Robert was pacing the front hall and cursing his sister as he turned the gift over and over in his pocket. The gift. Cora's gift. Cora's blasted gift.
He'd dithered for weeks over what to buy her, what she might want, what would make her happy, and then the days had gotten away from him and it had been the morning of the 23rd and he'd gone to his sister in a panic. Could she find something for Cora? Was there even still time? Would he have nothing to give his wife on Christmas Day?
"Oh Robert," Rosamund had said, exasperation in her voice as she waved his worry away. "You haven't got to be such a nervous wreck about everything! Yes, of course I can get a present for Cora, and of course it's not too late. Give me a couple hours this afternoon to pop into the village, and I'll bring you something."
He'd gratefully pressed a purse full of money into her hands and breathed a sigh of relief. Rosamund returned shortly before the dressing gong and passed him a small package, which he'd left in his room to examine after dinner.
It was from the local jeweler, he'd realized immediately as he'd begun to unwrap it that night. Excellent—he'd been thinking of jewelry but hadn't trusted himself to choose something to Cora's tastes. Surely his sister would know better…
And then he'd seen that it was a heart-shaped diamond pendant hanging from a delicate gold chain. Beautiful, yes, and he could readily imagine it resting against the alabaster skin at Cora's neck, but…it was a heart. He couldn't give his wife a heart, not when their marriage was…what it was. And now it was too late to exchange it: the shops would be closed tomorrow, as it was Christmas Eve.
"What were you thinking?" he hissed to his sister over breakfast on the morning of the 24th.
"Thinking?" she asked innocently.
"With that necklace! I can't give Cora that!"
"But I think she'll like it very much!" Rosamund exclaimed, her expression aghast. "Whatever's wrong with it?"
Yes, she would like it very much. That was the point. "It's a heart. You know I can't go giving Cora something like that."
She raised her eyebrows. "And why not?"
He tried not to squirm under her piercing gaze. "I don't want her to get the wrong idea. About us."
"Robert," she said, her voice suddenly steely, "if you're afraid to show affection to your wife—your very pregnant wife, who's carrying your child—there's nothing I can do to fix you."
He sighed and did not respond. It wasn't that he didn't want to be kind to Cora, or that he didn't want to make her happy. The opposite, rather—he didn't want her to be hurt. He didn't want to hurt her.
And he knew he already had. He knew he'd hurt her by marrying her, hurt her with his silence when she'd declared her love on their wedding night, hurt her with his inability to say the words she craved over the past year. But he couldn't, he wouldn't lie to her. He might not love her, but he cared for her far too much to give her false hope that he would inevitably crush, and thus he'd been careful to keep a distance from her that she could not possibly misinterpret.
This was, in many ways, very difficult. Robert liked Cora, and thought her one of the loveliest creatures he had ever laid eyes on, and loved to listen to her sweet voice, and wanted to sit and enjoy her company and gaze at her features and have her close to him. Yet he was not willing to risk hurting her to satisfy his own desires.
And now he was about to give her a heart-shaped necklace that he knew her romantic American mind would take entirely the wrong way. Perhaps he'd mention that his sister had picked it out, before she even opened it. Perhaps if she knew it hadn't been his choice, she wouldn't read into it.
"Robert?"
He looked up, startled at the sound of her soft, American accent. Cora was making her slow, methodical way down the stairs, one hand, he was glad to see, clutching the railing while the other rested on her belly.
"Cora!" Nothing frightened him more than watching her attempt the stairs, now that she could no longer see her own feet. He raced up the steps to meet her and gently took hold of the hand that was clasped to her stomach. "Here, let me hold onto you," he said, wrapping her arm in his. "You know how I worry that you'll fall." He pressed his hand over hers, as though to reassure himself that she was safe.
"I'm not going to fall," she said, a smile in her voice as a soft blush rose into her cheeks. "But you may hold my arm if you like."
They continued down the stairs together, Robert forcing them to walk at an even slower pace than Cora had used on her own.
"I thought I might see you earlier this morning," she went on.
He swallowed, feeling the uncomfortable heat of his own guilt. He had known very well that he would be expected to drop by his wife's bedroom after breakfast to exchange gifts privately, and he had longed to begin his Christmas with the lovely sight of Cora, but he had put it off, hoping a hurried exchange that night—when his gift might seem a mere afterthought—might imbue the heart with less unintended meaning.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I was distracted. The guests—"
She shook her head. "It's all right. We've got all day. And happy Christmas," she added shyly.
"I hope you didn't come down earlier than you would have otherwise," he said, a new worry occurring to him. "Would you have rested longer if I'd come to see you? You have a long day ahead of you; I don't want you to be overtired—"
"Robert," she said firmly, "I'm quite all right. I came down because I was excited for the holiday. You don't need to fuss all day."
He sighed inwardly, hearing the reference to his mother's desperate attempt to sequester Cora upstairs as she neared the end of her pregnancy. It was a plan he had unequivocally supported, fearing she'd overexert herself and somehow be hurt, but his American wife had had none of it. He would not "fuss," he told himself, but he would do his best to make sure she was kept comfortable today, in the midst of their busy house party. Once he got her downstairs, he would seat her by the fire in the library, and then perhaps they could talk for a bit. He so rarely let himself sit and talk to Cora—it wasn't proper, he had to remind himself, he had duties on the estate, and she might take it the wrong way, but surely on Christmas, it was permissible to spend time with his wife, and surely she would see it as nothing more than the general family closeness of the holiday…
"There you are, Robert," he heard his mother say, and he looked down to see her entering the hall. "I've been looking all over for you. You're still planning to lead this morning's skating party, aren't you?"
Ah, yes. The skating party. He had agreed to take a group down to the estate's pond for a bit of ice skating before luncheon. He sighed, sensing his quiet morning with Cora disappearing.
Christmas Day at Downton was a whirlwind, and—aside from two meals where she was far away at the other end of the table—Robert did not see Cora again until dinner broke up and the men joined the ladies in the great hall, where a massive Christmas tree reached for the high ceiling and glowed with countless candles. There was an orchestra playing, and some of the couples began to dance—out of the question, of course, for Cora, as much as Robert did long to have her in his arms.
She was seated on a soft red chair, an almost melancholy look on her face as she regarded the rest of the party. Her hand rested on her belly again, and for a moment she looked so much like a piece of art that he wasn't quite sure she was real. She wore their child beautifully, he thought, and her pregnancy had brought a new fullness to her face that seemed to make her smiles even sweeter.
It had also made him more tender toward her, as he'd silently fretted for the last seven months over whether she was feeling ill or whether she was eating the right things or whether she was too tired or whether an activity was too taxing or whether her back was hurting her. Of course, he was fully aware that pregnancy was a female affair and not the sort of thing he should be taking such great interest in, and so he had swallowed his inquiries and his worries and his desire to touch her soft curves.
Cora offered him a soft smile when her eyes fell on him, and he went to stand near her. He wanted to lay a hand on her shoulder, to caress her, but he settled for placing his hand on the back of her chair. Up close, he could see that her face was rather drawn, and he longed to send her to bed, but he knew she wouldn't take it well.
"Did you have a happy Christmas?" he asked.
"Yes," she said softly. "But I still have a present for you."
Of course. The present. Robert suddenly felt as though he had rocks in his stomach again. "As do I," he said, his mouth dry, and she nodded.
He looked away, trying to ignore the fact that time was drawing short. There were several children in the room—children who would usually have been in the nursery long before now but who had been allowed to stay up in anticipation of more gifts on Christmas night. A threesome of young sisters—his cousin Annabelle's children—were hovering near the tree, holding hands while their mother stooped and spoke to the smallest one. He let himself imagine that Annabelle was Cora, and that the three little girls were miniature copies of his own wife. How he hoped this child would look like Cora.
"That's rather how I imagine our family might look someday, don't you think?" he asked her.
Cora studied the children and then raised her eyebrows. "There isn't a boy there, Robert."
He blinked. Of course there wasn't. How silly of him. "Well, of course we'd have a boy as well," he said. "Maybe several."
"Do you not think this is a boy?" she asked nervously.
"However would I know that?" he asked, and she shrugged. He didn't have any opinion as to what the child in Cora's womb was, and, in truth, he didn't much care. Yes, they needed a son and heir, but Cora had fallen pregnant quickly, and she was only twenty-two. There were years' worth of babies ahead of them, and if this one wasn't a boy, surely the next one would be, or the next after that. Robert wanted a houseful of children with Cora. And while he knew it would take a great deal of pressure off them both to achieve a son in their first go round, he also rather hoped for a little girl, who might be just as Cora was and who would delight him as much as her mother.
"I suppose I look rather ridiculous at this party," she said suddenly, and he stared at her in surprise. "All dressed up in an evening gown and tiara, when I'm as big as a house."
It was so far from what he had been thinking that he wasn't quite sure what to say. Yes, her belly was large, but he'd only grown more in awe of her as she'd grown bigger.
"Actually, I've been thinking this whole time how pretty you looked," he said honestly. Cora blushed and dropped her eyes, but he could tell from her smile that she was pleased.
"Robert?" she said after a moment's silence. "Do you think it would be very rude of me to go up now?"
"Of course not!" he exclaimed, relieved at the suggestion. "You've more than done your duty; you must look after yourself. Of course you should go to bed if you're tired."
She shook her head. "I'm not tired enough for bed; it's only that…I'm a bit uncomfortable, and I should like to change clothes." She blushed again, as she always did at any suggestion of undressing.
Of course she wanted to get out of her evening clothes. His evening clothes were uncomfortable, and he lacked the corset and the petticoats and the layers and the jewels weighing Cora down, and he also was not carrying a child.
"I can't help thinking that the chaise in my nightdress would be a bit more pleasant," she went on, giving him an apologetic smile.
"Of course, of course," he said, offering his arm to help her to her feet. Yes, he wanted to say, watching as she winced and pressed her hand to the small of her back as she stood, go upstairs and wrap yourself in a soft dressing gown and put your feet up and ask your maid to fetch you a hot water bottle. But he swallowed the words.
"Will you come up later for your present?" she asked. "I can sit and read while I wait for you."
The blasted presents again. "Of course," he forced himself to say. "I won't be very long."