted or needed to do. The feathery light touch barely registered with him when the hastily wound, soaked shirt was removed from his right hand. Merely the last of it, the parts sticking directly to the injured parts of his hand, hurt, primarily due to the already dried blood working like some sort of glue. But it was nothing a soaking wet towel couldn't solve, it seemed. Robert barely moved an inch when the person he imagined being his wife carefully and so very gently tried to wipe off the dried blood around the more minor wounds. When it came to removing the shards still stuck inside, however, it took everything in him not to howl in pain. The only thing that calmed him down was the soothing noises whoever was attending to his hand was making. And before he knew it, the powder he had only reluctantly taken took effect and lulled him back to sleep just as the person was fastening the new bandage on his hand. If only he knew who it was, he'd have to thank them later.

She softly closed the door behind her, trying not to drop the basin full of water and spill it all over the floor.

"Here, let me take that," Matthew said as he quickly walked towards her in long strides from the room a bit further down the corridor.

"Oh, thank you, dear."

She smiled appreciatively as she handed the enamel basin over, relieved she would not have to balance it all the way downstairs on the hollowed-out stone steps of Grantham House to have someone dispose of it.

"You're most welcome. How is he doing today?"

"Quite out of it still, I'm afraid. I trust I do not want to know how much he had to drink. He hasn't said a word to me, not even when I cleaned his hand, which must have hurt a lot."

"I have never seen him behave like he did last night, truly. Truth be told, I never would have thought he had that in him. That was not the Robert we all know. The poor hallboy was frightened when I arrived here and questioned him, and, frankly, so was I when I finally found Robert in there and tried talking to him."

She clutched the handrail to her right and replied over her shoulder: "I can imagine. When I walked in last night, he was not exactly courteous to me either. Still, as I told Robert last night, I won't leave here without him."

They walked down the old and worn steps until they reached the first floor, where she stepped off and made to walk to her bedroom instead of joining their family in the library downstairs.

"Aren't you coming down with me?"

"Oh no, I'll just fetch something from my room, and then go back upstairs. I want to be there when he wakes up. There's still plenty Robert and I need to talk about, and I am afraid we can't put it off any longer." Cora granted her son-in-law an apologetic smile.

Matthew nodded, the heavy basin firmly held in his hands. "That's probably for the best."

He stood there, seemingly glued to the spot, as Cora slowly retreated. Would it be right for him to say what was on his mind? She had almost reached her bedroom door when his voice rang out again. "It's good to see you in better spirits at last, Cora."

She did not reply but merely smiled at him before disappearing behind the white lacquered door into her room. While she was not at all feeling fine — it would still be a long while until she would feel even remotely close to fine, if it ever happened after these tragic events — she was marginally better now that she had found her husband again. At least physically. It had taken her too long to realise she needed him, and now it was on her to fix what had already been broken for far too long. It should have never gotten this far; so out of control. He should have never felt the need to leave like a thief in the night and hide away so far from home. And yet, despite it all, she was positive it would all turn out alright.

He had been uncouth and rude to her the night before, which she reckoned she had deserved. But if his quiet obedience just now when she cleaned his hand was anything to go by, then there was still hope for them to work through this together. It would require a lot. A lot of words, a lot of understanding. A lot of love. But she was determined to make it work. Just the way that he had kept trying for weeks when she only ever pushed him away, just that was enough to give her hope. She was resolute and she would not stop until she had her husband back. That was her sole incentive, the sole reason she had so frantically travelled to London on that train, following her daughter and son-in-law on a whim.

A few hours later, Cora was still by his bedside. She sat lounging in the chair he had thrown over in his rage two nights before, her cloth-bound volume of J.M. Barrie's Dear Brutus closed in her lap as she was about to nod off. She had spent the night watching over her husband, barely getting even a wink of sleep, and her exhaustion was finally catching up with her.

But then, he began to stir.

Slowly, he came to and thought himself to be quite disoriented. It took him a solid minute to realise that he was not in his dressing room at Downton, nor in fact anywhere in Yorkshire.

Dark clouds lined the sky outside as far as he could see out the window, hiding the sun and casting a gloomy spell over the city. It was only a matter of time before heavy rain would make the streets below less crowded, while large puddles formed everywhere in a matter of minutes, filling the holes in the street. The less light flooding the room, though, was quite welcome for Robert; it didn't cause him quite as bad a headache as he had had earlier, and it made looking around the room for orientation far easier. Thus, it did not take him all that long to let his gaze wander and recognise the room as his dressing room at Grantham House. Then, he saw her sleepy figure sitting so close to him, and he could not help but be confused. Had she indeed been more than a mere hallucination the night before? Or was he still dreaming and hallucinating?

Sounding quite disoriented, he whispered: "What are you…?"

"I came here to find you," she replied softly, suddenly wide awake again. Making to stand, she added: "Let me get you a glass of water first."

"No!" he then said firmly, which put her back in her seat immediately. The realisation that she was there in the room with him suddenly filled him with previously unrivalled aversion, not to mention anger. He had left her as requested, and now she followed him there? He could not make any sense of it. And he didn't really want to. All he wanted was for her to leave him vegetate here in peace. She could have everything. The abbey, their family, simply everything. He'd give it all to her, freely, as long as she left him be. Was that not what she had wanted?

His blue eyes coldly rested on her face when he sat up and bluntly asked the question burning on his tongue: "Why? Why did you come?"

"I already said. I came here to find you. Do you have any idea how worried we all were?"

Robert sat up further in bed, his upper body now resting flush against the headboard. He would have already gone to stand if his head wasn't still throbbing so vehemently, although considerably less than earlier. He hadn't cared the night before that he would be hungover; he would have likely cured that fact with even more whiskey upon first waking up, or at least that had been his plan. But now he very well couldn't, and the powder she had given him seemed to help at least slightly.

However, if she was here now, Matthew wouldn't have been a figment of his imagination the night before, either. And wherever he went, Mary was never far. It wouldn't do for them to see him like this, after he had been drunk out of his mind.

Even though he was still slightly confused by it all, his simmering anger was slowly getting the better of him and her words only stoked the fire within. "You? Worried?" he spat. "Isn't this what you wanted?"

Cora gulped. He wasn't far off. For weeks, she had wanted him gone, out of her sight. And she had been wrong in ever wishing for that amid her all-encompassing grief, that much she now knew. Her fingers began to toy with the pages of the book in her lap, and she internally had to congratulate herself for her magnificent talent in unintentionally always picking stories and plays to read that fit her current situation maybe a bit too well. She had not quite reached the point where the characters knew whether their life choices had been made for the better or not. The irony was not lost on her, although she hoped to be one step ahead of the Purdies, the Coades and the Dearths.

Unlike them, hopefully, she felt she had not made a wrong choice in following her mother's lead to England despite everything she had borne witness to in the past. Unlike them, she hopefully had not made a mistake when she fell in love with the man beside her.

"I wanted you out of my room, Robert, not out of my life. I needed time for myself to come to terms with it all," she retorted, trying to stay as calm and nonconfrontational as she possibly could to counteract his mercurial temper.

"And you thought I didn't need that, too?" he asked tonelessly, an unreadable expression on his face.

It was a valid question. If she was honest, she hadn't thought of things that way. If there ever was a time and place for truthfulness, it was then and there. "Well, not necessarily. You seemed to be doing fine. As if nothing had happened. You just went about your daily business as if we hadn't just buried our daughter. I resented you for that because I couldn't understand it. I still can't fully," she replied quietly with downcast eyes. Her fingers were nervously fiddling with the corners of the book in her lap to take her mind off the severity of it all, to keep herself from bursting into tears yet again. When he did not reply, she finally looked up at him and asked, barely audible and almost choking on the words: "How could you care so little?"

When he heard this, Robert's face turned to stone, and he paid no mind to her already tired and red-rimmed eyes. How dare she? Did she truly know him so little, even after all their years together? Was this what she thought of him, that he was a heartless monster? It was one thing to blame him for not saving Sybil; they shared that belief, but to assume he hadn't cared was another particularly low blow for Robert. He hadn't travelled all this way to get away, only to be faced with even more animosity.

Her words had an almost sobering effect on him, like a bucket of ice water being emptied over his head. Jerkily, he bolted up out of bed. He had to hold on to the bedframe to stop himself from swaying and close his eyes tightly for a solid second. He was clearly in no state to do anything, but pure determination had always helped him in moments like these, and so he managed to suppress that nauseating feeling in the pits of his stomach as he stood there. Once he had steadied himself, he took a deep breath, trying not to let his anger at this seep through too much. Unsuccessfully so.

"Care so little? You think I did not care that our youngest daughter had died in childbirth in front of our eyes?" he hissed dangerously low, his eyes narrowed at her.

Cora was taken aback by the suddenness of it all. She had not expected him to get out of bed at any point, given his outright apathy earlier, least of all now. Her shock surely registered on her face when she looked up at her husband towering over her from the other side of the bed with wide eyes.

"I had to organise the funeral. While you were hiding away in your room, I had to organise the burial of my youngest daughter. It shouldn't have been me, but I had no choice. Tom was in no state to do anything of the sort, and even Matthew had little to no idea what to do or where to begin. I gave you the freedom to stay away and hide in your room, to fall apart and mourn. Don't you think I wanted to grieve like you did? I wanted to fall apart, too. So many times. I did. Sybil wasn't just your daughter; she was mine, too. But someone had to keep it all together, to keep it going. So I kept up pretences and pushed it all away. I kept it all going, kept myself going. I couldn't fall apart, I didn't allow myself to until I was all alone in my dressing room in the middle of the night. And when I realised how much my mere presence in the house hurt you even after weeks, I went away." Robert's narrowed eyes never once left her, his gaze practically burning on her forehead. At first, he had still tried to stay neutral, to distance himself emotionally from the words he was saying, but it got increasingly more challenging to do. His voice grew louder, his usual flow of words and sentences got choppy and his chest began to heave with the many heavy breaths he took in between the sentences to keep from crying. "Even though I needed you. I needed you more than ever. More than ever, Cora! But I went away to give you space."

There was silence as the pair stared at each other. The atmosphere was charged; so many things were still unsaid, and blame hung heavy in the air. Cora felt it and Robert felt it. She knew there was a lot he was still keeping from her, but it wouldn't do to press him on. She couldn't, either way. That would be too much for her. She was already on the verge of tears upon hearing all this, the lump in her throat already more the size of a boulder.

A rare gust of warm summer wind filled the air and tousled his unkempt hair, the sudden breeze almost too cold on his hot skin. Maybe it was the exasperation and concentration it took to stay upright as he spoke that made him break out in a sweat, or perhaps it was the last effects of his late-night whiskey escapades — whichever it was, it was an odd sensation to feel at that moment. Similarly, it seemed strange, but all the noise from outside he had mentally remarked upon before seemed to have ceased. As if the world outside of this room had ceased to exist. It was as if they were the only people left on earth, the only people who mattered at that moment, and in a way, they were.

"I hoped that my going away would give you the necessary peace and quiet to piece together what I so callously broke with my actions, my words, and mostly with my horrid decisions that night. I had hoped my absence would give you the peace that my presence and my love simply couldn't. I had hoped that leaving you alone at last would allow you to heal from all the hurt I caused, that giving you the space you demanded would be enough. I thought I wouldn't mind you hating me if that was what you needed to do to get better. I thought I wouldn't mind that as long as I stayed away from you and your room. But apparently, I was wrong, and that still wasn't enough. In truth, I did mind it when Mary told me over and over again to stay in my dressing room, and I did mind when you deliberately left the rooms I entered or, at the very least, looked anywhere but at me. I saw that you would not be able to get better while I was getting on your nerves by simply sitting opposite you during dinners. So I left because I deserve all your hatred. But I also still love you, and I want you to heal from the hurt I caused you and everyone else."

He hadn't intended to say most of this. It was all supposed to stay between him and himself, tucked away in the deepest, darkest corners of his mind. However, Cora insinuating that Sybil's death hadn't moved him was just too much for him to bear. He had pushed these feelings away, refusing to give in to them for weeks, but there was only so much he could do.

Everything he had been avoiding and pushing away washed over him suddenly, and his still befuddled conscience couldn't keep it at bay any longer. A single, angry tear rolling down his cheek, he whispered: "Sybil was my daughter, too."

Cora sat there quietly, tears of her own rolling down her pallid cheeks uncontrollably. Her chest was heaving with every struggling breath she took, and it felt as if her ribcage was ever closing in, crushing her lungs more than any too tightly tied corset ever could. There was so much she wanted to say to him, so much she had held back since she realised she needed him next to her the day before.

Given his insistence before he left, she thought he would be happy to see her. She had been positive that it would all turn out fine only mere hours before once they talked about what brought them there. But then, as she sat there listening to everything he had kept inside, she wasn't so sure any longer. All along, it had seemed to her that he had coped so remarkably well with losing Sybil. She had envied him, and resented him for it at the same time, how he had simply seemed to move on. As it turned out, there had been no reason for all that, for he had felt just as awful as she had. Only he had hidden it much better.

"I know that I am at fault. That I killed our daughter. Maybe not with my own hands, no, but I stood by and denied her the operation that could have saved her. That is a burden I will carry around with me forever until the day I die. Do you really think that since that awful night, I had even one day when I didn't think about that? When that burden didn't weigh so heavy on my mind? Do you really think that there was a single day since then on which I was not dying inside about the fact that I let my daughter die and did nothing, that I stood by and watched her struggle to breathe that night, that I was the one who decided not to give her the treatment that would have saved her? I have been agonising over that every waking hour of every day. It is all I think about these days."

"But why didn't you say anything? I was waiting for you to- to-" Cora struggled to finish that sentence. In truth, she wasn't sure what she had been waiting for. She hadn't even known she had been waiting for anything until she realised she missed him next to her.

"I did. Or I tried to. I came to your room. I asked to return to your bed. I tried to talk to you when you brought the news of Mama's invitation. But even after that, all you did was leave me without a word. In every way. You were all I had, and suddenly, I was left empty-handed. Trying to be with you through it all was like attempting to catch smoke with bare hands. What exactly were you waiting for? That I break down crying in the middle of lunch or at the dinner table? That I beg your forgiveness through a slammed door, that I put on a show for everyone else to enjoy? All I wanted and needed was you close, Cora. But you didn't want me anywhere near."

"I don't understand. You seemed so well," she mumbled pensively, her mind running in circles, trying to make sense of her confusion. Her mind showed her images of the past weeks. She saw him from behind as he sat at his desk in the library working on estate business, and she saw him talking animatedly to Matthew in the hall from high up on the gallery. She saw him quietly stand beside the fireplace at tea time, stealing looks at Tom near the window. Still, to her, he seemed fine, even after everything he had just said. "Mary told me you weren't exactly fine, as did your mother, but I just didn't see it. To me, you went on like usual."

"Because I had to!" he immediately shouted in desperation, effectively cutting her off. "What do you think I did after you all but threw me out of your room, when you said you thought I should miss her more than you? When you reminded me of what I had done?"

"You didn't just drink last night, then, I take it?" Cora asked quietly, avoiding his gaze.

His reply was much calmer than before. Having said all this, he felt as if a gigantic weight had been lifted off his chest, one that had been slowly crushing and suffocating him for weeks. "It was the only thing I had left. Whiskey wasn't reminding me that I killed Sybil. In fact, it made me almost forget. Even if just for a little while."

"Is that why you had so much to drink last night? To forget?" she breathed.

"I used whiskey to fill the emptiness in me that losing her and subsequently all of you has caused. I've been drinking my days away to numb at least some of the pain, to silence my guilt in the tiniest way. I drank in solitude, day or night. I sought comfort and looked for it at the bottom of a bottle, the liquid inside my only companion, my quiet and steadfast friend. I drank so I wouldn't have to listen to the voices in my head. I drank so I could forget about it all."

"Did it really help?" she then asked, toying again with the book in her lap. "The alcohol? Did it help, or did it only hurt you more?" Her eyes flickered to his bandaged hand, and he instantly understood what she meant.

"Our daughter died because of me. Drinking was all I had left. But no. It didn't help. All my sadness and despair soon turned to anger and resentment, and it kept getting worse the more I drank. It got increasingly harder to hide it from you all, so I came here. And it stung. It burnt. Just like the whiskey, coincidentally, so it seemed the perfect replacement to numb it all," he said, trying quite hard to joke about his intense abuse of alcohol in recent weeks, which shocked Cora. Then, he held up his right hand to inspect the stark white cloth wrapped around it, that one tiny speck of red staining it where she had pulled the biggest shard from catching his eye. The mirror had met its end, just like quite a number of glasses and decanters had by now — in a hazardous pile on the floor. Not even the deluded, whiskey-induced hallucination of his darling daughter had brought him comfort. Not for more than five seconds. With his eyes still glued to his hand, he acknowledged what he had known deep down for a while but didn't want to believe for his own sake. "Nothing can fill this void, I've found. Nothing."

Slowly, she stood and walked over to him. He wasn't facing her, and he didn't even turn when she stood right next to him. She looked up at him, watched him clench his jaw and shut his eyes tightly as another treacherous tear escaped from the corner of his eye, slowly trickling down his cheek.

Her hand shaking, she reached out to gently wipe it away. However, instead of pulling her hand back, she let it rest there, cupping his face. She half-expected him to flinch or jerk away, but he didn't. When her cold hand came into contact with his hot, reddened skin, she asked a question she wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer to.

"Not even love?"

Cora looked at him, and she saw that he was turning this question over in his head.

"I don't know." Only then did he turn and look at her. He stared into her wide, sad eyes as if he expected to find an answer reflected in them, but he didn't. "I honestly don't know."

Her hand wandered from his cheek to his shoulder, and slowly, so very slowly, she made to hug him. It would have been only all too understandable if he stepped back to avoid it, but again, he didn't. He let her wrap her arms around him and allowed her to bury her face in his neck. Robert wanted to hug her back or at least lean into the embrace slightly, yet he just didn't seem able to do that. He stayed there, her arms circled around his body, and all he did was close his eyes once more, trying to breathe as normally as possible.

At first, Cora didn't notice when his body started to tremble and shake within her embrace. She listened to his steady heartbeat underneath the crumpled shirt he had slept in, deriving some hope and comfort at last from the fact that he hadn't pushed her away yet. Maybe there still was at least a flicker of hope for them.

Then his breathing got more laboured, and she noticed his heartbeat quickening its steady pace. At last, she pushed herself away from him only to see his troubled face all bunched up, trying to fight the tears that had come and couldn't be controlled any longer.

"Robert," she whispered when she realised, and her arms let go of him.

"God!" he exclaimed shakily before sobs took over his body, and he let himself fall onto the edge of the bed, burying his face in his hands.

While he sat there, his body wrecked by the heavy sobs he was trying so hard to suppress, she could only stand by and watch. She had no idea what to do; he had never been in such a state. Never. Not in any of the dark patches they had already gone through together. After standing there helplessly for a while, she softly talked to him.

"You know, just before I left home to find you, I stopped at the Dower House, and Mama gave me notes on research Doctor Clarkson had made. Apparently, he left them on her desk the afternoon we were last there. I'm sure you remember that he said that a Caesarean section could have saved her. But you must remember that he also said the chances were slim. His research after the events of that night showed that the operation could have saved her in a few other countries. As for England, there is simply insufficient evidence to support that hypothesis. He wrote that there was not a single study conducted here on British soil that had favourable outcomes. The numbers he had written down in preparation for the meeting show that medicine is advancing in this specific area of expertise, which is highly encouraging to see, but it is not advancing fast enough to save young mothers from this horrible fate just yet. There is no cure for eclampsia. And even if there had been a cure invented already, or even if we had got her to the hospital before it all took a wrong turn, there is simply no saying, no guarantee, that the Caesarean section would have saved her. Operations are traumatic and risky, even for the healthiest among us. That is what I've taken away from his findings and what I have held onto since your Mama gave me these notes. All this knowledge can never give us our Sybil back. No matter the odds had we chosen to treat her earlier, there is no guarantee the outcome would not have been the same."

She had no idea if he was even listening to her or if what she was saying was influencing him positively the way she hoped. He was burying his face in his hands, sitting there on the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumped as he let down his guard in front of her for the first time in weeks and cried out in anguish.

Cora gently sat down on the bed beside him and leaned in, putting her arm around his shoulder to pull him into her embrace once more. Just like she did when she had bandaged his hand, she tried to soothe him with low humming noises, and eventually, after a little while, it showed effect when he finally calmed in her arms, his heavy sobs ceasing. Very quietly and gently, she said: "Nothing can undo what has happened; we will never be able to get her back. That is why I left the Dower House so suddenly. The doctor's words made me realise what I hadn't fully understood until then. That our daughter was dead and that nothing could ever change that. Until he repeated it in front of your mother, I kept deluding myself into thinking that I could bring her back by crying for her. I believed that if I just missed her enough, she would return to us. So when he said it, I needed air to breathe, to clear my head, and I couldn't let your mother see me then. I couldn't bear to be judged by her. Leaving you there without a word had nothing to do with you, not that afternoon at least. It was simply the unexpected finality of Clarkson's findings that made me walk out on you."

Robert gulped when she mentioned that day she had left him behind. He already felt the lump in his throat form again when she talked about it, but he was pleasantly surprised by what she said afterwards. He realised that he had seemed to have misunderstood her completely then; that thought comforted him. And yet, he couldn't respond to her; he didn't dare to. Neither did he have to, for Cora still was not finished with what was on her mind.

"Sybil is dead. We need to accept that fact and make our peace with that. I believe that I have finally been able to take the first step towards that acceptance, but I cannot walk this road alone. I need you, Robert. Our Sybil might no longer be with us, but she has a daughter. A sweet, sweet angel of a daughter, and it is on us — on you and me and all of us — to take care of her now, and of Tom. That is our duty. We owe it to Sybil."

He could hear the smile on her face when she mentioned the little girl, their granddaughter. And he knew, deep down, that she was right. About all of it. Nothing could bring their daughter back to life, but they could and should look after the little girl she had brought into this world before she left it. She would want them to.

Cora's arm let go of him and she stood up from her spot to his right. Instead of leaving, however, as was his first instinct she would do, she kneeled down in front of him, calmly taking his hands in hers, careful not to touch his wounds.

Imploringly, she looked at him and said, "There is one thing I forgot through all this. An essential. Arguably, the most important thing there is. Something I should never have allowed myself to forget; it could have spared us a lot of this."

"And what might that be?" he hoarsely whispered.

"That I love you. Because I do, I do love you. Only I was so blinded by my grief that I couldn't see what was so clearly in front of me, even when others kept telling me about it. You are my husband and I have loved you for so many years already, I don't know how I could forget it so easily. I wanted to let you in, to forgive, so many times. But I just couldn't bring myself to."

Finally, he stopped staring at the carpet beneath; instead, his blue eyes found hers. The look in them encouraged Cora to keep going. Something reflected in his eyes then, and it told her that he was listening to every word she was saying. And that maybe, just maybe, there was still hope for them if only they left nothing unsaid. Gathering courage from deep within, Cora decided to go on.

"These dark, dark clouds and this horrible mist of grief were keeping me company for so long, crowding the sky day in and day out, hiding the truth from me. You see, my love for you is like the stars shining out at night, but I let the clouds conceal what I was still feeling so deeply. I allowed them to take what matters the most to me. Now, the clouds have parted and the fog of grief enveloping me has lifted, even if just slightly. Still, I can see it as clearly as the stars now, despite everything that happened: I love you, Robert. And I never stopped loving you. Maybe that is part of why I was so hurt. Because despite it all, deep down, I still loved you. Just like the stars are still high up above, even when clouds loom overhead and shroud our view, my love was and is still there, unchanged. And I need you to help me through this."

Her declaration moved him, and he understood how her grief made her act as she did. In spite of that, he couldn't quite believe her. Too much had happened, and too many things had gone wrong because he was too stubborn. What he had done was unforgivable. "But I chose Tapsell. I invited him and I sided with him in this horrible business. Despite all your insistence on trusting Doctor Clarkson, I chose to believe the doctor who did not know her at all."

"Because you didn't know any better. At first, I did not try to understand you and your reasoning; I did not want to. It was easy to blame you, it was comfortable. But now I do understand, and I think I know why you decided the way you did and why you trusted Tapsell. You placed your trust in the doctor who specialises in this particular field of medicine, the known expert. Doctor Clarkson is a general practitioner; his qualifications do not solely lie in the field of obstetrics. Even though he is the best doctor our hospital has to offer and even though he knew Sybil from birth, he has made some disastrous and even fatal mistakes in diagnosing other illnesses before. He misdiagnosed Matthew's spinal injury and he disregarded the severity of poor Miss Swire's symptoms of the Spanish Flu when they first appeared. Part of me thinks you were right in not fully trusting him with our daughter's health from the beginning and instead inviting an expert."

"It was that, partly," Robert quietly conceited. "But mainly, I chose Tapsell because he had received the highest honours, having delivered countless babies within the peerage and even for Buckingham Palace. As you said then, I let myself be blinded by things that shouldn't have mattered. And I didn't listen to you, I completely disregarded your opinion. I am sorry for that. So sorry."

"I know I said I found it all so hard to forgive. But I have. I have forgiven you, Robert."

However much lighter Robert felt when he finally said all he had kept inside before, it paled in comparison to how he felt when he heard her say this. For weeks, he hadn't dared to dream of ever hearing these words from her, but now it had happened at last.

"Are you sure?"

Her hands softly placed his back in his lap, only to come up and cup his face on both sides. She straightened her back while kneeling before him, bringing her face level with his. "I am sure," she said, a hopeful smile on her face.

Slowly and almost reluctantly, she leaned in and pressed a chaste and fleeting kiss on his lips, as if to add to her argument. Then she leaned back again to look at him, waiting for a reaction. With great relief, she watched his lips twitch and curl into a small smile.

"What do you say, my dear? Will you come back home with me?"

First, he only nodded slowly, but he saw that wasn't enough of a reply for her, so he added: "Yes, I would like that very much."

It was very early the following day when Matthew waved the three of them off at the station. Mary had wanted to go with him instead of taking the train that would take them first back to York, then on to Ripon, and lastly to Downton together with her parents. Her husband would follow them by car almost immediately anyway. Despite all her pleading, he had insisted that there was still far too much left to arrange ahead of the baby's christening on Sunday and she should get back as soon as possible to help Edith. In the midst of all this chaos, they had almost forgotten about the date Edith had already set with Father Dominic. Matthew was right; there was still a lot to do, and taking the train was about twice as efficient as taking the car. That's how Mary found herself sitting in the plush red seat of a first-class carriage on the train running north, looking at her parents, who had both dozed off a while ago just shortly after the train had left the station in a dense, grey cloud of smoke from its chimney.

It had come as such a surprise to her the night before to hear her mother request their return to Downton as soon as it could be arranged, even more so when she announced her father would be coming, too. All signs leading up to then had pointed towards a far less favourable outcome of this trip to the capital, and yet, after everything that had happened, her parents seemed to have worked out the differences that had kept them apart.

A great wave of relief washed over her as she carefully watched the two of them for the first hour of their travel, before she nodded off herself. Her father was sitting at the window, his head leaning against the carriage wall, and her mother's head was resting on his left shoulder. The brim of her hat was precariously close to imprinting on his neck on more than one occasion. At one point, when they passed a track switch, he had shortly woken up. Carefully, he had craned his head around to look at her sleeping face and then covered her hand with his as they rested on his leg. Seeming quite content with the state of things, he resumed his earlier position and soon fell back asleep, only then with a smile on his previously more worried features.

It did Mary a world of good to see them like this. She hadn't realised quite how anxious and stressed this situation had made her feel before. Maybe Matthew had been right to send her home this way; maybe he had somehow known this train ride would benefit them all and her especially in more ways than one.

With Cora's hand resting securely in the crook of his arm, they walked down the narrow path in the centre of the village in silence, passing by the church and countless other graves scattered around the premises. The gloomy weather had followed them on their journey home from the capital, and raindrops had splattered the train window for most of their trip. And yet, as soon as they had stepped out of the motor in front of their house, the clouds seemed lighter. And now that they had made their way down to the village to visit their daughter's grave together, a single ray of sunshine had broken through the mass of dark grey clouds up above.

While Cora held her head high, her eyes already fixed on the relatively new grave erected there in the churchyard, Robert's gaze was focused on the gravel path below. His left hand was nervously worrying away at the brown paper. Cora had only looked at him questioningly when he had waited for her with what she assumed to be flowers wrapped in paper in his hand, but she hadn't inquired about it.

When, at last, they stood in front of her stone grave and read the inscription, they both remained still for a while. Cora held on to his arm almost for dear life, tears stinging her eyes, while just reading her name made Robert's breath hitch in his throat. He hadn't been here since the burial; he hadn't been able to face this before.

Eventually, he gently removed her hand from his arm and unrolled the brown paper in his left. As Cora watched, a single thornless pale orange rose appeared underneath the brown cover. He carefully laid it there on the stone covering her tomb.

"Those were her always favourite," Cora remarked quietly when he stood by her side again, the paper bunched up in his hand.

"Yes, and they are finally in full bloom in our gardens at home. She can't go see them any longer, so I went there earlier and picked the most beautiful one for her to have instead."

Cora only nodded, almost overcome by this admission.

"And what about the christening on Sunday?" she asked after a while.

"I stopped you from going to Dublin for Sybil's wedding, and I realise how much I took from you in doing so. I have no mind to keep you from our granddaughter's christening, even if she is to be baptised a catholic," he replied quietly.

"And what about you? Will you come as well?"

"I don't think so. Tom wouldn't want me there, either way."

"You should ask him. I am sure your son-in-law could surprise you if you let him. Sybil would have wanted you there, that I know for certain."

He stayed silent for a little while, mulling over what she said. "Alright then, as soon as we return home, I will go and ask him."

"Thank you, dear." Cora was quite pleased with how this afternoon had turned out after their return to Downton at noon. It was a difficult walk, going down to the village graveyard, but it felt easier to do with someone by her side. And best of all, she also managed to convince her husband to try to make amends where he could. His strained relationship with Tom was, for sure, a great starting point. A little while later, her smile widening at the mere thought of it, she remembered something that Robert surely didn't know yet. "Did I tell you that she started smiling? Little Sybil?"

"Already?"

"Yes, Tom said she had smiled at him when I came home from that visit at Mama's. The way he described it was just precious. He will be a very loving father; that much is already clear, which is more than we could have hoped for in this situation."

So that must have been why he had seen her smile upon his return a few days ago. That smile that had confused and hurt him so much when he witnessed it; the smile that had been the last straw before he decided to leave Downton at the break of dawn the next day. Oh, how they had misunderstood each other. It seemed to be the root of most of their trouble.

Cora smiled tearfully as she continued to look at that one lonely rose atop her daughter's grave, silence settling over the two of them once more.

It would be strange not to wear a black mourning dress on Sunday, she thought, but her daughters had requested to break with tradition just for that one day. Times were changing, they said; it wasn't the 1800s any longer. And, looking at the colourful flower ahead, Cora instinctively knew it would be the right thing to do. Their granddaughter's christening should be a joyous occasion, and she could only hope that young Sybil would be anything like her mother. Cordial, honest and kind to everyone, and above all, a true free spirit to keep them on their toes.

Cora and Robert stood there for a while longer, each lost in their own kind of reverie while life around them seemed to go on. Neither of them paid any mind to the quite large number of local villagers passing by the graveyard, eyeing the two figures standing so close to one another curiously. None of them knew what had transpired before and how much it had taken for the Earl and Countess to visit Sybil's grave together, and it was for the better. Nobody should know about any of it.

For weeks, they had been lovers at a great divide. A divide so vast that it had seemed impossible to bridge. But in the end, the finality of death had brought the closure needed for them to grieve together at last, the way it should have always been.

What had begun as a tense, emotional, and long overdue conversation in his tiny dressing room at Grantham House, shot through with so much resentment and underlying hopelessness, had turned into a series of confessions that should have never been left unsaid before. The truths that had come out that day had made it possible for them to lay a solid foundation for their lives that still lay ahead of them; it allowed them to mend their fences, to call a truce on this war of deadly silence, misplaced blame and avoidance.

After everything that had happened, their marriage had survived the unthinkable. They had passed the greatest test any parents could ever be put to. And now, they could move forward together as one and grieve for their daughter the way they should have from the very beginning. They had both lost a big part of their lives the night their granddaughter was born, but even despite this horrendous loss, they still had a family. A family that now included a little girl they could adore.

After everything that had happened and despite everything they had lost, they had managed to find each other again.