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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
The football game in the park did not end well.
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.