Robert's cheek burned as he walked down the corridor for breakfast. He was sick, certainly, but with nothing that could be cured by visiting a doctor. He'd felt the burning sensation on his skin ever since Cora's kiss; the places touched by the pads of her fingertips and where her thumb brushed back and forth against his cheek still tingled with the memory of it. And his lips, too, could be called upon to remember the sensory pleasure of touching Cora's. Her lips were like silk but it'd been so long that he'd nearly forgotten how delicious her skin tasted, how alluring the scent of her perfume was when her body pressed against him.
It had been just a kiss—a very brief kiss thanks to him, but even still it haunted him nearly a day later. Robert had not meant to ruin everything; it seemed lately that was all he was good at, ruining things. Cora had only just pressed their lips together, her tongue brushing across his lower lip, when he felt himself getting aroused. And before he could even put a bit of space between them, Cora pulled away, looking utterly bewildered—and embarrassed—as she muttered something about having to go upstairs to change. He'd been left standing in the front drive with more than just his deflated self-esteem.
They'd not spoken for the rest of the evening. Cora did not come downstairs for dinner and Robert was too afraid to knock on her door. He'd thought it best to leave things be for the night. But he'd woken with an even stronger desire to speak to Cora, to make things right, and so as he walked down the hallway he resolved to seek her out immediately after breakfast.
He needn't have made any plans to find her, though, for just as he descended the last stair, a peal of Cora's laughter floated toward him from the front door. The sound jarred him, as did the sight of his wife standing in the main hall wearing a lovely navy colored frock. But it was not her laughter that confused him; it was the intonation. It sounded unlike the soft giggles and loud guffaws they'd shared. Instead, it was quite like the sound Cora made in the company of his mother and her friends—sugary sweet and perfunctory.
But still, the sound caught his attention. And instead of turning to the dining room, Robert found himself being led, as if by some force beyond his control, toward his wife's figure and the half-opened front door.
He was ready to announce his presence to Cora when the other voice boomed loudly, excitedly, "Crawley! It's good to see you, pal." Grant Harris stepped sideways, more fully into view, and extended his hand as Cora, who'd nearly jumped out of her skin at his sudden appearance, moved out of the way.
"Hello," Robert replied warily. The man really was too handsome for his liking. Less tired and his features more tan than Robert's, Grant Harris was the epitome of health and summer merriment. He wore a cream colored linen suit in contrast to Robert's simple black garments, and Robert tried not to notice how well the light fabric matched that of what Cora wore. Nevertheless, he extended his hand and smiled back at the man before him, curious as to why he was calling so early in the day. He could not help that his thoughts were immediately drawn back to images of the very same man dancing at the birthday fete with his wife.
Robert heard Cora inhale, as if about to speak, when Grant smiled again, passing a glance between the two Crawleys before him and explained, "I've just stopped by on my way into town," he nodded at his car parked out front. "I was just explaining to Cora that Melanie and I would like to host you both for dinner this evening; a new restaurant's opened in town and we thought we'd give it a go before heading back to New York."
Robert noticed that Grant's smile really was quite disarming. For, he found himself returning the expression again before turning to Cora in question, hoping that she would accept the invitation on behalf of them both.
But Cora was still wearing the false expression he knew so very well. And it came as no surprise when she cleared her throat, lying, "we do so appreciate the invitation, Grant, but I am actually feeling a bit under the weather today."
Grant. Yes, apparently he was Grant to her. Not Mr. Harris, not any sort of appellation that would soothe Robert's nagging jealousy. Grant simply nodded, making the appropriate inquires about Cora's health before placing his hat back atop his head and adding, "Well, Melanie and I will be in Newport for another week and I know she'd just love to see you, Cora." With that, he smiled one final charming smile and turned on his heels.
Both Robert and Cora watched from the door as he stepped down to the driveway and reentered his motor, starting the car and pulling back down the way he came as he waved goodbye to them both.
It was Cora who finally closed the door, looking up at him with an odd half-smile.
"We could have gone, you know. I wouldn't have minded," Robert offered, following after Cora who'd turned and started walking in the direction of the dining room.
"Oh, no," she replied simply. And then, as if an afterthought, "I don't want to give people the wrong idea."
Robert frowned as he took a seat opposite hers at the breakfast table. But she offered no explanation for her words and quietly began to butter a piece of toast, gesturing for one of the maids to come in and pour her tea.
Breakfast, and the rest of the day, turned out to be a silent affair.
Rather strangely, they spent the day in close proximity but failed to say more than a few words to one another. And by the time dinner was over, they were still together, decamped in the drawing room sitting across from one another yet again.
Cora had instructed the footmen to open all the windows, which allowed a perfectly cool breeze to drift in and out of the room. She'd further instructed them to light a fire in the grand fireplace that centered the room; it quickly filled the area with the scent of pine needles and winters long past. It was comforting and intimate, in a disjointed sort of way. They were still, after all, hardly looking at each other. And yet there they sat, in the drawing room with dim lights and a flickering fire, every so often gazing up from their respective letters and book to steal a furtive glance at the other.
It was Cora who drew the short straw and lost their little game. She clasped a letter in her hands as their eyes met, Robert having just sat back down from stoking the fireplace. She blushed, knowing she was caught, and quickly returned her gaze to the pages before her. But the air in the room changed, now that the game was up, and so Robert thought it an opportune moment to perhaps change the terms of their unspoken agreement.
"Perhaps—" He waited for her to look up again before continuing, "perhaps we could have the Harris' over for dinner before they go back to New York. Or we could make a reservation at that new restaurant they suggested?"
Cora peered at him confusedly before answering, "No, I don't think so." And then, perhaps to interrupt what she anticipated him saying next, she held up the letter she'd been reading and explained, "I've had a letter from Edith."
Robert nodded, remaining silent so that she could speak, and Cora began to read directly from the page.
…I arrived at Downton to find it absolutely barren, Mama. Carson was here but the entire house was terribly dusty and Papa was nowhere to be found. Carson said he'd gone somewhere, on a trip of some sort, but could not tell me when he would be back. Mama, I'm not quite sure what to do. Shall I telephone Granny? I will wait for your reply, but I am rather concerned…
Cora paused, looking up at him briefly before returning her gaze to the letter and scanning for another section to read.
…Mary is, of course, doing perfectly well but she refuses to admit that her back pains her or that her clothes need to be let out. Dr. Clarkson says things are progressing normally but she has decided to see a specialist in London, just in case…
Again, she paused. This time it seemed for good, as she set the delicate stationary down onto the settee beside her and looked up again.
"I'm glad to know that Mary is doing well," she murmured.
Robert was not entirely sure whether or not she was speaking to him, or just to herself, so he replied just to be safe. "Yes, yes, though I don't know why they would need a specialist…" he replied, trailing off as he said the last words aloud, realizing rather quickly how it sounded.
Cora's eyes flashed with anger, her hand reaching out to aggressively encircle the near-empty glass of brandy set before her on the table. "You don't?" She muttered, swilling the amber liquid around the delicate crystal glass. When she looked up at him again, her expression was considerably cooler, but he could see the grasp on the stem of her glass remained particularly tight.
"I apologize," Robert replied, abashed. He knew not how to make amends for everything they had experienced as of late; every apology seemed trite and every words hollow. She had heard them all so many times.
But what else was there, besides words? Their relationship had been built upon them. In the beginning, when physicality was blushed upon and gestures remained awkward, they had words. There were greetings and goodnights and quiet discussions along garden paths. And later there were promises, of love and of menial tasks needing to be done. There were assurances of happiness and joy and the soft tones of fairytales whispered in nurseries and on occasion in the library, too. What could he say if not 'I'm sorry'? Where were they to go if even the very basis of their marriage seemed foreign and unreachable?
So, as if grasping desperately at something that once was, he tried again.
"I apologize," he repeated, reaching for his own cup—only to find that his tea had already been drunk. He sighed, softly, and finally looked up at Cora once more, adding, "and I apologize for yesterday afternoon as well. I never meant to get…overzealous with you."
Cora stood, still making focused circular motions with her glass, and approached the crackling fire. She looked into the flames, rather than at him, and answered, "You needn't apologize. I've put up with a great deal of your urges over the years."
Her words cut more than he expected them to. If she had the ability to utterly destroy him, to break him like a porcelain vase, he was rather certain that she would. But, clearly, she did have the ability; it hurt terribly, more than he would ever be willing to admit.
Robert stood as well and approached the fireplace, his eyes maintaining steady contact with the side of Cora's face. He could see the tension stowed in her chin and knew that she was purposefully not looking at him. And it burned; her unwillingness to look at him, to see the effect of her words, hurt. "Why must you be so cruel?" He asked, placing one hand on the mantle as his body turned to hers.
"I don't know," she replied with near immediacy. She turned, finally, fixing him with a blank stare. "I—I blame you."
"Obviously," he replied, chuckling darkly.
"Yes…" Her voice trailed off, her eyes traveling to the fireplace once more. She looked down at her glass for a moment, perhaps contemplating another sip, before abruptly tossing it right into the flames without so much as a flinch when the glass made a shattering noise against the dark stones.
It disturbed him, greatly, to see her like this. But yelling and shouting would get him nowhere. So deliberately avoiding her sudden gesture, Robert looked at her once more, replying softly, "it was not my fault."
This time when she looked up at him her eyes were red and full of tears. She bit her lip, attempting to stave off the inevitable but when that did not work, she wiped at them ineffectually with her hand and nodded. "I know," she said simply. Turning, she walked back to the settee and brushed at her eyes again. "But where, then?" she asked.
"Where, what?" Robert asked in turn, venturing back to the sitting area to reclaim his place across from her.
Her expression was darkened by tears and her brow furrowed in upset, but she cleared her throat and explained, "if not on you, where am I to put all of this?" To match actions to words, she placed both hands carefully across her chest, to cover her heart. "It hurts. Every day it hurts. And if I cannot blame you, no matter how horrid and bitter and evil it makes me, then who am I to blame?"
"Cora—" he tried to interrupt, fishing clumsily in his pocket for a handkerchief, but she shook her head and held up a hand, speaking over him.
"I could blame her—Sybil," she corrected, "for marrying a servant, for going against our wishes and moving to some god forsaken place where she knew no one and existed in squalor compared to everything we gave her. I could blame her for being ungrateful and brave and so determined to prove that she did not want to live on the path we groomed so meticulously for her. I could blame Branson—" this time she winced, at her slip of his name, her slip of referring to him as Branson, for then perhaps she was no better than her husband who seemed to still derive pleasure from "accidentally" referring to him as such. But she shook her head again and carried on, a determined sort of look in her eye. "I could blame him for stealing her away from us, for convincing our baby that she was in love and then carrying her off and getting her pregnant before she was scarcely more than a child herself. Or," she said finally, "I could blame myself. I could blame myself for not watching her more closely, not begging her to stay at Downton instead of going to Ireland. I could blame myself for not fighting you harder when you would not listen to Doctor Clarkson."
She was crying now, bawling really, and seemed to curl into herself as if every inch of her body pained her. She paused, unable to go on, and made no attempt to pull away when Robert stood from his chair and crossed the rug, sitting down beside her and drawing her into his arms. He said nothing as she cried for what became a rather long time. It had often surprised him, in years past, just how much she could cry, but he thought nothing of that sort as she clung desperately to his dinner jacket, her nails digging uncomfortably into the fabric and pressing into his chest.
When she did quiet, after a time, he murmured "Cora?" very softly in question, but had not a moment to speak again, for she interrupted him once more.
"—Don't you see?" She whispered sadly, her voice hoarse from the effort of crying. "I need to blame you because I can't blame Tom, not really, and Sybil—I, I could never…it's just me. It's all on me and I can't get out of bed each morning if I don't gather it all up and leave it to you."
Robert nodded slightly, and released his grip on her body. "But, I can't either, Cora. I cannot go on like this, not anymore." He turned away from her, resting his elbows on both his knees and drawing his head into his upturned hands. "I've done everything, tried everything. Where do we go from here?"
"I don't know," she answered. "Have you spoken to Murray?"
Robert sighed, removing his head from his hands. "Yes, I have."
He would not lie to her; pretend he'd not inquired about enacting a more formal split. Murray had been surprised, though coolly professional, and laid out the options that would be available to them. There were few, but enough that if they wanted never to see one another again, it would be possible. After their meeting, Robert drowned himself in scotch and torn up the handwritten pages Murray had gifted him with—even the thought of it had made him nauseous. But here she was, drawing out the memories of that particular day and looking at him expectantly.
"It would mean signing several papers," Robert explained, clearing his throat. "It would be a formal separation, not a…not a divorce unless that is what we wanted. That would be more involved. But we would need to sign the papers; it would leave you with a generous monthly allowance though most of the money would remain tied to the estate. And Downton…I would keep Downton—"
"—Of course," she finished, not unkindly. "Of course you would. I would never ask you to leave your home."
"No," he corrected. "Downton is our home."
She smiled at him, sadly again, and nodded slightly in agreement. "Well, even still, you may have it."
"Cora, I told you—I do not want it, not without you. I'll go wherever you want us to go, I have given most of my life to Downton. I want to give the rest to you."
"Robert—"
The tone of her voice said it before her words did. She reached out tentatively, clasping her hand over his, and whispered, "I can't. I love you more than I could ever love anybody, but I can't."
"Cora?" His voice was surprisingly small, when he found it. And speaking her name in question, he watched bewilderedly as she removed her hand from his and stood, walking toward the door.
She turned back, just as her hand made contact with the knob, and she pursed her lips, looking almost tenderly at him. "I know this is going to be something else I'll blame myself for," she said quietly, "but I think in the morning you should send a telegram to Murray and ask him to have those papers drawn up."
She exited the room and disappeared behind the dark wooden door as he nodded dumbly, only vaguely aware that he was actively nodding away his entire life.