A/N: I never intended to leave this story for so long, but unfortunately life intervened. I'm hoping to be much more regular in my posting, and also hope that you all enjoy this chapter!

Late March 1889

Robert and Cora's first days at Rosamund and Marmaduke's townhouse passed quickly, in the haze of emotion and busyness that only their departure from Downton could have brought. And soon days turned to weeks and weeks to nearly a month. The snowdrops blooming in the garden would have been sign enough of the changing season, but both the displaced Viscount and Viscountess had felt, as a month's tenure at 37 Eaton Square approached, that time had finally begun to slow.

Robert's outburst in the sitting room was now a long-distant memory. He and Cora had not spoken for several days after the fact. But after some urging—rather a lot of urging, in fact—from his sister, Robert had come around. Within the week he had calmed himself; and he returned on one particular afternoon wearing an especially contrite expression and holding a rather large gift.

The tiny golden puppy had done much to win over Cora's good favor. The two of them had immediately warmed in the company of the frolicking animal and quickly agreed to name the little one Bes, Cora happy to indulge Robert's interest in ancient Egyptian mythology.

And, indeed, the air between them had been less chilly since then. Rosamund had been tempted to question her brother's judgment; a puppy seemed rather a backhanded way of winning the affections of one's wife—but they had both seemed so pleased that she'd not had the heart to confront him.

Unfortunately, Bes was quite a rascal. More than once the little dog had been caught chewing the legs of various expensive furniture. He had, too, been caught nibbling Marmaduke's shoes, one of Rosamund's favorite hats, and a few other odds and ends. Robert explained each time that it was simply the nature of puppies, but Rosamund began to wonder if it was simply the nature of puppies with immature owners.

On this particular morning, little Bes was seated beneath the feet of his master at the breakfast table. Marmaduke had grumbled more than once about allowing a dog into the dining room, but he was rarely present at breakfast, often leaving for work at half past seven, and so Rosamund had quietly countermanded that request in his absence.

Robert was in the midst of pouring milk into his tea when the morning post arrived. He watched with some interest as a pile of letters was dropped before his sister, but returned to his tea and toast when none of the letters were passed his way. Though brother and sister had seen their mother's familiar hand scrawled across the letter at the top of the stack, both remained silent on that score.

The passing weeks had done little to soften relations between her parents and brother. As far as Rosamund knew, they had not spoken—not even once. And as Rosamund peered curiously at her mother's letter, she was beginning to realize that the passing time was only making the situation worse. It seemed that each day Robert did not return to Downton, apologetic and ready to assume his responsibilities, their father took as a personal affront; he was shirking his duty to Downton, and Patrick refused to acknowledge his son as anything more than an overly indulged child. The letter that Rosamund held was only the third that had arrived from Downton since Robert and Cora's arrival, and the two preceding letters had also been from their mother. It was clear that each envelope had slipped out of Downton unnoticed by their father; although their mother was perhaps the more headstrong of the two, she would never deliberately defy their papa's instructions.

She scanned over the message hoping for a more positive account of the happenings at Downton, but found a message much the same as those that had come before. Papa was insistent that Robert had irreparably damaged their relationship, and she, too, was unwelcome at Downton until she turned out the vagabonds. Apparently news of the young couple's hasty departure had begun to make its way round the county, and that would only serve to fan the flames. Although Mama seemed concerned more than angry, there was little she disliked more than gossip. In fact, the only thing she liked less than gossip, was being the cause of gossip.

Rosamund knew, reading the final remarks, that soon their mother, too, would reach the limit of her patience.

She felt, then, a momentary sting of annoyance at her brother for landing them all in such hot water. Certainly she loved her brother. But Rosamund rather disliked being the go-between not only between he and Cora, but between Robert and their parents, too. It was an endlessly uncomfortable position, only made worse by the growing resentment she felt from Marmaduke. It seemed that her shielding of her brother had provoked ire from every angle. And he was, of course, ignorant at every turn.

An errant yap from the puppy below the table drew her attention, though, and Rosamund felt her brother's eyes fixed on the letter in her hands.

"Anything interesting?" He took another bite of his toast and nodded at the neatly folded pages with the Grantham seal fixed at the top.

"No, not particularly. Just some local news."

"Hm." Robert grunted and reached for his teacup, taking a long sip. "It looks like Mama's writing."

"I—"

"Really, Rosamund. You needn't shield me from everything. I am a grown man, after all."

Rosamund remained silent and only watched as Robert dropped lumps of sugar into his tea. He then reached clumsily for the milk, toppling some over the side of the little jug, and poured some of that, too, into his near-empty cup. She could sense his annoyance, but chose not to comment on that, or on the assertion of his maturity.

"Mama was just checking in," she answered flatly.

"Right."

"Really, Robert. Nothing to trouble yourself with—"

"I wasn't planning to," he began, but his sister stood, folding up the papers in her hand, and gestured for the footman by the door to clear her plate.

"I've a mountain of letters to get through this morning, so I'll leave you to your breakfast. This one's for Cora, though—" Rosamund held up a letter and set it down where Cora usually sat.

Her false smile rather irked him, but Robert nodded and watched Rosamund leave the room. If he was honest, it was quite nice having the breakfast room to himself. Rosamund could have taken breakfast in her room, but she had apparently become his governess in the weeks following his departure from Downton. She was often lurking, checking in, needling him with so many questions—questions he could not possibly have any answers to.

So the blessed silence of the breakfast room was quite welcome, for Robert was already mulling over his day's plans. Most mornings were spent walking through the park with Cora and Bes. Buying the little dog had been fairly impetuous, but one of the chaps at the Club had been talking about their dog's new litter and he'd not been able to resist. And he supposed he had the puppy to thank, anyway, for pulling Cora out of a particularly sour mood.

He'd never meant for her to hear those things. But she'd been so angry—god, had she been angry. Shouting and crying and insisting they return to Downton at once. He'd refused, of course. To go back would have been to undermine his authority, to only prove his father right! And so he and Cora had fought, on and off, for days. Until she'd grown silent.

But she'd been so terribly pleased with the puppy.

Robert reached below the table to feed the dog a scrap of toast, and patted his head appreciatively.

Gobbling up the treat, the dog barked excitedly and wagged its tail, though Robert realized that the dog was less excited about the crust he'd offered it than the appearance of Cora in the doorway.

"He likes you best, I think," Robert grinned, watching the puppy bound over to Cora.

She smiled, kneeling down to greet the little one, and shook her head. "I doubt it. Perhaps he's just bored of your company this morning."

Robert chuckled, and stood to greet his wife. "I wouldn't blame him."

"Well," she answered, "I am not bored of you. Not yet, at least."

"Thank heavens for that," Robert murmured, pressing a kiss to her cheek. He allowed his lips to linger there a moment longer than propriety would allow, the feel of Cora in his arms already bringing to mind memories of the previous night, her bare skin beneath his fingertips, the way she'd cried out his name.

He knew by the way she blushed that she, too, was thinking of it.

"Robert," she scolded, "not now."

Brushing past him, though wearing an indulgent smile, she sat in the seat nearest to his, and reached for the teapot.

"What do you have planned for today?"

"Oh, nothing much. I might have a few chaps from the club over for cards tonight."

"I suppose I should make myself scarce, then," Cora replied.

"You know how those things are. You'd only be bored."

"Of course, but I should like to spend time with you—"

"And anyway…" Robert stood, scooping Bes up off the floor, "someone will need to watch this little lad. Don't tell Rosamund but I caught him with Marmaduke's walking stick this morning."

Robert plopped the puppy into Cora's lap and kissed her forehead, the gesture somehow feeling condescending to her. She smiled, though, and held the squirming dog in her arms.

"We're not walking this morning, then?"

"I've some business at the Club today," Robert called, already halfway out the door. "Don't wait for me for luncheon."

"Alright," Cora replied, more to the puppy than Robert—for he was already out of the room and walking through the hall.

"We'll just do without your papa then," she murmured, kissing the little dog on the nose.

It was mid-morning by the time Cora had a spare moment to sit down and sort through the post. She'd had a few things to go over with her maid—well, Rosamund's maid—and then she'd taken little Bes for a short walk through the square. It seemed unfair that he should miss out on the fresh air only because of Robert's absence.

And, anyway, Cora enjoyed being out of the house. She'd come to realize that too much time spent indoors only led her mind to wander. And often, it wandered to Downton.

She realized, then, sitting in the large window that overlooked the street, that it had been nearly a month since they'd left. Robert had made no mention of his parents; he'd made no mention, either, of any plans to return to the ancestral home he so clearly loved.

In darker, quieter moments, Cora scolded herself for not speaking out. It seemed foolish, after all, to be barred from a property that her money had restored. She thought of the papers she'd signed. She thought of them often, the words that had seemed so complicated, so unnecessary. Wasn't it enough that she loved Robert, that she wanted to help save his home? She thought of her name, scrawled across the bottom of the page. She'd been nervous, signing everything without Robert's approval, and had smudged her thumb against the wet ink.

But it had seemed the right thing to do. She remembered feeling quite sure of that, even as she'd blotted the ink off her finger with one of Patrick's handkerchiefs. Robert, she thought, would understand. It was for their children, for their sons. It was them she had thought of when she'd signed away her father's money.

Nothing was turning out the way she had been so certain it would.

And Cora knew now, for all the certainty that had possessed her then, she'd been foolish.

The letter crumpled in her hand seemed to confirm that fact.

She could practically feel her mother's rage lifting up from the pages. Full of exclamation and condemnation and words Cora had never heard pass her mother's lips, the letter was rather harsher than she had expected; but the letter itself was not unexpected.

Although the words had made her hands tremble at first, Cora felt oddly detached, reading them over again now.

I'd never have thought you to be so god-dammed foolish, Cora—

—Don't you have any influence over that boy?

You're ruining the family name we paid good money for.

It was only the last one that had truly stung. For Cora wondered, reading over the words again and again, if her own mother thought such things of her, what on earth did Robert think? And she felt foolish, more foolish, then, for even caring about Robert's opinion.

Oh, she loved him. Dreadfully so. Wonderfully so. She could lie awake for hours at night just counting out the rhythmic beats of his heart beneath her palm. She knew how he liked his tea, and could tell when he was frustrated by the way his jaw would set out. The way he said her name made her grin, and the way he touched her made her dizzy. Yes, she loved him—oh, yes, she loved him, would give him anything he asked—and had, in fact, given him everything she possibly could.

But it was becoming quite obvious that he would not, or perhaps could not, say the same.

It was perhaps less a matter of unwillingness than it was a matter of inability.

For as Robert sat at the card table that evening, it was thoughts of Cora that dominated his mind. He'd been out for much of the day, busy at the Club. He rather hated wasting his days at Rosamund's, and so he'd taken to meeting some friends for cards or drinks and such. It was more soothing to his mind than to wander round Rosamund's townhouse, thinking over all the wretched things that had passed in the last several weeks.

Andrews had been unable to undo any of the paperwork. And so, much to his annoyance, Robert had been forced to rely upon his sister for lodging, compassion, and most importantly of all—money.

He suspected that Marmaduke knew nothing about that, and Robert was quite alright with that remaining the case. And, anyway, once everything was set to rights with Downton again, he'd surely pay her back. Harry Laughton had been helping him acquire some new legal representation to look into the particulars of the entail. Quietly, of course, for Robert hated being the subject of gossip.

For now, as far as anyone knew, he and Cora were in town taking care of some business for his parents, and paying some calls to friends she'd made over the season. It was plausible enough, he supposed.

But none of that mattered. Not tonight, at least.

He'd managed to wrangle up rather a larger group than he'd expected, and they were already into their third round of pharo, and Robert was on—he paused, looking down at his empty glass—his fourth whiskey. So, yes, thoughts of Cora were nearly all he could focus on. He'd half a mind to leave his friends in favor of spending the rest of his evening in Cora's bed, but his head felt quite thick, and he couldn't seem to gather up the momentum to actually stand.

Raucous laughter filled the room, and the cigar smoke that surrounded the table made his eyes burn in the best way. He felt alive and happy—calmer than he had in days, in weeks, really, and he held his glass up in delight when Shrimpy tottered over on unsteady legs with the half-empty decanter.

"C'mon, Robert, one more, since you're so damned far ahead of all of us."

The men laughed, a few slapping him affably on the back, and Shrimpy refilled the glass, as Robert grinned, moving to stand from the large leather chair he'd been seated in for most of the night.

"One more, one more!" He called out, the glass swinging as he pushed back against the chair, finally in an upright position. "But then it's off to bed for me!"

That earned him another peal of laugher from his friends, and a few winks, too. Cora had stopped in to say goodnight after she and Rosamund were finished with their postprandial drinks, and Robert had seen the way some of his friends leered at her. He'd not liked it then. But now, his belly warm and full of whiskey, and another winning hand of cards before him, he felt a sort of pride—though it was nearly eclipsed by the acute discomfort of their continued laughter.

"We'll bet you're off to bed," Sunny laughed, raising his eyebrows.

Even Dickie Grey who never laughed at anything, snorted, red-faced at the insinuation.

"Oh, do shut up—" Robert cried out petulantly. He took another swig of his drink, the liquid burning his throat more than it had been previously, but he sat back down and reached for his cigar.

He was about to tell them all to stop, for even in the haze of liquor that had drowned out much of the chatter of his friends, he could tell they were still talking—still talking about Cora.

But before he could muster the good sense to say anything at all, for he'd grown distracted by the whiskey that had splashed over his glass, the sound of a door opening behind him drew him—and the group—out of their reverie.

"Robert!"

He turned at the sound of his name only to be met by Marmaduke's hand reaching for his shoulder to pull him up out of his seat once more.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?"

"We—ah, we were uh—finishing up a card game."

Marmaduke covered his mouth with a bent arm to combat the think smoke that filled the room and looked around, coughing, his eyes narrowing as he took in more of the scene. Robert took the same opportunity to look around, and was surprised to find the room, which happened to be Marmaduke's study, rather a mess.

Papers that had been neatly stacked atop the desk were in piles, having been shifted around to make room for the drinks cart and accoutrements. The hat rack was full, though Marmaduke's favorite hat had been long discarded on the floor to make room for the guest's hats and scarves. There was cigar ash all across the dark wood table that had been pushed to the middle of the room, and Robert noticed, as he followed Marmaduke's gaze, that Bes was sitting in the corner of the room, sound asleep beside one very chewed up walking stick.

"—I'm sure everything will look good as new once the servants have a crack at it," Robert mused, breaking the absolute silence of the room.

"You better damn well hope so," Marmaduke snarled, stepping closer to Robert.

His brother in law had the good sense, though, to pause at the smell of alcohol radiating off Robert's breath. He knew, even as he looked at Robert's idiotic expression and the equally dumb faces of the buffoons he'd invited over, that he'd get nowhere with any of them. So, pushing past Robert, he turned round only once more—daring not to raise his voice as he spoke—and called out for a footman.

"The game's over. Get them all out of here."

Rosamund was still sat up in bed reading when she heard the distinct thunder of footsteps approaching the bedroom door. She'd gone up for the evening quite early, but had spent several hours reading. Though her sleeplessness could often be blamed on any number of things, on this particular evening it was certainly down to the near-constant hum of voices coming from the floor below.

Several times she had been tempted to go down and interrupt her brother's soiree. But several times she had reminded herself that Robert had asked for her permission. Yes, he'd said it would be a small gathering. And, yes, Cora's face when he'd practically waved her off to bed so that he could entertain his friends had been rather upsetting. But, the idea of storming downstairs to break up his little party was entirely too close for comfort; for it reminded her of something Mama would do.

So she had remained upstairs, flipping through her book and awaiting sleep.

The door swung open, thwacking against the printed paper on the wall, before she could so much as flag the corner of her page. Turning in some alarm, Rosamund found her husband in the doorway, looking angrier than she had ever seen him. He was red-faced, fists balled at his sides in obvious consternation, and entered the room without preamble, slamming the door closed almost as quickly as he'd opened it.

"Damn it, Rosamund, I told you this would happen. I told you!"

Rosamund drew up the coverlet around herself, watching as her husband paced back and forth at the foot of the bed. "I don't know what you're talking about," she muttered.

Her sarcasm, however, was poorly received. Marmaduke began shouting again, yelling about a man's home being a respite from work, a respite from the chaos of the city. But now—now! Everything was a disaster.

"I wouldn't say a disaster, darling—"

"Don't try to placate me, Rosamund. I'm not a foolish child like your brother; it won't work."

"I wasn't trying—"

"You were! Goddamn, Rosamund. You were. You are!"

She stood, extracting herself from the blanket, and crossed the room in a few quick steps.

Marmaduke continued to pace.

Perhaps she was placating him as she moved to take his hands. So it was little surprise when he shrugged off her touch. Marmaduke was not easily steered; it was one of the things Rosamund liked most about her husband. It was also one of his most irksome qualities.

When Mama had first met him, she'd declared him entirely too modern for anyone's good. Although Marmaduke's mother had distant relations that were almost respectable—a particular baronet's name was often bandied about at parties as a mark of nobility—his father had come from little, and had built a manufacturing empire from nearly nothing at all. Marmaduke took pride in this fact, had boasted of his father's business success when prodded, and this had left a poor taste in Mama's mouth.

Papa had, of course, not minded. Although Rosamund's sentimental side would have liked to ascribe his reluctance to refuse the match to his desire to see his daughter happy, Rosamund knew the reality of her marriage had little to do with sentimentality—not in her father's eyes, at least.

There had been no money for a dowry, not when Rosamund had stood before the King and Queen to be presented. She'd danced at her ball knowing full well that a traditionally advantageous match was unlikely. For who would take the penniless daughter of an earl when they could have the wealthy version just as easily?

Marmaduke hadn't cared. He'd been brought to the ball by one of those respectable relatives. His suit had been well-cut, and his hair perfectly smooth. She remembered seeing him toy with his cufflinks, though, and noticed the shine of new gold at his wrists when they'd danced. The lack of tarnish had said what he'd remained silent on. New money.

But he'd been so terribly kind, so interested in what she was interested in. He'd accompanied her on long walks through Kew Gardens, up and down Bond Street as she popped into shop after shop. He'd held her parcels, and had only smiled even more kindly when her friends tittered about his background, about the impossibility of a match between them.

Of course they'd not known that she'd barely a shilling to her own name. With Robert still at Cambridge, her parents foolishly pushing suitor after suitor after her (all of them horribly old, rich as Croesus, and unspeakably dull), she'd allowed it to continue.

And then when he'd lowered himself onto both his knees out on the Downton parkland, even after a horrendous luncheon with her parents, she'd said, enthusiastically, desperately, yes.

Standing before him now, she nearly chuckled at the memory; he'd swooped her into his arms, laughing with the unguarded joy of a child. And she'd felt happy, happy in the match she'd made.

They were a good match.

Even as he stood before her, pacing, still ranting about her brother and something about his bloody walking stick, she knew it to be true. So she reached out once more, and grasped at his arm.

"Darling. Darling Marmaduke."

He paused, pulled from his fulminations by the press of her fingertips into his palm, and looked at her with considerable suspicion.

"You won't talk me out of it, Rosamund. They must go—they must return to Downton."

"I hadn't planned to talk you out of anything," she said simply. Her fingers pressed a bit tighter.

He shook his head. "No—no."

"No?"

"Rosamund." His tone was warning, though he'd already calmed considerably.

"I know you're upset."

"I'm not upset," he parroted back. "Don't you see? Rosamund, if you continue to treat Robert like a child, he'll continue to behave as one. He's never been made to do for himself. He wanders around my home as though he is master here! However, I distinctly remember him relinquishing that title when he left Downton."

"Yes, I know. But—"

Marmaduke shook his head again, shrugging off her touch. "You don't know—you don't know! And I've worked too hard to be treated this way in my own home. In our home, Rosamund. Does that mean nothing to you?"

His head continued to shake, emphatically, as he strode across the room and pulled open his dressing room door, not waiting for a reply. He left the door open, however, and continued to call from the other room.

Rosamund perched herself at the edge of the bed and listened as he spoke, the words broken up by the sounds of his overcoat dropping to the ground, the gentle thump of shoes falling against the rug.

"…and, anyway," he continued after a pause, returning to their bedroom in his nightclothes, "it is not our responsibility to care for your brother and sister-in-law for all eternity. They are adults. They must return home, or learn to provide for themselves."

"He's my brother," Rosamund answered, looking up with doleful eyes as Marmaduke paused before her. "And not everyone is as self-sufficient as you."

"Yes, well."

She could hear the softness in his voice, and when she reached out to take his hand, he made no movement to extricate himself. He only leaned his head forward, and pressed his lips tenderly to her forehead.

"My dear, I know you would like to help. But you have. And now we must return to our own lives."

Rosamund remained silent, but followed her husband's movements as he shrugged off his robe and slipped into bed. She settled in beside him, and lay her head against his shoulder.

"Perhaps they need a bit more time."

"Rosamund—"

"Just a bit more time, I mean. You know how Mama and Papa can be. Once everyone has had enough time, perhaps things will settle and then we can revisit the idea of them returning—"

"Are we to have our children in the nursery and your brother and Cora in the room next door? Rosamund, be reasonable." She heard him exhale loudly as he turned over, but again she remained silent.

Silence fell thickly over them—an uncomfortable silence that was not often present in their bedroom.

And it seemed the quiet would remain, though neither Rosamund nor Marmaduke were anywhere near ready for sleep. However, after but a handful of moments, a rhythmic thump thump thump noise sounded out above the silence. Both husband and wife sat up, listening intently.

At first Rosamund feared little Bes had wandered upstairs, for he had spent several nights in the upstairs hall whining for his master's attention. However, this was entirely too loud—and not at all the sound of a whining puppy. No, this was too regular.

The thump thump thump rattled against their wall, shaking the decorative vase on Rosamund's vanity. Rosamund felt her husband move beside her, ready to investigate, when voices became audible above the sound. And indeed, very clearly, the sound of Robert and Cora's voices could be heard above the steady noise, the unmistakable sound of whatever amorous interlude was occurring next door only adding to the ire of the Master and Mistress of 37 Eaton Square.

Marmaduke opened his mouth, but before he could begin another tirade, Rosamund only nodded.

"I'll tell him in the morning."