A/N: Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to all! There will be one more chapter to my little story. :)

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

Robert sat by the fireplace, absently turning a glass of whiskey round and round in his grasp. The popping and crackles of the fire kept him rooted in the present moment, though his mind longed for an escape—for anything, really, that would stave off the nausea that he'd felt since leaving the house.

Boisterous laughter surrounded him, the gentlemen who had slipped the noose of responsibility all congregated around various game tables with generous helpings of holiday treats and drinks to commemorate the festive occasion. The room was decorated with garlands and ribbons and punctuated with merry bursts of song. It was the night before Christmas, after all, and Brooks's offered a raucous respite to the silence of Grantham House. But though his friends and acquaintances had called for him at random intervals, Robert had no great interest in gambling or socializing on this particular evening. And thus he sat, fixed as though struck dumb, staring into the flames.

He took a sip of his drink, relishing the slight anesthetic burn, and drummed his fingers against the glass, as he tried—not for the first time that night—to calculate backward.

September, he thought. Yes, September. The beginning of it, at least. He closed his eyes, feeling a dull thumping at the back of his head, and allowed himself to dip into the memory.

They'd argued for much of summer. He'd thought, somehow, that marriage would grow easier as the months and years went on. But by the time they rounded a six-month anniversary, the tension between them had been palpable. Cora was unhappy. She wanted more responsibility, wanted him to include her in the estate decisions that were entrusted to him. His mother was too harsh with her, his sister and father too withholding. And he—well, he was dense. She'd shouted that at him once, in the midst of the library!

Dense. Yes, he felt rather dense today.

He supposed that he had expected things to unfold differently. And it was not as though he wished her to be unhappy; that was not what he wanted at all. He'd told her that at the garden party in late July. He'd told her that he wanted her to be happy, that he loved her and wanted to see her smile. And she had for a while. But soon even declarations of love failed to placate her. She'd told him to stop saying it—to stop using his emotions as some sort of bargaining chip. And so he'd stopped. Though the feeling had certainly not gone away. He knew that she loved him; they loved each other. Even thinking such a thing now conspired to make his heart beat faster. It was a rare thing, for people like them to find love. Their love was new and fragile. But it existed, at least, and that had to count for something. Though he knew not what, exactly.

Robert took another sip and was dismayed to find the glass empty. His eyes, reddened from liquor and the smoke from the fireplace, scanned the room. Oliver and Henry were laughing loudly near a billiards table, and a band of card players in the far corner of the room had succeeded in creating a great plume of smoke from their cigars. Robert swallowed and felt a stinging in his throat from the smell.

He'd reacted badly. Sitting on his own now, he knew that for certain.

Oh, she'd been so terribly upset. They'd been locked in a disagreement all day, really. It had begun on the train and was likely down to him. He'd thought spending Christmas in London was a mad plan. His parents had, too. But Rosamund was hosting her first Christmas in Eaton Square and Cora had asked, pleaded, and then insisted that they go to show support. It was important, she had said, that they support their sister. He'd frowned at her dumbly and replied: "you mean my sister?"

And thus the fight had persisted for at least two weeks, on and off.

She'd finally worn him down, though—now, after his third drink, he blushed to remember just how—and so they'd been bundled off on the early train (much to his mother's chagrin) and perhaps he'd been in rather a contrary mood. But Cora was so endlessly cheery, and so unaware of how difficult it was for him to countermand his parents. He'd snipped at her when she'd suggested going for a walk; and Hyde Park would have been quite crowded on the holiday eve. By dinner, though, he had tamped down the lingering resentment. And he'd thought of her smile and had smiled himself. He had made her happy. It was nice, too, to have the house to themselves. But Cora was silent at dinner. Each attempt at a conversation was met with a stilted reply. She looked uncomfortable, terribly so, and had only poked around at her dinner. The dinner that he had spent such time planning—all for her!

So yes. Perhaps he had snipped back over their postprandial drinks. But she needn't have made such a face at his offer of a whiskey to toast the holiday.

Although—well—now that he thought of it, he supposed she did.

When she'd told him, when she'd finally told him (for he knew now that she must have know for at least a month) he was in no state to hear such information. No state at all! And she'd known that. Or she should have, he considered. He was already dressed for bed and had entered her room somewhat hesitantly. And she was sitting on the bed, resplendent in a cream colored nightdress with red ribbons. She smiled, and he felt somehow that his presence had encouraged it. And that made him smile, too. So he sat down and she took his hand. And she'd spoken softly, as she often did, softly and slowly.

As he replayed the scene over again in his mind, though, none of the words came to him. He could remember her smile and the way her hand had pressed against his palm. Oh, yes, he could remember the smile as though she was still before him. But the words were all a jumble, drowned in whiskey and tauntingly out of reach.

He remembered the one word. Yes, the one word had been ringing in his head for hours now like a tiny Christmas bell. It surprised him; all it took to send him into a panic unlike he'd even known was but one small word. He'd practically sprung from their bed, had snapped his hand back as though it were on fire, and had sprung from the house (after redressing, of course) in the direction of the club.

Oh—yes. That was all still painfully clear. That, and the word. Over and over it turned.

Baby. Baby. Baby.