Once more the uncomfortable little bed in Robert's dressing room served to bring them together onto the same path.

Better, but not healed. That was how Cora thought of their marriage. Robert was no longer hiding from her, and they returned to some of their easy banter. He tentatively reached for her hand out of the blue and even began to invite her on walks once more. Their quiet evenings in the library were no longer filled with angry silences pregnant with unvoiced grievances, but were tentatively companionable.

They became bonded in their mutual dislike of Richard Carlisle, and took to referring to him as The Paperboy. They commiserated over their increasing distress over Sybil's dogged independence. As usual, they hardly ever discussed Edith.

And yet, despite all the forward momentum, there were so many things they didn't say. So many pauses that begged to be broken with the truth.

Cora caught him watching her often, his expression gentle and yet distant and she couldn't help but wonder if he was ruminating on that maid, and all of Cora's own shortcomings.

"A penny for your thoughts," She asked one evening, and he shook his head as if waking from sleep.

"They're not worth that much, love." He smiled, but it was hollow, and she recognized the prevarication.

"Robert, I don't want to start a fight..." His shoulders stiffened and she sighed. He never quite believed her when she said that, not anymore. "I simply wish you would talk to me."

He looked momentarily pained, as though the very idea frightened him to his core. And then the tension released and when he spoke, it was with apology and resignation.

"I was wondering what our son would have looked like." Had he survived, she heard what he didn't say, and her heart made a slow trek into her throat.

They didn't speak of the baby. Not ever, and she believed it was because he was afraid he to reveal his anger at her carelessness.

"Robert, I never should have taken that bath." She confessed quickly, surprising even herself, and her voice cracked despite her resolution to be strong. "I ruined everything. For you. For Mary. For Matthew. I hope you know how very sorry I am. And I don't blame you for seeking comfort with that maid...with Jane. Not really. I know you wanted a son more than life itself, and I know it doesn't mean you love our girls any less. I know also know she could have give you that, when I couldn't."

She hadn't intended for it to tumble out quite that way, the words spilling freely. But it was done and her husband looked shell-shocked, confused, and vaguely pained. She had a way of always hurting him without meaning to. And where weeks ago she might have enjoyed causing him some pain, it seemed pointless and dangerous. Losing his affection was not worth the gamble of petty satisfaction.

Silence reigned until Cora couldn't stand it any longer. She rose from the couch and began to leave, not wanting to compound his hurt and unwilling to risk another angry scene by continuing to speak.

She had been prepared to accept what their marriage had become, and told herself that it was better still than many of those in their circle. Yet she was never one to leave well-enough alone and after almost fifty years of life one would think she would have acquired a bit more custody of her mouth.

She was so lost in her own thoughts that she didn't sense Robert behind her until his palm pressed the door shut in front of her, hand splayed firmly to hold it closed.

"You cannot say something like that and simply leave." He said, turning her to face him. He drew her hands between his palms and brought them to his lips. His gentleness was her undoing, and she stepped into his arms and buried her face in his neck.

"I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry." She didn't sob - she had shed countless tears over the loss of their son, leaving her terribly empty - but she clutched the lapels of Robert's jacket and clung to him, her absolute devastation causing her body to tremble.

"Why are you apologizing?" He asked when the storm had mostly passed, his hands making passes up and down her back as she settled against him.

"Because it's my fault." She leaned back just a touch, her blue eyes searching his face for any sign of mocking. She saw nothing but his sincere confusion. "You know it's my fault."

"I know nothing of the kind. I know you had an accident, and I know that I came very close to losing you in those dark days. I know that I prayed for God to take me and to spare you. I know that if I hadn't been so intent to satisfy my urges with you, I never would have put you in such a dangerous position in the first place." He whispered into the loose curls at her temple, slowly guiding them back to a settee. He sat and pulled his wife, now resembling the frightened young girl he'd married rather than the strong woman she had become, into his lap. She protested weakly, relieved to be held tightly in his embrace. "My Cora, have I given you any cause to believe that I blamed you? Because if I have, I cannot apologize enough."

"You...wouldn't touch me. Even after the doctor said it was admissible for us to resume that part of our marriage, you simply weren't there." She remembered those lonely months. They lived under the spectre of war, the devastation that crept in slowly as young men began to disappear. Robert was so intent to go off to fight, to feel purpose in a time when such impotence was devastating, she couldn't avoid the belief that he was trying to escape her and what she'd done.

He remained silent, his grip on Cora's waist almost painful as he clutched her to him. She waited for him to speak, but he remained thoughtfully quiet and she couldn't stand the lull.

"Everything I said was wrong. I was heartless because I was more intent on Mary than Matthew. Too American for defending Sybil. I was fighting for my daughters and somehow that meant I was fighting with you. And then there was that maid...and her son. I know I was neglecting you, perhaps, but I thought you wanted me to find a purpose. To leave you alone. What else did you expect me to think?"

"I-" The library door opened and Mary stepped inside, stopping short at the sight of her parents on the settee. Cora stood slowly and turned to Mary, expertly masking her bitter sadness and instead offering a tremulous smile that Mary accepted as abashment.

"I'm sorry." Mary reddened and began to back out of the room; she was playfully disapproving of her parents' tendency towards physical nearness. "I'll let you get back to..."

"No, no." Cora stepped away from Robert and he hesitantly dropped his hands into his lap, not ready to relinquish her. "I'd like to talk to you about the Christmas celebration anyway."

For Cora, the moment was broken. Seconds previous she hungered for answers; now she confronted the reality that she might receive ones that were painful to hear. She couldn't bear his rejection, not again. Courage fled and she pressed her hand to Robert's shoulder in yet another apology.

It was her turn to flee, and she took it. She was beginning to hate that library.

A/N - Coward's way? Maaaaybe. For me AND for Cora.

I'm trying to keep this from slipping into melodrama, which is always what I worry about when I get too dialogue-y. But I really think Cora has tortured herself a lot about all of this, especially the baby. And as much as she'd love for Robert to be the one in the wrong all the way around, she lives in (and was raised in) an era where men were expected to be men and women were expected to fix it. Her job, as seen by many, is to protect Robert from himself and be everything he needs. Because if he strays, that doesn't reflect on HIM, it reflects on her. It's a disgustingly misogynistic outlook but it was only 1920. It was a rough time to be a woman.

I am going to take into account Robert's feelings on all of this, but he's going to need his own chapter. *g*To quote Ricky Ricardo, he has a lot of 'splainin' to do.

We're winding to a close as these two start to orbit in the same solar system once more. And I haven't even stabbed anyone yet!