Robert sat in Murray's office that afternoon growing increasingly irritated. He wanted to get up and walk out, but they had to discuss this business, and Robert wasn't about to have anyone tell him that his estate wasn't important to him.

In fact, he sometimes wondered whether his estate was even his anymore. When he sat down with Tom and Matthew, when they walked the estate or met with tenants, he often felt invisible – or at the very least superfluous. He said what he thought, he shared his ideas, but they very rarely used them. Do they even need me here? he would think, listening to them chat together about how the estate should be run, how to bring it into the 1920s.

Robert no longer felt like the Earl of Grantham.

When he'd decided to take Cora on a trip into the country for a few days to celebrate her birthday the month before, he'd gone to his sons-in-law and made sure they would be alright while he was away. Matthew had simply chuckled and said, "I'm certain we can manage on our own for a few days, right Tom?" Tom had agreed, laughing too.

After he and Cora had returned, he'd found that they'd changed something else about the way the estate would be run, without even consulting him.

He felt the same way he'd felt during the War: useless. And worse, he felt like he'd lost a limb, his right arm or a leg perhaps. Downton was his life's work, and, next to Cora and his daughters, the most beloved thing in the world to him. And they'd begun changing things about it without so much as a by-your-leave. He'd spent the last year attempting to fit his thinking about his estate and his own role into a new mold. He'd succeeded – he'd thought – to a certain extent; he'd been begrudging about it, stubborn, somewhat resentful, but knew he had to do his best.

Apparently, however, his best wasn't good enough. He was unwanted and redundant. Thus, upon his return from their country outing, Robert started upon a downward spiral.

Robert truly hated how bottling up his annoyance and sense of inadequacy had affected his relationship with his wife over the past weeks. She'd been patient and kind and uncomplaining. And it made him feel worse.

And then, the other day, Matthew and Tom had announced that Robert should go to London to discuss their most recent ideas with Murray and to get a report from the solicitor about how the estate was doing. Robert had had to grind his teeth together to keep his temper. He'd been selected to play messenger boy. He agreed to go because, again, he didn't want them to think he didn't care about Downton. But he didn't like it.

Cora deciding to come with him, having him agree to a ball, accepting a dinner invitation on his behalf…. He was aware that she was simply attempting to pull him out of his funk. But she had no idea how far down he had fallen.

And he didn't plan on telling her.

Because he couldn't tell her. How could he tell her that he was no more than a figurehead of his own ship, of which he used to be captain? How could he tell her that Matthew and Tom made him feel small, insignificant, even incompetent? He didn't want her to see him as weak or no longer in control. He didn't want her to lose any more esteem for him.

He didn't want her to confirm what he already thought of himself.

It was bad enough that Murray seemed to be doing that very thing. Robert's face continued to reflect the vexation he felt with the entire business.

"Lord Grantham?" Murray finally said near the end of their meeting. "You look displeased. Everything I've told you, everything I've heard from you sounds most excellent. The estate is doing well, is making its way to being completely in the black and dependent upon its own workings for its income. This means that soon you can put the rest of money Mr. Crawley invested into an interest-bearing account and live a vast deal more than comfortably off of that and the estate profits. And I am most pleased with the ideas you've conveyed to me. Mr. Branson and Mr. Crawley have formed several plans that should prove exceptionally productive. You have two very intelligent and able associates in them, Lord Grantham. You should be thankful."

Robert ground his teeth, his face turning red. "Is that all for today, Murray? I have to get ready for a frivolous social occasion."

Murray sat back a little, thrown by this. "Certainly, your lordship. We can iron out the rest of the details in tomorrow's meeting, if that would suit you, Lord Grantham."

"Fine, Murray. Good afternoon." Without waiting for a response, Robert got up abruptly and, clapping his hat upon his head, left his solicitor's office.

Hoping the walk would calm him, he didn't hail a cab. Instead, he stomped along the pavement, breathing hard. All the praise, all the credit had gone to Tom and Matthew. All of it.

Once he got home, Robert nearly flung his hat at the butler and stamped past the open door of the drawing room.

"Robert?" Cora called out to him in a bright voice. "Don't you want to see some of the things I bought today?"

Robert turned on his heel and clomped to the open doorway. "No, Cora, I don't. I have to get ready for this ridiculous ball you're making me attend." At the stricken look on her face, his chest constricted. Unable to bear her expression, he turned again and trudged up to his dressing room. Once there, he closed the door, hung his head, and sobbed.

Cora had O'Brien dress her in her nicest ball gown, a pretty cream one with gold trimmings, which reminded her a bit of the one she had worn to Lady Margaret's ball all those years ago. A ball where Robert could not stand to see her sit out her favorite dance, and so, completely against proper social decorum at that time – spouses being discouraged from dancing more than the first dance together, so to encourage socializing – had claimed every one of those dances for himself.

Remembering this, readjusting the tiara she wore in the mirror before leaving the room, she took a deep breath and resolved to try again to help Robert free of whatever horrible thing had hold of him.

When she met her husband at the door, he said nothing, but he offered her his arm. Taking it, Cora said, "You look very nice this evening, Robert. I will be the envy of every woman there with such a dashing man escorting me." She smiled, hoping he would do likewise.

Robert did smile, but it was pained and did not reach his eyes. Cora felt her heart drop.

Once they got to Lady Javert's and her butler had taken their things, Cora's optimism about the evening had disappeared. He said nothing to her in the motor, and he barely looked at her as they walked up to the house and into the foyer. She was torn between clinging to him and disappearing into the crush of bodies in the ballroom once Robert had ushered her there.

After they greeted their hostess for the evening, Cora spotted Margaret across the room. "Darling, I'm going to go see Margaret for a moment, and then I'll come find you for a dance. Is that alright?"

Robert already seemed fatigued. He grabbed a cocktail off the tray of a passing waiter and downed it in one. "Do whatever you like, Cora. If I'm not here, I'll be in the billiard room with a cigar, a Scotch, and the other menfolk who don't really want to be here."

Cora blanched. "Fine, Robert. Fine."

As she swept past him, picking her way through the crowd toward their mutual friend, Robert's stomach did a flip. He knew he'd upset her. Sighing, he flagged down another waiter to request a Scotch.

Finding a vacant chair, Robert sat with his Scotch, sulking. His eyes found his wife, and he watched as she reached Margaret and began to talk to her, laughing and smiling as if she had no worries at all. He wasn't sure whether to be happy or angry about this. As he sipped and watched, he saw another person join them – a man. Sitting up straighter, Robert felt his chest constrict as the man lifted his wife's hand to his lips and kissed it. She didn't pull her hand away immediately, but let him hold it for a moment, looking at him indulgently.

As the music started, the man in question leaned close to Cora, as if asking her something. Robert saw her nod and smile at him. He led her onto the floor, and Robert couldn't tear his eyes away from them. His lovely, beautiful wife in the arms of this – this – whoever he was. The man had dark hair and was probably at least ten years younger than the two of them. The cut of his evening attire was of the latest mode, expensive fabric, impeccably cut and sewn by a meticulous tailor. It showed off a good form, athletic, yet lithe at the same time. His hair was oiled to perfection, his one ring – probably a school ring – was tasteful. The man held his wife close as they danced, but not in a disgusting way.

Robert hated him.

Cora's heart beat hard. She wasn't entirely sure she liked the way Stanton caressed her waist or her hand as they danced. But, having located Robert in his spot along the wall and surreptitiously glancing at him and the way he slowly seethed and quickly drank, she couldn't find it in herself to care quite as much as she should.

So she danced. And she laughed. She flirted. And when the dance ended, she accepted a drink from Henry and then his offer to dance. She knew Henry wouldn't affect Robert the same way, but he never liked watching her dance with anyone else – not even close friends – outside of the annual servants' ball. After Henry brought her back to their little group, she accepted Stanton's offer to dance again.

Soon she couldn't see her husband anymore. She assumed he had removed himself to the billiard room as he'd told her he might. Shrugging to herself, she proceeded to drink and laugh, flirt and have a nice time. If he didn't want to have a nice time at the ball, fine. He wasn't going to stop her from having a nice time herself.

Except the more she did these things, the emptier she felt.

Robert retired to a shadowy corner of the billiard room with a fourth glass of Scotch and smoked a cigar – and brooded.

After a while, Henry came looking for him. "Robert, it's time for supper."

Robert grunted. "I'm not hungry, Henry."

Henry stared at him, his eyes growing wide. "How many have you had?"

"I've lost count." He didn't look at Henry.

"Come on, Robert, you need something to eat."

Robert let Henry pull his arm around his shoulder and help him up and out of the billiard room. They entered the dining room – a loud, bright place that now made Robert's eyes and ears hurt.

Leading him to his place at the table, Henry sat beside him. He watched Robert lock his eyes somewhere, then moved his own eyes to seek out what he'd fixed upon. Cora and Margaret and Stanton.

"Who is that?" Robert asked.

"Leland Percy Stanton. Rich off American railroad investments." Henry could tell that Robert already had decided not to like his and Margaret's new acquaintance.

Robert began to laugh somewhat maniacally. "Railroads?" He kept laughing, drawing the attention of several of the diners around them.

"Please eat something, friend. Cora is with Margaret." His kept his voice low, calm.

Robert stopped laughing abruptly. "No," he said. "I'm not hungry." He kept his eyes on the trio across the room.

Henry sighed deeply. Something was very wrong with his friend.

Cora caught her husband staring at her from across the room. Their eyes met, and she saw the pain in them. It made her breath catch. But only for a moment. Because she noticed that he could barely stay upright in his chair, he was swaying so badly from drink. Setting her chin stubbornly, remembering the past couple of weeks and how insufferable he'd been, she turned away from his gaze and back to her companions, laughing at a story Margaret told them.

Robert looked down, cut to the core. "Henry, I feel ill," he admitted.

Henry, alarmed, stood and helped Robert to stand as well, guiding him back to a washroom where he rid himself of much of the alcohol in his body.

Cora caught the pair out of the corner of her eye, immediately wanting to go to him. But somehow she couldn't. He was too far away. He wouldn't want her there anyway.

After the dinner, Robert removed himself to his shadowy corner of the billiard room again, feeling a bit better for having been ill, and resolving not to drink again that night. He didn't want to watch his wife dance and flirt and laugh with other men – and he was almost certain she had no intention of dancing with him now. He contented himself with his cigar as best as he could, blending into the darkness, feeling he'd actually become the invisible person he already seemed to be.

He felt even more so when he saw Stanton come into the room with another mutual acquaintance.

"So, she's otherwise engaged at the moment?" the acquaintance asked, unknowingly within earshot of Robert.

"Yes, dancing with Henry." Stanton chuckled.

"Didn't she come with her husband, Percy?"

Robert's ears pricked up as he fell even farther into the shadowy recesses of his quiet corner.

Stanton flicked his hand indifferently. "She said he was here, but I haven't seen Lord Grantham at all. He didn't even have the courtesy to have the first dance with her. If you ask me, the guy's a schmuck." He seemed proud of his use of American vernacular and puffed his chest out.

But his acquaintance – and Robert – appeared confused. Schmuck? Robert thought, just as the other man mouthed this.

"He's a fool, Clyde. A fool." Stanton shook his head and then shrugged. "Lady Grantham is beautiful and intelligent, graceful and kind, witty and utterly adorable." He lowered his voice somewhat. "Not to mention incredibly alluring."

Robert clenched his fists and set his jaw, looking daggers at Stanton's back.

"Percy, I think you should be careful. He might seem a fool, but Lord Grantham is terribly protective of his wife. You even breathe the wrong way near her, and you'll be wishing you never heard her name." Clyde puffed on his cigar.

Stanton made a remarkably derisive noise, gesturing around him. "He hasn't shown up all night! And the lady has been flirting with me the entire evening. Mark my words, she's looking for something besides the absent Lord Grantham."

If Stanton hadn't made his exit just then, Robert was almost certain he would have stood and found a way to garrote the villain. As it was, he sat and fumed. After he'd finished his cigar, he got up and went back into the ballroom. Standing at the edge of the dance floor, he located his wife. Of course she was dancing with Stanton.

All of a sudden, she lifted her eyes and caught Robert's. She looked almost embarrassed. But then she turned her head to hear what her partner said, cut her eyes back to him, and laughed.

Are they laughing at me? he questioned. He couldn't take this anymore. He wove through the dancing couples and tapped Stanton heavily on the shoulder, effectively making the pair stop.

Cora stared at him, wide-eyed, unsure what to make of this development.

"I believe Lady Grantham promised the entirety of this dance to me," Stanton said haughtily. Robert bristled at the note of possessiveness in his voice. "Who are you, sir, to request I step aside?"

Robert was pleased to see that he towered over the man by several inches, as he was only as tall as Cora in her dance shoes. He glowered at his adversary. "Lord Grantham, sir," he replied in a booming voice. "Now kindly get out of my way before I break both of your hands."

Stanton's eyes narrowed, and his arm remained around Cora's waist. "I don't care who you are. You obviously have no regard for your wife or her happiness."

Cora blinked rapidly. She knew those words would not sit well at all with Robert. She froze, wondering what he would do.

Robert took another step closer, glowering at Stanton, his hands on his hips. "Get away from my wife, Stanton. I won't ask you again." His voice rose.

Recognizing the dangerous aspect to his expression and tone, Cora put a gentle hand on her partner's arm, beginning to pull away from him. "You should probably listen to him, Mr. Stanton. We're causing a scene." She glanced around to where dancers closest to them had indeed stopped to eavesdrop; she blushed.

"Yes, perhaps you should listen to Lady Grantham," Robert thundered, his own face growing redder.

Instead of letting go of Cora as she bid, Stanton drew her closer, his arm clamping around her, causing her to squeak in alarm, her eyes widening even more than they had been before.

The squeak was too much. Robert grabbed the man's arm and jerked it away from Cora, pushing her as gently – but insistently – as possible behind him. Then he shoved Stanton away.

"Never let me see you touch my wife again. Ever." His eyes flashing, he grasped Cora by the wrist and pulled her off the dance floor.

"Robert, you're hurting me," she implored, nearly falling over to keep up with how quickly he was walking her toward the hall. "And I haven't said goodnight to anyone," she added, realizing he fully meant to take her home that moment.

"I don't care," Robert tossed out behind him. But he loosed his grip on her wrist, and instead took her by the elbow, guiding her to where Lady Javert's butler had their things.

In the motor, Cora remained silent, rubbing her wrist where he'd grabbed her. She could feel the rage radiating from him, even if she couldn't see his face. She knew from long experience it was not the time to try to talk. She felt somewhat ashamed, her eyes cast down.

Once inside the house, Robert barked out a brusque order to the butler that he and Lady Grantham weren't to be disturbed and shepherded his wife upstairs. As soon as he'd closed the door, he shoved her up against it, applying his lips to her neck and clamping his hands around her waist.

Cora gasped, stunned at his behavior. His motions were rough, full of anger. It wasn't that they hadn't been together before when one or the other needed to get out pent-up emotion, but it was always with the other's consent. This time… it felt wrong. She'd already been man-handled enough tonight.

So when he pushed a knee between her legs to spread them apart while thrusting her even more adamantly against the back of the door, she brought her hands to his chest and shoved as hard as she could. "Robert – " she whispered.

At this, he merely clutched her wrists in his hands and pinned them up over her head, his tongue wandering over her clavicle and up her neck.

Cora breathed heavily and closed her eyes, but it wasn't from pleasure or desire, rather from the effort of not crying out in pain at the way he had trapped her against the door, at how his hands chafed her already aching wrist. When he reached her ear with his mouth, he put his lips around the part of her earlobe next to her earring, then clamped his teeth down hard upon the soft flesh.

At her involuntary yelp of pain, Robert drew back, whatever demon that had hold of him startled away by her outcry. He gazed at her visage, which was full of fear, her eyes looking at him pleadingly. He realized how forcefully he held her arms up over her head, her wrists pinioned against the door, his knee between her thighs. He drew away from her as if burned, his face full of shock at his own actions. His mouth moved ineffectually until he finally got out, "Oh God, Cora, I –"

She watched as his face turned a deep red and sweat beaded upon his brow. He looked so inconsolably contrite and astonished at his own behavior – and lost.

He tried again, "Cora, I – " before he couldn't bear the pain rising up in his chest and beat a hasty retreat to his dressing room.

Unable to believe what had just happened, Cora slid down the door of her bedroom into a heap upon the floor and cried as she hadn't since the month after Sybil died.

"No light, no light in your bright blue eyes
I never knew daylight could be so violent
A revelation in the light of day
You can't choose what stays and what fades away

Through the crowd I was crying out
And in your place there were a thousand other faces
I was disappearing in plain sight
Heaven help me, I need to make it right"