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!

1890

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.