Downton Abbey 1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Hi friends! Happy Cobert Holiday Fanfic Exchange! I hope everyone has a lovely holiday season and a very exciting new year! _

_A note on my offering for the exchange- I'll be posting one new chapter every day for the next five days. I hope you all enjoy! _

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><p><em>1890<em>

As Robert stood on the edge of the pavement, surveying the busy street and watching a porter haul their cases onto the back of the carriage, he reached a hand up to shield his face from the wet precipitation and wondered—silently, of course—if everyone had, on this particular December afternoon, conspired to move at the speed of thawing ice.

Cora had clutched at his left arm as soon as they exited the boat, her gloved hand wrapped round his overcoat, and thus prevented him from truly blocking the heavy downfall of snow that both surrounded and coated them, no matter where they stood. She was saying something now, and had been at least for several minutes, but Robert was too distracted by the _click-clack _of horses hooves down the streets and the bustle of people brushing past them on the sidewalk to pay much attention to his wife. It was beyond his comprehension that people should live this way; the roads were filled with a grey slush—the byproduct of the inconvenient snow—and all around them people moved along, carrying large bags or towing young children toward some destination. All Robert wanted currently was to re-board the ship, as awful a prospect as more sea travel seemed, and bring he and Cora back to the insular perfection of Downton.

They had spent nearly two weeks on that god-forsaken ship; and now, turning his head back over his shoulder toward the imposing structure docked in the harbor, he shuddered at the thought of having to eventually re-board and be trapped in a tiny swaying room. Robert had never been much good at abroad. And this, well, this had been no exception. Much of the trip had been spent huddled over the washroom toilet, retching and racking his brain for the reasons they'd decided to take this trip in the first place.

Of course in those moments, stuck sitting on the cool tile of the cabin floor as Cora called incessantly from the other side of the door, asking if she could possibly help in any way, he always remembered. He remembered the night in early September when she'd looked so terribly despondent at the thought of a holiday away from her family; he remembered feeling as though he would do absolutely anything to make her smile; and he remembered, most of all, feeling dread in the pit of his stomach at the realization that she might never consider him, foremost, her family, if he did nothing as she sat day in and day out in silent upset.

And so he'd argued with his parents, raged confidently—and then, when that did not work, petulantly—against their protests that cited the look of things, and how thing _should _be done at Downton. His father had balked at the prospect initially, but acquiesced to his insistence eventually and wished them both safe travels and a Happy Christmas; he'd told him, with a pat on the arm, to always strive to make his wife happy. His mother, however, had been an entirely different story. In the months leading up to their trip she alternated between silent seething at the prospect, and especially at Cora, and verbose agitation whenever it happened to be brought up. She was never one to let go of a bone, but this matter especially had irked her to no end; she had tried myriad times to thwart their plans.

But when they'd left Downton, finally, she'd said nothing beyond a muted, resigned mention that it would be the first time in nearly two decades that Robert would not spend Christmas at Downton.

Cora had looked crestfallen, then, and had asked him softly on the train to Liverpool if perhaps they shouldn't just turn back and travel in the spring instead. When he kissed her cheek and told her not to concern herself with the attempted manipulations of his mother, he'd been sure that the issue would be dropped. Unfortunately, however, most of their voyage had been spent with her treading carefully each time they spoke—her promising not to ask him to travel ever again, promising that if he wanted, they could return to Downton right after the New Year.

The persistence of her assurances only served to steep them both more deeply in guilt—guilt that lingered in the silence of their uncertainty with one another, with their inability to speak plainly, and suppurated into something decidedly unhealthy.

Now, thankfully, as they bundled themselves into the carriage, brushing errant snow away from boots and scarves, it seemed as though the bulk of their troubles had been left to float in the harbor along with the ship—leaving them quite alone in the warm, companionable silence of the carriage.

Cora, for her part, was almost entirely certain that Robert had heard little to nothing of what she'd been talking about for the last ten minutes. He'd been wearing the same wide-eyed gaze of confusion ever since they disembarked nearly an hour earlier, and she had a concerning suspicion that New York was not going to agree with him, much like she did not seem to agree with the rest of his family. He'd grumbled about the snow for a moment, but had seemed to catch himself soon after and had been quiet ever since, seemingly content to take in the cacophony of street excitement as they waited for the driver to load their many cases onto the carriage. But now as they sat side by side, protected from the bitterly cold winds and en route to her parents' home, he remained markedly silent, and gazed intently at a loose thread on one of the left fingers of his leather gloves. She wished desperately to always be a source of happiness for her husband; instead, it seemed, she had dragged him thousands of miles from his family, and he already resented her for it.

But perhaps the afternoon, at least, could be salvaged. And really any sort of conversation would improve upon the silence that hung over them. Cora had called his name at least twice to no avail, his eyes still trained on his glove, so, finally, she tugged on the sleeve of his overcoat, her fingers gripping the heavy tweed, and blinked up at him in vague amusement when he finally turned to face her, still wearing that same look.

"Yes?" He managed, seemingly aware that he'd drifted off.

Cora chuckled, releasing his sleeve, and turned on the seat until she faced him. "I said," she repeated, "we could take those gloves downtown tomorrow and have them mended."

"Oh, I wouldn't know where to bring them," he replied simply, breaking their gaze to look beyond her out the window as the carriage turned onto 5th avenue and began the trek northward alongside Central Park. Everything was blanketed in snow, a more severe storm obviously having left quite recently, and Robert's eyes were fixated on the scuttling people moving about on the sidewalk.

"Yes, but I certainly do," Cora answered with another chuckle. "I think, darling, you forget that but a year ago this was my home."

His attention still diverted, Robert only replied with a half-hearted, "hmm?" and frowned at the sight of a man shilling bags of chestnuts on the corner of the street.

"It's nothing," she answered, turning back to face the front of the carriage and allowing her head to rest back against the seat. They were expected to spend the next two months here; any shorter amount of time, Robert had reasoned whilst booking the passage, would be a waste of time—why would anyone go through the trouble of a sea voyage for less time than that? Cora wondered now if he was already regretting his decision. The lines of confusion, or perhaps disapproval, even, in his brow were perceptible, and his inability to pay attention to absolutely anything was already maddening.

By the time they lurched to a stop in front of the townhouse, Cora had nearly allowed herself to be lulled to sleep by the familiar motions of the carriage and the knowledge that she was almost home. Dealing with Robert had proved tiring as well, and so she'd left him to his silent observations. The knowledge that their voyage was almost to an end was comfort enough, really, and so she had laid her head against Robert's shoulder without comment, for most of the ride. Now, though, he shifted in his seat and moved her, not entirely gracefully, away from him as he began to adjust his gloves and tighten his scarf in anticipation of the cold air. He mumbled something about his fingers being frozen, and reached on the floor of the carriage to retrieve Cora's purse, handing it to her without another word.

Robert watched Cora's face light up at the sight of her parents' home as the driver opened the door for them a moment later. Her eyes bright, she grinned widely and reached for his hand as they stepped out onto the slush-covered pavement in front of the townhouse. Already decorated for the holidays, though it was still two weeks before Christmas (_his_ mother always insisted they wait until seven days before the holiday at Downton to decorate), the railings to the door were trimmed with boughs of holly that matched the two wreaths hung on either side of the entryway.

And before Robert could spend any time admiring the ornamentation, or even instruct the porter how to best handle his cases—they were, after all, high quality leather that would be easily damaged in the snow—the front door of the house swung open to reveal Cora's mother, with her father, brother, and several servants trailing behind in the vestibule.

"My darling girl," Martha cried out emphatically, swinging her arms around Cora as soon as she could manage. "I thought you'd never arrive from that god-forsaken land."

Cora smiled kindly at her mother and kissed her on the cheek in greeting, expertly extracting herself from the tight grasp to greet her father and brother who stood a few paces back. She spared not a look behind at her husband, who was still standing on the sidewalk, one eye on the scene before him and the other on his cases.

That idleness was short-lived, however. Martha's shrill voice broke out once more into the frozen air and she stepped down the large cement steps, beckoning Robert forward with an open-armed smile. "And my dear son-in-law, how lovely it is to see you looking so well."

"Thank you, Mrs. Levinson," he replied, allowing himself to be led by the arm toward the door, her insistence that he call her _"Martha" _setting him rather on edge. Cora, along with her father and brother, were already gone from the hall, so Robert had little choice but to allow _Martha_ to lead him in as he took one final, longing glance over his shoulder at the freedom of the bustling street.

Martha led Robert into the drawing room, the red papered walls and roaring fire quickly submerging him in sensory overload, and to a seat nearest Cora and her father. Making a few quick instructions to the staff, Martha then sat herself right next to him and patted his knee, drawing a wide-eyed stare from her bewildered son-in-law. Everyone, he mused, was entirely too familiar in America.

"You know, Robert, you really may call me mother now—or what is it you all say in England: _Mama_?" She said the last word with great emphasis, prompting a giggle from Cora, and grinned widely back at him. "But I wouldn't tell your mother I said so, dear boy." She smiled again and patted his knee once more before accepting a cup of coffee from a footman with oily black hair and an ostentatious gold watch on his wrist.

Cora, perhaps sensing her husband's discomfort, was finally pulled from the reverie of her entrance and turned back toward Robert, tugging on her father's arm. "Father, Robert has been so looking forward to spending some time with you, since you were hardly able to stay at all after the wedding."

When Robert made no effort to reply, and only looked at his wife dumbly, she prompted, an exasperated look edging its way onto her brow, "aren't you, Robert?"

Skipping another beat, he cleared his throat and nodded slowly. "Yes, of course."

Isidore Levinson, having finally settled his gaze on the young man before him, only hummed in reply, frowning in slight displeasure before clasping Cora's hands within his own once more. "Cora, angel—we've had Cook make all your favorites for dinner. And your mother has planned a party for the end of the week; all the relations and your mother's silly friends want to come and see you."

Robert began to tune out as Cora chatted animatedly with her father. His head was buzzing, from exhaustion and stimulation, and he looked lazily around the room at the various pictures on the walls. Nothing looked remotely familiar; everywhere he looked for traces of home—the bookshelves, the china teacup in his lap—he was left wanting. This place was unequivocally foreign to him.

Eventually, the sounds of Martha Levinson giving instructions to her footman began to drown out even the loud crackling of the fire and drew Robert's attention back to the present moment. Cora was still chatting with her father, and Harold was sitting in the corner of the room thumbing through what looked like a letter. It became quite clear as he took in the scene that the only thing out of place in the room was him. His stomach lurched uncomfortably and he felt for the first time a modicum what Cora likely felt on a daily basis at Downton.

The thought, however brief, was overwhelmingly uncomfortable. So he stood, half a second later, completely ignoring a maid's offer of tea, and mumbled that he'd "like to go up and rest," in Cora's general direction. She only nodded and pointed in the direction of the door, still engrossed in conversation. Martha, still busy barking orders, waved her hand in the same direction Cora pointed, and as he turned on his heels and headed for the door, he heard Isidore Levinson, still chuckling with Cora, say, "Angel, is that husband of yours a mute or something?"

The room erupted with fresh laughter as the heavy wooden door swung closed behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

Robert managed with considerable ease to sleep through dinner, after-dinner drinks, and the game of cards that was played by the fireplace before everyone else retired for the evening.

He'd not returned downstairs since their arrival, and had, in a show of petulance, inexpertly changed himself into his nightwear soon after wandering upstairs and finding the room in which their cases were stowed. Cora had not followed after him and when she never appeared to change for dinner, he had simply rung for their new servants (both their lady's maid and valet had—no doubt thanks to his mother—elected to stay in England to help with the Christmas visitors at Downton) and allowed his temporary valet to take away his rumpled suit and bring him a tea tray with some pitiful toast and jam.

He'd fallen asleep soon after that in the hazy warmth of the room and the softness of the bedclothes.

By the time the clock in their bedroom struck midnight, Robert was in a deep sleep, a thick red blanket wrapped snugly round him and the fire still burning low in the corner. When he'd first rested his head atop the plump feather pillows, he'd been surprised at how comfortable the bed was; he had been expecting a sleepless night, much like all his nights on the ship, but was soon proved wrong.

Upon entering their room, however, Cora had little interest in her husband's present comfort. Swinging the door shut behind her with greater vigor than was strictly necessary, she turned up the oil lamp nearest to the bed and pulled the corner of the blanket away from his grasp, shouting his name.

His eyes had barely blinked open before her shouting grew louder, reverberating in the large room and bewildering him completely.

"—And do you know how embarrassing it was for me?"

She looked at him expectantly.

"I—didn't quite catch that," he answered, gripping the sheets at his sides and squinting at the irritating brightness of the room.

"No, of course you didn't, Robert. You were asleep. We traveled for two weeks to spend Christmas with my parents and you, you just left! I was humiliated, Robert. My parents went through all the trouble of making dinner for our arrival and I had to explain to them that my husband was too busy sleeping—without so much as an excuse or a goodnight?" Her eyes flashed with a dangerous anger that Robert had only seen once or twice before. Cora crossed her arms around her middle and pursed her lips.

"Well, I doubt they cooked it," he muttered, running a hand through his tangled curls. "And—" he paused, reaching for a glass of water on the nightstand and taking a sip, "—it's not Christmas, Cora. I didn't sleep through that. I was tired, and I don't see why you see fit to shout at me over that."

Robert was rather unprepared for the evening shawl that came hurdling toward his face a second later.

"Get out," she hissed, pulling the blankets back more.

"Cora, you can't be ser—"

"—Out!"

She grabbed the pillow from behind his head and swatted it against his arm before tossing it onto the floor and stomping off in the direction of the washroom. That door slammed closed soon after, leaving Robert to sit among the disheveled bedclothes contemplating the day's various missteps.

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><p>Robert likely would have stomped off somewhere in a show of displeasure, had he known where anything in the house actually was. Martha, soon after their arrival, had promised a tour, but he supposed he had slept through that as well.<p>

Clutching a pillow in one hand—the only one Cora saw fit to leave on their bed instead of hurling toward him—Robert wandered down the corridor peering at the various pieces of artwork and photography along the wall. He reached the bottom of the main staircase a moment later, leaving him face-to-face with a lovely portrait of a smiling girl with pinned back curls and rosy cheeks. The child was, undoubtedly, his wife—and Robert grinned despite himself, making a mental note to ask Cora about the picture when she was less upset with him.

He sighed, turning away from the portrait and trudged toward the library (where the sound of a flickering fire drew him closer), wondering if perhaps he had made the plans for the trip in too-great haste; it was not turning out at all how he had planned. Cora's family seemed to accept him begrudgingly, and Cora was suddenly no longer interested in _his _wellbeing or _his _happiness. No, now her attention was quite taken with her family.

Unfortunately, however, his silent wallowing was not to be long mused over. For as soon as he pushed open the door to the library, his pillow dragging behind quite like a little boy being sent back to the nursery, Robert's gaze extended to the fireplace, and to the bemused expression of Cora's father, who was sitting near the fire, an iron poker in hand, with a glass of whiskey on his side.

Before Robert could string together any sort of intelligent phrase, Isidore raised an eyebrow and looked down at the pillow that chafed against the carpet. "The prodigal son-in-law returns," he muttered, reaching for his glass to take a sip, then extending the poker into the fireplace and nudging it against a log.

Robert coughed and nodded, crossing the room and having at least the good sense to drop his pillow against the chaise. "Couldn't sleep," he answered, sitting in a chair opposite Isidore. "And I didn't want to wake Cora."

"No?" Isidore took another sip and rested the poker against the side of chair, the sharp end left pointing in Robert's direction. "I could have sworn I just heard Cora shouting." He paused, letting the silence coat the room, and then held up the crystal decanter that was resting on the table between them. "Drink?"

Nodding in the affirmative, high color in his cheeks, Robert stepped forward and took the proffered whiskey, relishing in a long sip. He did not notice his father-in-law staring rather critically until the glass was drained.

"Well," Isidore remarked, standing and placing the bottle off to the side of the table, "I'm off to bed. Feel free to have another, Sleeping Beauty. I can't imagine you're tired enough to return upstairs." He muttered the last part, but Robert heard him clearly.

"I probably will go up in a moment; I wouldn't want to leave Cora alone," he answered, thinking it a responsible thing to say. Isidore, however, looked back at him strangely, obviously disturbed by the thought of Robert being anywhere near his daughter's bed, and only shook his head before taking his leave without another glance back—leaving Robert to the uncomfortable silence of the room and the rest of the expensive liquor.

By the time that the smells wafting from the breakfast room reached the library come morning, Robert was thoroughly exhausted. He'd been awake all night, save for a few naps on the settee. He'd had the good sense to return the crystal decanter to Isidore's drinks cabinet; he did not trust himself to remain in charge of his alcohol intake, so removing the temptation completely had seemed the best option at the time. Instead, he'd taken a book from one of the mahogany shelves—an old copy of _Fleetwood_—and had sat near the fire, trying to stave off hunger, thoughts of his wife, and, eventually, drowsiness.

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><p>Both fear of another row with Cora, and the possibility of accidentally letting himself into his in-law's bedroom during a search for a guest room to sleep in had kept Robert firmly ensconced in the library all night. But now, at nearly eight in the morning, he wondered if perhaps he had made yet another mistake. He thought, given his track record as of late, that he likely had. The house was entirely too quiet, everyone obviously still asleep, which seemed his only saving grace.<p>

Robert stood from his place, picking up and then tying his dressing gown, and followed the smell of bacon and coffee out of the library. The latter was not a particularly appetizing scent, but he knew that it connoted breakfast, at the very least, and so he followed it. He tried to smooth out his hair as he walked down the hall, but found the tangled mop of curls to be an unwinnable battle. After a quiet breakfast he could ring for his valet and get cleaned up long before anyone was the wiser; and then, maybe, find Cora and attempt to find his way back into her good graces. He knew after an outburst of last night's magnitude that it would likely be an uphill battle. Facing it with a full stomach seemed a rather enticing prospect, as the wafting smells grew closer and his stomach growled in agreement.

Robert did not count on finding the breakfast room anything but empty. However when a footman opened the door and announced him as "Lord—er—Viscount Crawley" to a full table: Cora, her parents, and brother, he was more than slightly disoriented—and blushed a deep red at the realization that he was still enrobed in his nightwear—silken pajamas and a dressing gown that offered stark contrast to their day dresses and suits.

"Good morning," he replied in pathetic greeting to their curious glances. Cora's father did not look up from his paper; Martha smiled briefly, and then looked over his mussed appearance; and Cora, well, her appraising glance could be considered chilly at best. Only Harold, seated at the far end of the table, made any true reply, laughing quietly, his face downturned and fork still midair.

A butler, perhaps taking pity on him, led him to a place at the table and offered him a plate of food and a cup of tea—a large wedge of lemon sitting obtrusively on the edge of the saucer as if to taunt him.

"Sleep well, brother?" Harold, seemingly recovered from his fit of laughter, took another bite of his eggs and looked amusedly across the table.

Robert shook his head, chancing a look at Cora whose eyes were trained on her plate. "Not particularly; I suppose it was the foreign bed and the changing time," he lied, pushing pieces of fruit around his plate.

"Huh." Harold paused, taking a long sip of his coffee. "I would have thought foreign beds a strength of yours," he continued, looking passively at Robert and then at Cora—a flicker of mischief evident in his eyes.

"—Harold." Martha hissed out her son's name from the other end of the table.

"What, Mother? I'm just trying to be friendly!" He grinned, standing up and dropping his napkin on the table. "Sorry, Robert old sport; Mother's always telling me to hold my tongue."

"Quite alright," Robert managed, looking once more at Cora only to find her deeply engrossed in the pattern of the tablecloth.

"Let me make it up to you," Harold bargained, walking around the table and clapping Robert on the back. "Some friends from school and I are going to the park to get some fresh air and toss around a football in a bit; you come along with us."

Robert blanched, feeling that this truly was the stuff of nightmares. "I—er—" he tripped over his words weighing various excuses, until he caught Cora looking at him, gauging his reaction, out of the corner of his eye. "Alright, I'll come along," he answered resignedly, desperate to make her see how much he was trying.

Harold chuckled, clapped him on the shoulder once more, and reached out to grab a pastry from the plate in the middle of the table before making his exit, crumbs dropping all over the elaborate rug as he went.

Yes, Robert was absolutely certain; this truly was the stuff of his nightmares.

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><p>The cold morning air nipped at Robert's neck as he followed behind Harold, nearing the entrance of the park. He tugged his overcoat round him more securely, and silently cursed himself for not taking the scarf knit in Princeton colors that Harold had offered him back in the boot room of house; he had insisted that the Yorkshire cold had more than prepared him for a short walk in the brisk air. Now, he felt rather a fool.<p>

But before he could muse on the frigid temperatures, Harold—most annoyingly—slapped a hand against his arm and shouted something about picking up the pace. It seemed as though they'd been walking for ages; Robert could not remember the last time he'd gone such a distance—there seemed no need, really, when one had use of a carriage. He frowned at Harold's back, and shoved his hands deep into his pockets, desperately seeking warmth.

Unfortunately that was not long lasting, either. Before the tips of his fingers even stopped tingling, Robert and Harold reached the center of the park, approaching a group of young men all outfitted in fine outdoor clothing, who were tossing a dark leather football back and forth, shouting in jest at one another.

Harold, calling out a few of the men by name, waved at the group and gestured for them to come closer (much to Robert's very great chagrin).

Looking at Robert, and then toward the men who gathered around them, Harold offered introductions. "Robert, this is: John Willing, Charlie Whitman, Richard Hilson, and Sam Elmsworth. Men, this is my brother-in-law, Robert—" he paused, making a sweeping gesture of presentation, and laughed, "—or should I say, Robert Crawley, Viscount Downton."

Robert shrugged off the gesture of obtuse formality and promised that, "Robert would be fine," as he shook the men's hands. All, save for the last, smiled kindly at him and offered their greetings. When he reached out to shake the last man's hand—Sam something-or-other—the man, slightly taller than he with dark hair and eyes, held his formal stance and pursed his lips.

"So you're Cora's husband, then?" The man crossed his arms, exchanging what seemed like a knowing look with Harold, who only shrugged and reached to steal the football from under John's arm.

"Yes," Robert said simply, dropping his proffered hand at the man's blatant violation of social decorum. _Cora? _Where on Earth did this man get off calling his wife by her first name? He looked at him curiously, sizing up the stranger, and wondered why everyone else suddenly seemed rather uncomfortable. The man, infuriatingly tall, made no attempt to explain.

Harold, ever-present and ever annoying, though, stepped between the two with a grin, hoisting an arm around them both. "Now, Robert old boy, Sam here once tried to vie for my sister's heart, so you're going to have to prove yourself today—"

"—Excuse me?" Robert, now frowning as well, set his jaw stubbornly—and turned abruptly, but Harold had already dropped his arm and was shouting for his friends to follow as he ran out toward a grassy clearing a few paces ahead. The man—_Sam_—only smiled, a taunting half-smile, and ran off toward his friends.

There seemed nothing to do other than follow their boisterous hoots, and so Robert trudged along the muddy path behind them, too, stealing looks at this apparent former suitor of Cora's.

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><p>The football game in the park did not end well.<p>

And to say it did not end well was likely an understatement of great proportions. Robert had, about halfway through, managed to get the hang of the rules and such, but sometime during the third round, he had been swiftly brought to the ground by a misguided kick to a most unfortunate place. Harold had apologized, twice actually, but Robert was quite certain he had heard them all snickering as he limped off the playing field in the direction of the house.

By the time he reached the steps of the townhouse, he was in rather a foul mood.

He made it up several stairs, still quite in pain and desperate for a bath, before Cora's voice broke through the silence of the foyer.

"So, you're back then." There seemed to be no question in her tone, and so Robert remained fixed in place, still struggling to stand upright, and gripped the banister a bit tighter. When he failed to reply, she tried again: "how was it? Did you have a nice time?"

Robert was not particularly adept at masking his feelings, especially those of a more belligerent nature. Thoughts of that man, that former suitor or whatever he formerly was, still tugged uncomfortably at his mind. And so when he heard what he deemed a patronizing tone in his wife's voice—of course, he thought, she would think he'd done poorly at the stupid American game—he turned around, wincing once more in pain, and glared at her.

"No, Cora. I did not have fun." She drew her brow together, her mouth dropping open slightly at his tone, but did not reply as he stomped up several more stairs.

When he reached the top, he looked back down, anger flaming at the sight of her staring confusedly at him, and shouted rather louder than he intended to, "and if you'd like to know why we likely cannot have children now, just ask your delinquent brother!"

Cora stood in stupefied silence as Robert clomped off down the hallway. The sound of their bedroom door slamming shut followed a moment later, but then the house was suffused in quiet once more.


	3. Chapter 3

Come morning, Cora found him in the guest bedroom sat at the edge of the bed with his leather gloves in his lap. He looked exhausted, staring off into space. He'd left their bedroom in a huff the previous afternoon, soon after she'd gone up to find out precisely what was bothering him, with a bunch of his clothes in hand and the promise that he "wouldn't dare bother her with his troubles." Robert's troubles, apparently, had only exacerbated overnight.

He barely acknowledged her entrance into the room, his gaze breaking from its spot on the wall only for a brief second. Knowing how he was when he was in one of these moods, Cora made no comment on this and only closed the door behind her, padding across the floor to sit beside him.

She touched his arm gently, rubbing her palm against the soft fabric of his suit jacket, and then picked up one of the gloves from his lap—smiling when he finally looked up at her with a half-smile.

"These really do need to be mended," Cora commented, fingering the loose threads on the side that he'd obviously been worrying. They were his favorite pair, though, and so suggesting he get a new pair entirely would be akin to sacrilege; Robert hated getting used to new things.

He nodded slightly in reply and reached to take the glove back. "When we get back home, perhaps."

Cora exhaled a long breath, running a hand through her expertly coiffed curls. He was obstinate in the best of times, but this trip appeared to have brought out a particularly intense strain of the behavior. "Why don't we go out today and have someone do it? It would be nice to get out of the house," she lied. It was bitterly cold outside, and there was nothing Cora would have liked more than to curl up next to the fireplace with a book, but Harold and her father were in the library, currently, and she feared any sort of interaction between them and Robert at present.

Robert shook his head again and stood, tossing the gloves onto the bed. "I think I'd prefer to stay here," he answered, walking toward the window. "It's no surprise, but it looks miserable outside."

"—Robert, is there not one positive thing you can say whilst we are here?" Cora had moved closer to the window as well, and looked up at him sadly, no fight in her voice—just near-resignation.

He sighed as well, shrugging his shoulders. "I'm fine, Cora. You don't need to entertain me. But I will not pretend that I'm entirely comfortable here."

"But, why not?" She pressed, grasping for his hand. "Why can't you be comfortable here, just for a bit?" Her eyes pleaded with him and her thumb drew lazy circles into his palm, as if lulling him into complacency.

Furrowing his brow as though the answer were obvious, Robert shrugged again. "Cora, I belong here just as much as you belong in England," he said carelessly, still staring down at the street from their place in the window.

Cora dropped his hand, his words a biting reminder of everything they'd left behind, and of everything she worked so hard at pushing to the recesses of her mind. He saw his mistake immediately, of course, and blinked in regret, calling her name as she began walking away.

"Cora—Cora!"

She ignored him and grabbed the gloves off of the bed. "I'm going to take these to my father's tailor downtown." Her eyes flashed dangerously at him, and he could tell she was biting the inside of her cheek, as she did when she tried to stave off tears.

Robert was quicker than her, though, and had crossed the room before she could extract herself. "Cora, I'm sorry; I wasn't thinking," he said simply, standing between her and the door.

He leaned down, intending to kiss her, but she turned her face away and left him only the side of her cheek. Robert closed his eyes, exhaling in defeat, but pressed his lips against her soft skin anyway, drawing back like a penitent child.

"I am sorry," he repeated.

"It's fine," she replied, pursing her lips. "I'll be back this afternoon." And with that she pushed past him before he could muster another apology, leaving him to the empty guest bedroom and the vague feeling that he'd made a fatal error.

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><p>It had taken Robert roughly ten minutes before his mind was made up; he couldn't let her go on without him—he'd already made enough of a mess and to let her go all afternoon thinking that he did not realize that would be unacceptable.<p>

He'd rushed downstairs, hoping to find her still in the main entryway, adjusting her hat and clothes. Whenever they went into Ripon together it always seemed to take an age to get out the door; she had so many odds and ends to be tied and fussed over. But, no, the butler informed him: Lady Downton had left almost as soon as she'd come down. And then, again, no: he did not know where she'd gone.

Voices from the library had carried into the hall, and Robert, with considerable trepidation, had allowed himself into the room only to find Cora's father and brother ensconced by the fireplace playing a game of checkers. They'd both looked up at him with vague amusement, waiting for him to speak.

"I wondered if you knew where Cora went," he'd asked without preamble.

Both had shaken their heads slightly, exchanging a frown.

"She said something about going downtown, but I don't know to where," Harold allowed, perhaps still feeling guilty over the eventful end to the football game the day prior.

"Shouldn't you have escorted her, Robert?" Isidore looked skeptically at his son-in-law, and raised a brow in question.

There was no good explanation, really, for him to give. He had, ultimately, shirked his duty yet again. It was becoming exhausting, the weight of his guilt at times. So he nodded in the affirmative, not particularly interested in continuing the conversation on much longer. "Yes, I should have. I wasn't feeling well when she left, but I'm much better now and wanted to go meet her."

Both men had looked at him with the same confused expression, and Harold shrugged again. Cora's father, though, after a pause, stood from the table and walked across the room, past Robert, and over to a table with coffee and biscuits. As he poured a fresh cup of coffee into his mug, he answered over his shoulder, "I think she said something about going to the tailor. That's down on Worth Street."

And that is how Robert found himself bundled into the Levinson's second carriage, watching the streets of New York pass him by as the driver navigated them downtown.

* * *

><p>By the time he found the correct shop, Robert was rather out of breath. Cora's father had given him the street, yes, but it had not meant it was easy to find. In fact, the small shop was on the corner of the street, beneath a much larger clothing shop, and he'd walked past it twice before realizing.<p>

On the way over, he'd worked out precisely what he wanted to tell Cora. He knew it was quite likely that she would still be miffed, but he also knew nearly all the best ways to put her back into a good mood. Before they'd left for America, he'd asked some old school friends who had been to New York about various places to visit and they'd given him the names of several restaurants. Dinner alone with Cora sounded far more appealing than returning to the house, and he knew how she loved to dine just the two of them when they were at home.

And then perhaps after, well—he blushed at the thought. They hadn't been together in that way since they'd left Downton. His own near-constant sickness on the voyage over had prevented that, and he supposed, bitterly cursing himself, that his own behavior had prevented it after the voyage as well. But now was not the time for thoughts of that nature; it only served to distract him from his primary purpose.

Walking down the few steps from street-level to the shop, though, Robert paused as the small glass window beside the door came into view. It was indeed the correct shop, as his wife was standing at the counter, his gloves on the glass top, smiling and chatting with the young man behind the counter.

He looked to be about their age, with modest clothes and a striped apron on. And he seemed to be explaining something animatedly, as he was waving his hands round in a manner that continued to make Cora laugh, a sound loud and melodic enough to be heard from just outside the door.

Upon entering the shop, a small bell above the door rang—alerting all those inside to his presence. The young man continued in his story, barely sparing him a glance, but Cora's attention was pulled away immediately.

"Robert!" Her exclamatory tone was one of surprising pleasure, and she excused herself from the conversation with the young man to approach him. "What are you doing here?"

Taking in the scene, Robert glanced from the shopkeeper back to Cora, a barely masked frown on his face. "I came to escort you home," he replied quietly, uncomfortable explaining the real reason in front of strangers. "And to see if you'd like to go to dinner tonight, just the two of us." He looked at the young man once more, over Cora's shoulder.

Robert looked back at his wife quickly enough, though, to see her expression darken almost imperceptibly. "I—" she paused, shifting on her heels. "It's not that I wouldn't like to, Robert, but we've really only just arrived and I've hardly had a chance to spend time with my parents. I wouldn't feel right abandoning them for dinner so soon into our trip. You understand, don't you?"

He hated when she did that—when she made her logic undisputable. Robert felt his jaw tighten and he nodded, aware that the man behind the counter and a customer who had just entered were both watching them with vague interest. "Yes, I understand," he answered shortly. "We should get back then, so you can spend more time with your parents."

And Cora, for her part, hated more than anything when Robert attempted to handle her. But she put up little protest when he took her arm into his own and began to lead her out of the shop, only calling over her shoulder to the young man to whom she had been speaking with that she would come back for the gloves in a few days.

When she saw Robert first enter the shop, she was almost certain that he'd come to apologize. He'd worn a contrite look, though he had seemed rather tense, and his shoulders had been slumped forward slightly, as they always were when he knew he'd done something to upset her. But now, sitting in the carriage after watching him dismiss the second carriage he'd taken downtown, he was silent and she could tell he was seething over something.

Usually when he was in some sort of foul mood, she could wait him out. For all of Robert's stubbornness, Cora knew that he would always see reason, eventually. But today felt different, somehow. She felt a burning sort of sickness in the pit of her stomach, a feeling that had taken up residence since before they'd even boarded the ship at Liverpool, and wondered why she, always she, had to be the one to wait until he saw reason? Wasn't it enough that she made allowances each and every day? Being Robert's wife was not a chore, not in the least, but he certainly made things difficult when he wanted to, and sometimes even when he did not. Now was one of those times. She'd done nothing—absolutely nothing—to warrant this sort of behavior. And so, turning to face him, she sighed audibly and called his name, drawing his attention away from the carriage window.

His terse, "yes?" was nearly enough to set her over the edge once more.

"You shouldn't have come after me if you were going to continue to behave like a petulant child," she answered, sitting up a bit taller.

Robert hunched in his seat, and looked back out the window. "Well I didn't expect to arrive only to find you giggling with some shopkeeper, Cora. Does no one in this country have any sense of propriety?"

She rolled her eyes, impervious to his childish insults after having shouldered them for days on end, and crossed her arms. "Robert," her voice was low, "I will not deal with this level of foolishness; you know I was doing nothing improper, and having hurt feelings for whatever reason gives you no right to treat me poorly. All I wanted this morning was a nice day with my husband. Now I feel ill," she muttered, leaning back into her seat.

He did not answer, still stuck deep within his stubborn gloom, but exhaled deeply, dramatically, before sitting back against the seat as well. "My feelings aren't hurt," he mumbled. And then a moment later, he reached his left hand a bit closer to his wife and attempted to entwine their fingers, his gaze fixed straight ahead.

Cora allowed him a moment of brief contact, and he could have sworn he felt her thumb brush over his palm, but she extracted her fingers from his almost immediately and crossed her hands over her lap—leaving them both in the terse silence of the carriage for the rest of the ride.

Thankfully, the ride was much shorter than Robert estimated, and they were back at the house quite quickly.

Once again attempting to smooth things over, however belatedly, Robert offered his arm to Cora as she moved to exit the carriage, but eschewing his help, she turned her head away form him and shook it almost imperceptibly, murmuring, "I've got it," as she passed him by.

He wondered, watching her back as she walked up the stairs toward the door, if they were fated to perpetual misunderstanding. Somehow, for whatever reason, the differences between them seemed less palpable at Downton. Here, though, brought out into the light of day, they were stark and painful—leaving him consistently in her bad books, and wondering how on Earth to please her.

She disappeared behind the open door, Robert still standing on the pavement, and so he followed after her, a morbid curiosity as to how far they could be pushed. He called her name and watched her pause at the foot of the staircase. When she looked back at him, though, the exhaustion in her features was obvious, and he felt an instantaneous, uncomfortable guilt.

"—I just wondered," he explained haltingly, "—if you wanted me to ring for tea."

Cora shook her head again. "No, I'm going to go rest before dinner," she answered simply. "I don't think that I—"

Their attention was pulled to the sound of an opening door: the library. Cora's mother entered the room and smiled at the both. "Oh, good," Martha smiled, clasping her hands together. "I was just going to look for you both."

"Well, you've found us," Robert answered kindly. Cora merely raised a brow in question, waiting for her mother to continue.

"It's nothing really. I just wanted to let you know we're going to have some guests for dinner." She looked down at what appeared to be a menu in her hands, flipping through the pages with an appraising gaze.

Cora sighed, already tired at the notion of being showed off to her mother's friends like some sort of foreign porcelain doll. "Who's coming, then?" she asked.

Martha looked up at them both and shrugged. "Your father invited the Elmsworths, I think. All he said was business associates and their son, but they're the only ones I can think with a son your age." With that, she shrugged again and crossed the room, leaving the couple on the stairs to the brief lull in their silent war.


	4. Chapter 4

The mood in the dining room could best be described as terse. And, looking around at all the guests—family included—Cora was quite certain that the level of agitation round the table had reached that of a proper dinner at Downton.

Her parents, having stopped trying to make conversation with the younger guests, were sat at the far end of the table along with the elder Mrs. and Mr. Elmsworth. They seemed to have all given up on group conversation and were talking quietly amongst themselves. Harold, seated somewhere closer to the middle, worked studiously to clear his plate. He had been silent since the second course, when Cora bit his head off about something she couldn't even remember now. And then, sitting closest to her, Robert on her side and the younger Mr. Elmsworth right across from them both, Cora was reminded from where precisely the tension all emanated.

Perhaps it had started with Robert, who had insisted on maintaining a foul mood at the start of the evening. Right before dinner he had knocked on her door, demanding an answer as to who exactly this man was to her. She supposed, looking back on it now, that laughing at him had not been the most productive of responses. It had served only to fan the flames of his temper. And it had not helped any more when the Elmsworths arrived, with Sam looking entirely too dapper for anyone's good in his dinner jacket and combed back hair.

He'd smiled, greeted her warmly, and kissed her cheek—a reminder of days long past, of warm summer afternoons on the beach with bleached sand beneath her feet and Sam in quick pursuit, toting her hat or parasol for her, complimenting her endlessly and begging for a moment of her attention. It was a lifetime ago, really, but the memories warmed her belly in the same way that a cup of cocoa might, and hearing his soft voice had drawn forth a smile, even in the midst of her own foul mood.

Robert, of course, had noticed and was none the more pleased for being forced to observe it all. He'd stalked off to the corner of the room soon after, nursing a glass of whiskey and watching her interact with her family and the guests in sullen quiet, only answering when asked direct questions, and almost completely refusing to engage Sam in any sort of conversation at all.

And now Robert sat watching as Sam Elmsworth sat up a bit straighter, dropping his silverware at the sides of his plate, and turned his attention to Cora once more.

"So, how is London treating you, Cora? I hear the weather can be awfully glum."

Cora, feeling Robert twitch in displeasure beside her, smiled kindly and took another sip of her wine. "Actually, Sam, we live in Yorkshire. That's a few hours north of London, in the countryside."

Sam nodded thoughtfully, as though mentally placing it on a grand map, and reached for his fork again, taking another bite of meat from the side of his plate. "It's been damned cold here this year. I thought of going abroad but I can't leave work just now or father would kill me," he reasoned, rolling his eyes playfully in the direction of their parents.

Robert, already plotting myriad ways to show up the charlatan whose voice sounded so comfortable intoning _Cora _over and over, shifted in his chair and interjected into the brief silence, "we have a home in London as well, of course. But it wouldn't be proper to stay in the city after the season. No one who's anyone stays in London after July."

"Right. Sure."

Sam nodded again, narrowing his brow in obvious confusion, and hardly lifted his gaze to meet Robert's before Cora had reached to her left and grasped at her husband's arm, shaking her head in false joviality. "Robert, darling, we needn't bore our guests with London social customs. Lord knows none of that matters here."

Smiling again and drawing another uncomfortable twitch from Robert, Sam chuckled along with Cora, obviously glad of her reprieve. "And anyway," he commented, waving over a footman to pour them all some more wine, "we all know Cora isn't one for following social customs to the letter!"

Cora, her smile freezing, flitted her gaze to Robert who was now looking at their dinner guest with a mixture of low-lying rage and morbid curiosity. "Whatever do you mean?" he asked, just as Cora interrupted:

"Sam, I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," paired with a nervous laugh.

Unaware of the fissure between the couple, Sam continued to chuckle lightheartedly, grinning at Cora, and even Robert. "Oh, come on now," he teased, "how many times did you, Harold and I sneak out of our school rooms and meet in the park to chase those ducks by the pond? And then, when we were older, those summers on the beaches at Newport? I can't tell you how many times I slipped out of my house hoping for a glimpse of you by the water with your friends."

His look of familiarity unnerved Robert, who watched the man's eyes warm at the sight and memories of_ his _wife. _His _Cora.

He felt the collar of his shirt tighten, and felt Cora's hand wrap around his arm once more, an obvious attempt to stay an outburst. Looking at the charming man, whose gaze was still fixed on Cora, and then round the table at the people he'd barely made any attempt to know (including, much to his embarrassment, his own family), Robert knew it was his fault. The repeated iterance of the fact lodged itself uncomfortable in his head, repeating over and over that it was his fault Cora looked crestfallen and vaguely ill.

And Cora did look endlessly uncomfortable, smiling politely at their guest, but continually attempting to reach for Robert's hand beneath the tablecloth. When she finally did, it was a gesture he shook off almost immediately. She looked up at him, sadly, desperately willing him not to get upset again, and replied simply, "that was all a long time ago," more to her husband than to their still-smiling guest.

She knew as soon as they locked eyes that her wish for him to remain silent, or seated, at the very least, was not going to happen.

"Yes, well, I'll leave you both to it, then—" Robert answered, standing from the table and dropping his napkin onto his plate. "Excuse me."

Exiting the room without another glance back at the table, whose occupants now watched him with rapt attention, Robert strode out feeling a pounding headache beginning and a strong desire for another drink.

Cora sat rooted in place for a moment, fully aware of everyone's attention turning back onto her once Robert was gone. She closed her eyes shut, painfully tight, and gulped in a breath of air—staving off inevitable tears. Her mother said something, muttered from across the table, but Cora's thoughts pounded relentlessly against her forehead, and before she knew quite what she was doing, beyond attempting to stop the sick feeling at the pit of her stomach, she stood from the table as well and excused herself, ignoring Sam's protests for her to sit and her brother's muted commentary about his dull brother-in-law.

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><p>He was in the library, already in front of the fire holding an empty glass, by the time Cora found him. She'd rushed up the stairs and to their bedroom, first, thinking he'd have gone to hide there. But here he was, looking intently into the low burning flames, and she out of breath from her search, however brief.<p>

"I wish you hadn't run off like that," she remarked quietly, moving across the room and seating herself beside him. Robert only hummed in reply, rolling the empty glass between his hands.

He stood, placing one hand on the mantle and the other at his side. "I suppose your father doesn't trust anyone with the liquor cabinet during dinner. It's locked," he mused sadly, holding up the glass before setting it onto the holly-trimmed mantle.

Cora pursed her lips and stood as well, just a few inches from Robert's chest. "I think it's probably for the best," she answered slowly. "I don't think you need anything to drink."

Robert scoffed, his gaze moving back toward the fire. "And you're my governess, now? I don't know if you realize, Cora, but it is generally the husband who does the instructing."

Rolling her eyes, Cora took a step back and narrowed her gaze. "Stop it, Robert—just stop it. It isn't like you to be this way, to be so cruel."

"—No? Perhaps America brings out the worst in me."

"Obviously," Cora retorted, crossing her arms. "But as I said earlier, you shouldn't have agreed to come if this was how you were going to behave. It isn't fair to me," she argued, raising her voice slightly.

"Fair?" Robert, his own voice growing louder as well, chuckled derisively and shook his head. "Don't talk to me about fair, Cora. You are the one who ghosted around the halls of Downton for weeks on end, hinting over and over about Christmas in America until I gave in. Do you know how difficult it was for my parents to accept this? How much I had to argue with them—"

"—How difficult it was for you?" Cora, shouting now, began to pace the length of the fireplace, her eyes dangerously wide. "You are a fool, Robert Crawley, if you don't see what I take on each and every day there. Before we married you promised that you would support me, but nearly a year later and I'm left to do battle with your mother and the servants, who are no more than her creatures, while you go out and parade around with your masculinity and your responsibilities, leaving me to choke down tea and various insults—"

Taking his glass and hurling it into the fireplace, Robert stamped his foot and matched Cora's shouts: "Stop it, stop it—" he bellowed ineffectually over Cora's voice, too many painful truths being spewed at him. She rolled her eyes again, though, and continued on some tangent about his mother's behavior until he slapped his hand against the brick of the fireplace, garnering her attention and a brief silence.

"Cora, I will not fight with you like this. It's indecent," he said simply, thinking it an effective end to the conversation. Taking another step back, he moved to turn, wanting to leave the room completely, but the sound of Cora's footsteps followed, and she grabbed his arm.

"—Do not walk away, Robert. You're so very good at it, but I won't allow it, not again. You don't get to say those things to me and then just—"

"Just what?" he shouted, pivoting back around with a wild anger. "Would you like me to parade back into the dining room to watch you twinkle and flirt with that fool your parents invited over? Go," he gestured, waving his hand in the direction of the door, "go have your dinner; I won't bother you!"

"The only fool in the dining room," Cora clamored in reply, "was _you_, sulking like an enormous child in your rumpled suit, unable to make conversation with absolutely anyone unless they deign to bring up your precious Downton—"

"—Me? Me?" He repeated the words over, laughing fiercely. "You are out of your mind, Cora, if you think _I _am the one behaving inappropriately. But you've never been a paradigm of good instinct, so why am I surprised?"

Her face fell faster than the tumult of insults from his mouth, and she opened her mouth to speak but he was not quite finished. "You forced me to bring us here, Cora," he yelled, resuming his pacing, "and all you've done is ignore me, laugh at me, and eschew any attempt I've made at trying to fit in in this god-awful city and with your family. I love you, Cora, but your parents obviously hate me, your brother thinks it a lark to parade me around to his idiot friends, and you've not let me touch you since we boarded the ship at Liverpool!"

Cora's eyes were wide, now, not from hurt but an obvious anger that had finally begun to bubble over. "_That _is what you're most angry about? Are you really that much of a child, Robert? Don't talk of love, not when you so rarely do, now. That's not love you're crying over lack of," she spat, "and I cannot believe you would mention something as stupid as that at a time like this."

His head spinning wildly, likely from both the shouting and continual pacing, he raised his voice once more and asked loudly, "a time like what?" gesturing angrily with both arms.

"I won't," Cora began, her voice breaking and tears beginning to fall, "bring a baby into the world when we can hardly agree on a single, solitary thing—"

And in that moment, in the sudden stillness of the room, Robert felt as though he'd been knocked flat onto his feet.

"A ba—"

The room, which had seemed rather insular during the heat of their argument, was not as private as it seemed, and was at that moment suddenly burst into by a most inconvenient interruption—Sam Elmsworth, looking like a comic hero entering with great purpose, at what seemed to Robert a greatly inopportune time.

Nevertheless, though, the man entered, his eyes trained on Cora, and asked immediately, "Cora, we heard shouting from the dining room. Are you quite alright?" He shot a contemptuous look at Robert, and crossed the room in Cora's direction, Robert still too stunned to take much of anything in.

Cora, already having fled halfway across the room, ignored Sam's repeated pleas for her to stop, and flung her arm away from him when he attempted to reach for her as she passed him. "Oh, get off it, Sam," she shouted, still walking toward the door. "I told you two years ago that I was not interested," she intoned, wiping her eyes and pausing abruptly near the door. "And I'm still not," she confirmed, watching as the young man looked down at his shoes, his cheeks reddening at the reminder of her past rebuff.

"But, Cora."

"I love Robert," she interrupted, sparing him any further embarrassment. "He may be a dolt but he is my husband, and I do," she explained, her voice breaking again.

Before he could say or argue anything else, she stormed out of the room, slamming the door shut, and left the two men standing quietly in her wake.

Robert, having walked back over to the drinks cabinet in a daze, realized that he'd only been turning the handle the wrong way earlier, and pulled out a bottle of scotch as Sam stared at the door. He poured a rather healthy glass for himself, taking a long sip, before filling a second one and crossing the room.

"Drink?" He held out the glass in offering to the American he'd wanted to punch only ten minutes before.

"Sure," Sam replied haltingly, wearing a dazed look similar to the one still painted across Robert's face.

Robert downed the rest of his drink in one fluid motion, wincing slightly as the liquid burned the back of his throat. "I should probably go up after her," he explained then, his voice adopting a far-away quality.

"Probably," Sam confirmed, sipping slowly.

Robert shook his head. A baby. A baby? He continued shaking it slowly, confusedly, his mind barely processing the notion as he followed in Cora's footsteps and headed for the door. "Oh—" He paused at the entryway, and looked back at Sam. "I am sorry for behaving like such a fool," Robert said contritely. "Cora's right. I can be rather a dolt. But I do love her," he explained, the words feeling foreign and yet somehow comforting on his tongue.

Sam nodded, smiling slightly. "Well, then, I'm pleased for you both. Goodnight."

Robert raised his hand in a brief wave and left the room a moment later—spilling out into the darkness of the foyer. The flickering fire in the library was still audible, as were the voices of Cora's parents and the Elmsworths in the dinning room across the way. But all Robert was truly aware of now, as he stood at the bottom of the staircase looking upward, was the palpable pounding in his chest that seemed to remind him with each and every beat that his life had, irrevocably and incredibly, suddenly changed.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: HAPPY CHRISTMAS, EVERYONE! I hope everyone (celebrating or not) has a lovely holiday and New Year. Thanks so much for reading my story! _

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><p>Though from the outside, the Levinson family home seemed rather tiny compared to the vast landscape of Downton, Robert found himself completely and utterly turned around as he wandered the upstairs floor in search of his wife. She'd not been in their bedroom—a fact confirmed after he jolted up the stairs, taking them two at a time, his heart thudding with relentless excitement and a desperate desire to speak to her.<p>

The room had been cold when he burst through the door, quickly deflating his burgeoning glee, and so instead immediately pleading his apologies and then excitement to his wife, Robert found himself wandering the long hall, peeking into random bedrooms and attempting not to make any more noise than they'd already produced that evening, hoping that she'd not up and left him entirely.

The first four bedrooms were, like their own, dark and empty. As Robert peered into each one in quick succession he found himself wondering what the house was like when full of guests and life. Cora had told him on occasion about the grand parties that her parents hosted, filled with merriment and splendor. It always sounded so terribly different than how things were done at Downton: gaudier, more alive. The coldness of the empty bedrooms, though, the absence of movement within, reminded him strangely of home, and for the first time in quite a long while—perhaps for the first time ever, really—Robert shivered slightly at the chill in the air and the realization that his discomfort was likely a sensation Cora, living at Downton, was well acquainted with. And then, absolutely _not _for the first time that evening, he felt as though he'd like to kick himself for behaving like such a child.

It was in the very last room of the hallway where he found her. He'd almost bypassed this room completely, for the door looked more elaborate and somehow more solid than all the rest. The large gold handle had felt particularly heavy in his hand, and it took two tries before the lock gave way. Upon entering, it was clear that it was the master bedroom. The red canopied bed sat in the middle of the room, enrobed in expensive silks and pillows, and there were portraits of Cora and her brother on the far end of the room, housed in elaborate golden frames that twisted perfectly round the smiling faces of his wife and her brother as cherubic children dressed in ruffled clothes.

Robert did not realize until he stepped further into the room, having noticed the fireplace burning brightly, that Cora was indeed settled inside as well, laying atop her parents' great bed, wrapped in a heap of blankets. He saw the dark crown of her chestnut curls peeking from beneath the coverlet, and the bright green of her gown stuck out and off the side of the bed. He heard her sniffling as he approached, and whispered _"Cora?" _into the silence of the room, but she only proceeded to cry harder, turning away from him and clutching at one of the pillows nearest to her.

"Go—away—Robert," was her reply after a great pause, leaving him to stand awkwardly in a place he was quite clearly not welcome. He knew, standing in the middle of the room, that he knew very little about the people who actually did inhabit it. Taking in the sight of various trinkets, a picture frame here or a necklace hanging there, he knew as well that it had been down to his own oversight, for not trying harder to understand the people who had meticulously and lovingly created the woman to whom he was married.

And so, going away was out of the question. Instead, feeling his heart tug at the muted sounds of Cora sniffling, Robert sat gingerly and reached a hand out to stroke Cora's arm. She flinched under his touch, which served only to steep him further in guilt, but made no real attempt to move away from him.

They remained that way for some time, Cora turned away and holding tight to her pillow, and Robert stroking his fingers lightly over her arm, back, and neck. He forgot after a few moments that they were not in their room; his earlier discomfort at entering her parents' room had fallen away and left in its wake was the very base desire to comfort his wife. His wife who was carrying his child. His wife who was carrying their child. He found the thought simultaneously perfect and terrifying.

When Cora did regain a modicum of control over her breathing, finally, she turned ever so slightly to face her husband, who reflexively brought his hand to her face to wipe away any errant tears. He smiled softly, still sitting charily beside her, and dug a handkerchief from his pocket a moment later, holding it out for her and apologizing for its wrinkled appearence.

She brushed the fabric over her eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of Robert's cologne, and then held the soft cloth tightly in her grasp, thanking him quietly before taking another deep breath.

"I'm sorry for telling you that way," Cora said simply, blinking up at her husband.

He shook his head almost imperceptibly and looked down at his hands. "It was my own fault," he answered, exhaling deeply. "You were right about it all; I wasn't being fair to you—"

"—Robert you don't have to say all—" Cora began, but he held up a hand, gently, his expression contritely begging her to allow him to continue.

"No, Cora. I do. And I'm not just saying it because…" he faltered, his brain still wrapping round the idea that there was a new life, a new life they'd both created, ostensibly sitting between them at that very moment. His fingers, of their own accord, stretched down at press softly against the still invisible swell of her abdomen.

"Because of the baby?" Cora finished, reaching to take his hand.

Robert nodded, swallowing and feeling a great thickness in his throat.

Sensing his precarious emotional state, Cora smiled softly and pulled their hands to her lips, pressing a kiss to his palm. "But, you're pleased? Only I know that we've had rather a hard time these last few weeks and I do so hate it when we fight, but I think that if we—"

He quieted her self-conscious ramblings with a kiss, their lips pressing tenderly in the first display of genuine affection that they'd shared in several days. There was, he realized, no way—no words adequate—for him to explain to her how full his heart was of love for her: his wife, his love, the mother of his child. Robert hoped that someday, perhaps, he would be more eloquent, that he might be able to package the sentiment into a beautiful phrase or letter that was worthy of his wife. But he feared, looking at her in the dim firelight, that nothing could ever encompass the feeling. And so he kissed her again, bring his arms around her in a great sweeping hug of affection, and kissed her once more, his lips finding the softness of her neck and his hands the gentle curve of her waist.

Cora laughed, then, a pleased, unguarded giggle against him that warmed his stomach and incited the butterflies from earlier back into flight. She clung to him, having eschewed her pillows, and breathed out words of love and hope against his skin, pulling him closer until they were chest to chest, foreheads pinned together.

Robert thought, after a time, that Cora had perhaps fallen asleep. Her steady breathing had soothed him into a restful lull, and they'd spoken very little, instead choosing to hold tightly to one another. But soon after the clock on the nightstand dinged nine times, reminding them that time would inevitably burst through their insular world eventually, Cora brought her head up and looked intently at her husband.

Unable to place the expression on her face exactly, Robert offered a lopsided grin and kissed her forehead, then helped them both to sit up. "Darling, how did you end up in here?" he asked, offering a pillow to place behind her back.

She shrugged, glancing around the room, and reached for his hand rather quickly, as though the loss of contact, however brief, frightened her. "I used to spend hours in here with my mother," Cora explained, her eyes drawing carefully around the myriad details of the elaborately decorated space. "When I was finished in the school room, she used to let me sit by the vanity and watch her maid do her hair before she and my father would go out to dinners and parties."

Robert smiled at the second-hand memory. "Your parents are much warmer than mine," he allowed.

Cora only shrugged again. "I always felt safe in here," she replied simply. "But—it's not the same, not anymore. Not now that I've grown up."

"Well, no matter how different our parents may be," Robert chuckled softly, wanting somehow to reassure her, "I would venture that they'd both agree our behavior as of late not entirely mature. Especially mine," he added under his breath.

Cora hummed in reply, her gaze affixed to their entwined hands. "What if we're not good parents?" she blurted, afraid to look up and find an answer in his eyes.

"We love each other," Robert said quietly, as though the response was obvious, "and so we will love the baby. And that's a good start, I think."

Grinning despite herself at Robert's simple explanation (he could be so terribly, wonderfully childish at times), Cora leaned up to kiss his cheek. "And you're not frightened?"

Robert chuckled and shook his head. "I'm scared witless," he answered. "I still don't think I can feel my legs entirely." Suiting action to words, he lifted his leg and shook it jovially, pleased when it drew forth a great smile from Cora.

They both laughed then, and he leaned back against the pillows beside his wife. "But we've got some time, yes?" Robert looked up, mentally calculating. "Nine—er…"

"Seven months," Cora answered. When Robert's gaze widened, realizing he'd lost nearly two moths of time to prepare in the span of a few seconds, she explained, "I called for the doctor just before we left England. He said it would be alright to travel, but I was afraid if I told you, you would insist we cancel the trip." She looked down, guilty at having remained the secret-keeper for so long.

Robert still seemed to be working it all out in his head, staring up at the red canopy above them. He cleared his throat and looked down, resolved, with a smile. "Seven months is still rather a long time to prepare."

"Yes, I suppose it is," Cora grinned, exhaling another long-held breath.

"It's all the time in the world," he agreed, kissing her forehead once more.

Robert and Cora left her parents' room in favor of their own soon after, Cora moving to smooth the blankets back out and Robert fussing over each and every step she took, insisting that she hold onto his arm and tell him if she was overly tired or needed absolutely anything at all. It was a parody, almost, of adulthood, of future parenthood, with their doting and excess of worry already obvious; and neither Cora nor Robert were remotely confident that in seven month's time they would be equipped to care for a child. But as they held one another that night, in the quiet of their room, the cool, foreign winter air swirling round outside their windows, they did know with great certainty that their hearts had already expanded to make room for the new life that was already so terribly, perfectly loved.


End file.
